proofreading team ruth fielding on cliff island or the old hunter's treasure box by alice b. emerson author of "ruth fielding of the red mill," "ruth fielding at silver ranch," etc. _illustrated_ new york cupples & leon company publishers =books for girls= by alice b. emerson ruth fielding series mo. cloth. illustrated. price per volume, cents, postpaid. ruth fielding of the red mill or, jasper parloe's secret. ruth fielding at briarwood hall or, solving the campus mystery. ruth fielding at snow camp or, lost in the backwoods. ruth fielding at lighthouse point or, nita, the girl castaway. ruth fielding at silver ranch or, schoolgirls among the cowboys. ruth fielding on cliff island or, the old hunter's treasure box. ruth fielding at sunrise farm or, what became of the raby orphans. ruth fielding and the gypsies or, the missing pearl necklace. cupples & leon co., publishers, new york. copyright, , by cupples & leon company ruth fielding on cliff island [illustration: she shot over the yawning edge of the chasm and disappeared] contents chapter i. the wreck at applegate crossing ii. the panther at large iii. uncle jabez has two opinions iv. on the way to briarwood v. a long look ahead vi. picking up the threads vii. "a hard row to hoe" viii. jerry sheming again ix. ruth's little plot x. an exciting finish xi. a number of things xii. rufus blent's little ways xiii. fighting fire with fire xiv. the hue and cry xv. over the precipice xvi. hide and seek xvii. christmas morning xviii. fun on the ice xix. blent is master xx. the fishing party xxi. jerry's cave xxii. snowed in xxiii. "a blow for liberty" xxiv. a midnight marauder xxv. the treasure box ruth fielding on cliff island chapter i the wreck at applegate crossing a september morning has dawned, with only a vague tang of autumn in the air. in the green old dooryard at the red mill, under the spreading shade trees, two girls are shelling a great basket of dried lima beans for the winter's store. the smaller, black-haired girl begins the conversation. "suppose jane ann doesn't come, ruth?" "you mean on this morning train?" responded the plumper and more mature-looking girl, whose frank face was particularly attractive. "yes." "then tom said he would go back to meet the evening train--and we'll go with him," said ruth fielding, with a smile. "but i could not go this morning and leave poor aunt alvirah all these beans to shell." "of course not," agreed her friend, promptly. "and jane ann won't feel offended by our not meeting her at cheslow, i know." "no, indeed, helen," laughed ruth. "jane ann hicks is altogether too sensible a girl." "sensible about everything but her name," commented helen cameron, making a little face. "and one can scarcely blame her. it _is_ ugly," ruth responded, with a sigh. "jane ann hicks! dear, dear! how could her uncle bill be so thoughtless as to name her that, when she was left, helpless, to his care?" "he didn't realize that fashions in names change--like everything else," observed helen, briskly. "i wonder what the girls at briarwood will say to that name," ruth pondered. "why the fox and heavy will help us make the other girls toe the mark. and madge steele! she's a regiment in herself," declared helen. "we all had such a fine time at silver ranch that the least we can do is to see that jane ann is not hazed like the other infants." "i expect we all have to stand our share of hazing when we go into fresh company," said ruth, reflectively. "but there will not be the same crowd to meet her that met us, dear." "and the sweetbriars will be on hand to preserve order," laughed her chum. "thanks to _you_, ruthie. why--oh! see tom!" she jumped up, dropping a lapful of pods, and pointed up the cheslow road, which here branched from the river road almost opposite the red mill. "what is the matter?" demanded ruth, also scrambling to her feet. a big touring car was approaching at top speed. they could see that the only person in it was a black-haired boy, who sat at the steering wheel. he brought the machine to an abrupt stop before the gate, and leaped out. tearing off his goggles as he ran, he approached the two girls in such a state of excitement that he could scarce speak coherently. "oh, tom! what is it?" gasped helen, seizing his arm with both hands. it took but a single glance to discover the relationship between them. twins never looked more alike--only tom's features lacked the delicacy of outline which belonged to his sister. "tom!" cried ruth, on the other side of the excited youth, "don't keep us on tenter-hooks. surely nothing has happened to jane ann?" "i don't know! they won't tell us much about it at the station," exclaimed the boy. "there hasn't been a wreck?" demanded ruth. "yes. at applegate crossing. and it is the train from the west that is in trouble with a freight. a rear-end collision, i understand." "suppose something has happened to the poor girl!" wailed helen. "we must go and see," declared ruth, quick to decide in an emergency. "you must drive us, tom." "that's what i came back for," replied tom cameron, mopping his brow. "i couldn't get anything out of mercy's father----" "of course not," helen said, briskly, as ruth ran to the house. "the railroad employes are forbidden to talk when there is an accident. mr. curtis might lose his job as station agent at cheslow if he answered all queries." ruth came flying back from the house. she had merely called into the kitchen to aunt alvirah that they were off--and their destination. while tom sprang in and manipulated the self-starter, his sister and the girl of the red mill took their seats in the tonneau. by the time old aunt alvirah had hobbled to the porch, the automobile was being turned, and backed, and then it was off, up the river road. uncle jabez, in his dusty garments, appeared for a moment at the door of the mill as they flashed past in the big motor car. evidently he was amazed to see the three--the girls hatless--starting off at such a pace in the camerons' car. tom threw in the clutch at high speed and the car bounded over the road, gradually increasing its pace until the hum of the engine almost drowned out all speech. the girls asked no questions. they knew that, by following the river road along the placid lumano for some distance, they could take a fork toward the railway and reach applegate crossing much quicker than by going through cheslow. once tom flung back a word or two over his shoulder. no relief train had gone from their home station to the scene of the wreck. it was understood that a wrecking gang, and doctors, and nurses, had started from the distant city before ever the cheslow people learned of the trouble. "oh! if jane ann should be hurt!" murmured helen for the twentieth time. "uncle bill hicks would be heartbroken," agreed ruth. although the crossroad, when they struck into it at the forks, was not so smooth and well-built as the river highway, tom did not reduce speed. mile after mile rolled away behind them. from a low ridge they caught a glimpse of the cut where the two trains had come together. it was the old story of a freight being dilatory in getting out of a block that had been opened for the passage of an express. the express had run her nose into the caboose of the freight, and more harm was done to the freight than to the passenger cars. a great crowd, however, had gathered about. tom ran the car into an open lot beside the tracks, where part of the railroad fence had been torn away. two passenger cars were on their sides, and one or two of the box cars had burst open. "look at that!" gasped the boy, whose bright eyes took in much that the girls missed, for _they_ were looking for jane ann hicks. "that's a menagerie car--and it's all smashed. see! 'rival's circus & menagerie.' crickey! suppose some of the savage animals are loose!" "oh! don't suggest such a thing," begged his sister. tom saw an excited crowd of men near the broken cage cars of the traveling menagerie. down in the gully that was here crossed by the narrow span of the railroad trestle, there was a thick jungle of saplings and brush out of which a few taller trees rose, their spreading limbs almost touching the sides of the ravine. it must be confessed that the boy was drawn more toward this point of interest than toward the passenger train where jane ann might possibly be lying injured. but ruth and helen ran toward this latter spot, where the crowd of passengers was thickest. suddenly the crowd parted and the girls saw a figure lying on the ground, with a girl about their own age bending over it. ruth screamed, "jinny!" and at the sound of the pet name her uncle's cow punchers had given her, the girl from silver ranch responded with an echoing cry. "oh, ruth! and helen! i'm not hurt--only scratched. but this poor fellow----" "who is he?" demanded helen cameron, as she and ruth arrived beside their friend. the figure on the ground was a very young man--a boy, in fact. he was roughly dressed, and sturdily built. his eyes were closed and he was very pale. "he got me out of the window when the car turned over," gasped jane ann. "then he fell with me and has either broken his leg, or twisted it----" "only strained, miss," spoke the victim of the accident, opening his eyes suddenly. ruth saw that they were kind, brown eyes, with a deal of patience in their glance. he was not the sort of chap to make much of a trifle. "but you can't walk on it," exclaimed jane ann, who was a large-framed girl with even blacker hair than helen's--straight as an indian's--and with flashing eyes. she was expensively dressed, although her torn frock and coat were not in very good taste. she showed plainly a lack of that motherly oversight all girls need. "they'll come and fix me up after a time," said the strange youth, patiently. "that won't do," declared ruth, quickly. "i suppose the doctors are busy up there with other passengers?" "oh, yes," admitted jane ann. "lots of people were hurt in the cars a good deal worse than mr.--mr.----?" "my name's jerry sheming, miss," said the youth. "don't you worry about me." "here's tom!" cried helen. "can't we lift him into the car? we'll run to cheslow and let dr. davison look at his leg," she added. tom, understanding the difficulty at a glance, agreed. between the four young folk they managed to carry jerry sheming to the car. they had scarcely got him into the tonneau when a series of yells arose from the crowd down near the derailed freight train. "look out! take care of that panther! i told you she was out!" shouted one voice above the general uproar. ruth fielding and her friends, startled indeed, ran to the brow of the hill. one of the wide-branched trees rose from the bottom of the ravine right below them. along one of the branches lay a long, cat-like body. "a black panther!" gasped tom. chapter ii the panther at large "say! let's get out of here!" exclaimed the girl from the west. "i don't want to be eaten up by that cat--and uncle bill would make an awful row over it. come on!" she seized ruth's hand and, leaving tom to drag his sister with him, set off at full speed for the motor car, wherein jerry sheming, the stranger, still lay helpless. helen was breathless from laughter when she reached the car. jane ann's desire not to be eaten up by the panther because of what mr. bill hicks, of bullhide, montana, would say, was so amusing that tom's twin forgot her fright. "stop your fooling and get in there--quick!" commanded the anxious boy, pushing his sister into the tonneau. with the injured jerry, the back of the car was well filled. tom leaped into the front seat and tried to start the car. "quick, tom!" begged ruth fielding. "there's the panther." "panther! what panther?" demanded jerry, starting up in his seat. the lithe, black beast appeared just then over the brow of the hill. the men who had started after the beast were below in the ravine, yelling, and driving the creature toward them. the motor car was the nearest object to attract the great cat's wrath, and there is no wild beast more savage and treacherous. tom was having trouble in starting the car. besides, it was headed directly for the huge cat, and the latter undoubtedly had fastened its cruel gaze upon the big car and its frightened occupants. ruth fielding and her friends had been in serious difficulties before. they had even (in the woods of the northern adirondacks and in the foothills of the montana rockies) met peril in a somewhat similar form. but here, with the panther creeping toward them, foot by foot, the young friends had no weapon of defense. ruth had often proved herself both a courageous and a sensible girl. coming from her old home where her parents had died, a year and a half before, she had received shelter at the red mill, belonging to her great uncle, jabez potter, at first as an object of charity, for uncle jabez was a miserly and ill-tempered old fellow. the adventures of the first book of this series, entitled "ruth fielding of the red mill; or, jasper parloe's secret," narrate how ruth won her way--in a measure, at least--to her uncle's heart. ruth made friends quickly with helen and tom cameron, and when, the year previous, helen had gone to briarwood hall to school, ruth had gone with her, and the fun, friendships, rivalries, and adventures of their first term at boarding school are related in "ruth fielding at briarwood hall; or, solving the campus mystery." in "ruth fielding at snow camp; or, lost in the backwoods," the third volume of the series, are told the mid-winter sports of our heroine and her friends; and later, after the school year is concluded, we find them all at the seaside home of one of the briarwood girls, and follow them through the excitement and incidents of "ruth fielding at lighthouse point; or, nita, the girl castaway." when our present story opens ruth and the camerons have just returned from the west, where they had spent a part of the summer vacation with jane ann hicks, and their many adventures are fully related in the fifth volume of the series, entitled "ruth fielding at silver ranch; or, schoolgirls among the cowboys." few perils they had faced, however, equalled this present incident. the black panther, its gleaming eyes fixed upon the stalled motor car and the young folk in it, crouched for only a moment, with lashing tail and bared fangs. uttering another half-stifled snarl, the beast bounded into the air. the distance was too great for the brute to pass immediately to the car; but it was plain that one more leap would bring her aboard. "start it! quick, tom!" gasped helen. "i--i can't!" groaned her brother. "then we must run----" "sit still!" commanded jane ann, with fire in her eye. "i'm not going to run from that cat. i hate 'em, anyway----" "we can't leave mr. sheming," said ruth, decidedly. "try again, tommy." "oh, don't bother about me," groaned the young man, who was still a stranger to them. "don't be caught here on my account." "it will not do us any good to run," cried ruth, sensibly. "oh, tommy!" and then the engine started. the electric starter had worked at last. tom threw in his clutch and the car lunged ahead just as the snarling cat sprang into the air again. the cat and the car were approaching each other, head on. the creature could not change its course; nor could tom cameron veer the car very well on this rough ground. he had meant to turn the car in a big circle and make for the road again. but that flashing black body darting through the air was enough to shake the nerve of anybody. the car "wabbled." it shot towards the tracks, and then back again. perhaps that was a happy circumstance, after all. for as the car swerved, there was a splintering crash, and the windshield was shivered. the body of the panther shot to one side and the motor car escaped the full shock of the charge. over and over upon the ground the panther rolled; and off toward the road, in a long, sweeping curve, darted the automobile. "lucky escape!" tom shouted, turning his blazing face once to look back at the party in his car. "oh! more than luck, tommy!" returned ruth, earnestly. "it was providential," declared helen, shrinking into her seat again and beginning to tremble, now that the danger was past. "good hunting!" exclaimed the girl from the ranch. "think of charging a wildcat with one of these smoke wagons! my! wouldn't it make bashful ike's eyes bulge out? i reckon he wouldn't believe we had such hunting here in the east--eh?" and her laugh broke the spell of fear that had clutched them all. "that critter beats the biggest bobcat i ever heard of," remarked jerry sheming. "why! a catamount isn't in it with that black beast." "where'd it go?" asked tom, quite taken up with the running of the car. "back to the ravine," said ruth. "oh! i hope it will do no damage before it is caught." just now the four young friends had something more immediate to think about. this jerry sheming had been "playing 'possum." suddenly they found that he lay back in the tonneau, quite insensible. "oh, oh!" gasped helen. "what shall we do? he is--oh, ruth! he isn't _dead_?" "of a strained leg?" demanded jane ann, in some disgust. "but he looks so white," said helen, plaintively. "he's just knocked out. it's hurt him lots more than he let on," declared the girl from silver ranch, who had seen many a man suffer in silence until he lost the grip on himself--as this youth had. in half an hour the car stopped before dr. davison's gate--the gate with the green lamps. jerry sheming had come to his senses long since and seemed more troubled by the fact that he had fainted than by the injury to his leg. ruth, by a few searching questions, had learned something of his story, too. he had not been a passenger on the train in which jane ann was riding when the wreck occurred. indeed, he hadn't owned carfare between stations, as he expressed it. "i was hoofin' it from cheslow to grading. i heard of a job up at grading--and i needed that job," jerry had observed, drily. this was enough to tell ruth fielding what was needed. when dr. davison asked where the young fellow belonged, ruth broke in with: "he's going to the mill with me. you come after us, doctor, if you think he ought to go to bed before his leg is treated." "what do you reckon your folks will say, miss?" groaned the injured youth. and even helen and tom looked surprised. "aunt alvirah will nurse you," laughed ruth. "as for uncle jabez----" "it will do uncle jabez good," put in dr. davison, confidently. "that's right, ruthie. you take him along to your house. i'll come right out behind you and will be there almost before tom, here, and your uncle's ben can get our patient to bed." it had already been arranged that jane ann should go on to outlook, the camerons' home. she would remain there with the twins for the few days intervening before the young folk went back to school--the girls to briarwood, and tom to seven oaks, the military academy he had entered when his sister and ruth went to their boarding school. "how you will ever get your baggage--and in what shape--we can only guess," tom said to the western girl, grinning over his shoulder as the car flew on toward the red mill. "guess you'll have to bid a fond farewell to all the glad rags you brought with you, and put on some of ruth's, or helen's." "i'd look nice; wouldn't i?" she scoffed, tossing her head. "if i don't get my trunks i'll sue the railroad company." the car arrived before the gate of the cottage. there was the basket of beans just where ruth and helen had left them. and aunt alvirah came hobbling to the door again, murmuring, "oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" and quite amazed when she saw ben come running to help tom cameron into the house with the youth from the railroad wreck. "though, landy's sake! i don't know what your uncle jabez will say when he comes back from town and finds this boy in the best bed," grumbled aunt alvirah, after a bit, when she and ruth were left alone with jerry sheming, and the others had gone on in the car, hurrying so as not to be late for luncheon at outlook. chapter iii uncle jabez has two opinions dr. davison came, found that jerry's leg was not broken, left liniment, some quieting medicine to use if the patient could not sleep, and went away. still uncle jabez had not returned from town. dinner had been a farce. ben, the hired man, was fed as usual; but ruth and aunt alvirah did not feel like eating; and, considering his fever, it was just as well, the doctor said, if the patient did not eat until later. jerry sheming was a fellow of infinite pluck. the pain he had endured during his rough ride in the automobile must have been terrific. yet he was only ashamed, now, that he had fainted. "first time i ever heard of a sheming fainting--or yet a tilton, miss," he told ruth. "i don't believe you belong near here?" suggested ruth, who sat beside him, for he seemed restless. "i don't remember hearing either of those names around the red mill." "no. i--i lived away west of here," replied jerry, slowly. "oh, a long ways." "not as far as montana? that is where jane ann comes from." "the girl i helped through the car window?" he asked, quickly. "yes. miss hicks." "i did not mean really west," he said. "but it's quite some miles. i had been walking two days--and i'm some walker," he added, with a smile. "looking for work, you said?" questioned ruth, diffident about showing her interest in the young fellow, yet deeply curious. "yes. i've got to support myself some way." "haven't you any folks at all, mr. jerry?" "i ain't a 'mister,'" said the youth. "i'm not so much older than you and your friends." "you seem a lot older," laughed ruth, tossing back her hair. "that's because i have been working most of my life--and i guess livin' in the woods all the time makes a chap seem old." "and you've lived in the woods?" "with my uncle. i can't remember anybody else belongin' to me--not very well. pete tilton is _his_ name. he's been a guide and hunter all his life. and of late years he got so queer--before they took him away----" "took him away?" interrupted ruth, "what do you mean by that?" "why, i'll tell you," said jerry, slowly. "he got wild towards the last. it was something about his money and papers that he lost. he kep' 'em in a box somewhere. there was a landslide at the west end of the island." "the island? what island?" "cliff island. that's where we lived. uncle pete said he owned half the island, but rufe blent cheated him out of it. that's what made him so savage with blent, and he come pretty near killin' him. at least, blent told it that way. "so they took poor uncle pete into court, and they said he wasn't safe to be at large, and sent him to the county asylum. then--well, there wasn't no manner o' use my stayin' around there. rufe blent warned me off the island. so i started out to hunt a job." the details were rather vague, but ruth felt a little diffident about asking for further particulars. besides, it was not long before uncle jabez came home. "what do ye reckon your aunt alvirah keeps that spare room for?" demanded the old miller, with his usual growl, when ruth explained about jerry. "for to put up tramps?" "oh, uncle! he isn't just a _tramp_!" "i'd like to know what ye call it, niece ruth?" grumbled uncle jabez. "think how he saved jane ann! that car was rolling right down the embankment. he pulled her through the window and almost the next moment the car slid the rest of the way to the bottom, and lots of people--people in the chairs next to her--were badly hurt. oh, uncle! he saved her life, perhaps." "that ain't makin' it any dif'rent," declared uncle jabez. "he's a tramp and nobody knows anything about him. why didn't davison send him to the hospital? the doc's allus mixin' us up with waifs an' strays. he's got more cheek than a houn' pup----" "now, jabez!" cried the little old lady, who had been bending over the stove. "don't ye make yourself out wuss nor you be. that poor boy ain't doin' no harm to the bed." "makin' you more work, alviry." "what am i good for if it ain't to work?" she demanded, quite fiercely. "when i can't work i want ye sh'd take me back to the poor farm where ye got me--an' where i'd been these last 'leven years if it hadn't been for your charity that you're so 'fraid folks will suspect----" "charity!" broke in uncle jabez. "ha! yes! a fat lot of charity i've showed you, alviry boggs. i reckon i've got my money's wuth out o' you back an' bones." the old woman stood as straight as she could and looked at the grim miller with shining eyes. ruth thought her face really beautiful as she smiled and said, wagging her head at the gray-faced man: "oh, jabez potter! jabez potter! nobody'll know till you're in your coffin jest how much good you've done in this world'--on the sly! an' you'll let this pore boy rest an' git well here before he has to go out an' hunt a job for hisself. for my pretty, here, tells me he ain't got no home nor no friends." "uh-huh!" grunted uncle jabez, and stumped away to the mill, fairly beaten for the time. "he grumbles and grunts," observed aunt alvirah, shaking her head as she turned to her work again. "but out o' sight he's re'lly gettin' tender-hearted, ruthie. an' i b'lieve you showed him how a lot. oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" before supper time a man on horseback came to the mill and cried a warning to the miller and his family: "look out for your stables and pigpens. there's three beasts loose from those wrecked menagerie cars at the crossing, jabez." "mercy on us! they ain't bound this way, are they?" demanded uncle jabez, with more anxiety than he usually showed. "nobody knows. you know, the piece of woods yonder is thick. the menagerie men lost them an hour ago. a big black panther--an ugly brute--and a lion and lioness. them last two they say is as tame as kittens. but excuse me! i'd ruther trust the kittens," said the neighbor. then he dug his heels in the sides of his horse and started off to bear the news to other residents along the road that followed this bank of the lumano river. jabez shouted for ben to hurry through his supper, and they closed the mill tight while the womenfolk tried to close all the shutters on the first floor of the cottage. but the "blinds" had not been closed on the east side of the house since they were painted the previous spring. aunt alviry was the kind of housekeeper who favored the morning sun and it always streamed into the windows of the guest room. when they tried to close the outside shutters of those windows, one had a broken hinge that the painters had said nothing about. the heavy blind fell to the ground. "goodness me!" exclaimed ruth, running back into the house. "that old panther could jump right into that room where jerry is. but if we keep a bright light in there all night, i guess he won't--if he comes this way at all." it was foolish, of course, to fear the coming of the marauding animal from the shattered circus car. probably, ruth told herself before the evening was half over, "rival's circus and menagerie" had moved on with all its beasts. uncle jabez, however, got down the double-barreled shotgun, cleaned and oiled it, and slipped in two cartridges loaded with big shot. "i ain't aimin' to lose my pigs if i can help it," he said. as the evening dragged by, they all forgot the panther scare. jerry had fallen asleep after supper without recourse to the medicine dr. davison had left. as usual, uncle jabez was poring over his daybook and counting the cash in the japanned money box. ruth was deep in her text books. one does forget so much between june and september! aunt alvirah was busily sewing some ruffled garment for "her pretty." suddenly a quick, stern voice spoke out of the guest room down the hall. "quick! bring that gun!" "hul-_lo_!" murmured uncle jabez, looking up. "that poor boy's delirious," declared aunt alvirah. but ruth jumped up and ran lightly to the room where jerry sheming lay. "what _is_ it?" she gasped, peering at the flushed face that was raised from the pillow. "that cat!" muttered jerry. "oh, you're dreaming!" declared ruth, trying to laugh. "i ain't lived in the woods for nothin'," snapped the young fellow. "i never see that black panther in her native wilds, o' course; but i've tracked other kinds o' cats. and one of the tribe is 'round here----there! hear that?" one of the horses in the stable squealed suddenly--a scream of fear. then a cow bellowed. uncle jabez came with a rush, in his stocking feet, with the heavy shotgun in his hand. "what's up?" he demanded, hoarsely. "i am!" exclaimed jerry, swinging his legs out of bed, despite the pain it caused him. "put out that light, miss ruth." aunt alvirah hobbled in, groaning, "oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" uncle jabez softly raised the sash where the blind was missing. "i saw her eyes," gasped jerry, much excited. he reached out a grasping hand. "gimme that gun, sir, unless you are a good shot. i don't often miss." "you take it," muttered uncle jabez, thrusting the gun into the young fellow's hand. "my--my eyes ain't what they once was." "send the women folk back. if she leaps in at the winder----" suddenly he raised the gun to his shoulder. it was so dark in the room they all saw the crouching creature on the lawn outside. it was headed for the open window, and its eyes gleamed like yellow coals. in a moment the gun spoke--one long tongue of flame, followed by the other, flashed into the night. there was a yowl, a struggle on the grass outside, and then---- "you're something of a shot, you be, young feller!" boomed out jabez potter's rough voice. "i was some mistaken in you. ah! it hurt ye, eh?" and he proceeded to lift the suffering jerry back into bed as tenderly as he would have handled ruth herself. they did not go out to see the dead panther until daybreak. then they learned that the pair of lions had already been caught by their owners. chapter iv on the way to briarwood if anything had been needed to interest ruth fielding deeply in the young fellow who had been injured at the scene of the railroad wreck, the occurrence that evening at the red mill would have provided it. it was not enough for her to make a veritable hero of him to helen, and jane ann, and tom, when they came over from outlook the following morning. when the girl of the red mill was really interested in anything or anybody, she gave her whole-souled attention to it. she could not be satisfied with jerry sheming's brief account of his life with his half-crazed uncle on some distant place called cliff island, and the domestic tragedy that seemed to be the cause of the old man's final incarceration in a madhouse. "tell me all about yourself--do," she pleaded with jerry, who was to remain in bed for several days (uncle jabez insisted on it himself, too!), for the injured leg must be rested. "didn't you live anywhere else but in the woods?" "that's right, miss," he said, slowly. "i got a little schooling on the mainland; but it warn't much. uncle pete used to guide around parties of city men who wanted to fish and hunt. at the last i did most of the guidin'. he said he could trust me, for i hated liquor as bad as him. _my_ dad was killed by it. "uncle pete was a mite cracked over it, maybe. but he was good enough to me until rufus blent came rummagin' round. somehow he got uncle pete to ragin'." "who is this rufus blent?" asked ruth, curiously. "he's a real estate man. he lives at logwood. that's the landin' at the east end o' the lake." "what lake?" "tallahaska. you've heard tell on't?" he asked. "yes. but i was never there, of course." "well, miss, cliff island is just the purtiest place! and uncle pete must have had some title to it, for he's lived there all his life--and he's old. fifty-odd year he was there, i know. he was more than a squatter. "i reckon he was a bit of a miser. he had some money, and he didn't trust to banks. so he kept it hid on the island, of course. "then the landslide come, and he talked as though it had covered his treasure box--and in it was papers he talked about. if he could ha' got those papers he could ha' beat rufus blent off. "that's the understandin' i got of him. of course, he talked right ragin' and foolish; but some things he said was onderstandable. but he couldn't make the judge see it--nor could i. they let rufus blent have his way, and uncle pete went to the 'sylum. "then they ordered me off the island. i believe blent wanted to s'arch it himself for the treasure box. he's a sneakin' man--i allus hated him," said jerry, clenching his fist angrily. "but they could ha' put me in the jug if i'd tried to fight him. so i come away. don't 'spect i'll ever see tallahaska--or cliff island--again," and the young fellow's voice broke and he turned his face away. when jane ann hicks heard something of this, through ruth, she was eager to help jerry to be revenged upon the man whom he thought had cheated his uncle. "let me write to bill hicks about it," she cried, eagerly. "he'll come on here and get after this thieving real estate fellow--you bet!" "i have no doubt that he would," laughed helen, pinching her. "you'd make him leave his ranch and everything else and come here just to do that. don't be rash, young lady. jerry certainly did you a favor, but you needn't take everything he says for the gospel truth." "i believe myself he's honest," added ruth, quietly. "and i don't doubt him either," helen cameron said. "but we'd better hear both sides of it. and a missing treasure box, and papers to prove that an old hunter is owner of an island in tallahaska, sounds--well, unusual, to say the least." ruth laughed. "helen has suddenly developed caution," she said. "what do you say, tom?" "i'll get father to write to somebody at logwood, and find out about it," returned the boy, promptly. that is the way the matter was left for the time being. the next day they were to start for school--the girls for briarwood and tom for seven oaks. it was arranged that jerry should remain at the red mill for a time. uncle jabez's second opinion of him was so favorable that the miller might employ him for a time as the harvesting and other fall work came on. and jane ann left a goodly sum in the miller's hands for young sheming's use. "he's that independent that he wouldn't take nothing from me but a pair of cuff links," declared jane ann, wiping her eyes, for she was a tender-hearted girl under her rough exterior. "says they will do for him to remember me by. he's a nice chap." "jinny's getting sentimental," gibed tom, slily. "i'm not over you, mister tom!" she flared up instantly. "you're too 'advanced' a dresser." "and you were the girl who once ran away from silver ranch and the boys out there, because everything was so 'common,'" chuckled tom. ruth shut him off at that. she knew that the western girl could not stand much teasing. they were all nervous, anyway; at least, the girls were. ruth and helen approached their second year at briarwood with some anxiety. how would they be treated? how would the studies be arranged for the coming months of hard work? how were they going to stand with the teachers? when the two chums first went to briarwood they occupied a double room; but later they had taken in mercy curtis, a lame girl. now that "triumvirate" could not continue, for jane ann had begged to room with ruth and helen. the western girl, who was afraid of scarcely anything "on four legs or two" in her own environment, was really nervous as she approached boarding school. she had seen enough of these eastern girls to know that they were entirely different from herself. she was "out of their class," she told herself, and if she had not been with ruth and helen these few last days before the opening of the school term, she would have run away. ruth was going back to school this term with a delightful sense of having gained uncle jabez's special approval. he admitted that schooling such as she gained at briarwood was of some use. and he made her a nice present of pocket-money when she started. the cameron auto stopped for her at the red mill before mid-forenoon, and ruth bade the miller and aunt alvirah and ben--not forgetting jerry sheming, her new friend--good-bye. "do--_do_ take care o' yourself, my pretty," crooned aunt alvirah over her, at the last. "jest remember we're a-honin' for you here at the ol' mill." "take care of uncle jabez," whispered ruth. she dared kiss the grim old man only upon his dusty cheek. then she shook hands with bashful ben and ran out to her waiting friends. "come on, or we'll lose the train," cried helen. they were off the moment ruth stepped into the tonneau. but she stood up and waved her hand to the little figure of aunt alvirah in the cottage doorway as long as she could be seen on the cheslow road. and she had a fancy that uncle jabez himself was lurking in the dark opening to the grist-floor of the mill, and watching the retreating motor car. there was a quick, alert-looking girl hobbling on two canes up and down the platform at cheslow station. this was mercy curtis, the station agent's crippled daughter. "here you are at last!" she cried, shrilly. "and the train already hooting for the station. five minutes more and you would have been too late. did you think i could go to briarwood without you?" ruth ran up and kissed her heartily. she knew that mercy's "bark was worse than her bite." "you come and see jane ann--and be nice to her. she doesn't look it, but she's just as scared as she can be." "of course you'd have some poor, unfortunate pup, or kitten, to mother, ruth fielding," snapped the lame girl. she was very nice, however, to the girl from silver ranch, sat beside her in the chair car, and soon had jane ann laughing. for mercy curtis, with her sarcastic tongue, could be good fun if she wished to be. here and there, along the route to osago lake, other briarwood girls joined them. at one point appeared madge steele and her brother, bob, a slow, smiling young giant, called "bobbins" by the other boys, who was always being "looked after" in a most distressing fashion by his sister. "come, bobby, boy, don't fall up the steps and get your nice new clothes dirty," adjured madge, as her brother made a false step in getting aboard the train. "will you look out for him, mr. cameron, if i leave him in your care?" "sure!" said tom, laughing. "i'll see that he doesn't spoil his pinafore or mess up his curls." "say! i'd shake a sister like that if i had one," grunted "busy izzy" phelps, disgustedly. "aw, what's the odds?" drawled good-natured bobbins. the hilarious crowd boarded the _lanawaxa_ at the landing, and after crossing the lake they again took a train, disembarking at seven oaks, where the boys' school was situated. from here the girls were to journey by stage to briarwood. there was dust-coated, grinning, bewhiskered "old noah dolliver" and his "ark," waiting for them. there was a horde of uniformed academy boys about to greet tom and his chums, and to eye the girls who had come thus far in their company. but ruth and her friends were not so bashful as they had been the year before. they formed in line, two by two, and slowly paraded the length of the platform, chanting in unison the favorite "welcome to the infants" used at the beginning of each half at briarwood: "uncle noah, he drove an ark-- one wide river to cross! he's aiming to land at briarwood park-- one wide river to cross! one wide river! one wide river of jordan! one wide river! one wide river to cross!" the boys cheered them enthusiastically. the girls piled into the coach with much laughter. even mercy had taken part in this fun, for the procession had marched at an easy pace for her benefit. old dolliver cracked his whip. tom ran along in the dust on one side and bobbins on the other, each to bid a last good-bye to his sister. then the coach rolled into the shadow of the cool wood road, and ruth and her friends were really upon the last lap of their journey to the hall. chapter v a long look ahead "hurrah! first glimpse of the old place!" helen cried this, with her head out of the ark. the dust rolled up in a cloud behind them as they topped the hill. here mary cox had met ruth and helen that first day, a year ago, when they approached the hall. there was no infant in the coach now save jane ann. and the chums were determined to save the western girl from that strange and lonely feeling they had themselves experienced. there was nobody in view on the pastured hill. down the slope the ark coasted and bye and bye cedar walk came into view. "shall we get out here, girls?" called madge steele, with a glance at mercy. "of course we shall," cried that sprightly person, shaking her fist at the big senior. "don't you dare try to spare _me_, miss! i am getting so strong and healthy i am ashamed of myself. don't you dare!" madge kissed her warmly, as ruth had. _that_ was the best way to treat mercy curtis whenever she "exploded." suddenly helen leaned out of the open half of the door on her side and began to call a welcome to four girls who were walking briskly down the winding pathway. instantly they began to run, shouting joyfully in return. "here we be, young ladies," croaked old dolliver, bringing his tired horses to a halt. they struggled forth, jane ann coming last to help the lame girl--just a mite. then the two parties of school friends came together like the mingling of waters. one was a very plump girl with a smiling, rosy face; one was red-haired and very sharp-looking, and the other two balanced each other evenly, both being more than a little pretty, very well dressed, and one dark while the other was light. the light girl was belle tingley, and the dark one lluella fairfax; of course, the red-haired one was mary cox, "the fox," while the stout girl could be no other than "heavy" jennie stone. the fox came forward quickly and seized both of ruth's hands. "dear ruth," she whispered. "i arrived just this morning myself. you know that my brother is all right again?" and she kissed the girl of the red mill warmly. belle and lluella looked a bit surprised at mary cox's manifestation of friendship for ruth; but they did not yet know all the particulars of their schoolmates' adventures at silver ranch. heavy was hurrying about, kissing everybody indiscriminately, and of course performing this rite with ruth at least twice. "i'm so tickled to see you all, i can't tell!" she laughed. "and you're all looking fine, too. but it does seem a month, instead of a week, since i saw you." "my! but you are looking bad yourself, heavy," gibed helen cameron, shaking her head and staring at the other girl. "you're just fading away to a shadow." "pretty near," admitted heavy. "but the doctor says i shall get my appetite back after a time. i was allowed to drink the water two eggs were boiled in for lunch, and to-night i can eat the holes out of a dozen doughnuts. oh! i'm convalescing nicely, thank you." the girls who had reached the school first welcomed jane ann quite as warmly as they did the others. there was an air about them all that seemed protecting to the strange girl. other girls were walking up and down the cedar walk, and sometimes they cast more than glances at the eight juniors who were already such friends. madge had immediately been swallowed up by a crowd of seniors. "say, foxy! got an infant there?" demanded one girl. "i suppose fielding has made her a sweetbriar already--eh?" suggested another. "the sweetbriars do not have to fish for members," declared helen, tossing her head. "oh, my! see what a long tail our cat's got!" responded one of the other crowd, tauntingly. "the double quartette! there's just eight of them," crowed another. "there certainly will be something doing at briarwood hall with those two roomsful." "say! that's right!" cried heavy, eagerly, to ruth. "you, and helen, and mercy, and jinny, take that quartette room on our other side. we'll just about boss that dormitory. what do you say?" "if mrs. tellingham will agree," said ruth. "i'll ask her." "but you girls will be 'way ahead of me in your books," broke in jane ann. "we needn't be ahead of you in sleeping, and in fun," laughed heavy, pinching her. "don't be offish, miss jinny," said helen, calling her by the title that the cowboys did. "and my name--my dreadful, dreadful name!" groaned the western girl. "i tell you!" exclaimed ruth, "we're all friends. let's agree how we shall introduce miss hicks to the bunch. she must choose a name----" "why, call yourself 'nita,' if you want to, dear," said helen, patting the western girl's arm. "that's the name you ran away with." "but i'm ashamed of that. i know it is silly--and i chose it for a silly reason. but you know what all these girls will do to 'jane ann,'" and she shook her head, more than a little troubled. "what's the matter with ann?" demanded mercy curtis, sharply. "isn't 'ann hicks' sensible-sounding enough? for sure, it's not _pretty_; but we can't all have both pretty names and pretty features," and she laughed. "and it's mighty tough when you haven't got either," grumbled the new girl. "'ann hicks,'" quoth ruth, softly. "i like it. i believe it sounds nice, too--when you get used to it. 'ann hicks.' something dignified and fine about it--just as though you had been named after some really great woman--some leader." the others laughed; and yet they looked appreciation of ruth fielding's fantasy. "bully for you, ruthie!" cried helen, hugging her. "if ann hicks agrees." "it doesn't sound so bad without the 'jane,'" admitted the western girl with a sigh. "and ruth says it so nicely." "we'll all say it nicely," declared the fox, who was a much different "fox" from what she had been the year before. "'ann hicks,' i bet you've got a daguerreotype at home of the gentle old soul for whom you are named. you know--silver-gray gown, pearls, pink cheeks, and a real ostrich feather fan." "my goodness me!" ejaculated the newly christened ann hicks, "you have already arranged a very fanciful family tree for me. can i ever live up to such an ancestress as _that_?" "certainly you can," declared ruth, firmly. "you've just _got_ to. think of the original ann--as mary described her--whenever you feel like exploding. her picture ought to bring you up short. a lady like that _couldn't_ explode." "tough lines," grumbled the western girl. "right from what you girls call the 'wild and woolly,' and to have to live up to silver-gray silk and pearls--m-m-m-m!" "now, say! say!" cried belle tingley, suddenly, and seizing upon ruth, about whom she had been hovering ever since they had met. "_i_ want to talk a little. there aren't any more infants to christen, i hope?" "go on!" laughed ruth, squeezing her. "what is the matter, _bella mia_?" "and don't talk italian," said belle, shrugging her shoulders. "listen! i promised to ask you the minute you arrived, ruthie, and now you've been here ten at least." "it is something splendid," laughed lluella, clapping her hands, evidently being already a sharer in belle's secret. "i'll tell you--if they'll let me," panted belle, shaking ruth a little. "father's bought cliff island. it's a splendid place. we were there for part of the summer. and there will be a great lodge built by christmas time and he has told me i might invite you all to come to the house-warming. now, ruth! it remains with you. if you'll go, the others will, i know. and it's a splendid place." "cliff island?" gasped ruth. "yes. in lake tallahaska." "and your father has just bought it?" "yes. he had some trouble getting a clear title; but it's all right now. they had to evict an old squatter. i want you all to come with me for the mid-winter holiday. what do you say, ruthie?" asked belle, eagerly. "i say it's a long look ahead," responded ruth, slowly. "it's very kind of you, belle. but i'll have to write home first, of course. i'd like to go, though--to cliff island--yes, indeed!" chapter vi picking up the threads ann hicks must see the preceptress at once. that came first, and ruth would not go into the old dormitory until the introduction of the western girl was accomplished. there was a whole bevy of girls on the steps of the main building, in which mrs. grace tellingham and dr. tellingham lived. nobody ever thought of putting the queer old doctor first, although all the briarwoods respected the historian immensely. he was considered very, very scholarly, although it would have been hard to find any of his histories in any library save that of briarwood itself. it was understood that just now he was engaged upon a treatise relating to the possible existence of a race before the mound builders in the middle west, and he was not to be disturbed, of course, at his work. but when ruth and ann hicks entered the big office room, there he was, bent over huge tomes upon the work table, his spectacles awry, and his wig pushed so far back upon his head that two hands' breadth of glistening crown was exposed. the fiction that dr. tellingham was not bald might have been kept up very well indeed, did not the gentleman get so excited while he worked. as soon as he became interested in his books, he proceeded to bare his high brow to all beholders, and the wig slid toward the back of his neck. the truth was, as heavy stone said, dr. tellingham had to remove his collar to brush his hair--there really was so little of it. "dear, dear!" sputtered the historian, peering at the two girls over his reading glasses. "you don't want me, of course?" "oh, no, dr. tellingham. this is a new girl. we wished to see mrs. tellingham," ruth assured him. "quite so," he said, briskly. "she is--ah! she comes! my dear! two of the young ladies to see you," and instantly he was buried in his books again--that is, buried all but his shining crown. mrs. tellingham was a graceful, gray-haired lady, with a charming smile. she trailed her black robe across the carpet and stooped to kiss ruth warmly, for she not only respected the junior, but had learned to love her. "welcome, miss fielding!" she said, kindly. "i am glad to see you back. and this is the girl i have been getting letters about--miss hicks?" "ann hicks," responded ruth, firmly. "that is the name she wishes to be known by, dear mrs. tellingham." "i don't know who could be writing you but uncle bill," said ann hicks, blunderingly. "and i expect he's told you a-plenty." "i think 'uncle bill' must be the most recklessly generous man in the world, my dear," observed mrs. tellingham, taking and holding one of ann's brown hands, and looking closely at the western girl. for a moment the new girl blushed and her own eyes shone. "you bet he is! i--i beg pardon," she stammered. "uncle bill is all right." "and jennie stone's aunt kate has been writing me about you, too. it seems she was much interested in you when you visited their place at lighthouse point." "she's very kind," murmured the new girl. "and mrs. murchiston, helen's governess, has spoken a good word for you," added the preceptress. "why--why i didn't know so many people _cared_," stammered ann. "you see, you have a way of making friends unconsciously. i can see that," mrs. tellingham said, kindly. "now, do not be discouraged. you will make friends among the girls in just the same way. don't mind their banter for a while. the rough edges will soon rub off----" "but there _are_ rough edges," admitted the western girl, hanging her head. "don't mind. there are such in most girls' characters and they show up when first they come to school. keep cheerful. come to me if you are in real trouble--and stick close to miss fielding, here. i can't give you any better advice than that," added mrs. tellingham, with a laugh. then she was ready to listen to ruth's plea that the room next to the fox and her chums be given up to ruth, helen, mercy and the new girl. "we love our little room; but it was crowded with mercy last half; and we could all get along splendidly in a quartette room," said ruth. "all right," agreed the principal. "i'll telephone to miss scrimp and miss picolet. now, go and see about getting settled, young ladies. i expect much of you this half, ruth fielding. as for ann, i shall take her in hand myself on monday and see what classes she would best enter." "she's fine," declared ann hicks, when they were outside again. "i can get along with her. but how about the girls?" "they'll be nice to you, too--after a bit. of course, everybody new has to expect some hazing. thank your stars that you won't have to be put through the initiation of the marble harp," and she pointed to a marble figure in the tiny italian garden in the middle of the campus. when ann wanted to know what _that_ meant, ruth repeated the legend as all new girls at briarwood must learn it. but ruth and her friends had long since agreed that no other nervous or high-strung girl was to be hazed, as she and helen had been, when they first came to the hall. so the ceremony of the marble harp was abolished. it has been described in the former volume of this series, "ruth fielding at briarwood hall." the two went back to the dormitory that had become like home to ruth. miss picolet, the little french teacher, beckoned them into her study. "i must be the good friend of your good friend, too, miss fielding," she said, and shook hands warmly with ann. the matron of the house had already opened and aired the large room next to that which had been so long occupied by the fox and her chums. the eight girls made the corridor ring with laughter and shouts while they were getting settled. the trunks had arrived from lumberton and helen and ruth were busy decorating the big room which they were to share in the future with the lame girl and ann hicks. there were two wide beds in it; but each girl had her own dressing case and her locker and closet there were four windows and two study tables. it was a delightful place, they all agreed. "hush! tell it not in gath; whisper it not in ascalon!" hissed the fox, peering into the room. "you girls have the best there is. it's lots bigger than our quartette----" "oh, i don't think so. only a 'teeny' bit larger," responded ruth, quickly. "then it's heavy that takes up so much space in our room. she dwarfs everything. however," said the red-haired girl, "you can have lots more fun in here. shove back everything against one wall, roll up the rugs, and then we can dance." "and have picolet after us in a hurry," observed helen, laughing. "barefoot dancing is still in vogue," retorted the fox. "helen can play her violin." "after retiring bell? no, thanks!" exclaimed ruth's chum. "i am to stand better in my classes this half than last spring or monsieur pa-_pa_ will have something to say to me. he doesn't often preach; but that black-haired brother of mine did better last term than i did. can't have that." "they're awfully strict with the boys over at seven oaks," sighed heavy, who was chewing industriously as she talked, sitting cross-legged on the floor. "what are you eating, heavy?" demanded belle, suddenly. "some of those doughnut holes, i bet!" giggled lluella. "they must be awful filling, heavy." "nothing _is_ filling," replied the stout girl. "just think, almost the whole universe is filled with just atmosphere--and your head, lluella." "that's not pretty, dear," remarked the fox, pinching heavy. "don't be nasty to your playmates." "well, i've got to eat," groaned heavy. "if you knew how long it seemed from luncheon to supper time----" despite all ruth fielding could do, the girl from silver ranch felt herself a good deal out of this nonsense and joviality. ann could not talk the way these girls did. she felt serious when she contemplated her future in the school. "i'd--i'd run away if it wasn't for uncle bill," she whispered to herself, looking out of the window at the hundreds of girls parading the walks about the campus. almost every two girls seemed chums. they walked with their arms about each other's waists, and chattered like magpies. ann hicks wanted to run and hide somewhere, for she was more lonely now than she had ever been when wandering about the far-reaching range on the montana ranch! chapter vii "a hard row to hoe" since ruth fielding had organized the s.b.'s, or sweetbriars, there had been little hazing at briarwood hall. of course, this was the first real opening of the school year since that auspicious occasion; but the effect of the new society and its teachings upon the whole school was marked. rivalries had ceased to a degree. the old upedes, of which the fox had been the head, no longer played their tricks. the fox had grown much older in appearance, if not in years. she had had her lesson. belle and lluella and heavy were not so reckless, either. and as the s.b.'s stood for friendship, kindness, helpfulness, and all its members wore the pretty badge, it was likely to be much easier for those "infants" who joined the school now. ann hicks was bound to receive some hard knocks, even as mrs. tellingham had suggested. but "roughing it" a little is sometimes good for girls as well as boys. in her own western home ann could have held her own with anybody. she was so much out of her usual element here at briarwood that she was like a startled hare. she scented danger on all sides. her roommates could not always defend her, although even mercy, the unmerciful, tried. ann hicks was so big, and blundering. she was taller than most girls of her age, and "raw-boned" like her uncle. some time she might really be handsome; but there was little promise of it as yet. when the principal started her in her studies, it was soon discovered that ann, big girl though she was, had to take some of the lessons belonging to the primary grade. and she made a sorry appearance in recitation, at best. there were plenty of girls to laugh at her. there is nothing so cruel as a schoolgirl's tongue when it is unbridled. and unless the victim is blessed with either a large sense of humor, or an apt brain for repartee, it goes hard with her. poor ann had neither--she was merely confused and miserable. she saw the other girls of her room--and their close friends in the neighboring quartette--going cheerfully about the term's work. they had interests that the girl from the west, with her impoverished mind, could not even appreciate. she had to study so hard--even some of the simplest lessons--that she had little time to learn games. she did not care for gymnasium work, although there were probably few girls at the school as muscular as herself. tennis seemed silly to her. nobody rode at the hall, and she longed to bestride a pony and dash off for a twenty-mile canter. nothing that she was used to doing on the ranch would appeal to these girls here--ann was quite sure of that. ruth and the others who had been with them for that all-too-short month at silver ranch seemed to have forgotten the riding, and the roping, and all. then, helen had her violin--and loved it. ruth was practicing singing all the time she could spare, for she was already a prominent member of the glee club. when the girl of the red mill sang, ann hicks felt her heart throb and the tears rise in her eyes. she loved ruth's kind of music; yet she, herself, could not carry a tune. mercy was strictly attentive to her own books. mercy was a bookworm--nor did she like being asked questions about her studies. those first few weeks ann hicks's recitations did not receive very high marks. often some of the girls who did not know her very well laughed because she carried books belonging to the primary grade. ann hicks had many studies to make up that her mates had been drilled in while they were in the lower classes. one day at mail time (and in a boarding school that is a most important hour) ann received a very tempting-looking box by parcel post. she had been initiated into the meaning of "boxes from home." even aunt alvirah had sent a box to ruth, filled with choicest homemade dainties. ann expected nothing like that. uncle bill would never think of it--and he wouldn't know what to buy, anyway. the box fairly startled the girl from silver ranch. "what is it? something good to eat, i bet," cried heavy, who was on hand, of course. "open it, ann--do." "come on! let's see what the goodies are," urged another girl, but who smiled behind her hand. "i don't know who would send _me_ anything," said ann, slowly. "never mind the address. open it!" cried a third speaker, and had ann noted it, she would have realized that some of the most trying girls in the school had suddenly surrounded her. with trembling fingers she tore off the outside wrapper without seeing that the box had been mailed at the local post office--lumberton! a very decorative box was enclosed. "h-m-m!" gasped heavy. "nothing less than fancy nougatines in _that_." she was aiding the heartless throng, but did not know it. it would have never entered heavy's mind to do a really mean thing. ann untied the narrow red ribbon. she raised the cover. tissue paper covered something very choice----? _a dunce cap._ for a moment ann was stricken motionless. the girls about her shouted. one coarse, thoughtless girl seized the cap, pulled it from the box, and clapped it on ann hicks's black hair. the delighted crowd shouted more shrilly. heavy was thunderstruck. then she sputtered: "well! i never would have believed there was anybody so mean as that in the whole of briarwood school." but ann, who had held in her temper as she governed a half-wild pony on the range, until this point, suddenly "let go all holts," as bill hicks would have expressed it. she tore the cap from her head and stamped upon it and the fancy box it had come in. she struck right and left at the laughing, scornful faces of the girls who had so baited her. had it not been disgraceful, one might have been delighted with the change in the expression of those faces--and in the rapidity with which the change came about. more than one blow landed fairly. the print of ann's fingers was impressed in red upon the cheeks of those nearest to her. they ran screaming--some laughing, some angry. heavy's weight (for the fleshy girl had seized ann about the waist) was all that made the enraged girl give over her pursuit of her tormentors. fortunately, ruth herself came running to the spot. she got ann away and sat by her all the afternoon in their room, making up her own delinquent lessons afterward. but the affair could not be passed over without comment. some of the girls had reported ann's actions. of course, such a disgraceful thing as a girl slapping another was seldom heard of in briarwood. mrs. tellingham, who knew very well where the blame lay, dared not let the matter go without punishing ann, however. "i am grieved that one of our girls--a young lady in the junior grade--should so forget herself," said the principal. "whatever may have been the temptation, such an exhibition of temper cannot be allowed. i am sure she will not yield to it again; nor shall i pass leniently over the person who may again be the cause of ann hicks losing her temper." this seemed to ann to be "the last straw." "she might have better put me in the primary grade in the beginning," the ranch girl said, spitefully. "then i wouldn't have been among those who despise me. i hate them all! i'll just get away from here----" but the thought of running away a second time rather troubled her. she had worried her uncle greatly the first time she had done so. now he was sure she was in such good hands that she wouldn't wish to run away. ann knew that she could not blame ruth fielding, and the other girls who were always kind to her. she merely shrank from being with them, when they knew so much more than she did. it was her pride that was hurt. had she taken the teasing of the meaner girls in a wiser spirit, she knew they would not have sent her the dunce cap. they continued to tease her because they knew they could hurt her. "i--i wish i could show them i could do things that they never dreamed of doing!" muttered ann, angrily, yet wistfully, too. "i'd like to fling a rope, or manage a bad bronc', or something they never saw a girl do before. "book learning isn't everything. oh! i have half a mind to give up and go back to the ranch. nobody made fun of me out there--they didn't dare! and our folks are too kind to tease that way, anyhow," thought the western girl. "uncle bill is just paying out his good money for nothing. he said ruth was a little lady--and helen, too. i knew he wanted me to be the same, after he got acquainted with them and saw how fine they were. "but you sure 'can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.' that's as certain as shootin'! if i stay here i've got a mighty hard row to hoe--and--and i don't believe i've got the pluck to hoe it." ann groaned, and shook her tousled black head. chapter viii jerry sheming again ruth, with all the fun and study of the opening of the fall term at briarwood, could not entirely forget jerry sheming. more particularly did she think of him because of the invitation belle tingley had extended to her the day of their arrival. it was a coincidence that none of the other girls appreciated, for none of them had talked much with the young fellow who had saved ann hicks from the wrecked car at applegate crossing. even ann herself had not become as friendly with the boy as had ruth. the fact that he had lived a good share of his life on the very island belle said her father had bought for a hunting camp, served to spur ruth's interest in both the youth and the island itself. then, what jerry had told her about his uncle's lost treasure box added to the zest of the affair. somewhere on the island peter tilton had lost a box containing money and private papers. jerry believed it to have been buried by a landslide that had occurred months before. there must be something in this story, or why should "uncle pete," as jerry called him, have lost his mind over the catastrophe? uncle pete must be really mad or they would not have shut him up in the county asylum. the loss of the papers supposed to be in the box made it possible for some man named blent to cheat the old hunter out of his holdings on cliff island. not for a moment did ruth suppose that mr. tingley, belle's father, was a party to any scheme for cheating the old hunter. it was the work of the man blent--if true. ruth was very curious--and very much interested. few letters ever passed between her and the red mill. aunt alvirah's gnarled and twisted fingers did not take kindly to the pen; and uncle jabez loved better to add up his earnings than to spend an evening retailing the gossip of the mill for his grandniece to peruse. ruth knew that jerry had soon recovered from his accident and that for several weeks, at least, had worked for uncle jabez. the latter grudgingly admitted that jerry was the best man he had ever hired in the cornfield, both in cutting fodder and shucking corn. just before thanksgiving there came a letter saying that jerry had gone on. of course, ruth knew that her uncle would not keep the young fellow longer than he could make use of him; but she was sorry he had gone before she had communicated with him. the girl of the red mill felt that she wished to know jerry better. she had been deeply interested in his story. she had hoped to learn more about him. "if you are really going to cliff island for the holidays, belle," she told the latter, "i hope i can go." "bully!" exclaimed belle, joyfully. "we'll have a dandy time there--better than we had at helen's father's camp, last winter. i refuse to be lost in the snow again." "same here," drawled heavy. "but i wish that lake you talk about, belle, wouldn't freeze over. i don't like ice," with a shiver. "who ever heard of water that wouldn't freeze?" demanded belle, scornfully. "i have," said heavy, promptly. "what kind of water, i'd like to know, miss?" "hot water," responded heavy, chuckling. helen, and most of the other girls who were invited to cliff island for christmas, had already accepted the invitation. ruth wrote to her uncle with some little doubt. she did not know how he would take the suggestion. she had been at the mill so little since first she began attending boarding school. this thanksgiving she did not expect to go home. few of the girls did so, for the recess was only over the week-end and lessons began again on monday. only those girls who lived very near to briarwood made a real vacation of the first winter holiday. a good many used the time to make up lessons and work off "conditions." thanksgiving day itself was made somewhat special by a trip to buchane falls, where there was a large dam. dinner was to be served at five in the evening, and more than half the school went off to the falls (which was ten miles away) in several big party wagons, before ten o'clock in the morning. "bring your appetites back with you, girls," mrs. tellingham told them at chapel, and heavy, at least, had promised to do so and meant to keep her word. yet even heavy did justice to the cold luncheon that was served to all of them at the falls. it was crisp autumn weather. early in the morning there had been a skim of ice along the edge of the water; but there had not yet been frost enough to chain the current of the buchane creek. indeed, it would not freeze over in the middle until mid-winter, if then. the picnic ground was above the falls and on the verge of the big millpond. there were swings, and a bowling alley, and boats, and other amusements. ruth had fairly dragged ann hicks into the party. the girls who had been meanest to the westerner were present. ann would have had a woefully bad time of it had not some of the smaller girls needed somebody to look out for them. ann hated the little girls at briarwood less than she did the big ones. in fact, the "primes," as they were called, rather took to the big girl from the west. one of the swings was not secure, and ann started to fix it. she could climb like any boy, and there did not happen to be a teacher near to forbid her. therefore, up she went, unfastened the rope from the beam, and proceeded to splice the place where it had become frayed. it was not a new rope, but was strong save in that one spot. ann coiled it, and although it did not have the "feel" of the fine hemp, or the good hair rope that is part of the cowman's equipment, her hands and arm tingled to lassoo some active, running object. she coiled it once more and then flung the rope at a bush. the little girls shouted their appreciation. ann did not mind, for there seemed to be no juniors or seniors there to see. most of the older girls were down by the water. indeed, some of the seniors were trying to interest the bigger girls in rowing. briarwood owned a small lake, and they might have canoes and racing shells upon it, if the girls as a whole would become interested. but many of the big girls did not even know how to row. there was one big punt into which almost a dozen of them crowded. heavy sat in the stern and declared that she had to have a big crowd in the bow of the boat, to balance it and keep her end from going down. therefore one girl after another jumped in, and when it was really too full for safety it was pushed out from the landing. just about the time the current which set toward the middle of the pond seized the punt, it was discovered that nobody had thought of oars. "how under the sun did you suppose a thing like this was going to be propelled?" heavy demanded. "i never did see such a fellow as you are, mandy mitchell!" "you needn't scold me," declared the mitchell girl. "you invited me into the boat." "did i? why! i must have been crazy, then!" declared heavy. "and didn't any of you think how we were going to get back to shore?" "nor we don't know now," cried another girl. "oh-o!" gasped one of the others, darting a frightened look ahead. "we're aiming right for the dam." "you wouldn't expect the boat to drift against the current, would you?" snapped heavy. "let's scream!" cried another--and they could all do that to perfection. in a very few minutes it was apparent to everybody within the circle of half a mile or more that a bunch of girls was in trouble--or thought so! "sit down!" gasped heavy. "don't rock the boat. if that yelling doesn't bring anybody, we're due to reach a watery grave, sure enough." "oh, don't, heavy!" wailed one of the weaker ones. "how can you?" heavy was privately as frightened as any of them, but she tried to keep the others cheerful, and would have kept on joking till the end. but several small boats came racing down the pond after them, and along the bank came a man--or a boy--running and shouting. how either the girls in the boats or the youth on the shore could help them, was a mystery; but both comforted the imperiled party immensely. the current swung the heavy punt in toward the shore. right at that end of the dam the water was running a foot deep--or more--over the flash-board. if the punt struck, it would turn broadside, and probably tip all hands over the dam. this was a serious predicament, indeed, and the spectators realized it even more keenly than did the girls in the punt. the youth who had been called to the spot by their screams threw off his coat and cap, and they saw him stoop to unlace his shoes. a plunge into this cold water was not attractive, and it was doubtful if he could help them much if he reached the punt. down the hill from the picnic grounds came a group of girls, ann hicks in the lead. most of her companions were too small to do any good in any event. the girl from the ranch carried a neat coil of rope in one hand and she shouted to heavy to "hold on!" "you tell me what to hold on to, and you'll see me do it!" replied the plump girl. "all i can take hold of just now is thin air." "hold on!" said ann again, and stopped, having reached the right spot. then she swung the rope in the air, let it uncoil suddenly, and the loose end dropped fairly across jennie stone's lap. "hold on!" yelled everybody, then, and heavy obeyed. but the young fellow sprang to ann's aid, and wrapped the slack of the rope around a stout sapling on the edge of the pond. "easy! easy!" he admonished. "we don't want to pull them out of the boat. you _can_ fling a rope; can't you, miss?" "i'd ought to," grunted ann. "i've roped enough steers--why! you're jerry sheming," she declared, suddenly looking into his face. "ruth fielding wants to see you. don't you run away before she talks with you." then the rope became taut, and the punt began to swing shoreward slowly, taking in some water and setting the girls to screaming again. chapter ix ruth's little plot the punt was in shallow water and the girls who had ventured into it without oars were perfectly safe before any of the teachers arrived. with them came ruth and helen, and some of the other juniors and seniors. heavy took the stump. "now! you see what she did?" cried the stout girl, seizing ann in her arms the moment she could get ashore. "if she hadn't known how to fling a lasso, and rope a steer, she'd never have been able to send that rope to us. "three cheers for ann hicks, the girl from the ranch, who knows what to do when folks are drowning in buchane pond! one--two--three----" the cheers were given with a will. several of the girls who had treated the western girl so meanly about the dunce cap had been in the boat, and they asked ann to shake hands. they were truly repentant, and ann could not refuse their advances. but the western girl was still doubtful of her standing with her mates, and went back to play with the little ones. meanwhile she showed ruth where jerry sheming stood at one side, and the girl from the red mill ran to him eagerly. "i am delighted to see you!" she exclaimed, shaking jerry's rough hand. "i was afraid i wouldn't be able to find you after you left the mill. and i wanted to." "i'm glad of your interest in me, miss ruth," he said, "but i ain't got no call to expect it. mr. potter was pretty kind to me, and he kept me as long as there was work there." "but you haven't got to tramp it, now?" "only to look for a steady job. i--i come over this way hopin' i'd hit it at lumberton. but they're discharging men at the mills instead of hiring new ones." "and i expect you'd rather work in the woods than anywhere else?" suggested ruth. "why--yes, miss. i love the woods. and i got a good rifle and shotgun, and i'm a good camp cook. i can't get a guide's license, but i could go as assistant--if anybody would take me around tallahaska." "suppose i could get you a job working right where you've always lived--at cliff island?" she asked, eagerly. "what d'ye mean--cliff island?" he demanded, flushing deeply. "i wouldn't work for that rufus blent--nor he wouldn't have me." "i don't know anything about the man," said ruth, smiling. "but one of my chums has invited me to go to cliff island for the christmas holidays. her father has bought the place and is building a lodge there." "good lands!" ejaculated jerry. "isn't that a coincidence?" ruth commented. "now, you wouldn't refuse a job with mr. tingley; would you?" "tingley--is that the name?" "yes. perhaps i can get him, through belle, to hire you. i'll try. would you go back?" "in a minute!" exclaimed jerry. "then i'll try. you see, in four or five weeks, we'll be going there ourselves. i think it would just be jolly to have you around, for you know all about the island and everything." "yes, indeed, ma'am," agreed jerry. "i'd like the job." "so you must write me every few days and let me know where you are. mrs. tellingham won't mind--i'll explain to her," ruth said, earnestly. "i am not quite sure that i can go myself, yet. but i'll know for sure in a few days. and i'll see if belle won't ask her father to give you work at cliff island. then, in your off time, you can look for that box your uncle lost. don't you see?" "oh, miss! i guess that's gone for good. near as i could make out o' uncle pete, the landslide at the west end of the island buried his treasure box a mile deep! it was in one o' the little caves, i s'pose." "caves? are there caves on the island?" "lots of 'em. big ones as well as small. if uncle pete wasn't plumb crazy, he had his money and papers in a hide-out that i'd never found." "i see miss picolet coming this way. she won't approve of my talking with 'a strange young man' so long," laughed ruth. "you let me know every few days where you are, jerry?" "yes, ma'am, i will. and thank you kindly." "you aren't out of funds? you have money?" "i've got quite a little store," said jerry, smiling. "thanks to that nice black-eyed girl that i helped out of the car window." "oh! ann hicks. and she's being made much of, now, by the girls, because she knew how to fling a rope," cried ruth, looking across the picnic ground to where her schoolmates were grouped. "she's all right," said jerry, enthusiastically. "they ought to be proud of her--them that was in that boat." "it will break the ice for ann," declared ruth. "i am so glad. now, i must run. don't forget to write, jerry. good bye." she gave him her hand and ran back to join her school friends. ann had gone about putting up the children's swing and at first had paid little attention to the enthusiasm of the girls who had been saved from going over the dam. but she could not ignore them altogether. "you're just the smartest girl i ever saw," heavy declaimed. "we'd all be in the water, sure enough, if you hadn't got that rope to us. come on, ann! be a sport. _do_ wear your laurels kindly." "i'm just as 'dumb' about books as ever. flinging that rope didn't make any difference," growled the western girl. "i don't care if you don't know your 'a.b., abs,'" cried one of the girls who had taken a prominent part in the dunce cap trick. "you make me awfully ashamed of myself for being so mean to you. please forgive us all, ann--that's a good girl." ann was awkward about accepting their apologies; and yet she was not naturally a bad-tempered girl. she was just different from them all--and felt the difference so keenly! this sudden reversal of feeling, and their evident offer of friendliness, made her feel more awkward than ever. she remained very glum while at the picnic grounds. but, as ruth had said, the incident served to break the ice. ann had gotten her start. somebody beside the "primes" gave her "the glad hand and the smiling eye." briarwood began to be a different sort of place for the ranch girl. there were plenty of the juniors who looked down on her still; but she had "shown them" once that she could do something the ordinary eastern girl could not do and ann was on the _qui vive_ for another chance to "make good" along her own particular line. she grew brighter and more self-possessed as the term advanced. her lessons, too, she attacked with more assurance. a few days after thanksgiving ruth received a letter in aunt alvirah's cramped hand-writing which assured her that uncle jabez would make no objection to her accepting the invitation to go to cliff island for the holidays. "and i'll remind him of it in time so't he can send you a christmas goldpiece, if the sperit so moves him," wrote aunt alvirah, in her old-fashioned way. "but do take care of yourself, my pretty, in the middle of that lake." in telling belle how happy she was to accept the invitation for the frolic, ruth diffidently put forward her request that mr. tingley give jerry sheming a job. "i am quite sure he is a good boy," she told belle. "he has worked for my uncle, and uncle jabez praised him. now, uncle jabez doesn't praise for nothing." "i'll tell father about this jerry--sure," laughed belle. "you're an odd girl, ruth. you're always trying to do something for somebody." "trying to do somebody for somebody, maybe," interposed mercy, in her sharp way. "ruth uses her friends for her own ends." but ruth's little plot worked. a fortnight after thanksgiving she was able to write to jerry, who had found a few days' work near the school, that he could go back to cliff island and present himself to mr. tingley's foreman. a good job was waiting for him on the island where he had lived so long with his uncle, the old hunter. chapter x an exciting finish affairs at briarwood went at high speed toward the end of the term. everybody was busy. a girl who did not work, or who had no interest in her studies, fell behind very quickly. ann hicks was spurred to do her best by the activities of her mates. she did not like any of them well enough--save those in the two neighboring quartette rooms in her dormitory building--to accept defeat from them. she began to make a better appearance in recitations, and her marks became better. they all had extra interests save ann herself. helen cameron was in the school orchestra and played first violin with a hope of getting solo parts in time. she loved the instrument, and in the evening, before the electricity was turned on, she often played in the room, delighting the music-loving ann. sometimes ruth sang to her chum's accompaniment. ruth's voice was so sweet, so true and tender, and she sang ballads with such feeling, that ann often was glad it was dark in the room. the western girl considered it "soft" to weep, but ruth's singing brought the tears to her eyes. mercy curtis even gave up her beloved books during the hour of these informal concerts. other times she would have railed because she could not study. mercy was as hungry for lessons as heavy stone was for layer-cake and macaroons. "that's all that's left me," croaked the lame girl, when she was in one of her most difficult moods. "i'll learn all there is to be learned. i'll stuff my head full. then, when other girls laugh at my crooked back and weak legs, i'll shame 'em by knowing more out of books." "oh, what a mean way to put it!" gasped helen. "i don't care, miss! you never had your back ache you and your legs go wabbly--no person with a bad back and such aches and pains as i have, was ever good-natured!" "think of aunt alvirah," murmured ruth, gently. "oh, well--she isn't just human!" gasped the lame girl. "she is very human, i think," ruth returned. "no. she's an angel. and no angel was ever called 'curtis,'" declared the other, her eyes snapping. "but i believe there must be an angel somewhere named 'mercy,'" ruth responded, still softly. however, it was understood that mercy was aiming to be the crack scholar of her class. there was a scholarship to be won, and mercy hoped to get it and to go to college two years later. even jennie stone declared she was going in for "extras." "what, pray?" scoffed the fox. "all your spare time is taken up in eating now, miss." "all right. i'll go in for the heavyweight championship at table," declared the plump girl, good-naturedly. "at least, the result will doubtless be visible." ann began to wonder what she was studying for. all these other girls seemed to have some particular object. was she going to school without any real reason for it? uncle bill would be proud of her, of course. she practised assiduously to perfect her piano playing. that was something that would show out in bullhide and on the ranch. uncle bill would crow over her playing just as he did over her bareback riding. but ann was not entirely satisfied with these thoughts. nor was she contented with the fact that she had begun to make her mates respect her. there was something lacking. she had half a mind to refuse belle tingley's invitation to cliff island. in her heart ann believed she was included in the party because belle would have been ashamed to ignore her, and ruth would not have gone had ann not been asked. to tell the truth ann was hungry for the girls to like her for herself--for some attribute of character which she honestly possessed. she had never had to think of such things before. in her western home it had never crossed her mind whether people liked her, or not. everybody about silver ranch had been uniformly kind to her. belle's holiday party was to be made up of the eight girls in the two quartette rooms, with madge steele, the senior; madge's brother, bobbins, tom cameron, little busy izzy phelps, and belle's own brothers. "of course, we've got to have the boys," declared helen. "no fun without them." mercy had tried to beg off at first; then she had agreed to go, if she could take half a trunkful of books with her. briarwood girls were as busy as bees in june during these last few days of the first half. the second half was broken by the easter vacation and most of the real hard work in study came before christmas. there was going to be a school play after christmas, and the parts were given out before the holidays. helen was going to play and ruth to sing. it did seem to ann as though every girl was happy and busy but herself. the last day of the term was in sight. there was to be the usual entertainment and a dance at night. the hall had to be trimmed with greens and those girls--of the junior and senior classes--who could, were appointed to help gather the decorations. "i don't want to go," objected ann. "goosie!" cried helen. "of course you do. it will be fun." "not for me," returned the ranch girl, grimly. "do you see who is going to head the party? that mitchell girl. she's always nasty to me." "be nasty to her!" snapped mercy, from her corner. "now, mercy!" begged ruth, shaking a finger at the lame girl. "i wouldn't mind what mitchell says or does," sniffed the fox. "fibber!" exclaimed mercy. "i never tell lies, miss," said mary cox, tossing her head. "humph!" ejaculated the somewhat spiteful mercy, "do you call yourself a female george washington?" "no. marthy washington," laughed heavy. "only her husband couldn't lie," declared mercy. "and at that, they say that somebody wished to change the epitaph on his tomb to read: 'here lies george washington--for the first time!'" "everybody is tempted to tell a fib some time," sighed helen. "and falls, too," exclaimed mercy. "i must say i don't believe there ever was anybody but washington that didn't tell a lie. it's awfully hard to be exactly truthful always," said lluella. "you remember that time in the primary grade, just after we'd come here to briarwood, belle?" "do i?" laughed belle tingley. "you fibbed all right then, miss." "it wasn't very bad--and i did _want_ to see the whole school so much. so--so i took one of my pencils to our teacher and asked her if she would ask the other scholars if it was theirs. "of course, all the other girls in our room said it wasn't," proceeded lluella. "then teacher said just what i wanted her to say: 'you may inquire in the other classes.' so i went around and saw all the other classes and had a real nice time. "but when i got back with the pencil in my hand still, belle come near getting me into trouble." "uh-huh!" admitted belle, nodding. "how?" asked somebody. "she just whispered--right out loud, 'lluella, that is your pencil and you know it!' and i had to say--right off, 'it isn't, and i didn't!' now, what could i have said else? but it was an awful fib, i s'pose." the assembled girls laughed. but ann hicks was still seriously inclined not to go into the woods, although she had no idea of telling a fib about it. and because she was too proud to say to the teacher in charge that she feared miss mitchell's tongue, the western girl joined the greens-gathering party at the very last minute. there were two four-seated sleighs, for there was a hard-packed white track into the woods toward triton lake. old dolliver drove one, and his helper manned the other. the english teacher was in charge. she hoped to find bushels of holly berries and cedar buds as well as the materials for wreaths. one pair of the horses was western--high-spirited, hard-bitted mustangs. ann hicks recognized them before she got into the sleigh. how they pulled and danced, and tossed the froth from their bits! "i feel just as they do," thought the girl. "i'd love to break out, and kick, and bite, and act the very old boy! poor things! how they must miss the plains and the free range." the other girls wondered what made her so silent. the tang of the frosty air, and the ring of the ponies' hoofs, and the jingle of the bells put plenty of life and fun into her mates; but ann remained morose. they reached the edge of the swamp and the girls alighted with merry shout and song. they were all armed with big shears or sharp knives, but the berries grew high, and old dolliver's boy had to climb for them. then the accident occurred--a totally unexpected and unlooked for accident. in stepping out on a high branch, the boy slipped, fell, and came down to the ground, hitting each intervening limb, and so saving his life, but dashing every bit of breath from his lungs, it seemed! the girls ran together, screaming. the teacher almost fainted. old dolliver stooped over the fallen boy and wiped the blood from his lips. "don't tech him!" he croaked. "he's broke ev'ry bone in his body, i make no doubt. an' he'd oughter have a doctor----" "i'll get one," said ann hicks, briskly, in the old man's ear. "where's the nearest--and the best?" "doc haverly at lumberton." "i'll get him." "it's six miles, miss. you'd never walk it. i'll take one of the teams----" "you stay with him," jerked out ann. "i can ride." "ride? them ain't ridin' hosses, miss," declared old dolliver. "if a horse has got four legs he can be ridden," declared the girl from the ranch, succinctly. "take the off one on my team, then----" "that old plug? i guess not!" exclaimed ann, and was off. she unharnessed one of the pitching, snapping mustangs. "whoa--easy! you wouldn't bite me, you know," she crooned, and the mustang thrust forward his ears and listened. she dropped off the heavy harness. the bridle she allowed to remain, but there was no saddle. the english teacher came to her senses, suddenly. "that creature will kill you!" she cried, seeing what ann was about. "then he'll be the first horse that ever did it," drawled ann. "hi, yi, yi! we're off!" to the horror of the teacher, to the surprise of old dolliver, and to the delight of the other girls, ann hicks swung herself astride of the dancing pony, dug her heels into his ribs, and the next moment had darted out of sight down the wood road. chapter xi a number of things there may have been good reason for the teacher to be horrified, but how else was the mustang to be ridden? ann was a big girl to go tearing through the roads and 'way into lumberton astride a horse. without a saddle and curb, however, she could not otherwise have clung to him. just now haste was imperative. she had a picture in her mind, all the way, of that boy lying in the snow, his face so pallid and the bloody foam upon his lips. in twenty-five minutes she was at the physician's gate. she flung herself off the horse, and as she shouted her news to the doctor through the open office window, she unbuckled the bridle-rein and made a leading strap of it. so, when the doctor drove out of the yard in his sleigh, she hopped in beside him and led the heaving mustang back into the woods. of course she did not look ladylike at all, and not another girl at briarwood would have done it. but even the english teacher--who was a prude--never scolded her for it. indeed, the doctor made a heroine of ann, old dolliver said he never saw her beat, and the boy, who was so sadly hurt (but who pulled through all right in the end) almost worshipped the girl from silver ranch. "and how she can ride!" the very girl who had treated ann the meanest said of her. "what does it matter if she isn't quite up to the average yet in recitations? she _will_ be." this was after the holidays, however. there was too short a time before belle tingley and her friends started for cliff island for ann to particularly note the different manner in which the girls in general treated her. the party went on the night train. mr. tingley, who had some influence with the railroad, had a special sleeper side-tracked at lumberton for their accommodation. this sleeper was to be attached to the train that went through lumberton at midnight. therefore they did not have to skip all the fun of the dance. this was one of the occasions when the boys from the seven oaks military academy were allowed to mix freely with the girls of briarwood. and both parties enjoyed it. belle's mother had arrived in good season, for she was to chaperone the party bound for logwood, at the head of tallahaska lake. she passed the word at ten o'clock, and the girls got their hand-baggage and ran down to the road, where old dolliver waited for them with his big sleigh. the boys walked into town, so the girls were nicely settled in the car when tom cameron and his chums reached the siding. belle tingley's two brothers were not too old to be companions for tom, bob, and isadore phelps. and they were all as eager for fun and prank-playing as they could be. mrs. tingley had already retired and most of the girls were in their dressing gowns when the boys arrived. the porter was making up the boys' berths as the latter tramped in, bringing on their clothing the first flakes of the storm that had been threatening all the evening. "let the porter brush you, little boy," urged madge, peering out between the curtains of her section and admonishing her big brother. "if you get cold and catch the croup i don't know what sister _will_ do! now, be a good child!" "huh!" grunted isadore phelps, trying to collect enough of the snow to make a ball to throw at her. "i wonder at you, bobbins. why don't you make her behave? treatin' you like an over-grown kid." "i'd never treat _you_ that way, master isadore," said madge, sweetly. "for you very well know that you're not grown at all!" at that isadore _did_ gather snow--by running out for it. he brought back a dozen snowballs and the first thing the girls knew the missiles were dropping over the top of the curtains into the sheltered spaces devoted to the berths. there _was_ a great squealing then, for some of the victims were quite ready for bed, and the snow was cold and wet. mrs. tingley interfered little with the pranks of the young folk, and izzy was careful not to throw any snow into _her_ compartment. but the tease did not know when to stop. he was usually that way--as madge said, izzy would drive a willing horse to death. it was heavy and ann, however, who paid him back in some of his own coin. the boys finally made their preparations for bed. izzy paraded the length of the car in his big robe and bed slippers, for a drink of ice water. before he could return, heavy and ann bounced out in their woolen kimonas and seized him. by this time the train had come in, the engine had switched to the siding, picked up their sleeper, and was now backing down to couple on to the train again. the two girls ran izzy out into the vestibule, heavy's hand over his mouth so that he could not shout to his friends for help. the door of the vestibule on the off side was unlocked. ann pushed it open. the snow was falling heavily--it was impossible to see even the fence that bounded the railroad line on this side. the cars came together with a slight shock and the three were thrown into a giggling, struggling heap on the platform. "lemme go!" gasped izzy. "sure we will!" giggled heavy, and with a final push she sent him flying down the steps. then she shut the door. she did not know that every other door on that side of the long train was locked. almost immediately the train began to move forward. it swept away from the lumberton platform, and it was fully a minute before heavy and ann realized what they had done. "oh, oh, oh!" shrieked the plump girl, running down the aisle. "busy izzy is left behind." "stop your joking," exclaimed tom, peering out of his berth, which was an upper. "he's nothing of the kind." "he is! he is!" "why, he's all ready for bed," declared one of the tingley boys. "he wouldn't dare----" "we threw him out!" wailed heavy. "we didn't know the train was to start so quickly." "threw him off the train?" cried mrs. tingley, appearing in her boudoir cap and gown. "what kind of a menagerie am i supposed to preserve order in----?" "you can make bully good preserved ginger, ma," said one of her sons, "but you fall short when it comes to preserving _order_." most of the crowd were troubled over isadore's absence. some suggested pulling the emergency cord and stopping the train; others were for telegraphing back from the next station. all were talking at once, indeed, when the rear door opened and in came the conductor, escorting the shivering isadore. "does this--this _tyke_ belong in here?" demanded the man of brass buttons, with much emphasis. they welcomed him loudly. the conductor shook his head. the flagman on the end of the train had helped the boy aboard the last car as the train started to move. "keep him here!" commanded the conductor. "and i've a mind to have both doors of the car locked until we reach logwood. don't let me hear anything more from you boys and girls on this journey." he went away laughing, however, and bye and bye they quieted down. madge insisted upon making some hot composition, very strong, and dosing isadore with it. the drink probably warded off a cold. izzy admitted to bobbins that a sister wasn't so bad to "have around" after all. while they slept, the car was shunted to the sidetrack at logwood and the western-bound train went hooting away through the forest. it was still snowing heavily, there were not many trains passing through the logwood yard, and no switching during the early part of the day. the snow smothered other sounds. therefore, the party that had come to the lake for a vacation was not astir until late. it was hunger that roused them to the realities of life in the end. they had to dress and go to the one hotel of which the settlement boasted for breakfast. "can't cross to the island on the ice, they say," ralph tingley ran in to tell his mother. "weight of the snow has broken it up. one of the men says he'll get a punt and pole us over to cliff island if the snow stops so that he can see his way." "my! won't that be fun!" gasped ann hicks, who had overheard him. she had begun to enjoy herself the minute she felt that they were in rough country. some of the girls wished they hadn't come. ruth and helen were already outside, snowballing with the boys. when mrs. tingley descended the car steps, ready to go to breakfast, her other son appeared--a second mercury. "mother, mr. preston is here. says he'd like to see you." mr. preston was the foreman to whom jerry sheming had been sent for a job. ruth, who overheard, remembered the man's name. then she saw a man dressed in canadian knit cap, tall boots, and mackinaw, and carrying a huge umbrella, with which he hurried forward to hold protectingly over mrs. tingley's head. "glad to see you, ma'am," said the foreman. ruth was passing them on her way to the hotel when she heard something that stayed her progress. "sorry to trouble you. mr. tingley ain't coming up to-day?" "not until christmas morning," replied the lady. "he cannot get away before." "well, i'll have to discharge that jerry sheming. too bad, too. he's a worker, and well able to guide the boys and girls around the island--knows it like a book." "why let him go, then?" asked the lady. "blent says he's dishonest. an' i seen him snooping around rather funny, myself. guess i'll have to fire him, mis' tingley." chapter xii rufus blent's little ways the crowd waded through the soft snow to the inn. it was a small place, patronized mainly by fishermen and hunters in the season. it was plain, from the breakfast they served to the tingley party, that if the unexpected guests had to remain long, they would be starved to death. "and all the 'big eats' over on the island," wailed heavy. "i could swim there, i believe." "i am afraid i could not allow you to do that," said mrs. tingley, shaking her head. "it would be too absurd. we'd better take the train home again." "never!" chorused belle and her brothers. "we must get to cliff island in some way--by hook or by crook," added the girl, who had set her heart upon this outing. ruth was rather serious this morning. she waited for a chance to speak with mrs. tingley alone, and when it came, she blurted out what she wished to say: "oh, mrs. tingley! i couldn't help hearing what that man said to you. must he discharge jerry because rufus blent says so?" "why, my dear! oh! i remember. you were the girl who befriended the boy in the first place?" "yes, i did, mrs. tingley. and i hope you won't let your foreman turn him off for nothing----" "oh! i can't interfere. it is my husband's business, of course." "but let me tell you!" urged ruth, and then she related all she knew about jerry sheming, and all about the story of the old hunter who had lived so many years on cliff island. "mr. tingley had a good deal of trouble over that squatter," said belle's mother, slowly. "he was crazy." "that might be. but jerry isn't crazy." "but they made some claim to owning a part of the island." "and after the old man had lived there for fifty years, perhaps he thought he had a right to it." "why, my child, that sounds reasonable. but of course he didn't." "just the same," said ruth, "he maybe had the box of money and papers hidden on the island, as he said. that is what jerry has been looking for. and i wager that man blent is afraid he will find it." "how romantic!" laughed mrs. tingley. "but, do wait till mr. tingley comes and let him decide," begged ruth. "surely. and i will tell mr. preston to refuse any of blent's demands. he is a queer old fellow, i know. and, come to think of it, he told us he wanted to make some investigations regarding the caves at the west end of the island. he wouldn't sell us the place without reserving in the deed the rights to all mineral deposits and to treasure trove." "what's 'treasure trove,' mrs. tingley?" asked ruth, quickly. "why--that would mean anything valuable found upon the land which is not naturally a part of it." "like a box of money, or papers?" "yes! i see. i declare, child, maybe the boy, jerry, has told you the truth!" "i am sure he has. he seemed like a perfectly honest boy," declared ruth, anxiously. "i will see mr. preston again," spoke mrs. tingley, decisively. the storm continued through the forenoon. but the boys and girls waiting for transportation to cliff island had plenty of fun. behind the inn was an open field, and there they built a fort, the party being divided into opposing armies. tom cameron led one and ann hicks was chosen to head the other. mercy could look at them from the windows, and urge the girls on in the fray. the boys might throw straighter, but numbers told. the girls could divide and attack the boy defenders of the fortress on both flanks. they came in rosy and breathless at noon--to sit down to a most heart-breaking luncheon. "such an expanse of table and so little on it i never saw before," grumbled heavy, in a glum aside. "how long do you suppose we would exist on these rations?" "we're not dead yet," said ruth, cheerfully, "so you needn't become a 'gloom.'" "jen ought to live on past meals--like a camel existing on its hump," declared madge. "i'm no camel," retorted the plump one, instantly. "and a meal to me--after it has been digested--is nothing more than a beautiful dream; and you can bet that i never gained my avoirdupois by dreaming!" mrs. tingley beckoned to ruth after dinner. together they went into the general room, where there was a huge fire of logs. mr. preston, the foreman, was there. "i have been making inquiries," the lady explained to ruth, "and i find that this rufus blent has not a very enviable reputation. at least, he is considered, locally, a sharper." "is this the girl who is interested in jerry?" asked the foreman. "well! he ought to be all right if she sticks up for him." "i believe his story is true," ruth said, shaking her head. "and if that's so, then the boss hasn't got a clear title to cliff island--eh?" returned the big foreman, smiling at her quizzically. "that isn't mr. tingley's fault," cried ruth, quickly. "he'd be the one to suffer, however, if it should be proved that old pete tilton had any vested right in the island," said preston. "you can bet blent is sharp enough to have covered his tracks if he has done anything foxy. he was never caught yet in any legal tangle." "oh, i hope mr. tingley won't have trouble up here," declared mrs. tingley, quite disturbed. ruth felt rather embarrassed. as much as she was interested in jerry sheming, she did not like to think she was stirring up trouble for her school-mate's father. just then the outer door of the inn opened and a man entered, stamping the snow from his boots upon the wire mat. "s-s-t!" said preston, his eyes twinkling. "here's rufus blent himself." it seemed that mrs. tingley had never seen the real estate man and she was quite as much interested as ruth in making his acquaintance. they both eyed him with growing disapproval as the old man finished freeing his feet of the clinging snow and then charged at preston from across the big room. "i say! i say, you, preston!" he snarled. "have you done what i tol' you? have you got that jerry sheming off the island? he'd never oughter been let to git on there ag'in. i've been away, or i'd heard of it before. is he off?" "not yet," replied preston, smiling secretly. "i wanter know why not? i won't have him snoopin' around there. it was understood when i sold tingley that island that i reserved sartain rights----" "this here is mis' tingley," interposed preston, turning the old man's attention to the lady. he was a brown, wrinkled old man, with sparse pepper-and-salt whiskers and a parrot-like nose. "sharper" was written all over his hatchet features; but probably his provincialism and lack of book education had kept him from being a very dangerous villain. "i wanter know!" exclaimed rufus. "so you're tingley's lady? wal! do you take charge here?" "oh, no," laughed mrs. tingley. "my husband will be up here christmas morning." "goin' to have preston send that boy back to the mainland?" "oh, no, i shall not interfere. mr. tingley will attend to it when he comes. i think that would be best." "nothin' of the kind!" cried blent, his little eyes snapping. "that boy's got no business over there--snooping round." "what are you afraid of, rufus? what do you think he'll find?" queried preston, who was evidently not above aggravating the old fellow. "never you mind! never you mind!" croaked blent. "if you folks won't discharge him and put him off the island, i'll do it, myself." "how can you, mr. blent?" asked mrs. tingley, feeling some disposition to cross swords with him. "never you mind. i'll do it. goin' back to-day, of course, preston; ain't you?" "i'm hoping to get this crowd of young folk--and mrs. tingley--across to the island. and i think the snow is going to stop soon." "i'll go with you," declared blent, promptly. "don't you go till i see you again, preston. i gotter ketch 'squire keller fust." he hurried out of the inn. mrs. tingley and ruth looked at the foreman questioningly. the girl cried: "oh! what will he do?" "he's going to get a warrant for the boy," answered preston, scowling. "how can he? what has jerry done?" "that don't make no difference," said the woodsman. "old rufus just about runs the politics of this town. keller will do what he says. rufus will get the boy off the island by foul means if he can't by fair." chapter xiii fighting fire with fire ruth felt her heart swell in anger against rufus blent, the logwood real estate man. if she had not been determined before to aid jerry sheming in every way possible, she was now. if there was a box of money and papers hidden on cliff island, once belonging to pete tilton, the old hunter, ruth desired to keep blent from finding it. she believed jerry's story--about the treasure box and all. rufus blent's actions now seemed to prove the existence of such a box. he wanted to find it. but if the money and papers in the box had belonged to old pete tilton, surely jerry, as his single living relative, should have the best right to the "treasure trove." how to thwart blent was the question disturbing ruth fielding's mind. of course, nobody but jerry had as strong a desire as she to outwit the old real estate man. the other girls and boys--even mrs. tingley--would not feel as ruth did about it. she knew that well enough. if anything was to be done to save jerry from being arrested on a false charge and dragged from cliff island by blent, _she_ must bring it about. ruth watched the last flakes of the snow falling with a very serious feeling. the other young folk were delighted with the breaking of the weather. now they could observe logwood better, and its surroundings. the roughly built "shanty-town" was dropped down on the edge of the lake, in a clearing. much of the stumpage around the place was still raw. the only roads were timber roads and they were now knee-deep in fresh snow. there was a dock with a good-sized steamer tied up at it, but there was too much ice for it to be got out into the lake. the railroad came out of the woods on one side and disappeared into just as thick a forest on the other. the interest of the young people, however, lay in the bit of land that loomed up some five miles away. cliff island contained several hundred acres of forest and meadow--all now covered with glittering white. at the nearer end was the new hunting lodge of the tingleys, with the neighboring outbuildings. at the far end the island rose to a rugged promontory perhaps a hundred and fifty feet high, with a single tall pine tree at the apex. that western end of the island seemed to be built of huge boulders for the most part. here and there the rocks were so steep that the snow did not cling to them, and they looked black and raw against the background of dazzling white. the face of the real cliff--because of which the island had received its name--was scarcely visible from logwood. jerry had told ruth it was a very wild and desolate place, and the girl of the red hill could easily believe it. the crowd had left the inn as soon as the clouds began to break and a ray or two of sunshine shone forth. two ox teams were breaking the paths through the town. the boys and girls went down to the dock, singing and shouting. mrs. tingley and the foreman came behind. three other men were making ready a huge punt in which the entire party might be transported to the island. later the punt would return for the extra baggage. this vehicle for water-travel was a shallow, skiff-like boat, almost as broad as it was long, and with a square bow and stern. there was a place for a short mast to be stepped, but, with the lake covered with drifting ice cakes, it was judged safer to depend upon huge sweeps for motive power. with these sweeps, not only could the punt be urged forward at a speed of perhaps two miles an hour, but the ice-cakes could be pushed aside and a channel opened through the drifting mass for the passage of the awkward boat. mr. preston had explained all this to mrs. tingley, who was used to neither the woods nor the lake, and she had agreed that this means of transportation to cliff island was sufficiently safe, though extraordinary. "let's pile in and make a start," urged ralph tingley, eagerly. "why! we won't get there by dark if we don't hurry." "and goodness knows we need to get somewhere to eat before long," cried jennie stone. "i am willing to help propel the boat myself, if they'll show me how." "you might get out and swim, and drag us behind you, heavy," suggested one of the girls. "you're so anxious to get over to the island." they all were desirous of gaining their destination--there could be no doubt of that. as they were getting aboard, however, there came a hail from up the main street of logwood. "hi, yi! don't you folks go without me! hi, preston!" "here comes that blent man," said mrs. tingley, with some disgust. "i suppose we must take him?" "well, i wouldn't advise ye to turn him down, mis' tingley," urged the foreman. "no use making him your enemy. i tell you he's got a big political pull in these parts." "is there room for him?" "yes. and for the fellow with him. that's lem daggett, the constable. oh, rufe is going over with all the legal right on his side. he'll bring jerry back here and shut him up for a few days, i suppose." "but on what charge?" mrs. tingley asked, in some distress. "that won't matter. some trumped-up charge. easy enough to do it when you have a feller like 'squire keller to deal with. oh," said preston, shaking his head, "rufe blent knows what he's about, you may believe!" "who's the old gee-gee with the whiskers?" asked the disrespectful isadore, when the real estate man came down to the dock, with the constable slouching behind him. "hurry up, grandpop!" shouted one of the tingley boys. "this expedition is about to start." blent scowled at the hilarious crowd. it was plain to be seen that any supply of milk of human kindness he may have had was long since soured. ruth caught tom cameron's eye and nodded to him. helen's twin was a very good friend of the girl from the red mill and he quickly grasped her wish to speak with him alone. in a minute he maneuvered so as to get into the stern with his sister's chum, and there ruth whispered to him her fears and desires regarding blent and jerry sheming. "say! we ought to help that fellow. see what he did for jane ann," said tom. "and that old fellow looks so sour he sets my teeth on edge, anyway." "he is going to do a very mean thing," declared ruth, decidedly. "jerry has done nothing wrong, i am sure." "we must beat the old fellow." "but how, tom? they say he is all-powerful here at logwood." "let me think. i'll be back again," replied tom, as the boys called him to come up front. the punt was already under way. preston and his three men worked the craft out slowly into the drifting ice. the grinding of the cakes against the sides of the boat did not frighten any of the passengers--unless perhaps mrs. tingley herself. she felt responsible for the safety of this whole party of her daughter's school friends. the wind was not strong and the drift of the broken ice was slow. therefore there was really no danger to be apprehended. the punt was worked along its course with considerable ease. the boys had to take their turns at the sweeps; but tom found time to slip back to ruth before they were half-way across to the island. "too bad the old fellow doesn't fall overboard," he growled in ruth's ear. "isn't he a snarly old customer?" "but i suppose the constable has the warrant," ruth returned, smiling. "so mr. blent's elimination from the scene would not help jerry much." "i tell you what--you've got to fight fire with fire," observed tom, after a moment of deep reflection. "well? what meanest thou, sir oracle?" "why, they haven't any business to arrest jerry." "agreed." "then let's tip him off so that he can run." "where will he run to?" demanded ruth, eagerly. "say! that's a big island. and i bet he knows his way all over it." "oh! the caves!" exclaimed ruth. "what's that?" "he told me there were caves in it. he can hide in one. and we can get food to him. great, tom--great!" "sure it's great. when your uncle dudley----" "but how are we going to warn jerry to run before this constable catches him?" interposed ruth, with less confidence. "how? you leave that to me," tom returned, mysteriously. chapter xiv the hue and cry ruth and tom cameron had no further opportunity of speaking together until the punt came very close to the island. here the current ran more swiftly and the ice-blocks seemed to have been cleared away. there was a new stone dock, and up the slight rise from it, about a hundred yards back from the shore, was the heavily-framed lodge. it consisted of two stories, the upper one extending over the lower. big beams crossed at the corners of this upper story and the outer walls were of roughly hewn logs. the great veranda was arranged for screening, in the summer, but now the west side was enclosed with glass. it was an expensive and comfortable looking camp. there were several men on the dock as the punt came in, but jerry sheming was not in sight. tom had, from time to time, been seen whispering with the boys. they all now gathered in the bow of the slowly moving punt, ready to leap ashore the moment she bumped into the dock. "do be careful, boys," begged mrs. tingley. "don't fall into the water, or get hurt. i certainly shall be glad when mr. tingley comes up for christmas and takes all this responsibility off my hands." "don't have any fear for us, mrs. tingley, i beg," said tom. "we're only going to scramble ashore, and the first fellow who reaches the house is the best man. now, fellows!" the punt bumped. such a scrambling as there was! ann hicks showed her suppleness by being one of the first to land and beating some of the boys; but she did not run with them. "they might have stayed and helped us girls--and mrs. tingley--to land," complained helen. "i don't see what tom was thinking of." but all of a sudden ruth had an idea that she understood tom's lack of gallantry. jerry sheming, not being at the dock to meet the newcomers, must be at the house. the boys, it proved later, had agreed to help "tip" jerry. the first fellow to see him was to tell him of the approach of blent and the constable. therefore, when rufus blent and lem daggett reached the lodge, nobody seemed to know anything about jerry. tom winked knowingly at ruth. "i tell ye, preston, i gotter take that boy back to logwood with me," shouted blent, who seemed greatly excited. "where are you hidin' the rascal?" "you know very well i came over with you in the boat and walked up here with you, blent," growled the foreman, in some anger. "how could i hide him?" "but the cook, nor nobody, knows what's become of him. he was here peelin' 'taters for supper, cookie says, jest b'fore we landed. now he's sloped." "he saw you comin', it's likely," rejoined preston. "he suspected what you was after." "well, i'm goin' to leave daggett. and, lem!" "yes, sir?" said that slouching person. "you got to get him. now mind that. the boy's to 'pear in 'squire keller's court to-morrow--or something will happen," threatened the real estate man. "and if he don't appear, what then?" drawled preston, who was more amused by the old man than afraid of him. "you'd better not interfere with the course of the law, preston," declared blent, shaking his head. "you bet i won't. especially the brand of law that's handed a feller by your man, keller. but i don't know nothing about the boy nor where he's gone. i don't wanter know, either. "and none of they rest o' you wanter harbor that thief," snarled blent, viciously, looking around at the gaping hired men and the boys who had come to visit cliff island. "the law's got a long arm. 'member that!" "will we be breaking the law if we don't report this poor fellow to the constable here, if we see him?" asked tom cameron, boldly. "you bet you will. and i'll see that you're punished if ye harbor or help the rascal. don't think because tingley's a rich man, and your fathers have probably more money than is good for them, that you will escape," said blent. "i don't believe he's so powerful as he makes out to be," grumbled tom, later, to ruth. "_i_ was the one who caught jerry and whispered for him to get out. i didn't have to say much to him. he was wise about blent." "where did he go?" asked the eager ruth, quickly. "i don't know. i didn't want to know--and you don't, either." "but suppose something happens to him?" objected the girl, fearfully. "why, he knows all about this island. you said so yourself. i just told him we'd get some grub to him to-morrow." "how?" "told him we'd leave it at the foot of that tall pine at the far end of the island. then he slipped out of the kitchen and disappeared." but blent was a crafty old party and did not easily give up the pursuit of the young fellow he had come to the island to nab. the coat of fresh snow over everything made tracking the fugitive an easy task. after a few minutes of sputtering anger, the real estate man organized a pursuit of jerry. he made sure that the forest youth had run out of the kitchen at about the time the visitors came up from the dock. "he ain't got a long start," said blent to his satellite, the constable. "let's see if he didn't leave tracks." he had. there was still an hour of daylight, although the winter evening was closing in rapidly. jerry had left by the back door of the lodge and had gone straight across the yard, through the unbroken snow, to the bunkhouse used by the male help. there he had stopped for his rifle and shotgun, and ammunition. indeed, he had taken everything that belonged to him, and, loaded down with this loot, had gone right up the hill, keeping in the scrub so as to be hidden from the big house, and had so passed over the rising ground toward the middle of the island. "the track is plain enough," blent said. "ain't ye got a dog, preston? we could foller him all night." "not with our dogs," declared the foreman. "why not?" "don't think the boss would like it. we don't keep dogs to hunt men with." "you better take care how you try to block the law," threatened the old man. "that boy's goin' to be caught." "not with these dogs," grunted preston. "you can put _that_ in your pipe and smoke it." blent and the constable went off over the ridge. ruth was so much interested that she stole out to follow them, and ann hicks overtook her before she had gotten far up the track. "ruth fielding! whatever are you doing?" demanded the girl from the montana ranch. "don't you know it will soon be night? mrs. tingley says for you to come back." "do you suppose those horrid men will find jerry?" "no, i don't," replied ann, shortly. "and if they do----" "oh! you're not as interested in him as i am," sighed ruth. "i am sure he is honest and that mr. blent is telling lies about him. i--i want to see that they don't abuse him if they catch him." "abuse him! and he a backwoods boy, with two guns?" snorted ann. "why, he wouldn't even let them arrest him, i don't suppose. _i_ wouldn't if i were jerry." "but that would be dreadful," sighed ruth. "let's go a little farther, ann." dusk was falling, however, and when they got down the far side of the ridge they came to a swift, open water-course. blent and the constable were evidently "stumped." blent was snarling at their ill-luck. "he's took to the water--that's all _i_ know," drawled lem daggett, the constable. "ye see, there ain't a mark in the snow on 'tother side." "him wadin' in that ice-cold stream in mid-winter," grunted blent. "ain't he a scoundrel?" "can't do nothin' more to-night," announced the constable, who didn't like the job any too well, it was evident. "and dorgs wouldn't do us no good." "ha! ye know what ye gotter do," threatened blent. "i'm goin' back to town when the punt goes this evenin'. but you stay here, an' you git the hue an' cry out after him to-morrer bright and early. "i don't want him rummagin' around this island at all. you understand? not at all! it's up to you to git him, lem daggett." daggett grunted and followed his master back to the lodge. the girls went on before and ruth was delighted that, for a time, at least, jerry was to have his freedom. "if it froze over solid in the night he could get to the mainland from the other end of the island, and then they'd never find him," she confided to tom. but when morning came the surface of the lake was still a mass of loose and shifting ice. lem demanded of mrs. tingley the help of all the men at the camp, and they started right away after breakfast to "comb" the island in a thorough manner. there wasn't a trace near the running stream to show in which direction the fugitive had gone. had jerry gone up stream he could have reached the very heart of the rough end of the island without leaving the water-trail. a party of the boys, with ruth, helen, and ann hicks, stole out of the lodge after the main searching party, and struck off for the high point where the lone pine tree grew. "i'd hate to think we'd draw that constable over there and help him to catch jerry," said bobbins. "we won't," tom replied. "we are just going to leave the tin box of grub for him. he probably won't come out of hiding and try to get the food until this foolish constable has given up the chase. and i put the food in the tin box so that no prowling animal would get it instead of jerry." it was hard traveling in the snow, for the party of young folk had not thought to obtain snowshoes. "we'll string some when we go back," tom promised. "i know there are some frames all ready." "but no more such tobogganing as we had last winter up at snow camp," declared busy izzy, with deep feeling. "remember the spill i had with ruth and that heavy girl? gee! that was some spill." "the land here is too rough for good sliding," said tom. "but i wish the lake would freeze hard again. ralph says there are a couple of good scooters, and we all have our skates." "and the fishing!" exclaimed helen, eagerly. "i _do_ so want to fish through the ice again." "oh! we're bound to have a bully good time," declared bobbins. "but we'll do this jerry sheming a good turn, too, if we can." chapter xv over the precipice under the soft snow that had fallen the day before was a hard-packed layer that had come earlier in the season and made a firm footing for the explorers. ruth and her chum, with ann hicks, were quite as good walkers as the boys. at any rate, the three girls determined not to be at the end of the procession. the constable and his unwilling helpers (for none of the men about the tingley camp cared to see jerry sheming in trouble) were hunting the banks of the stream higher up for traces of the trail the boy had taken when he ran away from rufus blent the previous afternoon. therefore the girls and boys who had started for the rendezvous at the lone pine, were able to put the wooded ridge between them and the constable's party, and so make their way unobserved toward the western end of cliff island. "they may come back and follow us," growled tom. "but they'll be some way behind, and we'll hurry. i have a note in this tin box warning jerry what he must look out for. as long as that lem daggett is on the island, i suppose he will be in danger of arrest." "it is just as mean as it can be!" gasped helen, plodding on. "the boys wouldn't leave much o' that constable if they caught him playin' tag for such a man as blent, at bullhide," ann hicks declared, with warmth. "this blent," said bobbins, seriously, "seems to have everybody about logwood buffaloed. what do you suppose your father will say to the constable taking the men with him this morning to hunt jerry down?" this question he put to ralph tingley and the latter flushed angrily. "you wait!" he exclaimed. "father will be angry, i bet. i told mother not to let the men have anything to do with the hunt, but you know how women are. she was afraid. she said that if blent and the constable were within their legal rights----" "all bosh!" snapped isadore phelps. "i do not think mrs. tingley would have let them go with daggett if she'd had the least idea they would be able to find jerry," observed helen, sagely. "and they won't," put in ruth, with assurance. "i know he can hide away on this island like a fox in a burrow." "but he'll find it mighty cold sleeping out, this weather," remarked bobbins. "he sure will!" agreed tom. the party went ahead as rapidly as possible, but even the stronger of the boys found it hard to climb the steeper ascents through the deep snow. "crackey!" exclaimed isadore. "i know i'm slipping back two steps to every one i get ahead." "nonsense, izzy," returned helen. "for if you did _that_, you had better turn around and travel the other way; then you'd back up the hill!" they had to wait and rest every few yards. the rocks were so huge that they often had to go out of the way for some distance to get around them. although it could not be more than five miles, as the crow flies, from the lodge to the lone pine, in two hours they still had the hardest part of the journey before them. "i had no idea we should be so long at it," tom confessed. "it's lucky heavy didn't come with us," chuckled helen. "why?" "she would have been starved to death before this, and the idea of going the rest of the distance before turning back for home and luncheon would have destroyed her reason, i am sure." "then," said ruth, amused by this extravagant language, "poor heavy would have been first dead and then crazy! consider an insane corpse!" they came out at last upon the foot of the last ascent. the eminence seemed to be a smooth, cone-shaped hill. on it grew a number of trees, but the enormous old pine, lightning-riven and dead at the top, stood much taller than any of the other trees. here and there they caught glimpses of chasms and steep ravines that seemed to split the rocky island to the edge of the water. when the snow did not cover the ground there might be paths to follow, but at this time the young explorers had to use their judgment in climbing the heights as best they might. the boys had to help the girls up the steeper places, with all their independence, and even ann admitted that their male comrades were "rather handy to have about." the old pine tree sprang out of a little hollow in the hill. behind it was the peak of the island, and from this highest spot the party obtained an unobstructed view of the whole western end of tallahaska. "it's one big old lake," sighed isadore phelps. "if it would only just freeze over, boys, and give us a chance to try out the iceboats!" "if it keeps on being as cold as it was this morning, and the wind dies down, there'll be all the ice you want to see to-morrow," declared ralph tingley. "goodness! let's get down from this exposed place. i'm 'most frozen." "shall we stop and make a fire here, girls, and warm up before we return?" asked tom cameron. "and draw that constable right to this place where you want to leave jerry's tin box?" cried his sister. "no, indeed!" "we'd better keep moving, anyway," ruth urged. "less danger of frost-bite. the wind _is_ keen." tom had already placed the box of food in a sheltered spot. "the meat will be frozen as solid as a rock, i s'pose," he grumbled. "i hope that poor fellow has some way of making a fire in his hide-out." they began to retrace their steps. instead of following exactly the same path they had used in climbing to the summit, tom struck off at an angle, believing he saw an easier way. his companions followed him in single file. ruth happened to be the last of all to come down the smooth slope. the seven ahead of her managed to tramp quite a smooth track through the snow, and once or twice she slipped in stepping in their footprints. "look out back there, ruthie!" called tom, from the lead. "the snow must have got balled on your boots. knock it off----" his speech was halted by a startled cry from ruth. she felt herself going and threw out both hands to say her sudden slide. but there was nothing for her hands to seize save the unstable snow itself. she fell on her side, and shot out from the narrow track her companions had trod. "ruth!" shrieked helen, in the wildest kind of dismay. but the girl of the red mill was already out of reach. the drifting snow had curled out over the brink of the tall rock across the brow of which tom had unwisely led the way. they had not realized they were so near the verge of the precipice. ruth's body was solid, and when she fell in the snow the undercrust broke like an eggshell. amid a cloud of snow-dust she shot over the yawning edge of the chasm and disappeared. several square yards of the snow-drift had broken away. at their very feet fell the unexpected precipice. the boys and girls shrank back from the peril with terrified cries, clinging to each other. "she is killed!" moaned helen, and covered her face with her mittened hands. "ruth! ruth!" called tom, charging back toward the broken snow-drift. but bobbins caught and held him. "don't make a fool of yourself, old man!" commanded the big fellow. "you can't help her by falling over the cliff yourself." "oh! how deep can that place be?" gasped ralph tingley. "what will mother say?" cried his brother. "ruth! ruth!" shouted ann hicks, and dropped on her knees to crawl to the edge. "you'll be down there yourself, ann!" exclaimed helen, sobbing. "a couple of you useless boys grab me by the ankles," commanded the western girl. "come! take a good hold. now let me see----" she hung half over the verge of the rock. the fall was sheer for fifty feet at least. it was a narrow cut in the hill, with apparently unscalable sides and open only toward the lake. "i--i don't see a thing," panted the girl. "shout again," urged helen. "let's all shout together!" cried isadore. "now!" they raised their voices in a long, lingering yell. again and again they repeated it. they thought nothing now of the possibility of attracting the constable and his companions to the scene. meanwhile nothing but the echoes replied to their hail. down there in the chasm ann hicks saw no sign of the lost girl. the bottom of the place seemed heaped high with snow. "she plunged right into the drift, and perhaps she's smothered down there," gasped ann. "oh! what shall we do?" "if it's a deep drift ruth may not be hurt at all," cried tom. "do let me look, ann. that's a good girl." the western girl was drawn back and the boy took her place. bobbins and ralph tingley let tom slide farther over the verge of the precipice than they had ann. "she went down feet first," panted tom. "there isn't an obstruction she could have hit. she must have dropped right into the snowbank in the bottom--ruth! ruth fielding!" but even his sharp eyes could discover no mark in the snow. nothing of the lost girl appeared above the drift at the foot of this sheer cliff. she might have been smothered under the snow, as ann suggested. and yet, that scarcely seemed probable. surely the fall into the soft drift could not have injured ruth fatally. she must have had strength enough to struggle to the surface of the snow. her disappearance was a most mysterious thing. when tom crept back from the brink of the precipice and stood on his feet again, they all stared at one another in growing wonder. "what could have happened to her down there?" groaned helen, her own amazement stifling her sobs. chapter xvi hide and seek ruth had fallen with but a single shriek. from top to bottom of the precipice had been such a swift descent that she could not cry out a second time. and the great bank of snow into which she had plunged did--as ann suggested--smother her. the shock of dropping fifty feet through the air, and landing without experiencing anything more dangerous than a greatly accelerated heart-action was enough, of itself, to make the girl of the red mill dumb for the moment. she heard faintly the frightened cries of her companions, and she struggled to get to the surface of the great, soft heap of snow that had saved her from instant death. then she heard a voice pronounce her name, and a hand was thrust into the snow bank and seized her shoulder. "ruth fielding! miss ruth! that come nigh to being your last jump, that did!" "jerry sheming!" gasped the girl, as he drew her out of the snow. "in here--quick! are they after me?" ruth shook the snow from her eyes. she was like a half-drowned person suddenly coming to the surface. "where--where are we?" she whispered. "all right! this is one of my hide-outs. is that old blent up yonder?" "oh, jerry! he's not on the island to-day. he's left the constable----" "lem daggett?" "yes. they are searching for you. but i was with tom and helen and the others. we brought you some food----" he led her along a narrow shelf, which had been swept quite free of snow. now a hollow in the rock-wall opened before them, and there a little fire of sticks burned, an old buffalo robe lay nearby, and there were other evidences of the fugitive's camp. ruth was shaking now, but not from the cold. the shock of her fall had begun to awaken the nervous terror which is the afterclap of such an adventure. so near she had been to death! "you are sick, miss ruth?" exclaimed jerry. "oh, no! oh, no!" repeated the girl of the red mill. "but so--so frightened." "nothin' to be frightened over now," he returned, smiling broadly. "but you _did_ miss it close. if that pile of snow hadn't sifted down there yesterday----" "i know!" burst out ruth. "it was providential." "you girls and boys want to be careful climbing around these rocks," said jerry sheming, gravely. at that moment the chorus of shouts from above reached their ears. ruth turned about and her lips opened. she would have replied, but the backwoods boy leaped across the fire and seized her arm. "don't make a sound!" he exclaimed. "oh! jerry----" "if that constable hears----" "he isn't with us, i tell you," said ruth. "but wait. he might hear. i don't want him to find this place," spoke the boy, eagerly. "he may be within hearing." "no. i think not," ruth explained. then she told jerry of the morning's hunt for him and the course followed by both parties. he shook his head for a moment, and then ran to a shelf at the other side of the little cavern. "i'll communicate with your friends. i'll make them understand. but we mustn't shout. lem daggett may be within hearing." "but i can't stay with you here, jerry," objected the girl. "of course you can't, miss. i will get you out--another way. you'll see. but we'll explain to your friends above and they will stop yelling then. if they keep on that way they'll draw lem daggett here, if he isn't already snooping around." meanwhile jerry had found a scrap of paper and a pencil. he hurriedly wrote a few lines upon the paper. then he produced a heavy bow and a long arrow. the message he tied around the shank of the arrow. "oh! can you shoot with that?" cried ruth, much interested. "reckon so," grinned jerry. "uncle pete wouldn't give me much powder and shot when i was a kid. and finally i could bring home a bigger bag of wild turkeys than he could, and all i had to get 'em with was this bow'n'arrer." he strung the bow, and ruth saw that it took all his strength to do it. the boys and girls were still shouting for her in a desultory fashion. jerry laid his finger on his lips, nodded at his visitor, and stepped swiftly out of sight along the cleared shelf of rock. ruth left the fire to peer after him. she saw him bend the bow and saw the swift flight of the arrow as it shot out of the chasm and curved out of sight beyond the broken edge of the snow-wreath which masked the summit of the cliff. she heard the clamor of her friends' voices as they saw the arrow shoot over their heads. then they were silent. jerry ran back to her and unstrung the bow, putting it away in its niche. but from the same place he produced a blue-barrelled rifle. "i know you won't tell blent, or any of them, how to reach me, miss ruth," he said, looking at her with a smile. "i guess not!" exclaimed the girl. "i am going to show you the way out--to the other end. i wish you were wearing rubber boots like me." "why?" "so you could wade in the stream when we come to it. that's how i threw them off the track," explained jerry, laughing. "why, i know this old island better than uncle pete himself knowed it." "and yet you haven't found the box you say your uncle hid?" asked ruth, curiously. "no. i never knowed anything about it until blent came to drive us off and swore that uncle pete had never had nothin' but 'squatter rights.' but i'm not sure that i couldn't find that place where uncle pete hid his treasure box--if i had time to hunt for it," added jerry, gravely. "that's what mr. blent is afraid of," declared ruth, with conviction. "that's why he is afraid of your being here on the island." "you bet it is, miss." "and we boys and girls will do everything we can to help you, jerry," ruth assured him, warmly. "if you think you can find the place where your uncle hid his papers----" "but suppose i find them and the papers show that this mr. tingley hasn't a clear title to the island?" demanded the backwoods boy, looking at the girl of the red mill sharply. "why should _that_ make a difference?" asked ruth, coolly. "well--you know how some of these rich folks be," returned the boy, dropping his gaze. "when it comes to hittin' their pocketbooks----" "that has nothing to do with it. right is right." "uh-huh!" grunted jerry. "but sometimes they don't want to lose money any quicker than a poor man. if he's paid for the island----" "i don't see how he can lose," declared ruth, quickly. "if blent has claimed a title that cannot be proved, blent will have to lose." "i bet mr. tingley didn't buy without having the title searched," observed jerry. "blent's covered his tracks. he'll declare he was within his rights, probably having bought uncle pete's share of the island through some dummy. you know, when deeds aren't recorded, it's mighty hard to establish them as valid. i know. i axed our town clerk. and he is one man that ain't under blent's thumb." "i don't believe mr. tingley is a man who would stand idle and see you cheated even if he lost money through defending you," said ruth, firmly. "do you know him?" "no. i have never met him," ruth admitted. "but his wife is a very nice lady. and belle and the boys----" "business is business," interrupted jerry, shaking his head. "i don't want tingley to know where i be--yet awhile, anyway." "but may i talk with him about you?" "why--if you care enough to, miss ruth." "of course i do," cried the girl. "didn't i tell you we all want to help you?" and she stamped her foot upon the warm rock. "we'll bring you food, too. we'll see that the constable doesn't get you." "well, it's mighty nice of you," admitted the suspicious young woodsman. "now, come on. i'll take you through my hide-out to the creek. i told your friends you'd meet 'em there, and we want to get there by the time they arrive." "oh, jerry! that's a long way off," cried ruth. "not so very long by the way we'll travel," he returned, with a laugh. and this proved to be true. jerry lighted a battered oil lantern and with his rifle in the other hand led the way. a narrow passage opened out of the back of this almost circular cave. part of the time they traveled through a veritable tunnel. at other times ruth saw the clear sky far above them as they passed along deep cuts in the hills. the descent was continuous, but gradual. such a path wild animals might have traveled in times past. originally it was probably a water-course. the action of the water had eaten out the softer rock until almost a direct passage had been made from the bottom of the cliff where ruth had fallen to the edge of the swift stream that ran through the middle of the island. they came out behind a screen of thick brush through which ruth could see the far bank of the brook, but through which nobody outside could see. jerry set down the lantern, and later leaned the rifle against the wall when he had made sure that nobody was in sight. "i am going to carry you a ways, miss ruth," he said, "if you don't mind. you see, i must walk in the stream or they will find this entrance to my hide-out." "but--can you carry me?" "i bet you! if you only wore rubber boots i'd let you walk. come on, please." "oh! i am not afraid," she told him, quietly, and allowed him to take her into his arms after he had stepped down into the shallow, swiftly lowing current. "this water-trail confuses men and dogs completely," said jerry, with a laugh. "that is--such men as lem daggett. if _i_ was hunting a fellow who took to the stream, with the water so shallow, i'd find which way he went in a jiffy." "how would you?" demanded ruth, feeling perfectly secure in the strong arms of the young fellow. "that's telling," chuckled jerry. "mebbe--some time--i'll tell you. i hoped i'd get the chance of showing you and your friends around this island. but i guess i won't." "perhaps you will. and if there is anything we can do to help you----" "just one thing you might do," remarked jerry, finally setting her upright upon a flat rock on the side of the stream nearest the hunting camp, and some distance away from the secret entrance to his hide-out. "oh! what is that?" cried ruth, eagerly. "find me a pickax, or a mattock, and put it right here on this rock. do it at night, so no one will see you. good bye, miss!" he exclaimed, and hurried away. in another minute he had disappeared behind the screen of bushes, and ruth heard the glad shouts of her friends as they came over the ridge and saw her standing safe and sound beside the stream. chapter xvii christmas morning "how under the sun did you get here, ruth?" helen shouted the moment she saw her chum. "did that jerry sheming bring you?" demanded ann. the other members of the party were quite as anxious to learn the particulars of her adventure, and when they had crossed on the stepping stones, they gathered about her eagerly. ruth would tell just so much and no more. she explained how she had fallen into the snow-drift at the foot of the cliff, how jerry had heard her scream and pulled her out. but beyond that she only said he had left her here to wait their coming. "you needn't be so mysterious, miss!" ejaculated helen, rather piqued. "i guess she doesn't want to say anything about his hide-out that might lead to his being hunted out by lem daggett," observed the wise tom. "but jerry signed his name to the note he tied on the arrow." "and we sure were surprised when we saw that arrow shoot up from the depths," said isadore. "what do you suppose mother will say?" cried one of the tingley boys. "don't let's tell her," suggested ruth, quickly. "there's no need. it will only add to her worries and she will be troubled enough by us as it is." "but----" "you see, i'm not a bit hurt," insisted ruth. "and the less we talk about the matter the less likely we shall be to drop something that may lead to the discovery of jerry sheming's hiding place." "oh, well, if you put it that way," agreed ralph. "i suppose mother will have all the trouble she wants. and maybe if she knew, she'd keep you girls away from this end of the island." they tramped home to a late luncheon. it was so very cold that afternoon and evening that they were only too glad to remain in the house and "hug the fire." the inclement weather drove lem daggett and the men indoors, too. the constable had to go back to logwood without his prisoner, and he evidently feared the anger of rufus blent. "i want to warn ye, mis' tingley," he said to the lady of the lodge, shaking his head, "that when blent sets out ter do a thing, he does it. that boy's got to be found, and he's got to be kep' off this island." "i will see what my husband says when he comes," replied mrs. tingley, firmly. "i will not allow our men to chase the poor fellow further." "you'd better ketch him and signal us at logwood. run up that flag on the pole outside. i'll know what you mean." "mr. tingley will decide when he comes," was all the satisfaction the lady gave the constable. after he had gone, mrs. tingley told ruth she hoped no harm would come to the poor boy, "sleeping out in the cold alone." "oh, mrs. tingley! i know he has a warm, dry place to sleep, and plenty of firewood--heaps and heaps of it." "you seem to know a good deal about him," the lady commented. "yes, i do," admitted ruth, honestly. "more about him and where he is hiding than he would care to have me tell you." so mrs. tingley did not catechise the girl further upon the subject of the fugitive. just because they were shut in was no reason why the house party on cliff island should not have an extraordinarily good time. they played games and had charades that evening. they had a candy pull, too, but unlike that famous one at snow camp the winter before, busy izzy phelps did not get a chance to put the walnut shells into the taffy instead of the kernels. the wind died down and it grew desperately cold during the night. the mercury soon left the zero point so far above that it threatened to be lost for the rest of the winter. they awoke the next morning to find the island chained fast to the mainland by old jack frost's fetters. a sheet of new ice extended for some hundreds of yards all around cliff island. farther out the ice was of rougher texture, but that near at hand was clear and black. out came the skates soon after breakfast, and everybody but mercy went down to the lake. later the boys made the lame girl and mrs. tingley come, too, and they arranged chairs in which the two non-skaters could be pushed over the smooth surface. hockey was the game for the afternoon, and two "sides" were chosen to oppose each other, one of the boys and another of the girls. although ann hicks had never had a hockey stick in her hand before, she quickly got into the game, and they all had a very merry time. the day before ruth had not been able to find the implement that jerry sheming had spoken about, nor could she find a mattock, or pickax, on this second day. if she went to the toolshed and hunted for the thing herself she was afraid her quest would be observed by some of the men. she located the place where the tools were kept, but the shed was locked. however, there was a window, and that window could be easily slid back. ruth shrank from attempting to creep in by it. "just the same, i told him i'd get it--at least, i told myself i'd get it for him," thought the girl of the red mill. "and i will." of course, mrs. tingley would have allowed her to borrow the tool, but it would have aroused comment had it become known that jerry wanted it. "it must be that he really thinks now he knows where his uncle hid the treasure box. he wants to dig for it," was ruth's thought. yet she remembered that jerry had said all along the old man had seemingly gone mad because his treasure box was buried under a landslide. she asked mr. preston, the foreman of the camp, where the landslide had occurred. "why, right over yonder, little lady," explained the woodsman. "if the snow wasn't on the ground, you could easy see the scar of it down that hillside," and he pointed to a spot just beyond the secret opening of jerry's cave. "the dirt and rock was heaped up so at the foot of the slide that the course of the brook was changed. that slide covered a monster lot of little caves in the rock," pursued the man. "but i expect there's others of 'em left and that jerry's hidin' out in one now," he added, looking at ruth with shrewd gaze. ruth took him no further into her confidence. she felt that she must have somebody to help her, however, and naturally enough she chose tom. helen's twin thought a great deal of ruth fielding, and was never ashamed of showing this feeling before the other boys. on her side, ruth felt that tom cameron was just about right. nor was she mistaken in him when she placed her difficulty before the lad. help her? of course he would! they agreed to make the raid upon the toolshed that evening when the others were busily filling stockings and trimming the huge christmas tree set up in the main hall of the hunting lodge. ruth beckoned to her fellow-conspirator and tom slipped out of the hall by one door while she made the outer air by another. the kitchen girls and the men hired about the camp were all in the big hall watching the fun, or aiding in decorating the lodge. nobody saw ruth and tom. it was a very cold evening. there was a hazy moon and brilliant stars, but they did not think anybody would see their efforts to aid jerry sheming. nevertheless, ruth and tom were very circumspect. they crept behind the toolshed and looked all about to make sure that nobody was watching. there was no light in the bunkhouse or in the cook's cabin. although the toolshed was so carefully locked, ruth knew that the window could be opened. tom quickly slipped back the sash, and then dived into the dark interior of the place, head first. the moment he was on his feet, however, he drew from his pocket the electric spotlight he had supplied himself with, and flashed the ray about the shed. "good! here's either one you want--pickax or mattock," were the words he whispered to ruth. "which do you suppose he would like best?" "a mattock is more practical, i believe," said tom. "'maddox,' they call it. we had a fellow working for us once who called it a 'mad-ax.' it has a broad blade and can be used to chop as well as dig." "never mind giving a lecture on it," laughed ruth, very softly, "hand it out." tom chuckled and did as he was bid. in a minute he was with her and picked up the heavy implement. "i hope they don't come hunting for us," said the girl of the red mill, breathlessly. "we must take that risk. come on, ruth. or do you want me to take it down to the brookside alone?" "i want to go along, too. oh, dear! i do hope he will find it." "i have another cracker box full of food for him," said tom. "i reckon he will be on the lookout for the pick, so he'll find the food, too." after a good deal of climbing, they reached the flat rock by the brookside where jerry sheming had requested ruth to leave the mattock. there was no sign of the fugitive about. ruth did not tell tom where the mouth of the secret tunnel lay--nor did tom ask for information. as they hurried back, mounting the ridge that separated the lodge and its outbuildings from the middle of the island, ruth, looking back, suddenly grabbed tom's hand. "see! see there!" she cried. tom looked in the direction to which she pointed. the stars gave light enough for them to see miles across the ice. several black figures were hurrying toward the western end of the island from the direction of the mainland--the southern shore of the lake. "who do you suppose those men are?" asked ruth, faintly. tom shook his head slowly. "i expect it's lem daggett, the constable, and others to hunt for poor jerry. i feel almost sure that the man in the lead is daggett." "isn't that mean?" exclaimed ruth, her voice shaking. "it is. but i don't believe they will find jerry very easily." just the same, ruth was not to be comforted. she was very quiet all the rest of the evening. her absence, and tom's, had not been noticed. the crowd went to bed before eleven, having spent a most delightful christmas eve. ruth sat at a window that overlooked a part of the island. once she saw the men who had crossed from the mainland climbing the hill toward the lone pine. "i hope they won't find a trace of him!" she murmured as she popped into bed. ruth slept as soundly as any of her mates. a clanging bell at six o'clock aroused the whole household. the sun was not yet up, but there was a streak of gold across the eastern sky. it was christmas morning. ruth ran again to the west window. a pillar of smoke rose straight from a hollow on the higher part of the island. the searching party was still there. there was no time now to think of jerry sheming and his affairs. the girls raced to see who should dress first. downstairs there were "loads" of presents waiting for them, so belle declared. "come on!" cried heavy, leading the way. "ready all? march!" the nine girls started through the hall and down the broad stairway in single file. heavy began to cheer and the others chimed in: "'s.b.--ah-h-h! s.b.--ah-h-h! sound our battle-cry near and far! s.b.--all! briarwood hall! sweetbriars, do or die-- this be our battle-cry-- briarwood hall! _that's all_!'" so sounding the sweetbriars' challenge, they met the grinning boys at the foot of the flight, before the huge, sparkling tree. "gee!" exclaimed tom. "i'm mighty glad i suggested that name for your secret society, ruth. 'sweetbriars'--it just fits you." chapter xviii fun on the ice of course, the girls had prepared one another's presents long before. each had been tied in a queer bundle so, in trimming the tree, the nature of the contents could not be guessed. the oddest shaped things hung from the branches of the christmas tree, and the boys had excelled in making up these "surprise packages." mrs. tingley handed the presents out, while the boys lifted them down for her. a long, tightly rolled parcel, which looked as though it ought to contain an umbrella, and was marked "to helen from tom," finally proved to contain a jeweler's box, in which nestled a pretty ring, which delighted his twin. a large, flat package, big enough to hold a large kite, was carefully opened by belle, who finally found in it, among the many tissue wrappings, a pretty set of hair combs set with stones. in a roughly-done-up parcel was a most disreputable old shoe addressed to lluella. she was going to throw it out, but the boys advised her so strongly not to that she finally burrowed to the toe and found, to her amazement, a gold bracelet. there was a good-sized box for ann hicks--just as it had come from the express office at lumberton a week before. having been addressed in mrs. tellingham's care, the western girl had known nothing about it. now it was opened last. it had come all the way from silver ranch, of course. such a set of furs no girl at briarwood possessed. there were a number of other presents from the cowboys, from mrs. sally, and from bashful ike himself. ann was so pleased and touched that she ran away to hide her tears. there were presents for each of the girls and boys who had been at bullhide the previous summer. bill hicks had forgotten nobody, and, as mrs. tellingham had once said, the ranchman certainly was a generous man. no member of the house party was overlooked on this bright christmas morning. mercy's presents were as costly and numerous as those of any other girl. besides, the lame girl had been able to give her mates beautiful little keepsakes that expressed her love for them quite as much as would have articles that cost more money. her presents to the boys were funny, including a jumping jack on a stick to isadore, the face of which mercy had whittled out and painted to look a good deal like the features of that active youth. for two hours the young folk reveled in their presents. then suddenly heavy smelled the breakfast coffee and she led the charge to the long dining room. they were in the midst of the meal when mr. tingley himself arrived, having reached logwood on the early train and driven across the ice in a sleigh. the tingley young people met him hilariously. he was a big, bewhiskered man, with a jolly laugh and amiable manner. his eye could flash, too, if need be, ruth judged. and almost at once she had an opportunity of seeing him stern. "what crowd is that over at the west end of the island?" he asked his wife. "i see they have a fire. there must be four or five men there. is it some of blent's doings?" "oh, dad!" cried ralph tingley, eagerly. "you ought to stop that. those fellows are hunting jerry sheming." "who is jerry sheming?" he asked, quickly. mrs. tingley explained briefly. "i remember now," said her husband. "and this is the young lady who spoke a good word for the boy in the first place?" and he beckoned the eager ruth to them. "what have you to say for your protégé now, miss?" "everything that is good," declared the girl of the red mill, quickly. "i am sure he is not at all the sort of boy this man blent would have you believe. and perhaps, mr. tingley, his old uncle _may_ have had some title to a part of this island." "that puts _me_ in bad, then--eh?" chuckled mr. tingley. "unless mr. blent has cheated you, sir," suggested ruth, hesitatingly. "he's a foxy old fellow. but i believe i have safeguarded myself. this trouble about something being buried on the island--well! i don't know about that." "i believe jerry really has some idea now where his uncle put the box. even if the old hunter _was_ crazy, he might have had some valuables. and surely jerry has a better right to the box than blent," ruth said, indignantly. "i'll see about that. just as soon as i have had breakfast, i'll take preston and go over and interview this gang of blent's henchmen. i am not at all sure that he has any right to hunt the boy down, warrant or no warrant!" that was when he looked grim and his eyes flashed. ruth felt that her friend's father was just the man to give jerry sheming a fair deal if he had the chance. when the boys proposed getting out the two iceboats and giving the girls a sail (for the wind was fresh), ruth was as eager as the others to join in the sport. not all the girls would trust themselves to the scooters, but there were enough who went down to the ice to make an exceedingly hilarious party. ralph tingley and tom cameron were the best pilots. the small iceboats were built so that two passengers could ride beside the steersman and sheet tender. so the girls took turns in racing up and down the smooth ice on the south side of the island. ruth and helen liked to go together with tom, who had busy izzy to tend sheet. it was "no fair" if one party traveled farther than from the dock to the mouth of the creek and back again. the four friends--ruth and her chum, and tom and busy izzy--were making their second trip over the smooth course. bobbins, with his sister and the fox, and ralph tingley, manned the other boat. the two swift craft had a splendid race to the mouth of that brook which, because of its swiftness, still remained unshackled by the frost. the shallow stream of water poured down over the rocks into the lake, but there was only a small open place at the point where the brook emptied into its waters into the larger and more placid body. when the two iceboats swung about, the one bobbins manned got away at once and swiftly passed down the lake. the sheet fouled in tom's boat. busy izzy had to drop the sail and the boat was brought to a halt. "there are mr. tingley and preston going over to talk to the constable and his crowd," remarked isadore. "see yonder?" "i hope he sends those men off the island. i don't see what right they have here, anyway," helen exclaimed. "if only jerry knows enough to keep under cover while they are here," said tom, looking meaningly at ruth. they both wondered if the fugitive had ventured out of his cave to find the mattock and box of food they had left for him the evening before. the craft was under way again in a minute or two, and they swept down the course in the wake of the other boat. suddenly the sharp crack of a rifle echoed across the island. helen screamed. ruth risked the boom and sat up to look behind. "there's a fight!" yelled busy izzy. "i believe they're after jerry." they saw mr. tingley and preston hastening their steps toward the brook. as the iceboat swept out farther from the shore, the four friends aboard her could see several men running in the same direction. one bore a smoking gun in his hand. "right towards that rock, ruthie!" gasped tom, venturing a glance behind him. "what rock do you mean?" demanded his sister. "the rock where you folks found me the other day. it's near the opening to jerry's cave. i see them!" "'ware boom!" yelled tom, and shifted his helm. the great sail went slowly over; the iceboat swooped around like a great bird skimming the ice. then, in a minute, it was headed back up the lake toward the scene of the trouble. another rifle shot echoed across the ice. chapter xix blent is master ruth was truly frightened, and so was her chum. could it be possible that those rough men dared fire their guns at jerry sheming? or was the poor boy foolish enough to try to frighten his pursuers off with the weapons which ruth very well knew he had in the cave with him? "oh, i'm glad mr. tingley's here to-day," cried busy izzy. "he'll give that lem daggett what's coming to him--that's what _he'll_ do!" "hope so," agreed tom, grimly. the latter brought the iceboat into the wind near the shore, and isadore dropped the sail again. they all tumbled out and ran up the bank. a little climb brought them to the plateau where they could see all that was going on near the rock on which ruth and tom had left the mattock the evening before. lem daggett had four men with him--all rough-looking fellows, and armed with rifles. jerry sheming was standing half-leg deep in the running stream, his hands over his head, and the men were holding him under the muzzles of their guns. "why! it beats the 'wild and woolly'!" gasped tom cameron. "silver ranch and bullhide weren't as bad as this. the scoundrels!" "come out o' that brook, jerry, or it'll be the wuss for ye." lem daggett drawled, standing on the flat rock and grinning at his captive. "what do you want of me?" demanded the fugitive, sullenly. "you know well enough. oh, i got a warrant for ye, all right. ev'rything's all right an' proper. ye know rufe blent don't make no mistakes. he's got ye." "an' here he comes now!" ejaculated another of the rough men, looking toward the east end of the island. the four hurrying young folk looked back. driving hastily from the lodge, and behind mr. tingley and preston, came a heavy sleigh drawn by a pair of horses. rufus blent and a driver were in it. but mr. tingley approached first, and it was plain by a single glance at his face that he was angry. "what's all this shooting about?" he demanded. "don't you men know that cliff island is private property? you are trespassing upon it." "oh, i guess we're within our rights, boss," said lem daggett, laughing. "i'm the constable. and these here are helpers o' mine. we was arter a bird, and we got him." "a warrant from a justice of the peace does not allow you to go out with guns and rifles and shoot over private property," declared mr. tingley, angrily. "be off with you--and don't you dare come to this island again without permission." "hold on, thar!" yelled rufus blent, leaping from the sleigh with more agility than one would have given him credit for. "you air oversteppin' the line, mr. tingley. that officer's in the right." "no, he's not in the right. he'd never be in the right--hunting a boy with an armed posse. i should think you and these other men would be ashamed of yourselves." "you look out, mr. tingley," warned blent, hotly. "you're a stranger in these parts. you try to balk me and you'll be sorry." "why?" demanded the city man, quite as angrily. "are you the law and the prophets here, mr. blent?" "i know my rights. and if you want to live in peace here, keep out o' my way!" snarled the real estate man. "you old scoundrel!" exclaimed mr. tingley, stepping swiftly toward him. "get off cliff island--and get off quick. i'd spend a thousand dollars to get a penny's worth of damages from you. i'll sue you in the civil courts for trespass if you don't go--and go quick! "don't think i went blindly into the transaction that gave me title to this island. i know all about your withholding the right to 'treasure trove,' and all that. but it doesn't give you the right to trespass here. get out--and take your gang with you--or i'll have suit begun against you at once." old blent was troubled, but he had one good hold and he knew it. he shouted to lem daggett: "serve that warrant, lem, and come along. bring that young rascal. i'll fix him." "let me read that warrant!" exclaimed mr. tingley, suddenly. "no, ye don't!" yelled blent. "don't let him take it into his hand. read it aloud to him. but make that pesky young sheming come ashore first. before ye know it, he'll be runnin' away ag'in." the men who "covered" jerry motioned him to step up to the bank. they looked so threatening that he obeyed. daggett produced a legal looking paper. he read this aloud, blunderingly, for he was an illiterate man. its contents were easily gathered, however. squire keller had signed the warrant on complaint of rufus blent. jerry was accused of having stolen several boxes of ammunition and a revolver. the property had been found in an old shed at logwood where the boy had slept for a few nights after he had first been driven from cliff island. "why, this is an old story, blent," ejaculated mr. tingley, angrily. "the boy left that shed months ago. he came directly to the island, when i hired him, from the neighborhood of lumberton, and preston assures me he hasn't been to logwood since arriving." "you can tell all that in court," snarled blent, waving his hand. "if he's got witnesses to clear him, i guess they'll be given a chance to testify." "you're a villain!" declared the city man. "lemme tell you something, mr. tingley. there's a law to punish callin' folks out o' their names! i know the law, an' don't you forgit it. come here, you, jerry sheming! git in this sleigh. and you, too, lem. you other fellers can come back to logwood and i'll pay ye as i agreed." ruth had, meanwhile, met jerry when he came ashore. she seized his hand and, almost in tears, told him how sorry she was he was captured. "don't you mind, miss ruth. he's bound to git me out of the way if he can," whispered jerry. "rufe blent is _all_ the law there is in logwood, i guess." "but mr. tingley will help you." "maybe. but if blent can't prove this hatched up business against me, he'll keep right on persecuting me, if i don't light out. an' i believe i found something, miss ruth." "your uncle's money?" "i wouldn't say that. but i was goin' to break into another little cave if i'd got hold of that mattock. the mouth is under the debris that fell with the landslide. it was about where uncle pete said he hid his treasure box. poor uncle pete! losin' that box was what sent him off his head complete, like." this had been said too low for the others to hear. but now daggett came forward and clamped his big paw on jerry's shoulder. "come along, you!" commanded the constable, jerking his prisoner toward the sledge. "oh, isn't it a mean, mean shame?" cried helen cameron. "wish that old blent was my size," grumbled busy izzy, clenching his fists and glaring at the real estate man. "i wish i could do something at the present moment to help you, sheming," said mr. tingley, his expression very angry. "but don't be afraid. you have friends. i shall come right over to keller's court, and i shall hire a lawyer to defend you." "you kin do all ye like," sneered blent, as the sledge started with the prisoner. "but i'll beat ye. and ye'll pay for tryin' to balk me, too." "don't you be too loose with your threats, rufe," sang out preston, the foreman. "if anything happens over here on the island--any of mr. tingley's property is destroyed--we'll know who to look to for damages." "yah!" snarled blent, and drove away. the fact remained, however, that, for the time being at least, rufus blent was master of the situation. chapter xx the fishing party ruth felt so unhappy she wept openly. it seemed too bad that jerry sheming should be taken away to the mainland a prisoner. "they'll find some way of driving him out of this country again," remarked preston, the foreman. "you don't know blent, mr. tingley, as well as the rest of us do. other city men have come up here and bucked against him in times past--and they were sorry before they got through." "what do you mean?" demanded the angry owner of cliff island. "blent can hire those fellows from the lumber camps, and some of the guides, to do his dirty work. that's all i've got to say. hunting camps have burned down in these woods before now," observed the foreman, significantly. "why! the scoundrel sold me this island himself!" "and he's sold other outsiders camp sites. but they have had to leave if they angered blent." "he is a dangerous man, then?" "well--things just happen," returned preston, shaking his head. "i'd keep watch if i were you." "i will. i'll hire guards--and arm 'em, if need be," declared mr. tingley, emphatically. "but take it from me--i am going to see that that boy jerry is treated right in these backwoods courts. that's the way i feel about it." ruth was glad to hear him say this. as she had decided when she first saw him, mr. tingley could be very firm if he wished to be. at once he went back to the house, had a team hitched to a sleigh, and drove over to the mainland so as to be sure that blent did not get ahead of him and have court convened before the proper hour. the day was spoiled for ruth and for some of the other young folk who had taken such a deep interest in jerry. the boy had been caught because he tried to get the mattock ruth and tom had put out for him. ruth wished now that she and tom had not gone down to the brook. there was too much going on at cliff island for even ruth to mope long. mr. tingley came back at dark and said he had succeeded in getting jerry's case put over until a lawyer could familiarize himself with the details. meanwhile keller, blent's man, had refused to accept bail. jerry would have to remain in jail for a time. a man came across from the town that evening and brought a telegram for mr. tingley. that gentleman had without doubt shown his interest in jerry sheming. fearing that the local legal lights might be somewhat backward about opposing rufus blent, he had telegraphed to his own firm of lawyers in new york and they were sending him a reputable attorney from an up-state city who would be at logwood the next day. "let's all go over to court to-morrow and see that lawyer get jerry free," suggested belle tingley, and the others agreed with enthusiasm. it would be as much fun as snow-shoeing; more fun for those who had not already learned that art. the day after christmas, in the morning, the boys insisted that everybody but mercy curtis should get out and try the shoes. those who had been at snow camp the year before were able to set out quite briskly--for it is an art that, like swimming and skating, is not easily forgotten. there were some very funny spills and by luncheon they were all in a glow. later the big sledge was brought around and behind that the boys strung a couple of bobs. the horses drew them down to the ice and there it was easy for the team to pull the whole crowd across to logwood. the town seemed to have turned out to meet the party from cliff island. ruth and her friends noted the fact that many of the half-grown boys and young men--those of the rougher class--seemed greatly amused by the appearance of the city folk. "but what can you expect from a lot of rubes?" demanded tom, rather angrily. "see 'em snickering and grinning? what d'ye s'pose is the matter with them?" "whatever the joke is, it's on us and we don't know it," remarked heavy, who was easily angered by ridicule, too. "there! mr. tingley has gone off with the lawyer. i guess we'll know what it's all about pretty soon." and _that_ was true, sure enough. it came out that there would be no case to try. justice keller announced that the accusation against jerry sheming had been withdrawn. mr. blent had "considered mr. tingley's plea for mercy," the old fox said, and there was nothing the justice could do but to turn the prisoner loose. "but what's become of him?" mr. tingley wanted to know. "oh, that does not enter into my jurisdiction," replied keller, blandly. "i am not his keeper. he was let out of jail early this morning. after that i cannot say what became of him." blent was not even at the court. it was learned that he had gone out of town. blent could always find somebody to handle pitch for him. it was later discovered that when lem daggett had opened the jail to jerry, several of blent's ruffians had rushed the boy to the railroad yard, put him aboard a moving freight, given a brakeman a two-dollar bill as per instructions from the real estate man, and jerry wasn't likely to get off the train, unless he jumped while it was moving, until it was fifty miles farther west. but, of course, this story did not come out right away. the whole town was laughing at mr. tingley. nobody cared enough about the city man, or knew him well enough, to explain the details of jerry's disappearance at that time. mr. tingley looked very serious when he rejoined the young folk and he had little to say on the way home, save to ruth, whom he beckoned to the seat beside him. "i am very sorry that the old fox got the best of us, miss fielding. as preston says, i must look out for him. he is sly, wicked, and powerful. my albany lawyer tells me that blent is notorious in this part of the state, and that he has great political influence, illiterate as he is. "but i am going to fight. i have bought cliff island, and paid a good price for it. i have spent a good many thousand dollars in improvements already. i'll protect myself and my investment if i can--and meanwhile i'll do what i can for your friend, jerry sheming, too. "they've got the boy away from the vicinity for the time being, but i reckon he'll find his way back. you think so, too, miss fielding?" "if he understands that we are trying to help him. and--yes!--i believe he will come back anyway, for he is very anxious to find that treasure box his uncle peter lost." "oh--as to that--well, there may be something in it. but pete tilton was really insane. i saw him myself. the asylum is the place for him, poor man," concluded mr. tingley. ruth felt in secret very much worried over jerry's disappearance. when she once became interested in anybody, as helen said, "she was interested all the way through." the others could laugh a little about how the crafty real estate agent had fooled mr. tingley and gotten jerry out of the way, but not ruth. she could scarcely sleep that night for thinking of what might have happened to the ill-used youth. but she tried to hide her anxiety from her companions the next morning when plans were made for a fishing trip. all but mercy joined in this outing. they went on snowshoes to the far end of the island, keeping on the beach under the huge cliffs, to a little cove where they would be sheltered and where the fishing was supposed to be good. preston, the foreman, went with them. he and the boys dragged a bobsled well laden with the paraphernalia considered necessary for fishing through the ice. first the holes were cut--thirteen of them. then, near each hole, and on the windward side, two stakes were set about four feet apart and a square of canvas lashed between them for a wind-break. a folding campstool had been brought for each fisherman and "fishergirl," and there were a lot of old sacks for the latter, especially, to put under their feet as they watched the "bobbers" in the little pool of water before which they sat. after preston saw them well started, he went back to the house. the crowd intended to remain until evening, and planned to make their dinner on the shore of the cove, frying some of the fish they expected to catch, and making coffee in a battered camp pot that had been brought along. the fish were there, as the foreman had assured them. each member of the party watched and baited two lines. at first some of the girls had considerable trouble with the bait, and the boys had to show them how to put it on the hook; but it was fun, and soon all were interested in pulling out the flopping fish, vying with each other in the catch, calling back and forth about their luck, and having a splendid time. it was so cold that the fish froze almost as soon as they were thrown upon the ice. had they been catching for shipment, the fish could have been boxed and sent some distance by express without being iced. but the young folk did not mind the cold much, nor the fact that the sun did not shine and the clouds grew thicker as the day advanced. "i'm going to beat you all!" declared the fox, after a great run of luck, in which she could scarcely bait rapidly enough to satisfy the ravenous fish. "might as well award me the laurel wreath right now." "don't you be too sure," drawled heavy. "you know, 'he laughs best who laughs last.'" "wrong!" returned mary cox. "the true quotation should be, 'he laughs best whose laugh lasts.' and mine is going to last--oh-he! here comes another!" tom and ruth got the dinner. there was plenty of dry wood under the fir trees. tom cleaned the fish and ruth fried them to a delicious brownness and crispness. with the other viands brought from home and cups of good, hot coffee, the thirteen friends made a hearty and hilarious meal. they were sheltered by the high cliff at their backs and did not notice when the snow began to fall. but, after a time, they suddenly discovered that the flakes were coming so thick and fast that it was all but impossible to see the farthest fishing shelters. "oh, dear me! we don't want to go back yet," wailed the fox. "and we were catching them so fast. do, do let's wait a while longer." "not much fun if it keeps on snowing this way," objected bobbins. "don't begin croaking, little boy," advised his sister. "a few flakes of snow won't hurt us." nevertheless, the storm did not hold up. it was more than a "flurry" and some of the others, as well as bob steele, began to feel anxious. chapter xxi jerry's cave for a while they tried to shelter themselves with the canvas, and shouted back and forth through the falling snow that they were having a "scrumptious" time. but some of the girls, as isadore said, "began to weaken." "we don't want to be lost in the snow as we were the time we went for balsam at snow camp," said helen. "how can you get lost--with us fellows along?" demanded busy izzy, in vast disgust. "can't a boy be lost?" demanded ann hicks, laughing. "not on your life!" declared the irrepressible isadore. but just then madge steele got up and declared she had had enough. "this hole in the ice is filling up with snow. we'll lose the fish we've already caught if we don't look out. come on, bobby, and get mine." so it was agreed to cut the fishing short for that day, although the fox declared she could have beaten them all in another hour. however, they had a great load of the frozen fish. besides what they had eaten for dinner, there were at least a hundred handsome fellows, and the boys had strung each fisher's catch on a birch twig which they had cut and trimmed while coming down to the lake that morning. tom and ruth, left at the campfire to clean up after the mid-day meal, were shouting for them to come in. the girls left the boys to wind up the fishlines and "strike camp," as ralph called taking down the pieces of canvas, and all hustled for the shore. they crowded around the fire, threw on more fuel, danced to get their feet warm, and called to the boys to hurry. the five boys had their hands full in retrieving all the chairs, and canvas sheets, and fish lines, and sacks. when they got them all in and packed upon the bobsled for transportation, the snow was a foot deep on the ice and it was snowing so fast that one could not see ten feet into the swirling heart of the storm. "i declare! it looks as though we were in a mess, with all this snow," complained tom cameron. "and with all these girls," growled ralph tingley. "wish we'd started an hour ago." "i don't know about starting _at all_," observed bobbins. "don't you see that the girls will give out before we're half-way there? we can't use snowshoes with the snow coming down like this. they clog too fast." "oh, they'll have to wade the same as we do," said isadore. "yah! wade! and us pulling this sled, too? i wish preston had stayed with us. don't you, ralph?" asked his brother. "hush! don't let the girls hear you," was the whispered reply. already the girls were comparing notes in a group around the fire. now madge turned and shouted for them: "come here, boys! don't be mumbling together there. we have an idea." "if it's any good, let's have it," answered tom, cheerfully. "it is good. it was born of experience. some of us got all the tramping in a blinding snowstorm that we wanted a year ago. never again! eh, girls?" "quite right, madge," said ralph. "it is foolish to run into danger. we are all right here----" "why, the snow will drown out your fire in half an hour," scoffed isadore. "and there isn't so much dry fuel." "i know where there is plenty of wood--and shelter, too!" cried ruth, suddenly. "so do i. at the lodge," scoffed belle. "no. nearby. tom and i were just talking about it. up that ravine yonder is the place where i fell over the cliff. and jerry's cave is right there--one end of it." "a cave!" ejaculated helen. "that would be bully." "if only we could have a good fire and get dry and warm again," quoth lluella, her teeth already chattering. "i believe that would be best," admitted madge steele. "we never could get back to the lodge through this snow. the shore is so rough." "we can travel on the ice," ventured ann hicks, doubtfully. "and get turned around," put in tom. "easiest thing in the world to get lost out there on that ice without a compass and in such a whirlwind of snow. ruth's right. let's try to find the cave." "i'm game!" exclaimed heavy. "why, with all this fish we could live a week in a cave. it would be bully." "'charming' is the better word, miss stone," suggested the fox. "don't correct me when i'm on a vacation," exclaimed the plump girl. "i won't stand for it----" just then she slipped and sat down hard and they all laughed. "lucky you weren't on the ice. you'd gone right through that time, jennie," declared the fox. "now, let's come on to the cave if we're all agreed. i guess ruth has the right idea." "we'll drag the sled and break a path for you girls," announced tom. "all ready, now! bring your snowshoes. if it stops snowing, we can get home on them to-night." "oh, dear, me! i hope so," cried belle tingley. "what will mother and father say if we're not home by dark?" "they'll be pretty sure we wouldn't travel far in this storm. preston and the other men will find us, anyway." "i expect that is so," admitted ruth, thoughtfully, "and they'll find jerry's cave. i hope he won't be mad at me for taking you all there." however that might be, it seemed to the girl of the red mill, as well as to tom cameron, that it was wisdom to seek the nearest shelter. the ravine was steep, but it was sheltered. there were not many big drifts until they reached that great one at the head of it, into which ruth had fallen when she slipped over the brink of the precipice. nevertheless, they were half an hour beating their way up the gully and out upon that ledge which led to the mouth of jerry's cave. the boys found the laden sled a good deal of a load and the girls had all they could do to follow in the track the sled made. "we never _could_ have reached home safely through this storm," declared madge. "how clever of you to remember the cave, ruthie." "ruth is always doing something clever," said helen, loyally. "why, she even falls over a cliff, so as to find a cave that, later, shelters us all from the inclement elements." "wow, wow, wow!" jeered isadore. "you girls think a lot of each other; don't you? better thank that jerry boy for finding the cave in the first place." they were all crowding into the place by this time. it was not very light in the cave, for the snow had already veiled the entrance. but there was a great store of wood piled up along one side, and the boys soon had a fresh fire built. the girls and boys stamped off the clinging snow and began to feel more comfortable. the flames danced among the sticks, and soon an appreciable sense of warmth stole through the cave. the crowd began to laugh and chatter. the girls brushed out the cave and the boys rolled forward loose stones for seats. isadore found jerry's shotgun, ammunition, bow and arrow, and other possessions. "he must have taken the rifle with him when he went to the other end of the tunnel," ruth said. "say!" exclaimed ralph tingley. "you could find the way through the hill to where you came out of the cave with jerry; couldn't you, ruth?" "oh! i believe so," cried ruth. "then we needn't worry," said the boy. "we can go home that way. even if the storm doesn't stop to-night, we ought to be able to find the lodge from _that_ end of the cave." "we've nothing to worry about, then," said madge, cheerfully. "we're supplied with all the comforts of home----" "and plenty to eat," sighed heavy, with satisfaction. chapter xxii snowed in naturally, thirteen young folk in a cave could not be content to sit before the fire inactive. they played games, they sang songs, they made up verses, and finally madge produced a pencil and a notebook and they wrote a burlesque history of "george washington and the cherry tree." the first author wrote a page of the history and two lines on the second page. then the second read those last two lines and went on with the story, leaving another two lines at the top of the next page, and so on. it was a wonderful piece of literary work when it was finished, and madge kept it to read to the s.b.'s when they got back to briarwood hall. "for, of course," she said, "we're not going to be forever shut up in this cave. i don't want to turn into a 'cave man'--nor yet a 'cave woman'!" "see if the snow has stopped--that's a good boy, tommy," urged helen. "of course it hasn't. don't you see how dark it is, sis?" returned her twin. but he started toward the mouth of the cavern. just then bob looked at his watch in the firelight, and exclaimed: "no wonder it seems dark--do you know it's half after four right now?" "wow! mother will be scared," said ralph tingley. just then there came a cry from tom. then followed a heavy, smothered thud. the boys dashed to the entrance. it was pitch dark. a great mass of hard packed snow filled the opening, and was being forced into the cave itself. in this heap of snow struggled tom, fairly smothered. they laid hold upon him--by a leg and an arm--and dragged him out. he could not speak for a moment and he had lost his cap. "how did you do that?" demanded bob. "what does it mean?" "think--think i did it on purpose?" demanded the overwhelmed youth. "i'm no samson to pull down the pillars on top of me. gee! that snow came sudden." "where--where did it all come from?" demanded his sister. "from the top of the cliff, of course. it must have made a big drift there and tumbled down--regular avalanche, you know--just as i tried to look out. why! the place out there is filled up yards deep! we'd never be able to dig out in a week." "oh, dear me! what shall we do?" groaned belle, who was beginning to get nervous. "have supper," suggested heavy, calmly. "no matter what we have to face, we can do it better after eating." they laughed, but took her advice. nobody failed to produce an appetite at the proper time. "dear me!" exclaimed belle, "if only mother knew we were safe i'd be content to stay all night. it's fun." "and if we had some salt," complained lluella. "i don't like fish without salt--not much." "you're a fine female robinson crusoe," laughed tom. "this is real 'roughing it.' i expect all you girls will weaken by morning." "oh, oh!" cried his sister, "you talk as though you thought we would be obliged to stay here, tom." "i don't just see how we're to get out to-night," tom returned, grimly. "not from this end of the cave, at any rate. i tell you, tons and _tons_ of snow fell into its mouth." "but you know the other way out, ruthie?" urged lluella, half inclined to cry. "i think so," returned the girl of the red mill. "then just hunt for the way," said belle, firmly. "if it has stopped snowing i want to go home." "don't be a baby, belle," advised her brother ralph. "nothing is going to hurt us here." "especially as we have plenty of fuel and grub," added bobbins, thoughtfully. but ruth saw that it would be wiser to try to get through the tunnel to the brookside. nobody could dig them out at this end, that was sure. so she agreed with tom and ralph tingley to try to follow the same passages that jerry sheming had taken her through upon the occasion of her first visit. "how shall we find our way, though, if it's dark?" questioned ralph, suddenly. "_i_ can't see in the dark." "neither can the rest of us, i guess," said tom. "do you suppose we could find torchwood in that pile yonder?" "not much," bobbins told them. "and a torch is a smoky thing, anyway." ruth was hunting the dark corners of the big cavern in which they had camped. although jerry had been at the far end of the tunnel when he was captured by the constable and his helpers--outside that end of the tunnel, in fact--she hoped that he had left his lantern at this end. as it proved, she was not mistaken. here it was, all filled and cleaned, hidden on a shelf with a half-gallon can of kerosene. jerry had been in the habit of coming to the cave frequently in the old days when his uncle and he lived alone on the island. so tom lit the lantern and the trio started. the opening of the tunnel through the hill could not be missed; but farther along ruth had a dim recollection of passing cross galleries and passages. should she know the direct tunnel then? she put that anxiety aside for the present. at first it was all plain traveling, and tom with the lantern went ahead to illuminate the path. they came out into one of the narrow open cuts, but there was little snow in it. however, a flake or two floated down to them, and they knew that the storm still continued to rage. the moaning of the wind in the tree tops far up on the hill reached their ears. "some storm, this," observed tom. "i should say it was! you don't suppose the folks will be foolish enough to start out hunting for us till it's over; do you?" ralph asked, anxiously. "they would better not. we're safe. they ought to know that. preston will tell them about the caves in this end of the island and they ought to know we'd find one of 'em." "it's a wild spot, just the same," remarked ralph. "and i suppose mother will be worried." "ruth isn't afraid--nor helen--nor the other girls," said tom. "i think these briarwood girls are pretty plucky, anyway. don't _you_ get to grouching, rafe." they pursued their way, tom ahead with the lantern, for some rods further. suddenly the leader stopped. "now what, ruthie?" he demanded. "which way do we go?" the passage forked. ruth was uncertain. she could not for the life of her remember having seen this spot before. but, then, she and jerry must have passed it. she had not given her attention to the direction at that time, for she had been talking with the backwoods boy. she took the lantern from tom now, and walked a little way into first the left-hand passage and then the right-hand one. it seemed to her as though there were places in the sand on the floor of this latter tunnel which had been disturbed by human feet. "_this_ is the path, i guess," she said, laughing and so hiding her own anxiety. "but let's take a good look at the place so we can find our way back to it if we have to return." "huh!" grumbled ralph tingley. "you're not so awfully sure; are you?" "that's all right. ruth was only through here once," tom spoke up, loyally. "and we can't get really lost." in five minutes they came into a little circular room out of which no less than four passages opened. ruth was confident now that she was "turned around." she had to admit it to her companions. "well! what do you know about that?" cried ralph. "i thought you said you could find the way?" "i guess i can," said ruth, cheerfully. "but we'll have to try each one of these openings. i can't be sure which is the right one." ralph sniffed, but tom was unshaken in his confidence in his girl friend. "let me have the lantern, tom, and you boys stay here," ruth said, quickly. "i'll try them myself." "say! don't you get lost," cried tom. "and don't you leave us long in the dark," complained ralph. "i don't believe we ought to let her take that lantern, tom----" "aw, stop croaking!" commanded young cameron. "you're worse than any girl yourself, tingley." ruth hated to hear them quarrel, but she would not give up and admit that she was beaten. she took the lantern and ventured into the first tunnel. her carriage was firmer than her mind, and before she had gone a dozen steps she was nervously sobbing, but smothered the sounds with her handkerchief. chapter xxiii "a blow for liberty" ruth was a healthy girl and particularly free from "nerves"; but she _was_ frightened. she was so proud that she determined not to admit to her companions that she was lost in the caves. indeed, she was not entirely sure that she _was_ lost. perhaps this was the way she had come with jerry. only, she did not remember passing the little room with the four tunnels opening out of it. this first passage into which she had ventured with so much apparent boldness proved to be the wrong one within a very few moments. she came to the end of it--against an unbroken wall. there she remained until she had conquered her nervous sobbing and removed as well as she could the traces of tears from her face. when she returned to tom and ralph she held the lantern well down, so that the shadow was cast upon her face. "how about it, ruth?" demanded tom, cheerfully, when she reappeared. "that's not the one. it is just a pocket," declared ruth. "wait till i try another." "well, don't be all night about it," growled tingley, ungraciously. "we're wasting a lot of time here." ruth did not reply, but took the next tunnel. she followed this for even a shorter distance before finding it closed. "only two more. that's all right!" exclaimed tom. "narrows the choice down, and we'll be surer of hitting the right one--eh, ruthie?" she knew that he was talking thus to keep her courage up. dear old tom! he was always to be depended upon. she gathered confidence herself, however, when she had gone some distance into the third passage. there was a place where she had to climb upon a shelf to get along, because the floor was covered with big stones, and she remembered this place clearly. so she turned and swung her tight, calling to the boys. her voice went echoing through the tunnel and soon brought a reply and the sound of scrambling feet. "hold up that lantern!" yelled ralph, rather crossly. "how do you expect us to see?" young tingley's nerves were "on edge," and like a good many other people when they get that way, he was short-tempered. "now we're all right, are we, ruth?" cried tom. "i remember this place," the girl of the red mill replied. "i couldn't be mistaken. now you take the lantern, tom, and lead on." they pursued the tunnel to its very end. there it branched again and ruth boldly took the right hand passage. whether it was right, or no, she proposed to attack it firmly. after a time tom exclaimed: "hullo, ruthie! do you really think this is right?" "what do you mean?" he held up the lantern in silence. ruth and ralph crowded forward to look over his shoulders. there was a heap of rubbish and earth half-filling the tunnel. it had not fallen from the roof, although neither that nor the sides of the tunnel were of solid rock. "you never came through this place, ruth!" exclaimed ralph, in that "i-told-you-so" tone that is so hard to bear. "i--i didn't see this place--no," admitted ruth. "of course you didn't!" declared ralph, crossly. "why! it's right up against the end of the tunnel." "it _does_ look as though we were blocked, ruthie," said tom, with less confidence. "then we'll have to go back and try the other passage," returned the girl, choking a little. "see here!" cried tom, suddenly. "somebody's been digging here. that's where all this stuff comes from, underfoot." "where?" asked the others, crowding forward to look closer. tom set down the lantern and picked up a broken spade. there was a cavity in the wall of this pocket-like passage. with a flourish tom dug the broken blade of the spade into the gritty earth. "this is what jerry wanted that mattock for, i bet!" he exclaimed. "oh, dear, me! do you believe so?" cried ruth. "then, right here, is where he thought he might find his uncle's treasure box." "ho, ho!" ejaculated ralph. "that old hunter was just as crazy as he could be--father says so." "well, that wouldn't keep him from having money; would it?--and might be a very good reason for his burying it." "and the papers he declared would prove his title to a part of this island," ruth hastened to add. that didn't please ralph any too well. "my father owns the island, and don't you forget it!" he declared. "well, we don't have to quarrel about it," snapped tom, rather disgusted with the way ralph was behaving. "come on! we might as well go back. but here's one blow for liberty!" and he laughed and flung the spade forward with all his strength. jerry sheming had never suspected it, or he would not have left the excavation just as he had. there was but a thin shell beyond where he had been digging, and the spade in tom's hand went clear through. "for the goodness gracious grannies!" gasped tom, scrambling off his knees. "i--i came near losing that spade altogether." there was a fall of earth beyond the hole. they heard it rolling and tumbling down a sharp descent. "hold the lantern here, ruth!" cried tom, trying to peer into the opening. ruth did so. the rays revealed a hole, big enough for a man to creep through. it gave entrance, it seemed, to another cavern--and one of good size. "oh, my dear!" exclaimed ruth, seizing tom's arm. "i just know what this means." "you may. _i_ don't," laughed tom cameron. "why, this other cavern is the one that was buried under the landslide. jerry said he knew about where it was, and he's been trying to dig into it." "oh, yes; there was a landslide on this side of the cliff just about the time father was negotiating for the purchase of the island last summer," said ralph. "we all came up here to look at the place a while afterward. we camped in a tent about where the lodge now stands. that old crazy hunter had just been taken away from here. they say he tried to kill blent." "and maybe he had good reason," said tom. "blent is without a doubt a pretty mean proposition." "just the same, the island is my father's," declared ralph, with confidence. "he bought it, right enough." "all right. but you think, ruth, that perhaps it was in this buried cave that old mr. tilton hid his money box?" "so jerry said. it looks as though jerry had been digging here----" "let's have another crack at it!" cried tom, and went to work with the spade again. in ten minutes he had scattered considerable earth and made the hole much larger. they held the lantern inside and saw that the floor of the other cavity was about on a level with the one in which they stood. tom slid the old spade through the hole, and then went through himself. "come on! let's take a look," he said, reaching up for ruth and the lantern. "but this isn't finding a way out," complained ralph. "what will the other folks say?" "we'll find the opening later. we couldn't venture outside now, anyway. it is still storming, you can bet," declared the eager tom. ruth's sharp eyes were peering here and there. the cavern they had entered was almost circular and had a dome-shaped roof. there were shelves all around several feet above the floor. some of these ledges slanted inward toward the rock, and one could not see much of them. "lift me up here, tom!" commanded the girl. "i want to scramble up on the ledge." "you'll hurt yourself." "nonsense! can't i climb a tree almost as well as ann hicks?" he gave her a lift and ruth scrambled over the edge with a little squeal. "oh, oh, oh!" she cried. "here's something." "must be," grunted tom, trying to climb up himself. "why, i declare, ruthie! that's a box." "it's a little chest. it's ironbound, too. my! how heavy. i can't lift it." "tumble it down and let's see," commanded ralph, holding the lantern. ruth sat down suddenly and looked at the boys. "i don't know," she said. "i don't know that we've got any right to touch it. it's padlocked. maybe it is old mr. tilton's treasure-box." "that would be great!" cried tom. "but i don't know," continued ruth, reflectively. "we would better not touch it. i wouldn't undertake to advise jerry what to do if _he_ found it. but this is what they call 'treasure trove,' i guess. at least, it was what that rufus blent had in mind, all right, when he sold mr. tingley the island with the peculiar reservation clause in the deed." chapter xxiv a midnight marauder meanwhile the boys and girls left behind in jerry sheming's old camp began to find the absence of ruth and her two companions rather trying. the time which had elapsed since the three explorers started to find the eastern outlet of the cave seemed much longer to those around the campfire than to the trio themselves. before the searching party could have reached the brookside, had the tunnel been perfectly straight, the nervous belle tingley wanted to send out a relief expedition. "we never should have allowed ruthie to go," she wailed. "we all should have kept together. how do we know but they'll find the cave a regular labyrinth, and get lost in it, and wander around and around, and never find their way out, or back, and----" "oh, for the goodness sake!" ejaculated mary cox, "don't be such a weeping, wailing sister of misery, belle! you not only cross bridges before you come to them, but, i declare, you build new ones!" "she's old man trouble's favorite daughter," said heavy. "didn't you know _that_? now, miss fuss-budget, stop croaking. nothing's going to happen to ruthie." "not with tom on hand, you can wager," added helen, with every confidence in her twin brother. but at last the watches of the party could not be doubted. two hours had crept by and it was getting very late in the evening. some of the party were, as ann said, "yawning their heads off." lluella and heavy had camped down upon the old buffalo-robe before the fire and were already more than half asleep. "i do wish they'd come back," muttered bob steele to isadore phelps. "we can't tell in here whether the storm has stopped, or not. i don't just fancy staying in this cave all night if there's any possible chance of getting to mr. tingley's house." "don't know what can be keeping those folks. i believe i could have crept on my hands and knees through the whole hill, and back again, before this time," returned busy izzy, in a very sleepy voice. "now, you can talk as you please," said ann hicks, with sudden decision, "but i'm going a short distance along that tunnel and see if the lantern is in sight." "i'm with you!" exclaimed bob. "me, too," joined in helen, jumping up with alacrity. "now, some more of you will go off and get lost," cried belle. "i--i wish we were all home. i'm--i'm sorry we came to this old island." "baby!" ejaculated her brother, poking her. "do be still. ralph isn't going to get lost--what d'ye think he is?" "how'll we see our way?" helen asked bob and ann. "feel it. we'll go in the dark. then we can see their lantern the quicker." "there's no wood here fit for torches," bob admitted. "and i have plenty of matches. come on! we sha'n't get lost." "what do you really suppose has happened to them?" demanded helen of bob, as soon as they were out of hearing of the camp. "give it up. something extraordinary--that's positive," declared the big fellow. they crept through the tunnel, bob lighting a match occasionally, until they reached the first crack in the roof, open to the sky. it was not snowing very hard. "of course they wouldn't have tried climbing up here to get out," queried helen. "of course not!" exclaimed ann. "what for?" "no," said bobbins. "they kept straight ahead--and so will we." in five minutes, however, when they stopped, whispering, in a little chamber, ann suddenly seized her companions and commanded them to hold their breath! "i hear something," she whispered. the others strained their ears to hear, too. in a moment a stone rattled. then there sounded an unmistakable footstep upon the rock. somebody was approaching. "they're coming back?" asked helen, doubtfully. "hush!" commanded ann again. "whoever it is, he has no light. it can't be ruth." much heavier boots than those the girl of the red mill wore now rattled over the loose stones. ann pulled the other two down beside her where she crouched in the corner. "wait!" she breathed. "can it be some wild animal?" asked helen. "with boots on? i bet!" scoffed bob. it was pitch dark. the three crouching together in the corner of the little chamber were not likely to attract the attention of this marauder, if all went well. but their hearts beat fast as the rustle of the approaching footsteps grew louder. there loomed up a man's figure. it looked too big to be either tom or ralph, and it passed on with an assured step. he needed no lamp to find a path that seemed well known. "who--what----" "hush, helen!" commanded ann. "but he's going right to the cave--and he carried a gun." "i didn't see the gun," whispered ann. "i did," agreed bob, squeezing helen's arm. "it was a rifle. do you suppose there is any danger?" "it couldn't be anybody hunting us, do you suppose?" queried helen, in a shaken voice. "anybody from the house?" "preston!" exclaimed ann. "how would he know the way to get into this tunnel?" returned bob. "come on! let's spy on him. i'm worried now about tom and the others." "you don't suppose anything has happened to ruthie?" whispered helen. "oh! you don't believe _that_, bobbins?" "come on!" grunted the big fellow, and took the advance. they were careful of their own footsteps over the loose stones. the person ahead acted as though he had an idea he was alone. nor did they overtake him until they had passed the open crack in the roof of the tunnel. somebody laughed in the cavern ahead--then the girls all shouted. the marauder stopped, uttering an astonished ejaculation. bob and the two girls halted, too, but in a moment the person ahead turned, and came striding toward them, evidently fleeing from the sound of the voices. ann and helen were really frightened, and with faint cries, shrank back. bob _had_ to be brave. he leaped forward to meet the person with the rifle, crying: "hold on, there!" "ha!" exclaimed the other and advanced the rifle until the muzzle touched bob steele's breast. the boy was naturally frightened--how could he help being? but he showed pluck. he did not move. "what do you want in here? who are you?" asked bob, quietly. "goodness me!" gasped the other, and dropped the butt of his rifle to the ground. "you sure did startle me. you're one of those boys staying with the tingleys?" "yes." "and here's a couple of the girls. not ruth fielding?" "oh, jerry sheming!" cried ann, running forward. "you might have shot him with that gun." "not unless i'd loaded it first," replied jerry, with a quiet chuckle. "but you folks scared me quite as much as i did you--why, it's miss hicks and miss cameron." "where is ruth?" demanded ann, anxiously. "and tom?" joined in helen. "and how did you get back here to cliff island?" asked bob. "we understood that you'd been railroaded out of the country." "hold on! hold on!" exclaimed jerry. "let's hear first about miss fielding. where's she gone? how came you folks in this cave?" helen was the one who told him. she related all the circumstances very briefly, but in a way to give jerry a clear understanding of the situation. "they've wandered off to the right. i know where they must be," said jerry, decidedly. "i'll go find them. and then i'll get you all out of here. it has almost stopped snowing now." "but how did you find your way back here to the island?" bob demanded again. "i ain't going to be beat by blent," declared jerry sheming, doggedly. "i am going to have another look through the caves before i leave for good, and don't you forget it. "the engine on that train yesterday morning broke a piston rod and had to stop down the lake shore. i hopped off and hid on the far bank, watching the island. if you folks hadn't come over this way to fish this morning, i'd been across before the storm began. "i was pretty well turned around in the storm, and have been traveling a long time. but i got to the brook at last, and then worked my way up it and into the other end of this cave. i was going up there after my lantern----" "ruth and the others have it," explained helen, quickly. "then i'll go find them at once. i know my way around pretty well in the dark. i couldn't get really lost in this cave," and jerry laughed, shortly. "i've got matches if you want them," said bob. "got a plenty, thanks. you folks go back to your friends, and i'll hunt out miss fielding in a jiffy." jerry turned away at once, and soon passed out of their sight in the gloom. as helen and the others hurried back to the anxious party at the campfire, jerry went straightway to the most satisfactory discovery of all his life. chapter xxv the treasure box when jerry met ruth and her companions coming slowly from the little cave, the boys bearing the heavy, ironbound box between them, he knew instantly what it was--his uncle's chest in which he had kept his money and papers. "it's yours to hide again if you want to, jerry," ruth told him, when the excitement of the meeting had passed, and explanations were over. "it was what both you and rufus blent have been looking for, and i believe you have the best right to it" "it belongs to uncle pete. and uncle pete shall have it," declared the backwoods boy. "why, do you know, i believe if uncle pete once had this box in his possession again that he might recover his mind?" "oh, i hope so!" ruth cried. first, however, the crowd of young folk had to be led through the long tunnel and out into the open air. it was agreed that nothing was to be said to anybody but mr. tingley about the treasure box. and the boys and girls, too, agreed to say nothing at the house about jerry's having returned to his cave. when they reached the brook, there were lights about the island, and guns being fired. the entire household of tingley lodge was out on the hunt for the lost ones. the boys and girls were home and in bed in another hour, and mrs. tingley was vastly relieved. "never again will i take the responsibility of such a crowd!" declared the harassed lady. "my own children are enough; a dozen and a half active young ones like these would send me to the madhouse in another week!" but the girls from briarwood and their boy friends continued to have a delightful time during the remainder of their stay at cliff island, although their adventures were less strenuous than those that have been related. they went away, in the end, to take up their school duties, pronouncing their vacation on the island one of the most enjoyable they had ever experienced. "something to keep up our hearts for the rest of the school year," declared heavy. "and you'll like us better, too, when we're gone, mrs. tingley. we _all_--even the fox, here--have a good side to our characters." even ann hicks went back to briarwood with pleasant expectations. she had learned to understand her mates better during this holiday, and all the girls at briarwood were prepared to welcome the western girl now with more kindness than before. we may believe that ruth and her girl friends were all busy and happy during that next half-year at briarwood, and we may meet them again in the midst of their work and fun in the next volume of the series, entitled "ruth fielding at sunrise farm; or, what became of the raby orphans." ruth fielding, however, did not leave cliff island before being assured that the affairs of jerry sheming and his uncle would be set right. as it chanced, the very day the crowd had gone fishing mr. tingley had received a letter from the head doctor of the hospital, to whom the gentleman had written inquiring about old peter tilton. the patient had improved immensely. that he was eccentric was true, but he had probably always been so, the doctor said. the old man was worrying over the loss of what he called his treasure box, and when ruth confided to mr. tingley the truth about jerry's return and the discovery of the ironbound box, mr. tingley determined to take matters into his own hands. he first went to the cave and had a long talk with jerry. then he had his team of horses put to the sledge, and he and jerry and the box drove the entire length of lake tallahaska, struck into a main road to the county asylum, and made an unexpected call upon the poor old hunter, who had been so long confined in that institution. "it was jest what uncle pete needed to wake him up," jerry declared to ruth, when he saw her some weeks later. "he knowed the box and had always carried the key of it about his neck on a string. they didn't know what it was at the 'sylum, but they let him keep the key. "and when he opened it, sure enough there was lots of papers and a couple of bags of money. i don't know how much, but mr. tingley got uncle pete to trust a bank with the money, and it'll be mine some day. uncle pete's going to pay my way through school with some of it, he says." "but the title to the island?" demanded the excited girl of the red mill. "how did that come out? did your uncle have any deed to it? what of that mean old rufus blent?" "jest you hold your hosses, miss ruth," laughed jerry. "i'm comin' to that." "but you are coming to it awfully slow, jerry," complained the eager girl. "no. i'll tell you quick's i can," he declared. "uncle pete had papers. he had been buying a part of the island from blent on installments, and had paid the old rascal a good part of the price. but when blent found out that uncle's papers were buried under the landslide he thought he could play a sharp trick and resell to mr. tingley. you see, the installment deeds were not recorded. "however, mr. tingley's lawyers made old blent get right down and howl for mercy--yes, they did! there was a strong case of conspiracy against him. that's still hanging fire. "but mr. tingley says he will not push that, considering rufus did all he was told to about the title money. he gave uncle pete back every cent he had paid in on the cliff island property, with interest compounded, and a good lump sum of money beside as a bonus. "then uncle pete made mr. tingley's title good, and we're going to live at the lodge during the closed season, as caretakers. that pleases uncle pete, for he couldn't be very well content anywhere else but on cliff island." "oh, jerry! i am so glad it has come out all right for you," cried the girl of the red mill. "and so will all the other girls be when i tell them. and uncle jabez and aunt alvirah--for _they_ are interested in your welfare, too." "you're mighty kind, miss ruth," said the backwoods boy, bashfully. "i--i'm thinking i've got a lot more to thank _you_ for than i ever can express right proper." "oh, no! no more to me than to other folks," cried ruth fielding, earnestly, for it had always been her natural instinct to help people, and she did not wish to be thanked for it. that being the case, neither jerry nor the writer must say anything more about the matter. the end proofreading team real folks by mrs. a. d. t. whitney contents i. this way, and that ii. luclarion iii. by story-rail: twenty-six years an hour iv. afterwards is a long time v. how the news came to homesworth vi. and vii. waking up viii. eavesdropping in aspen street ix. hazel's inspiration x. cockles and crambo xi. more witch-work xii. crumbs xiii. pieces of worlds xiv. "sesame; and lilies" xv. with all one's might xvi. swarming xvii. questions and answers xviii. all at once xix. inside xx. neighbors and next of kin xxi. the horseshoe xxii. morning glories i. this way, and that. the parlor blinds were shut, and all the windows of the third-story rooms were shaded; but the pantry window, looking out on a long low shed, such as city houses have to keep their wood in and to dry their clothes upon, was open; and out at this window had come two little girls, with quiet steps and hushed voices, and carried their books and crickets to the very further end, establishing themselves there, where the shade of a tall, round fir tree, planted at the foot of the yard below, fell across the building of a morning. "it was prettier down on the bricks," luclarion had told them. but they thought otherwise. "luclarion doesn't know," said frank. "people _don't_ know things, i think. i wonder why, when they've got old, and ought to? it's like the sea-shore here, i guess, only the stones are all stuck down, and you mustn't pick up the loose ones either." frank touched lightly, as she spoke, the white and black and gray bits of gravel that covered the flat roof. "and it smells--like the pine forests!" the sun was hot and bright upon the fir branches and along the tar-cemented roof. "how do you know about sea-shores and pine forests?" asked laura, with crushing common sense. "i don't know; but i do," said frank. "you don't know anything but stories and pictures and one tree, and a little gravel, all stuck down tight." "i'm glad i've got one tree. and the rest of it,--why listen! it's in the _word_, laura. _forest_. doesn't that sound like thousands of them, all fresh and rustling? and ellen went to the sea-shore, in that book; and picked up pebbles; and the sea came up to her feet, just as the air comes up here, and you can't get any farther,"--said frank, walking to the very edge and putting one foot out over, while the wind blew in her face up the long opening between rows of brick houses of which theirs was in the midst upon one side. "a great sea!" exclaimed laura, contemptuously. "with all those other wood-sheds right out in it, all the way down!" "well, there's another side to the sea; and capes, and islands," answered frank, turning back. "besides, i don't pretend it _is_; i only think it seems a little bit like it. i'm often put in mind of things. i don't know why." "i'll tell you what it is like," said laura. "it's like the gallery at church, where the singers stand up in a row, and look down, and all the people look up at them. i like high places. i like cecilia, in the 'bracelets,' sitting at the top, behind, when her name was called out for the prize; and 'they all made way, and she was on the floor in an instant.' i should like to have been cecilia!" "leonora was a great deal the best." "i know it; but she don't _stand out_." "laura! you're just like the pharisees! you're always wishing for long clothes and high seats!" "there ain't any pharisees, nowadays," said laura, securely. after which, of course, there was nothing more to be insisted. mrs. lake, the housekeeper, came to the middle upper window, and moved the blind a little. frank and laura were behind the fir. they saw her through the branches. she, through the farther thickness of the tree, did not notice them. "that was good," said laura. "she would have beckoned us in. i hate that forefinger of hers; it's always hushing or beckoning. it's only two inches long. what makes us have to mind it so?" "she puts it all into those two inches," answered frank. "all the _must_ there is in the house. and then you've got to." "i wouldn't--if father wasn't sick." "laura," said frank, gravely, "i don't believe father is going to get well. what do you suppose they're letting us stay at home from school for?" "o, that," said laura, "was because mrs. lake didn't have time to sew the sleeves into your brown dress." "i could have worn my gingham, laura. what if he should die pretty soon? i heard her tell luclarion that there must be a change before long. they talk in little bits, laura, and they say it solemn." the children were silent for a few minutes. frank sat looking through the fir-tree at the far-off flecks of blue. mr. shiere had been ill a long time. they could hardly think, now, what it would seem again not to have a sick father; and they had had no mother for several years,--many out of their short remembrance of life. mrs. lake had kept the house, and mended their clothes, and held up her forefinger at them. even when mr. shiere was well, he had been a reserved man, much absorbed in business since his wife's death, he had been a very sad man. he loved his children, but he was very little with them. frank and laura could not feel the shock and loss that children feel when death comes and robs them suddenly of a close companionship. "what do you suppose would happen then?" asked laura, after awhile. "we shouldn't be anybody's children." "yes, we should," said frank; "we should be god's.' "everybody else is that,--_besides_," said laura. "we shall have black silk pantalets again, i suppose,"--she began, afresh, looking down at her white ones with double crimped ruffles,--"and mrs. gibbs will come in and help, and we shall have to pipe and overcast." "o, laura, how nice it was ever so long ago!" cried frank, suddenly, never heeding the pantalets, "when mother sent us out to ask company to tea,--that pleasant saturday, you know,--and made lace pelerines for our dolls while we were gone! it's horrid, when other girls have mothers, only to have a _housekeeper_! and pretty soon we sha'n't have anything, only a little corner, away back, that we can't hardly recollect." "they'll do something with us; they always do," said laura, composedly. the children of this world, even _as_ children, are wisest in their generation. frank believed they would be god's children; she could not see exactly what was to come of that, though, practically. laura knew that people always did something; something would be sure to be done with them. she was not frightened; she was even a little curious. a head came up at the corner of the shed behind them, a pair of shoulders,--high, square, turned forward; a pair of arms, long thence to the elbows, as they say women's are who might be good nurses of children; the hands held on to the sides of the steep steps that led up from the bricked yard. the young woman's face was thin and strong; two great, clear, hazel eyes looked straight out, like arrow shots; it was a clear, undeviating glance; it never wandered, or searched, or wavered, any more than a sunbeam; it struck full upon whatever was there; it struck _through_ many things that were transparent to their quality. she had square, white, strong teeth, that set together like the faces of a die; they showed easily when she spoke, but the lips closed over them absolutely and firmly. yet they were pleasant lips, and had a smile in them that never went quite out; it lay in all the muscles of the mouth and chin; it lay behind, in the living spirit that had moulded to itself the muscles. this was luclarion. "your aunt oldways and mrs. oferr have come. hurry in!" now mrs. oldways was only an uncle's wife; mrs. oferr was their father's sister. but mrs. oferr was a rich woman who lived in new york, and who came on grand and potent, with a scarf or a pair of shoe-bows for each of the children in her big trunk, and a hundred and one suggestions for their ordering and behavior at her tongue's end, once a year. mrs. oldways lived up in the country, and was "aunt" to half the neighborhood at home, and turned into an aunt instantly, wherever she went and found children. if there were no children, perhaps older folks did not call her by the name, but they felt the special human kinship that is of no-blood or law, but is next to motherhood in the spirit. mrs. oferr found the open pantry window, before the children had got in. "out there!" she exclaimed, "in the eyes of all the neighbors in the circumstances of the family! who does, or _don't_ look after you?" "hearts'-sake!" came up the pleasant tones of mrs. oldways from behind, "how can they help it? there isn't any other out-doors. if they were down at homesworth now, there'd be the lilac garden and the old chestnuts, and the seat under the wall. poor little souls!" she added, pitifully, as she lifted them in, and kissed them. "it's well they can take any comfort. let 'em have all there is." mrs. oferr drew the blinds, and closed the window. frank and laura remembered the strangeness of that day all their lives. how they sat, shy and silent, while luclarion brought in cake and wine; how mrs. oferr sat in the large morocco easy-chair and took some; and mrs. oldways lifted laura, great girl as she was, into her lap first, and broke a slice for her; how mrs. oldways went up-stairs to mrs. lake, and then down into the kitchen to do something that was needed; and mrs. oferr, after she had visited her brother, lay down in the spare chamber for a nap, tired with her long journey from new york, though it had been by boat and cars, while there was a long staging from homesworth down to nashua, on mrs. oldways' route. mrs. oldways, however, was "used," she said, "to stepping round." it was the sitting that had tired her. how they were told not to go out any more, or to run up and down-stairs; and how they sat in the front windows, looking out through the green slats at so much of the street world as they could see in strips; how they obtained surreptitious bits of bread from dinner, and opened a bit of the sash, and shoved out crumbs under the blinds for the pigeons that flew down upon the sidewalk; how they wondered what kind of a day it was in other houses, where there were not circumstances in the family, where children played, and fathers were not ill, but came and went to and from their stores; and where two aunts had not come, both at once, from great ways off, to wait for something strange and awful that was likely to befall. when they were taken in, at bedtime, to kiss their father and say good-night, there was something portentous in the stillness there; in the look of the sick man, raised high against the pillows, and turning his eyes wistfully toward them, with no slightest movement of the head; in the waiting aspect of all things,--the appearance as of everybody being to sit up all night except themselves. edward shiere brought his children close to him with the magnetism of that look; they bent down to receive his kiss and his good-night, so long and solemn. he had not been in the way of talking to them about religion in his life. he had only insisted on their truth and obedience; that was the beginning of all religion. now it was given him in the hour of his death what he should speak; and because he had never said many such words to them before, they fell like the very touch of the holy ghost upon their young spirits now,-- "love god, and keep his commandments. good-by." in the morning, when they woke, mrs. lake was in their room, talking in a low voice with mrs. oferr, who stood by an open bureau. they heard luclarion dusting down the stairs. who was taking care of their father? they did not ask. in the night, he had been taken care of. it was morning with him, now, also. mrs. lake and mrs. oferr were calculating,--about black pantalets, and other things. this story is not with the details of their early orphan life. when edward shiere was buried came family consultations. the two aunts were the nearest friends. nobody thought of mr. titus oldways. he never was counted. he was mrs. shiere's uncle,--aunt oldways' uncle-in-law, therefore, and grand-uncle to these children. but titus oldways never took up any family responsibilities; he had been shy of them all his single, solitary life. he seemed to think he could not drop them as he could other things, if he did not find them satisfactory. besides, what would he know about two young girls? he saw the death in the paper, and came to the funeral; then he went away again to his house in greenley street at the far west end, and to his stiff old housekeeper, mrs. froke, who knew his stiff old ways. and, turning his back on everybody, everybody forgot all about him. except as now and then, at intervals of years, there broke out here or there, at some distant point in some family crisis, a sudden recollection from which would spring a half suggestion, "why, there's uncle titus! if he was only,"--or, "if he would only,"--and there it ended. much as it might be with a housewife, who says of some stored-away possession forty times, perhaps, before it ever turns out available, "why, there's that old gray taffety! if it were only green, now!" or, "if there were three or four yards more of it!" uncle titus was just uncle titus, neither more nor less; so mrs. oferr and aunt oldways consulted about their own measures and materials; and never reckoned the old taffety at all. there was money enough to clothe and educate; little more. "i will take home _one_," said mrs. oferr, distinctly. so, they were to be separated? they did not realize what this was, however. they were told of letters and visits; of sweet country-living, of city sights and pleasures; of kittens and birds' nests, and the great barns; of music and dancing lessons, and little parties,--"by-and-by, when it was proper." "let me go to homesworth," whispered frank to aunt oldways. laura gravitated as surely to the streets and shops, and the great school of young ladies. "one taken and the other left," quoted luclarion, over the packing of the two small trunks. "we're both going," says laura, surprised. "_one_ taken? where?" "where the carcass is," answered luclarion. "there's one thing you'll have to see to for yourselves. i can't pack it. it won't go into the trunks." "what, luclarion?" "what your father said to you that night." they were silent. presently frank answered, softly,--"i hope i shan't forget that." laura, the pause once broken, remarked, rather glibly, that she "was afraid there wouldn't be much chance to recollect things at aunt oferr's." "she isn't exactly what i call a heavenly-minded woman," said luclarion, quietly. "she is very much _occupied_," replied laura, grandly taking up the oferr style. "she visits a great deal, and she goes out in the carriage. you have to change your dress every day for dinner, and i'm to take french lessons." the absurd little sinner was actually proud of her magnificent temptations. she was only a child. men and women never are, of course. "i'm afraid it will be pretty hard to remember," repeated laura, with condescension. "_that's_ your stump!" luclarion fixed the steadfast arrow of her look straight upon her, and drew the bow with this twang. ii. luclarion. how mrs. grapp ever came to, was the wonder. her having the baby was nothing. her having the name for it was the astonishment. her own name was lucy; her husband's luther: that, perhaps, accounted for the first syllable; afterwards, whether her mind lapsed off into combinations of such outshining appellatives as "clara" and "marion," or whether mr. grapp having played the clarionet, and wooed her sweetly with it in her youth, had anything to do with it, cannot be told; but in those prescriptive days of quiet which followed the domestic advent, the name did somehow grow together in the fancy of mrs. luther; and in due time the life-atom which had been born indistinguishable into the natural world, was baptized into the christian church as "luclarion" grapp. thenceforth, and no wonder, it took to itself a very especial individuality, and became what this story will partly tell. marcus grapp, who had the start of luclarion in this "meander,"--as their father called the vale of tears,--by just two years' time, and was y-_clipped_, by everybody but his mother "mark,"--in his turn, as they grew old together, cut his sister down to "luke." then luther grapp called them both "the apostles." and not far wrong; since if ever the kingdom of heaven does send forth its apostles--nay, its little christs--into the work on earth, in these days, it is as little children into loving homes. the apostles got up early one autumn morning, when mark was about six years old, and luke four. they crept out of their small trundle-bed in their mother's room adjoining the great kitchen, and made their way out softly to the warm wide hearth. there were new shoes, a pair apiece, brought home from the mills the night before, set under the little crickets in the corners. these had got into their dreams, somehow, and into the red rooster's first halloo from the end room roof, and into the streak of pale daylight that just stirred and lifted the darkness, and showed doors and windows, but not yet the blue meeting-houses on the yellow wall-paper, by which they always knew when it was really morning; and while mrs. grapp was taking that last beguiling nap in which one is conscious that one means to get up presently, and rests so sweetly on one's good intentions, letting the hazy mirage of the day's work that is to be done play along the horizon of dim thoughts with its unrisen activities,--two little flannel night-gowns were cuddled in small heaps by the chimney-side, little bare feet were trying themselves into the new shoes, and lifting themselves up, crippled with two inches of stout string between the heels. then the shoes were turned into spans of horses, and chirruped and trotted softly into their cricket-stables; and then--what else was there to do, until the strings were cut, and the flannel night-gowns taken off? it was so still out here, in the big, busy, day-time room; it was like getting back where the world had not begun; surely one must do something wonderful with the materials all lying round, and such an opportunity as that. it was old-time then, when kitchens had fire-places; or rather the house was chiefly fire-place, in front of and about which was more or less of kitchen-space. in the deep fire-place lay a huge mound of gray ashes, a vesuvius, under which red bowels of fire lay hidden. in one corner of the chimney leaned an iron bar, used sometimes in some forgotten, old fashioned way, across dogs or pothooks,--who knows now? at any rate, there it always was. mark, ambitious, put all his little strength to it this morning and drew it down, carefully, without much clatter, on the hearth. then he thought how it would turn red under those ashes, where the big coals were, and how it would shine and sparkle when he pulled it out again, like the red-hot, hissing iron jack-the-giant-killer struck into the one-eyed monster's eye. so he shoved it in; and forgot it there, while he told luke--very much twisted and dislocated, and misjoined--the leading incidents of the giant story; and then lapsed off, by some queer association, into the scripture narrative of joseph and his brethren, who "pulled his red coat off, and put him in a _fit_, and left him there." "and then what?" says luke. "then,--o, my iron's done! see here, luke!"--and taking it prudently with the tongs, he pulled back the rod, till the glowing end, a foot or more of live, palpitating, flamy red, lay out upon the broad open bricks. "there, luke! you daresn't put your foot on _that_!" dear little luke, who wouldn't, at even four years old, be dared! and dear little white, tender, pink-and-lily foot! the next instant, a shriek of pain shot through mrs. grapp's ears, and sent her out of her dreams and out of her bed, and with one single impulse into the kitchen, with her own bare feet, and in her night-gown. the little foot had only touched; a dainty, timid, yet most resolute touch; but the sweet flesh shriveled, and the fierce anguish ran up every fibre of the baby body, to the very heart and brain. "o! o, o!" came the long, pitiful, shivering cries, as the mother gathered her in her arms. "what is it? what did you do? how came you to?" and all the while she moved quickly here and there, to cupboard and press-drawer, holding the child fast, and picking up as she could with one hand, cotton wool, and sweet-oil flask, and old linen bits; and so she bound it up, saying still, every now and again, as all she could say,--"what _did_ you do? how came you to?" till, in a little lull of the fearful smart, as the air was shut away, and the oil felt momentarily cool upon the ache, luke answered her,-- "he hed i dare-hn't, and ho i did!" "you little fool!" the rough word was half reaction of relief, that the child could speak at all, half horrible spasm of all her own motherly nerves that thrilled through and through with every pang that touched the little frame, hers also. mothers never do part bonds with babies they have borne. until the day they die, each quiver of their life goes back straight to the heart beside which it began. "you marcus! what did you mean?" "i meant she darsn't; and she no business to 'a dars't," said mark, pale with remorse and fright, but standing up stiff and manful, with bare common sense, when brought to bay. and then he marched away into his mother's bedroom, plunged his head down into the clothes, and cried,--harder than luclarion. nobody wore any new shoes that day; mark for a punishment,--though he flouted at the penalty as such, with an, "i guess you'd see me!" and there were many days before poor little luclarion could wear any shoes at all. the foot got well, however, without hindrance. but luke was the same little fool as ever; that was not burnt out. she would never be "dared" to anything. they called it "stumps" as they grew older. they played "stumps" all through the barns and woods and meadows; over walls and rocks, and rafters and house-roofs. but the burnt foot saved luke's neck scores of times, doubtless. mark remembered it; he never "stumped" her to any certain hurt, or where he could not lead the way himself. the mischief they got into and out of is no part of my story; but one day something happened--things do happen as far back in lives as that--which gave luclarion her clew to the world. they had got into the best parlor,--that sacred place of the new england farm-house, that is only entered by the high-priests themselves on solemn festivals, weddings and burials, thanksgivings and quiltings; or devoutly, now and then to set the shrine in order, shut the blinds again, and so depart, leaving it to gather the gloom and grandeur that things and places and people do when they are good for nothing else. the children had been left alone; for their mother had gone to a sewing society, and grashy, the girl, was up-stairs in her kitchen-chamber-bedroom, with a nail over the door-latch to keep them out while she "fixed over" her best gown. "le's play lake ontario," says marcus. now lake ontario, however they had pitched upon it, stood with them for all the waters that are upon the face of the earth, and all the confusion and peril of them. to play it, they turned the room into one vast shipwreck, of upset and piled up chairs, stools, boxes, buckets, and what else they could lay hands on; and among and over them they navigated their difficult and hilarious way. by no means were they to touch the floor; that was the lake,--that were to drown. it was columbus sometimes; sometimes it was captain cook; to-day, it was no less than jason sailing after the golden fleece. out of odd volumes in the garret, and out of "best books" taken down from the secretary in the "settin'-room," and put into their hands, with charges, of a sunday, to keep them still, they had got these things, jumbled into strange far-off and near fantasies in their childish minds. "lake ontario" included and connected all. "i'll tell you what it is," said marcus, tumbling up against the parlor door and an idea at once. "in here!" "what?" asked luke, breathless, without looking up, and paddling with the shovel, from an inverted rocking-chair. "the golden thing! hush!" at this moment grashy came into the kitchen, took a little tin kettle from a nail over the dresser, and her sun-bonnet from another behind the door, and made her way through the apartment as well as she could for bristling chair-legs, with exemplary placidity. she was used to "lake ontario." "don't get into any mischief, you apostles," was her injunction. "i'm goin' down to miss ruddock's for some 'east." "good,"; says mark, the instant the door was shut "now this is colchis, and i'm going in." he pronounced it much like "cold-cheese," and it never occurred to him that he was naming any unusual or ancient locality. there was a "jason" in the mills village. he kept a grocer's shop. colchis might be close by for all he knew; out beyond the wall, perhaps, among the old barrels. children _place_ all they read or hear about, or even all they imagine, within a very limited horizon. they cannot go beyond their world. why should they? neither could those very venerable ancients. "'tain't," says luclarion, with unbeguiled practicality. "it's just ma's best parlor, and you mustn't." it was the "mustn't" that was the whole of it. if mark had asserted that the back kitchen, or the cellar-way closet was colchis, she would have indorsed it with enthusiasm, and followed on like a loyal argonaut, as she was. but her imagination here was prepossessed. nothing in old fable could be more environed with awe and mystery than this best parlor. "and, besides," said luclarion, "i don't care for the golden fleece; i'm tired of it. let's play something else." "i'll tell you what there is in here," persisted mark. "there's two enchanted children. i've seen 'em!" "just as though," said luke contemptuously. "ma ain't a witch." "tain't ma. she don't know. they ain't visible to her. _she_ thinks it's nothing but the best parlor. but it opens out, right into the witch country,--not for her. 'twill if we go. see if it don't." he had got hold of her now; luclarion could not resist that. anything might be true of that wonderful best room, after all. it was the farthest euxine, the witch-land, everything, to them. so mark turned the latch and they crept in "we must open a shutter," mark said, groping his way. "grashy will be back," suggested luke, fearfully. "guess so!" said mark. "she ain't got coaxed to take her sun-bonnet off yet, an' it'll take her ninety-'leven hours to get it on again." he had let in the light now from the south window. the red carpet on the floor; the high sofa of figured hair-cloth, with brass-headed nails, and brass rosettes in the ends of the hard, cylinder pillows; the tall, carved cupboard press, its doors and drawers glittering with hanging brass handles; right opposite the door by which they had come in, the large, leaning mirror, gilt--garnished with grooved and beaded rim and an eagle and ball-chains over the top,--all this, opening right in from the familiar every-day kitchen and their lake ontario,--it certainly meant something that such a place should be. it meant a great deal more than sixteen feet square could hold, and what it really was did not stop short at the gray-and-crimson stenciled walls. the two were all alone in it; perhaps they had never been all alone in it before. i think, notwithstanding their mischief and enterprise, they never had. and deep in the mirror, face to face with them, coming down, it seemed, the red slant of an inner and more brilliant floor, they saw two other little figures. their own they knew, really, but elsewhere they never saw their own figures entire. there was not another looking-glass in the house that was more than two feet long, and they were all hung up so high! "there!" whispered mark. "there they are, and they can't get out." "of course they can't," said sensible luclarion. "if we only knew the right thing to say, or do, they might," said mark. "it's that they're waiting for, you see. they always do. it's like the sleeping beauty grashy told us." "then they've got to wait a hundred years," said luke. "who knows when they began?" "they do everything that we do," said luclarion, her imagination kindling, but as under protest. "if we could jump in perhaps they would jump out." "we might jump _at_ 'em," said marcus. "jest get 'em going, and may-be they'd jump over. le's try." so they set up two chairs from lake ontario in the kitchen doorway, to jump from; but they could only jump to the middle round of the carpet, and who could expect that the shadow children should be beguiled by that into a leap over bounds? they only came to the middle round of _their_ carpet. "we must go nearer; we must set the chairs in the middle, and jump close. jest _shave_, you know," said marcus. "o, i'm afraid," said luclarion. "i'll tell you what! le's _run_ and jump! clear from the other side of the kitchen, you know. then they'll have to run too, and may-be they can't stop." so they picked up chairs and made a path, and ran from across the broad kitchen into the parlor doorway, quite on to the middle round of the carpet, and then with great leaps came down bodily upon the floor close in front of the large glass that, leaned over them, with two little fallen figures in it, rolling aside quickly also, over the slanting red carpet. but, o dear what did it? had the time come, anyhow, for the old string to part its last fibre, that held the mirror tilting from the wall,--or was it the crash of a completed spell? there came a snap,--a strain,--as some nails or screws that held it otherwise gave way before the forward pressing weight, and down, flat-face upon the floor, between the children, covering them with fragments of splintered glass and gilded wood,--eagle, ball-chains, and all,--that whole magnificence and mystery lay prostrate. behind, where it had been, was a blank, brown-stained cobwebbed wall, thrown up harsh and sudden against them, making the room small, and all the enchanted chamber, with its red slanting carpet, and its far reflected corners, gone. the house hushed up again after that terrible noise, and stood just the same as ever. when a thing like that happens, it tells its own story, just once, and then it is over. _people_ are different. they keep talking. there was grashy to come home. she had not got there in time to hear the house tell it. she must learn it from the children. why? "because they knew," luclarion said. "because, then, they could not wait and let it be found out." "we never touched it," said mark. "we jumped," said luke. "we couldn't help it, if _that_ did it. s'posin' we'd jumped in the kitchen, or--the--flat-irons had tumbled down,--or anything? that old string was all wore out." "well, we was here, and we jumped; and we know." "we was here, of course; and of course we couldn't help knowing, with all that slam-bang. why, it almost upset lake ontario! we can tell how it slammed, and how we thought the house was coming down. i did." "and how we were in the best parlor, and how we jumped," reiterated luclarion, slowly. "marcus, it's a stump!" they were out in the middle of lake ontario now, sitting right down underneath the wrecks, upon the floor; that is, under water, without ever thinking of it. the parlor door was shut, with all that disaster and dismay behind it. "go ahead, then!" said marcus, and he laid himself back desperately on the floor. "there's grashy!" "sakes and patience!" ejaculated grashy, merrily, coming in. "they're drownded,--dead, both of 'em; down to the bottom of lake ontariah!" "no we ain't," said luclarion, quietly. "it isn't lake ontario now. it's nothing but a clutter. but there's an awful thing in the best parlor, and we don't know whether we did it or not. we were in there, and we jumped." grashy went straight to the parlor door, and opened it. she looked in, turned pale, and said "'lection!" that is a word the women have, up in the country, for solemn surprise, or exceeding emergency, or dire confusion. i do not know whether it is derived from religion or politics. it denotes a vital crisis, either way, and your hands full. perhaps it had the theological association in grashy's mind, for the next thing she said was, "my soul!" "do you know what that's a sign of, you children?" "sign the old thing was rotten," said marcus, rather sullenly. "wish that was all," said grashy, her lips white yet. "hope there mayn't nothin' dreadful happen in this house before the year's out. it's wuss'n thirteen at the table." "do you s'pose we did it?" asked luke, anxiously. "where was you when it tumbled?" "right in front of it. but we were rolling away. _we_ tumbled." "'twould er come down the fust jar, anyway, if a door had slammed. the string's cut right through," said grashy, looking at the two ends sticking up stiff and straight from the top fragment of the frame. "but the mercy is you war'n't smashed yourselves to bits and flinders. think o'that!" "do you s'pose ma'll think of that?" asked luclarion. "well--yes; but it may make her kinder madder,--just at first, you know. between you and me and the lookin'-glass, you see,--well, yer ma is a pretty strong-feelin' woman," said grashy, reflectively. "'fi was you i wouldn't say nothin' about it. what's the use? _i_ shan't." "it's a stump," repeated luclarion, sadly, but in very resolute earnest. grashy stared. "well, if you ain't the curiousest young one, luke grapp!" said she, only half comprehending. when mrs. grapp came home, luclarion went into her bedroom after her, and told her the whole story. mrs. grapp went into the parlor, viewed the scene of calamity, took in the sense of loss and narrowly escaped danger, laid the whole weight of them upon the disobedience to be dealt with, and just as she had said, "you little fool!" out of the very shock of her own distress when luke had burned her baby foot, she turned back now, took the two children up-stairs in silence, gave them each a good old orthodox whipping, and tucked them into their beds. they slept one on each side of the great kitchen-chamber. "mark," whispered luke, tenderly, after mrs. grapp's step had died away down the stairs. "how do you feel?" "hot!" said mark. "how do you?" "you ain't mad with me, be you?" "no." "then i feel real cleared up and comfortable. but it _was_ a stump, wasn't it?" * * * * * from that time forward, luclarion grapp had got her light to go by. she understood life. it was "stumps" all through. the lord set them, and let them; she found that out afterward, when she was older, and "experienced religion." i think she was mistaken in the dates, though; it was _recognition_, this later thing; the experience was away back,--at lake ontario. it was a stump when her father died, and her mother had to manage the farm, and she to help her. the mortgage they had to work off was a stump; but faith and luclarion's dairy did it. it was a stump when marcus wanted to go to college, and they undertook that, after the mortgage. it was a stump when adam burge wanted her to marry him, and go and live in the long red cottage at side hill, and she could not go till they had got through with helping marcus. it was a terrible stump when adam burge married persis cone instead, and she had to live on and bear it. it was a stump when her mother died, and the farm was sold. marcus married; he never knew; he had a belles-lettres professorship in a new college up in d----. he would not take a cent of the farm money; he had had his share long ago; the four thousand dollars were invested for luke. he did the best he could, and all he knew; but human creatures can never pay each other back. only god can do that, either way. luclarion did not stay in ----. there were too few there now, and too many. she came down to boston. her two hundred and eighty dollars a year was very good, as far as it went, but it would not keep her idle; neither did she wish to live idle. she learned dress-making; she had taste and knack; she was doing well; she enjoyed going about from house to house for her days' work, and then coming back to her snug room at night, and her cup of tea and her book. then it turned out that so much sewing was not good for her; her health was threatened; she had been used to farm work and "all out-doors." it was a "stump" again. that was all she called it; she did not talk piously about a "cross." what difference did it make? there is another word, also, for "cross" in hebrew. luclarion came at last to live with mrs. edward shiere. and in that household, at eight and twenty, we have just found her. iii. by story-rail: twenty-six years an hour. laura shiere did not think much about the "stump," when, in her dark gray merino travelling dress, and her black ribbons, nicely appointed, as mrs. oferr's niece should be, down to her black kid gloves and broad-hemmed pocket-handkerchief, and little black straw travelling-basket (for morocco bags were not yet in those days), she stepped into the train with her aunt at the providence station, on her way to stonington and new york. the world seemed easily laid out before her. she was like a cousin in a story-book, going to arrive presently at a new home, and begin a new life, in which she would be very interesting to herself and to those about her. she felt rather important, too, with her money independence--there being really "property" of hers to be spoken of as she had heard it of late. she had her mother's diamond ring on her third finger, and was comfortably conscious of it when she drew off her left-hand glove. laura shiere's nature had only been stirred, as yet, a very little below the surface, and the surface rippled pleasantly in the sunlight that was breaking forth from the brief clouds. among the disreputable and vociferous crowd of new york hack drivers, that swarmed upon the pier as the _massachusetts_ glided into her dock, it was good to see that subduedly respectable and consciously private and superior man in the drab overcoat and the nice gloves and boots, who came forward and touched his hat to mrs. oferr, took her shawl and basket, and led the way, among the aggravated public menials, to a handsome private carriage waiting on the street. "all well at home, david?" asked mrs. oferr. "all well, ma'am, thank you," replied david. and another man sat upon the box, in another drab coat, and touched _his_ hat; and when they reached waverley place and alighted, mrs. oferr had something to say to him of certain directions, and addressed him as "moses." it was very grand and wonderful to order "david" and "moses" about. laura felt as if her aunt were something only a little less than "michael with the sword." laura had a susceptibility for dignities; she appreciated, as we have seen out upon the wood-shed, "high places, and all the people looking up." david and moses were brothers, she found out; she supposed that was the reason they dressed alike, in drab coats; as she and frank used to wear their red merinos, and their blue ginghams. a little spasm did come up in her throat for a minute, as she thought of the old frocks and the old times already dropped so far behind; but alice and geraldine oferr met her the next instant on the broad staircase at the back of the marble-paved hall, looking slight and delicate, and princess-like, in the grand space built about them for their lives to move in; and in the distance and magnificence of it all, the faint little momentary image of frank faded away. she went up with them out of the great square hall, over the stately staircase, past the open doors of drawing-rooms and library, stretching back in a long suite, with the conservatory gleaming green from the far end over the garden, up the second stairway to the floor where their rooms were; bedrooms and nursery,--this last called so still, though the great, airy front-room was the place used now for their books and amusements as growing young ladies,--all leading one into another around the skylighted upper hall, into which the sunshine came streaked with amber and violet from the richly colored glass. she had a little side apartment given to her for her own, with a recessed window, in which were blossoming plants just set there from the conservatory; opposite stood a white, low bed in a curtained alcove, and beyond was a dressing-closet. laura thought she should not be able to sleep there at all for a night or two, for the beauty of it and the good time she should be having. at that same moment frank and her aunt oldways were getting down from the stage that had brought them over from ipsley, where they slept after their day's journey from boston,--at the doorstone of the low, broad-roofed, wide-built, roomy old farm-house in homesworth. right in the edge of the town it stood, its fields stretching over the south slope of green hills in sunny uplands, and down in meadowy richness to the wild, hidden, sequestered river-side, where the brown water ran through a narrow, rocky valley,--swift river they called it. there are a great many swift rivers in new england. it was only a vehement little tributary of a larger stream, beside which lay larger towns; it was doing no work for the world, apparently, at present; there were no mills, except a little grist-mill to which the farmers brought their corn, cuddled among the rocks and wild birches and alders, at a turn where the road came down, and half a dozen planks made a bit of a bridge. "o, what beautiful places!" cried frank, as they crossed the little bridge, and glanced either way into a green, gray, silvery vista of shrubs and rocks, and rushing water, with the white spires of meadow-sweet and the pink hardback, and the first bright plumes of the golden rod nodding and shining against the shade,--as they passed the head of a narrow, grassy lane, trod by cows' feet, and smelling of their milky breaths, and the sweetness of hay-barns,--as they came up, at length, over the long slope of turf that carpeted the way, as for a bride's feet, from the roadside to the very threshold. she looked along the low, treble-piled garden wall, too, and out to the open sheds, deep with pine chips; and upon the broad brown house-roof, with its long, gradual decline, till its eaves were within reach of a child's fingers from the ground; and her quick eye took in facilities. "o, if laura could see this! after the old shed-top in brier street, and the one tree!" but laura had got what the shed-top stood for with her; it was frank who had hearkened to whole forests in the stir of the one brick-rooted fir. to that which each child had, it was already given. in a week or two frank wrote laura a letter. it was an old-fashioned letter, you know; a big sheet, written close, four pages, all but the middle of the last page, which was left for the "superscription." then it was folded, the first leaf turned down twice, lengthwise; then the two ends laid over, toward each other; then the last doubling, or rather trebling, across; and the open edge slipped over the folds. a wafer sealed it, and a thimble pressed it,--and there were twenty-five cents postage to pay. that was a letter in the old times, when laura and frank shiere were little girls. and this was that letter:-- dear laura,--we got here safe, aunt oldways and i, a week ago last saturday, and it is _beautiful_. there is a green lane,--almost everybody has a green lane,--and the cows go up and down, and the swallows build in the barn-eaves. they fly out at sundown, and fill all the sky up. it is like the specks we used to watch in the sunshine when it came in across the kitchen, and they danced up and down and through and away, and seemed to be live things; only we couldn't tell, you know, what they were, or if they really did know how good it was. but these are big and real, and you can see their wings, and you know what they mean by it. i guess it is all the same thing, only some things are little and some are big. you can see the stars here, too,--such a sky full. and that is all the same again. there are beautiful roofs and walls here. i guess you would think you were high up! harett and i go up from under the cheese-room windows right over the whole house, and we sit on the peak by the chimney. harett is mrs. dillon's girl. not the girl that lives with her,--her daughter. but the girls that live with people are daughters here. somebody's else, i mean. they are all alike. i suppose her name is harriet, but they all call her harett. i don't like to ask her for fear she should think i thought they didn't know how to pronounce. i go to school with harett; up to the west district. we carry brown bread and butter, and doughnuts, and cheese, and apple-pie in tin pails, for luncheon. don't you remember the brown cupboard in aunt oldways' kitchen, how sagey, and doughnutty, and good it always smelt? it smells just so now, and everything tastes just the same. there is a great rock under an oak tree half way up to school, by the side of the road. we always stop there to rest, coming home. three of the girls come the same way as far as that, and we always save some of our dinner to eat up there, and we tell stories. i tell them about dancing-school, and the time we went to the theatre to see "cinderella," and going shopping with mother, and our little tea-parties, and the dutch dolls we made up in the long front chamber. o, _don't_ you remember, laura? what different pieces we have got into our remembrances already! i feel as if i was making patchwork. some-time, may-be, i shall tell somebody about living _here_. well, they will be beautiful stories! homesworth is an elegant place to live in. you will see when you come next summer. there is an apple tree down in the south orchard that bends just like a horse's back. then the branches come up over your head and shade you. we ride there, and we sit and eat summer apples there. little rosy apples with dark streaks in them all warm with the sun. you can't think what a smell they have, just like pinks and spice boxes. why don't they keep a little way off from each other in cities, and so have room for apple trees? i don't see why they need to crowd so. i hate to think of you all shut up tight when i am let right out into green grass, and blue sky, and apple orchards. that puts me in mind of something! zebiah jane, aunt oldways' girl, always washes her face in the morning at the pump-basin out in the back dooryard, just like the ducks. she says she can't spatter round in a room; she wants all creation for a slop-bowl. i feel as if we had all creation for everything up here. but i can't put all creation in a letter if i try. _that_ would spatter dreadfully. i expect a long letter from you every day now. but i don't see what you will make it out of. i think i have got all the _things_ and you won't have anything left but the _words_. i am sure you don't sit out on the wood-shed at aunt oferr's, and i don't believe you pound stones and bricks, and make colors. do you know when we rubbed our new shoes with pounded stone and made them gray? i never told you about luclarion. she came up as soon as the things were all sent off, and she lives at the minister's. where she used to live is only two miles from here, but other people live there now, and it is built on to and painted straw color, with a green door. your affectionate sister, frances shiere. when laura's letter came this was it:-- dear frank,--i received your kind letter a week ago, but we have been very busy having a dressmaker and doing all our fall shopping, and i have not had time to answer it before. we shall begin to go to school next week, for the vacations are over, and then i shall have ever so much studying to do. i am to take lessons on the piano, too, and shall have to practice two hours a day. in the winter we shall have dancing-school and practicing parties. aunt has had a new bonnet made for me. she did not like the plain black silk one. this is of _gros d'afrique_, with little bands and cordings round the crown and front; and i have a dress of _gros d'afrique_, too, trimmed with double folds piped on. for every-day i have a new black _mousseline_ with white clover leaves on it, and an all-black french chally to wear to dinner. i don't wear my black and white calico at all. next summer aunt means to have me wear white almost all the time, with lavender and violet ribbons. i shall have a white muslin with three skirts and a black sash to wear to parties and to public saturdays, next winter. they have public saturdays at dancing-school every three weeks. but only the parents and relations can come. alice and geraldine dance the shawl-dance with helena pomeroy, with crimson and white canton crape scarfs. they have showed me some of it at home. aunt oferr says i shall learn the _gavotte_. aunt oferr's house is splendid. the drawing-room is full of sofas, and divans, and ottomans, and a _causeuse_, a little s-shaped seat for two people. everything is covered with blue velvet, and there are blue silk curtains to the windows, and great looking-glasses between, that you can see all down into through rooms and rooms, as if there were a hundred of them. do you remember the story luclarion used to tell us of when she and her brother mark were little children and used to play that the looking-glass-things were real, and that two children lived in them, in the other room, and how we used to make believe too in the slanting chimney glass? you could make believe it here with _forty_ children. but i don't make believe much now. there is such a lot that is real, and it is all so grown up. it would seem so silly to have such plays, you know. i can't help thinking the things that come into my head though, and it seems sometimes just like a piece of a story, when i walk into the drawing-room all alone, just before company comes, with my _gros d'afrique_ on, and my puffed lace collar, and my hair tied back with long new black ribbons. it all goes through my head just how i look coming in, and how grand it is, and what the words would be in a book about it, and i seem to act a little bit, just to myself as if i were a girl in a story, and it seems to say, "and laura walked up the long drawing-room and took a book bound in crimson morocco from the white marble pier table and sat down upon the velvet ottoman in the balcony window." but what happened then it never tells. i suppose it will by and by. i am getting used to it all, though; it isn't so _awfully_ splendid as it was at first. i forgot to tell you that my new bonnet flares a great deal, and that i have white lace quilling round the face with little black dotty things in it on stems. they don't wear those close cottage bonnets now. and aunt has had my dresses made longer and my pantalettes shorter, so that they hardly show at all. she says i shall soon wear long dresses, i am getting so tall. alice wears them now, and her feet look so pretty, and she has such pretty slippers: little french purple ones, and sometimes dark green, and sometimes beautiful light gray, to go with different dresses. i don't care for anything but the slippers, but i _should_ like such ones as hers. aunt says i can't, of course, as long as i wear black, but i can have purple ones next summer to wear with my white dresses. that will be when i come to see you. i am afraid you will think this is a very _wearing_ kind of a letter, there are so many 'wears' in it. i have been reading it over so far, but i can't put in any other word. your affectionate sister, laura shiere. p.s. aunt oferr says laura shiere is such a good sounding name. it doesn't seem at all common. i am glad of it. i should hate to be common. i do not think i shall give you any more of it just here than these two letters tell. we are not going through all frank and laura's story. that with which we have especially to do lies on beyond. but it takes its roots in this, as all stories take their roots far back and underneath. two years after, laura was in homesworth for her second summer visit at the farm. it was convenient, while the oferrs were at saratoga. mrs. oferr was very much occupied now, of course, with introducing her own daughters. a year or two later, she meant to give laura a season at the springs. "all in turn, my dear, and good time," she said. the winter before, frank had been a few weeks in new york. but it tired her dreadfully, she said. she liked the theatres and the concerts, and walking out and seeing the shops. but there was "no place to get out of it into." it didn't seem as if she ever really got home and took off her things. she told laura it was like that first old letter of hers; it was just "wearing," all the time. laura laughed. "but how can you live _without_ wearing?" said she. frank stood by, wondering, while laura unpacked her trunks that morning after her second arrival at aunt oldways'. she had done now even with the simplicity of white and violet, and her wardrobe blossomed out like the flush of a summer garden. she unfolded a rose-colored muslin, with little raised embroidered spots, and threw it over the bed. "where _will_ you wear that, up here?" asked frank, in pure bewilderment. "why, i wear it to church, with my white swiss mantle," answered laura. "or taking tea, or anything. i've a black silk _visite_ for cool days. that looks nice with it. and see here,--i've a pink sunshade. they don't have them much yet, even in new york. mr. pemberton oferr brought these home from paris, for gerry and alice, and me. gerry's is blue. see! it tips back." and laura set the dashy little thing with its head on one side, and held it up coquettishly. "they used them in carriages in paris, he said, and in st. petersburg, driving out on the nevskoi prospekt." "but where are your common things?" "down at the bottom; i haven't come to them. they were put in first, because they would bear squeezing. i've two french calicoes, with pattern trimmings; and a lilac jaconet, with ruffles, open down the front." laura wore long dresses now; and open wrappers were the height of the style. laura astonished homesworth the first sunday of this visit, with her rose-colored toilet. bonnet of shirred pink silk with moss rosebuds and a little pink lace veil; the pink muslin, full-skirted over two starched petticoats; even her pink belt had gay little borders of tiny buds and leaves, and her fan had a pink tassel. "they're the things i wear; why shouldn't i?" she said to frank's remonstrance. "but up here!" said frank. "it would seem nicer to wear something--stiller." so it would; a few years afterward laura herself would have seen that it was more elegant; though laura shiere was always rather given to doing the utmost--in apparel--that the occasion tolerated. fashions grew stiller in years after. but this june sunday, somewhere in the last thirties or the first forties, she went into the village church like an aurora, and the village long remembered the resplendence. frank had on a white cambric dress, with a real rose in the bosom, cool and fresh, with large green leaves; and her "cottage straw" was trimmed with white lutestring, crossed over the crown. "do you feel any better?" asked aunt oldways of laura, when they came home to the country tea-dinner. "better--how?" asked laura, in surprise. "after all that 'wear' and _stare_," said aunt oldways, quietly. aunt oldways might have been astonished, but she was by no means awestruck, evidently; and aunt oldways generally spoke her mind. somehow, with laura shiere, pink was pinker, and ribbons were more rustling than with most people. upon some quiet unconscious folks, silk makes no spread, and color little show; with laura every gleam told, every fibre asserted itself. it was the live aurora, bristling and tingling to its farthest electric point. she did not toss or flaunt, either; she had learned better of signor pirotti how to carry herself; but she was in conscious _rapport_ with every thing and stitch she had about her. some persons only put clothes on to their bodies; others really seem to contrive to put them on to their souls. laura shiere came up to homesworth three years later, with something more wonderful than a pink embossed muslin:--she had a lover. mrs. oferr and her daughters were on their way to the mountains; laura was to be left with the oldways. grant ledwith accompanied them all thus far on their way; then he had to go back to boston. "i can't think of anything but that pink sunshade she used to carry round canted all to one side over her shoulder," said aunt oldways, looking after them down the dusty road the morning that he went away. laura, in her white dress and her straw hat and her silly little bronze-and-blue-silk slippers printing the roadside gravel, leaning on grant ledwith's arm, seemed only to have gained a fresh, graceful adjunct to set off her own pretty goings and comings with, and to heighten the outside interest of that little point of eternity that she called her life. mr. ledwith was not so much a man who had won a woman, as laura was a girl who had "got a beau." she had sixteen tucked and trimmed white skirts, too, she told frank; she should have eight more before she was married; people wore ever so many skirts now, at a time. she had been to a party a little while ago where she wore _seven_. there were deep french embroidery bands around some of these white skirts; those were beautiful for morning dresses. geraldine oferr was married last winter; laura had been her bridesmaid; gerry had a white brocade from paris, and a point-lace veil. she had three dozen of everything, right through. they had gone to housekeeping up town, in west sixteenth street. frank would have to come to new york next winter, or in the spring, to be _her_ bridesmaid; then she would see; then--who knew! frank was only sixteen, and she lived away up here in homesworth among the hills; she had not "seen," but she had her own little secret, for all that; something she neither told nor thought, yet which was there; and it came across her with a queer little thrill from the hidden, unlooked-at place below thought, that "who" _didn't_ know. laura waited a year for grant ledwith's salary to be raised to marrying point; he was in a wholesale woolen house in boston; he was a handsome fellow, with gentlemanly and taking address,--capital, this, for a young salesman; and they put his pay up to two thousand dollars within that twelvemonth. upon this, in the spring, they married; took a house in filbert street, down by the river, and set up their little gods. these were: a sprinkle of black walnut and brocatelle in the drawing-room, a sheffield-plate tea-service, and a crimson-and-giltedged dinner set that mrs. oferr gave them; twilled turkey-red curtains, that looked like thibet, in the best chamber; and the twenty-four white skirts and the silk dresses, and whatever corresponded to them on the bride-groom's part, in their wardrobes. all that was left of laura's money, and all that was given them by grant ledwith's father, and mr. titus oldways' astounding present of three hundred dollars, without note or comment,--the first reminder they had had of him since edward shiere's funeral, "and goodness knew how he heard anything now," aunt oferr said,--had gone to this outfit. but they were well set up and started in the world; so everybody said, and so they, taking the world into their young, confident hands for a plaything, not knowing it for the perilous loaded shell it is, thought, merrily, themselves. up in homesworth people did not have to wait for two thousand dollar salaries. they would not get them if they did. oliver ripwinkley, the minister's son, finished his medical studies and city hospital practice that year, and came back, as he had always said he should do, to settle down for a country doctor. old doctor parrish, the parson's friend of fifty years, with no child of his own, kept the place for oliver, and hung up his old-fashioned saddle-bags in the garret the very day the young man came home. he was there to be "called in," however, and with this backing, and the perforce of there being nobody else, young doctor ripwinkley had ten patients within the first week; thereby opportunity for shewing himself in the eyes of ten families as a young man who "appeared to know pretty well what he was about." so that when he gave further proof of the same, by asking, within the week that followed, the prettiest girl in homesworth, frances shiere, to come and begin the world with him at mile hill village, nobody, not even frank herself, was astonished. she bought three new gowns, a shawl, a black silk mantle, and a straw bonnet. she made six each of every pretty white garment that a woman wears; and one bright mellow evening in september, they took their first tea in the brown-carpeted, white-shaded little corner room in the old "rankin house;" a bigger place than they really wanted yet, and not all to be used at first; but rented "reasonable," central, sunshiny, and convenient; a place that they hoped they should buy sometime; facing on the broad sidegreen of the village street, and running back, with its field and meadow belongings, away to the foot of great, gray, sheltering mile hill. and the vast, solemn globe, heedless of what lit here or there upon its breadth, or took up this or that life in its little freckling cities, or between the imperceptible foldings of its hills,--only carrying way-passengers for the centuries,--went plunging on its track, around and around, and swept them all, a score of times, through its summer and its winter solstices. iv. afterwards is a long time. old mr. marmaduke wharne had come down from outledge, in the mountains, on his way home to new york. he had stopped in boston to attend to some affairs of his own,--if one can call them so, since marmaduke wharne never had any "own" affairs that did not chiefly concern, to their advantage, somebody else,--in which his friend mr. titus oldways was interested, not personally, but wharne fashion. now, reader, you know something about mr. titus oldways, which up to this moment, only god, and marmaduke wharne, and rachel froke, who kept mr. oldways' house, and wore a friend's drab dress and white cap, and said "titus," and "marmaduke" to the two old gentlemen, and "thee" and "thou" to everybody,--have ever known. in a general way and relation, i mean; separate persons knew particular things; but each separate person thought the particular thing he knew to be a whimsical exception. mr. oldways did not belong to any church: but he had an english prayer-book under his bible on his study table, and baxter and fenelon and à kempis and "wesley's hymns," and swedenborg's "heaven and hell" and "arcana celestia," and lowell's "sir launfal," and dickens's "christmas carol," all on the same set of shelves,--that held, he told marmaduke, his religion; or as much of it as he could get together. and he had this woman, who was a friend, and who walked by the inner light, and in outer charity, if ever a woman did, to keep his house. "for," said he, "the blessed truth is, that the word of god is in the world. alive in it. when you know that, and wherever you can get hold of his souls, then and there you've got your religion,--a piece at a time. to prove and sort your pieces, and to straighten the tangle you might otherwise get into, there's _this_," and he laid his hand down on the four gospels, bound in white morocco, with a silver cross upon the cover,--a volume that no earthly creature, again, knew of, save titus and marmaduke and rachel froke, who laid it into a drawer when she swept and dusted, and placed it between the crimson folds of its quilted silken wrapper when she had finished, burnishing the silver cross gently with a scrap of chamois leather cut from a clean piece every time. there was nothing else delicate and exquisite in all the plain and grim establishment; and the crimson wrapper was comfortably worn, and nobody would notice it, lying on the table there, with an almanac, a directory, the big, open worcester's dictionary, and the scattered pamphlets and newspapers of the day. out in the world, titus oldways went about with visor down. he gave to no fairs nor public charities; "let them get all they could that way, it wasn't his way," he said to rachel froke. the world thought he gave nothing, either of purse or life. there was a plan they had together,--he and marmaduke wharne,--this girls' story-book will not hold the details nor the idea of it,--about a farm they owned, and people working it that could go nowhere else to work anything; and a mill-privilege that might be utilized and expanded, to make--not money so much as safe and honest human life by way of making money; and they sat and talked this plan over, and settled its arrangements, in the days that marmaduke wharne was staying on in boston, waiting for his other friend, miss craydocke, who had taken the river road down from outledge, and so come round by z----, where she was staying a few days with the goldthwaites and the inglesides. miss craydocke had a share or two in the farm and in the mill. and now, titus oldways wanted to know of marmaduke wharne what he was to do for afterwards. it was a question that had puzzled and troubled him. afterwards. "while i live," he said, "i will do what i can, and _as_ i can. i will hand over my doing, and the wherewith, to no society or corporation. i'll pay no salaries nor circumlocutions. neither will i--afterwards. and how is my money going to work on?" "_your_ money?" "well,--god's money." "how did it work when it came to you?" mr. oldways was silent. "he chose to send it to you. he made it in the order of things that it should come to you. you began, yourself, to work for money. you did not understand, then, that the money would be from god and was for him." "he made me understand." "yes. he looked out for that part of it too. he can look out for it again. his word shall not return unto him void." "he has given me this, though, to pass on; and i will not put it into a machine. i want to give some living soul a body for its living. dead charities are dead. it's of no use to will it to you, marmaduke; i'm as likely to stay on, perhaps, as you are." "and the youngest life might drop, the day after your own. you can't take it out of god's hand." "i must either let it go by law, or will it--here and there. i know enough whom it would help; but i want to invest, not spend it; to invest it in a life--or lives--that will carry it on from where i leave it. how shall i know?" "he giveth it a body as it pleaseth him," quoted marmaduke wharne, thoughtfully. "i am english, you know, oldways; i can't help reverencing the claims of next of kin. unless one is plainly shown otherwise, it seems the appointment. how can we set aside his ways until he clearly points us out his own exception?" "my 'next' are two women whom i don't know, my niece's children. she died thirty years ago." "perhaps you ought to know them." "i know _about_ them; i've kept the run; but i've held clear of family. they didn't need me, and i had no right to put it into their heads they did, unless i fully meant"-- he broke off. "they're like everybody else, wharne; neither better nor worse, i dare say; but the world is full of just such women. how do i know this money would be well in their hands--even for themselves?" "find out." "one of 'em was brought up by an oferr woman!" the tone in which he _commonized_ the name to a satiric general term, is not to be written down, and needed not to be interpreted. "the other is well enough," he went on, "and contented enough. a doctor's widow, with a little property, a farm and two children,--her older ones died very young,--up in new hampshire. i might spoil _her_; and the other,--well, you see as i said, i _don't know_." "find out," said marmaduke wharne, again. "people are not found out till they are tried." "try 'em!" mr. oldways had been sitting with his head bent, thoughtfully, his eyes looking down, his hands on the two stiff, old-fashioned arms of his chair. at this last spondaic response from marmaduke, he lifted his eyes and eyebrows,--not his head,--and raised himself slightly with his two hands pressing on the chair arms; the keen glance and the half-movement were impulsively toward his friend. "eh?" said he. "try 'em," repeated marmaduke wharne. "give god's way a chance." mr. oldways, seated back in his chair again, looked at him intently; made a little vibration, as it were, with his body, that moved his head up and down almost imperceptibly, with a kind of gradual assenting apprehension, and kept utterly silent. so, their talk being palpably over for this time, marmaduke wharne got up presently to go. they nodded at each other, friendlily, as he looked back from the door. left alone, mr. titus oldways turned in his swivel-chair, around to his desk beside which he was sitting. "next of kin?" he repeated to himself. "god's way?--well! afterwards is a long time. a man must give it up somewhere. everything escheats to the king at last." and he took a pen in his hand and wrote a letter. v. how the news came to homesworth. "i wish i lived in the city, and had a best friend," said hazel ripwinkley to diana, as they sat together on the long, red, sloping kitchen roof under the arches of the willow-tree, hemming towels for their afternoon "stent." they did this because their mother sat on the shed roof under the fir, when she was a child, and had told them of it. imagination is so much greater than fact, that these children, who had now all that little frank shiere had dreamed of with the tar smell and the gravel stones and the one tree,--who might run free in the wide woods and up the breezy hillsides,--liked best of all to get out on the kitchen roof and play "old times," and go back into their mother's dream. "i wish i lived in a block of houses, and could see across the corner into my best friend's room when she got up in the morning!" "and could have that party!" said diana. "think of the clean, smooth streets, with red sidewalks, and people living all along, door after door! i like things set in rows, and people having places, like the desks at school. why, you've got to go way round sand hill to get to elizabeth ann dorridon's. i should like to go up steps, and ring bells!" "i don't know," said diana, slowly. "i think birds that build little nests about anywhere in the cunning, separate places, in the woods, or among the bushes, have the best time." "birds, dine! it ain't birds, it's people! what has that to do with it?" "i mean i think nests are better than martin-boxes." "let's go in and get her to tell us that story. she's in the round room." the round room was a half ellipse, running in against the curve of the staircase. it was a bit of a place, with the window at one end, and the bow at the other. it had been doctor ripwinkley's office, and mrs. ripwinkley sat there with her work on summer afternoons. the door opened out, close at the front, upon a great flat stone in an angle, where was also entrance into the hall by the house-door, at the right hand. the door of the office stood open, and across the stone one could look down, between a range of lilac bushes and the parlor windows, through a green door-yard into the street. "now, mother frank, tell us about the party!" they called her "mother frank" when they wished to be particularly coaxing. they had taken up their father's name for her, with their own prefix, when they were very little ones, before he went away and left nobody to call her frank, every day, any more. "that same little old story? won't you ever be tired of it,--you great girls?" asked the mother; for she had told it to them ever since they were six and eight years old. "yes! no, never!" said the children. for how _should_ they outgrow it? it was a sunny little bit out of their mother's own child-life. we shall go back to smaller things, one day, maybe, and find them yet more beautiful. it is the _going_ back, together. "the same old way?" "yes; the very same old way." "we had little open-work straw hats and muslin pelisses,--your aunt laura and i,"--began mrs. ripwinkley, as she had begun all those scores of times before. "mother put them on for us,--she dressed us just alike, always,--and told us to take each other's hands, and go up brier and down hickory streets, and stop at all the houses that she named, and that we knew; and we were to give her love and compliments, and ask the mothers in each house,--mrs. dayton, and mrs. holridge (she lived up the long steps), and mrs. waldow, and the rest of them, to let caroline and grace and fanny and susan, and the rest of _them_, come at four o'clock, to spend the afternoon and take tea, if it was convenient." "o, mother!" said hazel, "you didn't say that when you _asked_ people, you know." "o, no!" said mrs. ripwinkley. "that was when we went to stop a little while ourselves, without being asked. well, it was to please to let them come. and all the ladies were at home, because it was only ten o'clock; and they all sent their love and compliments, and they were much obliged, and the little girls would be very happy. "it was a warm june day; up brier street was a steep walk; down hickory we were glad to keep on the shady side, and thought it was nice that mrs. bemys and mrs. waldow lived there. the strings of our hats were very moist and clinging when we got home, and laura had a blue mark under her chin from the green ribbon. "mother was in her room, in her white dimity morning gown, with little bows up the front, the ends trimmed with cambric edging. she took off our hats and our pelisses,--the tight little sleeves came off wrong side out,--sponged our faces with cool water, and brushed out laura's curls. that was the only difference between us. i hadn't any curls, and my hair had to be kept cropped. then she went to her upper bureau drawer and took out two little paper boxes. "'something has come for blanche and clorinda, since you have been gone,' she said, smiling. 'i suppose you have been shopping?' we took the paper boxes, laughing back at her with a happy understanding. we were used to these little plays of mother's, and she couldn't really surprise us with her kindnesses. we went and sat down in the window-seat, and opened them as deliberately and in as grown-up a way as we could. inside them were two little lace pelerines lined with rose-colored silk. the boxes had a faint smell of musk. the things were so much better for coming in boxes! mother knew that. "well, we dressed our dolls, and it was a great long sunshiny forenoon. mother and luclarion had done something in the kitchen, and there was a smell of sweet baking in the house. every now and then we sniffed, and looked at each other, and at mother, and laughed. after dinner we had on our white french calicoes with blue sprigs, and mother said she should take a little nap, and we might go into the parlor and be ready for our company. she always let us receive our own company ourselves at first. and exactly at four o'clock the door-bell rang, and they began to come. "caroline and fanny dayton had on white cambric dresses, and green kid slippers. that was being very much dressed, indeed. lucy waldow wore a pink lawn, and grace holridge a buff french print. susan bemys said her little sister couldn't come because they couldn't find her best shoes. her mother thought she had thrown them out of the window. "when they all got there we began to play 'lady fair;' and we had just got all the 'lady fairs,' one after another, into our ring, and were dancing and singing up and down and round and round, when the door opened and mother walked in. "we always thought our mother was the prettiest of any of the girls' mothers. she had such bright shining hair, and she put it up with shell combs into such little curly puffs. and she never seemed fussy or old, but she came in among us with such a beautiful, smiling way, as if she knew beforehand that it was all right, and there was no danger of any mischief, or that we shouldn't behave well, but she only wanted to see the good time. that day she had on a white muslin dress with little purple flowers on it, and a bow of purple ribbon right in the side of her hair. she had a little piece of fine work in her hand, and after she had spoken to all the little girls and asked them how their mothers were, she went and sat down in one of the front windows, and made little scollops and eyelets. i remember her long ivory stiletto, with a loop of green ribbon through the head of it, and the sharp, tiny, big-bowed scissors that lay in her lap, and the bright, tapering silver thimble on her finger. "pretty soon the door opened again, softly; a tray appeared, with hannah behind it. on the tray were little glass saucers with confectionery in them; old-fashioned confectionery,--gibraltars, and colored caraways, and cockles with mottoes. we were in the middle of 'so says the grand mufti,' and grace holridge was the grand mufti. hannah went up to her first, as she stood there alone, and grace took a saucer and held it up before the row of us, and said, '_thus_ says the grand mufti!' and then she bit a red gibraltar, and everybody laughed. she did it so quickly and so prettily, putting it right into the play. it was good of her not to say, '_so_ says the grand mufti.' at least we thought so then, though susan bemys said it would have been funnier. "we had a great many plays in those days, and it took a long afternoon to get through with them. we had not begun to wonder what we should do next, when tea time came, and we went down into the basement room. it wasn't tea, though; it was milk in little clear, pink mugs, some that mother only had out for our parties, and cold water in crimped-edge glasses, and little biscuits, and sponge-cakes, and small round pound-cakes frosted. these were what had smelt so good in the morning. "we stood round the table; there was not room for all of us to sit, and mother helped us, and hannah passed things round. susan bemys took cake three times, and lucy waldow opened her eyes wide, and fanny dayton touched me softly under the table. "after tea mother played and sung some little songs to us; and then she played the 'fisher's hornpipe' and 'money musk,' and we danced a little contra-dance. the girls did not all know cotillons, and some of them had not begun to go to dancing-school. father came home and had his tea after we had done ours, and then he came up into the parlor and watched us dancing. mr. dayton came in, too. at about half past eight some of the other fathers called, and some of the mothers sent their girls, and everybody was fetched away. it was nine o'clock when laura and i went to bed, and we couldn't go to sleep until after the clock struck ten, for thinking and saying what a beautiful time we had had, and anticipating how the girls would talk it all over next day at school. that," said mrs. ripwinkley, when she had finished, "was the kind of a party we used to have in boston when i was a little girl. i don't know what the little girls have now." "boston!" said luclarion, catching the last words as she came in, with her pink cape bonnet on, from the homesworth variety and finding store, and post-office. "you'll talk them children off to boston, finally, mrs. ripwinkley! nothing ever tugs so at one end, but there's something tugging at the other; and there's never a hint nor a hearing to anybody, that something more doesn't turn up concerning it. here's a letter, mrs. ripwinkley!" mrs. ripwinkley took it with some surprise. it was not her sister's handwriting nor mr. ledwith's, on the cover; and she rarely had a letter from them that was posted in boston, now. they had been living at a place out of town for several years. mrs. ledwith knew better than to give her letters to her husband for posting. they got lost in his big wallet, and stayed there till they grew old. who should write to mrs. ripwinkley, after all these years, from boston? she looked up at luclarion, and smiled. "it didn't take a solomon," said she, pointing to the postmark. "no, nor yet a black smooch, with only four letters plain, on an invelup. 'taint that, it's the drift of things. those girls have got boston in their minds as hard and fast as they've got heaven; and i mistrust mightily they'll get there first somehow!" the girls were out of hearing, as she said this; they had got their story, and gone back to their red roof and their willow tree. "why, luclarion!" exclaimed mrs. ripwinkley, as she drew out and unfolded the letter sheet. "it's from uncle titus oldways." "then he ain't dead," remarked luclarion, and went away into the kitchen. "my dear frances,--i am seventy-eight years old. it is time i got acquainted with some of my relations. i've had other work to do in the world heretofore (at least i thought i had), and so, i believe, have they. but i have a wish now to get you and your sister to come and live nearer to me, that we may find out whether we really are anything to each other or not. it seems natural, i suppose, that we might be; but kinship doesn't all run in the veins. "i do not ask you to do this with reference to any possible intentions of mine that might concern you after my death; my wish is to do what is right by you, in return for your consenting to my pleasure in the matter, while i am alive. it will cost you more to live in boston than where you do now, and i have no business to expect you to break up and come to a new home unless i can make it an object to you in some way. you can do some things for your children here that you could not do in homesworth. i will give you two thousand dollars a year to live on, and secure the same to you if i die. i have a house here in aspen street, not far from where i live myself, which i will give to either of you that it may suit. that you can settle between you when you come. it is rather a large house, and mrs. ledwith's family is larger, i think, than yours. the estate is worth ten thousand dollars, and i will give the same sum to the one who prefers, to put into a house elsewhere. i wish you to reckon this as all you are ever to expect from me, except the regard i am willing to believe i may come to have for you. i shall look to hear from you by the end of the week. "i remain, yours truly, "titus oldways." "luclarion!" cried mrs. ripwinkley, with excitement, "come here and help me think!" "only four days to make my mind up in," she said again, when luclarion had read the letter through. luclarion folded it and gave it back. "it won't take god four days to think," she answered quietly; "and you can ask _him_ in four minutes. you and i can talk afterwards." and luclarion got up and went away a second time into the kitchen. that night, after diana and hazel were gone to bed, their mother and luclarion grapp had some last words about it, sitting by the white-scoured kitchen table, where luclarion had just done mixing bread and covered it away for rising. mrs. ripwinkley was apt to come out and talk things over at this time of the kneading. she could get more from luclarion then than at any other opportunity. perhaps that was because miss grapp could not walk off from the bread-trough; or it might be that there was some sympathy between the mixing of her flour and yeast into a sweet and lively perfection, and the bringing of her mental leaven wholesomely to bear. "it looks as if it were meant, luclarion," said mrs. ripwinkley, at last. "and just think what it will be for the children." "i guess it's meant fast enough," replied luclarion. "but as for what it will be for the children,--why, that's according to what you all make of it. and that's the stump." luclarion grapp was fifty-four years old; but her views of life were precisely the same that they had been at twenty-eight. vi. and. there is a piece of z----, just over the river, that they call "and." it began among the school-girls; barbara holabird had christened it, with the shrewdness and mischief of fourteen years old. she said the "and-so-forths" lived there. it was a little supplementary neighborhood; an after-growth, coming up with the railroad improvements, when they got a freight station established on that side for the east z---- mills. "after z----, what should it be but 'and?'" barbara holabird wanted to know. the people who lived there called it east square; but what difference did that make? it was two miles boston-ward from z---- centre, where the down trains stopped first; that was five minutes gained in the time between it and the city. land was cheap at first, and sure to come up in value; so there were some streets laid out at right angles, and a lot of houses put up after a pattern, as if they had all been turned out of blanc-mange moulds, and there was "east square." then people began by-and-by to build for themselves, and a little variety and a good deal of ambition came in. they had got to french roofs now; this was just before the day of the multitudinous little paper collar-boxes with beveled covers, that are set down everywhere now, and look as if they could be lifted up by the chimneys, any time, and be carried off with a thumb and finger. two and a half story houses, mansarded, looked grand; and the east square people thought nothing slight of themselves, though the "old places" and the real z---- families were all over on west hill. mrs. megilp boarded in and for the summer. "since oswald had been in business she couldn't go far from the cars, you know; and oswald had a boat on the river, and he and glossy enjoyed that so much. besides, she had friends in z----, which made it pleasant; and she was tired, for her part, of crowds and fashion. all she wanted was a quiet country place. she knew the goldthwaites and the haddens; she had met them one year at jefferson." mrs. megilp had found out that she could get larger rooms in and than she could have at the mountains or the sea-shore, and at half the price; but this she did not mention. yet there was nothing shabby in it, except her carefully _not_ mentioning it. mrs. megilp was mrs. grant ledwith's chief intimate and counselor. she was a good deal the elder; that was why it was mutually advantageous. grant ledwith was one of the out-in-the-world, up-to-the-times men of the day; the day in which everything is going, and everybody that is in active life has, somehow or other, all that is going. grant ledwith got a good salary, an inflated currency salary; and he spent it all. his daughters were growing up, and they were stylish and pretty; mrs. megilp took a great interest in agatha and florence ledwith, and was always urging their mother to "do them justice." "agatha and florence were girls who had a right to every advantage." mrs. megilp was almost old enough to be laura ledwith's mother; she had great experience, and knowledge of the world; and she sat behind laura's conscience and drove it tandem with her inclination. per contra, it was nice for mrs. megilp, who was a widow, and whose income did not stretch with the elasticity of the times, to have friends who lived like the ledwiths, and who always made her welcome; it was a good thing for glossy to be so fond of agatha and florence, and to have them so fond of her. "she needed young society," her mother said. one reason that glossy megilp needed young society might be in the fact that she herself was twenty-six. mrs. megilp had advised the ledwiths to buy a house in z----. "it was just far enough not to be suburban, but to have a society of its own; and there _was_ excellent society in z----, everybody knew. boston was hard work, nowadays; the distances were getting to be so great." up to the west and south ends,--the material distances,--she meant to be understood to say; but there was an inner sense to mrs. megilp's utterances, also. "one might as well be quite out of town; and then it was always something, even in such city connection as one might care to keep up, to hail from a well-recognized social independency; to belong to z---- was a standing, always. it wasn't like going to forest dell, or lakegrove, or bellair; cheap little got-up places with fancy names, that were strung out on the railroads like french gilt beads on a chain." but for all that, mrs. ledwith had only got into "and;" and mrs. megilp knew it. laura did not realize it much; she had bowing and speaking acquaintance with the haddens and the hendees, and even with the marchbankses, over on west hill; and the goldthwaites and the holabirds, down in the town, she knew very well. she did not care to come much nearer; she did not want to be bound by any very stringent and exclusive social limits; it was a bother to keep up to all the demands of such a small, old-established set. mrs. hendee would not notice, far less be impressed by the advent of her new-style brussels carpet with a border, or her full, fresh, nottingham lace curtains, or the new covering of her drawing-room set with cuir-colored terry. mrs. tom friske and mrs. philgry, down here at east square, would run in, and appreciate, and admire, and talk it all over, and go away perhaps breaking the tenth commandment amiably in their hearts. mrs. ledwith's nerves had extended since we saw her as a girl; they did not then go beyond the floating ends of her blue or rose-colored ribbons, or, at furthest, the tip of her jaunty laced sunshade; now they ramified,--for life still grows in some direction,--to her chairs, and her china, and her curtains, and her ruffled pillow-shams. also, savingly, to her children's "suits," and party dresses, and pic-nic hats, and double button gloves. savingly; for there is a leaven of grace in mother-care, even though it be expended upon these. her friend, mrs. inchdeepe, in helvellyn park, with whom she dined when she went shopping in boston, had _nothing_ but her modern improvements and her furniture. "my house is my life," she used to say, going round with a canton crape duster, touching tenderly carvings and inlayings and gildings. mrs. megilp was spending the day with laura ledwith; glossy was gone to town, and thence down to the sea-shore, with some friends. mrs. megilp spent a good many days with laura. she had large, bright rooms at her boarding-house, but then she had very gristly veal pies and thin tapioca puddings for dinner; and mrs. megilp's constitution required something more generous. she was apt to happen in at this season, when laura had potted pigeons. a little bird told her; a dozen little birds, i mean, with their legs tied together in a bunch; for she could see the market wagon from her window, when it turned up mr. ledwith's avenue. laura had always the claret pitcher on her dinner table, too; and claret and water, well-sugared, went deliciously with the savory stew. they were up-stairs now, in laura's chamber; the bed and sofa were covered with silk and millinery; laura was looking over the girls' "fall things;" there was a smell of sweet marjoram and thyme and cloves, and general richness coming up from the kitchen; there was a bland sense of the goodness of providence in mrs. megilp's--no, not heart, for her heart was not very hungry; but in her eyes and nostrils. she was advising mrs. ledwith to take desire and helena's two green silks and make them over into one for helena. "you can get two whole back breadths then, by piecing it up under the sash; and you _can't_ have all those gores again; they are quite done with. everybody puts in whole breadths now. there's just as much difference in the _way_ of goring a skirt, as there is between gores and straight selvages." "they do hang well, though; they have such a nice slope." "yes,--but the stripes and the seams! those tell the story six rods off; and then there _must_ be sashes, or postillions, or something; they don't make anything without them; there isn't any finish to a round waist unless you have something behind." "they wore belts last year, and i bought those expensive gilt buckles. i'm sure they used to look sweetly. but there! a fashion doesn't last nowadays while you're putting a thing on and walking out of the house!" "and don't put in more than three plaits," pursued mrs. megilp, intent on the fate of the green silks. "everything is gathered; you see that is what requires the sashes; round waists and gathers have a queer look without." "if you once begin to alter, you've got to make all over," said mrs. ledwith, a little fractiously, putting the scissors in with unwilling fingers. she knew there was a good four days' work before her, and she was quick with her needle, too. "never mind; the making over doesn't cost anything; you turn off work so easily; and then you've got a really stylish thing." "but with all the ripping and remodelling, i don't get time to turn round, myself, and _live_! it is all fall work, and spring work, and summer work and winter work. one drive rushes pell-mell right over another. there isn't time enough to make things and have them; the good of them, i mean." "the girls get it; we have to live in our children," said mrs. megilp, self-renouncingly. "i can never rest until glossy is provided with everything; and you know, laura, i _am_ obliged to contrive." mrs. megilp and her daughter glaucia spent about a thousand dollars a year, between them, on their dress. in these days, this is a limited allowance--for the megilps. but mrs. megilp was a woman of strict pecuniary principle; the other fifteen hundred must pay all the rest; she submitted cheerfully to the divine allotment, and punctually made the two ends meet. she will have this to show, when the lord of these servants cometh and reckoneth with them, and that man who has been also in narrow circumstances, brings his nicely kept talent out of his napkin. desire ledwith, a girl of sixteen, spoke suddenly from a corner where she sat with a book,-- "i do wonder who '_they_' are, mamma!" "who?" said mrs. ledwith, half rising from her chair, and letting some breadths of silk slide down upon the floor from her lap, as she glanced anxiously from the window down the avenue. she did not want any company this morning. "not that, mamma; i don't mean anybody coming. the 'theys' that wear, and don't wear, things; the theys you have to be just like, and keep ripping and piecing for." "you absurd child!" exclaimed mrs. ledwith, pettishly. "to make me spill a whole lapful of work for that! they? why, everybody, of course." "everybody complains of them, though. jean friske says her mother is all discouraged and worn out. there isn't a thing they had last year that won't have to be made over this, because they put in a breadth more behind, and they only gore side seams. and they don't wear black capes or cloth sacks any more with all kinds of dresses; you must have suits, clear through. it seems to me 'they' is a nuisance. and if it's everybody, we must be part of it. why doesn't somebody stop?" "desire, i wish you'd put away your book, and help, instead of asking silly questions. you can't make the world over, with 'why don'ts?'" "i'll _rip_," said desire, with a slight emphasis; putting her book down, and coming over for a skirt and a pair of scissors. "but you know i'm no good at putting together again. and about making the world over, i don't know but that might be as easy as making over all its clothes, i'd as lief try, of the two." desire was never cross or disagreeable; she was only "impracticable," her mother said. "and besides that, she didn't know what she really did want. she was born hungry and asking, with those sharp little eyes, and her mouth always open while she was a baby. 'it was a sign,' the nurse said, when she was three weeks old. and then the other sign,--that she should have to be called 'desire!'" mrs. megilp--for mrs. megilp had been in office as long ago as that--had suggested ways of getting over or around the difficulty, when aunt desire had stipulated to have the baby named for her, and had made certain persuasive conditions. "there's the pretty french turn you might give it,--'desirée.' only one more 'e,' and an accent. that is so sweet, and graceful, and distinguished!" "but aunt desire won't have the name twisted. it is to be real, plain desire, or not at all." mrs. megilp had shrugged her shoulders. "well, of course it can be that, to christen by, and marry by, and be buried by. but between whiles,--people pick up names,--you'll see!" mrs. megilp began to call her "daisy" when she was two years old. nobody could help what mrs. megilp took a fancy to call her by way of endearment, of course; and daisy she was growing to be in the family, when one day, at seven years old, she heard mrs. megilp say to her mother,-- "i don't see but that you've all got your _desire_, after all. the old lady is satisfied; and away up there in hanover, what can it signify to her? the child is 'daisy,' practically, now, as long as she lives." the sharp, eager little gray eyes, so close together in the high, delicate head, glanced up quickly at speaker and hearer. "what old lady, mamma, away up in hanover?" "your aunt desire, daisy, whom you were named for. she lives in hanover. you are to go and see her there, this summer." "will she call me daisy?" the little difficulty suggested in this question had singularly never occurred to mrs. ledwith before. miss desire ledwith never came down to boston; there was no danger at home. "no. she is old-fashioned, and doesn't like pet names. she will call you desire. that is your name, you know." "would it signify if she thought you called me daisy?" asked the child frowning half absently over her doll, whose arm she was struggling to force into rather a tight sleeve of her own manufacture. "well, perhaps she might not exactly understand. people always went by their names when she was a child, and now hardly anybody does. she was very particular about having you called for her, and you _are_, you know. i always write 'desire ledwith' in all your books, and--well, i always _shall_ write it so, and so will you. but you can be daisy when we make much of you here at home, just as florence is flossie." "no, i can't," said the little girl, very decidedly, getting up and dropping her doll. "aunt desire, away up in hanover, is thinking all the time that there is a little desire ledwith growing up down here. i don't mean to have her cheated. i'm going to went by my name, as she did. don't call me daisy any more, all of you; for i shan't come!" the gray eyes sparkled; the whole little face scintillated, as it were. desire ledwith had a keen, charged little face; and when something quick and strong shone through it, it was as if somewhere behind it there had been struck fire. she was true to that through all the years after; going to school with mabels and ethels and graces and ediths,--not a girl she knew but had a pretty modern name,--and they all wondering at that stiff little "desire" of hers that she would go by. when she was twelve years old, the old lady up in hanover had died, and left her a gold watch, large and old-fashioned, which she could only keep on a stand in her room,--a good solid silver tea-set, and all her spoons, and twenty-five shares in the hanover bank. mrs. megilp called her daisy, with gentle inadvertence, one day after that. desire lifted her eyes slowly at her, with no other reply in her face, or else. "you might please your mother now, i think," said mrs. megilp. "there is no old lady to be troubled by it." "a promise isn't ever dead, mrs. megilp," said desire, briefly. "i shall keep our words." "after all," mrs. megilp said privately to the mother, "there is something quietly aristocratic in an old, plain, family name. i don't know that it isn't good taste in the child. everybody understands that it was a condition, and an inheritance." mrs. megilp had taken care of that. she was watchful for the small impressions she could make in behalf of her particular friends. she carried about with her a little social circumference in which all was preëminently as it should be. but,--as i would say if you could not see it for yourself--this is a digression. we will go back again. "if it were any use!" said desire, shaking out the deep plaits as she unfastened them from the band. "but you're only a piece of everybody after all. you haven't anything really new or particular to yourself, when you've done. and it takes up so much time. last year, this was so pretty! _isn't_ anything actually pretty in itself, or can't they settle what it is? i should think they had been at it long enough." "fashions never were so graceful as they are this minute," said mrs. megilp. "of course it is art, like everything else, and progress. the world is getting educated to a higher refinement in it, every day. why, it's duty, child!" she continued, exaltedly. "think what the world would be if nobody cared. we ought to make life beautiful. it's meant to be. there's not only no virtue in ugliness, but almost no virtue _with_ it, i think. people are more polite and good-natured when they are well dressed and comfortable." "_that's_ dress, too, though," said desire, sententiously. "you've got to stay at home four days, and rip, and be tired, and cross, and tried-on-to, and have no chance to do anything else, before you can put it all on and go out and be good-natured and bland, and help put the beautiful face on the world, _one_ day. i don't believe it's political economy." "everybody doesn't have to do it for themselves. really, when i hear people blamed for dress and elegance,--why, the very ones who have the most of it are those who sacrifice the least time to it. they just go and order what they want, and there's the end of it. when it comes home, they put it on, and it might as well be a flounced silk as a plain calico." "but we _do_ have to think, mrs. megilp. and work and worry. and then we _can't_ turn right round in the things we know every stitch of and have bothered over from beginning to end, and just be lilies of the field!" "a great many people do have to wash their own dishes, and sweep, and scour; but that is no reason it ought not to be done. i always thought it was rather a pity that was said, _just so_," mrs. megilp proceeded, with a mild deprecation of the scripture. "there _is_ toiling and spinning; and will be to the end of time, for some of us." "there's cauliflower brought for dinner, mrs. ledwith," said christina, the parlor girl, coming in. "and hannah says it won't go with the pigeons. will she put it on the ice for to-morrow?" "i suppose so," said mrs. ledwith, absently, considering a breadth that had a little hitch in it. "though what we shall have to-morrow i'm sure i don't know," she added, rousing up. "i wish mr. ledwith wouldn't send home the first thing he sees, without any reference." "and here's the milkman's bill, and a letter," continued christina, laying them down on a chair beside her mistress, and then departing. great things come into life so easily, when they do come, right alongside of milk-bills and cabbages! and yet one may wait so long sometimes for anything to happen _but_ cabbages! the letter was in a very broad, thick envelope, and sealed with wax. mrs. ledwith looked at it curiously before she opened it. she did not receive many letters. she had very little time for correspondence. it was addressed to "mrs. laura ledwith." that was odd and unusual, too. mrs. megilp glanced at her over the tortoise-shell rims of her eye-glasses, but sat very quiet, lest she should delay the opening. she would like to know what could be in that very business-like looking despatch, and laura would be sure to tell her. it must be something pretty positive, one way or another; it was no common-place negative communication. laura might have had property left her. mrs. megilp always thought of possibilities like that. when laura ledwith had unfolded the large commercial sheet, and glanced down the open lines of square, upright characters, whose purport could be taken in at sight, like print, she turned very red with a sudden excitement. then all the color dropped away, and there was nothing in her face but blank, pale, intense surprise. "it is a most _won_derful thing!" said she, at last, slowly; and her breath came like a gasp with her words. "my great-uncle, mr. oldways." she spoke those four words as if from them mrs. megilp could understand everything. mrs. megilp thought she did. "ah! gone?" she asked, pathetically. "gone! no, indeed!" said mrs. ledwith. "he wrote the letter. he wants me to _come_; me, and all of us,--to boston, to live; and to get acquainted with him." "my dear," said mrs. megilp, with the promptness and benignity of a christian apostle, "it's your duty to go." "and he offers me a house, and two thousand dollars a year." "my dear," said mrs. megilp, "it is _emphatically_ your duty to go." all at once something strange came over laura ledwith. she crumpled the letter tight in her hands with a clutch of quick excitement, and began to choke with a little sob, and to laugh at the same time. "don't give way!" cried mrs. megilp, coming to her and giving her a little shake and a slap. "if you do once you will again, and you're _not_ hystericky!" "he's sent for frank, too. frank and i will be together again in dear old boston! but--we can't be children and sit on the shed any more; and--it _isn't_ dear old boston, either!" and then laura gave right up, and had a good cry for five minutes. after that she felt better, and asked mrs. megilp how she thought a house in spiller street would do. but she couldn't rip any more of those breadths that morning. agatha and florence came in from some calls at the goldthwaites and the haddens, and the news was told, and they had their bonnets to take off, and the dinner-bell rang, and the smell of the spicy pigeon-stew came up the stairs, all together. and they went down, talking fast; and one said "house," and another "carpets," and another "music and german;" and desire, trailing a breadth of green silk in her hand that she had never let go since the letter was read, cried out, "oratorios!" and nobody quite knew what they were going down stairs for, or had presence of mind to realize the pigeons, or help each other or themselves properly, when they got there! except mrs. megilp, who was polite and hospitable to them all, and picked two birds in the most composed and elegant manner. when the dessert was put upon the table, and christina, confusedly enlightened as to the family excitement, and excessively curious, had gone away into the kitchen, mrs. ledwith said to mrs. megilp,-- "i'm not sure i should fancy spiller street, after all; it's a sort of a corner. westmoreland street or helvellyn park might be nice. i know people down that way,--mrs. inchdeepe." "mrs. inchdeepe isn't exactly 'people,'" said mrs. megilp, in a quiet way that implied more than grammar. "don't get into 'and' in boston, laura!--with such an addition to your income, and what your uncle gives you toward a house, i don't see why you might not think of republic avenue." "we shall have plenty of thinking to do about everything," said laura. "mamma," said agatha, insinuatingly, "i'm thinking, already; about that rose-pink paper for my room. i'm glad now i didn't have it here." agatha had been restless for white lace, and rose-pink, and a brussels carpet ever since her friend zarah thoole had come home from europe and furnished a morning-room. all this time mr. grant ledwith, quite unconscious of the impending changes with which his family were so far advanced in imagination, was busy among bales and samples in devonshire street. it got to be an old story by the time the seven o'clock train was in, and he reached home. it was almost as if it had all happened a year ago, and they had been waiting for him to come home from australia. there was so much to explain to him that it was really hard to make him understand, and to bring him up to the point from which they could go on together. vii. waking up. the ledwiths took apartments in boston for a month. they packed away the furniture they wanted to keep for upper rooms, in the attics of their house at z----. they had an auction of all the furniture of their drawing-room, dining-room, library, and first floor of sleeping-rooms. then they were to let their house. meanwhile, one was to be fixed upon and fitted up in boston. in all this mrs. megilp advised, invaluably. "it's of no use to move things," she said. "three removes are as bad as a fire; and nothing ever fits in to new places. old wine and new bottles, you know! clear all off with a country auction. everybody comes, and they all fight for everything. things bring more than their original cost. then you've nothing to do but order according to your taste." mr. oldways had invited both his nieces to his own house on their arrival. but here again mrs. megilp advised,--so judiciously. "there are too many of you; it would be a positive infliction. and then you'll have all your running about and planning and calculating to do, and the good old gentleman would think he had pulled half boston down about his ears. your sister can go there; it would be only generous and thoughtful to give way to her. there are only three of them, and they are strange, you know, to every thing, and wouldn't know which way to turn. i can put you in the way of rooms at the bellevue, exactly the thing, for a hundred and fifty a month. no servants, you see; meals at the restaurant, and very good, too. the wedringtons are to give them up unexpectedly; going to europe; poor mrs. wedrington is so out of health. and about the house; don't decide in a hurry; see what your uncle says, and your sister. it's very likely she'll prefer the aspen street house; and it _would_ be out of the way for you. still it is not to be _refused_, you know; of course it is very desirable in many respects; roomy, old-fashioned, and a garden. i think your sister will like those things; they're what she has been used to. if she does, why it's all comfortably settled, and nobody refuses. it is so ungracious to appear to object; a gift horse, you know." "not to be refused; only by no means to be taken; masterly inactivity till somebody else is hooked; and then somebody else is to be grateful for the preference. i wish mrs. megilp wouldn't shine things up so; and that mother wouldn't go to her to black all her boots!" desire said this in secret, indignant discomfort, to helena, the fourth in the family, her chum-sister. helena did very well to talk to; she heard anything; then she pranced round the room and chaffed the canary. "chee! chee! chee! chiddle, iddle, iddle, iddle, e-e-ee! where do you keep all your noise and your breath? you're great, aren't you? you do that to spite people that have to work up one note at a time. you don't take it in away down under your belt, do you? you're not particular about that. you don't know much, after all. you don't know _how_ you do it. you aren't learning of madame caroletti. and you haven't learned two quarters, any way. you were only just born last spring. set up! tr-r-r-r-e-e-ee! i can do that myself. i don't believe you've got an octave in you. poh!" mrs. ripwinkley came down from the country with a bonnet on that had a crown, and with not a particle of a chignon. when she was married, twenty-five years before, she wore a french twist,--her hair turned up in waves from her neck as prettily as it did away from her forehead,--and two thick coiled loops were knotted and fastened gracefully at the top. she had kept on twisting her hair so, all these years; and the rippling folds turned naturally under her fingers into their places. the color was bright still, and it had not thinned. over her brows it parted richly, with no fuzz or crimp; but a sweet natural wreathing look that made her face young. mrs. ledwith had done hers over slate-pencils till she had burned it off; and now tied on a friz, that came low down, for fashion's sake, and left visible only a little bunch of puckers between her eyebrows and the crowsfeet at the corners. the back of her head was weighted down by an immense excrescence in a bag. behind her ears were bare places. mrs. ledwith began to look old-young. and a woman cannot get into a worse stage of looks than that. still, she was a showy woman--a good exponent of the reigning style; and she was handsome--she and her millinery--of an evening, or in the street. when i began that last paragraph i meant to tell you what else mrs. ripwinkley brought with her, down out of the country and the old times; but hair takes up a deal of room. she brought down all her dear old furniture. that is, it came after her in boxes, when she had made up her mind to take the aspen street house. "why, that's the sofa oliver used to lie down on when he came home tired from his patients, and that's the rocking-chair i nursed my babies in; and this is the old oak table we've sat round three times a day, the family of us growing and thinning, as the time went on, all through these years. it's like a communion table, now, laura. of course such things had to come." this was what she answered, when laura ejaculated her amazement at her having brought "old homesworth truck" to boston. "you see it isn't the walls that make the home; we can go away from them and not break our hearts, so long as our own goes with us. the little things that we have used, and that have grown around us with our living,--they are all of living that we can handle and hold on to; and if i went to spitzbergen, i should take as many of them as i could." the aspen street house just suited mrs. ripwinkley, and diana, and hazel. in the first place, it was wooden; built side to the street, so that you went up a little paved walk, in a shade of trees, to get to the door; and then the yard, on the right hand side as you came in, was laid out in narrow walks between borders of blossoming plants. there were vines against the brick end of the next building,--creepers and morning-glories, and white and scarlet runners; and a little martin-box was set upon a pole in the still, farther corner. the rooms of the house were low, but large; and some of the windows had twelve-paned sashes,--twenty-four to a window. mrs. ripwinkley was charmed with these also. they were like the windows at mile hill. mrs. ledwith, although greatly relieved by her sister's prompt decision for the house which she did _not_ want, felt it in her conscience to remonstrate a little. "you have just come down from the mountains, frank, after your twenty-five years' sleep; you've seen nothing by and by you will think differently. this house is fearfully old-fashioned, _fearfully_; and it's away down here on the wrong side of the hill. you can never get up over summit street from here." "we are used to hills, and walking." "but i mean--that isn't all. there are other things you won't be able to get over. you'll never shake off aspen street dust,--you nor the children." "i don't think it is dusty. it is quiet, and sheltered, and clean. i like it ever so much," said mrs. ripwinkley. "o, dear, you don't understand in the least! it's wicked to let you go on so! you poor, dear, simple little old soul!" "never mind," said mrs. megilp. "it's all well enough for the present. it pleases the old gentleman, you know; and after all he's done, he ought to be pleased. one of you should certainly be in his neighborhood. _he_ has been here from time immemorial; and any place grows respectable by staying in it long enough--from _choice_. nobody will wonder at mrs. ripwinkley's coming here at his request. and when she _does_ move, you see, she will know exactly what she is about." "i almost doubt if she ever _will_ know what she is about," said laura. "in that case,--well,"--said mrs. megilp, and stopped, because it really was not in the least needful to say more. mrs. megilp felt it judicious, for many reasons, that mrs. ripwinkley should he hidden away for awhile, to get that mountain sleep out of her eyes, if it should prove possible; just as we rub old metal with oil and put it by till the rust comes off. the ledwiths decided upon a house in shubarton place that would not seem quite like taking old uncle titus's money and rushing away with it as far as city limits would allow; and laura really did wish to have the comfort of her sister's society, in a cozy way, of mornings, up in her room; that was her chief idea about it. there were a good many times and things in which she scarcely expected much companionship from frank. she would not have said even to herself, that frank was rusty; and she would do her faithful and good-natured best to rub her up; but there was an instinct with her of the congruous and the incongruous; and she would not do her bath-brick polishing out on the public promenade. they began by going together to the carpet stores and the paper warehouses; but they ended in detailing themselves for separate work; their ideas clashed ridiculously, and perpetually confused each other. frank remembered loyally her old brown sofa and chairs; she would not have gay colors to put them out of countenance; for even if she re-covered them, she said they should have the same old homey complexion. so she chose a fair, soft buff, with a pattern of brown leaves, for her parlor paper; mrs. ledwith, meanwhile, plunging headlong into glories of crimson and garnet and gold. agatha had her blush pink, in panels, with heart-of-rose borders, set on with delicate gilt beadings; you would have thought she was going to put herself up, in a fancy-box, like a french _mouchoir_ or a _bonbon_. "why _don't_ you put your old brown things all together in an up-stairs room, and call it mile hill? you could keep it for old times' sake, and sit there mornings; the house is big enough; and then have furniture like other people's in the parlor?" "you see it wouldn't be _me_." said mrs. ripwinkley, simply. "they keep saying it 'looks,' and 'it looks,'" said diana to her mother, at home. "why must everything _look_ somehow?" "and every_body_, too," said hazel. "why, when we meet any one in the street that agatha and florence know, the minute they have gone by they say, 'she didn't look well to-day,' or, 'how pretty she did look in that new hat!' and after the great party they went to at that miss hitchler's, they never told a word about it except how girls 'looked.' i wonder what they _did_, or where the good time was. seems to me people ain't living,--they are only just looking; or _is_ this the same old boston that you told about, and where are the real folks, mother?" "we shall find them," said mrs. ripwinkley, cheerily; "and the real of these, too, when the outsides are settled. in the meantime, we'll make our house say, and not look. say something true, of course. things won't say anything else, you see; if you try to make them, they don't speak out; they only stand in a dumb show and make faces." "that's looking!" said hazel. "now i know." "how those children do grow!" said mrs. ripwinkley, as they went off together. "two months ago they were sitting out on the kitchen roof, and coming to me to hear the old stories!" "transplantin'," said luclarion. "that's done it." at twelve and fourteen, hazel and diana could be simple as birds,--simpler yet, as human children waiting for all things,--in their country life and their little dreams of the world. two months' contact with people and things in a great city had started the life that was in them, so that it showed what manner of growth it was to be of. and little hazel ripwinkley had got hold already of the small end of a very large problem. but she could not make it out that this was the same old boston that her mother had told about, or where the nice neighbors were that would be likely to have little tea-parties for their children. viii. eavesdropping in aspen street. some of the old builders,--not the _very_ old ones, for they built nothing but rope-walks down behind the hill,--but some of those who began to go northwest from the state house to live, made a pleasant group of streets down there on the level stretching away to the river, and called them by fresh, fragrant, country-suggesting names. names of trees and fields and gardens, fruits and blossoms; and they built houses with gardens around them. in between the blocks were deep, shady places; and the smell of flowers was tossed back and forth by summer winds between the walls. some nice old people stayed on there, and a few of their descendants stay on there still, though they are built in closely now, for the most part, and coarse, common things have much intruded, and summit street overshadows them with its palaces. here and there a wooden house, set back a little, like this of the ripwinkleys in aspen street, gives you a feeling of boston in the far back times, as you go by; and here and there, if you could get into the life of the neighborhood, you might perhaps find a household keeping itself almost untouched with change, though there has been such a rush and surge for years up and over into the newer and prouder places. at any rate, titus oldways lived here in greenley street; and he owned the aspen street house, and another over in meadow place, and another in field court. he meant to stretch his control over them as long as he could, and keep them for families; therefore he valued them at such rates as they would bring for dwellings; he would not sell or lease them for any kind of "improvements;" he would not have their little door-yards choked up, or their larger garden spaces destroyed, while he could help it. round in orchard street lived miss craydocke. she was away again, now, staying a little while with the josselyns in new york. uncle titus told mrs. ripwinkley that when miss craydocke came back it would be a neighborhood, and they could go round; now it was only back and forth between them and him and rachel froke. there were other people, too, but they would be longer finding them out. "you'll know miss craydocke as soon as you see her; she is one of those you always seem to have seen before." now uncle titus would not have said this to everybody; not even if everybody had been his niece, and had come to live beside him. orchard street is wide and sunny and pleasant; the river air comes over it and makes it sweet; and miss craydocke's is a big, generous house, of which she only uses a very little part herself, because she lets the rest to nice people who want pleasant rooms and can't afford to pay much rent; an old gentleman who has had a hard time in the world, but has kept himself a gentleman through it all, and his little cheery old lady-wife who puts her round glasses on and stitches away at fine women's under-garments and flannel embroideries, to keep things even, have the two very best rooms; and a clergyman's widow, who copies for lawyers, and writes little stories for children, has another; and two orphan sisters who keep school have another; and miss craydocke calls her house the beehive, and buzzes up and down in it, and out and in, on little "seeing-to" errands of care and kindness all day long, as never any queen-bee did in any beehive before, but in a way that makes her more truly queen than any sitting in the middle cell of state to be fed on royal jelly. behind the beehive, is a garden, as there should be; great patches of lily-of-the valley grow there that miss craydocke ties up bunches from in the spring and gives away to little children, and carries into all the sick rooms she knows of, and the poor places. i always think of those lilies of the valley when i think of miss craydocke. it seems somehow as if they were blooming about her all the year through; and so they are, perhaps, invisibly. the other flowers come in their season; the crocuses have been done with first of all; the gay tulips and the snowballs have made the children glad when they stopped at the gate and got them, going to school. miss craydocke is always out in her garden at school-time. by and by there are the tall white lilies, standing cool and serene in the july heats; then miss craydocke is away at the mountains, pressing ferns and drying grasses for winter parlors; but there is somebody on duty at the garden dispensary always, and there are flower-pensioners who know they may come in and take the gracious toll. late in the autumn, the nasturtiums and verbenas and marigolds are bright; and the asters quill themselves into the biggest globes they can, of white and purple and rose, as if it were to make the last glory the best, and to do the very utmost of the year. then the chrysanthemums go into the house and bloom there for christmas-time. there is nothing else like miss craydocke's house and garden, i do believe, in all the city of the three hills. it is none too big for her, left alone with it, the last of her family; the world is none too big for her; she is glad to know it is all there. she has a use for everything as fast as it comes, and a work to do for everybody, as fast as she finds them out. and everybody,--almost,--catches it as she goes along, and around her there is always springing up a busy and a spreading crystallizing of shining and blessed elements. the world is none too big for her, or for any such, of course, because,--it has been told why better than i can tell it,--because "ten times one is always ten." it was a gray, gusty morning. it had not set in to rain continuously; but the wind wrung handfuls of drops suddenly from the clouds, and flung them against the panes and into the wayfarers' faces. over in the house opposite the ripwinkley's, at the second story windows, sat two busy young persons. hazel, sitting at her window, in "mother's room," where each had a corner, could see across; and had got into the way of innocent watching. up in homesworth, she had used to watch the robins in the elm-trees; here, there was human life, in little human nests, all about her. "it's the same thing, mother," she would say, "isn't it, now? don't you remember in that book of the 'new england housekeeper,' that you used to have, what the woman said about the human nature of the beans? it's in beans, and birds, and bird's nests; and folks, and folks' nests. it don't make much difference. it's just snugness, and getting along. and it's so nice to see!" hazel put her elbows up on the window-sill, and looked straight over into that opposite room, undisguisedly. the young man, in one window, said to his sister in the other, at the same moment,-- "our company's come! there's that bright little girl again!" and the sister said, "well, it's pretty much all the company we can take in! she brings her own seat and her own window; and she doesn't interrupt. it's just the kind for us, kentie!" "she's writing,--copying something,--music, it looks like; see it there, set up against the shutter. she always goes out with a music roll in her hand. i wonder whether she gives or takes?" said diana, stopping on her way to her own seat to look out over hazel's shoulder. "both, i guess," said mrs. ripwinkley. "most people do. why don't you put your flowers in the window, hazel?" "why, so i will!" they were a great bunch of snowy white and deep crimson asters, with green ivy leaves, in a tall gray glass vase. rachel froke had just brought them in from miss craydocke's garden. "they're looking, mother! only i do think it's half too bad! that girl seems as if she would almost reach across after them. perhaps they came from the country, and haven't had any flowers." "thee might take them over some," said mrs. froke, simply. "o, i shouldn't dare! there are other people in the house, and i don't know their names, or anything. i wish i could, though." "i can," said rachel froke. "thee'll grow tall enough to step over pebbles one of these days. never mind; i'll fetch thee more to-morrow; and thee'll let the vase go for a while? likely they've nothing better than a tumbler." rachel froke went down the stairs, and out along the paved walk, into the street. she stopped an instant on the curb-stone before she crossed, and looked up at those second story windows. hazel watched her. she held up the vase slightly with one hand, nodding her little gray bonnet kindly, and beckoned with the other. the young girl started from her seat. in another minute hazel saw them together in the doorway. there was a blush and a smile, and an eager brightness in the face, and a quick speaking thanks, that one could read without hearing, from the parted lips, on the one side, and the quiet, unflutterable gray bonnet calmly horizontal on the other; and then the door was shut, and rachel froke was crossing the damp pavement again. "i'm so glad aspen street is narrow!" said hazel. "i should hate to be way off out of sight of people. what did you say to her, mrs. froke?" she asked, as the friend reentered. hazel could by no means take the awful liberty of "rachel." "i said the young girl, hazel ripwinkley, being from the country, knew how good flowers were to strangers in the town, and that she thought they might be strange, and might like some." hazel flushed all up. at that same instant, a gentle nod and smile came across from window to window, and she flushed more, till the tears sprung with the shy, glad excitement, as she returned it and then shrunk away. "and she said, 'thank her, with dorris kincaid's love,'" proceeded rachel froke. "o, _mother_!" exclaimed hazel. "and you did it all, right off so, mrs. froke. i don't see how grown up people dare, and know how!" up the stairs ran quick feet in little clattering heeled boots. desire ledwith, with a purple waterproof on, came in. "i couldn't stay at home to-day," she said, "i wanted to be where it was all-togetherish. it never is at our house. now it's set up, they don't do anything with it." "that's because it '_looks_'--so elegant," said hazel, catching herself up in dismay. "it's because it's the crust, i think," said desire. "puff paste, like an oyster patty; and they haven't got anything cooked yet for the middle. i wonder when they will. i had a call yesterday, all to myself," she went on, with a sudden change of tone and topic. "agatha was hopping and i wouldn't tell her what i said, or how i behaved. that new parlor girl of ours thinks we're all or any of us 'miss ledwith,' mamma included, and so she let him in. he had on lavender pantaloons and a waxed moustache." "the rain is just pouring down!" said diana, at the garden window. "yes; i'm caught. that's what i meant," said desire. "you've got to keep me all day, now. how will you get home, mrs. froke? or won't you have to stay, too?" "thee may call me rachel, desire ledwith, if thee pleases. i like it better. i am no mistress. and for getting home, it is but just round the corner. but there is no need yet. i came for an hour, to sit here with friend frances. and my hour is not yet up." "i'm glad of that, for there is something i want you to tell me. i haven't quite got at it myself, yet; so as to ask, i mean. wait a minute!" and she put her elbows up on her knees, and held her thumbs against her ears, and her fingers across her forehead; sitting squarely opposite the window to which she had drawn up her chair beside diane, and looking intently at the driving streams that rushed and ran down against the glass. "i was sitting in the bay-window at home, when it began this morning; that made me think. all the world dripping wet, and i just put there dry and safe in the middle of the storm, shut up behind those great clear panes and tight sashes. how they did have to contrive, and work, before there were such places made for people! what if they had got into their first scratchy little houses, and sat behind the logs as we do behind glass windows and thought, as i was thinking, how nice it was just to be covered up from the rain? is it all finished now? hasn't anybody got to contrive anything more? and who's going to do it--and everything. and what are we good for,--just _we_,--to come and expect it all, modern-improved! i don't think much of our place among things, do you, mrs. froke?--there, i believe that's it, as near as i can!'" "why does thee ask me, desire?" "i don't know. i don't know any whys or what fors. 'behold we know not anything,'--tennyson and i! but you seem so--pacified--i suppose i thought you must have settled most things in your mind." "every builder--every little joiner--did his piece,--thought his thought out, i think likely. there's no little groove or moulding or fitting or finish, but is a bit of somebody's living; and life grows, going on. we've all got our piece to do," said rachel. "i asked mrs. mig," desire pursued, "and she said some people's part was to buy and employ and encourage; and that spending money helps all the world; and then she put another cushion to her back, and went on tatting." "perhaps it does--in spite of the world," said rachel froke, quietly. "but i guess nobody is to sit by and _only_ encourage; god has given out no such portion as that, i do believe. we can encourage each other, and every one do his own piece too." "i didn't really suppose mrs. mig knew," said desire, demurely. "she never began at the bottom of anything. she only finishes off. she buys pattern worsted work, and fills it in. that's what she's doing now, when she don't tat; a great bunch of white lilies, grounding it with olive. it's lovely; but i'd rather have made the lilies. she'll give it to mother, and then glossy will come and spend the winter with us. mrs. mig is going to nassau with a sick friend; she's awfully useful--for little overseeings and general touchings up, after all the hard part is done. mrs. mig's sick friends always have nurses and waiting maids--mrs. f---- rachel! do you know, i haven't got any piece!" "no, i don't know; nor does thee either, yet," said rachel froke. * * * * * "it's all such bosh!" said kenneth kincaid, flinging down a handful of papers. "i've no right, i solemnly think, to help such stuff out into the world! a man can't take hold anywhere, it seems, without smutting his fingers!" kenneth kincaid was correcting proof for a publisher. what he had to work on this morning was the first chapters of a flimsy novel. "it isn't even confectionery," said he. "it's terra alba and cochineal. and when it comes to the sensation, it will be benzine for whiskey. real things are bad enough, for the most part, in this world; but when it comes to sham fictions and adulterated poisons, dorris, i'd rather help bake bread, if it were an honest loaf, or make strong shoes for laboring men!" "you don't always get things like that," said dorris. "and you know you're not responsible. why will you torment yourself so?" "i was so determined not to do anything but genuine work; work that the world wanted; and to have it come down to this!" "only for a time, while you are waiting." "yes; people must eat while they are waiting; that's the--devil of it! i'm not swearing, dorris, dear; it came truly into my head, that minute, about the temptation in the wilderness." kenneth's voice was reverent, saying this; and there was an earnest thought in his face. "you'll never like anything heartily but your sunday work." "that's what keeps me here. my week-day work might be wanted somewhere else. and perhaps i ought to go. there's sunday work everywhere." "if you've found one half, hold on to it;" said dorris. "the other can't be far off." "i suppose there are a score or two of young architects in this city, waiting for a name or a chance to make one, as i am. if it isn't here for all of them, somebody has got to quit." "and somebody has got to hold on," repeated dorris. "you are morbid, kent, about this 'work of the world.'" "it's overdone, everywhere. fifth wheels trying to hitch on to every coach. i'd rather be the one wheel of a barrow." "the lord is wheelwright, and builder," said dorris, very simply. "you _are_ a wheel, and he has made you; he'll find an axle for you and put you on; and you shall go about his business, so that you shall wonder to remember that you were ever leaning up against a wall. do you know, kentie, life seems to me like the game we used to play at home in the twilight. when we shut our eyes and let each other lead us, until we did not know where we were going, or in what place we should come out. i should not care to walk up a broad path with my eyes wide open, now. i'd rather feel the leading. to-morrow always makes a turn. it's beautiful! people don't know, who _never_ shut their eyes!" kenneth had taken up a newspaper. "the pretenses at doing! the dodges and go-betweens that make a sham work between every two real ones! there's hardly a true business carried on, and if there is, you don't know where or which. look at the advertisements. why, they cheat with their very tops and faces! see this man who puts in big capitals: 'lost! $ , ! $ , reward!' and then tells you, in small type, that five thousand dollars are lost every year by breaking glass and china, that his cement will mend! what business has he to cry 'wolf!' to the hindrance of the next man who may have a real wolf to catch? and what business has the printer, whom the next man will pay to advertise his loss, to help on a lie like this beforehand? i'm only twenty-six years old, dorris, and i'm getting ashamed of the world!" "don't grow hard, kenneth. 'the son of man came not to condemn the world, but to save it.' let's each try to save our little piece!" we are listening across the street, you see; between the windows in the rain; it is strange what chords one catches that do not catch each other, and were never planned to be played together,--by the _players_. kenneth kincaid's father robert had been a ship-builder. when shipping went down in the whirlpool of , robert kincaid's building had gone; and afterward he had died leaving his children little beside their education, which he thanked god was secured, and a good repute that belonged to their name, but was easily forgotten in the crowd of young and forward ones, and in the strife and scramble of a new business growth. between college and technical studies kenneth had been to the war. after that he had a chance to make a fortune in wall street. his father's brother, james, offered to take him in with him to buy and sell stocks and gold, to watch the market, to touch little unseen springs, to put the difference into his own pocket every time the tide of value shifted, or could be made to seem to shift. he might have been one of james r. kincaid and company. he would have none of it. he told his uncle plainly that he wanted real work; that he had not come back from fighting to--well, there he stopped, for he could not fling the truth in his uncle's face; he said there were things he meant to finish learning, and would try to do; and if nobody wanted them of him he would learn something else that was needed. so with what was left to his share from his father's little remnant of property, he had two years at the technological school, and here he was in boston waiting. you can see what he meant by real work, and how deep his theories and distinctions lay. you can see that it might be a hard thing for one young man, here or there, to take up the world on these terms now, in this year of our lord eighteen hundred and sixty-nine. over the way desire ledwith was beginning again, after a pause in which we have made our little chassée. "i know a girl," she said, "who has got a studio. and she talks about art, and she knows styles, and who has done what, and she runs about to see pictures, and she copies things, and she has little plaster legs and toes and things hanging round everywhere. she thinks it is something great; but it's only mig, after all. everything is. florence migs into music. and i won't mig, if i never do anything. i'm come here this morning to darn stockings." and she pulled out of her big waterproof pocket a bundle of stockings and a great white ball of darning cotton and a wooden egg. "there is always one thing that is real," said mrs. ripwinkley, gently, "and that shows the way surely to all the rest." "i know what you mean," said desire, "of course; but they've mixed that all up too, like everything else, so that you don't know where it is. glossy megilp has a velvet prayer-book, and she blacks her eyelashes and goes to church. we've all been baptized, and we've learned the lord's prayer, and we're all christians. what is there more about it? i wish, sometimes, they had let it all alone. i think they vaccinated us with religion, aunt frank, for fear we should take it the natural way." "thee is restless," said rachel froke, tying on her gray cloak. "and to make us so is oftentimes the first thing the lord does for us. it was the first thing he did for the world. then he said, 'let there be light!' in the meantime, thee is right; just darn thy stockings." and rachel went. they had a nice morning, after that, "leaving frets alone," as diana said. diana ripwinkley was happy in things just as they were. if the sun shone, she rejoiced in the glory; if the rain fell, it shut her in sweetly to the heart of home, and the outside world grew fragrant for her breathing. there was never anything in her day that she could spare out of it, and there were no holes in the hours either. "whether she was most bird or bee, it was hard to tell," her mother said of her; from the time she used to sweep and dust her garret baby-house along the big beams in the old house at homesworth, and make little cheeses, and set them to press in wooden pill-boxes from which she had punched the bottoms out, till now, that she began to take upon herself the daily freshening of the new parlors in aspen street, and had long lessons of geometry to learn, whose dry demonstrations she set to odd little improvised recitatives of music, and chanted over while she ran up and down putting away clean linen for her mother, that luclarion brought up from the wash. as for hazel, she was only another variation upon the same sweet nature. there was more of outgo and enterprise with her. diana made the thing or the place pleasant that she was in or doing. hazel sought out new and blessed inventions. "there was always something coming to the child that wouldn't ever have come to no one else," luclarion said. "and besides that, she was a real 'witch hazel;' she could tell where the springs were, and what's more, where they warn't." luclarion grapp would never have pleaded guilty to "dropping into poetry" in any light whatsoever; but what she meant by this was not exactly according to the letter, as one may easily see. ix. hazel's inspiration. what was the use of "looking," unless things were looked at? mrs. ledwith found at the end of the winter that she ought to give a party. not a general one; mrs. ledwith always said "not a general one," as if it were an exception, whereas she knew better than ever to undertake a general party; her list would be _too_ general, and heterogeneous. it would simply be a physical, as well as a social, impossibility. she knew quantities of people separately and very cordially, in her easy have-a-good-time-when-you-can style, that she could by no means mix, or even gather together. she picked up acquaintances on summer journeys, she accepted civilities wherever she might be, she asked everybody to her house who took a fancy to her, or would admire her establishment, and if she had had a spring cleaning or a new carpeting, or a furbishing up in any way, the next thing was always to light up and play it off,--to try it on to somebody. what were houses for? and there was always somebody who ought to be paid attention to; somebody staying with a friend, or a couple just engaged, or if nothing else, it was her turn to have the sewing-society; and so her rooms got aired. of course she had to air them now! the drawing-room, with its apricot and coffee-brown furnishings, was lovely in the evening, and the crimson and garnet in the dining-room was rich and cozy, and set off brilliantly her show of silver and cut-glass; and then, there was the new, real, sea-green china. so the party was had. there were some people in town from new york; she invited them and about a hundred more. the house lit up beautifully; the only pity was that mrs. ledwith could not wear her favorite and most becoming colors, buff and chestnut, because she had taken that family of tints for her furniture; but she found a lovely shade of violet that would hold by gas-light, and she wore black fayal lace with it, and white roses upon her hair. mrs. treweek was enchanted with the brown and apricot drawing-room, and wondered where on earth they had got that particular shade, for "my dear! she had ransacked paris for hangings in just that perfect, soft, ripe color that she had in her mind and never could hit upon." mrs. macmichael had pushed the grapes back upon her plate to examine the pattern of the bit of china, and had said how lovely the coloring was, with the purple and pale green of the fruit. and these things, and a few more like them, were the residuum of the whole, and laura ledwith was satisfied. afterward, "while they were in the way of it," florence had a little _musicale_; and the first season in shubarton place was over. it turned out, however, as it did in the old rhyme,--they shod the horse, and shod the mare, and let the little colt go bare. helena was disgusted because she could not have a "german." "we shall have to be careful, now that we have fairly settled down," said laura to her sister; "for every bit of grant's salary will have been taken up with this winter's expenses. but one wants to begin right, and after that one can go on moderately. i'm good at contriving, frank; only give me something to contrive with." "isn't it a responsibility," frank ventured, "to think what we shall contrive _for_?" "of course," returned mrs. ledwith, glibly. "and my first duty is to my children. i don't mean to encourage them to reckless extravagance; as mrs. megilp says, there's always a limit; but it's one's duty to make life beautiful, and one can't do too much for home. i want my children to be satisfied with theirs, and i want to cultivate their tastes and accustom them to society. i can't do _everything_ for them; they will dress on three hundred a year apiece, agatha and florence; and i can assure you it needs management to accomplish that, in these days!" mrs. ripwinkley laughed, gently. "it would require management with us to get rid of that, upon ourselves." "o, my dear, don't i tell you continually, you haven't waked up yet? just rub your eyes a while longer,--or let the girls do it for you,--and you'll see! why, i know of girls,--girls whose mothers have limited incomes, too,--who have been kept plain, actually _plain_, all their school days, but who must have now six and eight hundred a year to go into society with. and really i wouldn't undertake it for less, myself, if i expected to keep up with everything. but i must treat mine all alike, and we must be contented with what we have. there's helena, now, crazy for a young party; but i couldn't think of it. young parties are ten times worse than old ones; there's really no _end_ to the expense, with the german, and everything. helena will have to wait; and yet,--of course, if i could, it is desirable, almost necessary; acquaintances begin in the school-room,--society, indeed; and a great deal would depend upon it. the truth is, you're no sooner born, now-a-days, than you have to begin to keep up; or else--you're dropped out." "o, laura! do you remember the dear little parties our mother used to make for us? from four till half-past eight, with games, and tea at six, and the fathers looking in?" "and cockles, and mottoes, and printed cambric dresses, and milk and water! where are the children, do you suppose, you dear old frau van winkle, that would come to such a party now?" "children must be born simple, as they were then. there's nothing my girls would like better, even at their age, than to help at just such a party. it is a dream of theirs. why shouldn't somebody do it, just to show how good it is?" "you can lead a horse to water, you know, frank, but you can't make him drink. and the colts are forty times worse. i believe you might get some of the mothers together for an ancient tea-drink, just in the name of old association; but the _babies_ would all turn up their new-fashioned little noses." "o, dear!" sighed frau van winkle. "i wish i knew people!" "by the time you do, you'll know the reason why, and be like all the rest." hazel ripwinkley went to mrs. hilman's school, with her cousin helena. that was because the school was a thoroughly good one; the best her mother could learn of; not because it was kept in parlors in dorset street, and there were girls there who came from palaces west of the common, in the grand avenues and the abc streets; nor did hazel wear her best gray and black velvet suit for every day, though the rich colored poplins with their over-skirts and sashes, and the gay ribbons for hair and neck made the long green baize covered tables look like gardenplots with beds of bloom, and quite extinguished with their brilliancy the quiet, one skirted brown merino that she brushed and folded every night, and put on with fresh linen cuffs and collar every morning. "it is an idiosyncrasy of aunt frances," helena explained, with the grandest phrase she could pick out of her "synonymes," to cow down those who "wondered." privately, helena held long lamentations with hazel, going to and fro, about the party that she could not have. "i'm actually ashamed to go to school. there isn't a girl there, who can pretend to have anything, that hasn't had some kind of a company this winter. i've been to them all, and i feel real mean,--sneaky. what's 'next year?' mamma puts me off with that. poh? next year they'll all begin again. you can't skip birthdays." "i'll tell you what!" said hazel, suddenly, inspired by much the same idea that had occurred to mrs. ripwinkley; "i mean to ask my mother to let _me_ have a party!" "you! down in aspen street! don't, for pity's sake, hazel!" "i don't believe but what it could be done over again!" said hazel, irrelevantly, intent upon her own thought. "it couldn't be done _once_! for gracious grandmother's sake, don't think of it!" cried the little world-woman of thirteen. "it's gracious grandmother's sake that made me think of it," said hazel, laughing. "the way she used to do." "why don't you ask them to help you hunt up old noah, and all get back into the ark, pigeons and all?" "well, i guess they had pretty nice times there, any how; and if another big rain comes, perhaps they'll have to!" hazel did not intend her full meaning; but there is many a faint, small prophecy hid under a clover-leaf. hazel did not let go things; her little witch-wand, once pointed, held its divining angle with the might of magic until somebody broke ground. "it's awful!" helena declared to her mother and sisters, with tears of consternation. "and she wants me to go round with her and carry 'compliments!' it'll never be got over,--never! i wish i could go away to boarding-school!" for mrs. ripwinkley had made up her unsophisticated mind to try this thing; to put this grain of a pure, potent salt, right into the seethe and glitter of little boston, and find out what it would decompose or precipitate. for was not she a mother, testing the world's chalice for her children? what did she care for the hiss and the bubble, if they came? she was wider awake than mrs. ledwith knew; perhaps they who come down from the mountain heights of long seclusion can measure the world's paces and changes better than they who have been hurried in the midst of them, on and on, or round and round. worst of all, old uncle titus took it up. it was funny,--or it would have been funny, reader, if anybody but you and i and rachel froke knew exactly how,--to watch uncle titus as he kept his quiet eye on all these things,--the things that he had set going,--and read their revelations; sheltered, disguised, under a character that the world had chosen to put upon him, like haroun alraschid in the merchant's cloak. they took their tea with him,--the two families,--every sunday night. agatha ledwith "filled him in" a pair of slippers that very first christmas; he sat there in the corner with his old leather ones on, when they came, and left them, for the most part, to their own mutual entertainment, until the tea was ready. it was a sort of family exchange; all the plans and topics came up, particularly on the ledwith side, for mrs. ripwinkley was a good listener, and laura a good talker; and the fun,--that you and i and rachel froke could guess,--yes, and a good deal of unsuspected earnest, also,--was all there behind the old gentleman's "christian age," as over brief mentions of sermons, or words about books, or little brevities of family inquiries and household news, broke small floods of excitement like water over pebbles, as laura and her daughters discussed and argued volubly the matching and the flouncing of a silk, or the new flowering and higher pitching of a bonnet,--since "they are wearing everything all on the top, you know, and mine looks terribly meek;" or else descanted diffusely on the unaccountableness of the somebodies not having called, or the bother and forwardness of the some-other-bodies who had, and the eighty-three visits that were left on the list to be paid, and "never being able to take a day to sit down for anything." "what is it all for?" mrs. ripwinkley would ask, over again, the same old burden of the world's weariness falling upon her from her sister's life, and making her feel as if it were her business to clear it away somehow. "why, to live!" mrs. ledwith would reply. "you've got it all to do, you see." "but i don't really see, laura, where the living comes in." laura opens her eyes. "_slang_?" says she. "where did you get hold of that?" "is it slang? i'm sure i don't know. i mean it." "well, you _are_ the funniest! you don't _catch_ anything. even a by-word must come first-hand from you, and mean something!" "it seems to me such a hard-working, getting-ready-to-be, and then not being. there's no place left for it,--because it's all place." "gracious me, frank! if you are going to sift everything so, and get back of everything! i can't live in metaphysics: i have to live in the things themselves, amongst other people." "but isn't it scene and costume, a good deal of it, without the play? it may be that i don't understand, because i have not got into the heart of your city life; but what comes of the parties, for instance? the grand question, beforehand, is about wearing, and then there's a retrospection of what was worn, and how people looked. it seems to be all surface. i should think they might almost send in their best gowns, or perhaps a photograph,--if photographs ever were becoming,--as they do visiting cards." "aunt frank," said desire, "i don't believe the 'heart of city life' is in the parties, or the parlors. i believe there's a great lot of us knocking round amongst the dry goods and the furniture that never get any further. people must be _living_, somewhere, _behind_ the fixings. but there are so many people, nowadays, that have never quite got fixed!" "you might live all your days here," said mrs. ledwith to her sister, passing over desire, "and never get into the heart of it, for that matter, unless you were born into it. i don't care so much, for my part. i know plenty of nice people, and i like to have things nice about me, and to have a pleasant time, and to let my children enjoy themselves. the 'heart,' if the truth was known, is a dreadful still place. i'm satisfied." uncle titus's paper was folded across the middle; just then he reversed the lower half; that brought the printing upside down; but he went on reading all the same. "_i_'m going to have a real party," said hazel, "a real, gracious-grandmother party; just such as you and mother had, aunt laura, when you were little." her aunt laura laughed good-naturedly. "i guess you'll have to go round and knock up the grandmothers to come to it, then," said she. "you'd better make it a fancy dress affair at once, and then it will be accounted for." "no; i'm going round to invite; and they are to come at four, and take tea at six; and they're just to wear their afternoon dresses; and miss craydocke is coming at any rate; and she knows all the old plays, and lots of new ones; and she is going to show how." "i'm coming, too," said uncle titus, over his newspaper, with his eyes over his glasses. "that's good," said hazel, simply, least surprised of any of the conclave. "and you'll have to play the muffin man. 'o, don't you know,'"--she began to sing, and danced two little steps toward mr. oldways. "o, i forgot it was sunday!" she said, suddenly stopping. "not much wonder," said uncle titus. "and not much matter. _your_ sunday's good enough." and then he turned his paper right side up; but, before he began really to read again, he swung half round toward them in his swivel-chair, and said,-- "leave the sugar-plums to me, hazel; i'll come early and bring 'em in my pocket." "it's the first thing he's taken the slightest notice of, or interest in, that any one of us has been doing," said agatha ledwith, with a spice of momentary indignation, as they walked along bridgeley street to take the car. for uncle titus had not come to the ledwith party. "he never went visiting, and he hadn't any best coat," he told laura, in verbal reply to the invitation that had come written on a square satin sheet, once folded, in an envelope with a big monogram. "it's of no consequence," said mrs. ledwith, "any way. only a child's play." "but it will be, mother; you don't know," said helena. "she's going right in everywhere, with that ridiculous little invitation; to the ashburnes and the geoffreys, and all! she hasn't the least idea of any difference; and just think what the girls will say, and how they will stare, and laugh! i wish she wasn't my cousin!" "helena!" mrs. ledwith spoke with real displeasure; for she was good-natured and affectionate in her way; and her worldly ambitions were rather wide than high, as we have seen. "well, i can't help it; you don't know, mother," helena repeated. "it's horrid to go to school with all those stiffies, that don't care a snap for you, and only laugh." "laughing is vulgar," said agatha. if any indirect question were ever thrown upon the family position, agatha immediately began expounding the ethics of high breeding, as one who had attained. "it is only half-way people who laugh," she said. "ada geoffrey and lilian ashburne never laugh--_at_ anybody--i am sure." "no, they don't; not right out. they're awfully polite. but you can feel it, underneath. they have a way of keeping so still, when you know they would laugh if they did anything." "well, they'll neither laugh nor keep still, about this. you need not be concerned. they'll just not go, and that will be the end of it." agatha ledwith was mistaken. she had been mistaken about two things to-night. the other was when she had said that this was the first time uncle oldways had noticed or been interested in anything they did. x. cockles and crambo. hazel ripwinkley put on her nankeen sack and skirt, and her little round, brown straw hat. for may had come, and almost gone, and it was a day of early summer warmth. hazel's dress was not a "suit;" it had been made and worn two summers before suits were thought of; yet it suited very well, as people's things are apt to do, after all, who do not trouble themselves about minutiæ of fashion, and so get no particular antediluvian marks upon them that show when the flood subsides. her mother knew some things that hazel did not. mrs. ripwinkley, if she had been asleep for five and twenty years, had lost none of her perceptive faculties in the trance. but she did not hamper her child with any doubts; she let her go on her simple way, under the shield of her simplicity, to test this world that she had come into, for herself. hazel had written down her little list of the girls' names that she would like to ask; and mrs. ripwinkley looked at it with a smile. there was ada geoffrey, the banker's daughter, and lilian ashburne, the professor's,--heiresses each, of double lines of birth and wealth. she could remember how, in her childhood, the old names sounded, with the respect that was in men's tones when they were spoken; and underneath were lois james and katie kilburnie, children of a printer and a hatter. they had all been chosen for their purely personal qualities. a child, let alone, chooses as an angel chooses. it remained to be seen how they would come together. at the very head, in large, fair letters, was,-- "miss craydocke." down at the bottom, she had just added,-- "mr. kincaid and dorris." "for, if i have _some_ grown folks, mother, perhaps i ought to have _other_ grown folks,--'to keep the balance true.' besides, mr. kincaid and dorris always like the _little_ nice times." from the day when dorris kincaid had come over with the gray glass vase and her repeated thanks, when the flowers had done their ministry and faded, there had been little simple courtesies, each way, between the opposite houses; and once kenneth and his sister had taken tea with the ripwinkleys, and they had played "crambo" and "consequences" in the evening. the real little game of "consequences," of which this present friendliness was a link, was going on all the time, though they did not stop to read the lines as they folded them down, and "what the world said" was not one of the items in their scheme of it at all. it would have been something worth while to have followed hazel as she went her rounds, asking quietly at each house to see mrs. this or that, "as she had a message;" and being shown, like a little representative of an almost extinct period, up into the parlor, or the dressing-room of each lady, and giving her quaint errand. "i am hazel ripwinkley," she would say, "and my mother sends her compliments, and would like to have lilian,"--or whoever else,--"come at four o'clock to-day, and spend the afternoon and take tea. i'm to have a little party such as she used to have, and nobody is to be much dressed up, and we are only to play games." "why, that is charming!" cried mrs. ashburne; for the feeling of her own sweet early days, and the old b---- square house, came over her as she heard the words. "it is lilian's music afternoon; but never mind; give my kind compliments to your mother, and she will be very happy to come." and mrs. ashburne stooped down and kissed hazel, when she went away. she stood in the deep carved stone entrance-way to mrs. geoffrey's house, in the same fearless, red riding hood fashion, just as she would have waited in any little country porch up in homesworth, where she had need indeed to knock. not a whit dismayed was she either, when the tall manservant opened to her, and admitted her into the square, high, marble-paved hall, out of which great doors were set wide into rooms rich and quiet with noble adorning and soft shading,--where pictures made such a magic upon the walls, and books were piled from floor to ceiling; and where her little figure was lost as she went in, and she hesitated to take a seat anywhere, lest she should be quite hidden in some great arm-chair or sofa corner, and mrs. geoffrey should not see her when she came down. so, as the lady entered, there she was, upright and waiting, on her two feet, in her nankeen dress, just within the library doors, with her face turned toward the staircase. "i am hazel ripwinkley," she began; as if she had said, i am pease-blossom or mustard-seed; "i go to school with ada." and went on, then, with her compliments and her party. and at the end she said, very simply,-- "miss craydocke is coming, and she knows the games." "miss craydocke, of orchard street? and where do you live?" "in aspen street, close by, in uncle oldways' house. we haven't lived there very long,--only this winter; before that we always lived in homesworth." "and homesworth is in the country? don't you miss that?" "yes; but aspen street isn't very bad; we've got a garden. besides, we like streets and neighbors." then she added,--for her little witch-stick felt spiritually the quality of what she spoke to,--"wouldn't mr. geoffrey come for ada in the evening?" "i haven't the least doubt he would!" said mrs. geoffrey, her face all alive with exquisite and kindly amusement, and catching the spirit of the thing from the inimitable simplicity before her, such as never, she did believe, had walked into anybody's house before, in this place and generation, and was no more to be snubbed than a flower or a breeze or an angel. it was a piece of witch hazel's witchery, or inspiration, that she named miss craydocke; for miss craydocke was an old, dear friend of mrs. geoffrey's, in that "heart of things" behind the fashions, where the kingdom is growing up. but of course hazel could not have known that; something in the lady's face just made her think of the same thing in miss craydocke's, and so she spoke, forgetting to explain, nor wondering in the very least, when she was met with knowledge. it was all divining, though, from the beginning to the end. that was what took her into these homes, rather than to a score of other places up and down the self-same streets, where, if she had got in at all, she would have met strange, lofty stares, and freezing "thank you's," and "engagements." "i've found the real folks, mother, and they're all coming!" she cried, joyfully, running in where mrs. ripwinkley was setting little vases and baskets about on shelf and table, between the white, plain, muslin draperies of the long parlor windows. in vases and baskets were sweet may flowers; bunches of deep-hued, rich-scented violets, stars of blue and white periwinkle, and miss craydocke's lilies of the valley in their tall, cool leaves; each kind gathered by itself in clusters and handfuls. inside the wide, open fireplace, behind the high brass fender and the shining andirons, was a "chimney flower pot," country fashion, of green lilac boughs,--not blossoms,--and woodbine sprays, and crimson and white tulips. the room was fair and fragrant, and the windows were wide open upon vines and grass. "it looks like you, mother, just as mrs. geoffrey's house looks like her. houses ought to look like people, i think." "there's your surprise, children. we shouldn't be doing it right without a surprise, you know." and the surprise was not dolls' pelerines, but books. "little women" was one, which sent diana and hazel off for a delicious two hours' read up in their own room until dinner. after dinner, miss craydocke came, in her purple and white striped mohair and her white lace neckerchief; and at three o'clock uncle titus walked in, with his coat pockets so bulgy and rustling and odorous of peppermint and sassafras, that it was no use to pretend to wait and be unconscious, but a pure mercy to unload him so that he might be able to sit down. nobody knows to this day where he got them; he must have ordered them somewhere, one would think, long enough before to have special moulds and implements made; but there were large, beautiful cockles,--not of the old flour-paste sort, but of clear, sparkling sugar, rose-color, and amber, and white, with little slips of tinted paper tucked within, and these printed delicately with pretty rhymes and couplets, from real poets; things to be truly treasured, yet simple, for children's apprehension, and fancy, and fun. and there were "salem gibraltars," such as we only get out of essex county now and then, for a big charitable fair, when salem and everywhere else gets its spirit up to send its best and most especial; and there were toys and devices in sugar--flowers and animals, hats, bonnets, and boots, apples, and cucumbers,--such as diana and hazel, and even desire and helena had never seen before. "it isn't quite fair," said good miss craydocke. "we were to go back to the old, simple fashions of things; and here you are beginning over again already with sumptuous inventions. it's the very way it came about before, till it was all spoilt." "no," said uncle titus, stoutly. "it's only 'old _and_ new,'--the very selfsame good old notions brought to a little modern perfection. they're not french flummery, either; and there's not a drop of gin, or a flavor of prussic acid, or any other abominable chemical, in one of those contrivances. they're as innocent as they look; good honest mint and spice and checkerberry and lemon and rose. i know the man that made 'em!" helena ledwith began to think that the first person, singular or plural, might have a good time; but that awful third! helena's "they" was as potent and tremendous as her mother's. "it's nice," she said to hazel; "but they don't have inch things. i never saw them at a party. and they don't play games; they always dance. and it's broad, hot daylight; and--you haven't asked a single boy!" "why, i don't know any! only jimmy scarup; and i guess he'd rather play ball, and break windows!" "jimmy scarup!" and helena turned away, hopeless of hazel's comprehending. but "they" came; and "they" turned right into "we." it was not a party; it was something altogether fresh and new; the house was a new, beautiful place; it was like the country. and aspen street, when you got down there, was so still and shady and sweet smelling and pleasant. they experienced the delight of finding out something. miss craydocke and hazel set them at it,--their good time; they had planned it all out, and there was no stiff, shy waiting. they began, right off, with the "muffin man." hazel danced up to desire:-- "o, _do_ you know the muffin man, the muffin man, the muffin man? o, _do_ you know the muffin man that lives in drury lane?" "o, yes, i know the muffin man, the muffin man, the muffin man, o, yes, i know the muffin man that lives in drury lane." and so they danced off together:-- "two of us know the muffin man, the muffin man, the muffin man, two of us know the muffin man that lives in drury lane." and then they besieged miss craydocke; and then the three met ada geoffrey, just as she had come in and spoken to diana and mrs. ripwinkley; and ada had caught the refrain, and responded instantly; and _four_ of them knew the muffin man. "i know they'll think it's common and queer, and they'll laugh to-morrow," whispered helena to diana, as hazel drew the lengthening string to dorris kincaid's corner and caught her up; but the next minute they were around helena in her turn, and they were laughing already, with pure glee; and five faces bent toward her, and five voices sang,-- "o, _don't_ you know the muffin man?" and helena had to sing back that she did; and then the six made a perfect snarl around mrs. ripwinkley herself, and drew her in; and then they all swept off and came down across the room upon mr. oldways, who muttered, under the singing, "seven women! well, the bible says so, and i suppose it's come!" and then he held out both hands, while his hard face unbent in every wrinkle, with a smile that overflowed through all their furrowed channels, up to his very eyes; like some sparkling water that must find its level; and there were eight that knew the muffin man. so nine, and ten, and up to fifteen; and then, as their line broke away into fragments, still breathless with fun, miss craydocke said,--her eyes brimming over with laughing tears, that always came when she was gay,-- "there, now! we all know the 'muffin man;' therefore it follows, mathematically, i believe, that we must all know each other. i think we'll try a sitting-down game next. i'll give you all something. desire, you can tell them what to do with it, and miss ashburne shall predict me consequences." so they had the "presentation game;" and the gifts, and the dispositions, and the consequences, when the whispers were over, and they were all declared aloud, were such hits and jumbles of sense and nonsense as were almost too queer to have been believed. "miss craydocke gave me a butter firkin," said mrs. ripwinkley. "i was to put it in the parlor and plant vanilla beans in it; and the consequence would be that birnam wood would come to dunsinane." "she gave me a wax doll," said helena. "i was to buy it a pair of high-heeled boots and a chignon; and the consequence would be that she would have to stand on her head." "she gave me," said mr. oldways, "an iron spoon. i was to deal out sugar-plums with it; and the consequence would be that you would all go home." "she gave me," said lois james, "woman's rights. i shouldn't know what to do with them; and the consequence would be a terrible mortification to all my friends." "she gave me," said hazel, "a real good time. i was to pass it round; and the consequence would be an earthquake." then they had "scandal;" a whisper, repeated rapidly from ear to ear. it began with, "luclarion is in the kitchen making tea-biscuits;" and it ended with the horrible announcement that there were "two hundred gallons of hot pitch ready, and that everybody was to be tipped into it." "characters," and "twenty questions," and "how, when, and where," followed; and then they were ready for a run again, and they played "boston," in which mr. oldways, being "sceattle," was continually being left out, whereupon he declared at last, that he didn't believe there was any place for him, or even that he was down anywhere on the map, and it wasn't fair, and he was going to secede; and that broke up the play; for the groat fun of all the games had come to be miss craydocke and uncle titus, as it always is the great fun to the young ones when the elders join in,--the older and the soberer, the better sport; there is always something in the "fathers looking on;" that is the way i think it is among them who always do behold the face of the father in heaven,--smiling upon their smiles, glowing upon their gladness. in the tea-room, it was all even more delightful yet; it was further out into the garden, shaded at the back by the deep leafiness of grape-vines, and a trellis work with arches in it that ran up at the side, and would be gay by and by with scarlet runners, and morning-glories, and nasturtiums, that were shooting up strong and swift already, from the neatly weeded beds. inside, was the tall old semicircular sideboard, with gingerbread grooves carved all over it; and the real brass "dogs," with heads on their fore-paws, were lying in the fire-place, under the lilac boughs; and the square, plain table stood in the midst, with its glossy white cloth that touched the floor at the corners, and on it were the identical pink mugs, and a tall glass pitcher of milk, and plates of the thinnest and sweetest bread and butter, and early strawberries in a white basket lined with leaves, and the traditional round frosted cakes upon a silver plate with a network rim. and luclarion and mrs. ripwinkley waited upon them all, and it was still no party, to be compared or thought of with any salad and ice-pudding and germania-band affair, such as they had had all winter; but something utterly fresh and new and by itself,--place, and entertainment, and people, and all. after tea, they went out into the garden; and there, under the shady horse-chestnuts, was a swing; and there were balls with which hazel showed them how to play "class;" tossing in turn against the high brick wall, and taking their places up and down, according to the number of their catches. it was only miss craydocke's "thread the needle" that got them in again; and after that, she showed them another simple old dancing game, the "winding circle," from which they were all merrily and mysteriously untwisting themselves with miss craydocke's bright little thin face and her fluttering cap ribbons, and her spry little trot leading them successfully off, when the door opened, and the grand mr. geoffrey walked in; the man who could manage state street, and who had stood at the right hand of governor and president, with his clear brain, and big purse, and generous hand, through the years of the long, terrible war; the man whom it was something for great people to get to their dinners, or to have walk late into an evening drawing-room and dignify an occasion for the last half hour. mrs. ripwinkley was just simply glad to see him; so she was to see kenneth kincaid, who came a few minutes after, just as luclarion brought the tray of sweetmeats in, which mrs. ripwinkley had so far innovated upon the gracious-grandmother plan as to have after tea, instead of before. the beautiful cockles and their rhymes got their heads all together around the large table, for the eating and the reading. mr. geoffrey and uncle titus sat talking european politics together, a little aside. the sugar-plums lasted a good while, with the chatter over them; and then, before they quite knew what it was all for, they had got slips of paper and lead pencils before them, and there was to be a round of "crambo" to wind up. "o, i don't know how!" and "i never can!" were the first words, as they always are, when it was explained to the uninitiated; but miss craydocke assured them that "everybody could;" and hazel said that "nobody expected real poetry; it needn't be more than two lines, and those might be blank verse, if they were _very_ hard, but jingles were better;" and so the questions and the wards were written and folded, and the papers were shuffled and opened amid outcries of, "o, this is awful!" "_what_ a word to get in!" "why, they haven't the least thing to do with each other!" "that's the beauty of it," said miss craydocke, unrelentingly; "to _make_ them have; and it is funny how much things do have to do with each other when they once happen to come across." then there were knit brows, and desperate scratchings, and such silence that mr. geoffrey and uncle titus stopped short on the alabama question, and looked round to see what the matter was. kenneth kincaid had been modestly listening to the older gentlemen, and now and then venturing to inquire or remark something, with an intelligence that attracted mr. geoffrey; and presently it came out that he had been south with the army; and then mr. geoffrey asked questions of him, and they got upon reconstruction business, and comparing facts and exchanging conclusions, quite as if one was not a mere youth with only his eyes and his brains and his conscience to help him in his first grapple with the world in the tangle and crisis at which he found it, and the other a grave, practiced, keen-judging man, the counsellor of national leaders. after all, they had no business to bring the great, troublesome, heavy-weighted world into a child's party. i wish man never would; though it did not happen badly, as it all turned out, that they did a little of it in this instance. if they had thought of it, "crambo" was good for them too, for a change; and presently they did think of it; for dorris called out in distress, real or pretended, from the table,-- "kentie, here's something you must really take off my hands! i haven't the least idea what to do with it." and then came a cry from hazel,-- "no fair! we're all just as badly off, and there isn't one of us that has got a brother to turn to. here's another for mr. kincaid." "there are plenty more. come, mr. oldways, mr. geoffrey, won't you try 'crambo?' there's a good deal in it, as there is in most nonsense." "we'll come and see what it is," said mr. geoffrey; and so the chairs were drawn up, and the gray, grave heads looked on over the young ones. "why, hazel's got through!" said lois, scratching violently at her paper, and obliterating three obstinate lines. "o, i didn't bother, you see! i just stuck the word right in, like a pin into a pincushion, and let it go. there wasn't anything else to do with it." "i've got to make my pincushion," said dorris. "i should think you had! look at her! she's writing her paper all over! o, my gracious, she must have done it before!" "mother and mr. geoffrey are doing heaps, too! we shall have to publish a book," said diana, biting the end of her pencil, and taking it easy. diana hardly ever got the rhymes made in time; but then she always admired everybody's else, which was a good thing for somebody to be at leisure to do. "uncle oldways and lilian are folding up," said hazel. "five minutes more," said miss craydocke, keeping the time with her watch before her. "hush!" when the five minutes were rapped out, there were seven papers to be read. people who had not finished this time might go on when the others took fresh questions. hazel began reading, because she had been ready first. "'what is the difference between sponge-cake and doughnuts?' 'hallelujah.'" "airiness, lightness, and insipidity; twistiness, spiciness, and solidity. hallelujah! i've got through! that is the best that i can do!'" there was a shout at hazel's pinsticking. "now, uncle titus! you finished next." "my question is a very comprehensive one," said uncle titus, "with a very concise and suggestive word. 'how wags the world?' 'slambang.'" "'the world wags on with lies and slang; with show and vanity, pride and inanity, greed and insanity, and a great slambang!'" "that's only _one_ verse," said miss craydocke. "there's another; but he didn't write it down." uncle titus laughed, and tossed his crambo on the table. "it's true, so far, anyway," said he. "_so far_ is hardly ever quite true," said miss craydocke lilian ashburne had to answer the question whether she had ever read "young's night thoughts;" and her word was "comet." "'pray might i be allowed a pun, to help me through with just this one? i've tried to read young's thoughts of night, but never yet could come it, quite.'" "o, o, o! that's just like lilian, with her soft little 'prays' and 'allow me's,' and her little pussy-cat ways of sliding through tight places, just touching her whiskers!" "it's quite fair," said lilian, smiling, "to slide through if you can." "now, mr. geoffrey." and mr. geoffrey read,-- "'what is your favorite color?' 'one-hoss.'" "'do you mean, my friend, for a one-hoss shay, or the horse himself,--black, roan, or bay? in truth, i think i can hardly say; i believe, for a nag, "i bet on the gray." "'for a shay, i would rather not have yellow, or any outright, staring color, that makes the crowd look after a fellow, and the little _gamins_ hoot and bellow. "'do you mean for ribbons? or gowns? or eyes? or flowers? or gems? or in sunset skies? for many questions, as many replies, drops of a rainbow take rainbow dyes. "'the world is full, and the world is bright; each thing to its nature parts the light; and each for its own to the perfect sight wears that which is comely, and sweet, and right.'" "o, mr. geoffrey! that's lovely!" cried the girl voices, all around him. and ada made a pair of great eyes at her father, and said,-- "what an awful humbug you have been, papa! to have kept the other side up with care all your life! who ever suspected _that_ of you?" diana and hazel were not taken so much by surprise, their mother had improvised little nursery jingles for them all their baby days, and had played crambo with them since; so they were very confident with their "now, mother:" and looked calmly for something creditable. "'what is your favorite name?'" read mrs. ripwinkley. "and the word is 'stuff.'" "'when i was a little child, looking very meek and mild, i liked grand, heroic names,-- of warriors, or stately dames: zenobia, and cleopatra; (no rhyme for that this side sumatra;) wallace, and helen mar,--clotilda, berengaria, and brunhilda; maximilian; alexandra; hector, juno, and cassandra; charlemagne and britomarte, washington and bonaparte; victoria and guinevere, and lady clara vere de vere. --shall i go on with all this stuff, or do you think it is enough? i cannot tell you what dear name i love the best; i play a game; and tender earnest doth belong to quiet speech, not silly song.'" "that's just like mother; i should have stopped as soon as i'd got the 'stuff' in; but she always shapes off with a little morriowl," said hazel. "now, desire!" desire frantically scribbled a long line at the end of what she had written; below, that is, a great black morass of scratches that represented significantly the "slough of despond" she had got into over the winding up, and then gave,-- "'which way would you rather travel,--north or south?' 'goosey-gander.'" "'o, goosey-gander! if i might wander, it should be toward the sun; the blessed south should fill my mouth with ripeness just begun. for bleak hills, bare, with stunted, spare, and scrubby, piney trees, her gardens rare, and vineyards fair, and her rose-scented breeze. for fearful blast, skies overcast, and sudden blare and scare long, stormless moons, and placid noons, and--all sorts of comfortablenesses,--there!'" "that makes me think of father's horse running away with him once," said helena, "when he had to head him right up against a brick wall, and knock everything all to smash before he could stop!" "anybody else?" "miss kincaid, i think," said mr. geoffrey. he had been watching dorris's face through the play, flashing and smiling with the excitement of her rhyming, and the slender, nervous fingers twisting tremulously the penciled slip while she had listened to the others. "if it isn't all rubbed out," said dorris, coloring and laughing to find how badly she had been treating her own effusion. "you see it _was_ rather an awful question,--'what do you want most?' and the word is, 'thirteen.'" she caught her breath a little quickly as she began:-- "'between yourself, dear, myself, and the post, there are the thirteen things that i want the most. i want to be, sometimes, a little stronger; i want the days to be a little longer; i'd like to have a few less things to do; i'd better like to better do the few: i want--and this might almost lead my wishes,-- a bigger place to keep my mops and dishes. i want a horse; i want a little buggy, to ride in when the days grow hot and muggy; i want a garden; and,--perhaps it's funny,-- but now and then i want a little money. i want an easy way to do my hair; i want an extra dress or two to wear; i want more patience; and when all is given, i think i want to die and go to heaven!'" "i never saw such bright people in all my life!" said ada geoffrey, when the outcry of applause for dorris had subsided, and they began to rise to go. "but the _worst_ of all is papa! i'll never get over it of you, see if i do! such a cheat! why, it's like playing dumb all your life, and then just speaking up suddenly in a quiet way, some day, as if it was nothing particular, and nobody cared!" with hazel's little divining-rod, mrs. ripwinkley had reached out, testing the world for her, to see what some of it might be really made of. mrs. geoffrey, from her side, had reached out in turn, also, into this fresh and simple opportunity, to see what might be there worth while. "how was it, aleck?" she asked of her husband, as they sat together in her dressing-room, while she brushed out her beautiful hair. "brightest people i have been among for a long time--and nicest," said the banker, concisely. "a real, fresh little home, with a mother in it. good place for ada to go, and good girls for her to know; like the ones i fell in love with a hundred years ago." "that rhymed oracle,--to say nothing of the _fraction_ of a compliment,--ought to settle it," said mrs. geoffrey, laughing. "rhymes have been the order of the evening. i expect to talk in verse for a week at least." and then he told her about the "crambo." a week after, mrs. ledwith was astonished to find, lying on the mantel in her sister's room, a card that had been sent up the day before,-- "mrs. alexander h. geoffrey." xi. more witch-work. hazel was asked to the geoffreys' to dinner. before this, she and diana had both been asked to take tea, and spend an evening, but this was hazel's little especial "invite," as she called it, because she and ada were writing a dialogue together for a composition at school. the geoffreys dined at the good old-fashioned hour of half past two, except when they had formal dinner company; and hazel was to come right home from school with ada, and stay and spend the afternoon. "what intimacy!" florence ledwith had exclaimed, when she heard of it. "but it isn't at all on the grand style side; people like the geoffreys do such things quite apart from their regular connection; it is a sort of 'behind the scenes;'" said glossy megilp, who was standing at florence's dressing-glass, touching up the little heap of "friz" across her forehead. "where's my poker?" she asked, suddenly, breaking off from the geoffrey subject, and rummaging in a dressing box, intent upon tutoring some little obstinate loop of hair that would be _too_ frizzy. "i should think a 'blower' might be a good thing to add to your tools, glossy," said desire. "you have brush, poker, and tongs, now, to say nothing of coal-hod," she added, glancing at the little open japanned box that held some kind of black powder which had to do with the shadow of glossy's eyelashes upon occasion, and the emphasis upon the delicate line of her brows. "no secret," said glossy, magnanimously. "there it is! it is no greater sin than violet powder, or false tails, for that matter; and the little gap in my left eyebrow was never deliberately designed. it was a 'lapsus naturæ;' i only follow out the hint, and complete the intention. something _is_ left to ourselves; as the child said about the lord curling her hair for her when she was a baby and letting her do it herself after she grew big enough. what are our artistic perceptions given to us for, unless we're to make the best of ourselves in the first place?" "but it isn't all eyebrows," said desire, half aloud. "of course not," said glossy megilp. "twice a day i have to do myself up somehow, and why shouldn't it be as well as i can? other things come in their turn, and i do them." "but, you see, the friz and the fix has to be, anyhow, whether or no. everything isn't done, whether or no. i guess it's the 'first place,' that's the matter." "i think you have a very theoretical mind, des, and a slightly obscure style. you can't be satisfied till everything is all mapped out, and organized, and justified, and you get into horrible snarls trying to do it. if i were you, i would take things a little more as they come." "i can't," said desire. "they come hind side before and upside down." "well, if everybody is upside down, there's a view of it that makes it all right side up, isn't there? it seems to be an established fact that we must dress and undress, and that the first duty of the day is to get up and put on our clothes. we aren't ready for much until we do. and one person's dressing may require one thing, and another's another. some people have a cork leg to put on, and some people have false teeth; and they wouldn't any of them come hobbling or mumbling out without them, unless there was a fire or an earthquake, i suppose." glossy megilp's arguments and analogies perplexed desire, always. they sometimes silenced her; but they did not always answer her. she went back to what they had been discussing before. "to 'lay down the shubbel and the hoe,'--here's your poker, under the table-flounce, glossy,--and to 'take up the fiddle and the bow,' again,--i think it's real nice and beautiful for hazel--" "to 'go where the good darkies go'?" "yes. it's the _good_ of her that's got her in. and i believe you and florence both would give your best boots to be there too, if it _is_ behind. behind the fixings and the fashions is where people _live_; 'dere's vat i za-ay!'" she ended, quoting herself and rip van winkle. "maybe," said florence, carelessly; "but i'd as lief be _in_ the fashion, after all. and that's where hazel ripwinkley never will get, with all her taking little novelties." meanwhile, hazel ripwinkley was deep in the delights of a great portfolio of rare engravings; prints of glorious frescoes in old churches, and designs of splendid architecture; and mrs. geoffrey, seeing her real pleasure, was sitting beside her, turning over the large sheets, and explaining them; telling her, as she gazed into the wonderful faces of the saints and the evangelists in correggio's frescoes of the church of san giovanni at parma, how the whole dome was one radiant vision of heavenly glory, with clouds and angel faces, and adoring apostles, and christ the lord high over all; and that these were but the filling in between the springing curves of the magnificent arches; describing to her the abbess's room in san paolo, with its strange, beautiful heathen picture over the mantel, of diana mounting her stag-drawn car, and its circular walls painted with trellis-work and medallioned with windows, where the heads of little laughing children, and graceful, gentle animals peeped in from among vines and flowers. mrs. geoffrey did not wonder that hazel lingered with delight over these or over the groups by raphael in the sistine chapel,--the quiet pendentives, where the waiting of the world for its salvation was typified in the dream-like, reclining forms upon the still, desert sand; or the wonderful scenes from the "creation,"--the majestic "let there be light!" and the breathing of the breath of life into man. she watched the surprise and awe with which the child beheld for the first time the daring of inspiration in the tremendous embodiment of the almighty, and waited while she could hardly take her eyes away. but when, afterward, they turned to a portfolio of architecture, and she found her eager to examine spires and arches and capitals, rich reliefs and stately facades and sculptured gates, and exclaiming with pleasure at the colored drawings of florentine ornamentation, she wondered, and questioned her,-- "have you ever seen such things before? do you draw? i should hardly think you would care so much, at your age." "i like the prettiness," said hazel, simply, "and the grandness; but i don't suppose i should care so much if it wasn't for dorris and mr. kincaid. mr. kincaid draws buildings; he's an architect; only he hasn't architected much yet, because the people that build things don't know him. dorris was so glad to give him a christmas present of 'daguerreotypes de paris,' with the churches and arches and bridges and things; she got it at a sale; i wonder what they would say to all these beauties!" then mrs. geoffrey found what still more greatly enchanted her, a volume of engravings, of english home architecture; interiors of old halls, magnificent staircases, lofty libraries and galleries dim with space; exteriors, gabled, turreted and towered; long, rambling piles of manor houses, with mixed styles of many centuries. "they look as if they were brimfull of stories!" hazel cried. "o, if i could only carry it home to show to the kincaids!" "you may," said mrs. geoffrey, as simply, in her turn, as if she were lending a copy of "robinson crusoe;' never letting the child guess by a breath of hesitation the value of what she had asked. "and tell me more about these kincaids. they are friends of yours?" "yes; we've known them all winter. they live right opposite, and sit in the windows, drawing and writing. dorris keeps house up there in two rooms. the little one is her bedroom; and mr. kincaid sleeps on the big sofa. dorris makes crackle-cakes, and asks us over. she cooks with a little gas-stove. i think it is beautiful to keep house with not very much money. she goes out with a cunning white basket and buys her things; and she does all her work up in a corner on a white table, with a piece of oil-cloth on the floor; and then she comes over into her parlor, she says, and sits by the window. it's a kind of a play all the time." "and mr. kincaid?" "dorris says he might have been rich by this time, if he had gone into his uncle james's office in new york. mr. james kincaid is a broker, and buys gold. but kenneth says gold stands for work, and if he ever has any he'll buy it with work. he wants to do some real thing. don't you think that's nice of him?" "yes, i do," said mrs. geoffrey. "and dorris is that bright girl who wanted thirteen things, and rhymed them into 'crambo?' mr. geoffrey told me." "yes, ma'am; dorris can do almost anything." "i should like to see dorris, sometime. will you bring her here, hazel?" hazel's little witch-rod felt the almost impassible something in the way. "i don't know as she would be _brought_," she said. mrs. geoffrey laughed. "you have an instinct for the fine proprieties, without a bit of respect for any conventional fences," she said. "i'll _ask_ dorris." "then i'm sure she'll come," said hazel, understanding quite well and gladly the last three words, and passing over the first phrase as if it had been a greek motto, put there to be skipped. "ada has stopped practicing," said mrs. geoffrey, who had undertaken the entertainment of her little guest during her daughter's half hour of music. "she will be waiting for you now." hazel instantly jumped up. but she paused after three steps toward the door, to say gently, looking back over her shoulder with a shy glance out of her timidly clear eyes,-- "perhaps,--i hope i haven't,--stayed too long!" "come back, you little hazel-sprite!" cried mrs. geoffrey; and when she got her within reach again, she put her hands one each side of the little blushing, gleaming face, and kissed it, saying,-- "i don't _think_,--i'm slow, usually, in making up my mind about people, big or little,--but i don't think you can stay too long,--or come too often, dear!" "i've found another for you, aleck," she said, that night at the hair-brushing, to her husband. he always came to sit in her dressing-room, then; and it was at this quiet time that they gave each other, out of the day they had lived in their partly separate ways and duties, that which made it for each like a day lived twice, so that the years of their life counted up double. "he is a young architect, who hasn't architected much, because he doesn't know the people who build things; and he wouldn't be a gold broker with his uncle in new york, because he believes in doing money's worth in the world for the world's money. isn't he one?" "sounds like it," said mr. geoffrey. "what is his name?" "kincaid." "nephew of james r. kincaid?" said mr. geoffrey, with an interrogation that was also an exclamation. "and wouldn't go in with him! why, it was just to have picked up dollars!" "exactly," replied his wife. "that was what he objected to." "i should like to see the fellow." "don't you remember? you have seen him! the night you went for ada to the aspen street party, and got into 'crambo.' he was there; and it was his sister who wanted thirteen things. i guess they do!" "ask them here," said the banker. "i mean to," mrs. geoffrey answered. "that is, after i've seen hapsie craydocke. she knows everything. i'll go there to-morrow morning." * * * * * "'behind' is a pretty good way to get in--to some places," said desire ledwith, coming into the rose-pink room with news. "especially an omnibus. and the ripwinkleys, and the kincaids, and old miss craydocke, and for all i know, mrs. scarup and luclarion grapp are going to summit street to tea to-night. boston is topsy-turvey; holmes was a prophet; and 'brattle street and temple place are interchanging cards!' mother, we ought to get intimate with the family over the grocer's shop. who knows what would come of it? there are fairies about in disguise, i'm sure; or else it's the millennium. whichever it is, it's all right for hazel, though; she's ready. don't you feel like foolish virgins, flo and nag? i do." i am afraid it was when desire felt a little inclination to "nag" her elder sister, that she called her by that reprehensible name. agatha only looked lofty, and vouchsafed no reply; but florence said,-- "there's no need of any little triumphs or mortifications. nobody crows, and nobody cries. _i_'m glad. diana's a dear, and hazel's a duck, besides being my cousins; why shouldn't i? only there _is_ a large hole for the cats, and a little hole for the kittens; and i'd as lief, myself, go in with the cats." "the marchbankses are staying there, and professor gregory. i don't know about cats," said desire, demurely. "it's a reason-why party, for all that," said agatha, carelessly, recovering her good humor. "well, when any nice people ask me, i hope there _will_ be a 'reason why.' it's the persons of consequence that make the 'reason why.'" and desire had the last word. * * * * * hazel ripwinkley was thinking neither of large holes nor little ones,--cats nor kittens; she was saying to luclarion, sitting in her shady down-stairs room behind the kitchen, that looked out into the green yard corner, "how nicely things came out, after all!" "they seemed so hobblety at first, when i went up there and saw all those beautiful books, and pictures, and people living amongst them every day, and the poor kincaids not getting the least bit of a stretch out of their corner, ever. i'll tell you what i thought, luclarion;" and here she almost whispered, "i truly did. i thought god was making a mistake." luclarion put out her lips into a round, deprecating pucker, at that, and drew in her breath,-- "oo--sh!" "well, i mean it seemed as if there was a mistake somewhere; and that i'd no business, at any rate, with what they wanted so. i couldn't get over it until i asked for those pictures; and mother said it was such a bold thing to do!" "it was bold," said luclarion; "but it wasn't forrud. it was gi'n you, and it hit right. that was looked out for." "it's a stumpy world," said luclarion grapp to mrs. ripwinkley, afterward; "but some folks step right over their stumps athout scarcely knowin' when!" xii. crumbs. desire ledwith was, at this epoch, a perplexity and a worry,--even a positive terror sometimes,--to her mother. it was not a case of the hen hatching ducks, it was rather as if a hen had got a hawk in her brood. desire's demurs and questions,--her dissatisfactions, sittings and contempts,--threatened now and then to swoop down upon the family life and comfort with destroying talons. "she'll be an awful, strong-minded, radical, progressive, overturning woman," laura said, in despair, to her friend mrs. megilp. "and greenley street, and aspen street, and that everlasting miss craydocke, are making her worse. and what can i do? because there's uncle." right before desire,--not knowing the cloud of real bewilderment that was upon her young spiritual perceptions, getting their first glimpse of a tangled and conflicting and distorted world,--she drew wondering comparisons between her elder children and this odd, anxious, restless, sharp-spoken girl. "i don't understand it," she would say. "it isn't a bit like a child of mine. i always took things easy, and got the comfort of them somehow; i think the world is a pretty pleasant place to live in, and there's lots of satisfaction to be had; and agatha and florence take after me; they are nice, good-natured, contented girls; managing their allowances,--that i wish were more,--trimming their own bonnets, and enjoying themselves with their friends, girl-fashion." which was true. agatha and florence were neither fretful nor dissatisfied; they were never disrespectful, perhaps because mrs. ledwith demanded less of deferential observance than of a kind of jolly companionship from her daughters; a go-and-come easiness in and out of what they called their home, but which was rather the trimming-up and outfitting place,--a sort of holmes' hole,--where they put in spring and fall, for a thorough overhaul and rig; and at other times, in intervals or emergencies, between their various and continual social trips and cruises. they were hardly ever all-togetherish, as desire had said, if they ever were, it was over house cleaning and millinery; when the ordering was complete,--when the wardrobes were finished,--then the world was let in, or they let themselves out, and--"looked." "desire is different," said mrs. ledwith. "she's like grant's father, and her aunt desire,--pudgicky and queer." "well, mamma," said the child, once, driven to desperate logic for defense, "i don't see how it can be helped. if you _will_ marry into the ledwith family, you can't expect to have your children all shieres!" which, again, was very true. laura laughed at the clever sharpness of it, and was more than half proud of her bold chick-of-prey, after all. yet desire remembered that her aunt frances was a shiere, also; and she thought there might easily be two sides to the same family; why not, since there were two sides still further back, always? there was uncle titus; who knew but it was the oldways streak in him after all? desire took refuge, more and more, with miss craydocke, and rachel froke, and the ripwinkleys; she even went to luclarion with questions, to get her quaint notions of things; and she had ventured into uncle titus's study, and taken down volumes of swedenborg to pry into, while he looked at her with long keen regards over his spectacles, and she did not know that she was watched. "that young girl, desire, is restless, titus," rachel froke said to him one day. "she is feeling after something; she wants something real to do; and it appears likely to me that she will do it, if they don't take care." after that, uncle titus fixed his attention upon her yet more closely; and at this time desire stumbled upon things in a strange way among his bookshelves, and thought that rachel froke was growing less precise in her fashion of putting to rights. books were tucked in beside each other as if they had been picked up and bestowed anyhow; between "heaven and hell" and the "four leading doctrines," she found, one day, "macdonald's unspoken sermons," and there was a leaf doubled lengthwise in the chapter about the white stone and the new name. another time, a little book of poems, by the same author, was slid in, open, over the volumes of darwin and huxley, and the pages upon whose outspread faces it lay were those that bore the rhyme of the blind bartimeus:-- "o jesus christ! i am deaf and blind; nothing comes through into my mind, i only am not dumb: although i see thee not, nor hear, i cry because thou mayst be near o son of mary! come!" do you think a girl of seventeen may not be feeling out into the spiritual dark,--may not be stretching helpless hands, vaguely, toward the hands that help? desire ledwith laid the book down again, with a great swelling breath coming up slowly out of her bosom, and with a warmth of tears in her earnest little eyes. and uncle titus oldways sat there among his papers, and never moved, or seemed to look, but saw it all. he never said a word to her himself; it was not uncle titus's way to talk, and few suspected him of having anything to say in such matters; but he went to friend froke and asked her,-- "haven't you got any light that might shine a little for that child, rachel?" and the next sunday, in the forenoon, desire came in; came in, without knowing it, for her little light. she had left home with the family on their way to church; she was dressed in her buff silk pongee suit trimmed with golden brown bands and quillings; she had on a lovely new brown hat with tea roses in it; her gloves and boots were exquisite and many buttoned; agatha and florence could not think what was the matter when she turned back, up dorset street, saying suddenly, "i won't go, after all." and then she had walked straight over the hill and down to greenley street, and came in upon rachel, sitting alone in a quiet gray parlor that was her own, where there were ferns and ivies in the window, and a little canary, dressed in brown and gold like desire herself, swung over them in a white wire cage. when desire saw how still it was, and how rachel froke sat there with her open window and her open book, all by herself, she stopped in the doorway with a sudden feeling of intrusion, which had not occurred to her as she came. "it's just what i want to come into; but if i do, it won't be there. i've no right to spoil it. don't mind, rachel. i'll go away." she said it softly and sadly, as if she could not help it, and was turning back into the hall. "but i do mind," said rachel, speaking quickly. "thee will come in, and sit down. whatever it is thee wants, is here for thee. is it the stillness? then we will be still." "that's so easy to say. but you can't do it for me. _you_ will be still, and i shall be all in a stir. i want so to be just hushed up!" "fed, and hushed up, in somebody's arms, like a baby. i know," said rachel froke. "how does she know?" thought desire; but she only looked at her with surprised eyes, saying nothing. "hungry and restless; that's what we all are," said rachel froke, "until"-- "well,--until?" demanded the strange girl, impetuously, as rachel paused. "i've been hungry ever since i was born, mother says." "until he takes us up and feeds us." "why don't he?--mrs. froke, when does he give it out? once a month, in church, they have the bread and the wine? does that do it?" "thee knows we do not hold by ordinances, we friends," said rachel. "but he gives the bread of life. not once a month, or in any place; it is his word. does thee get no word when thee goes to church? does nothing come to thee?" "i don't know; it's mixed up; the church is full of bonnets; and people settle their gowns when they come in, and shake out their hitches and puffs when they go out, and there's professional music at one end, and--i suppose it's because i'm bad, but i don't know; half the time it seems to me it's only mig at the other. something all fixed up, and patted down, and smoothed over, and salted and buttered, like the potato hills they used to make on my plate for me at dinner, when i was little. but it's soggy after all, and has an underground taste. it isn't anything that has just grown, up in the light, like the ears of corn they rubbed in their hands. breakfast is better than dinner. bread, with yeast in it, risen up new. they don't feed with bread very often." "the yeast in the bread, and the sparkle in the wine they are the life of it; they are what make the signs." "if they only gave it out fresh, and a little of it! but they keep it over, and it grows cold and tough and flat, and people sit round and pretend, but they don't eat. they've eaten other things,--all sorts of trash,--before they came. they've spoiled their appetites. mine was spoiled, to-day. i felt so new and fussy, in these brown things. so i turned round, and came here." mr. oldways' saying came back into mrs. froke's mind:-- "haven't you got any light, rachel, that might shine a little for that child?" perhaps that was what the child had come for. what had the word of the spirit been to rachel froke this day? the new, fresh word, with the leaven in it? "a little of it;" that was what she wanted. rachel took up the small red bible that lay on the lightstand beside her. "i'll will give thee my first-day crumb, desire," she said. "it may taste sweet to thee." she turned to revelation, seventh chapter. "look over with me; thee will see then where the crumb is," she said; and as desire came near and looked over her upon the page, she read from the last two verses:-- "they shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more. "for the _tenderness_ that is in the midst of the _almightiness_ shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of water; and god shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." her voice lingered over the words she put for the "lamb" and the "throne," so that she said "tenderness" with its own very yearning inflection, and "almightiness" with a strong fullness, glad in that which can never fall short or be exhausted. then she softly laid over the cover, and sat perfectly still. it was the quaker silence that falls upon them in their assemblies, leaving each heart to itself and that which the spirit has given. desire was hushed all through; something living and real had thrilled into her thought; her restlessness quieted suddenly under it, as mary stood quiet before the message of the angel. when she did speak again, after a time, as rachel froke broke the motionless pause by laying the book gently back again upon the table, it was to say,-- "why don't they preach like that, and leave the rest to preach itself? a sermon means a word; why don't they just say the word, and let it go?" the friend made no reply. "i never could--quite--like that about the 'lamb,' before," said desire, hesitatingly. "it seemed,--i don't know,--putting him _down_, somehow; making him tame; taking the grandness away that made the gentleness any good. but,--'tenderness;' that is beautiful! does it mean so in the other place? about taking away the sins,--do you think?" "'the tenderness of god--the compassion--that taketh away the sins of the world?'" mrs. froke repeated, half inquiringly. "jesus christ, god's heart of love toward man? i think it is so. i think, child, thee has got thy crumb also, to-day." but not all yet. pretty soon, they heard the front door open, and uncle titus come in. another step was behind his; and kenneth kincaid's voice was speaking, about some book he had called to take. desire's face flushed, and her manner grew suddenly flurried. "i must go," she said, starting up; yet when she got to the door, she paused and delayed. the voices were talking on, in the study; somehow, desire had last words also, to say to mrs. froke. she was partly shy about going past that open door, and partly afraid they might not notice her if she did. back in her girlish thought was a secret suggestion that she was pushing at all the time with a certain self-scorn and denial, that it might happen that she and kenneth kincaid would go out at the same moment; if so, he would walk up the street with her, and kenneth kincaid was one of the few persons whom desire ledwith thoroughly believed in and liked. "there was no mig about him," she said. it is hazardous when a girl of seventeen makes one of her rare exceptions in her estimate of character in favor of a man of six and twenty. yet desire ledwith hated "nonsense;" she wouldn't have anybody sending her bouquets as they did to agatha and florence; she had an utter contempt for lavender pantaloons and waxed moustaches; but for kenneth kincaid, with his honest, clear look at life, and his high strong purpose, to say friendly things,--tell her a little now and then of how the world looked to him and what it demanded,--this lifted her up; this made it seem worth while to speak and to hear. so she was very glad when uncle titus saw her go down the hall, after she had made up her mind that that way lay her straight path, and that things contrived were not things worth happening,--and spoke out her name, so that she had to stop, and turn to the open doorway and reply; and kenneth kincaid came over and held out his hand to her. he had two books in the other,--a volume of bunsen and a copy of "guild court,"--and he was just ready to go. "not been to church to-day?" said uncle titus to desire. "i've been--to friend's meeting," the girl answered. "get anything by that?" he asked, gruffly, letting the shag down over his eyes that behind it beamed softly. "yes; a morsel," replied desire. "all i wanted." "all you wanted? well, that's a sunday-full!" "yes, sir, i think it is," said she. when they got out upon the sidewalk, kenneth kincaid asked, "was it one of the morsels that may be shared, miss desire? some crumbs multiply by dividing, you know." "it was only a verse out of the bible, with a new word in it." "a new word? well, i think bible verses often have that. i suppose it was what they were made for." desire's glance at him had a question in it. "made to look different at different times, as everything does that has life in it. isn't that true? clouds, trees, faces,--do they ever look twice the same?" "yes," said desire, thinking especially of the faces. "i think they do, or ought to. but they may look _more_." "i didn't say _contradictory_. to look more, there must be a difference; a fresh aspect. and that is what the world is full of; and the world is the word of god." "the world?" said desire, who had been taught in a dried up, mechanical sort of way, that the bible is the word of god; and practically left to infer that, that point once settled, it might be safely shut, up between its covers and not much meddled with, certainly not over freely interpreted. "yes. what god had to say. in the beginning was the word, and the word was god. without him was not anything made that was made." desire's face brightened. she knew those words by heart. they were the first sunday-school lesson she ever committed to memory, out of the new testament; "down to 'grace and truth,'" as she recollected. what a jumble of repetitions it had been to her, then! sentences so much alike that she could not remember them apart, or which way they came. all at once the simple, beautiful meaning was given to her. _what god had to say._ and it took a world,--millions, of worlds,--to say it with. "and the bible, too?" she said, simply following out her own mental perception, without giving the link. it was not needed. they were upon one track. "yes; all things; and all _souls_. the world-word comes through things; the bible came through souls. and it is all the more alive, and full, and deep, and changing; like a river." "living fountains of waters! that was part of the morsel to-day," desire repeated impulsively, and then shyly explained. "and the new word?" desire shrunk into silence for a moment; she was not used to, or fond of bible quoting, or even bible talk; yet sin was hungering all the time for bible truth. mr. kincaid waited. so she repeated it presently; for desire never made a fuss; she was too really sensitive for that. "'the tenderness in the midst of the almightiness shall feed them, and shall lead them to living fountains of water.'" mr. kincaid recognized the "new word," and his face lit up. "'the lamb in the midst of the throne,'" he said. "out of the heart of god, the christ. who was there before; the intent by which all things were made. the same yesterday, and to-day, and forever; who ever liveth to make intercession for us. christ _had to be_. the word, full of grace, must be made flesh. why need people dispute about eternity and divinity, if they can only see that?--was that mrs. froke's reading?" "yes; that was rachel's sermon." "it is an illumination." they walked all up orchard street without another word. then kenneth kincaid said,--"miss desire, why won't you come and teach in the mission school?" "i teach? why, i've got everything to learn!" "but as fast as you _do_ learn; the morsels, you know. that is the way they are given out. that is the wonder of the kingdom of heaven. there is no need to go away and buy three hundred pennyworth before we begin, that every one may take a little; the bread given as the master breaks it feeds them till they are filled; and there are baskets full of fragments to gather up." kenneth kincaid's heart was in his sunday work, as his sister had said. the more gladly now, that the outward daily bread was being given. mr. geoffrey,--one of those busy men, so busy that they do promptly that which their hands find to do,--had put kenneth in the way of work. it only needed a word from him, and the surveying and laying out of some new streets and avenues down there where boston is growing so big and grand and strange, were put into his charge. kenneth was busy now, cheerily busy, from monday morning to saturday night; and restfully busy on the sunday, straightening the paths and laying out the ways for souls to walk in. he felt the harmony and the illustration between his week and his sunday, and the one strengthening the other, as all true outward work does harmonize with and show forth, and help the spiritual doing. it could not have been so with that gold work, or any little feverish hitching on to other men's business; producing nothing, advancing nothing, only standing between to snatch what might fall, or to keep a premium for passing from hand to hand. our great cities are so full,--our whole country is so overrun,--with these officious middle-men whom the world does not truly want; chiffonniers of trade, who only pick up a living out of the great press and waste and overflow; and our boys are so eager to slip in to some such easy, ready-made opportunity,--to get some crossing to sweep. what will come of it all, as the pretenses multiply? will there be always pennies for every little broom? will two, and three, and six sweeps be tolerated between side and side? by and by, i think, they will have to turn to and lay pavements. hard, honest work, and the day's pay for it; that is what we have got to go back to; that and the day's snug, patient living, which the pay achieves. then, as i say, the week shall illustrate the sunday, and the sunday shall glorify the week; and what men do and build shall stand true types, again, for the inner growth and the invisible building; so that if this outer tabernacle were dissolved, there should be seen glorious behind it, the house not made with hands,--eternal. as desire ledwith met this young kenneth kincaid from day to day, seeing him so often at her aunt ripwinkley's, where he and dorris went in and out now, almost like a son and daughter,--as she walked beside him this morning, hearing him say these things, at which the heart-longing in her burned anew toward the real and satisfying,--what wonder was it that her restlessness grasped at that in his life which was strong and full of rest; that she felt glad and proud to have him tell his thought to her; that without any silliness,--despising all silliness,--she should yet be conscious, as girls of seventeen are conscious, of something that made her day sufficient when she had so met him,--of a temptation to turn into those streets in her walks that led his way? or that she often, with her blunt truth, toward herself as well as others, and her quick contempt of sham and subterfuge, should snub herself mentally, and turn herself round as by a grasp of her own shoulders, and make herself walk off stoutly in a far and opposite direction, when, without due need and excuse, she caught herself out in these things? what wonder that this stood in her way, for very pleasantness, when kenneth asked her to come and teach in the school? that she was ashamed to let herself do a thing--even a good thing, that her life needed,--when there was this conscious charm in the asking; this secret thought--that she should walk up home with him every sunday! she remembered agatha and florence, and she imagined, perhaps, more than they would really have thought of it at home; and so as they turned into shubarton place,--for he had kept on all the way along bridgeley and up dorset street with her,--she checked her steps suddenly as they came near the door, and said brusquely,-- "no, mr. kincaid; i can't come to the mission. i might learn a, and teach them that; but how do i know i shall ever learn b, myself?" he had left his question, as their talk went on, meaning to ask it again before they separated. he thought it was prevailing with her, and that the help that comes of helping others would reach her need; it was for her sake he asked it; he was disappointed at the sudden, almost trivial turn she gave it. "you have taken up another analogy, miss desire," he said. "we were talking about crumbs and feeding. the five loaves and the five thousand. 'why reason ye because ye have no bread? how is it that ye do not understand?'" kenneth quoted these words naturally, pleasantly; as he might quote anything that had been spoken to them both out of a love and authority they both recognized, a little while ago. but desire was suddenly sharp and fractious. if it had not touched some deep, live place in her, she would not have minded so much. it was partly, too, the coming toward home. she had got away out of the pure, clear spaces where such things seemed to be fit and unstrained, into the edge of her earth atmosphere again, where, falling, they took fire. presently she would be in that ridiculous pink room, and glossy megilp would be chattering about "those lovely purple poppies with the black grass," that she had been lamenting all the morning she had not bought for her chip hat, instead of the pomegranate flowers. and agatha would be on the bed, in her cashmere sack, reading miss braddon. "it would sound nice to tell them she was going down to the mission school to give out crumbs!" besides, i suppose that persons of a certain temperament never utter a more ungracious "no," than when they are longing all the time to say "yes." so she turned round on the lower step to kenneth, when he had asked that grave, sweet question of the lord's, and said perversely,-- "i thought you did not believe in any brokering kind of business. it's all there,--for everybody. why should i set up to fetch and carry?" she did not look in his face as she said it; she was not audacious enough to do that; she poked with the stick of her sunshade between the uneven bricks of the sidewalk, keeping her eyes down, as if she watched for some truth she expected to pry up. but she only wedged the stick in so that she could not get it out; and kenneth kincaid making her absolutely no answer at all, she had to stand there, growing red and ashamed, held fast by her own silly trap. "take care; you will break it," said kenneth, quietly, as she gave it a twist and a wrench. and he put out his hand, and took it from hers, and drew gently upward in the line in which she had thrust it in. "you were bearing off at an angle. it wanted a straight pull." "i never pull straight at anything. i always get into a crook, somehow. you didn't answer me, mr. kincaid. i didn't mean to be rude--or wicked. i didn't mean--" "what you said. i know that; and it's no use to answer what people don't mean. that makes the crookedest crook of all." "but i think i did mean it partly; only not contrarimindedly. i do mean that i have no business--yet awhile. it would only be--migging at gospel!" and with this remarkable application of her favorite illustrative expression, she made a friendly but abrupt motion of leave-taking, and went into the house. up into her own room, in the third story, where the old furniture was, and no "fadging,"--and sat down, bonnet, gloves, sunshade, and all, in her little cane rocking-chair by the window. helena was down in the pink room, listening with charmed ears to the grown up young-ladyisms of her elder sisters and glossy megilp. desire sat still until the dinner-bell rang, forgetful of her dress, forgetful of all but one thought that she spoke out as she rose at last at the summons to take off her things in a hurry,-- "i wonder,--i _wonder_--if i shall ever live anything all straight out!" xiii. pieces of worlds. mr. dickens never put a truer thought into any book, than he put at the beginning of "little dorrit." that, from over land and sea, from hundreds, thousands of miles away, are coming the people with whom we are to have to do in our lives; and that, "what is set to us to do to them, and what is set for them to do to us, will all be done." not only from far places in this earth, over land and sea,--but from out the eternities, before and after,--from which souls are born, and into which they die,--all the lines of life are moving continually which are to meet and join, and bend, and cross our own. but it is only with a little piece of this world, as far as we can see it in this short and simple story, that we have now to do. rosamond holabird was coming down to boston. with all her pretty, fresh, delicate, high-lady ways, with her beautiful looks, and her sweet readiness for true things and noble living, she was coming, for a few days only,--the cooperative housekeeping was going on at westover, and she could not be spared long,--right in among them here in aspen street, and shubarton place, and orchard street, and harrisburg square, where mrs. scherman lived whom she was going to stay with. but a few days may be a great deal. rosamond holabird was coming for far more than she knew. among other things she was coming to get a lesson; a lesson right on in a course she was just now learning; a lesson of next things, and best things, and real folks. you see how it happened,--where the links were; miss craydocke, and sin scherman, and leslie goldthwaite, were dear friends, made to each other one summer among the mountains. leslie had had sin and miss craydocke up at z----, and rosamond and leslie were friends, also. mrs. frank scherman had a pretty house in harrisburg square. she had not much time for paying fashionable calls, or party-going, or party-giving. as to the last, she did not think frank had money enough yet to "circumfuse," she said, in that way. but she had six lovely little harlequin cups on a side-shelf in her china closet, and six different-patterned breakfast plates, with colored borders to match the cups; rose, and brown, and gray, and vermilion, and green, and blue. these were all the real china she had, and were for frank and herself and the friends whom she made welcome,--and who might come four at once,--for day and night. she delighted in "little stays;" in girls who would go into the nursery with her, and see sinsie in her bath; or into the kitchen, and help her mix up "little delectabilities to surprise frank with;" only the trouble had got to be now, that the surprise occurred when the delectabilities did not. frank had got demoralized, and expected them. she rejoiced to have miss craydocke drop in of a morning and come right up stairs, with her little petticoats and things to work on; and she and frank returned these visits in a social, cosy way, after sinsie was in her crib for the night. frank's boots never went on with a struggle for a walk down to orchard street; but they were terribly impossible for continuation avenue. so it had come about long ago, though i have not had a corner to mention it in, that they "knew the muffin man," in an aspen street sense; and were no strangers to the charm of mrs. ripwinkley's "evenings." there was always an "evening" in the "mile hill house," as the little family and friendly coterie had come to call it. rosamond and leslie had been down together for a week once, at the schermans; and this time rosamond was coming alone. she had business in boston for a day or two, and had written to ask asenath "if she might." there were things to buy for barbara, who was going to be married in a "navy hurry," besides an especial matter that had determined her just at this time to come. and asenath answered, "that the scarlet and gray, and green and blue were pining and fading on the shelf; and four days would be the very least to give them all a turn and treat them fairly; for such things had their delicate susceptibilities, as hans andersen had taught us to know, and might starve and suffer,--why not? being made of protoplasm, same as anybody." rosamond's especial errand to the city was one that just a little set her up, innocently, in her mind. she had not wholly got the better,--when it interfered with no good-will or generous dealing,--of a certain little instinctive reverence for imposing outsides and grand ways of daily doing; and she was somewhat complacent at the idea of having to go,--with kindly and needful information,--to madam mucklegrand, in spreadsplendid park. madam mucklegrand was a well-born boston lady, who had gone to europe in her early youth, and married a scottish gentleman with a sir before his name. consequently, she was quite entitled to be called "my lady;" and some people who liked the opportunity of touching their republican tongues to the salt of european dignitaries, addressed her so; but, for the most part, she assumed and received simply the style of "madam." a queen may be called "madam," you know. it covers an indefinite greatness. but when she spoke of her late,--very long ago,--husband, she always named him as "sir archibald." madam mucklegrand's daughter wanted a wet-nurse for her little baby. up in z----, there was a poor woman whose husband, a young brakeman on the railroad, had been suddenly killed three months ago, before her child was born. there was a sister here in boston, who could take care of it for her if she could go to be foster-mother to some rich little baby, who was yet so poor as this--to need one. so rosamond holabird, who was especially interested for mrs. jopson, had written to asenath, and had an advertisement put in the "transcript," referring to mrs. scherman for information. and the mucklegrand carriage had rolled up, the next day, to the house in harrisburg square. they wanted to see the woman, of course, and to hear all about her,--more than mrs. scherman was quite able to tell; therefore when she sent a little note up to z----, by the evening mail, rosamond replied with her "might she come?" she brought jane jopson and the baby down with her, left them over night at mrs. ginnever's, in sheafe street, and was to go for them next morning and take them up to spreadsplendid park. she had sent a graceful, polite little note to madam mucklegrand, dated "westover, z----," and signed, "rosamond holabird," offering to do this, that there might not be the danger of jane's losing the chance in the meanwhile. it was certainly to accomplish the good deed that rosamond cared the most; but it was also certainly something to accomplish it in that very high quarter. it lent a piquancy to the occasion. she came down to breakfast very nicely and discriminatingly dressed, with the elegant quietness of a lady who knew what was simply appropriate to such an errand and the early hour, but who meant to be recognized as the lady in every unmistakable touch; and there was a carriage ordered for her at half past nine. sin scherman was a cute little matron; she discerned the dash of subdued importance in rosamond's air; and she thought it very likely, in the boston nature of things, that it would get wholesomely and civilly toned down. just at this moment, rosamond, putting on her little straw bonnet with real lace upon it, and her simple little narrow-bordered green shawl, that was yet, as far as it went, veritable cashmere,--had a consciousness, in a still, modest way, not only of her own personal dignity as rosamond holabird, who was the same going to see madam mucklegrand, or walking over to madam pennington's, and as much in her place with one as the other; but of the dignity of westover itself, and westover ladyhood, represented by her among the palaces of boston-appendix to-day. she was only twenty, this fair and pleasant rosamond of ours, and country simple, with all her native tact and grace; and she forgot, or did not know how full of impressions a life like madam mucklegrand's might be, and how very trifling and fleeting must be any that she might chance to make. she drove away down to the north end, and took jane jopson and her baby in,--very clean and shiny, both of them,--and jane particularly nice in the little black crape bonnet that rosamond herself had made, and the plain black shawl that mrs. holabird had given her. she stood at the head of the high, broad steps, with her mind very much made up in regard to her complete and well-bred self-possession, and the manner of her quietly assured self-introduction. she had her card all ready that should explain for her; and to the servant's reply that madam mucklegrand was in, she responded by moving forward with only enough of voluntary hesitation to allow him to indicate to her the reception room, at the door of which she gave him the little pasteboard, with,-- "take that to her, if you please," and so sat down, very much as if she had been in such places frequently before, which she never had. one may be quite used to the fine, free essence of gentle living, and never in all one's life have anything to do with such solid, concrete expression of it as rosamond saw here. very high, to begin with, the ceiled and paneled room was; reaching up into space as if it had really been of no consequence to the builders where they should put the cover on; and with no remotest suggestion of any reserve for further superstructure upon the same foundation. very dark, and polished, and deeply carved, and heavily ornamented were its wainscotings, and frames, and cornices; out of the new look of the streets, which it will take them yet a great while to outgrow, she had stepped at once into a grand, and mellow, and ancient stateliness. there were dim old portraits on the walls, and paintings that hinted at old mastership filled whole panels; and the tall, high-backed, wonderfully wrought oaken chairs had heraldic devices in relief upon their bars and corners; and there was a great, round mosaic table, in soft, rich, dark colors, of most precious stones; these, in turn, hidden with piles of rare engravings. the floor was of dark woods, inlaid; and sumptuous rugs were put about upon it for the feet, each one of which was wide enough to call a carpet. and nothing of it all was _new_; there was nothing in the room but some plants in a jardiniere by the window, that seemed to have a bit of yesterday's growth upon it. a great, calm, marble face of jove looked down from high up, out of the shadows. underneath sat rosamond holabird, holding on to her identity and her self-confidence. madam mucklegrand came in plainly enough dressed,--in black; you would not notice what she had on; but you would notice instantly the consummate usedness to the world and the hardening into the mould thereof that was set and furrowed upon eye and lip and brow. she sailed down upon rosamond like a frigate upon a graceful little pinnace; and brought to within a pace or two of her, continuing to stand an instant, as rosamond rose, just long enough for the shadow of a suggestion that it might not be altogether material that she should be seated again at all. but rosamond made a movement backward to her chair, and laid her hand upon its arm, and then madam mucklegrand decided to sit down. "you called about the nurse, i conclude, miss--holabird?" "yes, ma'am; i thought you had some questions you wished to ask, and that i had better come myself. i have her with me, in the carriage." "thank you," said madam mucklegrand, politely. but it was rather a _de haut en bas_ politeness; she exercised it also toward her footman. then followed inquiries about age, and health, and character. rosamond told all she knew, clearly and sufficiently, with some little sympathetic touches that she could not help, in giving her story. madam mucklegrand met her nowhere, however, on any common ground; she passed over all personal interest; instead of two women befriending a third in her need, who in turn was to give life to a little child waiting helplessly for some such ministry, it might have been the leasing of a house, or the dealing about some merchandise, that was between them. rosamond proposed, at last, to send jane jopson in. jane and her baby were had in, and had up-stairs; the physician and attending nurse pronounced upon her; she was brought down again, to go home and dispose of her child, and return. rosamond, meanwhile, had been sitting under the marble jove. there was nothing really rude in it; she was there on business; what more could she expect? but then she knew all the time, that she too was a lady, and was taking trouble to do a kind thing. it was not so that madam mucklegrand would have been treated at westover. rosamond was feeling pretty proud by the time madam mucklegrand came down stairs. "we have engaged the young woman: the doctor quite approves; she will return without delay, i hope?" as if rosamond were somehow responsible all through. "i have no doubt she will; good morning, madam." "good morning. i am, really, very much obliged. you have been of great service." rosamond turned quietly round upon the threshold. "that was what i was very anxious to be," she said, in her perfectly sweet and musical voice,--"to the poor woman." italics would indicate too coarsely the impalpable emphasis she put upon the last two words. but mrs. mucklegrand caught it. rosamond went away quite as sure of her own self-respect as ever, but very considerably cured of spreadsplendidism. this was but one phase of it, she knew; there are real folks, also, in spreadsplendid park; they are a good deal covered up, there, to be sure; but they can't help that. it is what always happens to somebody when pyramids are built. madam mucklegrand herself was, perhaps, only a good deal covered up. how lovely it was to go down into orchard street after that, and take tea with miss craydocke! how human and true it seemed,--the friendliness that shone and breathed there, among them all. how kingdom-of-heaven-like the air was, and into what pleasantness of speech it was born! and then hazel ripwinkley came over, like a little spirit from another blessed society, to tell that "the picture-book things were all ready, and that it would take everybody to help." that was rosamond's first glimpse of witch hazel, who found her out instantly,--the real, holabirdy part of her,--and set her down at once among her "folks." it was bright and cheery in mrs. ripwinkley's parlor; you could hardly tell whence the cheeriness radiated, either. the bright german lamp was cheery, in the middle of the round table; the table was cheery, covered with glossy linen cut into large, square book-sheets laid in piles, and with gay pictures of all kinds, brightly colored; and the scissors,--or scissorses,--there were ever so many shining pairs of them,--and the little mucilage bottles, and the very scrap-baskets,--all looked cozy and comfortable, and as if people were going to have a real good time among them, somehow. and the somehow was in making great beautiful, everlasting picture-books for the little orphans in miss craydocke's home,--the home, that is, out of several blessed and similar ones that she was especially interested in, and where hazel and diana had been with her until they knew all the little waifs by sight and name and heart, and had their especial chosen property among them, as they used to have among the chickens and the little yellow ducks at homesworth farm. mrs. ripwinkley was cheery; it might be a question whether all the light did not come from her first, in some way, and perhaps it did; but then hazel was luminous, and she fluttered about with quick, happy motions, till like a little glancing taper she had shone upon and lit up everybody and everything; and dorris was sunny with clear content, and kenneth was blithe, and desire was scintillant, as she always was either with snaps or smiles; and here came in beaming miss craydocke, and gay asenath and her handsome husband; and our rosa mundi; there,--how can you tell? it was all round; and it was more every minute. there were cutters and pasters and stitchers and binders and every part was beautiful work, and nobody could tell which was pleasantest. cutting out was nice, of course; who doesn't like cutting out pictures? some were done beforehand, but there were as many left as there would be time for. and pasting, on the fine, smooth linen, making it glow out with charming groups and tints of flowers and birds and children in gay clothes,--that was delightful; and the stitchers had the pleasure of combining and arranging it all; and the binders,--mrs. ripwinkley and miss craydocke,--finished all off with the pretty ribbons and the gray covers, and theirs being the completing touch, thought _they_ had the best of it. "but i don't think finishing is best, mother," said hazel, who was diligently snipping in and out around rose leaves or baby faces, as it happened. "i think beginning is always beautiful. i never want to end off,--anything nice, i mean." "well, we don't end off this," said diana. "there's the giving, next." "and then their little laughs and oo's," said hazel. "and their delight day after day; and the comfort of them in their little sicknesses," said miss craydocke. "and the stories that have got to be told about every picture," said dorris. "no; nothing really nice does end; it goes on and on," said mrs. ripwinkley. "of course!" said hazel, triumphantly, turning on the drummond light of her child-faith. "we're forever and ever people, you know!" "please paste some more flowers, mr. kincaid," said rosamond, who sat next him, stitching. "i want to make an all-flower book of this. no,--not roses; i've a whole page already; this great white lily, i think. that's beautiful!" "wouldn't it do to put in this laurel bush next, with the bird's nest in it?" "o, those lovely pink and white laurels! yes. where did you get such pictures, miss hazel?" "o, everybody gave them to us, all summer, ever since we began. mrs. geoffrey gave those flowers; and mother painted some. she did that laurel. but don't call me miss hazel, please; it seems to send me off into a corner." rosamond answered by a little irresistible caress; leaning her head down to hazel, on her other side, until her cheek touched the child's bright curls, quickly and softly. there was magnetism between those two. ah, the magnetism ran round! "for a child's picture-book, mrs. ripwinkley?" said mrs. scherman, reaching over for the laurel picture. "aren't these almost too exquisite? they would like a big scarlet poppy just as well,--perhaps better. or a clump of cat-o'-nine-tails," she added, whimsically. "there _is_ a clump of cat-o'-nine-tails," said mrs. ripwinkley. "i remember how i used to delight in them as a child,--the real ones." "pictures are to _tell_ things," said desire, in her brief way. "these little city refugees _must_ see them, somehow," said rosamond, gently. "i understand. they will never get up on the mountains, maybe, where the laurels grow, or into the shady swamps among the flags and the cat-o'-nine-tails. you have _picked out_ pictures to give them, mrs. ripwinkley." kenneth kincaid's scissors stopped a moment, as he looked at rosamond, pausing also over the placing of her leaves. desire saw that from the other side; she saw how beautiful and gracious this girl was--this rosamond holabird; and there was a strange little twinge in her heart, as she felt, suddenly, that let there be ever so much that was true and kindly, or even tender, in her, it could never come up in her eyes or play upon her lips like that she could never say it out sweetly and in due place everything was a spasm with her; and nobody would ever look at her just as kenneth kincaid looked at rosamond then. she said to herself, with her harsh, unsparing honesty, that it must be a "hitch inside;" a cramp or an awkwardness born in her, that set her eyes, peering and sharp, so near together, and put that knot into her brows instead of their widening placidly, like rosamond's, and made her jerky in her speech. it was no use; she couldn't look and behave, because she couldn't _be_; she must just go boggling and kinking on, and--losing everything, she supposed. the smiles went down, under a swift, bitter little cloud, and the hard twist came into her face with the inward pinching she was giving herself; and all at once there crackled out one of her sharp, strange questions; for it was true that she could not do otherwise; everything was sudden and crepitant with her. "why need all the good be done up in batches, i wonder? why can't it be spread round, a little more even? there must have been a good deal left out somewhere, to make it come in a heap, so, upon you, miss craydocke!" hazel looked up. "i know what desire means," she said. "it seemed just so to me, _one_ way. why oughtn't there to be _little_ homes, done-by-hand homes, for all these little children, instead of--well--machining them all up together?" and hazel laughed at her own conceit. "it's nice; but then--it isn't just the way. if we were all brought up like that we shouldn't know, you see!" "you wouldn't want to be brought up in a platoon, hazel?" said kenneth kincaid. "no; neither should i." "i think it was better," said hazel, "to have my turn of being a little child, all to myself; _the_ little child, i mean, with the rest of the folks bigger. to make much of me, you know. i shouldn't want to have missed that. i shouldn't like to be _loved_ in a platoon." "nobody is meant to be," said miss craydocke. "then why--" began asenath scherman, and stopped. "why what, dear?" "revelations," replied sin, laconically. "there are loads of people there, all dressed alike, you know; and--well--it's platoony, i think, rather! and down here, such a world-full; and the sky--full of worlds. there doesn't seem to be much notion of one at a time, in the general plan of things." "ah, but we've got the key to all that," said miss craydocke. "'the very hairs of your head are all numbered.' it may be impossible with us, you know, but not with him." "miss hapsie! you always did put me down, just when i thought i was smart," said sin scherman. asenath loved to say "miss hapsie," now and then, to her friend, ever since she had found out what she called her "squee little name." "but the little children, miss craydocke," said mrs. ripwinkley. "it seems to me desire has got a right thought about it." mrs. ripwinkley and hazel always struck the same note. the same delicate instinct moved them both. hazel "knew what desire meant;" her mother did not let it be lost sight of that it was desire who had led the way in this thought of the children; so that the abrupt beginning--the little flash out of the cloud--was quite forgotten presently, in the tone of hearty understanding and genuine interest with which the talk went on; and it was as if all that was generous and mindfully suggestive in it had first and truly come from her. they unfolded herself for her--these friendly ones--as she could not do; out of her bluntness grew a graciousness that lay softly over it; the cloud itself melted away and floated off; and desire began to sparkle again more lambently. for she was not one of the kind to be meanly or enviously "put out." "it seemed to me there must be a great many spare little corners somewhere, for all these spare little children," she said, "and that, lumped up together so, there was something they did not get." "that is precisely the thing," said miss craydocke, emphatically. "i wonder, sometimes," she went on, tenderly, "if whenever god makes a little empty place in a home, it isn't really on purpose that it might be filled with one of these,--if people only thought." "miss craydocke," said hazel, "how did you begin your beehive?" "i!" said the good lady. "i didn't. it began itself." "well, then, how did you _let_ it begin?" "ah!" the tone was admissive, and as if she had said, "_that_ is another thing!" she could not contradict that she had let it be. "i'll tell you a queer story," she said, "of what they say they used to do, in old roman catholic times and places, when they wanted to _keep up_ a beehive that was in any danger of dwindling or growing unprofitable. i read it somewhere in a book of popular beliefs and customs about bees and other interesting animals. an old woman once went to her friend, and asked her what she did to make her hive so gainful. and this was what the old wife said; it sounds rather strange to us, but if there is anything irreverent in it, it is the word and not the meaning; 'i go,' she said, 'to the priest, and get a little round godamighty, and put it in the hive, and then all goes well; the bees thrive, and there is plenty of honey; they always come, and stay, and work, when _that_ is there." "a little round--something awful! what _did_ she mean?" asked mrs. scherman. "she meant a consecrated wafer,--the sacrament. we don't need to put the wafer in; but if we let _him_ in, you see,--just say to him it is his house, to do with as he likes,--he takes the responsibility, and brings in all the rest." nobody saw, under the knitting of desire ledwith's brows, and the close setting of her eyes, the tenderness with which they suddenly moistened, and the earnestness with which they gleamed. nobody knew how she thought to herself inwardly, in the same spasmodic fashion that she used for speech,-- "they mig up their parlors with upholstery, and put rose-colored paper on their walls, and call them _their_ houses; and shut the little round awfulness and goodness out! we've all been doing it! and there's no place left for what might come in." mrs. scherman broke the hush that followed what miss hapsie said. not hastily, or impertinently; but when it seemed as if it might be a little hard to come down into the picture-books and the pleasant easiness again. "let's make a noah's ark picture-book,--you and i," she said to desire. "give us all your animals,--there's a whole natural history full over there, all painted with splendid daubs of colors; the children did that, i know, when they _were_ children. come; we'll have everything in, from an elephant to a bumble-bee!" "we did not mean to use those, mrs. scherman," said desire. "we did not think they were good enough. they are _so_ daubed up." "they're perfectly beautiful. exactly what the young ones will like. just divide round, and help. we'll wind up with the most wonderful book of all; the book they'll all cry for, and that will have to be given always, directly after the castor oil." it took them more than an hour to do that, all working hard; and a wonderful thing it was truly, when it was done. mrs. scherman and desire ledwith directed all the putting together, and the grouping was something astonishing. there were men and women,--the knowers, sin called them; she said that was what she always thought the old gentleman's name was, in the days when she first heard of him, because he knew so much; and in the backgrounds of the same sheets were their country cousins, the orangs, and the little apes. then came the elephants, and the camels, and the whales; "for why shouldn't the fishes be put in, since they must all have been swimming round sociably, if they weren't inside; and why shouldn't the big people be all kept together properly?" there were happy families of dogs and cats and lions and snakes and little humming-birds; and in the last part were all manner of bugs, down to the little lady-bugs in blazes of red and gold, and the gray fleas and mosquitoes which sin improvised with pen and ink, in a swarm at the end. "and after that, i don't believe they wanted any more," she said; and handed over the parts to miss craydocke to be tied together. for this volume had had to be made in many folds, and mrs. ripwinkley's blue ribbon would by no means stretch over the back. and by that time it was eleven o'clock, and they had worked four hours. they all jumped up in a great hurry then, and began to say good-by. "this must not be the last we are to have of you, miss holabird," said mrs. ripwinkley, laying rosamond's shawl across her shoulders. "of course not," said mrs scherman, "when you are all coming to our house to tea to-morrow night." rosamond bade the ripwinkleys good-night with a most sweet cordiality, and thanks for the pleasure she had had, and she told hazel and her mother that it was "neither beginning nor end, she believed; for it seemed to her that she had only found a little new piece of her world, and that aspen street led right out of westover in the invisible geography, she was sure." "come!" said miss craydocke, standing on the doorsteps. "it is all invisible geography out here, pretty nearly; and we've all our different ways to go, and only these two unhappy gentlemen to insist on seeing everybody home." so first the whole party went round with miss hapsie, and then kenneth and dorris, who always went home with desire, walked up hanley street with the schermans and rosamond, and so across through dane street to shubarton place. but while they were on their way, hazel ripwinkley was saying to her mother, up in her room, where they made sometimes such long good-nights,-- "mother! there were some little children taken away from you before we came, you know? and now we've got this great big house, and plenty of things, more than it takes for us." "well?" "don't you think it's expected that we should do something with the corners? there's room for some real good little times for somebody. i think we ought to begin a beehive." mrs. ripwinkley kissed hazel very tenderly, and said, only,-- "we can wait, and see." those are just the words that mothers so often put children off with! but mrs. ripwinkley, being one of the real folks, meant it; the very heart of it. in that little talk, they took the consecration in; they would wait and see; when people do that, with an expectation, the beehive begins. * * * * * up hanley street, the six fell into pairs. mrs. scherman and desire, dorris and mr. scherman, rosamond and kenneth kincaid. it only took from bridgeley street up to dane, to tell kenneth kincaid so much about westover, in answer to his questions, that he too thought he had found a new little piece of his world. what rosamond thought, i do not know; but a girl never gives a young man so much as she gave kenneth in that little walk without having some of the blessed consciousness that comes with giving. the sun knows it shines, i dare say; or else there is a great waste of hydrogen and other things. there was not much left for poor little desire after they parted from the schermans and turned the corner of dane street. only a little bit of a way, in which new talk could hardly begin, and just time for a pause that showed how the talk that had come to an end was missed or how, perhaps, it stayed in the mind, repeating itself, and keeping it full. nobody said anything till they had crossed b---- street; and then dorris said, "how beautiful,--_real_ beautiful, rosamond holabird is!" and kenneth answered, "did you hear what she said to mrs. ripwinkley?" they were full of rosamond! desire did not speak a word. dorris had heard and said it over. it seemed to please kenneth to hear it again. "a piece of her world!" "how quickly a true person springs to what belongs to--their life!" said kenneth, using that wrong little pronoun that we shall never be able to do without. "people don't always get what belongs, though," blurted desire at last, just as they came to the long doorsteps. "some people's lives are like complementary colors, i think; they see blue, and live red!" "but the colors are only accidentally--i mean temporarily--divided; they are together in the sun; and they join somewhere--beyond." "i hate beyond!" said desire, recklessly. "good-night. thank you." and she ran up the steps. nobody knew what she meant. perhaps she hardly knew herself. they only thought that her home life was not suited to her, and that she took it hard. xiv. "sesame; and lilies." "i've got a discouragement at my stomach," said luclarion grapp. "what's the matter?" asked mrs. ripwinkley, naturally. "mrs. scarup. i've been there. there ain't any bottom to it." "well?" mrs. ripwinkley knew that luclarion had more to say, and that she waited for this monosyllable. "she's sick again. and scarup, he's gone out west, spending a hundred dollars to see whether or no there's a chance anywhere for a _smart_ man,--and that ain't he, so it's a double waste,--to make fifty. no girl; and the children all under foot, and pinkie looking miserable over the dishes." "pinkie isn't strong." "no. she's powerful weak. i just wish you'd seen that dirty settin'-room fire-place; looks as if it hadn't been touched since scarup smoked his pipe there, the night before he went off a wild-gandering. and clo'es to be ironed, and the girl cleared out, because 'she'd always been used to fust-class families.' there wasn't anything to your hand, and you couldn't tell where to begin, unless you began with a cataplasm!" luclarion had heard, by chance, of a cataclysm, and that was what she meant. "it wants--creation, over again! mrs. scarup hadn't any fit breakfast; there was burnt toast, made out of tough bread, that she'd been trying to eat; and a cup of tea, half drunk; something the matter with that, i presume. i'd have made her some gruel, if there'd been a fire; and if there'd been any kindlings, i'd have made her a fire; but there 'twas; there wasn't any bottom to it!" "you had better make the gruel here, luclarion." "that's what i come back for. but--mrs. ripwinkley!" "well?" "don't it appear to you it's a kind of a stump? i don't want to do it just for the satisfaction; though it _would_ be a satisfaction to plough everything up thorough, and then rake it over smooth; what do you think?" "what have you thought, luclarion? something, of course." "she wants a real smart girl--for two dollars a week. she can't get her, because she ain't. and i kind of felt as though i should like to put in. seemed to me it was a--but there! i haven't any right to stump _you_." "wouldn't it be rather an aggravation? i don't suppose you would mean to stay altogether?" "not unless--but don't go putting it into my head, mrs. ripwinkley. i shall feel as if i _was_. and i don't think it goes quite so far as that, yet. we ain't never stumped to more than one thing at a time. what she wants is to be straightened out. and when things once looked _my_ way, she might get a girl, you see. anyhow, 'twould encourage pinkie, and kind of set her going. pinkie likes things nice; but it's such a hoosac tunnel to undertake, that she just lets it all go, and gets off up-stairs, and sticks a ribbon in her hair. that's all she _can_ do. i s'pose 'twould take a fortnight, maybe?" "take it, luclarion," said mrs. ripwinkley, smiling. luclarion understood the smile. "i s'pose you think it's as good as took. well, perhaps it is--spoke for. but it wasn't me, you know. now what'll you do?" "go into the kitchen and make the pudding." "but then?" "we are not stumped for then, you know." "there was a colored girl here yesterday, from up in garden street, asking if there was any help wanted. i think she came in partially, to look at the flowers; the 'sturtiums _are_ splendid, and i gave her some. she was awfully dressed up,--for colors, i mean; but she looked clean and pleasant, and spoke bright. maybe she'd come, temporary. she seemed taken with things. i know where to find her, and i could go there when i got through with the gruel. mrs. scarup must have that right off." and luclarion hurried away. it was not the first time mrs. ripwinkley had lent luclarion; but miss grapp had not found a kitchen mission in boston heretofore. it was something new to bring the fashion of simple, prompt, neighborly help down intact from the hills, and apply it here to the tangle of city living, that is made up of so many separate and unrecognized struggles. when hazel came home from school, she went all the way up the garden walk, and in at the kitchen door. "that was the way she took it all," she said; "first the flowers, and then luclarion and what they had for dinner, and a drink of water; and then up-stairs, to mother." to-day she encountered in the kitchen a curious and startling apparition of change. a very dusky brown maiden, with a petticoat of flashing purple, and a jacket of crimson, and extremely puzzling hair tied up with knots of corn color, stood in possession over the stove, tending a fricassee, of which hazel recognized at once the preparation and savor as her mother's; while beside her on a cricket, munching cold biscuit and butter with round, large bites of very white little teeth, sat a small girl of five of the same color, gleaming and twinkling as nothing human ever does gleam and twinkle but a little darkie child. "where is luclarion?" asked hazel, standing still in the middle of the floor, in her astonishment. "i don't know. i'm damaris, and this one's little vash. don't go for callin' me dam, now; the boys did that in my last place, an' i left, don' yer see? i ain't goin' to be swore to, anyhow!" and damaris glittered at hazel, with her shining teeth and her quick eyes, full of fun and good humor, and enjoyed her end of the joke extremely. "have you come to _stay_?" asked hazel. "'course. i don' mostly come for to go." "what does it mean, mother?" hazel asked, hurrying up into her mother's room. and then mrs. ripwinkley explained. "but what _is_ she? black or white? she's got straight braids and curls at the back of her head, like everybody's"-- "'course," said a voice in the doorway. "an' wool on top,--place where wool ought to grow,--same's everybody, too." damaris had come up, according to orders, to report a certain point in the progress of the fricassee. "they all pulls the wool over they eyes, now-days, an sticks the straight on behind. where's the difference?" mrs. ripwinkley made some haste to rise and move toward the doorway, to go down stairs, turning damaris from her position, and checking further remark. diana and hazel stayed behind, and laughed. "what fun!" they said. it was the beginning of a funny fortnight; but it is not the fun i have paused to tell you of; something more came of it in the home-life of the ripwinkleys; that which they were "waiting to see." damaris wanted a place where she could take her little sister; she was tired of leaving her "shyin' round," she said. and vash, with her round, fuzzy head, her bright eyes, her little flashing teeth, and her polished mahogany skin,--darting up and down the house "on aarons," or for mere play,--dressed in her gay little scarlet flannel shirt-waist, and black and orange striped petticoat,--was like some "splendid, queer little fire-bug," hazel said, and made a surprise and a picture wherever she came. she was "cute," too, as damaris had declared beforehand; she was a little wonder at noticing and remembering, and for all sorts of handiness that a child of five could possibly be put to. hazel dressed rag babies for her, and made her a soap-box baby-house in the corner of the kitchen, and taught her her letters; and began to think that she should hate to have her go when luclarion came back. damaris proved clever and teachable in the kitchen; and had, above all, the rare and admirable disposition to keep things scrupulously as she had found them; so that luclarion, in her afternoon trips home, was comforted greatly to find that while she was "clearing and ploughing" at mrs. scarup's, her own garden of neatness was not being turned into a howling wilderness; and she observed, as is often done so astutely, that "when you _do_ find a neat, capable, colored help, it's as good help as you can have." which you may notice is just as true without the third adjective as with. luclarion herself was having a splendid time. the first thing she did was to announce to mrs. scarup that she was out of her place for two weeks, and would like to come to her at her wages; which mrs. scarup received with some such awed and unbelieving astonishment as she might have done the coming of a legion of angels with gabriel at their head. and when one strong, generous human will, with powers of brain and body under it sufficient to some good work, comes down upon it as luclarion did upon hers, there _is_ what gabriel and his angels stand for, and no less sent of god. the second thing luclarion did was to clean that "settin'-room fire-place," to restore the pleasant brown color of its freestone hearth and jambs, to polish its rusty brasses till they shone like golden images of gods, and to lay an ornamental fire of chips and clean little sticks across the irons. then she took a wet broom and swept the carpet three times, and dusted everything with a damp duster; and then she advised mrs. scarup, whom the gruel had already cheered and strengthened, to be "helped down, and sit there in the easy-chair, for a change, and let her take her room in hand." and no doctor ever prescribed any change with better effect. there are a good many changes that might be made for people, without sending them beyond their own doors. but it isn't the doctors who always know _what_ change, or would dare to prescribe it if they did. mrs. scarup was "helped down," it seemed,--really up, rather,--into a new world. things had begun all over again. it was worth while to get well, and take courage. those brasses shone in her face like morning suns. "well, i do declare to man, miss grapp!" she exclaimed; and breath and expression failed together, and that was all she could say. up-stairs, luclarion swept and rummaged. she found the sheet and towel drawers, and made everything white and clean. she laid fresh napkins over the table and bureau tops, and set the little things--boxes, books, what not,--daintily about on them. she put a clean spread on the bed, and gathered up things for the wash she meant to have, with a recklessness that mrs. scarup herself would never have dared to use, in view of any "help" she ever expected to do it. and then, with pinkie to lend feeble assistance, luclarion turned to in the kitchen. it was a "clear treat," she told mrs. ripwinkley afterward. "things had got to that state of mussiness, that you just began at one end and worked through to the other, and every inch looked new made over after you as you went along." she put the children out into the yard on the planks, and gave them tin pans and clothes-pins to keep house with, and gingerbread for their dinner. she and pinkie had cups of tea, and mrs. scarup had her gruel, and went up to bed again; and that was another new experience, and a third stage in her treatment and recovery. when it came to the cellar, luclarion got the chore-man in; and when all was done, she looked round on the renovated home, and said within herself, "if scarup, now, will only break his neck, or get something to do, and stay away with his pipes and his boots and his contraptions!" and scarup did. he found a chance in some freight-house, and wrote that he had made up his mind to stay out there all winter; and mrs. scarup made little excursions about the house with her returning strength, and every journey was a pleasure-trip, and the only misery was that at the end of the fortnight miss grapp was going away, and then she should be "all back in the swamp again." "no, you won't," said luclarion; "pinkie's waked up, and she's going to take pride, and pick up after the children. she can do that, now; but she couldn't shoulder everything. and you'll have somebody in the kitchen. see if you don't. i've 'most a mind to say i'll stay till you do." luclarion's faith was strong; she knew, she said, that "if she was doing at her end, providence wasn't leaving off at his. things would come round." this was how they did come round. it only wanted a little sorting about. the pieces of the puzzle were all there. hazel ripwinkley settled the first little bit in the right place. she asked her mother one night, if she didn't think they might begin their beehive with a fire-fly? why couldn't they keep little vash? "and then," said diana, in her quiet way, slipping one of the big three-cornered pieces of the puzzle in, "damaris might go to mrs. scarup for her two dollars a week. she is willing to work for that, if she can get vash taken. and this would be all the same, and better." desire was with them when luclarion came in, and heard it settled. "how is it that things always fall right together for you, so? how _came_ damaris to come along?" "you just take hold of something and try," said luclarion. "you'll find there's always a working alongside. put up your sails, and the wind will fill 'em." uncle titus wanted to know "what sort of use a thing like that could be in a house?" he asked it in his very surliest fashion. if they had had any motives of fear or favor, they would have been disconcerted, and begun to think they had made a mistake. but hazel spoke up cheerily,-- "why, to wait on people, uncle. she's the nicest little fetch-and-carrier you ever saw!" "humph! who wants to be waited on, here? you girls, with feet and hands of your own? your mother doesn't, i know." "well, to wait _on_, then," says hazel, boldly. "i'm making her a baby-house, and teaching her to read; and diana is knitting scarlet stockings for her, to wear this winter. we like it." "o, if you like it! that's always a reason. i only want to have people give the real one." and uncle titus walked off, so that nobody could tell whether _he_ liked it or not. nobody told him anything about the scarups. but do you suppose he didn't know? uncle titus oldways was as sharp as he was blunt. "i guess i know, mother," said hazel, a little while after this, one day, "how people write stories." "well?" asked her mother, looking up, ready to be amused with hazel's deep discovery. "if they can just begin with one thing, you see, that makes the next one. it can't help it, hardly. just as it does with us. what made me think of it was, that it seemed to me there was another little piece of our beehive story all ready to put on; and if we went and did it,--i wonder if you wouldn't, mother? it fits exactly." "let me see." "that little lame sulie at miss craydocke's home, that we like so much. nobody adopts her away, because she is lame; her legs are no use at all, you know, and she just sits all curled up in that great round chair that mrs. geoffrey gave her, and sews patchwork, and makes paper dolls. and when she drops her scissors, or her thread, somebody has to come and pick it up. she wants waiting on; she just wants a little lightning-bug, like vash, to run round for her all the time. and we don't, you see; and we've got vash! and vash--likes paper dolls." hazel completed the circle of her argument with great triumph. "an extra piece of bread to finish your too much butter," said diana. "yes. doesn't it just make out?" said hazel, abating not a jot of her triumph, and taking things literally, as nobody could do better than she, upon occasion, for all her fancy and intuition. "i wonder what uncle oldways would say to that," said diana. "he'd say 'faugh, faugh!' but he doesn't mean faugh, faugh, half the time. if he does, he doesn't stick to it. mother," she asked rather suddenly, "do you think uncle oldways feels as if we oughtn't to do--other things--with his money?" "what other things?" "why, _these_ others. vash, and sulie, perhaps. wouldn't he like it if we turned his house into a beehive?" "it isn't his house," said mrs. ripwinkley, "he has given it to me." "well,--do you feel 'obligated,' as luclarion says?' "in a certain degree,--yes. i feel bound to consider his comfort and wishes, as far as regards his enjoyment with us, and fulfilling what he reasonably looked for when he brought us here." "would that interfere?" "suppose you ask him, hazel?" "well, i could do that." "hazel wouldn't mind doing anything!" said diana, who, to tell the truth was a little afraid of uncle titus, and who dreaded of all things, being snubbed. "only," said hazel, to whom something else had just occurred, "wouldn't he think--wouldn't it be--_your_ business?" "it is all your plan, hazel. i think he would see that." "and you are willing, if he doesn't care?" "i did not quite say that. it would be a good deal to think of." "then i'll wait till you've thought," said clear-headed little hazel. "but it fits right on. i can see that. and miss craydocke said things would, after we had begun." mrs. ripwinkley took it into her thoughts, and carried it about with her for days, and considered it; asking herself questions. was it going aside in search of an undertaking that did not belong to her? was it bringing home a care, a responsibility, for which they were not fitted,--which might interfere with the things they were meant, and would be called, to do? there was room and opportunity, doubtless, for them to do something; mrs. ripwinkley had felt this; she had not waited for her child to think of it for her; she had only waited, in her new, strange sphere, for circumstances to guide the way, and for the giver of all circumstance to guide her thought. she chose, also, in the things that would affect her children's life and settle duties for them, to let them grow also to those duties, and the perception of them, with her. to this she led them, by all her training and influence; and now that in hazel, her child of quick insight and true instincts, this influence was bearing fruit and quickening to action, she respected her first impulses; she believed in them; they had weight with her, as argument in themselves. these impulses, in young, true souls, freshly responding, are, she knew, as the proof-impressions of god's spirit. yet she would think; that was her duty; she would not do a thing hastily, or unwisely. sulie praile had been a good while, now, at the home. a terrible fall, years ago, had caused a long and painful illness, and resulted in her present helplessness. but above those little idle, powerless limbs, that lay curled under the long, soft skirt she wore, like a baby's robe, were a beauty and a brightness, a quickness of all possible motion, a dexterous use of hands, and a face of gentle peace and sometimes glory, that were like a benediction on the place that she was in; like the very holy ghost in tender form like a dove, resting upon it, and abiding among them who were there. in one way, it would hardly be so much a giving as a taking, to receive her in. yet there was care to assume, the continuance of care to promise or imply; the possibility of conflicting plans in much that might be right and desirable that mrs. ripwinkley should do for her own. exactly what, if anything, it would be right to undertake in this, was matter for careful and anxious reflection. the resources of the home were not very large; there were painful cases pressing their claims continually, as fast as a little place was vacated it could be filled; was wanted, ten times over; and sulie praile had been there a good while. if somebody would only take her, as people were very ready to take--away to happy, simple, comfortable country homes, for mere childhood's sake--the round, rosy, strong, and physically perfect ones! but sulie must be lifted and tended; she must keep somebody at home to look after her; no one could be expected to adopt a child like that. yet hazel ripwinkley thought they could be; thought, in her straightforward, uncounting simplicity, that it was just the natural, obvious, beautiful thing to do, to take her home--into a real home--into pleasant family life; where things would not crowd; where she could be mothered and sistered, as girls ought to be, when there are so many nice places in the world, and not so many people in them as there might be. when there could be so much visiting, and spare rooms kept always in everybody's house, why should not somebody who needed to, just come in and stay? what were the spare places made for? "we might have sulie for this winter," said mrs. ripwinkley, at last. "they would let her come to us for that time; and it would be a change for her, and leave a place for others. then if anything made it impossible for us to do more, we should not have raised an expectation to be disappointed. and if we can and ought to do more, it will be shown us by that time more certainly." she asked miss craydocke about it, when she came home from z---- that fall. she had been away a good deal lately; she had been up to z---- to two weddings,--leslie goldthwaite's and barbara holabird's. now she was back again, and settled down. miss craydocke thought it a good thing wisely limited. "sulie needs to be with older girls; there is no one in the home to be companion to her; the children are almost all little. a winter here would be a blessing to her!" "but the change again, if she should have to make it?" suggested mrs. ripwinkley. "good things don't turn to bad ones because you can't have them any more. a thing you're not fit for, and never ought to have had, may; but a real good stays by; it overflows all the rest. sulie praile's life could never be so poor again, after a winter here with you, as it might be if she had never had it. if you'd like her, let her come, and don't be a bit afraid. we're only working by inches, any of us; like the camel's-hair embroiderers in china. but it gets put together; and it is beautiful, and large, and whole, somewhere." "miss craydocke always knows," said hazel. nobody said anything again, about uncle titus. a winter's plan need not be referred to him. but hazel, in her own mind, had resolved to find out what was uncle titus's, generally and theoretically; how free they were to be, beyond winter plans and visits of weeks; how much scope they might have with this money and this house, that seemed so ample to their simple wants, and what they might do with it and turn it into, if it came into their heads or hearts or consciences. so one day she went in and sat down by him in the study, after she had accomplished some household errand with rachel froke. other people approached him with more or less of strategy, afraid of the tiger in him; desire ledwith faced him courageously; only hazel came and nestled up beside him, in his very cage, as if he were no wild beast, after all. yet he pretended to growl, even at her, sometimes; it was so funny to see her look up and chirp on after it, like some little bird to whom the language of beasts was no language at all, and passed by on the air as a very big sound, but one that in no wise concerned it. "we've got sulie praile to spend the winter, uncle titus," she said. "who's sulie praile?" "the lame girl, from the home. we wanted somebody for vash to wait on, you know. she sits in a round chair, that twists, like yours; and she's--just like a lily in a vase!" hazel finished her sentence with a simile quite unexpected to herself. there was something in sulie's fair, pale, delicate face, and her upper figure, rising with its own peculiar lithe, easily swayed grace from among the gathered folds of the dress of her favorite dark green color, that reminded--if one thought of it, and hazel turned the feeling of it into a thought at just this moment--of a beautiful white flower, tenderly and commodiously planted. "well, i suppose it's worth while to have a lame girl to sit up in a round chair, and look like a lily in a vase, is it?" "uncle titus, i want to know what you think about some things." "that is just what i want to know myself, sometimes. to find out what one thinks about things, is pretty much the whole finding, isn't it?" "don't be very metaphysical, please, uncle titus. don't turn your eyes round into the back of your head. that isn't what i mean." "what do you mean?" "just plain looking." "o!" "don't you think, when there are places, all nice and ready,--and people that would like the places and haven't got 'em,--that the people ought to be put into the places?" "'the shirtless backs put into the shirts?'" "why, yes, of course. what are shirts made for?" "for some people to have thirty-six, and some not to have any," said mr. oldways. "no," said hazel. "nobody wants thirty-six, all at once. but what i mean is, rooms, and corners, and pleasant windows, and seats at the table; places where people come in visiting, and that are kept saved up. i can't bear an empty box; that is, only for just one pleasant minute, while i'm thinking what i can put into it." "where's your empty box, now?" "our house _was_ rather empty-boxy. uncle titus, do you mind how we fill it up,--because you gave it to us, you know?" "no. so long as you don't crowd yourselves out." "or you, uncle titus. we don't want to crowd you out. does it crowd you any to have sulie and vash there, and to have us 'took up' with them, as luclarion says?" how straight witch hazel went to her point! "your catechism crowds me just a little, child," said uncle titus. "i want to see you go your own way. that is what i gave you the house for. your mother knows that. did she send you here to ask me?" "no. i wanted to know. it was i that wanted to begin a kind of a beehive--like miss craydocke's. would you care if it was turned quite into a beehive, finally?" hazel evidently meant to settle the furthest peradventure, now she had begun. "ask your mother to show you the deed. 'to frances ripwinkley, her heirs and assigns,'--that's you and diana,--'for their use and behoof, forever.' i've no more to do with it." "'use, and behoof,'" said hazel, slowly. and then she turned the leaves of the great worcester that lay upon the study table, and found "behoof." "'profit,--gain,--benefit;' then that's what you meant; that we should make as much more of it as we could. that's what i think, uncle titus. i'm glad you put 'behoof in." "they always put it in, child!" "do they? well, then, they don't always work it out!" and hazel laughed. at that, mr. oldways pulled off his spectacles, looked sharp at hazel with two sharp, brown eyes,--set near together, hazel noticed for the first time, like desire's,--let the keenness turn gradually into a twinkle, suffered the muscles that had held his lips so grim to relax, and laughed too; his peculiar, up-and-down shake of a laugh, in which head and shoulders made the motions, as if he were a bottle, and there were a joke inside of him which was to be well mixed up to be thoroughly enjoyed. "go home to your mother, jade-hopper!" he said, when he had done; "and tell her i'm coming round to-night, to tea, amongst your bumble-bees and your lilies!" xv. with all one's might. let the grapes be ever so sweet, and hang in plenty ever so low, there is always a fair bunch out of reach. mrs. ledwith longed, now, to go to europe. at any rate, she was eager to have her daughters go. but, after just one year, to take what her uncle oldways had given her, in return for her settling herself near him, and _un_settle herself, and go off to the other side of the world! besides, what he had given her would not do it. that was the rub, after all. what was two thousand a year, now-a-days? nothing is anything, now-a-days. and it takes everything to do almost nothing. the ledwiths were just as much pinched now as they were before they ever heard from uncle oldways. people with unlimited powers of expansion always are pinched; it is good for them; one of the saving laws of nature that keeps things decently together. yet, in the pink room of a morning, and in the mellow-tinted drawing-room of an evening, it was getting to be the subject oftenest discussed. it was that to which they directed the combined magnetism of the family will; everything was brought to bear upon it; bridget's going away on monday morning, leaving the clothes in the tubs, the strike-price of coal, and the overcharge of the grocer; florence's music, helena's hopeless distress over french and german; even desire's listlessness and fidgets; most of all mrs. megilp's plans, which were ripening towards this long coveted end. she and glossy really thought they should go this winter. "it is a matter of economy now; everybody's going. the fargo's and the fayerwerses, and the hitherinyons have broken all up, and are going out to stay indefinitely. the fayerwerses have been saving up these four years to get away, there are so many of them, you know; the passage money counts, and the first travelling; but after you _are_ over, and have found a place to settle down in,"--then followed all the usual assertions as to cheap delights and inestimable advantages, and emancipation from all american household ills and miseries. uncle oldways came up once in a while to the house in shubarton place, and made an evening call. he seemed to take apricot-color for granted, when he got there, as much as he did the plain, old, unrelieved brown at mrs. ripwinkley's; he sat quite unconcernedly in the grand easy chair that laura wheeled out for him; indeed, it seemed as if he really, after a manner, indorsed everything by his acceptance without demur of what he found. but then one must sit down on something; and if one is offered a cup of coffee, or anything on a plate, one cannot easily protest against sea-green china. we do, and we have, and we wear, and we say, a great many things, and feel ourselves countenanced and confirmed, somehow,--perhaps excused,--because nobody appears surprised or says anything. but what should they say; and would it be at all proper that they should be surprised? if we only thought of it, and once tried it, we might perhaps find it quite as easy and encouraging, on the same principle, _not_ to have apricot rep and sea-green china. one night mr. oldways was with them when the talk turned eastwardly over the water. there were new names in the paper, of people who had gone out in the _aleppo_, and a list of americans registered at bowles brothers,' among whom were old acquaintance. "i declare, how they all keep turning up there" said mrs. ledwith. "the war doesn't seem to make much difference," said her husband. "to think how lucky the vonderbargens were, to be in paris just at the edge of the siege!" said glossy megilp. "they came back from como just in time; and poor mr. washburne had to fairly hustle them off at last. they were buying silks, and ribbons, and gloves, up to the last minute, for absolutely nothing. mrs. vonderbargen said it seemed a sin to come away and leave anything. i'm sure i don't know how they got them all home; but they did." glossy had been staying lately with the vonderbargens in new york. she stayed everywhere, and picked up everything. "you have been abroad, mrs. scherman?" said mrs. ledwith, inquiringly, to asenath, who happened to be calling, also, with her husband, and was looking at some photographs with desire. "no, ma'am," answered mrs. scherman, very promptly, not having spoken at all before in the discussion. "i do not think i wish to go. the syphon has been working too long." "the syphon?" mrs. ledwith spoke with a capital s in her mind; but was not quite sure whether what mrs. scherman meant might be a line of atlantic steamers or the sea-serpent. "yes, ma'am. the emptying back and forth. there isn't much that is foreign over there, now, nor very much that is native here. the hemispheres have got miserably mixed up. i think when i go 'strange countries for to see,' it will have to be patagonia or independent tartary." uncle oldways turned round with his great chair, so as to face asenath, and laughed one of his thorough fun digesting laughs, his keen eyes half shut with the enjoyment, and sparkling out through their cracks at her. but asenath had resumed her photographs with the sweetest and quietest unconsciousness. mrs. ledwith let her alone after that; and the talk rambled on to the schools in munich, and the miracle plays at oberammergau. "to think of _that_ invasion!" said asenath, in a low tone to desire, "and corrupting _that_ into a show, with a run of regular performances! i do believe they have pulled down the last unprofaned thing now, and trampled over it." "if we go," said mrs. megilp, "we shall join the fayerwerses, and settle down with them quietly in some nice place; and then make excursions. we shall not try to do all europe in three months; we shall choose, and take time. it is the only way really to enjoy or acquire; and the quiet times are so invaluable for the lessons and languages." mrs. megilp made up her little varnishes with the genuine gums of truth and wisdom; she put a beautiful shine even on to her limited opportunities and her enforced frugalities. "mrs. ledwith, you _ought_ to let agatha and florence go too. i would take every care of them; and the expense would be so divided--carriages, and couriers, and everything--that it would be hardly anything." "it is a great opportunity," mrs. ledwith said, and sighed. "but it is different with us from what it is with you. we must still be a family here, with nearly the same expenses. to be sure desire has done with school, and she doesn't care for gay society, and helena is a mere child yet; if it ever could"-- and so it went on between the ladies, while mr. oldways and mr. ledwith and frank scherman got into war talk, and bismarck policy, and french poss--no, _im_-possibilities. "i don't think uncle oldways minded much," said mrs. ledwith to agatha, and mrs. megilp, up-stairs, after everybody had gone who was to go. "he never minds anything," said agatha. "i don't know," said mrs. megilp, slowly. "he seemed mightily pleased with what asenath scherman said." "o, she's pretty, and funny; it makes no difference what she says; people are always pleased." "we might dismiss one girl this winter," said mrs. ledwith, "and board in some cheap country place next summer. i dare say we could save it in the year's round; the difference, i mean. when you weren't actually travelling, it wouldn't cost more than to have you here,--dress and all. "they wouldn't need to have a new thing," said glossy. "those people out at z---- want to buy the house. i've a great mind to coax grant to sell, and take a slice right out, and send them," said mrs. ledwith, eagerly. she was always eager to accomplish the next new thing for her children; and, to say the truth, did not much consider herself. and so far as they had ever been able, the ledwiths had always been rather easily given to "taking the slice right out." the megilps had had a little legacy of two or three thousand dollars, and were quite in earnest in their plans, this time, which had been talk with them for many years. "those poor fayerwerses!" said asenath to her husband, walking home. "going out now, after the cheap european living of a dozen years ago! the ghost always goes over on the last load. i wonder at mrs. megilp. she generally knows better." "she'll do," said frank scherman. "if the fayerwerses stick anywhere, as they probably will, she'll hitch on to the fargo's, and turn up at jerusalem. and then there are to be the ledwiths, and their 'little slice.'" "o, dear! what a mess people do make of living!" said asenath. uncle titus trudged along down dorset street with his stick under his arm. "try 'em! find 'em out!" he repeated to himself. "that's what marmaduke said. try 'em with this,--try 'em with that; a good deal, or a little; having and losing, and wanting. that's what the lord does with us all; and i begin to see he has a job of it!" the house was sold, and agatha and florence went. it made home dull for poor desire, little as she found of real companionship with her elder sisters. but then she was always looking for it, and that was something. husbands and wives, parents and children, live on upon that, through years of repeated disappointments, and never give up the expectation of that which is somewhere, and which these relations represent to them, through all their frustrated lives. that is just why. it _is_ somewhere. it turned out a hard winter, in many ways, for desire ledwith. she hated gay company, and the quiet little circle that she had become fond of at her aunt ripwinkley's was broken somewhat to them all, and more to desire than, among what had grown to be her chronic discontents, she realized or understood, by the going away for a time of kenneth kincaid. what was curious in the happening, too, he had gone up to "and" to build a church. that had come about through the marchbankses' knowledge of him, and this, you remember, through their being with the geoffreys when the kincaids were first introduced in summit street. the marchbankses and the geoffreys were cousins. a good many boston families are. mr. roger marchbanks owned a good deal of property in and. the neighborhood wanted a church; and he interested himself actively and liberally in behalf of it, and gave the land,--three lots right out of the middle of marchbanks street, that ran down to the river. dorris kept her little room, and was neighborly as heretofore; but she was busy with her music, and had little time but her evenings; and now there was nobody to walk home with desire to shubarton place, if she stayed in aspen street to tea. she came sometimes, and stayed all night; but that was dreary for helena, who never remembered to shut the piano or cover up the canary, or give the plants in the bay window their evening sprinkle, after the furnace heat had been drying them all day. kenneth kincaid came down for his sundays with dorris, and his work at the mission; a few times he called in at uncle oldways' after tea, when the family was all together; but they saw him very seldom; he gave those sunday evenings mostly to needed rest, and to quiet talk with dorris. desire might have gone to the mission this winter, easily enough, after all. agatha and florence and glossy megilp were not by to make wondering eyes, or smile significant smiles; but there was something in herself that prevented; she knew that it would be more than half to _get_, and she still thought she had so little to give! besides, kenneth kincaid had never asked her again, and she could not go to him and say she would come. desire ledwith began to have serious question of what life was ever going to be for her. she imagined, as in our early years and our first gray days we are all apt to imagine, that she had found out a good deal that it was _not_ going to be. she was not going to be beautiful, or accomplished, or even, she was afraid, agreeable; she found that such hard work with most people. she was not ever--and that conclusion rested closely upon these foregoing--to be married, and have a nice husband and a pretty house, and go down stairs and make snow-puddings and ginger-snaps of a morning, and have girls staying with her, and pleasant people in to tea; like asenath scherman. she couldn't write a book,--that, perhaps, was one of her premature decisions, since nobody knows till they try, and the books are lying all round, in leaves, waiting only to be picked up and put together,--or paint a picture; she couldn't bear parties, and clothes were a fuss, and she didn't care to go to europe. she thought she should rather like to be an old maid, if she could begin right off, and have a little cottage out of town somewhere, or some cosy rooms in the city. at least, she supposed that was what she had got to be, and if that were settled, she did not see why it might not be begun young, as well as married life. she could not endure waiting, when a thing was to be done. "aunt frances," she said one day, "i wish i had a place of my own. what is the reason i can't? a girl can go in for art, and set up a studio; or she can go to rome, and sculp, and study; she can learn elocution, and read, whether people want to be read to or not; and all that is progress and woman's rights; why can't she set up a _home_?" "because, i suppose, a house is not a home; and the beginning of a home is just what she waits for. meanwhile, if she has a father and a mother, she would not put a slight on _their_ home, or fail of her share of the duty in it." "but nobody would think i failed in my duty if i were going to be married. i'm sure mamma would think i was doing it beautifully. and i never shall be married. why can't i live something out for myself, and have a place of my own? i have got money enough to pay my rent, and i could do sewing in a genteel way, or keep a school for little children. i'd rather--take in back stairs to wash," she exclaimed vehemently, "than wait round for things, and be nothing! and i should like to begin young, while there might be some sort of fun in it. you'd like to come and take tea with me, wouldn't you, aunt frank?" "if it were all right that you should have separate teas of your own." "and if i had waffles. well, i should. i think, just now, there's nothing i should like so much as a little kitchen of my own, and a pie-board, and a biscuit-cutter, and a beautiful baking oven, and a japan tea-pot." "the pretty part. but brooms, and pails, and wash-tubs, and the back stairs?" "i specified back stairs in the first place, of my own accord. i wouldn't shirk. sometimes i think that real good old-fashioned hard work is what i do want. i should like to find the right, honest thing, and do it, aunt frank." she said it earnestly, and there were tears in her eyes. "i believe you would," said mrs. ripwinkley. "but perhaps the right, honest thing, just now, is to wait patiently, with all your might." "now, that's good," said desire, "and cute of you, too, that last piece of a sentence. if you had stopped at '_patiently_,' as people generally do! that's what exasperates; when you want to do something with all your might. it almost seems as if i could, when you put it so." "it is a 'stump,' luclarion would say." "luclarion is a saint and a philosopher. i feel better," said desire. she stayed feeling better all that afternoon; she helped sulie praile cut out little panels from her thick sheet of gray painting-board, and contrived her a small easel with her round lightstand and a book-rest; for sulie was advancing in the fine arts, from painting dollies' paper faces in cheap water colors, to copying bits of flowers and fern and moss, with oils, on gray board; and she was doing it very well, and with exquisite delight. to wait, meant something to wait for; something coming by and by; that was what comforted desire to-day, as she walked home alone in the sharp, short, winter twilight; that, and the being patient with all one's might. to be patient, is to be also strong; this she saw, newly; and desire coveted, most of all, to be strong. something to wait for. "he does not cheat," said desire, low down in her heart, to herself. for the child had faith, though she could not talk about it. something; but very likely not the thing you have seen, or dreamed of; something quite different, it may be, when it comes; and it may come by the way of losing, first, all that you have been able yet, with a vague, whispering hope, to imagine. the things we do not know! the things that are happening,--the things that are coming; rising up in the eastward of our lives below the horizon that we can yet see; it may be a star, it may be a cloud! desire ledwith could not see that out at westover, this cheery winter night, it was one of dear miss pennington's "next thursdays;" she could not see that the young architect, living away over there in the hundred-year-old house on the side of east hill, a boarder with old miss arabel waite, had been found, and appreciated, and drawn into their circle by the haddens and the penningtons and the holabirds and the inglesides; and that rosamond was showing him the pleasant things in their westover life,--her "swan's nest among the reeds," that she had told him of,--that early autumn evening, when they had walked up hanley street together. xvi. swarming. spring came on early, with heavy rains and freshets in many parts of the country. it was a busy time at z----. two things had happened there that were to give kenneth kincaid more work, and would keep him where he was all summer. just before he went to z----, there had been a great fire at west hill. all mr. roger marchbanks's beautiful place was desolate. house, conservatories, stables, lovely little vine-covered rustic buildings, exquisitely tended shrubbery,--all swept over in one night by the red flames, and left lying in blackness and ashes. for the winter, mr. marchbanks had taken his family to boston; now he was planning eagerly to rebuild. kenneth had made sketches; mr. marchbanks liked his ideas; they had talked together from time to time. now, the work was actually in hand, and kenneth was busy with drawings and specifications. down at the river, during the spring floods, a piece of the bridge had been carried away, and the dam was broken through. there were new mill buildings, too, going up, and a block of factory houses. all this business, through mr. marchbanks directly or indirectly, fell also into kenneth's hands. he wrote blithe letters to dorris; and dorris, running in and out from her little spring cleanings that hazel was helping her with, told all the letters over to the ripwinkleys. "he says i must come up there in my summer vacation and board with his dear old miss waite. think of kentie's being able to give me such a treat as that! a lane, with ferns and birches, and the woods,--_pine_ woods!--and a hill where raspberries grow, and the river!" mrs. ledwith was thinking of her summer plans at this time, also. she remembered the large four-windowed room looking out over the meadow, that mrs. megilp and glossy had at mrs. prendible's, for twelve dollars a week, in and. she could do no better than that, at country boarding, anywhere; and mr. ledwith could sleep at the house in shubarton place, getting his meals down town during the week, and come up and spend his sundays with them. a bedroom, in addition, for six dollars more, would be all they would want. the ripwinkleys were going up to homesworth by and by for a little while, and would take sulie praile with them. sulie was ecstatically happy. she had never been out of the city in all her life. she felt, she said, "as if she was going to heaven without dying." vash was to be left at mrs. scarup's with her sister. miss craydocke would be away at the mountains; all the little life that had gathered together in the aspen street neighborhood, seemed about to be broken up. uncle titus oldways never went out of town, unless on business. rachel froke stayed, and kept his house; she sat in the gray room, and thought over the summers she had had. "thee never loses anything out of thy life that has been in," she said. "summer times are like grains of musk; they keep their smell always, and flavor the shut-up places they are put away in." for you and me, reader, we are to go to z---- again. i hope you like it. but before that, i must tell you what luclarion grapp has done. partly from the principle of her life, and partly from the spirit of things which she would have caught at any rate, from the ripwinkley home and the craydocke "beehive,"--for there is nothing truer than that the kingdom of heaven is like leaven,--i suppose she had been secretly thinking for a good while, that she was having too easy a time here, in her first floor kitchen and her garden bedroom; that this was not the life meant for her to live right on, without scruple or question; and so began in her own mind to expect some sort of "stump;" and even to look about for it. "it isn't as it was when mrs. ripwinkley was a widow, and poor,--that is, comparative; and it took all her and my contrivance to look after the place and keep things going, and paying, up in homesworth; there was something to buckle to, then; but now, everything is eased and flatted out, as it were; it makes me res'less, like a child put to bed in the daytime." luclarion went down to the north end with miss craydocke, on errands of mercy; she went in to the new mission, and saw the heavenly beauty of its intent, and kindled up in her soul at it; and she came home, time after time, and had thoughts of her own about these things, and the work in the world there was to do. she had cleaned up and set things going at mrs. scarup's; she learned something in doing that, beyond what she knew when she set about it; her thoughts began to shape themselves to a theory; and the theory took to itself a text and a confirmation and a command. "go down and be a neighbor to them that have fallen among thieves." luclarion came to a resolution in this time of may, when everybody was making plans and the spring-cleaning was all done. she came to mrs. ripwinkley one morning, when she was folding away winter clothes, and pinning them up in newspapers, with camphor-gum; and she said to her, without a bit of preface,--luclarion hated prefaces,-- "mrs. ripwinkley, i'm going to swarm!" mrs. ripwinkley looked up in utter surprise; what else could she do? "of course 'm, when you set up a beehive, you must have expected it; it's the natural way of things; they ain't good for much unless they do. i've thought it all over; i'll stay and see you all off, first, if you want me to, and then--i'll swarm." "well," said mrs. ripwinkley, assenting in full faith, beforehand; for mrs. ripwinkley, if i need now to tell you of it, was not an ordinary woman, and did not take things in an ordinary selfish way, but grasped right hold of the inward right and truth of them, and believed in it; sometimes before she could quite see it; and she never had any doubt of luclarion grapp. "well! and now tell me all about it." "you see," said luclarion, sitting down in a chair by the window, as mrs. ripwinkley suspended her occupation and took one by the bedside, "there's places in this town that folks leave and give up. as the lord might have left and give up the world, because there was dirt and wickedness in it; only he didn't. there's places where it ain't genteel, nor yet respectable, to live; and so those places grow more disrespectable and miserable every day. they're left to themselves. what i think is, they hadn't ought to be. there's one clean spot down there now, in the very middle of the worst dirt. and it ain't bad to live in. _that's_ started. now, what i think is, that somebody ought to start another, even if its only a little one. somebody ought to just go there and _live_, and show 'em how, just as i took and showed mrs. scarup, and she's been living ever since, instead of scratching along. if some of them folks had a clean, decent neighbor to go to see,--to drink tea with, say,--and was to catch an idea of her fixings and doings, why, i believe there'd be more of 'em,--cleaned up, you know. they'd get some kind of an ambition and a hope. tain't enough for ladies--though i bless 'em in my soul for what i've seen 'em do--to come down there of a fridays, and teach and talk awhile, and then go home to summit street and republic avenue, and take up _their_ life again where they left it off, that is just as different as heaven is from 'tother place; somebody's got to come right down _out_ of heaven, and bring the life in, and live it amongst them miserable folks, as the lord jesus christ came and did! and it's borne in upon me, strong and clear, that that's what's got to be before all's righted. and so--for a little piece of it, and a little individual stump--i'm going to swarm, and settle, and see what'll come." mrs. ripwinkley was looking very intently at luclarion. her breath went and came hurriedly, and her face turned pale with the grand surprise of such a thought, such a plan and purpose, so simply and suddenly declared. her eyes were large and moist with feeling. "do you _know_, luclarion," she exclaimed at last, "do you realize what this is that you are thinking of; what a step it would be to take,--what a work it would be to even hope to begin to do? do you know how strange it is,--how almost impracticable,--that it is not even safe?" "'twasn't _safe_ for him--when he came into the world," luclarion answered. "not to say i think there's any comparison," she began again, presently, "or that i believe there's anything to be really scared of,--except dirt; and you _can_ clean a place round you, as them mission people have done. why, there ain't a house in boston nicer, or sweeter, or airier even, than that one down in arctic street, with beautiful parlors and bedrooms, and great clean galleries leading round, and skylighted,--_sky_ lighted! for you see the blue heaven is above all, and you _can_ let the skylight in, without any corruption coming in with it; and if twenty people can do that much, or a hundred,--one can do something. 'taint much, either, to undertake; only to be willing to go there, and make a clean place for yourself, and a home; and live there, instead of somewheres else that's ready made; and let it spread. and you know i've always looked forrud to some kind of a house-keep of my own, finally." "but, luclarion, i don't understand! all alone? and you couldn't use a whole house, you know. your neighbors would be _inmates_. why, it seems to me perfectly crazy!" "now, ma'am, did you ever know me to go off on a tangent, without some sort of a string to hold on to? i ain't goin' to swarm all alone! i never heard of such a thing. though if i couldn't _swarm_, and the thing was to be done, i say i'd try it. but savira golding is going to be married to sam gallilee, next month; and he's a stevedore, and his work is down round the wharves; he's class-leader in our church, and a first-rate, right-minded man, or else savira wouldn't have him; for if savira ain't a clear christian, and a doing woman, there ain't one this side of paradise. now, you see, sam gallilee makes money; he runs a gang of three hundred men. he can afford a good house, and a whole one, if he wants; but he's going in for a big one, and neighbors. they mean to live nice,--he and savira; and she has pretty, tasty ways; there'll be white curtains, and plants blooming in her windows, you may make sure; she's always had 'em in that little up-stairs dress-making room of hers; and boxes of mignonette and petunias on the ledges; and birds singing in a great summer cage swung out against the wall. she's one of the kind that reaches out, and can't be kept in; and she knows her gifts, and is willing to go and let her light shine where it will help others, and so glorify; and sam, he's willing too, and sees the beauty of it. and so,--well, that's the swarm." "and the 'little round godamighty in the middle of it,'" said mrs. ripwinkley, her face all bright and her eyes full of tears. "_ma'am_!" then mrs. ripwinkley told her miss craydocke's story. "well," said luclarion, "there's something dear and right-to-the-spot about it; but it does sound singular; and it certainly ain't a thing to say careless." * * * * * desire ledwith grew bright and excited as the summer came on, and the time drew near for going to z----. she could not help being glad; she did not stop to ask why; summer-time was reason enough, and after the weariness of the winter, the thought of z---- and the woods and the river, and sweet evenings and mornings, and gardens and orchards, and road-side grass, was lovely to her. "it is so pleasant up there!" she would keep saying to dorris; and somehow she said it to dorris oftener than to anybody else. there was something fitful and impetuous in her little outbursts of satisfaction; they noticed it in her; the elder ones among them noticed it with a touch of anxiety for her. miss craydocke, especially, read the signs, matching them with something that she remembered far back in the life that had closed so peacefully, with white hairs and years of a serene content and patience, over all unrest and disappointment, for herself. she was sorry for this young girl, for whom she thought she saw an unfulfilled dream of living that should go by her like some bright cloud, just near enough to turn into a baptism of tears. she asked desire, one day, if she would not like to go with her, this summer, to the mountains. desire put by the suggestion hastily. "o, no, thank you, miss craydocke, i must stay with mamma and helena. and besides," she added, with the strict, full truth she always demanded of herself, "i _want_ to go to z----." "yes," said miss craydocke. there was something tender, like a shade of pity, in her tone. "but you would enjoy the mountains. they are full of strength and rest. one hardly understands the good the hills do one. david did, looking out into them from jerusalem. 'i will look to the hills, from whence cometh my strength.'" "some time," said desire. "some time i shall need the hills, and--be ready for them. but this summer--i want a good, gay, young time. i don't know why, except that i shall be just eighteen this year, and it seems as if, after that, i was going to be old. and i want to be with people i know. i _can_ be gay in the country; there is something to be gay about. but i can't dress and dance in the city. that is all gas-light and get-up." "i suppose," said miss craydocke, slowly, "that our faces are all set in the way we are to go. even if it is--" she stopped. she was thinking of one whose face had been set to go to jerusalem. her own words had led her to something she had not foreseen when she began. nothing of such suggestion came to desire. she was in one of her rare moods of good cheer. "i suppose so," she said, heedlessly. and then, taking up a thought of her own suddenly,--"miss craydocke! don't you think people almost always live out their names? there's sin scherman; there'll always be a little bit of mischief and original naughtiness in her,--with the harm taken out of it; and there's rosamond holabird,--they couldn't have called her anything better, if they'd waited for her to grow up; and barb _was_ sharp; and our little hazel is witchy and sweet and wild-woodsy; and luclarion,--isn't that shiny and trumpety, and doesn't she do it? and then--there's me. i shall always be stiff and hard and unsatisfied, except in little bits of summer times that won't come often. they might as well have christened me anxiety. i wonder why they didn't." "that would have been very different. there is a nobleness in desire. you will overlive the restless part," said miss craydocke. "was there ever anything restless in your life, miss craydocke? and how long did it take to overlive it? it doesn't seem as if you had ever stubbed your foot against anything; and i'm _always_ stubbing." "my dear, i have stubbed along through fifty-six years; and the years had all three hundred and sixty-five days in them. there were chances,--don't you think so?" "it looks easy to be old after it is done," said desire. "easy and comfortable. but to be eighteen, and to think of having to go on to be fifty-six; i beg your pardon,--but i wish it was over!" and she drew a deep breath, heavy with the days that were to be. "you are not to take it all at once, you know," said miss craydocke. "but i do, every now and then. i can't help it. i am sure it is the name. if they had called me 'hapsie,' like you, i should have gone along jolly, as you do, and not minded. you see you have to _hear_ it all the time; and it tunes you up to its own key. you can't feel like a dolly, or a daisy, when everybody says--de-sire!" "i don't know how i came to be called 'hapsie,'" said miss craydocke. "somebody who liked me took it up, and it seemed to get fitted on. but that wasn't when i was young." "what was it, then?" asked desire, with a movement of interest. "keren-happuch," said miss craydocke, meekly. "my father named me, and he always called me so,--the whole of it. he was a severe, old-testament man, and _his_ name was job." desire was more than half right, after all. there was a good deal of miss craydocke's story hinted in those few words and those two ancient names. "but i turned into 'miss craydocke' pretty soon, and settled down. i suppose it was very natural that i should," said the sweet old maid, serenely. xvii. questions and answers. the evening train came in through the little bend in the edge of the woods, and across the bridge over the pretty rapids, and slid to its stopping-place under the high arches of the other bridge that connected the main street of z---- with its continuation through "and." there were lights twinkling in the shops, where they were making change, and weighing out tea and sugar, and measuring calico, although outside it was not yet quite dark. the train was half an hour late; there had been a stoppage at some draw or crossing near the city. mr. prendible was there, to see if his lodgers were come, and to get his evening paper; the platform was full of people. old z---- acquaintances, many of them, whom desire and her mother were pleased, and helena excited to see. "there's kenneth kincaid!" she exclaimed, quite loudly, pulling desire's sleeve. "hush!" said desire, twitching away. "how can you, helena?" "he's coming,--he heard me!" cried helena, utterly impenitent. "i should think he might!" and desire walked off a little, to look among the trunks that were being tumbled from the baggage car. she had seen him all the time; he had been speaking to ruth holabird, and helping her up the steps with her parcels. mr. holabird was there with the little westover carryall that they kept now; and kenneth put her in, and then turned round in time to hear helena's exclamation and to come down again. "can i help you? i'm very glad you are come," he said, cordially. well; he might have said it to anybody. again, well; it was enough to say to anybody. why should desire feel cross? he took helena's bag; she had a budget beside; mr. prendible relieved mrs. ledwith; desire held on valiantly to her own things. kenneth walked over the bridge with them, and down the street to mr. prendible's door; there he bade them good-by and left them. it was nice to be in z----; it was very sweet here under the blossoming elms and locusts; it was nice to see kenneth kincaid again, and to think that dorris was coming by and by, and that the lanes were green and full of ferns and vines, and that there was to be a whole long summer; but there were so many people down there on the platform,--there was such a muss always; ruth holabird was a dear little thing, but there were always so many ruths about! and there was only one cross, stiff, odd, uncomfortable desire! but the very next night kenneth came down and stayed an hour; there was a new moon glistening through the delicate elm-tips, and they sat out on the piazza and breathed in such an air as they had not had in their nostrils for months and months. the faint, tender light from the golden west in which the new moon lay, showed the roof and tower of the little church, kenneth's first beautiful work; and kenneth told them how pleasant it was up at miss arabel's, and of the tame squirrels that he fed at his window, and of the shady pasture-path that led away over the brook from the very door, and up among pines and into little still nooks where dry mossy turf and warm gray rocks were sheltered in by scraggy cedars and lisping birches, so that they were like field-parlors opening in and out from each other with all sorts of little winding and climbing passages, between clumps of bayberry bushes and tall ferns; and that the girls from z---- and westover made morning picnics there, since lucilla waters had grown intimate with delia waite and found it out; and that delia waite and even miss arabel carried their dressmaking down there sometimes in a big white basket, and stayed all day under the trees. they had never used to do this; they had stayed in the old back sitting room with all the litter round, and never thought of it till those girls had come and showed them how. "i think there is the best and sweetest neighborliness and most beautiful living here in z----, that i ever knew in any place," said kenneth kincaid; "except that little piece of the same thing in aspen street." kenneth had found out how rosamond holabird recognized aspen street as a piece of her world. desire hated, as he spoke, her spitefulness last night; what she had said to herself of "so many ruths;" why could not she not be pleased to come into this beautiful living and make a little part of it? she was pleased; she would be; she found it very easy when kenneth said to her in that frank intimate way,--"i wish you and your mother would come over and see what dorris will want, and help me a little about that room of hers. i told miss waite not to bother; just to let the old things stand,--i knew dorris would like them,--and anything else i would get for her myself. i mean dolly shall take a long vacation this year; from june right through to september; and its 'no end of jolly,' as those english fellows say, that you have come too!" kenneth kincaid was fresher and pleasanter and younger himself, than desire had ever seen him before; he seemed to have forgotten that hard way of looking at the world; he had found something so undeniably good in it. i am afraid desire had rather liked him for his carping, which was what he least of all deserved to be liked for. it showed how high and pure his demands were; but his praise and admissions were better; it is always better to discern good than to fret at the evil. "i shall see you every day," he said, when he shook hands at parting; "and helena, if you want a squirrel to keep in your pocket next winter, i'll begin training one for you at once." he had taken them right to himself, as if they belonged to him; he spoke as if he were very glad that he should see them every day. desire whistled over her unpacking; she could not sing, but she could whistle like a blackbird. when her father came up on saturday night, he said that her eyes were brighter and her cheeks were rounder, for the country air; she would take to growing pretty instead of strong-minded, if she didn't look out. kenneth came round on monday, after tea, to ask them to go over to miss waite's and make acquaintance. "for you see," he said, "you will have to be very intimate there, and it is time to begin. it will take one call to be introduced, and another, at least, to get up-stairs and see that beautiful breezy old room that can't be lived in in winter, but is to be a delicious sort of camping-out for dolly, all summer. it is all windows and squirrel-holes and doors that won't shut. everything comes in but the rain; but the roof is tight on that corner. even the woodbine has got tossed in through a broken upper pane, and i wouldn't have it mended on any account. there are swallows' nests in the chimneys, and wrens under the gable, and humming-birds in the honeysuckle. when dolly gets there, it will be perfect. it just wants her to take it all right into her heart and make one piece of it. _they_ don't know,--the birds and the squirrels,--it takes the human. there has to be an adam in every garden of eden." kenneth really chattered, from pure content and delight. it did not take two visits to get up-stairs. miss arabel met them heartily. she had been a shy, timid old lady, from long neglect and humble living; but lately she had "come out in society," delia said. society had come after her, and convinced her that she could make good times for it. she brought out currant wine and gave them, the first thing; and when kenneth told her that they were his and dorris's friends, and were coming next week to see about getting ready for her, she took them right round through all four of the ground rooms, to the queer corner staircase, and up into the "long west chamber," to show them what a rackety old place it was, and to see whether they supposed it could be made fit. "why it's like the romance of the forest!" said helena, delighted. "i wish _we_ had come here. don't you have ghosts, or robbers, or something, up and down those stairs, miss waite?" for she had spied a door that led directly out of the room, from beside the chimney, up into the rambling old garret, smelling of pine boards and penny-royal. "no; nothing but squirrels and bees, and sometimes a bat," answered miss arabel. "well, it doesn't want fixing. if you fix it, you will spoil it. i shall come here and sleep with dorris,--see if i don't." the floor was bare, painted a dark, marbled gray. in the middle was a great braided rug, of blue and scarlet and black. the walls were pale gray, with a queer, stencilled scroll-and-dash border of vermilion and black paint. there was an old, high bedstead, with carved frame and posts, bare of drapery; an antiquated chest of drawers; and a half-circular table with tall, plain, narrow legs, between two of the windows. there was a corner cupboard, and a cupboard over the chimney. the doors of these, and the high wainscot around the room, were stained in old-fashioned "imitation mahogany," very streaky and red. the wainscot was so heavily finished that the edge running around the room might answer for a shelf. "just curtains, and toilet covers, and a little low rocking chair," said mrs. ledwith. "that is all you want." "but the windows are so high," suggested desire. "a low chair would bury her up, away from all the pleasantness. i'll tell you what i would have, mr. kincaid. a kind of dais, right across that corner, to take in two windows; with a carpet on it, and a chair, and a little table." "just the thing!" said kenneth. "that is what i wanted you for, miss desire," he said in a pleased, gentle way, lowering his tone to her especial hearing, as he stood beside her in the window. and desire was very happy to have thought of it. helena was spurred by emulation to suggest something. "i'd have a--hammock--somewhere," she said. "good," said kenneth. "that shall be out under the great butternut." the great butternut walled in one of the windows with a wilderness of green, and the squirrels ran chattering up and down the brown branches, and peeping in all day. in the autumn, when the nuts were ripe, they would be scrambling over the roof, and in under the eaves, to hide their stores in the garret, miss arabel told them. "why doesn't everbody have an old house, and let the squirrels in?" cried helena, in a rapture. in ten days more,--the first week of june,--dorris came. well,--"that let in all the rest," helena said, and desire, may be, thought. "we shan't have it to ourselves any more." the girls could all come down and call on dorris kincaid, and they did. but desire and helena had the first of it; nobody else went right up into her room; nobody else helped her unpack and settle. and she was so delighted with all that they had done for her. the dais was large enough for two or three to sit upon at once, and it was covered with green carpet of a small, mossy pattern, and the window was open into the butternut on one side, and into the honeysuckle on the other, and it was really a bower. "i shall live ten hours in one," said dorris. "and you'll let me come and sleep with you some night, and hear the bats," said helena. the ledwiths made a good link; they had known the kincaids so well; if it had been only dorris, alone, with her brother there, the westover girls might have been shy of coming often. since kenneth had been at miss waite's, they had already grown a little less free of the beautiful woods that they had just found out and begun fairly to enjoy last autumn. but the ledwiths made a strong party; and they lived close by; there were plans continually. since leslie goldthwaite and barbara holabird were married and gone, and the roger marchbankses were burned out, and had been living in the city and travelling, the hobarts and the haddens and ruth and rosamond and pen pennington had kept less to their immediate westover neighborhood than ever; and had come down to lucilla's, and to maddy freeman's, and the inglesides, as often as they had induced them to go up to the hill. maud marchbanks and the hendees were civil and neighborly enough at home, but they did not care to "ramify." so it came to pass that they were left a good deal to themselves. olivia and adelaide, when they came up to westover, to their uncle's, wondered "that papa cared to build again; there really wasn't anything to come for; west hill was entirely changed." so it was; and a very good thing. i came across the other day, reading over mr. kingsley's "two years ago," a true word as to social needs in england, that reminded me of this that the holabirds and the penningtons and the inglesides have been doing, half unconsciously, led on from "next" to next, in z----. mr. kingsley, after describing a miss heale, and others of her class,--the middle class, with no high social opportunities, and with time upon their hands, wasted often in false dreams of life and unsatisfied expectations, "bewildering heart and brain with novels," for want of a nobler companionship, says this: "till in country villages, the ladies who interest themselves about the poor will recollect that the farmers' and tradesmens' daughters are just as much in want of their influence as the charity children and will yield a far richer return for their labor, so long will england be full of miss heales." if a kindly influence and fellowship are the duty of the aristocratic girls of england toward their "next," below, how far more false are american girls to the spirit of their country, and the blessed opportunities of republican sympathies and equalities, when they try to draw invisible lines between themselves and those whose outer station differs by but so little, and whose hearts and minds, under the like culture with their own, crave, just as they do, the best that human intercourse can give. social science has something to do, before--or at least simultaneously with--reaching down to the depths where all the wrongs and blunders and mismanagements of life have precipitated their foul residuum. a master of one of our public schools, speaking of the undue culture of the brain and imagination, in proportion to the opportunities offered socially for living out ideas thus crudely gathered, said that his brightest girls were the ones who in after years, impatient of the little life gave them to satisfy the capacities and demands aroused and developed during the brief period of school life, and fed afterwards by their own ill-judged and ill-regulated reading, were found fallen into lives of vice. have our women, old or young, who make and circumscribe the opportunities of social intercourse and enjoyment, nothing to search out here, and help, as well, or as soon as, to get their names put on committee lists, and manage these public schools themselves, which educate and stimulate up to the point of possible fierce temptation, and then have nothing more that they can do? it was a good thing for desire ledwith to grow intimate, as she did, with rosamond holabird. there were identical points of character between the two. they were both so real. "you don't want to _play_ anything," barbara holabird had said to rosamond once, in some little discussion of social appearances and pretensions. "and that's the beauty of you!" it was the beauty of desire ledwith also; only, with rosamond, her ambitions had clothed themselves with a grace and delicateness that would have their own perfect and thorough as far as it went; and with desire, the same demands of true living had chafed into an impatience with shams and a blunt disregard of and resistance to all conventionalisms. "you are a good deal alike, you two," kenneth kincaid said to them one day, in a talk they all three happened to have together. and he had told rosamond afterward that there was "something grand in desire ledwith; only grand things almost always have to grow with struggles." rosamond had told this again to desire. it was not much wonder that she began to be happier; to have a hidden comfort of feeling that perhaps the "waiting with all her might" was nearly over, and the "by and by" was blossoming for her, though the green leaves of her own shy sternness with herself folded close down about the sweetening place, and she never parted them aside to see where the fragrance came from. * * * * * they were going to have a grand, large, beautiful supper party in the woods. mrs. holabird and mrs. hobart were the matrons, and gave out the invitations. "i don't think i could possibly spend a tuesday afternoon with a little 't,'" said mrs. lewis marchbanks laughing, and tossing down poor, dear, good mrs. hobart's note upon her table. "it is _rather_ more than is to be expected!" "doctor and mrs. hautayne are here, and dakie thayne is home from west point. it will be rather a nice party." "the holabirds seem to have got everything into their own hands," said mrs. marchbanks, haughtily. "it is always a pity when people take the lead who are not exactly qualified. mrs. holabird _will_ not discriminate!' "i think the holabirds are splendid," spoke up lily, "and i don't think there's any fun in sticking up by ourselves! i can't bear to be judicious!" poor little lily marchbanks had been told a tiresome many times that she must be "judicious" in her intimacies. "you can be _pleasant_ to everybody," said mother and elder sister, with a salvo of christian benignity. but it is so hard for little children to be pleasant with fence and limitation. "where must i stop?" lily had asked in her simplicity. "when they give me a piece of their luncheon, or when they walk home from school, or when they say they will come in a little while?" but there came a message back from boston by the eleven o'clock train on the morning of the tuesday with a little "t," from mr. marchbanks himself, to say that his brother and mr. geoffrey would come up with him to dinner, and to desire that carriages might be ready afterward for the drive over to waite's grove. mrs. marchbanks marveled, but gave her orders. arthur came out early, and brought with him his friend archie mucklegrand, and these two were bound also for the merry-making. now archie mucklegrand was the identical youth of the lavender pantaloons and the waxed moustache, whom desire, as "miss ledwith," had received in state a year and a half ago. so it was an imposing cavalcade, after all, from west hill, that honored the very indiscriminate pleasure party, and came riding and driving in at about six o'clock. there were the barouche and the coupé; for the ladies and elder gentlemen, and the two young men accompanied them on horseback. archie mucklegrand had been at west hill often before. he and arthur had just graduated at harvard, and the holabirds had had cards to their grand spread on class day. archie mucklegrand had found out what a pretty girl--and a good deal more than merely pretty--rosamond holabird was; and although he might any day go over to his big, wild highland estate, and take upon himself the glory of "sir archibald" there among the hills and moors,--and though any one of a good many pretty girls in spreadsplendid park and republic avenue might be induced, perhaps, if he tried, to go with him,--all this did not hinder him from perceiving that up here in z---- was just the most bewitching companionship he had ever fallen in with, or might ever be able to choose for himself for any going or abiding; that rosamond holabird was just the brightest, and sweetest, and most to his mind of any girl that he had ever seen, and most like "the woman" that a man might dream of. i do not know that he quite said it all to himself in precisely that way; i am pretty sure that he did not, as yet; but whatever is off-hand and young-mannish and modern enough to express to one's self without "sposhiness" an admiration and a preference like that, he undoubtedly did say. at any rate after his christmas at z---- with arthur, and some charade parties they had then at westover, and after class day, when everybody had been furious to get an introduction, and all the spreadsplendid girls and their mothers had been wondering who that miss holabird was and where she came from, and madam mucklegrand herself--not having the slightest recollection of her as the miss holabird of that early-morning business call, whose name she had just glanced at and dropped into an indian china scrap-jar before she went down-stairs--had asked him the same questions, and pronounced that she was "an exceedingly graceful little person, certainly,"--after all this, archie had made up his--mind, shall i say? at least his inclination, and his moustache--to pursue the acquaintance, and be as irresistible as he could. but rosamond had learned--things do so play into our lives in a benign order--just before that christmas time and those charades, in one of which archie mucklegrand had sung to her, so expressively, the "birks of aberfeldy,"--that spreadsplendid park was not, at least his corner of it,--a "piece of her world;" and she did not believe that aberfeldy would be, either, though archie's voice was beautiful, and-- "bonnie lassie, will ye go?" sounded very enticing--in a charade. so she was quite calm when the marchbanks party came upon the ground, and archie mucklegrand, with white trousers and a lavender tie, and the trim, waxed moustache, looking very handsome in spite of his dapperness, found her out in the first two minutes, and attached himself to her forthwith in a most undetachable and determined manner, which was his way of being irresistible. they were in the midst of their tea and coffee when the west hill party came. miss arabel was busy at the coffee-table between the two oaks, pouring out with all her might, and creaming the fragrant cups with a rich lavishness that seemed to speak of milky mothers without number or limit of supply; and rosamond, as the most natural and hospitable thing to do, conducted the young gentleman as soon as she could to that lady, and commended him to her good offices. these were not to be resisted; and as soon as he was occupied, rosamond turned to attend to others coming up; and the groups shifting, she found herself presently a little way off, and meanwhile mrs. marchbanks and her son had reached the table and joined archie. "i say, arthur! o, mrs. marchbanks! you never got such coffee as this, i do believe! the open air has done something to it, or else the cream comes from some supernal cows! miss holabird!" rosamond turned round. "i don't see,--mrs. marchbanks ought to have some of this coffee, but where is your good woman gone?" for miss arabel had stepped round behind the oak-tree for a moment, to see about some replenishing. in her prim, plain dress, utterly innocent of style or _bias_, and her zealous ministry, good miss arabel might easily be taken for some comfortable, superior old servant; but partly from a sudden sense of fun,--mrs. marchbanks standing there in all her elegant dignity,--and partly from a jealous chivalry of friendship, rosamond would not let it pass so. "good woman? hush! she is one of our hostesses, the owner of the ground, and a dear friend of mine. here she is. miss waite, let me introduce mr. archibald mucklegrand. mrs. marchbanks will like some coffee, please." which mrs. marchbanks took with a certain look of amazement, that showed itself subtilely in a slight straightening of the lips and an expansion of the nostrils. she did not _sniff_; she was a great deal too much a lady; she was mrs. marchbanks, but if she had been mrs. higgin, and had felt just so, she would have sniffed. somebody came up close to rosamond on the other side. "that was good," said kenneth kincaid. "thank you for that, miss rosamond." "will you have some more?" asked rosamond, cunningly, pretending to misunderstand, and reaching her hand to take his empty cup. "one mustn't ask for all one would like," said kenneth, relinquishing the cup, and looking straight in her eyes. rosamond's eyes fell; she had no rejoinder ready; it was very well that she had the cup to take care of, and could turn away, for she felt a very foolish color coming up in her face. she made herself very busy among the guests. archie mucklegrand stayed by, and spoke to her every time he found a chance. at last, when people had nearly done eating and drinking, he asked her if she would not show him the path down to the river. "it must be beautiful down there under the slope," he said. she called dorris and desire, then, and oswald megilp, who was with them. he was spending a little time here at the prendibles, with his boat on the river, as he had used to do. when he could take an absolute vacation, he was going away with a pedestrian party, among the mountains. there was not much in poor oswald megilp, but desire and rosamond were kind to him now that his mother was away. as they all walked down the bank among the close evergreens, they met mr. geoffrey and mr. marchbanks, with kenneth kincaid, coming up. kenneth came last, and the two parties passed each other single file, in the narrow pathway. kenneth paused as he came close to rosamond, holding back a bough for her. "i have something very nice to tell you," he whispered, "by and by. but it is a secret, as yet. please don't stay down there very long." nobody heard the whisper but rosamond; if they could have done so, he would not have whispered. archie mucklegrand was walking rather sulkily along before; he had not cared for a party to be made up when he asked rosamond to go down to the river with him. desire and dorris had found some strange blossom among the underbrush, and were stopping for it; and oswald megilp was behind them. for a few seconds, kenneth had rosamond quite to himself. the slight delay had increased the separation between her and archie mucklegrand, for he had kept steadily on in his little huff. "i do not think we shall be long," said rosamond, glancing after him, and looking up, with her eyes bright. she was half merry with mischief, and half glad with a quieter, deeper pleasure, at kenneth's words. he would tell her something in confidence; something that he was glad of; he wanted her to know it while it was yet a secret; she had not the least guess what it could be; but it was very "nice" already. rosamond always did rather like to be told things first; to have her friends confide in and consult with her, and rely upon her sympathy; she did not stop to separate the old feeling which she was quite aware of in herself, from something new that made it especially beautiful that kenneth kincaid should so confide and rely. rosamond was likely to have more told her to-night than she quite dreamed of. "desire!" they heard mrs. ledwith's voice far back among the trees. desire answered. "i want you, dear!" "something about shawls and baskets, i suppose," said desire, turning round, perhaps a little the more readily that kenneth was beside her now, going back also. dorris and oswald megilp, finding there was a move to return, and being behind desire in the pathway, turned also, as people will who have no especial motive for going one way rather than another; and so it happened that after all rosamond and archie mucklegrand walked on down the bank to the river together, by themselves. archie's good humor returned quickly. "i am glad they are gone; it was such a fuss having so many," he said. "we shall have to go back directly; they are beginning to break up," said rosamond. and then, coming out to the opening by the water, she began to talk rather fast about the prettiness of the view, and to point out the bridge, and the mills, and the shadow of east hill upon the water, and the curve of the opposite shore, and the dip of the shrubs and their arched reflections. she seemed quite determined to have all the talk to herself. archie mucklegrand played with his stick, and twisted the end of his moustache. men never ought to allow themselves to learn that trick. it always comes back upon them when it makes them look most foolish. archie said nothing, because there was so much he wanted to say, and he did not know how to begin. he knew his mother and sister would not like it,--as long as they could help it, certainly,--therefore he had suddenly made up his mind that there should be no such interval. he could do as he pleased; was he not sir archibald? and there was his boston grandfather's property, too, of which a large share had been left outright to him; and he had been twenty-one these six months. there was nothing to hinder; and he meant to tell rosamond holabird that he liked her better than any other girl in the world. somebody else would be telling her so, if he didn't; he could see how they all came round her; perhaps it might be that tall, quiet, cheeky looking fellow,--that kincaid. he would be before him, at any rate. so he stood and twisted his moustache, and said nothing,--nothing, i mean, except mere little words of assent and echo to rosamond's chatter about the pretty view. at last,--"you are fond of scenery, miss holabird?" rosamond laughed. "o yes, i suppose i am; but we don't call this scenery. it is just pleasantness,--beauty. i don't think i quite like the word 'scenery.' it seems artificial,--got up for outside effect. and the most beautiful things do not speak from the outside, do they? i never travelled, mr. mucklegrand. i have just lived here, until i have lived _into_ things, or they into me. i rather think it is travelling, skimming about the world in a hurry, that makes people talk about 'scenery.' isn't it?" "i dare say. i don't care for skimming, myself. but i like to go to nice places, and stay long enough to get into them, as you say. i mean to go to scotland next year. i've a place there among the hills and lochs, miss rosamond." "yes. i have heard so. i should think you would wish to go and see it." "i'll tell you what i wish, miss holabird!" he said suddenly, letting go his moustache, and turning round with sufficient manfulness, and facing her. "i suppose there is a more gradual and elegant way of saying it; but i believe straightforward is as good as any. i wish you cared for me as i care for you, and then you would go with me." rosamond was utterly confounded. she had not imagined that it could be hurled at her, this fashion; she thought she could parry and put aside, if she saw anything coming. she was bewildered and breathless with the shock of it; she could only blindly, and in very foolish words, hurl it back. "o, dear, no!" she exclaimed, her face crimson. "i mean--i don't--i couldn't! i beg your pardon, mr. mucklegrand; you are very good; i am very sorry; but i wish you hadn't said so. we had better go back." "no," said archie mucklegrand, "not yet. i've said it now. i said it like a moon calf, but i mean it like a man. won't you--can't you--be my wife, rosamond? i must know that." "no, mr. mucklegrand," answered rosamond, quite steadily now and gently. "i could not be. we were never meant for each other. you will think so yourself next year,--by the time you go to scotland." "i shall never think so." of course he said that; young men always do; they mean it at the moment, and nothing can persuade them otherwise. "i told you i had lived right here, and grown into these things, and they into me," said rosamond, with a sweet slow earnestness, as if she thought out while she explained it; and so she did; for the thought and meaning of her life dawned upon her with a new perception, as she stood at this point and crisis of it in the responsibility of her young womanhood. "and these, and all the things that have influenced me, have given my life its direction; and i can see clearly that it was never meant to be your way. i do not know what it will be; but i know yours is different. it would be wrenching mine to turn it so." "but i would turn mine for you," said archie. "you couldn't. lives _grow_ together. they join beforehand, if they join at all. you like me, perhaps,--just what you see of me; but you do not know me, nor i you. if it--this--were meant, we should." "should what?" "know. be sure." "i am sure of what i told you." "and i thank you very much; but i do not--i never could--belong to you." what made rosamond so wise about knowing and belonging? she could not tell, herself; she had never thought it out before; but she seemed to see it very clearly now. she did not belong to archie mucklegrand, nor he to her; he was mistaken; their lives had no join; to make them join would be a force, a wrenching. archie mucklegrand did not care to have it put on such deep ground. he liked rosamond; he wanted her to like him; then they should be married, of coarse, and go to scotland, and have a good time; but this quiet philosophy cooled him somewhat. as they walked up the bank together, he wondered at himself a little that he did not feel worse about it. if she had been coquettish, or perverse, she might have been all the more bewitching to him. if he had thought she liked somebody else better, he might have been furiously jealous; but "her way of liking a fellow would be a slow kind of a way, after all." that was the gist of his thought about it; and i believe that to many very young men, at the age of waxed moustaches and german dancing, that "slow kind of a way" in a girl is the best possible insurance against any lasting damage that their own enthusiasm might suffer. he had not been contemptible in the offering of his love; his best had come out at that moment; if it does not come out then, somehow,--through face and tone, in some plain earnestness or simple nobleness, if not in fashion of the spoken word as very well it may not,--it must be small best that the man has in him. rosamond's simple saying of the truth, as it looked to her in that moment of sure insight, was the best help she could have given him. truth is always the best help. he did not exactly understand the wherefore, as she understood it; but the truth touched him nevertheless, in the way that he could perceive. they did not "belong" to each other. and riding down in the late train that evening, archie mucklegrand said to himself, drawing a long breath,--"it would have been an awful tough little joke, after all, telling it to the old lady!" "are you too tired to walk home?" kenneth kincaid asked of rosamond, helping her put the baskets in the carriage. dakie thayne had asked ruth the same question five minutes before, and they two had gone on already. are girls ever too tired to walk home after a picnic, when the best of the picnic is going to walk home with them? of course rosamond was not too tired; and mrs. holabird had the carryall quite to herself and her baskets. they took the river road, that was shady all the way, and sweet now with the dropping scents of evening; it was a little longer, too, i think, though that is one of the local questions that have never yet been fully decided. "how far does miss waite's ground run along the river?" asked kenneth, taking rosamond's shawl over his arm. "not far; it only just touches; it runs back and broadens toward the old turnpike. the best of it is in those woods and pastures." "so i thought. and the pastures are pretty much run out." "i suppose so. they are full of that lovely gray crackling moss." "lovely for picnics. don't you think miss waite would like to sell?" "yes, indeed, if she could. that is her dream; what she has been laying up for her old age: to turn the acres into dollars, and build or buy a little cottage, and settle down safe. it is all she has in the world, except her dressmaking." "mr. geoffrey and mr. marchbanks want to buy. they will offer her sixteen thousand dollars. that is the secret,--part of it." "o, mr. kincaid! how glad,--how _sorry_, i can't help being, too! miss waite to be so comfortable! and never to have her dear old woods to picnic in any more! i suppose they want to make streets and build it all up." "not all. i'll tell you. it is a beautiful plan. mr. geoffrey wants to build a street of twenty houses,--ten on a side,--with just a little garden plot for each, and leave the woods behind for a piece of nature for the general good,--a real union park; a place for children to play in, and grown folks to rest and walk and take tea in, if they choose; but for nobody to change or meddle with any further. and these twenty houses to be let to respectable persons of small means, at rents that will give him seven per cent, for his whole outlay. don't you see? young people, and people like miss waite herself, who don't want _much_ house-room, but who want it nice and comfortable, and will keep it so, and who _do_ want a little of god's world-room to grow in, that they can't get in the crowded town streets, where the land is selling by the foot to be all built over with human packing-cases, and where they have to pay as much for being shut up and smothered, as they will out here to live and breathe. that mr. geoffrey is a glorious man, rosamond! he is doing just this same thing in the edges of three or four other towns, buying up the land just before it gets too dear, to save for people who could not save it for themselves. he is providing for a class that nobody seems to have thought of,--the nice, narrow-pursed people, and the young beginners, who get married and take the world in the old-fashioned way." he had no idea he had called her "rosamond," till he saw the color shining up so in her face verifying the name. then it flashed out upon him as he sent his thought back through the last few sentences that he had spoken. "i beg your pardon," he said, suddenly. "but i was so full of this beautiful doing,--and i always think of you so! is there a sin in that?" rosamond colored deeper yet, and kenneth grew more bold. he had spoken it without plan; it had come of itself. "i can't help it now. i shall say it again, unless you tell me not! rosamond! i shall have these houses to build. i am getting ever so much to do. could you begin the world with me, rosamond?" rosamond did not say a word for a full minute. she only walked slowly by his side, her beautiful head inclined gently, shyly; her sweet face all one bloom, as faces never bloom but once. then she turned toward him and put out her hand. "i will begin the world with you," she said. and their world--that was begun for them before they were born--lifted up its veil and showed itself to them, bright in the eternal morning. * * * * * desire ledwith walked home all alone. she left dorris at miss waite's, and helena had teased to stay with her. mrs. ledwith had gone home among the first, taking a seat offered her in mrs. tom friske's carriage to east square; she had a headache, and was tired. desire felt the old, miserable questions coming up, tempting her. why? why was she left out,--forgotten? why was there nothing, very much, in any of this, for her? yet underneath the doubting and accusing, something lived--stayed by--to rebuke it; rose up above it finally, and put it down, though with a thrust that hurt the heart in which the doubt was trampled. wait. wait--with all your might! desire could do nothing very meekly; but she could even _wait_ with all her might. she put her foot down with a will, at every step. "i was put here to be desire ledwith," she said, relentlessly, to herself; "not rosamond holabird, nor even dolly. well, i suppose i can stay put, and _be_! if things would only _let_ me be!" but they will not. things never do, desire. they are coming, now, upon you. hard things,--and all at once. xviii. all at once. there was a monday morning train going down from z----. mr. ledwith and kenneth kincaid were in it, reading the morning papers, seated side by side. it was nearly a week since the picnic, but the engagement of rosamond and kenneth had not transpired. mr. holabird had been away in new york. of course nothing was said beyond mrs. holabird and ruth and dolly kincaid, until his return. but kenneth carried a happy face about with him, in the streets and in the cars and about his work; and his speech was quick and bright with the men he met and had need to speak to. it almost told itself; people might have guessed it, if they had happened, at least to see the _two_ faces in the same day, and if they were alive to sympathetic impressions of other people's pain or joy. there are not many who stop to piece expressions, from pure sympathy, however; they are, for the most part, too busy putting this and that together for themselves. desire would have guessed it in a minute; but she saw little of either in this week. mrs. ledwith was not well, and there was a dress to be made for helena. kenneth kincaid's elder men friends said of him, when they saw him in these days, "that's a fine fellow; he is doing very well." they could read that; he carried it in his eye and in his tone and in his step, and it was true. it was a hot morning; it would be a stifling day in the city. they sat quiet while they could, in the cars, taking the fresh air of the fields and the sea reaches, reading the french news, and saying little. they came almost in to the city terminus, when the train stopped. not at a station. there were people to alight at the last but one; these grew impatient after a few minutes, and got out and walked. the train still waited. mr. ledwith finished a column he was reading, and then looked up, as the conductor came along the passage. "what is the delay?" he asked of him. "freight. got such a lot of it. takes a good while to handle." freight outward bound. a train making up. mr. ledwith turned to his newspaper again. ten minutes went by. kenneth kincaid got up and went out, like many others. they might be kept there half an hour. mr. ledwith had read all his paper, and began to grow impatient. he put his head out at the window, and looked and listened. half the passengers were outside. brake-men were walking up and down. "has he got a flag out there?" says the conductor to one of these. "don't know. can't see. yes, he has; i heard him whistle brakes." just then, their own bell sounded, and men jumped on board. kenneth kincaid came back to his seat. behind, there was a long new york train coming in. mr. ledwith put his head out again, and looked back. all right; there had been a flag; the train had slackened just beyond a curve. but why will people do such things? what is the use of asking? mr. ledwith still looked out; he could not have told you why. a quicker motion; a darkening of the window; a freight car standing upon a siding, close to the switch, as they passed by; a sudden, dull blow, half unheard in the rumble of the train. women, sitting behind, sprang up,--screamed; one dropped, fainting: they had seen a ghastly sight; warm drops of blood flew in upon them; the car was in commotion. kenneth kincaid, with an exclamation of horror, clutched hold of a lifeless body that fell--was thrust--backward beside him; the poor head fractured, shattered, against the fatal window frame. * * * * * the eleven o'clock train came out. people came up the street,--a group of gentlemen, three or four,--toward mr. prendible's house. desire sat in a back window behind the blinds, busy. mrs. ledwith was lying on the bed. steps came in at the house door. there was an exclamation; a hush. mr. prendible's voice, kenneth kincaid's, mr. dimsey's, the minister's. "o! how? "--mrs. prendible's voice, now. "take care!" "where are they?" mrs. ledwith heard. "what is the matter?"--springing up, with a sudden instinct of precognition. desire had not seen or heard till now. she dropped her work. "what is it, mother?" mrs. ledwith was up, upon the floor; in the doorway out in the passage; trembling; seized all over with a horrible dread and vague knowledge. "_tell_ me what it is!" she cried, to those down below. they were all there upon the staircase; mrs. prendible furthest up. "o, mrs. ledwith!" she cried. "_don't_ be frightened! _don't_ take on! take it easy,--do!" desire rushed down among them; past mrs. prendible, past the minister, straight to kenneth kincaid. kenneth took her right in his arms, and carried her into a little room below. "there could have been no pain," he said, tenderly. "it was the accident of a moment. be strong,--be patient, dear!" there had been tender words natural to his lips lately. it was not strange that in his great pity he used them now. "my father!" gasped desire. "yes; your father. it was our father's will." "help me to go to my mother!" she took his hand, half blind, almost reeling. and then they all, somehow, found themselves up-stairs. there were moans of pain; there were words of prayer. we have no right there. it is all told. * * * * * "be strong,--be patient, dear!" it came back, in the midst of the darkness, the misery; it helped her through those days; it made her strong for her mother. it comforted her, she hardly knew how much; but o, how cruel it seemed afterward! they went directly down to boston. mr. ledwith was buried from their own house. it was all over; and now, what should they do? uncle titus came to see them. mrs. ripwinkley came right back from homesworth. dorris kincaid left her summer-time all behind, and came to stay with them a week in shubarton place. mrs. ledwith craved companionship; her elder daughters were away; there were these five weeks to go by until she could hear from them. she would not read their letters that came now, full of chat and travel. poor laura! her family scattered; her dependence gone; her life all broken down in a moment! dorris kincaid did not speak of kenneth and rosamond. how could she bring news of others' gladness into that dim and sorrowful house? luclarion grapp shut up her rooms, left her plants and her birds with mrs. gallilee, and came up to shubarton place in the beginning. there were no servants there; everything was adrift; the terrible blows of life take people between the harness, most unprovided, unawares. it was only for a little while, until they could hear from the girls, and make plans. grant ledwith's income died with him; there was ten thousand dollars, life insurance; that would give them a little more than a sixth part of what his salary had been; and there were the two thousand a year of uncle titus; and the house, on which there was a twelve thousand dollar mortgage. mrs. ledwith had spent her life in cutting and turning and planning; after the first shock was over, even her grief was counterpoised and abated, by the absorption of her thoughts into the old channels. what they should do, how they should live, what they could have; how it should be contrived and arranged. her mind busied itself with all this, and her trouble was veiled,--softened. she had a dozen different visions and schemes, projected into their details of residence, establishment, dress, ordering,--before the letters came, bringing back the first terribleness in the first reception of and response to it, of her elder children. it was so awful to have them away,--on the other side of the world! if they were only once all together again! families ought not to separate. but then, it had been for their good; how could she have imagined? she supposed she should have done the same again, under the same circumstances. and then came mrs. megilp's letter, delayed a mail, as she would have delayed entering the room, if they had been rejoined in their grief, until the family had first been gathered together with their tears and their embraces. then she wrote,--as she would have come in; and her letter, as her visit would have been, was after a few words of tender condolence,--and they were very sweet and tender, for mrs. megilp knew how to lay phrases like illuminating gold-leaf upon her meaning,--eminently practical and friendly, full of judicious, not to say mitigating, suggestions. it was well, she thought, that agatha and florence were with her. they had been spared so much; and perhaps if all this had happened first, they might never have come. as to their return, she thought it would be a pity; "it could not make it really any better for you," she said; "and while your plans are unsettled, the fewer you are, the more easily you will manage. it seems hard to shadow their young lives more than is inevitable; and new scenes and interests are the very best things for them; their year of mourning would be fairly blotted out at home, you know. for yourself, poor friend, of course you cannot care; and desire and helena are not much come forward, but it would be a dead blank and stop to them, so much lost, right out; and i feel as if it were a kind providence for the dear girls that they should be just where they are. we are living quietly, inexpensively; it will cost no more to come home at one time than at another;" etc. there are persons to whom the pastime of life is the whole business of it; sickness and death and misfortune,--to say nothing of cares and duties--are the interruptions, to be got rid of as they may. the next week came more letters; they had got a new idea out there. why should not mrs. ledwith and the others come and join them? they were in munich, now; the schools were splendid; would be just the thing for helena; and "it was time for mamma to have a rest." this thought, among the dozen others, had had its turn in mrs. ledwith's head. to break away, and leave everything, that is the impulse of natures like hers when things go hard and they cannot shape them. only to get off; if she could do that! meanwhile, it was far different with desire. she was suffering with a deeper pain; not with a sharper loss, for she had seen so little of her father; but she looked in and back, and thought of what she _ought_ to miss, and what had never been. she ought to have known her father better; his life ought to have been more to her; was it her fault, or, harder yet, had it been his? this is the sorest thrust of grief; when it is only shock, and pity, and horror, and after these go by, not grief enough! the child wrestled with herself, as she always did, questioning, arraigning. if she could make it all right, in the past, and now; if she could feel that all she had to do was to be tenderly sorry, and to love on through the darkness, she would not mind the dark; it would be only a phase of the life,--the love. but to have lived her life so far, to have had the relations of it, and yet _not_ to have lived it, not to have been real child, real sister, not to be real stricken daughter now, tasting the suffering just as god made it to be tasted,--was she going through all things, even this, in a vain shadow? _would_ not life touch her? she went away back, strangely, and asked whether she had had any business to be born? whether it were a piece of god's truth at all, that she and all of them should be, and call themselves a household,--a home? the depth, the beauty of it were so unfulfilled! what was wrong, and how far back? living in the midst of superficialities; in the noontide of a day of shams; putting her hands forth and grasping, almost everywhere, nothing but thin, hard surface,--she wondered how much of the world was real; how many came into the world where, and as, god meant them to come. what it was to "climb up some other way into the sheepfold," and to be a thief and a robber, even of life! these were strange thoughts. desire ledwith was a strange girl. but into the midst there crept one comfort; there was one glimpse out of the darkness into the daylight. kenneth kincaid came in often to see them,--to inquire; just now he had frequent business in the city; he brought ferns and flowers, that dorris gathered and filled into baskets, fresh and damp with moss. dorris was a dear friend; she dwelt in the life and the brightness; she reached forth and gathered, and turned and ministered again. the ferns and flowers were messages; leaves out of god's living word, that she read, found precious, and sent on; apparitions, they seemed standing forth to sense, and making sweet, true signs from the inner realm of everlasting love and glory. and kenneth,--desire had never lost out of her heart those words,--"be strong,--be patient, dear!" he did not speak to her of himself; he could not demand congratulation from her grief; he let it be until she should somehow learn, and of her own accord, speak to him. so everybody let her alone, poor child, to her hurt. the news of the engagement was no boston news; it was something that had occurred, quietly enough, among a few people away up in z----. of the persons who came in,--the few remaining in town,--nobody happened to know or care. the ripwinkleys did, of course; but mrs. ripwinkley remembered last winter, and things she had read in desire's unconscious, undisguising face, and aware of nothing that could be deepening the mischief now, thinking only of the sufficient burden the poor child had to bear, thought kindly, "better not." meanwhile mrs. ledwith was dwelling more and more upon the european plan. she made up her mind, at last, to ask uncle titus. when all was well, she would not seem to break a compact by going away altogether, so soon, to leave him; but now,--he would see the difference; perhaps advise it. she would like to know what he would advise. after all that had happened,--everything so changed,--half her family abroad,--what could she do? would it not be more prudent to join them, than to set up a home again without them, and keep them out there? and all helena's education to provide for, and everything so cheap and easy there, and so dear and difficult here? "now, tell me, truly, uncle, should you object? should you take it at all hard? i never meant to have left you, after all you have done; but you see i have to break up, now poor grant is gone; we cannot live as we did before, even with what you do; and--for a little while--it is cheaper there; and by and by we can come back and make some other plan. besides, i feel sometimes as if i _must_ go off; as if there weren't anything left here for me." poor woman! poor _girl_, still,--whose life had never truly taken root! "i suppose," said uncle titus, soberly, "that god shines all round. he's on this side as much as he is on that." mrs. ledwith looked up out of her handkerchief, with which at that moment she had covered her eyes. "i never knew uncle titus was pious!" she said to herself. and her astonishment dried her tears. he said nothing more that was pious, however; he simply assured her, then and in conversations afterward, that he should take nothing "hard;" he never expected to bind her, or put her on parole; he chose to come to know his relatives, and he had done so; he had also done what seemed to him right, in return for their meeting him half way; they were welcome to it all, to take it and use it as they best could, and as circumstances and their own judgment dictated. if they went abroad, he should advise them to do it before the winter. these words implied consent, approval. mrs. ledwith went up-stairs after them with a heart so much lightened that she was very nearly cheerful. there would be a good deal to do now, and something to look forward to; the old pulses of activity were quickened. she could live with those faculties that had been always vital in her, as people breathe with one live lung; but trouble and change had wrought in her no deeper or further capacity; had wakened nothing that had never been awake before. the house and furniture were to be sold; they would sail in september. when desire perceived that it was settled, she gave way; she had said little before; her mother had had many plans, and they amused her; she would not worry her with opposition; and besides, she was herself in a secret dream of a hope half understood. it happened that she told it to kenneth kincaid herself; she saw almost every one who came, instead of her mother; mrs. ledwith lived in her own room chiefly. this was the way in which it had come about, that nobody noticed or guessed how it was with desire, and what aspect kenneth's friendship and kindness, in the simple history of those few weeks, might dangerously grow to bear with her. except one person. luclarion grapp, at last, made up her mind. kenneth heard what desire told him, as he heard all she ever had to tell, with a gentle interest; comforted her when she said she could not bear to go, with the suggestion that it might not be for very long; and when she looked up in his face with a kind of strange, pained wonder, and repeated,-- "but i cannot _bear_,--i tell you, i cannot _bear_ to go!" he answered,-- "one can bear all that is right; and out of it the good will come that we do not know. all times go by. i am sorry--very sorry--that you must go; but there will be the coming back. we must all wait for that." she did not know what she looked for; she did not know what she expected him to mean; she expected nothing; the thought of his preventing it in any way never entered into her head; she knew, if she _had_ thought, how he himself was waiting, working. she only wanted him to _care_. was this caring? much? she could not tell. "we never can come _back_," she said, impetuously. "there will be all the time--everything--between." he almost spoke to her of it, then; he almost told her that the everything might be more, not less; that friendships gathered, multiplied; that there would be one home, he hoped, in which, by and by, she would often be; in which she would always be a dear and welcome comer. but she was so sad, so tried; his lips were held; in his pure, honest kindness, he never dreamt of any harm that his silence might do; it only seemed so selfish to tell her how bright it was with him. so he said, smiling,-- "and who knows what the 'everything' may be?" and he took both her hands in his as he said good-by,--for his little stops were of minutes on his way, always,--and held them fast, and looked warmly, hopefully into her face. it was all for her,--to give her hope and courage; but the light of it was partly kindled by his own hope and gladness that lay behind; and how could she know that, or read it right? it was at once too much, and not enough, for her. five minutes after, luclarion grapp went by the parlor door with a pile of freshly ironed linen in her arms, on her way up-stairs. desire lay upon the sofa, her face down upon the pillow; her arms were thrown up, and her hands clasped upon the sofa-arm; her frame shook with sobs. luclarion paused for the time of half a step; then she went on. she said to herself in a whisper, as she went,-- "it is a stump; a proper hard one! but there's nobody else; and i have got to tell her!" * * * * * that evening, under some pretense of clean towels, luclarion came up into desire's room. she was sitting alone, by the window, in the dark. luclarion fussed round a little; wiped the marble slab and the basin; set things straight; came over and asked desire if she should not put up the window-bars, and light the gas. "no," said desire. "i like this best." so did luclarion. she had only said it to make time. "desire," she said,--she never put the "miss" on, she had been too familiar all her life with those she was familiar with at all,--"the fact is i've got something to say, and i came up to say it." she drew near--came close,--and laid her great, honest, faithful hand on the back of desire ledwith's chair, put the other behind her own waist, and leaned over her. "you see, i'm a woman, desire, and i know. you needn't mind me, i'm an old maid; that's the way i do know. married folks, even mothers, half the time forget. but old maids never forget. i've had my stumps, and i can see that you've got yourn. but you'd ought to understand; and there's nobody, from one mistake and another, that's going to tell you. it's awful hard; it will be a trouble to you at first,"--and luclarion's strong voice trembled tenderly with the sympathy that her old maid heart had in it, after, and because of, all those years,--"but kenneth kincaid"-- "_what_!" cried desire, starting to her feet, with a sudden indignation. "is going to be married to rosamond holabird," said luclarion, very gently. "there! you ought to know, and i have told you." "what makes you suppose that that would be a trouble to me?" blazed desire. "how do you dare"-- "i didn't dare; but i had to!" sobbed luclarion, putting her arms right round her. and then desire--as she would have done at any rate, for that blaze was the mere flash of her own shame and pain--broke down with a moan. "all at once! all at once!" she said piteously, and hid her face in luclarion's bosom. and luclarion folded her close; hugged her, the good woman, in her love that was sisterly and motherly and all, because it was the love of an old maid, who had endured, for a young maid upon whom the endurance was just laid,--and said, with the pity of heaven in the words,-- "yes. all at once. but the dear lord stands by. take hold of his hand,--and bear with all your might!" xix. inside. "do you think, luclarion," said desire, feebly, as luclarion came to take away her bowl of chicken broth,--"that it is my _duty_ to go with mamma?" "i don't know," said luclarion, standing with the little waiter in her right hand, her elbow poised upon her hip,--"i've thought of that, and i _don't_ know. there's most generally a stump, you see, one way or another, and that settles it, but here there's one both ways. i've kinder lost my road: come to two blazes, and can't tell which. only, it ain't my road, after all. it lays between the lord and you, and i suppose he means it shall. don't you worry; there'll be some sort of a sign, inside or out. that's his business, you've just got to keep still, and get well." desire had asked her mother, before this, if she would care very much,--no, she did not mean that,--if she would be disappointed, or disapprove, that she should stay behind. "stay behind? not go to europe? why, where _could_ you stay? what would you do?" "there would be things to do, and places to stay," desire had answered, constrainedly. "i could do like dorris." "teach music!" "no. i don't know music. but i might teach something i do know. or i could--rip," she said, with an odd smile, remembering something she had said one day so long ago; the day the news came up to z---- from uncle oldways. "and i might make out to put together for other people, and for a real business. i never cared to do it just for myself." "it is perfectly absurd," said mrs ledwith. "you couldn't be left to take care of yourself. and if you could, how it would look! no; of course you must go with us." "but do you _care_?" "why, if there were any proper way, and if you really hate so to go,--but there isn't," said mrs. ledwith, not very grammatically or connectedly. "she _doesn't_ care," said desire to herself, after her mother had left her, turning her face to the pillow, upon which two tears ran slowly down. "and that is my fault, too, i suppose. i have never been _anything_!" lying there, she made up her mind to one thing. she would get uncle titus to come, and she would talk to him. "he won't encourage me in any notions," she said to herself. "and i mean now, if i can find it out, to do the thing god means; and then i suppose,--i _believe_,--the snarl will begin to unwind." meanwhile, luclarion, when she had set a nice little bowl of tea-muffins to rise, and had brought up a fresh pitcher of ice-water into desire's room, put on her bonnet and went over to aspen street for an hour. down in the kitchen, at mrs. ripwinkley's, they were having a nice time. their girl had gone. since luclarion left, they had fallen into that gulf-stream which nowadays runs through everybody's kitchen. girls came, and saw, and conquered in their fashion; they muddled up, and went away. the nice times were in the intervals when they _had_ gone away. mrs. ripwinkley did not complain; it was only her end of the "stump;" why should she expect to have a luclarion grapp to serve her all her life? this last girl had gone as soon as she found out that sulie praile was "no relation, and didn't anyways belong there, but had been took in." she "didn't go for to come to work in an _insecution_. she had always been used to first-class private families." girls will not stand any added numbers, voluntarily assumed, or even involuntarily befalling; they will assist in taking up no new responsibilities; to allow things to remain as they are, and cannot help being, is the depth of their condescension,--the extent of what they will put up with. there must be a family of some sort, of course, or there would not be a "place;" that is what the family is made for; but it must be established, no more to fluctuate; that is, you may go away, some of you, if you like, or you may die; but nobody must come home that has been away, and nobody must be born. as to anybody being "took in!" why, the girl defined it; it was not being a family, but an _insecution_. so the three--diana, and hazel, and sulie--were down in the kitchen; mrs. ripwinkley was busy in the dining-room close by; there was a berry-cake to be mixed up for an early tea. diana was picking over the berries, hazel was chopping the butter into the flour, and sulie on a low cushioned seat in a corner--there was one kept ready for her in every room in the house, and hazel and diana carried her about in an "arm-chair," made of their own clasped hands and wrists, wherever they all wanted to go,--sulie was beating eggs. sulie did that so patiently; you see she had no temptation to jump up and run off to anything else. the eggs turned, under her fingers, into thick, creamy, golden froth, fine to the last possible divisibility of the little air-bubbles. they could not do without sulie now. they had had her for "all winter;" but in that winter she had grown into their home. "why," said hazel to her mother, when they had the few words about it that ended in there being no more words at all,--"that's the way children are _born_ into houses, isn't it? they just come; and they're new and strange at first, and seem so queer. and then after a while you can't think how the places were, and they not in them. sulie belongs, mother!" so sulie beat eggs, and darned stockings, and painted her lovely little flower-panels and racks and easels, and did everything that could be done, sitting still in her round chair, or in the cushioned corners made for her; and was always in the kitchen, above all, when any pretty little cookery was going forward. vash ran in and out from the garden, and brought balsamine blossoms, from which she pulled the little fairy slippers, and tried to match them in pairs; and she picked off the "used-up and puckered-up" morning glories, which she blew into at the tube-end, and "snapped" on the back of her little brown hand. wasn't that being good for anything, while berry-cake was making? the girls thought it was; as much as the balsamine blossoms were good for anything, or the brown butterflies with golden spots on their wings, that came and lived among them. the brown butterflies were a "piece of the garden;" little brown vash was a piece of the house. besides, she would eat some of the berry-cake when it was made; wasn't that worth while? she would have a "little teenty one" baked all for herself in a tin pepper-pot cover. isn't that the special pleasantness of making cakes where little children are? vash was always ready for an "aaron," too; they could not do without her, any more than without sulie. pretty soon, when diana should have left school, and vash should be a little bigger, they meant to "coöperate," as the holabirds had done at westover. of course, they knew a great deal about the holabirds by this time. hazel had stayed a week with dorris at miss waite's; and one of witch hazel's weeks among "real folks" was like the days or hours in fairy land, that were years on the other side. she found out so much and grew so close to people. hazel and ruth holabird were warm friends. and hazel was to be ruth's bridesmaid, by and by! for ruth holabird was going to be married to dakie thayne. "that seemed so funny," hazel said. "ruth didn't _look_ any older than she did; and mr. dakie thayne was such a nice boy!" he was no less a man, either; he had graduated among the first three at west point; he was looking earnestly for the next thing that he should do in life with his powers and responsibilities; he did not count his marrying a _separate_ thing; that had grown up alongside and with the rest; of course he could do nothing without ruth; that was just what he had told her; and she,--well ruth was always a sensible little thing, and it was just as plain to her as it was to him. of course she must help him think and plan; and when the plans were made, it would take two to carry them out; why, yes, they must be married. what other way would there be? that wasn't what she _said_, but that was the quietly natural and happy way in which it grew to be a recognized thing in her mind, that pleasant summer after he came straight home to them with his honors and his lieutenant's commission in the engineers; and his hearty, affectionate taking-for-granted; and it was no surprise or question with her, only a sure and very beautiful "rightness," when it came openly about. dakie thayne was a man; the beginning of a very noble one; but it is the noblest men that always keep a something of the boy. if you had not seen anything more of dakie thayne until he should be forty years old, you would then see something in him which would be precisely the same that it was at outledge, seven years ago, with leslie goldthwaite, and among the holabirds at westover, in his first furlough from west point. luclarion came into the ripwinkley kitchen just as the cakes--the little pepper-pot one and all--were going triumphantly into the oven, and hazel was baring her little round arms to wash the dishes, while diana tended the pans. mrs. ripwinkley heard her old friend's voice, and came out. "that girl ought to be here with you; or somewheres else than where she is, or is likely to be took," said luclarion, as she looked round and sat down, and untied her bonnet-strings. miss grapp hated bonnet-strings; she never endured them a minute longer than she could help. "desire?" asked mrs. ripwinkley, easily comprehending. "yes; desire. i tell you she has a hard row to hoe, and she wants comforting. she wants to know if it is her duty to go to yourup with her mother. now it may be her duty to be _willing_ to go; but it ain't anybody's else duty to let her. that's what came to me as i was coming along. i couldn't tell _her_ so, you see, because it would interfere with her part; and that's all in the tune as much as any; only we've got to chime in with our parts at the right stroke, the lord being leader. ain't that about it, mrs. ripwinkley?" "if we are sure of the score, and can catch the sign," said mrs. ripwinkley, thoughtfully. "well, i've sung mine; it's only one note; i may have to keep hammering on it; that's according to how many repeats there are to be. mr. oldways, he ought to know, for one. amongst us, we have got to lay our heads together, and work it out. she's a kind of an odd chicken in that brood; and my belief is she's like the ugly duck hazel used to read about. but she ought to have a chance; if she's a swan, she oughtn't to be trapesed off among the weeds and on the dry ground. 'tisn't even ducks she's hatched with; they don't take to the same element." "i'll speak to uncle titus, and i will think," said mrs. ripwinkley. but before she did that, that same afternoon by the six o'clock penny post, a little note went to mr. oldways:-- "dear uncle titus,-- "i want to talk with you a little. if i were well, i should come to see you in your study. will you come up here, and see me in my room? "yours sincerely, desire ledwith." uncle titus liked that. it counted upon something in him which few had the faith to count upon; which, truly he gave few people reason to expect to find. he put his hat directly on, took up his thick brown stick, and trudged off, up borden street to shubarton place. when luclarion let him in, he told her with some careful emphasis, that he had come to see desire. "ask her if i shall come up," he said. "i'll wait down here." helena was practicing in the drawing-room. mrs. ledwith lay, half asleep, upon a sofa. the doors into the hall were shut,--luclarion had looked to that, lest the playing should disturb desire. luclarion was only gone three minutes. then she came back, and led mr. oldways up three flights of stairs. "it's a long climb, clear from the door," she said. "i can climb," said mr. oldways, curtly. "i didn't expect it was going to stump _you_," said luclarion, just as short in her turn. "but i thought i'd be polite enough to mention it." there came a queer little chuckling wheeze from somewhere, like a whispered imitation of the first few short pants of a steam-engine: that was uncle titus, laughing to himself. luclarion looked down behind her, out of the corner of her eyes, as she turned the landing. uncle titus's head was dropped between his shoulders, and his shoulders were shaking up and down. but he kept his big stick clutched by the middle, in one hand, and the other just touched the rail as he went up. uncle titus was not out of breath. not he. he could laugh and climb. desire was sitting up for a little while, before going to bed again for the night. there was a low gas-light burning by the dressing-table, ready to turn up when the twilight should be gone; and a street lamp, just lighted, shone across into the room. luclarion had been sitting with her, and her gray knitting-work lay upon the chair that she offered when she had picked it up, to mr. oldways. then she went away and left them to their talk. "mrs. ripwinkley has been spry about it," she said to herself, going softly down the stairs. "but she always was spry." "you're getting well, i hope," said uncle titus, seating himself, after he had given desire his hand. "i suppose so," said desire, quietly. "that was why i wanted to see you. i want to know what i ought to do when i am well." "how can i tell?" asked uncle titus, bluntly. "better than anybody i can ask. the rest are all too sympathizing. i am afraid they would tell me as i wish they should." "and i don't sympathize? well, i don't think i do much. i haven't been used to it." "you have been used to think what was right; and i believe you would tell me truly. i want to know whether i ought to go to europe with my mother." "why not? doesn't she want you to go?"--and uncle titus was sharp this time. "i suppose so; that is, i suppose she expects i will. but i don't know that i should be much except a hindrance to her. and i think i could stay and do something here, in some way. uncle titus, i hate the thought of going to europe! now, don't you suppose i ought to go?" "_why_ do you hate the thought of going to europe?" asked uncle titus, regarding her with keenness. "because i have never done anything real in all my life!" broke forth desire. "and this seems only plastering and patching what can't be patched. i want to take hold of something. i don't want to float round any more. what is there left of all we have ever tried to do, all these years? of all my poor father's work, what is there to show for it now? it has all melted away as fast as it came, like snow on pavements; and now his life has melted away; and i feel as if we had never been anything real to each other! uncle titus, i can't tell you _how_ i feel!" uncle titus sat very still. his hat was in one hand, and both together held his cane, planted on the floor between his feet. over hat and cane leaned his gray head, thoughtfully. if desire could have seen his eyes, she would have found in them an expression that she had never supposed could be there at all. she had not so much spoken _to_ uncle titus, in these last words of hers, as she had irresistibly spoken _out_ that which was in her. she wanted uncle titus's good common sense and sense of right to help her decide; but the inward ache and doubt and want, out of which grew her indecisions,--these showed themselves forth at that moment simply because they must, with no expectation of a response from him. it might have been a stone wall that she cried against; she would have cried all the same. then it was over, and she was half ashamed, thinking it was of no use, and he would not understand; perhaps that he would only set the whole down to nerves and fidgets and contrariness, and give her no common sense that she wanted, after all. but uncle titus spoke, slowly; much as if he, too, were speaking out involuntarily, without thought of his auditor. people do so speak, when the deep things are stirred; they speak into the deep that answereth unto itself,--the deep that reacheth through all souls, and all living, whether souls feel into it and know of it or not. "the real things are inside," he said. "the real world is the inside world. _god_ is not up, nor down, but in the _midst_." then he looked up at desire. "what is real of your life is living inside you now. that is something. look at it and see what it is." "discontent. misery. failure." "_sense_ of failure. well. those are good things. the beginning of better. those are _live_ things, at any rate." desire had never thought of that. now _she_ sat still awhile. then she said,--"but we can't _be_ much, without doing it. i suppose we are put into a world of outsides for something." "yes. to find out what it means. that's the inside of it. and to help make the outside agree with the in, so that it will be easier for other people to find out. that is the 'kingdom come and will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.' heaven is the inside,--the truth of things." "why, i never knew"--began desire, astonished. she had almost finished aloud, as her mother had done in her own mind. she never knew that uncle oldways was "pious." "never knew that was what it meant? what else can it mean? what do you suppose the resurrection was, or is?" desire answered with a yet larger look of wonder, only in the dim light it could not be wholly seen. "the raising up of the dead; christ coming up out of the tomb." "the coming out of the tomb was a small part of it; just what could not help being, if the rest was. jesus christ rose out of dead _things_, i take it, into these very real ones that we are talking of, and so lived in them. the resurrection is a man's soul coming alive to the soul of creation--god's soul. _that_ is eternal life, and what jesus of nazareth was born to show. our coming to that is our being 'raised with him;' and it begins, or ought to, a long way this side the tomb. if people would only read the new testament, expecting to get as much common sense and earnest there as they do among the new lights and little 'progressive-thinkers' that are trying to find it all out over again, they might spare these gentlemen and themselves a great deal of their trouble." the exclamation rose half-way to her lips again,--"i never knew you thought like this. i never heard you talk of these things before!" but she held it back, because she would not stop him by reminding him that he _was_ talking. it was just the truth that was saying itself. she must let it say on, while it would. "un--" she stopped there, at the first syllable. she would not even call him "uncle titus" again, for fear of recalling him to himself, and hushing him up. "there is something--isn't there--about those who _attain_ to that resurrection; those who are _worthy_? i suppose there must be some who are just born to this world, then, and never--'born again?'" "it looks like it, sometimes; who can tell?" "uncle oldways,"--it came out this time in her earnestness, and her strong personal appeal,--"do you think there are some people--whole families of people--who have no business in the reality of things to be at all? who are all a mistake in the world, and have nothing to do with its meaning? i have got to feeling sometimes lately, as if--_i_--had never had any business to be." she spoke slowly--awe-fully. it was a strange speech for a girl in her nineteenth year. but she was a girl in this nineteenth century, also; and she had caught some of the thoughts and questions of it, and mixed them up with her own doubts and unsatisfactions which they could not answer. "the world is full of mistakes; mistakes centuries long; but it is full of salvation and setting to rights, also. 'the kingdom of heaven is like leaven, which a woman hid in three measures of meal till the whole was leavened.' you have been _allowed_ to be, desire ledwith. and so was the man that was born blind. and i think there is a colon put into the sentence about him, where a comma was meant to be." desire did not ask him, then, what he meant; but she turned to the story after he had gone, and found this:-- "neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents, but that the works of god should be manifest in him." you can see, if you look also, where she took the colon out, and put the comma in. were all the mistakes--the sins, even--for the very sake of the pure blessedness and the more perfect knowledge of the setting right? desire began to think that uncle oldways' theology might help her. what she said to him now was,-- "i want to do something. i should like to go and live with luclarion, i think, down there in neighbor street. i should like to take hold of some other lives,--little children's, perhaps,"--and here desire's voice softened,--"that don't seem to have any business to be, either, and see if i could help or straighten anything. then i feel is if i should know." "then--according to the scripture--you _would_ know. but--that's undertaking a good deal. luclarion grapp has got there; but she has been fifty-odd years upon the road. and she has been doing real things all the time. that's what has brought her there. you can't boss the world's hard jobs till you've been a journeyman at the easy ones." "and i've missed my apprenticeship!" said desire, with changed voice and face, falling back into her disheartenment again. "no!" uncle oldways almost shouted. "not if you come to the master who takes in the eleventh hour workers. and it isn't the eleventh hour with you,--_child_!" he dwelt on that word "child," reminding her of her short mistaking and of the long retrieval. her nineteen years and the forever and ever contrasted themselves before her suddenly, in the light of hope. she turned sharply, though, to look at her duty. her journeyman's duty of easy things. "must i go to europe with my mother?" she asked again, the conversation coming round to just that with which it had begun. "i'll talk with your mother," said uncle oldways, getting up and looking into his hat, as a man always does when he thinks of putting it on presently. "good-night. i suppose you are tired enough now. i'll come again and see you." desire stood up and gave him her hand. "i thank you, uncle titus, with all my heart." he did not answer her a word; but he knew she meant it. he did not stop that night to see his niece. he went home, to think it over. but as he walked down borden street, swinging his big stick, he said to himself,-- "next of kin! old marmaduke wharne was right. but it takes more than the family bible to tell you which it is!" two days after, he had a talk with mrs. ledwith which relieved both their minds. from the brown-and-apricot drawing-room,--from among the things that stood for nothing now, and had never stood for home,--he went straight up, without asking, and knocked at desire's third-story door. "come in!" she said, without a note of expectation in her voice. she had had a dull morning. helena had brought her a novel from loring's that she could not read. novels, any more than life, cannot be read with very much patience, unless they touch something besides surface. why do critics--some of them--make such short, smart work,--such cheerful, confident despatch, nowadays, of a story with religion in it, as if it were an abnormity,--a thing with sentence of death in itself, like a calf born with two heads,--that needs not their trouble, save to name it as it is? why, that is, if religion stand for the relation of things to spirit, which i suppose it should? somebody said that somebody had written a book made up of "spiritual struggles and strawberry short-cake." that was bright and funny; and it seemed to settle the matter; but, taking strawberry short-cake representatively, what else is human experience on earth made up of? and are novels to be pictures of human experience, or not? this has nothing to do with present matters, however, except that desire found nothing real in her novel, and so had flung it aside, and was sitting rather listlessly with her crochet which she never cared much for, when uncle oldways entered. her face brightened instantly as he came in. he sat down just where he had sat the other night. mr. oldways had a fashion of finding the same seat a second time when he had come in once; he was a man who took up most things where he left them off, and this was an unconscious sign of it. "your mother has decided to sell the house on the d, it seems," he said. "yes; i have been out twice. i shall be able to go away by then; i suppose that is all she has waited for." "do you think you could be contented to come and live with me?" "come and _live_?" "yes. and let your mother and helena go to europe." "o, uncle oldways! i think i could _rest_ there! but i don't want only to rest, you know. i must do something. for myself, to begin with. i have made up my mind not to depend upon my mother. why should i, any more than a boy? and i am sure i cannot depend on anybody else." these were desire ledwith's thanks; and mr. oldways liked them. she did not say it to please him; she thought it seemed almost ungrateful and unwilling; but she was so intent on taking up life for herself. "you must have a place to do in,--or from," said mr. oldways. "and it is better you should be under some protection. you must consent to that for your mother's sake. how much money have you got?" "two hundred and fifty dollars a year. of my own." this was coming to business and calculation and common sense. desire was encouraged. uncle oldways did not think her quite absurd. "that will clothe you,--without much fuss and feathers?" "i have done with fuss and feathers,"--desire said with a grave smile, glancing at her plain white wrapper and the black shawl that was folded around her. "then come where is room for you and a welcome, and do as much more as you please, and can, for yourself, or for anybody else. i won't give you a cent; you shall have something to do for me, if you choose. i am an old man now, and want help. perhaps what i want as much as anything is what i've been all my life till lately, pretty obstinate in doing without." uncle oldways spoke short, and drew his breath in and puffed it out between his sentences, in his bluff way; but his eyes were kind, as he sat looking at the young girl over his hat and cane. she thought of the still, gray parlor; of rachel froke and her face of peace; and the quaker meeting and the crumbs last year; of uncle oldways' study, and his shelves rich with books; of the new understanding that had begun between herself and him, and the faith she had found out, down beneath his hard reserves; of the beautiful neighborhood, miss craydocke's beehive, aunt franks' cheery home and the ways of it, and hazel's runnings in and out. it seemed as if the real things had opened for her, and a place been made among them in which she should have "business to be," and from which her life might make a new setting forth. "and mamma knows?" she said, inquiringly, after that long pause. "yes. i told you i would talk with her. that is what we came to. it is only for you to say, now." "i will come. i shall be glad to come!" and her face was full of light as she looked up and said it. * * * * * desire never thought for a moment of what her mother could not help thinking of; of what mrs. megilp thought and said, instantly, when she learned it three weeks later. it is wonderful how abiding influence is,--even influence to which we are secretly superior,--if ever we have been subjected to, or allowed ourselves to be swayed by it. the veriest tyranny of discipline grows into one's conscience, until years after, when life has got beyond the tyranny, conscience,--or something superinduced upon it,--keeps up the echo of the old mandates, and one can take no comfort in doing what one knows all the time one has a perfect right, besides sound reason, to do. it was a great while before our grandmothers' daughters could peaceably stitch and overcast a seam, instead of over-sewing and felling it. i know women who feel to this moment as if to sit down and read a book of a week-day, in the daytime, were playing truant to the needle, though all the sewing-machines on the one hand, and all the demand and supply of mental culture on the other, of this present changed and bettered time, protest together against the absurdity. mrs. ledwith had heard the megilp precepts and the megilp forth-putting of things, until involuntarily everything showed itself to her in a megilp light. the megilp "sense of duty," therefore, came up as she unhesitatingly assented to uncle oldways' proposal and request. he wanted desire; of course she could not say a word; she owed him something, which she was glad she could so make up; and secretly there whispered in her mind the suggestion which mrs. megilp, on the other side of the water, spoke right out. "if he wants her, he must mean something by her. he is an old man; he might not live to give her back into her mother's keeping; what would she do there, in that old house of his, if he should die, unless--he _does_ mean something? he has taken a fancy to her; she is odd, as he is; and he isn't so queer after all, but that his crotchets have a good, straightforward sense of justice in them. uncle titus knows what he is about; and what's more, just what he ought to be about. it is a good thing to have desire provided for; she is uncomfortable and full of notions, and she isn't likely ever to be married." so desire was given up, easily, she could not help feeling; but she knew she had been a puzzle and a vexation to her mother, and that mrs. ledwith had never had the least idea what to do with her; least of all had she now, what she should do with her abroad. "it was so much better for her that uncle titus had taken her home." with these last words mrs. ledwith reassured herself and cheered her child. perhaps it would have been the same--it came into desire's head, that would conceive strange things--if the angels had taken her. mrs. ledwith went to new york; she stayed a few days with mrs. macmichael, who wanted her to buy lace for her in brussels and bohemian glass in prague; then a few days more with her cousin, geraldine raxley; and then the _city of antwerp_ sailed. xx. neighbors and next of kin. "i'll tell you what to do with them, luclarion," said hazel briskly. "teach them to play." "music! pianners!" exclaimed luclarion, dismayed. "no. games. teach them to have good times. that was the first thing ever we learnt, wasn't it, dine? and we never could have got along without it." "it takes _you_!" said luclarion, looking at hazel with delighted admiration. "does it? well i don't know but it does. may i go, mother? luclarion, haven't you got a great big empty room up at the top of the house?" luclarion had. "that's just what it's for, then. couldn't mr. gallilee put up a swing? and a 'flying circle' in the middle? you see they can't go out on the roofs; so they must have something else that will seem kind of flighty. and _i'll_ tell you how they'll learn their letters. sulie and i will paint 'em; great big ones, all colors; and hang 'em up with ribbons, and every child that learns one, so as to know it everywhere, shall take it down and carry it home. then we will have marbles for numbers; and they shall play addition games, and multiplication games, and get the sums for prizes; the ones that get to the head, you know. why, you don't understand _objects_, luclarion!" luclarion had been telling them of the wild little folk of neighbor street, and worse, of arctic street. she wanted to do something with them. she had tried to get them in with gingerbread and popcorn; they came in fast enough for those; but they would not stay. they were digging in the gutters and calling names; learning the foul language of the places into which they were born; chasing and hiding in alley-ways; filching, if they could, from shops; going off begging with lies on their lips. it was terrible to see the springs from which the life of the city depths was fed. "if you could stop it _there_!" luclarion said, and said with reason. "will you let me go?" asked hazel of her mother, in good earnest. "'twon't hurt her," put in luclarion. "nothing's catching that you haven't got the seeds of in your own constitution. and so the catching will be the other way." the seeds of good,--to catch good; that was what luclarion grapp believed in, in those dirty little souls,--no, those clean little _souls_, overlaid with all outward mire and filth of body, clothing, speech, and atmosphere, for a mile about; through which they could no more grope and penetrate, to reach their own that was hidden from them in the clearer life beyond, than we can grope and reach to other stars. "i will get desire," quoth hazel, inspired as she always was, both ways. running in at the house in greenley street the next thursday, she ran against uncle titus coming out. "what now?" he demanded. "desire," said hazel. "i've come for her. we're wanted at luclarion's. we've got work to do." "humph! work? what kind?" "play," said hazel, laughing. she delighted to bother and mystify uncle titus, and imagined that she did. "i thought so. tea parties?" "something like," said hazel. "there are children down there that don't know how to grow up. they haven't any comfortable sort of fashion of growing up. somebody has got to teach them. they don't know how to play 'grand mufti,' and they never heard of 'king george and his troops.' luclarion tried to make them sit still and learn letters; but of course they wouldn't a minute longer than the gingerbread lasted, and they are eating her out of house and home. it will take young folks, and week-days, you see; so desire and i are going." and hazel ran up the great, flat-stepped staircase. "lives that have no business to be," said uncle titus to himself, going down the brick walk. "the lord has his own ways of bringing lives together. and his own business gets worked out among them, beyond their guessing. when a man grows old, he can stand still now and then, and see a little." it was a short cross street that luclarion lived in, between two great thoroughfares crowded with life and business, bustle, drudgery, idleness, and vice. you will not find the name i give it,--although you may find one that will remind you of it,--in any directory or on any city map. but you can find the places without the names; and if you go down there with the like errands in your heart, you will find the work, as she found it, to do. she heard the noise of street brawls at night, voices of men and women quarreling in alley-ways, and up in wretched garrets; flinging up at each other, in horrible words, all the evil they knew of in each other's lives,--"away back," luclarion said, "to when they were little children." "and what is it," she would say to mrs. ripwinkley telling her about it, "that _flings_ it up, and can call it a shame, after all the shames of years and years? except just _that_ that the little children _were_, underneath, when the lord let them--he knows why--be born so? i tell you, ma'am, it's a mystery; and the nigher you come to it, the more it is; it's a piece of hell and a piece of heaven; it's the wrastle of the angel and the dragon; and it's going on at one end, while they're building up their palaces and living soft and sweet and clean at the other, with everything hushed up that can't at least _seem_ right and nice and proper. i know there's good folks there, in the palaces; _beautiful_ folks; there, and all the way down between; with god's love in them, and his hate, that is holy, against sin; and his pity, that is _prayers_ in them, for all people and places that are dark; but if they would _come down_ there, and take hold! i think it's them that would, that might have part in the first resurrection, and live and reign the thousand years." luclarion never counted herself among them,--those who were to have thrones and judgments; she forgot, even, that she had gone down and taken hold; her words came burning-true, out of her soul; and in the heat of truth they were eloquent. but i meant to tell you of her living. in the daytime it was quiet; the gross evils crept away and hid from the sunshine; there was labor to take up the hours, for those who did labor; and you might not know or guess, to go down those avenues, that anything worse gathered there than the dust of the world's traffic that the lumbering drays ground up continually with their wheels, and the wind,--that came into the city from far away country places of green sweetness, and over hills and ponds and streams and woods,--flung into the little children's faces. luclarion had taken a house,--one of two, that fronted upon a little planked court; aside, somewhat, from neighbor street, as that was a slight remove from the absolute terrible contact of arctic street. but it was in the heart of that miserable quarter; she could reach out her hands and touch and gather in, if it would let her, the wretchedness. she had chosen a place where it was possible for her to make a nook of refuge, not for herself only, or so much, as for those to whom she would fain be neighbor, and help to a better living. it had been once a dwelling of some well-to-do family of the days gone by; of some merchant, whose ventures went out and came in at those wharves below, whence the air swept up pure, then, with its salt smell, into the streets. the rooms were fairly large; luclarion spent money out of her own little property, that had been growing by care and saving till she could spare from it, in doing her share toward having it all made as sweet and clean as mortar and whitewash and new pine-boards and paint and paper could make it. all that was left of the old, they scoured with carbolic soap; and she had the windows opened, and in the chimneys that had been swept of their soot she had clear fires made and kept burning for days. then she put her new, plain furnishings into her own two down-stairs rooms; and the gallilees brought in theirs above; and beside them, she found two decent families,--a german paper-hanger's, and that of a carpenter at one of the theatres, whose wife worked at dressmaking,--to take the rest. away up, at the very top, she had the wide, large room that hazel spoke of, and a smaller one to which she climbed to sleep, for the sake of air as near heaven as it could be got. one of her lower-rooms was her living and housekeeping room; the other she turned into a little shop, in which she sold tapes and needles and cheap calicoes and a few ribbons; and kept a counter on the opposite side for bread and yeast, gingerbread, candy, and the like. she did this partly because she must do something to help out the money for her living and her plans, and partly to draw the women and children in. how else could she establish any relations between herself and them, or get any permanent hold or access? she had "turned it all over in her mind," she said; "and a tidy little shop with fair, easy prices, was the very thing, and a part of just what she came down there to do." she made real, honest, hop-raised bread, of sweet flour that she gave ten dollars a barrel for; it took a little more than a pint, perhaps, to make a tea loaf; that cost her three cents; she sold her loaf for four, and it was better than they could get anywhere else for five. then, three evenings in a week, she had hot muffins, or crumpets, home-made; (it was the subtle home touch and flavor that she counted on, to carry more than a good taste into their mouths, even a dim notion of home sweetness and comfort into their hearts;) these first,--a quart of flour at five cents, two eggs at a cent apiece, and a bit of butter, say three cents more, with three cents worth of milk, made an outlay of fifteen cents for a dozen and a half; so she sold them for ten cents a dozen, and the like had never been tasted or dreamed of in all that region round about; no, nor i dare almost to say, in half the region round about republic avenue either, where they cannot get luclarion grapps to cook. the crumpets were cheaper; they were only bread-sponge, baked on a griddle; they were large, and light and tender; a quart of flour would make ten; she gave the ten for seven cents. and do you see, putting two cents on every quart of her flour, for her labor, she _earned_, not _made_,--that word is for speculators and brokers,--with a barrel of one hundred and ninety six pounds or quarts, three dollars and ninety-two cents? the beauty of it was, you perceive, that she did a small business; there was an eager market for all she could produce, and there was no waste to allow a margin for. i am not a bit of a political economist myself; but i have a shrewd suspicion that luclarion grapp was, besides having hit upon the initial, individual idea of a capital social and philanthropic enterprise. this was all she tried to do at first; she began with bread; the lord from heaven began with that; she fed as much of the multitude as she could reach; they gathered about her for the loaves; and they got, consciously or unconsciously, more than they came or asked for. they saw her clean-swept floor; her netted windows that kept the flies out, the clean, coarse white cotton shades,--tacked up, and rolled and tied with cord, country-fashion, for luclarion would not set any fashions that her poor neighbors might not follow if they would;--and her shelves kept always dusted down; they could see her way of doing that, as they happened in at different times, when she whisked about, lightly and nicely, behind and between her jars and boxes and parcels with the little feather duster that she kept hanging over her table where she made her change and sat at her sewing. they grew ashamed by degrees,--those coarse women,--to come in in their frowsy rags, to buy her delicate muffins or her white loaves; they would fling on the cleanest shawl they had or could borrow, to "cut round to old maid grapp's," after a cent's worth of yeast,--for her yeast, also, was like none other that could be got, and would _almost_ make her own beautiful bread of itself. back of the shop was her house-room; the cheapest and cleanest of carpet,--a square, bound round with bright-striped carpet-binding,--laid in the middle of a clean dark yellow floor; a plain pine table, scoured white, standing in the middle of that; on it, at tea-time, common blue and white crockery cups and plates, and a little black teapot; a napkin, coarse, but fresh from the fold, laid down to save, and at the same time to set off, with a touch of delicate neatness, the white table; a wooden settee, with a home-made calico-covered cushion and pillows, set at right angles with the large, black, speckless stove; a wooden rocking-chair, made comfortable in like manner, on the other side; the sink in the corner, clean, freshly rinsed, with the bright tin basin hung above it on a nail. there was nothing in the whole place that must not be, in some shape, in almost the poorest; but all so beautifully ordered, so stainlessly kept. through that open door, those women read a daily sermon. and luclarion herself,--in a dark cotton print gown, a plain strip of white about the throat,--even that was cotton, not linen, and two of them could be run together in ten minutes for a cent,--and a black alpacca apron, never soiled or crumpled, but washed and ironed when it needed, like anything else,--her hair smoothly gathered back under a small white half-handkerchief cap, plain-hemmed,--was the sermon alive; with the soul of it, the inner sweetness and purity, looking out at them from clear pleasant eyes, and lips cheery with a smile that lay behind them. she had come down there just to do as god told her to be a neighbor, and to let her light shine. he would see about the glorifying. she did not try to make money out of her candy, or her ginger-nuts; she kept those to entice the little children in; to tempt them to come again when they had once done an errand, shyly, or saucily, or hang-doggedly,--it made little difference which to her,--in her shop. "i'll tell you what it's like," hazel said, when she came in and up-stairs the first saturday afternoon with desire, and showed and explained to her proudly all luclarion's ways and blessed inventions. "it's like your mother and mine throwing crumbs to make the pigeons come, when they were little girls, and lived in boston,--i mean _here_!" hazel waked up at the end of her sentence, suddenly, as we all do sometimes, out of talking or thinking, to the consciousness that it was _here_ that she had mentally got round to. desire had never heard of the crumbs or the pigeons. mrs. ledwith had always been in such a hurry, living on, that she never stopped to tell her children the sweet old tales of how she _had_ lived. her child-life had not ripened in her as it had done in frank. desire and hazel went up-stairs and looked at the empty room. it was light and pleasant; dormer windows opened out on a great area of roofs, above which was blue sky; upon which, poor clothes fluttered in the wind, or cats walked and stretched themselves safely and lazily in the sun. "i always _do_ like roofs!" said hazel. "the nicest thing in 'mutual friend' is jenny wren up on the jew's roof, being dead. it seems like getting up over the world, and leaving it all covered up and put away." "except the old clothes," said desire. "they're _washed_" answered hazel, promptly; and never stopped to think of the meaning. then she jumped down from the window, along under which a great beam made a bench to stand on, and looked about the chamber. "a swing to begin with," she said. "why what is that? luclarion's got one!" knotted up under two great staples that held it, was the long loop of clean new rope; the notched board rested against the chimney below. "it's all ready! let's go down and catch one! luclarion, we've come to tea," she announced, as they reached the sitting-room. "there's the shop bell!" in the shop was a woman with touzled hair and a gown with placket split from gathers to hem, showing the ribs of a dirty skeleton skirt. a child with one garment on,--some sort of woolen thing that had never been a clean color, and was all gutter-color now,--the woman holding the child by the hand here, in a safe place, in a way these mothers have who turn their children out in the street dirt and scramble without any hand to hold. no wonder, though, perhaps; in the strangeness and unfitness of the safe, pure place, doubtless they feel an uneasy instinct that the poor little vagabonds have got astray, and need some holding. "give us a four-cent loaf!" said the woman, roughly, her eyes lowering under crossly furrowed brows, as she flung two coins upon the little counter. luclarion took down one, looked at it, saw that it had a pale side, and exchanged it for another. "here is a nice crusty one," she said pleasantly, turning to wrap it in a sheet of paper. "none o' yer gammon! give it here; there's your money; come along, crazybug!" and she grabbed the loaf without a wrapper, and twitched the child. hazel sat still. she knew there was no use. but desire with her point-black determination, went right at the boy, took hold of his hand, dirt and all; it was disagreeable, therefore she thought she must do it. "don't you want to come and swing?" she said. "---- yer swing! and yer imperdence! clear out! he's got swings enough to home! go to ----, and be ----, you ---- ---- ----!" out of the mother's mouth poured a volley of horrible words, like a hailstorm of hell. desire fell back, as from a blinding shock of she knew not what. luclarion came round the counter, quite calmly. "ma'am," she said, "those words won't hurt _her_. she don't know the language. but you've got god's daily bread in your hand; how can you talk devil's dutch over it?" the woman glared at her. but she saw nothing but strong, calm, earnest asking in the face; the asking of god's own pity. she rebelled against that, sullenly; but she spoke no more foul words. i think she could as soon have spoken them in the face of christ; for it was the christ in luclarion grapp that looked out at her. "you needn't preach. you can order me out of your shop, if you like. i don't care." "i don't order you out. i'd rather you would come again. i don't think you will bring that street-muck with you, though." there was both confidence and command in the word like the "neither do i condemn thee: go, and sin no more." it detached the street-muck from the woman. it was not _she_; it was defilement she had picked up, when perhaps she could not help it. she could scrape her shoes at the door, and come in clean. "you know a darned lot about it, i suppose!" were the last words of defiance; softened down, however, you perceive, to that which can be printed. desire was pale, with a dry sob in her throat, when the woman had gone and luclarion turned round. "the angels in heaven know; why shouldn't you?" said luclarion. "that's what we've got to help." a child came in afterwards, alone; with an actual clean spot in the middle of her face, where a ginger-nut or an acid drop might go in. this was a regular customer of a week past. the week had made that clean spot; with a few pleasant and encouraging hints from luclarion, administered along with the gingerbread. now it was hazel's turn. the round mouth and eyes, with expectation in them, were like a spot of green to hazel, feeling with her witch-wand for a human spring. but she spoke to desire, looking cunningly at the child. "let us go back and swing," she said. the girl's head pricked itself up quickly. "we've got a swing up-stairs," said hazel, passing close by, and just pausing. "a new one. i guess it goes pretty high; and it looks out of top windows. wouldn't you like to come and see?" the child lived down in a cellar. "take up some ginger-nuts, and eat them there," said luclarion to hazel. if it had not been for that, the girl would have hung back, afraid of losing her shop treat. hazel knew better than to hold out her hand, at this first essay; she would do that fast enough when the time came. she only walked on, through the sitting-room, to the stairs. the girl peeped, and followed. clean stairs. she had never trodden such before. everything was strange and clean here, as she had never seen anything before in all her life, except the sky and the white clouds overhead. heaven be thanked that they are held over us, spotless, always! hazel heard the little feet, shuffling, in horrible, distorted shoes, after her, over the steps; pausing, coming slowly but still starting again, and coming on. up on the high landing, under the skylight, she opened the door wide into the dormer-windowed room, and went in; she and desire, neither of them looking round. hazel got into the swing. desire pushed; after three vibrations they saw the ragged figure standing in the doorway, watching, turning its head from side to side as the swing passed. "almost!" cried hazel, with her feet up at the window. "there!" she thrust them out at that next swing; they looked as if they touched the blue. "i can see over all the chimneys, and away off, down the water! now let the old cat die." out again, with a spring, as the swinging slackened, she still took no notice of the child, who would have run, like a wild kitten, if she had gone after her. she called desire, and plunged into a closet under the eaves. "i wonder what's here!" she exclaimed. "rats!" the girl in the doorway saw the dark, into which the low door opened; she was used to rats in the dark. "i don't believe it," says hazel; "luclarion has a cut, a great big buff one with green eyes. she came in over the roofs, and she runs up here nights. i shouldn't wonder if there might be kittens, though,--one of these days, at any rate. why! what a place to play 'dare' in! it goes way round, i don't know where! look here, desire!" she sat on the threshold, that went up a step, over the beam, and so leaned in. she had one eye toward the girl all the time, out of the shadow. she beckoned and nodded, and desire came. at the same moment, the coast being clear, the girl gave a sudden scud across, and into the swing. she began to scuff with her slipshod, twisted shoes, pushing herself. hazel gave another nod behind her to desire. desire stood up, and as the swing came back, pushed gently, touching the board only. the girl laughed out with the sudden thrill of the motion. desire pushed again. higher and higher, till the feet reached up to the window. "there!" she cried; and kicked an old shoe off, out over the roof. "i've lost my shoe!" "never mind; it'll be down in the yard," said hazel. thereupon the child, at the height of her sweep again, kicked out the other one. desire and hazel, together, pushed her for a quarter of an hour. "now let's have ginger-cakes," said hazel, taking them out of her pocket, and leaving the "cat" to die. little barefoot came down at that, with a run; hanging to the rope at one side, and dragging, till she tumbled in a sprawl upon the floor. "you ought to have waited," said desire. "poh! i don't never wait!" cried the ragamuffin rubbing her elbows. "i don't care." "but it isn't nice to tumble round," suggested hazel. "i _ain't_ nice," answered the child, and settled the subject. "well, these ginger-nuts are," said hazel. "here!" "have you had a good time?" she asked when the last one was eaten, and she led the way to go down-stairs. "good time! that ain't nothin'! i've had a reg'lar bust! i'm comin' agin'; it's bully. now i must get my loaf and my shoes, and go along back and take a lickin'." that was the way hazel caught her first child. she made her tell her name,--ann fazackerley,--and promise to come on saturday afternoon, and bring two more girls with her. "we'll have a party," said hazel, "and play puss in the corner. but you must get leave," she added. "ask your mother. i don't want you to be punished when you go home." "lor! you're green! i ain't got no mother. an' i always hooks jack. i'm licked reg'lar when i gets back, anyway. there's half a dozen of 'em. when 'tain't one, it's another. that's jane goffey's bread; she's been a swearin' after it this hour, you bet. but i'll come,--see if i don't!" hazel drew a hard breath as she let the girl go. back to her crowded cellar, her jane goffeys, the swearings, and the lickings. what was one hour at a time, once or twice a week, to do against all this? but she remembered the clean little round in her face, out of which eyes and mouth looked merrily, while she talked rough slang; the same fun and daring,--nothing worse,--were in this child's face, that might be in another's saying prettier words. how could she help her words, hearing nothing but devil's dutch around her all the time? children do not make the language they are born into. and the face that could be simply merry, telling such a tale as that,--what sort of bright little immortality must it be the outlook of? hazel meant to try her hour. * * * * * this is one of my last chapters. i can only tell you now they began,--these real folks,--the work their real living led them up to. perhaps some other time we may follow it on. if i were to tell you now a finished story of it, i should tell a story ahead of the world. i can show you what six weeks brought it to. i can show you them fairly launched in what may grow to a beautiful private charity,--an "insecution,"--a broad social scheme,--a millennium; at any rate, a life work, change and branch as it may, for these girls who have found out, in their girlhood, that there is genuine living, not mere "playing pretend," to be done in the world. but you cannot, in little books of three hundred pages, see things through. i never expected or promised to do that. the threescore years and ten themselves, do not do it. it turned into regular wednesday and saturday afternoons. three girls at first, then six, then less again,--sometimes only one or two; until they gradually came up to and settled at, an average of nine or ten. the first saturday they took them as they were. the next time they gave them a stick of candy each, the first thing, then hazel's fingers were sticky, and she proposed the wash-basin all round, before they went up-stairs. the bright tin bowl was ready in the sink, and a clean round towel hung beside; and with some red and white soap-balls, they managed to fascinate their dirty little visitors into three clean pairs of hands, and three clean faces as well. the candy and the washing grew to be a custom; and in three weeks' time, watching for a hot day and having it luckily on a saturday, they ventured upon instituting a whole bath, in big round tubs, in the back shed-room, where a faucet came in over a wash bench, and a great boiler was set close by. they began with a foot-paddle, playing pond, and sailing chips at the same time; then luclarion told them they might have tubs full, and get in all over and duck, if they liked; and children who may hate to be washed, nevertheless are always ready for a duck and a paddle. so luclarion superintended the bath-room; diana helped her; and desire and hazel tended the shop. luclarion invented a shower-bath with a dipper and a colander; then the wet, tangled hair had to be combed,--a climax which she had secretly aimed at with a great longing, from the beginning; and doing this, she contrived with carbolic soap and a separate suds, and a bit of sponge, to give the neglected little heads a most salutary dressing. saturday grew into bath-day; soap-suds suggested bubbles; and the ducking and the bubbling were a frolic altogether. then hazel wished they could be put into clean clothes each time; wouldn't it do, somehow? but that would cost. luclarion had come to the limit of her purse; hazel had no purse, and desire's was small. "but you see they've _got_ to have it," said hazel; and so she went to her mother, and from her straight to uncle oldways. they counted up,--she and desire, and diana; two little common suits, of stockings, underclothes, and calico gowns, apiece; somebody to do a washing once a week, ready for the change; and then--"those horrid shoes!" "i don't see how you can do it," said mrs. ripwinkley. "the things will be taken away from them, and sold. you would have to keep doing, over and over, to no purpose, i am afraid." "i'll see to that," said luclarion, facing her "stump." "we'll do for them we can do for; if it ain't ones, it will be tothers. those that don't keep their things, can't have 'em; and if they're taken away, i won't sell bread to the women they belong to, till they're brought back. besides, the _washing_ kind of sorts 'em out, beforehand. 'taint the worst ones that are willing to come, or to send, for that. you always have to work in at an edge, in anything, and make your way as you go along. it'll regulate. i'm _living_ there right amongst 'em; i've got a clew, and a hold; i can follow things up; i shall have a 'circle;' there's circles everywhere. and in all the wheels there's a moving _spirit_; you ain't got to depend just on yourself. things work; the lord sees to it; it's _his_ business as much as yours." hazel told uncle titus that there were shoes and stockings and gowns wanted down in neighbor street; things for ten children; they must have subscriptions. and so she had come to him. the ripwinkleys had never given uncle titus a christmas or a birthday present, for fear they should seem to establish a mutual precedent. they had never talked of their plans which involved calculation, before him; they were terribly afraid of just one thing with him, and only that one,--of anything most distantly like what desire ledwith called "a megilp bespeak." but now hazel went up to him as bold as a lion. she took it for granted he was like other people,--"real folks;" that he would do--what must be done. "how much will it cost?" "for clothes and shoes for each child, about eight dollars for three months, we guess," said hazel. "mother's going to pay for the washing!" "_guess_? haven't you calculated?" "yes, sir. 'guess' and 'calculate' mean the same thing in yankee," said hazel, laughing. uncle titus laughed in and out, in his queer way, with his shoulders going up and down. then he turned round, on his swivel chair, to his desk, and wrote a check for one hundred dollars. "there. see how far you can make that go." "that's good," said hazel, heartily, looking at it; "that's splendid!" and never gave him a word of personal thanks. it was a thing for mutual congratulations, rather, it would seem; the "good" was just what they all wanted, and there it was. why should anybody in particular be thanked, as if anybody in particular had asked for anything? she did not say this, or think it; she simply did not think about it at all. and uncle oldways--again--liked it. there! i shall not try, now, to tell you any more; their experiences, their difficulties, their encouragements, would make large material for a much larger book. i want you to know of the idea, and the attempt. if they fail, partly,--if drunken fathers steal the shoes, and the innocent have to forfeit for the guilty,--if the bad words still come to the lips often, though hazel tells them they are not "nice,"--and beginning at the outside, they are in a fair way of learning the niceness of being nice,--if some children come once or twice, and get dressed up, and then go off and live in the gutters again until the clothes are gone,--are these real failures? there is a bright, pure place down there in neighbor street, and twice a week some little children have there a bright, pure time. will this be lost in the world? in the great ledger of god will it always stand unbalanced on the debit side? if you are afraid it will fail,--will be swallowed up in the great sink of vice and misery, like a single sweet, fresh drop, sweet only while it is falling,--go and do likewise; rain down more; make the work larger, stronger; pour the sweetness in faster, till the wide, grand time of full refreshing shall have come from the presence of the lord! ada geoffrey went down and helped. miss craydocke is going to knit scarlet stockings all winter for them; mr. geoffrey has put a regular bath-room in for luclarion, with half partitions, and three separate tubs; mrs. geoffrey has furnished a dormitory, where little homeless ones can be kept to sleep. luclarion has her hands full, and has taken in a girl to help her, whose board and wages rachel froke and asenath scherman pay. a thing like that spreads every way; you have only to be among, and one of--real folks. * * * * * desire, besides her work in neighbor street, has gone into the normal school. she wants to make herself fit for any teaching; she wants also to know and to become a companion of earnest, working girls. she told uncle titus this, after she had been with him a month, and had thought it over; and uncle titus agreed, quite as if it were no real concern of his, but a very proper and unobjectionable plan for her, if she liked it. one day, though, when marmaduke wharne--who had come this fall again to stay his three days, and talk over their business,--sat with him in his study, just where they had sat two years and a little more ago, and hazel and desire ran up and down stairs together, in and out upon their busy wednesday errands,--marmaduke said to titus,-- "afterwards is a long time, friend; but i mistrust you have found the comfort, as well as the providence, of 'next of kin?'" "afterwards _is_ a long time," said titus oldways, gravely; "but the lord's line of succession stretches all the way through." and that same night he had his other old friend, miss craydocke, in; and he brought two papers that he had ready, quietly out to be signed, each with four names: "titus oldways," by itself, on the one side; on the other,-- "rachel froke, marmaduke wharne, keren-happuch craydocke." and one of those two papers--which are no further part of the present story, seeing that good old uncle titus is at this moment alive and well, as he has a perfect right, and is heartily welcome to be, whether the story ever comes to a regular winding up or not--was laid safely away in a japanned box in a deep drawer of his study table; and marmaduke wharne put the other in his pocket. he and titus knew. i myself guess, and perhaps you do; but neither you nor i, nor rachel, nor keren-happuch, know for certain; and it is no sort of matter whether we do or not. the "next of kin" is a better and a deeper thing than any claim of law or register of bequest can show. titus oldways had found that out; and he had settled in his mind, to his restful and satisfied belief, that god, to the last moment of his time, and the last particle of his created substance, can surely care for and order and direct his own. is that end and moral enough for a two years' watchful trial and a two years' simple tale? xxi. the horseshoe. they laid out the waite place in this manner:-- right into the pretty wooded pasture, starting from a point a little way down the road from the old house, they projected a roadway which swept round, horseshoe fashion, till it met itself again within a space of some twenty yards or so; and this sweep made a frontage--upon its inclosed bit of natural, moss-turfed green, sprinkled with birch and pine and oak trees, and with gray out-croppings of rock here and there--for the twenty houses, behind which opened the rest of the unspoiled, irregular, open slope and swell and dingle of the hill-foot tract that dipped down at one reach, we know, to the river. the trees, and shrubs, and vines, and ferns, and stones, were left in their wild prettiness; only some roughness of nature's wear and tear of dead branches and broken brushwood, and the like, were taken away, and the little footpaths cleared for pleasant walking. there were all the little shady, sweet-smelling nooks, just as they had been; all the little field-parlors, opening with their winding turns between bush and rock, one into another. the twenty households might find twenty separate places, if they all wanted to take a private out-door tea at once. the cellars were dug; the frames were up; workmen were busy with brick and mortar, hammer and plane; two or three buildings were nearly finished, and two--the two standing at the head of the horseshoe, looking out at the back into the deepest and pleasantest wood-aisle, where the leaves were reddening and mellowing in the early october frost, and the ferns were turning into tender transparent shades of palest straw-color--were completed, and had dwellers in them; the cheeriest, and happiest, and coziest of neighbors; and who do you think these were? miss waite and delia, of course, in one house; and with them, dividing the easy rent and the space that was ample for four women, were lucilla waters and her mother. in the other, were kenneth and rosamond kincaid and dorris. kenneth and rosamond had been married just three weeks. rosamond had told him she would begin the world with him, and they had begun. begun in the simple, true old-fashioned way, in which, if people only would believe it, it is even yet not impossible for young men and women to inaugurate their homes. they could not have had a place at westover, and a horse and buggy for kenneth to go back and forth with; nor even a house in one of the best streets of z----; and down at east square everything was very modern and pretentious, based upon the calculation of rising values and a rush of population. but here was this new neighborhood of--well, yes,--"model houses;" a blessed christian speculation for a class not easily or often reached by any speculations save those that grind and consume their little regular means, by forcing upon them the lawless and arbitrary prices of the day, touching them at every point in their _living_, but not governing correspondingly their income, as even the hod-carrier's and railroad navvy's daily pay is reached and ruled to meet the proportion of the time. they would be plain, simple, little-cultured people that would live there: the very "betwixt and betweens" that rosamond had used to think so hardly fated. would she go and live among them, in one of these little new, primitive homes, planted down in the pasture-land, on the outskirts? would she--the pretty, graceful, elegant rosamond--live semi-detached with old miss arabel waite? that was just exactly the very thing she would do; the thing she did not even let kenneth think of first, and ask her, but that, when they had fully agreed that they would begin life somehow, in some right way together, according to their means, she herself had questioned him if they might not do. and so the houses were hurried in the building; for old miss arabel must have hers before the winter; (it seems strange how often the change comes when one could not have waited any longer for it;) and kenneth had mill building, and surveying, and planning, in east square, and mr. roger marchbanks' great gray-stone mansion going up on west hill, to keep him busy; work enough for any talented young fellow, fresh from the school of technology, who had got fair hold of a beginning, to settle down among and grasp the "next things" that were pretty sure to follow along after the first. dorris has all ruth's music scholars, and more; for there has never been anybody to replace miss robbyns, and there are many young girls in z----, and down here in east square, who want good teaching and cannot go away to get it. she has also the organ-playing in the new church. she keeps her morning hours and her saturdays to help rosamond; for they are "coöperating" here, in the new home; what was the use, else, of having coöperated in the old? rosamond cannot bear to have any coarse, profane fingers laid upon her little household gods,--her wedding-tins and her feather dusters,--while the first gloss and freshness are on, at any rate; and with her dainty handling, the gloss is likely to last a long while. such neighbors, too, as the waites and waterses are! how they helped in the fitting up, running in in odd half hours from their own nailing and placing, which they said could wait awhile, since they weren't brides; and such real old times visiting as they have already between the houses; coming and taking right hold, with wiping up dinner plates as likely as not, if that is the thing in hand; picking up what is there, as easily as "the girls" used to help work out some last new pattern of crochet, or try over music, or sort worsteds for gorgeous affghans for the next great fair! miss arabel is apt to come in after dinner, and have a dab at the plates; she knows she interrupts nothing then; and she "has never been used to sitting talking, with gloves on and a parasol in her lap." and now she has given up trying to make impossible biases, she has such a quantity of time! it was the matter of receiving visits from her friends who _did_ sit with their parasols in their laps, or who only expected to see the house, or look over wedding presents, that would be the greatest hindrance, rosamond realized at once; that is, if she would let it; so she did just the funniest thing, perhaps, that ever a bride did do: she set her door wide open from her pretty parlor, with its books and flowers and pictures and window-draperies of hanging vines, into the plain, cozy little kitchen, with its tin pans and bright new buckets and its shaker chairs; and when she was busy there, asked her girl-friends right in, as she had used to take them up into her bedroom, if she were doing anything pretty or had something to show. and they liked it, for the moment, at any rate; they could not help it; they thought it was lovely; a kind of bewitching little play at keeping house; though some of them went away and wondered, and said that rosamond holabird had quite changed all her way of living and her position; it was very splendid and strong-minded, they supposed; but they never should have thought it of her, and of course she could not keep it up. "and the neighborhood!" was the cry. "the rabble she has got, and is going to have, round her! all planks and sand, and tubs of mortar, now; you have to half break your neck in getting up there; and when it is settled it will be--such a frowze of common people! why the foreman of our factory has engaged a house, and mrs. haslam, who actually used to do up laces for mamma, has got another!" that is what is said--in some instances--over on west hill, when the elegant visitors came home from calling at the horseshoe. meanwhile, what rosamond does is something like this, which she happened to do one bright afternoon a very little while ago. she and dorris had just made and baked a charming little tea-cake, which was set on a fringed napkin in a round white china dish, and put away in the fresh, oak-grained kitchen pantry, where not a crumb or a slop had ever yet been allowed to rest long enough to defile or give a flavor of staleness; out of which everything is tidily used up while it is nice, and into which little delicate new-made bits like this, for next meals, are always going. the tea-table itself,--with its three plates, and its new silver, and the pretty, thin, shallow cups and saucers, that an irish girl would break a half-dozen of every week,--was laid with exquisite preciseness; the square white napkins at top and bottom over the crimson cloth, spread to the exactness of a line, and every knife and fork at fair right angles; the loaf was upon the white carved trencher, and nothing to be done when kenneth should come in, but to draw the tea, and bring the brown cake forth. rosamond will not leave all these little doings to break up the pleasant time of his return; she will have her leisure then, let her be as busy as she may while he is away. there was an hour or more after all was done; even after the panjandrums had made their state call, leaving their barouche at the heel of the horseshoe, and filling up all rosamond's little vestibule with their flounces, as they came in and went out. the panjandrums were new people at west hill; very new and very grand, as only new things and new people can be, turned out in the latest style pushed to the last agony. mrs. panjandrum's dress was all in two shades of brown, to the tips of her feathers, and the toes of her boots, and the frill of her parasol; and her carriage was all in two shades of brown, likewise; cushions, and tassels, and panels; the horses themselves were cream-color, with dark manes and tails. next year, perhaps, everything will be in pansy-colors,--black and violet and gold; and then she will probably have black horses with gilded harness and royal purple tails. it was very good of the panjandrums, doubtless, to come down to the horseshoe at all; i am willing to give them all the credit of really admiring rosamond, and caring to see her in her little new home; but there are two other things to be considered also: the novel kind of home rosamond had chosen to set up, and the human weakness of curiosity concerning all experiments, and friends in all new lights; also the fact of that other establishment shortly to branch out of the holabird connection. the family could not quite go under water, even with people of the panjandrum persuasion, while there was such a pair of prospective corks to float them as mr. and mrs. dakie thayne. the panjandrum carriage had scarcely bowled away, when a little buggy and a sorrel pony came up the road, and somebody alighted with a brisk spring, slipped the rein with a loose knot through the fence-rail at the corner, and came up one side of the two-plank foot-walk that ran around the horseshoe; somebody who had come home unexpectedly, to take his little wife to ride. kenneth kincaid had business over at the new district of "clarendon park." drives, and livery-stable bills, were no part of the items allowed for, in the programme of these young people's living; therefore rosamond put on her gray hat, with its soft little dove's breast, and took her bright-striped shawl upon her arm, and let kenneth lift her into the buggy--for which there was no manner of need except that they both liked it,--with very much the feeling as if she were going off on a lovely bridal trip. they had had no bridal trip, you see; they did not really want one; and this little impromptu drive was such a treat! now the wonders of nature and the human mind show--if i must go so far to find an argument for the statement i am making--that into a single point of time or particle of matter may be gathered the relations of a solar system or the experiences of a life; that a universe may be compressed into an atom, or a molecule expanded into a macrocosm; therefore i expect nobody to sneer at my rosamond as childishly nappy in her simple honeymoon, or at me for making extravagant and unsupported assertions, when i say that this hour and a half, and these four miles out to clarendon park and back,--the lifting and the tucking in, and the setting off, the sitting side by side in the ripe october air and the golden twilight, the noting together every pretty turn, every flash of autumn color in the woods, every change in the cloud-groupings overhead, every glimpse of busy, bright-eyed squirrels up and down the walls, every cozy, homely group of barnyard creatures at the farmsteads, the change, the pleasure, the thought of home and always-togetherness,--all this made the little treat of a country ride as much to them, holding all that any wandering up and down the whole world in their new companionship could hold,--as a going to europe, or a journey to mountains and falls and sea-sides and cities, in a skimming of the states. you cannot have more than there is; and you do not care, for more than just what stands for and emphasizes the essential beauty, the living gladness, that no _place_ gives, but that hearts carry about into places and baptize them with, so that ever afterward a tender charm hangs round them, because "we saw it _then_." and kenneth and rosamond kincaid had all these bright associations, these beautiful glamours, these glad reminders, laid up for years to come, in a four miles space that they might ride or walk over, re-living it all, in the returning octobers of many other years. i say they had a bridal tour that day, and that the four miles were as good as four thousand. such little bits of signs may stand for such high, great, blessed things! "how lovely stillness and separateness are!" said rosamond as they sat in the buggy, stopping to enjoy a glimpse of the river on one side, and a flame of burning bushes on the other, against the dark face of a piece of woods that held the curve of road in which they stood, in sheltered quiet. "how pretty a house would be, up on that knoll. do you know things puzzle me a little, kenneth? i have almost come to a certain conclusion lately, that people are not meant to live apart, but that it is really everybody's duty to live in a town, or a village, or in some gathering of human beings together. life tends to that, and all the needs and uses of it; and yet,--it is so sweet in a place like this,--and however kind and social you may be, it seems once in a while such an escape! do you believe in beautiful country places, and in having a little piece of creation all to yourself, if you can get it, or if not what do you suppose all creation is made for?" "perhaps just that which you have said, rose." rosamond has now, what her mother hinted once, somebody to call her "rose," with a happy and beautiful privilege. "perhaps to escape into. not for one, here and there, selfishly, all the time; but for the whole, with fair share and opportunity. creation is made very big, you see, and men and women are made without wings, and with very limited hands and feet. also with limited lives; that makes the time-question, and the hurry. there is a suggestion,--at any rate, a necessity,--in that. it brings them within certain spaces, always. in spite of all the artificial lengthening of railroads and telegraphs, there must still be centres for daily living, intercourse, and need. people tend to towns; they cannot establish themselves in isolated independence. yet packing and stifling are a cruelty and a sin. i do not believe there ought to be any human being so poor as to be forced to such crowding. the very way we are going to live at the horseshoe, seems to me an individual solution of the problem. it ought to come to pass that our towns should be built--and if built already, wrongly, _thinned out_,--on this principle. people are coming to learn a little of this, and are opening parks and squares in the great cities, finding that there must be room for bodies and souls to reach out and breathe. if they could only take hold of some of their swarming-places, where disease and vice are festering, and pull down every second house and turn it into a garden space, i believe they would do more for reform and salvation than all their separate institutions for dealing with misery after it is let grow, can ever effect." "o, why _can't_ they?" cried rose. "there is money enough, somewhere. why can't they do it, instead of letting the cities grow horrid, and then running away from it themselves, and buying acres and acres around their country places, for fear somebody should come too near, and the country should begin to grow horrid too?" "because the growing and the crowding and the striving of the city _make_ so much of the money, little wife! because to keep everybody fairly comfortable as the world goes along, there could not be so many separate piles laid up; it would have to be used more as it comes, and it could not come so fast. if nobody cared to be very rich, and all were willing to live simply and help one another, in little 'horseshoe neighborhoods,' there wouldn't be so much that looks like grand achievement in the world perhaps; but i think maybe the very angels might show themselves out of the unseen, and bring the glory of heaven into it!" kenneth's color came, and his eyes glowed, as he spoke these words that burst into eloquence with the intensity of his meaning; and rosamond's face was holy-pale, and her look large, as she listened; and they were silent for a minute or so, as the pony, of his own accord, trotted deliberately on. "but then, the beauty, and the leisure, and all that grows out of them to separate minds, and what the world gets through the refinement of it! you see the puzzle comes back. must we never, in this life, gather round us the utmost that the world is capable of furnishing? must we never, out of this big creation, have the piece to ourselves, each one as he would choose?" "i think the lord would show us a way out of that," said kenneth. "i think he would make his world turn out right, and all come to good and sufficient use, if we did not put it in a snarl. perhaps we can hardly guess what we might grow to all together,--'the whole body, fitly joined by that which every joint supplieth, increasing and building itself up in love.' and about the quietness, and the separateness,--we don't want to _live_ in that, rose; we only want it sometimes, to make us fitter to live. when the disciples began to talk about building tabernacles on the mountain of the vision, christ led them straight down among the multitude, where there was a devil to be cast out. it is the same thing in the old story of the creation. god worked six days, and rested one." "well," said rose, drawing a deep breath, "i am glad we have begun at the horseshoe! it was a great escape for me, kenneth. i am such a worldly girl in my heart. i should have liked so much to have everything elegant and artistic about me." "i think you do. i think you always will. not because of the worldliness in you, though; but the _other_-worldliness, the sense of real beauty and truth. and i am glad that we have begun at all! it was a greater escape for me. i was in danger of all sorts of hardness and unbelief. i had begun to despise and hate things, because they did not work rightly just around me. and then i fell in, just in time, with some real, true people; and then you came, with the 'little piece of your world,' and then i came here, and saw what your world was, and how you were making it, rose! how a little community of sweet and generous fellowship was crystallizing here among all sorts--outward sorts--of people; a little community of the kingdom; and how you and yours had done it." "o, kenneth! i was the worst little atom in the whole crystal! i only got into my place because everybody else did, and there was nothing else left for me to do." "you see i shall never believe that," said kenneth, quietly. "there is no flaw in the crystal. you were all polarized alike. and besides, can't i see daily just how your nature draws and points?" "well, never mind," said rose. "only some particles are natural magnets, i believe, and some get magnetized by contact. now that we have hit upon this metaphor, isn't it funny that our little social experiment should have taken the shape of a horseshoe?" "the most sociable, because the most magnetic, shape it could take. you will see the power it will develop. there's a great deal in merely taking form according to fundamental principles. witness the getting round a fireside. isn't that a horseshoe? and could half as much sympathy be evolved from a straight line?" "i believe in firesides," said rose. "and in women who can organize and inform them," said kenneth. "first, firesides; then neighborhoods; that is the way the world's life works out; and women have their hands at the heart of it. they can do so much more there than by making the laws! when the life is right, the laws will make themselves, or be no longer needed. they are such mere outside patchwork,--makeshifts till a better time!" "wrong living must make wrong laws, whoever does the voting," said rosamond, sagely. "false social standards make false commercial ones; inflated pretensions demand inflated currency; selfish, untrue domestic living eventuates in greedy speculations and business shams; and all in the intriguing for corrupt legislation, to help out partial interests. it isn't by multiplying the voting power, but by purifying it, that the end is to be reached." "that is so sententious, kenneth, that i shall have to take it home and ravel it out gradually in my mind in little shreds. in the mean while, dear, suppose we stop in the village, and get some little brown-ware cups for top-overs. you never ate any of my top-overs? well, when you do, you'll say that all the world ought to be brought up on top-overs." rosamond was very particular about her little brown-ware cups. they had to be real stone,--brown outside, and gray-blue in; and they must be of a special size and depth. when they were found, and done up in a long parcel, one within another, in stout paper, she carried it herself to the chaise, and would scarcely let kenneth hold it while she got in; after which, she laid it carefully across her lap, instead of putting it behind upon the cushion. 'you see they were rather dear; but they are the only kind worth while. those little yellow things would soak and crack, and never look comfortable in the kitchen-closet. i give you very fair warning, i shall always want the best of things but then i shall take very fierce and jealous care of them,--like this.' and she laid her little nicely-gloved hand across her homely parcel, guardingly. how nice it was to go buying little homely things together! again, it was as good and pleasant,--and meant ever so much more,--than if it had been ordering china with a monogram in dresden, or glass in prague, with a coat-of-arms engraved. when they drove up to the horseshoe, dakie thayne and ruth met them. they had been getting "spiritual ferns" and sumach leaves with dorris; "the dearest little tips," ruth said, "of scarlet and carbuncle, just like jets of fire." and now they would go back to tea, and eat up the brown cake? "real westover summum-bonum cake?" dakie wanted to know. "well, he couldn't stand against that. come, ruthie!" and ruthie came. "what do you think rosamond says?" said kenneth, at the tea-table, over the cake. "that everybody ought to live in a city or a village, or, at least, a horseshoe. she thinks nobody has a right to stick his elbows out, in this world. she's in a great hurry to be packed as closely as possible here." "i wish the houses were all finished, and our neighbors in; that is what i said," said rosamond. "i should like to begin to know about them, and feel settled; and to see flowers in their windows, and lights at night." "and you always hated so a 'little crowd!'" said ruth. "it isn't a crowd when they _don't_ crowd," said rosamond. "i can't bear little miserable jostles." "how good it will be to see rosamond here, at the head of her court; at the top of the horseshoe," said dakie thayne. "she will be quite the 'queen of the county.'" "don't!" said rosamond. "i've a very weak spot in my head. you can't tell the mischief you might do. no, i won't be queen!" "any more than you can help," said dakie. "she'll be rosa mundi, wherever she is," said ruth affectionately. "i think that is just grand of kenneth and rosamond," said dakie thayne, as he and ruth were walking home up west hill in the moonlight, afterward. "what do you think you and i ought to do, one of these days, ruthie? it sets me to considering. there are more horseshoes to make, i suppose, if the world is to jog on." "_you_ have a great deal to consider about," said ruth, thoughtfully. "it was quite easy for kenneth and rosamond to see what they ought to do. but you might make a great many horseshoes,--or something!" "what do you mean by that second person plural, eh? are you shirking your responsibilities, or are you addressing your imaginary boffinses? come, ruthie, i can't have that! say 'we,' and i'll face the responsibilities and talk it all out; but i won't have anything to do with 'you!'" "won't you?" said ruth, with piteous demureness. "how can i say 'we,' then?" "you little cat! how you can scratch!" "there are such great things to be done in the world dakie," ruth said seriously, when they had got over that with a laugh that lifted her nicely by the "we" question. "i can't help thinking of it." "o," said dakie, with significant satisfaction. "we're getting on better. well?" "do you know what hazel ripwinkley is doing? and what luclarion grapp has done? do you know how they are going among poor people, in dreadful places,--really living among them, luclarion is,--and finding out, and helping, and showing how? i thought of that to-night, when they talked about living in cities and villages. luclarion has gone away down to the very bottom of it. and somehow, one can't feel satisfied with only reaching half-way, when one knows--and might!" "do you mean, ruthie, that you and i might go and _live_ in such places? do you think i could take you there?" "i don't know, dakie," ruth answered, forgetting in her earnestness, to blush or hesitate for what he said;--"but i feel as if we ought to reach down, somehow,--_away_ down! because that, you see, is the _most_. and to do only a little, in an easy way, when we are made so strong to do; wouldn't it be a waste of power, and a missing of the meaning? isn't it the 'much' that is required of us, dakie?" they were under the tall hedge of the holabird "parcel of ground," on the westover slope, and close to the home gates. dakie thayne put his arm round ruth as she said that, and drew her to him. "we will go and be neighbors somewhere, ruthie. and we will make as big a horseshoe as we can." xxii. morning glories. and desire? do you think i have passed her over lightly in her troubles? or do you think i am making her out to have herself passed over them lightly? do you think it is hardly to be believed that she should have turned round from these shocks and pains that bore down so heavily and all at once upon her, and taken kindly to the living with old uncle titus and rachel froke in the greenley street house, and going down to luclarion grapp's to help wash little children's faces, and teach them how to have innocent good times? do you think there is little making up in all that for her, while rosamond kincaid is happy in her new home, and ruth and dakie thayne are looking out together over the world,--which can be nowhere wholly sad to them, since they are to go down into it together,--and planning how to make long arms with their wealth, to reach the largest neighborhood they can? in the first place, do you know how full the world is, all around you, of things that are missed by those who say nothing, but go on living somehow without them? do you know how large a part of life, even young life, is made of the days that have never been lived? do you guess how many girls, like desire, come near something that they think they might have had, and then see it drift by just beyond their reach, to fall easily into some other hand that seems hardly put out to grasp it? and do you see, or feel, or guess how life goes on, incompleteness and all, and things settle themselves one way, if not another, simply because the world does not stop, but keeps turning, and tossing off days and nights like time-bubbles just the same? do you ever imagine how different this winter's parties are from last, or this summer's visit or journey from those of the summer gone,--to many a maiden who has her wardrobe made up all the same, and takes her german or her music lessons, and goes in and out, and has her ticket to the symphony concerts, and is no different to look at, unless perhaps with a little of the first color-freshness gone out of her face,--while secretly it seems to her as if the sweet early symphony of her life were all played out, and had ended in a discord? we begin, most of us, much as we are to go on. real or mistaken, the experiences of eighteen initiate the lesson that those of two and three score after years are needed to unfold and complete. what is left of us is continually turning round, perforce, to take up with what is left of the world, and make the best of it. thus much for what does happen, for what we have to put up with, for the mere philosophy of endurance, and the possibility of things being endured. we do live out our years, and get and bear it all. and the scars do not show much outside; nay, even we ourselves can lay a finger on the place, after a little time, without a cringe. desire ledwith did what she had to do; there was a way made for her, and there was still life left. but there is a better reading of the riddle. there is never a "might-have-been" that touches with a sting, but reveals also to us an inner glimpse of the wide and beautiful "may be." it is all there; somebody else has it now while we wait; but the years of god are full of satisfying, each soul shall have its turn; it is his good _pleasure_ to give us the kingdom. there is so much room, there are such thronging possibilities, there is such endless hope! to feel this, one must feel, however dimly, the inner realm, out of which the shadows of this life come and pass, to interpret to us the laid up reality. "the real world is the inside world." desire ledwith blessed uncle oldways in her heart for giving her that word. it comforted her for her father. if his life here had been hard, toilsome, mistaken even; if it had never come to that it might have come to; if she, his own child, had somehow missed the reality of him here, and he of her,--was he not passed now into the within? might she not find him there; might they not silently and spiritually, without sign, but needing no sign, begin to understand each other now? was not the real family just beginning to be born into the real home? ah, that word _real_! how deep we have to go to find the root of it! it is fast by the throne of god; in the midst. hazel ripwinkley talked about "real folks." she sifted, and she found out instinctively the true livers, the genuine _neahburs_, nigh-dwellers; they who abide alongside in spirit, who shall find each other in the everlasting neighborhood, when the veil falls. but there, behind,--how little, in our petty outside vexations or gladnesses, we stop to think of or perceive it!--is the actual, even the present, inhabiting; there is the kingdom, the continuing city, the real heaven and earth in which we already live and labor, and build up our homes and lay up our treasure and the loving christ, and the living father, and the innumerable company of angels, and the unseen compassing about of friends gone in there, and they on this earth who truly belong to us inwardly, however we and they may be bodily separated,--are the real folks! what matters a little pain, outside? go _in_, and rest from it! there is where the joy is, that we read outwardly, spelling by parts imperfectly, in our own and others' mortal experience; there is the content of homes, the beauty of love, the delight of friendship,--not shut in to any one or two, but making the common air that all souls breathe. no one heart can be happy, that all hearts may not have a share of it. rosamond and kenneth, dakie and ruth, cannot live out obviously any sweetness of living, cannot sing any notes of the endless, beautiful score, that desire ledwith, and luclarion grapp, and rachel froke, and hapsie craydocke, and old miss arabel waite, do not just as truly get the blessed grace and understanding of; do not catch and feel the perfect and abounding harmony of. since why? no lip can sound more than its own few syllables of music; no life show more than its own few accidents and incidents and groupings; the vast melody, the rich, eternal satisfying, are behind; and the signs are for us all! you may not think this, or see it so, in your first tussle and set-to with the disappointing and eluding things that seem the real and only,--missing which you miss all. this chapter may be less to you--less _for_ you, perhaps--than for your elders; the story may have ended, as to that you care for, some pages back; but for all that, this is certain; and desire ledwith has begun to find it, for she is one of those true, grand spirits to whom personal loss or frustration are most painful as they seem to betoken something wrong or failed in the general scheme and justice. this terrible "why should it be?" once answered,--once able to say to themselves quietly, "it is all right; the beauty and the joy are there; the song is sung, though we are of the listeners; the miracle-play is played, though but a few take literal part, and many of us look on, with the play, like the song, moving through our souls only, or our souls moving in the vital sphere of it, where the stage is wide enough for all;"--once come to this, they have entered already into that which is behind, and nothing of all that goes forth thence into the earth to make its sunshine can be shut off from them forever. desire is learning to be glad, thinking of kenneth and rosamond, that this fair marriage should have been. it is so just and exactly best; rosamond's sweet graciousness is so precisely what kenneth's sterner way needed to have shine upon it; her finding and making of all manner of pleasantness will be so good against his sharp discernment of the wrong; they will so beautifully temper and sustain each other! desire is so generous, so glad of the truth, that she can stand aside, and let this better thing be, and say to herself that it _is_ better. is not this that she is growing to inwardly, more blessed than any marriage or giving in marriage? is it not a partaking of the heavenly marriage supper? "we two might have grumbled at the world until we grumbled at each other." she even said that, calmly and plainly, to herself. and then that manna was fed to her afresh of which she had been given first to eat so long a while ago; that thought of "the lamb in the midst of the throne" came back to her. of the tenderness deep within the almightiness that holds all earth and heaven and time and circumstance in its grasp. her little, young, ignorant human heart begins to rest in that great warmth and gentleness; begins to be glad to wait there for what shall arise out of it, moving the almightiness for her,--even on purpose for her,--in the by-and-by; she begins to be sure; of what, she knows not,--but of a great, blessed, beautiful something, that just because she is at all, shall be for her; that she shall have a part, somehow, even in the _showing_ of his good; that into the beautiful miracle-play she shall be called, and a new song be given her, also, to sing in the grand, long, perfect oratorio; she begins to pray quietly, that, "loving the lord, always above all things, she may obtain his promises, which exceed all that she can desire." and waiting, resting, believing, she begins also to work. this beginning is even as an ending and forehaving, to any human soul. i will tell you how she woke one morning; of a little poem that wrote itself along her chamber wall. it was a square, pleasant old room, with a window in an angle toward the east. a great, old-fashioned mirror hung opposite, between the windows that looked out north-westwardly; the morning and the evening light came in upon her. beside the solid, quaint old furnishings of a long past time, there were also around her the things she had been used to at home; her own little old rocking-chair, her desk and table, and her toilet and mantel ornaments and things of use. a pair of candle-branches with dropping lustres,--that she had marveled at and delighted in as a child, and had begged for herself when they fell into disuse in the drawing-room,--stood upon the chimney along which the first sun-rays glanced. just in those days of the year, they struck in so as to shine level through the clear prisms, and break into a hundred little rainbows. she opened her eyes, this fair october morning, and lay and looked at the little scattered glories. all around the room, on walls, curtains, ceiling,--falling like bright soft jewels upon table and floor, touching everything with a magic splendor,--were globes and shafts of colored light. softly blended from glowing red to tenderly fervid blue, they lay in various forms and fragments, as the beam refracted or the objects caught them. just on the edge of the deep, opposite window-frame, clung one vivid, separate flash of perfect azure, all alone, and farthest off of all. desire wondered, at first glance, how it should happen till she saw, against a closet-door ajar, a gibbous sphere of red and golden flame. yards apart the points were, and a shadow lay between; but the one sure sunbeam knew no distance, and there was no radiant line of the spectrum lost. desire remembered her old comparison of complementary colors: "to see blue, and to live red," she had said, complaining. but now she thought,--"foreshortening! in so many things, that is all,--if we could only see as the sun sees!" one bit of our living, by itself, all one deep, burning, bleeding color, maybe; but the globe is white,--the blue is somewhere. and, lo! a soft, still motion; a little of the flame-tint has dropped off; it has leaped to join itself to the blue; it gives itself over; and they are beautiful together,--they fulfill each other; yet, in the changing never a thread falls quite away into the dark. why, it is like love joining itself to love again! as god's sun climbs the horizon, his steadfast, gracious purpose, striking into earthly conditions, seems to break, and scatter, and divide. half our heart is here, half there; our need and ache are severed from their help and answer; the tender blue waits far off for the eager, asking red; yet just as surely as his light shines on, and our life moves under it, so surely, across whatever gulf, the beauty shall all be one again; so surely does it even now move all together, perfect and close always under his eye, who never sends a _half_ ray anywhere. * * * * * she read her little poem,--sent to her; she read it through. she rose up glad and strong; her room was full of glorious sunshine now; the broken bits of color were all taken up in one full pouring of the day. she went down with the light of it in her heart, and all about her. uncle oldways met her at the foot of the wide staircase. "good-day, child!" he said to her in his quaint fashion. "why it _is_ good day! your face shines." "you have given me a beautiful east window, uncle," said desire, "and the morning has come in!" and from the second step, where she still stood, she bent forward a little, put her hands softly upon his shoulders, and for the first time, kissed his cheek. proofreaders europe at http://dp.rastko.net [illustration: mr. john d. rockefeller at the age of eighteen] random reminiscences of men and events by john d. rockefeller new york doubleday, page & company copyright, , , by doubleday, page & company preface probably in the life of everyone there comes a time when he is inclined to go over again the events, great and small, which have made up the incidents of his work and pleasure, and i am tempted to become a garrulous old man, and tell some stories of men and things which have happened in an active life. in some measure i have been associated with the most interesting people our country has produced, especially in business--men who have helped largely to build up the commerce of the united states, and who have made known its products all over the world. these incidents which come to my mind to speak of seemed vitally important to me when they happened, and they still stand out distinctly in my memory. just how far any one is justified in keeping what he regards as his own private affairs from the public, or in defending himself from attacks, is a mooted point. if one talks about one's experiences, there is a natural temptation to charge one with traveling the easy road to egotism; if one keeps silence, the inference of wrong-doing is sometimes even more difficult to meet, as it would then be said that there is no valid defence to be offered. it has not been my custom to press my affairs forward into public gaze; but i have come to see that if my family and friends want some record of things which might shed light on matters that have been somewhat discussed, it is right that i should yield to their advice, and in this informal way go over again some of the events which have made life interesting to me. there is still another reason for speaking now: if a tenth of the things that have been said are true, then these dozens of able and faithful men who have been associated with me, many of whom have passed away, must have been guilty of grave faults. for myself, i had decided to say nothing, hoping that after my death the truth would gradually come to the surface and posterity would do strict justice; but while i live and can testify to certain things, it seems fair that i should refer to some points which i hope will help to set forth several much-discussed happenings in a new light. i am convinced that they have not been fully understood. all these things affect the memories of men who are dead and the lives of men who are living, and it is only reasonable that the public should have some first-hand facts to draw from in making up its final estimate. when these reminiscences were begun, there was of course no thought that they should ever go so far as to appear between the covers of a book. they were not prepared with the idea of even an informal autobiography, there was little idea of order or sequence, and no thought whatever of completeness. it would have been a pleasure as well as a satisfaction to dwell with some fulness upon the stories of daily and intimate companionship which existed for so many years with my close partners and associates, but i realize that while these experiences have always been to me among the great pleasures of my life, a long account of them would not interest the reader, and thus it happens that i have but mentioned the names of only a few of the scores of partners who have been so active in building up the business interests with which i have been associated. j.d.r. _march_, . contents i. some old friends ii. the difficult art of getting iii. the standard oil company iv. some experiences in the oil business v. other business experiences and business principles vi. the difficult art of giving vii. the benevolent trust--the value of the cooperative principle in giving chapter i some old friends since these reminiscences are really what they profess to be, random and informal, i hope i may be pardoned for setting down so many small things. in looking back over my life, the impressions which come most vividly to my mind are mental pictures of my old associates. in speaking of these friends in this chapter, i would not have it thought that many others, of whom i have not spoken, were less important to me, and i shall hope to refer to this subject of my early friends in a later chapter. it is not always possible to remember just how one first met an old friend or what one's impressions were, but i shall never forget my first meeting with mr. john d. archbold, who is now a vice-president of the standard oil company. at that time, say thirty-five or forty years ago, i was travelling about the country visiting the point where something was happening, talking with the producers, the refiners, the agents, and actually getting acquainted. one day there was a gathering of the men somewhere near the oil regions, and when i came to the hotel, which was full of oil men, i saw this name writ large on the register: _john d. archbold, $ . a bbl._ he was a young and enthusiastic fellow, so full of his subject that he added his slogan, "$ . a bbl.," after his signature on the register, that no one might misunderstand his convictions. the battle cry of $ . a barrel was all the more striking because crude oil was selling then for much less, and this campaign for a higher price certainly did attract attention--it was much top good to be true. but if mr. archbold had to admit in the end that crude oil is not worth "$ , a bbl.," his enthusiasm, his energy, and his splendid power over men have lasted. he has always had a well-developed sense of humour, and on one serious occasion, when he was on the witness stand, he was asked by the opposing lawyer: "mr. archbold, are you a director of this company?" "i am." "what is your occupation in this company?" he promptly answered, "to clamour for dividends," which led the learned counsel to start afresh on another line. i can never cease to wonder at his capacity for hard work. i do not often see him now, for he has great affairs on his hands, while i live like a farmer away from active happenings in business, playing golf, planting trees; and yet i am so busy that no day is long enough. speaking of mr. archbold leads me to say again that i have received much more credit than i deserve in connection with the standard oil company. it was my good fortune to help to bring together the efficient men who are the controlling forces of the organization and to work hand in hand with them for many years, but it is they who have done the hard tasks. the great majority of my associations were made so many years ago, that i have reached the age when hardly a month goes by (sometimes i think hardly a week) that i am not called upon to send some message of consolation to a family with whom we have been connected, and who have met with some fresh bereavement. only recently i counted up the names of the early associates who have passed away. before i had finished, i found the list numbered some sixty or more. they were faithful and earnest friends; we had worked together through many difficulties, and had gone through many severe trials together. we had discussed and argued and hammered away at questions until we came to agree, and it has always been a happiness to me to feel that we had been frank and aboveboard with each other. without this, business associates cannot get the best out of their work. it is not always the easiest of tasks to induce strong, forceful men to agree. it has always been our policy to hear patiently and discuss frankly until the last shred of evidence is on the table, before trying to reach a conclusion and to decide finally upon a course of action. in working with so many partners, the conservative ones are apt to be in the majority, and this is no doubt a desirable thing when the mere momentum of a large concern is certain to carry it forward. the men who have been very successful are correspondingly conservative, since they have much to lose in case of disaster. but fortunately there are also the aggressive and more daring ones, and they are usually the youngest in the company, perhaps few in number, but impetuous and convincing. they want to accomplish things and to move quickly, and they don't mind any amount of work or responsibility. i remember in particular an experience when the conservative influence met the progressive--shall i say?--or the daring side. at all events, this was the side i represented in this case. arguments versus capital one of my partners, who had successfully built up a large and prosperous business, was resisting with all his force a plan that some of us favoured, to make some large improvements. the cost of extending the operations of this enterprise was estimated at quite a sum--three million dollars, i think it was. we had talked it over and over again, and with several other associates discussed all the pros and cons; and we had used every argument we could command to show why the plan would not only be profitable, but was indeed necessary to maintain the lead we had. our old partner was obdurate, he had made up his mind not to yield, and i can see him standing up in his vigorous protest, with his hands in his pockets, his head thrown back, as he shouted "no." it's a pity to get a man into a place in an argument where he is defending a position instead of considering the evidence. his calm judgment is apt to leave him, and his mind is for the time being closed, and only obstinacy remains. now these improvements had to be made--as i said before, it was essential. yet we could not quarrel with our old partner, but a minority of us had made up our minds that we must try to get him to yield, and we resolved to try another line of argument, and said to him: "you say that we do not need to spend this money?" "no," he replied, "it will probably prove to be many years before such a sum must be spent. there is no present need for these facilities you want to create, and the works are doing well as they are--let's let well enough alone." now our partner was a very wise and experienced man, older and more familiar with the subject than some of us, and all this we admitted to him; but we had made up our minds, as i have said, to carry out this idea if we could possibly get his approval, and we were willing to wait until then. as soon as the argument had calmed down, and when the heat of our discussion had passed, the subject was brought up again. i had thought of a new way to approach it. i said: "i'll take it, and supply this capital myself. if the expenditure turns out to be profitable the company can repay me; and, if it goes wrong, i'll stand the loss." that was the argument that touched him. all his reserve disappeared and the matter was settled when he said: "if that's the way you feel about it, we'll go it together. i guess i can take the risk if you can." it is always, i presume, a question in every business just how fast it is wise to go, and we went pretty rapidly in those days, building and expanding in all directions. we were being confronted with fresh emergencies constantly. a new oil field would be discovered, tanks for storage had to be built almost over night, and this was going on when old fields were being exhausted, so we were therefore often under the double strain of losing the facilities in one place where we were fully equipped, and having to build up a plant for storing and transporting in a new field where we were totally unprepared. these are some of the things which make the whole oil trade a perilous one, but we had with us a group of courageous men who recognized the great principle that a business cannot be a great success that does not fully and efficiently accept and take advantage of its opportunities. how often we discussed those trying questions! some of us wanted to jump at once into big expenditures, and others to keep to more moderate ones. it was usually a compromise, but one at a time we took these matters up and settled them, never going as fast as the most progressive ones wished, nor quite so carefully as the conservatives desired, but always made the vote unanimous in the end. the joy of achievement the part played by one of my earliest partners, mr. h.m. flagler, was always an inspiration to me. he invariably wanted to go ahead and accomplish great projects of all kinds, he was always on the active side of every question, and to his wonderful energy is due much of the rapid progress of the company in the early days. it was to be expected of such a man that he should fulfil his destiny by working out some great problems at a time when most men want to retire to a comfortable life of ease. this would not appeal to my old friend. he undertook, single handed, the task of building up the east coast of florida. he was not satisfied to plan a railroad from st. augustine to key west--a distance of more than six hundred miles, which would have been regarded as an undertaking large enough for almost any one man--but in addition he has built a chain of superb hotels to induce tourists to go to this newly developed country. further than this, he has had them conducted with great skill and success. this one man, by his own energy and capital, has opened up a vast stretch of country, so that the old inhabitants and the new settlers may have a market for their products. he has given work to thousands of these people; and, to crown all, he has undertaken and nearly completed a remarkable engineering feat in carrying his road on the florida keys into the atlantic ocean to key west, the point set out for years ago. practically all this has been done after what most men would have considered a full business life, and a man of any other nationality situated as he was would have retired to enjoy the fruits of his labour. i first knew mr. flagler as a young man who consigned produce to clark & rockefeller. he was a bright and active young fellow full of vim and push. about the time we went into the oil business mr. flagler established himself as a commission merchant in the same building with mr. clark, who took over and succeeded the firm of clark & rockefeller. a little later he bought out mr. clark and combined his trade with his own. naturally, i came to see more of him. the business relations which began with the handling of produce he consigned to our old firm grew into a business friendship, because people who lived in a comparatively small place, as cleveland was then, were thrown together much more often than in such a place as new york. when the oil business was developing and we needed more help, i at once thought of mr. flagler as a possible partner, and made him an offer to come with us and give up his commission business. this offer he accepted, and so began that life-long friendship which has never had a moment's interruption. it was a friendship founded on business, which mr. flagler used to say was a good deal better than a business founded on friendship, and my experience leads me to agree with him. for years and years this early partner and i worked shoulder to shoulder; our desks were in the same room. we both lived on euclid avenue, a few rods apart. we met and walked to the office together, walked home to luncheon, back again after luncheon, and home again at night. on these walks, when we were away from the office interruptions, we did our thinking, talking, and planning together. mr. flagler drew practically all our contracts. he has always had the faculty of being able to clearly express the intent and purpose of a contract so well and accurately that there could be no misunderstanding, and his contracts were fair to both sides. i can remember his saying often that when you go into an arrangement you must measure up the rights and proprieties of both sides with the same yardstick, and this was the way henry m. flagler did. one contract mr. flagler was called upon to accept which to my surprise he at once passed with his o.k. and without a question. we had concluded to purchase the land on which one of our refineries was built and which was held on a lease from john irwin, whom we both knew well. mr. irwin drew the contract for the purchase of this land on the back of a large manila envelope that he picked up in the office. the description of the property ran as such contracts usually do until it came to the phrase "the line runs south to a mullen stalk," etc. this seemed to me a trifle indefinite, but mr. flagler said: "it's all right, john. i'll accept that contract, and when the deed comes in, you will see that the mullen stalk will be replaced by a proper stake and the whole document will be accurate and shipshape." of course it turned out exactly as he said it would. i am almost tempted to say that some lawyers might sit at his feet and learn things about drawing contracts good for them to know, but perhaps our legal friends might think i was partial, so i won't press the point. another thing about mr. flagler for which i think he deserves great credit was that in the early days he insisted that, when a refinery was to be put up, it should be different from the flimsy shacks which it was then the custom to build. everyone was so afraid that the oil would disappear and that the money expended in buildings would be a loss that the meanest and cheapest buildings were erected for use as refineries. this was the sort of thing mr. flagler objected to. while he had to admit that it was possible the oil supply might fail and that the risks of the trade were great, he always believed that if we went into the oil business at all, we should do the work as well as we knew how; that we should have the very best facilities; that everything should be solid and substantial; and that nothing should be left undone to produce the finest results. and he followed his convictions of building as though the trade was going to last, and his courage in acting up to his beliefs laid strong foundations for later years. there are a number of people still alive who will recall the bright, straightforward young flagler of those days with satisfaction. at the time when we bought certain refineries at cleveland he was very active. one day he met an old friend on the street, a german baker, to whom he had sold flour in years gone by. his friend told him that he had gone out of the bakery business and had built a little refinery. this surprised mr. flagler, and he didn't like the idea of his friend investing his little fortune in a small plant which he felt sure would not succeed. but at first there seemed nothing to do about it. he had it on his mind for some days. it evidently troubled him. finally he came to me and said: "that little baker man knows more about baking than oil refining, but i'd feel better if we invited him to join us--i've got him on my conscience." i of course agreed. he talked to his friend, who said he would gladly sell if we would send an appraiser to value his plant, which we did, and then there arose an unexpected difficulty. the price at which the plant was to be purchased was satisfactory, but the ex-baker insisted that mr. flagler should advise him whether he should take his pay in cash or standard oil certificates at par. he told mr. flagler that if he took it in cash it would pay all his debts, and he would be glad to have his mind free of many anxieties; but if mr. flagler said the certificates were going to pay good dividends, he wanted to get into and keep up with a good thing. it was rather a hard proposition to put up to mr. flagler, and at first he declined to advise or express any opinion, but the german stuck to him and wouldn't let him shirk a responsibility which in no way belonged to him. finally mr. flagler suggested that he take half the amount in cash and pay per cent. on account of his debts, and put the other half in certificates, and see what happened. this he did, and as time went on he bought more certificates, and mr. flagler never had to apologize for the advice he gave him. i am confident that my old partner gave this affair as much time and thought as he did to any of his own large problems, and the incident may be taken as a measure of the man. the value of friendships but these old men's tales can hardly be interesting to the present generation, though perhaps they will not be useless if even tiresome stories make young people realize how, above all other possessions, is the value of a friend in every department of life without any exception whatsoever. how many different kinds of friends there are! they should all be held close at any cost; for, although some are better than others, perhaps, a friend of whatever kind is important; and this one learns as one grows older. there is the kind that when you need help has a good reason just at the moment, of course, why it is impossible to extend it. "i can't indorse your note," he says, "because i have an agreement with my partners not to." "i'd like to oblige you, but i can explain why at the moment," etc., etc. i do not mean to criticize this sort of friendship; for sometimes it is a matter of temperament; and sometimes the real necessities are such that the friend cannot do as he would like to do. as i look back over my friends, i can remember only a few of this kind and a good many of the more capable sort. one especial friend i had. his name was s.v. harkness, and from the first of our acquaintance he seemed to have every confidence in me. one day our oil warehouses and refinery burned to the ground in a few hours--they were absolutely annihilated. though they were insured for many hundred thousands of dollars, of course, we were apprehensive about collecting such a large amount of insurance, and feared it might take some time to arrange. that plant had to be rebuilt right away, and it was necessary to lay the financial plans. mr. harkness was interested with us in the business, and i said to him: "i may want to call upon you for the use of some money. i don't know that we shall need it, but i thought i'd speak to you in advance about it." he took in the situation without much explaining on my part. he simply heard what i had to say and he was a man of very few words. "all right, j.d., i'll give you all i've got." this was all he said, but i went home that night relieved of anxiety. as it turned out, we received the check of the liverpool, london & globe insurance company for the full amount before the builders required the payments; and while we didn't need his money, i never shall forget the whole-souled way in which he offered it. and this sort of experience was not, i am grateful to say, rare with me. i was always a great borrower in my early days; the business was active and growing fast, and the banks seemed very willing to loan me the money. about this time, when our great fire had brought up some new conditions, i was studying the situation to see what our cash requirements would be. we were accustomed to prepare for financial emergencies long before we needed the funds. another incident occurred at this time which showed again the kind of real friends we had in those days, but i did not hear the full story of it until long years after the event. there was one bank where we had done a great deal of business, and a friend of mine, mr. stillman witt, who was a rich man, was one of the directors. at a meeting, the question came up as to what the bank would do in case we wanted more money. in order that no one might doubt his own position on the subject, mr. witt called for his strong-box, and said: "here, gentlemen, these young men are all o.k., and if they want to borrow more money i want to see this bank advance it without hesitation, and if you want more security, here it is; take what you want." we were then shipping a large quantity of oil by lake and canal, to save in transportation, and it took additional capital to carry these shipments; and we required to borrow a large amount of money. we had already made extensive loans from another bank, whose president informed me that his board of directors had been making inquiries respecting our large line of discounts, and had stated that they would probably want to talk with me on the subject. i answered that i would be very glad of the opportunity to meet the board, as we would require a great deal more money from the bank. suffice it to say, we got all we wanted, but i was not asked to call for any further explanations. but i fear i am telling too much about banks and money and business. i know of nothing more despicable and pathetic than a man who devotes all the waking hours of the day to making money for money's sake. if i were forty years younger, i should like to go into business again, for the association with interesting and quick-minded men was always a great pleasure. but i have no dearth of interests to fill my days, and so long as i live i expect to go on and develop the plans which have been my inspiration for a lifetime. during all the long period of work, which lasted from the time i was sixteen years old until i retired from active business when i was fifty-five, i must admit that i managed to get a good many vacations of one kind or another, because of the willingness of my most efficient associates to assume the burdens of the business which they were so eminently qualified to conduct. of detail work i feel i have done my full share. as i began my business life as a bookkeeper, i learned to have great respect for figures and facts, no matter how small they were. when there was a matter of accounting to be done in connection with any plan with which i was associated in the earlier years, i usually found that i was selected to undertake it. i had a passion for detail which afterward i was forced to strive to modify. at pocantico hills, new york, where i have spent portions of my time for many years in an old house where the fine views invite the soul and where we can live simply and quietly, i have spent many delightful hours, studying the beautiful views, the trees, and fine landscape effects of that very interesting section of the hudson river, and this happened in the days when i seemed to need every minute for the absorbing demands of business. so i fear after i got well started, i was not what might be called a diligent business man. this phrase, "diligent in business," reminds me of an old friend of mine in cleveland who was devoted to his work. i talked to him, and no doubt bored him unspeakably, on my special hobby, which has always been what some people call landscape gardening, but which with me is the art of laying out roads and paths and work of that kind. this friend of thirty-five years ago plainly disapproved of a man in business wasting his time on what he looked upon as mere foolishness. one superb spring day i suggested to him that he should spend the afternoon with me (a most unusual and reckless suggestion for a business man to make in those days) and see some beautiful paths through the woods on my place which i had been planning and had about completed. i went so far as to tell him that i would give him a real treat. "i cannot do it, john," he said, "i have an important matter of business on hand this afternoon." "that may all be," i urged, "but it will give you no such pleasure as you'll get when you see those paths--the big tree on each side and ----" "go on, john, with your talk about trees and paths. i tell you i've got an ore ship coming in and our mills are waiting for her." he rubbed his hands with satisfaction--"i'd not miss seeing her come in for all the wood paths in christendom." he was then getting $ to $ a ton for bessemer steel rails, and if his mill stopped a minute waiting for ore, he felt that he was missing his life's chance. perhaps it was this same man who often gazed out into the lake with every nerve stretched to try to see an ore ship approaching. one day one of his friends asked him if he could see the boat. "no-o, no-o," he reluctantly admitted, "but she's most in sight." this ore trade was of great and absorbing interest at cleveland. my old employer was paid $ a ton for carrying ore from the marquette regions fifty years ago, and to think of the wickedness of this maker of woodland paths, who in later years was moving the ore in great ships for eighty cents a ton and making a fortune at it. all this reminds me of my experiences in the ore business, but i shall come to that later. i want to say something about landscape gardening, to which i have devoted a great deal of time for more than thirty years. the pleasures of road planning like my old friend, others may be surprised at my claim to be an amateur landscape architect in a small way, and my family have been known to employ a great landscape man to make quite sure that i did not ruin the place. the problem was, just where to put the new home at pocantico hills, which has recently been built. i thought i had the advantage of knowing every foot of the land, all the old big trees were personal friends of mine, and with the views of any given point i was perfectly familiar--i had studied them hundreds of times; and after this great landscape architect had laid out his plans and had driven his lines of stakes, i asked if i might see what i could do with the job. in a few days i had worked out a plan so devised that the roads caught just the best views at just the angles where in driving up the hill you came upon impressive outlooks, and at the ending was the final burst of river, hill, cloud, and great sweep of country to crown the whole; and here i fixed my stakes to show where i suggested that the roads should run, and finally the exact place where the house should be. "look it all over," i said, "and decide which plan is best." it was a proud moment when this real authority accepted my suggestions as bringing out the most favoured spots for views and agreed upon the site of the house. how many miles of roads i have laid out in my time, i can hardly compute, but i have often kept at it until i was exhausted. while surveying roads, i have run the lines until darkness made it impossible to see the little stakes and flags. it is all very vain of me to tell of these landscape enterprises, but perhaps they will offset the business talks which occupy so much of my story. my methods of attending to business matters differed from those of most well-conducted merchants of my time and allowed me more freedom. even after the chief affairs of the standard oil company were moved to new york, i spent most of my summers at our home in cleveland, and i do still. i would come to new york when my presence seemed necessary, but for the most part i kept in touch with the business through our own telegraph wires, and was left free to attend to many things which interested me--among others, the making of paths, the planting of trees, and the setting out of little forests of seedlings. of all the profitable things which develop quickly under the hand, i have thought my young nurseries show the greatest yield. we keep a set of account books for each place, and i was amazed not long ago at the increase in value that a few years make in growing things, when we came to remove some young trees from westchester county to lakewood, new jersey. we plant our young trees, especially evergreens, by the thousand--i think we have put in as many as ten thousand at once, and let them develop, to be used later in some of our planting schemes. if we transfer young trees from pocantico to our home in lakewood, we charge one place and credit the other for these trees at the market rate. we are our own best customers, and we make a small fortune out of ourselves by selling to our new jersey place at $ . or $ . each, trees which originally cost us only five or ten cents at pocantico. in nursery stock, as in other things, the advantage of doing things on a large scale reveals itself. the pleasure and satisfaction of saving and moving large trees--trees, say, from ten to twenty inches in diameter, or even more in some cases--has been for years a source of great interest. we build our movers ourselves, and work with our own men, and it is truly surprising what liberties you can take with trees, if you once learn how to handle these monsters. we have moved trees ninety feet high, and many seventy or eighty feet. and they naturally are by no means young. at one time or another we have tried almost all kinds of trees, including some which the authorities said could not be moved with success. perhaps the most daring experiments were with horse-chestnuts. we took up large trees, transported them considerable distances, some of them after they were actually in flower, all at a cost of twenty dollars per tree, and lost very few. we were so successful that we became rather reckless, trying experiments out of season, but when we worked on plans we had already tried, our results were remarkably satisfactory. taking our experiences in many hundreds of trees of various kinds in and out of season, and including the time when we were learning the art, our total loss has been something less than per cent., probably more nearly or per cent. a whole tree-moving campaign in a single season has been accomplished with a loss of about per cent. i am willing to admit that in the case of the larger trees the growth has been retarded perhaps two years, but this is a small matter, for people no longer young wish to get the effects they desire at once, and the modern tree-mover does it. we have grouped and arranged clumps of big spruces to fit the purposes we were aiming for, and sometimes have completely covered a hillside with them. oaks we have not been successful with except when comparatively young, and we don't try to move oaks and hickories when they have come near to maturity; but we have made some successful experiments with bass wood, and one of these we have moved three times without injury. birches have generally baffled us, but evergreens, except cedars, have been almost invariably successfully handled. this planning for good views must have been an early passion with me. i remember when i was hardly more than a boy i wanted to cut away a big tree which i thought interfered with the view from the windows of the dining-room of our home. i was for cutting it down, but some other members of the family objected, though my dear mother, i think, sympathized with me, as she said one day: "you know, my son, we have breakfast at eight o'clock, and i think if the tree were felled some time before we sat down to table, there would probably be no great complaint when the family saw the view which the fallen tree revealed." so it turned out. chapter ii the difficult art of getting to my father i owe a great debt in that he himself trained me to practical ways. he was engaged in different enterprises; he used to tell me about these things, explaining their significance; and he taught me the principles and methods of business. from early boyhood i kept a little book which i remember i called ledger a--and this little volume is still preserved--containing my receipts and expenditures as well as an account of the small sums that i was taught to give away regularly. naturally, people of modest means lead a closer family life than those who have plenty of servants to do everything for them. i count it a blessing that i was of the former class. when i was seven or eight years old i engaged in my first business enterprise with the assistance of my mother. i owned some turkeys, and she presented me with the curds from the milk to feed them. i took care of the birds myself, and sold them all in business-like fashion. my receipts were all profit, as i had nothing to do with the expense account, and my records were kept as carefully as i knew how. we thoroughly enjoyed this little business affair, and i can still close my eyes, and distinctly see the gentle and dignified birds walking quietly along the brook and through the woods, cautiously stealing the way to their nests. to this day i enjoy the sight of a flock of turkeys, and never miss an opportunity of studying them. my mother was a good deal of a disciplinarian, and upheld the standard of the family with a birch switch when it showed a tendency to deteriorate. once, when i was being punished for some unfortunate doings which had taken place in the village school, i felt called upon to explain after the whipping had begun that i was innocent of the charge. "never mind," said my mother, "we have started in on this whipping, and it will do for the next time." this attitude was maintained to its final conclusion in many ways. one night, i remember, we boys could not resist the temptation to go skating in the moonlight, notwithstanding the fact that we had been expressly forbidden to skate at night. almost before we got fairly started we heard a cry for help, and found a neighbour, who had broken through the ice, was in danger of drowning. by pushing a pole to him we succeeded in fishing him out, and restored him safe and sound to his grateful family. as we were not generally expected to save a man's life every time we skated, my brother william and i felt that there were mitigating circumstances connected with this particular disobedience which might be taken into account in the final judgment, but this idea proved to be erroneous. starting at work although the plan had been to send me to college, it seemed best at sixteen that i should leave the high school in which i had nearly completed the course and go into a commercial college in cleveland for a few months. they taught bookkeeping and some of the fundamental principles of commercial transactions. this training, though it lasted only a few months, was very valuable to me. but how to get a job--that was the question. i tramped the streets for days and weeks, asking merchants and storekeepers if they didn't want a boy; but the offer of my services met with little appreciation. no one wanted a boy, and very few showed any overwhelming anxiety to talk with me on the subject. at last one man on the cleveland docks told me that i might come back after the noonday meal. i was elated; it now seemed that i might get a start. i was in a fever of anxiety lest i should lose this one opportunity that i had unearthed. when finally at what seemed to me the time, i presented myself to my would-be employer: "we will give you a chance," he said, but not a word passed between us about pay. this was september , . i joyfully went to work. the name of the firm was hewitt & tuttle. in beginning the work i had some advantages. my father's training, as i have said, was practical, the course at the commercial college had taught me the rudiments of business, and i thus had a groundwork to build upon. i was fortunate, also, in working under the supervision of the bookkeeper, who was a fine disciplinarian, and well disposed toward me. when january, , arrived, mr. tuttle presented me with $ for my three months' work, which was no doubt all that i was worth, and it was entirely satisfactory. for the next year, with $ a month, i kept my position, learning the details and clerical work connected with such a business. it was a wholesale produce commission and forwarding concern, my department being particularly the office duties. just above me was the bookkeeper for the house, and he received $ , a year salary in lieu of his share of the profits of the firm of which he was a member. at the end of the first fiscal year when he left i assumed his clerical and bookkeeping work, for which i received the salary of $ . as i look back upon this term of business apprenticeship, i can see that its influence was vitally important in its relations to what came after. to begin with, my work was done in the office of the firm itself. i was almost always present when they talked of their affairs, laid out their plans, and decided upon a course of action. i thus had an advantage over other boys of my age, who were quicker and who could figure and write better than i. the firm conducted a business with so many ramifications that this education was quite extensive. they owned dwelling-houses, warehouses, and buildings which were rented for offices and a variety of uses, and i had to collect the rents. they shipped by rail, canal, and lake. there were many different kinds of negotiations and transactions going on, and with all these i was in close touch. thus it happened that my duties were vastly more interesting than those of an office-boy in a large house to-day. i thoroughly enjoyed the work. gradually the auditing of accounts was left in my hands. all the bills were first passed upon by me, and i took this duty very seriously. one day, i remember, i was in a neighbour's office, when the local plumber presented himself with a bill about a yard long. this neighbour was one of those very busy men. he was connected with what seemed to me an unlimited number of enterprises. he merely glanced at this tiresome bill, turned to the bookkeeper, and said: "please pay this bill." as i was studying the same plumber's bills in great detail, checking every item, if only for a few cents, and finding it to be greatly to the firm's interest to do so, this casual way of conducting affairs did not appeal to me. i had trained myself to the point of view doubtless held by many young men in business to-day, that my check on a bill was the executive act which released my employer's money from the till and was attended with more responsibility than the spending of my own funds. i made up my mind that such business methods could not succeed. passing bills, collecting rents, adjusting claims, and work of this kind brought me in association with a great variety of people. i had to learn how to get on with all these different classes, and still keep the relations between them and the house pleasant. one particular kind of negotiation came to me which took all the skill i could master to bring to a successful end. we would receive, for example, a shipment of marble from vermont to cleveland. this involved handling by railroad, canal, and lake boats. the cost of losses or damage had to be somehow fixed between these three different carriers, and it taxed all the ingenuity of a boy of seventeen to work out this problem to the satisfaction of all concerned, including my employers. but i thought the task no hardship, and so far as i can remember i never had any disagreement of moment with any of these transportation interests. this experience in conducting all sorts of transactions at such an impressionable age, with the helping hand of my superiors to fall back upon in an emergency--was highly interesting to me. it was my first step in learning the principle of negotiation, of which i hope to speak later. the training that comes from working for some one else, to whom we feel a responsibility, i am sure was of great value to me. i should estimate that the salaries of that time were far less than half of what is paid for equivalent positions to-day. the next year i was offered a salary of $ , but thought i was worth $ . we had not settled the matter by april, and as a favourable opportunity had presented itself for carrying on the same business on my own account, i resigned my position. in those days, in cleveland, everyone knew almost everyone else in town. among the merchants was a young englishman named m.b. clark, perhaps ten years older than i, who wanted to establish a business and was in search of a partner. he had $ , to contribute to the firm, and wanted a partner who could furnish an equal amount. this seemed a good opportunity for me. i had saved up $ or $ , but where to get the rest was a problem. i talked the matter over with my father, who told me that he had always intended to give $ , to each of his children when they reached twenty-one. he said that if i wished to receive my share at once, instead of waiting, he would advance it to me and i could pay interest upon the sum until i was twenty-one. "but, john," he added, "the rate is ten." at that time, per cent. a year interest was a very common rate for such loans. at the banks the rate might not have been quite so high; but of course the financial institutions could not supply all the demands, so there was much private borrowing at high figures. as i needed this money for the partnership, i gladly accepted my father's offer, and so began business as the junior partner of the new firm, which was called clark & rockefeller. it was a great thing to be my own employer. mentally i swelled with pride--a partner in a firm with $ , capital! mr. clark attended to the buying and selling, and i took charge of the finance and the books. we at once began to do a large business, dealing in carload lots and cargoes of produce. naturally we soon needed more money to take care of the increasing trade. there was nothing to do but to attempt to borrow from a bank. but would the bank lend to us? the first loan i went to a bank president whom i knew, and who knew me. i remember perfectly how anxious i was to get that loan and to establish myself favourably with the banker. this gentleman was t.p. handy, a sweet and gentle old man, well known as a high-grade, beautiful character. for fifty years he was interested in young men. he knew me as a boy in the cleveland schools. i gave him all the particulars of our business, telling him frankly about our affairs--what we wanted to use the money for, etc., etc. i waited for the verdict with almost trembling eagerness. "how much do you want?" he said. "two thousand dollars." "all right, mr. rockefeller, you can have it," he replied. "just give me your own warehouse receipts; they're good enough for me." as i left that bank, my elation can hardly be imagined. i held up my head--think of it, a bank had trusted me for $ , ! i felt that i was now a man of importance in the community. for long years after the head of this bank was a friend indeed; he loaned me money when i needed it, and i needed it almost all the time, and all the money he had. it was a source of gratification that later i was able to go to him and recommend that he should make a certain investment in standard oil stock. he agreed that he would like to do so, but he said that the sum involved was not at the moment available, and so at my suggestion i turned banker for him, and in the end he took out his principal with a very handsome profit. it is a pleasure to testify even at this late date to his great kindness and faith in me. sticking to business principles mr. handy trusted me because he believed we would conduct our young business on conservative and proper lines, and i well remember about this time an example of how hard it is sometimes to live up to what one knows is the right business principle. not long after our concern was started our best customer--that is, the man who made the largest consignments--asked that we should allow him to draw in advance on current shipments before the produce or a bill of lading were actually in hand. we, of course, wished to oblige this important man, but i, as the financial member of the firm, objected, though i feared we should lose his business. the situation seemed very serious; my partner was impatient with me for refusing to yield, and in this dilemma i decided to go personally to see if i could not induce our customer to relent. i had been unusually fortunate when i came face to face with men in winning their friendship, and my partner's displeasure put me on my mettle. i felt that when i got into touch with this gentleman i could convince him that what he proposed would result in a bad precedent. my reasoning (in my own mind) was logical and convincing. i went to see him, and put forth all the arguments that i had so carefully thought out. but he stormed about, and in the end i had the further humiliation of confessing to my partner that i had failed. i had been able to accomplish absolutely nothing. naturally, he was very much disturbed at the possibility of losing our most valued connection, but i insisted and we stuck to our principles and refused to give the shipper the accommodation he had asked. what was our surprise and gratification to find that he continued his relations with us as though nothing had happened, and did not again refer to the matter. i learned afterward that an old country banker, named john gardener, of norwalk, o., who had much to do with our consignor, was watching this little matter intently, and i have ever since believed that he originated the suggestion to tempt us to do what we stated we did not do as a test, and his story about our firm stand for what we regarded as sound business principles did us great good. about this time i began to go out and solicit business--a branch of work i had never before attempted. i undertook to visit every person in our part of the country who was in any way connected with the kind of business that we were engaged in, and went pretty well over the states of ohio and indiana. i made up my mind that i could do this best by simply introducing our firm, and not pressing for immediate consignments. i told them that i represented clark & rockefeller, commission merchants, and that i had no wish to interfere with any connection that they had at present, but if the opportunity offered we should be glad to serve them, etc., etc. to our great surprise, business came in upon us so fast that we hardly knew how to take care of it, and in the first year our sales amounted to half a million dollars. then, and indeed for many years after, it seemed as though there was no end to the money needed to carry on and develop the business. as our successes began to come, i seldom put my head upon the pillow at night without speaking a few words to myself in this wise: "now a little success, soon you will fall down, soon you will be overthrown. because you have got a start, you think you are quite a merchant; look out, or you will lose your head--go steady." these intimate conversations with myself, i am sure, had a great influence on my life. i was afraid i could not stand my prosperity, and tried to teach myself not to get puffed up with any foolish notions. my loans from my father were many. our relations on finances were a source of some anxiety to me, and were not quite so humorous as they seem now as i look back at them. occasionally he would come to me and say that if i needed money in the business he would be able to loan some, and as i always needed capital i was glad indeed to get it, even at per cent. interest. just at the moment when i required the money most he was apt to say: "my son, i find i have got to have that money." "of course, you shall have it at once," i would answer, but i knew that he was testing me, and that when i paid him, he would hold the money without its earning anything for a little time, and then offer it back later. i confess that this little discipline should have done me good, and perhaps did, but while i concealed it from him, the truth is i was not particularly pleased with his application of tests to discover if my financial ability was equal to such shocks. interest at per cent. these experiences with my father remind me that in the early days there was often much discussion as to what should be paid for the use of money. many people protested that the rate of per cent. was outrageous, and none but a wicked man would exact such a charge. i was accustomed to argue that money was worth what it would bring--no one would pay per cent., or per cent., or per cent. unless the borrower believed that at this rate it was profitable to employ it. as i was always the borrower at that time, i certainly did not argue for paying more than was necessary. among the most persistent and heated discussions i ever had were those with the dear old lady who kept the boarding-house where my brother william and i lived when we were away from home at school. i used to greatly enjoy these talks, for she was an able woman and a good talker, and as she charged us only a dollar a week for board and lodging, and fed us well, i certainly was her friend. this was about the usual price for board in the small towns in those days, where the produce was raised almost entirely on the place. this estimable lady was violently opposed to loaners obtaining high rates of interest, and we had frequent and earnest arguments on the subject. she knew that i was accustomed to make loans for my father, and she was familiar with the rates secured. but all the arguments in the world did not change the rate, and it came down only when the supply of money grew more plentiful. i have usually found that important alterations in public opinion in regard to business matters have been of slow growth along the line of proved economic theory--very rarely have improvements in these relationships come about through hastily devised legislation. one can hardly realize how difficult it was to get capital for active business enterprises at that time. in the country farther west much higher rates were paid, which applied usually to personal loans on which a business risk was run, but it shows how different the conditions for young business men were then than now. a nimble borrower speaking of borrowing at the banks reminds me of one of the most strenuous financial efforts i ever made. we had to raise the money to accept an offer for a large business. it required many hundreds of thousands of dollars--and in cash--securities would not answer. i received the message at about noon and had to get off on the three-o'clock train. i drove from bank to bank, asking each president or cashier, whomever i could find first, to get ready for me all the funds he could possibly lay hands on. i told them i would be back to get the money later. i rounded up all of our banks in the city, and made a second journey to get the money, and kept going until i secured the necessary amount. with this i was off on the three-o'clock train, and closed the transaction. in these early days i was a good deal of a traveller, visiting our plants, making new connections, seeing people, arranging plans to extend our business--and it often called for very rapid work. raising church funds when i was but seventeen or eighteen i was elected as a trustee in the church. it was a mission branch, and occasionally i had to hear members who belonged to the main body speak of the mission as though it were not quite so good as the big mother church. this strengthened our resolve to show them that we could paddle our own canoe. our first church was not a very grand affair, and there was a mortgage of $ , on it which had been a dispiriting influence for years. the holder of the mortgage had long demanded that he should be paid, but somehow even the interest was barely kept up, and the creditor finally threatened to sell us out. as it happened, the money had been lent by a deacon in the church, but notwithstanding this fact, he felt that he should have his money, and perhaps he really needed it. anyhow, he proposed to take such steps as were necessary to get it. the matter came to a head one sunday morning, when the minister announced from the pulpit that the $ , would have to be raised, or we should lose our church building. i therefore found myself at the door of the church as the congregation came and went. as each member came by i buttonholed him, and got him to promise to give something toward the extinguishing of that debt. i pleaded and urged, and almost threatened. as each one promised, i put his name and the amount down in my little book, and continued to solicit from every possible subscriber. this campaign for raising the money which started that morning after church, lasted for several months. it was a great undertaking to raise such a sum of money in small amounts ranging from a few cents to the more magnificent promises of gifts to be paid at the rate of twenty-five or fifty cents per week. the plan absorbed me. i contributed what i could, and my first ambition to earn more money was aroused by this and similar undertakings in which i was constantly engaged. but at last the $ , was all in hand and a proud day it was when the debt was extinguished. i hope the members of the mother church were properly humiliated to see how far we had gone beyond their expectations, but i do not now recall that they expressed the surprise that we flattered ourselves they must have felt. the begging experiences i had at that time were full of interest. i went at the task with pride rather than the reverse, and i continued it until my increasing cares and responsibilities compelled me to resign the actual working out of details to others. chapter iii the standard oil company it would be surprising if in an organization which included a great number of men there should not be an occasional employee here and there who acted, in connection with the business or perhaps in conducting his own affairs, in a way which might be criticized. even in a comparatively small organization it is wellnigh impossible to restrain this occasional man who is over-zealous for his own or his company's advancement. to judge the character of all the members of a great organization or the organization itself by the actions of a few individuals would be manifestly unfair. it has been said that i forced the men who became my partners in the oil business to join with me. i would not have been so short-sighted. if it were true that i followed such tactics, i ask, would it have been possible to make of such men life-long companions? would they accept, and remain for many years in positions of the greatest trust, and finally, could any one have formed of such men, if they had been so browbeaten, a group which has for all these years worked in loyal harmony, with fair dealing among themselves as well as with others, building up efficiency and acting in entire unity? this powerful organization has not only lasted but its efficiency has increased. for fourteen years i have been out of business, and in eight or ten years went only once to the company's office. in the summer of i visited again the room at the top of the standard oil company's building, where the officers of the company and the heads of departments have had their luncheon served for many years. i was surprised to find so many men who had come to the front since my last visit years ago. afterward i had an opportunity to talk with old associates and many new ones, and it was a source of great gratification to me to find that the same spirit of coöperation and harmony existed unchanged. this practice of lunching together, a hundred or more at long tables in most intimate and friendly association, is another indication of what i contend, slight as it may seem to be at first thought. would these people seek each other's companionship day after day if they had been forced into this relation? people in such a position do not go on for long in a pleasant and congenial intimacy. for years the standard oil company has developed step by step, and i am convinced that it has done well its work of supplying to the people the products from petroleum at prices which have decreased as the efficiency of the business has been built up. it gradually extended its services first to the large centres, and then to towns, and now to the smallest places, going to the homes of its customers, delivering the oil to suit the convenience of the actual users. this same system is being followed out in various parts of the world. the company has, for example, three thousand tank wagons supplying american oil to towns and even small hamlets in europe. its own depots and employees deliver it in a somewhat similar way in japan, china, india, and the chief countries of the world. do you think this trade has been developed by anything but hard work? this plan of selling our products direct to the consumer and the exceptionally rapid growth of the business bred a certain antagonism which i suppose could not have been avoided, but this same idea of dealing with the consumer directly has been followed by others and in many lines of trade, without creating, so far as i recall, any serious opposition. this is a very interesting and important point, and i have often wondered if the criticism which centred upon us did not come from the fact that we were among the first, if not the first, to work out the problems of direct selling to the user on a broad scale. this was done in a fair spirit and with due consideration for everyone's rights. we did not ruthlessly go after the trade of our competitors and attempt to ruin it by cutting prices or instituting a spy system. we had set ourselves the task of building up as rapidly and as broadly as possible the volume of consumption. let me try to explain just what happened. to get the advantage of the facilities we had in manufacture, we sought the utmost market in all lands--we needed volume. to do this we had to create selling methods far in advance of what then existed; we had to dispose of two, or three, or four gallons of oil where one had been sold before, and we could not rely upon the usual trade channels then existing to accomplish this. it was never our purpose to interfere with a dealer who adequately cultivated his field of operations, but when we saw a new opportunity or a new place for extending the sale by further and effective facilities, we made it our business to provide them. in this way we opened many new lines in which others have shared. in this development we had to employ many comparatively new men. the ideal way to supply material for higher positions is, of course, to recruit the men from among the youngest in the company's service, but our expansion was too rapid to permit this in all cases. that some of these employees were over-zealous in going after sales it would not be surprising to learn, but they were acting in violation of the expressed and known wishes of the company. but even these instances, i am convinced, occurred so seldom, by comparison with the number of transactions we carried on, that they were really the exceptions that proved the rule. every week in the year for many, many years, this concern has brought into this country more than a million dollars gold, all from the products produced by american labour. i am proud of the record, and believe most americans will be when they understand some things better. these achievements, the development of this great foreign trade, the owning of ships to carry the oil in bulk by the most economical methods, the sending out of men to fight for the world's markets, have cost huge sums of money, and the vast capital employed could not be raised nor controlled except by such an organization as the standard is to-day. to give a true picture of the early conditions, one must realize that the oil industry was considered a most hazardous undertaking, not altogether unlike the speculative mining undertakings we hear so much of to-day. i well remember my old and distinguished friend, rev. thomas w. armitage, for some forty years pastor of a great new york church, warning me that it was worse than folly to extend our plants and our operations. he was sure we were running unwarranted risks, that our oil supply would probably fail, the demand would decline, and he, with many others, sometimes i thought almost everybody, prophesied ruin. none of us ever dreamed of the magnitude of what proved to be the later expansion. we did our day's work as we met it, looking forward to what we could see in the distance and keeping well up to our opportunities, but laying our foundations firmly. as i have said, capital was most difficult to secure, and it was not easy to interest conservative men in this adventurous business. men of property were afraid of it, though in rare cases capitalists were induced to unite with us to a limited extent. if they bought our stock at all, they took a little of it now and then as an experiment, and we were painfully conscious that they often declined to buy new stock with many beautiful expressions of appreciation. the enterprise being so new and novel, on account of the fearfulness of certain holders in reference to its success, we frequently had to take stock to keep it from going begging, but we had such confidence in the fundamental value of the concern that we were willing to assume this risk. there are always a few men in an undertaking of this kind who would risk all on their judgment of the final result, and if the enterprise had failed, these would have been classed as visionary adventurers, and perhaps with good reason. the , men who are at work constantly in the service of the company are kept busy year in and year out. the past year has been a time of great contraction, but the standard has gone on with its plans unchecked, and the new works and buildings have not been delayed on account of lack of capital or fear of bad times. it pays its workmen well, it cares for them when sick, and pensions them when old. it has never had any important strikes, and if there is any better function of business management than giving profitable work to employees year after year, in good times and bad, i don't know what it is. another thing to be remembered about this so-called "octopus" is that there has been no "water" introduced into its capital (perhaps we felt that oil and water would not have mixed); nor in all these years has any one had to wait for money which the standard owed. it has suffered from great fires and losses, but it has taken care of its affairs in such a way that it has not found it necessary to appeal to the general public to place blocks of bonds or stock; it has used no underwriting syndicates or stock-selling schemes in any form, and it has always managed to finance new oil field operations when called upon. it is a common thing to hear people say that this company has crushed out its competitors. only the uninformed could make such an assertion. it has and always has had, and always will have, hundreds of active competitors; it has lived only because it has managed its affairs well and economically and with great vigour. to speak of competition for a minute: consider not only the able people who compete in refining oil, but all the competition in the various trades which make and sell by-products--a great variety of different businesses. and perhaps of even more importance is the competition in foreign lands. the standard is always fighting to sell the american product against the oil produced from the great fields of russia, which struggles for the trade of europe, and the burma oil, which largely affects the market in india. in all these various countries we are met with tariffs which are raised against us, local prejudices, and strange customs. in many countries we had to teach the people--the chinese, for example--to burn oil by making lamps for them; we packed the oil to be carried by camels or on the backs of runners in the most remote portions of the world; we adapted the trade to the needs of strange folk. every time we succeeded in a foreign land, it meant dollars brought to this country, and every time we failed, it was a loss to our nation and its workmen. one of our greatest helpers has been the state department in washington. our ambassadors and ministers and consuls have aided to push our way into new markets to the utmost corners of the world. i think i can speak thus frankly and enthusiastically because the working out of many of these great plans has developed largely since i retired from the business fourteen years ago. the standard has not now, and never did have a royal road to supremacy, nor is its success due to any one man, but to the multitude of able men who are working together. if the present managers of the company were to relax efforts, allow the quality of their product to degenerate, or treat their customers badly, how long would their business last? about as long as any other neglected business. to read some of the accounts of the affairs of the company, one would think that it had such a hold on the oil trade that the directors did little but come together and declare dividends. it is a pleasure for me to take this opportunity to pay tribute to the work these men are doing, not only for the company they serve, but for the foreign trade of our country; for more than half of all the product that the company makes is sold outside of the united states. if, in place of these directors, the business were taken over and run by anyone but experts, i would sell my interest for any price i could get. to succeed in a business requires the best and most earnest men to manage it, and the best men rise to the top. of its origin and early plans i will speak later. the modern corporation beyond question there is a suspicion of corporations. there may be reason for such suspicion very often; for a corporation may be moral or immoral, just as a man may be moral or the reverse; but it is folly to condemn all corporations because some are bad, or even to be unduly suspicious of all, because some are bad. but the corporation in form and character has come to stay--that is a thing that may be depended upon. even small firms are becoming corporations, because it is a convenient form of partnership. it is equally true that combinations of capital are bound to continue and to grow, and this need not alarm even the most timid if the corporation, or the series of corporations, is properly conducted with due regard for the rights of others. the day of individual competition in large affairs is past and gone--you might just as well argue that we should go back to hand labour and throw away our efficient machines--and the sober good sense of the people will accept this fact when they have studied and tried it out. just see how the list of stockholders in the great corporations is increasing by leaps and bounds. this means that all these people are becoming partners in great businesses. it is a good thing--it will bring a feeling of increased responsibility to the managers of the corporations and will make the people who have their interests involved study the facts impartially before condemning or attacking them. on this subject of industrial combinations i have often expressed my opinions; and, as i have not changed my mind, i am not averse to repeating them now, especially as the subject seems again to be so much in the public eye. the chief advantages from industrial combinations are those which can be derived from a coöperation of persons and aggregation of capital. much that one man cannot do alone two can do together, and once admit the fact that coöperation, or, what is the same thing, combination, is necessary on a small scale, the limit depends solely upon the necessities of business. two persons in partnership may be a sufficiently large combination for a small business, but if the business grows or can be made to grow, more persons and more capital must be taken in. the business may grow so large that a partnership ceases to be a proper instrumentality for its purposes, and then a corporation becomes a necessity. in most countries, as in england, this form of industrial combination is sufficient for a business co-extensive with the parent country, but it is not so in america. our federal form of government making every corporation created by a state foreign to every other state, renders it necessary for persons doing business through corporate agency to organize corporations in some or many of the different states in which their business is located. instead of doing business through the agency of one corporation they must do business through the agencies of several corporations. if the business is extended to foreign countries, and americans are not to-day satisfied with home markets alone, it will be found helpful and possibly necessary to organize corporations in such countries, for europeans are prejudiced against foreign corporations, as are the people of many of our states. these different corporations thus become coöperating agencies in the same business and are held together by common ownership of their stocks. it is too late to argue about advantages of industrial combinations. they are a necessity. and if americans are to have the privilege of extending their business in all the states of the union, and into foreign countries as well, they are a necessity on a large scale, and require the agency of more than one corporation. the dangers are that the power conferred by combination may be abused, that combinations may be formed for speculation in stocks rather than for conducting business, and that for this purpose prices may be temporarily raised instead of being lowered. these abuses are possible to a greater or less extent in all combinations, large or small, but this fact is no more of an argument against combinations than the fact that steam may explode is an argument against steam. steam is necessary and can be made comparatively safe. combination is necessary and its abuses can be minimized; otherwise our legislators must acknowledge their incapacity to deal with the most important instrument of industry. in the hearing of the industrial commission in , i then said that if i were to suggest any legislation regarding industrial combinations it would be: first, federal legislation under which corporations may be created and regulated, if that be possible. second, in lieu thereof, state legislation as nearly uniform as possible, encouraging combinations of persons and capital for the purpose of carrying on industries, but permitting state supervision, not of a character to hamper industries, but sufficient to prevent frauds upon the public. i still feel as i did in . the new opportunities i am far from believing that this will adversely affect the individual. the great economic era we are entering will give splendid opportunity to the young man of the future. one often hears the men of this new generation say that they do not have the chances that their fathers and grandfathers had. how little they know of the disadvantages from which we suffered! in my young manhood we had everything to do and nothing to do it with; we had to hew our own paths along new lines; we had little experience to go on. capital was most difficult to get, credits were mysterious things. whereas now we have a system of commercial ratings, everything was then haphazard and we suffered from a stupendous war and all the disasters which followed. compare this day with that. our comforts and opportunities are multiplied a thousand fold. the resources of our great land are now actually opening up and are scarcely touched; our home markets are vast, and we have just begun to think of the foreign peoples we can serve--the people who are years behind us in civilization. in the east a quarter of the human race is just awakening. the men of this generation are entering into a heritage which makes their fathers' lives look poverty-stricken by comparison. i am naturally an optimist, and when it comes to a statement of what our people will accomplish in the future, i am unable to express myself with sufficient enthusiasm. there are many things we must do to attain the highest benefit from all these great blessings; and not the least of these is to build up our reputation throughout the whole world. the great business interests will, i hope, so comport themselves that foreign capital will consider it a desirable thing to hold shares in american companies. it is for americans to see that foreign investors are well and honestly treated, so that they will never regret purchases of our securities. i may speak thus frankly, because i am an investor in many american enterprises, but a controller of none (with one exception, and that a company which has not been much of a dividend payer), and i, like all the rest, am dependent upon the honest and capable administration of the industries. i firmly and sincerely believe that they will be so managed. the american business man you hear a good many people of pessimistic disposition say much about greed in american life. one would think to hear them talk that we were a race of misers in this country. to lay too much stress upon the reports of greed in the newspapers would be folly, since their function is to report the unusual and even the abnormal. when a man goes properly about his daily affairs, the public prints say nothing; it is only when something extraordinary happens to him that he is discussed. but because he is thus brought into prominence occasionally, you surely would not say that these occasions represented his normal life. it is by no means for money alone that these active-minded men labour--they are engaged in a fascinating occupation. the zest of the work is maintained by something better than the mere accumulation of money, and, as i think i have said elsewhere, the standards of business are high and are getting better all the time. i confess i have no sympathy with the idea so often advanced that our basis of all judgments in this country is founded on money. if this were true, we should be a nation of money hoarders instead of spenders. nor do i admit that we are so small-minded a people as to be jealous of the success of others. it is the other way about: we are the most extraordinarily ambitious, and the success of one man in any walk of life spurs the others on. it does not sour them, and it is a libel even to suggest so great a meanness of spirit. in reading the newspapers, where so much is taken for granted in considering things on a money standard, i think we need some of the sense of humour possessed by an irish neighbour of mine, who built what we regarded as an extremely ugly house, which stood out in bright colours as we looked from our windows. my taste in architecture differed so widely from that affected by my irish friend, that we planted out the view of his house by moving some large trees to the end of our property. another neighbour who watched this work going on asked mr. foley why mr. rockefeller moved all these big trees and cut off the view between the houses. foley, with the quick wit of his country, responded instantly: "it's invy, they can't stand looking at the ividence of me prosperity." in my early days men acted just as they do now, no doubt. when there was anything to be done for general trade betterment, almost every man had some good reason for believing that his case was a special one different from all the rest. for every foolish thing he did, or wanted to do, for every unbusiness-like plan he had, he always pleaded that it was necessary in his case. he was the one man who had to sell at less than cost, to disrupt all the business plans of others in his trade, because his individual position was so absolutely different from all the rest. it was often a heart-breaking undertaking to convince those men that the perfect occasion which would lead to the perfect opportunity would never come, even if they waited until the crack o' doom. then, again, we had the type of man who really never knew all the facts about his own affairs. many of the brightest kept their books in such a way that they did not actually know when they were making money on a certain operation and when they were losing. this unintelligent competition was a hard matter to contend with. good old-fashioned common sense has always been a mighty rare commodity. when a man's affairs are not going well, he hates to study the books and face the truth. from the first, the men who managed the standard oil company kept their books intelligently as well as correctly. we knew how much we made and where we gained or lost. at least, we tried not to deceive ourselves. my ideas of business are no doubt old-fashioned, but the fundamental principles do not change from generation to generation, and sometimes i think that our quick-witted american business men, whose spirit and energy are so splendid, do not always sufficiently study the real underlying foundations of business management. i have spoken of the necessity of being frank and honest with oneself about one's own affairs: many people assume that they can get away from the truth by avoiding thinking about it, but the natural law is inevitable, and the sooner it is recognized, the better. one hears a great deal about wages and why they must be maintained at a high level, by the railroads, for example. a labourer is worthy of his hire, no less, but no more, and in the long run he must contribute an equivalent for what he is paid. if he does not do this, he is probably pauperized, and you at once throw out the balance of things. you can't hold up conditions artificially, and you can't change the underlying laws of trade. if you try, you must inevitably fail. all this may be trite and obvious, but it is remarkable how many men overlook what should be the obvious. these are facts we can't get away from--a business man must adapt himself to the natural conditions as they exist from month to month and year to year. sometimes i feel that we americans think we can find a short road to success, and it may appear that often this feat is accomplished; but real efficiency in work comes from knowing your facts and building upon that sure foundation. many men of wealth do not retire from business even when they can. they are not willing to be idle, or they have a just pride in their work and want to perfect the plans in which they have faith, or, what is of still more consequence, they may feel the call to expand and build up for the benefit of their employees and associates, and these men are the great builders up in our country. consider for a moment how much would have been left undone if our prosperous american business men had sat down with folded hands when they had acquired a competency. i have respect for all these reasons, but if a man has succeeded, he has brought upon himself corresponding responsibilities, and our institutions devoted to helping men to help themselves need the brain of the american business man as well as part of his money. some of these men, however, are so absorbed in their business affairs that they hardly have time to think of anything else. if they do interest themselves in a work outside of their own office and undertake to raise money, they begin with an apology, as if they are ashamed of themselves. "i am no beggar," i have heard many of them say, to which i could only reply: "i am sorry you feel that way about it." i have been this sort of beggar all my life and the experiences i have had were so interesting and important to me that i will venture to speak of them in a later chapter. chapter iv some experiences in the oil business during the years when i was just coming to man's estate, the produce business of clark & rockefeller went on prosperously, and in the early sixties we organized a firm to refine and deal in oil. it was composed of messrs. james and richard clark, mr. samuel andrews, and the firm of clark & rockefeller, who were the company. it was my first direct connection with the oil trade. as the new concern grew the firm of clark & rockefeller was called upon to supply a large special capital. mr. samuel andrews was the manufacturing man of the concern, and he had learned the process of cleansing the crude oil by the use of sulphuric acid. in the partnership was dissolved; it was decided that the cash assets should be collected and the debts paid, but this left the plant and the good-will to be disposed of. it was suggested that they should go to the highest bidder among ourselves. this seemed a just settlement to me, and the question came up as to when the sale should be held and who would conduct it. my partners had a lawyer in the room to represent them, though i had not considered having a legal representative; i thought i could take care of so simple a transaction. the lawyer acted as the auctioneer, and it was suggested that we should go on with the sale then and there. all agreed, and so the auction began. i had made up my mind that i wanted to go into the oil trade, not as a special partner, but actively on a larger scale, and with mr. andrews wished to buy that business. i thought that i saw great opportunities in refining oil, and did not realize at that time that the whole oil industry would soon be swamped by so many men rushing into it. but i was full of hope, and i had already arranged to get financial accommodation to an amount that i supposed would easily pay for the plant and good-will. i was willing to give up the other firm of clark & rockefeller, and readily settled that later--my old partner, mr. clark, taking over the business. the bidding began, i think, at $ premium. i bid a thousand; they bid two thousand; and so on, little by little, the price went up. neither side was willing to stop bidding, and the amount gradually rose until it reached $ , , which was much more than we supposed the concern to be worth. finally, it advanced to $ , , and by slow stages to $ , , and i almost feared for my ability to buy the business and have the money to pay for it. at last the other side bid $ , . without hesitation i said $ , . mr. clark then said: "i'll go no higher, john; the business is yours." "shall i give you a check for it now?" i suggested. "no," mr. clark said, "i'm glad to trust you for it; settle at your convenience." the firm of rockefeller & andrews was then established, and this was really my start in the oil trade. it was my most important business for about forty years until, at the age of about fifty-six, i retired. the story of the early history of the oil trade is too well known to bear repeating in detail. the cleansing of crude petroleum was a simple and easy process, and at first the profits were very large. naturally, all sorts of people went into it: the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick-maker began to refine oil, and it was only a short time before more of the finished product was put on the market than could possibly be consumed. the price went down and down until the trade was threatened with ruin. it seemed absolutely necessary to extend the market for oil by exporting to foreign countries, which required a long and most difficult development; and also to greatly improve the processes of refining so that oil could be made and sold cheaply, yet with a profit, and to use as by-products all of the materials which in the less-efficient plants were lost or thrown away. these were the problems which confronted us almost at the outset, and this great depression led to consultations with our neighbors and friends in the business in the effort to bring some order out of what was rapidly becoming a state of chaos. to accomplish all these tasks of enlarging the market and improving the methods of manufacture in a large way was beyond the power or ability of any concern as then constituted. it could only be done, we reasoned, by increasing our capital and availing ourselves of the best talent and experience. it was with this idea that we proceeded to buy the largest and best refining concerns and centralize the administration of them with a view to securing greater economy and efficiency. the business grew faster than we had anticipated. this enterprise, conducted by men of application and ability working hard together, soon built up unusual facilities in manufacture, in transportation, in finance, and in extending markets. we had our troubles and set-backs; we suffered from some severe fires; and the supply of crude oil was most uncertain. our plans were constantly changed by changed conditions. we developed great facilities in an oil centre, erected storage tanks, and connected pipe-lines; then the oil failed and our work was thrown away. at best it was a speculative trade, and i wonder that we managed to pull through so often; but we were gradually learning how to conduct a most difficult business. foreign markets several years ago, when asked how our business grew to such large proportions i explained that our first organization was a partnership and afterward a corporation in ohio. that was sufficient for a local refining business. but, had we been dependent solely upon local business, we should have failed long since. we were forced to extend our markets into every part of the world. this made the sea-board cities a necessary place of business, and we soon discovered that manufacturing for export could be more economically carried on there; hence refineries were established at brooklyn, at bayonne, at philadelphia, at baltimore, and necessary corporations were organized in the different states. we soon discovered, as the business grew, that the primary method of transporting oil in barrels could not last. the package often cost more than the contents, and the forests of the country were not sufficient to supply cheaply the necessary material for an extended time. hence we devoted attention to other methods of transportation, adopted the pipe-line system, and found capital for pipe-line construction equal to the necessities of the business. to operate pipe-lines required franchises from the states in which they were located--and consequently corporations in those states--just as railroads running through different states are forced to operate under separate state charters. to perfect the pipe-line system of transportation required many millions of capital. the entire oil business is dependent upon the pipe-line. without it every well would be less valuable and every market at home and abroad would be more difficult to serve or retain, because of the additional cost to the consumer. the expansion of the whole industry would have been retarded without this method of transportation. then the pipe-line system required other improvements, such as tank-cars upon railroads, and finally the tank-steamer. capital had to be furnished for them and corporations created to own and operate them. everyone of the steps taken was necessary if the business was to be properly developed, and only through such successive steps and by a great aggregation of capital is america to-day enabled to utilize the bounty which its land pours forth, and to furnish the world with light. the start of the standard oil company in the year the firms of william rockefeller & co., rockefeller & andrews, rockefeller & co., and s.v. harkness and h.m. flagler united in forming the firm of rockefeller, andrews & flagler. the cause leading to the formation of this firm was the desire to unite our skill and capital in order to carry on a business of greater magnitude with economy and efficiency in place of the smaller business that each had heretofore conducted separately. as time went on and the possibilities became apparent, we found further capital to be necessary; then we interested others and organized the standard oil company, with a capital of $ , , . later we saw that more money could be utilized, found persons who were willing to invest with us, and increased our capital to $ , , , in , and afterward in to $ , , . as the business grew, and markets were obtained at home and abroad, more persons and capital were added to the business, and new corporate agencies were obtained or organized, the object being always the same--to extend our operations by furnishing the best and cheapest products. i ascribe the success of the standard oil company to its consistent policy of making the volume of its business large through the merit and cheapness of its products. it has spared no expense in utilizing the best and most efficient method of manufacture. it has sought for the best superintendents and workmen and paid the best wages. it has not hesitated to sacrifice old machinery and old plants for new and better ones. it has placed its manufactories at the points where they could supply markets at the least expense. it has not only sought markets for its principal products, but for all possible by-products, sparing no expense in introducing them to the public in every nook and corner of the world. it has not hesitated to invest millions of dollars in methods for cheapening the gathering and distribution of oils by pipe-lines, special cars, tank-steamers, and tank-wagons. it has erected tank-stations at railroad centres in every part of the country to cheapen the storage and delivery of oil. it has had faith in american oil and has brought together vast sums of money for the purpose of making it what it is, and for holding its market against the competition of russia and all the countries which are producers of oil and competitors against american products. the insurance plans here is an example of one of the ways in which we achieved certain economies and gained real advantage. fires are always to be reckoned with in oil refining and storage, as we learned by dear experience, but in having our plants distributed all over the country the unit of risk and possible loss was minimized. no one fire could ruin us, and we were able thus to establish a system of insuring ourselves. our reserve fund which provided for this insurance could not be wiped out all at once, as might be the case with a concern having its plants together or near each other. then we studied and perfected our organization to prevent fires, improving our appliances and plans year after year until the profit on this insurance feature became a very considerable item in the standard earnings. it can easily be seen that this saving in insurance, and minimizing the loss by fire affected the profits, not only in refining, but touched many other associated enterprises: the manufacture of by-products, the tanks and steamers, the pumping-stations, etc. we devoted ourselves exclusively to the oil business and its products. the company never went into outside ventures, but kept to the enormous task of perfecting its own organization. we educated our own men; we trained many of them from boyhood; we strove to keep them loyal by providing them full scope for their ability; they were given opportunities to buy stock, and the company itself helped them to finance their purchases. not only here in america, but all over the world, our young men were given chances to advance themselves, and the sons of the old partners were welcomed to the councils and responsibilities of the administration. i may say that the company has been in all its history, and i am sure it is at present, a most happy association of busy people. i have been asked if my advice is not often sought by the present managers. i can say that if it were sought it would be gladly given. but the fact is that since i retired it has been very little required. i am still a large stockholder, indeed i have increased my holdings in the company's stock since i relinquished any part in its management. why the standard pays large dividends let me explain what many people, perhaps, fully appreciate, but some, i am sure, do not. the standard pays four dividends a year: the first in march, which is the result of the busiest season of the whole twelvemonth, because more oil is consumed in winter than at other seasons, and three other dividends later, at about evenly divided periods. now, these dividends run up to per cent. on the capital stock of $ , , , but that does not mean that the profit is per cent. on the capital invested. as a matter of fact, it represents the results of the savings and surplus gained through all the thirty-five or forty years of the workings of the companies. the capital stock could be raised several hundred per cent. without a penny of over-capitalization or "water"; the actual value is there. if this increase had been made, the rate would represent a moderate dividend-paying power of about to per cent. a normal growth study for a moment the result of what has been a natural and absolutely normal increase in the value of the company's possessions. many of the pipe-lines were constructed during a period when costs were about per cent. of what they are now. great fields of oil lands were purchased as virgin soil, which later yielded an immense output. quantities of low-grade crude oil which had been bought by the company when it was believed to be of little value, but which the company hoped eventually to utilize, were greatly increased in value by inventions for refining it and for using the residues formerly considered almost worthless. dock property was secured at low prices and made valuable by buildings and development. large unimproved tracts of land near the important business centres were acquired. we brought our industries to these places, made the land useful, and increased the value, not only of our own property, but of the land adjacent to it to many times the original worth. wherever we have established businesses in this and other countries we have bought largely of property. i remember a case where we paid only $ , or so an acre for some rough land to be used for such purposes, and, through the improvements we created, the value has gone up or times as much in or years. others have had similar increases in the value of their properties, but have enlarged their capitalization correspondingly. they have escaped the criticism which has been directed against us, who with our old-fashioned and conservative notions have continued without such expansion of capitalization. there is nothing strange or miraculous in all this; it was all done through this natural law of trade development. it is what the astors and many other large landholders did. if a man starts in business with $ , capital and gradually increases his property and investment by retaining in his concern much of his earnings, instead of spending them, and thus accumulates values until his investment is, say, $ , , it would be folly to base the percentage of his actual profits only on the original $ , with which he started. here, again, i think the managers of the standard should be praised, and not blamed. they have set an example for upbuilding on the most conservative lines, and in a business which has always been, to say the least, hazardous, and to a large degree unavoidably speculative. yet no one who has relied upon the ownership of this stock to pay a yearly income has been disappointed, and the stock is held by an increasing number of small holders the country over. the management of capital we never attempted, as i have already said, to sell the standard oil stock on the market through the stock exchange. in the early days the risks of the business were great, and if the stock had been dealt in on the exchange its fluctuations would no doubt have been violent. we preferred to have the attention of the owners and administrators of the business directed wholly to the legitimate development of the enterprise rather than to speculation in its shares. the interests of the company have been carefully conserved. we have been criticized for paying large dividends on a capitalization which represents but a small part of the actual property owned by the company. if we had increased the capitalization to bring it up to the real value, and listed the shares on the exchange, we might have been criticized then for promoting a project to induce the public to invest. as i have indicated, the foundations of the company were so thoroughly established, and its affairs so conservatively managed, that, after the earlier period of struggle to secure adequate capital and in view of the trying experiences through which we then passed, we decided to pursue the policy of relying upon our own resources. since then we have never been obliged to lean very heavily upon the financial public, but have sought rather to hold ourselves in position not only to protect our own large and important interests, but to be prepared in times of stress to lend a helping hand to others. the company has suffered from the statements of people who, i am convinced, are not familiar with all the facts. as i long ago ceased to have any active part in the management of its affairs perhaps i may venture the opinion that men who devote themselves to building up the sale of american products all over the world, in competition with foreign manufacturers should be appreciated and encouraged. there have been so many tales told about the so-called speculations of the standard oil company that i may say a word about that subject. this company is interested only in oil products and such manufacturing affairs as are legitimately connected therewith. it has plants for the making of barrels and tanks; and building pumps for pumping oil; it owns vessels for carrying oil, tank-cars, pipes for transporting oil, etc., etc.--but it is not concerned in speculative interests. the oil business itself is speculative enough, and its successful administration requires a firm hand and a cool head. the company pays dividends to its stockholders which it earns in carrying on this oil trade. this money the stockholders can and do use as they think fit, but the company is in no way responsible for the disposition that the stockholders make of their dividends. the standard oil company does not own or control "a chain of banks," nor has it any interest directly or indirectly in any bank. its relations are confined to the functions of ordinary banking, such as other depositors have. it buys and sells its own exchange; and these dealings, extending over many years, have made its bills of exchange acceptable all over the world. character the essential thing in speaking of the real beginning of the standard oil company, it should be remembered that it was not so much the consolidation of the firms in which we had a personal interest, but the coming together of the men who had the combined brain power to do the work, which was the actual starting-point. perhaps it is worth while to emphasize again the fact that it is not merely capital and "plants" and the strictly material things which make up a business, but the character of the men behind these things, their personalities, and their abilities; these are the essentials to be reckoned with. late in , we began the purchase of some of the more important of the refinery interests of cleveland. the conditions were so chaotic and uncertain that most of the refiners were very desirous to get out of the business. we invariably offered those who wanted to sell the option of taking cash or stock in the company. we very much preferred to have them take the stock, because a dollar in those days looked as large as a cart-wheel, but as a matter of business policy we found it desirable to offer them the option, and in most cases they were even precipitate in their choice of the cash. they knew what a dollar would buy, but they were very sceptical in regard to the possibilities of resurrecting the oil business and giving any permanent value to these shares. these purchases continued over a period of years, during which many of the more important refineries at cleveland were bought by the standard oil company. some of the smaller concerns, however, continued in the business for many years, although they had the same opportunity as others to sell. there were always, at other refining points which were regarded as more favourably located than cleveland, many refineries in successful operation. the backus purchase all these purchases of refineries were conducted with the utmost fairness and good faith on our part, yet in many quarters the stories of certain of these transactions have been told in such form as to give the impression that the sales were made most unwillingly and only because the sellers were forced to make them by the most ruthless exertion of superior power. there was one transaction, viz., the purchase of the property of the backus oil company, which has been variously exploited, and i am made to appear as having personally robbed a defenceless widow of an extremely valuable property, paying her therefor only a mere fraction of its worth. the story as told is one which makes the strongest appeal to the sympathy and, if it were true, would represent a shocking instance of cruelty in crushing a defenceless woman. it is probable that its wide circulation and its acceptance as true by those who know nothing of the facts has awakened more hostility against the standard oil company and against me personally than any charge which has been made. this is my reason for entering so much into detail in this particular case, which i am exceedingly reluctant to do, and for many years have refrained from doing. mr. f.m. backus, a highly respected citizen of cleveland and an old and personal friend of mine, had for several years prior to his death in been engaged in the lubricating oil business which was carried on after his death as a corporation known as the backus oil company. in the latter part of , our company purchased certain portions of the property of this company. the negotiations which led to this purchase extended over several weeks, being conducted on behalf of mrs. backus, as the principal stockholder, by mr. charles h. marr, and on behalf of our company by mr. peter s. jennings. i personally had nothing to do with the negotiations except that, when the matter first came up, mrs. backus requested me to call at her house, which i did, when she spoke of selling the property to our company and requested me to personally conduct the negotiations with her with reference to it. this i was obliged to decline to do, because, as i then explained to her, i was not familiar with the details of the business. in that conversation i advised her not to take any hasty action, and when she expressed fears about the future of the business, stating, for example, that she could not get cars to transport sufficient oil, i said to her that, though we were using our cars and required them in our business, yet we would loan her any number she needed, and do anything else in reason to assist her, and i did not see why she could not successfully prosecute her business in the future as in the past. i told her, however, that if after reflection she desired to pursue negotiations for the sale of her property some of our people, familiar with the lubricating oil business, would take up the question with her. as she still expressed a desire to have our company buy her property, negotiations were taken up by mr. jennings, and the only other thing that i had to do with the matter was that when our experts reported that in their judgment the value of the works, good will, and successorship which we had decided to buy were worth a certain sum, i asked them to add $ , , in order to make doubly sure that she received full value. the sale was consummated, as we supposed, to the entire satisfaction of mrs. backus, and the purchase price which had been agreed upon was paid. to my profound astonishment, a day or two after the transaction had been closed, i received from her a very unkind letter complaining that she had been unjustly treated. after investigating the matter i wrote her the following letter: november , . dear madam: i have held your note of the th inst., received yesterday, until to-day, as i wished to thoroughly review every point connected with the negotiations for the purchase of the stock of the backus oil company, to satisfy myself as to whether i had unwittingly done anything whereby you could have any right to feel injured. it is true that in the interview i had with you i suggested that if you desired to do so, you could retain an interest in the business of the backus oil company, by keeping some number of its shares, and then i understood you to say that if you sold out you wished to go entirely out of the business. that being my understanding, our arrangements were made in case you concluded to make the sale that precluded any other interests being represented, and therefore, when you did make the inquiry as to your taking some of the stock, our answer was given in accordance with the facts noted above, but not at all in the spirit in which you refer to the refusal in your note. in regard to the reference that you make as to my permitting the business of the backus oil company to _be taken_ from you, i say that in this as in all else you have written in your letter of the th inst., you do me most grievous wrong. it was but of little moment to the interests represented by me whether the business of the backus oil company was purchased or not. i believe that it was for your interest to make the sale, and am entirely candid in this statement, and beg to call your attention to the time, some two years ago, when you consulted mr. flagler and myself as to selling out your interests to mr. rose, at which time you were desirous of selling at _considerably less price_, and upon time, than you have now received in cash, and which sale you would have been glad to have closed if you could have obtained satisfactory security for the deferred payments. as to the price paid for the property, it is certainly three times greater than the cost at which we could now construct equal or better facilities; but wishing to take a liberal view of it, i urged the proposal of paying $ , , which was thought much too high by some of our parties. i believe that if you would reconsider what you have written in your letter, to which this is a reply, you must admit having done me great injustice, and i am satisfied to await upon your innate sense of right for such admission. however, in view of what seems to be your present feeling, i now offer to restore to you the purchase made by us, you simply returning the amount of money which we have invested, and leaving us as though no purchase has been made. should you not desire to accept this proposal, i offer to you , or shares of the stock at the same price that we paid for the same, with this addition, that if we keep the property we are under engagement to pay into the treasury of the backus oil company any amount which added to the amount already paid would make a total of $ , and thereby make the shares $ each. that you may not be compelled to hastily come to a conclusion, i will leave open for three days these propositions for your acceptance or declination, and in the meantime believe me, yours very truly, john d. rockefeller. neither of these offers was accepted. in order that this may not rest on my unsupported assertion, i submit the following documents: the first is a letter from mr. h.m. backus, a brother of mrs. backus's deceased husband, who had been associated with the business and had remained with the company after his death. the letter was written without any solicitation whatever on my part, but i have since received permission from mr. backus to print it. it is followed by extracts from affidavits made by the gentleman who conducted the negotiations on behalf of mrs. backus. i have no wish to reprint the complimentary allusion to myself in mr. backus's letter, but have feared to omit a word of it lest some misunderstanding ensue: bowling green, ohio, september , ' . mr. john d. rockefeller, cleveland, ohio. i do not know whether you will ever receive this letter or not, whether your secretary will throw it into the waste-basket or not, but i will do my part and get it off my mind, and it will not be my fault if you do not receive or read it. ever since the day that my deceased brother's wife, mrs. f.n. backus, wrote you the unjust and unreasonable letter in reference to the sale of the property of the old backus oil company, in which i had a small interest, i have wanted to write you and record my disapproval of that letter. i lived with my brother's family, was at the house the day you called to talk the matter of the then proposed purchase of the property with mrs. backus by her request, as she told mr. jennings that she wanted to deal through you. i was in favour of the sale from the first. i was with mrs. backus all through the trouble with mr. rose and with mr. maloney, did what i could to encourage her, and to prevent mr. rose from getting the best of her. mrs. backus, in my opinion, is an exceptionally good financier, but she does not know and no one can convince her that the best thing that ever happened to her financially was the sale of her interest in the backus oil company to your people. she does not know that five more years of the then increasing desperate competition would have bankrupted the company, and that with the big debt that she was carrying on the lot on euclid avenue, near sheriff street, she would have been swamped, and that the only thing that ever saved her and the oil business generally was the plan of john d. rockefeller. she thinks that you literally robbed her of millions, and feeds her children on that diet three times a day more or less, principally more, until it has become a mania with her, and no argument that any one else can suggest will have any effect upon her. she is wise and good in many ways, but on that one subject she is one-sided, i think. of course, if we could have been assured of continued dividends, i would have been opposed to selling the business, but that was out of the question. i know of the ten thousand dollars that was added to the purchase price of the property at your request, and i know that you paid three times the value of the property, and i know that all that ever saved our company from ruin was the sale of its property to you, and i simply want to ease my mind by doing justice to you by saying so. after the sale to your company i was simple enough to go to buffalo and try it again, but soon met with defeat and retired with my flag in the dust. i then went to duluth, and was on the top wave, till the real-estate bubble broke, and i broke with it. i have had my ups and downs, but i have tried to take my medicine and look pleasant instead of sitting down under a juniper tree and blaming my losses to john d. rockefeller. i suppose i would have put off writing this letter for another year or more as i have done so long, had it not been for a little chat that i had with mr. hanafin, superintendent of the buckeye pipe line company, a day or two since when i was relating the sale, etc., of the old b.o. co.'s business, and in that way revived the intention that had lain dormant since the last good resolution in regard to writing it was made. but it's done now, and off my mind. with much respect and admiration to john d. rockefeller i remain, yours truly, h.m. backus. it appears from the affidavits that the negotiations were conducted on behalf of mrs. backus and her company by charles h. marr, who had been in the employ of the backus company for some time, and by mr. maloney, who was the superintendent of the company from the time of its organization and was also a stockholder; and on behalf of the standard oil company by mr. peter s. jennings. there has been an impression that the standard oil company purchased for $ , property which was reasonably worth much more, and that this sacrifice was occasioned by threats and compulsion. mr. jennings requested mr. marr to submit a written proposition giving the price put by the backus company upon the several items of property and assets which it desired to sell. this statement was furnished and was annexed to mr. jennings's affidavit. the standard oil company finally decided not to purchase all of the assets of the company, but only the oil on hand, for which it paid the full market price, amounting to about $ , , and the item "works, good-will, and successorship," which were offered by mr. marr at $ , , and for which the standard offered $ , , which was promptly accepted. mr. marr made affidavit as follows: "charles h. marr, being duly sworn, says that, in behalf of the backus oil company, he conducted the negotiations which led to the sale of its works, good-will, and stock of oils and during same when said company had offered to sell its entire stock for a gross sum, to wit, the sum of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars ($ , ), which was to include cash on hand, accrued dividends, accounts, etc., said jennings requested said company to submit an itemized proposition fixing values upon different articles proposed to be sold, and that he, after full consideration with mrs. backus and with her knowledge and consent, submitted the written proposition attached to said jennings's affidavit; that the same is in his handwriting, and was copied at the office of the american lubricating oil company from the original by himself at the request of said jennings, and said original was submitted by affiant to mrs. backus. "that she was fully cognizant of all the details of said negotiations and the items and values attached thereto in said proposition, consulted with at every step thereof, none of which were taken without her advice, as she was by far the largest stockholder in said backus oil company, owning about seven-tenths ( / ) of said company's stock, and she fully approved of said proposition, and accepted the offer of said jennings to pay sixty thousand dollars ($ , ) for the item works, good-will, and successorship without any opposition, so far as affiant knows. and affiant says that the amount realized from the assets of the backus oil company, including purchase price, has been about one hundred and thirty-three thousand dollars ($ , ), and a part of its assets have not yet been converted into money as affiant is informed." mr. marr, who was, it will be remembered, the widow's representative, refers to the negotiations leading up to the purchase and says: "but affiant says that nothing that was said by mr. jennings or anybody else during their progress could be construed into a threat, nor did anything that was said or done by said jennings hasten or push forward said trade." he also says: "affiant says that the negotiations extended over a period of from two to three weeks ... and during their pendency that mrs. backus frequently urged affiant to bring the same to a conclusion as she was anxious to dispose of said business and relieve herself from further care and responsibility therewith. and when the said offer of purchase by said jennings upon the terms aforesaid was conveyed to her by affiant, she expressed herself as entirely satisfied therewith." mr. maloney made an affidavit that he was superintendent of the backus oil company from the time of its organization, and also a stockholder in the company, and had been associated in business with mr. backus for many years previous to his death; that he took part in the negotiations for the sale, representing mrs. backus in the matter. after speaking of the negotiations, he says: "finally, after consultation, the proposition was made by her to dispose of the works, good-will, and successorship for $ , . a few days after the proposal was made to her to pay the sum of $ , for works and good-will, and to take the oil on hand at its market price, which proposition she accepted, and the sale was concluded. "during these negotiations mrs. backus was anxious to sell, and was entirely satisfied with the sale after it was concluded. i know of the fact that about a year and a half previous she had offered to sell out the stock of the backus oil company at from to per cent. less than she received in the sale referred to, and the value of the works and property sold had not increased in the meantime. i was well acquainted with the works of the backus oil company and their value. i could at the time of the sale have built the works new for $ , . there were no threats nor intimidations, nor anything of the kind used to force the sale. the negotiations were pleasant and fair, and the price paid in excess of the value, and satisfactory to mrs. backus and all concerned for her." so far as i can see, after more than years have elapsed, there was nothing but the most kindly and considerate treatment of mrs. backus on the part of the standard oil company. i regret that mrs. backus did not take at least part of her pay in standard certificates, as we suggested she should do. the question of rebates of all the subjects which seem to have attracted the attention of the public to the affairs of the standard oil company, the matter of rebates from railroads has perhaps been uppermost. the standard oil company of ohio, of which i was president, did receive rebates from the railroads prior to , but received no advantages for which it did not give full compensation. the reason for rebates was that such was the railroads' method of business. a public rate was made and collected by the railroad companies, but, so far as my knowledge extends, was seldom retained in full; a portion of it was repaid to the shippers as a rebate. by this method the real rate of freight which any shipper paid was not known by his competitors nor by other railroad companies, the amount being a matter of bargain with the carrying company. each shipper made the best bargain that he could, but whether he was doing better than his competitor was only a matter of conjecture. much depended upon whether the shipper had the advantage of competition of carriers. the standard oil company of ohio, being situated at cleveland, had the advantage of different carrying lines, as well as of water transportation in the summer; taking advantage of those facilities, it made the best bargains possible for its freights. other companies sought to do the same. the standard gave advantages to the railroads for the purpose of reducing the cost of transportation of freight. it offered freights in large quantity, car-loads and train-loads. it furnished loading facilities and discharging facilities at great cost. it provided regular traffic, so that a railroad could conduct its transportation to the best advantage and use its equipment to the full extent of its hauling capacity without waiting for the refiner's convenience. it exempted railroads from liability for fire and carried its own insurance. it provided at its own expense terminal facilities which permitted economies in handling. for these services it obtained contracts for special allowances on freights. but notwithstanding these special allowances, this traffic from the standard oil company was far more profitable to the railroad companies than the smaller and irregular traffic, which might have paid a higher rate. to understand the situation which affected the giving and taking of rebates it must be remembered that the railroads were all eager to enlarge their freight traffic. they were competing with the facilities and rates offered by the boats on lake and canal and by the pipe-lines. all these means of transporting oil cut into the business of the railroads, and they were desperately anxious to successfully meet this competition. as i have stated we provided means for loading and unloading cars expeditiously, agreed to furnish a regular fixed number of car-loads to transport each day, and arranged with them for all the other things that i have mentioned, the final result being to reduce the cost of transportation for both the railroads and ourselves. all this was following in the natural laws of trade. pipe-lines vs. railroads the building of the pipe-lines introduced another formidable competitor to the railroads, but as oil could be transported by pumping through pipes at a much less cost than by hauling in tank-cars in a railroad train the development of the pipe-line was inevitable. the question was simply whether the oil traffic was sufficient in volume to make the investment profitable. when pipe-lines had been built to oil fields where the wells had ceased to yield, as often happened, they were about the most useless property imaginable. an interesting feature developed through the relations which grew up between the railroads and the pipe-lines. in many cases it was necessary to combine the facilities of both, because the pipes reached only part of the way, and from the place where they ended the railroad carried the oil to its final destination. in some instances a railroad had formerly carried the oil the entire distance upon an agreed rate, but now that this oil was partly pumped by pipe-lines and partly carried by rail, the freight payment was divided between the two. but, as a through rate had been provided, the owners of the pipe-line agreed to remit a part of its charges to the railroad, so we had cases where the standard paid a rebate to the railroad instead of the reverse--but i do not remember having heard any complaint of this coming from the students of these complicated subjects. the profits of the standard oil company did not come from advantages given by railroads. the railroads, rather, were the ones who profited by the traffic of the standard oil company, and whatever advantage it received in its constant efforts to reduce rates of freight was only one of the many elements of lessening cost to the consumer which enabled us to increase our volume of business the world over because we could reduce the selling price. how general was the complicated bargaining for rates can hardly be imagined; everyone got the best rate that he could. after the passage of the interstate commerce act, it was learned that many small companies which shipped limited quantities had received lower rates than we had been able to secure, notwithstanding the fact that we had made large investments to provide for terminal facilities, regular shipments, and other economies. i well remember a bright man from boston who had much to say about rebates and drawbacks. he was an old and experienced merchant, and looked after his affairs with a cautious and watchful eye. he feared that some of his competitors were doing better than he in bargaining for rates, and he delivered himself of this conviction: "i am opposed on principle to the whole system of rebates and drawbacks--unless i am in it." chapter v other business experiences and business principles going into the iron-ore fields was one of those experiences in which one finds oneself rather against the will, for it was not a deliberate plan of mine to extend my cares and responsibilities. my connection with iron ores came about through some unfortunate investments in the northwest country. these interests had included a good many different industries, mines, steel mills, paper mills, a nail factory, railroads, lumber fields, smelting properties, and other investments about which i have now forgotten. i was a minority stockholder in all these enterprises, and had no part in their management. not all of them were profitable. as a matter of fact, for a period of years just preceding the panic of , values were more or less inflated, and many people who thought they were wealthy found that the actual facts were quite different from what they had imagined when the hard experiences of that panic forced upon them the unpalatable truth. most of these properties i had not even seen, having relied upon the investigation of others respecting their worth; indeed, it has never been my custom to rely alone upon my own knowledge of the value of such plants. i have found other people who knew much better than i how to investigate such enterprises. even at this time i had been planning to relieve myself of business cares, and the panic only caused me to postpone taking the long holiday to which i had been looking forward. i was fortunate in making the acquaintance of mr. frederick t. gates, who was then engaged in some work in connection with the american baptist education society, which required him to travel extensively over the country, north, south, east, and west. it occurred to me that mr. gates, who had a great store of common sense, though no especial technical information about factories and mills, might aid me in securing some first-hand information as to how these concerns were actually prospering. once, as he was going south, i suggested that he look over an iron mill in which i had some interest which happened to be on his route. his report was a model of what such a report should be. it stated the facts, and in this case they were almost all unfavourable. a little later he happened to be going west, and i gave him the name and address of property in that region in which i held a minority interest. i felt quite sure that this particular property was doing well, and it was somewhat of a shock to me to learn through his clear and definite account that it was only a question of time before this enterprise, too, which had been represented as rolling in money, would get into trouble if things kept on as they were going. nursing the commercially ill i then arranged with mr. gates to accept a position whereby he could help me unravel these tangled affairs, and become, like myself, a man of business, but it was agreed between us that he should not abandon his larger and more important plans for working out some philanthropic aspirations that he had. right here i may stop to give credit to mr. gates for possessing a combination of rare business ability, very highly developed and very honourably exercised, overshadowed by a passion to accomplish some great and far-reaching benefits to mankind, the influence of which will last. he is the chairman of the general education board and active in many other boards, and for years he has helped in the various plans that we have been interested in where money was given in the hope that it would do something more than temporary service. mr. gates has for many years been closely associated with my personal affairs. he has been through strenuous times with me, and has taken cares of many kinds off my shoulders, leaving me more time to play golf, plan roads, move trees, and follow other congenial occupations. his efforts in the investigations in connection with our educational contributions, our medical research, and other kindred works have been very successful. during the last ten or twelve years my son has shared with mr. gates the responsibility of this work, and more recently mr. starr j. murphy has also joined with us to help mr. gates, who has borne the heat and burden of the day, and has well earned some leisure which we have wanted him to enjoy. but to return to the story of our troubled investments: mr. gates went into the study of each of these business concerns, and did the best he could with them. it has been our policy never to allow a company in which we had an interest to be thrown into the bankruptcy court if we could prevent it; for receiverships are very costly in many ways and often involve heavy sacrifices of genuine values. our plan has been to stay with the institution, nurse it, lend it money when necessary, improve facilities, cheapen production, and avail ourselves of the opportunities which time and patience are likely to bring to make it self-sustaining and successful. so we went carefully through the affairs of these crippled enterprises in the hard times of and , carrying many of them for years after; sometimes buying the interests of others and sometimes selling our own interest, but all or nearly all escaped the expenses and humiliation of bankruptcy, receivership, and foreclosure. before these matters were entirely closed up we had a vast amount of experience in the doctoring of the commercially ill. my only excuse for dwelling upon the subject at this late day is to point out the fact to some business men who get discouraged that much can be done by careful and patient attention, even when the business is apparently in very deep water. it requires two things: some added capital, put in by one's self or secured from others, and a strict adherence to the sound natural laws of business. the ore mines among these investments were some shares in a number of ore mines and an interest in the stocks and bonds of a railroad being built to carry the ore from the mines to lake ports. we had great faith in these mines, but to work them the railroad was necessary. it had been begun, but in the panic of it and all other developments were nearly ruined. although we were minority holders of the stock, it seemed to be "up to us" to keep the enterprise alive through the harrowing panic days. i had to loan my personal securities to raise money, and finally we were compelled to supply a great deal of actual cash, and to get it we were obliged to go into the then greatly upset money market and buy currency at a high premium to ship west by express to pay the labourers on the railroad and to keep them alive. when the fright of the panic period subsided, and matters became a little more settled, we began to realize our situation. we had invested many millions, and no one wanted to go in with us to buy stock. on the contrary, everybody else seemed to want to sell. the stock was offered to us in alarming quantities--substantially all of the capital stock of the companies came without any solicitation on our part--quite the contrary--and we paid for it in cash. we now found ourselves in control of a great amount of ore lands, from some of which the ore could be removed by a steam shovel for a few cents a ton, but we still faced a most imperfect and inadequate method of transporting the ore to market. when we realized that events were shaping themselves so that to protect our investments we should be obliged to go into the business of selling in a large way, we felt that we must not stop short of doing the work as effectively as possible; and having already put in so much money, we bought all the ore land that we thought was good that was offered to us. the railroad and the ships were only a means to an end. the ore lands were the crux of the whole matter, and we believed that we could never have too many good mines. it was a surprise to me that the great iron and steel manufacturers did not place what seemed to be an adequate value on these mines. the lands which contained a good many of our best ore mines could have been purchased very cheaply before we became interested. having launched ourselves into the venture, we decided to supply ore to every one who needed it, by mining and transporting with the newest and most effective facilities, and our profits we invested in more ore lands. mr. gates became the president of the various companies which owned the mines and the railroad to the lake to transport the ores, and he started to learn and develop the business of ore mining and transportation. he not only proved to be an apt scholar, but he really mastered the various complexities of the business. he did all the work, and only consulted me when he wished to; yet i remember several interesting experiences connected with the working out of these problems. building the ships after this railroad problem was solved, it was apparent that we needed our own ships to transport the ore down the lakes. we knew absolutely nothing of building ships for ore transportation, and so, following out our custom, we went to the man who, in our judgment, had the widest knowledge of the subject. he was already well known to us, but was in the ore transportation business on a large scale on his own account and, of course, the moment we began to ship ore we realized that we would become competitors. mr. gates got into communication with this expert, and came with him one evening to my house in new york just before dinner. he said he could stay only a few minutes, but i told him that i thought we could finish up our affairs in ten minutes and we did. this is the only time i remember seeing personally any one on the business of the ore company. all the conferences, as i said before, were carried on by mr. gates, who seemed to enjoy work, and he has had abundant privileges in that direction. we explained to this gentleman that we were proposing to transport our ore from these lake superior lands ourselves, and that we should like to have him assume charge of the construction of several ships, to be of the largest and most approved type, for our chance of success lay in having boats which could be operated with the greatest efficiency. at that time the largest ships carried about five thousand tons, but in , when we sold out, we had ships that carried seven thousand or eight thousand tons, and now there are some that transport as much as ten thousand tons and more. this expert naturally replied that as he was in the ore-carrying trade himself, he had no desire to encourage us to go into it. we explained to him that as we had made this large investment, it seemed to us to be necessary for the protection of our interests to control our own lake carriers, so we had decided to mine, ship, and market the ore; that we came to him because he could plan and superintend the construction of the best ships for us, and that we wanted to deal with him for that reason; that notwithstanding that he represented one of the largest firms among our competitors, we knew that he was honest and straightforward; and that we were most anxious to deal with him. employing a competitor he still demurred, but we tried to convince him that we were not to be deterred from going into the trade, and that we were willing to pay him a satisfactory commission for looking after the building of the ships. somebody, we explained, was going to do the work for us, and he might as well have the profit as the next man. this argument finally seemed to impress him and we then and there closed an agreement, the details of which were worked out afterward to our mutual satisfaction. this gentleman was mr. samuel mather of cleveland. he spent only a few minutes in the house, during which time we gave him the order for about $ , , worth of ships and this was the only time i saw him. but mr. mather is a man of high business honour, we trusted him implicitly although he was a competitor, and we never had occasion to regret it. at that time there were some nine or ten shipbuilding companies located at various points on the great lakes. all were independent of each other and there was sharp competition between them. times were pretty hard with them; their business had not yet recovered from the panic of , they were not able to keep their works in full operation; it was in the fall of the year and many of their employees were facing a hard winter. we took this into account in considering how many ships we should build, and we made up our minds that we would build all the ships that could be built and give employment to the idle men on the great lakes. accordingly we instructed mr. mather to write to each firm of shipbuilders and ascertain how many ships they could build and put in readiness for operation at the opening of navigation the next spring. he found that some companies could build one, some could build two, and that the total number would be twelve. accordingly we asked him to have constructed twelve ships, all of steel, all of the largest capacity then understood to be practicable on the great lakes. some of them were to be steamships and some consorts, for towing, but all were to be built on substantially the same general pattern, which was to represent the best ideals then prevalent for ore-carrying ships. in giving such an order he was exposed, of course, to the risk of paying very high prices. this would have been certain if mr. mather had announced in advance that he was prepared to build twelve ships and asked bids on them. just how he managed it i was not told until long after, and though it is now an old story of the lakes i repeat it as it may be new to many. mr. mather kept the secret of the number of ships he wished to construct absolutely to himself. he sent his plans and specifications, each substantially a duplicate of the others, to each of the firms, and asked each firm to bid on one or two ships as the case might be. all naturally supposed that at most only two ships were to be built, and each was extremely eager to get the work, or at least one of the two vessels. on the day before the contracts were to be let, all the bidders were in cleveland on the invitation of mr. mather. one by one they were taken into his private office for special conference covering all the details preparatory to the final bid. at the appointed hour the bids were in. deep was the interest on the part of all the gentlemen as to who would be the lucky one to draw the prize. mr. mather's manner had convinced each that somehow he himself must be the favoured bidder, yet when he came to meet his competitors in the hotel lobby the beams of satisfaction which plainly emanated from their faces also compelled many heart searchings. at last the crucial hour came, and at about the same moment each gentleman received a little note from mr. mather, conveying to him the tidings that to him had been awarded a contract sufficient to supply his works to their utmost capacity. they all rushed with a common impulse to the hotel lobby where they had been accustomed to meet, each bent on displaying his note and commiserating his unsuccessful rivals, only to discover that each had a contract for all he could do, and that each had been actually bidding against nobody but himself. great was the hilarity which covered their chagrin when they met and compared notes and looked into each others' faces. however, all were happy and satisfied. but it may be said in passing that these amiable gentlemen all united subsequently in one company, which has had a highly satisfactory career, and that we paid a more uniform price for our subsequent purchases of ships after the combination had been made. a landsman for ship manager with these ships ordered, we were fairly at the beginning of the ore enterprise. but we realized that we had to make some arrangement to operate the ships, and we again turned to our competitor, mr. mather, in the hope that he would add this to his cares. unfortunately, because of his obligations to others, he felt that this was impractical. i asked mr. gates one day soon after this: "how are we to get some one to run these big ships we have ordered? do you know of any experienced firm?" "no," said mr. gates, "i do not know of any firm to suggest at the moment, but why not run them ourselves?" "you don't know anything about ships, do you?" "no," he admitted, "but i have in mind a man who i believe could do it, although when i tell you about him i fear you will think that his qualifications are not the best. however, he has the essentials. he lives up the state, and never was on a ship in his life. he probably wouldn't know the bow from the stern, or a sea-anchor from an umbrella, but he has good sense, he is honest, enterprising, keen, and thrifty. he has the art of quickly mastering a subject even though it be new to him and difficult. we still have some months before the ships will be completed, and if we put him to work now, he will be ready to run the ships as soon as they are ready to be run." "all right," i said, "let's give him the job," and we did. that man was mr. l.m. bowers; he came from broome county, new york. mr. bowers went from point to point on the lakes where the boats were building, and studied them minutely. he was quickly able to make valuable suggestions about their construction, which were approved and adopted by the designers. when the vessels were finished, he took charge of them from the moment they floated, and he managed these and the dozens which followed with a skill and ability that commanded the admiration of all the sailors on the lakes. he even invented an anchor which he used with our fleet, and later it was adopted by other vessels, and i have heard that it is used in the united states navy. he remained in his position until we sold out. we have given mr. bowers all sorts of hard tasks since we retired from the lake traffic and have found him always successful. lately the health of a member of his family has made it desirable for him to live in colorado, and he is now the vigorous and efficient vice-president of the colorado fuel and iron company. the great ships and the railroad put us in possession of the most favourable facilities. from the first the organization was successful. we built up a huge trade, mining and carrying ore to cleveland and other lake ports. we kept on building and developing until finally the fleet grew until it included fifty-six large steel vessels, this enterprise, in common with many other important business undertakings in which i was interested, required very little of my personal attention, owing to my good fortune in having active, competent, and thoroughly reliable representatives who assumed so largely the responsibilities of administration. it gives me pleasure to state that the confidence which i have freely given to business men with whom i have been associated has been so fully justified. selling to the steel company the work went on uninterruptedly and prosperously until the formation of the united states steel corporation. a representative of this corporation came to see us about selling the land, the ore, and the fleet of ships. the business was going on smoothly, and we had no pressing need to sell, but as the organizer of the new company felt that our mines and railroads and ships were a necessary part of the scheme, we told him we would be pleased to facilitate the completion of the great undertaking. they had, i think, already closed with mr. carnegie for his various properties. after some negotiation, they made an offer which we accepted, whereby the whole plant--mines, ships, railway, etc.--should become a part of the united states steel corporation. the price paid was, we felt, very moderate considering the present and prospective value of the property. this transaction bids fair to show a great profit to the steel company for many years, and as our payment was largely in the securities of the company we had the opportunity to participate in this prosperity. and so, after a period of about seven years, i went out of all association with the mining, the transporting, and the selling of iron ore. follow the laws of trade going over again in my mind the events connected with this ore experience that grew out of investments that seemed at the time, to say the least, rather unpromising, i am impressed anew with the importance of a principle i have often referred to. if i can make this point clear to the young man who has had the patience to follow these reminiscences so far, it will be a satisfaction to me and i hope it may be a benefit to him. the underlying, essential element of success in business affairs is to follow the established laws of high-class dealing. keep to broad and sure lines, and study them to be certain that they are correct ones. watch the natural operations of trade, and keep within them. don't even think of temporary or sharp advantages. don't waste your effort on a thing which ends in a petty triumph unless you are satisfied with a life of petty success. be sure that before you go into an enterprise you see your way clear to stay through to a successful end. look ahead. it is surprising how many bright business men go into important undertakings with little or no study of the controlling conditions they risk their all upon. study diligently your capital requirements, and fortify yourself fully to cover possible set-backs, because you can absolutely count on meeting set-backs. be sure that you are not deceiving yourself at any time about actual conditions. the man who starts out simply with the idea of getting rich won't succeed; you must have a larger ambition. there is no mystery in business success. the great industrial leaders have told again and again the plain and obvious fact that there can be no permanent success without fair dealing that leads to wide-spread confidence in the man himself, and that is the real capital we all prize and work for. if you do each day's task successfully, and stay faithfully within these natural operations of commercial laws which i talk so much about, and keep your head clear, you will come out all right, and will then, perhaps, forgive me for moralizing in this old-fashioned way. it is hardly necessary to caution a young man who reads so sober a book as this not to lose his head over a little success, or to grow impatient or discouraged by a little failure. panic experiences i had desired to retire from business in the early nineties. having begun work so young, i felt that at fifty it was due me to have freedom from absorption in active business affairs and to devote myself to a variety of interests other than money making, which had claimed a portion of my time since the beginning of my business career. but - were years of ominous outlook. in the storm broke, and i had many investments to care for, as i have already related. this year and the next was a trying period of grave anxiety to everyone. no one could retire from work at such a time. in the standard we continued to make progress even through all these panic years, as we had large reserves of cash on account of our very conservative methods of financing. in or i was able to carry out my plans to be relieved from any association with the actual management of the company's affairs. from that time, as i have said, i have had little or no part in the conduct of the business. since i can remember all the great panics, but i believe the panic of was the most trying. no one escaped from it, great or small. important institutions had to be supported and carried through the time of distrust and unreasoning fear. to mr. morgan's real and effective help i should join with other business men and give great praise. his commanding personality served a most valuable end. he acted quickly and resolutely when quickness and decision were the things most needed to regain confidence, and he was efficiently seconded by many able and leading financiers of the country who coöperated courageously and effectively to restore confidence and prosperity. the question has been asked if i think we shall revive quickly from the panic of october, . i hesitate to speak on the subject, since i am not a prophet nor the son of a prophet; but as to the ultimate outcome there is, of course, no doubt. this temporary set-back will lead to safer institutions and more conservative management upon the part of everyone, and this is a quality we need. it will not long depress our wonderful spirit of initiative. the country's resources have not been cut down nor injured by financial distrust. a gradual recovery will only tend to make the future all the more secure, and patience is a virtue in business affairs as in other things. here again i would venture to utter a word of caution to business men. let them study their own affairs frankly, and face the truth. if their methods are extravagant, let them realize the facts and act accordingly. one cannot successfully go against natural tendencies, and it is folly to fail to recognize them. it is not easy for so impressionable and imaginative a people as we americans are to come down to plain, hard facts, yet we are doing it without loss of self-esteem or prestige throughout the world. chapter vi the difficult art of giving it is, no doubt, easy to write platitudes and generalities about the joys of giving, and the duty that one owes to one's fellow men, and to put together again all the familiar phrases that have served for generations whenever the subject has been taken up. i can hardly hope to succeed in starting any new interest in this great subject when gifted writers have so often failed. yet i confess i find much more interest in it at this time than in rambling on, as i have been doing, about the affairs of business and trade. it is most difficult, however, to dwell upon a very practical and business-like side of benefactions generally, without seeming to ignore, or at least to fail to appreciate fully, the spirit of giving which has its source in the heart, and which, of course, makes it all worth while. in this country we have come to the period when we can well afford to ask the ablest men to devote more of their time, thought, and money to the public well-being. i am not so presumptuous as to attempt to define exactly what this betterment work should consist of. every man will do that for himself, and his own conclusion will be final for himself. it is well, i think, that no narrow or preconceived plan should be set down as the best. i am sure it is a mistake to assume that the possession of money in great abundance necessarily brings happiness. the very rich are just like all the rest of us; and if they get pleasure from the possession of money, it comes from their ability to do things which give satisfaction to someone besides themselves. limitations of the rich the mere expenditure of money for things, so i am told by those who profess to know, soon palls upon one. the novelty of being able to purchase anything one wants soon passes, because what people most seek cannot be bought with money. these rich men we read about in the newspapers cannot get personal returns beyond a well-defined limit for their expenditure. they cannot gratify the pleasures of the palate beyond very moderate bounds, since they cannot purchase a good digestion; they cannot lavish very much money on fine raiment for themselves or their families without suffering from public ridicule; and in their homes they cannot go much beyond the comforts of the less wealthy without involving them in more pain than pleasure. as i study wealthy men, i can see but one way in which they can secure a real equivalent for money spent, and that is to cultivate a taste for giving where the money may produce an effect which will be a lasting gratification. a man of business may often most properly consider that he does his share in building up a property which gives steady work for few or many people; and his contribution consists in giving to his employees good working conditions, new opportunities, and a strong stimulus to good work. just so long as he has the welfare of his employees in his mind and follows his convictions, no one can help honouring such a man. it would be the narrowest sort of view to take, and i think the meanest, to consider that good works consist chiefly in the outright giving of money. the best philanthropy the best philanthropy, the help that does the most good and the least harm, the help that nourishes civilization at its very root, that most widely disseminates health, righteousness, and happiness, is not what is usually called charity. it is, in my judgment, the investment of effort or time or money, carefully considered with relation to the power of employing people at a remunerative wage, to expand and develop the resources at hand, and to give opportunity for progress and healthful labour where it did not exist before. no mere money-giving is comparable to this in its lasting and beneficial results. if, as i am accustomed to think, this statement is a correct one, how vast indeed is the philanthropic field! it may be urged that the daily vocation of life is one thing, and the work of philanthropy quite another. i have no sympathy with this notion. the man who plans to do all his giving on sunday is a poor prop for the institutions of the country. the excuse for referring so often to the busy man of affairs is that his help is most needed. i know of men who have followed out this large plan of developing work, not as a temporary matter, but as a permanent principle. these men have taken up doubtful enterprises and carried them through to success often at great risk, and in the face of great scepticism, not as a matter only of personal profit, but in the larger spirit of general uplift. disinterested service the road to success if i were to give advice to a young man starting out in life, i should say to him: if you aim for a large, broad-gauged success, do not begin your business career, whether you sell your labour or are an independent producer, with the idea of getting from the world by hook or crook all you can. in the choice of your profession or your business employment, let your first thought be: where can i fit in so that i may be most effective in the work of the world? where can i lend a hand in a way most effectively to advance the general interests? enter life in such a spirit, choose your vocation in that way, and you have taken the first step on the highest road to a large success. investigation will show that the great fortunes which have been made in this country, and the same is probably true of other lands, have come to men who have performed great and far-reaching economic services--men who, with great faith in the future of their country, have done most for the development of its resources. the man will be most successful who confers the greatest service on the world. commercial enterprises that are needed by the public will pay. commercial enterprises that are not needed fail, and ought to fail. on the other hand, the one thing which such a business philosopher would be most careful to avoid in his investments of time and effort or money, is the unnecessary duplication of existing industries. he would regard all money spent in increasing needless competition as wasted, and worse. the man who puts up a second factory when the factory in existence will supply the public demand adequately and cheaply is wasting the national wealth and destroying the national prosperity, taking the bread from the labourer and unnecessarily introducing heartache and misery into the world. probably the greatest single obstacle to the progress and happiness of the american people lies in the willingness of so many men to invest their time and money in multiplying competitive industries instead of opening up new fields, and putting their money into lines of industry and development that are needed. it requires a better type of mind to seek out and to support or to create the new than to follow the worn paths of accepted success; but here is the great chance in our still rapidly developing country. the penalty of a selfish attempt to make the world confer a living without contributing to the progress or happiness of mankind is generally a failure to the individual. the pity is that when he goes down he inflicts heartache and misery also on others who are in no way responsible. the generosity of service probably the most generous people in the world are the very poor, who assume each other's burdens in the crises which come so often to the hard pressed. the mother in the tenement falls ill and the neighbour in the next room assumes her burdens. the father loses his work, and neighbours supply food to his children from their own scanty store. how often one hears of cases where the orphans are taken over and brought up by the poor friend whose benefaction means great additional hardship! this sort of genuine service makes the most princely gift from superabundance look insignificant indeed. the jews have had for centuries a precept that one-tenth of a man's possessions must be devoted to good works, but even this measure of giving is but a rough yardstick to go by. to give a tenth of one's income is wellnigh an impossibility to some, while to others it means a miserable pittance. if the spirit is there, the matter of proportion is soon lost sight of. it is only the spirit of giving that counts, and the very poor give without any self-consciousness. but i fear that i am dealing with generalities again. the education of children in my early days may have been straightlaced, yet i have always been thankful that the custom was quite general to teach young people to give systematically of money that they themselves had earned. it is a good thing to lead children to realize early the importance of their obligations to others but, i confess, it is increasingly difficult; for what were luxuries then have become commonplaces now. it should be a greater pleasure and satisfaction to give money for a good cause than to earn it, and i have always indulged the hope that during my life i should be able to help establish efficiency in giving so that wealth may be of greater use to the present and future generations. perhaps just here lies the difference between the gifts of money and of service. the poor meet promptly the misfortunes which confront the home circle and household of the neighbour. the giver of money, if his contribution is to be valuable, must add service in the way of study, and he must help to attack and improve underlying conditions. not being so pressed by the racking necessities, it is he that should be better able to attack the subject from a more scientific standpoint; but the final analysis is the same: his money is a feeble offering without the study behind it which will make its expenditure effective. great hospitals conducted by noble and unselfish men and women are doing wonderful work; but no less important are the achievements in research that reveal hitherto unknown facts about diseases and provide the remedies by which many of them can be relieved or even stamped out. to help the sick and distressed appeals to the kind-hearted always, but to help the investigator who is striving successfully to attack the causes which bring about sickness and distress does not so strongly attract the giver of money. the first appeals to the sentiments overpoweringly, but the second has the head to deal with. yet i am sure we are making wonderful advances in this field of scientific giving. all over the world the need of dealing with the questions of philanthropy with something beyond the impulses of emotion is evident, and everywhere help is being given to those heroic men and women who are devoting themselves to the practical and essentially scientific tasks. it is a good and inspiring thing to recall occasionally the heroism, for example, of the men who risked and sacrificed their lives to discover the facts about yellow fever, a sacrifice for which untold generations will bless them; and this same spirit has animated the professions of medicine and surgery. scientific research how far may this spirit of sacrifice properly extend? a great number of scientific men every year give up everything to arrive at some helpful contribution to the sum of human knowledge, and i have sometimes thought that good people who lightly and freely criticize their actions scarcely realize just what such criticism means. it is one thing to stand on the comfortable ground of placid inaction and put forth words of cynical wisdom, and another to plunge into the work itself and through strenuous experience earn the right to express strong conclusions. for my own part, i have stood so much as a placid onlooker that i have not had the hardihood even to suggest how people so much more experienced and wise in those things than i should work out the details even of those plans with which i have had the honour to be associated. there has been a good deal of criticism, no doubt sincere, of experiments on living dumb animals, and the person who stands for the defenceless animal has such an overwhelming appeal to the emotions that it is perhaps useless to allude to the other side of the controversy. dr. simon flexner, of the institute for medical research, has had to face exaggerated and even sensational reports, which have no basis of truth whatever. but consider for a moment what has been accomplished recently, under the direction of dr. flexner in discovering a remedy for epidemic cerebro-spinal meningitis. it is true that in discovering this cure the lives of perhaps fifteen animals were sacrificed, as i learn, most of them monkeys; but for each one of these animals which lost its life, already scores of human lives have been saved. large-hearted men like dr. flexner and his associates do not permit unnecessary pain to defenceless animals. i have been deeply interested in the story of a desperate experiment to save a child's life, told in a letter written by one of my associates soon after the event described; and it seems worthy of repeating. dr. alexis carrel has been associated with dr. flexner and his work, and his wonderful skill has been the result of his experiments and experiences. a wonderful surgical operation "dr. alexis carrel, one of the institute's staff, has been making some interesting studies in experimental surgery, and has successfully transplanted organs from one animal to another, and blood vessels from one species to another. he had the opportunity recently of applying the skill thus acquired to the saving of a human life under circumstances which attracted great interest among the medical fraternity of this city. one of the best known of the younger surgeons in new york had a child born early last march, which developed a disease in which the blood, for some reason, exudes from the blood vessels into the tissues of the body, and ordinarily the child dies of this internal hemorrhage. when this child was five days old it was evident that it was dying. the father and his brother, who is one of the most distinguished men in the profession, and one or two other doctors were in consultation with reference to it, but considered the case entirely hopeless. "it so happened that the father had been impressed with the work which dr. carrel had been doing at the institute, and had spent several days with him studying his methods. he became convinced that the only possibility of saving the child's life was by the direct transfusion of blood. while this has been done between adults, the blood vessels of a young infant are so delicate that it seemed impossible that the operation could be successfully carried on. it is necessary not only that the blood vessels of the two persons should be united together, but it must be done in such a way that the interior lining of the vessels, which is a smooth, shiny tissue, should be continuous. if the blood comes in contact with the muscular coat of the blood vessels, it will clot and stop the circulation. "fortunately, dr. carrel had been experimenting on the blood vessels of some very young animals, and the father was convinced that if any man in the country could perform the operation successfully, it would be he. "it was then the middle of the night. but dr. carrel was called on, and when the situation was explained to him, and it was made clear that the child would die anyhow, he readily consented to attempt the operation, although expressing very slight hope of its successful outcome. "the father offered himself as the person whose blood should be furnished to the child. it was impossible to give anæsthetics to either of them. in a child of that age there is only one vein large enough to be used, and that is in the back of the leg, and deep seated. a prominent surgeon who was present exposed this vein. he said afterward that there was no sign of life in the child, and expressed the belief that the child had been, to all intents and purposes, dead for ten minutes. in view of its condition he raised the question whether it was worth while to proceed further with the attempt. the father, however, insisted upon going on, and the surgeon then exposed the radial artery in the surgeon's wrist, and was obliged to dissect it back about six inches, in order to pull it out far enough to make the connection with the child's vein. "this part of the work the surgeon who did it afterward described as the 'blacksmith part of the job.' he said that the child's vein was about the size of a match and the consistency of wet cigarette paper, and it seemed utterly impossible for anyone to successfully unite these two vessels. dr. carrel, however, accomplished this feat. and then occurred what the doctors who were present described as one of the most dramatic incidents in the history of surgery. the blood from the father's artery was released, and began to flow into the child's body, amounting to about a pint. the first sign of life was a little pink tinge at the top of one of the ears, then the lips, which had become perfectly blue, began to change to red, and then suddenly, as though the child had been taken from a hot mustard bath, a pink glow broke out all over its body, and it began to cry lustily. after about eight minutes the two were separated. the child at that time was crying for food. it was fed, and from that moment began to eat and sleep regularly, and made a complete recovery. "the father appeared before a legislative committee at albany, in opposition to certain bills which were pending at the last session to restrict animal experimentation, and told this incident, and said at the close that when he saw dr. carrel's experiments he had no idea that they would so soon be available for saving human life; much less did he imagine that the life to be saved would be that of his own child." the fundamental thing in all help if the people can be educated to help themselves, we strike at the root of many of the evils of the world. this is the fundamental thing, and it is worth saying even if it has been said so often that its truth is lost sight of in its constant repetition. the only thing which is of lasting benefit to a man is that which he does for himself. money which comes to him without effort on his part is seldom a benefit and often a curse. that is the principal objection to speculation--it is not because more lose than gain, though that is true--but it is because those who gain are apt to receive more injury from their success than they would have received from failure. and so with regard to money or other things which are given by one person to another. it is only in the exceptional case that the receiver is really benefited. but, if we can help people to help themselves, then there is a permanent blessing conferred. men who are studying the problem of disease tell us that it is becoming more and more evident that the forces which conquer sickness are within the body itself, and that it is only when these are reduced below the normal that disease can get a foothold. the way to ward off disease, therefore, is to tone up the body generally; and, when disease has secured a foothold, the way to combat it is to help these natural resisting agencies which are in the body already. in the same way the failures which a man makes in his life are due almost always to some defect in his personality, some weakness of body, or mind, or character, will, or temperament. the only way to overcome these failings is to build up his personality from within, so that he, by virtue of what is within him, may overcome the weakness which was the cause of the failure. it is only those efforts the man himself puts forth that can really help him. we all desire to see the widest possible distribution of the blessings of life. many crude plans have been suggested, some of which utterly ignore the essential facts of human nature, and if carried out would perhaps drag our whole civilization down into hopeless misery. it is my belief that the principal cause for the economic differences between people is their difference in personality, and that it is only as we can assist in the wider distribution of those qualities which go to make up a strong personality that we can assist in the wider distribution of wealth. under normal conditions the man who is strong in body, in mind, in character, and in will need never suffer want. but these qualities can never be developed in a man unless by his own efforts, and the most that any other can do for him is, as i have said, to help him to help himself. we must always remember that there is not enough money for the work of human uplift and that there never can be. how vitally important it is, therefore, that the expenditure should go as far as possible and be used with the greatest intelligence! i have been frank to say that i believe in the spirit of combination and coöperation when properly and fairly conducted in the world of commercial affairs, on the principle that it helps to reduce waste; and waste is a dissipation of power. i sincerely hope and thoroughly believe that this same principle will eventually prevail in the art of giving as it does in business. it is not merely the tendency of the times developed by more exacting conditions in industry, but it should make its most effective appeal to the hearts of the people who are striving to do the most good to the largest number. some underlying principles at the risk of making this chapter very dull, and i am told that this is a fault which inexperienced authors should avoid at all hazards, i may perhaps be pardoned if i set down here some of the fundamental principles which have been at the bottom of all my own plans. i have undertaken no work of any importance for many years which, in a general way, has not followed out these broad lines, and i believe no really constructive effort can be made in philanthropic work without such a well-defined and consecutive purpose. my own conversion to the feeling that an organized plan was an absolute necessity came about in this way. about the year i was still following the haphazard fashion of giving here and there as appeals presented themselves. i investigated as i could, and worked myself almost to a nervous break-down in groping my way, without sufficient guide or chart, through this ever-widening field of philanthropic endeavour. there was then forced upon me the necessity to organize and plan this department of our daily tasks on as distinct lines of progress as we did our business affairs; and i will try to describe the underlying principles we arrived at, and have since followed out, and hope still greatly to extend. it may be beyond the pale of good taste to speak at all of such a personal subject--i am not unmindful of this--but i can make these observations with at least a little better grace because so much of the hard work and hard thinking are done by my family and associates, who devote their lives to it. every right-minded man has a philosophy of life, whether he knows it or not. hidden away in his mind are certain governing principles, whether he formulates them in words or not, which govern his life. surely his ideal ought to be to contribute all that he can, however little it may be, whether of money or service, to human progress. certainly one's ideal should be to use one's means, both in one's investments and in benefactions, for the advancement of civilization. but the question as to what civilization is and what are the great laws which govern its advance have been seriously studied. our investments not less than gifts have been directed to such ends as we have thought would tend to produce these results. if you were to go into our office, and ask our committee on benevolence or our committee on investment in what they consider civilization to consist, they would say that they have found in their study that the most convenient analysis of the elements which go to make up civilization runs about as follows: st. progress in the means of subsistence, that is to say, progress in abundance and variety of food-supply, clothing, shelter, sanitation, public health, commerce, manufacture, the growth of the public wealth, etc. nd. progress in government and law, that is to say, in the enactment of laws securing justice and equity to every man, consistent with the largest individual liberty, and the due and orderly enforcement of the same upon all. rd. progress in literature and language. th. progress in science and philosophy. th. progress in art and refinement. th. progress in morality and religion. if you were to ask them, as indeed they are very often asked, which of these they regard as fundamental, they would reply that they would not attempt to answer, that the question is purely an academic one, that all these go hand in hand, but that historically the first of them--namely, progress in means of subsistence--had generally preceded progress in government, in literature, in knowledge, in refinement, and in religion. though not itself of the highest importance, it is the foundation upon which the whole superstructure of civilization is built, and without which it could not exist. accordingly, we have sought, so far as we could, to make investments in such a way as will tend to multiply, to cheapen, and to diffuse as universally as possible the comforts of life. we claim no credit for preferring these lines of investment. we make no sacrifices. these are the lines of largest and surest return. in this particular, namely, in cheapness, ease of acquirement, and universality of means of subsistence, our country easily surpasses that of any other in the world, though we are behind other countries, perhaps, in most of the others. it may be asked: how is it consistent with the universal diffusion of these blessings that vast sums of money should be in single hands? the reply is, as i see it, that, while men of wealth control great sums of money, they do not and cannot use them for themselves. they have, indeed, the legal title to large properties, and they do control the investment of them, but that is as far as their own relation to them extends or can extend. the money is universally diffused, in the sense that it is kept invested, and it passes into the pay-envelope week by week. up to the present time no scheme has yet presented itself which seems to afford a better method of handling capital than that of individual ownership. we might put our money into the treasury of the nation and of the various states, but we do not find any promise in the national or state legislatures, viewed from the experiences of the past, that the funds would be expended for the general weal more effectively than under the present methods, nor do we find in any of the schemes of socialism a promise that wealth would be more wisely administered for the general good. it is the duty of men of means to maintain the title to their property and to administer their funds until some man, or body of men, shall rise up capable of administering for the general good the capital of the country better than they can. the next four elements of progress mentioned in the enumeration above, namely, progress in government and law, in language and literature, in science and philosophy, in art and refinement, we for ourselves have thought to be best promoted by means of the higher education, and accordingly we have had the great satisfaction of putting such sums as we could into various forms of education in our own and in foreign lands--and education not merely along the lines of disseminating more generally the known, but quite as much, and perhaps even more, in promoting original investigation. an individual institution of learning can have only a narrow sphere. it can reach only a limited number of people. but every new fact discovered, every widening of the boundaries of human knowledge by research, becomes universally known to all institutions of learning, and becomes a benefaction at once to the whole race. quite as interesting as any phase of the work have been the new lines entered upon by our committee. we have not been satisfied with giving to causes which have appealed to us. we have felt that the mere fact that this or the other cause makes its appeal is no reason why we should give to it any more than to a thousand other causes, perhaps more worthy, which do not happen to have come under our eye. the mere fact of a personal appeal creates no claim which did not exist before, and no preference over other causes more worthy which may not have made their appeal. so this little committee of ours has not been content to let the benevolences drift into the channels of mere convenience--to give to the institutions which have sought aid and to neglect others. this department has studied the field of human progress, and sought to contribute to each of those elements which we believe tend most to promote it. where it has not found organizations ready to its hand for such purpose, the members of the committee have sought to create them. we are still working on new, and, i hope, expanding lines, which make large demands on one's intelligence and study. the so-called betterment work which has always been to me a source of great interest had a great influence on my life, and i refer to it here because i wish to urge in this connection the great importance of a father's keeping in close touch with his children, taking into his confidence the girls as well as the boys, who in this way learn by seeing and doing, and have their part in the family responsibilities. as my father taught me, so i have tried to teach my children. for years it was our custom to read at the table the letters we received affecting the various benevolences with which we had to do, studying the requests made for worthy purposes, and following the history and reports of institutions and philanthropic cases in which we were interested. chapter vii the benevolent trust--the value of the co�perative principle in giving going a step farther in the plan of making benefactions increasingly effective which i took up in the last chapter under the title of "the difficult art of giving," i am tempted to take the opportunity to dwell a little upon the subject of combination in charitable work, which has been something of a hobby with me for many years. if a combination to do business is effective in saving waste and in getting better results, why is not combination far more important in philanthropic work? the general idea of coöperation in giving for education, i have felt, scored a real step in advance when mr. andrew carnegie consented to become a member of the general education board. for in accepting a position in this directorate he has, it seems to me, stamped with his approval this vital principle of coöperation in aiding the educational institutions of our country. i rejoice, as everybody must, in mr. carnegie's enthusiasm for using his wealth for the benefit of his less fortunate fellows and i think his devotion to his adopted land's welfare has set a striking example for all time. the general education board, of which mr. carnegie has now become a member, is interesting as an example of an organization formed for the purpose of working out, in an orderly and rather scientific way, the problem of helping to stimulate and improve education in all parts of our country. what this organization may eventually accomplish, of course, no one can tell, but surely, under its present board of directors, it will go very far. here, again, i feel that i may speak frankly and express my personal faith in its success, since i am not a member of the board, and have never attended a meeting, and the work is all done by others. there are some other and larger plans thought out on careful and broad lines, which i have been studying for many years, and we can see that they are growing into definite shape. it is good to know that there are always unselfish men, of the best calibre, to help in every large philanthropic enterprise. one of the most satisfactory and stimulating pieces of good fortune that has come to me is the evidence that so many busy people are willing to turn aside from their work in pressing fields of labour and to give their best thoughts and energies without compensation to the work of human uplift. doctors, clergymen, lawyers, as well as many high-grade men of affairs, are devoting their best and most unselfish efforts to some of the plans that we are all trying to work out. take, as one example of many similar cases, mr. robert c. ogden, who for years, while devoting himself to an exacting business, still found time, supported by wonderful enthusiasm, to give force by his own personality to work done in difficult parts of the educational world, particularly to improving the common school system of the south. his efforts have been wisely directed along fundamental lines which must produce results through the years to come. fortunately my children have been as earnest as i, and much more diligent, in carefully and intelligently carrying out the work already begun, and agree with me that at least the same energy and thought should be expended in the proper and effective use of money when acquired as was exerted in the earning of it. the general education board has made, or is making, a careful study of the location, aims, work, resources, administration, and educational value, present and prospective, of the institutions of higher learning in the united states. the board makes its contributions, averaging something like two million dollars a year, on the most careful comparative study of needs and opportunities throughout the country. its records are open to all. many benefactors of education are availing themselves of these disinterested inquiries, and it is hoped that more will do so. a large number of individuals are contributing to the support of educational institutions in our country. to help an inefficient, ill-located, unnecessary school is a waste. i am told by those who have given most careful study to this problem that it is highly probable that enough money has been squandered on unwise educational projects to have built up a national system of higher education adequate to our needs if the money had been properly directed to that end. many of the good people who bestow their beneficence on education may well give more thought to investigating the character of the enterprises that they are importuned to help, and this study ought to take into account the kind of people who are responsible for their management, their location, and the facilities supplied by other institutions round about. a thorough examination such as this is generally quite impossible for an individual, and he either declines to give from lack of accurate knowledge, or he may give without due consideration. if, however, this work of inquiry is done, and well done, by the general education board, through officers of intelligence, skill, and sympathy, trained to the work, important and needed service is rendered. the walls of sectarian exclusiveness are fast disappearing, as they should, and the best people are standing shoulder to shoulder as they attack the great problems of general uplift. roman catholic charities just here it occurs to me to testify to the fact that the roman catholic church, as i have observed in my experience, has advanced a long way in this direction. i have been surprised to learn how far a given sum of money has gone in the hands of priests and nuns, and how really effective is their use of it. i fully appreciate the splendid service done by other workers in the field, but i have seen the organization of the roman church secure better results with a given sum of money than other church organizations are accustomed to secure from the same expenditure. i speak of this merely to point the value of the principle of organization, in which i believe so heartily. it is unnecessary to dwell upon the centuries of experience which the church of rome has gone through to perfect a great power of organization. studying these problems has been a source of the greatest interest to me. my assistants, quite distinct from any board, have an organization of sufficient size to investigate the many requests that come to us. this is done from the office of our committee in new york. for an individual to attempt to keep any close watch of single cases would be impossible. i am called upon to explain this fact many times. to read the hundreds of letters daily received at our office would be beyond the power of any one man, and surely, if the many good people who write would only reflect a little, they must realize that it is impossible for me personally to consider their applications. the plan that we have worked out, and i hope improved upon year after year, has been the result of experience, and i refer to it now only as one contribution to a general subject which is of such great moment to earnest people; and this must be my excuse for speaking so frankly. the appeals that come the reading, assorting, and investigating of the hundreds of letters of appeal which are received daily at my office are attended to by a department organized for this purpose. the task is not so difficult as at first it might seem. the letters are, to be sure, of great variety, from all sorts of people in every condition of life, and indeed, from all parts of the world. four-fifths of these letters are, however, requests for money for personal use, with no other title to consideration than that the writer would be gratified to have it. there remain numbers of requests which all must recognize as worthy of notice. these may be divided, roughly, as follows: the claims of local charities. the town or city in which one lives has a definite appeal to all its citizens, and all good neighbours will wish to coöperate with friends and fellow townsmen. but these local charities, hospitals, kindergartens, and the like, ought not to make appeal outside the local communities which they serve. the burden should be carried by the people who are on the spot and who are, or should be, most familiar with local needs. then come the national and international claims. these properly appeal especially to men of large means throughout the country, whose wealth admits of their doing something more than assist in caring for the local charities. there are many great national and international philanthropic and christian organizations that cover the whole field of world-wide charity; and, while people of reputed wealth all receive appeals from individual workers throughout the world for personal assistance, the prudent and thoughtful giver will, more and more, choose these great and responsible organizations as the medium for his gifts and the distribution of his funds to distant fields. this has been my custom, and the experience of every day serves only to confirm its wisdom. the great value of dealing with an organization which knows all the facts, and can best decide just where the help can be applied to the best advantage, has impressed itself upon me through the results of long years of experience. for example, one is asked to give in a certain field of missionary work a sum, for a definite purpose--let us say a hospital. to comply with this request will take, say, $ , . it seems wise and natural to give this amount. the missionary who wants this money is working under the direction of a strong and capable religious denomination. suppose the request is referred to the manager of the board of this denomination, and it transpires that there are many good reasons why a new hospital is not badly needed at this point, and by a little good management the need of this missionary can be met by another hospital in its neighbourhood; whereas another missionary in another place has no such possibility for any hospital facilities whatever. there is no question that the money should be spent in the place last named. these conditions the managers of all the mission stations know, although perhaps the one who is giving the money never heard of them, and in my judgment he is wise in not acting until he has consulted these men of larger information. it is interesting to follow the mental processes that some excellent souls go through to cloud their consciences when they consider what their duty actually is. for instance, one man says: "i do not believe in giving money to street beggars." i agree with him, i do not believe in the practice either; but that is not a reason why one should be exempt from doing something to help the situation represented by the street beggar. because one does not yield to the importunities of such people is exactly the reason one should join and uphold the charity organization societies of one's own locality, which deal justly and humanely with this class, separating the worthy from the unworthy. another says: "i don't give to such and such a board, because i have read that of the money given only half or less actually gets to the person needing help." this is often not a true statement of fact, as proved again and again, and even if it were true in part it does not relieve the possible giver from the duty of helping to make the organization more efficient. by no possible chance is it a valid excuse for closing up one's pocketbook and dismissing the whole subject from one's mind. institutions as they relate to each other surely it is wise to be careful not to duplicate effort and not to inaugurate new charities in fields already covered, but rather to strengthen and perfect those already at work. there is a great deal of rivalry and a vast amount of duplication, and one of the most difficult things in giving is to ascertain when the field is fully covered. many people simply consider whether the institution to which they are giving is thoughtfully and well managed, without stopping to discover whether the field is not already occupied by others; and for this reason one ought not to investigate a single institution by itself, but always in its relation to all similar institutions in the territory. here is a case in point: a number of enthusiastic people had a plan for founding an orphan asylum which was to be conducted by one of our strongest religious denominations. the raising of the necessary funds was begun, and among the people who were asked to subscribe was a man who always made it a practice to study the situation carefully before committing himself to a contribution. he asked one of the promoters of the new institution how many beds the present asylums serving this community provided, how efficient they were, where located, and what particular class of institution was lacking in the community. to none of these questions were answers forthcoming, so he had this information gathered on his own account with the purpose of helping to make the new plan effective. his studies revealed the fact that the city where the new asylum was to be built was so well provided with such institutions that there were already vastly more beds for children than there were applicants to fill them, and that the field was well and fully covered. these facts being presented to the organizers of the enterprise, it was shown that no real need for such an institution existed. i wish i might add that the scheme was abandoned. it was not. such charities seldom are when once the sympathies of the worthy people, however misinformed, are heartily enlisted. it may be urged that doing the work in this systematic and apparently cold-blooded way leaves out of consideration, to a large extent, the merits of individual cases. my contention is that the organization of work in combination should not and does not stifle the work of individuals, but strengthens and stimulates it. the orderly combination of philanthropic effort is growing daily, and at the same time the spirit of broad philanthropy never was so general as it is now. the claim of higher education the giver who works out these problems for himself will, no doubt, find many critics. so many people see the pressing needs of every-day life that possibly they fail to realize those which are, if less obvious, of an even larger significance--for instance, the great claims of higher education. ignorance is the source of a large part of the poverty and a vast amount of the crime in the world--hence the need of education. if we assist the highest forms of education--in whatever field--we secure the widest influence in enlarging the boundaries of human knowledge; for all the new facts discovered or set in motion become the universal heritage. i think we cannot overestimate the importance of this matter. the mere fact that most of the great achievements in science, medicine, art, and literature are the flower of the higher education is sufficient. some great writer will one day show how these things have ministered to the wants of all the people, educated and uneducated, high and low, rich and poor, and made life more what we all wish it to be. the best philanthropy is constantly in search of the finalities--a search for cause, an attempt to cure evils at their source. my interest in the university of chicago has been enhanced by the fact that while it has comprehensively considered the other features of a collegiate course, it has given so much attention to research. dr. william r. harper the mention of this promising young institution always brings to my mind the figure of dr. william r. harper, whose enthusiasm for its work was so great that no vision of its future seemed too large. my first meeting with dr. harper was at vassar college, where one of my daughters was a student. he used to come, as the guest of dr. james m. taylor, the president, to lecture on sundays; and as i frequently spent week-ends there, i saw and talked much with the young professor, then of yale, and caught in some degree the contagion of his enthusiasm. when the university had been founded, and he had taken the presidency, our great ambition was to secure the best instructors and to organize the new institution, unhampered by traditions, according to the most modern ideals. he raised millions of dollars among the people of chicago and the middle west, and won the personal interest of their leading citizens. here lay his great strength, for he secured not only their money but their loyal support and strong personal interest--the best kind of help and coöperation. he built even better than he knew. his lofty ideals embodied in the university awakened a deeper interest in higher education throughout the central west, and stirred individuals, denominations, and legislatures to effective action. the world will probably never realize how largely the present splendid university system of the central western states is due indirectly to the genius of this man. with all his extraordinary power of work and his executive and organizing ability, dr. harper was a man of exquisite personal charm. we count it among the rich and delightful experiences of our home-life that dr. and mrs. harper could occasionally spend days together with us for a brief respite from the exacting cares and responsibilities of the university work. as a friend and companion, in daily intercourse, no one could be more delightful than he. it has been my good fortune to contribute at various times to the university of chicago, of which dr. harper was president, and the newspapers not unnaturally supposed at such times that he used the occasions of our personal association to secure these contributions. the cartoonists used to find this a fruitful theme. they would picture dr. harper as a hypnotist waving his magic spell, or would represent him forcing his way into my inner office where i was pictured as busy cutting coupons and from which delightful employment i incontinently fled out of the window at sight of him; or they would represent me as fleeing across rivers on cakes of floating ice with dr. harper in hot pursuit; or perhaps he would be following close on my trail, like the wolf in the russian story, in inaccessible country retreats, while i escaped only by means of the slight delays i occasioned him by now and then dropping a million-dollar bill, which he would be obliged to stop and pick up. these cartoons were intended to be very amusing, and some of them certainly did have a flavour of humour, but they were never humorous to dr. harper. they were in fact a source of deep humiliation to him, and i am sure he would, were he living, be glad to have me say, as i now do, that during the entire period of his presidency of the university of chicago, he never once either wrote me a letter or asked me personally for a dollar of money for the university of chicago. in the most intimate daily intercourse with him in my home, the finances of the university of chicago were never canvassed or discussed. the method of procedure in this case has been substantially the same as with all other contributions. the presentation of the needs of the university has been made in writing by the officers of the university, whose special duty it is to prepare its budgets and superintend its finances. a committee of the trustees, with the president, have annually conferred, at a fixed time, with our department of benevolence, as to its needs. their conclusions have generally been entirely unanimous and i have found no occasion hitherto seriously to depart from their recommendations. there have been no personal interviews and no personal solicitations. it has been a pleasure to me to make these contributions, but that pleasure has arisen out of the fact that the university is located in a great centre of empire; that it has rooted itself in the affections and interest of the people among whom it is located; that it is doing a great and needed work--in fine, that it has been able to attract and to justify the contributions of its patrons east and west. it is not personal interviews and impassioned appeals, but sound and justifying worth, that should attract and secure the funds of philanthropy. the people in great numbers who are constantly importuning me for personal interviews in behalf of favourite causes err in supposing that the interview, were it possible, is the best way, or even a good way, of securing what they want. our practice has been uniformly to request applicants to state their cases tersely, but nevertheless as fully as they think necessary, in writing. their application is carefully considered by very competent people chosen for this purpose. if, thereupon, personal interviews are found desirable by our assistants, they are invited from our office. written presentations form the necessary basis of investigation, of consultation, and comparison of views between the different members of our staff, and of the final presentation to me. it is impossible to conduct this department of our work in any other way. the rule requiring written presentation as against the interview is enforced and adhered to not, as the applicant sometimes supposes, as a cold rebuff to him, but in order to secure for his cause, if it be a good one, the careful consideration which is its due--a consideration that cannot be given in a mere verbal interview. the reason for conditional gifts it is easy to do harm in giving money. to give to institutions which should be supported by others is not the best philanthropy. such giving only serves to dry up the natural springs of charity. it is highly important that every charitable institution shall have at all times the largest possible number of current contributors. this means that the institution shall constantly be making its appeals; but, if these constant appeals are to be successful, the institution is forced to do excellent work and meet real and manifest needs. moreover, the interest of many people affords the best assurance of wise economy and unselfish management as well as of continued support. we frequently make our gifts conditional on the giving of others, not because we wish to force people to do their duty, but because we wish in this way to root the institution in the affections of as many people as possible who, as contributors, become personally concerned, and thereafter may be counted on to give to the institution their watchful interest and coöperation. conditional gifts are often criticized, and sometimes, it may be, by people who have not thought the matter out fully. criticism which is deliberate, sober, and fair is always valuable and it should be welcomed by all who desire progress. i have had at least my full share of adverse criticism, but i can truly say that it has not embittered me, nor left me with any harsh feeling against a living soul. nor do i wish to be critical of those whose conscientious judgment, frankly expressed, differs from my own. no matter how noisy the pessimists may be, we know that the world is getting better steadily and rapidly, and that is a good thing to remember in our moments of depression or humiliation. the benevolent trusts to return to the subject of the benevolent trusts, which is a name for corporations to manage the business side of benefactions. the idea needs, and to be successful must have, the help of men who have been trained along practical lines. the best men of business should be attracted by its possibilities for good. when it is eventually worked out, as it will be in some form, and probably in a better one than we can now forecast, how worthy it will be of the efforts of our ablest men! we shall have the best charities supported generously and adequately, managed with scientific efficiency by the ablest men, who will gladly he held strictly accountable to the donors of the money, not only for the correct financing of the funds, but for the intelligent and effective use of every penny. to-day the whole machinery of benevolence is conducted upon more or less haphazard principles. good men and women are wearing out their lives to raise money to sustain institutions which are conducted by more less or unskilled methods. this is a tremendous waste of our best material. we cannot afford to have great souls who are capable of doing the most effective work slaving to raise the money. that should be a business man's task, and he should be supreme in managing the machinery of the expenses. the teachers, the workers, and the inspired leaders of the people should be relieved of these pressing and belittling money cares. they have more than enough to do in tilling their tremendous and never fully occupied field, and they should be free from any care which might in any wise divert them from that work. when these benevolent trusts come into active being, such organizations on broad lines will be sure to attract the brains of the best men we have in our commercial affairs, as great business opportunities attract them now. our successful business men as a class, and the exceptions only prove the truth of the assertion, have a high standard of honour. i have sometimes been tempted to say that our clergymen could gain by knowing the essentials of business life better. the closer association with men of affairs would, i think, benefit both classes. people who have had much to do with ministers and those who hold confidential positions in our churches have at times had surprising experiences in meeting what is sometimes practised in the way of ecclesiastical business, because these good men have had so little of business training in the work-a-day world. the whole system of proper relations, whether it be in commerce, or in the church, or in the sciences, rests on honour. able business men seek to confine their dealings to people who tell the truth and keep their promises; and the representatives of the church, who are often prone to attack business men as a type of what is selfish and mean, have some great lessons to learn, and they will gladly learn them as these two types of workers grow closer together. the benevolent trusts, when they come, will raise these standards; they will look the facts in the face; they will applaud and sustain the effective workers and institutions; and they will uplift the intelligent standard of good work in helping all the people chiefly to help themselves. there are already signs that these combinations are coming, and coming quickly, and in the directorates of these trusts you will eventually find the flower of our american manhood, the men who not only know how to make money, but who accept the great responsibility of administering it wisely. a few years ago, on the occasion of the decennial anniversary of the university of chicago, i was attending a university dinner, and having been asked to speak i had jotted down a few notes. when the time arrived to stand up and face these guests--men of worth and position--my notes meant nothing to me. as i thought of the latent power of good that rested with these rich and influential people i was greatly affected. i threw down my notes and started to plead for my benevolent trust plan. "you men," i said, "are always looking forward to do something for good causes. i know how very busy you are. you work in a treadmill from which you see no escape. i can easily understand that you feel that it is beyond your present power carefully to study the needs of humanity, and that you wait to give until you have considered many things and decided upon some course of action. now, why not do with what you can give to others as you do with what you want to keep for yourself and your children: put it into a trust? you would not place a fortune for your children in the hands of an inexperienced person, no matter how good he might be. let us be as careful with the money we would spend for the benefit of others as if we were laying it aside for our own family's future use. directors carry on these affairs in your behalf. let us erect a foundation, a trust, and engage directors who will make it a life work to manage, with our personal coöperation, this business of benevolence properly and effectively. and i beg of you, attend to it _now_, don't wait." i confess i felt most strongly on the subject, and i feel so now. http://www.archive.org/details/holidaytaleschr murriala holiday tales. christmas in the adirondacks. by w. h. h. murray. [illustration: w. h. h. murray, the murray homestead guilford, conn.] copyrighted, . all rights reserved. press of springfield printing and binding company, springfield, mass. contents. page i. how john norton the trapper kept his christmas, ii. john norton's vagabond, [illustration: the wild deer's home.] [illustration: the old trapper's home.] list of illustrations. the wild deer's home, _by j. gurner fisher_, _frontispiece no. _ the old trapper's home, _by w. l. everett knowles_, _frontispiece no. _ how john norton the trapper kept his christmas, (_heading_) the old trapper's fireplace, _by w. l. everett knowles_, between pages - "on the other side of the mountain stood the dismal hut," _by j. gurner fisher_, " " - the old trapper's shot, _by j. gurner fisher_, " " - the mountain torrent, _by j. gurner fisher_, _frontispiece no. _ the vagabond's rock, _by w. l. everett knowles,_ _frontispiece no. _ john norton's vagabond, (_heading_) "vagabonds included in this invite," _by w. l. everett knowles_, between pages - "and above the words was a star," _by w. l. everett knowles_, " " - the old trapper's paddle, _by w. l. everett knowles_, the old trapper's rifle, _by w. l. everett knowles_, an old time gun, _by w. l. everett knowles_, christmas holly, _by w. l. everett knowles_, "where be the ships?" _by w. l. everett knowles_, between pages - "and finally the words passed into the air," _by w. l. everett knowles_, "ye cradle of ye olden time," _by w. l. everett knowles_, the old trapper and his dogs, "friends come and go, but until death enters kennel or cabin the hunter and his hounds bide together." _by w. l. everett knowles_, between pages - how john norton the trapper kept his christmas. i. a cabin. a cabin in the woods. in the cabin a great fireplace piled high with logs, fiercely ablaze. on either side of the broad hearthstone a hound sat on his haunches, looking gravely, as only a hound in a meditative mood can, into the glowing fire. in the center of the cabin, whose every nook and corner was bright with the ruddy firelight, stood a wooden table, strongly built and solid. at the table sat john norton, poring over a book,--a book large of size, with wooden covers bound in leather, brown with age, and smooth as with the handling of many generations. the whitened head of the old man was bowed over the broad page, on which one hand rested, with the forefinger marking the sentence. a cabin in the woods filled with firelight, a table, a book, an old man studying the book. this was the scene on christmas eve. outside, the earth was white with snow, and in the blue sky above the snow was the white moon. "it says here," said the trapper, speaking to himself, "it says here, '_give to him that lacketh, and from him that hath not, withhold not thine hand._' it be a good sayin' fur sartin; and the world would be a good deal better off, as i conceit, ef the folks follered the sayin' a leetle more closely." and here the old man paused a moment, and, with his hand still resting on the page, and his forefinger still pointing at the sentence, seemed pondering what he had been reading. at last he broke the silence again, saying:-- "yis, the world would be a good deal better off, ef the folks in it follered the sayin';" and then he added, "there's another spot in the book i'd orter look at to-night; it's a good ways furder on, but i guess i can find it. henry says the furder on you git in the book, the better it grows, and i conceit the boy may be right; for there be a good deal of murderin' and fightin' in the fore part of the book, that don't make pleasant readin', and what the lord wanted to put it in fur is a good deal more than a man without book-larnin' can understand. murderin' be murderin', whether it be in the bible or out of the bible; and puttin' it in the bible, and sayin' it was done by the lord's commandment, don't make it any better. and a good deal of the fightin' they did in the old time was sartinly without reason and ag'in jedgment, specially where they killed the womenfolks and the leetle uns." and while the old man had thus been communicating with himself, touching the character of the old testament, he had been turning the leaves until he had reached the opening chapters of the new, and had come to the description of the saviour's birth, and the angelic announcement of it on the earth. here he paused, and began to read. he read as an old man unaccustomed to letters must read,--slowly and with a show of labor, but with perfect contentment as to his progress, and a brightening face. [illustration: the old trapper's fireplace.] "this isn't a trail a man can hurry on onless he spends a good deal of his time on it, or is careless about notin' the signs, fur the words be weighty, and a man must stop at each word, and look around awhile, in order to git all the meanin' out of 'em--yis, a man orter travel this trail a leetle slow, ef he wants to see all there is to see on it." then the old man began to read:-- "'_then there was with the angels a multitude of the heavenly host_,'--the exact number isn't sot down here," he muttered; "but i conceit there may have been three or four hunderd,--'_praisin' god and singin', glory to god in the highest, and on 'arth, peace to men of good will_.' that's right," said the trapper. "yis, peace to men of good will. that be the sort that desarve peace; the other kind orter stand their chances." and here the old man closed the book,--closed it slowly, and with the care we take of a treasured thing; closed it, fastened the clasps, and carried it to the great chest whence he had taken it, putting it away in its place. having done this, he returned to his seat, and, moving the chair in front of the fire, he looked first at one hound, and then at the other, and said, "pups, this be christmas eve, and i sartinly trust ye be grateful fur the comforts ye have." he said this deliberately, as if addressing human companions. the two hounds turned their heads toward their master, looked placidly into his face, and wagged their tails. "yis, yis, i understand ye," said the trapper. "ye both be comfortable, and, i dare say, that arter yer way ye both be grateful, fur, next to eatin', a dog loves the heat, and ye be nigh enough to the logs to be toastin'. yis, this be christmas eve," continued the old man, "and in the settlements the folks be gittin' ready their gifts. the young people be tyin' up the evergreens, and the leetle uns be onable to sleep because of their dreamin'. it's a pleasant pictur', and i sartinly wish i could see the merry-makin's, as henry has told me of them, sometime, but i trust it may be in his own house, and with his own children." with this pleasant remark, in respect to the one he loved so well, the old man lapsed into silence. but the peaceful contentment of his face, as the firelight revealed it, showed plainly that, though his lips moved not, his mind was still active with pleasant thoughts of the one whose name he had mentioned, and whom he so fondly loved. at last a more sober look came to his countenance,--a look of regret, of self-reproach, the look of a man who remembers something he should not have forgotten,--and he said:-- "i ax the lord to pardin me, that in the midst of my plenty i have forgot them that may be in want. the shanty sartinly looked open enough the last time i fetched the trail past the clearin', and though with the help of the moss and the clay in the bank she might make it comfortable, yit, ef the vagabond that be her husband has forgot his own, and desarted them, as wild bill said he had, i doubt ef there be vict'als enough in the shanty to keep them from starvin'. yis, pups," said the old man, rising, "it'll be a good tramp through the snow, but we'll go in the mornin', and see ef the woman be in want. the boy himself said, when he stopped at the shanty last summer, afore he went out, that he didn't see how they was to git through the winter, and i reckon he left the woman some money, by the way she follered him toward the boat; and he told me to bear them in mind when the snow came, and see to it they didn't suffer. i might as well git the pack-basket out, and begin to put the things in't, fur it be a goodly distance, and an 'arly start will make the day pleasant to the woman and the leetle uns, ef vict'als be scant in the cupboard. yis, i'll git the pack-basket out, and look round a leetle, and see what i can find to take 'em. i don't conceit it'll make much of a show, fur what might be good fur a man won't be of sarvice to a woman; and as fur the leetle uns, i don't know ef i've got a single thing but vict'als that'll fit 'em. lord! ef i was near the settlements, i might swap a dozen skins fur jest what i wanted to give 'em; but i'll git the basket out, and look round and see what i've got." in a moment the great pack-basket had been placed in the middle of the floor, and the trapper was busy overhauling his stores to see what he could find that would make a fitting christmas gift for those he was to visit on the morrow. a canister of tea was first deposited on the table, and, after he had smelled of it, and placed a few grains of it on his tongue, like a connoisseur, he proceeded to pour more than half of its contents into a little bark box, and, having carefully tied the cover, he placed it in the basket. "the yarb be of the best," said the old man, putting his nose to the mouth of the canister, and taking a long sniff before he inserted the stopple--"the yarb be of the best, fur the smell of it goes into the nose strong as mustard. that be good fur the woman fur sartin, and will cheer her sperits when she be downhearted; fur a woman takes as naterally to tea as an otter to his slide, and i warrant it'll be an amazin' comfort to her, arter the day's work be over, more specially ef the work had been heavy, and gone sorter crosswise. yis, the yarb be good fur a woman when things go crosswise, and the box'll be a great help to her many and many a night, beyend doubt. the lord sartinly had women in mind when he made the yarb, and a kindly feelin' fur their infarmities, and, i dare say, they be grateful accordin' to their knowledge." a large cake of maple sugar followed the tea into the basket, and a small chest of honey accompanied it. "that's honest sweetenin'," remarked the trapper with decided emphasis; "and that is more'n ye can say of the sugar of the settlements, leastwise ef a man can jedge by the stuff they peddle at the clearin'. the bees be no cheats; and a man who taps his own trees, and biles the runnin' into sugar under his own eye, knows what kind of sweetenin' he's gittin'. the woman won't find any sand in her teeth when she takes a bite from that loaf, or stirs a leetle of the honey in the cup she's steepin'." some salt and pepper were next added to the packages already in the basket. a sack of flour and another of indian meal followed. a generous round of pork, and a bag of jerked venison, that would balance a twenty-pound weight, at least, went into the pack. on these, several large-sized salmon trout, that had been smoked by the trapper's best skill, were laid. these offerings evidently exhausted the old man's resources, for, after looking round a while, and searching the cupboard from bottom to top, he returned to the basket, and contemplated it with satisfaction, indeed, yet with a face slightly shaded with disappointment. "the vict'als be all right," he said, "fur there be enough to last 'em a month, and they needn't scrimp themselves either. but eatin' isn't all, and the leetle uns was nigh on to naked the last time i seed 'em; and the woman's dress, in spite of the patchin', looked as ef it would desart her, ef she didn't keep a close eye on't. lord! lord! what shall i do? fur there's room enough in the basket, and the woman and the leetle uns need garments; that is, it's more'n likely they do, and i haven't a garment in the cabin to take 'em." "hillo! hillo! john norton! john norton! hillo!" the voice came sharp and clear, cutting keenly through the frosty air and the cabin walls. "john norton!" "wild bill!" exclaimed the trapper. "i sartinly hope the vagabond hasn't been a-drinkin'. his voice sounds as ef he was sober; but the chances be ag'in the signs, fur, ef he isn't drunk, the marcy of the lord or the scarcity of liquor has kept him from it. i'll go to the door, and see what he wants. it's sartinly too cold to let a man stand in the holler long, whether he be sober or drunk;" with which remark the trapper stepped to the door, and flung it open. "what is it, wild bill? what is it?" he called. "be ye drunk, or be ye sober, that ye stand there shoutin' in the cold with a log cabin within a dozen rods of ye?" "sober, john norton, sober. sober as a moravian preacher at a funeral." "yer trappin' must have been mighty poor, then, wild bill, for the last month, or the dutchman at the clearin' has watered his liquor by a wrong measure for once. but ef ye be sober, why do ye stand there whoopin' like an indian, when the ambushment is onkivered and the bushes be alive with the knaves? why don't ye come into the cabin, like a sensible man, ef ye be sober? the signs be ag'in ye, wild bill; yis, the signs be ag'in ye." "come into the cabin!" retorted bill. "an' so i would mighty lively, ef i could; but the load is heavy, and your path is as slippery as the plank over the creek at the dutchman's, when i've two horns aboard." "load! what load have ye been draggin' through the woods?" exclaimed the trapper. "ye talk as ef my cabin was the dutchman's, and ye was balancin' on the plank at this minit." "come and see for yourself," answered wild bill, "and give me a lift. once in your cabin, and in front of your fire, i'll answer all the questions you may ask. but i'll answer no more until i'm inside the door." "ye be sartinly sober to-night," answered the trapper, laughing, as he started down the hill, "fur ye talk sense, and that's more'n a man can do when he talks through the nozzle of a bottle. "lord-a-massy!" exclaimed the old man as he stood over the sled, and saw the huge box that was on it. "lord-a-massy, bill! what a tug ye must have had! and how ye come to be sober with sech a load behind ye is beyend the reckinin' of a man who has knowed ye nigh on to twenty year. i never knowed ye disapp'int one arter this fashion afore." "it is strange, i confess," answered wild bill, appreciating the humor that lurked in the honesty of the old man's utterance. "it is strange, that's a fact, for it's christmas eve, and i ought to be roaring drunk at the dutchman's this very minit, according to custom; but i pledged him to get the box through jest as he wanted it done, and that i wouldn't touch a drop of liquor until i had done it. and here it is, according to promise, for here i am sober, and here is the box." "h'ist along, bill, h'ist along!" exclaimed the trapper, who suddenly became alive with interest, for he surmised whence the box had come. "h'ist along, bill, i say, and have done with yer talkin', and let's see what ye have got on yer sled. it's strange that a man of yer sense will stand jibberin' here in the snow with a roarin' fire within a dozen rods of ye." whatever retort wild bill may have contemplated, it was effectually prevented by the energy with which the trapper pushed the sled after him. indeed, it was all he could do to keep it off his heels, so earnestly did the old man propel it from behind; and so, with many a slip and scramble on the part of wild bill, and a continued muttering on the part of the trapper about the "nonsense of a man's jibberin' in the snow arter a twenty mile drag, with a good fire within a dozen rods of him," the sled was shot through the doorway into the cabin, and stood fully revealed in the bright blaze of the firelight. "take off yer coat and yer moccasins, wild bill," exclaimed the trapper, as he closed the door, "and git in front of the fire; pull out the coals, and set the tea pot a-steepin'. the yarb will take the chill out of ye better than the pizen of the dutchman. ye'll find a haunch of venison in the cupboard that i roasted to-day, and some johnnycake; i doubt ef either be cold. help yerself, help yerself, bill, while i take a peep at the box." no one can appreciate the intensity of the old man's feelings in reference to the mysterious box, unless he calls to mind the strictness with which he was wont to interpret and fulfill the duties of hospitality. to him the coming of a guest was a welcome event, and the service which the latter might require of the host both a sacred and a pleasant obligation. to serve a guest with his own hand, which he did with a natural courtesy peculiar to himself, was his delight. nor did it matter with him what the quality of the guest might be. the wandering trapper or the vagabond indian was served with as sincere attention as the richest visitor from the city. but now his feelings were so stirred by the sight of the box thus strangely brought to him, and by his surmise touching who the sender might be, that wild bill was left to help himself without the old man's attendance. it was evident that bill was equal to the occasion, and was not aware of the slightest neglect. at least, his actions were not, by the neglect of the trapper, rendered less decided, or the quality of his appetite affected, for the examination he made of the old man's cupboard, and the familiarity with which he handled the contents, made it evident that he was not in the least abashed, or uncertain how to proceed; for he attacked the provisions with the energy of a man who had fasted long, and who has at last not only come suddenly to an ample supply of food, but also feels that for a few moments, at least, he will be unobserved. the trapper turned toward the box, and approached it for a deliberate examination. "the boards be sawed," he said, "and they come from the mills of the settlement, for the smoothin'-plane has been over 'em." then he inspected the jointing, and noted how truly the edges were drawn. "the box has come a goodly distance," he said to himself, "fur there isn't a workman this side of the horicon that could j'int it in that fashion. there sartinly ought to be some letterin', or a leetle bit of writin', somewhere about the chest, tellin' who the box belonged to, and to whom it was sent." saying this, the old man unlashed the box from the sled, and rolled it over, so that the side might come uppermost. as no direction appeared on the smoothly planed surface, he rolled it half over again. a little white card neatly tacked to the board was now revealed. the trapper stooped, and on the card read,-- john norton, to the care of wild bill. "yis, the 'j' be his'n," muttered the old man, as he spelled out the word j-o-h-n, "and the big 'n' be as plain as an otter-trail in the snow. the boy don't make his letters over plain, as i conceit, but the 'j' and the 'n' be his'n." and then he paused for a full minute, his head bowed over the box. "the boy don't forgit," he murmured, and he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "the boy don't forgit." and then he added, "no, he isn't one of the forgittin' kind. wild bill," said the trapper, as he turned toward that personage, whose attack on the venison haunch was as determined as ever, "wild bill, this box be from henry!" "i shouldn't wonder," answered that individual, speaking from a mass of edibles that filled his mouth. "and it be a christmas gift!" continued the old man. "it looks so," returned bill, as laconically as before. "and it be a mighty heavy box!" said the trapper. "you'd 'a' thought so, if you had dragged it over the mile-and-a-half carry. it was good sleddin' on the river, but the carry took the stuff out of me." "very like, very like," responded the trapper; "fur the gullies be deep on the carry, and it must have been slippery haulin'. didn't ye git a leetle 'arnest in yer feelin's, bill, afore ye got to the top of the last ridge?" "old man," answered bill, as he wheeled his chair toward the trapper, with a pint cup of tea in the one hand, and wiping his mustache with the coat sleeve of the other, "i got it to the top three times, or within a dozen feet from the top, and each time it got away from me and went to the bottom agin; for the roots was slippery, and i couldn't git a grip on the toe of my moccasins; but i held on to the rope, and i got to the bottom neck and neck with the sled every time." "ye did well, ye did well," responded the trapper, laughing; "for a loaded sled goes down hill mighty fast when the slide is a steep un, and a man who gits to the bottom as quick as the sled must have a good grip, and be considerably in 'arnest. but ye got her up finally by the same path, didn't ye?" "yes, i got her up," returned bill. "the fourth time i went for that ridge, i fetched her to the top, for i was madder than a hornet." "and what did ye do, bill?" continued the trapper. "what did ye do when ye got to the top?" "i jest tied that sled to a sapling so it wouldn't git away agin, and i got on to the top of that box, and i talked to that gulch a minit or two in a way that satisfied my feelings." "i shouldn't wonder," answered the trapper, laughing, "fur ye must have ben a good deal riled. but ye did well to git the box through, and ye got here in time, and ye've 'arnt yer wages; and now, ef ye'll tell me how much i am to pay ye, ye shall have yer money, and ye needn't scrimp yerself on the price, wild bill, for the drag has been a hard un; so tell me yer price, and i'll count ye out the money." "old man," answered bill, "i didn't bring that box through for money, and i won't take a--" perhaps wild bill was about to emphasize his refusal by some verbal addition to the simple statement, but, if it was his intention, he checked himself, and said, "a cent." "it's well said," answered the trapper; "yis, it's well said, and does jestice to yer feelin's, i don't doubt; but an extra pair of breeches one of these days wouldn't hurt ye, and the money won't come amiss." "i tell ye, old man," returned wild bill earnestly, "i won't take a cent. i'll allow there's several colors in my trousers, for i've patched in a dozen different pieces off and on, and i doubt, as ye hint, if the patching holds together much longer; but i've eaten at your table and slept in your cabin more than once, john norton, and whether i've come to it sober or drunk, your door was never shut in my face; and i don't forget either that the man who sent you that box fished me from the creek one day, when i had walked into it with two bottles of the dutchman's whisky in my pocket, and not one cent of your money or his will i take for bringing the box in to you." "have it yer own way, ef ye will," said the trapper; "but i won't forgit the deed ye have did, and the boy won't forgit it neither. come, let's clear away the vict'als, and we'll open the box. it's sartinly a big un, and i would like to see what he has put inside of it." the opening of the box was a spectacle such as gladdens the heart to see. at such moments the countenance of the trapper was as facile in the changefulness of its expression as that of a child. the passing feelings of his soul found an adequate mirror in his face, as the white clouds of a summer day find full reflection in the depth of a tranquil lake. he was not too old or too learned to be wise, for the wisdom of hearty happiness was his,--the wisdom of being glad, and gladly showing it. as for wild bill, the best of his nature was in the ascendant, and with the curiosity and pleasure of a child, and a happiness as sincere as if the box were his own, he assisted at the opening. "the man who made this box did the work in a workmanlike fashion," said the trapper, as he strove to insert the edge of his hatchet into the jointing of the cover, "fur he shet these boards together like the teeth of a bear trap when the bars be well 'iled. it's a pity the boy didn't send him along with the box, wild bill, fur it sartinly looks as ef we should have to kindle a fire on it, and burn a hole in through the kiver." at last, by dint of great exertion, and with the assistance of wild bill and the poker, the cover of the box was wrenched off, and the contents were partially revealed. "glory to god, wild bill!" exclaimed the trapper. "here be yer breeches!" and he held up a pair of pantaloons made of the stoutest scotch stuff. "yis, here be yer breeches, fur here on the waistband be pinned a bit of paper, and on it be written, 'fur wild bill.' and here be a vest to match; and here be a jacket; and here be two pairs of socks in the pocket of the jacket; and here be two woolen shirts, one packed away in each sleeve. and here!" shouted the old man, as he turned up the lapel of the coat, "wild bill, look here! here be a five-dollar note!" and the old man swung one of the socks over his head, and shouted, "hurrah for wild bill!" and the two hounds, catching the enthusiasm of their master, lifted their muzzles into the air, and bayed deep and long, till the cabin fairly shook with the joyful uproar of man and dogs. it is doubtful if any gift ever took the recipient more by surprise than this bestowed upon wild bill. it is true that, judged by the law of strict deserts, the poor fellow had not deserved much of the world, and certainly the world had not forgotten to be strictly just in his case, for it had not given him much. it is a question if he had ever received a gift before in all his life, certainly not one of any considerable value. his reception of this generous and thoughtful provision for his wants was characteristic both of his training and his nature. the old trapper, as he ended his cheering, flung the pantaloons, the vest, the jacket, the socks, the shirts, and the money into his lap. for a moment the poor fellow sat looking at the warm and costly garments that he held in his hands, silent in an astonishment too profound for speech, and then, recovering the use of his organs, he gasped forth:-- "i swear!" and then broke down, and sobbed like a child. the trapper, kneeling beside the box, looked at the poor fellow with a face radiant with happiness, while his mouth was stretched with laughter, utterly unconscious that tears were brimming his own eyes. "old trapper," said wild bill, rising to his feet, and holding the garments forth in his hands, "this is the first present i ever received in my life. i have been kicked and cussed, sneered at and taunted, and i deserved it all. but no man ever gave me a lift, or showed he cared a cent whether i starved or froze, lived or died. you know, john norton, what a fool i've been, and what has ruined me, and that when sober i'm more of a man than many who hoot me. and here i swear, old man, that while a button is on this jacket, or two threads of these breeches hold together, i'll never touch a drop of liquor, sick or well, living or dying, so help me god! and there's my hand on it." "amen!" exclaimed the trapper, as he sprang to his feet, and clasped in his own strong palm the hand that the other had stretched out to him. "the lord in his marcy be nigh ye when tempted, bill, and keep ye true to yer pledge!" of all the pleasant sights that the angels of god, looking from their high homes, saw on earth that christmas eve, perhaps not one was dearer in their eyes than the spectacle here described,--the two sturdy men standing with their hands clasped in solemn pledge of the reformation of the one, and the helping sympathy of the other, above that christmas box in the cabin in the woods. it is not necessary to follow in detail the trapper's further examination of the box. the reader's imagination, assisted by many a happy reminiscence, will enable him to realize the scene. there was a small keg of powder, a large plug of lead, a little chest of tea, a bag of sugar, and also one of coffee. there were nails, matches, thread, buttons, a woolen under-jacket, a pair of mittens, and a cap of choicest fur, made of an otter's skin that henry himself had trapped a year before. all these and other packages were taken out one by one, carefully examined, and characteristically commented on by the trapper, and passed to wild bill, who in turn inspected and commented on them, and then laid them carefully on the table. beneath these packages was a thin board, constituting a sort of division between its upper and lower half. "there seems to be a sort of cellar to this box," said the trapper, as he sat looking at the division. "i shouldn't be surprised ef the boy himself was in here somewhere, so be ready, bill, fur anything, fur the lord only knows what's underneath this board." saying which, the old man thrust his hand under one end of the division, and pulled out a bundle loosely tied with a string, which became unfastened as the trapper lifted the roll from its place in the box, and, as he shook it open, and held its contents at arm's length up to the light, the startled eyes of wild bill, and the earnest gaze of the trapper, beheld a woman's dress! "heavens and 'arth, bill!" exclaimed the trapper, "what's this?" and then a flash of light crossed his face, in the illumination of which the look of wonder vanished, and, dropping upon his knees, he flung the dividing board out of the box, and his companion and himself saw at a glance what was underneath. children's shoes, and dresses of warmest stuffs; tippets and mittens; a full suit for a little boy, boots and all; a jackknife and whistle; two dolls dressed in brave finery, with flaxen hair and blue eyes; a little hatchet; a huge ball of yarn, and a hundred and one things needed in the household; and underneath all a bible; and under that a silver star on a blue field, and pinned to the silk a scrap of paper, on which was written,-- "hang this over the picture of the lad." "ay, ay," said the trapper in a tremulous voice, as he looked at the silver star, "it shall be done as ye say, boy; but the lad has got beyend the clouds, and is walkin' a trail that is lighted from eend to eend by a light clearer and brighter than ever come from the shinin' of any star. i hope we may be found worthy to walk it with him, boy, when we, too, have come to the edge of the great clearin'." to the trapper it was perfectly evident for whom the contents of the box were intended; but the sender had left nothing in doubt, for, when the old man had lifted from the floor the board that he had flung out, he discovered some writing traced with heavy penciling on the wood, and which without much effort he spelled out to wild bill,-- "give these on christmas day to the woman at the dismal hut, and a merry christmas to you all." "ay, ay," said the trapper, "it shall be did, barrin' accident, as ye say; and a merry christmas it'll make fur us all. lord-a-massy! what _will_ the poor woman say when she and her leetle uns git these warm garments on? there be no trouble about fillin' the basket now; no, i sartinly can't git half of the stuff in. wild bill, i guess ye'll have to do some more sleddin' to-morrow, fur these presents must go over the mountain in the mornin', ef we have to harness up the pups." and then he told his companion of the poor woman and the children, and his intended visit to them on the morrow. "i fear," he said, "that they be havin' a hard time of it, 'specially ef her husband has desarted her." "little good he would do her, if he was with her," answered wild bill, "for he's a lazy knave when he is sober, and a thief as well, as you and i know, john norton; for he's fingered our traps more than once, and swapped the skins for liquor at the dutchman's; but he's thieved once too many times, for the folks in the settlement has ketched him in the act, and they put him in the jail for six months, as i heard day before yesterday." "i'm glad on't; yis, i'm glad on't," answered the trapper; "and i hope they'll keep him there till they've larnt him how to work. i've had my eye on the knave for a good while, and the last time i seed him i told him ef he fingered any more of my traps, i'd larn him the commandments in a way he wouldn't forgit; and, as i had him in hand, and felt a leetle like talkin' that mornin', i gin him a piece of my mind, techin' his treatment of his wife and leetle uns, that he didn't relish, i fancy, fur he winced and squirmed like a fox in a trap. yis, i'm glad they've got the knave, and i hope they'll keep him till he's answered fur his misdoin'; but i'm sartinly afeered the poor woman be havin' a hard time of it." "i fear so, too," answered wild bill; "and if i can do anything to help you in your plans, jest say the word, and i'm your man to back or haul, jest as you want me." and so it was arranged that they should go over the mountain together on the morrow, and take the provisions and the gifts that were in the box to the poor woman. and, after talking awhile of the happiness their visit would give, the two men, happy in their thoughts, and with their hearts full of that peace which passeth the understanding of the selfish, laid themselves down to sleep; and over the two,--the one drawing to the close of an honorable and well-spent life, the other standing at the middle of a hitherto useless existence, but facing the future with a noble resolution,--over the two, as they slept, the angels of christmas kept their watch. ii. on the other side of the mountain stood the dismal hut; and the stars of that blessed eve had shone down upon the lonely clearing in which it stood, and the smooth white surface of the frozen and snow-covered lake which lay in front of it, as brightly as they had shone on the cabin of the trapper; but no friendly step had made its trail in the surrounding snow, and no blessed gift had been brought to its solitary door. [illustration: "on the other side of the mountain stood the dismal hut."] as the evening wore on, the great clearing round about it remained drearily void of sound or motion, and filled only with the white stillness of the frosty, snow-lighted night. once, indeed, a wolf stole from underneath the dark balsams into the white silence, and, running up a huge log that lay aslant a ledge of rocks, looked across and round the great opening in the woods, stood a moment, then gave a shivering sort of a yelp, and scuttled back under the shadow of the forest, as if its darkness was warmer than the frozen stillness of the open space. an owl, perched somewhere amid the pine-tops, snug and warm within the cover of its arctic plumage, engaged from time to time in solemn gossip with some neighbor that lived on the opposite shore of the lake. and once a raven, roosting on the dry bough of a lightning-blasted pine, dreamed that the white moonlight was the light of dawn, and began to stir his sable wings, and croak a harsh welcome; but awakened by his blunder, and ashamed of his mistake, he broke off in the very midst of his discordant call, and again settled gloomily down amid his black plumes to his interrupted repose, making by his sudden silence the surrounding silence more silent than before. it seemed as if the very angels, who, we are taught, fly abroad over all the earth that blessed night, carrying gifts to every household, had forgotten the cabin in the woods, and had left it to the cold hospitality of unsympathetic nature. within the lonely hut, which thus seemed forgotten of heaven itself, sat a woman huddling her young--two girls and a boy. the fireplace was of monstrous proportions, and the chimney yawned upward so widely that one looking up the sooty passage might see the stars shining overhead. a little fire burned feebly in the huge stone recess: scant warmth might such a fire yield, kindled in such a fireplace, to those around it. indeed, the little flame seemed conscious of its own inability, and burned with a wavering and mistrustful flicker, as if it were discouraged in view of the task set before it, and had more than half concluded to go out altogether. the cabin was of large size, and undivided into apartments. the little fire was only able to illuminate the central section, and more than half of the room was hidden in utter darkness. the woman's face, which the faint flame over which she was crouched revealed with painful clearness, showed pale and haggard. the induration of exposure and the tightening lines of hunger sharpened and marred a countenance which a happier fortune would have kept even comely. it had that old look about it which comes from wretchedness rather than age, and the weariness of its expression was pitiful to see. was it work or vain waiting for happier fortunes that made her look so tired? alas! the weariness of waiting for what we long for, and long for purely, but which never comes! is it the work or the longing--the long longing--that has put the silver in your head, friend, and scarred the smooth bloom of your cheeks, my lady, with those ugly lines? "mother, i'm hungry," said the little boy, looking up into the woman's face. "can't i have just a little more to eat?" "be still," answered the woman sharply, speaking in the tones of vexed inability. "i've given you almost the last morsel in the house." the boy said nothing more, but nestled up more closely to his mother's knee, and stuck one little stockingless foot out until the cold toes were half hidden in the ashes. o warmth! blessed warmth! how pleasant art thou to old and young alike! thou art the emblem of life, as thy absence is the evidence and sign of life's cold opposite. would that all the cold toes in the world could get to my grate to-night, and all the shivering ones be gathered to this fireside! ay, and that the children of poverty, that lack for bread, might get their hungry hands into that well-filled cupboard there, too! in a moment the woman said, "you children had better go to bed. you'll be warmer in the rags than in this miserable fireplace." the words were harshly spoken, as if the very presence of the children, cold and hungry as they were, was a vexation to her; and they moved off in obedience to her command. o cursed poverty! i know thee to be of satan, for i myself have eaten at thy scant table, and slept in thy cold bed. and never yet have i seen thee bring one smile to human lips, or dry one tear as it fell from a human eye. but i have seen thee sharpen the tongue for biting speech, and harden the tender heart. ay, i've seen thee make even the presence of love a burden, and cause the mother to wish that the puny babe nursing her scant breast had never been born. and so the children went to their unsightly bed, and silence reigned in the hut. "mother," said one of the girls, speaking out of the darkness,--"mother, isn't this christmas eve?" "yes," answered the woman sharply. "go to sleep." and again there was silence. happy is childhood, that amid whatever deprivation and misery it can so weary itself in the day that when night comes on it can lose in the forgetfulness of slumber its sorrows and wants! thus, while the children lost the sense of their unhappy surroundings, including the keen pangs of hunger, for a time, and under the tattered blankets that covered them saw, perhaps, visions of enchanting lands, and in their dreams feasted at those wonderful tables which hungry children see only in sleep, to the poor woman sitting at the failing fire there came no surcease of sorrow, and no vision threw even an evanescent brightness over the hard, cold facts of her surroundings. and the reality of her condition was dire enough, god knows. alone in the wilderness, miles from any human habitation, the trails covered deep with snow, her provisions exhausted, actual suffering already upon them, and starvation staring them squarely in the face,--no wonder that her soul sank within her; no wonder that her thoughts turned toward bitterness. "yes, it's christmas eve," she muttered, "and the rich will keep it gayly. god sends them presents enough; but you see if he remembers me! oh, they may talk about the angels of christmas eve flying abroad to-night, loaded with gifts, but they'll fly mighty high above this shanty, i reckon; no, they won't even drop a piece of meat as they soar past." and so she sat muttering and moaning over her woes, and they were heavy enough,--too heavy for her poor soul, unassisted, to lift,--while the flame on the hearth grew thinner and thinner, until it had no more warmth in it than the shadow of a ghost, and, like its resemblance, was about to flit and fade away. at last she said, in a softened tone, as if the remembrance of the christmas legend had softened her surly thoughts and sweetened the bitter mood:-- "perhaps i'm wrong to take on so. perhaps it isn't god's fault that i and my children are deserted and starving. but why should the innocent be punished for the guilty, and why should the wicked have enough and to spare, while those who do no evil go half naked and starved?" alas, poor woman! that puzzle has puzzled many besides thee, and many lips besides thine have asked that question, querulously or entreatingly, many a time; but whether they asked it in vexation and rebellion of spirit, or humbly besought heaven to answer, to neither murmur nor prayer did heaven vouchsafe a response. is it because we are so small, or, being small, are so inquisitive, that the great oracle of the blue remains so dumb when we cry? at this point the poor little flame, as if unable to abide the cold much longer, flared fitfully, and uneasily shifted itself from brand to brand, threatening with many a flicker to go out; but the woman, with her elbows on her knees, and her face settled firmly between her hands, still sat with eyes that saw not the feeble flame at which they so steadily gazed. "i will do it, _i will do it!_" she suddenly exclaimed. "i will make one more effort. they shall not starve while i have strength to try. perhaps god will aid me. they say he always does at the last pinch, and he certainly sees that i am there now. i wonder if he's been waiting for me to get just where i am before he helped me. there is one more chance left, and i'll make the trial. i'll go down to the shore where i saw the big tracks in the snow. it's a long way, but i shall get there somehow. if god is going to be good to me, he won't let me freeze or faint on the way. yes, i'll creep into bed now, and try to get a little sleep, for i must be strong in the morning." and with these words the poor woman crept off to her bed, and burrowed down, more like an animal than a human being, beside her little ones, as they lay huddled close together and asleep, down in the rags. what angel was it that followed her to her miserable couch, and stirred kindly feelings in her bosom? some sweet one, surely; for she shortly lifted herself to a sitting posture, and, gently drawing down the old blanket with which the children, for warmth's sake, had wrapped their heads, looked as only a mother might at the three little faces lying side by side, and, bending tenderly over them, she placed a gentle kiss upon the forehead of each; then she nestled down again in her own place, and said, "perhaps god will help me." and with this sentence, half a prayer and half a doubt, born on the one hand from that sweet faith which never quite deserts a woman's bosom, and on the other from that bitter experience which had made her seem in her own eyes deserted of god, she fell asleep. she, too, dreamed; but her dreaming was only the prolongation of her waking thoughts; for long after her eyes closed she moved uneasily on her hard couch, and muttered, "perhaps god will. perhaps--" sad is it for us who are old enough to have tasted the bitterness of that cup which life sooner or later presents to all lips, and have borne the burden of its toil and fretting, that our vexations and disappointments pursue us even in our slumber, disturbing our sleep with reproachful visions and the sound of voices whose upbraiding robs us of our otherwise peaceful repose. perhaps somewhere in the years to come, after much wandering and weariness, guided of god, we may come to that fountain of which the ancients dreamed, and for which the noblest among them sought so long, and died seeking; plunging into which, we shall find our lost youth in its cool depths, and, rising refreshed and strengthened, shall go on our eternal journey re-clothed with the beauty, the innocence, and the happiness of our youth. the poor woman slept uneasily, and with much muttering to herself; but the rapid hours slid noiselessly down the icy grooves of night, and soon the cold morning put its white face against the frozen windows of the east, and peered shiveringly forth. who says the earth cannot look as cold and forbidding as the human countenance? the sky hung over the frozen world like a dome of gray steel, whose invisibly matched plates were riveted here and there by a few white, gleaming stars. the surface of the snow sparkled with crystals that flashed colorlessly cold. the air seemed armed, and full of sharp, eager points that pricked the skin painfully. the great tree-trunks cracked their sharp protests against the frosty entrances being made beneath their bark. the lake, from under the smothering ice, roared in dismay and pain, and sent the thunders of its wrath at its imprisonment around the resounding shores. a bitter morn, a bitter morn,--ah me! a bitter morn for the poor! the woman, wakened by the gray light, moved in the depths of the tattered blankets, sat upright, rubbed her eyes with her hands, looked about her as if to recall her scattered senses, and then, as thought returned, crept stealthily out of the hole in which she had lain, that she might not wake the children, who, coiled together, slumbered on, still closely clasped in the arms of blessed unconsciousness. "they had better sleep," she said to herself. "if i fail to bring them meat, i hope they will never wake!" ah! if the poor woman could only have foreseen the bitter disappointment, or that other something which the future was to bring her, would she have made that prayer? is it best for us, as some say, that we cannot see what is coming, but must weep on till the last tear is shed, uncheered by the sweet fortune so nigh, or laugh unchecked until the happy tones are mingled with, and smothered by, the rising moan? is it best, i wonder? she noiselessly gathered together what additions she could make to her garments, and then, taking down the rifle from its hangings, opened the door, and stepped forth into the outer cold. there was a look of brave determination in her eyes as she faced the chilly greeting the world gave her, and, with more of hopefulness than had before appeared upon her countenance, she struck bravely off along the lake shore, which at this point receded toward the mountain. for an hour she kept steadily on, with her eyes constantly on the alert for the least sign of the wished and prayed-for game. suddenly she stopped, and crouched down in the snow, peering straight ahead. well might she seek concealment, for there, standing on a point of land that jutted sharply out into the lake, not forty rods away, unscreened and plain to view, stood a buck of such goodly proportions as one even in years of hunting might not see. the woman's eyes fairly gleamed as she saw the noble animal standing thus in full sight; but who may tell the agony of fear and hope that filled her bosom! the buck stood lordly erect, facing the east, as if he would do homage to, or receive homage from, the rising sun, whose yellow beams fell full upon his uplifted front. the thought of her mind, the fear of her heart, were plain. the buck would soon move; when he moved, which way would he move? would he go from or come toward her? would she get him, or would she lose him? oh, the agony of that thought! "god of the starving," burst from her quivering lips, "let not my children die!" many prayers more ornate rose that day to him whose ears are open to all cries. but of all that prayed on that christmas morn, whether with few words or many, surely, no heart rose with the seeking words more earnestly than that of the poor woman kneeling as she prayed, rifle in hand, amid the snow. "god of the starving, let not my children die!" that was her prayer; and, as if in answer to her agonizing petition, the buck turned and began to advance directly toward her, browsing as he came. once he stopped, looked around, and snuffed the air suspiciously. had he scented her presence, and would he bound away? should she fire now? no; her judgment told her she could not trust the gun or her aim at such a range. he must come nigher,--come even to the big maple, and stand there, not ten rods away; then she felt sure she should get him. so she waited. oh, how the cold ate into her! how her teeth chattered as the chills ran their torturing courses through her thin, shivering frame! but still she clutched the cold barrel, and still she watched and waited, and still she prayed:-- "god of the starving, let not my children die!" alas, poor woman! my own body shivers as i think of thine, and my pen falters to write what misery befell thee on that wretched morn. did the buck turn? did he, having come so tantalizingly near, retrace his steps? no. he continued to advance. had heaven heard her prayer? her soul answered it had; and with such feelings in it toward him to whom she had appealed as she had not felt in all her life before, she steadied herself for the shot. for even as she prayed, the deer came on,--came to the big maple, and lifted his muzzle to its highest reach to seize with his tongue a thin streamer of moss that lay against the smooth bark. there he stood, his blue-brown side full toward her, unconscious of her presence. noiselessly she cocked the piece. noiselessly she raised it to her face, and, with every nerve drawn to its tightest tension, sighted the noble game, and--_fired_. had the frosty air watered her eye? was it a tear of joy and gratitude that dimmed the clearness of its sight? or were the half-frozen fingers unable to steady the cold barrel at the instant of its explosion? we know not. we only know that in spite of prayer, in spite of noblest effort, she missed the game. for, as the rifle cracked, the buck gave a snort of fear, and with swift bounds flew up the mountain; while the poor woman, dropping the gun with a groan, fell fainting on the snow. iii. at the same moment the rifle sounded, two men, the trapper with his pack, and wild bill with his sled heavily loaded, were descending the western slope of the mountain, not a mile from the clearing in which stood the lonely cabin. the sound of the piece brought them to a halt as quickly as if the bullet had cut through the air in front of their faces. for several minutes both stood in the attitude of listening. "down into the snow with ye, pups!" exclaimed the trapper, in a hoarse whisper. "down into the snow with ye, i say! rover, ef ye lift yer muzzle agin, i'll warm yer back with the ramrod. by the lord, bill, the buck is comin' this way; ye can see his horns lift above the leetle balsams as he breaks through the thicket yender. ef he strikes the runway, he'll sartinly come within range;" and the old trapper slipped his arms from the pack, and, lowering it to the earth, sank on his knees beside it, where he waited as motionless as if the breath had departed his body. onward came the game. as the trapper had suggested, the buck, with mighty and far-reaching bounds, cleared the shrubby obstructions, and, entering the runway, tore up the familiar path with the violence of a tornado. onward he came, his head flung upward, his antlers laid well back, tongue lolling from his mouth, and his nostrils smoking with the hot breaths that burst in streaming columns from them. not until his swift career had brought him exactly in front of his position did the old man stir a muscle. but then, quick as the motion of the leaping game, his rifle jumped to his cheek, and even as the buck was at the central point of his leap, and suspended in the air, the piece cracked sharp and clear, and the deer, stricken to his death, fell with a crash to the ground. the quivering hounds rose to their feet, and bayed long and deep; wild bill swung his hat and yelled; and for a moment the woods rang with the wild cries of dogs and man. [illustration: the old trapper's shot.] "lord-a-massy, bill, what a mouth ye have when ye open it!" exclaimed the trapper, as he leisurely poured the powder into the still smoking barrel. "atween ye and the pups, it's enough to drive a man crazy. i should sartinly think ye had never seed a deer shot afore, by the way ye be actin'." "i've seen a good many, as you know, john norton; but i never saw one tumbled over by a single bullet when at the very top of his jump, as that one was. i surely thought you had waited too long, and i wouldn't have given a cent for your chances when you pulled. it was a wonderful shot, john norton, and i would take just such another tramp as i have had, to see you do it again, old man." "it wasn't bad," returned the trapper; "no, it sartinly wasn't bad, for he was goin' as ef the old harry was arter him. i shouldn't wonder ef he had felt the tech of lead down there in the holler, and the smart of his hurt kept him flyin'. let's go and look him over, and see ef we can't find the markin's of the bullit on him." in a moment the two stood above the dead deer. "it is as i thought," said the trapper, as he pointed with his ramrod to a stain of blood on one of the hams of the buck. "the bullit drove through his thigh here, but it didn't tech the bone, and was a sheer waste of lead, fur it only sot him goin' like an arrer. bill, i sartinly doubt," continued the old man, as he measured the noble animal with his eye, "i sartinly doubt ef i ever seed a bigger deer. there's seven prongs on his horns, and i'd bet a horn of powder agin a chargerful that he'd weigh three hunderd pounds as he lies. lord! what a christmas gift he'll be fur the woman! the skin will make a blanket fit fur a queen to sleep under, and the meat, jediciously cared fur, will last her all winter. we must manage to git it to the edge of the clearin', anyhow, or the wolves might make free with our venison, bill. yer sled is a strong un, and it'll bear the loadin', ef ye go keerful." the trapper and his companion set themselves to their task with the energy of men accustomed to surmount every obstacle, and in a short half-hour the sled, with its double loading, stopped at the door of the lonely cabin. "i don't understand this, wild bill," said the trapper. "here be a woman's tracks in the snow, and the door be left a leetle ajar, but there be no smoke in the chimney, and they sartinly ain't very noisy inside. i'll jest give a knock or two, and see ef they be stirrin';" and, suiting the action to the word, he knocked long and loud on the large door. but to his noisy summons there came no response, and without a moment of farther hesitation he shoved open the door, and entered. "god of marcy! wild bill," exclaimed the trapper, "look in here." a huge room dimly lighted, holes in the roof, here and there a heap of snow on the floor, an immense fireplace with no fire in it, and a group of scared, wild-looking children huddled together in the farther corner, like young and timid animals that had fled in affright from the nest where they had slept, at some fearful intrusion. that is what the trapper saw. "i"--whatever wild bill was about to say, his astonishment, and, we may add, his pity, were too profound for him to complete his ejaculation. "don't ye be afeerd, leetle uns," said the trapper, as he advanced into the center of the room to survey more fully the wretched place. "this be christmas morn, and me and wild bill and the pups have come over the mountain to wish ye all a merry christmas. but where be yer mother?" queried the old man, as he looked kindly at the startled group. "we don't know where she is," answered the older of the two girls; "we thought she was in bed with us, till you woke us. we don't know where she has gone." "i have it, i have it, wild bill!" exclaimed the trapper, whose eyes had been busy scanning the place while talking with the children. "the rifle be gone from the hangin's, and the tracks in the snow be hern. yis, yis, i see it all. she went out in hope of gittin' the leetle uns here somethin' to eat, and that was her rifle we heerd, and her bullit made that hole in the ham of the buck. what a disapp'intment to the poor creetur when she seed she hadn't hit him! her heart eena'most broke, i dare say. but the lord was in it--leastwise, he didn't go agin the proper shapin' of things arterwards. come, bill, let's stir round lively, and git the shanty in shape a leetle, and some vict'als on the table afore she comes. yis, git out your axe, and slash into that dead beech at the corner of the cabin, while i sorter clean up inside. a fire is the fust thing on sech a mornin' as this; so scurry round, bill, and bring in the wood as ef ye was a good deal in 'arnest, and do ye cut to the measure of the fireplace, and don't waste yer time in shortenin' it, fur the longer the fireplace, the longer the wood; that is, ef ye want to make it a heater." his companion obeyed with alacrity; and by the time the trapper had cleaned out the snow, and swept down the soot from the sides of the fireplace, and put things partially to rights, bill had stacked the dry logs into the huge opening, nearly to the upper jamb, and, with the help of some large sheets of birch bark, kindled them to a flame. "come here, leetle uns," said the trapper, as he turned his good-natured face toward the children,--"come here, and put yer leetle feet on the h'arthstun, fur it's warmin', and i conceit yer toes be about freezin'." it was not in the power of children to withstand the attraction of such an invitation, extended with such a hearty voice and such benevolence of feature. the children came promptly forward, and stood in a row on the great stone, and warmed their little shivering bodies by the abundant flames. "now, leetle folks," said the trapper, "jest git yerselves well warmed, then git on what clothes ye've got, and we'll have some breakfast,--yis, we'll have breakfast ready by the time yer mother gits back, fur i know where she be gone, and she'll be hungry and cold when she gits in. i don't conceit that this leetle chap here can help much, but ye girls be big enough to help a good deal. so, when ye be warm, do ye put away the bed to the furderest corner, and shove out the table in front of the fire, and put on the dishes, sech as ye have, and be smart about it, too, fur yer mother will sartinly be comin' soon, and we must be ahead of her with the cookin'." what a change the next half-hour made in the appearance of the cabin! the huge fire sent its heat to the farthest corner of the great room. the miserable bed had been removed out of sight, and the table, drawn up in front of the fire, was set with the needed dishes. on the hearthstone a large platter of venison steak, broiled by the trapper's skill, simmered in the heat. a mighty pile of cakes, brown to a turn, flanked one side, while a stack of potatoes baked in the ashes supported the other. the teapot sent forth its refreshing odor through the room. the children, with their faces washed and hair partially, at least, combed, ran about with bare feet on the warm floor, comfortable and happy. to them it was as a beautiful dream. the breakfast was ready, and the visitors sat waiting for the coming of her to whose assistance the angel of christmas eve had sent them. "sh!" whispered the trapper, whose quick ear had caught the sound of a dragging step in the snow. "she's comin'!" too weary and faint, too sick at heart and exhausted in body to observe the unaccustomed signs of human presence around her dwelling, the poor woman dragged herself to the door, and opened it. the gun she still held in her hand fell rattling to the floor, and, with eyes wildly opened, she gazed bewildered at the spectacle. the blazing fire, the set table, the food on the hearthstone, the smiling children, the two men! she passed her hands across her eyes as one waking from sleep. was she dreaming? was this cabin the miserable hut she had left at daybreak? was that the same fireplace in front of whose cold and cheerless recess she had crouched the night before? and were those two strangers there men, or were they angels? was what she saw real, or was it only a fevered vision born of her weakness? her senses actually reeled to and fro, and she trembled for a moment on the verge of unconsciousness. indeed, the shock was so overwhelming that in another instant she would have swooned and fallen to the floor had not the growing faintness been checked by the sound of a human voice. "a merry christmas to ye, my good woman," said the trapper. "a merry christmas to ye and yourn!" the woman started as the hearty tones fell on her ear, and, steadying herself by the door, she said, speaking as one partially dazed:-- "are you john norton the trapper, or are you an ang--" "ye needn't sight agin," interrupted the old man. "yis, i'm old john norton himself, nothin' better and nothin' wuss; and the man in the chair here by my side is wild bill, and ye couldn't make an angel out of him, ef ye tried from now till next christmas. yis, my good woman, i'm john norton, and this is wild bill, and we've come over the mountain to wish ye a merry christmas, ye and yer leetle uns, and help ye keep the day; and, ye see, we've been stirrin' a leetle in yer absence, and breakfast be waitin'. wild bill and me will jest go out and cut a leetle more wood, while ye warm and wash yerself; and when ye be ready to eat, ye may call us, and we'll see which can git into the house fust." so saying the trapper, followed by his companion, passed out of the door, while the poor woman, without a word, moved toward the fire, and, casting one look at her children, at the table, at the food on the hearthstone, dropped on her knees by a chair, and buried her face in her hands. "i say," said wild bill to the trapper, as he crept softly away from the door, to which he had returned to shut it more closely, "i say, john norton, the woman is on her knees by a chair." "very likely, very likely," returned the old man reverently; and then he began to chop vigorously at a huge log, with his back toward his comrade. perhaps some of you who read this tale will come sometime, when weary and heart-sick, to something drearier than an empty house, some bleak, cold day, some lonely morn, and with a starving heart and benumbed soul,--ay, and empty-handed, too,--enter in only to find it swept and garnished, and what you most needed and longed for waiting for you. then will you, too, drop upon your knees, and cover your face with your hands, ashamed that you had murmured against the hardness of your lot, or forgotten the goodness of him who suffered you to be tried only that you might more fully appreciate the triumph. "my good woman," said the trapper, when the breakfast was eaten, "we've come, as we said, to spend the day with ye; and accordin' to custom--and a pleasant un it be fur sartin--we've brought ye some presents. a good many of them come from him who called on ye as he and me passed through the lake last fall. i dare say ye remember him, and he sartinly has remembered ye. fur last evenin', when i was makin' up a leetle pack to bring ye myself,--fur i conceited i had better come over and spend the day with ye,--wild bill came to my door with a box on his sled that the boy had sent in from his home in the city; and in the box he had put a great many presents fur him and me; and in the lower half of the box he had put a good many presents fur ye and yer leetle uns, and we've brought them all over with us. some of the things be fur eatin' and some of them be fur wearin'; and that there may be no misunderstandin', i would say that all the things that be in the pack-basket there, and all the things that be on the sled, too, belong to ye. and as i see the wood-pile isn't a very big un fur this time of the year, bill and me be goin' out to settle our breakfast a leetle with the axes. and while we be gone, i conceit ye had better rummage the things over, and them that be good fur eatin' ye had better put in the cupboard, and them that be good fur wearin' ye had better put on yerself and yer leetle uns; and then we'll all be ready to make a fair start. fur this be christmas day, and we be goin' to keep it as it orter be kept. ef we've had sorrers, we'll forgit 'em; and we'll laugh, and eat, and be merry. fur this be christmas, my good woman! children, this be christmas! wild bill, my boy, this be christmas; and, pups, this be christmas! and we'll all laugh, and eat, and be merry." the joyfulness of the old man was contagious. his happiness flowed over as waters flow over the rim of a fountain. wild bill laughed as he seized his axe, the woman rose from the table smiling, the girls giggled, the little boy stamped, and the hounds, catching the spirit of their merry master, swung their tails round, and bayed in canine gladness; and amid the joyful uproar the old trapper spun himself out of the door, and chased wild bill through the snow like a boy. the dinner was to be served at two o'clock; and what a dinner it was, and what preparations preceded! the snow had been shoveled from around the cabin, the holes in the roof roughly but effectually thatched. a good pile of wood was stacked in front of the doorway. the spring that bubbled from the bank had been cleared of ice, and a protection constructed over it. the huge buck had been dressed, and hung high above the reach of wolves. cedar and balsam branches had been placed in the corners and along the sides of the room. great sprays of the tasseled pine and the feathery tamarack were suspended from the ceiling. the table had been enlarged, and extra seats extemporized. the long-unused oven had been cleaned out, and under its vast dome the red flames flashed and rolled upward. what a change a few hours had brought to that lonely cabin and its wretched inmates! the woman, dressed in her new garments, her hair smoothly combed, her face lighted with smiles, looked positively comely. the girls, happy in their fine clothes and marvelous toys, danced round the room, wild with delight; while the little boy strutted about the floor in his new boots, proudly showing them to each person for the hundredth time. the hostess's attention was equally divided between the temperature of the oven and the adornment of the table. a snow-white sheet, one of a dozen she had found in the box, was drafted peremptorily into service, and did duty as a tablecloth. oh, the innocent and funny makeshifts of poverty, and the goodly distance it can make a little go! perhaps some of us, as we stand in our rich dining rooms, and gaze with pride at the silver, the gold, the cut glass, and the transparent china, can recall a little kitchen in a homely house far away, where our good mothers once set their tables for their guests, and what a brave show the few extra dishes made when they brought them out on the rare festive days. however it might strike you, fair reader, to the poor woman and her guests there was nothing incongruous in a sheet serving as a tablecloth. was it not white and clean and properly shaped, and would it not have been a tablecloth if it hadn't been a sheet? how very nice and particular some people can be over the trifling matter of a name! and this sheet had no right to be a sheet, since any one with half an eye could see at a glance that it was predestined from the first to be a tablecloth, for it sat as smoothly on the wooden surface as pious looks on a deacon's face, while the easy and nonchalant way it draped itself at the corners was perfectly jaunty. the edges of this square of white sheeting that had thus providentially found its true and predestined use were ornamented with the leaves of the wild myrtle, stitched on in the form of scallops. in the center, with a brave show of artistic skill, were the words, "merry christmas," prettily worked with the small brown cones of the pines. this, the joint product of wild bill's industry and the woman's taste, commanded the enthusiastic admiration of all; and even the little boy, from the height of a chair into which he had climbed, was profoundly affected by the show it made. the trapper had charge of the meat department, and it is safe to say that no delmonico could undertake to serve venison in greater variety than did he. to him it was a grand occasion, and--in a culinary sense--he rose grandly to meet it. what bosom is without its little vanities? and shall we laugh at the dear old man because he looked upon the opportunity before him with feeling other than pure benevolence,--even of complacency that what he was doing was being done as no one else could do it? there was venison roasted, and venison broiled, and venison fried; there was hashed venison, and venison spitted; there was a side-dish of venison sausage, strong with the odor of sage, and slightly dashed with wild thyme; and a huge kettle of soup, on whose rich creamy surface pieces of bread and here and there a slice of potato floated. "i tell ye, bill," said the trapper to his companion, as he stirred the soup with a long ladle, "this pot isn't act'ally runnin' over with taters, but ye can see a bit occasionally ef ye look sharp and keep the ladle goin' round pretty lively. no, the taters ain't over plenty," continued the old man, peering into the pot, and sinking his voice to a whisper, "but there wasn't but fifteen in the bag, and the woman took twelve of 'em fur her kittle, and ye can't make three taters look act'ally crowded in two gallons of soup, can ye, bill?" and the old man punched that personage in the ribs with the thumb of the hand that was free from service, while he kept the ladle going with the other. "lord!" exclaimed the trapper, speaking to bill, who, having taken a look into the old man's kettle, was digging his knuckles into his eyes to free them from the spray that was jetted into them from the fountains of mirth within that were now in full play,--"lord! ef there isn't another piece of tater gone all to pieces! bill, ef i make another circle with this ladle, there won't be a whole slice left, and ye'll swear there wasn't a tater in the soup." and the two men, with their faces within twenty inches, laughed and laughed like boys. how sweet it is to think that when the maker set up this strange instrument we call ourselves, and strung it for service, he selected of the heavy chords so few, and of the lighter ones so many! some muffled ones there are; some slow and solemn sounds swell sadly forth at intervals, but blessed be god that we are so easily tickled, and the world is so funny that within it, even when exiled from home and friends, we find, as the days come and go, the causes and occasions of hilarity! wild bill had been placed in charge of the liquids. what a satire there is in circumstances, and how those of to-day laugh at those of yesterday! yes, wild bill had charge of the liquids,--no mean charge, when the occasion is considered. nor was the position without its embarrassments, as few honorable positions are, for it brought him face to face with the problem of the day--dishes; for, between the two cooks of the occasion, every dish in the cabin had been brought into requisition, and poor bill was left in the predicament of having to make tea and coffee with no pots to make them in. but bill was not lacking in wit, if he was in pots, and he solved the conundrum how to make tea without a teapot in a manner that extorted the woman's laughter, and commanded the old trapper's admiration. in ransacking the lofts above the apartment, he had lighted on several large stone jugs, which, with the courage--shall we call it the audacity?--of genius, he had seized upon; and, having thoroughly rinsed them, and freed them from certain odors,--with which we are free to say bill was more or less familiar,--he brought them forward as substitutes for kettle and pot. indeed, they worked admirably, for in them the berry and the leaves might not only be properly steeped, but the flavor could be retained beyond what it might in many of our famous and high-sounding patented articles. but bill, while ingenious and courageous to the last degree, was lacking in education, especially in scientific directions. he had never been made acquainted with that great promoter of modern civilization--the expansive properties of steam. the corks he had whittled out for his bravely extemporized tea and coffee pots were of the closest fit; and, as they had been inserted with the energy of a man who, having conquered a serious difficulty, is determined to reap the full benefit of his triumph, there was at least no danger that the flavor of the concoctions would escape through any leakage at the muzzle. having thus prepared them for steeping, he placed the jugs in his corner of the fireplace, and pushed them well up through the ashes to the live coals. "wild bill," said the trapper, who wished to give his companion the needed warning in as delicate and easy a manner as possible, "wild bill, ye have sartinly got the right idee techin' the makin' of tea and coffee, fur the yarb should be steeped, and the berry, too,--leastwise, arter it's biled up once or twice,--and therefore it be only reasonable that the nozzles should be closed moderately tight; but a man wants considerable experience in the business, or he's likely to overdo it jest a leetle, and ef ye don't cut some slots in them wooden corks ye've driven into them nozzles, bill, there'll be a good deal of tea and coffee floatin' round in yer corner of the fireplace afore many minits, and i conceit there'll be a man about yer size lookin' fur a couple of corks and pieces of jugs out there in the clearin', too." "do you think so?" answered bill, incredulously. "don't you be scared, old man, but keep on stirring your soup and turning the meat, and i'll keep my eye on the bottles." "that's right, bill," returned the trapper; "ye keep yer eye right on 'em, specially on that un that's furderest in toward the butt of the beech log there; fur ef there's any vartue in signs, that jug be gittin' oneasy. yis," continued the old man, after a minute's pause, during which his eye hadn't left the jug, "yis, that jug will want more room afore many minits, ef i'm any jedge, and i conceit i had better give it the biggest part of the fireplace;" and the trapper hastily moved the soup and his half-dozen plates of cooked meats to the other end of the hearthstone, whither he retired himself, like one who, feeling that he is called upon to contend with unknown forces, wisely beats a retreat. he even put himself behind a stack of wood that lay piled up in his corner, like one who does not despise, in a sudden emergency, an artificial protection. "bill," called the trapper, "edge round a leetle,--edge round, and git in closer to the jamb. it's sheer foolishness standin' where ye be, fur the water will be wallopin' in a minit, and ef the corks be swelled in the nozzle, there'll be an explosion. git in toward the jamb, and watch the ambushment under kiver." "old man," answered bill, as he turned his back carelessly toward the fireplace, "i've got the bearin's of this trail, and know what i'm about. the jugs are as strong as iron kittles, and i ain't afraid of their bust--" bill never finished the sentence, for the explosion predicted by the trapper occurred. it was a tremendous one, and the huge fireplace was filled with flying brands, ashes, and clouds of steam. the trapper ducked his head, the woman screamed, and the hounds rushed howling to the farthest end of the room; while bill, with half a somersault, disappeared under the table. "hurrah!" shouted the trapper, lifting his head from behind the wood, and critically surveying the scene. "hurrah, bill!" he shouted, as he swung the ladle over his head. "come out from under the table, and man yer battery agin. yer old mortars was loaded to the muzzle, and ef ye had depressed the pieces a leetle, ye'd 'a' blowed the cabin to splinters; as it was, the chimney got the biggest part of the chargin', and ye'll find yer rammers on the other side of the mountain." it was, in truth, a scene of uproarious hilarity; for once the explosion was over, and the woman and children saw there was no danger, and apprehended the character of the performance, they joined unrestrainedly in the trapper's laughter, in which they were assisted by wild bill, as if he were not the victim of his own over-confidence. "i say, old trapper," he called from under the table, "did both guns go off? i was getting under cover when the battery opened, and didn't notice whether the firing was in sections or along the whole line. if there's a piece left, i think i will stay where i am; for i am in a good position to observe the range, and watch the effect of the shot. i say, hadn't you better get behind the wood-pile again?" "no, no," interrupted the trapper; "the whole battery went at the word, bill, and there isn't a gun or a gun-carriage left in the casement. ye've wasted a gill of the yarb, and a quarter of a pound of the berry; and ye must hurry up with another outfit of bottles, or we'll have nothin' but water to drink at the dinner." the dinner! that great event of the day, the crown and diadem to its royalty, and which became it so well, was ready promptly to the hour. the table, enlarged as it was to nearly double its original dimensions, could scarcely accommodate the abundance of the feast. ah, if some sweet power would only enlarge our hearts when, on festive days, we enlarge our tables, how many of the world's poor, that now go hungry while we feast, would then be fed! at one end of the table sat the trapper, wild bill at the other. the woman's chair was at the center of one of the sides, so that she sat facing the fire, whose generous flames might well symbolize the abundance which amid cold and hunger had so suddenly come to her. on her right hand the two girls sat; on her left, the boy. a goodly table, a goodly fire, and a goodly company,--what more could the angel of christmas ask to see? thus were they seated, ready to begin the repast; but the plates remained untouched, and the happy noises which had to that moment filled the cabin ceased; for the angel of silence, with noiseless step, had suddenly entered the room. there's a silence of grief, there's a silence of hatred, there's a silence of dread; of these, men may speak, and these they can describe. but the silence of our happiness, who can describe that? when the heart is full, when the long longing is suddenly met, when love gives to love abundantly, when the soul lacketh nothing and is content,--then language is useless, and the angel of silence becomes our only adequate interpreter. a humble table, surely, and humble folk around it; but not in the houses of the rich or the palaces of kings does gratitude find her only home, but in more lowly abodes and with lowly folk--ay, and often at the scant table, too,--she sitteth a perpetual guest. was it memory? did the trapper at that brief moment visit his absent friend? did wild bill recall his wayward past? were the thoughts of the woman busy with sweet scenes of earlier days? and did memory, by thus reminding them of the absent and the past, of the sweet things that had been and were, stir within their hearts thoughts of him from whom all gifts descend, and of his blessed son, in whose honor the day was named? o memory! thou tuneful bell that ringeth on forever, friend at our feasts, and friend, too, let us call thee, at our burial, what music can equal thine? for in thy mystic globe all tunes abide,--the birthday note for kings, the marriage peal, the funeral knell, the gleeful jingle of merry mirth, and those sweet chimes that float our thoughts, like fragrant ships upon a fragrant sea, toward heaven,--all are thine! ring on, thou tuneful bell; ring on, while these glad ears may drink thy melody; and when thy chimes are heard by me no more, ring loud and clear above my grave that peal which echoes to the heavens, and tells the world of immortality, that they who come to mourn may check their tears and say, "_why do we weep? he liveth still!_" "the lord be praised fur his goodness!" said the trapper, whose thoughts unconsciously broke into speech. "the lord be praised fur his goodness, and make us grateful fur his past marcies, and the plenty that be here!" and looking down upon the viands spread before him he added, "the lord be good to the boy, and make him as happy in his city home as be they who be wearin' and eatin' his gifts in the woods!" "amen!" said the woman softly, and a grateful tear fell on her plate. "a--hem!" said wild bill; and then looking down upon his warm suit, he lifted his voice, and, bringing it out in a clear, strong tone, said, "_amen! hit or miss!_" at many a table that day more formal grace was said, by priest and layman alike, and at many a table, by lips of old and young, response was given to the benediction; but we doubt if over all the earth a more honest grace was said or more honestly assented to than the lord heard from the cabin in the woods. the feast and the merrymaking now began. the old trapper was in his best mood, and fairly bubbled over with humor. the wit of wild bill was naturally keen, and it flashed at its best as he ate. the children stuffed and laughed as only children on such an elastic occasion can. and as for the poor woman, it was impossible for her, in the midst of such a scene, to be otherwise than happy, and she joined modestly in the conversation, and laughed heartily at the witty sallies. but why should we strive to put on paper the wise, the funny, and the pleasant things that were said, the exclamations, the laughter, the story, the joke, the verbal thrust and parry of such an occasion? these, springing from the center of the circumstance, and flashed into being at the instant, cannot be preserved for after-rehearsal. like the effervescence of champagne, they jet and are gone; their force passes away with the noise that accompanied its out-coming. is it not enough to record that the dinner was a success, that the trapper's meats were put upon the table in a manner worthy of his reputation, that the woman's efforts at pastry-making were generously applauded, and that wild bill's tea and coffee were pronounced by the hostess the best she had ever tasted? perhaps no meal was ever more enjoyed, as certainly none was ever more heartily eaten. the wonder and pride of the table was the pudding,--a creation of indian meal, flour, suet, and raisins, re-enforced and assisted by innumerable spicy elements supposed to be too mysterious to be grasped by the masculine mind. in the production of this wonderful centerpiece,--for it had been unanimously voted the place of honor,--the poor woman had summoned all the latent resources of her skill, and in reference to it her pride and fear contended, while the anxiety with which she rose to serve it was only too plainly depicted on her countenance. what if it should prove a failure? what if she had made a miscalculation as to the amount of suet required,--a point upon which she had been somewhat confused? what if the raisins were not sufficiently distributed? what if it wasn't done through, and should turn out pasty? great heavens! the last thought was of so overwhelming a character that no feminine courage could encounter it. who may describe the look with which she watched the trapper as he tasted it, or the expression of relief which brightened her anxious face when he pronounced warmly in its favor? "it's a wonderful bit of cookin'," he said, addressing himself to wild bill, "and i sartinly doubt ef there be anythin' in the settlements to-day that can equal it. there be jest enough of the suet, and there be a plum for every mouthful; and it be solid enough to stay in the mouth ontil ye've had time to chew it, and git a taste of the corn,--and i wouldn't give a cent for a puddin' ef it gits away from yer teeth fast. yis, it be a wonderful bit of cookin'," and, turning to the woman, he added, "ye may well be proud of it." what higher praise could be bestowed? and as it was re-echoed by all present, and plate after plate was passed for a second filling, the dinner came to an end with the greatest good feeling and hilarity. iv. "now fur the sled!" exclaimed the trapper, as he rose from the table. "it be a good many years since i've straddled one, but nothin' settles a dinner quicker, or suits the leetle folks better. i conceit the crust be thick enough to bear us up, and, ef it is, we can fetch a course from the upper edge of the clearin' fifty rods into the lake. come, childun, git on yer mittens and yer tippets, and h'ist along to the big pine, and ye shall have some fun ye won't forgit ontil yer heads be whiter than mine." it is needless to record that the children hailed with delight the proposition of the trapper, or that they were at the appointed spot long before the speaker and his companion reached it with the sled. "wild bill," said the trapper, as they stood on the crest of the slope down which they were to glide, "the crust be smooth as glass, and the hill be a steep un. i sartinly doubt ef mortal man ever rode faster than this sled'll be goin' by the time it gits to where the bank pitches into the lake; and ef ye should git a leetle careless in yer steerin', bill, and hit a stump, i conceit that nothin' but the help of the lord or the rottenness of the stump would save ye from etarnity." now, wild bill was blessed with a sanguine temperament. to him no obstacle seemed serious if bravely faced. indeed, his natural confidence in himself bordered on recklessness, to which the drinking habits of his life had, perhaps, contributed. when the trapper had finished speaking, bill ran his eye carelessly down the steep hillside, smooth and shiny as polished steel, and said, "oh, this isn't anything extry for a hill. i've steered a good many steeper ones, and in nights when the moon was at the half, and the sled overloaded at that. it don't make any difference how fast you go," he added, "if you only keep in the path, and don't hit anything." "that's it, that's it," replied the trapper. "but the trouble here be to keep in the path, fur, in the fust place, there isn't any path, and the stumps be pretty thick, and i doubt ef ye can line a trail from here to the bank by the lake without one or more sudden twists in it, and a twist in the trail, goin' as fast as we'll be goin', has got to be taken jediciously, or somethin' will happen. i say, bill, what p'int will ye steer fur?" wild bill, thus addressed, proceeded to give his opinion touching the proper direction of the flight they were to make. indeed, he had been closely examining the ground while the trapper was speaking, and therefore gave his opinion promptly and with confidence. "ye have chosen the course with jedgment," said the old man approvingly, after he had studied the line his companion pointed out critically for a moment. "yis, bill, ye have a nateral eye for the business, and i sartinly have more confidence in ye than i had a minit ago, when ye was talkin' about a steeper hill than this; fur this hill drops mighty sudden in the pitches, and the crust be smooth as ice, and the sled'll go like a streak when it gits started. but the course ye've p'inted out be a good un, fur there be only one bad turn in it, and good steerin' orter put a sled round that. i say," continued the old man, turning toward his companion, and pointing out the crook in the course at the bottom of the second dip, "can ye swing around that big stump there without upsettin', when ye come to it?" "swing around? of course i can," retorted wild bill, positively. "there's plenty room to the left, and--" "ay, ay; there be plenty of room, as ye say, ef ye don't take too much of it," interrupted the trapper. "but--" "i tell you," broke in the other, "i'll turn my back to no man in steering a sled; and i can put this sled, and you on it, around that stump a hundred times, and never lift a runner." "well, well," responded the trapper, "have it yer own way. i dare say ye be good at steerin', and i sartinly know i'm good at ridin'; and i can ride as fast as ye can steer, ef ye hit every stump in the clearin'. now, childun," continued the old man, turning to the little group, "we be goin' to try the course; and ef the crust holds up, and wild bill keeps clear of the stumps, and nothin' onusual happens, ye shall have all the slidin' ye want afore ye go in. come, bill, git yer sled p'inted right, and i'll be gittin' on, and we'll see ef ye can steer an old man round a stump as handily as ye say ye can." the directions of the trapper were promptly obeyed, and in an instant the sled was in the right position, and the trapper proceeded to seat himself with the carefulness of one who feels he is embarking on a somewhat uncertain venture, and has grave misgivings as to what will be the upshot of the undertaking. the sled was large and strongly built; and it added not a little to his comfort to feel that he could put entire confidence in the structure beneath them. "the sled'll hold," he said to himself, "ef the loadin' goes to the jedgment." the trapper was no sooner seated than wild bill threw himself upon the sled, with one leg under him and the other stretched at full length behind. this was a method of steering that had come into vogue since the trapper's boyhood, for in his day the steersman sat astride the sled, with his feet thrust forward, and steered by the pressure of either heel upon the snow. "hold on, bill!" exclaimed the trapper, whose eye this novel method of steering had not escaped. "hold on, and hold up a minit. heavens and 'arth! ye don't mean to steer this sled with one toe, do ye, and that, too, the length of a rifle-barrel astarn? wheel round, and spread yer legs out as ye orter, and steer this sled in an honest fashion, or there'll be trouble aboard afore ye git to the bottom." "sit round!" retorted bill. "how could i see to steer if i was sitting right back of you? for you're nigh a foot taller then i be, and your shoulders are as broad as the sled." "yer p'ints be well taken, fur sartin," replied the trapper; "fur it be no more than reasonable that the man that steers should see where he be goin', and i am as anxious as ye be that ye should. yis, i sartinly want ye to see where ye be goin' on this trip, anyhow, fur the crew be a fresh un, and the channel be a leetle crooked. but be ye sartin, bill, that ye can fetch round that stump there as it orter be did, with nothin' but yer toe out behind? it may be the best way, as ye say, but it don't look like honest steerin' to a man of my years." "i have used both ways," answered bill, "and i give you my word, old man, that this is the best one. you can get a big swing with your foot stretched out in this fashion, and the sled feels the least pressure of the toe. yes, it's all right. john norton, are you ready?" "yis, yis, as ready as i ever shall be," answered the trapper, in a voice in which doubt and resignation were equally mingled. "it may be as ye say," he continued; "but the rudder be too fur behind to suit me, and ef anything happens on this cruise, jest remember, wild bill, that my jedgment--" the sentence the trapper was uttering was abruptly cut short at this point; for bill had started the sled with a sudden push, and leaped to his seat behind the trapper as it glided downward and away. in an instant the sled was under full headway, for the dip was a sharp one, and the crust smooth as ice. scarce had it gone ten rods from the point where it started before it was in full flight, and was gliding downward with what would have been, to any but a man of the steadiest nerve, a frightful velocity. but the trapper was of too cool and courageous temperament to be disturbed even by actual danger. indeed, the swiftness of their downward career, as the sled with a buzz and a roar swept along over the resounding crust, stirred the old man's blood with a tingle of excitement; while the splendid manner with which wild bill was keeping it to the course settled upon filled him with admiration, and was fast making him a convert to the new method of steering. downward they flashed. the trapper's cap had been blown from his head; and as the old man sat bolt-upright on his sled, his feet bravely planted on the round, his face flushed, and his white hair streaming, he looked the very picture of hearty enjoyment. above his head the face of wild bill looked actually sharpened by the pressure of the air on either cheek as it clove through it; but his lips were bravely set, and his eyes were fastened without winking on the big stump ahead, toward which they were rushing. it was at this point that wild bill vindicated his ability as a steersman, and at the same time barely escaped shipwreck. at the proper moment he swept his foot to the left, and the sled, in obedience to the pressure, swooped in that direction. but in his anxiety to give the stump a wide berth, bill overdid the pressure that was needed a trifle; for in calculating the curve required he had failed to allow for the sidewise motion of the sled, and, instead of hitting one stump, it looked for an instant as if he would be precipitated among a dozen. "heave her starn up, wild bill! up with her starn, i say," yelled the trapper, "or there won't be a stump left in the clearin'." with a quickness and courage that would have done credit to any steersman,--for the speed at which they were going was terrific,--bill swept his foot to the right, leaning his body well over at the same instant. the trapper instinctively seconded his endeavors, and with hands that gripped either side of the sled he hung over that side which was upon the point of going into the air. for several rods the sled glided along on a single runner, and then, righting itself with a lurch, jumped the summit of the last dip, and raced away, like a swallow in full flight, toward the lake. now, at the edge of the clearing that bounded the shore was a bank of considerable size. shrubs and stunted bushes fringed the crest of it. these had been buried beneath the snow, and the crust had formed smoothly over them; and as it was upheld by no stronger support than such as the hidden shrubbery furnished, it was incapable of sustaining any considerable pressure. certainly no sled was ever moving faster than was wild bill's when it came to this point; and certainly no sled ever stopped quicker, for the treacherous crust dropped suddenly under it, and the sled was left with nothing but the hind part of one of the runners sticking up in sight. but though the sled was suddenly checked in its career, the trapper and wild bill continued their flight. the former slid from the sled without meeting any obstruction, and with the same velocity with which he had been moving. indeed, so little was his position changed, that one might almost fancy that no accident had happened, and that the old man was gliding forward to the end of the course with an adequate structure under him. but with the latter it was far different; for, as the sled stopped, he was projected sharply upward into the air, and, after turning several somersaults, he actually landed in front of the trapper, and glided along on the slippery surface ahead of him. and so the two men shot onward, one after the other, while the children cackled from the hill-top, and the woman swung her bonnet over her head, and laughed from her position in the doorway. "bill," called the trapper, when by dint of much effort they had managed to check their motion somewhat, "bill, ef the cruise be about over, i conceit we'd better anchor hereabouts. but i shipped fur the voyage, and ye be capt'in, and as ye've finally got the right way to steer, i feel pretty safe techin' the futur'." it was not until they had come to a full stop, and looked around them, that they realized the distance they had come; for they had in truth slid nearly across the bay. "i've boated a good many times on these waters, and under sarcumstances that called fur 'arnest motion, but i sartinly never went across this bay as fast as i've did it to-day. how do ye feel, bill, how do ye feel?" "a good deal shaken up," was the answer, "a good deal shaken up." "i conceit as much," answered the trapper, "i conceit as much, fur ye left the sled with mighty leetle deliberation; and when i saw yer legs comin' through the air, i sartinly doubted ef the ice would hold ye. but ye steered with jedgment; yis, ye steered with jedgment, bill; and i'd said it ef we'd gone to the bottom." the sun was already set when they returned to the cabin; for, selecting a safer course, they had given the children an hour's happy sliding. the woman had prepared some fresh tea and a lunch, which they ate with lessened appetites, but with humor that never flagged. when it was ended, the old trapper rose to depart, and with a dignity and tenderness peculiarly his own, thus spoke:-- "my good woman," he said, "the moon will soon be up, and the time has come fur me to be goin'. i've had a happy day with ye and the leetle uns; and the trail over the mountain will seem shorter, as the pups and me go home, thinkin' on't. wild bill will stay a few days, and put things a leetle more to rights, and git up a wood-pile that will keep ye from choppin' fur a good while. it's his own thought, and ye can thank him accordin'ly." then, having kissed each of the children, and spoken a few words to wild bill, he took the woman's hand, and said:-- "the sorrers of life be many, but the lord never forgits. i've lived until my head be whitenin', and i've noted that though he moves slowly, he fetches most things round about the time we need 'em; and the things that be late in comin', i conceit we shall git somewhere furder on. ye didn't kill the big buck this mornin', but the meat ye needed hangs at yer door, nevertheless." and shaking the woman heartily by the hand, he whistled to the hounds, and passed out of the door. the inmates of the cabin stood and watched him, until, having climbed the slope of the clearing, he disappeared in the shadows of the forest; and then they closed the door. but more than once wild bill noted that as the woman stood wiping her dishes, she wiped her eyes as well; and more than once he heard her say softly to herself, "god bless the dear old man!" ay, ay, poor woman, we join thee in thy prayer. god bless the dear old man! and not only him, but all who do the deeds he did. god bless them one and all! over the crusted snow the trapper held his course, until he came, with a happy heart, to his cabin. soon a fire was burning on his own hearthstone, and the hounds were in their accustomed place. he drew the table in front, where the fire's fine light fell on his work, and, taking some green vines and branches from the basket, began to twine a wreath. one he twined, and then he began another; and often, as he twined the fadeless branches in, he paused, and long and lovingly looked at the two pictures hanging on the wall; and when the wreaths were twined, he hung them on the frames, and, standing in front of the dumb reminders of his absent ones, he said, "_i miss them so!_" ah! friend, dear friend, when life's glad day with you and me is passed, when the sweet christmas chimes are rung for other ears than ours, when other hands set the green branches up, and other feet glide down the polished floor, may there be those still left behind to twine us wreaths, and say, "_we miss them so!_" and this is the way john norton the trapper kept his christmas. [illustration: the mountain torrent.] [illustration: the vagabond's rock.] john norton's vagabond. i. a cabin. a cabin in the woods. of it i have written before, and of it i write again. the same great fireplace piled high with logs fiercely ablaze. again on either side of the fireplace are the hounds gazing meditatively into the fire. the same big table, and on it the same great book, leather-bound and worn by the hands of many generations. and at the strong table, bending over the sacred book, with one huge finger marking a sentence, the same whitened head, the same man, large of limb and large of feature--john norton, the trapper. "yis, pups," said the trapper, speaking to his dogs as one speaks to companions in council, "yis, pups, it must go in, for here it be writ in the book--rover, ye needn't have that detarmined look in yer eye--for here it be writ in the book, i say, '_do unto others as ye would that others should do unto you._' "i know, old dog, that ye have seed me line the sights on the vagabonds, when ye and me have ketched 'em pilferin' the traps or tamperin' with the line, and i have trusted yer nose as often as my own eyes in trackin' the knaves when they'd got the start of us. and i will admit it, rover, that the lord gave ye a great gift in yer nose, so that ye be able to desarn the difference atween the scent of an honest trapper's moccasin and that of a vagabond. but that isn't to the p'int, rover. the p'int is, christmas be comin' and ye and me and sport, yender, have sot it down that we're to have a dinner, and the question in council to-night is, who shall we invite to our dinner? here we have been arguin' the matter three nights atween us, pups, and we didn't git a foot ahead, and the reason that we didn't git a foot ahead was, because ye and me, rover, naterally felt alike, for we have never consorted with vagabonds, and we couldn't bear the idee of invitin' 'em to this cabin and eatin' with 'em. so, ye and me agreed to-night we'd go to the book and go by the book, hit or miss. and the reason we should go to the book and by the book is, because, ef it wasn't for the book, there wouldn't be any christmas nor any christmas dinner to invite anyone to, and so we went to the book, and the book says--i will read ye the words, rover. and, sport, though ye be a younger dog, and naterally of less jedgment, yit ye have yer gifts, and i have seed ye straighten out a trail that rover and me couldn't ontangle. so do ye listen, both of ye, like honest dogs, while i read the words:-- "'_give to him that lacketh and from him that hath not withhold not thine hand._' "there it be, rover,--we are to give to the man that lacks, vagabond or no vagabond. ef he lacks vict'als, we are to give him vict'als; ef he lacks garments, we are to give him garments; ef he lacks a christmas dinner, rover, we are to give him a christmas dinner. but how are we to give him a christmas dinner onless we give him an invite to it? for ye know yerself, rover, that no vagabond would ever come to a cabin where ye and me be onless we axed him to. "but there's another sentence here somewhere in the book that bears on the p'int we be considerin'. '_when thou makest a dinner_'--that be exactly our case, rover,--'_or a supper, call not thy friends, nor thy brethren, neither thy kinsmen, nor thy rich neighbors; lest they also bid thee again, and a recompense be made thee. but when thou makest a feast, call the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind: and thou shalt be blessed; for they cannot recompense thee: for thou shalt be recompensed at the resurrection of the just._' "furdermore, rover, there's another passage that the lad, when he was on the 'arth, used to say each night afore he went to sleep, whether in the cabin or on the boughs. sport, ye must remember it, for ye was his own dog. i am not sartin where it be writ in the book, but that doesn't matter, for we all know the words,--it be from the great prayer,--'_forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us_,' and the great prayer, as i conceit, is the only blazin' a man can trail by ef he hopes to fetch through to the great clearin' in peace. "now these vagabonds, rover,--i needn't name 'em to ye,--have trespassed agin us; ye and me know it, for we've ketched 'em in their devilment, and, what is more to the p'int, the lord knows it, too, for he's had his eye on 'em, and there's one up in the north country that wouldn't git an invite to this dinner, bible or no bible. but, barrin' this knave, who is beyend the range of our trails, there is not a single vagabond that has trespassed agin us that we mustn't forgive. for this be christmas time, pups, and christmas be a time for forgivin' and forgittin' all the evil that's been done agin us." and here the old man paused and looked at the dogs and then gazed long and earnestly into the fire. to his face as he gazed came the look of satisfaction and a most placid peace. it was evident that if there had been a struggle between his natural feelings and his determination to celebrate the great christmas festival in the true christmas spirit the latter had won, and that the christmas mood had at last entered into and possessed his soul. and after an interval he rose and carefully closing the great volume said:-- "and now, pups, as we've settled it atween us, and we all stand agreed in the matter, i'll git the bark and the coal, and we'll see how the decision of the council looks when it be put in writin'." and in a moment the trapper was again seated at the table with a large piece of birch bark in front of him and a hound on either side. "i conceit, pups, that the letterin'," said the old man as he proceeded to sharpen the piece of charcoal he held in his hands, "should be of goodly size, for it may help some in readin', and i sartinly know it will help me in writin'." with this honest confession of his lack of practice in penmanship, he proceeded to write:-- "_any man or animil that be in want of vict'als or garments is invited to come on christmas day--which be next week thursday--without furder axin', to john norton's cabin, on long lake, to eat christmas dinner. vagabonds included in this invite._" [illustration: "vagabonds included in this invite."] "i can't say," said the trapper, as he backed off a few paces and looked at the writing critically, "i can't say that the wordin' be exactly as the missioners would put it, and as for the spellin', i haven't any more confidence in it than a rifle that loads at the breech pin. the letterin' sartinly stands out well, for the coal is a good un, and i put as much weight on it as i thought it would bear, but there is sartinly a good deal of difference atween the ups and downs of the markin's, and the lines slope off to'ard the northwest as ef they had started out to blaze a trail through to st. regis. that third line looks as ef it would finally come together ef ye'd gin it time enough to git round the circle, but the bark had a curve in it there, and the coal followed the grain of the bark, and i am not to blame for that. rover, i more than half conceit by the look in yer eye that ye see the difference in the size of them letters yerself. but ef ye do ye be a wise dog to keep yer face steddy, for ef ye showed yer feelin's, old as ye be, i'd edicate ye with the help of a moccasin." and he looked at the old dog, whose face, as if he realized the peril of his position, bore an expression of supernatural gravity, with interrogative earnestness. "never mind the shape and size of the letters or the curve of the lines," he added; "the charcoal markin' stands out strong, and any hungry man with a leaky cabin for his home can sartinly study out the words, and that's the chief p'int, as i understand it." with this comforting reflection the trapper made his preparations to retire for the night. he placed the skins for the dogs in the accustomed spot, lifted another huge log into the monstrous fireplace, swept the great hearthstone, bolted the heavy door, and then stretched himself upon his bed. but before he slept he gazed long and earnestly at the writing on the bark, and murmured: "'vagabonds included in this invite.' yis, the book be right, christmas be a day for forgivin' and forgittin'. and even a vagabond, ef he needs vict'als or garments or a right sperit, shall be welcome to my cabin." and then he slept. in the vast and cheerless woods that night were some who were hungry and cold and wicked. what were christmas and its cheer to them? what were gifts and giving, or who would spread for them a full table at which as guests of honor they might eat and be merry? and above the woods was a star leading men toward a manger, and a multitude of angels and an eye that seeth forever the hungry and the cold and the wicked. on his bed slept the trapper, with the look of the christ on his face, and as he slept he murmured:-- "yis, the book be right: '_let him who hath, give to them that hath not._'" and above the woods, above the wicked and the cold, above the sleeping trapper, and above the blessed words on the bark on his wall, above the spot where the christ had thus received a forest incarnation, a great multitude of the heavenly host broke forth and sang:-- "_glory to god in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men._" [illustration: "and above the woods was a star."] ii. it was on the day before christmas, and the sun was at its meridian. it was a day of brilliance and prophecy, and the prophecy which the trapper read in the intense sky and vivid brightness of the sun's light told him of coming storm. "yis," muttered the old man, as he stood just outside the doorway of his cabin and carefully studied the signs of forest and sky, "yis, this is a weather breeder for sartin. i smell it in the air. the light is onnaterally bright and the woods onnaterally still. snow will be flyin' afore another sunrise, and the woods will roar like the great lakes in a gale. i am sorry that it's comin', for some will be kept from the dinner. it's sartinly strange that the orderin' of the lord is as it is, for a leetle more hurryin' and a leetle more stayin' on his part of the things that happen on the 'arth would make mortals a good deal happier, as i conceit." aye, aye, john norton; a little more hurrying and a little more staying of things that happen on the earth would make mortals much happier. the great ship that is to-day a wreck would be sailing the sea, and the faces that stare ghastly white from its depths would be rosy with life's happy health. the flowers on her tomb would be twined in the bride's glossy hair, and the tower that now stands half builded would go on to its finishing. the dry fountain would still be in play and the leafless tree would stand green in its beauty and bloom. who shall read us the riddle of the ordering in this world? who shall read the riddle, o man of whitened head, o woman whose life is but a memory, who shall read us the trapper's riddle, i say? "there comes wild bill," exclaimed the trapper joyfully, "and one plate will have its eater for sartin." and the old man laughed at the recollection of his companion's appetite. "lord-a-massy! that box on his sled is as big as the ark. i wonder ef he has got a drove of animils in it." had the trapper known the closeness of his guess as to the contents of the huge box he would have marveled at his guessing, for there certainly were animals in the box and of a sort that usually are noisy enough and sure, at the least provocation, to proclaim their name and nature. but every animal, whether wild or domesticated, has its habits, and many of the noisiest of mouths, when the mood is on them, can be as dumb as a sphinx, and as wild bill came shuffling up on his snowshoes, with a box of goodly size lashed to his sled, not a sound proceeded therefrom. it is needless to record that the greeting between the two men was most hearty. how delightful is the meeting of men of the woods! manly are they in life and manly in their greeting. "what have ye in the box, bill?" queried the trapper good-naturedly. "it's big enough to hold a church bell, and a good part of the steeple beside." "it's a christmas present for you, john norton," replied bill gleefully. "you don't think i would come to your cabin to-day and not bring a present, do you?" "gift or no gift, yer welcome would be the same," answered the trapper, "for yer heart and yer shootin' be both right, and ye will find the door of my cabin open at yer comin', whether ye come full handed or empty, sober or drunk, wild bill." "i haven't touched a drop for twelve months," responded the other. "the pledge i gave you above the christmas box in your cabin here last christmas eve i have kept, and shall keep to the end, john norton." "i expected it of ye, yis, i sartinly expected it of ye, bill, for ye came of good stock. yer granther fit in the revolution, and a man's word gits its value a good deal from his breedin', as i conceit," replied the trapper. "but what have ye in the box,--bird, beast, or fish, bill?" "the trail runs this way," answered bill. "i chopped a whole winter four year ago for a man who never paid me a cent for my work at the end of it. last week i concluded to go and collect the bill myself, but not a thing could i get out of the knave but what's in the box. so i told him i'd take them and call the account settled, for i had read the writing on the bark you had nailed up on indian carry, and i said: 'they will help out at the dinner.'" and bill proceeded to start one of the boards with his hatchet. the trapper, whose curiosity was now thoroughly excited, applied his eye to the opening, and as he did so there suddenly issued from the box the most unearthly noises, accompanied by such scratchings and clawings as could only have proceeded from animals of their nature under such extraordinary treatment as they had experienced. "heavens and 'arth!" exclaimed the trapper, "ye have pigs in that box, bill!" "that's what i put in it," replied bill, as he gave it another whack, "and that's what will come out of it if i can start the clinchings of these nails." and he bent himself with energy to his work. "hold up! hold up, bill!" cried the trapper. "this isn't a bit of business ye can do in a hurry ef ye expect to git any profit out of the transaction. i can see only one of the pigs, but the one i can see is not over-burdened with fat, and it's agin reason to expect that he will be long in gittin' out when he starts, or wait for ye to scratch him when he breaks cover." "don't you be afraid of them pigs getting away from me, old man," rejoined bill, as he pried away at the nails. "i don't expect that the one that starts will be as slow as a funeral when he makes his first jump, but he won't be the only pig i've caught by the leg when he was two feet above the earth." "go slow, i say, go slow!" cried the trapper, now thoroughly alarmed at the reckless precipitancy of his companion; "the pigs, as i can see, belong to a lively breed, and it is sheer foolishness to risk a whole winter's choppin'--" not another word of warning did the old trapper utter, for suddenly the nails yielded, the board flew upward, and out of the box shot a pig. it is in the interest of accurate statement and everlasting proof of wild bill's alertness to affirm and record that the flying pig had taken only two jumps before his owner was atop of him, and both disappeared over the bank in a whirlwind of flying snow. nor had the trapper been less dexterous, for no sooner had the sandy colored streak shot through the hole made by the hatchet of the man who had sledded him forty miles that he might present him to the trapper as a contribution to the christmas dinner, than the old man dropped himself on to the box, thereby effectually barring the exit of the other porcine sprinter. "get your gun, get your gun, old trapper!" yelled bill from the whirlwind of snow. "get your gun, i say, for this infernal pig is getting the best of me." "i can't do it, bill," cried the trapper; "i can't do it. i am doin' picket duty on the top of this box, with a big hole under me and another pig under the hole." at the same instant the pig and wild bill shot up the bank into full view. bill had lost his grip on the leg, but had made good his hold on an ear, and had the trapper been a betting man, it is doubtful if he would have placed money on either. had he done so, the odds would have been slightly in favor of the pig. "hold on to him, bill!" cried the trapper, laughing at the spectacle in front of him till the tears stood in his eyes. "hold on to him, i say. remember, ye have three months of choppin' in yer grip; the pig under me is gittin' lively, and the profits of the other three months be onsartin. o lord!" ejaculated the old man, partially sobered at the prospect, "here comes the pups and the devil himself will now be to pay!" the anxiety and alarming prediction of the trapper were in the next instant fully justified, for the two dogs, unaccustomed to the scent and cries of the animals, but thoroughly aroused at the noise and fury of the contest, came tearing down the slope through the snow at full speed. the pig saw them coming and headed for the southern angle of the cabin, with bill streaming along at his side. in an instant he reappeared at the northern corner, with bill still fastened to his ear and the hounds in full cry just one jump behind him. it is not an accurate statement to say that wild bill was running beside the pig, for his stride was so elongated that when one of his feet left the ground it was impossible to predict when or where it would strike the earth, or whether it would ever strike again. the two flying objects, as they came careering down the slope directly toward the trapper, who was heroically holding himself above the aperture in the box with the porcine volcano in full play under him, presented the dreadful appearance of biela's comet when, rent by some awful explosion, the one half was on the point of taking its eternal farewell of the other. "lift the muzzle of yer piece, wild bill!" yelled the trapper. "lift the muzzle, i say, and allow three feet for windage, or ye'll make me the bull's-eye for yer pig!" the advice, or rather, let us say, the expostulation of the trapper, was the best which, under the circumstances, could be given, but no directions, however correct, might prevent the dreadful catastrophe. the old man stuck heroically to his post, and the pig stuck with equal pertinacity to his course. he struck the box on which the trapper sat with the force of a stone from a catapult, and dogs, men, and pigs disappeared in the snow. when the trapper had wiped the snow from his eyes, the spectacle that he beheld was, to say the least, extraordinary. the head of one dog was in sight above the snow, and nigh the head he could make out the hind legs and tail of another. in an instant wild bill's cap came in sight, and from under it a series of sounds was coming as if he were talking earnestly to himself, while far down the trail leading to the river he caught the glimpse of two sandy-colored objects going at a speed to which matter can only attain when it has become permanently detached from this earth and superior to the laws of gravitation. for several minutes not a word was said. the catastrophe had been so overwhelming and the wreck of bill's hopes so complete that it made speech on his part impossible. the trapper, from a fine sense of feeling and regard for his companion, remained silent, and the dogs, uncertain as to what was expected of them, kept their places in the snow. at last the old man struggled to his feet and silently started toward the cabin. wild bill followed in equal silence, and the dogs as mutely brought up the rear. the depressed, not to say woe-begone, appearance of the singular procession certainly had in it, in the fullest measure, all the elements of humor. in this suggestive manner the column filed into the cabin. the dogs stole softly to their accustomed places, wild bill dropped into a chair, and the trapper addressed himself mechanically to some domestic concerns. at last the silence became oppressive. wild bill turned in his chair, and, facing the trapper, said:-- "it's too devilish bad!" "ef ye was in council, ginerals or privits, ye'd carry every vote with ye on that statement, bill," said the trapper with deliberation. "do you think there is any chance, old man?" queried bill, earnestly. "not on the 'arth, bill," answered the trapper. "ye see," he continued, "the snow wasn't so deep on my side the trail and i had my eye on them pigs afore ye got yer head above the drift, and i noted the rate of their movin'. they was goin' mighty fast, bill, mighty fast. ye must take into account that they had the slope in their favor and sartin experiences behind. i've sighted on a good many things that was gifted in runnin' and flyin', and i never kept a bullit in the barrel when i wanted feather, fur, or meat, because of the swiftness of the motion, but ef i had ben standin' ten rods from that trail and loved the meat like a settler, i wouldn't have wasted powder or lead on them pigs, bill." and the two men, looking into each other's faces, laughed like boys. "where do you think they'll fetch up, john norton?" queried bill, at last. "they won't fetch up," replied the trapper, wiping his eyes, "leastwise not this year. henry has told me that it is twenty-four thousand miles around the 'arth, and it looked to me as ef them pigs had started out to sarcumnavigate it, and i conceit it'll be about a month afore they will come through this clearin' agin. i may be a little amiss in my calkerlatin', but a day more or less won't make any difference with you and me, nor with the pigs, either, bill. they may be a trifle leaner when they pass the cabin next time, but their gait will be jest the same, as i conceit." and after a moment, he asked, sympathetically:-- "how far did ye sled them pigs, bill?" "forty mile," answered bill, dejectedly. "it's a goodly distance, considerin' the natur' of the animils," replied the trapper, "and ye must have been tempted to onload the sled more'n once, bill." "i would have unloaded it," responded the other, "i would have unloaded the cussed things more than once, but i had nothing else to bring you, and i thought they'd look mighty fine standing up on the table with an apple in each mouth and their tails curled up, as i've seen them at the barbecues." "so they would, so they would, bill; but ye never could have kept 'em on the table. no amount of cookin' would have ever taken the speed out of them pigs. ef ye had nailed 'em to the table they'd have taken the table and cabin with 'em. it's better as it is, bill; so cheer up and we'll git at the cookin'." * * * * * cooking is more than an art; it is a gift. genius, and genius alone, can prepare a feast fit for the feaster. woe be to the wretch who sees nothing in preparing food for the mouth of man save manual labor. such a knave should be basted on his own spit. an artist in eating can alone appreciate an artist in cooking. when food is well prepared it delights the eye, it intoxicates the nose, it pleases the tongue, it stimulates the appetite, and prolongs the healthy craving which it finally satisfies, even as the song of the mother charms the child which it gradually composes for slumber. the old trapper was a man of gifts and among his gifts was that of cooking. for sixty years he had been his own _chef_, with a continent for his larder, and to more than one gourmand of the great cities the tastiness and delicacy of his dishes had been a revelation--more than one epicure of the clubs had gone from his cabin not only with a full but a surprised stomach. it is easy to imagine the happiness that this host of the woods experienced in preparing the feast for the morrow. he entered upon his labors, whose culmination was to be the great event of the year, with the alacrity of one who had mentally discussed and decided every point in anticipation. there was no cause for haste, and hence there was no confusion. he could not foretell the number of his guests, but this did in no way disconcert him. he had already decided that no matter how many might come there should be enough. in wild bill he had an able and willing assistant, and all through the afternoon and well into the evening the two men pushed on the preparation for the great dinner. the large table, constructed of strong maple plank, was sanded and scoured until it shone almost snowy white. on it was placed a buck, roasted a la barbecue, the skin and head skillfully reconnected with the body and posed, muzzle lifted, antlers laid well back, head turned, ears alert, as he stood in the bush when the trapper's bullet cut him down. at one end of the table a bear's cub was in the act of climbing a small tree, while at the other end a wild goose hung in mid-air, suspended by a fine wire from the ceiling, with neck extended, wings spread, legs streaming backward, as he looked when he drove downward toward open water to his last feeding. the great cabin was a bower of beauty and fragrance. the pungent odor of gummy boughs and of bark, under which still lurked the amber-colored sweat of heated days and sweltering nights, pervaded it. on one side of the cabin hung a huge piece of white cotton cloth, on which the trapper, with a vast outlay of patience, had stitched small cones of the pine into the conventional phrase, "a merry christmas to ye all." "it must have taken you a good many evenings to have done that job," said wild bill, pointing with the ladle he held in his hand toward the illuminated bit of sheeting. "it did, bill, it did," replied the trapper, "and a solemn and a lively time i had of it, for i hadn't but six big needles in the cabin and i broke five on 'em the fust night, for the cones was gummy and hard, and it takes a good, stiff needle to go through one ef the man who is punchin' it through hasn't any thimble and the ball of his thumb is bleedin'. lord-a-massy, bill, rover knew the trouble i was havin' as well as i did, for arter i had broken the second needle and talked about it a moment, the old dog got oneasy and began to edge away, and by the time i had broken the fourth needle and got through washin' my thumb he had backed clean across the cabin and sat jammed up in the corner out there flatter than a shingle." "and what did he do when the fifth needle broke?" queried bill, as he thrust his ladle into the pot. "heavens and 'arth, bill, why do ye ax sech foolish questions? ye know it wasn't a minit arter that fifth needle broke, leavin' the bigger half stickin' under the nail of my forefinger, afore both of the pups was goin' out through the door there as ef the devil was arter 'em with a fryin' pan, and a chair a leetle behind him. but a man can't stand everything, ef he be a christian man and workin' away to git a christmas sign ready; can he, bill?" it is in harmony with the facts of the case for me to record that wild bill never answered the old trapper's very proper interrogation, but sat down on the floor and thrust his legs up in the air and yelled, and after the spasm left him he got up slowly, sat down in a chair, and looked at the trapper with wet eyes and mouth wide open. the old trapper evidently relished the mirthfulness of his companion, for his face was lighted with the amused expression of the humorist when he has told to an appreciative comrade an experience against himself. but in an instant his countenance dropped, and, looking at the huge kettle that stood half buried in the coals and warm ashes in front of the glowing logs and into which bill had been so determinedly thrusting his ladle only a moment before, he exclaimed:-- "bill, i have lost all confidence in yer cookin' abilities. ye said that ye knew the natur' of corn meal and that ye could fill a puddin' bag jediciously, and though it isn't ten minits sence ye tied the string and the meal isn't half swollen yit, yer whole bag there is on the p'int of comin' out of the pot." at this alarming announcement wild bill jumped for the fireplace and in an instant he had placed the spade-shaped end of his ladle, whose handle was full three feet long, at the very center of the lid that was already lifted two inches from the rim of the kettle, and was putting a good deal of pressure upon it. confident in his ability to resist any further upward tendency, and to escape the threatened catastrophe, he coolly replied:-- "it strikes me that you are a good deal excited over a little matter, old man. the meal has got through swelling--" "no, it hasn't, no, it hasn't," returned the trapper. "half the karnels haven't felt the warmin' of the hot water yit, and i can see that the old lid is liftin'." "no, it isn't lifting, either, john norton," returned wild bill determinedly; "and it won't lift unless the shaft of this ladle snaps." "the ladle be a good un," returned the trapper, now fully assured that no human power could avert the coming catastrophe, and keenly enjoying his companion's extremity and the humor of the situation. "the ladle be a good un, for i fashioned it from an old paddle of second growth ash, whose blade i had twisted in the rapids, and ye can put yer whole weight on it." "old man," cried bill, now thoroughly alarmed, "the lid is lifting." "sartinly, sartinly," returned the trapper. "it's lifted fully half an inch sence ye placed yer ladle to it, and it'll keep on liftin'. rover knows what is comin' as well as i do, for the old dog, as ye see, begins to edge away, and sport has started for the door already." "what shall i do, john norton? what shall i do? the lid is lifting again." "is yer ladle well placed, bill? have ye got it in the center of the lid?" returned the trapper. "dead in the center, old man," responded bill, confidently, "dead in the center." "put yer whole weight on it, then, and don't waste yer strength in talkin'. ye know yer own strength, and i know the strength of indian meal when hot water gits at it, and ef the ladle don't slip or the kettle-lid split it's about nip and tuck atween ye." "old man," yelled bill, as he put his whole weight on the ladle handle, "this lid has lifted again. get a stick and come here and help me." "no, no, bill," answered the trapper, "the puddin' is of yer own mixin' and ye must attend to the job yerself. i stuck to yer box with a hole underneath me and a pig under the hole till somethin' happened and ye must stick to yer puddin'." "but i can't hold it down, john norton," yelled poor bill. "the lid has lifted again and the whole darned thing is coming out of the pot." "i conceit as much, i conceit as much," answered the trapper. "there go the pups out of the door, bill, and when the dogs quit the cabin it's time for the master to foller." and the old man started for the door. * * * * * the catastrophe! who could describe it? bill's strength was adequate, but no human power could save the pudding. even as bill put his strength on to the ladle, the wooden cover of the kettle split with a sharp concussion in the middle, the kettle was upset, and poor bill, covered with ashes and pursued by a cloud of steam, shot out of the door and plunged into the snow. oh, laughter, sweet laughter, laugh on and laugh ever! in the smile of the babe thou comest from heaven. in the girl's rosy dimples, in the boy's noisy glee, in the humor of strong men, and the wit of sweet women, thou art seen as a joy and a comfort to us humans. when fortune deserts and friends fall away, he who keeps thee keeps solace and health, hope and heart, in his bosom. when the head groweth white and the eye getteth dim, and the soul goeth out through the slow closing gates of the senses, be thou then in us and of us, thou sweet angel of heaven, that the smile of the babe in its first happy sleep may come back to our faces as we lie at the gates in our last and--perhaps--most peaceful slumber! the laughter and the labor of the day were ended. the work of preparation for the dinner on the morrow had extended well into the evening, and at its conclusion the two men, satisfied with the result of the pleasant task and healthily weary, retired to their cots. it is needless to say that the thoughts of each were happy and their feelings peaceful, and to such slumber comes quickly. outside the world was white and still, with the stillness that precedes the coming of a winter storm. through the voiceless darkness a few feathery prophecies of coming snow were settling lazily downward. the great stones in the fireplace were still white with heat, and the cabin was filled with the warm afterglow of burned logs and massive brands that ever and anon broke apart and flamed anew. suddenly the trapper lifted himself on his couch, and, looking over toward his companion, said:-- "bill, didn't ye hear the bells ring?" wild bill lifted himself to his elbow, and in sheer astonishment stared at the trapper, for he well knew there wasn't a bell within fifty miles. the old man noticed the astonishment of his companion and, realizing the incredibility of the supposition, said as if in explanation of the strangeness of his questioning:-- "this be the night on which memory takes the home trail, bill, and the thoughts of the aged go backward." and, laying his head again on the pillow, he murmured: "i sartinly conceited i heerd the bells ringin'." and then he slept. aye, aye, old trapper; we of whitening heads know the truth of thy saying and thy dreaming. thou didst hear the bells ring. for often as we sleep on christmas eve the ringing of bells comes to us. marriage peal and funeral knell, chimes and tolling, clash of summons and measured stroke, dying noises from a dead past swelling and sinking, sinking and swelling, like falling and failing surf on a wreck-strewn beach. ah, me! where be the ships, the proud, white-sailed ships, the rich-laden ships, whose broken timbers and splintered spars lie now dank, weed-grown, sand-covered, on that sorrowful shore, on that mournfully resounding shore of our past? [illustration: "where be the ships?"] but other bells, thank god, sound for us all, old trapper, on christmas eve,--not the bells of the past, but the bells of the future. and they ring loud and clear, and they will ring forever, for they are swung by the angels of god. and they tell of a new life, a new chance, and a new opportunity for us all. * * * * * morning dawned. the day verified the trapper's prophecy, for it came with storm. the mountain back of the cabin roared as if aërial surf was breaking against it. the air was thick with snow that streamed, whirled, and eddied through it dry and light as feathers of down. "never mind the storm, bill," said the trapper cheerily, as he pushed the door open in the gray dawn and looked out into the maze of whirling, rushing snowflakes. "a few may be hindered, and one or two fetch through a leetle late, but there'll be an 'arnest movement of teeth when the hour for eatin' comes and the plates be well filled." dinner was called prompt to the hour, and again was the old man's prediction realized. the table lacked not guests, for nearly every chair was occupied. twenty men had breasted the storm that they might be at that dinner, and some had traversed a thirty mile trail that they might honor the old man and share his generous cheer. it was a remarkable and, perhaps we may say, a motley company that the trapper looked upon as he took his place, knife and fork in hand, at the head of the table, with a hound on either side of his great chair, to perform the duty of host and chief carver. "friends," said the trapper, standing erect in his place and looking cheerfully at the row of bearded and expectant faces on either hand in front of him, "friends, i axed ye to come and eat this christmas dinner with me because i love the companionship of the woods and hated, on this day of human feastin' and gladness, to eat my food alone. i also conceited that some of ye felt as i did, and that the day would be happier ef we spent it together. i knew, furdermore, that some of ye were not born in the woods, but were newcomers, driven here as a canoe to a beach in a gale, and that the day might be long and lonesome to ye ef ye had to stay in yer cabins from mornin' till night alone by yerselves. and i also conceited that here and there might be a man who had been onfortunit in his trappin' or his venturs in the settlements, and might act'ally be in need of food and garments, or it may be he had acted wickedly at times, and had lost confidence in his own goodness and the goodness of others, and i said i will make the tarms of the invitin' broad enough to include each and all, whoever and whatever he may be. "and now, friends," continued the old man, "i be glad to see ye at my table, and i hope ye have brought a good appetite with ye, for the vic'tals be plenty and no one need scrimp the size of his eatin'. let us all eat heartily and be merry, for this be christmas. ef we've had bad luck in the past we'll hope for better luck in the futur' and take heart. ef we've been heavy-hearted or sorrowful we will chirk up. ef any have wronged us we will forgive and forgit. for this be christmas, friends, and christmas be a day for forgivin' and forgittin.' and now, then," continued the old man, as he flourished his knife and grasped the huge fork preparatory to plunging it into the venison haunch in front of him, "with good appetites and a cheerful mind let us all fall to eatin'." iii. thus went the feasting. hunger had brought its appetite to the plentiful table, and the well cooked viands provoked its indulgence. if the past of any of the trapper's guests had been sorrowful, the unhappiness of it for the moment was forgotten. stories crisp as snow-crust and edged with aptness, happy memories and reminiscences of frolic and fun, sly hits and keen retorts, jokes and laughter, rollicked around the table and shook it with mirthful explosions. the merriment was at its height when a loud summons sounded upon the door. it was so imperious as well as so unexpected that every noise was instantly hushed, and every face at the table was turned in surprise to wait the entrance. "come in," cried the trapper, cheerily; "whoever ye be, ye be welcome ef ye be a leetle late." the response of him who so emphatically sought admission to the feast was as prompt as his summons had been determined. for, without an instant's delay or the least hesitancy of movement, the great door was pushed suddenly inward and a man stepped into the room. a sturdy fellow he was, swarth of skin and full whiskered. his hair was black and coarse and grown to his shoulders. his eyes were black as night, largely orbed under heavy brows, not lacking a certain wicked splendor. his face was strongly featured and stamped in every line and curve and prominence with the impress of unmistakable power. in his right hand he carried a rifle, and in his left a bundle, snugly packed and protected from the storm in wrappings of oiled cloth. the strong light, into the circle of which he had so suddenly stepped, blinded him for a moment, while to those who sat staring at him it brought out with vivid distinctiveness every feature of his strong and, save for a certain hardness of expression, handsome face. it was evident that the man, whoever he was and whatever he might be, was under the pressure of some impulse or conviction which had urged him on to the trapper's cabin and the trapper's presence. for, no sooner had he closed the door and shaken the snow, with which he was covered, from his garments, than, regardless of those who sat staring in startled interrogation at him, he strode to the head of the table where the old trapper sat, and, looking him straight in the face, said:-- "do you know who i am, john norton?" "sartinly," answered the trapper, "ye be shanty jim, and ye have camped these three year and more at the outlet of bog lake." "do you know that i am a thief, and a sneak thief at that?" continued the newcomer, speaking with a fierce directness that was startling. "i've conceited ye was," answered the trapper, calmly. "do you know it, know it to a certainty?" and the words came out of his mouth like the thrust of a knife. "yis, i know that ye be a thief, shanty jim," replied the trapper, "know it to a sartinty." "do you know that i have stolen skins from you, old man, skins and traps both?" continued the other. "i laid in ambush for ye once at the falls of bog river, and i seed ye take an otter from a trap that i sot," replied the trapper. "why didn't you shoot me when i stood skin in hand?" queried the self-confessed thief. "i can't tell ye," answered the trapper, "fer my eye was at the sights and my finger on the trigger, and the feelin' of natur' was strong within me to crop one of yer ears then and there, shanty jim, but somethin', mayhap the sperit of the lord, staid my finger, and ye went with yer thievin' in yer hand to yer camp ontetched and onhindered." "do you know what brought me to this cabin and to your presence--the presence of the man whose skins and whose traps i have stolen--and made me confess to his face and before these men here that i am a thief and a scoundrel; do you know what brought me here, a miserable cuss that i am and have been for years, john norton?" and the man's speech was the speech of one who had been educated to use words rightly and was marked with intense, even dramatic, earnestness. "i can't conceit, onless the sperit of the lord." "the spirit of the lord had nothing to do with it," interrupted the other fiercely. "if there is any such influence at work in this world as the preachers tell of, why has it not prevented me from being a thief? why did it not prevent me from doing what i did and being what i was in my youth,--me, whose mother was an angel and whose father was a patriarch? no, it was nothing under god's heavens, old man, but your invitation scrawled with a coal on a bit of birch bark inviting anyone in these woods who needed victuals and clothes and a right spirit to come to your cabin on christmas day; and had you written nothing else i would not have cared a cuss for it or for you, but you did write something else, and it was this: 'vagabonds included in this invite.' "when i read that, old man, my breath left me and i stood and stared at the letters on that bark as a devil might gaze at a pardon signed with the seal manual of the almighty, for in my hand was a trap that bore the stamp 'j. n.' and the skin of an otter i had taken from the trap. and there i stood, a thief and a scoundrel, with your property in my hands and read your invitation to all the needy in the woods to come to your cabin on christmas day and that vagabonds were included." "that meant you, by thunder!" exclaimed wild bill. "yes, it did mean me," returned shanty jim, "and i knew it. standing there in the snow with the stolen skin and trap in my hand, i realized what i was and what john norton was and the difference between him and myself and most of the world. i went to the tree to which the bark that bore the blessed letters was nailed; i took it down from the tree; i placed it next my bosom and buttoned my coat above it and, thus resting upon my heart, i bore it to my shanty." "it was as good as a bible to you," said wild bill. "a bible!" rejoined the man with emphasis. "better than all bibles. better than churches and preachers, better than formal texts and utterances, for that bit of bark told me of a man here in the woods good enough and big enough to forgive and forget. all that night i sat and gazed at that piece of bark and the writing on it, and as i gazed my heart melted within me. for there it was ever before my eyes--'vagabonds included in this invite.' 'vagabonds included in this invite.' and finally the words passed into the air, and wherever i looked i saw, 'vagabonds included in this invite.'" "yis, them be the very words i writ," said the trapper, gravely. "and i saw more than the words written on the bark, john norton," resumed the man. "for looking at it i saw all my past life and the evil of it and what a scoundrel i had become; my eyes saw with a new sight, and i said, when the sun comes i will rise and go to the man who wrote those words and tell him what they did for me. and here i am, a vagabond who has accepted your invitation to spend christmas with you, and here in this pack are the skins and the traps i have stolen from you, and i ask your forgiveness and that you will take my hand in proof of it, that i may come to your table feeling that i am a man, and a vagabond no longer." "heart and hand be yours now and forever, shanty jim," cried the trapper, joyfully; and, rising from his chair, he met the outstretched hand of the repentant vagabond with his own hearty grasp. "and may the lord be with ye ever more." "amen!" it was wild bill, the once drunkard, who said the sweet word of prayer and assent, and he said it softly. and that murmur of amen and amen went round the great table like the murmur of prayer and of praise. and then it passed out and rose up from the cabin, and the air in its joy passed it on, and the stars took it up and thrilled it around their vast courses of glorified light, and through the high heavens it sang itself onward from order to order of angels until it reached him whom no man hath seen or may ever see, in all and over all, god! blessed forever! has nature knowledge? is she conscious of the evil and the good among men, and has she a heart that saddens at their sorrow and rejoices in their joy? perhaps. for, suddenly, even as the two men joined their hands, the fury of the storm checked itself, and a stillness--the stillness of a great calm--fell on the woods, and through the sudden, the unexpected, the blessed stillness, to the ears of one of the two men--yea, to him who had forgiven--there came the melody of bells swinging slowly and softly to and fro. oh, bells, invisible bells! bells of the soul, bells high in heaven, swing softly, swing low, swing sweet, and swing ever for us, one and all, when we at our tables sit feasting. swing for us living, swing for us dying, and may the cause of your swinging be our forgiving and forgetting. "john norton," said the man, "you have called me shanty jim, and that is well, for in the woods here that is my name, but in the city where i lived and whence i fled, fled because of my misdeeds, years ago, i have another name, a name of power and wealth and honor for more than two centuries. there i have a home, and in that home to-night sits my aged father and white-haired mother. i am going back to them clothed and in my right mind. think of it, old trapper, going back to my home, my boyhood's home, to my father and my mother. all day as i tramped on the trail toward your cabin, my mind has been filled with memories of the past, and the words of a sweet old song i used to sing when too young to feel the tenderness of it, have been ringing in my ears." "sing us the song, sing us the song!" cried wild bill, and every man at the table cried with him, "sing us the song!" "aye, aye," assented the trapper, "sing us the song, shanty jim; we be men of the woods at this table, and some of us have had losses and sorrers, and all of us have memories of happy days that be gone. stand here by my side and sing us the song that has been ringin' in yer ears all day. this is a table of feastin', and feastin' means more than eatin'. sing us the song that tells ye of the past, of yer boyhood's days and father and mother." oh, the secrets of the woods! how many have fled to them for concealment and refuge! in them piety has built its retreat, learning has sought retirement, broken pride a mask, and misfortune a haven. and in response to the trapper's invitation there had come to his cabin and were now grouped about his table more of ability, more of knowledge, more of struggle and failure, and more of reminiscence than might be found, perhaps, in the same number of guests at any other table on that christmas day in the world. never did singer sing sweeter or more touching song, or to more receptive company. "backward, turn backward, oh, time, in your flight, make me a child again just for to-night. mother, come back from the echoless shore, take me again to your heart, as of yore; kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, smooth the few silver threads out of my hair, over my slumbers your loving watch keep;-- rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. chorus:--"clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, with your light lashes just sweeping my face, never hereafter to wake or to weep;-- rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. "over my heart, in the days that are flown, no love like mother-love ever has shone; no other worship abides and endures, faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours; none like a mother can charm away pain from the sick soul and the world-weary brain. slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;-- rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. chorus.-- "come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, fall on your shoulders again, as of old; let it drop over my forehead to-night, shading my faint eyes away from the light; for with its sunny-edged shadows once more, haply, will throng the sweet visions of yore; lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;-- rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep." chorus.-- never was the sweet and touching song sung under more suggestive circumstances, and never was it received into more receptive hearts. the voice of the repentant vagabond was of the finest quality, a pure, resonant tenor, and, through the splendid avenue of expression which the words and music of the song made for his emotions, he poured his soul forth without restraint. the effect of his effort was what would be expected when the character of the audience and the occasion is considered. many an eye was wet with tears, and the voices that took up the refrain here and there trembled with emotion. the old trapper, himself, was not unmoved, for, as the song closed, after a few moments of silence, he said:-- "ye sang the song well, shanty jim, and many be the memories it has stirred in the breasts of us all. may yer home-comin' be as happy as was the boy's we read of in the scriptur', although i never could conceit why the mother was not there to go forth to meet him, and fall on his neck with the father, and ef i'd had the writin' of it i'd had the mother git to him a leetle fust, and hers the fust arms that was thrown round his neck, for that would be more nateral, as i conceit. and i sartinly trust, as do all of us here, that ye will find mother and father both waitin' and watchin' for ye when the curve of the trail brings ye in the sight of the cabin. and ye sartinly will take with ye the good wishes of us all. come, take the chair here by my side, and we will all talk as we eat; aye, and sing, too, for this be christmas, and christmas be the time for eatin' and singin', but, above all else, for forgivin' and forgittin'." at the word the happy feasters went on with the feasting. * * * * * long and merry was the meal. as the hours passed the eating ceased, and the feast of reason and the flow of soul began. memories of other days were recalled, confessions made, sorrow for misdoings felt and spoken, and, gradually growing, as grows the light of dawn, a fine atmosphere of hope, charity, and courage spread from heart to heart, until at last it filled with its genial and illuminating presence every bosom. in such a mood on the part of the host and guests alike the feast came to its close. his christmas dinner had been all that the old trapper had hoped, and his heart was filled with happiness. he rose from his chair, and, standing erect in his place, said:-- "ye tell me that the time has come for ye to go, and i dare say ye be right, but i be sorry we must part, for in partin' we be never sure of a meetin', and, therefore, as i conceit, all the partin's on the 'arth be more or less sad, but all parted trails, it may be, will come together in the eend. but afore ye go i want to thank ye for comin', and i hope ye will all come agin, and whenever yer needs or yer feelin's incline ye this way. one thing i want to say to ye in goin', and i want ye to take it away with ye, for it may help some of ye to aid some onfortunit man and to feel as happy as i feel to-night. it is this"--and here the old man paused a moment and looked with the face of an angel at his guests as they stood gazing at him; then he impressively said:-- "i've lived nigh on to eighty year, and my head be whitenin' with the comin' and goin' of the years i have lived, and the book has long been in my cabin. i have kept many a christmas alone and in company, both, but never afore have i knowed the raal meanin' of the day nor read the lesson of it aright. and this be the lesson that i have larned and the one i want ye all to take away with ye as ye go--that christmas is a day of feastin' and givin' and laughin', but, above everythin' else, it is the day for forgivin' and forgittin'. some of ye be young and may yer days be long on the 'arth, and some of yer heads be as white as mine and yer years be not many, but be that as it may, whether our christmas days be many or few, when the great day comes round let us remember in good or ill fortun', alone or with many, that christmas, above all else, is the day for forgivin' and forgittin'." * * * * * the guests were gone and the trapper seated himself in front of the fireplace, and called the two dogs to his side. it was a signal that they had heard many times and they responded with happy hearts. each rested his muzzle on the trapper's knee, and fixed his large hazel, love-lighted eyes wistfully on his master's face. the old man placed a large and age-wrinkled hand on either head, and murmured: "whether ye be in sorrer or joy, friends come and go, but, ontil death enters kennel or cabin, the hunter and his hounds bide together. the lad camps beyend sight and beyend hearin'. henry be on the other side of the world, to-night, and guests be gone. rover, yer muzzle be as gray as my head, and few be livin' of the many we have met on the trail." and the trapper lifted his eyes and looked around the large and empty room, and then added:-- "it took me a good many years, yis, it sartinly took me a good many years, but, if i've larned the lesson of christmas a leetle late, i've larned it at last. but the cabin does look a leetle empty now that the guests be gone. no, the lad can never come back, and henry is on the other side of the world, and there is no good in longin'. but i do wish i could jest tech the boy's hand." [illustration: the old trapper and his dogs. "friends come and go, but until death enters kennel or cabin, the hunter and his hounds bide together."] * * * * * ah, friends, dear friends, as years go on and heads get gray--how fast the guests do go! touch hands, touch hands with those that stay. strong hands to weak, old hands to young, around the christmas board, touch hands. the false forget, the foe forgive, for every guest will go and every fire burn low and cabin empty stand. forget, forgive, for who may say that christmas day may ever come to host or guest again. touch hands. w. h. h.--adirondack--murray's complete works carefully revised and enlarged by the author published for the first time in uniform edition adirondack tales in all matters relating to his writings or his platform engagements, address the author personally address w. h. h. murray guilford, conn. care the murray homestead _copyrighted by the author. all rights reserved._ +--------------------------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's note. | | =================== | | | | the following illustrations, although shown in the list of | | illustrations, appear not to have been included in the final | | printed version of the book: | | | | - how john norton the trapper kept his christmas, p. | | - john norton's vagabond, p. | | - the old trapper's paddle, p. | | - the old trapper's rifle, p. | | - an old time gun, p. | | - christmas holly, p. | | - "and finally the words passed into the air," p. | | - "ye cradle of ye olden time," p. | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------------+ the coxswain's bride, by r.m. ballantyne. story one, chapter . the rising tide--a tale of the sea. the coxswain went by the name of sturdy bob among his mates. among the women of the village he was better known as handsome bob, and, looking at him, you could not help seeing that both titles were appropriate, for our coxswain was broad and strong as well as good-looking, with that peculiar cast of features and calm decided manner which frequently distinguish the men who are born to lead their fellows. robert massey, though quite young, was already a leader of men--not only by nature but by profession--being coxswain of the greyton lifeboat, and, truly, the men who followed his lead had need to be made of good stuff, with bold, enthusiastic, self-sacrificing spirits, for he often led them into scenes of wild--but, hold! we must not forecast. well, we introduce our hero to the reader on a calm september evening, which blazed with sunshine. the sun need not have been mentioned, however, but for the fact that it converted the head of a fair-haired fisher-girl, seated beside bob, into a ball of rippling gold, and suffused her young cheeks with a glow that rudely intensified her natural colour. she was the coxswain's bride-elect, and up to that date the course of their true love had run quite smoothly in spite of adverse proverbs. "i can't believe my luck," said bob, gravely. he said most things gravely, though there was not a man in greyton who could laugh more heartily than he at a good joke. "what luck do you mean, bob?" asked nellie carr, lifting her eyes from the net she was mending, and fixing them on the coxswain's bronzed face with an air of charming innocence. then, becoming suddenly aware of what he meant without being told, she gave vent to a quick little laugh, dropped her eyes on the net, and again became intent on repairs. "to think," continued bob, taking two or three draws at his short pipe-- for our hero was not perfect, being, like so many of his class, afflicted with the delusion of tobacco!--"to think that there'll be no nellie carr to-morrow afternoon, only a mrs massey! the tide o' my life is risin' fast, nellie--almost at flood now. it seems too good to be true--" "right you are, boy," interrupted a gruff but hearty voice, as a burly fisherman "rolled" round the stern of the boat, in front of which the lovers were seated on the sand. "w'en my moggie an' me was a-coortin' we thought, an' said, it was too good to be true, an' so it was; leastwise it was too true to be good, for moggie took me for better an' wuss, though it stood to reason i couldn't be both, d'ee see? an' i soon found her wuss than better, which--" "come, come, joe slag," cried bob, "let's have none o' your ill-omened growls to-night. what brings you here?" "i've comed for the key o' the lifeboat," returned slag, with a knowing glance at nellie. "if the glass ain't tellin' lies we may have use for her before long." massey pulled the key from his pocket, and gave it to slag, who was his bowman, and who, with the exception of himself, was the best man of the lifeboat crew. "i'll have to follow him," said bob, rising soon after his mate had left, "so good-bye, nellie, till to-morrow." he did not stoop to kiss her, for the wide sands lay before them with fisher-boys playing thereon--apparently in their fathers' boots and sou'-westers--and knots of observant comrades scattered about. "see that you're not late at church to-morrow, bob," said the girl, with a smile and a warning look. "trust me," returned bob. as he walked towards the lifeboat-house--a conspicuous little building near the pier--he tried to blow off some of the joy in his capacious breast, by whistling. "why, slag," he exclaimed on entering the shed, "i do believe you've been an' put on the blue ribbon!" "that's just what i've done, bob," returned the other. "i thought you'd 'ave noticed it at the boat; but i forgot you could see nothin' but the blue of nellie's eyes." "of course not. who'd expect me to see anything else when i'm beside _her_?" retorted bob. "but what has made you change your mind? i'm sure the last time i tried to get you to hoist the blue-peter ye were obstinate enough--dead against it." "true, bob; but since that time i've seed a dear woman that i was fond of _die_ from drink, an' i've seed tom riley, one of our best men, get on the road to ruin through the same; so i've hoisted the blue flag, as ye see." "that's a good job, slag, but don't you forget, my lad, that the blue ribbon won't save you. there's but _one_ saviour of men. nevertheless, it's well to fight our battles under a flag, an' the blue is a good one--as things go. show your colours and never say die; that's my motto. as you said, slag, the glass _is_ uncommon low to-day. i shouldn't wonder if there was dirty weather brewin' up somewhere." the coxswain was right, and the barometer on that occasion was a true prophet. the weather which "brewed up" that evening was more than "dirty," it was tempestuous; and before midnight a tremendous hurricane was devastating the western shores of the kingdom. many a good ship fought a hard battle that night with tide and tempest, and many a bad one went down. the gale was short-lived but fierce, and it strewed our western shores with wreckage and corpses, while it called forth the energies and heroism of our lifeboat and coastguard men from north to south. driving before the gale that night under close-reefed topsails, a small but well-found schooner came careering over the foaming billows from the regions of the far south, freighted with merchandise and gold and happy human beings. happy! ay, they were happy, both passengers and crew, for they were used by that time to facing and out-riding gales; and was not the desired haven almost in sight--home close at hand? the captain, however, did not share in the general satisfaction. out in "blue water" he feared no gale, but no one knew better than himself that the enemy was about to assail him at his weakest moment--when close to land. no one, however, could guess his thoughts as he stood there upon the quarter-deck, clad in oil-skins, drenched with spray, glancing now at the compass, now at the sails, or at the scarce visible horizon. as darkness deepened and tempest increased, the passengers below became less cheerful, with the exception of one curly-haired little girl, whose exuberant spirit nothing could quell. her young widowed mother had given in to the little one's importunities, and allowed her to sit up late on this the last night at sea, to lend a helping hand while she packed up so as to be ready for landing next day. consent had been the more readily given that the white-haired grandfather of little lizzie volunteered to take care of her and keep her out of mischief. the other passengers were as yet only subdued, not alarmed. there were men and women and little ones from the australian cities, rough men from the sheep farms, and bronzed men from the gold mines. all were busy making preparations to land on the morrow. with the exception of those preparations things on board went on much as they had been going on in "dirty weather" all the voyage through. suddenly there was a crash! most of the male passengers, knowing well what it meant, sprang to the companion-ladder--those of them at least who had not been thrown down or paralysed--and rushed on deck. shrieks and yells burst forth as if in emulation of the howling winds. crash followed crash, as each billow lifted the doomed vessel, and let her fall on the sands with a shock that no structure made by man could long withstand. next moment a terrific rending overhead told that one, or both, of the masts had gone by the board. at the same time the sea found entrance and poured down hatchways and through opening seams in cataracts. the inclined position of the deck showed that she was aground. the very thought of being _aground_ comforted some, for, to their minds, it implied nearness to land, and _land_ was, in their idea, safety. these simple ones were doomed to terrible enlightenment. little lizzie, pale and silent from terror, clung to her grandfather's neck; the young widow to his disengaged arm. with the other arm the old man held on to a brass rod, and prevented all three from being swept to leeward, where several of the women and children were already struggling to escape from a mass of water and wrecked furniture. "come on deck--all hands!" shouted a hoarse voice, as one of the officers leaped into the cabin, followed by several men, who assisted the people to rise. it is usual to keep passengers below as much as possible in such circumstances, but the position of the schooner, with her bow high on a bank, and her stern deep in the water, rendered a different course needful on this occasion. with difficulty the passengers were got up to the bow, where they clustered and clung about the windlass and other points of vantage. then it was that the true nature of their calamity was revealed, for no land was visible, nothing was to be seen around them but a hell of raging foam, which, in the almost total darkness of the night, leaped and glimmered as if with phosphoric light. beyond this circle of, as it were, wild lambent flame, all was black, like a wall of ebony, from out of which continually there rushed into view coiling, curling, hoary-headed monsters, in the shape of roaring billows, which burst upon and over them, deluging the decks, and causing the timbers of the ship to writhe as if in pain. "we've got on the tail o' the sands," muttered a sailor to some one as he passed, axe in hand, to cut away the wreckage of the masts, which were pounding and tugging alongside. on the sands! yes, but no sands were visible, for they had struck on an outlying bank, far from shore, over which the ocean swept like the besom of destruction. it was nearly low water at the time of the disaster. as the tide fell the wreck ceased to heave. then it became possible for the seamen to move about without clinging to shrouds and stanchions for very life. "fetch a rocket, jim," said the captain to one of the men. jim obeyed, and soon a whizzing line of light was seen athwart the black sky. "they'll never see it," muttered the first mate, as he got ready another rocket. "weather's too thick." several rockets were fired, and then, to make more sure of attracting the lifeboat men, a tar-barrel, fastened to the end of a spar, was thrust out ahead and set on fire. by the grand lurid flare of this giant torch the surrounding desolation was made more apparent, and at the fearful sight hearts which had hitherto held up began to sink in despair. the mate's fears seemed to be well grounded, for no answering signal was seen to rise from the land, towards which every eye was anxiously strained. one hour passed, then another, and another, but still no help came. then the tide began to rise, and with it, of course, the danger to increase. all this time rockets had been sent up at intervals, and tar-barrels had been kept burning. "we had better make the women and children fast, sir," suggested the mate, as a heavy mass of spray burst over the bulwarks and drenched them. "do so," replied the captain, gathering up a coil of rope to assist in the work. "is this necessary?" asked the widow, as the captain approached her. "i fear it is," he replied. "the tide is rising fast. in a short time the waves will be breaking over us again, and you will run a chance of bein' swept away if we don't make you fast. but don't despair, they must have seen our signals by this time, an' we shall soon have the lifeboat out." "god grant it," murmured the widow, fervently, as she strained poor little trembling lizzie to her breast. but as the moments flew by and no succour came, some gave way altogether and moaned piteously, while others appeared to be bereft of all capacity of thought or action. many began to pray in frantic incoherence, and several gave vent to their feelings in curses. only a few maintained absolute self-possession and silence. among these were the widow and one or two of the other women. they were in this condition when one of the crew who had been noted as a first-rate singer of sea songs, and the "life of the fo'c's'l," had occasion to pass the spot where the passengers were huddled under the lee of the starboard bulwarks. "is there never a one of ye," he asked, almost sternly, "who can pray like a christian without screechin'? you don't suppose the almighty's deaf, do you?" this unexpected speech quieted the noisy ones, and one of the women, turning to a man beside her, said, "you pray for us, joe." joe was one of those who had remained, from the first, perfectly still, except when required to move, or when those near him needed assistance. he was a grave elderly man, whose quiet demeanour, dress, and general appearance, suggested the idea of a city missionary--an idea which was strengthened when, in obedience to the woman's request, he promptly prayed, in measured sentences, yet with intense earnestness, for deliverance--first from sin and then from impending death--in the name of jesus. his petition was very short, and it was barely finished when a wave of unusual size struck the vessel with tremendous violence, burst over the side and almost swept every one into the sea. indeed, it was evident that some of the weaker of the party would have perished then if they had not been secured to the vessel with ropes. it seemed like a stern refusal of the prayer, and was regarded as such by some of the despairing ones, when a sudden cheer was heard and a light resembling a great star was seen to burst from the darkness to windward. "the lifeboat!" shouted the captain, and they cheered with as much hearty joy as if they were already safe. a few minutes more and the familiar blue and white boat of mercy leaped out of darkness into the midst of the foaming waters like a living creature. it was the boat from the neighbouring port of brentley. either the storm-drift had not been so thick in that direction as in the neighbourhood of greyton, or the brentley men had kept a better look-out. she had run down to the wreck under sail. on reaching it--a short distant to windward--the sail was lowered, the anchor dropped, the cable payed out, and the boat eased down until it was under the lee of the wreck. but the first joy at her appearance quickly died out of the hearts of some, who were ignorant of the powers of lifeboats and lifeboat men, when the little craft was seen at one moment tossed on the leaping foam till on a level with the ship's bulwarks, at the next moment far down in the swirling waters under the mizzen chains; now sheering off as if about to forsake them altogether; anon rushing at their sides with a violence that threatened swift destruction to the boat; never for one instant still; always tugging and plunging like a mad thing. "how can we ever get into that?" was the thought that naturally sprang into the minds of some, with chilling power. those, however, who understood the situation better, had more legitimate ground for anxiety, for they knew that the lifeboat, if loaded to its utmost capacity, could not carry more than half the souls that had to be saved. on becoming aware of this the men soon began to reveal their true characters. the unselfish and gentle made way for the women and children. the coarse and brutal, casting shame and every manly feeling aside, struggled to the front with oaths and curses, some of them even using that false familiar motto, "every man for himself, and god for us all!" but these received a check at the gangway, for there stood the captain, revolver in hand. he spoke but one word--"back," and the cravens slunk away. the mild man who had offered prayer sat on the ship's bulwarks calmly looking on. he understood the limited capacity of the boat, and had made up his mind to die. "now, madam, make haste," cried the mate, pushing his way towards the widow. "come, father," she said, holding out her hand; but the old man did not move. "there are more women and little ones," he said, "than the boat can hold. good-bye, darling. we shall meet again--up yonder. go." "never!" exclaimed the widow, springing to his side. "i will die with you, father! but here, boatman, save, oh, save my child!" no one attended to her. at such terrible moments men cannot afford to wait on indecision. other women were ready and only too glad to go. with a sense almost of relief at the thought that separation was now impossible, the widow strained the child to her bosom and clung to her old father. at that moment the report of a pistol was heard, and a man fell dead upon the deck. at the last moment he had resolved to risk all and rushed to the side, intending to jump into the boat. "shove off," was shouted. the boat shot from the vessel's side. the bowman hauled on the cable. in a few seconds the oars were shipped, the anchor was got in, and the overloaded but insubmergible craft disappeared into the darkness out of which it had come. the wretched people thus left on the wreck knew well that the boat could not make her port, land the rescued party, and return for them under some hours. they also knew that the waves were increasing in power and volume with the rising water, and that their vessel could not survive another tide. can we wonder that most of them again gave way to despair--forgetting that with god "all things are possible?" they were not yet forsaken, however. on the pier-head at greyton their signals had indeed been observed, but while the brentley boat, owing to its position, could run down to the wreck with all sail set, it was impossible for that of greyton to reach it, except by pulling slowly against wind and tide. the instant that bob massey saw the flare of the first tar-barrel he had called out his men. one after another they came leaping over the rocks--eager for the god-like work of saving life. it is one of the grand characteristics of our lifeboatmen that on being summoned to the fight there are often far more volunteers than are required. joe slag, as in duty bound, was first to answer the call. then several of the younger men came running down. last of all--almost too late--tom riley appeared, buckling on his lifebelt as he ran. his gait was not quite steady, and his face was flushed. the coxswain was quick to note these facts. "take that lifebelt off!" he said, sternly, when riley came up. no need to ask why. the tippler knew the reason why only too well, and he also knew that it was useless, as well as dangerous, to disobey the coxswain. he took off the belt at once, flung it down, and staggered away back to his grog-shop. a powerful young fisherman--who had felt almost heart-broken by being refused permission to go for want of room--gladly put on the belt and took riley's place. another minute and they were out of the harbour, battling with the billows and fighting their way inch by inch against the howling blast. at last they got out so far that they could hoist sail and run with a slant for the wreck. story one, chapter . it was daylight by the time the greyton lifeboat arrived at the scene of action, but the thick, spray-charged atmosphere was almost as bad to see through as the blackness of night. "i'm afeared she's gone," shouted slag to the coxswain, putting his hand to his mouth to prevent the words being blown bodily away. "no--i see her bearing sou'-west," was the brief reply, as bob massey plied his steering oar. a few minutes later, and the despairing people on the wreck, catching sight of the boat, greeted her with a long, wild cheer of reviving hope. "what is it?" asked the widow, faintly, for she had been growing gradually weaker from prolonged exposure. "the lifeboat, darling," said her father. "did i not say that he would not forsake us?" "thank god!" murmured the poor woman, fervently. "look up, lizzie; the lifeboat is coming to save us!" the child, who had been comparatively warm and sheltered, at the expense of her mother, looked up and smiled. soon the boat was alongside, and much the same scene that we have already described was re-enacted; but there were no rebels this time. by the captain's resolute bearing at first many lives had probably been saved. when most of the people had been lowered into the boat--not without great risk and many bruises--the widow, who, cowering with her father and child under the forecastle, had been overlooked, was led to the side with her child. "not together, ma'am," said the captain. "you'd likely drop her. let me lower the child down first; or come first yourself--that will be better." "give lizzie to me," said the grandfather. "i'll hold her till you are safe, and ready to receive her." "look alive, ma'am," urged one of the lifeboat men, who had scrambled on deck to render assistance. the widow was soon in the boat, and held out her arms for little lizzie. somehow--no one could tell how--the men made a bungle of it. perhaps the very fear of doing so was the cause. instead of being caught by the boatmen, lizzie slipped between the boat and the vessel into the boiling sea. giving one agonised cry, the grandfather leaped after her, but the surging boat swept in at the moment, and the old man fortunately fell into that instead of the sea. he was not hurt, for strong arms had been upraised to receive him. the little child rose above the foam as she was whirled past the stern of the boat by a swift current. bob massey saw her little out-stretched arms. there was no time for thought or consideration. with one bound the coxswain was overboard. next moment the crew saw him far astern with the child in his arms. "get 'em all aboard _first_!" came back, even against the wind, in bob's powerful, deep-toned voice. another moment, and he was lost to sight in the boiling waste of waters. slag knew well what he meant. if they should cast off the rope before rescuing all, for the purpose of picking up the coxswain, there would be no possibility of getting back again to the schooner, for she was fast breaking up. every current and eddy about these sands was well known to joe slag, also the set of the tides--besides, had not bob got on his lifebelt? he felt, nevertheless, that it was a tremendous risk to let him go. but what could poor slag do? to cast off at once would have been to sacrifice about a dozen lives for the sake of saving two. it was a fearful trial. joe loved bob as a brother. his heart well nigh burst, but it stood the trial. he did his duty, and held on to the wreck! duty, on that occasion, however, was done with a promptitude, and in a fashion, that was not usual in one of his sedate nature. fortunately, none but men remained on the wreck by that time. "tumble 'em in--sharp!" cried slag. the lifeboat men obeyed literally, and tumbled them in with a celerity that might almost have awakened surprise in a sack of potatoes! to haul up the anchor would have been slow work. slag--economical by nature--became extravagant for once. an axe made short work of cable and anchor. "let 'em go!" he growled, as the boat drifted away. the sail was set with miraculous speed, for now the wind was in their favour, and the gay lifeboat bounded off in the direction where bob had disappeared, as though it felt a lively interest in the recovery of its coxswain. it seemed as if the very elements sympathised with their anxiety, for just then the gale sensibly abated, and the rising sun broke through a rift in the grey clouds. "there he is--i see him!" shouted the man in the bow--pointing eagerly ahead. "it's on'y a bit o' wreck, boy," cried a comrade. "right you are," returned the bowman. "there he is, though, an' no mistake, this time. port!--port! hard-a-port!" as he spoke, the boat swept round into a sort of cross-current among the waves, where an object resembling a man was observed spinning slowly round like a lazy teetotum. they were soon alongside. a dozen claw-like hands made a simultaneous grasp, and hauled the object on board with a mighty cheer, for it was, indeed, the coxswain--alive, though much exhausted--with his precious little curly-haired burden in his arms. the burden was also alive, and not much exhausted, for the weather was comparatively warm at the time, and bob had thrust her little head into the luxuriant thicket of his beard and whiskers; and, spreading his great hands and arms all over her little body, had also kept her well out of the water--all which the great buoyancy of his lifebelt enabled him easily to do. shall we describe the joy of the widow and the grandfather? no; there are some sacred matters in life which are best left to the imagination. the sunshine which had begun to scatter the clouds, and flood both land and sea, was typical of the joy which could find no better means than sobs wherewith to express gratitude to the god of mercy. we have said that the gale had begun to abate. when the lifeboat escaped from the turmoil of cross-seas that raged over the sands and got into deep water, all difficulties and dangers were past, and she was able to lay her course for greyton harbour. "let's have another swig o' that cold tea," said bob massey, resuming his rightful post at the helm. "it has done me a power o' good. i had no notion that cold tea was so good for warmin' the cockles o' one's heart." ah! bob massey, it was not the cold tea, but the saving of that little girl that sent the life's blood careering so warmly through your veins! however, there's no harm done in putting it down to the credit of the cold tea. had the tea been hot, there might have been some truth in your fancy. "what's the time?" asked bob, with a sudden look of anxiety. "just gone ten," said slag, consulting a chronometer that bore some resemblance to an antique warming-pan. the look of anxiety on the coxswain's countenance deepened. "ease off the sheet a bit," he said, looking sternly over the weather quarter, and whistling for a fresher breeze, though most men would have thought the breeze fresh enough already. as if to accommodate him, and confirm the crew in the whistling superstition, the breeze did increase at the moment, and sent the lifeboat, as one of the men said, "snorin'" over the wild sea towards the harbour of greyton. it was a grand sight to behold the pier of the little port on that stormy morning. of course, it had soon become known that the lifeboat was out. although at starting it had been seen by only a few of the old salts--whose delight it was to recall the memory of grand stormy times long past, by facing the gales at all hours in oiled coats and sou'-westers--the greater part of the fishing village only became aware of the fact on turning out to work in the morning. we have said that the gale had moderated, and the sun had come out, so that the pier was crowded, not only with fisher-folk, but with visitors to the port, and other landsmen. great was the hope, and sanguine the expectation of the crowd, when, after long and anxious waiting, the lifeboat was at last descried far out at sea, making straight for the harbour. "all right, bill," exclaimed an old fisherman, who had been for some time past sweeping the horizon with his glass, "the flag's a-flyin'." "what does that mean?" asked a smart young lady, who had braved the blast and run the risk of a salt-wash from the sprays at the pier-end in her eager desire to see the boat arrive. "it means, miss, that they've managed to save somebody--how many, in course, we can't tell till they come." there was a strong disposition on the part of the crowd to cheer when this was said. after a few minutes' further observation, the old man with the glass murmured, as if speaking to himself, "i do believe she's chock-full o' people." when this was repeated, the suppressed cheer broke forth, and the excitement increased. soon the people with good eyes could see for themselves that the swiftly approaching boat was as full as she could hold, of human beings. at the same time, those who were in the boat could see the swarms of sympathisers on the pier who awaited their arrival. but there was one man who took no note of these things, and seemed indifferent to everything around him. the coxswain of the lifeboat was spiritually absent from the scene. "you seem to've got the fidgets, bob," remarked joe slag, looking earnestly at his friend. "that swim has been too much for 'ee." "'taint that, joe," replied bob, quickly. "what's the time now, lad?" pulling out the antique warming-pan again, slag said it was nigh a quarter past ten, and added that he, (bob), seemed to be "uncommon consarned about the time o' day that mornin'." "and so would you be, lad," returned the coxswain, in a low voice, as he advanced his mouth to his comrade's ear, "if you was in my fix. i've got to be spliced this day before twelve, an' the church is more'n two miles inland!" "that's awk'ard," returned slag, with a troubled look. "but, i say, bob, you've kep' this uncommon close from us all--eh? i never heerd ye was to be spliced so soon." "of course i kep' it close, 'cos i wanted to give you an' my mates a surprise, but it strikes me i'll give some other people a surprise to-day, for there's no time to put on clean toggery." "you'll never manage it," said slag, in a sympathetic tone, as he once more consulted the warming-pan. "it's gettin' on for half arter ten now, an' it takes a mortal time to rig out in them go-to-meetin' slops." "do i look anything like a bridegroom as i am?" asked the coxswain with a curious glance. "sca'cely," replied slag, surveying his friend with a grim smile--"(mind your helm, bob, there's a awk'ard run on the tide round the pier-head, you know.) no; you're not wery much like one. even if your toggery was all ship-shape--which it ain't--it would stand dryin', and your hair would be the better o' brushin'--to say nothin' o' your beard--an' it do seem, too, as if a bit o' soap might improve your hands an' face arter last night's work. no, bob, i couldn't honestly say as you're exactly ship-shape as you stand." "listen, joe slag," said bob massey, with sudden earnestness. "i've never yet come in after a rescue without seein' the boat hauled up an' made snug. `dooty first, an' pleasure arter,' that's bin my motto, as _you_ know. but dooty lies in another direction _this_ day, so you promise to see her hauled up, an' cleaned, an' properly housed, won't you?" "in coorse i does." "well, then," continued bob, in the same low, earnest tone, "arter that's done, you'll go an' invite all our mates an' friends to a jolly blow-out in the big shed alongside o' my old mother's house. don't tell who invites 'em, or anything about it, an' ask as many as like to come-- the shed's big enough to hold 'em all. only be sure to make 'em understand that they'll get no drink stronger than coffee an' tea. if they can't enjoy themselves on that, they may go to the grog-shop, but they needn't come to _me_. my mother will be there, and she'll keep 'em in order!" "what!" exclaimed slag, with a look of slight surprise. "your mother! her what's bin bed-ridden for years, an' hasn't got no legs at all-- leastwise not to speak of?" "just so, lad. we'll lift her in, bed an' all. now you be off to the bow. oars out, lads; stand by the halyards!" they were by that time close to the pier-head, where the people were shouting and cheering, some of them even weeping, and waving hats, 'kerchiefs, sticks, and umbrellas, almost wild with joy at seeing so many fellow-creatures rescued from the maw of the hungry sea. the first man who leaped out when the lifeboat touched the pier was the coxswain, dripping, dirty, and dishevelled. "bless you, my gallant fellow!" exclaimed an irrepressible old enthusiast, stepping forward and attempting to grasp the coxswain's hand. but bob massey, brushing past him, ran along the pier, leaped a fence, and sprang up the steep path that led to the cliffs, over the top of which he was finally seen to bound and disappear. "poor fellow!" exclaimed the irrepressible enthusiast, looking aghast at slag, "exposure and excitement have driven him mad!" "looks like it!" replied slag, with a quiet grin, as he stooped to assist the widow and little lizzie to land, while ready hands were out-stretched to aid and congratulate the old grandfather, and the rest of the rescued people. the coxswain ran--ay, he ran as he had been wont to run when he was a wild little fisher-boy--regardless alike of appearances and consequences. the clock of the village steeple told him that the appointed hour had almost arrived. two miles was a long way to run in heavy woollen garments and sea-boots, all soaked in sea-water. but bob was young, and strong, and active, and--you understand the rest, good reader! the church had purposely been selected at that distance from the village to prevent bob's comrades from knowing anything about the wedding until it should be over. it was a somewhat strange fancy, but the coxswain was a man who, having taken a fancy, was not easily turned from it. in order to her being got comfortably ready in good time, nellie carr had slept the night before at the house of an uncle, who was a farmer, and lived near the church. the house was in a sheltered hollow, so that the bride was scarcely aware of the gale that had been blowing so fiercely out at sea. besides, being much taken up with cousin-bridesmaids and other matters, the thought of the lifeboat never once entered her pretty head. at the appointed hour, arrayed in all the splendour of a fisherman's bride, she was led to the church, but no bridegroom was there! "he won't be long. he's _never_ late," whispered a bridesmaid to anxious nellie. minutes flew by, and nellie became alarmed. the clergyman also looked perplexed. "something must have happened," said the farmer-uncle, apologetically. watches were consulted and compared. at that moment a heavy rapid tread was heard outside. another moment, and bob massey sprang into the church, panting, flushed, dirty, wet, wild, and, withal, grandly savage. "nellie!" he exclaimed, stopping short, with a joyful gaze of admiration, for he had never seen her so like an angel before. "bob!" she cried in alarm, for she had never before seen him so like a reprobate. "young man," began the clergyman, sternly, but he got no further; for, without paying any attention to him whatever, bob strode forward and seized nellie's hands. "i dursen't kiss ye, nell, for i'm all wet; but i hadn't one moment to change. bin out all night i' the lifeboat an' saved over thirty souls. the brentley boat's done as much. i'm ashamed, sir," he added, turning to the clergyman, "for comin' here like this; but i couldn't help it. i hope there's nothin' in scriptur' agin' a man bein' spliced in wet toggery?" whether the clergyman consulted his cruden's concordance with a view to clear up that theological question, we have never been able to ascertain; but it is abundantly clear that he did not allow the coxswain's condition to interfere with the ceremony, for in the _greyton journal_, of next day, there appeared a paragraph to the following effect: "the marriage of robert massey, the heroic coxswain of our lifeboat, (which, with all its peculiar attendant circumstances, and the gallant rescue that preceded it, will be found in another part of this day's issue), was followed up in the afternoon by a feast, and what we may style a jollification, which will live long in the memory of our fisher-folk. "several circumstances combined to render this wedding-feast unique. to say nothing of the singular beauty of the bride, who is well known as one of the most thrifty and modest girls in the town, and the stalwart appearance of our coxswain, who, although so young, has already helped to save hundreds of human lives from the raging sea, the gathering was graced by the presence of the bridegroom's bed-ridden mother. old mrs massey had been carried in, bed and all, to the scene of festivity; and it is due to the invalid to state that, despite rheumatics and the singularity of her position, she seemed to enjoy herself exceedingly. besides this, the friends and comrades of the coxswain--backed by the enthusiastic groomsman, joe slag--would not permit massey to don wedding garments, but insisted on his dancing himself dry, in the rough garb in which he had effected the rescue. this he had no difficulty in doing, having already run himself more than half dry in hastening from the lifeboat to the church, which latter he reached only just in time. "the little girl whom massey personally saved was also present, with her mother and grandfather; and one interesting episode of the evening was the presentation to our coxswain of a gold watch and a purse of fifty sovereigns by the grateful old grandfather. another peculiarity of the proceedings was that massey insisted--although the clergyman was present--on his old mother asking god's blessing on the feast before it began. all who are acquainted with our liberal-minded vicar will easily understand that he highly approved of the arrangement. "to crown all, the feast was conducted on strictly teetotal principles. we have frequently advocated the principles of total abstinence in these columns--at least for the young, the healthy, and the strong--and we are glad to acknowledge that this wedding has greatly helped our cause; for the fun and hilarity in all, the vigour of limb in dancing, and of lung in singing--in short, the general jollity--could not have been surpassed if the guests had been swilling rivers of beer and brandy, instead of oceans of tea. yes, as one of the irish guests remarked, `it was a great occasion intoirely,' and it will be long before the event is forgotten, for the noble deeds of our greyton lifeboat are, from this day forward, intimately and inseparably connected with her coxswain's wedding!" thus spake the greyton oracle; but, prophet though that journal professed to be, the oracle failed to discern that from that time forward the names of robert massey and joe slag would very soon cease to be connected with the greyton lifeboat. story one, chapter . soon after the wedding recorded in the last chapter an event occurred which entirely altered the character and current of our coxswain's career, at least for a time. this was the sudden death of the bed-ridden old mother, who had played such an interesting part at the wedding-feast. to our hero, who was a tender-hearted man, and a most affectionate son, the blow was almost overwhelming, although long expected. "i don't think i can stay here much longer," he said one evening to his pretty wife, as they sat together outside their door and watched the village children romping on the sands; "everything minds me o' the dear old woman, an' takes the heart out me. if it wasn't for you, nell, i'd have been off to the other side o' the world long before now, but i find it hard to think o' takin' you away from all your old friends and playmates--and your aunt betty." a peculiar smile lit up nellie's face as her husband concluded. "i should be sorry to leave the old friends here," she replied, "but don't let that hinder you if ye want to go away. i'd leave everything to please you, bob. and as to aunt betty--well, i'm not ungrateful, i hope, but--but _she_ wouldn't break her heart at partin' wi' _me_." "right you are, nell, as you always was, and always will be," said massey. he laughed a short, dry laugh, and was grave again. it was quite evident that aunt betty would not be a hindrance to the departure of either of them and no wonder, for betty had received nellie carr into her family with a bad grace when her widowed brother, "old carr," died, leaving his only child without a home. from that day betty had brought the poor little orphan up--or, rather, had scolded and banged her up--until bob massey relieved her of the charge. to do aunt betty justice, she scolded and banged up her own children in the same way; but for these--her own young ones--she entertained and expressed a species of affection which mankind shares in common with cats, while for nellie carr she had no such affection, and contrived to make the fact abundantly plain. as we not infrequently find in such circumstances, the favoured children--which numbered seven--became heart-breakers, while the snubbed one turned out the flower of the flock. "then you're sure you won't think it hard, nell, if i ask you to leave home and friends and go wi' me over the sea?" "yes, bob, i'm quite sure. i'm willin' to follow you to the end o' the world, or further if that's possible!" "then the thing's settled," said massey, with decision, rising and thrusting his short pipe into his vest pocket, the lining of which had already been twice renewed in consequence of the inroads of that half-extinguished implement. in pursuance of his "settled" purpose, our coxswain proceeded to the lifeboat-shed in search of his bowman, joe slag, and found him there. "joe," said he, in the quiet tone that was habitual to him, "nell and i have made up our minds to go to australia." "to austrailly!" exclaimed slag, leaning his arms on the mop with which he had been washing down the lifeboat. "ay; i can't settle to work nohow since the dear old woman went away; so, as nell is agreeable, and there's nothin' to keep me here, i've decided to up anchor and bear away for the southern seas." the bowman had seated himself on a cask while his friend was speaking, and gazed at him with a bewildered air. "are 'ee in arnest, bob?" "ay, joe, in dead earnest." "an' you say that you've nothin' to keep you here! what's this?" said slag, laying his strong hand tenderly on the blue side of the boat. "well, i'll be sorry to leave _her_, of course, an all my friends in greyton, but friends will get along well enough without me, an' as for the boat, she'll never want a good coxswain while joe slag's alive an' well." "you're wrong there, mate," returned the bowman, quickly, while a look of decision overspread his bluff countenance, "there'll be both a noo cox'n and a noo bowman wanted for her before long, for as sure as the first goes away the tother follers." "nonsense, joe; you're jokin' now." "yes, i'm jokin' if _you're_ jokin'; otherwise, i'm in dead arnest too-- in as dead arnest as yourself, if not deader. wasn't you an' me born on the same day, bob? didn't our mothers crow over us cheek by jowl when we was babbies? haven't we rollicked together on the shore ever since we was the height of our daddies' boots, an' gone fishin' in company, fair weather an' foul, to the present hour, to say nothin' o' the times we've lent a hand to rescue men an' women an' child'n i' the lifeboat? no, no, bob massey! if you lay yer course for austrailly, joseph slag follers, as sure as a gun." finding that his comrade was in downright earnest, and possessed of a will as inflexible as his own, bob made no effort to dissuade him from his purpose. on the contrary, he approved of the determination, for he was pleased at the unexpected demonstration of affection which his announcement had called forth in one who was by nature undemonstrative, and who, having thus given vent to his aroused feelings, quickly resumed the reserve from which he had been so suddenly drawn out. massey, therefore, shook hands with him, by way of sealing an unspoken compact of eternal friendship, and suggested that they should proceed together to the office of an emigration agent, who had recently made his appearance in the village. in the office they found a very small boy, with an air of self-possession that would have been suitable in his grandfather. "is the agent in?" asked the coxswain. "yes, but engaged. sit down; he'll attend to you directly." the lifeboat men obeyed, almost sheepishly, the one speculating as to whether highly developed precocity was not almost criminal, the other wondering how such a boy would look and act if obliged to undergo the process of being rescued--say by the hair of his head--from a wreck. their minds were diverted from this subject of contemplation by the entrance of a man and woman. these, like themselves, were told to sit down and wait. the man was long, thin, and lugubrious. the woman short, slight, and lackadaisical, though rather pretty. evidently the agent was a busy man, for he kept them waiting some time. when he at length appeared he almost took the breath away from his visitors, by the rapid and enthusiastic way in which he described the advantages of the great island on the other side of the globe. there was gold--yes, _enormous_ quantities of gold in all directions. there was land of the finest quality to be had for next to nothing; work for all who were blessed with good bone and muscle; a constant demand for labour--skilled or unskilled--at high wages; a climate such as the olympian gods might revel in, and--in short, if all england had heard the oration delivered by that man, and had believed it, the country would, in less than a month, have been depopulated of its younger men and women, and left to the tender mercies of the old and middle-aged. our two fishermen were captivated. so were the lugubrious man and his mild little wife. the end of it was that, three weeks later, these four, with many other men and women of all ranks and conditions, found themselves on board the good ship _lapwing_, ploughing their way through the billows of the broad atlantic ocean bound for the sunny isles of the antipodes. wheels within wheels--worlds within worlds--seems to be the order of nature everywhere. someone has written, with more of truth than elegance-- "big fleas have little fleas upon their legs to bite 'em, and little fleas have lesser fleas--and so _ad infinitum_." one's native land is to millions of people the world in which their thoughts centre, and by which they are circumscribed. a farmer's homestead is the world to him, and one of the farmer's cheeses contains a mighty world in itself. but the most complete, compact, and exclusive world in existence, perhaps, is a ship at sea--especially an emigrant ship--for here we find an epitome of the great world itself. here may be seen, in small compass, the operations of love and hate, of wisdom and stupidity, of selfishness and self-sacrifice, of pride, passion, coarseness, urbanity, and all the other virtues and vices which tend to make the world at large--a mysterious compound of heaven and hell. wherever men and women--not to mention children--are crowded into small space, friction ensues, and the inevitable result is moral electricity, positive and negative--chiefly positive! influences naturally follow, pleasant and unpleasant--sometimes explosions, which call for the interference of the captain or officer in charge of the deck at the time being. for instance, tomlin is a fiery but provident man, and has provided himself with a deck-chair--a most important element of comfort on a long voyage. sopkin is a big sulky and heedless man, and has provided himself with no such luxury. a few days after leaving port sopkin finds tomlin's chair on deck, empty, and, being ignorant of social customs at sea, seats himself thereon. tomlin, coming on deck, observes the fact, and experiences sudden impulses in his fiery spirit. the electricity is at work. if it were allowable to venture on mental analysis, we might say that tomlin's sense of justice is violated. it is not fair that he should be expected to spend money in providing comforts for any man, much less for a man who carelessly neglects to provide them for himself. his sense of propriety is shocked, for sopkin has taken possession without asking leave. his self-esteem is hurt, for, although sopkin knows it is his chair, he sits there doggedly, "like a big brute as he is," and does not seem to care what tomlin thinks or how he looks. besides, there is thrust upon tomlin the disagreeable necessity of claiming his own, and that, too, in a gentlemanly tone and manner--for it will not do to assume beforehand that sopkin is going to refuse restitution. tomlin is not aware that he thinks all this, but he knows that he feels it, and, in spite of himself, demands his property in a tone and with a look that sets agoing the electrical current in sopkin, who replies, in a growling tone, "it is _my_ chair just now." ordinary men would remonstrate in a case of this kind, or explain, but tomlin is not ordinary. he is fiery. seizing the back of his property, he hitches it up, and, with a deft movement worthy of a juggler, deposits the unreasonable sopkin abruptly on the deck! sopkin leaps up with doubled fists. tomlin stands on guard. rumkin, a presumptuous man, who thinks it his special mission in life to set everything wrong right, rushes between them, and is told by both to "mind his own business." the interruption, however, gives time to the captain to interfere; he remarks in a mild tone, not unmixed with sarcasm, that rough skylarking is not appropriate in the presence of ladies, and that there is a convenient fo'c's'l to which the gentlemen may retire when inclined for such amusement. there is a something in the captain's look and manner which puts out the fire of tomlin's spirit, and reduces the sulky sopkin to obedience, besides overawing the presumptuous rumkin, and from that day forth there is among the passengers a better understanding of the authority of a sea captain, and the nature of the unwritten laws that exist, more or less, on ship-board. we have referred to an incident of the quarter-deck, but the same laws and influences prevailed in the forepart of the vessel, in which our coxswain and his friend had embarked. it was the evening of the fifth day out, and massey, joe slag, the long lugubrious man, whose name was mitford, and his pretty little lackadaisical wife, whose name was peggy, were seated at one end of a long mess-table having supper--a meal which included tea and bread and butter, as well as salt junk, etcetera. "you don't seem quite to have recovered your spirits yet, mitford," said massey to the long comrade. "have a bit o' pork? there's nothin' like that for givin' heart to a man." "ay, 'specially arter a bout o' sea-sickness," put in slag, who was himself busily engaged with a mass of the proposed remedy. "it 'ud do yer wife good too. try it, ma'am. you're not half yerself yit. there's too much green round your eyes an' yaller about yer cheeks for a healthy young ooman." "thank you, i--i'd rather not," said poor mrs mitford, with a faint smile--and, really, though faint, and called forth in adverse circumstances, it was a very sweet little smile, despite the objectionable colours above referred to. "i was never a great 'and with victuals, an' i find that the sea don't improve appetite--though, after all, i can't see why it should, and--" poor mrs mitford stopped abruptly, for reasons best known to herself. she was by nature rather a loquacious and, so to speak, irrelevant talker. she delivered herself in a soft, unmeaning monotone, which, like "the brook," flowed "on for ever"--at least until some desperate listener interrupted her discourteously. in the present instance it was her own indescribable feelings which interrupted her. "try a bit o' plum-duff, mrs mitford," suggested massey, with well-intentioned sincerity, holding up a lump of the viand on his fork. "oh! please--don't! some tea! quick! i'll go--" and she went. "poor peggy, she never _could_ stand much rough an' tumble," said her husband, returning from the berth to which he had escorted his wife, and seating himself again at the table. "she's been very bad since we left, an' don't seem to be much on the mend." he spoke as one who not only felt but required sympathy--and he got it. "och! niver give in," said the assistant cook, who had overheard the remark in passing. "the ould girl'll be all right before the end o' this wake. it niver lasts more nor tin days at the outside. an' the waker the patients is, the sooner they comes round; so don't let yer sperrits down, mr mitford." "thank 'ee, kindly, terrence, for your encouragin' words; but i'm doubtful. my poor peggy is so weak and helpless!" he sighed, shook his head as he concluded, and applied himself with such energy to the plum-duff that it was evident he expected to find refuge from his woes in solid food. "you don't seem to be much troubled wi' sickness yourself," remarked massey, after eyeing the lugubrious man for some time in silence. "no, i am not, which is a blessin'. i hope that mrs massey ain't ill?" "no; my nell is never ill," returned the coxswain, in a hearty tone. "she'd have been suppin' along with us to-night, but she's nursin' that poor sick lad, ian stuart, that's dyin'." "is the lad really dyin'?" asked mitford, laying down his knife and fork, and looking earnestly into his companion's face. "well, it looks like it. the poor little fellow seemed to me past recoverin' the day he came on board, and the stuffy cabin, wi' the heavin' o' the ship, has bin over much for him." while he was speaking nellie herself came softly to her husband's side and sat down. her face was very grave. "the doctor says there's no hope," she said. "the poor boy may last a few days, so he tells us, but he may be taken away at any moment. pour me out a cup o' tea, bob. i must go back to him immediately. his poor mother is so broken down that she's not fit to attend to him, and the father's o' no use at all. he can only go about groanin'. no wonder; ian is their only child, bob--their first-born. i can't bear to think of it." "but you'll break down yourself, nell, if you go nursin' him every night, an' all night, like this. surely there's some o' the women on board that'll be glad to lend a helpin' hand." "i know _one_ who'll be only too happy to do that, whether she's well or ill," said mitford, rising with unwonted alacrity, and hastening to his wife's berth. just then the bo's'n's stentorian voice was heard giving the order to close reef tops'ls, and the hurried tramping of many feet on the deck overhead, coupled with one or two heavy lurches of the ship, seemed to justify the assistant cook's remark--"sure it's durty weather we're goin' to have, annyhow." story one, chapter . the indications of bad weather which had been observed were not misleading, for it not only became what terrence o'connor had termed "durty," but it went on next day to develop a regular gale, insomuch that every rag of canvas, except storm-sails, had to be taken in and the hatches battened down, thus confining the passengers to the cabins. these passengers looked at matters from wonderfully different points of view, and felt accordingly. surroundings had undoubtedly far greater influence on some of them than was reasonable. of course we refer to the landsmen only. in the after-cabin, where all was light, cosy, and comfortable, and well fastened, and where a considerable degree of propriety existed, feelings were comparatively serene. most of the ladies sought the retirement of berths, and became invisible, though not necessarily inaudible; a few, who were happily weather-proof, jammed themselves into velvety corners, held on to something fixed, and lost themselves in books. the gentlemen, linking themselves to articles of stability, did the same, or, retiring to an appropriate room, played cards and draughts and enveloped themselves in smoke. few, if any of them, bestowed much thought on the weather. beyond giving them, occasionally, a little involuntary exercise, it did not seriously affect them. very different was the state of matters in the steerage. there the difference in comfort was not proportioned to the difference in passage-money. there was no velvet, not much light, little space to move about, and nothing soft. in short, discomfort reigned, so that the unfortunate passengers could not easily read, and the falling of tin panikins and plates, the crashing of things that had broken loose, the rough exclamations of men, and the squalling of miserable children, affected the nerves of the timid to such an extent that they naturally took the most gloomy view of the situation. of course the mere surroundings had no influence whatever on the views held by bob massey and joe slag. "my dear," said the latter, in a kindly but vain endeavour to comfort mrs mitford, "rumpusses below ain't got nothin' to do wi' rows overhead--leastways they're only an effect, not a cause." "there! there's another," interrupted mrs mitford, with a little scream, as a tremendous crash of crockery burst upon her ear. "well, my dear," said slag, in a soothing, fatherly tone, "if all the crockery in the ship was to go in universal smash into the lee scuppers, it couldn't make the wind blow harder." poor mrs mitford failed to derive consolation from this remark. she was still sick enough to be totally and hopelessly wretched, but not sufficiently so to be indifferent to life or death. every superlative howl of the blast she echoed with a sigh, and each excessive plunge of the ship she emphasised with a weak scream. "i don't know what _you_ think," she said, faintly, when two little boys rolled out of their berths and went yelling to leeward with a mass of miscellaneous rubbish, "but it do seem to be as if the end of the world 'ad come. not that the sea _could_ be the end of the world, for if it was, of course it would spill over and then we would be left dry on the bottom--or moist, if not dry. i don't mean that, you know, but these crashes are so dreadful, an' my poor 'ead is like to split--which the planks of this ship will do if they go on creakin' so. i _know_ they will, for 'uman-made things can't--" "you make your mind easy, my woman," said her husband, coming forward at the moment and sitting down to comfort her. "things are lookin' a little better overhead, so one o' the men told me, an' i heard terrence say that we're goin' to have lobscouse for dinner to-day, though what that may be i can't tell--somethin' good, i suppose." "something thick, an' luke-warm, an' greasy, _i_ know," groaned peggy, with a shudder. there was a bad man on board the ship. there usually is a bad man on board of most ships; sometimes more than one. but this one was unusually bad, and was, unfortunately, an old acquaintance of the mitfords. indeed, he had been a lover of mrs mitford, when she was peggy owen, though her husband knew nothing of that. if peggy had known that this man--ned jarring by name--was to be a passenger, she would have prevailed on her husband to go by another vessel; but she was not aware of it until they met in the fore-cabin the day after leaving port. being a dark-haired, sallow-complexioned man, he soon became known on board by the name of black ned. like many bad men, jarring was a drunkard, and, when under the influence of liquor, was apt to act incautiously as well as wickedly. on the second day of the gale he entered the fore-cabin with unsteady steps, and looked round with an air of solemn stupidity. besides being dark and swarthy, he was big and strong, and had a good deal of the bully in his nature. observing that mrs mitford was seated alone in a dark corner of the cabin with a still greenish face and an aspect of woe, he staggered towards her, and, sitting down, took her hand affectionately. "dear peggy," he began, but he got no further, for the little woman snatched her hand away, sprang up, and confronted him with a look of blazing indignation. every trace of her sickness vanished as if by magic. the greenish complexion changed to crimson, and the woebegone tones to those of firm resolution, as she exclaimed-- "ned jarring, if you ever again dare to take liberties with _me_, i'll tell my 'usband, i will; an' as sure as you're a-sittin' on that seat 'e'll twist you up, turn you outside in, an' fling you overboard!" little mrs mitford did not wait for a response, but, turning sharply round, left the cabin with a stride which, for a woman of her size and character, was most impressive. jarring gazed after her with an expression of owlish and unutterable surprise on his swarthy countenance. then he smiled faintly at the unexpected and appalling--not to say curious--fate that awaited him; but reflecting that, although lugubrious and long, mitford was deep-chested, broad-shouldered, and wiry, he became grave again, shook his head, and had the sense to make up his mind never again to arouse the slumbering spirit of peggy mitford. it was a wild scene that presented itself to the eyes of the passengers in the _lapwing_ when the hatches were at last taken off, and they were permitted once more to go on deck. grey was the prevailing colour. the great seas, which seemed unable to recover from the wild turmoil into which they had been lashed, were of a cold greenish grey, flecked and tipped with white. the sky was steely grey with clouds that verged on black; and both were so mingled together that it seemed as if the little vessel were imbedded in the very heart of a drizzling, heaving, hissing ocean. the coxswain's wife stood leaning on her stalwart husband's arm, by the foremast, gazing over the side. "it do seem more dreary than i expected," she said. "i wouldn't be a sailor, bob, much as i've bin used to the sea, an' like it." "ah, nell, that's 'cause you've only bin used to the _sea-shore_. you haven't bin long enough on blue water, lass, to know that folks' opinions change a good deal wi' their feelin's. wait till we git to the neighbour'ood o' the line, wi' smooth water an' blue skies an' sunshine, sharks, and flyin' fish. you'll have a different opinion then about the sea." "right you are, bob," said joe slagg, coming up at that moment. "most people change their opinions arter gittin' to the line, specially when it comes blazin' hot, fit to bile the sea an' stew the ship, an' a dead calm gits a hold of 'e an' keeps ye swelterin' in the doldrums for a week or two." "but it wasn't that way we was lookin' at it, joe," returned nellie, with a laugh. "bob was explainin' to me how pleasant a change it would be after the cold grey sea an' sky we're havin' just now." "well, it may be so; but whatever way ye may look at it, you'll change yer mind, more or less, when you cross the line. by the way, that minds me that some of us in the steerage are invited to cross the line to-night--the line that separates us from the cabin--to attend a lectur' there--an' you'll niver guess the subjec', bob." "i know that, joe. i never made a right guess in my life, that i knows on. heave ahead, what is it?" "a lectur' on the `lifeboat,' no less! but it aint our lifeboat sarvice: it's the american one, cause it's to be given by that fine young fellow, dr hayward, who looks as if suthin' had damaged his constitootion somehow. i'm told he's a yankee, though he looks uncommon like an englishman." "he's tall an' 'andsome enough, anyhow," remarked massey. "ay, an' he's good enough for anything," said nellie, with enthusiasm. "you should see the kind way he speaks to poor ian when he comes to see him--which is pretty much every day. he handles him, too, so tenderly-- just like his mother; but he won't give him medicine or advice, for it seems that wouldn't be thought fair by the ship's doctor. no more it would, i suppose." "d'ee know what's the matter wi' him?" asked mitford, who had joined the group. "not i," returned massey. "it seems more like gineral weakness than anything else." "i can tell you," said a voice close to them. the voice was that of tomlin, who, although a first-class passenger, was fond of visiting and fraternising with the people of the fore-cabin. "he got himself severely wounded some time ago when protecting a poor slave-girl from her owner, and he's now slowly recovering. he is taking a long voyage for his health. the girl, it seems, had run away from her owner, and had nearly escaped into canada, where of course, being on british soil, she would be free--" "god bless the british soil!" interrupted little mrs mitford, in a tone of enthusiasm which caused a laugh all round; but that did not prevent some of the bystanders from responding with a hearty "amen!" "i agree with you, mrs mitford," said tomlin; "but the owner of the poor slave did not think as you and i do. the girl was a quadroon--that is, nearly, if not altogether, white. she was also very beautiful. well, the owner--a coarse brute--with two followers, overtook the runaway slave near a lonely roadside tavern--i forget the name of the place--but dr hayward happened to have arrived there just a few minutes before them. his horse was standing at the door, and he was inside, talking with the landlord, when he heard a loud shriek outside. running out, he found the girl struggling wildly in the hands of her captors. of course, he demanded an explanation, though he saw clearly enough how matters stood. "`she's my slave,' said the owner, haughtily. he would not, perhaps, have condescended even with that much explanation if he had not seen that the landlord sympathised with the doctor. "this was enough, however, for hayward, who is a man of few words and swift action. he was unarmed, but carried a heavy-handled whip, with this he instantly felled the slave-owner and one of his men to the ground before they had time to wink, but the third man drew a pistol, and, pointing it straight at the doctor's head, would have blown out his brains if the landlord had not turned the weapon aside and tripped the man up. before he could recover hayward had swung the girl on his horse, leaped into the saddle, and dashed off at full speed. he did not draw rein till he carried her over the frontier into canada, and had placed her beyond the reach of her enemies." "brayvo! the doctor," exclaimed slag, heartily. "then he found," continued tomlin, "that he had been wounded in the chest by the ball that was meant for his head, but made light of the wound until it was found to be serious. the ball was still in him, and had to be extracted, after which he recovered slowly. the romantic part of it is, however, that he fell in love with eva--that was the girl's name--and she with him, and they were married--" "ah, poor thing," said mitford; "then she died, and he married again?" "not at all," returned tomlin, "she did not die, and he did not marry again." "how--what then about that splendid wife that he's got in the after-cabin _now_?" asked mitford. "that's her. that's eva, the quadroon. she's not only as white as mrs massey or mrs mitford there, but she's been educated and brought up as a lady and among ladies, besides having the spirit of a _real_ lady, which many a born one hasn't got at all." there were many fore-cabin passengers who "crossed the line" that night in order to hear the gallant american lecture, but chiefly to see the beautiful lady who had been so romantically rescued from slavery. "not a drop of black blood in her body!" was mrs mitford's verdict after the lecture was over. "an' what if there was?" demanded slag, in a tone of indignation. "d'ee think that white blood is worth more than black blood in the eyes o' the almighty as made 'em both?" the lecture itself was highly appreciated, being on a subject which bob and joe had already made interesting to the steerage passengers. and the lecturer not only treated it well, but was himself such a fine, lion-like, yet soft-voiced fellow that his audience were quite charmed. soon the _lapwing_ was gliding through the warm waters of the equatorial seas, and those of the passengers who had never visited such regions before, were immensely interested by the sight of dolphins, sharks, and especially flying-fish. "i _don't_ believe in 'em," said mrs mitford to mrs massey one day as they stood looking over the side of the ship. "i do believe in 'em," said mrs massey, "because my bob says he has seen 'em." not long after this double assertion of opinion there was a sudden cry that flying-fish were to be seen alongside, and mrs mitford actually beheld them with her own eyes leap out of the sea, skim over the waves a short distance, and then drop into the water again; still she was incredulous! "flyin'" she exclaimed, "nothin' of the sort; they only made a long jump out o' the water, an' wriggled their tails as they went; at least they wriggled something, for i couldn't be rightly sure they _'ad_ tails to wriggle, any more than wings--never 'avin' seen 'em except in pictures, which is mostly lies. indeed!" "look-out!" exclaimed slag at the moment, for a couple of fish flew over the bulwarks just then, and fell on deck almost at mrs mitford's feet. when she saw them there floundering about, wings and all, she felt constrained to give in. "well, well," she said, raising her hands and eyes to heaven, as though she addressed her remarks chiefly to celestial ears, "did ever mortal see the likes? fish wi' wings an' no feathers! i'll believe _anything_ after that!" peggy mitford is not the first, and won't be the last woman--to say nothing of man--who has thus bounded from the depths of scepticism to the heights of credulity. story one, chapter . dr hayward, who had given great satisfaction with his lecture, possessed so much urbanity and power of anecdote and song, that he soon became a general favourite alike with steerage and cabin passengers. one sultry forenoon terrence o'connor, the assistant steward, went aft and whispered to him that ian stuart, the sick boy, wanted very much to see him. "i think he's dying, sor," said terrence, in a low tone. "has the doctor seen him this morning?" asked hayward, as he rose quickly and hurried forward. "he's seed him twice, sor," said terrence, "an' both times he shook his head as he left him." it was evident that the steerage passengers felt death to be hovering over them, for they were unusually silent, and those who were in the fore-cabin at the time hayward passed, cast solemn glances at him as he descended and went to the berth of the poor boy. it was a comparatively large berth, and, being at the time on the weather side of the ship, had the port open to admit fresh air. "my poor boy, do you suffer much?" said the doctor, in soothing tones, as he sat down beside ian, and took his hand. it was obvious that ian suffered, for an expression of weariness and pain sat on his emaciated countenance, but on the appearance of hayward the expression gave place to a glad smile on a face which was naturally refined and intellectual. "oh, thank you--thanks--" said ian, in a low hesitating voice, for he was almost too far gone to speak. "there, don't speak, dear boy," said the doctor, gently. "i see you have been thinking about our last conversation. shall i read to you?" "no--no. jesus is speaking--to me. his words are crowding on me. no need for--reading when he speaks; `come--unto me--i will _never_-- leave--'" his breath suddenly failed him, and he ceased to speak, but the glad look in his large eyes showed that the flow of divine words, though inaudible, had not ceased. "mother--father," he said, after a short pause, "don't cry. you'll soon join me. don't let them cry, dr hayward. the parting won't be for long." the doctor made no reply, for at that moment the unmistakable signs of dissolution began to overspread the pinched features, and in a few minutes it became known throughout the ship that the "king of terrors" had been there in the guise of an angel of light to pluck a little flower and transplant it into the garden of god. hayward tried to impress this fact on the bereaved parents, but they would not be comforted. they were a lowly couple, who could not see far in advance of them, even in regard to things terrestrial. the last words of their child seemed to have more weight than the comfort offered by the doctor. "cheer up, david," said the poor wife, grasping her husband's hand, and striving to check her sobs, "ian said truth, it won't be long afore we jine him, the dear, dear boy." but even as she uttered the words of cheer her own heart failed her, and she again gave way to uncontrollable grief, while her husband, dazed and motionless, sat gazing at the face of the dead. the funeral and its surroundings was as sad as the death. everything was done to shroud the terrible reality. the poor remains were tenderly laid in a black deal coffin and carried to the port side of the ship by kind and loving hands. a young wesleyan minister, who had been an unfailing comforter and help to the family all through the boy's illness, gave a brief but very impressive address to those who stood around, and offered up an earnest prayer; but nothing could blind the mourners, especially the parents, to the harsh fact that the remains were about to be consigned to a never resting grave, and that they were going through the form rather than the reality of burial, while, as if to emphasise this fact, the back fin of a great shark was seen to cut the calm water not far astern. it followed the ship until the hollow plunge was heard, and the weighted coffin sank into the unknown depths of the sea. an impression that never faded quite away was made that day on some of the more thoughtful and sensitive natures in the ship. and who can say that even amongst the thoughtless and the depraved no effect was produced! god's power is not usually exerted in visibly effective processes. seeds of life may have been sown by that death, which shall grow and flourish in eternity. certain it is that some of the reckless were solemnised for a time, and that the young wesleyan was held in higher esteem throughout the ship from that day forward. some of the passengers, however, seemed very soon to forget all about the death, and relapsed into their usual frames of mind. among these was ned jarring. for several days after the funeral he kept sober, and it was observed that the wesleyan minister tried to get into conversation with him several times, but he resisted the good man's efforts, and, when one of his chums laughingly remarked that he, "seemed to be hand and glove wi' the parson now," black ned swung angrily round, took to drinking again, and, as is usually the case in such circumstances, became worse than before. thus the little world of ship-board went on from day to day, gradually settling down into little coteries as like-minded men and women began to find each other out. gradually, also, the various qualities of the people began to be recognised, and in a few weeks--as in the greater world--each man and woman was more or less correctly gauged according to worth. the courageous and the timid, the sensible and the vain, the weak and the strong, the self-sacrificing and the selfish, all fell naturally into their appropriate positions, subject to the moderate confusion resulting from favouritism, abused power, and other forms of sin. it was observable also that here, as elsewhere, all the coteries commented with considerable freedom on each other, and that each coterie esteemed itself unquestionably the best of the lot, although it might not absolutely say so in words. there was one exception, namely in the case of the worst or lowest coterie, which, so far from claiming to be the best, openly proclaimed itself the worst, gloried in its shame, and said that, "it didn't care a button," or words, even more expressive, to the same effect. ned jarring belonged to this last class. he was probably the worst member of it. one night an incident occurred which tested severely some of the qualities of every one on board. it was sometime after midnight when the dead silence of the slumbering ship was broken by perhaps the most appalling of all sounds at sea--the cry of "fire!" smoke had been discovered somewhere near the fore-cabin. fortunately the captain had just come up at the time to speak with the officer of the watch on deck. at the first cry he ran to the spot pointed out, telling the officer to call all hands and rig the pumps, and especially to keep order among the passengers. the first man who leaped from profound slumber into wide-awake activity was dr hayward. having just lain down to sleep on a locker, as he expected to be called in the night to watch beside a friend who was ill, he was already dressed, and would have been among the first at the scene of the fire, but for an interruption. at the moment he was bounding up the companion-ladder, a young man of feeble character--who would have been repudiated by the sex, had he been born a woman--sprang down the same ladder in abject terror. he went straight into the bosom of the ascending doctor, and they both went with a crash to the bottom. although somewhat stunned, hayward was able to jump up and again make for the region of the fire, where he found most of the men and male passengers working with hose and buckets in the midst of dire confusion. fortunately the seat of the conflagration was soon discovered; and, owing much to the cool energy of the captain and officers, the fire was put out. it was about a week after this thrilling event that mrs massey was on the forecastle talking with peggy mitford. a smart breeze was blowing-- just enough to fill all the sails and carry the ship swiftly on her course, without causing much of a sea. the moon shone fitfully through a mass of drifting clouds, mingling its pallid light with the wondrous phosphoric sheen of the tropical seas. mrs mitford had been regaling her companion with a long-winded and irrelevant, though well-meant, yarn about things in general and nothing in particular; and nellie, who was the personification of considerate patience, had seated herself on the starboard rail to listen to and comment on her lucubrations. "yes, as i was sayin', nellie," remarked peggy, in her soft voice, after a brief pause, during which a variety of weak little expressions crossed her pretty face, "i never could abide the sea. it always makes me sick, an' when it doesn't make me sick, it makes me nervish. not that i'm given to bein' nervish; an', if i was, it wouldn't matter much, for the sea would take it out o' me, whether or not. that's always the way--if it's not one thing, it's sure to be another. don't you think so, nellie? my john says 'e thinks so--though it isn't to be thought much of what _'e_ says, dear man, for 'e's got a way of sayin' things when 'e don't mean 'em--you understand?" "well, i don't quite understand," answered mrs massey, cutting in at this point with a laugh, "but i'm quite sure it's better to say things when you don't mean them, than to mean things when you don't say them!" "perhaps you're right, nellie," rejoined mrs mitford, with a mild nod of assent; "i've sometimes thought on these things when i've 'ad one o' my sick 'eadaches, which prevents me from thinkin' altogether, almost; an', bless you, you'd wonder what strange idears comes over me at such times. did you ever try to think things with a sick 'eadache, nellie?" with a laugh, and a bright look, mrs massey replied that she had never been in a position to try that curious experiment, never having had a headache of any kind in her life. while she was speaking, a broad-backed wave caused the ship to roll rather heavily to starboard, and mrs massey, losing her balance, fell into the sea. sedate and strong-minded though she was, nellie could not help shrieking as she went over; but the shriek given by mrs mitford was tenfold more piercing. it was of a nature that defies description. its effect was to thrill the heart of every one who heard it. but peggy did more than shriek. springing on the rail like an antelope, she would have plunged overboard to the rescue of her friend, regardless of her own inability to swim, and of everything else, had not a seaman, who chanced to be listening to the conversation--caught her with a vice-like grip. "hold on, peggy!" he cried. but peggy shrieked and struggled, thus preventing the poor fellow from attempting a rescue, while shouts and cries of "man overboard" rang through the ship from stem to stern, until it became known that it was a woman. then the cries redoubled. in the midst of the hubbub the strong but calm voice of the captain was heard to give orders to lower a boat and port the helm--"hard a-port." but, alas! for poor nellie that night if her life had depended on shouters, strugglers, shriekers, or boatmen. at the moment the accident happened two men chanced to be standing on the starboard side of the ship--one on the quarter-deck, the other on the forecastle. both men were ready of resource and prompt in action, invaluable qualities anywhere, but especially at sea! the instant the cry arose each sprang to and cut adrift a life-buoy. each knew that the person overboard might fail to see or catch a buoy in the comparative darkness. he on the forecastle, who chanced to see nellie fall over, at once followed her with the life-buoy in his arms. ignorant of this act the man near the stern saw something struggling in the water as the ship flew past. without an instant's hesitation he also plunged into the sea with a life-buoy in his grasp. the faint light failed to reveal who had thus boldly plunged to the rescue, but the act had been observed both at bow and stern, and a cheer of hope went up as the ship came up to the wind, topsails were backed, and the boat was dropped into the water. twenty minutes elapsed before there was any sign of the boat returning, during which time the ship's bell was rung continually. it may be better imagined than described the state of poor bob massey, who had been asleep on a locker in the fore-cabin when the accident occurred, and who had to be forcibly prevented, at first, from jumping into the sea when he heard that it was nellie who was overboard. at last oars were heard in the distance. "stop that bell! boat ahoy!" shouted the captain. "ship aho-o-oy!" came faintly back on the breeze, while every voice was hushed and ear strained to listen, "all right! all saved!" a loud "thank the lord!" burst from our coxswain's heaving chest, and a wild ringing cheer leaped upwards alike from passengers and crew, while warm tears overflowed from many an eye that was more intimate with cold spray, for a noble deed and a life saved have always the effect of stirring the deepest enthusiasm of mankind. a few minutes more and three dripping figures came up the gangway. first came nellie herself; dishevelled and pale, but strong and hearty nevertheless, as might be expected of a fisher-girl and a lifeboat coxswain's wife! she naturally fell into, or was caught up by, her husband's arms, and was carried off to the cabin. following her came two somewhat exhausted men. the cheer that greeted them was not unmingled with surprise. "the best an' the worst men i' the ship!" gasped joe slag, amid laughter and hearty congratulations. he was probably right, for it was the young wesleyan minister and ned jarring who had effected this gallant rescue. the performance of a good action has undoubtedly a tendency to elevate, as the perpetration of a bad one has to demoralise. from that day forward black ned felt that he had acquired a certain character which might be retained or lost. without absolutely saying that he became a better man in consequence, we do assert that he became more respectable to look at, and drank less! thus the voyage progressed until the good ship _lapwing_ sailed in among some of the innumerable islands of the southern seas. story one, chapter . darkness, whether physical, mental, or spiritual, is probably the greatest evil that man has had to contend with since the fall. at all events, the physical and mental forms of it were the cause of the good ship _lapwing_ sailing one night straight to destruction. it happened thus. a pretty stiff breeze, amounting almost to half a gale, was blowing on the night in question, and the emigrant ship was running before it under close-reefed topsails. for some days previously the weather had been "dirty," and the captain had found it impossible to obtain an observation, so that he was in the dark as to the exact part of the ocean, in which he was sailing. in an open sea this is not of serious moment, but when one is nearing land, or in the neighbourhood of islands, it becomes cause for much anxiety. to make matters worse, the ship had been blown considerably out of her course, and, worst of all, the night was so intensely dark that it was not possible to see more than a few yards beyond the flying jibboom. the captain and mate, with several of the men, stood on the forecastle peering anxiously out into the darkness. "i don't like the look o' things at all," muttered the captain to the chief mate. "perhaps it would be well, sir, to lay-to till daylight," suggested the mate. whether the captain agreed with his chief officer or not was never known, for just then a dull sound was heard which sent a thrill to the bravest heart on board. "breakers ahead!" cried the look-out, as in duty bound, but he was instantly contradicted by the mate, who shouted that they were on the starboard beam, while another voice roared that they were on the port-bow. the helm was instantly put hard a-port, and immediately after the order was given "hard a-starboard," for it was discovered that the sound of breakers came from both sides of the vessel. they were, obviously, either running in a narrow strait between two islands, or into a bay. in the first case the danger was imminent, in the second case, destruction was almost inevitable. "clear the anchor, and stand by to let go!" cried the captain, in loud sharp tones, for he felt that there was no room to turn and retreat. the order was also given to take in all sail. but before either order could be obeyed, a cry of terror burst from many throats, for right in front of them there suddenly loomed out of the darkness an object like a great black cloud, which rose high above and seemed about to fall upon them. there was no mistaking its nature, however, for by that time the roar of the breakers right ahead told but too plainly that they were rushing straight upon a high perpendicular cliff. at this moment the vessel struck a rock. it was only a slight touch at the stern, nevertheless it tore the rudder away, so that the intention of the captain to put about and take his chance of striking on the rocks to starboard was frustrated. "let go," he shouted, in this extremity. quick as lightning the anchor went to the bottom but with such way on the ship, the sudden strain snapped the chain, and the _lapwing_ rushed upon her doom, while cries of terror and despair arose from the passengers, who had by that time crowded on deck. to the surprise of the captain, and those who were capable of intelligent observation, the ship did not immediately strike again, but sailed straight on as if right against the towering cliffs. still onward it went, and as it did so there settled around them a darkness so profound that no one could see even an inch before his eyes. then at last the ill-fated vessel struck, but not with her hull, as might have been expected. high up above them a terrific crash was heard. "god help us," exclaimed the captain, "we've sailed straight into a cave!" that he was right soon became evident, for immediately after the crashing of the topmasts against the roof of the cave, a shower of small stones and several large fragments fell on the deck with a rattle like that of musketry. some of the people were struck and injured, though not seriously so, by the shower. "get down below, all of you!" cried the captain, himself taking shelter under the companion hatchway. but the order was needless, for the danger was so obvious that every one sought the shelter of the cabins without delay. the situation was not only terrible but exceedingly singular, as well as trying, for as long as stones came thundering down on the deck it would have been sheer madness to have attempted to do anything aboveboard, and to sit idle in the cabins with almost certain death staring them in the face, was a severe test of endurance. from the motion of the vessel several facts could be deduced. although the scraping and crashing of the masts overhead told eloquently of destruction going on in that direction, the heaving of the ship, and her striking occasionally on either side, proved that there was deep water below her. that they were not progressing into an interminable cavern was made evident by the frequent plunging of the shattered bowsprit against the inner end of the cave. this action sent the vessel reeling backwards, as it were, every time she struck, besides shattering the bowsprit. that the cave, also, was open to the full force of the sea was only too severely proved by the rush of the billows into it, and the frequent and severe shocks to which they were in consequence subjected. these shocks had extinguished the lamps, and it was only by the aid of a few candles that they were delivered from sitting in absolute darkness. in these awful circumstances the young wesleyan proved that, besides the courage that he had already shown in facing danger on a sudden emergency, he also possessed that far higher courage which can face the slow and apparently sure approach of death with equanimity and self-possession. moreover, he proved that the word of god and prayer are the true resources of man in such extremities. calling those who were willing, around him, he led them in prayer, and then quieted the timid among them, as well as comforted all, not by reading, but by quoting appropriate passages from scripture, in which he was profoundly versed. "d'ee know when it'll be low water, sir?" asked joe slag of the captain, when the ship gave one of her upward heaves and rasped her timbers again on the sides of the cave. "not for three hours yet, but it's falling. i expect there will be less sea on in a short time. if the ship holds together we may yet be saved." there was a murmured "thank god" at these words. then bob massey expressed some fear that there might be a danger of striking the rocks underneath before low water. "i wish it was the risin' tide," he said, and the words took his mind back, like a flash of lightning, to the time when he used them in a very different sense. then all was peace, hope, sunshine, and his bride was sitting like a good angel beside him, with a sweet smile on her fair face. now, something like darkness visible, showed him his poor wife-- still beside him, thank god--but clinging to his arm with looks of terror amounting almost to despair. "what a contrast!" he thought, and for the first time a feeling of rebellion arose in his mind. "there's no use o' sittin' here to be drowned like rats," he cried, starting up. "i'll go on deck an' take a cast o' the lead, an' see what chances we have." "no, you won't, bob," cried nellie, throwing her arms firmly round him. "there's big stones falling all about the deck yet. don't you hear them?" as if to corroborate her words, a piece of rock nearly half a ton in weight fell on the sky-light at that moment, crashed completely through it, through the table below, and even sank into the cabin floor. fortunately, no one was hurt, though slag had a narrow escape, but that worthy was not easily intimidated. he rose up, and, saying that, "it was as well to be killed on deck doin' somethin' as in the cabin doin' nothin'," was about to ascend the ladder when dr hayward suddenly entered, all wet and dishevelled, and with blood trickling down his face. "no use going up just now, joe," he said, as he sat down beside his wife, and permitted her to tie a kerchief round his head. "only a slight wound, eva, got while taking soundings. i find that there are sixteen fathoms of water under us, and, although i couldn't see my hand held up before my face, i managed to make out by the flash of a match, which burned for a moment before being blown out, that the sides of the cave are quite perpendicular, not the smallest ledge to stand on. the tide, however, is ebbing fast, and the water in the cave calming, so that if no bad leak has been made by all this thumping we may yet be saved. our only chance is to stick to the ship." while he was speaking the vessel again surged violently against one side of the cave, and another of the huge masses of rock that were brought down by the swaying masts came crashing on the deck. "there is no bad leak as yet," said the captain, re-entering the cabin, which he had quitted for the purpose of sounding the well. "if we can keep afloat for an hour or two we may be able to use the boats. just now it would be useless to attempt launching them." although the captain's words were not particularly reassuring, his confident tone and manner infused hope, and comforted the people greatly. some of the male passengers even volunteered to face the shower of stones, if need be, and lend a hand in launching the boats, when the time for doing so arrived. these boats, three in number, were lying bottom up on deck, and to reach them involved the risk of death to whoever should attempt it. they were therefore compelled to wait. it is difficult to form even a slight conception of the horrors of that night. for several hours they sat in the after-cabin, and the ship surged and plunged in the wildly-heaving water, striking the sides continually, while rocks fell at intervals on the deck, thus adding to the noise of wind and waves as they raged with echoing, deafening noise in the black cavern. each moment it seemed as if the ship must have her planks stove in and be sunk, but she was a new vessel and strong. of course she leaked considerably, but when the tide went down the sea calmed a little, the rocks ceased falling from the roof, and they were enabled to rig the pumps and work them vigorously. the boats, meanwhile, were cast loose and got ready to launch at the first glimmer of daylight! fortunately, they had received no serious injury from the falling rocks. oh, how they longed and prayed for the day! it came at last, a gleam so faint that it showed nothing of their surroundings save the outline of the cavern's great mouth. "shall we launch the boats now, sir?" asked the first mate, who was becoming anxious, because the carpenter had just reported that the water in the hold was increasing dangerously in spite of the pumps. "not yet--not yet," returned the captain, hurriedly. "we must have more light first. the loss of a boat would be fatal. i'm afraid of the rising tide." "afraid of the rising tide!" again the words struck strangely on bob massey's ears as he stood wiping the perspiration from his brow after a long spell at the pumps--and once more carried him back to the sunlit sands of old england. soon the increase of water in the hold was so great that the getting out of the boats could no longer be delayed. the first launched was a small one. it was lowered over the stern by means of the studding-sail boom, with a block and whip, which kept it from dropping too quickly into the water. massey and his friend slag, being recognised as expert boatmen in trying circumstances, were sent in it, with two of the crew, to run out a line and drop an anchor in the sea outside, so that the heavier boats might be hauled out thereby. two hundred and fifty fathoms of rope were given them--more than sufficient for the purpose. on getting outside, bob and his friend, according to custom as lifeboat men, kept a sharp look-out on everything around them, and the feeble daylight enabled them to see that the black cliff which had, as it were, swallowed up the _lapwing_, was full six hundred feet high and a sheer precipice, in some places overhanging at the top, and without the symptom of a break as far as the eye could reach in either direction. "a black look-out, joe," muttered massey, as he assisted his comrade to heave the anchor over the side. "ay, bob, an' the worst of it is that the tide's risin'. a boat can live here as long as that ridge o' rocks keeps off the seas, but in an hour or so it'll be rollin' in as bad as ever." "i knows it, joe, an' the more need to look sharp." returning to the ship, our coxswain made his report, and recommended urgent haste. but the captain required no urging, for by that time the ship's main deck was level with the water, and the seas were making a clean breach over the stern. the passengers and crew crowded towards the port gangway where the large boat was being brought round to receive the women and children first. this was such a familiar scene to the two lifeboat men that they kept cool and self-possessed from the mere force of habit. seeing this, the captain ordered mitford to get into the boat first, and help to stow the others, for it would be a tight pack, he said, to stow them all. dr hayward was ordered to assist. ned jarring volunteered to help to fend the boat off during the operation, and, without waiting for permission, jumped into her. mitford had consigned his wife to the care of his friend massey, who at once undertook the duty by tying a kerchief round peggy's head to keep her hair out of her eyes, after which he did the same for nellie. both women were perfectly quiet and submissive--the first owing to fear and exhaustion, the last from native courage, which enabled her to rise to the occasion. massey then stripped off all his own clothes, except shirt and trousers, so as to be ready for swimming, and, catching up a rope, advanced towards his wife, intending to fasten it round her waist. "peggy first, bob; i'll wait for _you_," said his wife. "look sharp!" cried the captain. bob turned at once to peggy, and in a few seconds she was lowered into the boat. mrs hayward followed. then massey insisted on his wife going, and the obedient nellie submitted, but, owing to a lurch of the ship at the moment, she missed the boat, and dropped into the water. one of the men attempted to pull her in, but could not, and, as all the others were engaged at the moment in trying to fend off the rocks, massey at once jumped into the sea, and helped to get his wife into the boat. at that moment there arose a cry that the ship was sinking, and a wild rush was made for the long-boat, which had also been successfully launched. of course it was instantly overcrowded, for all discipline was now at an end. before anything else could be done the _lapwing_ sank in sixteen fathoms of water, carrying the long-boat and all the people in her along with it, but those in the other boat had shoved off at the first wild cry, and hauling on the anchored cable, just escaped being sucked down by the sinking ship. bob massey clung to the boat's gunwale, and thus escaped. rowing back instantly, however, to the spot where the ship had gone down, they sought eagerly for swimmers. only three were discovered and rescued, but the others--seventy souls in all--found a watery grave in the dark cavern of that unknown land. story one, chapter . so rapidly did the final catastrophe take place that it was difficult for the rescued party at first to credit the evidence of their senses. on the spot where the _lapwing_ had been beating her sides against the cruel walls of the cavern, and where so many hearts had been throbbing wildly between hope and fear, no living creature remained; nothing but a few feet of the shattered masts appearing now and then above the surging waves, was left to tell of the terrible tragedy that had been enacted there. for upwards of an hour the party in the boat hovered about the place, not so much with the hope of rescuing any of their shipmates as on account of the difficulty of tearing themselves away from the fatal spot. perhaps the natural tendency of man to hope against hope had something to do with it. then they passed silently out of the cavern and rowed slowly along the base of the tremendous cliffs. at length the feeling of self-preservation began to assert itself, and bob massey was the first to break silence with the question-- "does any one know if there's anything to eat aboard?" "we'd better see to that," observed dr hayward, who was steering. bob massey pulled in his oar, and, without remark, began to search the boat. it was found that all the food they had brought away consisted of nine tins of preserved meat and three pieces of pork, a supply which would not go far among ten persons. the ten survivors were dr hayward and his wife; massey and nellie; joe slag; john mitford and his wife peggy; terrence o'connor, the assistant cook; tomlin, one of the cabin passengers; and ned jarring. all the rest, as we have said, had perished with the ill-fated _lapwing_. little was said at first, for the hopelessness of their condition seemed so obvious that the men shrank from expressing their gloomy fears to the women who sat huddled together, wet and cold, in the bottom of the boat. as we have said, as far as the eye could see in any direction, the frowning cliffs rose perpendicularly out of deep water. there was not even a strip of sand or a bay into which they could run in case of the wind increasing. "there is nothing for it but to push on till we come to an inlet, or break of some sort in the cliffs, by which we may land," said hayward, speaking encouragingly to the women. "god helping us, we are sure to find some such place ere long." "don't look very like it," muttered black ned, gloomily. "we can see how it looks about as well as you can," retorted john mitford, indignantly. "if ye can't say somethin' to cheer the women, there's no need for to look blue an' tell us what a mere babby could see for itself." this remark, coming as it did from lugubrious mitford, caused terrence o'connor to smile. "true for ye," he said, "we can see what's fornint us, but even black ned can't see round the corner." "besides, there may be a flat shore on the other side o' the island," added bob massey in a cheerful tone; "i've often noticed islands o' this build, and when they're so high on one side they usually are low on the opposite side; so we'll only have to pull round--an' mayhap there are people on it--who knows?" "ay, natives pr'aps," growled jarring, "an' cannibals who are fond of eatin' white folk--specially women!" "shut up your black muzzle, or i'll heave ye overboard!" said mitford, fiercely, for like many easy-going, quiet men, he was unusually savage when fairly roused. whatever black ned may have felt, he gave no expression to his thoughts or feelings by word or look, but continued calmly to pull his oar. all that day, and all that night, however, the party pulled steadily along the shore without finding an opening in the cliffs or any part which could be scaled by man. during this period their plight was miserable in the extreme, for the weather at the time was bitterly cold; they were drenched through and through with spray, which broke so frequently over the side as to necessitate constant baling, and, to make matters worse, towards evening of the second day snow began to fall and continued to do so the greater part of the night. fortunately, before dark they came to some small rocky islets, on which they could not land as the waves washed over them, but in the lee of which they cast anchor, and thus were enabled to ride out a furious gale, which sprang up at sunset and did not subside till morning. it need scarcely be said that the men did all that lay in their power to shelter the poor women, who had exhibited great fortitude and uncomplaining endurance all that weary time; but little could be done for them, for there was not even a bit of sail to put over them as a protection. "nellie, dear," said massey, when the boat was brought up under the lee of the rocks, "d'ee feel _very_ cold?" "not very," replied his wife, raising her head. "i'm strong, thank god, and can stand it; but peggy here is shudderin' awful bad. i believe she'll die if somethin' isn't done for her." "i think if she could only ring the water out of her clothes," whispered mrs hayward to her husband, "it might do her some good, but--" "i know that, eva: it would do you all good, and we must have it done somehow--" an exclamation in the bow of the boat at that moment attracted attention. it was john mitford, who, having taken off his own coat, and wrapped it round his shivering wife, had gone to the bow to rummage in a locker there, and had found a tarpaulin. massey had overhauled the locker for food before him, but the tarpaulin had been so well folded, and laid so flat in the bottom, that it had escaped his notice. retiring aft with this god-send, the lugubrious man speedily, with the assistance of his comrades, covered over the centre of the boat so completely that a small chamber was formed, into which the women could retire. it was not high enough, indeed, to stand in, but it formed a sufficient shelter from wind and spray. "now, peggy, my dear," said her husband when it was finished, "get in there--off wi' your things an' wring 'em out." "th-thank you, j-john," replied peggy, whose teeth chattered like castanets, "but 'ow am i t-to d-dry 'em? for wet c-clo'es won't dry wi-without a fire. at least i n-never 'eard of--" the remainder of her remarks were lost to male ears as the tarpaulin dropped around her after eva hayward and nellie had led, or half-lifted, her under its sheltering folds. how they managed to manipulate the shivering peggy it is not our province to tell, but there can be no doubt that the treatment of her two friends in misfortune was the cause of her emerging from under the tarpaulin the following morning alive and comparatively well, though still far from dry. the aspect of things had changed greatly for the better when the unfortunates resumed their voyage. the wind had abated, the sea, although still heaving, was smooth. the snow had ceased, and the sun arose in a cloudless sky, so that when poor mrs mitford raised her dishevelled head and felt the sun's cheering rays she exclaimed, with a sigh of relief: "la! if the sun ain't blazin' 'ot! an' i'm so 'ungry. dear, dear, 'ave you bin rowin' all night, john? 'ow tired you must be; an' your 'ands blistered, though you are pretty tough in the 'ands, but you couldn't 'old a candle to bob massey at that--yes, yes, nellie, i 'ear you, but la! what does it matter 'ow your 'air an' things is deranged w'en you're wrecked at sea and--" the abrupt disappearance of the dishevelled head at that moment suggested the idea that mrs mitford had either fallen backward suddenly or been pulled under cover by her companions. "she's all right, anyhow," said o'connor, adjusting his oar. "she's always all right," remarked mitford in a funereal tone, which, however, was meant to be confidential. "bless your heart, i've seen that woman under all circumstances, but although she's timid by nature, an' not over strong in body, i've never seen her give in or fairly cast down. no doubt she was pretty low last night, poor thing, but that was 'cause she was nigh dead wi' cold--yet her spirit wasn't crushed. it's my solemn conviction that if my peggy ever dies at all she'll die game." with a profound sigh of satisfaction at having thus borne testimony to the rare and admirable qualities of his wife, the worthy man applied himself to his oar with redoubled vigour. it is quite a pleasure in this censorious world to see any man absolutely blind to his wife's faults, and thoroughly awake to her good qualities. the opinion formed of peggy--by mrs massey and mrs hayward respectively, did not quite coincide with that of john mitford. "how did you get on with poor peggy last night, eva?" asked dr hayward of his wife, in an undertone, as they breakfasted that forenoon beside the tiller, while the rest of their companions were similarly engaged in the middle of the boat, and at the bow. "pretty well, tom, but she's troublesome to manage. she is so unusually timid, poor creature, so prone to give way to despair when things look bad, yet so sweetly apt to bound into high spirits when things are looking hopeful,--and withal, so amusingly garrulous!" strange to say, at the very moment that this was uttered, nellie was remarking to her husband in a low tone that, "poor peggy was quite a puzzle, that she was all but dead at one moment, and quite lively at another, that she professed to be all submission, but was as obstinate as a pig, and that her tongue--soft though it was--went like the clapper of a mill!" we have referred to breakfast, but the meal spread before the castaways hardly merits that name, for it consisted of only a small slice of pork to each; a few pieces of ship's biscuit that slag had discovered in his pockets; and a cup of water drawn from the pond which had accumulated in a hollow of the tarpaulin during the night. "it is lucky that one of the pieces of pork happened to be cooked," observed dr hayward, as he served out the allowance, "for i would have been sorry to break into the preserved meat tins till forced to do so. we must keep these as a reserve as long as possible." "right you are, sir!" said slag, with his mouth full, while with a clasp-knife he carefully cut off another morsel to be ready, "right you are! that 'minds me when we was starvin', me and my shipmates in the arctic regions, so as our ribs was all but comin' through our skins, an' we was beginnin' to cast an evil eye on the stooard who'd kep' fatter than the rest of us somehow, an' was therefore likely to prove a more satisfyin' kind o' grub, d'ee see--" "i say, joe," said hayward, interrupting, for he feared that slag's anecdote might not tend to render the pork breakfast more palatable. "sir?" said slag. "will you just go to the bow and take a squint ahead? i think there seems to be something like an end o' the cliffs in view--your eyes are better than mine." slag swallowed the mouthful on which he was engaged, thrust after it the morsel that was ready to follow, wiped the clasp-knife on his thigh, and went forward to "take a squint." it turned out that the "end" of the cliffs which the doctor had only supposed possible, was a reality, for, after a long gaze, slag turned and said-- "your eyes are better than you think, sir, for the end o' the cliff is visible, an' a spit o' sand beyond is quite plain." as this report was corroborated by bob massey, and then by all the other men, it sent a thrill of gratitude into the hearts of most of the party--especially the women, who, having lain so long wet and almost motionless, were nearly benumbed in spite of the sunshine. longer exposure, indeed, would probably have proved fatal to poor mrs mitford, possibly also to mrs hayward, who was by no means robust. as for our coxswain's wife, having been reared among the health-giving breezes of the sea-shore, and inured from infancy to exposure and hard work, she suffered much less than her female companions, and busied herself a great part of the time in chafing their cold limbs. in doing this she reaped the natural advantage of being herself both warmed and invigorated. thus virtue not only "is," but inevitably brings, its own reward! similarly, vice produced its natural consequences in the case of black ned, for that selfish man, being lazy, shirked work a good deal. it is possible to pull an oar in such a way that, though the rower may be apparently doing his best, he is, in reality, taking the work very lightly and doing next to nothing. acting in this way, ned jarring became cold when the sleet and spray were driving in his face, his blood flowed sluggishly in his veins, and his sufferings were, consequently, much more severe than those of his comrades. towards the afternoon of that day, they rounded the spit of sand mentioned by joe slag, and came upon a low-lying coast. after proceeding a considerable distance along which, they discovered a good harbour. this was fortunate, for grey clouds had again covered the sun and a bitter east wind began to blow. "thank god, eva," said hayward, as he steered into the bay, "for if we had not come upon this harbour, your strength and that of poor peggy, i fear, would have failed, but now you'll be all right in a short time." "oh, no, sir, i don't think as _my_ strength would fail," said peggy, in a feeble voice, for she had overheard the remark. "not that i shouldn't be thankful all the same, i allow--for thankfulness for mercies received is a dooty, an' most on us do fail in that, though i say it that shouldn't, but my strength ain't quite gone yet--" "stand by, slag, to fend off with your oar when we get close in," said the doctor, interrupting peggy's discourse. "have any of you got matches in your pockets?" asked massey, clapping his hands suddenly to the various receptacles about his person, with a look of unwonted anxiety. "ye may well ax that, bob," said o'connor, using his own hands in the same way. "cold, wet weather, and no house! it 'ud be death to the women, sure, av--" "here you are!" shouted tomlin in a burst of triumph, in spite of his naturally reserved disposition. he held up a box of vestas which, being a smoker, he fortunately had in his pocket. "i hope they ain't wet," remarked black ned, suggestively. "wrap 'em well up," said slag. tomlin drew out his handkerchief and proceeded to do so. at the same moment the boat's keel grated softly on the shingly shore. story one, chapter . seldom have the mysterious sparks of life been sought for more anxiously, or tended and nursed with greater care, than were the little sparks of fire which were evoked with difficulty from tomlin's match-box. drizzling rain had commenced just as the wrecked party landed. the tarpaulin had been set up as a slight, though very imperfect, shelter; the ground underneath had been strewn with twigs and grass, and a large pile of dead branches had been arranged to receive the vital spark before any attempt was made to create it. "everything must be quite ready, first," said hayward to tomlin, "for our very lives depend, under god, on our securing fire; so keep the matches snug in your pocket till i ask for them." "i will," replied tomlin, "d'you know it never occurred to me before how tremendously important the element of fire is? but how will you ever manage to make the branches catch, everything being so thoroughly soaked?" "you shall see. i have had to make a fire in worse circumstances than the present," returned hayward, "though i admit they are bad enough. have you got the small twigs broken and ready, slag?" "all ready, sir." "now look here, tomlin." as he spoke, the doctor picked up a dead but wet branch, and, sheltering himself under the tarpaulin, began to whittle it with his penknife. he found, of course, that the interior of the branch was dry. the thin morsels which he sliced off were handed to slag, who placed them with great care in the heart of a bundle of very small twigs resembling a crow's nest. a place had been reserved for this bundle or nest, in the heart of the large pile of branches lying on the ground. meanwhile, slag held the nest ready in his hands. "now, tomlin, get out your matches," said the doctor. with the utmost care the anxious man unfolded the kerchief, and, opening the box, looked into it earnestly. "wet?" asked hayward. tomlin shook his head. "i fear they are." he took one out, while the whole party assembled round him to note the result. the first match dropped its head like a piece of soft putty when scraped on the lid. the second did the same, and a suppressed groan escaped from the little group, for it could be seen that there were not more than ten or twelve matches in the box altogether. again and again a match was struck with similar result. the fifth, however, crackled a little, and rekindled, sinking hope in the observers, though it failed to kindle itself. the seventh burst at once into a bright blaze and almost drew forth a cheer, which, however, was checked when a puff of wind blew out the new-born flame. "och! let bob massey try it!" cried o'connor. "sure he's used to workin' in throublesome weather." "right, boy," said slag, "hand it to the coxs'n." tomlin readily obeyed, only too glad to get some of the failure shifted to other shoulders. massey readily undertook the task, and success attended his first effort. "i knowed it!" said nellie, in a quiet tone, as she saw the bright flame leap up and almost set her husband's beard on fire. "bob never fails!" the burning match was quickly plunged into hayward's handful of shavings, which blazed up as he thrust it into slag's nest; and slag, holding the nest with the tender care of a loving sick-nurse, and the cool indifference of a salamander, till it was a flaming ball, crammed it into the heart of the pile of sticks. tremendous was the volume of smoke that arose from the pile, and anxious were the looks riveted on it. "sure ye've smothered it intirely," gasped o'connor. "oh, me!" sighed peggy in a voice of mild despair. "no fear, it's all right," said massey, in a confident tone, while joe slag, on his knees, with cheeks inflated and nose all but kindling, blew at the glowing heart with unwearied determination, regardless alike of friend and foe. "it's going to do," remarked john mitford in his most dismal tone. "any child might tell that," said nellie, with a light laugh. the laugh seemed infectious, for the whole party joined in as a glorious gush of flame rushed among the sticks, dried up the dampness, and effectually changed the pillar of smoke into a pillar of fire. the fire thus kindled was rightly deemed of such vital importance that it was not permitted to go out thereafter for many months, being watched night and day by members of the party appointed to the duty by turns. it had, indeed, not a few narrow escapes, and more than once succeeded in reaching what appeared to be its last spark, but was always caught in time and recovered, and thus was kept burning, until a discovery was made which rendered such constant attendance and care unnecessary. "now," said dr hayward, when the fire was safely established, "we have not much daylight left, so it behoves us to make the most of it. you are a man of action and experience, robert massey, what would you advise us to do first?" "well, doctor, since you're good enough to ask me, i would advise that we should appoint a leader. you see, mates," he continued, addressing himself to the company in general, "there's no possibility of a ship gettin' along without a captain, or an army without a general. if we was going off to a wreck now, with or without a lifeboat, i would claim a sort o' right to be coxswain in virtue o' past experience; but, as we've now begun a sort o' shore-goin' business, which requires a deal o' general knowledge, besides seamanship, an' as dr hayward has got that by edication, i move that we make him our leader." "right you are, bob," said joe slag. ("as he always is," said nellie, _sotto voce_.) "so i second the move--if that's the reg'lar way to do it." "hear, hear!" said every one with right good will, and a gleam of pride flashed from eva's pretty brown eyes as her husband was thus unanimously appointed leader of the shipwrecked band. like a sensible man, knowing his capacity, he at once accepted the command without any display of undue modesty, and proved his fitness by at once going to work. "the first thing, then, is to thank god for our deliverance, which we all do, i am sure, most heartily." this was received with a responsive "amen" from every one--not even excepting black ned. "next, we must find fresh water and boil a bit of pork--" "ah, then, we haven't a kittle!" exclaimed o'connor. "haven't we a big baling-dish, terrence?" said hayward. "sure we have, sor, an' it's a tin wan as'll stand fire," returned terrence with a reproved look. "well, then, you go fetch it; wash it well out, and get the pork ready. jarring and tomlin will gather as much dead wood as they can find and pile it beside the fire. mitford will search for fresh water--there must be a spring or brook not far off--and massey and i will rig up some sort of shelter for the night." "please, sir, may i go with mitford to seek for water?" asked nellie. "by all means, if you wish to." "and i will keep you company, nell," said mrs hayward energetically. "so will i," chimed in little mrs mitford, feebly. "i was always fond of water. as a child i used to paddle about in it continually, an' sometimes tumbled into it, for of course young people will--" "no, peggy, you must sit by the fire with my wife," said the doctor. "neither of you is fit for work of any kind yet, so sit down and warm yourselves." eva was too wise, and peggy too weak, to offer objection, so these two sat by the fire while the others went to work. energy of action tends to lighten the burdens that may be laid on human spirits, and to induce the most favourable view of the worst circumstances. the toil which the party now undertook was such a blessed relief to them after the prolonged exposure to cold and comparative inaction in the boat, that all returned to the camp-fire in a much more cheerful state of mind than they left it. the searchers for water came back first, having found what they sought close at hand; and terrence, filling his baling-dish, soon had the pork boiling, along with some mysterious herbs gathered by the doctor to convert the liquid into soup. tomlin and black ned returned heavily laden with firewood, and bob massey discovered a tree with branches sufficiently spreading and leafy to protect them to some extent from rain. "'tis as well we have found overhead protection, massey," said the doctor, when our coxswain led him to the spot, "for i have been thinking that as we have no blankets, we shall be obliged to use our tarpaulin as a quilt rather than an umbrella." "that's true, sir," returned massey, "but how about the women?" "well, i've been thinking about that," said hayward, "and i've devised a plan for to-night at least; to-morrow i hope to hit on a better arrangement. first of all, we'll spread in front of a fire, which we will kindle beneath this tree, a layer of branches and grass. in the middle of this the women will lie down side by side, after having dried and warmed themselves thoroughly at the fire. then we'll take two of the floor planks from the boat, and put one on each side of them-- partially frame them, as it were. then one half of us men will lie down on one side of the frame, the other half on the other side, and we'll draw the tarpaulin over us all." "hm! not very comfortable," said massey, "for the poor women to be framed like that." "admitted; but what else can we do?" said hayward. "it would risk our lives to sleep without covering of any kind in such cold weather, and with sleet falling as it does now. better have the sheet spread upon us than merely over our heads. so now let's kindle another fire, and do you arrange our couch, bob." in spite of the cold and the sleet, things looked much more cosy than persons unacquainted with "roughing it" could believe possible, and they became comparatively happy when the couch was spread, and they were seated under the sheltering tree, with the fire blazing and crackling in front of them, suffusing their faces and persons and the leaf-canopy overhead with a deep red glare, that contrasted well with the ebony-black surroundings, while a rich odour of pork soup exhaled from the baling-dish. "ah! now there's nothin' wantin' to produce parfit felicity but a pipe," said o'connor with a sigh. "that's so, lad," assented tomlin, echoing the sigh, and feeling in his pocket from force of habit, though he knew too well that nothing was to be found there. "here, terrence," said massey, handing him an empty pipe, at the same time asking him to shut his eyes and draw, and try to imagine himself smoking, but terrence shook his head. "i couldn't do that, bob," he said, "but i'll sing ye a stave in praise o' the weed." without waiting for permission, the jovial irishman at once began: "oh! it's 'baccy as is my chief joy, at mornin', noon and night; an' it's verily my belief, boy, that i love it with all my might. if your liver an' lungs are squeakin', an' your head is growin' cracky, there's nothin' so sure to kill or cure, as fumes o' the strongest 'baccy." "if it would improve your voice, terrence," observed mr mitford, meekly, "i'm sure i wish ye had pounds of it, for it's that harsh-- though, of course, i make no pretence to music myself, but--" "just listen to that now, `harsh!' an' that to a man whose own mother, by the father's side, towld him he shud make music his purfession! arrah, howld on, black ned, ye spalpeen; ye've had two helpin's already!" this latter remark had reference to the baling-dish of soup which was being passed round the party, so that each might help himself to two mouthfuls of soup before passing it on. as they had no spoons, the doctor had extemporised ladles of folded bark, which served the purpose pretty well. "haven't ye a small bit o' 'baccy in the corner o' wan o' yer pockets, doctor, dear?" asked terrence, insinuatingly. "may be ye'd find a morsel if ye'd try." "quite useless to try, my poor fellow," returned the doctor, with a look of affected pity, "for i'm a non-smoker. i never indulge in such an absurdity." "sure, it's a true proverb that says `doctor's differ,'" retorted o'connor, "for most o' the saw-bones of my acquaintance have smoked like lime kilns." "more's the pity, terrence, but if you'll heave on some more firewood you'll have a smoke that may do as a substitute at present." by heaping quantities of fresh branches on the fire till it was large enough to roast an ox, the party managed to pass the night in comparative comfort, in spite of cold and sleet. hayward watched the fire during the first part of the night. then he was relieved by our coxswain, who was succeeded by joe slag, and no vestal virgins ever tended their fire with more anxious solicitude than those three men guarded theirs during that first night on the island. as if to make up for the sufferings of the past few days, the morning that followed broke with unclouded splendour, and the rising sun shone upon as beautiful a scene as could well be imagined, for it revealed an island richly clothed with verdure, which, rising out of a calm blue sea, sloped gradually upwards, until its western ridge met the bright sky. evidently that terminating ridge was the place whence descended the precipitous cliffs, along which they had sailed immediately after leaving the cave of the wreck. there is no accounting for the eccentricities of weak-minded females, whether pretty or plain. the first thing that pretty little mrs mitford exclaimed on opening her eyes and beholding the glorious view was-- "oh! i _do_ so wish that we had oysters for breakfast!" if she had expressed a desire for elephant chops, she could not have taken eva hayward more by surprise. as for nell massey, she went off into a hilarious giggle. "i fear there are no oysters hereabouts," said hayward, "but i shouldn't wonder if we were to find mussels and things of that sort. come, lads, we'll go and have a search for them, while the ladies fill and boil our kettle." limpets, mussels, and other shell-fish were found in great abundance. with these warm soup was soon made, and after a hearty breakfast, hayward organised the party in two bands which were sent off in different directions to explore the island, peggy and her husband being left behind to cook the dinner and keep up the fire. story one, chapter . for several days the shipwrecked party continued to live chiefly on limpets and mussels gathered on the sea-shore. only a very little of the pork was used, for the purpose of converting the food into soup. as they could not tell, of course, how long they might be compelled to live there, it behoved them to be very careful of the food-supply already in possession. fortunately, the weather continued fine, though cold, so that it was not necessary at first to make any alteration in their camp arrangements. during this period much of their time was necessarily spent in laying in a stock of shell-fish, and in attempting to bring down with stones some of the gulls which flew inquisitively about and very temptingly near to the camp, but none of the party was a good marksman with stone ammunition, and it soon became evident that unless some other means of obtaining food were discovered there was every prospect of starvation ending their career. in this emergency dr hayward organised an exploring expedition on a more extended scale. he divided the party into three bands--one consisting of ned jarring, tomlin, and himself, to examine the shores; another comprising joe slag, john mitford, and o'connor, to penetrate the interior and higher lands; while it was appointed to bob massey, who had by that time come to be more frequently addressed by his old title of "coxswain," to stay at the camp, keep the all-important fire going, and guard the women. "you see, we must go about this business thoroughly," said the doctor, when they were all assembled in the camp one day after their frugal meal, excepting o'connor, who was a short distance off, trying, with unwearied perseverance and unvaried failure, to kill gulls with stones. "and for this purpose, we must hold a council of war. where's terrence?" "he's pelting the gulls as usual," said black ned. "a-missin' of 'em, you mean," suggested mitford. "hallo, terrence!" shouted hayward, catching sight of the irishman at that moment. "here! we want you." "comin', sor, jist wan more shot at this baste. he's bin flyin' round me hid for half-an-hour at laste, winkin' at the stones as they go by him. och! missed again--bad luck to ye!" as he uttered the malediction the disappointed man heaved a last stone, angrily and without an attempt at an aim. he did not even look up to observe the result, but turned sharply round towards the camp. that stone, however, was like the arrow shot at a venture. it hit the bird full on the breast and brought it down, which fact was made known to the sportsman by a cheer from the camp and a heavy thud behind him. "well done, terrence!" cried hayward as he came up with his prize. "i regard it as a good omen--a sort of turn in the tide which will encourage us on our contemplated expedition." the leader then gave minute instructions as to how long they were to be away; how much food they were to take; the direction to be followed, and the work to be done. "in short," said the doctor in conclusion, "we must use our eyes, ears, and limbs to the best advantage; but bear in mind that the grand object of the expedition is--" "grub," suggested o'connor. "just so. grub is our first and greatest necessity. meanwhile, peggy, nell, and eva will do what they can to make our camp comfortable: gather mussels and other shell-fish and see that the coxswain does not eat more than a fair share of victuals, and conducts himself in all respects like an obedient and trusted servant." with such and similar touches of pleasantry hayward sought to cheer the spirits of the party, and divert their minds from dwelling too much on the fact that their case was a very serious one--almost desperate, for they were on a comparatively small island, far to the southward of the usual track of ships, without food or shelter, and without any of the ordinary means of procuring either. the remainder of that day was spent in making preparation for the projected expedition. as they had no offensive or defensive arms, except two gully knives, their first business was to provide each man with a spear. fortunately, some of the surrounding trees had very straight branches of various sizes, so they had only to cut down such as were suitable, and peel the bark off. but the formation of hard points gave them some anxiety, until tomlin hit upon the idea of utilising the bones of their pork. "the very thing!" said mitford, with a look of melancholy satisfaction. having no turn whatever for mechanics, he never saw difficulties till they met and overcame him, and was always ready to rush in where mechanical angels--if we may say so--feared to tread. "and how would you propose to cut the bones, john?" asked slag, with an air of modest simplicity. "cut 'em? eh! well--wi' the knife, of course." it was found, however, that the knife made but slight impression on the bones, and after one or two vain attempts, they turned to a more effective method. finding a huge boulder of some kind of sandstone they broke it up, and on the rough surface thus produced, ground the bones into sharp points, and by an ingenious method known to slag, who learned it from the eskimos, they fixed these firmly on the ends of their spears. thus armed, and with a small quantity of cold pork, and a large allowance of cold boiled limpets and mussels in their wallets, they set out on their explorations. it is impossible to accompany two parties at once. let us follow just now the one composed of joe slag, terrence o'connor, and john mitford. these, with joe as their leader, proceeded along the shore some miles in a northerly direction; and then, turning into the bush, which was nowhere thick, they pushed into the interior of the island. after advancing about ten miles they came on a wide stretch of sandhills or downs, and found that, having crossed a sort of isthmus, they had come out again on the sea-shore. "this won't do," said slag, on making the discovery. "we'll have to steer d'rect for the highest land." "that's so, joe," said mitford, "and yonder's a height away there, right in the wind's eye, that will act as a beacon to us." "i sees it, john--but, i say, what's the matter wi' terrence?" this question was drawn forth by the action of the irishman, who had walked on about fifty yards in advance of his comrades. he was standing in the attitude of an ancient roman about to discharge a javelin. stooping low as if to render themselves less conspicuous, mitford muttered, "hallo!" and his comrade whispered, "sh! he sees suthin'!" whatever it was he saw, o'connor evidently felt too far off to act effectively, for, after standing a moment in the classic position just referred to, he suddenly lowered his spear, dropped on hands and knees, and made a slow, undignified advance of a few yards. then he rose again, became classic once more and discharged his spear, in a manner that would have done credit to achilles himself. the growl that followed, and the "bad luck to ye," that came faintly back on the breeze, told too plainly that the result was a miss. "sure it's a rabbit i saw," he said, returning to his companions, "an' if i'd only sent it two yards more to the left, i'd have hit the baste!" to the satisfaction of the explorers, it was found that the sandhills were burrowed all over by rabbits, and that there existed there a large colony of them. cheered by this--in spite of their bad javelin play-- they made for the high ground, and soon found themselves threading a belt of wood, after crossing which they reached the foot of the range of hills that bounded the island to the westward. it was a weird, rugged spot, covered with great boulders that had rolled down the hill-sides, and with gaps and chasms here and there of considerable depth, that suggested the idea of volcanic action having visited the place at some remote period. these chasms or rents in the earth were overgrown with trees or bushes in many places, and obliged the travellers to make wide detours in some places to avoid them. thus they were so much delayed that night was upon them before they had reached the higher parts of the hill-range where they had intended to encamp. the difference between blanketing and gossamer is great, yet it is inconceivably slight compared with the difference between gossamer and nothing! in the pride of their strength the members of the exploring party lay down to sleep without covering of any kind, for the good reason that they possessed none, and before morning they would gladly have given a fabulous price for even a gossamer coverlet. "it's freezin' i am, if not froze," said terrence o'connor at the end of the second sleepless hour. "if we could have only brought away some o' the fire in our pockets, what a comfort it would have bin!" he got up, shook himself, and slapped his arms across his breast vigorously. slag and mitford followed his example. "i'm beginnin' to feel better on the outside," continued o'connor, pausing, "but my spinal marrow isn't properly warm yet." "'minds me o' baffin's bay," growled slag, with a mighty slap of the arms between each word. mitford seemed to think any remark superfluous, for he only groaned. "pity it's too dark to see yer face, john," said terrence. "it must be a sight worth seein'. och, av i only had a good-sized pocket-han'kicher i'd wrap me feet in it, anyhow." "suppose we cut some grass and try that?" suggested mitford. the suggestion was acted on. it was slow work cutting grass with a clasp-knife; tearing it up in handfuls was still slower, but the labour warmed the tired explorers, and when they lay down again under this adam-an'-eveic bedding, they fell asleep almost immediately, and did not waken till the sun was pretty well up in the eastern sky. "breakfast fust," said slag, on completing a tremendous stretch and yawn. "it's always bin my way since i was a babby--business first; pleasure to foller. grub is business, an' work is pleasure--leastwise, it ought to be to any man who's rated `a. one' on the ship's books. hallo! sorrowful-monkey-face, clap a stopper on yer nose an' tumble up,--d'ye hear?" mitford did not hear, but a touch of slag's toe caused him to feel and to rise. o'connor was already astir, preparing breakfast. cold boiled mussels and a bit of pork may be good food, but it is not appetising. consequently they did not linger long over the meal, but were soon striding up the mountain-side rejoicing in the fresh air and sunshine. there was a certain phase in john mitford's character which had not yet been discovered by his friends, and was known only to his wife. he was romantic--powerfully so. to wander through unknown lands and be a discoverer had been the dream of his youth. he was naturally reticent, and had never said so to any one but peggy, who, being the reverse of romantic, was somewhat awe-stricken by the discovery, and, in an imbecile way, encouraged him to hope that, "one of these days he'd 'ave 'is desires gratified, as there was nothink to prevent 'im from goin' to novazealand--if that was the right way to pronounce it--or to van demons land--not in a sinful way of course, for they had given up transportin' people there now--though wherever they transported 'em to she couldn't imagine--anyhow, there was nothink to prevent his tryin'." and john did try, which was the primary cause of his being a member of the exploring party now under consideration. influenced by his romantic spirit, mitford betrayed a troublesome tendency to wander from his comrades in pursuit of the unknown. o'connor, with the straightforward simplicity of his nation, set it down to pig-headedness. slag, being a man of feeling, opined that it was absence of mind. "the spalpeen! he's off again," said o'connor, turning round as they halted to rest a minute, after breasting the hill for half-an-hour. "hallo, john! where are ye, boy?" "here--all right," shouted a voice in the distance, "i'm exploring behind the knoll here. go ahead; i'll meet ye at the top o' the hill." by that time they were within about an hour's walk of the highest ridge of the island, so they pushed on without delay, expecting to find their lugubrious friend there before them, or not far behind them. it turned out as had been supposed. the mountain ridge formed the summit of the great precipice, along the foot of which they had sailed after quitting the cavern, or, as they had come to call it, the wreck-cave. for some time the two stood on the giddy edge, looking in silence on the tremendous depths below, and the sublime spectacle of illimitable sea beyond, with its myriad facets gleaming in the sunshine. then they bethought them of their comrade, and turned back to look for him; hallooing now and then as they went, and expecting every moment to see him emerge from one of the gorges that led to the ridge. but there was no answering shout, or any sign of his having been there. soon, becoming anxious and then alarmed, the two men set to work in earnest to search for their lost comrade, but they sought in vain. returning to the spot where they had last heard his voice, they continued the search in that direction, and made the rocks echo with their shouting. still no john mitford was to be found, and the curious thing was that there seemed to be no very rugged or precipitous formation of land where he could easily have met with an accident. at last, evening approached. "we must go back at wance," said o'connor, with anxious looks, "an' rouse all the men out to seek for him wi' torches." without another word they turned and made for the camp as fast as they could go. meanwhile, dr hayward and his party had been successful in their exploration, for they not only discovered a rabbit-warren, but had observed seals basking on the rocks, and found the tracks of goats, or some animal of that kind with divided hoofs. they had even succeeded in getting between a young seal and the water and speared it, so that there was something like jubilation in the camp on their return at the prospect of a fresh meal and better fare in future. but this was abruptly put an end to by the arrival of slag and his comrade with the news of mitford's disappearance. poor mrs mitford was thrown into a state of terrible alarm, and at first insisted on accompanying the search party, but under the united entreaties of eva and nelly she was prevailed on to remain behind. with torches made of resinous wood, which burnt admirably, they searched all that night, and, taking only a few hours' rest, continued the search all the following day, but without success. day after day the search was continued, even after all hope of ever again seeing their comrade alive had died out, but at last they were compelled to give it up and devote themselves to the urgent duty of procuring better shelter and food. as for poor mrs mitford, she sank into a state of helpless and hopeless despair. story one, chapter . men in straits cannot afford to sit down to grieve and mope over their sorrows. although a deep gloom had been cast over the shipwrecked party by the loss of one whom they had learned to respect, the urgent need of obtaining better food and shelter compelled them, as we have said, to give their whole mind and attention to this work. they pitied poor peggy sincerely, however, and endeavoured to comfort her a little by raising the hope that her husband might have merely lost himself in the woods of the island, and would yet, perhaps, be found alive and well. but, although their intentions were kindly, they could comfort neither peggy nor themselves with such a hope; for their experience convinced them that the woods, although thick and tangled, were not extensive enough for any one to be permanently lost in them, and it seemed quite certain that if the lost man had not met with some fatal accident, he would certainly have made his way to the coast, by following which he could have easily found the camp. "it is very sad to give over our search for poor mitford," said dr hayward one morning, while seated on a ledge of rock near the beach, taking counsel with his male companions as to the order of procedure for the day, "but we cannot afford to delay our operations longer. this poor fare of mussel soup, with such a small allowance of pork, is beginning to injure the health of our women, not to mention ourselves; besides, the pork won't last long, even though we put ourselves on the shortest possible allowance; so i think that to-day we must go on an expedition after the seals we saw the last time we went to the southern end of the island. what say you, comrades?" "all right, cap'n," answered massey. "you've only got to say the word. but who's to stop at home to mind the camp-fire and the women?" "i'm afraid," returned hayward, with a deprecatory smile, "that it's your own turn, bob. i would say that i'm sorry for you, were it not ungallant to pity a man for being condemned for a day to female society." the way in which the coxswain received this showed that he did not repine at his fate. he did not even object to o'connor's remark that, "faix, he might consider himself the luckiest man o' the lot!" accordingly, massey remained at the camp while the doctor, slag, o'connor, tomlin, and jarring set out on a hunting expedition with two days' cooked provisions in their wallets. the doctor and tomlin armed themselves with spears, but jarring and slag preferred clubs. "you see," said the latter, "i've heard--though i can't rightly say i've seed it done myself--that the seal-hunters o' the north do their work wi' clubs; so, if one man can kill a seal wi' such a thing, i don't see why another shouldn't." and, truly, there was some reason for this covert boast; for joe, besides possessing arms of prodigious power, had cut and shaped for himself a knotted club which might have suited the hand of hercules himself. it turned out that bob massey's satisfaction at being left behind that day was not altogether the result of regard for female society. while he was sauntering back to the camp, after his comrades had left, he congratulated himself aloud on having at last a chance of making his experiment without being laughed at during the trial. "that is--if nellie has got enough of line made." at that moment nell was busy with the line in question, and at the same time doing her best to comfort mrs mitford--mrs hayward being engaged in preparing dinner; by no means a difficult duty, which the women undertook day about. "keep up your spirits, dear peggy," said nell, in that sweet, cosy tone--if we may say so--which played such havoc in bob's bosom at the time when she was known as the coxswain's bride. "i feel _sure_ that your dear husband will return to us. no doubt, some sort o' misfortune has come to him; but he's such a sensible, handy man, is john, that i can't help feelin' he'll come back to us; an' when i _feel_ anything very strongly, d'ee know, i've almost always found it come true. do you believe in strong feelin', peggy?" poor mrs mitford, who had been sitting with her hands clasped in her lap, and an utterly woebegone expression on her pale face, raised her head with a troubled look on being thus directly appealed to. "believe in strong feelin's, nellie? i should just think i do. not to mention my own feelin's--which are so strong that i never felt nothink like 'em before--any one who has been married to my john must know well what st-strong--oh! no, i shall never see 'im again; dear nellie, don't tell me," she said, beginning to cry. "i know--i know--" "there, now--there's a good soul. don't go off again. look! d'ee know what this is for?" as she spoke, nellie held up a ball of what appeared to be twine, and her companion--whose mind resembled that of a child, in that it could be easily diverted--said no, she didn't know what it was for, and that she, (peggy), had seen her making it when the men were off excursioning, and had asked about it; and why didn't she, (nellie), relieve her curiosity before, upon the point, instead of waitin' till now? "well, you see, peggy," replied her friend, with the confidential air of one who has a secret to tell, "my bob has took it into his head to give his mates a surprise by fishin' for albatrosses." "lawks! nellie, an' that _will_ give 'em a surprise!" interrupted mrs mitford, drying her eyes. "how ever can any man _fish_ for a bird-- unless, indeed, it goes under water an' changes its nature, which no creetur can do; though, now i come to think of it, i have seen flyin' fish, an' so, perhaps, there may be albytresses, or other birds, that--" "hallo! nellie, hard at the twine, lass? you've made about enough of it now," cried our coxswain, entering the camp at that moment, sitting down beside his wife, and examining the ball of cord which she had been so busily spinning. "i'm glad you think there's enough, bob, for i've come to the end o' the stuff you gathered for me." "plenty more where that came from, nell; but there's no need to gather more than enough; for enough, you know, is as good as a feast. well, peggy," he added, turning to the poor woman, and patting her gently on the shoulder, "has nell been tellin' you what i'm goin' to try?" "she was beginnin' to tell me, mr massey, when you came in, something about fishin' for albytresses, an' i always thought albytresses was birds, and--" "quite right, peggy. see, this is how it is: you bait a hook--but come," said the coxswain, rising suddenly, and taking up the ball of twine, "they do say example's better than precept. come along wi' me an' nell, an' we'll show you how to do it." so saying, massey led the two women down to the boat, telling mrs hayward, whom they passed on the way, to heave some more sticks on the fire, as it was getting low. "never fear," said eva, who carried the baling-dish full of shell-fish in her hands. "i shall never forget the fright we got that time joe let it get so low that it was almost at the last spark. you won't be long away, will you?" "not long. anyhow, we'll be sure to turn up for dinner." during their short residence on the island, the coxswain had observed that albatrosses paid them frequent visits. the giant birds had exhibited some signs of curiosity as to the doings of the new arrivals on the island; so he resolved to capture one of them, with a view to soup! embarking in the boat, he rowed towards a point of rocks jutting out into the sea, over which albatrosses had been seen hovering many times. on the way, nellie, who had previously been taught what to do, fastened a small bit of wood to the end of the line she had spun. hanging from this was a hook that the coxswain had made from a gull's breast-bone. it was baited with a piece of pork. before arriving at the point of rocks, they saw that an albatross was soaring over it on its mighty outspread wings. on observing the boat, it flew away and disappeared in the distance; but bob was not much concerned about that. "now, nell," he said, on landing, "carry this bait out to sea as far as the line will let you, lay it on the water, an' then pull back into yon cove, and see that you hide the boat an' yourselves well, and keep quiet. you mustn't even talk, peggy! yon fellow will soon be back." nellie did exactly as she was directed; and then her husband, holding the shore-end of the line, concealed himself among the rocks. he was right about the bird. ere long, it was seen returning, and soon, on motionless, expanded wings, it hovered over the rocky point. then it caught sight of the floating bait. with a majestic swoop, it dived, caught it up, and next moment was flouncing wildly about, hooked by the tongue, while bob massey hauled in the line. he had provided himself with a stick, and when the huge bird came within reach he felled it, to the immense delight of the watchers in the cove, who had already begun to smell savoury soup by anticipation! while these were thus engaged, the sealing party was even more successful in the opposite direction. they had not gone half-a-dozen miles when they sighted a group of seals, sleeping--or sunning themselves--on a flat rock, near high-water mark. "now, then, hercules, lead the way with your club," said the doctor to joe slag, in a whisper. joe at once shouldered his weapon and led the party round by some sheltering rocks, so as to get between the seals and the sea; then, rushing forward in a body, they took the creatures by surprise, and intercepted two of them. on coming to close quarters, however, they found that the seals were much more formidable to look at than anything that any of them had ever seen in the arctic seas; and when joe brought his club down on the skull of the foremost with a terrible thwack, it refused to tumble over, but continued to splutter and flounder towards the sea. dr hayward, however, used his spear at this moment with such effect that the seal fell, and another blow from the herculean club finished its career. as this animal was about half-a-ton in weight, they left it on the beach with the intention of cutting off some steaks on their return, and sending the boat round afterwards to fetch the remainder of the carcass. considerably elated by their success, they pushed on. in a valley which led towards the interior hills they found fresh tracks of goats, and saw one of those animals in the distance. rabbits were also seen, but none killed at that time. they had not gone far into this valley, when a most interesting discovery was made. on opening up a new turn in the valley they came on the ruins of a hut. with feelings of profound interest, they entered--for there was no door to bar their progress--and gazed around on the silent, mouldering walls. "good luck!" exclaimed o'connor, springing forward, and grasping an object which lay on the ground. it was a hatchet, covered with red rust. "here is something else that will be useful," said tomlin, picking up a file, which was also covered with rust. the party at once began an eager search in the hope of finding other things that might be of use to them, and they were not altogether disappointed; for jarring found a clasp-knife--much rust-eaten, of course, but still fit for use. slag found a much-battered frying-pan, and tomlin discovered a large cast-iron pot behind the hut, with a chip out of its rim. a bottle was also found, and the party crowded round to watch while the doctor examined it. "gin, i hope," said jarring, in a low tone. "physic, i think," murmured slag. "a paper!" exclaimed the doctor, holding it up to the light; then, breaking the bottle, he unfolded the paper, but much of the writing on it had been obliterated by water which had leaked in. the few sentences, however, that were more or less legible, conveyed the fact that a vessel had been wrecked on the island in ; that the crew had lived there eighteen months when a ship, chancing to pass that way, rescued them; that they had no provisions to leave for the use of unfortunates who might chance to be cast away there in future; and that there was a garden, with some vegetables in it, about-- here the writing became quite illegible. "now, we must find that garden," said the doctor, "and as we've not much daylight left, we must begin at once. come along, lads." in half an hour they found the garden, with potatoes growing in it, and a few other roots that were new to them. rejoicing over their discoveries the party started back without delay for the camp, carrying the pot, the frying-pan, etcetera, along with them, and not forgetting a good slice of the seal in passing. arriving late that night, they found bob massey and the women already enjoying a supper of albatross soup. "hooroo, bob!" exclaimed o'connor, flourishing the frying-pan in his excitement, "we've found some praties, boy! shovel out some o' that into this, honey, an' i'll soon let ye smell the smell of an irish stew!" next day the party removed from the camp and took up their abode in the old hut, which was soon repaired sufficiently to keep out wind and rain, and the skin of the seal--with that of another killed next day--was large enough to screen off part of the hut as a separate chamber for the women. from that time forward they had no lack of food, for they succeeded in killing plenty of seals, and in snaring a great many rabbits, though they failed entirely to kill any of the goats. and thus they lived for several months in comparative comfort, though suffering considerably from cold and bad weather. during all that time the poor women were kept pretty busy cooking, looking after domestic matters, and mending the garments of the men. this last they accomplished by means of needles made from albatross bones and the finely divided sinews of various animals, instead of thread. when the european garments were worn out--which they were, long before deliverance was sent to them--nell massey proved her fitness for a robinson crusoe life, by actually splitting the sealskins--which were as thick as sole leather--so as to obtain material thin enough for clothing. of course, a flagstaff had been among the first things erected. it stood on a prominent hill, and a seal-skin flag was hoisted thereon, to attract any vessel that might chance to pass that way, but the flag fluttered in vain, for, as we have said, the island lay far out of the usual track of commerce. although poor mrs mitford appeared to become resigned to her great loss as time passed by, it was evident to her kind-hearted female companions that she was not recovering from the shock she had received. in spite of their care of her she grew thinner and older-looking every day, and although she quietly took her share of the work, she had become sad and silent--caring little apparently for what was going on around her, and never indulging in those prolonged observations of an irrelevant nature, to which she had been addicted before her husband's disappearance. things were in this state when, about two months after their landing, a boat-voyage to the western cliffs of the island was arranged for purposes of further exploration. story one, chapter . within the dark recesses of a great cavern in the western cliffs, in the midst of a mass of wreckage, there sat one morning a man whose general appearance might have suggested to a beholder "the wild man of the cave"--or, at the least, an unhappy maniac--for his grey locks were long and unkempt, his eyes bloodshot and wild, his garments torn, so that his wasted limbs were exposed in numerous places, and his beard and moustache dishevelled and bristling. no one looking at that gaunt creature--not even the mother who bore him--would have easily recognised john mitford; yet it was he. on the day when he mysteriously disappeared he had come upon a great hollow, or hole, of about sixty yards in diameter, which appeared to descend into the very depths of the earth. the sides of the hollow sloped towards the centre, and were covered with bushes. noting this, our romantic friend resolved to explore the spot. he descended cautiously till he came to a place where the hole had narrowed to about twenty feet in diameter, and the herbage ceased because of the absence of the earth to sustain it. filled with eager curiosity, the reckless man held on to a branch and stretched his head over the edge of the hole. he saw nothing but blackness. he soon felt something, however, for the branch suddenly broke off, and john went headlong down into that hole! then and there he would certainly have paid for his curiosity with his life, had not a mass of earth, a few feet further down, and against which he struck, broken his fall in some measure, and shunted him off to the opposite wall of the rock. this latter proved to be a slope so steep that it let him slide, like lightning, to the bottom, a depth of about thirty feet or more, where he was stopped with such violence that he lay stunned for a considerable time. recovering, he found that no bones were broken, and that, indeed, he was not much damaged considering the violence of the fall; but the satisfaction and thankfulness that this undoubtedly caused him were diminished by the fact that he was in total darkness, and at the bottom of a hole of unknown depth. a feeling of horror rushed over him at the thought of being thus, as it were, buried alive. springing up, he felt all round the walls of his prison for some inequalities or projections, by which he might climb out, but none such could he find. the place was like a well of not more than about ten feet wide, with smooth rocky sides, which were almost perpendicular as far up as he could reach. on looking upward, he could see the mouth of the hole, through which he had fallen, glimmering like a little star above him. after a fruitless search of nearly half-an-hour the poor man sat down on a piece of fallen rock, over which he had stumbled several times in his search, and a deep groan burst from him as he began to realise the fact that escape from the place was impossible, and that a lingering death awaited him--for he could scarcely hope that his companions would find him in such a place. hope, however, is hard to kill in the human breast. perhaps they might hear him if he shouted. immediately he began to shout for help with all the strength of his lungs. then, as no answering shout came down from the little star above--at which he continuously gazed--a feeling of wild despair took possession of him, and he yelled and shrieked in mortal agony until his vocal chords refused to act, and nothing but a hoarse whisper passed his parched lips. overcome at last, alike with horror and exhaustion, he fell to the ground and became partially unconscious. how long he lay thus he could not tell; but, on recovering and looking up, he found that the star was gone--telling plainly that night had set in. then it was, when all hope of delivering himself, or of being delivered by others, had fled, that a word which had been uttered by dr hayward to a dying man on board the ship, leaped into john mitford's mind like a gleam of light. "call upon me in the time of trouble and i will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me." he had seen this invitation accepted by the dying man and deliverance obtained--if a happy smile and a triumphant gaze across the river of death were to be regarded as testimony. "but, then," thought john mitford, "that was spiritual deliverance. here it is a hard physical fact, from which nothing short of a miracle can deliver me. no--it is impossible!" was it a voice within him, or an old memory, that immediately whispered the words, "with god all things are possible?" at all events, the poor man rose up slowly in a somewhat calmer frame of mind, and began once more to feel round the walls of his narrow prison. he found nothing mew, save that once he narrowly escaped falling down what seemed to be a still deeper hole among the fallen rocks already referred to. then he lay down--or rather fell on the floor exhausted--and slept till morning. the fact that another day had begun was only ascertainable by the shining of the star-like mouth of the hole. he attempted again to shout, but found that his voice had left him, and that even if his comrades should return to the place he could not make them hear! in the fit of despair which followed he went round and round his living tomb like some wild beast in a cage. during one of these perambulations, he stumbled again over the fallen rocks, dropped into the hole behind them, and slid a few feet downwards, but not rapidly, for the slope was gradual, and it terminated on a flat floor. looking cautiously round, on reaching this lower depth, he saw what appeared to be a faint light far beneath him, and considerably in advance of the spot where he stood, or rather to which he clung. gradually his mind calmed, and, resolving to make for this light, he groped his way downward. it was a long and wearisome scramble, involving many a slip and slide, and not a few falls, (for it was made, of course, in total darkness), and the distant light did not appear to become stronger or nearer. at last it seemed as though it were growing. then john found himself on ground over which he could walk, guiding himself by touching perpendicular walls of rock on either side with his hands. it was a great split in the mountain, caused perhaps by those mighty subterranean forces, which some men recognise as volcanic action, whilst others, admitting--but passing beyond--second causes, recognise them as tools with which god is moulding this world according to his will. "strange!" thought the man, as he moved slowly forward. "was this split made hundreds--perhaps thousands--of years ago, for the purpose of enabling me to escape?" "certainly not--absurd, presumptuous idea," answered unbelief, smartly. "it was," remarked faith, slowly, "made, no doubt, for hundreds--it may be millions--of other purposes, but among these purposes the saving of your life was certainly in the mind of him who `knows all things from the beginning,' and with whom even the falling of a sparrow is a matter for consideration." we do not assert that john mitford's reasoning took the precise form of these words, for many minds can think somewhat profoundly without being able to express themselves clearly; but some such thoughts undoubtedly coursed through john's mind, as he moved through that subterranean labyrinth, and finally emerged--through a narrow crack, not so large as an ordinary door--upon the inner margin of a stupendous cavern. with a fervent "thank god!" and a hopeful leap of the heart, the poor man beheld the waters of the sea rushing up to his very feet; and beyond the cave's mouth lay the grand ocean itself, like a bright picture in a black frame. but what was that projecting from the water, not twenty yards from where he stood? the broken mast of a sunken wreck! mitford's heart almost stood still, for he became aware that he had made his way to the very cavern, in which the ill-fated _lapwing_ had met her doom, and around him were masses of wreckage that had been washed up and thrown on the rocks at the inner end of the cave where he stood. an involuntary shudder passed through the man's frame as he glanced round expecting to see the dead bodies of his late shipmates. but nothing of the kind was visible, and the spars, masts, and other wreckage which had reached the rocks had been shattered into "matchwood" by frequent gales. john mitford now hastened in eager hope along the sides of the cave towards its mouth, intending to go out to the base of the cliffs, forgetting, in his eagerness, that the mouth could not be reached without a boat. he soon discovered this, and was then thrown into another fit of despair by remembering that he could not swim. oh! how bitterly he blamed himself for having neglected to acquire such a simple accomplishment. he might have learnt it when young, had he not been indifferent, or lazy about it. often had he been advised to learn it by companions, but had treated the matter lightly and let the chance go by--and now, only fifty yards or so of deep water intervened between the end of the ledges of rock and the outside of the cavern, where he might perhaps find foothold enough to scramble along the base of the cliffs--but those fifty yards were equal to the atlantic to him, he could not swim that distance to save his life. once or twice, in a fit of desperation, he had almost plunged in to attempt it, and take his chance. fortunately his courage failed. had he taken the plunge his fate would no doubt have been sealed. returning to the inner end of the cave he searched among the wreckage for wood, with which to make a raft, but it was so shattered that he found no pieces large enough to be thus used. he found, however, a barrel of pork and another of pease jammed into a crevice. these proved an immense relief to his feelings, for they secured him against absolute starvation, which he had begun to think stared him in the face. from that time forward the unfortunate man made incessant and wild efforts to get out of the cave. he climbed and scrambled about until his clothes were almost torn off his back. he gathered the largest masses of wood he could find and tied them together in bundles, until he had made something like a raft; but john was not a handy workman; his raft overturned the first time he tried it, and went to pieces, and he would have been drowned at that time if he had not been within grasping distance of the rocks. as it was, he got a fright which made him finally turn from that method of escape in despair. then the raw pork and hard pease tried him severely, and brought on a complaint which lasted a considerable time and greatly reduced his strength, but john was tough, and recovered--though not much more than the skeleton of his former self remained. thus he continued to exist in that cavern, during all the time that his wife and friends were mourning him as dead; and in this condition was he there seated, on the morning in which this chapter opens. "weary, weary--desolation!" moaned the unfortunate man, lifting his head and gazing round, with the air of one from whom all hope has long since departed. it is said, or supposed, that when a spoke in fortune's wheel is at the lowest, there must needs be a rise. mitford's experience at this time would seem to give ground for belief in the saying; for the word "desolation" had scarcely passed his lips, when distant voices of men were heard, causing his heart to bound violently. next moment a boat glided in front of the cave's mouth. john mitford sprang up and gave vent to a yell! hope raised to strong life after being long deferred; despair suddenly trampled in the dust; joy bounding as from the tomb into rampant being-- and a host of indescribable sentiments and passions found vent in that tremendous, that inconceivable howl! and its effect on those in the boat?--well-- that morning our exploring party had resumed their voyage with somewhat saddened hearts, for they remembered the look of the coast well, and knew that an hour or so would bring them to the cave where the _lapwing_ had gone down. even black ned had become sentimental, and given vent to a few expressions of a semi-religious nature! "we can't be far from it now," said dr hayward, as the men ceased rowing, and the boat glided slowly, silently along. "it's a gruesome place," remarked black ned, in a low voice. "to think that so many lives were lost here--or hereabouts," murmured tomlin. "an' their ghost, maybe, hangin' about!" suggested slag, with a superstitious glance over his shoulder. just then hayward bade o'connor get up and stand in the bow with the boat-hook, ready to fend off,--an order which the irishman, having been somewhat awed by the tone of the conversation, obeyed in silence. it was at this point that they glided in front of the cave, and drew forth the yell which burst upon them like a clap of thunder. the shock to the nervous system of each was terrific. in the case of o'connor it was visible, for he fell flat back into the bottom of the boat and fetched jarring a tremendous whack on the head with the boat-hook in falling. afterwards, terrence asserted stoutly that a slip of the foot as he stood on the th'ort was the cause, but those who knew him best held that it was "a case of nerves." need it be said that, on recovering nervous equilibrium, the joy of rescuers and rescued was intense? "come along, let's take 'im home at wanst," cried the irishman, when they had got the poor dazed man into the boat. "isn't it peggy that'll open her eyes an' screech for joy when she sots her eyes on ye!" "we'll have to wash and comb an' clothe him first," said tomlin. he did not say "shave," for they had no razors,--and by that time the beards of most of the party were as long as mitford's; but their locks had been trimmed by means of a clasp-knife super-sharpened, whereas mitford's were in wildest disorder. that night they encamped in the wreck-cave, made a fire, and prepared a splendid supper of pork and pea-soup for john and themselves, after which they subjected their recovered comrade to a scrubbing and cropping and repairing of habiliments that almost proved fatal to his constitution. next day they loaded the boat with all the pork and pease they could find, as well as portions of cordage that might be useful. then they started off on the return journey. it was a fine day when they reached the encampment, where the coxswain and the women were on the look-out. massey, of course, was the first to observe, as the boat approached, that an extra hand was in it; but he wisely said nothing at first. then his heart began to beat as it used to do when he brought in rescued men and women from wrecks, for the truth suddenly flashed upon him. he glanced at peggy. poor thing, her sad eyes had wandered from the approaching boat and were resting wistfully on the horizon beyond. "nell," murmured the coxswain in a deep, earnest whisper to his wife, who stood at his elbow, "the tide's a-goin' to rise again wi' poor peggy, if my eyes are tellin' truth." "what d'ee mean, bob?" asked nellie, with a quick, anxious look. "five men went away, nell; _six_ are comin' back!" as he spoke, a tall figure rose up in the stern of the boat and waved a hand. nellie glanced quickly at her friend. she was standing with glaring eyes, parted lips, and a deathly pallor on her worn face. "peggy!" the familiar word came rolling to the shore, and a piercing shriek replied to it as the poor woman threw up both hands and fell backward into the ready arms of the coxswain's wife, who had sprung to her side in anticipation of some such catastrophe. there was the voice of prayer and thanksgiving that night in the hut on the lonely shore--such thanksgiving as we might conceive filled the hearts of jairus and of the widow of nain in the days of old. story one, chapter . the state of things on the island was now considerably improved. peggy, under the influence of gratitude for restored felicity, became more helpful than she had formerly been, and more loquacious than ever. her female companions, being amiable and easily pleased, were rather amused than otherwise, at the continuous flow of discursive, sometimes incomprehensible, and always good-natured small talk--particularly small talk--with which she beguiled the hours that might have otherwise hung heavily on their minds while their hands were busily engaged with the bone-needles and sinew threads which the coxswain had manufactured for them. for the clothes with which they had landed on the island-- especially those of the men--had begun to wear out after eight or ten months, and new garments had to be made, while repairs never ceased. meanwhile, the men were fully occupied each day in hunting seals or fishing, cutting firewood with the axe they had found in the hut, and in making their home more comfortable. a door was fitted to the hut; a wooden partition was put up to cut off more effectually the women's apartment from that of the men; the open crevices in the walls were stopped up with moss, and many other improvements were made. a few nails extracted from the walls of the hut were converted into fish-hooks, by means of the file which had been found, and nellie spun some excellent fishing-lines from flax found growing wild in abundance. the file also enabled them to strike fire with broken flints picked up on the shore. the ash of burnt cotton, as the doctor knew, makes good tinder; so in the public interest, john mitford agreed to part with the ragged remains of the cotton shirt he had long worn--quite unnecessarily--over his woollen jersey. thus they could afford to let the fire go out, and were relieved from constant watching, as well as anxiety in regard to it. they did not, however, cease their nocturnal vigils, for the hope of deliverance never died out, though it at last sank very low. besides keeping their seal-skin flag flying, they kindled a beacon-fire every night, to guard and replenish which became the nightly duty of one or other of the men--watch and watch about--all the time they stayed on the island. during the earlier part of each night, however, the beacon-fire was not watched. it was merely lighted and left for some hours to look after itself. during this period, after supper, the whole party were wont to draw round the blazing fire in the hut, and each contributed his or her share to the entertainment of the social circle. then it was that lugubrious john mitford developed amazing powers of inventive story-telling, and joe slag came out strong with thrilling lifeboat tales, every word of which bob massey corroborated, while terrence o'connor displayed powers of sarcastic criticism of the highest order, and tomlin, black ned, and the women proved an intensely appreciative audience. but the latter were not merely listeners. true, peggy did nothing for the general good. having quite exhausted her lungs with incessant talk during each day, she was fortunately almost incapable of speech in the evening, but nellie, who possessed a voice as sweet as herself, and clear and true as that of a nightingale, was induced to "favour the company"--chiefly with pathetic or patriotic ditties and hymns--while eva thrilled her audience with terrible tales of slavery, in many of which she had acted a part. of course dr hayward lent his aid, both with song and story; but, like a true leader, he devoted himself chiefly to drawing out the powers of his companions, directing or diverting the flow of conversation, and keeping order. he also instituted what may be truly styled family worship at night, by repeating from memory portions of the word of, god and engaging in prayer just before retiring to rest. bob massey and tomlin were induced to help him in this, and never was a prayer put up from that hut in which there was not an earnest petition that a ship might be sent for their deliverance. "but a ship is long, long o' comin'," said slag to jarring as he accompanied the latter part of the way to the beacon-fire one night when it was black ned's turn to watch. "a ship'll come, joe, when god sees fit to send it," said ned. slag glanced at his comrade in surprise, the reply was so very unlike ned's usual style of speech that he felt uncertain whether it was uttered in earnest. "the only thing i feel an awful longin' for now, at times, is a bit o' 'baccy," continued ned. "so does i, ned, an' i sometimes think dr hayward has got the advantage of us there, for he never smoked, so he says, an' in coorse it stands to reason that he can't have no longin' for a thing he don't want--an' he seems as jolly an' happy as the best of us without it!" "ay, jollier and happier!" replied ned, shortly. "but, i say, ned, don't ye ever feel a longin' for grog? ye used to be raither fond of it." "no--not now, joe. it's the best thing as ever happened to me, bein' cast on this here island--wi' dr hayward to give a feller a word of advice." slag, who felt a sort of self-righteous superiority over his comrade, inasmuch as _he_ had never given way to drink, said, "you should be thankful for that, ned." "i _am_ thankful," returned the other in a tone that induced slag to say no more. it was a very dark night, and cold, so that black ned involuntarily shuddered as he approached the beacon-fire alone--joe having left him-- and commenced to heap on fuel. then rain began to fall heavily. there was no shelter, and the watchman was soon drenched to the skin. heaping on more logs till the fire roared again, he tried to warm himself, and stood so close to the blaze that his garments smoked--they would have burnt had they not been wet--but no heat seemed to penetrate the shivering frame of black ned. next morning the poor man was smitten with a raging fever. from the first the doctor had little hope of his recovery. with a constitution fatally injured by dissipation and drink, his chance was very small; but of course every effort was made to save him. he was laid on a soft bed of moss in the warmest corner of the hut, and the women took their turn in nursing him, night and day--the coxswain's wife, however, being the chief nurse; for, besides being sympathetic and tender by nature, she had been trained in a rough school where self-reliance and capacity were constantly called into action in circumstances of difficulty, so that she was better fitted for the post than either of her companions. but their efforts were of no avail. after a week, black ned died, with a smile of gratitude on his dark face as he gazed in hayward's eyes, and held his hand until the spirit returned to god who gave it. the gloom cast over the little community by this sudden appearance of the king of terrors lasted for many days, and had the good effect of turning the thoughts of all of them to those subjects which are obviously and naturally distasteful to fallen man--the soul and the world to come. but gradually the gloom passed away, though it left in the party a greater longing than ever to escape from their island prison. one day, while some of them were at breakfast, terrence o'connor rushed into the hut with the news that a ship was in sight! instantly the boat was manned, and they rowed with all their might towards the vessel, which was seen like a white speck on the horizon. they rowed to within four miles of her, with an oar set up as a mast, and a jacket attached thereto as a flag, but a breeze sprang up, and the strange sail actually passed on without taking the slightest notice of them--though the people on board could not have failed to see the boat! profound was the disappointment, and violent the indignation, that filled the thoughts of the castaways as they rowed slowly back to land. "sure it's devils that must live in the bodies o' some men," growled o'connor, in the bitterness of his soul. "you're too hard on the devils, terrence," said bob massey. "some men in this world do the worst _that they can_, an' surely devils can do no more than that." this incident, however, aroused the hopes and expectations of the party to a high pitch, so that the beacon-fire was kept burning more steadily and brightly than before, and the look-out hill was more frequently visited; still, weeks and months passed by, and no deliverance came to them. during this period, the seal-hunting, fishing, clothes-mending, etcetera, were carried on with unflagging energy, and the nightly entertainments became more and more entertaining, by reason of use and effort developing new capacities and talents that might in less favourable circumstances have lain altogether dormant. all this was due very much to their leader; for, besides being a god-fearing man, hayward was pre-eminently cheery, and full of fun as well as vigour. the coxswain, too, was like-minded, and of great capacity in every way; while his wife's voice was so charming that the party became almost dependent on it. they could scarcely have gone to rest at last without nellie's hymn or song as a lullaby! we must state, however, that tomlin did not share in this pleasure. that poor man had been born musically deaf, as some people are born physically blind. there was no musical inlet to his soul! there was, indeed, a door for sound to enter, and music, of course, sought an entrance by that door; but it was effectually destroyed, somehow, in passing through the doorway, so that poor tomlin showed no symptom of pleasure. what he heard, and how he heard it, is known only to himself! once or twice during this time they visited the cavern of the wreck, with the view, if possible, of recovering something from the sunk vessel, but though most of the men could swim, none of them could dive, therefore the result was failure. they succeeded, however, in making soap by boiling wood-ash and seal's fat in their cast-iron pot. those who are accustomed to the celebrated "pears" can scarcely understand what an addition to cleanliness and comfort resulted from this coarsely manufactured article. gulls' eggs were found in great quantity on the cliffs, and the discovery and capture of wild pigs added to the luxury of their table-- which latter, by the way, was an ingenious contrivance of joe slag. binding four sticks together in the form of a stout oblong frame, joe had covered this--filled it in as it were--with straight branches about a finger thick, laid side by side and tied to the frame. this he fixed on four posts driven into the ground, and thus formed an excellent, if not an elegant, table. one morning at breakfast, terrence o'connor was observed to be unusually busy with a large hook. "are you goin' to fish for sharks to-day?" asked slag. "faix, no; it's to the woods i'll go fishin' to-day, joe. now, nell, gi' me the stoutest line ye've got on hand, mavourneen." "will that do? i made it the other day specially for sharks--or whales!" said nellie, with a light laugh, for she expected him to reject the line she held up. "the very thing, nell. hand it over. now, boys, i'm off to try my luck i' the woods, for i'm gittin' tired o' the say." o'connor went off alone, bestowing a mysterious wink on peggy mitford as he left. the irishman had observed that the wild pigs were particularly fond of a certain root which was plentiful in a valley about three miles distant from the hut. repairing to that valley, he dug up one of the roots, baited his hook with it, hung it from a low branch to attract attention, fastened the other end of the line to a tree, and went off to hide and bide his time. before half-an-hour had elapsed, a gay young pig visited the scene of its former festivities, saw the pendent bait, smelt it, took it in its mouth, and straightway filled the woods with frantic lamentations. the struggle between the irishman and that pig was worthy of record, but we prefer leaving it to the reader's imagination. the upshot was, that the pig was overcome, carried--bound, and shrieking--to the hut, and tamed by peggy. in a short time, other pigs were caught and tamed. so, also, were rabbits. these bred and multiplied. the original pig became the mother of a large family, and in a short time something like the sounds and aspects of a farm began to surround the old hut. still further--by means of the cast-iron pot, which already boiled their soup and their soap--they managed to boil sea-water down into salt, and with this some of the pigs were converted into salt pork--in short, the place began to assume the appearance of a busy and thriving backwoods settlement. "it's risin' tide with us again, after a fashion, nell," said the coxswain to his wife, as they stood one evening on the sea-shore watching the sunset. nellie sighed. "it is, bob," she said, "and i'm very thankful; but--but i'd rather be at home in old england among kith and kin, even though the tide was low!" "what! alongside o' aunt betty?" "yes, even alongside o' aunt betty; for if this voyage has taught me anything at all, it has taught me that, after all, `there's no place like home!'" "right you are, nell," said joe slag, who came up at that moment, "there's no place like home--when it's a happy one; but if it ain't a happy one, there may be difference of opinion even on that pint, d'ee see?" that very night, a great ocean steamer, bound from the antipodes to old england, chanced to diverge from her true course, and sighted the beacon-fire which tomlin--on duty at the time--was stirring up to fervent heat. the captain was not one of those whom terrence o'connor credited with diabolic possession. he was a good man; and, knowing that men did not light beacon-fires on lonely islands merely for amusement, he resolved to lay-to till daylight, which was due in about an hour from the time the island was sighted. meanwhile, he sounded his steam whistle. at the sound, the hut instantly disgorged its male inmates, who, recognising the familiar noise and the steamer's lights, sent up a shout of mingled joy and thanksgiving. "get out the boat, boys!" cried hayward, as he ran back to the hut to rouse the women. "get ready, quick! eva; a steamer at last, thank god, in the offing! don't lose a moment. they may have little time to wait. boat will be ready in a few minutes." "ay, an' pack up all you want to carry away," cried the coxswain, crossing the threshold at that moment. "so it is all going to end suddenly like a dream!" said eva, as she hastened to obey orders. "home, sweet home!" murmured nellie, trembling with joy at the prospect. "wherever you are, my dear, the home will be sweet," said peggy. "though of course it wouldn't be that without your 'usband, for it takes two to make a fight, you know, an' it takes two no less, i think, to make things pleasant, but--dear, dear, what a disagreeable thing it is to 'ave to dress in a 'urry, though one shouldn't--" "look alive, there! look al-i-ve!" roared o'connor, putting his head in at the door. "daylight's a-breakin', an' they won't--" "oh! terrence, that reminds me--don't forget our pets," cried nellie, who had steadily declined to speak of them as "live stock." "all right, missis. it's lookin' after them i am this minnit." the irishman ran, as he spoke, to the styes and hutches where the pigs and rabbits were kept and opened the doors. "out wid ye!" he cried, "the act of emancipation's passed, and ye're all free--ivery mother's son of ye." accustomed to his voice and his caressing hand, the astonished creatures seemed to look up at him in surprise. "be aff, at wance, hooroo!" cried the excited man, with a clap of his hands and a donnybrook yell that sent all the "pets" leaping and squealing into their native jungle. soon after that the boat was bounding out to sea under the impulse of strong arms and willing hearts. a few minutes more, and they were receiving the warm congratulations of the passengers and crew of the steamer. then the order was given to go ahead full speed, and the engine's great heart seemed to throb sympathetically within the hearts of the rescued ones as the vessel cut her way swiftly through the southern ocean--homeward bound for old england! nevertheless, there was a touch of sadness in the breasts of all as they turned their farewell gaze on the receding island and thought of the pets, the old hut, the long period of mingled pleasure and suffering, and the lonely grave. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ we cannot part from the friends whose footsteps we have followed so long and so far without a parting word or two. on returning to his native village, bob massey found that his successor as coxswain had died, and that another man had not yet been appointed to the lifeboat--he was therefore installed, with much rejoicing, in his old position as a rescuer of human lives. joe slag, naturally and pleasantly, also fell into his old post at the bow. nellie found that aunt betty had had what the villagers called "a stroke" during her absence; which crushing blow had the effect of opening her eyes to many things regarding herself and others, to which she had been particularly blind before. it also had the effect--indirectly--of subduing much of the evil in her character and bringing out much of the good. as evil begets evil, so good begets good; and one result of this law was, that the seven children, whom she had brought--or banged--up, became seven repentant and sympathetic and reasonably good creatures when they saw the old mother, whom they used to think so harsh and so physically strong, reduced to amiable helplessness. thus it came to pass that there was not in all the village an old woman who was so well looked after by her progeny as aunt betty. terrence o'connor continued to rove about the world in the capacity of a ship's cook till near the end of his days. john mitford and peggy unexpectedly came into a small inheritance soon after returning home, and settled down for life close to the coxswain's cottage. tomlin went to new zealand to seek his fortune. whether he found it or not, we cannot tell! last, but not least, dr hayward and his wife returned to their native land, and for many years afterwards kept up a steady correspondence with nell massey, in which, you may be sure, there were frequent and pleasant allusions to the time which they had spent together on the lonely isle in the southern seas. one morning, nellie presented her husband with a baby boy. bob was out with the lifeboat rescuing a shipwrecked crew at the time the presentation was made. on his return, he opened the door and stood before his wife dripping wet. "fifteen saved this time, nell," he began, but the nurse stopped him by exhibiting the baby boy. "thank the lord!" he said, with a glad look in his wet eyes. "you mustn't come near us," said the nurse, with a look of warning. "only a look just now." "the tide has risen to the flood now, bob," murmured the young mother, softly. "ay," said the coxswain in a deep voice, "an' it's a high spring tide too. god bless you, nell!" the end. story two, chapter . jack frost and sons--a short story. one year in the last quarter of the present century john frost, esquire, of arctic hall, paid an unusually long visit to the british islands. john, or jack, frost, as he was familiarly called by those who did not fear him, was a powerful fellow; an amazingly active, vigorous, self-willed fellow, whom it was difficult to resist, and, in some circumstances, quite impossible to overcome. jack was a giant. indeed, it is not improbable that he was also a "giant-killer,"--an insolent, self-assertive, cold-hearted giant, who swaggered with equal freedom into the palaces of the rich and the cottages of the poor; but he did not by any means meet with the same reception everywhere. in palaces and mansions he was usually met in the entrance hall by a sturdy footman who kicked him out and slammed the door in his face, while in cottages and lowly dwellings he was so feebly opposed that he gained entrance easily--for he was a bullying shameless fellow, who forced his way wherever he could--and was induced to quit only after much remonstrance and persuasion, and even then, he usually left an unpleasant flavour of his visit behind him. but there were some abodes in which our hero met with no opposition at all, where the inmates scarcely made any attempt to keep him out, but remained still and trembled, or moaned feebly, while he walked in and sat down beside them. jack was somewhat of a deceiver too. he had, for the most part, a bright, beaming, jovial outward aspect, which made the bitter coldness of his heart all the more terrible by contrast. he was most deadly in his feelings in calm weather, but there were occasions when he took pleasure in sallying forth accompanied by his like-minded sons, colonel wind and major snow. and it was a tremendous sight, that few people cared to see except through windows, when those three, arm-in-arm, went swaggering through the land together. one christmas morning, at the time we write of, jack and his two sons went careering, in a happy-go-lucky sort of way, along the london streets towards the "west end," blinding people's eyes as they went, reversing umbrellas, overturning old women, causing young men to stagger, and treating hats in general as if they had been black footballs. turning into saint james's park they rushed at the royal palace, but, finding that edifice securely guarded from basement to roof-tree, they turned round, and, with fearless audacity, assaulted the admiralty and the horse-guards--taking a shot at the clubs in passing. it need scarcely be recorded that they made no impression whatever on those centres of wealth and power. undismayed--for jack and his sons knew nothing either of fear or favour--they went careering westward until they came to a palatial mansion, at the half-open front door of which a pretty servant girl stood peeping out. it was early. perhaps she was looking for the milkman--possibly for the policeman. with that quick perception which characterises men of war, major snow saw and seized his opportunity. dashing forward he sprang into the hall. colonel wind, not a whit less prompt, burst the door wide open, and the three assailants tumbled over each other as they took possession of the outworks of the mansion. but "jeames" was not far distant. the screams of mary drew him forth, he leaped into the hall, drove out the intruders, and shut the door with a crash, but with no further damage to the foe than the snipping off part of major snow's tails, which mary swept up into a dust shovel and deposited in the coal-hole, or some such dark region below. our trio possessed neither fear nor pride. they were also destitute of taste, and had no respect for persons. treating their repulse as a good joke, they turned round and went hilariously along the strand, embracing every one they met, young and old, rich and poor, pretty and plain, with pointed impartiality, until they reached the city. there we will leave them to revel amongst the poor, while we return to the mansion at the west end. in two snug bedrooms thereof two young men lay in their comfortable beds, partially awake and yawning--the one flat on his back as if laid out for his last sleep; the other coiled into a bundle with the bedclothes, as if ready to be carried off to the laundry with the next washing. the rooms were connected by a door which stood open, for the occupants were twin brothers; their united ages amounting to forty years. "ned," said the straight one to the bundle. "well, tom," (sleepily). "did you hear that noise--like a cannon-shot?" "ya-i-o-u yes--som'ing tumbled--door bang'd," (snore). "hallo, ned!" cried tom, suddenly leaping out of bed and beginning to dress in haste; "why, it's christmas morning! i had almost forgot. a merry christmas to you, my boy!" "m'rry kissm's, ol' man, but don' waken me. what's use o' gettin' up?" "the use?" echoed tom, proceeding rapidly with his toilet; "why, ned, the use of rising early is that it enables a man to get through with his work in good time, and i've a deal of work to do to-day at the east-end." "so 'v' i," murmured ned, "at th' wes' end." "indeed. what are you going to do?" "sk-t." "sk-t? what's that?" "skate--ol' man, let m' 'lone," growled ned, as he uncoiled himself to some extent and re-arranged the bundle for another snooze. with a light laugh tom westlake left his brother to enjoy his repose, and descended to the breakfast-room, where his sister matilda, better known as matty, met him with a warm reception. everything that met him in that breakfast-parlour was warm. the fire, of course, was warm, and it seemed to leap and splutter with a distinctly christmas morning air; the curtains and carpets and arm-chairs were warm and cosy in aspect; the tea-urn was warm, indeed it was hot, and so were the muffins, while the atmosphere itself was unusually warm. the tiny thermometer on the chimney-piece told that it was degrees of fahrenheit. outside, the self-registering thermometer indicated degrees below zero! "why, matty," exclaimed tom, as he looked frowningly at the instrument, "i have not seen it so low as that for years. it will freeze the thames if it lasts long enough." matty made no reply, but stood with her hands clasped on her brother's arm gazing contemplatively at the driving snow. "what are you thinking about?" asked tom. "about the poor," answered matty, as she went and seated herself at the breakfast-table. "on such a terrible morning as this i feel so inexpressibly selfish in sitting down to an overflowing meal in the midst of such warmth and comfort, when i know that there are hundreds and thousands of men and women and children all round us who have neither fire nor food sufficient--little clothing, and no comfort. it is dreadful," added matty, as an unusually fierce gust dashed the snow against the windows. tom was like-minded with his sister, but he could not suppress a smile as he looked into her pretty little anxious face. "yes, matty, it _is_ dreadful," he replied, "and the worst of it is that we can do so little, so very little, to mend matters. yet i don't feel as you do about the selfishness of enjoying a good breakfast in comfortable circumstances, for it is god who has given us all that we have, as well as the power to enjoy it. i grant, that if we simply enjoyed our good things, and neither thought of nor cared for the poor, we should indeed be most abominably selfish, but happily that is not our case this morning. have we not risen an hour earlier than usual to go out and do what we can to mitigate the sorrows of the poor? are we not about to face the bitter blast and the driving snow on this christmas morning for that very purpose? and should we not be rendered much less capable of doing so, if we were to start off on our mission with cold bodies and half-filled--i beg pardon, pass the muffins, dear. besides, sister mine, if you were to go out on such a morning cold and underfed, would it not be probable that i should have to go and fetch a doctor for you instead of taking you out to help me in aiding and comforting poor people?" "that may be all very true, tom," returned matty, with a dissatisfied and puzzled look, "but i cannot help feeling that i have so much, so _very_ much, more than i need of everything, while the thousands i speak of have so little--so very little. why could not rich people like us be content with plainer things, and use fewer things, and so have more to give to the poor?" "you have broached a very wide and profound subject, matty, and it would probably take us a week to go into it exhaustively, but a few words may suffice to show you that your remedy would not meet the case. suppose that all the people in england were all at once smitten with your desire to retrench in order to have more to spare to the poor--and were to act upon their convictions; to determine that henceforth they would live on the plainest food, such as potatoes, mutton, and bread; what, i ask you, would become of the great army of confectioners? would they not be thrown out of employment, and help, perhaps, to swell the ranks of the poor? if the rich ceased to buy pictures, what would become of painters? if they gave up books, (horrible to think of!) what would be the consequences to authors, and what the result to themselves? if carriages and horses were not kept, what would become of coachmen and grooms and ostlers--to say nothing of coach-makers, saddlers, harness-makers, and their innumerable dependants? no--living plainly or simply is not what is wanted, but living reasonably--according to one's means. then, as to your having, as you say, much more than you need-- that does not injure the poor, for nothing of it is wasted. does not part of the surplus go to mary and james and the other servants, and much of what they do not consume goes in charity, directly, to the poor themselves?" "well, but," returned matty, with the distressed and puzzled look still unabated, "though all you tell me may be quite true, it does not in the least degree alter the fact that there _is_ something quite wrong in the condition of the poor of our great cities, which _ought_ to be remedied." "of course it does not, little woman, but it relieves my mind, and it ought to relieve yours, as to the selfishness of enjoying a good breakfast." "but, surely," resumed matty, with a slightly indignant look and tone, "surely you don't mean to tell me that there is no remedy for the miserable condition of the poor, and that the rich must just sigh over it, or shut their eyes to it, while they continue to revel in luxury?" "how you fly to extremes, sister!" said tom, with a laugh, as he neatly cut the top off a fourth egg. "i combat your erroneous views, and straightway you charge me, by implication, with having no views at all! a remedy there surely is, but the wisest among us are not agreed as to _what_ it is--chiefly, i think, because the remedy is not simple but extremely complex. it cannot be stated in a few words. it consists in the wise and prompt application of multiform means--" "brother," interrupted matty with a smile, "do you think i am to be turned from my quest after this great truth by the stringing together of words without meaning--at least words vague and incomprehensible?" "by no means, matty. i hope that nothing will ever turn you from your quest after the best method of helping the poor. but my words are not meant to be vague. by multiform means i would indicate legislation in numerous channels, and social effort in all its ramifications, besides the correction of many erroneous modes of thought--such, for instance, as the putting of the less before the greater--" "tom," again interrupted matty, "i think it is about time to go and put on my things." "not so, sister dear," said tom impressively; "i intend that you shall hear me out. i think that you put the less before the greater when you talk of `giving' to the poor instead of `considering' the poor. the greater, you know, includes the less. consideration includes judicious giving, and the teaching of scripture is, not to give to, but to _consider_, the poor. now you may be off and get ready--as quickly as you can, too, for it would never do to keep the poor waiting breakfast!" with a light laugh and a vigorous step--the result of goodwill to mankind, good intentions, good feeding, and, generally, good circumstances--matilda westlake ran upstairs to her room at the top of the house to put on a charming little winter bonnet, a dear little cloak lined with thick fur, and everything else to match, while tom busied himself in meditating on the particular passage of god's word which he hoped, by the spirit's influence, to bring home to the hearts of some of the poor that christmas morning. half an hour after these two had gone forth to do battle with john frost and sons, edward westlake sauntered into the breakfast-room, his right hand in his pocket and his left twirling the end of an exceedingly juvenile moustache. turning his back to the fire he perused the morning paper and enjoyed himself thoroughly, while james re-arranged the table for another sumptuous meal. ned was by no means a bad fellow. on the contrary, his companions thought and called him a "jolly good fellow." his father was a jolly, though a gouty old widower. perhaps it was owing to the fact that there was no mother in the household that ned smoked a meerschaum in the breakfast-room while he read the paper. "have my skates been sharpened?" he asked, looking over the top of the paper. james said that they had been sharpened, and were then lying ready on the hall table. sauntering to the window ned looked out, and, james having retired, he made a few remarks himself, which showed the direction of his thoughts. "capital! ice will be splendid. snow won't matter. lots of men to sweep it. looks as if the wind would fall, and there's a little bit of blue sky. even if it doesn't clear, the pond is well sheltered. i do like a sharp, stinging, frosty day. makes one's blood career so pleasantly!" with such agreeable thoughts and a splendid appetite ned westlake sat down to breakfast. thereafter he put on a thick overcoat, edged with sable, a thick pair of boots and softly lined gloves, and went out with the skates swinging on his arm. jack frost and his two sons were still holding high revelry outside. they met him with impartial violence, but ned bent forward with a smile of good-humoured defiance, and went on his way unchecked. not so a stout and short old female of the coster-monger class, who, after a series of wild gyrations that might have put a dancing dervish to shame, bore down on ned after the manner of a fat teetotum, and finally launched herself into his arms. "hallo old girl--steady," exclaimed ned, holding her up with an effort. "you carry too much sail to venture abroad in such weather." "which it were my only one!" gasped the old woman, holding out her umbrella that had been reversed and obviously shattered beyond repair. then, looking up at ned, "you'd better leave a-go of me, young man. what will the neighbours think of us?" which remark she uttered sternly--all the more that she had securely hooked herself to the railings and could afford to cast off her friend. with a solemn assurance that he esteemed her, "the sweetest of the fair," ned went smilingly on his way, receiving in reply, "la, now, who'd 'a' thought it!" having twisted this lady's bonnet off, blown her unkempt hair straight out, and otherwise maltreated her, colonel wind, with his father and brother, went raging along the streets until he came to the neighbourhood of whitechapel. the three seemed rather fond of this region, and no wonder; for, although never welcomed, they found themselves strong enough to force an entrance into many a poor home, and to remain in possession. swaggering, in their own noisy and violent manner, into several courts and blind alleys, they caught up all the lighter articles of rubbish that lay about, hurled them against the frail and cracked windows--some of which they broke, and others of which they could not break by reason of their having been broken already. they did what was next best, however,--drove in the old hats and coats and other garments, with which the square holes had been inefficiently stopped. "jolly! ain't it?" remarked a street boy, with a ruddy face and hair blown straight on end all round, to another street boy with a cast-iron look and a red nose--both being powerfully robust. "prime!" asserted the knight of the red nose. and then both went eagerly to take liberties with a neighbouring pump, from the spout of which hung an icicle like a stalactite, the droppings from which, at an earlier period, had formed a considerable stalagmite on the stones below. it is probable that the sick old man on the poor bed in the small room close to the pump did not think the state of matters either "jolly" or "prime," for, besides being very old, he was very weak and thin and cold and hungry; in addition to which jack frost had seated himself on the rickety chair beside the empty grate, and seemed bent on remaining--the colonel having previously blown open the door and removed a garment which had sheltered the old man's head, thus permitting the major to sprinkle a miniature drift on his pillow. "i hardly like to leave you, gran'father, in such blustery weather," said a little maiden of about ten years of age, with filthy garments and a dirty face, who, if she had been washed and dressed, would have been distinctly pretty, but who, in the circumstances, was rather plain. as she spoke she re-adjusted the garment-screen and removed the snowdrift. "don't say that, martha," replied the old man in a thin weak voice--it had been strong and deep and resonant once, but time and want and disease play sad havoc with strong men. "you _must_ go, darling," resumed the old man after a few seconds' pause to recover breath. "you've no chance of a breakfast otherwise. and-- perhaps--they may give you a bit to bring home for--" martha eagerly interrupted the hesitating voice,--and it was easily interrupted! "yes, yes, gran'father. they'll be sure to let me bring home some for you. i'll be quite, _quite_ sure to do it." she made the promise with great decision, as well she might, for she had made up her mind to pocket all the food that was given to her except just a small morsel, which she would nibble in order to make believe that she was feeding! "lock the door and put the key in your pocket," said the old man, while the child tucked in about him the thin torn counterpane which formed the only covering to his straw bed. "an' don't fear for me, darling. the lord is with me. be sure to eat as much as you can." having regard to her secret intentions, martha refrained from pledging herself, but she laughed and nodded significantly as she quitted the cold, dismal, and shabby room. it was little martha's first experience of a "free breakfast." she had, indeed, heard of such a thing before, but had not up to that time met with anything of the kind, so she advanced to "the hall" with some timidity and much expectation. the hall was very full, and, as poor little martha was rather late, she could not manage to crush in much beyond the door. besides, being small, she could see nothing. in these depressing circumstances her heart began to sink, when her attention was attracted by a slight stir outside the door. a lady and gentleman were coming in. it so happened that the lady in passing trod upon one of martha's cold little toes, and drew from the child a sharp cry. "oh, my dear, _dear_ little girl!" cried the shocked lady, with a gush of self-reproach and sympathy, "i'm _so_ sorry--so _very, very_ sorry. it was so stupid of me! have i hurt you much, _dear_ little girl? come--come with me." "bring her to the stove, matty, there's more room there to have it looked to," said the gentleman, in a kind voice. much consoled by all this, though still whimpering, little martha suffered herself to be led to the front seats, and set on a bench just below the platform, where she began to bloom under the genial influence of the stove, and to wonder, with inexpressible surprise, at the mighty sea of upturned faces in front of her. as for the toe, it was utterly forgotten. the lady's foot, you see, being almost as light as her heart, had done it no serious injury. nevertheless, she continued for a few minutes to inspect it earnestly and inquire for it tenderly, regardless of dirt! "you're _sure_ it is better, dear little child?" "oh yes, ma'am, thank you. i don't feel it at all now. an' it's _so_ nice to feel warm again!" what a depth of meaning was unwittingly given to the last two words by the emphasis of the child-voice.--"warm"--"again!" the lady almost burst into tears as she thought of all that they implied. but her services were required at the harmonium. with a parting pat on martha's curly head, and a bright smile, she hurried away to ascend the platform. the preliminaries of a feast at which most of the feasters are cold and hungry--some of them starving--should not be long. full well did tom westlake know and appreciate this truth, and, being the donor, originator, and prime mover in the matter, he happily had it all his own way. in the fewest possible words, and in a good loud voice which produced sudden silence, he asked god to give his blessing with the food provided, and to send his holy spirit into the hearts of all present, so that they might be made to hunger and thirst for jesus, the bread and water of life. then the poor people had scarcely recovered from their surprise at the brevity of the prayer, when they were again charmed to silence by the sweet strains of the harmonium. you see, they had not yet become _blase_ and incapable of enjoying anything short of an organ. indeed, there were some among them who deliberately said they preferred a harmonium to an organ! but no instrument either of ancient or modern invention could drown the clatter that ensued when enormous mugs of earthenware were distributed to the company, by more or less rich and well-off "workers"; so the clatter and the hymns went on together until each lung was filled with some delectable fluid, smoking hot, and each mouth crammed with excellent bread and meat. then comparative quiet ensued, during which temporary calm tom read a few verses of the word of god, commenting on them briefly in language so forcible that it went right home to many hearts, yet so simple that even little martha understood it. true to her intention, little martha, although much surprised and charmed and perplexed by all that was going on around her, did not forget to pocket something for gran'father. she was met, however, by an exasperating difficulty at the very outset. her pocket was not large enough to contain the huge roll which, with some meat, had been put hastily into her small hand by a lady with a red rose in her bonnet. to achieve her object with the roll and meat in one hand and the mug in the other was, she found, impossible, so she set the mug on the floor between her feet and proceeded to wrestle with the loaf and pocket, having previously torn off a very small portion of the bread for her own use. still the loaf was too large; so she tore off another morsel, and finally, after a severe struggle, succeeded in getting it and the bit of meat in. "you'll go for to kick it over, if you don't mind," said a small boy near her, referring to the mug. "you mind your own business--imperence!" replied martha, sharply. it must be remembered that she was a child of the "slums." "wot a cheeky little shrimp it is," retorted the boy, with as much of a grin as a stuffed mouth would admit of. just then matilda westlake, having finished a hymn, and being mindful of the little toe, came quietly down to where martha was sitting. "why, dear child," she said, in surprise, "have they not given you something to eat?" "oh yes, ma'am. but i've--" she was going to say, "i've eaten it," but gran'father had so earnestly impressed on her mind the sinfulness of telling lies, that she felt constrained to hesitate, and, with a trembling lip, finished by saying she had eaten _some_ of it. "and what has become of the rest, dear?" "please, miss, she've putt it in 'er pocket," said "imperence" promptly. without noticing the remark, matty moved so as to make herself an effectual screen between imperence and martha. "tell me, dear child," she said, stooping low and putting a gentle hand on martha's shoulder, "are you not hungry?" "oh yes," answered the little one quickly; "i'm so 'ungry. you can't think 'ow 'ungry; but i promised to--to--" at this point her lip quivered, and she began to cry quietly. "stay, don't tell me anything more about it, dear, till you have breakfasted. here, eat _this_ before you say another word." she took a roll from the basket of a passing "worker" and put it in the child's hand. nothing loth, martha began to eat and drink, mingling a warm tear or two with the hot soup, and venting a sob now and then as she proceeded. watching her for a few moments, matty left her. in passing she stopped and said to imperence, in a whisper of terrible intensity, "if you speak to that girl again you shall have--_no more_." no more! to be "hanged by the neck till you are dead" would not have sounded so appalling just at that time. so imperence collapsed. it is not our purpose to go much further into the details of the feast. suffice it to say that the poorest of the poor were there; that they were encouraged to eat as much as possible, and allowed to carry away what they could not eat, and there is reason to believe that, judging from the prominence of pockets, a considerable quantity found its way to hungry mouths which had been found incapable of attending the feast. among those who did great execution in the pocketing line was, as you may well believe, little martha. finding, to her ineffable joy, that there was no limit assigned to consumption, and that pocketing was not esteemed a sin, she proceeded, after stuffing herself, to stuff to overflowing the pocket with which she had previously wrestled, as already described, and then attempted to fill the pocket on the other side. she did so in utter and child-like forgetfulness of the fact that she had recently lost several small articles in consequence of the condition of that pocket, and her memory was not awakened until, having just completed the satisfactory filling of it, she beheld, or rather felt, the entire mass of edibles descending to the floor, proving that the pocket was indeed a very bottomless pit. "never mind, little one," said tom westlake, coming forward at the moment, for he had just closed the meeting; "i'll find a bag for you to put it in. i hope the toe is all right." "oh yes, sir, thank you, it's quite well," answered martha, blushing through the dirt on her face, as she eyed the fallen food anxiously. "tell me now, little one," continued tom, sitting down on the bench and drawing the child gently towards him, "whom are you pocketing all these good things for?--not for yourself, i'm quite sure of that." "oh dear, no, sir; it's for gran'father." "indeed. is grandfather very poor?" "oh yes, sir, very, _very_ poor; an' he's got nobody but me to take care of him." "if that be so, who is taking care of him just now?" asked matty, who had joined her brother, leaving another "worker" at the harmonium to play the people out,--a difficult thing to do, by the way, for the people seemed very unwilling to go. you see, among other things, jack frost and sons could gain no footing in that hall, and the people knew only too well that the firm was in great force awaiting them outside. "nobody's takin' care on 'im, ma'am," replied martha, somewhat shyly. "i locked 'im in, an' he's takin' care of hisself." "would you like to give grandfather anything in particular, little woman, if a fairy were to offer to give it you?" "oh, wouldn't i just?" "yes? what would you ask for?" martha pursed her little mouth and knitted her brows in thought for a minute. then she said slowly, "i'd ask for a mug of hot soup, an' a blanket, an' some coals, and--oh! i forgot, a teapot, for ours is cracked an' won't 'old in now." "do you live far from this hall?" asked tom. "no, sir, quite close." "come, matty, you and i will go with this little one and see grandfather. what is your name, child?" "martha burns, sir." "well, martha, give me your hand, and come along." they were soon in the shabby little room,--for martha was eager to give the food to the old man. of course jack frost and sons were still in possession, but there had come another visitor during the child's absence, whom they were scarce prepared to meet. death sat beside the lowly bed. he had not yet laid his hand on his victim, but his chill presence was evidently felt. "darling, i'm glad you've come," said the old man, faintly. "i've been longing so for you. give me your hand, dear. i'm so cold--so cold." he shivered as he spoke until the miserable bed shook. poor martha forgot the food in her anxiety, for a striking change had come over gran'father--such as she had never seen before. she took his thin hand in hers, and began to weep softly. but matilda westlake did not forget the food. she took up the tin can in which it had been brought there, and poured some of the still warm contents into a cracked soup plate that stood on the table. finding a pewter spoon, she at once put her hand under the pillow, and raising the old man's head gently, began to feed him like a child. meanwhile tom westlake took off his thick overcoat and spread it over the bed. then he went out, bought some sticks and coal from a neighbour, and, returning, soon kindled a fire in the rusty grate. the old man did not seem surprised. his face wore a dazed, yet thoroughly pleased, look as he quietly accepted these attentions. all the time he kept fast hold of martha's hand, and smiled to her once or twice. it was evident that he relished the soup. only once he broke silence to thank them and say, "jesus sent you, i suppose?" "yes, jesus sent us," replied matty, thoroughly meaning what she said. at that moment death raised his hand and laid it gently on the old man's brow. the hoary head bowed to the summons, and, with a soft sigh, the glad spirit fled to that region where suffering cannot enter. oh, it was sad to witness the child-grief when martha at last came to understand that gran'father was really gone. and it required no little persuasion to induce her to leave the lowly sordid room that she had known as "home." while his sister comforted the child, tom went to the "authorities" to inform them that an old pauper had gone the way of all flesh. when at last martha permitted her new friends to remove her, she was led by miss westlake to the not far distant house of a lady friend, whose sympathies with the suffering, the sorrowful, and the fallen were so keen that she had given up all and gone to dwell in the midst of them, in the sanguine hope of rescuing some. to this lady's care martha was in the meantime committed, and then tom and his sister went their way. their way led them to a very different scene not far from the same region. "we're rather late," remarked tom, consulting his watch as they turned into a narrow street. "not too late, i think," said his sister. "i hope not, for i should be sorry to go in upon them at dinner-time." they were not too late. david butts, whom they were about to visit, was a dock-labourer. in early youth he had been a footman, in which capacity he had made the acquaintance of the westlakes' nursery-maid, and, having captivated her heart, had carried her off in triumph and married her. david had not been quite as steady as might have been desired. he had acquired, while in service, a liking for beer, which had degenerated into a decided craving for brandy, so that he naturally came down in the world, until, having lost one situation after another, he finally, with his poor wife and numerous children, was reduced to a state bordering on beggary. but god, who never forgets his fallen creatures, came to this man's help when the tide with him was at its lowest ebb. a humble-minded city missionary was sent to him. he was the means of bringing him to jesus. the saviour, using one of the man's companions as an instrument, brought him to a temperance meeting, and there an eloquent, though uneducated, speaker flung out a rope to the struggling man in the shape of a blue ribbon. david butts seized it, and held on for life. his wife gladly sewed a bit of it on every garment he possessed--including his night-shirt--and the result was that he got to be known at the docks as a steady, dependable man, and found pretty constant employment. how far matilda westlake was instrumental in this work of rescue we need not stop to tell. it is enough to say that she had a hand in it--for her heart yearned towards the nurse, who had been very kind to her when she was a little child. jack frost and his sons, with their usual presumption, were in close attendance on the westlakes when they knocked at david's door, and when it was opened they rudely brushed past the visitors and sought to enter, but a gush of genial heat from a roaring fire effectually stopped jack and the major on the threshold, and almost killed them. colonel wind, however, succeeded in bursting in, overturning a few light articles, causing the flames to sway, leap, and roar wildly, and scattering ashes all over the room, but his triumph was short-lived. the instant the visitors entered he was locked out, and the door shut against him with a bang. "it do come rather awkward, sir, 'avin' no entrance 'all," said david, as he made the door fast. "if we even 'ad a porch it would 'elp to keep the wind and snow hout, but i ain't complainin', sir. i've on'y too good reason to be thankful." "dear miss matilda," said the old nurse, dusting a wooden chair with her apron, and beaming all over with joy, "it's good for sore eyes to see you. don't mind the child'n, miss, an' do sit down near the fire. i'm sure your feet must be wet--such dreadful weather." "no, indeed, nurse,--thank you," said miss westlake, laughing as she sat down, "my feet are not a bit wet. the frost is so hard that everything is quite dry." "now it's no use to tell me that, miss matty," said mrs butts, with the memory of nursing days strong upon her. "you was always such a dear, thoughtless child! don't you remember that day when you waded in baby's bath, an' then said you wasn't wet a bit, only a _very_ little, an' you rather liked it? indeed she did: you needn't laugh, master tom, i remember it as well as if it happened yesterday." "i don't in the least doubt you, mrs butts," said tom, "i was only laughing at my sister's idea of dryness. but you must not let us interrupt you in your cooking operations, else we will go away directly. just go about it as if we were not here, for i have some business matters to talk over with your husband." "go away?" echoed mrs butts; "you must not talk of going away till you've had a bite of lunch with us. it's our dinner, you know, but lawks! what do it matter what you calls it so long as you've got it to eat? an' there's such a splendid apple dumplin' in the pot, miss; you see, it's tommy's birthday, for he was born on a christmas day, an' he's very fond of apple dumplin', is tommy." the six children, of various ages and sizes scattered about the small room, betrayed lively interest in this invitation--some hoping that it would be accepted; others as evidently hoping that it would be declined. as for tommy, his fear that the dumpling would be too small for the occasion, filled his heart with anxiety that showed itself strongly in his face, but he was promptly relieved by miss matty assuring his mother that to stay was impossible, as they had other visits to pay that day. thus the lady and nurse chatted of past and present days, while tom westlake talked "business" with the dock-labourer. "you seem to be getting on pretty comfortably now," remarked tom. "yes, sir, thank god i am. ever since i was enabled to cry, `god be merciful to me a sinner,' things 'as gone well with me. an' the puttin' on o' the blue ribbon, sir, 'as done me a power o' good. you see, before that i was sorely tempted by comrades offerin' me a glass, and by my own wish to _'ave_ a glass, but when i mounted the blue i was let alone, though they chaffed me now an' then, an' i felt it was no use thinkin' about it, 'owever much i might wish for it. the missus, bless 'er 'art, sewed a bit o' blue on my night-shirt in fun, but d'ee know, sir, i do believe it's that 'as cured me o' dreamin' about it, as i used to do." "i'm glad to hear that, butts," said tom, with a laugh. "now, tell me; how long is it since you tasted strong drink?" "six months this very day, sir." "and are you satisfied that you are better without it?" "better without it, sir," repeated butts, with energy, "in course i am-- better in body and better in soul, also in pocket. of course you know, sir, we don't carry on every day with such fires an' dinners as we're a-goin' in for to-day--for christmas on'y comes once a year, and sometimes we've been slack at the docks, an' once or twice i've bin laid up, so that we've bin pinched a bit now an' then, but we've bin able to make the two ends meet, and the older child'n is beginnin' to turn in a penny now an' again, so, you see, sir, though the fires ain't always bright, an jack frost do manage to git in through the key 'ole rather often just now, on the whole we're pretty comfortable." "i'm glad to hear it, butts; very glad to hear it indeed," said tom, "because i'm anxious to help you, and i make it a point only to help those who help themselves. six months of steadiness goes a long way to prove that your craving for drink has been cured, and that your reformation is genuine; therefore, i am able now to offer you a situation as porter in a bank, which for some time i have kept open on purpose to be ready for you. how will that suit you--eh?" whatever david butts replied, or meant to reply, could only be gathered from his gratified expression, for at that moment his voice was drowned by a shriek of delight from the youngest children, in consequence of mrs butts, at matilda's request, having removed the lid of the pot which held the dumpling, and let out a deliciously-scented cloud of steam. it was almost too much for the little ones, whose mouths watered with anticipation, and who felt half inclined to lay violent hands on the pot and begin dinner without delay. "now, i know by the smell that it is quite ready, so we will say good-bye at once," said matilda, getting up with a smile, and drawing her warm cloak round her. "be sure to send your eldest girl to me to-morrow along with your husband." "and come early, butts," said tom westlake, buttoning up his coat. "you may depend on me, sir." "stand by to shut the door quickly after us," added tom as he grasped the handle, "else the wind will get in and blow the fire about." the brother and sister, being young and active, were pretty smart in making their exit, and david butts, being used to doors, was not slow to shut his own, but they could not altogether baffle the colonel, for he was waiting outside. indeed, he had been whistling with furious insolence through the keyhole all the time of the visit. sliding in edgewise, at the moment of opening, he managed to scatter the ashes again, and whirl about some of the light articles before he was fairly expelled. thereafter, along with his father and brother, he went riotously after tom and matilda westlake, sometimes shrieking over their heads; now and then dashing on in front, and, whirling round in an eddy, plunging straight back into their faces, but they could make nothing of it. the brother and sister merely laughed at them, and defied them to do their worst, even, in the joy of their hearts, going the length of saying to several utter but beaming strangers, that it was "splendid christmas weather." and so it was,--to the young and strong. not so, alas! to the old and feeble. it almost seemed as if colonel wind and major snow had taken offence at this last sally, for about that time of the day they forsook their father and left london--probably to visit the country. at all events, the clouds cleared away, the sky became blue, and the sun shone out gloriously--though without perceptibly diminishing the frost. after spending another hour or two in paying visits, during which they passed abruptly, more than once, from poverty-stricken scenes of moderate mirth to abodes of sickness and desolation, tom and matilda, by means of 'bus and cab, at last found themselves in the neighbourhood of the serpentine. "what say you to a turn on the ice, matty?" "charming," cried matty. society on the serpentine, when frozen over, is not very select, but the brother and sister were not particular on that point just then. they hired skates; they skimmed about over the well-swept surface; they tripped over innumerable bits of stick or stone or orange-peel; they ran into, or were run into by, various beings whose wrong-headedness induced a preference for skating backwards. in short, they conducted themselves as people usually do on skates, and returned home pretty well exhausted and blooming. that evening, after a family dinner, at which a number of young cousins and other relatives were present, tom and his sister left the festive circle round the fire, and retired to a glass conservatory opening out of the drawing-room. there was a sofa in it and there they found ned westlake extended at full length. he rose at once and made room for them. "well, ned, how have you enjoyed yourself to-day?" asked tom. "oh, splendidly! there was such a jolly party in wharton's grounds-- most of them able to skate splendidly. the pond is so sheltered that the wind scarcely affected us, and a staff of sweepers cleared away the snow as fast as it fell. afterwards, when it cleared up and the sun shone through the trees, it was absolutely magnificent. it's the jolliest day i've had on the ice for years, though i'm almost knocked up by it. jovially fatigued, in fact. but where have you been?" "we also have been skating," said matilda. "indeed! i thought you had intended to spend the day somewhere in the east-end attending some of those free breakfasts, and visiting the poor, or something of that sort--as if there were not enough of city missionaries, and sisters of mercy, or charity, or whatever you call them, to look after such things." "you are right, ned," said tom, "such was our intention, and we carried it out too. it was only at the end of the day that we took to skating on the serpentine, and, considering the number of people we have run into, or overturned, or tumbled over, we found a couple of hours of it quite sufficient." from this point tom westlake "harked back" and related his experiences of the day. he possessed considerable power of graphic delineation, and gradually aroused the interest of his gay and volatile but kindly-disposed brother. "ned," said he, at last, "do you really believe in the truth of these words, `blessed are they that consider the poor?'" "yes, tom, i do," replied ned, becoming suddenly serious. what tom said to his brother after that we will not relate, but the result was that, before that christmas evening closed, he succeeded in convincing ned that a day of "jolly good fun" may be rendered inexpressibly more "jolly," by being commenced with an effort to cheer and lighten the lot of those into whose sad lives there enter but a small amount of jollity and far too little fun. story three, chapter . a double rescue--introduction. it is a curious and interesting fact that christmas-tide seemed to have a peculiar influence on the prospects of our hero jack matterby, all through his life. all the chief events of his career, somehow, happened on or about christmas day. jack was born, to begin with, on a christmas morning. his father, who was a farmer in the middle ranks of life, rejoiced in the fact, esteeming it full of promise for the future. so did his mother. jack himself did not at first seem to have any particular feeling on the subject. if one might judge his opinions by his conduct, it seemed that he was rather displeased than otherwise at having been born; for he spent all the first part of his natal day in squalling and making faces, as though he did not like the world at all, and would rather not have come into it. "john, dear," said his mother to his father, one day not long after his birth, "i'm so glad he is a boy. he might have been a girl, you know." "no, molly; _he_ could never have been a girl!" replied the husband, as he gently patted his wife's shoulder. "now, don't laugh at me, john, dear. you know what i mean. but what shall we call him?" "john, of course," replied the farmer, with decision. "my father was called john, and _his_ father was called john, and also his grandfather, and so on back, i have no doubt, to the very beginning of time." "nay, john," returned his wife, simply, "that could hardly be; for however many of your ancestors may have been johns, the first, you know, was adam." "why, molly, you're getting to be quite sharp," returned the farmer. "nevertheless this little man is to be john, like the rest of us." mrs matterby, being meek, gave in; but she did so with a sigh, for she wished the little one to be named joseph, after her own deceased father. thus it came to pass that the child was named john. the name was expanded to johnny during the first period of childhood. afterwards it was contracted to jack, and did not attain to the simple grandeur of john till the owner of it became a man. in the johnny period of life our hero confined his attention almost exclusively to smashing and overturning. to overturn and to destroy were his chief amusements. he made war on crockery to such an extent that tea-cups and saucers were usually scarce in the family. he assaulted looking-glasses so constantly, that there was, ere long, barely enough of mirror left for his father to shave in. as to which fact the farmer used to say, "never mind, molly. don't look so down-hearted, lass. if he only leaves a bit enough to see a corner of my chin and the half of my razor, that will do well enough." no window in the family mansion was thoroughly whole, and the appearance of a fat little fist, on the wrong side of a pane of glass, was quite a familiar object in the nursery. as for toys--johnny had none, so to speak. he had only a large basket full of bits, the misapplication of which to each other gave him many hours of profound recreation. everything that would turn inside out was so turned. whatever was by nature straight he bent, whatever bent he straightened. round things he made square when possible, and square things round; soft things hard, and hard things soft. in short, nothing was too hard for johnny. everything that came into his clutches, was subjected to what we may style the influence of experimental philosophy; and if farmer matterby had been a poor man he must soon have been ruined, but, being what is styled "well-to-do," he only said, in reference to these things-- "go ahead, my boy. make hay while the sun shines. if you carry on as you've begun, you'll make your mark _somewhere_ in this world." "alas!" remarked poor mrs matterby, "he has made his mark already _everywhere_, and that a little too freely!" nevertheless she was proud of her boy, and sought to subdue his spirit by teaching him lessons of self-denial and love out of the word of god. johnny listened intently to these lessons, gazing with large wondering eyes, though he understood little of the teaching at first. it was not all lost on him, however; and he thoroughly understood and reciprocated the deep love that beamed in his mother's eyes. soon after johnny had slid into the jack period of life he became acquainted with a fisher-boy of his own age, whose parents dwelt in a cottage on the sea-shore, not a quarter of a mile from his own home, and close to the village of blackby. natty grove was as fine a little fellow as one could wish to see: fair, curly-headed, blue-eyed, rough-jacketed, and almost swallowed up in a pair of his father's sea-boots, which had been cut down in the legs to fit him. as to the feet!--well, as his father ned grove remarked, there was plenty of room for growth. natty had no mother, but he had a little sister about three years of age, and a grandmother, who might have been about thirty times three. no one could tell her age for certain; but she was so old and wrinkled and dried up and withered and small, that she might certainly have claimed to be "the oldest inhabitant." she had been bed-ridden for many years because of what her son called rum-matticks and her grandson styled rum-ticks. the name of natty's little sister was nellie; that of his grandmother, nell--old nell, as people affectionately called her. now it may perhaps surprise the reader to be told that jack matterby, at the age of nine years, was deeply in love. he had, indeed, been in that condition, more or less from the age of three, but the passion became more decided at nine. he was in love with nell--not blue-eyed little nellie, but with wrinkled old nell; for that antiquated creature was brimming over with love to mankind, specially to children. on our hero she poured out such wealth of affection that he was powerfully attracted to her even in the period of johnny-hood, and, as we have said, she captured him entirely when he reached jack-hood. old nell was a splendid story-teller. that was one of the baits with which she was fond of hooking young people. it was interesting to sit in the fisherman's poor cottage and watch the little ones sitting open-mouthed and eyed, gazing at the withered little face, in which loving-kindness, mingling with fun, beamed from the old eyes, played among the wrinkles, smiled on the lips, and asserted itself in the gentle tones. "jack," said mrs matterby, on the christmas morning which ushered in her boy's ninth birthday, "come, i'm going to give you a treat to-day." "you always do, mammy, on my birthdays," said jack. "i want you to go with a message to a poor woman," continued the mother. "is that all?" exclaimed jack, with a disappointed look. "yes, that's all--or nearly all," replied his mother, with a twinkle in her eye, however, which kept her son from open rebellion. "i want you to carry this basket of good things, with my best love and christmas good-wishes, to old nell grove." "oho!" exclaimed jack, brightening up at once, "i'm your man; here, give me the basket. but, mother," he added with a sudden look of perplexity, "you called old nell a _poor_ woman, and i've heard her sometimes say that she has _everything_ that she needs and _more_ than she deserves! she can't be poor if that's true, and it _must_ be true; for you know that old nell never, _never_ tells lies." "true, jack; old nell is not poor in one sense: she is rich in faith. she has got `contentment with godliness,' and many rich people have not got that. nevertheless she has none too much of the necessaries of this life, and none at all of the luxuries, so that she is what people usually call poor." "that's a puzzler, mammy--poor and rich both!" "i daresay it is a puzzler," replied mrs matterby, with a laugh, "but be off with your basket and message, my son; some day you shall understand it better." pondering deeply on this "puzzler," the boy went off on his mission, trudging through the deep snow which whitened the earth and brightened that christmas morning. "she's as merry as a cricket to-day," said natty grove, who opened the cottage door when his friend knocked. "yes, as 'erry as a kiket," echoed flaxen-haired nellie, who stood beside him. "she's always 'erry," said jack, giving the little girl a gentle pull of the nose by way of expressing good will. "a merry christmas both! how are you? see here, what mother has sent to old nell." he opened the lid of the basket. nattie and nellie peeped in and snuffed. "oh! i _say_!" said the fisher-boy. he could say no more, for the sight and scent of apples, jelly, roast fowl, home-made pastry, and other things was almost too much for him. "i expected it, dearie," said old nell, extending her withered hand to the boy as he set the basket on the table. "every christmas morning, for years gone by, she has sent me the same, though i don't deserve it, and i've no claim on her but helplessness. but it's the first time she has sent it by you, jack. come, i'll tell ye a story." jack was already open-eyed with expectancy and he was soon open-mouthed, forgetful of past and future, absorbed entirely in the present. natty and nelly were similarly affected and like-minded, while the little old woman swept them away to the wilds of siberia, and told them of an escape from unjust banishment, of wanderings in the icy wilderness, and of starvation so dire that the fugitives were reduced to gnawing and sucking the leathern covers of their wallets for dear life. then she told of food sent at the last moment, almost by miracle, and of hair-breadth escapes, and final deliverance. somehow--the listeners could not have told how--old nell inserted a reference to the real miracle of jesus feeding the five thousand, and she worked round to it so deftly, that it seemed an essential part of the story; and so indeed it was, for nell intended the key-stone of the arch of her story to be the fact that, when man is reduced to the last extremity god steps in to save. it is certain that little nellie did not understand the moral of the story, and it is uncertain how far the boys appreciated it; but it was old nell's business to sow the seed beside all waters, and leave the rest to him who gave the command. "yes, dearies," she said in conclusion, laying her hand on the basket, "i expected this gift this morning; but many a time does our father in heaven send a blessin' when an' where we _don't_ expect it. mind that--_mind ye that_." jack had more than enough of mental food to digest that morning as he retraced his steps homeward through the deep snow; for he found that old nell, not less than his mother, had treated him to a few puzzlers. poor boy, he little knew as he plodded on that he was that day about to enter into one of the darkest clouds of his young life. during his absence a letter had been received by his father, intimating that through the failure of a bank he was a ruined man. the shock had paralysed the farmer, and when jack entered his home he found him lying on his bed in a state of insensibility, from which he could not be rallied. a few days later the old man died. farmer matterby's widow had few relatives, and none of these were in circumstances to help her in the day of trial. they and her numerous friends did indeed what they could. besides offering sincere sympathy, they subscribed and raised a small sum to enable the bereaved woman and her only child to tide over present difficulties, but they could not enable her to continue to work the farm, and as most of her late husband's kindred had migrated to canada, she had no one from whom she could naturally claim counsel or aid. she was therefore thrown entirely on god; and it was with strange and solemn feelings that jack kneeled by her side, and heard her pray in tones of anguish for help, light, and guidance, and especially that, whatever might become of herself, her dear boy might be preserved from evil and guided in ways of righteousness. a few months later, and the widow, gathering the small remnant of her possessions together, set off with her little boy to seek employment in london. how many poor souls, in various ranks of life, must have turned their steps, in days gone by, towards that giant city in the sanguine hope of bettering their condition! mrs matterby had no friends to whom she could go in london; but she could paint and draw and sing, and was fairly educated. she would teach. in the meantime she had a little money to start with. entertaining a suspicion that it might be considered a wildish scheme by her friends and neighbours, she resolved to say nothing about her plans to any one, save that she was going to london for a time. it was a touching scene, the parting of jack and the grove family. the sturdy fisherman was at sea at the time, but old nell was in her accustomed corner in the lowly bed with the ragged counterpane, where her uneventful, yet happy, life was spent; and little curly-headed nellie was there, playing with the cat; and natty was there, cutting out a first-rate man of war with a huge knife. "granny," (jack always called her "granny" like the rest), "granny, i've come to say good-bye. i am going away f-f-for ever an' ever!" "amen!" responded natty, from the mere force of habit, for he was a constant responder at granny's family worship. "ye don't know that, darlin'," replied old nell. "the lord leads us in ways that we know not, an' it may be his good pleasure to bring you here again." "n-no; i'm quite _sure_ i'll never see you again," returned the boy, giving way to the sobs which he could not restrain. "m-mother says we will never come back again,--n-never, _never_ more--" he broke down entirely at this point, and a few silent tears trickled over the kind old face of nell. natty was too much of a man to give way out and out, but he snivelled a little in spite of himself. as for nellie, she stood there in open-eyed wonder, for she failed to quite understand the situation. we will not prolong the painful scene. when at length jack had taken leave of them all--had kissed the two nells and shaken hands with natty--the younger nell seemed to realise the facts of the case; for jack saw her, as he glanced back for the last time, suddenly shut her large blue eyes, throw back her curly little head, open wide her pretty little mouth, and howl miserably. story three, chapter . lost in london. london in a fog is too well known to require description. in an uncommonly thick fog, on a day in december of the following year, mrs matterby hurried along fleet street in the direction of the city, leading jack by the hand. both were very wet, very cold, ravenously hungry, and rather poorly clad. it was evident that things had not prospered with the widow. "dear jack," she said in a choking voice, as they hurried along the streets towards the wretched abode in the tower hamlets, to which they had been at length reduced, "dear jack, my last human hope has failed. mr block has told me that i need not go there again; he has no more work for me." jack's experience of life was too limited to enable him to understand fully the depth of distress, to which his mother had fallen--with health broken, money expended, and work not to be had except on terms which rendered life a misery, and prolonged existence almost an impossibility. but jack's power of sympathy was strong and his passions were vehement. "mother," he said, with tearful eyes, as he clung closer to her side, "i would _kill_ mr block if i could!" "hush, dear boy! you know that would be wrong and could do no good. it is sinful even to feel such a desire." "how can i help it, mother!" returned jack indignantly. then he asked, "what are we going to do now, mother?" for some time the poor widow did not reply; then she spoke in a low tone, as if murmuring to herself, "the last sixpence gone; the cupboard empty; nothing--nothing left to pawn--" she stopped short, and glanced hastily at her marriage ring. "mother," said jack, "have you not often told me that god will not forsake us? does it not seem as if he _had_ forsaken us now?" "it only seems like it, darling," returned the widow hurriedly. "we don't understand his ways. `though he slay me, yet will i trust him!'" it seemed as if god were about to test the faith of his servant, for at that moment a cab drove furiously round the corner of a street and knocked her down. jack was overturned at the same time. recovering himself, instantly, he found his mother in a state of unconsciousness, with blood flowing from a deep cut in her forehead. in a state of semi-bewilderment the poor boy followed the stretcher, on which mrs matterby was carried to the nearest hospital, where he waited while his mother's injuries were examined. "my boy," said a young surgeon, returning to the waiting room, and patting jack's head, "your mother has been rather badly hurt. we must keep her here to look after her. i daresay we shall soon make her well. meanwhile you had better run home, and tell your father--if, that is-- your father is at home, i suppose?" "no, sir; father's dead." "well then your sister or aunt--i suppose there's some relative at home older than yourself?" "no, sir; none but mother an' me," whispered jack. "no relations of any kind at all in london?" "none, sir. we know nobody--at least not many, and they're all strangers." "a sad case," murmured the surgeon. "your mother is poor, i suppose?" "_very_ poor, sir." "but of course you have a home of some sort, somewhere?" "yes, it's not far from here." "well, them, you'd better go home just now, for you can't see your mother to-night. we dare not let her speak, but come back early to-morrow, and you shall hear about her--perhaps see her. here, put that in your pocket." poor jack took the shilling which the sympathetic surgeon thrust into his hand, and ran home in a state bordering on distraction; but it was not till he entered the shabby little room which he had begun to consider "home" that he realised the full weight of the calamity that had befallen him. no mother's voice to welcome him; no bit of fire in the grate to warm; no singing kettle to cheer, or light of candle to dispel the gloom of rapidly approaching night. it was christmas day too. in the morning he had gone forth with his mother--she in the sanguine hope of renewing an engagement in a clothier's shop, which terminated that day; he in the expectation of getting a few jobs of some sort--messages to run or horses to hold. such were the circumstances to which they had been reduced in twelve months, jack had arranged to call for his mother and walk home with her. on the way they were to invest a _very_ small part of the widow's earnings in "something nice" for their christmas supper, and spend the evening together, chatting about the old home in blackby, and father, and natty grove, and nellie, and old nell, in the happy days gone by. "and now!" thought jack, seating himself on his little bed and glancing at that of his mother, which stood empty in the opposite corner--"now!--" but jack could think no more. a tremendous agony rent his breast, and a sharp cry escaped from him as he flung himself on his bed and burst into a passion of tears. child-like, he sobbed himself to sleep, and did not awake till the sun was high next morning. it was some time before he could recall what had occurred. when he did so he began to weep afresh. leaping up, he was about to rush out of the house and make for the hospital, when he was checked at the door by the landlord--a hard, grinding, heartless man, who grew rich in oppressing the poor. "you seem to be in a hurry, youngster," he said, dragging the boy back by the collar, and looking hurriedly round the room. "i've come for the rent. where's your mother?" in a sobbing voice jack told him about the accident. "well, i don't really believe you," said the man, with an angry frown; "but i'll soon find out if you're telling lies. i'll go to the hospital and inquire for myself. d'ee know anything about your mother's affairs?" "no, sir," said jack, meekly, for he began to entertain a vague terror of the man. "no; i thought not. well, i'll enlighten you. your mother owes me three weeks' rent of this here room, and has got nothing to pay it with, as far as i knows, except these sticks o' furniture. now, if your mother is really in hospital, i'll come back here and bundle you out, an' sell the furniture to pay my rent. i ain't a-goin' to be done out o' my money because your mother chooses to git run'd over." the landlord did not wait for a reply, but went out and slammed the door. jack followed him in silent horror. he watched him while he inquired at the gate of the hospital, and, after he had gone, went up timidly, rang the bell, and asked for his mother. "mrs matterby?" repeated the porter. "come in; i'll make inquiry." the report which he brought back fell like the blow of a sledge-hammer on the poor boy's heart. his mother, they told him, was dead. she had died suddenly in the night. there are times of affliction, when the human soul fails to find relief in tears or cries. poor jack matterby stood for some time motionless, as if paralysed, with glaring eyes and a face not unlike to that of death. they sought to rouse him, but he could not speak. suddenly, observing the front door open, he darted out into the street, and ran straight home, where he flung himself on his mother's bed, and burst into an uncontrollable flood of tears. by degrees the passion subsided, leaving only a stunned feeling behind, under the influence of which he lay perfectly still. the first thing that roused him was the sound of a heavy foot on the stair. the memory of the landlord flashed into his mind and filled him with indescribable dread--dread caused partly by the man's savage aspect and nature, but much more by the brutal way in which he had spoken about his mother. the only way in which to avoid a meeting was to rush past the man on the stair. fear and loathing made the poor boy forget, for the moment, his crushing sorrow. he leaped up, opened the door, and, dashing downstairs, almost overturned the man who was coming up. once in the street, he ran straight on without thought, until he felt that he was safe from pursuit. then he stopped, and sat down on a door-step--to think what he should do; for, having been told that the furniture of his old home was to be sold, and himself turned out, he felt that returning there would be useless, and would only expose him to the risk of meeting the awful landlord. while he was yet buried in thought, one of those sprightly creatures of the great city, known as street arabs, accosted him in a grave and friendly tone. "my sweet little toolip," he said, "can i do anythink for you?" despite his grief jack could scarcely forbear smiling at the absurdity of the question. "no, thank you," he replied. "well now, look 'ere, my toolip," returned the arab in a confidential tone, "i've took quite a fancy to you; you've got such a look, some'ow, of my poor old grandmother. now, if you've no objection, i'd like to give you your breakfast. you're 'ungry, i suppose?" jack admitted that he was, and, after a moment's hesitation, accepted this surprisingly kind and liberal offer. taking him promptly by the arm his new friend hurried him to a pastry-cook's shop, and bade him "smell that," referring to the odours that ascended through a grating. "ain't it 'eavenly?" he asked, with sparkling eyes. jack admitted that it was very nice. "_so_ green, an' yet so fair!" murmured the arab, casting a look of admiration on his companion. "now i means to go into that there shop," he added, returning to the confidential tone, "an' buy breakfast for you--for both on us. but i couldn't go in, you know, with this 'ere shabby coat on, 'cause they wouldn't give me such good wittles if i did. just change coats with me for a few minutes. what! you doubt me? no one ever doubted bob snobbins without--without a-'urtin' of his feelin's." whatever might have caused jack to hesitate, the injured look on young snobbins' countenance and the hurt tone were too much for him. he exchanged coats with the young rascal, who, suddenly directing jack's attention to some imaginary object of interest at one end of the street, made off at full speed towards the other end. our hero was, however, a famous runner. he gave chase, caught the arab in a retired alley, and gave him an indignant punch in the head. but although jack had plenty of courage and a good deal of strength, he was no match for a street warrior like bob snobbins, who turned about promptly, blackened both his opponent's eyes, bled his nose, swelled his lips, and finally knocked him into a pool of dirty water, after which he fled, just as a policeman came on the scene. the constable was a kindly man. he asked jack a few questions, which, however, the latter was too miserable to answer. "well, well, my boy," said the constable gently, "you'd as well give up fightin'. it don't pay, you see, in the long run. besides, you don't seem fit for it. cut away home now, and get your mother to clean you." this last remark caused jack to run away fast enough with a bursting heart. all day he wandered about the crowded streets, and no one took any notice of him, save a very few among the thousands, who cast on him a passing glance of pity. but what could these do to help him? were not the streets swarming with such boys? and in truth jack matterby was a very pitiable object, at least according to the report of shop-mirrors, which told him that his face was discoloured and bloody, his coat indescribably dirty and ragged, besides being out of harmony with his trousers, and that his person generally was bedaubed with mud. hunger at last induced him to overcome his feelings of shame so far that he entered a baker's shop, but he was promptly ordered to be off. later in the day he entered another shop, the owner of which seemed to be of a better disposition. changing his shilling, he purchased a penny roll, with which he retired to a dark passage and dined. when night came on he expended another penny and supped, after which he sought for some place of shelter in which to sleep. but wherever he went he found the guardians of the public requiring him to "move on." several street arabs sought to make his acquaintance, but, with the memory of bob snobbins strong upon him, he declined their friendship. at last, wearied out and broken-hearted, he found a quiet corner under an archway, where he sat down and leaned his head against the wall, exclaiming, "i'm lost--lost!" then he wept quietly, and sought to find temporary relief in slumber. he was indeed lost, and more completely so, in the feeling of lonely isolation, perhaps, than he would have been if lost in the backwoods of america. yet he was not utterly lost, for the tender shepherd was on his track. some such thought seemed to cross his mind; for he suddenly began to pray, and thoughts about the old home in blackby, and of the grove family, comforted him a little until he fell asleep on his hard bed. but, for the time being, the poor boy _was_ lost--lost in london! his disreputable face and discreditable coat argued a dissipated character-- hence no one would employ him. ere long necessity compelled him to accept the society of street arabs, and soon he became quite as sharp, though not quite as wicked, as they. but day by day he sank lower and lower, and evil at which he would have shuddered at first became at last familiar. he did not sink without a struggle, however, and he would have returned to the place where his mother had died, to ask help of the young surgeon who had expressed sympathy with him, but, with the carelessness of boyhood, he had forgotten the name of the hospital, and did not know where, in the great wilderness of bricks and mortar, to search for it. as for the home from which he had fled, the memory of the landlord still kept him carefully clear of that. but jack's mother was _not_ dead! in hospitals--as in the best of well-regulated families--mistakes will sometimes happen. the report which had proved so disastrous to our poor hero referred to another woman who had died. a messenger had been at once sent, by the young surgeon before mentioned, to tell jack of the error; but when the messenger arrived the boy had flown--as already described. indeed, it was he whom jack had passed on the stair. it was long before mrs matterby recovered, for the disappearance of her boy caused a relapse; and when at last she left the hospital, feeble and homeless, she went about for many months, searching at once for work and for her lost treasure. christmas came again, and found jack matterby at nearly the lowest point in his downward career. it is due to him to say, however, that he had not up to that time, been guilty of any criminal act that could bring him with the grasp of human law; but in word and deed he had begun, more and more, to break the law of god: so that if poor mrs matterby had at that time succeeded in finding her son, it is probable that her joy would have been overwhelmed with terrible grief. it was not exactly christmas morning, but it was the christmas season of the year, when our little hero, wearied in spirit and body with the hard struggle for life, sauntered down the now familiar strand in the hope of finding some odd job to do. he paused before a confectioner's shop, and, being very hungry, was debating with himself the propriety of giving up the struggle, and coolly helping himself to a pie! you may be sure that bad invisible spirits were at his elbow just then to encourage him. but god sent a good angel also, and she was visible--being in the form of a thin little old lady. "you'd like a bun, i know," she said, putting a penny into jack's hand. "god bless you, ma'am--yes," burst from the astonished boy. "go in and buy one. then, come and tell me all about you." the thin little old lady was one of those followers of the lamb who do not wait for christmas to unlock their sympathies. the river of her love and pity was _always_ overflowing, so that there was no room for increase to a deluge at christmas time--though she rejoiced to note the increase in the case of others, and wished that the flood might become perennial. to this lady jack laid bare his inmost heart, and she led him back to the saviour. "now, jack, let me ask you one question," she said; "would you like to go to canada?" with tremendous energy jack answered, "_wouldn't_ i!" "then," said the old lady, "to canada you shall go." story three, chapter . the double rescue. and jack matterby went! but before he went he had to go through a preliminary training, for his regular schooling had ceased when his father died, and he had learned no trade. in those days there were no splendid institutions for waifs and strays such as now exist, but it must not be supposed that there was no such thing as "hasting to the rescue." thin little old mrs seaford had struck out the idea for herself, and had acted on it for some years in her own vigorous way. she took jack home, and lodged him in her own house with two or three other boys of the same stamp--waifs. jack elected to learn the trade of a carpenter, and mrs seaford, finding that he had been pretty well grounded in english, taught him french, as that language, she told him, was much spoken in canada. above all, she taught him those principles of god's law without which a human being is but poorly furnished even for the life that now is, to say nothing of that which is to come. in a few months jack was ready for exportation! a few months more, and he found himself apprenticed to a farmer, not far from the shores of that mighty fresh-water sea, ontario. time passed, and jack matterby became a trusted servant and a thorough farmer. he also became a big, dashing, and earnest boy. more time passed, and jack became a handsome young man, the bosom friend of his employer. yet a little more time winged its silent way, and jack became john matterby, esquire, of fair creek farm, heir to his former master's property, and one of the wealthiest men of the province--not a common experience of poor emigrant waifs, doubtless, but, on the other hand, by no means unprecedented. it must not be supposed that during all those years jack forgot the scenes and people of the old land. on the contrary, the longer he absented himself from the old home the more firmly and tenderly did the old memories cling and cluster round his heart; and many a story and anecdote did he relate about these, especially during the christmas season of each year, to his old master and to nancy briggs, in the log homestead of ontario. nancy was a waif, who had been sent out by the same thin little old lady who had sent jack out. she was very pretty, and possessed of delightfully amiable domestic qualities. she grew up to be a very handsome girl, and was a very bright sunbeam in the homestead. but jack did not fall in love with her. all unknown to himself his heart was pre-occupied. neither did nancy fall in love with jack. all unwittingly she was reserving herself for another lot. of course our hero corresponded diligently with the thin little old lady, and gladdened her heart by showing and expressing strong sympathy with the waifs of the great city; more than once, in his earlier letters, mentioning one named bob snobbins, about whose fate he felt some curiosity, but in regard to whose home, if such existed, he could give no information. twice during those years jack also wrote to the grove family; but as he received no answer on either occasion, he concluded that the father must have been drowned, that old nell was dead, and the family broken up. need we add that the memory of his dear mother never faded or grew dim? but this was a sacred memory, in regard to which he opened his lips to no one. at last there came a day when john matterby, being in the prime of life, with ample means and time to spare, set his heart on a holiday and a visit to the old country--the thin little old lady being yet alive. it was not so easy, however, for our hero to get away from home as one might imagine; for, besides being a farmer, he was manager of a branch bank, secretary to several philanthropic societies, superintendent of a sunday-school, and, generally, a helper of, and sympathiser with, all who loved the lord and sought to benefit their fellow-men. but, being a man of resolution, he cut the cords that attached him to these things, appointed miss briggs to superintend the sunday-school in his absence, and set sail for england--not in a steamer, as most rich men would have done, but in a sailing ship, because the vessel happened to be bound for the port of blackby, the home of his childhood. it was winter when he set sail, and the storms of winter were having high jinks and revels on the deep in the usual way at that season of the year. jack's vessel weathered them all till it reached the shores of old england. then the storm-fiend broke loose with unwonted fury, and, as if out of spite, cast the good ship on the rocks lying a little to the eastward of the port of blackby. it was a tremendous storm! the oldest inhabitant of blackby said, as well as his toothless gums would let him, that, "it wos the wust gale as had blow'd since he wos a leetle booy--an' that warn't yesterday--no, nor yet the day before!" the gale was at its height, in the grey of early morning, when the ship struck, and all the manhood of the port and neighbouring village were out to render aid, if possible, and to gaze and sympathise. but who could render aid to a vessel which was rolling on those black rocks in a caldron of white foam, with a hundred yards of swirling breakers that raged and roared like a thousand lions between it and the base of the cliffs? even the noble lifeboat would have been useless in such a place. but hark! a cry is raised--the coastguardmen and the rocket! yes, there is one hope for them yet--under god. far below the men are seen staggering along over the shingle, with their life-saving apparatus in a hand-cart. soon the tripod is set up, and the rocket is fired, but the line falls to leeward. another is tried; it falls short. still another--it goes far to windward. again and again they try, but without success, until all their rockets are expended. but these bold men of the coastguard are not often or easily foiled. they send for more rockets to the next station. meanwhile the terrible waves are doing their awful work, dashing the ship on the rocks as if she were a mere toy--as indeed she is, in their grasp. can nothing be done? "she'll never hold together till the rockets come," said a young seaman stepping out from the crowd. "here, let me have the line, and stand by to pay out." "don't try it, lad, it'll be your death." the youth paid no regard to this advice. "a man can only die once," he remarked in a low voice, more as if speaking to himself than replying to the caution, while he quickly tied the end of the light rope round his waist and dashed into the sea. oh! it is grand and heart-stirring to see a stalwart youth imperilling life and limb for the sake of others; to see a powerful swimmer breasting the billows with a fixed purpose to do or die. but it is terrible and spirit-crushing to see such a one tossed by the breakers as if he were a mere baby, and hurled back helpless on the sand. twice did the young sailor dash in, and twice was he caught up like a cork and hurled back, while the people on shore, finding their remonstrances useless, began to talk of using force. the man's object was to dive _through_ the first wave. if he could manage this--and the second--the rest would not be beyond the power of a strong man. a third time he leaped into the rushing flood, and this time was successful. soon he stood panting on the deck of the stranded vessel, almost unable to stand, and well he knew that there was not a moment to lose, for the ship was going to pieces! jack matterby, however, knew well what to do. he drew out the hawser of the rocket apparatus, fixed the various ropes, and signalled to those on shore to send out the sling life-buoy, and then the men of the coastguard began to haul the passengers and crew ashore, one at a time. the young sailor, recovering in a few minutes, lent a hand. jack knew him the instant he heard his voice, but took no notice of him, for it was a stern matter of life or death with them all just then. when jack and the captain stood at last awaiting their turn, and watching the last of the crew being dragged over the boiling surf, our hero turned suddenly, and, grasping the young sailor's hand with the grip of a vice, said, "god bless you, natty grove!" nat gazed as if he had been stunned. "_can_ it be?" he exclaimed. "we had thought you dead years ago!" "thank god, i'm not only alive but hearty. here comes the life-buoy. your turn next. but one word before--old nell; and--nellie?" "both well, and living with your mother--" "my--" jack could not speak, a tremendous shock seemed to rend his heart. young grove felt that he had been too precipitate. "your mother is alive, jack, and--" he stopped, for the captain said quickly, "now, then, get in. no time to lose." but jack could not get in. if he had not been a strong man he must have fallen on the deck. as it was, he felt stunned and helpless. "here, captain," cried nat grove, leaping into the life-buoy, "lift him into my arms. the ropes are strong enough for both." scarce knowing what he did, jack allowed himself to be half-lifted into the buoy, in which his old friend held him fast. a few minutes more, and they were dragged safely to land and the ringing cheers and congratulations of the assembled multitude. the captain came last, so that, when the ship finally went to pieces, not a human life was lost-- even the ship's cat was among the number of the saved, the captain having carried it ashore in his arms. now, there are some scenes in this life which will not bear description in detail. such was the meeting of our hero with his long-lost mother. we refrain from lifting the curtain here. but there is no reason why we should not re-introduce the joyful and grateful pair at a later period of that same eventful day, when, seated together by the bedside of old nell, they recounted their experiences--yes, the same old woman, but thinner and wrinkleder, and smaller in every way; and the same bed, as far as appearance went, though softer and cosier, and bigger in all ways. on the other side of the bed sat the manly form of natty grove. but who is that fair girl with the curling golden hair, whose face exhibits one continuous blush, and whose entire body, soul and spirit is apparently enchained by an insignificant piece of needlework? can that be nellie grove, whom we last saw with her eyes shut and her mouth open--howling? yes, it is she, and--but let mrs matterby explain. "now, jack," said that lady in a firm tone, "it's of no use your asking question after question of every one in this way, and not even waiting for answers, and everybody speaking at once--" "excuse me, dearest mother, miss nellie grove has not yet spoken at all." "_miss_ nellie, indeed! times are changed,"--murmured natty, with a look of surprise. "her not speaking proves her the wisest of us all," resumed the widow, looking at old nell, who with tremulous head nodded violent approval. you must know, old nell had become as deaf as a post, and, being incapable of understanding anything, she gratified her natural amiability by approving of everything--at least everything that was uttered by speakers with a visible smile. when they spoke with gravity, old nell shook her tremulous head, and put on a look of alarmingly solemn sympathy. on the present occasion, however, the antique old thing seemed to have been affected with some absolutely new, and evidently quaint, ideas, for she laughed frequently and immoderately, especially when she gazed hard at jack matterby after having looked long at nellie grove! "now, jack," resumed the widow for the fiftieth time, "you must know that after i lost you, and had given you up for dead, i came back here, feeling an intense longing to see once more the old home, and i began a school. in course of years god sent me prosperity, notwithstanding the murmurings of rebellion which rose in my heart when i thought of _you_. the school became so big that i had to take a new house--that in which you now sit--and sought about for a teacher to help me. long before that time poor ned grove had been drowned at sea. your old friend natty there had become the first mate to a merchantman, and helped to support his grandmother. nellie, whose education i had begun, as you know, when you were a boy, had grown into a remarkably clever and pretty girl, as, no doubt, you will admit. she had become a daily governess in the family of a gentleman who had come to live in the neighbourhood. thus she was enabled to assist her brother in keeping up the old home, and took care of granny." at this point our hero, as he looked at the fair face and modest carriage of his old playmate heartily admitted, (to himself), that she was much more than "pretty," and felt that he now understood how a fisherman's daughter had, to his intense surprise, grown up with so much of gentle manners, and such soft lady-like hands. but he said never a word! "most happily for me," continued mrs matterby, "nellie lost her situation at the time i speak of, owing to the death of her employer. thus i had the chance of securing her at once. and now, here we have been together for some years, and i hope we may never part as long as we live. we had considerable difficulty in getting old nell to quit the cottage and come here. indeed, we should never have succeeded, i think, had it not been for natty--" "that's true," interrupted nat, with a laugh. "the dear old woman was too deaf to understand, and too obstinate to move: so one day i put the bed clothes over her head, gathered her and them up in my arms, and brought her up here bodily, very much as i carried _you_ ashore, jack, in the life-buoy, without asking leave. and she has been content and happy ever since." what more of this tale there is to tell shall be told, reader, by excerpts from our hero's christmas letter to thin little mrs seaford, as follows:-- "pardon my seeming neglect, dear old friend. i meant to have run up to town to see you the instant i set foot in england, but you must admit that my dear, long-lost mother had prior claims. pardon, also, my impudence in now asking you to come and see _me_. you _must_ come. i will take no denial, for i want you to rejoice at my wedding! yes, as old nell once said to me, `god sends us a blessing sometimes when we least expect it.' he has not only restored to me my mother, but has raised me from the lowest rung in the ladder to the very highest, and given me the sweetest, and most--. but enough. come and see for yourself. her name is nellie. but i have more to astonish you with. not only do i take nellie back with me to my home in the new world, but i take my mother also, and natty grove, and _old nell herself_! how we got her to understand what we want her to do, could not be told in less than four hundred pages of small type. nat did it, by means of signs, symbols, and what _he_ styles facial-logarithms. at all events she has agreed to go, and we hope to set sail next june. moreover, i expect to get _you_ to join us. don't laugh. i mean it. there is good work to be done. canada needs philanthropic christians as well as england. "you will scarcely credit me when i say that i have become a match-maker--not one of those `little' ones, in whose welfare you are so much interested, but a real one. my deep design is upon your partner, natty grove. yes, your _partner_--for were not _you_ the instrument used in rescuing my soul, and _he_ my body? so that you have been partners in this double rescue. well, it is my intention to introduce natty grove to nancy briggs, and abide the result! once on a time i had meant her for bob snobbins, but as you have failed to hunt him up, he must be left to suffer the consequences. d'you know i have quite a pathetic feeling of tenderness for the memory of that too sharp little boy. little does he know how gladly i would give him the best coat in my possession--if i could only find him! "now, dearest of old friends, i must stop. nellie is sitting on one side of me, mother on the other, and old nell in front--which will account to you, in some degree, for the madness of my condition. "once more, in the hope of a joyful meeting, i wish you `a merry christmas and a happy new year.'" the end. wikkey a scrap by yam new york e. p. dutton & company west twenty-third street wikkey. a scrap. chapter i. mr. ruskin has it that we are all kings and queens, possessing realms and treasuries. however this may be, it is certain that there are souls born to reign over the hearts of their fellows, kings walking about the world in broad-cloth and fustian, shooting-jackets, ulsters, and what not--swaying hearts at will, though it may be all unconscious of their power; and only the existence of some such psychological fact as this will account for the incident which i am about to relate. lawrence granby was, beyond all doubt, one of these royal ones, his kingdom being co-extensive with the circle of his acquaintance--not that he was in the least aware of the power he exercised over all who came in contact with him, as he usually attributed the fact that he "got on" with people "like a house on fire" to the good qualities possessed by "other fellows." even the comforts by which he was surrounded in his lodging by his landlady and former nurse, mrs. evans, he considered as the result of the dame's innate geniality, though the opinion entertained of her by underlings and by those who met her in the way of business was scarcely as favorable. he was a handsome fellow too, this lawrence, six feet three, with a curly brown head and the frankest blue eyes that ever looked pityingly, almost wonderingly, on the small and weak things of the earth. and the boy, wikkey whiston, was a crossing-sweeper. i am sorry for this, for i fancy people are becoming a little tired of the race, in story-books at least, but as he _was_ a crossing-sweeper it cannot be helped. it would not mend matters much to invest him with some other profession, especially as it was while sitting broom in hand, under the lamp-post at one end of his crossing that he first saw lawrence granby, and if he had never seen lawrence granby i should not be writing about him at all. it was a winter's morning in , bright as it is possible for such a morning to be in london, but piercingly cold, and wikkey had brushed and re-brushed the pathway--which scarcely needed it, the east wind having already done half the work--just to put some feeling of warmth into his thin frame before seating himself in his usual place beneath the lamp-post. there were a good many passers-by, for it was the time of day at which clerks and business men are on their way to their early occupation, and the boy scanned each face in the fashion that had become habitual to him in his life-long look out for coppers. presently he saw approaching a peculiarly tall figure, and looked at it curiously, tracing its height upward from his own stunted point of view till he encountered the cheery glance of lawrence granby. wikkey was strangely fascinated by the blue eyes looking down from so far above him, and scarcely knowing what he did, he rose and went shambling on alongside of the young man, his eyes riveted on his face. lawrence, however, being almost unconscious of the boy's presence till his attention was drawn to him by the friend with whom he was walking, who said, laughing and pointing to wikkey, "friend of yours, eh? seems to know you." then he looked down again and met the curious, intent stare fixed upon him. "well, small boy! i hope you'll know me again," he said. to which wikkey promptly returned in the shrill, aggressively aggrieved voice of the london arab: "i reckon it don't do you no harm, guvner; a cat may look at a king." lawrence laughed, and threw him a copper, saying, "you are a cheeky little fellow," and went on his way. wikkey stood looking after him, and then picked up the penny, holding it between his cold hands, as though it possessed some warming properties, and muttering: "it seems fur to warm a chap to look at him;" and then he sat down once more, still pondering over the apparition that had so fascinated him. oddly enough the imputation of cheekiness rankled in his mind in a most unusual fashion--not that wikkey entertained the faintest objection to "cheek" in the abstract, and there were occasions on which any backwardness in its use would betray a certain meanness of spirit: for instance to the natural enemy of the race--the bobby--it was only right to exhibit as much of the article as was compatible with safety. indeed, the inventor of a fresh sarcasm, biting in its nature yet artfully shrouded in language which might be safely addressed to an arm of the law was considered by his fellows in the light of a public benefactor. the errand-boy also, who, because he carried a parcel or basket and happened to wear shoes, thought himself at liberty to cast obloquy on those whose profession was of a more desultory nature, and whose clothing was scantier--he must be held in check and his pride lowered by sarcasms yet more biting and far less veiled. these things were right and proper, but wikkey felt uncomfortable under an imputation of "cheekiness" from the "big chap" who had so taken his fancy, and wondered at his own feeling. that evening, as lawrence walked briskly homeward, after his day's work, he became aware of the pale, wizen face again looking up into his through the dusk, and of a shrill voice at his side. "i say, guvner, you hadn't no call fur to call me cheeky; i didn't mean no cheek, only i likes the look of yer; it seems fur to warm a chap." lawrence stopped this time and looked curiously at the boy, at the odd, keen eyes gazing at him so hungrily. "you are a strange lad if you are not a cheeky one," he said. "why do you like the look of me?" "i dunno," said wikkey, and then he repeated his formula, "it seems to warm a chap." "you must be precious cold if that will do it, poor little lad. what's your name?" "wikkey." "wikkey? is that all?" "no, i've another name about me somewheres, but i can't just mind of it. they allus calls me wikkey." "poor lad!" lawrence said again, looking at the thin skeleton frame, sadly visible through the tattered clothing. "poor little chap! it's sharp weather for such a mite as you. there! get something to warm you." and feeling in his pocket he drew out half-a-crown, which he slipped into wikkey's hand, and then turned and walked away. wikkey stood looking after him with two big tears rolling down his dirty face; it was so long since any one had called him a poor little chap, and he repeated the words over and over as he threaded his way in the darkness to the dreary lodging usually called "skimmidges," and kept by a grim woman of that name. "it seems fur to warm a chap," he said again, as he crept under the wretched blanket which mrs. skimmidge designated and charged for as a bed. from that day forward wikkey was possessed by one idea--that of watching for the approach of the "big chap," following his steps along the crossing, and then, if possible, getting a word or look on which to live until the next blissful moment should arrive. nor was he often disappointed, for lawrence, having recently obtained employment in a certain government office, and wikkey's crossing happening to lie on the shortest way from his own abode to the scene of his daily labor, he seldom varied his route, and truth to say, the strange little figure, always watching so eagerly for his appearance, began to have an attraction for him. he wondered what the boy meant by it, and at first, naturally connected the idea of coppers with wikkey's devotion; but he soon came to see that it went deeper than that, for with a curious instinct of delicacy which the lad would probably have been quite unable to explain to himself, he would sometimes hang back as lawrence reached the pavement, and nod his funny "good night, guvner," from midway on his crossing, in a way that precluded any suspicion of mercenary motives. but at last there came a season of desolation very nearly verging on despair. day after day for a week--ten days--a fortnight--did wikkey watch in vain for his hero. poor lad, he could not know that lawrence had been suddenly summoned to the country, and had arranged for a substitute to take his duty for a fortnight; and the terrible thought haunted the child that the big chap had changed his route, perhaps even out of dislike to his--wikkey's--attentions, and he should never see his face again. the idea was horrible--so horrible that as it became strengthened by each day's disappointment, and at last took possession of the boy's whole soul, it sapped away what little vitality there was in the small, fragile frame, leaving it an easy prey to the biting wind which caught his breath away as he crept shivering around the street corners, and to the frost which clutched the thinly-clad body. the cough, which wikkey scarcely remembered ever being without, increased to such violence as to shake him from head to foot, and his breathing became hard and painful; yet still he clung to his crossing with the pertinacity of despair, scanning each figure that approached with eager, hungry eyes. he had laid out part of lawrence's half-crown on a woolen muffler, which at first had seemed a marvel of comfort, but the keen north-easter soon found its way even through that, and the hot pies on which he expended the rest did not warm him for very long; there came a day, too, when he could only hold his pie between his frozen hands, dreamily wondering why he felt no wish to eat it, why the sight of it made him feel so sick. a dreadful day that was. mechanically, wikkey from time to time, swept his way slowly over the crossing, but the greater part of the time he spent sitting at the foot of the lamp-post at either end, coughing and shivering, and now and then dozing and starting up in terror lest the "big chap" should have passed by during his brief unconsciousness. dusk came on, and then lamp-light, and still wikkey sat there. a policeman passing on his beat saw the haggard face and heard the choking cough. "you'd best be off home, my lad," he said, pausing a moment; "you don't look fit to be out on a night like this;" and wikkey, taking the remark to be only another form of the oft-heard injunction to "move on," seized his broom and began sweeping as in an evil dream--then sank down exhausted on the other side. it was getting late, later than he usually stayed, but something seemed to warn him that this might be his last chance, and he remained crouching there, almost too far-gone to be conscious of the cold; till on a sudden there came, piercing through the dull mist of returning consciousness, a voice saying: "hullo, wikkey! you are late to-night." and starting upward with wild startled eyes the boy saw lawrence granby. he staggered to his feet and gasped out: "you've come, have you? i've been a watching and a waiting of you, and i thought as you'd never come again." then the cough seized him, shaking him till he could only cling to the lamp-post for support till it was over, and then slip down in a helpless heap on the pavement. "wikkey, poor little chap, how bad you are," said lawrence, looking sadly down on the huddled-up figure; "you oughtn't to be out. you--you haven't been watching for me like this?" "i've been a watching and a watching," wikkey answered, in faint hoarse tones, "and i thought you'd taken to another crossing and i'd never see you again." "poor little chap! poor little lad!" was all the young man could find to say, while there rose up in his heart an impulse which his common sense tried hard to suppress, but in vain. "wikkey," he said, at last, "you must come home with me;" and he took one of the claw-like hands in his warmly gloved one, and walked on slowly, out of compassion for the child's feeble limbs: even then, however, they soon gave way, and wikkey once more slid down crying on the pavement. there was nothing for it but for lawrence to gather up the child in his strong arms, and stride on, wondering whether after all it were not too late to revive the frozen-out life. for one blissful moment wikkey felt himself held close and warm, and his head nestled against the woolly ulster, and then all was blank. to say that lawrence enjoyed his position would be going too far. whatever might be wikkey's mental peculiarities, his exterior differed in no way from that of the ordinary street arab, and such close contact could not fail to be trying to a young man more than usually sensitive in matters of cleanliness; but lawrence strode manfully on with his strange burden, choosing out the least frequented streets, and earnestly hoping he might meet none of his acquaintances, till at last he reached his lodgings and admitted himself into a small well-lighted hall, where, after calling "mrs. evans," he stood under the lamp awaiting her arrival, not without considerable trepidation, and becoming each moment more painfully conscious how extraordinary his behavior must appear in her eyes. "mrs. evans," he began, as the good lady emerged from her own domain on the ground floor. "mrs. evans, i have brought this boy"--then he paused, not knowing how to enter upon the needful explanation under the chilling influence of mrs. evans' severe and respectful silence. "i dare say you are surprised," he went on at last in desperation; "but the poor child is terribly ill, dying, i think, and if you could do anything." "of course, mr. lawrence, you do as you think proper," mrs. evans returned, preserving her severest manner, though she eyed wikkey with some curiosity; "only if you had mentioned when you engaged my rooms that you intended turning them into a refuge for vagabonds, it would have been more satisfactory to all parties." "i know all that. i know its very inconsiderate of me, and i am very sorry; but you see the little fellow is so bad--he looks just like little robin, nurse." mrs. evans sniffed at the comparison, but the allusion to the child she had so fondly tended, as he sank into an early grave, had its effect; together with the seldom revived appellation of "nurse," and her mollified manner encouraged lawrence to continue. "if you wouldn't mind getting a hot bath ready in the kitchen, i will manage without troubling you." "i hope, mr. lawrence, that i know my place better than that," was the reply, and forthwith mrs. evans, who, beneath a somewhat stern exterior, possessed a really good heart, took wikkey under her wing, administered warmth and restoratives, washed the grimy little form, cropped and scrubbed the matted locks, and soon the boy, dreamily conscious and wondrously happy, was lying before a blazing fire, clean and fair to look on, enveloped in one of mrs. evans' own night-dresses. then the question arose, where was wikkey to pass the night, followed by a whispered dialogue and emphatic "nothing will be safe" from the lady of the house. all of which the boy perfectly understanding, he remarked: "i aint a prig; i'll not take nothink." there was a touch of injured innocence in the tone; it was simply the statement of a fact which might easily have been otherwise, and the entire matter-of-factness of the assertion inspired lawrence with a good deal of confidence, together with the cough which returned on the slightest movement, and would effectually prevent a noiseless evasion on the part of poor wikkey. so once more he was lifted up in the strong arms and carried to a sofa in lawrence's own room, where snugly tucked up in blankets, he soon fell asleep. his benefactor, after prolonged meditation in his arm-chair, likewise betook himself to rest, having decided that a doctor must be the first consideration on the following morning, and that the next step would be to consult reg--reg would be able to advise him: it was his business to understand about such matters. a terrible fit of coughing proceeding from the sofa awoke lawrence next morning, startling him into sudden recollection of the evening's adventure; and when the shutters were opened wikkey looked so fearfully wan and exhausted in the pale gray light, that he made all speed to summon mrs. evans, and to go himself for the doctor. the examination of the patient did not last long, and at its conclusion the doctor muttered something about the "workhouse--as of course, mr. granby, you are not prepared----" the look of imploring agony which flashed from the large, wide-open eyes made lawrence sign to the doctor to follow him into another room; but before leaving wikkey he gave him an encouraging nod, saying: "all right, wikkey. i'll come back. well," he said, as they entered the sitting-room, "what do you think of him?" "think? there's not much thinking in the matter; the boy is dying, mr. granby, and if you wish to remove him you had better do so at once." "how long will it be?" "a week or so, i should say, or it might be sooner, though these cases sometimes linger longer than one expects. the mischief is of long standing, and this is the end." lawrence remained for some time lost in thought. "poor little chap!" he said at last, sadly. "well, thank you, doctor. good-morning." "do you wish any steps taken with regard to the workhouse, mr. granby?" asked the doctor, preparing to depart. wikkey's beseeching eyes rose up before lawrence, and he stammered out hastily: "no--no thank you; not just at present. i'll think about it;" and the doctor took his leave, wondering whether it could be possible that mr. granby intended to keep the boy; he was not much used to such quixotic proceedings. lawrence stood debating with himself. "should he send wikkey to the workhouse? what should he do with a boy dying in the house? how should he decide?" certainly not by going back to meet those wistful eyes. the decision must be made before seeing the boy again, or, as the soft-hearted fellow well knew, it would be all up with his common sense. calling mrs. evans, therefore, he bade her tell wikkey that he would come back presently; and then he said, timidly: "should you mind it very much, nurse, if i were to keep the boy here? the doctor says he is dying, so that it would not be for long, and i would take all the trouble i could off your hands. i have not made up my mind about it yet, but of course i could not decide upon anything without first consulting you." the answer, though a little stiff, was more encouraging than might have been expected from the icy severity of mrs. evans' manner. (was she also making her protest on the side of common sense against a lurking desire to keep wikkey?) "if it's your wish, mr. lawrence, i'm not the one to turn out a homeless boy. it's not quite what i'm accustomed to, but he seems a quiet lad enough--poor child!" the words came out in a softer tone; "and as you say, sir, it can't be for long." much relieved, lawrence sped away; it was still early, and there would be time to get this matter settled before he went down to the office if he looked sharp; and so sharp did he look that in a little more than ten minutes he had cleared the mile which lay between his lodgings and that of his cousin reginald trevor, senior curate of s. bridget's east, and had burst in just as the latter was sitting down to his breakfast after morning service. and then lawrence told his story, his voice shaking a little as he spoke of wikkey's strange devotion to himself, and of the weary watch which had no doubt helped on the disease which was killing him, and he wound up with-- "and now, reg, what is a fellow to do? i suppose i'm a fool, but i can't send the little chap away!" the curate's voice was a little husky too. "if that is folly, commend me to a fool," he said: and then, after some moments of silent thought--"i don't see why you should not keep the boy, lawrence; you have no one to think of except yourself, unless, indeed, mrs. evans--" "oh, she's all right!" broke in his cousin; "i believe she has taken a fancy to wikkey." "then i do not see why you should not take your own way in the matter, provided always that the boy's belongings do not stand in the way. you must consider that, lawrence; you may be bringing a swarm about you, and wikkey's relations may not prove as disinterested as himself." "but that is just the beauty of it; he hasn't any belongings, for i asked him; beyond paying a shilling for a bed to some hag he calls skimmidge, he seems to have no tie to any living creature." "that being so," said reginald, slowly; "and if you do not feel alarmed about your spoons, i don't see why you should not make the little soul happy, and"--he added with a smile--"get a blessing too, old fellow, though i doubt you will bring a sad time on yourself, lawrence." lawrence gave a sort of self-pitying little shrug, but did not look daunted, and his cousin went on-- "meanwhile, i think the hag ought to be made aware of your intentions; she will be looking out for her rent." "bother! i forgot all about that," exclaimed lawrence, "and i haven't a minute to spare; i must race back to set the boy's mind at rest, and its close upon nine now. what's to be done?" "look here, i'll come back with you now, and if you can get me mrs. skimmidge's address i'll go and settle matters with her and glean any information i can about the boy: she may possibly be more communicative to me than to you. i know the sort, you see." as lawrence encountered wikkey's penetrating gaze, he felt glad that his mind was made up; and when the question came in a low, gasping voice, "i say, guvner, are you going to send me away?" he sat down on the end of the sofa and answered: "no, wikkey, you are going to stay with me." "always?" lawrence hesitated, not knowing quite what to say. "always is a long time off; we needn't think about that; you are going to stay with me now;" and then feeling some compensation necessary for the weakness of his conduct, he added very gravely, "that is, wikkey, if you promise to be a good boy and to mind what i and mrs. evans say to you, and always to speak the truth." "i'll be as good as ever i know how," said wikkey, meekly; "and i reckon i sha'n't have much call to tell lies. yes, i'll be good, guvner, if you let me stop;" and again the black eyes were raised to his in dog-like appeal, and fixed on his face with such intensity that lawrence felt almost embarrassed, and glad to escape after eliciting the "hag's" address, and promising to return in the evening. "i will look in this evening and tell you what i have done," reginald said, as they went out together; "and also to get a peep at wikkey, about whom i am not a little curious." "yes, do, reg; i shall want some help, you know, for i suppose i've got a young heathen to deal with, and if he's going to die and all that, one must teach him something, and i'm sure i can't do it." "he has got the first element of religion in him, at any rate. he has learned to look _up_." lawrence reddened, and gave a short laugh, saying-- "i'm not so sure of that;" and the two men went on their respective ways. the "hag" began by taking up the offensive line, uttering dark threats as to "police" and "rascals as made off without paying what they owed." then she assumed the defensive, "lone widows as has to get their living and must look sharp after their honest earnings;" and finally became pathetic over the "motherless boy" on whom she had seemingly lavished an almost parental affection; but she could give no account of wikkey's antecedents beyond the fact that his mother had died there some years since, the only trace remaining of her being an old bible, which mrs. skimmidge made a great merit of not having sold when she had been forced to take what "bits of things" were left by the dead woman in payment of back rent, omitting to mention that no one had been anxious to purchase it. yes, she would part with it to his reverence for the sum of two shillings; and mr. trevor, after settling with mrs. skimmidge, pocketed the book, on the fly-leaf of which was the inscription-- "sarah wilkins, from her sunday-school teacher. _cranbury, --._" wilkins! might that not account for wikkey's odd name? wilkins, wilky, wikkey; it did not seem unlikely. that evening, reginald, entering his cousin's sitting-room, found lawrence leaning back in his arm-chair on one side of the fire, and on the other his strange little guest lying propped up on the sofa, which had been drawn up within reach of the glow. "well," he said, "so this is wikkey; how are you getting on, wikkey?" the black eyes scanned his face narrowly for a moment, and then a high weak voice said in a tone of great disapprobation: "it wouldn't warm a chap much fur to look at _him_; _he_ ain't much to look at, anyhow;" and wikkey turned away his head and studied the cretonne pattern on his sofa, as if there were nothing more to be said on the subject. evidently, the fair, almost fragile face which possessed such attraction for lawrence in his strength had none for the weakly boy; possibly he had seen too many pale, delicate faces to care much about them. but lawrence, unreasonably nettled, broke out hotly-- "wikkey, you mustn't talk like that!" while the curate laughed and said: "all right, wikkey, stick to mr. granby; but i hope you and i will be good friends yet;" then drawing another chair up to the fire he began to talk to his cousin. presently the high voice spoke again-- "why mustn't i, guvner?" "why mustn't you what?" "talk like that of _him_?" pointing to reginald. "because it's not civil. mr. trevor is my friend, and i am very fond of him." "must i like everythink as you like?" "yes, of course," said lawrence, rather amused. "then i will, guvner--but it's a rum start." he lay still after that, while the two men talked, but reginald noted how the boy's eyes were scarcely ever moved from lawrence's face. as he took leave of his cousin in the hall, he said-- "you will do more for him just now than i could, lawrence; you will have to take him in hand." "but i haven't the faintest notion what to do, reg. i shall have to come to you and get my lesson up. what am i to begin with?" "time will show; let it come naturally. of course i will give you any help i can, but you will tackle him far better than i could. you have plenty to work upon, for if ever a boy loved with his whole heart and soul, that boy loves you." "loves me--yes; but that won't do, you know." "it will do a great deal; a soul that loves something better than itself is not far off loving the best. good night, old fellow." lawrence went back to wikkey, and leant his back against the mantelpiece, looking thoughtfully down at the boy. "what did the other chap call you?" inquired wikkey. "granby, do you mean?" wikkey nodded. "lawrence granby,--that is my name. but, wikkey, you must not call him 'chap'; you must call him mr. trevor." "oh, my eye! he's a swell, is he? i never call you nothink only guvner; i shall call you lawrence; it's a big name like you, and a deal nicer nor guvner." lawrence gave a little laugh. was it his duty to inculcate a proper respect for his betters into this boy? if he were going to live it might be; but when he thought how soon all earthly distinctions would be over for wikkey, it seemed hardly worth while. "very well," he said. "by-the-by, wikkey, have you recollected your own other name?" "yes, i've minded it. it's whiston." "do you remember your father and mother?" "i don't remember no father. mother, she died after i took to the crossing." "do you know what her name was before she was married?" wikkey shook his head. "don't know nothink," he said. lawrence showed him the old bible, but it awoke no recollections in the boy's mind; he only repeated, "i don't know nothink." "wikkey," said lawrence again, after a silence, "what made you take a fancy to me?" "i dunno. i liked the looks of yer the very first time as ever you came over, and after that i thought a deal of yer. i thought that if you was king of england, i'd have 'listed and gone for a soldier. i don't think much of queens myself, but i'd have fought for you, and welcome. and i thought as i wouldn't have had you see me cheat jim of his coppers. i dunno why;" and a look of real perplexity came into wikkey's face as the problem presented itself to his mind. "did you often cheat jim?" "scores o' times," answered the boy composedly. "we'd play pitch-and-toss, and then i'd palm a ha' penny, and jim he'd never twig." a quick turn of the bony wrist showed how dexterously the trick had been done, and wikkey went off into a shrill cackle at the recollection of his triumphs. "he's the biggest flat as ever i came across. why, i've seen him look up and down the gutter for them browns till i thought i'd have killed myself with trying not to laugh out." the puckers in the thin face were so irresistibly comical that lawrence found it hard to preserve his own gravity: however, he contrived to compose his features, and to say, with a touch of severity-- "i can tell why you wouldn't have liked me to see you; it was because you knew you were doing wrong." wikkey's face expressed no comprehension. "it was wicked to cheat jim, and you were a bad boy when you did it." "my stars! why, he could have got 'em from me in a juffy; he was twice my size. i only boned 'em cos he was such a soft." the explanation appeared perfectly satisfactory to wikkey, but lawrence, feeling that this was an opportunity that should not be lost, made a desperate effort and began again-- "it was wicked all the same; and though i did not see you do it, there was someone who did--someone who sees everything you do. have you ever heard of god, wikkey?" "yes, i've heard on him. i've heard the name times about. ('_how_ used?' wondered lawrence.) where is he?" "he is everywhere, though you cannot see him, and he sees everything you do." "is he good?" "very good." "as good as you?" "a great deal better." poor lawrence felt very uncomfortable, not quite knowing how to place his instructions on a less familiar footing. "i don't want no one better nor you; you're good enough for me," said wikkey, very decidedly; and then lawrence gave it up in despair, and mentally resolving that reg must help him, he carried wikkey off to bed. chapter ii. the following evening lawrence found a letter from his cousin on his table. "from what you tell me," reginald wrote, "i should say that wikkey must be taught through his affections: that he is capable of a strong and generous affection he has fully proved, so that i advise you not to attempt for the present much doctrinal instruction. ('doctrinal instruction!' mentally ejaculated lawrence; 'what does he mean? as if i could do that;' then he read on.) what i mean is this: the boy's intellect has probably, from the circumstances of his life, been too strongly developed to have left much room for the simple faith which one has to work on in ordinary childhood; and having been used chiefly as a weapon, offensive and defensive, in the battle with life, it is not likely to prove a very helpful instrument just now, as it would probably make him quicker to discern difficulties than to accept truths upon trust. i should, therefore, be inclined to place religion before him in a way that would appeal more to his affections than to his reason, and try to interest him in our lord from, so to speak, a _human_ point of view, without going into the mysteries connected with the incarnation, and if possible without, at first, telling the end of the gospel narrative. speak of a person--one whom you love--who might have lived for ever in perfect happiness, but who, from love to us, preferred to come and live on earth in poverty and suffering (the poor lad will appreciate the meaning of those words only too well)--who was all-powerful, though living as a man, and full of tenderness. then tell of the miracles and works of love, of his continued existence--though for the present invisible to us--of his love and watchfulness; and when wikkey's interest is aroused, as i believe it will be, i should read from the bible itself the story of the sufferings and death. can you gather any meaning from this rough outline? it seems to me that it is intended that wikkey should be led _upwards_ from the human to the divine. for others a different plan of teaching might be better, but i think this is the right key to his development; and, moreover, i firmly believe that you will be shown how to use it." lawrence remained for some time after reading his letter with his elbows on the table, and his head resting on his hands, which were buried in his thick brown hair; a look of great perplexity was on his face. "of course, i must try," he thought; "one couldn't have it on one's conscience; but it's a serious business to have started." looking up, he met wikkey's rather anxious glance. "is anythink amiss, lawrence?" "no, wikkey--i was only thinking;" then, plunging on desperately, he continued: "i was thinking how i could best make you understand what i said last night about someone who sees everything you do--someone who is very good." "cut on, i'm minding. is it someone as you love?" lawrence reddened. what _was_ his feeling towards the christ? reverence certainly, and some loyalty, but could he call it _love_, in the presence of the passionate devotion to himself which showed in every look of those wistful eyes? "yes, i love him," he said slowly, "but not as much as i should." then as a sudden thought struck him. "look here, wikkey, you said you would like to have me for a king; well, he that i am telling you of is my king, and he must be yours, too, and we will both try to love and obey him." "where is he?" asked wikkey. "you can't see him now, because he lives up in heaven. he is the son of god, and he might always have stayed in heaven, quite happy, only, instead of that, he came down upon earth, and became a man like one of us, so that he might know what it is. and though he was really a king, he chose to live like a poor man, and was often cold and hungry as you used to be; and he went about helping people, and curing those who were ill, because, you know, wikkey, he was god, and could do anything. there are beautiful stories about him that i can tell you." "how do you know all about the king, lawrence?" "it is written in a book called the bible. have you ever seen a bible?" "that was the big book as blind tim used to sit and feel over with his fingers by the area rails. i asked him what it was, and he said as it was the bible. but bless you; he weren't blind no more nor you are: he lodged at skimmidge's for a bit, and i saw him a reading of the paper in his room; he kicked me when he saw as i'd twigged him;" and wikkey's laugh broke out at the recollection. poor child, his whole knowledge of sacred things seemed to be derived from-- "holiest things profaned and cursed." "tim was a bad man to pretend to be blind when he wasn't," said lawrence, severely. "but now, wikkey, shall i read you a story about the king?" "did he live in london?" wikkey asked, as lawrence took up the old book with the feeling that the boy should hear these things for the first time out of his mother's bible. "no, he lived in a country a long way off; but that makes no difference, because he is god, and can see us everywhere, and he wants us to be good." then lawrence opened the bible, and after some thought, half read, half told, about the feeding of the hungry multitude. each succeeding evening, a fresh story about the king was related, eagerly listened to, and commented on by wikkey with such familiar realism as often startled lawrence, and made him wonder whether he were allowing irreverence; but which at the same time, threw a wondrously vivid light on the histories which, known since childhood, had lost so much of their interest for himself: and certainly, as far awakening first the boy's curiosity, and then his love, went, the method of instruction answered perfectly. for wikkey did not die at the end of the week, or of many succeeding weeks: warmth and food, and mrs. evans' nursing powers combined, caused one of those curious rallies not uncommon in cases of consumption, though no one who saw the boy's thin, flushed cheeks, and brilliant eyes, could think the reprieve would be a long one. still for the present there was improvement, and lawrence could not help feeling glad that he might keep for a little while longer the child whose love had strangely brightened his lonely lodgings. and while wikkey's development was being carried on in the highest direction, his education in minor matters was progressing under mrs. evans' tuition--tuition of much the same kind as she had bestowed years before on master lawrence and her sweet master robin. by degrees wikkey became thoroughly initiated in the mysteries of the toilette, and other amenities of civilized life, and being a sharp child, with a natural turn for imitation, he was, at the end of a week or two, not entirely unlike those young gentlemen in his ways, especially when his conversation became shorn of the expletives which had at first adorned it, but which, under mrs. evans' sharp rebukes, and lawrence's graver admonitions that they were displeasing to the king, fast disappeared. wikkey's remorse on being betrayed into the utterance of some comparatively harmless expression, quite as deep as when one slipped that gave even lawrence a shock, showed how little their meaning had to do with their use. one evening lawrence, returning home to find wikkey established as usual on the sofa near the fire, was greeted by the eager question-- "lawrence, what was the king like? i've been a thinking of it all day, and i _should_ like to know. do you think he was a bit like you?" "not at all," lawrence answered. "we don't know exactly what he was like; but--let me see," he went on, considering, "i think i have a picture somewhere--i had one;" and he crossed the room to a corner where, between the book-case and the wall, were put away a number of old pictures, brought from the "boys' room" at home, and never yet re-hung; among them was a little oxford frame containing a photograph of the thorn-crowned head by guido. how well he remembered its being given to him on his birthday by his mother! this he showed to wikkey, explaining that though no one knows certainly what the king is like, it is thought that he may have resembled that picture. the boy looked at it for some time in silence, and then said-- "i've seen pictures like that in shops, but i never knew as it was the king. he looks very sorrowful--a deal sorrowfuller nor you--and what is that he has on his head?" "that has to do with a very sad story, which i have not told you yet. you know, wikkey, though he was so good and kind, the men of that country hated him, and would not have him for their king, and at last they took him prisoner, and treated him very badly, and they put that crown of sharp, pricking thorns on his head, because he said he was a king." "was it to make game of him?" asked wikkey, in a tone of mingled awe and distress. lawrence nodded gravely, and feeling that this was perhaps as good a moment as any for completing the history, he took the book, and in low, reverent tones, began the sad story of the betrayal, captivity, and death. wikkey listened in absorbed attention, every now and then commenting on the narrative in a way which showed its intense reality to himself, and gave a marvellous vividness to the details of which lawrence had before scarcely realized the terrible force. as he read on, his voice became husky, and the child's eyes were fixed on him with devouring eagerness, till the awful end came, and wikkey broke into an agony of weeping. lawrence hastily put down the book, and taking the little worn frame into his arms tried to soothe the shaking sobs, feeling the while as though he had been guilty of cruelty to the tender, sensitive heart. "i thought some one would have saved him," wikkey gasped. "i didn't know as he was killed; you never told me he was killed." "wikkey, little lad--hush--look here! it was all right at the end. listen while i read the end; it is beautiful." and as the sobs subsided he began to read again, still holding the boy close, and inwardly wondering whether something like this might have been the despair of the disciples on that friday evening--read of the sadness of that waiting time, of the angel's visit to the silent tomb, of the loving women at the sepulchre, and the joyful message, "he is not here, he is risen;" and lastly, of the parting blessing, the separating cloud and the tidings of the coming again. a look of great relief was on wikkey's face as lawrence ceased reading, and he lay for some time with closed eyes, resting after his outburst. at last he opened them with sudden wonder. "lawrence, why did he let them do it? if he could do anything, why didn't he save himself from the enemies?" the old wonder--the old question--which must be answered; and lawrence, after thinking a moment, said-- "it had to be, wikkey. he had to die--to die for us. it was like this:--people were very wicked, always doing bad things, and nobody that was bad could go to heaven, but they must be punished instead. but god was very sorry that none of the people he had made could come and be happy with him, so his son, jesus christ, our king, became a man, and came down on earth that he might be punished instead of us, so that we might be forgiven and allowed to come into heaven. he bore all that for each of us, so that now, if we believe in him and try to please him, we shall go to be with him in heaven when we die." lawrence was very far from guessing that his teaching had become "doctrinal." he had spoken out of the fulness of his own conviction, quickened into fresh life by the intensity of wikkey's realization of the facts he had heard. "it _was_ good of him--it _was_ good," the child repeated again and again, with a world of love shining in his eyes, till, worn out with his emotion, he fell asleep, and was gently laid by lawrence in his bed. but in the middle of the night sounds of stifled weeping aroused lawrence. "what is it, wikkey boy?" he asked, groping his way to him. "are you worse?" "i didn't mean for to wake you; but i wish--i _wish_ i hadn't boned them coppers off jim; it makes me feel so bad when i think as the king saw me;" and wikkey buried his face in the kind arm which encircled him, in uncontrollable grief. it needed all lawrence's assurances that the king saw his repentance, and had certainly forgiven--yes, and the prayer for pardon which the young man, blushing red-hot in the darkness at the unwonted effort, uttered in husky tones, with the child's thin hands clasped in his own--before wikkey was sufficiently quieted to sleep again. before going down to the office lawrence wrote to his cousin: "i can do no more; he has got beyond me. he loves _him_ more than ever i have done. come and help us both." so reginald came on such evenings as he could spare, and wikkey, no longer averse, listened as he told him of the fatherhood of god, of the love of the son, and of the ever-present comforter; of creation, redemption, and sanctification, and all the deep truths of the faith, receiving them with the belief that is born rather of love than of reason; for though the acuteness of the boy's questions and remarks often obliged reginald to bring his own strong intellect to bear on them, they arose from no spirit of antagonism, but were the natural outcome of a thoughtful, inquiring mind. sometimes, however, wikkey was too tired for talking, and could only lie still and listen while lawrence and the curate conversed, the expression of his eyes, as they passed from one to another, showing that he understood far more than might have been expected. one evening, in the middle of march, after he had been carried up-stairs, the cousins sat talking over their charge. "i have been considering about his baptism," reginald said. "his baptism! do you think he hasn't been christened?" "no, i don't think so," returned the other, thoughtfully. "i cannot bring myself to believe that we have been working on unconsecrated soil; but still we do not know. of course i could baptize him hypothetically, but i should like to know the truth." "baptize him _how_?" lawrence asked, with a frown of perplexity. "hypothetically. don't be alarmed, it isn't a new fad of mine: it means baptizing on the _supposition_ that there has been no previous baptism; for, you know, our church does not allow it to be done twice. i wonder if anything could be learnt by going down to the place named in the book?" "cranbury! i looked in bradshaw for it, and it seems to be a small place about an hour and a half from euston station; i might find a day to run down, though i don't quite see when; and how if i were to find a heap of relations wanting the boy? i could not spare him now, you know." "scarcely likely. wikkey has evidently never seen a relation for, say, ten years, or he would recollect it, and it is hardly probable that any one will be anxious to take a boy in his state whom they have not seen for ten years. besides, he couldn't well be moved now." "no, he couldn't; and i sincerely hope that no affectionate relatives will want to come and see him here; that would be a most awful nuisance. what do you think of a tearful grandmother haunting the place?" "the idea is oppressive, certainly, but i do not think you need fear it much, and you have established a pretty fair right to do as you like about the boy. look here, lawrence; supposing i were to run down on this place; i believe i could spare a day better than you, and a breath of fresh air would do me no harm." "i shouldn't think it would," said lawrence, looking at his cousin's pale face--all the paler for the stress of his winter's work. "do, reg; and for pity's sake, bring a root of some flower if you can find one; it is sickening to think of a child dying without ever having had such a thing in his hands." "all right, then, i will go to-morrow; for--for," reginald added gravely, "there is no time to be lost." "i know there is not; i know it must come soon. reg, i couldn't have believed i should have grown to care for the boy as i do." "no, you have prepared a wrench for yourself, old fellow, but you will never be the worse for it, lawrence. you know all about that better than i can preach it to you." there was a silence, and then lawrence said-- "ought he to be told?" "well, that puzzles me; i feel as if he ought, and yet there can be no need to frighten the child. if it came naturally, it might be better for you to tell him gently." "i?" exclaimed lawrence, aghast. "yes, it must be you; he will take it better from you than from anyone else; but wait and see; you will be shown what to do." the result of the curate's mission to cranbury was very satisfactory. on being directed to the solitary remaining inhabitant of the name of wilkins, reginald learnt that sarah wilkins had been the only daughter of his brother, that she had married a ne'er-do-weel of the name of whiston, who had deserted her shortly before the birth of her child, that she had followed her husband to london as soon as she was able to travel, and after a while had been lost sight of by her family. the old man seemed but slightly interested in the matter, and reginald saw that no interference need be feared from him. on further consulting the parish register, he found recorded the marriage of thomas whiston and sarah wilkins, and a year later, the baptism of wilkins, son of thomas and sarah whiston, in . "so it is as i hoped, the child is one of the flock," the curate said to himself. "and that mite of a boy is thirteen years old!" and he returned to london triumphant, bringing with him besides the information he went to seek, a root of primroses with yellow-tipped spikes ready to burst, and an early thrush's nest containing five delicate blue eggs. this last treasure reginald displayed with intense pride. "i found a boy carrying it on the road, and rated the young rascal soundly for taking it, but i'm afraid the shilling i gave him made more impression than the lecture. isn't it a beauty? i wonder when i last saw a nest?" he went on, touching the eggs with loving fingers. "hardly since our old bird's-nesting days, eh, lawrence! do you remember the missel-thrush in the apple-tree?" "ay, and the licking you got for splitting your sunday jacket up the back;" and the two "working-men" laughed at the recollection, as they carried the prize to display to wikkey, with a comical anxiety, almost amounting to dread, lest it should not produce the effect they intended. no fear of that! wikkey's eyes dilated as he gazed into the nest, and, after some persuasion, took one of the smooth eggs into his hand; and from that moment he could not endure it out of his sight, but had it placed morning and evening beside his sofa or bed, near his other treasure, the picture of the king, on the other side of which stood the primrose, planted in one of mrs. evans' tea-cups. as the spring advanced, wikkey became visibly worse, and all saw that the end could not be far off. reginald, coming in one evening, found him asleep in lawrence's arms, and was startled to see how great a change had taken place in him during the last four and twenty hours. in answer to his inquiring look, his cousin said, speaking very low-- "since this morning, he is much worse; but better now than he was." sitting down, on the opposite side of the fire, reginald thoughtfully contemplated the two. what a contrast! lawrence, all health and strength, with the warm light glancing on the thick waves of his hair, and deepening the ruddy brown of his complexion, while the glow scarcely served to tint the pale face lying on his breast--deadly white, save for the two red spots on the sunken checks--or the hair hanging in loose lank threads. for some time no one spoke, but as the boy's sleep continued sound and unbroken, the cousins fell into talk, low and subdued, and many things were touched on in that quiet hour, which neither could have put into words at another time. at length reginald rose to go, and at the same moment, wikkey opened his eyes and smiled, as he saw his visitor, and tried to lift himself up. "i'm awake now," he said; "i didn't know as you were here." "never mind, wikkey, lie still," said reginald, "you are too tired for any reading to-night. i will tell you one verse--a beautiful one--for you and lawrence to talk about some day," and laying his hand on the boy's head he repeated, in low, gentle tones--"thine eye shall see the king in his beauty." after he was gone, wikkey lay very still, with his eyes fixed intently on the fire. lawrence dreaded what his next question might be, and at last it came. "what does it mean--see the king?" "it means that we shall all see him some day, wikkey, when--when--we die. it will be beautiful to see the king, won't it?" "yes," said the child, dreamily. "i'd like to see him. i know as i'm going to die; but will it be soon? oh, lawrence! must it be directly?" and as he clung convulsively to him, the young man felt the little heart beating wildly. "wikkey--little lad--dear little lad--don't be frightened," he said, stroking the boy's head; "don't be frightened;" but still the eyes questioned him with agonized eagerness, and he knew he must answer, but his voice was very husky, and he felt the task a hard one. "i'll tell you, wikkey. i think the king loves you so much that he wants you to come to him, and not to be ill any more, nor have any more bad pain or coughing. that would be nice, wouldn't it?--never to feel ill any more, and to see the king." "yes," wikkey said, with a long sigh, "it would be ever so nice; but, oh! i _don't_ want for to leave you, lawrence--won't you come, too?" "some day, please god; but that must be as the king likes--perhaps he will not want me to come yet. i must try to do anything he wants me to do here first." "should you like to come now, lawrence?" the question was rather a relief, for a sense of being unreal had come over lawrence while he spoke, and he answered quickly-- "no, i had rather not go yet, wikkey: but you see i am well and strong. i think if i were ill like you i should like it; and you need not feel frightened, for the king will not leave you. he will be taking care of you all the time, and you will go to him." "are you quite certain?" no room for doubt here--and the answer came unhesitatingly--"quite certain, wikkey." "and you are _sure_ that you'll come too?" "i wish i were half as certain," the young man thought, with a sigh, then said aloud--"if i try to obey the king i hope i shall." "but you will try--you will, lawrence!" cried wikkey, passionately. very quietly and low lawrence answered--"by god's help--yes!" and he bent and kissed the child's forehead, as if to seal the vow. wikkey seemed satisfied, and in a few minutes was dozing again. he slept for an hour after being put to bed, but then grew restless, and the night passed wearily between intervals of heavy oppression--half-unconscious wakefulness and rambling, incoherent talk, sometimes of his street-life, of his broom, for which he felt about with weak, aimless hands, of cold and hunger; and then he would break out into murmuring complaints of mrs. skimmidge, when forbidden words would slip out, and even then the child's look of distress went to lawrence's heart. but oftenest the wandering talk was of the incidents of the last few weeks, and over and over came the words--"see the king in his beauty." in the morning wikkey was quieter and perfectly sensible: but the pinched look on his face, and the heavy labored breathing, told plainly that he was sinking. hard as it had been for lawrence to leave his "little lad," up to this time he had been scrupulous in never allowing wikkey to interfere with his office duties; but now it seemed impossible to leave the child, who clung feebly to him with a frightened whisper-- "oh, don't go, lawrence! p'raps the king will want me, and maybe i shouldn't be so frightened if i kept looking at you." no, he could not go; so writing a hurried line--"cannot come to-day--the boy i told you of is dying--the work shall be ready in time," he dispatched it to the head clerk of his department. "granby's craze" had at first excited a good deal of astonishment when it became known at the office; but lawrence had quietly discouraged any attempts at "chaff" on the subject, and as time went on he used to be greeted by really warm inquiries after "the little chap." the hours passed slowly by. reginald came and went as he could spare time; sometimes he prayed in such short and simple language as wikkey could join in--and the expression of his face showed that he did so--sometimes he knelt in silence, praying earnestly for the departing soul, and for lawrence in his mournful watch. as the day began to wane, reginald entering, saw that the end was near, and knelt to say the last prayers; as he finished the pale march sun, struggling through the clouds, sent a shaft of soft light into the room and touched wikkey's closed eyes. they opened with a smile, and raising himself in lawrence's arms, he leant forward with a look so eager and expectant, that with a thrill of awe, almost amounting to terror, the young man whispered-- "what is it, wikkey? do you see anything?" "not yet--soon--it's coming," the boy murmured, without altering his fixed gaze; and then for an instant a wondrous light seemed to break over the wan face--only for an instant--for suddenly as it had dawned, it faded out, and with it fled the little spirit, leaving only the frail worn-out form to fall back gently on lawrence's breast. was he gone? almost incredulously lawrence looked down, and then, with pale, set features, he rose, and laying wikkey on the bed, sank on his knees beside it, and buried his face in the pillow, with the sound of a great sob. reginald approached the bed, and laying his hand for a moment on the bowed head, spoke low and solemnly-- "the blessing of a soul that was ready to perish come upon you, lawrence." then he quitted the room, and closing the door softly, left lawrence alone with his "little lad." * * * * * so wikkey passed away, and lawrence went back to his work, ever retaining deep down in his heart the memory of the child whose life had become so strangely interwoven with his own, and more precious still, the lesson bequeathed to him by his "little lad," of how a soul that looks persistently upwards finds its full satisfaction at last in the vision of "the king in his beauty." +-----------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's note: | | | | typographical errors corrected in text: | | | | page : changed unusal to unusual | | | | page : changed "skimmedges" to "skimmidges" | | changed "skimmedge to skimmidge | | | | page : changed wikky to wikkey | | | | page : changed guvnor to guvner | | | | page : changed wikkie to wikkey | | | | page : changed evans's to evans' | | | | page : changed to to too | | | +-----------------------------------------------+ none file was produced from scans of public domain material produced by microsoft for their live search books site.) [illustration: writing the notes.] riverdale story books the birthday party boston, lee & shepard. the riverdale books. the birthday party. a story for little folks. by oliver optic, author of "the boat club," "all aboard," "now or never," "try again," "poor and proud," "little by little," &c. boston: lee and shepard, (successors to phillips, sampson & co.) . entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by william t. adams, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. electrotyped at the boston stereotype foundry. the birthday party. i. flora lee's birthday came in july. her mother wished very much to celebrate the occasion in a proper manner. flora was a good girl, and her parents were always glad to do any thing they could to please her, and to increase her happiness. they were very indulgent parents, and as they had plenty of money, they could afford to pay well for a "good time." yet they were not weak and silly in their indulgence. as much as they loved their little daughter, they did not give her pies and cakes to eat when they thought such articles would hurt her. they did not let her lie in bed till noon because they loved her, or permit her to do any thing that would injure her, either in body or mind. flora always went to church, and to the sunday school, and never cried to stay at home. if she had cried, it would have made no difference, for her father and mother meant to have her do right, whether she liked it or not. but flora gave them very little trouble about such matters. her parents knew best what was good for her, and she was willing in all things to obey them. it was for this reason that they were so anxious to please her, even at the expense of a great deal of time and money. the birthday of flora came on wednesday, and school did not keep in the afternoon. all the children, therefore, could attend the party which they intended to give in honor of the day. about a week before the time, mrs. lee told flora she might have the party, and wanted her to make out a list of all the children whom she wished to invite. "i want to ask all the children in riverdale," said flora, promptly. "not all, i think," replied mrs. lee. "yes, mother, all of them." "but you know there are a great many bad boys in town. do you wish to invite them?" "perhaps, if we treat them well, they will be made better by it." "would you like to have joe birch come to the party?" "i don't know, mother," said flora, musing. "i think you had better invite only those who will enjoy the party, and who will not be likely to spoil the pleasure of others. we will not invite such boys as joe birch." "just as you think best, dear mother," replied flora. "shall i ask such boys as tommy woggs?" "tommy isn't a bad boy," said mrs. lee, with a smile. "i don't know that he is; but he is a very queer fellow. you said i had better not ask those who would be likely to spoil the pleasure of others." "do you think, my child, tommy woggs will do so?" "i am afraid he would; he is such a queer boy." "but tommy is a great traveller, you know," added mrs. lee, laughing. "the boys and girls don't like him, he pretends to be such a big man. he knows more than all the rest of the world put together--at least, he thinks he does." "i think you had better ask him, for he will probably feel slighted if you don't." "very well, mother." "now, flora, i will take a pencil and paper and write down the names of all the boys and girls with whom you are acquainted; and you must be careful not to forget any. here comes frank; he will help you." frank was told about the party, and he was quite as much pleased with the idea as his sister had been; and both of them began to repeat the names of all the boys and girls they could remember. for half an hour they were employed in this manner, and then the list was read over to them, so as to be sure that no names had been omitted. flora and frank now went through all the streets of riverdale, in imagination, thinking who lived in each house; and when they had completed their journey in fancy, they felt sure they had omitted none. "but we must invite cousins sarah and henry," said flora. "o, i hope they will come! henry is so funny; we can't do without them." "perhaps they will come; at any rate we will send them invitations," replied mrs. lee. the next day, when the children had gone to school, mrs. lee went to the office of the riverdale gazette, which was the village newspaper, and had the invitations printed on nice gilt-edged paper. by the following day mrs. lee had written in the names of the children invited, enclosed the notes in envelopes, and directed them. i will give you a copy of one of them, that you may know how to write them when you have a birthday party, though i dare say it would do just as well if you go to your friends and ask them to attend. if you change the names and dates, this note will answer for any party. _miss flora lee presents her compliments to miss nellie green, and requests the pleasure of her company on wednesday afternoon, july ._ _riverdale, july ._ "those are very fine indeed," said flora: "shall i put on my bonnet, and carry out some of them to-day?" "no, my child; it is not quite the thing for you to carry your own invitations. i will tell you what you may do. you may hire david white to deliver them for you. you must pay him for it; give him half a dollar, which will be a good thing for him." this plan was adopted, and frank was sent with the notes and the money over to the poor widow's cottage. "don't you think it is very wicked, mother, for rich folks to have parties, when the money they cost will do so much good to the poor?" asked flora. "i do not think so, my dear child." "well, i think so, mother," added flora, warmly. "perhaps you do not fully understand it." "i think i do." "why should it be wicked for you to enjoy yourself?" "i don't think it is wicked to enjoy myself, but only to spend money for such things. you said you were going to have the riverdale band, and that the music would cost more than twenty dollars." "i did, and the supper will cost at least twenty more; for i have spoken to the confectioner to supply us with ice cream, cake, jellies, and other luxuries. we shall have a supply of strawberries and cream, and all the nice things of the season. we must also erect a tent in the garden, in which we shall have the supper; but after tea i will tell you all about it." [illustration] [illustration: flora and her father.] ii. flora could not help thinking how much good the forty dollars, which her father would have to pay for the birthday party, would do if given to the poor. it seemed to her just like spending the money for a few hours' pleasure; and even if they had a fine time, which she was quite sure they would have, it would be soon over, and not do any real good. forty dollars was a great deal of money. it would pay mrs. white's rent for a whole year; it would clothe her family, and feed them nearly all the next winter. it appeared to her like a shameful waste; and these thoughts promised to take away a great deal from the pleasure of the occasion. "i think, mother, i had just as lief not have the band, and only have a supper of bread and butter and seed cakes." "why, flora, what has got into you?" said her father. mrs. lee laughed at the troubled looks of flora, and explained to her father the nature of her scruples in regard to the party. "where did the child get this foolish idea?" asked her father, who thought her notions were too old and too severe for a little girl. "didn't i see last winter how much good only a little money would do?" replied flora. "don't you think it is wicked for me to live in this great house, keep five or six horses, and nine or ten servants, when i could live in a little house, like mrs. white?" laughed mr. lee. "all the money you spend would take care of a dozen families of poor folks," said flora. "that is very true. suppose i should turn away all the men and women that work for me,--those, i mean, who work about the house and garden,--and give the money i spend in luxuries to the poor." "but what would john and peter, hannah and bridget do then? they would lose their places, and not be able to earn any thing. why, no, father; peter has a family; he has got three children, and he must take care of them." "ah, you begin to see it--do you?" said mr. lee, with a smile. "all that i spend upon luxury goes into the pockets of the farmer, mechanic, and laborer." "i see that, father," replied flora, looking as bright as sunshine again; "but all the money spent on my party will be wasted--won't it?" "not a cent of it; my child. if i were a miser, and kept my money in an iron safe, and lived like a poor man, i should waste it then." "but twenty dollars for the riverdale band is a great deal to give for a few hours' service. it don't do any good, i think." "yes, it does; music improves our minds and hearts. it makes us happy. i have engaged six men to play. they are musicians only at such times as they can get a job. they are shoemakers, also, and poor men; and the money which i shall pay them will help support their families and educate them." "what a fool i was, father!" exclaimed flora. "o, no; not so bad as that; for a great many older and wiser persons than yourself have thought just what you think." "but the supper, father,--the ice cream, the cake, and the lemonade,--won't all the money spent for these things be wasted?" "no more than the money spent for the music. the confectioner and those whom he employs depend upon their work for the means of supporting themselves and their families." "so they do, father. and when you have a party, you are really doing good to the poor." "that depends upon circumstances," replied mr. lee. "i don't think it would be an act of charity for a person who could not afford it to give a party. i only mean to say that when we spend money for that which does not injure us or any body else, what we spend goes into the pockets of those who need it. "a party--a proper party, i mean, such a one as you will have--is a good thing in itself. innocent amusement is just as necessary as food and drink. "god has given me wealth, flora, and he expects me to do all the good i can with it. i hold it as his steward. now, when i pay one of these musicians three or four dollars for an afternoon's work, i do him a favor as well as you and those whom you invite to your party. "and i hope the party will make you love one another more than ever before. i hope the music will warm your hearts, and that the supper will make you happy, and render you thankful to the giver of all things for his constant bounty." "how funny that i should make such a blunder!" exclaimed flora. "i am sure i shall enjoy my party a great deal more now that i understand these things." "i hope you won't understand too much, flora. suppose you had only a dollar, and that it had been given you to purchase a story book. then, suppose mrs. white and her children were suffering from want of fuel and clothing. what would you do with your dollar?" "i would----" "wait a minute, flora," interposed her father. "when you buy the book, you pay the printer, the paper maker, the bookseller, the type founder, the miner who dug the lead and the iron from the earth, the machinist who made the press, and a great many other persons whose labor enters into the making of a book--you pay all these men for their labor; you give them money to help take care of their wives and children, their fathers and mothers. you help all these men when you buy a book. now, what would you do with your dollar?" "i would give it to poor mrs. white," promptly replied flora. "i think you would do right, for your money would do more good in her hands. the self-denial on your part would do you good. i only wanted you to understand that, when you bought a book,--even a book which was only to amuse you,--the money is not thrown away. "riches are given to men for a good purpose; and they ought to use their wealth for the benefit of others, as well as for their own pleasure. if they spend money, even for things that are of no real use to them, it helps the poor, for it feeds and clothes them." flora was much interested in this conversation, and perhaps some of my young friends will think she was an old head to care for such things; but i think they can all understand what was said as well as she did. [illustration] [illustration: on the lawn.] iii. the great day at length arrived, and every thing was ready for the party. on the lawn, by the side of the house, a large tent had been put up, in which the children were to have the feast. under a large maple tree, near the tent, a stage for the musicians had been erected. two swings had been put up; and there was no good reason why the children should not enjoy themselves to their hearts' content. i think the teachers in the riverdale school found it hard work to secure the attention of their scholars on the forenoon of that day, for all the boys and girls in the neighborhood were thinking about the party. as early as one o'clock in the afternoon the children began to collect at the house of mr. lee, and at the end of an hour all who had received invitations were present. the band had arrived, and at a signal from mr. lee the music commenced. "now, father, we are all here. what shall we do?" asked flora, who was so excited she did not know which way to turn, or how to proceed to entertain the party. "wait a few minutes, and let the children listen to the music. they seem to enjoy it very well." "but we want to play something, father." "very soon, my child, we will play something." "what shall we play, father?" "there are plenty of plays. wouldn't you like to march a little while to the music?" "march?" "yes, march to the tune of 'hail, columbia.' i will show you how to do it." "i don't know what you mean, father." "well, i will show you in a few minutes." when the band had played a little while longer, mr. lee assembled the children in the middle of the lawn, and asked them if they would like to march. they were pleased with the idea, though some of them thought it would be rather tame amusement for such an exciting occasion. "you want two leaders, and i think you had better choose them yourselves. it would be the most proper to select two boys." mr. lee thought the choice of the leaders would amuse them; so he proposed that they should vote for them. "how shall we vote, father?" asked frank. "three of the children must retire, and pick out four persons; and the two of these four who get the most votes shall be the leaders." mr. lee appointed two girls and one boy to be on this committee; but while he was doing so, tommy woggs said he did not think this was a good play. "i don't think they will choose the best leaders," said tommy. "don't you, mr. woggs?" asked mr. lee, laughing. "no, sir, i do not. what do any of these boys know about such things!" said tommy, with a sneer. "i have been to new york, and have seen a great many parades." "have you, indeed?" "yes, sir, i have." "and you think you would make a better leader than any of the others?" "i think so, sir." all the children laughed heartily at master woggs, who was so very modest! "none of these boys and girls have ever been to new york," added tommy, his vanity increasing every moment. "that is very true; and perhaps the children will select you as their leader." "they can do as they like. if they want me, i should be very willing to be their leader," replied tommy. it was very clear that master woggs had a very good opinion of himself. he seemed to think that the fact of his having been to new york made a hero of him, and that all the boys ought to take off their caps to him. but it is quite as certain that the riverdale children did not think master woggs was a very great man. he thought so much of himself, that there was no room for others to think much of him. the committee of three returned in a few minutes, and reported the names of four boys to be voted for as the leaders. they were henry vernon, charley green, david white, and tommy woggs. the important little gentleman who had been to new york, was delighted with the action of the committee. he thought all the children could see what a very fine leader he would make, and that all of them would vote for him. "what shall we do for votes, father?" asked frank. "we can easily manage that, frank," replied mr. lee. "we have no paper here." "listen to me a moment, children," continued mr. lee. "there are four boys to be voted for; and we will choose one leader first, and then the other. "those who want henry vernon for a leader will put a blade of grass in the hat which will be the ballot box; those who want charley green will put in a clover blossom; those who want david white will put in a maple leaf; and those who want to vote for tommy woggs will put in a--let me see--put in a dandelion flower." the children laughed, for they thought the dandelion was just the thing for master woggs, who had been to new york. one of the boys carried round mr. lee's hat, and it was found that henry vernon had the most votes; so he was declared to be the first leader. "humph!" said tommy woggs. "what does henry vernon know? he has never been to new york." "but he lives in boston," added charley green. "boston is nothing side of new york." "i think boston is a great place," replied charley. "that's because you have never been to new york," said master woggs. "they will, of course, all vote for me next time. if they do, i will show them how things are done in new york." "pooh!" exclaimed charley, as he left the vain little man. while all the children were wondering who would be the other leader, flora was electioneering among them for her favorite candidate; that is, she was asking her friends to vote for the one she wanted. who do you suppose it was? master woggs? no. it was david white. the hat was passed round again, and when the votes were counted, there was only one single dandelion blossom found in the hat. tommy woggs was mad, for he felt that his companions had slighted him; but it was only because he was so vain and silly. people do not often think much of those who think a great deal of themselves. there was a great demand for maple leaves, and david white was chosen the second leader, and had nearly all the votes. the boys then gave three cheers for the leaders, and the lines were formed. mr. lee told henry and david just how they were to march, and the band at once began to play "hail columbia." the children first marched, two by two, round the lawn, and then down the centre. when they reached the end, one leader turned off to the right, and the other to the left, each followed by a single line of the children. passing round the lawn, they came together again on the other side. then they formed a great circle, a circle within a circle, and concluded the march with the "grand basket." this was certainly a very simple play, but the children enjoyed it ever so much--i mean all but vain master woggs, who was so greatly displeased because he was not chosen one of the leaders, that he said there was no fun at all in the whole thing. about half an hour was spent in marching, and then mr. lee proposed a second game. the children wanted to march a little longer; but there were a great number of things to be done before night, and so it was thought best, on the whole, to try a new game. [illustration] [illustration: the old fiddler.] iv. when the children had done marching, mrs. lee took charge of the games. several new plays, which none of them had heard of before, were introduced. the boys and girls all liked them very well, and the time passed away most rapidly. just before they were going to supper, an old man, with a fiddle in his hand, tottered into the garden, and down the lawn. he was a very queer-looking old man. he had long white hair, and a long white beard. he was dressed in old, worn-out, soldier clothes, in part, and had a sailor's hat upon his head, so that they could not tell whether he was a soldier or a sailor. as he approached the children, they began to laugh with all their might; and he certainly was a very funny old man. his long beard and hair, his tattered finery, and his hobbling walk, would have made almost any one laugh--much more a company of children as full of fun as those who were attending the birthday party. "children," said the old man, as he took off his hat and made a low bow, "i heard there was a party here, and i came to play the fiddle for you. all the boys and girls like a fiddle, because it is so merry." "o mother! what did send that old man here?" cried flora. "he came of himself, i suppose," replied mrs. lee, laughing. "i think it is too bad to laugh at an old man like him," added flora. "it would be, if he were in distress; but don't you see he is as merry as any of the children?" "play us some tunes," said the children. "i will, my little dears;" and the old man raised the fiddle. "let's see--i will play 'napoleon's grand march.'" the fiddler played, but he behaved so queerly that the children laughed so loud they could hardly hear the music. "why, that's 'yankee doodle,'" said henry vernon; and they all shouted at the idea of calling that tune "napoleon's grand march." "now i will play you the solo to the opera of 'la sonnambula,'" said the old man. "whew!" said henry. the old man fiddled again, with the same funny movements as before. "why, that's 'yankee doodle' too!" exclaimed henry. "i guess he don't know any other tune." "you like that tune so well, i will play you 'washington's march;'" and the funny old fiddler, with a great flourish, began to play again; but still it was "yankee doodle." and so he went on saying he would play many different tunes, but he played nothing but "yankee doodle." "can't you tell us a story now?" asked charley green. "o, yes, my little man, i can tell you a story. what shall it be?" "are you a soldier or a sailor?" "neither, my boy." "the story! the story!" shouted the boys, very much excited. "some years ago i was in new york," the old man commenced. "did you see me there?" demanded tommy woggs. "well, my little man, i don't remember that i saw you." "o, i was there;" and tommy thrust his hands down to the bottom of his pockets, and strutted up the space between the children and the comical old fiddler. "i did see a very nice-looking little gentleman----" "that was me," pompously added tommy. "he was stalking up broadway. he thought every body was looking at and admiring him; but such was not the case. he looked just like--just like----" "like me?" asked tommy. "like a sick monkey," replied the fiddler. "go on with your story." "i will, children. several years ago i was in new york. it is a great city; if you don't believe it, ask master tommy woggs." "you tell the truth, mr. fiddler. it is a great city, and i have been all over it, and can speak from observation," replied master woggs. "the story!" shouted the children. "i was walking up broadway. this street is always crowded with people, as well as with carts and carriages." "i have seen that street," said tommy. "now you keep still a few minutes, tommy, if you can," interposed mrs. lee. "at the corner of wall street----" "i know where that is," exclaimed tommy. "at the corner of wall street there was a man with a kind of cart, loaded with apples and candy, which he was selling to the passers-by. suddenly there came a stage down the street, and ran into the apple cart." "i saw the very same thing done," added tommy, with his usual self-important air. "keep still, tom woggs," said charley green. "the apples were scattered all over the sidewalk; yet the man picked up all but one of them, though he was very angry with the driver of the stage for running against his cart." "why didn't he pick up the other apple?" asked henry. "a well-dressed man, with big black whiskers, picked that up. 'give it to me,' said the apple man. 'i will not,' replied the man with whiskers. the apple merchant was as mad as he could be; and then the man with black whiskers put his hand in his pocket and drew out a knife. the blade was six inches long." "o, dear me!" exclaimed flora. "raising the knife, he at once moved towards the angry apple merchant, and--and----" "well, what?" asked several, eagerly. "and cut a piece out of the apple, and put it in his mouth." the children all laughed heartily, for they were sure the man with the whiskers was going to stab the apple merchant. "he then took two cents from his pocket, paid for the apple, and went his way," continued the old man. "now, there is one thing more i can do. i want to run a race with these boys." "pooh! you run a race!" sneered charley. "i can beat you." "try it, and see." the old man and charley took places, and were to start at the word from henry. but when it was given, the fiddler hobbled off, leaving charley to follow at his leisure. when the old man had got half way round the lawn, charley started, sure he could catch him long before he reached the goal. but just as the boy was coming up with the man, the latter began to run, and poor charley found, much to his surprise, that he ran very fast. he was unable to overtake him, and consequently lost the race. the children were much astonished when they saw the old man run so fast. he appeared to have grown young all at once. but he offered to race with any of the boys again; and half a dozen of them agreed to run with him. "i guess i will take my coat off this time," said the fiddler. as he threw away the coat, he slipped off the wig and false beard he wore; and the children found, to their surprise, that the old man was mr. lee, who had dressed himself up in this disguise to please them. the supper was now ready, and all the children were invited to the tent. they had played so hard that all of them had excellent appetites, and the supper was just as nice as a supper could be. it was now nearly dark, and the children had to go home; but all of them declared the birthday party of flora was the best they ever attended. "only to think," said flora, when she went to bed that night, "the old fiddler was my father!" lizzie. mother, what ails our lizzie dear, so cold and still she lies? she does not speak a word to-day, and closed her soft blue eyes. why won't she look at me again, and laugh and play once more? i cannot make her look at me as she used to look before. her face and neck as marble white, and, o, so very cold! why don't you warm her, mother dear, your cloak around her fold? her little hand is cold as ice, upon her waveless breast,-- so pure, i thought i could see through the little hand i pressed. your darling sister's dead, my child; she cannot see you now; the damps of death are gath'ring there upon her marble brow. she cannot speak to you again, her lips are sealed in death; that little hand will never move, nor come that fleeting breath. all robed in white, and decked with flowers, we'll lay her in the tomb; the flower that bloomed so sweetly here, no more on earth will bloom; but in our hearts we'll lay her up, and love her all the more, because she died in life's spring time, ere earth had won her o'er. nay, nay, my child, she is not dead, although she slumbers there, and cold and still her marble brow, and free from pain and care. she slept, and passed from earth to heaven, and won her early crown: an angel now she dwells above, and looks in triumph down. she is not dead, for jesus died that she might live again. "forbid them not," the saviour said, and blessed dear sister then. her little lamp this morn went out on earth's time-bounded shore; but angels bright in heaven this morn relighted it once more. some time we, too, shall fall asleep, to wake in heaven above, and meet our angel lizzie there in realms of endless love. we'll bear sweet sister in our hearts, and then there'll ever be an angel there to keep our souls from sin and sorrow free. be courteous: or, religion the true refiner. by mrs. m. h. maxwell. [illustration: mary and the sick child--see page .] preface. the scenes and characters of this story are those once familiar to the writer. the story itself is but a disconnected diary of one who, early refined from earthly dross, lived only long enough to show us that there was both reason and divine authority in the words of an apostle, when he exhorted christians to "be courteous." contents. chapter i. the plain--the isolated dwelling--blue-berry party--taking a vote--treatment of new acquaintances--the family at appledale--the young people upon the plain----sincere milk of the word--a call at the log-house--the ride home--original poetry chapter ii. the kind "good-morning "--the high hill--unexpected meeting--romance and reality--the good farmer--impressions of childhood--worshiping-- bearing the cross chapter iii the poor woman of the plain--the note--mournful musings--the cup of tea--the struggle--charity and self--emma's history chapter iv. the little time--how improved--fitness for refined society--morning reflections--ruth and boaz--charity and courtesy--the visit chapter v. the old peddler--bitter words--the meek reply--the effect--acting a part--softer feelings--the death-scene--the day of small things--simple christian courtesy be courteous: or, religion the true refiner. chapter i. the plain--the isolated dwelling--blue-berry party--taking a vote--treatment of new acquaintances--the family at appledale--the young people upon the plain--sincere milk of the word--a call at the log-house--the ride home--original poetry. not more than a mile and a half from a pleasant village in one of our eastern states is a plain, extending many miles, and terminated on the north by a widespread pond. a narrow road runs across the plain; but the line of green grass bordering the "wheel-track" upon either side, shows that though the nearest, this road is not the most frequented way to the pond. many reasons might be assigned for this. there is a wearisome monotony in the scenery along this plain. there are no hills, and but few trees to diversify the almost interminable prospect, stretching east, west, north, and south, like a broad ocean, without wave or ripple. the few trees scattered here and there stand alone, casting long shadows over the plain at nightfall, and adding solemnity to the mysterious stillness of that isolated place. it is not a place for human habitation, for the soil is sandy and sterile; neither is it a place for human hearts, so desolate in winter, and so unsheltered and dry during the long warm summer. yet midway between the village and the pond was once a house, standing with its back turned unceremoniously upon the narrow road with its border of green. it was a poor thing to be called a house. its front door was made, as it seemed, without reference to anything, for it opened upon the broad ocean-like plain. no questions had been asked relative to a title-deed of the land upon which that house stood, or whether "poor graffam" had a right to pile up logs in the middle of that plain, and under them to hide a family of six. through many a long eastern winter that family had lived there, little known, and little cared for. nobody had taken the pains to go on purpose to see them; yet, during the month of july, and a part of august, some of the family were often seen. at all times of the year, in summer's heat and in winter's snow, the children going and returning from school, were wont to meet "poor graffam," a short man, with sandy hair, carrying an ax upon his shoulder, and bearing in his hand a small pail of "dinner;" for graffam, when refused employment by others, usually found something to do at "motley's mills," which were about half a mile from the village. sad and serious-looking was this poor man in the morning, and neither extreme civility nor extreme rudeness on the part of the school children could procure a single word from him at this time of day. not thus at evening. "let us run after graffam, and have some fun," the boys would say on returning home; and then it was wonderful to see the change which had been wrought in this mournful-looking, taciturn man of the morning. sometimes he was in a rage, repaying their assaults with fearful oaths and bitter curses; but it was a thing more general to find him in merry mood, and then he was himself a boy, pitching his companions about in the snow, or talking with them largely and confidentially of landed estates and vast resources all his own. it is needless to inform my sagacious young reader, that the cause of this change in the poor man was rum. we have referred to the month of july and a part of august; it was during this season of the year that the plain, on account of the rich berries tinging its surface with beautiful blue, became a place of much resort. these berries, hanging in countless clusters upon their low bushes among the shrubbery, were at least worth going to see. it is the opinion of most people, however, (an opinion first entertained in eden,) that fruit pleasant to the eye is desirable for the taste. such was the opinion prevalent in that region; and the sight of merry "blue-berry companies," sometimes in wagons, sometimes on foot, was among the most common of our midsummer morning scenes. equally familiar was the sight of like companies returning at evening, weary, but better satisfied; glad that, with well-filled pails and baskets, they were so near home. this was the time of year when the young graffams became visible. the blue-berry companies often encountered them upon the plain, but found them shy as young partridges, dodging through the bushes, and skulking away as though kidnappers were in pursuit. there was, however, one boy among them, the eldest, (if we remember rightly,) who was quite familiar with the villagers. he was a little boy, not more than ten or eleven at the time of which i now write, and for two or three summers had been in the habit of bringing berries to the village, and offering them for any small matter, either for food or clothing. both the kind-hearted and the curious had plied this little boy with questions, relative to his manner of life, his mother, brothers, and sisters; but his answers were far from giving information upon any of these points. he always declined a proposed visit by saying, "mother don't want no company." this seemed true enough; for when any visitor to the plain called at graffam's for a drink of water, they were never invited to enter. the water was handed them through a small opening, and the mother was seldom visible. it was one of the brightest of our july mornings, when a blue-berry company started from the village before-mentioned. two wagons filled with young people passed along the principal street at an early hour, raising a cloud of dust as they turned the corner where stood a guide-board pointing out the _plain_ road to the pond. onward rolled the two wagons, the tin-pails and dippers dancing and rattling in the rear, keeping time with the clatter of untamed tongues in the van. "shall we call at 'appledale?'" asked the driver of the first wagon, coming to a sudden stand. "go along!" laughingly answered a gay girl in the second. "our horse is putting his nose into your tin rattletraps." the question was repeated. "they are strangers to us," replied a black-eyed young lady, "and from seeing them at church i should think them precise. a refusal would be mortifying; and if the prim miss martha concludes to go, that will be still worse. we cannot act ourselves, and all the fun will be spoiled. what say you, fanny brighton?" fanny, a bright-looking, but rather reckless girl, replied: "they shall not go, neither miss martha nor miss emma; not that i care a fiddlestring for their primness or their precision; nobody shall prevent me from thinking, and acting, and doing as i please to-day; from being, in short, what i was made to be--fanny brighton, and nobody else." fanny spoke with her usual authority, and expected obedience; but to her surprise henry boyd, the young driver of the first wagon, still hesitated, and stooping down, he whispered to a mild, lovely-looking girl, who, seated upon a box, was holding her parasol so as to shield from the sun's rays a sickly little boy. "take a vote of the company," whispered the pretty girl, whom he called mary. "if it be your minds," said henry, rising to his feet, "that we call at appledale, and invite miss martha and miss emma lindsay to be of our company, please manifest it by raising the right hand. it is a vote," he quietly continued, taking his seat. "mary palmer!" called out fanny; "you are a simpleton, and so fond of serving people as to court insult." mary's cheek flushed a little. it was not the first time that she had been called a simpleton, or some kindred name, by the out-spoken miss fanny; for this young lady prided herself on not being afraid to speak plainly, and tell people just what she thought of them. as we before said, mary's cheek flushed a little; but she instantly thought to herself, "it is fanny, and i won't mind it." so she smiled, and said very gently, "i am sure, fanny, that no sensible person will insult me for trying to be courteous, though i may not exactly understand the way. it can do the misses lindsay no harm to receive such an invitation from us, and we cannot be injured by a refusal." "for my own part," said henry, "i think that the question whether we are to be neighbors or not should be settled. they are strangers, and it is our business to make the first advance toward an acquaintance. if they decline, we have only hereafter to keep at a respectful distance." "precious little respect will they find in me," said fanny. "i am too much of a yankee to flatter people by subserviency, or to put myself out of the way to gain acquaintances about whom i care not a fig. but drive on: while we are prating and voting about the nabobs at appledale the sun is growing hot." henry gathered up his reins, and away the wagons clattered down the long hill, and with a short, thunder-like rumble crossed the bridge between the sliver place and appledale. perhaps the writer may be called to account for this romantic name: he will therefore give it here. appledale was once called snag-orchard, on account of the old trees whose fugitive roots often found their way into the road, making great trouble, and causing great complaint from the citizens, who yearly worked out a tax there. the people of that place would never have thought of calling it anything else, had it not been for susan and margaret sliver, who sometimes wrote verses, and thought that appledale sounded better in poetry than did snag-orchard. these ladies, (they called themselves young, but we must be truthful, even at the expense of courtesy,)--these ladies, margaret and susan, said that this old place was decidedly romantic; but the plain people living in that vicinity knew but little of romance. if they saved time from hard labor to read their bible, it was certainly a subject for thankfulness. most of them thought that snag-orchard was a gloomy place, and that it was a pity for so much good ground to be taken up with overgrown trees. it suited mr. croswell, however, who was the former proprietor. he had but little interest in the land belonging to this world, for all his relatives, nearly every one, had gone to the land that is "very far off." he loved the trees, and seemed to us like an old tree himself, from which kindred branch and spray had fallen, leaving him in the world's wilderness alone. some thought him melancholy; but he was not: he was only waiting upon the shore of that river dividing the "blessed land" from ours; and one spring morning, very suddenly to his neighbors, he crossed that river, and found more, infinitely more than he had ever lost. after he was gone, the house was closed for a time; and through the bright days of the following summer, when the foliage became heavy upon the old trees, casting so deep a shadow as to make noonday but twilight there, and when the night breeze sang mournfully among the pines in the rear of that old house, people coming from the pond by the way of the plain looked stealthily over their shoulders at snag-orchard: but they knew not why, for nothing was there--nothing but loneliness and desertion. there was a report among the school children that the croswell house was haunted; and in his merry moods poor graffam had told the boys, how many a time upon a dark night, when going from motley's mills to his house upon the plain, he had seen that house brilliantly illuminated, and once or twice had heard old mr. croswell call to him from the window, and say, "beware, graffam, beware." little, however, was thought of these stories, for we all knew that the unhappy man often went home at night with a fire upon his brain, and had no doubt but that he got up his own illuminations; and as for the admonition, "beware, graffam, beware," it doubtless came from the frogs, and was interpreted by his own conscience. snag-orchard, however, was evidently dreaded until the lindsays came to live there, when it became less gloomy: for though the old trees with their heavy foliage were still there, descending in long sentinel-like rows down the hill-slope, until the last row drooped their branches into the bright waters of the brook, yet the rank grass around the house, that had so long raised its seedy head, and looked in at the windows, was mowed down, and sociable-looking flowers had taken its place; and then at evening, the traveler returning from the pond by the way of the plain, realized what had once been but the brilliant phantasy of poor graffam's brain--for though mrs. lindsay was a widow, she was neither poor nor deserted. the reason for her coming there was not at that time known among us. a gentleman who was projecting the plan of a settlement at the pond, in reference to mill and factory privileges, bargained for the croswell place, and early in the spring this family took up a residence there. three months had passed away, and they were still strangers. this was not from any want of sociability upon the part of their neighbors,--or from studied indifference upon their own part, but from the time of their first coming they had seemed fully occupied with company. gay parties upon horse-back had frequently issued from the large gate, where in years gone by oxen had walked demurely in, bearing a three-story load of hay. the long riding-dresses and feathered caps of these gay riders, inasmuch as they were new in that old-fashioned place, were judged of according to the several tastes of the farmers' wives and daughters. some thought it pretty business for girls to be figuring about with men's hats, when there was work enough for women folks within doors: and others thought (very justly too) that the matter of this riding was no concern of theirs; and having business enough of their own, they concluded to let mrs. lindsay and her guests do as they pleased. this was a wise conclusion, since it daily became more and more evident that they had no intention of doing otherwise than as they pleased. some of the family always presented themselves at church on the lord's day, but among them miss emma, and an elderly woman supposed to be the housekeeper, were the only constant attendants. thus much of the new family at appledale. the reader will learn more as we progress in our story. "i would see mrs. lindsay and the young ladies," said henry boyd, as the servant opened the door. henry was shown into the same room, where many a time he had sat and talked with old mr. croswell, but which now seemed to him like another place. a handsome carpet now covered the white oaken floor, and rich curtains partially concealed the windows once shaded by simple green. where stood the old "sideboard" was now an elegant piano, and luxurious chairs and lounges had taken the place of mr. croswell's high-backed, upright-looking furniture. but henry was self-possessed; and though there were a number of young ladies in the room, dressed in handsome morning _dishabille_, he neither stammered nor turned red, but bowing easily to mrs. lindsay, gave misses martha and emma an invitation to go with him and the young ladies to the plain. mrs. lindsay saw that martha, on glancing from the window at the rustic-looking company, could scarcely suppress a smile, so she courteously thanked henry, and was about to excuse her daughters, when emma entered the room. henry could not accuse either mrs. lindsay or martha of impoliteness, but he felt somehow as though there was a great contrast between this courtesy and that shown him by emma; for she offered him her hand, and said, "it is very kind of you to call for us, and if mamma pleases, i should like to go." "i have no objection, my love," said mrs. lindsay, "provided you return before night." henry assured her that they should, martha respectfully declined the invitation, and emma ran up stairs. "i am going," said she joyfully to the elderly woman with whom she was often seen at church. "i am going, dora; and that dear little mary palmer is there." dora arose, and pinned a thin shawl upon the neck of the delicate girl, and while she did so, looked affectionately into her white face. "of what are you thinking, dora?" asked emma. "i was thinking," said she, "that my lily could shed her fragrance beyond her own garden to-day." "o, i am no lily," said emma, half laughing, "only a poor blighted thing going out to steal fragrance from other flowers." "well, darling," said dora, "you can have it without theft, for we can make for ourselves a garden of spices anywhere, and then you know who will come in and eat our pleasant fruit." emma smiled, and nodded a good-by, as she left the room. "what a singular girl is emma," said one of the young ladies who looked from the keeping-room window, as she entered the wagon. "i was glad that they had the courtesy to offer her a cushioned seat; but she has refused it, and is riding off upon a box. dear mrs. lindsay, emma is excessively polite." "_mysteriously_ polite, i call it," said mrs. lindsay. "she seems more and more to lose sight of herself, in a desire to make others happy; yet before we left the city she often offended me by her disregard of fashionable etiquette." "yet emma never was offensive in her manners, mamma," said martha. "she was truly beloved, i know it, dear," replied the lady; "but her great truthfulness kept me in constant jeopardy. just think of her telling madam richards that people considered her too old to dance." "well, it _was_ a shame," answered the first speaker, "for a lady of such excellent qualities to make herself ridiculous by a single foible." "so emma thought," said mrs. lindsay, "and had the frankness to tell her so. it turned out well enough in her case, it is true; for she told me when i went to apologize, that emma had shown so much heartfelt interest and concern in the matter of her being a public laughing-stock, that she was obliged not only to forgive, but to love her the better for what i called a rudeness. but," continued mrs. lindsay, "singular as she is, i would give worlds to have her----" here the lady paused, and martha said quickly, "she is better, mother. she sleeps very well now, and her night-sweats are not so profuse." the mother made no answer. it was not because martha's hopeful words were unheeded, but because mournful memories were at work in her heart; and to avoid further conversation she arose and left the room. "mamma will look upon the dark side," said martha, "but _i_ am much encouraged. our physician says, that rambling about in the country, running in the fields and woods, climbing fences and trees, if she is disposed, will do wonders for emma: and i believe it; for how wonderfully she has improved during these three months--so full of life, and so full of interest in everybody." emma had refused the cushioned seat, because she saw at a glance that the young boy occupying that seat was more feeble than herself. the name of this little boy was edwin. emma had met him frequently in the woods, and down by the brook where he went to fish. they had thus become pretty well acquainted, and from him emma had learned the name of the pretty girl who sat in the pew in front of their own at church--the little girl who wore a black ribbon upon her bonnet, and whose manner in the house of prayer was both quiet and devout. edwin had told her that the name of this pretty girl was mary palmer; that just before their family came to appledale she had lost a little sister; and that since then, though very quiet and kind before, mary had been very patient, even with fanny brighton. emma, therefore, was not wholly unprepared for the off-hand greeting bestowed upon her that morning by fanny. on first getting into the wagon, she pressed mary's hand without waiting for the ceremony of an introduction, for she knew her name. mary loved to have emma so near her; for though they had never spoken together before, a mutual affection existed between them; but the modest girl felt that henry ought to have given emma a seat beside some one who knew more than herself. "fanny brighton," thought mary, "is so amusing when she chooses to be; alice more is so witty; and the misses sliver so learned, henry ought to have seen that emma was where she would be pleasantly entertained; but i will make amends for this when we get to the plain--i will introduce her, and leave her with them." emma, however, seemed well satisfied with her company. "i have long wanted to speak with you," said she. "that is very polite," thought mary; "i suppose it is what well-bred people generally say. i have _really_ wanted to hear her speak, though i won't say so, for she will think that i am only trying to be polite." emma took off her sun-bonnet when riding through the woods, and told mary how happy it made her to hear the birds sing, and to breathe the sweet fragrance which came from the hay-meadows; but mary felt diffident, and did not reply warmly, as she felt. she called emma miss lindsay; so emma felt obliged to call her miss palmer, though she longed to put her arms around her, as they sat upon the box, and call her _mary_. all this time the company in the rear were talking in this way:-- "i suppose," said fanny brighton, "that this little chicky-dandy thinks she has done us a great favor, by condescending to ride in a wagon, and upon a box. if she shows off any of her aristocratic airs to me, i will soon make her understand that her room is better than her company." "what a milk-and-water looking thing she is," said alice more; "they had better have kept their cosset at home; she will be calling, 'ma! ma!' before night." "and we will answer, 'bah!'" said josh cheever, as susan sliver put her hand over his mouth, for fear that he would give a sample. arrived at the plains, the wagons were turned a little into the shrubbery, so as not to obstruct the passage of the narrow road; then the company alighted, while henry and joshua led the horses to one of the large trees, (of which there were, as we have already said, but few,) each carrying a bundle of hay under his arm. in the mean time mary introduced the young ladies severally to emma. alice more professed herself very glad to see her; but this profession, for some reason, seemed to give emma pain. fanny made no professions at all, only coldly nodding a "how-d'ye-do," without appearing to notice that emma wished to shake hands. the misses sliver were cordial enough, but too sentimental for the occasion; miss susan, using the language of some novel she had read, said, she hoped to find in emma a "kindred spirit;" at which remark fanny laughed outright, saying she hoped that "sliver crook" and "snag orchard" would not become etherialized. "i cannot talk in that way," thought mary; "so i will go by myself, and pick berries, leaving miss lindsay with them." mary felt, however, that she should like to be somewhere near emma; so she only withdrew a little way, sitting down where she could see her through the bushes. alice chattered away very freely for a time, and then wandered off in pursuit of fanny, who, from the first, had not addressed a single word to emma. but the misses sliver kept near her, and seemed to be making themselves very agreeable. mary heard them mention at least a dozen books, of which she had not heard even the titles before, and she was glad for having left emma with those who could talk of such matters. she watched her though, as she bent over the blueberry bushes, and fancied that she looked sad. then after a time she saw her sit down upon a log, looking very languid and weary. mary had brought a bottle of nice milk from home that morning, and the thought crossed her mind that a draught of that milk might be refreshing to emma; so she took a bright little dipper from her basket, and ran off toward the wagon. "where are you going, mary palmer?" said alice, whom she met on the way. "miss lindsay looks very pale and tired," said mary. "i am going to carry her some of my nice milk." "i would do no such thing," said alice; "she is used to having a host of servants at her heels, and thinks that we country girls will act as her lackies. if she wants refreshment, tell her where it is, and let her go for it herself." "why, alice," replied mary, "you told her this morning that you were very glad to see her, and now you have no interest in making her either comfortable or happy." "to be sure," said alice; "do you suppose that i was going to say, 'i am not at all glad to see you, miss prim--i am mad enough with henry boyd to pull his ears, because he went to your house for you?' you would not have had me say so; but these were my feelings; so what am i to do?" "i know what _i_ would do," said mary, firmly. "i would pray to god until i had better feelings; so that i could say from my _heart_, i am glad to see you." "o good!" exclaimed alice, laughingly; "you _are_ getting to be religious, and i shall tell fanny: so look out, little miss courtesy." "you are very kind," said emma, as she took the bright dipper of milk from mary. "i ate but little breakfast, and am very fond of milk. this looks so nice too, so pure and white, in this clean, shining dipper:" and emma sat looking at the milk, as though it were a pity to drink it up; and mary stood looking at her, until she thought that perhaps it was not polite to do so, and turned away. "don't go," said emma, "unless you choose to be by yourself. sit down here just a minute. i have queer thoughts about this milk; and since we are all alone, i will tell you what they are. you read the bible, ma--,--i mean miss palmer?" "yes; but call me mary, if you please. i am not used to being called miss." "well then, mary dear," said emma, drawing closer to her, as they sat upon the log, "you remember where the bible speaks of the _sincere milk_ of the _word_" mary smiled; for she was much pleased, and a little surprised. mrs. lindsay and her family, with their sabbath rides and evening dancing parties, were not of course considered religious people. "what do you suppose," continued emma, "is meant by the sincere milk of the word?" "when a very little girl," replied mary, "father bought me a small book called 'milk for babes,' and said it was for children who wanted to learn the first principles of the doctrine of christ. that little book was all about _charity_." "was it?" said emma, with animation, "how strange that i should have the same thoughts, without knowing anything about it! when you gave me this milk i thought of that passage, and of the one about the cup of cold water; and now, mary, please to say why you took all this pains for me. was it just to be polite?" "no," replied mary, smiling; "i was afraid that you might think me _im_-polite for offering you milk in a tin dipper, but i saw you looking pale and tired, and thought that it might do you good." "that was giving it to me in the name of a disciple," said emma, in a low voice, looking at the milk again, as though it was now hallowed and blessed of god. "it is delicious," said she, taking the cup from her lips, "and i feel better. i am not so weary; my head aches less, and my _heart_ is refreshed." "then i have not lost my reward," said mary. "but here come fanny and alice. they are very entertaining, and the day will be less tedious if you can manage to keep with them. fanny is plain spoken, but people call her a good-hearted girl; and alice is so funny." "if you please," replied emma, "i had rather be with you. i am not afraid of plain-spoken people, if they are kind. dora is very careful to tell me my faults, but then her manner is such that i can't help feeling that it is because she loves me so well; so i am neither pained nor vexed. i used to be very partial to _funny_ people; but i feel serious now nearly all of the time. i can love fanny and alice; but, mary dear, i had rather be with you, if you please." "o," replied mary, "i love to have you with me." she was prevented from saying more, for alice now called out, "forward, march! do you hear the drum?" "it is not probable," said fanny, "that a _religious_ person like mary palmer will march to the tune of yankee doodle upon a kettle-drum." emma looked at mary, and saw the deep blush upon her face, and the tear that, in spite of herself, trembled in her mild blue eye. "how unkind," thought emma, "and so _rude_ too! this plain-spoken girl has not a good heart, if people do think so. i shall ask dora about her." "it is the signal for dinner," said mary, recovering herself in a minute, and turning with a smile toward emma. "henry wants us to go to the wagons." so they walked along arm-in-arm, while alice and fanny whispered together about this sudden intimacy, and prophesied that hot love like that would soon be cold. "i mean to tell mary just what i think of it," said fanny; "for i am not afraid to speak my mind to anybody." "well," replied alice, "i cannot imagine what miss emma likes in mary, or why mary is so charmed with her. this much i will say, but don't you name it to any one--neither of them is at all to _my_ fancy." it was not wonderful that alice did not know the secret of that affection between two who were comparatively strangers to each other. the reason was not plain even to emma and mary, for neither of them yet knew it by the scripture name, which is "unity of the spirit." each had loved the other while as yet no word of communication had passed between them, because each had a portion of that spirit which binds heart to heart. alice would not have understood this had it been told her, for she had never entertained this gentle spirit. she might have done so, for it knocks at every human heart; but there are other spirits there--spirits that must be cast out, before that which is long-suffering, meek, and good, will come in and sup with us. alice would not cast emulation, pride, envy, and jealousy out of her heart, that the good spirit might enter. would she have done so, she might not have found it so difficult to understand what emma and mary saw in each other to love. the company was now assembled under a large tree near to the roadside. henry had constructed a rude table, over which was spread a cloth, and, assisted by joshua, he was now bringing the dinner from the wagon, while the misses sliver arranged the dishes. "here is a comfortable seat, miss lindsay," said henry, when the dinner was ready; and he led her to a rock beside the table, which was covered with moss. "one of nature's verdant cushions," said susan sliver. "nature is very polite to the aristocracy," whispered fanny, loud enough to be heard; but emma lifted little edwin to the rock, saying that it was just high enough for him. fanny had determined to show that she was not afraid to act herself anywhere, so she talked about matters not at all interesting to the company, taking care to think differently from every one who expressed an opinion. again the question arose in emma's mind, whether such rudeness could be the fruit of a good heart; but she quieted herself by saying, "i will ask dora about it." after the dinner was over, miss margaret sliver began to talk of some verses that susan had written for this occasion, and insisted on drawing them from her pocket. susan pretended great unwillingness; but her sister easily possessed herself of the copy, which, with great pathos of manner, she read to the company. "splendid! elegant!" exclaimed alice; but at the same time she stepped upon fanny's toe, and gave her a merry sidelong glance. "beautiful! are they not, mary palmer?" "i am no judge of poetry," said mary, modestly; "so my opinion is not worth having." "_you_ cannot say so, miss lindsay," continued alice, "for i heard you repeating some lines this morning." "did you," asked emma, coloring a little, "then i think they must have been from a hymn by james montgomery, of which i am very fond, and sometimes repeat unconsciously." "of course," said fanny, looking suddenly at emma, "you think miss sliver equal to montgomery." "this is not the place for me to say whether i do or not," replied emma, quietly. "i know," said fanny, "that there are some people who think that the truth is not to be spoken at all times; but i have never yet been afraid to say what i think." "there are things," said henry, "of which we may not think rightly, and, understanding this, some are slow to speak." "and who is to be the judge of our thoughts," asked fanny, "whether they be right or wrong?" all were silent now; not because they had no answer for fanny's question, but because they were not willing to give the _right_ answer. at last, mary, in a low voice, replied: "the bible should be our rule, both for thought and word, and conscience must judge between that and us." "and does the bible teach you to flatter people with your tongue, while you are laughing at them in your sleeves?" asked fanny. "no," replied mary; "but it teaches us to love our neighbor as ourselves, to be courteous, and pitiful." "then i keep one requirement," said fanny, jumping over the log, seated upon which she had eaten her dinner; "for i do pity people who are too mealy-mouthed to be honest--pity, or _despise_ them, i cannot tell which." all now had withdrawn from the table, except emma, mary, joshua cheever, and little edwin. "your milk is very nice, mary," said eddy, "but it does not cure my thirst; o i do want some cold water." "there is none nearer than the pond," said joshua, "unless you go to graffam's; but they are so piggish, i would choke before i would ask water of them. the last time i went there, the old woman sent one of the young ones to tell me that the village folks were an unmannerly set, and she wanted them to keep their distance. i told the girl to give my love to her mother, and tell her that she was the sweetest poppy upon the plain. so you see that it wouldn't do for me to go there again; i might get my head cracked with one of graffam's rum-jugs." "i am not afraid to go," said mary. "i have no doubt but that the blueberry parties are a trouble to mrs. graffam." "_mrs_. graffam!" exclaimed joshua, laughing. "nobody else calls her anything but moll, and her husband, pete." emma now lifted edwin from his seat upon the rock, and taking his hand, while mary brought the bright dipper, they started for the log-house, which looked in the distance like a black stump. "it is loving your neighbor _better_ than yourself,"--said the little boy, looking smilingly up into emma's face,--"i am sure it is, to come all this way with me." "well, we ought to love our neighbor better than ourselves," replied mary, who was walking behind. "we shall, eddy, if we are like----" "like jesus?" asked eddy. "yes," said mary. "he didn't love himself at all; but he loved us, even unto death." "how wonderful!" said emma. "talk some more about him, mary dear, if you please." but they were now at the poor door, which swung upon its wooden hinges: they were about to knock, when they saw a forlorn-looking woman come from a dark closet, with a sick child in her arms. "poor little thing!" said mary, going toward her.[*] "what is the matter with him, mrs. graffam?" [footnote *: see frontispiece.] "he is very sick," she replied, glancing from her to the door, when emma courtesied politely, and edwin pulled off his hat. "walk in," said mrs. graffam; "my children are all out upon the plain, but you can help yourselves to seats." then turning to mary she said again, "he is very sick, and i cannot tell what is the matter with him, unless it is want of----." here she paused, and after a time added, "he is losing all his flesh, poor thing!" "yes," said mary, "he looks as my dear little sister did just before she died!" "when did she die?" asked mrs. graffam. "just as the grass was getting green," said mary. "it was a fit time for her to die, mrs. graffam; for she was born in the spring, and it seemed exactly as though the sweet bud had to go back to the summer-land before it could bloom." "and if your little baby dies, mrs. graffam," said eddy, "he will be a flower in god's garden; won't he, mary?" "yes," whispered mary, while the poor woman's face flushed, and her lip quivered. mary glanced at edwin, and remembered her errand. "mrs. graffam," said she, "i know that the blue-berry parties must be a great trouble to you, and we would not have come here for water, only eddy is not very well." "you are welcome to as much water as you want," interrupted mrs. graffam, "and so is any one who can treat us with civility. we are very poor, it is true, and that is not our greatest misfortune either; but it is hard to be despised." while mary was gone for the water, emma sat looking at the sick baby, and noticed, that though the weather was warm, its skeleton limbs looked blue and cold. she was going to advise the mother to wrap it in flannel, when the thought that perhaps the poor woman had none, prevented her speaking: for christian courtesy never says to the poor "be ye warmed and clothed," while it provides not the things which are necessary; and fortunately emma thought it time enough to speak of what the poor child needed, when she had _supplied_ that need. edwin was greatly refreshed by his drink of cold water, and kissing the sick child, he thanked mrs. graffam, and was ready to go. "there is a good old lady living with my mother," said emma, "who is used to sickness, and might know what to do for your babe, mrs. graffam; shall i ask her to come with me, and see you?" "i shall be glad to see anybody," was the reply, "who is like you or your little friends;" and bidding the poor woman a good-by, they went back to the plain. henry boyd remembered his promise to mrs. lindsay, and before the sun was down the company were on their way home. the talk and clatter of the morning were now hushed. joshua whistled, while his horse plodded lazily along, until fanny peevishly bade him "hold his tongue." "anybody does that," said joshua, "when he whistles!" but he good-naturedly stopped. margaret sliver undertook to repeat some poetry composed by susan, upon the setting sun:-- the setting sun is going down behind the western hills; it glitters like a golden crown,---- "what is the last line, susan?" asked margaret; but susan was not flattered by the way her poetry had been handled at the dinner-table, and now she refused to supply the missing rhyme. the setting sun is going down behind the western hills, pursued margaret; it glitters like a golden crown, "_on top of motley's mills!_" added alice; while fanny, calling out to henry boyd, repeated the whole verse as susan's poetry, bidding him ask miss lindsay if montgomery could beat that. susan was highly offended, saying that she considered herself insulted, and chose to walk the remainder of the way. "o no, miss sliver," said joshua; "never mind fanny brighton--she is only one of the blunt sort, saying right to your face what other folks would say behind your back." this explanation from joshua was rather more favorable than fanny deserved; for she had not the faithful christian charity, which, while it unflinchingly speaks truth to those whom it concerns, is careful to speak no evil anywhere. it was well known, that though fanny boasted of not being afraid to tell to people's faces what she thought of them, she was not less fearless in talking of the same things in their absence; so that she differed from common backbiters only in having more--shall we call it impudence? it is a harsh name, but let us analyze the principle. what spirit possesses the human heart, when it shows a disposition to make others uncomfortable? is it frankness--we know that it is sometimes dignified with that name; though it is little akin to the true christian faithfulness, which, always at peace with truth, never offends against true courtesy. charity regards the little foibles incident to fallen human nature with a lenient eye, never pointing them out to the scornful gaze of another, but remembering that they are to be touched tenderly, if touched at all; _secretly_, too, apart from the scrutiny of another, and by disinterested friendship alone. "the sliver girls make fools of themselves, and of each other," said fanny, when margaret and susan, arrived at their own house, coldly took leave of the company. "i know it," replied alice. "to think that they will associate with us girls, pretending to be young, when everybody knows that they are not: dressing, prinking, reading novels, and making poetry; while their poor old slave of a mother is making butter and cheese." "it provokes me when i think of it," answered fanny; "and how you can flatter them so, calling their dresses becoming, and their poetry beautiful, i cannot imagine, when you know, alice, that it is all a lie." "well," said alice, laughingly, "i do it for fun. it is so amusing to see their languishing airs; and then, fanny, to tell the truth, i have no objection to people's playing the fool, if it makes them feel better." "but i shall hate you, by-and-by," said fanny, "for being a hypocrite." "guess it won't be any put out to you," replied joshua; "for you are as full of hate as an egg is of meat." chapter ii the kind "good-morning"--the high hill--unexpected meeting--romance and reality--the good farmer--impressions of childhood--worshiping--bearing the cross. "good-morning, mr. graffam," said emma, who was in the garden when the poor man of the plain passed along the road on his way to the mills. we have before said that morning was not the time for this man to talk, and now he felt inclined, as usual, to pass this early salutation without notice; but it had been a long time since he had been accosted in that manner. it was no uncommon thing for people to address him in this way: "good-morning, pete! feel sober after your last night's high, eh?" but a respectful "good-morning, mr. graffam," now met his ear. "can it be," thought the fallen man, "that i am still _mr._, or are they mocking me?" he looked up, but saw neither jest nor scorn upon the fair face looking over the garden-wall. "good-morning, sir," repeated emma; "it is a fine morning." poor graffam looked with his dull swollen eyes upon the bright-blue sky, and then upon the wood-crowned hill, and the shaded dell, where the waters rippled and murmured, and the birds sang cheerily, and his heart caught some apprehension of beauty, for he answered slowly, "so it is, miss,--a very fine morning." "and pray, how is your dear little babe, sir?" asked emma, in a voice of tender concern. this question seemed fully to rouse him. there was a glance both of surprise and intelligence in his eye, as he replied, "the child is very sick;" and then repeated, as though it were a fact new to himself, "yes, that poor child is very sick indeed." "i was at your house yesterday," continued emma, "and promised mrs. graffam that i would bring a good old lady living with us to see her; but i am not well enough to go to-day." "sorry if you are sick," murmured graffam. "thank you," said emma. "i was going to ask if you would have the kindness just to call at the gate tonight, and take a small package for mrs. graffam?" "i will," said he, with a tone and manner something like self-respect and respect for his wife,--"i will, miss, with pleasure;" and he pulled his old hat from his head, and bowed low, while emma bade him good-by. "go out upon the hills, my love," called mrs. lindsay from her window to emma; "it will do you no good to be tying-up flowers, and talking with ragged old men by the roadside. put on your bonnet, and walk briskly over the bridge, and let me see you from my window upon the top of yonder hill." emma cheerfully obeyed, and though she felt extremely languid, compelled herself to walk briskly as her mother had desired; but coming to the foot of the hill she paused, and looked doubtfully upon its steep sides and lofty top. "it reminds me of 'the hill difficulty,'" thought emma; "but the christian pilgrim did not allow himself to stop and think over the difficulties, but 'addressed himself to his journey.' so must i:" and ceasing to look at the top, but only at the place for her feet, step by step, she at length gained the summit, and waved her handkerchief toward the house. the signal was answered from her mother's window, and then she sat down upon a rock to rest. but the morning was too dazzlingly beautiful there. she felt oppressed by the glory of distant mountains, sparkling rivers, and wide-spread fields of corn and grain; but looking down a gentle slope of the hill she saw a delightful place--it was a bend of the little brook gliding through the meadow-ground of appledale. the pines had cast their spiral leaves there, so that the hill-side and the borders of the rill looked as though covered with sunlight, though there was in fact nothing but shade, for the trees clustered together, and locked their green arms, as if to shut the brook from day-light; yet close upon the borders of that brook emma saw a large flat rock, around which the waters played, looking so cool and inviting that she longed to be there. she put her hand into her pocket, and found, to her joy, that the dear companion of her rambles was there: it was her bible. happy for emma, she had learned to prize its gentle converse above that of human tongues; and now, sitting down upon her feet, she smiled to see how glassy the pine leaves had made the hill-slope, for she could slide along with but little exertion, and soon found herself upon the broad flat rock. taking her little bible, she was just turning to some passages dora had marked, when she heard a deep sigh, and saw, to her surprise, susan sliver seated upon a moss-turf, crying bitterly. "i am close to sliver crook," thought emma, now for the first time noticing the house not far beyond the trees. "this may be miss susan's place of retirement, and i have no right here; but i cannot get away now without being seen; and then she seems unhappy. i should be glad to comfort her, if i could without----" just at that moment susan looked up, and saw emma, who sprang from the rock, and running toward her, said: "i was not aware of a trespass upon your grounds, miss sliver. you will pardon me. it looked so inviting here, that i was constrained to come down from the hill." susan, however, did not appear at all embarrassed at being caught in tears. she wiped her face with her apron, and then emma saw an open book upon her knee. "my dear miss lindsay," said susan, "it is no intrusion. i am glad to find a congenial spirit anywhere. my joy at this meeting is inexpressible; for now i know that there is one in this cold-hearted place, one beside my sister margaret, who can appreciate my feelings." emma was silent; for she did not understand what those feelings were, or whether she appreciated them or not. "prom my childhood," continued susan, "i have been among the people of my race, but not of them. i have stood alone, in a shroud of thoughts, which were not their thoughts; but few understand me, my dear, for i live in an ideal world, and whatever calls me back to this gross creation, makes me perfectly miserable: say, my dear miss lindsay, are these your feelings?" "alas, no," replied emma; "i love the world too well, and have spent many wretched, sleepless nights because i was unwilling to leave it: but that time is passed. if i have any fear now, it is that my work on earth will not be well done before i am called away." susan turned a wondering eye upon the pale, weary-looking girl, and for a moment forgot her intense sympathy for herself. "you are sick," said she, with an expression of real interest and concern. "yes," replied emma, "that is evident. my friends have tried to hide it from me, and from themselves. they have sent me from place to place, but death is following me everywhere. _i_ never felt it so surely as i do this morning:" and emma laid her head upon the moss-turf beside susan. she looked like a faded lily, as she lay there; her white dress scarcely more white than the forehead and cheek upon which her dark damp hair rested heavily. susan took a handkerchief from her pocket, and wrung it in the clear, cool waters of the brook, and kneeling upon the ground beside emma, wiped her pale face, and tucking up her sleeves, chafed her poor withered arms, until emma revived. "thank you," said she; "i was a little faint. mamma is so desirous for me to exercise in the open air, that i go every day to the farthest limit of my strength. i was not able to climb that hill this morning." susan made no reply, but sat looking mournfully into her face. all the morning she had been weeping over the sorrows of an imaginary being whom she had found in a novel wandering about, and falling at every step into the most superlative misery. it was hard for susan to read, and not identify herself with this beautiful suffering shadow; but now she had come from her ideal world, and was forced, for a time, to forget both the shadow and herself. close to her father's old farm-house, and in the woods of sliver-crook, she saw what, described in a romance, would have been pathetic enough, but which, seen in reality, called out from her heart the good rational sympathy which, though buried in sentimental rubbish, was not dead. "do you really think," said she, bending over emma, "that you must----" emma smiled, as she replied, "what difficulty we find in pronouncing that word! one would think that there was a sting in the very _name_ of death: and so there is, miss sliver, until god gives us the victory, through jesus christ." "jesus was a beautiful character," said susan, taking up emma's bible, beside which the red-covered novel lay blushing as if in an agony of shame. "i have often felt," she continued, "a strong desire to visit the places hallowed by his personal ministry; the garden where he kept his sad night-watch, miss lindsay; the mount of olives, and the clear-gliding kedron. o," continued susan, enthusiastically, "i should like to stand where the marys stood, on the dreadful day of his crucifixion, and visit the tomb where they went, bearing sweet spices. o, wouldn't it be delightful?" "yes," replied emma, languidly; "but we should not find him there now,--upon calvary, or the mount of olives; by the sweet-gliding kedron, or in the garden of gethsemane,--unless we were like him, meek and lowly, and such can find him anywhere, miss sliver. the spirit of jesus would hallow _this_ book, making it blessed and holy like the waters of kedron; and this high hill might be to us what the mount of olives was to the disciples--for that was sacred only because jesus talked with them there. dora told me last night that the holy spirit could make any place holy." susan was silent. emma had spoken words to which something within bore witness as truth, and she knew not what to say. emma, too, lay musing for some time; and then raising her head, and resting it upon her hand, she said: "how wonderfully self-denying jesus was, miss sliver. nobody appreciated the saviour when he was upon earth, not even the disciples; yet this was nothing to him, for he did not seek his own glory. he went cheerfully about his father's work, never thinking of himself, and never feeling himself degraded by the presence of a poor, sick, sinful multitude." "i know it," said susan, thoughtfully; "but the world will never see another jesus, miss lindsay." "o, it will, it will," replied emma, with animation. "when human hearts are willing to let his spirit dwell in them, human hands will do the work which jesus did; and so his kingdom will come, and the world will see and acknowledge their king." a shrill blast from a horn, at the farm-house across the brook, now interrupted their conversation. "it is time for me to go home," said susan; "but i shall not consent to leave you to climb that hill again today--you must go to our house, and stay until you are rested." this kind decision of manner, so unlike anything she had before seen in susan sliver, quite interested emma. she did not feel averse to a further acquaintance, and taking her arm they crossed the rustic bridge, and were soon at the farm-house. an elderly man, wearing a quaker hat, had just entered, and emma heard him talking to a good-looking old lady, who, both warm and tired, was vehemently beating a minute pudding. "thee looks tired, sarah; where are the girls?" "can't say where susan is," was the reply. "margaret is up stairs, sewing." "well, there is a time for everything, and the girls are old enough to know it; but here comes susan. come, susan, thee ought to be helping thy mother these hot days; but who is this friend?" "mrs. lindsay's daughter," said susan. emma might have saved her graceful courtesy this time; for the old gentleman did not return it by taking off his broad-brimmed hat: yet she felt the sincere politeness of his manner, as, offering his hand, he said, "i am glad to see thee, child; how is thy mother?" "very well, thank you," said emma, taking a seat upon the cushioned chair, which susan brought and placed near the open door. the old lady was not less cordial in her manner toward their visitor; but she seemed in a great hurry to get dinner upon the table, for the men were coming from the field, and the sun had crossed the noon-mark. emma was glad to see susan taking hold to help her mother; and presently margaret came down stairs, dressed a little too much, and a little too girlish, but appearing very kind and good-natured. "what shall i call thy name?" asked the old gentleman. "emma, if you please," was the reply. "well, then, emma," he continued, "thee is welcome to our table; take thy chair along, and eat dinner with us." emma felt but little appetite for a farmer's dinner; but she saw that the family would feel more comfortable if she was at the table with them, and prompted, not by appetite, but by true courtesy, she did as she was desired. the farmer folded his hands, and the whole family sat for a moment in rigid silence. emma was not accustomed to any form of thanksgiving before meat; but she understood this silent expression, and sympathized therein. "thee looks delicate," said the old man; "what shall i give thee to eat, emma?" "anything, sir," answered emma, with habitual politeness, though she did feel a preference for the milk which came up to the very rim of a large pitcher upon a corner of the table. margaret began to apologize for the coarseness of their meal: but her father interposed, saying, "it is good enough for well people, and as good as we generally have; but if thee has anything a little nice for a poor appetite, bring it to thy friend." "now," thought emma, "christian politeness bids me put them at ease in this respect." so she said frankly, "i would rather have a glass of your nice milk than anything else." "thy wants are easily supplied then," replied the good man, as he filled her tumbler, and laid a slice of bread upon her plate. again emma thought of the "sincere milk of the word," and looking at the plain old farmer, she wondered if he had not grown to the stature of a christian, by means of this simple charity. "has thee been long out of health?" asked the farmer. emma was not startled by this question, though her mother and sister, had they been present, would have considered it a rudeness. "i was very healthy when a little child," replied emma. "this feebleness came on me by degrees,--i can scarcely tell when it commenced." "very likely," replied the farmer. "i lost two sisters by consumption; they appeared much as thee does." "father!" exclaimed margaret; and the old gentleman recollected himself. "i don't conclude from this," said he, "that thy case is one of consumption:" and he looked kindly into emma's face, as though desiring to be both considerate and sincere. "it would not alarm me to hear you call it by that name," replied emma. "i am in the habit of regarding death as at the door; and wish so to do, because i am thus constantly reminded that what my hands find to do must be done with my might." "i am glad to hear such a testimony from thee," said the old man, earnestly. "it is a pity that any of us should forget the work to be done in this world, and the shortness of time." the dinner was now over, and emma, greatly refreshed, shook hands with the farmer and his family, promising to call again; and then took the short way of the main road to her own home. the old man looked after her, as her white dress glanced through the green trees by the roadside, until she descended the hill, and was out of sight. "what does thee think of that child, sarah?" he asked, turning to his wife. "well, enoch," was the reply; "_i_ think that she is ripening for glory." the good woman was not of the same religious persuasion with her husband; but this small matter never interrupted the most cordial interchange of religious sympathy between them; and now his eyes filled with tears, and he felt as he had often done before, that "the spirit" moved sarah to give this testimony. "margaret," said he, turning to his daughter, "thee can learn a great deal from that child, though she is much younger than thyself." margaret felt the slight pettishness which always attended a reference to her age, and was about to ask her father how he knew her to be much older than emma lindsay; but a more rational feeling had been roused in her heart, and for once it predominated over this folly. margaret was not like her sister in the matter of romance and abstraction from every-day scenes and pursuits, though she loved to regard susan as something wonderful, and show off her literary productions. margaret's foible, on the contrary, was too great a love for the present world. unfortunately, she had fixed her heart upon what is too evanescent for the love of an immortal. youth, beauty, and the graces of fashion were the shadows at whose shrine she worshiped, though the substance was gone. thus precious time was spent in seeking to repair its own breaches, and she saw not that they widened day by day--saw not how the cunning device by which she sought to hide the footprint of years, only left that foot-print more visible. god had given both margaret and susan better food for the immortal mind, but they, like many others, chose to feed upon the wind. no wonder that they were ever unsatisfied. the plain people of that region, who boasted of nothing superior to _common_ sense, regarded the sliver girls as curiosities. some called them _soft_, and thought there was a lack of head wisdom; many laughed about them; but no one, save fanny brighton, laughed _at_ them. their parents were highly esteemed; and it may be a matter of wonder how they came to be what they were. the cast of human character is usually taken in childhood--an important fact to those charged with so responsible a trust; and it was during margaret and susan's childhood, that a vain and sentimental lady sojourned for two summers at their father's house. the unsuspecting farmer and his wife never thought of examining the stock of books with which she loaded the old case in the "fore-room." having no time for reading except sundays, uncle enoch never expected to get through "barclay's apology," without neglecting his bible, and this he had no intention of doing. it was not, therefore, to be expected, that he would spend time to read even the titles of mrs. coolbroth's books. but margaret and susan, bright, sensible children then, were beginning to feel the thirst often felt in childhood--the restless craving of the spirit for something new: no wonder, then, that they seized the fruit so "pleasant to the eye," and as it seemed to them "desirable to make one wise." thus the poor girls were lured from the plain homely path, which, plain and homely as it is, always proves at last the way of pleasantness and the path of peace. they knew that people called them odd, and in this they gloried. fanny brighton they regarded as a rude girl, who, though she vexed them, never put them out of humor with themselves. but now, strange as it may appear, the quiet christian words and manner of emma lindsay had done this, and they could not tell why. those words and that manner, so courteous and kind, were not calculated to wound, yet they felt wounded. emma had not done it--it was the _truth_ dwelling in her heart, and showing itself in its most appropriate dress, which is christian courtesy of manner. margaret sat down that afternoon, with a desire to redeem some of the time which, when she thought of emma, seemed indeed to be passing away; and susan, when she meditated on what emma had said of him who never scorned the humble paths of usefulness, and through his life-long went about doing good, felt that it was time to examine the spirit that would worship, without _bearing_ the saviour's cross. chapter iii. the poor woman of the plain--the note--mournful musings--the cup of tea--the struggle--charity and self--emma's history. seated upon her low door-stone was mrs. graffam, the poor woman of the plain. it was almost night; the sun had gone down, leaving a long red line upon the western horizon, which cast a lurid ray upon the gathering twilight. the poor children of that log-house were fast asleep: for all that day they had been out upon the plain, where the sun, from a cloudless sky, glared down upon them; and now the evening shade was beautiful, and so soothing too, that neither the hard pallet of straw, nor the hungry musquitoes could drive sleep from eyes so weary. the sick babe was asleep too: all day it had moaned in its comfortless little cradle, for the mother had work to do--hard work, and abundant--for a family so large and poor. heavily sat poor mrs. graffam upon the door-stone, waiting, she could not tell for what. many years before she had waited at twilight for her husband's return, and listened, as the wind rustled the leaves, because she loved to go out and meet him as he neared their home. but those years were gone, and with them the lovelight and beauty of both heart and home. the contrast between that barren, desolate plain and her former home, was not greater than the contrast between the glad heart of other years, and the one sinking despairingly as she sat upon the door-stone that night. at last she heard a heavy step along the path leading from the narrow road to that lone hut; but the sound of that step only deepened the shadow that gloomed around her. she sat motionless; and there was something in her manner like the resignation of a stricken, but trusting heart: but it was not that; it was only the sullen gloom of despair. nearer and nearer drew the footstep, and she rose from her seat, that her poor besotted husband might pass to his bed of straw; but he did not pass in,--he only looked at her for a moment, and then averted his eye, for very shame because she had perceived that he was not drunk. the bag which he had carried week after week to the mills and brought home every night empty, because he deemed rum more necessary for himself than food for his family, was now filled with flour; but he said nothing, and she too was silent, as she followed him into the hut, and took the large basket which he offered her. opening this basket, she found a note, and returning to the door, read as follows:-- "mrs. graffam:--_dear madam_,--i was not able to come and fetch our good dora to see you to-day; but your husband has kindly promised to call this evening, and take the little matters which i have put up for the dear sick baby; and to-morrow, if it please god, we will see you at your own house. "your friend, emma lindsay." graffam looked at his wife as she came in with the note, and, notwithstanding she had lately spoken very harsh words to him, he pitied her, and somehow felt as though she was not greatly to blame for calling him an "unfeeling brute." on the other hand, as mrs. graffam took the things from the basket, she glanced toward her husband, and thought to herself, "he is sober to-night, and it is all owing to the kind politeness of that dear girl. his self-respect is not entirely gone, for he would not appear drunk before emma. if i could command patience to treat him with civility, there might be some hope in that;" so turning toward him she asked, "have you taken supper, mr. graffam?" the poor man hesitated. he was really hungry; for that which had proved to him both victuals and drink, was now wanting; but he feared to speak of his hunger, lest his wife should say, "the children have no rum to drink, and it takes all the food _i_ can supply, to keep them from starving." "here is a nice loaf of bread," continued mrs. graffam, cheerfully, as she took the things from the basket, "and a paper of tea; miss emma could not have intended these for poor little sammy: so, if you please, mr. graffam, just light a fire under the kettle, and i will make you a cup of tea." "and a cup for yourself," said graffam, as he lighted the dry sticks in the large stone chimney, and then peered into the corners of the room in search of his children. "they are all asleep," said his wife; and the poor man turned quickly toward the fire again, for he feared that she would add, "the poor creatures have been out upon the plains all day: heaven knows what we shall do when the berries are gone." but mrs. graffam said nothing more. she set out the pine table, and going to an old chest brought a white cloth; it was of bird's-eye diaper. graffam remembered well who wove it; and a pleasant vision came along with that white table-cloth. he saw his mother, as in olden times, weaving; while he stood by her side, wondering at the skill with which she sent the shuttle through its wiry arch, and noticing how the little matter of adding thread to thread filled the "cloth beam" little by little, until the long "web" was done. "such is life," thought graffam; "the little by little of human action goes to fill up the warp of time, and decides the worth of what we manufacture for eternity." then he looked sadly over his own work, and could but say to himself, "it is all loose ends, loose ends. what a web for eternity!" "supper is ready," said mrs. graffam, and the poor man turned toward the table. the white loaf was there, and a basin of the berries his little ones had picked from the plain. in a solitary cup (for it was the only one saved from their wreck of crockery) graffam saw his tea, and offered to exchange with his wife for the broken mug, into which was poured a scanty portion for herself. "no, thank you," said she, "this is very well;" and they were seated at the table. it was upon the whole a cheerful meal. it seemed as though each one had been a long journey, and had just returned; they were pleased with each other, and talked of old acquaintances, and other days, themes upon which they had held no converse for a long, long time past. as their supper was finished, the little one in the cradle moaned again, and mrs. graffam brought from the basket a long flannel dress, and put it upon "wee bit," gently rubbing its blue limbs; then, with something of the freedom and confidence of other days, she laid poor baby upon its father's knee, and going again to the friendly basket, brought thence a bottle, from which she dropped a little fine-flavored cordial into warm water. the babe opened its large eyes upon its mother, as though wondering what it could be that was so good upon its poor little tongue and lip; then rubbing its tiny hands up and down the flannel dress, it looked smilingly into the father's face, and uttered an expressive "goo!" the parent was not quite dead in that father's heart, though long buried beneath the waves of selfish indulgence. he looked upon that poor little creature, and wondered that he could ever forget one so suffering and dependent. "the baby feels better," said graffam to his wife; and he thought to himself, "i too should feel better, could i break my chains and be a man." through most of that night graffam thought the same thing, and wondered if it could be done. "i have dug my own grave," thought he, "and officious hands have helped me in; they have cast over me the dirt of scorn and ridicule, until i am well-nigh buried alive. o, if there was left in others one particle of respect, i might come forth from this grave! i know that i might, from the little of kindness and civility shown me this day. i was once respected, and so was my wife; but i have dragged her down, down with me. it is a shame, for she is worthy a better fate." thus thought poor graffam through many hours of that night, and in the morning he turned from his hut again, with but little hope of seeing it as he did then, with open eyes, from which his soul looked forth; thinking, hoping, fearing, yet ready to struggle once more for life. it was a beautiful morning, and emma sat beside the open window, less languid than she had been the day before. dora was putting things in order, when emma asked this question:--"through what medium do we see people, dora, when we discover nothing but their faults?" "through the medium of self," was the ready reply. "if there is anything offensive in a person, self is nettled on its own account, and in its excitement sees nothing but the offense." "how would charity act toward a person whose manners are extremely rude?" asked emma. "charity is always giving," replied dora, "while it exacts nothing. it is never jealous of its own dignity. it never behaveth itself unseemly; but beareth, hopeth, and endureth all things, even from those who know nothing of its own sweet expression--courtesy." "i must see fanny brighton again," thought emma, "and ask charity to lend me her eyes, that i may see if there is nothing good in her; or if i can manage to put out the eyes of self, by seeing nothing through this medium, perhaps charity will become eyes to the blind." it was by the blessing of god upon the humble efforts of that pious old lady called dora, that emma had become what she was. mrs. lindsay was a worldly woman, and the time had been when she had no higher hopes for her children than to see them richly gifted with worldly accomplishments. her two eldest daughters, helen and amanda, had been models in this respect; and for a season the mother rejoiced in this pride of her eyes. but there is a strange intruder often found where he is least desired, and never retiring simply because his presence is deprecated--that is death. who has not entertained this uninvited guest? when helen and amanda began to droop, as emma now did, dora was the oldest servant in mrs. lindsay's family, and highly esteemed, both on account of her fidelity and her pleasing manners. "there is something peculiar about dora," mrs. lindsay would say, "she is never untruthful and never impolite; two ideas which, in the eyes of fashionable etiquette, seem antagonistic. it was not, however, until her daughters began to show symptoms of decline, that mrs. lindsay understood this peculiarity in dora. "you must turn that religious woman out of your house," said the physician, "or i cannot save your daughters." and dora was severely reprimanded by her mistress for the extreme discourtesy of offering to read to the young ladies from the bible. "what can she think?" asked helen, with concern. "the doctor says that i shall be well in a few days; but dora looks serious, and offers to read to me from the bible. you will not have me deceived, mamma?" "no, love," said her mother, trying to persuade her own heart that there was no cause for alarm. "dora is religious, and such people always have fits of being disobliging." "she is extremely kind to me in everything else," said the poor girl; "it is only in this thing that she makes me unhappy." "she shall make you unhappy no more; i will forbid her to approach your room." and so she did. dora was accused of impertinence, and felt most keenly that truth and the world's etiquette were at war. days passed on, and there were serious faces, more than one, in that house where it was impertinent to speak of death and eternity. it is true, that for a time gay visitors were admitted to helen's chamber, and there was hollow laughter there, as they talked of balls, parties, and new fashions, and told the poor girl that she was looking better every day: but dora saw them whisper, and shake their heads to each other as they passed out; and she saw that every day the mother grew more fearful as it regarded the daughter, and kinder toward herself. at last she was told that helen wanted her; but she was charged to be careful, as the poor girl was extremely weak. "dora, dora," said helen, "_you_ will tell me the truth. mother said that i should not be deceived; but i have been, o, i have been cruelly deceived." dora talked soothingly of him who is the resurrection and the life: but the poor girl had opened her eyes all too suddenly upon the startling picture of death; and now shrinking from his cold embrace, she could not hear of hope and comfort. her dying words were to the mother fraught with keenest anguish, for she spoke of this cruel deceit unto the last. amanda soon followed her young sister to the tomb; but the mother was spared the self-accusation and bitter sorrow attendant upon helen's death. early in her sickness amanda was consigned to the care of dora. it was in vain that the physician expostulated; mrs. lindsay feared nothing so much as again to hear words of reproof from a dying child for having deceived her. dora kept her post with christian fidelity, and amanda entered the dark valley and shadow of death fearing no evil. emma was at that time five years of age, and martha ten. "my dear madam," said dora, "fashion has robbed you of a great treasure. your daughters, predisposed to consumption, cannot safely obey its whimsical demands." "nonsense, dora!" replied mrs. lindsay. but when alone, she thought seriously upon what the good woman had said. memory brought before her mind pictures from which she could not turn. the thin-soled shoes, and silken hose, in which fashion had required her delicate daughters to promenade the damp walks of the city; the flimsy ball-dress, the prolonged dance, and joined with these, the sudden exposure to a wintry air, were shades upon the bright picture of pleasures past,--dark shades indeed, but awfully true. "perhaps martha and emma may be spared to me," said the mother to her fashionable friends; "but how can i think of the conditions!" and her friends talked over the matter among themselves, and concluded that, after all, a person's life was of but little value, if they must live secluded from the world; and they gave mrs. lindsay a remote hint, that it was best to let her daughters live _while_ they lived. mrs. lindsay, however, had more than once stood upon the threshold of another life, having followed a husband and two daughters to the silent tomb: and in her secret heart she suspected the small value of what she had purchased at so great a cost. it seemed hard indeed to deprive her beautiful children of a fashionable education, and the struggle was very severe; but the mother triumphed over worldly vanity, and monsieur de la beaumont was told that his services in the family as dancing-master were no longer desired. "one strange ting!" said monsieur; and the world at large thought the same. mrs. lindsay considered herself as having made a great sacrifice to affection, and sometimes feared that she might live to see the day when she should wish her little novices out of sight, somewhere. one thing she determined on, however; and that was to take as much of the world as she could get herself, and thus solace herself for what she was to lose in her daughters. it cannot be supposed, that with this resolution the mother would reserve time for the care and culture of these little ones, who were given over to dora with but one hope--the forlorn one--that she would save them alive. this the old lady could not promise to do; for she understood that having the sentence of death in ourselves, we are not to trust human means and precautions, but only him who raiseth the dead. she, however, cheerfully undertook the precious charge committed to her trust; glad from her heart that the poor lambs had been saved from the slaughter, and praying most earnestly that they might be claimed by the great shepherd, and gathered to his fold. martha was a very quiet, thoughtful child, with speech and manner much beyond her years; she was not, therefore, strictly confined to the nursery, but allowed to mingle freely with her mother's guests. emma, on the contrary, was much younger, and full of wayward humors. she greatly needed a mother; but the sacred writer has declared, "she that liveth in pleasure is dead while she liveth." how many little hearts have proved the bitterness of that truth! god in mercy saved little emma from this sad experience, by raising up for her infancy and childhood such a friend as was the pious, faithful dora. "it is a promising bud," thought the good woman, "but it may wither even without the blight of fashion; so i will try to secure for it an immortal bloom." thus in the morning dora sowed her seed, the "good seed" for an immortal harvest; and soon the tender blade began to appear--a most ungainly thing in the eyes of her mother; for the first fruit of dora's good seed, as shown by little emma, was a great love of truth--a love which as yet she knew not how to regulate or apply. she was a beautiful child; and for a time her mother's vanity was gratified by having her brought from the nursery to her drawing-rooms, to be caressed, admired, and praised for her smart speeches; but after a time her truth-telling propensity became too evident. the polite occupants of the drawing-room began to whisper among themselves that miss emma was a spoiled child, and had better be kept in the nursery. mrs. lindsay was soon of the same opinion; for scarcely a day passed when emma's truthfulness did not prove a nettle to her own vanity. "the child is rude," she would say to dora,--"insufferably so. she told madame a. that she looked like an apple-tree; which might have been taken for a compliment, had not the saucy little sprite explained herself by pointing to that old tree in the garden which the flowering shrubbery has decked with every variety of blossom: mrs. a. is extremely fond of fancy colors. and when i took her to bowker's the other day, that sick miss ellenwood was examining his new french goods, and called my attention to a splendid piece of muslin, and asked if it was not of beautiful texture. 'dear miss ellen-wood,' interposed emma; 'you will not want a _figured_ muslin for a _coffin_ dress.' think of that, dora." "well, my dear madam," replied dora; "the child heard some of your friends say that this vain sick girl, who is spending all her slender income in dress, would want money soon to pay for a shroud." "certainly, dora, that has frequently been said; but the child should know better than give such a hint to the young lady herself! several ladies were in the store, and i felt extremely mortified and shocked." such complaints were frequent; and at last the good dora answered all, by begging the mother to have patience both with herself and with the child. "this truthfulness," said she, "is of excellent quality, but it is now rough from the quarry. by-and-by charity will make its rough places smooth; for love not only refines and purifies, but it _polishes_ the hewn stone after the similitude of a palace." mrs. lindsay did not understand these words, and derived but little comfort therefrom. she could not see how emma's bluntness was to be refined, save by putting her into fashion's crucible; and this she more than once resolved to do, at any risk. with this resolution, however, there always came a fearfulness, which seemed a warning voice from the tomb, bidding her "beware;" and to this voice of warning she took reluctant heed. pursuing a quiet course of study under private tutors, emma was still left morally and physically to the care of her pious friend. dora planted in hope, and now the precious shoot was caused to spring forth by him who giveth the increase. this precious shoot of moral strength, ungainly, and without form or comeliness to the world, she watered, tended, and watched, with earnest faith for the husbandman, whose pruning knife should convert it into a goodly tree. emma sometimes came to her friend with puzzling questions; among those most frequently asked were the following:-- "how mamma could be 'not at home,' when she was in her chamber?" "how she could be extremely glad to see people who, she said, were 'bores, and not to be endured?'" "why it was more impolite to tell people what was foolish in their appearance, than to laugh about this appearance in their absence?" it was difficult to answer these questions, without casting a shade over those whom dora wished the child to love and respect. sometimes she told the little girl that it would often hurt people's feelings and make them very miserable, to know just what others thought of them. and yet the child would reply: "you say that if we would listen to god's little voice in our hearts, it would tell us all that is wrong. why does he want to hurt folks' feelings? you had me read in the bible about the truth, how, if we come to love it, it would make us free; but mamma says it is often impolite to speak the truth." dora felt, as many under similar circumstances have felt, the earnest question pressing upon her heart: "who is sufficient for these things?" and with greater trembling was it asked, as emma grew in stature and increased in knowledge; for she saw that with the good seeds thorns had sprung up. emma began to pride herself upon independent thought and action, and to show symptoms of haughty disdain toward those who stooped to the deceit of fashionable etiquette. dora was often pained to hear her speak of things done and said, not for truth's sake, but because it _plagued_ others. it was evident that she was beginning to exult in the embarrassment which she often occasioned, but saw not the wicked self hiding beneath her garb of truth. dora tried hard to point out this inward foe, but, with the blindness of a natural heart, emma, having eyes, saw not; and the good woman knew well, that the child could not see, unless he that openeth the eyes of the blind should say unto her, "receive thy sight." she told her of that charity which hopeth, believeth, and endureth all things; which, giving no place to falsehood, still never behaveth itself unseemly. she warned emma of the heart's ishmaelite--that truth which, incased in the armor of human pride, ever turns its hand against its fellow: but emma did not fear this "strong man armed;" so she was led captive by him at his will. thus she was growing up like a beautiful flower thickly set with thorns. there were, however, some among her mother's fashionable friends who professed themselves charmed with her wit and originality. martha had passed the age at which her young sisters began to decline, and gave evidence of established health. she was now allowed to attend evening parties, and was found very tolerably, though not what the world calls "highly accomplished." there were those, however, who thought that martha's solid education, good judgment, good sense, and good taste, were accomplishments enough. mrs. lindsay could not help feeling very well satisfied with her discreet, amiable daughter, though she was not eligible to a place in the ball-room, having never learned to dance. but it was not until people began to call emma a comical little beauty, and beg her mother to fetch her to their select evening parties, that mrs. lindsay ceased to feel chagrined at the sacrifice made to affection. emma was not long in learning by what pretty names she was called; and with this knowledge came the strong desire to sustain a reputation for wit and beauty. dora saw the canker-worm at the root of that precious plant for whose perfection she had waited with long patience. emma sometimes came home and repeated her triumphs and comicalities to this faithful friend, but receiving no answering smile, but, on the contrary, a solemn word of reproof or warning, she would often burst into a flood of peevish tears, saying that dora was getting cross, and did not love her as formerly. in this the good woman saw signs less fearful than those of moral disease, but no less true; saw that this exposure and excitement were rapidly wearing away the frail foundations of health; and all that she feared was frankly expressed to the mother: but mrs. lindsay having once more allowed the film of vanity to blind the maternal eye, saw not the danger. the question, however, came to a speedy issue; for, attending a party one evening where the rooms were newly papered, and where, notwithstanding she felt chilly, her mother would not allow of her being wrapped in a shawl, emma took a violent cold, which was immediately followed by a cough, and many other symptoms of rapid decline. greatly alarmed, mrs. lindsay consulted her former physicians, and was again flattered with the hope that change of air, change of scene, and other changes, would speedily produce a change of health. emma knew the history of her family, and understood well why she was hurried from land to sea, and from thence to other places remote from her home. dora was not allowed to accompany her, because the physician said that her "long face" would be an incalculable injury; but that face, always beaming with the soul's deep interest and affection, was ever present to the sick girl. through many a night-watch of suffering and feverish anxiety, those loving, earnest eyes seemed looking into her own; and emma would say to her sister martha, "dear dora! how i long to see her! she loves me, and prays for me; it seems to me that with dora near i should not be afraid to die." thus emma talked; and the sensible, affectionate martha saw that change of air and change of scene could not benefit her young sister, while her mind was so fevered and tossed; she therefore entreated her mother to return home, and after a time succeeded in making her understand this to be the best course. "o my dear dora," said the poor weary child, as she found herself once more in her own room at home, with the good woman at her side, "i am so glad--_so_ glad to see you. and now i want you to stay with me, and talk as you used to when i was a little child. o, it makes me miserable to think how my heart wandered away from you, and from the saviour, dora; for i used to feel when a little girl that he loved me." "and he loves you still, dearest," replied the old lady, her heart swelling with gratitude to god. "he loves you, emma, and will receive you freely, dear, without one word of reproach, if you will only come back." "i think so," said emma, while the tears ran freely down her pale cheeks. "i did not spend those long dreadful nights, dora, without thinking of him; and though ashamed of myself, i ventured to ask him, over and over again, to pity my wretchedness, and love me still. one night--it was not long ago--he seemed to come to me, and say the very same things which you have just said,--that he would not cast me off; that he loved me, even then." what a moment of joy to the faithful christian, who had sowed in hope, but whose faith had been so severely tried. the tranquillity of mind which followed emma's return home, operated favorably upon her health, and in a few weeks she was able to mingle with the family as formerly. her mother did not propose her going abroad for company; but emma seemed to take pleasure in being one of their small parties at home. very different, however, was this pleasure from that which she had formerly sought and experienced. "what a change in emma lindsay!" was an exclamation frequent among her mother's friends. "her pertness, repartee, and saucy witticisms are all gone. what have they been doing for her? this winning softness and grace of manner seems foreign to her nature." "i never thought," said another, "that i should come to love emma lindsay; but i do, and cannot help it--she is so lovely, so polite, and yet so _sincere_." a mystery, indeed, to the worldly wise, how politeness and sincerity could be made to embrace each other. the solemn subjects of death and eternity were matters of frequent and free conversation between emma and her pious friend; and now, though there seemed some respite from the speedy execution of the sentence, "thou shalt die, and not live," neither thought of the matter in any other light than that of a _little_ time given for work important to be done. happy for emma that she took this view of the subject, since it saved her from that remissness too common among the followers of christ. "the lord seems to have need of me," emma would say to the good dora; while she would answer, "yes, dear, but be ready for him at his coming; be sure that you are able to say, 'i have _finished_ the work thou gavest me to do.'" notwithstanding these favorable indications, as it regarded the health of her daughter, mrs. lindsay was sometimes roused from her security by symptoms less favorable, and at last resolved to follow the advice of emma's physician, and take up a permanent residence in the country. hence their removal to appledale. chapter iv. the little time--how improved--fitness for refined society--morning reflections--ruth and boaz--charity and courtesy--the visit. the little time allotted emma seemed important, not only as it regarded her duty to others, but also in respect to herself. she desired a complete fitness for the refined society which she was about to enter. she wished, above all things, to become meet for an inheritance with the saints in light; and for this fitness she strove, using with diligence every means relative to this end which god had placed within her reach; and, as a valuable means, she availed herself of the spiritual perception and christian fidelity of good dora, who was always ready to aid her. "tell me," she would say, "all that you see or _fear_ that is wrong in me; help me to examine my motives, emotions, and affections:" and dora covenanted with emma to this effect,--a sacred covenant, and one that should be oftener made among those who would be made perfect. it was in accordance with this covenant that emma had spoken fully of her feelings and impressions respecting fanny brighton; and we have seen how faithfully this good woman kept her part of this covenant, by pointing out to emma the judgment of charity and the judgment of self. emma still sat by the open window, upon that fine morning, thinking and feeling, as she long had done, of the heart's great depth of deceitfulness, which no man could know, and no human power could reach, when she saw mr. graffam coming along the road. poor graffam, though in his sober senses, had been longer crossing the plain that morning than usual. far down in the depths of his beclouded soul there was a love of the beautiful, and that love on this morning had been stirred within him. his eyes had been open to see the glittering dewdrops upon the tall wild flowers and green herbage of the plain, to see the giant trees stretch their green arms toward the sky; and his ears had been open to hear a sweet concert upon their topmost branches. poor buried soul!--how it struggled for a resurrection; now leaping with joy at the thought of its own affinity for the pure and beautiful, and now sinking, sinking, sinking with the one blighting thought of human scorn richly merited. night after night had poor graffam reeled from side to side of that grass-tufted road, while the plain seemed to him an interminable lake of fire, amid whose scalding waves there rolled and tossed poor wretches like himself; and morning after morning he had returned by the same road, feeling as though a frost-breath had passed over the lake of fire, leaving it rough and leaden like a lava-deluged plain. but now, whence came the wonderful beauty of the widespread landscape? he knew in part, and brushed his old jacket sleeve across his swollen eyes. he feared that the vision was fated to pass away, "for my character is gone," said he; "nobody respects me; they call me 'old pete,' and i am doomed." but a new feeling now came over him. he was nearing snag-orchard. the old chimneys were seen among the tree-tops, and strange to himself, (for years had passed since he had cared for his personal appearance,) he found his right hand tucking up its brother's dirty wristband, and adroitly turning the torn part of his old hat-rim to the side opposite appledale. "good-morning, good-morning, mr. graffam," was the cheerful greeting coming to him from a chamber window. but lo! he has forgotten the torn rim, and now it is flapping most gracefully, as the hat descends from the head, and is waved toward the window. "stop, if you please," said emma; and she ran down the stairway, and along the garden-walk, toward the gate. "why, who is emma flying to see?" asked martha, as she saw her sister's white dress flitting past the window. one of the visitors looked toward the road, and, unable to speak for laughter, pointed out poor graffam, who, standing with his crazy hat in his hand, and his long shaggy hair falling in tangled masses over his neck and forehead, was now examining his great red hand, to see if it was clean enough to shake the delicate little hand cordially offered him. "how is your babe this morning?" asked emma. "better, thank you," replied graffam; and growing warm-hearted in her sunlight, he told her how the little thing had smiled, and crowed at him; or _began_ to tell, and then stopped short, fearing that he should forfeit her respect. "it is a dear child," said emma; "and perhaps, mr. graffam, it may please god to restore him to health, and he may grow up to bless the world." graffam started. the idea that a child of his should grow up to bless the world seemed too marvelous; "and yet," thought he, "i was not made for a curse." "i hope that he may live," said the poor man sincerely; and wondered how that hope came, for formerly the child's life had been a matter of utter indifference to him. "if it please god," added emma. "it has pleased god," said graffam, "to lay three of my children beneath the sod, and perhaps it were better if they were all there, for we are----" "are what, sir?" "poor and despised, miss." "god does not despise the poor," said emma. "when his son came to live among men, the poor of this world were his chosen friends and companions." "perhaps so," the poor man said, and turned his head mournfully away: "if poverty were all----" "he does not despise the _sinner_ either," said emma, softly; "so far from that, he delivered his only son unto death for their sake." graffam lifted his eyes from the ground, and looked seriously into her face. "there was a time, miss," said he, "when that was a precious thought to me. then to know that god was my friend, was enough, and i was happy; but that time is passed. i parted with his friendship to gain that of the world, and now i have lost, hopelessly lost all--all!" this was said in a tone of deep despair: so deep and sad, that it called tears of pity to emma's eyes, as she earnestly replied,-- "o do not say that _his_ friendship is hopelessly lost, mr. graffam; for you know, sir, that he does not hate what the world hates. he hates nothing but sin, and even from that his great mercy separates the sinner, and makes him an object of love. jesus, mr. graffam, is the _sinner's friend_." "yes, miss," replied the poor man; though emma saw that the faith of this great truth did not enter his heart. there was no room as yet for so pure a faith. the soul's great idol, whatever it be,--the "man of sin" sitting in the place of god,--must be dethroned before the holy will enter in. yet emma's words stirred still more those powers of the soul which graffam had felt that morning struggling franticly with their chains. there was a strange mixture of hope and despair in the expression of his countenance, as he turned away, bidding her a sad "good-morning." "o," thought emma, as she looked after him, "is there none to help? poor mr. graffam might become a good and useful man: his family might live out among people, and be happy. i pity them from my very heart;" and thinking over the matter, emma walked out into the road, wandering down the hill, across the bridge, beneath which the bright waters glided very soberly that morning. here she paused awhile, looking over the wooden railing at the reflection of her own thin figure and pale face. "o emma," she said, "what thou doest, do quickly; for there is neither work, knowledge, nor device in the grave, to which thou art hastening." slowly, and somewhat wearily, she ascended the opposite bank, and then away in his field, working busily, she saw friend sliver. she knew him by the broad-brimmed hat, which now and then bobbed up above the wall as the old man picked up the stones, and then resumed his hoe. intent upon his work, he hoed long with his eyes upon the ground: but at last he paused, and holding the hoe in one hand, drew a checkered handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the perspiration from his face; in doing this, he glanced toward the road, and saw emma leaning over the wall, apparently inspecting his work. "good-morning, mr. sliver," said emma. [illustration: emma and the quaker.] "ah, how does thee do?" replied the good man, with evident pleasure. "i was not looking for thee in the potato field." "i suppose not," replied emma, smiling. "i am like ruth, the moabitess, who went to glean in the fields of boaz: only she wanted grain, and i want counsel." friend sliver laid down his hoe, and coming up to the wall, asked, "what is it, child?" "you know mr. graffam, sir?" "thee means peter, who lives upon the plains?" "yes, sir." "o yes, i have known him some years; given to drink, emma." "i know it," replied emma; "but need he be lost, sir? he has a wife and four pretty children; can't he be saved?" "i see but one way," replied the old gentleman; "and that is to get him employment away from the mills. motley keeps spirit for his hands. i have tried to help peter by employing him myself, but he is very sullen when not in drink." "i will tell you the reason of that," said emma; "the poor man has naturally great self-esteem, and people irritate and crush him by showing him no respect." "people can't show what they have not," replied friend sliver, with a slight twinkle in his bright gray eye. "can thee respect a drunkard, emma?" "i can respect a _soul_, sir," replied emma, warmly,--"a soul made in the image of god, though it were sunk in the very depths of pollution and wretchedness; and so can the 'great and holy one,' mr. sliver, or he never would have sent his son to redeem the world." the sly twinkle vanished from the good quaker's eye, and he looked seriously, earnestly, into the face of that dear girl. "emma," said he, "what would thee do for peter and his family? can i aid thee in any way?" "you have done so already," said she, "by speaking of the temptations to which he is exposed. i think that i can persuade mother to employ him; and mr. sliver, as you are acquainted with the people here, you may do mr. graffam a good service, by persuading your neighbors to feel and to manifest some interest in himself and his family; ask them not to allow their children to call him 'old pete,' 'old toper,' &c., and twit him of riding a high horse." "i will," replied friend sliver, "and i will do anything else in my power to help thee." "thank you," said emma, smiling, and sliding from the fence; "i am greatly obliged to you; good-by, mr. sliver." "farewell!" replied the old man, as he once more watched her descending the hill, and thought of what sarah had said about her "ripening for glory." it was on the afternoon of that day that dora and emma set out for a visit to the plains. "i think," said the former, "that we had better ride around by 'snow-hill,' and inquire at mr. cotting's respecting this family." mr. cotting was the minister, and his wife was considered a very active woman, and such in truth she was. sewing circles, sunday-school exhibitions, donation parties, &c., had been quite unknown to that community until mrs. cotting came. it was said, too, that she had visited all the poor families around, and fitted out their children for sabbath school. "if," said dora, "we succeed in getting this poor family of the plains to mingle with their fellows, mrs. cotting's help will be needed; she is directress of the sewing circle, and from that can obtain clothing for the children." "dear dora," replied emma, "don't propose any such thing, either to mr. graffam or his wife, now. it won't do--not yet. we will call and see mrs. cotting, if you please. she may know this family, and may be able to tell us how to manage. here is the road which goes around by snow-hill: but stop a moment; there is willie graffam and his little sister, just coming from the plain. "how do you do, willie?" continued emma, as the children, each carrying a basket of berries, drew nearer. "very well, thank you," said willie, taking off his hat; and the little girl courtesied, without lifting her eyes from the ground. "we are going over to see your mother," said emma. "mother will be very glad to see _you_," replied the little boy; at the same time looking inquiringly at the horse's head which was turned toward snow-hill. dora smiled at the emphasis bestowed upon _you_, and asked willie "if his mother would not be glad to see her." "i guess so," was the reply; "but----" "but what, willie?" asked emma. the little fellow hung his head, and answered in a lower tone, "mother don't want to see the minister's wife, for she has been at our house once." "i am afraid," said dora, as they passed on, "that this family is one whom it will be difficult to benefit." "you will excuse me for keeping you in waiting so long," said mrs. cotting, as she entered the room where dora and emma had been seated for nearly an hour; "i understood the maid that it was mrs. lindsay herself, and i was in _dishabille_. my duties are so numerous and so pressing," continued mrs. cotting. "one might think that the cares of a family were sufficient for a wife and mother; but added to this, to have a whole parish upon one's hands." here she paused and sighed. "your situation," replied dora, "is indeed one of earnest duty and responsibility; but the abundant grace provided for our utmost need is found, i trust, sufficient for you." mrs. cotting bowed, and dora continued: "we will not take your time, madam, which must be fully occupied. we called to inquire respecting a family called graffam, living upon the plain." "i know them," said mrs. cotting, "as indeed i do every other poor family in town. these graffams are very strange people. i called there with mrs. jefferson motley, the wealthiest lady at the mills. graffam had a child at that time lying at the point of death. he was at home, and, what is a rare thing, was sober; but neither he nor his wife seemed at all grateful for this attention from myself and mrs. motley. we were at that time hunting up children for the sabbath school; and in our charitable work were not unwilling to visit the most degraded. we told graffam and his wife so; and told them, moreover, that we were desirous to rescue their children from ignorance and infamy. i had a bundle of clothes for the children, which i offered to mrs. graffam, on condition that she would keep them clean; never allowing them to be worn in their own dirty hut, but saved expressly for the sabbath school. then i talked to her faithfully of her own evil ways, (for i had heard that she picked berries upon the sabbath;) and what do you suppose the poor wretch did? why she turned from the dying bed of her child, and looked mrs. motley and myself in the face, as though we were common acquaintances. 'madam,' said she, 'your religion is not to my taste. i prefer our present ignorance, and even infamy, to what you have offered this morning. as for picking berries upon the sabbath, i must refer that to him of whom, i must confess, i know too little; but my parents taught me that god is just, and i believe that he will justly judge between the rich who pay their laborers in that which is neither money nor bread, and the mother who, for lack of bread, must break the sabbath.' think what an impudent thrust at mrs. motley!--her husband allows graffam to take up the most of his wages in rum, i suppose. it was evident that this mrs. graffam was no subject for charity--she was too ungrateful and too insolent; so we came away, bringing the things with us. the child died, and they would not have mr. cotting to attend the funeral. graffam went for old mr. sliver, who sat in silence with the family for about half an hour, and then was 'moved upon' to pray. the sexton said that graffam and his wife sobbed aloud; but i have never ventured there again." dora and emma now rose to depart, and in going away met mr. cotting at the door. emma felt herself indebted to her minister, and, with the cordiality of true christian friendship, returned his greeting. "we are going to visit the family upon the plain," said she, as mr. cotting unfastened their horse, and was about to turn him the other way. "are you?" inquired he, "that is what i have not done myself, as yet; mrs. cotting received so ungracious a reception, that it rather discouraged me; if you are upon a visit of charity i hope that you will be better received." "_charity_ ought to be kindly received everywhere," replied emma, "since she is long-suffering and kind herself, not easily provoked, and certainly not provoking, because she never behaves herself unseemly." "no," replied the minister, thoughtfully; "it is strange that true charity should be distasteful to any one." then offering his hand, as he bade them good-by, he said to emma, "i hope, my dear, that this charity abounds in you." "o no," she replied, "it does not _abound_--although, i trust, it has a home in my poor heart." emma found the door of poor graffam's hut open, and the mother sitting beside the cradle where lay the sick babe asleep. "walk in," said mrs. graffam, smiling as she advanced toward the door. dora was surprised at the ease of her manner, and the pleasant expression of her countenance, as she handed them chairs, and seemed really glad to see them. "the babe is better," said she, as emma advanced toward the cradle; and at that moment the little one awoke. the good motherly dora took the "wee bit" into her arms, and talked with mrs. graffam about the best course to be pursued with a feeble child like that, while emma unpacked the stores which they brought, among which were many things not intended for baby, but which she delicately classed with the rest, calling the whole "medicine." mrs. graffam was at first somewhat reserved; but as dora talked to her as a friend and sister, the frost of her spirit melted away, and she spoke of her mother now dead, of brothers and sisters, some dead and some far away: and as she grew thus communicative, and the tears of fond recollection trembled in her eyes, dora talked of him, the dear unfailing friend, who sticketh closer than a brother; who, in all the afflictions of his people, is afflicted, and the angel of whose presence is with them to comfort and to bless. then poor mrs. graffam wept much, saying that she needed just such a friend. and when they went away, she wrapped the babe in a shawl, and, taking it in her arms, went with them to the road where they had left their horse. "you will come and see me again, won't you?" she asked. and emma replied, "yes, mrs. graffam; _i_ will come as long as i am able, and when i am not, you must come and see me." "i will," was the warm reply; "i would walk miles to see you, if you were sick." chapter v. the old peddler--bitter words--the meek reply--the effect--acting a part--softer feelings--the death-scene--the day of small things--simple christian courtesy. "i know," said fanny brighton, "that there is not a word of truth in what you say. peddlers are always liars. this ring is nothing but brass, and would turn black with a week's wearing." "i bought it for gold," meekly replied the old man, as he placed his heavy box upon the ground, and wiped the large drops of sweat from his wrinkled face. "what else have you?" inquired alice, as she turned over a box of thimbles, and pulled out a large handkerchief. "what a splendid thing!" said alice; but at the same time she winked at fanny, and laughed. [illustration: the girls and the peddler.] "half cotton," said fanny; "and now pray tell me when you take time to split your skeins of silk." "i never do such a thing!" said the old man, with some spirit. "perhaps not," was the reply; "i suppose your profits are enough to hire it done; but here is a shawl,--what is the price of it?" "five dollars, miss; and a good bargain at that." "five dollars! o what a cheat!" and fanny laid the shawl, all unfolded, upon the grass, where scissors, needles, buttons, tape, pins, &c., lay strewed in wild confusion. once more the poor man wiped his forehead, and kept his patience. it is bad policy for the poor to lose their patience. "there comes mary palmer, and the missionary of appledale," said fanny. "mr. cotting will have to give up his office, or take miss lindsay as colleague." fanny knew that emma was near enough to hear these remarks, but she did not know for what intent the feeble girl had taxed her strength in walking so far to see her. the old peddler was now sadly putting his things back into his box; and fanny, looking at him a moment, felt the injustice of causing him so much trouble for nothing: so she said to him, "wait a moment--i will take some of your knickknacks, though they are not worth buying;" and she put into his hand a bill to pay for some articles which she hastily selected. the old man thanked her, and his hand trembled as he gave her the change. then he took up his heavy box, and emma handed him the straps which fastened it upon his shoulders. "is it very heavy?" she asked. "yes," was the reply, "it is; but i am used to heavy burdens." "well, the burden and heat of your life's day is almost over," said emma, as, assisted by mary, she drew the strap firmly into the buckle. "then, sir, if you are a christian, you will _rest_." "i know it," said the old man; "i know it, child:" and he looked at emma, as though she had given him something better than silver or gold. "call at the large house, among the apple-trees," said emma, "and tell the lady that her daughter sent you." all this time fanny stood as if counting her money, while the old peddler went along. "he has cheated himself in making change," said she; "i owe him a quarter more." "never mind," said alice; "you paid enough for the things, and that is clear gain." fanny paid no attention to alice, but ran after the old man, and gave him all his due. emma saw this; and the charity in her heart which "rejoiceth not in iniquity, but in the truth," exulted as one that findeth great spoil. she forgot the bitter remark which fanny had made respecting herself; forgot all, except the one joyful thing that fanny was not wholly selfish. "we walked over to see you for a little while," said mary, as fanny came back; and emma was far from feeling it a rudeness, though fanny did not say, "i am glad to see you." she, however, invited them into the house where her grandfather and grandmother lived--for fanny was an orphan. emma was very tired, and fanny brought a pillow, which she placed upon the old-fashioned lounge, and asked her if she would like to lie down. she saw that emma was pale, and this little act of kindness was prompted by a momentary feeling of pity: yet fanny was ashamed of this kindness, and afraid that mary and alice would think her anxious to show miss lindsay particular attention; so putting on her old "care-for-nobody airs," she said, "don't _you_ undertake to faint, mary palmer. we country girls are neither genteel nor sentimental enough for that." "and not feeble enough, i hope," replied emma. "you have much to be thankful for, and so have i; for if it please god to deprive us of health, he will not leave us comfortless--not if we trust in him." fanny was not naturally a hardhearted girl. her aged grandparents had done much toward making her what she was. left to them when she was but two years of age, fanny found herself left also to the full sway of every selfish passion and desire. the old people believed from their hearts that such another child never lived--so bright, so witty, so smart, and fearless. they talked and laughed over her sayings in her presence, and, in the blindness of their fond affection, saw not that the child was impudent, even to themselves; yet there was a fountain of purer water in that young heart, though self-love was rapidly drying it up. emma, however, had that day discovered a bright drop from that better fountain, and she believed that the wasted streams of affection might be unsealed, even in fanny's heart; and the rude girl herself wondered at the feelings which came over her, as emma replied so meekly to her unkind remark. "i did not know that you were out of health," said fanny; and both mary and alice were surprised at the tone of her voice and the expression of her countenance. she arose too, propped the pillow under emma's head, and begged to know if she could do anything for her. "nothing," said emma; "only love me: if you can do that, fanny, i shall feel better." fanny tried to laugh, though she felt more like crying. "i am not much like other people," said she; "and those who want to have anything to do with me, must take me as i am." "o yes," replied emma; "if the saviour does not refuse to take us just as we are, i am sure we ought to receive others in the same way, and love them too, even as he has loved us." very pleasantly did that summer afternoon pass away. emma, after she had rested awhile, thought of going home; but fanny entreated her to stay. she wanted to show her the bee-house, her grandfather's new beehive, the flower-garden, and many other things. mary dearly loved to be near emma; but this good little girl possessed the very best kind of courtesy, because it was the fruit of a pure loving heart--that kind of heart always forgetting its own wishes, in gratifying the wishes of another. mary was always happy, but it was a sweet reflex happiness. she loved emma, and dearly loved to hear her talk; but she did not claim the right of keeping close to her side. she sometimes lingered far behind, as fanny and emma walked arm-in-arm; but there was neither envy nor jealousy in this. she knew that fanny was ashamed of being kind and affectionate, and she thought it best that they should be left to themselves; so she kept with alice, and tried to do her good. that night, as the sun went down, fanny might have been seen standing at the door, where she had bid mary and emma good-night. alice was preparing to go, but fanny seemed quite forgetful of her. she was still looking far down the road, where mary and emma, with an arm around each other's waist, were walking slowly along. alice prided herself on being more genteel in her manners than was fanny brighton; but she had not mary palmer's self-forgetting courtesy. all the afternoon she had felt vexed, because she imagined that but little notice had been taken of herself; and now, as fanny stood so absent-minded, picking a rose to pieces, as her eyes wandered far away, alice hurriedly put on her bonnet, and said, in a tone of pique, "good-night, miss brighton; i suppose you would like now to cut acquaintance with me." "nonsense," said fanny. "wait a moment, i am going a little way with you;" and as they walked along, fanny tried to be herself again. "there comes graffam," said she: "now i hope that he is drunk; if so, we will make him tell about the times when he was major." but in this fanny was disappointed. soberly, but sadly, the poor man of the plain came along, and shrunk from the gaze of those merry girls. "o," said fanny, "uncle pete is not tipsy; so we shall not hear from the major to-night." poor graffam passed them quickly, for he heard this remark; and a deeper shade of gloom came over him. "what is the use of this dreadful struggle?" thought he. "what suffering this self-denial has cost me! and yet what is gained? nothing, but to know that i am ridiculed and despised." "it is the first time," said fanny to herself, as she parted with alice that night--"the first time that i have ever acted a part: but i would not have her suspect my feelings; and why do i feel so?" thus thought fanny, as she sat down upon a rock by the roadside, and could not keep back the tears which came from a heart never so sad before. and why so sad? fanny had been, for a few hours, in close converse with one who every day was becoming more and more meet for an inheritance with the saints in light. she had ridiculed and set at defiance the most common rules of politeness; but what was she to do with the self-forgetting, affectionate courtesy which she had seen, not forced nor constrained, but beaming forth so sweetly, so naturally, from those young disciples of christ? fanny felt that, however deceitful the world's polite intercourse might be, _this_ was holy:--and how can sin approach purity without fear and trembling? she felt this mysterious fear. the reckless girl, whose highest boast had always been that she feared nothing, now trembled, as in imagination she changed places with emma, and stood where she saw her standing,--upon the brink of the tomb. it was on this evening that emma was summoned to her mother's room. she found her mother sitting alone with martha. there was no light there save moonlight, and emma was glad, for she knew that her own countenance was deathly; and she had known that for weeks her mother had watched her narrowly. "emma, my dear," said mrs. lindsay, "you understand the reason of my coming to this place--that it was solely on your account." "yes, mamma," said emma. "i have invited some of the gayest of our young friends," continued mrs. lindsay, "to keep us company; and all this because i wanted you to make the most of being in the country. i have them here, my love, to talk, to ride, to run, and walk with you. this was the advice of your physician. he said that you would soon become healthy and happy, provided his directions were faithfully followed: but they are not; and how can we expect these favorable results? you neither ride nor walk with suitable company; not that i care much about your present associations. if they are conducive to health, that is sufficient: but i have reason to think, dear, that you spend a great part of your time alone--that you go into the woods, not with your gay young friends (as the doctor requires) to run and have a good frolic, but to sit down and read. is it not so?" "yes, mamma," said emma, "it is so. i cannot run now, and i get very tired in walking only a short distance; but it _rests_ me, dear mother, to read the bible." "but how can i have you go away alone to read your bible, and think sadly of--being so weak?" asked her mother. "not sadly," replied emma; "i do not think sadly, mother, for all the sadness is gone; and if i have not become healthy, i certainly have become happy, very happy, since we came to appledale. it is true that i see a great deal to be done now, and wish sometimes that those who have the prospect of years before them would undertake this work." "i am glad that you mentioned this," said mrs. lindsay; "you have imbibed some of dora's strange notions, my dear, about living for others. you may be assured, emma, that i have not sacrificed so much for any object save that of your health. i did not leave the society of the refined and intelligent for the sake of benefiting the rude and ignorant; and i would have you remember what _was_ my object. you have nothing to do with this community only with a view to your health. if such society amuses you, mingle with it freely, but waste no thoughts upon the people here. they have always taken care of themselves, and can do this still without any help from little emma lindsay." this the mother said playfully, as she kissed her cheek, and added: "i did not give you a fashionable education, my dear; but it was not because i intended you for a missionary." "my heavenly father may have intended this," replied emma; "and you would not oppose him, mother, for he has purchased me with a great price. we may be unwilling to make the smallest sacrifice for our fellow-creatures, yet god gave his only son a sacrifice for us." "how that child talks," said mrs. lindsay, bursting into tears as emma left the room. "and yet," replied martha, "if we cannot save her, mother, you would rather that she should be as she is." the mother made no reply, for she knew not what to say. emma's first summer and winter at appledale had passed away. it was a beautiful morning in may; martha lindsay was sitting beside a low couch where her young sister was sleeping so sweetly, so gently, that she had more than once placed her cheek close to those parted lips fearing that the breath was gone. dora was in her little room adjoining emma's, and with hands uplifted in prayer, was asking this one thing of the lord, that as in life so in death, emma might glorify him. mrs. lindsay was pacing the floor in her own chamber, now weeping as if her heart would break, and now striving in this hour of deep distress, to do as emma had long entreated her to do, namely, to come weary and heavy laden to him who in no wise will cast us out. mr. graffam was at work in the garden; but his eye, now clear and intelligent, often rested on the chamber windows where the curtains were folded so close and solemnly. susan sliver had watched with emma many a night, and now she had retired for a few moments while emma slept. susan no longer sighed for olivet and kedron, for in a christian's earnest daily work she had found places equally sacred. "i have come to hear thy dying testimony, emma," said friend sliver, as drawing his broad-brimmed hat more closely over his eyes, the old man took his seat beside the bed. emma smiled feebly. "are any more of my friends here?" she asked. "fanny brighton is in the keeping-room," said martha. "call her," whispered emma; and in a few moments fanny was kneeling beside the bed sobbing violently, while emma pressed her hand, but could not speak. but there was a bright triumphant smile upon her face as mary palmer came in; and mary smiled too through her tears. she had spent many a day with emma since that first summer at appledale; and now, though a little girl, and a young christian, she felt somewhat as did elisha when he awaited the horsemen and chariot which were coming for elijah. emma looked around the room and stretched her hand toward her mother, who had just entered with dora. mrs. lindsay took that cold hand into her own, and then emma repeated i cor. xiii, , "and now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity." emma's breath grew shorter, but she was able to add a verse which she had often read in dora's hymn book:-- "this is the grace must live and sing when faith and hope shall cease, and sound from every joyful string through all the realms of bliss." these were the last audible words uttered by emma. when another morning came it found her cold and silent, dressed for the grave. the spring blossoms breathed their sweet fragrance into her open window, but emma was gone--gone to the land of unfading bloom; yet her life, short and beautiful as the spring, had left in passing a more enduring fragrance than that of early blossom and flower. little by little does the husbandman cast the precious seed into the earth, and drop by drop comes the genial shower upon the green herb, yet who does not despise the day of small things? young, feeble christian, the world will never do thee justice, for in the great war of mighty deeds thy meek, noiseless charity is unheard and forgotten; but fear not, god keeps his own jewels. do what thou canst, and thus provide for thyself "a treasure in the heavens that faileth not." there are some things spoken of in the town where emma died, things not wholly forgotten, but far back in the distance of years. it is said that mr. graffam, who is now a church-member and a town officer, was once a complete sot, living in a log-hut upon the plain. so much for the temperance reform. it is said, too, that the pious, charitable old lady, mrs. lindsay, and her good daughter martha, now living at appledale, were once very thoughtless, fashionable people; that the gentle, amiable mrs. boyd was, when a girl and living with her grandparents, one of the rudest and most reckless creatures living; that susan and margaret sliver, now earnest, efficient co-operaters in every good cause, were once vain, frivolous, and almost hopelessly sentimental. many such things are said; but there are but few who trace the changes that have taken place in those characters to their proper cause. we think, however, that if these persons could express what their secret hearts feel, they would ascribe the changes they have experienced to the grace of god first influencing them through the medium of simple christian courtesy. [transcriber's note: the spelling inconsistencies of the original have been retained in this etext.] [illustration: sadie had a glimmering of some strange change as she eyed her sister curiously.--_page _.] ester ried by pansy author of "julia ried," "the king's daughter," "wise and otherwise," "ester ried yet speaking," "ester ried's namesake," etc. _illustrated by elizabeth withington_ boston lothrop, lee & shepard co. pansy trade-mark registered in u.s. patent office. norwood press: berwick & smith co., norwood, mass., u.s.a. contents. chapter i. ester's home chapter ii. what sadie thought chapter iii. florence vane chapter iv. the sunday lesson chapter v. the poor little fish chapter vi. something happens chapter vii. journeying chapter viii. journey's end chapter ix. cousin abbie chapter x. ester's minister chapter xi. the new boarder chapter xii. three people chapter xiii. the strange christian chapter xiv. the little card chapter xv. what is the difference? chapter xvi. a victory chapter xvii. stepping between chapter xviii. light out of darkness chapter xix. sundries chapter xx. at home chapter xxi. tested chapter xxii. "little plum pies" chapter xxiii. crosses chapter xxiv. god's way chapter xxv. sadie surrounded chapter xxvi. confusion--cross-bearing--consequence chapter xxvii. the time to sleep chapter xxviii. at last ester ried asleep and awake chapter i. ester's home. she did not look very much as if she were asleep, nor acted as though she expected to get a chance to be very soon. there was no end to the things which she had to do, for the kitchen was long and wide, and took many steps to set it in order, and it was drawing toward tea-time of a tuesday evening, and there were fifteen boarders who were, most of them, punctual to a minute. sadie, the next oldest sister, was still at the academy, as also were alfred and julia, while little minnie, the pet and darling, most certainly was _not_. she was around in the way, putting little fingers into every possible place where little fingers ought not to be. it was well for her that, no matter how warm, and vexed, and out of order ester might be, she never reached the point in which her voice could take other than a loving tone in speaking to minnie; for minnie, besides being a precious little blessing in herself, was the child of ester's oldest sister, whose home was far away in a western graveyard, and the little girl had been with them since her early babyhood, three years before. so ester hurried to and from the pantry, with quick, nervous movements, as the sun went toward the west, saying to maggie who was ironing with all possible speed: "maggie, do _hurry_, and get ready to help me, or i shall never have tea ready:" saying it in a sharp fretful tone. then: "no, no, birdie, don't touch!" in quite a different tone to minnie, who laid loving hands on a box of raisins. "i _am_ hurrying as fast as i _can_!" maggie made answer. "but such an ironing as i have every week can't be finished in a minute." "well, well! don't talk; that won't hurry matters any." sadie ried opened the door that led from the dining-room to the kitchen, and peeped in a thoughtless young head, covered with bright brown curls: "how are you, ester?" and she emerged fully into the great warm kitchen, looking like a bright flower picked from the garden, and put out of place. her pink gingham dress, and white, ruffled apron--yes, and the very school books which she swung by their strap, waking a smothered sigh in ester's heart. "o, my patience!" was her greeting. "are _you_ home? then school is out". "i guess it _is_," said sadie. "we've been down to the river since school." "sadie, won't you come and cut the beef and cake, and make the tea? i did not know it was so late, and i'm nearly tired to death." sadie looked sober. "i would in a minute, ester, only i've brought florence vane home with me, and i should not know what to do with her in the meantime. besides, mr. hammond said he would show me about my algebra if i'd go out on the piazza this minute." "well, _go_ then, and tell mr. hammond to wait for his tea until he gets it!" ester answered, crossly. "here, julia"--to the ten-year old newcomer--"go away from that raisin-box, this minute. go up stairs out of my way, and alfred too. sadie, take minnie with you; i can't have her here another instant. you can afford to do that much, perhaps." "o, ester, you're cross!" said sadie, in a good-humored tone, coming forward after the little girl. "come, birdie, auntie essie's cross, isn't she? come with aunt sadie. we'll go to the piazza and make mr. hammond tell us a story." and minnie--ester's darling, who never received other than loving words from her--went gleefully off, leaving another heartburn to the weary girl. they _stung_ her, those words: "auntie essie's cross, isn't she?" back and forth, from dining-room to pantry, from pantry to dining-room, went the quick feet at last she spoke: "maggie, leave the ironing and help me; it is time tea was ready." "i'm just ironing mr. holland's shirt," objected maggie. "well, i don't care if mr. holland _never_ has another shirt ironed. i want you to go to the spring for water and fill the table-pitchers, and do a dozen other things." the tall clock in the dining-room struck five, and the dining-bell pealed out its prompt summons through the house. the family gathered promptly and noisily--school-girls, half a dozen or more, mr. hammond, the principal of the academy, miss molten, the preceptress, mrs. brookley, the music-teacher, dr. van anden, the new physician, mr. and mrs. holland, and mr. arnett, mr. holland's clerk. there was a moment's hush while mr. hammond asked a blessing on the food; then the merry talk went on. for them all maggie poured cups of tea, and ester passed bread and butter, and beef and cheese, and sadie gave overflowing dishes of blackberries, and chattered like a magpie, which last she did everywhere and always. "this has been one of the scorching days," mr. holland said. "it was as much as i could do to keep cool in the store, and we generally are well off for a breeze there." "it has been more than _i_ could do to keep cool anywhere," mrs. holland answered. "i gave it up long ago in despair." ester's lip curled a little. mrs. holland had nothing in the world to do, from morning until night, but to keep herself cool. she wondered what the lady would have said to the glowing kitchen, where _she_ had passed most of the day. "miss ester looks as though the heat had been too much for her cheeks," mrs. brookley said, laughing. "what _have_ you been doing?" "something besides keeping cool," ester answered soberly. "which is a difficult thing to do, however," dr. van anden said, speaking soberly too. "i don't know, sir; if i had nothing to do but that, i think i could manage it." "i have found trouble sometimes in keeping myself at the right temperature even in january." ester's cheeks glowed yet more. she understood dr. van anden, and she knew her face did not look very self-controlled. no one knows what prompted minnie to speak just then. "aunt sadie said auntie essie was cross. were you, auntie essie?" the household laughed, and sadie came to the rescue. "why, minnie! you must not tell what aunt sadie says. it is just as sure to be nonsense as it is that you are a chatter-box." ester thought that they would _never_ all finish their supper and depart; but the latest comer strolled away at last, and she hurried to toast a slice of bread, make a fresh cup of tea, and send julia after mrs. ried. sadie hovered around the pale, sad-faced woman while she ate. "are you _truly_ better, mother? i've been worried half to pieces about you all day." "o, yes; i'm better. ester, you look dreadfully tired. have you much more to do?" "only to trim the lamps, and make three beds that i had not time for this morning, and get things ready for breakfast, and finish sadie's dress." "can't maggie do any of these things?" "maggie is ironing." mrs. ried sighed. "it is a good thing that i don't have the sick headache very often," she said sadly; "or you would soon wear yourself out. sadie, are you going to the lyceum tonight?" "yes, ma'am. your worthy daughter has the honor of being editress, you know, to-night. ester, can't you go down? never mind that dress; let it go to guinea." "you wouldn't think so by to-morrow evening," ester said, shortly. "no, i can't go." the work was all done at last, and ester betook herself to her room. how tired she was! every nerve seemed to quiver with weariness. it was a pleasant little room, this one which she entered, with its low windows looking out toward the river, and its cosy furniture all neatly arranged by sadie's tasteful fingers. ester seated herself by the open window, and looked down on the group who lingered on the piazza below--looked _down_ on them with her eyes and with her heart; yet envied while she looked, envied their free and easy life, without a care to harass them, so _she_ thought; envied sadie her daily attendance at the academy, a matter which she _so_ early in life had been obliged to have done with; envied mrs. holland the very ribbons and laces which fluttered in the evening air. it had grown cooler now, a strong breeze blew up from the river and freshened the air; and, as they sat below there enjoying it, the sound of their gay voices came up to her. "what do they know about heat, or care, or trouble?" she said scornfully, thinking over all the weight of _her_ eighteen years of life; she hated it, this life of hers, _just_ hated it--the sweeping, dusting, making beds, trimming lamps, _working_ from morning till night; no time for reading, or study, or pleasure. sadie had said she was cross, and sadie had told the truth; she _was_ cross most of the time, fretted with her every-day petty cares and fatigues. "o!" she said, over and over, "if something would _only_ happen; if i could have one day, just _one_ day, different from the others; but no, it's the same old thing--sweep and dust, and clear up, and eat and sleep. i _hate_ it all." yet, had ester nothing for which to be thankful that the group on the piazza had not? if she had but thought, she had a robe, and a crown, and a harp, and a place waiting for her, up before the throne of god; and all they had _not_. ester did not think of this; so much asleep was she, that she did not even know that none of those gay hearts down there below her had been given up to christ. not one of them; for the academy teachers and dr. van anden were not among them. o, ester was asleep! she went to church on the sabbath, and to preparatory lecture on a week day; she read a few verses in her bible, _frequently_, not every day; she knelt at her bedside every night, and said a few words of prayer--and this was all! she lay at night side by side with a young sister, who had no claim to a home in heaven, and never spoke to her of jesus. she worked daily side by side with a mother who, through many trials and discouragements, was living a christian life, and never talked with her of their future rest. she met daily, sometimes almost hourly, a large household, and never so much as thought of asking them if they, too, were going, some day, home to god. she helped her young brother and sister with their geography lessons, and never mentioned to them the heavenly country whither they themselves might journey. she took the darling of the family often in her arms, and told her stories of "bo peep," and the "babes in the wood," and "robin redbreast," and never one of jesus and his call for the tender lambs! this was ester, and this was ester's home. chapter ii. what sadie thought. sadie ried was the merriest, most thoughtless young creature of sixteen years that ever brightened and bothered a home. merry from morning until night, with scarcely ever a pause in her constant flow of fun; thoughtless, nearly always selfish too, as the constantly thoughtless always are. not sullenly and crossly selfish by any means, only so used to think of self, so taught to consider herself utterly useless as regarded home, and home cares and duties, that she opened her bright brown eyes in wonder whenever she was called upon for help. it was a very bright and very busy saturday morning. "sadie!" mrs. ried called, "can't you come and wash up these baking dishes? maggie is mopping, and ester has her hands full with the cake." "yes, ma'am," said sadie, appearing promptly from the dining-room, with minnie perched triumphantly on her shoulder. "here i am, at your service. where are they?" ester glanced up. "i'd go and put on my white dress first, if i were you," she said significantly. and sadie looked down on her pink gingham, ruffled apron, shining cuffs, and laughed. "o, i'll take off my cuffs, and put on this distressingly big apron of yours, which hangs behind the door; then i'll do." "that's my clean apron; i don't wash dishes in it." "o, bless your careful heart! i won't hurt it the least speck in the world. will i, birdie?" and she proceeded to wrap her tiny self in the long, wide apron. "not _that_ pan, child!" exclaimed her mother "that's a milk-pan." "o," said sadie, "i thought it was pretty shiny. my! what a great pan. don't you come near me, birdie, or you'll tumble in and drown yourself before i could fish you out with the dish-cloth. where is that article? ester, it needs a patch on it; there's a great hole in the middle, and it twists every way." "patch it, then," said ester, dryly. "well, now i'm ready, here goes. do you want _these_ washed?" and she seized upon a stack of tins which stood on ester's table. "_do_ let things alone!" said ester. "those are my baking-tins, ready for use; now you've got them wet, and i shall have to go all over them again." "how will you go, ester? on foot? they look pretty greasy; you'll slip." "i wish you would go up stairs. i'd rather wash dishes all the forenoon than have you in the way." "birdie," said sadie gravely, "you and i musn't go near auntie essie again. she's a 'bowwow,' and i'm afraid she'll bite." mrs. ried laughed. she had no idea how sharply ester had been tried with petty vexations all that morning, nor how bitter those words sounded to her. "come, sadie," she said; "what a silly child you are. can't you do _any thing_ soberly?" "i should think i might, ma'am, when i have such a sober and solemn employment on hand as dish-washing. does it require a great deal of gravity, mother? here, robin redbreast, keep your beak out of my dish-pan." minnie, in the mean time, had been seated on the table, directly in front of the dish-pan. mrs. ried looked around. "o sadie! what _possessed_ you to put her up there?" "to keep her out of mischief, mother. she's jack horner's little sister, and would have had every plum in your pie down her throat, by this time, if she could have got to them. see here, pussy, if you don't keep your feet still, i'll tie them fast to the pan with this long towel, when you'll have to go around all the days of your life with a dish-pan clattering after you." but minnie was bent on a frolic. this time the tiny feet kicked a little too hard; and the pan being drawn too near the edge, in order to be out of her reach, lost its balance--over it went. "o, my patience!" screamed sadie, as the water splashed over her, even down to the white stockings and daintily slippered feet. minnie lifted up her voice, and added to the general uproar. ester left the eggs she was beating, and picked up broken dishes. mrs. ried's voice arose above the din: "sadie, take minnie and go up stairs. you're too full of play to be in the kitchen." "mother, i'm _real_ sorry," said sadie, shaking herself out of the great wet apron, laughing even then at the plight she was in. "pet, don't cry. we didn't drown after all." "_well_! miss sadie," mr. hammond said, as he met them in the hall. "what have you been up to now?" "why, mr. hammond, there's been another deluge; this time of dish-water, and birdie and i are escaping for our lives." "if there is one class of people in this world more disagreeable than all the rest, it is people who call themselves christians." this remark mr. harry arnett made that same saturday evening, as he stood on the piazza waiting for mrs. holland's letters. and he made it to sadie ried. "why, harry!" she answered, in a shocked tone. "it's a _fact_, sadie. you just think a bit, and you'll see it is. they're no better nor pleasanter than other people, and all the while they think they're about right." "what has put you into that state of mind, harry?" "o, some things which happened at the store to-day suggested this matter to me. never mind that part. isn't it so?" "there's my mother," sadie said thoughtfully. "she is good." "not because she's a christian though; it's because she's your mother. you'd have to look till you were gray to find a better mother than i've got, and she isn't a christian either." "well, i'm sure mr. hammond is a good man." "not a whit better or pleasanter than mr. holland, as far as i can see. _i_ don't like him half so well. and holland don't pretend to be any better than the rest of us." "well," said sadie, gleefully, "_i_ dont know many good people. miss molton is a christian, but i guess she is no better than mrs. brookley, and _she_ isn't. there's ester; she's a member of the church." "and do you see as she gets on any better with her religion, than you do without it? for _my_ part, i think you are considerably pleasanter to deal with." sadie laughed. "we're no more alike than a bee and a butterfly, or any other useless little thing," she said, brightly. "but you're very much mistaken if you think i'm the best. mother would lie down in despair and die, and this house would come to naught at once, if it were not for ester." mr. arnett shrugged his shoulders. "i _always_ liked butterflies better than bees," he said. "bees _sting_." "harry," said sadie, speaking more gravely, "i'm afraid you're almost an infidel." "if i'm not, i can tell you one thing--it's not the fault of christians." mrs. holland tossed her letters down to him from the piazza above, and mr. arnett went away. florence vane came over from the cottage across the way--came with slow, feeble steps, and sat down in the door beside her friend. presently ester came out to them: "sadie, can't you go to the office for me? i forgot to send this letter with the rest." "yes," said sadie. "that is if you think you can go that little bit, florence." "i shall think for her," dr. van anden said, coming down the stairs. "florence out here to-night, with the dew falling, and not even any thing to protect your head. i am surprised!" "oh, doctor, do let me enjoy this soft air for a few minutes." "_positively_, no. either come in the house, or go home _directly_. you are very imprudent. miss ester, _i'll_ mail your letters for you." "what does dr. van anden want to act like a simpleton about florence vane for?" ester asked this question late in the evening, when the sisters were alone in their room. sadie paused in her merry chatter. "why, ester, what do you mean? about her being out to-night? why, you know, she ought to be very careful; and i'm afraid she isn't. the doctor told her father this morning he was afraid she would not live through the season, unless she was more careful." "fudge!" said ester. "he thinks he is a wise man; he wants to make her out very sick, so that he may have the honor of helping her. i don't see as she looks any worse than she did a year ago." sadie turned slowly around toward her sister. "ester, i don't know what is the matter with you to-night. you know that florence vane has the consumption, and you know that she is my _dear_ friend." ester did not know what was the matter with herself, save that this had been the hardest day, from first to last, that she had ever known, and she was rasped until there was no good feeling left in her heart to touch. little minnie had given her the last hardening touch of the day, by exclaiming, as she was being hugged and kissed with eager, passionate kisses: "oh, auntie essie! you've cried tears on my white apron, and put out all the starch." ester set her down hastily, and went away. certainly ester was cross and miserable. dr. van anden was one of her thorns. he crossed her path quite often, either with close, searching words about self-control, or grave silence. she disliked him. sadie, as from her pillow she watched her sister in the moonlight kneel down hastily, and knew that she was repeating a few words of prayer, thought of mr. arnett's words spoken that evening, and, with her heart throbbing still under the sharp tones concerning florence, sighed a little, and said within herself: "i should not wonder if harry were right." and ester was so much asleep, that she did not know, at least did not realize, that she had dishonored her master all that day. chapter iii. florence vane. of the same opinion concerning florence was ester, a few weeks later, when, one evening as she was hurrying past him, dr. van anden detained her: "i want to see you a moment, miss ester." during these weeks ester had been roused. sadie was sick; had been sick enough to awaken many anxious fears; sick enough for ester to discover what a desolate house theirs would have been, supposing her merry music had been hushed forever. she discovered, too, how very much she loved her bright young sister. she had been very kind and attentive; but the fever was gone now, and sadie was well enough to rove around the house again; and ester began to think that it couldn't be so very hard to have loving hands ministering to one's simplest want, to be cared for, and watched over, and petted every hour in the day. she was returning to her impatient, irritable life. she forgot how high the fever had been at night, and how the young head had ached; and only remembered how thoroughly tired she was, watching and ministering day and night. so, when she followed dr. van anden to the sitting-room, in answer to his "i want to see you, miss ester," it was a very sober, not altogether pleasant face which listened to his words. "florence vane is very sick to-night. some one should be with her besides the housekeeper. i thought of you. will you watch with her?" if any reasonable excuse could have been found, ester would surely have said "no," so foolish did this seem to her. why, only yesterday she had seen florence sitting beside the open window, looking very well; but then, she was sadie's friend, and it had been more than two weeks since sadie had needed watching with at night. so ester could not plead fatigue. "i suppose so," she answered, slowly, to the waiting doctor, hearing which, he wheeled and left her, turning back, though, to say: "do not mention this to sadie in her present state of body. i don't care to have her excited." "very careful you are of everybody," muttered ester, as he hastened away. "tell her what, i wonder? that you are making much ado about nothing, for the sake of showing your astonishing skill?" in precisely this state of mind she went, a few hours later, over to the cottage, into the quiet room where florence lay asleep--and, for aught she could see, sleeping as quietly as young, fresh life ever did. "what do you think of her?" whispered the old lady who acted as housekeeper, nurse and mother to the orphaned florence. "i think i haven't seen her look better this great while," ester answered, abruptly. "well, i can't say as she looks any worse to _me_ either; but dr. van anden is in a fidget, and i suppose he knows what he's about." the doctor came in at eleven o'clock, stood for a moment by the bedside, glanced at the old lady, who was dozing in her rocking-chair, then came over to ester and spoke low: "i can't trust the nurse. she has been broken of her rest, and is weary. i want _you_ to keep awake. if she" (nodding toward florence) "stirs, give her a spoonful from that tumbler on the stand. i shall be back at twelve. if she wakens, you may call her father, and send john for me; he's in the kitchen. i shall be around the corner at vinton's." then he went away, softly, as he had come. the lamp burned low over by the window, the nurse slept on in her arm-chair, and ester sat with wide-open eyes fixed on florence. and all this time she thought that the doctor was engaged in getting up a scene, the story of which should go forth next day in honor of his skill and faithfulness; yet, having come to watch, she would not sleep at her post, even though she believed in her heart that, were she sleeping by sadie's side, and the doctor quiet in his own room, all would go on well until the morning. but the doctor's evident anxiety had driven sleep from the eyes of the gray-haired old man whose one darling lay quiet on the bed. he came in very soon after the doctor had departed. "i can't sleep," he said, in explanation, to ester. "some way i feel worried. does she seem worse to you?" "not a bit," ester said, promptly. "i think she looks better than usual." "yes," mr. vane answered, in an encouraged tone; "and she has been quite bright all day; but the doctor is all down about her. he won't say a single cheering word." ester's indignation grew upon her. "he might, at least, have let this old man sleep in peace," she said, sharply, in her heart. at twelve, precisely, the doctor returned. he went directly to the bedside. "how has she been?" he asked of ester, in passing. "just as she is now." ester's voice was not only dry, but sarcastic. mr. vane scanned the doctor's face eagerly, but it was grave and sad. quiet reigned in the room. the two men at florence's side neither spoke nor stirred. ester kept her seat across from them, and grew every moment more sure that she was right, and more provoked. suddenly the silence was broken. dr. van anden bent low over the sleeper, and spoke in a gentle, anxious tone: "florence." but she neither stirred nor heeded. he spoke again: "florence;" and the blue eyes unclosed slowly and wearily. the doctor drew back quickly, and motioned her father forward. "speak to her, mr. vane." "florence, my darling," the old man said, with inexpressible love and tenderness sounding in his voice. his fair young daughter turned her eyes on him; but the words she spoke were not of him, or of aught around her. so clear and sweet they sounded, that ester, sitting quite across the room from her, heard them distinctly. "i saw mother, and i saw my savior." dr. van anden sank upon his knees, as the drooping lids closed again, and his voice was low and tremulous: "father, into thy hands we commit this spirit. thy will be done." in a moment more all was bustle and confusion. the nurse was thoroughly awakened; the doctor cared for the poor childless father with the tenderness of a son; then came back to send john for help, and to give directions concerning what was to be done. through it all ester sat motionless, petrified with solemn astonishment. then the angel of death had _really_ been there in that very room, and she had been "so wise in her own conceit," that she did not know it until he had departed with the freed spirit! florence really _was_ sick, then--dangerously sick. the doctor had not deceived them, had not magnified the trouble as she supposed; but it could not be that she was dead! dead! why, only a few minutes ago she was sleeping so quietly! well, she was very quiet now. could the heart have ceased its beating? sadie's florence dead! poor sadie! what would they say to her? how _could_ they tell her? sitting there, ester had some of the most solemn, self-reproachful thoughts that she had ever known. god's angel had been present in that room, and in what a spirit had he found this watcher? dr. van anden went quietly, promptly, from room to room, until every thing in the suddenly stricken household was as it should be; then he came to ester: "i will go over home with you now," he said, speaking low and kindly. he seemed to under stand just how shocked she felt. they went, in the night and darkness, across the street, saying nothing. as the doctor applied his key to the door, ester spoke in low, distressed tones: "doctor van anden, i did not think--i did not dream--." then she stopped. "i know," he said, kindly. "it was unexpected. _i_ thought she would linger until morning, perhaps through the day. indeed, i was so sure, that i ventured to keep my worst fears from mr. vane. i wanted him to rest to-night. i am sorry--it would have been better to have prepared him; but 'at even, or at midnight, or at the cock-crowing, or in the morning'--you see we know not which. i thank god that to florence it did not matter." those days which followed were days of great opportunity to ester, if she had but known how to use them. sadie's sad, softened heart, into which grief had entered, might have been turned by a few kind, skillful words, from thoughts of florence to florence's savior. ester _did_ try; she was kinder, more gentle with the young sister than was her wont to be; and once, when sadie was lingering fondly over memories of her friend, she said, in an awkward, blundering way, something about florence having been prepared to die, and hoping that sadie would follow her example. sadie looked surprised, but answered, gravely: "i never expect to be like florence. she was perfect, or, at least, i'm sure i could never see any thing about her that wasn't perfection. you know, ester, she never did any thing wrong." and ester, unused to it, and confused with her own attempt, kept silence, and let poor sadie rest upon the thought that it was florence's goodness which made her ready to die, instead of the blood of jesus. so the time passed; the grass grew green over florence's grave, and sadie missed her indeed. yet the serious thoughts grew daily fainter, and ester's golden opportunity for leading her to christ was lost. chapter iv. the sunday lesson. alfred and julia ried were in the sitting-room, studying their sabbath-school lessons. those two were generally to be found together; being twins, they had commenced _life_ together, and had thus far gone side by side. it was a quiet october sabbath afternoon. the twins had a great deal of business on hand during the week, and the sabbath-school lesson used to stand a fair chance of being forgotten; so mrs. ried had made a law that half an hour of every sabbath afternoon should be spent in studying the lesson for the coming sabbath. ester sat in the same room, by the window; she had been reading, but her book had fallen idly in her lap, and she seemed lost in thought sadie, too, was there, carrying on a whispered conversation with minnie, who was snugged close in her arms, and merry bursts of laughter came every few minutes from the little girl. the idea of sadie keeping quiet herself, or of keeping any body else quiet, was simply absurd. "but i say unto you that ye resist not evil, but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also," read julia, slowly and thoughtfully. "alfred, what do you suppose that can mean?" "don't know, i'm sure," alfred said. "the next one is just as queer: 'and if any man will sue thee at the law, and take away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also.' i'd like to see _me_ doing that. i'd fight for it, i reckon." "oh, alfred! you wouldn't, if the bible said you mustn't, would you?" "i don't suppose this means us at all," said alfred, using, unconsciously, the well-known argument of all who have tried to slip away from gospel teaching since adam's time. "i suppose it's talking to those wicked old fellows who lived before the flood, or some such time." "well, _any_how," said julia, "i should like to know what it all means. i wish mother would come home. i wonder how mrs. vincent is. do you suppose she will die, alfred?" "don't know--just hear this, julia! 'but i say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you.' wouldn't you like to see anybody who did all that?" "sadie," said julia, rising suddenly, and moving over to where the frolic was going on, "won't you tell us about our lesson? we don't understand a bit about it; and i can't learn any thing that i don't understand." "bless your heart, child! i suspect you know more about the bible this minute than i do. mother was too busy taking care of you two, when i was a little chicken, to teach me as she has you." "well, but what _can_ that mean--'if a man strikes you on one cheek, let him strike the other too?'" "yes," said alfred, chiming in, "and, 'if anybody takes your coat away, give him your cloak too.'" "i suppose it means just that," said sadie. "if anybody steals your mittens, as that bush girl did yours last winter, julia, you are to take your hood right off, and give it to her." "oh, sadie! you _don't_ ever mean that." "and then," continued sadie, gravely, "if that shouldn't satisfy her, you had better take off your shoes and stockings, and give her them." "sadie," said ester, "how _can_ you teach those children such nonsense?" "she isn't teaching _me_ any thing," interrupted alfred. "i guess i ain't such a dunce as to swallow all that stuff." "well," said sadie, meekly, "i'm sure i'm doing the best i can; and you are all finding fault. i've explained to the best of _my_ abilities julia, i'll tell you the truth;" and for a moment her laughing face grew sober. "i don't know the least thing about it--don't pretend to. why don't you ask ester? she can tell you more about the bible in a minute, i presume, than i could in a year." ester laid her book on the window. "julia, bring your bible here," she said, gravely. "now what is the matter? i never heard you make such a commotion over your lesson." "mother always explains it," said alfred, "and she hasn't got back from mrs. vincent's; and i don't believe anyone else in this house _can_ do it." "alfred," said ester, "don't be impertinent. julia, what is that you want to know?" "about the man being struck on one cheek, how he must let them strike the other too. what does it mean?" "it means just _that_, when girls are cross and ugly to you, you must be good and kind to them; and, when a boy knocks down another, he must forgive him, instead of getting angry and knocking back." "ho!" said alfred, contemptuously, "_i_ never saw the boy yet who would do it." "that only proves that boys are naughty, quarrelsome fellows, who don't obey what the bible teaches." "but, ester," interrupted julia, anxiously, "was that true what sadie said about me giving my shoes and stockings and my hood to folks who stole something from me?" "of course not. sadie shouldn't talk such nonsense to you. that is about men going to law. mother will explain it when she goes over the lesson with you." julia was only half satisfied. "what does that verse mean about doing good to them that--" "here, i'll read it," said alfred--"'but i say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you.'" "why, that is plain enough. it means just what it says. when people are ugly to you, and act as though they hated you, you must be very good and kind to them, and pray for them, and love them." "ester, does god really mean for us to love people who are ugly to us, and to be good to them?" "of course." "well, then, why don't we, if god says so? ester, why don't you?" "that's the point!" exclaimed sadie, in her most roguish tone. "i'm glad you've made the application, julia." now ester's heart had been softening under the influence of these peaceful bible words. she believed them; and in her heart was a real, earnest desire to teach her brother and sister bible truths. left alone, she would have explained that those who loved jesus _were_ struggling, in a weak feeble way, to obey these directions; that she herself was trying, trying _hard_ sometimes; that _they_ ought to. but there was this against ester--her whole life was so at variance with those plain, searching bible rules, that the youngest child could not but see it; and sadie's mischievous tones and evident relish of her embarrassment at julia's question, destroyed the self-searching thoughts. she answered, with severe dignity: "sadie, if i were you, i wouldn't try to make the children as irreverent as i was myself." then she went dignifiedly from the room. dr. van anden paused for a moment before sadie, as she sat alone in the sitting-room that same sabbath-evening. "sadie," said he, "is there one verse in the bible which you have never read?" "plenty of them, doctor. i commenced reading the bible through once; but i stopped at some chapter in numbers--the thirtieth, i think it is, isn't it? or somewhere along there where all those hard names are, you know. but why do you ask?" the doctor opened a large bible which lay on the stand before them, and read aloud: "ye have perverted the words of the living god." sadie looked puzzled. "now, doctor, what ever possessed you to think that i had never read that verse?" "god counts that a solemn thing, sadie." "very likely; what then?" "i was reading on the piazza when the children came to you for an explanation of their lesson." sadie laughed. "did you hear that conversation, doctor? i hope you were benefited." then, more gravely: "dr. van anden, do you really mean me to think that i was perverting scripture?" "_i_ certainly think so, sadie. were you not giving the children wrong ideas concerning the teachings of our savior?" sadie was quite sober now. "i told the truth at last, doctor. i don't know any thing about these matters. people who profess to be christians do not live according to our savior's teaching. at least _i_ don't see any who do; and it sometimes seems to me that those verses which the children were studying, _can not_ mean what they say, or christian people would surely _try_ to follow them." for an answer, dr. van anden turned the bible leaves again, and pointed with his finger to this verse, which sadie read: "but as he which has called you is holy, so be ye holy in all manner of conversation." after that he went out of the room. and sadie, reading the verse over again, could not but understand that she _might_ have a perfect pattern, if she would. chapter v. the poor little fish. "mother," said sadie, appearing in the dining-room one morning, holding julia by the hand, "did you ever hear of the fish who fell out of the frying-pan into the fire?" which question her mother answered by asking, without turning her eyes from the great batch of bread which she was molding: "what mischief are you up to now, sadie?" "why, nothing," said sadie; "only here is the very fish so renowned in ancient history, and i've brought her for your inspection." this answer brought mrs. ried's eyes around from the dough, and fixed them upon julia; and she said, as soon as she caught a glimpse of the forlorn little maiden: "o, my _patience_!" a specimen requiring great patience from any one coming in contact with her, was this same julia. the pretty blue dress and white apron were covered with great patches of mud; morocco boots and neat white stockings were in the same direful plight; and down her face the salt and muddy tears were running, for her handkerchief was also streaked with mud. "i should _think_ so!" laughed sadie, in answer to her mother's exclamation. "the history of the poor little fish, in brief, is this: she started, immaculate in white apron, white stockings, and the like, for the post-office, with ester's letter. she met with temptation in the shape of a little girl with paper dolls; and, while admiring them, the letter had the meanness to slip out of her hand into the mud! that, you understand, was the frying-pan. much horrified with this state of things, the two wise young heads were put together, and the brilliant idea conceived of giving the muddy letter a thorough washing in the creek! so to the creek they went; and, while they stood ankle deep in the mud, vigorously carrying their idea into effect, the vicious little thing hopped out of julia's hand, and sailed merrily away, down stream! so there she was, 'out of the frying-pan into the fire,' sure enough! and the letter has sailed for uncle ralph's by a different route than that which is usually taken." sadie's nonsense was interrupted at this point by ester, who had listened with darkening face to the rapidly told story: "she ought to be thoroughly _whipped_, the careless little goose! mother, if you don't punish her now, i never would again." then julia's tearful sorrow blazed into sudden anger: "i _oughtn't_ to be whipped; you're an ugly, mean sister to say so. i tumbled down and hurt my arm _dreadfully_, trying to catch your old _hateful_ letter; and you're just as mean as you can be!" between tears, and loud tones, and sadie's laughter, julia had managed to burst forth these angry sentences before her mother's voice reached her; when it did, she was silenced. "julia, i am _astonished_! is that the way to speak to your sister? go up to my room directly; and, when you have put on dry clothes, sit down there, and stay until you are ready to tell ester that you are sorry, and ask her to forgive you." "_really_, mother," sadie said, as the little girl went stamping up the stairs, her face buried in her muddy handkerchief, "i'm not sure but you have made a mistake, and ester is the one to be sent to her room until she can behave better. i don't pretend to be _good_ myself; but i must say it seems ridiculous to speak in the way she did to a sorry, frightened child. i never saw a more woeful figure in my life;" and sadie laughed again at the recollection. "yes," said ester, "you uphold her in all sorts of mischief and insolence; that is the reason she is so troublesome to manage." mrs. ried looked distressed. "don't, ester," she said; "don't speak in that loud, sharp tone. sadie, you should not encourage julia in speaking improperly to her sister. i think myself that ester was hard with her. the poor child did not mean any harm; but she must not be rude to anybody." "oh, yes," ester said, speaking bitterly, "of course _i_ am the one to blame; i always _am_. no one in this house ever does any thing wrong except _me_." mrs. ried sighed heavily, and sadie turned away and ran up stairs, humming: "oh, would i were a buttercup, a blossom in the meadow." and julia, in her mother's room, exchanged her wet and muddy garments for clean ones, and _cried_; washed her face in the clear, pure water until it was fresh and clean, and cried again, louder and harder; her heart was all bruised and bleeding. she had not meant to be careless. she had been carefully dressed that morning to spend the long, bright saturday with vesta griswold. she had intended to go swiftly and safely to the post-office with the small white treasure intrusted to her care; but those paper dolls were _so_ pretty, and of course there was no harm in walking along with addie, and looking at them. how could she know that the hateful letter was going to tumble out of her apron pocket? right there, too, the only place along the road where there was the least bit of mud to be seen! then she had honestly supposed that a little clean water from the creek, applied with her smooth white handkerchief, would take the stains right out of the envelope, and the sun would dry it, and it would go safely to uncle ralph's after all; but, instead of that, the hateful, _hateful_ thing slipped right out of her hand, and went floating down the stream; and at this point julia's sobs burst forth afresh. presently she took up her broken thread of thought, and went on: how very, _very_ ugly ester was; if _she_ hadn't been there, her mother would have listened kindly to her story of how very sorry she was, and how she meant to do just right. then she would have forgiven her, and she would have been freshly dressed in her clean blue dress instead of her pink one, and would have had her happy day after all; and now she would have to spend this bright day all alone; and, at this point, her tears rolled down in torrents. "jule," called a familiar voice, under her window, "where are you? come down and mend my sail for me, won't you?" julia went to the window and poured into alfred's sympathetic ears the story of her grief and her wrongs. "just exactly like her," was his comment on ester's share in the tragedy. "she grows crosser every day. i guess, if i were you, i'd let her wait a spell before i asked her forgiveness." "i guess i shall," sputtered julia. "she was meaner than any thing, and i'd tell her so this minute, if i saw her; that's all the sorry i am." so the talk went on; and when alfred was called to get ester a pail of water, and left julia in solitude, she found her heart very much strengthened in its purpose to tire everybody out in waiting for her apology. the long, warm, busy day moved on; and the overworked and wearied mother found time to toil up two flights of stairs in search of her young daughter, in the hope of soothing and helping her; but julia was in no mood to be helped. she hated to stay up there alone; she wanted to go down in the garden with alfred; she wanted to go to the arbor and read her new book; she wanted to take a walk down by the river; she wanted her dinner exceedingly; but to ask ester's forgiveness was the one thing that she did _not_ want to do. no, not if she staid there alone for a week; not if she _starved_, she said aloud, stamping her foot and growing indignant over the thought. alfred came as often as his saturday occupations would admit, and held emphatic talks with the little prisoner above, admiring her "pluck," and assuring her that he "wouldn't give in, not he." "you see i _can't_ do it," said julia, with a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes, "because it wouldn't be true. i'm _not_ sorry; and mother wouldn't have me tell a lie for anybody." so the sun went toward the west, and julia at the window watched the academy girls moving homeward from their afternoon ramble, listened to the preparations for tea which were being made among the dishes in the dining-room, and, having no more tears to shed, sighed wearily, and wished the miserable day were quite done and she was sound asleep. only a few moments before she had received a third visit from her mother; and, turning to her, fresh from a talk with alfred, she had answered her mother's question as to whether she were not now ready to ask ester's forgiveness, with quite as sober and determined a "no, ma'am," as she had given that day; and her mother had gravely and sadly answered, "i am very sorry, julia i can't come up here again; i am too tired for that. you may come to me, if you wish to see me any time before seven o'clock. after that you must go to your room." and with this julia had let her depart, only saying, as the door closed: "then i can be asleep before ester comes up. i'm glad of that. i wouldn't look at her again to-day for anything." and then julia was once more summoned to the window. "jule," alfred said, with less decision in his voice than there had been before, "mother looked awful tired when she came down stairs just now, and there was a tear rolling down her cheek." "there was?" said julia, in a shocked and troubled tone. "and i guess," alfred continued, "she's had a time of it to-day. ester is too cross even to look at; and they've been working pell-mell all day; and minnie tumbled over the ice-box and got hurt, and mother held her most an hour; and i guess she feels real bad about this. she told sadie she felt sorry for you." silence for a little while at the window above, and from the boy below: then he broke forth suddenly: "i say, jule, hadn't you better do it after all--not for ester, but there's mother, you know." "but, alfred," interrupted the truthful and puzzled julia, "what can i do about it? you know i'm to tell ester that i'm sorry; and that will not be true." this question also troubled alfred. it did not seem to occur to these two foolish young heads that she _ought_ to be sorry for her own angry words, no matter how much in the wrong another had been. so they stood with grave faces, and thought about it. alfred found a way out of the mist at last. "see here, aren't you sorry that you couldn't go to vesta's, and had to stay up there alone all day, and that it bothered mother?" "of course," said julia, "i'm real sorry about mother. alfred, did i, honestly, make her cry?" "yes, you did," alfred answered, earnestly. "i saw that tear as plain as day. now you see you can tell ester you're sorry, just as well as not; because, if you hadn't said any thing to her, mother could have made it all right; so of course you're sorry." "well," said julia, slowly, rather bewildered still, "that sounds as if it was right; and yet, somehow----. well, alfred, you wait for me, and i'll be down right away." so it happened that a very penitent little face stood at her mother's elbow a few moments after this; and julia's voice was very earnest: "mother, i'm so sorry i made you such a great deal of trouble to-day." and the patient mother turned and kissed the flushed cheek, and answered kindly: "mother will forgive you. have you seen ester, my daughter?" "no, ma'am," spoken more faintly; "but i'm going to find her right away." and ester answered the troubled little voice with a cold "actions speak louder than words. i hope you will show how sorry you are by behaving better in future. stand out of my way." "is it all done up?" alfred asked, a moment later, as she joined him on the piazza to take a last look at the beauty of this day which had opened so brightly for her. "yes," with a relieved sigh; "and, alfred, i never mean to be such a woman as ester is when i grow up. i wouldn't for the world. i mean to be nice, and good, and kind, like sister sadie." chapter vi. something happens. now the letter which had caused so much trouble in the ried family, and especially in ester's heart, was, in one sense, not an ordinary letter. it had been written to ester's cousin, abbie, her one intimate friend, uncle ralph's only daughter. these two, of the same age, had been correspondents almost from their babyhood; and yet they had never seen each other's faces. to go to new york, to her uncle's house, to see and be with cousin abbie, had been the one great dream of ester's heart--as likely to be realized, she could not help acknowledging, as a journey to the moon, and no more so. new york was at least five hundred miles away; and the money necessary to carry her there seemed like a small fortune to ester, to say nothing of the endless additions to her wardrobe which would have to be made before she would account herself ready. so she contented herself, or perhaps it would be more truthful to say she made herself discontented, with ceaseless dreams over what new york, and her uncle's family, and, above all, cousin abbie, were like; and whether she would ever see them; and why it had always happened that something was sure to prevent abbie's visits to herself; and whether she should like her as well, if she could be with her, as she did now; and a hundred other confused and disconnected thoughts about them all. ester had no idea what this miserable, restless dreaming of hers was doing for her. she did not see that her very desires after a better life, which were sometimes strong upon her, were colored with impatience and envy. cousin abbie was a christian, and wrote her some earnest letters; but to ester it seemed a very easy matter indeed for one who was surrounded, as she imagined abbie to be, by luxury and love, to be a joyous, eager christian. into this very letter that poor julia had sent sailing down the stream, some of her inmost feelings had been poured. "don't think me devoid of all aspirations after something higher," so the letter ran. "dear abbie, you, in your sunny home, can never imagine how wildly i long sometimes to be free from my surroundings, free from petty cares and trials, and vexations, which, i feel, are eating out my very life. oh, to be free for one hour, to feel myself at liberty, for just one day, to follow my own tastes and inclinations; to be the person i believe god designed me to be; to fill the niche i believe he designed me to fill! abbie, i _hate_ my life. i have not a happy moment. it is all rasped, and warped, and unlovely. i am nothing, and i know it; and i had rather, for my own comfort, be like the most of those who surround me--nothing, and not know it. sometimes i can not help asking myself why i was made as i am. why can't i be a clod, a plodder, and drag my way with stupid good nature through this miserable world, instead of chafing and bruising myself at every step." now it would be very natural to suppose that a young lady with a grain of sense left in her brains, would, in cooler moments, have been rather glad than otherwise, to have such a restless, unhappy, unchristianlike letter hopelessly lost. but ester felt, as has been seen, thoroughly angry that so much lofty sentiment, which she mistook for religion, was entirely lost yet let it not be supposed that one word of this rebellious outbreak was written simply for effect. ester, when she wrote that she "hated her life," was thoroughly and miserably in earnest. when, in the solitude of her own room, she paced her floor that evening, and murmured, despairingly: "oh, if something would _only_ happen to rest me for just a little while!" she was more thoroughly in earnest than any human being who feels that christ has died to save her, and that she has an eternal resting-place prepared for her, and waiting to receive her, has any right to feel on such a subject. yet, though the letter had never reached its destination, the pitying savior, looking down upon his poor, foolish lamb in tender love, made haste to prepare an answer to her wild, rebellious cry for help, even though she cried blindly, without a thought of the helper who is sufficient for all human needs. "long looked for, come at last!" and sadie's clear voice rang through the dining-room, and a moment after that young lady herself reached the pump-room, holding up for ester's view a dainty envelope, directed in a yet more dainty hand to miss ester ried. "here's that wonderful letter from cousin abbie which you have sent me to the post-office after three times a day for as many weeks. it reached here by the way of cape horn, i should say, by its appearance. it has been remailed twice." ester set her pail down hastily, seized the letter, and retired to the privacy of the pantry to devour it; and for once was oblivious to the fact that sadie lunched on bits of cake broken from the smooth, square loaf while she waited to hear the news. "anything special?" mrs. ried asked, pausing in the doorway, which question ester answered by turning a flushed and eager face toward them, as she passed the letter to sadie, with permission to read it aloud. surprised into silence by the unusual confidence, sadie read the dainty epistle without comment: "my dear ester: "i'm in a grand flurry, and shall therefore not stop for long stories to-day, but come at the pith of the matter immediately. we want you. that is nothing new, you are aware, as we have been wanting you for many a day. but there is new decision in my plans, and new inducements, this time. we not only want, but _must_ have you. please don't say 'no' to me this once. we are going to have a wedding in our house, and we need your presence, and wisdom, and taste. father says you can't be your mother's daughter if you haven't exquisite taste. i am very busy helping to get the bride in order, which is a work of time and patience; and i do so much need your aid; besides, the bride is your uncle ralph's only daughter, so of course you ought to be interested in her. "ester, _do_ come. father says the inclosed fifty dollars is a present from him, which you must honor by letting it pay your fare to new york just as soon as possible. the wedding is fixed for the twenty-second; and we want you here at least three weeks before that. brother ralph is to be first groomsman; and he especially needs your assistance, as the bride has named you for her first bridesmaid. i'm to dress--i mean the bride is to dress--in white, and mother has a dress prepared for the bridesmaid to match hers; so that matter need not delay or cause you anxiety. "this letter is getting too long. i meant it to be very brief and pointed. i designed every other word to be 'come;' but after all i do not believe you will need so much urging to be with us at this time. i flatter myself that you love me enough to come to me if you can. so, leaving ralph to write directions concerning route and trains, i will run and try on the bride's bonnet, which has just come home. "p.s. there is to be a groom as well as a bride, though i see i have said nothing concerning him. never mind, you shall see him when you come. dear ester, there isn't a word of tense in this letter, i know; but i haven't time to put any in." "really," laughed sadie, as she concluded the reading, "this is almost foolish enough to have been written by me. isn't it splendid, though? ester, i'm glad you are _you_. i wish i had corresponded with cousin abbie myself. a wedding of any kind is a delicious novelty; but a real new york wedding, and a bridesmaid besides--my! i've a mind to clap my hands for you, seeing you are too dignified to do it yourself." "oh," said ester, from whose face the flush had faded, leaving it actually pale with excitement and expected disappointment, "you don't suppose i am foolish enough to think i can go, do you?" "of course you will go, when uncle ralph has paid your fare, and more, too. fifty dollars will buy a good deal besides a ticket to new york. mother, don't you ever think of saying that she can't go; there is nothing to hinder her. she is to go, isn't she?" "why, i don't know," answered this perplexed mother. "i want her to, i am sure; yet i don't see how she can be spared. she will need a great many things besides a ticket, and fifty dollars do not go as far as you imagine; besides, ester, you know i depend on you so much." ester's lips parted to speak; and had the words come forth which were in her heart, they would have been sharp and bitter ones--about never expecting to go anywhere, never being able to do any thing but work; but sadie's eager voice was quicker than hers: "oh now, mother, it is no use to talk in that way. i've quite set my heart on ester's going. i never expect to have an invitation there myself, so i must take my honors secondhand. "mother, it is time you learned to depend on me a little. i'm two inches taller than ester, and i've no doubt i shall develop into a remarkable person when she is where we can't all lean upon her. school closes this very week, you know, and we have vacation until october. abbie couldn't have chosen a better time. whom do you suppose she is to marry? what a queer creature, not to tell us. say she can go, mother--quick!" sadie's last point was a good one in mrs. ried's opinion. perhaps the giddy sadie, at once her pride and her anxiety, might learn a little self-reliance by feeling a shadow of the weight of care which rested continually on ester. "you certainly need the change," she said, her eyes resting pityingly on the young, careworn face of her eldest daughter. "but how could we manage about your wardrobe? your black silk is nice, to be sure; but you would need one bright evening dress at least, and you know we haven't the money to spare." then sadie, thoughtless, selfish sadie, who was never supposed to have one care for others, and very little for herself--sadie, who vexed ester nearly every hour in the day, by what, at the time, always seemed some especially selfish, heedless act--suddenly shone out gloriously. she stood still, and actually seemed to think for a full minute, while ester jerked a pan of potatoes toward her, and commenced peeling vigorously; then she clapped her hands, and gave vent to little gleeful shouts before she exclaimed "oh, mother, mother! i have it exactly. i wonder we didn't think of it before. there's my blue silk--just the thing! i am tall, and she is short, so it will make her a beautiful train dress. won't that do splendidly!" the magnitude of this proposal awed even ester into silence. to be appreciated, it must be understood that sadie ried had never in her life possessed a silk dress. mrs. ried's best black silk had long ago been cut over for ester; so had her brown and white plaid; so there had been nothing of the sort to remodel for sadie; and this elegant sky-blue silk had been lying in its satin-paper covering for more than two years. it was the gift of a dear friend of mrs. ried's girlhood to the young beauty who bore her name, and had been waiting all this time for sadie to attain proper growth to admit of its being cut into for her. meantime she had feasted her eyes upon it, and gloried in the prospect of that wonderful day when she should sweep across the platform of music hall with this same silk falling in beautiful blue waves around her; for it had long been settled that it was to be worn first on that day when she should graduate. no wonder, then, that ester stood in mute astonishment, while mrs. ried commented: "why, sadie, my dear child, is it possible you are willing to give up your blue silk?" "not a bit of it, mother; i don't intend to give it up the least bit in the world. i'm merely going to lend it. it's too pretty to stay poked up in that drawer by itself any longer. i've set my heart on its coming out this very season just as likely as not it will learn to put on airs for me when i graduate. i'm not at all satisfied with my attainments in that line; so ester shall take it to new york; and if she sits down or stands up, or turns around, or has one minute's peace while she has it on, for fear lest she should spot it, or tear it, or get it stepped on, i'll never forgive her." and at this harangue ester laughed a free, glad laugh, such as was seldom heard from her. some way it began to seem as if she were really to go, sadie had such a brisk, business-like way of saying "ester shall take it to new york." oh, if she only, _only_ could go, she would be willing to do _any thing_ after that; but one peep, one little peep into the beautiful magic world that lay outside of that dining-room and kitchen she felt as if she must have. perhaps that laugh did as much for her as any thing. it almost startled mrs. ried with its sweetness and rarity. what if the change would freshen and brighten her, and bring her back to them with some of the sparkles that continually danced in sadie's eyes; but what, on the other hand, if she should grow utterly disgusted with the monotony of their very quiet, very busy life, and refuse to work in that most necessary treadmill any longer. so the mother argued and hesitated, and the decision which was to mean so much more than any of those knew, trembled in the balance; for let mrs. ried once find voice to say, "oh, ester, i don't see but what you will _have_ to give it up," and ester would have turned quickly and with curling lip, to that pan of potatoes, and have sharply forbidden any one to mention the subject to her again. once more sadie, dear, merry, silly sadie, came to the rescue. "mother, oh, mother! what an endless time you are in coming to a decision! i could plan an expedition to the north pole in less time than this. i'm just wild to have her go. i want to hear how a genuine new york bride looks; besides, you know, dear mother, i want to stay in the kitchen with you. ester does every thing, and i don't have any chance. i perfectly long to bake, and boil, and broil, and brew things. say yes, there's a darling." and mrs. ried looked at the bright, flushed face, and thought how little the dear child knew about all these matters, and how little patience poor ester, who was so competent herself, would have with sadie's ignorance, and said, slowly and hesitatingly, but yet actually said: "well, ester, my daughter, i really think we must try to get along without you for a little while!" and these three people really seemed to think that they had decided the matter. though two of them were at least theoretical believers in a "special providence," it never once occurred to them that this little thing, in all its details, had been settled for ages. chapter vii. journeying. "twenty minutes here for refreshments!" "passengers for new york take south track!" "new york daily papers here!" "sweet oranges here!" and amid all these yells of discordant tongues, and the screeching of engines, and the ringing of bells, and the intolerable din of a merciless gong, ester pushed and elbowed her way through the crowd, almost panting with her efforts to keep pace with her traveling companion, a nervous country merchant on his way to new york to buy goods. he hurried her through the crowd and the noise into the dining-saloon; stood by her side while, obedient to his orders, she poured down her throat a cup of almost boiling coffee; then, seating her in the ladies' room charged her on no account to stir from that point while he was gone--he had just time to run around to the post-office, and mail a forgotten letter; then he vanished, and in the confusion and the crowd ester was alone. she did not feel, in the least, flurried or nervous; on the contrary, she liked it, this first experience of hers in a city depot; she would not have had it made known to one of the groups of fashionably-attired and very-much-at-ease travelers who thronged past her for the world--but the truth was, ester had been having her very first ride in the cars! sadie had made various little trips in company with school friends to adjoining towns, after school books, or music, or to attend a concert, or for pure fun; but, though ester had spent her eighteen years of life in a town which had long been an "express station," yet want of time, or of money, or of inclination to take the bits of journeys which alone were within her reach, had kept her at home. now she glanced at herself, at her faultlessly neat and ladylike traveling suit. she could get a full view of it in an opposite mirror, and it was becoming, from the dainty vail which fluttered over her hat, to the shining tip of her walking boots; and she gave a complacent little sigh, as she said to herself: "i don't see but i look as much like a traveler as any of them. i'm sure i don't feel in the least confused. i'm glad i'm not as ridiculously dressed as that pert-looking girl in brown. i should call it in very bad taste to wear such a rich silk as that for traveling. she doesn't look as though she had a single idea beyond dress; probably that is what is occupying her thoughts at this very moment;" and ester's speaking face betrayed contempt and conscious superiority, as she watched the fluttering bit of silk and ribbons opposite. ester had a very mistaken opinion of herself in this respect; probably she would have been startled and indignant had any one told her that her supposed contempt for the rich and elegant attire displayed all around her, was really the outgrowth of envy; that, when she told herself _she_ wouldn't lavish so much time and thought, and, above all, _money_, on mere outside show, it was mere nonsense--that she already spent all the time at her disposal, and all the money she could possibly spare, on the very things which she was condemning. the truth was, ester had a perfectly royal taste in all these matters. give her but the wherewithal, and she would speedily have glistened in silk, and sparkled with jewels; yet she honestly thought that her bitter denunciation of fashion and folly in this form was outward evidence of a mind elevated far above such trivial subjects, and looked down, accordingly, with cool contempt on those whom she was pleased to denominate "butterflies of fashion." and, in her flights into a "higher sphere of thought," this absurdly inconsistent ester never once remembered how, just exactly a week ago that day, she had gone around like a storm king, in her own otherwise peaceful home, almost wearing out the long-suffering patience of her weary mother, rendered the house intolerable to sadie, and actually boxed julia's ears; and all because she saw with her own common-sense eyes that she really _could_ not have her blue silk, or rather sadie's blue silk, trimmed with netted fringe at twelve shillings a yard, but must do with simple folds and a seventy-five-cent heading! such a two weeks as the last had been in the ried family! the entire household had joined in the commotion produced by ester's projected visit. it was marvelous how much there was to do. mrs. ried toiled early and late, and made many quiet little sacrifices, in order that her daughter might not feel too keenly the difference between her own and her cousin's wardrobe. sadie emptied what she denominated her finery box, and donated every article in it, delivering comic little lectures to each bit of lace and ribbon, as she smoothed them and patted them, and told them they were going to new york. julia hemmed pocket handkerchiefs, and pricked her poor little fingers unmercifully and uncomplainingly. alfred ran of errands with remarkable promptness, but confessed to julia privately that it was because he was in such a hurry to have ester gone, so he could see how it would seem for everybody to be good natured. little minie got in everybody's way as much as such a tiny creature could, and finally brought the tears to ester's eyes, and set every one else into bursts of laughter, by bringing a very smooth little handkerchief about six inches square, and offering it as her contribution toward the traveler's outfit. as for ester, she was hurried and nervous, and almost unendurably cross, through the whole of it, wanting a hundred things which it was impossible for her to have, and scorning not a few little trifles that had been prepared for her by patient, toil-worn fingers. "ester, i _do_ hope new york, or cousin abbie, or somebody, will have a soothing and improving effect upon you," sadie had said, with a sort of good-humored impatience, only the night before her departure. "now that you have reached the summit of your hopes, you seem more uncomfortable about it than you were even to stay at home. do let us see you look pleasant for just five minutes, that we may have something good to remember you by." "my dear," mrs. ried had interposed, rebukingly, "ester is hurried and tired, remember, and has had a great many things to try her to-day. i don't think it is a good plan, just as a family are about to separate, to say any careless or foolish words that we don't mean. mother has a great many hard days of toil, which ester has given, to remember her by." oh, the patient, tender, forgiving mother! ester, being asleep to her own faults, never once thought of the sharp, fretful, half disgusted way in which much of her work had been performed, but only remembered, with a little sigh of satisfaction, the many loaves of cake, and the rows of pies, which she had baked that very morning in order to save her mother's steps. this was all she thought of now, but there came days when she was wide-awake. meantime the new york train, after panting and snorting several times to give notice that the twenty minutes were about up, suddenly puffed and rumbled its way out from the depot, and left ester obeying orders, that is, sitting in the corner where she had been placed by mr. newton--being still outwardly, but there was in her heart a perfect storm of vexation. "this comes of mother's absurd fussiness in insisting upon putting me in mr. newton's care, instead of letting me travel alone, as i wanted to," she fumed to herself. "now we shall not get into new york until after six o'clock! how provoking!" "how provoking this is!" mr. newton exclaimed, re-echoing her thoughts as he bustled in, red with haste and heat, and stood penitently before her. "i hadn't the least idea it would take so long to go to the post-office. i am very sorry!" "well," he continued, recovering his good humor, notwithstanding ester's provoking silence, "what can't be cured must be endured, miss ester; and it isn't as bad as it might be, either. we've only to wait an hour and a quarter. i've some errands to do, and i'll show you the city with pleasure; or would you prefer sitting here and looking around you?" "i should decidedly prefer not running the chance of missing the next train," ester answered very shortly. "so i think it will be wiser to stay where i am." in truth mr. newton endured the results of his own carelessness with too much complacency to suit ester's state of mind; but he took no notice of her broadly-given hint further than to assure her that she need give herself no uneasiness on that score; he should certainly be on time. then he went off, looking immensely relieved; for mr. newton frankly confessed to himself that he did not know how to take care of a lady. "if she were a parcel of goods now that one could get stored or checked, and knew that she would come on all right, why--but a lady. i'm not used to it. how easily i could have caught that train, if i hadn't been obliged to run back after her; but, bless me, i wouldn't have her know that for the world." this he said meditatively as he walked down south street. the new york train had carried away the greater portion of the throng at the depot, so that ester and the dozen or twenty people who occupied the great sitting-room with her, had comparative quiet. the wearer of the condemned brown silk and blue ribbons was still there, and awoke ester's vexation still further by seeming utterly unable to keep herself quiet; she fluttered from seat to seat, and from window to window, like an uneasy bird in a cage. presently she addressed ester in a bright little tone: "doesn't it bore you dreadfully to wait in a depot?" "yes," said ester, briefly and truthfully, notwithstanding the fact that she was having her first experience in that boredom. "are you going to new york?" "i hope so," she answered, with energy. "i expected to have been almost there by this time; but the gentleman who is supposed to be taking care of me, had to rush off and stay just long enough to miss the train." "how annoying!" answered the blue ribbons with a soft laugh. "i missed it, too, in such a silly way. i just ran around the corner to get some chocolate drops, and a little matter detained me a few moments; and when i came back, the train had gone. i was so sorry, for i'm in such a hurry to get home. do you live in new york?" ester shook her head, and thought within herself: "that is just as much sense as i should suppose you to have--risk the chance of missing a train for the sake of a paper of candy." of course ester could not be expected to know that the chocolate drops were for the wee sister at home, whose heart would be nearly broken if sister fanny came home, after an absence of twenty-four hours, without bringing her any thing; and the "little matter" which detained her a few moments, was joining the search after a twenty-five-cent bill which the ruthless wind had snatched from the hand of a barefooted, bareheaded, and almost forlorn little girl, who cried as violently as though her last hope in life had been blown away with it; nor how, failing in finding the treasure, the gold-clasped purse had been opened, and a crisp, new bill had been taken out to fill its place; neither am i at all certain as to whether it would have made any difference at all in ester's verdict, if she had known all the circumstances. the side door opened quietly just at this point and a middle-aged man came in, carrying in one hand a tool-box, and in the other a two-story tin pail. both girls watched him curiously as he set these down on the floor, and, taking tacks from his pocket and a hammer from his box, he proceeded to tack a piece of paper to the wall. ester, from where she sat, could see that the paper was small, and that something was printed on it in close, fine type. it didn't look in the least like a handbill, or indeed like a notice of any sort. her desire to know what it could be grew strong; two tiny tacks held it firmly in its place. then the man turned and eyed the inmates of the room, who were by this time giving undivided attention to him and his bit of paper presently he spoke, in a quiet, respectful tone: "i've tacked up a nice little tract. i thought maybe while you was waiting you might like something to read. if one of you would read it aloud, all the rest could hear it." so saying, the man stooped and took up his tool-box and his tin pail, and went away, leaving the influences connected with those two or three strokes of his hammer to work for him through all time, and meet him at the judgment. but if a bomb-shell had suddenly come down and laid itself in ruins it their feet, it could not have made a much more startled company than the tract-tacker left behind him. a tract!--actually tacked up on the wall, and waiting for some human voice to give it utterance! a tract in a railroad depot! how queer! how singular! how almost improper! why? oh, ester didn't know; it was so unusual. yes; but then that didn't make it improper. no; but--then, she--it--well, it was fanatical. oh yes, that was it. she knew it was improper in some way. it was strange that that very convenient word should have escaped her for a little. this talk ester held hurriedly with her conscience. it was asleep, you know; but just then it nestled as in a dream, and gave her a little prick; but that industrious, important word, "fanatical," lulled it back to its rest. meantime there hung the tract, and fluttered a little in the summer air, as the door opened and closed. was no one to give it voice? "i'd like dreadful well to hear it," an old lady said, nodding her gray head toward the little leaf on the wall; "but i've packed up my specs, and might just as well have no eyes at all, as far as readin' goes, when i haven't got my specs on. there's some young eyes round here though, one would think." she added, looking inquiringly around. "you won't need glasses, i should say now, for a spell of years!" this remark, or hint, or inquiry, was directed squarely at ester, and received no other answer than a shrug of the shoulder and an impatient tapping of her heels on the bare floor. under her breath ester muttered, "disagreeable old woman!" the brown silk rustled, and the blue ribbons fluttered restlessly for a minute; then their owner's clear voice suddenly broke the silence: "i'll read it for you, ma'am, if you really would like to hear it." the wrinkled, homely, happy old face broke into a beaming smile, as she turned toward the pink-cheeked, blue-eyed maiden. "that i would," she answered, heartily, "dreadful well. i ain't heard nothing good, 'pears to me, since i started; and i've come two hundred miles. it seems as if it might kind of lift me up, and rest me like, to hear something real good again." with the flush on her face a little hightened, the young girl promptly crossed to where the tract hung; and a strange stillness settled over the listeners as her clear voice sounded distinctly down the long room. this was what she read. solemn questions. "dear friend: are you a christian? what have you done to-day for christ? are the friends with whom you have been talking traveling toward the new jerusalem? did you compare notes with them as to how you were all prospering on the way? is that stranger by your side a fellow-pilgrim? did you ask him if he _would_ be? have you been careful to recommend the religion of jesus christ by your words, by your acts, by your looks, this day? if danger comes to you, have you this day asked christ to be your helper? if death comes to you this night, are you prepared to give up your account? what would your record of this last day be? a blank? what! have you done _nothing_ for the master? then what have you done against him? nothing? nay, verily! is not the bible doctrine, 'he that is not for me is against me?' "remember that every neglected opportunity, every idle word, every wrong thought of yours has been written down this day. you can not take back the thoughts or words; you can not recall the opportunity. this day, with all its mistakes, and blots, and mars, you can never live over again. it must go up to the judgment just as it is. have you begged the blood of jesus to be spread over it all? have you resolved that no other day shall witness a repeatal of the same mistakes? have you resolved in your own strength or in his?" during the reading of the tract, a young man had entered, paused a moment in surprise at the unwonted scene, then moved with very quiet tread across the room and took the vacant seat near ester. as the reader came back to her former seat, with the pink on her cheek deepened into warm crimson, the new comer greeted her with-- "good-evening, miss fannie. have you been finding work to do for the master?" "only a very little thing," she answered, with a voice in which there was a slight tremble. "i don't know about that, my dear." this was the old woman's voice. "i'm sure i thank you a great deal. they're kind of startling questions like; enough to most scare a body, unless you was trying pretty hard, now ain't they?" "very solemn questions, indeed," answered the gentleman to whom this question seemed to be addressed. "i wonder, if we were each obliged to write truthful answers to each one of them, how many we should be ashamed to have each other see?" "how many would be ashamed to have _him_ see?" the old woman spoke with an emphatic shake of her gray head, and a reverent touch of he pronoun. "that is the vital point," he said. "yet how much more ashamed we often seem to be of man's judgment than of god's." then he turned suddenly to ester, and spoke in a quiet, respectful tone: "is the stranger by my side a fellow-pilgrim?" ester was startled and confused. the whole scene had been a very strange one to her. she tried to think the blue-ribboned girl was dreadfully out of her sphere; but the questions following each other in such quick succession, were so very solemn, and personal, and searching--and now this one. she hesitated, and stammered, and flushed like a school-girl, as at last she faltered: "i--i think--i believe--i am." "then i trust you are wide-awake, and a faithful worker in the vineyard," he said, earnestly. "these are times when the master needs true and faithful workmen." "he's a minister," said ester, positively, to herself, when she had recovered from her confusion sufficiently to observe him closely, as he carefully folded the old woman's shawl for her, took her box and basket in his care, and courteously offered his hand to assist her into the cars for the new york train thundered in at last, and mr. newton presented himself; and they rushed and jostled each other out of the depot and into the train. and the little tract hung quietly in its corner; and the carpenter who had left it there, hammered, and sawed, and planed--yes, and prayed that god would use it, and knew not then, nor afterward, that it had already awakened thoughts that would tell for eternity. chapter viii. the journey's end. "yes, he's a minister," ester repeated, even more decidedly, as, being seated in the swift-moving train, directly behind the old lady and the young gentleman who had become the subject of her thoughts, she found leisure to observe him more closely. mr. newton was absorbed in the _tribune_; so she gave her undivided attention to the two, and could hear snatches of the conversation which passed between them, as well as note the courteous care with which he brought her a cup of water and attended to all her simple wants. during the stopping of the train at a station, their talk became distinct. "and i haven't seen my boy, don't you think, in ten years," the old lady was saying. "won't he be glad though, to see his mother once more? and he's got children--two of them; one is named after me, sabrina. it's an awful homely name, i think, don't you? but then, you see, it was grandma's." "and that makes all the difference in the world," her companion answered. "so the old home is broken up, and you are going to make a new one." "yes; and i'll show you every _thing_ i've got to remember my old garden by." with eager, trembling fingers, she untied the string which held down the cover of her basket, and, rummaging within, brought to light a withered bouquet of the very commonest and, perhaps, the very homeliest flowers that grew, if there _are_ any homely flowers. "there," she said, holding it tenderly, and speaking with quivering lip and trembling voice. "i picked 'em the very last thing i did, out in my own little garden patch by the backdoor. oh, times and times i've sat and weeded and dug around them, with him sitting on the stoop and reading out loud to me. i thought all about just how it was while i was picking these. i didn't stay no longer, and i didn't go back to the house after that. i couldn't; i just pulled my sun-bonnet over my eyes, and went across lots to where i was going to get my breakfast" ester felt very sorry for the poor homeless, friendless old woman--felt as though she would have been willing to do a good deal just then to make her comfortable; yet it must be confessed that that awkward bunch of faded flowers, arranged without the slightest regard to colors, looked rather ridiculous; and she felt surprised, and not a little puzzled, to see actual tears standing in the eyes of her companion as he handled the bouquet with gentle care. "well," he said, after a moment of quiet, "you are not leaving your best friend after all. does it comfort your heart very much to remember that, in all your partings and trials, you are never called upon to bid jesus good-by?" "what a way he has of bringing that subject into every conversation," commented ester, who was now sure that he was a minister. someway ester had fallen into a way of thinking that every one who spoke freely concerning these matters must be either a fanatic or a minister. "oh, that's about all the comfort i've got left." this answer came forth from a full heart, and eyes brimming with tears. "and i don't s'pose i need any other, if i've got jesus left i oughtn't to need any thing else; but sometimes i get impatient--it seems to me i've been here long enough, and it's time i got home." "how is it with the boy who is expecting you; has he this same friend?" the gray head was slowly and sorrowfully shaken. "oh, i'm afraid he don't know nothing about _him_." "ah! then you have work to do; you can't be spared to rest yet. i presume the master is waiting for you to lead that son to himself." "i mean to, i mean to, sir," she said earnestly, "but sometimes i think maybe my coffin could do it better than i; but god knows--and i'm trying to be patient." then the train whirred on again, and ester missed the rest; but one sentence thrilled her--"maybe my coffin could do it better than i." how earnestly she spoke, as if she were willing to die at once, if by that she could save her son. how earnest they both were, anyway--the wrinkled, homely, ignorant old woman and the cultivated, courtly gentleman. ester was ill at ease--conscience was arousing her to unwonted thought. these two were different from her she was a christian--at least she supposed so, hoped so; but she was not like them. there was a very decided difference. were they right, and was she all wrong? wasn't she a christian after all? and at this thought she actually shivered. she was not willing to give up her title, weak though it might be. "oh, well!" she decided, after a little, "she is an old woman, almost through with life. of course she looks at everything through a different aspect from what a young girl like me naturally would; and as for him, ministers always are different from other people, of course." foolish ester! did she suppose that ministers have a private bible of their own, with rules of life set down therein for them, quite different from those written for her! and as for the old woman, almost through with life, how near might ester be to the edge of her own life at that very moment! when the train stopped again the two were still talking. "i just hope my boy will look like you," the old lady said suddenly, fixing admiring eyes on the tall form that stood beside her, patiently waiting for the cup from which she was drinking the tea which he had procured for her. ester followed the glance of her eye, and laughed softly at the extreme improbability of her hope being realized, while he answered gravely: "i hope he will be a noble boy, and love his mother as she deserves; then it will matter very little who he looks like." while the cup was being returned there was a bit of toilet making going on; the gray hair was smoothed back under the plain cap, and the faded, twisted shawl rearranged and carefully pinned. meantime her thoughts seemed troubled, and she looked up anxiously into the face of her comforter as he again took his seat beside her. "i'm just thinking i'm such a homely old thing, and new york is such a grand place, i've heard them say. i _do_ hope he won't be ashamed of his mother." "no danger," was the hearty answer; "he'll think you are the most beautiful woman he has seen in ten years." there is no way to describe the happy look which shone in the faded blue eyes at this answer; and she laughed a softly, pleased laugh as she said: "maybe he'll be like the man i read about the other day. some mean, old scamp told him how homely his mother was; and he said, says he, 'yes, she's a homely woman, sure enough; but oh she's such a _beautiful_ mother!' what ever will i do when i get in new york," she added quickly, seized with a sudden anxiety. "just as like as not, now, he never got a bit of my letter, and won't be there to get me!" "do you know where your son lives?" "oh, yes, i've got it on a piece of paper, the street and the number; but bless your heart, i shouldn't know whether to go up, or down, or across." just the shadow of a smile flitted over her friend's face as the thought of the poor old lady, trying to make her way through the city came to him. then he hastened to reassure her. "then we are all right, whether he meets you or not; we can take a carriage and drive there. i will see you safe at home before i leave you." this crowning act of kindness brought the tears. "i don't know why you are so good to me," she said simply, "unless you are the friend i prayed for to help me through this journey. if you are, it's all right; god will see that you are paid for it." and before ester had done wondering over the singular quaintness of this last remark there was a sudden triumphant shriek from the engine, and a tremendous din, made up of a confusion of more sounds than she had ever heard in her life before; then all was hurry and bustle around her, and she suddenly awakened to the fact that as soon as they had crossed the ferry she would actually be in new york. even then she bethought herself to take a curious parting look at the oddly matched couple who were carefully making their way through the crowd, and wonder if she would ever see them again. the next hour was made up of bewilderment to ester. she had a confused remembrance afterward of floating across a silver river in a palace; of reaching a place where everybody screamed instead of talked, and where all the bells were ringing for fire, or something else. she looked eagerly about for her uncle, and saw at least fifty men who resembled him, as she saw him last, about ten years ago. she fumbled nervously for his address in her pocket-book, and gave mr. newton a recipe for making mince pies instead; finally she found herself tumbled in among cushions and driving right into carriages and carts and people, who all got themselves mysteriously out of the way; down streets that she thought must surely be the ones that the bells were ringing for, as they were all ablaze. it had been arranged that ester's escort should see her safely set down at her uncle's door, as she had been unable to state the precise time of her arrival; and besides, as she was an entire stranger to her uncle's family, they could not determine any convenient plan for meeting each other at the depot. so ester was whirled through the streets at a dizzying rate, and, with eyes and ears filled with bewildering sights and sounds, was finally deposited before a great building, aglow with gas and gleaming with marble. mr. newton rang the bell, and ester, making confused adieus to him, was meantime ushered into a hall looking not unlike judge warren's best parlor. a sense of awe, not unmixed with loneliness and almost terror, stole over her as the man who opened the door stood waiting, after a civil--"whom do you wish to see, and what name shall i send up?" "whom _did_ she wish to see, and what _was_ her name, anyway. could this be her uncle's house? did she want to see any of them?" she felt half afraid of them all. suddenly the dignity and grandeur seemed to melt into gentleness before her, as the tiniest of little women appeared and a bright, young voice broke into hearty welcome: "is this really my cousin ester? and so you have come! how perfectly splendid. where is mr. newton? gone? why, john, you ought to have smuggled him in to dinner. we are _so_ much obliged to him for taking care of _you_. john, send those trunks up to my room. you'll room with me, ester, won't you? mother thought i ought to put you in solitary state in a spare chamber, but i couldn't. you see i have been so many years waiting for you, that now i want you every bit of the time." all this while she was giving her loving little pats and kisses, on their way up stairs, whither she at once carried the traveler. such a perfect gem of a room as that was into which she was ushered. ester's love of beauty seemed likely to be fully gratified; she cast one eager glance around her, took in all the charming little details in a second of time, and then gave her undivided attention to this wonderful person before her who certainly was, in veritable flesh and blood, the much-dreamed over, much-longed for cousin abbie. a hundred times had ester painted her portrait--tall and dark and grand, with a perfectly regal form and queenly air, hair black as midnight, coiled in heavy masses around her head, eyes blacker if possible than her hair. as to dress, it was very difficult to determine; sometimes it was velvet and diamonds, or, if the season would not possibly admit of that, then a rich, dark silk, never, by any chance, a material lighter than silk. this had been her picture. now she could not suppress a laugh as she noted the contrast between it and the original. she was even two inches shorter than ester herself, with a manner much more like a fairy's than a queen's; instead of heavy coils of black hair, there were little rings of brown curls clustering around a fair, pale forehead, and continually peeping over into the bluest of eyes; then her dress was the softest and quietest of muslins, with a pale-blue tint. ester's softly laugh chimed merrily; she turned quickly. "now have you found something to laugh at in me already?" she said gleefully. "why," said ester, forgetting to be startled over the idea that she should laugh at cousin abbie, "i'm only laughing to think how totally different you are from your picture." "from my picture!" "yes, the one which i had drawn of you in my own mind. i thought you were tall, and had black hair, and dressed in silks, like a grand lady." abbie laughed again. "don't condemn me to silks in such weather as this, at least," she said gaily. "mother thinks i am barbarous to summon friends to the city in august; but the circumstances are such that it could not well be avoided. so put on your coolest dress, and be as comfortable as possible." this question of how she should appear on this first evening had been one of ester's puzzles; it would hardly do to don her blue silk at once, and she had almost decided to choose the black one; but abbie's laugh and shrug of the shoulder had settled the question of silks. so now she stood in confused indecision before her open trunk. abbie came to the rescue. "shall i help you?" she said, coming forward "i'll not ring for maggie to-night, but be waiting maid myself. suppose i hang up some of these dresses? and which shall i leave for you? this looks the coolest," and she held up to ester's view the pink and white muslin which did duty as an afternoon dress at home. "well," said ester, with a relieved smile, "i'll take that." and she thought within her heart: "they are not so grand after all." presently they went down to dinner, and in view of the splendor of the dining-room, and sparkle of gas and the glitter of silver, she changed her mind again and thought them very grand indeed. her uncle's greeting was very cordial; and though ester found it impossible to realize that her aunt helen was actually three years older than her own mother, or indeed that she was a middle-aged lady at all, so very bright and gay and altogether unsuitable did her attire appear; yet on the whole she enjoyed the first two hours of her visit very much, and surprised and delighted herself at the ease with which she slipped into the many new ways which she saw around her. only once did she find herself very much confused; to her great astonishment and dismay she was served with a glass of wine. now ester, among the stanch temperance friends with whom she had hitherto passed her life, had met with no such trial of her temperance principles, which she supposed were sound and strong; yet here she was at her uncle's table, sitting near her aunt, who was contentedly sipping from her glass. would it be proper, under the circumstances, to refuse? yet would it be proper to do violence to her sense of right? ester had no pledge to break, except the pledge with her own conscience; and it is most sadly true that that sort of pledge does not seem to be so very binding in the estimation of some people. so ester sat and toyed with hers, and came to the very unwarrantable conclusion that what her uncle offered for her entertainment it must be proper for her to take! do ester's good sense the justice of understanding that she didn't believe any such thing; that she knew it was her own conscience by which she was to be judged, not her uncle's; that such smooth-sounding arguments honestly meant that whatever her uncle offered for her entertainment she had not the moral courage to refuse. so she raised the dainty wine-glass to her lips, and never once bethought herself to look at abbie and notice how the color mounted and deepened on her face, nor how her glass remained untouched beside her plate. on the whole ester was glad when all the bewildering ceremony of the dinner was concluded, and she, on the strength of her being wearied with her journey, was permitted to retire with abbie to their room. chapter ix. cousin abbie. "now i have you all to myself," that young lady said, with a happy smile, as she turned the key on the retreating maggie and wheeled an ottoman to ester's side. "where shall we commence? i have so very much to say and hear; i want to know all about aunt laura, and sadie, and the twins. oh, ester, you have a little brother; aren't you so glad he is a _little_ boy?" "why, i don't know," ester said, hesitatingly; then more decidedly, "no; i am always thinking how glad i should be if he were a young man, old enough to go out with me, and be company for me." "i know that is pleasant; but there are very serious drawbacks. now, there's our ralph, it is very pleasant to have him for company; and yet--well, ester, he isn't a christian, and it seems all the time to me that he is walking on quicksands. i am in one continual tremble for him, and i wish so often that he was just a little boy, no older than your brother alfred; then i could learn his tastes, and indeed mold them in a measure by having him with me a great deal, and it does seem to me that i could make religion appear such a pleasant thing to him, that he couldn't help seeking jesus for himself. don't you enjoy teaching alfred?" poor, puzzled ester! with what a matter-of-course air her cousin asked this question. could she possibly tell her that she sometimes never gave alfred a thought from one week's end to another, and that she never in her life thought of teaching him a single thing. "i am not his teacher," she said at length "i have no time for any such thing; he goes to school, you know, and mother helps him." "well," said abbie, with a thoughtful air, "i don't quite mean teaching, either; at least not lessons and things of that sort, though i think i should enjoy having him depend on me in all his needs; but i was thinking more especially of winning him to jesus; it seems so much easier to do it while one is young. perhaps he is a christian now; is he?" ester merely shook her head in answer. she could not look in those earnest blue eyes and say that she had never, by word or act, asked him to come to jesus. "well, that is what i mean; you have so much more chance than i, it seems to me. oh, my heart is so heavy for ralph! i am all alone. ester, do you know that neither my mother nor my father are christians, and our home influence is--; well, is not what a young man needs. he is very--gay they call it. there are his friends here in the city, and his friends in college,--none of them the style of people that _i_ like him to be with,--and only poor little me to stem the tide of worldliness all around him. there is one thing in particular that troubles me--he is, or rather he is not--," and here poor abbie stopped, and a little silence followed. after a moment she spoke again: "oh, ester, you will learn what i mean without my telling you; it is something in which i greatly need your help. i depend upon you; i have looked forward to your coming, on his account as well as on my own. i know it will be better for him." ester longed to ask what the "something" was, and what was expected of her; but the pained look on abbie's face deterred her, and she contented herself by saying: "where is he now?" "in college; coming next week. i long, on his account, to have a home of my own. i believe i can show him a style of life which will appear better to him than the one he is leading now." this led to a long talk on the coming wedding. "mother is very much disturbed that it should occur in august," abbie said; "and of course it is not pleasant as it would be later; but the trouble is, mr. foster is obliged to go abroad in september." "who is mr. foster? can't you be married if he isn't here?" "not very well," abbie said, with a bright little laugh. "you see he is the one who has asked me to marry him." "why! is he?" and ester laughed at her former question; then, as a sudden thought occurred to her, she asked: "is he a minister?" "oh dear no, he is only a merchant." "is he a--a christian?" was her next query, and so utterly unused was she to conversation on this subject, that she actually stammered over the simple sentence. such a bright, earnest face as was turned toward her at this question! "ester," said abbie quickly, "i couldn't marry a man who was not a christian." "why," ester asked, startled a little at the energy of her tone, "do you think it is wrong?" "perhaps not for every one. i think one's own carefully enlightened conscience should prayerfully decide the question; but it would be wrong for me. i am too weak; it would hinder my own growth in grace. i feel that i need all the human helps i can get. yes, mr. foster is an earnest christian." "do you suppose," said ester, growing metaphysical, "that if mr. foster were not a christian you would marry him?" a little shiver quivered through abbie's frame as she answered: "i hope i should have strength to do what i thought right; and i believe i should." "yes, you think so now," persisted ester, "because there is no danger of any such trial; but i tell you i don't believe, if you were brought to the test, that you would do any such thing." abbie's tone in reply was very humble. "perhaps not--i might miserably fail; and yet, ester, _he_ has said, 'my grace is sufficient for thee.'" then, after a little silence, the bright look returned to her face as she added: "i am very glad that i am not to be tried in that furnace; and do you know, ester, i never believed in making myself a martyr to what might have been, or even what _may_ be in the future; 'sufficient unto the day' is my motto. if it should ever be my duty to burn at the stake, i believe i should go to my savior and plead for the 'sufficient grace;' but as long as i have no such known trial before me, i don't know why i should be asking for what i do not need, or grow unhappy over improbabilities, though i _do_ pray every day to be prepared for whatever the future has for me." then the talk drifted back again to the various details connected with the wedding, until suddenly abbie came to her feet with a spring. "why, ester!" she exclaimed penitently, "what a thoughtless wretch i am! here have i been chattering you fairly into midnight, without a thought of your tired body and brain. this session must adjourn immediately. shall you and i have prayers together to-night? will it seem homelike to you? can you play i am sadie for just a little while?" "i should like it," ester answered faintly. "shall i read, as you are so weary?" and, without waiting for a reply, she unclasped the lids of her little bible. "are you reading the bible by course? where do you like best to read, for devotional reading i mean?" "i don't know that i have any choice?" ester's voice was fainter still. "haven't you? i have my special verses that i turn to in my various needs. where are you and sadie reading?" "no where," said ester desperately. abbie's face expressed only innocent surprise "don't you read together? you are roommates, aren't you? now i always thought it would be so delightful to have a nice little time, like family worship, in one's own room." "sadie doesn't care anything about these things, she isn't a christian," ester said at length. "oh, dear! isn't she?" what a very sad and troubled tone it was in which abbie spoke. "then you know something of my anxiety; and yet it is different. she is younger than you, and you can have her so much under your influence. at least it seems different to me. how prone we are to consider our own anxieties peculiarly trying." ester never remembered giving a half hour's anxious thought to this which was supposed to be an anxiety with her in all her life; but she did not say so, and abbie continued: "who is your particular christian friend, then?" what an exceedingly trying and troublesome talk this was to ester! what _was_ she to say? clearly nothing but the truth. "abbie, i haven't a friend in the world." "you poor, dear child; then we are situated very much alike after all--though i have dear friends outside of my own family; but what a heavy responsibility you must feel in your large household, and you the only christian. do you shrink from responsibility of that kind, ester? does it seem, sometimes, as if it would almost rush you?" "oh, there are some christians in the family," ester answered, preferring to avoid the last part of the sentence; "but then--" "they are half way christians, perhaps. i understand how that is; it really seems sadder to me than even thoughtless neglect." be it recorded that ester's conscience pricked her. this supposition on abbie's part was not true. dr. van anden, for instance, always had seemed to her most horribly and fanatically in earnest. but in what rank should she place this young, and beautiful, and wealthy city lady? surely, she could not be a fanatic? ester was troubled. "well," said abbie, "suppose i read you some of my sweet verses. do you know i always feel a temptation to read in john? there is so much in that book about jesus, and john seemed to love him so." ester almost laughed. what an exceedingly queer idea--a _temptation_ to read in any part of the bible. what a strange girl her cousin was. now the reading began. "this is my verse when i am discouraged--'wait on the lord; be of good courage and he shall strengthen thine heart; wait, i say, on the lord.' isn't that reassuring. and then these two. oh, ester, these are wonderful! 'i have blotted out, as a thick cloud, thy transgressions, and, as a cloud, thy sins; return unto me; for i have redeemed thee.' 'sing, o ye heavens; for the lord hath done it; shout, ye lower parts of the earth; break forth in singing, ye mountains, o forest, and every tree therein; for the lord hath redeemed jacob, and glorified himself in israel.' and in that glorious old prophet's book is my jubilant verse--'and the ransomed of the lord shall return and come to zion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads; they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.'" "now, ester, you are very tired, aren't you? and i keep dipping into my treasure like a thoughtless, selfish girl as i am. you and i will have some precious readings out of this book, shall we not? now i'll read you my sweet good-night psalm. don't you think the psalms are wonderful, ester?" and without waiting for reply the low-toned, musical voice read on through that marvel of simplicity and grandeur, the st psalm: "i will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. my help cometh from the lord which made heaven and earth. he will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber. behold, he that keepeth israel shall neither slumber nor sleep. the lord is thy keeper, the lord is thy shade upon thy right hand. the sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. the lord shall preserve thee from all evil: he shall preserve thy soul. the lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in, from this time forth, and even for evermore." "ester, will you pray?" questioned her cousin, as the reading ceased, and she softly closed her tiny book. ester gave her head a nervous, hurried shake. "then shall i? or, dear ester, would you prefer to be alone?" "no," said ester; "i should like to hear you?" and so they knelt, and abbie's simple, earnest, tender prayer ester carried with her for many a day. after both heads were resting on their pillows, and quiet reigned in the room, ester's eyes were wide open. her cousin abbie had astonished her; she was totally unlike the cousin abbie of her dreams in every particular; in nothing more so than the strangely childlike matter-of-course way in which she talked about this matter of religion. ester had never in her life heard any one talk like that, except, perhaps, that minister who had spoken to her in the depot. his religion seemed not unlike abbie's. thinking of him, she suddenly addressed abbie again. "there was a minister in the depot to-day, and he spoke to me;" then the entire story of the man with his tract, and the girl with blue ribbons, and the old lady, and the young minister, and bits of the conversation, were gone over for abbie's benefit. and abbie listened, and commented, and enjoyed every word of it, until the little clock on the mantel spoke in silver tones, and said, one, two. then abbie grew penitent again. "positively, ester, i won't speak again: you will be sleepy all day to-morrow, and you needn't think i shall give you a chance even to wink. good-night." "good-night," repeated ester; but she still kept her eyes wide open. her journey, and her arrival, and abbie, and the newness and strangeness of everything around her, had banished all thought of sleep. so she went over in detail everything which had occurred that day but persistently her thoughts returned to the question which had so startled her, coming from the lips of a stranger, and to the singleness of heart which seemed to possess her cousin abbie. "_was_ she a fellow-pilgrim after all?" she queried. if so, what caused the difference between abbie and herself. it was but a few hours since she first beheld her cousin; and yet she distinctly _felt_ the difference between them in that matter. "we are as unlike," thought ester, turning restlessly on her pillow. "well, as unlike as two people can be." what _would_ abbie say could she know that it was actually months since ester had read as much connectedly in her bible as she had heard read that evening? yes, ester had gone backward, even as far as that! farther! what would abbie say to the fact that there were many, many prayerless days in her life? not very many, perhaps, in which she had not used a form of prayer; but their names were legion in which she had risen from her knees unhelped and unrefreshed; in which she knew that she had not _prayed_ a single one of the sentences which she had been repeating. and just at this point she was stunned with a sudden thought--a thought which too often escapes us all. she would not for the world, it seemed to her, have made known to abbie just how matters stood with her; and yet, and yet--christ knew it all. she lay very still, and breathed heavily. it came to her with all the thrill of an entirely new idea. then that unwearied and ever-watchful satan came to her aid. "oh, well," said he, "your cousin abbie's surroundings are very different from yours. give you all the time which she has at her disposal, and i dare say you would be quite as familiar with your bible as she is with hers. what does she know about the petty vexations and temptations, and bewildering, ever-pressing duties which every hour of every day beset your path? the circumstances are very different. her life is in the sunshine, yours in the shadow. besides, you do not know her; it is easy enough to talk; _very_ easy to read a chapter in the bible; but after all there are other things quite as important, and it is more than likely that your cousin is not quite perfect yet." ester did not know that this was the soothing lullaby of the old serpent. well for her if she had, and had answered it with that solemn, all-powerful "get thee behind me, satan." but she gave her own poor brain the benefit of every thought; and having thus lulled, and patted, and coaxed her half-roused and startled conscience into quiet rest again, she turned on her pillow and went to sleep. chapter x. ester's minister. ester was dreaming that the old lady on the cars had become a fairy, and that her voice sounded like a silver bell, when she suddenly opened her eyes, and found that it was either the voice of the marble clock on the mantel, or of her cousin abbie, who was bending over her. "do you feel able to get up to breakfast, ester dear, or had you rather lie and rest?" "breakfast!" echoed ester, in a sleepy bewilderment, raising herself on one elbow, and gazing at her cousin. "yes, breakfast!"--this with a merry laugh "did you suppose that people in new york lived without such inconveniences?" oh! to be sure, she was in new york, and ester repeated the laugh--it had sounded so queerly to hear any one talk to her about getting up to breakfast; it had not seemed possible that that meal could be prepared without her assistance. "yes, certainly, i'll get up at once. have i kept you waiting, abbie?" "oh no, not at all; generally we breakfast at nine, but mother gave orders last night to delay until half-past nine this morning." ester turned to the little clock in great amazement; it was actually ten minutes to nine! what an idea! she never remembered sleeping so late in her life before. why, at home the work in the dining-room and kitchen must all be done by this time, and sadie was probably making beds. poor sadie! what a time she would have! "she will learn a little about life while i am away," thought ester complacently, as she stood before the mirror, and pinned the dainty frill on her new pink cambric wrapper, which sadie's deft fingers had fashioned for her. ester had declined the assistance of maggie--feeling that though she knew perfectly well how to make her own toilet, she did _not_ know how to receive assistance in the matter. "now i will leave you for a little," abbie said, taking up her tiny bible. "ester, where is your bible? i suppose you have it with you?" ester looked annoyed. "i don't believe i have," she said hurriedly. "i packed in such haste, you see, and i don't remember putting it in at all." "oh, i am sorry--you will miss it so much! do you have a thousand little private marks in your bible that nobody else understands? i have a great habit of reading in that way. well, i'll bring you one from the library that you may mark just as much as you please." ester sat herself down, with a very complacent air, beside the open window, with the bible which had just been brought her, in her lap. clearly she had been left alone that she might have opportunity for private devotion, and she liked the idea very much; to be sure, she had not been in the habit of reading in the bible in the morning, but that, she told herself, was simply because she never had time hardly to breathe in the mornings at home; there she had beefsteak to cook, and breakfast rolls to attend to, she said disdainfully, as if beefsteak and breakfast rolls were the most contemptible articles in the world, entirely beneath the notice of a rational being; but now she was in a very different atmosphere; and at nine o'clock of a summer morning was attired in a very becoming pink wrapper, finished with the whitest of frills; and sat at her window, a young lady of elegant leisure, waiting for the breakfast-bell. of course she could read a chapter in the bible now, and should enjoy it quite as much as abbie did. she had never learned that happy little habit of having a much-used, much-worn, much-loved bible for her own personal and private use; full of pencil marks and sacred meanings, grown dear from association, and teeming with memories of precious communings. she had one, of course--a nice, proper-looking bible--and if it chanced to be convenient when she was ready to read, she used it; if not, she took sadie's, or picked up julia's from under the table, or the old one on a shelf in the corner, with one cover and part of revelation missing--it mattered not one whit to her which--for there were no pencil marks, and no leaves turned down, and no special verses to find. she thought the idea of marking certain verses an excellent one, and deciding to commence doing so at once, cast about her for a pencil. there was one on the round table, by the other window; but there were also many other things. abbie's watch lay ticking softly in its marble and velvet bed, and had to be examined and sighed over; and abbie's diamond pin in the jewel-case also demanded attention--then there were some blue and gold volumes to be peeped at, and longfellow received more than a peep; then, most witching of all, "say and seal," in two volumes--the very books sadie had borrowed once, and returned, before ester had a chance to discover how faith managed about the ring. longfellow and the bible slid on the table together, and "say and seal" was eagerly seized upon, just to be glanced over, and the glances continued until there pealed a bell through the house; and, with a start, and a confused sense of having neglected her opportunities, this christian young lady followed her cousin down stairs, to meet all the temptations and bewilderments of a new day, unstrengthened by communion with either her bible or her savior. that breakfast, in all its details, was a most bewitching affair. ester felt that she could never enjoy that meal again, at a table that was not small and round, and covered with damask nor drink coffee that had not first flowed gracefully down from a silver urn. as for aunt helen, she could have dispensed with her; she even caught herself drawing unfavorable comparisons between her and the patient, hardworking mother far away. "where is uncle ralph?" she asked suddenly, becoming conscious that there were only three, when last evening there were four. "gone down town some hours ago," abbie answered. "he is a business-man, you know, and can not keep such late hours." "but does he go without breakfast?" "no--takes it at seven, instead of nine, like our lazy selves." "he used to breakfast at a restaurant down town, like other business-men," further explained aunt helen, observing the bewildered look of this novice in city-life. "but it is one of abbie's recent whims that she can make him more comfortable at home, so they rehearse the interesting scene of breakfast by gas-light every morning." abbie's clear laugh rang out merrily at this. "my dear mother, don't, i beg of you, insult the sun in that manner! ester, fancy gas-light at seven o'clock on an august morning!" "do you get down stairs at seven o'clock?" was ester's only reply. "yes, at six, or, at most, half-past. you see, if i am to make father as comfortable at home as he would be at a restaurant, i must flutter around a little." "burns her cheeks and her fingers over the stove," continued aunt helen in a disgusted tone, "in order that her father may have burnt toast prepared by her hands." "you've blundered in one item, mother," was abbie's good-humored reply. "my toast is _never_ burnt, and only this morning father pronounced it perfect." "oh, she is developing!" answered mrs. ried, with a curious mixture of annoyance and amusement in look and tone. "if mr. foster fails in business soon, as i presume he will, judging from his present rate of proceeding, we shall find her advertising for the position of first-class cook in a small family." if abbie felt wounded or vexed over this thrust at mr. foster, it showed itself only by a slight deepening of the pink on her cheek, as she answered in the brightest of tones: "if i do, mother, and you engage me, i'll promise you that the eggs shall not be boiled as hard as these are." all this impressed two thoughts on ester's mind--one, that abbie, for some great reason unknown to, and unimagined by herself, actually of her own free will, arose early every morning, and busied herself over preparations for her father's breakfast; the other, that abbie's mother said some disagreeable things to her, in a disagreeable way--a way that would exceedingly provoke _her_, and that she _wouldn't endure_, she said to herself, with energy. these two thoughts so impressed themselves, that when she and abbie were alone again, they led her to ask two questions: "why do you get breakfast at home for your father, abbie? is it necessary?" "no; only i like it, and he likes it. you see, he has very little time to spend at home, and i like that little to be homelike; besides, ester, it is my one hour of opportunity with my father. i almost _never_ see him alone at any other time, and i am constantly praying that the spirit will make use of some little word or act of mine to lead him to the cross." there was no reply to be made to this, so ester turned to the other question: "what does your mother mean by her reference to mr. foster?" "she thinks some of his schemes of benevolence are on too large a scale to be prudent. but he is a very prudent man, and doesn't seem to think so at all." "doesn't it annoy you to have her speak in that manner about him?" the ever-ready color flushed into abbie's cheeks again, and, after a moment's hesitation, she answered gently: "i think it would, ester, if she were not my _own mother_, you know." another rebuke. ester felt vexed anyway. this new strange cousin of hers was going to prove painfully good. but her first day in new york, despite the strangeness of everything, was full of delight to her. they did not go out, as ester was supposed to be wearied from her journey, though, in reality, she never felt better; and she reveled all day in a sense of freedom--of doing exactly what she pleased, and indeed of doing nothing; this last was an experience so new and strange to her, that it seemed delightful. ester's round of home duties had been so constant and pressing, the rebound was extreme; it seemed to her that she could never bake any more pies and cakes in that great oven, and she actually shuddered over the thought that, if she were at home, she would probably be engaged in ironing, while maggie did the heavier work. she went to fanning most vigorously as this occurred to her, and sank back among the luxurious cushions of abbie's easy chair, as if exhausted; then she pitied herself most industriously, and envied abbie more than ever, and gave no thought at all to mother and sadie, who were working so much harder than usual, in order that she might sit here at ease. at last she decided to dismiss every one of these uncomfortable thoughts, to forget that she had ever spent an hour of her life in a miserable, hot kitchen, but to give herself entirely and unreservedly to the charmed life, which stretched out before her for three beautiful weeks. "three weeks is quite a little time, after all," she told herself hopefully. "three weeks ago i hadn't the least idea of being here; and who knows what may happen in the next three weeks? ah! sure enough, ester, who knows?" "when am i to see mr. foster?" she inquired of abbie as they came up together from the dining-room after lunch. "why, you will see him to-night, if you are not too tired to go out with me. i was going to ask about that." "i'm ready for anything; don't feel as if i ever experienced the meaning of that word," said ester briskly, rejoiced at the prospect of going anywhere. "well, then, i shall carry you off to our thursday evening prayer-meeting--it's just _our_ meeting, you see--we teachers in the mission--there are fifty of us, and we do have the most delightful times. it is like a family--rather a large family, perhaps you think--but it doesn't seem so when we come on sabbath, from the great congregation, and gather in our dear little chapel--we seem like a company of brothers and sisters, shutting ourselves in at home, to talk and pray together for a little, before we go out into the world again. is thursday your regular prayer-meeting evening, ester?" now it would have been very difficult for ester to tell when _her_ regular prayer-meeting evening was, as it was so long ago that she grew out of the habit of regularly attending, that now she scarcely ever gave it a thought. but she had sufficient conscience left to be ashamed of this state of things, and to understand that abbie referred to the church prayer-meeting, so she answered simply--"no; wednesday." "that is our church prayer-meeting night. i missed it last evening because i wanted to welcome you. and tuesday is our bible-class night." "do you give three evenings a week to religious meetings, abbie?" "yes," said abbie with softly glee; "isn't it splendid? i appreciate my privileges, i assure you; so many people _could not_ do it." "and so many people _would not_" ester thought. so they were not in to dinner with the family, but took theirs an hour earlier; and with david, whom abbie called her body-guard, for escort, made their way to abbie's dear little chapel, which proved to be a good-sized church, very prettily finished and furnished. that meeting, from first to last, was a succession of surprises to ester, commencing with the leader, and being announced to abbie in undertone: "your minister is the very man who spoke to me yesterday in the depot." abbie nodded and smiled her surprise at this information; and ester looked about her. presently another whisper: "why, abbie, there is the blue-ribboned girl i told you about, sitting in the third seat from the front." "that," said abbie, looking and whispering back, "is fanny ames; one of our teachers." presently ester set to work to select mr. foster from the rows of young men who were rapidly filling the front seats in the left aisle. "i believe that one in glasses and brown kids is he," she said to herself, regarding him curiously; and as if to reward her penetration he rose suddenly and came over, book in hand, to the seat directly in front of where they were sitting. "good evening, abbie," was his greeting. "we want to sing this hymn, and have not the tune. can you lead it without the notes?" "why, yes," answered abbie slowly, and with a little hesitation. "that is, if you will help me." "we'll all help," he said, smiling and returning to his seat. "yes, i'm sure that is he," commented ester. then the meeting commenced; it was a novel one. one person at least had never attended any just like it. instead of the chapter of proper length, which ester thought all ministers selected for public reading, this reader read just three verses, and he did not even rise from his seat to do it, nor use the pulpit bible, but read from a bit of a book which he took from his pocket. then the man in spectacles started a hymn, which ester judged was the one which had no notes attached from the prompt manner in which abbie took up the very first word. "now," said the leader briskly, "before we pray let us have requests." and almost before he had concluded the sentence a young man responded. "remember, especially, a boy in my class, who seems disposed to turn every serious word into ridicule." "what a queer subject for prayer," ester thought. "remember my little brother, who is thinking earnestly of those things," another gentleman said, speaking quickly, as if he realized that he must hasten or lose his chance. "pray for every one of my class. i want them all." and at this esther actually started, for the petition came from the lips of the blue-ribboned fanny in the corner. a lady actually taking part in a prayer-meeting when gentlemen were present! how very improper. she glanced around her nervously, but no one else seemed in the least surprised or disturbed; and indeed another young lady immediately followed her with a similar request. "now," said the leader, "let us pray." and that prayer was so strange in its sounding to ester. it did not commence by reminding god that he was the maker and ruler of the universe, or that he was omnipotent and omnipresent and eternal, or any of the solemn forms of prayer to which her ears were used, but simply: "oh, dear savior, receive these petitions which we bring. turn to thyself the heart of the lad who ridicules the efforts of his teacher; lead the little brother into the strait and narrow way; gather that entire class into thy heart of love"--and thus for each separate request a separate petition; and as the meeting progressed it grew more strange every moment to ester. each one seemed to have a word that he was eager to utter; and the prayers, while very brief, were so pointed as to be almost startling. they sang, too, a great deal, only a verse at a time, and whenever they seemed to feel like it. her amazement reached its hight when she felt a little rustle beside her, and turned in time to see the eager light in abbie's eyes as she said: "one of my class has decided for christ." "good news," responded the leader. "don't let us forget this item of thanksgiving when we pray." as for ester she was almost inclined not to believe her ears. had her cousin abbie actually "spoken in meeting?" she was about to sink into a reverie over this, but hadn't time, for at this point the leader arose. "i am sorry," said he, "to cut the thread that binds us, but the hour is gone. another week will soon pass, though, and, god willing, we shall take up the story--sing." and a soft, sweet chant stole through the room: "let my prayer be set forth before thee as incense; and the lifting of my hands as evening sacrifice." then the little company moved with a quiet cheerfulness toward the door. "have you enjoyed the evening?" abbie asked in an eager tone, as they passed down the aisle. "why, yes, i believe so; only it was rather queer." "queer, was it? how?" "oh, i'll tell you when we get home. your minister is exactly behind us, abbie, and i guess he wants to speak with you." there was a bright flush on abbie's face, and a little sparkle in her eye, as she turned and gave her hand to the minister, and then said in a demure and softly tone: "cousin ester, let me make you acquainted with my friend, mr. foster." chapter xi. the new boarder. "i don't know what to decide, really," mrs. ried said thoughtfully, standing, with an irresolute air, beside the pantry door. "sadie, hadn't i better make these pies?" "is that the momentous question which you can't decide, mother?" mrs. ried laughed. "not quite; it is about the new boarder. we have room enough for another certainly, and seven dollars a week is quite an item just now. if ester were at home, i shouldn't hesitate." "mother, if i weren't the meekest and most enduring of mortals, i should be hopelessly vexed by this time at the constancy with which your thoughts turn to ester; it is positively insulting, as if i were not doing remarkably. do you put anything else in apple-pies? i never mean to have one, by the way, in my house. i think they're horrid; crust--apples--nutmeg--little lumps of butter all over it. is there anything else, mother, before i put the top on?" "sometimes i sweeten mine a little," mrs. ried answered demurely. "oh, sure enough; it was that new boarder that took all thoughts of sweetness out of me. how much sugar, mother? do let him come. we are such a stupid family now, it is time we had a new element in it; besides, you know i broke the largest platter yesterday, and his seven dollars will help buy another. i wish he was anything but a doctor, though; one ingredient of that kind is enough in a family, especially of the stamp which we have at present." "sadie," said mrs. ried gravely and reprovingly; "i never knew a young man for whom i have a greater respect than i have for dr. van anden." "yes, ma'am," answered sadie, with equal gravity; "i have an immense respect for him i assure you, and so i have for the president, and i feel about as intimate with the one as the other. i hope dr. douglass will be delightfully wild and wicked. how will dr. van anden enjoy the idea of a rival?" "i spoke of it to him yesterday. i told him we would't give the matter another thought if it would be in any way unpleasant to him. i thought we owed him that consideration in return for all his kindness to us; but he assured me that it could make not the slightest difference to him." "do let him come, then. i believe i need another bed to make; i'm growing thin for want of exercise, and, by the way, that suggests an item in his favor; being a doctor, he will be out all night occasionally, perhaps, and the bed won't need making so often. mother, i do believe i didn't put a speck of soda in that cake i made this morning. what will that do to it? or, more properly speaking, what will it _not_ do, inasmuch as it is not there to _do_? as for ester, i shall consider it a personal insult if you refer to her again, when i am so magnificently filling her place." and this much enduring mother laughed and groaned at nearly the same time. poor ester never forgot the soda, nor indeed anything else, in her life; but then sadie was so overflowing with sparkle and good humor. finally the question was decided, and the new boarder came, and was duly installed in the family; and thence commenced a new era in sadie's life. merry clerks and schoolboys she counted among her acquaintances by the score. grave, dignified, slightly taciturn men of the dr. van anden stamp she numbered also among her friends; but never one quite like dr. douglass. this easy, graceful, courteous gentleman, who seemed always to have just the right thing to say or do, at just the right moment; who was neither wild nor sober; who seemed the furthest possible remove from wicked, yet who was never by any chance disagreeably good. his acquaintance with sadie progressed rapidly. a new element had come to mix in with her life. the golden days wherein the two sisters had been much together, wherein the christian sister might have planted much seed for the master in sadie's bright young heart, had all gone by. perchance that sleeping christian, nestled so cosily among the cushions in cousin abbie's morning-room, might have been startled and aroused, could she have realized that days like those would never come back to her; that being misspent they had passed away; that a new worker had come to drop seed into the unoccupied heart; that never again would sadie be as fresh, and as guileless, and as easily won, as in those days which she had let slip in idle, aye, worse than idle, slumber. sadie sealed and directed a letter to ester and ran with it down stairs. dr. douglass stood in the doorway, hat in hand. "shall i have the pleasure of being your carrier?" he said courteously. "do you suppose you are to be trusted?" sadie questioned, as she quietly deposited the letter in his hat. "that depends in a great measure on whether you repose trust in me. the world is safer in general than we are inclined to think it. who lives in that little birdsnest of a cottage just across the way?" "a dear old gentleman, mr. vane," sadie answered, her voice taking a tender tone, as it always did when any chance word reminded her of florence. "that is he standing in the gateway. doesn't he look like a grand old patriarch?" as they looked dr. van anden drove suddenly from around the corner, and reined in his horses in front of the opposite gateway. they could hear his words distinctly. "mr. vane, let me advise you to avoid this evening breeze; it is blowing up strongly from the river." "is dr. van anden the old gentleman's nurse, or guardian, or what?" questioned sadie's companion. "physician," was her brief reply. then, after a moment, she laughed mischievously. "you don't like dr. van anden, dr. douglass?" "i! oh, yes, i like him; the trouble is, he doesn't like me, for which he is not to blame, to be sure. probably he can not help it. i have in some way succeeded in gaining his ill-will. why do you think i am not one of his admirers?" "oh," answered this rude and lawless girl, "i thought it would be very natural for you to be slightly jealous of him, professionally, you know." if her object was to embarrass or annoy dr. douglass, apparently she did not gain her point. he laughed good humoredly as he replied: "professionally, he is certainly worthy of envy; i regard him as a very skillful physician, miss ried." ere sadie could reply the horses were stopped before the door, and dr. van anden addressed her: "sadie, do you want to take a ride?" now, although sadie had no special interest in, or friendship for, dr. van anden, she did exceedingly like his horses, and cultivated their acquaintance whenever she had an opportunity. so within five minutes after this invitation was received she was skimming over the road in a high state of glee. sadie marked that night afterward as the last one in which she rode after those black ponies for many a day. the doctor seemed more at leisure than usual, and in a much more talkative mood; so it was quite a merry ride, until he broke a moment's silence by an abrupt question: "sadie, haven't your mother and you always considered me a sincere friend to your family?" sadie's reply was prompt and to the point. "certainly, dr. van anden; i assure you i have as much respect for, and confidence in, you as i should have had for my grandfather, if i had ever known him." "that being the case," continued the doctor, gravely, "you will give me credit for sincerity and earnestness in what i am about to say. i want to give you a word of warning concerning dr. douglass. he is not a man whom _i_ can respect; not a man with whom i should like to see my sister on terms of friendship. i have known him well and long, sadie; therefore i speak." sadie ried was never fretful, never petulant, and very rarely angry; but when she was, it was a genuine case of unrestrained rage, and woe to the individual who fell a victim to her blazing eyes and sarcastic tongue. to-night dr. van anden was that victim. what right had he to arraign her before him, and say with whom she should, or should not, associate, as if he were indeed her very grandfather! what business had he to think that she was too friendly with dr. douglass! with the usual honesty belonging to very angry people, it had not once occurred to her that dr. van anden had said and done none of these things. when she felt that her voice was sufficiently steady, she spoke: "i am happy to be able to reassure you, dr. van anden, you are _very_ kind--extremely so; but as yet i really feel myself in no danger from dr. douglass' fascinations, however remarkable they may be. my mother and i enjoy excellent health at present, so you need have no anxiety as regards our choice of physicians, although it is but natural that you should feel nervous, perhaps; but you will pardon me for saying that i consider your interference with my affairs unwarrantable and uncalled for." if dr. van anden desired to reply to this insulting harangue, there was no opportunity, for at this moment they whirled around the corner and were at home. sadie flung aside her hat with an angry vehemence, and, seating herself at the piano, literally stormed the keys, while the doctor re-entered his carriage and quietly proceeded to his evening round of calls. what a whirlwind of rage there was in sadie's heart! what earthly right had this man whom she _detested_ to give _her_ advice? was she a child, to be commanded by any one? what right had any one to speak in that way of dr. douglass? he was a gentleman, _certainly_, much more of a one than dr. van anden had shown himself to be--and she liked him; yes, and she would like him, in spite of a whole legion of envious doctors. a light step crossed the hall and entered the parlor. sadie merely raised her eyes long enough to be certain that dr. douglass stood beside her, and continued her playing. he leaned over the piano and listened. "had you a pleasant ride?" he asked, as the tone of the music lulled a little. "charming." sadie's voice was full of emphasis and sarcasm. "i judged, by the style of music which you were playing, that there must have been a hurricane." "nothing of the sort; only a little paternal advice." "indeed! have you been taken into his kindly care? i congratulate you." sadie was still very angry, or she would never have been guilty of the shocking impropriety of her next remark. but it is a lamentable fact that people will say and do very strange things when they are angry--things of which they have occasion to repent in cooler moments. fixing her bright eyes full and searchingly on dr. douglass, she said abruptly: "he was warning me against the impropriety of associating with your dangerous self." a look as of sadness and deep pain crossed dr. douglass' face, and he thought aloud, rather than said: "is that man determined i shall have no friends?" sadie was touched; she struck soft, sweet chords with a slow and gentle movement as she asked: "what is your offense in his eyes, dr. douglass?" then, indeed, dr. douglass seemed embarrassed; maintaining, though, a sort of hesitating dignity as he attempted a reply. "why--i--he--i would rather not tell you, miss ried, it sounds badly." then, with a little, slightly mournful laugh--"and that half admission sounds badly, too; worse than the simple truth, perhaps. well, then, i had the misfortune to cross his path professionally, once; a little matter, a slight mistake, not worth repeating--neither would i repeat it if it were, in honor to him. he is a man of skill and since then has risen high; one would not suppose that he would give that little incident of the past a thought now; but he seems never to have forgiven me." the music stopped entirely, and sadie's great truthful eyes were fixed in horror on his face. "is it possible," she said at length, "that _that_ is all, and he can bear such determined ill-will toward you? and they call him an earnest christian!" at which remark dr. douglass laughed a low, quick laugh, as if he found it quite impossible to restrain his mirth, and then became instantly grave, and said: "i beg your pardon." "for what, dr. douglass; and why did you laugh?" "for laughing; and i laughed because i could not restrain a feeling of amusement at your innocently connecting his unpleasant state of mind with his professions of christianity." "should they not be connected?" "well, that depends upon how much importance you attach to them." "dr. douglass, what do you mean?" "treason, i suspect, viewed from your standpoint; and therefore it would be much more proper for me not to talk about it." "but i want you to talk about it. do you mean to say that you have no faith in any one's religion?" "how much have you?" "dr. douglass, that is a very yankee way of answering a question." "i know; but it is the easiest way of reaching my point; so i repeat: how much faith have you in these christian professions? or, in other words, how many professing christians do you know who are particularly improved in your estimation by their professions?" the old questioning of sadie's own heart brought before her again! oh, christian sister, with whom so many years of her life had been spent, with whom she had been so closely connected, if she could but have turned to you, and remembering your earnest life, your honest endeavors toward the right, your earnest struggles with sin and self; the evident marks of the lord jesus all about you; and, remembering this, have quelled the tempter in human form, who stood waiting for a verdict, with a determined--"i have known _one_"--what might not have been gained for your side that night? chapter xii. three people. as it was she hesitated, and thought--not of ester, _her_ life had not been such as to be counted for a moment--of her mother. well, mrs. ried's religion had been of a negative rather than of a positive sort, at least outwardly. she never spoke much of these matters, and sadie positively did not know whether she ever prayed or not. how was she to decide whether the gentle, patient life was the outgrowth of religion in her heart, or whether it was a natural sweetness of disposition and tenderness of feeling? then there was dr. van anden, an hour ago she would surely have said him, but now it was impossible; so as the silence, and the peculiar smile on dr. douglass' face, grew uncomfortable, she answered hurriedly: "i don't know many christian people, doctor." and then, more truthfully: "but i don't consider those with whom i am acquainted in any degree remarkable; yet at the same time i don't choose to set down the entire christian world as a company of miserable hypocrites." "not at all," the doctor answered quickly. "i assure you i have many friends among that class of people whom i respect and esteem; but since you have pressed me to continue this conversation i must frankly confess to you that my esteem is not based on the fact that they are called christians. i--but, miss ried, this is entirely unlike, and beneath me, to interfere with and shake your innocent, trusting faith. i would not do it for the world." sadie interrupted him with an impatient shake of her head. "don't talk nonsense, dr. douglass, if you can help it. i don't feel innocent at all, just now at least, and i have no particular faith to shake; if i had i hope you would not consider it such a flimsy material as to be shaken by any thing which you have said as yet. i certainly have heard no arguments. occasionally i think of these matters, and i have been surprised, and not a little puzzled, to note the strange inconsistency existing between the profession and practice of these people. if you have any explanation i should like to hear it; that is all." clearly this man must use at least the semblance of sense if he were going to continue the conversation. his answer was grave and guarded. "i have offered no arguments, nor do i mean to. i was apologizing for having touched upon this matter at all. i am unfortunate in my belief, or rather disbelief; but it is no part of my intention to press it upon others. i incline to the opinion that there are some very good, nice, pleasant people in the world, whom the accidents of birth and education have taught to believe that they are aided in this goodness and pleasantness by a more than human power, and this belief rather helps than otherwise to mature their naturally sweet, pure lives. my explanation of their seeming inconsistencies is, that they have never realized the full moral force of the rules which they profess to follow. i divide the world into two distinct classes--the so-called christian world, i mean. those whom i have just named constitute one class, and the other is composed of unmitigated hypocrites. now my friend, i have talked longer on this subject than i like, or than i ought. i beg you will forget all i have said, and give me some music to close the scene." sadie laughed, and ran her fingers lightly over the keys; but she asked: "in which class do you place your brother in the profession, doctor?" dr. douglass drew his shoulder into a very slight though expressive shrug, as he answered. "it is exceedingly proper, and also rather rare, for a physician to be eminent not only for skill but piety, and my brother practitioner is a wise and wary man, who--" and here he paused abruptly--"miss ried," he added after a moment, in an entirely changed tone: "which of us is at fault to-night, you or myself, that i seem bent on making uncharitable remarks? i really did not imagine myself so totally depraved. and to be serious, i am very sorry that this style of conversation was ever commenced. i did not intend it. i do not believe in interfering with the beliefs, or controverting the opinions of others." apparently sadie had recovered her good humor, for her laugh was as light and careless as usual when she made answer: "don't distress yourself unnecessarily, dr. douglass; you haven't done me the least harm. i assure you i don't believe a word you say, and i do you the honor of believing that you don't credit more than two-thirds of it yourself. now i'm going to play you the stormiest piece of music you ever heard in your life." and the keys rattled and rang under her touch, and drew half a dozen loungers from the halls to the parlor, and effectually ended the conversation. three people belonging to that household held each a conversation with their own thoughts that night, which to finite eyes would have aided the right wonderfully had it been said before the assembled three, instead of in the quiet and privacy of their own rooms. sadie had calmed down, and, as a natural consequence, was somewhat ashamed of herself; and as she rolled up and pinned, and otherwise snugged her curls into order for the night, scolded herself after this fashion: "sadie ried, you made a simpleton of yourself in that speech which you made to dr. van anden to-night; because you think a man interferes with what doesn't concern him, is no reason why you should grow flushed and angry, and forget that you're a lady. you said some very rude and insulting words, and you know your poor dear mother would tell you so if she knew any thing about it, which she won't; that's one comfort; and besides you have probably offended those delightful black ponies, and it will be forever before they will take you another ride, and that's worse than all the rest. but who would think of dr. van anden being such a man? i wish dr. douglass had gone to europe before he told me--it was rather pleasant to believe in the extreme goodness of somebody. i wonder how much of that nonsense which dr. douglass talks he believes, any way? perhaps he is half right; only i'm not going to think any such thing, because it would be wicked, and i'm good. and because"--in a graver tone, and with a little reverent touch of an old worn book which lay on her bureau--"this is my father's bible, and he lived and died by its precepts." up another flight of stairs, in his own room, dr. douglass lighted his cigar, fixed himself comfortably in his arm-chair, with his feet on the dressing-table, and, between the puffs, talked after this fashion: "sorry we ran into this miserable train of talk to-night; but that young witch leads a man on so. i'm glad she has a decided mind of her own; one feels less conscience-stricken. i'm what they call a skeptic myself, but after all, i don't quite like to see a lady become one. _i_ shan't lead her astray. i wouldn't have said any thing to-night if it hadn't been for that miserable hypocrite of a van anden; the fellow must learn not to pitch into me if he wants to be let alone; but i doubt if he accomplished much this time. what a witch she is!" and dr. douglass removed his cigar long enough to give vent to a hearty laugh in remembrance of some of sadie's remarks. just across the hall dr. van anden sat before his table, one hand partly shading his eyes from the gaslight while he read. and the words which he read were these: "o let not the oppressed returned ashamed: let the poor and needy praise thy name. arise, o god, plead thine own cause: remember how the foolish man reproacheth thee daily. forget not the voice of thine enemies; the tumult of those that rise up against thee increaseth continually." something troubled the doctor to-night; his usually grave face was tinged with sadness. presently he arose and paced with slow measured tread up and down the room. "i ought to have done it," he said at last. "i ought to have told her mother that he was in many ways an unsafe companion for sadie, especially in this matter; he is a very cautious, guarded, fascinating skeptic--all the more fascinating because he will be careful not to shock her taste with any boldly-spoken errors. i should have warned them--how came i to shrink so miserably from my duty? what mattered it that they would be likely to ascribe a wrong motive to my caution? it was none the less my duty on that account." and the sad look deepened on his face as he marched slowly back and forth; but he was nearer a solution of his difficulties than was either of those others for at last he came over to his chair again, and sank before it on his knees. now, let us understand these three people each of them, in their separate ways, were making mistakes. sadie had said that she was not going to believe any of the nonsense which dr. douglass talked; she honestly supposed that she was not influenced in the least. and yet she was mistaken; the poison had entered her soul. as the days passed on, she found herself more frequently caviling over the shortcomings of professing christians; more quick to detect their mistakes and failures; more willing to admit the half-uttered thought that this entire matter might be a smooth-sounding fable. sadie was the child of many prayers, and her father's much-used bible lay on her dressing-table, speaking for him, now that his tongue was silent in the grave; so she did not _quite_ yield to the enemy--but she was walking in the way of temptation--and the christian tongues around her, which the grave had _not_ silenced, yet remained as mute as though their lips were already sealed; and so the path in which sadie walked grew daily broader and more dangerous. then there was dr. douglass--not by any means the worst man that the world can produce. he was, or fancied himself to be, a skeptic. like many a young man, wise in his own conceit, he had no very distinct idea of what he was skeptical about, nor to what hights of illogical nonsense his own supposed views, carried out, would lead him; like many another, too, he had studied rhetoric, and logic, and mathematics, and medicine, thoroughly and well; he would have hesitated long, and studied hard, and pondered deeply, before he had ventured to dispute an established point in surgery. and yet, with the inconsistent folly of the age, he had absurdly set his seal to the falsity of the bible, after giving it, at most, but a careless reading here and there, and without having ever once honestly made use of the means by which god has promised to enlighten the seekers after knowledge. and yet, his eyes being blinded, he did not realize how absurd and unreasonable, how utterly foolish, was his conduct. he thought himself sincere; he had no desire to lead sadie astray from her early education, and, like most skeptical natures, he quite prided himself upon the care with which he guarded his peculiar views, although i could never see why that was being any other than miserably selfish or inconsistent; for it is saying, in effect, one of two things, either: "my belief is sacred to myself alone, and nobody else shall have the benefit of it, if i can help it;" or else: "i am very much ashamed of my position as a skeptic, and i shall keep it to myself as much as possible." be that as it may, dr. douglass so thought, and was sincere in his intentions to do sadie no harm; yet, as the days came and went, he was continually doing her injury. they were much in each other's society, and the subject which he meant should be avoided was constantly intruding. both were so constantly on the alert, to see and hear the unwise, and inconsistent, and unchristian acts and words, and also, alas! there were so many to be seen and heard, that these two made rapid strides in the broad road. finally, there was dr. van anden, carrying about with him a sad and heavy heart. he could but feel that he had shrunken from his duty, hidden behind that most miserable of all excuses: "what will people think?" if dr. douglass had had any title but that particular one prefixed to his name, he would not have hesitated to have advised mrs. ried concerning him; but how could he endure the suspicion that he was jealous of dr. douglass? then, in trying to right the wrong, by warning sadie, he was made to realize, as many a poor christian has realized before him, that he was making the sacrifice too late, and in vain. there was yet another thing--dr. douglass' statements to sadie had been colored with truth. among his other honest mistakes was the belief that dr. van anden was a hypocrite. they had clashed in former years. dr. douglass had been most in the wrong, though what man, unhelped by christ, was ever known to believe this of himself? but there had been wrong also on the other side, hasty words spoken--words which rankled, and were rankling still, after the lapse of years. dr. van anden had never said: "i should not have spoken thus; i am sorry." he had taught himself to believe that it would be an unnecessary humiliation for him to say this to a man who had so deeply wronged him! but, to do our doctor justice, time had healed the wound with him; it was not personal enmity which prompted his warning, neither had he any idea of the injury which those sharp words of his were doing in the unsanctified heart. and when he dropped upon his knees that night he prayed earnestly for the conversion of sadie and dr. douglass. so these three lived their lives under that same roof, and guessed not what the end might be. chapter xiii. the strange christian. "abbie," said ester, wriggling herself around from before an open trunk, and letting a mass of collars and cuffs slide to the floor in her earnestness, "do you know i think you're the very strangest girl i ever knew in my life?" "i'm sure i did not," abbie answered gaily. "if it's a nice 'strange' do tell me about it. i like to be nice--ever so much." "well, but i am in earnest, abbie; you certainly are. these very collars made me think of it. oh dear me! they are all on the floor." and she reached after the shining, sliding things. abbie came and sat down beside her, presently, with a mass of puffy lace in her hands, which she was putting into shape. "suppose we have a little talk, all about myself," she said gently and seriously. "and please tell me, ester, plainly and simply, what you mean by the term 'strange.' do you know i have heard it so often that sometimes i fear i really am painfully unlike other people. you are just the one to enlighten me." ester laughed a little as she answered: "you are taking the matter very seriously. i did not mean any thing dreadful." "ah! but you are not to be excused in that way, my dear ester. i look to you for information. mother has made the remark a great many times, but it is generally connected in some way with religious topics, and mother, you know, is not a christian; therefore i have thought that perhaps some things seemed strange to her which would not to--_you_, for instance. but since you have been here you have spoken your surprise concerning me several times, and looked it oftener; and to-day i find that even my stiff and glossy, and every way proper, collars and cuffs excite it. so do please tell me, ought i to be in a lunatic asylum somewhere instead of preparing to go to europe?" now although ester laughed again, at the mixture of comic and pathetic in abbie's tone, yet something in the words had evidently embarrassed her. there was a little struggle in her mind, and then she came boldly forth with her honest thoughts. "well, the strangeness is connected with religious topics in my mind also; even though i am a professing christian i do not understand you. i am an economist in dress, you know, abbie. i don't care for these things in the least; but if i had the money as you have, there are a great many things which i should certainly have. you see there is no earthly sense in your economy, and yet you hesitate over expenses almost as much as i do." there was a little gleam of mischief in abbie's eyes as she answered: "will you tell me, ester, why you would take the trouble to get 'these things' if you do not care for them in the least?" "why because--because--they would be proper and befitting my station in life." "do i dress in a manner unbecoming to my station in life." "no," said ester promptly, admiring even then the crimson finishings of her cousin's morning-robe. "but then--well, abbie, do you think it is wicked to like nice things?" "no," abbie answered very gently; "but i think it is wrong to school ourselves into believing that we do not care for any thing of the kind; when, in reality, it is a higher, better motive which deters us from having many things. forgive me, ester, but i think you are unjust sometimes to your better self in this very way." ester gave a little start, and realized for the first time in her life that, truth-loving girl though she was, she had been practicing a pretty little deception of this kind, and actually palming it off on herself. in a moment, however, she returned to the charge. "but, abbie, did aunt helen really want you to have that pearl velvet we saw at stewart's?" "she really did." "and you refused it?" "and i refused it." "well, is that to be set down as a matter of religion, too?" this question was asked with very much of ester's old sharpness of tone. abbie answered her with a look of amazement. "i think we don't understand each other," she said at length, with the gentlest of tones. "that dress, ester, with all its belongings could not have cost less than seven hundred dollars. could i, a follower of the meek and lowly jesus, living in a world where so many of his poor are suffering, have been guilty of wearing such a dress as that? my dear, i don't think you sustain the charge against me thus far. i see now how these pretty little collar (and, by the way, ester, you are crushing one of them against that green box) suggested the thought; but you surely do not consider it strange, when i have such an array of collars already, that i did not pay thirty dollars for that bit of a cobweb which we saw yesterday?" "but aunt helen wanted you to." a sad and troubled look stole over abbie's face as she answered: "my mother, remember, dear ester, does not realize that she is not her own, but has been bought with a price. you and i know and feel that we must give an account of our stewardship. ester, do you see how people who ask god to help them in every little thing which they have to decide--in the least expenditure of money--can after that deliberately fritter it away?" "do you ask god's help in these matters?" "why, certainly--" with the wondering look in her eyes, which ester had learned to know and dislike--"'whatsoever therefore ye do'--you know." "but, abbie, going out shopping to buy--handkerchiefs, for instance; that seems to me a very small thing to pray about." "even the purchase of handkerchiefs may involve a question of conscience, my dear ester, as you would realize if you had seen the wicked purchases that i have in that line; and some way i never can feel that any thing that has to do with me is of less importance than a tiny sparrow, and yet, you know, he looks after them." "abbie, do you mean to say that in every little thing that you buy you weigh the subject, and discuss the right and wrong of it?" "i certainly do try to find out just exactly what is right, and then do it; and it seems to me there is no act in this world so small as to be neither right nor wrong." "then," said ester, with an impatient twitch of her dress from under abbie's rocker, "i don't see the use in being rich." "nobody is rich, ester, only god; but i'm so glad sometimes that he has trusted me with so much of his wealth, that i feel like praying a prayer about that one thing--a thanksgiving. what else am i strange about, ester?" "everything," with growing impatience. "i think it was as queer in you as possible not to go to the concert last evening with uncle ralph?" "but, ester, it was prayer-meeting evening." "well, suppose it was. there is prayer-meeting every week, and there isn't this particular singer very often, and uncle ralph was disappointed. i thought you believed in honoring your parents." "you forget, dear ester, that father said he was particularly anxious that i should do as i thought right, and that he should not have purchased the tickets if he had remembered the meeting. father likes consistency." "well, that is just the point. i want to know if you call it inconsistent to leave your prayer meeting for just one evening, no matter for what reason?" abbie laughed in answer. "do you know, ester, you wouldn't make a good lawyer, you don't stick to the point. it isn't a great many reasons that might be suggested that we are talking about, it is simply a concert." then more gravely--"i try to be very careful about this matter. so many detentions are constantly occurring in the city, that unless the line were very closely-drawn i should not get to prayer-meeting at all. there are occasions, of course, when i must be detained; but under ordinary circumstances it must be more than a concert that detains me." "i don't believe in making religion such a very solemn matter as that all amounts to; it has a tendency to drive people away from it." the look on abbie's face, in answer to this testily spoken sentence, was a mixture of bewilderment and pain. "i don't understand"--she said at length--"how is that a solemn matter? if we really expect to meet our savior at a prayer-meeting, isn't it a delightful thought? i am very happy when i can go to the place of prayer." ester's voice savored decidedly of the one which she was wont to use in her very worst moods in that long dining-room at home. "of course i should have remembered that mr. foster would be at the prayer-meeting, and not at the concert; that was reason enough for your enjoyment." the rich blood surged in waves over abbie's face during this rude address; but she said not a single word in answer. after a little silence, she spoke in a voice that trembled with feeling. "ester, there is one thought in connection with this subject that troubles me very much. do you really think, as you have intimated, that i am selfish, that i consult my own tastes and desires too much, and so do injury to the cause. for instance, do you think i prejudiced my father?" what a sweet, humble, even tearful, face it was! and what a question to ask of ester! what had developed this disagreeable state of mind save the confused upbraidings of her hitherto quiet conscience over the contrast between cousin abbie's life and hers. here, in the very face of her theories to the contrary, in very defiance to her belief in the folly, and fashion, and worldliness that prevailed in the city, in the very heart of this great city, set down in the midst of wealth and temptation, had she found this young lady, daughter of one of the merchant princes, the almost bride of one of the brightest stars in the new york galaxy on the eve of a brilliant departure for foreign shores, with a whirl of preparation and excitement about her enough to dizzy the brain of a dozen ordinary mortals, yet moving sweetly, brightly, quietly, through it all, and manifestly finding her highest source of enjoyment in the presence of, and daily communion with, her savior. all ester's speculations concerning her had come to naught. she had planned the wardrobe of the bride, over and over again, for days before she saw her; and while she had prepared proper little lectures for her, on the folly and sinfulness of fashionable attire, had yet delighted in the prospect of the beauty and elegance around her. how had her prospects been blighted! beauty there certainly was in everything, but it was the beauty of simplicity, not at all such a display of silks and velvets and jewels as ester had planned. it certainly could not be wealth which made abbie's life such a happy one, for she regulated her expenses with a care and forethought such as ester had never even dreamed of. it could not be a life of ease, a freedom from annoyance, which kept her bright and sparkling, for it had only taken a week's sojourn in her aunt helen's home to discover to ester the fact that all wealthy people were not necessarily amiable and delightful. abbie was evidently rasped and thwarted in a hundred little ways, having a hundred little trials which _she_ had never been called upon to endure. in short, ester had discovered that the mere fact of living in a great city was not in itself calculated to make the christian race more easy or more pleasant. she had begun to suspect that it might not even be quite so easy as it was in a quiet country home; and so one by one all her explanations of abbie's peculiar character had become bubbles, and had vanished as bubbles do. what, then, sustained and guided her cousin? clearly ester was shut up to this one conclusion--it was an ever-abiding, all-pervading christian faith and trust. but then had not _she_ this same faith? and yet could any contrast be greater than was abbie's life contrasted with hers? there was no use in denying it, no use in lulling and coaxing her conscience any longer, it had been for one whole week in a new atmosphere; it had roused itself; it was not thoroughly awake as yet, but restless and nervous and on the alert--and _would not_ be hushed back into its lethargic state. this it was which made ester the uncomfortable companion which she was this morning. she was not willing to be shaken and roused; she had been saying very unkind, rude things to abbie, and now, instead of flouncing off in an uncontrollable fit of indignation, which course ester could but think would be the most comfortable thing which could happen next, so far as she was concerned, abbie sat still, with that look of meek inquiry on her face, humbly awaiting her verdict. how ester wished she had never asked that last question! how ridiculous it would make her appear, after all that had been said, to admit that her cousin's life had been one continual reproach of her own; that concerning this very matter of the concert, she had heard uncle ralph remark that if all the world matched what they did with what they said, as well as abbie did, he was not sure but he might be a christian himself. then suppose she should add that this very pointed remark had been made to her when they were on their way to the concert in question. altogether, ester was disgusted and wished she could get back to where the conversation commenced, feeling certain now that she would leave a great many things unsaid. i do not know how the conversation would have ended, whether ester could have brought herself to the plain truth, and been led on and on to explain the unrest and dissatisfaction of her own heart, and thus have saved herself much of the sharp future in store for her; but one of those unfortunate interruptions which seem to finite eyes to be constantly occurring, now came to them. there was an unusual bang to the front door, the sound of strange footsteps in the hall, the echo of a strange voice floated up to her, and abbie, with a sudden flinging of thimble and scissors, and an exclamation of "ralph has come," vanished. chapter xiv. the little card. left to herself, ester found her train of thought so thoroughly disagreeable that she hastened to rid herself of it, and seized upon the new comer to afford her a substitute. this cousin, whom she had expected to influence for good, had at last arrived. ester's interest in him had been very strong ever since that evening of her arrival, when she had been appealed to to use her influence on him--just in what way she hadn't an idea. abbie had never spoken of it since, and seemed to have lost much of her eager desire that the cousins should meet. ester mused about all this now; she wished she knew just in what way she was expected to be of benefit. abbie was evidently troubled about him. perhaps he was rough and awkward; school-boys often were, even those born in a city. very much of ralph's life had been spent away from home, she knew; and she had often heard that boys away from home influences grew rude and coarse oftentimes. yes, that was undoubtedly it. shy, too, he was of course; he was of about the age to be that. she could imagine just how he looked--he felt out of place in the grand mansion which he called home, but where he had passed so small a portion of his time. probably he didn't know what to do with his hands, nor his feet; and just as likely as not he sat on the edge of his chair and ate with his knife--school was a horrid place for picking up all sorts of ill manners. of course all these things must annoy abbie very much, especially at this time when he must necessarily come so often in contact with that perfection of gentlemanliness, mr. foster. "i wish," thought ester at this point, growing a little anxious, "i wish there was more than a week before the wedding; however i'll do my best. abbie shall see i'm good for something. although i do differ with her somewhat in her peculiar views, i believe i know how to conduct myself with ease, in almost any position, if i have been brought up in the country." and by the time the lunch-bell rang a girl more thoroughly satisfied with herself and her benevolent intentions, than was this same ester, could hardly have been found. she stood before the glass smoothing the shining bands of hair, preparatory to tying a blue satin ribbon over them, when abbie fluttered in. "forgive me, a great many times, for rushing off in the flutter i did, and leaving you behind, and staying away so long. you see i haven't seen ralph in quite a little time, and i forgot everything else. your hair doesn't need another bit of brushing, ester, it's as smooth as velvet; they are all waiting for us in the dining-room, and i want to show you to ralph." and before the blue satin ribbon was tied quite to her satisfaction, ester was hurried to the dining-room, to take up her new role of guide and general assistant to the awkward youth. "i suppose he hasn't an idea what to say to me," was her last compassionate thought, as abbie's hand rested on the knob. "i hope he won't be hopelessly quiet, but i'll manage in some way." at first he was nowhere to be seen; but as abbie said eagerly: "ralph, here is cousin ester!" the door swung back into its place, and revealed a tall, well-proportioned young man, with a full-bearded face, and the brightest of dancing eyes. he came forward immediately, extending both hands, and speaking in a rapid voice. "long-hoped-for come at last! i don't refer to myself, you understand, but to this much-waited-for, eagerly-looked-forward-to prospect of greeting my cousin ester. ought i to welcome you, or you me--which is it? i'm somewhat bewildered as to proprieties. this fearfully near approach to a wedding has confused my brain. sis"--turning suddenly to abbie--"have you prepared ester for her fate? does she fully understand that she and i are to officiate? that is, if we don't evaporate before the eventful day. sis, how could you have the conscience to perpetrate a wedding in august? whatever takes foster abroad just now, any way?" and without waiting for answer to his ceaseless questions he ran gaily on. clearly whatever might be his shortcomings, inability to talk was _not_ one of them. and ester, confused, bewildered, utterly thrown out of her prepared part in the entertainment, was more silent and awkward than she had ever known herself to be; provoked, too, with abbie, with ralph, with herself. "how _could_ i have been such a simpleton?" she asked herself as seated opposite her cousin at table she had opportunity to watch the handsome face, with its changeful play of expression, and note the air of pleased attention with which even her uncle ralph listened to his ceaseless flow of words. "i knew he was older than abbie, and that this was his third year in college. what could i have expected from uncle ralph's son? a pretty dunce he must think me, blushing and stammering like an awkward country girl. what on earth could abbie mean about needing my help for him, and being troubled about him. it is some of her ridiculous fanatical nonsense, i suppose. i wish she could ever talk or act like anybody else." "i don't know that such is the case, however," ralph was saying, when ester returned from this rehearsal of her own thoughts. "i can simply guess at it, which is as near an approach to an exertion as a fellow ought to be obliged to make in this weather. john, you may fill my glass if you please. father, this is even better wine than your cellar usually affords, and that is saying a great deal. sis, has foster made a temperance man of you entirely; i see you are devoted to ice water?" "oh, certainly," mrs. ried answered for her, in the half contemptuous tone she was wont to assume on such occasions. "i warn you, ralph, to get all the enjoyment you can out of the present, for abbie intends to keep you with her entirely after she has a home of her own--out of the reach of temptation." ester glanced hurriedly and anxiously toward her cousin. how did this pet scheme of hers become known to mrs. ried, and how could abbie possibly retain her habitual self-control under this sarcastic ridicule, which was so apparent in her mother's voice? the pink on her cheek did deepen perceptibly, but she answered with the most perfect good humor: "ralph, don't be frightened, please. i shall let you out once in a long while if you are very good." ralph bent loving eyes on the young, sweet face, and made prompt reply: "i don't know that i shall care for even that reprieve, since you're to be jailer." what could there be in this young man to cause anxiety, or to wish changed? yet even while ester queried, he passed his glass for a third filling, and taking note just then of abbie's quick, pained look, then downcast eyes, and deeply flushing face, the knowledge came suddenly that in that wine-glass the mischief lay. abbie thought him in danger, and this was the meaning of her unfinished sentence on that first evening, and her embarrassed silence since; for ester, with her filled glass always beside her plate, untouched indeed sometimes, but oftener sipped from in response to her uncle's invitation, was not the one from whom help could be expected in this matter. and ester wondered if the handsome face opposite her could really be in absolute danger, or whether this was another of abbie's whims--at least it wasn't pleasant to be drinking wine before him, and she left her glass untouched that day, and felt thoroughly troubled about that and everything. the next morning there was a shopping excursion, and ralph was smuggled in as an attendant. abbie turned over the endless sets of handkerchiefs in bewildering indecision. "take this box; do, abbie," ester urged. "this monogram in the corner is lovely, and that is the dearest little sprig in the world." "which is precisely what troubles me," laughed abbie. "it is entirely too dear. think of paying such an enormous sum for just handkerchiefs!" ralph, who was lounging near her, trying hard not to look bored, elevated his eyebrows as his ear caught the sentence, and addressed her in undertone: "is foster hard up? if he is, you are not on his hands yet, sis; and i'm inclined to think father is good for all the finery you may happen to fancy." "that only shows your ignorance of the subject or your high opinion of me. i assure you were i so disposed i could bring father's affairs into a fearful tangle this very day, just by indulging a fancy for finery." "are his affairs precarious, abbie, or is finery prodigious?" abbie laid her hand on a square of cobwebby lace. "that is seventy-five dollars, ralph." "what of that? do you want it?" and ralph's hand was in his pocket. abbie turned with almost a shiver from the counter. "i hope not, ralph," she said with sudden energy. "i hope i may never be so unworthy of my trust as to make such a wicked use of money." then more lightly, "you are worse than queen ester here, and her advice is bewildering enough." "but, abbie, how can you be so absurd," said that young lady, returning to the charge. "those are not very expensive, i am sure, at least not for you; and you certainly want some very nice ones. i'm sure if i had one-third of your spending money i shouldn't need to hesitate." abbie's voice was very low and sweet, and reached only her cousin's ear. "ester, 'the silver and the gold are _his_,' and i have asked him this very morning to help me in every little item to be careful of his trust. now do you think--" but ester had turned away in a vexed uncomfortable state of mind, and walked quite to the other end of the store, leaving abbie to complete her purchases as she might see fit. she leaned against the door, tapping her fingers in a very softly, but very nervous manner against the glass. how queer it was that in the smallest matters she and abbie could not agree? how was it possible that the same set of rules could govern them both? and the old ever-recurring question came up to be thought over afresh. clearly they were unlike--utterly unlike. now was abbie right and she wrong? or was abbie--no, not wrong, the word would certainly not apply; there absolutely _could_ be no wrong connected with abbie's way. well, then, queer!--unlike other people, unnecessarily precise--studying the right and wrong of matters, which she had been wont to suppose had no moral bearing of any sort, rather which she had never given any attention to? while she waited and queried, her eye caught a neat little card-receiver hanging near her, apparently filled with cards, and bearing in gilt lettering, just above them, the winning words: "free to all. take one." this was certainly a kindly invitation; and ester's curiosity being aroused as to what all this might be for, she availed herself of the invitation, and drew with dainty fingers a small, neat card from the case, and read: i solemnly agree, _as god shall help me_: . to observe regular seasons of secret prayer, it least in the morning and evening of each day. . to read daily at least a small portion of the bible. . to attend at one or more prayer-meetings every week, if i have strength to get there. . to stand up for jesus always and everywhere. . to try to save at least one soul each year. . to engage in no amusement where my savior could not be a guest. had the small bit of card-board been a coal of fire it could not have been more suddenly dropped upon the marble before her than was this, as ester's startled eyes took in its meaning. who could have written those sentences? and to be placed there in a conspicuous corner of a fashionable store? was she never to be at peace again? had the world gone wild? was this an emanation from cousin abbie's brain, or were there many more cousin abbies in what she had supposed was a wicked city, or--oh painful question, which came back hourly nowadays, and seemed fairly to chill her blood--was this religion, and had she none of it? was her profession a mockery, her life a miserably acted lie? "is that thing hot?" it was ralph's amused voice which asked this question close beside her. "what? where?" and ester turned in dire confusion. "why that bit of paper--or is it a ghostly communication from the world of spirits? you look startled enough for me to suppose anything, and it spun away from your grasp very suddenly. oh," he added, as he glanced it through, "rather ghostly, i must confess, or would be if one were inclined that way; but i imagined your nerves were stronger. did the pronoun startle you?" "how?" "why i thought perhaps you considered yourself committed to all this solemnity before your time, or willy-nilly, as the children say. what a comical idea to hang one's self up in a store in this fashion. i must have one of these. are you going to keep yours?" and as he spoke he reached forward and possessed himself of one of the cards. "rather odd things to be found in our possession, wouldn't they be? abbie now would be just one of this sort." that cold shiver trembled again through ester's frame as she listened. clearly he did not reckon her one of "that sort." he had known her but one day, and yet he seemed positive that she stood on an equal footing with himself. oh why was it? how did he know? was her manner then utterly unlike that of a christian, so much so that this young man saw it already, or was it that glass of wine from which she had sipped last evening?--and at this moment she would have given much to be back where she thought herself two weeks ago, on the wine question; but she stood silent and let him talk on, not once attempting to define her position--partly because there had crept into her mind this fearful doubt, unaccompanied by the prayer: "if i've never loved before, help me to begin to-day"-- and partly, oh poor ester, because she was utterly unused to confessing her savior; and though not exactly ashamed of him, at least she would have indignantly denied the charge, yet it was much less confusing to keep silence, and let others think as they would--this had been her rule, she followed it now, and ralph continued: "queer world this? isn't it? how do you imagine our army would have prospered if one-fourth of the soldiers had been detailed for the purpose of coaxing the rest to follow their leader and obey orders? that's what it seems to me the so-called christian world is up to. does the comical side of it ever strike you, ester? positively i can hardly keep from laughing now and then to hear the way in which dr. downing pitches into his church members, and they sit and take it as meekly as lambs brought to the slaughter. it does them about as much good, apparently, as it does me--no not so much, for it amuses me, and serves to make me good-natured, on good terms with myself for half an hour or so. i'm so thoroughly rejoiced, you see, to think that i don't belong to that set of miserable sinners." "dr. downing does preach very sharp, harsh sermons," ester said at last, feeling the necessity of saying something. "i have often wondered at it. i think them calculated to do more harm than good." "oh _i_ don't wonder at it in the least. i'd make it sharper yet if i were he; the necessity exists evidently. the wonder lies in _that_ to my mind. if a fellow really means to do a thing, what does he wait to be punched up about it everlastingly for? hang me, if i don't like to see people act as though they meant it, even if the question is a religious one. ester, how many times ought i to beg your pardon for using an unknown tongue--in other words, slang phrases? i fancied myself talking to my chum, delivering a lecture on theology, which is somewhat out of my sphere, as you have doubtless observed. yet such people as you and i can't help having eyes and ears, and using them now and then, can we?" still silence on ester's part, so far as defining her position was concerned. she was not ashamed of her savior now, but of herself. if this gay cousin's eyes were critical she knew she could not bear the test. yet she rallied sufficiently to condemn within her own mind the poor little cards. "they will do more harm than good," she told herself positively. to such young men as ralph, for instance, what could he possibly want with one of them, save to make it a subject of ridicule when he got with some of his wild companions. but it transpired that his designs were not so very wicked after all; for as they left the store he took the little card from his pocket, and handed it to abbie with a quiet: "sis, here is something that you will like." and abbie read it and said: "how solemn that is. did you get it for me, ralph? thank you." and ralph bowed and smiled on her, a kind, almost tender smile, very unlike the roguish twinkle that had shone in his eyes while he talked with ester. all through the busy day that silent, solemn card haunted ester. it pertinaciously refused to be lost. she dropped it twice in their transit from store to store, but ralph promptly returned it to her. at home she laid it on her dressing-table, but piled scarfs and handkerchiefs and gloves over it as high as she might, it was sure to flutter to the floor at her feet, as she sought hurriedly in the mass of confusion for some missing article. once she seized and flung it from the window in dire vexation, and was rewarded by having maggie present it to her about two minutes thereafter, as a "something that landed square on my head, ma'am, as i was coming around the corner." at last she actually grew nervous over it, felt almost afraid to touch it, so thoroughly had it fastened itself on her conscience. these great black letters in that first sentence seemed burned into her brain: "i solemnly agree, as god shall help me." at last she deposited the unwelcome little monitor at the very bottom of her collar-box, under some unused collars, telling herself that it was for safe keeping, that she might not lose it again; not letting her conscience say for a moment that it was because she wanted to bury the haunting words out of her sight. chapter xv. what is the difference? ester stood before her mirror, arranging some disordered braids of hair. she had come up from the dining-room for that purpose. it was just after dinner. the family, with the addition of mr. foster, were gathered in the back parlor, whither she was in haste to join them. "how things do conspire to hinder me!" she exclaimed impatiently as one loose hair-pin after another slid softly and silently out of place. "this horrid ribbon doesn't shade with the trimming on my dress either. i wonder what can have become of that blue one?" with a jerk sadie's "finery-box" was produced, and the contents tumbled over. the methodical and orderly ester was in nervous haste to get down to that fascinating family group; but the blue ribbon, with the total depravity of all ribbons, remained a silent and indifferent spectator of her trials, snugged back in the corner of a half open drawer. ester had set her heart on finding it, and the green collar-box came next under inspection, and being impatiently shoved back toward its corner when the quest proved vain, took that opportunity for tumbling over the floor and showering its contents right and left. "what next, i wonder?" ester muttered, as she stooped to scoop up the disordered mass of collars, ruffles, cuffs, laces, and the like, and with them came, face up, and bright, black letters, scorching into her very soul, the little card with its: "i solemnly agree, as god shall help me." ester paused in her work, and stood upright with a strange beating at her heart. what _did_ this mean? was it merely chance that this sentence had so persistently met her eye all this day, put the card where she would? and what was the matter with her anyway? why should those words have such strange power over her? why had she tried to rid herself of the sight of them? she read each sentence aloud slowly and carefully. "now," she said decisively, half irritated that she was allowing herself to be hindered, "it is time to put an end to this nonsense. i am sick and tired of feeling as i have of late--these are all very reasonable and proper pledges, at least the most of them are. i believe i'll adopt this card. yes, i will--that is what has been the trouble with me. i've neglected my duty--rather i have so much care and work at home, that i haven't time to attend to it properly--but here it is different. it is quite time i commenced right in these things. to-night, when i come to my room, i will begin. no, i can not do that either, for abbie will be with me. well, the first opportunity then that i have--or no--i'll stop now, this minute, and read a chapter in the bible and pray; there is nothing like the present moment for keeping a good resolution. i like decision in everything--and, i dare say, abbie will be very willing to have a quiet talk with mr. foster before i come down." and sincerely desirous to be at peace with her newly troubled conscience--and sincerely sure that she was in the right way for securing that peace--ester closed and locked her door, and sat herself down by the open window in a thoroughly self-satisfied state of mind, to read the bible and to pray. poor human heart, so utterly unconscious of its own deep sickness--so willing to plaster over the unhealed wound! where should she read? she was at all times a random reader of the bible; but now with this new era it was important that there should be a more definite aim in her reading. she turned the leaves rapidly, eager to find a book which looked inviting for the occasion, and finally seized upon the gospel of john as entirely proper and appropriate, and industriously commenced: "'in the beginning was the word, and the word was with god, and the word was god. the same was in the beginning with god.' now that wretched hair-pin is falling out again, as sure as i live; i don't see what is the matter with my hair to-day. i never had so much trouble with it--'all things were made by him; and without him was not anything made that was made. in him was life: and the life was the light of men.'--there are mr. and miss hastings. i wonder if they are going to call here? i wish they would. i should like to get a nearer view of that trimming around her sack; it is lovely whatever it is.--'and the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.'" now it was doubtful if it had once occurred to ester who this glorious "word" was, or that he had aught to do with her. certainly the wonderful and gracious truths embodied in these precious verses, truths which had to do with every hour of her life, had not this evening so much as made an entrance into her busy brain; and yet she actually thought herself in the way of getting rid of the troublesome thoughts that had haunted her the days just past. the verses were being read aloud, the thoughts about the troublesome hair and the trimmings on miss hastings' sack were suffered to remain thoughts, not to put into words--had they been perhaps even ester would have noticed the glaring incongruity. as it was she continued her two occupations, reading the verses, thinking the thoughts, until at last she came to a sudden pause, and silence reigned in the room for several minutes; then there flushed over ester's face a sudden glow, as she realized that she sat, bible in hand, one corner of the solemnly-worded card marking the verse at which she had paused, and that verse was: "he came unto his own, and his own received him not." and she realized that her thoughts during the silence had been: "suppose miss hastings should call and should inquire for her, and she should go with aunt helen to return the call, should she wear mother's black lace shawl with her blue silk dress, or simply the little ruffled cape which matched the dress! she read that last verse over again, with an uncomfortable consciousness that she was not getting on very well; but try as she would, ester's thoughts seemed resolved not to stay with that first chapter of john--they roved all over new york, visited all the places that she had seen, and a great many that she wanted to see, and that seemed beyond her grasp, going on meantime with the verses, and keeping up a disagreeable undercurrent of disgust. over those same restless thoughts there came a tap at the door, and maggie's voice outside. "miss ried, miss abbie sent me to say that there was company waiting to see you, and if you please would you come down as soon as you could?" ester sprang up. "very well," she responded to maggie. "i'll be down immediately." then she waited to shut the card into her bible to keep the place, took a parting peep in the mirror to see that the brown hair and blue ribbon were in order, wondered if it were really the hastings who called on her, unlocked her door, and made a rapid passage down the stairs--most unpleasantly conscious, however, at that very moment that her intentions of setting herself right had not been carried out, and also that so far as she had gone it had been a failure. truly, after the lapse of so many years, the light was still shining in darkness. in the parlor, after the other company had departed, ester found herself the sole companion of mr. foster at the further end of the long room. abbie, half sitting, half kneeling on an ottoman near her father, seemed to be engaged in a very earnest conversation with him, in which her mother occasionally joined, and at which ralph appeared occasionally to laugh; but what was the subject of debate they at their distance were unable to determine, and at last mr. foster turned to his nearest neighbor. "and so, miss ester, you manufactured me into a minister at our first meeting?" in view of their nearness to cousinship the ceremony of surname had been promptly discarded by mr. foster, but ester was unable to recover from a sort of awe with which he had at first inspired her, and this opening sentence appeared to be a confusing one, for she flushed deeply and only bowed her answer. "i don't know but it is a most unworthy curiosity on my part," continued mr. foster, "but i have an overwhelming desire to know why--or, rather, to know in what respect, i am ministerial. won't you enlighten me, miss ester?" "why," said ester, growing still more confused, "i thought--i said--i--no, i mean i heard your talk with that queer old woman, some of it; and some things that you said made me think you must be a minister." "what things, miss ester?" "everything," said ester desperately. "you talked, you know, about--about religion nearly all the time." a look of absolute pain rested for a moment on mr. foster's face, as he said: "is it possible that your experience with christian men has been so unfortunate that you believe none but ministers ever converse on that subject?" "i never hear any," ester answered positively. "but your example as a christian lady, i trust, is such that it puts to shame your experience among gentlemen?" "oh but," said ester, still in great confusion, "i didn't mean to confine my statement to gentlemen. i never hear anything of the sort from ladies." "not from that dear old friend of ours on the cars?" "oh yes; she was different from other people too. i thought she had a very queer way of speaking; but then she was old and ignorant. i don't suppose she knew how to talk about any thing else, and she is my one exception." mr. foster glanced in the direction of the golden brown head that was still in eager debate at the other end of the room, before he asked his next question. "how is it with your cousin?" "oh she!" said ester, brought suddenly and painfully back to all her troublesome thoughts--and then, after a moment's hesitation, taking a quick resolution to probe this matter to its foundation, if it had one. "mr. foster, don't you think she is _very_ peculiar?" at which question mr. foster laughed, then answered good humoredly: "do you think me a competent witness in that matter?" "yes," ester answered gravely, too thoroughly in earnest to be amused now; "she is entirely different from any person that i ever saw in my life. she don't seem to think about any thing else--at least she thinks more about this matter than any other." "and that is being peculiar?" "why i think so--unnatural, i mean--unlike other people." "well, let us see. do you call it being peculiarly good or peculiarly bad?" "why," said ester in great perplexity, "it isn't _bad_ of course. but she--no, she is very good, the best person i ever knew; but it is being like nobody else, and nobody _can_ be like her. don't you think so?" "i certainly do," he answered with the utmost gravity, and then he laughed again; but presently noting her perplexed look, he grew sober, and spoke with quiet gravity. "i think i understand you, miss ester. if you mean, do i not think abbie has attained to a rare growth in spirituality for one of her age, i most certainly do; but if you mean, do i not think it almost impossible for people in general to reach as high a foothold on the rock as she has gained, i certainly do not. i believe it is within the power, and not only that, but it is the blessed privilege, and not only that, but it is the sacred duty of every follower of the cross to cling as close and climb as high as she has." "_i_ don't think so," ester said, with a decided shake of the head. "it is much easier for some people to be good christians than it is for others." "granted--that is, there is a difference of temperament certainly. but do you rank abbie among those for whom it was naturally easy?" "i think so." this time mr. foster's head was very gravely shaken. "if you had known her when i did you would not think so. it was very hard for her to yield. her natural temperament, her former life, her circle of friends, her home influences were all against her, and yet christ triumphed." "yes, but having once decided the matter, it is smooth sailing with her now." "do you think so? has abbie no trials to meet, no battles with satan to fight, so far as you can discover?" "only trifles," said ester, thinking of aunt helen and ralph, but deciding that abbie had luxuries enough to offset both these anxieties. "i believe you will find that it needs precisely the same help to meet trifles that it does to conquer mountains of difficulty. the difference is in degree not in kind. but i happen to know that some of abbie's 'trifles' have been very heavy and hard to bear. however, the matter rests just here, miss ester. i believe we are all too willing to be conquered, too willing to be martyrs, not willing to reach after and obtain the settled and ever-growing joys of the christian." ester was thoroughly ill at ease; all this condemned her--and at last, resolved to escape from this net work of her awakening conscience, she pushed boldly on. "people have different views on this subject as well as on all others. now abbie and i do not agree in our opinions. there are things which she thinks right that seem to me quite out of place and improper." "yes," he said inquiringly, and with the most quiet and courteous air; "would you object to mentioning some of those things?" "well, as an instance, it seemed to me very queer indeed to hear her and other young ladies speaking in your teachers' prayer-meeting. i never heard of such a thing, at least not among cultivated people." "and you thought it improper?" "almost--yes, quite--perhaps. at least _i_ should never do it." "were you at mrs. burton's on the evening in which our society met?" this, to ester's surprise, was her companion's next very-wide-of-the-mark question. she opened her eyes inquiringly; then concluding that he was absent-minded, or else had no reply to make, and was weary of the subject, answered simply and briefly in the affirmative. "i was detained that night. were there many out?" "quite a full society abbie said. the rooms were almost crowded." "pleasant?" "oh very. i hardly wished to go as they were strangers to me; but i was very happily disappointed, and enjoyed the evening exceedingly." "were there reports?" "very full ones, and mrs. burton was particularly interesting. she had forgotten her notes, but gave her reports from memory very beautifully." "ah, i am sorry for that. it must have destroyed the pleasure of the evening for you." "i don't understand, mr. foster." "why you remarked that you considered it improper for ladies to take part in such matters: and of course what is an impropriety you can not have enjoyed." "oh that is a very different matter. it was not a prayer-meeting." "i beg pardon. i did not understand. it is only at prayer-meetings that it is improper for ladies to speak. may i ask why?" ester was growing vexed. "mr. foster," she said sharply, "you know that it is quite another thing. there are gentlemen enough present, or ought to be, to do the talking in a prayer-meeting." "there is generally a large proportion of gentlemen at the society. i presume there were those present capable of giving mrs. burton's report." "well _i_ consider a society a very different thing from a gathering in a church." "ah, then it's the church that is at fault. if that is the case, i should propose holding prayer meetings in private parlors. would that obviate your difficulty?" "no," said ester sharply, "not if there were gentlemen present. it is their business to conduct a religious meeting." "then, after all, it is religion that is at the foundation of this trouble. pray, miss ester, was mrs. burton's report irreligious?" "mr. foster," said ester, with flushing cheeks, and in a whirl of vexation, "_don't_ you understand me?" "i think i do, miss ester. the question is, do you understand yourself? let me state the case. you are decidedly not a woman's rights lady. i am decidedly not a woman's rights gentleman--that is, in the general acceptation of that term. you would think, for instance, that abbie was out of her sphere in the pulpit or pleading a case at the bar. so should i. in fact, there are many public places in which you and i, for what we consider good and sufficient reasons, would not like to see her. but, on the other hand, we both enjoy mrs. burton's reports, either verbal or written, as she may choose. we, in company with many other ladies and gentlemen, listen respectfully; we both greatly enjoy hearing miss ames sing; we both consider it perfectly proper that she should so entertain us at our social gatherings. at our literary society we have both enjoyed to the utmost miss hanley's exquisite recitation from 'kathrina.' i am sure not a thought of impropriety occurred to either of us. we both enjoyed the familiar talk on the subject for the evening, after the society proper had adjourned. so the question resolves itself into this: it seems that it is pleasant and proper for fifty or more of us to hear mrs. burton's report in mrs. burton's parlor--to hear ladies sing--to hear ladies recite in their own parlors, or in those of their friends--to converse familiarly on any sensible topic; but the moment the very same company are gathered in our chapel, and mrs. burton says, 'pray for my class,' and miss ames says, 'i love jesus,' and miss hanley says, 'the lord is the strength of my heart, and my portion forever,' it becomes improper. will you pardon my obtuseness and explain to me the wherefore?" but ester was not in a mood to explain, if indeed she had aught to say, and she only answered with great decision and emphasis: "_i_ have never been accustomed to it." "no! i think you told me that you were unaccustomed to hearing poetical recitations from young ladies. does that condemn them?" to which question ester made no sort of answer, but sat looking confused, ashamed and annoyed all in one. her companion roused himself from his half reclining attitude on the sofa, and gave her the benefit of a very searching look; then he came to an erect posture and spoke with entire change of tone. "miss ester, forgive me if i have seemed severe in my questionings and sarcastic in my replies. i am afraid i have. the subject is one which awakens sarcasm in me. it is so persistently twisted and befogged and misunderstood, some of the very best people seem inclined to make our prayer-meetings into formidable church-meetings, for the purpose of hearing a succession of not _very_ short sermons, rather than a social gathering of christians, to sympathize with, and pray for and help each other, as i believe the master intended them to be. but may i say a word to you personally? are you quite happy as a christian? do you find your love growing stronger and your hopes brighter from day to day?" ester struggled with herself, tore bits of down from the edge of her fan, tried to regain her composure and her voice, but the tender, gentle, yet searching tone, seemed to have probed her very soul--and the eyes that at last were raised to meet his were melting into tears, and the voice which answered him quivered perceptibly. "no, mr. foster, i am not happy." "why? may i ask you? is the savior untrue to his promises, or is his professed servant untrue to him?" ester's heart was giving heavy throbs of pain, and her conscience was whispering loudly, "untrue," "untrue;" but she had made no answer, when ralph came with brisk step toward where they sat. "two against one isn't fair play," he said, with a mixture of mischief and vexation in his tone. "foster, don't shirk; you have taught abbie, now go and help her fight it out like a man. come, take yourself over there and get her out of this scrape. i'll take care of ester; she looks as though she had been to camp-meeting." and mr. foster, with a wondering look for ralph and a troubled one for ester, moved slowly toward that end of the long parlor where the voices were growing louder, and one of them excited. chapter xvi. a victory. "this is really the most absurd of all your late absurdities," mrs. ried was saying, in rather a loud tone, and with a look of dignified disgust bestowed upon abbie, as mr. foster joined the group. "will you receive me into this circle, and enlighten me as regards this particular absurdity," he said, seating himself near mrs. ried. "oh it was nothing remarkable," that lady replied in her most sarcastic tone. "at least it is quite time we were growing accustomed to this new order of things. abbie is trying to enlighten her father on the new and interesting question of temperance, especially as it is connected with wedding parties, in which she is particularly interested just at present." abbie bestowed an appealing glance on mr. foster, and remained entirely silent. "i believe i can claim equal interest then in the matter," he answered brightly. "and will petition you, mrs. ried, to explain the point at issue." "indeed, mr. foster, i'm not a temperance lecturer, and do not consider myself competent to perform the awful task. i refer you to abbie, who seems to be thoroughly posted, and very desirous of displaying her argumentative powers." still silence on abbie's part, and only a little tremble of the lip told a close observer how deeply she felt the sharp tones and unmotherly words. mrs. ried spoke at last, in calm, measured accents. "my daughter and i, mr. foster, differ somewhat in regard to the duties and privileges of a host. i claim the right to set before my guests whatever _i_ consider proper. she objects to the use of wine, as, perhaps, you are aware. indeed, i believe she has imbibed her very peculiar views from you; but i say to her that as i have always been in the habit of entertaining my guests with that beverage, i presume i shall continue to do so." mr. foster did not seem in the mood to argue the question, but responded with genial good humor. "ah but, mrs. ried, you ought to gratify your daughter in her parting request. that is only natural and courteous, is it not?" mrs. ried felt called upon to reply. "we have gratified so many of her requests already that the whole thing bids fair to be the most ridiculous proceeding that new york has ever witnessed. fancy a dozen rough boys banging and shouting through my house, eating cake enough to make them sick for a month, to say nothing of the quantity which they will stamp into my carpets, and all because they chance to belong to abbie's mission class!" ralph and ester had joined the group in the meantime, and the former here interposed. "that last argument isn't valid, mother. haven't i promised to hoe out the rooms myself, immediately after the conclusion of the solemn services?" and mr. foster bestowed a sudden troubled look on abbie, which she answered by saying in a low voice, "i should recall my invitations to them under such circumstances." "you will do no such thing," her father replied sharply. "the invitations are issued in your parents' names, and we shall have no such senseless proceedings connected with them when you are in your own house you will doubtless be at liberty to do as you please; but in the meantime it would be well to remember that you belong to your father's family at present." ralph was watching the flushing cheek and quivering lip of his young sister, and at this point flung down the book with which he had been idly playing, with an impatient exclamation: "it strikes me, father, that you are making a tremendous din about a little matter. i don't object to a glass of wine myself, almost under any circumstances, and i think this excruciating sensitiveness on the subject is absurd and ridiculous, and all that sort of thing; but at the same time i should be willing to undertake the job of smashing every wine bottle there is in the cellar at this moment, if i thought that sis' last hours in the body, or at least in the paternal mansion, would be made any more peaceful thereby." during this harangue the elder mr. ried had time to grow ashamed of his sharpness, and answered in his natural tone. "i am precisely of your opinion, my son. we are making 'much ado about nothing.' we certainly have often entertained company before, and abbie has sipped her wine with the rest of us without sustaining very material injury thereby, so far as i can see. and here is ester, as stanch a church member as any of you, i believe, but that doesn't seem to forbid her behaving in a rational manner, and partaking of whatever her friends provide for her entertainment. why can not the rest of you be equally sensible?" during the swift second of time which intervened between that sentence and her reply ester had three hard things to endure--a sting from her restless conscience, a look of mingled pain and anxiety from mr. foster, and one of open-eyed and mischievous surprise from ralph. then she spoke rapidly and earnestly. "indeed, uncle ralph, i beg you will not judge of any other person by my conduct in this matter. i am very sorry, and very much ashamed that i have been so weak and wicked. i think just as abbie does, only i am not like her, and have been tempted to do wrong, for fear you would think me foolish." no one but ester knew how much these sentences cost her; but the swift, bright look telegraphed her from abbie's eyes seemed to repay her. ralph laughed outright. "four against one," he said gaily. "i've gone over to the enemy's side myself, you see, on account of the pressure. father, i advise you to yield while you can do it gracefully, and also to save me the trouble of smashing the aforesaid bottles." "but," persisted mr. ried, "i haven't heard an argument this evening. what is there so shocking in a quiet glass of wine enjoyed with a select gathering of one's friends?" john now presented himself at the door with a respectful, "if you please, sir, there is a person in the hall who persists in seeing mr. foster." "show him in, then," was mr. ried's prompt reply. john hesitated, and then added: "he is a very common looking person, sir, and--" "i said show him in, i believe," interrupted the gentleman of the house, in a tone which plainly indicated that he was expending on john the irritation which he did not like to bestow further, on either his children or his guests. john vanished, and mr. ried added: "you can take your _friend_ into the library, mr. foster, if it proves to be a private matter." there was a marked emphasis on the word _friend_ in this sentence; but mr. foster only bowed his reply, and presently john returned, ushering in a short, stout man, dressed in a rough working suit, twirling his hat in his hand, and looking extremely embarrassed and out of place in the elegant parlor. mr. foster turned toward him immediately, and gave him a greeting both prompt and cordial. "ah, mr. jones, good evening. i have been in search of you today, but some way managed to miss you." at this point abbie advanced and placed a small white hand in mr. jones' great hard brown one, as she repeated the friendly greeting, and inquired at once: "how is sallie, to-night, mr. jones?" "well, ma'am, it is about her that i'm come, and i beg your pardon, sir (turning to mr. foster), for making so bold as to come up here after you; but she is just that bad to-night that i could not find it in me to deny her any thing, and she is in a real taking to see you. she has sighed and cried about it most of this day, and to-night we felt, her mother and me, that we couldn't stand it any longer, and i said i'd not come home till i found you and told you how much she wanted to see you. it's asking a good deal, sir, but she is going fast, she is; and--" here mr. jones' voice choked, and he rubbed his hard hand across his eyes. "i will be down immediately," was mr. foster's prompt reply. "certainly you should have come for me. i should have been very sorry indeed to disappoint sallie. tell her i will be there in half an hour, mr. jones." and with a few added words of kindness from abbie, mr. jones departed, looking relieved and thankful. "that man," said mr. foster, turning to ester, as the door closed after him, "is the son of our old lady, don't you think! you remember i engaged to see her conveyed to his home in safety, and my anxiety for her future welfare was such that my pleasure was very great in discovering that the son was a faithful member of our mission sabbath-school, and a thoroughly good man." "and who is sallie?" ester inquired, very much interested. mr. foster's face grew graver. "sallie is his one treasure, a dear little girl, one of our mission scholars, and a beautiful example of how faithful christ can be to his little lambs." "what is supposed to be the matter with sallie?" this question came from ralph, who had been half amused, half interested, with the entire scene. the gravity on mr. foster's face deepened into sternness as he answered: "sallie is only one of the many victims of our beautiful system of public poisoning. the son of her mother's employer, in a fit of drunken rage, threw her from the very top of a long flight of stairs, and now she lies warped and misshapen, mourning her life away. by the way"--he continued, turning suddenly toward mr. ried--"i believe you were asking for arguments to sustain my 'peculiar views.' here is one of them: this man of whom i speak, whose crazed brain has this young sad life and death to answer for, i chance to know to a certainty commenced his downward career in a certain pleasant parlor in this city, among a select gathering of friends, taking a quiet glass of wine!" and mr. foster made his adieus very brief, and departed. ralph's laugh was just a little nervous as he said, when the family were alone: "foster is very fortunate in having an incident come to our very door with which to point his theories." abbie had deserted her ottoman and taken one close by her father's side. now she laid her bright head lovingly against his breast, and looked with eager, coaxing eyes into his stern gray ones. "father," she said softly, "you'll let your little curly have her own way just this time, won't you? i will promise not to coax you again until i want something very bad indeed." mr. ried had decided his plan of action some moments before. he was prepared to remind his daughter in tones of haughty dignity that he was "not in the habit of playing the part of a despot in his own family, and that as she and her future husband were so very positive in their very singular opinions, and so entirely regardless of his wishes or feelings, he should, of course, not force his hospitalities on her guests." he made one mistake. for just a moment he allowed his eyes to meet the sweet blue ones, looking lovingly and trustingly into his, and whatever it was, whether the remembrance that his one daughter was so soon to go out from her home, or the thought of all the tender and patient love and care which she had bestowed on him in those early morning hours, the stern gray eyes grew tender, the haughty lines about the mouth relaxed, and with a sudden caressing movement of his hand among the brown curls, he said in a half moved, half playful tone: "did you ever ask any thing of anybody in your life that you didn't get?" then more gravely: "you shall have your way once more. abbie, it would be a pity to despoil you of your scepter at this late day." "fiddlesticks!" ejaculated mrs. ried. before she had added anything to that original sentiment abbie was behind her chair, both arms wound around her neck, and then came soft, quick, loving kisses on her cheeks, on her lips, on her chin, and even on her nose. "nonsense!" added her mother. then she laughed. "your father would consent to have the ceremony performed in the attic if you should take a fancy that the parlors are too nicely furnished to suit your puritanic views and i don't know but i should be just as foolish." "that man has gained complete control over her," mrs. ried said, looking after abbie with a little sigh, and addressing her remarks to ester as they stood together for a moment in the further parlor. "he is a first-class fanatic, grows wilder and more incomprehensible in his whims every day, and bends abbie to his slightest wish. my only consolation is that he is a man of wealth and culture, and indeed in every other respect entirely unexceptionable." a new light dawned upon ester. this was the secret of abbie's "strangeness." mr. foster was one of those rare and wonderful men about whom one occasionally reads but almost never meets, and of course abbie, being so constantly under his influence, was constantly led by him. very few could expect to attain to such a hight; certainly she, with her social disadvantages and unhelpful surroundings, must not hope for it. she was rapidly returning to her former state of self-satisfaction. there were certain things to be done. for instance, that first chapter of john should receive more close attention at her next reading; and there were various other duties which should be taken up and carefully observed. but, on the whole, ester felt that she had been rather unnecessarily exercised, and that she must not expect to be perfect. and so once more there was raised a flag of truce between her conscience and her life. chapter xvii. stepping between. they lingered together for a few minutes in the sitting-room, abbie, ester, ralph and mr. foster. they had been having a half sad, half merry talk. it was the evening before the wedding. ere this time to-morrow abbie would have left them, and in just a little while the ocean would roll between them. ester drew a heavy sigh as she thought of it all. this magic three weeks, which had glowed in beauty for her, such, as she told herself, her life would never see again, were just on the eve of departure; only two days now before she would carry that same restless, unhappy heart back among the clattering dishes in that pantry and dining-room at home. ralph broke the little moment of silence which had fallen between them. "foster, listen to the sweet tones of that distant clock. it is the last time that you, being a free man, will hear it strike five." "unless i prove to be an early riser on the morrow, which necessity will compel me to become if i tarry longer here at present. abbie, i must be busy this entire evening. that funeral obliged me to defer some important business matters that i meant should have been dispatched early in the day." "it isn't possible that you have been to a funeral to-day! how you do mix things." ralph uttered this sentence in real or pretended horror. "why not?" mr. foster answered gently, and added: "it is true though; life and death are very strangely mixed. it was our little sabbath-school girl, sallie, whom we laid to rest to-day. it didn't jar as some funerals would have done; one had simply to remember that she had reached home. miss ester, if you will get that package for me i will execute your commission with pleasure." ester went away to do his bidding, and ralph, promising to meet him at the store in an hour, sauntered away, and for a few moments abbie and mr. foster talked together alone. "good-by all of you," he said smiling, as he glanced back at the two girls a few moments later. "take care of her, ester, until i relieve you. it will not be long now." "take care," ester answered gaily; "you have forgotten the 'slip' that there may be 'between the cup and the lip.'" but he answered her with an almost solemn gravity: "i never forget that more worthy expression of the same idea, we know not what a day may bring forth; but i always remember with exceeding joy that god knows, and will lead us." "he is graver than ten ministers," ester said, as they turned from the window. "come, abbie, let us go up stairs." it was two hours later when abbie entered the sitting-room where ester awaited her, and curled herself into a small heap of white muslin at ester's feet. "there!" said she, with a musical little laugh, "mother has sent me away. the measure of her disgust is complete now. dr. downing is in the sitting-room, and i have been guilty of going in to see him. imagine such a fearful breach of etiquette taking place in the house of ried! do you know, i don't quite know what to do with myself. there is really nothing more to busy myself about, unless i eat the wedding cake." "you don't act in the least like a young lady who is to be married to-morrow," was ester's answer, as she regarded her cousin with a half amused, half puzzled air. "don't i?" said abbie, trying to look alarmed. "what _have_ i done now? i'm forever treading on bits of propriety, and crushing them. it will be a real relief to me when i am safely married, and can relapse into a common mortal again. why, ester, what have i been guilty of just now?" "you are not a bit sentimental; are you, abbie?" and at this gravely put question abbie's laugh rang out again. "now don't, please, add that item to the list," she said merrily. "ester, is it very important that one should be sentimental on such an occasion? i wish you were married, i really do, so that i might be told just how to conduct my self. how can you and mother be so unreasonable as to expect perfection when it is all new, and i really never practiced in my life?" then a change, as sudden as it was sweet, flushed over abbie's face. the merry look died out, and in its place a gentle, tender softness rested in the bright blue eyes, and her voice was low and quiet. "you think my mood a strange one, i fancy, dear ester; almost unbecoming in its gayety. perhaps it is, and yet i feel it bright and glad and happy. the change is a solemn one, but it seems to me that i have considered it long and well. i remember that my new home is to be very near my old one; that my brother will have a patient, faithful, life-long friend in mr. foster, and this makes me feel more hopeful for him--and, indeed, it seems to me that i feel like repeating, 'the lines have fallen unto me in pleasant places.' i do not, therefore, affect a gravity that i do not feel. i am gloriously happy to-night, and the strongest feeling in my heart is thankfulness. my heavenly father has brimmed my earthly cup, so that it seems to me there is not room in my heart for another throb of joy; and so you see--ester, what on earth can be going on down stairs? have you noticed the banging of doors, and the general confusion that reigns through the house? positively if i wasn't afraid of shocking mother into a fainting fit i would start on a voyage of discovery." "suppose i go," ester answered, laughing. "inasmuch as i am not going to be married, there can be no harm in seeing what new developments there are below stairs. i mean to go. i'll send you word if it is any thing very amazing." and with a laughing adieu ester closed the door on the young bride-elect, and ran swiftly down stairs. there did seem to be a good deal of confusion in the orderly household, and the very air of the hall seemed to be pervaded with a singular subdued excitement; voices of suppressed loudness issued from the front parlor and as ester knocked she heard a half scream from mrs. ried, mingled with cries of "don't let her in." growing thoroughly alarmed, ester now abruptly pushed open the door and entered. "oh, for mercy's sake, don't let her come," almost screamed mrs. ried, starting wildly forward. "mother, _hush_!" said ralph's voice in solemn sternness. "it is only ester. where is abbie?" "in her room. what is the matter? why do you all act so strangely? i came to see what caused so much noise." and then her eyes and voice were arrested by a group around the sofa; mr. ried and dr. downing, and stooping over some object which was hidden from her was the man who had been pointed out to her as the great dr. archer. as she looked in terrified amazement, he raised his head and spoke. "it is as i feared, mr. ried. the pulse has ceased." "it is not possible!" and the hollow, awestruck tone in which mr. ried spoke can not be described. and then ester saw stretched on that sofa a perfectly motionless form, a perfectly pale and quiet face, rapidly settling into the strange solemn calm of death, and that face and form were mr. foster's! and she stood as if riveted to the spot; stood in speechless, moveless horror and amaze--and then the swift-coming thoughts shaped themselves into two woe-charged words: "oh abbie!" what a household was this into which death had so swiftly and silently entered! the very rooms in which the quiet form lay sleeping, all decked in festive beauty in honor of the bridal morning; but oh! there was to come no bridal. ester shrank back in awful terror from the petition that she would go to abbie. "i can not--i _can not_!" she repeated again and again. "it will kill her; and oh! it would kill me to tell her." mrs. ried was even more hopeless a dependence than ester; and mr. ried cried out in the very agony of despair: "what _shall_ we do? is there _nobody_ to help us?" then ralph came forward, grave almost to sternness, but very calm. "dr. downing," he said, addressing the gentleman who had withdrawn a little from the family group. "it seems to me that you are our only hope in this time of trial. my sister and you are sustained, i verily believe, by the same power. the rest of us seem to _have_ no sustaining power. would you go to my sister, sir?" dr. downing turned his eyes slowly away from the calm, moveless face which seemed to have fascinated him, and said simply: "i will do what i can for abbie. it is blessed to think what a helper she has. one who never faileth. god pity those who have no such friend." so they showed him up to the brightly-lighted library, and sent a message to the unconscious abbie. "dr. downing," she said, turning briskly from the window in answer to maggie's summons. "whatever does he want of me do you suppose, maggie? i'm half afraid of him tonight. however, i'll endeavor to brave the ordeal. tell miss ester to come up to me as soon as she can, and be ready to defend me if i am to receive a lecture." this, as she flitted by toward the door; and a pitying cloud just then hid the face of the august moon, and vailed from the glance of the poor young creature the white, frightened face of maggie. with what unutterable agony of fear did the family below wait and long for and dread the return of dr. downing, or some message from that dreadful room. the moments that seemed hours to them dragged on, and no sound came to them. "she has not fainted then," muttered ralph at last, "or he would have rung. ester, you know what maggie said. could you not go to her?" ester cowered and shrunk. "oh, ralph, don't ask me. i _can not_." then they waited again in silence; and at last shivered with fear as dr. downing softly opened the door. there were traces of deep emotion on his face, but just now it was wonderful for its calmness. "she knows all," he said, addressing mr. ried. "and the widow's god is hers. mrs. ried, she makes special request that she need see no living soul to-night; and, indeed, i think it will be best. and now, my friends, may i pray with you in this hour of trial." so while quick, skillful fingers prepared the sleeper in that front parlor for his long, long rest, a group such as had never bowed the knee together before, knelt in the room just across the hall, and amid tears and moans they were commended to the care of him who waits to help us all. by and by a solemn quiet settled down upon that strangely stricken household. in the front parlor the folding doors were closed, and the angel of death kept guard over his quiet victim. from the chamber overhead came forth no sound, and none knew save god how fared the struggle between despair and submission in that young heart. in the sitting-room ester waited breathlessly while ralph gave the particulars, which she had not until now been able to hear. "we were crossing just above the store; had nearly got across; he was just saying that his preparations were entirely perfected for a long absence. 'it is a long journey,' he added, 'and if i never come back i have the satisfaction of thinking that i have left everything ready even for that. it is well to be ready even for death, ralph,' he said, with one of his glorious smiles; 'it makes life pleasanter.' i don't know how i can tell you the rest." and ralph's lips grew white and tremulous. "indeed, i hardly know how it was. there was an old bent woman crossing just behind us, and there was a carriage, and a wretch of a drunken driver pushing his way through. i don't know how foster came to look around, but he did, and said, 'there is my dear old lady behind us, ralph; she ought not to be out with a mere child for a companion.' and then he uttered an exclamation of terror, and sprang forward--and i know nothing clearly that followed. i saw him drag that old woman fairly from under the horses' feet. i heard the driver curse, and saw him strike his frightened horses, and they reared and plunged, and i saw him fall; but it all seemed to happen in one second of time--and how i got him home, and got dr. archer, and kept it from abbie, i don't seem to know. oh god help my poor little fair darling." and ralph choked and stopped, and wiped from his eyes great burning tears. "oh ralph!" said ester, as soon as she could speak. "then all this misery comes because that driver was intoxicated." "yes," said ralph, with compressed lips and flashing eyes. * * * * * "and that, knowing the time, that now it is high time to awake out of sleep; for now is our salvation nearer than when we believed." rom. : . * * * * * chapter xviii. light out of darkness. slowly, slowly, the night wore away, and the eastern sky grew rosy with the blush of a new morning--the bridal morning! how strangely unreal, how even impossible did it seem to ester, as she raised the curtains and looked drearily out upon the dawn, that this was actually the day upon which her thoughts had centered during the last three weeks what a sudden shutting down had there been to all their plans and preparations! how strangely the house looked--here a room bedecked in festive beauty for the wedding; there one with shrouded mirrors, and floating folds of crape! life and death, a wedding and a funeral--they had never either of them touched so close to her before; and now the one had suddenly glided backward, and left her heart heavy with the coming of the other. mechanically, she turned to look upon the silvery garment gleaming among the white furnishings of the bed, for she was that very morning to have assisted in arraying the bride in those robes of beauty. her own careful fingers had laid out all the bewildering paraphernalia of the dressing-room--sash and gloves, and handkerchief and laces. just in that very spot had she stood only yesterday, and talking the while with abbie; had altered a knot of ribbons, and given the ends a more graceful droop, and just at that moment abbie had been summoned below stairs to see mr. foster--and now he was waiting down there, not for abbie, but for the coffin and the grave, and abbie was----. and here ester gave a low, shuddering moan, and covered her eyes with her hands. why had she come into that room at all? and why was all this fearful time allowed to come to abbie? poor, poor abbie she had been so bright and so good, and mr. foster had been so entirely her guide--how could she ever endure it? ester doubted much whether abbie could ever bear to see _her_ again, she had been so closely connected with all these bright days, over which so fearful a pall had fallen. it would be very natural if she should refuse even to _see_ her--and, indeed, ester almost hoped she would. it seemed to her that this was a woe too deep to be spoken of or endured, only she said with a kind of desperation, "things _must_ be endured;" and there was a wild thought in her heart, that if she could but have the ordering of events, all this bitter sorrow should never be. there came a low, tremulous knock as an interruption to her thoughts, and maggie's swollen eyes and tear-stained face appeared at the door with a message. "if you please, miss ester, she wants you." "who?" asked ester, with trembling lips and a sinking at her heart. "miss abbie, ma'am; she asked for you, and said would you come to her as soon as you could." but it was hours after that before ester brought herself to feel that she _could_ go to her. nothing had ever seemed so hard to her to do. how to look, how to act, what to say, and above all, what _not_ to say to this poor, widowed bride. these questions were by no means answered, when she suddenly, in desperate haste, decided that if it must be done, the sooner it was over the better, and she made all speed to prepare herself for the visit; and yet there was enough of ester's personal self left, even on that morning, to send a little quiver of complacency through her veins, as she bathed her tear-stained face, and smoothed her disordered hair. abbie had sent for _her_. abbie wanted her; she had sent twice. evidently she had turned to her for help. miserably unable as she felt herself to give it, still it was a comfort to feel that she was the one selected from the household for companionship. ester knew that mrs. ried had been with her daughter for a few moments, and that ralph had rushed in and out again, too overcome to stay, but ester had asked no questions, and received no information concerning her. she pictured her lying on the bed, with disordered hair and swollen eyes, given over to the abandonment of grief, or else the image of stony despair; and it was with a very trembling hand that at last she softly turned the knob and let herself into the morning room, which she and abbie had enjoyed together; and just as she pushed open the door, a neighboring clock counted out twelve strokes, and it was at twelve o'clock that abbie was to become a wife! midway in the room ester paused, and, as her eyes rested on abbie, a look of bewildering astonishment gathered on her face. in the little easy chair by the open window, one hand keeping the place in the partly closed book, sat the young creature, whose life had so suddenly darkened around her. the morning robe of soft pure white was perfect in its neatness and simplicity, the brown curls clustered around her brow with their wonted grace and beauty, and while under her eyes indeed there were heavy rings of black, yet the eyes themselves were large and full and tender. as she held out the disengaged hand, there came the soft and gentle likeness of a smile over her face; and ester, bewildered, amazed, frightened, stood almost as transfixed as if she had been one of those who saw the angel sitting at the door of the empty tomb. stood a moment, then a sudden revulsion of feeling overcoming her, hurried forward, and dropping on her knees, bowed her head over the white hand and the half-open bible, and burst into a passion of tears. "_dear_ ester!" this said abbie in the softest, most soothing of tones. the mourner turned comforter! "oh abbie, abbie, how can you bear it--how _can_ you live?" burst forth from the heart of this friend who had come to comfort this afflicted one! there was a little bit of silence now, and a touching tremble to the voice when it was heard again. "'the lord knoweth them that are his.' i try to remember that. christ knows it all, and he loves me, and he is all-powerful; and yet he leads me through this dark road; therefore it _must_ be right." "but," said ester, raising her eyes and staying her tears for very amazement, "i do not understand--i do not see. how _can_ you be so calm, so submissive, at least just now--so soon--and you were to have been married to-day?" the blood rolled in great purple waves over neck and cheek and brow, and then receded, leaving a strange, almost death-like, pallor behind it. the small hands were tightly clasped, with a strange mixture of pain and devotion in the movement, and the white lips moved for a moment, forming words that met no mortal ear--then the sweet, low, tender voice sounded again. "dear ester, i pray. there is no other way. i pray all the time. i keep right by my savior. there is just a little, oh, a very little, vale of flesh between him and between my--my husband and myself. jesus loves me, ester. i know it now just as well as i did yesterday. i do not and can not doubt him." a mixture of awe and pain and astonishment kept ester moveless and silent, and abbie spoke no more for some moments. then it was a changed, almost bright voice. "ester do you remember we stood together alone for a moment yesterday? i will tell you what he said, the last words that were intended for just me only, that i shall hear for a little while; they are _my_ words, you know, but i shall tell them to you so you may see how tender christ is, even in his most solemn chastenings. 'see here,' he said, 'i will give you a word to keep until we meet in the morning: the lord watch between thee and me while we are absent one from another.' i have been thinking, while i sat here this morning, watching the coming of this new day, which you know is his first day in heaven, that perhaps it will be on some such morning of beauty as this that my long, long day will dawn, and that i will say to him, as soon as ever i see his face again: 'the word was a good one; the lord has watched between us, and the night is gone.' think of it, ester. i shall _surely_ say that some day--'some summer morning.'" the essence of sweetness and the sublimity of faith which this young christian threw into these jubilant words can not be repeated on paper; but, thank god, they can in the heart--they are but the echo of those sure and everlasting words: "my grace is sufficient for thee." as for ester, who had spent her years groveling in the dust of earth, it was the recital of such an experience as she had not deemed it possible for humanity to reach. and still she knelt immovable and silent, and abbie broke the silence yet again. "dear ester, do you know i have not seen him yet, and i want to. mother does not understand, and she would not give her consent, but she thinks me safe while you are with me. would you mind going down with me just to look at his face again?" oh, ester would mind it _dreadfully_. she was actually afraid of death. she was afraid of the effect of such a scene upon this strange abbie. she raised her head, shivering with pain and apprehension, and looked a volume of petition and remonstrance; but ere she spoke abbie's hand rested lovingly on her arm, and her low sweet voice continued the pleading: "you do not quite understand my mood, ester. i am not unlike others; i have wept bitter tears this past night; i have groaned in agony of spirit; i have moaned in the very dust. i shall doubtless have such struggles again. this is earth, and the flesh is weak; but now is my hour of exaltation--and while it is given me now to feel a faint overshadowing of the very glory which surrounds him, i want to go and look my last upon the dear clay which is to stay here on earth with me." and ester rose up, and wound her arm about the tiny frame which held this brave true heart, and without another spoken word the two went swiftly down the stairs, and entered the silent, solemn parlor. yet, even while she went, a fierce throb of pain shook ester's heart, as she remembered how they had arranged to descend the staircase on this very day--in what a different manner, and for what a different purpose. apparently no such thought as this touched abbie. she went softly and yet swiftly forward to the still form, while ester waited in almost breathless agony to see what would result from this trial of faith and nerve; but what a face it was upon which death had left its seal! no sculptured marble was ever so grand in its solemn beauty as was this clay-molded face, upon which the glorious smile born not of earth rested in full sweetness. abbie, with clasped hands and slightly parted lips, stood and almost literally drank in the smile; then, sweet and low and musical, there broke the sound of her voice in that great solemn room. "so he giveth his beloved sleep." not another word or sound disturbed the silence. and still abbie stood and gazed on the dear, dead face. and still ester stood near the door, and watched with alternations of anxiety and awe the changeful expressions on the scarcely less white face of the living, until at last, without sound or word, she dropped upon her knees, a cloud of white drapery floating around her, and clasped her hands over the lifeless breast. then on ester's face the anxiety gave place to awe, and with softly moving fingers she opened the door, and with noiseless tread went out into the hall and left the living and the dead alone together. there was one more scene for ester to endure that day. late in the afternoon, as she went to the closed room, there was bending over the manly form a gray-haired old woman. by whose friendly hands she had been permitted to enter, ester did not stop to wonder. she had seen her but once before, but she knew at a glance the worn, wrinkled face; and, as if a picture of the scene hung before her, she saw that old, queer form, leaning trustfully on the strong arm, lying nerveless now, being carefully helped through the pushing throng--being reverently cared for as if she had been his mother; and _she_, looking after the two, had wondered if she should ever see them again. now she stood in the presence of them both, yet what an unmeasurable ocean rolled between them! the faded, tearful eyes were raised to her face after a moment, and a quivering voice spoke her thoughts aloud, rather than addressed any body. "he gave his life for poor old useless me, and it was such a beautiful life, and was needed, oh so much; but what am i saying, god let it be him instead of me, who wanted so to go--and after trusting him all along, am i, at my time of life, going to murmur at him now? he came to see me only yesterday"--this in a more natural tone of voice, addressed to ester--"he told me good-by. he said he was going a long journey with his wife; and now, may the dear savior help the poor darling, for he has gone his long journey without her." ester waited to hear not another word. the heavy sense of pain because of abbie, which she had carried about with her through all that weary day, had reached its height with that last sentence: "he has gone his long journey without her." she fled from the room, up the stairs, to the quiet little chamber, which had been given to her for her hours of retirement, locked and bolted the door, and commenced pacing up and down the room in agony of soul. it was not all because of abbie that this pain knocked so steadily at her heart, at least not all out of sympathy with her bitter sorrow. there was a fearful tumult raging in her own soul; her last stronghold had been shattered. of late she had come to think that abbie's christian life was but a sweet reflection of mr. foster's strong, true soul; that she leaned not on christ, but on the arm of flesh. she had told herself very confidently that if _she_ had such a friend as he had been to abbie, she should be like her. in her hours of rebellion she had almost angrily reminded herself that it was not strange that abbie's life could be so free from blame; _she_ had some one to turn to in her needs. it was a very easy matter for abbie to slip lightly over the petty trials of her life, so long as she was surrounded and shielded by that strong, true love. but now, ah now, the arm of flesh had faltered, the strong staff had broken, and broken, too, only a moment, as it were, before it was to have been hers in name as well as in spirit. naturally, ester had expected that the young creature, so suddenly shorn of her best and dearest, would falter and faint, and utterly fail. and when, looking on, she saw the triumph of the christian's faith, rising even over death, sustained by no human arm, and yet wonderfully, triumphantly sustained, even while she bent for the last time over that which was to have been her earthly all--looking and wondering, there suddenly fell away from her the stupor of years, and ester saw with wide, open eyes, and thoroughly awakened soul, that there was a something in this christian religion that abbie had and she had not. and thus it was that she paced her room in that strange agony that was worse than grief, and more sharp than despair. no use now to try to lull her conscience back to quiet sleep again; that time was past, it was thoroughly and sharply awake; the same all-wise hand which had tenderly freed one soul from its bonds of clay and called it home, had as tenderly and as wisely, with the same stroke, cut the cords that bound this other soul to earth, loosed the scales from her long-closed eyes, broke the sleep that had well-nigh lulled her to ruin; and now heart and brain and conscience were thoroughly and forever awake. when at last, from sheer exhaustion, she ceased her excited pacing up and down the room and sank into a chair, her heart was not more stilled. it seemed to her, long after, in thinking of this hour, that it was given to her to see deeper into the recesses of her own depravity than ever mortal had seen before. she began years back, at that time when she thought she had given her heart to christ, and reviewed step by step all the weary way, up to this present time; and she found nothing but backslidings, and inconsistencies, and confusion--denials of her savior, a closed bible, a neglected closet, a forgotten cross. oh, the bitterness, the unutterable agony of that hour! surely abbie, on her knees struggling with her bleeding heart, and yet feeling all around and underneath her the everlasting arms, knew nothing of desolation such as this. fiercer and fiercer waged the warfare, until at last every root of pride, or self-complacence, or self-excuse, was utterly cast out. yet did not satan despair. oh, he meant to have this poor sick, weak lamb, if he could get her; no effort should be left unmade. and when he found that she could be no more coaxed and lulled and petted into peace, he tried that darker, heavier temptation--tried to stupefy her into absolute despair. "no," she said within her heart, "i am not a christian; i never have been one; i never _can_ be one. i've been a miserable, self-deceived hypocrite all my life. i have had a name to live, and am dead. i would not let myself be awakened; i have struggled against it; i have been only too glad to stop myself from thinking about it. i have been just a miserable stumbling-block, with no excuse to offer; and now i feel myself deserted, justly so. there can be no rest for such as i. i have no savior; i have insulted and denied him; i have crucified him again, and now he has left me to myself." thus did that father of lies continue to pour into this weary soul the same old story which he has repeated for so many hundred years, with the same old foundation: "_i--i--i_." and strange to say, this poor girl repeated the experience which has so many times been lived, during these past hundreds of years, in the very face of that other glorious pronoun, in very defiance, it would seem, to that old, old explanation: "surely _he_ hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows." "_he_ was wounded for our transgressions; _he_ was bruised for our iniquities. the chastisement of our peace was upon _him_: and with _his stripes_ we are healed." yes, ester knew those two verses. she knew yet another which said: "all we, like sheep, have gone astray. we have turned every one to his own way: _and the lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all_." and yet she dared to sit with hopeless, folded hand, with heavy despairing eyes, and repeat that sentence: "i _have_ no savior now." and many a wandering sheep has dared, even in its repenting hour, to insult the great shepherd thus. ester's bible lay on the window seat--the large, somewhat worn bible which abbie had lent her, to "mark just as much as she pleased;" it lay open, as if it had opened of itself to a familiar spot. there were heavy markings around several of the verses, markings that had not been made by ester's pencil. some power far removed from that which had been guiding her despairing thoughts prompted her to reach forth her hand for the book, and fix her attention on those marked verses, and the words were these: "for thus saith the high and lofty one that inhabiteth eternity, whose name is holy; i dwell in the high and holy place, with him also that is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite ones. for i will not contend forever, neither will i be always wroth: for the spirit should fail before me, and the souls which i have made. for the iniquity of his covetousness was i wroth, and smote him: i hid me, and was wroth, and he went on frowardly in the way of his heart. i have seen his ways, and will heal him: i will lead him also, and restore comforts unto him and to his mourners. i create the fruit of the lips; peace, peace to him that is afar off, and to him that is near, saith the lord; and _i will heal him_." had an angel spoken to ester, or was it the dear voice of the lord himself? she did not know. she only knew that there rang through her very soul two sentences as the climax of all these wonderful words: "peace, peace to him that is afar off"--and--"i will heal him." a moment more, and with the very promise of the crucified spread out before her, ester was on her knees; and at first, with bursts of passionate, tearful pleading, and later with low, humble, contrite tones, and finally with the sound in her voice of that peace which comes only to those to whom christ is repeating: "i have blotted out as a cloud thy transgressions, and as a thick cloud thy sins," did ester pray. "do you know, dear ester, there must have been two new joys in heaven to-day? first they had a new-comer among those who walk with him in white, for they are worthy; and then they had that shout of triumph over another soul for whom satan has struggled fiercely and whom he has forever lost." this said abbie, as they nestled close together that evening in the "purple twilight." and ester answered simply and softly: amen. chapter xix. sundries. meanwhile the days moved on; the time fixed for ester's return home had long passed, and yet she tarried in new york. abbie clung to her, wanted her for various reasons; and the unselfish, pitying mother, far away, full of tender sympathy for the stricken bride, smothered a sigh of weariness, buried in her heart the thought of her own need of her eldest daughter's presence and help, and wrote a long, loving letter, jointly to the daughter and niece, wherein she gave her full consent to ester's remaining away, so long as she could be a comfort to her cousin. two items worthy of record occurred during these days. the first time the family gathered at the dinner table, after the one who had been so nearly a son of the house had been carried to his rest in that wonderful and treasured city of greenwood, ralph, being helped by john, as usual, to his glass of wine, refused it with a short, sharp, almost angry "_no_. take it away and never offer me the accursed stuff again. we should have had him with us to-day but for that. i'll never touch another drop of it as long as i live." which startling words mr. and mrs. ried listened to without comment, other than a half-frightened look bestowed on abbie, to see how she would bear this mention of her dead; and she bore it this way. turning her eyes, glistening with tears, full on her brother's face, she said, with a little quiver of tender gladness in her voice: "oh, ralph, i knew it had a silver lining, but i did not think god would let me see it so soon." then mr. and mrs. ried concluded that both their children were queer, and that they did not understand them. the other item was productive of a dissertation on propriety from mrs. ried. ralph and his father were in the back parlor, the former standing with one arm resting on the mantel while he talked with his father, who was half buried in a great easy chair--that easy chair in his own elegant parlor, and his handsome son standing before him in that graceful attitude, were mr. ried's synonyms for perfect satisfaction; and his face took on a little frown of disappointment, as the door opened somewhat noisily, and mrs. ried came in wearing a look expressive of thoroughly-defined vexation. ralph paused in the midst of his sentence, and wheeled forward a second easy chair for his mother, then returned to his former position and waited patiently for the gathered frown to break into words, which event instantly occurred. "i really do not think, mr. ried, that this nonsense ought to be allowed; besides being a very strange, unfeeling thing to do, it is in my opinion positively indecent--and i _do_ think, mr. ried, that you ought to exercise your authority for once." "if you would kindly inform me what you are supposed to be talking about, and where my authority is specially needed at this time, i might be induced to consider the matter." this, from the depths of the easy chair, in its owner's most provokingly indifferent tone, which fortunately mrs. ried was too much preoccupied to take special note of, and continued her storm of words. "here, it is not actually quite a week since he was buried, and abbie must needs make herself and her family appear perfectly ridiculous by making her advent in public." mr. ried came to an upright posture, and even ralph asked a startled question: "where is she going?" "why, where do you suppose, but to that absurd little prayer-meeting, where she always would insist upon going every thursday evening. i used to think it was for the pleasure of a walk home with mr. foster; but why she should go to-night is incomprehensible to me." "nonsense!" said mr. ried, settling back into the cushions. "a large public that will be. i thought at the very least she was going to the opera. if the child finds any comfort in such an atmosphere, where's the harm? let her go." "where's the harm! now, mr. ried, that is just as much as you care for appearances _sometimes_, and at other times you can be quite as particular as _i_ am; though i certainly believe there is nothing that abbie might take a fancy to do that you would not uphold her in." mr. ried's reply was uttered in a tone that impressed one with the belief that he was uttering a deliberate conviction. "you are quite right as regards that, i suspect. at least i find myself quite unable to conceive of any thing connected with her that could by any twisting be made other than just the thing." mrs. ried's exasperated answer was cut short by the entrance of abbie, attired as for a walk or ride, the extreme pallor of her face and the largeness of her soft eyes enhanced by the deep mourning robes which fell around her like the night. "now, abbie," said mrs. ried, turning promptly to her, "i did hope you had given up this strangest of all your strange whims. what _will_ people think?" "people are quite accustomed to see me there, dear mother, at least all the people who will see me to-night; and if _ever_ i needed help i do just now." "i should think it would be much more appropriate to stay at home and find help in the society of your own family. that is the way other people do who are in affliction." mrs. ried had the benefit of a full, steady look from abbie's great solemn eyes now, as she said: "mother, i want god's help. no other will do me any good." "well," answered mrs. ried, after just a moment of rather awe-struck silence, "can't you find that help any where but in that plain, common little meeting-house? i thought people with your peculiar views believed that god was every-where." an expression not unlike that of a hunted deer shone for a moment in abbie's eyes. then she spoke, in tones almost despairing: "o mother, _mother_, you _can not_ understand." tone, or words, or both, vexed mrs. ried afresh, and she spoke with added sharpness. "at least i can understand this much, that my daughter is very anxious to do a thing utterly unheard of in its propriety, and i am thoroughly ashamed of you. if i were ester i should not like to uphold you in such a singularly conspicuous parade. remember, you have no one _now_ but john to depend upon as an escort." ralph had remained a silent, immovable listener to this strange, sad conversation up to this moment. now he came suddenly forward with a quick, firm tread, and encircled abbie's trembling form with his arm, while with eyes and voice he addressed his mother. "in that last proposition you are quite mistaken, my dear mother. abbie chances to have a brother, who considers himself honored by being permitted to accompany her any where she may choose to go." mrs. ried looked up at her tall, haughty son in unfeigned astonishment, and for an instant was silent. "oh," she said at last, "if you have chosen to rank yourself on this ridiculous fanatical side, i have nothing more to say." as for mr. ried, he had long before this shadded his eyes with his hand, and was looking through half-closed fingers with mournful eyes at the sable robes and pallid face of his golden-haired darling, apparently utterly unconscious of or indifferent to the talk that was going on. but will ralph ever forget the little sweet smile which illumined for a moment the pure young face, as she turned confiding eyes on him? thenceforth there dawned a new era in abbie's life. ralph, for reasons best known to himself, chose to be released from his vacation engagements in a neighboring city, and remained closely at home. and abbie went as usual to her mission-class, to her bible-class, to the teacher's prayer-meeting, to the regular church prayer-meeting, every-where she had been wont to go, and she was always and every-where accompanied and sustained by her brother. as for ester, these were days of great opportunity and spiritual growth to her. so we bridge the weeks between and reach the afternoon of a september day, bright and beautiful, as the month draws toward its closing; and ester is sitting alone in her room in the low, easy chair by the open window, and in her lap lies an open letter, while she, with thoughtful, earnest eyes seems reading, not it, but the future, or else her own heart. the letter is from sadie, and she has written thus: "my dear city sister,--mother said to-night, as we were promenading the dining-room for the sake of exercise, and also to clear off the table (maggie had the toothache and was off duty): 'sadie, my dear child, haven't you written to ester yet? do you think it is quite right to neglect her so, when she must be very anxious to hear from home?' now, you know, when mother says, 'sadie, my dear child,' and looks at me from out those reproachful eyes of hers, there is nothing short of mixing a mess of bread that i would not do for her. so here i am--place, third story front; time, : p.m.; position, foot of the bed (julia being soundly sleeping at the head), one gaiter off and one gaiter on, somewhat after the manner of 'my son john' so renowned in history. speaking of bread, how abominably that article can act. i had a solemn conflict with a batch of it this morning. firstly, you must know, i forgot it. mother assured me it was ready to be mixed before i awakened, so it must have been before that event took place that the forgetfulness occurred; however, be that as it may, after i was thoroughly awake, and up, and _down_, i still forgot it. the fried potatoes were frying themselves fast to that abominable black dish in which they are put to sizzle, and which, by the way, is the most nefarious article in the entire kitchen list to get clean (save and excepting the dish-cloth). well, as i was saying, they burned themselves, and i ran to the rescue. then minie wanted me to go to the yard with her, to see a 'dear cunning little brown and gray thing, with some greenish spots, that walked and spoke to her.' the interesting stranger proved to be a fair-sized frog! while examining into, and explaining minutely the nature and character and occupations of the entire frog family, the mixture in the tin pail, behind the kitchen stove, took that opportunity to _sour_. my! what a bubble it was in, and what an interesting odor it emitted, when at last i returned from frogdom to the ordinary walks of life, and gave it my attention. maggie was above her elbows in the wash-tub, so i seized the pail, and in dire haste and dismay ran up two flights of stairs in search of mother. i suppose you know what followed. i assure you, i think mothers and soda are splendid! what a remarkable institution that ingredient is. while i made sour into sweet with the aid of its soothing proclivities, i moralized; the result of which was that after i had squeezed and mushed and rolled over, and thumped and patted my dough the requisite number of times, i tucked it away under blankets in a corner, and went out to the piazza to ask dr. douglass if he knew of an article in the entire round of materia medica which could be given to human beings when they were sour and disagreeable, and which, after the manner of soda in dough, would immediately work a reform. on his acknowledging his utter ignorance of any such principle, i advanced the idea that cooking was a much more developed science than medicine; thence followed an animated discussion. "but in the meantime what do you suppose that bread was doing? just spreading itself in the most remarkable manner over the nice blanket under which i had cuddled it! then i had an amazing time. mother said the patting process must all be done over again; and there was abundant opportunity for more moralizing. that bread developed the most remarkable stick-to-a-tive-ness that i ever beheld. i assure you, if total depravity is a mark of humanity, then i believe my dough is human. "well, we are all still alive, though poor mr. holland is, i fear, very little more than that. he was thrown from his carriage one evening last week, and brought home insensible. he is now in a raging fever, and very ill indeed. for once in their lives both doctors agree. he is delirious most of the time; and his delirium takes the very trying form which leads him to imagine that only mother can do any thing for him. the doctors think he fancies she is his own mother, and that he is a boy again. all this makes matters rather hard on mother. she is frequently with him half the night; and often maggie and i are left to reign supreme in the kitchen for the entire day. those are the days that 'try men's souls,' especially women's. "i am sometimes tempted to think that all the book knowledge the world contains is not to be compared to knowing just what, and how, and when, to do in the kitchen. i quite think so for a few hours when mother, after a night of watching in a sick room, comes down to undo some of my blundering. she is the patientest, dearest, lovingest, kindest mother that ever a mortal had, and just because she is so patient shall i rejoice over the day when she can give a little sigh of relief and leave the kitchen, calm in the assurance that it will be right-side up when she returns. ester, how _did_ you make things go right? i'm sure i try harder than i ever knew you to, and yet salt will get into cakes and puddings, and sugar into potatoes. just here i'm conscience smitten. i beg you will not construe one of the above sentences as having the remotest allusion to your being sadly missed at home. mother said i was not even to _hint_ such a thing, and i'm sure i haven't. i'm a _remarkable_ housekeeper. the fall term at the academy opened week before last. i have hidden my school-books behind that old barrel in the north-east corner of the attic. i thought they would be safer there than below stairs. at least i was sure the bread would do better in the oven because of their ascent. "to return to the scene of our present trials: mr. holland is, i suppose, very dangerously sick; and poor mrs. holland is the very embodiment of despair. when i look at her in prospective misery, i am reminded of poor, dear cousin abbie (to whom i would write if it didn't seem a sacrilege), and i conclude there is really more misery in this world of ours than i had any idea of. i've discovered why the world was made round. it must be to typify our lives--sort of a tread-mill existence, you know; coming constantly around to the things which you thought you had done yesterday and put away; living over again to-day the sorrows which you thought were vanquished last week. i'm sleepy, and it is nearly time to bake cakes for breakfast. 'the tip of the morning to you,' as patrick o'brien greets maggie. "yours nonsensically; sadie." chapter xx. at home. over this letter ester had laughed and cried, and finally settled, as we found her, into quiet thought. when abbie came in after a little, and nestled on an ottoman in front of her, with an inquiring look, ester placed the letter in her hands, without note or comment, and abbie read and laughed considerably, then grew more sober, and at last folded the letter with a very thoughtful face. "well," said ester, at last, smiling a little. and abbie answered: "oh, ester." "yes," said ester, "you see they need me." then followed a somewhat eager, somewhat sorrowful talk, and then a moment of silence fell between them, which abbie broke by a sudden question: "ester, isn't this dr. douglass gaining some influence over sadie? have i imagined it, or does she speak of him frequently in her letters, in a way that gives me an idea that his influence is not for good?" "i'm afraid it is very true; his influence over her seems to be great, and it certainly is not for good. the man is an infidel, i think. at least he is very far indeed from being a christian. do you know i read a verse in my bible this morning which, when i think of my past influence over sadie, reminds me bitterly of myself. it was like this: 'while men slept his enemy came and sowed tares--.' if i had not been asleep i might have won sadie for the savior before this enemy came." "well," abbie answered gently, not in the least contradicting this sad statement, but yet speaking hopefully, "you will try to undo all this now." "oh, abbie, i don't know. i am so weak--like a child just beginning to take little steps alone, instead of being the strong disciple that i might have been. i distrust myself. i am afraid." "i'm not afraid for you," abbie said, speaking very earnestly. "because, in the first place you are unlike the little child, in that you must never even try to take one step _alone_. and besides, there are more verses in the bible than that one. see here, let me show you mine." and abbie produced her little pocket bible, and pointed with her finger while ester read; "when i am weak, then am i strong." then turning the leaves rapidly, as one familiar with the strongholds of that tower of safety, she pointed again, and ester read: "what time i am afraid, i will trust in thee." almost five o'clock of a sultry october day, one of those days which come to us sometimes during that golden month, like a regretful turning back of the departing summer. a day which, coming to people who have much hard, pressing work, and who are wearied and almost stifled with the summer's heat, makes them thoroughly uncomfortable, not to say cross. almost five o'clock, and in the great dining-room of the rieds sadie was rushing nervously back and forth, very much in the same manner that ester was doing on that first evening of our acquaintance, only there was not so much method in her rushing. the curtains were raised as high as the tapes would take them, and the slant rays of the yellow sun were streaming boldly in, doing their bravest to melt into oil the balls of butter on the table, for poor, tired, bewildered sadie had forgotten to let down the shades, and forgotten the ice for the butter, and had laid the table cloth crookedly, and had no time to straighten it. this had been one of her trying days. the last fierce look of summer had parched anew the fevered limbs of the sufferer up stairs, and roused to sharper conflict the bewildered brain. mrs. ried's care had been earnest and unremitting, and sadie, in her unaccustomed position of mistress below stairs, had reached the very verge of bewildered weariness. she gave nervous glances at the inexorable clock as she flew back and forth. there were those among mrs. ried's boarders whose business made it almost a necessity that they should be promptly served at five o'clock. maggie had been hurriedly summoned to do an imperative errand connected with the sick room; and this inexperienced butterfly, with her wings sadly drooping, was trying to gather her scattered wits together sufficiently to get that dreadful tea-table ready for the thirteen boarders who were already waiting the summons. "what _did_ i come after?" she asked herself impatiently, as she pressed her hand to her frowning forehead, and stared about the pantry in a vain attempt to decide what had brought her there in such hot haste. "oh, a spoon--no, a fork, i guess it was. why, i don't remember the forks at all. as sure as i'm here, i believe they are, too, instead of being on the table; and--oh, my patience, i believe those biscuits are burning. i wonder if they are done. oh, dear me!" and the young lady, who was mr. hammond's star scholar, bent with puzzled, burning face, and received hot whiffs of breath from the indignant oven while she tried to discover whether the biscuits were ready to be devoured. it was an engrossing employment. she did not hear the sound of carriage wheels near the door, nor the banging of trunks on the side piazza. she was half way across the dining-room, with her tin of puffy biscuits in her hands, with the puzzled, doubtful look still on her face, before she felt the touch of two soft, loving arms around her neck, and turning quickly, she screamed, rather than said: "oh, ester!" and suddenly seating her tin of biscuit on one chair and herself on another, sadie covered her face with both hands and actually cried. "why, sadie, you poor dear child, what _can_ be the matter?" and ester's voice was full of anxiety, for it was almost the first time that she had ever seen tears on that bright young face. sadie's first remark caused a sudden revulsion of feeling. springing suddenly to her feet, she bent anxious eyes on the chair full of biscuit. "oh, ester," she said, "_are_ these biscuits done, or will they be sticky and hateful in the middle?" _how_ ester laughed! then she came to the rescue. "_done_--of course they are, and beautifully, too. did you make them? here, i'll take them out. sadie, where is mother?" "in mr. holland's room. she has been there nearly all day. mr. holland is no better, and maggie has gone on an errand for them. why have you come? did the fairies send you?" "and where are the children?" "they have gone to walk. minie wanted mother every other minute, so alfred and julia have carried her off with them. say, you _dear_ ester, how _did_ you happen to come? how shall i be glad enough to see you?" ester laughed. "then i can't see any of them," she said by way of answer. "never mind, then we'll have some tea. you poor child, how very tired you look. just seat yourself in that chair, and see if i have forgotten how to work." and sadie, who was thoroughly tired, and more nervous than she had any idea she could be, leaned luxuriously back in her mother's chair, with a delicious sense of unresponsibility about her, and watched a magic spell come over the room. down came the shades in a twinkling, and the low red sun looked in on them no more; the table-cloth straightened itself; pickles and cheese and cake got out of their confused proximity, and marched each to their appropriate niche on the well-ordered table; a flying visit into well-remembered regions returned hard, sparkling, ice-crowned butter. and when at last the fragrant tea stood ready to be served, and ester, bright and smiling, stationed herself behind her mother's chair, sadie gave a little relieved sigh, and then she laughed. "you're straight from fairy land, ester; i know it now. that table-cloth has been crooked in spite of me for a week. maggie lays it, and i _can not_ straighten it. i don't get to it. i travel five hundred miles every night to get this supper ready, and it's never ready. i have to bob up for a fork or a spoon, or i put on four plates of butter and none of bread. oh there is witch work about it, and none but thoroughbred witches can get every thing, every little insignificant, indispensable thing on a table. i can't keep house." "you poor kitten," said ester, filled with very tender sympathy for this pretty young sister and feeling very glad indeed that she had come home, "who would think of expecting a butterfly to spin? you shall bring those dear books down from the attic to-morrow. in the meantime, where is the tea-bell?" "oh, we don't ring," said sadie, rising as she spoke. "the noise disturbs mr. holland. here comes my first lieutenant, who takes charge of that matter. my sister, miss ried, dr. douglass." and ester, as she returned the low, deferential bow bestowed upon her, felt anew the thrill of anxiety which had come to her of late when she thought of this dangerous stranger in connection with her beautiful, giddy, unchristian sister. on the whole, ester's home coming was pleasant. to be sure it was a wonderful change from her late life; and there was perhaps just the faintest bit of a sigh as she drew off her dainty cuffs and prepared to wipe the dishes which sadie washed, while maggie finished her interrupted ironing. what would john, the stylish waiter at uncle ralph's, think if he could see her now, and how funny abbie would look engaged in such employment; but sadie looked so bright and relieved and rested, and chatted so gayly, that presently ester gave another little sigh and said: "poor abbie! how very, _very_ lonely she must be to-night. i wish she were here for you to cheer her, sadie." later, while she dipped into the flour preparatory to relieving sadie of her fearful task of sponge setting, the kitchen clock struck seven. this time she laughed at the contrast. they were just going down to dinner now at uncle ralph's. only night before last she was there herself. she had been out that day with aunt helen, and so was attired in the lovely blue silk and the real laces, which were aunt helen's gift, fastened at the throat by a tiny pearl, abbie's last offering. now they were sitting down to dinner without her, and she was in the great pantry five hundred miles away, a long, wide calico apron quite covering up her traveling dress, sleeves rolled above her elbows, and engaged in scooping flour out of the barrel into her great wooden bowl! but then how her mother's weary, careworn face had brightened, and glowed into pleased surprise as she caught the first glimpse of her; how lovingly she had folded her in those dear _motherly_ arms, and said, actually with lips all a tremble: "my _dear_ daughter! what an unexpected blessing, and what a kind providence, that you have come just now." then alfred and julia had been as eager and jubilant in their greeting as though ester had been always to them the very perfection of a sister; and hadn't little minie crumpled her dainty collar into an unsightly rag, and given her "scotch kisses," and "dutch kisses," and "yankee kisses," and genuine, sweet baby kisses, in her uncontrollable glee over dear "auntie essie." and besides, oh besides! this ester ried who had come home was not the ester ried who had gone out from them only two months ago. a whole lifetime of experience and discipline seemed to her to have been crowded into those two months. nothing of her past awakened more keen regret in this young girl's heart than the thought of her undutiful, unsisterly life. it was all to be different now. she thanked god that he had let her come back to that very kitchen and dining-room to undo her former work. the old sluggish, selfish spirit had gone from her. before this every thing had been done for ester ried, now it was to be done for christ--_every thing_, even the mixing up of that flour and water; for was not the word given: "_whatsoever_ ye do, do all to the glory of god?" how broad that word was, "whatsoever." why that covered every movement--yes, and every word. how _could_ life have seemed to her dull and uninteresting and profitless? sadie hushed her busy tongue that evening as she saw in the moonlight ester kneeling to pray; and a kind of awe stole over her for a moment as she saw that the kneeler seemed unconscious of any earthly presence. somehow it struck sadie as a different matter from any kneeling which she had ever watched in the moonlight before. and ester, as she rested her tired, happy head upon her own pillow, felt this word ringing sweetly in her heart: "and ye are christ's, and christ is god's." chapter xxi. tested. ester was winding the last smooth coil of hair around her head when sadie opened her eyes the next morning. "my!" she said. "do you know, ester, it is perfectly delightful to me to lie here and look at you, and remember that i shall not be responsible for those cakes this morning? they shall want a pint of soda added to them for all that i shall need to know or care." ester laughed. "you will surely have _your_ pantry well stocked with soda," she said, gayly. "it seems to have made a very strong impression on your mind." but the greeting had chimed with her previous thoughts and sounded pleasant to her. she had come home to be the helper; her mother and sadie should feel and realize after this how very much of a helper she could be. that very day should be the commencement of her old, new life. it was baking day--her detestation heretofore, her pleasure now. no more useful day could be chosen. how she would dispatch the pies and cakes and biscuits, to say nothing of the wonderful loaves of bread. she smiled brightly on her young sister, as she realized in a measure the weight of care which she was about to lift from her shoulders; and by the time she was ready for the duties of the day she had lived over in imagination the entire routine of duties connected with that busy, useful, happy day. she went out from her little clothes-press wrapped in armor--the pantry and kitchen were to be her battle-field, and a whole host of old temptations and trials were there to be met and vanquished. so ester planned, and yet it so happened that she did not once enter the kitchen during all that long busy day, and sadie's young shoulders bore more of the hundred little burdens of life that saturday than they had ever felt before. descending the stairs, ester met dr. van anden for the first time since her return. he greeted her with a hurried "good-morning," quite as if he had seen her only the day before, and at once pressed her into service: "miss ester, will you go to mr. holland immediately? i can not find your mother. send mrs. holland from the room, she excites him. tell her _i_ say she must come immediately to the sitting-room; i wish to see her. give mr. holland a half teaspoonful of the mixture in the wine-glass every ten minutes, and on no account leave him until i return, which will be as soon as possible." and seeming to be certain that his directions would be followed, the doctor vanished. for only about a quarter of a minute did ester stand irresolute. dr. van anden's tone and manner were full of his usual authority--a habit with him which had always annoyed her. she shrank with a feeling amounting almost to terror from a dark, quiet room, and the position of nurse. her base of operations, according to her own arrangements, had been the light, airy kitchen, where she felt herself needed at this very moment. but one can think of several things in a quarter of a minute. ester had very lately taken up the habit of securing one bible verse as part of her armor to go with her through the day. on this particular morning the verse was: "whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might." now if her hands had found work waiting for her down this first flight of stairs instead of down two, as she had planned, what was that to her? ester turned and went swiftly to the sick room, dispatched the almost frantic wife according to the doctor's peremptory orders, gave the mixture as directed, waited patiently for the doctor's return, only to hear herself installed as head nurse for the day; given just time enough to take a very hurried second table meal with sadie, listen to her half pitiful, half comic complainings, and learn that her mother was down with sick headache. so it was that this first day at home drew toward its closing; and not one single thing that ester had planned to do, and do so well, had she been able to accomplish. it had been very hard to sit patiently there and watch the low breathings of that almost motionless man on the bed before her, to rouse him at set intervals sufficiently to pour some mixture down his unwilling lips, to fan him occasionally, and that was all. it had been hard, but ester had not chafed under it; she had recognized the necessity--no nurse to be found, her mother sick, and the young, frightened, as well as worn-out wife, not to be trusted. clearly she was at the post of duty. so as the red sun peeped in a good-night from a little corner of the closed curtain, it found ester not angry, but _very_ sad. _such_ a weary day! and this man on the bed was dying; both doctors had _looked_ that at each other at least a dozen times that day. how her life of late was being mixed up with death. she had just passed through one sharp lesson, and here at the threshold awaited another. different from that last though--oh, _very_ different--and herein lay some of the sadness. mr. foster had said "every thing was ready for the long journey, even should there be no return." then she went back for a minute to the look of glory on that marble face, and heard again that wonderful sentence: "_so_ he giveth his beloved sleep." but this man here! every thing had not been made ready by him. so at least she feared. yet she was conscious, professed christian though she had been, living in the same house with him for so many years, that she knew very little about him. she had seen much of him, had talked much with him, but she had never mentioned to him the name of christ, the name after which she called herself. the sun sank lower, it was almost gone; this weary day was nearly done; and very sad and heavy-hearted felt this young watcher--the day begun in brightness was closing in gloom. it was not all so clear a path as she had thought; there were some things that she could not undo. those days of opportunity, in which she might at least have invited this man to jesus, were gone; it seemed altogether probable that there would never come another. there was a little rustle of the drapery about the bed, and she turned suddenly, to meet the great searching eyes of the sick man, bent full upon her. then he spoke in low, but wonderfully distinct and solemn tones. and the words he slowly uttered were yet more startling: "am i going to die?" oh, what _was_ ester to say? how those great bright eyes searched her soul! looking into them, feeling the awful solemnity of the question, she could not answer "no;" and it seemed almost equally impossible to tell him "yes." so the silence was unbroken, while she trembled in every nerve, and felt her face blanch before the continued gaze of those mournful eyes. at length the silence seemed to answer him; for he turned his head suddenly from her, and half buried it in the pillow, and neither spoke nor moved. that awful silence! that moment of opportunity, perhaps the last of earth for him, perhaps it was given to her to speak to him the last words that he would ever hear from mortal lips. what _could_ she say? if she only knew how--only had words. yet _something_ must be said. then there came to ester one of those marked bible verses which had of late grown so precious, and her voice, low and clear, filled the blank in the room. "god is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble." no sound from the quiet figure on the bed. she could not even tell if he had heard, yet perhaps he might, and so she gathered them, a little string of wondrous pearls, and let them fall with soft and gentle cadence from her lips. "commit thy way unto the lord; trust also in him, and he shall bring it to pass." "the lord is nigh unto all them that call upon him--the lord is gracious, and full of compassion." "thus saith the lord, your redeemer, the holy one of israel, i, even i, am he that blotteth out thy transgressions for mine own sake, and will not remember thy sins." "look unto me and be ye saved, all ye ends of the earth; for i am god, and there is none else." "incline your ear, and come unto me; hear, and your soul shall live." silence for a moment, and then ester repeated, in tones that were full of sweetness, that one little verse, which had become the embodiment to her of all that was tender, and soothing and wonderful: "what time i am afraid i will trust in thee." was this man, moving toward the very verge of the river, afraid? ester did not know, was not to know whether those gracious invitations from the redeemer of the world had fallen once more on unheeding ears, or not; for with a little sigh, born partly of relief, and partly of sorrow, that the opportunity was gone, she turned to meet dr. van anden, and was sent for a few moments out into the light and glory of the departing day, to catch a bit of its freshness. it was as the last midnight stroke of that long, long day was being given, that they were gathered about the dying bed. sadie was there, solemn and awe-stricken. mrs. ried had arisen from her couch of suffering, and nerved herself to be a support to the poor young wife. dr. douglass, at the side of the sick man, kept anxious watch over the fluttering pulse. ester, on the other side, looked on in helpless pity, and other friends of the hollands were grouped about the room. so they watched and waited for the swift down-coming of the angel of death the death damp had gathered on his brow, the pulse seemed but a faint tremble now and then, and those whose eyes were used to death thought that his lips would never frame mortal sound again, when suddenly the eyelids raised, and mr. holland, fixing a steady gaze upon the eyes bent on him from the foot of the bed, whither ester had slipped to make more room for her mother and mrs. holland, said, in a clear, distinct tone, one unmistakable word--"pray!" will ester ever forget the start of terror which thrilled her frame as she felt that look and heard that word? she cast a quick, frightened glance around her of inquiry and appeal; but her mother and herself were the only ones present whom she had reason to think ever prayed. could she, _would_ she, that gentle, timid, shrinking mother? but mrs. ried was supporting the now almost fainting form of mrs. holland, and giving anxious attention to her. "he says pray!" sadie murmured, in low, frightened tones. "oh, where is dr. van anden?" ester knew he had been called in great haste to the house across the way, and ere he could return, this waiting spirit might be gone--gone without a word of prayer. would ester want to die so, with no voice to cry for her to that listening savior? but then no human being had ever heard her pray. could she?--must she? oh, for dr. van anden--a christian doctor! oh, if that infidel stood anywhere but there, with his steady hand clasping the fluttering pulse, with his cool, calm eyes bent curiously on her--but mr. holland was dying; perhaps the everlasting arms were not underneath him--and at this fearful thought, ester dropped upon her knees, giving utterance to her deepest need in the first uttered words, "oh, holy spirit, teach me just what to say!" her mother, listening with startled senses as the familiar voice fell on her ear, could but think that _that_ petition was answered; and ester felt it in her very soul, dr. douglass, her mother, sadie, all of them were as nothing--there was only this dying man and christ, and she pleading that the passing soul might be met even now by the angel of the covenant. there were those in the room who never forgot that prayer of ester's. dr. van anden, entering hastily, paused midway in the room, taking in the scene in an instant of time, and then was on his knees, uniting his silent petitions with hers. so fervent and persistent was the cry for help, that even the sobs of the stricken wife were hushed in awe, and only the watching doctor, with his finger on the pulse, knew when the last fluttering beat died out, and the death-angel pressed his triumphant seal on pallid lip and brow. "dr. van anden," ester said, as they stood together for a moment the next morning, waiting in the chamber of death for mrs. ried's directions--. "was--did he," with an inclination of her head toward the silent occupant of the couch, "did he ever think he was a christian?" the doctor bent on her a grave, sad look, and slowly shook his head. "oh, doctor! you can not think that he--" and ester stopped, her face blanching with the fearfulness of her thought. "shall not the judge of all the earth do right?" this was the doctor's solemn answer. after a moment, he added: "perhaps that one eagerly-spoken word, 'pray,' said as much to the ears of him whose thoughts are not as our thoughts, as did that old-time petition--'remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.'" ester never forgot that and the following day, while the corpse of one whom she had known so well lay in the house; and when she followed him to the quiet grave, and watched the red and yellow autumn leaves flutter down around his coffin--dead leaves, dead flowers, dead hopes, death every-where--not just a going up higher, as mr. foster's death had been--this was solemn and inexorable death. more than ever she felt how impossible it was to call back the days that had slipped away while she slept, and do their neglected duties. she had come for this, full of hope; and now one of those whom she had met many times each day for years, and never said jesus to, was at this moment being lowered into his narrow house, and, though god had graciously given her an inch of time, and strength to use it, it was as nothing compared with those wasted years, and she could never know, at least never until the call came for her, whether or not at the eleventh hour this "poor man cried, and the lord heard him," and received him into paradise. dr. van anden moved around to where she was standing, with tightly clasped hands and colorless lips. he had been watching her, and this was what he said: "ester, shall you and i ever stand again beside a new-made grave, receiving one whom we have known ever so slightly, and have to settle with our consciences and our savior, because we have not invited that one to come to jesus?" and ester answered, with firmly-drawn lips "as that savior hears me, and will help me _never_!" chapter xxii. "little plum pies." ester was in the kitchen trimming off the puffy crusts of endless pies--the old brown calico morning dress, the same huge bib apron which had been through endless similar scrapes with her--every thing about her looking exactly as it had three months ago, and yet so far as ester and her future--yes, and the future of every one about her was concerned, things were very different. perhaps sadie had a glimmering of some strange change as she eyed her sister curiously, and took note that there was a different light in her eye, and a sort of smoothness on the quiet face that she had never noticed before. in fact, sadie missed some wrinkles which she had supposed were part and parcel of ester's self. "how i _did_ hate that part of it," she remarked, watching the fingers that moved deftly around each completed sphere. "mother said my edges always looked as if a mouse had marched around them nibbling all the way. my! how thoroughly i hate housekeeping. i pity the one who takes me for better or worse--always provided there exists such a poor victim on the face of the earth." "i don't think you hate it half so much as you imagine," ester answered kindly. "any way you did nicely. mother says you were a great comfort to her." there was a sudden mist before sadie's eyes. "did mother say that?" she queried. "the blessed woman, what a very little it takes to make a comfort for her. ester, i declare to you, if ever angels get into kitchens and pantries, and the like, mother is one of them. the way she bore with my endless blunderings was perfectly angelic. i'm glad, though, that her day of martyrdom is over, and mine, too, for that matter." and sadie, who had returned to the kingdom of spotless dresses and snowy cuffs, and, above all, to the dear books and the academy, caught at that moment the sound of the academy bell, and flitted away. ester filled the oven with pies, then went to the side doorway to get a peep at the glowing world. it was the very perfection of a day--autumn meant to die in wondrous beauty that year. ester folded her bare arms and gazed. she felt little thrills of a new kind of restlessness all about her this morning. she wanted to do something grand, something splendidly good. it was all very well to make good pies; she had done that, given them the benefit of her highest skill in that line--now they were being perfected in the oven, and she waited for something. if ever a girl longed for an opportunity to show her colors, to honor her leader, it was our ester. oh yes, she meant to do the duty that lay next her, but she perfectly ached to have that next duty something grand, something that would show all about her what a new life she had taken on. dr. van anden was tramping about in his room, over the side piazza, a very unusual proceeding with him at that hour of the day; his windows were open, and he was singing, and the fresh lake wind brought tune and words right down to ester's ear: "i would not have the restless will that hurries to and fro, seeking for some great thing to do, or wondrous thing to know; i would be guided as a child, and led where'er i go. "i ask thee for the daily strength, to none that ask denied, a mind to blend with outward life, while keeping at thy side; content to fill a little space if thou be glorified." of course dr. van anden did not know that ester ried stood in the doorway below, and was at that precise moment in need of just such help as this; but then what mattered that, so long as the master did? just then another sense belonging to ester did its duty, and gave notice that the pies in the oven were burning; and she ran to their rescue, humming meantime: "content to fill a little space if thou be glorified." eleven o'clock found her busily paring potatoes--hurrying a little, for in spite of swift, busy fingers their work was getting a little the best of maggie and her, and one pair of very helpful hands was missing. alfred and julia appeared from somewhere in the outer regions, and ester was too busy to see that they both carried rather woe-begone faces. "hasn't mother got back yet?" queried alfred. "why, no," said ester. "she will not be back until to-night--perhaps not then. didn't you know mrs. carleton was worse?" alfred kicked his heels against the kitchen door in a most disconsolate manner. "somebody's always sick," he grumbled out at last. "a fellow might as well not have a mother. i never saw the beat--nobody for miles around here can have the toothache without borrowing mother. i'm just sick and tired of it." ester had nearly laughed, but catching a glimpse of the forlorn face, she thought better of it, and said: "something is awry now, i know. you never want mother in such a hopeless way as that unless you're in trouble; so you see you are just like the rest of them, every body wants mother when they are in any difficulty." "but she is my mother, and i have a right to her, and the rest of 'em haven't." "well," said ester, soothingly, "suppose i be mother this time. tell me what's the matter and i'll act as much like her as possible." "_you_!" and thereupon alfred gave a most uncomplimentary sniff. "queer work you'd make of it." "try me," was the good-natured reply. "i ain't going to. i know well enough you'd say 'fiddlesticks' or 'nonsense,' or some such word, and finish up with 'just get out of my way.'" now, although ester's cheeks were pretty red over this exact imitation of her former ungracious self, she still answered briskly: "very well, suppose i should make such a very rude and unmotherlike reply, fiddlesticks and nonsense would not shoot you, would they?" at which sentence alfred stopped kicking his heels against the door, and laughed. "tell us all about it," continued ester, following up her advantage. "nothing to tell, much, only all the folks are going a sail on the lake this afternoon, and going to have a picnic in the grove, the very last one before snow, and i meant to ask mother to let us go, only how was i going to know that mrs. carleton would get sick and come away down here after her before daylight; and i know she would have let me go, too; and they're going to take things, a basketful each one of 'em--and they wanted me to bring little bits of pies, such as mother bakes in little round tins, you know, plum pies, and she would have made me some, i know; she always does; but now she's gone, and it's all up, and i shall have to stay at home like i always do, just for sick folks. it's mean, any how." ester smothered a laugh over this curious jumble, and asked a humble question: "is there really nothing that would do for your basket but little bits of plum pies?" "no," alfred explained, earnestly. "because, you see, they've got plenty of cake and such stuff; the girls bring that, and they do like my pies, awfully. i most always take 'em. mr. hammond likes them, too; he's going along to take care of us, and i shouldn't like to go without the little pies, because they depend upon them." "oh," said ester, "girls go, too, do they?" and she looked for the first time at the long, sad face of julia in the corner. "yes, and jule is in just as much trouble as i am, cause they are all going to wear white dresses, and she's tore hers, and she says she can't wear it till it's ironed, cause it looks like a rope, and maggie says she can't and won't iron it to-day, _so_; and mother was going to mend it this very morning, and--. oh, fudge! it's no use talking, we've got to stay at home, jule, so now." and the kicking heels commenced again. ester pared her last potato with a half troubled, half amused face. she was thoroughly tired of baking for that day, and felt like saying fiddlesticks to the little plum pies; and that white dress was torn cris-cross and every way, and ironing was always hateful; besides it _did_ seem strange that when she wanted to do some great, nice thing, so much plum pies and torn dresses should step right into her path. then unconsciously she repeated: "content to fill a _little_ space if _thou_ art glorified." _could_ he be glorified, though, by such very little things? yet hadn't she wanted to gain an influence over alfred and julia, and wasn't this her first opportunity; besides there was that verse: "whatsoever thy hand findeth to do--." at that point her thoughts took shape in words. "well, sir, we'll see whether mother is the only woman in this world after all. you tramp down cellar and bring me up that stone jar on the second shelf, and we'll have those pies in the oven in a twinkling; and that little woman in the corner, with two tears rolling down her cheeks, may bring her white dress and my work-box and thimble, and put two irons on the stove, and my word for it you shall both be ready by three o'clock, spry and span, pies and all." by three o'clock on the afternoon in question ester was thoroughly tired, but little plum pies by the dozen were cuddling among snowy napkins in the willow basket, and alfred's face was radiant as he expressed his satisfaction, after this fashion: "you're just jolly, ester! i didn't know you could be so good. won't the boys chuckle over these pies, though? ester, there's just seven more than mother ever made me." "very well," answered ester, gayly; "then there will be just seven more chuckles this time than usual." julia expressed her thoughts in a way more like her. she surveyed her skillfully-mended and beautifully smooth white dress with smiling eyes; and as ester tied the blue sash in a dainty knot, and stepped back to see that all was as it should be, she was suddenly confronted with this question: "ester, what does make you so nice to-day; you didn't ever used to be so?" how the blood rushed into ester's cheeks as she struggled with her desire to either laugh or cry, she hardly knew which. these were very little things which she had done, and it was shameful that, in all the years of her elder sisterhood, she had never sacrificed even so little of her own pleasure before; yet it was true, and it made her feel like crying--and yet there was rather a ludicrous side to the question, to think that all her beautiful plans for the day had culminated in plum pies and ironing. she stooped and kissed julia on the rosy cheek, and answered gently, moved by some inward impulse: "i am trying to do all my work for jesus nowadays." "you didn't mend my dress and iron it, and curl my hair, and fix my sash, for him, did you?" "yes; every little thing." "why, i don't see how. i thought you did them for me." "i did, julia, to please you and make you happy; but jesus says that that is just the same as doing it for him." julia's next question was very searching: "but, ester, i thought you had been a member of the church a good many years. sadie said so. didn't you ever try to do things for jesus before?" a burning blush of genuine shame mantled ester's face, but she answered quickly: "no; i don't think i ever really did." julia eyed her for a moment with a look of grave wonderment, then suddenly stood on tiptoe to return the kiss, as she said: "well, i think it is nice, anyway. if jesus likes to have you be so kind and take so much trouble for me, why then he must love me, and i mean to thank him this very night when i say my prayers." and as ester rested for a moment in the arm-chair on the piazza, and watched her little brother and sister move briskly off, she hummed again those two lines that had been making unconscious music in her heart all day: "content to fill a _little_ space if thou be glorified." chapter xxiii. crosses. the large church was _very_ full; there seemed not to be another space for a human being. people who were not much given to frequenting the house of god on a week-day evening, had certainly been drawn thither at this time. sadie ried sat beside ester in their mother's pew, and harry arnett, with a sober look on his boyish face, sat bolt upright in the end of the pew, while even dr. douglass leaned forward with graceful nonchalance from the seat behind them, and now and then addressed a word to sadie. these people had been listening to such a sermon as is very seldom heard--that blessed man of god whose name is dear to hundreds and thousands of people, whose hair is whitened with the frosts of many a year spent in the master's service, whose voice and brain and heart are yet strong, and powerful, and "mighty through god," the rev. mr. parker, had been speaking to them, and his theme had been the soul, and his text had been: "what shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?" i hope i am writing for many who have had the honor of hearing that appeal fresh from the great brain and greater heart of mr. parker. such will understand the spell under which his congregation sat even after the prayer and hymn had died into silence. now the gray-haired veteran stood bending over the pulpit, waiting for the christian witnesses to the truth of his solemn messages; and for that he seemed likely to wait. a few earnest men, veterans too in the cause, gave in their testimony--and then occurred one of those miserable, disheartening, disgraceful pauses which are met with nowhere on earth among a company of intelligent men and women, with liberty given them to talk, save in a prayer-meeting! still silence, and still the aged servant stood with one arm resting on the bible, and looked down almost beseechingly upon that crowd of dumb christians. "ye are my witnesses, saith the lord," he repeated, in earnest, pleading tones. miserable witnesses they! was not the lord ashamed of them all, i wonder? something like this flitted through ester's brain as she looked around upon that faithless company, and noted here and there one who certainly ought to "take up his cross." then some slight idea of the folly of that expression struck her. what a fearful cross it was, to be sure! what a strange idea to use the same word in describing it that was used for that blood-stained, nail-pierced cross on calvary. then a thought, very startling in its significance, came to her. was that cross borne only for men? were they the only ones who had a thank-offering because of calvary? surely _her_ savior hung there, and bled, and groaned, and died for her. why should not she say, "by his stripes _i_ am healed?" what if she should? what would people think? no, not that either. what would jesus think? that, after all, was the important question. did she really believe that if she should say in the hearing of that assembled company, "i love jesus," that jesus, looking down upon her, and hearing how her timid voice broke the dishonoring silence, would be displeased, would set it down among the long list of "ought not to have" dones? she tried to imagine herself speaking to him in her closet after this manner: "dear savior, i confess with shame that i have brought reproach upon thy name this day, for i said, in the presence of a great company of witnesses, that i loved thee!" in defiance of her education and former belief upon this subject, ester was obliged to confess, then and there, that all this was extremely ridiculous. "oh, well," said satan, "it's not exactly _wrong_, of course; but then it isn't very modest or ladylike; and, besides, it is unnecessary. there are plenty of men to do the talking." "but," said common sense, "i don't see why it's a bit more unladylike than the ladies' colloquy at the lyceum was last evening. there were more people present than are here tonight; and as for the men, they are perfectly mum. there seems to be plenty of opportunity for somebody." "well," said satan, "it isn't customary at least, and people will think strangely of you. doubtless it would do more harm than good." this most potent argument, "people will think strangely of you," smothered common sense at once, as it is apt to do, and ester raised her head from the bowed position which it had occupied during this whirl of thought, and considered the question settled. some one began to sing, and of all the words that _could_ have been chosen, came the most unfortunate ones for this decision: "on my head he poured his blessing, long time ago; now he calls me to confess him before i go. my past life, all vile and hateful, he saved from sin; i should be the most ungrateful not to own him. death and hell he bade defiance, bore cross and pain; shame my tongue this guilty silence, and speak his name." this at once renewed the struggle, but in a different form. she no longer said, "ought i?" but, "can i?" still the spell of silence seemed unbroken save by here and there a voice, and still ester parleyed with her conscience, getting as far now as to say: "when mr. jones sits down, if there is another silence, i will try to say something"--not quite meaning, though, to do any such thing, and proving her word false by sitting very still after mr. jones sat down, though there was plenty of silence. then when mr. smith said a few words, ester whispered the same assurance to herself, with exactly the same result. the something _decided_ for which she had been longing, the opportunity to show the world just where she stood, had come at last, and this was the way in which she was meeting it. at last she knew by the heavy thuds which her heart began to give, that the question was decided, that the very moment deacon graves sat down she would rise; whether she would say any thing or not would depend upon whether god gave her any thing to say--but at least she could stand up for jesus. but mr. parker's voice followed deacon graves'; and this was what he said: "am i to understand by your silence that there is not a christian man or woman in all this company who has an unconverted friend whom he or she would like to have us pray for?" then the watching angel of the covenant came to the help of this trembling, struggling ester, and there entered into her heart such a sudden and overwhelming sense of longing for sadie's conversion, that all thought of what she would say, and how she would say it, and what people would think, passed utterly out of her mind; and rising suddenly, she spoke, in clear and wonderfully earnest tones: "will you pray for a dear, dear friend?" god sometimes uses very humble means with which to break the spell of silence which satan so often weaves around christians; it was as if they had all suddenly awakened to a sense of their privileges. dr. van anden said, in a voice which quivered with feeling: "i have a brother in the profession for whom i ask your prayers that he may become acquainted with the great physician." request followed request for husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, and children. even timid, meek-faced, low-voiced mrs. ried murmured a request for her children who were out of christ. and when at last harry arnett suddenly lifted his handsome boyish head from its bowed position, and said in tones which conveyed the sense of a decision, "pray for _me_" the last film of worldliness vanished; and there are those living to-day who have reason never to forget that meeting. "is it your private opinion that our good doctor got up a streak of disinterested enthusiasm over my unworthy self this evening?" this question dr. douglass asked of sadie as they lingered on the piazza in the moonlight. sadie laughed gleefully. "i am sure i don't know. i'm prepared for any thing strange that can possibly happen. mother and ester between them have turned the world upside down for me to-night. in case you are the happy man, i hope you are grateful?" "extremely! should be more so perhaps if people would be just to me in private, and not so alarmingly generous in public." "how bitter you are against dr. van anden," sadie said, watching the lowering brow and sarcastic curve of the lip, with curious eyes. "how much i should like to know precisely what is the trouble between you!" dr. douglass instantly recovered his suavity. "do i appear bitter? i beg your pardon for exhibiting so ungentlemanly a phase of human nature; yet hypocrisy does move me to--" and then occurred one of those sudden periods with which dr. douglass always seemed to stop himself when any thing not quite courteous was being said. "just forget that last sentence," he added. "it was unwise and unkind; the trouble between us is not worthy of a thought of yours. i wish i could forget it. i believe i could if he would allow me." at this particular moment the subject of the above conversation appeared in the door. sadie gave a slight start; the thought that dr. van anden had heard the talk was not pleasant. she need not have feared, he had just come from his room, and from his knees. he spoke abruptly and with a touch of nervousness: "dr. douglass, may i have a few words with you in private?" dr. douglass' "certainly, if miss sadie will excuse us," was both prompt and courteous apparently, though the tone said almost as plainly as words could have done, "to what can i be indebted for this honor?" dr. van anden led the way into the brightly lighted vacant parlor; and there dr. douglass stationed himself directly under the gas light, where he could command a full view of the pale, somewhat anxious face of his companion, and waited with that indescribable air made up of nonchalance and insolence. dr. van anden dashed into his subject: "dr. douglass, ten years ago you did what you could to injure me. i thought then purposely, i think now that perhaps you were sincere. be that as it may, i used language to you then, which i, as a christian man, ought never to have used. i have repented it long ago, but in my blindness i have never seen that i ought to apologize to you for it until this evening. god has shown me my duty. dr. douglass, i ask your pardon for the angry words i spoke to you that day." the gentleman addressed kept his full bright eyes fixed on dr. van anden, and answered him in the quietest and at the same time iciest of tones: "you are certainly very kind, now that your anger has had time to cool during these ten years, to accord to me the merit of being _possibly_ sincere. now i was more _christian_ in my conclusions; i set you down as an honest blunderer. that i have had occasion since to change my opinion is nothing to the purpose but it would be pleasanter for both of us if apologies could restore our friend, mrs. lyons to life." during this response dr. van anden's face was a study. it had passed in quick succession through so many shades of feeling, anxiety, anger, disgust, and finally surprise, and apparently a dawning sense of a new development, for he made the apparently irrelevant reply: "do you think _i_ administered that chloroform?" dr. douglass' coolness forsook him for a moment "who did?" he queried, with flashing eyes. "dr. gilbert." "dr. gilbert?" "yes, sir." "how does it happen that i never knew it?" "i am sure i do not know." dr. van anden passed his hand across his eyes, and spoke in sadness and weariness. "i had no conception that you were not aware of it until this moment. it explains in part what was strangely mysterious to me; but even in that case, it would have been, as you said, a blunder, not a criminal act however, we can not undo _that_ past. i desire, above all other things, to set myself right in your eyes as a christian man. i think i may have been a stumbling-block to you. god only knows how bitter is the thought i have done wrong; i should have acknowledged it years ago. i can only do it now. again i ask you. dr. douglass, will you pardon those bitterly spoken words of mine?" dr. douglass bowed stiffly, with an increase of hauteur visible in every line of his face. "give yourself no uneasiness on that score, dr. van anden, nor on any other, i beg you, so far as i am concerned. my opinion of christianity is peculiar perhaps, but has not altered of late; nor is it likely to do so. of course, every gentleman is bound to accept the apology of another, however tardily it may be offered. shall i bid you good-evening, sir?" and with a very low, very dignified bow, dr. douglass went back to the piazza and sadie. and groaning in spirit over the tardiness of his effort, dr. van anden returned to his room, and prayed that he might renew his zeal and his longing for the conversion of that man's soul. "have you been receiving a little fraternal advice?" queried sadie, her mischievous eyes dancing with fun over the supposed discomfiture of one of the two gentlemen, she cared very little which. "not at all. on the contrary, i have been giving a little of that mixture in a rather unpalatable form, i fear. i haven't a very high opinion of the world, miss sadie." "including yourself, do you mean?" was sadie's demure reply. dr. douglass looked the least bit annoyed; then he laughed, and answered with quiet grace: "yes, including even such an important individual as myself. however, i have one merit which i consider very rare--sincerity." sadie's face assumed a half puzzled, half amused expression, as she tried by the moonlight to give a searching look at the handsome form leaning against the pillar opposite her. "i wonder if you _are_ as sincere as you pretend to be?" was her next complimentary sentence. "and also i wonder if the rest of the world are as unlimited a set of humbugs as you suppose? how do you fancy you happened to escape getting mixed up with the general humbugism of the world? this mr. parker, now, talks as though he felt it and meant it." "he is a first-class fanatic of the most outrageous sort. there ought to be a law forbidding such ranters to hold forth, on pain of imprisonment for life." "dr. douglass," said sadie, speaking with grave dignity, "i would rather not hear you speak of that old gentleman in such a manner. he may be a fanatic and a ranter, but i believe he means it, and i can't help respecting him more than any cold-blooded moralist that i ever met. besides, i can not forget that my honored father was among the despised class of whom you speak so scornfully." "my dear friend," and dr. douglass' tone was as gentle as her mother's could have been, "forgive me if i have pained you; it was not intentional. i do not know what i have been saying--some unkind things perhaps, and that is always ungentlemanly; but i have been greatly disturbed this evening, and that must be my apology. pardon me for detaining you so long in the evening air. may i advise you, professionally, to go in immediately?" "may i advise you unselfishly to get into a better humor with the world in general, and dr. van anden in particular, before you undertake to talk with a lady again?" sadie answered in her usual tones of raillery; all her dignity had departed. "meantime, if you would like to have unmolested possession of this piazza to assist you in tramping off your evil spirit, you shall be indulged. i'm going to the west side. the evening air and i are excellent friends." and with a mocking laugh and bow sadie departed. "i wonder," she soliloquized, returning to gravity the moment she was alone, "i wonder what that man has been saying to him now? how unhappy these two gentlemen make themselves. it would be a consolation to know right from wrong. i just wish i believed in everybody as i used to. the idea of this gray-headed minister being a hypocrite! that's absurd. but then the idea of dr. van anden being what he is! well, it's a queer world. i believe i'll go to bed." chapter xxiv. god's way. be it understood that dr. douglass was very much astonished, and not a little disgusted with himself. as he marched defiantly up and down the long piazza he tried to analyze his state of mind. he had always supposed himself to be a man possessed of keen powers of discernment, and yet withal exercising considerable charity toward his erring fellow-men, willing to overlook faults and mistakes, priding himself not a little on the kind and gentlemanly way in which he could meet ruffled human nature of any sort. in fact, he dwelt on a sort of pedestal, from the hight of which he looked calmly and excusingly down on weaker mortals. this, until to-night: now he realized, in a confused, blundering sort of way, that his pedestal had crumbled, or that he had tumbled from its hight, or at least that something new and strange had happened. for instance, what had become of his powers of discernment? here was this miserable doctor, who had been one of the thorns of his life, whom he had looked down upon as a canting hypocrite. was he, after all, mistaken? the explanation of to-night looked like it; he had been deceived in that matter which had years ago come between them; he could see it very plainly now. in spite of himself, the doctor's earnest, manly apology would come back and repeat itself to his brain, and demand admiration. now dr. douglass was honestly amazed at himself, because he was not pleased with this state of things. why was he not glad to discover that dr. van anden was more of a man than he had ever supposed? this would certainly be in keeping with the character of the courteous, unprejudiced gentleman that he had hitherto considered himself to be; but there was no avoiding the fact that the very thought of dr. van anden was exasperating, more so this evening than ever before. and the more his judgment became convinced that he had blundered, the more vexed did he become. "confound everybody!" he exclaimed at length, in utter disgust. "what on earth do i care for the contemptible puppy, that i should waste thought on him. what possessed the fellow to come whining around me to-night, and set me in a whirl of disagreeable thought? i ought to have knocked him down for his insufferable impudence in dragging me out publicly in that meeting." this he said aloud; but something made answer down in his heart: "oh, it's very silly of you to talk in this way. you know perfectly well that dr. van anden is not a contemptible puppy at all. he is a thoroughly educated, talented physician, a formidable rival, and you know it; and he didn't whine in the least this evening; he made a very manly apology for what was not so very bad after all, and you more than half suspect yourself of admiring him." "fiddlesticks!" said dr. douglass aloud to all this information, and went off to his room in high dudgeon. the next two days seemed to be very busy ones to one member of the ried family. dr. douglass sometimes appeared at meal time and sometimes not, but the parlor and the piazza were quite deserted, and even his own room saw little of him. sadie, when she chanced by accident to meet him on the stairs, stopped to inquire if the village was given over to small-pox, or any other dire disease which required his constant attention; and he answered her in tones short and sharp enough to have been dr. van anden himself: "it is given over to madness," and moved rapidly on. this encounter served to send him on a long tramp into the woods that very afternoon. in truth, dr. douglass was overwhelmed with astonishment at himself. two such days and nights as the last had been he hoped never to see again. it was as if all his pet theories had deserted him at a moment's warning, and the very spirit of darkness taken up his abode in their place. go whither he would, do what he would, he was haunted by these new, strange thoughts. sometimes he actually feared that he, at least, was losing his mind, whether the rest of the world were or not. being an utter unbeliever in the power of prayer, knowing indeed nothing at all about it, he would have scoffed at the idea that dr. van anden's impassioned, oft-repeated petitions had aught to do with him at this time. had he known that at the very time in which he was marching through the dreary woods, kicking the red and yellow leaves from his path in sullen gloom, ester in her little clothes-press, on her knees, was pleading with god for his soul, and that through him sadie might be reached, i presume he would have laughed. the result of this long communion with himself was as follows: that he had overworked and underslept, that his nervous system was disordered, that in the meantime he had been fool enough to attend that abominable sensation meeting, and the man actually had wonderful power over the common mind, and used his eloquence in a way that was quite calculated to confuse a not perfectly balanced brain. it was no wonder, then, in his state of bodily disorder, that the sympathetic mind should take the alarm. so much for the disease, now for the remedy. he would study less, at least he would stop reading half the night away; he would begin to practice some of his own preaching, and learn to be more systematic, more careful of this wonderful body, which could cause so much suffering; he would ride fast and long; above all, he would keep away from that church and that man, with his fanciful pictures and skillfully woven words. having determined his plan of action he felt better. there was no sense, he told himself, in yielding to the sickly sentimentalism which had bewitched him for the past few days; he was ashamed of it, and would have no more of it. he was master of his own mind, he guessed, always had been, and always _would_ be. and he started on his homeward walk with a good deal of alacrity, and much of his usual composure settling on his face. oh, would the gracious spirit which had been struggling with him leave him indeed to himself? "o god," pleaded ester, "give me this one soul in answer to my prayer. for the sake of sadie, bring this strong pillar obstructing her way to thyself. for the sake of jesus, who died for them both, bring them both to yield to him." dr. douglass paused at the place where two roads forked and mused, and the subject of his musing was no more important than this: should he go home by the river path or through the village? the river path was the longer, and it was growing late, nearly tea time; but if he took the main road he would pass his office, where he was supposed to be, as well as several houses where he ought to have been, besides meeting probably several people whom he would rather not see just at present. on the whole, he decided to take the river road, and walked briskly along, quite in harmony with himself once more, and enjoying the autumn beauty spread around him. a little white speck attracted his attention; he almost stopped to examine into it, then smiled at his curiosity, and moved on. "a bit of waste paper probably," he said to himself. "yet what a curious shape it was as if it had been carefully folded and hidden under that stone. suppose i see what it is? who knows but i shall find a fortune hidden in it?" he turned back a step or two, and stooped for the little white speck. one corner of it was nestled under a stone. it was a ragged, rumpled, muddy fragment of a letter, or an essay, which rain and wind and water had done their best to annihilate, and finally, seeming to become weary of their plaything, had tossed it contemptuously on the shore, and a pitying stone had rolled down and covered and preserved a tiny corner. dr. douglass eyed it curiously, trying to decipher the mud-stained lines, and being in a dreamy mood wondered meanwhile what young, fair hand had penned the words, and what of joy or sadness filled them. scarcely a word was readable, at least nothing that would gratify his curiosity, until he turned the bit of leaf, and the first line, which the stone had hidden, shone out distinctly: "sometimes i can not help asking myself why i was made--." here the corner was torn off, and whether that was the end of the original sentence or not, it was the end to him. god sometimes uses very simple means with which to confound the wisdom of this world. such a sudden and extraordinary revulsion of feeling as swept over dr. douglass he had never dreamed of before. he did not stop to question the strangeness of his state of mind, nor why that bit of soiled, torn paper should possess so fearful a power over him. he did not even realize at the moment that it was connected with this bewilderment, he only knew that the foundation upon which he had been building for years seemed suddenly to have been torn from under him by invisible hands, and left his feet sinking slowly down on nothing; and his inmost soul took suddenly up that solemn question with which he had never before troubled his logical brain: "i can not help asking myself why i was made?" there was only one other readable word on that paper, turn it whichever way he would, and that word was "god;" and he started and shivered when his eye met this, as if some awful voice had spoken it to his ear. "what unaccountable witchcraft has taken possession of me?" he muttered, at length. and turning suddenly he sat himself down on an old decaying log by the river side, and gave himself up to real, honest, solemn thought. "where is dr. douglass?" queried julia, appearing at the dining-room door just at tea time. "there is a boy at the door says they want him at judge beldon's this very instant." "he's _nowhere_" answered sadie solemnly, pausing in the work of arranging cups and saucers. "it's my private opinion that he has been and gone and hung himself. he passed the window about one o'clock, looking precisely as i should suppose a man would who was about to commit that interesting act, since which time i've answered the bell seventeen times to give the same melancholy story of his whereabouts." "my!" exclaimed the literal julia, hurrying back to the boy at the door. she comprehended her sister sufficiently to have no faith in the hanging statement, but honestly believed in the seventeen sick people who were waiting for the doctor. the church was very full again that evening. sadie had at first declared herself utterly unequal to another meeting that week, but had finally allowed herself to be persuaded into going; and had nearly been the cause of poor julia's disgrace because of the astonished look which she assumed as dr. douglass came down the aisle, with his usual quiet composure of manner, and took the seat directly in front of them. the sermon was concluded. the text: "see i have set before thee this day life and good, death and evil," had been dwelt upon in such a manner that it seemed to some as if the aged servant of god had verily been shown a glimpse of the two unseen worlds waiting for every soul, and was painting from actual memory the picture for them to look upon. that most solemn of all solemn hymns had just been sung: "there is a time, we know not when a point, we know not where, that marks the destiny of men 'twixt glory and despair. "there is a line, by us unseen, that crosses every path, the hidden boundary between god's mercy and his wrath." silence had but fairly settled on the waiting congregation when a strong, firm voice broke in upon it, and the speaker said: "i believe in my soul that i have met that point and crossed that line this day. i surely met god's mercy and his wrath, face to face, and struggled in their power. your hymn says, 'to cross that boundary is to die;' but i thank god that there are two sides to it. i feel that i have been standing on the very line, that my feet had well-nigh slipped. to-night i step over on to mercy's side. reckon me henceforth among those who have chosen life." "amen," said the veteran minister, with radiant face. "thank god," said the earnest pastor, with quivering lip. two heads were suddenly bowed in the silent ecstasy of prayer--they were ester's and dr. van anden's. as for sadie, she sat straight and still as if petrified with amazement, as she well-nigh felt herself to be, for the strong, firm voice belonged to dr. douglass! an hour later dr. van anden was pacing up and down the long parlor, with quick, excited steps, waiting for he hardly knew what, when a shadow fell between him and the gaslight. he glanced up suddenly, and his eyes met dr. douglass, who had placed himself in precisely the same position in which he had stood when they had met there before. dr. van anden started forward, and the two gentlemen clasped hands as they had never in their lives done before. dr. douglass broke the beautiful silence first with earnestly spoken words: "doctor, will you forgive all the past?" and dr. van anden answered: "oh, my brother in christ!" as for ester, she prayed, in her clothes-press, thankfully for dr. douglass, more hopefully for sadie, and knew not that a corner of the poor little letter which had slipped from julia's hand and floated down the stream one summer morning, thereby causing her such a miserable, _miserable_ day, was lying at that moment in dr. douglass' note-book, counted as the most precious of all his precious bits of paper. verily "his ways are not as our ways." chapter xxv. sadie surrounded. "oh," said sadie, with a merry toss of her brown curls, "_don't_ waste any more precious breath over me, i beg. i'm an unfortunate case, not worth struggling for. just let me have a few hours of peace once more. if you'll promise not to say 'meeting' again to me, i'll promise not to laugh at you once after this long drawn-out spasm of goodness has quieted, and you have each descended to your usual level once more." "sadie," said ester, in a low, shocked tone, "_do_ you think we are all hypocrites, and mean not a bit of this?" "by _no_ means, my dear sister of charity, at least not all of you. i'm a firm believer in diseases of all sorts. this is one of the violent kind of highly contagious diseases; they must run their course, you know. i have not lived in the house with two learned physicians all this time without learning that fact, but i consider this very nearly at its height, and live in hourly expectation of the 'turn.' but, my dear, i don't think you need worry about me in the least. i don't believe i'm a fit subject for such trouble. you know i never took whooping-cough nor measles, though i have been exposed a great many times." to this ester only replied by a low, tremulous, "don't, sadie, please." sadie turned a pair of mirthful eyes upon her for a moment, and noting with wonder the pale, anxious face and quivering lip of her sister, seemed suddenly sobered. "ester," she said quietly, "i don't think you are 'playing good;' i _don't_ positively. i believe you are thoroughly in earnest, but i think you have been through some very severe scenes of late, sickness and watching, and death, and your nerves are completely unstrung. i don't wonder at your state of feeling, but you will get over it in a little while, and be yourself again." "oh," said ester, tremulously, "i pray god i may _never_ be myself again; not the old self that you mean." "you will," sadie answered, with roguish positiveness. "things will go cross-wise, the fire won't burn, and the kettle won't boil, and the milk-pitcher will tip over, and all sorts of mischievous things will go on happening after a little bit, just as usual, and you will feel like having a general smash up of every thing in spite of all these meetings." ester sighed heavily. the old difficulty again--things would not be undone. the weeds which she had been carelessly sowing during all these past years had taken deep root, and would not give place. after a moment's silence she spoke again. "sadie, answer me just one question. what do you think of dr. douglass?" sadie's face darkened ominously. "never mind what i think of _him_," she answered in short, sharp tones, and abruptly left the room. what she _did_ think of him was this: that he had become that which he had affected to consider the most despicable thing on earth--a hypocrite. remember, she had no personal knowledge of the power of the spirit of god over a human soul. she had no conception of how so mighty a change could be wrought in the space of a few hours, so her only solution of the mystery was that to serve some end which he had in view dr. douglass had chosen to assume a new character. later, on that same day, sadie encountered dr. douglass, rather, she went to the side piazza equipped for a walk, and he came eagerly from the west end to speak with her. "miss sadie, i have been watching for you. i have a few words that are burning to be said." "proceed," said sadie, standing with demurely folded hands, and a mock gravity in her roguish eyes. "i want to do justice at this late day to dr. van anden. i misjudged him, wronged him, perhaps prejudiced you against him. i want to undo my work." "some things can be done more easily than they can be undone," was sadie's grave and dignified reply. "you certainly have done your best to prejudice me against dr. van anden not only, but against all other persons who hold his peculiar views, and you have succeeded splendidly. i congratulate you." that look of absolute pain which she had seen once or twice on this man's face, swept over it now as he answered her. "i know--i have been blind and stupid, _wicked_ any thing you will. most bitterly do i regret it now; most eager am i to make reparation." sadie's only answer was: "what a capital actor you would make, dr. douglass. are you sure you have not mistaken your vocation?" "i know what you think of me." this with an almost quivering lip, and a voice strangely humble and as unlike as possible to any which she had ever heard from dr. douglass before. "you think i am playing a part. though what my motive could be i can not imagine, can you? but i do solemnly assure you that if ever i was sincere in any thing in all my life i am now concerning this matter." "there is a most unfortunate 'if' in the way, doctor. you see, the trouble is, i have very serious doubts as to whether you ever were sincere in any thing in your life. as to motives, a first-class anybody likes to try his power. you will observe that 'i have a very poor opinion of the world.'" the doctor did not notice the quotation of his favorite expression, but answered with a touch of his accustomed dignity: "i may have deserved this treatment at your hands, miss sadie. doubtless i have, although i am not conscious of ever having said to you any thing which i did not _think_ i _meant_. i have been a _fool_. i am willing--yes, and anxious to own it. but there are surely some among your acquaintances whom you can trust if you can not me. i--" sadie interrupted him. "for instance, that 'first-class fanatic of the most objectionable stamp,' the man who dr. douglass thought, not three days ago, ought to be bound by law to keep the peace. i suppose you would have me unhesitatingly receive every word he says?" dr. douglass' face brightened instantly, and he spoke eagerly: "i remember those words, miss sadie, and just how honestly i spoke them, and just how bitterly i felt when i spoke them, and i have no more sure proof that this thing is of god than i have in noting the wonderful change which has come over my feelings in regard to that blessed man. i pray god that he may be permitted to speak to your soul with the tremendous power that he has to mine. oh, sadie, i have led you astray, may i not help you back?" "i am not a weather-vane, dr. douglass, to be whirled about by every wind of expediency; besides i am familiar with one verse in the bible, of which you seem never to have heard: whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. you have sowed well and faithfully; be content with your harvest." i do not know what the pale, grave lips would have answered to this mocking spirit, for at that moment dr. van anden and the black ponies whizzed around the corner, and halted before the gate. "sadie," said the doctor, "are you in the mood for a ride? i have five miles to drive." "dr. van anden," answered sadie, promptly, "the last time you and i took a ride together we quarreled." "precisely," said the doctor, bowing low. "let us take another now and make up." "very well," was the gleeful answer which he received, and in another minute they were off. for the first mile or two he kept a tight rein, and let the ponies skim over the ground in the liveliest fashion, during which time very little talking was done. after that he slackened his speed, and leaning back in the carriage addressed himself to sadie: "now we are ready to make up." "how shall we commence?" asked sadie, gravely. "who quarreled?" answered the doctor, sententiously. "well," said sadie, "i understand what you are waiting for. you think i was very rude and unladylike in my replies to you during that last interesting ride we took. you think i jumped at unwarrantable conclusions, and used some unnecessarily sharp words. i think so myself, and if it will be of any service to you to know it, i don't mind telling you in the least." "that is a very excellent beginning," answered the doctor, heartily. "i think we shall have no difficulty in getting the matter all settled now, for my part, it won't sound as well as yours, because however blunderingly i may have said what i did, i said it honestly, in good faith, and with a good and pure motive. but i am glad to be able to say in equal honesty that i believe i was over-cautious, that dr. douglass was never so little worthy of regard as i supposed him to be, and that nothing could have more rejoiced my heart than the noble stand which he has so recently taken. indeed his conduct has been so noble that i feel honored by his acquaintance." he was interrupted by a mischievous laugh. "a mutual admiration society," said sadie, in her most mocking tone. "did you and dr. douglass have a private rehearsal? you interrupted him in a similar rhapsody over your perfections." instead of seeming annoyed, dr. van anden's face glowed with pleasure. "did he explain to you our misunderstanding?" he asked, eagerly. "that was very noble in him." "of _course_. he is the soul of nobility--a villain yesterday and a saint to-day. i don't understand such marvelously rapid changes, doctor." "i know you don't," the doctor answered quietly. "although you have exaggerated both terms, yet there is a great and marvelous change, which must be experienced to be understood. will you never seek it for yourself, sadie?" "i presume i never shall, as i very much doubt the existence of any such phenomenon." the doctor appeared neither shocked nor surprised, but favored her with a cool and quiet reply: "oh, no, you don't doubt it in the least. don't try to make yourself out that foolish and unreasonable creature--an unbeliever in what is as clear to a thinking mind as is the sun at noonday. you and i have no need to enter into an argument concerning this matter. you have seen some unwise and inconsistent acts in many who are called by the name of christian. you imagine that they have staggered your belief in the verity of the thing itself. yet it is not so. you had a dear father who lived and died in the faith, and you no more doubt the fact that he is in heaven to-day, brought there by the power of the savior in whom he trusted, than you doubt your own existence at this moment." sadie sat silenced and grave; she was very rarely either, perhaps. dr. van anden was the one person who could have thus subdued her, but in her inmost heart she felt his words to be true; that dear, _dear_ father, whose weary suffering life had been one long evidence to the truth of the religion which he professed--yes, it was so, she no more doubted that he was at this moment in that blessed heaven toward which his hopes had so constantly tended, than she doubted the shining of that day's sun--so he, being dead, yet spoke to her. besides, her keen judgment had, of late, settled back upon the belief that dr. van anden lived a life that would bear watching--a true, earnest, manly life; also, that he was a man not likely to be deceived. so, sitting back there in the carriage, and appearing to look at nothing, and be interested in nothing, she allowed herself to take in again the firm conviction that whatever most lives were, there was always that father--safe, _safe_ in the christian's heaven--and there were besides some few, a very few, she thought; but there were _some_ still living, whom she knew, yes, actually _knew_, were fitting for that same far-away, safe place. no, sadie had stood upon the brink, was standing there still, indeed; but reason and the long-buried father still kept her from toppling over into the chasm of settled unbelief. "blessed are the dead which die in the lord from henceforth: yea, saith the spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them." but something must be said. sadie was not going to sit there and allow dr. van anden to imagine that she was utterly quieted and conquered; she would rather quarrel with him than have that. he had espoused dr. douglass' cause so emphatically, let him argue for him now; there was nothing like a good sharp argument to destroy the effect of unpleasant personal questions--so she blazed into sudden indignation: "i think dr. douglass is a hypocrite!" nothing could have been more composed than the tone in which she was answered: "very well. what then?" this question was difficult to answer, and sadie remaining silent, her companion continued: "mr. smith is a drunkard; therefore i will be a thief. is that miss sadie ried's logic?" "i don't see the point." "don't you? wasn't that exclamation concerning dr. douglass a bit of hiding behind the supposed sin of another--a sort of a reason why you were not a christian, because somebody else pretended to be? is that sound logic, sadie? when your next neighbor in class peeps in her book, and thereby disgraces herself, and becomes a hypocrite, do you straightway declare that you will study no more? you see it is fashionable, in talking of this matter of religion, to drag out the shortcomings and inconsistencies of others, and try to make of them a garment to covet our own sins; but it is very senseless, after all, and you will observe is never done in the discussion of any other question." clearly, sadie must talk in a common-sense way with this straightforward man, if she talked at all. her resolution was suddenly taken, to say for once just what she meant; and a very grave and thoughtful pair of eyes were raised to meet the doctor's when next she spoke. "i think of these things sometimes, doctor, and though a great deal of it seems to be humbug, it is as you say--i know _some_ are sincere, and i know there is a right way. i have been more than half tempted many times during the last few weeks to discover for myself the secret of power, but i am deterred by certain considerations, which you would, doubtless, think very absurd, but which, joined with the inspiration which i receive from the ridiculous inconsistencies of others, have been sufficient to deter me hitherto." "would you mind telling me some of the considerations?" and the moment sadie began to talk honestly, the doctor's tones lost their half-indifferent coolness, and expressed a kind and thoughtful interest. "no," she said, hesitatingly. "i don't know that i need, but you will not understand them; for instance, if i were a christian i should have to give up one of my favorite amusements--almost a passion, you know, dancing is with me, and i am not ready to yield it." "why should you feel obliged to do so if you were a christian?" sadie gave him the benefit of a very searching look. "don't _you_ think i would be?" she queried, after a moment's silence. "i haven't said what i thought on that subject, but i feel sure that it is not the question for you to decide at present; first settle the all-important one of your personal acceptation of christ, and then it will be time to decide the other matter, for or against, as your conscience may dictate." "oh, but," said sadie, positively, "i know very well what my conscience would dictate, and i am not ready for it." "isn't dancing an innocent amusement?" "for _me_ yes, but not for a christian." "does the bible lay down one code of laws for you and another for christians?" "i think so--it says, 'be not conformed to the world.'" "granted; but does it anywhere say to those who are of the world, '_you_ have a right to do just what you like; that direction does not apply to you at all, it is all intended for those poor christians?'" "dr. van anden," said sadie with dignity, "don't you think there should be a difference between christians and those who are not?" "undoubtedly i do. do _you_ think that every person ought or ought _not_ to be a christian?" sadie was silent, and a little indignant. after a moment she spoke again, this time with a touch of hauteur: "i think you understand what i mean, doctor, though you would not admit it for the world. i don't suppose i feel very deeply on the subject, else i would not advance so trivial an excuse; but this is honestly my state of mind. whenever i think about the matter at all, this thing comes up for consideration. i think it would be very foolish for me to argue against dancing, for i don't know much about the arguments, and care less. i know only this much, that there is a very distinctly defined inconsistency between a profession of religion and dancing, visible very generally to the eyes of those who make no profession; the other class don't seem so able to see it; but there exists very generally among us worldlings a disposition to laugh a little over dancing christians. whether this is a well-founded inconsistency, or only a foolish prejudice on our part, i have never taken the trouble to try to determine, and it would make little material difference which it was--it is enough for me that such is the case; and it makes it very plain to me that if i were an honest professor of that religion which leads one of its teachers to say, 'he will eat no meat while the world stands if it makes his brother to offend,' i should be obliged to give up my dancing. but since i am not one of that class, and thus have no such influence, i can see no possible harm in my favorite amusement, and am not ready to give it up; and that is what i mean by its being innocent for me, and not innocent for professing christians." dr. van anden made no sort of reply, if sadie could judge from his face; he seemed to have grown weary of the whole subject; he leaned back in his carriage, and let the reins fall loosely and carelessly. his next proceeding was most astounding; coolly possessing himself of one of the small gloved hands that lay idly in sadie's lap, he said, in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone: "sadie, would you allow me to put my arm around you?" in an instant the indignant blood surged in waves over sadie's face; the hand was angrily withdrawn, and the graceful form drawn to an erect hight, and it is impossible to describe the freezing tone of astonished indignation in which she ejaculated, "dr. van anden!" "just what i expected," returned that gentleman in a composed manner, bestowing a look of entire satisfaction upon his irate companion. "and yet, sadie, i hope you will pardon my obtuseness, but i positively can not see why, if it is proper and courteous, and all that sort of thing, i, who am a friend of ten years' standing, should not enjoy the same privilege which you accord to fred kenmore, to whom you were introduced last week, and with whom i heard you say you danced five times." sadie looked confused and annoyed, but finally she laughed; for she had the good sense to see the folly of doing any thing else under existing circumstances. "that is the point which puzzles me at present," continued the doctor, in a kind, grave tone. "i do not understand how young ladies of refinement can permit, under certain circumstances, and often from comparative strangers, attentions which, under other circumstances, they repel with becoming indignation. won't you consider the apparent inconsistency a little? it is the only suggestion which i wish to offer on the question at present. when you have settled that other important matter, this thing will present itself to your clear-seeing eyes in other and more startling aspects. meantime, this is the house at which i must call. will you hold my horses, miss sadie, while i dispatch matters within?" chapter xxvi. confusion--cross-bearing--consequence. but the autumn days were not _all_ bright, and glowing, and glorious. one morning it rained--not a soft, silent, and warm rain, but a gusty, windy, turbulent one; a rain that drove into windows ever so slightly raised, and hurled itself angrily into your face whenever you ventured to open a door. it was a day in which fires didn't like to burn, but smoldered, and sizzled, and smoked; and people went around shivering, their shoulders shrugged up under little dingy, unbecoming shawls, and the clouds were low, and gray, and heavy--and every thing and every body seemed generally out of sorts. ester was no exception; the toothache had kept her awake during the night, and one cheek was puffy and stiff in the morning, and one tooth still snarled threateningly whenever the slightest whisper of a draught came to it. the high-toned, exalted views of life and duty which had held possession of her during the past few weeks seemed suddenly to have deserted her. in short, her body had gained that mortifying ascendency over the soul which it will sometimes accomplish, and all her hopes, and aims, and enthusiasms seemed blotted out. things in the kitchen were uncomfortable. maggie had seized on this occasion for having the mumps, and acting upon the advice of her sympathizing mistress, had pinned a hot flannel around her face and gone to bed. the same unselfish counsel had been given to ester, but she had just grace enough left to refuse to desert the camp, when dinner must be in readiness for twenty-four people in spite of nerves and teeth. just here, however, the supply failed her, and she worked in ominous gloom. julia had been pressed into service, and was stoning raisins, or eating them, a close observer would have found it difficult to discover which. she was certainly rasping the nerves of her sister in a variety of those endless ways by which a thoughtless, restless, questioning child can almost distract a troubled brain. ester endured with what patience she could the ceaseless drafts upon her, and worked at the interminable cookies with commendable zeal. alfred came with a bang and a whistle, and held open the side door while he talked. in rushed the spiteful wind, and all the teeth in sympathy with the aching one set up an immediate growl. "mother, i don't see any. why, where is mother?" questioned alfred; and was answered with an emphatic "shut that door!" "well, but," said alfred, "i want mother. i say, ester, will you give me a cookie?" "no!" answered ester, with energy. "did you hear me tell you to shut that door this instant?" "well now, don't bite a fellow." and alfred looked curiously at his sister. meantime the door closed with a heavy bang. "mother, say, mother," he continued, as his mother emerged from the pantry, "i don't see any thing of that hammer. i've looked every-where. mother, can't i have one of ester's cookies? i'm awful hungry." "why, i guess so, if you are really suffering. try again for the hammer, my boy; don't let a poor little hammer get the better of you." "well," said alfred, "i won't," meaning that it should answer the latter part of the sentence; and seizing a cookie he bestowed a triumphant look upon ester and a loving one upon his mother, and vanished amid a renewal of the whistle and bang. this little scene did not serve to help ester; she rolled away vigorously at the dough, but felt some way disturbed and outraged, and finally gave vent to her feeling in a peremptory order. "julia, don't eat another raisin; you've made away with about half of them now." julia looked aggrieved. "mother lets me eat raisins when i pick them over for her," was her defense; to which she received no other reply than-- "keep your elbows off the table." then there was silence and industry for some minutes. presently julia recovered her composure, and commenced with-- "say, ester, what makes you prick little holes all over your biscuits?" "to make them rise better." "does every thing rise better after it is pricked?" sadie was paring apples at the end table, and interposed at this point-- "if you find that to be the case, julia, you must be very careful after this, or we shall have ester pricking you when you don't 'rise' in time for breakfast in the morning." julia suspected that she was being made a dupe of, and appealed to her older sister: "_honestly_, ester, _do_ you prick them so they will rise better?" "of course. i told you so, didn't i?" "well, but why does that help them any? can't they get up unless you make holes in them, and what is all the reason for it?" now, these were not easy questions to answer, especially to a girl with the toothache, and ester's answer was not much to the point. "julia, i declare you are enough to distract one. if you ask any more questions i shall certainly send you up stairs out of the way." her scientific investigations thus nipped in the bud, julia returned again to silence and raisins, until the vigorous beating of some eggs roused anew the spirit of inquiry. she leaned eagerly forward with a-- "say, ester, please tell me why the whites all foam and get thick when you stir them, just like beautiful white soapsuds." and she rested her elbow, covered with its blue sleeve, plump into the platter containing the beaten yolks. you must remember ester's face-ache, but even then i regret to say that this disaster culminated in a decided box on the ear for poor julia, and in her being sent weeping up stairs. sadie looked up with a wicked laugh in her bright eyes, and said, demurely: "you didn't keep your promise, ester, and let me live in peace, so i needn't keep mine and i consider you pretty well out of the spasm which has lasted for so many days." "sadie, i am really ashamed of you." this was mrs. ried's grave, reproving voice; and she added, kindly: "ester, poor child, i wish you would wrap your face up in something warm and lie down awhile. i am afraid you are suffering a great deal." poor ester! it had been a hard day. late in the afternoon, as she stood at the table, and cut the bread, and cake, and cheese, and cold meat for tea; when the sun had made a rift in the clouds, and was peeping in for good-night; when the throbbing nerves had grown quiet once more, she looked back upon this weary day in shame and pain. how very little her noble resolves, and efforts, and advances had been worth after all. how far back she seemed to have gone in that one day--not strength enough to bear even the little crosses that befell in an ordinarily quiet life! how she had lost the so-lately-gained influence over alfred and julia by a few cross words! how much reason she had given sadie to think that her attempts at following the master were, after all, only spasmodic and visionary! but ester had been to that little clothes-press up stairs in search of help and forgiveness, and now she clearly saw there was something to do besides mourn over her failures. it was hard to do it, too. ester's spirit was proud, and it was very humbling to confess herself in the wrong. she hesitated and shrank from the work, until she finally grew ashamed of herself for that; and at last, without turning her head from her work, or giving her resolve time to falter, she called to the twins, who were occupying seats in one of the dining-room windows, and talking low and soberly to each other: "children, come here a moment, will you?" the two had been very shy of ester since the morning's trials, and were at that moment sympathizing with each other in a manner uncomplimentary to her. however, they slid down from their perch and slowly answered her call. ester glanced up as they entered the storeroom, and then went on cutting her cheese, but speaking in low, gentle tones: "i want to tell you two how sorry i am that i spoke so crossly and unkindly to you this morning. it was very wrong in me. i thought i never should displease jesus so again, but i did, you see; and now i am very sorry indeed, and i want you to forgive me." alfred looked aghast. this was an ester that he had never seen before, and he didn't know what to say. he wriggled the toes of his boots together, and looked down at them in puzzled wonder. at last he faltered out: "i didn't know your cheek ached till mother told me, or else i'd have shut the door right straight. i'd ought to, _any how_, cheek or no cheek." this last in a lower tone, and more looking down at his boots. it was new work for alfred, this voluntarily owning himself in the wrong. julia burst forth eagerly. "and i was very careless and naughty to keep putting my elbows on the table after you had told me not to, and i am ever so sorry that i made you such a lot of trouble." "well, then," said ester, "we'll all forgive each other, shall we, and begin over again? and, children, i want you to understand that i _am_ trying to please jesus; and when i fail it is because of my own wicked heart, not because there is any need of it if i tried harder; and i want you to know how anxious i am that you should love this same jesus now while you are young, and get him to help you." their mother called the children at this moment, and ester dismissed them each with a kiss. there was a little rustle in the flour-room, and sadie, whom nobody knew was down stairs, emerged therefrom with suspiciously red eyes but a laughing face, and approached her sister. "ester," said she, "i'm positively afraid that you are growing into a saint, and i know that i'm a sinner. i consider myself mistaken about the spasm--it is evidently a settled disease." while the bell tolled for evening service ester stood in the front doorway, and looked doubtfully up and down the damp pavements and muddy streets, and felt of her stiff cheek. how much she seemed to need the rest and help of god's house to-night; and yet-- julia's little hand stole softly into hers. "we've been talking about what you said you wanted us to do, alfred and i have. we've talked about it a good deal lately. _we_ most wish so, too." ere ester could reply other than by an eager grasp of the small hand, dr. douglass came out. his horses and carriage were in waiting. "miss ried," he said, pausing irresolutely with his foot on the carriage step, and finally turning back, "i am going to drive down to church this evening, as i have a call to make afterward. will you not ride down with me; it is unpleasant walking?" ester's grave face brightened. "i'm so glad," she answered eagerly. "i _did_ want to go to church to-night, and i was afraid it would be imprudent on account of my tooth." alfred and julia sat right before them in church; and ester watched them with a prayerful, and yet a sad heart what right had she to expect an answer to her petitions when her life had been working against them all that day? and yet the blood of christ was all-powerful, and there was always _his_ righteousness to plead; and she bent her head in renewed supplications for these two, "and it shall come to pass, that before they call i will answer, and while they are yet speaking i will hear." into one of the breathless stillnesses that came, while beating hearts were waiting for the requests that they hoped would be made, broke julia's low, trembling, yet singularly clear voice: "please pray for me." there was a little choking in alfred's throat, and a good deal of shuffling done with his boots. it was so much more of a struggle for the sturdy boy than the gentle little girl; but he stood manfully on his feet at last, and his words, though few, were fraught with as much meaning as any which had been spoken there that evening, for they were distinct and decided: "me, too." chapter xxvii. the time to sleep life went swiftly and busily on. with the close of december the blessed daily meetings closed, rather they closed with the first week of the new year, which the church kept as a sort of jubilee week in honor of the glorious things that had been done for them. the new year opened in joy for ester; many things were different. the honest, straightforward little julia carried all her earnestness of purpose into this new life which had possessed her soul; and the sturdy brother had naturally too decided a nature to do any thing half-way, so ester was sure of this young sister and brother. besides, there was a new order of things between her mother and herself; each had discovered that the other was bound on the same journey, and that there were delightful resting-places by the way. for herself, she was slowly but surely gaining. little crosses that she stooped and resolutely took up grew to be less and less, until they, some of them, merged into positive pleasures. there were many things that cast rays of joy all about her path; but there was still one heavy abiding sorrow. sadie went giddily and gleefully on her downward way. if she perchance seemed to have a serious thought at night it vanished with the next morning's sunshine, and day by day ester realized more fully how many tares the enemy had sown while she was sleeping. sometimes the burden grew almost too heavy to be borne, and again she would take heart of grace and bravely renew her efforts and her prayers. it was about this time that she began to recognize a new feeling. she was not sick exactly, and yet not quite well. she discovered, considerably to her surprise, that she was falling into the habit of sitting down on a stair to rest ere she had reached the top of the first flight; also, that she was sometimes obliged to stay her sweeping and clasp her hands suddenly over a strange beating in her heart. but she laughed at her mother's anxious face, and pronounced herself quite well, quite well, only perhaps a little tired. meantime all sorts of plans for usefulness ran riot in her brain. she could not go away on a mission because her mission had come to her. for a wonder she realized that her mother needed her. she took up bravely and eagerly, so far as she could see it, the work that lay around her; but her restless heart craved more, more. she _must_ do something outside of this narrow circle for the master. one evening her enthusiasm, which had been fed for several days on a new scheme that was afloat in the town, reached its hight. ester remembered afterward every little incident connected with that evening--just how cozy the little family sitting-room looked, with her for its only occupant; just how brightly the coals glowed in the open grate; just what a brilliant color they flashed over the crimson cushioned rocker, which she had vacated when she heard dr. van anden's step in the hall, and went to speak to him. she was engaged in writing a letter to abbie, full of eager schemes and busy, bright work. "i am astonished that i ever thought there was nothing worth living for;" so she wrote. "why life isn't half long enough for the things that i want to do. this new idea just fills me with delight. i am so eager to get to work--" thus far when she heard that step, and springing up went with eagerness to the door. "doctor, are you in haste? haven't you just five minutes for me?" "ten," answered the doctor promptly, stepping into the bright little room. in her haste, not even waiting to offer him a seat, ester plunged at once into her subject. "aren't you the chairman of that committee to secure teachers for the evening school?" "i am." "have you all the help you want?" "not by any means. volunteers for such a self-denying employment as teaching factory girls are not easy to find." "well, doctor, do you think--would you be willing to propose my name as one of the teachers? i should so like to be counted among them." instead of the prompt thanks which she expected, to her dismay dr. van anden's face looked grave and troubled. finally he slowly shook his head with a troubled-- "i don't think i can, ester." such an amazed, grieved, hurt look as swept over ester's face. "it is no matter," she said at last, speaking with an effort. "of course i know little of teaching, and perhaps could do no good; but i thought if help was scarce you might--well, never mind." and here the doctor interposed. "it is not that, ester," with the troubled look deepening on his face. "i assure you we would be glad of your help, but," and he broke off abruptly, and commenced a sudden pacing up and down the room. then stopped before her with these mysterious words: "i don't know how to tell you, ester." ester's look now was one of annoyance, and she spoke quickly. "why, doctor, you need tell me nothing. i am not a child to have the truth sugar-coated. if my help is not needed, that is sufficient." "your help is exactly what we need, ester, but your health is not sufficient for the work." and now ester laughed. "why, doctor, what an absurd idea in a week i shall be as well as ever. if that is all you may surely count me as one of your teachers." the doctor smiled faintly, and then asked: "do you never feel any desire to know what may be the cause of this strange lassitude which is creeping over you, and the sudden flutterings of heart, accompanied by pain and faintness, which take you unawares?" ester's face paled a little, but she asked, quietly enough: "how do you know all this?" "i am a physician, ester. do you think it is kindness to keep a friend in ignorance of what very nearly concerns him, simply to spare his feelings for a little?" "why, dr. van anden, you do not think--you do not mean that--tell me _exactly what_ you mean." but the doctor's answer was grave, anxious, absolute _silence_. perhaps the silence answered her--perhaps her own heart told the secret to her, for a sudden gray palor overspread her face. for an instant the room darkened and whirled around her, then she staggered as if she would have fallen, then she reached forward and caught hold of the little red rocker, and sank into it, and leaning both elbows on the writing-table before her, buried her face in her hands. afterward ester called to mind the strange whirl of thoughts which thrilled her brain at that time. life in all the various phases that she had thought it would wear for her, all the endless plans that she had made, all the things that she had meant to _do_ and _be_, came and stared her in the face. nowhere in all her plannings crossed by that strange creature death; someway she had never planned for that. could it be possible that he was to come for her so soon, before any of these things were done? was it possible that she must leave sadie, bright, brilliant, unsafe sadie, and go away where she could work for her no more? then, like a picture spread before her, there came back that day in the cars, on her way to new york, the christian stranger, who was not a stranger now, but her friend, and was it heaven--the earnest little old woman with her thoughtful face, and that strange sentence on her lips: "maybe my coffin will do it better than i can." well, maybe _her_ coffin could do it for sadie. oh the blessed thought! plans? yes, but perhaps god had plans too. what mattered hers compared to _his_? if he would that she should do her earthly work by lying down very soon in the unbroken calm of the "rest that remaineth," "what was that to her?" presently she spoke without raising her head. "are you very certain of this thing, doctor, and is it to come to me soon?" "that last we can not tell, dear friend. you _may_ be with us years yet, and it _may_ be swift and sudden. i think it is worse than mistaken kindness, it is foolish wickedness, to treat a christian woman like a little child. i wanted to tell you before the shock would be dangerous to you." "i understand." when she spoke again it was in a more hesitating tone. "does dr. douglass agree with you?" and the quick, pained way in which the doctor answered showed her that he understood. "dr. douglass will not _let_ himself believe it." then a long silence fell between them. the doctor kept his position, leaning against the mantel, but never for a moment allowed his eyes to turn away from that motionless figure before him. only the loving, pitying savior knew what was passing in that young heart. at last she arose and came toward the doctor, with a strange sweetness playing about her mouth, and a strange calm in her voice. "dr. van anden, i am _so_ much obliged to you. don't be afraid to leave me now. i think i need to be quite alone." and the doctor, feeling that all words were vain and useless, silently bowed, and softly let himself out of the room. the first thing upon which ester's eye alighted when she turned again to the table was the letter in which she had been writing those last words: "why life isn't half long enough for the things that i want to do." very quietly she picked up the letter and committed it to the glowing coals upon the grate. her mood had changed. by degrees, very quietly and very gradually, as such bitter things _do_ creep in upon a family, it grew to be an acknowledged fact that ester was an invalid. little by little her circle of duties narrowed, one by one her various plans were silently given up, the dear mother first, and then sadie, and finally the children, grew into the habit of watching her footsteps, and saving her from the stairs, from the lifting, from every possible burden. once in a long while, and then, as the weeks passed, more frequently, there would come a day in which she did not get down further than the little sitting-room, but was established amid pillows on the couch, "enjoying poor health," as she playfully phrased it. so softly and silently and surely the shadow crept and crept, until when june brought roses and abbie. ester received her in her own room, propped up among the pillows in her bed. gradually they grew accustomed to that also, as god in his infinite mercy has planned that human hearts shall grow used to the inevitable. they even told each other hopefully that the warm weather was what depressed her so much, and as the summer heat cooled into autumn she would grow stronger. and she had bright days in which she really seemed to grow strong, and which deceived every body save dr. van anden and herself. during one of those bright days sadie came from school full of a new idea, and curled herself in front of ester's couch to entertain her with it. "mr. hammond's last," she said. "such a curious idea, as like him as possible, and like nobody else. you know that our class will graduate in just two years from this time, and there are fourteen of us, an even number, which is lucky for mr. hammond. well, we are each, don't you think, to write a letter, as sensible, honest, and piquant as we can make it, historic, sentimental, poetic, or otherwise, as we please, so that it be the honest exponent of our views. then we are to make a grand exchange of letters among the class, and the young lady who receives my letter, for instance, is to keep it sealed, and under lock and key, until graduation day, when it is to be read before scholars, faculty, and trustees, and my full name announced as the signature; and all the rest of us are to perform in like manner." "what is supposed to be the object?" queried abbie. "precisely the point which oppressed us, until mr. hammond complimented us by announcing that it was for the purpose of discovering how many of us, after making use of our highest skill in that line, could write a letter that after two years we should be willing to acknowledge as ours." ester sat up flushed and eager. "that is a very nice idea," she said, brightly. "i'm so glad you told me of it. sadie, i'll write you a letter for that day. i'll write it to-morrow, and you are to keep it sealed until the evening of that day on which you graduate. then when you have come up to your room and are quite alone, you are to read it. will you promise, sadie?" but sadie only laughed merrily, and said "you are growing sentimental, ester, as sure is the world. how can i make any such promise as that? i shall probably chatter to you like a magpie instead of reading any thing." this young girl utterly ignored so far as was possible the fact of ester's illness, never allowing it to be admitted in her presence that there were any fears as to the result. ester had ceased trying to convince her, so now she only smiled quietly and repeated her petition. "will you promise, sadie?" "oh yes, i'll promise to go to the mountains of the moon on foot and alone, across lots--_any thing_ to amuse you. you're to be pitied, you see, until you get over this absurd habit of cuddling down among the pillows." so a few days thereafter she received with much apparent glee the dainty sealed letter addressed to herself, and dropped it in her writing-desk, but ere she turned the key there dropped a tear or two on the shining lid. well, as the long, hot summer days grew longer and fiercer, the invalid drooped and drooped, and the home faces grew sadder. yet there still came from time to time those rallying days, wherein sadie confidently pronounced her to be improving rapidly. and so it came to pass that so sweet was the final message that the words of the wonderful old poem proved a siting description of it all. "they thought her dying when she slept, and sleeping when she died." into the brightness of the september days there intruded one, wherein all the house was still, with that strange, solemn stillness that comes only to those homes where death has left a seal. from the doors floated the long crape signals, and in the great parlors were gathering those who had come to take their parting look at the white, quiet face. "ester ried, aged ," so the coffin-plate told them. thus early had the story of her life been finished. only one arrangement had ester made for this last scene in her life drama. "i am going to preach my own funeral sermon," she had said pleasantly to abbie one day. "i want every one to know what seemed to me the most important thing in life. and i want them to understand that when i came just to the end of my life it stood out the most important thing still--for christians, i mean. my sermon is to be preached for them. no it isn't either; it applies equally to all. the last time i went to the city i found in a bookstore just the kind of sermon i want preached. i bought it. you will find the package in my upper bureau drawer, abbie. i leave it to you to see that they are so arranged that every one who comes to look at _me_ will be sure to see them." so on this day, amid the wilderness of flowers and vines and mosses that had possession of the rooms, ranged along the mantel, hanging in clusters on the walls, were beautifully illuminated texts--and these were some of the words that they spoke to those who silently gathered in the parlors: "and that knowing the time, that now it is high time to awake out of sleep." "but wilt thou know, o vain man, that faith without works is dead?" "what shall we do that we might work the works of god?" "whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave whither thou goest." "i must work the work of him that sent me while it is day: the night cometh when no man can work." "awake to righteousness and sin not." "awake thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and christ shall give thee light." "redeeming the time, because the days are evil." "let us not sleep as do others, but let us watch, and be sober." chiming in with the thoughts of those who knew by whose direction the illuminated texts were hung, came the voice of the minister, reading: "and i heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, write, blessed are the dead which die in the lord from henceforth: yea, saith the spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them." so it was that ester ried, lying quiet in her coffin, was reckoned among that number who "being dead, yet speaketh." chapter xxviii. at last. the busy, exciting, triumphant day was done. sadie ried was no longer a school-girl; she had graduated. and although a dress of the softest, purest white had been substituted for the blue silk, in which she had so long ago planned to appear, its simple folds had swept the platform of music hall in as triumphant a way as ever she had planned for the other. more so, for sadie's wildest flights of fancy had never made her valedictorian of her class, yet that she certainly was. in some respects it had been a merry day--the long sealed letters had been opened and read by their respective holders that morning, and the young ladies had discovered, amid much laughter and many blushes, that they were ready to pronounce many of the expressions which they had carefully made only two years before, "ridiculously out of place" or "absurdly sentimental." "progress," said mr. hammond, turning for a moment to sadie, after he had watched with an amused smile the varying play of expression on her speaking face, while she listened to the reading of her letter. "you were not aware that you had improved so much in two years, now, were you?" "i was not aware that i ever was such a simpleton!" was her half-provoked, half-amused reply. to-night she loitered strangely in the parlors, in the halls, on the stairs, talking aimlessly with any one who would stop; it was growing late. mrs. ried and the children had long ago departed. dr. van anden had not yet returned from his evening round of calls. every body in and about the house was quiet, ere sadie, with slow, reluctant steps, finally ascended the stairs and sought her room. arrived there, she seemed in no haste to light the gas; moonlight was streaming into the room, and she put herself down in front of one of the low windows to enjoy it. but it gave her a view of the not far distant cemetery, and gleamed on a marble slab, the lettering of which she knew perfectly well was--"ester, daughter of alfred and laura ried, died sept. , --, aged . asleep in jesus--awake to everlasting life." and that reminded her, as she had no need to be reminded, of a letter with the seal unbroken, lying in her writing-desk--a letter which she had promised to read this evening--promised the one who wrote it for her, and over whose grave the moonlight was now wrapping its silver robe. sadie felt strangely averse to reading that letter; in part, she could imagine its contents, and for the very reason that she was still "halting between two opinions," "almost persuaded," and still on that often fatal "almost" side, instead of the "altogether," did she wait and linger, and fritter away the evening as best she could, rather than face that solemn letter. even when she turned resolutely from the window, and lighted the gas, and drew down the shade, she waited to put every thing tidy on her writing-table, and then, when she had finally turned the key in her writing-desk, to read over half a dozen old letters and bits of essays, and scraps of poetry, ere she reached down for that little white envelope, with her name traced by the dear familiar hand that wrote her name no more. at last the seal was broken, and sadie read: "my darling sister: "i am sitting to-day in our little room--yours and mine. i have been taking in the picture of it; every thing about it is dear to me, from our father's face smiling down on me from the wall, to the little red rocker in which he sat and wrote, in which i sit now, and in which you will doubtless sit, when i have gone to him. i want to speak to you about that time. when you read this, i shall have been gone a long, long time, and the bitterness of the parting will all be past; you will be able to read calmly what i am writing. i will tell you a little of the struggle. for the first few moments after i knew that i was soon to die, my brain fairly reeled; it seemed to me that i _could_ not. i had so much to live for, there was so much that i wanted to do; and most of all other things, i wanted to see you a christian. i wanted to live for that, to work for it, to undo if i could some of the evil that i knew my miserable life had wrought in your heart. then suddenly there came to me the thought that perhaps what my life could not do, my coffin would accomplish--perhaps that was to be god's way of calling you to himself perhaps he meant to answer my pleading in that way, to let my grave speak for me, as my crooked, marred, sinful living might never be able to do. my darling, then i was content; it came to me so suddenly as that almost the certainty that god meant to use me thus, and i love you so, and i long so to see you come to him, that i am more than willing to give up all that this life seemed to have for me, and go away, if by that you would be called to christ. "and sadie, dear, you will know before you read this, how much i had to give up. you will know very soon all that dr. douglass and i looked forward to being to each other--but i give it up, give him up, more than willingly--joyfully--glad that my father will accept the sacrifice, and make you his child. oh, my darling, what a life i have lived before you! i do not wonder that, looking at me, you have grown into the habit of thinking that there is nothing in religion--you have looked at me, not at jesus, and there has been no reflection of his beauty in me, as there should have been, and the result is not strange. knowing this, i am the more thankful that god will forgive me, and use me as a means to bring you home at last. i speak confidently. i am sure, you see, that it will be; the burden, the fearful burden that i have carried about with me so long, has gone away. my redeemer and yours has taken it from me. i shall see you in heaven. father is there, and i am going, oh _so_ fast, and mother will not be long behind, and alfred and julia have started on the journey, and you _will_ start. oh, i know it--we shall all be there! i told my savior i was willing to do any thing, _any thing_, so my awful mockery of a christian life, that i wore so long, might not be the means of your eternal death. and he has heard my prayer. i do not know when it will be; perhaps you will still be undecided when you sit in our room and read these words. oh, i hope, i _hope_ you will not waste two years more of your life, but if you do, if as you read these last lines that i shall ever write, the question is unsettled, i charge you by the memory of your sister, by the love you bear her not to wait another _moment_--not one. oh, my darling, let me beg this at your hands; take it as my dying petition--renewed after two years of waiting. come to jesus now. "that question settled, then let me give you one word of warning. do not live as i have done--my life has been a failure--five years of stupid sleep, while the enemy waked and worked. oh, god, forgive me! sadie, never let that be your record. let me give you a motto--'press toward the mark.' the mark is high; don't look away from or forget it, as i did; don't be content with simply sauntering along, looking toward it now and then, but take in the full meaning of that earnest sentence, and live it--'press toward the mark!' "and now good-by. when you have finished reading this letter, do this last thing for me: if you are already a christian, get down on your knees and renew your covenant; resolve anew to live and work, and suffer and die, for christ. if you are not a christian--oh, i put my whole soul into this last request--i beg you kneel and give yourself up to jesus. my darling, good-by until we meet in heaven. "ester ried." the letter dropped from sadie's nerveless fingers. she arose softly, and turned down the gas, and raised the shade--the moonlight still gleamed on the marble slab. dr. van anden came with quick, firm tread up the street. she gave a little start as she recognized the step, and her thoughts went out after that other lonely doctor, who was to have been her brother, and then back to the long, earnest letter and the words, "i give him up"--and she realized as only those can who know by experience, what a giving up that would be, how much her sister longed for her soul. and then, moved by a strong, firm resolve, sadie knelt in the solemn moonlight, and the long, long struggle was ended. father and sister were in heaven, but on earth, this night, their prayers were being answered. "blessed are the dead which die in the lord from henceforth: yea, saith the spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them." the end. none illustrations of the law of kindness, edited by elihu burritt. jemmy stubbins, or the nailer boy. . [illustration] to the boys and girls in america, who took the "little nailer" of the father-land from his smithy, and sent him to school for two years i dedicate this little book, as an offering of my affection, and as a souvenir of that loving act of benevolent sympathy. elihu burritt. worcester, mass., march , . jemmy stubbins, or the nailer boy. before i left america in , in order to gratify the wish that had long occupied my heart, of visiting the motherland, i formed for myself a plan of procedure to which i hoped to be able rigidly to adhere. i determined that my visit to england should bring me face to face with the people; that i should converse with the artizan in his workshop, and lifting the lowly door-latches of the poor, should become intimately acquainted with their life--with their manners, and it might be, with their hopes and sorrows. * * * * * tuesday, july st, .--after a quiet cosy breakfast, served up on a little round table for myself alone, i sat down to test the practicability of the plan i had formed at home for my peregrinations in england:--_viz._, to write until one, p.m., then to take my staff and travel on, eight or ten miles, to another convenient stopping-place for the night. as much depended upon the success of the experiment, i was determined to carry the point against the predictions of my friends. so at it i went, _con amore_. the house was as quiet as if a profound sabbath was resting upon it, and the windows of my airy chamber looked through the foliage of grave elms down upon a green valley. i got on swimmingly; and after a frugal dinner at the little round table, i buckled on my knapsack with a feeling of self-gratulation in view of the literary part of my day's work. having paid my bill, and given the lady a copy of my corn-meal receipts, i resumed my walk toward w----. i was suddenly diverted from my contemplation of this magnificent scenery, by a fall of heavy rain drops, as the prelude of an impending shower. seeing a gate open, and hearing a familiar clicking behind the hedge, i stepped through into a little blacksmith's shop, about as large an american smoke-house for curing bacon. the first object that my eyes rested on, was a full-grown man nine years of age, and nearly three feet high, perched upon a stone of half that height, to raise his breast to the level of his father's anvil, at which he was at work, with all the vigor of his little short arms, making nails. i say, a _full-grown_ man; for i fear he can never grow any larger, physically or mentally. as i put my hand on his shoulders in a familiar way, to make myself at home with him, and to remove the timidity with which my sudden appearance seemed to inspire him, by a pleasant word or two of greeting, his flesh felt case-hardened into all the induration of toiling manhood, and as unsusceptible of growth as the anvil block. fixed manhood had set in upon him in the greenness of his youth; and there he was, by his father's side, a stinted, premature _man_ with his childhood cut off; with no space to grow in between the cradle and the anvil-block; chased, as soon as he could stand on his little legs, from the hearth-stone to the forge-stone, by iron necessity, that would not let him stop long enough to pick up a letter of the english alphabet on the way. o, lord john russell! think of this. of this englishman's son, placed by his mother, scarcely weaned, on a high, cold stone, barefooted, before the anvil; there to harden, sear, and blister his young hands by heating and hammering ragged nailrods, for the sustenance those breasts can no longer supply! lord john! look at those nails, as they lie hissing on the block. know you their meaning, use and language? please your lordship, let me tell you--i have made nails many a day and many a night--_they are iron exclamation points_, which this unlettered, dwarfed boy is unconsciously arraying against you, against the british government, and the government of british literature, for cutting him off without a letter of the english alphabet, when printing is done by steam; for incarcerating him for no sin on his parents' side, but poverty, in a dark, six-by-eight prison of hard labor, a _youthless_ being--think of it!--an infant hardened, almost in its mother's arms, into a man, by toil that bows the sturdiest of the world's laborers who come to manhood through the intervening years of childhood! the boy's father was at work with his back toward me, when i entered. at my first word of salutation to the lad, he turned around and accosted me a little bashfully, as if unaccustomed to the sight of strangers in that place, or reluctant to let them into the scene and secret of his poverty. i sat down upon one end of his nail-bench, and told him i was an american blacksmith by trade, and that i had come in to see how he got on in the world; whether he was earning pretty good wages at his business, so that he could live comfortably, and send his children to school. as i said this, i glanced inquiringly toward the boy, who was looking steadily at me from his stone stool by the anvil. two or three little crock-faced girls, from two to five years of age, had stolen in timidly, and a couple of young, frightened eyes were peering over the door-sill at me. the poor englishman--he was as much an englishman as the duke of wellington--looked at his bushy-headed, barefooted children, and said softly, with a melancholy shake of the head, that the times were rather hard with him. it troubled his heart, and many hours of the night he had been kept awake by the thought of it, that he could not send his children to school, nor teach them himself to read. they were good children, he said, with a moist yearning in his eyes; they were all the wealth he had, and he loved them the more, the harder he had to work for them. the poorest part of the poverty that was on him, was that he could not give his children the letters. they were good children, for all the crock of the shop was on their faces, and their fingers were bent like eagle's claws with handling nails. he had been a poor man all his days, and he knew his children would be poor all their days, and poorer than he, if the nail business should continue to grow worse. if he could only give them the letters, it would make them the like of rich; for then they could read the testament. he could read the testament a little, for he had learned the letters by the forge-light. it was a good book, was the testament; and he was sure it was made for nailers and such like. it helped him wonderfully when the loaf was small on his table, he had but little time to read it when the sun was up, and it took him loner to read a little, for he learned the letters when he was old. but he laid it beside his dish at dinner time, and fed his heart with it, while his children were eating the bread that fell to his share. and when he had spelt out a line of the shortest words, he read them aloud, and his eldest boy--the one on the block there--could say several whole verses he had learned in this way. it was a great comfort to him, to think that james could take into his heart so many verses of the testament which he could not read. he intended to teach all his children in this way. it was all he could do for them; and this he had to do at meal-times; for all the other hours he had to be at the anvil. the nailing business was growing harder, he was growing old, and his family large. _he had to work from four o'clock in the morning till ten o'clock at night, to earn eighteen-pence._ his wages averaged only about _seven shillings a week_; and there were five of them in the family to live on what they could earn. it was hard to make up the loss of an hour. not one of their hands, however little, could be spared. jemmy was going on nine years of age, and a helpful lad he was; and the poor man looked at him doatingly. jemmy could work off a thousand nails a day, of the smallest size. the rent of their little shop, tenement and garden, was five pounds a year; and a few pennies earned by the youngest of them were of great account. but, continued the blacksmith, speaking cheerily, i am not the one that ought to complain. many is the man that has a harder lot of it than i, among the nailers along this hill and in the valley. my neighbor in the next door could tell you something about labor you never have heard the like of in your country. he is an older man than i, and there are seven of them in his family; and, for all that, he has no boy like jemmy here to help him. some of his little girls are sickly, and their mother is not over strong, and it all comes on him. he is an oldish man, as i was saying, yet he not only works eighteen hours every day at his forge, but _every friday in the year he works all night long_, and never lays off his clothes till late of saturday night. a good neighbor is john stubbins, and the only man just in our neighborhood who can read the newspaper. it is not often he gets a newspaper; for it is not the like of us that can have newspapers and bread too at the same time in our houses. but now and then he begs an old one, partly torn, at the baker's, and reads it to us of a sunday night. so once in two or three weeks, we hear something of what is going on in the world--something about corn laws, and the duke of wellington, and oregon, and india, and ireland, and other parts of england. we heard tell a while ago that the poor people would not have to make so many nails for a loaf of bread much longer, because sir robert peel and some other men were going to take off the port-locks and other taxes, and let us buy bread of them that could sell it the cheapest. when we heard this talked of, without knowing the truth of it, john stubbins took a penny and went to the white hart and bought a drink of beer, and then the landlady let him look into the newspaper which she keeps for her customers. when he came back, he told us a good deal of what was going on, and said he was sure the times would be better one of these days. here he was interrupted by john stubbins himself, who, hearing some strange voices mingling in earnest conversation in the other end of the building, came round to see who was there. with the entrance of this john stubbins, i must turn over another leaf of my journal. * * * * * second visit to the little nailer. the interest created in the united states by the above account of my first meeting with josiah, encouraged me to propose that the children of america should, by a subscription of a half dime each, contribute as much money as would clothe and educate him for a year. the proposition met with a cordial response, and one hundred dollars were soon collected for this purpose. at the time i first threw out the proposition in regard to the education of the little nailer, i hardly believed that they could so abolish space and dry up the ocean intervening between them and such a young sufferer, as they have done. bless your hearts, children, i reckoned you would have a merry time of it about christmas, and have your pockets filled with all sorts of nice things, that would come by way of affectionate remembrance from grand-papa down to the fourth cousin; and you would bring to mind lots of boys and girls that had no one to give them a picture-book as large as a cent, and who couldn't read it if they had one. i thought this would be a good time to put in a word for "the little nailer;" and so i threw out the thought, very hopefully, that you should all contribute something from your christmas presents and make the little fellow a christmas gift of a year's schooling. i suggested this idea between doubt and hope. i did not know how it would strike you. i did not know but some of you might think that the great ocean was too wide to be crossed by your little charities; that others might say, "he is only an _english_ boy--he doesn't belong to our family circle--let him alone," and so i waited anxiously to hear from you; for i was sure you would talk it over among yourselves in the "school-room," and on the way home, and by the fireside. well, after waiting a few weeks, the english steamer came in from boston, and brought me a letter from ezekiel; and the happiest thing in it was, that the boys and girls of "our school room" had made no more of the atlantic ocean than if it had been a mud-puddle, which they could step across to give a helping hand to a lad who was down and couldn't get up alone. it made my heart get up in my mouth and try to talk instead of my tongue, when i read to some of my friends here what you had done for the little nailer; when i told them to read for themselves and see that your sympathies knew nothing about any geography, any more than if the science of natural divisions had never been discovered, or if oceans, seas, rivers or mountains, or any such terms as _american, english_ or _african,_ were not to be found in the dictionary. the letter stated that one hundred and sixty half-dimes had already come in, from children all over the country, to pay the schoolmaster for teaching the little english nailer to read in the testament, and to write a legible hand. nor was this all.--ezekiel said that there was no telling how many more half-dimes would come in; for not only had the children of our own "school-room" taken up the matter, but those of other school-rooms, especially away down in maine, were determined to have some share in fitting out the nailer-boy with an education sufficient to make a man of him, if he will use it aright. i saw it clear that the little fellow was to be put to school; that his hammer was to lie silent on the anvil for the space of one cold winter; and that the young folks in america would foot the bill. and i was determined that this should be a christmas gift to him, that he and his young american benefactors might enjoy it together. so two days before christmas, i started from birmingham on foot to carry the present to him. it was a bright, frosty morning, and, after a walk of twelve miles, i came in sight of the little brick cottage of the nailer by the wayside. i approached it with mingled emotions of solicitude. perhaps it had been vacated by the poor man and his family, and some other nailer had taken his place. perhaps the hand that spares neither rich nor poor had been there, and i should miss the boy at the anvil. i stopped once or twice to listen. the windows were open, but all was still. there was no clicking of hammers, nor blowing of bellows, to indicate that the nailer family were still its occupants. i began to fear that they were gone, and my imagination ran rapidly over a hundred casualties and changes which might have come upon them. the same gate was open that invited me to enter last summer; and as i passed through it, i met a woman who said the nailer was at dinner in the family apartment of the building. she went in before me, and the next moment i was in the midst of the circle of my old acquaintance, who had just risen from the table and were sitting around the fire. my sudden appearance in their midst seemed to cause as much pleasure as surprise. the father arose and welcomed me with the heartfelt expressions of good-will. little josiah, the hero of my story, came forward timidly with a sunny token of recognition brightening up his black, sharp eyes. the mother, a tidy, interesting looking woman in a clean, white cap, added her welcome; and i sat down with them, with josiah standing between my knees, and told them my story--how some children in america had interested themselves in their boy--how they had thought of him on their way to school, and talked of him on their way home, and in the parlor, and the kitchen and the cottage;--how they had contributed their pennies, which they had saved or earned, to send josiah to school to learn to read the testament; and how i had come to bring them, and to ask if the boy could be spared from the anvil. i glanced around upon the group of children, whose eager eyes indicated that they partially comprehended my errand, and then at a couple of sides of bacon suspended over my head. the nailer's eyes followed my own, and as they reciprocally rested on the bacon, he commenced his reply from that end of the subject. he said it was true that many were worse off than he, and many were the comforts he had, that thousands of the poor knew nothing of. here he glanced affectionately at his children; but my eyes brought him back to the bacon, and so he went on, apparently under a new impression of his resources of comfort. he said he had to sell some of his goods to buy the pig when very small, and had "_luggled_" along with some difficulty to feed and fatten him into a respectable size. yes, he was a pretty clever pig; nor was that all--the nailing business had become better, by a half-penny a thousand, than when i was with them in the summer; and josiah could now earn ninepence a day. he wanted to send all his children to school; if they could not read, they would be poor, even if they should come to own parks and carriages, he could not bear to see them growing up with no books in their hands. he worked long at the anvil as it was; and he was willing to work longer and harder to pay the schoolmaster for teaching his children to read. josiah was now ten years old; he had been a faithful boy; he had made nails ever since he could hold a hammer; and it was for this that he desired the more to send him to school. it had troubled him much all along that the boy was working so long and so well at the anvil, without having any of his wages to pay the schoolmaster for teaching him something that would make him rich in his poverty when he came to be a man; and he had tried to make up this to him in a little way, by reading to him easy verses from the testament, many of which he had learned by heart. besides this, he had bought a little picture-reading-book, since i was with them last, and josiah could master many easy words in it; for he had learned almost all the letters. but he knew this was a slow way of getting on, although he feared it was the best he could do for him. he knew not how he could manage to spare him for the winter. he had no other boy; there was a baby in the cradle only a fortnight old, which made him five children under ten years of age, to be fed, warmed and clothed through the winter months. here he fell into a calculation of this kind--he could now earn nine shillings, or about two dollars and twenty cents, a week. his coal cost him three shillings a week, and his house-rent two; leaving him but _four_ shillings a week for a family of seven persons to live upon. josiah's clothes were well nigh gone; they were indeed ragged; there was nothing left to sew patches to; and all he had in the world was on him, except a smock frock which he put on over them on the sabbath. these considerations gave a thoughtful tone to the nailer's voice as they came upon his mind, and a thoughtful air came over the family group when he had finished, and they all looked straitly into the fire as much as to say, "it cannot be done." so i began at the bacon to soften down these obstacles--there were nearly pounds of it, besides a spare-rib hanging from another joist--and suggested how much better off they were than ten thousands of poor people in the world. could they ever spare josiah better than during this winter? he would learn faster now than when he was older, and when they could not spare him so well. nor was this all; if they could get on without him for a few months, he might not only learn to read without spelling, but he could teach his three little sisters to read during the winter nights, and the baby, too, as soon as it could talk; so that sending him to school now, would be like sending all his children to the same school. yes, it might be more than this. let him go for a few months, and when he came back to the anvil, he might work all day, and in the evening he might get together all the nailer children that lived within a mile, and teach them how to read and write. there was the little wesleyan chapel within a rod of their own door, lying useless except on sundays. it would be just the place for an evening school for fifty or even a hundred little children, whose parents were too poor to send them to the day-schools of the town. and wouldn't they like to look in and see josiah with his primer in hand teaching their neighbors' children to read in this way; with his clean smock-frock on, setting copies in the writing-books of the little nailers? josiah, who was standing between my knees, looking sharply into the fire with his picture book in his hand, turned suddenly around at this idea and fixed his eyes inquiringly upon my own. the thought vibrated through all the fine-strung sympathies of parental affection. the mother leaned forward to part away the black hair from the boy's forehead, and said softly to his father, that she would take the lad's place at the anvil, if they should want his wages while at school. this was the crisis of my errand; and, in my imagination, i tried to catch the eyes of the children in "our school room" in america, as i went on to say, that they would not be willing to have josiah go to school in his old worn out clothes, to be laughed at or shunned by well-dressed school-mates; nor that he should stay at home for want of decent and comfortable clothes. i knew what they would say, if they were with me; and so i offered to fit him out at the tailor's shop with a good comfortable suit, as a part of the christmas present from his young friends on the other side of the ocean. the little ones were too timid to crow, but they looked as if they would when i was gone; and the nailer and his wife almost cried for joy at what the children of a far-off land had done for their son. for myself, i only regretted that i could not share at the moment with those young friends all the pleasure i felt in carrying out their wish and deed of beneficence. i hope it is not the last time that i shall be associated with them in these little adventures of benevolence. perhaps i have made too long a story of my second visit to the nailer's cottage. i will merely add, that it was agreed that i should proceed into the town, a distance of a mile and a half, to make arrangements for the boy's schooling, and be joined there by him and his father. so, bidding adieu to the remainder of the family, i continued my walk into the town, of bromsgrove, and soon found a kind-hearted school teacher who agreed to take the lad and do his best to forward his education. having met several gentlemen in the course of my inquiries, they became interested in the case, and went with me to the inn, where the lad and his father were waiting for me. thence we all proceeded to a clothing shop, where the little nailer was soon fitted with a warm and decent suit. one of the company, a baptist minister, to whose congregation the schoolmaster belonged, promised to call in and see the boy occasionally, and to let me know how he gets on. i hope josiah will soon be able to speak for himself to the children in "our school room." on monday after christmas, he made his first entry into any school-room, for the object of learning to read. * * * * * a budget from the little nailer. they have come! the long expected letters from "jemmy stubbing," or the nailer boy. i am sure they will be a treat to all the children that meet in our school-room. i hope all the benches will be full whilst josiah's letters are read. and what a nice thing it was in the children in america, to take that little fellow out of the cinders and soot of the blacksmith's shop, and send him to school for two years! now many a little boy and girl of our school-room circle has contributed half a dime towards josiah's education. i would ask that little boy or girl what he or she would sell out all right and title to the pleasure and consequence of that act for? what would you take in money down for your share in the work of expanding that little fellow's mind, and filling it with such new ideas as he expresses in his letters? what a new world he has lived in since he returned from school to his little wayside smithy, the roof of which can hardly be seen over the hedge! think of it--but you cannot think of it as it is, unless you could see that nailer's shop and cottage. but think of what he was, when you took him from the anvil and sent him to school. then he could not tell a letter of the alphabet, and never would have read a verse in the bible, if it had not been for your half dimes. now see with what delight he searches the scriptures, and marks and commits to memory choice verses in that holy book. he has taught his father to read it too, and is teaching his sisters, and the children of the neighbors to read it, and all good books. a great many young boys and girls in england have heard what you did for him, and some of them are beginning to write to him, and he answers them, and gives them good advice. the last steamer from england brought us a nice lot of letters from him, some directed to you, some to me, and one or two to others, i will read them to you in the order in which they are written. bromsgrove lickey, dec. , . my dear sir: i thought that when i wrote to you again i should have a few subscribers for the citizen. i will tell you the reason why i have not got them; they are most all primitive methodists. they have been trying to scheme them a chapel for this last twelve months. they are having tea parties and missionary meetings every two or three weeks, so they have put me off a little longer. i had a good deal on my mind through reading the citizen. i opened my bible at the forty-first chapter of isaiah and at the sixth and seventh verses. there i read the following words: 'they helped everyone his neighbor, and every one said to his brother, be of good courage; so the carpenter encouraged the goldsmith, and he that smootheth with the hammer him that smote the anvil, saying, it is ready for the sodering, and he fastened it with nails.' i thought about mr. burritt's sparks. he has got a few in england and france and america. i thought about the russians, if they would but examine this chapter as well as i have, i think they would make away with their arms, for the lord says, them that war against thee, they shall be as nothing and as a thing of nought. how dare they go to war against their maker. i dare not. i have another word or two to say to my young friends in america. the boys and girls in england, they are forced to work very hard all the week till about middle day on the saturday, and then they get a little time to play while their parents go and sell their work. they frequently come for me but i am very often forced to deny them. i tell them that i have some reading and writing to do. reading and writing must be seen to. if that apostle paul had neglected his reading and writing, that jailor would have never, perhaps, seen need to have cried out, 'what must i do to be saved,' or if mr. burritt had neglected his reading and writing very likely i should never have been able to read or write. though you are in america and i am in england if we put our heads to work we dont know what we may do some day. it does me good to read that there are so many ladies engaged in the work. i have been asked several times what was the price of the citizen, but i have not found that out yet. i dont know how you count your money. i dont know how much a cent is. the first three newspapers that i had, i paid five pence each for; but now i get them for twopence each. i keep at my old employment. i did not know that there was any other country besides england till i had the citizen. while i am hammering away with my two hammers my mind is flying all over america and africa and south carolina and california and francisco and france and ireland scotland and wales, and then it comes back to devonshire, then to mrs. prideaux, and then to them ladies at bristol, and then to mr. fry at london, and what a good man he is in the cause. i remain your humble servant wish to be a fellow laborer, heart and hand. josiah banner. * * * * * bromsgrove lickey, dec. th, . my dear sir: i have received your letter with two sovereigns on dec. . i dare say my young friends will look for something very good from me, but nothing very interesting for them at this time. i will tell you the reason. the last week before christmas i was working late and early all the week, and at the end of the week my foot and hand did ache very much. in that week i received a letter of young mr. fry, a little school boy, and a beautiful letter it was. i have read it many a time to the boys and girls and i had to write him one back again that week, and a few days before i had to write one to mr. coulton, superintendent of the sunday school at norwood. for this two or three last years, i have made a practice in going a carol singing on christmas day in the morning and of course they looked for me again. so i started out at five o'clock and came home at nine, and then i went to school. i have never missed going to school on a sunday for this last three years. i always like to be there to teach or to be teached. now i have got this present in my hand, it leads me to the scriptures; and at the fifty eighth chapter of isaiah and at the second verse: "now they seek me daily and delight to know my ways as a nation that did righteousness and forsook not the ordinances of their god." they ask of me the ordinances of justice, they take delight in approaching to god. now if all nations would act to one another as america does to me, i think that better day would soon come. when i sat down to write this letter i thought that i would tell my young friends how thankful i was to receive their christmas present; but my pen is not able to express nor my tongue is not able to confess it. my young friends, when mr. burritt came to our house first, we had no bible, but now we have two. my father could not read it but your kindness has teached me to read it and now i have teached my father to read it, and i am trying to teach my sisters to read it. i remain your humble servant, wish to be a fellow laborer. josiah banner. * * * * * bromsgrove lickey, jan. th, . my dear young friends:--i will write you a few more lines. i have got a very nice cloth coat and trousers, and i have a suit from head to foot. i have had three happy christmases, but this is the best i ever witnessed before. it is not because i have had much play. i have been so busy in reading letters and writing letters. i have received two a week, for this last three weeks, of the friends of peace. on the morrow after christmas day i was at work again. when my sisters have called me to my breakfast or dinner, i have been forced to be reading while i have eaten my food. one night i was reading in the citizen about my young friends. i was reading about that little girl which went without milk at supper time because i should have a suit of clothes. my mother she dropped her head and began to wipe her eyes, but i kept on reading till i come to that little girl which came skipping across the street with a good long list of names which she had been collecting money of. i was forced to put the paper down. i told her that you sent that money to make me comfortable not to make me miserable. my mother she made me promise to pay you all again. i told her you did not want money you only wanted me to be a good boy and write about peace and brotherhood, and as soon as i can i shall send some money to pay for some olive leaves and a good song to put in them. there are some good boys in america as well as girls. they have been very busy for me. i return you all many sincere thanks for your kindness. i am writing to you with pen and paper hoping sometime i shall come and see you all face to face. i shall not come with a sword in my hand nor a gun nor a fine feather in my cap flying about. i shall come with a nice book in my hand or a roll of paper and tell you some good news. it did not take quite all that money to buy my suit, so my sisters have got a little shawl apiece. they have not quite worn out their sixpenny bonnets. josiah banner. * * * * * dear children:-- i have read these letters to you just as josiah wrote them. he is now about years old, "working with two hammers, one with his foot, the other with his hand, striking off nails as fast as he can." but i should like to compare his writing with the writing of any little boys and girls of his age, that meet in our school-room. he has no nice desk to write on; his pens and ink are such as he can get. there were no pen and ink in his father's house three years ago; for no one could make letters there when you sent josiah to school. you see his care for his little sisters. it did not take all the two gold sovereigns we sent him first to pay for his suit of clothes; it would have done, if he had determined to buy himself a nicer suit. but he remembered his sisters lovingly, and gave part of his money to buy each of them a shawl; and pretty nice shawls they were, we have not the slightest doubt, and took a considerable part of the money you sent him. he knew you were kind to him, but he did not think you would remember his sisters too, and send them something to make them warm and comfortable through the winter. they have received before this time the two sovereigns, or ten dollars, which you contributed for their new year's present. how i wish that all of you who sent in your half dimes for them, could look in upon that nailer's family circle when they open the letter and see two bright gold sovereigns for the little ones. the baby will crow a little at that, and the mother, who dropped her head and wiped her eyes, as josiah read to her out of the citizen about that little girl in newton, who went without milk so long that he might have a suit of clothes for christmas, will drop her head again, but she will cry for joy, and there will be hopping up and down for the space of fifteen minutes, i reckon, and josiah's black eyes will twinkle with the gladness in his heart; and the neighbor's children will know it all before the news is two hours old, and then you will have another letter from josiah; and may be his oldest sister will try her hand at a few marks for you. and now, before i dismiss the school, i want to ask each boy and girl on these benches, who gave a half dime for josiah's education, if the brightest silver dollar ever coined would buy of either of them that half dime? would you sell for a dollar your share in his education and happiness, in the joy, hope and expectations which your gifts have brought to life in that poor nailer's cottage? there are some beautiful verses in the bible which i hope you will write in your copy-books, and remember all your days. "he that giveth to the poor lendeth to the lord, and he will repay." and have you not been paid fifty times over for what you gave josiah? "it is more blessed to give than to receive," said one who gave the greatest gift that god could give to mail. have you not found it so in regard to your gifts to josiah? you see how happy you have made him; how blessed it has been to him to receive your presents. but how blessed and happy you must be to make him all this joy and gladness! ask little phebe alcott there, if she has not got her pay ten times over for going without milk so many days that he might have some warm clothes for winter. ask little sarah brown if she has not been repaid well for carrying around her subscription paper for him so many frosty mornings in worcester. and now, good-night. it has been a long, long time since i met you in the school-room. many new faces have been added to our circle. some that i used to see here are gone. but still, the benches are full, and i hope no boy or girl will vacate their seat for the next year. little johnny. by j.b. syme. * * * * * it was our fortune to be born in the country--far away, at the foot of one of the blue hills of scotland--in a quaint old fashioned little house--in a quiet little village that seemed shrunken and grey, and grim, and decrepid with age. the drooping ashes, the solemn oaks, and the shady plane-trees, spread their long arms tenderly over the straw-thatched roofs of this lowly hamlet, as if to defend it from the burning sun and reckless storms; and the ayrshire rose and ivy crept up and clung to its damp and crumbling walls. in the broken parts of the gables, and in the crevices of the ruined chimneys, the dew-fed wall-flower grew in poverty and beauty, and shook the incense from its waving flowers into the bosom of summer. the bearded moss clustered like a thousand little brown pin-cushions upon the old thatch, and older stones; and sometimes the polyanthus and primrose, planted beside it by some child who loved to look at flowers, would close their eyes and lay their dewy checks upon the moss's breast at evening. the only links that connected the simple, primitive people of this little hamlet, with the purely ideal was their flowers. they did not know about the participle mysteries that science has discovered in those beautiful children of god, the flowers. they could not, like the poor pariahs to whom the proud hindoos of india will not speak, converse poetic stories with those daughters of spring and summer; yet, they saw something in their flowers beyond the visible and lowly circumstances of their own every-day life--something that lifted their eyes from the ground to heaven. the marigold, that star of the earth, with its bright, yellow petals, reminded them of the golden stars of heaven; the daisy, with its pure white blossom, bathed in the dew and sunlight of smiling morning, recalled to their minds the stories they had heard in their childhood about the diadems of fairies; and the blue forget-me-nots seemed to twinkle like the blue eyes of the angels. and when winter came, and the fair summer flowers faded away; moralizings on life, on death and eternity, came sighing in their expiring exhalations, over that simple people's souls. it was from being taught, in this way, to love the flowers of the country, that i cultivated sympathies which pre-disposed me to love city flowers. when i was first transplanted from my own green, native valley, into the heart of a great city; when my early home was levelled to the ground, and when its flowers were withered, never to bloom any more, i felt as if i had come amongst grim walls to wither too, and had been uprooted from the light and life of my youth that i might die. the birds that wailed around me in their prison cages, seemed to weep for the hawthorn and alder trees that were growing beside the ruins of my old home, and i wept with them, for i, too, was sighing for nature. as i became familiar with the lanes, and streets, and byways of the city, i began at last to find, that there were flowers, too--flowers beautiful as the roses in the gardens of paradise, and bright as the smile of abel when he worshipped his god. day by day, in my little walks, i passed a large square encompassed by a low wall and lofty iron railing, in which several hundreds of boys and girls with rosy cheeks and light hearts, sported, and sang like fairies holding festival. here were faces lovelier than roses; lips brighter than ripe cherries, and eyes purer than dew; from the day i first beheld those flowers of the city, i ceased to sigh for the country and its flowers. i used to stand and gaze at them with grateful delight, and live over again my own childhood's hours, as i watched their childhood's sports. by and by i knew and became known to several of those children; i gave them kind words, and they returned me beautiful smiles. there was amongst that host of children one little boy whose face was very fair; whose eyes were very bright, and whose little feet made merry music on the smooth pavement. girls have a strong intuitive love of the beautiful, and johnny with his liquid eyes, and dimpled cheeks, and floating ringlets of gold was the favorite of all the girls at school, often wished that i had roses to place upon his brow, and the waters of paradise to sprinkle on his cheeks, that i might preserve their bloom forever. but, alas! city flowers droop and fade and die; and though tears fall, like hermon's dews, upon the cold green earth where they are sleeping, it will not renew their blooming, nor bring them back from the grave. i looked amongst the tiny throng one day, and johnny was not there--i came again and again, and still he was not there. "he has gone away," said i, "to gladden his grandmother's bosom--his grandmother, who doubtless lives far away in some little cottage in the country. he will soon come back again." and he did come back again, for on a lovely summer day, when the birds and butterflies and children were sporting in the sun, i saw him seated in a little chair, amidst his young companions. "shall i soon get well again, to play with them?" said he, lifting his pale face and sad eyes towards his mother's. "yes," said his mother, with a sad smile and a deep sigh, "you will soon get well again, johnny." alas no, fond mother; the bloom has gone from his cheek forever, the beauty from his form. henceforth, if he lives, the thoughtless will laugh at him, as he moves painfully about the streets--the wicked will mock him. in thy heart only, and in the bowers of paradise, shall he now, henceforth and forever live and bloom. slowly and sadly i saw his pale cheek grow paler, and the lustre fade away from his eyes. time wore away, and this stricken flower of the city faded away with it. he could no longer sit and look upon his former playmates; the airs of autumn were too cool at last for his sensitive, thin, pale, transparent cheek. i was walking one day, in a pensive mood, along a crowded thoroughfare, where active men jostled each other in the pursuit of business. there was life and hope in their eyes, and vigor in their limbs. it is not on the streets that one is likely to meet the blighted flowers of the city--the drooping and the dying do not wither away there. within the chambers of silent and sorrowful homes they breathe out their lives, and fade away. as i walked along, gazing at the tall grim buildings and dark alleys, that were so full of old, historical memories, i was suddenly recalled from a reverie, by a feeble cry; and turning quickly round i saw, in the arms of a robust and rosy lad, the wasted, corpse-like form of my little friend. i do not know how i recognized him. it was by an intuition of the soul, for not a feature that his countenance bore in his healthful days, was visible. i took his trembling little hand in mine, and shaking my head to clear the moisture from my eyes, said i, attempting to smile--"how are you?" "quite well," said the dying infant, and he, too, smiled. i knew that it was an angel that lighted up that smile--that it was the immortal spirit, rising in sublime resignation above the vanity of health and earthly beauty, that beamed in his blighted face. "i cannot walk now," said johnny, in a soft, low voice, that his panting chest could scarcely articulate. i could not speak--and, continued the boy, with a little sigh, and in tremulous tones--"my mother is dead."--but thy father, from whom the purest and holiest things and thoughts have their being--the source of all light and life and beauty and goodness, lives to thee johnny, said i in my heart. poor little blighted city flower, thought i, as i looked at him through my tears--immortal flower of humanity--purer and lovelier now in thy pain and resignation than when thy cheeks were rosy, and thy laugh was like a song-bird's music; thou shall soon be transplanted to a land where no sorrows, sighs, and pains are known; thy little feeble frame will moulder away beneath the daisy and the weeping snow-drop, but thy purified soul shall bloom in everlasting glory, in the bosom of god. oh! you who are strong and full of life, speak gently to the fragile, drooping, blighted flowers of cities, and do not scorn them. they once were beautiful; and now they only linger sadly here, with no mother to cherish them. kind words and gentle looks are everlasting sunshine to city flowers. around the throne of god are white-winged cherubim, whose countenances are purer than transparent snow, and whose voices are sweeter than that of the angel azazil, who leads the choir of the daughters of paradise. those are the souls of little children, who have suffered in their bodies and in their affections, and who have yet complained not. the soul of little johnny blooms brightly amongst those celestial spirits--a flower of heaven. _seventh volume of_ _burritt's christian citizen._ _elihu burritt_, proprietor. editors, _elihu burritt, thomas drew, jr._ regular foreign correspondents, _edmund fry_, london, _ernest lacan_, paris. the seventh volume of this large and popular family newspaper, commenced jan. st. . devoted to _christianity and reform, literature, education, science, art, agriculture and news._ published every saturday morning, at _worcester, mass._ terms.--one dollar and fifty cents, per annum, _invariably_ in advance. * * * * * the citizen is the organ of no party or sect, but expresses freely the sentiments of its editors upon all the great reformatory questions of the day. sympathising with all the great enterprises of christian benevolence, it especially speaks against all war in the spirit of peace. it speaks for the slave as a brother bound; and for the abolition of all institutions and customs which do not respect the image of god and a human brother, in every man, or whatever clime, color or condition of humanity. all orders should be post paid and directed to either of the editors, at worcester, mass. * * * * * _burritt's miscellaneous writings,_ the second edition of this collection is just published, with additions and a _portrait._ the rapid sale of the first edition of the collected writings of mr. burritt, has rendered necessary the second edition, to which we have added twelve pages of matter, and an electrotype portrait of the author. price, cents a single copy. a liberal discount made to those who buy quantities to sell again. all orders should be addressed post paid to _thomas drew, jr., worcester, mass._ illustrations of _the law of kindness._ * * * * * under this title, we propose to publish a series of little sweet-breathing books, filled with instructive stories and sentiments, illustrating the overcoming power of kindness and love, and the beauty of peace. they will be written by persons of highly cultivated hearts and minds in england and america, and be adapted and designed for circulation among children in sunday schools, common schools, and other institutions for the education of the young, and in family circles generally. we trust that their benevolent teachings, and the christian spirit which pervades them, will commend them to sunday school teachers, and all others engaged in the moral education of children, as appropriate gifts to the young. elihu burritt. paul and virginia by bernardin de saint pierre with a memoir of the author preface in introducing to the public the present edition of this well known and affecting tale,--the _chef d'oeuvre_ of its gifted author, the publishers take occasion to say, that it affords them no little gratification, to apprise the numerous admirers of "paul and virginia," that the _entire_ work of st. pierre is now presented to them. all the previous editions have been disfigured by interpolations, and mutilated by numerous omissions and alterations, which have had the effect of reducing it from the rank of a philosophical tale, to the level of a mere story for children. of the merits of "paul and virginia," it is hardly necessary to utter a word; it tells its own story eloquently and impressively, and in a language simple, natural and true, it touches the common heart of the world. there are but few works that have obtained a greater degree of popularity, none are more deserving it; and the publishers cannot therefore refrain from expressing a hope that their efforts in thus giving a faithful transcript of the work,--an acknowledged classic by the european world,--may be, in some degree, instrumental in awakening here, at home, a taste for those higher works of fancy, which, while they seek to elevate and strengthen the understanding, instruct and purify the heart. it is in this character that the tale of "paul and virginia" ranks pre-eminent. [prepared from an edition published by porter & coates, philadelphia, u.s.a.] memoir of bernardin de st. pierre love of nature, that strong feeling of enthusiasm which leads to profound admiration of the whole works of creation, belongs, it may be presumed, to a certain peculiarity of organization, and has, no doubt, existed in different individuals from the beginning of the world. the old poets and philosophers, romance writers, and troubadours, had all looked upon nature with observing and admiring eyes. they have most of them given incidentally charming pictures of spring, of the setting sun, of particular spots, and of favourite flowers. there are few writers of note, of any country, or of any age, from whom quotations might not be made in proof of the love with which they regarded nature. and this remark applies as much to religious and philosophic writers as to poets,--equally to plato, st. francois de sales, bacon, and fenelon, as to shakespeare, racine, calderon, or burns; for from no really philosophic or religious doctrine can the love of the works of nature be excluded. but before the days of jean jacques rousseau, buffon, and bernardin de st. pierre, this love of nature had not been expressed in all its intensity. until their day, it had not been written on exclusively. the lovers of nature were not, till then, as they may perhaps since be considered, a sect apart. though perfectly sincere in all the adorations they offered, they were less entirely, and certainly less diligently and constantly, her adorers. it is the great praise of bernardin de st. pierre, that coming immediately after rousseau and buffon, and being one of the most proficient writers of the same school, he was in no degree their imitator, but perfectly original and new. he intuitively perceived the immensity of the subject he intended to explore, and has told us that no day of his life passed without his collecting some valuable materials for his writings. in the divine works of nature, he diligently sought to discover her laws. it was his early intention not to begin to write until he had ceased to observe; but he found observation endless, and that he was "like a child who with a shell digs a hole in the sand to receive the waters of the ocean." he elsewhere humbly says, that not only the general history of nature, but even that of the smallest plant, was far beyond his ability. before, however, speaking further of him as an author, it will be necessary to recapitulate the chief events of his life. henri-jacques bernardin de st. pierre, was born at havre in . he always considered himself descended from that eustache de st. pierre, who is said by froissart, (and i believe by froissart only), to have so generously offered himself as a victim to appease the wrath of edward the third against calais. he, with his companions in virtue, it is also said, was saved by the intercession of queen philippa. in one of his smaller works, bernardin asserts this descent, and it was certainly one of which he might be proud. many anecdotes are related of his childhood, indicative of the youthful author,--of his strong love of nature, and his humanity to animals. that "the child is the father of the man," has been seldom more strongly illustrated. there is a story of a cat, which, when related by him many years afterwards to rousseau, caused that philosopher to shed tears. at eight years of age, he took the greatest pleasure in the regular culture of his garden; and possibly then stored up some of the ideas which afterwards appeared in the "fraisier." his sympathy with all living things was extreme. in "paul and virginia," he praises, with evident satisfaction, their meal of milk and eggs, which had not cost any animal its life. it has been remarked, and possibly with truth, that every tenderly disposed heart, deeply imbued with a love of nature, is at times somewhat braminical. st. pierre's certainly was. when quite young, he advanced with a clenched fist towards a carter who was ill-treating a horse. and when taken for the first time, by his father, to rouen, having the towers of the cathedral pointed out to him, he exclaimed, "my god! how high they fly." every one present naturally laughed. bernardin had only noticed the flight of some swallows who had built their nests there. he thus early revealed those instincts which afterwards became the guidance of his life: the strength of which possibly occasioned his too great indifference to all monuments of art. the love of study and of solitude were also characteristics of his childhood. his temper is said to have been moody, impetuous, and intractable. whether this faulty temper may not have been produced or rendered worse by mismanagement, cannot not be ascertained. it, undoubtedly became afterwards, to st. pierre a fruitful source of misfortune and of woe. the reading of voyages was with him, even in childhood, almost a passion. at twelve years of age, his whole soul was occupied by robinson crusoe and his island. his romantic love of adventure seeming to his parents to announce a predilection in favour of the sea, he was sent by them with one of his uncles to martinique. but st. pierre had not sufficiently practised the virtue of obedience to submit, as was necessary, to the discipline of a ship. he was afterwards placed with the jesuits at caen, with whom he made immense progress in his studies. but, it is to be feared, he did not conform too well to the regulations of the college, for he conceived, from that time, the greatest detestation for places of public education. and this aversion he has frequently testified in his writings. while devoted to his books of travels, he in turn anticipated being a jesuit, a missionary or a martyr; but his family at length succeeded in establishing him at rouen, where he completed his studies with brilliant success, in . he soon after obtained a commission as an engineer, with a salary of one hundred louis. in this capacity he was sent ( ) to dusseldorf, under the command of count st. germain. this was a career in which he might have acquired both honour and fortune; but, most unhappily for st. pierre, he looked upon the useful and necessary etiquettes of life as so many unworthy prejudices. instead of conforming to them, he sought to trample on them. in addition, he evinced some disposition to rebel against his commander, and was unsocial with his equals. it is not, therefore, to be wondered at, that at this unfortunate period of his existence, he made himself enemies; or that, notwithstanding his great talents, or the coolness he had exhibited in moments of danger, he should have been sent back to france. unwelcome, under these circumstances, to his family, he was ill received by all. it is a lesson yet to be learned, that genius gives no charter for the indulgence of error,--a truth yet _to be_ remembered, that only a small portion of the world will look with leniency on the failings of the highly-gifted; and, that from themselves, the consequences of their own actions can never be averted. it is yet, alas! _to be_ added to the convictions of the ardent in mind, that no degree of excellence in science or literature, not even the immortality of a name can exempt its possessor from obedience to moral discipline; or give him happiness, unless "temper's image" be stamped on his daily words and actions. st. pierre's life was sadly embittered by his own conduct. the adventurous life he led after his return from dusseldorf, some of the circumstances of which exhibited him in an unfavourable light to others, tended, perhaps, to tinge his imagination with that wild and tender melancholy so prevalent in his writings. a prize in the lottery had just doubled his very slender means of existence, when he obtained the appointment of geographical engineer, and was sent to malta. the knights of the order were at this time expecting to be attacked by the turks. having already been in the service, it was singular that st. pierre should have had the imprudence to sail without his commission. he thus subjected himself to a thousand disagreeables, for the officers would not recognize him as one of themselves. the effects of their neglect on his mind were tremendous; his reason for a time seemed almost disturbed by the mortifications he suffered. after receiving an insufficient indemnity for the expenses of his voyage, st. pierre returned to france, there to endure fresh misfortunes. not being able to obtain any assistance from the ministry or his family, he resolved on giving lessons in the mathematics. but st. pierre was less adapted than most others for succeeding in the apparently easy, but really ingenious and difficult, art of teaching. when education is better understood, it will be more generally acknowledged, that, to impart instruction with success, a teacher must possess deeper intelligence than is implied by the profoundest skill in any one branch of science or of art. all minds, even to the youngest, require, while being taught, the utmost compliance and consideration; and these qualities can scarcely be properly exercised without a true knowledge of the human heart, united to much practical patience. st. pierre, at this period of his life, certainly did not possess them. it is probable that rousseau, when he attempted in his youth to give lessons in music, not knowing any thing whatever of music, was scarcely less fitted for the task of instruction, than st. pierre with all his mathematical knowledge. the pressure of poverty drove him to holland. he was well received at amsterdam, by a french refugee named mustel, who edited a popular journal there, and who procured him employment, with handsome remuneration. st. pierre did not, however, remain long satisfied with this quiet mode of existence. allured by the encouraging reception given by catherine ii. to foreigners, he set out for st. petersburg. here, until he obtained the protection of the marechal de munich, and the friendship of duval, he had again to contend with poverty. the latter generously opened to him his purse and by the marechal he was introduced to villebois, the grand master of artillery, and by him presented to the empress. st. pierre was so handsome, that by some of his friends it was supposed, perhaps, too, hoped, that he would supersede orloff in the favor of catherine. but more honourable illusions, though they were but illusions, occupied his own mind. he neither sought nor wished to captivate the empress. his ambition was to establish a republic on the shores of the lake aral, of which in imitation of plato or rousseau, he was to be the legislator. pre-occupied with the reformation of despotism, he did not sufficiently look into his own heart, or seek to avoid a repetition of the same errors that had already changed friends into enemies, and been such a terrible barrier to his success in life. his mind was already morbid, and in fancying that others did not understand him, he forgot that he did not understand others. the empress, with the rank of captain, bestowed on him a grant of fifteen hundred francs; but when general dubosquet proposed to take him with him to examine the military position of finland, his only anxiety seemed to be to return to france: still he went to finland; and his own notes of his occupations and experiments on that expedition prove, that he gave himself up in all diligence to considerations of attack and defence. he, who loved nature so intently, seems only to have seen in the extensive and majestic forests of the north, a theatre of war. in this instance, he appears to have stifled every emotion of admiration, and to have beheld, alike, cities and countries in his character of military surveyor. on his return to st. petersburg, he found his protector villebois, disgraced. st. pierre then resolved on espousing the cause of the poles. he went into poland with a high reputation,--that of having refused the favours of despotism, to aid the cause of liberty. but it was his private life, rather than his public career, that was affected by his residence in poland. the princess mary fell in love with him, and, forgetful of all considerations, quitted her family to reside with him. yielding, however, at length, to the entreaties of her mother, she returned to her home. st. pierre, filled with regret, resorted to vienna; but, unable to support the sadness which oppressed him, and imagining that sadness to be shared by the princess, he soon went back to poland. his return was still more sad than his departure; for he found himself regarded by her who had once loved him, as an intruder. it is to this attachment he alludes so touchingly in one of his letters. "adieu! friends dearer than the treasures of india! adieu! forests of the north, that i shall never see again!--tender friendship, and the still dearer sentiment which surpassed it!--days of intoxication and of happiness adeiu! adieu! we live but for a day, to die during a whole life!" this letter appears to one of st. pierre's most partial biographers, as if steeped in tears; and he speaks of his romantic and unfortunate adventure in poland, as the ideal of a poet's love. "to be," says m. sainte-beuve, "a great poet, and loved before he had thought of glory! to exhale the first perfume of a soul of genius, believing himself only a lover! to reveal himself, for the first time, entirely, but in mystery!" in his enthusiasm, m. sainte-beuve loses sight of the melancholy sequel, which must have left so sad a remembrance in st. pierre's own mind. his suffering, from this circumstance, may perhaps have conduced to his making virginia so good and true, and so incapable of giving pain. in , he returned to havre; but his relations were by this time dead or dispersed, and after six years of exile, he found himself once more in his own country, without employment and destitute of pecuniary resources. the baron de breteuil at length obtained for him a commission as engineer to the isle of france, whence he returned in . in this interval, his heart and imagination doubtless received the germs of his immortal works. many of the events, indeed, of the "voyage a l'ile de france," are to be found modified by imagined circumstances in "paul and virginia." he returned to paris poor in purse, but rich in observation and mental resources, and resolved to devote himself to literature. by the baron de breteuil he was recommended to d'alembert, who procured a publisher for his "voyage," and also introduced him to mlle. de l'espinasse. but no one, in spite of his great beauty, was so ill calculated to shine or please in society as st. pierre. his manners were timid and embarrassed, and, unless to those with whom he was very intimate, he scarcely appeared intelligent. it is sad to think, that misunderstanding should prevail to such an extent, and heart so seldom really speak to heart, in the intercourse of the world, that the most humane may appear cruel, and the sympathizing indifferent. judging of mlle. de l'espinasse from her letters, and the testimony of her contemporaries, it seems quite impossible that she could have given pain to any one, more particularly to a man possessing st. pierre's extraordinary talent and profound sensibility. both she and d'alembert were capable of appreciating him; but the society in which they moved laughed at his timidity, and the tone of raillery in which they often indulged was not understood by him. it is certain that he withdrew from their circle with wounded and mortified feelings, and, in spite of an explanatory letter from d'alembert, did not return to it. the inflictors of all this pain, in the meantime, were possibly as unconscious of the meaning attached to their words, as were the birds of old of the augury drawn from their flight. st. pierre, in his "preambule de l'arcadie," has pathetically and eloquently described the deplorable state of his health and feelings, after frequent humiliating disputes and disappointments had driven him from society; or rather, when, like rousseau, he was "self-banished" from it. "i was struck," he says, "with an extraordinary malady. streams of fire, like lightning, flashed before my eyes; every object appeared to me double, or in motion: like oedipus, i saw two suns. . . in the finest day of summer, i could not cross the seine in a boat without experiencing intolerable anxiety. if, in a public garden, i merely passed by a piece of water, i suffered from spasms and a feeling of horror. i could not cross a garden in which many people were collected: if they looked at me, i immediately imagined they were speaking ill of me." it was during this state of suffering, that he devoted himself with ardour to collecting and making use of materials for that work which was to give glory to his name. it was only by perseverance, and disregarding many rough and discouraging receptions, that he succeeded in making acquaintance with rousseau, whom he so much resembled. st. pierre devoted himself to his society with enthusiasm, visiting him frequently and constantly, till rousseau departed for ermenonville. it is not unworthy of remark, that both these men, such enthusiastic admirers of nature and the natural in all things, should have possessed factitious rather than practical virtue, and a wisdom wholly unfitted for the world. st. pierre asked rousseau, in one of their frequent rambles, if, in delineating st. preux, he had not intended to represent himself. "no," replied rousseau, "st. preux is not what i have been, but what i wished to be." st. pierre would most likely have given the same answer, had a similar question been put to him with regard to the colonel in "paul and virginia." this at least, appears the sort of old age he loved to contemplate, and wished to realize. for six years, he worked at his "etudes," and with some difficulty found a publisher for them. m. didot, a celebrated typographer, whose daughter st. pierre afterwards married, consented to print a manuscript which had been declined by many others. he was well rewarded for the undertaking. the success of the "etudes de la nature" surpassed the most sanguine expectation, even of the author. four years after its publication, st. pierre gave to the world "paul and virginia," which had for some time been lying in his portfolio. he had tried its effect, in manuscript, on persons of different characters and pursuits. they had given it no applause; but all had shed tears at its perusal: and perhaps, few works of a decidedly romantic character have ever been so generally read, or so much approved. among the great names whose admiration of it is on record, may be mentioned napoleon and humboldt. in , he published "les veoeux d'un solitaire," and "la suite des voeux." by the _moniteur_ of the day, these works were compared to the celebrated pamphlet of sieyes,--"qu'est-ce que le tiers etat?" which then absorbed all the public favour. in , "la chaumiere indienne" was published: and in the following year, about thirteen days before the celebrated th of august, louis xvi. appointed st. pierre superintendant of the "jardin des plantes." soon afterwards, the king, on seeing him, complimented him on his writings and told him he was happy to have found a worthy successor to buffon. although deficient in the exact knowledge of the sciences, and knowing little of the world, st. pierre was, by his simplicity, and the retirement in which he lived, well suited, at that epoch, to the situation. about this time, and when in his fifty-seventh year, he married mlle. didot. in , he became a member of the french academy, and, as was just, after his acceptance of this honour, he wrote no more against literary societies. on the suppression of his place, he retired to essonne. it is delightful to follow him there, and to contemplate his quiet existence. his days flowed on peaceably, occupied in the publication of "les harmonies de la nature," the republication of his earlier works, and the composition of some lesser pieces. he himself affectingly regrets an interruption to these occupations. on being appointed instructor to the normal school, he says, "i am obliged to hang my harp on the willows of my river, and to accept an employment useful to my family and my country. i am afflicted at having to suspend an occupation which has given me so much happiness." he enjoyed in his old age, a degree of opulence, which, as much as glory, had perhaps been the object of his ambition. in any case, it is gratifying to reflect, that after a life so full of chance and change, he was, in his latter years, surrounded by much that should accompany old age. his day of storms and tempests was closed by an evening of repose and beauty. amid many other blessings, the elasticity of his mind was preserved to the last. he died at eragny sur l'oise, on the st of january, . the stirring events which then occupied france, or rather the whole world, caused his death to be little noticed at the time. the academy did not, however, neglect to give him the honour due to its members. mons. parseval grand maison pronounced a deserved eulogium on his talents, and mons. aignan, also, the customary tribute, taking his seat as his successor. having himself contracted the habit of confiding his griefs and sorrows to the public, the sanctuary of his private life was open alike to the discussion of friends and enemies. the biographer, who wishes to be exact, and yet set down nought in malice, is forced to the contemplation of his errors. the secret of many of these, as well as of his miseries, seems revealed by himself in this sentence: "i experience more pain from a single thorn, than pleasure from a thousand roses." and elsewhere, "the best society seems to me bad, if i find in it one troublesome, wicked, slanderous, envious, or perfidious person." now, taking into consideration that st. pierre sometimes imagined persons who were really good, to be deserving of these strong and very contumacious epithets, it would have been difficult indeed to find a society in which he could have been happy. he was, therefore, wise, in seeking retirement, and indulging in solitude. his mistakes,--for they were mistakes,--arose from a too quick perception of evil, united to an exquisite and diffuse sensibility. when he felt wounded by a thorn, he forgot the beauty and perfume of the rose to which it belonged, and from which perhaps it could not be separated. and he was exposed (as often happens) to the very description of trials that were least in harmony with his defects. few dispositions could have run a career like his, and have remained unscathed. but one less tender than his own would have been less soured by it. for many years, he bore about with him the consciousness of unacknowledged talent. the world cannot be blamed for not appreciating that which had never been revealed. but we know not what the jostling and elbowing of that world, in the meantime, may have been to him--how often he may have felt himself unworthily treated--or how far that treatment may have preyed upon and corroded his heart. who shall say that with this consciousness there did not mingle a quick and instinctive perception of the hidden motives of action,--that he did not sometimes detect, where others might have been blind, the under-shuffling of the hands, in the by-play of the world? through all his writings, and throughout his correspondence, there are beautiful proofs of the tenderness of his feelings,--the most essential quality, perhaps, in any writer. it is at least, one that if not possessed, can never be attained. the familiarity of his imagination with natural objects, when he was living far removed from them, is remarkable, and often affecting. "i have arranged," he says to mr. henin, his friend and patron, "very interesting materials, but it is only with the light of heaven over me that i can recover my strength. obtain for me a _rabbit's hole_, in which i may pass the summer in the country." and again, "with the _first violet_, i shall come to see you." it is soothing to find, in passages like these, such pleasing and convincing evidence that "nature never did betray, the heart that loved her." in the noise of a great city, in the midst of annoyances of many kinds these images, impressed with quietness and beauty, came back to the mind of st. pierre, to cheer and animate him. in alluding to his miseries, it is but fair to quote a passage from his "voyage," which reveals his fond remembrance of his native land. "i should ever prefer my own country to every other," he says, "not because it was more beautiful, but because i was brought up in it. happy he, who sees again the places where all was loved, and all was lovely!--the meadows in which he played, and the orchard that he robbed!" he returned to this country, so fondly loved and deeply cherished in absence, to experience only trouble and difficulty. away from it, he had yearned to behold it,--to fold it, as it were, once more to his bosom. he returned to feel as if neglected by it, and all his rapturous emotions were changed to bitterness and gall. his hopes had proved delusions--his expectations, mockeries. oh! who but must look with charity and mercy on all discontent and irritation consequent on such a depth of disappointment: on what must have then appeared to him such unmitigable woe. under the influence of these saddened feelings, his thoughts flew back to the island he had left, to place all beauty, as well as all happiness, there! one great proof that he did beautify the distant, may be found in the contrast of some of the descriptions in the "voyage a l'ile de france," and those in "paul and virginia." that spot, which when peopled by the cherished creatures of his imagination, he described as an enchanting and delightful eden, he had previously spoken of as a "rugged country covered with rocks,"--"a land of cyclops blackened by fire." truth, probably, lies between the two representations; the sadness of exile having darkened the one, and the exuberance of his imagination embellished the other. st. pierre's merit as an author has been too long and too universally acknowledged, to make it needful that it should be dwelt on here. a careful review of the circumstances of his life induces the belief, that his writings grew (if it may be permitted so to speak) out of his life. in his most imaginative passages, to whatever height his fancy soared, the starting point seems ever from a fact. the past appears to have been always spread out before him when he wrote, like a beautiful landscape, on which his eye rested with complacency, and from which his mind transferred and idealized some objects, without a servile imitation of any. when at berlin, he had had it in his power to marry virginia tabenheim; and in russia, mlle. de la tour, the niece of general dubosquet, would have accepted his hand. he was too poor to marry either. a grateful recollection caused him to bestow the names of the two on his most beloved creation. paul was the name of a friar, with whom he had associated in his childhood, and whose life he wished to imitate. how little had the owners of these names anticipated that they were to become the baptismal appellations of half a generation in france, and to be re-echoed through the world to the end of time! it was st. pierre who first discovered the poverty of language with regard to picturesque descriptions. in his earliest work, the often-quoted "voyages," he complains, that the terms for describing nature are not yet invented. "endeavour," he says, "to describe a mountain in such a manner that it may be recognised. when you have spoken of its base, its sides, its summit, you will have said all! but what variety there is to be found in those swelling, lengthened, flattened, or cavernous forms! it is only by periphrasis that all this can be expressed. the same difficulty exists for plains and valleys. but if you have a palace to describe, there is no longer any difficulty. every moulding has its appropriate name." it was st. pierre's glory, in some degree, to triumph over this dearth of expression. few authors ever introduced more new terms into descriptive writing: yet are his innovations ever chastened, and in good taste. his style, in its elegant simplicity, is, indeed, perfection. it is at once sonorous and sweet, and always in harmony with the sentiment he would express, or the subject he would discuss. chenier might well arm himself with "paul and virginia," and the "chaumiere indienne," in opposition to those writers, who, as he said, made prose unnatural, by seeking to elevate it into verse. the "etudes de la nature" embraced a thousand different subjects, and contained some new ideas on all. it is to the honour of human nature, that after the uptearing of so many sacred opinions, a production like this, revealing the chain of connection through the works of creation, and the creator in his works, should have been hailed, as it was, with enthusiasm. his motto, from his favourite poet virgil, "taught by calamity, i pity the unhappy," won for him, perhaps many readers. and in its touching illusions, the unhappy may have found suspension from the realities of life, as well as encouragement to support its trials. for, throughout, it infuses admiration of the arrangements of providence, and a desire for virtue. more than one modern poet may be supposed to have drawn a portion of his inspiration, from the "etudes." as a work of science it contains many errors. these, particularly his theory of the tides,(*) st. pierre maintained to the last, and so eloquently, that it was said at the time, to be impossible to unite less reason with more logic. (*) occasioned, according to st. pierre, by the melting of the ice at the poles. in "paul and virginia," he was supremely fortunate in his subject. it was an entirely new creation, uninspired by any previous work; but which gave birth to many others, having furnished the plot to six theatrical pieces. it was a subject to which the author could bring all his excellences as a writer and a man, while his deficiencies and defects were necessarily excluded. in no manner could he incorporate politics, science, or misapprehension of persons, while his sensibility, morals, and wonderful talent for description, were in perfect accordance with, and ornaments to it. lemontey and sainte-beuve both consider success to be inseparable from the happy selection of a story so entirely in harmony with the character of the author; and that the most successful writers might envy him so fortunate a choice. buonaparte was in the habit of saying, whenever he saw st. pierre, "m. bernardin, when do you mean to give us more pauls and virginias, and indian cottages? you ought to give us some every six months." the "indian cottage," if not quite equal in interest to "paul and virginia," is still a charming production, and does great honour to the genius of its author. it abounds in antique and eastern gems of thought. striking and excellent comparisons are scattered through its pages; and it is delightful to reflect, that the following beautiful and solemn answer of the paria was, with st. pierre, the results of his own experience:--"misfortune resembles the black mountain of bember, situated at the extremity of the burning kingdom of lahore; while you are climbing it, you only see before you barren rocks; but when you have reached its summit, you see heaven above your head, and at your feet the kingdom of cachemere." when this passage was written, the rugged, and sterile rock had been climbed by its gifted author. he had reached the summit,--his genius had been rewarded, and he himself saw the heaven he wished to point out to others. sarah jones. [for the facts contained in this brief memoir, i am indebted to st. pierre's own works, to the "biographie universelle," to the "essai sur la vie et les ouvrages de bernardin de st. pierre," by m. aime martin, and to the very excellent and interesting "notice historique et litteraire," of m. sainte- beauve.] paul and virginia situated on the eastern side of the mountain which rises above port louis, in the mauritius, upon a piece of land bearing the marks of former cultivation, are seen the ruins of two small cottages. these ruins are not far from the centre of a valley, formed by immense rocks, and which opens only towards the north. on the left rises the mountain called the height of discovery, whence the eye marks the distant sail when it first touches the verge of the horizon, and whence the signal is given when a vessel approaches the island. at the foot of this mountain stands the town of port louis. on the right is formed the road which stretches from port louis to the shaddock grove, where the church bearing that name lifts its head, surrounded by its avenues of bamboo, in the middle of a spacious plain; and the prospect terminates in a forest extending to the furthest bounds of the island. the front view presents the bay, denominated the bay of the tomb; a little on the right is seen the cape of misfortune; and beyond rolls the expanded ocean, on the surface of which appear a few uninhabited islands; and, among others, the point of endeavour, which resembles a bastion built upon the flood. at the entrance of the valley which presents these various objects, the echoes of the mountain incessantly repeat the hollow murmurs of the winds that shake the neighbouring forests, and the tumultuous dashing of the waves which break at a distance upon the cliffs; but near the ruined cottages all is calm and still, and the only objects which there meet the eye are rude steep rocks, that rise like a surrounding rampart. large clumps of trees grow at their base, on their rifted sides, and even on their majestic tops, where the clouds seem to repose. the showers, which their bold points attract, often paint the vivid colours of the rainbow on their green and brown declivities, and swell the sources of the little river which flows at their feet, called the river of fan-palms. within this inclosure reigns the most profound silence. the waters, the air, all the elements are at peace. scarcely does the echo repeat the whispers of the palm-trees spreading their broad leaves, the long points of which are gently agitated by the winds. a soft light illumines the bottom of this deep valley, on which the sun shines only at noon. but, even at the break of day, the rays of light are thrown on the surrounding rocks; and their sharp peaks, rising above the shadows of the mountain, appear like tints of gold and purple gleaming upon the azure sky. to this scene i loved to resort, as i could here enjoy at once the richness of an unbounded landscape, and the charm of uninterrupted solitude. one day, when i was seated at the foot of the cottages, and contemplating their ruins, a man, advanced in years, passed near the spot. he was dressed in the ancient garb of the island, his feet were bare, and he leaned upon a staff of ebony; his hair was white, and the expression of his countenance was dignified and interesting. i bowed to him with respect; he returned the salutation; and, after looking at me with some earnestness, came and placed himself upon the hillock on which i was seated. encouraged by this mark of confidence i thus addressed him: "father, can you tell me to whom those cottages once belonged?"--"my son," replied the old man, "those heaps of rubbish, and that untilled land, were, twenty years ago, the property of two families, who then found happiness in this solitude. their history is affecting; but what european, pursuing his way to the indies, will pause one moment to interest himself in the fate of a few obscure individuals? what european can picture happiness to his imagination amidst poverty and neglect? the curiosity of mankind is only attracted by the history of the great, and yet from that knowledge little use can be derived."--"father," i rejoined, "from your manner and your observations, i perceive that you have acquired much experience of human life. if you have leisure, relate to me, i beseech you, the history of the ancient inhabitants of this desert; and be assured, that even the men who are most perverted by the prejudices of the world, find a soothing pleasure in contemplating that happiness which belongs to simplicity and virtue." the old man, after a short silence, during which he leaned his face upon his hands, as if he were trying to recall the images of the past, thus began his narration:-- monsieur de la tour, a young man who was a native of normandy, after having in vain solicited a commission in the french army, or some support from his own family, at length determined to seek his fortune in this island, where he arrived in . he brought hither a young woman, whom he loved tenderly, and by whom he was no less tenderly beloved. she belonged to a rich and ancient family of the same province: but he had married her secretly and without fortune, and in opposition to the will of her relations, who refused their consent because he was found guilty of being descended from parents who had no claims to nobility. monsieur de la tour, leaving his wife at port louis, embarked for madagascar, in order to purchase a few slaves, to assist him in forming a plantation on this island. he landed at madagascar during that unhealthy season which commences about the middle of october; and soon after his arrival died of the pestilential fever, which prevails in that island six months of the year, and which will forever baffle the attempts of the european nations to form establishments on that fatal soil. his effects were seized upon by the rapacity of strangers, as commonly happens to persons dying in foreign parts; and his wife, who was pregnant, found herself a widow in a country where she had neither credit nor acquaintance, and no earthly possession, or rather support, but one negro woman. too delicate to solicit protection or relief from any one else after the death of him whom alone she loved, misfortune armed her with courage, and she resolved to cultivate, with her slave, a little spot of ground, and procure for herself the means of subsistence. desert as was the island, and the ground left to the choice of the settler, she avoided those spots which were most fertile and most favorable to commerce: seeking some nook of the mountain, some secret asylum where she might live solitary and unknown, she bent her way from the town towards these rocks, where she might conceal herself from observation. all sensitive and suffering creatures, from a sort of common instinct, fly for refuge amidst their pains to haunts the most wild and desolate; as if rocks could form a rampart against misfortune--as if the calm of nature could hush the tumults of the soul. that providence, which lends its support when we ask but the supply of our necessary wants, had a blessing in reserve for madame de la tour, which neither riches nor greatness can purchase:--this blessing was a friend. the spot to which madame de la tour had fled had already been inhabited for a year by a young woman of a lively, good-natured and affectionate disposition. margaret (for that was her name) was born in brittany, of a family of peasants, by whom she was cherished and beloved, and with whom she might have passed through life in simple rustic happiness, if, misled by the weakness of a tender heart, she had not listened to the passion of a gentleman in the neighbourhood, who promised her marriage. he soon abandoned her, and adding inhumanity to seduction, refused to insure a provision for the child of which she was pregnant. margaret then determined to leave forever her native village, and retire, where her fault might be concealed, to some colony distant from that country where she had lost the only portion of a poor peasant girl--her reputation. with some borrowed money she purchased an old negro slave, with whom she cultivated a little corner of this district. madame de la tour, followed by her negro woman, came to this spot, where she found margaret engaged in suckling her child. soothed and charmed by the sight of a person in a situation somewhat similar to her own, madame de la tour related, in a few words, her past condition and her present wants. margaret was deeply affected by the recital; and more anxious to merit confidence than to create esteem, she confessed without disguise, the errors of which she had been guilty. "as for me," said she, "i deserve my fate: but you, madam--you! at once virtuous and unhappy"--and, sobbing, she offered madame de la tour both her hut and her friendship. that lady, affected by this tender reception, pressed her in her arms, and exclaimed,--"ah surely heaven has put an end to my misfortunes, since it inspires you, to whom i am a stranger, with more goodness towards me than i have ever experienced from my own relations!" i was acquainted with margaret: and, although my habitation is a league and a half from hence, in the woods behind that sloping mountain, i considered myself as her neighbour. in the cities of europe, a street, even a simple wall, frequently prevents members of the same family from meeting for years; but in new colonies we consider those persons as neighbours from whom we are divided only by woods and mountains; and above all at that period, when this island had little intercourse with the indies, vicinity alone gave a claim to friendship, and hospitality towards strangers seemed less a duty than a pleasure. no sooner was i informed that margaret had found a companion, than i hastened to her, in the hope of being useful to my neighbour and her guest. i found madame de la tour possessed of all those melancholy graces which, by blending sympathy with admiration give to beauty additional power. her countenance was interesting, expressive at once of dignity and dejection. she appeared to be in the last stage of her pregnancy. i told the two friends that for the future interests of their children, and to prevent the intrusion of any other settler, they had better divide between them the property of this wild, sequestered valley, which is nearly twenty acres in extent. they confided that task to me, and i marked out two equal portions of land. one included the higher part of this enclosure, from the cloudy pinnacle of that rock, whence springs the river of fan-palms, to that precipitous cleft which you see on the summit of the mountain, and which, from its resemblance in form to the battlement of a fortress, is called the embrasure. it is difficult to find a path along this wild portion of the enclosure, the soil of which is encumbered with fragments of rock, or worn into channels formed by torrents; yet it produces noble trees, and innumerable springs and rivulets. the other portion of land comprised the plain extending along the banks of the river of fan-palms, to the opening where we are now seated, whence the river takes its course between these two hills, until it falls into the sea. you may still trace the vestiges of some meadow land; and this part of the common is less rugged, but not more valuable than the other; since in the rainy season it becomes marshy, and in dry weather is so hard and unyielding, that it will almost resist the stroke of the pickaxe. when i had thus divided the property, i persuaded my neighbours to draw lots for their respective possessions. the higher portion of land, containing the source of the river of fan-palms, became the property of madame de la tour; the lower, comprising the plain on the banks of the river, was allotted to margaret; and each seemed satisfied with her share. they entreated me to place their habitations together, that they might at all times enjoy the soothing intercourse of friendship, and the consolation of mutual kind offices. margaret's cottage was situated near the centre of the valley, and just on the boundary of her own plantation. close to that spot i built another cottage for the residence of madame de la tour; and thus the two friends, while they possessed all the advantages of neighbourhood lived on their own property. i myself cut palisades from the mountain, and brought leaves of fan-palms from the sea-shore in order to construct those two cottages, of which you can now discern neither the entrance nor the roof. yet, alas! there still remains but too many traces for my remembrance! time, which so rapidly destroys the proud monuments of empires, seems in this desert to spare those of friendship, as if to perpetuate my regrets to the last hour of my existence. as soon as the second cottage was finished, madame de la tour was delivered of a girl. i had been the godfather of margaret's child, who was christened by the name of paul. madame de la tour desired me to perform the same office for her child also, together with her friend, who gave her the name of virginia. "she will be virtuous," cried margaret, "and she will be happy. i have only known misfortune by wandering from virtue." about the time madame de la tour recovered, these two little estates had already begun to yield some produce, perhaps in a small degree owing to the care which i occasionally bestowed on their improvement, but far more to the indefatigable labours of the two slaves. margaret's slave, who was called domingo, was still healthy and robust, though advanced in years: he possessed some knowledge, and a good natural understanding. he cultivated indiscriminately, on both plantations, the spots of ground that seemed most fertile, and sowed whatever grain he thought most congenial to each particular soil. where the ground was poor, he strewed maize; where it was most fruitful, he planted wheat; and rice in such spots as were marshy. he threw the seeds of gourds and cucumbers at the foot of the rocks, which they loved to climb and decorate with their luxuriant foliage. in dry spots he cultivated the sweet potatoe; the cotton-tree flourished upon the heights, and the sugar-cane grew in the clayey soil. he reared some plants of coffee on the hills, where the grain, although small, is excellent. his plantain-trees, which spread their grateful shade on the banks of the river, and encircled the cottages, yielded fruit throughout the year. and lastly, domingo, to soothe his cares, cultivated a few plants of tobacco. sometimes he was employed in cutting wood for firing from the mountain, sometimes in hewing pieces of rock within the enclosure, in order to level the paths. the zeal which inspired him enabled him to perform all these labours with intelligence and activity. he was much attached to margaret, and not less to madame de la tour, whose negro woman, mary, he had married on the birth of virginia; and he was passionately fond of his wife. mary was born at madagascar, and had there acquired the knowledge of some useful arts. she could weave baskets, and a sort of stuff, with long grass that grows in the woods. she was active, cleanly, and, above all, faithful. it was her care to prepare their meals, to rear the poultry, and go sometimes to port louis, to sell the superfluous produce of these little plantations, which was not however, very considerable. if you add to the personages already mentioned two goats, which were brought up with the children, and a great dog, which kept watch at night, you will have a complete idea of the household, as well as of the productions of these two little farms. madame de la tour and her friend were constantly employed in spinning cotton for the use of their families. destitute of everything which their own industry could not supply, at home they went bare-footed: shoes were a convenience reserved for sunday, on which day, at an early hour, they attended mass at the church of the shaddock grove, which you see yonder. that church was more distant from their homes than port louis; but they seldom visited the town, lest they should be treated with contempt on account of their dress, which consisted simply of the coarse blue linen of bengal, usually worn by slaves. but is there, in that external deference which fortune commands, a compensation for domestic happiness? if these interesting women had something to suffer from the world, their homes on that very account became more dear to them. no sooner did mary and domingo, from this elevated spot, perceive their mistresses on the road of the shaddock grove, than they flew to the foot of the mountain in order to help them to ascend. they discerned in the looks of their domestics the joy which their return excited. they found in their retreat neatness, independence, all the blessings which are the recompense of toil, and they received the zealous services which spring from affection. united by the tie of similar wants, and the sympathy of similar misfortunes, they gave each other the tender names of companion, friend, sister. they had but one will, one interest, one table. all their possessions were in common. and if sometimes a passion more ardent than friendship awakened in their hearts the pang of unavailing anguish, a pure religion, united with chaste manners, drew their affections towards another life: as the trembling flame rises towards heaven, when it no longer finds any ailment on earth. the duties of maternity became a source of additional happiness to these affectionate mothers, whose mutual friendship gained new strength at the sight of their children, equally the offspring of an ill-fated attachment. they delighted in washing their infants together in the same bath, in putting them to rest in the same cradle, and in changing the maternal bosom at which they received nourishment. "my friend," cried madame de la tour, "we shall each of us have two children, and each of our children will have two mothers." as two buds which remain on different trees of the same kind, after the tempest has broken all their branches, produce more delicious fruit, if each, separated from the maternal stem, be grafted on the neighbouring tree, so these two infants, deprived of all their other relations, when thus exchanged for nourishment by those who had given them birth, imbibed feelings of affection still more tender than those of son and daughter, brother and sister. while they were yet in their cradles, their mothers talked of their marriage. they soothed their own cares by looking forward to the future happiness of their children; but this contemplation often drew forth their tears. the misfortunes of one mother had arisen from having neglected marriage; those of the other from having submitted to its laws. one had suffered by aiming to rise above her condition, the other by descending from her rank. but they found consolation in reflecting that their more fortunate children, far from the cruel prejudices of europe, would enjoy at once the pleasures of love and the blessings of equality. rarely, indeed, has such an attachment been seen as that which the two children already testified for each other. if paul complained of anything, his mother pointed to virginia: at her sight he smiled, and was appeased. if any accident befel virginia, the cries of paul gave notice of the disaster; but the dear little creature would suppress her complaints if she found that he was unhappy. when i came hither, i usually found them quite naked, as is the custom of the country, tottering in their walk, and holding each other by the hands and under the arms, as we see represented in the constellation of the twins. at night these infants often refused to be separated, and were found lying in the same cradle, their cheeks, their bosoms pressed close together, their hands thrown round each other's neck, and sleeping, locked in one another's arms. when they first began to speak, the first name they learned to give each other were those of brother and sister, and childhood knows no softer appellation. their education, by directing them ever to consider each other's wants, tended greatly to increase their affection. in a short time, all the household economy, the care of preparing their rural repasts, became the task of virginia, whose labours were always crowned with the praises and kisses of her brother. as for paul, always in motion, he dug the garden with domingo, or followed him with a little hatchet into the woods; and if, in his rambles he espied a beautiful flower, any delicious fruit, or a nest of birds, even at the top of the tree, he would climb up and bring the spoil to his sister. when you met one of these children, you might be sure the other was not far off. one day as i was coming down that mountain, i saw virginia at the end of the garden running towards the house with her petticoat thrown over her head, in order to screen herself from a shower of rain. at a distance, i thought she was alone; but as i hastened towards her in order to help her on, i perceived she held paul by the arm, almost entirely enveloped in the same canopy, and both were laughing heartily at their being sheltered together under an umbrella of their own invention. those two charming faces in the middle of a swelling petticoat, recalled to my mind the children of leda, enclosed in the same shell. their sole study was how they could please and assist one another; for of all other things they were ignorant, and indeed could neither read nor write. they were never disturbed by inquiries about past times, nor did their curiosity extend beyond the bounds of their mountain. they believed the world ended at the shores of their own island, and all their ideas and all their affections were confined within its limits. their mutual tenderness, and that of their mothers, employed all the energies of their minds. their tears had never been called forth by tedious application to useless sciences. their minds had never been wearied by lessons of morality, superfluous to bosoms unconscious of ill. they had never been taught not to steal, because every thing with them was in common: or not to be intemperate, because their simple food was left to their own discretion; or not to lie, because they had nothing to conceal. their young imaginations had never been terrified by the idea that god has punishment in store for ungrateful children, since, with them, filial affection arose naturally from maternal tenderness. all they had been taught of religion was to love it, and if they did not offer up long prayers in the church, wherever they were, in the house, in the fields, in the woods, they raised towards heaven their innocent hands, and hearts purified by virtuous affections. all their early childhood passed thus, like a beautiful dawn, the prelude of a bright day. already they assisted their mothers in the duties of the household. as soon as the crowing of the wakeful cock announced the first beam of the morning, virginia arose, and hastened to draw water from a neighbouring spring: then returning to the house she prepared the breakfast. when the rising sun gilded the points of the rocks which overhang the enclosure in which they lived, margaret and her child repaired to the dwelling of madame de la tour, where they offered up their morning prayer together. this sacrifice of thanksgiving always preceded their first repast, which they often took before the door of the cottage, seated upon the grass, under a canopy of plantain: and while the branches of that delicious tree afforded a grateful shade, its fruit furnished a substantial food ready prepared for them by nature, and its long glossy leaves, spread upon the table, supplied the place of linen. plentiful and wholesome nourishment gave early growth and vigour to the persons of these children, and their countenances expressed the purity and the peace of their souls. at twelve years of age the figure of virginia was in some degree formed: a profusion of light hair shaded her face, to which her blue eyes and coral lips gave the most charming brilliancy. her eyes sparkled with vivacity when she spoke; but when she was silent they were habitually turned upwards, with an expression of extreme sensibility, or rather of tender melancholy. the figure of paul began already to display the graces of youthful beauty. he was taller than virginia: his skin was of a darker tint; his nose more aquiline; and his black eyes would have been too piercing, if the long eye-lashes by which they were shaded, had not imparted to them an expression of softness. he was constantly in motion, except when his sister appeared, and then, seated by her side, he became still. their meals often passed without a word being spoken; and from their silence, the simple elegance of their attitudes, and the beauty of their naked feet, you might have fancied you beheld an antique group of white marble, representing some of the children of niobe, but for the glances of their eyes, which were constantly seeking to meet, and their mutual soft and tender smiles, which suggested rather the idea of happy celestial spirits, whose nature is love, and who are not obliged to have recourse to words for the expression of their feelings. in the meantime madame de la tour, perceiving every day some unfolding grace, some new beauty, in her daughter, felt her maternal anxiety increase with her tenderness. she often said to me, "if i were to die, what would become of virginia without fortune?" madame de la tour had an aunt in france, who was a woman of quality, rich, old, and a complete devotee. she had behaved with so much cruelty towards her niece upon her marriage, that madame de la tour had determined no extremity of distress should ever compel her to have recourse to her hard-hearted relation. but when she became a mother, the pride of resentment was overcome by the stronger feelings of maternal tenderness. she wrote to her aunt, informing her of the sudden death of her husband, the birth of her daughter, and the difficulties in which she was involved, burthened as she was with an infant, and without means of support. she received no answer; but notwithstanding the high spirit natural to her character, she no longer feared exposing herself to mortification; and, although she knew her aunt would never pardon her for having married a man who was not of noble birth, however estimable, she continued to write to her, with the hope of awakening her compassion for virginia. many years, however passed without receiving any token of her remembrance. at length, in , three years after the arrival of monsieur de la bourdonnais in this island, madame de la tour was informed that the governor had a letter to give her from her aunt. she flew to port louis; maternal joy raised her mind above all trifling considerations, and she was careless on this occasion of appearing in her homely attire. monsieur de la bourdonnais gave her a letter from her aunt, in which she informed her, that she deserved her fate for marrying an adventurer and a libertine: that the passions brought with them their own punishment; that the premature death of her husband was a just visitation from heaven; that she had done well in going to a distant island, rather than dishonour her family by remaining in france; and that, after all, in the colony where she had taken refuge, none but the idle failed to grow rich. having thus censured her niece, she concluded by eulogizing herself. to avoid, she said, the almost inevitable evils of marriage, she had determined to remain single. in fact, as she was of a very ambitious disposition she had resolved to marry none but a man of high rank; but although she was very rich, her fortune was not found a sufficient bribe, even at court, to counterbalance the malignant dispositions of her mind, and the disagreeable qualities of her person. after mature deliberations, she added, in a postscript, that she had strongly recommended her niece to monsieur de la bourdonnais. this she had indeed done, but in a manner of late too common which renders a patron perhaps even more to be feared than a declared enemy; for, in order to justify herself for her harshness, she had cruelly slandered her niece, while she affected to pity her misfortunes. madame de la tour, whom no unprejudiced person could have seen without feelings of sympathy and respect, was received with the utmost coolness by monsieur de la bourdonnais, biased as he was against her. when she painted to him her own situation and that of her child, he replied in abrupt sentences,--"we shall see what can be done--there are so many to relieve--all in good time--why did you displease your aunt?--you have been much to blame." madame de la tour returned to her cottage, her heart torn with grief, and filled with all the bitterness of disappointment. when she arrived, she threw her aunt's letter on the table, and exclaimed to her friend,--"there is the fruit of eleven years of patient expectation!" madame de la tour being the only person in the little circle who could read, she again took up the letter, and read it aloud. scarcely had she finished, when margaret exclaimed, "what have we to do with your relations? has god then forsaken us? he only is our father! have we not hitherto been happy? why then this regret? you have no courage." seeing madame de la tour in tears, she threw herself upon her neck, and pressing her in her arms,--"my dear friend!" cried she, "my dear friend!"--but her emotion choked her utterance. at this sight virginia burst into tears, and pressed her mother's and margaret's hand alternately to her lips and heart; while paul, his eyes inflamed with anger, cried, clasped his hands together, and stamped his foot, not knowing whom to blame for this scene of misery. the noise soon brought domingo and mary to the spot, and the little habitation resounded with cries of distress,--"ah, madame!--my good mistress!--my dear mother!--do not weep!" these tender proofs of affections at length dispelled the grief of madame de la tour. she took paul and virginia in her arms, and, embracing them, said, "you are the cause of my affliction, my children, but you are also my only source of delight! yes, my dear children, misfortune has reached me, but only from a distance: here, i am surrounded with happiness." paul and virginia did not understand this reflection; but, when they saw that she was calm, they smiled, and continued to caress her. tranquillity was thus restored in this happy family, and all that had passed was but a storm in the midst of fine weather, which disturbs the serenity of the atmosphere but for a short time, and then passes away. the amiable disposition of these children unfolded itself daily. one sunday, at day-break, their mothers having gone to mass at the church of shaddock grove, the children perceived a negro woman beneath the plantains which surrounded their habitation. she appeared almost wasted to a skeleton, and had no other garment than a piece of coarse cloth thrown around her. she threw herself at the feet of virginia, who was preparing the family breakfast, and said, "my good young lady, have pity on a poor runaway slave. for a whole month i have wandered among these mountains, half dead with hunger, and often pursued by the hunters and their dogs. i fled from my master, a rich planter of the black river, who has used me as you see;" and she showed her body marked with scars from the lashes she had received. she added, "i was going to drown myself, but hearing you lived here, i said to myself, since there are still some good white people in this country, i need not die yet." virginia answered with emotion,--"take courage, unfortunate creature! here is something to eat;" and she gave her the breakfast she had been preparing, which the slave in a few minutes devoured. when her hunger was appeased, virginia said to her,--"poor woman! i should like to go and ask forgiveness for you of your master. surely the sight of you will touch him with pity. will you show me the way?"--"angel of heaven!" answered the poor negro woman, "i will follow you where you please!" virginia called her brother, and begged him to accompany her. the slave led the way, by winding and difficult paths, through the woods, over mountains, which they climbed with difficulty, and across rivers, through which they were obliged to wade. at length, about the middle of the day, they reached the foot of a steep descent upon the borders of the black river. there they perceived a well-built house, surrounded by extensive plantations, and a number of slaves employed in their various labours. their master was walking among them with a pipe in his mouth, and a switch in his hand. he was a tall thin man, of a brown complexion; his eyes were sunk in his head, and his dark eyebrows were joined in one. virginia, holding paul by the hand, drew near, and with much emotion begged him, for the love of god, to pardon his poor slave, who stood trembling a few paces behind. the planter at first paid little attention to the children, who, he saw, were meanly dressed. but when he observed the elegance of virginia's form, and the profusion of her beautiful light tresses which had escaped from beneath her blue cap; when he heard the soft tone of her voice, which trembled, as well as her whole frame, while she implored his compassion; he took his pipe from his mouth, and lifting up his stick, swore, with a terrible oath, that he pardoned his slave, not for the love of heaven, but of her who asked his forgiveness. virginia made a sign to the slave to approach her master; and instantly sprang away followed by paul. they climbed up the steep they had descended; and having gained the summit, seated themselves at the foot of a tree, overcome with fatigue, hunger and thirst. they had left their home fasting, and walked five leagues since sunrise. paul said to virginia,--"my dear sister, it is past noon, and i am sure you are thirsty and hungry: we shall find no dinner here; let us go down the mountain again, and ask the master of the poor slave for some food."--"oh, no," answered virginia, "he frightens me too much. remember what mamma sometimes says, 'the bread of the wicked is like stones in the mouth.' "--"what shall we do then," said paul; "these trees produce no fruit fit to eat; and i shall not be able to find even a tamarind or a lemon to refresh you."--"god will take care of us," replied virginia; "he listens to the cry even of the little birds when they ask him for food." scarcely had she pronounced these words when they heard the noise of water falling from a neighbouring rock. they ran thither and having quenched their thirst at this crystal spring, they gathered and ate a few cresses which grew on the border of the stream. soon afterwards while they were wandering backwards and forwards in search of more solid nourishment, virginia perceived in the thickest part of the forest, a young palm-tree. the kind of cabbage which is found at the top of the palm, enfolded within its leaves, is well adapted for food; but, although the stock of the tree is not thicker than a man's leg, it grows to above sixty feet in height. the wood of the tree, indeed, is composed only of very fine filaments; but the bark is so hard that it turns the edge of the hatchet, and paul was not furnished even with a knife. at length he thought of setting fire to the palm-tree; but a new difficulty occurred: he had no steel with which to strike fire; and although the whole island is covered with rocks, i do not believe it is possible to find a single flint. necessity, however, is fertile in expedients, and the most useful inventions have arisen from men placed in the most destitute situations. paul determined to kindle a fire after the manner of the negroes. with the sharp end of a stone he made a small hole in the branch of a tree that was quite dry, and which he held between his feet: he then, with the edge of the same stone, brought to a point another dry branch of a different sort of wood, and, afterwards, placing the piece of pointed wood in the small hole of the branch which he held with his feet and turning it rapidly between his hands, in a few minutes smoke and sparks of fire issued from the point of contact. paul then heaped together dried grass and branches, and set fire to the foot of the palm-tree, which soon fell to the ground with a tremendous crash. the fire was further useful to him in stripping off the long, thick, and pointed leaves, within which the cabbage was inclosed. having thus succeeded in obtaining this fruit, they ate part of it raw, and part dressed upon the ashes, which they found equally palatable. they made this frugal repast with delight, from the remembrances of the benevolent action they had performed in the morning: yet their joy was embittered by the thoughts of the uneasiness which their long absence from home would occasion their mothers. virginia often recurred to this subject; but paul, who felt his strength renewed by their meal, assured her, that it would not be long before they reached home, and, by the assurance of their safety, tranquillized the minds of their parents. after dinner they were much embarrassed by the recollection that they had now no guide, and that they were ignorant of the way. paul, whose spirit was not subdued by difficulties, said to virginia,--"the sun shines full upon our huts at noon: we must pass, as we did this morning, over that mountain with its three points, which you see yonder. come, let us be moving." this mountain was that of the three breasts, so called from the form of its three peaks. they then descended the steep bank of the black river, on the northern side; and arrived, after an hour's walk, on the banks of a large river, which stopped their further progress. this large portion of the island, covered as it is with forests, is even now so little known that many of its rivers and mountains have not yet received a name. the stream, on the banks of which paul and virginia were now standing, rolls foaming over a bed of rocks. the noise of the water frightened virginia, and she was afraid to wade through the current: paul therefore took her up in his arms, and went thus loaded over the slippery rocks, which formed the bed of the river, careless of the tumultuous noise of its waters. "do not be afraid," cried he to virginia; "i feel very strong with you. if that planter at the black river had refused you the pardon of his slave, i would have fought with him."--"what!" answered virginia, "with that great wicked man? to what have i exposed you! gracious heaven! how difficult it is to do good! and yet it is so easy to do wrong." when paul had crossed the river, he wished to continue the journey carrying his sister: and he flattered himself that he could ascend in that way the mountain of the three breasts, which was still at the distance of half a league; but his strength soon failed, and he was obliged to set down his burthen, and to rest himself by her side. virginia then said to him, "my dear brother, the sun is going down; you have still some strength left, but mine has quite failed: do leave me here, and return home alone to ease the fears of our mothers."--"oh no," said paul, "i will not leave you if night overtakes us in this wood, i will light a fire, and bring down another palm-tree: you shall eat the cabbage, and i will form a covering of the leaves to shelter you." in the meantime, virginia being a little rested, she gathered from the trunk of an old tree, which overhung the bank of the river, some long leaves of the plant called hart's tongue, which grew near its root. of these leaves she made a sort of buskin, with which she covered her feet, that were bleeding from the sharpness of the stony paths; for in her eager desire to do good, she had forgotten to put on her shoes. feeling her feet cooled by the freshness of the leaves, she broke off a branch of bamboo, and continued her walk, leaning with one hand on the staff, and with the other on paul. they walked on in this manner slowly through the woods; but from the height of the trees, and the thickness of their foliage, they soon lost sight of the mountain of the three breasts, by which they had hitherto directed their course, and also of the sun, which was now setting. at length they wandered, without perceiving it, from the beaten path in which they had hitherto walked, and found themselves in a labyrinth of trees, underwood, and rocks, whence there appeared to be no outlet. paul made virginia sit down, while he ran backwards and forwards, half frantic, in search of a path which might lead them out of this thick wood; but he fatigued himself to no purpose. he then climbed to the top of a lofty tree, whence he hoped at least to perceive the mountain of the three breasts: but he could discern nothing around him but the tops of trees, some of which were gilded with the last beams of the setting sun. already the shadows of the mountains were spreading over the forests in the valleys. the wind lulled, as is usually the case at sunset. the most profound silence reigned in those awful solitudes, which was only interrupted by the cry of the deer, who came to their lairs in that unfrequented spot. paul, in the hope that some hunter would hear his voice, called out as loud as he was able,--"come, come to the help of virginia." but the echoes of the forest alone answered his call, and repeated again and again, "virginia--virginia." paul at length descended from the tree, overcome with fatigue and vexation. he looked around in order to make some arrangement for passing the night in that desert; but he could find neither fountain, nor palm-tree, nor even a branch of dry wood fit for kindling a fire. he was then impressed, by experience, with the sense of his own weakness, and began to weep. virginia said to him,--"do not weep, my dear brother, or i shall be overwhelmed with grief. i am the cause of all your sorrow, and of all that our mothers are suffering at this moment. i find we ought to do nothing, not even good, without consulting our parents. oh, i have been very imprudent!"--and she began to shed tears. "let us pray to god, my dear brother," she again said, "and he will hear us." they had scarcely finished their prayer, when they heard the barking of a dog. "it must be the dog of some hunter," said paul, "who comes here at night, to lie in wait for the deer." soon after, the dog began barking again with increased violence. "surely," said virginia, "it is fidele, our own dog: yes,--now i know his bark. are we then so near home?--at the foot of our own mountain?" a moment after, fidele was at their feet, barking, howling, moaning, and devouring them with his caresses. before they could recover from their surprise, they saw domingo running towards them. at the sight of the good old negro, who wept for joy, they began to weep too, but had not the power to utter a syllable. when domingo had recovered himself a little,--"oh, my dear children," said he, "how miserable have you made your mothers! how astonished they were when they returned with me from mass, on not finding you at home. mary, who was at work at a little distance, could not tell us where you were gone. i ran backwards and forwards in the plantation, not knowing where to look for you. at last i took some of your old clothes, and showing them to fidele, the poor animal, as if he understood me, immediately began to scent your path; and conducted me, wagging his tail all the while, to the black river. i there saw a planter, who told me you had brought back a maroon negro woman, his slave, and that he had pardoned her at your request. but what a pardon! he showed her to me with her feet chained to a block of wood, and an iron collar with three hooks fastened round her neck! after that, fidele, still on the scent, led me up the steep bank of the black river, where he again stopped, and barked with all his might. this was on the brink of a spring, near which was a fallen palm-tree, and a fire, still smoking. at last he led me to this very spot. we are now at the foot of the mountain of the three breasts, and still a good four leagues from home. come, eat, and recover your strength." domingo then presented them with a cake, some fruit, and a large gourd, full of beverage composed of wine, water, lemon-juice, sugar, and nutmeg, which their mothers had prepared to invigorate and refresh them. virginia sighed at the recollection of the poor slave, and at the uneasiness they had given their mothers. she repeated several times--"oh, how difficult it is to do good!" while she and paul were taking refreshment, it being already night, domingo kindled a fire: and having found among the rocks a particular kind of twisted wood, called bois de ronde, which burns when quite green, and throws out a great blaze, he made a torch of it, which he lighted. but when they prepared to continue their journey, a new difficulty occurred; paul and virginia could no longer walk, their feet being violently swollen and inflamed. domingo knew not what to do; whether to leave them and go in search of help, or remain and pass the night with them on that spot. "there was a time," said he, "when i could carry you both together in my arms! but now you are grown big, and i am grown old." when he was in this perplexity, a troop of maroon negroes appeared at a short distance from them. the chief of the band, approaching paul and virginia, said to them,--"good little white people, do not be afraid. we saw you pass this morning, with a negro woman of the black river. you went to ask pardon for her of her wicked master; and we, in return for this, will carry you home upon our shoulders." he then made a sign, and four of the strongest negroes immediately formed a sort of litter with the branches of trees and lianas, and having seated paul and virginia on it, carried them upon their shoulders. domingo marched in front with his lighted torch, and they proceeded amidst the rejoicings of the whole troop, who overwhelmed them with their benedictions. virginia, affected by this scene, said to paul, with emotion,--"oh, my dear brother! god never leaves a good action unrewarded." it was midnight when they arrived at the foot of their mountain, on the ridges of which several fires were lighted. as soon as they began to ascend, they heard voices exclaiming--"is it you, my children?" they answered immediately, and the negroes also,--"yes, yes, it is." a moment after they could distinguish their mothers and mary coming towards them with lighted sticks in their hands. "unhappy children," cried madame de la tour, "where have you been? what agonies you have made us suffer!"--"we have been," said virginia, "to the black river, where we went to ask pardon for a poor maroon slave, to whom i gave our breakfast this morning, because she seemed dying of hunger; and these maroon negroes have brought us home." madame de la tour embraced her daughter, without being able to speak; and virginia, who felt her face wet with her mother's tears, exclaimed, "now i am repaid for all the hardships i have suffered." margaret, in a transport of delight, pressed paul in her arms, exclaiming, "and you also, my dear child, you have done a good action." when they reached the cottages with their children, they entertained all the negroes with a plentiful repast, after which the latter returned to the woods, praying heaven to shower down every description of blessing on those good white people. every day was to these families a day of happiness and tranquillity. neither ambition nor envy disturbed their repose. they did not seek to obtain a useless reputation out of doors, which may be procured by artifice and lost by calumny; but were contented to be the sole witnesses and judges of their own actions. in this island, where, as is the case in most colonies, scandal forms the principal topic of conversation, their virtues, and even their names were unknown. the passer-by on the road to shaddock grove, indeed, would sometimes ask the inhabitants of the plain, who lived in the cottages up there? and was always told, even by those who did not know them, "they are good people." the modest violet thus, concealed in thorny places sheds all unseen its delightful fragrance around. slander, which, under an appearance of justice, naturally inclines the heart to falsehood or to hatred, was entirely banished from their conversation; for it is impossible not to hate men if we believe them to be wicked, or to live with the wicked without concealing that hatred under a false pretence of good feeling. slander thus puts us ill at ease with others and with ourselves. in this little circle, therefore, the conduct of individuals was not discussed, but the best manner of doing good to all; and although they had but little in their power, their unceasing good-will and kindness of heart made them constantly ready to do what they could for others. solitude, far from having blunted these benevolent feelings, had rendered their dispositions even more kindly. although the petty scandals of the day furnished no subject of conversation to them, yet the contemplation of nature filled their minds with enthusiastic delight. they adored the bounty of that providence, which, by their instrumentality, had spread abundance and beauty amid these barren rocks, and had enabled them to enjoy those pure and simple pleasures, which are ever grateful and ever new. paul, at twelve years of age, was stronger and more intelligent than most european youths are at fifteen; and the plantations, which domingo merely cultivated, were embellished by him. he would go with the old negro into the neighbouring woods, where he would root up the young plants of lemon, orange, and tamarind trees, the round heads of which are so fresh a green, together with date-palm trees, which produce fruit filled with a sweet cream, possessing the fine perfume of the orange flower. these trees, which had already attained to a considerable size, he planted round their little enclosure. he had also sown the seed of many trees which the second year bear flowers or fruit; such as the agathis, encircled with long clusters of white flowers which hang from it like the crystal pendants of a chandelier; the persian lilac, which lifts high in air its gray flax-coloured branches; the pappaw tree, the branchless trunk of which forms a column studded with green melons, surmounted by a capital of broad leaves similar to those of the fig-tree. the seeds and kernels of the gum tree, terminalia, mango, alligator pear, the guava, the bread-fruit tree, and the narrow-leaved rose-apple, were also planted by him with profusion: and the greater number of these trees already afforded their young cultivator both shade and fruit. his industrious hands diffused the riches of nature over even the most barren parts of the plantation. several species of aloes, the indian fig, adorned with yellow flowers spotted with red, and the thorny torch thistle, grew upon the dark summits of the rocks, and seemed to aim at reaching the long lianas, which, laden with blue or scarlet flowers, hung scattered over the steepest parts of the mountain. i loved to trace the ingenuity he had exercised in the arrangement of these trees. he had so disposed them that the whole could be seen at a single glance. in the middle of the hollow he had planted shrubs of the lowest growth; behind grew the more lofty sorts; then trees of the ordinary height; and beyond and above all, the venerable and lofty groves which border the circumference. thus this extensive enclosure appeared, from its centre, like a verdant amphitheatre decorated with fruits and flowers, containing a variety of vegetables, some strips of meadow land, and fields of rice and corn. but, in arranging these vegetable productions to his own taste, he wandered not too far from the designs of nature. guided by her suggestions, he had thrown upon the elevated spots such seeds as the winds would scatter about, and near the borders of the springs those which float upon the water. every plant thus grew in its proper soil, and every spot seemed decorated by nature's own hand. the streams which fell from the summits of the rocks formed in some parts of the valley sparkling cascades, and in others were spread into broad mirrors, in which were reflected, set in verdure, the flowering trees, the overhanging rocks, and the azure heavens. notwithstanding the great irregularity of the ground, these plantations were, for the most part, easy of access. we had, indeed, all given him our advice and assistance, in order to accomplish this end. he had conducted one path entirely round the valley, and various branches from it led from the circumference to the centre. he had drawn some advantage from the most rugged spots, and had blended, in harmonious union, level walks with the inequalities of the soil, and trees which grow wild with the cultivated varieties. with that immense quantity of large pebbles which now block up these paths, and which are scattered over most of the ground of this island, he formed pyramidal heaps here and there, at the base of which he laid mould, and planted rose-bushes, the barbadoes flower-fence, and other shrubs which love to climb the rocks. in a short time the dark and shapeless heaps of stones he had constructed were covered with verdure, or with the glowing tints of the most beautiful flowers. hollow recesses on the borders of the streams shaded by the overhanging boughs of aged trees, formed rural grottoes, impervious to the rays of the sun, in which you might enjoy a refreshing coolness during the mid-day heats. one path led to a clump of forest trees, in the centre of which sheltered from the wind, you found a fruit-tree, laden with produce. here was a corn-field; there, an orchard; from one avenue you had a view of the cottages; from another, of the inaccessible summit of the mountain. beneath one tufted bower of gum trees, interwoven with lianas, no object whatever could be perceived: while the point of the adjoining rock, jutting out from the mountain, commanded a view of the whole enclosure, and of the distant ocean, where, occasionally, we could discern the distant sail, arriving from europe, or bound thither. on this rock the two families frequently met in the evening, and enjoyed in silence the freshness of the flowers, the gentle murmurs of the fountain, and the last blended harmonies of light and shade. nothing could be more charming than the names which were bestowed upon some of the delightful retreats of this labyrinth. the rock of which i have been speaking, whence they could discern my approach at a considerable distance, was called the discovery of friendship. paul and virginia had amused themselves by planting a bamboo on that spot; and whenever they saw me coming, they hoisted a little white handkerchief, by way of signal of my approach, as they had seen a flag hoisted on the neighbouring mountain on the sight of a vessel at sea. the idea struck me of engraving an inscription on the stalk of this reed; for i never, in the course of my travels, experienced any thing like the pleasure in seeing a statue or other monument of ancient art, as in reading a well-written inscription. it seems to me as if a human voice issued from the stone, and, making itself heard after the lapse of ages, addressed man in the midst of a desert, to tell him that he is not alone, and that other men, on that very spot, had felt, and thought, and suffered like himself. if the inscription belongs to an ancient nation, which no longer exists, it leads the soul through infinite space, and strengthens the consciousness of its immortality, by demonstrating that a thought has survived the ruins of an empire. i inscribed then, on the little staff of paul and virginia's flag, the following lines of horace:-- fratres helenae, lucida sidera, ventorumque regat pater, obstrictis, aliis, praeter iapiga. "may the brothers of helen, bright stars like you, and the father of the winds, guide you; and may you feel only the breath of the zephyr." there was a gum-tree, under the shade of which paul was accustomed to sit, to contemplate the sea when agitated by storms. on the bark of this tree, i engraved the following lines from virgil:-- fortunatus et ille deos qui novit agrestes! "happy are thou, my son, in knowing only the pastoral divinities." and over the door of madame de la tour's cottage where the families so frequently met, i placed this line:-- at secura quies, et nescia fallere vita. "here dwell a calm conscience, and a life that knows not deceit." but virginia did not approve of my latin: she said, that what i had placed at the foot of her flagstaff was too long and too learned. "i should have liked better," added she, "to have seen inscribed, ever agitated, yet constant."--"such a motto," i answered, "would have been still more applicable to virtue." my reflection made her blush. the delicacy of sentiment of these happy families was manifested in every thing around them. they gave the tenderest names to objects in appearance the most indifferent. a border of orange, plantain and rose-apple trees, planted round a green sward where virginia and paul sometimes danced, received the name of concord. an old tree, beneath the shade of which madame de la tour and margaret used to recount their misfortunes, was called the burial-place of tears. they bestowed the names of brittany and normandy on two little plots of ground, where they had sown corn, strawberries, and peas. domingo and mary, wishing, in imitation of their mistresses, to recall to mind angola and foullepoint, the places of their birth in africa, gave those names to the little fields where the grass was sown with which they wove their baskets, and where they had planted a calabash-tree. thus, by cultivating the productions of their respective climates, these exiled families cherished the dear illusions which bind us to our native country, and softened their regrets in a foreign land. alas! i have seen these trees, these fountains, these heaps of stones, which are now so completely overthrown,--which now, like the desolated plains of greece, present nothing but masses of ruin and affecting remembrances, all called into life by the many charming appellations thus bestowed upon them! but perhaps the most delightful spot of this enclosure was that called virginia's resting-place. at the foot of the rock which bore the name of the discovery of friendship, is a small crevice, whence issues a fountain, forming, near its source, a little spot of marshy soil in the middle of a field of rich grass. at the time of paul's birth i had made margaret a present of an indian cocoa which had been given me, and which she planted on the border of this fenny ground, in order that the tree might one day serve to mark the epoch of her son's birth. madame de la tour planted another cocoa with the same view, at the birth of virginia. these nuts produced two cocoa-trees, which formed the only records of the two families; one was called paul's tree, the other, virginia's. their growth was in the same proportion as that of the two young persons, not exactly equal: but they rose, at the end of twelve years, above the roofs of the cottages. already their tender stalks were interwoven, and clusters of young cocoas hung from them over the basin of the fountain. with the exception of these two trees, this nook of the rock was left as it had been decorated by nature. on its embrowned and moist sides broad plants of maiden-hair glistened with their green and dark stars; and tufts of wave-leaved hart's tongue, suspended like long ribands of purpled green, floated on the wind. near this grew a chain of the madagascar periwinkle, the flowers of which resemble the red gilliflower; and the long-podded capsicum, the seed-vessels of which are of the colour of blood, and more resplendent than coral. near them, the herb balm, with its heart-shaped leaves, and the sweet basil, which has the odour of the clove, exhaled the most delicious perfumes. from the precipitous side of the mountain hung the graceful lianas, like floating draperies, forming magnificent canopies of verdure on the face of the rocks. the sea-birds, allured by the stillness of these retreats, resorted here to pass the night. at the hour of sunset we could perceive the curlew and the stint skimming along the seashore; the frigate-bird poised high in air; and the white bird of the tropic, which abandons, with the star of day, the solitudes of the indian ocean. virginia took pleasure in resting herself upon the border of this fountain, decorated with wild and sublime magnificence. she often went thither to wash the linen of the family beneath the shade of the two cocoa-trees, and thither too she sometimes led her goats to graze. while she was making cheeses of their milk, she loved to see them browse on the maiden-hair fern which clothes the steep sides of the rock, and hung suspended by one of its cornices, as on a pedestal. paul, observing that virginia was fond of this spot, brought thither, from the neighbouring forest, a great variety of bird's nests. the old birds following their young, soon established themselves in this new colony. virginia, at stated times, distributed amongst them grains of rice, millet, and maize. as soon as she appeared, the whistling blackbird, the amadavid bird, whose note is so soft, the cardinal, with its flame coloured plumage, forsook their bushes; the parroquet, green as an emerald, descended from the neighbouring fan-palms, the partridge ran along the grass; all advanced promiscuously towards her, like a brood of chickens: and she and paul found an exhaustless source of amusement in observing their sports, their repasts, and their loves. amiable children! thus passed your earlier days in innocence, and in obeying the impulses of kindness. how many times, on this very spot, have your mothers, pressing you in their arms, blessed heaven for the consolation your unfolding virtues prepared for their declining years, while they at the same time enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing you begin life under the happiest auspices! how many times, beneath the shade of those rocks, have i partaken with them of your rural repasts, which never cost any animal its life! gourds full of milk, fresh eggs, cakes of rice served up on plantain leaves, with baskets of mangoes, oranges, dates, pomegranates, pineapples, furnished a wholesome repast, the most agreeable to the eye, as well as delicious to the taste, that can possibly be imagined. like the repast, the conversation was mild, and free from every thing having a tendency to do harm. paul often talked of the labours of the day and of the morrow. he was continually planning something for the accommodation of their little society. here he discovered that the paths were rugged; there, that the seats were uncomfortable: sometimes the young arbours did not afford sufficient shade, and virginia might be better pleased elsewhere. during the rainy season the two families met together in the cottage, and employed themselves in weaving mats of grass, and baskets of bamboo. rakes, spades, and hatchets, were ranged along the walls in the most perfect order; and near these instruments of agriculture were heaped its products,--bags of rice, sheaves of corn, and baskets of plantains. some degree of luxury usually accompanies abundance; and virginia was taught by her mother and margaret to prepare sherbert and cordials from the juice of the sugar-cane, the lemon and the citron. when night came, they all supped together by the light of a lamp; after which madame de la tour or margaret related some story of travellers benighted in those woods of europe that are still infested by banditti; or told a dismal tale of some shipwrecked vessel, thrown by the tempest upon the rocks of a desert island. to these recitals the children listened with eager attention, and earnestly hoped that heaven would one day grant them the joy of performing the rites of hospitality towards such unfortunate persons. when the time for repose arrived, the two families separated and retired for the night, eager to meet again the following morning. sometimes they were lulled to repose by the beating of the rains, which fell in torrents upon the roofs of their cottages, and sometimes by the hollow winds, which brought to their ear the distant roar of the waves breaking upon the shore. they blessed god for their own safety, the feeling of which was brought home more forcibly to their minds by the sound of remote danger. madame de la tour occasionally read aloud some affecting history of the old or new testament. her auditors reasoned but little upon these sacred volumes, for their theology centred in a feeling of devotion towards the supreme being, like that of nature: and their morality was an active principle, like that of the gospel. these families had no particular days devoted to pleasure, and others to sadness. every day was to them a holyday, and all that surrounded them one holy temple, in which they ever adored the infinite intelligence, the almighty god, the friend of human kind. a feeling of confidence in his supreme power filled their minds with consolation for the past, with fortitude under present trials, and with hope in the future. compelled by misfortune to return almost to a state of nature, these excellent women had thus developed in their own and their children's bosoms the feelings most natural to the human mind, and its best support under affliction. but, as clouds sometimes arise, and cast a gloom over the best regulated tempers, so whenever any member of this little society appeared to be labouring under dejection, the rest assembled around, and endeavoured to banish her painful thoughts by amusing the mind rather than by grave arguments against them. each performed this kind office in their own appropriate manner: margaret, by her gaiety; madame de la tour, by the gentle consolations of religion; virginia, by her tender caresses; paul, by his frank and engaging cordiality. even mary and domingo hastened to offer their succour, and to weep with those that wept. thus do weak plants interweave themselves with each other, in order to withstand the fury of the tempest. during the fine season, they went every sunday to the church of the shaddock grove, the steeple of which you see yonder upon the plain. many wealthy members of the congregation, who came to church in palanquins, sought the acquaintance of these united families, and invited them to parties of pleasure. but they always repelled these overtures with respectful politeness, as they were persuaded that the rich and powerful seek the society of persons in an inferior station only for the sake of surrounding themselves with flatterers, and that every flatterer must applaud alike all the actions of his patron, whether good or bad. on the other hand, they avoided, with equal care, too intimate an acquaintance with the lower class, who are ordinarily jealous, calumniating, and gross. they thus acquired, with some, the character of being timid, and with others, of pride: but their reserve was accompanied with so much obliging politeness, above all towards the unfortunate and the unhappy, that they insensibly acquired the respect of the rich and the confidence of the poor. after service, some kind office was often required at their hands by their poor neighbours. sometimes a person troubled in mind sought their advice; sometimes a child begged them to its sick mother, in one of the adjoining hamlets. they always took with them a few remedies for the ordinary diseases of the country, which they administered in that soothing manner which stamps a value upon the smallest favours. above all, they met with singular success in administrating to the disorders of the mind, so intolerable in solitude, and under the infirmities of a weakened frame. madame de la tour spoke with such sublime confidence of the divinity, that the sick, while listening to her, almost believed him present. virginia often returned home with her eyes full of tears, and her heart overflowing with delight, at having had an opportunity of doing good; for to her generally was confided the task of preparing and administering the medicines,--a task which she fulfilled with angelic sweetness. after these visits of charity, they sometimes extended their walk by the sloping mountain, till they reached my dwelling, where i used to prepare dinner for them on the banks of the little rivulet which glides near my cottage. i procured for these occasions a few bottles of old wine, in order to heighten the relish of our oriental repast by the more genial productions of europe. at other times we met on the sea-shore, at the mouth of some little river, or rather mere brook. we brought from home the provisions furnished us by our gardens, to which we added those supplied us by the sea in abundant variety. we caught on these shores the mullet, the roach, and the sea-urchin, lobsters, shrimps, crabs, oysters, and all other kinds of shell-fish. in this way, we often enjoyed the most tranquil pleasures in situations the most terrific. sometimes, seated upon a rock, under the shade of the velvet sunflower-tree, we saw the enormous waves of the indian ocean break beneath our feet with a tremendous noise. paul, who could swim like a fish, would advance on the reefs to meet the coming billows; then, at their near approach, would run back to the beach, closely pursued by the foaming breakers, which threw themselves, with a roaring noise, far on the sands. but virginia, at this sight, uttered piercing cries, and said that such sports frightened her too much. other amusements were not wanting on these festive occasions. our repasts were generally followed by the songs and dances of the two young people. virginia sang the happiness of pastoral life, and the misery of those who were impelled by avarice to cross the raging ocean, rather than cultivate the earth, and enjoy its bounties in peace. sometimes she performed a pantomime with paul, after the manner of the negroes. the first language of man is pantomime: it is known to all nations, and is so natural and expressive, that the children of the european inhabitants catch it with facility from the negroes. virginia, recalling, from among the histories which her mother had read to her, those which had affected her most, represented the principal events in them with beautiful simplicity. sometimes at the sound of domingo's tantam she appeared upon the green sward, bearing a pitcher upon her head, and advanced with a timid step towards the source of a neighbouring fountain, to draw water. domingo and mary, personating the shepherds of midian forbade her to approach, and repulsed her sternly. upon this paul flew to her succour, beat away the shepherds, filled virginia's pitcher, and placing it upon her heard, bound her brows at the same time with a wreath of the red flowers of the madagascar periwinkle, which served to heighten the delicacy of her complexion. then joining in their sports, i took upon myself the part of raguel, and bestowed upon paul, my daughter zephora in marriage. another time virginia would represent the unhappy ruth, returning poor and widowed with her mother-in-law, who, after so prolonged an absence, found herself as unknown as in a foreign land. domingo and mary personated the reapers. the supposed daughter of naomi followed their steps, gleaning here and there a few ears of corn. when interrogated by paul,--a part which he performed with the gravity of a patriarch,--she answered his questions with a faltering voice. he then, touched with compassion, granted an asylum to innocence, and hospitality to misfortune. he filled her lap with plenty; and, leading her towards us as before the elders of the city, declared his purpose to take her in marriage. at this scene, madame de la tour, recalling the desolate situation in which she had been left by her relations, her widowhood, and the kind reception she had met with from margaret, succeeded now by the soothing hope of a happy union between their children, could not forbear weeping; and these mixed recollections of good and evil caused us all to unite with her in shedding tears of sorrow and of joy. these dramas were performed with such an air of reality that you might have fancied yourself transported to the plains of syria or of palestine. we were not unfurnished with decorations, lights, or an orchestra, suitable to the representation. the scene was generally placed in an open space of the forest, the diverging paths from which formed around us numerous arcades of foliage, under which we were sheltered from the heat all the middle of the day; but when the sun descended towards the horizon, its rays, broken by the trunks of the trees, darted amongst the shadows of the forest in long lines of light, producing the most magnificent effect. sometimes its broad disk appeared at the end of an avenue, lighting it up with insufferable brightness. the foliage of the trees, illuminated from beneath by its saffron beams, glowed with the lustre of the topaz and the emerald. their brown and mossy trunks appeared transformed into columns of antique bronze; and the birds, which had retired in silence to their leafy shades to pass the night, surprised to see the radiance of a second morning, hailed the star of day all together with innumerable carols. night often overtook us during these rural entertainments; but the purity of the air and the warmth of the climate, admitted of our sleeping in the woods, without incurring any danger by exposure to the weather, and no less secure from the molestations of robbers. on our return the following day to our respective habitations, we found them in exactly the same state in which they had been left. in this island, then unsophisticated by the pursuits of commerce, such were the honesty and primitive manners of the population, that the doors of many houses were without a key, and even a lock itself was an object of curiosity to not a few of the native inhabitants. there were, however, some days in the year celebrated by paul and virginia in a more peculiar manner; these were the birth-days of their mothers. virginia never failed the day before to prepare some wheaten cakes, which she distributed among a few poor white families, born in the island, who had never eaten european bread. these unfortunate people, uncared for by the blacks, were reduced to live on tapioca in the woods; and as they had neither the insensibility which is the result of slavery, nor the fortitude which springs from a liberal education, to enable them to support their poverty, their situation was deplorable. these cakes were all that virginia had it in her power to give away, but she conferred the gift in so delicate a manner as to add tenfold to its value. in the first place, paul was commissioned to take the cakes himself to these families, and get their promise to come and spend the next day at madame de la tour's. accordingly, mothers of families, with two or three thin, yellow, miserable looking daughters, so timid that they dared not look up, made their appearance. virginia soon put them at their ease; she waited upon them with refreshments, the excellence of which she endeavoured to heighten by relating some particular circumstance which in her own estimation, vastly improved them. one beverage had been prepared by margaret; another, by her mother: her brother himself had climbed some lofty tree for the very fruit she was presenting. she would then get paul to dance with them, nor would she leave them till she saw that they were happy. she wished them to partake of the joy of her own family. "it is only," she said, "by promoting the happiness of others, that we can secure our own." when they left, she generally presented them with some little article they seemed to fancy, enforcing their acceptance of it by some delicate pretext, that she might not appear to know they were in want. if she remarked that their clothes were much tattered, she obtained her mother's permission to give them some of her own, and then sent paul to leave them, secretly at their cottage doors. she thus followed the divine precept,--concealing the benefactor, and revealing only the benefit. you europeans, whose minds are imbued from infancy with prejudices at variance with happiness, cannot imagine all the instruction and pleasure to be derived from nature. your souls, confined to a small sphere of intelligence, soon reach the limit of its artificial enjoyments: but nature and the heart are inexhaustible. paul and virginia had neither clock, nor almanack, nor books of chronology, history or philosophy. the periods of their lives were regulated by those of the operations of nature, and their familiar conversation had a reference to the changes of the seasons. they knew the time of day by the shadows of the trees; the seasons, by the times when those trees bore flowers or fruit; and the years, by the number of their harvests. these soothing images diffused an inexpressible charm over their conversation. "it is time to dine," said virginia, "the shadows of the plantain-trees are at their roots:" or, "night approaches, the tamarinds are closing their leaves." "when will you come and see us?" inquired some of her companions in the neighbourhood. "at the time of the sugar-canes," answered virginia. "your visit will be then still more delightful," resumed her young acquaintances. when she was asked what was her own age and that of paul,--"my brother," said she, "is as old as the great cocoa-tree of the fountain; and i am as old as the little one: the mangoes have bore fruit twelve times and the orange-trees have flowered four-and-twenty times, since i came into the world." their lives seemed linked to that of the trees, like those of fauns or dryads. they knew no other historical epochs than those of the lives of their mothers, no other chronology than that of doing good, and resigning themselves to the will of heaven. what need, indeed, had these young people of riches or learning such as ours? even their necessities and their ignorance increased their happiness. no day passed in which they were not of some service to one another, or in which they did not mutually impart some instruction. yes, instruction; for if errors mingled with it, they were, at least, not of a dangerous character. a pure-minded being has none of that description to fear. thus grew these children of nature. no care had troubled their peace, no intemperance had corrupted their blood, no misplaced passion had depraved their hearts. love, innocence, and piety, possessed their souls; and those intellectual graces were unfolding daily in their features, their attitudes, and their movements. still in the morning of life, they had all its blooming freshness: and surely such in the garden of eden appeared our first parents, when coming from the hands of god, they first saw, and approached each other, and conversed together, like brother and sister. virginia was gentle, modest, and confiding as eve; and paul, like adam, united the stature of manhood with the simplicity of a child. sometimes, if alone with virginia, he has a thousand times told me, he used to say to her, on his return from labour,--"when i am wearied, the sight of you refreshes me. if from the summit of the mountain i perceive you below in the valley, you appear to me in the midst of our orchard like a blooming rose-bud. if you go towards our mother's house, the partridge, when it runs to meet its young, has a shape less beautiful, and a step less light. when i lose sight of you through the trees, i have no need to see you in order to find you again. something of you, i know not how, remains for me in the air through which you have passed, on the grass where you have been seated. when i come near you, you delight all my senses. the azure of the sky is less charming than the blue of your eyes, and the song of the amadavid bird less soft than the sound of your voice. if i only touch you with the tip of my finger, my whole frame trembles with pleasure. do you remember the day when we crossed over the great stones of the river of the three breasts? i was very tired before we reached the bank: but, as soon as i had taken you in my arms, i seemed to have wings like a bird. tell me by what charm you have thus enchanted me! is it by your wisdom?--our mothers have more than either of us. is it by your caresses?--they embrace me much oftener than you. i think it must be by your goodness. i shall never forget how you walked bare-footed to the black river, to ask pardon for the poor run-away slave. here, my beloved, take this flowering branch of a lemon-tree, which i have gathered in the forest: you will let it remain at night near your bed. eat this honey-comb too, which i have taken for you from the top of a rock. but first lean on my bosom, and i shall be refreshed." virginia would answer him,--"oh, my dear brother, the rays of the sun in the morning on the tops of the rocks give me less joy than the sight of you. i love my mother,--i love yours; but when they call you their son, i love them a thousand times more. when they caress you, i feel it more sensibly than when i am caressed myself. you ask me what makes you love me. why, all creatures that are brought up together love one another. look at our birds; reared up in the same nests, they love each other as we do; they are always together like us. hark! how they call and answer from one tree to another. so when the echoes bring to my ears the air which you play on your flute on the top of the mountain, i repeat the words at the bottom of the valley. you are dear to me more especially since the day when you wanted to fight the master of the slave for me. since that time how often have i said to myself, 'ah, my brother has a good heart; but for him, i should have died of terror.' i pray to god every day for my mother and for yours; for you, and for our poor servants; but when i pronounce your name, my devotion seems to increase;--i ask so earnestly of god that no harm may befall you! why do you go so far, and climb so high, to seek fruits and flowers for me? have we not enough in our garden already? how much you are fatigued,--you look so warm!"--and with her little white handkerchief she would wipe the damps from his face, and then imprint a tender kiss on his forehead. for some time past, however, virginia had felt her heart agitated by new sensations. her beautiful blue eyes lost their lustre, her cheek its freshness, and her frame was overpowered with a universal langour. serenity no longer sat upon her brow, nor smiles played upon her lips. she would become all at once gay without cause for joy, and melancholy without any subject for grief. she fled her innocent amusements, her gentle toils, and even the society of her beloved family; wandering about the most unfrequented parts of the plantations, and seeking every where the rest which she could no where find. sometimes, at the sight of paul, she advanced sportively to meet him; but, when about to accost him, was overcome by a sudden confusion; her pale cheeks were covered with blushes, and her eyes no longer dared to meet those of her brother. paul said to her,--"the rocks are covered with verdure, our birds begin to sing when you approach, everything around you is gay, and you only are unhappy." he then endeavoured to soothe her by his embraces, but she turned away her head, and fled, trembling towards her mother. the caresses of her brother excited too much emotion in her agitated heart, and she sought, in the arms of her mother, refuge from herself. paul, unused to the secret windings of the female heart, vexed himself in vain in endeavouring to comprehend the meaning of these new and strange caprices. misfortunes seldom come alone, and a serious calamity now impended over these families. one of those summers, which sometimes desolate the countries situated between the tropics, now began to spread its ravages over this island. it was near the end of december, when the sun, in capricorn, darts over the mauritius, during the space of three weeks, its vertical fires. the southeast wind, which prevails throughout almost the whole year, no longer blew. vast columns of dust arose from the highways, and hung suspended in the air; the ground was every where broken into clefts; the grass was burnt up; hot exhalations issued from the sides of the mountains, and their rivulets, for the most part, became dry. no refreshing cloud ever arose from the sea: fiery vapours, only, during the day, ascended from the plains, and appeared, at sunset, like the reflection of a vast conflagration. night brought no coolness to the heated atmosphere; and the red moon rising in the misty horizon, appeared of supernatural magnitude. the drooping cattle, on the sides of the hills, stretching out their necks towards heaven, and panting for breath, made the valleys re-echo with their melancholy lowings: even the caffre by whom they were led threw himself upon the earth, in search of some cooling moisture: but his hopes were vain; the scorching sun had penetrated the whole soil, and the stifling atmosphere everywhere resounded with the buzzing noise of insects, seeking to allay their thirst with the blood of men and of animals. during this sultry season, virginia's restlessness and disquietude were much increased. one night, in particular, being unable to sleep, she arose from her bed, sat down, and returned to rest again; but could find in no attitude either slumber or repose. at length she bent her way, by the light of the moon, towards her fountain, and gazed at its spring, which, notwithstanding the drought, still trickled, in silver threads down the brown sides of the rock. she flung herself into the basin: its coolness reanimated her spirits, and a thousand soothing remembrances came to her mind. she recollected that in her infancy her mother and margaret had amused themselves by bathing her with paul in this very spot; that he afterwards, reserving this bath for her sole use, had hollowed out its bed, covered the bottom with sand, and sown aromatic herbs around its borders. she saw in the water, upon her naked arms and bosom, the reflection of the two cocoa trees which were planted at her own and her brother's birth, and which interwove above her head their green branches and young fruit. she thought of paul's friendship, sweeter than the odour of the blossoms, purer than the waters of the fountain, stronger than the intertwining palm-tree, and she sighed. reflecting on the hour of the night, and the profound solitude, her imagination became disturbed. suddenly she flew, affrighted, from those dangerous shades, and those waters which seemed to her hotter than the tropical sunbeam, and ran to her mother for refuge. more than once, wishing to reveal her sufferings, she pressed her mother's hand within her own; more than once she was ready to pronounce the name of paul: but her oppressed heart left her lips no power of utterance, and, leaning her head on her mother's bosom, she bathed it with her tears. madame de la tour, though she easily discerned the source of her daughter's uneasiness, did not think proper to speak to her on the subject. "my dear child," said she, "offer up your supplications to god, who disposes at his will of health and of life. he subjects you to trial now, in order to recompense you hereafter. remember that we are only placed upon earth for the exercise of virtue." the excessive heat in the meantime raised vast masses of vapour from the ocean, which hung over the island like an immense parasol, and gathered round the summits of the mountains. long flakes of fire issued from time to time from these mist-embosomed peaks. the most awful thunder soon after re-echoed through the woods, the plains, and the valleys: the rains fell from the skies in cataracts; foaming torrents rushed down the sides of this mountain; the bottom of the valley became a sea, and the elevated platform on which the cottages were built, a little island. the accumulated waters, having no other outlet, rushed with violence through the narrow gorge which leads into the valley, tossing and roaring, and bearing along with them a mingled wreck of soil, trees, and rocks. the trembling families meantime addressed their prayers to god all together in the cottage of madame de la tour, the roof of which cracked fearfully from the force of the winds. so incessant and vivid were the lightnings, that although the doors and window-shutters were securely fastened, every object without could be distinctly seen through the joints in the wood-work! paul, followed by domingo, went with intrepidity from one cottage to another, notwithstanding the fury of the tempest; here supporting a partition with a buttress, there driving in a stake; and only returning to the family to calm their fears, by the expression of a hope that the storm was passing away. accordingly, in the evening the rains ceased, the trade-winds of the southeast pursued their ordinary course, the tempestuous clouds were driven away to the northward, and the setting sun appeared in the horizon. virginia's first wish was to visit the spot called her resting-place. paul approached her with a timid air, and offered her the assistance of his arm; she accepted it with a smile, and they left the cottage together. the air was clear and fresh: white vapours arose from the ridges of the mountain, which was furrowed here and there by the courses of torrents, marked in foam, and now beginning to dry up on all sides. as for the garden, it was completely torn to pieces by deep water-courses, the roots of most of the fruit trees were laid bare, and vast heaps of sand covered the borders of the meadows, and had choked up virginia's bath. the two cocoa trees, however, were still erect, and still retained their freshness; but they were no longer surrounded by turf, or arbours, or birds, except a few amadavid birds, which, upon the points of the neighbouring rocks, were lamenting, in plaintive notes, the loss of their young. at the sight of this general desolation, virginia exclaimed to paul,--"you brought birds hither, and the hurricane has killed them. you planted this garden, and it is now destroyed. every thing then upon earth perishes, and it is only heaven that is not subject to change."--"why," answered paul, "cannot i give you something that belongs to heaven? but i have nothing of my own even upon the earth." virginia with a blush replied, "you have the picture of saint paul." as soon as she had uttered the words, he flew in quest of it to his mother's cottage. this picture was a miniature of paul the hermit, which margaret, who viewed it with feelings of great devotion, had worn at her neck while a girl, and which, after she became a mother, she had placed round her child's. it had even happened, that being, while pregnant, abandoned by all the world, and constantly occupied in contemplating the image of this benevolent recluse, her offspring had contracted some resemblance to this revered object. she therefore bestowed upon him the name of paul, giving him for his patron a saint who had passed his life far from mankind by whom he had been first deceived and then forsaken. virginia, on receiving this little present from the hands of paul, said to him, with emotion, "my dear brother, i will never part with this while i live; nor will i ever forget that you have given me the only thing you have in the world." at this tone of friendship,--this unhoped for return of familiarity and tenderness, paul attempted to embrace her; but, light as a bird, she escaped him, and fled away, leaving him astonished, and unable to account for conduct so extraordinary. meanwhile margaret said to madame de la tour, "why do we not unite our children by marriage? they have a strong attachment for each other, and though my son hardly understands the real nature of his feelings, yet great care and watchfulness will be necessary. under such circumstances, it will be as well not to leave them too much together." madame de la tour replied, "they are too young and too poor. what grief would it occasion us to see virginia bring into the world unfortunate children, whom she would not perhaps have sufficient strength to rear! your negro, domingo, is almost too old to labor; mary is infirm. as for myself, my dear friend, at the end of fifteen years, i find my strength greatly decreased; the feebleness of age advances rapidly in hot climates, and, above all, under the pressure of misfortune. paul is our only hope: let us wait till he comes to maturity, and his increased strength enables him to support us by his labour: at present you well know that we have only sufficient to supply the wants of the day: but were we to send paul for a short time to the indies, he might acquire, by commerce, the means of purchasing some slaves; and at his return we could unite him to virginia; for i am persuaded no one on earth would render her so happy as your son. we will consult our neighbour on this subject." they accordingly asked my advice, which was in accordance with madame de la tour's opinion. "the indian seas," i observed to them, "are calm, and, in choosing a favourable time of the year, the voyage out is seldom longer than six weeks; and the same time may be allowed for the return home. we will furnish paul with a little venture from my neighbourhood, where he is much beloved. if we were only to supply him with some raw cotton, of which we make no use for want of mills to work it, some ebony, which is here so common that it serves us for firing, and some rosin, which is found in our woods, he would be able to sell those articles, though useless here, to good advantage in the indies." i took upon myself to obtain permission from monsieur de la bourdonnais to undertake this voyage; and i determined previously to mention the affair to paul. but what was my surprise, when this young man said to me, with a degree of good sense above his age, "and why do you wish me to leave my family for this precarious pursuit of fortune? is there any commerce in the world more advantageous than the culture of the ground, which yields sometimes fifty or a hundred-fold? if we wish to engage in commerce, can we not do so by carrying our superfluities to the town without my wandering to the indies? our mothers tell me, that domingo is old and feeble; but i am young, and gather strength every day. if any accident should happen during my absence, above all to virginia, who already suffers--oh, no, no!--i cannot resolve to leave them." so decided an answer threw me into great perplexity, for madame de la tour had not concealed from me the cause of virginia's illness and want of spirits, and her desire of separating these young people till they were a few years older. i took care, however, not to drop any thing which could lead paul to suspect the existence of these motives. about this period a ship from france brought madame de la tour a letter from her aunt. the fear of death, without which hearts as insensible as hers would never feel, had alarmed her into compassion. when she wrote she was recovering from a dangerous illness, which had, however, left her incurably languid and weak. she desired her niece to return to france: or, if her health forbade her to undertake so long a voyage, she begged her to send virginia, on whom she promised to bestow a good education, to procure for her a splendid marriage, and to leave her heiress of her whole fortune. she concluded by enjoining strict obedience to her will, in gratitude, she said, for her great kindness. at the perusal of this letter general consternation spread itself through the whole assembled party. domingo and mary began to weep. paul, motionless with surprise, appeared almost ready to burst with indignation; while virginia, fixing her eyes anxiously upon her mother, had not power to utter a single word. "and can you now leave us?" cried margaret to madame de la tour. "no, my dear friend, no, my beloved children," replied madame de la tour; "i will never leave you. i have lived with you, and with you i will die. i have known no happiness but in your affection. if my health be deranged, my past misfortunes are the cause. my heart has been deeply wounded by the cruelty of my relations, and by the loss of my beloved husband. but i have since found more consolation and more real happiness with you in these humble huts, than all the wealth of my family could now lead me to expect in my country." at this soothing language every eye overflowed with tears of delight. paul, pressing madame de la tour in his arms, exclaimed,--"neither will i leave you! i will not go to the indies. we will all labour for you, dear mamma; and you shall never feel any want with us." but of the whole society, the person who displayed the least transport, and who probably felt the most, was virginia; and during the remainder of the day, the gentle gaiety which flowed from her heart, and proved that her peace of mind was restored, completed the general satisfaction. at sun-rise the next day, just as they had concluded offering up, as usual, their morning prayer before breakfast, domingo came to inform them that a gentleman on horseback, followed by two slaves, was coming towards the plantation. it was monsieur de la bourdonnais. he entered the cottage, where he found the family at breakfast. virginia had prepared, according to the custom of the country, coffee, and rice boiled in water. to these she had added hot yams, and fresh plantains. the leaves of the plantain-tree, supplied the want of table-linen; and calabash shells, split in two, served for cups. the governor exhibited, at first, some astonishment at the homeliness of the dwelling; then, addressing himself to madame de la tour, he observed, that although public affairs drew his attention too much from the concerns of individuals, she had many claims on his good offices. "you have an aunt at paris, madam," he added, "a woman of quality, and immensely rich, who expects that you will hasten to see her, and who means to bestow upon you her whole fortune." madame de la tour replied, that the state of her health would not permit her to undertake so long a voyage. "at least," resumed monsieur de la bourdonnais, "you cannot without injustice, deprive this amiable young lady, your daughter, of so noble an inheritance. i will not conceal from you, that your aunt has made use of her influence to secure your daughter being sent to her; and that i have received official letters, in which i am ordered to exert my authority, if necessary, to that effect. but as i only wish to employ my power for the purpose of rendering the inhabitants of this country happy, i expect from your good sense the voluntary sacrifice of a few years, upon which your daughter's establishment in the world, and the welfare of your whole life depends. wherefore do we come to these islands? is it not to acquire a fortune? and will it not be more agreeable to return and find it in your own country?" he then took a large bag of piastres from one of his slaves, and placed it upon the table. "this sum," he continued, "is allotted by your aunt to defray the outlay necessary for the equipment of the young lady for her voyage." gently reproaching madame de la tour for not having had recourse to him in her difficulties, he extolled at the same time her noble fortitude. upon this paul said to the governor,--"my mother did apply to you, sir, and you received her ill."--"have you another child, madam?" said monsieur de la bourdonnais to madame de la tour. "no, sir," she replied; "this is the son of my friend; but he and virginia are equally dear to us, and we mutually consider them both as our own children." "young man," said the governor to paul, "when you have acquired a little more experience of the world, you will know that it is the misfortune of people in place to be deceived, and bestow, in consequence, upon intriguing vice, that which they would wish to give to modest merit." monsieur de la bourdonnais, at the request of madame de la tour, placed himself next to her at table, and breakfasted after the manner of the creoles, upon coffee, mixed with rice boiled in water. he was delighted with the order and cleanliness which prevailed in the little cottage, the harmony of the two interesting families, and the zeal of their old servants. "here," he exclaimed, "i discern only wooden furniture; but i find serene countenances and hearts of gold." paul, enchanted with the affability of the governor, said to him,--"i wish to be your friend: for you are a good man." monsieur de la bourdonnais received with pleasure this insular compliment, and, taking paul by the hand, assured him he might rely upon his friendship. after breakfast, he took madame de la tour aside and informed her that an opportunity would soon offer itself of sending her daughter to france, in a ship which was going to sail in a short time; that he would put her under the charge of a lady, one of the passengers, who was a relation of his own; and that she must not think of renouncing an immense fortune, on account of the pain of being separated from her daughter for a brief interval. "your aunt," he added, "cannot live more than two years; of this i am assured by her friends. think of it seriously. fortune does not visit us every day. consult your friends. i am sure that every person of good sense will be of my opinion." she answered, "that, as she desired no other happiness henceforth in the world than in promoting that of her daughter, she hoped to be allowed to leave her departure for france to her own inclination." madame de la tour was not sorry to find an opportunity of separating paul and virginia for a short time, and provide by this means, for their mutual felicity at a future period. she took her daughter aside, and said to her,--"my dear child, our servants are now old. paul is still very young, margaret is advanced in years, and i am already infirm. if i should die what would become of you, without fortune, in the midst of these deserts? you would then be left alone, without any person who could afford you much assistance, and would be obliged to labour without ceasing, as a hired servant, in order to support your wretched existence. this idea overcomes me with sorrow." virginia answered,--"god has appointed us to labour, and to bless him every day. up to this time he has never forsaken us, and he never will forsake us in time to come. his providence watches most especially over the unfortunate. you have told me this very often, my dear mother! i cannot resolve to leave you." madame de la tour replied, with much emotion,--"i have no other aim than to render you happy, and to marry you one day to paul, who is not really your brother. remember then that his fortune depends upon you." a young girl who is in love believes that every one else is ignorant of her passion; she throws over her eyes the veil with which she covers the feelings of her heart; but when it is once lifted by a friendly hand, the hidden sorrows of her attachment escape as through a newly-opened barrier, and the sweet outpourings of unrestrained confidence succeed to her former mystery and reserve. virginia, deeply affected by this new proof of her mother's tenderness, related to her the cruel struggles she had undergone, of which heaven alone had been witness; she saw, she said, the hand of providence in the assistance of an affectionate mother, who approved of her attachment; and would guide her by her counsels; and as she was now strengthened by such support, every consideration led her to remain with her mother, without anxiety for the present, and without apprehension for the future. madame de la tour, perceiving that this confidential conversation had produced an effect altogether different from that which she expected, said,--"my dear child, i do not wish to constrain you; think over it at leisure, but conceal your affection from paul. it is better not to let a man know that the heart of his mistress is gained." virginia and her mother were sitting together by themselves the same evening, when a tall man, dressed in a blue cassock, entered their cottage. he was a missionary priest and the confessor of madame de la tour and her daughter, who had now been sent to them by the governor. "my children," he exclaimed as he entered, "god be praised! you are now rich. you can now attend to the kind suggestions of your benevolent hearts, and do good to the poor. i know what monsieur de la bourdonnais has said to you, and what you have said in reply. your health, dear madam, obliges you to remain here; but you, young lady, are without excuse. we must obey our aged relations, even when they are unjust. a sacrifice is required of you; but it is the will of god. our lord devoted himself for you; and you in imitation of his example, must give up something for the welfare of your family. your voyage to france will end happily. you will surely consent to go, my dear young lady." virginia, with downcast eyes, answered, trembling, "if it is the command of god, i will not presume to oppose it. let the will of god be done!" as she uttered these words, she wept. the priest went away, in order to inform the governor of the success of his mission. in the meantime madame de la tour sent domingo to request me to come to her, that she might consult me respecting virginia's departure. i was not at all of opinion that she ought to go. i consider it as a fixed principle of happiness, that we ought to prefer the advantages of nature to those of fortune, and never go in search of that at a distance, which we may find at home,--in our own bosoms. but what could be expected from my advice, in opposition to the illusions of a splendid fortune?--or from my simple reasoning, when in competition with the prejudices of the world, and an authority held sacred by madame de la tour? this lady indeed only consulted me out of politeness; she had ceased to deliberate since she had heard the decision of her confessor. margaret herself, who, notwithstanding the advantages she expected for her son from the possession of virginia's fortune, had hitherto opposed her departure, made no further objections. as for paul, in ignorance of what had been determined, but alarmed at the secret conversations which virginia had been holding with her mother, he abandoned himself to melancholy. "they are plotting something against me," cried he, "for they conceal every thing from me." a report having in the meantime been spread in the island that fortune had visited these rocks, merchants of every description were seen climbing their steep ascent. now, for the first time, were seen displayed in these humble huts the richest stuffs of india; the fine dimity of gondelore; the handkerchiefs of pellicate and masulipatan; the plain, striped, and embroidered muslins of dacca, so beautifully transparent: the delicately white cottons of surat, and linens of all colours. they also brought with them the gorgeous silks of china, satin damasks, some white, and others grass-green and bright red; pink taffetas, with the profusion of satins and gauze of tonquin, both plain and decorated with flowers; soft pekins, downy as cloth; and white and yellow nankeens, and the calicoes of madagascar. madame de la tour wished her daughter to purchase whatever she liked; she only examined the goods, and inquired the price, to take care that the dealers did not cheat her. virginia made choice of everything she thought would be useful or agreeable to her mother, or to margaret and her son. "this," said she, "will be wanted for furnishing the cottage, and that will be very useful to mary and domingo." in short, the bag of piastres was almost emptied before she even began to consider her own wants; and she was obliged to receive back for her own use a share of the presents which she had distributed among the family circle. paul, overcome with sorrow at the sight of these gifts of fortune, which he felt were a presage of virginia's departure, came a few days after to my dwelling. with an air of deep despondency he said to me--"my sister is going away; she is already making preparations for her voyage. i conjure you to come and exert your influence over her mother and mine, in order to detain her here." i could not refuse the young man's solicitations, although well convinced that my representations would be unavailing. virginia had ever appeared to me charming when clad in the coarse cloth of bengal, with a red handkerchief tied round her head: you may therefore imagine how much her beauty was increased, when she was attired in the graceful and elegant costume worn by the ladies of this country! she had on a white muslin dress, lined with pink taffeta. her somewhat tall and slender figure was shown to advantage in her new attire, and the simple arrangement of her hair accorded admirably with the form of her head. her fine blue eyes were filled with an expression of melancholy; and the struggles of passion, with which her heart was agitated, imparted a flush to her cheek, and to her voice a tone of deep emotion. the contrast between her pensive look and her gay habiliments rendered her more interesting than ever, nor was it possible to see or hear her unmoved. paul became more and more melancholy; and at length margaret, distressed at the situation of her son, took him aside and said to him,--"why, my dear child, will you cherish vain hopes, which will only render your disappointment more bitter? it is time for me to make known to you the secret of your life and of mine. mademoiselle de la tour belongs, by her mother's side, to a rich and noble family, while you are but the son of a poor peasant girl; and what is worse you are illegitimate." paul, who had never heard this last expression before, inquired with eagerness its meaning. his mother replied, "i was not married to your father. when i was a girl, seduced by love, i was guilty of a weakness of which you are the offspring. the consequence of my fault is, that you are deprived of the protection of a father's family, and by my flight from home you have also lost that of your mother's. unfortunate child! you have no relations in the world but me!"--and she shed a flood of tears. paul, pressing her in his arms, exclaimed, "oh, my dear mother! since i have no relation in the world but you, i will love you all the more. but what a secret have you just disclosed to me! i now see the reason why mademoiselle de la tour has estranged herself so much from me for the last two months, and why she has determined to go to france. ah! i perceive too well that she despises me!" the hour of supper being arrived, we gathered round the table; but the different sensations with which we were agitated left us little inclination to eat, and the meal, if such it may be called, passed in silence. virginia was the first to rise; she went out, and seated herself on the very spot where we now are. paul hastened after her, and sat down by her side. both of them, for some time, kept a profound silence. it was one of those delicious nights which are so common between the tropics, and to the beauty of which no pencil can do justice. the moon appeared in the midst of the firmament, surrounded by a curtain of clouds, which was gradually unfolded by her beams. her light insensibly spread itself over the mountains of the island, and their distant peaks glistened with a silvery green. the winds were perfectly still. we heard among the woods, at the bottom of the valleys, and on the summits of the rocks, the piping cries and the soft notes of the birds, wantoning in their nests, and rejoicing in the brightness of the night and the serenity of the atmosphere. the hum of insects was heard in the grass. the stars sparkled in the heavens, and their lurid orbs were reflected, in trembling sparkles, from the tranquil bosom of the ocean. virginia's eye wandered distractedly over its vast and gloomy horizon, distinguishable from the shore of the island only by the red fires in the fishing boats. she perceived at the entrance of the harbour a light and a shadow; these were the watchlight and the hull of the vessel in which she was to embark for europe, and which, all ready for sea, lay at anchor, waiting for a breeze. affected at this sight, she turned away her head, in order to hide her tears from paul. madame de la tour, margaret, and i, were seated at a little distance, beneath the plantain-trees; and, owing to the stillness of the night, we distinctly heard their conversation, which i have not forgotten. paul said to her,--"you are going away from us, they tell me, in three days. you do not fear then to encounter the danger of the sea, at the sight of which you are so much terrified?" "i must perform my duty," answered virginia, "by obeying my parent." "you leave us," resumed paul, "for a distant relation, whom you have never seen." "alas!" cried virginia, "i would have remained here my whole life, but my mother would not have it so. my confessor, too, told me it was the will of god that i should go, and that life was a scene of trials!--and oh! this is indeed a severe one." "what!" exclaimed paul, "you could find so many reasons for going, and not one for remaining here! ah! there is one reason for your departure that you have not mentioned. riches have great attractions. you will soon find in the new world to which you are going, another, to whom you will give the name of brother, which you bestow on me no more. you will choose that brother from amongst persons who are worthy of you by their birth, and by a fortune which i have not to offer. but where can you go to be happier? on what shore will you land, and find it dearer to you than the spot which gave you birth?--and where will you form around you a society more delightful to you than this, by which you are so much accustomed? what will become of her, already advanced in years, when she no longer sees you at her side at table, in the house, in the walks, where she used to lean upon you? what will become of my mother, who loves you with the same affection? what shall i say to comfort them when i see them weeping for your absence? cruel virginia! i say nothing to you of myself; but what will become of me, when in the morning i shall no more see you; when the evening will come, and not reunite us?--when i shall gaze on these two palm trees, planted at our birth, and so long the witnesses of our mutual friendship? ah! since your lot is changed,--since you seek in a far country other possessions than the fruits of my labour, let me go with you in the vessel in which you are about to embark. i will sustain your spirits in the midst of those tempests which terrify you so much even on shore. i will lay my head upon your bosom: i will warm your heart upon my own; and in france, where you are going in search of fortune and of grandeur, i will wait upon you as your slave. happy only in your happiness, you will find me, in those palaces where i shall see you receiving the homage and adoration of all, rich and noble enough to make you the greatest of all sacrifices, by dying at your feet." the violence of his emotions stopped his utterance, and we then heard virginia, who, in a voice broken by sobs, uttered these words:--"it is for you that i go,--for you whom i see tired to death every day by the labour of sustaining two helpless families. if i have accepted this opportunity of becoming rich, it is only to return a thousand-fold the good which you have done us. can any fortune be equal to your friendship? why do you talk about your birth? ah! if it were possible for me still to have a brother, should i make choice of any other than you? oh, paul, paul! you are far dearer to me than a brother! how much has it cost me to repulse you from me! help me to tear myself from what i value more than existence, till heaven shall bless our union. but i will stay or go,--i will live or die,--dispose of me as you will. unhappy that i am! i could have repelled your caresses; but i cannot support your affliction." at these words paul seized her in his arms, and, holding her pressed close to his bosom, cried, in a piercing tone, "i will go with her,--nothing shall ever part us." we all ran towards him; and madame de la tour said to him, "my son, if you go, what will become of us?" he, trembling, repeated after her the words,--"my son!--my son! you my mother!" cried he; "you, who would separate the brother from the sister! we have both been nourished at your bosom; we have both been reared upon your knees; we have learnt of you to love another; we have said so a thousand times; and now you would separate her from me!--you would send her to europe, that inhospitable country which refused you an asylum, and to relations by whom you yourself were abandoned. you will tell me that i have no right over her, and that she is not my sister. she is everything to me;--my riches, my birth, my family,--all that i have! i know no other. we have had but one roof,--one cradle,--and we will have but one grave! if she goes, i will follow her. the governor will prevent me! will he prevent me from flinging myself into the sea?--will he prevent me from following her by swimming? the sea cannot be more fatal to me than the land. since i cannot live with her, at least i will die before her eyes, far from you. inhuman mother!--woman without compassion!--may the ocean, to which you trust her, restore her to you no more! may the waves, rolling back our bodies amid the shingles of this beach, give you in the loss of your two children, an eternal subject of remorse!" at these words, i seized him in my arms, for despair had deprived him of reason. his eyes sparkled with fire, the perspiration fell in great drops from his face; his knees trembled, and i felt his heart beat violently against his burning bosom. virginia, alarmed, said to him,--"oh, my dear paul, i call to witness the pleasures of our early age, your griefs and my own, and every thing that can for ever bind two unfortunate beings to each other, that if i remain at home, i will live but for you; that if i go, i will one day return to be yours. i call you all to witness;--you who have reared me from my infancy, who dispose of my life, and who see my tears. i swear by that heaven which hears me, by the sea which i am going to pass, by the air i breathe, and which i never sullied by a falsehood." as the sun softens and precipitates an icy rock from the summit of one of the appenines, so the impetuous passions of the young man were subdued by the voice of her he loved. he bent his head, and a torrent of tears fell from his eyes. his mother, mingling her tears with his, held him in her arms, but was unable to speak. madame de la tour, half distracted, said to me, "i can bear this no longer. my heart is quite broken. this unfortunate voyage shall not take place. do take my son home with you. not one of us has had any rest the whole week." i said to paul, "my dear friend, your sister shall remain here. to-morrow we will talk to the governor about it; leave your family to take some rest, and come and pass the night with me. it is late; it is midnight; the southern cross is just above the horizon." he suffered himself to be led away in silence; and, after a night of great agitation, he arose at break of day, and returned home. but why should i continue any longer to you the recital of this history? there is but one aspect of human pleasure. like the globe upon which we revolve, the fleeting course of life is but a day; and if one part of that day be visited by light, the other is thrown into darkness. "my father," i answered, "finish, i conjure you, the history which you have begun in a manner so interesting. if the images of happiness are the most pleasing, those of misfortune are the more instructive. tell me what became of the unhappy young man." the first object beheld by paul in his way home was the negro woman mary, who, mounted on a rock, was earnestly looking towards the sea. as soon as he perceived her, he called to her from a distance,--"where is virginia?" mary turned her head towards her young master, and began to weep. paul, distracted, retracing his steps, ran to the harbour. he was there informed, that virginia had embarked at the break of day, and that the vessel had immediately set sail, and was now out of sight. he instantly returned to the plantation, which he crossed without uttering a word. quite perpendicular as appears the wall of rocks behind us, those green platforms which separate their summits are so many stages, by means of which you may reach, through some difficult paths, that cone of sloping and inaccessible rocks, which is called the thumb. at the foot of that cone is an extended slope of ground, covered with lofty trees, and so steep and elevated that it looks like a forest in the air, surrounded by tremendous precipices. the clouds, which are constantly attracted round the summit of the thumb, supply innumerable rivulets, which fall to so great a depth in the valley situated on the other side of the mountain, that from this elevated point the sound of their cataracts cannot be heard. from that spot you can discern a considerable part of the island, diversified by precipices and mountain peaks, and amongst others, peter-booth, and the three breasts, with their valleys full of woods. you also command an extensive view of the ocean, and can even perceive the isle of bourbon, forty leagues to the westward. from the summit of that stupendous pile of rocks paul caught sight of the vessel which was bearing away virginia, and which now, ten leagues out at sea, appeared like a black spot in the midst of the ocean. he remained a great part of the day with his eyes fixed upon this object: when it had disappeared, he still fancied he beheld it; and when, at length, the traces which clung to his imagination were lost in the mists of the horizon, he seated himself on that wild point, forever beaten by the winds, which never cease to agitate the tops of the cabbage and gum trees, and the hoarse and moaning murmurs of which, similar to the distant sound of organs, inspire a profound melancholy. on this spot i found him, his head reclined on the rock, and his eyes fixed upon the ground. i had followed him from the earliest dawn, and, after much importunity, i prevailed on him to descend from the heights, and return to his family. i went home with him, where the first impulse of his mind, on seeing madame de la tour, was to reproach her bitterly for having deceived him. she told us that a favourable wind having sprung up at three o'clock in the morning, and the vessel being ready to sail, the governor, attended by some of his staff and the missionary, had come with a palanquin to fetch her daughter; and that, notwithstanding virginia's objections, her own tears and entreaties, and the lamentations of margaret, every body exclaiming all the time that it was for the general welfare, they had carried her away almost dying. "at least," cried paul, "if i had bid her farewell, i should now be more calm. i would have said to her,--'virginia, if, during the time we have lived together, one word may have escaped me which has offended you, before you leave me forever, tell me that you forgive me.' i would have said to her,--'since i am destined to see you no more, farewell, my dear virginia, farewell! live far from me, contented and happy!'" when he saw that his mother and madame de la tour were weeping,--"you must now," said he, "seek some other hand to wipe away your tears;" and then, rushing out of the house, and groaning aloud, he wandered up and down the plantation. he hovered in particular about those spots which had been most endeared to virginia. he said to the goats, and their little ones, which followed him, bleating,--"what do you want of me? you will see with me no more her who used to feed you with her own hand." he went to the bower called virginia's resting-place, and, as the birds flew around him, exclaimed, "poor birds! you will fly no more to meet her who cherished you!"--and observing fidele running backwards and forwards in search of her, he heaved a deep sigh, and cried,--"ah! you will never find her again." at length he went and seated himself upon a rock where he had conversed with her the preceding evening; and at the sight of the ocean upon which he had seen the vessel disappear which had borne her away, his heart overflowed with anguish, and he wept bitterly. we continually watched his movements, apprehensive of some fatal consequence from the violent agitation of his mind. his mother and madame de la tour conjured him, in the most tender manner, not to increase their affliction by his despair. at length the latter soothed his mind by lavishing upon him epithets calculated to awaken his hopes,--calling him her son, her dear son, her son-in-law, whom she destined for her daughter. she persuaded him to return home, and to take some food. he seated himself next to the place which used to be occupied by the companion of his childhood; and, as if she had still been present, he spoke to her, and made as though he would offer her whatever he knew as most agreeable to her taste: then, starting from this dream of fancy, he began to weep. for some days he employed himself in gathering together every thing which had belonged to virginia, the last nosegays she had worn, the cocoa-shell from which she used to drink; and after kissing a thousand times these relics of his beloved, to him the most precious treasures which the world contained, he hid them in his bosom. amber does not shed so sweet a perfume as the veriest trifles touched by those we love. at length, perceiving that the indulgence of his grief increased that of his mother and madame de la tour, and that the wants of the family demanded continual labour, he began, with the assistance of domingo, to repair the damage done to the garden. but, soon after, this young man, hitherto indifferent as a creole to every thing that was passing in the world, begged of me to teach him to read and write, in order that he might correspond with virginia. he afterwards wished to obtain a knowledge of geography, that he might form some idea of the country where she would disembark; and of history, that he might know something of the manners of the society in which she would be placed. the powerful sentiment of love, which directed his present studies, had already instructed him in agriculture, and in the art of laying out grounds with advantage and beauty. it must be admitted, that to the fond dreams of this restless and ardent passion, mankind are indebted for most of the arts and sciences, while its disappointments have given birth to philosophy, which teaches us to bear up under misfortune. love, thus, the general link of all beings, becomes the great spring of society, by inciting us to knowledge as well as to pleasure. paul found little satisfaction in the study of geography, which, instead of describing the natural history of each country, gave only a view of its political divisions and boundaries. history, and especially modern history, interested him little more. he there saw only general and periodical evils, the causes of which he could not discover; wars without either motive or reason; uninteresting intrigues; with nations destitute of principle, and princes void of humanity. to this branch of reading he preferred romances, which, being chiefly occupied by the feelings and concerns of men, sometimes represented situations similar to his own. thus, no book gave him so much pleasure as telemachus, from the pictures it draws of pastoral life, and of the passions which are most natural to the human breast. he read aloud to his mother and madame de la tour, those parts which affected him most sensibly; but sometimes, touched by the most tender remembrances, his emotion would choke his utterance, and his eyes be filled with tears. he fancied he had found in virginia the dignity and wisdom of antiope, united to the misfortunes and the tenderness of eucharis. with very different sensations he perused our fashionable novels, filled with licentious morals and maxims, and when he was informed that these works drew a tolerably faithful picture of european society, he trembled, and not without some appearance of reason, lest virginia should become corrupted by it, and forget him. more than a year and a half, indeed, passed away before madame de la tour received any tidings of her aunt or her daughter. during that period she only accidently heard that virginia had safely arrived in france. at length, however, a vessel which stopped here on its way to the indies brought a packet to madame de la tour, and a letter written by virginia's own hand. although this amiable and considerate girl had written in a guarded manner that she might not wound her mother's feelings, it appeared evident enough that she was unhappy. the letter painted so naturally her situation and her character, that i have retained it almost word for word. "my dear and beloved mother, "i have already sent you several letters, written by my own hand, but having received no answer, i am afraid they have not reached you. i have better hopes for this, from the means i have now gained of sending you tidings of myself, and of hearing from you. "i have shed many tears since our separation, i who never used to weep, but for the misfortunes of others! my aunt was much astonished, when, having, upon my arrival, inquired what accomplishments i possessed, i told her that i could neither read nor write. she asked me what then i had learnt, since i came into the world; and when i answered that i had been taught to take care of the household affairs, and to obey your will, she told me that i had received the education of a servant. the next day she placed me as a boarder in a great abbey near paris, where i have masters of all kinds, who teach me, among other things, history, geography, grammar, mathematics, and riding on horseback. but i have so little capacity for all these sciences, that i fear i shall make but small progress with my masters. i feel that i am a very poor creature, with very little ability to learn what they teach. my aunt's kindness, however, does not decrease. she gives me new dresses every season; and she had placed two waiting women with me, who are dressed like fine ladies. she has made me take the title of countess; but has obliged me to renounce the name of la tour, which is as dear to me as it is to you, from all you have told me of the sufferings my father endured in order to marry you. she has given me in place of your name that of your family, which is also dear to me, because it was your name when a girl. seeing myself in so splendid a situation, i implored her to let me send you something to assist you. but how shall i repeat her answer! yet you have desired me always to tell you the truth. she told me then that a little would be of no use to you, and that a great deal would only encumber you in the simple life you led. as you know i could not write, i endeavoured upon my arrival, to send you tidings of myself by another hand; but, finding no person here in whom i could place confidence, i applied night and day to learn to read and write, and heaven, who saw my motive for learning, no doubt assisted my endeavours, for i succeeded in both in a short time. i entrusted my first letters to some of the ladies here, who, i have reason to think, carried them to my aunt. this time i have recourse to a boarder, who is my friend. i send you her direction, by means of which i shall receive your answer. my aunt has forbid me holding any correspondence whatever, with any one, lest, she says, it should occasion an obstacle to the great views she has for my advantage. no person is allowed to see me at the grate but herself, and an old nobleman, one of her friends, who, she says is much pleased with me. i am sure i am not at all so with him, nor should i, even if it were possible for me to be pleased with any one at present. "i live in all the splendour of affluence, and have not a sous at my disposal. they say i might make an improper use of money. even my clothes belong to my femmes de chambre, who quarrel about them before i have left them off. in the midst of riches i am poorer than when i lived with you; for i have nothing to give away. when i found that the great accomplishments they taught me would not procure me the power of doing the smallest good, i had recourse to my needle, of which happily you had taught me the use. i send several pairs of stockings of my own making for you and my mamma margaret, a cap for domingo, and one of my red handkerchiefs for mary. i also send with this packet some kernels, and seeds of various kinds of fruits which i gathered in the abbey park during my hours of recreation. i have also sent a few seeds of violets, daisies, buttercups, poppies and scabious, which i picked up in the fields. there are much more beautiful flowers in the meadows of this country than in ours, but nobody cares for them. i am sure that you and my mamma margaret will be better pleased with this bag of seeds, than you were with the bag of piastres, which was the cause of our separation and of my tears. it will give me great delight if you should one day see apple trees growing by the side of our plantains, and elms blending their foliage with that of our cocoa trees. you will fancy yourself in normandy, which you love so much. "you desired me to relate to you my joys and my griefs. i have no joys far from you. as far as my griefs, i endeavour to soothe them by reflecting that i am in the situation in which it was the will of god that you should place me. but my greatest affliction is, that no one here speaks to me of you, and that i cannot speak of you to any one. my femmes de chambre, or rather those of my aunt, for they belong more to her than to me, told me the other day, when i wished to turn the conversation upon the objects most dear to me: 'remember, mademoiselle, that you are a french woman, and must forget that land of savages.' ah! sooner will i forget myself, than forget the spot on which i was born and where you dwell! it is this country which is to me a land of savages, for i live alone, having no one to whom i can impart those feelings of tenderness for you which i shall bear with me to the grave. i am, "my dearest and beloved mother, "your affectionate and dutiful daughter, "virginie de la tour." "i recommend to your goodness mary and domingo, who took so much care of my infancy; caress fidele for me, who found me in the wood." paul was astonished that virginia had not said one word of him,--she, who had not forgotten even the house-dog. but he was not aware that, however long a woman's letter may be, she never fails to leave her dearest sentiments for the end. in a postscript, virginia particularly recommended to paul's attention two kinds of seed,--those of the violet and the scabious. she gave him some instructions upon the natural characters of these flowers, and the spots most proper for their cultivation. "the violet," she said, "produces a little flower of a dark purple colour, which delights to conceal itself beneath the bushes; but it is soon discovered by its wide-spreading perfume." she desired that these seeds might be sown by the border of the fountain, at the foot of her cocoa-tree. "the scabious," she added, "produces a beautiful flower of a pale blue, and a black ground spotted with white. you might fancy it was in mourning; and for this reason it is also called the widow's flower. it grows best in bleak spots, beaten by the winds." she begged him to sow this upon the rock where she had spoken to him at night for the last time, and that, in remembrance of her, he would henceforth give it the name of the rock of adieus. she had put these seeds into a little purse, the tissue of which was exceedingly simple; but which appeared above all price to paul, when he saw on it a p and a v entwined together, and knew that the beautiful hair which formed the cypher was the hair of virginia. the whole family listened with tears to the reading of the letter of this amiable and virtuous girl. her mother answered it in the name of the little society, desiring her to remain or to return as she thought proper; and assuring her, that happiness had left their dwelling since her departure, and that, for herself, she was inconsolable. paul also sent her a very long letter, in which he assured her that he would arrange the garden in a manner agreeable to her taste, and mingle together in it the plants of europe with those of africa, as she had blended their initials together in her work. he sent her some fruit from the cocoa-trees of the fountain, now arrived at maturity telling her, that he would not add any of the other productions of the island, that the desire of seeing them again might hasten her return. he conjured her to comply as soon as possible with the ardent wishes of her family, and above all, with his own, since he could never hereafter taste happiness away from her. paul sowed with a careful hand the european seeds, particularly the violet and the scabious, the flowers of which seemed to bear some analogy to the character and present situation of virginia, by whom they had been so especially recommended; but either they were dried up in the voyage, or the climate of this part of the world is unfavourable to their growth, for a very small number of them even came up, and not one arrived at full perfection. in the meantime, envy, which ever comes to embitter human happiness, particularly in the french colonies, spread some reports in the island which gave paul much uneasiness. the passengers in the vessel which brought virginia's letter, asserted that she was upon the point of being married, and named the nobleman of the court to whom she was engaged. some even went so far as to declare that the union had already taken place, and that they themselves had witnessed the ceremony. paul at first despised the report, brought by a merchant vessel, as he knew that they often spread erroneous intelligence in their passage; but some of the inhabitants of the island, with malignant pity, affecting to bewail the event, he was soon led to attach some degree of belief to this cruel intelligence. besides, in some of the novels he had lately read, he had seen that perfidy was treated as a subject of pleasantry; and knowing that these books contained pretty faithful representations of european manners, he feared that the heart of virginia was corrupted, and had forgotten its former engagements. thus his new acquirements had already only served to render him more miserable; and his apprehensions were much increased by the circumstance, that though several ships touched here from europe, within the six months immediately following the arrival of her letter, not one of them brought any tidings of virginia. this unfortunate young man, with a heart torn by the most cruel agitation, often came to visit me, in the hope of confirming or banishing his uneasiness, by my experience of the world. i live, as i have already told you, a league and a half from this point, upon the banks of a little river which glides along the sloping mountain: there i lead a solitary life, without wife, children, or slaves. after having enjoyed, and lost the rare felicity of living with a congenial mind, the state of life which appears the least wretched is doubtless that of solitude. every man who has much cause of complaint against his fellow-creatures seeks to be alone. it is also remarkable that all those nations which have been brought to wretchedness by their opinions, their manners, or their forms of government, have produced numerous classes of citizens altogether devoted to solitude and celibacy. such were the egyptians in their decline, and the greeks of the lower empire; and such in our days are the indians, the chinese, the modern greeks, the italians, and the greater part of the eastern and southern nations of europe. solitude, by removing men from the miseries which follow in the train of social intercourse, brings them in some degree back to the unsophisticated enjoyment of nature. in the midst of modern society, broken up by innumerable prejudices, the mind is in a constant turmoil of agitation. it is incessantly revolving in itself a thousand tumultuous and contradictory opinions, by which the members of an ambitious and miserable circle seek to raise themselves above each other. but in solitude the soul lays aside the morbid illusions which troubled her, and resumes the pure consciousness of herself, of nature, and of its author, as the muddy water of a torrent which has ravaged the plains, coming to rest, and diffusing itself over some low grounds out of its course, deposits there the slime it has taken up, and, resuming its wonted transparency, reflects, with its own shores, the verdure of the earth and the light of heaven. thus does solitude recruit the powers of the body as well as those of the mind. it is among hermits that are found the men who carry human existence to its extreme limits; such are the bramins of india. in brief, i consider solitude so necessary to happiness, even in the world itself, that it appears to me impossible to derive lasting pleasure from any pursuit whatever, or to regulate our conduct by any pursuit whatever, or to regulate our conduct by any stable principle, if we do not create for ourselves a mental void, whence our own views rarely emerge, and into which the opinions of others never enter. i do not mean to say that man ought to live absolutely alone; he is connected by his necessities with all mankind; his labours are due to man: and he owes something too to the rest of nature. but, as god has given to each of us organs perfectly adapted to the elements of the globe on which we live,--feet for the soil, lungs for the air, eyes for the light, without the power of changing the use of any of these faculties, he has reserved for himself, as the author of life, that which is its chief organ,--the heart. i thus passed my days far from mankind, whom i wished to serve, and by whom i have been persecuted. after having travelled over many countries of europe, and some parts of america and africa, i at length pitched my tent in this thinly-peopled island, allured by its mild climate and its solitudes. a cottage which i built in the woods, at the foot of a tree, a little field which i cleared with my own hands, a river which glides before my door, suffice for my wants and for my pleasures. i blend with these enjoyments the perusal of some chosen books, which teach me to become better. they make that world, which i have abandoned, still contribute something to my happiness. they lay before me pictures of those passions which render its inhabitants so miserable; and in the comparison i am thus led to make between their lot and my own, i feel a kind of negative enjoyment. like a man saved from shipwreck, and thrown upon a rock, i contemplate, from my solitude, the storms which rage through the rest of the world; and my repose seems more profound from the distant sound of the tempest. as men have ceased to fall in my way, i no longer view them with aversion; i only pity them. if i sometimes fall in with an unfortunate being, i try to help him by my counsels, as a passer-by on the brink of a torrent extends his hand to save a wretch from drowning. but i have hardly ever found any but the innocent attentive to my voice. nature calls the majority of men to her in vain. each of them forms an image of her for himself, and invests her with his own passions. he pursues during the whole of his life this vain phantom, which leads him astray; and he afterwards complains to heaven of the misfortunes which he has thus created for himself. among the many children of misfortune whom i have endeavoured to lead back to the enjoyments of nature, i have not found one but was intoxicated with his own miseries. they have listened to me at first with attention, in the hope that i could teach them how to acquire glory or fortune, but when they found that i only wished to instruct them how to dispense with these chimeras, their attention has been converted into pity, because i did not prize their miserable happiness. they blamed my solitary life; they alleged that they alone were useful to men, and they endeavoured to draw me into their vortex. but if i communicate with all, i lay myself open to none. it is often sufficient for me to serve as a lesson to myself. in my present tranquillity, i pass in review the agitating pursuits of my past life, to which i formerly attached so much value,--patronage, fortune, reputation, pleasure, and the opinions which are ever at strife over all the earth. i compare the men whom i have seen disputing furiously over these vanities, and who are no more, to the tiny waves of my rivulet, which break in foam against its rocky bed, and disappear, never to return. as for me, i suffer myself to float calmly down the stream of time to the shoreless ocean of futurity; while, in the contemplation of the present harmony of nature, i elevate my soul towards its supreme author, and hope for a more happy lot in another state of existence. although you cannot descry from my hermitage, situated in the midst of a forest, that immense variety of objects which this elevated spot presents, the grounds are disposed with peculiar beauty, at least to one who, like me, prefers the seclusion of a home scene to great and extensive prospects. the river which glides before my door passes in a straight line across the woods, looking like a long canal shaded by all kinds of trees. among them are the gum tree, the ebony tree, and that which is here called bois de pomme, with olive and cinnamon-wood trees; while in some parts the cabbage-palm trees raise their naked stems more than a hundred feet high, their summits crowned with a cluster of leaves, and towering above the woods like one forest piled upon another. lianas, of various foliage, intertwining themselves among the trees, form, here, arcades of foliage, there, long canopies of verdure. most of these trees shed aromatic odours so powerful, that the garments of a traveller, who has passed through the forest, often retain for hours the most delicious fragrance. in the season when they produce their lavish blossoms, they appear as if half-covered with snow. towards the end of summer, various kinds of foreign birds hasten, impelled by some inexplicable instinct, from unknown regions on the other side of immense oceans, to feed upon the grain and other vegetable productions of the island; and the brilliancy of their plumage forms a striking contrast to the more sombre tints of the foliage embrowned by the sun. among these are various kinds of parroquets, and the blue pigeon, called here the pigeon of holland. monkeys, the domestic inhabitants of our forests, sport upon the dark branches of the trees, from which they are easily distinguished by their gray and greenish skin, and their black visages. some hang, suspended by the tail, and swing themselves in air; others leap from branch to branch, bearing their young in their arms. the murderous gun has never affrighted these peaceful children of nature. you hear nothing but sounds of joy,--the warblings and unknown notes of birds from the countries of the south, repeated from a distance by the echoes of the forest. the river, which pours, in foaming eddies, over a bed of rocks, through the midst of the woods, reflects here and there upon its limpid waters their venerable masses of verdure and of shade, along with the sports of their happy inhabitants. about a thousand paces from thence it forms several cascades, clear as crystal in their fall, but broken at the bottom into frothy surges. innumerable confused sounds issue from these watery tumults, which, borne by the winds across the forest, now sink in distance, now all at once swell out, booming on the ear like the bells of a cathedral. the air, kept ever in motion by the running water, preserves upon the banks of the river, amid all the summer heats, a freshness and verdure rarely found in this island, even on the summits of the mountains. at some distance from this place is a rock, placed far enough from the cascade to prevent the ear from being deafened with the noise of its waters, and sufficiently near for the enjoyment of seeing it, of feeling its coolness, and hearing its gentle murmurs. thither, amidst the heats of summer, madame de la tour, margaret, virginia, paul, and myself, sometimes repaired, to dine beneath the shadow of this rock. virginia, who always, in her most ordinary actions, was mindful of the good of others, never ate of any fruit in the fields without planting the seed or kernel in the ground. "from this," said she, "trees will come, which will yield their fruit to some traveller, or at least to some bird." one day, having eaten of the papaw fruit at the foot of that rock, she planted the seeds on the spot. soon after, several papaw trees sprang up, among which was one with female blossoms, that is to say, a fruit-bearing tree. this tree, at the time of virginia's departure, was scarcely as high as her knee; but, as it is a plant of rapid growth, in the course of two years it had gained the height of twenty feet, and the upper part of its stem was encircled by several rows of ripe fruit. paul, wandering accidentally to the spot, was struck with delight at seeing this lofty tree, which had been planted by his beloved; but the emotion was transient, and instantly gave place to a deep melancholy, at this evidence of her long absence. the objects which are habitually before us do not bring to our minds an adequate idea of the rapidity of life; they decline insensibly with ourselves: but it is those we behold again, that most powerfully impress us with a feeling of the swiftness with which the tide of life flows on. paul was no less over-whelmed and affected at the sight of this great papaw tree, loaded with fruit, than is the traveller when, after a long absence from his own country, he finds his contemporaries no more, but their children, whom he left at the breast, themselves now become fathers of families. paul sometimes thought of cutting down the tree, which recalled too sensibly the distracting remembrance of virginia's prolonged absence. at other times, contemplating it as a monument of her benevolence, he kissed its trunk, and apostrophized it in terms of the most passionate regret. indeed, i have myself gazed upon it with more emotion and more veneration than upon the triumphal arches of rome. may nature, which every day destroys the monuments of kingly ambition, multiply in our forests those which testify the beneficence of a poor young girl! at the foot of this papaw tree i was always sure to meet with paul when he came into our neighbourhood. one day, i found him there absorbed in melancholy and a conversation took place between us, which i will relate to you, if i do not weary you too much by my long digressions; they are perhaps pardonable to my age and to my last friendships. i will relate it to you in the form of a dialogue, that you may form some idea of the natural good sense of this young man. you will easily distinguish the speakers, from the character of his questions and of my answers. _paul._--i am very unhappy. mademoiselle de la tour has now been gone two years and eight months and a half. she is rich, and i am poor; she has forgotten me. i have a great mind to follow her. i will go to france; i will serve the king; i will make my fortune; and then mademoiselle de la tour's aunt will bestow her niece upon me when i shall have become a great lord. _the old man._--but, my dear friend, have not you told me that you are not of noble birth? _paul._--my mother has told me so; but, as for myself, i know not what noble birth means. i never perceived that i had less than others, or that others had more than i. _the old man._--obscure birth, in france, shuts every door of access to great employments; nor can you even be received among any distinguished body of men, if you labour under this disadvantage. _paul._--you have often told me that it was one source of the greatness of france that her humblest subject might attain the highest honours; and you have cited to me many instances of celebrated men who, born in a mean condition, had conferred honour upon their country. it was your wish, then, by concealing the truth to stimulate my ardour? _the old man._--never, my son, would i lower it. i told you the truth with regard to the past; but now, every thing has undergone a great change. every thing in france is now to be obtained by interest alone; every place and employment is now become as it were the patrimony of a small number of families, or is divided among public bodies. the king is a sun, and the nobles and great corporate bodies surround him like so many clouds; it is almost impossible for any of his rays to reach you. formerly, under less exclusive administrations, such phenomena have been seen. then talents and merit showed themselves every where, as newly cleared lands are always loaded with abundance. but great kings, who can really form a just estimate of men, and choose them with judgment, are rare. the ordinary race of monarchs allow themselves to be guided by the nobles and people who surround them. _paul._--but perhaps i shall find one of these nobles to protect me. _the old man._--to gain the protection of the great you must lend yourself to their ambition, and administer to their pleasures. you would never succeed; for, in addition to your obscure birth, you have too much integrity. _paul._--but i will perform such courageous actions, i will be so faithful to my word, so exact in the performance of my duties, so zealous and so constant in my friendships, that i will render myself worthy to be adopted by some one of them. in the ancient histories, you have made me read, i have seen many examples of such adoptions. _the old man._--oh, my young friend! among the greeks and romans, even in their decline, the nobles had some respect for virtue; but out of all the immense number of men, sprung from the mass of the people, in france, who have signalized themselves in every possible manner, i do not recollect a single instance of one being adopted by any great family. if it were not for our kings, virtue, in our country, would be eternally condemned as plebeian. as i said before, the monarch sometimes, when he perceives it, renders to it due honour; but in the present day, the distinctions which should be bestowed on merit are generally to be obtained by money alone. _paul._--if i cannot find a nobleman to adopt me, i will seek to please some public body. i will espouse its interests and its opinions: i will make myself beloved by it. _the old man._--you will act then like other men?--you will renounce your conscience to obtain a fortune? _paul._--oh no! i will never lend myself to any thing but the truth. _the old man._--instead of making yourself beloved, you would become an object of dislike. besides, public bodies have never taken much interest in the discovery of truth. all opinions are nearly alike to ambitious men, provided only that they themselves can gain their ends. _paul._--how unfortunate i am! every thing bars my progress. i am condemned to pass my life in ignoble toil, far from virginia. as he said this he sighed deeply. _the old man._--let god be your patron, and mankind the public body you would serve. be constantly attached to them both. families, corporations, nations and kings have, all of them, their prejudices and their passions; it is often necessary to serve them by the practice of vice: god and mankind at large require only the exercise of the virtues. but why do you wish to be distinguished from other men? it is hardly a natural sentiment, for, if all men possessed it, every one would be at constant strife with his neighbour. be satisfied with fulfilling your duty in the station in which providence has placed you; be grateful for your lot, which permits you to enjoy the blessing of a quiet conscience, and which does not compel you, like the great, to let your happiness rest on the opinion of the little, or, like the little, to cringe to the great, in order to obtain the means of existence. you are now placed in a country and a condition in which you are not reduced to deceive or flatter any one, or debase yourself, as the greater part of those who seek their fortune in europe are obliged to do; in which the exercise of no virtue is forbidden you; in which you may be, with impunity, good, sincere, well-informed, patient, temperate, chaste, indulgent to others' faults, pious and no shaft of ridicule be aimed at you to destroy your wisdom, as yet only in its bud. heaven has given you liberty, health, a good conscience, and friends; kings themselves, whose favour you desire, are not so happy. _paul._--ah! i only want to have virginia with me: without her i have nothing,--with her, i should possess all my desire. she alone is to me birth, glory, and fortune. but, since her relations will only give her to some one with a great name, i will study. by the aid of study and of books, learning and celebrity are to be attained. i will become a man of science: i will render my knowledge useful to the service of my country, without injuring any one, or owning dependence on any one. i will become celebrated, and my glory shall be achieved only by myself. _the old man._--my son, talents are a gift yet more rare than either birth or riches, and undoubtedly they are a greater good than either, since they can never be taken away from us, and that they obtain for us every where public esteem. but they may be said to be worth all that they cost us. they are seldom acquired but by every species of privation, by the possession of exquisite sensibility, which often produces inward unhappiness, and which exposes us without to the malice and persecutions of our contemporaries. the lawyer envies not, in france, the glory of the soldier, nor does the soldier envy that of the naval officer; but they will all oppose you, and bar your progress to distinction, because your assumption of superior ability will wound the self-love of them all. you say that you will do good to men; but recollect, that he who makes the earth produce a single ear of corn more, renders them a greater service than he who writes a book. _paul._--oh! she, then, who planted this papaw tree, has made a more useful and more grateful present to the inhabitants of these forests than if she had given them a whole library. so saying, he threw his arms around the tree, and kissed it with transport. _the old man._--the best of books,--that which preaches nothing but equality, brotherly love, charity, and peace,--the gospel, has served as a pretext, during many centuries, for europeans to let loose all their fury. how many tyrannies, both public and private, are still practised in its name on the face of the earth! after this, who will dare to flatter himself that any thing he can write will be of service to his fellow men? remember the fate of most of the philosophers who have preached to them wisdom. homer, who clothes it in such noble verse, asked for alms all his life. socrates, whose conversation and example gave such admirable lessons to the athenians, was sentenced by them to be poisoned. his sublime disciple, plato was delivered over to slavery by the order of the very prince who protected him; and, before them, pythagoras, whose humanity extended even to animals, was burned alive by the crotoniates. what do i say?--many even of these illustrious names have descended to us disfigured by some traits of satire by which they became characterized, human ingratitude taking pleasure in thus recognising them; and if, in the crowd, the glory of some names is come down to us without spot or blemish, we shall find that they who have borne them have lived far from the society of their contemporaries; like those statues which are found entire beneath the soil in greece and italy, and which, by being hidden in the bosom of the earth, have escaped uninjured, from the fury of the barbarians. you see, then, that to acquire the glory which a turbulent literary career can give you, you must not only be virtuous, but ready, if necessary, to sacrifice life itself. but, after all, do not fancy that the great in france trouble themselves about such glory as this. little do they care for literary men, whose knowledge brings them neither honours, nor power, nor even admission at court. persecution, it is true, is rarely practised in this age, because it is habitually indifferent to every thing except wealth and luxury; but knowledge and virtue no longer lead to distinction, since every thing in the state is to be purchased with money. formerly, men of letters were certain of reward by some place in the church, the magistracy, or the administration; now they are considered good for nothing but to write books. but this fruit of their minds, little valued by the world at large, is still worthy of its celestial origin. for these books is reserved the privilege of shedding lustre on obscure virtue, of consoling the unhappy, of enlightening nations, and of telling the truth even to kings. this is, unquestionably, the most august commission with which heaven can honour a mortal upon this earth. where is the author who would not be consoled for the injustice or contempt of those who are the dispensers of the ordinary gifts of fortune, when he reflects that his work may pass from age to age, from nation to nation, opposing a barrier to error and to tyranny; and that, from amidst the obscurity in which he has lived, there will shine forth a glory which will efface that of the common herd of monarchs, the monuments of whose deeds perish in oblivion, notwithstanding the flatterers who erect and magnify them? _paul._--ah! i am only covetous of glory to bestow it on virginia, and render her dear to the whole world. but can you, who know so much, tell me whether we shall ever be married? i should like to be a very learned man, if only for the sake of knowing what will come to pass. _the old man._--who would live, my son, if the future were revealed to him?--when a single anticipated misfortune gives us so much useless uneasiness--when the foreknowledge of one certain calamity is enough to embitter every day that precedes it! it is better not to pry too curiously, even into the things which surround us. heaven, which has given us the power of reflection to foresee our necessities, gave us also those very necessities to set limits to its exercise. _paul._--you tell me that with money people in europe acquire dignities and honours. i will go, then, to enrich myself in bengal, and afterwards proceed to paris, and marry virginia. i will embark at once. _the old man._--what! would you leave her mother and yours? _paul._--why, you yourself have advised my going to the indies. _the old man._--virginia was then here; but you are now the only means of support both of her mother and of your own. _paul._--virginia will assist them by means of her rich relation. _the old man._--the rich care little for those, from whom no honour is reflected upon themselves in the world. many of them have relations much more to be pitied than madame de la tour, who, for want of their assistance, sacrifice their liberty for bread, and pass their lives immured within the walls of a convent. _paul._--oh, what a country is europe! virginia must come back here. what need has she of a rich relation? she was so happy in these huts; she looked so beautiful and so well dressed with a red handkerchief or a few flowers around her head! return, virginia! leave your sumptuous mansions and your grandeur, and come back to these rocks,--to the shade of these woods and of our cocoa trees. alas! you are perhaps even now unhappy!"--and he began to shed tears. "my father," continued he, "hide nothing from me; if you cannot tell me whether i shall marry virginia, tell me at least if she loves me still, surrounded as she is by noblemen who speak to the king, and who go to see her." _the old man._--oh, my dear friend! i am sure, for many reasons, that she loves you; but above all, because she is virtuous. at these words he threw himself on my neck in a transport of joy. _paul._--but do you think that the women of europe are false, as they are represented in the comedies and books which you have lent me? _the old man._--women are false in those countries where men are tyrants. violence always engenders a disposition to deceive. _paul._--in what way can men tyrannize over women? _the old man._--in giving them in marriage without consulting their inclinations;--in uniting a young girl to an old man, or a woman of sensibility to a frigid and indifferent husband. _paul._--why not join together those who are suited to each other,--the young to the young, and lovers to those they love? _the old man._--because few young men in france have property enough to support them when they are married, and cannot acquire it till the greater part of their life is passed. while young, they seduce the wives of others, and when they are old, they cannot secure the affections of their own. at first, they themselves are deceivers: and afterwards, they are deceived in their turn. this is one of the reactions of that eternal justice, by which the world is governed; an excess on one side is sure to be balanced by one on the other. thus, the greater part of europeans pass their lives in this twofold irregularity, which increases everywhere in the same proportion that wealth is accumulated in the hands of a few individuals. society is like a garden, where shrubs cannot grow if they are overshadowed by lofty trees; but there is this wide difference between them,--that the beauty of a garden may result from the admixture of a small number of forest trees, while the prosperity of a state depends on the multitude and equality of its citizens, and not on a small number of very rich men. _paul._--but where is the necessity of being rich in order to marry? _the old man._--in order to pass through life in abundance, without being obliged to work. _paul._--but why not work? i am sure i work hard enough. _the old man._--in europe, working with your hands is considered a degradation; it is compared to the labour performed by a machine. the occupation of cultivating the earth is the most despised of all. even an artisan is held in more estimation than a peasant. _paul._--what! do you mean to say that the art which furnishes food for mankind is despised in europe? i hardly understand you. _the old man._--oh! it is impossible for a person educated according to nature to form an idea of the depraved state of society. it is easy to form a precise notion of order, but not of disorder. beauty, virtue, happiness, have all their defined proportions; deformity, vice, and misery have none. _paul._--the rich then are always very happy! they meet with no obstacles to the fulfilment of their wishes, and they can lavish happiness on those whom they love. _the old man._--far from it, my son! they are, for the most part satiated with pleasure, for this very reason,--that it costs them no trouble. have you never yourself experienced how much the pleasure of repose is increased by fatigue; that of eating, by hunger; or that of drinking, by thirst? the pleasure also of loving and being loved is only to be acquired by innumerable privations and sacrifices. wealth, by anticipating all their necessities, deprives its possessors of all these pleasures. to this ennui, consequent upon satiety, may also be added the pride which springs from their opulence, and which is wounded by the most trifling privation, when the greatest enjoyments have ceased to charm. the perfume of a thousand roses gives pleasure but for a moment; but the pain occasioned by a single thorn endures long after the infliction of the wound. a single evil in the midst of their pleasures is to the rich like a thorn among flowers; to the poor, on the contrary, one pleasure amidst all their troubles is a flower among a wilderness of thorns; they have a most lively enjoyment of it. the effect of every thing is increased by contrast; nature has balanced all things. which condition, after all, do you consider preferable,--to have scarcely any thing to hope, and every thing to fear, or to have every thing to hope and nothing to fear? the former condition is that of the rich, the latter, that of the poor. but either of these extremes is with difficulty supported by man, whose happiness consists in a middle station of life, in union with virtue. _paul._--what do you understand by virtue? _the old man._--to you, my son, who support your family by your labour, it need hardly be defined. virtue consists in endeavouring to do all the good we can to others, with an ultimate intention of pleasing god alone. _paul._--oh! how virtuous, then, is virginia! virtue led her to seek for riches, that she might practise benevolence. virtue induced her to quit this island, and virtue will bring her back to it. the idea of her speedy return firing the imagination of this young man, all his anxieties suddenly vanished. virginia, he was persuaded, had not written, because she would soon arrive. it took so little time to come from europe with a fair wind! then he enumerated the vessels which had made this passage of four thousand five hundred leagues in less than three months; and perhaps the vessel in which virginia had embarked might not be more than two. ship-builders were now so ingenious, and sailors were so expert! he then talked to me of the arrangements he intended to make for her reception, of the new house he would build for her, and of the pleasures and surprises which he would contrive for her every day, when she was his wife. his wife! the idea filled him with ecstasy. "at least, my dear father," said he, "you shall then do no more work than you please. as virginia will be rich, we shall have plenty of negroes, and they shall work for you. you shall always live with us, and have no other care than to amuse yourself and be happy;"--and, his heart throbbing with joy, he flew to communicate these exquisite anticipations to his family. in a short time, however, these enchanting hopes were succeeded by the most cruel apprehensions. it is always the effect of violent passions to throw the soul into opposite extremes. paul returned the next day to my dwelling, overwhelmed with melancholy, and said to me,--"i hear nothing from virginia. had she left europe she would have written me word of her departure. ah! the reports which i have heard concerning her are but too well founded. her aunt has married her to some great lord. she, like others, has been undone by the love of riches. in those books which paint women so well, virtue is treated but as a subject of romance. if virginia had been virtuous, she would never have forsaken her mother and me. i do nothing but think of her, and she has forgotten me. i am wretched, and she is diverting herself. the thought distracts me; i cannot bear myself! would to heaven that war were declared in india! i would go there and die." "my son," i answered, "that courage which prompts us to court death is but the courage of a moment, and is often excited by the vain applause of men, or by the hopes of posthumous renown. there is another description of courage, rarer and more necessary, which enables us to support, without witness and without applause, the vexations of life; this virtue is patience. relying for support, not upon the opinions of others, or the impulse of the passions, but upon the will of god, patience is the courage of virtue." "ah!" cried he, "i am then without virtue! every thing overwhelms me and drives me to despair."--"equal, constant, and invariable virtue," i replied, "belongs not to man. in the midst of the many passions which agitate us, our reason is disordered and obscured: but there is an everburning lamp, at which we can rekindle its flame; and that is, literature. "literature, my dear son, is the gift of heaven, a ray of that wisdom by which the universe is governed, and which man, inspired by a celestial intelligence, has drawn down to earth. like the rays of the sun, it enlightens us, it rejoices us, it warms us with a heavenly flame, and seems, in some sort, like the element of fire, to bend all nature to our use. by its means we are enabled to bring around us all things, all places, all men, and all times. it assists us to regulate our manners and our life. by its aid, too, our passions are calmed, vice is suppressed, and virtue encouraged by the memorable examples of great and good men which it has handed down to us, and whose time-honoured images it ever brings before our eyes. literature is a daughter of heaven who has descended upon earth to soften and to charm away all the evils of the human race. the greatest writers have ever appeared in the worst times,--in times in which society can hardly be held together,--the times of barbarism and every species of depravity. my son, literature has consoled an infinite number of men more unhappy than yourself: xenophon, banished from his country after having saved to her ten thousand of her sons; scipio africanus, wearied to death by the calumnies of the romans; lucullus, tormented by their cabals; and catinat, by the ingratitude of a court. the greeks, with their never-failing ingenuity, assigned to each of the muses a portion of the great circle of human intelligence for her especial superintendence; we ought in the same manner, to give up to them the regulation of our passions, to bring them under proper restraint. literature in this imaginative guise, would thus fulfil, in relation to the powers of the soul, the same functions as the hours, who yoked and conducted the chariot of the sun. "have recourse to your books, then, my son. the wise who have written before our days are travellers who have preceded us in the paths of misfortune, and who stretch out a friendly hand towards us, and invite us to join in their society, when we are abandoned by every thing else. a good book is a good friend." "ah!" cried paul, "i stood in no need of books when virginia was here, and she had studied as little as myself; but when she looked at me, and called me her friend, i could not feel unhappy." "undoubtedly," said i, "there is no friend so agreeable as a mistress by whom we are beloved. there is, moreover, in woman a liveliness and gaiety, which powerfully tend to dissipate the melancholy feelings of a man; her presence drives away the dark phantoms of imagination produced by over-reflection. upon her countenance sit soft attraction and tender confidence. what joy is not heightened when it is shared by her? what brow is not unbent by her smiles? what anger can resist her tears? virginia will return with more philosophy than you, and will be quite surprised to find the garden so unfinished;--she who could think of its embellishments in spite of all the persecutions of her aunt, and when far from her mother and from you." the idea of virginia's speedy return reanimated the drooping spirits of her lover, and he resumed his rural occupations, happy amidst his toils, in the reflection that they would soon find a termination so dear to the wishes of his heart. one morning, at break of day, (it was the th of december, ,) paul, when he arose, perceived a white flag hoisted upon the mountain of discovery. this flag he knew to be the signal of a vessel descried at sea. he instantly flew to the town to learn if this vessel brought any tidings of virginia, and waited there till the return of the pilot, who was gone, according to custom, to board the ship. the pilot did not return till the evening, when he brought the governor information that the signalled vessel was the saint-geran, of seven hundred tons burthen, and commanded by a captain of the name of aubin; that she was now four leagues out at sea, but would probably anchor at port louis the following afternoon, if the wind became fair: at present there was a calm. the pilot then handed to the governor a number of letters which the saint-geran had brought from france, among which was one addressed to madame de la tour, in the hand-writing of virginia. paul seized upon the letter, kissed it with transport, and placing it in his bosom, flew to the plantation. no sooner did he perceive from a distance the family, who were awaiting his return upon the rock of adieus than he waved the letter aloft in the air, without being able to utter a word. no sooner was the seal broken, than they all crowded round madame de la tour, to hear the letter read. virginia informed her mother that she had experienced much ill-usage from her aunt, who, after having in vain urged her to a marriage against her inclination, had disinherited her, and had sent her back at a time when she would probably reach the mauritius during the hurricane season. in vain, she added, had she endeavoured to soften her aunt, by representing what she owed to her mother, and to her early habits; she was treated as a romantic girl, whose head had been turned by novels. she could now only think of the joy of again seeing and embracing her beloved family, and would have gratified her ardent desire at once, by landing in the pilot's boat, if the captain had allowed her: but that he had objected, on account of the distance, and of a heavy swell, which, notwithstanding the calm, reigned in the open sea. as soon as the letter was finished, the whole of the family, transported with joy, repeatedly exclaimed, "virginia is arrived!" and mistresses and servants embraced each other. madame de la tour said to paul,--"my son, go and inform our neighbour of virginia's arrival." domingo immediately lighted a torch of bois de ronde, and he and paul bent their way towards my dwelling. it was about ten o'clock at night, and i was just going to extinguish my lamp, and retire to rest, when i perceived, through the palisades round my cottage, a light in the woods. soon after, i heard the voice of paul calling me. i instantly arose, and had hardly dressed myself, when paul, almost beside himself, and panting for breath, sprang on my neck, crying,--"come along, come along. virginia is arrived. let us go to the port; the vessel will anchor at break of day." scarcely had he uttered the words, when we set off. as we were passing through the woods of the sloping mountain, and were already on the road which leads from the shaddock grove to the port, i heard some one walking behind us. it proved to be a negro, and he was advancing with hasty steps. when he had reached us, i asked him whence he came, and whither he was going with such expedition. he answered, "i come from that part of the island called golden dust; and am sent to the port, to inform the governor that a ship from france has anchored under the isle of amber. she is firing guns of distress, for the sea is very rough." having said this, the man left us, and pursued his journey without any further delay. i then said to paul,--"let us go towards the quarter of the golden dust, and meet virginia there. it is not more than three leagues from hence." we accordingly bent our course towards the northern part of the island. the heat was suffocating. the moon had risen, and was surrounded by three large black circles. a frightful darkness shrouded the sky; but the frequent flashes of lightning discovered to us long rows of thick and gloomy clouds, hanging very low, and heaped together over the centre of the island, being driven in with great rapidity from the ocean, although not a breath of air was perceptible upon the land. as we walked along, we thought we heard peals of thunder; but, on listening more attentively, we perceived that it was the sound of cannon at a distance, repeated by the echoes. these ominous sounds, joined to the tempestuous aspect of the heavens, made me shudder. i had little doubt of their being signals of distress from a ship in danger. in about half an hour the firing ceased, and i found the silence still more appalling than the dismal sounds which had preceded it. we hastened on without uttering a word, or daring to communicate to each other our mutual apprehensions. at midnight, by great exertion, we arrived at the sea shore, in that part of the island called golden dust. the billows were breaking against the bench with a horrible noise, covering the rocks and the strand with foam of a dazzling whiteness, blended with sparks of fire. by these phosphoric gleams we distinguished, notwithstanding the darkness, a number of fishing canoes, drawn up high upon the beach. at the entrance of a wood, a short distance from us, we saw a fire, round which a party of the inhabitants were assembled. we repaired thither, in order to rest ourselves till the morning. while we were seated near the fire, one of the standers-by related, that late in the afternoon he had seen a vessel in the open sea, driven towards the island by the currents; that the night had hidden it from his view; and that two hours after sunset he had heard the firing of signal guns of distress, but that the surf was so high, that it was impossible to launch a boat to go off to her; that a short time after, he thought he perceived the glimmering of the watch-lights on board the vessel, which, he feared, by its having approached so near the coast, had steered between the main land and the little island of amber, mistaking the latter for the point of endeavour, near which vessels pass in order to gain port louis; and that, if this were the case, which, however, he would not take upon himself to be certain of, the ship, he thought, was in very great danger. another islander informed us, that he had frequently crossed the channel which separates the isle of amber from the coast, and had sounded it, that the anchorage was very good, and that the ship would there lie as safely as in the best harbour. "i would stake all i am worth upon it," said he, "and if i were on board, i should sleep as sound as on shore." a third bystander declared that it was impossible for the ship to enter that channel, which was scarcely navigable for a boat. he was certain, he said, that he had seen the vessel at anchor beyond the isle of amber; so that, if the wind rose in the morning, she would either put to sea, or gain the harbour. other inhabitants gave different opinions upon this subject, which they continued to discuss in the usual desultory manner of the indolent creoles. paul and i observed a profound silence. we remained on this spot till break of day, but the weather was too hazy to admit of our distinguishing any object at sea, every thing being covered with fog. all we could descry to seaward was a dark cloud, which they told us was the isle of amber, at the distance of a quarter of a league from the coast. on this gloomy day we could only discern the point of land on which we were standing, and the peaks of some inland mountains, which started out occasionally from the midst of the clouds that hung around them. at about seven in the morning we heard the sound of drums in the woods: it announced the approach of the governor, monsieur de la bourdonnais, who soon after arrived on horseback, at the head of a detachment of soldiers armed with muskets, and a crowd of islanders and negroes. he drew up his soldiers upon the beach, and ordered them to make a general discharge. this was no sooner done, than we perceived a glimmering light upon the water which was instantly followed by the report of a cannon. we judged that the ship was at no great distance and all ran towards that part whence the light and sound proceeded. we now discerned through the fog the hull and yards of a large vessel. we were so near to her, that notwithstanding the tumult of the waves, we could distinctly hear the whistle of the boatswain, and the shouts of the sailors, who cried out three times, vive le roi! this being the cry of the french in extreme danger, as well as in exuberant joy;--as though they wished to call their princes to their aid, or to testify to him that they are prepared to lay down their lives in his service. as soon as the saint-geran perceived that we were near enough to render her assistance, she continued to fire guns regularly at intervals of three minutes. monsieur de la bourdonnais caused great fires to be lighted at certain distances upon the strand, and sent to all the inhabitants of the neighbourhood, in search of provisions, planks, cables, and empty barrels. a number of people soon arrived, accompanied by their negroes loaded with provisions and cordage, which they had brought from the plantations of golden dust, from the district of la flaque, and from the river of the ram part. one of the most aged of these planters, approaching the governor, said to him,--"we have heard all night hollow noises in the mountain; in the woods, the leaves of the trees are shaken, although there is no wind; the sea-birds seek refuge upon the land: it is certain that all these signs announce a hurricane." "well, my friends," answered the governor, "we are prepared for it, and no doubt the vessel is also." every thing, indeed, presaged the near approach of the hurricane. the centre of the clouds in the zenith was of a dismal black, while their skirts were tinged with a copper-coloured hue. the air resounded with the cries of the tropic-birds, petrels, frigate-birds, and innumerable other sea-fowl, which notwithstanding the obscurity of the atmosphere, were seen coming from every point of the horizon, to seek for shelter in the island. towards nine in the morning we heard in the direction of the ocean the most terrific noise, like the sound of thunder mingled with that of torrents rushing down the steeps of lofty mountains. a general cry was heard of, "there is the hurricane!" and the next moment a frightful gust of wind dispelled the fog which covered the isle of amber and its channel. the saint-geran then presented herself to our view, her deck crowded with people, her yards and topmasts lowered down, and her flag half-mast high, moored by four cables at her bow and one at her stern. she had anchored between the isle of amber and the main land, inside the chain of reefs which encircles the island, and which she had passed through in a place where no vessel had ever passed before. she presented her head to the waves that rolled in from the open sea, and as each billow rushed into the narrow strait where she lay, her bow lifted to such a degree as to show her keel; and at the same moment her stern, plunging into the water, disappeared altogether from our sight, as if it were swallowed up by the surges. in this position, driven by the winds and waves towards the shore, it was equally impossible for her to return by the passage through which she had made her way; or, by cutting her cables, to strand herself upon the beach, from which she was separated by sandbanks and reefs of rocks. every billow which broke upon the coast advanced roaring to the bottom of the bay, throwing up heaps of shingle to the distance of fifty feet upon the land; then, rushing back, laid bare its sandy bed, from which it rolled immense stones, with a hoarse and dismal noise. the sea, swelled by the violence of the wind, rose higher every moment; and the whole channel between this island and the isle of amber was soon one vast sheet of white foam, full of yawning pits of black and deep billows. heaps of this foam, more than six feet high, were piled up at the bottom of the bay; and the winds which swept its surface carried masses of it over the steep sea-bank, scattering it upon the land to the distance of half a league. these innumerable white flakes, driven horizontally even to the very foot of the mountains, looked like snow issuing from the bosom of the ocean. the appearance of the horizon portended a lasting tempest; the sky and the water seemed blended together. thick masses of clouds, of a frightful form, swept across the zenith with the swiftness of birds, while others appeared motionless as rocks. not a single spot of blue sky could be discerned in the whole firmament; and a pale yellow gleam only lightened up all the objects of the earth, the sea, and the skies. from the violent rolling of the ship, what we all dreaded happened at last. the cables which held her bow were torn away: she then swung to a single hawser, and was instantly dashed upon the rocks, at the distance of half a cable's length from the shore. a general cry of horror issued from the spectators. paul rushed forward to throw himself into the sea, when, seizing him by the arm, "my son," i exclaimed, "would you perish?"--"let me go to save her," he cried, "or let me die!" seeing that despair had deprived him of reason, domingo and i, in order to preserve him, fastened a long cord around his waist, and held it fast by the end. paul then precipitated himself towards the saint-geran, now swimming, and now walking upon the rocks. sometimes he had hopes of reaching the vessel, which the sea, by the reflux of its waves, had left almost dry, so that you could have walked round it on foot; but suddenly the billows, returning with fresh fury, shrouded it beneath mountains of water, which then lifted it upright upon its keel. the breakers at the same moment threw the unfortunate paul far upon the beach, his legs bathed in blood, his bosom wounded, and himself half dead. the moment he had recovered the use of his senses, he arose, and returned with new ardour towards the vessel, the parts of which now yawned asunder from the violent strokes of the billows. the crew then, despairing of their safety, threw themselves in crowds into the sea, upon yards, planks, hen-coops, tables, and barrels. at this moment we beheld an object which wrung our hearts with grief and pity; a young lady appeared in the stern-gallery of the saint-geran, stretching out her arms towards him who was making so many efforts to join her. it was virginia. she had discovered her lover by his intrepidity. the sight of this amiable girl, exposed to such horrible danger, filled us with unutterable despair. as for virginia, with a firm and dignified mien, she waved her hand, as if bidding us an eternal farewell. all the sailors had flung themselves into the sea, except one, who still remained upon the deck, and who was naked, and strong as hercules. this man approached virginia with respect, and, kneeling at her feet, attempted to force her to throw off her clothes; but she repulsed him with modesty, and turned away her head. then were heard redoubled cries from the spectators, "save her!--save her!--do not leave her!" but at that moment a mountain billow, of enormous magnitude, ingulfed itself between the isle of amber and the coast, and menaced the shattered vessel, towards which it rolled bellowing, with its black sides and foaming head. at this terrible sight the sailor flung himself into the sea; and virginia, seeing death inevitable, crossed her hands upon her breast, and raising upwards her serene and beauteous eyes, seemed an angel prepared to take her flight to heaven. oh, day of horror! alas! every thing was swallowed up by the relentless billows. the surge threw some of the spectators, whom an impulse of humanity had prompted to advance towards virginia, far upon the beach, and also the sailor who had endeavoured to save her life. this man, who had escaped from almost certain death, kneeling on the sand, exclaimed,--"oh, my god! thou hast saved my life, but i would have given it willingly for that excellent young lady, who had persevered in not undressing herself as i had done." domingo and i drew the unfortunate paul to the ashore. he was senseless, and blood was flowing from his mouth and ears. the governor ordered him to be put into the hands of a surgeon, while we, on our part, wandered along the beach, in hopes that the sea would throw up the corpse of virginia. but the wind having suddenly changed, as it frequently happens during hurricanes, our search was in vain; and we had the grief of thinking that we should not be able to bestow on this sweet and unfortunate girl the last sad duties. we retired from the spot overwhelmed with dismay, and our minds wholly occupied by one cruel loss, although numbers had perished in the wreck. some of the spectators seemed tempted, from the fatal destiny of this virtuous girl, to doubt the existence of providence: for there are in life such terrible, such unmerited evils, that even the hope of the wise is sometimes shaken. in the meantime paul, who began to recover his senses, was taken to a house in the neighbourhood, till he was in a fit state to be removed to his own home. thither i bent my way with domingo, to discharge the melancholy duty of preparing virginia's mother and her friend for the disastrous event which had happened. when we had reached the entrance of the valley of the river of fan-palms, some negroes informed us that the sea had thrown up many pieces of the wreck in the opposite bay. we descended towards it and one of the first objects that struck my sight upon the beach was the corpse of virginia. the body was half covered with sand, and preserved the attitude in which we had seen her perish. her features were not sensibly changed, her eyes were closed, and her countenance was still serene; but the pale purple hues of death were blended on her cheek with the blush of virgin modesty. one of her hands was placed upon her clothes: and the other, which she held on her heart, was fast closed, and so stiffened, that it was with difficulty that i took from its grasp a small box. how great was my emotion when i saw that it contained the picture of paul, which she had promised him never to part with while she lived! as for domingo, he beat his breast, and pierced the air with his shrieks. with heavy hearts we then carried the body of virginia to a fisherman's hut, and gave it in charge of some poor malabar women, who carefully washed away the sand. while they were employed in this melancholy office, we ascended the hill with trembling steps to the plantation. we found madame de la tour and margaret at prayer; hourly expecting to have tidings from the ship. as soon as madame de la tour saw me coming, she eagerly cried,--"where is my daughter--my dear daughter--my child?" my silence and my tears apprised her of her misfortune. she was instantly seized with a convulsive stopping of the breath and agonizing pains, and her voice was only heard in sighs and groans. margaret cried, "where is my son? i do not see my son!" and fainted. we ran to her assistance. in a short time she recovered, and being assured that paul was safe, and under the care of the governor, she thought of nothing but of succouring her friend, who recovered from one fainting fit only to fall into another. madame de la tour passed the whole night in these cruel sufferings, and i became convinced that there was no sorrow like that of a mother. when she recovered her senses, she cast a fixed, unconscious look towards heaven. in vain her friend and myself pressed her hands in ours: in vain we called upon her by the most tender names; she appeared wholly insensible to these testimonials of our affection, and no sound issued from her oppressed bosom, but deep and hollow moans. during the morning paul was carried home in a palanquin. he had now recovered the use of his reason, but was unable to utter a word. his interview with his mother and madame de la tour, which i had dreaded, produced a better effect than all my cares. a ray of consolation gleamed on the countenances of the two unfortunate mothers. they pressed close to him, clasped him in their arms, and kissed him: their tears, which excess of anguish had till now dried up at the source, began to flow. paul mixed his tears with theirs; and nature having thus found relief, a long stupor succeeded the convulsive pangs they had suffered, and afforded them a lethargic repose, which was in truth, like that of death. monsieur de la bourdonnais sent to apprise me secretly that the corpse of virginia had been borne to the town by his order, from whence it was to be transferred to the church of the shaddock grove. i immediately went down to port louis, where i found a multitude assembled from all parts of the island, in order to be present at the funeral solemnity, as if the isle had lost that which was nearest and dearest to it. the vessels in the harbour had their yards crossed, their flags half-mast, and fired guns at long intervals. a body of grenadiers led the funeral procession, with their muskets reversed, their muffled drums sending forth slow and dismal sounds. dejection was depicted in the countenance of these warriors, who had so often braved death in battle without changing colour. eight young ladies of considerable families of the island, dressed in white, and bearing palm-branches in their hands, carried the corpse of their amiable companion, which was covered with flowers. they were followed by a chorus of children, chanting hymns, and by the governor, his field officers, all the principal inhabitants of the island, and an immense crowd of people. this imposing funeral solemnity had been ordered by the administration of the country, which was desirous of doing honour to the virtues of virginia. but when the mournful procession arrived at the foot of this mountain, within sight of those cottages of which she had been so long an inmate and an ornament, diffusing happiness all around them, and which her loss had now filled with despair, the funeral pomp was interrupted, the hymns and anthems ceased, and the whole plain resounded with sighs and lamentations. numbers of young girls ran from the neighbouring plantations, to touch the coffin of virginia with their handkerchiefs, and with chaplets and crowns of flowers, invoking her as a saint. mothers asked of heaven a child like virginia; lovers, a heart as faithful; the poor, as tender a friend; and the slaves as kind a mistress. when the procession had reached the place of interment, some negresses of madagascar and caffres of mozambique placed a number of baskets of fruit around the corpse, and hung pieces of stuff upon the adjoining trees, according to the custom of their several countries. some indian women from bengal also, and from the coast of malabar, brought cages full of small birds, which they set at liberty upon her coffin. thus deeply did the loss of this amiable being affect the natives of different countries, and thus was the ritual of various religions performed over the tomb of unfortunate virtue. it became necessary to place guards round her grave, and to employ gentle force in removing some of the daughters of the neighbouring villagers, who endeavoured to throw themselves into it, saying that they had no longer any consolation to hope for in this world, and that nothing remained for them but to die with their benefactress. on the western side of the church of the shaddock grove is a small copse of bamboos, where, in returning from mass with her mother and margaret, virginia loved to rest herself, seated by the side of him whom she then called her brother. this was the spot selected for her interment. at his return from the funeral solemnity, monsieur de la bourdonnais came up here, followed by part of his numerous retinue. he offered madame de la tour and her friend all the assistance it was in his power to bestow. after briefly expressing his indignation at the conduct of her unnatural aunt, he advanced to paul, and said every thing which he thought most likely to soothe and console him. "heaven is my witness," said he, "that i wished to insure your happiness, and that of your family. my dear friend, you must go to france; i will obtain a commission for you, and during your absence i will take the same care of your mother as if she were my own." he then offered him his hand; but paul drew away and turned his head aside, unable to bear his sight. i remained for some time at the plantation of my unfortunate friends, that i might render to them and paul those offices of friendship that were in my power, and which might alleviate, though they could not heal the wounds of calamity. at the end of three weeks paul was able to walk; but his mind seemed to droop in proportion as his body gathered strength. he was insensible to every thing; his look was vacant; and when asked a question, he made no reply. madame de la tour, who was dying said to him often,--"my son, while i look at you, i think i see my dear virginia." at the name of virginia he shuddered, and hastened away from her, notwithstanding the entreaties of his mother, who begged him to come back to her friend. he used to go alone into the garden, and seat himself at the foot of virginia's cocoa-tree, with his eyes fixed upon the fountain. the governor's surgeon, who had shown the most humane attention to paul and the whole family, told us that in order to cure the deep melancholy which had taken possession of his mind, we must allow him to do whatever he pleased, without contradiction: this, he said, afforded the only chance of overcoming the silence in which he persevered. i resolved to follow this advice. the first use which paul made of his returning strength was to absent himself from the plantation. being determined not to lose sight of him i set out immediately, and desired domingo to take some provisions and accompany us. the young man's strength and spirits seemed renewed as he descended the mountain. he first took the road to the shaddock grove, and when he was near the church, in the alley of bamboos, he walked directly to the spot where he saw some earth fresh turned up; kneeling down there, and raising his eyes to heaven, he offered up a long prayer. this appeared to me a favourable symptom of the return of his reason; since this mark of confidence in the supreme being showed that his mind was beginning to resume its natural functions. domingo and i, following his example, fell upon our knees, and mingled our prayers with his. when he arose, he bent his way, paying little attention to us, towards the northern part of the island. as i knew that he was not only ignorant of the spot where the body of virginia had been deposited, but even of the fact that it had been recovered from the waves, i asked him why he had offered up his prayer at the foot of those bamboos. he answered,--"we have been there so often." he continued his course until we reached the borders of the forest, when night came on. i set him the example of taking some nourishment, and prevailed on him to do the same; and we slept upon the grass, at the foot of a tree. the next day i thought he seemed disposed to retrace his steps; for, after having gazed a considerable time from the plain upon the church of the shaddock grove, with its long avenues of bamboos, he made a movement as if to return home; but suddenly plunging into the forest, he directed his course towards the north. i guessed what was his design, and i endeavoured, but in vain, to dissuade him from it. about noon we arrived at the quarter of golden dust. he rushed down to the sea-shore, opposite to the spot where the saint-geran had been wrecked. at the sight of the isle of amber, and its channel, when smooth as a mirror, he exclaimed,--"virginia! oh my dear virginia!" and fell senseless. domingo and i carried him into the woods, where we had some difficulty in recovering him. as soon as he regained his senses, he wished to return to the sea-shore; but we conjured him not to renew his own anguish and ours by such cruel remembrances, and he took another direction. during a whole week he sought every spot where he had once wandered with the companion of his childhood. he traced the path by which she had gone to intercede for the slave of the black river. he gazed again upon the banks of the river of the three breasts, where she had rested herself when unable to walk further, and upon that part of the wood where they had lost their way. all the haunts, which recalled to his memory the anxieties, the sports, the repasts, the benevolence of her he loved,--the river of the sloping mountain, my house, the neighbouring cascade, the papaw tree she had planted, the grassy fields in which she loved to run, the openings of the forest where she used to sing, all in succession called forth his tears; and those very echoes which had so often resounded with their mutual shouts of joy, now repeated only these accents of despair,--"virginia! oh, my dear virginia!" during this savage and wandering life, his eyes became sunk and hollow, his skin assumed a yellow tint, and his health rapidly declined. convinced that our present sufferings are rendered more acute by the bitter recollection of bygone pleasures, and that the passions gather strength in solitude, i resolved to remove my unfortunate friend from those scenes which recalled the remembrance of his loss, and to lead him to a more busy part of the island. with this view, i conducted him to the inhabited part of the elevated quarter of williams, which he had never visited, and where the busy pursuits of agriculture and commerce ever occasioned much bustle and variety. numbers of carpenters were employed in hewing down and squaring trees, while others were sawing them into planks; carriages were continually passing and repassing on the roads; numerous herds of oxen and troops of horses were feeding on those wide-spread meadows, and the whole country was dotted with the dwellings of man. on some spots the elevation of the soil permitted the culture of many of the plants of europe: the yellow ears of ripe corn waved upon the plains; strawberry plants grew in the openings of the woods, and the roads were bordered by hedges of rose-trees. the freshness of the air, too, giving tension to the nerves, was favourable to the health of europeans. from those heights, situated near the middle of the island, and surrounded by extensive forests, neither the sea, nor port louis, nor the church of the shaddock grove, nor any other object associated with the remembrance of virginia could de discerned. even the mountains, which present various shapes on the side of port louis, appear from hence like a long promontory, in a straight and perpendicular line, from which arise lofty pyramids of rock, whose summits are enveloped in the clouds. conducting paul to these scenes, i kept him continually in action, walking with him in rain and sunshine, by day and by night. i sometimes wandered with him into the depths of the forests, or led him over untilled grounds, hoping that change of scene and fatigue might divert his mind from its gloomy meditations. but the soul of a lover finds everywhere the traces of the beloved object. night and day, the calm of solitude and the tumult of crowds, are to him the same; time itself, which casts the shade of oblivion over so many other remembrances, in vain would tear that tender and sacred recollection from the heart. the needle, when touched by the loadstone, however it may have been moved from its position, is no sooner left to repose, than it returns to the pole of its attraction. so, when i inquired of paul, as we wandered amidst the plains of williams,--"where shall we now go?" he pointed to the north, and said, "yonder are our mountains; let us return home." i now saw that all the means i took to divert him from his melancholy were fruitless, and that no resource was left but an attempt to combat his passion by the arguments which reason suggested i answered him,--"yes, there are the mountains where once dwelt your beloved virginia; and here is the picture you gave her, and which she held, when dying, to her heart--that heart, which even in its last moments only beat for you." i then presented to paul the little portrait which he had given to virginia on the borders of the cocoa-tree fountain. at this sight a gloomy joy overspread his countenance. he eagerly seized the picture with his feeble hands, and held it to his lips. his oppressed bosom seemed ready to burst with emotion, and his eyes were filled with tears which had no power to flow. "my son," said i, "listen to one who is your friend, who was the friend of virginia, and who, in the bloom of your hopes, has often endeavoured to fortify your mind against the unforeseen accidents of life. what do you deplore with so much bitterness? is it your own misfortunes, or those of virginia, which affect you so deeply? "your own misfortunes are indeed severe. you have lost the most amiable of girls, who would have grown up to womanhood a pattern to her sex, one who sacrificed her own interests to yours: who preferred you to all that fortune could bestow, and considered you as the only recompense worthy of her virtues. "but might not this very object, from whom you expected the purest happiness, have proved to you a source of the most cruel distress? she had returned poor and disinherited; all you could henceforth have partaken with her was your labour. rendered more delicate by her education, and more courageous by her misfortunes, you might have beheld her every day sinking beneath her efforts to share and lighten your fatigues. had she brought you children, they would only have served to increase her anxieties and your own, from the difficulty of sustaining at once your aged parents and your infant family. "very likely you will tell me that the governor would have helped you; but how do you know that in a colony where governors are so frequently changed, you would have had others like monsieur de la bourdonnais?--that one might not have been sent destitute of good feeling and of morality?--that your young wife, in order, to procure some miserable pittance, might not have been obliged to seek his favour? had she been weak you would have been to be pitied; and if she had remained virtuous, you would have continued poor: forced even to consider yourself fortunate if, on account of the beauty and virtue of your wife, you had not to endure persecution from those who had promised you protection. "it would have remained to you, you may say, to have enjoyed a pleasure independent of fortune,--that of protecting a loved being, who, in proportion to her own helplessness, had more attached herself to you. you may fancy that your pains and sufferings would have served to endear you to each other, and that your passion would have gathered strength from your mutual misfortunes. undoubtedly virtuous love does find consolation even in such melancholy retrospects. but virginia is no more; yet those persons still live, whom, next to yourself, she held most dear; her mother, and your own: your inconsolable affliction is bringing them both to the grave. place your happiness, as she did hers, in affording them succour. my son, beneficence is the happiness of the virtuous: there is no greater or more certain enjoyment on the earth. schemes of pleasure, repose, luxuries, wealth, and glory are not suited to man, weak, wandering, and transitory as he is. see how rapidly one step towards the acquisition of fortune has precipitated us all to the lowest abyss of misery! you were opposed to it, it is true; but who would not have thought that virginia's voyage would terminate in her happiness and your own? an invitation from a rich and aged relation, the advice of a wise governor, the approbation of the whole colony, and the well-advised authority of her confessor, decided the lot of virginia. thus do we run to our ruin, deceived even by the prudence of those who watch over us: it would be better, no doubt, not to believe them, nor even to listen to the voice or lean on the hopes of a deceitful world. but all men,--those you see occupied in these plains, those who go abroad to seek their fortunes, and those in europe who enjoy repose from the labours of others, are liable to reverses! not one is secure from losing, at some period, all that he most values,--greatness, wealth, wife, children, and friends. most of these would have their sorrow increased by the remembrance of their own imprudence. but you have nothing with which you can reproach yourself. you have been faithful in your love. in the bloom of youth, by not departing from the dictates of nature, you evinced the wisdom of a sage. your views were just, because they were pure, simple, and disinterested. you had, besides, on virginia, sacred claims which nothing could countervail. you have lost her: but it is neither your own imprudence, nor your avarice, nor your false wisdom which has occasioned this misfortune, but the will of god, who had employed the passions of others to snatch from you the object of your love; god, from whom you derive everything, who knows what is most fitting for you, and whose wisdom has not left you any cause for the repentance and despair which succeed the calamities that are brought upon us by ourselves. "vainly, in your misfortunes, do you say to yourself, 'i have not deserved them.' is it then the calamity of virginia--her death and her present condition that you deplore? she has undergone the fate allotted to all,--to high birth, to beauty, and even to empires themselves. the life of man, with all his projects, may be compared to a tower, at whose summit is death. when your virginia was born, she was condemned to die; happily for herself, she is released from life before losing her mother, or yours, or you; saved, thus from undergoing pangs worse than those of death itself. "learn then, my son, that death is a benefit to all men: it is the night of that restless day we call by the name of life. the diseases, the griefs, the vexations, and the fears, which perpetually embitter our life as long as we possess it, molest us no more in the sleep of death. if you inquire into the history of those men who appear to have been the happiest, you will find that they have bought their apparent felicity very dear; public consideration, perhaps, by domestic evils; fortune, by the loss of health; the rare happiness of being loved, by continual sacrifices; and often, at the expiration of a life devoted to the good of others, they see themselves surrounded only by false friends, and ungrateful relations. but virginia was happy to her very last moment. when with us, she was happy in partaking of the gifts of nature; when far from us, she found enjoyment in the practice of virtue; and even at the terrible moment in which we saw her perish, she still had cause for self-gratulation. for, whether she cast her eyes on the assembled colony, made miserable by her expected loss, or on you, my son, who, with so much intrepidity, were endeavouring to save her, she must have seen how dear she was to all. her mind was fortified against the future by the remembrance of her innocent life; and at that moment she received the reward which heaven reserves for virtue,--a courage superior to danger. she met death with a serene countenance. "my son! god gives all the trials of life to virtue, in order to show that virtue alone can support them, and even find in them happiness and glory. when he designs for it an illustrious reputation, he exhibits it on a wide theatre, and contending with death. then does the courage of virtue shine forth as an example, and the misfortunes to which it has been exposed receive for ever, from posterity, the tribute of their tears. this is the immortal monument reserved for virtue in a world where every thing else passes away, and where the names, even of the greater number of kings themselves, are soon buried in eternal oblivion. "meanwhile virginia still exists. my son, you see that every thing changes on this earth, but that nothing is ever lost. no art of man can annihilate the smallest particle of matter; can, then, that which has possessed reason, sensibility, affection, virtue, and religion be supposed capable of destruction, when the very elements with which it is clothed are imperishable? ah! however happy virginia may have been with us, she is now much more so. there is a god, my son; it is unnecessary for me to prove it to you, for the voice of all nature loudly proclaims it. the wickedness of mankind leads them to deny the existence of a being, whose justice they fear. but your mind is fully convinced of his existence, while his works are ever before your eyes. do you then believe that he would leave virginia without recompense? do you think that the same power which inclosed her noble soul in a form so beautiful,--so like an emanation from itself, could not have saved her from the waves?--that he who has ordained the happiness of man here, by laws unknown to you, cannot prepare a still higher degree of felicity for virginia by other laws, of which you are equally ignorant? before we were born into this world, could we, do you imagine, even if we were capable of thinking at all, have formed any idea of our existence here? and now that we are in the middle of this gloomy and transitory life, can we foresee what is beyond the tomb, or in what manner we shall be emancipated from it? does god, like man, need this little globe, the earth, as a theatre for the display of his intelligence and his goodness?--and can he only dispose of human life in the territory of death? there is not, in the entire ocean, a single drop of water which is not peopled with living beings appertaining to man: and does there exist nothing for him in the heavens above his head? what! is there no supreme intelligence, no divine goodness, except on this little spot where we are placed? in those innumerable glowing fires,--in those infinite fields of light which surround them, and which neither storms nor darkness can extinguish, is there nothing but empty space and an eternal void? if we, weak and ignorant as we are, might dare to assign limits to that power from whom we have received every thing, we might possibly imagine that we were placed on the very confines of his empire, where life is perpetually struggling with death, and innocence for ever in danger from the power of tyranny! "somewhere, then, without doubt, there is another world, where virtue will receive its reward. virginia is now happy. ah! if from the abode of angels she could hold communication with you, she would tell you, as she did when she bade you her last adieus,--'o, paul! life is but a scene of trial. i have been obedient to the laws of nature, love, and virtue. i crossed the seas to obey the will of my relations; i sacrificed wealth in order to keep my faith; and i preferred the loss of life to disobeying the dictates of modesty. heaven found that i had fulfilled my duties, and has snatched me for ever from all the miseries i might have endured myself, and all i might have felt for the miseries of others. i am placed far above the reach of all human evils, and you pity me! i am become pure and unchangeable as a particle of light, and you would recall me to the darkness of human life! o, paul! o, my beloved friend! recollect those days of happiness, when in the morning we felt the delightful sensations excited by the unfolding beauties of nature; when we seemed to rise with the sun to the peaks of those rocks, and then to spread with his rays over the bosom of the forests. we experienced a delight, the cause of which we could not comprehend. in the innocence of our desires, we wished to be all sight, to enjoy the rich colours of the early dawn; all smell, to taste a thousand perfumes at once; all hearing, to listen to the singing of our birds; and all heart, to be capable of gratitude for those mingled blessings. now, at the source of the beauty whence flows all that is delightful upon earth, my soul intuitively sees, hears, touches, what before she could only be made sensible of through the medium of our weak organs. ah! what language can describe these shores of eternal bliss, which i inhabit for ever! all that infinite power and heavenly goodness could create to console the unhappy: all that the friendship of numberless beings, exulting in the same felicity can impart, we enjoy in unmixed perfection. support, then, the trial which is now allotted to you, that you may heighten the happiness of your virginia by love which will know no termination,--by a union which will be eternal. there i will calm your regrets, i will wipe away your tears. oh, my beloved friend! my youthful husband! raise your thoughts towards the infinite, to enable you to support the evils of a moment.'" my own emotion choked my utterance. paul, looking at me steadfastly, cried,--"she is no more! she is no more!" and a long fainting fit succeeded these words of woe. when restored to himself, he said, "since death is good, and since virginia is happy, i will die too, and be united to virginia." thus the motives of consolation i had offered, only served to nourish his despair. i was in the situation of a man who attempts to save a friend sinking in the midst of a flood, and who obstinately refuses to swim. sorrow had completely overwhelmed his soul. alas! the trials of early years prepare man for the afflictions of after-life; but paul had never experienced any. i took him back to his own dwelling, where i found his mother and madame de la tour in a state of increased languor and exhaustion, but margaret seemed to droop the most. lively characters, upon whom petty troubles have but little effect, sink the soonest under great calamities. "o my good friend," said margaret, "i thought last night i saw virginia, dressed in white, in the midst of groves and delicious gardens. she said to me, 'i enjoy the most perfect happiness:' and then approaching paul with a smiling air, she bore him away with her. while i was struggling to retain my son, i felt that i myself too was quitting the earth, and that i followed with inexpressible delight. i then wished to bid my friend farewell, when i saw that she was hastening after me, accompanied by mary and domingo. but the strangest circumstance remains yet to be told; madame de la tour has this very night had a dream exactly like mine in every possible respect." "my dear friend," i replied, "nothing, i firmly believe, happens in this world without the permission of god. future events, too, are sometimes revealed in dreams." madame de la tour then related to me her dream which was exactly the same as margaret's in every particular; and as i had never observed in either of these ladies any propensity to superstition, i was struck with the singular coincidence of their dreams, and i felt convinced that they would soon be realized. the belief that future events are sometimes revealed to us during sleep, is one that is widely diffused among the nations of the earth. the greatest men of antiquity have had faith in it; among whom may be mentioned alexander the great, julius caesar, the scipios, the two catos, and brutus, none of whom were weak-minded persons. both the old and the new testament furnish us with numerous instances of dreams that came to pass. as for myself, i need only, on this subject, appeal to my experience, as i have more than once had good reason to believe that superior intelligences, who interest themselves in our welfare, communicate with us in these visions of the night. things which surpass the light of human reason cannot be proved by arguments derived from that reason; but still, if the mind of man is an image of that of god, since man can make known his will to the ends of the earth by secret missives, may not the supreme intelligence which governs the universe employ similar means to attain a like end? one friend consoles another by a letter, which, after passing through many kingdoms, and being in the hands of various individuals at enmity with each other, brings at last joy and hope to the breast of a single human being. may not in like manner the sovereign protector of innocence come in some secret way, to the help of a virtuous soul, which puts its trust in him alone? has he occasion to employ visible means to effect his purpose in this, whose ways are hidden in all his ordinary works? why should we doubt the evidence of dreams? for what is our life, occupied as it is with vain and fleeting imaginations, other than a prolonged vision of the night? whatever may be thought of this in general, on the present occasion the dreams of my friends were soon realized. paul expired two months after the death of his virginia, whose name dwelt on his lips in his expiring moments. about a week after the death of her son, margaret saw her last hour approach with that serenity which virtue only can feel. she bade madame de la tour a most tender farewell, "in the certain hope," she said, "of a delightful and eternal re-union. death is the greatest of blessings to us," added she, "and we ought to desire it. if life be a punishment, we should wish for its termination; if it be a trial, we should be thankful that it is short." the governor took care of domingo and mary, who were no longer able to labour, and who survived their mistresses but a short time. as for poor fidele, he pined to death, soon after he had lost his master. i afforded an asylum in my dwelling to madame de la tour, who bore up under her calamities with incredible elevation of mind. she had endeavoured to console paul and margaret till their last moments, as if she herself had no misfortunes of her own to bear. when they were not more, she used to talk to me every day of them as of beloved friends, who were still living near her. she survived them however, but one month. far from reproaching her aunt for the afflictions she had caused, her benign spirit prayed to god to pardon her, and to appease that remorse which we heard began to torment her, as soon as she had sent virginia away with so much inhumanity. conscience, that certain punishment of the guilty, visited with all its terrors the mind of this unnatural relation. so great was her torment, that life and death became equally insupportable to her. sometimes she reproached herself with the untimely fate of her lovely niece, and with the death of her mother, which had immediately followed it. at other times she congratulated herself for having repulsed far from her two wretched creatures, who, she said, had both dishonoured their family by their grovelling inclinations. sometimes, at the sight of the many miserable objects with which paris abounds, she would fly into a rage, and exclaim,--"why are not these idle people sent off to the colonies?" as for the notions of humanity, virtue and religion, adopted by all nations, she said, they were only the inventions of their rulers, to serve political purposes. then, flying all at once to the other extreme, she abandoned herself to superstitious terrors, which filled her with mortal fears. she would then give abundant alms to the wealthy ecclesiastics who governed her, beseeching them to appease the wrath of god by the sacrifice of her fortune,--as if the offering to him of the wealth she had withheld from the miserable could please her heavenly father! in her imagination she often beheld fields of fire, with burning mountains, wherein hideous spectres wandered about, loudly calling on her by name. she threw herself at her confessor's feet, imagining every description of agony and torture; for heaven--just heaven, always sends to the cruel the most frightful views of religion and a future state. atheist, thus, and fanatic in turn, holding both life and death in equal horror, she lived on for several years. but what completed the torments of her miserable existence, was that very object to which she had sacrificed every natural affection. she was deeply annoyed at perceiving that her fortune must go, at her death, to relations whom she hated, and she determined to alienate as much of it as she could. they, however, taking advantage of her frequent attacks of low spirits, caused her to be secluded as a lunatic, and her affairs to be put into the hands of trustees. her wealth, thus completed her ruin; and, as the possession of it had hardened her own heart, so did its anticipation corrupt the hearts of those who coveted it from her. at length she died; and, to crown her misery, she retained enough reason at last to be sensible that she was plundered and despised by the very persons whose opinions had been her rule of conduct during her whole life. on the same spot, and at the foot of the same shrubs as his virginia, was deposited the body of paul; and round about them lie the remains of their tender mothers and their faithful servants. no marble marks the spot of their humble graves, no inscription records their virtues; but their memory is engraven upon the hearts of those whom they have befriended, in indelible characters. their spirits have no need of the pomp, which they shunned during their life; but if they still take an interest in what passes upon earth, they no doubt love to wander beneath the roofs of these humble dwellings, inhabited by industrious virtue, to console poverty discontented with its lot, to cherish in the hearts of lovers the sacred flame of fidelity, and to inspire a taste for the blessings of nature, a love of honest labour, and a dread of the allurements of riches. the voice of the people, which is often silent with regard to the monuments raised to kings, has given to some parts of this island names which will immortalize the loss of virginia. near the isle of amber, in the midst of sandbanks, is a spot called the pass of the saint-geran, from the name of the vessel which was there lost. the extremity of that point of land which you see yonder, three leagues off, half covered with water, and which the saint-geran could not double the night before the hurricane, is called the cape of misfortune; and before us, at the end of the valley, is the bay of the tomb, where virginia was found buried in the sand; as if the waves had sought to restore her corpse to her family, that they might render it the last sad duties on those shores where so many years of her innocent life had been passed. joined thus in death, ye faithful lovers, who were so tenderly united! unfortunate mothers! beloved family! these woods which sheltered you with their foliage,--these fountains which flowed for you,--these hill-sides upon which you reposed, still deplore your loss! no one has since presumed to cultivate that desolate spot of land, or to rebuild those humble cottages. your goats are become wild: your orchards are destroyed; your birds are all fled, and nothing is heard but the cry of the sparrow-hawk, as it skims in quest of prey around this rocky basin. as for myself, since i have ceased to behold you, i have felt friendless and alone, like a father bereft of his children, or a traveller who wanders by himself over the face of the earth. ending with these words, the good old man retired, bathed in tears; and my own, too, had flowed more than once during this melancholy recital. [illustration: cover art] [frontispiece: john norton] how john norton the trapper kept his christmas by w. h. h. murray boston: de wolfe, fiske & co. and washington street. copyright, , by de wolfe, fiske & co. how john norton the trapper kept his christmas. i. a cabin. a cabin in the woods. in the cabin a great fireplace piled high with logs, fiercely ablaze. on either side of the broad hearth-stone a hound sat on his haunches, looking gravely, as only a hound in a meditative mood can, into the glowing fire. in the centre of the cabin, whose every nook and corner was bright with the ruddy firelight, stood a wooden table, strongly built and solid. at the table sat john norton, poring over a book,--a book large of size, with wooden covers bound in leather, brown with age, and smooth as with the handling of many generations. the whitened head of the old man was bowed over the broad page, on which one hand rested, with the forefinger marking the sentence. a cabin in the woods filled with firelight, a table, a book, an old man studying the book. this was the scene on christmas eve. outside, the earth was white with snow, and in the blue sky above the snow was the white moon. "it says here," said the trapper, speaking to himself, "it says here, 'give to him that lacketh, and from him that hath not, withhold not thine hand.' it be a good sayin' fur sartin; and the world would be a good deal better off, as i conceit, ef the folks follered the sayin' a leetle more closely." and here the old man paused a moment, and, with his hand still resting on the page, and his forefinger still pointing at the sentence, seemed pondering what he had been reading. at last he broke the silence again, saying,-- "yis, the world would be a good deal better off, ef the folks in it follered the sayin';" and then he added, "there's another spot in the book i'd orter look at to-night; it's a good ways furder on, but i guess i can find it. henry says that the furder on you git in the book, the better it grows, and i conceit the boy may be right; for there be a good deal of murderin' and fightin' in the fore part of the book, that don't make pleasant readin', and what the lord wanted to put it in fur is a good deal more than a man without book-larnin' can understand. murderin' be murderin', whether it be in the bible or out of the bible; and puttin' it in the bible, and sayin' it was done by the lord's commandment, don't make it any better. and a good deal of the fightin' they did in the old time was sartinly without reason and ag'in jedgment, specially where they killed the women-folks and the leetle uns." and while the old man had thus been communicating with himself, touching the character of much of the old testament, he had been turning the leaves until he had reached the opening chapters of the new, and had come to the description of the saviour's birth, and the angelic announcement of it on the earth. here he paused, and began to read. he read as an old man unaccustomed to letters must read,--slowly and with a show of labor, but with perfect contentment as to his progress, and a brightening face. "this isn't a trail a man can hurry on onless he spends a good deal of his time on it, or is careless about notin' the signs, fur the words be weighty, and a man must stop at each word, and look around awhile, in order to git all the meanin' out of 'em--yis, a man orter travel this trail a leetle slow, ef he wants to see all there is to see on it." then the old man began to read:-- "'then there was with the angels a multitude of the heavenly host,'--the exact number isn't sot down here," he muttered; "but i conceit there may have been three or four hunderd,--'praisin' god and singin', glory to god in the highest, and on 'arth, peace to men of good will.' that's right," said the trapper. "yis, peace to men of good will. that be the sort that desarve peace; the other kind orter stand their chances." and here the old man closed the book,--closed it slowly, and with the care we take of a treasured thing; closed it, fastened the clasps, and carried it to the great chest whence he had taken it, putting it away in its place. having done this, he returned to his seat, and, moving the chair in front of the fire, he looked first at one hound, and then at the other, and said, "pups, this be christmas eve, and i sartinly trust ye be grateful fur the comforts ye have." he said this deliberately, as if addressing human companions. the two hounds turned their heads toward their master, looked placidly into his face, and wagged their tails. [illustration: the two hounds turned their heads toward their master.] "yis, yis, i understand ye," said the trapper, "ye both be comfortable, and, i dare say, that arter yer way ye both be grateful, fur, next to eatin', a dog loves the heat, and ye be nigh enough to the logs to be toastin'. yis, this be christmas eve," continued the old man, "and in the settlements the folks be gittin' ready their gifts. the young people be tyin' up the evergreens, and the leetle uns be onable to sleep because of their dreamin'. it's a pleasant pictur', and i sartinly wish i could see the merrymakin's, as henry has told me of them, some time, but i trust it may be in his own house, and with his own children." with this pleasant remark, in respect to the one he loved so well, the old man lapsed into silence. but the peaceful contentment of his face, as the firelight revealed it, showed plainly that, though his lips moved not, his mind was still active with pleasant thoughts of the one whose name he had mentioned, and whom he so fondly loved. at last a more sober look came to his countenance,--a look of regret, of self-reproach, the look of a man who remembers something he should not have forgotten,--and he said,-- "i ax the lord to pardin me, that in the midst of my plenty i have forgot them that may be in want. the shanty sartinly looked open enough the last time i fetched the trail past the clearin', and though with the help of the moss and the clay in the bank she might make it comfortable, yit, ef the vagabond that be her husband has forgot his own, and desarted them, as wild bill said he had, i doubt ef there be victuals enough in the shanty to keep them from starvin'. yis, pups," said the old man, rising, "it'll be a good tramp through the snow, but we'll go in the mornin', and see ef the woman be in want. the boy himself said, when he stopped at the shanty last summer, afore he went out, that he didn't see how they was to git through the winter, and i reckon he left the woman some money, by the way she follered him toward the boat; and he told me to bear them in mind when the snow came, and see to it they didn't suffer. i might as well git the pack-basket out, and begin to put the things in't, fur it be a goodly distance, and an early start will make the day pleasant to the woman and the leetle uns, ef vict'als be scant in the cupboard. yis, i'll git the pack-basket out, and look round a leetle, and see what i can find to take 'em. i don't conceit it'll make much of a show, fur what might be good fur a man, won't be of sarvice to a woman; and as fur the leetle uns, i don't know ef i've got a single thing but vict'als that'll fit 'em. lord! ef i was near the settlements, i might swap a dozen skins fur jest what i wanted to give 'em; but i'll git the basket out, and look round and see what i've got." in a moment the great pack-basket had been placed in the middle of the floor, and the trapper was busy overhauling his stores to see what he could find that would make a fitting christmas gift for those he was to visit on the morrow. a canister of tea was first deposited on the table, and, after he had smelled of it, and placed a few grains of it on his tongue, like a connoisseur, he proceeded to pour more than half of its contents into a little bark box, and, having carefully tied the cover, he placed it in the basket. "the yarb be of the best," said the old man, putting his nose to the mouth of the canister, and taking a long sniff before he inserted the stopple--"the yarb be of the best, fur the smell of it goes into the nose strong as mustard. that be good fur the woman fur sartin, and will cheer her sperits when she be downhearted; fur a woman takes as naterally to tea as an otter to his slide, and i warrant it'll be an amazin' comfort to her, arter the day's work be over, more specially ef the work had been heavy, and gone sorter crosswise. yis, the yarb be good fur a woman when things go crosswise, and the box'll be a great help to her many and many a night beyend doubt. the lord sartinly had women in mind when he made the yarb, and a kindly feelin' fur their infarmities, and, i dare say, they be grateful accordin' to their knowledge." a large cake of maple-sugar followed the tea into the basket, and a small chest of honey accompanied it. "that's honest sweetenin'," remarked the trapper with decided emphasis; "and that is more'n ye can say of the sugar of the settlements, leastwise ef a man can jedge by the stuff they peddle at the clearin'. the bees be no cheats; and a man who taps his own trees, and biles the runnin' into sugar under his own eye, knows what kind of sweetenin' he's gittin'. the woman won't find any sand in her teeth when she takes a bite from that loaf, or stirs a leetle of the honey in the cup she's steepin'." some salt and pepper were next added to the packages already in the basket. a sack of flour and another of indian-meal followed. a generous round of pork, and a bag of jerked venison, that would balance a twenty-pound weight, at least, went into the pack. on these, several large-sized salmon-trout, that had been smoked by the trapper's best skill, were laid. these offerings evidently exhausted the old man's resources, for, after looking round a while, and searching the cupboard from bottom to top, he returned to the basket, and contemplated it with satisfaction, indeed, yet with a face slightly shaded with disappointment. "the vict'als be all right," he said, "fur there be enough to last 'em a month, and they needn't scrimp themselves either. but eatin' isn't all, and the leetle uns was nigh on to naked the last time i seed 'em; and the woman's dress, in spite of the patchin', looked as ef it would desart her, ef she didn't keep a close eye on't. lord! lord! what shall i do? fur there's room enough in the basket, and the woman and the leetle uns need garments; that is, it's more'n likely they do, and i haven't a garment in the cabin to take 'em." "hillo! hillo! john norton! john norton! hillo!" the voice came sharp and clear, cutting keenly through the frosty air and the cabin walls. "john norton!" "wild bill!" exclaimed the trapper. "i sartinly hope the vagabond hasn't been a-drinkin'. his voice sounds as ef he was sober; but the chances be ag'in the signs, fur, ef he isn't drunk, the marcy of the lord or the scarcity of liquor has kept him from it. i'll go to the door, and see what he wants. it's sartinly too cold to let a man stand in the holler long, whether he be sober or drunk;" with which remark the trapper stepped to the door, and flung it open. "what is it, wild bill? what is it?" he called. "be ye drunk, or be ye sober, that ye stand there shoutin' in the cold with a log cabin within a dozen rods of ye?" "sober, john norton, sober. sober as a moravian preacher at a funeral." "yer trappin' must have been mighty poor, then, wild bill, for the last month, or the dutchman at the clearin' has watered his liquor by a wrong measure for once. but ef ye be sober, why do ye stand there whoopin' like an indian, when the ambushment is onkivered and the bushes be alive with the knaves? why don't ye come into the cabin, like a sensible man, ef ye be sober? the signs be ag'in ye, wild bill; yis, the signs be ag'in ye." "come into the cabin!" retorted bill. "an' so i would mighty lively, ef i could; but the load is heavy, and your path is as slippery as the plank over the creek at the dutchman's, when i've two horns aboard." "load! what load have ye been draggin' through the woods?" exclaimed the trapper. "ye talk as ef my cabin was the dutchman's, and ye was balancin' on the plank at this minit." "come and see for yourself," answered wild bill, "and give me a lift. once in your cabin, and in front of your fire, i'll answer all the questions you may ask. but i'll answer no more until i'm inside the door." "ye be sartinly sober to-night," answered the trapper, laughing, as he started down the hill, "fur ye talk sense, and that's more'n a man can do when he talks through the nozzle of a bottle. "lord-a-massy!" exclaimed the old man as he stood over the sled, and saw the huge box that was on it. "lord-a-massy, bill! what a tug ye must have had! and how ye come to be sober with sech a load behind ye is beyend the reckinin' of a man who has knowed ye nigh on to twenty year. i never knowed ye disappoint one arter this fashion afore." "it is strange, i confess," answered wild bill, appreciating the humor that lurked in the honesty of the old man's utterance. "it is strange, that's a fact, for it's christmas eve, and i ought to be roaring drunk at the dutchman's this very minit, according to custom; but i pledged him to get the box through jest as he wanted it done, and that i wouldn't touch a drop of liquor until i had done it. and here it is according to promise, for here i am sober, and here is his box." "h'ist along, bill, h'ist along!" exclaimed the trapper, who suddenly became alive with interest, for he surmised whence the box had come. "h'ist along, bill, i say, and have done with yer talkin', and let's see what ye have got on yer sled. it's strange that a man of your sense will stand jibberin' here in the snow with a roarin' fire within a dozen rods of ye." whatever retort wild bill may have contemplated, it was effectually prevented by the energy with which the trapper pushed the sled after him. indeed, it was all he could do to keep it off his heels, so earnestly did the old man propel it from behind; and so, with many a slip and scramble on the part of wild bill, and a continued muttering on the part of the trapper about the "nonsense of a man's jibberin' in the snow arter a twenty-mile drag, with a good fire within a dozen rods of him," the sled was shot through the doorway into the cabin, and stood fully revealed in the bright blaze of the firelight. "take off yer coat and yer moccasins, wild bill," exclaimed the trapper, as he closed the door, "and git in front of the fire; pull out the coals, and set the tea-pot a-steepin'. the yarb will take the chill out of ye better than the pizen of the dutchman. ye'll find a haunch of venison in the cupboard that i roasted to-day, and some johnny-cake; i doubt ef either be cold. help yerself, help yerself, bill, while i take a peep at the box." no one can appreciate the intensity of the old man's feelings in reference to the mysterious box, unless he calls to mind the strictness with which he was wont to interpret and fulfil the duties of hospitality. to him the coming of a guest was a welcome event, and the service which the latter might require of the host both a sacred and pleasant obligation. to serve a guest with his own hand, which he did with a natural courtesy peculiar to himself, was his delight. nor did it matter with him what the quality of the guest might be. the wandering trapper or the vagabond indian was served with as sincere attention as the richest visitor from the city. but now his feelings were so stirred by the sight of the box thus strangely brought to him, and by his surmise touching who the sender might be, that wild bill was left to help himself without the old man's attendance. it was evident that bill was equal to the occasion, and was not aware of the slightest neglect. at least, his actions were not, by the neglect of the trapper, rendered less decided, or the quality of his appetite affected, for the examination he made of the old man's cupboard, and the familiarity with which he handled the contents, made it evident that he was not in the least abashed, or uncertain how to proceed; for he attacked the provisions with the energy of a man who had fasted long, and who has at last not only come suddenly to an ample supply of food, but also feels that for a few moments, at least, he will be unobserved. the trapper turned toward the box, and approached it for a deliberate examination. "the boards be sawed," he said, "and they come from the mills of the settlement, for the smoothin'-plane has been over 'em." then he inspected the jointing, and noted how truly the edges were drawn. "the box has come a goodly distance," he said to himself, "fur there isn't a workman this side of the horicon that could j'int it in that fashion. there sartinly orter be some letterin', or a leetle bit of writin', somewhere about the chest, tellin' who the box belonged to, and to whom it was sent." saying this, the old man unlashed the box from the sled, and rolled it over, so that the side might come uppermost. as no direction appeared on the smoothly planed surface, he rolled it half over again. a little white card neatly tacked to the board was now revealed. the trapper stooped, and on the card read,-- john norton, to the care of wild bill. "yis, the 'j' be his'n," muttered the old man, as he spelled out the word j-o-h-n, "and the big 'n' be as plain as an otter-trail in the snow. the boy don't make his letters over-plain, as i conceit, but the 'j' and the 'n' be his'n." and then he paused for a full minute, his head bowed over the box. "the boy don't forgit," he murmured, and he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "the boy don't forgit." and then he added, "no, he isn't one of the forgittin' kind. wild bill," said the trapper, as he turned toward that personage, whose attack on the venison haunch was as determined as ever, "wild bill, this box be from henry!" "i shouldn't wonder," answered that individual, speaking from a mass of edibles that filled his mouth. "and it be a christmas gift!" continued the old man. "it looks so," returned bill, as laconically as before. "and it be a mighty heavy box!" said the trapper. "you'd 'a' thought so, if you had dragged it over the mile-and-a-half carry. it was good sleddin' on the river, but the carry took the stuff out of me." "very like, very like," responded the trapper; "fur the gullies be deep on the carry, and it must have been slippery haulin'. didn't ye git a leetle 'arnest in yer feelin's, bill, afore ye got to the top of the last ridge?" "old man," answered bill as he wheeled his chair toward the trapper, with a pint cup of tea in the one hand, and wiping his mustache with the coat-sleeve of the other, "i got it to the top three times, or within a dozen feet from the top, and each time it got away from me and went to the bottom agin; for the roots was slippery, and i couldn't git a grip on the toe of my moccasins; but i held on the rope, and i got to the bottom neck and neck with the sled every time." "ye did well, ye did well," responded the trapper, laughing; "fur a loaded sled goes down-hill mighty fast when the slide is a steep un, and a man who gits to the bottom as quick as the sled must have a good grip, and be considerably in 'arnest. but ye got her up finally by the same path, didn't ye?" "yes, i got her up," returned bill. "the fourth time i went for that ridge, i fetched her to the top, for i was madder than a hornet." "and what did ye do, bill?" continued the trapper. "what did ye do when ye got to the top?" "i jest tied that sled to a sapling so it wouldn't git away agin, and i got on to the top of that box, and i talked to that gulch a minit or two in a way that satisfied my feelings." "i shouldn't wonder," answered the trapper, laughing, "fur ye must have been a good deal riled. but ye did well to git the box through, and ye got here in time, and ye've 'arnt yer wages; and now, ef ye'll tell me how much i am to pay ye, ye shall have yer money, and ye needn't scrimp yourself on the price, wild bill, for the drag has been a hard un; so tell me yer price, and i'll count ye out the money." "old man," answered bill, "i didn't bring that box through for money, and i won't take a"-- perhaps wild bill was about to emphasize his refusal by some verbal addition to the simple statement, but, if it was his intention, he checked himself, and said, "a cent." "it's well said," answered the trapper; "yis, it's well said, and does jestice to yer feelin's, i don't doubt; but an extra pair of breeches one of these days wouldn't hurt ye, and the money won't come amiss." "i tell ye, old man," returned wild bill earnestly, "i won't take a cent. i'll allow there's several colors in my trousers, for i've patched in a dozen different pieces off and on, and i doubt, as ye hint, if the patching holds together much longer; but i've eaten at your table and slept in your cabin more than once, john norton, and whether i've come to it sober or drunk, your door was never shut in my face, and i don't forget either that the man who sent you that box fished me from the creek one day, when i had walked into it with two bottles of the dutchman's whiskey in my pocket, and not one cent of your money or his will i take for bringing the box in to you." "have it yer own way, ef ye will," said the trapper; "but i won't forgit the deed ye have did, and the boy won't forgit it neither. come, let's clear away the vict'als, and we'll open the box. it's sartinly a big un, and i would like to see what he has put inside of it." the opening of the box was a spectacle such as gladdens the heart to see. at such moments the countenance of the trapper was as facile in the changefulness of its expression as that of a child. the passing feelings of his soul found an adequate mirror in his face, as the white clouds of a summer day find full reflection in the depth of a tranquil lake. he was not too old or too learned to be wise, for the wisdom of hearty happiness was his,--the wisdom of being glad, and gladly showing it. as for wild bill, the best of his nature was in the ascendant, and with the curiosity and pleasure of a child, and a happiness as sincere as if the box was his own, he assisted at the opening. "the man who made this box did the work in a workmanlike fashion," said the trapper, as he strove to insert the edge of his hatchet into the jointing of the cover, "fur he shet these boards together like the teeth of a bear-trap when the bars be well 'iled. it's a pity the boy didn't send him along with the box, wild bill, fur it sartinly looks as ef we should have to kindle a fire on it, and burn a hole in through the cover." at last, by dint of great exertion, and with the assistance of wild bill and the poker, the cover of the box was wrenched off, and the contents were partially revealed. "glory to god, wild bill!" exclaimed the trapper. "here be yer breeches!" and he held up a pair of pantaloons made of the stoutest scotch stuff. "yis, here be yer breeches, fur here on the waistband be pinned a bit of paper, and on it be written, 'fur wild bill.' and here be a vest to match; and here be a jacket; and here be two pairs of socks in the pockets of the jacket; and here be two woollen shirts, one packed away in each sleeve. and here!" shouted the old man, as he turned up the lapel of the coat, "wild bill, look here! here be a five-dollar note!" and the old man swung one of the socks over his head, and shouted, "hurrah for wild bill!" and the two hounds, catching the enthusiasm of their master, lifted their muzzles into the air, and bayed deep and long, till the cabin fairly shook with the joyful uproar of man and dogs. it is doubtful if any gift ever took the recipient more by surprise than this bestowed upon wild bill. it is true that, judged by the law of strict deserts, the poor fellow had not deserved much of the world, and certainly the world had not forgotten to be strictly just in his case, for it had not given him much. it is a question if he had ever received a gift before in all his life, certainly not one of any considerable value. his reception of this generous and thoughtful provision for his wants was characteristic both of his training and his nature. the old trapper, as he had ended his cheering, flung the pantaloons, the vest, the jacket, the socks, the shirts, and the money into his lap. for a moment the poor fellow sat looking at the warm and costly garments that he held in his hands, silent in an astonishment too profound for speech, and then, recovering the use of his organs, he gasped forth,-- "i swear!" and then broke down, and sobbed like a child. the trapper, kneeling beside the box, looked at the poor fellow with a face radiant with happiness, while his mouth was stretched with laughter, utterly unconscious that tears were brimming his own eyes. "old trapper," said wild bill, rising to his feet, and holding the garments forth in his hands, "this is the first present i ever received in my life. i have been kicked and cussed, sneered at and taunted, and i deserved it all. but no man ever gave me a lift, or showed he cared a cent whether i starved or froze, lived or died. you know, john norton, what a fool i've been, and what has ruined me, and that when sober i'm more of a man than many who hoot me. and here i swear, old man, that while a button is on this jacket, or two threads of these breeches hold together, i'll never touch a drop of liquor, sick or well, living or dying, so help me god! and there's my hand on it." "amen!" exclaimed the trapper, as he sprang to his feet, and clasped in his own strong palm the hand that the other had stretched out to him. "the lord in his marcy be nigh ye when tempted, bill, and keep ye true to yer pledge!" [illustration: clasped in his own strong palm] of all the pleasant sights that the angels of god, looking from their high homes, saw on earth that christmas eve, perhaps not one was dearer in their eyes than the spectacle here described,--the two sturdy men standing with their hands clasped in solemn pledge of the reformation of the one, and the helping sympathy of the other, above that christmas-box in the cabin in the woods. it is not necessary to follow in detail the trapper's further examination of the box. the reader's imagination, assisted by many a happy reminiscence, will enable him to realize the scene. there was a small keg of powder, a large plug of lead, a little chest of tea, a bag of sugar, and also one of coffee. there were nails, matches, thread, buttons, a woollen under-jacket, a pair of mittens, and a cap of choicest fur, made of an otter's skin that henry himself had trapped a year before. all these and other packages were taken out one by one, carefully examined, and characteristically commented on by the trapper, and passed to wild bill, who in turn inspected and commented on them, and then laid them carefully on the table. beneath these packages was a thin board, constituting a sort of division between its upper and lower half. "there seems to be a sort of cellar to this box," said the trapper, as he sat looking at the division. "i shouldn't be surprised ef the boy himself was in here somewhere, so be ready, bill, fur anything, fur the lord only knows what's underneath this board." saying which, the old man thrust his hand under one end of the division, and pulled out a bundle loosely tied with a string, which became unfastened as the trapper lifted the roll from its place in the box, and, as he shook it open, and held its contents at arm's length up to the light, the startled eyes of wild bill, and the earnest gaze of the trapper, beheld a woman's dress! "heavens and 'arth, bill!" exclaimed the trapper, "what's this?" and then a flash of light crossed his face, in the illumination of which the look of wonder vanished, and, dropping upon his knees, he flung the dividing board out of the box, and his companion and himself saw at a glance what was underneath. children's shoes, and dresses of warmest stuffs; tippets and mittens; a full suit for a little boy, boots and all; a jack-knife and whistle; two dolls dressed in brave finery, with flaxen hair and blue eyes; a little hatchet; a huge ball of yarn, and a hundred and one things needed in the household; and underneath all a bible; and under that a silver star on a blue field, and pinned to the silk a scrap of paper, on which was written,-- "hang this over the picture of the lad." "ay, ay," said the trapper in a tremulous voice, as he looked at the silver star, "it shall be done as ye say, boy; but the lad has got beyend the clouds, and is walkin' a trail that is lighted from eend to eend by a light clearer and brighter than ever come from the shinin' of any star. i hope we may be found worthy to walk it with him, boy, when we, too, have come to the edge of the great clearin'." to the trapper it was perfectly evident for whom the contents of the box were intended; but the sender had left nothing in doubt, for, when the old man had lifted from the floor the board that he had flung out, he discovered some writing traced with heavy pencilling on the wood, and which without much effort he spelled out to wild bill,-- "give these on christmas day to the woman at the dismal hut, and a merry christmas to you all." "ay, ay," said the trapper, "it shall be did, barrin' accident, as ye say; and a merry christmas it'll make fur us all. lord-a-massy! what will the poor woman say when she and her leetle uns git these warm garments on? there be no trouble about fillin' the basket now; no, i sartinly can't git half of the stuff in. wild bill, i guess ye'll have to do some more sleddin' to-morrow, fur these presents must go over the mountain in the mornin', ef we have to harness up the pups." and then he told his companion of the poor woman and the children, and his intended visit to them on the morrow. "i fear," he said, "that they be havin' a hard time of it, 'specially ef her husband has desarted her." "little good would he do her, if he was with her," answered wild bill, "for he's a lazy knave when he's sober, and a thief as well, as you and i know, john norton; for he's fingered our traps more than once, and swapped the skins for liquor at the dutchman's; but he's thieved once too many times, for the folks in the settlement has ketched him in the act, and they put him in the jail for six months, as i heard day before yesterday." "i'm glad on't; yis, i'm glad on't," answered the trapper; "and i hope they'll keep him there till they've larnt him how to work. i've had my eye on the knave fur a good while, and the last time i seed him i told him ef he fingered any more of my traps, i'd larn him the commandments in a way he wouldn't forgit; and, as i had him in hand, and felt a leetle like talkin' that mornin', i gin him a piece of my mind, techin' his treatment of his wife and leetle uns, that he didn't relish, i fancy, fur he winced and squirmed like a fox in a trap. yis, i'm glad they've got the knave, and i hope they'll keep him till he's answered fur his misdoin'; but i'm sartinly afeered the poor woman be havin' a hard time of it." "i fear so, too," answered wild bill; "and if i can do anything to help you in your plans, jest say the word, and i'm your man to back or haul, jest as you want me." and so it was arranged that they should go over the mountain together on the morrow, and take the provisions and the gifts that were in the box to the poor woman; and, after talking awhile of the happiness their visit would give, the two men, happy in their thoughts, and with their hearts full of that peace which passeth the understanding of the selfish, laid themselves down to sleep; and over the two,--the one drawing to the close of an honorable and well-spent life, the other standing at the middle of a hitherto useless existence, but facing the future with a noble resolution,--over the two, as they slept, the angels of christmas kept their watch. ii. on the other side of the mountain stood the dismal hut; and the stars of that blessed eve had shone down upon the lonely clearing in which it stood, and the smooth white surface of the frozen and snow-covered lake which lay in front of it, as brightly as they had shone on the cabin of the trapper; but no friendly step had made its trail in the surrounding snow, and no blessed gift had been brought to its solitary door. as the evening wore on, the great clearing round about it remained drearily void of sound or motion, and filled only with the white stillness of the frosty, snow-lighted night. once, indeed, a wolf stole from underneath the dark balsams into the white silence, and, running up a huge log that lay aslant a ledge of rocks, looked across and round the great opening in the woods, stood a moment, then gave a shivering sort of a yelp, and scuttled back under the shadows of the forest, as if its darkness was warmer than the frozen stillness of the open space. an owl, perched somewhere amid the pine-tops, snug and warm within the cover of its arctic plumage, engaged from time to time in solemn gossip with some neighbor that lived on the opposite shore of the lake. and once a raven, roosting on the dry bough of a lightning-blasted pine, dreamed that the white moonlight was the light of dawn, and began to stir his sable wings, and croak a harsh welcome; but awakened by his blunder, and ashamed of his mistake, he broke off in the very midst of his discordant call, and again settled gloomily down amid his black plumes to his interrupted repose, making by his sudden silence the surrounding silence more silent than before. it seemed as if the very angels, who, we are taught, fly abroad over all the earth that blessed night, carrying gifts to every household, had forgotten the cabin in the woods, and had left it to the cold hospitality of unsympathetic nature. [illustration: running up a huge log that lay aslant a ledge of rocks] within the lonely hut, which thus seemed forgotten of heaven itself, sat a woman huddling her young--two girls and a boy. the fireplace was of monstrous proportions, and the chimney yawned upward so widely that one looking up the sooty passage might see the stars shining overhead. a little fire burned feebly in the huge stone recess: scant warmth might such a fire yield, kindled in such a fireplace, to those around it. indeed, the little flame seemed conscious of its own inability, and burned with a wavering and mistrustful flicker, as if it was discouraged in view of the task set before it, and had more than half concluded to go out altogether. the cabin was of large size, and undivided into apartments. the little fire was only able to illuminate the central section, and more than half of the room was hidden in utter darkness. the woman's face, which the faint flame over which she was crouched revealed with painful clearness, showed pale and haggard. the induration of exposure and the tightening lines of hunger sharpened and marred a countenance which, a happier fortune would have kept even comely. it had that old look about it which comes from wretchedness rather than age, and the weariness of its expression was pitiful to see. was it work or vain waiting for happier fortunes that made her look so tired? alas! the weariness of waiting for what we long for, and long for purely, but which never comes! is it the work or the longing--the long longing--that has put the silver in your head, friend, and scarred the smooth bloom of your cheeks, my lady, with those ugly lines? "mother, i'm hungry," said the little boy, looking up into the woman's face. "can't i have just a little more to eat?" "be still," answered the woman sharply, speaking in the tones of vexed inability. "i've given you almost the last morsel in the house." the boy said nothing more, but nestled up more closely to his mother's knee, and stuck one little stockingless foot out until the cold toes were half hidden in the ashes. o warmth! blessed warmth! how pleasant art thou to old and young alike! thou art the emblem of life, as thy absence is the evidence and sign of life's cold opposite. would that all the cold toes in the world could get to my grate to-night, and all the shivering ones be gathered to this fireside! ay, and that the children of poverty, that lack for bread, might get their hungry hands into that well-filled cupboard there, too! in a moment the woman said, "you children had better go to bed. you'll be warmer in the rags than in this miserable fireplace." the words were harshly spoken, as if the very presence of the children, cold and hungry as they were, was a vexation to her; and they moved off in obedience to her command. o cursed poverty! i know thee to be of satan, for i myself have eaten at thy scant table, and slept in thy cold bed. and never yet have i seen thee bring one smile to human lips, or dry one tear as it fell from a human eye. but i have seen thee sharpen the tongue for biting speech, and harden the tender heart. ay, i've seen thee make even the presence of love a burden, and cause the mother to wish that the puny babe nursing her scant breast had never been born. and so the children went to their unsightly bed, and silence reigned in the hut. "mother," said one of the girls, speaking out of the darkness,--"mother, isn't this christmas eve?" "yes," answered the woman sharply. "go to sleep." and again there was silence. happy is childhood, that amid whatever deprivation and misery it can so weary itself in the day that when night comes on it can lose in the forgetfulness of slumber its sorrows and wants! thus, while the children lost the sense of their unhappy surroundings, including the keen pangs of hunger, for a time, and under the tattered blankets that covered them saw, perhaps, visions of enchanting lands, and in their dreams feasted at those wonderful tables which hungry children see only in sleep, to the poor woman sitting at the failing fire there came no surcease of sorrow, and no vision threw even an evanescent brightness over the hard, cold facts of her surroundings. and the reality of her condition was dire enough, god knows. alone in the wilderness, miles from any human habitation, the trails covered deep with snow, her provisions exhausted, actual suffering already upon them, and starvation staring them squarely in the face. no wonder that her soul sank within her; no wonder that her thoughts turned toward bitterness. "yes, it's christmas eve," she muttered, "and the rich will keep it gayly. god sends them presents enough; but you see if he remembers me! oh, they may talk about the angels of christmas eve flying abroad to-night, loaded with gifts, but they'll fly mighty high above this shanty, i reckon; no, they won't even drop a piece of meat as they soar past," and so she sat muttering and moaning over her woes, and they were heavy enough,--too heavy for her poor soul, unassisted, to lift,--while the flame on the hearth grew thinner and thinner, until it had no more warmth in it than the shadow of a ghost, and, like its resemblance, was about to flit and fade away. at last she said, in a softened tone, as if the remembrance of the christmas legend had softened her surly thoughts and sweetened the bitter mood,-- "perhaps i'm wrong to take on so. perhaps it isn't god's fault that i and my children are deserted and starving. but why should the innocent be punished for the guilty, and why should the wicked have enough and to spare, while those who do no evil go half naked and starved?" alas, poor woman! that puzzle has puzzled many besides thee, and many lips besides thine have asked that question, querulously or entreatingly, many a time; but whether they asked it in vexation and rebellion of spirit, or humbly besought heaven to answer, to neither murmur nor prayer did heaven vouchsafe a response. is it because we are so small, or, being small, are so inquisitive, that the great oracle of the blue remains so dumb when we cry? at this point the poor little flame, as if unable to abide the cold much longer, flared fitfully, and uneasily shifted itself from brand to brand, threatening with many a flicker to go out; but the woman, with her elbows on her knees, and her face settled firmly between her hands, still sat with eyes that saw not the feeble flame at which they so steadily gazed. "i will do it, _i will do it!_" she suddenly exclaimed. "i will make one more effort. they shall not starve while i have strength to try. perhaps god will aid me. they say he always does at the last pinch, and he certainly sees that i am there now. i wonder if he's been waiting for me to get just where i am before he helped me? there is one more chance left, and i'll make the trial. i'll go down to the shore where i saw the big tracks in the snow. it's a long way, but i shall get there somehow. if god is going to be good to me, he won't let me freeze or faint on the way. yes, i'll creep into bed now, and try and get a little sleep, for i must be strong in the morning." and with these words the poor woman crept off to her bed, and burrowed down, more like an animal than a human being, beside her little ones, as they lay huddled close together and asleep, down in the rags. what angel was it that followed her to her miserable couch, and stirred kindly feelings in her bosom? some sweet one, surely; for she shortly lifted herself to a sitting posture, and, gently drawing down the old blanket with which the children, for warmth's sake, had wrapped their heads, looked as only a mother might at the three little faces lying side by side, and, bending tenderly over them, she placed a gentle kiss upon the forehead of each; then she nestled down again in her own place, and said, "perhaps god will help me." and with this sentence, half a prayer and half a doubt, born on the one hand from that sweet faith which never quite deserts a woman's bosom, and on the other from that bitter experience which had made her seem in her own eyes deserted of god, she fell asleep. she, too, dreamed; but her dreaming was only the prolongation of her waking thoughts; for long after her eyes closed she moved uneasily on her hard couch, and muttered, "perhaps god will. perhaps"-- sad is it for us who are old enough to have tasted the bitterness of that cup which life sooner or later presents to all lips, and have borne the burden of its toil and fretting, that our vexations and disappointments pursue us even in our slumber, disturbing our sleep with reproachful visions and the sound of voices whose upbraiding robs us of our otherwise peaceful repose. perhaps somewhere in the years to come, after much wandering and weariness, guided of god, we may come to that fountain of which the ancients dreamed, and for which the noblest among them sought so long, and died seeking; plunging into which, we shall find our lost youth in its cool depths, and, rising refreshed and strengthened, shall go on our eternal journey re-clothed with the beauty, the innocence, and the happiness of our youth. the poor woman slept uneasily, and with much muttering to herself; but the rapid hours slid noiselessly down the icy grooves of night, and soon the cold morning put its white face against the frozen windows of the east, and peered shiveringly forth. who says the earth cannot look as cold and forbidding as the human countenance? the sky hung over the frozen world like a dome of gray steel, whose invisibly matched plates were riveted here and there by a few white, gleaming stars. the surface of the snow sparkled with crystals that flashed colorlessly cold. the air seemed armed, and full of sharp, eager points that pricked the skin painfully. the great tree-trunks cracked their sharp protests against the frosty entrances being made beneath their bark. the lake, from under the smothering ice, roared in dismay and pain, and sent the thunders of its wrath at its imprisonment around the resounding shores. a bitter morn, a bitter morn,--ah me! a bitter morn for the poor! the woman, wakened by the gray light, moved in the depths of the tattered blankets, sat upright, rubbed her eyes with her hands, looked about her as if to recall her scattered senses, and then, as thought returned, crept stealthily out of the hole in which she had lain, that she might not wake the children, who, coiled together, slumbered on, still closely clasped in the arms of blessed unconsciousness. "they had better sleep," she said to herself. "if i fail to bring them meat, i hope they will never wake!" ah! if the poor woman could only have foreseen the bitter disappointment, or that other something which the future was to bring her, would she have made that prayer? is it best for us, as some say, that we cannot see what is coming, but must weep on till the last tear is shed, uncheered by the sweet fortune so nigh, or laugh unchecked until the happy tones are mingled with, and smothered by, the rising moan? is it best, i wonder? she noiselessly gathered together what additions she could make to her garments, and then, taking down the rifle from its hangings, opened the door, and stepped forth into the outer cold. there was a look of brave determination in her eyes as she faced the chilly greeting the world gave her, and with more of hopefulness than had before appeared upon her countenance, she struck bravely off along the lake shore, which at this point receded toward the mountain. for an hour she kept steadily on, with her eyes constantly on the alert for the least sign of the wished and prayed-for game. suddenly she stopped, and crouched down in the snow, peering straight ahead. well might she seek concealment, for there, standing on a point of land that jutted sharply out into the lake, not forty rods away, unscreened and plain to view, stood a buck of such goodly proportions as one even in years of hunting might not see. the woman's eyes fairly gleamed as she saw the noble animal standing thus in full sight; but who may tell the agony of fear and hope that filled her bosom! the buck stood lordly erect, facing the east, as if he would do homage to, or receive homage from, the rising sun, whose yellow beams fell full upon his uplifted front. the thought of her mind, the fear of her heart, were plain. the buck would soon move; when he moved, which way would he move? would he go from or come toward her? would she get him, or would she lose him? oh, the agony of that thought! "god of the starving," burst from her quivering lips, "let not my children die!" many prayers more ornate rose that day to him whose ears are open to all cries. but of all that prayed on that christmas morn, whether with few words or many, surely, no heart rose with the seeking words more earnestly than the poor woman kneeling as she prayed, rifle in hand, amid the snow. "god of the starving, let not my children die!" that was her prayer; and, as if in answer to her agonizing petition, the buck turned and began to advance directly toward her, browsing as he came. once he stopped, looked around, and snuffed the air suspiciously. had he scented her presence, and would he bound away? should she fire now? no; her judgment told her she could not trust the gun or her aim at such a range. he must come nigher,--come even to the big maple, and stand there, not ten rods away; then she felt sure she should get him. so she waited. oh, how the cold ate into her! how her teeth chattered as the chills ran their torturing courses through her thin, shivering frame! but still she clutched the cold barrel, and still she watched and waited, and still she prayed,-- "god of the starving, let not my children die!" alas, poor woman! my own body shivers as i think of thine, and my pen falters to write what misery befell thee on that wretched morn. did the buck turn? did he, having come so tantalizingly near, retrace his steps? no. he continued to advance. had heaven heard her prayer? her soul answered it had; and with such feelings in it toward him to whom she had appealed as she had not felt in all her life before, she steadied herself for the shot. for even as she prayed, the deer came on,--came to the big maple, and lifted his muzzle to its highest reach to seize with his tongue a thin streamer of moss that lay against the smooth bark. there he stood, his blue-brown side full toward her, unconscious of her presence. noiselessly she cocked the piece. noiselessly she raised it to her face, and with every nerve drawn to its tightest tension, sighted the noble game, and--_fired_. [illustration: the deer came to the big maple] had the frosty air watered her eye? was it a tear of joy and gratitude that dimmed the clearness of its sight? or were the half-frozen fingers unable to steady the cold barrel at the instant of its explosion? we know not. we only know that in spite of prayer, in spite of noblest effort, she missed the game. for, as the rifle cracked, the buck gave a snort of fear, and with swift bounds flew up the mountain; while the poor woman, dropping the gun with a groan, fell fainting on the snow. iii. at the same moment the rifle sounded, two men, the trapper with his pack, and wild bill with his sled heavily loaded, were descending the western slope of the mountain, not a mile from the clearing in which stood the lonely cabin. the sound of the piece brought them to a halt as quickly as if the bullet had cut through the air in front of their faces. for several minutes both stood in the attitude of listening. "down into the snow with ye, pups!" exclaimed the trapper, in a hoarse whisper. "down into the snow with ye, i say! rover, ef ye lift yer muzzle agin, i'll warm yer back with the ramrod. by the lord, bill, the buck is comin' this way; ye can see his horns lift above the leetle balsams as he breaks through the thicket yender. ef he strikes the runway, he'll sartinly come within range;" and the old trapper slipped his arms from the pack, and, lowering it to the earth, sank on his knees beside it, where he waited as motionless as if the breath had departed his body. onward came the game. as the trapper had suggested, the buck, with mighty and far-reaching bounds, cleared the shrubby obstructions, and, entering the runway, tore up the familiar path with the violence of a tornado. onward he came, his head flung upward, his antlers laid well back, tongue lolling from his mouth, and his nostrils smoking with the hot breaths that burst in streaming columns from them. not until his swift career had brought him exactly in front of his position did the old man stir a muscle. but then, quick as the motion of the leaping game, his rifle jumped to his cheek, and even as the buck was at the central point of his leap, and suspended in the air, the piece cracked sharp and clear, and the deer, stricken to his death, fell with a crash to the ground. the quivering hounds rose to their feet, and bayed long and deep; wild bill swung his hat and yelled; and for a moment the woods rang with the wild cries of dogs and man. [illustration: the piece cracked sharp and clear] "lord-a-massy, bill, what a mouth ye have when ye open it!" exclaimed the trapper, as he leisurely poured the powder into the still smoking barrel. "atween ye and the pups, it's enough to drive a man crazy. i should sartinly think ye had never seed a deer shot afore, by the way ye be actin'." "i've seen a good many, as you know, john norton; but i never saw one tumbled over by a single bullet when at the very top of his jump, as that one was. i surely thought you had waited too long, and i wouldn't have given a cent for your chances when you pulled. it was a wonderful shot, john norton, and i would take just such another tramp as i have had, to see you do it again, old man." "it wasn't bad," returned the trapper; "no, it sartinly wasn't bad, fur he was goin' as ef the old harry was arter him. i shouldn't wonder ef he had felt the tech of lead down there in the holler, and the smart of his hurt kept him flyin'. let's go and look him over, and see ef we can't find the markin's of the bullit on him." in a moment the two stood above the dead deer. "it is as i thought," said the trapper, as he pointed with his ramrod to a stain of blood on one of the hams of the buck. "the bullit drove through his thigh here, but it didn't tech the bone, and was a sheer waste of lead, fur it only sot him goin' like an arrer. bill, i sartinly doubt," continued the old man, as he measured the noble animal with his eye, "i sartinly doubt ef i ever seed a bigger deer. there's seven prongs on his horns, and i'd bet a horn of powder agin a chargerful that he'd weigh three hundred pounds as he lies. lord, what a christmas gift he'll be fur the woman! the skin will make a blanket fit fur a queen to sleep under, and the meat, jediciously cared for, will last her all winter. we must manage to git it to the edge of the clearin', anyhow, or the wolves might make free with our venison, bill. yer sled is a strong un, and it'll bear the loadin', ef ye go keerful." the trapper and his companion set themselves to their task with the energy of men accustomed to surmount every obstacle, and in a short half-hour the sled, with its double loading, stopped at the door of the lonely cabin. "i don't understand this, wild bill," said the trapper. "here be a woman's tracks in the snow, and the door be left a leetle ajar, but there be no smoke in the chimney, and they sartinly ain't very noisy inside. i'll jest give a knock or two, and see ef they be stirrin';" and, suiting the action to the word, he knocked long and loud on the large door. but to his noisy summons there came no response, and without a moment of farther hesitation he shoved open the door, and entered. "god of marcy! wild bill," exclaimed the trapper, "look in here!" a huge room dimly lighted, holes in the roof, here and there a heap of snow on the floor, an immense fireplace with no fire in it, and a group of scared, wild-looking children huddled together in the farther corner, like young and timid animals that had fled in affright from the nest where they had slept, at some fearful intrusion. that is what the trapper saw. "i"--whatever wild bill was about to say, his astonishment, and we may add his pity, were too profound for him to complete his ejaculation. "don't ye be afeerd, leetle uns," said the trapper, as he advanced into the centre of the room to more fully survey the wretched place. "this be christmas morn, and me and wild bill and the pups have come over the mountain to wish ye all a merry christmas. but where be yer mother?" queried the old man, as he looked kindly at the startled group. "we don't know where she is," answered the older of the two girls; "we thought she was in bed with us, till you woke us. we don't know where she has gone." "i have it, i have it, wild bill!" exclaimed the trapper, whose eyes had been busy scanning the place while talking with the children. "the rifle be gone from the hangings, and the tracks in the snow be hern. yis, yis, i see it all. she went out in hope of gittin' the leetle uns here somethin' to eat, and that was her rifle we heerd, and her bullet made that hole in the ham of the buck. what a disappointment to the poor creetur when she seed she hadn't hit him! her heart eena'most broke, i dare say. but the lord was in it--leastwise, he didn't go ag'in the proper shapin' of things arterwards. come, bill, let's stir round lively, and get the shanty in shape a leetle, and some vict'als on the table afore she comes. yis, git out yer axe, and slash into that dead beech at the corner of the cabin, while i sorter clean up inside. a fire is the fust thing on sech a mornin' as this; so scurry round, bill, and bring in the wood as ef ye was a good deal in 'arnest, and do ye cut to the measure of the fireplace, and don't waste yer time in shortenin' it, fur the longer the fireplace, the longer the wood; that is, ef ye want to make it a heater." his companion obeyed with alacrity; and by the time the trapper had cleaned out the snow, and swept down the soot from the sides of the fireplace, and put things partially to rights, bill had stacked the dry logs into the huge opening, nearly to the upper jamb, and, with the help of some large sheets of birch-bark, kindled them to a flame. "come here, leetle uns," said the trapper, as he turned his good-natured face toward the children,--"come here, and put yer leetle feet on the h'arthstun, fur it's warmin', and i conceit yer toes be about freezin'." it was not in the power of children to withstand the attraction of such an invitation, extended with such a hearty voice and such benevolence of feature. the children came promptly forward, and stood in a row on the great stone, and warmed their little shivering bodies by the abundant flames. "now, leetle folks," said the trapper, "jest git yerselves well warmed, then git on what clothes ye've got, and we'll have some breakfast,--yis, we'll have breakfast ready by the time yer mother gits back, fur i know where she be gone, and she'll be hungry and cold when she gits in. i don't conceit that this little chap here can help much, but ye girls be big enough to help a good deal. so, when ye be warm, do ye put away the bed to the furderest corner, and shove out the table in front of the fire, and put on the dishes, sech as ye have, and be smart about it, too, fur yer mother will sartinly be comin' soon, and we must be ahead of her with the cookin'." what a change the next half-hour made in the appearance of the cabin! the huge fire sent its heat to the farthest corner of the great room. the miserable bed had been removed out of sight, and the table, drawn up in front of the fire, was set with the needed dishes. on the hearthstone a large platter of venison steak, broiled by the trapper's skill, simmered in the heat. a mighty pile of cakes, brown to a turn, flanked one side, while a stack of potatoes baked in the ashes supported the other. the teapot sent forth its refreshing odor through the room. the children, with their faces washed and hair partially, at least, combed, ran about with bare feet on the warm floor, comfortable and happy. to them it was as a beautiful dream. the breakfast was ready, and the visitors sat waiting for the coming of her to whose assistance the angel of christmas eve had sent them. "sh!" whispered the trapper, whose quick ear had caught the sound of a dragging step in the snow. "she's comin'!" too weary and faint, too sick at heart and exhausted in body to observe the unaccustomed signs of human presence around her dwelling, the poor woman dragged herself to the door, and opened it. the gun she still held in her hand fell rattling to the floor, and, with eyes wildly opened, she gazed bewildered at the spectacle. the blazing fire, the set table, the food on the hearthstone, the smiling children, the two men! she passed her hands across her eyes as one waking from sleep. was she dreaming? was this cabin the miserable hut she had left at daybreak? was that the same fireplace in front of whose cold and cheerless recess she had crouched the night before? and were those two strangers there men, or were they angels? was what she saw real, or was it only a fevered vision born of her weakness? her senses actually reeled to and fro, and she trembled for a moment on the verge of unconsciousness. indeed, the shock was so overwhelming that in another instant she would have swooned and fallen to the floor had not the growing faintness been checked by the sound of a human voice. "a merry christmas to ye, my good woman," said the trapper. "a merry christmas to ye and yourn!" the woman started as the hearty tones fell on her ear, and, steadying herself by the door, she said, speaking as one partially dazed,-- "are you john norton the trapper, or are you an ang--" "ye needn't sight agin," interrupted the old man. "yis, i'm old john norton himself, nothin' better and nothin' wuss; and the man in the chair here by my side is wild bill, and ye couldn't make an angel out of him, ef ye tried from now till next christmas. yis, my good woman, i'm john norton, and this is wild bill, and we've come over the mountain to wish ye a merry christmas, ye and yer leetle uns, and help ye keep the day; and, ye see, we've been stirrin' a leetle in yer absence, and breakfast be waitin'. wild bill and me will jest go out and cut a leetle more wood, while ye warm and wash yerself; and when ye be ready to eat, ye may call us, and we'll see which can git into the house fust." so saying, the trapper, followed by his companion, passed out of the door, while the poor woman, without a word, moved toward the fire, and, casting one look at her children, at the table, at the food on the hearthstone, dropped on her knees by a chair, and buried her face in her hands. "i say," said wild bill to the trapper, as he crept softly away from the door, to which he had returned to shut it more closely, "i say, john norton, the woman is on her knees by a chair." "very likely, very likely," returned the old man reverently; and then he began to chop vigorously at a huge log, with his back toward his comrade. perhaps some of you who read this tale will come some time, when weary and heart-sick, to something drearier than an empty house, some bleak, cold day, some lonely morn, and with a starving heart and benumbed soul,--ay, and empty-handed, too,--enter in only to find it swept and garnished, and what you most needed and longed for waiting for you. then will you, too, drop upon your knees, and cover your face with your hands, ashamed that you had murmured against the hardness of your lot, or forgotten the goodness of him who suffered you to be tried only that you might more fully appreciate the triumph. "my good woman," said the trapper, when the breakfast was eaten, "we've come, as we said, to spend the day with you; and accordin' to custom--and a pleasant un it be fur sartin--we've brought ye some presents. a good many of them come from him who called on ye as he and me passed through the lake last fall. i dare say ye remember him, and he sartinly has remembered ye. fur last evening when i was makin' up a leetle pack to bring ye myself,--fur i conceited i had better come over and spend the day with ye,--wild bill came to my door with a box on his sled that the boy had sent in from his home in the city; and in the box he had put a great many presents fur him and me; and in the lower half of the box he had put a good many presents fur ye and yer leetle uns, and we've brought them all over with us. some of the things be fur eatin' and some of them be fur wearin'; and that there may be no misunderstanding i would say that all the things that be in the pack-basket there, and all the things that be on the sled, too, belong to ye. and as i see the woodpile isn't a very big un fur this time of the year, bill and me be goin' out to settle our breakfast a leetle with the axes. and while we be gone, i conceit ye had better rummage the things over, and them that be good fur eatin' ye had better put in the cupboard, and them that be good fur wearin' ye had better put on yerself and yer leetle uns; and then we'll all be ready to make a fair start. fur this be christmas day, and we be goin' to keep it as it orter be kept. ef we've had sorrers, we'll forgit 'em; and we'll laugh, and eat, and be merry. fur this be christmas, my good woman! children, this be christmas! wild bill, my boy, this be christmas; and pups, this be christmas! and we'll all laugh, and eat, and be merry." the joyfulness of the old man was contagious. his happiness flowed over as waters flow over the rim of a fountain. wild bill laughed as he seized his axe, the woman rose from the table smiling, the girls giggled, the little boy stamped, and the hounds, catching the spirit of their merry master, swung their tails round, and bayed in canine gladness; and amid the joyful uproar the old trapper spun himself out of the door, and chased wild bill through the snow like a boy. the dinner was to be served at two o'clock; and what a dinner it was, and what preparations preceded! the snow had been shovelled from around the cabin, the holes in the roof roughly but effectually thatched. a good pile of wood was stacked in front of the doorway. the spring that bubbled from the bank had been cleared of ice, and a protection constructed over it. the huge buck had been dressed, and hung high above the reach of wolves. cedar and balsam branches had been placed in the corners and along the sides of the room. great sprays of the tasselled pine and the feathery tamarack were suspended from the ceiling. the table had been enlarged, and extra seats extemporized. the long-unused oven had been cleaned out, and under its vast dome the red flames flashed and rolled upward. what a change a few hours had brought to that lonely cabin and its wretched inmates! the woman, dressed in her new garments, her hair smoothly combed, her face lighted with smiles, looked positively comely. the girls, happy in their fine clothes and marvellous toys, danced round the room, wild with delight; while the little boy strutted about the floor in his new boots, proudly showing them to each person for the hundredth time. the hostess's attention was equally divided between the temperature of the oven and the adornment of the table. a snow-white sheet, one of a dozen she had found in the box, was drafted peremptorily into service, and did duty as a tablecloth. oh, the innocent and funny make-shifts of poverty, and the goodly distance it can make a little go! perhaps some of us, as we stand in our rich dining-rooms, and gaze with pride at the silver, the gold, the cut-glass, and the transparent china, can recall a little kitchen in a homely house far away, where our good mothers once set their tables for their guests, and what a brave show the few extra dishes made when they brought them out on the rare festive days! however it might strike you, fair reader, to the poor woman and her guests there was nothing incongruous in a sheet serving as a tablecloth. was it not white and clean and properly shaped, and would it not have been a tablecloth if it hadn't been a sheet? how very nice and particular some people can be over the trifling matter of a name! and this sheet had no right to be a sheet; for any one with half an eye could see at a glance that it was predestined from the first to be a tablecloth, for it sat as smoothly on the wooden surface as pious looks on a deacon's face, while the easy and nonchalant way it draped itself at the corners was perfectly jaunty. the edges of this square of white sheeting that had thus providentially found its true and predestined use were ornamented with the leaves of the wild myrtle, stitched on in the form of scallops. in the centre, with a brave show of artistic skill, were the words, "merry christmas," prettily worked with the small brown cones of the pines. this, the joint product of wild bill's industry and the woman's taste, commanded the enthusiastic admiration of all; and even the little boy, from the height of a chair into which he had climbed, was profoundly affected by the show it made. the trapper had charge of the meat department, and it is safe to say that no delmonico could undertake to serve venison in greater variety than did he. to him it was a grand occasion, and--in a culinary sense--he rose grandly to meet it. what bosom is without its little vanities? and shall we laugh at the dear old man because he looked upon the opportunity before him with feeling other than pure benevolence,--even of complacency that what he was doing was being done as no one else could do it? there was venison roasted, and venison broiled, and venison fried; there was hashed venison, and venison spitted; there was a side-dish of venison sausage, strong with the odor of sage, and slightly dashed with wild thyme; and a huge kettle of soup, on whose rich creamy surface pieces of bread and here and there a slice of potato floated. "i tell ye, bill," said the trapper to his companion, as he stirred the soup with a long ladle, "this pot isn't actilly runnin' over with taters, but ye can see a bit occasionally ef ye look sharp and keep the ladle goin' round pretty lively. no, the taters ain't over-plenty," continued the old man, peering into the pot, and sinking his voice to a whisper, "but there wasn't but fifteen in the bag, and the woman took twelve of 'em fur her kittle, and ye can't make three taters look actilly crowded in two gallons of soup, can ye, bill?" and the old man punched that personage in the ribs with the thumb of the hand that was free from service, while he kept the ladle going with the other. "lord!" exclaimed the trapper, speaking to bill, who, having taken a look into the old man's kettle, was digging his knuckles into his eyes to free them from the spray that was jetted into them from the fountains of mirth within that were now in full play,--"lord! ef there isn't another piece of tater gone all to pieces! bill, ef i make another circle with this ladle, there won't be a whole slice left, and ye'll swear there wasn't a tater in the soup." and the two men, with their faces within twenty inches, laughed and laughed like boys. how sweet it is to think that when the maker set up this strange instrument we call ourselves, and strung it for service, he selected of the heavy chords so few, and of the lighter ones so many! some muffled ones there are; some slow and solemn sounds swell sadly forth at intervals, but blessed be god that we are so easily tickled, and the world is so funny that within it, even when exiled from home and friends, we find, as the days come and go, the causes and occasions of hilarity! wild bill had been placed in charge of the liquids. what a satire there is in circumstances, and how those of to-day laugh at those of yesterday! yes, wild bill had charge of the liquids,--no mean charge, when the occasion is considered. nor was the position without its embarrassments, as few honorable positions are, for it brought him face to face with the problem of the day--dishes; for, between the two cooks of the occasion, every dish in the cabin had been brought into requisition, and poor bill was left in the predicament of having to make tea and coffee with no pots to make them in. but bill was not lacking in wit, if he was in pots, and he solved the conundrum how to make tea without a teapot in a manner that extorted the woman's laughter, and commanded the old trapper's admiration. in ransacking the lofts above the apartment, he had lighted on several large, stone jugs, which, with the courage--shall we call it the audacity?--of genius, he had seized upon; and, having thoroughly rinsed them, and freed them from certain odors,--which we are free to say bill was more or less familiar with,--he brought them forward as substitutes for kettle and pot. indeed, they worked admirably, for in them the berry and the leaves might not only be properly steeped, but the flavor could be retained beyond what it might in many of our famous and high-sounding patented articles. but bill, while ingenious and courageous to the last degree, was lacking in education, especially in scientific directions. he had never been made acquainted with that great promoter of modern civilization--the expansive properties of steam. the corks he had whittled out for his bravely extemporized tea and coffee pots were of the closest fit; and, as they had been inserted with the energy of a man who, having conquered a serious difficulty, is determined to reap the full benefit of his triumph, there was at least no danger that the flavor of the concoctions would escape through any leakage at the muzzle. having thus prepared them for steeping, he placed the jugs in his corner of the fireplace, and pushed them well up through the ashes to the live coals. "wild bill," said the trapper, who wished to give his companion the needed warning in as delicate and easy a manner as possible, "wild bill, ye have sartinly got the right idee techin' the makin' of tea and coffee, fur the yarb should be steeped, and the berry too,--leastwise, arter it's biled up once or twice,--and therefore it be only reasonable that the nozzles should be closed moderately tight; but a man wants considerable experience in the business, or he's likely to overdo it jest a leetle, and ef ye don't cut some slots in them wooden corks ye've driven into them nozzles, bill, there'll be a good deal of tea and coffee floatin' round in your corner of the fireplace afore many minutes, and i conceit there'll be a man about your size lookin' for a couple of corks and pieces of jugs out there in the clearin', too." "do you think so?" answered bill incredulously. "don't you be scared, old man, but keep on stirring your soup and turning the meat, and i'll keep my eye on the bottles." "that's right, bill," returned the trapper; "ye keep yer eye right on 'em, specially on that un that's furderest in toward the butt of the beech log there; fur ef there's any vartue in signs, that jug be gittin' oneasy. yis," continued the old man, after a minute's pause, during which his eye hadn't left the jug, "yis, that jug will want more room afore many minutes, ef i'm any jedge, and i conceit i had better give it the biggest part of the fireplace;" and the trapper hastily moved the soap and his half-dozen plates of cooked meats to the other end of the hearthstone, whither he retired himself, like one who, feeling that he is called upon to contend with unknown forces, wisely beats a retreat. he even put himself behind a stack of wood that lay piled up in his corner, like one who does not despise, in a sudden emergency, an artificial protection. "bill," called the trapper, "edge round a leetle,--edge round, and git in closer to the jamb. it's sheer foolishness standin' where ye be, fur the water will be wallopin' in a minit, and ef the corks be swelled in the nozzle, there'll be an explosion. git in toward the jamb, and watch the ambushment under kiver." "old man," answered bill, as he turned his back carelessly toward the fireplace, "i've got the bearin's of this trail, and know what i'm about. the jugs are as strong as iron kittles, and i ain't afraid of their bust"-- bill never finished the sentence, for the explosion predicted by the trapper occurred. it was a tremendous one, and the huge fireplace was filled with flying brands, ashes, and clouds of steam. the trapper ducked his head, the woman screamed, and the hounds rushed howling to the farthest end of the room; while bill, with half a somersault, disappeared under the table. "hurrah!" shouted the trapper, lifting his head from behind the wood, and critically surveying the scene. "hurrah, bill!" he shouted, as he swung the ladle over his head. "come out from under the table, and man yer battery agin. yer old mortars was loaded to the muzzle, and ef ye had depressed the pieces a leetle, ye'd 'a' blowed the cabin to splinters; as it was, the chimney got the biggest part of the chargin', and ye'll find yer rammers on the other side of the mountain." it was, in truth, a scene of uproarious hilarity; for once the explosion was over, and the woman and children saw there was no danger, and apprehended the character of the performance, they joined unrestrainedly in the trapper's laughter, in which they were assisted by wild bill, as if he were not the victim of his own over-confidence. "i say, old trapper," he called from under the table, "did both guns go off? i was gitting under cover when the battery opened, and didn't notice whether the firing was in sections or along the whole line. if there's a piece left, i think i will stay where i am; for i am in a good position to observe the range, and watch the effect of the shot. i say, hadn't you better get behind the wood-pile again?" "no, no," interrupted the trapper; "the whole battery went at the word, bill, and there isn't a gun or a gun-carriage left in the casement. ye've wasted a gill of the yarb, and a quarter of a pound of the berry; and ye must hurry up with another outfit of bottles, or we'll have nothin' but water to drink at the dinner." the dinner! that great event of the day, the crown and diadem to its royalty, and which became it so well, was ready promptly to the hour. the table, enlarged as it was to nearly double its original dimensions, could scarcely accommodate the abundance of the feast. ah, if some sweet power would only enlarge our hearts when, on festive days, we enlarge our tables, how many of the world's poor, that now go hungry while we feast, would then be fed! at one end of the table sat the trapper, wild bill at the other. the woman's chair was at the centre of one of the sides, so that she sat facing the fire, whose generous flames might well symbolize the abundance which amid cold and hunger had so suddenly come to her. on her right hand the two girls sat; on her left, the boy. a goodly table, a goodly fire, and a goodly company,--what more could the angel of christmas ask to see? thus were they seated, ready to begin the repast; but the plates remained untouched, and the happy noises which had to that moment filled the cabin ceased; for the angel of silence, with noiseless step, had suddenly entered the room. there's a silence of grief, there's a silence of hatred, there's a silence of dread; of these, men may speak, and these they can describe. but the silence of our happiness, who can describe that? when the heart is full, when the long longing is suddenly met, when love gives to love abundantly, when the soul lacketh nothing and is content,--then language is useless, and the angel of silence becomes our only adequate interpreter. a humble table, surely, and humble folk around it; but not in the houses of the rich or the palaces of kings does gratitude find her only home, but in more lowly abodes and with lowly folk--ay, and often at the scant table, too--she sitteth a perpetual guest. was it memory? did the trapper at that brief moment visit his absent friend? did wild bill recall his wayward past? were the thoughts of the woman busy with sweet scenes of earlier days? and did memory, by thus reminding them of the absent and the past, of the sweet things that had been and were, stir within their hearts thoughts of him from whom all gifts descend, and of his blessed son, in whose honor the day was named? o memory! thou tuneful bell that ringeth on forever, friend at our feasts, and friend, too, let us call thee, at our burial, what music can equal thine? for in thy mystic globe all tunes abide,--the birthday note for kings, the marriage peal, the funeral knell, the gleeful jingle of merry mirth, and those sweet chimes that float our thoughts, like fragrant ships upon a fragrant sea, toward heaven,--all are thine! ring on, thou tuneful bell; ring on, while these glad ears may drink thy melody; and when thy chimes are heard by me no more, ring loud and clear above my grave that peal which echoes to the heavens, and tells the world of immortality, that they who come to mourn may check their tears, and say, "_why do we weep? he liveth still!_" "the lord be praised fur his goodness!" said the trapper, whose thoughts unconsciously broke into speech. "the lord be praised fur his goodness, and make us grateful fur his past marcies, and the plenty that be here!" and looking down upon the viands spread before him, he added, "the lord be good to the boy, and make him as happy in his city home as be they who be wearin' and eatin' his gifts in the woods!" "amen!" said the woman softly, and a grateful tear fell on her plate. "a--hem!" said wild bill; and then looking down upon his warm suit, he lifted his voice, and bringing it out in a clear, strong tone, said, "_amen! hit or miss!_" at many a table that day more formal grace was said, by priest and layman alike, and at many a table, by lips of old and young, response was given to the benediction; but we doubt if over all the earth a more honest grace was said or assented to than the lord heard from the cabin in the woods. the feast and the merry-making now began. the old trapper was in his best mood, and fairly bubbled over with humor. the wit of wild bill was naturally keen, and it flashed at its best as he ate. the children stuffed and laughed as only children on such an elastic occasion can. and as for the poor woman, it was impossible for her, in the midst of such a scene, to be otherwise than happy, and she joined modestly in the conversation, and laughed heartily at the witty sallies. but why should we strive to put on paper the wise, the funny, and the pleasant things that were said, the exclamations, the laughter, the story, the joke, the verbal thrust and parry of such an occasion? these, springing from the centre of the circumstance, and flashed into being at the instant, cannot be preserved for after-rehearsal. like the effervescence of champagne, they jet and are gone; their force passes away with the noise that accompanied its out-coming. is it not enough to record that the dinner was a success, that the trapper's meats were put upon the table in a manner worthy of his reputation, that the woman's efforts at pastry-making were generously applauded, and that wild bill's tea and coffee were pronounced by the hostess the best she had ever tasted? perhaps no meal was ever more enjoyed, as certainly none was ever more heartily eaten. [illustration: perhaps no meal was ever more enjoyed] the wonder and pride of the table was the pudding,--a creation of indian-meal, flour, suet, and raisins, re-enforced and assisted by innumerable spicy elements supposed to be too mysterious to be grasped by the masculine mind. in the production of this wonderful centre-piece,--for it had been unanimously voted the place of honor,--the poor woman had summoned all the latent resources of her skill, and in reference to it her pride and fear contended, while the anxiety with which she rose to serve it was only too plainly depicted on her countenance. what if it should prove a failure? what if she had made a miscalculation as to the amount of suet required,--a point upon which she had been somewhat confused? what if the raisins were not sufficiently distributed? what if it wasn't done through, and should turn out pasty? great heavens! the last thought was of so overwhelming a character that no feminine courage could encounter it. who may describe the look with which she watched the trapper as he tasted it, or the expression of relief which brightened her anxious face when he pronounced warmly in its favor? "it's a wonderful bit of cookin'," he said, addressing himself to wild bill, "and i sartinly doubt ef there be anything in the settlements to-day that can equal it. there be jest enough of the suet, and there be a plum fur every mouthful; and it be solid enough to stay in the mouth ontil ye've had time to chew it, and git a taste of the corn,--and i wouldn't give a cent for a puddin' ef it gits away from yer teeth fast. yis, it be a wonderful bit of cookin'," and, turning to the woman, he added, "ye may well be proud of it." what higher praise could be bestowed? and as it was re-echoed by all present, and plate after plate was passed for a second filling, the dinner came to an end with the greatest good feeling and hilarity. iv. "now fur the sled!" exclaimed the trapper, as he rose from the table. "it be a good many years since i've straddled one, but nothin' settles a dinner quicker, or suits the leetle folks better. i conceit the crust be thick enough to bear us up, and, ef it is, we can fetch a course from the upper edge of the clearin' fifty rods into the lake. come, childun, git on yer mittens and yer tippets, and h'ist along to the big pine, and ye shall have some fun ye won't forgit ontil yer heads be whiter than mine." it is needless to record that the children hailed with delight the proposition of the trapper, or that they were at the appointed spot long before the speaker and his companion reached it with the sled. "wild bill," said the trapper, as they stood on the crest of the slope down which they were to glide, "the crust be smooth as glass, and the hill be a steep un. i sartinly doubt ef mortal man ever rode faster than this sled'll be goin' by the time it gits to where the bank pitches into the lake; and ef ye should git a leetle careless in yer steering bill, and hit a stump, i conceit that nothin' but the help of the lord or the rottenness of the stump would save ye from etarnity." now, wild bill was blessed with a sanguine temperament. to him no obstacle seemed serious if bravely faced. indeed, his natural confidence in himself bordered on recklessness, to which the drinking habits of his life had, perhaps, contributed. when the trapper had finished speaking, bill ran his eye carelessly down the steep hillside, smooth and shiny as polished steel, and said, "oh, this isn't anything extry for a hill. i've steered a good many steeper ones, and in nights when the moon was at the half, and the sled overloaded at that. it don't make any difference how fast you go," he added, "if you only keep in the path, and don't hit anything." "that's it, that's it," replied the trapper. "but the trouble here be to keep in the path, fur, in the fust place, there isn't any path, and the stumps be pretty thick, and i doubt ef ye can line a trail from here to the bank by the lake without one or more sudden twists in it, and a twist in the trail, goin' as fast as we'll be goin', has got to be taken jediciously, or somethin' will happen. i say, bill, what p'int will ye steer fur?" wild bill, thus addressed, proceeded to give his opinion touching the proper direction of the flight they were to make. indeed, he had been closely examining the ground while the trapper was speaking, and therefore gave his opinion promptly and with confidence. "ye have chosen the course with jedgment," said the old man approvingly, after he had studied the line his companion pointed out critically for a moment. "yis, bill, ye have a nateral eye for the business, and i sartinly have more confidence in ye than i had a minit ago, when ye was talkin' about a steeper hill than this; fur this hill drops mighty sudden in the pitches, and the crust be smooth as ice, and the sled'll go like a streak when it gits started. but the course ye've p'inted out be a good un, fur there be only one bad turn in it, and good steerin' orter put a sled round that. i say," continued the old man, turning toward his companion, and pointing out the crook in the course at the bottom of the second dip, "can ye swing around that big stump there without upsettin' when ye come to it?" "swing around? of course i can," retorted wild bill positively. "there's plenty room to the left, and"-- "ay, ay; there be plenty of room, as ye say, ef ye don't take too much of it," interrupted the trapper. "but"-- "i tell you," broke in the other, "i'll turn my back to no man in steering a sled; and i can put this sled, and you on it, around that stump a hundred times, and never lift a runner." "well, well," responded the trapper, "have it your own way. i dare say ye be good at steerin', and i sartinly know i'm good at ridin'; and i can ride as fast as ye can steer, ef ye hit every stump in the clearin'. now, childun," continued the old man, turning to the little group, "we be goin' to try the course; and ef the crust holds up, and wild bill keeps clear of the stumps, and nothin' onusual happens, ye shall have all the slidin' ye want afore ye go in. come, bill, git yer sled p'inted right, and i'll be gittin' on, and we'll see ef ye can steer an old man round a stump as handily as ye say ye can." the directions of the trapper were promptly obeyed, and in an instant the sled was in a right position, and the trapper proceeded to seat himself with the carefulness of one who feels he is embarking on a somewhat uncertain venture, and has grave misgivings as to what will be the upshot of the undertaking. the sled was large and strongly built; and it added not a little to his comfort to feel that he could put entire confidence in the structure beneath them. "the sled'll hold," he said to himself, "ef the loadin' goes to the jedgment." the trapper was no sooner seated than wild bill threw himself upon the sled, with one leg under him and the other stretched at full length behind. this was a method of steering that had come into vogue since the trapper's boyhood, for in his day the steersman sat astride the sled, with his feet thrust forward, and steered by the pressure of either heel upon the snow. [illustration: one leg under him and the other stretched at full length behind] "hold on, bill!" exclaimed the trapper, whose eye this novel method of steering had not escaped. "hold on, and hold up a minit. heavens and 'arth! ye don't mean to steer this sled with one toe, do ye, and that, too, the length of a rifle-barrel astarn? wheel round, and spread yer legs out as ye orter, and steer this sled in an honest fashion, or there'll be trouble aboard afore ye git to the bottom." "sit round!" retorted bill. "how could i see to steer if i was sitting right back of you? for you're nigh a foot taller than i be, and your shoulders are as broad as the sled." "yer p'ints be well taken, fur sartin," replied the trapper; "fur it be no more than reasonable that the man that steers should see where he be goin', and i am anxious as ye be that ye should. yis, i sartinly want ye to see where ye be goin' on this trip, anyhow, fur the crew be a fresh un, and the channel be a leetle crooked. but be ye sartin, bill, that ye can fetch round that stump there as it orter be did, with nothin' but yer toe out behind? it may be the best way, as ye say, but it don't look like honest steerin' to a man of my years." "i have used both ways," answered bill, "and i give you my word, old man, that this is the best one. you can git a big swing with your foot stretched out in this fashion, and the sled feels the least pressure of the toe. yes, it's all right. john norton, are you ready?" "yis, yis, as ready as i ever shall be," answered the trapper, in a voice in which doubt and resignation were equally mingled. "it may be as ye say," he continued; "but the rudder be too fur behind to suit me, and ef anything happens on this cruise, jest remember, wild bill, that my jedgment"-- the sentence the trapper was uttering was abruptly cut short at this point; for bill had started the sled with a sudden push, and leaped to his seat behind the trapper as it glided downward and away. in an instant the sled was under full headway, for the dip was a sharp one, and the crust smooth as ice. scarce had it gone ten rods from the point where it started before it was in full flight, and was gliding downward with what would have been, to any but a man of the steadiest nerve, a frightful velocity. but the trapper was of too cool and courageous temperament to be disturbed even by actual danger. indeed, the swiftness of their downward career, as the sled with a buzz and a roar swept along over the resounding crust, stirred the old man's blood with a tingle of excitement; while the splendid manner with which wild bill was keeping it to the course settled upon filled him with admiration, and was fast making him a convert to the new method of steering. downward they flashed. the trapper's cap had been blown from his head; and as the old man sat bolt-upright on his sled, his feet bravely planted on the round, his face flushed, and his white hair streaming, he looked the very picture of hearty enjoyment. above his head the face of wild bill looked actually sharpened by the pressure of the air on either cheek as it clove through it; but his lips were bravely set, and his eyes were fastened without winking on the big stump ahead, toward which they were rushing. it was at this point that wild bill vindicated his ability as a steersman, and at the same time barely escaped shipwreck. at the proper moment he swept his foot to the left, and the sled, in obedience to the pressure, swooped in that direction. but in his anxiety to give the stump a wide berth, bill overdid the pressure that was needed a trifle; for in calculating the curve required he had failed to allow for the sidewise motion of the sled, and, instead of hitting one stump, it looked for an instant as if he would be precipitated among a dozen. "heave her starn up, wild bill! up with her starn, i say," yelled the trapper, "or there won't be a stump left in the clearin'." with a quickness and courage that would have done credit to any steersman,--for the speed at which they were going was terrific,--bill swept his foot to the right, leaning his body well over at the same instant. the trapper instinctively seconded his endeavors, and with hands that gripped either side of the sled he hung over that side which was upon the point of going into the air. for several rods the sled glided along on a single runner, and then, righting itself with a lurch, jumped the summit of the last dip, and raced away, like a swallow in full flight, toward the lake. now, at the edge of the clearing that bounded the shore was a bank of considerable size. shrubs and stunted bushes fringed the crest of it. these had been buried beneath the snow, and the crust had formed smoothly over them; and as it was upheld by no stronger support than such as the hidden shrubbery furnished, it was incapable of sustaining any considerable pressure. certainly no sled was ever moving faster than was wild bill's, when it came to this point; and certainly no sled ever stopped quicker, for the treacherous crust dropped suddenly under it, and the sled was left with nothing but the hind part of one of the runners sticking up in sight. but though the sled was suddenly checked in its career, the trapper and wild bill continued their flight. the former slid from the sled without meeting any obstruction, and with the same velocity with which he had been moving. indeed, so little was his position changed, that one almost might fancy that no accident had happened, and that the old man was gliding forward to the end of the course with an adequate structure under him. but with the latter it "was far different; for, as the sled stopped, he was projected sharply upward into the air, and, after turning several somersaults, he actually landed in front of the trapper, and glided along on the slippery surface ahead of him. and so the two men shot onward, one after the other, while the children cackled from the hill-top, and the woman swung her bonnet over her head, and laughed from her position in the doorway. "bill," called the trapper, when by dint of much effort they had managed to check their motion somewhat, "bill, ef the cruise be about over, i conceit we'd better anchor hereabouts. but i shipped fur the voyage, and ye be capt'in, and as ye've finally got the right way to steer, i feel pretty safe techin' the futur." it was not until they had come to a full stop, and looked around them, that they realized the distance they had come; for they had in truth slid nearly across the bay. "i've boated a good many times on these waters, and under sarcumstances that called fur 'arnest motion, but i sartinly never went across this bay as fast as i've did it to-day. how do ye feel, bill, how do ye feel?" "a good deal shaken up," was the answer, "a good deal shaken up." "i conceit as much," answered the trapper, "i conceit as much, fur ye left the sled with mighty leetle deliberation; and when i saw yer legs comin' through the air, i sartinly doubted ef the ice would hold ye. but ye steered with jedgment; yis, ye steered with jedgment, bill; and i'd said it ef we'd gone to the bottom." the sun was already set when they returned to the cabin; for, selecting a safer course, they had given the children an hour's happy sliding. the woman had prepared some fresh tea and a lunch, which they ate with lessened appetites, but with humor that never flagged. when it was ended, the old trapper rose to depart, and with a dignity and tenderness peculiarly his own, thus spoke:-- "my good woman," he said, "the moon will soon be up, and the time has come fur me to be goin'. i've had a happy day with ye and the leetle uns; and the trail over the mountain will seem shorter, as the pups and me go home, thinkin' on't. wild bill will stay a few days, and put things a leetle more to rights, and git up a wood-pile that will keep ye from choppin' fur a good while. it's his own thought, and ye can thank him accordin'ly." then, having kissed each of the children, and spoken a few words to wild bill, he took the woman's hand, and said,-- "the sorrers of life be many, but the lord never forgits. i've lived ontil my head be whitenin', and i've noted that though he moves slowly, he fetches most things round about the time we need 'em; and the things that be late in comin', i conceit we shall git somewhere furder on. ye didn't kill the big buck this mornin', but the meat ye needed hangs at yer door, nevertheless." and, shaking the woman heartily by the hand, he whistled to the hounds, and passed out of the door. the inmates of the cabin stood and watched him, until, having climbed the slope of the clearing, he disappeared in the shadows of the forest; and then they closed the door. but more than once wild bill noted that as the woman stood wiping her dishes, she wiped her eyes as well; and more than once he heard her say softly to herself. "god bless the dear old man!" ay, ay, poor woman, we join thee in thy prayer. god bless the dear old man! and not only him, but all who do the deeds he did. god bless them one and all! over the crusted snow the trapper held his course, until he came, with a happy heart, to his cabin. soon a fire was burning on his own hearthstone, and the hounds were in their accustomed place. he drew the table in front, where the fire's fine light fell on his work, and, taking some green vines and branches from the basket, began to twine a wreath. one he twined, and then he began another; and often, as he twined the fadeless branches in, he paused, and long and lovingly looked at the two pictures hanging on the wall; and when the wreaths were twined, he hung them on the frames, and, standing in front of the dumb reminders of his absent ones, he said, "i miss them so!" [illustration: long and lovingly looked at the two pictures hanging on the wall] ah! friend, dear friend, when life's glad day with you and me is passed, when the sweet christmas chimes are rung for other ears than ours, when other hands set the green branches up, and other feet glide down the polished floor, may there be those still left behind to twine us wreaths, and say, "_we miss them so!_" and this is the way john norton the trapper kept his christmas. transcriber's note: italic text is denoted by _underscores_. [illustration: "the best of all were the cosey talks we had in the twilight." _frontispiece._] may flowers by louisa m. alcott author of "little women," "little men," "an old-fashioned girl," etc. illustrated boston little, brown, and company _copyright, _, by louisa m. alcott. _copyright, _, by john s. p. alcott. university press john wilson and son, cambridge, u.s.a. may flowers being boston girls, of course they got up a club for mental improvement, and, as they were all descendants of the pilgrim fathers, they called it the may flower club. a very good name, and the six young girls who were members of it made a very pretty posy when they met together, once a week, to sew, and read well-chosen books. at the first meeting of the season, after being separated all summer, there was a good deal of gossip to be attended to before the question, "what shall we read?" came up for serious discussion. anna winslow, as president, began by proposing "happy dodd;" but a chorus of "i've read it!" made her turn to her list for another title. "'prisoners of poverty' is all about workingwomen, very true and very sad; but mamma said it might do us good to know something of the hard times other girls have," said anna, soberly; for she was a thoughtful creature, very anxious to do her duty in all ways. "i'd rather not know about sad things, since i can't help to make them any better," answered ella carver, softly patting the apple blossoms she was embroidering on a bit of blue satin. "but we might help if we really tried, i suppose; you know how much happy dodd did when she once began, and she was only a poor little girl without half the means of doing good which we have," said anna, glad to discuss the matter, for she had a little plan in her head and wanted to prepare a way for proposing it. "yes, i'm always saying that i have more than my share of fun and comfort and pretty things, and that i ought and will share them with some one. but i don't do it; and now and then, when i hear about real poverty, or dreadful sickness, i feel _so_ wicked it quite upsets me. if i knew _how_ to begin, i really would. but dirty little children don't come in my way, nor tipsy women to be reformed, nor nice lame girls to sing and pray with, as it all happens in books," cried marion warren, with such a remorseful expression on her merry round face that her mates laughed with one accord. "i know something that i _could_ do if i only had the courage to begin it. but papa would shake his head unbelievingly, and mamma worry about its being proper, and it would interfere with my music, and everything nice that i especially wanted to go to would be sure to come on whatever day i set for my good work, and i should get discouraged or ashamed, and not half do it, so i don't begin, but i know i ought." and elizabeth alden rolled her large eyes from one friend to another, as if appealing to them to goad her to this duty by counsel and encouragement of some sort. "well, i suppose it's right, but i do perfectly hate to go poking round among poor folks, smelling bad smells, seeing dreadful sights, hearing woful tales, and running the risk of catching fever, and diphtheria, and horrid things. i don't pretend to like charity, but say right out i'm a silly, selfish wretch, and want to enjoy every minute, and not worry about other people. isn't it shameful?" maggie bradford looked such a sweet little sinner as she boldly made this sad confession, that no one could scold her, though ida standish, her bosom friend, shook her head, and anna said, with a sigh: "i'm afraid we all feel very much as maggie does, though we don't own it so honestly. last spring, when i was ill and thought i might die, i was so ashamed of my idle, frivolous winter, that i felt as if i'd give all i had to be able to live it over and do better. much is not expected of a girl of eighteen, i know; but oh! there were heaps of kind little things i _might_ have done if i hadn't thought only of myself. i resolved if i lived i'd try at least to be less selfish, and make some one happier for my being in the world. i tell you, girls, it's rather solemn when you lie expecting to die, and your sins come up before you, even though they are very small ones. i never shall forget it, and after my lovely summer i mean to be a better girl, and lead a better life if i can." anna was so much in earnest that her words, straight out of a very innocent and contrite heart, touched her hearers deeply, and put them into the right mood to embrace her proposition. no one spoke for a moment, then maggie said quietly,-- "i know what it is. i felt very much so when the horses ran away, and for fifteen minutes i sat clinging to mamma, expecting to be killed. every unkind, undutiful word i'd ever said to her came back to me, and was worse to bear than the fear of sudden death. it scared a great deal of naughtiness out of me, and dear mamma and i have been more to each other ever since." "let us begin with 'the prisoners of poverty,' and perhaps it will show us something to do," said lizzie. "but i must say i never felt as if shop-girls needed much help; they generally seem so contented with themselves, and so pert or patronizing to us, that i don't pity them a bit, though it must be a hard life." "i think we can't do _much_ in that direction, except set an example of good manners when we go shopping. i wanted to propose that we each choose some small charity for this winter, and do it faithfully. that will teach us how to do more by and by, and we can help one another with our experiences, perhaps, or amuse with our failures. what do you say?" asked anna, surveying her five friends with a persuasive smile. "what _could_ we do?" "people will call us goody-goody." "i haven't the least idea how to go to work." "don't believe mamma will let me." "we'd better change our names from may flowers to sisters of charity, and wear meek black bonnets and flapping cloaks." anna received these replies with great composure, and waited for the meeting to come to order, well knowing that the girls would have their fun and outcry first, and then set to work in good earnest. "i think it's a lovely idea, and i'll carry out my plan. but i won't tell what it is yet; you'd all shout, and say i couldn't do it, but if you were trying also, that would keep me up to the mark," said lizzie, with a decided snap of her scissors, as she trimmed the edges of a plush case for her beloved music. "suppose we all keep our attempts secret, and not let our right hand know what the left hand does? it's such fun to mystify people, and then no one _can_ laugh at us. if we fail, we can say nothing; if we succeed, we can tell of it and get our reward. i'd like that way, and will look round at once for some especially horrid boot-black, ungrateful old woman, or ugly child, and devote myself to him, her, or it with the patience of a saint," cried maggie, caught by the idea of doing good in secret and being found out by accident. the other girls agreed, after some discussion, and then anna took the floor again. "i propose that we each work in our own way till next may, then, at our last meeting, report what we have done, truly and honestly, and plan something better for next year. is it a vote?" it evidently was a unanimous vote, for five gold thimbles went up, and five blooming faces smiled as the five girlish voices cried, "aye!" "very well, now let us decide what to read, and begin at once. i think the 'prisoners' a good book, and we shall doubtless get some hints from it." so they began, and for an hour one pleasant voice after the other read aloud those sad, true stories of workingwomen and their hard lives, showing these gay young creatures what their pretty clothes cost the real makers of them, and how much injustice, suffering, and wasted strength went into them. it was very sober reading, but most absorbing; for the crochet needles went slower and slower, the lace-work lay idle, and a great tear shone like a drop of dew on the apple blossoms as ella listened to "rose's story." they skipped the statistics, and dipped here and there as each took her turn; but when the two hours were over, and it was time for the club to adjourn, all the members were deeply interested in that pathetic book, and more in earnest than before; for this glimpse into other lives showed them how much help was needed, and made them anxious to lend a hand. "we can't do much, being 'only girls,'" said anna; "but if each does one small chore somewhere it will pave the way for better work; so we will all try, at least, though it seems like so many ants trying to move a mountain." "well, ants build nests higher than a man's head in africa; you remember the picture of them in our old geographies? and we can do as much, i'm sure, if each tugs her pebble or straw faithfully. i shall shoulder mine to-morrow if mamma is willing," answered lizzie, shutting up her work-bag as if she had her resolution inside and was afraid it might evaporate before she got home. "i shall stand on the common, and proclaim aloud, 'here's a nice young missionary, in want of a job! charity for sale cheap! who'll buy? who'll buy?'" said maggie, with a resigned expression, and a sanctimonious twang to her voice. "i shall wait and see what comes to me, since i don't know what i'm fit for;" and marion gazed out of the window as if expecting to see some interesting pauper waiting for her to appear. "i shall ask miss bliss for advice; she knows all about the poor, and will give me a good start," added prudent ida, who resolved to do nothing rashly lest she should fail. "i shall probably have a class of dirty little girls, and teach them how to sew, as i can't do anything else. they won't learn much, but steal, and break, and mess, and be a dreadful trial, and i shall get laughed at and wish i hadn't done it. still i shall try it, and sacrifice my fancy-work to the cause of virtue," said ella, carefully putting away her satin glove-case with a fond glance at the delicate flowers she so loved to embroider. "i have no plans, but want to do so much i shall have to wait till i discover what is best. after to-day we won't speak of our work, or it won't be a secret any longer. in may we will report. good luck to all, and good-by till next saturday." with these farewell words from their president the girls departed, with great plans and new ideas simmering in their young heads and hearts. it seemed a vast undertaking; but where there is a will there is always a way, and soon it was evident that each had found "a little chore" to do for sweet charity's sake. not a word was said at the weekly meetings, but the artless faces betrayed all shades of hope, discouragement, pride, and doubt, as their various attempts seemed likely to succeed or fail. much curiosity was felt, and a few accidental words, hints, or meetings in queer places, were very exciting, though nothing was discovered. marion was often seen in a north end car, and lizzie in a south end car, with a bag of books and papers. ella haunted a certain shop where fancy articles were sold, and ida always brought plain sewing to the club. maggie seemed very busy at home, and anna was found writing industriously several times when one of her friends called. all seemed very happy, and rather important when outsiders questioned them about their affairs. but they had their pleasures as usual, and seemed to enjoy them with an added relish, as if they realized as never before how many blessings they possessed, and were grateful for them. so the winter passed, and slowly something new and pleasant seemed to come into the lives of these young girls. the listless, discontented look some of them used to wear passed away; a sweet earnestness and a cheerful activity made them charming, though they did not know it, and wondered when people said, "that set of girls are growing up beautifully; they will make fine women by and by." the mayflowers were budding under the snow, and as spring came on the fresh perfume began to steal out, the rosy faces to brighten, and the last year's dead leaves to fall away, leaving the young plants green and strong. on the th of may the club met for the last time that year, as some left town early, and all were full of spring work and summer plans. every member was in her place at an unusually early hour that day, and each wore an air of mingled anxiety, expectation, and satisfaction, pleasant to behold. anna called them to order with three raps of her thimble and a beaming smile. "we need not choose a book for our reading to-day, as each of us is to contribute an original history of her winter's work. i know it will be very interesting, and i hope more instructive, than some of the novels we have read. who shall begin?" "you! you!" was the unanimous answer; for all loved and respected her very much, and felt that their presiding officer should open the ball. anna colored modestly, but surprised her friends by the composure with which she related her little story, quite as if used to public speaking. "you know i told you last november that i should have to look about for something that i _could_ do. i did look a long time, and was rather in despair, when my task came to me in the most unexpected way. our winter work was being done, so i had a good deal of shopping on my hands, and found it less a bore than usual, because i liked to watch the shop girls, and wish i dared ask some of them if i could help them. i went often to get trimmings and buttons at cotton's, and had a good deal to do with the two girls at that counter. they were very obliging and patient about matching some jet ornaments for mamma, and i found out that their names were mary and maria porter. i liked them, for they were very neat and plain in their dress,--not like some, who seem to think that if their waists are small, and their hair dressed in the fashion, it is no matter how soiled their collars are, nor how untidy their nails. well, one day when i went for certain kinds of buttons which were to be made for us, maria, the younger one, who took the order, was not there. i asked for her, and mary said she was at home with a lame knee. i was so sorry, and ventured to put a few questions in a friendly way. mary seemed glad to tell her troubles, and i found that 'ria,' as she called her sister, had been suffering for a long time, but did not complain for fear of losing her place. no stools are allowed at cotton's, so the poor girls stand nearly all day, or rest a minute now and then on a half-opened drawer. i'd seen maria doing it, and wondered why some one did not make a stir about seats in this place, as they have in other stores and got stools for the shop women. i didn't dare to speak to the gentlemen, but i gave mary the jack roses i wore in my breast, and asked if i might take some books or flowers to poor maria. it was lovely to see her sad face light up and hear her thank me when i went to see her, for she was very lonely without her sister, and discouraged about her place. she did not lose it entirely, but had to work at home, for her lame knee will be a long time in getting well. i begged mamma and mrs. allingham to speak to mr. cotton for her; so she got the mending of the jet and bead work to do, and buttons to cover, and things of that sort. mary takes them to and fro, and maria feels so happy not to be idle. we also got stools for all the other girls in that shop. mrs. allingham is so rich and kind she can do anything, and now it's such a comfort to see those tired things resting when off duty that i often go in and enjoy the sight." anna paused as cries of "good! good!" interrupted her tale; but she did not add the prettiest part of it, and tell how the faces of the young women behind the counters brightened when she came in, nor how gladly all served the young lady who showed them what a true gentlewoman was. "i hope that isn't all?" said maggie, eagerly. "only a little more. i know you will laugh when i tell you that i've been reading papers to a class of shop girls at the union once a week all winter." a murmur of awe and admiration greeted this deeply interesting statement; for, true to the traditions of the modern athens in which they lived, the girls all felt the highest respect for "papers" on any subject, it being the fashion for ladies, old and young, to read and discuss every subject, from pottery to pantheism, at the various clubs all over the city. "it came about very naturally," continued anna, as if anxious to explain her seeming audacity. "i used to go to see molly and ria, and heard all about their life and its few pleasures, and learned to like them more and more. they had only each other in the world, lived in two rooms, worked all day, and in the way of amusement or instruction had only what they found at the union in the evening. i went with them a few times, and saw how useful and pleasant it was, and wanted to help, as other kind girls only a little older than i did. eva randal read a letter from a friend in russia one time, and the girls enjoyed it very much. that reminded me of my brother george's lively journals, written when he was abroad. you remember how we used to laugh over them when he sent them home? well, when i was begged to give them an evening, i resolved to try one of those amusing journal-letters, and chose the best,--all about how george and a friend went to the different places dickens describes in some of his funny books. i wish you could have seen how those dear girls enjoyed it, and laughed till they cried over the dismay of the boys, when they knocked at a door in kingsgate street, and asked if mrs. gamp lived there. it was actually a barber's shop, and a little man, very like poll sweedlepipes, told them 'mrs. britton was the nuss as lived there now.' it upset those rascals to come so near the truth, and they ran away because they couldn't keep sober." the members of the club indulged in a general smile as they recalled the immortal sairey with "the bottle on the mankle-shelf," the "cowcumber," and the wooden pippins. then anna continued, with an air of calm satisfaction, quite sure now of her audience and herself,-- "it was a great success. so i went on, and when the journals were done, i used to read other things, and picked up books for their library, and helped in any way i could, while learning to know them better and give them confidence in me. they are proud and shy, just as we should be, but if you _really_ want to be friends and don't mind rebuffs now and then, they come to trust and like you, and there is so much to do for them one never need sit idle any more. i won't give names, as they don't like it, nor tell how i tried to serve them, but it is very sweet and good for me to have found this work, and to know that each year i can do it better and better. so i feel encouraged and am very glad i began, as i hope you all are. now, who comes next?" as anna ended, the needles dropped and ten soft hands gave her a hearty round of applause; for all felt that she had done well, and chosen a task especially fitted to her powers, as she had money, time, tact, and the winning manners that make friends everywhere. beaming with pleasure at their approval, but feeling that they made too much of her small success, anna called the club to order by saying, "ella looks as if she were anxious to tell her experiences, so perhaps we had better ask her to hold forth next." "hear! hear!" cried the girls; and, nothing loath, ella promptly began, with twinkling eyes and a demure smile, for _her_ story ended romantically. "if you are interested in shop girls, miss president and ladies, you will like to know that _i_ am one, at least a silent partner and co-worker in a small fancy store at the west end." "no!" exclaimed the amazed club with one voice; and, satisfied with this sensational beginning, ella went on. "i really am, and you have bought some of my fancy-work. isn't that a good joke? you needn't stare so, for i actually made that needle-book, anna, and my partner knit lizzie's new cloud. this is the way it all happened. i didn't wish to waste any time, but one can't rush into the street and collar shabby little girls, and say, 'come along and learn to sew,' without a struggle, so i thought i'd go and ask mrs. brown how to begin. her branch of the associated charities is in laurel street, not far from our house, you know; and the very day after our last meeting i posted off to get my 'chore.' i expected to have to fit work for poor needlewomen, or go to see some dreadful sick creature, or wash dirty little pats, and was bracing up my mind for whatever might come, as i toiled up the hill in a gale of wind. suddenly my hat flew off and went gayly skipping away, to the great delight of some black imps, who only grinned and cheered me on as i trotted after it with wild grabs and wrathful dodges. i got it at last out of a puddle, and there i was in a nice mess. the elastic was broken, feather wet, and the poor thing all mud and dirt. i didn't care much, as it was my old one,--dressed for my work, you see. but i couldn't go home bareheaded, and i didn't know a soul in that neighborhood. i turned to step into a grocery store at the corner, to borrow a brush, or buy a sheet of paper to wear, for i looked like a lunatic with my battered hat and my hair in a perfect mop. luckily i spied a woman's fancy shop on the other corner, and rushed in there to hide myself, for the brats hooted and people stared. it was a very small shop, and behind the counter sat a tall, thin, washed-out-looking woman, making a baby's hood. she looked poor and blue and rather sour, but took pity on me; and while she sewed the cord, dried the feather, and brushed off the dirt, i warmed myself and looked about to see what i could buy in return for her trouble. "a few children's aprons hung in the little window, with some knit lace, balls, and old-fashioned garters, two or three dolls, and a very poor display of small wares. in a show-case, however, on the table that was the counter, i found some really pretty things, made of plush, silk, and ribbon, with a good deal of taste. so i said i'd buy a needle-book, and a gay ball, and a pair of distracting baby's shoes, made to look like little open-work socks with pink ankle-ties, so cunning and dainty, i was glad to get them for cousin clara's baby. the woman seemed pleased, though she had a grim way of talking, and never smiled once. i observed that she handled my hat as if used to such work, and evidently liked to do it. i thanked her for repairing damages so quickly and well, and she said, with my hat on her hand, as if she hated to part with it, 'i'm used to millinaryin' and never should have give it up, if i didn't have my folks to see to. i took this shop, hopin' to make things go, as such a place was needed round here, but mother broke down, and is a sight of care; so i couldn't leave her, and doctors is expensive, and times hard, and i had to drop my trade, and fall back on pins and needles, and so on.'" ella was a capital mimic, and imitated the nasal tones of the vermont woman to the life, with a doleful pucker of her own blooming face, which gave such a truthful picture of poor miss almira miller that those who had seen her recognized it at once, and laughed gayly. "just as i was murmuring a few words of regret at her bad luck," continued ella, "a sharp voice called out from a back room, 'almiry! almiry! come here.' it sounded very like a cross parrot, but it was the old lady, and while i put on my hat i heard her asking who was in the shop, and what we were 'gabbin' about.' her daughter told her, and the old soul demanded to 'see the gal;' so i went in, being ready for fun as usual. it was a little, dark, dismal place, but as neat as a pin, and in the bed sat a regular grandma smallweed smoking a pipe, with a big cap, a snuff-box, and a red cotton handkerchief. she was a tiny, dried-up thing, brown as a berry, with eyes like black beads, a nose and chin that nearly met, and hands like birds' claws. but such a fierce, lively, curious, blunt old lady you never saw, and i didn't know what would be the end of me when she began to question, then to scold, and finally to demand that 'folks should come and trade to almiry's shop after promisin' they would, and she havin' took a lease of the place on account of them lies.' i wanted to laugh, but dared not do it, so just let her croak, for the daughter had to go to her customers. the old lady's tirade informed me that they came from vermont, had 'been wal on 't till father died and the farm was sold.' then it seems the women came to boston and got on pretty well till 'a stroke of numb-palsy,' whatever that is, made the mother helpless and kept almiry at home to care for her. i can't tell you how funny and yet how sad it was to see the poor old soul, so full of energy and yet so helpless, and the daughter so discouraged with her pathetic little shop and no customers to speak of. i did not know what to say till 'grammer miller,' as the children call her, happened to say, when she took up her knitting after the lecture, 'if folks who go spendin' money reckless on redic'lous toys for christmas only knew what nice things, useful and fancy, me and almiry could make ef we had the goods, they'd jest come round this corner and buy 'em, and keep me out of a old woman's home and that good, hard-workin' gal of mine out of a 'sylum; for go there she will ef she don't get a boost somehow, with rent and firin' and vittles all on her shoulders, and me only able to wag them knittin'-needles.' "'i will buy things here and tell all my friends about it, and i have a drawer full of pretty bits of silk and velvet and plush, that i will give miss miller for her work, if she will let me.' i added that, for i saw that almiry was rather proud, and hid her troubles under a grim look. "that pleased the old lady, and, lowering her voice, she said, with a motherly sort of look in her beady eyes: 'seein' as you are so friendly, i'll tell you what frets me most, a layin' here, a burden to my darter. she kep' company with nathan baxter, a master carpenter up to westminster where we lived, and ef father hadn't a died suddin' they'd a ben married. they waited a number o' years, workin' to their trades, and we was hopin' all would turn out wal, when troubles come, and here we be. nathan's got his own folks to see to, and almiry won't add to _his_ load with hern, nor leave me; so she give him back his ring, and jest buckled to all alone. she don't say a word, but it's wearin' her to a shadder, and i can't do a thing to help, but make a few pin-balls, knit garters, and kiver holders. ef she got a start in business it would cheer her up a sight, and give her a kind of a hopeful prospeck, for old folks can't live forever, and nathan is a waitin', faithful and true.' "that just finished me, for i am romantic, and do enjoy love stories with all my heart, even if the lovers are only a skinny spinster and a master carpenter. so i just resolved to see what i could do for poor almiry and the peppery old lady. i didn't promise anything but my bits, and, taking the things i bought, went home to talk it over with mamma. i found she had often got pins and tape, and such small wares, at the little shop, and found it very convenient, though she knew nothing about the millers. she was willing i should help if i could, but advised going slowly, and seeing what they could do first. we did not dare to treat them like beggars, and send them money and clothes, and tea and sugar, as we do the irish, for they were evidently respectable people, and proud as poor. so i took my bundle of odds and ends, and mamma added some nice large pieces of dresses we had done with, and gave a fine order for aprons and holders and balls for our church fair. "it would have done your hearts good, girls, to see those poor old faces light up as i showed my scraps, and asked if the work would be ready by christmas. grammer fairly swam in the gay colors i strewed over her bed, and enjoyed them like a child, while almiry tried to be grim, but had to give it up, as she began at once to cut aprons, and dropped tears all over the muslin when her back was turned to me. i didn't know a washed-out old maid _could_ be so pathetic." ella stopped to give a regretful sigh over her past blindness, while her hearers made a sympathetic murmur; for young hearts are very tender, and take an innocent interest in lovers' sorrows, no matter how humble. "well, that was the beginning of it. i got so absorbed in _making_ things go well that i didn't look any further, but just 'buckled to' with miss miller and helped run that little shop. no one knew me in that street, so i slipped in and out, and did what i liked. the old lady and i got to be great friends; though she often pecked and croaked like a cross raven, and was very wearing. i kept her busy with her 'pin-balls and knittin'-work,' and supplied almiry with pretty materials for the various things i found she could make. you wouldn't believe what dainty bows those long fingers could tie, what ravishing doll's hats she would make out of a scrap of silk and lace, or the ingenious things she concocted with cones and shells and fans and baskets. i love such work, and used to go and help her often, for i wanted her window and shop to be full for christmas, and lure in plenty of customers. our new toys, and the little cases of sewing silk sold well, and people began to come more, after i lent almiry some money to lay in a stock of better goods. papa enjoyed my business venture immensely, and was never tired of joking about it. he actually went and bought balls for four small black boys who were gluing their noses to the window one day, spellbound by the orange, red, and blue treasures displayed there. he liked my partner's looks, though he teased me by saying that we'd better add lemonade to our stock as poor dear almiry's acid face would make lemons unnecessary and sugar and water were cheap. "well, christmas came, and we did a great business, for mamma came and sent others, and our fancy things were as pretty and cheaper than those at the art stores, so they went well, and the millers were cheered up, and i felt encouraged, and we took a fresh start after the holidays. one of my gifts at new year was my own glove-case,--you remember the apple-blossom thing i began last autumn? i put it in our window to fill up, and mamma bought it, and gave it to me full of elegant gloves, with a sweet note, and papa sent a check to 'miller, warren, & co.' i was so pleased and proud i could hardly help telling you all. but the best joke was the day you girls came in and bought our goods, and i peeped at you through the crack of the door, being in the back room dying with laughter to see you look round, and praise our 'nice assortment of useful and pretty articles.'" "that's all very well, and we can bear to be laughed at if you succeeded, miss. but i don't believe you did, for no millers are there now. have you taken a palatial store on boylston street for this year, intending to run it alone? we'll all patronize it, and your name will look well on a sign," said maggie, wondering what the end of ella's experience had been. "ah! i still have the best of it, for my romance finished up delightfully, as you shall hear. we did well all winter, and no wonder. what was needed was a little 'boost' in the right direction, and i could give it; so my millers were much comforted, and we were good friends. but in march grammer died suddenly, and poor almiry mourned as if she had been the sweetest mother in the world. the old lady's last wishes were to be 'laid out harnsome in a cap with a pale blue satin ribbin, white wasn't becomin', to hev at least three carriages to the funeral, and be sure a paper with her death in it was sent to n. baxter, westminster, vermont.' "i faithfully obeyed her commands, put on the ugly cap myself, gave a party of old ladies from the home a drive in the hacks, and carefully directed a marked paper to nathan, hoping that he _had_ proved 'faithful and true.' i didn't expect he would, so was not surprised when no answer came. but i _was_ rather amazed when almiry told me she didn't care to keep on with the store now she was free. she wanted to visit her friends a spell this spring, and in the fall would go back to her trade in some milliner's store. "i was sorry, for i really enjoyed my partnership. it seemed a little bit ungrateful after all my trouble in getting her customers, but i didn't say anything, and we sold out to the widow bates, who is a good soul with six children, and will profit by our efforts. "almiry bid me good-by with all the grim look gone out of her face, many thanks, and a hearty promise to write soon. that was in april. a week ago i got a short letter saying,-- "'dear friend,--you will be pleased to hear that i am married to mr. baxter, and shall remain here. he was away when the paper came with mother's death, but as soon as he got home he wrote. i couldn't make up my mind till i got home and see him. now it's all right, and i am very happy. many thanks for all you done for me and mother. i shall never forget it. my husband sends respects, and i remain "'yours gratefully, "'almira m. baxter.'" "that's splendid! you did well, and next winter you can look up another sour spinster and cranky old lady and make them happy," said anna, with the approving smile all loved to receive from her. "my adventures are not a bit romantic, or even interesting, and yet i've been as busy as a bee all winter, and enjoyed my work very much," began elizabeth, as the president gave her a nod. "the plan i had in mind was to go and carry books and papers to the people in hospitals, as one of mamma's friends has done for years. i went once to the city hospital with her, and it was very interesting, but i didn't dare to go to the grown people all alone, so i went to the children's hospital, and soon loved to help amuse the poor little dears. i saved all the picture-books and papers i could find for them, dressed dolls, and mended toys, and got new ones, and made bibs and night-gowns, and felt like the mother of a large family. "i had my pets, of course, and did my best for them, reading and singing and amusing them, for many suffered very much. one little girl was so dreadfully burned she could not use her hands, and would lie and look at a gay dolly tied to the bedpost by the hour together, and talk to it and love it, and died with it on her pillow when i 'sung lullaby' to her for the last time. i keep it among my treasures, for i learned a lesson in patience from little norah that i never can forget. [illustration: "i had my pets of course, and did my best for them."] "then jimmy dolan with hip disease was a great delight to me, for he was as gay as a lark in spite of pain, and a real little hero in the way he bore the hard things that had to be done to him. he never can get well, and he is at home now; but i still see to him, and he is learning to make toy furniture very nicely, so that by and by, if he gets able to work at all, he may be able to learn a cabinet-maker's trade, or some easy work. "but my pet of pets was johnny, the blind boy. his poor eyes had to be taken out, and there he was left so helpless and pathetic, all his life before him, and no one to help him, for his people were poor, and he had to go away from the hospital since he was incurable. he seemed almost given to me, for the first time i saw him i was singing to jimmy, when the door opened and a small boy came fumbling in. "'i hear a pretty voice, i want to find it,' he said, stopping as i stopped with both hands out as if begging for more. "'come on, johnny, and the lady will sing to you like a bobolink,' called jimmy, as proud as barnum showing off jumbo. "the poor little thing came and stood at my knee, without stirring, while i sang all the nursery jingles i knew. then he put such a thin little finger on my lips as if to feel where the music came from, and said, smiling all over his white face, 'more, please more, lots of 'em! i love it!' "so i sang away till i was as hoarse as a crow, and johnny drank it all in like water; kept time with his head, stamped when i gave him 'marching through georgia,' and hurrahed feebly in the chorus of 'red, white, and blue.' it was lovely to see how he enjoyed it, and i was so glad i had a voice to comfort those poor babies with. he cried when i had to go, and so touched my heart that i asked all about him, and resolved to get him into the blind school as the only place where he could be taught and made happy." "i thought you were bound there the day i met you, lizzie; but you looked as solemn as if all your friends had lost their sight," cried marion. "i did feel solemn, for if johnny could not go there he would be badly off. fortunately he was ten, and dear mrs. russell helped me, and those good people took him in though they were crowded. 'we cannot turn one away,' said kind mr. parpatharges. "so there my boy is, as happy as a king with his little mates, learning all sorts of useful lessons and pretty plays. he models nicely in clay. here is one of his little works. could you do as well without eyes?" and lizzie proudly produced a very one-sided pear with a long straw for a stem. "i don't expect he will ever be a sculptor, but i hope he will do something with music, he loves it so, and is already piping away on a fife very cleverly. whatever his gift may prove, if he lives, he will be taught to be a useful, independent man, not a helpless burden, nor an unhappy creature sitting alone in the dark. i feel very happy about my lads, and am surprised to find how well i get on with them. i shall look up some more next year, for i really think i have quite a gift that way, though you wouldn't expect it, as i have no brothers, and always had a fancy boys were little imps." the girls were much amused at lizzie's discovery of her own powers, for she was a stately damsel, who never indulged in romps, but lived for her music. now it was evident that she had found the key to unlock childish hearts, and was learning to use it, quite unconscious that the sweet voice she valued so highly was much improved by the tender tones singing lullabies gave it. the fat pear was passed round like refreshments, receiving much praise and no harsh criticism; and when it was safely returned to its proud possessor, ida began her tale in a lively tone. "i waited for _my_ chore, and it came tumbling down our basement steps one rainy day in the shape of a large dilapidated umbrella with a pair of small boots below it. a mild howl made me run to open the door, for i was at lunch in the dining-room, all alone, and rather blue because i couldn't go over to see ella. a very small girl lay with her head in a puddle at the foot of the steps, the boots waving in the air, and the umbrella brooding over her like a draggled green bird. "'are you hurt, child?' said i. [illustration: "'are you hurt, child?' said i."] "'no, i thank you, ma'am,' said the mite quite calmly, as she sat up and settled a woman's shabby black hat on her head. "'did you come begging?' i asked. "'no, ma'am, i came for some things mrs. grover's got for us. she told me to. i don't beg.' and up rose the sopping thing with great dignity. "so i asked her to sit down, and ran up to call mrs. grover. she was busy with grandpa just then, and when i went back to my lunch there sat my lady with her arms folded, water dripping out of the toes of her old boots as they hung down from the high chair, and the biggest blue eyes i ever saw fixed upon the cake and oranges on the table. i gave her a piece, and she sighed with rapture, but only picked at it till i asked if she didn't like it. "'oh yes, 'm, it's elegant! only i was wishin' i could take it to caddy and tot, if you didn't mind. they never had frostin' in all their lives, and i did once.' "of course i put up a little basket of cake and oranges and figs, and while lotty feasted, we talked. i found that their mother washed dishes all day in a restaurant over by the albany station, leaving the three children alone in the room they have on berry street. think of that poor thing going off before light these winter mornings to stand over horrid dishes all day long, and those three scraps of children alone till night! sometimes they had a fire, and when they hadn't they stayed in bed. broken food and four dollars a week was all the woman got, and on that they tried to live. good mrs. grover happened to be nursing a poor soul near berry street last summer, and used to see the three little things trailing round the streets with no one to look after them. "lotty is nine, though she looks about six, but is as old as most girls of fourteen, and takes good care of 'the babies,' as she calls the younger ones. mrs. grover went to see them, and, though a hard-working creature, did all she could for them. this winter she has plenty of time to sew, for grandpa needs little done for him except at night and morning, and that kind woman spent her own money, and got warm flannel and cotton and stuff, and made each child a good suit. lotty had come for hers, and when the bundle was in her arms she hugged it close, and put up her little face to kiss grover so prettily, i felt that i wanted to do something too. so i hunted up min's old waterproof and rubbers, and a hood, and sent lotty home as happy as a queen, promising to go and see her. i did go, and there was my work all ready for me. oh, girls! such a bare, cold room, without a spark of fire, and no food but a pan of bits of pie and bread and meat, not fit for any one to eat, and in the bed, with an old carpet for cover, lay the three children. tot and caddy cuddled in the warmest place, while lotty, with her little blue hands, was trying to patch up some old stockings with bits of cotton. i didn't know _how_ to begin, but lotty did, and i just took her orders; for that wise little woman told me where to buy a bushel of coal and some kindlings, and milk and meal, and all i wanted. i worked like a beaver for an hour or two, and was so glad i'd been to a cooking-class, for i could make a fire, with lotty to do the grubby part, and start a nice soup with the cold meat and potatoes, and an onion or so. soon the room was warm, and full of a nice smell, and out of bed tumbled 'the babies,' to dance round the stove and sniff at the soup, and drink milk like hungry kittens, till i could get bread and butter ready. "it was great fun! and when we had cleared things up a bit, and i'd put food for supper in the closet, and told lotty to warm a bowl of soup for her mother and keep the fire going, i went home tired and dirty, but very glad i'd found something to do. it is perfectly amazing how little poor people's things cost, and yet they can't get the small amount of money needed without working themselves to death. why, all i bought didn't cost more than i often spend for flowers, or theatre tickets, or lunches, and it made those poor babies so comfortable i could have cried to think i'd never done it before." ida paused to shake her head remorsefully, then went on with her story, sewing busily all the while on an unbleached cotton night-gown which looked about fit for a large doll. "i have no romantic things to tell, for poor mrs. kennedy was a shiftless, broken-down woman, who could only 'sozzle round,' as mrs. grover said, and rub along with help from any one who would lend a hand. she had lived out, married young, and had no faculty about anything; so when her husband died, and she was left with three little children, it was hard to get on, with no trade, feeble health, and a discouraged mind. she does her best, loves the girls, and works hard at the only thing she can find to do; but when she gives out, they will all have to part,--she to a hospital, and the babies to some home. she dreads that, and tugs away, trying to keep together and get ahead. thanks to mrs. grover, who is very sensible, and knows how to help poor people, we have made things comfortable, and the winter has gone nicely. "the mother has got work nearer home, lotty and caddy go to school, and tot is safe and warm, with miss parsons to look after her. miss parsons is a young woman who was freezing and starving in a little room upstairs, too proud to beg and too shy and sick to get much work. i found her warming her hands one day in mrs. kennedy's room, and hanging over the soup-pot as if she was eating the smell. it reminded me of the picture in punch where the two beggar boys look in at a kitchen, sniffing at the nice dinner cooking there. one says, 'i don't care for the meat, bill, but i don't mind if i takes a smell at the pudd'n' when it's dished.' i proposed a lunch at once, and we all sat down, and ate soup out of yellow bowls with pewter spoons with such a relish it was fun to see. i had on my old rig; so poor parsons thought i was some dressmaker or work-girl, and opened her heart to me as she never would have done if i'd gone and demanded her confidence, and patronized her, as some people do when they want to help. i promised her some work, and proposed that she should do it in mrs. k.'s room, as a favor, mind you, so that the older girls could go to school and tot have some one to look after her. she agreed, and that saved her fire, and made the k.'s all right. sarah (that's miss p.) tried to stiffen up when she learned where i lived; but she wanted the work, and soon found i didn't put on airs, but lent her books, and brought her and tot my bouquets and favors after a german, and told her pleasant things as she sat cooking her poor chilblainy feet in the oven, as if she never could get thawed out. "this summer the whole batch are to go to uncle frank's farm and pick berries, and get strong. he hires dozens of women and children during the fruit season, and mrs. grover said it was just what they all needed. so off they go in june, as merry as grigs, and i shall be able to look after them now and then, as i always go to the farm in july. that's all,--not a bit interesting, but it came to me, and i did it, though only small chore." "i'm sure the helping of five poor souls is a fine work, and you may well be proud of it, ida. now i know why you wouldn't go to matinées with me, and buy every pretty thing we saw as you used to. the pocket money went for coal and food, and your fancy-work was little clothes for these live dolls of yours. you dear thing! how good you were to cook, and grub, and prick your fingers rough, and give up fun, for this kind work!" maggie's hearty kiss, and the faces of her friends, made ida feel that her humble task had its worth in their eyes, as well as in her own; and when the others had expressed their interest in her work, all composed themselves to hear what marion had to tell. "i have been taking care of a scarlet runner,--a poor old frost-bitten, neglected thing; it is transplanted now, and doing well, i'm happy to say." "what _do_ you mean?" asked ella, while the rest looked very curious. marion picked up a dropped stitch in the large blue sock she was knitting, and continued, with a laugh in her eyes: "my dears, that is what we call the soldiers' messenger corps, with their red caps and busy legs trotting all day. i've had one of them to care for, and a gorgeous time of it, i do assure you. but before i exult over my success, i must honestly confess my failures, for they were sad ones. i was so anxious to begin my work at once, that i did go out and collar the first pauper i saw. it was an old man, who sometimes stands at the corners of streets to sell bunches of ugly paper flowers. you've seen him, i dare say, and his magenta daisies and yellow peonies. well, he was rather a forlorn object, with his poor old red nose, and bleary eyes, and white hair, standing at the windy corners silently holding out those horrid flowers. i bought all he had that day, and gave them to some colored children on my way home, and told him to come to our house and get an old coat mamma was waiting to get rid of. he told a pitiful story of himself and his old wife, who made the paper horrors in her bed, and how they needed everything, but didn't wish to beg. i was much touched, and flew home to look up the coat and some shoes, and when my old lear came creeping in the back way, i ordered cook to give him a warm dinner and something nice for the old woman. "i was called upstairs while he was mumbling his food, and blessing me in the most lovely manner; and he went away much comforted, i flattered myself. but an hour later, up came the cook in a great panic to report that my venerable and pious beggar had carried off several of papa's shirts and pairs of socks out of the clothes-basket in the laundry, and the nice warm hood we keep for the girl to hang out clothes in. "i was _very_ angry, and, taking harry with me, went at once to the address the old rascal gave me, a dirty court out of hanover street. no such person had ever lived there, and my white-haired saint was a humbug. harry laughed at me, and mamma forbade me to bring any more thieves to the house, and the girls scolded awfully. "well, i recovered from the shock, and, nothing daunted, went off to the little irishwoman who sells apples on the common,--not the fat, cosey one with the stall near west street, but the dried-up one who sits by the path, nodding over an old basket with six apples and four sticks of candy in it. no one ever seems to buy anything, but she sits there and trusts to kind souls dropping a dime now and then, she looks so feeble and forlorn, 'on the cold, cold ground.' "she told me another sad tale of being all alone and unable to work, and 'as wake as wather-grewl, without a hap-worth av flesh upon me bones, and for the love of heaven gimme a thrifle to kape the breath av loife in a poor soul, with a bitter hard winter over me, and niver a chick or child to do a hand's turn.' i hadn't much faith in her, remembering my other humbug, but i did pity the old mummy; so i got some tea and sugar, and a shawl, and used to give her my odd pennies as i passed. i never told at home, they made such fun of my efforts to be charitable. i thought i really was getting on pretty well after a time, as my old biddy seemed quite cheered up, and i was planning to give her some coal, when she disappeared all of a sudden. i feared she was ill, and asked mrs. maloney, the fat woman, about her. "'lord love ye, miss dear, it's tuk up and sint to the island for tree months she is; for a drunken ould crayther is biddy ryan, and niver a cint but goes for whiskey,--more shame to her, wid a fine bye av her own ready to kape her daycint.' "then i _was_ discouraged, and went home to fold my hands, and see what fate would send me, my own efforts being such failures." "poor thing, it _was_ hard luck!" said elizabeth, as they sobered down after the gale of merriment caused by marion's mishaps, and her clever imitation of the brogue. "now tell of your success, and the scarlet runner," added maggie. "ah! that was _sent_, and so i prospered. i must begin ever so far back, in war times, or i can't introduce my hero properly. you know papa was in the army, and fought all through the war till gettysburg, where he was wounded. he was engaged just before he went; so when his father hurried to him after that awful battle, mamma went also, and helped nurse him till he could come home. he wouldn't go to an officer's hospital, but kept with his men in a poor sort of place, for many of his boys were hit, and he wouldn't leave them. sergeant joe collins was one of the bravest, and lost his right arm saving the flag in one of the hottest struggles of that great fight. he had been a maine lumberman, and was over six feet tall, but as gentle as a child, and as jolly as a boy, and very fond of his colonel. "papa left first, but made joe promise to let him know how he got on, and joe did so till he too went home. then papa lost sight of him, and in the excitement of his own illness, and the end of the war, and being married, joe collins was forgotten, till we children came along, and used to love to hear the story of papa's battles, and how the brave sergeant caught the flag when the bearer was shot, and held it in the rush till one arm was blown off and the other wounded. we have fighting blood in us, you know, so we were never tired of that story, though twenty-five years or more make it all as far away to us as the old revolution, where _our_ ancestor was killed, at _our_ bunker hill! "last december, just after my sad disappointments, papa came home to dinner one day, exclaiming, in great glee: 'i've found old joe! a messenger came with a letter to me, and when i looked up to give my answer, there stood a tall, grizzled fellow, as straight as a ramrod, grinning from ear to ear, with his hand to his temple, saluting me in regular style. "don't you remember joe collins, colonel? awful glad to see you, sir," said he. and then it all came back, and we had a good talk, and i found out that the poor old boy was down on his luck, and almost friendless, but as proud and independent as ever, and bound to take care of himself while he had a leg to stand on. i've got his address, and mean to keep an eye on him, for he looks feeble and can't make much, i'm sure.' [illustration: "and there stood a tall grizzly man, saluting in regular style."] "we were all very glad, and joe came to see us, and papa sent him on endless errands, and helped him in that way till he went to new york. then, in the fun and flurry of the holidays, we forgot all about joe, till papa came home and missed him from his post. i said i'd go and find him; so harry and i rummaged about till we did find him, in a little house at the north end, laid up with rheumatic fever in a stuffy back room, with no one to look after him but the washerwoman with whom he boarded. "i was _so_ sorry we had forgotten him! but _he_ never complained, only said, with his cheerful grin, 'i kinder mistrusted the colonel was away, but i wasn't goin' to pester him.' he tried to be jolly, though in dreadful pain; called harry 'major,' and was so grateful for all we brought him, though he didn't want oranges and tea, and made us shout when i said, like a goose, thinking that was the proper thing to do, 'shall i bathe your brow, you are so feverish?' "'no, thanky, miss, it was swabbed pretty stiddy to the horsepittle, and i reckon a trifle of tobaccer would do more good and be a sight more relishin', ef you'll excuse my mentionin' it.' "harry rushed off and got a great lump and a pipe, and joe lay blissfully puffing, in a cloud of smoke, when we left him, promising to come again. we did go nearly every day, and had lovely times; for joe told us his adventures, and we got so interested in the war that i began to read up evenings, and papa was pleased, and fought all his battles over again for us, and harry and i were great friends reading together, and papa was charmed to see the old general's spirit in us, as we got excited and discussed all our wars in a fever of patriotism that made mamma laugh. joe said i 'brustled up' at the word _battle_ like a war-horse at the smell of powder, and i'd ought to have been a drummer, the sound of martial music made me so 'skittish.' "it was all new and charming to us young ones, but poor old joe had a hard time, and was very ill. exposure and fatigue, and scanty food, and loneliness, and his wounds, were too much for him, and it was plain his working days were over. he hated the thought of the poor-house at home, which was all his own town could offer him, and he had no friends to live with, and he could not get a pension, something being wrong about his papers; so he would have been badly off, but for the soldiers' home at chelsea. as soon as he was able, papa got him in there, and he was glad to go, for that seemed the proper place, and a charity the proudest man might accept, after risking his life for his country. "there is where i used to be going when you saw me, and i was _so_ afraid you'd smell the cigars in my basket. the dear old boys always want them, and papa says they _must_ have them, though it isn't half so romantic as flowers, and jelly, and wine, and the dainty messes we women always want to carry. i've learned about different kinds of tobacco and cigars, and you'd laugh to see me deal out my gifts, which are received as gratefully as the victoria cross, when the queen decorates _her_ brave men. i'm quite a great gun over there, and the boys salute when i come, tell me their woes, and think that papa and i can run the whole concern. i like it immensely, and am as proud and fond of my dear old wrecks as if i'd been a rigoletto, and ridden on a cannon from my babyhood. that's _my_ story, but i can't begin to tell how interesting it all is, nor how glad i am that it led me to look into the history of american wars, in which brave men of our name did their parts so well." a hearty round of applause greeted marion's tale, for her glowing face and excited voice stirred the patriotic spirit of the boston girls, and made them beam approvingly upon her. "now, maggie, dear, last but not least, i'm sure," said anna, with an encouraging glance, for _she_ had discovered the secret of this friend, and loved her more than ever for it. maggie blushed and hesitated, as she put down the delicate muslin cap-strings she was hemming with such care. then, looking about her with a face in which both humility and pride contended, she said, with an effort, "after the other lively experiences, mine will sound very flat. in fact, i have no story to tell, for _my_ charity began at home, and stopped there." "tell it, dear. i know it is interesting, and will do us all good," said anna, quickly; and, thus supported, maggie went on. "i planned great things, and talked about what i meant to do, till papa said one day, when things were in a mess, as they often are, at our house, 'if the little girls who want to help the world along would remember that charity begins at home, they would soon find enough to do.' "i was rather taken aback, and said no more, but after papa had gone to the office, i began to think, and looked round to see what there was to be done at that particular moment. i found enough for that day, and took hold at once; for poor mamma had one of her bad headaches, the children could not go out because it rained, and so were howling in the nursery, cook was on a rampage, and maria had the toothache. well, i began by making mamma lie down for a good long sleep. i kept the children quiet by giving them my ribbon box and jewelry to dress up with, put a poultice on maria's face, and offered to wash the glass and silver for her, to appease cook, who was as cross as two sticks over extra work washing-day. it wasn't much fun, as you may imagine, but i got through the afternoon, and kept the house still, and at dusk crept into mamma's room and softly built up the fire, so it should be cheery when she waked. then i went trembling to the kitchen for some tea, and there found three girls calling, and high jinks going on; for one whisked a plate of cake into the table drawer, another put a cup under her shawl, and cook hid the teapot, as i stirred round in the china closet before opening the slide, through a crack of which i'd seen, heard, and smelt 'the party,' as the children call it. "i was angry enough to scold the whole set, but i wisely held my tongue, shut my eyes, and politely asked for some hot water, nodded to the guests, and told cook maria was better, and would do her work if she wanted to go out. "so peace reigned, and as i settled the tray, i heard cook say in her balmiest tone, for i suspect the cake and tea lay heavy on her conscience, 'the mistress is very poorly, and miss takes nice care of her, the dear.' "all blarney, but it pleased me and made me remember how feeble poor mamma was, and how little i really did. so i wept a repentant weep as i toiled upstairs with my tea and toast, and found mamma all ready for them, and so pleased to find things going well. i saw by that what a relief it would be to her if i did it oftener, as i ought, and as i resolved that i would. "i didn't say anything, but i kept on doing whatever came along, and before i knew it ever so many duties slipped out of mamma's hands into mine, and seemed to belong to me. i don't mean that i liked them, and didn't grumble to myself; i did, and felt regularly crushed and injured sometimes when i wanted to go and have my own fun. duty is right, but it isn't easy, and the only comfort about it is a sort of quiet feeling you get after a while, and a strong feeling, as if you'd found something to hold on to and keep you steady. i can't express it, but you know?" and maggie looked wistfully at the other faces, some of which answered her with a quick flash of sympathy, and some only wore a puzzled yet respectful expression, as if they felt they ought to know, but did not. "i need not tire you with all my humdrum doings," continued maggie. "i made no plans, but just said each day, 'i'll take what comes, and try to be cheerful and contented.' so i looked after the children, and that left maria more time to sew and help round. i did errands, and went to market, and saw that papa had his meals comfortably when mamma was not able to come down. i made calls for her, and received visitors, and soon went on as if i were the lady of the house, not 'a chit of a girl,' as cousin tom used to call me. "the best of all were the cosey talks we had in the twilight, mamma and i, when she was rested, and all the day's worry was over, and we were waiting for papa. now, when he came, i didn't have to go away, for they wanted to ask and tell me things, and consult about affairs, and make me feel that i was really the eldest daughter. oh, it was just lovely to sit between them and know that they needed me, and loved to have me with them! that made up for the hard and disagreeable things, and not long ago i got my reward. mamma is better, and i was rejoicing over it, when she said, 'yes, i really am mending now, and hope soon to be able to relieve my good girl. but i want to tell you, dear, that when i was most discouraged my greatest comfort was, that if i had to leave my poor babies they would find such a faithful little mother in you.' "i was _so_ pleased i wanted to cry, for the children _do_ love me, and run to me for everything now, and think the world of sister, and they didn't use to care much for me. but that wasn't all. i ought not to tell these things, perhaps, but i'm so proud of them i can't help it. when i asked papa privately, if mamma was _really_ better and in no danger of falling ill again, he said, with his arms round me, and such a tender kiss,-- "'no danger now, for this brave little girl put her shoulder to the wheel so splendidly, that the dear woman got the relief from care she needed just at the right time, and now she really rests sure that we are not neglected. you couldn't have devoted yourself to a better charity, or done it more sweetly, my darling. god bless you!'" here maggie's voice gave out, and she hid her face, with a happy sob, that finished her story eloquently. marion flew to wipe her tears away with the blue sock, and the others gave a sympathetic murmur, looking much touched; forgotten duties of their own rose before them, and sudden resolutions were made to attend to them at once, seeing how great maggie's reward had been. "i didn't mean to be silly; but i wanted you to know that i hadn't been idle all winter, and that, though i haven't much to tell, i'm _quite_ satisfied with my chore," she said, looking up with smiles shining through the tears till her face resembled a rose in a sun-shower. "many daughters have done well, but thou excellest them all," answered anna, with a kiss that completed her satisfaction. "now, as it is after our usual time, and we must break up," continued the president, producing a basket of flowers from its hiding-place, "i will merely say that i think we have all learned a good deal, and will be able to work better next winter; for i am sure we shall want to try again, it adds so much sweetness to our own lives to put even a little comfort into the hard lives of the poor. as a farewell token, i sent for some real plymouth mayflowers, and here they are, a posy apiece, with my love and many thanks for your help in carrying out my plan so beautifully." so the nosegays were bestowed, the last lively chat enjoyed, new plans suggested, and goodbyes said; then the club separated, each member going gayly away with the rosy flowers on her bosom, and in it a clearer knowledge of the sad side of life, a fresh desire to see and help still more, and a sweet satisfaction in the thought that each had done what she could. * * * * * transcriber's note: all punctuation kept as per original, including unclosed quotes. [illustration: _paul and virginia. p. ._] paul and virginia, from the french of j.b.h. de saint pierre. preface. the following translation of "paul and virginia," was written at paris, amidst the horrors of robespierre's tyranny. during that gloomy epocha it was difficult to find occupations which might cheat the days of calamity of their weary length. society had vanished; and amidst the minute vexations of jacobinical despotism, which, while it murdered in _mass_, persecuted in detail, the resources of writing, and even reading, were encompassed with danger. the researches of domiciliary visits had already compelled me to commit to the flames a manuscript volume, where i had traced the political scenes of which i had been a witness, with the colouring of their first impressions on my mind, with those fresh tints that fade from recollection; and since my pen, accustomed to follow the impulse of my feelings, could only have drawn, at that fatal period, those images of desolation and despair which haunted my imagination, and dwelt upon my heart, writing was forbidden employment. even reading had its perils; for books had sometimes aristocratical insignia, and sometimes counter revolutionary allusions; and when the administrators of police happened to think the writer a conspirator, they punished the reader as his accomplice. in this situation i gave myself the task of employing a few hours every day in translating the charming little novel of bernardin st. pierre, entitled "paul and virginia;" and i found the most soothing relief in wandering from my own gloomy reflections to those enchanting scenes of the mauritius, which he has so admirably described. i also composed a few sonnets adapted to the peculiar productions of that part of the globe, which are interspersed in the work. some, indeed, are lost, as well as a part of the translation, which i have since supplied, having been sent to the municipality of paris, in order to be examined as english papers; where they still remain, mingled with revolutionary placards, motions, and harangues; and are not likely to be restored to my possession. with respect to the translation, i can only hope to deserve the humble merit of not having deformed the beauty of the original. i have, indeed, taken one liberty with my author, which it is fit i should acknowledge, that of omitting several pages of general observations, which, however excellent in themselves, would be passed over with impatience by the english reader, when they interrupt the pathetic narrative. in this respect, the two nations seem to change characters; and while the serious and reflecting englishman requires, in novel writing, as well as on the theatre, a rapid succession of incidents, much bustle and stage effect, without suffering the author to appear himself, and stop the progress of the story; the gay and restless frenchman listens attentively to long philosophical reflections, while the catastrophe of the drama hangs in suspense. my last poetical productions (the sonnets which are interspersed in this work) may perhaps be found even more imperfect than my earlier compositions; since, after a long exile from england, i can scarcely flatter myself that my ear is become more attuned to the harmony of a language, with the sounds of which it is seldom gladdened; or that my poetical taste is improved by living in a country where arts have given place to arms. but the public will, perhaps, receive with indulgence a work written under such peculiar circumstances; not composed in the calm of literary leisure, or in pursuit of literary fame, but amidst the turbulence of the most cruel sensations, and in order to escape awhile from overwhelming misery. h.m.w. paul and virginia. on the eastern coast of the mountain which rises above port louis in the mauritius, upon a piece of land bearing the marks of former cultivation, are seen the ruins of two small cottages. those ruins are situated near the centre of a valley, formed by immense rocks, and which opens only towards the north. on the left rises the mountain, called the height of discovery, from whence the eye marks the distant sail when it first touches the verge of the horizon, and whence the signal is given when a vessel approaches the island. at the foot of this mountain stands the town of port louis. on the right is formed the road, which stretches from port louis to the shaddock grove, where the church, bearing that name, lifts its head, surrounded by its avenues of bamboo, in the midst of a spacious plain; and the prospect terminates in a forest extending to the furthest bounds of the island. the front view presents the bay, denominated the bay of the tomb: a little on the right is seen the cape of misfortune; and beyond rolls the expanded ocean, on the surface of which appear a few uninhabited islands, and, among others, the point of endeavour, which resembles a bastion built upon the flood. at the entrance of the valley which presents those various objects, the echoes of the mountain incessantly repeat the hollow murmurs of the winds that shake the neighbouring forests, and the tumultuous dashing of the waves which break at a distance upon the cliffs. but near the ruined cottages all is calm and still, and the only objects which there meet the eye are rude steep rocks, that rise like a surrounding rampart. large clumps of trees grow at their base, on their rifted sides, and even on their majestic tops, where the clouds seem to repose. the showers, which their bold points attract, often paint the vivid colours of the rainbow on their green and brown declivities, and swell the sources of the little river which flows at their feet, called the river of fan-palms. within this enclosure reigns the most profound silence. the waters, the air, all the elements are at peace. scarcely does the echo repeat the whispers of the palm-trees spreading their broad leaves, the long points of which are gently balanced by the winds. a soft light illuminates the bottom of this deep valley, on which the sun only shines at noon. but even at break of day the rays of light are thrown on the surrounding rocks; and the sharp peaks, rising above the shadows of the mountain, appear like tints of gold and purple gleaming upon the azure sky. to this scene i loved to resort, where i might enjoy at once the richness of the extensive landscape, and the charm of uninterrupted solitude. one day, when i was seated at the foot of the cottages, and contemplating their ruins, a man, advanced in years, passed near the spot. he was dressed in the ancient garb of the island, his feet were bare, and he leaned upon a staff of ebony: his hair was white, and the expression of his countenance was dignified and interesting. i bowed to him with respect; he returned the salutation: and, after looking at me with some earnestness, came and placed himself upon the hillock where i was seated. encouraged by this mark of confidence, i thus addressed him:-- "father, can you tell me to whom those cottages once belonged?" "my son," replied the old man, "those heaps of rubbish, and that unfilled land, were, twenty years ago, the property of two families, who then found happiness in this solitude. their history is affecting; but what european, pursuing his way to the indies, will pause one moment to interest himself in the fate of a few obscure individuals? what european can picture happiness to his imagination amidst poverty and neglect? the curiosity of mankind is only attracted by the history of the great; and yet from that knowledge little use can be derived." "father," i rejoined, "from your manners and your observations, i perceive that you have acquired much experience of human life. if you have leisure, relate to me, i beseech you, the history of the ancient inhabitants of this desert; and be assured, that even the men who are most perverted by the prejudices of the world, find a soothing pleasure in contemplating that happiness which belongs to simplicity and virtue." the old man, after a short silence, during which he leaned his face upon his hands, as if he were trying to recall the images of the past, thus began his narration:-- "monsieur de la tour, a young man who was a native of normandy, after having in vain solicited a commission in the french army, or some support from his own family, at length determined to seek his fortune in this island, where he arrived in . he brought hither a young woman whom he loved tenderly, and by whom he was no less tenderly beloved. she belonged to a rich and ancient family of the same province; but he had married her without fortune, and in opposition to the will of her relations, who refused their consent, because he was found guilty of being descended from parents who had no claims to nobility. monsieur de la tour, leaving his wife at port louis, embarked for madagascar, in order to purchase a few slaves to assist him in forming a plantation in this island. he landed at that unhealthy season which commences about the middle of october: and soon after his arrival died of the pestilential fever, which prevails in that country six months of the year, and which will forever baffle the attempts of the european nations to form establishments on that fatal soil. his effects were seized upon by the rapacity of strangers; and his wife, who was pregnant, found herself a widow in a country where she had neither credit nor recommendation, and no earthly possession, or rather support, save one negro woman. too delicate to solicit protection or relief from any other man after the death of him whom alone she loved, misfortune armed her with courage, and she resolved to cultivate with her slave a little spot of ground, and procure for herself the means of subsistence. in an island almost a desert, and where the ground was left to the choice of the settler, she avoided those spots which were most fertile and most favourable to commerce; and seeking some nook of the mountain, some secret asylum, where she might live solitary and unknown, she bent her way from the town towards those rocks, where she wished to shelter herself as in a nest. all suffering creatures, from a sort of common instinct, fly for refuge amidst their pains to haunts the most wild and desolate; as if rocks could form a rampart against misfortune; as if the calm of nature could hush the tumults of the soul. that providence, which lends its support when we ask but the supply of our necessary wants, had a blessing in reserve for madame de la tour, which neither riches nor greatness can purchase; this blessing was a friend. "the spot to which madame de la tour fled had already been inhabited a year by a young woman of a lively, good natured, and affectionate disposition. margaret (for that was her name) was born in britany, of a family of peasants, by whom she was cherished and beloved, and with whom she might have passed life in simple rustic happiness, if, misled by the weakness of a tender heart, she had not listened to the passion of a gentleman in the neighbourhood, who promised her marriage. he soon abandoned her, and adding inhumanity to seduction, refused to ensure a provision for the child of which she was pregnant. margaret then determined to leave for ever her native village, and go, where her fault might be concealed, to some colony distant from that country where she had lost the only portion of a poor peasant girl--her reputation. with some borrowed money she purchased an old negro slave, with whom she cultivated a little spot of this canton. here madame de la tour, followed by her negro woman, found margaret suckling her child. soothed by the sight of a person in a situation somewhat similar to her own, madame de la tour related, in a few words, her past condition and her present wants. margaret was deeply affected by the recital; and, more anxious to excite confidence than esteem, she confessed, without disguise, the errors of which she had been guilty. 'as for me,' said she, 'i deserve my fate: but you, madam--you! at once virtuous and unhappy--' and, sobbing, she offered madame de la tour both her hut and her friendship. that lady, affected by this tender reception, pressed her in her arms, and exclaimed, 'ah, surely heaven will put an end to my misfortunes, since it inspires you, to whom i am a stranger, with more goodness towards me than i have ever experienced from my own relations!' "i knew margaret; and, although my habitation is a league and a half from hence, in the woods behind that sloping mountain, i considered myself as her neighbour. in the cities of europe a street, sometimes even a less distance, separates families whom nature had united; but in new colonies we consider those persons as neighbours from whom we are divided only by woods and mountains; and above all, at that period when this island had little intercourse with the indies, neighbourhood alone gave a claim to friendship, and hospitality toward strangers seemed less a duty than a pleasure. no sooner was i informed that margaret had found a companion, than i hastened thither, in hope of being useful to my neighbour and her guest. "madame de la tour possessed all those melancholy graces which give beauty additional power, by blending sympathy with admiration. her figure was interesting, and her countenance expressed at once dignity and dejection. she appeared to be in the last stage of her pregnancy. i told them that, for the future interests of their children, and to prevent the intrusion of any other settler, it was necessary they should divide between them the property of this wild sequestered valley, which is nearly twenty acres in extent. they confided that task to me, and i marked out two equal portions of land. one includes the higher part of this enclosure, from, the peak of that rock buried in clouds, whence springs the rapid river of fan-palms, to that wide cleft which you see on the summit of the mountain, and which is called the cannon's mouth, from the resemblance in its form. it is difficult to find a path along this wild portion of enclosure, the soil of which is encumbered with fragments of rock, or worn into channels formed by torrents; yet it produces noble trees, and innumerable fountains and rivulets. the other portion of land is comprised in the plain extending along the banks of the river of fan-palms, to the opening where we are now seated, from whence the river takes its course between those two hills, until it falls into the sea. you may still trace the vestiges of some meadow-land; and this part of the common is less rugged, but not more valuable than the other; since in the rainy season it becomes marshy, and in dry weather is so hard and unbending, that it will yield only to the stroke of the hatchet. when i had thus divided the property, i persuaded my neighbours to draw lots for their separate possessions. the higher portion of land became the property of madame de la tour; the lower, of margaret; and each seemed satisfied with her respective share. they entreated me to place their habitations together, that they might at all times enjoy the soothing intercourse of friendship, and the consolation of mutual kind offices. margaret's cottage was situated near the centre of the valley, and just on the boundary of her own plantation. close to that spot i built another cottage for the dwelling of madame de la tour: and thus the two friends, while they possessed all the advantages of neighbourhood, lived on their own property. i myself cut palisades from the mountain, and brought leaves of fan-palms from the seashore, in order to construct those two cottages, of which you can now discern neither the entrance nor the roof. yet, alas! there still remain but too many traces for my remembrance! time, which so rapidly destroys the proud monuments of empires, seems in this desert to spare those of friendship, as if to perpetuate my regrets to the last hour of my existence. "scarcely was her cottage finished, when madame de la tour was delivered of a girl. i had been the godfather of margaret's child, who was christened by the name of paul. madame de la tour desired me to perform the same office for her child also, together with her friend, who gave her the name of virginia. 'she will be virtuous,' cried margaret, 'and she will be happy. i have only known misfortune by wandering from virtue.' "at the time madame de la tour recovered, those two little territories had already begun to yield some produce, perhaps in a small degree owing to the care which i occasionally bestowed on their improvement, but far more to the indefatigable labours of the two slaves. margaret's slave, who was called domingo, was still healthy and robust, although advanced in years: he possessed some knowledge, and a good natural understanding. he cultivated indiscriminately, on both settlements, such spots of ground as were most fertile, and sowed whatever grain he thought most congenial to each particular soil. where the ground was poor, he strewed maize; where it was most fruitful, he planted wheat; and rice in such spots as were marshy. he threw the seeds of gourds and cucumbers at the foot of the rocks, which they loved to climb, and decorate with their luxuriant foliage. in dry spots he cultivated the sweet potato; the cotton-tree flourished upon the heights, and the sugar-cane grew in the clayey soil. he reared some plants of coffee on the hills, where the grain, although small, is excellent. the plantain-trees, which spread their grateful shade on the banks of the river, and encircled the cottage, yielded fruit throughout the year. and, lastly, domingo cultivated a few plants of tobacco, to charm away his own cares. sometimes he was employed in cutting wood for firing from the mountain, sometimes in hewing pieces of rock within the enclosure, in order to level the paths. he was much attached to margaret, and not less to madame de la tour, whose negro-woman, mary, he had married at the time of virginia's birth; and he was passionately fond of his wife. mary was born at madagascar, from whence she had brought a few arts of industry. she could weave baskets, and a sort of stuff, with long grass that grows in the woods. she was active, cleanly, and, above all, faithful. it was her care to prepare their meals, to rear the poultry, and go sometimes to port louis, and sell the superfluities of these little plantations, which were not very considerable. if you add to the personages i have already mentioned two goats, who were brought up with the children, and a great dog, who kept watch at night, you will have a complete idea of the household, as well as of the revenue of those two farms. "madame de la tour and her friend were employed from the morning till the evening in spinning cotton for the use of their families. destitute of all those things which their own industry could not supply, they walked about their habitations with their feet bare, and shoes were a convenience reserved for sunday, when, at an early hour, they attended mass at the church of the shaddock grove, which you see yonder. that church is far more distant than port louis; yet they seldom visited the town, lest they should be treated with contempt, because they were dressed in the coarse blue linen of bengal, which is usually worn by slaves. but is there in that external deference which fortune commands a compensation for domestic happiness? if they had something to suffer from the world, this served but to endear their humble home. no sooner did mary and domingo perceive them from this elevated spot, on the road of the shaddock grove, than they flew to the foot of the mountain, in order to help them to ascend. they discerned in the looks of their domestics that joy which their return inspired. they found in their retreat neatness, independence, all those blessings which are the recompense of toil, and received those services which have their source in affection.--united by the tie of similar wants, and the sympathy of similar misfortunes, they gave each other the tender names of companion, friend, sister.--they had but one will, one interest, one table. all their possessions were in common. and if sometimes a passion more ardent than friendship awakened in their hearts the pang of unavailing anguish, a pure religion, united with chaste manners, drew their affections towards another life; as the trembling flame rises towards heaven, when it no longer finds any aliment on earth. "madame de la tour sometimes, leaving the household cares to margaret, wandered out alone; and, amidst the sublime scenery, indulged that luxury of pensive sadness, which is so soothing to the mind after the first emotions of turbulent sorrow have subsided. sometimes she poured forth the effusions of melancholy in the language of verse; and, although her compositions have little poetical merit, they appear to me to bear the marks of genuine sensibility. many of her poems are lost; but some still remain in my possession, and a few still hang on my memory. i will repeat to you a sonnet addressed to love. sonnet to love. ah, love! ere yet i knew thy fatal power, bright glow'd the colour of my youthful days, as, on the sultry zone, the torrid rays, that paint the broad-leaved plantain's glossy bower; calm was my bosom as this silent hour, when o'er the deep, scarce heard, the zephyr strays, 'midst the cool tam'rinds indolently plays, nor from the orange shakes its od'rous flower: but, ah! since love has all my heart possess'd, that desolated heart what sorrows tear! disturb'd and wild as ocean's troubled breast, when the hoarse tempest of the night is there yet my complaining spirit asks no rest; this bleeding bosom cherishes despair. "the tender and sacred duties which nature imposed, became a source of additional happiness to those affectionate mothers, whose mutual friendship acquired new strength at the sight of their children, alike the offspring of unhappy love. they delighted to place their infants together in the same bath, to nurse them in the same cradle, and sometimes changed the maternal bosom at which they received nourishment, as if to blend with the ties of friendship that instinctive affection which this act produces. 'my friend,' cried madame de la tour, 'we shall each of us have two children, and each of our children will have two mothers.' as two buds which remain on two trees of the same kind, after the tempest has broken all their branches, produce more delicious fruit, if each, separated from the maternal stem, be grafted on the neighbouring tree; so those two children, deprived of all other support, imbibed sentiments more tender than those of son and daughter, brother and sister, when exchanged at the breast of those who had given them birth. while they were yet in their cradle, their mothers talked of their marriage; and this prospect of conjugal felicity, with which they soothed their own cares, often called forth the tears of bitter regret. the misfortunes of one mother had arisen from having neglected marriage, those of the other from having submitted to its laws: one had been made unhappy by attempting to raise herself above her humble condition of life, the other by descending from her rank. but they found consolation in reflecting that their more fortunate children, far from the cruel prejudices of europe, those prejudices which poison the most precious sources of our happiness, would enjoy at once the pleasures of love and the blessings of equality. "nothing could exceed that attachment which those infants already displayed for each other. if paul complained, his mother pointed to virginia; and at that sight he smiled, and was appeased. if any accident befel virginia, the cries of paul gave notice of the disaster; and then virginia would suppress her complaints when she found that paul was unhappy. when i came hither, i usually found them quite naked, which is the custom of this country, tottering in their walk, and holding each other by the hands and under the arms, as we represent the constellation of the twins. at night these infants often refused to be separated, and were found lying in the same cradle, their cheeks, their bosoms pressed close together, their hands thrown round each other's neck, and sleeping, locked in one another's arms. "when they began to speak, the first names they learnt to give each other were those of brother and sister, and childhood knows no softer appellation. their education served to augment their early friendship, by directing it to the supply of their reciprocal wants. in a short time, all that regarded the household economy, the care of preparing the rural repasts, became the task of virginia, whose labours were always crowned with the praises and kisses of her brother. as for paul, always in motion, he dug the garden with domingo, or followed him with a little hatchet into the woods, where, if in his rambles he espied a beautiful flower, fine fruit, or a nest of birds, even at the top of a tree, he climbed up, and brought it home to his sister. "when you met with one of these children, you might be sure the other was not distant. one day, coming down that mountain, i saw virginia at the end of the garden, running toward the house, with her petticoat thrown over her head, in order to screen herself from a shower of rain. at a distance, i thought she was alone; but as i hastened towards her, in order to help her on, i perceived that she held paul by the arm, who was almost entirely enveloped in the same cavity, and both were laughing heartily at being sheltered together under an umbrella of their own invention. those two charming faces, placed within the petticoat, swelled by the wind, recalled to my mind the children of leda, enclosed within the same shell. "their sole study was how to please and assist each other; for of all other things they were ignorant, and knew neither how to read nor write. they were never disturbed by researches into past times, nor did their curiosity extend beyond the bounds of that mountain. they believed the world ended at the shores of their own island, and all their ideas and affections were confined within its limits. their mutual tenderness, and that of their mothers, employed all the activity of their souls. their tears had never been called forth by long application to useless sciences. their minds had never been wearied by lessons of morality, superfluous to bosoms unconscious of ill. they had never been taught that they must not steal, because every thing with them was in common; or be intemperate, because their simple food was left to their own discretion; or false, because they had no truth to conceal. their young imaginations had never been terrified by the idea that god has punishments in store for ungrateful children, since with them filial affection arose naturally from maternal fondness. all they had been taught of religion was to love it; and if they did not offer up long prayers in the church, wherever they were, in the house, in the fields, in the woods, they raised towards heaven their innocent hands, and their hearts purified by virtuous affections. "thus passed their early childhood, like a beautiful dawn, the prelude of a bright day. already they partook with their mothers the cares of the household. as soon as the cry of the wakeful cock announced the first beam of the morning, virginia arose, and hastened to draw water from a neighbouring spring; then returning to the house, she prepared the breakfast. when the rising sun lighted up the points of those rocks which overhang this enclosure, margaret and her child went to the dwelling of madame de la tour, and they offered up together their morning prayer. this sacrifice of thanksgiving always preceded their first repast, which they often partook before the door of the cottage, seated upon the grass, under a canopy of plantain; and while the branches of that delightful tree afforded a grateful shade, its solid fruit furnished food ready prepared by nature; and its long glossy leaves, spread upon the table, supplied the want of linen. "plentiful and wholesome nourishment gave early growth and vigour to the persons of those children, and their countenances expressed the purity and peace of their souls. at twelve years of age the figure of virginia was in some degree formed: a profusion of light hair shaded her face, to which her blue eyes and coral lips gave the most charming brilliancy. her eyes sparkled with vivacity when she spoke; but when she was silent, her look had a cast upwards, which gave it an expression of extreme sensibility, or rather of tender melancholy. already the figure of paul displayed the graces of manly beauty. he was taller than virginia; his skin was of a darker tint; his nose more aquiline; and his black eyes would have been too piercing, if the long eyelashes, by which were shaded, had not given them a look of softness. he was constantly in motion, except when his sister appeared; and then, placed at her side, he became quiet. their meals often passed in silence, and, from the grace of their attitudes, the beautiful proportions of their figures, and their naked feet, you might have fancied you beheld an antique group of white marble, representing some of the children of niobe; if those eyes which sought to meet those smiles which were answered by smiles of the most tender softness, had not rather given you the idea of those happy celestial spirits, whose nature is love, and who are not obliged to have recourse to words for the expression of that intuitive sentiment. in the mean time, madame de la tour, perceiving every day some unfolding grace, some new beauty, in her daughter, felt her maternal anxiety increase with her tenderness. she often said to me, 'if i should die, what will become of virginia without fortune?' "madame de la tour had an aunt in france, who was a woman of quality, rich, old and a great bigot. she had behaved towards her niece with so much cruelty upon her marriage that madame de la tour had determined that no distress or misfortune should ever compel her to have recourse to her hard-hearted relation. but when she became a mother, the pride of resentment was stilled in the stronger feelings of maternal tenderness. she wrote to her aunt, informing her of the sudden death of her husband, the birth of her daughter, and the difficulties in which she was involved at a distance from her own country, without support, and burthened with a child. she received no answer; but, notwithstanding that high spirit which was natural to her character, she no longer feared exposing herself to mortification and reproach; and, although she knew her relation would never pardon her for having married a man of merit, but not of noble birth, she continued to write to her by every opportunity, in the hope of awakening her compassion for virginia. many years, however, passed, during which she received not the smallest testimony of her remembrance. "at length, in , three years after the arrival of monsieur de la bourdonnais in this island, madame de la tour was informed that the governor had a letter to give her from her aunt. she flew to port louis, careless on this occasion of appearing in her homely garment. maternal hope and joy subdued all those little considerations, which are lost when the mind is absorbed by any powerful sentiment. monsieur de la bourdonnais delivered to her a letter from her aunt, who informed her, that she deserved her fate for having married an adventurer and a libertine; that misplaced passions brought along with them their own punishment, and that the sudden death of her husband must be considered as a visitation from heaven; that she had done well in going to a distant island, rather than dishonour her family by remaining in france: and that, after all, in the colony where she had taken refuge, every person grew rich except the idle. having thus lavished sufficient censure upon the conduct of her niece, she finished by a eulogium on herself. to avoid, she said, the almost inevitable evils of marriage, she had determined to remain in a single state. in truth, being of a very ambitious temper, she had resolved only to unite, herself to a man of high rank; and although she; was very rich, her fortune was not found a sufficient bribe, even at court, to counterbalance the malignant dispositions of her mind, and the disagreeable qualities of her person. "she added, in a postscript, that, after mature deliberation, she had strongly recommended her niece to monsieur de la bourdonnais. this she had indeed done, but in a manner of late too common, and which renders a patron perhaps even more formidable than a declared enemy: for, in order to justify herself, she had cruelly slandered her niece, while she affected to pity her misfortunes. "madame de la tour, whom no unprejudiced person could have seen without feeling sympathy and respect, was received with the utmost coolness by monsieur de la bourdonnais; and when she painted to him her own situation, and that of her child, he replied, 'we will see what can be done--there are so many to relieve--why did you affront so respectable a relation?--you have been much to blame.' "madame de la tour returned to her cottage, her bosom throbbing with all the bitterness of disappointment. when she arrived, she threw herself on a chair, and then flinging her aunt's letter on the table, exclaimed to her friend, 'this is the recompense of eleven years of patient expectation!' as madame de la tour was the only person in the little circle who could read, she again took up the letter, which she read aloud. scarcely had she finished, when margaret exclaimed, 'what have we to do with your relations? has god then forsaken us? he only is our father! have we not hitherto been happy? why then this regret? you have no courage.' seeing madame de la tour in tears, she threw herself upon her neck, and pressing her in her arms, 'my dear friend!' cried she, 'my dear friend!' but her emotion choked her utterance. "at this sight virginia burst into tears, and pressed her mother's hand and margaret's alternately to her lips and to her heart: while paul, with his eyes inflamed with anger, cried, clasped his hands together, and stamped with his feet, not knowing whom to blame for this scene of misery. the noise soon led domingo and mary to the spot, and the little habitation resounded with the cries of distress. ah, madame!--my good mistress!--my dear mother!--do not weep!' "those tender proofs of affection at length dispelled madame de la tour's sorrow. she took paul and virginia in her arms, and, embracing them, cried, 'you are the cause of my affliction, and yet my only source of delight! yes, my dear children, misfortune has reached me from a distance, but surely i am surrounded by happiness.' paul and virginia did not understand this reflection; but, when they saw that she was calm, they smiled, and continued to caress her. thus tranquillity was restored, and what had passed proved but a transient storm, which serves to give fresh verdure to a beautiful spring. "although madame de la tour appeared calm in the presence of her family, she sometimes communicated to me the feelings that preyed upon her mind, and soon after this period gave me the following sonnet:-- sonnet to disappointment. pale disappointment! at thy freezing name chill fears in every shivering vein i prove; my sinking pulse almost forgets to move, and life almost forsakes my languid frame: yet thee, relentless nymph! no more i blame: why do my thoughts 'midst vain illusions rove? why gild the charms of friendship and of love with the warm glow of fancy's purple flame? when ruffling winds have some bright fane o'erthrown, which shone on painted clouds, or seem'd to shine, shall the fond gazer dream for him alone those clouds were stable, and at fate repine? i feel alas! the fault is all my own, and, ah! the cruel punishment is mine! "the amiable disposition of those children unfolded itself daily. on a sunday, their mothers having gone at break of day to mass, at the church of the shaddock grove, the children perceived a negro woman beneath the plantains which shaded their habitation. she appeared almost wasted to a skeleton, and had no other garment than a shred of coarse cloth thrown across her loins. she flung herself at virginia's feet, who was preparing the family breakfast, and cried, 'my good young lady, have pity on a poor slave. for a whole month i have wandered amongst these mountains, half dead with hunger, and often pursued by the hunters and their dogs. i fled from my master, a rich planter of the black river, who has used me as you see;' and she showed her body marked by deep scars from the lashes she had received. she added, 'i was going to drown myself; but hearing you lived here, i said to myself, since there are still some good white people in this country, i need not die yet.' "virginia answered with emotion, 'take courage, unfortunate creature! here is food,' and she gave her the breakfast she had prepared, which the poor slave in a few minutes devoured. when her hunger was appeased, virginia said to her, 'unhappy woman! will you let me go and ask forgiveness for you of your master? surely the sight of you will touch him with pity.--will you show me the way?'--'angel of heaven!' answered the poor negro woman, 'i will follow you where you please.' virginia called her brother, and begged him to accompany her. the slave led the way, by winding and difficult paths, through the woods, over mountains which they climbed with difficulty, and across rivers, through which they were obliged to wade. at length they reached the foot of a precipice upon the borders of the black river. there they perceived a well-built house, surrounded by extensive plantations, and a great number of slaves employed at their various labours. their master was walking amongst them with a pipe in his mouth, and a switch in his hand. he was a tall thin figure, of a brown complexion; his eyes were sunk in his head, and his dark eyebrows were joined together. virginia, holding paul by the hand, drew near, and with much emotion begged him, for the love of god, to pardon his poor slave, who stood trembling a few paces behind. the man at first paid little attention to the children, who, he saw, were meanly dressed. but when he observed the elegance of virginia's form, and the profusion of her beautiful light tresses, which had escaped from beneath her blue cap; when he heard the soft tone of her voice, which trembled, as well as her own frame, while she implored his compassion; he took the pipe from his mouth, and lifting up his stick, swore, with a terrible oath, that he pardoned his slave, not for the love of heaven, but of her who asked his forgiveness. virginia made a sign to the slave to approach her master, and instantly sprung away, followed by paul. "they climbed up the precipice they had descended; and, having gained the summit, seated themselves at the foot of a tree, overcome with fatigue, hunger, and thirst. they had left their cottage fasting, and had walked five leagues since break of day. paul said to virginia, 'my dear sister, it is past noon, and i am sure you are thirsty and hungry; we shall find no dinner here; let us go down the mountain again, and ask the master of the poor slave for some food.'--'oh no,' answered virginia; 'he frightens me too much. remember what mamma sometimes says, the bread of the wicked is like stones in the mouth.'--'what shall we do then?' said paul: 'these trees produce no fruit; and i shall not be able to find even a tamarind or a lemon to refresh you.' scarcely had he pronounced these words, when they heard the dashing of waters which fell from a neighbouring rock. they ran thither, and having quenched their thirst at this crystal spring, they gathered a few cresses which grew on the border of the stream. while they were wandering in the woods in search of more solid nourishment, virginia spied a young palm tree. the kind of cabbage which is found at the top of this tree, enfolded within its leaves, forms an excellent sustenance; but, although the stalk of the tree was not thicker than a man's leg, it was above sixty feet in height. the wood of this tree is composed of fine filaments; but the bark is so hard that it turns the edge of the hatchet, and paul was not even furnished with a knife. at length he thought of setting fire to the palm tree, but a new difficulty occurred, he had no steel with which to strike fire; and, although the whole island is covered with rocks, i do not believe it is possible to find a flint. necessity, however, is fertile in expedients, and the most useful inventions have arisen from men placed in the most destitute situations. paul determined to kindle a fire in the manner of the negroes. with the sharp end of a stone he made a small hole in the branch of a tree that was quite dry, which he held between his feet; he then sharpened another dry branch of a different sort of wood, and afterwards placing the piece of pointed wood in the small hole of the branch which he held with his feet, and turning it rapidly between his hands, in a few minutes smoke and sparks of fire issued from the points of contact. paul then heaped together dried grass and branches, and set fire to the palm tree, which soon fell to the ground. the fire was useful to him in stripping off the long, thick and pointed leaves, within which the cabbage was enclosed. "paul and virginia ate part of the cabbage raw, and part dressed upon the ashes, which they found equally palatable. they made this frugal repast with delight, from the remembrance of the benevolent action they had performed in the morning: yet their joy was embittered by the thoughts of that uneasiness which their long absence would give their mothers. virginia often recurred to this subject: but paul, who felt his strength renewed by their meal, assured her that it would not be long before they reached home. "after dinner they recollected that they had no guide, and that they were ignorant of the way. paul, whose spirit was not subdued by difficulties, said to virginia, 'the sun shines full upon our huts at noon: we must pass as we did this morning, over that mountain with its three points, which you see yonder. come, let us go.' this mountain is called the three peaks. paul and virginia descended the precipice of the black river, on the northern side; and arrived, after an hour's walk, on the banks of a large stream. "great part of this island is so little known, even now, that many of its rivers and mountains have not yet received a name. the river, on the banks of which our travellers stood, rolls foaming over a bed of rocks. the noise of the water frightened virginia, and she durst not wade through the stream: paul therefore took her up in his arms, and went thus loaded over the slippery rocks, which formed the bed of the river, careless of the tumultuous noise of its waters. 'do not be afraid,' cried he to virginia; 'i feel very strong with you. if the inhabitant of the black river had refused you the pardon of his slave, i would have fought with him.'--'what!' answered virginia, 'with that great wicked man? to what have i exposed you! gracious heaven! how difficult it is to do good! and it is so easy to do wrong.' "when paul had crossed the river, he wished to continue his journey, carrying his sister, and believed he was able to climb in that way the mountain of the three peaks, which was still at the distance of half a league; but his strength soon failed, and he was obliged to set down his burden, and to rest himself by her side. virginia then said to him, 'my dear brother the sun is going down: you have still some strength left, but mine has quite failed: do leave me here, and return home alone to ease the fears of our mothers.'--'oh, no,' said paul, 'i will not leave you. if night surprises us in this wood, i will light a fire, and bring down another palm-tree: you shall eat the cabbage; and i will form a covering of the leaves to shelter you.' in the mean time, virginia being a little rested, pulled from the trunk of an old tree, which hung over the bank of the river, some long leaves of hart's tongue, which grew near its root. with those leaves she made a sort of buskin, with which she covered her feet, that were bleeding from the sharpness of the stony paths; for, in her eager desire to do good, she had forgot to put on her shoes. feeling her feet cooled by the freshness of the leaves, she broke off a branch of bamboo, and continued her walk leaning with one hand on the staff, and with the other on paul. "they walked on slowly through the woods, but from the height of the trees, and the thickness of their foliage, they soon lost sight of the mountain of the tree peaks, by which they had directed their course, and even of the sun, which was now setting. at length they wandered without perceiving it, from the beaten path in which they had hitherto walked, and found themselves in a labyrinth of trees and rocks, which appeared to have no opening. paul made virginia sit down, while he ran backwards and forwards, half frantic, in search of a path which might lead them out of this thick wood; but all his researches were in vain. he climbed to the top of a tree, from whence he hoped at least to discern the mountain of the three peaks; but all he could perceive around him were the tops of trees, some of which were gilded by the last beams of the setting sun. already the shadows of the mountains were spread over the forests in the valleys. the wind ceased, as it usually does, at the evening hour. the most profound silence reigned in those awful solitudes, which was only interrupted by the cry of the stags, who came to repose in that unfrequented spot. paul, in the hope that some hunter would hear his voice, called out as loud as he was able, 'come, come to the help of virginia.' but the echoes of the forests alone answered his call, and repeated again and again, 'virginia--virginia.' paul at length descended from the tree, overcome with fatigue and vexation, and reflected how they might best contrive to pass the night in that desert. but he could find neither a fountain, a palm-tree, nor even a branch of dry wood to kindle a fire. he then felt, by experience, the sense of his own weakness, and began to weep. virginia said to him, 'do not weep, my dear brother, or i shall die with grief. i am the cause of all your sorrow, and of all that our mothers suffer at this moment. i find we ought to do nothing, not even good, without consulting our parents. oh, i have been very imprudent!' and she began to shed tears. she then said to paul, 'let us pray to god, my dear brother, and he will hear us.' "scarcely had they finished their prayer, when they heard the barking of a dog. 'it is the dog of some hunter,' said paul, 'who comes here at night to lay in wait for the stags.' "soon after the dog barked again with more violence. 'surely,' said virginia, 'it is fidele, our own dog; yes, i know his voice. are we then so near home? at the foot of our own mountain? a moment after fidele was at their feet, barking, howling, crying, and devouring them with his caresses. before they had recovered their surprise, they saw domingo running towards them. at the sight of this good old negro, who wept with joy, they began to weep too, without being able to utter one word. when domingo had recovered himself a little, 'oh, my dear children,' cried he, 'how miserable have you made your mothers! how much were they astonished when they returned from mass, where i went with them, and not finding you! mary, who was at work at a little distance, could not tell us where you were gone. i ran backwards and forwards about the plantation, not knowing where to look for you. at last i took some of your old clothes, and showing them to fidele, the poor animal, as if he understood me, immediately began to scent your path; and conducted me, continually wagging his tail, to the black river. it was there a planter told me that you had brought back a negro woman, his slave, and that he had granted you her pardon. but what pardon! he showed her to me with her feet chained to a block of wood, and an iron collar with three hooks fastened round her neck. "'from thence fidele, still on the scent, led me up the precipice of the black river, where he again stopped and barked with all his might. this was on the brink of a spring, near a fallen palm tree, and close to a fire which was still smoking. at last he led me to this very spot. we are at the foot of the mountains of the three peaks, and still four leagues from home. come, eat, and gather strength.' he then presented them with cakes, fruits, and a very large gourd filled with a liquor composed of wine, water, lemon juice sugar, and nutmeg, which their mothers had prepared. virginia sighed at the recollection of the poor slave, and at the uneasiness which they had given their mothers. she repeated several times, 'oh, how difficult it is to do good.' "while she and paul were taking refreshment, domingo kindled a fire, and having sought among the rocks for a particular kind of crooked wood, which burns when quite green, throwing out a great blaze, he made a torch, which he lighted, it being already night. but when they prepared to continue their journey, a new difficulty occurred; paul and virginia could no longer walk, their feet being violently swelled and inflamed. domingo knew not whether it were best to leave them, and go in search of help, or remain and pass the night with them on that spot. 'what is become of the time,' said he, 'when i used to carry you both together in my arms? but now you are grown big, and i am grown old.' while he was in this perplexity, a troop of maroon negroes appeared at the distance of twenty paces. the chief of the band, approaching paul and virginia, said to them, 'good little white people, do not be afraid. we saw you pass this morning, with a negro woman of the black river. you went to ask pardon for her of her wicked master, and we, in return for this, will carry you home upon our shoulders.' he then made a sign, and four of the strongest negroes immediately formed a sort of litter with the branches of trees and lianas, in which, having seated paul and virginia, they placed it upon their shoulders. domingo marched in front, carrying his lighted torch, and they proceeded amidst the rejoicings of the whole troop, and overwhelmed with their benedictions. virginia, affected by this scene, said to paul, with emotion, 'o, my dear brother! god never leaves a good action without reward.' "it was midnight when they arrived at the foot of the mountain, on the ridges of which several fires were lighted. scarcely had they begun to ascend, when they heard voices crying out, 'is it you, my children?' they answered together with the negroes, 'yes, it is us;' and soon after perceived their mothers and mary coming towards them with lighted sticks in their hands. 'unhappy children!' cried madame de la tour, 'from whence do you come? what agonies you have made us suffer!' 'we come, said virginia, 'from the black river, where we went to ask pardon for a poor maroon slave, to whom i gave our breakfast this morning, because she was dying of hunger; and these maroon negroes have brought us home.'--madame de la tour embraced her daughter without being able to speak; and virginia, who felt her face wet with her mother's tears, exclaimed, 'you repay me for all the hardships i have suffered.' margaret, in a transport of delight, pressed paul in her arms, crying, 'and you also, my dear child! you have done a good action.' when they reached the hut with their children, they gave plenty of food to the negroes, who returned to their woods, after praying the blessing of heaven might descend on those good white people. "every day was to those families a day of tranquillity and of happiness. neither ambition nor envy disturbed their repose. in this island, where, as in all the european colonies, every malignant anecdote is circulated with avidity, their virtues, and even their names, were unknown. only when a traveller on the road of the shaddock grove inquired of any of the inhabitants of the plain, 'who lives in those two cottages above?' he was always answered, even by those who did not know them, 'they are good people.' thus the modest violet, concealed beneath the thorny bushes, sheds its fragrance, while itself remains unseen. "doing good appeared to those amiable families to be the chief purpose of life. solitude, far from having blunted their benevolent feelings, or rendered their dispositions morose, had left their hearts open to every tender affection. the contemplation of nature filled their minds with enthusiastic delight. they adored the bounty of that providence which had enabled them to spread abundance and beauty amidst those barren rocks, and to enjoy those pure and simple pleasures which are ever grateful and ever new. it was, probably, in those dispositions of mind that madame de la tour composed the following sonnet. sonnet to simplicity. nymph of the desert! on this lonely shore, simplicity, thy blessings still are mine, and all thou canst not give i pleased resign, for all beside can soothe my soul no more. i ask no lavish heaps to swell my store, and purchase pleasures far remote from thine. ye joys, for which the race of europe pine, ah! not for me your studied grandeur pour, let me where yon tall cliffs are rudely piled, where towers the palm amidst the mountain trees, where pendant from the steep, with graces wild, the blue liana floats upon the breeze, still haunt those bold recesses, nature's child, where thy majestic charms my spirit seize! "paul, at twelve years of age, was stronger and more intelligent than europeans are at fifteen, and had embellished the plantations which domingo had only cultivated. he had gone with him to the neighbouring woods, and rooted up young plants of lemon trees, oranges, and tamarinds, the round heads of which are of so fresh a green, together with date palm trees, producing fruit filled with a sweet cream, which has the fine perfume of the orange flower. those trees, which were already of a considerable size, he planted round this little enclosure. he had also sown the seeds of many trees which the second year bear flowers or fruits. the agathis, encircled with long clusters of white flowers, which hang upon it like the crystal pendants of a lustre. the persian lilac, which lifts high in air its gay flax-coloured branches. the pappaw tree, the trunk of which, without branches, forms a column set round with green melons, bearing on their heads large leaves like those of the fig tree. "the seeds and kernels of the gum tree, terminalia, mangoes, alligator pears, the guava, the bread tree, and the narrow-leaved eugenia, were planted with profusion; and the greater number of those trees already afforded to their young cultivator both shade and fruit. his industrious hands had diffused the riches of nature even on the most barren parts of the plantation. several kinds of aloes, the common indian fig, adorned with yellow flowers, spotted with red, and the thorny five-angled touch thistle, grew upon the dark summits of the rocks, and seemed to aim at reaching the long lianas, which, loaded with blue or crimson flowers, hung scattered over the steepest part of the mountain. those trees were disposed in such a manner that you could command the whole at one view. he had placed in the middle of this hollow the plants of the lowest growth: behind grew the shrubs; then trees of an ordinary height: above which rose majestically the venerable lofty groves which border the circumference. thus from its centre this extensive enclosure appeared like a verdant amphitheatre spread with fruits and flowers, containing a variety of vegetables, a chain of meadow land, and fields of rice and corn. in blending those vegetable productions to his own taste, he followed the designs of nature. guided by her suggestions, he had thrown upon the rising grounds such seeds as the winds might scatter over the heights, and near the borders of the springs such grains as float upon the waters. every plant grew in its proper soil, and every spot seemed decorated by her hands. the waters, which rushed from the summits of the rocks, formed in some parts of the valley limpid fountains, and in other parts were spread into large clear mirrors, which reflected the bright verdure, the trees in blossom, the bending rocks, and the azure heavens. "notwithstanding the great irregularity of the ground, most of these plantations were easy of access. we had, indeed, all given him our advice and assistance, in order to accomplish this end. he had formed a path which wound round the valley, and of which various ramifications led from the circumference to the centre. he had drawn some advantage from the most rugged spots; and had blended, in harmonious variety, smooth walks with the asperities of the soil, and wild with domestic productions. with that immense quantity of rolling stones which now block up those paths, and which are scattered over most of the ground of this island, he formed here and there pyramids; and at their base he laid earth, and planted the roots of rose bushes, the barbadoes flower fence, and other shrubs which love to climb the rocks. in a short time those gloomy shapeless pyramids were covered with verdure, or with the glowing tints of the most beautiful flowers. the hollow recesses of aged trees, which bent over the borders of the stream, formed vaulted caves impenetrable to the sun, and where you might enjoy coolness during the heats of the day. that path led to a clump of forest trees, in the centre of which grew a cultivated tree, loaded with fruit. here was a field ripe with corn, there an orchard. from that avenue you had a view of the cottages; from this, of the inaccessible summit of the mountain. beneath that tufted bower of gum trees, interwoven with lianas, no object could be discerned even at noon, while the point of the neighbouring rock, which projects from the mountain commanded a few of the whole enclosure, and of the distant ocean, where sometimes we spied a vessel coming from europe, or returning thither. on this rock the two families assembled in the evening, and enjoyed, in silence, the freshness of the air, the fragrance of the flowers, the murmurs of the fountains, and the last blended harmonies of light and shade. "nothing could be more agreeable than the names which were bestowed upon some of the charming retreats of this labyrinth. that rock, of which i was speaking, and from which my approach was discerned at a considerable distance, was called the discovery of friendship. paul and virginia, amidst their sports, had planted a bamboo on that spot; and whenever they saw me coming, they hoisted a little white handkerchief, by way of signal of my approach, as they had seen a flag hoisted on the neighbouring mountain at the sight of a vessel at sea. the idea struck me of engraving an inscription upon the stalk of this reed. whatever pleasure i have felt, during my travels, at the sight of a statue or monument of antiquity, i have felt still more in reading of well written inscription. it seems to me as if a human voice issued from the stone and making itself heard through the lapse of ages, addressed man in the midst of a desert, and told him that i was not alone; that other men, on that very spot, have felt, and thought, and suffered like himself. if the inscription belongs to an ancient nation which no longer exists, it leads the soul through infinite space, and inspires the feeling of its immortality, by showing that a thought has survived the ruins of an empire. "i inscribed then, on the little mast of paul and virginia's flag, those lines of horace: fratres helenae, lucida sidera, ventorumque regat pater, obstrictis alils, praeter iapyga. 'may the brothers of helen, lucid stars like you, and the father of the winds, guide you; and may you only feel the breath of the zephyr.' "i engraved this line of virgil upon the bark of a gum tree, under the shade of which paul sometimes seated himself, in order to contemplate the agitated sea:-- fortunatue et ille deos qui novit agrestes! 'happy art thou, my son, to know only the pastoral divinities.' "and above the door of madame de la tour's cottage, where the families used to assemble, i placed this line: at secura quies, et nescia fallere vita. 'here is a calm conscience, and a life ignorant of deceit.' "but virginia did not approve of my latin; she said, that what i had placed at the foot of her weather flag was too long and too learned. 'i should have liked better,' added she, 'to have seen inscribed, _always agitated, yet ever constant_.' "the sensibility of those happy families extended itself to every thing around them. they had given names the most tender to objects in appearance the most indifferent. a border of orange, plantain, and bread trees, planted round a greensward where virginia and paul sometimes danced, was called concord. an old tree, beneath the shade of which madame de la tour and margaret used to relate their misfortunes, was called, the tears wiped away. they gave the names of britany and normandy to little portions of ground where they had sown corn, strawberries, and peas. domingo and mary, wishing, in imitation of their mistresses, to recall the places of their birth in africa, gave the names of angola and foullepointe to the spots where grew the herb with which they wove baskets, and where they had planted a calbassia tree. thus, with the productions of their respective climates, those exiled families cherished the dear illusions which bind us to our native country, and softened their regrets in a foreign land. alas! i have seen animated by a thousand soothing appellations, those trees, those fountains, those stones which are now overthrown, which now, like the plains of greece, present nothing but ruins and affecting remembrances. "neither the neglect of her european friends, nor the delightful romantic spot which she inhabited, could banish from the mind of madame de la tour this tender attachment to her native country. while the luxurious fruits of this climate gratified the taste of her family, she delighted to rear those which were more graceful, only because they were the productions of her early home. among other little pieces addressed to flowers and fruits of northern climes, i found the following sonnet to the strawberry. sonnet. to the strawberry. the strawberry blooms upon its lowly bed: plant of my native soil! the lime may fling more potent fragrance on the zephyr's wing, the milky cocoa richer juices shed, the white guava lovelier blossoms spread: but not, like thee, to fond remembrance bring the vanish'd hours of life's enchanting spring; short calendar of joys for ever fled! thou bidst the scenes of childhood rise to view, the wild wood path which fancy loves to trace, where, veil'd in leaves, thy fruit of rosy hue, lurk'd on its pliant stem with modest grace. but, ah! when thought would later years renew, alas! successive sorrows crowd the space. "but perhaps the most charming spot of this enclosure was that which was called the repose of virginia. at the foot of the rock which bore the name of the discovery of friendship, is a nook, from whence issues a fountain, forming, near its source, a little spot of marshy soil in the midst of a field of rich grass. at the time margaret was delivered of paul, i made her a present of an indian cocoa which had been given me, and which she planted on the border of this fenny ground, in order that the tree might one day serve to mark the epocha of her son's birth. madame de la tour planted another cocoa, with the same view, at the birth of virginia. those fruits produced two cocoa trees, which formed all the records of the two families: one was called the tree of paul, the other the tree of virginia. they grew in the same proportion as the two young persons, of an unequal height; but they rose, at the end of twelve years, above the cottages. already their tender stalks were interwoven, and their young branches of cocoas hung over the basin of the fountain. except this little plantation, the nook of the rock had been left as it was decorated by nature. on its brown and humid sides large plants of maidenhair glistened with their green and dark stars; and tufts of wave-leaved hartstongue, suspended like long ribands of purpled green, floated on the winds. near this grew a chain of the madagascar periwinkle, the flowers of which resemble the red gilliflower; and the long-podded capsicum, the cloves of which are of the colour of blood, and more glowing than coral. the herb of balm, with its leaves within the heart, and the sweet basil, which has the odour of the gilliflower, exhaled the most delicious perfumes. from the steep summit of the mountain hung the graceful lianas, like a floating drapery, forming magnificent canopies of verdure upon the sides of the rocks. the sea birds, allured by the stillness of those retreats, resorted thither to pass the night. at the hour of sunset we perceived the curlew and the stint skimming along the sea shore; the cardinal poised high in air; and the white bird of the tropic, which abandons, with the star of day, the solitudes of the indian ocean. virginia loved to repose upon the border of this fountain, decorated with wild and sublime magnificence. she often seated herself beneath the shade of the two cocoa trees, and there she sometimes led her goats to graze. while she prepared cheeses of their milk, she loved to see them browse on the maidenhair which grew upon the steep sides of the rock, and hung suspended upon one of its cornices, as on a pedestal. paul, observing that virginia was fond of this spot, brought thither, from the neighbouring forest, a great variety of birds' nests. the old birds, following their young, established themselves in this new colony. virginia, at stated times, distributed amongst them grains of rice, millet, and maize. as soon as she appeared, the whistling blackbird, the amadavid bird, the note of which is so soft: the cardinal, the black frigate bird, with its plumage the colour of flame, forsook their bushes; the paroquet, green as an emerald, descended from the neighbouring fan palms; the partridge ran along the grass: all advanced promiscuously towards her, like a brood of chickens: and she and paul delighted to observe their sports, their repasts, and their loves. "amiable children! thus passed your early days in innocence, and in the exercise of benevolence. how many times, on this very spot, have your mothers, pressing you in their arms, blessed heaven for the consolations your unfolding virtues prepared for their declining years, while already they enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing you begin life under the most happy auspices! how many times, beneath the shade of those rocks, have i partaken with them of your rural repasts, which cost no animal its life. gourds filled with milk, fresh eggs, cakes of rice placed upon plantain leaves, baskets loaded with mangoes, oranges, dates, pomegranates, pine-apples, furnished at the same time the most wholesome food, the most beautiful colours, and the most delicious juices. "the conversation was gentle and innocent as the repasts. paul often talked of the labours of the day, and those of the morrow. he was continually forming some plan of accommodation for their little society. here he discovered that the paths were rough; there that the family circle was ill seated: sometimes the young arbours did not afford sufficient shade, and virginia might be better pleased elsewhere. "in the rainy seasons the two families assembled together in the hut, and employed themselves in weaving mats of grass, and baskets of bamboo. rakes, spades, and hatchets were ranged along the walls in the most perfect order; and near those instruments of agriculture were placed the productions which were the fruits of labour: sacks of rice, sheaves of corn, and baskets of the plantain fruit. some degree of luxury is usually united with plenty; and virginia was taught by her mother and margaret to prepare sherbet and cordials from the juice of the sugar-cane, the orange, and the citron. "when night came, those families supped together by the light of a lamp; after which, madame de la tour or margaret related histories of travellers lost during the night in such of the forests of europe as are infested by banditti; or told a dismal tale of some shipwrecked vessel, thrown by the tempest upon the rocks of a desert island. to these recitals their children listened with eager sensibility, and earnestly begged that heaven would grant they might one day have the joy of showing their hospitality towards such unfortunate persons. at length the two families separated and retired to rest, impatient to meet again the next morning. sometimes they were lulled to repose by the beating rains, which fell in torrents upon the roof of their cottages; and sometimes by the hollow winds, which brought to their ear the distant murmur of the waves breaking upon the shore. they blessed god for their personal safety, of which their feeling became stronger from the idea of remote danger. "madame de la tour occasionally read aloud some affecting history of the old or new testament. her auditors reasoned but little upon those sacred books, for their theology consisted in sentiment, like that of nature: and their morality in action, like that of the gospel. those families had no particular days devoted to pleasure, and others to sadness. every day was to them a holiday, and all which surrounded them one holy temple, where they for ever adored an infinite intelligence, the friend of human kind. a sentiment of confidence in his supreme power filled their minds with consolation under the past, with fortitude for the present, and with hope for the future. thus, compelled by misfortune to return to a state of nature, those women had unfolded in their own bosoms, and in those of their children, the feelings which are most natural to the human mind, and which are our best support under evil. "but as clouds sometimes arise which cast a gloom over the best regulated tempers, whenever melancholy took possession of any member of this little society, the rest endeavoured to banish painful thoughts rather by sentiment than by arguments. margaret exerted her gaiety; madame de la tour employed her mild theology; virginia, her tender caresses; paul, his cordial and engaging frankness. even mary and domingo hastened to offer their succour, and to weep with those that wept. thus weak plants are interwoven, in order to resist the tempests. "during the fine season they went every sunday to the church of the shaddock grove, the steeple of which you see yonder upon the plain. after service, the poor often came to require some kind office at their hands. sometimes an unhappy creature sought their advice, sometimes a child led them to its sick mother in the neighbourhood. they always took with them remedies for the ordinary diseases of the country, which they administered in that soothing manner which stamps so much value upon the smallest favours. above all, they succeeded in banishing the disorders of the mind, which are so intolerable in solitude, and under the infirmities of a weakened frame. madame de la tour spoke with such sublime confidence of the divinity, that the sick, while listening to her, believed that he was present. virginia often returned home with her eyes wet with tears and her heart overflowing with delight, having had an opportunity of doing good. after those visits of charity, they sometimes prolonged their way by the sloping mountain, till they reached my dwelling, where i had prepared dinner for them upon the banks of the little river which glides near my cottage. i produced on those occasions some bottles of old wine, in order to heighten the gaiety of our indian repast by the cordial productions of europe. sometimes we met upon the seashore, at the mouth of little rivers, which are here scarcely larger than brooks. we brought from the plantation our vegetable provisions, to which we added such as the sea furnished in great variety. seated upon a rock, beneath the shade of the velvet sunflower, we heard the mountain billows break at our feet with a dashing noise; and sometimes on that spot we listened to the plaintive strains of the water curlew madame de la tour answered his sorrowful notes in the following sonnet:-- sonnet to the curlew. sooth'd by the murmurs on the sea-beat shore his dun grey plumage floating to the gale, the curlew blends his melancholy wail with those hoarse sounds the rushing waters pour. like thee, congenial bird: my steps explore the bleak lone seabeach, or the rocky dale, and shun the orange bower, the myrtle vale, whose gay luxuriance suits my soul no more. i love the ocean's broad expanse, when dress'd in limpid clearness, or when tempests blow. when the smooth currents on its placid breast flow calm, as my past moments us'd to flow; or when its troubled waves refuse to rest, and seem the symbol of my present wo. "our repasts were succeeded by the songs and dances of the two young people. virginia sang the happiness of pastoral life, and the misery of those who were impelled, by avarice, to cross the furious ocean, rather than cultivate the earth, and enjoy its peaceful bounties. sometimes she performed a pantomime with paul, in the manner of the negroes. the first language of man is pantomime; it is known to all nations, and is so natural and so expressive, that the children of the european inhabitants catch it with facility from the negroes. virginia recalling, amongst the histories which her mother had read to her, those which had affected her most, represented the principal events with beautiful simplicity. sometimes at the sound of domingo's tantam she appeared upon the greensward, bearing a pitcher upon her head, and advanced with a timid step towards the source of a neighbouring fountain, to draw water. domingo and mary, who personated the shepherds of midian, forbade her to approach, and repulsed her sternly. upon which paul flew to her succour, beat away the shepherds, filled virginia's pitcher, and placing it upon her head, bound her brows at the same time with a wreath of the red flowers of the madagascar periwinkle, which served to heighten the delicacy of her skin. then, joining their sports, i took upon me the part of raguel, and bestowed upon paul my daughter zephora in marriage. "sometimes virginia represented the unfortunate ruth, returning poor and widowed to her own country, where after so long an absence, she found herself as in a foreign land. domingo and mary personated the reapers. virginia followed their steps, gleaning here and there a few ears of corn. she was interrogated by paul with the gravity of a patriarch, and answered, with a faltering voice, his questions. soon touched with compassion, he granted an asylum to innocence, and hospitality to misfortune. he filled virginia's lap with plenty; and, leading her towards us, as before the old men of the city, declared his purpose to take her in marriage. at this scene, madame de la tour, recalling the desolate situation in which she had been left by her relations, her widowhood, the kind reception she had met with from margaret, succeeded by the soothing hope of a happy union between their children, could not forbear weeping; and the sensations which such recollections excited led the whole audience to pour forth those luxurious tears which have their mingled source in sorrow and in joy. "these dramas were performed with such an air of reality, that you might have fancied yourself transported to the plains of syria or of palestine. we were not unfurnished, with either decorations, lights, or an orchestra, suitable to the representation. the scene was generally placed in an opening of the forest, where such parts of the wood as were penetrable formed around us numerous arcades of foliage, beneath which we were sheltered from the heat during the whole day; but when the sun descended towards the horizon, its rays, broken upon the trunks of the trees, diverged amongst the shadows of the forest in strong lines of light, which produced the most sublime effect. sometimes the whole of its broad disk appeared at the end of an avenue, spreading one dazzling mass of brightness. the foliage of the trees, illuminated from beneath by its saffron beams, glowed with the lustre of the topaz and the emerald. their brown and mossy trunks appeared transformed into columns of antique bronze; and the birds, which had retired in silence to their leafy shades to pass the night, surprised to see the radiance of a second morning, hailed the star of day with innumerable carols. "night soon overtook us during those rural entertainments; but the purity of the air, and the mildness of the climate, admitted of our sleeping in the woods secure from the injuries of the weather, and no less secure from the molestation of robbers. at our return the following day to our respective habitations, we found them exactly in the same state in which they had been left. in this island, which then had no commerce, there was so much simplicity and good faith, that the doors of several houses were without a key, and a lock was an object of curiosity to many of the natives. "amidst the luxuriant beauty of this favoured climate, madame de la tour often regretted the quick succession from day to night which takes place between the tropics, and which deprived her pensive mind of that hour of twilight, the softened gloom of which is so soothing and sacred to the feelings of tender melancholy. this regret is expressed in the following sonnet:-- sonnet to the torrid zone. pathway of light! o'er thy empurpled zone with lavish charms perennial summer strays; soft 'midst thy spicy groves the zephyr plays, while far around the rich perfumes are thrown: the amadavid bird for thee alone spreads his gay plumes, that catch thy vivid rays, for thee the gems with liquid lustre blaze, and nature's various wealth is all thy own. but, ah! not thine is twilight's doubtful gloom, those mild gradations, mingling day with night; here instant darkness shrouds thy genial bloom, nor leaves my pensive soul that lingering light, when musing memory would each trace resume of fading pleasures in successive flight. "paul and virginia had neither clock nor almanac, nor books of chronology, history, or philosophy. the periods of their lives were regulated by those of nature. they knew the hours of the day by the shadows of the trees, the seasons by the times when those trees bore flowers or fruit, and the years by the number of their harvests. these soothing images diffused an inexpressible charm over their conversation. 'it is time to dine,' said virginia, 'the shadows of the plantain trees are at their roots; or, 'night approaches; the tamarinds close their leaves.' 'when will you come to see us?' inquired some of her companions in the neighbourhood. 'at the time of the sugar canes,' answered virginia. 'your visit will be then still more delightful,' resumed her young acquaintances. when she was asked what was her own age, and that of paul, 'my brother,' said she, 'is as old as the great cocoa tree of the fountain; and i am as old as the little cocoa tree. the mangoes have borne fruit twelve times, and the orange trees have borne flowers four-and-twenty times, since i came into the world.' their lives seemed linked to the trees like those of fauns or dryads. they knew no other historical epochas than that of the lives of their mothers, no other chronology than that of their orchards, and no other philosophy than that of doing good, and resigning themselves to the will of heaven. "thus grew those children of nature. no care had troubled their peace, no intemperance had corrupted their blood, no misplaced passion had depraved their hearts. love, innocence, and piety, possessed their souls; and those intellectual graces unfolded themselves in their features, their attitudes, and their motions. still in the morning of life, they had all its blooming freshness; and surely such in the garden of eden appeared our first parents, when, coming from the hands of god, they first saw, approached, and conversed together, like brother and sister. virginia was gentle, modest, and confiding as eve; and paul, like adam, united the figure of manhood with the simplicity of a child. "when alone with virginia, he has a thousand times told me, he used to say to her, at his return from labour, 'when i am wearied, the sight of you refreshes me. if from the summit of the mountain i perceive you below in the valley, you appear to me in the midst of our orchard like a blushing rosebud. if you go towards our mother's house, the partridge, when it runs to meet its young has a shape less beautiful, and a step less light. when i lose sight of you through the trees, i have no need to see you in order to find you again. something of you, i know not how, remains for me in the air where you have passed, in the grass where you have been seated. when i come near you, you delight all my senses. the azure of heaven is less charming than the blue of your eyes, and the song of the amadavid bird less soft than the sound of your voice. if i only touch you with my finger, my whole frame trembles with pleasure. do you remember the day when we crossed over the great stones of the river of the three peaks; i was very much tired before we reached the bank; but as soon as i had taken you in my arms, i seemed to have wings like a bird. tell me by what charm you have so enchanted me? is it by your wisdom? our mothers have more than either of us. is it by your caresses? they embrace me much oftener than you. i think it must be by your goodness. i shall never forget how you walked barefooted to the black river, to ask pardon for the poor wandering; slave. here, my beloved, take this flowering orange branch, which i have culled in the forest; you will place it at night near your bed. eat this honeycomb, which i have taken for you from the top of a rock. but first lean upon my bosom, and i shall be refreshed.' "virginia then answered, 'oh my dear brother, the rays of the sun in the morning at the top of the rocks give me less joy than the sight of you. i love my mother, i love yours; but when they call you their son, i love them a thousand times more. when they caress you, i feel it more sensibly than when i am caressed myself. you ask me why you love me. why, all creatures that are brought up together love one another. look at our birds reared up in the same nests; they love like us; they are always together like us. hark? how they call and answer from one tree to another. so when the echoes bring to my ears the air which you play upon your flute at the top of the mountain, i repeat the words at the bottom of the valley. above all, you are dear to me since the day when you wanted to fight the master of the slave for me. since that time how often have i said to myself, 'ah, my brother has a good heart; but for him i should have died of terror.' i pray to god every day for my mother and yours; for you, and for our poor servants; but when i pronounce your name, my devotion seems to increase, i ask so earnestly of god that no harm may befal you! why do you go so far, and climb so high, to seek fruits and flowers for me? how much you are fatigued!' and with her little white handkerchief she wiped the damps from his brow. "for some time past, however, virginia had felt her heart agitated by new sensations. her fine blue eyes lost their lustre, her cheek its freshness, and her frame was seized with universal languor. serenity no longer sat upon her brow, nor smiles played upon her lips. she became suddenly gay without joy, and melancholy without vexation. she fled her innocent sports, her gentle labours, and the society of her beloved family; wandering along the most unfrequented parts of the plantation, and seeking every where that rest which she could no where find. sometimes, at the sight of paul, she advanced sportively towards him, and, when going to accost him, was seized with sudden confusion: her pale cheeks were overspread with blushes, and her eyes no longer dared to meet those of her brother. paul said to her, 'the rocks are covered with verdure, our birds begin to sing when you approach, every thing around you is gay, and you only are unhappy.' he endeavoured to soothe her by his embraces; but she turned away her head, and fled trembling towards her mother. the caresses of her brother excited too much emotion in her agitated heart. paul could not comprehend the meaning of those new and strange caprices. "one of those summers, which sometimes desolate the countries situated between the tropics, now spread its ravages over this island. it was near the end of december, when the sun in capricorn darts over mauritius, during the space of three weeks, its vertical fires. the south wind, which prevails almost throughout the whole year, no longer blew. vast columns of dust arose from the highways, and hung suspended in the air: the ground was every where broken into clefts; the grass was burnt; hot exhalations issued from the sides of the mountains, and their rivulets, for the most part became dry: fiery vapours, during the day, ascended from the plains, and appeared, at the setting of the sun, like a conflagration. night brought no coolness to the heated atmosphere: the orb of the moon seemed of blood, and, rising in a misty horizon, appeared of supernatural magnitude. the drooping cattle, on the sides of the hills, stretching out their necks towards heaven, and panting for air, made the valleys reecho with their melancholy lowings; even the caffree, by whom they were led, threw himself upon the earth, in search of coolness; but the scorching sun had every where penetrated, and the stifling atmosphere resounded with the buzzing noise of insects, who sought to allay their thirst in the blood of man and of animals. "on one of those sultry nights virginia, restless and unhappy, arose, then went again to rest, but could find in no attitude either slumber or repose. at length she bent her way, by the light of the moon, towards her fountain, and gazed at its spring, which, notwithstanding the drought, still flowed like silver threads down the brown sides of the rock. she flung herself into the basin; its coolness reanimated her spirits, and a thousand soothing remembrances presented themselves to her mind. she recollected that in her infancy her mother and margaret amused themselves by bathing her with paul in this very spot; that paul afterwards, reserving this bath for her use only, had dug its bed, covered the bottom with sand, and sown aromatic herbs around the borders. she saw, reflected through the water upon her naked arms and bosom, the two cocoa trees which were planted at her birth and that of her brother, and which interwove about her head their green branches and young fruit. she thought of paul's friendship, sweeter than the odours, purer than the waters of the fountains, stronger than the intertwining palm trees, and she sighed. reflecting upon the hour of the night, and the profound solitude, her imagination again grew disordered. suddenly she flew affrighted from those dangerous shades, and those waters which she fancied hotter than the torrid sunbeam, and ran to her mother, in order to find a refuge from herself. often, wishing to unfold her sufferings, she pressed her mother's hand within her own; often she was ready to pronounce the name of paul; but her oppressed heart left not her lips the power of utterance; and, leaning her head on her mother's bosom, she could only bathe it with her tears. "madame de la tour, though she easily discerned the source of her daughter's uneasiness, did not think proper to speak to her on that subject. 'my dear child,' said she, address yourself to god, who disposes, at his will, of health and of life. he tries you now, in order to recompense you hereafter. remember that we are only placed upon earth for the exercise of virtue.' "the excessive heat drew vapours from the ocean, which hung over the island like a vast awning, and slithered round the summits of the mountains, while long flakes of fire occasionally issued from their misty peaks. soon after the most terrible thunder reechoed through the woods, the plains and the valleys; the rains fell from the skies like cataracts; foaming torrents rolled down the sides of the mountain; the bottom of the valley became a sea; the plat of ground on which the cottages were built, a little island: and the entrance of this valley a sluice, along which rushed precipitately the moaning waters, earth, trees, and rocks. "meantime the trembling family addressed their prayers to god in the cottage of madame de la tour, the roof of which cracked horribly from the struggling winds. so vivid and frequent were the lightnings, that, although the doors and window-shutters were well fastened, every object without was distinctly seen through the jointed beams. paul, followed by domingo, went with intrepidity from one cottage to another, notwithstanding the fury of the tempest; here supporting a partition with a buttress, there driving in a stake, and only returning to the family to calm their fears, by the hope that the storm was passing away. accordingly, in the evening the rains ceased, the trade-winds of the south pursued their ordinary course, the tempestuous clouds were thrown towards the north-east, and the setting sun appeared in the horizon. "virginia's first wish was to visit the spot called her _repose_. paul approached her with a timid air, and offered her the assistance of his arm, which she accepted, smiling, and they left the cottage together. the air was fresh and clear; white vapours arose from the ridges of the mountains, furrowed here and there by the foam of the torrents, which were now becoming dry. the garden was altogether destroyed by the hollows which the floods had worn, the roots of the fruit trees were for the most part laid bare, and vast heaps of sand covered the chain of meadows, and choked up virginia's bath. the two cocoa trees, however, were still erect, and still retained their freshness: but they were no longer surrounded by turf, or arbours, or birds, except a few amadavid birds, who, upon the points of the neighbouring rocks, lamented, in plaintive notes, the loss of their young. "at the sight of this general desolation, virginia exclaimed to paul, 'you brought birds hither, and the hurricane has killed them. you planted this garden, and it is now destroyed. every thing then upon earth perishes, and it is only heaven that is not subject to change.' 'why,' answered paul, 'why cannot i give you something which belongs to heaven? but i am possessed of nothing even upon earth.' virginia, blushing, resumed, 'you have the picture of saint paul.' scarcely had she pronounced the words, when he flew in search of it to his mother's cottage. this picture was a small miniature, representing paul the hermit, and which margaret, who was very pious, had long worn hung at her neck when she was a girl, and which, since she became a mother, she had placed round the neck of her child. it had even happened, that being while pregnant, abandoned by the whole world, and continually employed in contemplating the image of this benevolent recluse, her offspring had contracted, at least so she fancied, some resemblance to this revered object. she therefore bestowed upon him the name of paul, giving him for his patron a saint, who had passed his life far from mankind, by whom he had been first deceived, and then forsaken. virginia, upon receiving this little picture from the hands of paul, said to him, with emotion, 'my dear brother, i will never part with this while i live; nor will i ever forget that you have given me the only thing which you possess in the world.' at this tone of friendship this unhoped-for return of familiarity and tenderness, paul attempted to embrace her; but, light as a bird, she fled, and left him astonished, and unable to account for a conduct so extraordinary. "meanwhile margaret said to madame de la tour, 'why do we not unite our children by marriage? they have a tender attachment to each other.' madame de la tour replied, 'they are too young, and too poor. what grief would it occasion us to see virginia bring into the world unfortunate children, whom she would not perhaps have sufficient strength to rear! your negro, domingo, is almost too old to labour; mary is infirm. as for myself, my dear friend, in the space of fifteen years i find my strength much failed; age advances rapidly in hot climates, and, above all, under the pressure of misfortune. paul is our only hope: let us wait till his constitution is strengthened, and till he can support us by his labour: at present you well know that we have only sufficient to supply the wants of the day: but were we to send paul for a short time to the indies, commerce would furnish him with the means of purchasing a slave; and at his return we will unite him to virginia: for i am persuaded no one on earth can render her so happy as your son. we will consult our neighbour on this subject. "they accordingly asked my advice, and i was of their opinion. 'the indian seas,' i observed to them, are calm, and, in choosing a favourable season, the voyage is seldom longer than six weeks. we will furnish paul with a little venture in my neighbourhood, where he is much beloved. if we were only to supply him with some raw cotton, of which we make no use, for want of mills to work it, some ebony, which is here so common, that it serves us for firing, and some resin, which is found in our woods: all those articles will sell advantageously in the indies, though to us they are useless.' "i engaged to obtain permission from monsieur de la bourdonnais to undertake this voyage: but i determined previously to mention the affair to paul; and my surprise was great, when this young man said to me, with a degree of good sense above his age, 'and why do you wish me to leave my family for this precarious pursuit of fortune? is there any commerce more advantageous than the culture of the ground, which yields sometimes fifty or a hundred fold? if we wish to engage in commerce, we can do so by carrying our superfluities to the town, without my wandering to the indies. our mothers tell me, that domingo is old and feeble; but i am young, and gather strength every day. if any accident should happen during my absence, above all, to virginia, who already suffers--oh, no, no!--i cannot resolve to learn them.' "this answer threw me into great perplexity, for madame de la tour had not concealed from me the situation of virginia, and her desire of separating those young people for a few years. these ideas i did not dare to suggest to paul. "at this period, a ship, which arrived from france, brought madame de la tour a letter from her aunt. alarmed by the terrors of approaching death, which could alone penetrate a heart so insensible, recovering from a dangerous disorder, which had left her in a state of weakness, rendered incurable by age, she desired that her niece would return to france; or, if her health forbade her to undertake so long a voyage, she conjured her to send virginia, on whom she would bestow a good education, procure for her a splendid marriage, and leave her the inheritance of her whole fortune. the perusal of this letter spread general consternation through the family. domingo and mary began to weep. paul, motionless with surprise, appeared as if his heart was ready to burst with indignation; while virginia, fixing her eyes upon her mother, had not power to utter a word. "'and can you now leave us?' cried margaret to madame de la tour. 'no, my dear friend, no, my beloved children,' replied madame de la tour; 'i will not leave you. i have lived with you, and with you i will die. i have known no happiness but in your affection. if my health be deranged, my past misfortunes are the cause. my heart, deeply wounded by the cruelty of a relation, and the loss of my husband, has found more consolation and felicity with you beneath these humble huts, than all the wealth of my family could now give me in my own country.' "at this soothing language every eye overflowed with tears of delight. paul pressed madame de la tour in his arms, exclaiming, 'neither will i leave you! i will not go to the indies. we will all labour for you, my dear mother; and you shall never feel any wants with us.' but of the whole society, the person who displayed the least transport, and who probably felt the most, was virginia; and, during the remainder of the day, that gentle gaiety which flowed from her heart, and proved that her peace was restored, completed the general satisfaction. "the next day, at sunrise, while they were offering up, as usual, their morning sacrifice of praise, which preceded their breakfast, domingo informed them that a gentleman on horseback, followed by two slaves, was coming towards the plantation. this person was monsieur de la bourdonnais. he entered the cottage where he found the family at breakfast. virginia had prepared, according to the custom of the country, coffee and rice boiled in water: to which she added hot yams and fresh cocoas. the leaves of the plantain tree supplied the want of table-linen; and calbassia shells, split in two, served for utensils. the governor expressed some surprise at the homeliness of the dwelling: then, addressing himself to madame de la tour, he observed, that although public affairs drew his attention too much from the concerns of individuals, she had many claims to his good offices. 'you have an aunt at paris, madam,' he added, 'a woman of quality, and immensely rich, who expects that you will hasten to see her, and who means to bestow upon you her whole fortune.' madame de la tour replied, that the state of her health would not permit her to undertake so long a voyage. 'at least,' resumed monsieur de la bourdonnais, 'you cannot, without injustice, deprive this amiable young lady, your daughter, of so noble an inheritance. i will not conceal from you that your aunt has made use of her influence to oblige you to return; and that i have received official letters, in which i am ordered to exert my authority, if necessary, to that effect. but, as i only wish to employ my power for the purpose of rendering the inhabitants of this colony happy, i expect from your good sense the voluntary sacrifice of a few years, upon which depend your daughter's establishment in the world, and the welfare of your whole life. wherefore do we come to these islands? is it not to acquire a fortune? and will it not be more agreeable to return and find it in your own country?' "he then placed a great bag of piastres, which had been brought hither by one of his slaves, upon the table. 'this,' added he, 'is allotted by your aunt for the preparations necessary for the young lady's voyage.' gently reproaching madame de la tour for not having had recourse to him in her difficulties, he extolled at the same time her noble fortitude. upon this, paul said to the governor, 'my mother did, address herself to you, sir, and you received her ill.'--'have you another child, madam? said monsieur de la bourdonnais to madame de la tour.--'no, sir,' she replied: 'this is the child of my friend; but he and virginia are equally dear to us.' 'young man,' said the governor to paul, 'when you have acquired a little more experience of the world, you will know that it is the misfortune of people in place to be deceived and thence to bestow upon intriguing vice that which belongs to modest merit.' "monsieur de la bourdonnais, at the request of madame de la tour, placed himself next her at the table, and breakfasted in the manner of the creoles, upon coffee mixed with rice boiled in water. he was delighted with the order and neatness which prevailed in the little cottage, the harmony of the two interesting families, and the zeal of their old servants. 'here,' exclaimed he, 'i discern only wooden furniture, but i find serene contenances, and hearts of gold.' paul, enchanted with the affability of the governor, said to him, 'i wish to be your friend; you are a good man.' monsieur de la bourdonnais received with pleasure this insular compliment, and, taking paul by the hand, assured him that he might rely upon his friendship. "after breakfast, he took madame de la tour aside, and informed her that an opportunity presented itself of sending her daughter to france in a ship which was going to sail in a short time; that he would recommend her to a lady a relation of his own, who would be a passenger; and that she must not think of renouncing an immense fortune on account of bring separated from her daughter a few years. 'your aunt,'he added, 'cannot live more than two years; of this i am assured by her friends. think of it seriously. fortune does not visit us every day. consult your friends. every person of good sense will be of my opinion.' she answered, 'that, desiring no other happiness henceforth in the world than that of her daughter, she would leave her departure for france entirely to her own inclination. "madame de la tour was not sorry to find an opportunity of separating paul and virginia for a short time, and provide, by this means, for their mutual felicity at a future period. she took her daughter aside, and said to her, 'my dear child, our servants are now old. paul is still very young; margaret is advanced in years, and i am already infirm. if i should die, what will become of you, without fortune, in the midst of these deserts? you will then be left alone without any person who can afford you much succour, and forced to labour without ceasing, in order to support your wretched existence. this idea fills my soul with sorrow.' virginia answered, 'god has appointed us to labour. you have taught me to labour, and to bless him every day. he never has forsaken us, he never will forsake us. his providence peculiarly watches the unfortunate. you have told me this often my dear mother! i cannot resolve to leave you.' madame de la tour replied, with much emotion, 'i have no other aim than to render you happy, and to marry you one day to paul, who is not your brother. reflect at present that his fortune depends upon you.' "a young girl who loves believes that all the world is ignorant of her passion; she throws over her eyes the veil which she has thrown over her heart; but when it is lifted up by some cherishing hand, the secret inquietudes of passion suddenly burst their bounds, and the soothing overflowings of confidence succeed that reserve and mystery with which the oppressed heart had enveloped its feelings. virginia, deeply affected by this new proof of her mother's tenderness, related to her how cruel had been those struggles which heaven alone had witnessed; declared that she saw the succour of providence in that of an affectionate mother, who approved of her attachment, and would guide her by her counsels; that, being now strengthened by such support, every consideration led her to remain with her mother, without anxiety for the present, and without apprehensions for the future. "madame de la tour, perceiving that this confidential conversation had produced an effect altogether different from that which she expected, said, 'my dear child, i will not any more constrain your inclination: deliberate at leisure, but conceal your feelings from paul.' "towards evening, when madame de la tour and virginia were again together, their confessor, who was a missionary in the island, entered the room, having been sent by the governor. 'my children,' he exclaimed, as he entered, 'god be praised!' you are now rich. you can now listen to the kind suggestion of your excellent hearts, and do good to the poor. i know what monsieur de la bourdonnais has said to you, and what you have answered. your health, dear madam, obliges you to remain here: but you, young lady, are without excuse. we must obey the will of providence; and we must also obey our aged relations, even when they are unjust. a sacrifice is required of you; but it is the order of god. he devoted himself for you: and you, in imitation of his example, must devote yourself for the welfare of your family. your voyage to france will have a happy termination. you will surely consent to go, my dear young lady.' "virginia, with downcast eyes, answered, trembling, 'if it be the command of god, i will not presume to oppose it. let the will of god be done!' said she, weeping. "the priest went away, and informed the governor of the success of his mission. in the meantime madame de la tour sent domingo to desire i would come hither, that she might consult me upon virginia's departure. i was of opinion that she ought not to go. i consider it as a fixed principle of happiness, that we ought to prefer the advantages of nature to those of fortune; and never go in search of that at a distance, which we may find in our own bosoms. but what could be expected from my moderate counsels, opposed to the illusions of a splendid fortune; and my simple reasoning, contradicted by the prejudices of the world, and an authority which madame de la tour held sacred? this lady had only consulted me from a sentiment of respect, and had, in reality, ceased to deliberate since she had heard the decision of her confessor. margaret herself, who, notwithstanding the advantages she hoped for her son, from the possession of virginia's fortune, had hitherto opposed her departure, made no further objections. as for paul, ignorant of what was decided, and alarmed at the secret conversation which madame de la tour held with her daughter, he abandoned himself to deep melancholy. 'they are plotting something against my peace,' cried he, 'since they are so careful of concealment.' "a report having in the meantime been spread over the island, that fortune had visited those rocks, we beheld merchants of all kinds climbing their steep ascent, and displaying in those humble huts the richest stuffs of india. the fine dimity of gondelore; the handkerchiefs of pellicate and mussulapatan; the plain, striped, and embroidered muslins of decca, clear as the day. those merchants unrolled the gorgeous silks of china, white satin damasks, others of grass-green, and bright red; rose-coloured taffetas, a profusion of satins, pelongs, and gauze of tonquin, some plain, and some beautifully decorated with flowers; the soft pekins, downy like cloth; white and yellow nankeens, and the calicoes of madagascar. "madame de la tour wished her daughter to purchase every thing she liked; and virginia made choice of whatever she believed would be agreeable to her mother, margaret, and her son. 'this,' said she, 'will serve for furniture, and that will be useful to mary and domingo.' in short, the bag of piastres was emptied before she had considered her own wants; and she was obliged to receive a share of the presents which she had distributed to the family circle. "paul, penetrated with sorrow at the sight of those gifts of fortune, which he felt were the presage of virginia's departure, came a few days after to my dwelling. with an air of despondency he said to me, 'my sister is going; they are already making preparations for her voyage. i conjure you to come and exert your influence over her mother and mine, in order to detain her here.' i could not refuse the young man's solicitations, although well convinced that my representations would be unavailing. "if virginia had appeared to me charming when clad in the blue cloth of bengal, with a red handkerchief tied round her head, how much was her beauty improved, when decorated with the graceful ornaments worn by the ladies of this country! she was dressed in white muslin, lined with rose-coloured taffeta. her small and elegant shape was displayed to advantage by her corset, and the lavish profusion of her light tresses were carelessly blended with her simple head-dress. her fine blue eyes were filled with an expression of melancholy: and the struggles of passion, with which her heart was agitated, flushed her cheek, and gave her voice a tone of emotion. the contrast between her pensive look and her gay habiliments rendered her more interesting than ever, nor was it possible to see or hear her unmoved. paul became more and more melancholy; at length margaret, distressed by the situation of her son, took him aside, and said to him, 'why, my dear son, will you cherish vain hopes, which will only render your disappointment more bitter! it is time that i should make known to you the secret of your life and of mine. mademoiselle de la tour belongs, by her mother, to a rich and noble family, while you are but the son of a poor peasant girl; and, what is worse, you are a natural child.' "paul, who had never before heard this last expression, inquired with eagerness its meaning. his mother replied, 'you had no legitimate father. when i was a girl, seduced by love, i was guilty of a weakness of which you are the offspring. my fault deprived you of the protection of a father's family, and my flight from home, of that of a mother's family. unfortunate child! you have no relation in the world but me!' and she shed a flood of tears. paul, pressing her in his arms, exclaimed, 'oh, my dear mother! since i have no relation in the world but you, i will love you still more! but what a secret have you disclosed to me! i now see the reason why mademoiselle de la tour has estranged herself from me for two months past, and why she has determined to go. ah! i perceive too well that she despises me!' "'the hour of supper being arrived, we placed ourselves at table; but the different sensations with which we were all agitated left us little inclination to eat, and the meal passed in silence. virginia first went out, and seated herself on the very spot where we now are placed. paul hastened after her, and seated himself by her side. it was one of those delicious nights which are so common between the tropics, and the beauty of which no pencil can trace. the moon appeared in the midst of the firmament, curtained in clouds which her beams gradually dispelled. her light insensibly spread itself over the mountains of the island, and their peaks glistened with a silvered green. the winds were perfectly still. we heard along the woods, at the bottom of the valleys, and on the summits of the rocks, the weak cry and the soft murmurs of the birds, exulting in the brightness of the night, and the serenity of the atmosphere. the hum of insects was heard in the grass. the stars sparkled in the heavens, and their trembling and lucid orbs were reflected upon the bosom of the ocean. virginia's eyes wandered over its vast and gloomy horizon, distinguishable from the bay of the island by the red fires in the fishing boat. she perceived at the entrance of the harbour a light and a shadow: these were the watch-light and the body of the vessel in which she was to embark for europe, and which, ready to set sail, lay at anchor, waiting for the wind. affected at this sight, she turned away her head, in order to hide her tears from paul. "madame de la tour, margaret, and myself were seated at a little distance beneath the plantain trees; and amidst the stillness of the night we distinctly heard their conversation, which i have not forgotten. "paul said to her, 'you are going, they tell me, in three days. you do not fear, then, to encounter the danger of the sea, at which you are so much terrified!' 'i must fulfil my duty,' answered virginia, 'by obeying my parent.' 'you leave us,' resumed paul, 'for a distant relation, whom you have never seen.' 'alas!' cried virginia, 'i would have remained my whole life here, but my mother would not have it so. my confessor told me that it was the will of god i should go, and that life was a trial!' "'what,' exclaimed paul, 'you have found so many reasons then for going, and not one for remaining here! ah! there is one reason for your departure, which you have not mentioned. riches have great attractions. you will soon find in the new world, to which you are going, another to whom you will give the name of brother, which you will bestow on me no more. you will choose that brother from amongst persons who are worthy of you by their birth, and by a fortune which i have not to offer. but where will you go in order to be happier? on what shore will you land which will be dearer to you than the spot which gave you birth? where will you find a society more interesting to you than this by which you are so beloved? how will you bear to live without your mother's caresses, to which you are so accustomed? what will become of her, already advanced in years, when she will no longer see you at her side at table, in the house, in the walks where she used to lean upon you? what will become of my mother who loves you with the same affection? what shall i say to comfort them when i see them weeping for your absence! cruel! i speak not to you of myself; but what will become of me, when in the morning i shall no more see you: when the evening will come and will not reunite us? when i shall gaze on the two palm trees, planted at our birth, and so long the witnesses of our mutual friendship? ah; since a new destiny attracts you, since you seek in a country, distant from your own, other possessions than those which were the fruits of my labour, let me accompany you in the vessel in which you are going to embark. i will animate your courage in the midst of those tempests at which you are so terrified even on shore. i will lay your head on my bosom. i will warm your heart upon my own; and in france, where you go in search of fortune and of grandeur, i will attend you as your slave. happy only in your happiness, you will find me in those palaces where i shall see you cherished and adored, at least sufficiently noble to make for you the greatest of all sacrifices, by dying at your feet.' "the violence of his emotion stifled his voice, and we then heard that of virginia, which, broken by sobs, uttered these words: 'it is for you i go: for you, whom i see every day bent beneath the labour of sustaining two infirm families. if i have accepted this opportunity of becoming rich, it is only to return you a thousandfold the good which you have done us. is there any fortune worthy of your friendship? why do you talk to me of your birth? ah! if it were again possible to give me a brother, should i make choice of any other than you? oh, paul! paul! you are far dearer to me than a brother! how much has it cost me to avoid you! help me to tear myself from what i value more than existence, till heaven can bless our union. but i will stay or go: i will live or die; dispose of me as you will. unhappy, that i am! i could resist your caresses, but i am unable to support your affliction.' "at these words paul seized her in his arms, and, holding her pressed fast to his bosom, cried, in a piercing tone, 'i will go with her; nothing shall divide us.' we ran towards him, and madame de la tour said to him, 'my son, if you go, what will become of us?' "he, trembling, repeated the words, 'my son:--my son'--you my mother,' cried he; 'you, who would separate the brother from the sister! we have both been nourished at your bosom; we have both been reared upon your knees; we have learnt of you to love each other; we have said so a thousand times; and now you would separate her from me! you send her to europe, that barbarous country which refused you an asylum, and to relations by whom you were abandoned. you will tell me that i have no right over her, and that she is not my sister. she is everything to me, riches, birth, family, my sole good; i know no other. we have had but one roof, one cradle, and we will have but one grave. if she goes, i will follow her. the governor will prevent me! will he prevent me from flinging myself into the sea? will he prevent me from following her by swimming? the sea cannot be more fatal to me than the land. since i cannot live with her, at least i will die before her eyes; far from you, inhuman mother! woman without compassion! may the ocean, to which you trust her, restore her to you no more! may the waves, rolling back our corpses amidst the stones of the beach, give you, in the loss of your two children, an eternal subject of remorse!' "at these words i seized him in my arms, for despair had deprived him of reason. his eyes flashed fire, big drops of sweat hung upon his face, his knees trembled, and i felt his heart beat violently against his burning bosom. "virginia, affrighted, said to him, 'oh, my friend, i call to witness the pleasures of our early age, your sorrow and my own, and every thing that can forever bind two unfortunate beings to each other, that if i remain, i will live but for you; that if i go, i will one day return to be yours. i call you all to witness, you who have reared my infancy, who dispose of my life, who see my tears. i swear by that heaven which hears me, by the sea which i am going to pass, by the air i breathe, and which i never sullied by a falsehood.' "as the sun softens and dissolves an icy rock upon the summit of the apennines, so the impetuous passions of the young man were subdued by the voice of her he loved. he bent his head, and a flood of tears fell from his eyes. his mother, mingling her tears with his, held him in her arms, but was unable to speak. madame de la tour, half distracted, said to me, 'i can bear this no longer. my heart is broken. this unfortunate voyage shall not take place. do take my son home with you. it is eight days since any one here has slept.' "i said to paul, 'my dear friend, your sister will remain. to-morrow we will speak to the governor; leave your family, to take some rest, and come and pass the night with me.' "he suffered himself to be led away in silence; and, after a night of great agitation, he arose at break of day, and returned home. "but why should i continue any longer the recital of this history? there is never but one aspect of human life which we can contemplate with pleasure. like the globe upon which we revolve, our fleeting course is but a day: and if one part of that day be visited by light, the other is thrown into darkness." "father," i answered, "finish, i conjure you, the history which you have begun in a manner so interesting. if the images of happiness are most pleasing, those of misfortune are more instructive. tell me what became of the unhappy young man." "the first object which paul beheld in his way home was mary, who, mounted upon a rock, was earnestly looking towards the sea. as soon as he perceived her, he called to her from a distance, 'where is virginia?' mary turned her head towards her young master, and began to weep. paul, distracted, and treading back his steps, ran to the harbour. he was there informed, that virginia had embarked at break of day, that the vessel had immediately after set sail, and could no longer be discerned. he instantly returned to the plantation, which he crossed without uttering a word. "although the pile of rocks behind us appears almost perpendicular, those green platforms which separate their summits are so many stages by means of which you may reach, through some difficult paths, that cone of hanging and inaccessible rocks, called the thumb. at the foot of that cone is a stretching slope of ground, covered with lofty trees, and which is so high and steep that it appears like a forest in air, surrounded by tremendous precipices. the clouds, which are attracted round the summit of those rocks, supply innumerable rivulets, which rush from so immense a height into that deep valley situated behind the mountain, that from this elevated point we do not hear the sound of their fall. on that spot you can discern a considerable part of the island with its precipices crowned with their majestic peaks; and, amongst others, peterbath, and the three peaks, with their valley filled with woods. you also command an extensive view of the ocean, and even perceive the isle of bourbon forty leagues towards the west. from the summit of that stupendous pile of rocks paul gazed upon the vessel which had borne away virginia, and which, now ten leagues out at sea, appeared like a black spot in the midst of the ocean. he remained a great part of the day with his eyes fixed upon this object: when it had disappeared, he still fancied he beheld it: and when, at length, the traces which clung to his imagination were lost amidst the gathering mists of the horizon, he seated himself on that wild point, for ever beaten by the winds, which never cease to agitate the tops of the cabbage and gum trees, and the hoarse and moaning murmurs of which, similar to the distant sound of organs, inspire a deep melancholy. on that spot. i found paul, with his head reclined on the rock, and his eyes fixed upon the ground. i had followed him since break of day, and after much importunity, i prevailed with him to descend from the heights, and return to his family. i conducted him to the plantation, where the first impulse of his mind, upon seeing madame de la tour, was to reproach her bitterly for having deceived him. madame de la tour told us, that a favourable wind having arose at three o'clock in the morning, and the vessel being ready to set sail, the governor, attended by his general officers, and the missionary, had come with a palanquin in search of virginia, and that, notwithstanding her own objections, her tears, and those of margaret, all the while exclaiming that it was for the general welfare they had carried away virginia almost dying. 'at least,' cried paul, 'if i had bid her farewell, i should now be more calm. i would have said to her, virginia, if, during the time we have lived together, one word may have escaped me which has offended you, before you leave me for ever, tell me that you forgive me. i would have said to her, since i am destined to see you no more, farewell, my dear virginia, farewell! live far from me, contented and happy!' "when he saw that his mother and madame de la tour were weeping, 'you must now,' said he, 'seek some other than me to wipe away your tears;' and then, rushing out of the house, he wandered up and down the plantation. he flew eagerly to those spots which had been most dear to virginia. he said to the goats and their kids which followed him, bleating, 'what do you ask of me? you will see her no more who used to feed you with her own hand.' he went to the bower called the repose of virginia; and, as the birds flew around him, exclaimed, 'poor little birds! you will fly no more to meet her who cherished you!' and observing fidele running backwards and forwards in search of her, he heaved a deep sigh, and cried, 'ah! you will never find her again.' at length he went and seated himself upon the rock where he had conversed with her the preceding evening; and at the view of the ocean, upon which he had seen the vessel disappear, which bore her away, he wept bitterly. "we continually watched his steps, apprehending some fatal consequence from the violent agitation of his mind. his mother and madame de la tour conjured him, in the most tender manner, not to increase their affliction by his despair. at length madame de la tour soothed his mind by lavishing upon him such epithets as were best calculated to revive his hopes. she called him her son, her dear son, whom she destined for her daughter. she prevailed with him to return to the house, and receive a little nourishment. he seated himself with us at table, next to the place which used to be occupied by the companion of his childhood, and, as if she had still been present, he spoke to her, and offered whatever he knew was most agreeable to her taste; and then, starting from this dream of fancy, he began to weep. for some days he employed himself in gathering together every thing which had belonged to virginia; the last nosegays she had worn, the cocoa shell in which she used to drink; and after kissing a thousand times those relics of his friend, to him the most precious treasures which the world contained, he hid them in his bosom. the spreading perfumes of the amber are not so sweet as the objects which have belonged to those we love. at length, perceiving that his anguish increased that of his mother and madame de la tour, and that the wants of the family required continual labour, he began, with the assistance of domingo, to repair the garden. "soon after, this young man, till now indifferent as a creole with respect to what was passing in the world, desired i would teach him to read and write, that he might carry on a correspondence with virginia. he then wished to be instructed in geography, in order that he might form a just idea of the country where she had disembarked; and in history, that he might know the manners of the society in which she was placed. the powerful sentiment of love, which directed his present studies, had already taught him the arts of agriculture, and the manner of laying out the most irregular grounds with advantage and beauty. it must be admitted, that to the fond dreams of this restless and ardent passion, mankind are indebted for a great number of arts and sciences, while its disappointments have given birth to philosophy, which teaches us to bear the evils of life with resignation. thus, nature having made love the general link which binds all beings, has rendered it the first spring of society, the first incitement of knowledge as well as pleasure. "paul found little satisfaction in the study of geography, which, instead of describing the natural history of each country, only gave a view of its political boundaries. history, and especially modern history, interested him little more. he there saw only general and periodical evils of which he did not discern the cause; wars for which there was no reason and no object; nations without principle, and princes without humanity. he preferred the reading of romances, which being filled with the particular feelings and interests of men, represented situations similar to his own. no book gave him so much pleasure as telemachus, from the pictures which it draws of pastoral life, and of those passions which are natural to the human heart. he read aloud to his mother and madame de la tour those parts which affected him most sensibly, when, sometimes, touched by the most tender remembrances, his emotion choked his utterance, and his eyes were bathed in tears. he fancied he had found in virginia the wisdom of antiope, with the misfortunes and the tenderness of eurcharis. with very different sensations he perused our fashionable novels, filled with licentious maxims and manners. and when he was informed that those romances drew a just picture of european society, he trembled, not without reason, lest virginia should become corrupted, and should forget him. "more than a year and a half had indeed passed away before madame de la tour received any tidings of her daughter. during that period she had only accidentally heard that virginia had arrived safely in france. at length a vessel, which stopped in its way to the indies, conveyed to madame de la tour a packet, and a letter written with her own hand. although this amiable young woman had written in a guarded manner, in order to avoid wounding the feelings of a mother, it was easy to discern that she was unhappy. her letter paints so naturally her situation and her character, that i have retained it almost word for word. "'my dear and beloved mother, i have already sent you several letters, written with my own hand but having received no answer, i fear they have not reached you. i have better hopes for this, from the means i have now taken of sending you tidings of myself, and of hearing from you. i have shed many tears since our separation; i, who never used to weep, but for the misfortunes of others! my aunt was much astonished, when, having, upon my arrival, inquired what accomplishments i possessed, i told her that i could neither read nor write. she asked me what then i had learnt since i came into the world; and, when i answered that i had been taught to take care of the household affairs, and obey your will, she told me that i had received the education of a servant. the next day she placed me as a boarder in a great abbey near paris, where i have masters of all kinds, who teach me, among other things, history, geography, grammar, mathematics and riding. but i have so little capacity for all those sciences, that i make but small progress with my masters. "'my aunt's kindness, however, does not abate towards me. she gives me new dresses for each season; and she has placed two waiting women with me, who are both dressed like fine ladies. she has made me take the title of countess, but has obliged me to renounce the name of la tour, which is as dear to me as it is to you, from all you have told me of the sufferings my father endured in order to marry you. she has replaced your name by that of your family, which is also dear to me, because it was your name when a girl. seeing myself in so splendid a situation, i implored her to let me send you some assistance. but how shall i repeat her answer? yet you have desired me always to tell you the truth. she told me then, that a little would be of no use to you, and that a great deal would only encumber you in the simple life you led. "'i endeavoured, upon my arrival, to send you tidings of myself by another hand, but finding no person here in whom i could place confidence, i applied night and day to reading and writing; and heaven, who saw my motive for learning, no doubt assisted my endeavours, for i acquired both in a short time. i entrusted my first letters to some of the ladies here, who, i have reason to think, carried them to my aunt. this time i have had recourse to a boarder, who is my friend. i send you her direction, by means of which i shall receive your answer. my aunt has forbid my holding any correspondence whatever, which might, she says, be come an obstacle to the great views she has for my advantage. no person is allowed to see me at the grate but herself, and an old nobleman, one of her friends, who, she says, is much pleased with me. i am sure i am not at all so with him; nor should i, even if it were possible for me to be pleased with any one at present. "'i live in the midst of affluence, and have not a livre at my disposal. they say i might make an improper use of money. even my clothes belong to my waiting women who quarrel about them before i have left them off. in the bosom of riches, i am poorer than when i lived with you; for i have nothing to give. when i found that the great accomplishments they taught me would not procure me the power of doing the smallest good, i had recourse to my needle, of which happily you had learnt me the use. i send several pair of stockings of my own making for you and my mamma margaret, a cap for domingo, and one of my red handkerchiefs for mary. i also send with this packet some kernels and seeds of various kinds of fruits, which i gathered in the fields. there are much more beautiful flowers in the meadows of this country than in ours, but nobody cares for them. i am sure that you and my mamma margaret will be better pleased with this bag of seeds, than you were with the bag of piastres, which was the cause of our separation and of my tears. it will give me great delight if you should one day see apple-trees growing at the side of the plantain, and elms blending their foliage with our cocoa-trees. you will fancy yourself in normandy, which you love so much. "'you desired me to relate to you my joys and my griefs. i have no joys far from you. as for my griefs, i endeavour to soothe them by reflecting that i am in the situation in which you placed me by the will of god. but my greatest affliction is, that no one here speaks to me of you, and that i must speak of you to no one. my waiting women, or rather those of my aunt, for they belong more to her than to me, told me the other day, when i wished to turn the conversation upon the objects most dear to me, 'remember, madam, that you are a frenchwoman, and must forget that country of savages.' ah! sooner will i forget myself than forget the spot on which i was born, and which you inhabit! it is this country which is to me a land of savages; for i live alone, having no one to whom i can impart, those feelings of tenderness for you which i shall bear with me to the grave. 'i am, 'my dearest and beloved mother, 'your affectionate and dutiful daughter, 'virginia de la tour." "'i recommend to your goodness mary and domingo, who took so much care of my infancy. caress fidele for me who found me in the wood.' "paul was astonished that virginia had not said one word of him, she who had not forgotten even the house dog. but paul was not aware that, however long may be a woman's letter, she always puts the sentiments most dear to her at the end. "in a postscript, virginia recommended particularly to paul's care two kinds of seed, those of the violet and scabious. she gave him some instructions upon the nature of those plants, and the spots most proper for their cultivation. 'the first,' said she, 'produces a little flower of a deep violet, which loves to hide itself beneath the bushes, but is soon discovered by its delightful odours.' she desired those seeds might be sown along the borders of the fountain, at the foot of her cocoa tree. 'the scabious,' she added, 'produces a beautiful flower of a pale blue, and a black ground, spotted with white. you might fancy it was in mourning; and for this reason, it is called the widow's flower. it delights in bleak spots beaten by the winds.' she begged this might be sown upon the rock where she had spoken to him for the last time, and that, for her sake, he would henceforth give it the name of the farewell rock. "she had put those seeds into a little purse, the tissue of which was extremely simple; but which appeared above all price to paul, when he perceived a p and a v intwined together, and knew that the beautiful hair which formed the cipher was the hair of virginia. "the whole family listened with tears to the letter of that amiable and virtuous young woman. her mother answered it in the name of the little society, and desired her to remain or return as she thought proper; assuring her, that happiness had fled from their dwelling since her departure, and that, as for herself, she was inconsolable. "paul also sent her a long letter, in which he assured her that he would arrange the garden in a manner agreeable to her taste, and blend the plants of europe with those of africa. he sent her some fruit culled from the cocoa trees of the mountain, which were now arrived at maturity: telling her that he would not add any more of the other seeds of the island, that the desire of seeing those productions again might hasten her return. he conjured her to comply without delay with the ardent wishes of her family, and, above all, with his own, since he was unable to endure the pain of their separation. "with a careful hand paul sowed the european seeds, particularly the violet and the scabious, the flowers of which seem to bear some analogy to the character and situation of virginia, by whom they had been recommended: but whether they were injured by the voyage, or whether the soil of this part of africa is unfavourable to their growth, a very small number of them blew, and none came to perfection. "meanwhile that envy, which pursues human happiness, spread reports over the island which gave great uneasiness to paul. the persons who had brought virginia's letter asserted that she was upon the point of being married, and named the nobleman of the court with whom she was going to be united. some even declared that she was already married, of which they were witnesses. paul at first despised this report, brought by one of those trading ships, which often spread erroneous intelligence in their passage; but some ill-natured persons, by their insulting pity, led him to give some degree of credit to this cruel intelligence. besides, he had seen in the novels which he had lately read that perfidy was treated as a subject of pleasantry; and knowing that those books were faithful representations of european manners, he feared that the heart of virginia was corrupted, and had forgotten its former engagements. thus his acquirements only served to render him miserable, and what increased his apprehension was, that several ships arrived from europe, during the space of six months, and not one brought any tidings of virginia. "this unfortunate young man, with a heart torn by the most cruel agitation, came often to visit me, that i might confirm or banish his inquietude, by my experience of the world. "i live, as i have already told you, a league and a half from hence, upon the banks of a little river which glides along the sloping mountain: there i lead a solitary life, without wife, children, or slaves. "after having enjoyed, and lost, the rare felicity of living with a congenial mind, the state of life which appears the least wretched is that of solitude. it is remarkable that all those nations which have been rendered unhappy by their political opinions, their manners, or their forms of government, have produced numerous classes of citizens altogether devoted to solitude and celibacy. such were the egyptians in their decline, the greeks of the lower empire; and such in our days are the indians, the chinese, the modern greeks, the italians, and most part of the eastern and southern nations of europe. "thus i pass my days far from mankind whom i wished to serve, and by whom i have been persecuted. after having travelled over many countries of europe, and some parts of america and africa, i at length pitched my tent in this thinly-peopled island, allured by its mild temperature and its solitude. a cottage which i built in the woods, at the foot of a tree, a little field which i cultivated with my own hands, a river which glides before my door, suffice for my wants and for my pleasures. i blend with those enjoyments that of some chosen books, which teach me to become better. they make that world, which i have abandoned, still contribute to my satisfaction. they place before me pictures of those passions which render its inhabitants so miserable; and the comparison which i make between their destiny and my own, leads me to feel a sort of negative happiness. like a man whom shipwreck has thrown upon a rock, i contemplate, from my solitude, the storms which roll over the rest of the world; and my repose seems more profound from the distant sounds of the tempest. "i suffer myself to be led calmly down the stream of time to the ocean of futurity, which has no boundaries; while, in the contemplation of the present harmony of nature, i raise my soul towards its supreme author, and hope for a more happy destiny in another state of existence. "although you do not descry my hermitage, which is situated in the midst of a forest, among that immense variety of objects which this elevated spot presents, the grounds are disposed with particular beauty, at least to one who, like me, loves rather the seclusion of a home scene, than great and extensive prospects. the river which glides before my door passes in a straight line across the woods, and appears like a long canal shaded by trees of all kinds. there are black date plum trees, what we here call the narrow-leaved dodonea, olive wood, gum trees, and the cinnamon tree; while in some parts the cabbage trees raise their naked columns more than a hundred feet high, crowned at their summits with clustering leaves, and towering above the wood like one forest piled upon another. lianas, of various foliage, intertwining among the woods, form arcades of flowers, and verdant canopies; those trees, for the most part, shed aromatic odours of a nature so powerful, that the garments of a traveller, who has passed through the forest, retain for several hours the delicious fragrance. in the season when those trees produce their lavish blossoms, they appear as if covered with snow. one of the principal ornaments of our woods is the calbassia, a tree not only distinguished for its beautiful tint of verdure; but for other properties, which madame de la tour has described in the following sonnet, written at one of her first visits to my hermitage: sonnet to the calbassia tree sublime calbassia, luxuriant tree! how soft the gloom thy bright-lined foliage throws, while from thy pulp a healing balsam flows, whose power the suffering wretch from pain can free! my pensive footsteps ever turn to thee! since oft, while musing on my lasting woes, beneath thy flowery white bells i repose, symbol of friendship dost thou seem to me; for thus has friendship cast her soothing shade o'er my unsheltered bosom's keen distress: thus sought to heal the wounds which love has made, and temper bleeding sorrow's sharp excess! ah! not in vain she lends her balmy aid: the agonies she cannot cure, are less! "towards the end of summer various kinds of foreign birds hasten, impelled by an inexplicable instinct, from unknown regions, and across immense oceans, to gather the profuse grains of this island; and the brilliancy of their expanded plumage forms a contrast to the trees embrowned by the sun. such, among others, are various kinds of paroquets, the blue pigeon, called here the pigeon of holland, and the wandering and majestic white bird of the tropic, which madame de la tour thus apostrophised:-- sonnet to the white bird of the tropic. bird of the tropic! thou, who lov'st to stray where thy long pinions sweep the sultry line, or mark'st the bounds which torrid beams confine by thy averted course, that shuns the ray oblique, enamour'd of sublimer day: oft on yon cliff thy folded plumes recline, and drop those snowy feathers indians twine to crown the warrior's brow with honours gay. o'er trackless oceans what impels thy wing? does no soft instinct in thy soul prevail? no sweet affection to thy bosom cling, and bid thee oft thy absent nest bewail? yet thou again to that dear spot canst spring but i my long lost home no more shall hail! "the domestic inhabitants of our forests, monkeys, sport upon the dark branches of the trees, from which they are distinguished by their gray and greenish skin, and their black visages. some hang suspended by the tail, and balance themselves in air; others leap from branch to branch, bearing their young in their arms. the murderous gun has never affrighted those peaceful children of nature. you sometimes hear the warblings of unknown birds from the southern countries, repeated at a distance by the echoes of the forest. the river, which runs in foaming cataracts over a bed of rocks, reflects here and there, upon its limpid waters, venerable masses of woody shade, together with the sport of its happy inhabitants. about a thousand paces from thence the river precipitates itself over several piles of rocks, and forms, in its fall, a sheet of water smooth as crystal, but which breaks at the bottom into frothy surges. innumerable confused sounds issue from those tumultuous waters, which, scattered by the winds of the forest, sometimes sink, sometimes swell, and send forth a hollow tone like the deep bells of a cathedral. the air, for ever renewed by the circulation of the waters, fans the banks of that river with freshness, and leaves a degree of verdure, notwithstanding the summer heats, rarely found in this island, even upon the summits of the mountains. "at some distance is a rock, placed far enough from the cascade to prevent the ear from being deafened by the noise of its waters, and sufficiently near for the enjoyment of their view, their coolness, and their murmurs. thither, amidst the heats of summer, madame de la tour, margaret, virginia, paul, and myself sometimes repaired, and dined beneath the shadow of the rock. virginia, who always directed her most ordinary actions to the good of others, never ate of any fruit without planting the seed or kernel in the ground. 'from this,' said she, 'trees will come, which will give their fruit to some traveller, or at least to some bird.' one day having eaten of the papaw fruit, at the foot of that rock she planted the seeds. soon after several papaws sprung up, amongst which was one that yielded fruit. this tree had risen but a little from the ground at the time of virginia's departure; but its growth being rapid, in the space of two years it had gained twenty feet of height, and the upper part of its stem was encircled with several layers of ripe fruit. paul having wandered to that spot, was delighted to see that this lofty tree had arisen from the small seed planted by his beloved friend; but that emotion instantly gave place to a deep melancholy, at this evidence of her long absence. the objects which we see habitually do not remind us of the rapidity of life; they decline insensibly with ourselves; but those which we behold again, after having for some years lost sight of them, impress us powerfully with the idea of that swiftness with which the tide of our days flows on. paul was no less overwhelmed and affected at the sight of this great papaw tree, loaded with fruit, than is the traveller, when, after a long absence from his own country, he finds not his contemporaries, but their children, whom he left at the breast, and whom he sees are become fathers of families. paul sometimes thought of hewing down the tree, which recalled too sensibly the distracted image of that length of time which had clasped since the departure of virginia. sometimes, contemplating it as a monument of her benevolence, he kissed its trunk, and apostrophised it in terms of the most passionate regret; and, indeed i have myself gazed upon it with more emotion and more veneration than upon the triumphal arches of rome. "at the foot of this papaw i was always sure to meet with paul when he came into our neighbourhood. one day, when i found him absorbed in melancholy, we had a conversation, which i will relate to you, if i do not weary you by my long digressions; perhaps pardonable to my age and my last friendships. "paul said to me, 'i am very unhappy. mademoiselle de la tour has now been gone two years and two months; and we have heard no tidings of her for eight months and two weeks. she is rich, and i am poor. she has forgotten me. i have a great mind to follow her. i will go to france; i will serve the king; make a fortune; and then mademoiselle de la tour's aunt will bestow her niece upon me when i shall have become a great lord. "'but, my dear friend,' i answered, 'have you not told me that you are not of noble birth?' "'my mother has told me so,' said paul. 'as for myself i know not what noble birth means.' "'obscure birth,' i replied, 'in france shuts out all access to great employments; nor can you even be received among any distinguished body of men.' "'how unfortunate i am!' resumed paul; 'every thing repulses me. i am condemned to waste my wretched life in labour, far from virginia.' and he heaved a deep sigh. "'since her relation,' he added, 'will only give her in marriage to some one with a great name, by the aid of study we become wise and celebrated. i will fly then to study; i will acquire sciences; i will serve my country usefully by my attainments; i shall be independent; i shall become renowned; and my glory will belong only to myself.' "'my son! talents are still more rare than birth or riches, and are undoubtedly an inestimable good, of which nothing can deprive us, and which every where conciliate public esteem. but they cost dear: they are generally allied to exquisite sensibility, which renders their possessor miserable. but you tell me that you would serve mankind. he who, from the soil which he cultivates, draws forth one additional sheaf of corn, serves mankind more than he who presents them with a book.' "'oh! she then,' exclaimed paul, 'who planted this papaw tree, made a present to the inhabitants of the forest more dear and more useful than if she had given them a library.' and seizing the tree in his arms, he kissed it with transport. "'ah! i desire glory only,' he resumed, 'to confer it upon virginia, and render her dear to the whole universe. but you, who know so much, tell me if we shall ever be married. i wish i was at least learned enough to look into futurity. virginia must come back. what need has she of a rich relation? she was so happy in those huts, so beautiful, and so well dressed, with a red handkerchief or flowers round her head! return, virginia! leave your palaces, your splendour! return to these rocks, to the shade of our woods and our cocoa trees! alas! you are, perhaps, unhappy!' and he began to weep. 'my father! conceal nothing from me. if you cannot tell me whether i shall marry virginia or no, tell me, at least, if she still loves me amidst those great lords who speak to the king, and go to see her.' "'oh! my dear friend,' i answered, 'i am sure that she loves you, for several reasons; but, above all, because she is virtuous.' at those words he threw himself upon my neck in a transport of joy. "'but what,' said he, 'do you understand by virtue?' "'my son! to you, who support your family by your labour, it need not be defined. virtue is an effort which we make for the good of others, and with the intention of pleasing god.' "'oh! how virtuous then,' cried he, 'is virginia! virtue made her seek for riches, that she might practise benevolence. virtue led her to forsake this island, and virtue will bring her back.' the idea of her near return fired his imagination, and his inquietudes suddenly vanished. virginia, he was persuaded, had not written, because she would soon arrive. it took so little time to come from europe with a fair wind! then he enumerated the vessels which had made a passage of four thousand five hundred leagues in less than three months; and perhaps the vessel in which virginia had embarked might not be longer than two. ship builders were now so ingenious, and sailors so expert! he then told me of the arrangements he would make for her reception, of the new habitation he would build for her, of the pleasures and surprises which each day should bring along with it when she was his wife? his wife! that hope was ecstasy. 'at least, my dear father,' said he, 'you shall then do nothing more than you please. virginia being rich, we shall have a number of negroes, who will labour for you. you shall always live with us, and have no other care than to amuse and rejoice yourself:' and, his heart throbbing with delight, he flew to communicate those exquisite sensations to his family. "in a short time, however, the most cruel apprehensions succeeded those enchanting hopes. violent passions ever throw the soul into opposite extremes. paul returned to my dwelling absorbed in melancholy, and said to me, 'i hear nothing from virginia. had she left europe she would have informed me of her departure. ah! the reports which i have heard concerning her are but too well founded. her aunt has married her to some great lord. she, like others, has been undone by the love of riches. in those books which paint women so well, virtue is but a subject of romance. had virginia been virtuous, she would not have forsaken her mother and me, and, while i pass life in thinking of her, forgotten me. while i am wretched, she is happy. ah! that thought distracts me: labour becomes painful, and society irksome. would to heaven that war were declared in india! i would go there and die.' "'my son,' i answered, 'that courage which, prompts us to court death is but the courage of a moment, and is often excited by the vain hopes of posthumous fame. there is a species of courage more necessary, and more rare, which makes us support, without witness, and without applause, the various vexations of life; and that is, patience. leaning not upon the opinions of others, but upon the will of god, patience is the courage of virtue.' "'ah!' cried he,' i am then without virtue! every thing overwhelms and distracts me.' "'equal, constant, and invariable virtue,' i replied, 'belongs not to man.' in the midst of so many passions, by which we are agitated, our reason is disordered and obscured: but there is an ever-burning lamp, at which we can rekindle its flame; and that is, literature. "'literature, my dear son, is the gift of heaven; a ray of that wisdom which governs the universe; and which man, inspired by celestial intelligence, has drawn down to earth. like the sun, it enlightens, it rejoices, it warms with a divine flame, and seems, in some sort, like the element of fire, to bend all nature to our use. by the aid of literature, we bring around us all things, all places, men, and times. by its aid we calm the passions, suppress vice, and excite virtue. literature is the daughter of heaven, who has descended upon earth to soften and to charm all human evils. "'have recourse to your books, then, my son. the sages who have written before our days, are travellers who have preceded us in the paths of misfortune; who stretch out a friendly hand towards us, and invite us to join their society, when every thing else abandons us. a good book is a good friend.' "'ah!' cried paul, 'i stood in no need of books when virginia was here, and she had studied as little as me: but when she looked at me, and called me her friend, it was impossible for me to be unhappy.' "'undoubtedly,' said i, 'there is no friend so agreeable as a mistress by whom we are beloved. there is in the gay graces of a woman a charm that dispels the dark phantoms of reflection. upon her face sits soft attraction and tender confidence. what joy is not heightened in which she shares? what brow is not unbent by her smiles? what anger can resist her tears? virginia will return with more philosophy than you, and will be surprised not to find the garden finished: she who thought of its establishments amidst the persecutions of her aunt, and far from her mother and from you.' "the idea of virginia's speedy return reanimated her lover's courage, and he resumed his pastoral occupations; happy amidst his toils, in the reflection that they would find a termination so dear to the wishes of his heart. "the th of december, , at break of day, paul, when he arose, perceived a white flag hoisted upon the mountain of discovery, which was the signal of a vessel descried at sea. he flew to the town, in order to learn if this vessel brought any tidings of virginia, and waited till the return of the pilot, who had gone as usual to visit the ship. the pilot brought the governor information that the vessel was the saint geran, of seven hundred tons, commanded by a captain of the name of aubin; that the ship was now four leagues out at sea, and would anchor at port louis the following afternoon, if the wind was favourable: at present there was a calm. the pilot then remitted to the governor a number of letters from france, amongst which was one addressed to madame de la tour in the hand-writing of virginia. paul seized upon the letter, kissed it with transport, placed it in his bosom, and flew to the plantation. no sooner did he perceive from a distance the family, who were waiting his return upon the farewell rock, than he waved the letter in the air, without having the power to speak; and instantly the whole family crowded round madame de la tour to hear it read. virginia informed her mother that she had suffered much ill treatment from her aunt, who, after having in vain urged her to marry against her inclination, had disinherited her; and at length sent her back at such a season of the year, that she must probably reach the mauritius at the very period of the hurricanes. in vain, she added, she had endeavoured to soften her aunt, by representing what she owed to her mother, and to the habits of her early years: she had been treated as a romantic girl, whose head was turned by novels. at present she said she could think of nothing but the transport of again seeing and embracing her beloved family, and that she would have satisfied this dearest wish of her heart that very day, if the captain would have permitted her to embark in the pilot's boat; but that he had opposed her going, on account of the distance from the shore, and of a swell in the ocean, notwithstanding it was a calm. "scarcely was the letter finished, when the whole family, transported with joy repeated, 'virginia is arrived!' and mistresses and servants embraced each other. madame de la tour said to paul, 'my son, go and inform our neighbour of virginia's arrival.' domingo immediately lighted a torch, and he and paul bent their way towards my plantation. "it was about ten at night, and i was going to extinguish my lamp, when i perceived through the palisades of my hut a light in the woods. i arose, and had just dressed myself when paul, half wild, and panting for breath, sprung on my neck, crying, 'come along, come along. virginia is arrived! let us go to the port: the vessel will anchor at break of day.' "we instantly set off. as we were traversing the woods of the sloping mountain, and were already on the road which leads from the shaddock grove to the port, i heard some one walking behind us. when the person, who was a negro, and who advanced with hasty steps, had reached us, i inquired from whence he came, and whither he was going with such expedition. he answered, 'i come from that part of the island called golden dust, and am sent to the port, to inform the governor, that a ship from france has anchored upon the island of amber, and fires guns of distress, for the sea is very stormy.' having said this, the man left us, and pursued his journey. "'let us go,' said i to paul, 'towards that part of the island, and meet virginia. it is only three leagues from hence.' accordingly we bent our course thither. the heat was suffocating. the moon had risen, and it was encompassed by three large black circles. a dismal darkness shrouded the sky; but the frequent flakes of lightning discovered long chains of thick clouds, gloomy, low hung, and heaped together over the middle of the island, after having rolled with great rapidity from the ocean, although we felt not a breath of wind upon the land. as we walked along we thought we heard peals of thunder; but, after listening more attentively, we found they were the sound of distant cannon repeated by the echoes. those sounds, joined to the tempestuous aspect of the heavens, made me shudder. i had little doubt that they were signals of distress from a ship in danger. in half an hour the firing ceased, and i felt the silence more appalling than the dismal sounds which had preceded. "we hastened on without uttering a word, or daring to communicate our apprehensions. at midnight we arrived on the sea shore at that part of the island. the billows broke against the beach with a horrible noise, covering the rocks and the strand with their foam of a dazzling whiteness, and blended with sparks of fire. by their phosphoric gleams we distinguished, notwithstanding the darkness, the canoes of the fishermen, which they had drawn far upon the sand. "near the shore, at the entrance of a wood, we saw a fire, round which several of the inhabitants were assembled. thither we repaired, in order to repose ourselves till morning. one of the circle related, that in the afternoon he had seen a vessel driven towards the island by the currents; that the night had hid it from his view; and that two hours after sun-set he had heard the firing of guns in distress; but that the sea was so tempestuous, no boat could venture out; that a short time after, he thought he perceived the glimmering of the watch-lights on board the vessel, which he feared, by its having approached so near the coast, had steered between the main land and the little island of amber, mistaking it for the point of endeavour, near which the vessels pass in order to gain port louis. if this was the case, which, however, he could not affirm, the ship he apprehended was in great danger. another islander then informed us, that he had frequently crossed the channel which separates the isle of amber from the coast, and which he had sounded; that the anchorage was good, and that the ship would there be in as great security as if it were in harbour. a third islander declared it was impossible for the ship to enter that channel, which was scarcely navigable for a boat. he asserted that he had seen the vessel at anchor beyond the isle of amber; so that if the wind arose in the morning, it could either put to sea or gain the harbour. different opinions were stated upon this subject, which, while those indolent creoles calmly discussed, paul and i observed a profound silence. we remained on this spot till break of day, when the weather was too hazy to admit of our distinguishing any object at sea, which was covered with fog. all we could descry was a dark cloud, which they told us was the isle of amber, at the distance of a quarter of a league from the coast. we could only discern on this gloomy day the point of the beach where we stood, and the peaks of some mountains in the interior part of the island, rising occasionally from amidst the clouds which hung around them. "at seven in the morning we heard the beat of drums in the woods; and soon after the governor, monsieur de la bourdonnais, arrived on horseback, followed by a detachment of soldiers armed with muskets, and a great number of islanders and blacks. he ranged his soldiers upon the beach, and ordered them to make a general discharge, which was no sooner done, than we perceived a glimmering light upon the water, which was instantly succeeded by the sound of a gun. we judged that the ship was at no great distance, and ran towards that part where we had seen the light. we now discerned through the fog the hull and tackling of a large vessel; and notwithstanding the noise of the waves, we were near enough to hear the whistle of the boatswain at the helm, and the shouts of the mariners. as soon as the saint geran perceived that we were enough to give her succour, she continued to fire guns regularly at the interval of three minutes. monsieur de la bourdonnais caused great fires to be lighted at certain distances upon the strand, and sent to all the inhabitants of that neighbourhood, in search of provisions, planks, cables, and empty barrels. a crowd of people soon arrived, accompanied by their negroes, loaded with provisions and rigging. one of the most aged of the planters approaching the governor, said to him, 'we have heard all night hoarse noises in the mountain, and in the forests: the leaves of the trees are shaken, although there is no wind: the sea birds seek refuge upon the land: it is certain that all those signs announce a hurricane.' 'well, my friends,' answered the governor, 'we are prepared for it: and no doubt the vessel is also.' "every thing, indeed, presaged the near approach of the hurricane. the centre of the clouds in the zenith was of a dismal black, while their skirts were fringed with a copper hue. the air resounded with the cries of the frigate bird, the cur water, and a multitude of other sea birds, who, notwithstanding the obscurity of the atmosphere, hastened from all points of the horizon to seek for shelter in the island. "towards nine in the morning we heard on the side of the ocean the most terrific noise, as if torrents of water, mingled with thunder, were rolling down the steeps of the mountains. a general cry was heard of, 'there is the hurricane!' and in one moment a frightful whirlwind scattered the fog which had covered the isle of amber and its channel. the saint geran then presented itself to our view, her gallery crowded with people, her yards and main topmast laid upon the deck, her flag shivered, with four cables at her head, and one by which she was held at the stern. she had anchored between the isle of amber and the main land, within that chain of breakers which encircles the island, and which bar she had passed over, in a place where no vessel had ever gone before. she presented her head to the waves which rolled from the open sea; and as each billow rushed into the straits, the ship heaved, so that her keel was in air; and at the same moment her stern, plunging into the water, disappeared altogether, as if it were swallowed up by the surges. in this position, driven by the winds and waves towards the shore, it was equally impossible for her to return by the passage through which she had made her way; or, by cutting her cables, to throw herself upon the beach, from which she was separated by sand banks, mingled with breakers. every billow which broke upon the coast advanced roaring to the bottom of the bay, and threw planks to the distance of fifty feet upon the land; then rushing back, laid bare its sandy bed, from which it rolled immense stones, with a hoarse dismal noise. the sea, swelled by the violence of the wind, rose higher every moment; and the channel between this island the isle of amber was but one vast sheet of white foam, with yawning pits of black deep billows. the foam boiling in the gulf was more than six feet high: and the winds which swept its surface, bore it over the steep coast more than half a league upon the land. those innumerable white flakes, driven horizontally as far as the foot of the mountain, appeared like snow issuing from the ocean, which was now confounded with the sky. thick clouds, of a horrible form, swept along the zenith with the swiftness of birds, while others appeared motionless as rocks. no spot of azure could be discerned in the firmament; only a pale yellow gleam displayed the objects of earth sea, and skies. "from the violent efforts of the ship, what we dreaded happened. the cables at the head of the vessel were torn away; it was then held by one anchor only, and was instantly dashed upon the rocks, at the distance of half a cable's length from the shore. a general cry of horror issued from the spectators. paul rushed towards the sea, when, seizing him by the arm, i exclaimed, 'would you perish?'--'let me go to save her,' cried he, 'or die!' seeing that despair deprived him of reason, domingo and i, in order to preserve him, fastened a long cord round his waist, and seized hold of each end. paul then precipitated himself towards the ship, now swimming, and now walking upon the breakers. sometimes he had the hope of reaching the vessel, which the sea, in its irregular movements, had left almost dry, so that you could have made its circuit on foot; but suddenly the waves advancing with new fury, shrouded it beneath mountains of water, which then lifted it upright upon its keel. the billows at the same moment threw the unfortunate paul far upon the beach, his legs bathed in blood, his bosom wounded, and himself half dead. the moment he had recovered his senses, he arose, and returned with new ardour towards the vessel, the planks of which now yawned asunder from the violent strokes of the billows. the crew, then despairing of their safety, threw themselves in crowds into the sea, upon yards, planks, hencoops, tables, and barrels. at this moment we beheld an object fitted to excite eternal sympathy; a young lady in the gallery of the stern of the saint geran, stretching out her arms towards him who made so many efforts to join her. it was virginia. she had discovered her lover by his intrepidity. the sight of this amiable young woman, exposed to such horrible danger, filled us with unutterable despair. as for virginia, with a firm and dignified mien, she waved her hand, as if bidding us an eternal farewell. all the sailors had flung themselves into the sea, except one, who still remained upon the deck, and who was naked, and strong as hercules. this man approached virginia with respect, and, kneeling at her feet attempted to force her to throw off her clothes; but she repulsed him with modesty, and turned away her head. then was heard redoubled cries from the spectators, 'save her! save her! do not leave her!' but at that moment a mountain billow, of enormous magnitude, ingulfed itself between the isle of amber and the coast, and menaced the shattered vessel, towards which it rolled bellowing, with its black sides and foaming head. at this terrible sight the sailor flung himself into the sea; and virginia seeing death inevitable, placed one hand upon her clothes, the other on her heart, and lifting up her lovely eyes, seemed an angel prepared to take her flight to heaven. "oh, day of horror! alas! every thing was swallowed up by the relentless billows. the surge threw some of the spectators far upon the beach, whom an impulse of humanity prompted to advance towards virginia, and also the sailor who had endeavoured to save her life. this man, who had escaped from almost certain death, kneeling on the sand, exclaimed, 'oh, my god! thou hast saved my life, but i would have given it willingly for that poor young woman!' "domingo and myself drew paul senseless to the shore, the blood flowing from his mouth and ears. the governor put him into the hands of a surgeon, while we sought along the beach for the corpse of virginia. but the wind having suddenly changed, which frequently happens during hurricanes, our search was in vain; and we lamented that we could not even pay this unfortunate young woman the last sad sepulchral duties. "we retired from the spot overwhelmed with dismay, and our minds wholly occupied by one cruel loss, although numbers had perished in the wreck. some of the spectators seemed tempted, from the fatal destiny of this virtuous young woman, to doubt the existence of providence. alas! there are in life such terrible, such unmerited evils, that even the hope of the wise is sometimes shaken. "in the meantime, paul, who began to recover his senses, was taken to a house in the neighbourhood, till he was able to be removed to his own habitation. thither i bent my way with domingo, and undertook the sad task of preparing virginia's mother and her friend for the melancholy event which had happened. when we reached the entrance of the valley of the river of fan-palms, some negroes informed us that the sea had thrown many pieces of the wreck into the opposite bay. we descended towards it; and one of the first objects which struck my sight upon the beach was the corpse of virginia. the body was half covered with sand, and in the attitude in which we had seen her perish. her features were not changed; her eyes were closed, her countenance was still serene; but the pale violets of death were blended on her cheek with the blush of virgin modesty. one of her hands was placed upon her clothes: and the other, which she held on her heart, was fast closed, and so stiffened, that it was with difficulty i took from its grasp a small box. how great was my emotion, when i saw it contained the picture of paul; which she had promised him never to part with while she lived! at the sight of this last mark of the fidelity and tenderness of the unfortunate girl, i wept bitterly. as for domingo, he beat his breast, and pierced the air with his cries. we carried the body of virginia to a fisher's hut, and gave it in charge to some poor malabar women, who carefully washed away the sand. "while they were employed in this melancholy office, we ascended with trembling steps to the plantation. we found madame de la tour and margaret at prayer, while waiting for tidings from the ship. as soon as madame de la tour saw me coming, she eagerly cried, 'where is my child, my dear child?' my silence and my tears apprised her of her misfortune. she was seized with convulsive stiflings, with agonizing pains, and her voice was only heard in groans. margaret cried, 'where is my son? i do not see my son!' and fainted. we ran to her assistance. in a short time she recovered, and being assured that her son was safe, and under the care of the governor, she only thought of succouring her friend, who had long successive faintings. madame de la tour passed the night in sufferings so exquisite, that i became convinced there was no sorrow like a mother's sorrow. when she recovered her senses, she cast her languid and steadfast looks on heaven. in vain her friend and myself pressed her hands in ours: in vain we called upon her by the most tender names; she appeared wholly insensible; and her oppressed bosom heaved deep and hollow moans. "in the morning paul was brought home in a palanquin. he was now restored to reason but unable to utter a word. his interview with his mother and madame de la tour, which i had dreaded, produced a better effect than all my cares. a ray of consolation gleamed upon the countenances of those unfortunate mothers. they flew to meet him, clasped him in their arms, and bathed him with tears, which excess of anguish had till now forbidden to flow. paul mixed his tears with theirs; and nature having thus found relief, a long stupor succeeded the convulsive pangs they had suffered, and gave them a lethargic repose like that of death. "monsieur de la bourdonnais sent to apprise me secretly that the corpse of virginia had been borne to the town by his order, from whence it was to be transferred to the church of the shaddock grove. i hastened to port louis, and found a multitude assembled from all parts, in order to be present at the funeral solemnity, as if the whole island had lost its fairest ornament. the vessels in the harbour had their yards crossed, their flags hoisted, and fired guns at intervals. the grenadiers led the funeral procession, with their muskets reversed, their drums muffled, and sending forth slow dismal sounds. eight young ladies of the most considerable families of the island, dressed in white, and bearing palms in their hands, supported the pall of their amiable companion, which was strewed with flowers. they were followed by a band of children chanting hymns, and by the governor, his field officers, all the principal inhabitants of the island, and an immense crowd of people. "this funeral solemnity had been ordered by the administration of the country, who were desirous of rendering honours to the virtue of virginia. but when the progression arrived at the foot of this mountain, at the sight of those cottages, of which she had long been the ornament and happiness, and which her loss now filled with despair, the funeral pomp was interrupted, the hymns and anthems ceased, and the plain resounded with sighs and lamentations. companies of young girls ran from the neighbouring plantations to touch the coffin of virginia with their scarfs, chaplets, and crowns of flowers, invoking her as a saint. mothers asked of heaven a child like virginia; lovers, a heart as faithful; the poor, as tender a friend; and the slaves, as kind a mistress. "when the procession had reached the place of interment, the negresses of madagascar, and the caffres of mosambiac, placed baskets of fruit around the corpse, and hung pieces of stuff upon the neighbouring trees, according to the custom of their country. the indians of bengal, and of the coast of malabar, brought cages filled with birds, which they set at liberty upon her coffin. thus did the loss of this amiable object affect the natives of different countries, and thus was the ritual of various religions breathed over the tomb of unfortunate virtue. "she was interred near the church of the shaddock grove, upon the western side, at the foot of a copse of bamboos, where, in coming from mass with her mother and margaret, she loved to repose herself, seated by him whom she called her brother. "on his return from the funeral solemnity, monsieur de la bourdonnais came hither, followed by part of his numerous train. he offered madame de la tour and her friend all the assistance which it was in his power to bestow. after expressing his indignation at the conduct of her unnatural aunt, he advanced to paul, and said every thing which he thought most likely to soothe and console him. 'heaven is my witness,' said he, 'that i wished to ensure your happiness, and that of your family. my dear friend, you must go to france: i will obtain a commission for you, and during your absence will take the same care of your mother as if she were my own.' he then offered him his hand; but paul drew away, and turned his head, unable to bear his sight. "i remained at the plantation of my unfortunate friends, that i might render to them and paul those offices of friendship which soften, though they cannot cure, calamity. at the end of three weeks paul was able to walk, yet his mind seemed to droop in proportion as his frame gathered strength. he was insensible to every thing; his look was vacant; and when spoken to, he made no reply. madame de la tour, who was dying, said to him often, 'my son, while i look at you, i think i see virginia.' at the name of virginia he shuddered, and hastened from her, notwithstanding the entreaties of his mother, who called him back to her friend. he used to wander into the garden, and seat himself at the foot of virginia's cocoa tree, with his eyes fixed upon the fountain. the surgeon to the governor, who had shown the most humane attention to paul, and the whole family, told us that, in order to cure that deep melancholy which had taken possession of his mind, we must allow him to do whatever he pleased, without contradiction, as the only means of conquering his inflexible silence. "i resolved to follow this advice. the first use which paul made of his returning strength was to absent himself from the plantation. being determined not to lose sight of him, i set out immediately, and desired domingo to take some provisions and accompany us. paul's strength and spirits seemed renewed as he descended the mountain. he took the road of the shaddock grove; and when he was near the church, in the alley of bamboos, he walked directly to the spot where he saw some new-laid earth, and there kneeling down, and raising up his eyes to heaven, he offered up a long prayer, which appeared to me a symptom of returning reason; since this mark of confidence in the supreme being showed that his mind began to resume its natural functions. domingo and i followed his example, fell upon our knees, and mingled our prayers with his. when he arose, he bent his way, paying little attention to us, towards the northern part of the island. as we knew that he was not only ignorant of the spot where the body of virginia was laid, but even whether it had been snatched from the waves, i asked him why he had offered up his prayer at the foot of those bamboos. he answered, 'we have been there so often!' he continued his course until we reached the borders of the forest, when night came on. i prevailed with him to take some nourishment; and we slept upon the grass, at the foot of a tree. the next day i thought he seemed disposed to trace back his steps; for, after having gazed a considerable time upon the church of the shaddock grove with its avenues of bamboo stretching along the plain, he made a motion as if he would return; but, suddenly plunging into the forest, he directed his course to the north. i judged what was his design, from which i endeavoured to dissuade him in vain. at noon he arrived at that part of the island called the gold dust. he rushed to the seashore, opposite to the spot where the saint geran perished. at the sight of the isle of amber and its channel, then smooth as a mirror, he cried, 'virginia! oh, my dear virginia!' and fell senseless. domingo and myself carried him into the woods, where we recovered him with some difficulty. he made an effort to return to the seashore; but, having conjured him not to renew his own anguish and ours by those cruel remembrances, he took another direction. during eight days he sought every spot where he had once wandered with the companion of his childhood. he traced the path by which she had gone to intercede for the slave of the black river. he gazed again upon the banks of the three peaks, where she had reposed herself when unable to walk further, and upon that part of the wood where they lost their way. all those haunts, which recalled the inquietudes, the sports, the repasts, the benevolence of her he loved, the river of the sloping mountain, my house, the neighbouring cascade, the papaw tree she had planted, the mossy downs where she loved to run, the openings of the forest where she used to sing, called forth successively the tears of hopeless passion; and those very echoes which had so often resounded their mutual shouts of joy, now only repeated those accents of despair, 'virginia! oh, my dear virginia!' "while he led this savage and wandering life, his eyes became sunk and hollow, his skin assumed a yellow tint, and his health rapidly decayed. convinced that present sufferings are rendered more acute by the bitter recollection of past pleasures, and that the passions gather strength in solitude, i resolved to tear my unfortunate friend from those scenes which recalled the remembrance of his loss, and to lead him to a more busy part of the island. with this view, i conducted him to the inhabited heights of williams, which he had never visited, and where agriculture and commerce ever occasioned much bustle and variety. a crowd of carpenters were employed in hewing down the trees, while others were sawing planks. carriages were passing and repassing on the roads. numerous herds of oxen and troops of horses were feeding on those ample meadows, over which a number of habitations were scattered. on many spots the elevation of the soil was favourable to the culture of european trees: ripe corn waved its yellow sheaves upon the plains: strawberry plants flourished in the openings of the woods, and hedges of rose bushes along the roads. the freshness of the air, by giving a tension to the nerves, was favourable to the europeans. from those heights, situated near the middle of the island, and surrounded by extensive forests, you could neither discern port louis, the church of the shaddock grove, nor any other object which could recall to paul the remembrance of virginia. even the mountains, which appear of various shapes on the side of port louis, present nothing to the eye from those plains but a long promontory, stretching itself in a straight and perpendicular line, from whence arise lofty pyramids of rocks, on the summits of which the clouds repose. "to those scenes i conducted paul, and kept him continually in action, walking with him in rain and sunshine, night and day, and contriving that he should lose himself in the depths of forests, leading him over untilled grounds, and endeavouring, by violent fatigue, to divert his mind from its gloomy meditations, and change the course of his reflections, by his ignorance of the paths where we wandered. but the soul of a lover finds everywhere the traces of the object beloved. the night and the day, the calm of solitude, and the tumult of crowds, time itself, while it casts the shade of oblivion over so many other remembrances, in vain would tear that tender and sacred recollection from the heart, which, like the needle, when touched by the loadstone, however it may have been forced into agitation, it is no sooner left to repose, than it turns to the pole by which it is attracted. when i inquired of paul, while we wandered amidst the plains of williams, 'where are we now going?' he pointed to the north and said, 'yonder are our mountains; let us return.' "upon the whole, i found that every means i took to divert his melancholy was fruitless, and that no resource was left but an attempt to combat his passion by the arguments which reason suggested. i answered him, 'yes, there are the mountains where once dwelt your beloved virginia; and this is the picture you gave her, and which she held, when dying, to her heart; that heart, which even in her last moments only beat for you.' i then gave paul the little picture which he had given virginia at the borders of the cocoa tree fountain. at this sight a gloomy joy overspread his looks. he eagerly seized the picture with his feeble hands, and held it to his lips. his oppressed bosom seemed ready to burst with emotion, and his eyes were filled with tears which had no power to flow. "'my son,' said i, 'listen to him who is your friend, who was the friend of virginia, and who, in the bloom of your hopes, endeavoured to fortify your mind against the unforeseen accidents of life. what do you deplore with so much bitterness? your own misfortunes, or those of virginia? your own misfortunes are indeed severe. you have lost the most amiable of women: she who sacrificed her own interests to yours, who preferred you to all that fortune could bestow, and considered you as the only recompense worthy of her virtues. but might not this very object, from whom you expected the purest happiness, have proved to you a source of the most cruel distress? she had returned poor, disinherited; and all you could henceforth have partaken with her was your labours: while rendered more delicate by her education, and more courageous by her misfortunes, you would have beheld her every day sinking beneath her efforts to share and soften your fatigues. had she brought you children, this would only have served to increase her inquietudes and your own, from the difficulty of sustaining your aged parents and your infant family. you will tell me, there would have been reserved to you a happiness independent of fortune, that of protecting a beloved object, which attaches itself to us in proportion to its helplessness; that your pains and sufferings would have served to endear you to each other, and that your passion would have gathered strength from your mutual misfortunes. undoubtedly virtuous love can shed a charm over pleasures which are thus mingled with bitterness. but virginia is no more; yet those persons still live, whom, next to yourself, she held most dear; her mother, and your own, whom your inconsolable affliction is bending with sorrow to the grave. place your happiness, as she did hers, in affording them succour. and why deplore the fate of virginia? virginia still exists. there is he assured, a region in which virtue receives its reward. virginia now is happy. ah! if, from the abode of angels, she could tell you, as she did when she bid you farewell. 'o, paul! life is but a trial. i was faithful to the laws of nature, love, and virtue. heaven found i had fulfilled my duties, and has snatched me for ever from all the miseries i might have endured myself, and all i might have felt for the miseries of others. i am placed above the reach of all human evils, and you pity me! i am become pure and unchangeable as a particle of light, and you would recall me to the darkness of human life! o, paul! o, my beloved friend! recollect those days of happiness, when in the morning we felt the delightful sensations excited by the unfolding beauties of nature; when we gazed upon the sun, gilding the peaks of those rocks, and then spreading his rays over the bosom of the forests. "'how exquisite were our emotions while we enjoyed the glowing colours of the opening day, the odours of our shrubs, the concerts of our birds! now, at the source of beauty, from which flows all that is delightful upon earth, my soul intuitively sees, tastes, hears, touches, what before she could only be made sensible of through the medium of our weak organs. ah! what language can describe those shores of eternal bliss which i inhabit for ever? all that infinite power and celestial bounty can confer, that harmony which results from friendship with numberless beings, exulting in the same felicity, we enjoy in unmixed perfection. support, then the trial which is allotted you, that you may heighten the happiness of your virginia by love which will know no termination, by hymeneals which will be immortal. there i will calm your regrets, i will wipe away your tears. oh, my beloved friend! my husband! raise your thoughts towards infinite duration, and bear the evils of a moment.' "my own emotion choked my utterance. paul, looking's at me stedfastly, cried, 'she is no more! she is no more!' and a long fainting fit succeeded that melancholy exclamation. when restored to himself, he said, 'since death is a good, and since virginia is happy, i would die too, and be united to virginia.' thus the motives of consolation i had offered, only served to nourish his despair. i was like a man who attempts to save a friend sinking in the midst of a flood, and refusing to swim. sorrow had overwhelmed his soul. alas! the misfortunes of early years prepare man for the struggles of life: but paul had never known adversity. "i led him back to his own dwelling, where i found his mother and madame de la tour in a state of increased languor, but margaret drooped most. those lively characters upon which light afflictions make a small impression, are least capable of resisting great calamities. "'o, my good friend,' said margaret, 'me-thought, last night, i saw virginia dressed in white, amidst delicious bowers and gardens. she said to me, 'i enjoy the most perfect happiness;' and then approaching paul, with a smiling air, she bore him away. while i struggled to retain my son, i felt that i myself was quitting the earth, and that i followed him with inexpressible delight. i then wished to bid my friend farewell, when i saw she was hastening after me with mary and domingo. but what seems most strange is, that madame de la tour has this very night had a dream attended with the same circumstances.' "'my dear friend,' i replied, 'nothing, i believe, happens in this world without the permission of god. dreams sometimes foretell the truth.' "madame de la tour related to me her dream, which was exactly similar; and, as i had never observed in either of those persons any propensity to superstition, i was struck with the singular coincidence of their dreams, which, i had little doubt, would soon be realized. "what i expected took place. paul died two months after the death of virginia, whose name dwelt upon his lips even in his expiring moments. eight days after the death of her son, margaret saw her last hour approach with that serenity which virtue only can feel. she bade madame de la tour the most tender farewell, 'in the hope,' she said, 'of a sweet and eternal reunion. death is the most precious good,' added she, 'and we ought to desire it. if life be a punishment we should wish for its termination; if it be a trial, we should be thankful that it is short.' "the governor took care of domingo and mary, who were no longer able to labour, and who survived their mistresses but a short time. as for poor fidele, he pined to death, at the period he lost his master. "i conducted madame de la tour to my dwelling, and she bore her calamities with elevated fortitude. she had endeavoured to comfort paul and margaret till their last moments, as if she herself had no agonies to bear. when they were no more, she used to talk of them as of beloved friends, from whom she was not distant. she survived them but one month. far from reproaching her aunt for those afflictions she had caused, her benign spirit prayed to god to pardon her, and to appease that remorse which the consequences of her cruelty would probably awaken in her breast. "i heard, by successive vessels which arrived from europe, that this unnatural relation, haunted by a troubled conscience, accused herself continually of the untimely fate of her lovely niece, and the death of her mother, and became at intervals bereft of her reason. her relations, whom she hated, took the direction of her fortune, after shutting her up as a lunatic, though she possessed sufficient use of her reason to feel all the pangs of her dreadful situation, and died at length in agonies of despair. "the body of paul was placed by the side of his virginia, at the foot of the same shrubs; and on that hallowed spot the remains of their tender mothers, and their faithful servants, are laid. no marble covers the turf, no inscription records their virtues; but their memory is engraven upon our hearts, in characters, which are indelible; and surely, if those pure spirits still take an interest in what passes upon earth, they love to wander beneath the roofs of these dwellings, which are inhabited by industrious virtue, to console the poor who complain of their destiny, to cherish in the hearts of lovers the sacred flame of fidelity, to inspire a taste for the blessing of nature, the love of labour, and the dread of riches. "the voice of the people, which is often silent with regard to those monuments raised to flatter the pride of kings, has given to some parts of this island names which will immortalize the loss of virginia. near the isle of amber, in the midst of sandbanks, is a spot called the pass of saint geran, from the name of the vessel which there perished. the extremity of that point of land, which is three leagues distant, and half covered by the waves, and which the saint geran could not double on the night preceding the huricane, is called the cape of misfortune; and before us, at the end of the valley, is the bay of the tomb, where virginia was found buried in the sand; as if the waves had sought to restore her corpse to her family, that they might render it the last sad duties on those shores of which her innocence had been the ornament. "ye faithful lovers, who were so tenderly united! unfortunate mothers! beloved family! those woods which sheltered you with their foliage, those fountains which flowed for you, those hillocks upon which you reposed, still deplore your loss! no one has since presumed to cultivate that desolated ground, or repair those fallen huts. your goats are become wild, your orchards are destroyed, your birds are fled, and nothing is heard but the cry of the sparrowhawk, who skims around the valley of rocks. as for myself, since i behold you no more, i am like a father bereft of his children, like a traveller who wanders over the earth, desolate and alone." in saying these words, the good old man retired, shedding tears, and mine had often flowed, during this melancholy narration. the end. hildegarde's home [illustration: hildegarde and the china pots.--_frontispiece._] hildegarde's home by laura e. richards author of "queen hildegarde," "hildegarde's holiday," "captain january," etc. illustrated boston estes and lauriat publishers copyright, , by estes and lauriat. typography by j. s. cushing & co., boston. contents. chapter page i. the home itself ii. a dish of gossip iii. morning hours iv. a walk and an adventure v. uncle and nephew vi. cousin jack vii. miss agatha's cabinet viii. the poplars ix. the cousins x. bonny sir hugh xi. a call and a conspiracy xii. the second act xiii. a picnic xiv. over the jam-pots xv. at the brown cottage xvi. good-by! list of illustrations. page hildegarde and the china pots _frontispiece_ "it was very pleasant up in this airy bower" "jack ferrers appeared carrying a huge bunch of roses" "hildegarde had been making friends with merlin" hildegarde finding hugh and merlin by the brook hugh and colonel ferrers over the jam pots "he gave me a lunge in quart" hildegarde's home. chapter i. the home itself. it was a pleasant place. the house was a large, low, old-fashioned one, with the modern addition of a deep, wide verandah running across its front. before it was a circular sweep of lawn, fringed with trees; beside it stood a few noble elms, which bent lovingly above the gambrel roof. there were some flower-beds, rather neglected-looking, under the south windows, and there was a kitchen-garden behind the house. this was all that hildegarde grahame had seen so far of her new home, for she had only just arrived. she stood now on the verandah, looking about her with keen, inquiring eyes, a tall, graceful girl, very erect, with a certain proud carriage of the head. her dress of black and white shepherd's plaid was very simple, but it fitted to perfection, and there was a decided "air" to her little black felt hat. hildegarde's father had died about six months before the time our story opens. he had been very wealthy, but many of his investments had shrunk in value, and the failure of a bank whose cashier had proved dishonest entailed heavy losses upon him; so that, after his death, it was found that the sum remaining for his widow and only child, after all debts were paid, was no very large one. they would have enough to live on, and to live comfortably; but the "big luxuries," as hildegarde called them, the horses and carriages, the great new york house with its splendid furniture and troops of servants, must go; and go they did, without loss of time. perhaps neither hildegarde nor her mother regretted these things much. mrs. grahame had been for years an indefatigable worker, giving most of her time to charities; she knew that she should never rest so long as she lived in new york. hildegarde had been much in the country during the past two years, had learned to love it greatly, and found city life too "cabined, cribbed, confined," to suit her present taste. the dear father had always preferred to live in town; but now that he was gone, they were both glad to go away from the great, bustling, noisy, splendid place. so, when mrs. grahame's lawyer told her that an aged relative, who had lately died, had left his country house as a legacy to her, both she and hildegarde said at once, "let us go and live there!" accordingly, here they were! or to speak more accurately, here hildegarde was, for she and auntie (auntie was the black cook; she had been mrs. grahame's nurse, and had been cook ever since hildegarde was a baby) had come by an early train, and were to have everything as comfortable as might be by the time mrs. grahame and the little housemaid, who had stayed to help her pack the last trifles, should arrive in the afternoon. it was so pleasant on the wide verandah, with the great elms nodding over it, that hildegarde lingered, until a mellow "miss hildy, chile! you comin'?" summoned her in-doors. auntie had already put on her white jacket and apron, without which she never considered herself dressed, and her muslin turban looked like a snow-drift on an ebony statue. she had opened the door of a large room, and was peering into it, feather duster in hand. "'spose this is the parlour!" she said, with a glance of keen observation. "comicalest parlour ever i see!" hildegarde stepped lightly across the threshold. it _was_ a singular room, but, she thought, a very pleasant one. the carpet on the floor was thick and soft, of some eastern fabric, but so faded that the colours were hardly distinguishable. against the walls stood many chairs, delicate, spider-legged affairs, with cushions of faded tapestry. the curtains might once have been crimson, when they had any colour. a table in the exact centre of the room was covered with a worked cloth of curious and antique pattern, and on it were some venerable annuals, and "finden's tableaux," bound in green morocco. in a dim corner stood the great-grandmother of all pianos. it was hardly larger than a spinnet, and was made of some light-coloured, highly polished wood, cunningly inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl. over the yellow keys was a painting, representing apollo (attired, to all appearance, like the "old man on a hill," in his grandmother's gown), capering to the sound of his lyre, and followed by nine young ladies in pink and green frocks. the last young lady carried a parasol, showing that the muses thought as much of their complexions as other people do. at sight of this venerable instrument hildegarde uttered a cry of delight, and, running across the room, touched a few chords softly. the sound was faint and tinkling, but not unmusical. auntie sniffed audibly. "reckon my kittle makes a better music 'an that!" she said; and then, relenting, she added, "might ha' been pooty once, i dassay. that's a pooty picture, anyhow, over the mankel-piece." hildegarde looked up, and saw a coloured print of a lady in the costume of the first empire, with golden ringlets, large blue eyes, particularly round rosy cheeks, and the most amiable simper in the world. beneath was the inscription, "madame récamier, napoleon's first love." "oh!" cried hildegarde, half-laughing, half-indignant, "how ridiculous! she wasn't, you know! and she never looked like that, any more than i do. but see, auntie! see this great picture of general washington, in his fine scarlet coat. i am sure you must admire that! why!--it cannot be--yes, it is! it is done in worsted-work. fine cross-stitch, every atom of it. oh! it makes my eyes ache to think of it." auntie nodded approvingly. "that's what i call work!" she said. "that's what young ladies used to do when i was a gal. don't see no sech work nowadays, only just a passel o' flowers and crooked lines, and calls it embr'idery." "oh! you ungrateful old auntie," cried hildegarde, "when i marked your towels so beautifully last week. here! since you are so fond of cross-stitch, take this dreadful yellow sofa-pillow, with pink roses worked on it. it will just fit your own beloved rocking-chair, with the creak in it, and you may have it for your very own." the pillow flew across the room, and auntie, catching it, disappeared with a chuckle, while hildegarde resumed her examination of the quaint old parlour. the "cross-stitch" was everywhere: on the deep, comfortable old sofa, where one leaned against a stag-hunt, and had a huntsman blowing his horn on either arm; on the chairs, where one might sit on baskets of flowers, dishes of fruit, or cherubs' heads, as one's fancy dictated; on the long fender-stool, where an appalling line of dragons, faintly red, on a ground that had been blue, gaped open-mouthed, as if waiting to catch an unwary foot. "oh! their _poor_ eyes!" cried hildegarde. "how _could_ their mothers let them?" she passed her hand compassionately over the fine lines of the stag-hunt. "were they girls, do you suppose?" she went on, talking to herself, as she was fond of doing. "girls like me, or slender old spinsters, like the chairs and the piano? mamma must have known some of them when she was a child; she said she had once made a visit here. i must ask her all about them. uncle aytoun! what a pity he isn't alive, to show us about his house! but if he were alive, we should not be here at all. so nice of you to leave the house to mamma, dear sir, just as if you had been her real uncle, instead of her father's cousin. you must have been a very nice old gentleman. i like old gentlemen." the girl paused, and presently gave an inquiring sniff. "what is it?" she said meditatively. "not exactly mould, for it is dry; not must, for it is sweet. the smell of this particular room, for it, suits it exactly. it is"--she sniffed again--"it is as if some aytoun ladies before the flood had made _pot-pourri_, and it had somehow kept dry. let us examine this matter!" she tiptoed about the room, and, going round the corner of the great chimney, found a cupboard snugly tucked in beside it. she opened it, with a delightful thrill of curiosity. hildegarde did love cupboards! of course, there might be nothing at all--but there was something! on the very first shelf stood a row of china pots, carefully covered, and from these pots came the faint, peculiar perfume which seemed so to form part of the faded charm of the room. the pots were of delicate white porcelain, one with gold sprigs on it, one with blue flowers, and one with pink. "belonging to three aytoun sisters!" said hildegarde. "of course! dear things! if they had only written their names on the jars!" she lifted the gold-sprigged jar with reverent hands. lo, and behold! on the cover was pasted a neat label, which said, "hester's recipe, june, --." she examined the other two jars eagerly. they bore similar legends, with the names "agatha" and "barbara." on all the writing was in minute but strongly marked characters; the three hands were different, yet there was a marked resemblance. hildegarde stood almost abashed, as if she had found herself in presence of the three ladies themselves. "the question is"--she murmured apologetically--and then she stooped and sniffed carefully, critically, at the three jars in turn. "there is no doubt about it!" she said at last. "hester's recipe is the best, for it has outlived the others, and given its character to the whole room. poor miss agatha and miss barbara! how disappointed they would be!" as she closed the cupboard softly and turned away, it almost seemed--almost, but not quite, for though hildegarde had a lively imagination, she was not at all superstitious--as though she heard a faint sigh, and saw the shadowy forms of the three aytoun sisters turning away sadly from the cupboard where their treasure was kept. the shadow was her own, the sigh was that of an evening breeze as it stole in between the faded curtains; but hildegarde had a very pretty little romance made up by the time she reached the other side of the long room, and when she softly closed the door, it was not without a whispered "good evening!" to the three ladies whom she left in possession. shaking off the dream, she ran quickly up the winding stairs, and turned into the pleasant, sunny room which she had selected as the best for her mother's bedchamber. it was more modern-looking than the rest of the house, in spite of its quaint chinese-patterned chintz hangings and furniture; this was partly owing to a large bow-window which almost filled one side, and through which the evening light streamed in cheerfully. hildegarde had already unpacked a trunk of "alicumtweezles" (a word not generally known, and meaning small but cherished possessions), and the room was a pleasant litter of down pillows, cologne-bottles, work-implements, photograph cases and odd books. now she inspected the chairs with a keen and critical eye, pounced upon one, sat down in it, shook her head and tried another. finding this to her mind, she drew it into the bow-window, half-filled it with a choice assortment of small pillows, and placed a little table beside it, on which she set a fan, a bottle of cologne, a particularly inviting little volume of wordsworth (hildegarde had not grown up to wordsworth yet, but her mother had), a silver bonbonnière full of marquis chocolate-drops, and a delicate white knitting-basket which was having a little sunset of its own with rose-coloured "saxony." "there!" said hildegarde, surveying this composition with unfeigned satisfaction. "if that isn't attractive, i don't know what is. she won't eat the chocolates, of course, bless her! but they give it an air, and i can eat them for her. and now i must put away towels and pillow-cases, which is not so interesting." at this moment, however, the sound of wheels was heard on the gravel, and tossing the linen on the bed, hildegarde ran down to welcome her mother. mrs. grahame was very tired, and was glad to come directly up to the pleasant room, and sink down in the comfortable chair which was holding out its stout chintz arms to receive her. "what a perfect chair!" she said, taking off her bonnet and looking about her. "what a very pleasant room! i know you have given me the best one, you dear child!" "i hope so!" said hildegarde. "i meant to, certainly-- oh, no!" she started forward and took the bonnet which mrs. grahame was about to lay on the table; "this table is to take things from, dear. i must give you another to put things on." "i see!" said her mother, surveying the decorated table with amusement. "this is a still-life piece, and a very pretty one. but how can i possibly take anything off it? i should spoil the harmony. the straw-covered cologne-bottle makes just the proper background for the chocolates, and though i should like to wet my handkerchief with it, i do not dare to disturb--" "take care!" cried hildegarde, snatching up the bottle and deluging the handkerchief with its contents. "you might hurt my feelings, mrs. grahame, and that would not be pleasant for either of us. and you know it is pretty, _quand même_!" "it is, my darling, very pretty!" said her mother, "and you are my dear, thoughtful child, as usual. the wordsworth touch i specially appreciate. he is so restful, with his smooth, brown covers. your white and gold shelley, there, would have been altogether too exciting for my tired nerves." "oh! i have nothing to say against mr. w.'s _covers_!" said hildegarde with cheerful malice. "they are charming covers. and now tell me what kind of journey you had, and how you got through the last agonies, and all about it." "why, we got through very well indeed!" said mrs. grahame. "janet was helpful and quick as usual, and hicks nailed up all the boxes, and took charge of everything that was to be stored or sold. sad work! but i am glad it is done." she sighed, and hildegarde sat down on the floor beside her, and leaned her cheek against the beloved mother-hand. "dear!" she said, and that was all, for each knew the other's thoughts. it was no light matter, the breaking up of a home where nearly all the young girl's life, and the happiest years of her mother's, had been passed. every corner in the new york house was filled with memories of the dear and noble man whom they so truly mourned, and it had seemed to them both, though they had not spoken of it, as if in saying good-by to the home which he had loved, they were taking another and a more final farewell of him. so they sat in silence for a while, the tender pressure of the hand saying more than words could have done; but when mrs. grahame spoke at last, it was in her usual cheerful tone. "so at last everything was ready, and i locked the door, and gave the keys to the faithful hicks" (hicks had been the grahames' butler for several years), "and then hicks came down to the station with me, and did everything that was possible to secure a comfortable journey for me--and janet." "poor hicks!" said hildegarde, smiling. "it must have been very hard for him to say good-by to you--and janet." "i think it was!" said mrs. grahame. "he asked me, very wistfully, if we should not need some one to take care of the garden, and said he was very fond of out-door work; but i had to tell him that we should only need a 'chore-man,' to do odds and ends of work, and should not keep a gardener. at this he put on a face like three days of rain, as your grimm story says, and the train started, and that was all. "and now tell me, sweetheart," she added, "what have been your happenings. first of all, how do you like the house?" "oh, it's a jewel of a house!" replied hildegarde with enthusiasm. "you told me it was pleasant, but i had no idea of anything like this. the verandah itself is worth the whole of most houses. then the parlour! such a wonderful parlour! i am sure you will agree with me that it would be sacrilege to put any of our modern belongings in it. i did give auntie one hideous sofa-pillow, but otherwise i have touched nothing. it is a perfect museum of cross-stitch embroidery, sacred to the memory of miss barbara, miss agatha, and miss hester." mrs. grahame smiled. "how did you discover their names?" she asked. "i was saving them for an after-supper 'tell' for you, and now you have stolen my thunder, you naughty child." "not a single growl of it!" cried hildegarde eagerly. "i am fairly prancing with impatience to hear about them. all i know is their names, which i found written on three bow-pots in the cupboard. i went mousing about, like little silver-hair, and instead of three porridge-pots, found these. miss hester's was the only pot that had any 'sniff' left to speak of; from which i inferred that she was the sprightliest of the three sisters, and perhaps the youngest and prettiest. now _don't_ tell me that she was the eldest, and lackadaisical, and cross-eyed!" "i will not!" said mrs. grahame, laughing. "i will not tell you anything till i have had my tea. i had luncheon at one o'clock, and it is now--" "seven!" cried hildegarde, springing up, and beating her breast. "you are starved, my poor darling, and i am a jew, turk, infidel, and heretic; i always was!" she ran out to call janet; when lo, there was janet just coming up to tell them that tea was ready. she was the prettiest possible janet, as scotch as her name, with rosy cheeks and wide, innocent blue eyes, and "lint-white locks," as a scotch lassie should have. "no wonder," thought hildegarde, "that hicks looked like '_drei tage regenwetter_' at parting from her." "tea is ready, you say, janet?" cried hildegarde. "that is good, for we are 'gay and ready,' as you say. come, my mother! let us go and see what auntie has for us." mother and daughter went down arm-in-arm, like two school-girls. they had to pick their way carefully, for the lamps had not been lighted, and there was not daylight enough to shed more than a faint glimmer on the winding stairs; but when they reached the dining-room a very blaze of light greeted them. there were no less than six candles on the table, in six silver candlesticks shaped like corinthian columns. (auntie had hidden these candlesticks in her own trunk, with a special eye to this effect.) on the table also was everything good, and hot blueberry cake beside; and behind it stood auntie herself, very erect and looking so solemn that mrs. grahame and hildegarde stopped in the doorway, and stood still for a moment. the black woman raised her head with a gesture of tenderness, not without majesty. "de lord bless de house to ye!" she said solemnly. "de lord send ye good victuals, and plenty of 'em! de lord grant ye never want for nothin', forever an' ever, give glory, amen!" and with an answering "amen!" on their lips, hildegarde and her mother sat down to their first meal in their new home. chapter ii. a dish of gossip. the evening was too lovely to spend in the house, so mrs. grahame and hildegarde went from the tea-table out on the verandah, where some low, comfortable straw chairs were already placed. it was june, and the air was full of the scent of roses, though there were none in sight. there was no moon, but it was hardly missed, so brilliant were the stars, flashing their golden light down through the elm-branches. they sat for some time, enjoying the quiet beauty of the night. then--"i think we shall be happy here, dear!" said hildegarde softly. "it feels like home already." "i am glad to hear you say that!" replied her mother. "surely the place itself is charming. i hope, too, that you may find some pleasant companions, of your own age. yes, i can see you shake your head, even in the dark; and of course we shall be together constantly, my darling; but i still hope you will find some girl friend, since dear rose (rose was hildegarde's bosom friend) cannot be with us this summer. now tell me, did you find mrs. lankton here when you arrived? we don't seem to have come down to details yet." hildegarde began to laugh. "i should think we did find her!" she said. "your coming put it all out of my head, you see. well, when auntie and i drove up, there was this funny little old dame standing in the doorway, looking so like mrs. gummidge that i wanted to ask her on the spot if mr. peggotty was at home. she began shaking her head and sighing, before we could get out of the wagon. 'ah, dear me!' she said. 'dear me! and this is the young lady, i suppose. ah! yes, indeed! and the housekeeper, i suppose. well, well! i'm proper glad to see you. ah, dear, dear!' all this was said in a tone of the deepest dejection, and she kept on shaking her head and sighing. auntie spoke up pretty smartly, 'i'm de cook!' she said. 'if you'll take dis basket, ma'am, we'll do de lamintations ourselves!' mrs. lankton didn't hear the last part of the remark, but she took the basket, and auntie and i jumped out. 'i suppose you are mrs. lankton, the care-taker,' i said, as cheerfully as i could. 'ah, yes, dear!' she said, mournfully. 'i'm mrs. lankton, the widow lankton, housekeeper to mr. aytoun as was, and care-taker since his dee-cease. i've took care, miss grahame, my dear. there ain't no one could keep things more car'ful nor i have. if i've had trouble, it hasn't made me no less car'ful. ah, dear me! it's a sorrowful world. perhaps you'd like to come in.' this seemed to be a new idea to her, though we had been standing with our hands full of bundles, only waiting for her to move. she led the way into the hall. 'this is the hall!' she said sadly; and then she stood shaking her head like a melancholy mandarin. 'i s'pose 'tis!' said auntie, who was quite furious by this time, and saw no fun in it at all. 'and i s'pose dis is a door, and i'll go t'rough it.' and off she flounced through the door at the back of the hall, where she found the kitchen for herself, as we could tell by the rattling of pans which followed. 'she's got a temper, ain't she?' said mrs. lankton sadly. 'most coloured people has. there! i had one myself, before 'twas took out of me by trouble. not that i've got any coloured blood in me, for my father was nova scoshy and my mother state of new york. shall i take you through the house, dear?'" "poor mrs. lankton!" said mrs. grahame, laughing. "she is the very spirit of melancholy. i believe she has really had a good deal of trouble. well, dear?" "well," resumed hildegarde, "i really could not have her spoil all the fun of going over the house for me; though of course she was great fun herself in a way. so i thanked her, and said i would not give her the trouble, and said i supposed she lived near, and we should often call on her when we wanted extra help. 'so do, dear!' she said, 'so do! i live right handy by, in a brown cottage with a green door, the only brown cottage, _and_ the only green door, so you can't mistake me. you've got beautiful neighbours, too,' she added, still in the depths of melancholy. 'beautiful neighbours! mis' loftus lives in the stone house over yonder. ah, dear me! she and her darter, they don't never set foot to the ground, one year's eend to the other.' 'dear me!' i said. 'are they both such invalids?' 'no, dear!' said she, sighing as if she wished they were. 'carriage folks; great carriage folks. then there's colonel ferrers lives in the brick house across the way. beautiful man, but set in his ways. never speaks to a soul, one year's eend to the other, in the way o' talk, that is. ah! dear me, yes!'" "it sounds like alice in wonderland!" exclaimed mrs. grahame. "in that direction lives a hatter, and in that direction lives a march hare. visit either you like! they're both mad." "oh, mammina, it is exactly like it!" cried hildegarde, clapping her hands. "you clever mammina! i wonder if colonel ferrers has long ears, and if his roof is thatched with fur." "hush!" said her mother, laughing. "this will not do. i know colonel ferrers, and he is an excellent man, though a trifle singular. well, dear, how did you part with your melancholy dame?" "she went away then," said hildegarde. "oh, no, she didn't. i forgot! she did insist upon showing me the room where uncle aytoun died; and--oh! mamma, it is almost too bad to tell, and yet it was very funny. she said he died like a perfect gentleman, and made a beautiful remains. then, at last, she said good-night and charged me to send for her if any of us should be ill in the night. 'comin' strange in,' she said, 'it's likely to disagree with some of you, and in spasms or anything suddint, i'm dretful knowin'.' so she went off at last, and it took me a quarter of an hour to get auntie into a good temper again." they laughed heartily at mrs. lankton's idea of "the parting word of cheer"; and then hildegarde reminded her mother of the "tell" she had promised her. "i want to know _all_ about the three ladies," she said. "they seem more real than dame lankton, somehow, for they belong here, and she never could have. so 'come tell me all, my mother, all, all that ever you know!'" "it is not so very much, after all," replied mrs. grahame, after a moment's thought. "i came here once with my father, when i was about ten years old, and stayed two or three days. miss hester was already dead; she was the youngest, the beauty of the family, and she was still young when she died. miss barbara was the eldest, a tall, slender woman, with a high nose; very kind, but a little stiff and formal. she was the head of the family, and very religious. it was saturday, i remember, when we came, and she gave me some lovely chinese ivory toys to play with, which filled the whole horizon for me. but the next morning she took them away, and gave me baxter's 'saint's rest,' which she said i must read all the morning, as i had a cold and could not go to church." "poor mammina!" said hildegarde. "not so poor," said her mother, smiling. "miss agatha came to the rescue, and took me up to her room, and let me look in the drawers of a wonderful old cabinet, full of what your dear father used to call 'picknickles and bucknickles.'" "oh! i know; i found the cabinet yesterday!" cried hildegarde in delight. "i had not time to look into it, but it was all drawers; a dark, foreign-looking thing, inlaid with ivory!" "yes, that is it," said her mother. "i wonder if the funny things are still in it? miss agatha was an invalid, and her room looked as if she lived in it a good deal. she told me bible stories in her soft, feeble voice, and showed me a very wonderful set of coloured prints illustrating the old testament. i remember distinctly that joseph's coat was striped, red, green, yellow, and blue, like a mattress ticking gone mad, and that the she-bear who came to devour the naughty children was bright pink." "oh! delightful!" cried hildegarde, laughing. "i must try to find those prints." "she told me, too, about her sister hester," mrs. grahame went on; "how beautiful she was, and how bright and gay and light-hearted. 'she was the sunshine, my dear, and we are the shadow, barbara and i,' she said. i remember the very words. and then she showed me a picture, a miniature on ivory, of a lovely girl of sixteen, holding a small harp in her arms. she had large grey eyes, i remember, and long fair curls. dear me! how it all comes back to me, after the long, long years. i can almost see that miniature now. why--why, hilda, it had a little look of you; or, rather, you look like it." the girl flushed rosy red. "i am glad," she said softly. "and she died young, you say? miss hester, i mean." "at twenty-two or three," assented her mother. "it was consumption, i believe. cousin wealthy bond once told me that hester had some sad love affair, but i know nothing more about it. i do know, however, that uncle aytoun (he was the only brother, you know, and spent much of his life at sea), i do know that he was desperately in love with dear cousin wealthy herself." "oh!" cried hildegarde. "poor old gentleman! she couldn't, of course; but i am sorry for him." "he was not old then," said mrs. grahame, smiling. "he knew of cousin wealthy's own trouble, but he was very much in love, and hoped he could make her forget it. one day--cousin wealthy told me this years and years afterward, _à prôpos_ of my own engagement--one day captain aytoun came to see her, and as it was a beautiful summer day, she took him out into the garden to see some rare lilies that were just in blossom. he looked at the lilies, but said little; he was a very silent man. presently he pulled out his card-case, and took from it a visiting-card, on which was engraved his name, 'robert f. aytoun.' he wrote something on the card, and handed it to cousin wealthy; and she read, 'robert f. aytoun's heart is yours.'" "mammina!" cried hildegarde. "can it be true? it is _too_ funny! but what could she say? dear cousin wealthy!" "i remember her very words," said mrs. grahame. "'captain aytoun, it is not my intention ever to marry; but i esteem your friendship highly, and i thank you for the honour you offer me. permit me to call your attention to this new variety of ranunculus.' but the poor captain said,--cousin wealthy could hardly bring herself to repeat this, for she thought it very shocking,--'confound the ranunculus!' and strode out of the garden and away. and cousin wealthy took the card into the house, and folded it up, and wound pearl-coloured silk on it. it may be in her work-basket now, for she never destroys anything." "oh! that was a most delightful 'tell'!" sighed hildegarde. "and now go on about miss agatha." "i fear that is all, dear," said her mother. "i remember singing some hymns, which pleased the kind cousin. then miss barbara came home from church; and i rather think her conscience had been pricking her about the 'saint's rest,' for she took me down and gave me some delicious jelly of rose leaves, which she said was good for a cold. we had waffles for tea, i remember, and we put cinnamon and sugar on them; i had never tasted the combination before, so i remember it. it was in a glass dish shaped like a pineapple. and after tea miss barbara tinkled 'jerusalem, the golden' on the piano, and we all sang, and i went to bed at nine o'clock. and that reminds me," said mrs. grahame, "that it must now be ten o'clock or after, and 'time for all good little constitutional queens to be in bed.'" "oh! must we go to bed?" sighed hildegarde. "it is so very particularly lovely here. well, i suppose we should have to go some time. good-night, dear stars! good-night, all beautiful things that i know are there, though i cannot see you!" hildegarde helped her mother to lock up the house, and then, after a parting word and caress, she took her candle and went to the room she had chosen for her own. it opened out of her mother's dressing-room, so that by setting the doors ajar, they could talk to each other when so minded; and it had a dressing-room of its own on the other side, from which a flight of narrow, corkscrew stairs descended to the ground floor. these stairs had attracted hildegarde particularly. it seemed very pleasant and important to have a staircase of one's own, which no one else could use. it is true that it was very dark, very crooked and steep, but that was no matter. the bedroom itself was large and airy; a little bare, perhaps, but hildegarde did not mind that. the white paint was very fresh and clean, and set off the few pieces of dark old mahogany furniture well,--a fine bureau, with the goddess aurora careering in brass across the front of the top drawer; a comfortable sofa, with cushions of the prettiest pale green chintz, with rosebuds scattered over it; a round table; a few spider-legged chairs; and a nondescript piece of furniture, half dressing-table, half chest of drawers, which was almost as mysteriously promising as the inlaid cabinet in miss agatha's room. the bed was large and solemn-looking, with carved posts topped by pineapples. the floor was bare, save for a square of ancient turkey carpet in the middle. hildegarde held the candle above her head, and surveyed her new quarters with satisfaction. "nice room!" she said, nodding her head. "the sort of room i have been thinking of ever since i outgrew flounces, and bows on the chairs. dear papa! when i was at the height of the flounce fever, he begged me to have a frock and trousers made for the grand piano, as he was sure it must wound my sensibilities to see it so bare. dear papa! he would like this room, too. it is a little strange-garrety to-night, but wait till i get the penates out to-morrow!" she nodded again, and then, putting on her wrapper, proceeded to brush out her long, fair hair. it was beautiful hair; and as it fell in shining waves from the brush, hildegarde began to think again of the dead hester, who had had fair hair, too, and whom her mother had thought she resembled a little. she hoped that this might have been hester's room. indeed, she had chosen it partly with this idea, though chiefly because she wished to be near her mother. it certainly was not miss agatha's room, for that was on the other side of the passage. her mother's room had been miss barbara's, she was quite sure, for "b" was embroidered on the faded cover of the dressing-table. another large room was too rigid in its aspect to have been anything but a spare room or a death chamber, and mr. aytoun's own room, where he had died like a gentleman and become a "beautiful remains," was on the ground floor. therefore, it was very plain, this must have been hester's room. here she had lived her life, a girl like herself, thought hildegarde, and had been gay and light-hearted, the sunshine of the house; and then she had suffered, and faded away and died. it was with a solemn feeling that the young girl climbed up into the great bed, and laid her head where that other fair head had lain. who could tell what was coming to her, too, in this room? and could she make sunshine for her mother, who had lost the great bright light which had warmed and cheered her during so many years? then her thoughts turned to that other light which had never failed this dear mother; and so, with a murmured "my times be in thy hand!" hildegarde fell asleep. chapter iii. morning hours. "the year's at the spring, and day's at the morn: morning's at seven; the hill-side's dew-pearled: the lark's on the wing; the snail's on the thorn; god's in his heaven-- all's right with the world!" these seemed the most natural words to sing, as hildegarde looked out of her window next morning; and sing them she did, with all her heart, as she threw open the shutters and let the glad june sunlight stream into the room. all sad thoughts were gone with the night, and now there seemed nothing but joy in the world. "where art thou, tub of my heart?" cried the girl; and she dived under the bed, and pulled out the third reason for her choosing this room. her mother, she knew, would not change for anything the comfortable "sitz," the friend of many years; so hildegarde felt at full liberty to enjoy this great white porcelain tub, shallow, three feet across, with red and blue fishes swimming all over it. she did not know that captain robert aytoun had brought it in the hold of his ship all the way from singapore, for his little hester, but she did know that it was the most delightful tub she had ever dreamed of; and as she splashed the crystal water about, she almost ceased, for the first time, to regret the blue river which had been her daily bathing-place the summer before. very fresh and sweet she looked, when at last the long locks were braided in one great smooth braid, and the pretty grey gingham put on and smoothed down. she nodded cheerfully to her image in the glass. it was, as dear cousin wealthy said, a privilege to be good-looking, and hildegarde was simply and honestly glad of her beauty. "now," she said, when the room was "picked up," and everything aërable hung up to air, "the question is, go out first and arrange the penates after breakfast, or arrange the penates now and go out later?" one more glance from the window decided the matter. "they must wait, poor dears! after all, it is more respectful to take them out when the room is made up than when it is having its sheet and pillow-case party, like this." she went down her own staircase with a proud sense of possession, and opening the door at its foot, found herself in a little covered porch, from which a flagged walk led toward the back of the house. here was a pleasant sort of yard, partly covered with broad flags, with a grassy space beyond. here were clothes-lines, well, and woodshed; and here was auntie, standing at her kitchen door, and looking well satisfied with her new quarters. "what a pleasant yard, auntie!" said hildegarde. "this is your own domain, isn't it?" "reckon 'tis!" replied the good woman, smiling. "jes' suits me, dis does. i kin have some chickens here, and do my washin' out-doors, and spread out some, 'stead o' bein' cooped up like a old hen myself." a high wall surrounded auntie's domain, and hildegarde looked round it wonderingly. "oh! there is a door," she said. "i thought mamma said there was a garden. that must be it, beyond there. call me when breakfast is ready, please, auntie." passing through the door, she closed it after her, and entered--another world. a dim, green world, wholly different from the golden, sunny one she had just left; a damp world, where the dew lay heavy on shrubs and borders, and dripped like rain from the long, pendent branches of the trees. the paths were damp, and covered with fine green moss. great hedges of box grew on either side, untrimmed, rising as high as the girl's head; and as she walked between them their cool glossy leaves brushed against her cheek. here and there was a neglected flower-bed, where a few pallid rosebuds looked sadly out, and pinks flung themselves headlong over the border, as if trying to reach the sunlight; but for the most part the box and the great elms and locusts had it their own way. hildegarde had never seen such locust-trees! they were as tall as the elms, their trunks scarred and rough with the frosts of many winters. no birds sang in their green, whispering depths; the silence of the place was heavy, weighted down with memories of vanished things. "i have no right to come here!" said hildegarde to herself. "i am sure they would not like it." something white glimmered between the bending boughs of box which interlaced across her path. she half expected to see a shadowy form confront her and wave her back; but, pushing on, she saw a neglected summer-house, entirely covered with the wild clematis called virgin's-bower. she peeped in, but did not venture across the threshold, because it looked as if there might be spiders in it. through the opposite door, however, she caught a glimpse of a very different prospect, a flash of yellow sunlight, a sunny meadow stretching up and away. skirting the summer-house carefully, she came upon a stone wall, the boundary of the garden, beyond which the broad meadow lay full in the sunlight. sitting on this wall, hildegarde felt as if half of her were in one world, and half in the other; for the dark box and the drooping elm-branches came to the very edge of the wall, while all beyond was rioting in morning and sunshine. "the new world and the old one, the green world and the gold one!" she murmured, and smiled to find herself dropping into poetry, like silas wegg. at this moment a faint sound fell on her ear, a far-away voice, which belonged wholly to the golden world, and had nothing whatever to do with the green. "hi-ya! miss hildy chile!" the mellow african voice came floating down through the trees with an imperious summons; and hildegarde jumped down from her stone perch, and came out of her dream, and went in to breakfast. "and what is to be done, mammina?" asked hildegarde, when the "eggs and the ham and the strawberry jam" were things of the past, and they were out on the piazza again. "do you realise, by the way, that we shall live chiefly on this piazza?" "it is certainly a most delightful place," said mrs. grahame. "and i do realise that while it would be quite out of the question to change anything in miss barbara's sacred parlour, it is not exactly the place to be cosy in. but, dear child, i shall have to be in my own room a good deal, as this arranging of your dear father's papers will be my chief work through the summer, probably." "oh, of course! and i shall be in my room a good deal, for there is sewing, and all that german i am going to read, and--oh, and quantities of things to do! but still we shall live here a great deal, i am sure. it is just a great pleasant room, with one side of it taken off. and it is very quiet, with the strip of lawn, and the ledge beyond. one cannot see the road, except just a bit through the gate. sometimes you can bring your writing down here, and i can grub in the flower-bed and disturb you." "thank you!" said her mother, laughing. "the prospect is singularly attractive. but, dear, you asked me a few minutes ago what was to be done. i thought it would be pleasant if we took out our various little belongings, and disposed them here and there." "just what i was longing to do!" cried hildegarde. "all my precious alicumtweezles are crying out from the trunk, and waiting for me. but don't you want me to see the butcher for you, love, or let auntie tell me what she is going to make for dessert, or perform any other sacred after-breakfast rites?" mrs. grahame shook her head, smiling, and hildegarde flew upstairs, like an arrow shot from a bow. in her room stood a huge trunk, already unlocked and unstrapped, and a box whose aspect said plainly that it contained books. all the dresses had been taken out the day before and hung in the roomy closet, pretty, simple gowns, mostly white or grey, for the dear father had disliked "mourning" extremely. now hildegarde took out her hats, the broad-brimmed straw with the white daisy wreath, the pretty white shirred mull for best, the black "rough and ready" sailor for common wear. these were laid carefully on a shelf in the closet, and covered with a light cloth to keep them from dust. this done as a matter of duty, the pleasant part began. one after another, a most astonishing array of things were taken from the trunk and laid on the bed, which spread a broad white surface to receive them: a trinket-box of ebony and silver; a plaster cast of the venus of milo, another of the pompeian psyche, both "treated" in some way that gave them the smooth lustre of old ivory; a hideous little indian idol, carved out of dark wood, with eyes of real carbuncle; a doll's tea-set of exquisite blue and white china, brought to hildegarde from pekin by a wandering uncle, when she was eight years old; a stuffed hawk, confidently asserted by its owner to be the original "jolly gosshawk" of the scottish ballad, which could "speak and flee"; a swiss cuckoo clock; several great pink-lipped shells; a butterfly net; a rattlesnake's skin; an exquisite statuette of carved wood, representing theodoric, king of the ostrogoths, a copy of the famous bronze statue at innsbruck; a large assortment of pasteboard boxes, of all sizes and shapes; three or four work-baskets; last of all, some framed photographs and engravings, and a number of polished pieces of wood, which were speedily put together into a bookcase and two or three hanging shelves. on these shelves and on the mantel-piece the various alicumtweezles were arranged and re-arranged, till at length hildegarde gave a satisfied nod and pronounced them perfect. "but now comes the hard part!" she said. "the pictures! who shall have the post of honour over the mantel-piece? come here, dear persons, and let me look at you!" she took up two engravings, both framed in gilt laurel leaves, and studied them attentively. one was the portrait of a man in cavalier dress, strikingly handsome, with dark, piercing eyes and long, curling hair. the expression of the face was melancholy, almost sombre; yet there was a strange fascination in its stern gaze. on the margin was written,-- "john grahame of claverhouse, "viscount dundee." the other portrait showed an older man, clad in a quaint dress, with a hat that would have been funny on any other head, but seemed not out of place here. the face was not beautiful, but calm and strong, with earnest, thoughtful eyes, and a firm mouth and chin. the legend bore, in curious black-letter, the words,-- "william of orange nassau, "hereditary grand stadt-holder of the netherlands." no one save hildegarde knew that on the back of this picture, turned upside down in perpetual disgrace and ridicule, was a hideous little photograph of philip ii. of spain. it was a constant gratification to her to know that it was there, and she occasionally, as now, turned it round and made insulting remarks to it. she hoped the great oranger liked to know of this humiliation of his country's foe; but william the silent kept his own counsel, as was always his way. and now the question was, which hero was to have the chief place? "you are the great one, of course, my saint!" said hildegarde, gazing into the calm eyes of the majestic dutchman, "and we all know it. but you see, he is an ancestor, and so many people hate him, poor dear!" she looked from one to the other, till the fixed gaze of the pictured eyes grew really uncomfortable, and she fancied that she saw a look of impatience in those of the scottish chieftain. then she looked again at the space above the mantel-piece, and, after measuring it carefully with her eyes, came to a new resolution. "you see," she said, taking up a third picture, a beautiful photograph of the sistine madonna, "i put _her_ in the middle, and you on each side, and then neither of you can say a word." this arrangement gave great satisfaction; and the other pictures, the correggio cherubs, kaulbach's "lili," the raphael "violin-player," and "st. cecilia," were easily disposed of on the various panels, while over the dressing-table, where she could see it from her bed, was a fine print of murillo's lovely "guardian angel." hildegarde drew a long breath of satisfaction as she looked round on her favourites in their new home. "so dear they are!" she said fondly. "i wish hester could see them. don't you suppose she had _any_ pictures? there are no marks of any on the wall. well, and now for the books!" hammer and screwdriver were brought, and soon the box was opened and the books in their places. would any girls like to know what hildegarde's books are? let us take a glance at them, as they stand in neat rows on the plain, smooth shelves. those big volumes on the lowest shelf are scudder's "butterflies," a highly valued work, full of coloured plates, over which hildegarde sighs with longing rapture; for, from collecting moths and butterflies for her friend, bubble chirk, she has become an ardent collector herself, and in one of the unopened cases downstairs is an oak cabinet with glass-covered drawers, very precious, containing several hundred "specimens." here is "robin hood," and gray's botany, and percy's "reliques," and a set of george eliot, and one of charles kingsley, and the "ingoldsby legends," and aytoun's "lays of the scottish cavaliers," which looks as if it had been read almost to pieces, as indeed it has. (there is a mark laid in at the "burial march of dundee," which hildegarde is learning by heart. this young woman has a habit of keeping a book of poetry open on her dressing-table when she is doing her hair, and learning verses while she brushes out her long locks. it is a pleasant habit, though it does not tend to accelerate the toilet.) on the next shelf is "cranford," also well thumbed, and everything that mrs. ewing ever wrote, and "betty leicester," and miss yonge's historical stories, and the "tales of a grandfather," and "lorna doone," and the dear old "days of bruce," and "scottish chiefs," side by side with the "last of the barons," and the "queens of england," and the beloved homer, in derby's noble translation, also in brown leather. here, too, is "sesame and lilies," and carlyle on hero-worship. the upper shelf is entirely devoted to poetry, and here are longfellow and tennyson, of course, and milton (_not_ "of course"), and scott (in tatters, worse off than aytoun), and shelley and keats, and the jacobite ballads, and allingham's ballad book, and mrs. browning, and "sir launfal," and the "golden treasury," and "children's garland." there is no room for the handy volume shakespeare, so he and his box must live on top of the bookcase, with his own bust on one side and beethoven's on the other. these are flanked in turn by photographs of sir walter, with maida at his feet, and edwin booth as hamlet, both in those pretty glass frames which are almost as good as no frame at all. "and if you are not a pleasant sight," said hildegarde, falling back to survey her work, and addressing the collection comprehensively, "then i never saw one, that's all. _isn't_ it nice, dear persons?" she continued, turning to the portraits, which from their places over the mantel-piece had a full view of the bookcase. but the persons expressed no opinion. indeed, i am not sure that william the silent could read english; and dundee's knowledge of literature was slight, if we may judge from his spelling. i should not, however, wish hildegarde to hear me say this. failing to elicit a response from her two presiding heroes, our maiden turned to sir walter, who always knew just how things were; and from this the natural step was to the "lay of the last minstrel" (which she had not read so _very_ lately, she thought, with a guilty glance at the trunk and box, which stood in the middle of the room, yawning to be put away), and there was an end of hildegarde till dinner-time. "and that is why i was late, dear love!" she said, as after a hasty explanation of the above related doings, she sank down in her chair at the dinner-table, and gave a furtive pat to her hair, which she had smoothed rather hurriedly. "you know you would have brained me with the hammer, if i had not put it away, and that the tacks would have been served up on toast for my supper. such is your ferocious disposition." mrs. grahame smiled as she helped hildegarde to soup. "suppose a stranger should pass by that open window and hear your remarks," she said. "a pretty idea he would have of my maternal care. after all, my desire is to keep tacks _out_ of your food. how long ago was it that i found a button in the cup of tea which a certain young woman of my acquaintance brought me?" "ungenerous!" exclaimed hildegarde with tragic fervour. "it was only a glove-button. it dropped off my glove, and it would not have disagreed with you in the least. i move that we change the subject." and at that moment in came janet with the veal cutlets. chapter iv. a walk and an adventure. one lovely afternoon, after they were well settled, and all the unpacking was done, hildegarde started out on an exploration tour. she and her mother had already taken one or two short walks along the road near which their house stood, and had seen the brand-new towers of mrs. loftus's house, "pricking a cockney ear" on the other side of the way, and had caught a glimpse of an old vine-covered mansion, standing back from the road and almost hidden by great trees, which her mother said was colonel ferrers's house. but now hildegarde wanted a long tramp; she wanted to explore that sunny meadow that lay behind the green garden, and the woods that fringed the meadow again beyond. so she put on a short corduroy skirt, that would not tear when it caught on the bushes, slung a tin plant-box over her shoulder, kissed her mother, who had a headache and could not go, and started off in high spirits. she was singing as she ran down the stairs and through auntie's sunny back yard, and the martial strains of "bonny dundee" rang merrily through the clear june air; but as she closed the garden door behind her, the song died away, for "one would as soon sing in a churchyard," she thought, "as in the ladies' garden." so she passed silently along between the box hedges, her footsteps making no sound on the mossy path, only the branches rustling softly as she put them aside. the afternoon sun sent faint gleams of pallid gold down through the branches of the great elm; they were like the ghosts of sunbeams. her ear caught the sound of falling water, which she had not noticed before; she turned a corner, and lo! there was a dusky ravine, and a little dark stream falling over the rocks, and flowing along with a sullen murmur between banks of fern. it was part of the green world. the mysterious sadness of the deserted garden was here, too, and hildegarde felt her glad spirits going down, down, as if an actual weight were pressing on her. but she shook off the oppression. "i will not!" she said. "i will not be enchanted to-day! another day i will come and sit here, and the stream will tell me all the mournful story; i know it will if i sit long enough. but to-day i want joy, and sunshine, and cheerful things. good-by, dear ladies! i hope you won't mind!" and grasping the hanging bough of a neighbouring elm, she swung herself easily down into the meadow. it was a very pleasant meadow. the grass was long, so long that hildegarde felt rather guilty at walking through it, and framed a mental apology to the farmer as she went along. it was full of daisies and sorrel, so it was not his best mowing-field, she thought. she plucked a daisy and pulled off the petals to see whether rose loved her, and found she did not, which made her laugh in a foolish, happy way, since she knew better. now she came to a huge sycamore-tree, a veritable giant, all scarred with white patches where the bark had dropped off. beside it lay another, prostrate. the branches had been cut off, but the vast trunk showed that it had been even taller than the one which was now standing. "baucis and philemon!" said hildegarde. "poor dears! one is more sorry for the one who is left, i think, than for the fallen one. to see him lying here with his head off, and not to be able to do anything about it! she cannot even 'tear her ling-long yellow hair'--only it is green. i wonder who killed him." and she went on, murmuring to herself,-- "they shot him dead on the nine-stane rigg, beside the headless cross. and they left him lying in his blood upon the moor and moss," as if barthram's dirge had anything to do with the story of baucis and philemon. but this young woman's head was very full of ballads and scraps of old songs, and she was apt to break into them on any or no pretext. she went on now with her favourite dirge, half reciting, half chanting it, as she mounted the sunny slope before her. "they made a bier of the broken bough, the sauch and the aspen grey, and they bore him to the lady chapel and waked him there all day. "a lady came to that lonely bower, and threw her robes aside. she tore her ling-long yellow hair, and knelt at barthram's side. "she bathed him in the lady-well, his wounds sae deep and sair, and she plaited a garland for his breast, and a garland for his hair. "they rowed him in a lily-sheet and bare him to his earth, and the grey friars sung the dead man's mass, as they passed the chapel garth. "they buried him at the mirk midnight, when the dew fell cold and still; when the aspen grey forgot to play, and the mist clung to the hill. "they dug his grave but a bare foot deep by the edge of the nine-stane burn, and they covered him o'er with the heather flower, the moss and the lady fern. "a grey friar stayed upon the grave and sung through the morning tide. and a friar shall sing for barthram's soul while headless cross shall bide." now she had reached the fringe of trees at the top of the slope, and found that it was the beginning of what looked like a considerable wood. "a pine wood!" said hildegarde, sniffing the spicy perfume with delight. "oh, pleasant place! no plants, but one cannot have everything. oh! how good it smells! and hark to the sound of the sea! i shall call this ramoth hill." she walked along, keeping near the edge of the wood, where it was still warm and luminous with sunshine. now she looked up into the murmuring cloud of branches above her, now she looked down at the burnished needles which made a soft, thick carpet under her feet; and she said again, "oh, pleasant place!" presently, in one of the upward glances, she stopped short. her look, from carelessly wandering, became keen and intent. on one of the branches of the tree under which she stood was a small, round object. "a nest!" said hildegarde. "the question is, what nest?" she walked round and round the tree, like a pointer who has "treed" a partridge; but no bird rose from the nest, nor could she see at all what manner of nest it was. finding this to be the case, she transferred her scrutiny from the nest to the tree. it was a sturdy pine, with strong, broad branches jutting out, the lowest not so very far above her head, a most attractive tree, from every point of view. hildegarde leaned against the trunk for a moment, smiling to herself, and listening to the "two voices." "you are seventeen years old," said one voice. "not quite," said the other. "not for a month yet. besides, what if i were?" "suppose some one should come by and see you?" said the first voice. "but no one will," replied the second. "and perhaps you can't do it, anyhow," continued the first; "it would be ridiculous to try, and fail." "just wait and see!" said the second voice. and when it had said that, hildegarde climbed the tree. i shall not describe exactly how she did it, for it may not have been in the most approved style of the art; but she got up, and seated herself on the broad, spreading branch, not so very much out of breath, all things considered, and with only two scratches worth mentioning. after a moment's triumphant repose, she worked her way upward to where the nest was firmly fixed in a crotch, and bent eagerly over it. a kingbird's nest! this was great joy, for she had never found one before. there were five eggs in it, and she gazed with delight at the perfect little things. but when she touched them gently, she found them quite cold. the nest was deserted. "bad little mother!" said hildegarde. "how could you leave the lovely things? such a perfect place to bring up a family in, too!" she looked around her. it was very pleasant up in this airy bower. great level branches stretched above and below her, roof and floor of soft, dusky plumes. the keen, exquisite fragrance seemed to fold round her like a cloud; she felt fairly steeped in warmth and perfume. sitting curled up on the great bough, her back resting against the trunk, the girl fell into a pleasant waking dream, her thoughts wandering idly here and there, and the sound of the sea in her ears. she was an enchanted princess, shut in a green tower by the sea. the sea loved her, and sang to her all day long the softest song he knew, and no angry waves ever came to make clamour and confusion. by and by a rescuer would come,-- "a fairy prince, with joyful eyes, and lighter-footed than the fox." [illustration: "it was very pleasant up in this airy bower."] he would stand beneath the green tower, and call to her:-- "hallo, there! you young rascal, come down! how dare you rob birds' nests in my woods?" the voice was deep and stern, and hildegarde started so violently that she nearly fell from her perch. she could not speak for the moment, but she looked down, and saw a fierce-looking old gentleman, clad in a black velvet coat and spotless white trousers, brandishing a thick stick, and peering with angry, short-sighted eyes up into the tree. "come down, i say!" he repeated sternly. "i'll teach you to rob my nests, you young vagabond!" this was really not to be endured. "i am _not_ robbing the nest, sir!" cried hildegarde, indignation overcoming her alarm. "i never did such a thing in my life. and i--i am not a boy!" "harry monmouth!" exclaimed the old gentleman. "i beg ten thousand pardons! what are you?" hildegarde's first impulse was to say that she lived in alaska (that being the most distant place she could think of), and was on her way thither; but fortunately the second thought came quickly, and she replied with as much dignity as the situation allowed:-- "i am the daughter of mrs. hugh grahame. i live at braeside" (i have forgotten to mention that this was the name of the new home), "and have wandered off our own grounds without knowing it. i am extremely sorry to be trespassing, but--but--i only wanted to see what kind of nest it was." she stopped suddenly, feeling that there was a little sob somewhere about her, and that she would die rather than let it get into her voice. the old gentleman took off his hat. "my dear young lady," he said, "the apologies are all on my side. accept ten thousand of them, i beg of you! i am delighted to make the acquaintance of mrs. grahame's daughter, under--a--any circumstances." (here he evidently suppressed a chuckle, and hildegarde knew it, and hated him.) "permit me to introduce myself,--colonel ferrers. "i have been annoyed lately," he added kindly, "by thieving boys, and, being near-sighted, did not distinguish between a persecutor and a protector of my birds." he bowed again. "and now i will continue my walk, merely remarking that i beg you to consider yourself entirely free of my grounds, in any and every part. i shall do myself the honour of calling on your mother very shortly. good-morning, my dear miss grahame!" and, with another bow, colonel ferrers replaced his felt wide-awake, and strode off across the meadow, flourishing his stick, and indulging in the chuckle which he had so long suppressed. "harry monmouth!" he said to himself, as he switched the daisy-heads off. "so we have a fair tomboy for a neighbour. well, it may be a good thing for jack. i must take him over and introduce him." now hildegarde was not in the least a tomboy, as we know; and the intuitive knowledge that the old gentleman would think her one made her very angry indeed. she waited till he was out of sight, and then slid down the tree, without a second glance at the kingbird's nest, the innocent cause of all the trouble. she had meant to take one egg, to add to her collection; but she would not touch one now, if there were a thousand of them. she ran down the long sunny slope of the meadow, her cheeks glowing, her heart still beating angrily. she was going straight home, to tell her mother all about it, and how horrid colonel ferrers had been, and how she should never come downstairs when he came to the house--never! "under any circumstances!" how dared he make fun of her? she sat down on the stone wall to rest, and thought how her mother would hear the tale with sympathetic indignation. but somehow--how was it?--when she conjured up her mother's face, there was a twinkle in her eye. mamma had such a fatal way of seeing the funny side of things. suppose she should only laugh at this dreadful adventure! perhaps--perhaps it _was_ funny, from colonel ferrers's point of view. in short, by the time she reached home, hildegarde had cooled off a good deal, and it was a modified version of the tragedy that mrs. grahame heard. she found this quite funny enough, however, and hildegarde was almost, but not quite, ready to laugh with her. that evening, mother and daughter were sitting on the broad verandah as usual, playing encyclopædics. this was a game of mrs. grahame's own invention, and a favourite resource with her and hildegarde in darkling hours like this. perhaps some of my readers may like to know how the game is played, and, as the dodo says of the caucus race, "the best way to explain it is to play it." they began with the letter "a," and had already been playing some time, turn and turn about. "aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty." "ahasuerus, king of persia, b.c. something or other, afflicted with sleeplessness." "alfred the great, unsuccessful tender of cakes." "Æneas, pious; from the flames of troy did on his back the old anchises bear; also deserted dido." "ananias, liar." "anacreon, greek poet." "allan-a-dale, minstrel and outlaw." "andromache, wife of hector." "astyanax, son of the same." "oh--don't you think it's time to go on to b?" asked hildegarde. "i have several more a's," replied her mother. "well, my initials are not 'b. u.,'" said the girl, "but perhaps i can manage one or two more." "b. u.?" "yes! biographic universelle, of course, dear. artaxerxes, also king of persia." "anne of geierstein." "arabella stuart." "ap morgan, ap griffith, ap hugh, ap tudor, ap rice, quoth his roundelay." "oh! oh! that was one of my reserves. azrael, the angel of death." "agamemnon, king of men." "alecto, fury." "agag, who came walking delicately." "addison, joseph, writer." "antony, mark, roman general, lover of cleopatra." "'amlet, prince of--" "hilda!" cried mrs. grahame. "for shame! it is certainly high time to go on to b, if you are going to behave in this way, and i shall put _e d_ after it." "oh, no!" said hildegarde, "i will be good. it isn't nine o'clock yet, i know. buccleugh, bold, duke of, warden here o' the scottish side. i was determined to get him first." "balaam, prophet." "beatrice, in 'much ado about nothing.'" "beatrix esmond." "bruce, robert, king of scotland." "burns, robert, king of scottish poets." "oh! oh! well, i suppose he is!" hilda admitted reluctantly. "but sir walter makes an admirable viceroy. i think--who is that? mamma, there is some one coming up the steps." "mrs. grahame?" said a deep voice, as two shadowy forms emerged from the darkness. "i am delighted to meet you again. you remember colonel ferrers?" "perfectly!" said mrs. grahame, cordially, advancing and holding out her hand. "i am very glad to see you. colonel ferrers,--though i hardly do see you!" she added, laughing. "hildegarde, here is colonel ferrers, whom you met this morning." "good evening!" said hildegarde, thinking that mamma was very cruel. "delighted!" said colonel ferrers, bowing again; and he added, "may i be allowed to present my nephew? mrs. grahame, miss grahame, my nephew, john ferrers." a tall figure bowed awkwardly, and a voice murmured something which might have been a greeting in english, choctaw, or pure polynesian, as it was wholly unintelligible. "it is too pleasant an evening to spend in the house," said mrs. grahame. "i think you will find chairs, gentlemen, by a little judicious groping. oh! i trust you are not hurt, mr. ferrers?" for mr. ferrers had tumbled over his chair, and was now sprawling at full length on the piazza. he gathered himself up again, apparently too much abashed to say a word. "oh! he's all right!" said colonel ferrers, laughing. "he's always tumbling about; just got his growth, you see, and hasn't learned what to do with it. well, many things have happened since we met, mrs. grahame; we won't say how many years it is." "many things, indeed!" said mrs. grahame with a sigh. "yes! yes!" said colonel ferrers. "poor grahame! met him last year in town; never saw him looking better. well, so it goes. changing world, my dear madame! poor aytoun, too! i miss him sadly. my only neighbour. we have been together a great deal since his sisters died. yes! yes! very glad i was to hear that he had left the property to you. not another soul to speak to in the neighbourhood." "who lives in the large new house across the way?" asked mrs. grahame. "i know the name of the family is loftus, but nothing more." "parcel of fools, i call 'em!" said colonel ferrers, contemptuously. "new people, with money. loftus, sharp business man, wants to be a gentleman farmer. as much idea of farming as my stick has. wife and daughters look like a parcel o' fools. don't know 'em! don't want to know 'em!" mrs. grahame, finding this not an agreeable subject, turned the conversation upon old friends, and they were soon deep in matters of twenty years ago. meanwhile hildegarde and the bashful youth had sat in absolute silence. at first hildegarde had been too much discomposed by her mother's allusion to the morning's adventure to speak, though she was able to see afterwards how much better it was to bring up the matter naturally, and then dismiss it as a thing of no consequence, as it was, than to let it hang, an unacknowledged cloud, in the background. as the moments went on, however, she became conscious that it was her duty to entertain mr. ferrers. he evidently had no idea of saying anything; her mother and colonel ferrers had forgotten the presence of either of them, apparently. the silence became more and more awkward. what could she say to this gawky youth, whose face she could not even see? "what a lovely day it has been!" she finally remarked, and was startled by the sound of her own voice, though she was not usually shy in the least. "yes," said mr. ferrers, "it has been a fine day." silence again. this would never do! "do you play tennis?" she asked boldly. "no--not much!" was the reply. "doesn't pay, in hot weather." this was not encouraging, but hildegarde was fairly roused by this time, and had no idea of being beaten. "what _do_ you do?" she said. mr. ferrers was silent, as if considering. "oh--i don't know!" he said finally. "nothing much. poke about!" then, after a pause, he added in explanation, "i don't live here. i only came a few days ago. i am to spend the summer with my uncle." apparently this effort was too much for him, for he relapsed into silence, and hildegarde could get nothing more save "yes!" and "no!" out of him. but now colonel ferrers came to the rescue. "by the way, mrs. grahame," he said, "i think this boy must be a relation of yours, a scotch cousin at least. his mother was a grahame, daughter of robert grahame of baltimore. his own name is john grahame ferrers." "is it possible?" cried mrs. grahame, greatly surprised. "if that is the case, he is much more than a scotch cousin. why, robert grahame was my dear husband's first cousin. their fathers were brothers. hugh often spoke of his cousin robert, and regretted that they never met, as they were great friends in their boyhood. and this is his son! is it possible? my dear boy, i must shake hands with you again. you _are_ a boy, aren't you, though you are so big?" "to be sure he is a boy!" said colonel ferrers, who was highly delighted with his discovery of a relationship. "just eighteen--a mere snip of a boy! going to college in the autumn." "hildegarde," continued mrs. grahame, "shake hands with your cousin john, and tell him how glad you are to find him." hildegarde held out her hand, and john ferrers tried to find it, but found a hanging-basket instead, and knocked it over, sending a shower of damp earth over the other members of the party. "i must take him home," exclaimed colonel ferrers, in mock despair, "or he will destroy the whole house. miss hildegarde," he added, in a very kind voice, "you probably thought me an ogre this morning. i am generally regarded as such. fact is, you frightened me more than i frightened you. we are not used to seeing young ladies here who know how to climb trees. harry monmouth! wish i could climb 'em myself as i used. best fun in the world! come, jack, i must get you home before you do any more mischief. good-night, mrs. grahame! i trust we shall meet often!" "i trust so, indeed!" said mrs. grahame heartily. "we shall count upon your being neighbourly, in the good old country sense; and as for john, he must do a cousin's duty by us, and shall in return receive the freedom of the house." "hum mum mum!" said john; at least, that is what it sounded like; on which his uncle seized him by the arm impatiently, and walked him off. "well, mammina!" said hildegarde, when the visitors were well out of hearing. "well, dear!" replied her mother placidly. "what a pleasant visit! the poor lad is very shy, isn't he? could you make anything out of him?" "why, mammina, he is a perfect goose!" exclaimed hildegarde, warmly. "_i_ don't think it was a pleasant visit at all. as to making anything out of that--" "fair and softly!" said mrs. grahame quietly. "in the first place, we will not criticise the guests who have just left us, because that is not pretty-behaved, as auntie would say. and in the second place--your dear father was just eighteen when i first met him, hildegarde; and he put his foot through the flounce of my gown, upset strawberries and cream into my lap, and sat down on my new ivory fan, all at one tea-party." "good-night, dear mamma!" said hildegarde meekly. "good-night, my darling! and don't forget that barn-door rent in your corduroy skirt, when you get up in the morning." chapter v. uncle and nephew. colonel ferrers and his nephew walked away together, the former with a quick, military stride, the latter shambling, as lads do whose legs have outgrown their understanding of them. "don't hunch, sir!" exclaimed the colonel, throwing his broad shoulders back and his chin to the position of "eyes front." "put your chin in and your chest out, and don't hunch! you have about as much carriage, my nephew jack, as a rheumatic camel. well!" (as poor jack straightened his awkward length and tried to govern his prancing legs). "so mrs. grahame is a connection, after all; and a very charming woman, too. and how did you find the young lady, sir? did she give you any points on tree-climbing? ho! ho! i was wrong, though, about her being a tomboy. she hasn't the voice of one. did you notice her voice, nephew? it is very sweet and melodious. it reminded me of--of a voice i remember." "i like her voice!" replied jack ferrers. by the way, his own voice was a very pleasant one, a well-bred and good-tempered voice. "i couldn't see her face very well. i can't talk to girls!" he added. "i don't know what to say to them. why did you tell them about mother, uncle tom? there was no need of their knowing." "why did i tell them?" exclaimed colonel ferrers. "harry monmouth! i told them, you young noodle, because i chose to tell them, and because it was the truth, and a mighty lucky thing for you, too. what with your poor mother's dying young, and your father's astonishing and supernatural wrong-headedness, you have had no bringing up whatever, my poor fellow! talk of your going to college next year! why, you don't know how to make a bow. i present you to two charming women, and you double yourself up as if you had been run through the body, and then stumble over your own legs and tumble over everything else. shade of chesterfield! how am i to take you about, if this is the way you behave?" "it was dark," said poor jack. "and--and i don't want to be taken about, uncle, thank you. can't i just keep quiet while i am here, and not see people? i don't know how to talk, really i don't." "pooh! pooh! sir," roared the colonel, smiting the earth with his stick. "have the goodness to hold your tongue! you know how to talk nonsense, and i request you'll not do it to me. you are my brother's son, sir, and i shall make it my business to teach you to walk, and to talk, and to behave like a rational christian, while you are under my roof. if your father had the smallest atom of common sense in his composition--" "please don't say anything against father, uncle tom," cried the lad. "i can't stand that!" and one felt in the dark the fiery flush that made his cheeks tingle. "upon my soul!" cried colonel ferrers (who did not seem in the least angry), "you are the most astounding young rascal it has ever been my good fortune to meet. are you aware, sir, that your father is my brother? that i first made the acquaintance of raymond ferrers when he was one hour old, a squeaking little scarlet wretch in a flannel blanket? are you aware of this, pray?" "i suppose i am," answered the lad. "but that doesn't make any difference. nobody body must say anything against him, even if it is his own brother." "who is saying anything against him?" demanded colonel ferrers, fiercely. "he is an angel, sir; every idiot knows that. a combination of angel and infant, raymond ferrers is, and always has been. but the combination does not qualify him for bringing up children. probatum est! here we are! now let me see if you can open the gate without fumbling, sir. if there is one thing i can_not_ endure, it is fumbling." thus adjured, jack ferrers opened the heavy wooden gate, and the two passed through a garden which seemed, from the fragrance, to be full of roses. the old house frowned dark and gloomy, with only one light twinkling feebly in a lower window. when they had entered, and were standing in the pleasant library, book-lined from floor to ceiling, colonel ferrers turned suddenly to his nephew, who was in a brown study, and dealt him a blow on the shoulder which sent him staggering half-way across the room, unexpected as it was. "you're right to stand up for your father, my lad," he said, with gruff heartiness. "it was unnecessary in this case, for i would be cut into inch pieces and served up on toast if it would do my brother raymond any good; but you are right all the same. if anybody else ever says he hasn't common sense, knock him down, do you hear? a blow from the shoulder, sir! that's the proper answer." "yes, uncle," said the boy demurely; but he looked up with a twinkle in his eye. "it's lucky for me that i _don't_ have to knock you down, sir," he added. "you're awfully strong, aren't you? i wish i were!" "you, sir!" rejoined the colonel. "you have the frame of an ox, if you had any flesh to cover it. exercise is what you need, nephew jack! fencing is what you want, sir! take that walking-stick! harry monmouth! i'll give you a lesson, now. on guard! so! defend yourself! ha! humph!" the last exclamation was one of disgust, for at the colonel's first thrust, jack's stick flew out of his hand, and knocked over a porcelain vase, shattering it in pieces, jack, meanwhile, standing rubbing his arm and looking very foolish. "humph!" repeated colonel ferrers, looking rather disconcerted himself, and all the more fierce therefore. "that comes of trying to instruct a person who has not been taught to hold himself together. you are a milksop, my poor fellow! a sad milksop! but we are going to change all that. there! never mind about the pieces. giuseppe will pick up the pieces. get your supper, and then go to bed." "i don't care about supper, thank you, uncle," said the lad. "pooh! pooh! don't talk nonsense!" cried the colonel. "you don't go to bed without supper." he led the way into the dining-room, a long, low room, panelled with dark oak. walls, table, sideboard, shone like mirrors, with the polish of many years. over the sideboard was the head of a gigantic moose, with huge, spreading antlers. on the sideboard itself were some beautiful pieces of old silver, shining with the peculiar blue lustre that comes from long rubbing, and from that alone. a tray stood on the table, and on it was a pitcher of milk, two glasses, and a plate of very attractive-looking little cakes. the colonel filled jack's glass, and stood by with grim determination till he had drunk every drop. "now, a cake, sir," he added, sipping his own glass leisurely. "a plummy cake, of mrs. beadle's best make. down with it, i insist!" in the matter of the plum cake, little insistence was necessary, and between uncle and nephew both plate and pitcher were soon empty. "there," said the good colonel, as they returned to the library, "now you have something to sleep on, my friend. no empty stomachs in this house, to distract people's brains and make mooncalves of them. ten minutes' exercise with the indian clubs--you have them in your room?--and then to bed. hand me the 'worthies of england,' will you? bookcase on the right of the door, third shelf from the bottom, fifth book from the left. thomas fuller. yes, thank you. good-night, my boy! don't forget the clubs, and _don't_ poke your head forward like a ritualist parson, because you are not otherwise cut out for one." leaving his uncle comfortably established with his book and reading-lamp, jack ferrers took his way upstairs. it was not late, but he had already found out that his uncle had nothing to say to him or any one else after the frugal nine o'clock supper, and his own taste for solitude prompted him to seek his room. as he passed along a dark corridor, a gleam of light shot out from a half-open door. "are you awake, biddy?" he asked. "yes, dear!" answered a kind, hearty voice. "come in, master jack, if you've a mind." the room was so bright that jack screwed up his eyes for a moment. the lamp was bright, the carpet was bright, the curtains almost danced on the wall from their own gayety, while the coloured prints, in shining gilt frames, sang the whole gamut of colour up and down and round and round. but brighter than all else in the gay little room was the gay little woman who sat by the round table (which answered every purpose of a mirror), piecing a rainbow-coloured quilt. her face was as round and rosy as a gravenstein apple. she had bright yellow ribbons in her lace cap, and her gown was of the most wonderful merino that ever was seen, with palm-leaves three inches long curling on a crimson ground. "how very bright you are in here, biddy!" said jack, sitting down on the floor, with his long legs curled under him. "you positively make my eyes ache." "it's cheerful, dear," replied the good housekeeper. "i like to see things cheerful, that i do. will you have a drop of shrub, master jack? there's some in the cupboard there, and 'twill warm you up, like, before going to bed." then, as jack declined the shrub with thanks, she continued, "and so you have been to call on the ladies at braeside, you and the colonel. ah! and very sweet ladies, i'm told." "very likely!" said jack absently. "do you mind if i pull the cat's tail, biddy?" he stretched out his hand toward a superb yellow angora cat which lay curled up on a scarlet cushion, fast asleep. "oh! my dear!" cried mrs. beadle. "don't you do it! he's old, and his temper not what it was. poor old sunshine! and why would you pull his tail, you naughty boy?" "oh! well--no matter!" said jack. "there's a fugue--that's a piece of music, biddy--that i am practising, called the 'cat's fugue,' and i thought i would see if it really sounded like a cat, that's all." "indeed, that's not such music as i should like your uncle to hear!" exclaimed mrs. beadle. "and what did you say to the young lady, master jack?" she added, as she placed a scarlet block against a purple one. "i'm glad enough you've found some young company, to make you gay, like. you're too quiet for a young lad, that you are." "oh, bother!" responded jack, shaking his shoulders. "tell me about my father, biddy. i don't believe he liked g--company, any better than i do. what was he like when he was a boy?" "an angel!" said mrs. beadle fervently. "an angel with his head in his pocket; that is what mr. raymond was like." "uncle tom called him an angel, too!" said the lad. "of course he is; a combination of angel and--why did you say 'with his head in his pocket,' biddy?" "well, dear, it wasn't on his shoulders," replied the housekeeper. "he was in a dream, like, all the time; oh, much worse than you are yourself, master jack." "thank you!" muttered jack. "and forgetful! well! well! he needed to be tied to some one, mr. raymond did. to see him come in for his luncheon, and then forget all about it, and stand with a book in his hand, reading as if there was nothing else in the world. and then mr. tom--dear! dear! would put his head down and run and butt him right in the stomach, and down they would go together and roll over and over; great big lads, like you, sir, and their father would take the dog-whip and thrash 'em till they got up. 'twas all in sport like, d'ye see; but mr. raymond never let go his book, only beat mr. tom with it. dear! dear! such lads!" "tell me about his running away," said jack. "after the fiddler, do you mean, dear? that was when he was a little lad. always mad after music he was, and playing on anything he could get hold of, and singing like a serup, that boy. so one day there came along an italian, with a fiddle that he played on, and a little boy along with him, that had a fiddle, too. well, and if mr. raymond didn't persuade that boy to change clothes with him, and he to stay here and mr. raymond to go with the fiddler and learn to play. of course the man was a scamp, and had no business; and mr. raymond gave him his gold piece to take him, and all! but when the old squire--that's your grandfather, dear!--when he came in and found that little black-eyed fellow dressed in his son's clothes, and crying with fright, and not a word of english--well, he was neither to hold nor to bind, as the saying is. luckily mrs. ferrers--that's your grandmother, dear! she came in before the child was frightened into a fit, though very near it; and she spoke the language, and with her quiet ways she got the child quiet, and he told her all about it, and how the fiddler beat him, and showed the great bruises. and when she told the squire, he got black in the face, like he used, and took his dog-whip and rode off on his big grey horse like mad; and when he came back with mr. raymond in front of him, the whip was all in pieces, and mr. raymond crying and holding the little fiddle tight. and the italian boy stayed, and the squire made a man of him, from being a papist outlandish-man. and that's all the story, master jack." "and he is giuseppe?" asked jack. "and he is jew seppy," mrs. beadle assented. "though it seems a hard name to give him, and no jew blood in him that any one can prove, only his eyes being black. but he won't hear to its being shortened. and now it is getting to be night-cap time, master jack," said the good woman, beginning to fold up her work, "and i hope you are going to bed, too, like a good young gentleman. but if you don't, you'll shut the door careful, won't you dear?" "never fear," said the boy, gathering himself up from the floor. "i'm sleepy to-night, anyhow; i may go straight to bed. good-night, biddy. you're quite sure you like me to call you 'biddy'?" "my dear, it makes me feel five-and-twenty years younger!" said the good woman; "and i seem to see your dear father, coming in with his curls a-shaking, calling his biddy. ah, well! good-night, master jack, dear! don't forget to look in when you go by." "good-night, biddy!" the lad went off with his candle, fairly stumbling along the corridor from sheer sleepiness; but when he reached his own room, which was flooded with moonlight, the drowsiness seemed to take wings and disappear. he sat down by the open window and looked out. below lay the garden, all black and silver in the intense white light. the smell of the roses came up to him, exquisitely sweet. he leaned his head against the window-frame, and felt as if he were floating away on the buoyant fragrance--far, far away, to the south, where his home was, and where the roses were in bloom so long that it seemed as if there were always roses. the silver-lit garden vanished from his sight, and he saw instead a long, low room, half garret, half workshop, where a man stood beside a long table, busily at work with some fine tools. the spare, stooping figure, the long, delicate hands, the features carved as if in ivory, the blue, near-sighted eyes peering anxiously at the work in his hands,--all these were as actually present to the boy as if he could put out his own hand and touch them. it was with a start that he came back to the world of tangible surroundings, as a sudden breath of wind waved the trees below him, and sent whisperings of leaf and blossom through his room. "daddy!" he said half to himself; and he brushed away something which had no possible place in the eyes of a youth who was to go to college next year. giving himself a violent shake, jack ferrers rose, and, going to a cupboard, took out with great care a long, black, oblong box. this he deposited on the bed; then took off his boots and put on a pair of soft felt slippers. his coat, too, was taken off; and then, holding the black box in his arms, as if it were a particularly delicate baby, he left the room, and softly made his way to the stairs which led to the attic. there was a door at the foot of the stairs, which he opened noiselessly, and then he stopped to listen. all was still. he must have been sitting for some time at the window, for the light in the hall was extinguished, which was a sign that his uncle had gone to bed. in fact, as he listened intently, his ear caught a faint, rhythmic sound, rising and falling at regular intervals, like the distant murmur of surf on the sea-shore; his uncle was asleep. closing the door softly after him, and clasping the black box firmly, jack climbed the attic stairs and disappeared in the darkness. chapter vi. cousin jack. the next day, as hildegarde was arranging flowers on the piazza, with a table before her covered with bowls and vases, and a great basket of many-coloured blossoms beside her, jack ferrers appeared, evidently in the depths of misery, carrying a huge bunch of roses. he stumbled while coming up the steps, and dropped half the roses, which increased his discomfort so much that hildegarde was really sorry for him. moreover, when seen by daylight, he was a very pleasant-looking fellow, with curly brown hair and great honest blue eyes very wide open. he was over six feet tall, and as awkward as a human being could be, but of course he could not help that. [illustration: "jack ferrers appeared carrying a huge bunch of roses."] "good-morning, cousin jack!" said hildegarde pleasantly. "what lovely roses! are they from colonel ferrers's garden?" "yes," replied jack ferrers. "uncle sends them with his compliments. i'm sorry i knocked over the basket last night. good-by." he was about to fling himself down the steps again, but hildegarde, controlling her desire to laugh, said cordially: "oh, don't go! sit down a moment, and tell me the names of some of these beauties." "thank you!" muttered the youth, blushing redder than the roses. "i--i think i must go back." "are you so very busy?" asked hildegarde innocently. "i thought this was your vacation. what have you to do?" "oh--nothing!" said the lad awkwardly. "nothing in particular." "then sit down," said hildegarde decidedly. and jack ferrers sat down. a pause followed. then hildegarde said in a matter-of-fact tone, "you have no sisters, have you, cousin jack?" "no," was the reply. "how did you know?" "because you are so shy," said hildegarde, smiling. "boys who have no sisters are apt to regard girls as a kind of griffin. there used to be a boy at dancing-school, two or three years ago, who was so shy it was really painful to dance with him at first, but he got over it after a while. and it was all because he had no sisters." "did you like dancing-school?" jack inquired, venturing to look up at her shyly. "yes, very much indeed!" replied hildegarde. "didn't you?" "no; hated it." then they both laughed a little, and after that things went a good deal better. jack came up on the piazza (he had been sitting on the steps, shuffling his feet in a most distressing manner), and helped to clip the long stems of the roses, and pulled off superfluous leaves. it appeared that he did not care much for flowers, though he admitted that roses were "pretty." he did not care for fishing or shooting; tennis had made his head ache ever since he began to grow so fast. did he like walking? pretty well, when it wasn't too hot. reading? well enough, when the book wasn't stupid. "wot are we to do with this 'ere 'opeless chap?" said hildegarde to herself, quoting from "pinafore." as a last resort she asked if he were fond of music. instantly his face lighted up. "awfully fond of it," he said with animation, and the embarrassed wrinkle disappeared as if by magic from between his eyebrows. "oh, i am so glad!" cried hildegarde. "i haven't had any music the last two summers. i had everything else that was nice, but still i missed it, of course. do you play, or sing?" "a little of both," said jack modestly. "oh, how delightful! we must make music together for mamma sometimes. my own piano has not come yet, but there is the dearest old funny thing here which belonged to the misses aytoun." "uncle tom has no piano," said jack, "but i have my violin, so i don't mind." "oh, a violin!" said hildegarde, opening her eyes wide. "have you been studying it long?" "ever since i was six years old," was the reply. "my mother would not let me begin earlier, though my father said that as soon as i could hold a knife and fork i could hold a bow. he's a little cracked about violins, my father. he makes them, you know." "i _don't_ know," cried hildegarde. "tell me about it; how very interesting!" "well--i don't mean that it's his business," said jack, who seemed to have forgotten his shyness entirely; "he's a lawyer, you know. but it's the only thing he really cares about. he has a workshop, and he has made--oh, ever so many violins! he went to cremona once, and spent a year there, poking about, and he found an old church that was going to be repaired, and bought the sounding-board. oh, it must have been a couple of hundred years old. then he moused about more and found an old fellow, a descendant of one of amati's workmen, and i believe he would have bought him, too, if he could; but, anyhow, they were great chums, and he taught my father all kinds of tricks. when he came home he made this violin out of a piece of the old sounding-board, and gave it to me on my birthday. it's--oh, it's no end, you know! and he made another for himself, and we play together. do you know the mozart concerto in f, for two violins? it begins with an allegro." and being fairly mounted on his hobby, jack ferrers pranced about on it as if he had done nothing but talk to hildegarde all his life. hildegarde, meanwhile, listened with a mixture of surprise, amusement, and respect. he did not look in the least like a musical genius, this long-legged, curly-haired lad, with his blue eyes and his simple, honest face. she thought of the lion front of beethoven, and the brilliant, exquisite beauty of mozart, and tried to imagine honest jack standing between them, and almost laughed in the midst of an animated description of the andante movement. then she realised that he was talking extremely well, and talking a great deal over her head. "i am afraid you will find me very ignorant," she said meekly, when her cousin paused, a little out of breath, but with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes. "i have heard a great deal of music, of course, and i love it dearly; but i don't know about it as you do, not a bit. i play the piano a little, and i sing, just simple old songs, you know, and that is all." hildegarde might have added that she had a remarkably sweet voice, and sang with taste and feeling, but that her cousin must find out for himself; besides, she was really over-awed by this superior knowledge in one whom the night before she had been inclined to set down as a booby. "shall i ever learn," she thought remorsefully, "not to make these ridiculous judgments of people, before i know anything about them?" just then mrs. grahame came out and asked her new-found nephew, as she called him, to stay to dinner; but at sight of her the lad's shyness returned in full force. his animation died away; he hung his head, and muttered that he "couldn't possibly, thank you! uncle tom--stayed too long already. good-by!" and, without even a farewell glance at hildegarde, went down all the steps at once with a breakneck plunge, and disappeared. "tragedy of the gorgon's head! medusa, mrs. grahame," said that lady, laughing softly. "has my hair turned to snakes, hilda, or what is there so frightful in my appearance? i heard your voices sounding so merrily i thought the ice was completely broken." "oh, i think it is," said hildegarde. "you came upon him suddenly, that was all." "next time," said her mother, "i will appear gradually, like the cheshire cat, beginning with the grin." hildegarde laughed, and went to pin a red rose on her mother's dress. then she said: "i was wrong, mammina, and you were right, as usual. it is a tiresome way you have, so monotonous! but really he is a very nice boy, and he knows, oh! ever so much about music. he must be quite a wonder." and she told her mother about the violin, and all the rest of it. mrs. grahame agreed with her that it would be delightful to have some musical evenings, and hildegarde resolved to practise two hours a day regularly. "but there are so few hours in the day!" she complained. "i thought getting up at seven would give me--oh! ever so much time, and i have none at all. here is the morning nearly gone, and we have had no reading, not a word." and she looked injured. "there is an hour before dinner," said mrs. grahame, "and the 'makers of florence' is lying on my table at this minute. come up, and i will read while you--need i specify the occupation?" "you need not," said hildegarde. "i really did mean to mend it this morning, love, but things happened. i had to sew on boot-buttons before breakfast, three of them, and then janet wanted me to show her about something. but now i will really be industrious." this was destined to be a day of visits. in the afternoon mrs. loftus and her daughter called, driving up in great state, with prancing horses and clinking harness. hildegarde, who was in her own room, meditated a plunge down her private staircase and an escape by way of the back door, but decided that it would be base to desert her mother; so she smoothed her waving hair, inspected her gown to make sure that it was spotless, and came down into the parlour. mrs. loftus was a very large lady, with a very red face, who talked volubly about "our place," "our horses," "our hot-houses," etc., etc. miss loftus, whose name was leonie, was small and rather pretty, though she did not look altogether amiable. she was inclined to patronise hildegarde, but that young person did not take kindly to patronage, and was a little stately, though very polite, in her manner. "yes, it is pretty about here," said miss loftus, "though one tires of it very quickly. we vegetate here for three months every summer; it's papa's" (she pronounced it "puppa") "whim, you see. how long a season do you make?" "none at all," said hildegarde quietly. "we are going to live here." miss loftus raised her eyebrows. "oh! you can hardly do that, i should think!" she said with a superior smile. "a few months will probably change your views entirely. there is no life here, absolutely none." "indeed!" said hildegarde. "i thought it was a very prosperous neighbourhood. all the farms look thrifty and well cared for; the crops are alive, at least." "oh, farmers and crops!" said miss loftus. "very likely. i meant social life." "i don't like social life," said hildegarde. this was not strictly true, but she could not help saying it, as she told her mother afterward. miss loftus passed over the remark with another smile, which made our heroine want to pinch her, and added, "you must consider us your only neighbours, as indeed we really are." "yes, indeed!" said mrs. loftus, who was now rising ponderously to depart. "we shall hope to see you often at the poplars, mrs. grahame. there is not another house within five miles where one can visit. of course i don't include that old bear, colonel ferrers, who never speaks a civil word to any one." hildegarde flushed and looked at her mother, but mrs. grahame said very quietly, "i have known colonel ferrers for many years. he was a friend of my husband's." "oh, i beg your pardon!" said mrs. loftus, looking scared. "i had no idea--i never heard of _any one_ knowing colonel ferrers. come, leonie, we must be going." they departed, first engaging hildegarde, rather against her will, to lunch with them the following friday; and the grand equipage rolled clinking and jingling away. "we seem to have fallen upon a montague and capulet neighbourhood," said mrs. grahame, smiling, as she turned to go upstairs. "yes, indeed!" said hildegarde. "shall we be tybalts or mercutios?" "neither, i hope," said her mother, "as both were run through the body. of course, however, there is no question as to which neighbour we shall find most congenial. and now, child, get your hat, and let us take a good walk, to drive the cobwebs out of our brains." "have with you!" said hildegarde, running lightly up the stairs; "only, darling, _don't_ be so--so--incongruous as to call mrs. loftus a cobweb!" chapter vii. miss agatha's cabinet. "mammina! i have found them! i have found them!" cried hildegarde, rushing like a whirlwind into her mother's room, and waving something over her head. "what have you found, darling?" asked mrs. grahame, looking up from her writing. "not your wits, for example? i should be so glad!" "one may not shake one's mother," said hildegarde, "but beware, lest you 'rouse an indian's indomitable nature.' i have found the keys of miss agatha's cabinet." "really!" cried mrs. grahame, laying down her pen. "are you sure? where were they?" "in that old secretary in uncle aytoun's room," said hildegarde. "you know you said i might rummage in it some day, and this rainy afternoon seemed to be the very time. they were in a little drawer, all by themselves; and see, they are marked, 'keys of the cabinet in my sister agatha's room, containing miniatures, etc.'" "this is indeed a discovery!" said mrs. grahame, rising. "we will examine the cabinet together, dear; as you say, it is just the day for it." hildegarde led the way, dancing with excitement and pleasure; her mother followed more slowly. there might be sadness, she thought, as well as pleasure, in looking over the relics of a family which had died out, leaving none of the name, so far as she knew, in this country at least. miss agatha's room did not look very cheerful in the grey light of a wet day. the prevailing tint of walls and ceiling was a greyish yellow; the faded curtains were held back by faded ribbons; the furniture was angular and high-shouldered. on the wall was a coloured print of "london in ," from which the metropolis would seem to have been a singular place. the only interesting feature in the room was the cabinet which they had come to explore, and this was really a beautiful piece of furniture. it stood seven feet high at least, and was apparently of solid ebony, inlaid with yellow ivory in curious spiral patterns. in the centre was a small door, almost entirely covered with the ivory tracery; above, below, and around were drawers, large and small, deep and shallow, a very wilderness of drawers. all had silver keyholes of curious pattern, and all were fast locked, a fact which had seriously interfered with hildegarde's peace of mind ever since they came to the house. now, however, that she actually stood before it with the "open sesame," this bunch of quaint silver keys in her hand, she shrank back, and felt shy and afraid. "you must open it, mamma," she said. "i dare not." mrs. grahame fitted a key to one of the larger drawers, and opened it. a faint perfume floated out, old roses and lavender, laid away one knows not how many years. under folds of silver paper lay some damask towels, fine and thick and smooth, but yellow with age. they were tied with a lilac ribbon, and on the ribbon was pinned a piece of paper, covered with writing in a fine, cramped hand. "lift them out carefully, dear," said mrs. grahame, "and read the label." hildegarde complied, and read aloud: "these towels were spun and woven by my grandmother grahame in scotland, before she came to this country. her maiden name was annot mcintosh." "what beautiful linen!" said mrs. grahame, smoothing the glossy folds with the hand of a housewife. "i always wished i had learned to spin and weave. linen that one buys has no feeling in it. lay it back reverently, degenerate daughter of the nineteenth century, and your degenerate mother will open another drawer." the next drawer contained several sets of baby-clothes, at sight of which hildegarde opened her eyes very wide indeed. her mother was an exquisite needle-woman, so was her cousin wealthy bond, and she herself had no need to be ashamed of the "fine seam" she could sew; but never had she seen such needlework as this: tiny caps, wrought so thick with flower and leaf that no spot of the plain linen could be seen; robes of finest lawn, with wonderful embroidered fronts; shawls of silk flannel, with deep borders of heavy "laid work." one robe was so beautiful that both hildegarde and her mother cried over it, and took it up to examine it more carefully. on the breast was pinned a piece of paper, with an inscription in the same delicate hand: "hester's christening-robe. we think it was in consequence of this fine work that our dear mother lost her eyesight." "i should think it highly probable," said mrs. grahame, laying the exquisite monument of folly back in the drawer. "i did not know that old madam aytoun was blind. what is written on that tiny cap, in the corner there? it must be a doll's cap; no baby could be so small." hildegarde read the inscription: "worn by our uncle hesketh, who weighed two pounds at birth. he grew to be six feet and six inches in height, and weighed three hundred pounds." "what a wonderful person miss agatha must have been!" said hildegarde. "who else would think of all these pleasant bits of information? and now for the next drawer!" she opened it, and gave a little shriek of delight. here truly were beautiful things, such as neither she nor her mother had ever seen before: three short aprons of white silk, trimmed with deep gold lace, and covered with silk-embroidered flowers of richest hues, one with tulips, another with roses, a third with carnations. folds of tissue paper separated them from each other, and the legend told that they had been worn by "our great-grandmother ponsonby, when she was maid of honour to queen caroline. she was an englishwoman." then came a tippet of white marabou feathers, buttoned into a silk case, and smelling faintly of camphor; a gown of rose-coloured satin, brocaded with green, and one of ruby-coloured velvet, which bore the inscription: "this was the gown on which our great-grandmother ponsonby wore the diamond buttons which have since been divided among her descendants. a sinful waste of money which might have been put to good purpose." "how _very_ frivolous great-grandmother ponsonby must have been!" said hildegarde. "i think miss agatha is rather hard on her, though. perhaps the buttons were wedding presents. i wonder what has become of them all! see, mammina, here are her red shoes--just like beatrix esmond's, aren't they? my foot would not begin to go into them. and here--oh! the lace! the lace!" for there was a whole drawer full of lace, all in little bundles neatly tied up and marked. here was madam aytoun's wedding veil, grandmother this one's mechlin tabs, aunt that one's venetian flounces. it would take pages to describe all the laces, and the pleasure that mother and daughter had in examining them. what woman or girl does not love lace? finally, in a corner of the drawer, was a morocco box containing a key, whose ivory label said: "central compartment. miniatures." "this will be the best of all!" cried hildegarde, eagerly. "perhaps we shall find great-grandmother ponsonby herself. who knows?" the ivory door flew open as the key turned, and revealed a space set round with tiny drawers. each drawer contained one or more miniatures, in cases of red or green morocco, and hildegarde and her mother examined them with delight. here, to be sure, was great-grandmother ponsonby; in fact, she appeared twice: first, as a splendid young matron, clad in the identical ruby velvet with the diamond buttons, her hair powdered high and adorned with feathers; and, again, as a not less superb old lady, with folds of snowy muslin under her chin, and keen dark eyes flashing from under her white curls, and a wonderful cap. here was grandfather aytoun, first as a handsome boy, with great dark eyes, and a parrot on his hand, then as a somewhat choleric-looking gentleman with a great fur collar. "how they do change!" said hildegarde. "i am not sure that i like to see two of the same person. let me see, now! he married--" "the daughter of great-grandmother ponsonby," replied mrs. grahame. "here she is! caroline regina ponsonby, _æt._ . named after the royal patroness, you see. what a sweet, gentle-looking girl! i fear her magnificent mother and her decided-looking husband may have been too much for her, for i see she died at twenty-three." "oh! and he married again!" cried hildegarde, opening another case. "see here! selina euphemia mckenzie, second wife of john aytoun. oh! and here is a slip of paper inside the frame. "'sweet flower, that faded soon in rapture's fervid noon. 'j. a.' "dear me! he must have written it himself!" she added. "it is not like miss agatha's handwriting. why, she only lived three months, poor dear! he makes very sure about the rapture, doesn't he?" "i think he does," said her mother, smiling, "considering that he married a third time, inside a year from the fading of the sweet flower. look at this aquiline dame, with the remarkably firm mouth, and the bird of paradise in her turban. 'adelaide mcleod, third wife of john aytoun. she survived him.' i'll warrant she did!" said mrs. grahame. "she carries conquest in her face. all the children were of the first marriage, and i fear she was not a gentle stepmother. i wonder who this may be!" she took up a heavy bracelet of dark hair, with a small miniature set in the clasp. "what a pretty, pretty child! good miss agatha has surely not left us in the dark concerning him. 'little john hesketh, .' that is all." "why hesketh?" asked hildegarde. "i have never heard of any heskeths." mrs. grahame was about to plunge into genealogical depths, when hildegarde, who had been opening a case of purple morocco, carefully secured with silver clasps, gave an exclamation of pleasure. "hester!" she cried. "this is hester, i know." her mother looked, and nodded; and they both gazed in silence at the lovely face, with its earnest grey eyes. "the dear!" murmured hildegarde. "how i should have loved her! i am sure we should have liked the same things. i wish she had not died." "you must remember that she would be a dear old lady now, were she alive, and not a young lassie. what does the slip say, darling? miss agatha's hand is rather trying for my eyes." "'our dearest hester,'" hildegarde read. "'a duplicate of the one painted for robert ferrers.' robert ferrers!" she repeated thoughtfully. "is that colonel ferrers? and do you suppose--" at this moment came a knock at the door, and janet informed them that mrs. lankton was in the hall, and would like to speak to one of the ladies. "i will go," said hildegarde, laying down the miniature reluctantly. "we will both go," said her mother. "the poor old dame! we have neglected her all these days." they locked the drawer of the treasure-cabinet, and hildegarde ran to put the precious keys in a safe place, while her mother went directly downstairs. by the time hildegarde appeared, mrs. lankton was launched on the full tide of her woes, and was sailing along with a good breeze. "and it's comin' in, mis' grahame--i'd say like a house afire, if 'twa'n't that 'twas wet. dreepin' all down the chimbley, and runnin' over the floor in streams. i stepped into a pool o' water with my bar' feet, gittin' out o' bed; likely i caught my death, but it's no great matter. ah! mis' grahame, i've seen trouble all my life. mr. aytoun, he was like a father to me. he wouldn't never ha' let me go bar'foot in water if he'd ben alive. i've ben a hard-workin' woman all my life, and he knowed it. i hope your own health is good, dear?" "what can i do for you, mrs. lankton?" asked mrs. grahame, kindly, as a moment's pause gave her a chance to get in a word. "does the roof need shingling?" "mr. aytoun was goin' to have it shingled for me last janooary," said mrs. lankton, with a sigh that was almost a groan; "and he was called on to die in febooary. jest afore he passed away, he was tryin' dretful hard to say somethin', and i ain't no manner o' doubt myself but what 'twas 'shingle!' he had it on his mind; they needn't tell me. but nobody seemed to feel a call after he was gone. ah, dear me! you don't know nothin' about it, mis' grahame. you ain't never stepped bar'foot out o' your bed into a pool o' water, and you all doubled up with neurology in your j'ints. ah, well, 'twon't be long now that i shall trouble anybody." "which is your house, mrs. lankton?" asked mrs. grahame. "i will try to have something done about the roof at once." "i know!" said hildegarde, quickly. "it is a brown cottage with a green door." "see how she knows!" exclaimed mrs. lankton, with a sad smile. "ain't that thoughtful? ah! she'll be a comfit to you, mis' grahame, if you've luck to raise her, but there's no knowin'. don't you set your heart on it, that's all. ah! i know what trouble is." "don't you think i am 'raised' already, mrs. lankton?" hilda asked, smiling down on the weazened face that did not reach to her shoulder. "so fur ye be, dear!" replied the widow, with a doleful shake of the head. "so fur ye be, but there's no knowin'. my phrony was jest like you, hearty and stout, and she's gone. ah! dear me! she had a store tooth, where she knocked out one of hers, slidin', and she swallered it one night, and she never got over it. lodged on her liver, the doctor said. he went down and tried to fetch it up, but 'twa'n't no use. she was fleshy, same as you be. yes, gals is hard to raise." at this, hildegarde retreated suddenly into the parlour, and mrs. grahame, in a voice which shook a little, expressed proper regret and sympathy, and repeated that she would have the roof attended to. "and now," she added, "go into the kitchen, and auntie shall give you a cup of hot tea. you must dry your feet, too, before you go out again." "the lord'll reward you, dear!" said mrs. lankton, turning with a faint gleam of cheerfulness toward the kitchen door. "it ain't long before i shall go the way of all, but it doos seem as if i mought go dry, 'stead o' dreepin'. but _you_'ll be rewarded, mis' grahame. i felt as if you'd be a mother to me, soon as i sot eyes on ye. _good_-mornin', dear!" and with a groan that ended in a half-chuckle, she disappeared. chapter viii. the poplars. punctually at half-past one on friday, hildegarde walked up the avenue which led to "the poplars." it was a broad avenue, and the steps to which it led were broad, and the whole house had an air of being spread out. "but mrs. loftus needs a good deal of room!" said hildegarde to herself, and then cuffed herself mentally for wickedness. very fair and sweet she looked, our hildegarde, in her white serge gown, with the pretty hat of white "chiffon" which "mammina" had made only the evening before. standing on the verandah, with eyes and cheeks brilliant from walking, she met the entire approval of a young gentleman who was reclining behind the hedge. he was a _very_ young gentleman. he wore corduroy knickerbockers, and he was lying flat on his stomach, with his heels in the air, sucking a large bull's-eye. the sudden apparition of a tall maiden in white, with shining eyes, nearly caused him to swallow the bull's-eye, but he recovered himself, and gazed steadfastly at her. when the door opened to admit her, the young gentleman sighed, and considered that it was not so fine a day as he had thought it. "she is a beautiful girl!" he said to himself with fervour; "she is a purple maid!" and then he rolled over on his back, to see if the bull's-eye would taste as good in that position. hildegarde, meanwhile, unconscious of the approving scrutiny of the infant connoisseur, was ushered by a stately butler through room after room, until she came to one where mrs. and miss loftus were waiting to receive her. they were both very cordial, one in a ponderous, the other in an airily patronising way. "but i did not hear you drive up," said mrs. loftus, "and we have been listening every moment; for i said to leonie, 'suppose she should not come, after all!' and so you must have driven up very quietly, you see." "i walked," said hildegarde, smiling; "so there were no wheels to hear, mrs. loftus." "walked! is it possible?" cried mrs. loftus, while her daughter raised her eyebrows and regarded hildegarde with languid curiosity. "my dear, you must be terribly heated. let me ring for some florida water. no, i insist!" as hildegarde made a gesture of protest. "it is _so_ dangerous to walk in the heat of the day. the brain, you know, becomes heated, and it does something to the spinal marrow. do you feel any dizziness? really, the best thing would be for you to lie down at once for half an hour. i will darken the room, and--" "nonsense, mamma!" said miss loftus, "i don't believe miss grahame wants to lie down." "oh, no, indeed!" cried hildegarde, thankful for the interruption. "i am used to walking, you know, mrs. loftus. i always walk, everywhere. i like it very much better than driving; besides," she added, "we have no horses, so i should have to walk in any case." "i think it so dangerous!" said mrs. loftus, with a compassionate shake of the head. "in the heat of the day, as i said, the spinal marrow; so important, my dear! and towards evening there is a chill in the air, malaria, all kinds of dreadful things. i shall make a point of picking you up whenever i am driving by--i drive by nearly every day--and taking you out." "oh--thank you!" cried poor hildegarde, an abyss opening at her feet. "you are very kind, but i could not! i am so busy--and walking is my delight." the announcement of lunch created a diversion, to the great relief of our heroine. mr. loftus appeared, a small, shrivelled man, with sharp eyes, whose idea of making himself agreeable was to criticise each article of food as it came on the table. "very weak bouillon, mrs. loftus" (he called it "bullion"). "very weak! greasy, too! not fit to put on the table. what's this? chicken? fowl, i should say! rooster, mrs. l.! is this your twelve-dollar cook? not a thing miss grahame can eat! she'll go and tell old ferrers how we gave her roast rooster, see if she don't! i hear you're very thick with old ferrers, miss grahame. old grizzly bruin, _i_ call him. good name, too! he! he!" hildegarde blushed scarlet, and wondered what her mother would say in her place. all she could do was to murmur that the chicken was very nice indeed, and to hope that she did not show more of her disgust than was proper. the luncheon was very fine, in spite of mr. loftus's depreciation; and when it came to the dessert, he changed his tune, and descanted on the qualities of "my peaches," "my nectarines," and "my gardener." "you don't eat enough, miss grahame!" was his comment. "no need to stint yourself here; plenty for all, and more where that came from." but here miss loftus came to the rescue, and with a "don't be tiresome, puppa!" changed the conversation, and began to talk of the worth gowns she had seen in new york, on her last visit. "which do you admire most, worth or felix?" she asked, after a graphic description of some marvellous gown which fitted the fortunate owner "as if she had been poured into it. absolutely _poured_, miss grahame!" "i--i really don't know," hildegarde confessed meekly. "i never can tell one dressmaker's style from another. if a gown is pretty, that is all i think about it." "oh! if you have never studied these things, of course!" said the fair leonie indulgently. "i went to madame vivien's school, you see, and we had a regular hour for studying fashions. i can tell a worth or a felix or a donovan gown as far as i can see it." "did you like madame vivien's school?" asked hildegarde. "she ought to!" exclaimed mr. loftus. "it cost enough, i can tell you." "oh, it is the best school in the city, of course," said leonie complacently. "we had a very good time, a set of us that were there. they called us the highflyers, and i suppose we had rather top-lofty notions. anyway, we were madame's favourites, because we had _the air_, she always said. she couldn't endure a dowdy girl, and she dressed beautifully herself. there were two or three girls that were regular digs, with their noses always in their books, and madame couldn't bear them. 'miss antrim,' she was always saving to one of them, 'it is true that you know your lesson, but your gown is buttoned awry, and it fits as if the miller had made it.' he! he!" "and--and did you care for study?" hildegarde asked, mentally sympathising with miss antrim, though conscious that she would never have been allowed to go to school with a gown buttoned awry. "oh! i liked french," said miss loftus, "and history pretty well, when it wasn't too poky. but you didn't have to study at madame vivien's unless you wanted to." "what leonie went most for was manners," explained mrs. loftus, taking a large mouthful of mayonnaise, and continuing her remarks while eating it. "elegant manners they teach at madame vivien's." "how to enter a room well,"--leonie enumerated the points on her taper fingers,--"how to salute and take leave of a hostess, how to order a dinner,--those were some of the most important things. we took turns in making up _menus_, and prizes were given for the best." "leonie took the prize for the best minew!" exclaimed mrs. loftus, triumphantly. "tell miss grahame your prize minew, leonie." nothing loth, leonie described the dinner at length, from little-neck clams to coffee; and a very fine dinner it was. "hm!" grunted mr. loftus, "better dinner than we ever get from your twelve-dollar cook, mrs. l. hm! fine dinners on paper, i dare say. hand me that salad! why don't you give miss grahame some more salad? she ain't eating anything at all." "then we had lectures on the art of dress," continued the fair student of madame vivien's. "those were very interesting." "well, dress does change, the most of anything!" exclaimed mrs. loftus. "to see the difference now from when i was a girl! why, when i was married i had thirty-five yards of silk in my wedding dress, and now nobody don't have more than ten or twelve. almost too scant to cover 'em, it seems sometimes." "thirty-five yards, mamma!" exclaimed her daughter. "you're joking!" "not a mite!" mrs. loftus said firmly. "thirty-five yards of white satin, and trimmed with four whole pieces of lace and three hundred and eighty-two bows." the two girls exclaimed in wonder, and mrs. loftus continued in high good-humour. "yes, a dress was a dress in those days. why, i had one walking dress, a brown silk it was, with fifty yards in it." "but how was it possible?" cried hildegarde. "did you wear crinoline?" "no," was the reply, "not a mite of hoop-skirt; but things were very full, you see, miss grahame. that brown dress, now; it had a deep side-plaiting all round, and an overskirt, very full too, and the back very deep, flounced, scalloped, and trimmed with narrow piping, looped in each corner with scallops. there was a deep fringe round the basque and overskirt, and coming up from the postilion (that was deep, too), to loop on the left shoulder." "well, it sounds _awful_!" said leonie frankly. "you must have been a perfect sight, mamma!" "she was better-looking than you are, or ever will be!" snarled mr. loftus. "are you goin' to sit here all day talkin' about women's folderols? i have to pay for 'em, and i guess that's all i want to know about 'em." glad enough was hildegarde when four o'clock came, and she could plead an appointment to meet her mother at a certain turn of the road, as they were going for a walk together. "more walking!" cried mrs. loftus. "you'll have a fever, i'm certain of it. i don't think girls ought _ever_ to walk, unless it's a little turn in the park while the horses are waiting, or something of that sort." she begged hildegarde to wait till the horses were harnessed, but our heroine was firm, and finally departed, leaving her good-natured hostess shaking her head in the doorway, like a mandarin in wine-coloured satin. as she turned the corner by the gilded iron gates, hildegarde was startled by the apparition of a small boy in brown corduroy, sitting on a post and swinging his legs. hildegarde was fond of boys. one of her two best friends was a boy, and she had a little sweetheart in maine, whose name was benny, and who loved her with all the ardour of four years old. this boy must be six or seven, she thought. he had red hair, a round, rosy, freckled face, and two eyes so blue and so bright that the very meeting them made her smile. her smile was answered by a flash, which lighted up the whole face, and subsided instantly, leaving preternatural gravity. "how do you do?" said hildegarde. "is it fun sitting there?" "no!" said the boy; and down he came. then shyness seized him; he hung his head and considered his toes attentively. "my name is hilda," continued our heroine. "do you think it is a nice name?" he nodded, still intent on the boots. "but i don't know what your name is," she went on sadly. "i should like to tell you about my puppy, if you would walk along by me, but you see i can't, because i don't know your name." "hugh allen," said the lad briefly. "hugh!" cried hildegarde, her cheek flushing and her eyes softening. "that was my dear father's name. we must be friends, hugh, for the name's sake. come along, laddie!" the boy came, and walked in silence by her side, occasionally stealing a glance at the kind, bright face so much higher up than his own. "well, my puppy," said hildegarde, as if she were continuing a conversation. "his name was patsy, and he was such a funny puppy,--all white, with a great big head, and paws almost as big, and a mouth large enough to swallow--oh! i don't know what! a watermelon, perhaps. i loved him very much. he used to gnaw my boots, and nibble the skirt of my dress; but, of course, i didn't mind, for i knew he was cutting his teeth, poor dear, and couldn't help it. but when he gnawed all the corners off the leather chairs in the dining-room, my mother dear didn't like it, and she said patsy must go. then my father said he would take him to his office every day, and keep him out of mischief, and then i could take the dear for a good walk in the afternoon, and have a comfortable time with him, and he could sleep in the shed. well, i thought this was a delightful plan, and the next day patsy went off with papa, as pleased and happy as possible. oh, dear! hugh, what do you think that puppy did?" "perhaps he bit his legs," suggested hugh, with a gleam of delight in his blue eyes. "oh, no!" said hildegarde. "he wouldn't have dared to do that, for he was a sad coward, my poor patsy. my father left him shut up in the office while he went to lunch; and as the day was mild (though it was winter), he left his new ulster on a chair, where he had laid it when he first came in. hugh, when he came back, he found the ulster--it was a stout heavy one--he found it all torn into little pieces, and the pieces piled in a heap, and patsy lying on top of them." "oh-ee!" cried the boy. "and _then_ what happened? did he smite him hip and thigh, even unto the going down of the sun?" hildegarde opened her eyes a little at this scriptural phrase, but answered: "yes, i am afraid papa gave him a pretty severe whipping. he had to, of course. and then he sent him away, and i never saw poor patsy again. don't you think that was sad, hugh?" "it was sad for you," replied the boy, "but sadder for patsy. would you like to be a dog?" he added, looking up suddenly into hildegarde's face. "i--think--not!" said that young woman meditatively. "i should have to eat scraps and cold bones, and that i could not endure. besides, you couldn't read, or play on the piano, or anything of that sort. no, i am quite sure i should not like it, hugh." "but you would have a tail!" cried the boy, with kindling eyes. "a tail to wag! and--and just think how you would _go_ with four legs!" he added, giving a jump with his two stout little limbs. "and never to have to sit up straight, except for fun sometimes; and no boots to lace, and not to have to cut up your dinner. oh! it would be such fun!" "yes, and never to be able to change your clothes when they are wet or muddy," replied the girl, "and to have to lie on the floor"--"i like to lie on the floor," put in hugh--"and to have unnatural people, who don't like dogs, say, 'there! there! get away, dog!' when you are trying to make yourself agreeable." "yes, that is bad!" hugh admitted. "aunt loftus beat merlin yesterday when he hadn't done anything, just not anything at all. just he wagged his tail to tell me something, and there was an old jug in the way, and it fell over and broke. and now he isn't to come into the house any more. i felt like 'many oxen come about me, fat bulls of basan compass me on every side,' when she glared at me and said that." hildegarde turned her face away, and was silent for a minute. "merlin is your dog?" she asked presently, with a suspicious quiver in her voice. "would you like to see him?" cried the lad joyfully. "he stayed behind with a bone, but i'll call him." he gave a long, clear whistle, and a superb collie came bounding down the avenue, and greeted his master with violent affection. "down, merlin!" said hugh allen gravely. "this is the purple maid i told you about, but her real name is hilda. a purple maid was what i called you when i saw you coming up the steps," he explained, turning to hildegarde. "i didn't know any other name, you see." "but why 'purple maid'?" asked hildegarde, feeling more and more that this was a very queer little boy. "i had been walking fast, but was i actually purple, hugh?" "oh, no!" said the boy. "it wasn't that at all. your cheeks were like the rosy eve. but 'purple' has a nice sound, don't you think so? a kind of rich sound. do you mind my calling you a purple maid?" hildegarde assured him that she did not, and then, from mere idle curiosity, as she afterwards assured herself, she added, "and what do you call your cousin leonie?" "a vinegar cruet!" replied hugh promptly. "and aunt loftus is a fat--" "oh, hush! hush! my dear little boy!" cried hildegarde hastily. "you must not say such things as that." "you asked me," replied hugh simply. "that is what i do call them when i think about them." "but it is not nice to think rude and unkind things," said the purple maid, reprovingly. "then i won't think about them at all," said the boy. "for they really are, you know. i'd rather think of you, anyhow, and mamma, and merlin." [illustration: "hildegarde had been making friends with merlin."] while this dialogue was going on, hildegarde had been making friends with merlin, who responded with cheerful cordiality to her advances. he was a beautiful creature, of true collie brown, with a black nose, and the finest white waistcoat in the world. his eyes were wonderful, clear, deep, and intelligent, in colour "like mountain water when it's flowing o'er a rock." "dear lad!" said hildegarde, taking his black paw and pressing it affectionately. "i know you are as good as you are handsome. will you be my friend, too? hugh is going to be my friend." "he will!" cried hugh eagerly. "we always like the same people, and _almost_ always the same things. he won't eat apples, and i don't chase cats; but those are nearly the only things we don't like together." at a turn in the road, hildegarde saw in the distance a black figure walking toward them. "there is my mother dear!" she exclaimed. "she said she would come and meet me. will you come and see her, hugh?--she is _very_ nice!" she added, seeing that the boy hung back. but hugh studied his boots again with rapt attention, and apparently read in them a summons back to the poplars. "i think i have to go back!" he said. "i love you, and you are my purple maid. may i come to see you once?" "you may come fifty times, dear little lad!" cried hildegarde warmly. "come as often as you like." but hugh allen shook his head sagely. "maybe once will be enough," he said. "come, merlin! good-by, purple maid!" and he and merlin disappeared in a cloud of legs and dust. chapter ix. the cousins. hildegarde and her cousin jack soon became fast friends. his fear of mrs. grahame vanished the first time he saw her smile, and he found, to his great amazement, that a girl was not necessarily either "dreadful" or stupid; moreover, that a girl's mother might be a very delightful person, instead of a mixture of harpy and gorgon. he was invited to come to tea and bring his violin. colonel ferrers was invited, too, but promptly declined. "a fiddling nephew, dear madam," he said, "is a dispensation to which i resign myself, but i do not wish to hear him fiddle." mrs. grahame suggested that the fiddle might be left at home. "no, no! let him bring it! by all means let him bring it! if you can really endure it without discomfort, that is. it will be the greatest pleasure to the lad, who is a good lad, though a deplorable milksop." so jack came with the precious black box under his arm. tea was set out on the verandah, a symphony in white and gold,--golden croquettes, butter, honey, snowy rolls, and cream cheese,--and hildegarde pouring the tea, in white with gold-coloured ribbons at waist and throat. jack ferrers had never seen anything of this sort. "daddy" and he had always been together, and neither of them had ever cared or thought how anything looked. he wondered if his cousin hildegarde was very frivolous. girls were, of course; and yet--she was certainly very pretty; and, if she really cared for music--and then, being eighteen and hungry, he gave his undivided attention to the croquettes, which truly deserved it. and after tea, when they had sat quiet in the twilight for a little, hildegarde said softly, "now, cousin jack!" and jack took his violin and began to play. at the first note mrs. grahame laid down her knitting; at the second, she and hildegarde exchanged glances; at the third, they forgot each other and everything else save the music. first came a few simple chords, melting into a soft harmony, a prelude as low and sweet as the notes of the mother-bird brooding over her nest; then, suddenly, from this soft cloud of peaceful harmony there leaped a wonderful melody, clear and keen as the same bird's song at daybreak,--a melody that mounted higher and higher, soaring as the lark breasts the blue morning, flight upon flight of golden notes pouring out as if the violin were a living thing, a breathing, singing creature, with heart and soul filled and brimming over with love and joy and beauty. on and on the boy played, while the two women listened spellbound, feeling that this was no ordinary playing; and as he played his whole aspect seemed to change. he straightened himself and stood erect, save for the loving bend of the head over the beloved instrument. his blue eyes flashed, his whole countenance grew luminous, intense. the gawky, listless, indolent lad was gone; and one saw only the musician rapt in his art. when it was over, they were all silent for a moment. then mrs. grahame held out her hand. "my dear boy!" she said. "my dear jack, you ought to be the happiest fellow in the world. to be able to give and to enjoy such pleasure as this, is indeed a great privilege." hildegarde could only look her thanks, for the music had moved her deeply; but her smile told jack all that he wanted to know, and it appeared that girls were not all frivolous; also that it must be very nice to have a mother. then he played again. indeed, they left him no choice,--the mozart concerto, of which he had spoken, and then one lovely thing after another, barcarolle and serenade and fairy dance, melting finally into the exquisite melody of an old gaelic lullaby. "oh!" said hildegarde, under her breath; and then, as her mother bade her, she sang softly the words she loved,-- "slumber sweetly, little donald." such a happy evening it was, on the wide verandah, with the moon shining down, softening everything into magical wonders of ivory and silver! it was the first of many such evenings, for soon jack came to spending half his time at braeside. at nine o'clock colonel ferrers would come striding up the gravel walk, swinging his big stick; and then the violin would be tenderly laid away, and half an hour of pleasant chat would follow, after which uncle and nephew would go off together, and the last the two ladies heard of them would be passionate adjurations from the former to "step out," and not to "poke your head forward like an army mule following a grain-cart, sir!" one day the two cousins were taking a walk together. at least they had been walking, and now had sat down to rest on the mossy trunk of a fallen tree,--in fact, of the same great sycamore which hildegarde had christened philemon, on the memorable day of the tree-climbing. they had been talking about everything and nothing, when suddenly jack shook his head and began earnestly, "did your mother mean that the other night?" hildegarde simply looked at him, and raised her eyebrows. "i mean about my being happy," the boy continued. "because i'm not happy, and i never expect to be." "what is it?" hildegarde asked, seeing that a confidence was coming. "there is only one thing in the world that i want," cried the boy, "and that is just what i cannot have. i want to go to leipsic, and uncle tom won't hear of it; calls it nonsense, and is going to send me to harvard. we are poor, you know; daddy doesn't know anything about money, and--and who cares about it, anyhow, except for--for things one wants? uncle tom says i can't make a bow, and--oh, all kinds of rubbish! what's the use of making a bow? i'm not going to be a dancing-master, hildegarde!" "indeed, you would not be a good one!" his cousin said; "but, considering that one must make bows, jack, isn't it just as well to do it well as to do it badly?" "who cares?" cried the boy, shaking his head wildly. "if a man is going to _be_ anything, who cares how he bows? and--oh, of course that is one item. i am to go to harvard, and learn to bow and to dance, and to be a classical scholar, and to play base-ball. i _hate_ base-ball, hilda! it's perfect idiocy, and it makes my head ache, and any one can see that i'm not cut out for athletics. are you laughing at me?" "indeed i am not!" said hildegarde, heartily. "but, tell me! you want to go to leipsic, to study music?" "of course!" was the reply. "and daddy wants me to go, and herr geigen is going over in the autumn, and he would place me, and all; but uncle tom hates music, you know, and if i speak of it he goes off in a rage, and talks about rascally dutch fiddlers, and says i walk like a giraffe with the palsy. at least, that was the animal this morning. yesterday i was a gouty ostrich, and i suppose we shall go through the whole menagerie." "you like him?" hildegarde said interrogatively. "he is _very_ kind, in his way," replied jack. "awfully kind, and he loves my father, and i know he wants to do things for me; but--it all has to be done in his way, don't you see? and--well, there isn't anything in me except music. i know that, you see, hildegarde. just nothing!" "i don't feel so sure of that!" hildegarde said. "perhaps you never tried to develop the other side of you. there must be other sides, you know." "no, there aren't!" said jack positively. "none at all!" "but that is nonsense!" cried hildegarde impatiently. "do you mean to say that you are a flat surface, like a playing-card, with 'music' painted on you?" "i didn't know i was flat!" rather stiffly. "you see, you are not! then why not try to care for something else _beside_ music, without caring any the less for that?" "what is there to care for? a parcel of musty old books, such as uncle tom is forever reading." "oh! oh! you goth! as if it were not a rapture simply to look at the outside of your uncle's books. to see my heart's own doctor in dark blue calf, with all that beautiful tooling--" "what doctor? what are you talking about, hildegarde?" "johnson, of course! is there another? as the man in _punch_ says about his hatter. and even in your own line, you foolish boy! have you never read that beautiful 'life of handel'? i looked into it the other day, and it seemed delightful." "no," said jack, looking blank. "where is it? i never saw it." "bookcase between the south windows, fourth shelf, about the middle; three fat volumes in green morocco. and you never saw it, because you never look at the books at all. what _do_ you look at, jack, except your music and your violin? for example, do you ever look in the glass? i know you don't." "how do you know?" and jack blushed hotly. "because--you won't mind? i am your cousin, you know!--because your necktie is so often crooked. it is crooked now; a little more to the right! that's it! and--and you ought to brush that spot off your coat. now, if you made it a point always to look in the glass before leaving your room--" "is that one of the sides you want me to develop?" asked jack slowly. "caring about dress, and looks, and that sort of thing? i didn't know you were of that kind, hildegarde." "of what kind?" cried our heroine, blushing furiously in her turn, and feeling that she was in great danger of losing her temper. "i certainly do care about my dress and looks, as every one ought to do. suppose the next time you came to tea, you found me with my hair tumbling down, and a great spot of ink on my gown, and my ruffles torn! is that the kind of person you like to see? i always thought herrick's julia was a most untidy young woman, with her shoe-strings, and her 'erring lace' and all." "i don't know who she is," said jack meekly. "but i beg your pardon if i was rude, hilda; and--and i will try to 'spruce up,' as uncle tom is always trying to make me. you see," he added shyly, "when _you_ look in the glass you see something nice, and i don't!" "nonsense!" said hildegarde, promptly. "and then, jack--that is only one thing, of course. but if you had the habit of using your eyes! oh! you don't know what a difference it would make. i know, because i used to be as blind as you are. i never looked at anything till about two years ago. and now--of course i am only learning still, and shall be learning all my life, i hope; but--well, i do see things more or less. for example, what do you see at our feet here?" "grass!" said jack, peering about. "green grass. do you think i don't know that?" hildegarde laughed, and clapped her hands. "just what i should have said two years ago!" she cried. "there are twelve different plants that i know--i've been counting them--and several more that are new to me." "well, they're all green, anyhow!" said jack. "what's the difference?" hildegarde scorned a direct reply, but went on, being now mounted on her own hobby. "and as for moths, jack, you can have no idea of what my ignorance was in regard to moths." "oh, come!" said jack. "every one knows about moths, of course. they eat our clothes, and fly into the lamps. that is one of the things one finds out when one is a baby, i suppose." "indeed!" cried hildegarde. "and that is all there is to find out, i suppose. why--" she stopped suddenly; then said in a very different tone, "oh, jack! this is a wonderful coincidence. look! oh, _will_ you look? oh! the beautiful, beautiful dear! get me something! anything! quick!" jack, who was not accustomed to feminine ways, wondered if his fair cousin was going out of her mind. she was gazing intently at a spot of lighter green on the "grass" at her feet. presently the spot moved, spread; developed two great wings, delicate, exquisite, in colour like a chrysoprase, or the pure, cold green one sometimes sees in a winter sunset. "what is it?" asked jack, in wonder. "a luna!" cried hildegarde. "hush! slip off on the other side, quietly! _fly_ to the house, and ask auntie for a fly-screen. _quick_, jack!" jack, greatly wondering, ran off none the less, his long legs scampering with irreverent haste through the ladies' garden. returning with the screen, which auntie gave him without question, being well used to the sudden frenzies of a moth-collector, he found hildegarde on her knees, holding her handkerchief over the great moth, which fortunately had remained quiet, being indeed stupid in the strong light. the girl's face was all aglow with triumph and delight. "a perfect specimen," she cried, as she skilfully conveyed the great moth under the screen. "i have two, but the tails are a little broken. isn't he glorious, jack? oh, happy day! come, good cousin, and let us take him home in a triumphal procession." jack looked rather blank. "are you going home now?" he asked. "of course, to put my beauty in the ammonia jar." "what is it?" she added, seeing that her cousin looked really vexed. "oh--nothing!" said jack. "nothing of any consequence. i am ready." "but _what_ is it?" hildegarde repeated. "you would a great deal better tell me than look like that, for i know i have done something to vex you." "well--i am not used to girls, you know, hildegarde, and perhaps i am stupid. only--well, i was going to ask you seriously what you thought about--my music, and all that; and first you tell me to look in the glass, and then you go to catching moths and forget all about me. i suppose it's all right, only--" he blushed, and evidently did not think it _was_ all right. hildegarde blushed, too, in real distress. "my _dear_ jack," she cried, "how shall i tell you how sorry i am?" she looked about for a suitable place, and then carefully set down the fly-screen with its precious contents. "sit down again," she cried, motioning her cousin to take his place on the fallen tree, while she did the same. "and you will not believe now how interested i really am," she said. "mamma would never have been so stupid, nor rose either. but you must believe me. i _was_ thinking about you till--till i saw the luna, and you don't know what a luna means when one hasn't a perfect specimen. but now, tell me, do you think it would be quite impossible to persuade your uncle? why, you _must_ go to leipsic, of course you must. he--has he ever heard you play, jack?" jack laughed rather bitterly. "once," he said. "he cried out that when he wanted to listen to cats with their tails tied together, he would tie them himself. since then i always go up into the garret to practise, and shut all the doors and windows." "what a pity! and he is so nice when one knows him. i wonder--do you know, jack, what i am thinking of?" her face was so bright that the boy's face brightened as he looked at it. "i hope it is what i was thinking of," he said; "but i didn't dare--" "mamma," cried hildegarde. he nodded in delight, colouring with pleasure. "she is just the person." "of course she is; but will she?" "of course she will. i am sure of it. your uncle shall come to tea some evening, and you shall stay at home. i will go away to write letters, and then--oh, you see, jack, no one can resist mamma." "what a good fellow you are, hildegarde! oh, i _beg_ your pardon!" "never mind!" cried hildegarde merrily. "i did climb the tree, you know. and now, come along. i must take my beauty, my love, my moonlight rapture, up to his death." chapter x. bonny sir hugh. meanwhile hildegarde had not lost sight of little hugh allen, the one link of interest which connected her with the poplars. he, too, had been won by mrs. grahame's smile, and had learned the way to braeside; and the more they saw of him, the more hildegarde and her mother felt that he was a very remarkable little boy. much of the time he seemed to be lost in dreams, wrapped in a cloud of silent thought; and, again, from this cloud would flash out the quaintest sayings, sudden outbursts of passionate feeling, which were startling to quiet, every-day people. when he had been walking with mrs. grahame, as he was fond of doing (sneaking out by the back gate from his prison-place, as he called it, and making a _détour_ to reach the road where she most often walked), and when she said, "now, dear, it is time to say good-by, and go home," he would throw himself on his knees, and hold up his clasped hands, crying, "how can i leave thee?" in a manner which positively embarrassed her. now it happened one day that hugh was sitting with merlin beside the brook that flowed at the foot of the ladies' garden. hildegarde had told him to come through the garden and wait for her, and it was his first visit to the lovely, silent place. the child went dreaming along between the high box hedges, stopping occasionally to look about him and to exchange confidences with his dog. merlin seemed to feel the influence of the place, and went along quietly, with bent head and drooping tail. when the murmur of the hidden streamlet first fell upon his ear, "it is like the fishpools of heshbon," said the boy dreamily. "isn't it, merlin? i never understood before." merlin put his cool black nose in his master's hand, and gave a little sympathetic shake. and now the pair were sitting on a bank of moss, looking down into the dark, clear water, which moved so swiftly yet so silently, with only a faint sound, which somehow seemed no louder than when they were at a distance. [illustration: hildegarde finding hugh and merlin by the brook.] "do you see that dark round place where it is deep, merlin?" said the child. "do you think that under there lives a fair woman with green hair, who takes a person by the hand, and kisses him, and pulls him down? do you think that, merlin?" but merlin sneezed, and shook his head, and evidently thought nothing of the kind. "then do you think about fishes?" the boy went on. "dark little fishes, with gleaming eyes, who are sad because they cannot speak. i wish i knew your thoughts, merlin." "wuff!" said merlin, in his voice of welcome, raising his head, and becoming instantly a living image of cheerfulness. hugh looked, and there was his purple maid, all bright and shining, standing among the green trees, and smiling at him. the child's face flushed with such vivid light that the place seemed brighter. he held out his arms with a passionate gesture that would have been theatrical if it had not been so real, but remained silent. "dear!" said hildegarde. "how quiet you are, you and merlin! i could not tell whether it was your voice or the brook, talking." the boy and dog made room for her between them, and she sat down. "aren't you going to speak to me, hugh?" she continued, as he still said nothing. "i spoke to myself," said the boy. "when i saw you stand there, angelic, in the green, 'blessed heart of woman!' i said to myself. do you like the sound of that?" "my bonny sir hugh!" said hildegarde, laying her hand caressingly on the red-gold hair. "i do like the sound of it. and do you like this place? i want you to care for it as i do." the boy nodded. "it is the place of dead people," he said. "we are too alive to be here." "i call it the ladies' garden," said hildegarde softly. "fair, sweet ladies lived here once, and loved it. they used to sit here, hugh, and wander up and down the green paths, and fill the place with sweet, gentle words. i don't believe they sang; hester may have sung, perhaps." "were they fair as the moon, clear as the sun?" asked the child. "where did you find those sweet words, sir hugh?" "in the bible. 'fair as the moon, clear as the sun, terrible as an army with banners.' and 'thy neck is a tower of ivory.' were they terrible, do you think?" "oh, no! they were very gentle, i think, very soft and mild, like folds of old soft cashmere; only hester was blithe and gay, and she died, hugh, when she was just my age. think of it! to die so young and go away out of all the sunshine." the child looked at her with strange eyes. "why do you be sad?" he said. "don't you know about your mother dear jerusalem?" "a little," said hildegarde. "tell me what you are thinking, sir hugh." "it is greener there," said the child, "and brighter. don't you know, blessed heart? 'where grow such sweet and pleasant flowers as nowhere else are seen.' and more coloured words. don't you love coloured words?" the girl laid her hand on his lightly, but said nothing, and he went on as if in a dream. "'thy houses are of ivory, thy windows crystal clear, thy streets are laid with beaten gold-- there angels do appear.' "two of them are papa and mamma," he added after a pause. "do you think they mind waiting for me very much? at first i wanted to go to them--oh, so badly! because those people are devils, and i would rather die; but now i have you, purple maid, and your mother is like balm dropping in the valley, and i don't mind waiting, if only i thought _they_ didn't mind it too much." he looked up wistfully, and hildegarde bent to kiss him. "how long is it, dear?" she asked softly. "a year now, a very long year, only i had merlin. and uncle loftus took me out of charity, he said; but mamma said i was to go to aunt martha, so that makes me feel wrong, even if i wanted to stay with them, and it is the pains of hell to me." "aunt martha?" asked hildegarde, willing to ask more, yet dreading to rouse the boy's scriptural eloquence on the subject of his relatives at the poplars. hugh nodded. "mamma's aunt," he said. "she lives somewhere, not far from here, but i don't know where; and uncle loftus won't tell me, or let me see her, 'cause she is a menial. what is a menial, dearly beloved?" "did your uncle say that to you?" hildegarde asked, waiving the question. "he said it _at_ me!" was the reply. "at my back, but i heard it. she was a menial, and he wasn't going to have folks saying that his aunt was housekeeper to a stuck-up old bear, just because she was a fool and had no proper spirit. and the others said 'hush!' and i went away, and now they won't let me speak about her." "housekeeper to a--why!" began hildegarde; and then she was silent, and smoothed the child's hair thoughtfully. an old bear! that was what mr. loftus had vulgarly called colonel ferrers. could it be possible that--jack had told her about dear, good mrs. beadle, who had been nurse to his father and uncle, and who was so devoted to them all, and such a superior woman. she had been meaning to go to see her the next time she was at roseholme. was there a mystery here? was mrs. beadle the plump and comfortable skeleton in the loftus closet? she must ask jack. as she mused thus, the child had fallen a-dreaming again, and they both sat for some time silent, with the soft falling of the water in their ears, and all the dim, shadowy beauty of the place filling their hearts with vague delight. presently, "beloved," said hugh (he wavered between this and "purple maid" as names for hildegarde, wholly ignoring her own name), "beloved, there is an angel near me. did you know it?" "there might well be angels in this place," said hildegarde, looking at the boy, whose wide blue eyes wore a far-away, spiritual look. "i don't mean just here in this spot. i mean floating through the air at night. i hear him, almost every night, playing on his harp of gold." "dear hugh, tell me a little more clearly." "sometimes the moon shines in at my window and wakes me up, you know. then i get up and look out, for it is so like heaven, only silver instead of gold; and then--then i hear the angel play." "what does it sound like?" "sometimes like a voice, sometimes like birds. and then it sobs and cries, and dies away, and then it sounds out again, like 'blow up the trumpet in the new moon,' and goes up, up, up, oh, so high! do you think that is when the angel goes up to the gate, and then is sorry for people here, and comes back again? i have thought of that." "my bonny sir hugh!" said hildegarde gently. "would you care less about the lovely music if it was not really made by an angel? if it was a person like you and me, who had the power and the love to make such beautiful sounds?" the child's face lightened. "was it you?" he said in an awe-struck voice. "not i, dear, but my cousin, my cousin jack, who plays the violin most beautifully, hugh. he practises every night, up in the garret at roseholme, because--only think! his uncle does not like to hear him." "the ostrich gentleman!" cried hugh, bursting into merry laughter. "is it the ostrich gentleman?" hildegarde tried to look grave, with moderate success. "my cousin is tall," she said, "but you must not call names, little lad!" "never any more will i call him it," cried hugh, "if he is really the angel. but he does look like one. must we go?" he asked wistfully, as hildegarde rose, and held out her hand to him. "yes, dear, i am going to the village, you know. i thought we would come this way because i wanted you to see the ladies' garden. now we must go across the meadow, and round by the back of roseholme to find the road again." they crossed the brook by some mossy stepping-stones, and climbed the dark slope on the further side, thick-set with ferns and dusky hemlock-trees. then came the wall, and then the sudden break into the sunny meadow. hugh threw off his grave mood with the shadow, and danced and leaped in the sunshine. "shall i run with merlin?" he asked. "you have never seen us run, beloved!" hildegarde nodded, and with a shout and a bark the two were off. a pretty sight they were! the boy's golden head bobbing up and down in full energy of running, the dog bounding beside him with long, graceful leaps. they breasted the long, low hill, then swept round in a wide circle, and came rushing past hildegarde, breathless and radiant. this was more than our heroine could bear. with a merry "hark, follow!" she started in pursuit, and was soon running abreast of the others, with head thrown back, eyes sparkling, cheeks glowing. "hurrah!" cried hugh. "hurrah it is!" echoed the purple maid. "wow, _wow_!" panted merlin, ecstatically. as the chase swept round the hill the second time, two gentlemen came out of the woods, and paused in amazement at the sight. hildegarde's long hair had come down, and was flying in the wind; her two companions were frantic with delight, and bobbed and leaped, shouting, beside her. so bright was the sunshine, so vivid in colour, so full of life the three runners, they seemed actually to flash as they moved. "harry monmouth!" cried colonel ferrers. "here is a girl who knows how to run. look at that action! it's poetry, sir! it's rhythm and metre and melody. "'nor lighter does the swallow skim along the smooth lake's airy rim.' after her, master milksop, and let me see what your long legs can do!" jack ferrers needed no second bidding, and though his running was not graceful, being rather a hurling himself forward, as if he were catapult and missile in one, he got over the ground with great rapidity, and caught his cousin up as she came flying round the meadow for the third time. hildegarde stopped short, in great confusion. "jack!" she faltered, panting. "how--where did you come from? you must have started up out of the earth." turning to capture her flying tresses, she caught sight of colonel ferrers, and her confusion was redoubled. "oh!" she cried, the crimson mounting from her cheeks to her forehead, bathing her in a fiery tide. "oh! how could you? he--he will be _sure_ i am a tomboy now." "nothing of the kind, my fair atalanta!" exclaimed the colonel, who had the ears of a fox. he advanced, beaming, and flourishing his stick. "nothing of the kind!" he repeated. "he is delighted, on the contrary, to see a young creature who can make the free movements of nature with nature's grace and activity. harry monmouth! miss hildegarde, i wish i were twenty years younger, and i would challenge you to a race myself!" chapter xi. a call and a conspiracy. "and you really seriously intend passing the winter here?" asked miss leonie loftus. this young lady had come to make a parting call at braeside. it was near the end of august, and three months of country life were all that she could possibly endure, and she was going with her mother to long branch, and thence to saratoga. "you really mean it?" she repeated, looking incredulous. "assuredly!" replied hildegarde, smiling. "winter and summer, and winter again, miss loftus. this is our home now, and we have become attached to it even in these few months." "oh, you look at it in a sentimental light," said miss loftus, with a disagreeable smile. "the domestic hearth, and that sort of thing. rather old-fashioned, isn't it, miss grahame?" "possibly; i have never thought of it as a matter of fashion," was the quiet reply. "and how do you expect to kill time in your wilderness?" was the next question. "kill him?" hildegarde laughed. "we never can catch him, even for a moment, miss loftus. he flies faster at braeside than even in new york. i sometimes think there are only two days in the week, monday and saturday." "i hear you have a sewing-school in the village. i suppose that will take up some time." "i hope so! the children seem interested, and it is a great pleasure to me. then, too, i expect to join some of miss wayland's classes in the fall, and that will keep me busy, of course." "miss wayland, over in dorset? why, it is three miles off." "and even if so? i hear it is a delightful school, and miss wayland herself is very lovely. do you know her?" "no!" said miss loftus, who had been "dying" as she would have put it, to get into miss wayland's school three years before. "a country boarding-school isn't _my_ idea of education." "oh!" said hildegarde civilly. "but to go back for a moment, miss loftus. your speaking of the children reminds me to ask you, is little hugh going with you to long branch?" miss loftus coloured. "oh, dear, no!" she replied. "a child at such places, you know, is out of the question. he is to be sent to school. he is going next week." "but--pardon me! are not all schools in vacation now?" "i believe so! but these people--the miss hardhacks--are willing to take him now, and keep him." "poor little lad!" murmured hildegarde, regardless of the fact that it was none of her business. "will he not be very lonely?" "beggars must not be choosers, miss grahame!" was the reply, with another unamiable smile. miss loftus really would not have smiled at all, if she had known how she looked. no sooner was the visitor gone, than hildegarde flew up to her mother with the news. the loftuses were going away; they were going to send hugh to school. what was to be done? he could not go! he _should_ not go. she was greatly excited, but mrs. grahame's quiet voice and words restored her composure. "'can't' and 'shan't' never won a battle!" said that lady. "we must think and plan." hildegarde had lately discovered, beyond peradventure, from some chance words let fall by little hugh, that his mother had been the sister of mr. loftus; and she felt no doubt in her own mind that good mrs. beadle was aunt to both. the sister had been a school teacher, had married a man of some education, who died during the second year of their marriage, leaving her alone, in a western town, with her little baby. she had struggled on, not wishing to be a burden either on her rich brother (who had not approved her marriage) or her aunt, who had nothing but her savings and her comfortable berth at roseholme. at length, consumption laying its deadly hand on her, she sent for her brother, and begged him to take the boy to their good aunt, who, she knew, would care for him as her own. "but he didn't!" said hugh. "he did not do that. he said he would make a man of me, but i don't believe he could make a very good one, do you, beloved?" now the question was, how to bring about a meeting between the boy and his great-aunt, if great-aunt she were. no child was allowed to enter the sacred precincts of roseholme, for colonel ferrers regarded children, and especially boys, as the fountain-head of all mischief, flower-breaking, bird-nesting, turf-destroying. his own nephew had had to wait eighteen years for an invitation. how could it be possible to introduce little hugh, a boy and a stranger, into the charmed garden? if "mammina" could only take him! no one could resist her mother, hildegarde thought; certainly not colonel ferrers, who admired her so much. but this dear mother had sprained her ankle a week before, slipping on a mossy stone in the garden, and was only now beginning to get about, using a crutched stick. mrs. grahame and hildegarde put their heads together, and talked long and earnestly. then they sent for jack, and took counsel with him; and a plan was made for the first act of what hildegarde called the drama of the conspirators. a day or two after, when mrs. beadle drove to the town of whitfield, some miles off, on her weekly marketing trip, it was jack ferrers, instead of giuseppe, the faithful manservant, who held the reins and drove the yellow wagon with the stout brown cob. he wanted to buy some things, he said: a necktie, and some chocolate, and--oh, lots of things; and mrs. beadle was only too glad of his company. the good housekeeper was dressed, like villikins' dinah, in gorgeous array, her cashmere shawl being of the finest scarlet, her gown of a brilliant blue, while her bonnet nodded with blue and yellow cornflowers. not a tradesman in whitfield but came smiling to his door when he saw mrs. beadle's yellow cart; for she was a good customer, and wanted everything of the best for her colonel. when they at last turned chow-chow's head homeward, the wagon was nearly filled with brown-paper parcels, and jack's pockets bulged out in all directions. as they drove along the pleasant road, fringed with oaks and beeches, jack broke silence with, "biddy, did you ever have any children?" "bless me, master jack, how you startled me!" cried mrs. beadle, who was deep in a problem of jelly and roly-poly pudding. "no, dear! no jelly--i should say, no chick nor child had i ever. i wasn't good enough, i suppose." "nonsense. biddy!" said jack. "but you must have had some relations; some--nieces or nephews, or something of that sort." mrs. beadle sighed, and fell straightway into the trap. "i had, dear! i had, indeed, once upon a time. but they're no good to me now, and never will be." she sighed again. "how no good to you?" queried this artful jack. "oh, 'tis a long story, dear, and you wouldn't care for it at all. you would? well! well! there's no harm that i know of in speaking of it. i've nothing to be ashamed of. i had a niece, master jack, and a dearer one never was, nor married to a finer young man. but they went out west, and he died, and left her with a baby. i wrote again and again, begging her to come home, but she was doing well, she said, and felt to stay, and had friends there, and all. oh, dear! and last year--a year ago it is now, she died." mrs. beadle drew out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. "she died, my dear; and--i didn't ought to speak of this, master jack, it do upset me so--i don't know where the child is to this day." "her child?" asked jack, with a guilty consciousness of his ears being red. "my own dear niece martha's child!" repeated the good woman sorrowfully. "a boy it was, as should be seven years old by this time. i've wrote, and i've wrote, but no answer could i get. and whether he is dead, too, or whether his father's people have him, or what, is darkness to me." "the brute!" exclaimed jack ferrers vehemently. "the cold-hearted, odious brute!" "what is it, my dear?" cried mrs. beadle, drying her tears, and looking with alarm at the pony. "his tail over the reins, is it? well, he will do that, but 'tis only play. he means no harm." "oh, i know!" cried jack in confusion. "i didn't mean--that is--and is that all the relatives you have, biddy?" "why, boys do love questions, don't they?" the good woman said. "i have a nephew living, master jack; and if you guessed from now till sunday week, you never would guess his name." "solomon grundy" rose to jack's lips, he could not in the least tell why. he did his best to look unconscious, but it was perhaps fortunate that mrs. beadle was so absorbed in her own troubled thoughts that she did not look at him. "who is it?" he asked. "do tell me. biddy! is it any one i ever heard of?" "hush, my dear! don't tell a soul that i mentioned it. i am not one to force myself on them as has got up in the world, and think honest service a disgrace. it's ephraim loftus!" "not mr. loftus at the poplars?" "mr. loftus at the poplars! the very same. my own sister's son, and little credit he is to either of us. don't ask me how he made his money, for i don't know, and don't want to know. when he was a little boy, his pockets were always full of pennies that he got from the other boys, trading and the like, and nobody had a kindness for him, though they loved martha. not a soul in the village but loved martha, and would do anything for her. so when ephraim was fourteen or so, he went away to new york, and we never heard anything more till he came back three or four years ago, a rich man, and built that great house, and lived there summers. i've never seen him but once; i don't go out, only just in the back garden, except when i drive to town. and that once he looked me all over, as if i was a waxwork in a glass case, and never stopped nor spoke a word. that's ephraim loftus! he needn't have been afraid of my troubling him or his, i can tell him. i wouldn't demean myself." mrs. beadle's face was red, and her voice trembled with angry pride. "and--" jack wished hildegarde were speaking instead of himself; she would know what to say, and he felt entirely at a loss. "do you--do you suppose he knows anything about--about his sister's little boy?" mrs. beadle looked as if some one had struck her a blow. "ephraim loftus!" she cried. "if i thought that, master jack, i'd--i'd--why, what's the matter, sir?" for jack had risen in his seat, and was waving the whip wildly round his head. "it's my cousin," he said. "don't you see her coming?" "oh, the dear young lady! yes, to be sure. walking this way, isn't she? never mind me. master jack!" said the good woman, striving for composure. "i was upset by what you said, that's all. it gave me a thought--who is the little boy with miss grahame, dear?" "he? oh--he's a boy," said jack, rather incoherently. "his name is hugh. good-morning, hildegarde! hallo, hugh! how are you?" "good-morning!" cried hildegarde, as the wagon drew up beside her. "good-morning, mrs. beadle. isn't it a lovely day? will the pony stand, jack?" "like a rock!" and jack, obeying the hint, leaped to the ground. mrs. beadle had turned very pale. she was gazing fixedly at hugh, who returned the look with wide blue eyes, shining with some strong emotion. "dear mrs. beadle," said hildegarde gently, taking the housekeeper's hand in hers as she leant against the wagon, "this is a very dear little friend of mine, whom i want you to know. his name is hugh; hugh allen; and he is staying with his uncle, mr. loftus." "i knew it!" cried mrs. beadle, clapping her hands together. "i knew it! and i am going to faint!" "no, don't do that!" said hugh, climbing up into the seat beside her. "don't do that. you must be calm, for you are my great-aunt, and i am your little nephew. how do you do? i am very glad to see you." "you are sure he will stand?" whispered hildegarde. "look at him! he is asleep already." "then come along!" and the two conspirators vanished among the trees. they pushed on a little way through the tangle of undergrowth, and paused, breathless and radiant, under a great beech-tree. "jack," said hildegarde, "you are a dear! how did you manage it?" "i didn't manage it at all. i am a stupid ninny. why, i've thrown her into a fit. do you think it's safe to leave her alone?" "nonsense! a joy fit does not hurt, when a person is well and strong. oh! isn't it delightful! and you have enjoyed it, too, jack, haven't you? i am sure you have. and--why, you have a new hat! and your necktie is straight. you look really very nice, _mon cousin_!" "_mille remerciments, ma cousine_!" replied jack, with a low bow, which, hildegarde noticed, was not nearly so like the shutting-up of a jackknife as it would have been a few weeks ago. "am i really improving? you have no idea what i go through with, looking in the glass. it is a humiliating practice. have some chocolates?" he pulled out a box, and they crunched in silent contentment. "now i think we may go back," said hildegarde, after her third bonbon. "but i must tell you first what hugh said. i told him the whole story as we walked along; first as if it were about some one else, you know, and then when he had taken it all in, i told him that he himself was the little boy. he was silent at first, reflecting, as he always does. then he said: 'i am like an enchanted prince, i think. generally it is fair ones with golden locks that take them out of prison, but at my age a great-aunt is better. don't you think so, beloved?' and i did think so." "but it _was_ a fair one with golden locks who planned it all!" jack said, with a shy look at his cousin's fair hair. "jack, you are learning to pay compliments!" cried hildegarde, clapping her hands. "i believe you will go to harvard after all, and be a classical scholar." "i would never pay another," said jack seriously, "if i thought it would have that effect." when they returned to the wagon, they found mrs. beadle still wiping away joyful tears, while hugh was apparently making plans for the future. his voice rang out loud and clear. "and we will dwell in a corner of the house-top, and have a dinner of herbs!" said the child. "they may have _all_ the stalled oxes themselves, mayn't they, great-aunt? and you will clothe us in scarlet and fine wool, won't you, great-aunt?" "bless your dear heart!" cried mrs. beadle. "is it red flannel you mean? don't tell me those heathen haven't put you into flannels!" and she wept again. chapter xii. the second act. colonel ferrers was taking his afternoon stroll in the garden. dinner was over; for at roseholme, as at braeside, country hours were kept, with early dinner, and seven o'clock tea, the pleasantest of all meals. with a fragrant manilla cigar between his lips, and his good stick in his hand, the colonel paced up and down the well-kept gravel paths, at peace with all mankind. the garden was all ablaze with geranium and verbena, heliotrope and larkspur. the pansies spread a gold and purple mantle in their own corner, while poppies were scattered all about in well-planned confusion. all this was giuseppe's work,--good, faithful giuseppe, who never rested, and never spoke, save to say "subito, signor!" when his master called him. he was at work now in a corner of the garden, setting out chrysanthemums; but no one would have known it, so noiseless were his motions, so silent his coming and going. the colonel, though pleasantly conscious of the lovely pomp spread out for his delight, was thinking of other things than flowers. he was thinking how his nephew jack had improved in the last two months. positively, thought the colonel, the boy was developing, was coming out of the animal kingdom, and becoming quite human. partly due to the indian clubs, no doubt, and to his, the colonel's, wholesome discipline and instructions; but largely, sir, largely to feminine influence. daily intercourse with women like mrs. grahame and her daughter would civilise a gorilla, let alone a well-intentioned giraffe who played the fiddle. he puffed meditatively at his cigar, and dwelt on a pleasant picture that his mind called up: hildegarde as he had seen her yesterday, sitting with a dozen little girls about her, and telling them stories while they sewed, under her careful supervision, at patchwork and dolls' clothes. how sweet she looked! how bright her face was, as she told the merry tale of the "midsummer night's dream." "harry monmouth, sir! she was telling 'em shakespeare! and they were drinking it in as if it had been mother goose." the colonel paused, and sighed heavily. "if hester had lived," he said, "if my little hester had lived--" and then he drew a long whiff of the fragrant manilla, and walked on. as he turned the corner by the great canna plant, he came suddenly upon mrs. beadle, who was apparently waiting to speak to him. the good housekeeper was in her state dress of black silk, with embroidered apron and lace mitts, and a truly wonderful cap; and colonel ferrers, if he had been observant of details, might have known that this portended something of a serious nature. being such as he was, he merely raised his hat with his grave courtesy, and said: "good-afternoon, mrs. beadle. is it about the yellow pickles? the same quantity as usual, ma'am, or perhaps a few more jars, as i wish to send some to mrs. grahame at braeside." mrs. beadle shivered a little. she had made the yellow pickles at roseholme for five and twenty years; and now,--"no, sir," she said faintly. "it is not the pickles." she plucked at the fringe of her shawl, and colonel ferrers waited, though with a kindling eye. women were admirable, but some of their ways were hard to bear. finally mrs. beadle made a desperate effort, and said, "do you think, sir, that you could find some one to take my place?" colonel ferrers fixed a look of keen inquiry on her, and instantly felt her pulse. "rapid!" he said, "and fluttering; elizabeth beadle, are you losing your mind?" "i have found my little boy, sir," cried mrs. beadle, bursting into tears. "my dear niece martha's own child, colonel ferrers. he is in the hands of heathen reprobates, if i do say it, and it is my duty to make a home for him. i never thought to leave roseholme while work i could, but you see how it is, sir." "i--see how it is?" cried the colonel, with a sudden explosion. then controlling himself by a great effort, he said with forced calmness, "i will walk over to the end of the garden, elizabeth beadle, and when i return i shall expect a sensible and coherent--do you understand?--_coherent_ account of this folderol. see how it is, indeed!" the colonel strode off, muttering to himself, and poor mrs. beadle wiped her eyes, and smoothed down her apron with trembling hands, and made up her mind that she would not cry, if she should die for it. when the grim-frowning colonel returned, she told her story with tolerable plainness, and concluded by begging that her kind friend and master would not be angry, but would allow her to retire to a cottage, where she could "see to" her niece's child, and bring him up in a christian way. "pooh! pooh! my good beadle!" cried the colonel. "stuff and nonsense, my good soul! i am delighted that you have found the child; delighted, i assure you. we will get him away from those people, never fear for that! and we will send him to school. a good school, ma'am, is the place for the boy. none of your hardhacks, but a school where he will be happy and well-treated. in vacation time--hum! ha!--you might take a little trip with him now and then, perhaps. but as to disturbing your position here-- pooh! pooh! stuff and nonsense! don't let me hear of it again!" mrs. beadle trembled, but remained firm. "no school, sir!" she said. "what the child needs is a home, colonel ferrers; and there's nobody but me to make one for him. no, sir! never, if i gave my life to it, could i thank you as should be for your kindness since first i set foot in this dear house, as no other place will ever be home to me! but go i must, colonel, and the sooner the better." then the colonel exploded. his face became purple; his eyes flashed fire, and, leaning upon his stick, he poured out volley upon volley of reproach, exhortation, argument. higher and higher rose his voice, till the very leaves quivered upon the trees; till the object of his wrath shook like an aspen, and even giuseppe, in the north corner of the garden, quailed, and murmured "santa maria!" over his chrysanthemums. how much more frightened, since theirs was the blame of all the mischief, were two guilty creatures who at this moment crouched, concealed behind a great laurel-bush, listening with all their ears! jack and hildegarde exchanged terrified glances. they had known that the colonel would be angry, but they had no idea of anything like this. he was in a white heat of rage, and was hurling polysyllabic wrath at the devoted woman before him, who stood speechless but unshaken, meekly receiving the torrent of invective. suddenly, there was a movement among the bushes; and the next moment a small form emerged from the shade, and stood in front of the furious old gentleman. "is your name saul?" asked hugh quietly. the two conspirators had forgotten the child. they had brought him with them, with some faint idea of letting the colonel see him as if by accident, hoping that his quaint grace might make a favourable impression; but in the stress of the occasion they had wholly forgotten his presence, and now--now matters were taken out of their hands. hildegarde clutched her parasol tight; jack clasped his violin, and both listened and looked with all their souls. "is your name saul?" repeated the boy, as the colonel, astonishment choking for an instant the torrent of his rage, paused speechless. "because if it is, the evil spirit from god is upon you, and you should have some one play with his hand." "what--what is this?" gasped the colonel. "who are you, boy?" "i am my great-aunt's little nephew," said hugh. "but no matter for me. you must sit down when the evil spirit is upon you. you might hurt some one. why do you look so at me, great-aunt? why don't you help mr. saul?" "come away, hughie, love!" cried mrs. beadle, in an agony of terror. "come, dear, and don't ever speak to the colonel so again. he's only a babe, sir, as doesn't know what he is saying." "go away yourself!" roared the colonel, recovering the power of speech. "depart, do you hear? remove yourself from my presence, or--" he moved forward. mrs. beadle turned and fled. "now," he said, turning to the child, "what do you mean, child, by what you said just now? i--i will sit down." he sank heavily on a garden seat and motioned the child before him. "what do you mean, about saul--eh?" "but you know," said hugh, opening wide eyes of wonder,--"are you so old that you forget?--how the evil spirit from god came upon king saul, and they sent for david, and he played with his hand till the evil spirit went away. now you remember?" he nodded confidently, and sat down beside the colonel, who, though still heaving and panting from his recent outburst, made no motion to repel him. "i said _mr._ saul," hugh continued, "because you are not a king, you see, and i suppose just 'saul' would not be polite when a person is as old as you are. and _what_ do you think?" he cried joyously, as a sudden thought struck him. "the ostrich gentleman plays most _beautifully_ with his hand. his name isn't david, but that doesn't matter. i am going to find him." "play, jack," whispered hildegarde. "play, _quick_! something old and simple. play 'annie laurie.'" obeying the girl's fleeting look, jack laid fiddle to bow, and the old love tune rose from behind the laurel-bush and floated over the garden, so sweet, so sweet, the very air seemed to thrill with tenderness and gentle melody. colonel ferrers sank back on the seat. "hester's song," he murmured. "hester's song. is it hester, or an angel?" the notes rose, swelled into the pathetic refrain,-- "and for bonny annie laurie, i'd lay me down and die." then they sank away, and left the silence still throbbing, as the hearts of the listeners throbbed. "_i_ thought it was an angel," cried hugh, "when i first heard him, mr. saul. but it isn't. it is the ostrich gentleman, and he has to play up in the attic generally, because his uncle is a poor person who doesn't know how to like music. i am _so_ sorry for his uncle, aren't you?" "yes," said colonel ferrers gruffly. "yes, i am. very sorry." a pause followed. then hugh asked cautiously: "how do you feel now, mr. saul? do you feel as if the evil spirit were going away?" "i've got him," said the colonel, in whose eyes the fire of anger was giving place to something suspiciously like a twinkle. "i've got him--bottled up. now, youngster, who told you all that?" "all what?" asked hugh, whose thoughts were beginning to wander as he gazed around the garden. "about the poor person who doesn't know how to--" "no, no," said the colonel hastily, "not that. about saul and david, and all that. who put you up to it? hey?" his keen eyes gazed intently into the clear blue ones of the child. hugh stared at him a moment, then answered gently, with a note of indulgence, as if he were speaking to a much younger child: "it is in the bible. it is a pity that you do not know it. but perhaps there are no pictures in your bible. there was a big one where i lived, all _full_ of pictures, so i learned to read that way. and i always liked the saul pictures," he added, his eyes kindling, "because david was beautiful, you know, and of a ruddy countenance; and king saul was all hunched up against the tent-post, with his eyes glaring just as yours were when you roared, only he was uglier. you are not at all ugly now, but then you looked as if you were going to burst. if a person _should_ burst--" colonel ferrers rose, and paced up and down the path, going a few steps each way, and glancing frequently at the boy from under his bushy eyebrows. hugh fell into a short reverie, and woke to say cheerfully:-- "this place fills me with heavenly joys. does it fill you?" "humph!" growled the colonel. "if you lived here, you would break all the flowers off, i suppose, and pull 'em to pieces to see how they grow; eh?" hugh contemplated him dreamily. "is that what you did when you were a little boy?" he answered. "i love flowers. i don't like to pick them, for it takes their life. i don't care how they grow, as long as they _do_ grow." "and you would take all the birds' eggs," continued the colonel, "and throw stones at the birds, and trample the flower-beds, and bring mud into the house, and tie fire-crackers to the cat's tail, and upset the ink. _i_ know you!" [illustration: hugh and colonel ferrers.] hugh rose with dignity, and fixed his eyes on the colonel with grave disapproval. "you do _not_ know me!" he said. "and--and if that is the kind of boy you were, it is no wonder that the evil spirit comes upon you. i shouldn't be a bit surprised if you did burst some day. good-by, mr. saul! i am going away now." "hold on!" cried the colonel peremptorily. "i beg your pardon! do you hear? shake hands!" hugh beamed forgiveness, and extended a small brown paw, which was shaken with right good will. "that's right!" said colonel ferrers, with gruff heartiness. "now go into the house and find your great-aunt, and tell her to give you some jam. do you like jam?" the boy nodded with all the rapture of seven years. "give you some jam, and a picture-book, and make up a bed in the little red room. can you remember all that?" "yes, mr. saul!" cried hugh, dancing about a little. "nice mr. saul! shall i bring you some jam? what kind of jam shall i say?" "what kind do you like best?" "damson." "damson it is! off with you now!" when the boy was gone, the colonel walked up and down for a few moments, frowning heavily, his hands holding his stick behind him. then he said quietly, "jack!" jack came forward and stood before him, looking half-proud, half-sheepish, with his fiddle under his arm. the colonel contemplated him for a moment in silence. then, "why in the name of all that is cacophonous, didn't you play me a tune at first, instead of an infernal german exercise? hey?" jack blushed and stammered. he had played for his uncle once only, a fugue by hummel, of which his mind had happened to be full; he felt that it had not been a judicious choice. "can you play 'the harp of tara'?" demanded the colonel; and jack played, with exquisite feeling, the lovely old tune, the colonel listening with bent head, and marking the time with his stick. "harry monmouth!" he said, when it was over. "because a man doesn't like to attend the violent ward of a cats' lunatic asylum, it doesn't follow that he doesn't care for music. music, sir, is melody, that's what it is!" jack shuddered slightly, and did silent homage to the shade of wagner, but knew enough to keep silence. "and--and where did you pick up this child?" his uncle continued. "i take it back about his having been put up to what he did. he is true blue, that child; i shouldn't wonder if you were, too, in milksop fashion. hey?" "skim-milk is blue, you know, uncle," said jack, smiling. "but i didn't discover hugh. isn't he a wonderful child, sir? hildegarde discovered him, of course. i believe hildegarde does everything, except what her mother does. come here, hildegarde! come and tell uncle tom about your finding hugh." but hildegarde was gone. chapter xiii. a picnic. "my dear colonel, i congratulate you most heartily! indeed, i had little doubt of your success, for this was a case in which reynard the fox was sure to have the worst of it. but i am very curious to know how you managed it." "nothing could be simpler, my dear madam. i went to the fellow's house yesterday morning. 'mr. loftus, your little nephew is at my house. your aunt, mrs. beadle, has taken charge of him, according to his mother's wish, and i undertook to inform you of the fact.' he turned all the colours of the rainbow, began to bluster, and said he was the boy's nearest relation, which is very true. 'i want him to grow up a gentleman,' said he. 'precisely,' said i. 'he shall have a chance to do so, mr. loftus.' the fellow didn't like that; he looked black and green, and spoke of the law and the police. 'that reminds me,' i said, 'of a story. about twenty-five years ago, or it may be thirty, a sum of money was stolen from my desk, in what i call my counting-room in my own house. am i taking up too much of your valuable time, sir?' he choked and tried to speak, but could only shake his head. 'the thief was a mere lad,' i went on, 'and a clumsy one, for he dropped his pocketknife in getting out of the window,--a knife marked with his name. for reasons of my own i did not arrest the lad, who left town immediately after; but i have the knife, ephraim, in my possession.' i waited a moment, and then said that i would send for the little boy's trunk; wished him good-day, and came off, leaving him glowering after me on the doorstep. you see, it was very simple." "i see," said mrs. grahame. "but is it possible that mr. loftus--" "very possible, my dear mrs. grahame. as i told him, i have the knife, with his name in full. one hundred dollars he stole; for elizabeth beadle's sake, of course i let it go. her peace of mind is worth more than that, for if she's thoroughly upset, the dinners she orders are a nightmare, positively a nightmare. that is actually one reason why i planned this picnic for to-day, because i knew i should have something with cornstarch in it if i dined at home. why cornstarch should connect itself with trouble in the feminine mind, i do not know; but such seems to be the case." mrs. grahame laughed heartily at this theory; then, in a few earnest words, she told colonel ferrers how deeply interested she and her daughter were in this singular child, and how happy they were in the sudden and great change in his prospects. "and i know you will love him," she said. "you cannot help loving him, colonel. he is really a wonderful child." "humph!" said the colonel thoughtfully. then after a pause, he continued: "i thought i had lost the power of loving, mrs. grahame; of loving anything but my flowers, that is, any living creature; lost it forty years ago. but somehow, of late, there has been a stirring of the ground, a movement among the old roots--yes! yes! there may be a little life yet. that child of yours--you never saw hester aytoun, mrs. grahame?" "never," said mrs. grahame softly. "she died the year before i came here as a child." "precisely," said colonel ferrers. "she was a--a very lovely person. your daughter is extremely like her, my dear madam." "i fancied as much," said mrs. grahame, "from the miniature i found in uncle aytoun's collection." "ah! yes! the miniature. i remember, there were two. i have the mate to it, mrs. grahame. yes! your daughter is very like her. there was a strong attachment between hester and myself. then came a mistake, a misunderstanding, the puff of a feather, a breath of wind; i went away. she was taken suddenly ill, died of a quick consumption. that was forty years ago, but it changed my life, do you see? i have lived alone. robert aytoun was a disappointed man. wealthy bond,--you know the old story,--agatha an invalid, barbara a rigorous woman, strict calvinist, and so forth. we all grew old together. the neighbours call me a recluse, a bear--i don't know what all; right enough they have been. but now--well, first the lad, there, came--my brother's son. duty, you know, and all the rest of it; father an unsuccessful genius, angel and saint, with an asinine quality added. that waked me up a little, but only made me growl. but that child of yours, and your own society, if you will allow me to say so--i see things with different eyes, in short. why, i am actually becoming fond of my milksop; a good lad, eh, mrs. grahame? an honest, gentlemanly lad, i think?" "indeed, yes!" cried mrs. grahame heartily. "a most dear and good lad, colonel grahame! i cannot tell you how fond hilda and i are of him." "that's right! that's right!" said the colonel, with great heartiness. "you have done it all for him, between you. holds up his head now, walks like a christian; and, positively, i found him reading 'henry esmond,' the other day; reading it of his own accord, you observe. said his cousin hilda said esmond was the finest gentleman she knew, and wanted to know what he was like. when a boy takes to 'henry esmond,' my dear madam, he is headed in the right direction. asked me about lord herbert, too, at dinner yesterday; really took an interest. got that from his cousin, too. how many girls know anything about lord herbert? tell me that, will you?" "hildegarde has always been a hero-worshipper!" said mrs. grahame, smiling, with the warm feeling about the heart that a mother feels when her child is praised. "you make me very happy, colonel, with all these kind words about my dear daughter. what she is to me, of course, i cannot tell. 'the very eyes of me!' you remember herrick's dear old song. but i think my good black auntie put it best, one day last week, when hildegarde had a bad headache, and was in her room all day. 'miss hildy,' said auntie, 'she's de salt in de soup, she is. 'tain't no good without her.' but hark! here they come back, with the water; and now, colonel, it is time for luncheon." the speakers were sitting under a great pine tree, one of a grove which crowned the top of a green hill. below them lay broad, sunny meadows, here whitening into silver with daisies, there waving with the young grain. in a hollow at a little distance lay a tiny lake, as if a giantess had dropped her mirror down among the golden fields; further off, dark stretches of woodland framed the bright picture. it was a scene of perfect beauty. mrs. grahame sat gazing over the landscape, her heart filled with a great peace. she listened to the young voices, which were coming nearer and nearer. she was so glad that she had made the effort to come. it had been an effort, even though colonel ferrers's thoughtfulness had provided the most comfortable of low phaetons, drawn by the slowest and steadiest of cobs, which had brought her with as little discomfort as might be to the top of the hill. but how well worth the fatigue it was to be here! "and do you love me, purple maid?" it was hugh's clear treble that thrilled with earnestness. "i love you very much, dear lad! what would you do if i did not, hugh?" "oh! i should weep, and weep, and be a _very_ melancholy jaques, indeed!" "melancholy jaques!" muttered colonel ferrers. "where on earth did he get hold of that? extraordinary youngster!" "he loves the shakespeare stories," said mrs. grahame. "hilda tells them to him, and reads bits here and there. oh, i assure you, colonel ferrers, hugh is a revelation. there never was a child like him, i do believe. but, hush! here he is!" the boy's bright head appeared, as he came up the hill, hand in hand with hildegarde. they were laden with ferns and flowers, while jack ferrers, a few steps behind, carried a pail of fresh water. "aha!" said the colonel, rubbing his hands. "here we are, eh? what! you have robbed the woods, hildegarde? scaramouche, how goes it, hey?" "it goes very well!" replied hugh soberly, but with sparkling eyes. "i am going to call him 'bonny dundee,' because his name is john grahame, you see; and she says, perhaps he _may_ be a hero, too, some day; that would be _so_ nice!" "come, hugh!" said hildegarde, laughing and blushing. "you must not tell our secrets. wait till he _is_ a hero, and then he shall have the hero's name." "what!" cried the colonel. "you young jacobite, are you instilling your pernicious doctrines into this child's breast? bonny dundee, indeed! marmalade is all that i want to know about dundee. bring the hamper, jack! here, under this tree! you are quite comfortable here, mrs. grahame?" "extremely comfortable," said that lady. "now, you gentlemen may unpack the baskets, while hilda and i lay the cloth." all hands went to work, and soon a most tempting repast was set out under the great pine tree. colonel ferrers's contribution was a triumph of mrs. beadle's skill, and resembled tennyson's immortal "pasty costly made, where quail and pigeon, lark and linnet lay, with golden yolks imbedded and injellied." indeed, the colonel quoted these lines with great satisfaction, as he set the great pie down in the centre of the "damask napkin, wrought with horse and hound." "that is truly magnificent!" exclaimed mrs. grahame. "and i can match it with 'the dusky loaf that smells of home,'" she added, taking out of her basket a loaf of graham bread and a pot of golden butter. "here is the smoked tongue," cried hildegarde; "here is raspberry jam, and almond cake. shall we starve, do you think, colonel ferrers?" "in case of extreme hunger, i have brought a few peaches," said the colonel; and he piled the rosy, glowing, perfect globes in a pyramid at a corner of the cloth. "cloth of gold shall be matched with cloth of frieze," said mrs. grahame, and in the opposite corner rose a pyramid of baked potatoes, hot and hot, wafting such an inviting smell through the air that the colonel seized the carving-knife at once. "are you ready?" he demanded. "why--where is jack? jack, you rascal! where have you got to?" "here!" cried a voice among the bushes; and jack appeared, flushed with triumph, carrying a smoking coffee-pot. "this is my contribution," he said. "if it is only clear! i think it is." hildegarde held out a cup, and he poured out a clear amber stream, whose fragrance made both potatoes and peaches retire from the competition. "you really made this?" colonel ferrers asked. "you, sir?" "i, sir," replied jack. "biddy taught me. i--i have been practising on you for a couple of days," he added, smiling. "you may remember that your coffee was not quite clear day before yesterday?" "clear!" exclaimed the colonel, bending his brows in mock anger. "i thought lethe and acheron had been stirred into it. so that is the kind of trick elizabeth beadle plays on me, eh? scaramouche!" addressing hugh, "you must look after this great-aunt of yours, do you hear?" "she made the pie," said hugh diplomatically. "she did! she did!" cried hildegarde, holding out her cup. "let no one breathe a word against her. fill up, fill up the festal cup! drop friendship's sugar therein! two lumps, my mother, if you love me!" "somebody should make a poem on this pie," said mrs. grahame. "there never was such a pie, i believe. hilda, you seem in poetic mood. can you not improvise something?" hildegarde considered for a few minutes, making meanwhile intimate acquaintance with the theme of song; then throwing back her head, she exclaimed with dramatic fervour:-- "i sing the pie! the pie sing i! and yet i do not sing it; why? because my mind is more inclined to eat it than to glorify." anything will make people laugh at a picnic, especially on a day when the whole world is aglow with light and life and joy. one jest followed another, and the walls of the pie melted away to the sound of laughter, as did those of jericho at the sound of the trumpet. merlin, who had stayed behind to watch a woodchuck, came up just in time to consume the last fragments, which he did with right good will. then, when they had eaten "a combination of keats and sunset," as mrs. grahame called the peaches, the colonel asked permission to light his cigar; and the soft fragrance of the manilla mingled with odours of pine and fir, while delicate blue rings floated through the air, to the delight of hugh and merlin. "this is the nose dinner," said the child. "it is almost better than the mouth dinner, isn't it?" "humph!" said the colonel, puffing meditatively. "if you hadn't had the mouth dinner first, young man, i think we should hear from you shortly. hest--a--hildegarde, will you give us a song?" so hildegarde sang one song and another, the old songs that the colonel loved: "ben bolt," and "the arethusa," and "a-hunting we will go"; and then, for her own particular pleasure and her mother's, she sang an old ballad, to a strange, lovely old air that she had found in an elizabethan song-book. "when shaws been sheene, and shraddes full faire, and leaves are large and long, it is merry walking in the fair forest, to hear the small birds' song. "the woodwele sang, and would not cease, sitting upon the spray, soe loud, he wakened robin hood, in the greenwood where he lay." it was the ballad of robin hood and guy of gisborne; and when she sang the second verse her mother's sweet alto chimed in; and when she sang the third verse, jack began to whistle a soft, sweet accompaniment, the effect of which was almost magical; and when she sang the fourth verse,--wonder of wonders! here was the colonel humming a bass, rather gruff, but in perfect tune. when the ballad was over, there was a chorus of surprise and congratulation. "colonel ferrers! why didn't you tell us you sang?" "i say, uncle tom, you've been regularly humbugging us. the idea of your turning out a _basso profundo_!" the colonel looked pleased and conscious. "saul among the prophets, eh?" he said. "this little rascal calls me saul, you know, mrs. grahame; caught me in a temper the other day, and set jack on me with his fiddle. ha! hum! why, i used to sing a little, duets and so forth, forty years ago. always fond of singing; fond of anything that has a tune to it, though i can't abide your dutch noises. where's your fiddle, jack?" jack had not brought his fiddle; but he whistled a scotch reel that colonel ferrers had not heard since before the flood, he said; and then hildegarde sang "young lochinvar," and so the pleasant moments went. by and by, when the dishes were burned (such a convenience are the paper dishes, removing the only unpleasant feature of a picnic, the washing of dishes or carrying home of dirty ones), and everything neatly packed away, hugh challenged hildegarde to a race down the hill and across the long meadow to the sunk wall beyond. jack claimed a place in the running, but the colonel insisted that he and merlin should give the others odds, as ostriches and quadrupeds had an unfair advantage over ordinary runners. mrs. grahame, after hunting in her reticule, produced a prize, a rouleau of chocolate; positions were taken, and colonel ferrers gave the signal--one, two, three, and away! away went hildegarde and the boy, jack holding merlin, who was frantic with impatience, and did not understand the theory of handicaps. as the first pair reached the bottom of the hill, the colonel again gave the signal, and the second two darted in pursuit. "away, away went auster like an arrow from the bow!" hildegarde was running beautifully, her head thrown back, her arms close at her sides; just behind her hugh's bright head bobbed up and down, as his little legs flew like a windmill. but jack ferrers really merited his name of the ostrich gentleman, as with head poked forward, arms flapping, and legs moving without apparent concert, he hurled himself down the hill at a most astonishing rate of speed. the colonel and mrs. grahame looked on with delight, when suddenly both uttered an exclamation and rose to their feet. what was it? from behind a clump of trees at a little distance beyond hildegarde, a large animal suddenly appeared. it had apparently been grazing, but now it stopped short, raised its head, and gazed at the two figures which came flying, all unconscious, towards it. "john bryan's bull!" cried mrs. grahame. "oh! colonel ferrers, the children! hildegarde!" "don't be alarmed, dear madam!" said the colonel hastily, seizing his stick. "remain where you are, i beg of you. i will have john bryan hanged to-morrow! meanwhile"--and he hastened down the hill, as rapidly as seventy years and a rheumatic knee would permit. but it was clear that whatever was to be done must be done quickly. hildegarde and hugh had seen the bull, and stopped. he was well known as a dangerous animal, and had once before escaped from his owner, a neighbouring farmer. mrs. grahame, faint with terror, saw little hugh, with a sudden movement, throw himself before hildegarde, who clasped her arms round him, and slowly and quietly began to move backwards. the bull uttered a bellow, and advanced, pawing the ground; at first slowly, then more and more rapidly as hildegarde increased her pace, till but a short distance intervened between him and the two helpless children. colonel ferrers was still a long way off. oh! for help! help! the bull bellowed again, lowered his huge head, and rushed forward. in a moment he would be upon them. suddenly--what was this? a strange object appeared, directly between the bull and his helpless victims. what was it? the bull stopped short, and glared at his new enemy. two long legs, like those of a man, but no body; between the legs a face, looking at him with fiery eyes. such a thing the bull had never seen. what was it? men he knew, and women, and children; knew and hated them, for they were like his master, who kept him shut up, and sometimes beat him. but this thing! what was it? the strange figure advanced steadily towards him; the bull retreated--stopped--bellowed--retreated again, shaking his head. he did not like this. suddenly the figure made a spring! turned upside down. the long legs waved threateningly in the air, and with an unearthly shriek the monster came whirling forward in the shape of a wheel. john bryan's bull turned and fled, as never bull fled before. snorting with terror, he went crashing through the woods, that wild shriek still sounding in his ears; and he never stopped till he reached his own barnyard, where john bryan promptly beat him and tied him up. hildegarde, pale and trembling, held out her hand as jack, assuming his normal posture, came forward. she tried to speak, but found no voice, and could only press his hand and look her gratitude. colonel ferrers, much out of breath, came up, and gave the lad's hand a shake that might almost have loosened his arm in the socket. "well done, lad!" he cried. "you are of the right stuff, after all, and you'll hear no more 'milksop' from me. where did you learn that trick? harry monmouth! the beast was frightened out of his boots! where did you learn it, boy?" "an englishman showed it to me," said jack modestly. "it's nothing to do, but it always scares them. how are you now, hildegarde? sit down, and let me bring you some water!" but hugh allen clasped the long legs of his deliverer, and cried joyously, "i knew he was a david! he is a double david now, isn't he, beloved?" "yes," said hildegarde, smiling again, as she turned to hasten up the hill to her mother, "but _i_ shall call him 'bonny dundee,' for he has won the hero's name." "it was the ostrich that won the day, though," said jack, looking at his legs. [illustration: over the jam pots.] chapter xiv. over the jam-pots. one bright september morning hildegarde was sitting in the dining-room, covering jam-pots. she had made the jam herself--peach marmalade it was, the best in the world, all golden-brown, like clear old amber--a day or two before, and now it was firm enough to cover. at her right hand was a pile of covers, thick white paper cut neatly in rounds, a saucer full of white of egg, another full of brandy, an inkstand and pen. at her left was an open book, and a large rosy apple. she worked away busily with deft fingers, only stopping now and then for a moment to nibble her apple. first a small cover wet in brandy, fitting neatly inside the jar; then a large cover brushed over with white of egg, which, when dry, would make the paper stiff, and at the same time fasten it securely round the jar. and all the time she was murmuring to herself, with an occasional glance at the volume beside her,-- "'sabrina fair, listen where thou art sitting, under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, in twisted braids of lilies knitting the loose train of thy amber-dropping hair. listen for dear honour's sake, goddess of the silver lake, listen and save! listen and appear to us, in name of great oceanus.'" here she stopped to write on several jars the paper on which was dry and hard; a bite at her apple, and she continued,-- "'by the earth-shaking neptune's crook'--" "no," glancing at the book. "why do i always get that wrong? "'by the earth-shaking neptune's _mace_, and tethys' grave majestic pace; by hoary nereus' wrinkled look, and the carpathian'--" at this moment a shadow fell on the table, as of some one passing by the window, and the next moment jack entered. "what are you doing?" he asked, after the morning greetings, sitting down and scowling at the unoffending jam-pots. "can't you come out in the garden? it's no end of a day, you know!" "no end?" said hildegarde. "then i shall have plenty of time, and i must finish my jam-pots in any case, and my poetry." "poetry? are you making it?" "only learning it. i like to learn bits when i am doing things of this sort. "'by leucothea's lovely hands, and her son that rules the strands'-- "wait just a moment, jack. i think i know it all now. "'by thetis' tinsel-slippered feet, and the songs of sirens sweet'-- isn't that lovely, jack?" "oh, yes," answered jack absently. "what _have_ you been doing here, hilda?" he was studying the jars that were already marked, and now read aloud,-- "'william the conqueror, his jam, .' "'peach marmalade. put up by hamlet, prince of denmark, for his own use.' "what an extraordinary girl you are, hildegarde!" "not at all extraordinary!" cried hildegarde, laughing and blushing. "why shouldn't i amuse myself? it hurts no one, and it amuses me very much." jack laughed, and went on,-- "'marmaladus crabappulis. c. j. cæsar fecit. jam satis.' "'crab-apple jelly. macbeth, banquo & co., limited.' "'peach marmalade. made by john grahame, viscount dundee. gold medal.' "this ought to be mine." "it shall be yours, greedy viscount. get a spoon and eat it at once, if you like." "thank you so much. i would rather take it home, if i may. i say, what is that brown stuff out on the porch, with mosquito netting over it? nothing very valuable, i hope?" "oh, _jack_!" cried hildegarde, springing up, "my peach leather! what have you--did you fall into it? oh, and i thought you were improving so much! i must go--" "no, don't go," said her cousin. "i--i only knocked down one plate. and--merlin was with me, you know, and i don't believe you would find any left. i am very sorry, hilda. can i make some more for you?" "i think not, my cousin. but no matter, if it is only one plate, for there are a good many, as you saw. only, do be careful when you go home, that's a good boy." "what is it, anyhow?" "why--you cook it with brown sugar, you know." "cook what? leather?" "oh, dear! the masculine mind is _so_ obtuse--peaches, o sacred bird of juno!" "the eagle?" "the goose. you really _must_ study mythology, jack. you cook the peaches with brown sugar, and then you rub them through a sieve,--it's a horrid piece of work!--and then spread them on plates, just as you saw them, and cover them to keep the flies off." "and leave long ends trailing to trip up your visitors." "one doesn't expect giraffes to make morning calls. so after a few days it hardens, if it has the luck to be left alone, and then you roll it up." "plates and all?" "of course! and sprinkle sugar over it, and it is really delicious. i might have given you that plate you knocked over, but now--" "it was the smallest, i remember." "and, jack, i made it all myself. no one else touched it. and all this marmalade, and three dozen pots of currant jelly, and four dozen of crab-apple." "sacred bird of juno!" ejaculated her cousin. "do you dare call _me_ a goose, sir?" "she drove peacocks, didn't she? i do know a _little_ mythology. "but, hildegarde, be serious now, will you? i'm in a peck of trouble, as biddy says. i want consolation, or advice, or something." "sit down, and tell me," said hildegarde, full of interest at once. jack sat down and drummed on the table, a thing that hildegarde had never been allowed to do. "i got a letter from daddy, yesterday," he said, after a pause. "herr geigen is going to germany now, in a week, and daddy says i may go if uncle tom is willing." "and he isn't willing?" hilda said. "oh!" jack got up and moved restlessly about the room, laying waste the chairs as he went. "willing? he only roars, and says, 'stuff and nonsense!' which is no answer, you know, hilda. if he would just say 'no,' quietly, i--well, of course you can make up your mind to stand a thing, and stand it. but he won't listen to me for five minutes. if he could realise--one can get as good an education at leipsic as at harvard. but his idea of germany is a country inhabited by a crazy emperor and a 'parcel of dutch fiddlers,' and by no one else. i shall have to give it up, i suppose." "oh, no!" cried hildegarde hopefully. "don't give it up yet. you know when mamma spoke to him, he didn't absolutely say 'no.' he said he would think about it. perhaps--she might ask him if he had thought about it. wait a day or two, at any rate, jack, before you write to your father. can you wait?" "oh, yes! but it won't make any difference. i suppose it's good for me. you say all trouble is good in the end. have you ever had any trouble, i wonder, hilda?" "my father!" said hildegarde, colouring. "forgive me!" cried her cousin. "i am a brute! an idiotic brute! what shall i do?" he said in desperation, seeing the tears in the girl's clear eyes. "it would do no good if i went and shot myself, or i would in a minute. you will forgive me, hilda?" "my dear, there is nothing to forgive!" said hildegarde, smiling kindly at him. "nothing at all. i shouldn't have minded--but--it is his birthday to-morrow," and the tears overflowed this time, while jack stood looking at her in silent remorse, mentally heaping the most frantic abuse upon himself. the tears were soon dried, however, and hildegarde was her cheerful self again. "you must go now," she said, "for i have all these jam-pots to put away, and it is nearly dinner-time. see! this jar of peach marmalade is for hugh, because he is fond of it. of course mrs. beadle can make it a great deal better, but he will like this because his purple maid made it. isn't he a darling, jack?" "yes, he's a little brick, certainly. uncle tom calls him the phoenix, and is more delighted with him every day. now _there's_ a boy who ought to go to harvard." "he will," said hildegarde, nodding sagely. "good-by, jack dear!" "it is very early. i don't see why i have to go so soon! can't i help you to put away the jam-pots?" "you can go home, my dear boy. good-by! i sha'nt forget--" "oh, good-by!" and jack flung off in half a huff, as auntie would have said. hildegarde looked after him thoughtfully. "how young he is!" she said to herself. "i wonder if boys always are. and yet he is two years older than i by the clock, if you understand what i mean!" she addressed the jam-pots, in grave confidence, and began to put them away in their own particular cupboard. chapter xv. at the brown cottage. hildegarde's mind was still full of her cousin and his future, as she sat that afternoon in mrs. lankton's kitchen, with her sewing-school around her. the brown cottage with the green door had been found the most central and convenient place for the little class, and it was an object of absorbing interest to mrs. lankton herself. she hovered about hildegarde and her scholars, predicting disease and death for one and another, with ghoulish joy. "your ma hadn't ought to let you come out to-day, marthy skeat. you warn't never rugged from the time you was a baby; teethin' like to have carried you off, and 'tain't too late now. there's wisdom teeth, ye know. well, it's none o' my business, but i hope your ma's prepared. good-mornin', miss grahame! i'm tellin' marthy skeat she ain't very likely to see long skirts, comin' out in this damp air. you're peart, are ye? that's right! ah! they can look peart as ain't had no troubles yet. i was jist like you oncet, miss grahame. i've had a sight o' trouble! no one don't know what i've ben through; don't know nothin' about it. you've fleshed up some since ye came here, ain't ye? well, they do flesh up that way sometimes, but 'tain't no good sign. there's measles about, too, they say." "how bright and pretty your plants are, mrs. lankton!" said hilda, trying to make a diversion. "no, jack!--i mean jenny! you will have to take that out again. see those long stitches! they look as if they were all running after each other, don't they? take them out, dear, and make me some nice, neat little stitches, stepping along quietly, as you do when you have on those new shoes you were telling me about. lizzie, i wonder what turns your thread so dark? see how white my seam is! what do you suppose is the matter with yours?" lizzie giggled and hung her head. "forgot to wash my hands!" she muttered. "that was a pity!" said hildegarde. "it spoils the looks of it, you see. i am sure mrs. lankton will let you wash your hands in that bright tin basin. vesta philbrook, where is your violin?" "ma'am?" said vesta philbrook, opening her mouth as wide as her eyes. "your thimble i mean, of course!" said hildegarde, blushing violently, and giving herself a mental shake. "now go to work, like a good girl. mary, here is the patchwork i promised you, already basted. see, a pink square, a blue square, a white one, and a yellow one. they are all pieces of my dresses, the dresses i wore last summer; and i thought you would like to have them for your quilt." "oh, thank you!" cried the child, delighted. "oh, ain't them pretty?" "handsome!" said mrs. lankton, peering over the child's shoulder. "them is handsome. ah! i pieced a quilt once, with nine hundred and ninety-nine pieces into it. good goods they was; i had good things then; real handsome calico, just like them. ah, i didn't know what trouble was when i was your age, children. wait till you've had lumbago, an' neurology, an' cricks in your necks so's't you can't stand straight, not for weeks together you can't, and your roof leakin', an' dreepin' all over yer bed, an'--" "why, mrs. lankton!" exclaimed hildegarde. "surely the roof is not leaking again, when it was all shingled this summer!" "not yet it ain't, dear!" sighed the widow. "but i'm prepared for it, and i don't expect nothin' else, after what i've been through. i was fleshy myself, once, though no one wouldn't think it to look at me." "i wonder, mrs. lankton," began hildegarde gently. "you may wonder, dear!" was the reply. "folks do wonder when they think what i've bean through. fleshy was no name for it. there! i was fairly corpilent when i was your age." "oh!" said hildegarde, in some confusion. "i meant--i am very thirsty, mrs. lankton, and if you _could_ give me a glass of your delicious water--" "suttingly!" exclaimed the widow with alacrity. "suttingly, miss grahame! i'll go right out and pump ye some. it _is_ good water," she admitted, with reluctant pride. "i've been expectin' it would dry up, right along, lately!" and she hastened out into the yard. "now, children," said hildegarde hastily, "i will go on with the story i began last time. 'so robert bruce was crowned king of scotland; and no sooner was he king than'--" by the time mrs. lankton returned with the water, every child was listening spellbound to the wonderful tale of bruce at the ford, and no one had an eye or an ear for the doleful widow, save hildegarde, whose "thank you!" and quick glance of gratitude lightened for a moment the gloom of her hostess's countenance. so deep were teacher and pupils in bruce and patchwork that none of them heard the sound of wheels, or the sudden cessation of it outside the door, till mrs. lankton exclaimed with tragic unction: "it is colonel ferrers! driving hisself, and his hoss all of a sweat. i hope he ain't the bearer of bad news, but i should be prepared, if i was you, miss grahame. poor child! what would you do if your ma was took?" hildegarde hastened to the door, but was instantly reassured by the old gentleman's cheery smile. "why did you move?" he said. "i stopped on purpose to have a look at you, with your flock of doves around you. hilda and the doves, hey? you remember? 'marble faun!' yes, yes! but since you have moved, shall i drive you home, miss industry?" hildegarde glanced at the clock. "our time is over," she said to the children. "yes, colonel ferrers, thank you! i should enjoy the drive very much indeed. can you wait perhaps five minutes?" the colonel could and would; and hildegarde returned to see that all work was neatly folded and put away. "and, annie, here is the receipt i promised you. be sure to mix the meal thoroughly, and have a good hot oven, and you will find them very nice indeed, and your mother will be so pleased at your making them yourself!" "vesta, did you try the honey candy?" "yes, 'm! 'twas dretful good. my little brother, he like t'ha' died, he eat so much." "dear me!" exclaimed hilda, rather alarmed at this result of her neat little plan of teaching the children something about cookery, without their finding out that they were being taught. "but you must see to it, vesta, that he doesn't eat too much. that is one of the things an elder sister is for, you know. "now, whose turn is it to sweep up the threads and scraps? yours, euleta? well, see how careful you can be! not a thread must be left on mrs. lankton's clean floor, you know." soon all was in order, workbags put away, hats and bonnets tied on; and hildegarde came out with her doves about her, all looking as if they had had a thoroughly good time. with many affectionate farewells to "teacher," the children scattered in different directions, and colonel ferrers chirruped to the brown cob, which trotted briskly away over the smooth road. the colonel was deeply interested in the sewing-school. hester aytoun had had one for the village children, and there had been none from her death until now. he asked many questions, which hildegarde answered with right good will. they were dear children, she said. she was getting to know them very well, for she tried to see them in their homes once a fortnight, and found they liked to have her come, and looked forward to it. some of them were very bright; not all, of course, but they all _tried_, and that was the great thing. yes, she told them all the stories they wanted, and they wanted a great many. [illustration: "he gave me a lunge in quart."] "speaking of stories," said the colonel, "i find i have work laid out for the rest of _my_ life." "hugh?" said hildegarde, smiling. "most astonishing child i ever saw in my life!" the colonel cried. "most amazing child! to see how he flings himself on books is a wonder. i don't let him keep at 'em long, you understand. a brain like that needs play, sir, play! i've bought him a little foil, and--harry monmouth! he gave me a lunge in quart that almost broke my guard, last night. but stories! 'more about kings, please, sire!'--he's got a notion of calling me sire--ho! ho! can't get saul out of his head, d'ye see? i feel like charlemagne, or barbarossa, or some of 'em. 'more about kings when they were in battle.' he's learned 'agincourt' by heart, just from my reading it to him. 'fair stood the wind for france,' hey? finest ballad in the english language. says you read it to him, too. and if i am busy he goes to elizabeth beadle and frightens her out of her wits with sentences out of the lamentations of jeremiah. now this boy--mark me, hildegarde!--will turn out something very uncommon, if he has the right training. that scoundrelly knave, ephraim loftus, wanted to make a gentleman of him! ho! ephraim doesn't know how a gentleman's shoes look, unless he has been made acquainted with the soles of them. i kicked him myself once, i remember, for beating a horse unmercifully. this boy will be a great scholar, mark my words! and whatever assistance i can give him shall be cheerfully given. why, the lad has genius! positive genius!" "oh!" said hildegarde, her heart beating fast. "then you think, colonel ferrers, that a--a person should be educated for what seems to be his natural bent. do you think that?" "harry monmouth! of course i do! look at me! d'ye think i was fitted for a mercantile life, for example? never got algebra through my head, and hate figures. the army was what i was born for! born for it, sir! shouldered my pap-spoon in the cradle, and presented arms whenever i was taken up. ho! ho! ho!" hildegarde began to tremble, but her courage did not fail. "and--and jack, dear colonel ferrers," she said softly. "he was born for music, was he not?" the colonel turned square round, and gazed at her from under brows that met over his hooked nose. "what then?" he said slowly, after a pause. "if my nephew was born for a fiddler, what then, miss hildegarde grahame? is it any reason why he should not be trained for something better? i like the boy's playing very well, very well indeed, when he keeps clear of dutch discords. but you would not compare playing the fiddle with the glorious art of war, i imagine?" "not for an instant!" cried hildegarde, flushing deeply under the colonel's half-stern, half-quizzical gaze. "compare music, lovely music, that cheers and comforts and delights all the world, with fierce, cruel, dreadful war? look at jack, with his mind full of beautiful harmonies and--and 'airs from heaven'--they really are! making us laugh or cry, or dance or exult, just by the motion of his hand. look at him, and then imagine him in a red coat, with a gun in his hand--" "red is the british colour," said the colonel. "well, a blue coat, then. what difference does it make?--a gun in his hand, shooting people who never did him any harm, whose faces he had never even seen. oh, colonel ferrers, i would not have believed it of you!" "and who asked you to believe it of me, pray?" asked the colonel, as he drove up to the door of braeside. "to tell the truth, young lady, war is very much more in your line than in my nephew's. harry monmouth! bellona in person, i verily believe. my compliments to your mother, and say i shall call her madam althæa in future, for she has brought forth a firebrand." instantly hildegarde's ruffled plumes drooped, smoothed themselves down; instead of the flashing gaze of the eagle, a dove-like look now met the quizzical gaze of the old gentleman. "dear colonel ferrers!" this hypocritical girl murmured, as, standing on the verandah steps, she laid her hand gently on his arm. "thank you so _very_ much for driving me home. you are always so kind--to me! and--and--i want to ask one question. can you tell me the first lines of dryden's 'song for st. cecilia's day'?" "of course!" said the simple colonel. "'from harmony, from heavenly harmony, this universal frame began.' why do you--oh! you youthful circe! you infant medea, you--" he shook his whip threateningly. "good-by, dear colonel ferrers!" cried hildegarde. "i am so glad you remembered the lines. aren't they beautiful? good-by!" chapter xvi. good-by! "i have come to say good-by!" cried jack ferrers, rushing up the steps, as hildegarde was sitting on the piazza, with hugh curled up at her feet. "uncle tom will come for me with the wagon. oh, hilda, it doesn't seem possible, does it? it is too good to be true! and it is all your doing, every bit. i sha'n't forget it. i say! i wish you were coming too!" "oh, no, you don't!" said hildegarde, speaking lightly, though her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright with real feeling. "you would send me back by express, labelled 'troublesome baggage.' "dear old jack! you know how glad i am, without my saying it. but, oh! how we shall miss you! your uncle--" "oh! hugh will take care of uncle tom, won't you, hugh? hugh suits him down to the ground--i beg pardon, i mean through and through, and they will have fine times together." "i will try!" said the child. "but we shall be like a pelican in the wilderness, i am afraid." "you go straight home now?" hildegarde asked. "straight home! five days with daddy--bless him! and then he goes to new york with me, and sees me off. oh! see here!" he began fumbling in his pockets. "i have a keepsake for you. i--of course you know i haven't any money, hilda, or i would have bought you something; but uncle tom gave it to me on purpose to give to you; so it's partly from him, too. here it is! it belonged to our great-grandmother, he says." such a lovely ring! a star of yellow diamonds set on a hoop of gold. hildegarde flushed with delight. "oh, jack! how kind of him! how dear of you! oh! what an exquisite thing! i shall wear it always." "and--i say! how well it looks on your hand! i never noticed before what pretty hands you have, hilda. you are the prettiest girl i ever saw, altogether." "and rose?" asked hildegarde, smiling. jack blushed furiously. he had fallen deeply in love with rose's photograph, and had been in the habit of gazing at it for ten or fifteen minutes every day for the past fortnight, ever since it arrived. "that's different!" he said. "she is an angel, if the picture is like her." "it isn't half lovely enough!" cried loyal hildegarde. "not half! you don't see the blue of her eyes, or her complexion, just like 'a warm white rose.' oh! you _would_ love her, jack!" "i--i rather think i do!" jack confessed. "you might let me have the photograph, hildegarde." but this hildegarde wholly refused to do. "i have something much more useful for you!" she said; and, running into the house, she brought out a handkerchief-case of linen, daintily embroidered, containing a dozen fine hemstitched handkerchiefs. "i hemstitched them myself," she said; "the peacock still spreads its tail, you observe. and--see! on one side of the case are forget-me-nots--that is my flower, you know; and on the other are roses. i take credit for putting the roses on top." "dear hilda!" cried her cousin, giving her hand a hearty shake. "what a good fel--what a jolly girl you are! you ought," he added shyly, "to marry the best man in the world, and i hope you will." "i mean to," said hildegarde, laughing, with a happy light in her eyes. hildegarde had never seen her "fairy prince, with joyful eyes, and lighter-footed than the fox"; but she knew he would come in good time. she knew, too, very much what he was like,--a combination of amyas leigh, sir richard grenville, dundee, and montrose, with a dash of the cid, and a strong flavour of bayard, the constancy of william the silent, the kindness of scott, and the eyes of edwin booth. some day he would come, and find his maiden waiting for him. meantime, it was so very delightful to have jack fall in love with rose. if--she thought, and on that "if" rose many a spanish castle, fair and lofty, with glittering pinnacle and turret. but she had not the heart to tell jack of the joyful news she had just received, dared not tell him of the letter in her pocket which said that this dearest rose was coming soon, perhaps this very week, to make her a long, long visit. if she could only have come earlier! but now jack was taking his violin out of his box. "where is your mother?" he said. "this is my own, this present for you both. it is 'farewell to braeside!'" hildegarde flew to call her mother, and met her just coming downstairs. "jack has composed a farewell for us," she cried. "all for us, mamma! come!" farewell! the words seemed to breathe through the lovely melody, as the lad played softly, sweetly, a touch of sadness underlying the whole. "farewell! farewell! parting is pain, is pain, but love heals the wound with a touch. love flies over land and sea, bringing peace, peace, and good tidings and joy." then the theme changed, and a strain of triumph, of exultation, made the air thrill with happiness, with proud delight. the girl and her mother exchanged glances. "this is his work, his life!" said their eyes. and the song soared high and higher, till one fine, exquisite note melted like a skylark into the blue; then sinking gently, gently, it flowed again into the notes of the farewell,-- "parting is pain, is pain, but love is immortal." both women were in tears when the song died away, and jack's own eyes were suspiciously bright. "my dear boy," said mrs. grahame, wiping her eyes, "i do believe you are going to a life of joy and of well-earned triumph. i do heartily believe it." "it is all hilda's doings," said jack, "and yours. all hilda's and yours, aunt mildred. i shall not forget." here hugh, who had been listening spellbound, asked suddenly, "what was the name of the boat which the gentleman who begins with o made to go swiftly over the sea when he played with his hand?" "the _argo_, dear," said hildegarde. "it is that boat _he_ should go in," nodding to jack. "it would leap like an unicorn, wouldn't it, if he played those beautiful things which he just played?" and now colonel ferrers drove up to the door, with the brown cob and the yellow wagon. the last words were said; the precious violin was carefully stowed under the seat. jack kissed mrs. grahame warmly, and exchanged with hildegarde a long, silent pressure of the hand, in which there was a whole world of kindness and affection and comradeship. boys and girls can be such _good_ friends, if they only know how! "boot and saddle!" cried the colonel. "good-by!" cried the lad, springing into the wagon. "good-by! don't forget the ostrich gentleman!" "good-by, dear jack!" "god bless you, my dear lad! good-by!" and the wheels went crashing over the gravel. at the end of the driveway the colonel checked his horse for a moment before turning into the main road. "look back, boy," he said. jack looked, and saw hildegarde and her mother standing on the verandah with arms entwined, gazing after them with loving looks. the girl's white-clad figure and shining locks were set in a frame of hanging vines and creepers; her face was bright with love and cheer. the slender mother, in her black dress, seemed to droop and lean towards her; on the other side the child clasped her hand with fervent love and devotion. "my boy," said colonel ferrers, "take that picture with you wherever you go. you will see many places and many people, good and bad, comely and ill-favoured; but you will see no sight so good as that of a young woman, lovely and beloved, shining in the doorway of the home she makes bright." * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious punctuation errors repaired. witch winnie's mystery [illustration] witch winnie's mystery or the old oak cabinet _the story of a king's daughter_ by elizabeth w. champney author of "witch winnie," "vassar girls abroad," etc. with illustrations by c. d. gibson and j. wells champney. new york dodd, mead and company publishers copyright, , by dodd, mead & company. _all rights reserved._ contents. chapter page introduction, i. the first escapade of the season, ii. the cabinet, iii. the robbery, iv. trouble in the amen corner, v. l. mudge, detective, vi. halloween tricks, vii. a state of "dreadfulness," viii. in the meshes of a golden net, ix. "polo," x. the catacomb party xi. a false scent, xii. the inter-scholastic games, xiii. polo is shadowed, xiv. the clouds part, xv. the old cabinet tells its story, xvi. the mystery disclosed, introduction. for those who have not read the first volume of this series, "witch winnie, the story of a king's daughter." we four girls, adelaide armstrong, milly roseveldt, emma jane anton, nellie smith, had been chums at boarding school. (let it here be explained that although my name is nellie, i am never called anything but tib by my friends.) we occupied a little suite of apartments in the tower, consisting of a small study parlor from which opened two double bedrooms and one single one. our family was called the amen corner, because our initials, arranged as an acrostic, spelled the word amen, and because we were a set of little pharisees, prigs, and "digs," not particularly admired by the rest of the school, but exceedingly virtuous and preternaturally perfect in our own estimation. this was our status at the beginning of our first school year together, and the change that came over us, owing to the introduction into our circle of witch winnie, the greatest scape-grace in the most mischief-making set of the school, the "queen of the hornets," has already been told. a quieting, earnest influence acted upon winnie, and a natural, merry-hearted love of fun reacted on us, and we were all the better for the companionship. the greatest practical result outside the change in our own characters was the formation, by the uniting of the "amen corner" and the "hornets," of a ten of king's daughters, who founded the home of the elder brother, for little children. this institution was adopted by our parents, who formed themselves into a board of managers, but left much of the working of the enterprise in our hands.[ ] the home prospered during the first year of its existence in a truly wonderful manner. it was undenominational and unendowed. no rich church or wealthy man stood behind it. it was entirely dependent on the efforts of a few young girls, and on the voluntary subscriptions of benevolent people. but it grew day by day. little ripples of influence widened out from our circle to others. during the vacation our ten separated, and at each of their homes they formed other tens, who worked for the same object. every one who visited the home was interested in its plan of work, which was to help the poor without pauperizing them; to aid struggling women whose husbands had died, or were in hospitals or prisons, and who could have no homes of their own, by providing them with a substitute for the baby farming, so extensively carried on in the tenement districts, by offering them, on the same low terms, a sweet and wholesome shelter for their little ones. some wondered why we charged these poor women anything; why the _half_ charity was not made a free gift. but wiser philanthropists saw the superior kindness of this demand. the women whom we wished to aid were not beggars, but that worthy, struggling class who, overburdened, but still desperately striving, must sink in the conflict unless helped, but who still wished to do all in their power for their children, and brought the small sum asked for their board with a proud and happy self-respect. [ ] this home is a truthful picture of one really founded by a band of little girls--the messiah home, at rutherford place, stuyvesant square, new york, which is aided in its good work by different circles of king's daughters. one of our own members, emma jane anton, on graduating at madame's, became matron of the home, assisted by dear miss prillwitz, formerly our teacher of botany, from whose heart this beautiful thought had blossomed. the home was just across the park from the school building and we frequently visited it; but though we were all deeply interested in this sweet charity, it did not interfere with our studies or with a great deal of girlish, innocent fun. since winnie had become my room-mate we had lost much of the prestige which was formerly the boast of the amen corner, and after emma jane left the little single room, madame, feeling that our influence had done much for winnie, sent another of the "hornets" into our midst. we had accepted and adopted winnie with all our hearts, for her many lovable qualities, and above all for her genuine good fellowship and affectionate nature, but cynthia vaughn was a very different character. there was nothing but enjoyable fun in any of winnie's tricks; cynthia's were mean and malicious. we never liked her, and she openly showed her scorn of winnie and of me, while she fawned in a hypocritical manner, striving to ingratiate herself with aristocratic adelaide and with gentle milly, who was the wealthiest girl at madame's. we were no longer the best behaved set in school, and an acrostic formed from our initials could not now be made to spell anything; but the name "amen corner" clung to the little apartment, and madame still looked upon us with favor. she knew that adelaide and milly, winnie and i, were all, beneath our mischief, true-hearted, earnest girls, and she charitably hoped for great improvement in cynthia. there was one person who did not believe in us--miss noakes, our corridor teacher. she believed that winnie was filled with all iniquity and that adelaide was far too attractive to be allowed the confidence which madame reposed in her. it was miss noakes's great grievance that she could never discover the least approach to a flirtation in adelaide's conduct. i believe that she fairly gloated with anticipated triumph when madame engaged a handsome young artist to take charge of our art department, and that from this time she watched and peeped and listened with an industry which would have done credit to a better cause. she seemed to argue that as no lover of the beautiful could fail to appreciate adelaide's beauty, therefore our artist must admire adelaide, and in this deduction she was not far from the truth, but she ought not to have taken it for granted that adelaide must be equally pleased with her admirer. how her espionage tracked us through several innocent tricks and capers, and was finally foiled by our beloved winnie; how the great mystery of the robbery for a time brought doubt and suspicion between four dear friends who would, and did, go through fire and water for one another; and how, in spite of doubt and jealousy and trouble, our love and devotion for one another: burned brightly and steadily on to the end of the school year, and into the life beyond--this little book will tell. that the events which i am about to relate may be better understood, i subjoin a plan of the "amen corner." [illustration: plan of the =amen corner=] witch winnie's mystery. chapter i. the first escapade of the season. [illustration] "girls!" winnie exclaimed excitedly as we entered our study parlor after recitation, "i am wild with curiosity to know what they are doing in the hospital. all the morning, while i have been trying to study, there has been the greatest thumping and bumping going on in there. i wonder whether they are chaining down an insane patient, or if the ghostly nurses are having a war dance." "why didn't you look and see?" cynthia vaughn asked, pointing to the transom over a locked door, which formerly opened from our parlor into the hospital ward. madame had made abundant provision for sickness in the original arrangement of the school building. a large sky-lighted room had been set apart as an infirmary, and a little suite of rooms in the great tower adjoining as the physician's quarters. but it was rare indeed that any one was ill at madame's, and when a pupil was taken sick, her parents usually took her home at once. so the doctor, having nothing to do but to hear the recitations in physiology, preferred not to reside in the school building, and the pretty suite of rooms, consisting of a parlor and three bedrooms, was assigned to us, and the hospital proper was used as a trunk room. winnie always maintained that ghosts of medical students experimented there in the night watches on imaginary cases of vivisection, that corpses were embalmed, and shrieks and howls were to be heard, in the wee small hours, while phantom lights fumed blue on the other side of the transom, and sickly odors of ether and other drugs penetrated through the keyhole. we all laughed at winnie's phantasms, but there were none of us so brave as to care to visit that room after nightfall. the trunks looked too much like coffins, and there were dresses of madame's sewed up in bags made of sheets, and suspended from the roof, which had the uncanny look of corpses of people who had hanged themselves. it was broad daylight now, and we were not at all nervous, and cynthia remarked scornfully, "winnie has told us so many of her bug-a-boo stories that she has come to actually believe in them herself. she dare not for her life look through that transom to see what occasions the noise in the hospital." "you dare me to do it?" winnie asked, confronting cynthia with flashing eyes. "don't, winnie," i pled. "we have no right to peep." winnie hesitated. "i told you so," cynthia said provokingly. "she dares not look. it is only a lumber room. the noise was probably made by some cat chasing a rat around." "it would take a whole army of cats to make the noises i have heard," winnie replied hotly, at the same time rolling adelaide's great saratoga trunk in front of the door. "there it goes again!" and as a loud hammering re-echoed through the adjoining room, she sprang upon the trunk. the transom was still too high for her to reach. "quick, girls, something else," she exclaimed, and milly dragged the "commissary department" from its retirement under my bed. the "commissary" was a small, old-fashioned trunk, which had belonged to my great-grandmother. it was covered with cow-skin, the hair only partially worn off, and studded with brass-headed nails which formed the initials of my ancestors. it was lined with newspapers bearing the date , and was altogether a very quaint and curious relic. its chief interest to us, however, lay in the fact that it had come to us from my home filled with all the good things that a farm can produce and a mistakenly soft-hearted mother send. there were mince pies and pickles, a great wedge of cheese, a box of honey, pounds of maple-sugar, tiny sausages, a great fruitcake, jars of pickled peaches, ginger snaps, walnuts and chestnuts, pop-corn and molasses candy, and what milly called the _interstixes_ were filled in with delicious doughnuts. it was a treasure house of richness upon which we revelled in the night after the gas was turned out and we all met in our nightgowns, and formed a semicircle sitting on the floor around the register, while winnie told the most deliciously frightful ghost and robber stories. then, it was that the "commissary" yielded up its contraband stores and we ate, and shivered, partly with cold and partly with delightful terror inspired by the rehearsal of legends for which winnie ransacked, during the day, the pages of the detective vidocq and poe's prose tales. then if a mouse did but squeak in the deserted hospital ward, or the shuffle of miss noakes's slippers was heard in the corridor outside, we all scuttled incontinently to our beds, and winnie snored loudly, while milly buried her head beneath the blankets. miss noakes occupied a large room opposite the hospital. she was a disagreeable, prowling teacher and we had nicknamed her _snooks_. the "commissary" being now carefully poised upon the curved top of adelaide's trunk, winnie mounted upon it, and found that it was exactly what was needed, as it brought her face just on a level with the transom. "o girls!" she exclaimed, "the trunks are all gone, and they are making the room over into a studio. and that handsome man that sat at madame's table yesterday at dinner is in there hanging pictures. i wonder if he is an artist and is going to teach us. my! he is looking this way," and winnie crouched suddenly. the movement was a careless one, and the commissary slid down the sloping cover of the trunk upon which it rested, striking the door with its end like a battering-ram, and with such force that the rusted lock yielded, and the commissary, with winnie seated upon it, swept forward, like a toboggan, far into the center of the hospital. it was strange that winnie was not hurt, but she was not; and before the astonished artist could quite comprehend what had happened, she had picked herself up, scampered back into our room, and we had closed the door behind her, and were fastening it to the best of our ability by tying the knob to adelaide's trunk by means of a piece of clothes-line which had formerly served to cord the commissary. at first we laughed long and merrily over the adventure, but by degrees its serious aspects were appreciated. in the first place, milly suggested dolorously that the commissary had fallen into the hands of the enemy, while cynthia vaughn drew attention to the fact of the broken lock. "however you girls will explain that to madame is more than i know," she remarked maliciously. "_you_ girls!" winnie repeated indignantly, "as if you were not as much concerned in it as any of us." "indeed," cynthia exclaimed scornfully, "if i remember rightly, it was milly who brought the commissary from its retirement, tib who balanced it so judiciously, and winnie who dawned so unceremoniously on that strange man in the other room. i had absolutely nothing to do with the affair." "you were the instigator of it all," i retorted hotly. "if you had not dared winnie to do it she would never have tried to look in." "that is like you, tib," cynthia replied icily, "to get into a scrape and then lay the blame on some one else." "i take all the blame," winnie exclaimed loftily. "if inquisition is ever made into this affair, i and i alone am responsible," and then she uttered a little shriek and scampered into her own bedroom, for some one was knocking at the door, which we had just attempted to fasten. "who is there?" i asked, with as much boldness as i could muster; "and what do you want?" "i am carrington waite, the new professor of art, and i would like to return property which has been most unexpectedly introduced into my studio, unless it is possible that the articles to which i refer were intended as a donation." we all laughed at this sally, and made haste to unfasten the door, whereupon professor waite handed in the commissary. he had a pleasant face, and there was a merry twinkle in his eye as he said: "i tried to bundle everything in, but the trunk collided with my box of colors, and you may find rose madder in your jam, while the pickle jar actually seemed to explode, and showered pickles all over the studio. i have no doubt i shall find them along the cornice when i hang the pictures on that side of the room. the doughnuts, too, flew in every direction. some rolled under the cabinets, and a mince pie applied itself like a plaster to the back of my neck. a bottle of tomato catsup was emptied on one of my canvases, and made a fine impressionistic study of a sunset. i am afraid i stepped on the cheese, but i believe everything else is all right." he looked about him with interest, and asked, "where is the heroine who performed this astonishing acrobatic feat? i trust she was not hurt. it must have been a thrilling experience. is it a customary form of exercise with you young ladies?" we did not deign to reply to these questions, but i opened the commissary and offered the artist some of our choicest dainties. he accepted our largess, and retired with polite invitations for us to be "neighborly" and "to call again." "not in just that way," i replied, and i entreated him, if possible, to repair the broken lock. he examined it carefully. "i am afraid," he said, "that it will require a locksmith to do it thoroughly, but i can make it look all right, and you can screw a little bolt on your side which will fasten the door securely." we thanked him and he was about to close the door, when adelaide, who was the only one of our circle who had not had a part in the escapade, entered the room hastily from the corridor. "o girls," she exclaimed--but stopped suddenly as she caught sight of the open door and the young artist. at first her face showed only blank surprise, then, as she told herself that this must be a joke of winnie's, who was fond of masquerading in costume, she remarked with dignity. "really, this is quite too childish; where did you ever get that absurd costume? you look too ridiculous for anything----" cynthia vaughn shrieked with laughter. the artist bowed, but colored to the roots of his hair and closed the door, while milly threw her arms around adelaide, laughing hysterically, winnie appeared from behind her door also laughing, and i vainly attempted to explain matters. "what a mortifying situation," adelaide remarked, when she finally understood the case. "i must apologize for my rudeness, and i am sure i would rather put my hand in boiling water than speak to that man." "i am sure i only wish that i may never see him again," said winnie. "nothing in this world could induce me to join the painting class, and if there is one thing that i am profoundly grateful for, it is that i have no talent for art." chapter ii. the cabinet. [illustration] winnie's queer toboggan ride was innocent enough in itself but it brought in its train many unforeseen circumstances, chief among which was the affair of the old oak cabinet. this cabinet stood in our study parlor, in the corner diagonally opposite the door leading into the new studio, and was used as a depository of the funds of all the occupants of the amen corner. the cabinet was always left locked and there was but one key to it, which was kept in the match-box, well covered with matches. only we five knew its hiding place, or the fact that the cabinet was used as a bank. we had agreed that it was best to keep this a secret among ourselves--and it was so kept until the day after the robbery, weeks after winnie's escapade. we intended to follow professor waite's advice and buy a bolt for the door, but what was everybody's business was nobody's business, and whenever we went shopping there were so many errands that we forgot it, or some other girl, or one of the teachers was with us, and it would have been embarrassing to explain why the bolt was needed. the door, as has been explained, opened outward from our parlor into the studio. professor waite had placed a heavy carved chest against it on his side, so that there was no danger of its flying open, and we had uncorded the knob and rolled adelaide's trunk back to her bedroom. no one occupied the studio at night, and, though i spent several hours there during the day, i always entered the room by its corridor door, and we never thought when we locked our own corridor door at night how easily any one so minded could push aside the chest and enter our apartment from the studio. that the contents of the old oak cabinet on the night of the robbery may be understood, an explanation of the finances of the different occupants of the amen corner is possibly now in order. adelaide's father and mother had gone west for the winter. mr. armstrong was an able financier, and he wished to make adelaide a thorough business woman. she was eighteen years old and she might be a great heiress some day, if his wealth continued to accumulate, and he wished to accustom her to the management of money. he had given her the year before a model tenement house, built after the most approved principles, on the site of richetts' court, previously occupied by one of the worst tenement houses in the city. the new building contained accommodations for ten families; the sanitation was perfect; there were no dark rooms, but bath rooms, fire escapes, and provision for every necessity. a good janitor, stephen trimble, occupied the lower apartment and looked after the order and comfort of the building, and every month adelaide, attended by one of the teachers, went down and personally collected her rents, and listened to the complaints and requests of her tenants. there were few of either, and as a general rule the pay was prompt, for the rent was low, and adelaide did all she could to oblige her tenants, having a small drying room built for the laundress, mrs. mccarthy, who had contracted rheumatic fever from hanging out her wash on the roof and so exposing herself to the icy winds, when over-heated from the steaming tubs. adelaide had no stringent rules against pets. she caused kennels to be built in the court for several pet dogs, and added some blossoming plants to mrs. blumenthal's small conservatory in the sunny south window. noticing that the morettis were fond of art, and had pasted cigarette pictures on their walls and driven nails to suspend some gaudy prints of the virgin and saints, she had a narrow moulding with picture hooks placed just under the ceiling in every sitting-room. she patronized all their small industries as far as it was in her power, and interested her friends in them; having her boots made by the little shoemaker on the top floor, who was really a good workman, but had been turned away from a prominent firm, as they had cut down their list of employees. her underclothing was made by the little seamstress on the third floor back. she gave each of her tenants a thanksgiving dinner and a substantial present on christmas day, and only allowed those to be evicted whose flagrant misbehaviour showed that nothing could be done for them. from the income of this building her father had insisted that adelaide must pay all her expenses. as madame's boarding school was a fashionable one, the margin left, after the payment of tuition, to be divided between dress and charity, was not very large. mr. armstrong knew that adelaide's weakness was a love for beautiful clothing; that she delighted in sumptuous velvets, in the sheen of satin, and the shimmer of gauze. her regal beauty would not have been over-powered by a queen's toilette, but she adorned the simplest costume, and set the fashion in hats for the school season. mr. armstrong also knew that adelaide was very tender of heart, and that if left entirely to herself she would gladly have opened the doors of her tenement house freely to unscrupulous and undeserving people; that she would have easily credited every woeful story, and have remitted rents when it would have been no real kindness to do so. he therefore pitted these two weaknesses against each other. "we will see what comes of it at the close of the year," he said. "she may become a grinding, close-fisted proprietress, screwing the last possible dollar out of the poor to lavish it on her own personal adornment, but i hope better things of adelaide than that. it would be more like her, i think, to go to the opposite extreme--dress like an ursuline nun and take nothing from her tenants; but let us hope that she may be able to strike the golden mean." it was a hard thing to do, and adelaide went without a new winter cloak until nearly christmas time, waiting for the morettis to pay up an arrearage; and only consented to the turning out of a shiftless family who occupied the best apartment, and were three months behind hand, because the tuition for the first term at madame's would be due in a few days, and a respectable wood engraver offered to pay two months in advance. it was hard, because she did not wish to spend all the money on herself. she was as interested as any of us in the home of the elder brother, and longed to contribute more generously to it; but since these poor people were her tenants, they were in some sense her own family, and she felt that charity began at home. often i know that adelaide denied herself as really, in not being more lenient, as her tenants did to scrape together their monthly rental. she was a generous girl to her friends, and before her father had made this arrangement she deluged us all with her presents. milly, who had unlimited credit at several stores, kept up this pernicious custom of lavishly giving presents of flowers and candies. it was hard for winnie and me, who were in moderate circumstances, not to return them, but doubly so for adelaide--who entreated her to desist, as we all did, but without avail. milly was incorrigible. "you don't seem to understand," winnie said to her at christmas time, "that the receipt of a gift which one cannot return in kind is a bitter pill to a sensitive nature." "no," replied milly, "i don't understand anything of the sort. adelaide always translates my cæsar for me. you help me with my algebra, and tib as good as writes my compositions. i couldn't return any of those favors '_in kind_,' and they are pills that are not the least bit bitter to me----" "it's of no use, adelaide," laughed winnie, "we must let milly have her own way. it is such a pleasure to milly to give that we will sacrifice our own feelings and bear the infliction." mr. armstrong had given adelaide an old oak cabinet, beautifully carved in the style of the italian renaissance of the fifteenth century, with architectural columns, caryatides, scroll work, and arabesques. the upper cupboard of this cabinet was used as a strong box to hold the funds of our little circle. the interior was divided into pigeon holes and shelves, and the door was provided with a curious key with a delicate wrought-iron handle. adelaide had given each of us a compartment in this little safe, but when its entire contents were counted there was rarely much money kept here, for adelaide had a bank account, and after collecting her rents usually deposited them at the bank before returning to school, paying all her debts by cheque. milly, as before explained, had her running accounts charged to her father,--a book at arnold's, at the florist's, the confectioner's, the dressmaker's, stationer's, etc.,--but her supply of ready cash was never equal to demand, and though she could telephone for a messenger and order a coupé at any time, she was always in debt to the other girls, and i have frequently lent her postage stamps and paid her car fare. mr. roseveldt had a horror of entrusting funds to young girls with no limitation of the way in which they were to be spent; he felt that in looking over the shop-keeper's accounts he knew exactly how much milly expended, and for what the money went. but his plan was a mistaken one; and the perfect freedom which adelaide enjoyed was training her in a sense of responsibility, while milly was becoming unscrupulous as to waste, where waste was encouraged, and frequently ordered a coupé when the street car would have done just as well, or rang for a messenger to save a postage stamp. winnie and i, the two poorer girls, were the ones who usually had money in the safe. winnie received a moderate allowance from her father outside of her tuition, which he sent directly to madame. as soon as the cheque arrived, she cashed it and placed the new, crisp bills in separate envelopes labelled, "personal expenses," "charity." she was very generous, but she had a horror of debt, and she never expended the funds in the latter envelope until she had received another remittance. as winnie abhorred sweets, and would rather any day have gone to the dentist's than the dressmaker's, and as she had a supreme contempt for display of any kind, the charity envelope was always full, and she had usually a comfortable margin in personal expenditure to lend or bestow on others. winnie had always been generous, but this quality of foresight had only come to her during the past year in her work as a member of the finance committee of the home of the elder brother. my own case was different from that of the others. my father was a long island farmer, and my allowance, though meagre as related to my necessities, was liberal when compared with his own income. miss sartoris, madame's former drawing teacher, had boarded with us one summer, during which i had sketched with her, and she had persuaded father that i possessed a talent for art and had taken me back with her to madame's. so far i had easily led all the art students, and my studies, although abounding in faults, presumptuous and immature, were considered by the school as something quite remarkable. during the past summer a young man of engaging address, and otherwise irreproachable honesty, had stolen our beloved teacher, and miss sartoris, now mrs. stillman, was known to madame's no more. when the school reorganized in the fall, madame engaged me to take charge of the art department, temporarily, until she could provide herself with a more competent instructor. we had a small, crowded studio, with a poor light, but the class was large. i did the best i could, but we sorely needed ampler accommodations, and a head whose ability in his profession should be unquestioned. both were now provided. carrington waite was a young artist fresh from the _Ã�cole des beaux arts_ at paris, and he brought to us the training traditions of the schools, and the latest european ideas in art. there were very few girls in the school sufficiently advanced to understand his instruction, but they flocked into the studio and listened with undisguised admiration to words that might as well have been uttered in an unknown tongue. poor little milly gazed at him in a rapt, adoring way, without ever comprehending what he said. the tears came to her eyes and rolled swiftly down her cheeks when he told her that it was manifestly absurd to draw a full face seen from the front with its nose in profile, but she smiled a brave little quiver of a smile while he reviled her work, and thanked him as though he had uttered the most fulsome compliments. even winnie had felt the wave of influence and joined the class in spite of her assertion that she had no taste for art and never wished to see professor waite again. only adelaide held firmly out and would none of him. winnie was not at all afraid of the professor, and seemed to devote herself especially to making his life miserable. when he informed her that she must join the "preparatory antique" section and draw in charcoal, she calmly explained that she "perfectly loathed" casts, and she had purchased an outfit of oil paints and intended to devote herself at once to color. strange to say, professor waite humored her and gave her some of his landscape studies to copy. she was never contented with reproducing these faithfully, but always "improved" upon them, as she audaciously expressed it. it was a common thing for professor waite to remark, when he sat down before winnie's easel, "well, this is about the worst atrocity you have yet committed." winnie, standing behind him, would make eyes at the rest of the girls, and remark penitently, "i am very sorry." "you look sorry," professor waite replied, on one occasion. "i don't see how you can tell how i look," winnie answered, "when you are sitting with your back to me." i do not know whether milly's denseness or winnie's impudence was the more irritating to professor waite. winnie resented his severity to milly and was always more provoking whenever he had grieved her pet and left her sobbing in a mire of charcoal and tears. "you give me more trouble than a three-week's-old baby," professor waite had remarked to poor milly, and winnie had retorted spitefully, "i wish you had to take care of one--i guess you would find a difference." winnie's sauciness and milly's dulness, combined with that of many of his other pupils, drove the professor to despair after a week's trial. he told madame, as i learned later, that he must give up the position, as her pupils were all "too hopelessly elementary." madame was disappointed. her art department had always been an attractive feature, and since the name of professor carrington waite, late of the _académie des beaux arts_, had appeared in her circulars, many had joined the school purely for the sake of the studio instruction. madame explained this to the young artist. he ran his fingers through his hair in despair. "of what manner of use is it for me to remain?" he asked. "there is only one pupil sufficiently advanced to gain anything from my instruction, and that is miss smith. the others made as much advance, perhaps more, under her teaching as they have under mine." a happy thought came to madame. "if i engage miss smith as your assistant, professor waite, perhaps she can translate your ideas into terms which will be intelligible by the students of lower intelligence or advancement, and possibly she can so enlighten some of them that they can profit later by your personal teaching." this plan struck professor waite as practicable. he now only visited the studio for an hour each morning, during which time he criticised the work which had been done under my supervision during the previous day. the new arrangement was an excellent one for me, for i profited by all his remarks, listening to them with the keenest attention, and thus received thirty lessons during the hour instead of one. as i had but three other studies, and these were in the senior class, it was possible for me to give the necessary time by preparing all of my lessons in the evening. it was unremitting, incessant work, but my health was excellent, and art was my supreme delight. moreover, madame had offered me a salary of three hundred dollars beyond my school expenses, and it was perfect joy to be able to relieve father of this burden. i had a high ambition to go abroad some day and study art in paris, and i wished to save as much as possible of my salary toward this purpose. i had the lower compartment in the safe, and here i laid away every dollar that i could spare, limiting myself in everything but my subscription to the home of the elder brother; but for this outlet i would have grown niggardly and avaricious. the same charity which made winnie prudently retrench her propensity to lavish expenditure, and take thought carefully for the morrow, kept me from utter selfishness and penuriousness by keeping one channel of generous giving open and pulsing freely toward others. cynthia vaughn's affairs were kept closely to herself. we sometimes fancied that she pretended to greater wealth and consequence than she really possessed. certainly, if the sums of which she frequently spoke of receiving were at her disposal she was a veritable miser; for her subscription to the home was the smallest of any girl in the king's daughters' ten; the presents which she ostentatiously bestowed upon adelaide and milly were cheap though showy, as was her own clothing. the treasures which she committed to the cabinet safe were carefully locked in a small japanned tin box, the key of which she kept in her pocket-book, and she was the only one of us whose belongings within the safe were so protected. we had perfect confidence in one another, and our funds lay open to the observation or handling of any one possessing the pass key in the match box. it is needless to say that up to the night of the robbery our security had been inviolate. chapter iii. the robbery. [illustration] adelaide led the school in more respects than in the style of hats, and in the amen corner she reigned as absolute queen. it may seem strange that this was so, for winnie was the genius of our coterie. she was perhaps too active and restless. she seemed born to be a leader, but the leader of a revolt, while adelaide had the calm assurance of a princess who had no need to assert her rights, but to whom allegiance came as a matter of course. even winnie was her loyal subject and delighted in being her prime minister. i have spoken of winnie's fondness for reading and telling detective stories. it really seemed as if in so doing she was preparing us for the events which followed, and the time when every one of us felt that she was a special detective charged with the mission of finding a clue to a great and sorrowful mystery. it all came about through the robbery. on the eve of my birthday it so happened that there was an unusual amount of money in the little safe. adelaide had returned from collecting her rents too late to deposit her funds in the bank. she looked very much relieved as she slipped a roll of bills, amounting to nearly one hundred dollars, into her pigeon-hole, and turning the key, deposited it in the match safe. winnie had that morning cashed a check just received from her father, and had brought back from the bank some crisp, new notes, with which she filled her envelopes for the coming month. cynthia had ostentatiously and yet mysteriously dropped some silver dollars into her cash box, and even milly had laid aside an unwonted sum, for her father had called at the school and contrary to his usual custom had given her five bright ten-dollar gold pieces. milly seemed very happy as she slipped them into her snakeskin and tucked it into her own particular corner of the safe. "unlimited pocket money this month, eh! milly?" i asked. milly laughed and shook her head. "don't know that i am obliged to account to you for everything," she said, saucily, but the sting was taken out of the speech by the kiss with which it was immediately followed, and i more than half suspected that milly intended one of those gold pieces as a birthday present for me. late in the evening i counted over my own hoard. we were all in the study parlor, with the exception of winnie, and as i counted i looked up and saw that adelaide and milly were regarding me with interest, though their glances instantly fell to the books which they had apparently been studying. "how much have you, tib?" adelaide asked; "enough yet to buy the steamer ticket for the ocean passage?" "no," i replied, "only forty-seven dollars as yet, but i hope to make it before the close of school." "of course you will," milly replied reassuringly. cynthia laughed raspingly. "you have almost enough now, if you go in the steerage," she sneered. adelaide suddenly threw a bit of drawn linen work belonging to cynthia over the money, which i had spread out in the chair before me. "what are you doing with my embroidery?" cynthia snapped. "did you mistake it for a dust rag?" "natural mistake," milly giggled. adelaide lifted her finger warningly. "hush!" she said, "i saw a face at the transom; some one was looking in from the studio." milly turned pale and clutched my hand, and we all looked at the transom with straining eyes. it was almost dark in the studio and for a few moments we saw nothing but some one was moving about, for we heard cautious steps, and a creaking sound just the other side of the door. presently a hat cautiously lifted itself into view through the transom. it was a broad-brimmed, soft felt hat of the rembrandt style, which professor waite sometimes wore. it moved about silently from one side of the transom to the other, descended, and appeared again. "i never thought that professor waite would peep or listen," cynthia whispered. "he would not," i replied aloud. "he must be at work there hanging pictures or doing something else of the sort." "then he would make more noise," cynthia suggested, as the hat continued its stealthy movements. "it may be some one else who has put on the professor's hat as a disguise," milly gasped. "that was the reason i covered up the money," adelaide replied, in a low voice. "you had better put it away, tib." i hastily bundled my money into the safe and locked the door, and we sat for some moments quietly watching the transom, but the spectre did not come again. winnie entered a few moments later and seemed greatly interested by our accounts of the incident. "do you suppose that it could have been one of that band of italian bravos who has climbed up on the fire-escape and who intends to murder us?" she asked with an assumption of terror. "hush," i whispered, pulling her dress, and pointing to milly whose eyes were staring with fright. "ha! ha! ha!" laughed winnie; "can't you tell when i'm joking? it was professor waite. of course it was professor waite. he has been in love with adelaide ever since she complimented him on his appearance at their first meeting. he is dying for a glimpse at her fair face, and as she won't join his painting class he relieves his yearning heart by gazing over the transom." there was more joking, and milly's fears were as quickly quieted as they had been raised. professor waite had undoubtedly been at work in the studio, i insisted, and i knocked on the door and called his name. no answer, and i tried to open the door, but the chest held it firmly in place. "shall i look over the transom?" i asked. "for pity's sake do not repeat winnie's experience," adelaide begged. "then i will look in by the corridor door," i said resolutely, and i stepped down the hall and into the studio. the door was open, so was miss noakes's door just opposite, and that watchful lady sat rocking and reading beside her little centre table. she was not too much absorbed, however, to give me a keen questioning glance--but she said nothing, for as assistant teacher in art i had a perfect right to frequent the studio. the moon was shining in clearly through the great window, and every object was distinctly visible, but there was no one in the room. i opened the door leading to the turret staircase and listened; all was silent, and i screwed up my courage and descended, finding the door at the foot safely locked. the great rembrandt hat lay on the chest in front of our door, and the professor's mahl-stick, or long support on which he rested his arm when painting, leaned beside it. i could not see any change in the disposition of the pictures on the wall, or other indications of what the professor had been doing, if indeed it was the professor, and i did not know of his ever before visiting the studio at that hour. as i came out i noticed that miss noakes was still rocking before her open door, her slits of eyes glancing sharply up. "have you seen any one go into the studio lately?" i asked. "no one has passed through the corridor since the beginning of study hour, with the exception of miss winifred de witt." "then this door must have been open all the time, and you have seen no one in the studio?" "i have observed no one. why do you ask?" "we thought we saw the shadow of a man on the transom." "nonsense--it is silly to be frightened at nothing. it was probably professor waite. if you young ladies would interest yourselves less in the movements of that young man it would be much more becoming in you." i turned away quickly, not relishing her tone, and looked at the corridor window, which opened on the balcony of the fire escape. it was securely fastened. i was puzzled, but did not wish to alarm milly, and i now reported only what seemed to me the favorable aspects of the case. no one there, all quiet and in order; lower turret door opening on the street, and the corridor window opening on the balcony, both locked, showing that no one could have come up the stairs or the fire escape. miss noakes, on guard, had seen no one enter the studio. of course it must have been professor waite. "of course," winnie echoed. "tib knows him too well to be mistaken even when she only sees him through a glass darkly. but think what that devotion must be, which leads a man to keep guard before his lady's door at night," and winnie shouldered an umbrella and paced back and forward, singing in a deep bass voice, "thy sentinel am i." winnie was irresistible and we all laughed merrily at her pranks. but for all that i locked the cabinet with unusual care that night and adelaide tried the door afterward to see that it was securely fastened. while doing so, she noticed something which we had not hitherto discovered--a little steel ornament like a nail head at the foot of one of the columns. touching this, a small shelf shot forward. it had evidently been intended for a writing table, for it was ink-stained. adelaide pushed it easily back into its place and its edge formed one of the three moldings which formed the base of the upper division of the cabinet. "that is a very convenient little arrangement," adelaide said. "i wonder that i have never noticed it before." i soon fell asleep, and slept long and dreamlessly. i awoke at last with an uneasy feeling of cold. it was quite dark, and putting out my hand i found that winnie's place at my side was vacant. i started up alarmed, and called her name. there was a little pause, during which i stumbled out of bed and groped vainly for a candle, which usually stood on a stand at the head of the bed. not finding it, i noticed a beam of light streaming from beneath the closed door leading into the study-parlor, and i remembered vividly that when i went to bed i had left that door open, as i always did, for more perfect ventilation. i stood hesitating, vaguely alarmed, when the door was opened from the parlor side and winnie stood before me holding a lighted candle--her face white as that of a spirit. "how you frightened me!" i exclaimed. "what is the matter?" "nothing, i merely went out to see whether the door into the corridor was locked. i was lying awake, and i could not remember seeing any one lock it." she spoke mechanically, and her voice sounded strange and hollow. "why, you did it yourself!" i exclaimed. "did i? strange i should forget." "you found everything all right, didn't you?" "the door was not only locked but bolted," winnie replied; but her manner was constrained, and her hand, which i happened to touch, was cold as ice. "come right to bed," i exclaimed, "you have taken cold." winnie did not reply, but her teeth were chattering. she curled up in bed and buried her face in her pillow. i was sleepy and soon dozed off, but i was vaguely conscious in my slumbers that i had an uneasy bedfellow; that winnie tossed and tumbled and even groaned. when i awoke she was sitting, dressed, on the window sill. it may have been the early light but her face looked gray, and there was a drawn, set expression about the mouth which i had never seen there before. "what is the matter?" i asked again. she replied, in that cold, unnatural voice, "nothing." just then there was a hard knocking at my door. milly shouted joyfully, "many happy returns of the day," and swooping down upon me buried me with kisses. adelaide followed, and in a more dignified manner congratulated me on my birthday. "no flowers, tib," milly explained, "because you set your face against that sort of thing, and i was determined to let you have your own way on your birthday. winnie, what makes you sit over there like a sphinx, with your nose touched with sunrise? come here and help us give tib her seventeen slaps and one to grow on." "tib will find my present on the stand at the head of the bed," winnie replied, and turning, i discovered an envelope labelled, "for the european tour." it contained a crisp new bill of twenty dollars. adelaide and milly looked at each other significantly, and milly exclaimed: "you dear, generous thing! why didn't you tell us that you meant to do anything so lovely? adelaide and i would have helped." winnie did not reply to milly, but answered my thanks with a close hug. "come," said milly, "and put your money in the safe, and see how much you have now toward the fund." "oh! that's easy to calculate," i replied, as i slipped on my clothing, "twenty and forty-seven--sixty-seven dollars exactly." adelaide coughed significantly. "tib seems to be very confident that two and two makes four," she remarked. a suspicion that both adelaide and milly intended to help me suggested itself to my mind, and i hastened my dressing and unlocked the safe. as i did so cynthia opened her door. "oh! it's you," she exclaimed; "whenever i hear any one at the safe i always look to see who it is." she did not retreat into her room, but stood in the door watching us with a singular expression on her disagreeable face. adelaide and milly were looking over my shoulder. milly apparently vainly endeavoring to conceal a little flutter of excitement. we were all there but winnie, who had not left her seat at the window, when i threw open the door of the safe and disclosed--nothing! the space on the floor where i usually kept my money, where the night before i had placed a long blue envelope containing forty-seven dollars--was empty. the envelope and its contents gone. milly uttered a little shriek. adelaide stepped forward and examined the space, passing her hand far in, and feeling carefully in every corner. then she took out her own roll of bills from her little pigeon-hole. i counted them with her, just fifty-dollars less than the sum which i saw her place there. she handed me a five dollar bill, saying, "tib, my dear, my only disappointment is that i cannot give you as large a birthday present as i had planned." milly threw her arms around me, "and i can't give you anything, you darling old tib. i am so sorry." "how do you know you can't?" cynthia asked. "you haven't looked to see whether you have lost anything." milly flushed. "if tib has lost her money, of course i have mine." "why, of course? the thief has obligingly left adelaide a part of her money; perhaps yours is all there." milly opened her purse. it was quite empty. she closed it with a snap. "i don't see how you knew it," cynthia remarked unpleasantly. "now i am really too curious to see whether i have been as unfortunate as the rest of you." in spite of this profession of eagerness she had seemed to me remarkably indifferent, and she unlocked her strong box with great deliberation, manifesting no surprise or pleasure as she reported "three dollars and fifty-three cents, precisely what i left there. this shows the wisdom of my double-lock; the thief evidently had no key which would fit my strong-box." "winnie," i called, "we have had a burglary; come right here and see whether you have lost anything." winnie entered the room slowly, almost unwillingly, quite in contrast with her usual impulsive action, and opened her envelopes before us. "no one has touched my money," she said; "here is exactly what i placed in the envelopes last night." "did you go to the safe in the night to get that twenty dollar bill which you gave me this morning?" i asked. cynthia vaughn turned and looked at winnie eagerly. "i kept it out last night," winnie replied, "when i put the rest away. you will remember that i sealed the envelopes then, and i find them now unopened." an expression of malice and triumph, such as i have never seen on the face of any human being, rested on cynthia's countenance. "there is something very mysterious about this," she remarked, in an eager way. "the thief has entirely spared winnie and me, and has been obliging enough to take only half of adelaide's money. tib and milly lose all of theirs, but tib's was money for which she had no immediate use. so that she will not feel its loss as much as winnie or i would have done, and milly has no real need of money at all--i wonder whether the thief was acquainted with our circumstances; if so he or she was very considerate." "i don't know what you mean about tib's not feeling the loss," winnie began indignantly, her glance resting not on cynthia but on milly. "it will be a cruel disappointment to her if she cannot go to europe to study, after all." "oh! that's not to be thought of," milly replied, feeling herself addressed. "of course tib will go. something will turn up. the money will be discovered. perhaps the thief will return it." a light flamed up in winnie's face. it was the first pleasant look that i had seen there this morning. "it must be so," she exclaimed eagerly, but very gravely; "let us hope that the person who took that money was actuated by dire necessity; that it was simply borrowed, and that it will be returned." "nonsense," exclaimed cynthia impatiently. "i have no such excuses to make for a thief, and i am going right now to report the entire affair to madame, who will of course put it in the hands of the police----" "the police!" winnie cried, in a tone of dismay. "oh! no, no!" "wait," said adelaide commandingly; "that is not the way we do things in the amen corner. this is something in which we are all interested, and the majority shall rule. now winnie, will you please tell us why the police should not take this matter in charge? my explanation is that some thief entered this room last night through the studio door. probably it was the very individual who was watching us last night through the transom." "oh! not professor waite," milly exclaimed, and winnie started as though about to speak, but restrained the impulse. "no, not professor waite, certainly," adelaide continued, "but some one disguised in his hat. this thief waited until we were all asleep, and then began to help himself to the contents of our safe, but was probably interrupted or frightened by some sound, after securing milly's and tib's money, and hurried away without taking as much as he wished. that is the simplest, most likely solution, and it seems to me that the police are the proper authorities to take the affair in hand." she paused for several moments. we all chattered together as fast and as loudly as we could. then adelaide rapped on the table with a nutcracker and said: "i shall now put the question. those in favor of reporting this matter at once to madame, please say 'ay;' those opposed, the contrary sign--but first, any remarks?" winnie hesitated. "i do not agree with you that it is a matter in which we are all equally interested," she said slowly. "tib is the principal loser. tib should decide what she wishes to do. adelaide's theory looks plausible, but it may be wrong. some member of this school may have entered through that door, and taken the money. whatever is handed over to the police, goes into the papers. we do not want to bring on the school scandal and disgrace, which would follow the publishing of the fact that one of its pupils is a thief." "winnie seems to be very certain that the thief is a pupil," cynthia remarked sneeringly. "if so, we can trust that madame will ferret her out without outside assistance." "my chief reason, however," continued winnie, "for waiting a day or two before reporting this thing, is the hope that conscience will lead the unhappy person who has committed the crime to make restitution. tib, you certainly look at the matter as i do. you are not vindictive; give the wrong-doer a chance." "certainly," i said. "the question," called cynthia. "adelaide, put the question." "those in favor of reporting at once to madame?" said adelaide. "aye," from cynthia, loud enough for two. "aye," more faintly, from milly. "those opposed?" "no," from winnie and from me. "a tie," announced adelaide. "then the chair gives the casting vote. i am in favor of reporting to madame, and i think we had better make the report in a body. there is just time to see her before breakfast." "i do not see the necessity of our going _en masse_," winnie objected. "tib, of course, as the individual who has suffered most, and who discovered the loss; cynthia, who seems to enjoy telling unpleasant things; and adelaide, who is strictly just, and the oldest and most dignified member of the amen corner. but i do not see why you should drag milly along; the child has had enough excitement already. let her lie down and rest her little head until the breakfast bell rings. as for me, i'm not going until i'm sent for. not even a burglary shall make me miss my morning constitutional," and winnie quickly equipped herself for a walk in the grounds. "milly shall do as she pleases," adelaide said; "there is really no necessity, as you say, for her to go with us." "i think i would rather go," milly said hesitatingly. an expression of keen disappointment swept across winnie's face. "come, winnie," i said, "you had better be with us; it looks better." "what do you mean?" she asked hotly. "only that the amen corner always yields to the wish of the majority, and we are in the habit of standing by one another, even when we do not quite agree." "winnie need not trouble herself," cynthia remarked; "we can get on very well without her. of course she knows no more about the affair than the rest of us." the words were innocent enough, but there was something very sarcastic in the way in which they were uttered. "evidently you would rather i would not go," winnie said, as though thinking aloud. "i am sorry to be disobliging, but if that is the case i believe i will." chapter iv. trouble in the amen corner. doubt, a soul-mist through whose rifts familiar stars beholding, we misname. --_jean ingelow_ [illustration] milly had been unhappy for days. and now a great trouble fell upon all of us. it was as though a dense fog of doubt and suspicion had drifted in upon the amen corner, separating dear friends, so that we could not recognize each other's faces through its dense folds, and our voices sounded false and far away as we called and groped for one another. our interview with madame was very brief. i simply stated the fact of the disappearance of the money, which the other girls corroborated. cynthia began to enlarge on the statement, but madame stopped her. "i have not time now to investigate this unhappy affair," she said. "indeed, it is something which will probably require the assistance of a detective. do not look so alarmed," she added to milly; "i happen to be acquainted with a gentleman--in fact, he is my lawyer--who has all the qualifications of a very clever detective. i will write, asking him to call, and to take charge of the case. he will keep it all very quiet. i am glad that you have come to me first of all, and i particularly request that you mention the fact of the robbery to no one." with this she dismissed us, and we went to breakfast a little late, feeling very important in the possession of a mystery. winnie was the only one whom this mystery did not seem to elate. cynthia, who sat beside me at table, was overflowing with glee. "it is better than the most exciting story which winnie ever told us," she whispered to me. "won't it be fun to follow the unravelling of the crime. of course the detective will be led off by false clues, and all that sort of thing, and the real thief will suffer all the torture of alternate fear of detection and hope of escape; but the toils will close gradually about the doomed individual. i shall not disclose my suspicions till toward the last. oh! what fun it will be to watch the development of the drama. i should think, tib, that you would write it up." "your suspicions?" i repeated. "do you really suspect any one?" "why, yes; don't you?" "no indeed!" "then all i've got to say is that you are a lamb. you think every one as innocent as yourself. because you have the innocence of a lamb, you have a corresponding muttony intelligence." i was very indignant, but i did not show it. "whom do you suspect?" i asked. "that's telling," she replied, "and i said that i would not tell at this stage of the game." later in the day, as i left the studio to return to our study-parlor, i met winnie coming out. she had on her hat and cloak and carried my own. "come and walk with me," she said, "i feel all mugged up, and i need a good tramp. milly is in there trying to take a nap. adelaide and cynthia are at recitation, and if you will come with me the poor child can get a little rest." as we marched around the school building together, i told her of my conversation with cynthia. winnie started. "i don't believe she really knows anything more than we do," i said. "cynthia loves to be important and aggravating. if she really knew anything she couldn't keep it in." "find out whom she suspects," winnie replied. "cynthia is a real snake in the grass, and can do a lot of mischief by fastening the crime on an innocent person. i do not mean that she would do this wilfully, unless she had a strong motive for revenge, but she is unscrupulous as to the results of her actions, and loves to imagine evil and set forth facts in their most damaging light. find out, by all means, whether she really knows anything likely to implicate any one." "cynthia is a hard orange to squeeze," i replied. "if she thinks i want to know, she will delight in tantalizing me." winnie was silent for a moment. "find out whether cynthia slept soundly all night, or whether she heard or saw any one in the parlor. she might have heard me, you know, when i went out to look at the door." "sure enough," i replied. "if that is all i will get it out of her right away." we returned to our rooms. there was no one in the parlor. winnie looked into the bedrooms. only milly sleeping peacefully, and winnie stepped to the match box, took the key, and opened the safe. i do not know what she expected to find, but she looked disappointed. "did you think the thief would help himself again in broad daylight?" i asked. "no," winnie replied shortly. at that instant cynthia entered, flushed, and as it seemed to me triumphant. "mr. mudge wants to see you, winnie, in madame's private library," she announced importantly. "who is mr. mudge?" winnie asked. "he is madame's lawyer. the keenest, shrewdest man you ever saw, with little gimletty eyes that bore the truth right out of you; and such a cross-questioner! if you have a secret, he knows it the minute he looks at you, and makes you tell it, in spite of yourself, the first time that you open your mouth. you need not try to keep your suspicions to yourself, they will be out before you can say jack robinson." winnie gave a little sigh. "and you say he wants to see me?" she asked, rising with a palpable effort. "yes, he wants to question us each separately, to see if our testimony agrees, i suppose. he asked madame, as i went in, if she had kept us apart since the robbery to guard against any--collision--i think that was the word!" "collusion," i corrected. "no matter; he meant that we might have hatched up a story between us, but madame assured him that we were all honorable girls and incapable of such a thing." "of course," he replied, "unless they happen to know or suspect the culprit, and wish to shield her. in such cases, i have known the most religious young persons to lie like a jockey." winnie left the room, throwing me a look of piteous appeal as she did so, which i understood to beg me to find out all i could from cynthia. i rocked silently for a few moments, to disclaim all eagerness, and then said casually: "i don't believe you would ever lie to save a friend." this in a propitiating tone, adding to myself, "you would be much more likely to tell a lie to get one into trouble." cynthia could not hear the thought, and she stretched herself luxuriously on the divan. "no," she replied, "i don't make any pretense of being good; but i wouldn't do that. whenever the hornets got into scrapes, i always told. madame could depend on me for that. it is sneaky not to be willing to take the consequences. besides, you get off a great deal easier if you own up; and others will be sure to throw the blame on you if you are not smart enough to get ahead of them." how i despised her. "i wonder if she thinks she is in danger of being called in question for this crime," i thought, "and has made haste to accuse some one else." "you said you meant to keep your testimony until the end, so i suppose you did not tell mr. mudge your suspicions," i remarked. "didn't i just say that i did tell him?" "well, as they are only suspicions i presume he paid no attention to them. lawyers generally tell witnesses to confine their testimony to facts." "but i had facts, suspicious facts; not ideas of my own, but important circumstantial evidence." "_in_deed!" i purposely threw as much incredulity as i could into the way in which i uttered the word. cynthia sprang from the lounge, her eyes flashing with anger. "yes, _indeed_; very awkward facts for your precious friend winnie to explain away." "winnie!" i exclaimed, and then laughed outright. cynthia was furious. "what do you say to this tib smith? i saw winnie, with my own eyes, come into this room in her nightgown, with a lighted candle in her hand, carefully close all the doors, and----" "pooh! that's nothing," i replied cheerfully. "i was awake; i saw her, too. she merely crossed the room to see whether the corridor-door was locked." "yes, and after that?" "came back to bed again." "there you are telling a fib to save your friend. she did not go back immediately. i was awakened by her softly closing my door, i got up and peeked through the keyhole, and i saw her open the safe and rummage around in it for quite a while, undoubtedly possessing herself of the money. then she locked it and hurried back to her room looking as frightened as the criminal she was." "it is not so! it is a wicked, cruel falsehood!" milly cried, springing into the room. i had forgotten her presence in the bedroom and cynthia of course did not know of it. cynthia was taken aback for a moment. "i will tell you why i know it was so," she said at length. "after winnie went back to the room, and before any one else could have entered the parlor, i examined the safe and the money was gone." "that proves nothing," i said; "it was probably taken before winnie opened the safe." "then she knew of the robbery in the morning before the rest of you, and never told." "you knew and never told either," said milly. "i was waiting for the proper time," replied cynthia. "if winnie did not take that money then she suspects who did. if she does not tell mr. mudge her suspicions, she is trying to shield the guilty person, and the--the shielder is as bad as the thief." "there is no proverb that says so," i replied; "beside, you have proved nothing. if all that you say is true--and i don't mind telling you, cynthia vaughn, that i am not entirely sure of that--if what you say _is_ true, you are as deep in the mud as winnie is in the mire." "you think winnie a saint!" cynthia sneered. "you don't half know her. before she came to room in the amen corner, and we were both in the hornets nest up under the eaves, she was the queen hornet of all. there was nothing which she would not dare to do, from letting down bouquets in her scrap-basket to the cadet band when they serenaded us, to bribing the janitor to let her slip out at night and buy goodies at the corner grocery for our spreads. she was a regular case, and her pet name all over the school was: 'the malicious, seditious, insubordinate, disreputable, sceptical queen of the hornets.'" "we know all that," i replied, "but there are some things which winnie _could_ not do. she could not tell a lie, and she could not steal." "i don't know about that," cynthia continued coldly. "she comes from an uncertain sort of bohemian ancestry. you know her mother was an actress and her father a playwright." cynthia told this with great triumph, evidently thinking that we had never heard it. "madame told us," i replied, "that mrs. de witt was a very lovely woman, who only acted in her husband's plays; that she made it her life purpose to realize and explain her husband's ideals: and that he wrote the part of the heroine especially to suit her, so that their creations were among the most charming that have ever been presented on the stage. they were devoted to one another, and when she died his heart was broken. he does not write plays any more, but articles for encyclopædias, which is an extremely respectable profession." "and you dared prejudice this mr. mudge against our own precious winnie," milly continued. "you are just the meanest girl, cynthia vaughn, that ever lived! but you never can make any one believe anything against her. if, as tib says, it lies between you two, we all know who is the more likely to have done it." cynthia turned green. "do you dare to accuse me?" she hissed. "no, milly; don't do that," i cried warningly, and the overwrought girl burst into a flood of tears and threw herself into my arms. "we accuse no one," i said to cynthia. "i trust that you have been equally cautious with mr. mudge." "what i may have said or may not have said is no business of yours," cynthia replied. "you have both of you insulted me beyond endurance, and from this time forth i shall never speak to any of you. i except adelaide," she added, after a moment's consideration. "adelaide is the only member of the amen corner who has treated me like a lady." "i think it would be pleasanter for you and for us if you would ask madame to let you room somewhere else," milly suggested. "i shall not go simply because you wish it," cynthia replied. "i shall stay to watch developments." "and, meantime, i believe you said we were to be deprived of the pleasure of any conversation with you," i remarked, rather flippantly. cynthia turned her back upon me and from that time kept her word, maintaining a sullen silence with every one but adelaide. the bell rang for luncheon. the forenoon had seemed very long, and the afternoon was simply interminable. milly left the room with me. cynthia did not stir. "do you think she took it?" milly asked, nodding back at the parlor. "no," i replied, "she is altogether too gay. she evidently enjoys the investigation. if she were the culprit she would be constrained, nervous, averse to having the affair examined." i stopped suddenly, realizing how exactly this description fitted winnie. "adelaide believes," milly said slowly, "that it was some sneak thief from outside the house. have you looked about in the studio for any suspicious circumstances?" i replied that i would do so after dinner, and then, as we passed into the dining-room together, the subject was dropped. winnie came to the table late and passed me a note, which i read beneath my napkin. "mr. mudge wants to question you next. you are to meet him in madame's parlor immediately after luncheon. hurry and finish, so that i can have a minute with you before you see him." i bolted my dinner, and winnie sat silently staring before her, eating nothing. we left the dining-room five minutes before the conclusion of the meal, bowing as we passed madame's table, as was our custom when we wished to be excused before the others. madame's attention was absorbed by the teacher with whom she was conversing, and we passed out unhindered. "what did you find out from cynthia?" winnie asked, as we walked toward the amen corner. "does she suspect any one?" "yes," i replied. "she is perfectly absurd. it is just as you said; she insists on fastening the crime on a perfectly innocent person." winnie drew in her breath. "one of us, i presume?" "yes, winnie dear. but," i hastened to add, for she grew suddenly deadly pale, "she can do no harm; her suspicions are too manifestly impossible." "i don't know," winnie chattered; "the reputation of many an innocent person has been blasted by mere circumstantial evidence. what does cynthia know? what has she told?" "that she saw you go to the safe in the night." "me? then i am the one whom she suspects, and not--you are sure she saw no one else?" winnie laughed a long, joyous laugh. "i can stand it, tib," she said, "i can stand it. it's too good a joke." "of course," i said, "no one can prove anything against you. but did you go to the safe? i didn't see you do so." winnie's face clouded. "yes, i looked in to see if everything was right. mr. mudge asked me if i had opened the safe during the night. he said that some one of us had been seen to do it, but he led me to suppose that he suspected some one else. i knew that he had his information from cynthia, and i was afraid she had seen some one else. i mean--" and here winnie corrected herself with some confusion--"i was afraid that she might have taken me for some other person, and i was very glad to acknowledge that i was the one who had opened the safe. i don't think that mr. mudge believes that i am the culprit, for he smiled at me in a very friendly way." "how could he believe such a thing?" i asked. "it is perfectly nonsensical." "but if he does not suspect me, his suspicions will probably fasten on some one else. on you, for instance, or adelaide,--and i would rather be the scapegoat than have any annoyance come to the rest of you." we had reached the amen corner, and had just opened the study-parlor door. winnie gave a little cry of surprise. the door into the studio was open and a strange man stood looking at the broken lock. chapter v. l. mudge, detective. "the look o' the thing, the chance of mistake, all were against me. that i knew the first; but knowing also what my duty was, i did it." [illustration] "why, mr. mudge!" winnie exclaimed, recovering herself, "excuse me for crying out, but really i did not expect to see you here." "i presume not," the gentleman replied dryly. "under other circumstances such intrusion would be unwarrantable, but i presume you understand that in a case like this we must question not only human witnesses but the place itself, and often our most valuable testimony is of a circumstantial character. this broken lock, for instance, would seem to prove that the thief entered through the studio." "oh! that," i cried, "proves nothing; it has been broken this long while--since the very beginning of the term." winnie clasped my hand tightly, and i understood that she did not wish her escapade with the sliding trunk explained. "are you sure of that?" mr. mudge asked, looking slightly disappointed. "even if the lock was not broken on the night of the robbery, the fact still remains that an entrance was practicable here at that time." "why, of course!" i exclaimed. "it must have been the man who looked in at the transom." "what man?" asked mr. mudge; and i told the story of the appearance the night before. winnie came forward impulsively, as though she wished to interrupt me, then seemed to change her mind and walked to the window, standing with her back to us. "and why is it," asked mr. mudge, "that neither miss cynthia nor miss winnie have mentioned this very suspicious circumstance?" "i was not in the room when it happened, i did not see the man," winnie replied, without turning her head. "this thief may have made an earlier attempt which was foiled," mr. mudge continued. "it seems to me a little careless that you did not report the fact of the broken lock when you first discovered it, and have the fastening mended." winnie's eyes shone with suppressed amusement. "you think, then, mr. mudge, that some one from the outside committed the burglary? i am very glad that you have renounced the idea that any member of this school could have been guilty of such a thing." "my dear young lady," replied mr. mudge, "i never indulge in preconceived ideas, but i give every possibility a hearing. i have nearly completed my examination of the _locale_, but must ask one trifling favor. will you kindly lend me all your keys?" "you don't mean to say that you are going through all our things?" i exclaimed, aghast at the thought that the secret of the commissary must now be disclosed. "a mere matter of form," he murmured, extending his hand with persuasive authority. winnie delivered her one key promptly, saying, "i will go and tell the other girls." "quite unnecessary," mr. mudge replied. "i have a pass key which opened miss adelaide's capacious trunk. i have shaken out all her furbelows and tried to fold them again as well as i could, but i fear that the gowns with trains were a little too difficult for me. miss milly's bureau drawers were in a wild state of mix: ribbons, laces, gloves, hair crimpers, dried-up cake, perfumery, jewelry, chewing-gum, love letters (innocent ones from other young ladies), a manicure set, a bonnet pulled to pieces, a box of huyler's, fancy work, dressmaker's and other bills (which i have taken the liberty to borrow for a day or two), dancing slippers and german favors, a tin box containing marshmallows and a bottle of french dressing, menthol pencil, pepsum lozenges for indigestion, box of salted almonds, bangles, sachet, photograph of harvard foot-ball team, notes to lectures on evidences of christianity, silver bonbonnière containing candied violets, programmes of symphony rehearsals, caramels and embroidery silks gummed together, a handsome book of etchings converted into a herbarium or pressing book for botany class, and strapped together by buckling elastic garters around it; fine geneva watch, out of order; match box containing specimens of live beetles, which i fear i released; pair of embroidered silk stockings, in need of mending; a diary, disappointing since it contains but two entries; packet of letters from home, tied with corset lacing (these i have borrowed), packet of ditto from a certain 'devotedly yours, stacey, f. s.' tied with blue ribbon--these are of no interest to me and i will not violate their secrets; badge of the kings' daughters, button of west point cadet, a fan bearing some autographs, a mouldy lemon, a dream book, etc., etc. the more i tried to examine her affairs the more confused i became, and i finally dumped them all out on the floor and then shoveled them back again. i don't believe she will ever suspect that they have been touched." i laughed, but winnie looked uneasy. "i think, sir," she said, "that it is hardly honorable to carry away milly's private letters." "any objection to having me read yours?" he asked sharply. "none at all," winnie replied, at the same time handing him her little writing desk, "but with milly the case is different. i do not think mr. roseveldt will like it." "mr. roseveldt will understand the necessity of the case," mr. mudge replied. "have you looked through cynthia's things?" i asked. "yes, first of all. everything in admirable order. she sets you other young ladies an example in point of neatness. and now, miss smith, i will thank you to give me the key to that small, old-fashioned trunk under your bed. it is the only one which my pass key will not fit; the lock has gone out of date." "any one but a detective could have opened it without a key," i replied, somewhat snappishly, "if they had had the penetration to discover that the hinges are broken. you simply swing the lid around this way." "dear, dear, and so we keep a restaurant, do we? i believe i now understand the slight trepidation which you manifested on being requested to deliver up your keys. reassure yourself. i am retained to unravel but one mystery; any others which may tumble into my possession during the search will be as safe as though buried in the grave. i believe this is all, as far as the rooms are concerned. if miss smith will accompany me now to the library, i will take her personal deposition." mr. mudge was in the main kind. he did not alarm me in the least, and asked but few questions. "have you reason to suspect any one?" "no." "very good. did you see any one in the parlor the night of the robbery?" "yes, winnie." "but you did not suspect her when you discovered that the money was gone?" "no, winnie was honest and open as the day; it was impossible that she could take it." "hum, your parlor-mate, miss vaughn, does not share your opinion of your friend. do you know of any reason for the coolness which apparently exists between them?" "yes, winnie has frankly given cynthia her opinion of certain underhanded performances of hers." "such as----" "i am not a tale-bearer." "in this examination, miss smith, you will please answer all questions put to you--and abstain from flippancy. believe me, i ask nothing from idle curiosity; nothing which does not have its bearings on this case." "cynthia is continually doing things that exasperate winnie. she put her muff between the sheets at the foot of milly's bed. when milly slipped her foot down and felt the fur she thought that it was a rat or some wild animal, and she nearly shrieked herself into convulsions. cynthia laughed till she almost cried, but winnie was raging with indignation, and gave her such a scoring that cynthia has never forgiven her." "is that the only source of unpleasantness between them?" "no; such affairs are always coming up," and i related the trick of the costumes, which has been told in the preceding volume. "and lately," i added, "cynthia has been very obsequious to milly, and they have been quite intimate. winnie has not approved of the friendship. she told milly that she did not believe cynthia was sincere, but did not succeed in separating them. cynthia surmised that winnie was not pleased, and taunted her with being jealous, and winnie let them proudly alone, until something happened at milly's dressmaker, when she interfered again, declaring that cynthia was going too far, and that milly needed some one to protect her." "what happened at the dressmaker's?" "i don't know exactly. milly went to the dressmaker's rooms last week to have a dress fitted, and winnie was with her. she came back very much displeased, and had a long talk with cynthia in her bedroom. as she came out we heard her say, 'downright dishonorable; as bad as stealing;' and cynthia called after her: 'i'll pay you for this; we shall see who is a thief, miss winifred de witt.'" "hum!" said mr. mudge. "the importance of these little tiffs between girls must not be exaggerated. they have probably made it all up by this time." "indeed they have not," i replied. "can you give me the address of miss milly's dressmaker? on second thought, it is of no consequence. i have it on this bill: 'to madame celeste, fifth avenue: for tailor-made costume in dark green cloth, trimmed with sable, sixty-seven dollars.'" "but that was cynthia's dress," i said. "it is charged here to miss milly roseveldt." "oh!" i exclaimed, a light beginning to break in. "and you never suspected what it was that occurred at the dressmaker's which displeased miss winnie?" "never, until this moment. milly has cried a great deal, but she would not tell her trouble, even to adelaide." "very well. i will step across to madame celeste. no; on reflection i will speak to miss milly first. will you kindly ask her to come to me?" "then this is all you wish to ask me?" "thank you, yes. no, one question more. can you tell me the exact time at which miss winnie visited the parlor last night? the young lady herself was very exact on that point." "that is natural!" i replied, "for the great clock at the end of the corridor was striking twelve as she came back to the bedroom. i thought it never would stop." "that tallies also with miss cynthia's testimony. she states that she saw miss winnie go to the safe a few minutes before twelve; that she, miss cynthia, lay still until the clock struck the quarter, and then examined the safe, finding your money gone. "inference (since miss winnie apparently noticed nothing out of the way when she looked in): if neither of these young ladies took it, the robbery must have been committed during that fifteen minutes." "that seems hardly possible," i said, "since cynthia, winnie, and i were all awake during that time." "it is possible, though not probable. cynthia's bedroom door, opening into the parlor, was closed. are you quite certain that you did not fall asleep before the quarter struck. did you hear it?" "no, i am not at all certain." "very good. then if the thief were standing in the studio waiting for his opportunity, he might have slipped in during that time. is there any way in which we can ascertain whether any one was in the studio between twelve and a quarter past?" "i know of no way," i replied. "there was no one in the studio at ten o'clock when i looked in." "very good; the known quantities are being gathered in, the unknown ones defined; the problem becomes simpler. i think we will be able to solve it soon. meantime, if any new developments appear, be so good as to report them to me." he rose and bowed stiffly in token of dismissal. i hurried to our rooms and found adelaide and winnie. "where is milly?" i cried; "mr. mudge wants to see her next." "milly has gone to madame celeste's," adelaide answered. "she wanted to pay a bill." "but she had no business to leave the house until she had given her testimony," i exclaimed. "i wonder why madame gave her permission." "i don't think milly asked it," adelaide replied; "and i fancy milly was not at all anxious to have this interview with the detective and merely caught at madame celeste as a way of escape. she is not often in such a twitter of promptness in settling her accounts; besides, now i think of it, all her money was taken. how could she pay celeste?" winnie looked up from the table on which her elbows were resting, her head grasped firmly between her hands as though it ached. she took no part in the conversation until i remarked: "well, if milly thinks to escape mr. mudge by running away to madame celeste's she is badly taken in, for he is going right over there." "what?" winnie almost shrieked. "does he suspect that she has anything to do with this miserable business?" "madame celeste? no, but he wants to find why cynthia had her dress charged to milly's account." "o tib, tib, why did you ever mention that?" winnie groaned; "you don't know what mischief you have made." "how did you know it, anyway?" adelaide asked. "this is the first i have heard of the matter." "i did not know it," i replied. "mr. mudge was looking over the papers he took from milly's drawer and he came across this bill for cynthia's dark green cloth dress, charged up against milly, and i--i just happened to say that was cynthia's dress----" "if you could only have just happened to hold your tongue," winnie exclaimed, springing from her seat and pacing the floor. "adelaide," she added, "won't you go to mr. mudge and keep him busy hearing your testimony until milly has time to get away from madame celeste's. that woman is a match for a lawyer even, but if he happens to meet milly there she will be frightened into anything. i knew there would be trouble when mr. mudge took that bill." "of course i will go, if you would like to have me do so," adelaide replied, rising, "but really, winnie, i can't say that i at all comprehend the situation." winnie gave each of us a look of despair. "i didn't intend you should," she said, "but since ignorance bungles in this way i will explain. milly has very weakly been getting things for cynthia and allowing them to be charged on her bills. i have remonstrated with her and she has promised to do so no more. i told her how wicked it would be to send these accounts in to her father as her own, and she has not done that. she has kept them separate, intending to settle them whenever cynthia paid up." "i don't see why cynthia could not have taken her debts on her own shoulders instead of entangling milly," adelaide remarked. "simply because cynthia has no credit. madame celeste would not trust her for a penny, while she would let milly run up any amount. well, either cynthia has paid or milly has obtained the money in some other way. one thing is certain, she has it and she has gone down to pay madame celeste; anxious, as you may well imagine, to get her feet out of the quicksand and not by any mischance to have that bill sent home to her father. now, don't you see that if mr. mudge ascertains that milly has a secret of this kind, that the next thing he will do will be to suspect that milly stole the money in order to extricate herself from this trouble." "impossible," adelaide exclaimed. "milly has only to tell where the money came from." "and i have asked her and she will not tell. it is all right, she assures me, but she can not or will not tell how." "silly goose! i will get it out of her," said adelaide. "and meantime there is no need whatever that she should be even suspected. she did not do it--and suspicion might as well start out from the first on the right track. i will go at once to mr. mudge, and enlighten his benighted mind." "what is your theory, adelaide?" i cried, but not before the door had closed behind her. "don't stop her," winnie pleaded. "time is precious; mr. mudge may have tired waiting for milly and have gone. no matter what her theory is, so long as it takes suspicion from milly. i had great hopes that cynthia would succeed in making him think i had done it." "he did have you in his mind at one time," i said. "he said, 'if neither miss winnie nor miss cynthia took it, the robbery must have been committed during the fifteen minutes between their visits to the safe!'" "he said that?" winnie inquired, with interest. "yes, and winnie, the thing is plain to me--i believe cynthia took that money." winnie shook her head. "now just listen to my reasoning. milly has been insisting that cynthia shall pay up. we know that cynthia has received no money lately. she stole it and gave it to milly, and made her promise not to tell who gave it to her. it's as plain as the nose on my face. and then," i continued triumphantly, warming to my conclusion, "she artfully throws the suspicions of the robbery on you, as a revenge for the straightforward talk you gave her. haven't i ferretted it all out well? isn't it the most likely way in the world that it could have happened? are you not perfectly convinced?" "it is the most likely story," winnie replied, "and so very feasible does it seem that even i am almost convinced, although i know positively that it did not happen that way, even cynthia must not be unjustly suspected." "how do you know it?" "because cynthia told the truth when she said that the money was stolen when she looked into the safe. it was gone when i looked in." "winifred! but you told mr. mudge that it was there." "i told mr. mudge that i found _my_ money just as i left it. it was not touched at all, you know; but yours, milly's, and a part of adelaide's, all that was stolen, was already taken." "but mr. mudge did not understand you so." "that is his own fault." "did you want him to misunderstand the situation?" "apparently, tib; but don't ask so many questions. let him proceed on the assumption that the robbery was committed in that fifteen minutes. if any innocent person is apparently implicated, i will confess. meantime, you are shocked to find that i am delaying the course of justice in order to keep suspicion from myself." "a thousand times no; you could never act a lie unless it was to shield some one else. was it to shield milly, and how?" "tib, it breaks my heart--i can't tell you--i love her so--i love her--" a great fear came over me; milly had taken the money and winnie knew it. but milly had lost all her money, and yet that was a very transparent subterfuge. what more natural than that the thief would pretend to be an innocent sufferer and steal from herself? and milly knew before she looked that there was nothing in her purse. i asked relentlessly, "was milly at the safe during the night at some time earlier than you and cynthia?" "milly will not admit that she was," winnie replied, her manner hardening as she realized that she had not quite disclosed her secret, and her determination to guard it returning with redoubled force. "then why do you suspect it?" "i do not suspect it." the fixed despair in her eyes added the words, "i know it," as plainly as if she had spoken them. "did you see milly take the money?" i insisted. "was that what wakened you? and is that the reason why you wish it to appear that the safe was intact at the time you examined it?" winnie covered her face with her hands and did not reply. i felt that i had divined the truth. a solemn silence fell upon us both for a few minutes, then winnie straightened herself with the old resolute look in her face. "tib," she said, "i have told you nothing. you know nothing from your own personal observation. whatever you may _think_ is purely guess-work, and you have no right to imagine evil against milly. she is the sweetest and dearest girl in our set. she is innocent and unsuspicious, and so kind-hearted that she is easily led. she has gone wrong in some things, terribly wrong; but she is the youngest of us all and it is cynthia's fault, and i believe she is trying desperately to get straight again. as for this terrible thing, you must not suspect her of it. it is your duty, on the contrary, to try to turn the attention of mr. mudge in some other direction." as she spoke, cynthia opened the door and winnie relapsed into silence. i felt a strange, dizzy sensation, as if the foundations were being removed. the more i tried to puzzle out the affair the more bewildered i became. there was cynthia, who believed that winnie was the culprit, or at all events was striving to make mr. mudge believe so; and when i weighed the evidence the case was strongly against her. here again was winnie, who seemed to believe that it was milly, and i knew that the evidence which could shake her faith in milly must be overwhelming. i had made it seem entirely clear to myself that cynthia had done it, and in a blind, unreasoning way, although winnie's testimony had showed that this could not possibly be, the suspicion, once started, grew and strengthened. i watched her as she sat working out algebra problems with a disagreeable smile on her face--and i said to myself over and over again, "you did it, and the truth will come out at last." chapter vi. halloween tricks and what came of them. [illustration] evening was falling when adelaide returned from her interview with mr. mudge. "has not milly returned yet?" she asked, as she entered the door. "no," replied winnie. "has mr. mudge gone to interview celeste?" "no, he is off on another scent. he has gone to interview professor waite." "what does professor waite know about the matter?" i asked in surprise. "nothing. it only shows the imbecility of these detectives who insist on pursuing every impossible as well as every possible clew." "tell us all about it," i entreated. "i should like to know how it was possible to drag professor waite into the business." "why, through the transom, of course," adelaide replied, and we all laughed at the absurd suggestion. "the first question that mr. mudge asked was, 'have you any theory or suspicions in regard to this affair, miss armstrong?' i answered that i had determined from the first that it was the act of some sneak-thief, who had watched us, through the transom, put the money into the safe." again winnie made an involuntary movement as though about to speak, but restrained herself, and adelaide continued: "i told him about the face at the transom in the rembrandt hat, and he asked me if it was professor waite. i told him that i thought not. the head looked smaller and the hat came lower down over the eyes and at the back than it would have done on the professor. besides, the professor has that little pointed paris beard, and this face had a smooth chin. i saw it plainly for a moment in profile. mr. mudge did not seem to be satisfied and made me admit that i might have been mistaken. professor waite's beard is such a very immature affair. then he asked me how an outsider could have introduced himself into the studio without coming in at the front door, which is guarded by the janitor, and coming up the grand staircase past madame's room and twenty other rooms, all occupied, and likely to have their doors open in the evening. i told him that there were two other ways: the fire escape----" "both the corridor window and our own were locked on the inside," i interrupted. "he said he found it so--and agreed with me that the turret staircase was the more likely entrance. i explained that the spiral staircase in the turret was built especially for the use of the physician when this part of the building was the infirmary, and that in order to quarantine it from the rest of the school, there were no entrances to the turret on any of the other floors--that it led directly from the studio to the street, and that no one used it but professor waite, who kept the key of the outer door; that he might have negligently left this door unlocked, and in that case a tramp could easily have slipped in, and as there was no communication with any other room he would have found himself, on reaching the end of the staircase, in the studio and in front of our door. mr. mudge then questioned me as to professor waite's habits. did he usually spend his evenings in the studio, and were we in the habit of visiting back and forward in a friendly manner through the door with the broken lock? this made me very indignant. such a thing, i assured mr. mudge, would be contrary to the rules of the school, and to the instincts of any self-respecting girl. the door had never been opened since the lock was first broken, and even tib, whose duties required her to be in the studio during half of the day, always entered it by the corridor door. as to professor waite, he did not board in the house. i believed he belonged to several artist clubs--the salmagundi, the kit kat, and others--and that he probably spent his evenings there, or in society, or at his boarding house around the corner; at all events, he never painted in the studio in the evening, for i had heard tib say that the lighting was not sufficient for night work. there was a rumor, too, that professor waite was very popular in society; but that tib could inform mr. mudge much more explicitly than i on all matters relative to the professor's habits, as i had never interested myself in him, and what he did or did not do was of no manner of consequence to me. this seemed to amuse mr. mudge very much, but he replied politely enough that he had never for an instant imagined that a young artist, like the professor, could be anything else than an object of supreme indifference to any right-minded young lady, and then he proceeded to question me more closely than ever. though professor waite did not usually spend his evenings in the studio, did he not occasionally drop in on his way home? had we ever heard him ascending or descending the turret stairs at about midnight, for instance. i was obliged to confess that i knew of one instance when he had visited the studio at that hour, for i had met him on the staircase; that he was returning from an evening spent in sketching at the life-class of the kit kat club, and he had run up to the studio to leave his drawings and materials before returning to his room at the boarding house. that it was very possible that he did this frequently. then, of course, he asked me how it happened that i was going down that staircase at such an unseemly hour on the occasion when i met professor waite, and i had to confess all that maddening halloween business." we all shouted, for this was a particularly painful subject with adelaide. it was the one practical joke which we had ever had the heart to play on our queen. such grave consequences attended this halloween trick that it is possibly worth while for me to turn aside from the direct record of the robbery and devote a chapter or two to a confession of one of our most serious scrapes. it had been suggested by cynthia and approved and carried out by winnie before the days of the breaking off of their friendship. cynthia had a way of suggesting plots for less cautious people to carry out, whereby they burned their fingers like the cat in the fable of the chestnuts. the amen corner had conducted itself with praiseworthy propriety after the opening escapade of the season--that of the roller-coaster trunk--for the space of a few weeks. but when halloween came we all felt the need of what winnie called an explosion. we had been too preternaturally goody-goody, and the escape valve must be opened. we decided to celebrate the eve of "antics and of fooleries" befittingly, and we arranged to bob for apples, to snatch raisins from burning alcohol, thereby ascertaining the number of our future lovers. we tied our garters around our feet and crossed our stockings under our head; we turned our shoes toward the street and dreamed of the ones we were going to wed. we poured molten lead into water, striving to ascertain the occupation of our future husbands from the forms which it took. adelaide's emblem was something like a letter a, and we all declared that it was a perfect easel and quite wonderful; but when we threw apple peelings over our heads, milly's broke into two sections, remotely resembling a scrawling c and a w. milly herself was the first to recognize the letters and to blushingly declare that of course it was too absurd, it could not mean carrington waite. adelaide's younger brother jim was attending the cadet school in the city. he admired milly exceedingly, as did many of the cadets who had met her at a fair given at madame's, the previous year, for the benefit of the home of the elder brother. stacey fitz simmons, drum major of the cadet band, and the best dodger and runner of the school foot-ball team, was also her devoted admirer. the button which mr. mudge had discovered in milly's bureau drawer was not from a west point uniform but from stacey's; and the foot-ball team was not the harvard--but the cadet eleven. we all tried to find emblems in the molten lead, or initials in the apple parings, suggesting the cadets, but milly would none of them. there was a mr. van silver, much favored by milly's family, a caller at their cottage at narragansett pier, whom adelaide had met while visiting milly the previous summer. he was principally remarkable for owning a coach and four-in-hand, and as he had on one occasion invited adelaide to a seat on the box, it was a little fiction of milly's that mr. van silver was her humble slave. but we were all innocent in the ways of flirtations and, with the exception of milly, heart whole and fancy free, and it was really a difficult thing to conjure up imaginary lovers--for the occasion. the _pièce de resistance_ of the evening was the trick played upon adelaide. we planned on our programme that just as the clock struck the hour of midnight we would all try the experiment of walking downstairs backward with a lighted candle in one hand and a looking-glass in the other. of course it would never do for the procession to file down the grand staircase in front of madame's rooms, but the spiral staircase, secluded in the turret, offered peculiar advantages for the scheme. it communicated with no other floor, only professor waite had the key to the door at the foot, and he was never in the studio at night. so the girls believed, until i informed them that he always came in for a few moments on wednesday nights to leave his sketches made at the kit kat--and halloween that year happened to fall upon a wednesday. "so much the better," said cynthia. "we will make adelaide head the procession, and she will see professor waite's face in her mirror. it will be too good a joke for anything, for she can't bear the sight of him since she made that unfortunate speech when she saw him standing in the open door and thought it was winnie _en masquerade_." "i am afraid it will be twitting on facts," i said; "for i more than half suspect that professor waite admires adelaide as much as she detests him. he has asked me more than once why she does not join the drawing class--and even suggested that i should induce her to pose for the portrait class. he said her profile was purely classical, and that she took naturally the most superb poses of any girl that he had ever met." "so much the better," cynthia declared. "it will be the best joke of the season. what time does he usually arrive?" "he said, in telling one of the class, that he always leaves the kit kat at half past eleven, and reaches the street door of the turret on the stroke of twelve." "delightful!" exclaimed winnie. "fortune favors our plans. what fun it will be!" it was thought best not to admit milly into our confidence, for fear that she could not keep the secret. all went well. we played our tricks and winnie told ghost stories, but it seemed as if midnight would never come. at one time we fancied we heard a noise in the turret and we looked at each other apprehensively. had anything happened to bring professor waite back earlier than usual, and would our plans miscarry, after all? at ten minutes before twelve we organized the procession. milly was timid and persisted in being in the middle. to our disgust adelaide refused to lead. "winnie proposes it; let winnie go first," she said resolutely. "all right," winnie assented, after a thoughtful pause. "i will if adelaide will come next." cynthia and i looked at her inquiringly. we did not quite see how this would answer. "tib, let's go and see if snooks is in bed and the coast is clear," winnie suggested. "it's a pity that we can't get into the studio through this door, but that chest is too heavy for us to push aside." winnie and i reconnoitered, and as we opened the door into the turret she told me her plan. "i will lead rapidly and when i get to the bottom will scud into that little closet under the stairs where they keep the lawn mower, so that adelaide will be virtually at the head. we must start right away, so as to give me a chance to get into my haven of refuge before professor waite arrives." we all tiptoed into the studio and lighted our candles there, after we had closed the corridor door. we had had quite a time collecting mirrors. adelaide and milly possessed handsome silver-backed hand-glasses. winnie carried a pretty toilet mirror with three folding leaves. i had a work box with looking-glass inside the lid, and cynthia had unscrewed the large mirror from her bureau. we were all giggling and shivering when winnie, our marshal, gave the signal for the start in the following order: winnie, adelaide, milly, myself, and cynthia bringing up the rear. the steps winding around the central pillar were narrower at one end than the other and it was rather difficult to tread them backward. the fall wind blew through the slits of unglazed windows and extinguished my candle. winnie, in her haste to get to the bottom, fell, extinguished hers also, and hurt herself quite severely, but she had determination enough to pick herself up again and limp on. suddenly there came a strong draught of air and there was a halt in our march. milly whispered that she could hear voices, then adelaide, who was a little way in advance, shrieked and came running up the stairs. we were all huddled together in a jam. cynthia was shouting with laughter, milly crying with fright, adelaide choking and incoherent with indignation. "hurry, hurry!" she cried, pushing us back; "he is coming; he is just behind me." we were only a few steps from the studio and we all bundled in--but in the confusion milly had dropped her candle, and the light mother hubbard wrapper was all in a blaze. cynthia rushed wildly out of the room. i have no recollection of what i did, but adelaide fought the flames with her hands; but she would never have conquered them, and our darling might have died a cruel death in torturing flames, if professor waite had not dashed into the room, wrapped her in a persian rug, and extinguished the fire. strange to say, she was entirely unhurt. only her beautiful blond hair was singed, and that was afterward attributed by her friends to an injudicious use of the curling irons. adelaide's hands were badly burned and professor waite bathed them in oil, while an older, serious looking man, who had followed professor waite, whom we only noticed at this stage of the proceedings, wrapped them in his white silk muffler. then cynthia appeared at the door with a white face and a small water pitcher, and we were able for the first time to laugh in a hysterical way. fortunately, no one had heard us, and we slipped back to the amen corner. milly was awe-stricken by the peril through which she had passed, but there was a strange, happy look upon her face which i did not understand until, as i tucked her away in bed, she pulled me down to her and whispered in my ear: "he held me in his arms, tib; for one heavenly minute he held me close, close in his arms. i felt the hot breath of the flames, but i did not care. i was willing to die, i was so happy----" "my poor little girl," i said, as i kissed her, "you must not let yourself care for professor waite, for he does not----" "i know," she replied, "he loves adelaide; he can't help it any more than i can help----" "hush," i said, "this is all foolishness; put it right out of your little head. you are only sixteen; you are not old enough to care for any one. you will laugh at this by and by." she shook her head solemnly. "i shall always remember, tib--that for one heavenly minute he held me tight--so." and she embraced her pillow with all her small might, nestling her hot cheek against it in a way which would have been absurd if it had not been so unspeakably pathetic. adelaide strode into the room at this juncture with the air of a tragedy queen. "thank heaven, you are safe, milly dear!" she said, pausing beside the bed, but her look was not one of pious thanksgiving. her voice had a sharp sound, and a crimson spot flamed on her dark cheeks. "he dared to hold my hands in his," she murmured, "and, worse still, to call me 'noble girl,' and his 'poor child'; and he will think that i went down those stairs on purpose to see his face in my mirror. oh, how i hate him, how i hate him!" chapter vii. a state of "dreadfulness." [illustration] miss noakes had not heard us, but our troubles were not over. it was not until i had helped adelaide to retire (for her poor hands were too badly burned to put up her own hair), and had gone away into my own room that i realized that winnie was not with us and that she had been left behind in the stampede up the turret stairs. i crept around through the corridor into the darkened studio. professor waite and his friend had gone, why had not winnie returned? i opened the door leading to the turret and called her name softly. i was answered by a groan. i hastened to light a candle and stole down the winding stair. half way down i found winnie sitting on the steps, a bundle of misery. "i came up once," she exclaimed, "but professor waite was in the studio and i had to go back to the closet and wait until he left the house." "it must have been very chilly and unpleasant with nothing but a watering can and a lawn mower to sit on," i remarked; "but why didn't you come all the way up this time. you surely don't intend to spend the night where you are." "i don't know," winnie replied, with another groan; "i've sprained my ankle or something, and i can't bear my weight on it. it was all that i could do to drag myself up and back again, and then as far as this. ow! how it hurts! no, i just cannot take another step." "dear! dear!" i exclaimed; "what a night this has been! with milly's narrow escape from death, and adelaide's burned hands, and your sprained ankle, we have had enough halloween for one year." "what do you mean?" winnie asked, in her absorption taking several little hops up the stairs. "milly's escape? what has happened? ow! wow! you'll have to get a derrick, tib, and hoist me up. i cannot budge an inch." "lean on me," i said, "and listen while i tell you all about it"; and i rehearsed the thrilling story of professor waite's rescue. "i can smell the smoke still. snooks will think the house is on fire," winnie declared, snuffing vigorously as we reached the studio. "you had better open the windows a bit and air off. and there are some burned scraps of milly's wrapper on the floor; let's pick them all up. ow! don't let go of me. this is really what milly calls a state of dreadfulness--no other word will describe it. how can i ever stand it until morning?" i helped her to her bed and bound up her ankle with pond's extract; but it had swollen so much and was so painful that when morning came winnie consented to have the school physician called. he kindly asked no questions, and treated adelaide's hands, only remarking, "i see you have been celebrating halloween." "he thinks i burned them in snatching the raisins out of the lighted alcohol," adelaide said; "or perhaps in putting out some clothing which was set on fire in that way." even madame was considerate and did not inquire closely into the details of the trouble. "i hope you have learned from this," she said, "that it is a dangerous thing to play with fire." halloween was a disagreeable subject after this to all of us, but especially to winnie. "don't mention it," she would say. "i shall never play another trick in all my mortal days. i feel as mean and demoralized as a lunch-basket on its way home from a picnic." the state of dreadfulness deepened as time went on. winnie kept her room for days, and it was necessary to feed adelaide at table, and dress and undress her; but their hurts troubled me less than the heart bruise received by my poor milly. i kept her secret and she was brave, and no one else suspected it. professor waite was very impatient with her, treating her work contemptuously, and disregarding her personally altogether. he never alluded to the accident, treating it, as winnie said, as of no more consequence than if he had extinguished a bale of cotton that had happened to take fire. "that man is utterly incapable of sentiment," winnie remarked wrathfully. "now how natural it would be to make a romance out of such a rescue, but professor waite's heart is as stony as that of the apollo belvedere." milly smiled piteously and shook her head, while she looked significantly from me toward adelaide, as much as to say: "we know better; he is not so stony-hearted as he seems." having my attention directed to the matter, i kept my eyes open for little indications of the state of professor waite's sentiments, and presently found that they were not lacking. the studio was not occupied by classes until after ten o'clock in the morning, and professor waite came every day very early, and painted there alone until the first wave of pupils swept in and filled the room with an encampment of easels. he explained to me that he was preparing a picture for the academy exhibition, the morning light was good, and as his studio in the city was shared with another young artist, he preferred to come here where he could work quietly and undisturbed for a few hours each morning. he always bolted the corridor door to secure complete seclusion, and we had often to wait a few moments until he admitted us. he did not show us the painting, but it was evident that he was deeply interested in it, for he was frequently distraught, and apparently vexed at being obliged to turn his attention to our offences against art, just as he was worked up to a fine phrensy of production. at such times he would run his fingers through his hair, and stare at the work which the first unfortunate pupil presented with a repugnance which was often more clearly than politely expressed. sometimes his ill humour vented itself on the model. we were in the habit of taking turns and, dressed in some picturesque costume, of posing for the class for a week at a time. after the halloween experience it happened to be milly's turn. we had costumed her as an italian contadina, and thought that she looked very prettily. but professor waite was not satisfied. "why have you chosen a blonde for such a character?" he asked me impatiently. "that little snub nose and milk-and-water complexion have nothing italian in their make up. if you could induce that superb creature, miss armstrong, to wear the costume, you would see the difference." milly had heard the remark though he did not intend she should do so, and her eyes suffused with tears as usual. "i will ask adelaide," she said meekly, "but i don't believe she will be willing to pose for the class." "never mind the class," professor waite replied eagerly. "if miss armstrong will honor me by giving me personally a few sittings each morning for my academy picture i shall be more gratified than i can express." milly, more than happy to attempt to do the professor a favor, besought adelaide, who was obdurate and even indignant. "the very idea!" she exclaimed. "i never heard of such assurance. _i_ figure in his picture at a public exhibition, indeed." "why, i am sure it's a great honor," milly replied, bridling feebly; "and i won't have you treat him in such a _desultory_ manner." we all laughed, for milly, as usual when excited, had mixed her words--insulting and derogatory clamoring at the same time in her small mind for utterance. "i think it would be perfectly scrum to be in an academy picture," winnie exclaimed. "i wish he would ask me." perfectly "scrum," or "scrumptious," was winnie's superlative; while adelaide, to express a similar delight, would have quoted the anglicism, "quite too far more than most awfully delicious." "i wonder what his academy picture is, anyway," winnie went on, "and why he never shows it to us. i mean to ask him to let me see it; i am sure i might help him with some suggestions." "well you _are_ unassuming," i exclaimed, never dreaming that winnie, with all her audacity, would dare to criticise a picture by our professor. what was my astonishment, therefore, on awakening the next morning, to find that winnie was already dressed. "i am going into the studio," she remarked coolly, "to take a look at professor waite's picture before he arrives." "o winnie!" i begged, "don't; you've no business to do such a thing." winnie made a little face, courtesied, and flounced out of the room. she returned presently, all aglow with excitement. "he was already there at work," she exclaimed, "painting, as the french say, like an _enragé_. he had forgotten to bolt the door and i slipped right in. his back was toward me, and he did not notice me at first, so i had one good solid look. and what do you suppose it is, tib? why, adelaide, holding a candle and glancing over her shoulder as he must have seen her going down the stairs. the rembrandtesque effect of artificial light and deep shadow is stunning. he has rigged up his lay-figure on the landing in the dark turret, and had a lighted candle wedged into her woodeny fingers, so that he gets the lighting on the face and drapery, while he has daylight on his canvas. "of course he has had to do the face from imagination or memory, but it was perfect. i screamed right out: 'don't touch that again or you'll spoil it!' he turned the canvas back forward quicker than a wink, and looked at me as if he would like to eat me, but i didn't care, and i begged him not to disturb himself or interrupt his work on my account; that i had only dropped in in a friendly way to give him a little helpful criticism. with that he put on his eye-glasses and remarked; 'well, you _are_ about the coolest young lady that it has ever been my privilege to meet,' but he had to come right down from that nifty position, for i said, 'if my opinions are of no use, perhaps madame's will be more helpful; shall i ask her to come up and take a look at the picture?' that made him wince. he turned all sorts of colors, chewed his mustache, and hadn't a word to say. i felt sort of sorry for him and i assured him that i had no intention of telling, at least not if he was nice; and i reminded him that he owed the subject to me in the first place, for if i had not suggested the trick he would never have seen adelaide in that particular lighting. with that he changed his tune and said that he was very grateful for my kind intention, and that if i would kindly lend him a photograph of adelaide he would be still more grateful. but i told him that i did not think that it was fair to exhibit a portrait of adelaide, and he admitted that it was not, and said that he had decided not to send the picture to the exhibition, but merely to keep it himself." adelaide happened to knock at our door at this juncture, and winnie told her what she had discovered. "this is past endurance," adelaide exclaimed angrily; "you must come with me, tib, and insist on professor waite's showing me this picture. if the face is recognizable as my portrait i shall destroy it then and there." "don't, adelaide," i begged. "professor waite is a gentleman; he has already told winnie that he does not intend to exhibit the picture----" "but i do not choose that he shall possess it," she cried; "if you will not go with me i shall go alone," and she hurried to the studio door. it was locked, and professor waite did not choose to reply to her oft-repeated knocks. he evidently considered winnie's visit all-sufficient for one morning. adelaide came back in a towering passion. "if my poor hands would only let me write," she exclaimed, "i would give him such a piece of my mind. winnie, be my amanuensis. write what i dictate." winnie sat down good-humoredly and dashed off in her large scrawling script, which filled a page with these lines, the following indignant protest: professor waite: i regret that i consider the liberty you have taken in painting my portrait for the academy exhibition, without my knowledge or consent, a dishonorable act of which no gentleman would be guilty, and i demand that you destroy it instantly. adelaide armstrong. she was excited and she spoke loudly. when she finished, there was dead silence in the little parlor. we all felt that adelaide had put it a little too strongly. that silence was broken by a half-suppressed sneeze on the balcony outside the window. a sneeze which we all recognized as belonging to miss noakes. had she been listening? had she heard? winnie balanced the ink bottle over the letter ready to obliterate its contents by an "accident" if miss noakes suddenly knocked. no one appeared, and going to the window a moment afterward, i saw miss noakes walking between her window and ours, and taking in great sniffs of the keen morning air with much apparent enjoyment. the bell rang for breakfast and adelaide and i walked along together, pausing to slip the note under the studio door. it would not go quite through, a little end protruding, but that did not strike us as of any consequence. i had descended one flight of stairs when i found that i had forgotten my geometry and i hastened back to get it. i met winnie before i turned into the corridor. "hurry," she exclaimed, "snooks is just leaving her door; she will mark you for tardiness." i flew along at the top of my speed, but on reaching our corridor i saw a sight which suddenly arrested my footsteps. miss noakes stood before the studio door, carefully adjusting her eye-glasses and looking at the note; presently she stooped, picked it up, and read the address. she hesitated a moment, seemed half inclined to replace it, turned it over as though she wished to open it, then glancing down the hall and spying me, she placed it in the great leather bag which hung at her side. she closed the bag with a savage click and glared at me as i turned and fled, for i had not the courage to meet her. i reported the calamity at breakfast table in an awe-stricken whisper to milly, who turned a trifle pale. "i am afraid it will get professor waite into trouble," she said, "adelaide is still very angry with him, but i am sure she does not want to make him lose his position in the school." "it may make her lose her own position," cynthia vaughn suggested. "writing notes to young men is against the rules. it's an expellable offence. but then," she added, "this wasn't exactly a love letter." "i should think not," i exclaimed. "it's all the worse," milly groaned, as she scalded her throat with hot coffee. "adelaide can say she didn't write it, you know," cynthia suggested cheerfully. "winnie wrote it; and she didn't poke it under the door either--tib did that." "do you suppose, cynthia vaughn, that adelaide would do such a mean thing as not to take the consequences of her own actions?" milly asked indignantly. then she clasped my hand, for miss noakes stood at madame's table, and had opened her black bag and was handing madame the note. we could see even at that distance that the seal was unbroken, but this gave us scant comfort; it was only putting off the evil day. "winnie might steal that note for us," cynthia suggested, "before madame has a chance to read it." "why are you always thinking up scrapes for winnie to get into?" milly asked. winnie pricked her ears, at the other side of the table. "what about winnie?" she asked. "nothing," milly replied shortly; but as we went up to the studio a little before ten o'clock, i explained the situation. to my surprise winnie's eyes danced with merriment. "snooks listened," she exclaimed, "she heard adelaide, i knew she did, and now we know how she finds out things that happen in the amen corner; often and often i have thought that i heard her, and have opened the door quickly only to find the corridor empty. of course she is smart enough to know that she would get caught if she listened at the door; she would never in the world have time enough to scuttle down to her own room before we would see her. but the balcony! strange we never thought of that. i'll lay a trap for her--no, i need not; she has trapped herself; this affair is proof enough that she peeks and listens." "but i don't see how this helps us," i exclaimed. "this is the worst scrape of the season. don't you see it is? such glee on your part is positively idiotic. we may all be expelled and professor waite too." "fret not your dear little sympathetic, apprehensive gizzard. don't say one word, except to answer questions. don't volunteer any confessions, or let adelaide do so. remember, the prisoner is not obliged to criminate himself, the burden of proof lies with snooks, and she will find it a pretty heavy burden." "not with that note!" i replied. "that note! ha! ha! but i won't tell you. it's too good a joke." "and professor waite's picture of adelaide?" "the picture, i had forgotten that," and winnie became grave at once. "he must take it right away," she added. "i will tell him to." "you talk as if you could make him do anything," i said. "anything i choose to try," winnie replied confidently. we were at the studio door a little ahead of time, and professor waite threw it open at our knock, and welcomed us in with his palette still on his thumb. "come and see my picture," he said, with a smile. "poor man!" i thought, "he would not look so happy if he knew how angry adelaide is, and what a mine is waiting to be exploded beneath him." he led us to the easel and displayed the canvas triumphantly. it was an effective, striking picture, but it did not in the least resemble adelaide. winnie uttered an exclamation of disgust. "there now, you've spoiled it. i knew you would. it was just perfect, and you've ruined it. i'm sure i never want to look at that thing again. i told you not to touch it. why couldn't you let it alone?" and a half dozen other wails of the same order. professor waite did not attempt to put a stop to her somewhat impertinent remarks. he was plainly annoyed, however, and when she had emptied the vials of her indignation, he replied: "i thought you would approve of the change, miss dewitt. it was a remark of yours this morning which made me realize that i had no right to paint miss armstrong's portrait without her permission; that probably she would be unwilling that i should possess it; and as i would gladly sacrifice any ambition or pleasure of my own for the sake of not offending her, i have, as you see, painted in an entirely new face." "you are quite right, professor," i exclaimed warmly; "and adelaide will be grateful for your consideration." at this juncture the girls trooped in and took their places at their easels, and professor waite laid the picture in the great chest in front of our door. the correction of work went on as usual until the latter part of the hour, when an ominous knock was heard at the door, and madame, accompanied by miss noakes, sailed majestically into the room. professor waite bowed deeply and expressed himself as highly honored. madame lifted her lorgnette and surveyed the class. milly was posing in her despised italian costume. madame smiled kindly at her, and then passed about from easel to easel examining the girls' work. "i do not know whether it is exactly the thing for the young ladies to allow themselves to be painted in this way," she said, "though to be sure the studies are hardly recognizable as likenesses." "the young ladies have all asked the permission of their parents to sit for each other," professor waite explained. "for each other," madame repeated doubtfully; "but do you never make sketches of them also, professor? a parent might well object to having his daughter's portrait exhibited in a public place, sold to a stranger, or even shown among studies of professional models in your studio." "i have made no studies from life from any of the young ladies," professor waite replied promptly. miss noakes drew a long breath and seemed to bristle with anticipated triumph. "i am glad that you can assure me of this," madame replied in her softest, most purring accents. then she glanced around the room again and asked, "are all of the art students present? i do not see miss armstrong." "miss armstrong has not honoured me by joining the class," professor waite replied stiffly. "but she at least sits for the others, does she not? she is such a strikingly picturesque girl, i should think you would ask her." "we have asked her," milly replied, "but she is just as obstinate as she can be. i wish, madame, you would make her." madame shook her little wiry curls. "this is a matter which must be left entirely to individual preference, my dear. it would be very wrong, indeed, for any of you to make a portrait of miss armstrong without her consent. i have known young amateur photographers to lay themselves open to an action at law by taking photographs of people without their knowledge. our personality is a very sacred thing, and whoever possesses himself of that without warrant commits a dishonorable action." milly looked as if she were about to faint, while professor waite, who felt the intention of madame's remarks, and his own thoughtlessness, bit his mustache nervously. winnie was tittering in an unseemly manner behind her easel, but, thankful as i was that the professor had changed the portrait, i still felt the gravity of the occasion. madame's manner changed. "miss vaughn," she said to cynthia, "will you ask miss armstrong to step to the studio for a moment." then turning to our teacher, she added, "i have a very painful duty to perform, my dear professor, and you must pardon me if my questions seem to you unwarranted. will you tell me whether, for any reason whatever, you have carried on a written correspondence with miss armstrong or with any other member of this school?" "i have not, madame." "have never either written to her or received letters from her?" "never, madame. who has charged me with such a clandestine and dishonourable act?" madame did not reply, for adelaide entered the room. she was very stately and pale. cynthia had not had far to go, and adelaide had come instantly. "why have you sent for me?" she asked resolutely. "merely to ask you one or two simple questions," madame replied. "but first, professor, may we be permitted to see the picture which you are preparing for the academy exhibition?" adelaide leaned forward eagerly. professor waite was about to be punished for his presumption and yet she was not so glad as she fancied that she would be. her anger had faded out and she almost pitied him. a hot blush swept up to his forehead as he felt her gaze, and silently placed the painting upon the easel. madame examined it critically through her lorgnette; it was evidently not what she had expected to see. milly, who had not known of the change, could hardly believe her eyes, and seemed to fancy that a miracle had been performed to save her dear professor. miss noakes stood at the canvas with a look of disappointed malignity on her unattractive features. "is this the only picture which you intend to exhibit?" madame asked, after a moment, during which she had assured herself that the face on the canvas was utterly unlike any of her pupils. "it is the only one that i have had time to paint this season," professor waite replied. "the face bore at one time a resemblance to miss armstrong's, but i purposely destroyed that resemblance and shall send it in as you see it." madame seemed somewhat relieved, but she turned toward adelaide, who had seated herself and was staring at the picture, her heart filled with a vague regret that she had written so unkind a letter. "young ladies," said madame solemnly, "you have heard the questions which i have asked professor waite. certain accusations have been made which have greatly troubled me. it has been suspected that a clandestine flirtation and correspondence has for some time been carried on between your professor and one of the members of this school. hitherto i have paid no attention to these reports, as they rested only on suspicion, but this morning startling evidence has been produced, and before bringing it forward i call upon any young lady who has been guilty of such an indiscretion to anticipate the discovery of her fault by a full confession." no one responded. the accusation was so much more serious than the truth, that adelaide did not imagine that she was the suspected culprit. dead silence, in the midst of which madame produced the fateful letter. adelaide started and madame asked in awful tones: "will any young lady present acknowledge that she has written this letter?" winnie and adelaide each rose promptly. madame frowned. "have we two claimants?" she asked. "i am responsible for the contents of that note," said adelaide. "but i wrote it," added winnie, "and i demand that it be read aloud." it seemed to me that winnie was absolutely insane, and even adelaide seemed to feel that there was no necessity of rushing so recklessly on the spears of the enemy. professor waite looked completely mystified, and madame said very seriously: "you will see, professor, that this note is directed to you, and that it has not been opened. i could not take that liberty; but miss noakes discovered it being sent in a very irregular manner, which justified her in confiscating it. there are other suspicious matters connected with it, which i trust its contents will fully explain." i felt that the crucial moment had arrived. miss noakes was absolutely radiant, and sat rubbing her hands with ghoulish glee. madame looked troubled but judicial. the professor was a favourite of hers, but miss noakes had brought too weighty an accusation to be glossed over. a silence like that before a thunder-clap reigned. winnie covered her face with her handkerchief and shook--could it be with suppressed laughter? if so, it seemed to me that she must be going insane. professor waite opened the letter and glanced over its contents. "this note is from miss winifred de witt," he said to madame, "and since i have her permission, i will read it aloud." and to our utter astonishment, professor waite read--not the indignant letter which adelaide had dictated, but the following: professor waite. _dear sir_: may i have your permission to place my easel on the balcony in front of the corridor window and make a study of a sunrise effect as seen across the roofs? the view is so very beautiful that miss noakes spends much of her time there absorbed in its enjoyment. very respectfully yours, winifred de witt. professor waite politely handed this effusion to madame. miss noakes snatched it from her hand and glared at it with the look of a foiled assassin. madame bit her lips with annoyance and scowled at miss noakes. she was evidently angry with her for having caused her to arraign professor waite on insufficient testimony and creating a scene derogatory to her own dignity. she quickly recovered her self-possession, however, and remarked loftily: "miss de witt, when you have any future communications to make with your professor, pray do so in a more fitting manner. placing notes under doors is really unworthy of any young lady in my school." "so is listening at windows," cynthia whispered to winnie. madame turned to professor waite and expressed herself as much pleased that this very serious accusation had been proved to be founded on an entire mistake. she had herself felt perfect confidence in the integrity of professor waite and the propriety of her pupils throughout the entire affair, and had only investigated it to give the slander its proper refutation: and her stiff silk dress rustled with dignity out of the studio. as for miss noakes, she simply disappeared, "evaporated," as milly expressed it. the door had hardly closed upon madame before our long-repressed feelings found vent in laughter. winnie congratulated professor waite on the part of the school that he had been found innocent of so heinous a crime. the girls swarmed up to shake hands with him. those who could not grasp his hand shook the skirts of his coat. exuberant confusion reigned. milly was dissolved in happy tears, and even adelaide smiled when professor waite expressed his regret that miss noakes had connected their names in so disagreeable a manner. it was not until the occupants of the amen corner had gathered in their study parlor that adelaide said: "but i really do not understand what became of my note; the one i dictated to winnie and tucked under the door." "winnie, how did you manage to steal it?" cynthia asked. "i didn't take it from snooks," winnie replied. "it struck me that adelaide had expressed herself rather strongly, and that she would regret it after she had cooled down, and if she didn't, she ought to. so while you were investigating the eavesdropping i destroyed that note, wrote one of my own and sealed it up in its place." "and i've really put this note of yours under the door?" adelaide asked. "yes, my dear, and that is why i have not shared tib's anxiety since we knew that it had been confiscated. don't you think that dig about snooks enjoying the scenery of the back yard was rather good?" and winnie chuckled with enjoyment of her own impertinence. "you should have seen her face when professor waite read that. nebuchadnezzar's when he ordered shadrach, meshech, and abednego to the burning, fiery furnace must have been amiable in comparison. she would have seen me boiled in oil with pleasure. i haven't enjoyed anything so much for ages." chapter viii. in the meshes of a golden net. [illustration] of course adelaide did not feel it necessary to tell mr. mudge all the consequences of our halloween party, but only the facts of our having used the turret staircase on that memorable night. "and now," she said, with a laugh, "mr. mudge has gone racing off to investigate professor waite. i seem doomed to get that poor man into trouble. though of course he never could be suspected of this robbery." milly had entered while adelaide was speaking, and she uttered a little cry of dismay. "professor waite suspected! that could never be!" "circumstances are against him," winnie replied. "mr. mudge believes that the robbery was committed between twelve o'clock and a quarter past. now, if professor waite was in the studio at that time----" "he was earlier than usual," milly replied. "i heard him come up the staircase. you know the head of our bed is right against the turret wall. someway, i always hear his step on the stair, and then he usually whistles an air from one of the operas. last night he whistled the wedding march in 'lohengrin.'" "then you were lying awake, too, last night," winnie remarked. "did you hear me moving about in this room?" "yes," milly replied hesitatingly. "why didn't you say so before?" "there didn't seem to be any necessity of telling of it," milly replied. "you thought it might throw suspicion on me?" "oh, no," milly disclaimed. "no one could suspect you, winnie, or professor waite, either; the ideas are equally absurd." "unless it is proved that the robbery was committed before professor waite came up the stairs, it may not seem at all absurd to mr. mudge," winnie continued mercilessly. "tib and i saw him examining the door into the studio, and he seemed possessed with the idea that the burglar entered the room from the studio. i know, too, that mr. mudge examined professor waite's tool chest in the studio, and that he found the broken lock in it, with a screw-driver and other tools, showing that professor waite had been tinkering with the door, trying unsuccessfully to mend the lock, as we all know." "you know this! how did you find it out?" adelaide asked, and winnie replied: "professor waite wanted to use his screw-driver and went to his tool chest after it during the painting lesson to-day. it was gone; so was the lock to the door. he hunted everywhere, and told me that he was afraid that miss noakes had been in his studio and had discovered the broken lock, and that we would be called in question for that old scrape. i felt sure from the first that it was mr. mudge, but i did not mention him, for madame told us to say nothing about the robbery outside of our own circle." "i would do anything to keep professor waite out of trouble," milly said. "i am the only one who knows that he was in the studio, and i will not tell." "nothing will help professor waite so much as the entire truth," winnie replied. "of course he is not the one who took the money. if the person really responsible can be discovered, or will confess, the professor and all other innocent persons will be cleared from suspicion." "of course," milly replied, looking at winnie in a puzzled way. "and i am sure," she added hopefully, "that mr. mudge will find the guilty individual soon, if he is as keen as you all seem to think him. i really dread meeting him, and i am glad he has gone away for to-day. there goes the supper bell. what a long day this has been!" after supper milly woke to a consciousness that she had not prepared one of her lessons for the next day. she sat puckering her pretty forehead into ugly wrinkles, and repeating helplessly, "'populi romani!' i am sure i've had that before." then she began a wild attempt at translation, with manifold running comments. "'because ariovistus, king of the germans, had sat down on their boundaries--' now, was there anything ever so absurd as that? why did old ariovistus want to sit down on their boundaries?" "perhaps the word doesn't mean boundaries here," adelaide suggested, and milly turned patiently to her lexicon--"if _finibus_ comes from _finitimus_ it may mean neighbors--and then ariovistus sat down on his neighbors; well i must say that was cool----" milly worked on for a little while in silence, and then exclaimed, "i'm getting into the sensibility of it now--how's this? 'these things having been known, cæsar confirmed the mind of all gaul with words.' he was always very generous of his words. we have a review to-morrow, and the ridiculosity of the whole thing comes out. now just listen to this: 'wherefore it pleased him to send legates to ariovistus, who should ask him to appoint some place in the middle of the others for a colloquy. to these legates he responded if it was too much trouble for him to come to himself, himself would come to him and he--cæsar--would then find out who ought to do the coming. besides, he would admire to see all gaul in a row, and it was no business of cæsar's or his old populo romano.' i rather like his pluck but i'm afraid my translation is rather free. then here is a place that i am not quite sure about; 'the helvetians, the tulingians, and the lotobigians, and all the other igians, in their boundaries or something, whence they had something else--he commanded to--thingummy; and because all their fruits were--were--frost bitten, i guess, and at home nothing was which could tolerate hunger--he commanded the other ninkums that they should make for them copious corn--' i perfectly hate cæsar. he was always boasting of his own benefits and clemency to one tribe in making another support it, and then 'pacifying' the other tribes by slaying a few thousand of their soldiers, and i just don't see the use of our muddling our heads with what that stupid, cruel, conceited old bandit did, anyhow. but if i don't know this lesson i shall not be able to pass in examination, and you will all graduate and leave me behind for ages and ages----" ordinarily winnie could not have resisted such an appeal as this. i have known her to patiently translate all of milly's lessons for her, and then as patiently explain them to her over and over again, until some faint idea of their meaning had penetrated her befogged little brain. and having spent the evening thus, go unprepared to her geometry, and stoically receive a cipher as her class mark, and see cynthia carry off the honors of the day. but to-night winnie did not seem to see the forget-me-not eyes turned appealingly to her. she appeared to be completely absorbed in her cicero. i endured milly's frowns as long as i could, and finally pushed aside my own studies, and said, "come into my bedroom where we will not disturb the other girls, and i will straighten it out for you." milly was delighted. she threw her arms around my neck and thrust some cream peppermints into my pocket. we were in the midst of cæsar's negotiations with ariovistus, and had nearly finished the paragraph, when milly suddenly looked up. "tib," she said, "do you know whatever became of madame celeste's last bill? i thought i put it in my bureau drawer, but i must have left it around somewhere. have you seen it? i can't find it." "then you could not pay it this afternoon?" i asked evasively. "oh, yes! she made out another bill and receipted it for me, but i want to be sure that the first one is destroyed." "i thought all your money was taken; where did you get enough to pay this bill?" "oh! that is a secret," she replied, with a pleased little flutter of importance. "it's no manner of consequence how i came by it. i've paid the bill--that's the essential thing--and i've got out of that dreadful quicksand. oh, tib, i have been so unhappy, and cynthia has been so mean! i did not think it possible that any one could be so horrid." "tell me all about it, dear," i said, caressing the curly blond head which nestled on my knee. "i believe i will. i feel like telling somebody, and winnie is so queer lately--she freezes me. she has disapproved of me and scolded me ever since she found out about cynthia's dress, and i can't bear to be disapproved of. it isn't one bit nice. adelaide is perfectly splendid; she likes me and pets me, but perhaps she wouldn't if she knew everything; but you are just my dear old tib. you would always like me, wouldn't you, even if i were real wicked?" "yes indeed, milly," i replied; "and so would winnie; you don't half realize her love for you." "then she has a very queer way of showing it. she makes me feel as if i had committed some dreadful sin, and she was urging me to confess. she is just about as pleasant a companion as that florentine monk--what's his name? who kept nagging lorenzo de medici--even when the poor man was just as busy as he could be a-dying." "savonarola acted as he thought was kindest and best for his poor guilty friend. sometimes the surgeon who probes our wound is the truest friend--but you are going to tell me about your trouble--i've noticed how red your little nose has been of late." "it was partly celeste's fault, too," milly said. "cynthia's and celeste's and mine. of course the fault was mostly mine. you see it all started with the minuet--with which professor fafalata closed his dancing class just before the christmas holidays. he wished us to be costumed in the florentine style of the early part of the sixteenth century. i was talking it over with celeste, and she said i ought to have the front of my petticoat covered with some jewelled net which she had just imported from paris. it was very expensive, but very beautiful, and showy in the evening. the net was made of gold thread set with imitation amethysts and rubies, an arabesque design, copied from some mediæval embroidery, and just the thing for me, since i was to represent a young princess of the house of medici. i thought that i would write mother, who was in florida then, and ask her to lend me one of her party dresses, and that it would be just the thing to put over it; and while i was admiring it and before i had really ordered it, or realized what she was doing, celeste had cut me off a yard of it, and had charged it to my account--fifteen dollars. i brought it here, you remember, only to find that madame had interested professor waite in the minuet, and that he had promised to lend the girls some beautiful costumes of the period which he had brought back from paris. there was that lovely heliotrope velvet edged with ermine for adelaide, and a faded pink brocade sprigged with primroses for me. "so of course there wasn't the slightest need for my golden net. i carried it to celeste to see if she would take it back. she said that she would like to oblige me, but as it was cut she couldn't quite do that, but she would try to dispose of it for me. and she did sell it a few days later for ten dollars. i thought that was better than to lose the entire sum. she handed me the money, saying that it would put her to some trouble to change her accounts, and i had better let the bill go in just as she had made it out, and i could hand mother the ten dollars and explain matters. i really intended to do so, but i was nearly bankrupt that month. my pocket money just seemed to walk away. i had invited adelaide to see the play of the 'harvard hasty pudding,' and of course i had to have miss noakes chaperone us, and i hadn't money enough left to buy the tickets." "why didn't you tell her so?" i asked. "oh! i couldn't back out after i had asked her; and i owed her a little treat of some kind, for she invited me to see the cadet drill at her brother's school. "well, after i had broken the ten dollar bill to get the tickets, the first thing i knew it was all gone. i knew mother wouldn't mind, and that i could tell her any time after she came home, but it never seemed necessary to mention it in my letters and i never did." "oh, milly!" "horrid of me, wasn't it? but i had worse temptations. my pocket money is so very skimpy compared with what the other girls have, and with what i have, too, in the way of credit for certain things, that i am often really embarrassed and have to turn and twist and borrow and pinch to make it stretch out. when you girls clubbed together and paid for polo's sisters at the home, i wanted awfully to help, but i couldn't. you see father lets me subscribe so much annually to the home and he sends in a check every year for me, and thinks that ought to be enough. but i don't feel as though i was giving it at all, for it does not even pass through my hands. i don't deny myself to give it, as adelaide does for her charities, and i haven't a penny for any special case of distress or sudden emergency which i may happen to hear of. "do you know, tib, that satan actually suggested to me how easily i might have extra pocket money by ordering things from celeste, and letting her sell them again in just the same way that she managed with the golden net? i knew that she would be glad enough to do it, for i found out afterward that rosario ricos bought that net of celeste and paid her full price for it! so you see she kept back five dollars on the second sale, besides making a good commission on the first." "but you didn't do it, milly dear; you surely did not obtain your charity money in any such dishonest way as that?" "no, tib. i didn't do it for charity. i some way felt that god would not accept such a gift from me; but there came a time when i had a worse temptation still. you know all last term papa used to ride with me every saturday afternoon either at the riding academy or in the park. well, something is the matter with his liver; it hurts him to trot, and he has had to give it up, and wiggins took me out. but i hate riding with a groom, and so one day when papa called i told him i didn't care for any more riding this winter. this happened the week you went home to help tend your mother when she was sick, and that is the reason you never heard of it. i was taking father up to the studio when i said it, to show him professor waite's academy picture, and papa was so vexed with me about my not wanting to ride that he didn't half notice the pictures. "he took to professor waite, though, right away; and just as he was leaving asked him if he rode. 'when i am so fortunate as to have the opportunity,' professor waite replied. "'very good,' said papa. 'then possibly you will oblige me by accompanying my daughter and one of her friends on an occasional ride in the park.' he explained that he had a good saddle horse, which needed exercise, which he would be glad to have him use; and that, what was more important, i needed exercise too, and was so perverse that i did not want to take it alone. 'and now,' said he, 'the cruel parent proposes, milly, to pay for another horse for one of your other girl friends. i suppose you will choose adelaide, and if professor waite will act as your escort occasionally, i think you can manage to extract some pleasure from the exercise.' "of course i was perfectly delighted, and hugged papa, and called him a dear old thing. professor waite, who had looked awfully bored and had even begun to mumble something about being too busy, began to take an interest in the matter as soon as adelaide's name was mentioned, and papa had an interview with madame and got her permission to let us ride every saturday morning. adelaide was down at her tenement, and it was left that i was to tell her when she returned, and i thought everything was settled. but when adelaide came in she was looking troubled over some of her tenants' tribulations and she only half listened to me. "'i would like above all things to ride again,' she said 'as i used to on the plains when i lived out west; but there is no use talking about it, milly dear, i can't do it. i have no riding habit, and i cannot afford to have one made. thank you just as much, but don't say another word about it.' "you can imagine how disappointed i was. i knew very well that neither madame nor mamma would let me ride alone with professor waite, even if papa would permit it; and i knew, too, that the professor would lose every bit of interest in the plan if adelaide did not go. i was not thoroughly selfish, tib. i wanted adelaide to have a good time too, and i wanted professor waite to be happy. i told myself that if he loved adelaide, i would do all i could to help him, and perhaps some day he would remember that it was through me that he had won her, and like me a little for it, and never suspect that i--that i----" her voice broke and she buried her head on my shoulder. "dear milly," i said, caressing and soothing her as best i could. "of course you were not selfish. well, and what happened next?" "i couldn't give up the plan, tib, and i thought that if all that kept adelaide from joining in it was the lack of a habit, that could be easily arranged. i would make her a present of it. i was sure that father would give me twenty-five dollars for my next birthday present, and i thought it would do no harm to spend it in advance. so i asked celeste how much cloth it would take, and i had it sent her from arnold's, a beautiful fine dark-green broadcloth. and then i told adelaide what i had done and that she must go around to celeste's with me and be fitted. do you believe it, she would not? she said that it would be wrong for her to accept such a present from me; and besides, nothing would induce her to ride with professor waite, for she couldn't endure him. that put an end to the ride in the park. cynthia would have taken adelaide's place, but when i told professor waite that adelaide would not go, he looked so angry that i saw he wanted to get out of the arrangement, and i suggested that perhaps we had better give up the plan. he said, very well, just as i pleased, and looked so relieved that i almost cried then and there. papa was so provoked when i told him of it that i did not dare say a word about the riding-habit, especially as he had just handed me my little swiss watch as my birthday present. so i pretended to be pleased with it, and there was that dreadful cloth for the riding-habit on my hands, and i didn't know what to do. mamma was still in florida, and papa said that she was not very strong and must not be worried--i must only write cheerful letters to her. i didn't feel very cheerful, i assure you. then cynthia told me one day that she had twenty dollars with which she wanted to purchase a winter suit and she would like my advice about it. i was in debt just twenty dollars for the cloth for the habit, and i told her about it and begged her to take it off my hands. she went with me to celeste's and liked it very much. the only trouble was that her mother had intended the twenty dollars to pay for both material and making, and of course she ought to get something not nearly so nice. "she said at last that if i would get celeste to wait for her pay she would take the dress and pay her later. i thought only of paying for the material at arnold's, for i had expected to have the money by that time, and had asked them to make a separate bill out, and not put it on my book that goes every month to papa. so we arranged it. cynthia gave me her twenty dollars and i settled for the cloth, and celeste made the dress for her, and furnished the trimmings. but how she did run them up! she had a band of real sable around the hem of the skirt and trimmed the jacket with it too; and made her that cute little toque with heads and tails on it, and when the bill came in it was sixty dollars. cynthia was frightened. 'i never can pay it in the world,' she said. 'i think your dressmaker is frightfully extortionate; and i had no idea it would be so much.' i felt sorry for her and i felt, too, that i was to blame for getting her into the predicament; so i said we would divide the expense, and she should only pay half. but she grumbled at that, and said that i had inveigled her into the trouble, and that she had a dressmaker on th street who would have made the suit for ten dollars. when i reminded her of the fur, she said she did not believe it was real sable, and she didn't want it any way. "i offered to take it to gunther's and see if i could get something for it, if she would rip it off, but she said she would do no such thing; the dress would be a fright without it. it was all a miserable mess, and i was so unhappy. it would have been some consolation if cynthia had been grateful, but she blamed me for everything, and i think that, considering all i have done for her, she treated me very shabbily when she said that adelaide was the only lady in the amen corner, and she did not care to speak to any of us again." "that was like cynthia, and i am sure that the loss of her friendship can only be a benefit to you. but, milly, you must bravely shoulder the greater part of the blame yourself. your first wrong step was in getting the golden net without permission, then in letting celeste pay you for it and yet having it charged to your father. then, again, in getting the cloth for adelaide's habit without consulting your father you deliberately did wrong; and in bargaining with cynthia, instead of going straight to your father and confessing your fault, you waded still more deeply in----" "i know it; but there you are scolding me just like winnie, and it doesn't make the trouble a bit easier to bear to be told that i deserve it all, and am a miserable little sinner. you needn't imagine that i did not realize what a wretch i was; only i didn't seem to see the way out. everything i did to extricate myself got me deeper into the quicksand. i saved every way, all that i could; one month i laid by two dollars and thirty-seven cents, but the next i slipped back three and a quarter, and cynthia handed me a five dollar bill one day, and told me that was every cent that she could pay, and i must let her off from the rest. and to crown it all, winnie found out about it, and nearly drove me wild. oh, tib, i have been in such trouble, what with this dreadful bill that i didn't dare tell papa about, and professor waite, and all my lessons so hard, and my marks getting worse than ever, and winnie turning on me. it just seemed as if i would die, and i almost wished i could. i thought seriously about killing myself only the night before last. i think if i could have found any poison that would not have hurt i would have taken it." "don't talk so, milly; it is wicked. you would have done nothing of the sort." "but i would. i went into the chemical laboratory and looked at the green and blue stuff in the test tubes, but i couldn't quite screw my courage up to do more than taste just a little bit of one kind that looked more deadly than the rest. it was horrid, and took the skin off of the tip of my tongue. i ate a quarter of a pound of assorted mints before i could get the taste out of my mouth. if i could have found some laudanum, or something that would not have tasted so bad, or would have killed me by putting me to sleep, i would have taken it that night, for i was miserable enough to do anything, however unscrupulous and reckless. if i hadn't been so very desperate perhaps i would never have dared to do what i did do; the thing which really broke the meshes of the golden net which seemed to have me in its toils. i didn't mean to tell any one, but i was just driven to it, and i know you will keep my secret--besides i have told you so much that you might as well know all. tib, i----" "milly, it is time we were all in bed." it was winnie who spoke. she stood in the doorway, cold and commanding, and milly cowered before her. she did not offer to kiss her, but shrank, frightened, away to her room. "oh, winnie," i said, "why did you come in just then? milly was just about to confess to me what she did to get the money with which she has just paid celeste." "you have no business to coax her secret from her," winnie replied angrily. "whatever it is, you have no right to know it unless she has wronged you. i am afraid our dear milly is in deep waters. but whatever she may have done lies between her own conscience and god, and i believe that he will show her how to make restitution and keep, in the future, strictly to the right. oh, my poor, precious milly! i wish i could suffer all the consequences of your wrong doing for you, but i can't. every sin brings suffering, and it is the suffering that purifies. i can't save you that experience, but i will shield you from open shame if i can. i forbid you, tib, to pry into milly's affairs any further, to question her, or allow her to confide in you, or even suspect her. only pray for her, and love her; that is all you can do." "it is you who suspect her," i exclaimed hotly, "and unjustly, winnie. milly has been extravagant and thoughtless; worse than that, she has been underhanded and deceitful in regard to expenditures, but she did not take the money from the cabinet; of that i am positive." "have i ever charged her with anything so dreadful?" winnie asked. "have i not tried in every way to keep that suspicion from every one? give me credit for that, at least." "in words, winnie; but in your secret thought you have wronged her. i know that you love her with a sort of a fierce, maternal love which makes you want her to be perfect, and which fears the worst and tortures yourself with imaginary impossibilities. i tell you that milly has learned a very thorough lesson in regard to deception; she will never offend in that way again; and as to this affair of the cabinet, i would as soon suspect you as her." "suspect me, then," winnie cried. "i wish you would. i hoped that cynthia was going to lead suspicion my way, but it seems she can't do it. i have too good a reputation." and winnie laughed cynically. "well, the time may come when you may not think so well of me. meantime, i thank you with all my heart for believing in milly." chapter ix. "polo." [illustration] it must not be inferred that our life that winter was all intense and tragical; if it had been so we could not have endured it. there were patches of clear sky, and the sunlight of generous acts glinted through the storm. we had all merry hearts and good digestions, and these bore us up under our troubles with the buoyancy which is so mercifully granted to youth and inexperience. then, too, our thoughts were not entirely taken up with ourselves and our own affairs. for a few days after this we saw nothing of mr. mudge, and our attention was partly diverted to another matter. one day, earlier in the school year, mrs. booth, of the salvation army, had addressed madame's school on the need of work among the poor of new york. one little parable which she gave made a great impression upon us. i cannot repeat mrs. booth's eloquent language, but will give the main points of the story. "as a young girl," said mrs. booth, "i was very selfish and hard-hearted. i did not care for the suffering and anguish of others. it was not that i was naturally cruel, but i did not think of them at all. i thought and cared only for myself, of parties and dresses, and of having a good time--and this dead sea of selfishness was numbing every generous impulse within me. my heart was growing to resemble a certain spring which my mother took me to see when a little child. i remember the walk through the wood beside a little brook which babbled over the stones, and how the light of the sky shone down into its clear amber waters, and the trees and the clouds were reflected in its quiet pools; how long mosses fringed its stones, and water plants made a little forest under its ripples; and how its depths were all alive with tiny fish and happy living creatures seeking their food and sporting among the cresses. but we came presently to a spring quite apart and very different from the brook. the water was deep, and quiet, and clear, but when i looked into it i was struck by a death-like influence, weird and sinister. there were no minnows darting through the depths like silver needles, or craw-fish burrowing in the banks, or water beetles skimming the surface like oarsmen rowing their light wherries. there was no life to be seen anywhere. the very stones had a strange, unnatural look; they were white as marble; no mosses covered them, no water-lilies or algae grew through the deadly water. the very leaves which had fallen into the pool were white and heavy, as though carved in marble. the grasses which grew downward and dipped into the spring were marble grasses, more like clumsy branching coral than the delicate bending sprays above the waves. it was a petrifying spring, and everything dipped in its waters was presently coated with a fine, stony sediment and practically turned to stone. "so the deadly, petrifying spring of selfishness will turn the heart to stone, and while having the form of life it will be cold and hard and dead." this was mrs. booth's little parable, and while none of our hearts had been dipped in this petrifying spring, it woke us to new desires to do more for the suffering poor. something happened a little after this talk, and several weeks previous to the robbery, which gave a direction to our impulses. milly and i were returning from a shopping excursion one very cold and rainy saturday, when we were approached by a poor girl who was selling pencils on a corner. "they are always useful," i said; "suppose we take some." "i should perfectly love to," milly replied, "but i haven't a cent." the girl had noticed our hesitation and came to us. "please buy some, young ladies," she said; "i haven't had a thing to eat to-day." "then come right along with me," said milly. "mother lets me lunch at sherry's, whenever i am out shopping." the girl followed us but stopped beneath the awning of the handsome entrance. "that's too fine a place for me, miss," she said. "only swells go there. it costs the eyes out of your head just for a clean plate and napkin in there. how much do you s'pose now, a lunch would cost in that there palace?" "not more than a dollar," milly replied cheerfully. "glory!" exclaimed the girl, "if you mean to lay out as much as that on me, why ten cents will get me all i want to eat at a bakery on third avenue, and i'll take the balance home to the children." "that is just where the awkwardness of papa's way of doing comes in," milly said to me. "you see," she explained to the girl, "i've spent all my money to-day, but i can have a lunch charged here." still the girl hesitated. "i'm not fit," she said, looking at her dripping, ragged clothes. we were sheltered from view by the awning, and in an instant milly had taken off her handsome london-made mackintosh and had thrown it around the girl. "there, that covers you all up," she said, "and your hat isn't so very bad." it was a tarpaulin, and, though a little frayed at the edges, its glazed surface had shed the rain and it was not conspicuously shabby. we passed into the ladies' restaurant and seated ourselves at one of the little tables. milly took up a menu and looked it over critically. "now i am going to order a very sensible, plain luncheon," she announced. "no frills, but something hot and nourishing. we will begin with soup. papa would approve of that. he is always provoked when i cut the soup. green turtle? yes, waiter, three plates of green turtle soup." "please excuse me," i interrupted. "i do not care for anything." "no? well, two plates. i usually loathe turtle soup, but i'm determined to be sensible and have a solid lunch. some way, i don't know why, i'm not very hungry this afternoon." "perhaps the ice-cream soda we had at huyler's has taken away your appetite," i suggested. the soup was brought and milly sipped a little daintily, as she afterward said merely to keep her guest company. the guest devoured it ravenously; she had evidently never tasted anything so delicious; but perhaps plain beef-stew would have seemed as good, for her feast was seasoned with that most appetizing of sauces--hunger. "what will you have next?" milly asked politely, as the waiter removed their plates. "whatever you take, miss," the girl replied. "i ain't particular. i guess anything here's good enough for me." "i declare i don't feel as if i could worry down another morsel," milly answered. "there is nothing so surfeiting as green turtle. it makes me almost sick to think of crabs or birds, or even shrimp salad. let's skip all that, and take the desert. waiter, bring us two ices. which flavor do you prefer?" she asked of the pencil vender, and again the bewildered girl left the choice to her hostess. "strawberry, mousse, and chocolate are too cloying," milly remarked meditatively. "bring us lemon water ice and pistache. don't you just dote on pistache?" "i never ate any, miss." "then i shall have the pleasure of introducing you to something new. you'll be sure to like it." the girl did like it. she ate every morsel. possibly something more solid would have proved as satisfying, but milly was pleased with her evident appreciation. "why don't you eat the macaroons? don't you like them? would you rather have kisses?" "if you please miss, might i take them home to the children?" "yes, i suppose so. it isn't exactly good form to put things in your pocket, but they will be charged for just the same, even if we leave them, so take them, quick, now that the waiter is not looking." although the waiter was not watching us, some one else was. a faultlessly dressed gentleman approached at this juncture and greeted milly in an impressive manner. "why, mr. van silver!" she exclaimed, a little fluttered by the unexpected meeting. "i haven't seen you since last summer at narragansett pier." "and whose fault is that?" mr. van silver asked plaintively. "if young ladies will shut themselves up in convents, and never send their adoring friends any invitation to a four o'clock tea or a reception or even a school examination or a prayer meeting, where they might catch a glimpse of them, it is the poor adorer's misfortune, and not his fault, if he is forgotten. won't you introduce me to your friends?" "certainly. tib, this is mr. van silver. mr. van silver, allow me to present you to tib--i mean to miss smith. i can't introduce you to the other young lady, because i don't know her name." we had all risen and the last remark was made _sotto voce_. as we left the building mr. van silver sheltered milly with his umbrella and the waif followed with me. "come with us to madame's," i had said, "and perhaps we can do something for you." as we walked on together milly and mr. van silver carried on a lively conversation, part of which i overheard, and the remainder milly reported afterward. she first told him of how we had met our new acquaintance, and he seemed much interested. "and so you have just given her a very solid and sensible lunch, consisting of green turtle soup and ice cream." he laughed a low, gurgling laugh and appeared infinitely amused. "and macaroons," milly added; "she has at least five macaroons in her pocket for the children." "oh! yes, a macaroon a piece for the children. i wonder if i couldn't contribute a cigarette for each of them," and he gurgled again in a purring, pleasant way. "you are making fun of me," milly pouted, in an aggrieved way. "not at all. i think it was just like you, miss milly, to do such a lovely thing. you are one of the most kind-hearted girls i know,--to beggars, i mean,--but the young men tell a different story. there's poor stacey fitz simmons. i saw him the other day and he was complaining bitterly of your hard-heartedness. he said you hardly spoke to him at professor fafalata's costume dance." "how unfair! he was my partner in the minuet. what more could he ask?" "there's nothing mean about stacey. he probably wanted you to dance all the other dances with him. i told him that he was a lucky young dog to be invited at all. why did you leave me out?" "i didn't think that a grown-up gentleman, in society, would care for a little dance at a boarding-school, where he would only meet bread-and-butter school girls." "oh! i'm too old, am i? well, i must say you are complimentary. and it's a fault that doesn't decrease as time passes. well, i shall tell stacey that there's hope for him. you only care for very young men. why did you send back the tickets which he sent you for the inter-scholastic games! you nearly broke his heart. he has been training for the past six months simply and solely in the hope that you will see him win the mile run." "but i will see him. i wrote him that adelaide's brother, jim, had already sent her tickets, which we should use, and as he might like to bestow his elsewhere, i returned them." "'bestow them elsewhere?' not he. stacey is constant as the pole. he's as loyal as he is thoroughbred. he was telling me about the serenade that the cadet band gave your school last year. some girl let down a scrap basket from her window full of buttonhole bouquets. he wore one pinned to the breast of his uniform for a week because he thought you had a hand in it; and you never saw a fellow so cut up as he was when he heard last summer that you had nothing to do with it, and even slept sweetly through the entire serenade." "stacey is too silly for anything. it is perfectly ridiculous for a little boy like him to talk that way." "little boy--let me see, just how old is stacey, anyway! about seventeen. six months your senior, is he not? at what age should you say that one might fall quite seriously and sensibly in love?" "oh! not till one is twenty at least," milly answered quickly; but she blushed furiously while she spoke. "sensible girl! but to return to the subject of the inter-scholastic games. i am glad that you and your friend miss adelaide are going. they are to take place out at the berkeley oval, you know. i have no doubt that the roads will be settled and we shall have fine weather by that time. may i have the pleasure of driving you out on my coach?" "certainly. that is, i must coax papa to write a note to madame, asking her to let us go." "i will call at the bank and see your papa about it to-morrow, and meantime do beam upon poor stacey. and, by the way, here is something which you may as well add to the macaroons for those poor children," and he pressed a dollar bill into milly's hand. some one passed us rapidly at that instant and gave the young man so questioning a glance that he raised his hat, asking milly a moment later if she knew the lady. "why, that is miss noakes!" milly exclaimed, in dismay. "you must not go a step further with us, mr. van silver, or we will be reported for 'conduct.'" "far be it from me to gratify the evidently malicious desire of that estimable person to report you young ladies. good-by until the games," and with another bow he was gone. as we approached the school building we saw professor waite leaving by the turret door, and i asked him to allow us to enter by it, at the same time requesting him to buy some of our new friend's pencils. he looked at the girl closely, and as milly led the way with her i explained how we had found her. "she is a picturesque creature," professor waite remarked. "i could make her useful as a model. the girls pose so badly and dislike to do it so much, it might be well to try this waif. tell her to come on monday, and if the class like her well enough to club together and pay a small amount for her services, we will engage her to sit for us." he scribbled a line on one of his visiting cards for her to show cerberus, as we called our dignified janitor, who was very particular about whom he admitted to the building; and i hastily followed our _protégé_ to the amen corner, where i found adelaide talking with her while milly ransacked her wardrobe for cast-off clothing, finding only a tam o'shanter, a parasol, and some soiled gloves. "can't you find her a pair of rubbers?" adelaide asked. "the girl's feet are soaked." "do you keep your own rubbers?" the waif asked. "that was my father's business." "what do you mean?" inquired adelaide. "my father was a rubber--a massage man for the earl of cairngorm." "oh!" said adelaide, a light beginning to dawn upon her mind. "i meant rubber overshoes, not a bath woman." "we call those galoshes," said the girl, as milly produced a pair which were not mates. "i'm sure you've given me a fine setting out, young ladies. i'll do as much for you if i ever has the chance. who knowses? maybe some day i'll be a swell and you poor. then you just call on me, and don't you forget it." with which cheerful suggestion she left us, grateful and happy. i took her down to the main entrance, and, showing the card to cerberus, explained that she had been engaged by professor waite, and was to be allowed to enter every morning. he granted a grudging consent, not at all approving of her appearance without the waterproof, and i flew back to the amen corner to join in the general conference. she had told adelaide that her name was pauline terwilliger. her father had been english, her mother swiss. they had knocked about the world as foot-balls of fortune, but had lived longest in london, where her father had died. her brother had come to new york some years previous, and her mother had brought the family over on his insistence. but this brother had failed to meet them, as he had promised to do, on their landing at castle garden. their mother had lost his address, and they were stranded in a strange city. they had advertised in the papers, and had left their own address at the barge office, but her brother had never appeared. they had taken a room in a tenement house, and the mother had obtained some work, scrubbing offices and cleaning windows. but she had taken cold and was now in a hospital, and polo was trying to support the two younger children. "they are living in one of the worst tenement houses in mulberry bend," said adelaide. "i would like to give them a room in my house, but it is full; and cheap as the rent is, they could never pay it." "the younger children ought to go to the home," i suggested. "the home is full," winnie replied. "i called there to-day. emma jane says it just breaks her heart to look at the list of applications waiting for a vacancy. our dear princess[ ] has in mind a little old-fashioned house which fronts on a side street, whose yard backs against ours. she would like to have it rented as an annex. she says the home ought to have a nursery for very little babies. you know it does not now take children under two years of age, on account of the expense of nurses; but this would be such a charming place for them, and we could call it the 'manger,' and have it connected with the main building with a long glass piazza. the scheme is a perfect one. all it needs is money to carry it out. unfortunately, that is lacking. i have corresponded with all our out-of-town circles of king's daughters. they are doing all they can, and have pledged enough, with our other subscriptions, to carry the home through the coming year on its old basis; but there isn't a cent to spare for a 'manger.'" [ ] "the princess" was a quaint little foreigner, who gave the girls botany lessons, and who originated the idea of the home, whose founding is related in the initial volume of this series. "would all of the new house be taken up by the nursery?" adelaide asked. "no; the princess proposed that the upper story, which consists of four little bedrooms, should be used as 'guest chambers' for emergency cases, convalescent children returned from hospitals, and children who, on account of peculiar distress,--like polo's sisters,--it seemed best to receive for a short time entirely free. the princess thought that we might like to club together and pay for one such room, and then we could designate at any time the persons we would like to have occupy it. there is always a list of applicants, which would be submitted to us to choose from, in case we had no candidates of our own to suggest. the occupants of such a room would then be as truly our guests as if we entertained them in our own home. it would come in very nicely now in polo's case." milly gave a deep sigh. "i wish i could help you, girls, but you know just how i am situated." adelaide knitted her brows. "we must get up some sort of an entertainment. it makes me tired to think of it, but there's no other way." "and in the mean time, emma jane must find room for those children some way," said winnie. "i will call a meeting of the hornets in our corner to-night, and we will pledge ourselves to raise money enough for one guest chamber for these children, and until it is arranged for, emma jane must make up beds for them on the school desks, or we can buy a _retroussé_ bedstead for the parlor." "_retroussé_ bedstead! what's that?" milly asked, in a puzzled way. "don't be dense, milly; it's vulgar to speak of a turn-up nose, you know; and i don't know why we should insult a parlor organ bedstead in the same way. if we can't afford that sort of thing, they might turn the dining tables upside down; they would make better cribs than the children have now, i'll venture to say." "you will tuck them up, i suppose, with napkins and table-cloths," cynthia sneered. but winnie paid no attention to the interruption. "they will not mind a little crowding, and the thing will march right along if we only plunge into it. they must not stay another night in that old tenement. polo said there was a rag-picker under them, and a woman who had delirium tremens in the next room. i am going down to-morrow afternoon to take them to the home." a meeting of our own particular circle of king's daughters, which was made up of ourselves and the "hornets," took place that evening in the hornets' nest. the hornets were a coterie of mischievous girls rooming in a little family like the amen corner, but in the attic story under the very eaves. they took up the idea of the guest chamber with great enthusiasm, but they were nearly as impecunious as ourselves. suddenly little breeze--our pet name for tina gale--exclaimed, "i have a notion! we will invite the school to a 'catacomb party, and the underground feast of the ghouls.'" "how very scareful that sounds!" said trude middleton. "what is it, anyway?" "oh! it's a mystery, a blood-curdling mystery. it will cost everybody fifty cents, but it will be worth it. i want witch winnie to be on the committee of arrangements with me, and you must all give us full authority to do just as we please; and it is to be a surprise, and you must ask no questions." "we trust you. where's it to be? in the sewers, or the cathedral crypts?" but little breeze refused to waft the least zephyr of information our way, and there was nothing for it but to wait. as we were returning rather noisily from the hornets' nest, we passed miss noakes's open door, and she rang her little bell in a peremptory manner. this meant that we were to report ourselves immediately to her, and we did so. "young ladies," said miss noakes in her most disagreeable manner, "before reporting you to madame, i would like to give you an opportunity of explaining a very irregular performance. as i was returning from a meeting of the young women's christian association this afternoon, i saw three occupants of your corner taking a promenade with a gentleman. this is, as you know, an infringement of school rules, and i would like to inquire whether the young man has any authorization from your parents for such attention." "only two of us were concerned in this matter," i replied. "we met mr. van silver quite by chance, and he very politely offered milly the protection of his umbrella for a part of the way home, as she had none. he is an old friend of her family and thoroughly approved of by mr. roseveldt." "how often have i told you young ladies never to go out, on the pleasantest day, without an umbrella or waterproof, since a storm may come up at any minute?" "i did take my waterproof," milly replied. "then you had no occasion to accept the gentleman's umbrella," miss noakes said sternly. "but i gave it to polo," milly stammered, quite fluttered. "polo! who is polo? and how can you tell me, miss smith, that miss roseveldt and you were the only ones implicated in this disgraceful affair, when i saw three of you enter the turret door?" "the third girl was polo, the new model whom professor waite has engaged to pose for the portrait class." "a professional model? worse and worse! and how comes it that you were walking with such a questionable character?" i related the entire story as simply as possible; but it was evident that miss noakes did not approve. "a most extraordinary performance," she commented. "i feel it my duty to report it to madame." "you may spare yourself that trouble, miss noakes," adelaide replied. "tib, winnie, and i are going to tell madame all about it at her next office hour. we want to ask her permission to get up a little entertainment in behalf of polo's little brother and sisters." "and i shall suggest to madame," miss noakes added, "the advisability of inquiring into the character and antecedents of this girl, before she allows her to become an accredited dependent of her establishment, or authorizes the bestowal of charity upon her family. artists' models are often disreputable people with whom your parents would not be willing that you should associate, and i advise you not to become too intimate with a perfect stranger." we had come through the ordeal on the whole quite triumphantly, but polo had excited miss noakes's enmity. she could never be won to regard her as anything but a vagabond, and always spoke of her as 'that model girl' in a tone that belied the literal signification of the words; and later, when by dint of spying and listening miss noakes learned that a robbery had been committed in the amen corner, her dislike and suspicion of poor polo led to very painful consequences. the relation of which, however, belongs to a later chapter. [illustration] chapter x. the catacomb party. [illustration] polo came on monday and posed to the satisfaction of professor waite and of the class. winnie was successful in entering the two children at the home, and adelaide had a happy thought for polo herself, who was too old to be received there. one of the smallest apartments in her tenement had been taken by miss billings and miss cohens, two seamstresses, honest, industrious old maids, who had lived and worked together since they were girls. adelaide called them the two turtle doves, the odd combination of their name suggesting the nickname, and their fondness for each other bearing it out. they were a cheerful pair, and their rooms were bright with flowers and canaries. one morning miss billings woke to find her friend dead at her side, having passed from life in sleep so peacefully that she neither woke nor disturbed the faithful friend close beside her. the poor old lady was very lonely and was glad to take polo in. the young girl brightened her life, and her own influence on the nearly friendless waif was excellent. in the intervals of posing miss billings taught polo how to cut and fit dresses. polo helped her with her sewing, and miss billings promised to take her into partnership by and by. polo was very happy and grateful, and the girls all liked her immensely. she was a character in her way, an irresistible mimic. she would take off miss noakes to the life, while she had a talent which i have never seen equalled for making the most ludicrous and horrible faces. she was almost pretty, and with miss billings's help, made over the odds and ends of clothing bestowed upon her very nicely. her one trinket was a string of coral beads and a little cross which her brother had sent her before she left england. she never gave up her faith in this brother. "albert edward'll turn up some day rich," she said. she flouted the idea that he might be dead. "he ain't the dying kind," she said, when cynthia suggested the possibility. "none of our family ain't, except father. why, i've been through enough to kill a cat, and i haven't died yet." she was especially devoted to milly, to whom she felt, with reason, that she owed all her good fortune. professor waite found her remarkably serviceable as a model, from her versatility and ability to adapt herself to any character, giving a great variety of types for us to copy. when she wore the italian costume, one would have thought her an italian, and a complete change came over her when she donned the german cap and wooden shoes. "may be that's because i've lived amongst all sorts of foreigners so much," she said, "and albert edward always said i'd make an actress equal to the best. he said i had talent. i do pity them as hasn't. i wouldn't be one of the common herd for anything." polo was certainly uncommon. her use of the english language had an individuality of its own. she hated miss noakes and said she had no business to be "tryannic" (meaning tyrannical). she spoke of native americans as abor-jines (a distortion of aborigines), and intermingled these little variations of her own with cockney phrases which were new to our untravelled ears. she found difficulty in understanding our words and expressions, and once when professor waite told her to set up a screen she astonished us all by uttering a most blood-curdling yell, under the impression that he had commanded her to set up a _scream_. she disliked cerberus, and to save her from his scornful scrutiny and contemptuous remarks, professor waite had a duplicate key made to the turret door, by which polo entered each morning and mounted directly to the studio. she was very diverting, but much as we liked her we could not forget that we had assumed a grave responsibility in taking the support of her little sisters upon our hands, and we now began to actively agitate the plans for the catacomb party, which was to raise funds for the annex with its "manger and guest chambers." one event of interest to us occurred before the evening of the catacomb party. this was the annual drill of the cadet school. all of the amen corner and the hornets had invitations. we occupied front seats in the east balcony of the great armory, vigilantly chaperoned by miss noakes. her best intentions could not prevent the young cadets from paying their respects to us during the intervals of the drill. the young men looked handsomely in their gala uniforms of white trousers and gloves, blue coats, and caps set off with plenty of frogging and brass buttons. they performed their evolutions with a precision which would have done credit to a regiment of regulars--and received the praise of general howard, who reviewed them. out of all the battalion there were two boys in whom we were chiefly interested: adelaide's younger brother jim, color sergeant of the baby company, and milly's friend stacey fitz simmons, the handsome drum-major. winnie insisted that malcolm douglas must have been thinking of the practising of this cadet drum corps when he wrote: "and all of the people for blocks around, boom-tidera-da-boom! kept time at their tasks to the martial sound, boom-tidera-da-boom! while children to windows and stoops would fly, expecting to see a procession pass by, and they couldn't make out why it never drew nigh, with its boom-tidera-da--boom-a-diddle-dee; boom-tidera-da-boom! it would seem such vigor must soon abate; boom-tidera-da-boom! but they still keep at it, early and late; boom-tidera-da-boom! so if it should be that a war breaks out, they'll all be ready, i have no doubt, to help in putting the foe to rout, with their boom-tidera-da-boom-- _boom-tidera-da-boom--_ boom-tidera-da--boom-a-diddle-dee, boom-boom-_boom_!" stacey was seventeen, tall for his age, with a little feathery mustache outlining his finely cut upper lip. he was elegant in appearance and manners, and we all admired and liked him with the exception of perverse, wilful milly. jim was thirteen and small for his years. the life of privation which he had led during a period when he had been lost, the account of which has been given in the previous volume, had stunted his growth, and given him an appearance of delicacy. but jim was wiry, and possessed great endurance, and his drilling that evening was noticeable for its accuracy and spirit. adelaide and jim were deeply attached to one another. they wrote each other long letters every week, remarkable for their perfect confidence. as jim's letters give an insight not only into his life at the cadet school, but also into the relations which subsisted between several of the cadets and members of our own school, as well as into a _contretemps_ which introduced great consternation into the catacomb party, i will choose two from adelaide's packet and insert them before describing the mystic entertainment of the council of ten. letter no. . dear sister: i like the barracks better than i did. i almost have gotten over being homesick, and the fellows are awfully nice now that i have come to know them. i miss mother, but i would rather die than let any one know it. i've put her photograph down at the bottom of my trunk, for it gave me the snuffles to see it, and stacey fitz simmons caught me kissing it once, and i was so ashamed. he is one of the nicest fellows here, and he didn't rough me a bit about it, only whistled, and said: "you've got a mighty pretty mother; i guess she takes after your sister. pity there wasn't more beauty left for the rest of the family." he knows you, and i guess you must remember meeting him when you visited the roseveldts last summer at narragansett pier. he asked if you and milly roseveldt were at the same school, and would i please send his regards when i wrote. he is one of the senior a boys, and is going to college next year. i am only middle c, but he is ever so good to me, i am sure i don't know why. we are drilling, drilling all the time now for the annual drill at the seventh regiment armory. stacey is an awfully good fellow. he's the head of everything. he's drum-major, and you just ought to see him in his uniform leading the drum corps [jim spelled it _core_]. he's the cockatoo of the school. stacey's folks are rich, and his mother wrote the military tailor not to spare expense, but to get stacey up just as fine as they make 'em, and i don't believe there's a drum-major of any of the crack regiments that can hold a candle to him for style. in the first place he has a high furry hat that looks like the big muffs they carried at the old folks' concerts. then he has a bright scarlet coat all frogged and padded and laced with lots of gold cord, and the nattiest trousers and patent leather boots. but his baton--oh, adelaide! words cannot express. i don't believe old ahasuerus ever had a sceptre half as gorgeous, with a great gold ball on the top, and it will do your eyes good to see him swing it. doesn't he put on airs, though! put on isn't the word, for stacey is airy naturally, and dignified, too. buttertub says he walks as if he owned the earth. when he marches backward holding his baton crosswise, i'm always afraid that he will fall and that somebody might laugh, and that would kill him. but he never does fall. he seems to see with the buttons on the small of his back, and he stepped over a banana skin while marching to the armory just as dandified as you please. and he never fails to catch his baton when he tosses it into the air, and makes it whirl around twice before it comes down. he never bows to any of the fellows or seems to see them--except me. they are going to have gilmore's band at the drill, and stacey was practising leading them around the armory. i was in the lower balcony, hanging over and watching him. he was going through his fanciest evolutions when he passed me. he looked straight ahead and never winked an eye. i didn't think he saw me till i heard him say, "how's that, dear boy?" and i clapped so hard that i nearly fell over. buttertub hates stacey; he wanted to be drum-major himself. he calls stacey wasp-waist, but it only calls attention to his own big stomach. he is always eating, and he won't train, and he can't run without having a fit of apoplexy. he weighs too much for the crew and he can't even ride a bicycle, or do anything except the heavy work on the foot ball team and study. yes, he can study; that's the disgusting part. stacy can do everything. he's a splendid sprinter. there's only one other boy in the school that can equal him, and that's a red-headed boy they call woodpecker. he has longer legs than stacey and of course takes a longer stride, and that counts. but stacey is livelier and puts in four strides to three of the woodpecker's, so they are pretty nearly equal. stacey is a prettier runner, too. he does it just as _easy_, while the woodpecker works all over, arms _and_ legs, and bites on his handkerchief, and his eyes pop out, and when it's all over he falls in a heap and looks as if he were dying, while stacey takes another lap in better time than the last, just for fun. stacey rides the bicycle, too, splendidly. he has one of those big wheels and he can manage it with his feet and do all sorts of tricks with his hands. he has been giving me points on bicycle riding. he picked out my safety for me, and has been coaching me how to manage it. he says i am the best rider for a little chap that he ever saw, and that he means to make me win the race at the inter-scholastic. i tell you stacey is a trump. he's an all-around athlete. he dances, and he rides, and he shoots in the summer when he goes hunting with his uncle; and he fences, and he's stroke on the crew, and he's our best high jump and there isn't anything that he can't do, except his lessons--sometimes--but they don't count. he says that if it wasn't for the beastly lessons school would be heavenly, and we all agree with him. ricos said that he would head a petition to have lessons abolished and the boys would all sign it, but stacey said that parents were so unprogressive he didn't believe they would, and he was afraid the head master wouldn't pay much attention to such a petition unless it bore the parents' signatures. i've written an awfully long letter, but i like to write to you, and it was rainy to-day, and we couldn't go to the grounds, and i've hurt my ankle by falling from my bicycle so that i could not practise in the gymnasium. now don't go and get scared, like a girl, and disapprove of athletics for such a little thing as that. it was only a little sprain, that will all be well before the drill, and i only barked my shin the least bit, nothing at all to what the woodpecker does most every day. i hope i shall be big enough to go on the foot-ball team next year. i know you think it's dangerous, but i've calculated the chances of getting hurt and they are so very slight that i guess i'll risk it. why, out of the whole eleven last year there were only nine that got hurt. be sure you all come to the exhibition drill. i enclose two tickets and stacey sends two more. he wants it distinctly understood that you and miss roseveldt are his guests. so you can give mine with my compliments to miss t. smith and miss winnie de witt. i don't send any for that vaughn girl, for buttertub knows her and told me he was going to invite her. no more at present, from your affectionate brother, james halsey armstrong. p. s. stacey sends his regards to miss roseveldt. p. s. no. . and to you. letter no. . the barracks, april. dear sister: wasn't the drill splendid? i knew you would enjoy it. how i wish father and mother had been in new york so they could have seen it. you looked just stunning in that stylish hat. stacey said so. you must excuse him if he didn't pay you very much attention. he could only leave the band during the intermission and of course he had to be polite to miss roseveldt. besides he said i stuck so close to you that he hadn't any chance. he says he never saw a fellow so spooney over his own sister as i am. i tell him there aren't many chaps who have such a nice sister as you are, and then we were separated so long that i am making up for lost time. i am glad you liked the french army bicycle drill. that was something quite new. stacey was detailed to command it because he's a splendid cyclist himself, and he knew how to put us through. i didn't know till the day before that he was going to call me out to skirmish. he said: "jimmy, you can manage your wheel better than any one else except the woodpecker, and i am going to have you two go through with a little fancy business that will bring the house down." and didn't it? when i fired off my gun going at full speed, they clapped so that i nearly lost my head. ricos was mad because he wasn't selected for the special manoeuvres. ricos is better for speed than i am, and he's awfully quick-tempered--he's a spaniard, you know, and he said to me, "never mind, youngster, i'll pay you up for this at the inter-scholastic races." i suppose he means to win the gold medal, and i told stacey that i believed he would, and i should be thankful to be second, or even third, for there are the best cyclists from all the other schools in the city to contend against. but stacey says, "he can't do it, you know," meaning ricos; and our trainer says that if he enters me at all he enters me to win. so i am going to try my level best. wasn't cynthia vaughn stunning in that green dress trimmed with fur! buttertub said she was the most stylish girl at the drill. stacey made him mad by saying that she was hardly that, though, as a harvard chap once said of some one else, he had no doubt that she was a well-meaning girl and a comfort to her mother! ricos invited all the hornets, and some one of them told him that you girls are going to have a great lark--a catacombing party. he thought it was to represent the games of the roman arena with cats instead of lions and tigers. i told him it must be a mistake, and that if he supposed madame's young ladies, and my sister especially, would do anything so low as to look on at a cat-fight, he didn't know what he was talking about. but stacey said that there was something up, he knew, for when he asked milly roseveldt if the girls were going to have a venetian fête for the benefit of the home, as they did last year, she said it was a sheet and pillow-case party this time, and boys were not admitted. he told her he would surely disguise himself in a sheet and pillow-case and come; but he only said so to tease her, and when he saw how distressed she was he told her he was only fooling. buttertub said cynthia mentioned it too, and stacey's idea was a good one and he believed he should try it. but stacey said he would like to see him do it and that he would have him court-martialled for ungentlemanly conduct, and reduced to the ranks if he attempted to play the spy at one of the girl's frolics. stacey wanted me to be sure to tell you to tell milly roseveldt not to worry about what he said, for the cadets are all gentlemen and wouldn't think of going anywhere where they were not invited. that's so as far as stacey is concerned, but i don't know about ricos. do tell me what you are going to do, anyway--and for pity's sake don't have any cats in it. your affectionate brother, j. h. armstrong. jim's misunderstanding of the catacomb party amused us very much. no one was alarmed by the boys' threats to attend it but milly, who insisted that she had no confidence in stacey and believed him fully capable of committing even this atrocious act. as soon as the drill was over our interest centred on this party. the committee from our circle of king's daughters waited upon madame, and obtained her permission for the projected entertainment. she stipulated, however, that it must be strictly confined to members of the school and no outsiders admitted. "the literary society," she said, "will give its public entertainment in the spring, and we do not wish to have the reputation of spending our entire time in getting up charity bazaars, and imposing on our friends to buy tickets. anything in reason which you care to do among yourselves, i will consent to. it does young girls good to have an occasional frolic." emboldened by the unusually happy frame of mind in which madame seemed to be basking, winnie asked if we might act a play and have "gentlemen characters" in it. formerly the assumption of masculine attire had been prohibited, and at one of our literary society dramas, a half curtain had been stretched across the stage, giving a view of only the upper portion of the persons of the actors. the young ladies taking the part of the male personages in the play, wore cutaway coats outside their dresses, and riding hats or tam o'shanter caps. madame laughed as she recalled that absurd spectacle. "since your audience is strictly limited to your associates, i think i may suspend that rule for this occasion," she said leniently. "when do you intend to give the play? i cannot allow you to use the chapel. how would the studio do?" "if you please," said winnie, "we would like the laundry." "the laundry!" madame exclaimed in surprise. "yes, madame. tina gale explored the lower regions under the school building one day, and the furnace room, and the long dim galleries connecting the coal bins, the cellars, and the laundry seemed to her so mysterious and pokerish that she thought it would be a nice idea to call it a catacomb party, especially as the girls have been so much interested in professor todd's early history of the christian church." madame's eyes twinkled as she heard this, for professor todd had been generally voted a prosy old nuisance; but winnie was earnestness itself. "very well," said madame kindly. "i do not want the girls to think that i am a cruel tyrant, or unduly strict or suspicious. ["she was thinking of the way in which she arraigned adelaide for corresponding with professor waite," winnie commented afterward.] if your committee will submit the programme to me, i have no doubt i shall be able to approve of everything. let me see--the laundry will be your circus maximus, or theatre. where will you have your refreshments?" we had not thought of that. "i will give you the key to the preserve closet; it is at the end of the drying-room, and you may make a raid upon it for your provisions. only please be careful not to waste or destroy any more than you can dispose of. i will have some tables placed in the drying-room, and you may partake of your collation there." this was all we needed. the preparations for the catacomb party went merrily on. trude middleton dramatized cardinal wiseman's novel, "fabiola." we who had remained at school during the christmas holidays had read it aloud together, and its thrilling pictures of the persecutions of the martyrs, the games of the arena, and all the life of imperial rome, had made a deep impression upon us. trude middleton had a genius for writing, and little breeze distributed the parts, rehearsed the play, took the rôle of the sorceress _afra_, and acted as stage manager. the classical costumes were easily arranged. professor waite showed us how to drape crinkled cheese cloth and to manage the folds of peplum and toga, to trace a key-pattern border, to fillet our hair, and lace our sandals. the rehearsals were carried on in the most secret manner. only the actors knew exactly what the play was to be. expectancy was on the _qui vive_. winnie had written some mysteriously attractive admission tickets, and had ornamented each one with a tiny white wire skeleton. these tickets the ten sold to the other members of the school to the number of one hundred and twenty, not a single member of the school declining to patronize us. the sale of these tickets had been materially aided by a manifesto, printed in red ink, supposed to simulate blood, and left dangling conspicuously from the wrist of old "bonaparte" (bonypart), the anatomy class skeleton. this manifesto read as follows: the council of ten, in secret session assembled, hereby summon you, each and all, severally and individually, to the torture chambers of the inquisition (otherwise known as the studio), on the ringing of the great tocsin (sometimes called the eight o'clock study bell). at that hour let each be prepared to render up her earthly goods to the amount of one ticket, vouching for fifty cents; and having donned a winding sheet, and likewise a winding pillow-case as headgear, submit to the office of the inquisition, which will transform her, with that happy despatch due to long experience, into a disembodied spirit. at the same time the arch witch winnie will turn back the clock of time to the first century, and each ghost, being first securely blindfolded, will be led by a spirit guide, experienced in the charge of personally conducting spirits, into the great amphitheatre of the coliseum, where she will mingle with the most renowned personages of ancient rome, and will be permitted to live a short and exciting life under the cheerful persecution of the amiable and playful cæsars. after the final scene of the gladiatorial combat in the arena each spirit will be led by her guide through the grewsome and labyrinthine catacombs--faint not! fear not! to the _feast of the ghouls!_ thence, conducted by orpheus with his lute, and beatrice, the guide of dante, they will cross the styx and join in the _dance of the dead_ in the shadowy purgatorio. at the stroke of midnight each spirit who has passed through this ordeal with a steadfast mind will be wafted to upper regions to the rest of the blessed. signed by the council of ten, as represented by witch winnie, of the amen corner, and little breeze, of the hornets; and sealed with the great seal of our office, this ---- day of ---- --. seal. these preparations were going on simultaneously with the investigation of the robbery, and served in a measure to relieve the tension to which we were all subjected. still the trouble was there, and we never quite forgot it. mr. mudge called twice, and made inquiries, from which winnie inferred that he was hopelessly puzzled. milly was sure that he had found a clew, but if so, he did not impart his discoveries. the mystic evening arrived. cynthia, who, for some reason inexplicable to us, was in a highly self-satisfied and gracious mood, invited polo to sleep with her in order that she might be able to attend the party. it was necessary to prefer this request to our corridor teacher, miss noakes, who gave us a very grudging consent; but we cared very little for her iciness since we had effected our wishes. the girls met in the studio, where all were draped in sheets, a small mask cut from white cotton cloth tied on, and a pillow case fitted about the back of the head in the fashion of a long capuchin hood. when thus robed our dearest friends were unrecognizable. then, marshalled by winnie, the company of spectres paraded through the hall and down the main staircase. miss noakes and the other teachers stood in their doors and watched the procession, but as it was known that we had madame's permission no attempt was made to stop us, and we passed on unabashed. arrived at the lower floor each of the guests was securely blindfolded and conducted by one of our ten down the cellar stairs, and through winding passages to the laundry, which had been converted for the evening into an auditorium, sheets having been hung on clothes-lines across one end, and the space in front filled with camp chairs brought from the recitation rooms. the set tubs on one side of the improvised stage were fitted up as boxes, while a semi-circle of clothes-baskets marked the space assigned to the comb orchestra. as fast as the girls arrived in the laundry they were seated, and when the last instalment was in position the lights were turned nearly out, and they were told to remove the handkerchiefs which bandaged their eyes. at the same time the comb orchestra, led by cynthia, struck up a dismal dirge-like overture, broken in upon at intervals by a tremendous thump with a potato masher on the great copper boiler. the curtain was drawn slowly aside, the lights suddenly turned on, and the play began. adelaide made a very beautiful _fabiola_. winnie acted the part of _pancratius_ with great expression. milly looked the saintly _agnes_ to perfection. i was _sebastian_. we did not indulge in all the dialogue with which the book is overloaded. our play was rather a series of tableaux, for which i had painted the scenery with the assistance of the other art students. professor waite had borrowed various classical properties from his brother artists for us. the plaster casts of the studio were made to serve as marble statues, and madame had sent us several palms in urn-shaped pots. when the play was nearly over, polo, who had acted as doorkeeper, made her way behind the scenes and took my attention from the prompter's book with the horrified whisper, "if you please, there are two girls out there that are boys." "who? where? how do you know it?" i asked in a breath. "they came in at the end of the procession, without any guides, and sat down near the door, apart from the others. one is little enough to be a girl, but the other is taller, even, than miss adelaide." "it is snooks," winnie exclaimed. "just like her to come spying and speculating here to see what we are up to." "if that's so, miss noakes has bigger feet than i ever gave her credit for," polo replied; "and she wears boots too." "then those cadets have actually dared!" winnie exclaimed, and milly gave a little shriek. "oh, that horrid stacey fitz simmons!" "hush!" commanded winnie. "we will make them wish they had never been born. oh, i will manage these gay young gentlemen. go back to your post, polo. keep the door locked, and be sure that no one leaves except in the regular order and conducted by her guide." a few moments later and the curtains were drawn at the close of the final act, tremendous applause testifying the approval of the audience. winnie now stepped to the front of the curtain and announced that the ghosts must now each submit once more to be blindfolded and "to be led through the grewsome and labyrinthine catacombs to the feast of the ghouls." little breeze and milly first led away two of the girls, and then winnie stepped boldly up to the taller of the two suspected intruders and offered to blindfold him. the rogue could only follow the example of those who had preceded him, and submit with a good grace, as any other course would have led to detection. i followed with the shorter impostor, tying the handkerchief very tight, and detecting the odor of cigarettes as i did so. winnie beckoned to me to follow, and conducted her victim to the root cellar, a dark, unwholesome little room, with a small orated window--a veritable dungeon. we led our prisoners into the centre of this gloomy cell, and, making them kneel on the cemented floor, bade them remain there until the coming of the ghouls. hastening from the place, we chained and padlocked the door securely. "now that we have secured our prisoners, what do you propose to do with them?" i asked of winnie. "call the amen corner together after supper to deliberate on their fate. in the mean time they are very well off where they are. i fancy they will hardly care to repeat this experiment." we returned to the laundry and continued the ceremony of leading our guests to the supper. when all had been led in, the bandages were removed from their eyes, and they found themselves before tables provided with plates, knives, and forks, but no edibles. little breeze, beating upon a tin pan with a great beef bone, called the meeting to order, and, indicating the preserve closet, announced that the ghouls would now search the neighboring tombs for their prey. at the same time the door of the preserve closet was thrown open, and trude middleton set the example by capturing a can of peaches. the girls fancied that they were robbing the pantry, and this gave zest to the performance to a few of the more reckless ones, but the rest held back, and winnie found it necessary to circulate the whisper that even this apparently high-handed proceeding was authorized by madame, before the raid became general. a very heterogeneous repast, consisting of pickles, crackers, dried apples, canned fruit, prunes, dried beef, and lemonade hastily mixed in a great earthen bowl, was now participated in by the hilarious ghouls. one bowl of the lemonade was ruined, after the lemons and sugar were mingled, by a ludicrous mistake. milly, mistaking it for water, filled the bowl from a jar of liquid bluing. the error was discovered when we began filling some empty jelly tumblers with the strange blue mixture, and, fortunately, no one was poisoned by drinking the ghoulish liquor. under cover of the confusion i managed to tell adelaide of the captives in the cellar, and later in the evening, while the ghosts were engaged in a virginia reel in the long underground passage leading from the furnace room to the other end of the school building, met in solemn conclave to deliberate on their fate. adelaide was for delivering the keys to madame with a statement of the case. cynthia argued strongly in favor of releasing the young men, sending them home, and saying nothing about it. while we were in the midst of the argument, a far away cry was heard. it was from polo, who had been left to guard the door of the root cellar. we rushed to the spot, only to find that the rusty staple had yielded to the efforts of two athletic boys, one of whom was heavy of weight as well as strong of muscle, and had been forced out of the wall, and our captives had escaped. polo had followed them in their flight, and returned breathless to report that they had made a dash, not for the outside door, but straight up the great staircase to the studio and had then descended the turret staircase, showing clearly that they had made their entrance in the same way. we talked the matter over for a long time. how could they have known of this staircase, and have timed their coming so as to follow the procession of sheeted ghosts as they left the studio for their march to the lower regions? the suspicion instantly suggested itself that some one of the ten had furnished the information, and this suspicion deepened to certainty as we considered the excellence of their disguise, the sheets draped exactly as ours had been, the pillow-case capuchin hood fitted about the mask cut from cotton cloth. how, too, could they have entered, since polo declared that she had locked the turret door when she came in that afternoon, and had left the key on a nail in the studio? "show me the nail," winnie commanded promptly, and polo led her to the studio. the nail was there, but the key had gone. we descended the staircase and found the lower door locked. as we were returning to the studio we heard the door open and professor waite mounted the stairs, as was his usual custom at this time. "heigho!" he exclaimed, "what are you all doing in the studio at this time of night? oh! i forgot; this is the evening of the lark. has it been a jovial bird? why do you all look so solemn? by the way, polo, i found your key in the lock on the outside of the door. it was very careless of you to leave it there; you must not let such a thing happen again. some thief might have entered the house. i met two young men running with all their might as i came across the park. they made something of a detour to avoid me--i thought at the time that they had a suspicious look. if you are so thoughtless a second time i shall take the key from you." "i didn't leave it there," polo protested. "i hung it on the nail, miss cynthia saw me. didn't you, miss cynthia?" but cynthia had gone, and as the quarter-bell struck we were all reminded that we must descend to our dancers to be present at the unmasking and close the frolic. we hurried unceremoniously away without replying to professor waite's questions. after we had dismissed our guests, we adjourned to the amen corner and we again discussed the affair. it was agreed that it was sufficiently serious to report to madame, and to this there was only one dissenting voice--that of cynthia's. it was too late to disturb madame that night, but we presented ourselves at her morning office hour and told her all the circumstances of the case. she looked very grave, but did not blame us. "i am very sorry," she said, "that some one of my pupils has abused my leniency in this way. it will of course make me hesitate to grant you such frolics in the future. the matter shall be thoroughly investigated and the offender severely punished. again i must ask you to keep this affair strictly among yourselves. you have kept the secret of the robbery wonderfully; be equally discrete with this. we do not as yet know certainly that these young men were cadets, and i shall not make any complaint to the head master until we have ascertained the culprits. mr. mudge will call to-morrow. he writes me that he has found a clue to the robbery, and we will place this matter also in his hands. you have done right to bring it directly to me, and your action only confirms the confidence i have always reposed in the amen corner. be assured that the truth will out at last. meantime don't talk this over too much, even among yourselves, for tennyson never wrote truer lines than these: i never whispered a private affair within the hearing of cat or mouse, no, not to myself in the closet alone, but i heard it shouted at once from the top of the house. everything came to be known." chapter xi. a false scent. [illustration] i think the visit of mr. mudge was much dreaded by all of us, even though we longed to have the mystery cleared up. i know that winnie, at least, trembled for the result, and she turned quite pale the next morning when she received a message from madame to meet mr. mudge in her office. it was only a few moments before she returned. "mr. mudge wishes to see us all," she said. "where are the other girls? he's coming to this room in five minutes." "milly is in the studio, adelaide in the music-room. cynthia, i don't know where." "please summon adelaide and milly, i will wait for you here--i feel almost faint." "what is the matter, winnie?" i asked anxiously. "mr. mudge says that he now knows to a certainty who the thief is, and that he will announce the name to us this morning. i am afraid, tib, that he suspects milly. he put me on oath this morning and made me confess something which i did not mean he should know." "never mind, winnie," i replied, as reassuringly as i could, "we both know that milly is perfectly innocent, and, as madame said, the truth will come out at last." winnie shaded her face with her hands but did not reply. i brought adelaide and milly to the corner, and chancing to find cynthia, summoned her also. mr. mudge was in the little study parlor when i returned. he greeted me cheerfully as he stood by the cabinet polishing his glasses with a large silk handkerchief. then he stepped across the room and examined the door leading into the studio. "so," he said. "you have had a little bolt put on this door. it is an old proverb that people always lock the stable after the horse has been stolen. but it is just as well, just as well. i agree with you that the thief came from that quarter, and having been so successful he may come again." "he!" winnie gasped. "yes; much as it may pain you to learn the fact, i must inform you that all indications now make it a certainty that the thief can be no other than your professor of art, carrington waite." milly gave a little cry and fainted dead away. the others all sprang to her assistance, but as i was quite a distance from her i did not move, and i heard mr. mudge give a suppressed chuckle, and remark below his breath: "ah! my little lady, i thought that would make you show your hand." milly speedily recovered; and with her first breath exclaimed, "oh, no, no! you are mistaken; it cannot be so." "why not?" mr. mudge asked. "was not professor waite in the studio at the time that the robbery was committed? did i not find the lock of this door in his tool chest? is it not a well-known fact that he is a poor man, and yet a few days after the robbery did he not deposit in the savings bank just one hundred dollars more than his quarter's salary? what stronger proof do we require?" "i can explain all these circumstances." milly replied eagerly, and she told the story of the broken lock, which amused mr. mudge greatly. "that disposes of one bit of circumstantial evidence," he admitted; "but the other items?" "as to the money," milly continued, with a slight flush, "papa bought one of mr. waite's small pictures, and sent him a check for a hundred dollars just at the time you speak of. i think if you inquire more particularly at the bank you will find that it was papa's check which he deposited; and i can testify that he was not in the studio at the time the robbery was committed. i was lying awake and i heard him come up the stairs. he was earlier than usual. it was some time before twelve. he hardly remained a moment, merely left his canvases and paint-box, and went right away." "that is all very well under the supposition that the robbery was committed between the time that miss winnie looked into the cabinet and miss cynthia's discovery. but miss winnie has just admitted to me that the money was gone when she opened the cabinet, so the theft must have occurred before that time." winnie threw a piteous glance at milly, which milly did not notice. "but still, after professor waite went away," milly insisted. "why are you so sure of this?" asked mr. mudge. "because, when i went to the cabinet fully five minutes after he had gone it was all there." mr. mudge's gray eyes gave a snap which reminded me of the springing of a trap. "indeed!" he said. "how many more of you young ladies investigated the cabinet during that eventful night? will you kindly inform me, miss roseveldt, for what purpose you opened the cabinet, and why we are only informed of the fact in this inadvertent way." winnie crossed the room and deliberately placed her arm around milly. "milly, dear," she said, "the truth is always the best way, though it may seem the hardest way; and, whatever you may have to confess, i for one shall love you just the same." "perhaps it is just as well," milly replied cheerfully, "though adelaide and i did not intend that tib should know it. you remember that it was the eve of tib's birthday; adelaide and i each wanted to give her fifty dollars toward her european fund. so after we were sure that she must be asleep, i slipped out into the parlor and took the money from adelaide's pigeon-hole and from my purse, and laid it on tib's shelf, where we intended she should find it in the morning. professor waite had gone when i did this, so he could not have taken it. adelaide told me to put hers with mine, for she didn't see the use of both of us going into the parlor. we were afraid we might wake the other girls." "you did waken me, milly dear," winnie said. "i heard you, and standing just behind my door i saw you go to the cabinet as you have said, and take out adelaide's money and count out fifty dollars, and then take the gold pieces from your own little purse. then i went back to bed and did not see any more until you went away, when i stepped out and examined the cabinet, and the money was gone." milly did not then comprehend the terrible suspicion which had been in winnie's mind, and she was very much pleased to find her testimony corroborated. "adelaide saw me, too," she said. "you were watching me all the time, weren't you, adelaide?" "yes," adelaide replied. "tell about the note, too, milly." "oh! that isn't of any consequence. after i had put the money in tib's compartment, i thought it would be a good idea to write her a note with it, and i pulled out the shelf in the cabinet that serves as a writing desk, but i didn't write anything for i heard a noise in tib's room. it must have been winnie going back to bed. so i shoved the shelf in and scooted back to my own room. we didn't say anything about it in the morning because adelaide and i didn't feel like boasting of the presents we had given tib, especially as she never received them." there was a great light in winnie's eyes. it was evident that the suspicion which had poisoned her life ever since the robbery had vanished. to winnie's satisfaction, at least, milly had cleared herself. mr. mudge, too, had certainly shared this suspicion. his announcement that professor waite was the culprit had been only a clever trick to make milly criminate herself, for he had guessed her attachment to the professor, and felt sure that, rather than let the blame rest with him, she would confess her crime. his next question showed that he was not yet fully satisfied. "miss roseveldt," he asked, "will you tell me where you obtained the money with which you paid madame celeste's bill for miss cynthia's costume the day after the robbery?" "i would rather not tell that," milly replied. "i must insist upon it." "papa called the day before, and i confessed all about the bill to him, and he forgave me, and gave me the money." "we know that he gave you the gold pieces which you placed in your purse, but these were stolen, and you were apparently penniless on the morning after the robbery." "papa drew a check for celeste for the amount of the bill, and that was in my pocket. i did not put it in the cabinet at all. then he said that it was a very sad, disgraceful affair, but he knew that i would never do so again, and he was glad i told him, and he forgave me freely, and now it was all over we would bury it in the dead sea and never let mortal man or woman know a word about it, and that is why i could not tell winnie how i had paid the debt. papa said too--what was not true--that it was partly his own fault, for keeping me so short in pocket money and leaving me free to run up large bills. and then he said that he would change his tactics and give me an allowance in cash every month, and i am not to have anything charged any more, but manage my expenses as adelaide does. and with that he gave me the gold pieces, and i told him that i wanted to give them to tib, and he said, 'very well, do what you please, but you will have nothing more for a fortnight, when i will give you your allowance for the coming month.'" we each of us drew a long breath. it all seemed so simple now that milly explained it that i wondered how we could ever have mistrusted her. winnie clasped her more tightly. there was a look of remorse in her eyes, which told how she reproached herself for having wronged her darling. mr. mudge tapped the table with his pencil thoughtfully. "i must acknowledge, miss roseveldt," he said, "that you have completely cleared professor waite. it is perfectly evident that he could not have taken the money; but the question still remains, who did? how long an interval was there, miss de witt, between the time that miss roseveldt returned to her bedroom, and your examination of the cabinet?" "i do not know exactly. i waited only until i fancied milly might be asleep, then i slipped out softly, closed the doors opening into all the bedrooms, lighted my candle, and examined the cabinet." "and when miss roseveldt left the room the money was there, and when you looked----" "it was gone." "it seems to me," said cynthia maliciously, "that winnie is placed in a very disagreeable position by these revelations. her testimony has been very contradictory and her manner from the first, to say the least, peculiar. she acknowledges that she was awake during the time that intervened between milly's visit to the safe and her own. if a thief came in it is very strange that she did not hear him." "it is strange," winnie acknowledged. "i can hardly believe it possible, but these are the facts in the case. i certainly did not take the money, as cynthia implies." "tut, tut," mr. mudge remarked sharply. "i am convinced that the thief is not a member of the amen corner. i have in turn taken up the supposition that the robbery might have been committed by each of you young ladies, beginning with miss cynthia and ending just now with miss milly, and i have proved to my own satisfaction that you are all innocent. miss winnie may have fallen asleep, and during her brief nap some one may have slipped in from the studio. professor waite had gone, but he may have left the turret door unlocked." "i heard no one mount the stairs," said milly. "true, but a sneak thief might steal up so softly as to disturb no one. a man bent on such an errand does not usually whistle opera tunes, and then again the rogue may have been in the studio during professor waite's hasty call. you told me, miss armstrong, that the professor was the only one who had a key to the turret door." "i did," adelaide replied, "but i was mistaken; polo has a duplicate key." "and who is this lawn tennis girl?" "polo, mr. mudge, not tennis. her name is polo, a contraction for pauline," said adelaide. "very extraordinary name. lawn tennis is a much more suitable game for a young lady. who is she, anyway?" "she is a model, and a very good girl. polo is above suspicion," winnie remarked authoritatively. "hum--of course," replied mr. mudge. "let me see, this base-ball must be the young lady of whom miss noakes spoke to madame as having conducted herself in a rather peculiar manner night before last, the evening of the subterranean entertainment." we all looked up in surprise, and mr. mudge continued: "madame has confided to me the fact that you young ladies were unpleasantly intruded upon by certain unknown persons, who may, or may not, have been connected with one of our well known schools. madame felt that they could not have effected their entrance and disguise without the connivance of some member of this household. this individual need not necessarily have been one of the young ladies; it may have been a servant. i have known it to be a fact that the chamber-maids at vassar have carried on flirtations with young gentlemen who supposed themselves to be in correspondence with vassar girls. now it is quite possible that your chambermaid may have heard of this frolic and have mentioned it to her admirers." "oh, no," we all exclaimed; while adelaide continued: "we never mentioned it in her presence; besides, she is as stupid and honest as she is old and homely. i would as soon suspect miss noakes." "but this lawn tennis, i beg pardon, base-ball, of whom we were just speaking, is neither stupid, nor old, nor ugly, and we know very little in regard to her honesty----" "that is so," cynthia assented, and we all turned and scowled upon her. "you tell me that she possesses a key to the turret door, and now miss noakes's testimony fits in like the pieces in a chinese puzzle. on the afternoon of your entertainment miss noakes says that a request was preferred from you to allow lawn tennis--no, croquet--to share miss vaughn's bedroom for the night. miss noakes says she felt a strange hesitancy about granting this request----" "not at all strange," winnie interrupted. "it is a hesitancy which is quite habitual in her case." mr. mudge waved his hand in a deprecatory manner and continued. "miss noakes further testifies that in the early evening, as she was sitting at her open window, the night being especially balmy for the season, she was startled by a long whistle, which was not that of the postman. as there was no light in her own room she could look out without being observed. the gas was lighted in miss vaughn's room, and though from its oblique position she could not see what passed within she could recognize any one leaning from it." [see plan of amen corner.] cynthia straightened herself up, and as it seemed to me turned a trifle pale, while mr. mudge went on. "miss noakes says that the first whistle did not appear to be noticed, and stepping on to her balcony she saw two young men, or boys, standing at the foot of the tower, looking up at miss vaughn's windows. she instantly retreated into her own room and awaited further developments. a second whistle, and some one in miss vaughn's room turned down the gas, and coming to the window gave an answering whistle. miss noakes says she could hardly credit her senses, for she has looked upon miss vaughn as a model of propriety; an instant later she observed that the girl now leaning out of the window and talking with the boys wore a dark blue tam o'shanter cap, and she comprehended that it was not miss vaughn, but lawn tennis, or cricket, or whatever her name is, who had been given permission to pass the night in miss vaughn's room. she could not hear the entire conversation, her desire to remain undiscovered keeping her well within her own room, but she distinctly heard one of the young men say, 'throw it out--i'll catch it.' the girl replied, 'here it is,' and said something about the sheets and things being on the upper landing. she added quite distinctly, 'don't come into the studio until i give the signal.' "miss noakes says she was too horrified to act promptly, as she should have done; but that a few moments later she visited the amen corner and found it deserted by all the young ladies with the exception of miss vaughn, who was studying quietly in the parlor. she asked where the others were, and was told that they were in the studio, where the procession was to form. on asking miss vaughn why she had not joined them, she replied that she intended to do so in a short time, but had been improving every moment for study. miss noakes asked for lawn tennis and was told that she had been appointed door-keeper for the evening. on intimating that she had seen her in miss vaughn's room, miss vaughn had replied that this was very possible as she had just left the room." during this relation of mr. mudge's, cynthia had turned different colors, from livid purple to greenish pallor. and had several times been on the point of replying, but the lawyer-detective had continued his narrative in a sing-song, monotonous way, as though reading it from a written deposition, and had left her no opportunity for interrupting. he now turned to her and remarked: "i repeat all this here, miss vaughn, in order to hear your side of the story." "i have nothing to say," cynthia replied sullenly. "then miss noakes's statement is substantially correct?" "i don't understand what you are driving at." cynthia flashed out passionately. "if you mean to insinuate that i threw the key out to some of the cadets, and helped disguise them, and gave them the signal when to join in the procession--why then all i have to say is that it is a very pretty story, but you will find it very hard to prove it." "not so hasty, not so hasty," replied mr. mudge. "my dear young lady, if you will reflect a moment, you will perceive that nothing of this kind has been charged against you. the question does not concern you at all, but this athletic young lady--lawn tennis." mr. mudge had become so firmly convinced in his own mind that polo's name was lawn tennis that we saw the futility of correcting him and gave up the attempt. "mr. mudge," winnie exclaimed, "we protest! cynthia, i call upon you to own up. it wasn't such a very bad frolic. you meant no particular harm. we will all sign a petition to madame asking her to let you off. don't let polo be unjustly suspected. you know you did it; own up to it like a man." but cynthia was in no mood to own up to anything like a man, or like a decent girl. she simply turned her nose several degrees higher and remained silent. "your cowardly silence will not shield you," adelaide exclaimed scornfully. "i have some letters from my brother which make me very positive that this is one of your scrapes, and i will show them to mr. mudge unless you confess instantly." "i have nothing to confess," cynthia replied in a low voice, but the words seemed to stick in her throat. mr. mudge next asked us, in a thoughtful manner, whether "lawn tennis" was connected with the institution at the time of the robbery. i replied that she was, but that i could not see any relation between that crime and the present escapade. "perhaps not," mr. mudge replied; "and then again we never can tell what apparently trifling circumstance may lead up to the great discovery. as i have previously remarked, it is more than probable that the thief having been once successful will try the same game again. then, too, if your thief happens to be a kleptomaniac, she could not refrain from pilfering. have you lost anything since that eventful night?" "nothing whatever." "and you have used the cabinet since as a depository for your funds?" "certainly," i replied. "we consider that we have used sufficient precaution in having the bolt put upon the door. the result seems to justify our confidence. to be sure, until night before last we have had no important sums to deposit." "how about night before last?" mr. mudge asked. "i had charge of the ticket money for the home that we gained by the catacomb party," i replied, "and i placed it in my division of the cabinet. there is just sixty dollars of it, and it is there now." "and was there during the night that lawn tennis slept in this apartment? and she knew it?" "yes, sir." "then that is very good evidence that she was not the thief on the previous occasion." so confident was i in our security and in polo's honesty that i unlocked the cabinet to give mr. mudge convincing proof. what was our astonishment to find my compartment again empty. the floor of the cabinet was as clean as though swept by a brush. the sixty dollars which we held in trust for the home were gone! chapter xii. the inter-scholastic games. [illustration] mr. mudge informed us that he did not intend to arrest polo immediately, but merely to have her "shadowed," which meant that all her habits and those of her friends and relatives were to be ascertained and every movement watched. "you will not hurt her feelings by letting her know that you suspect her?" milly begged, and mr. mudge assured her that such a thing was furthest from his intention, and in his turn he urged us not to allow polo to imagine that we suspected her. "we can't let her see that," winnie replied, "since we do not suspect her in the least." mr. mudge coughed. "i hope your confidence will be proved to be not misplaced," he replied; "but miss noakes does not share it, and i deem miss noakes to be a very discriminating woman." he bowed stiffly, and for that day the conference was ended. cynthia retired to her room, and shut the door with a bang. milly threw herself into winnie's arms, and winnie caressed her and cried over her in mingled happiness and remorse--joy that milly had been proved innocent, and repentance that she had ever doubted her. "oh! my darling, my darling," she sobbed; "can you ever forgive me for believing you capable of so dreadful a thing? i could not blame you if you refused to ever speak to me again." "don't feel so badly," milly pleaded. "appearances were awfully against me, and if papa had not come and helped me out just in the nick of time, i don't know what i might have been tempted to do. i have been so bad, winnie, that i am very humble. i shall never say i never could have done such a thing, for i cannot know what the temptation might have been. i am almost glad that you believed me so wicked, because it shows me that you would have stood by me even then. i am going to try to be a better girl for this experience, and worthier of your love." adelaide and i retired discretely, and talked over the new aspects of the second robbery. the trust funds must be made up between us. to help do this i subscribed the twenty dollars which winnie had given me on my birthday, and which fortunately had been placed in my portfolio before we had regained our confidence in the cabinet, and had never been transferred to my compartment. as the other girls had not suffered this time, they made up the amount, though it necessitated considerable self-denial. it took some time for milly to become accustomed to properly dividing her spending money, so that she need not come short before the date for receiving her allowance, but the practice was good for her and in the end she became an excellent manager. one peculiar circumstance in regard to this robbery was remarked by winnie--the fact that on both occasions money had only been taken from my shelf. it was true that adelaide and milly had each lost fifty dollars the first night, but not until it had been taken by milly from their hoards and placed with mine. "it would seem," said adelaide, "as if the thief had a special grudge against tib; a determination that she shall not save up enough to go to europe next year." "it can't be that," winnie replied, "for although the last sum stolen was taken from tib's compartment, it was not her money. the whole thing is very peculiar, and seems to be the work of some unreasoning agent, for this time, as the last, adelaide had some bills lying loosely in her pigeon hole in full sight, which were not touched at all. i have heard of things having been stolen by jackdaws and mice--and monkeys--and i believe there has been some monkey business here." "i heard a story when i was in boston," said adelaide. "it was told me by a member of a prominent firm of jewellers. it is the custom at the close of the day for one of the clerks to lock up all the jewelry in the safe for the night. he had done so, and was just about to leave the store when a box containing a valuable pair of diamond sleeve buttons was handed him. it was late, and as it would take some time to go over the combination which locked and unlocked the safe, he tucked the little box far under the safe and thrust some old newspapers in front of it. in the morning when he searched for it, what was his consternation to find that the sleeve buttons were gone. the box was there, but some one had opened it and abstracted the sleeve buttons. he reported the loss at once to one of the members of the firm, who reproved him for his carelessness in not unlocking the safe and placing the box where it would have been secure. then the gentlemen put their heads together to track the thief; and some one suggested that he had seen mice in the store, and this might be their work. the safe was moved, and a small hole was discovered in the base-board of the room. a carpenter was sent for and the wall opened, and there, cozily established in a nest formed of twine and nibbled paper, and other odds and ends, a family of little pink mice was discovered, and in their nest were the missing sleeve buttons. the mother mouse had evidently been attracted by the glitter of the gems, for she had taken great pains to convey them to her home. she had stored here many other curious articles: pieces of shiny tin foil, which she may have used as mirrors; bits of broken glass, and scraps of narrow, bright ribbon, intended for tying the boxes, all showing that she had an eye for decorative art. i am very sorry that it was considered best to kill her, for i believe that mouse could have been educated. now, the reason that i have told this long story is that i half suspect that this is a case of mouse, and not, as winnie says, of monkey business." winnie immediately examined the cabinet. the panelling was intact, not even worm-eaten; it fitted apparently as closely as the covering of a drum; not a crevice large enough for even a cricket to penetrate. "it is very mysterious, all the same," winnie remarked; "but i here and now vow, in the presence of these witnesses, to make this mystery mine, and to unravel it before the close of school, so surely as my name is witch winnie." from that time we spoke of the affair of the cabinet as witch winnie's mystery, and we all had faith that some way or other winnie would find the clue if mr. mudge did not. one day in may she said: "i feel as if there was something uncanny about the cabinet itself. i wonder who was its first owner. perhaps lucrezia borgia kept her poisons in it, and it is haunted by dreadful secrets of the middle ages. it may be that lorenzo de medici confided to its keeping a will, giving back to florence the city's liberties, and that this will was stolen by the magnificent's heir while the poor man lay dying. we can imagine that the ghost of the guilty man having, as mr. mudge says, been once successful, has contracted a habit of stealing from the cabinet, and comes in the wee small hours with stealthy tread to take whatever occupies the spot where once lorenzo's testament reposed." "what a romantic idea!" milly murmured. "you could make a lovely composition out of it, winnie." "good idea!" winnie exclaimed. "i will. i have got to have something for the closing exercises of school, and madame advised me to write on raphael. she said that professor waite's lectures on the italian artists ought to inspire me. some way they never have, but this old cabinet does. i shall pretend that i have found a package of letters in a secret compartment; and in this package i shall tell all the early history of raphael--which is not known to the world--his love story with maria bibbiena, and all the criticism and envy which he must have undergone before he arrived at success. it will be great fun and i shall go to work at once. no, i shall not go to see the inter-scholastic games to-morrow. i shall have a solid quiet afternoon to myself while you girls are skylarking, and i shall have to work like a house on fire on every saturday i can get to make my essay the success which i mean it shall be." from this decision we could not move her, though it greatly disappointed milly, who desired that mr. van silver should meet winnie. mrs. roseveldt had returned from the south, and had consented to chaperone the girls, mr. van silver taking us out on his handsome coach. it was a perfect day and the drive to the berkeley oval, where the games took place, was a delightful one. mr. van silver's brewster coach was a glorious affair. it was painted canary yellow. the four horses were perfectly matched roans. the grooms were in liveries of bottle-green coats with white breeches and top boots faced with yellow. mr. van silver wore a light-coloured overcoat, and the lap robe was of white broadcloth. all the brass about the harness had been burnished till it shone like gold. mrs. roseveldt and milly sat beside him on the box. mrs. roseveldt wore a paris costume of white cloth with louis xvi jacket with velvet sleeves and vest heavily embroidered in gold. a little bonnet formed of gold beads fitted her aristocratic head like a coronet. milly was bewitchingly pretty in a fawn coloured shoulder cape, and a pancake hat piled with yellow buttercups. she seemed, as adelaide said, cut out of a piece with her surroundings. adelaide and i occupied the back seat, with little breeze beside us in the place which had been intended for winnie. little breeze wore a simple spring suit and i had only one best gown--a gray cashmere; but adelaide made up for our simplicity. her dress was not very expensive, but milly's exclamation that it was "too exasperatingly, excruciatingly becoming" will give an idea of its effect. it was a white foulard, sprigged in black and caught here and there with black velvet bows; there was a vest of fluffy white chiffon, and her hat was trimmed with white marabout pompons powdered with black. the costume was her own design, executed by miss billings. she carried a cheap white silk parasol, made to look elaborate by a cover constructed from an old black lace flounce. "papa has forbidden me ever to enter celeste's rooms again," milly said to adelaide; "and i am sure if miss billings can make me look as _recherché_ as you do, she is good enough for me." "i seem fated never to meet miss winnie," mr. van silver said as he started. "she is to visit us during the summer," said mrs. roseveldt, "and you must come out to the pier and see her." "you are very good, but i am going to take my coach over to the other side this summer. my mother is visiting at the castle of the earl of cairngorm and wants me to take a lot of people for a coaching trip through the scottish highlands." "how many of our friends are going to europe in the summer," adelaide remarked. "professor waite told me he intended to return to france for a term of years, and tib here is going over to study----" "i'm afraid not," i replied doubtfully. "oh, yes you are," milly insisted; "that will all come out right." "what a lovely day for the games," mrs. roseveldt remarked. "what is your favorite school, milly? columbia, berkeley, cutler, morse? oh! yes, i remember--the cadets. but where is your badge? i see that miss armstrong and miss smith wear theirs quite conspicuously, and mr. van silver, too, has decorated his whip and the coach horn with the cadet colours." "adelaide has a brother among the cadets, which accounts for her preference," milly replied evasively; "but i don't see why i should prefer them to any other school." "why, have you forgotten," mrs. roseveldt asked, much surprised, "your old friend stacey fitz simmons is a cadet?" milly tossed her head disdainfully. she could not tell the story of the intrusion of the two boys whom we believed to be cadets, for we had promised madame not to bruit it abroad; but her reason for not wearing the cadet colours was her indignation on account of this act. she believed, or affected to believe, that one of these boys was stacey, and she had determined to punish him for the outrage. "girls," she had said, before leaving, "after the insult which our school has received from the cadets, i do not see how any of you can wear their colours." "we do not know certainly that those interlopers were cadets," adelaide replied; "and, even if they were, my brother is still a member of the school. he rides in the bicycle race and he expects to see me wear his colours." i sympathized with adelaide and made myself a badge to encourage little jim. "stacey is a friend of mine," mr. van silver asserted. "i expect to see him carry off several events to-day, and i have come out prepared to wave and cheer and bawl myself hoarse in his honour." what a charming drive it was through the park, where many of the trees and shrubs were in blossom. we passed many a merry party bound in the same direction, and several great stages laden with boys, who carried flags, tooted horns, and shook immense rattles. arrived at morris heights the sight was even still more inspiring, for every train emptied several carloads of passengers, who hastened to the grounds to be in time for the opening. as we drove in we could see that the grand stand and the long rows of seats on either side were well filled. there were at least four thousand spectators gathered to witness this athletic contest between the champions of the principal schools of the city. some of the contestants were grouped on the verandas of the pavilion waiting for their turn to take part. others were already on the field, practising the long jumps, or pacing about with "sweaters," or knit woollen blouses, over their scanty running costumes. on the grand stand and the "bleaching boards" the adherents of the different schools had collected in groups, which displayed the school colours as prominently as possible. these groups were now engaged in making as hideous an instrumental and vocal din as possible. each orchestra, if it might be called so, was led by a sort of master of discord, who called at intervals upon his constituency for cheers for the different school favorites, as, "now, boys, a loud one for harrison. one, two, three, 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! c-u-t-l-e-r, cutler!--harrison!" while the columbia grammar boys would reply, "c-o-l-u-m-b-i-a--burke!" and the berkeleys would yell forth the name of allen, who has so long covered the school with glory. buttertub was conspicuous as leader of the chorus for the cadets. he wore an immense cockade, made of sash ribbon, pinned to the front of his coat, while his hat and a great cane with a knobby handle, too large for insertion even in his wide mouth, also flaunted the school colours. our coach had hardly taken its position before stacey and jim spied it and came toward us. stacey was in running costume--"undress uniform," he called it--but he had knotted a rose-coloured russian bath gown about him to keep him from taking cold. "doesn't he look exactly like a girl?" milly remarked as he approached, and then she gave him a curt little bow and turned with great _empressement_ to professor waite, who had come out on horseback, and who now rode up, hoping for a word with adelaide. but jim had clambered up on the wheel on the other side of the coach, and adelaide was glad of this excuse to turn her back squarely on professor waite, who felt the avoidance and would have turned instantly away had not milly insisted on introducing him to her mother. meantime stacey stood quite neglected. i longed to speak to him, but as i had never been introduced, did not dare to do so. just as a hot flush was sweeping up toward his forehead, mr. van silver, whose attention had been taken up with his horses, noticed him. "hello, stacey," he cried, "make that little chap get down off that wheel, will you? these horses are pretty nervous, even with the grooms at their heads. they are not used to all this racket. see how they are pawing up the driveway." stacey laughed. "jim is a splendid wheel-man," he said. "you needn't be afraid for him. but aren't you going to get down? you can see ever so much better from the grand stand. did the girls get the tickets that jim and i sent?" adelaide acknowledged the receipt of the tickets, and spoke so pleasantly that stacey seemed a little comforted. one of the grooms set up the steps and we all climbed down, stacey assisting. when it was milly's turn he spoke to her very earnestly in a low tone, but milly did not reply. mr. van silver called to us to keep together, and led the way to seats near the centre of the stand; and stacey retired to the field, much displeased and puzzled by milly's conduct. professor waite looked after us longingly. he did not dare to leave his horse, and he was disappointed that we had left the coach, near which he had intended to hover. "how very provokingly things do arrange themselves," i thought to myself. "cupid must certainly be playing a game of cross purposes with us. here is stacey longing for a kind word from milly, and milly breaking her little heart for professor waite, and professor waite desperate because of adelaide's indifference, adelaide trying politely to entertain mr. van silver, who, in his turn, is provoked because winnie has not come; and i, who would be very grateful if any of these gentlemen would be agreeable to me--left quite out in the cold, without the shadow of an admirer." i soon forgot this circumstance, however, in my interest in the games. "there is the cup," said mr. van silver, "on that table with the gold and silver medals, berkeley holds it now. see, it is draped with blue and gold ribbons, the berkeley colours. the school which wins the greatest number of points will take it after the games are over. this is the first heat of the hundred yard dash. now we shall see some fun. it's a foregone conclusion that allen of berkeley will win. he does not enter for long distances, but as a sprinter he has no equal in the other schools." very easily and handsomely allen won this race and several others. then we admired the light and graceful way in which an agile youth took the hurdles, and the professional style of two walkers, and after this my glance wandered for a time over the spectators. cynthia vaughn and rosario ricos had come out in the cars, chaperoned by miss noakes. they did not desire her company, and it was a great bore to her to come, but madame would not let the girls come unattended. i was much surprised presently to see a gentleman make his way to her side. i nudged adelaide, exclaiming under my breath, "only see, miss noakes actually has an admirer!" adelaide lifted her opera-glass. "tib," she ejaculated, "it is mr. mudge. you know he said she was a most discriminating woman. see, she is so much entertained that she does not notice that ricos and buttertub have made their way to cynthia and are talking with her." "mr. mudge notices them, though," i replied; "see how sharply he eyes them." mr. mudge came to us presently, and chatted pleasantly in regard to the games. "i did not know that you were so much interested in athletics," i remarked. "a lawyer and a detective must be interested in everything which interests his clients," he replied. "did you come out alone?" i asked, more for the purpose of making conversation than from any desire to know. "no; i had very charming company," he replied. "miss noakes?" adelaide asked mischievously. mr. mudge looked at her with stern reproof in his gray eyes. "lawn tennis," he remarked snappishly. "i came out with that young lady, though she is quite unconscious of my escort." "what! is polo here?" i asked. "one of the most interested spectators. her eyes are nearly popping out of her head with every strain of the muscles of that tug-of-war team." the team to which mr. mudge referred was now pulling, and was made up of members of the cadet school. they were finely developed young men, and in their leather apron-like protections, with their muscular arms and glowing faces, looked like blacksmiths' apprentices. they lay on the cleats, pulling at the great rope, and the cords swelled in their necks, as from time to time they ground their teeth, and threw their heads back with a jerk, which told how intense was the strain. the trainer of the team, a wiry, eager young man, in a jockey cap, stood with his hands on his knees, watching the white mark on the rope, which the team were very slowly working toward their side. "that is a professional trainer," said mr. van silver. "he has coached the cadets, and is intensely interested in their success." at intervals, the captain and anchor of the cadets uttered exclamations of encouragement to his team, or vituperated at the other. "we're in it, boys, we're in it," he shrieked, as he gave another twist to the rope. "steady, hold your own, and you'll pull 'em right off the cleats. heave, now--heave! oh! those fellows don't know how to pull," he cried again; "they're weakening! see how purple they're getting in the face. hold on another two seconds, and you'll pull them into the middle of next week." "what a noisy fellow!" adelaide remarked. "why doesn't colonel grey shut him up?" "not he," replied mr. van silver. "see how his ribald and irreverent remarks put new courage into the team. i should not wonder if they won back that three inches which the other side pulled away from them during the first minute. time's up. which side won?" for the announcement of the judges was drowned in a roar of the cadet claque, led by buttertub, who had struggled back to his place in time to head the 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! stacey had been looking on close to the rope, and he now shouted across to mr. van silver, "the cadets have it by half an inch!" and waving the skirts of his bath-robe with great _abandon_, he threw himself into the arms of the little man in the jockey cap, and hugged him enthusiastically. "now, notice your friend," mr. mudge said to me, in a low voice; and, looking in the direction in which he pointed, i saw polo standing on one of the front seats of the bleaching boards, waving her tam o'shanter, and shouting as wildly as the cadets. "i did not know that polo knew any of the boys who go to that school," i said, much puzzled. "i don't believe she does," mr. mudge replied, "but terwilliger, the trainer there, is her brother, and he hasn't the best record that was ever known. he was a jockey in england, but outgrew that profession, and has been a little of everything since. he came over to this country on the earl of cairngorm's yacht. he was associated shortly after with a noted pickpocket called limber tim, and some months since was sent with him to the island to serve a term of imprisonment for participation in a confidence swindle. all of which, you see, has a rather damaging look for your friend lawn tennis. what i would like to know is, how he ever came to get the position of trainer at the cadet school." "the boys seem to be very fond of him," i ventured. "naturally; it was his training which has just won the school this event. did you notice that young swell, fitz simmons, give him a greenback as soon as the victory was assured. i have not been able to discover yet whether terwilliger has renewed his friendship with limber tim. if he has, it is more than likely that they are the two unknown boys who introduced themselves into your school on the night of your party." "has adelaide shown you her brother's letters?" i asked. "we think that the young man who leads the applause and rosario ricos's brother are the scamps." "that supposition might be entertained provided it had been only a boyish caper; but the two robberies can hardly be attributed to these young gentlemen." i groaned. so our poor polo was beginning to be "shadowed." she had told us with such delight, a few days before this, that she had found her brother. he had been away from new york for two years, but had left no stone unturned on his return in his search for them. he had a kind friend who had secured him a fine position, and she was so happy. the good news had nearly cured her mother. i was drawn from my reverie by adelaide's announcement that the time had come for the one mile safety bicycle race for boys under fifteen, in which jim was to take part. this was the great event of the day for us. there were two entries from the cadet school--jim and ricos. "ricos is certainly over fifteen," i said to adelaide. "he is no taller than jim," adelaide replied doubtfully. "he is a little fellow," i admitted, "but those cubans are all stunted, weazened little monkeys." adelaide smiled faintly, but watched the preparations for the race with straining eyes. so did all the cadets. there were many entries from the other schools, but they were confident in the prowess of their own champions. the only question was which would be successful. "come boys," shouted buttertub, "let's give them a rousing send-off. whoop her up for ricos! one, two, three,--'rah! 'rah! 'rah! _ricos!_" a red-haired boy, whom i at once recognized as the woodpecker, shouted from the field, "cheer armstrong, too!" but buttertub either did not hear him, or wilfully disregarded his request. stacey's rose-coloured bath-gown was conspicuous, fluttering here and there; he got a bottle of alcohol from the trainer and was presently seen kneeling on the track, vigorously rubbing down jim's legs. he mounted him carefully, and scrutinized every part of his little safety bicycle, with the most zealous care. the starter gave jim the inside of the track, which was an advantage loudly contested by ricos. "no use kicking," stacey remarked. "you've had one medal for cycling, and jim is the youngest chap entered. i should like to know now just when you passed your fourteenth birthday." ricos was silent and sullenly took his place. jim turned and waved his hand to his sister. stacey was holding his bicycle, ready to push it off at the signal. how jaunty and gay he looked in his dark blue jersey, with the silver c on his breast, and with the wind blowing his blonde hair from his eager face. "he's a jolly little chap," mr. van silver remarked admiringly; and milly murmured, "i think he's perfectly sweet." adelaide said nothing, but the tears came to her eyes. i think that just for that moment she was perfectly happy. her mood was contagious. the glamour of spring was in the hazy atmosphere. the plum trees were blossoming white out beyond the track, and the blue of bursting buds and the tender green of the earliest leafage spread itself in a shimmering haze over all the sweet spring landscape. it was a good world, after all. at the report of the starter's pistol, all of the boys were off in line, but they had hardly made half a lap when two, jim and ricos, shot from the rank and sped on in advance of the others. "'rah! 'rah! for the cadets!" shouted buttertub. "'rah! for armstrong!" yelled the woodpecker. "he's second!" shouted buttertub. "he's first!" shrieked the woodpecker, "and gaining every instant. 'rah! 'rah! 'rah!" "he can't keep it! ricos won't let himself be beaten as easily as that," replied buttertub. "see him bend to it. there, he's up with him! they're even! he's trying to get the inside! 'rah! 'rah!" "look out! there'll be a smash-up!" cried the trainer. "keep to the right, you lummox." "hi!" cried mr. van silver, springing to his feet, "that's a bad tumble." "ricos fouled him on purpose," cried the woodpecker. a groan ran round the stand. "they are both down--no, only one." "which one?" cried adelaide. "i don't know," i replied, but i held her down firmly on my shoulder, for i saw a rose-coloured bath-robe skimming across the field like a pink comet, and i knew that stacey would not have manifested such concern if an accident had happened to ricos. "armstrong's up!" yelled the trainer in the jockey cap. "he's mounting again!" "he is!" ejaculated mr. van silver. "by george! jim's the pluckiest little fellow i ever saw in my life!" for an instant the spectators went crazy with cheers, then they quieted down and watched. ricos swept by, he had gained the first lap easily; but only a faint cheer greeted him. it was thought by many that the collision was intended, and all eyes were fixed on the little figure in the blue jersey, now the very last in the race, but who, having been assisted to his seat by the rose-coloured bath-robe, was now wheeling manfully along in the rear. adelaide opened her eyes and waved her handkerchief as he passed the stand. "go it, jim; go it! you've got the sand," yelled the woodpecker; while stacey, the bath-robe cast aside, came forging up, running at jim's side; in his friendly anxiety to see that all was right, unconsciously breaking his own previous record as a sprinter. if he had been timed just then even his most enthusiastic friends would have been astonished. but, convinced that jim was gaining, he contented himself with cutting across the oval to note his place at the end of the second lap. ricos had held his own, and passed the stand well ahead of all the other competitors; but jim was making up and had distanced two of the laggards, his legs propelling like the driving-bars of an engine. "he's gaining!" cried mr. van silver. "i should not wonder if he caught up with the other fellow; for, see, he has two more rounds to make." when he passed the stand for the third time and the starter rang the bell which announced that this was the last lap, jim had passed all the others and was following ricos at a distance of only a few rods. he looked up toward us with a pitiful smile on his wan face. "cheer, boys, cheer!" cried the woodpecker, "you don't applaud half enough. whoop 'em up, tub! hurry up, jim! hurry up! go it for all you're worth!" "take it easy--easy!" roared stacey, who saw that the boy was straining every nerve. "take your time, jim. you've got him, now. take--your--time!" the spectators were nearly all silent. the boys belonging to other schools, seeing that there was no hope for their own champions, had ceased to applaud and were now deeply interested in the two cadets. rosario ricos had fainted, and miss noakes was calling shrilly for water, but even mr. mudge was so much absorbed in the contest that he paid no attention to her appeal. people near me held their breath in suspense. it reminded me of gérome's picture of the chariot race, and the fall had been not unlike the one described in "ben hur." "why is it," whispered adelaide, "that jim has tied a crimson ribbon just below his knee? red is not a cadet colour; see it flutter against his leg." i saw the crimson streak to which she referred; but a swift intimation flashed upon me that this was no ribbon, but a little rill of blood flowing from a gash cut by ricos's wheel. i contrasted jim's face, deadly pale, with that of ricos's, flushed to a dark purple, and wondered whether his strength would hold out to the end. i need have had no fear, jim was clear grit through and through. as he neared the goal he set his teeth and bent nearly flat, throwing no glance this time in our direction, but with graze fixed straight before him, he worked the pedals with wonderful velocity and swooped forward, like a little hawk, far beyond ricos, and past the finish, on, on, as though the momentum of that final spurt would never be exhausted. the thunder of applause which burst forth at this exploit was something which i had never heard equalled. the spectators all stood upon the benches, the ladies waving their handkerchiefs, hats, and scarfs, crying and laughing hysterically. the men yelled and shouted themselves hoarse. every kazoo, tin horn, rattle, and other instrument of torture sounded forth its discordant triumph. the boys stamped and hooted. the cadets, to a man, acted like raving maniacs. even buttertub, who had no love for jim, led his gang with "bully for armstrong!" "hi--yi--whoop, three times three and a tiger!" "hooray! hooray! hooray! what's the matter with armstrong? he's all right!" "'rah, 'rah, 'rah--ta-tara-da boomerum a boom-er-um. boom, boom, bang!" but jim was not all right. he heard the great roar of applause, but it sounded far, far away to his numbing senses. then all the light went out of the sweet spring landscape, and he toppled over, bicycle and all, into stacey's friendly arms. no one was surprised to see him stretched upon the grass wrapped in the rose-coloured bath-gown, for it was a common thing for victors to faint just as they secured their laurels. "he'll be up in a minute; stacey is rubbing his feet," mr. van silver asserted reassuringly. "good-hearted fellow, that stacey. he's devoted to your brother." but adelaide watched him anxiously, until a crowd of boys closed around him and hid him from her view. how terribly long he lay there--could anything serious be the matter? suddenly polo's brother came running toward us. "is there any doctor on the grand stand!" he shouted; "if so, he's wanted _immejiently_." adelaide sprang to her feet and clambered down the ranks of seats. i followed. i have no clear idea of how we reached the ground, but we hurried on together, the boys making way for us as we came. they had an instinctive feeling that this handsome, imperious girl, with the white face, had a right to pass. a panting boy, lying with his face to the ground, looked up and asked, "what's up?" "they can't bring armstrong to," replied the trainer. "looks like he is going to die." "glad of it," retorted the other, turning his face to the sod again. it was ricos, deserted by every one, unnoticed in his defeat. but through his humiliation and resentment there presently shot a pang of conscience. "what if jim should die? would i not be a murderer?" and with pallid face he staggered to his feet and tottered after us. the crowd around jim opened for us. there he lay with his head on stacey's lap. a portly surgeon, with a river of watch-chain flowing around his vest, knelt at jim's side examining the wound below his knee. colonel grey, the principal of the school, a retired army officer, and a tall soldierly man, bent his white head over the doctor and inquired into jim's condition. "the wound is not a serious one, only a minor artery cut, which i have just tied. the only question is whether the little fellow has lost too much blood." "oh, my darling brother!" adelaide cried. "for heaven's sake, control yourself, my dear miss armstrong!" exclaimed colonel grey. he realized the importance of not exciting jim, and he loved the boy tenderly. he offered his arm to adelaide now, while four of the cadets lifted jim and bore him very gently to the piazza of the pavilion. "to think," said the colonel, "that i was just congratulating myself on the number of points he was winning for the school. why, i would rather the school had not gained a single point than have had this happen." "darn the games," muttered stacey, switching his bath-robe about savagely. when we reached the piazza and jim had been stretched on a bench, his eyes opened feebly. he recognized adelaide fanning him and smiled. "they are calling the mile run," said the trainer. "you entered for that, mr. fitz simmons. they say you are sure of winning the race, and if you do you'll gain the cup for the school." "confound the race!" ejaculated stacey. "do you suppose i am going to leave jim in this condition?" "i cannot ask it, my boy," said the colonel. but jim's forehead furrowed slightly, and he said very feebly: "go, stacey; don't--let the school--lose the cup." "go!" cried adelaide. "he wishes it." and stacey strode out to the track. milly told me afterward that she was greatly surprised, and not a little indignant, to see him take his place with the runners, who were mustering just in front of us. "how's armstrong?" mr. van silver called to him. stacey came nearer. "badly hurt, i'm afraid," he replied. "then i think it is very heartless in you to run," milly exclaimed. it was the only thing she had said to him that day. he flushed violently. "jim begged me to do so," he said, "or else you may be sure that i would not be here." the race was called, and stacey threw himself into the "set," his chin protruding with bull-dog determination, but milly's thoughtless remark had taken all of the spirit out of him. "he was the very last to get off," said the trainer. "he's running in awful bad form, too. fifth from the front. what's he thinking of to let harrison pass him?" around they came, and stacey looked appealingly to milly, but with nose turned in the air, she was waving the morse colours, snatched from a girl sitting near her, and applauding the morse champion, emerson. the sight stung him. he would show her that he was a better runner than the boy she had selected as her favorite, and he put forth every energy, and gained rapidly. "i told 'em," said the trainer oracularly, "that fitz simmons would wake up, and sprint further on. _he_ wasn't running this first lap. he ain't a-running now, he's just taking it easy, to show us some tall running toward the finish, when he'll have it all to himself." the cadets evidently thought so too, and stacey's own drum corps, who had brought out their drums on the top of a stage in expectation of this event, beat an encouraging charge as he came around for the second time. stacey smiled as he recognized the familiar: boom a tid-e-ra-da boom a diddle dee, boom a tid-e-ra-da boom! he turned for an instant, waved his hand to the boys, and then buckled down to his very best effort. "it's one in a million if any civilian his figure and form can surpass," hummed mr. van silver. "how's that for the cup?" shouted buttertub, who forgot personal animosities in the school triumph. he flapped his arms like a rooster about to crow, and yelled across to the drum corps, "who's fitz simmons?" it was a well-known school cry and the boys on the stage responded lustily: "first in peace, first in war; he'll be there again, he's been there before; _first in the hearts of his own drum corps_; that's fitz simmons!" stacey was leading--only a little way now to the finish. he said to himself, "now's the time to sprint." how strange that his muscles would _not_ obey the command telegraphed to them by his brain. strain every nerve as he did, he could not increase the pace. emerson, the morse flyer, shot by him with his magnificent stride, as fresh and unwearied in this final burst of speed as milton's conception of a young archangel. stacey staggered on, but the drum corps was suddenly silent, and there was no shout as he passed the cadet contingent. they and he knew that the contest was now hopeless. he did not look up at milly. he knew, without looking, that she was applauding his rival, who had won the race and was now being borne off the field on the shoulders of his rejoicing comrades, amidst their delirious cheers. stacey finished the course, then stalked moodily a little distance and sat down upon the grass, with his forehead resting on his knees. his disappointment was very bitter. the woodpecker, who had not run in this race, came up to stacey with his bath-gown, which he threw thoughtfully about the exhausted runner. "played out, are you, stacey?" he asked kindly. "well, i don't wonder; you tired yourself out keeping up with armstrong in the bicycle race. you made staving good time then, but you'd ought to have saved yourself and put in the licks now, old chap. never mind, we all know what your record has been." "i don't care beans for my own record," groaned stacey, "but i've lost the school the cup, and i can never look the fellows in the face again." chapter xiii. polo is shadowed. [illustration] polo ran up and with her was her brother, and mrs. roseveldt left her seat on the stand, as soon as the mile run was decided, and joined us as we stood around jim. she was a woman of kindly impulses in spite of her fondness for fashionable life. "you must let me have the boy conveyed to my house," she said to colonel grey. "his father and mother are abroad, and you have no conveniences at the 'barracks' for sickness." "oh, thank you, mrs. roseveldt," adelaide murmured, "and will you let me come too and nurse him?" "you had better not sacrifice your studies," mrs. roseveldt replied kindly. "we will have a trained nurse and you shall come and sit with him for a time every afternoon. the hospitalities of my house are just now taxed by company. i shall have to give jim milly's old room and put a cot in my dressing-room for the nurse." "but my studies are of no consequence whatever in comparison with jim," adelaide pleaded; "and the cot in the dressing-room will do finely for me. please let me be the nurse, mrs. roseveldt." mrs. roseveldt, seeing how much in earnest adelaide was, turned to the physician and asked, "doctor, do you think that an untrained girl like miss adelaide, with all the good intentions in the world, is capable of nursing your patient?" "perfectly," the physician replied. "i am assured now that the boy will recover. the artery cut was an unimportant one, but the gash just missed the tibialis; he has had a very fortunate escape. all he needs now is rest, and careful attendance, to recuperate. i have no doubt that his sister's society would enliven and benefit him far more than that of a stranger." "how shall i get him to my home?" mrs. roseveldt asked. "he is hardly able to ride on the coach." "some one must go to the station and telegraph for an ambulance," said the physician. "i will undertake that service. i have a good horse here," volunteered professor waite, who had hurried to the pavilion as soon as he saw that adelaide was in trouble. no one had noticed him up to this time, but adelaide now accepted his offer very gratefully. "anything that i can do for you, miss armstrong----" professor waite replied; but adelaide was not listening to him, and he left his remark unfinished. "if we can do nothing further here," said mrs. roseveldt, "i will ask mr. van silver to take us home at once. i would like to order some preparations for the reception of my little guest." "if you please, mrs. roseveldt," said adelaide. "i would rather wait for the ambulance and ride down with jim." "i will take charge of miss armstrong and her brother until the arrival of the ambulance," said colonel grey. and so adelaide was left. mrs. roseveldt collected her party and mr. van silver gathered up the reins; but before we started milly noticed that miss noakes was fanning rosario ricos, who had only partially recovered from her fainting fit, and that the poor woman looked dejected and puzzled. "oh, mr. van silver," said milly, "won't you invite rosario to take adelaide's place? she doesn't look able to go back in the cars." "anything you please, miss milly," mr. van silver replied; and milly was down from her seat in a moment, miss noakes accepting the offer most joyfully. stacey came up just as we were leaving. he made no attempt to speak to milly, but asked mrs. roseveldt if he might call on jim occasionally. "my house is always open to you, stacey," mrs. roseveldt replied kindly, and stacey thanked her and assisted rosario to climb up beside her. "aren't you going to compete for the high jump?" asked mr. van silver. stacey shook his head. "that accident took all the starch out of you, didn't it?" mr. van silver continued. "well, i don't wonder; a nervous shock like that makes a fellow as weak as a rag. never mind, stacey, we'll hear from you next year at harvard. i shouldn't wonder if you got on the 'varsity crew." on our way home, mrs. roseveldt condoled with rosario. "i am sorry for your brother's disappointment," she said; "though we were all interested in adelaide's brother. it is the great pity in these contests that every one cannot win." "it was not him to lose the race what troubled me," said rosario. "it was that he to hurt little jim armstrong, and some so bad boys near by to me did say he to do it upon purpose. they called him one 'chump' and 'mucker.' i know not what these words to mean, but i think that they are not of compliment." we assured her that we did not believe it possible that her brother had intentionally hurt jim, and she was somewhat comforted. "fabrique is one little wild," she said, "and his temper is not of the angels, but he could not be so bad." "who was that old gentleman who came and spoke to you during the games?" mr. van silver asked of me. "he is madame's lawyer," i replied. "we see him sometimes at the school." "didn't i hear him mention the earl of cairngorm?" "did he? oh, yes! i remember, he said that the earl of cairngorm brought polo's brother to this country on his yacht." "he must mean terwilliger, the ex-jockey and cabin-boy, now trainer at the cadet school." "exactly. do you know him?" "rather. i got him his present position. if it had not been for me i don't think colonel grey would have engaged him." "i'm so glad," i cried, "if you can vouch for his character. you see----" and then i hesitated, bound by madame's orders not to mention our trouble. "what interests you particularly in terwilliger?" asked mr. van silver. "he is polo's brother, for one thing." "and polo is the young lady that miss milly was lunching so sumptuously on turtle-soup and ice-cream the afternoon i saw you at sherry's? i wanted to inquire whether that large family of starving children were still subsisting on macaroons." "mr. van silver, you are just as mean as you can be," milly pouted. "oh, no! you have yet to learn my capabilities in that direction. i am glad to know that your _protégé_ is a sister of my favorite, for i like terwilliger, and i think he has had a harder time than he deserves. there is one portion of his history that i could have testified to if i had been in the city and possibly have saved his being sent unjustly to prison, so i feel that i owe it to him to do him any kindness that i can." "what was it, mr. van silver?" i asked eagerly. "oh! it's my secret; and as it is too late to help terwilliger now, i shan't confess." "perhaps it is not too late to help him," i exclaimed. "mr. van silver, i can't tell you now, but mr. mudge will explain everything, and when i send him to you will you please tell him all you can in terwilliger's favor. indeed, he never needed your friendship more." "i'm there," mr. van silver replied; "and in return what will you do for me?" "winnie is writing a composition on the life of raphael. i will copy it and send it to you," said milly. mr. van silver made a wry face; he had not a very favorable opinion of school-girl compositions. "i would rather see the young lady herself," he replied; "but i don't believe there is any witch winnie. she is a will-o'-the-wisp, margery daw sort of girl." "she is thoroughly real, i do assure you." "what does she look like? how does she dress?" "well, out of doors she likes to wear a boy's jockey cap of white cloth and a jaunty little jacket, and i regret to say that she is not unfrequently seen with her hands in its pockets, and her elbows making aggressive angles." "and, i presume, she also wears stiffly-laundried shirt waists, with men's ties, and divided skirts, and her hair is short and parted on the side, and she rides a bicycle. i know the type--the young lady who affects the masculine in her attire." "she has just the loveliest long hair in the world, and her skirts are not divided, and she doesn't ride a bicycle, nor wear shirt waists, at least not horrid, starched, manny ones. she likes the soft, washable silk kind; and she is a great deal more lady-like than you are, and lovely, and just splendid; so there!" mr. van silver chuckled; he liked to tease milly. adelaide remained at mrs. roseveldt's for two weeks. jim did not gain as fast as the physician had expected. the nervous shock and the great strain of the race after the accident had been more than the boy's slight physique could well endure. adelaide read to him, and played endless games of halma and backgammon, and discussed plans for the summer, or told him of the people in her tenement, in whom jim was even more interested, if that were possible, than adelaide herself. polo called and brought a bouquet, for which she had paid seven cents on fourteenth street. jim was glad to meet polo when he knew that she was terwilliger's sister, for the trainer had been especially proud of jim, and had given him many points on bicycling. one day when polo was present, jim suddenly asked adelaide, "say, sister, did the boys really go to your cat-combing party?" "i don't know," adelaide replied. "there were two suspicious characters there, but we never found out who they were." "they was boys," polo insisted; "and one of 'em was fat, and trod on my toe, and one of 'em was little, and smelled of cigarettes." "if i was only back at school," jim replied, a little fretfully, "i'd find out for you, fast enough, whether it was buttertub and ricos. but what can a fellow do penned up here?" "never mind, jim," adelaide replied soothingly. "the truth will all come out at last." polo's great eyes snapped. "albert edward could find out," she said. "the boys tell him lots of things." adelaide did not tell polo that her brother's testimony would count for little, as he was himself suspected, and the girl went away determined to assist in unravelling the mystery. stacey called frequently and adelaide could but admire his patience with the whims of the sick boy. jim asked him to try to find out whether buttertub and ricos were the intruders on our catacomb party, and this was one of the very few requests which jim made that stacey refused. "i don't want to have anything to do with those fellows," he said, "and you know i never could act the spy." "i have been thinking," stacey said, after adelaide had told him polo's history and the needs of the home, "that we boys might get up some sort of an athletic entertainment in behalf of the home of the elder brother. the cadets all like terwilliger, and if they knew that his little brother and sister were supported by the home, they would all chip in willingly." "terwilliger has such a good salary," adelaide replied, "that polo tells me they intend, as soon as their mother is able to leave the hospital, to take the children from the home, rent an apartment in my tenement, and set up housekeeping for themselves. but, if the terwilligers do not need it, you may be sure there will always be poor children enough who do. and something might happen, terwilliger might lose his place at your gymnasium, and not be able to support his brother and sister, after all." adelaide was thinking uneasily as she spoke of the cloud which shadowed polo and her brother. what if it should be proved that the ex-convict had committed the two robberies in the amen corner with the assistance of his sister. "oh, terwilliger won't lose his situation," stacey remarked confidently. "colonel grey likes him, and so do all the fellows. he's up on every kind of athletics; knows all the english ways of doing things, for he has been a jockey at the ascot races and a coach to the cambridge crew. he's so good-natured too; doesn't mind helping fellows outside of hours. he goes out rowing with me every wednesday night in a two-oared gig on the harlem." "were you rowing with him on the th?" adelaide inquired eagerly, for this was the night of the catacomb party. "yes," stacey laughed, "and we were late, and i got a special blowing up for it, too. you see, they lock the door at ten, and i had to ring the janitor up, and he was raving, for he had already been disturbed to let ricos and buttertub in, and he was in no mood to pass it over. he reported us all to colonel grey, who gave us order marks for it." "ah!" thought adelaide, "this is encouraging. buttertub and ricos were out late on the night of our party, and stacey can prove an alibi for terwilliger. i shall report all this to mr. mudge." jim returned persistently to the idea of the entertainment for the home of the elder brother. "i wish you would see to it, stacey. what are the boys doing now?" "tennis, and base-ball. you ought to see woodpecker; he is going to be our tennis champion; he can make the neatest underhand cut. he's simply great." "any better than the club down at the pier?" jim asked. "what! the sand-flies? they can't hold a candle to us." "it would be nice to have the cadets play the sand-flies," jim suggested. "colonel grey would give the tennis club a field-day if you asked him, and the excursion to the pier by boat would be lovely. mrs. roseveldt says she's going to open her cottage earlier than usual this year, and she will get the sand-flies interested. say, is it a go?" stacey lashed his boots lightly with his riding-whip; for he was on his way to the park for a ride. "we couldn't make a success of the affair without miss milly's help," he said, "and after the way she treated me at the games i'll never ask another favor of her--never." jim was much distressed. "that tournament scheme was such a good one," he said. "the sand-flies are already interested in the home of the elder brother, and we could make a big affair of it and rake in lots of money for the home. i mean to talk with mrs. roseveldt about it, any way." "all right," stacey replied as he rose to take his leave; "so long as you don't talk with miss milly. she would think it a put-up job between us." "now it was real vexatious in stacey to say that," jim remarked, after his friend had left. "i meant to have it out with miss milly the next time i saw her. won't you wrestle with her, adelaide?" "i'm afraid it's of no use," adelaide replied, but jim would not give up the idea so easily. he talked it over with mrs. roseveldt, who approved of the tennis tournament. it would be just the thing with which to open the season. the cadet team would be a great attraction. she would intercede with colonel grey to allow them to remain several days. "it must take place early in june," she said, "just after milly's commencement exercises, and while adelaide and you are visiting us, before your father and mother return and take you away. i will drop a line to milly that i want her to come home for my last reception this season, and i'll invite stacey to talk it over." jim was afraid that milly might not be inclined to receive stacey's proposal with favor, and he accordingly wrote her a long and labored epistle, urging her, for the sake of the home of the elder brother, to bury the war hatchet. jim's intentions were better than his spelling, which was even worse than milly's, and his letter amused her very much. one phrase struck her as especially diverting: "stacey says you treated him worse than a niger." jim had spelled the word with an economy of g's, and a capital letter, which suggested visions of darkest africa. milly laughed till she cried. "perhaps i have been impolite to him," she thought. milly had a horror of being discourteous, and she wrote jim that if stacey would not be "soft," she would be nice to him for the sake of the home of the elder brother. jim considered this quite a triumph, and showed the letter to stacey on the occasion of his next visit. stacey did not look as pleased as jim had expected. "catch me being soft with her," he muttered. "i'll show miss milly how much i care for her airs. by the way, jim, we are to have two invitations each to give away for the prize essays and declamations at the close of school. i intend to invite miss winnie de witt and miss vaughn. i thought i would mention it, as it might influence your invitations." jim opened his eyes aghast at what he heard. "you don't mean to say that you are not going to send miss milly one of your tickets?" "yes, i do." "and you are going to invite that hateful, horrid vaughn girl?" "i heard buttertub boast that he was going to invite her, and i thought it would be rather a pleasant thing for him to receive his ticket back again with the information that as she had already accepted mine she had no need for it." jim could hardly believe his ears. "well, of all things," he said. "you shan't do it, stacey; you shan't do it! i'll invite miss milly, with sister, if you don't want to, but it's a downright insult to fill her place with such a pimply faced, common, loud----" "i do not see that it is the young lady's fault if she has a _humorous disposition_, and as for her being loud----" "you said yourself that you could hear her hat at the battery if she was walking in central park. sister says she toadies fearfully, and she flirted like a silly at the games, and at the drill. i think you must be hard up to ask her." stacey coloured, but was too proud to back down, and he left jim in tears. poor little fellow, as he expressed it, it seemed as if all the sticks which he tried to stand up straight were determined to fall down. he could see that something was wrong with his hero, for stacey's disappointment at the games had cut deeply, and the boy was on the verge of falling into a dangerous state of "don't care." when jim asked him what subject he intended to choose for his essay, stacey said that he had about decided not to compete. the subject must be connected with greek history or life, and he despised the whole business, and the honour wasn't worth the trouble. adelaide took stacey in hand and suggested a subject, in which he manifested some interest, but all this worried jim and kept him from recovery. adelaide watched him anxiously. she had at first thought it best not to notify her parents of jim's accident, fearing to spoil their tour; but as she felt certain that he was not improving she sent a cablegram, and received an answering one stating that they would sail for america at once. adelaide watched eagerly for their coming. jim pined for his mother, and one day, to give her little invalid something pleasant to look forward to, adelaide told him that their parents were on the way home. the news did him more good than all the physician's tonics. he brightened every day and talked of his mother incessantly. once it seemed to occur to him that his delight was a poor return for adelaide's care, and he asked her anxiously, "you don't mind, do you, sister, that i am so glad mother is coming? you are the very best sister in all the world, but then you are not quite mother. you never can know just what she was to me when we were so very poor." "of course, i am not jealous, dear jim," adelaide replied. "i can well understand that you and mother are bound together even more closely than most mothers and sons, by that long fight together with poverty. i only wish that i had been with you to help you bear it. but then i do not know what father would have done. he suffered so much while you were lost to us, that if i had not been there to live for i think he would have died or have gone insane." "i don't wonder that father loves you so much and is so proud of you, sister. i am very glad you were not with us when we were so very wretched. you ought not to know what it is to be poor, adelaide. you ought to be a queen." "i am a queen now, jim, and i think i do know what it is to be poor. when you told me all your bitter experiences, i felt them as keenly, it seemed to me, as if i had passed through them myself. i believe that god sent us this intimate knowledge of how the poor suffer in order that we might sympathize with and help them." then adelaide told him of the tenement and described each of the families. some of them jim had known in that other life which has been related in a former volume, and he inquired eagerly for the inventor, stephen trimble, and for the rumples, and others. adelaide told him, too, of the two turtle-doves, and of the sad death of miss cohens, and how the terwilligers were soon to be established in one of the best suites. this last information pleased jim very much. "i like terwilliger," he said. "he is so funny; he drops all his h's, and calls everything 'bloomin'.' buttertub is a 'bloomin' fool,' and stacey is a 'bloomin' swell,' and when i got hurt he said it was a 'bloomin' shame,' and ricos was a 'bloomin' cad,' and the fellows ought to have made a 'bloomin' row' about it." that evening it happened that mrs. roseveldt was to give a _musicale_, and as jim was feeling very bright, adelaide had consented to take part. she was a creditable performer upon the violin, and had decided upon a romance by rubenstein. she came to the school early in the afternoon for her music, and, to give her more of a visit with us, mrs. roseveldt had suggested that she should remain until after dinner, promising to send the carriage for her. stacey was expected to call that afternoon and would keep jim from being lonely. we were all delighted to have adelaide with us once more, for we had missed her greatly. i was painting in the studio, and professor waite had just told me that it was all for the best that i could not probably go to europe in vacation. "you are not ready for it," he said. "you will profit far more by european instruction after a year of thorough training in the art students' league. i would advise you to attend it next winter. our disappointments are often blessings in disguise. providence keeps the things for which we are not prepared, saved on an upper shelf for us until we deserve them." as he said this, a joyful hub-bub rang out in the amen corner, led by a wild, comanche shriek from polo, who happened to be in the corridor: "miss adelaide's come! glory! oh, glory!" professor waite flushed and paled, took two steps impulsively toward the door, and then sat down before my easel, and began insanely to spoil a sky with idiotic dabs of green paint. i wondered whether providence was saving up adelaide until he deserved her. if so, the shelf was for the present a very high one. to my surprise, adelaide tapped at the studio door a moment later. she greeted professor waite cordially. "i am so glad to find you," she said, "for i want to impose upon you for a little help." professor waite beamed. "stacey fitz simmons has asked me for a subject for an essay and i have suggested 'the athletic contests of ancient greece,' as giving a subject in which he is greatly interested--athletic sports--a classical turn, suitable for the dignified occasion. at first he thought he could make nothing original of it, but would have to crib everything from books of reference; but it occurred to me that he might treat it from a rather new standpoint by taking his information from remains of ancient sculpture. i told him he had better study the casts at the metropolitan museum, as that would be the next best thing to attending the games at corinth. can you give him any additional sources of information?" professor waite threw himself into the idea with enthusiasm and poured forth at once a dissertation which would have taken the highest honours at the competition. then he made a memorandum of several works on art, which stacey would do well to consult, and rummaged about in his portfolios for photographs of ancient statues of athletes and heroes, the procession from the frieze of the parthenon, and the like. when we finally got adelaide into the amen corner, we scarcely gave her an opportunity to dress for the _musicale_, we had so many little nothings to talk over with her. in the midst of it all mr. mudge called, and we opened fire upon him at once with the testimony which we had collected in favor of polo and her brother. he was not greatly impressed with stacey's avowal that he had been out rowing with terwilliger on the night of the catacomb party. "i had already ascertained that he was out late that night," he said. "miss milly told me that young fitz simmons on the night of the drill threatened to attend your party. what assurance have we that he did not attend it with terwilliger as his companion? a lark on the young gentleman's part, and a clever opportunity to steal on the part of the trainer. my assistant has discovered that terwilliger has had no dealings with his old associate nimble tim since his release from prison. having to discard the idea that tim was his companion, i have been looking about to find another possible one. i thank you for your assistance." milly was very angry. with true womanly inconsistency she scouted the idea that stacey could have had any part in the proceedings, although she was the very one who had at first suggested it. "and here," she said, "is something which ought to be perfectly convincing to any sane man. polo told me last night that her brother heard ricos and buttertub boasting that they had fooled us all so nicely, and had seen our play. they made fun of winnie, and said she had a little squeaky voice for so manly a part, and that it was 'nuts' to see us try to manage our togas. oh! i'd just like to choke them." mr. mudge smiled. "it is very natural," he said, "that terwilliger should attempt to throw suspicion on some one else." "but you know that buttertub and ricos were out late that night," i suggested. "ricos obtained permission from colonel grey to hear professor ware's lecture on architecture, at columbia college." "and did they say they attended it?" adelaide asked. "ricos so reported at the barracks." "well, i happen to know that professor ware delivers those lectures on tuesday evenings," adelaide replied triumphantly; "and this was wednesday night." "are you sure of this?" "i am sure because i attend the lectures, and neither of those boys were there." mr. mudge rubbed his brow with his pencil. "terwilliger's previous bad record counts against him," he said persistently. "mr. mudge," i entreated, "will you do me the favor to call on a friend of ours, mr. van silver, who knows all about that previous record of terwilliger's." "how is that?" mr. mudge asked, and i related my conversation with mr. van silver on our return from the games. "i will interview this gentleman," said mr. mudge, "for though appearances are strongly against terwilliger, i do not wish to act on appearances alone. and meantime, if you could find some other witness than young fitz simmons who could prove that he and the trainer were really boating on the harlem the night of your party, and some other witness than terwilliger to the admission of ricos and his friend of the dairy nickname, the cause of lawn tennis and her brother would be materially strengthened." "i agree to produce such witnesses," said winnie rashly. "i have called it my mystery and i intend to fathom it, if it takes all summer." mr. mudge bowed and withdrew. his boots creaked down the hall a little way and then we heard a knock and the opening of a door. "girls, he's calling on miss noakes," winnie cried, in high glee. "now, what's to hinder my running out on the balcony and showing her that two can play at the game of peek-a-boo." "nothing but the honour of the amen corner," adelaide remarked. the words threw a wet blanket on winnie's proposal, but there was a flickering smile about adelaide's lips which showed that she was bent upon mischief, a rare thing for adelaide. "i will wait until mr. mudge is gone," she said,--"i would not interrupt two young lovers for the world,--and then i think i'll call on miss noakes. i want her to help me translate the visit of Ã�neas to queen dido." "that's just like winnie," milly exclaimed; "but you would never do such a thing." "won't i? you don't half know me, milly, dear," and adelaide actually fulfilled her threat. [illustration] "she expected him," adelaide exclaimed, when she returned. "i found her all gotten up regardless--that low-necked black net of hers! she did look too absurd for anything, but happy is no name for it. there was a blush on her withered old cheeks, and i actually believe a real tear in her eye. when i told her what i wanted her to translate, she glared at me haughtily, but i looked as demure as i could, and she went through it without flinching. 'men are deceivers ever, aren't they, miss noakes?' i said. 'just think of pious Ã�neas behaving so cruelly to his dear dido.' 'how should i know, child?' she replied rather curtly." while we were laughing, cerberus knocked to inform us that mrs. roseveldt's carriage waited and had sent him to inquire for miss armstrong. adelaide found that stacey had waited for her return. he woke to animation over the photographs. "this decides me," he said. "i shall try for the prize. i didn't imagine there was anything in greek civilization that i cared a rap for; but that quoit player is fine. just look at his muscles. i always thought that discobolus was the fellow's name. it never dawned upon me that it meant a quoit player. and this mercury hardly needs wings on his heels, his legs are built for a runner. and isn't that fighting gladiator superb? and that hercules and vulcan? well, now, here is something curious. i do believe that baker got his 'set' from that statue; the left arm is extended in the very same way, and the boys all thought it was original with him." so he ran on, his eyes kindling once more with enthusiasm. "well, i must go now and 'bone' on my geometry--beastly bore; but buttertub has been having very good marks lately, and i am not going to let him rank me." he had hardly gone before it was time for adelaide's romance, and after that mr. van silver came up to express his compliments. "i was sorry stacey could not stay to hear you play," he said, "but he seems to have a virtuous fit on, and said he must hurry to the barracks and spend the evening in study. perhaps, however, it was only an excuse for mischief." "do you think so?" adelaide asked. "it has seemed to me of late that stacey has had little heart for anything, even for mischief." "that's a fact. i haven't seen him on the river since the games, and he used to be very fond of rowing." adelaide gave a little gesture of despair. "there," she said, "i forgot to ask him whether any one knew of his going out boating, the night of our party, with terwilliger, and winnie was so particular about it. how provoked she will be with me." "why is it that you young ladies have developed an overweening interest in terwilliger?" asked mr. van silver. they were sitting on the staircase apart from the others, and adelaide replied: "it is because he is suspected of a robbery which has occurred at our school. we have been cautioned not to mention it, but i think i may say as much to you, for mr. mudge, the detective who has been engaged to investigate the affair, told me this afternoon that he intended to interview you in regard to terwilliger's part in the crime for which he was sent to prison." a cloud passed over mr. van silver's face. "i hoped that thing was dead and buried," he said. "it only proves that nothing is really ever settled unless it is settled right. if it will do terwilliger any good, i will testify openly, as i ought to have done in the first place." adelaide looked at mr. van silver wonderingly. he understood and said quickly, "i cannot bear to lose your respect, miss armstrong; perhaps i had better tell you just how it all happened." "not to gratify any curiosity on my part," adelaide replied; "you might be sorry afterward. and if it is something that the world has no business to know----" "the _world_! heaven forbid that an account of the affair should get into the _world_, the _herald_, or any of our newspapers. i would rather no one knew anything about it; but when i have told you the entire story you will be able to judge how much of it i ought to confide to your friend mudge, in order to aid terwilliger. you see, young cairngorm is a regular cub. his father sent him across on his yacht to us. he wanted mother to comb him out, introduce him in new york circles, and get him married, if she could, to some american heiress. if you girls only knew what scamps some of those slips of nobility are you would not be so crazy for titles." adelaide's eyes snapped. "i do not care a fig for a title," she said indignantly. "i think a great deal more of an enterprising, hard-working, true-hearted american, than of a mere name. i think that the american pride of having accomplished some worthy work in life is much more allowable than the english pride of belonging to a leisure class." "i beg pardon. i did not intend to be personal. when my mother saw what sort of a specimen had been confided to her hands, she made no efforts in the matrimonial direction, but simply tried to keep the chap out of harm's way for a season, using me as her aide-de-camp. he had a passion for betting and gaming, and i was at my wits end sometimes to head him off. terwilliger came over with him, you know; but he left the yacht on its arrival for he wanted to establish himself permanently in america. cairngorm liked terwilliger, tipped him handsomely on parting, and asked me to take an interest in him. i promised to look out for him and immediately forgot his existence. terwilliger drifted about, waiting for something to turn up, and satan, who is the only employer who is on the lookout for poor fellows who are out of work, appeared to terwilliger, in the person of a new acquaintance, limber tim. tim told him that he was connected with a sort of club devoted to athletics. it was really a gambling saloon. tim knew of terwilliger's acquaintance with cairngorm, and he promised terwilliger a five dollar bill if he would persuade cairngorm to patronize his establishment. 'tell him,' he said, 'that we are to have a very select game of poker to-night, only gentlemen present, and get him to come down.' "now, how terwilliger happened to be such a lamb, i can't say; but he had never heard of poker, and he asked tim if it was anything like single stick. this amused tim and he did not undeceive terwilliger, who appeared at our house in search of cairngorm, and, not finding him, left a labored epistle inviting him to come to no. -- bowery, and see some fun in the way of a sleight of hand performance with a 'poker.' cairngorm saw through it, though terwilliger did not, and went out after dinner without explaining where he was going. he took the note with him for fear he might forget the number of the house, and thought that he replaced it in his pocket, after consulting it under a corner gaslight; but, as his luck would have it, he dropped the note there, and a policeman, who had seen him read it, picked it up. the policeman knew that the house was a gambling saloon, and immediately surmised the truth, that this finely dressed young swell had been decoyed to his ruin. terwilliger had begun his letter simply, 'nobble sur,' and our address was not on the letter, so that there was no clue to cairngorm's identity; but he had signed his own name in full, and the astute policeman had this bit of convincing evidence of terwilliger's complicity in the confidence game. "we knew nothing of this at the time, but it was late at night before cairngorm returned to our house, and we had all been very anxious about him. his statements were to the point, for he had been thoroughly frightened. he had lost heavily, and in the midst of the game the police had raided the place, and he had escaped by springing into a dumb-waiter, which had landed him in a kitchen, where he had remained secreted until all was quiet. "'it is very fortunate for you,' my father said sternly, 'that the police did not secure you, for in that case the reporters would have had a sensation for the morning papers, and your noble father would have learned of your lodgment in the tombs. as it is, you had better leave new york at once. your yacht is at newport. i advise you to report at home as soon as possible. it is your own fault that your american visit has had so sudden and so disgraceful an ending.' "i saw cairngorm off, much relieved to get him off my hands, for we had very little in common, and he was so lacking in principle that my feeling for him was only one of contemptuous pity. on our way to newport cairngorm told me that terwilliger was perfectly innocent of any connivance with the gamblers, and that as soon as he saw that they were playing for money had attempted to induce him to leave the place, using every persuasion possible, and making the gamblers very angry with him. they had tried to put him out of the room, but he had insisted on remaining, and when the police appeared it was terwilliger who had shown cairngorm into the dumb-waiter. immediately after cairngorm's departure to scotland, i sailed for a long trip around the world, so that it was over a year before i returned to new york. "what was my chagrin to find that terwilliger had been arrested and sent to prison with the gamblers. my father had succeeded in keeping cairngorm's name out of the papers, but as he believed that terwilliger had knowingly acted as a decoy he had made no attempt to save him. terwilliger would not disclose cairngorm's name at the trial when confronted with the letter which he acknowledged having written. nor did he write him asking his assistance, so determined was he not to implicate his patron in the affair. i looked up terwilliger, and finding that he had only a few weeks more to serve, set myself to work in earnest to secure him a good position. i told the entire story to colonel grey, who met him with me, on his release, and feeling confident that he had not been contaminated by his prison associations, gave him the position of trainer at his gymnasium. he has had a good record there ever since, and i have been very unhappy that he has suffered so much on my graceless friend's account. if i had known that an innocent person was to be sent to prison i would never have helped him away after his scrape, but would have insisted on his disclosing the entire truth, and braving the consequences like a man. as it is i am going to make cairngorm do something for terwilliger this summer. one of my grooms does not care to go to europe with me, and if terwilliger has nothing better to do while the cadets are on vacation, i will take him across. i shall bring him back in the fall in time for the opening of the school." adelaide was intensely interested in this story. "you will tell it all to mr. mudge, will you not?" she asked, "and convince him that terwilliger was unjustly imprisoned." mr. van silver promised to do this, and soon after took his leave. adelaide had not intended to tell jim anything of the suspicion which had fallen upon the trainer, but jim had left his bedroom and come out upon the landing to listen to the music, and had overheard all of mr. van silver's account. when adelaide went in to kiss jim goodnight, she found his cheeks hot and his eyes quite wild. "you will go to mr. mudge right away, will you not, sister?" he urged. and he was not at all satisfied when adelaide assured him that this was not necessary, as mr. mudge had promised to call on mr. van silver on the following day. the next day mr. and mrs. armstrong arrived, and jim's delight threw him into a fever of excitement. such alternations of happiness and worry were bad for the boy, who needed calm, and mr. armstrong wished to remove him to old point comfort, but jim begged that he might not be taken from the city until the closing exercises of the cadet school. "i shall be well enough to attend them, i know," he pleaded, "and i want to see sister graduate, and to know how the mystery turns out, and whether terwilliger is all right." to gratify the boy mr. armstrong took furnished apartments fronting on central park, and mrs. armstrong devoted herself to the care of her little invalid, while adelaide returned to school. commencement was near at hand, and adelaide felt that she must work hard to pass the final examination creditably. our life at madame's was not all frolic, though i am conscious that my story would seem to indicate that such was the case. naturally, a full report of the solid lessons which we learned would make a very stupid story, but the lessons formed our daily diet, and the scrapes and good times that i have chronicled occurred only at intervals. we had what milly called a thousand miles of desert, without even the least little oasis of fun, between the inter-scholastic games and the examinations. winnie had taken a fit of serious study, and when winnie studied she did it, as she played, with all her might. our only lark for quite a time was a house-warming which we gave the terwilligers. polo told us how she was fitting up the little flat of three rooms with the assistance of her brother, and it certainly seemed as if the cloud which had shadowed her had drifted away. the largest room was the kitchen, also used as a dining-room. adelaide had provided a range, and many other things, with the rooms. the cadets clubbed together and made terwilliger a handsome present in money, with which he purchased a lounge, which served for his own bed, and an easy chair for his mother; and our king's daughters ten provided all the tinware and crockery. madame sent down a nice bedstead and some bedding. professor waite contributed a neatly framed portrait of polo, and miss noakes gave a box of soap. polo purchased the table linen, towels, etc., with her own earnings, and miss billings hemmed them and the curtains, which were made of cheese cloth. mrs. roseveldt sent her carriage to take mrs. terwilliger from the hospital to her new home and gave a carpet, and mr. van silver ordered a barrel of flour and a half ton of coal. mrs. armstrong selected a lamp as jim's present, and took the two children from the home to one of the large stores and provided them well with clothing for the summer before delivering them to their mother. it was a very happy and united family that met together that evening in adelaide's tenement, and mrs. terwilliger, who had not been credited by her acquaintances as being a religious woman, exclaimed reverently, "it seems to me we'd orter be grateful to providence for all these mercies;" and her son responded emphatically: "grateful to providence? you bet your life, i am!" chapter xiv. the clouds part. [illustration] then suddenly, just as they were sitting down to the first meal in their new home, there was a knock at the door, and a policeman said: "i am sorry, terwilliger, but you are wanted again." "what for?" the trainer asked, thunderstruck. "mysterious robbery up at madame ----'s boarding-school," replied the officer. "mudge gave me the order for your arrest." "go and tell mr. van silver," terwilliger said to polo. "he won't let me go to prison again." and polo was off like the wind. mr. van silver came at once, and gave bail for terwilliger's appearance at trial, so that he did not go to prison; but this action of mr. mudge's showed that he felt sure that terwilliger was the thief, and threw us all into consternation. mr. mudge had called on mr. van silver, but had unfortunately not found him in, and while he had not received the explanation which had been given adelaide, one of his detectives informed him that terwilliger had made arrangements to leave the country soon in mr. van silver's employ, and that he had lately been expending large sums in extravagantly fitting up an apartment for his family. it was the fear that his man might escape him, which had precipitated mr. mudge's action. he felt that the case was a pretty clear one, and that the trial would develop more evidence. winnie was at her wits' end. she had promised to produce witnesses proving that stacey and terwilliger were on the river the night of the catacomb party; and in her desperation she wrote directly to stacey in regard to it. unfortunately, stacey could think of no one who had seen them just at the time when the boys were known to have been in the school building, and stacey's own testimony would not be regarded as of sufficient weight to clear terwilliger, as mr. mudge suspected stacey of being the trainer's companion. this rendered stacey very indignant. it seemed to him that he had trouble enough before this, and he was desperate now. his father, commodore fitz simmons, was a naval officer, a bluff old sea dog, who had married, late in life, a refined and beautiful woman. she was lonely in her husband's long absences, and her heart knit itself to her son. her husband had planned that stacey should follow his career, but when he understood how this would afflict his wife, he partly relinquished this idea. "you can have the training of the boy till he is eighteen," he said to his wife. "if he does you credit up to that time, i shall feel sure of him for the rest of his life, and he may have a harvard education and follow whatever profession he pleases. but if he takes advantage of petticoat government, and develops a tendency to go wrong, i'll put him on a school ship, and let the young scamp learn what discipline is." commodore fitz simmons had been away for a long cruise, but stacey's mother now wrote from washington that the ship was in, and that the commodore and she would take great pleasure in attending the closing exercises of his school. she hoped that her son would distinguish himself at them, and that there was no doubt about his passing his harvard examinations, for his father had referred to their agreement that stacey must go to sea if he had not improved his opportunities. "and you know," she added, "that i could never bear to have you both on that terrible ocean." stacey could not bear the thought, either, for he loathed the sea, and he suddenly faced the fact that he had not been distinguishing himself in his studies and had no certainty of passing the examinations. this suspicion of being implicated in an escapade which had a possible crime connected with it, was more than he could bear. when he read, in winnie's letter, "mr. mudge suspects you," he threw the letter upon the floor and uttered such a cry that buttertub, who was studying in the room, sprang to him, thinking that he had hurt himself. "i don't care who knows it," stacey cried, beside himself with despair; "i am suspected of being a thief, and it will kill my mother, and my father will just about kill me." buttertub gave a low whistle. "it can't be so bad as that," he said; "what do you mean?" "some fellows sneaked into the girls' party, and they think i was one of them and terwilliger the other." "well, what if they do?" buttertub asked. "there is nothing so killing about a little thing like that." "perhaps not; but there was a robbery committed in the school that very night, and that's the milk of the cocoanut." "they can't suspect a _cadet_ of being a burglar." "well, it looks like it," stacey replied. "they've arrested terwilliger, and i've just had warning that my turn may come next, unless i can prove that i was boating that night, and i can't." "ginger!" exclaimed buttertub. "you are in a mess." he was on the point of confessing his own share in the escapade, when he reflected that it was not entirely his own secret, he must see ricos first. buttertub was naturally good-natured, and he had no idea that the frolic would take so serious a turn, but his brain worked slowly, and he did not quite see what he ought to do. stacey was nearly wild. he strode up and down the room. "i haven't seen father for two years, and mother has written him such glowing accounts of me that he expects great things. it would be bad enough, without this last trouble, to have him find out what a slump i am. i can never look him in the face--never." "fathers are pretty rough on us fellows, sometimes," said buttertub. he was thinking of his own father, bombastic old bishop buttertub, and wondering, after all, whether he could quite bear to shoulder all the consequences of his frolic. when the bishop was angry he had been compared to a wild bull of bashan, and buttertub, jr., would rather have faced a locomotive on a single track bridge than his paternal parent on a rampage. he wished now that he had not yielded to the wiles of the entrancing cynthia, and attended the party. "hang that girl!" he growled aloud. "who?" asked stacey. "miss vaughn," buttertub replied. "some one was saying you meant to invite her to the declamations. you are welcome to for all me." "hang all girls," replied stacey. "i shan't invite any one." buttertub rose awkwardly. "don't be too blue, stacey," he said kindly. "something's bound to turn up," and he ambled briskly off to find ricos. "it's tough," he said to himself, "but i'm no sneak, so here goes." but ricos was not in the barracks, and buttertub, thankful for a little postponement of the evil day, went into the great hall to practice his declamation. he had chosen a dignified oration, and he possessed a sonorous voice and a pompous manner. colonel grey smiled as he heard him. "you remind me strikingly of your father," he said. "i am sure that i shall see you in sacred orders one of these days. perhaps you too will become a bishop." buttertub hung his head. "better be a decent, honorable man, first," he thought. the boys were cheering over in the gymnasium: "hip! hip! hip!" "yes--hypocrite," he said to himself, "i'll punch ricos until he consents to making a clean breast of it." but there was no need for resorting to this means of grace. deliverance was coming, and, strange to say, through ricos himself. ricos had more food for remorse than buttertub. his sister had written him from time to time of jim's condition, and this morning he had received a letter which woke the pangs of conscience. mr. armstrong had thoughtlessly told jim of terwilliger's arrest, and the news had affected him very seriously. he could not sleep, and he could talk and think of nothing else. the physician feared that his reason would give way. he sent for stacey, and his friend went to him immediately, but he could give him no encouragement, and his call only made jim worse. as stacey left the door he met ricos. "you had better not call on armstrong to-day," stacey said. "he is awfully sick. i shouldn't wonder if he died. he had an attack something like this last year, but the doctor pulled him through because there was nothing on his mind to worry him; but now everything seems to be in a snarl, and he isn't strong enough to bear it. you come back with me, seeing you ain't likely to do him any good." "it is of needcessity," ricos said. his face was white and scared. "rosario, she write me that he will die, and if i see him not before, and assure myself that he carry no ill-will of me to the paradiso, then my life shall be one purgatorio. indeed, i must see him; it is of great needcessity." mrs. armstrong also hesitated when ricos presented himself, but jim heard his voice and called him eagerly. "ricos! ricos! is it really you? oh, i'm so glad!" "of a surety, it is i," ricos replied. "i have come to ask your forgiveness. alas! i am one miserable." "i will forgive you, ricos, if you will tell colonel grey all about it, so that terwilliger need not go to prison. you know they have arrested him, and really it is he and stacey who ought to forgive you, and not i at all." "i do not comprehend of what you refer. i ask you to forgive me for your hurt----" "but that is nothing! i am sorry that i beat you, ricos. i wanted to win awfully, but i know now that you wanted the medal a great deal more than i did, and i'm so sorry stacey did not run the best. mother read me a verse that seemed just to be written for our games. i read it to stacey and he said it would help him. mother, please read it to ricos, perhaps it will help him, too." and mrs. armstrong read: even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall. but they that wait upon the lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; and they shall walk and not faint. ricos looked still more frightened. the bible to him was a book only for priests. jim must certainly be at the point of death, or he would not ask to have it read; but jim spoke up earnestly: "i suppose, ricos, that waiting on the lord means doing our whole duty, and i want you to do something for my sake. i want you to tell that you went to the girl's cat-combing party. you know you went, ricos. we are all sure of it, but nobody can prove it. please tell colonel grey. it would be such a noble thing to do." "and you will make me assurance of your forgiveness?" "with all my heart, and i will stick up for you with all the boys." "thank you, my friend; now i shall enjoy some comfort of the mind. and you will tell those in paradise that ricos is not so devil as they may have heard." jim looked puzzled. he did not quite understand that ricos's motive was fear of retribution. he thought that jim was going to die, and he felt himself in a measure responsible for his death; but jim's forgiveness and promise of intercession in his behalf was a boon to be purchased at any price, and he readily promised to disclose everything. jim fell back upon his pillow, exhausted but happy, and fell asleep for the first time in many hours. ricos hurried back to the barracks. he had no scruples about implicating buttertub in his confession, and he would have gone to colonel grey without consulting his friend had buttertub not been on the lookout for him. they were each relieved to find that they had come separately to similar conclusions, and they sought colonel grey together. they were obliged to wait some time, for their instructor was closeted with mr. mudge. "i am just going out with this gentleman," said colonel grey, as he noticed them standing in the hall. "is it anything which cannot wait?" "it is of needcessity," said ricos, and then his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, and buttertub made the confession for both. "your acknowledgment of your fault comes just in time," said colonel grey. "make your statement once more to this gentleman, and it may save an innocent classmate from disgrace, and our unfortunate terwilliger from unjust imprisonment." "you shall imprison me," said ricos, in a theatrical manner. "that will make me one supreme happiness." buttertub turned pale, but did not falter, and told the story frankly and simply. "so you are the two gentlemen who introduced yourselves in disguise into a young ladies' boarding-school," said mr. mudge. "will you tell me how you made the acquaintance of terwilliger's sister, the young lady they call lawn tennis, who gave you admittance." "but it was not terwilliger's sister at all. miss vaughn threw us out the key to the turret door," said buttertub. "a reliable witness to the affair assures me that it was lawn tennis. she was recognized partly by a tam o'shanter cap which she is in the habit of wearing." "miss vaughn wore a tam o'shanter when she looked out of the window. she had it pulled down over her forehead." "in view of these disclosures," mr. mudge said to colonel grey, "i shall withdraw my prosecution of terwilliger. i have not sufficient evidence to make out a case against him, since it is now shown that the other young gentleman, mr. fitz simmons, did not visit the school on the night in question, and consequently had no motive for testifying falsely. i think any court would admit him as a competent witness in terwilliger's behalf, and consider the _alibi_ established. there will be no trial of terwilliger. i must confess myself completely at fault in this matter." buttertub drew a long breath. he felt dazed and sick. ricos swayed from side to side, and sank into a chair. colonel grey was bowing mr. mudge out, and buttertub poured a glass of water and handed it to ricos in his absence. "don't give in yet," he said; "we've fixed it all right for fitz simmons and terwilliger, but we've got to face the music now on our own account." but ricos had gone to the extent of his capabilities, and had fainted dead away. colonel grey returned and assisted buttertub in restoring him to consciousness. his first words were, "when is it that we go to the prison?" "my dear boy," said the colonel, "you were not suspected of any connection with the robbery. but if you imagined that you would be, and made the avowal which you did in the face of that apprehension, you deserve all the more credit." "shall we not be expelled, sir?" buttertub asked. "never! my school has need of young men who can acknowledge a fault so honourably. i consider that your generous conduct has wiped the misdemeanour from existence. you have suffered sufficiently, and i have no fear that such a thing will ever occur again. i shall only ask you to make this acknowledgment complete by sending madame ---- a written apology for intruding in so unwarrantable a manner upon her school. i shall call upon her personally and deliver it." "and my father will not feel that i have disgraced him," buttertub said slowly, unconscious that he was speaking aloud. "i shall tell the bishop," said colonel grey, "that he has a son to be proud of." ricos staggered off to bed, and buttertub sought stacey and reported. "you are a trump!" stacey cried, "i never realized before what a hero you are. i beg your pardon for every unkind thing i have thought or said about you, and if you will accept my friendship it's yours forever. it is time for supper now, and after that we'll find terwilliger and tell him the news." jim improved rapidly after this. if ricos had known that he would recover he might not have confessed, and there was a lingering feeling in his mind that jim had no right to get well, and was taking a mean advantage of him in not fulfilling his part of the bargain and winging his way to paradise, to tell the angels that ricos was not such a bad fellow after all. still, he never really regretted jim's recovery or his own avowal. it cleared his conscience of a great load, and the boys, having heard that ricos had made _amende honorable_, no longer complimented him with the terms "chump and mucker," but accepted his presents of guava jelly and other west india delicacies, and as he had the spanish gift for guitar-playing, elected him to the banjo club. a little after this mrs. roseveldt gave her last reception for that season. she had not forgotten the proposed plan of the tennis tournament at narragansett pier, and she invited stacey to come and talk it up with milly. in spite of his declaration of war against all womankind, stacey accepted the invitation eagerly. stacey was himself again, yet not quite his old giddy self. the disappointment and trouble which he had experienced had changed him for the better. he was less of a fop and more of a man, than when he tossed his baton so airily before his drum corps at the annual drill. but he was still something of an exquisite in dress. his father had given him permission to order a dress suit for the occasion of prize declamation, and stacey besieged his tailor until he agreed to have it done in time for mrs. roseveldt's reception. milly went home the day before. we had all been invited, but had decided virtuously that we could not spare the time from our studies, while i had, as an additional reason, the knowledge that i had no costume suitable for such a grand society affair. milly described it all afterward, and i enjoyed her description more than i would have cared for the party itself. the mandolin club played softly in the dining-room bay-window, hidden by a bank of palms and ferns, and the lights glowed through rose-coloured shades. the supper-table, in honour of a riding club to which mr. and mrs. roseveldt belonged, whose members were the guests of the evening, as far as possible suggested their favorite exercise. the table itself was horseshoe in shape; saddle-rock oysters, and tongue sandwiches were served. there was whipped cream, the ices were in the form of top-boots, saddles, jockey-hats, and riding whips, and the bonbonnières were satin beaver hats. stacey appeared early in the evening. it was the first time that milly had seen him in a dress suit, and milly confided to me privately that he seemed to her to have suddenly grown several inches taller. he was very grave and dignified, not at all like the old rollicking, boyish stacey with whom milly was familiar. milly, quite inexplicably to herself, felt a little awed by him and was at loss for a subject of conversation. she referred to the inter-scholastic games, and stacey scowled so violently that milly saw that this was an unfortunate beginning, and hastened to change the subject to that of the proposed tournament at narragansett pier. they were practically alone, for the parlor had been deserted by the onslaught on the supper table, and stacey said confidentially: "i'll tell you just how it is, milly; i ought not to take part in that tournament." "oh, do!" pleaded milly. [illustration] "i will if you say so. it shall be just as you say, for i'll do anything for you; but if i go into this thing i lose every last chance of passing my examinations for harvard. all the same, i'll do it if you want me to." "no, no;" murmured milly; "not at such a cost; but it can't be as bad as that. what do you mean?" "i mean that i have made a precious fool of myself all winter. i have gone in for athletics at the expense of my studies, and i've failed in both; and now that the time is coming for my examinations it will be a tight squeeze if i pass. i made up my mind to reform after i extinguished myself at the games, and i've been cramming ever since. do you know what the boys call me now?" "a regular dig, i suppose." "no, that's obsolete. at harvard a hard student is a 'grind,' and a very hard student is a 'long-haired grind.' woodpecker is complimentary enough to call me a 'sutherland sister hair invigorator grind.'" milly laughed. "no laughing matter, i tell you. i've broken training. i haven't been to the oval, or on the river, or riding in the park but once since the games. instead of that, i put myself in the hands of our professor of mathematics, and i am letting him give me a private overhauling. his motto is, 'find out what the boys don't like and give them lots of it.'" "how horrid!" milly murmured sympathetically. "he's just right. if you want to put it in a little kinder way, you might say, 'find out where the boys are weak, and then make them strong.' the trouble is i'm weak all through, so i'm having a rather serious time just now. i shall have to sit up till one o'clock to pay for the pleasure of this interview. the examinations take place between the th and th of june, inclusive. if i go into this tournament, or even think of it before then, i lose every ghost of a chance for harvard, and will have to take to the sea, and i loathe it. but that's nothing--if you want me to do it. you don't half know me, milly. i tell you, it's nothing at all--why i'd give up life itself for you. there isn't anything i wouldn't give up for your sake. no, you shan't run away. we've got to have it out some time, and we might as well understand one another now. i love you, milly; i have always loved you; and if you don't like me--why, i have no use for harvard, or life either." he looked so despairing and yet so wildly eager, that milly was very sorry for him. "of course, i like you, stacey," she said kindly. "you do?" he cried. "i can't believe it. you are fooling me." "no, stacey; but you are fooling yourself. you would be very sorry, by and bye, if i took you at your word now, and snapped you up before you had time to know your own mind. why, stacey, we are both of us too young to know whether we are in earnest. we ought to wait, and we ought neither of us to be bound in any way. perhaps everything will seem very different to us four years from now. don't you think so yourself?" "i can never change," stacey asserted confidently. "but i may," milly said with a smile, thinking of her own foolish little heart, and of how appropriate the advice she was giving to stacey was to her own case. "i don't believe you will," stacey replied. "i am sure it's a great comfort to know that you care for me a little; it's a great deal better than i expected." "did i say so? i didn't mean to," milly exclaimed in consternation. "no, you haven't committed yourself to anything, but you have intimated that i may ask you again after i have graduated from harvard. and since i desire that time to come as soon as possible, i presume i have your permission to give up the tennis tournament and go on preparing for my examinations." "yes, certainly. but i'm sorry for the home. i don't quite see how we are going to raise the money for the annex. still, i suppose, as students, our first duty is to our studies." "exactly. but vacation is coming and we will see what we can do for the home then. if your mother will only postpone the time i will see if i can get the boys together in july." the old butler came in at this juncture with a tray of ices. he was followed by mr. van silver, who protested against his introducing "coolness" between old friends, but who remained all the same, and spoiled their opportunity for any further conversation on the subject uppermost in stacey's mind. "i've an idea, stacey," said mr. van silver. "i want you to go to europe with me this summer. you'd enjoy the trip i propose to make among the scottish hills and lakes. i know your parents will approve, for it will be a regular education for you, especially with my improving society thrown in." mr. van silver winked as he said this, and he was greatly surprised when stacey answered promptly: "awfully kind of you, mr. van silver, but i can't go possibly." "why not?" "well, first of all, i'm bound to be conditioned on some of my studies at my harvard examinations, and i shall have to coach all summer in a less agreeable way than the one which you suggest. then i have engaged to get up a tennis tournament at the pier----" "tennis! what's that to such a trip as i propose. don't be an idiot, stacey." "it is really not an ordinary tournament," milly added, with a desire to make peace between the two. "but, mr. van silver, when do you sail? perhaps stacey can go after the tournament." "i sail the last of june." "then there's no use talking," said stacey. "unless you could join mr. van silver by going over later." stacey shook his head vigorously. he had no desire to be expatriated this summer. "i comprehend," said mr. van silver. "the pier possesses greater attractions than i can offer, but you needn't try to humbug me into believing that tennis is the magnet which draws you thither. tell that to the unsophisticated, but strive not to impose on your grandfather. he has been young himself." mrs. roseveldt came in with quite a party from the supper, and stacey promptly took his leave. when milly confided this to me,--as she did nearly all of her joys and sorrows,--i could not help expressing my sympathy for stacey. "stacey will recover," she said confidently. "men are never as constant as we women." and milly nodded her head with the gravity of an elderly matron who had experienced all the vicissitudes of life, and who could now regard the ardours of youthful affection and despair with a benign tolerance, as foreseeing the end from the beginning. "do you know, tib," she continued, "mr. van silver was joking in the way that he always does about stacey, when papa came to us; and papa said, 'don't put such notions in my little girl's head, mr. van silver. stacey has his college course before him and may be able to quote from my favourite poet when it is over.' with that he took down an old volume of praed and read something which is so cute that i copied it afterward. here it is: we parted; months and years rolled by; we met again four summers after. our parting was all sob and sigh; our meeting was all mirth and laughter. for in my heart's most secret cell there had been many other lodgers: and she was not the ball-room's belle but only--mrs. something rogers. "i wonder whether i shall be mrs. rogers, or mrs. smith, or mrs. what? i'd rather be just miss milly roseveldt." "and how about professor waite?" i asked, hardly daring to believe that the fresh wind of common sense had cleared away the old miasmatic glamour. "oh, adelaide must repent. they would make such a romantic couple. i have set my heart on it. and tib, i believe she does like him, just a little, though she hasn't found it out herself yet. i am going to take charge of their case, and some day you and i will be bridesmaids, tib. i've planned just how it will be. it's a pity celeste acted so. do you really think miss billings will be equal to a wedding dress?" "what, yours, milly?" "mine? no, indeed. i don't want to be married. it's a great deal nicer not to be. don't you think so?" "milly, darling, i really believe that you have recovered from that old folly." "why, of course i have--ages and centuries ago." and milly laughed a wholesome, gay-hearted laugh, which astonished as much as it pleased me. "alas for woman's constancy," i laughed; "but, indeed, milly, i am very glad that you are so thoroughly heart-whole. we will keep a jolly old maids' hall together, only you must not encourage poor stacey." "why not?" asked the incomprehensible milly. "i am sure he is a great deal happier with matters left unsettled than he would have been if i had told him that i hated him; and that would not have been true either." "you told him that he might ask you again after he graduates, and you certainly ought not to allow him any shadow of hope when you know positively that you can never love him." what was my surprise to hear milly reply very seriously: "but i don't know that, tib. four years may change everything. stacey may not care a bit for me at the end of his college course. in that case, i'm sure i shan't repine. but then, again, if he should happen to hold out faithful, perhaps my stony heart may be touched by the spectacle of such devotion. who knows?" and milly looked up archly, with a pretty blush that augured ill--for the old maids' hall. chapter xv. the old cabinet tells its story. [illustration] a few weeks passed with no excitement except cynthia's withdrawal from the amen corner. madame was very indignant when mr. mudge reported cynthia's part in inviting the boys to attend our catacomb party, and assisting them in entering and disguising themselves. it was rumoured that cynthia was to be publicly expelled as a terrible example to all would-be offenders. she remained closeted in her room, whence the sound of weeping and wailing could be heard behind her locked door, but she steadily refused all overtures of sympathy on our part. we waited upon madame in a body, and begged her to pardon cynthia. madame replied that she would consider the matter, and we hurried back and shouted the hopeful news through cynthia's keyhole. there was no reply. "do you think she has killed herself?" milly asked in an awestruck whisper. i applied my ear closely and heard stealthy steps. "she merely wishes to be let alone," i said; "perhaps we are a little too exuberant in our expressions of sympathy." miss noakes entered presently and announced that madame wished to see cynthia; and that young lady went, with a very red nose, turned up at a very haughty angle. she returned shortly, and addressing herself to adelaide, as she always did, even when she had something which she wished to communicate to the rest of us, said scornfully: "miss armstrong, will you kindly say to the other young ladies [we were all present], that madame has just told me that i am indebted to you for permission to remain and graduate with the class." a murmur of satisfaction ran around the room. cynthia's eyes flashed fire. "do not imagine for one moment," she exclaimed, "that i would accept your hypocritical condescension, if i believed that it had been offered." "don't you believe that we interceded with madame?" winnie asked. "i believe," cynthia replied, "that you have done the best you can, by tale-bearing, to induce madame to expel me, and have not succeeded; and as i do not wish to associate with you any longer, i have written my parents asking them to withdraw me from the school." "i am sure no one will regret your departure," adelaide replied, with indignation. but cynthia did not leave the school. either her parents were too sensible to take her away just before her graduation, or her remark had been merely an idle threat. madame gave her a room in another part of the building, and her place in the amen corner remained vacant for the rest of the term. winnie had finished her essay, and one evening we gathered in the little study parlor to hear her read it. the time for our parting was now very near, and we were all more or less sentimentally inclined. the old amen corner was very dear to us. every piece of furniture had its associations, but none of them were quite so tragical as those which clustered around the old oak cabinet, and it seemed only fitting that winnie should celebrate it in her parting essay. she apologized for the length of her paper. "don't think, girls," she explained, "that i intend to read all this at commencement. i am going to ask madame to make selections from it. the task that professor waite set me was to give a picture of florentine life in the early part of the sixteenth century, and to bring in the characters who lived then as naturally as i could--raphael, leonardo da vinci, michael angelo, fra bartolommeo, the medici, macchiavelli, bibbiena and his niece, and others. while i was writing, my imagination carried me away, and i gave it free rein. you are the only ones who will have the full dose." we were very willing to hear it all. winnie sat in the great comfortable wicker armchair with the lamplight gloating o'er her mischievous face. adelaide had ensconced herself on the window seat, her classical profile clear cut against the night. milly nestled on a cushion at her feet, and i had stretched myself luxuriously on the old lounge, and watched the others from the shadowy side of the room. milly occasionally patted the cabinet at her side as winnie referred to it. the flickering light almost seemed to make the carved faces with which it was decorated grin sardonically, or knit their brows with threatening scowls, as winnie read: "i am the ghost of the cabinet, giovanni de' medici they called me, in , when the drops from the font fell on my forehead in the baptistry in florence, and leo x, when in i was made pope of rome. i was the second son of lorenzo the magnificent, christianly christened as a babe and created abbot of fontedolce at the age of seven and cardinal at seventeen, for my father was convinced, since the eldest son must carry down the family glory in succession, for me promotion lay only in the way of the church. "nevertheless, i held, as it were, to that plough but with one hand, continually looking back, and ready to drop it altogether, so that, while i enjoyed the rank and revenue of a prince of the church, i was not made a priest with vows of celibacy until the papacy was as good as in my hand, and until i had been determined thereunto by the closing to me of a fair pathway which led in quite another direction. for of my father's choice for me i might have said: "for that my fancy rather took the way that led to town, he did betray me to a lingering book, and wrap me in a gown. "none but the readers of this confession know of my lost love or fancy that i was capable of any passion save the ambition to reinstate my family in its ancient position of glory in florence. cardinal though i was, i yet played the spy and the thief to get at the opinions of florentines of note and influence, and one of my confederates in my schemes was a certain carved oak cabinet, which stood in the library of the palazzo of my nephew by marriage, filippo strozzi. this strozzi was a man so well regarded in florence, that although he espoused maddalena de' medici, the daughter of my banished brother piero, yet was he never suspected of any plots to advance our family, and lived even with great freedom and popularity, keeping open house to all the literati of the city. "my niece, who shared not altogether the republican sentiments of her husband, and in whom family affection was most deeply rooted, did sometimes entertain me after my banishment when my presence in florence was not known by the florentines in general or even to her most worshipful spouse. at such times i had for my bedchamber a little room partitioned only from the library of which i have spoken by heavy hangings of tapestry. against this tapestry, on the library side, was set the oak cabinet, which was also a desk for writing, and here my nephew, filippo strozzi, was accustomed to write his letters. hearing the scratch of his pen when he little suspected my neighbourhood, filled me with such an itching desire to know what he wrote, that one night after he had finished his writing, and had left the room, i slipped into the library, and found that, having completed his epistle, he had laid it inside the cabinet, and that this was without doubt the usual rendezvous for the letters of the family while awaiting the time for the departure of the post, for other letters, sealed and directed and ready for the sending, lay on the same shelf. on further examination of the cabinet i found that its back was a sliding panel, and that by cutting through the tapestry with my penknife i could open the cabinet from my own room, and abstract any letters which might have been placed within it under surety of lock and key. this seemed to me a most providential circumstance, for not only did my nephew write his letters here, but other guests of the house had the same custom, and it was most convenient for me thus to become acquainted with their secret opinions. "i had another motive for lingering in florence besides my political schemes, for as i have said i had not at this time so irrevocably fastened upon myself the vows of the church that they could not be shaken off, and i was greatly enamoured of the niece of the merry cardinal bibbiena, the incomparable maria, whom i had met before my brother's banishment at his court in florence, she being a maid in waiting to his wife and greatly attached to her. "maria bibbiena came frequently to visit my niece maddalena strozzi; and my niece, knowing my passion, gave me opportunity of meeting her, and i thought that i sped well in my wooing until the cabinet told me otherwise. my cabinet told me no lies, for count baltazar castiglione, a most polished man of the world, and guarded in his spoken opinions of others, opened his mind most frankly in a letter to his friend and confidante, the gentle and witty vittoria colonna, which he wrote in that room and left in my power, and which was expressed with a freedom which he would never have allowed himself had he fancied that it would ever have fallen under my eye. "i had one friend in florence in whom i trusted, niccolo macchiavelli. i admired his statecraft and his policy, and i deemed him devoted to our family, but a letter from his own hand, obtained in like manner with the others, showed him to be two-faced and treacherous to all who trusted him--to the medicis and to strozzi, whose hospitality he scrupled not to abuse. it would seem at first sight that my thefts of letters were of service to me; but i was never able to really profit by them, and the knowledge which the letters gave me of the perfidy or dislike of their writers caused me only fruitless indignation and lasting pain, while the habit into which i had fallen of suspecting, prying, and stealing grew upon me day by day, till even death itself was powerless to correct it. when will mankind learn that habit can be so deeply fixed as to follow us beyond the portals of death. "the old cabinet and i have been so long partners in guilt that my erring ghost visits it as of old, abstracting from it whatever is left to its treacherous keeping. i give back herewith the letters, and when this confession shall have been publicly read, i will render the moneys which i have more lately filched, and then my troubled spirit will be laid at rest. for i was not a great villain. "witch winnie lied when she said i stole from this cabinet the freedom of the city of florence, which my father writ out and placed here after the last visit of the unmannerly monk, savonarola. i pardoned the enemies of our family in the day of my triumph, and i pardoned raphael, yea, and befriended him and loved him, since he wronged me unwittingly; and none grieved more than i when we buried him beside his maria, whom i fain would have called my own. and so, having forgiven those who have trespassed against me, and now making restitution, may i also be pardoned for filching these few letters, whereof the first was from: "_count baltazar castiglione to the excellent lady vittoria colonna, marchesa di pescara, at naples._ "florence, th october, . "most worshipful madonna and admired friend: "i feel myself highly flattered in that you express yourself satisfied with my cortigiano (which i caused to be writ out at your request), and which endeavoured, in some slight way, to reproduce the facetious pleasantry joined to the strictest morals which subsist at the court of urbino. and i deem your request for a like picture of florentine society as a most pleasing proof that i have not been hitherto wearisome to you. "in florence, since the passing of the rule of the medici, there has been a passing away also of all standards of aristocracy, so that many of the old families hang their heads in political disgrace, and there be many upstart ones who flaunt and wanton in gorgeousness of apparel. neither is it possible to say what will be the outcome of this state of social incertitude. i have adopted what seemed to me a safe rule, and have paid my court neither to birth nor to fortune, but to genius. for it is not to be gainsayed that there is gathered in florence at this time a remarkable circle of learned and clever men, who form, as it were, an order of aristocracy by themselves. "i paid my respects first to maestro pietro perugino, my sometime friend at urbino, and whom we there regarded as the very cream and quintessence of painting. he has a home here, living in a goodly and comfortable state, but has grown somewhat crabbed and soured, as happens to men who feel themselves out of fashion and forgotten of the world. he has a rival here, one michael angelo, and perugino having criticised a cartoon which this fellow had set up, representing i know not what absurdity, of bathing soldiers, angelo replied that he considered perugino to be a man ignorant in art matters. which saying so cut to the quick my friend that he somewhat inconsiderately went to law upon the matter, where he gained scant salve for his bruises, being dismissed with the decree that the defendant had only said what was not to be denied. "this discourteous fellow angelo formeth the greatest contrast to leonardo da vinci, now the leading artist of florence, in whom the word gentleman hath as full a showing as in any noble living. his fortune is sufficient to his tastes (which are of no niggard order), and his audience chamber is frequented by the nobles, the wits, the fashion, the learning, and beauty of the day. "but truly, i must not further speak of this paragon, this florescence of his day and generation, or i shall have no space in which to make mention of lesser luminaries, and especially of my young friend, raphael santi of urbino, who is also visiting at this time in florence. raphael, while he accords to da vinci a full meed of praise, and goes daily to sketch from his masterpiece in the palazzo vecchio, and while he is as free from envy as an egg from vitriol, yet surprised me by this wondrously assuming assertion, greatly at variance with his usual modesty. 'my dear baltazar,' said he, 'keep the sketches and miniature i have made for thee. they will one day be as valuable as though signed by da vinci!' truly, presumption dwelleth in the heart of youth, but experience with the world will drive it far from him. "i am writing this at the palazzo strozzi, where i am for the time a grateful guest. mine host and friend filippo gave recently an artistic supper, the guests being either artists or lovers of that guild, whether patricians, such as giocondo, nasi, soderini, and others; or scriveners, as vasari, macchiavelli, and guicciardini, and churchmen, as bibbiena, and bembo; for all florence will have its finger in this art pie, and they who have not the wit to paint or the money to purchase, affect superior knowledge, and wag their tongues in dispraise. finding myself partitioned off between two of these worthies, i should have died of weariness had i not closed my ear on the one side to the borings of macchiavelli (who had it upon his mind that giovanni de' medici was in florence, and would have fain tortured from me his hiding place), and on the other from the sleep-producing maunderings of vasari, who delivered himself of condemnatory criticisms on raphael. i would not for the world have awakened him to questions by a hint that i already knew more of raphael than he was like to know in his whole life, but i suffered him to wander on, straining my ears the while to catch some shreds of a merry story with which the cardinal of santa maria in portico (bibbiena) was setting his end of the table in a roar. supper being ended, i marked that the cardinal drew raphael's arm within his own, and leading him to the garden, there left him with his niece maria, a most sweet and loving damsel, and one exceptionally endowed by nature; for neither in florence nor in the various outlandish cities which it hath been my hap to visit in the character of diplomatist, have i found in any five ladies, saving in yourself, worshipful madame, such gentleness, sprightliness, and wit as is bound up in one bundle in the person of maria bibbiena. "madonna maddalena strozzi has confided to me that her uncle giovanni de' medici was in time past so greatly enamoured of this same maria that he would fain have given up the church. this were madness indeed on his part, since the wisest policy for any of that family is to keep himself from political ambition, than which there would seem to be no more convincing evidence to the vulgar than devotion to a life of celibacy and monkish austerity; a renouncing of the world, its pomps and vanities, and especially of family alliances and succession plots, friendships, betrothals, marriages, and the like; which, if they be not fooleries of youthful passion, savour of worldly ambition. "all of this i imparted as my opinion to my hostess, but she sighed so deeply as to show that her sympathies are with her love-lorn uncle. after this we were bidden by her husband to an upper room, where was displayed a picture of raphael's. "but to report the critiques which followed would be greatly wearisome to your ladyship, and so i kiss your hands, beseeching our lord to make you as happy as you are pious. "your sincere friend and servitor, "baltazar castiglione. "_maria bibbiena to the lady alfonsina orsini medici, wife of piero de' medici, in exile at urbino._ "florence, october , . "most magnificent, noble, and unfortunate lady: "for whom my tears cease not to fall, and my heart to long after with true devotion. "truly, madame, whatever may have been your heavy and sore trials in separation from your beloved florence, you cannot have experienced more poignant smart than that which wrings the heart of your little friend, who in lonesomeness and delaying of hope counts the days of your absence. my uncle's friend, messer macchiavelli, who passes for a man of deep designs, raised my hopes at one time by whispering that there was a plot to bring you back. but nothing came of it, and instead we were given up to the dreadful piagnoni, so that my uncle, than whom there never was a more jocund man, so long as he was chancellor to your most worshipful husband, was forced to abandon politics and even for a time to hang his head in sadness. but having returned from rome with a cardinal's hat, since the death of savonarola, i discern some faint return to his old cheerfulness. "i was minded of you anew but recently. you will doubtless remember madonna lisa giocondo. she is now having her portrait painted by maestro da vinci. it is his manner to invite light and diverting society to his studio to converse with and cheer the lady during her sitting, and to strive to bring to her lips a certain marvelous smile about which he is mightily concerned. now it chanced that maestro da vinci heard that i played upon the lute at your court, in former days, and so he persuaded my uncle to bring me to his studio to play for the diversion of mona lisa. presently there came in with count castiglione a young man of a most beautiful countenance, a divine tenderness suffusing his eyes; and a smile of such heavenly sweetness upon his lips, that methought that of mona lisa but an affected simper in comparison. after greeting us he remained a long time in a muse, his eyes fastened upon the canvas. mona lisa, perceiving that his entranced gaze was not so much in admiration of her beauty as in delight at the skill of the painter, took her departure, in some pique, while maestro da vinci waited upon her to the door. raphael santi, for so is this young man called, turned to me and spoke of the genius of da vinci. after that the maestro brought forward a portfolio of sketches and we overlooked them together. i mind me there was one drawing of the madonna seated in the lap of sta. anna, caressing the infant christ, who, in his turn, was toying with a lamb. and the younger artist said that what pleased him most in da vinci's paintings was the lovingness which he displayed, as here sta. anna was beaming proudly and graciously upon her daughter, who playfully and tenderly yearned over her son, who as charmingly petted his little lamb. and many more things he said, so sweetly, and with such courteous and gentle behaviour, that i wondered not that he was called saint raphael, for indeed he seemed unto me as one of the company of the blessed. "but with all this i have not told you why it was that this should remind me of you. it was because i was told that he was from urbino, and because he was able to give me comfortable tidings concerning you, which did not a little solace and unburden my heart. "after this i met him several times in the outer cloisters of san marco, whither i went first by chance with my uncle, who had some business with the prior of the convent, and who left me to wait for him in this place, which is assigned to the laity. "presently, while i waited here, raphael came hastily in, having just completed his lesson in colouring with the fra bartolommeo, an artist who turned monk under the preaching of savonarola, and whom raphael has chosen as master during his stay in florence. he told me somewhat of this good monk; how when he was a talented and rising young man, with life and ambition all before him, he gave his paintings to the flames with which the piagnoni consumed the vanities of this world in the public streets, because he feared lest he loved his art more than god. but since he has renounced the world, the prior has told him that he can best serve the church by painting altar-pieces, so that his cell is changed to a studio, and god has granted him such access of genius that he paints more divinely than before, and churches and monasteries in venice and other distant cities send daily for his paintings. but he knows not where they go, nor how much money they bring the convent, for he paints only for the love of god. "raphael told me also of the heavenly frescoes of fra angelico, with which the walls of the passages and even the cells of the convent, are covered, and he added, 'truly, i think that art and a monastic life wed well together, and i would willingly retire to some cloistered garden afar from the world, if i might carry my box of colours with me, and might sometimes see in a vision a face like thine to paint from!' "then was i seized with a foolish timidity, so that i could in no wise answer, but my heart said, 'and why afar from the world, why not in it, making all things better and happier?' "ah! sweet lady, i know you will say, 'my little maria is grown wondrous foolish and love-sick'; but i pray you chide me not, seeing that the matter cannot grow further, for i am not likely again to meet with raphael, since i have come to visit for some days, on invitation of your sweet daughter madonna maddalena strozzi. nor were it best that i should see him often, for i do fear me that in such case my heart might become so rashly pitched and fixed upon him that i should in time most inconsiderately fall in love, which were a bold and unmaidenly thing to do; and i mind me that you were wont to tell me that no woman should allow her affections to conduct themselves thus insubordinately, until the church hath by the sacrament of marriage given her license thereto. "and so, madame, praying maria sanctissima and maria the sister of lazarus, my patroness, to keep me constant in this mind, i rest your loving friend and devoted servitor, "maria bibbiena. "_niccolo macchiavelli to bramante, architect to pope julius i, at rome_: "messer bramante mio: "we have no longer any politics in florence. the medici trusted to the luck of their name; but florence would have none of them, and piero had not the head for his position. he might have had the advantage of my brains if he had so chosen; but he had not the wit to appreciate wit. the magnificent was right when he said that he had three sons, the one good, the second crafty, the third a fool. the good die young: piero, the fool, has lost his inheritance; it remains for the crafty giovanni to make good the prestige of his family. the chances are against him, but if he has something better than maccaroni under his tonsure, he will make the church his ladder to power. i thought at one time that savonarola was perhaps shrewder than he seemed, and that he would succeed in tumbling alexander out of the papal chair and in taking his seat therein as the pope angelico. but it seemed that the dolt never cared for the papacy, but only for saving souls! i fear no such cause of defeat for a medici, but i hear rumours concerning giovanni which make me fear that he is not crafty enough for success. he has been dissolute; that is no hindrance to a cardinal's hat or even to the tiara; the folly i dread is more fatal. they say that he has reformed his life and is thinking of marriage. if this is true, i renounce his cause in favor of that of cæsar borgia, who has the audacity of a lion joined to the rascality of a fox, and who is not hindered from the putting in practice of my principles by any so cowardly and stupid a thing as a conscience. and yet they say that his superb physical manhood is now a wreck, bloated and permeated through and through with the subtle poison which his family alone knows how to prepare, and whose effects they can only partially eradicate. savonarola, borgia, medici, blunderers all! what name will the next wave bring to the surface? "but a truce to politics. you know this is a subject from which i can no more keep my thoughts than a greedy urchin can forbear thrusting his fingers into a pot of comfits. i am not so absorbed in my favourite pastime, however, but i can take an interest in all that interests my friends, especially in such matters as are flavoured with a spice of intrigue, than which no condiment soever is better suited to my palate. touching, therefore, the matter concerning which you wrote me, i think that you, as chief architect to his holiness, have indeed cause to fear the rivalry of michael angelo, for i am credibly informed that he is minded presently to journey toward rome. moreover, since it is the practice of popes to be always meddling with works of art, marring and defacing the excellent things done in the pontificates of those preceding them,--when they cannot improve upon them,--and whereas they are a whimsical lot, not long contented with one object or one workman, be he ever so excellent, you have sufficient cause, i say, to fear, having now continued in favour for some time, that this michael angelo will supplant you in the favour of his holiness. i would suggest, therefore, that you search about for some new artist, who shall occupy himself with a line of work as fresco painting, not in any way interfering with your own architectural designs, but rather depending upon them; and that you make haste to introduce him to the pope, and if possible ingratiate him into his favour that, his mind being taken up with this new favourite, and his purse lightened by the dispensing of moneys for these new works, he will be less inclined to look favourably upon a new architect such as michael angelo. and inasmuch as it seemeth to me that this thing requireth haste, i have looked about me somewhat in florence to find a man suited to your occasions. "i first bethought me of leonardo da vinci as being the successful rival of michael angelo in this city, and against whom he could not for a moment contend. but da vinci hath no drawings toward rome. i have marked for a long time that he cutteth his doublet after the french fashion. trust me, he is no man for us; he would rather trip it merrily with french dames than wear out his knees on the cold scagliola of the vatican. i have bethought me also that leonardo is too old and subtle for you; you need a man whom you can manage; who shall look up to you as a patron and as a superior. my eye hath lately fallen upon a youngster of surprising talent as a painter, a stranger in florence, of no great influence, and utterly unknown to fame. he hath as yet no great opinion of himself; make haste to secure him before others shall enlighten him as to his merits. this youth is called raphael santi, and i make sure that the pope will greatly prefer this silken dove to that porcupine angelo. "i would the more willingly see him advanced in some foreign city in that my good friend cardinal bibbiena seems desirous with all expedition to get him forth from florence, and yet it is not so much from a desire to pleasure bibbiena, as from a conviction that i have found here a tool of proper service to thee, that i thus recommend him to thy good offices. "to conclude, my bramante, make all speed to inform his holiness that the walls of the vatican are cracked, smoky, filthy, and disgraceful, and above all things fetch thy raphael quickly and gain for him a personal interview; for i trust more to the charm of his presence than to volumes of thy bungling speech. "and when thou hast need of further counsel, or seest that the pope desireth an ahithophel,--now the counsel of ahithophel which he counselled in those days was as if a man had enquired at the oracle,--why send then and fetch thy ever loving and honest friend, "macchiavelli. "florence, october , . "_maria bibbiena to the lady alfonsina orsini medici, wife of piero dei medici, at urbino_: "florence, october , . "most magnificent, most beloved, and most sweet lady: "since i last made bold to write you of my small matters, others more weighty to me have transpired, which, as i have made a beginning, i will also make an end in the way of their narration. and first i have met with a small disquietness from your highness's brother-in-law, the cardinal, concerning whose presence in florence i had not heard. for yestreen, when i was playing upon my lute in the garden of the palazzo of your daughter, madonna strozzi, he came upon me suddenly walking with your daughter. whereat he seemed at first taken all aback, but the lady maddalena exclaimed, 'a new petrarch, and new laura,' and commanded him on his fame as a scholar to make some rhymes on that subject. whereat he replied that if i would continue playing he would write, as his patron, st. cupid, gave him utterance, and with that he improvised and wrote out the nonsense herewith following: "in all avignon's gardens the nightingales were mute as at her open casement she played upon her lute. the lonely scholar petrarch wandered all listlessly; 'the old man with the hour-glass has sure some grudge 'gainst me. the sands they fall so sluggishly that tell the flight of time; my studies all are tedium, and weariness my rhyme.' 'twas then the lady laura, with lips like ripened fruit, and lily-petalled fingers, full sweetly touched the lute. the lonely petrarch listened, as she sang, so sweet and low, a soft love-laden sonnet, writ by boccaccio. till cupid snatched the hour-glass from loitering father time, and petrarch's life was all too short to tell his love in rhyme. "after the reading, our lady daughter would have me crown the poet, but this i would in no manner consent unto. nay, i even flung down my lute in vexation of spirit, and ran away to another part of the garden. but i gained nothing thereby, for giovanni pursued after me and came up with me at the fountain, where he caught my hand and would in no wise restore my freedom till he had delivered his mind of what lay thereon, namely, that he sought me for his wife. whereupon i told him very plainly that i knew that he had been bred up for the church, and that it were disloyalty to his brother, your highness's husband, and to his nephew, your son lorenzo, for him to think of marriage and a worldly life, for by so doing the medici interest would be divided. but he said that if i would but be his wife he would relinquish all claim to political power and lorenzo should not fear for his succession, for he would go with me to dwell in foreign parts. and while i sought in the corners of my mind for some answer which should convince him of my utter lothness, and yet not offend so noble a gentleman, came suddenly your daughter to warn him that others were entering the garden; but ere he went he kissed a rose and tossed it to me saying, 'this rose comes not from giovanni the cardinal, but giovanni the soldier, for henceforth go i to fight the french and to win my bride.' "scarcely was he gone than i tore the rose in pieces, wroth that i had been so tongue-tied in his presence. and while i shred the petals all about me, i was aware of raphael coming to meet me, and holding in his hand a lily such as we see in the pictures of the virgin, which lily he placed in my hand, saying: sicut lilium inter spinas sic maria inter filias. "and as he saw me to tremble with the vexation and the disquiet of my interview with the gay cardinal, he most courteously and gently inquired the cause of my discomfort, and did so comfortably avail to assuage my distress that i presently forgot it. he told me also that since he had known me he had so grown into an affection for the name of maria, that he had resolved to devote his life, in so far as choice should be vouchsafed him, to the painting of maria sanctissima. and many other things he said which it is not meet nor proper that i should write out here. suffice it that you, who love your dear lord, can well understand my present joyful state, and why it is that the nuns, singing now the canticle for the feast of the purification in the convent next to the palazzo, seem to be addressing their song to me: gaude, virgo gloriosa! super omnes speciosa! "for happiest of all virgins is thy little "maria. "it was this last letter which broke my heart, and yet did not so much break as bend it so that i gave up the hope which i could no longer keep not in bitterness or in wrath, and resigned myself to my destiny as monk and pope; when maria bibbiena died, all too early, i wept not my own shattered future alone, but raphael's as well, and so took him to my heart, though he knew not the reason, and so i beseech the efficacious prayers of all christians for all true lovers. "_et pro nobis christum exora._ "giovanni de' medici, "_the ghost of the cabinet._" chapter xvi. the mystery disclosed. [illustration] winnie's romance of the cabinet pleased us all, but adelaide was sure that madame would not allow it to be read without certain changes, especially the reference to the robbery in the school, and the "lovering" parts. "you need not imagine," said milly, "that because you object to lovering, all the rest of the world does. why, even miss noakes has a softer heart than adelaide's. but really and truly, winnie, how much of that is true? was raphael really engaged?" "most certainly, my dear." "and did leo x love her too? you made me ever so sorry for the poor old pope." "well, no, that part is the only one for which i have no warrant in history. that is, i have no doubt that leo x really did love some one before he took the irrevocable vows. he was what browning calls 'sworn fast and tonsured pate, plain heaven's celibate, and yet earth's clear accepted servitor, a courtly, spiritual cupid, and fit companion for the like of you; your gay abati with the well turned leg, and rose i' the hat rim. canon's cross at neck, and silk mask in the pocket of the gown.'" "the cabinet is such an uncanny old thing," said milly, "that i begin almost to believe that you have divined the truth, and that an uneasy spirit really haunts its vicinity." "perhaps the fact that we now only keep school books in the cabinet is the reason the ghost has been so very quiet of late," said winnie. "or, perhaps it has repented its evil deeds and my essay has given it the peace of conscience which only comes through confession. if it were an unrepenting spirit it would, as milly suggests, be very unwilling that i should publish its evil deeds by reading this essay. i believe that i will give it an opportunity of showing whether it approves of my reading its confessions. here, tib, take everything else off your shelf, and i will lay my essay there and call on the spirit to make away with it, if, indeed, he is able and wicked enough to do it." adelaide, milly, and i watched the incantation with much amusement. "guilty ghost," exclaimed winnie, striking an attitude, "if you have repented of your crimes, and the reading of this essay will allow you henceforth to rest in peace, i hereby exorcise you, and command you to affix some seal of your approval to this paper--either the print of a bloody hand or at least x your mark." hereupon winnie, with a flourish, laid her essay on my shelf and closed the cabinet door. "if, guilty ghost," she continued, "you are still up to your tricks, and having taken the money which tib confided to her shelf, are determined to go on in your evil ways, i hereby dare you to steal that essay within the next half hour, we keeping watch and ward in this room!" "i think it is no fair test," i said, "unless you leave it there overnight. both of the other robberies were committed just at midnight. this ghost may be of a bashful disposition, or possibly not good-natured enough to walk at your call in broad daylight." "well, if he doesn't appear within a half hour i'll give him another chance, 'in the dead vast and middle of the night,' 'when churchyards yawn,' et-cetera. here, milly, lend me your watch, that i may time our visitor." we all sat for a few moments silently watching the cabinet, but presently adelaide tired of this mummery and exclaimed: "really, this is too absurd! i have my latin prose composition to write, and cannot spend any more time in such nonsense, winnie." "write your exercise in this room. we will all keep still, and i must have all the amen corner as witnesses of my little experiment." winnie pulled out the writing shelf, and adelaide seated herself at the cabinet and wrote steadily until winnie cried, "time's up." milly and i approached the cabinet, and winnie made a few magical passes in the air and repeated an ancient hocus-pocus: "there was a frog lived in a well, to a rigstram boney mite kimeo. and mistress mouse she kept the mill, to a karro karro, delto karro, rigstram pummiddle arry boney rigstram rigstram boney mitte kimeo, keemo kimo darrow wa, munri, munro, munrum stump, pummididle, nip cat periwinkle, sing song, kitchee wunchee kimeo." adelaide pushed in the writing shelf and stepped aside, and winnie threw open the cabinet door. we could hardly believe our eyes--the essay had disappeared. milly gave a shriek of dismay. "it must have been a ghost. how else could it have vanished with all of us on the watch?" "have you been playing a trick on me, adelaide?" winnie asked. "did you manage to slip it out while we were not looking?" adelaide disclaimed any such action, and milly and i confirmed her assertion, for we had been watching the door all the time. winnie wheeled the cabinet away from the wall, almost expecting to find a concealed door opening into cynthia's room. but the wall was perfectly solid, there was not even a mouse hole in the base-board, while the back of the cabinet was not a sliding panel. we banged it, and pushed it, and examined it with a magnifying glass for concealed springs or hinges. it was simply an honest piece of work, a secure, heavy back, conspicuously fastened in its place with wooden pegs, a construction to which cabinet makers give the term dowelling, and to make assurance doubly sure, the edges had been glued with a cement which had turned black with age, but had not cracked. there was no possible way in which the cabinet could have been opened from behind. "there goes my pet theory," said winnie, in an aggrieved tone. "it would have been just like cynthia to have removed things from the back of the cabinet, if we could only have discovered a concealed door in the partition behind it. you see the cabinet backs so conveniently against her room." but there was no possibility of any door having ever existed here. the partition wall was not of boards, which might have been sawed through and removed. it was clean white plaster which had never been papered, and would have betrayed the least scratch, and winnie was obliged to relinquish this romantic method of access to the cabinet. "i shall always think," said adelaide, "that the first robbery was committed by that individual we saw through the studio transom in professor waite's great rembrandt hat." winnie laughed heartily. "girls, i may as well confess," she exclaimed, "that was your humble servant." "you, winnie?" "yes, i, winnie. don't you remember that i was not in the parlor when the head appeared? i was in the studio, and it struck me that it would be rather a good joke to pretend to be professor waite, tramping up and down before that door, tormented by a consuming passion for adelaide. wait, i will put the hat on again and let you see." winnie dashed into the studio and returned wearing the rembrandt hat, and we all laughed at her cavalier appearance. "but, girls," she exclaimed, throwing the hat on the floor, "this is really no laughing matter. do you realize that my essay is gone? my essay that i am to read next week. and how i am ever to find time to write it over again, with examinations and all that i have to do between now and then, is more than i know. just see how wickedly giovanni de' medici leers at me!" and winnie pointed to the carved head which adorned the centre of the cabinet door. "oh! what shall i do? what shall i do?" winnie soon answered that question for herself, by writing another essay, and improving it in the process. but the disappearance of the florentine letters was a nine days' wonder. we searched the room thoroughly and even stepped out on the fire-escape and looked up and down for some bird of heaven that might have carried them away. "i shall always maintain," said milly, "that it is no real thief at all. of course, none of us really believe in the ghost theory, though it is almost enough to make one turn spiritualist to be made the victim of such a trick. i believe that in the end it will be found that somebody's little pet poodle has found his way in here, and like old mother hubbard's dog has a weakness for cupboards, and has chewed up everything that he has found. sometime nemesis will overtake that little poodle and he will be laid upon the dissecting table, and all of the money and winnie's essay will be found in his little gizzard." it was an absurd suggestion, but nothing seemed to explain the mystery, and we finally all gave it up. all but winnie. she continued to worry about it. she laid many traps for her ghost, baiting them with edibles under the supposition that the thief might be an animal; and with money, tying silken threads around the cabinet, fastening the handle of the door to a bell in her own room, but they were all unavailing; the robber came no more. the cadets' prize declamation came before our graduation, and we all attended the exercises. stacey did not take a prize, but, as he laughingly told milly, his coat did, and that was honour enough. woodpecker was the honour man that day, and as woodpecker was a poor man's son, he had no dress suit, and stacey lent him his coat to appear in while he delivered his oration--stacey sitting in his shirt sleeves behind the scenes meantime. woodpecker's long arms soared and the stitches in the back cracked, but he spoke with fire, and the committee unanimously awarded his "description of a chariot race" the first prize, while buttertub's sonorous voice and grandiloquent manner secured the second for his "philosophy of socrates," and stacey's "athletic games of greece" came off with an "honourable mention" only. there was a good deal of what jim called "kicking" at this decision. the drum corps, to a man, felt that stacey ought to have had the first prize, and there was not a boy in the school, not excepting buttertub, who did not think stacey's essay infinitely more entertaining than the socratic philosophy. the commodore, fortunately, was of this opinion. stacey's stock had risen rapidly in his father's estimate. the essay interested the commodore, and it made no difference to him that the committee did not agree with him; in his opinion stacey was the brightest boy in the school. we girls shared this feeling. stacey's bouquets proclaimed him the most popular fellow in the class. the usher kept bringing them up, and it was impossible for stacey to carry all his floral tributes from the stage at one time. woodpecker enjoyed the popularity of his friend more than his own honors. he had laid a wager with ricos that stacey would carry off the first prize, promising that if he did not, he, woodpecker, would trundle a wheelbarrow down fifth avenue. having lost the wager by his own triumph woodpecker gaily proceeded to pay the penalty by carrying stacey's bouquets in a light wheelbarrow to the buckingham hotel--where commodore and mrs. fitz simmons had taken rooms--immediately after the exercises. stacey himself did not overestimate this expression of his friend's regard, but it helped soften his disappointment at not obtaining the first prize. he was not embittered as at his failure at the games, but humbled in a salutary way. he saw his true position: a talented fellow, who until recently had not tried to make the best use of his opportunities, and who could not reasonably hope for the highest rewards after such brief effort. but something within him whispered, "you can do it yet. you can be something more than a dude and a good fellow," and he resolved to devote his vacation to serious training in his studies. it gave him a thrill of pleasure, strangely mingled with humility, to see the commodore's delight, just as he was handing mrs. fitz simmons into the carriage, at hearing the old cry from the drum corps, who had been lined up in front of the barracks by buttertub for that purpose, and gave it with a will--jim's shrill voice joining in the final cheer: "who's fitz simmons?" "first in peace, first in war, he'll be there again, as he's been there before, first in the hearts of his own drum corps, that's fitz simmons!" the roseveldts were coming down the steps, and milly heard it too, and waved her handkerchief, and stacey opened the carriage door and waved his hat to her--though the drum corps thought it was in acknowledgment of their salute, and closing round woodpecker and his wheelbarrow escorted him down the avenue. there were tears in mrs. fitz simmons's eyes as she pressed her husband's hand, and the commodore, not wishing to show his satisfaction too plainly, asked who that pretty girl was who waved her handkerchief so enthusiastically. "you don't deserve it, you young dog," he asserted. "now if she had smiled in that way at me i would have cared more for it than for all the hullabaloo those young rascals are making." "perhaps i do," was the reply on stacey's lips, but it was uttered so quietly that only his mother heard it, and understood as mothers always do. and then through the days that followed, stacey buckled down to hard work again, and won, as such work is sure to win, its reward. "passed his examinations, admitted to harvard! why, of course," said the commodore. "there never was any doubt of it." but stacey knew that there had been great doubt, and that the expression of esteem by which he was held by his classmates, which had pleased his father so much, was a very slight thing compared to this quiet victory, gained through hours of unregarded toil and for which no cheers were shouted or flowers borne after him in noisy triumph. the opening of the college gates was the entering of a better race for stacey. he felt that he was now indeed a man, and must put away childish things. we of the amen corner had been chatting together, the evening before our commencement, of what we intended to do during vacation. "first of all," said adelaide, "i want some home life. i want to get acquainted with my own mother. i feel now that we can be companionable. i am not very learned, it is true, but i am certainly more mature than when we were together last. i ought to be not only a help to her, but a sort of comrade. she has kept herself young at heart, and her society will recompense me in part for the loss of yours. we are going to study music seriously together. she plays my accompaniments very nicely. indeed, i think she has more talent than i have, only she is out of practice, and her repertoire is a little old-fashioned, but it will be very easy for her to put herself in touch with modern requirements. then father has planned a delightful occupation for me. you know how fond i am of practical architecture. well, he has purchased a delightful old colonial mansion in deerfield, a charming village in western massachusetts. it is an old homestead which has fallen into disrepair from having been long unoccupied, for the family which once inhabited it have all died. the one distant relative who owns the place lives in the west, and has sold it to father. i am to have the direction of all the repairs and restorations, and i mean to truly restore the old house to its original condition. we will board in the village while the changes are being made. it will be just the place for jim to grow strong in. father writes that it has the loveliest elm-shaded street, and a hundred different drives over the hills and along its three rivers." "you need not tell us anything about deerfield," winnie interrupted. "tib and i drove through the old town on our coaching trip. it is the most charming spot that i ever saw. i congratulate you on having such a delightful prospect before you." "and i hereby invite you all to come to the hanging of the crane when my restorations are finished," adelaide continued cordially. "that will be in september, i think, for they will take all summer at least, and you've no idea how i shall enjoy planning everything and directing the workmen. jim and i are going to carve some of the woodwork ourselves. we will have a portico like that at mount vernon, with ionic columns, and the windows will have tiny panes and broad seats, and there are to be china closets with glass doors, and fan work carved over the mantelpieces, and a raftered ceiling with a great 'summer-tree' in the 'keeping room.' i shall enjoy it more than i can make you understand. i don't mean so much the possession of the house when it is done, as altering it, for i love architecture, and wish i could be an architect. so much for my plans. what are yours, tib?" "work," i replied; "solid work." "i knew you would say that," adelaide answered. "i have felt dissatisfied all this year with madame's course of instruction. if it were not that i really must see my mother and have some home life, i would go to bryn mawr. i positively crave some good solid study. madame's curriculum makes me think of the course of study aurora leigh pursued." adelaide took down her favourite blue and gold volume from its companions in the "poets' corner,"--a set of shelves,--and read with comments: "i learnt a little algebra, a little of the mathematics; brushed with extreme flounce the circle of the sciences, because she misliked women who are frivolous. i learnt: the internal laws of the burmese empire; by how many feet mount chimborazo outsoars himmeleh. i learnt much music, such as would have been as quite impossible in johnson's day as still it might be wished--fine sleights of hand and unimagined fingering, shuffling off the hearers' soul through hurricanes of notes to a noisy tophet." "and here you are, tib." "and i drew costumes from french engravings, nereides neatly draped, with smirks of simpering godship. i washed in from nature, landscapes (rather say washed out), spun glass, stuffed birds, and modelled flowers in wax, because she liked accomplishments in girls." "no," i interrupted, "i will not have you malign professor waite. his teaching at least has been thorough, and i feel that i have received very valuable training in my art." "then i suppose that by solid work you mean that you will devote yourself to art this summer, and camp under a sketching umbrella in front of every picturesque nook you can find." "art will have to wait until winter," i replied. "i mean that i shall cook for the farm hands during haying season, and let mother go off for a visit to her sisters in northfield, where she can attend the moody meetings, and i shall get all the preserving done before she returns, too." "you are just lovely, tib," milly replied, giving me a hug. "and now won't you be surprised when you hear what i am going to do. father says he is going to superintend my education for a while. he sent me a squib from one of the papers about the sweet girl graduate: 'she talks with tears about her mates and quotes from ancient lore. she says the past is left behind, the future is before. her gown is simply stunning, but she can't subtract or add, oh, what an awful humbug is the sweet girl grad!' father is going through practical business arithmetic with me, and says he means to teach me how to take care of money, and even fit me to take a position in his bank." "i pity your father," said winnie. "but seriously, milly, it is the best thing you could do." "there is something else," milly said, with a painful blush, "which father says is the foundation of business, and in which i have already had one lesson, and that is honesty. he says that all the sad failures, embezzlements, and defalcations come from borrowing money that does not belong to one--using money for one purpose that was intended for another; and he means to go over a great many such cases with me to show me on what a terrible precipice i have been playing. but indeed he need not say another word, for i have been severely punished, and i think i would rather put my hand into fire than go into debt one dollar, or spend a penny for marsh-mellows that father had given me for chocolate creams." winnie turned and kissed milly. "i would trust you with millions," she said; "but adelaide is the only one in the corner who knows anything about business." "i am sure, winnie," i replied, "that the way you have managed the home finances disproves that modest assertion. what are you going to do during the summer?" "i have no mother, you know," winnie said gravely, "but i am going to my father, and shall try to make his life a little less lonely for him. he writes that his eyes have been troubling him. perhaps he can dictate to me and i can be his amanuensis. i shall take my paint-box with me, and mean to daub a little all summer. professor waite has no faith in my genius, but i intend to astonish that gentleman one of these days. he admits that i have an eye for colour, and the rest can be learned. if father can spare me for a week i shall accept your invitation, adelaide, and when i appear you must give me the interior of a room to decorate. it will be startling, i tell you. i have a good deal of king's daughter work to do, too. you know we have not raised the money for the manger, and the home must have it, for they have been receiving the babies, though they have no good nursery. now in the summer we all do more or less fancy work, and i am going to write to all the circles of king's daughters with whom we are in correspondence, and ask them to work for a fair, which we will hold in new york in the autumn. i have had a talk with madame and she favors the idea. she even suggested that each circle should be invited to send a delegate who should assist in selling the articles at the tables, and very generously offered to entertain them here for three days during the continuance of the fair. you see, the school is never full at the beginning of the term, and perhaps she thinks it will be a good advertisement of her institution, to have girls from all over the county meet here, though there is really no need of imputing such mercenary motives to her. i have spoken about it at the home to emma jane, and she will see that the proposition is made at the next meeting of the board of managers." "well, you certainly have your hands full," milly remarked, "but i think i can help you after our tennis tournament is over. i will get the girls at the pier to make fancy work for you if i can get any time from my arithmetic. where will you hold the fair?" "i haven't planned as far as that." "i think the new armory at the barracks will be a splendid place," milly suggested. "i will get stacey to ask colonel grey if we can use it, and then perhaps the cadets will be interested to do something to assist in the entertainment. they might act a play or furnish the music at least." "i will drum up the two circles of king's daughters at scup harbor," i said, "and we will have a useful table, with holders and aprons and dish-wipers; pickles, honey, butter, and preserves. why, certainly, home-made preserves. while i'm about it this summer i will make you some currant jelly and pickled peaches." "you had better paint something," adelaide said; "and you must take charge of the art department." "if i can come to town," i said. "and i will start the movement before i go by asking professor waite to get contributions from his artist friends before he goes abroad." "i have been greatly touched by one thing," said winnie. "the interest which the terwilligers have taken in this scheme. i happened to mention it to polo, and the entire family have risen to the occasion. mrs. terwilliger sent word that she wouldn't consider it too much if she worked for us to her dying day, considering the way her young ones had been 'done for' while she was sick. she has been collecting scraps of silk for a long time past to make a crazy quilt, and she intends to donate it to us. i fear me it will be a horror; but it shows her good-will all the same. terwilliger, the trainer, says he means to collect sticks from noted places during mr. van silver's coaching tour, to be made into canes and other souvenirs for us. polo will not have time to work for the fair, for she must sew with miss billings this summer. i wish she could go to the country instead." "i am going to invite her to deerfield for august," said adelaide. "the home children ought to be able to do something for the fair. have you thought of them, winnie?" "emma jane will see that they manufacture a quantity of little articles in their sewing class," winnie replied. "they can hem towels and make bibs and bags and useful articles. i am really sorry that we cannot have the reception at the home, for i would like to have people see those nice, fat babies." "they shall see them," milly replied. "i've an idea. we will devote one afternoon at the fair to a baby show. do you remember the bicycle drill? well, i will get stacey to lend me his artillery tactics, and i will get up some manoeuvres with baby carriages. we will call it the infantry brigade. the older children shall wheel the carriages. i will drill them without the babies at first. and then we will have them well strapped in, and then there will be a triumphal procession by twos and fours, and i'll deploy them in line and draw them up in a hollow square, and make them 'present arms,' and 'carry' and 'shoulder arms,' and double quick and charge. it will be lots of fun; and one baby carriage shall have a flag fastened to it, for that baby must be the colour bearer, and we'll have music, of course, and medals for all the babies. then when people see what a lot of children we have, with no annex to put them in, they will rise to the occasion and contribute."[ ] [ ] the messiah home for children, rutherford place, new york city, the actual analogue of the home in which the girls of the amen corner was interested, is greatly assisted in its good work by circles of king's daughters in different parts of the united states. these circles intend to unite in a fair to be given in new york city immediately before the holidays, and they invite other circles of king's daughters, and any nimble-fingered, warm-hearted girl to whom this greeting may come, to aid them in this enterprise. any donations may be sent to the home in care of the matron, miss weaver. "i think something of the kind might really be arranged," winnie replied. "the hornets are sure to be equally fertile in expedients. i foresee that the plan will be a great success, and it has one admirable feature--it will reunite us all in new york next winter for a week at least, and i wonder what will happen after that." "i do not ask to see the distant scene; one step enough for me," said adelaide softly, quoting from "lead, kindly light," her favorite hymn. there was something strangely vibrant in her tone. i knew without looking that adelaide was on the point of tears, but i was at a loss to understand the reason. the rest of us had had our fits of hysterical weeping at the idea of parting from one another, but adelaide was always so superior to any weakness of that sort. what could be the matter? our great, last school day, so paradoxically called commencement, came at last. the exercises were in the evening, and we of the amen corner and many others of the girls would not leave the school until the following morning. we received our diplomas in the school chapel, which had been beautifully decorated for the occasion. buttertub's father, who was a friend of madame's, addressed us at some length as we stood before him on the platform. i remember that adelaide never looked more peerless, nor milly more bewitching; and that winnie, mischievous as ever, found a rose bug on her bouquet and could not forbear dropping it on commodore fitz simmons's bald head. the commodore was in full uniform and had been shown to a front seat just beneath the platform. i think winnie really meant to snap the rose bug at stacey, but the projectile fell short of its aim. then the sweet girl graduates in clouds of mull and chiffon, drifted into the school parlours, and there was a reception, and adelaide and milly were besieged by battalions of friends, but i was quite lonely and awkward, and held my bouquet and rolled diploma stiffly, until winnie caught me about the waist and whirled me off for a little dance, for madame had permitted this. after the dance there were refreshments in the dining-room, and we all went down, with the exception of adelaide, who was on the reception committee, and had been stationed in the front parlour to receive any tardy guest. i met professor waite bringing up an ice as i went down the stairs, and milly drew me into a corner, her eyes dancing with mischief as i entered the supper-room. "something is going to happen," she said to me mysteriously. "i have given professor waite his opportunity, and if he doesn't seize it and propose i shall never forgive him. i saw him moving around here, looking bored to death, and i asked him to please take an ice to adelaide, who, i happened to mention, was all alone in the parlour. he seized the idea and the ice simultaneously. i saw resolve in his eye, and now we must keep people down here as long as we can." "what shall we do with mr. and mrs. armstrong and jim?" i asked. "they are all so proud of adelaide they will be with her in a moment." "winnie is in the plot and has special care of them. jim thinks there never was quite so jolly a girl as winnie. they are discussing the cabinet now. mrs. armstrong thinks that some one of us may be a somnambulist and have hidden the things in our sleep." "what a strategic little girl you are, milly! what made you think of this opportunity for professor waite?" "oh! that was the way stacey found his chance, you know. speak of angels----how nice of you, stacey, to bring me that salad. i am positively dying for something to eat. wasn't the bishop too longsome for anything? i thought i should expire, and i was wild to get across the stage at winnie, whose back hair was coming down. no, i shall not tell you what we were saying about you. do get me some chicken salad. i can't endure lobster;" and as the obedient stacey ambled briskly away, milly confided to me: "do you know, tib, adelaide is beginning to care for professor waite? what makes me think so? oh, i know the symptoms. she was packing so late last night that i nearly fell asleep, but not quite, for just as i was dozing off i saw her drop on her knees before her trunk with her face in a great white handkerchief, and while i was wondering where she ever got such a great sheet of a thing, it suddenly dawned upon me that it was the silk muffler which professor waite wrapped around her burned hands the night of our halloween scrape. suddenly it seemed to occur to her that i might be looking, and she turned to look at me, but i had my eyes shut and was snoring like an angel. of course angels snore, stacey fitz simmons. did you ever catch an angel asleep? and if not what right have you to make fun of me? dear me, there is the bishop starting to go upstairs, and they don't need him a bit--as yet." milly darted across the room, planted herself squarely in the bishop's way, and exerted her powers of entertainment to such effect that stacey became blindly jealous, though buttertub had not come with his father, apparently having had quite enough of madame's young ladies and their entertainments. and meantime, how was professor waite thriving with his wooing? adelaide told me long afterward, so long that it was too late for any word of mine to set all right, and filled my heart with pity, not alone for the professor, but, alas! for adelaide also. professor waite offered her the ice, which she took and thanked him very sweetly, though he had dripped it awkwardly upon her dress. then, as adelaide began to eat it, he inconsistently took it away from her, saying, "don't eat now, i have something important to say to you, and i want your entire attention." "oh! certainly. what is it?" adelaide replied, knowing exactly what he wished to say, and determined to prevent his saying it. "miss adelaide, i began to say what was on my mind last halloween----" "oh! yes, and pardon me for interrupting you, but you remind me that i must return your muffler, which i have kept all this time. i will get it now," and adelaide tried to slip by him and out of the door. "no, you must not get it now," the professor exclaimed, barring her way with his extended hand in which he still held the dish of ice-cream. "i must speak to you, miss adelaide. i may never have another opportunity." "in that case do set down that ice-cream, for you are spilling it over everything." the professor obeyed her. "see," she added pathetically, "you have nearly ruined the front of my gown----" "but that is nothing," he asserted, "and you must not try to divert me from my purpose by calling my attention to such a trifle. these little subterfuges are unworthy of you, adelaide. you know what it is that i wish to say and you must hear me." thus driven into a corner adelaide looked him squarely in the eyes, and braced herself for the attack. "you know that i love you, adelaide?" "yes, i know it." "that i have loved you from the first moment that i saw you--desperately, hopelessly?" "thank you for saying that, professor waite; it would have been wicked in me to have given you hope. i never meant to do so. i am glad that you have not misunderstood me. and since you give me credit for not encouraging you, rather for striving to keep you from this avowal, why have you spoken? i would so gladly have spared you the pain, the humiliation of a refusal." "you have not allowed me to finish what i was saying. i loved you at first hopelessly for i saw that you scorned me; but lately you have not scorned me. you have pitied me; you have been very kind and considerate; your manner has wholly changed, and i believed that your feelings had changed also." something in adelaide's honest eyes flamed up as he spoke. she could not even look a lie, though she tried hard to do so. "i am right," he cried triumphantly, "you have changed! you love me? adelaide, you love me!" his arms were almost about her, but she kept him off. "it is impossible, professor waite. it can never be," she replied solemnly. "never is a long day. i will not urge you, or hasten you. i will be patient and wait, for you have changed, and you will love me wholly by and by. it is our destiny. god meant us for each other. i cannot make thee glorious by my pen and famous by my sword, but i can do it with my brush, and i will spend my life painting you, adelaide. art and love! it is too much for mortal man to possess and live." "be content with art," adelaide replied gently. "it is a great gift, and must console you, for i cannot be your wife." "cannot? why not?" "i will tell you. you think you love me, but it will pass. i regard you very highly, but not above duty. the feeling which i have for you, professor waite, cannot be love, since it is perfectly easy for me now to give you up----" "no," he assented; "if that is true you do not love me." "listen! the reason that it is easy for me, is not that i do not respect and admire you; not that i am not grateful to you, and do not suffer in giving you pain; not that i might not come to care still more for you, but because i know that a far tenderer heart than mine is wholly yours; that some one else, who richly deserves your affection, loves you with an utter self-abnegation of which i am incapable----" "i know of whom you speak," he cried impatiently, "but she is a child, and will outgrow this fancy. god knows that i am innocent, adelaide, of having ever deluded her foolish little heart." "all too innocent; you might have treated her more kindly!" "what! when i can never love her?" "never is a long day. you have said so. you are going away. try to forget me and to love her, and when you return again two years hence to america----" "when i return she will be married; she will, at least, have outgrown this silly dream." adelaide shook her head. "promise me that you will do as i ask; that you will go and ask her when you come again." "and if she refuses me, as she certainly will, may i come to you for the reward of my obedience?" again the tell-tale light flashed in adelaide's eyes, but she only said: "she will not refuse you." and in the hall milly's voice was heard in a high key, with the best of intentions, announcing the return of the guests from the dining-room, as she replied to some banter of stacey's: "indeed, stacey fitz simmons, i never change my mind--never." "good-by," said adelaide. professor waite raised the _portière_ for her to pass. "you are very cruel," he murmured. "you will thank me for this some day," she said, and the curtain of an impenetrable fate fell between them. milly seized my arm a few moments later. "i don't understand it at all," she said, "but adelaide has certainly refused professor waite. i met him just now in the hall, and he glared at me like a maniac. i was positively afraid of him. i ran in to speak to adelaide, but others had entered before me, and she only took my hand and squeezed it tight, while she talked with the bishop. and tib, she was as white as a sheet." while making allowances for milly's exaggerations, it seemed probable to me that her deductions were correct. something unusual had happened, for when we went to our rooms we found that adelaide had already retired for the night, and had taken cynthia's empty room, leaving a note for milly saying that she had a headache and would rather be alone. if we had known, milly and i, that adelaide had put from her a love whose dearness she only realized after its sacrifice, we might have saved her years of heroic self-abnegation, and so have frustrated god's plan for making her a resolute, generous, and noble character. but we did not know it, and the two girls who loved each other so dearly looked into each other's eyes at parting, and thought that they read each other's souls there, and yet misunderstood the reading as completely as if they had been utter strangers. it was fortunate, shall we not say providential, that adelaide occupied cynthia's room that night, and that she was so disturbed that she could not sleep? for toward morning she noticed a bright light shining through the transom over the door. her first thought was that the thief was at work at the cabinet, and stealing cautiously from her bed she peered through the key-hole. there was no one near the cabinet, and throwing on a wrapper she softly opened the door. the room was vacant and the light which she had noticed streamed in from the window. on looking out what was her horror to see that the rear of the house was in flames. the fire had originated in the kitchen, and was making its way toward the front of the building. her presence of mind did not desert her. she stepped to milly's room, wakened her gently and told her what was the matter, and then her clear voice rang out, "fire, fire!" as she hastened to madame's room, sounding the telegraphic alarm in the corridor as she went. how differently people behave during a crisis like this! with the exception of adelaide, i think we all lost our wits to a certain extent. milly, although wakened so gently, was quite frightened out of hers. she dressed herself with extreme deliberation, heating her curling irons in the gas jet and crimping her bangs very prettily. she put on one high-buttoned boot and one louis seize slipper, but was particular about her gloves--fastening every button--and came to me to be helped with her graduation dress, which laced in the back. winnie was also greatly excited. she donned a diminutive blazer tennis jacket over her nightgown, and seeming to consider herself in full dress, rushed off to awaken miss noakes, carrying a small pitcher of ice-water in her hand with which to help extinguish the fire. having forcibly entered miss noakes's room, she emptied her pitcher in the face of that indignant woman. i was not much better. possessed with the idea that i must save things, i dragged "the commissary" from under my bed, and filled it with an absurd collection of useless articles--old school books, empty pickle jars, the tidies from the chairs, all the soap from the wash-stand, a soap stone which my mother had insisted on my having as a remedy for cold feet; this i carefully wrapped in my flannel petticoat to avoid breakage. i then tossed in the globes from the gas fixtures, and finding that the cover of the trunk would not go down, sat upon it, crushing the frail glass globes to atoms. it was at this juncture that milly came out to have her dress laced, and i was so dazed that i obeyed her. adelaide entered a few moments later, and, spreading a blanket on the floor, opened the door leading into the studio for the first time since our initial escapade of the school year. her intensity of feeling gave her the strength required to push the heavy chest aside, and she hastily collected all of professor waite's sketches and studies, wrapped them in the blanket, and descended the turret stairs with them. managing--how, she never knew--to burst open the door at the foot, and to carry the heavy package through the crowd which had now collected across the park to the home of the elder brother, where emma jane received them. winnie meantime had returned from her life-saving expedition, and assisted me in tumbling the commissary out of the window, following it with every other piece of furniture in the room. we had some difficulty with the cabinet, but finally our united efforts succeeded in toppling it over the balcony, narrowly missing crushing a fireman who was coming up the escape to order us to stop throwing out the furniture, as the fire had been extinguished. "how provoking!" was winnie's first exclamation. "all this excitement for nothing!" the fire had merely burned out the interior woodwork of the kitchen; but had it not been for adelaide's prompt alarm, it was impossible to tell how much damage or even loss of life might have ensued. on ascertaining that there was no longer any danger, adelaide attempted to carry back the pictures, but found herself quite unable to do so, and a procession of four of the home boys was formed to bring them. adelaide begged us all to promise not to tell professor waite of her attempt to rescue his property, and as we were all very much mortified by our own absurd performances, we readily complied with her request. it was late in the morning when we bethought ourselves of picking up our shattered property, which winnie and i had tossed into the yard. fortunately, our trunks of clothing had been so heavily packed that they had not shared this fate. we descended and viewed the heap of wreckage with dismay. cerberus came out to aid us, and, removing the broken lounge and table, discovered the old oak cabinet an almost unrecognizable jumble of carved panels, for after it had fallen the lounge had descended upon it with the force of a catapult. winnie and i picked up the panels, lamenting loudly over the mischief which we had done. "no great harm, after all," said adelaide consolingly. "the panels are only separated at the joints; the wood is so hard that they have not really broken," and then she gave a little cry: "winnie, what does this mean? here is your essay!" "has giovanni de' medici returned it?" i asked. "it would seem so," winnie replied, in great excitement. "see, girls, here is every bit of the stolen money! the ghost has kept his word, and has returned it after his confession was read publicly." "where did you find it?" i asked, utterly mystified. "right here, in the drawer to which we had lost the key, just under the upper part of the cabinet. you remember it has been locked since the very first day of school." "but is the money all there?" "yes; your forty-seven dollars, and the sixty from the catacomb party for the home." "how did it ever come there?" "that is what i am trying to find out. you know it is my mystery; and, girls, i have it! this sliding writing shelf which we pulled out to write upon is really the floor of the cabinet, on which tib deposited her treasures. when you pull it out you rake everything upon it into the drawer below." "it must be," said adelaide, "that some one pulled out that writing shelf before each of those mysterious disappearances." and when we came to review the circumstances, we remembered that it had been so in every instance. the lost money and essay had simply been dropped into the drawer below. all that had seemed so inexplicable was now made plain, and in our very last hour together--for, as we carried the fragments around to the turret door, we saw that the express man had come for our trunks, and noticed the roseveldt carriage waiting behind a hansom, which had just driven up to the main entrance. on the steps madame was parting tenderly from miss noakes, who was in travelling costume, and mr. mudge sprang from the interior of the hansom to assist her to a place beside him. catching sight of his well-known features, winnie impulsively waved the drawer of the cabinet and darted across the lawn. "no wonder i could not discover the thief," he exclaimed testily, as winnie showed the mechanism of the sliding shelf. "the cleverest detective could not have done that when there was no thief to discover. but, my dear young lady, pray do not detain us; miss noakes and i have a particular engagement for this very minute at the church of the blessed unity." as he spoke he dodged an old shoe which the astute polo projected from the studio window, and springing into the hansom drove rapidly away. if there had been any doubt as to these indications we would have been fully enlightened on finding the announcement of their marriage in our next mail; but the truth was evident to all. madame listened to us with a smile. "it was kind of you, winnie," she said, "not to solve your mystery earlier and so take away the excuse for mr. mudge's frequent calls." "i shall have the dear old cabinet put in order again," adelaide said, "and i shall keep your essay in the drawer, winnie, for i shall always believe that you were right, and that there was a ghost." and so with tears and embraces, and with vows never to forget, and to meet again, and to write often, the old delightful school life and witch winnie's mystery came to an end together. the end. transcriber's notes: obvious printer's errors have been silently corrected. otherwise spelling, hyphenation, interpunction and grammar have been preserved as in the original. fraternal charity fraternal charity by rev. father valuy, s.j. authorized translation new york, cincinnati, chicago benziger brothers printers to the holy apostolic see nihil obstat. f. thomas bergh, o.s.b., _censor deputatus._ imprimatur. gulielmus, _episcopus arindelensis,_ _vicarius generalis._ westmonasterii, _die feb., ._ translator's note the name of father valuy, s.j., is already favourably known to english readers by several translations of his works, which have a large circulation. the following little treatise is taken from one of his works on the religious life, and is translated with the kind permission of the publisher, m. emmanuel vitte, of lyons. the subject is so important a factor in community life that i feel confident it will supply a want hitherto felt by many. though specially written for religious, it cannot fail to prove beneficial to seculars in every sphere of life, as love, the sunshine of existence, is wanted everywhere. contents i. charity the peculiar virtue of christ ii. first fundamental truth iii. second fundamental truth iv. the family spirit v. egotism, or self-seeking vi. first characteristic of fraternal charity vii. second characteristic viii. third characteristic ix. fourth characteristic x. fifth characteristic xi. sixth characteristic xii. seventh characteristic xiii. eighth characteristic xiv. ninth characteristic xv. tenth characteristic xvi. eleventh characteristic xvii. twelfth characteristic xviii. extent and delicacy of god's charity for men xix. extent and delicacy of the charity of jesus christ during his mortal life xx. first preservative xxi. second preservative xxii. third preservative xxiii. fourth preservative xxiv. fifth preservative xxv. sixth preservative xxvi. seventh preservative xxvii. eighth preservative xxviii. ninth preservative xxix. tenth preservative xxx. eleventh preservative xxxi. means to support the evil thoughts and tongues of others xxxii. second means to bear with others xxxiii. conclusion appendix: the practice of fraternal charity fraternal charity i charity the peculiar virtue of christ our divine saviour shows both by precept and example that his favourite virtue, his own and, in a certain sense, characteristic virtue, was charity. whether he treated with his ignorant and rude apostles, with the sick and poor, or with his enemies and sinners, he is always benign, condescending, merciful, affable, patient; in a word, his charity appeared in all its most amiable forms. oh, how well these titles suit him!--a king full of clemency, a lamb full of mildness. how justly could he say, "learn of me, that i am meek and humble of heart"! his yoke was sweet, his burden light, his conversation without sadness or bitterness. he lightened the burdens of those heavily laden; he consoled those in sorrow; he quenched not the dying spark nor broke the bruised reed. he calls us his friends, his brothers, his little flock; and as the greatest sign of friendship is to die for those we love, he gave to each of us the right to say with st. paul: "he loved me, and delivered himself up for me." let us, then, say: "my good master, i love thee, and deliver myself up for thee." religious, called to reproduce the three great virtues of jesus christ--poverty, chastity, and obedience--have still another to practise not less noble or distinctive--viz., fraternal charity. by this virtue they are not called to rise above earthly or sensual pleasures, nor above their judgment and self-will, but above egotism and self-love, which shoot their roots deepest in the soul. they must consider attentively the fundamental truths on which charity is based and its effects, as also the principal obstacles to its attainment, and the means to overcome them. ii first fundamental truth _we are all members of the great christian family_ charity towards our neighbour is charity towards god in our neighbour, because, faith assuring us that god is our father, jesus christ our head, the holy ghost our sanctifier, it follows that to love our neighbour--inasmuch as he is the well-beloved child of god, the member of jesus christ, and the sanctuary of the holy ghost--is to love in a special manner our heavenly father, his only-begotten son, together with the holy spirit. and because it is scarcely possible for religious to behold their brethren in this light without wishing them what the most holy trinity so lovingly desires to bestow on them, acts of fraternal charity include--almost necessarily at least--implicit acts of faith and hope; and the exercise of the noblest of the theological virtues thus often becomes an exercise of the other two. thus it is that charity poured into our hearts by the holy spirit, uniting christians among themselves and with the adorable trinity whose images they are, is the vivid and perfect imitation of the love of the father for the son, and of the son for the father--a substantial love which is no other than the holy ghost, and makes us all one in god by grace, as the father and son are only one god with the holy ghost by nature, according to the words of our lord: "that they all may be one; as thou, father, in me, and i in thee: that they also may be one in us." such is the chain that unites and binds us--a chain of gold a thousand times stronger than those of flesh and blood, interest or friendship, because these permit the defects of body and the vices of the soul to be seen, whilst charity covers all, hides all, to offer exclusively to admiration and love the work of the hands of god, the price of the blood of jesus christ and the masterpiece of the holy spirit. iii second fundamental truth _we are members of the same religious family_ to love our brethren as ourselves in relation to god, it suffices without doubt to have with them the same faith, the same sacraments, the same head, the same life, the same immortal hopes, etc. but, besides these, there exist other considerations which lead friendship and fraternity to a higher degree among the members of the same religious order. all in the novitiate have been cast in the same mould, or, rather, have imbibed the milk of knowledge and piety from the breasts of the same mother. all follow the same rules; all tend to the same end by the same means; all from morning to night, and during their whole lives, perform the same exercises, live under the same roof, work, sanctify themselves, suffer and rejoice together. like fellow-citizens, they have the same interests; like soldiers, the same combats; like children of a family, the same ancestors and heirlooms; and, like friends, a communication of ideas and interchange of sentiments. if our lord said to christians in general, "this is my commandment, that you love one another as i have loved you. by this shall all men know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another" (john xiii.), can he not say to the members of the same religious order: "this is my own and special recommendation: before all and above all preserve amongst you a mutual charity. have but one soul in several different bodies. you will be recognized as religious and brethren, not by the same habit, vows, and virtues, nor by the particular work entrusted to you by the church, but by the love you have one for the other. ah! who will love you if you do not love one another? love one another fraternally, because as human beings you have only one heavenly father. love one another holily, because as christians you have only one head. love one another tenderly, because as religious you have only one mother--your order"? it is impossible for religious to love their brethren with a true, sincere, pure, and constant love if they do not look at them in this light. iv the family spirit based on the foregoing principles, fraternal charity begets the family spirit--that spirit which forgets itself in thinking only of the common good; which makes particular give way to general interests; which forces oneself to live with all without exception, to live as all without singularity, and to live for all without self-seeking; that spirit which, binding like a divine cement all parts of the mysterious edifice of religion, uniting all hearts in one and all wills in one, permits the community to proceed firmly and securely, and its members to work out efficaciously and peacefully their personal sanctification and perfection; in fine, that spirit which gives to all religious not only an inexpressible family happiness, but a delicious foretaste of heaven, which renders them invincible to their enemies, and causes to be said of them with admiration: "see how they love one another!" writing on these words of the psalmist, "behold how good and pleasant it is for brethren to live together in union," st. augustine cries out: "behold the words which make monasteries spring up! sweet, delightful, and delicious words which fill the soul and ear with jubilation." yes, certainly the happiness of community life is great and its advantages inappreciable; but without the family spirit there is no community, as there would be no beauty in the human body without harmony in its members. oh, never forget this comparison, you who wish to live happy in religion, and who wish to make others happy. a community is a body. now, as the members of a body, each in its proper place and functions, live in perfect harmony, mutually comfort, defend, and love each other, without being jealous or vengeful, and have only in view the well-being of that body of which they are parts, so in the community of which you are members and in the employment assigned to you. remember you are parts of a whole, and that it is necessary to refer to this whole your time, labour, and strength; to have the same thoughts, sentiments, designs, and language, without which there would no longer exist either body, members, parts, or whole. if you wish, then, to obtain and practise the family spirit, study what passes within you. your actions bespeak your sentiments. v egotism, or self-seeking egotism, taking for its motto "every one for himself," is very much opposed to fraternal charity and the family spirit. it never hesitates, when occasion offers, to sacrifice the common good to its own. it isolates the individuals, makes them concentrated in self, places them in the community, but not of it, makes them strangers amongst their brethren, and tends to justify the words of an impious writer, who calls monasteries "reunions of persons who know not each other, who live without love, and die without being regretted." egotism breeds distrust, jealousy, parties, aversions. it destroys abnegation, humility, patience, and all other virtues. it introduces a universal disgust and discontent, makes religious lose their first fervour, presents an image of hell where one expected to find a heaven on earth, saps the very foundation of community life, and leads sooner or later to inevitable ruin. as the family spirit causes the growth and prosperity of an order, however feeble its beginning, so, on the other hand, egotism dries the sap and renders it powerless, no matter what other advantages it may enjoy. if the one, by uniting hearts, is a principle of strength and duration, the other, by dividing, is a principle of dissolution and decay. sallust says that "the weakest things become powerful by concord, and the greatest perish through discord." whilst the descendants of noah spoke the same language the building of the tower of babel proceeded with rapidity. from the moment they ceased to understand one another its destruction commenced, and the monument which was to have immortalized their name was left in ruin to tell their shame and pride. on each of the four corners of the monastery religion or charity personified ought to be placed, bearing on shields in large characters the following words: ( ) "love one another"; ( ) "he who is not with me is against me, and he who gathers not with me scatters"; ( ) "every kingdom divided will become desolate"; ( ) "they had all but one heart and one soul." vi first characteristic of fraternal charity _to esteem our brethren interiorly_ "charity, the sister of humility," says st. paul, "is not puffed up." she cannot live with pride, the disease of a soul full of itself. it willingly prefers others by considering their good qualities and one's own defects, and shows this exteriorly when occasion offers by many sincere proofs. it always looks on others from the most favourable point. instead of closing the eyes on fifty virtues to find out one fault, without any other profit than to satisfy a natural perverseness and to excuse one's own failings, it closes the eyes on fifty faults to open them on one virtue, with the double advantage of being edified and of blessing god, the author of all good. since an unfavourable thought, or the sight of an action apparently reprehensible, tends to cloud the reputation of a religious, charity hastens before the cloud thickens to drive it away, saying, "what am i doing? should i blacken in my mind the image of god, and seek deformities in the member of jesus christ? besides, cannot my brethren be eminently holy and be subject to many faults, which god permits them to fall into in order to keep them humble, to teach them to help others, and to exercise their patience?" vii second characteristic _to treat brethren with respect, openness, and cordiality_ exterior honour being the effect and sign of interior esteem, charity honours all those whom it esteems superiors, equals, the young and the old. it carefully observes all propriety, and takes into consideration the different circumstances of age, employment, merit, character, birth, and education to make itself all to all. convinced that god is not unworthy to have well-bred persons in his service, and that religious ought not to respect themselves less than people in the world, it conforms to all the requirements of politeness as far as religious simplicity will permit; not that politeness which is feigned and hypocritical, and which is merely a sham expression of deceitful respect, but that politeness, the flower of charity, which, manifesting exteriorly the sentiments of a sincere affection and a true devotion, is accompanied with a graceful countenance, benign and affable regards, sweetness in words, foresight, urbanity, and delicacy in business. in fine, that politeness which is the fruit of self-denial and humility no less than of charity and friendship; which is the art of self-restraint and self-conquest, without restraining others; which is the care of avoiding everything that might displease, and doing all that can please, in order to make others content with us and with themselves. in a word, a mixture of discretion and complaisance, cordiality and respect, together with words and manners full of mildness and benignity. viii third characteristic _to work harmoniously with those in the same employment, and not to cause any inconvenience to them_ why should we cling so obstinately to our own way of seeing and doing? do not many ways and means serve the same ends provided they be employed wisely and perseveringly? some have succeeded by their methods, and i by mine--a proof that success is reached through many ways, and that it is not by disputing it is obtained, nor by giving scandal to those we should edify, nor, perhaps, by compromising the good work in which we are employed. the four animals mentioned by ezekiel joined their wings, were moved by the same spirit and animated by the same ardour, and so drew the heavenly chariot with majesty and rapidity, giving us religious an example of perfect union of efforts and thoughts. charity avoids haughty and contemptuous looks, forewarns itself against fads and manias, and in the midst of most pressing occupations carefully guards against rudeness and impatience. careful of wounding the susceptibility of others, it neither blames nor despises those who act in an opposite way. religious animated by fraternal charity are not ticklish spirits who are disturbed for nothing at all, and who do not know how to pass unnoticed a little want of respect, etc.; nor punctilious spirits, who find pleasure in contradicting and making irritating remarks; nor self-opinionated spirits, who pose themselves as supreme judges of talent and virtue as well as infallible dispensers of praise and blame. neither are they suspicious characters who are constantly ruminating in their hearts, and who consider every little insult as levelled at themselves; nor discontented beings, who find fault with the places whither obedience sends them and the persons with whom they live, and who could travel the entire world without finding a single place or a single person to suit them. charitable religious are not those imperious minds who endeavour to impose their opinions on all and refuse to accept those of others, however just they may be, simply because they did not emanate from themselves, nor are they those ridiculing, hard-to-be-pleased sort of people who do not spare even grey hairs. finally, they are not those great spouters who, instead of accommodating themselves to circumstances as charity and politeness require, monopolize the conversation, and thereby shut up the mouths of others and make them feel weary when they should be joyful and free. ix fourth characteristic _to accommodate oneself to persons of different humour_ they who are animated by charity support patiently and in silence, in sentiments of humility and sweetness, as if they had neither eyes nor ears, the difficult, odd, and most inconstant humours of others, although they may find it very difficult at times to do so. no matter how regular and perfect we may be, we have always need of compassion and indulgence for others. to be borne with, we must bear with others; to be loved, we must love; to be helped, we must help; to be joyful ourselves, we must make others so. surrounded as we are by so many different minds, characters, and interests, how can we live in peace for a single day if we are not condescending, accommodating, yielding, self-denying, ready to renounce even a good project, and to take no notice of those faults and shortcomings which are beyond our power or duty to correct? charity patiently listens to a bore, answers a useless question, renders service even when the need is only imaginary, without ever betraying the least signs of annoyance. it never asks for exceptions or privileges for fear of exciting jealousy. it does not multiply nor prolong conversations which in any way annoy others. it fights antipathy and natural aversions so that they may never appear, and seeks even the company of those who might be the object of them. it does not assume the office of reprehending or warning through a motive of bitter zeal. it seeks to find in oneself the faults it notices in others, and perhaps greater ones, and tries to correct them. "if thou canst not make thyself such a one as thou wouldst, how canst thou expect to have another according to thy liking? we would willingly have others perfect, and yet we mend not our own defects. we would have others strictly corrected, but are not fond of being corrected ourselves. the large liberty of others displeases us, and yet we do not wish to be denied anything we ask for. we are willing that others be bound up by laws, and we suffer not ourselves to be restrained by any means. thus it is evident how seldom we weigh our neighbour in the same balance with ourselves" ("imitation," i. ). x fifth characteristic _to refuse no reasonable service, and to accept or refuse in an affable manner_ charity is generous; it does everything it can. when even it can do little, it wishes to be able to do more. it never lets slip an opportunity of comforting, helping, and taking the most painful part, after the example of its divine model, who came to serve, not to be served. one religious, seemingly in pain, seeks comfort; another desires some book, instrument, etc.; a third bends under a burden; while a fourth is afflicted. in all these cases charity comes to the aid by consoling the one, procuring little gratifications for the other, and helping another. without complaining of the increased labour or the carelessness of others, it finishes the work left undone by them, too happy to diminish their trouble, while augmenting its own reward. "does the hunter," says st. john chrysostom, "who finds splendid game blame those who beat the brushwood before him? or does the traveller who finds a purse of gold on the road neglect to pick it up because others who preceded him took no notice of it?" it would be a strange thing to find religious uselessly giving themselves to ardent desires of works of charity abroad, such as nursing in a hospital or carrying the gospel into uncivilized lands, and at the same time in their own house and among their own brethren showing coldness, indifference, and want of condescension. there is an art of giving as well as of refusing. several offend in giving because they do so with a bad grace; others in refusing do not offend because they know how to temper their refusal by sweetness of manner. charity possesses this art in a high degree, and, besides, raises a mere worldly art into a virtue and fruit of the holy ghost. xi sixth characteristic _to share the joys and griefs of our brethren_ as the soul in the human body establishes all its members as sharers equally in joys and griefs, so charity in the religious community places everything in common content, affliction, material goods driving out of existence the words mine and thine. it lavishes kind words and consolations on all who suffer in any way through ill-humour, sickness, want of success, etc.; it rejoices when they are successful, honoured, and trusted, or endowed with gifts of nature or grace, felicitates them on their good fortune, and thanks god for them. if, on the one hand, compassion sweetens pains to the sufferer by sharing them, on the other hand participation in a friend's joys doubles them by making them personal to ourselves. would to god that this touching and edifying charity replaced the low and rampant vice of jealousy! when david returned after he slew the philistines, the women came out of all the cities of israel singing and dancing to meet king saul. and the women sang as they played, "saul slew his thousands and david his ten thousands." saul was exceedingly angry, and this word was displeasing in his eyes, and he said: "they have given david ten thousand, and to me they have given but a thousand. . . . and saul did not look on david with a good eye from that day forward. . . . and saul held a spear in his hand and threw it, thinking to nail david to the wall" ( kings). thus it is that the jealous complain of their brethren who are more successful, learned, or praised; thus it is that they lance darts of calumny, denunciation, and revenge. xii seventh characteristic _not to be irritated when others wrong us_ we must pardon and do good for evil, as god has pardoned us and rendered good for evil in jesus christ. it is vain to trample the violet, as it never resists, and he who crushes it only becomes aware of the fact by the sweetness of its perfume. this is the image of charity. it always strives to throw its mantle over the evil doings of others, persuading itself that they were the effects of surprise, inadvertence, or at most very slight malice. if an explanation is necessary, it is the first to accuse itself. never does it permit the keeping of a painful thought against any of the brethren, and does all in its power to hinder them from the same; and, moreover, excuses all signs of contempt, ingratitude, rudeness, peculiarities, etc. cassian makes mention of a religious who, having received a box on the ear from his abbot in presence of more than two hundred brethren, made no complaint, nor even changed colour. st. gregory praises another religious, who, having been struck several times with a stool by his abbot, attributed it not to the passion of the abbot, but to his own fault. he adds that the humility and patience of the disciple was a lesson for the master. this charity will have no small weight in the balance of him who weighs merit so exactly. charity gives no occasion to others to suffer, but suffers all patiently, not once, but all through life, every day and almost every hour. it is most necessary for religious, as, not being able to seek comfort abroad, they are obliged to live in the same house, often in the same employment with characters less sympathetic than their own. these little acts of charity count for little here below, and they are rather exacted than admired. hence there is less danger of vainglory, and all their merit is preserved in the sight of god. xiii eighth characteristic _to practise moderation and consideration_ tell-tales, nasty names, cold answers, lies, mockery, harsh words, etc., are all contrary to charity. st. john chrysostom says: "when anyone loads you with injuries, close your mouth, because if you open it you will only cause a tempest. when in a room between two open doors through which a violent wind rushes and throws things in disorder, if you close one door the violence of the wind is checked and order is restored. so it is when you are attacked by anyone with a bad tongue. your mouth and his are open doors. close yours, and the storm ceases. if, unfortunately, you open yours, the storm will become furious, and no one can tell what the damage may be." if we have been guilty in this respect, let us humble ourselves before god. "the tongue," says st. gertrude, "is privileged above the other members of the body, as on it reposes the sacred body and precious blood of jesus christ. those, then, who receive the holy of holies without doing penance for the sins of the tongue are like those who would keep a heap of stones at their doors to stone a friend on arrival." in order to keep ourselves and others in a state of moderation, we must remember that all persons have some fad, mania, or fixed ideas which they permit no one to gainsay. if we touch them on these points, it will be like playing an accompaniment to an instrument with one string out of tune. xiv ninth characteristic _care of the sick and infirm_ charity lavishes care on the sick and infirm, on the old, on guests and new-comers. it requires that we visit those who are ill, to cheer and console them, to foresee their wants, and thereby to spare them the pain or humiliation of asking for anything. bossuet says: "esteem the sick, love them, respect and honour them, as being consecrated by the unction of the cross and marked with the character of a suffering jesus." charity pays honour to the aged in every respect, coincides with their sentiments, consults them, forestalls their desires, and attempts not to reform in them what cannot be reformed. charity receives fraternally all guests and new-comers, and makes us treat them as we would wish to be treated under similar circumstances. it also causes us to lavish testimonies of affection on those who are setting out, and warns us to be very careful of saying or doing anything that may in the least degree offend even the most susceptible. religious must ever feel that they can bless, love, and thank religion as a good mother. but religion is not an abstract matter; it is made up of individuals reciprocally bound together in and for each other. alas! how many times are the sick and the old made to consider themselves as an inconvenient burden, or like a useless piece of furniture! in reality what are they doing? they pray and do penance for the community, turn away the scourge of god, draw down his graces and blessings, merit, perhaps, the grace of perseverance for several whose vocation is shaking, hand down to the younger members the traditions and spirit of the institute, and finally practise, and cause to be practised, a thousand acts of virtue. did our divine lord work less efficaciously for the church when he hung on the cross than when he preached? we must, then, do for the sick and the old who are now bearing their cross what we would have wished to do for jesus in his suffering. xv tenth characteristic _prayer for living and deceased brethren_ "we do not remember often enough our dear dead, our departed brethren," says st. francis de sales, "and the proof of it is that we speak so little of them. we try to change the discourse as if it were hurtful. we let the dead bury their dead. their memory perishes with us like the sound of the funeral knell, without thinking that a friendship which perishes with death is not true. it is a sign of piety to speak of their virtues as it urges us to imitate them." in communities distinguished for fraternal charity and the family spirit the conversation frequently turns on the dead. one talks of their virtues, another of their services, a third quotes some of their sayings, while a fourth adds some other edifying fact; and who is the religious that will not on such occasions breathe a silent prayer to god and apply some indulgence or other satisfactory work for the happy repose of their souls? charity also prays for those who want help most, and who are often known to god alone--those whose constancy is wavering, those who are led by violent temptations to the edge of the precipice. it expands pent-up souls by consolations or advice; it dissipates prejudices which tend to weaken the spirit of obedience; it is, in fine, a sort of instinct which embraces all those things suggested by zeal and devotion. can there be anything more agreeable to god, more useful to the church, or more meritorious, than to foster thus amongst the well-beloved children of god peace, joy, love of vocation, together with union amongst themselves and with their superiors? it is one of the most substantial advantages we have in religion to know that we are never forsaken in life or death; to find always a heart that can compassionate our pains, a hand which sustains us in danger and lifts us when we fall. xvi eleventh characteristic _to have a lively interest in the whole order, in its works, its success, and its failures_ religious who have the family spirit wish to know everything which concerns the well-being of the different houses. they willingly take their pens to contribute to the edification and satisfy the lawful curiosity of their brethren. they bless god when they hear good news, and grieve at bad news, losses by death, and, above all, scandalous losses of vocation. those who would concentrate all their thoughts on their own work, as if all other work counted for nothing or merited no attention, who would speak feebly or perhaps jealously of it, as if they alone wished to do good, or that others wished to deprive them of some glory, would show that they only sought themselves, and that to little love of the church they joined much indifference for their order. charity, by uniting its good wishes and interest to the deeds of others, becomes associated at the same time in the merit. it shares in a certain manner in the gifts and labours of others. it is, at the same time, the eye, the hand, the tongue, and the foot, since it rejoices at what is done by the eye, the hand, the tongue, etc., or, rather, it is as the soul which presides over all, and to whom nothing is a stranger in the body over which it presides. xvii twelfth characteristic _mutual edification_ be edified at the sight of your brethren's virtues, and edify them by your own. in other words, be alternately disciple and master. profit by the labours of others, and make them profit by your own. receive from all, in order to be able to give to all. borrow humility from one, obedience from another, union with god, and the practice of mortification from others. by charity we store up in ourselves the gifts of grace enjoyed by every member of the community, in order to dispense them to all by a happy commerce and admirable exchange. as the bee draws honey from the sweetest juices contained in each flower; as the artist studies the masterpieces to reproduce their marvellous tints in pictures which, in their turn, become models; as a mirror placed in a focus receives the rays of brilliancy from a thousand others placed around it to re-invest them with a dazzling brilliancy, so happy is the community whose members multiply themselves, so to say, by mutually esteeming, loving, admiring, and imitating each other in what is good. this spontaneity of virtues exercises on all the members a constant and sublime ministry of mutual edification and reciprocal sanctification. xviii extent and delicacy of god's charity for men in order to excite ourselves to fraternal charity, let us try and picture that of god for us. after having had us present in his thoughts from all eternity, he has called us from nothingness to life. he himself formed man's body, and, animating it with a breath, enclosed in it an immortal soul, created to his own image. scarcely arrived on the threshold of life, we found an officer from his court an angel deputed to protect, accompany, and conduct us in triumph to our heavenly inheritance. what a superb palace he has prepared for us in this world, supplied with a prodigious variety of flowers, fruits, and animals which he has placed at our disposal! we were a fallen race, and he sent his son to raise us and save us from hell, which we merited. the word was made flesh. he took a body and soul like ours, thus ennobling and deifying, so to speak, our human nature. before ascending to his heavenly father, after having been immolated for us on the cross, for fear of leaving us orphans, he wished to remain amongst us in the holy eucharist, to nourish us with his flesh, and to infuse into our hearts his divine spirit as the living promise and the delicious foretaste of the felicity and glory which he went to prepare for us in his kingdom. truly, o god, you treat us not only with a paternal love, but with an infinite respect and honour; and cannot i love and honour those whom you have thus honoured and loved yourself? why do not these thoughts inflame my charity in the fire of your divine love? my brethren and myself are children of god and members of jesus christ. my brethren have their angels, who are companions of my angel. one day my brethren will be my companions in glory, chanting eternally the divine praises. it is but a short time since, with them, i partook of the heavenly banquet of the most holy sacrament, and to-morrow shall do so again. xix extent and delicacy of the charity of jesus christ during his mortal life let us now admire the charity of our divine saviour while on earth. if wine was wanting at a feast; if fishermen laboured in vain during the night; if a vast crowd knew not where to procure food in the desert; if unfortunate persons were possessed by devils or deprived of the use of their limbs; if death deprived a father of his daughter, or a widow of an only son, jesus was there to supply what was wanting, to give back what was lost, or to sweeten all their griefs. sometimes he forestalled the petition by curing before being asked, or by exciting the wavering faith. he generally went beyond the demands of the petitioners. he was always ready to interrupt his meal, to go to a distance, or to quit his solitude. nicodemus, as yet trembling and timid, came to find jesus during the night, and he did not hesitate to sacrifice his sleep by prolonging the conversation. the samaritan woman was not beneath his notice, although he was fatigued after a long journey. he lavished with prodigality his caresses on the children who pressed around him. when the crowd was so great that the poor woman with the flow of blood could not come within reach of his hand, he caused an all-powerful virtue to set out from him, and a simple touch of the hem of his garment supplied instead. with what charming grace his benefits were accompanied! "zacheus, come down quickly, for i will abide this day in thy house." who more than he excelled in the art of making agreeable surprises? in his apparitions to magdalen, to the holy women, to the disciples at emmaus, did he not pay well for the ointment, the tears, and the perfumes, and the hospitality he received from them? who is not moved with emotion when he sees his lord preparing a meal for the apostles on the lake-shore, or asking peter thrice to give him an opportunity of publicly repairing his triple denial, "lovest thou me?" who would not be moved when he hears what st. clement relates having heard it from st. peter that our lord was accustomed to watch like a mother with her children near his disciples during their sleep to render them any little service? o jesus! the sweetest, the most amiable, the most charitable of the children of men, make me a sharer in your mildness, your love, and your charity. xx first preservative _how to fortify ourselves against uncharitable conversations, the principal danger to fraternal charity_ to meditate on what the holy scripture says of it: "place, o lord, a guard before my mouth" (ps. cxl.)--a vigilant sentinel, well armed, to watch, and, if necessary, to arrest in the passing out any unbecoming word--"and a door before my lips," which, being tightly closed, will never let an un charitable dart escape. "shut in your ears with a hedge of thorns," to counteract the tongue, which would pour into them the poison of uncharitableness, "and refuse to listen to the wicked tongue." "put before your mouth several doors and on your ears several locks"--_i.e._, put doors upon doors and locks upon locks, because the tongue is capable, in its fury, to force open the first door and break the first lock. "melt your gold and silver, and make for your words a balance"--weighing them all before uttering them--"and have for your mouth solid bridles which are tightly held," for fear that the tongue, getting the better of your vigilance, will break loose and do mischief in all directions. considering these many barriers and formidable checks, must we not see the necessity of burying in a well-fortified prison that most dangerous monster, the tongue? "ah! truly death and life are in the power of the tongue" (prov. xviii.). "and although the sword has been the instrument of innumerable murders, the tongue has at all times beaten it in producing death" (ecclus. xxviii.). "it forms but a small part of the body, and has done mighty evil: as the helm badly directed causes the wreck of a fine ship, and as a spark may enkindle a forest. . . . unquiet evil, inflamed firebrand, source of deadly poison, world of iniquity" (st. james iii.). xxi second preservative _to meditate on what the saints say_ st. bonaventure relates that st. francis of assisi said to his religious one day: "uncharitable conversation is worse than the assassin, because it kills souls and becomes intoxicated with their blood. it is worse than the mad dog, because it tears out and drags on all sides the living entrails of the neighbour. it is worse than the unclean animal, because it wallows in the filth of vices and makes its favourite pasture there. it is worse than cham, because it exposes everywhere the nasty spots which soil the face of religion--its mother." st. bernard goes further: "do not hesitate to regard the tongue of the backbiter as more cruel than the iron of the lance which pierced our saviour's side, because it not only pierces his sacred side, but one of his living members also, to whom by its wound it gives death. it is more cruel than the thorns with which his venerable head was crowned and torn, and even than the nails with which the wicked jews fastened his sacred hands and feet to the cross, because if our divine saviour did not esteem more highly the member of his mystic body (which is pierced by the foul tongue of the slanderer) than his own natural body formed by the operation of the holy ghost in the chaste womb of the virgin mary, he would never have consented to deliver the latter to ignominies and outrages to spare the former." now st. francis and st. bernard are here speaking to religious. is it possible, then, for backbiting to glide into religious communities? yes, certainly. and it is by this snare that satan catches souls which have escaped all others. st. jerome says: "there are few who avoid this fault. amongst those even who pride themselves on leading an irreproachable life, you will scarcely find any who do not criticize their brethren." rarely, without doubt, but too often, nevertheless, we calumniate at first secretly or with one or two friends, afterwards openly and in public. we speak of the mistakes, shortcomings, and defects, great and small, and sometimes transmit them as a legacy. sometimes we use a moderate hypocrisy by purposely letting ourselves be questioned, and sometimes brutally attack our victim without shame. "have i, then," may the religious thus attacked say, "in making my vows renounced my honour and delivered my character to pillage? has my position as religious, has the majesty of the king of kings, of whom i have become the intimate friend, in place of ennobling me, degraded me? you call yourselves my brethren, and yet there are none who esteem me less! you would not steal my money, and yet you make no scruple of stealing my character, a thousand times more precious. you pay court to your saviour and persecute his child! the same tongue on which reposes the holy of holies spreads poison and death! is this to be the result of your study and practice of virtue? has not jesus christ, by so many communions, placed a little sweetness on your tongue and a little charity in your heart? by eating the lamb have you become wolves? as st. john chrysostom reproached the clergy of antioch. and you, who fly so carefully the gross vices of the world, have you no care or anxiety about damning yourself by slander?" xxii third preservative _to guard the tongue_ this must be done especially in five circumstances: ( ) at the change of superiors. do not criticize the outgoing superior nor flatter the new one. ( ) when you replace another religious. never by word or act cast any blame on him. inexperience, or a desire to introduce new customs, sometimes causes this to be done. ( ) when you are getting old. because then we are apt to think-- erroneously, of course--that the young members growing up are incapable of fulfilling duties once accomplished by ourselves. ( ) when religious come from another house do not ask questions which they ought not to answer, and do not tell them anything which might prejudice or disgust them with the house or anyone in it. lastly, in our interviews with our particular friends we must be very cautious. there are some who, when anything goes amiss with them, always seek the company of their confidants. these should seriously examine before god whether it is a necessary comfort in affliction or a support in weakness, or the too human satisfaction of justifying themselves, giving vent to their feelings, or getting blame and criticism for the superior or some one else. they should also examine whether on such occasions they speak the exact truth, and whether they seek a friend, who knows how to take the arrow sweetly from the wound rather than to bury it deeper. the way to find out the gravity of the sin of detraction is--( ) to consider the position of him who speaks and the weight which is attached to his words; ( ) the position of him who is spoken about, and the need he has of his reputation; ( ) the evil thing said; ( ) the number of the hearers; ( ) the result of the detraction; and, lastly, the intention of the speaker, and the passion which was the cause of it. xxiii fourth preservative _to be on our guard with certain persons_ there are six sorts of religious who wound fraternal charity more or less fatally, ( ) those who say to you, "such a one said so-and-so about you." these are the sowers of discord, whom god almighty declares he has in abomination. their tongues have three fangs more terrible than a viper. "with one blow," says st. bernard, "they kill three persons--themselves, the listeners, and the absent." ( ) those who, obscuring and perverting this amiable virtue, possess the infernal secret of transforming it into vice. is not this to sin against the holy ghost? ( ) those who skilfully turn the conversation on those brethren of whom they are jealous, in order to have all put in a bad word. they thus double the fault they apparently wish to avoid. ( ) those who constantly have their ears cocked to hear domestic news, who are skilful in finding out secrets and picking up stories, whose trade seems to be to take note of all little bits of scandalous news going, and to take them from ear to ear, or, worse, from house to house. oh, what an occupation! what a recreation for a spouse of christ! ( ) those who, under pretext of enlivening the conversation, sacrifice their brethren to the vain and cruel wantonness of witticism by relating something funny in order to give a lash of their tongue or to expose some weakness. alas! they forget that they ruin themselves in the esteem and opinion of the hearers. ( ) critics of intellectual work. on this point jealousy betrays itself very easily on one side, and susceptibility is stirred on the other. the heart is never insensible nor the mouth silent when we are wounded in so delicate a part. it is evident, besides, that in this case the blame supposes a desire of praise, and that in proportion as we endeavour to lower our brethren we try to raise ourselves. all these religious ought to be regarded as pests in the community. if we call those who maintain fraternal charity the children of god, should not those who disturb it be called the children of satan? do they not endeavour to turn the abode of peace into a den of discord, and the sanctuary of prayer into a porch of hell? xxiv fifth preservative _to be cautious in letter-writing and visiting_ great care must be taken never to repeat anything at visits or in letters which might compromise the honour of the community or any of its members. never utter a word or write a syllable which might in the least degree diminish the esteem or lower the merit of anyone. every well-reared person knows that little family secrets must be kept under lock and key. st. jane frances de chantal writes: "to mention rashly outside the community without great necessity the faults of religious would be great impudence. never relate outside, even to ecclesiastics, frivolous complaints and lamentations without foundation, which serve only to bring religion, and those who govern therein, into disrepute. certainly, we ought to be jealous of the honour and good odour of religious houses, which are the family of god. guard this as an essential point which requires restitution." xxv sixth preservative _caution in communication with superiors_ in communications made to superiors say the exact truth, and for a good purpose. do not speak into other ears that which, strictly speaking, should only be told to the local superior or superior-general. with the exception of extraordinary cases, or when it refers to a bad habit or something otherwise irremediable, there is generally little charity and less prudence in telling the superior-general of something blameable which has occurred. do not reveal, even before a superior, confidences which conscience, probity, or friendship requires to be guarded with an inviolable seal of friendship. if we write a complaint about a personal offence, lessen it rather than exaggerate, and endeavour to praise the person for good qualities, because nothing is easier than to blacken entirely another's reputation. pray and wait till your emotion be calmed. when passion holds the pen, it is no longer the ink that flows, but spleen, and the pen is transformed into a sword. before speaking or writing to the superior it would be well to put this question to ourselves: "am i one of those proud spirits who expose the faults of others in order to show off their own pretended virtues? or jealous spirits who are offended at the elevation of others? or vindictive spirits who like to give tit for tat? or polite spirits who wish to appear important? or ill-humoured, narrow-minded spirits, scandalized at trifles? or credulous, inconsiderate spirits who believe and repeat everything--the bad rather than the good? in fine, am i a hypocrite who, clothing malice with the mantle of charity, and hiding a cruel pleasure under the veil of compassion, weep with the victim they intend to immolate, as though profoundly touched by his misfortune, and seem to yield only to the imperative demands of duty and zeal?" xxvi seventh preservative _caution in doubtful cases_ act with the greatest reserve in doubtful cases where grave suspicions, difficult to be cleared up, rest on a religious superior or inferior, as the case may be. the ears of the superior are sacred, and it is unworthy profanation to pour into them false or exaggerated reports. to infect the superior's ears is a greater crime than to poison the drinking fountain or to steal a treasure, because the only treasure of religious is the esteem of their superior, and the pure water which refreshes their souls is the encouraging and benevolent words of the same superior. some, by imprudence or under the influence of a highly coloured or impressionable imagination which carries everything to extremes (we would not say through malice), render themselves often guilty of crying acts of injustice and ruin a religious. what is uncertain they relate as certain, and what is mere conjecture they take as the base of grave suspicions. several facts which, taken individually, constitute scarcely a fault, they group together, and so make a mountain out of a few grains of sand. an act which, seen in its entirety, would be worthy of praise, they mutilate in such a fashion as to show it in an unfavourable light. enemies of the positive degree, they lavish with prodigality the words _often, very much, exceedingly,_ etc. when they have only one or two witnesses, they make use of the word _everybody_, thereby leaving you under the impression that the rumour is scattered broadcast. on such statements, how can a superior pronounce judgment? xxvii eighth preservative _to check uncharitable conversation in others_ when you see charity wounded by an equal call him to order. if to say or do anything scandalous is the first sin forbidden by charity, not to stop, when you can, him who speaks or acts badly ought to be considered the second. when the discourse degenerates, represent jesus christ entering suddenly into the midst of the company, and saying, as he did formerly to the disciples of emmaus: "what discourse hold you among yourselves, and why are you sad?" recall also these words of the psalmist: "you have preferred to say evil rather than good, and to relate vices rather than virtues. o deceitful, inconsiderate, and rash tongue! dost thou think thou wilt remain unpunished? no; god will punish thee in everlasting flames." after having thus fortified ourselves against uncharitable conversation, we ought to try and put a stop to it. st. john climacus tells us to address the following words to those who calumniate in our presence: "for mercy's sake cease such conversation! how would you wish me to stone my brethren--me, whose faults are greater and more numerous?" a holy religious replied to an uncharitable person: "we have to render infinite thanks to god if we are not such as those of whom you speak. alas! what would become of us without him?" the philosopher zeno, hearing a man relate a number of misdeeds about antisthenes, said to him: "ah! has he never done anything good? has he never done anything for which he merits praise?" "i don't know," he replied. then said zeno, "how is that? you have sufficient perception to remark, and sufficient memory to remember, this long list of faults, and you have had no eyes to see his many good qualities and virtuous actions." st. john chrysostom says: "to the calumniator i wish you to say the following: if you can praise your neighbours, my ears are open to receive your perfume. if you can only blacken them, my ears are closed, as i do not wish them to be the receptacle of your filthy words. what matters it to me to hear that such a one is wicked, and has done some detestable act? friend, think of the account that must be rendered to the sovereign judge. what excuse can we give, and what mercy will we deserve--we who have been so keen-sighted to the faults of others, and so blind to our own? you would consider it very rude for a person to look into your private room; but i say it is far worse to pry into another's private life and to expose it. the calumniator should remember that, besides the fault he commits and the wrong he does to his neighbours, he exposes himself, by a just punishment of god, to be the victim of calumny himself. xxviii ninth preservative _how to check uncharitable conversation in superiors, etc._ when we see charity wounded by persons worthy of respect, keep silent, in order to show your regret, or relate something to the advantage of the absent. if necessary, withdraw. it is related in the life of sister margaret, of the blessed sacrament of the carmelite order, that when a discourse against charity took place in the house she saw a smoke arise of such suffocating odour that she nearly fainted, and fled immediately to her divine master for pardon. st. jerome, writing to nepotian on this subject, says: "some object that they cannot warn the speaker of his fault without failing in the respect due to him. this excuse is vain, because their eagerness to listen increases his itch for speaking. no one wishes to relate calumnies and murmurs to ears closed with disgust. is there anyone so foolish as to shoot arrows against a stone wall?" let your strict silence be a significant and salutary lesson for the detractor. "have no commerce with those who bite," said solomon, because perdition is on the eve of overtaking them; and who can tell the disaster and ruin with which the rash detractor and equally blamable listener are threatened? if it be true, according to the testimony of a religious who was visitor of the houses of his order, that the virtue against which one can most easily commit a grievous sin in religion is charity; and, according to st. francis de sales, sins of the tongue number three-fourths of all sins committed; cannot it be said with equal truth that to refuse to listen to detractors is with one blow to prevent the sin and safeguard charity? in many cases one can adroitly make known the good qualities and virtues which more than counterbalance the defects related by the defamer. to act thus is to spread about the good odour of christ. xxix tenth preservative _be cautious after hearing uncharitable conversation_ after having heard uncharitable words, observe the following precautions given by the saints: . repeat nothing. . believe all the good you hear, but believe only the bad you see. malice does the contrary. it demands proofs for good reports, but believes bad reports on the slightest grounds. out of every thousand reports one can scarcely be found accurate in all its details. when, as a rule of prudence, superiors are told to believe only half of what they hear, to consider the other half, and still suspect the remaining part, what rule should be prescribed for inferiors? when the act is evidently blameworthy, suppose a good intention, or at least one not so bad as apparent, leaving to god what he reserves to himself the judgment of the heart; or consider it as the result of surprise, inadvertence, human frailty, or the violence of the temptation. never come to hasty conclusions-- _e.g._, "he is incorrigible; as he is, so will he always be." expect everything from grace, efforts, and time. . efface as much as possible the bad impression produced on the mind, because calumny always produces such. the recital of something bad about a fellow-religious based on probabilities has sufficed to tarnish a reputation which ample apologies cannot fully repair. the detractor's evil reports are believed on account of the audacity with which he relates them, but when he wants to relate something good he will not be believed on oath. we know by experience that evil reports spread with compound interest, while good ones are retailed at discount. xxx eleventh preservative _not to judge or suspect rashly_ expel every doubt, every thought, likely to diminish esteem. they amuse themselves with a most dangerous game who always gather up vague thoughts of the past, rumours without foundation, conjectures in which passion has the greatest share, and thus form in their minds characters of their brethren--adding always, never subtracting--and by dint of the high idea they have of their own ability conclude that all their judgments are true, and thus become fixed in their bad habit. st. bernard, comparing them to painters, warns them that it is the devil who furnishes the materials, and even the evil conceptions, necessary to depict such bad impressions of their brethren. we read in the "life of st. francis" that our lord himself called in a distinct voice a certain young man to his order. "o lord," replied the young man, "when i am once entered, what must i do to please you?" pay particular attention to our lord's answer: "lead thou a life in common with the rest. avoid particular friendships. take no notice of the defects of others, and form no unfavourable judgments about them." what matter for consideration in these admirable words! thomas à kempis says: "turn thy eyes back upon thyself, and see thou judge not the doing of others. in judging others a man labours in vain, often errs, and easily sins; but in judging and looking into himself he always labours with fruit. we frequently judge of a thing according to the inclination of our hearts, because self-love easily alters in us a true judgment." rodriguez tells us to turn on ourselves the sinister questions, etc., we are tempted to refer to others _e.g._: "it is i who am deceived. it is through jealousy that i condemn my brethren. it is through malice that i find so much to blame in them. finally, the fault is mine, not theirs." even when reports more or less true might depreciate in your eyes some of the community, may they not have, besides their faults, some great but hidden virtues, and by these be entitled to a more merciful judgment? st. augustine says beautifully: "if you cast your eye over a field where the corn has been trampled, you only perceive the straw, not the grain. lift up the straw, and you will see plenty of golden sheaves full of grain." the simile is very applicable to a poor religious beaten down by foul tongues. we blame the defects of our brethren, and perhaps we have the same, or others more shameful still. we usurp the right of judgment, which god reserves to himself, and forget that he will punish us by leaving us to our own irregular passions. ah! is it not already a very great misfortune to have these contemptuous, slanderous, distrustful thoughts, and many other sins, the result of malicious suspicions and rash judgments, rooted in the soul? xxxi means to support the evil thoughts and tongues of others what must be done in those painful moments when, being the victim of a painful calumny, the object of suspicion, the butt of domestic persecution, we are tempted to believe that charity is banished from the community, and so to banish it from our own heart? recall the words of st. john of the cross. "imagine," says he, "that your brethren are so many sculptors armed with mallets and chisels, and that you have been placed before them as a block of marble destined in the mind of god to become a statue representing the man of sorrows, jesus crucified." consider a hasty word said to you as a thorn in the head; a mockery as a spit in the face; an unkind act as a nail in the hand; a hatred which takes the place of friendship as a lance in the side; all that which hurts, contradicts, or humiliates us as the blows, stripes, the gall and vinegar, the crown of thorns and the cross. the work proceeds always, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly. let us not complain. we will one day thank these workmen, who, without intending it, give to our soul the most beautiful, the most glorious, and the noblest traits. we ourselves are sculptors as well as statues, and we will find that, on our part, we have materially helped to form in them the same traits. "if all were perfect," says the "imitation," "what, then, should we have to suffer from others for god's sake?" it is not forbidden us to seek consolation. but from whom? is it from those discontented spirits whose ears are like public sewers, the receptacle of every filth and dirt? they increase our pain by pouring the poison of their own discontent instead of the oil of the good samaritan. they will take our disease and give us theirs, and, like samson's foxes, spread destruction around by repeating what we said to them. may god preserve us from this misfortune! if we cannot carry our burden alone, and if we find it no relief to lay our griefs in the sacred heart of jesus, let us go to him whom the rule appoints to be our friend and consoler, our confidant and director, and who, as st. augustine relates of st. monica, after having listened to us with patience, charity, and compassion, after having at first appeared to share our sentiments, will sweeten and explain all with prudence, will lift up and encourage our oppressed heart, and by his counsel and prayers will restore us to peace and charity. xxxii second means to bear with others recall the words of our lord to blessed margaret mary: "with the intention of perfecting thee by patience i will increase thy sensibility and repugnance, so that thou wilt find occasions of humiliation and suffering even in the smallest and most indifferent things." what would be considered, when we were in the world, as the prick of a needle, we look upon in religion as the blow of a sword. what we looked upon in our own house as light as a feather, becomes in community life as heavy as a rock. an insignificant word becomes an outrage, and a little matter which formerly would escape our notice now upsets us, and even deprives us of sleep and appetite. is not this increase of sensibility and repugnance found in the religious state only to form in us the image of our crucified lord? if christ alone has suffered interiorly more than all the saints and martyrs together, was it not because of this extreme repugnance of his soul, which multiplied to infinity for him the bitterness of the affronts and the rigour of his torments? religious may expect for a certainty that, like their divine master, there are reserved for them moments of complete abandonment, those agonies intended for the souls of the elect, in which nature seems on the point of succumbing. no consolation from their families, which they have quitted; nor from their companions, who are busy in their various employments; nor from their superiors, who do not understand the excess of their grief, and whose words by divine permission produce no effect. the solemn moment of agony with our divine saviour was that in which, abandoned, betrayed, and denied by his apostles, and perceiving in his father only an irritated face, he exclaimed, "my god! my god! why hast thou forsaken me?" such will be for religious the last touch which will complete in them the resemblance of jesus crucified, provided they will render themselves worthy of it. when will be the time of this complete abandonment? how long will this agony be prolonged? this is a secret known only to god. xxxiii conclusion poverty, chastity, obedience, and charity--such are the virtues suitable and characteristic of the religious. in this little treatise we have endeavoured to trace the features of the last. in every community we can distinguish two sorts of religious-- those who mount and those who descend--those whose face is towards the path of perfection, and those who have turned their back to it. perhaps amongst these latter some have only one more step to abandon it altogether. now we mount or descend, proceed or retrace our steps, in proportion as we practise these four virtues or neglect them. a religious order is like a fire balloon, which requires four conditions in order to rise into the clouds amidst the applause of the spectators. first, the rarefaction of the air by fire. this represents the vow of poverty, which empties the heart through the hands, and substitutes the desire of heavenly goods for those of earth. second, release from the cords which bind it down. this represents the effects of the vow of chastity, which, by breaking human attachments, permits us to soar towards god with freedom and rapidity. third, a man who will feed the fire and moderate the flight of the balloon upwards. this represents the right which the vow of obedience places in the hands of the superior, to nourish the sacred fire, and direct the sublime movement of the soul and foresee dangers. fourth, the union of its component parts. this represents the operations of charity, in causing all the members of a community to have but one heart and one soul. possessing these four virtues, a religious order soars in the heights of perfection; but if one of these be wanting it falls helplessly, and is no longer an object of edification, but of scandal and ridicule. when it happens that some members, losing the spirit of their state, abandon their holy vocation, we may say with st. john: "they went out from us; but they were not of us. for if they had been of us, they would no doubt have continued with us: but that they might be made manifest that they are not all of us" ( john ii.). they appeared to have the religious virtues, but in reality one or all were wanting to them. o god, do not permit that lukewarmness or an uncontrolled passion will ever make me waver in my vocation. during life and at death i wish to remain a faithful religious, so that i may find the salvation which thou hast promised by procuring thy glory. as good grain improves by pulling up the weeds, and the body becomes healthy when purged of bad humours, pour into my soul the grace and unction which others refuse, in order that, practising more perfectly from day to day poverty, chastity, obedience, and charity, and redoubling my ardour and zeal to my last hour, i may obtain the priceless treasure promised to those who have quitted all to follow thee. amen. appendix the practice of fraternal charity (father faber) . often reflect on some good point in each of your brethren. . reflect on the opposite faults in yourself. . do this most in the case of those whom we are most inclined to criticize. . never claim rights or even let ourselves feel that we have them, as this spirit is most fatal both to obedience and charity. . charitable thoughts are the only security of charitable deeds and words. they save us from surprises, especially from surprises of temper. . never have an aversion for another, much less manifest it. . avoid particular friendships. . never judge another. always, if possible, excuse the faults we see, and if we cannot excuse the action, excuse the intention. we cannot all think alike, and we should, therefore, avoid attributing bad motives to others. charitable religious they have a disregard of self and a desire to accommodate others. they rejoice with their companions in their joys and recreations, and grieve with them in their afflictions. they try to bring all the good they can to the community and to avert all the evil. they begin with themselves, by being as little trouble as possible to others. with great charity and affability they bear with the faults and shortcomings of others, careful to fulfil the law of christ, which tells us to bear one another's burdens. they dispense to others what they have for their own advantage; more particularly do they give spiritual assistance by prayer and the other spiritual works of mercy. they never contradict anyone. they never speak against anyone. they are convinced that charity, holy friendships, and concord form the great solace of this life, and that no good ever came from dissensions and disputes. they consider that god is ever in the midst of those who live united together by the bonds of holy love. we will do likewise if we consider the image of god in the souls of our brethren. as we form one body here and one spirit in the same faith and charity, let us hope not to be separated hereafter, but to belong for ever to that one body in heaven when faith and hope shall disappear, but where charity alone shall remain, and remain for ever. --- _r. & t. washbourne, ltd., , & paternoster row_ images generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) mrs. leslie's books for little children. the little frankie series. books written or edited by a. r. baker, and sold by all booksellers. * * * * * question books on the topics of christ's sermon on the mount. vol. i. for children. vol. ii. for youth. vol. iii. for adults. lectures on these topics, _in press_. mrs. leslie's sabbath school books. tim, the scissors grinder. sequel to "tim, the scissors grinder." prairie flower. the bound boy. the bound girl. virginia. the two homes; or, earning and spending. the organ-grinder, _in press_. question books. the catechism tested by the bible. vol. i. for children. vol. ii. for adults. the dermott family; or, stories illustrating the catechism. vol. i. doctrines respecting god and mankind. " ii. doctrines of grace. " iii. commandments of the first table. " iv. commandments of the second table. " v. conditions of eternal life. mrs. leslie's home life. vol. i. cora and the doctor. " ii. courtesies of wedded life. " iii. the household angel. mrs. leslie's juvenile series. vol. i. the motherless children. " ii. play and study. " iii. howard and his teacher. " iv. trying to be useful. " v. jack, the chimney sweeper. " vi. the young housekeeper. " vii. little agnes. the robin redbreast series. the robins' nest. little robins in the nest. little robins learning to fly. little robins in trouble. little robins' friends. little robins' love one to another. * * * * * the little frankie series. little frankie and his mother. little frankie at his plays. little frankie and his cousin. little frankie and his father. little frankie on a journey. little frankie at school. [illustration: frankie wheeling the cripple.] little frankie at school. by mrs. madeline leslie, author of "the home life series;" "mrs. leslie's juvenile series," etc. [illustration: divider] boston: crosby and ainsworth, washington street. entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by a. r. baker, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. electrotyped at the boston stereotype foundry. little frankie at school. chapter i. frankie's new teacher. when little frankie gray was nearly seven years old, a lady came to reside in the town where he lived, hoping to collect a small school. frankie's mother called upon her, and was so much pleased with her frank, cheerful manners, her sunny smile, and her christian conversation, that she promised, with her husband's consent, to send frankie and nelly to be her pupils. the young teacher's name was fanny grant. nelly laughed merrily when she heard it, and said she should always think of her great doll, fanny, when she saw her. papa had for a long time feared it was an injury to his wife to be confined so many hours as she thought it necessary to be in order to attend to the children's studies, and he was very glad to find a good teacher for them. miss grant hired a pleasant room in a house only a short distance from mr. gray's. then she commenced furnishing it to suit her own fancy. first she fastened white shades to the windows, and then hung the walls with bright colored maps, and large pictures of animals and birds. on one side there was a nice blackboard, and next it a card containing the alphabet in large letters. when all this was arranged, miss grant engaged a carpenter to work for her a day in making a gallery of four steps, and in drawing a large circle on the floor, which he marked by driving in large brass headed nails. nelly and her cousin, who had watched these arrangements with great interest, were very curious to know their use. the teacher, smiling, bade them wait and see. "is all ready now?" asked frankie. "not quite," said the teacher. "i must have some small chairs for my little scholars; also some more apparatus." "what is apparatus?" inquired nelly. "it is any thing by which we can illustrate or explain our ideas. this blackboard, and these cards, are apparatus. you will see, when school begins, how i shall explain to you many things by their help. then i have a large globe, a numeral frame, and an orrery." "i had an orrery once," shouted frankie. "it was made of wire, with potatoes and turnips. is yours like that?" "o, no," said the teacher, with a hearty laugh. "the planets are made of wood, or plaster, and painted very prettily." "i shall like to see it," said frankie. "so shall i," said nelly. the children then took their leave, after bidding the lady good by; but presently frankie returned, all out of breath, to say, "miss grant, i have a whole box of beautiful great cards. they were my birthday present from papa and mamma. you may take them, if you want to, and hang them around the room." "thank you, my little friend," said the teacher, giving him a kiss. "i am going now to my boarding place, and you may walk with me, if you can stop until i put on my bonnet." "i should like that," said frankie. "i'll run out and tell nelly to wait." miss grant locked the door, and taking a small vase in her hand, joined the children who were waiting near the gate. "what is that flower pot for?" asked nelly. "when school begins, i shall beg some flowers from the lady where i live," answered the teacher. "i like to have the room look cheerful and bright, so that the little scholars will like to be there." "i wish monday would come quick," exclaimed the boy. "i want to begin to go to school. i mean to carry a great big bouquet, out of my own garden. did you know i had a garden, miss grant?" "no, i did not; but i am very glad to hear it. i love flowers almost as well as i do good little boys and girls." "i should think you would love your mother better than either. i do." miss grant's lip quivered, and tears gushed to her eyes. "i do love my mother," she said, softly, "but she is in heaven." "i'm real sorry," said the sympathizing child, affectionately kissing the hand he held. "if you were little, like nelly and me, mother would let you be her daughter, i guess." when the children reached home, mrs. gray was most happy to see what an influence the young teacher had already established over them. she encouraged their love for her, and appealed to their sympathies by saying, "she is an orphan, without father or mother; we must all try to make her forget her sorrows by showing her that she has still many warm friends." chapter ii. one day at school. i suppose you will wish to know how frankie and nelly liked their new school, and whether they continued to love their teacher. in answer to these questions, i shall give you an account of a day they passed about a week after the school commenced. it was a lovely morning in june. after breakfast and prayers in the family of mr. gray, frankie ran out into the garden to gather a bouquet for his teacher. he and nelly kept her vase well filled with flowers. he put the bouquet into a pitcher of water to keep it fresh, and then ran to the sink to wash his face and hands very clean; after which he went into the nursery for sally to pin on a clean collar, and to brush his hair. while she was doing this, he called out to his mother, who was in the next room, "mamma, mayn't i learn to part my hair myself? i'm almost seven, you know." "yes, indeed," she answered. "you may learn as soon as you please. sally will show you how to hold the comb to make the parting straight." "i wish my hair would lie down," exclaimed the boy, giving the brush a quick, impatient jerk. it curls up so close, i can't make it look smooth. and he brushed the front lock with all his strength. "there, now, that looks well enough," said nurse in a comforting tone. "you might as well try to keep the wind from blowing as to try to keep your hair from curling. it will form little rings, do all you can." "now i'm ready!" shouted frankie, taking his bouquet in his hand. in the mean time, nelly had been to her aunt's room, and had her long hair combed out smoothly, and then brushed over the curling stick. it was quite a tedious operation, and required to be very wet before the comb could be passed through it; but nelly bore it patiently, as her aunt always tried to pass the time away agreeably, by giving her some easy example in arithmetic, or hearing a line of the multiplication table, or telling her a short story. by the time this was done, sally had turned the mattress; and the little girl made up her bed, laying on the sheets and counterpane very smoothly, so that not a rumple could be seen. then she hung up such of her clothes as were lying about the room, put her shoes into the bag on the inside of the closet door, then dressed herself in a clean apron, and was ready, by the time frankie called, to take the flowers willie had gathered for her, and walk out with him to meet their dear teacher. sometimes, when they were early, they went as far as the house where she boarded, and stood at the gate until she appeared; but generally they sat down on the stone wall under the shade of the large maple tree at the entrance to their avenue, and watched until she came in sight. then they ran eagerly to give her their morning kiss, and present their little offering of flowers. on this pleasant june morning, they each took a hand as usual, and walked on rapidly toward the school, talking merrily as they went. when they reached the building, they found nearly all the other scholars, eighteen in number, waiting the arrival of miss grant. they went into the school room, took off their hats and bonnets, hung them up in the closet, and then went quietly to their seats on the steps, the little ones on the lower steps, and the others above them on the higher. when the church clock struck nine, the teacher rang the small bell, when every eye was closed, and every head was bowed for prayer. the little voices all joined in repeating the lord's prayer, after which they sung a verse of the hymn,-- "there is a happy land, far, far away, where saints in glory stand, bright, bright as day." after this, they pass down from the gallery, and march along to their seats. for the next half hour the school is quite still, while the pupils are studying the reading and spelling lessons: when the bell strikes again, they march out in order to the front of the chair where their teacher sits. as soon as one class has recited, another is called, until every little pupil has read and spelled. when this has been done, every face begins to brighten, for they know what the next exercise is; and they like it very much. the largest girl takes her place on the circle, and the others follow her according to their size, until they come down to the smallest one, who is a pretty blue-eyed little urchin of four summers. miss grant then strikes up a lively tune to the words,-- "this is the way we wash our face, this is the way we wash our face, this is the way we wash our face, so early in the morning,"-- each little hand is vigorously employed in rubbing the face, as they merrily follow each other around the circle. as soon as they finish one verse, they stop a moment, to avoid being made dizzy, and then begin again:-- "this is the way we comb our hair, this is the way we comb our hair, this is the way we comb our hair, so early in the morning. "this is the way we brush our teeth, this is the way we brush our teeth, this is the way we brush our teeth, so early in the morning. "this is the way we clean our nails, this is the way we clean our nails, this is the way we clean our nails, so early in the morning." after this marching and singing, the children return to their seats to prepare a lesson in geography, which they recite standing near the globe, the teacher pointing out the places upon it. recess and the various sports recommended by the teacher follow, and then come arithmetic and the numeral frame. this is a wooden frame about a foot square, with twelve stout wires passing from one side to the other. strung on each of these wires are twelve round stones, about the size of marbles. with this frame miss grant taught her little scholars to add, subtract, and multiply numbers, in the same manner that mrs. gray had taught her little pupils with marbles. at the close of the morning session, the children marched in the circle again, singing five times five are twenty-five, and five times six are thirty, to the tune of yankee doodle. in the afternoon, the exercises were quite as varied. the lessons mostly being committed in the morning, the children were allowed to tell stories, which the teacher wrote for them on the blackboard,--or they recited hymns and verses they had learned; sung, marched, and listened to the instructions of their teacher. [illustration] chapter iii. the new scholar. in a house near the one where miss grant boarded was a little girl whose name was hitty moran. her real name was mehitable, but her mother and all her companions called her hitty. she belonged to a very poor family, and as she was the eldest of a number of children, her mother thought she could not spare her to attend school. from the windows of her chamber, miss grant often saw hitty sitting on the doorstep, holding a large baby in her arms. she noticed that hitty was always kind to her baby brother; that she sung to him, let him pull her long hair, and never became impatient or fretful with him. all this interested the kind teacher in the child, and she longed to be of some use to her. one day, when she was returning from her school, she overtook hitty, who was carrying a heavy basket of potatoes. "let me help you," said the teacher, taking hold of the handle. as they walked along, miss grant asked, "did you ever go to school?" "no, ma'am," said hitty; "though i staid in a house once where the lady's son taught me my letters." "should you like to learn?" asked the teacher. "o, yes, ma'am; sure i should be proud if i could read; but mother has so much work, and bobby takes kindly to me, so that she can't spare me to go to school." "i should think it could be planned somehow for you to learn," said miss grant, kindly. "i will go in and see your mother this evening." she did so, and talked with mrs. moran of the advantage it would be to hitty, if she could learn to read and write. "only think," said the lady, "she could teach her brothers their letters, and read them pretty stories to keep them quiet while you are busy at work." "feth, ma'am, sure, and i've sinse enough to see the truth of what you're saying," said the poor mother. "her father often gets a paper from the ould country; but it's little use to us, you see, because the spelling and the pronouncing are quite beyont him. i've often enough wished we could have the luck to give one of the childer an education." "can't you spare her to go to school a part of the time?" "sure, ma'am, and that's the trouble intirely. the teachers complain when the childer don't be regular." just at this moment one of the children fell down, and began to cry so loud, that miss grant took her leave. she was in earnest about doing something for hitty; and she walked as far as mrs. gray's, to ask her advice about it. "why don't you allow her to attend your school?" inquired the lady. "one hour in the day would be better than nothing." "i should be glad to do so, if i thought the parents would not object," answered the teacher. "i think with a little trouble she could be made to look tidy." miss grant was not at all rich, but when a lady is resolved to do a kindness, she always finds out a way. she knew that hitty had no dress suitable to wear to school. she opened her purse after she had reached home, and taking out some money she had laid by to purchase a new book, she walked to the store, and bought some calico to make a child's dress. on her way back she called at mrs. moran's, and told her hitty might come to her school every afternoon if her mother could not spare her in the morning, and that if her mother would try to send her, she would provide a new gown. mrs. moran was very grateful for this kindness, and promised to get along without hitty whenever she could. in three days, the little girl called for her teacher, her face and hands so bright, and clean, and rosy, that you would scarcely know her. the dress fitted charmingly, and the grateful smile and look of delight with which, she regarded herself when miss grant tied on a neat apron with pockets in it, quite repaid the lady for all her expense and trouble. most of the scholars were kind to hitty, and willingly lent her a slate, pencil, or book, when their teacher requested it. but one little girl, whose name i am sorry to say was nelly, did not like to play with hitty, because she lived in such a poor house. she was ashamed to refuse when her teacher asked her to show the new scholar how to make the figures on her slate; but she had a pout on her lips, which miss grant had never seen there before, and her voice did not sound sweet and kind. when the lady saw these marks of pride in her beloved pupil, it made her heart ache. she had been so full of love to the poor, ignorant child, and so anxious to do her good, that she could not bear the thought of any one in her school treating hitty unkindly. for a moment she gazed sorrowfully in nelly's flushed face, saw her move away from her new schoolmate as far on the seat as she could, and then she called, "hitty, come and sit by me." presently frankie raised his little fat hand, and when she nodded to him that he had permission to speak, he asked, "may the new girl see me make pictures on the blackboard?" "yes, darling," answered the lady, rising and patting him on his curly head. "perhaps you can teach her to make a picture too." "see, hitty," said frankie; "this is the way to do it;" and the dear boy stood very erect and proud of the confidence of his teacher. when miss grant glanced toward nelly, she was sorry to see that the little girl looked angry, that her cousin was taking so much pains with the new girl, and that he seemed so happy in doing it. shall i tell you what i think the bad spirit was whispering in her ear? it was this: "nelly, your father is rich; you live in a fine house and wear nice clothes; you are right not to like to sit by hitty, who is very poor and ignorant." ah, my little girl, do you remember who has given you so many blessings? it is god; but if you are not grateful to him, and kind to those who are less favored, he may take away your father and mother, and leave you without home or friends. chapter iv. the injured girl. miss grant was very much pleased with frankie's kindness to hitty; and she hoped nelly would see how lovely it made him appear, and try to imitate him. when the school closed, hitty felt so grateful to frankie for showing her the figures, that she stood by him in the closet, to see whether she could not do something for him. his cap was on a low hook, where he could reach it; but the scarf he wore with it, was hung up higher. hitty saw him trying to jump and catch the end to pull it down, and she said quickly, "i can reach it. i will get it for you;" and she gave it to him with a bright smile. "thank you," said frankie, pleasantly. when they were out by the gate the scarf blew off, and hitty ran to pick it up, when nelly snatched it from her, and said, "let alone my cousin's things, you ugly girl;" at the same time she gave hitty a rough push to get her out of the way. i do not think nelly was so very wicked as to wish really to hurt the little girl, but she was angry, because her conscience was telling her she had done wrong. she heard hitty scream, but she ran on, pulling frankie along, though he urged her to go back, and see what was the matter with the poor girl. "no, no!" she cried; "i don't like hitty, and i don't want to walk with her." then she began to talk about ponto, and said she wished he would come and carry her basket for her. almost always, when nelly went home from school, she and frankie ran up stairs to the chamber where mrs. gray sat at work; but now she proposed that they should play in the garden with the dog. the lady heard their voices, and wondered they did not come in to see her before they began to play. in about fifteen minutes she heard some one ring the bell at the back door, and presently sally came up stairs into her room, leading a little girl by the hand. it was hitty, but with such a great swelling on her forehead that mrs. gray did not at first recognize her. her eyes were red and swollen with crying, and even now she could scarcely keep back her sobs. as she came in, she walked straight across the room to the lady, and put a note into her hand. mrs. gray opened it, and read with great sorrow the following words: "nelly pushed this little girl against the stone post, at the school house gate. i am exceedingly grieved, and as i cannot see nelly to-night, i have sent hitty to you. please do what you think best in the case." "come here, poor child," said the lady, tenderly; "that is a dreadful bunch on your forehead. how did it happen?" "i was picking up your little boy's scarf when it fell off his neck, and nelly snatched it away, and pushed me so hard that i fell against the post. she called me names, too;" and hitty began to sob again. "what did frankie do?" asked his mamma. "nothing at all, ma'am. it's very kind to me, he was." the lady bade the child sit down. she then went to the closet and poured some arnica from a bottle into a bowl of water, and after wetting a cloth in it, bound it upon the forehead of the child. then she rang the bell, and sent margie to find nelly and bring her into the house. while she was waiting, she talked with hitty, and soon became as much interested in her as the teacher had been. presently nelly came in, followed by her cousin. she started and blushed when she saw hitty; but frankie ran to the little girl, asking, "what is the matter with your head? have you hurt yourself?" "no," replied hitty; "she did it," pointing to nelly. "look here," said her aunt, raising the cloth and pointing to the swelling, which was half as large as an egg. frankie exclaimed, "o, dear! i'm sorry. does it ache bad?" nelly held down her head and began to cry. she was very much frightened at what she had done. "frankie," said his mother, "you may go down with hitty to the cook, and ask her for a piece of cake for the little girl. then you may walk with her as far as your teacher's, and wait till i come. hitty, you may go home and tell your mother i shall bring nelly there soon, to have her say what punishment so naughty a girl deserves." "o, don't, aunty! don't take me there! i'm afraid to go!" sobbed nelly, catching hold of her aunt. "sit down," said mrs. gray, gravely. "what are you going to do with me?" asked the child, in an agony of fear. "i am going to talk with you, and i wish you to tell me how this dreadful thing occurred. o nelly, i can't tell you how very grieved i am, that you should do so! i thought you had conquered your bad temper, and had become a lovely, amiable child." the tears stood in mrs. gray's eyes, and her voice trembled as she spoke. nelly sobbed as if her heart would break; but as her aunt waited for her to reply, she said, "i am sorry, aunty. i didn't mean to hurt her so; but i didn't want her to touch frankie's things." "why not? i am sure it was kind of her to pick up his scarf." nelly covered her burning face with her hands. "tell me the truth, my child," said her aunt, firmly. "she is so poor," whispered nelly. "i don't like poor girls; and then she lives in such an old house." "why, nelly!" exclaimed the lady, "i can hardly believe you have so proud and wicked a heart. suppose your father should lose all his property, and you should be obliged to go to the poorhouse, and wear an old, shabby dress; should you think that was a good reason why another little girl, whom god had blessed with a good home and kind friends, delighting to supply her with the comforts of life, should treat you unkindly?" "no, indeed, aunty! i did not think how very wicked i was." then nelly confessed truthfully all the naughty feelings which had made her so unkind to the new scholar, though she sobbed so much that she could hardly speak. mrs. gray talked a long time with her, explaining where her sin lay; first, in cherishing pride, and then in giving way to anger, which was the very spirit of cain when he killed his brother. after this they knelt down together; and nelly, in a voice broken with weeping, asked god to forgive her great sin, and help her to be a good child. chapter v. nelly at mrs. moran's. "come, now, my dear," said the lady, putting on her bonnet; "we must go to mrs. moran's and inquire about hitty." "i am afraid to," screamed nelly, clinging to her aunt. "o, i am sure i shall never do so again! i don't dare to go there." "why, nelly?" asked her aunt, pitying her distress. "if any little girl had injured you so, i should think it was a very small thing for her to do, to come and say she was sorry, and ask your forgiveness. you are really sorry, i think. it is but right you should tell her so." as they approached the house the poor child seemed in such an agony of fear, that her aunt was obliged to soothe her to lead her on. her conscience told her she had been unkind, even cruel, to her companion, who had in no way injured her, and she feared hitty's father and mother would be very angry. mr. moran lived in the upper part of a building which had once been used as a shop. a pair of wide stairs went up outside the house to the door, which opened into their room. a man was at work chopping wood at the foot of the stairs, and as soon as nelly saw him she ran behind her aunt, whispering, "o, i dare not go! that's hitty's father." "i will take care of you," answered the lady, knocking at the door. mrs. moran presently opened it, and they saw hitty sitting on a low stool, playing with the baby, who was cooing and crowing with delight at having her back again. "i have come," said mrs. gray, "with my little niece, who injured your daughter at school. she wishes to ask you to forgive her." nelly was crying bitterly, so that she could scarcely speak; but at last she sobbed out, "i didn't mean to hurt her so. i'm very sorry." "don't cry, pet!" said mrs. moran, kindly. "i dare say you meant her no harm; and if you did, sure and we all are in the wrong sometimes. hitty lays up nothing against you. there, honey, stop a bit, and she'll tell you the same. come, hitty, tell the little girl you forgive her, since the lady is so kind as to ask it." hitty came forward with bobby still in her arms, and when nelly held out her hand, shook it cordially, saying, "my head is almost well now, and by to-morrow i'll never think of the blow again. i'm sorry for you, nelly, to see you crying so." mrs. gray sat for a time talking with mrs. moran, and encouraging her to allow hitty to learn to read. there was one little boy just frankie's age, whom the lady advised her to send to the public school. this, the poor woman said, she should be glad to do, if the lad had clothes. the next day, when hitty returned from school, nelly, frankie, and ponto accompanied her, each of them carrying a bundle as large as they could lift, with dresses, jackets, and sacks, the children had outgrown. mrs. moran hardly knew how to express her gratitude, as she held up one article after another, and saw how nicely they would fit ned or others among her children. this lesson, though severe at the time, was never forgotten by nelly. after this no one was more eager than she to show kindness to hitty, or more pleased when the poor girl succeeded in learning to read. in the afternoon most of the scholars repeated a hymn which they had learned at home, or a few verses from the bible. nelly noticed that hitty never repeated any, and one day asked her the reason. "i haven't any books," answered the child, "and then i couldn't make out the hard words, you know." nelly looked thoughtful for a minute, and then jumped up and down in her glee. "ask your mother to let you come to aunty's to-night, or else come early to school and stop there to-morrow," she cried, "and i will teach you one of my pretty songs." two days later, when miss grant said, "now we will hear the hymns or verses," hitty, with a timid air and a blushing face, took her stand on the floor. she cast a glance at nelly, whose whole countenance was glowing with pleasure, and then repeated the following pretty hymn:-- "'who was that, dear mamma, who ate her breakfast here this morn? with tangled hair and ragged shoes, and gown and apron torn?' 'they call her lazy jane, my dear; she begs her bread all day, and gets a lodging in the barn, at night, among the hay. 'for when she was a little girl, she loved her play too well; at school she would not mind her book, nor learn to read and spell. '"dear jane," her mother oft would say, "pray learn to work and read; then you'll be able, when you're grown, to earn your clothes and bread."' but lazy jenny did not care; she'd neither knit nor sew; to romp with naughty girls and boys was all that she would do. so she grew up a very dunce; and when her parents died, she knew not how to teach a school, nor work, if she had tried. and now, an idle vagabond, she strolls about the streets; and not a friend can jenny find in any one she meets. and now, dear child, should you neglect your book or work again, or play, when you should be at school, remember lazy jane." chapter vi. frankie and the cripple. one evening, near the close of the term, nelly walked home in company with one of her schoolmates, and did not notice that her cousin went another way. one, two hours passed by, and frankie did not make his appearance; and at last his mother became so anxious, that she sent his brother out to search for him. willie went to the square to see whether he had stopped at any of the stores, then, as he did not find him, to the houses of some of his schoolmates, but none of them had seen him since school. "where can he have gone?" said willie to himself. "perhaps he was at his teacher's, and has returned before this time." he walked back toward home, looking around on every side. he was passing a house, when he heard a noise in the yard, and looking through the trees, saw a company of boys standing round a curious little carriage, in which sat a boy who was talking to them. he ran eagerly into the yard, for he thought frankie was among them. as he drew nearer, he found it was not a boy in the carriage, but a man without legs. he had met with a dreadful accident, and been obliged to have both his legs cut off; and now he was trying to support himself by selling pictures, rolling himself in his carriage from house to house by means of a crank wheel. this was very hard work for him, especially when he was going uphill; sometimes he was obliged to get boys to push behind. willie saw his brother frankie standing by the man, helping him hold his pictures, which he was exhibiting to the lady at the window. frankie's face was very red, and great drops of perspiration stood on his forehead and nose. "why haven't you been home?" asked willie. "mother is very anxious about you." "o, willie, see this poor man!" exclaimed frankie. "i have been pushing his wagon for him ever since school. he says he is a cripple, and can't walk at all. i'm going to push his carriage home now, as soon as he has sold pictures here, and then ask mamma to give him some supper." "why, frankie gray," called out the lady at the window, "is that you? well, come and take this money, dear, to pay for three pictures." when the carriage started, the boys all ran along; but none of them offered to assist in rolling it, except willie and frankie. "you are tired," said willie; "i'll push now." so frankie took off his straw hat, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. his hair was wet through, and curled in small rings all over his head. mrs. gray was looking anxiously from the window when they entered the avenue, and ran eagerly down to meet them. "o, mamma!" cried frankie; "i met a poor man. he has no legs, and can't walk at all. he has to wheel himself about in a little carriage, to get enough money to buy his food. it's very hard work, and so i waited to push it for him a little while. was it naughty, mamma? will you please to give him some supper?" mrs. gray looked in her son's earnest, loving eyes, and all her displeasure against him vanished. she caught him to her heart, and kissed his cheek and lips. "yes, my dear," she said, "you shall have the pleasure of giving him a good supper. but are you not hungry yourself? it is long past tea time." "i did not think any thing about it, mamma," said frankie, "i was so sorry for the poor man. there, willie has pushed his carriage up to the back door. i wonder how he can get out." in a few minutes the poor cripple had walked on his knees to the table, where jane had set him a bountiful meal. frankie seemed to consider the man his especial charge, and mrs. gray drew willie into the entry, where, through the door, they could see what passed. as soon as the food was before him, the cripple began to eat; and frankie, who was seated opposite, so as to be ready to attend to his wants, gazed at him in great surprise. "why!" said he, "you didn't pray to god." i suppose the dear child had never before seen any one begin to eat without first asking a blessing. even when he and nelly were playing tea, one of them always shut their eyes, and solemnly asked god to bless the food. the man stared at him and went on eating, while mrs. gray smiled as she peeped through the door, to see how serious the boy looked. "don't you love god?" asked frankie. "i dun know," said the man. "i love him," continued the child, "and i should think you would;" then, after waiting a moment, he asked, "did he cut your legs off?" "no," said the man, laughing; "the doctor did it." "i'm glad of that," said frankie. "you ought to love god, and pray to him every day. perhaps, if you did, he would let your legs grow again." willie almost laughed aloud; but frankie was so eager to do the man good, that he did not hear him. "i am afraid you are a wicked man," he said, "if you don't pray any." mrs. gray saw the cripple lay down his knife and fork, and gaze at the child; presently he spoke, but his voice trembled as he said, "i used to pray when i was a little shaver like you. my mother taught me." "where is she now?" asked the boy. "she has gone up there, long ago," said the man, softly pointing his finger upward. "well," said frankie, earnestly, "you can't go to heaven and live with her there, unless you are a good man and love god. i used to be naughty once, but my mother whipped me to make me good." "that's too bad," said the cripple. "no; it's just right. the bible says she must. i'm trying now to be a good boy; and i wish you would try too." "i guess there isn't much danger of you," said the man. "you're the most wonderful chap i ever saw." "i don't know what _chap_ is," replied frankie. "when i say my prayers to-night, i am going to ask god to give you a new heart; and then you can't help being good." "i wish you would," whispered the man, drawing his shirt sleeve across his eyes. he pushed his chair back from the table, saying, "i've had a first-rate supper; and i thank you and your mother a thousand times for all your kindness." willie then stepped into the kitchen, and helped him from his chair into his carriage, at the back door. the man gave frankie two of his handsomest pictures, saying, "don't forget what you promised to do for me to-night. i have nobody else to pray for me now." chapter vii. the rainy day. miss grant gave her scholars wednesday and saturday afternoons for play. one wednesday morning it rained very hard; and as nelly was not quite well, her aunt thought it not best for her to go to school. margie too had been unwell for a few days; so mrs. gray sent for her to come up to the nursery, that they might amuse themselves with their dolls. margie was eleven years of age; but she liked to play as well as ever. she had frankie's black dinah for her child; and then she had a large rag baby of her own, while nelly had great fanny and two smaller dolls. these they set up in a row, and played school; but just as they were ready to begin, ponto walked into the room, and tipped the scholars over. "o ponto, how naughty!" exclaimed nelly, laughing aloud, as he carefully stepped over the pupils, who were lying on their faces. "now let us begin again." so dinah, and fanny, and lily gray, and jenny, margie's doll, were all placed in nice order again, their backs up against the wall; and after a few words, charging the scholars to be very good and say their lessons well, nelly rang her aunt's small table bell, for them to take their places in the class. but not one of the dollies stirred; and so nelly took dinah's hand, and led her out to the floor. they played in this way for more than an hour, and then nelly complained of the headache; and so her aunt sent her to lie down and rest till dinner. in the mean time, frankie had put on his india rubber boots, and holding a large umbrella, started off for school, as happy as possible. he had never been absent or tardy a single day; and his teacher had promised to paint him a beautiful card, if he continued his good conduct to the end of the term. the dear boy was very much pleased at this, and was trying in every way to be good. he trudged gayly on right through the puddles of water, the rain pattering upon his umbrella, and dripping off upon the ground. "i don't care," said frankie to himself. "it's hard walking, i know; but i shall have a good time when i get there. my teacher will say, 'i knew you would be here, frankie, because you belong to the try company.'" when he reached the schoolroom, he found no one there but his teacher and hitty; and how do you think they came so safely in all the rain? frankie laughed most heartily when they told him. they rode with the butcher in his covered cart. they had kindled a nice fire in the open grate, and after the little fellow had stamped off the mud in the porch, he came in and stood by it to dry himself. the clock struck nine; but not one more of the scholars came, because it was only a half day, the teacher said; and so frankie and hitty stood before her, instead of going on the gallery, and repeated the lord's prayer. then she told them to bring their chairs close to the fire. "what a funny little school!" said frankie, laughing. the teacher laughed too, and said, "i think we shall have a very pleasant time." she rang the bell, and frankie marched out alone to his class. then she rung it again, and hitty read and spelt. she could read quite well now, and was getting to be a very good scholar. after this, miss grant said, "i must march with you, i suppose;" and so she stepped upon the circle; and they marched around and around, singing,-- "this is the way we wash our face," the teacher washing hers as hard as any of them. at recess she took a piece of paper from her desk, and drew a pretty picture of a dog carrying a basket in his mouth, and told frankie to draw one like it. frankie was delighted, and said, "this dog is like ponto, only that it has a short tail instead of a long one." miss grant then cut a paper doll for hitty, and afterward one for nelly. she made paper dresses, and aprons, and capes, and paper hats for their heads; and was so much engaged when she saw how delighted the children were, that she forgot she was teaching school, and never rang the bell for the close of recess for more than an hour. they all laughed merrily, and frankie, clapping his hands, said, "i like rainy days best of all!" after recess, miss grant gave the children a lesson in geography, and then related a story of a boy, named charles huntington, who, by his honesty, uprightness, and faithfulness to his employer, became a great and good man. having gained wealth, he gave freely of it to the poor and needy, and, after a long life of happiness and usefulness, died lamented by all who knew him. frankie listened attentively to the story, and then said, "i'm going to ask god to help me be like mr. charles huntington." and here we must leave our young friend, with the hope that the promise of early youth was verified in his manhood; that the seed sown in his young and tender heart, and watered by his mother's tearful prayers, sprang up and bore abundant fruit. as for his cousin nelly, she continued with her aunt for many years, until her mother died, when she returned home to comfort and bless her father, and help train her little brother as she had herself been taught by her kind friends. she always entertained for frankie the deep affection of a sister; and when he graduated from college with the first honors of his class, no one rejoiced or felt more proud of his success than his cousin nelly. * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious punctuation errors repaired. the quotation marks around the poem on pages - was not repaired as the author's intent could not be ascertained. the marks were left as printed. maple grove stories for little readers. happy hearts by june isle. cincinnati: published by poe & hitchcock. r. p. thompson, printer. entered, according to act of congress, in the year . by poe & hitchcock, in the clerk's office of the district court of the united states for the southern district of ohio. contents. chapter. page. i. whom have we always ii. fritz dead, yet lives iii. how? answered iv. what the stars saw happy hearts. chapter i. whom have we always. mr. and mrs. payson had three little children, who were very dear to them, and whom they amused and instructed in many pleasant ways. one spring, just as the leaves were bursting open and the birds were filling the air with gay songs, mr. payson told the children he had bought a home for them in the country. this pleased the little ones, and they talked from morning till night about what they would do in their new home. in the pretty country they watched the birds building their nests, and saw them feeding their young and teaching them to fly; and then they saw them in great cawing, twittering, fluttering swarms moving off to warmer lands when the yellow autumn leaves began to fall. but when the winter winds sung through the old pine trees, the children began to talk about christmas. "i wonder if santa claus will come away out here, with his great pack of toys," said rebecca one day. "i am afraid he will forget us, he has so many children to remember." "he may perhaps forget us," said joshua; "for cousin nelly says that he, one time, forgot to put any thing in her stocking, although she hung it where he could find it." "but," said rebecca, "nelly said it was a very stormy night, and they lived on a hill, and the wind blew so hard they were afraid it would blow the house down. and i think santa claus was afraid the wind would upset his pack of toys if he went up on aunt judd's roof." "i think," said joshua, "we had better send santa claus a letter, telling him that we have moved from town out into this pretty pine grove, then he will know where to find us." "that will be a good way," said rebecca; "for i remember when mrs. white, who lives in our house in town, was here last week, she told mamma that many persons had called there since we left, and asked for mr. payson. now, if the people do not know that we have moved away, santa claus may not; so he may go there and slide down the chimney, and, without asking any thing about it, put all the nice things, which he has in his pack for us, in tommy and jenny white's stockings." "i will write to santa claus," said joshua, "as soon as i can find time." joshua said this in rather of a large way, for he wished to talk like a man of business. "i will run and get your slate now," said rebecca; and she soon came with the slate and pencil. they all sat down and joshua took the pencil to write; but he found he could not do much, as his mamma was not there to spell the words for him. "let us ask papa to send word to santa claus," said rebecca. "and let us ask mrs. white," said newton, "to watch, and, when santa claus comes to her house, tell him where we live." "but mrs. white might watch all night, and then not see him," said rebecca; "for i think santa claus never makes any noise till he is just going out of sight; then his eight tiny reindeers jingle their bells as they scamper away with the sleigh full of toys." mrs. payson came into the nursery, and the children told her what they had been saying. "santa claus shall be told where to find you," said mrs. payson, "and you will have a happy christmas if you are happy in your own hearts. you shall have a christmas tree, and we will invite some friends to come and enjoy its fruits with us. but i wish you to remember, my darlings, if you have naughty thoughts you can not have a happy christmas." "but if some naughty thoughts come, what can we do?" asked rebecca. "try to think about something good and pleasant," said mrs. payson, "and ask god to help you. yesterday, when i heard joshua telling newton, in an angry way, that he hoped santa claus would not bring him any thing, i thought my dear boy's thinker was wrong." "i know, mamma," said joshua, "that i wish to be good. but, if god lets me be naughty, what good does it do to ask him to help me?" "god will help you if you ask him in the right way, and if you watch yourselves," said mrs. payson. "if we wished to be happy ourselves we must do something to make others so; and even little children can do much good if they try." "when we are trying to make others happy," said joshua, "we shall have good thoughts." "a little verse which you repeat," said mrs. payson, "says truly that 'satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do.' now i wish to hear what you, my children, have to do before christmas." "we must get our gifts ready for the tree," said rebecca. "and we must learn our lessons, every day," said joshua. "and i must learn all my letters, so papa will give me a rocking-horse," said little newton. "that is all right," said mrs. payson; "but have you not something more to do?" "o, yes!" said joshua, "we are to ride to town and invite our visitors to come and have a nice time with us in the holidays." "but, are there not others whom you can help to be happy and good?" asked mrs. payson; "those whom we always have with us?" "i don't know," said joshua, "as there are any persons that are always with us. bridget has been here only a few months, and she says she must go away after new-year; so you do not mean her. and john will leave next spring; so you can not mean him." "when you were learning your sunday school lesson a few weeks since," said mrs. payson, "i heard you repeating these words of christ, 'ye have the poor with you always; and whensoever ye will ye may do them good.'" "o, yes, mamma, i did not think of that," said joshua. "but, there are so many poor people, how can we do them good?" "we can do our little," said mrs. payson, "and if we only make one sad heart glad we have done a good deed, and we shall be better and happier ourselves while we are helping others." "when mrs. blake comes here to see you, mamma," said rebecca, "she talks about poor people, and how much she does for them. but mrs. blake does not seem to be happy; and she says there is no use in helping the poor, for if one begins there is no end." "mrs. blake," said mrs. payson, "has not a pleasant way of talking; but i think she enjoys doing good to others in her own cross way. yet, if we would be happy ourselves in making others happy, we must love to do it. if you should give little harry grant a pair of mittens because i told you to do so, while you were fretting because you wished to keep them yourself, you would be neither better nor happier for doing it; and you would not speak gently and kindly to the poor little fellow, and so make his face and your own bright by pleasant words. mrs. blake spends much time and money in helping poor people; but she forgets that she should 'speak gently, kindly to the poor.'" "i have some toys, mamma," said rebecca, "that i can give to mrs. grant's lame harry; i am sure they will make his little pale face smile." "and i should like to give willie a pair of shoes," said joshua; "for his are very ragged." "shall i give him my sled, mamma?" asked newton. now newton thought more of his sled than he did of any other plaything. it was painted green and yellow, and had a bright colored strap which he called the reins. the runners were very smooth, and he expected to have a gay time with it all winter. so, when newton asked about giving his sled, he knew he was giving what he liked best. "no, my darling," said mrs. payson; "keep your sled. but, we will see what we all can do for mrs. grant and her children, by the time christmas comes. she is a good woman, and we can do much to make her happy while her husband is gone to the war. "then there is mrs. fisher, who lives near town; can we do something for her?" asked mrs. payson. "mr. fisher gets drunk," said joshua; "and mrs. blake says it does no good to try to help them, for he sells things that are given to his wife to buy whisky." "but shall we leave poor mrs. fisher to suffer?" said mrs. payson. "shall we try to do nothing for her and her dear children? they are often cold for want of clothes and a fire. they are often hungry, because mr. fisher gets drunk, and is unkind to them. "with so many good things around us, shall we not try to help the little hungry children who have an unkind father?" "o, yes, mamma!" said all the children at once. "may i give something to martha kelly," asked rebecca, "who says she never has any presents?" "poor little martha is not much older than you are, my daughter," said mrs. payson; "yet she is obliged to work quite hard; for her mother is sick and her father is poor. but she has a sweet, smiling face, and she lives in a happier home than many children of rich parents." "i know, mamma," said joshua, "martha always looks pleasant, even in a shabby dress." "mr. kelly is a very kind and good man," said mrs. payson; "and i hope, before another christmas, he will be able to give his family a better home. "they look happy because they have good thoughts and try to do their duty. none can be happy, even in beautiful homes, unless their thoughts are right. "i hope you will select a pleasant book for little martha, my daughter, and i will send some articles to her mamma." "it is now your bedtime, my darlings. to-morrow we will begin to prepare our christmas gifts for the poor." the children kneeled down and thanked god for being so good to them, and asked him to help them to be kind and obedient, and to speak the truth. after they had said their prayers, newton ran to his mamma and kneeled down again by her side, and said, "will god please to help the hungry little children to smile, for christ's sake?" chapter ii. fritz dead, yet lives. the next day, after the children had finished their lessons, mrs. payson said, "i will tell you a little story, showing how a child can do much good. "many years ago, i knew a little boy who could not walk. his nurse let him fall, when he was a baby, and hurt his back, so that he grew out of shape, and could not stand on his feet. "the little boy's name was fritz ritter. his parents lived in a pleasant home, and did all they could to make their darling lame boy happy. "they taught him to read, and write, and to draw pictures. "but fritz said, 'that is not enough. i have dear friends, who do every thing for me. now, i must do something too.' "his father kept a man to draw him about in a little wagon; so fritz knew all the streets in town, and visited the machine-shops and mills to see how things are made. almost every one looked kindly on his sweet, pale face, and wherever he went the people would talk with him and show him what he wished to see. "as he rode about the city he saw many poor houses, and hungry and ragged children. "one night, when his mamma laid him in his little bed, she saw that he was sad and quiet. "'what is the matter with my little boy to-night?' she asked. "'i have seen so many poor little children on stone alley to-day,' said fritz, 'who were ragged and dirty, i wished they had good homes and good mammas.' "'i am sorry for all poor little children who are ragged and hungry,' said mrs. ritter. 'but, as we can not give them pleasant homes we must do what we can for them; for you know christ says, "the poor ye have always; and whensoever ye will, ye may do them good."'" "fritz turned his face away and shut his eyes as though he was tired. but he was not tired; he was only thinking. "he had stopped many times at a little shop, in the edge of town, where baskets were made; a man, and a woman, and several children worked there, and they made many kinds of baskets; some of them very fine and pretty. "fritz had sat in the shop a long time that day, and he asked the man if he might come every day, and learn to make baskets. "now, in his little bed, with his eyes shut, he was thinking how he would make them and sell them for money to help poor children. "the next morning fritz told his mamma what he had been thinking about. "she was pleased with his plan; for she thought it would amuse her darling little lame boy. "fritz went to the basket-maker's shop all summer, and by the time cold weather came he could make very beautiful baskets. some merchants in town sold them for him, and by christmas time he had laid up several dollars, which he said he should give to poor widow wilcox, who looked sick and pale, and had two children. "mrs. ritter gave fritz a little room at home for his shop; and his papa put into it all the materials necessary for making baskets; and there fritz spent several hours every day at his work. "he was happy and said, 'now i am of some use, as i can help to make others good and happy.' "widow wilcox and her children had food, and a fire, and clothes in the cold winter weather; and it was the little pale-faced lame boy who gave them to her. "jim and dora wilcox learned their books because fritz wished them to do so. they would not play any more with bad children on the streets, because fritz told them they must not. and when jim promised that he would try to remember and not use any more naughty words, fritz told him he would give him all the books he would read to dora and his mother. "finally, jim went every day to fritz's little shop, and learned to make baskets. he was so handy that, by the time another christmas came, he was able to carry to his mother money that he had himself earned. "fritz was about ten years old when he began to make baskets. the lord allowed him to live only two years longer; but, in that time, many poor children loved him, and thanked him for his kindness. when he died many tears were shed in the alleys and back streets, where the dear pale-faced boy had tried to make others good and happy. "little children went in a great company, when he was buried, and threw flowers into his grave. "we believe that when fritz's gentle spirit left his poor, crooked body, it went to the happy land, to grow in beauty forever. but he is not forgotten on earth; and now, many years after, there are those who bless the dear little lame boy." "did you know him, mamma?" asked rebecca, with tears in her eyes. "yes," said mrs. payson. "it was when i was a young girl that i attended the funeral of little fritz. "mr. wilcox, who keeps the great store of baskets in town, where you have sometimes stopped with me to see how beautiful they are, is the little jim whom fritz taught to be good and useful. "he has always taken tender care of his mother, who is now so old she remembers but little; but if you ask her about fritz she will talk a long time about him, whom she calls 'god's dear child.'" "your true story, mamma, is better than made-up ones," said joshua, as he walked away to the window. "when i look at my little work-basket, mamma," said rebecca, "that you bought of mr. wilcox, i shall think of fritz, and the basket will help me to be good." "so you see, my darling," said mrs. payson, "when our bodies are turning to dust in the ground, the deeds which we did may be helping others to be good or bad." chapter iii. how? answered. when the family were gathered in the parlor, after dinner, mrs. payson said, "we will now see how we can help poor mrs. fisher; for there are none who more need kind words and deeds than helpless ones whom a bad husband and father leaves to suffer, and sometimes to perish, with hunger and cold." "but how can we give mrs. fisher any thing, if her husband sells it?" asked joshua. "there is an honest woman living next to mrs. fisher's," said mrs. payson, "who has washed for me sometimes. i will hire a place in her little yard for coal, and send some there. i will give mrs. fisher tickets for getting a half bushel at a time, when she needs it, so she can have a fire." "and i will give her tickets for getting bread at the bakery, and meat and potatoes in market," said mr. payson. "she must get a little at a time, and not keep any in the house for her husband to carry off." "that will be good," said rebecca; "the little hungry children will smile." "i will give half of my money to buy some shoes for dick fisher," said joshua. "and i will give half of mine to buy a flannel petticoat for mrs. fisher," said rebecca. "here is my money, mamma," said newton, who had run to bring his little box. "may we send the children some of our toys?" asked rebecca. "you may send what you please," said mrs. payson. "we will put them in a basket with enough food for a good dinner, and you may carry all to her, christmas morning, with the tickets." "o, mamma," said joshua, "it will be pleasant to see how surprised and happy they will look." "now, what shall we do for mrs. grant?" asked mrs. payson. "several neighbors have promised to join me in giving her coal, flour, and meat, as long as she needs such help," said mr. payson. "i will prepare some clothes for herself and her children," said mrs. payson. "and we will give them some toys and books," said joshua. "will you please, papa," said newton, "send word to santa claus to carry his pack to the top of mrs. grant's chimney? and i will tell little lame harry to hang up his stocking." "yes," said mr. payson smiling, "i will send word to santa claus to have his eight tiny reindeer jingle their bells right merrily over mrs. grant's chimney." that night mr. payson's three children went to bed feeling very happy; for they were trying to do something to make others good and happy. chapter iv. what the stars saw. the stars were yet winking through the pine trees on christmas morning, when the little paysons went shouting their "merry christmas" through the house. santa claus had filled their stockings with just what they most wanted. strange that he should know so well! there could be no more morning naps now, and while the stars were shutting their eyes bridget prepared the early breakfast, so the children might go with their happy hearts and their gifts to gladden those who needed kind words and good deeds. after the family had joined in their morning worship, mr. payson said, "now, my children, we will go and see some sad faces smile, while mamma prepares the christmas-tree; for she says we must not have a peep at it till our friends come this evening." by the time the sun was looking over the tree tops, mr. payson and the children were riding toward mrs. grant's with a basket of good things and a great many kind words. they found the little grants in quite an uproar. they had hung up their stockings for the first time in their lives, and now they were spreading out santa claus's wonderful gifts with great glee. the basket was carried in, and mr. payson told mrs. grant what more would be done for her every-day comfort. tears came in her eyes when she thanked him and the children. "it almost made me feel like crying," said rebecca, when they had left the house, "to see poor lame harry's face look so happy." at mrs. fisher's they found a gloomy and unhappy scene. mr. fisher sat with his hair falling over his half-shut eyes, while the hungry and cold children were huddled around the half-warmed stove on which their mother was trying to cook something for breakfast. "my children have come to bring some smiles to yourself and your little ones this christmas morning," said mr. payson to mrs. fisher, as they stepped into the miserable home. "mamma says, will you please have a good dinner?" said rebecca, as she and joshua carried the basket to mrs. fisher, whose eyes filled with tears at this unexpected kindness. mr. payson gave her the tickets for coal and food, and told her that his wife would call sometimes and see how she enjoyed them. mr. fisher hung his head in shame as the bright faces of the little paysons left. but a ray of light had shone into that gloomy home, and mrs. fisher's sad face smiled when she saw her children spreading out their christmas gifts. each one had been kindly remembered and was bright with happiness. joshua, and rebecca, and newton rode toward home, carrying hearts filled anew with love, and gentleness, and kindness. mr. payson next knocked at mr. kelly's door. mrs. kelly was sitting, wrapped up, in a rocking chair, sick, but having a pleasant smile. little martha was doing the morning work, and looked with surprise at the early visitors and their good gifts. the children soon had the food spread out for mrs. kelly to see what a nice dinner she would have; and martha fairly danced around the room, holding up a good sunday frock for herself and a pretty story book. "this _is_ a happy christmas," said rebecca as they rode home. "we learn, my children," said mr. payson, "that those who try to do their duty may be rich in happy hearts and smiling homes though they are very poor. "but bad hearts and bad ways make the sunshine seem gloomy in the finest parlors." when the sun went down that night, friends, both old and young, gathered in mr. payson's parlors, to pluck gifts from the well-loaded christmas-tree. fruits from all parts of the world were hanging in its branches, and toys and books peeped out from the green leaves. when little eyelids were closed in sleep that night, the stars winked and smiled over little hearts that were brimful of love; because, by giving, they had grown rich. scamp and i a story of city by-ways by l.t. meade published by john f. shaw and co, paternoster row, london ec. this edition dated . scamp and i, by l.t. meade. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ scamp and i, by l.t. meade. chapter one. i'd choose to be a queen. the time was the height of the london season for ; the height of that gay time when the parks, and streets, and shops are full, when pleasure-promoters are busy keeping up a fresh supply of every form of entertainment, when pleasure-seekers are flocking to the garden parties, and strawberry parties, the operas, and theatres, and all other amusements provided for them; when the world--the world at least of regent street, and piccadilly, of eaton square, and all belgravia--looks so rich and prosperous, so full of life and all that makes life enjoyable. it was that gay time when no one thinks of gloom, when ambitious men dream of fame, and vain women of vanity, when the thoughtless think less than any other time, and when money seems to be the one god that rules in every breast. this was the time in the merry month of may, when one afternoon, at the hour when regent street is brightest and fullest, a little ragged urchin of about ten pushed his way boldly through the crowd of carriages and people surrounding swan and edgar's, and began staring eagerly and fearlessly in at the windows. he was the only ragged child, the only representative of poverty, within sight, and he looked singularly out of place, quite a little shadow in the midst of the splendid carriages, and brilliant and prosperous men and women. the few who noticed him wondered languidly what brought him there, why he intruded his disreputable little person in the midst of scenes and people with which he never had, and never could have, anything in common. the little fellow seemed to guess the thoughts which a few in the crowd favoured him with, and in his own way to resent them. in and out among the rich and fashionable people his small head kept bobbing, his agile body kept pushing. he avoided the police, he escaped unhurt from under the impatient horses' legs, he was never stationary, and yet he was always there. he pressed his dirty little form against more than one fine lady's dress, and received more than one sharp reprimand, and sharper tap on the head, from the powdered and liveried footmen. still he held his ground and remained faithful to swan and edgar's. he was a dirty, troublesome little imp, but on his worn and prematurely old face might have been seen a curious, bright expression. those who looked at him might have pronounced him hungry, certainly poor, but, for the time being, not at all unhappy. round and round the splendid establishment he dodged rather than walked, examining with a critical eye the mantles and costumes on view in the windows; then he carefully looked over and reckoned the carriages, gazed up with a full, bright, impudent stare into the face of more than one proud and titled dame, and at last, apparently satisfied, turned his back on the gay shop and gay crowd, and set off down regent street at a swinging pace. presently, by means of a series of short cuts, he found himself in old compton street, from thence he proceeded through seven dials into a street which we will call duncan street. he had come this distance very quickly, and had withstood several temptations to linger on his road. a band of musical niggers, who danced, and sang, and played the bones, had waylaid him in vain; his own particular chum, jenks, had met him, and called to him to stop, but he had not obeyed; the shrimp man, who always gave him a handful, had come directly in his path. he had paused for nothing, and now dashing headlong, not into a house, but through a hole in the pavement, down a slippery ladder, into a cellar, he called out "flo." from the bright sunshine outside, the gloom of this place, lit by the flickering flame of one tallow candle, was profound. its roof was on a level with the road, its floor several feet below the gas-pipes and sewage; it had no window, and its only means of light and ventilation was through the narrow opening in the pavement, against which a ladder was placed. the ragged boy, rushing down these steps, made his way to a cobbler's stool, in the middle of the room, on which was seated a little girl busily repairing an old boot, while a heap of boots and shoes, apparently in the last stage of decay, were scattered round her. this child, a year or so younger than the boy, had the utterly colourless appearance of a flower shut away from the sunshine. "flo," said her companion eagerly. a little voice, very thin, but just as eager, responded with,-- "yes, dick dear." "is you up to a bit o' 'joyment this 'ere blessed minit, flo?" "oh, dick! _is_ it the shops, and the picters, and the fine ladies? _is_ it, dick?" "yes; queens, and ladies, and lords goin' about in golden carriages, and shops full up to bustin', and we a standin' and a lookin' on. better'n wittles, eh?" "oh yes, dick!" she threw aside the old boot, held out her dirty little hand to dick, and together the children scampered up the broken, rickety ladder into the air and light of day. "now, flo, you 'as got to put your best foot forrard, 'cos we 'as a goodish bit o' a way to tramp it. then i'll plant you front o' me, flo; and when we gets there, you never mind the perleece, but look yer fill. oh, my heyes! them is hosses!" flo, seen by daylight, had brown eyes, very large and soft; curling, golden brown hair, and a sweet gentle little face. had she been a lady she would have been pronounced a lovely child, and in all probability would have been a lovely child, but her cellar-life had produced sharp shoulders, a complexion of greyish-white, and a certain look of premature age and wisdom, which all children so brought up possess. she raised her hand now to shade her face, as though the daylight pained her, looked round eagerly, then tightened her clasp of dick. "is there blue, and yaller, and red, and majinta dresses in them 'ere winders, dick? and is there lace on 'em? and is there welwet and silk dresses, dick?" dick winked, and looked mysterious. "silk gownds, and satin gownds, and welwet gownds," he replied, "and gownds--some trimmed with wot looks like paper cut into 'oles, and gownds made o' little round 'oles hall over. and the bonnets in them shops! my heyes, flo! them bonnets 'ave got about hevery bird in saint martin's lane killed and stuffed, and stuck in 'em. but come," he added, hastily bringing his vivid description to a close, "the lords and ladies will be gone." he held the slight little fingers placed in his, with a firm hold, and together they trotted swiftly from their dark saint giles's cellar, to the bright fairy-land of regent street. there were plenty of people, and carriages, and grand ladies and gentlemen still there; and the dresses were so fine, and the feathers so gay, that flo, when she found herself really in their midst, was speechless, and almost stunned. she had dreamed of this day for months--this day, when dick was to show her the other side of london life, and she had meant when the time came to enter into it all, to realise it if possible. she and dick were to carry out quite a pretty play; they were to suppose _themselves_ a grand lady and gentleman; flo was to single out the nicest looking and most beautifully dressed lady present, and imagine _herself_ that lady; those clothes were _her_ clothes, those silken dresses, those elegant boots and gloves, that perfect little bonnet, were all flo's; the carriage with its spirited horses was hers, and the fine gentleman with the splendid moustache seated by her side, was none other than dick. they had arranged the whole programme; the carriage was to drive off rapidly--where? well, _first_ dick said they would stop at a restaurant, and instead of, as the real flo and dick did, standing a sniffin' and a sniffin' outside, they would walk boldly in, and order--well, beef, and potatoes, and plum-pudding were vulgar certainly, but once in a way they _would_ order these for dinner. then back in the carriage to swan and edgar's, where flo would have the creamiest of silk dresses, and a new bonnet with a pink tip, and dick, who was supposed to be in perfect attire as it was, would talk loudly of "my tailor," and buy the most beautiful flower, from the first flower-girl he met, to put in his button-hole. then at night they would have a box at the theatre. their whole plan was very brilliantly constructed, and dick, having got flo into a capital position, just opposite a row of lovely dresses, with carriages close up to the footway, and grand ladies sweeping against her tattered gown each moment, was very anxious for her to begin to carry out their play. "come, flo," he said, giving her a nudge. "s'pose a bit, flo. which fine lady'll yer be? look at that 'ere little 'un, in blue and white, i guess she's an hearl's wife. come, flo, choose to be her. i'll be the hearl, and you the hearl's wife, flo." "be hearls the biggest swells?" asked flo. dick opened his eyes. "bless us!" he said. "why, flo, i'm 'shamed o' yer hignorance. why there's markises, and dooks, and there's kings and queens--all them's bigger than hearls, flo." "is queens the biggest of all swells?" asked flo. "sartinly, they be the biggest woman swells." "then, dick, i'll s'pose to be the biggest swell, i'll s'pose to be a queen. find me hout a queen to take pattern of, dick." "oh! flo, there ain't none yere, there be but one queen, flo, and 'ers away, locked hup at bucknam palace. you can't s'pose to be the queen, flo, but i guess we'll be the hearl and the hearl's wife, and let us s'pose now as we is turnin' in fur our dinners, and the kivers is orf the roast beef, and the taters is 'ot and mealy, and a whackin' big puddin' is to foller." at this juncture, when dick's imagination was running riot over his supposed dinner, and flo's little face was raised to his with a decided gesture of dissent, a hand was laid familiarly on his shoulder, and turning quickly he discerned the smiling, mischievous face of his friend jenks. "wot ails the young 'un?" said jenks. dick was ashamed of his play beside his tall friend (jenks was fourteen), and answered hastily-- "nothing." but flo replied innocently, and in an injured tone-- "i wants fur to be a queen, and there is no queens hout this arternoon fur me to take pattern of." the black eyes of jenks sparkled more mischievously than ever; but he liked flo, and knew she was fond of supposing herself a great lady. "look at that 'ere 'oman," he said, pointing to a stout old lady in black velvet and white lace shawl; "s'pose you is 'er, flo. my heyes! wot a precious big swell you would look in that 'ere gownd." here dick and jenks both laughed uproariously, but the ambitious little flo still answered in a fretful tone-- "i'll not be that 'ere swell, i'll choose to be a queen." "then come along both o' yers," said jenks, "and see the queen. she 'ave got to pass hout of bucknam palace in arf an 'our, on 'er way to victoria station. come, flo, i'll 'old yer 'and. come, dick, old pal." the children, only too delighted to be seen anywhere in jenks's company, followed eagerly, and led by their clever friend down several by-ways, soon found themselves in the midst of the crowd which had already collected outside buckingham palace gates to see the queen. flo was excited and trembling. _now_ she should behold with her own eyes the biggest swell in all the world, and for ever after in her dark saint giles's cellar she could suppose, and go over in her imagination, the whole scene. no vulgar "dook" or "markis" could satisfy flo's ambition; when she soared she would soar high, and when she saw the queen she would really know how to act the queen to perfection. so excited was she that she never observed that she was really alone in the crowd, that jenks and dick had left her side. she was a timid child, not bold and brazen like many of her class, and had she noticed this she would have been too frightened even to look out for the greatest woman in the world. but before she had time to take in this fact there was a cheer, a glittering pageant passed before flo's eyes,--she had never seen the life guards before!--a carriage appeared amidst other carriages, a lady amidst other ladies, and some instinct told the child that this quietly-dressed, dignified woman was the queen of england. the eager crowd had pushed the little girl almost to the front, and the queen, bowing graciously on all sides, looked for an instant full at flo. she was probably unconscious of it, but the child was not. her brown eyes sparkled joyfully; she had seen the queen, and the _queen had seen her_. they were to meet again. chapter two. a hot supper. when the royal carriage had passed by, the crowd immediately scattered, and then for the first time flo perceived that she was deserted by her companions. she looked to right and left, before and behind her, but the little rough and ragged figures she sought for were nowhere visible. she was still excited by the sight she had witnessed, and was consequently not much frightened though it did occur to her to wonder how ever she should find her way home again. she turned a few steps,-- saint james's park with the summer sunshine on it lay before her. she sat down on the grass, and pulled a few blades and smelt them--they were withered, trampled, and dry, but to flo their yellow, sickly green was beautiful. she gathered a few more blades and tucked them tenderly into the bosom of her frock--they would serve to remind her of the queen, they had sprouted and grown up within sight of the queen's house, perhaps one day the queen had looked at them, as to-day she had looked at flo. the child sat for half-an-hour unperceived, and therefore undisturbed, drinking in the soft summer air, when suddenly a familiar voice sounded in her ears, and the absent figures danced before her. "i say, flo, would yer like somethink _real_, not an ony s'pose?" flo raised her eyes and fixed them earnestly on dick. "no, dick," she replied slowly, "there beant but one queen, and i've seen the queen, and she's beautiful and good, and she looked at me, dick, and i'm not a goin' to take 'er place, so i'll be the hearl's wife please, dick dear." the two boys laughed louder than ever, and then jenks, coming forward and bowing obsequiously, said in a mock serious tone-- "will my lady countess, the hearl's wife, conderscend to a 'elpin' o' taters and beef along o' her 'umble servants, and will she conderscend to rise orf this 'ere grass, as hotherwise the perleece might feel obligated to give 'er in charge, it being contrary to the rules, that even a hearl's wife should make this 'ere grass 'er cushion." considerably frightened, as jenks intended she should be, flo tumbled to her feet, and the three children walked away. dick nudged his sister and looked intensely mysterious, his bright eyes were dancing, his shock of rough hair was pushed like a hay-stack above his forehead, his dirty freckled face was flushed. jenks preceded the brother and sister by a few steps, getting over the ground in a light and leisurely manner, most refreshing to the eyes of dick. "ain't 'ee a mate worth 'avin'?" he whispered to flo. "but wot about the meat and taters?" asked flo, who by this time was very hungry; "ain't it nothink but another `s'pose' arter all?" "wait and you'll see," replied dick with a broad grin. "here we 'ere," said jenks, drawing up at the door of an eating-house, not quite so high in the social scale as verrey's, but a real and substantial eating-house nevertheless. "now, my lady countess, the hearl's wife, which shall it be? smokin' 'ot roast beef and taters, or roast goose full hup to chokin' o' sage and onions? there, flo," he added, suddenly changing his tone, and speaking and looking like a different jenks, "you 'as but to say one or t'other, so speak the word, little matey." seeing that there was a genuine eating-house, and that jenks was in earnest, flo dropped her assumed character, and confessed that she had _once_ tasted 'ot fat roast beef, long ago in mother's time, but had never so much as _seen_ roast goose; accordingly that delicacy was decided on, and jenks having purchased a goodly portion, brought it into the outer air in a fair-sized wooden bowl, which the owner of the eating-house had kindly presented to him for the large sum of four pence. at sight of the tempting mess cooling rapidly in the breeze, all flo's housewifely instincts were awakened. "it won't be _'ot_ roast goose, and mother always did tell 'as it should be heat up 'ot," she said pitifully. "'ere, dick, 'ere's my little shawl, wrap it round it fur to keep it 'ot, do." flo's ragged scrap of a shawl was accordingly unfastened and tied round the savoury dish, and dick, being appointed bowl-bearer, the children trudged off as rapidly as possible in the direction of duncan street. they were all three intensely merry, though it is quite possible that a close observer might have remarked, that dick's mirth was a little forced. he laughed louder and oftener than either of the others, but for all that, he was not quite the same dick who had stared so impudently about him an hour or two ago in regent street. he was excited and pleased, but he was no longer a fearless boy. an hour ago he could have stared the world in the face, now even at a distant sight of a policeman he shrank behind jenks, until at last that young gentleman, exasperated by his rather sneaking manner, requested him in no very gentle terms not to make such a fool of himself. then dick, grinning more than ever, declared vehemently that "_'ee_ wasn't afraid of nothink, not 'ee." but just then something, or some one, gave a vicious pull to his ragged trouser, and he felt himself turning pale, and very nearly in his consternation dropping the dish, with that delicious supper. the cause of this alarm was a wretched, half-starved dog, which, attracted doubtless by the smell of the supper, had come behind him and brought him to a sense of his presence in this peremptory way. "no, don't 'it 'im," said flo, as jenks raised his hand to strike, for the pitiable, shivering creature had got up on its hind legs, and with coaxing, pleading eyes was glancing from the bowl to the children. "ain't 'ee just 'ungry?" said flo again, for her heart was moved with pity for the miserable little animal. "well, so is we," said dick in a fretful voice, and turning, he trudged on with his load. "come, flo, do," said jenks, "don't waste time with that little sight o' misery any more, 'ees ony a street cur." "no 'ee ain't," said flo half to herself, for jenks had not waited for her, "'ees a good dawg." "good-bye, good dawg," and she patted his dirty sides. "ef i wasn't so werry 'ungry, and ef dick wasn't the least bit in the world crusty, i'd give you a bite o' my supper," and she turned away hastily after jenks. "wy, i never! 'ee's a follerin' o' yer still, flo," said jenks. so he was; now begging in front of her, paying not the least attention to jenks--dick was far ahead--but fixing his starved, eager, anxious eyes on the one in whose tone he had detected kindness. "oh! 'ee _is_ starvin', i must give 'im one bite o' my supper," said flo, her little heart utterly melting, and then the knowing animal came closer, and crouched at her feet. "poor brute! hall 'is ribs is stickin' hout," said jenks, examining him more critically. "i 'spects 'ees strayed from 'ome. yer right, flo, 'ees not such a bad dawg, not by no means, 'ee 'ave game in 'im. i ses, flo, would you like to take 'im 'ome?" "oh, jenks! but wouldn't dick be hangry?" "never you mind dick, i'll settle matters wid 'im, ef you likes to give the little scamp a bite o' supper, you may." "may be scamp's 'ees name; see! 'ee wags 'is little tail." "scamp shall come 'ome then wid us," said jenks, and lifting the little animal in his arms, he and flo passed quickly through seven dials, into duncan street, and from thence, through a gap in the pavement, into the deep, black cellar, which was their home. chapter three. what the children promised their mother. in the cellar there was never daylight, so though the sun was shining outside, flo had to strike a match, and poking about for a small end of tallow candle, she applied it to it. then, seating herself on her cobbler's stool, while jenks and dick squatted on the floor, and scamp sat on his hind legs, she unpacked the yellow bowl; and its contents of roast goose, sage and onions, with a plentiful supply of gravy and potatoes, being found still hot, the gutter children and gutter dog commenced their supper. "i do think 'ees a dawg of the right sort," said jenks, taking scamp's head between his knees. "we'll take 'im round to maxey, and see wot 'ee ses, dick." "arter supper?" inquired dick indistinctly, for his mouth was full. "no, i wants you arter supper for somethink else; and look yere, dick, i gives you warning that ef you gets reg'lar in the blues, as you did this arternoon, i'll 'ave no callin' to you." "i'll not funk," said dick, into whose spirit roast goose had put an immense accession of courage. "lor! bless yer silly young heyes, where 'ud be yer supper ef you did? no, we'll go on hour bis'ness to-night, and we'll leave the little dawg with flo. he's lost, por little willan, and 'ave no father nor mother. he's an horfan, is scamp, and 'as come to us fur shelter." the boys and girl laughed, the supper, however good and plentiful, came to an end, and then dick in rather a shamefaced way prepared to follow jenks; the two lads ran up the ladder and disappeared, and flo stood still to watch them with a somewhat puzzled look on her woman's face. she was eight years old, a very little girl in any other rank of life, but in this saint giles's cellar she was a woman. she had been a woman for a whole year now; ever since her mother died, and she had worked from morning to night for her scanty living, she had put childish things away, and taken on herself the anxieties, the hopes, and fears, of womanhood. dick was ten, but in reality, partly on account of her sex, partly on account of the nature within her, flo was much older than her little brother. it was she who worked all day over those old shoes and boots, translating them, for what she called truly "starvegut" pay, into new ones. it was dick's trade, but flo really did the work, for he was always out, looking, as he said, for better employment. but the better employment did not come to dick, perhaps because dick did not know how to come to it, and flo's little fingers toiled bravely over this hard work, and the wolf was barely kept from the door. her mother had taught her the trade, and she was really a skilful little work-woman. comforted now by her good meal, by her run in the open air, by the wonderful sights, and by the crowning sight of all she had seen; comforted also not a little by scamp's company, she resumed her employment. the dog, satisfied and well pleased, rolled himself up as close as possible to her ragged gown, and went to sleep; and flo, feeling sure that she would be now undisturbed, arranged quite a nice amusement for herself. she would begin supposing now in earnest. she had seen the queen, she had seen fine ladies, she knew at last what velvet and silk, what lace and feathers, what horses and carriages were like. she could suppose to any amount. she had no longer need to draw wholly on her own resources, she knew what the real things were, at last. she had a very vivid imagination, and she dropped her work, and her big brown eyes looked far away from the real and ugly things about her, to beautiful things elsewhere. but somehow, and this was strange, unpleasant thoughts would intrude, a present anxiety would shut away imaginary joys, and with a sigh the little girl resumed her work and her cares. her trouble was this. what railed dick? his embarrassment, his fear of the police, his forced mirth, had none of them escaped flo's observant eyes. generally he was the merriest little fellow in the world, but to-night, even while partaking of a supper that would have rejoiced any heart, even while eating those exasperatingly delicious morsels, he had been grave, subdued, and his laugh (for through it all he laughed constantly) had no true ring in it. he was also the bravest little boy possible; he had never in all his life funked any one or anything, and yet to-night at the sight of a policeman even in the far distance he had got in the most cowardly way behind jenks. there was some cause for this. there was also something else to be accounted for. how was that supper bought? where had the money come from? flo knew well that 'ot roast goose, with sage and onions, with taters and gravy, not to make any mention of the bowl that held them, had not been purchased for a few pence; so where, where had the money come from? dick had it not, and jenks, though _werry_ liberal, liberal to the amount of now and then presenting her with a whole red herring for their supper, was to all appearance as poor and as hard up as themselves. true, flo did not know how jenks made his living; his trade--for he told her he had a trade--was a secret, which he might enlighten her about some time, but certainly not at present. jenks got his money, what little money he had, in some mysterious way, of that there was no doubt. she thought over it all to-night, and very grave were her fears and suspicions. was it possible that jenks was a bad boy, and that he was teaching dick to be a bad boy? was it possible that jenks was not honest, and that the delicious supper they had just eaten was not honestly come by? what a pity if this was so, for 'ot roast goose _was_ so good. perhaps dick had helped some old lady to find a cab, and she had given him a shilling, and perhaps jenks, who was _werry_ good-natured, had kindly assisted some other body, and thus earned 'arf-a-crown; this sum would pay for their supper, good as it was! but no; had they earned the money in that way, they would have told flo, they would have been proud to tell flo, whereas the word money had never been mentioned at all between them! had dick got the money rightly he would have been only too glad to speak of it; so it was clear to flo that in some wrong manner alone had it come into his possession! well! why should she care? they were very poor, they were as low down in the world as they well could be; nobody loved them, nobody had ever taught them to do right. dick and flo were "horfans," same as scamp was an orphan. the world was hard on them, as it is on all defenceless creatures. if dick _could_ "prig" something from that rich and greedy world that was letting them both starve, would it be so very wrong? if he could do this without the police finding out, without fear of discovery, would it not be rather a good and easy way of getting breakfasts, and dinners, and suppers? for surely some people had _too_ much; surely it was not fair that all those buns and cakes, all those endless, countless good things in the west end shops should go to the rich people; surely the little hungry boys and girls who lived, and felt, and suffered in the east end should have their share! and if only by stealing they could taste roast goose, was it very wrong, was it wrong at all to steal? flo knew nothing about god, she had never heard of the eighth commandment, but nevertheless, poor ignorant little child, she had a memory that kept her right, a memory that made it impossible for her, even had she really starved, to touch knowingly what was not her own. the memory was this. a year ago flo's mother had died in this cellar. she was a young woman, not more than thirty, but the damp of the miserable cellar, together with endless troubles and hardships, had fanned the seeds of consumption within her, and before her thirty-first birthday she had passed away. she knew she was dying, and in her poor way had done her best to prepare her children for her loss. she taught them both her trade, that of a translator,--not a literary translator, poor mrs darrell could not read,--but a translator of old boots and shoes into new; and flo and dick, young as they were, learned the least difficult and lighter parts of the business before her death. she had no money to leave them, no knowledge beyond that of her trade; she knew nothing of god or of heaven, but she had one deeply-instilled principle, and this she endeavoured by every means in her power to impart to the children. living in a place, and belonging to a grade of society, where _any_ honesty was rare, she was nevertheless a perfectly honest woman. she had never touched a penny that was not her own, she was just and true in all her dealings. she was proud of saying--and the pride had caused her sunken, dying eyes to brighten even at the last--that none of her belongings, however low they had fallen, had ever seen the inside of a prison, or ever stood in a prisoner's dock. they were honest people, and dick and flo must keep up the family character. come what might, happen what would, they must ever and always look every man in the face, with the proud consciousness, "i have stolen from none." on the night she died, she had called them both to her side, and got them to promise her this. with pathetic and solemn earnestness, she had held their little hands and looked into their little faces, and implored of them, as they loved their dead father and mother, never, never to disgrace the unstained name they had left to them. "'tis just hevery think," said the dying woman. "arter hall my 'ard life, 'tis real comfa'ble to look back on. remember, dick and flo, i dies trustin' yer. you'll never, wot hever 'appins, be jail-birds-- promise me that?" "never, mother," said flo, kissing her and weeping; and dick promised, and kissed her, and wept also, and then the two children climbed up on the bed and lay down one at each side of her, and the poor dying woman closed her eyes and was cheered by their words. "is you dying to-night, mother?" asked flo, gazing with awe at her clammy cold face. "yes, dearie." "where'll you be to-morrer, then, mother?" a shadow passed over the peaceful, ignorant face, the brown eyes, so like her little daughter's, were opened wide. "oh! i doesn't know--yes, it be _werry_ dark, but i guess it 'ull be all right." then after a pause, very slowly, "i doesn't mind the grave, i'd like a good bit o' a rest, for i'm awful--awful tired." before the morning came the weary life was ended, and dick and flo were really orphans. then the undertaker's men came, and a coffin was brought, and the poor, thin, worn body was placed in it, and hauled up by ropes into the outer world, and the children saw their mother no more. but they remembered her words, and tried hard to fight out an honest living for themselves. this was no easy task; it sent them supperless to bed, it gave them mouldy crusts for dinner, it gave them cold water breakfasts; still they persevered, flo working all day long at her cobbling, while dick, now tried a broom and crossing, now stood by the metropolitan stations waiting for chance errands, now presented himself at every shop where an advertisement in the window declared a boy was wanting, now wandered about the streets doing nothing, and occasionally, as a last resource, helped flo with her cobbling. but the damp, dark cellar was unendurable to the bright little fellow, and he had to be, as he himself expressed it, a goodish bit peckish before he could bear it. so flo uncomplainingly worked in the dismal room, and paid the small rent, and provided the greater part of the scanty meals, and dick thought this arrangement fair enough; "for was not flo a gel? _she_ could bear the lonely, dark, unwholesome place better'n him, who was a boy, would one day be a man, and--in course it was the place of womens to kep at 'ome." so flo stayed at home and was honest, and dick went abroad and was honest, and the consciousness of this made them both happy and contented. but about a month before this evening dick returned from his day's roaming very hungry as usual, but this time not alone, a tall boy with merry twinkling eyes accompanied him. he was a funny boy, and had no end of pleasant droll things to say, and dick and flo laughed, as they had not laughed since mother died. he brought his share of supper in his pocket, in the shape of a red herring, and a large piece of cold bacon, and the three made quite merry over it. before the evening came to an end he had offered to share the cellar, which was, he said, quite wasted on two, pay half the rent, and bring in his portion of the meals, and after a time, he whispered mysteriously, he would go "pardeners" with dick in his trade. "why not at once?" asked dick. "i'd like to be arter a trade as gives folks red 'errings and bacon fur supper." but jenks would neither teach his trade then, nor tell what it was; he however took up his abode in the cellar, and since his arrival flo was much more comfortable, and had a much less hard time. scarcely an evening passed that some dainty hitherto unknown did not find its way out of jenks's pocket. such funny things too. now it was a fresh egg, which they bored a tiny hole in, and sucked by turns; now a few carrots, or some other vegetables, which when eaten raw gave such a relish to the dry, hard bread; now some cherries; and on one occasion a great big cucumber. but this unfortunately flo did not like, as it made her sick, and she begged of jenks very earnestly not to waste no more money on cowcumburs. on the whole she and dick enjoyed his society very much. dick indeed looked on him with unfeigned admiration, and waited patiently for the day when he should teach him his trade. flo too wondered, and hoped it was a girl's trade, as anythink would be better and less hard than translating, and one day she screwed up all her courage, and asked jenks if it would be possible for him when he taught dick to teach her also. "wot?" said jenks eagerly; "you'd like to be bringin' carrots and heggs out o' yer pocket fur supper? eh!" "yes, jenks, i fell clemmed down yere, fur ever 'n ever." then jenks turned her round to the light, and gazed long into her innocent face, and finally declared that "she'd do; and he'd be blowed ef she wouldn't do better'n dick, and make her fortin quite tidy." so it was arranged that when dick learned, flo should learn also. she had never guessed what it meant, she had never the least clue to what it all was, until to-night. but now a glimmering of the real state of the case stole over her. that supper was not honestly come by, so far things were plain. once in his life dick had broken his word to his dying mother, once at least he had been a thief. this accounted for his forced mirth, for his shamefaced manner. he and jenks had stolen something, they were thieves. but perhaps--and here flo trembled and turned pale--perhaps there were worse things behind, perhaps the mysterious trade that jenks was to teach them both was the trade of a thief, perhaps those nice eggs and carrots, those red herrings and bits of bacon, were stolen. she shivered again at the thought. flo was, as i said, a totally ignorant child; she knew nothing of god, of christ, of the gospel. nevertheless she had a gospel and a law. that law was honesty, that gospel was her mother. she had seen so much pilfering, and small and great stealing about her, she had witnessed so many apparently pleasant results arising from it, so many little luxuries at other tables, and by other firesides, that the law that debarred her from these things had often seemed a hard law to her. nevertheless for her mother's sake she loved that law, and would have died sooner than have broken it. dick had loved it also. dick and she had many a conversation, when they sat over the embers in the grate last winter, on the virtues of honesty. in the end they felt sure honesty would pay. and dick told her lots of stories about the boys who snatched things off the old women's stalls, or carried bread out of the bakers' shops; and however juicy those red apples were, and however crisp and brown those nice fresh loaves, the boys who took them had guilty looks, had downcast faces, and had constant fear of the police in their hearts. and dick used to delight his sister by informing her how, ragged and hungry as he was, he feared nobody, and how intensely he enjoyed staring a "p'leece-man" out of countenance. but to-night dick had been afraid of the "p'leece." tears rolled down flo's cheeks at the thought. how she wished she had never tasted that 'ot roast goose, but had supped instead off the dry crust in the cupboard! "i'm feared as mother won't lay com'fable to-night," she sobbed, "that is, ef mother knows. oh! i wish as dick wasn't a thief. s'pose as it disturbs mother; and she was so awful tired." the little girl sobbed bitterly, longing vainly that she had stayed at home in her dark cellar, that she had never gone with dick to regent street, had never seen those fine dresses and feathers, those grand ladies and gentlemen, above all, that in her supposing she had not soared so high, that she had been content to be a humble hearl's wife, and had not wished to be the queen; for when flo had seen the great queen of england going by, then must have been the moment when dick first learned to be a thief. chapter four. a dog and his story. if ever a creature possessed the knowledge which is designated "knowing," the dog scamp was that creature. it shone out of his eyes, it shaped the expression of his countenance, it lurked in every corner and crevice of his brain. his career previous to this night was influenced by it, his career subsequent to this night was actuated by it. only once in all his existence did it desert him, and on that occasion his life was the forfeit. but as then it was a pure and simple case of heart preponderating over head, we can scarcely blame the dog, or deny him his full share of the great intellect which belongs to the knowing ones. on this evening he was reaping the fruits of his cleverness. he had just partaken of a most refreshing meal, he had wormed himself into what to him were very fair quarters, and warmed, fed, and comforted, was sleeping sweetly. by birth he was a mongrel, if not a pure untainted street cur; he was shabby, vulgar, utterly ugly and common-place looking. he had however good eyes and teeth, and both these advantages of nature he was not slow in availing himself of. by the pathos of his eyes, and a certain knack he had of balancing himself on the hinder part of his body, he had won flo's pity, and secured a shelter and a home. he guessed very accurately the feelings of his hosts and hostess towards him. dick's hospitality was niggardly and forced, jenks made him welcome to his supper, for he regarded him with an eye to business, but flo gave him of her best, from pure kindness of heart. the wise dog therefore resolved to take no notice of dick, to avoid jenks, and as much as possible to devote himself to flo. he had passed through a terrible day, had scamp. in the morning he had been led out to execution. to avoid the dog-tax, his master, who truth to tell had never regarded him with much affection, had decreed that scamp should be drowned. in vain had the poor faithful creature, who loved his brutal master, notwithstanding the cruel treatment to which he so often subjected him, looked in his face with all the pathetic appeal of his soft brown eyes, in vain he licked his hand as he fastened the rope with a stone attached to it round his neck. drowned he was to be, and drowned he would have been, but for his own unequalled knowingness. scamp guessed what was coming, hence that appeal in his eyes; but scamp was prepared for his fate, rather he was prepared to resist his fate. as his master was about to raise him in his arms and fling him far into the stream, he anticipated him, and leaped gently in himself, when, the stone being round his neck, he sank at once to the bottom. his master, well pleased, and thinking how nicely he had "done" scamp, laughed aloud, and walked away. the dog, not wasting his breath in any useless struggles, heard the laugh as he lay quietly in the bottom of the stream, he heard also the retreating footsteps. now was _his_ time. he had managed to sink so near the edge of the stream as to be barely out of his depth, he dragged himself upright, pulled and lurched the heavy stone until his head was above water, and then biting through the rope with those wonderful teeth, was a free dog once more. quite useless for him to go home; he must turn his back on that shelter, and come what may, face the great world of london. so all day long he had wandered, foot-sore, exhausted, and hungry, over many a mile of street, until at last the smell of hot roast goose had so overcome him, that he had in his desperation fastened his teeth into dick's trousers, thereby ultimately securing for himself a supper, and another home. now after all his troubles, hardships, and alarms, he was sleeping sweetly, enjoying the repose of the weary. it was unpleasant to be disturbed, it was truly annoying to have to open those heavy brown eyes, but scamp had a heart, and sobs of distress had roused him from his pleasant dreams. he cocked his ears, stretched himself, rose, and pushing his big awkward head against flo's, bent low in her hands, began licking her face with his small, rough tongue. finding she took no notice of this, he forced her to look up and attend to him, by jumping wholesale into her lap. "oh! scamp," said the child, putting her arms round him, "does _you_ know as dick isn't an honest boy no more." had scamp comprehended the words addressed to him, he would not have considered them a subject for sorrow, as any means by which such a supper as they had just eaten was attained would have been thought by him quite justifiable. it was however his wisest course at present to sympathise with flo, and this he did by means of his tail, tongue, and eyes. "oh! you _be_ a nice dawg," said the little girl, comforted by his caressing. she laid her head on his shaggy coat, and in a few moments both were asleep. two hours later jenks and dick returned. dick's cheeks were now flushed, and his eyes bright. jenks, on the contrary, was as cool as usual. "shall we take orf the dawg now, or in the mornin'?" asked the little boy of his companion. "no, no, in the mornin', or maybe to-morrow night; old maxey's sure ter be shut up afore now." "how much 'ull he give us, jenks?" "well, scamp's a likely lookin' tyke, and good size. i 'spect he'll about suit fur 'is young 'un. maybe, ef we're lucky, we may get a matter o' a bob, or a bob and a tanner, but wot i'll count on more, and bargain fur, is a sight o' the fight." "oh, jenks! is it werry jolly?" "awful--real pretty sport," said jenks, "partic'lar ef yer cur 'ave a bit of blood in 'im, as i 'spects this 'un 'ave." "will you bring me to see it, jenks?" "i can't rightly say yet, but don't tell nothink to the little 'un," jerking his thumb over his shoulders at flo. "now come to bed, and don't let us talk no more." they lay down, and soon jenks was asleep. yes, jenks was asleep--his hardened heart knew no fears, his conscience did not trouble him. flo, wearied with her sorrow, was also slumbering, and gentle breathings of sweet content and rest came from scamp, who knew nothing of his impending fate, and felt that he had done his duty. but dick could not sleep; he lay in the dark tired enough, but wide awake and trembling. on that very bed in this cellar had lain not quite a year ago the still, stiff, and cold form of his mother; of the mother who, with her thin arms round his neck, and her beseeching eyes looking into his, had begged of him to keep from bad ways, and to be honest. he had promised that never, happen what might, would he touch what was not his own, he had promised her solemnly, as even such ignorant little children will promise their dying mothers, that he would ever and always be an honest boy; and until to-day he had kept his word bravely, kept it too in the midst of very great temptations, for he was only a street arab, a gutter child, living on his wits, and for such children to live on their wits without prigging off stalls and snatching off counters, is very hard work indeed. he was such a clever little fellow too, and had such a taking innocent face, that he could have made quite a nice living, and have had, as he expressed it, quite a jolly time, if only he had consented to yield to his many temptations, and do as his companions did. but he never had yielded. one by one, as the temptations arose, as the opportunities for thieving came, he had turned from them and overcome them. not that he thought thieving wrong--by no means. whatever he might say to flo, he had in his heart of hearts a strong admiration for those plucky young thieves, his companions, and though they _were_ afraid of the "p'leece," and often did disappear for longer or shorter periods altogether from their gay life, yet still they had a jolly time of it on the whole. then, how splendidly the robbers acted at those delightful 'penny gaffs!--oh, yes! it was nonsense to starve rather than take from those who had more than they could use themselves. nevertheless dick had often passed a day from morning to night without food rather than steal--why was that? ah! how strongly we cling to our first and tenderest memories! dick could never forget the time when poor as they were, when, struggling as they were, he and flo were rich, as the richest of all children, in love. he could never forget the pressure of his mother's arms, he could never forget the sweetness of the dry crust eaten on his mother's knee. had he an ache or a trouble, his mother was sorry for him. even when he was bad and vexed her, his mother forgave him. she was always working for her children; never resting on account of her children. she stood between them and the cold world, a great shelter, a sure refuge. they thought it mighty and everlasting, they did not know that it was mortal, and passing away. she grew tired--awful tired, as she herself expressed it, so weary that not even her love for dick and flo could keep her with them, so exhausted that no rest but the rest of the grave could do her any good. so she went to her grave, but before she went her children had promised her to keep honest boy and girl, to grow up honest man and woman, and this promise was to them both more precious than their lives. they kept it faithfully,--it was a great principle for light in the minds of these little children. yes, they had both kept their promise carefully and faithfully until to-day; but to-day, in a moment of great and sudden temptation, goaded and led on by jenks, dick had slipped his clever little hand into a lady's pocket, and drawn out a purse with six bright new shillings in it. the theft had been most cleverly done, and triumphant with his success, and elated by the praise jenks had lavished on him, he had felt little compunction until now. but remorse was visiting him sternly now. he was frightened, he was miserable; he had let go the rudder that kept him fast to anything good,--he was drifting away. but the act of thieving gave him no pain, he was not at all sorry for that smiling, good-natured looking woman whose purse he had taken; he was quite sure _she_ never knew what hunger was; he quite agreed with jenks in his remark, that "'ee and dick and flo wanted 'ot roast goose more'n 'er." no; the agony was the memory of his mother's face. he was afraid even to open his eyes, afraid, sore afraid, that if he did he should see her standing before him, asking him to answer to her for this day's deed. he was afraid that tired, awful tired as she was, she would get up out of her grave to reproach him with his broken promise, to tell him that on account of him there now could be no more rest for her. and he loved his mother,--oh, how he loved his mother! a second time that night was scamp disturbed by sobs, but the sobs did not proceed from flo this time. the tired little girl was sleeping heavily, her head on the dog's neck. scamp could only open his eyes, which he did very wide; if he moved the least bit in the world he would wake flo. the sounds of distress grew louder, he gave a low growl, then a bark, then with a sudden, uncontrollable impulse, he was off flo's lap and on the bed with dick,--he was cuddling down by dick, fawning on him, and licking the tears off his face. the boy repulsed him rudely. it was quite beyond the capacity of scamp, great as his powers were, to comfort him. nevertheless, scamp had again done his duty. in his rude exit from flo's lap he had effectually awakened her. she, too, heard the low smothered sobs of distress, and rising from her cobbler's stool, she lay down on the straw beside her little brother. "i'm real glad as you is cryin', dick," said flo. this speech of flo's was an immense relief to dick. of all things he had dreaded telling his sister of his theft. he dreaded telling her, and yet he longed for her to know. now by her words he felt sure that in some way she did know. he nestled close to her, and put his arms round her neck. "is mother in the room, flo?" "no, no, dick; wot makes you say that? mother's in her grave, 'avin' a good tidy bit o' a sleep." "you ain't sure," said dick, half-defiantly, "you ain't sure but ef you opened yer heyes werry wide you mightn't see mother--just there, acrost our bed and jenks'--standin' and a shakin' her 'ead." "why, ef she were i couldn't see," said flo. "it be as dark as dark,--i couldn't see nothink ef i was to look ever so." "oh yes, you could," said dick, "you could see ghosts, and mother's a ghost. i seed ghosts at the gaff, and them is hall in wite, with blue lights about 'em. ef you opened yer heyes werry wide you could see, flo." "well, i 'as 'em open," said flo, "and i tell you there ain't no ghosts, nor nothink." "are you sure?" asked dick. "no doubt on it," responded flo encouragingly. "mother ain't yere, mother's in 'er grave, 'avin' a good time, and restin' fine." "are you quite sure?" persisted dick. "are you quite sartin as she ain't turnin' round in 'er corfin, and cryin'?" "oh no; she's restin' straight and easy," said flo in an encouraging tone, though, truth to tell, she had very grave misgivings in her own mind as to whether this was the case. "then she don't know, flo?" "it ain't reached 'er yet, i 'spect," said flo. then hastening to turn the conversation-- "wot was it as you took, dick?" "a purse," said dick. "a purse full o' money?" questioned flo. "there was six bobs and a tanner," said dick, "and jenks said as i did it real clever." "that was wot bought us the 'ot roasted goose," continued flo. "yes. jenks said, as it wor the first time, we should 'ave a rare treat. they cost three bobs, that 'ere goose and taters. i say, worn't they jist prime?" "'ave you any more o' that money?" asked flo, taking no notice of this last query. "yes, i 'ave a bob and i 'ave the purse. jenks said as i was to have the purse, and i means the purse for you, flo." "you needn't mean it for me, then," said flo, raising her gentle little voice, "fur i'd rayther be cut up in bits than touch it, or look at it, and you 'as got to give back that 'ere bob to jenks, dick, fur ef we was to starve hout and hout we won't neither of us touch bite nor sup as it buys. i thought as you was sorry, dick, when i heard you cryin', but no, you ain't, and you 'ave furgot mother, that you 'ave." at these words dick burst out crying afresh. flo had reserved her indignation for so long, that when it came it took him utterly by surprise. "no, i 'aven't forgot, flo--i be real orfle sorry." "you won't never do it again?" "no." "and you'll give back the purse and bob to jenks, and tell 'im yer'll 'ave no more to do wid 'is way?" "oh! i doesn't know," said dick, "'ee would be real hangry." "very well," replied flo; "good-night to you, dick. i ain't goin' to sleep 'long of a thief," and she prepared to retire with dignity to her cobbler's stool. but this proposal filled dick with fresh alarm, he began to sob louder than ever, and promised vigorously that if she stayed with him he would do whatever she told him. "'zactly wot i ses?" asked flo. "yes, flo, i'll stick fast to you and never funk." "you'll translate the old boots and shoes wid me fur the next week?" "yes." "and you'll break orf wid jenks, and be his pardener no more?" "yes," with a sinking heart. "werry well--good-night." "but, flo," after a long pause, "is you _sure_ as mother isn't ris from her grave?" "no, i'm not sure," answered flo slowly, "but i thinks at the most, she 'ave on'y got a sort o' a wake, and i thinks, dick, ef you never, never is a thief no more, as mother'll 'ave a good longish rest yet." chapter five. jenks passes his word. but flo knew even better than her little brother that it would be easier for dick to steal the second time than the first. very few boys and girls she had ever heard of, none indeed, had left off prigging from stalls, and snatching from bakers' shops, and thrusting their hands into old gentlemen's pockets, when once they had begun to do so. not punishment, not even prison, could break them. they had their time of confinement, and then out they came, with more thieving propensities than ever. her mother had told her stories upon stories of what these children, who looked some of them so innocent, and began in this small way, had ended with--penal servitude for life--sometimes even the gallows. she had made her hair stand on end with frightful accounts of their last days in the murderers' cells--how day and night the warder watched them, and how when being led out to execution they passed in some cases over their own graves. and children once as innocent as flo and dick had come to this. now flo knew that as mother had not appeared the first time dick stole, she might not the second, and then he would gradually cease to be afraid, and learn to be a regular thief. the only chance was to save him from temptation, to part him from jenks. flo liked jenks very much--he had a bright way about him, he was never rough with her, but, on the contrary, had not only helped to keep the pot boiling, but had cobbled vigorously over her old boots and shoes, when he happened to come home in time in the evenings. still, nice as he was, if he was a thief, and they meant never to be thieves, the sooner they parted company the better. she knew well that dick would never have courage to say to jenks what he ought to say, she knew that this task must be hers. accordingly, in the first light of the summer morning, though all they saw of it in the cellar was a slanting ray which came down through the hole in the pavement, when in that early light jenks stumbled to his feet, and running his fingers through his shaggy hair by way of toilet, ran up the ladder, flo, rising softly, for fear of waking dick, followed him. "jenks," she said, laying her hand timidly on his coat-sleeve, "i wants fur to speak to you." jenks turned round with merry eyes. "i'm yer 'umble servant, my lady, the hearl's wife," he said, with a mock bow to flo; but then noticing her white little anxious face, he changed his tone to one of compassion. "why, wot hever ails you, young 'un? you is all of a tremble. come along and 'ave a drop of 'ot coffee at the stalls." "no, jenks, i doesn't want to. jenks, i come fur to say as you, and me, and dick mustn't be pardeners no more. you mustn't come no more to this yere cellar, jenks." jenks was about to ask why, but he changed his mind and resumed his mocking tone. "my lady, you is alwis werry perlite--you is not one of them fine dames as welwet, and silk, and feathers maks too 'igh and mighty to speak to a chap. might a poor and 'umble feller ax you then to be so werry obligin' as to tell 'im the reason of this 'eart-breakin' horder." here jenks pretended to whimper. "yes, jenks, i'll tell you," said flo; "'tis because dick and me isn't never goin' to be _thiefs_, jenks. dick did prig the purse yesterday, but 'ees never, never goin' to do so no more." jenks was silent, and flo after a pause continued--"i wants fur to be perlite to you, jenks. i likes you, jenks, and now i'm goin' to tell you why." "oh! my heyes," said jenks, "that's an honour. oh! my stars! can i abear so big an honour? 'old me, flo, i feels kind of top 'eavy. now then, break it heasy, flo." "i never know'd as yer trade was that of a thief, jenks," quietly continued the little girl. "i thought as it wor a real nice trade as me and dick might larn, and we mustn't larn that, not ef we was to starve. dick and me must never be thiefs. but, jenks, i'm not a blamin' you--it ain't wrong fur you, jenks--you 'adn't never a mother, as telled you to keep an honest boy." at these words jenks started violently, the fun died out of his face, and he looked quite white and shaky. "why does you say that?" he asked rather savagely. "how does yer dare say as i 'av'n't a mother? as honest a woman as hever walked." "i doesn't say it, jenks. i on'y ses that _if_ you 'ad a mother as was alwis honest, and, no, not ef we was starvin' would prig anythink, and that mother lay a dyin', and she axed yer werry soft and lovin' to keep honest, and never, no never to steal nothink, and you promised yer mother 'cause you loved 'er; would you be a thief then, jenks?" "moonshine!" growled jenks. "no, but _would_ you, jenks?" "how can i tell?" replied jenks. "look yere, flo, leave _off_ about mothers, do. wot does i know of such? say wot yer 'as to say, as i must be gone." "i wants you not to come back no more, dear jenks, and never, never to speak to dick no more." "_dear_ jenks, come back no more," mimicked the boy. "and why not, little sweetheart?" "'cause you is a thief, and you is larnin' thiefin' to dick." "oh my! the precious young cove, i didn't know as 'ee was to be reared hup so tender. but why does you say as _i_ am a thief, flo--it wor dick tuk the purse yesterday." "but you larned 'im _'ow_ to take it, jenks." "no, i didn't, 'ee larned 'imself, 'ee wanted none of my coddlin' and dressin'. tell yer 'ee'd make a real stunnin' thief arter a bit. but i'll not teach 'im nothink, not i. no, flo," (this gravely), "i'll promise yer this, and yere's my 'and on it, ef i sees 'im touch so much as a brass farthing, i'll give 'im a whackin' as 'ull soon teach 'im to be an honest boy." "and you won't come back no more?" "i won't say that--the cellar's conwenient, and i pays fur 'arf. yes, i'll turn in to-night, and as long as i 'ave a mind to. now i'm orf to my work--wot _ain't_ that of a thief," and snapping his fingers disdainfully, jenks disappeared. flo stood for a moment, her hand over her eyes, looking up the hot street. her mission she felt was only half accomplished, but it was some consolation to know, that the next time dick acted the part of a thief, his companion, instead of loading him with praise, would bestow on him instead a far-sounding whacking. flo did not mind how hard it was, if only it saved her brother from following in the steps of those boys of whom her mother had so often told her. chapter six. give the poor dog a bone. that knowing dog scamp was rather puzzled on the evening after his arrival, at the marked change in the manners of dick and jenks towards him. clever as he was, their total change of manner threw him off his guard, and he began to accuse himself of ingratitude in supposing that at any time they had not wished for his company, that at any time they had treated him as an intruder. not a bit of it. here were they patting and making much of him; here was that good-natured fellow jenks allowing him to repose his big, awkward body across his knees, while flo and dick, who had been indoors all day very grave and silent, were now in fits of laughter over his rough attempts at play. "flo," said jenks, pulling some loose coppers out of his ragged vest pocket, "ef you'll buy wittles fur the dawg fur a week, i'll pay 'em." and then he further produced from some mysterious store a good-sized, juicy bone, cut from a shank of mutton, which bone he rubbed gently against the dog's nose, finally allowing him to place it between his teeth and take possession of it. as scamp on the floor munched, and worried, and gnawed that bone, so strong were his feelings of gratitude to jenks, that he would have found it easy, quite easy, to follow him to the world's end. and so jenks seemed to think, for when supper was over he arose, and giving dick an almost imperceptible nod, he called scamp, and the boys and the dog went out. they walked nearly to the end of the street, and then jenks caught up scamp, and endeavoured to hide him with his ragged jacket. this was no easy matter, for in every particular the dog was ungainly--too large in one part, too small in another. impossible for a tattered coat-sleeve to hide that great rough head, which in sheer affection, caused by the memory of that bone, would push itself up and lick his face. jenks bestowed upon him in return for this regard several severe cuffs, and was altogether rough and unpleasant in his treatment; and had scamp not been accustomed to, and, so to speak, hardened to such things, his feelings might and probably would have been considerably hurt. as it was, he took it philosophically, and perceiving that he was not at present to show affection, ceased to do so. the boys walked down several by-streets, and took some villainous-looking short cuts in absolute silence. dick went a little in advance of his companion, and kept his eyes well open, and at sight of any policeman exchanged, though without looking round, some signal with jenks; on which jenks and scamp would immediately, in some mysterious way, disappear from view, and dick would toss a marble or two out of his pocket and pretend to be aiming them one at the other, until, the danger gone by, jenks and scamp would once more make their appearance. at last they came to streets of so low a character, where the "nippers," as they called them, so seldom walked, that they could keep together, and even venture on a little conversation. dick, who had been sadly depressed all day, began to feel his spirits rising again. he had quite resolved never, never to be a thief no more, but this expedition would bring them in money in a way that even flo could hardly disapprove of; at least, even if flo did disapprove, she could hardly call it dishonest. the dog was theirs, had come to them. if they could get money for the dog would they not be right to take it? _they_ were too poor to keep scamp. just then dick turned round and encountered a loving, trusting glance from the dumb creature's affectionate eyes, a sudden fit of compunction came over him, for _he_ knew to _what_ they were selling scamp. "s'pose as scamp beats maxey's young 'un?" he questioned to his companion. "not 'ee," said jenks contemptuously, "'ee's nothink but a street cur, and that young 'un is a reg'lar tip-topper, _i_ can tell yer." "well, scamp 'ave sperrit too," said dick. "and ef 'ee 'adn't, would i bring 'im to maxey? would i insult maxey's young dawg wid an hout and hout street cur wid no good points? why, maxey wouldn't give a tanner fur a cur _widout_ sperrit, you little greenhorn." here they stopped at the door of a low ale-house, where the company were undoubtedly "doggy." jenks transferred scamp to dick's care, and disappeared into the public, from whence in a few moments he issued with a small stoutly-built man, of ill-looking and most repulsive aspect. "i 'ave named my price," said jenks, putting scamp down on the ground and beginning to exhibit his different points. "two bobs and a tanner, and a sight o' the fight fur me and this 'ere chap." "come, that's werry fine," said the man addressed as maxey; "but 'ow is it, you young willan, you dares to insinniwate as _i_ 'ave dog-fights? doesn't you know as dog-fight's 'gainst the law of the land? you wouldn't like to see the hinside of newgate fur bringin' this 'ere dog to me fur the purpose o' fightin' another dog? you didn't reckon _that_ in the price of the dog. come now, ef i doesn't give you into the hands of the perleece, and ef i takes the dog, and puts 'im away tidy, and gives you and yer pardener a tanner between yer? come, that's lettin yer off cheap, ain't it?" dick was considerably frightened, but jenks, taking these threats for what they were worth, held out firmly for two bobs and a tanner, which in the end he obtained a promise of, on condition that for one week he should tie up scamp at home and feed him well. at the end of that time maxey was to have him back, who further promised that jenks and dick should see the fight. "and that 'ere's pretty sport," said jenks, as well satisfied he turned away. "maxey's young 'uns are alwis tip-toppers. won't 'ee just give it to this willan! i guess there'll be an hawful row, and not much o' scamp left, by the time 'tis hover." but the further details with which jenks favoured his young companion are too horrible to relate here. in our christian england these things are done--done in the dark it is true, but still done. dog-fights, though punishable by law, are still held, and young boys and old men flock to them, and learn to be lower than the brutes in diabolical cruelty because of them. it may still however puzzle those who read scamp's history to know of what use he could be in a dog-fight, as only thorough-bred dogs can fight well. alas! scamp could be made use of; such dogs as scamp can further this wicked sport. such dogs are necessary in the training of the fighting-dogs. jenks knew this well, hence his desire to obtain the poor animal. his use was this--i here quote from mr greenwood's well-known "low life deeps." "he at once good-naturedly explained to me the way in which a young (fighting) dog is trained. "i was given to understand that the first practice a fighting pup had was with a `good old gummer,' that is to say, with a dog which had been a good one in his day, but was now old, and toothless, and incapable of doing more than `mumble' the juvenile antagonist that was set against him, the one great advantage being that the young dog gained practical experience in the making of `points.' "the next stage, as i was informed, in training the young aspirant for pit-honours was to treat him to a `real mouthful,' or, in other words, `to let him taste dog'..." what this means, mr greenwood goes on partially to explain, but the explanation is too fearful to be repeated here; suffice it to say that scamp was the dog that maxey's young 'un was to taste. considerably elated, the boys started off on their way home. the thought of two-and-sixpence, and a sight of a real dog-fight, was quite enough to silence all dick's scruples, and jenks never had any. yet once, long ago now, jenks had cried when the cat pounced on his canary, once jenks had a kind heart. it was not all hard yet, though very nearly so. still some things could touch him, some faces, some words, some tones, could reach a vulnerable part within him. he hardly knew himself that the better part of him, not yet quite dead, was touched, he only called it being in a fix. he was in a fix about dick. it had been his intention, it had been his motive, in coming to live in the saint giles's cellar, to train dick as a thief, and if possible flo also. he was a very expert young hand himself,--no boy in london with lighter fingers, or more clever in dodging the police, than he. he knew that the first requisite for any successful thief was to possess an innocent appearance, and the moment he saw dick and flo he knew that their faces would make their own, and probably his fortune, in this criminal trade. he had gone cautiously about his work, for eyes much less sharp than his must have perceived that the children were strictly honest. their honesty, their horror of theft, had filled him with surprise, and added greatly to his difficulties. he saw, however, that dick was the weaker of the two, and his scruples he determined first to overcome. it took him some time, a whole month, but at last dick fell, and jenks was triumphant. all now was smooth sailing with him, he was in high, the highest spirits. dick should be taken down skilfully step by step the broad descent, and presently flo would follow. the bad boy's plans were all laid, when suddenly there came an obstacle--such an obstacle too--such a feather of a thing,--only a child's pleading voice and tearful eyes. what a fool jenks was to mind so slight a thing! he _was_ a fool then, for mind it he did. he liked flo, in his way he was fond of flo, but she herself might go to ruin sooner than have any of his plans injured. it was not for her sake he hesitated. no. but she had told him _why_ they were honest, why hard crusts and lives full of hunger and want were sweeter to them than luxuries unfairly come by; and strange to say, for some inexplicable reason, this motive for honesty approved itself to the boy, for some reason known only to himself it raised a pain in his hardened heart, it roused the nearly dead conscience within him. he said to himself that the children's conduct was plucky--real, awful plucky; that it would be a mean act of him to make thieves of them. for ten minutes after his interview with flo he resolved that nothing in the world should induce him to do so; he resolved to go away as she had asked him to go away, and leave them to pursue their honest career unmolested, untempted by such as he. but in half-an-hour he had wavered, had partly laughed off flo's words, and had called all that stuff about mothers--dead mothers--nonsense. all day long he was undecided--he came back to the cellar at night undecided; he had gone out with dick and scamp still not sure whether to keep his promise to flo or to break it. how was it that in returning from his interview with maxey his resolutions to do right wavered more and more? perhaps it was because he had committed another cruel and evil deed, and so the little good in him died quickly out; perhaps, as certainly was the case, satan was tempting him more than ever. be this as it may, before jenks fell asleep that night his mind was made up. flo's scruples were all folly, dick had yielded once, he could, would, and should yield again. if he proved obstinate jenks had means in his possession which would compel him to lead the life he wished. yes, jenks resolved that before many months were over their heads, not only dick, but flo herself should be a thief. it should not be his fault if dick and flo were not two of the cleverest little thieves in london. chapter seven. at the derby. scamp had spent a very patient but not unhappy week in the cellar. he knew nothing of his impending fate, consequently, as he had his meals regularly, he felt himself troubled by no present cares. _had_ he known of his fate it is doubtful whether it would have caused him uneasiness. "fight with another dog! with pleasure; with all the good will in the world, and never show signs of flight, or turn felon." so would have thought the dog whose father and mother were curs, but in whose breast reigned as brave a spirit as ever one of the canine species possessed. but scamp, alas for you, poor fellow! you are inexperienced, and you do not know how the trained bull-dog can fight. jenks had secured him with a piece of rope to the broken table, but when jenks and dick were out flo would unfasten him, and he would lie at her feet and never attempt to run away. flo felt happy too at her hard work, for scamp was such good company, and since his arrival none of the wicked boys and girls dared to throw down broken bits of crockery, or sticks, or other rubbish at her. knowing she was timid they had often led her a sorry life, but now one note of scamp's fine deep bay (a gift from an old ancestor) would send them flying, and flo could pursue her work in peace. for the present, too, her mind was at rest about dick--he was not only not thieving, but he was doing quite a profitable business in another way. every morning he carried away his broom, and every evening, the weather being rather wet, he brought her in a nice little handful of coppers, as the result of his day's brooming; quite enough money to buy honest red herrings and other dainties for supper and even breakfast. flo began to consider a broom and crossing quite a good trade, and rather contemplated taking it up herself. but in this desire both jenks and dick quite vehemently opposed her, and for the present she was happy over her never-ending cobbling. scamp's company was so pleasant, and so soothed the tedium of her life, that now and then little snatches of mother's old songs would rise to her lips. she was walking down duncan street one day singing one of these in quite a sweet, clear voice, when a little pale girl on crutches, who lived in a cellar some six doors off, stopped her with the question-- "does yer know the glory song?" "no," said flo; "wot is it?" "i doesn't know it hall," said the little pale girl, "on'y a bit. yere it is: "`i'm glad i hever saw the day, sing glory, glory, glory, when first i larned to read and pray, sing glory, glory, glory.'" "go on," said flo, "that's pretty--that is." "oh! i doesn't know any more," said the little girl. "i larned that bit wen i wor in 'orspital, time my leg was tuk orf. sister evelina taught it to me. there wor a lot more, and it wor werry pretty, but i on'y 'members that bit." "well, sing it agen," said flo. the little girl sang. "wot's `read and pray'?" asked flo. "oh! doesn't you know? read! hout o' books of course; and pray! pray to god--you knows that?" "no, i doesn't," said flo. "oh dear," said the other child rather patronisingly, "doesn't you know, `our--father--chart--'eaven'? why, yer _be_ hignorant." "yes, i be," said flo, no way offended. "i knows nothink 'cept being honest. wot's `our father,' janey?" "oh! 'tis quite long," said janey, "you couldn't 'member it a bit. `our--father--chart 'eaven.' our father lives in 'eaven. there! that's hall--i'm in a 'urry." "then that ain't true," said flo, "that ain't a bit o' it true. my father ain't in 'eaven, wherehever that is, 'ee's dead and in 'is grave, and yer father is at the dolphin most times i guess. i wouldn't tell lies ef i was you." the pale girl flushed up angrily. "there now, yer real oncivil," she said, "and i'll 'ave no more words wid yer." and she disappeared down the ladder into her cellar. flo went back also to hers and resumed her work. she had a great deal to do, for that evening she, and dick, and jenks, were to start on foot for the derby. jenks went every year as long as he could remember, but dick and flo had never been. they had heard of it of course, as what london child has not? and were much excited at the prospect of at last joining the great and vast army of tramps who year by year find their way to epsom downs. jenks assured them, too, that money honestly come by was made wholesale at the derby. money come to you almost for the asking; sixpences were changed into sovereigns by some magic art at that wonderful place. the children were not going empty-handed. flo was to be a "little-doll" girl. some dozens of these bought for twopence a dozen were to be sold to-morrow for a penny a-piece, or perhaps for more. flo counted how much she could make on her six dozen of dolls, and quite expected to realise a sum that would make things comfortable in the cellar for some weeks. dick was to sell fusees, and jenks was to appear on the scenes in the character of a boot-cleaning boy, balancing a black-box and brushes on his head, and scamp was to stay at home and keep house. flo had proposed his coming with them, but to this the boys objected, and she, considering she would have more than enough use for her legs, hands, voice, and eyes, and _might_ find scamp an extra care, did not grieve much over their decision. what walking she would have, all the way from london to epsom downs; what use for her hands in holding her tray of dolls for so many hours; what use for her voice in advertising her property, in properly proclaiming the value of her property, and endeavouring to attract the gents with white hats, who were fond of wearing such goods in their button-holes, or stuck in a row round their head gear; above all, and this was the pleasant part, what use for her eyes! right and left, before and behind, pretty things would surround her, and flo _did_ so love pretty things. it would be a grander sight than regent street, or swan and edgar's, grander, because the fine ladies, and the smart dresses, and the lovely spirited horses would be there in such much vaster numbers! she had her own slight but essential toilet preparations too to make. her poor ragged cotton frock had got a rinse, and was drying by a small fire, which, hot as the day was, was lit for the purpose, and she meant to look up mother's old bonnet, and if it _could_ be made presentable, wear it. she hauled it out of a pasteboard band-box, and sat down on her cobbler's stool to contemplate it. it was a very shaky, indeed fall-to-pieces, affair. a bonnet that had once been of a delicate white, but in its journey through life, having had to put up at several pawn-shops, had now reached a hue as far removed from that colour as possible. flo, however, thought it quite fit to wear. she snipped it, and dusted it, and by the aid of some pins secured the battered old crown in its place. she unfolded carefully every leaf of the gorgeous bunch of artificial flowers with which mother had ornamented it before she died. that bunch, consisting of some full-blown roses, tulips, and poppies, which at a second-hand finery establishment had cost twopence, and to purchase which mother had once done without her dinner, that bunch was placed so as to rest on flo's forehead, while two dirty ribbons of flaming yellow were to do duty under her chin. but while she worked she thought of janey's words. she was sorry janey had turned crusty, for undoubtedly the words were pretty, prettier than any of mother's old songs. she would have liked to know more about them! "`i'm glad i hever saw the day,'" sang flo, catching the air with her quick ear and voice. but then she stopped to consider. what day was she glad to see? well! no day that she knew of, unless it was to-morrow, the derby day. she was not glad of the day she could read and pray, for that day had never come to her. in her duncan street cellar, "the board," that object of terror, had never reached her, therefore she could not read--and pray?--she did not even know what "pray" meant. why did janey go about singing such songs as nobody could understand? just then jenks and dick came rattling down the ladder crying noisily that it was full time to be off; and flo had to bustle about, and pack her dolls, and put on her clean frock and wonderful bonnet, and finally, when she thought no one was looking, to stoop down and kiss scamp on his forehead, in return for which he washed her face quite over again with his tongue. a basin of broken bread was set near the dog, then the children ran up the ladder, fastened down the door of the cellar, and set off. "will maxey know which is _hour_ cellar wid the door shut?" asked dick. this remark flo could make nothing of, but she was too much excited then to ask an explanation. it was eight o'clock when the children started, therefore the great heat was over. at first they walked alone, then two or three, going in the same direction, joined them, then half-a-dozen more, and so on, until they found themselves with quite a number of people all epsom bound. at first flo did not like this, she would have much preferred to trudge along, away past hot and dismal london, with only dick and jenks for company, but after a time she saw the advantage of this arrangement, for she was unaccustomed to walking, and soon her little feet grew very, very weary, and then the good-natured cadgers and tramps turned out agreeable acquaintances. one woman kindly carried her tray of dolls, and some men with a large barrow of fried fish, taking pity on her weary little face, allowed her to have a seat on one corner of their great barrow, and in this way she got over many a mile. but the way was very long, and by the time the weary multitude had reached epsom town it was nearly one in the morning. no rest for them here, however; whether they wished it or not, whether they could pay for food and shelter or not, the vigilant police would allow no halt in the town, they must move on. so on they moved, until at last flo and dick and jenks, with many other worn-out tramps, were very glad to huddle together against the walls of the grand stand, which, quiet enough now, would in a few hours blaze with such life and beauty. the little girl was in a sound sleep, dreaming confused dreams, in which janey's songs, scamp's face, and the epsom races were all mingled, when a hand laid on her shoulder roused her from her slumbers. "wot is it, jenks? is it time fur me to begin sellin'?" she exclaimed with a confused start. "no, no," said jenks, "it ain't time fur hages yet. wait till the folks begin to come. why, there's on'y us tramps yere yet." "then why did you wake me, jenks? i was so werry sound asleep." "well--see, flo--i wanted fur to tell yer--you see this is a big place, and we 'as come, you and me and dick, to do a trade yere, and wot i ses is this, as we mustn't keep together, we mustn't on no 'count keep together. you go one way wid the dolls, and a pretty penny _they'll_ fetch this blessed day, i hears said; dick 'ull start in another 'rection wid the fusees, and i must be yere, and there, and hevery wheres, to keep the gents' boots bright. so good mornin' to yer, flo; you meet us yere in the evenin' wid a good pocket full, and yere's sixpence fur yer breakfast," and before flo had time to open her lips from sheer astonishment, jenks was gone. she was alone, alone on epsom common. with that sea of strange faces round her she was utterly alone. very poor children, at least those children who have to fight the battle of life, never cry much. however tender their hearts may be--and many of them have most tender and loving hearts, god bless them!--there is a certain hardening upper crust which forbids the constant flow of tears. but something very smarting did come up now to the little girl's eyes. she sat down wearily,--so much fun had she expected roaming about with dick and jenks, how happy she thought she would have been with the country air blowing upon her, the country sun--he never shone like that in the town--shining on her face. and now she would be afraid--for she was a timid child--to stir. oh, it was wrong of jenks, though jenks was only her friend, but how truly _unkind_ it was of dick to leave her! just then another hand was laid on her shoulder, and a gentle voice said-- "is anything the matter, little child?" flo raised her eyes, and a middle-aged woman, with a face as kind as her voice, and an appearance very much more respectable than the crowds about her, stood by her side. "are you waiting for your mother, my dear?" said the woman again, finding that flo only gazed at her, and did not speak. "or don't you want to come and get some breakfast?" "please, mum," said flo, suddenly starting to her feet, and remembering that she was very hungry, "may i go wid you and 'ave some breakfast? i 'ave got sixpence to buy it, mum." "come, then," said the woman, "i will take care of you. here, give me your dolls," and holding the dolls' tray in one hand, and the child herself by the other, she went across to where a bustling, hungry throng were surrounding the coffee-stalls. flo and her companion were presently served, and then they sat down on the first quiet spot they could find to enjoy their meal. "is you in the small-dolls, or the aunt sally, or the clothes' brusher's, or the shoe-blacker's line, mum?" asked flo, who observed that her companion was not carrying any goods for sale. "no, child, i don't do business here--i only come to look on." "oh, that's werry fine fur you!" said flo; "but is it as yer don't find sellin' make? why, i 'spects to make a penny, and maybe tuppence, on hevery one of these blessed dolls." "is this the first time you have been here?" asked the woman. "yes, mum." "and have you come alone?" "oh no, mum; i come along o' my brother, a little chap, and a bigger feller." "then you ought to be with them. this is not a safe place for a little girl to be all alone in." "oh, they doesn't want me," said flo; "the little chap's in the fusee line, and the big 'un's in the blackin' line, and they says as it 'ud spile the trade fur a small-dolls seller to be along o' them. that's 'ow i'm alone, ma'am," and here veritable tears did fill the child's eyes to overflowing. "well, i am alone too," said her companion in a kinder tone than ever; "so if you wish to stay with me you may; i can show you the best parts to sell your dolls in." and this was the beginning of one of the brightest days flo had ever yet spent. how she did enjoy the breezes on the common now that she had a companion, how she did gaze at the wonderful, ever-increasing crowd. she had soon told her story to her new friend; all about dick and herself, and their mother, and their promise to be honest; something too about scamp, and also about the big feller who she was afraid was a thief, but whose name somehow she forgot to mention. in return her companion told her something of her own story. "i come year after year out here," she said sadly. "not that i sells here, or knows anything of the derby; but i come looking for one that i love--one that has gone like the prodigal astray, but like the prodigal he'll come back--he'll come back." this speech was very strange and incomprehensible to flo; but she liked her companion more and more, and thought she had never met so kind a woman, she looked at her once or twice nearly as nicely as mother used to look. but now the business of the day began in earnest. the grand stand was filled; the men with betting lists were rushing with heated faces here and there; the cadgers and tramps, the vendors of small dolls, of pails of water, of fried fish, of coffee and buns, of ices, of fruit and sweeties, the vendors of every conceivable article under the sun were doing a roaring trade; and even flo, aided by her kind companion, made several shillings by her dolls. the races went on, and at last the great event of the day, the derby race, was to be run. by this time flo had sold all her dolls, and stood in the midst of the heaving, swaying mass of people, as eager as anybody else. an unwonted excitement had taken possession of the little girl, the joy of a fresher, brighter life than she had hitherto ever felt, drove the blood quickly through her languid veins, she stood by her companion's side, her large bonnet thrown back from her forehead, her cheeks flushed, her eyes quite bright with interest and pleasure. perhaps to her alone the beautiful, wonderful sight came without alloy-- she had no high stakes at issue, nothing either to gain or to lose. but when the race was over, and the name of _galopin_, the winning horse, was in everybody's mouth, and men, some pale and some flushed with their losses, turned broken-hearted away; and men, some pale and some ruddy with their gains, joined in the general cheer; then flo began again to think of and miss her absent companions. already vast numbers of tramps were returning to london--the kind little woman by her side had also expressed a wish to go, but nowhere were jenks and dick in sight. they had promised to meet her in the evening, but she could neither ask her companion to wait until then, nor wait herself alone in the midst of the vast, unruly multitude. "i will see you safe as far as our roads lie together," said the little woman, and flo, without a word, but no longer with an exultant, joyful heart, accompanied her. they walked slowly, keeping close to the other walkers, but still a little apart, and by themselves. now and then a good-natured neighbour gave them a lift, but they walked most of the way. "'as you found 'im whom you loves, mum?" questioned flo once; but the little woman shook her head, and shook it so sorrowfully that flo ventured to say no more. it was quite dusk when they got to london, or rather to the outskirts of london, for they went very slowly, and often paused on the road. by this time they were quite a vast army, fresh tramps arriving to swell their ranks each moment. here too they were met by numbers of londoners who had not gone to the races, but who now thronged the footways to see them return. at one particular angle of the road these crowds congregated so thickly that for a few moments there was quite a block, and neither multitude could proceed. as flo stood by her companion's side, two boys pushed quickly and roughly against her. they did not recognise or look at her, but she did them--they were jenks and dick. she was quite overjoyed at seeing them so near her, but how funny they looked! or rather, how funny dick looked! his face was blackened, and he had on a false nose; he carried a little fiddle which he capered about with, and pushing his way fearlessly into the very heart of the throng, made altogether such a droll appearance that many people looked at him, and laughed very heartily, and shied him halfpence jenks, on the contrary, was grave and sober, no one minding him. but suddenly, while all eyes and tongues were eagerly greeting some fresh arrivals, flo observed dick give a red-faced, stout old gentleman a tremendous push, and quick as lightning jenks had his hand in the old man's pocket, and out had come his purse and gold watch. and before the terrified and astonished child had time to utter an exclamation, or to draw a breath, police constable b. laid his hand heavily on jenks' shoulders, and with the other drawing dick towards him, informed them both that they were his prisoners. chapter eight. a ghost in the cellar. in the confusion that immediately ensued, flo found herself torn away from her kind companion, and brought very near to police constable b. and his charge. like most children of her class she had been taught to consider policemen very dreadful people, but she had no fear of this one now: her whole desire was to save dick. she went boldly up and laid her little dirty hand on the great tall man's arm. "please--please," said flo, "it ain't dick as tuk them things. indeed i thinks as dick _is_ an honest boy." "oh! yes, and i suppose you are an honest girl," said the policeman, looking down with some contempt at the queer disreputable-looking little figure. "tell me now, what do you know about dick? and which of the two is dick to begin with?" "that 'ere little chap wot yer 'ave such a grip of," said flo, "that's dick, and i be 'is sister, i be." "oh! so you are his sister. and what's the name of the big fellow? you are his sister too?" "no, i ain't," said flo, "i ain't that, but 'ee lives wid dick and me." "he does--does he? perhaps you saw what he did just now?" flo had seen--she coloured and hesitated. "you need not speak unless you wish to," said the policeman more kindly, "but i perceive you know all about these boys, so you must appear as witness. see! where do you live?" "cellar number , duncan street, saint giles," said flo promptly. "ah!" said the policeman, "i thought those cellars was shut up. they ain't fit for pigs. well, my dear, 'tis a nice-sounding, respectable address, and i'll serve you a notice to-morrow to appear as witness. don't you go hiding, for wherever you are i'll find you. on thursday morning at o'clock at q--police-station." and nodding to flo, he walked off, bearing his sullen, ashamed, crest-fallen prisoners with him. "come 'ome wid me, dear," said a poor miserable-looking neighbour, an occupant of another duncan street cellar. "come 'ome wid me," she said, touching the dazed, stunned-looking child; "i'll take care of yer the rest of the way," and she took her hand and led her out of the crowd. "there now," said the woman kindly, "don't yer fret, dearie--it ain't so bad, and it won't be so bad. dick, 'ee'll on'y get a month or two at the 'formatary, and t'other chap a bit longer, and hout they'll come none the worse. don't yer fret, dearie." "no, ma'am," answered flo with a little smile, "i ain't frettin'." nor was she exactly. she had an awful vision before her of mother's dead face, that was all. during the rest of the long walk home that patient, tired face was before her. she was not fretting, she was too stunned as yet--that would come by and by. her neighbour tried to make her talk, tried to smooth matters for her, but they could not be smoothed, nothing could soften the awful fact that dick was going to prison, that he had broken his word to his dying mother. it was quite dusk, past o'clock, when they reached duncan street, and the cellar door of number , which the children had fastened when they had started so light-hearted and happy for the derby the day before, was now open. flo hardly noticed this. she ran down, eager to throw her arms round scamp's neck, and weep out her heart with his faithful head on her bosom. "but--what had happened?" flo expected to hear his eager bark of welcome the moment she entered the cellar, but there was no sound. she called to him, no answer. she struck a match and lit the tallow candle,--scamp's place was empty, scamp was gone. she stooped down and examined the spot carefully. if he had freed himself there would have been some pieces of the rope hanging to the table, but no, all trace of it was gone. it was quite plain, then, some one had come and stolen scamp, some one had come meanly while they were away and carried him off--he was gone. one extra drop will overflow a full cup, and this extra trial completely upset the little tired, sad child. she sat down on the floor, that damp wretched floor, surely an unfit resting-place for any of god's creatures, and gave way to all the agony of intense desolation. had the dog been there he would have soothed her: the look in his eyes, the solemn slow wag of his unwieldy tail, would have comforted her, would have spoken to her of affection, would have prevented her feeling utterly alone in the world. and this now was flo's sensation. when this awful storm of loneliness comes to the rich, and things look truly hard for them, they still have their carpeted floors, and easy-chairs, and soft beds, and though at such times they profess not to value these things in the least, yet they are, and are meant to be, great alleviations. only the poor, the very, very poor know what this storm is in all its terrors, and the desolate little child sitting there in this dark cellar felt it in its full power that night. dick was gone from her, dick was a thief, he was in prison, gone perhaps never to come back--and jenks was gone, he had done wrong and tempted dick, and broken his word to her, so perhaps it was right for him to go--and scamp, dear scamp, who had done no harm whatever, was stolen away. yes, she was alone, alone with the thought of her mother's face, all alone in the damp, dark, foul cellar, and she knew nothing of god. just then a voice, and a sweet voice too, was heard very distinctly at the mouth of the cellar. "sing glory, glory, glory," tuned the voice. "janey," said flo, starting to her feet and speaking eagerly. "oh dear!" said the voice at the cellar door, "ain't you a fool to be settin' there in the dark. strike a light, do--i'm a comin' down." flo struck a match, and lit a small end of tallow candle, and the lame girl tumbled down the ladder and squatted on the floor by her side. "oh dear!" she said, "ain't this a stiflin' 'ole? why 'tis worse nor 'ourn." "wot's `read and pray,' janey?" asked flo. "my!" said janey, "ef yer ain't a real worry, flo darrell. read--that's wot the board teaches--and pray--our--father--chart--'eaven--that's pray." "and `sing glory,' wot's that?" continued flo. "that!" laughed janey, "why that's a choros, you little goose. niggers 'ave alwis choroses to their songs--that ain't nothink else." "well, 'tis pretty," sighed flo, "not that i cares for nothink pretty now no more." "oh! yes yer will," said janey with the air of a philosopher. "yer just a bit dumpy to-night, same as i wor wen i broke my leg, and i wor lyin' in the 'orspital, all awful full o' pain hup to my throat, but now i 'as on'y a stiff joint, and i doesn't mind it a bit. that's just 'ow you'll feel 'bout dick by and by. 'ee'll be lyin' in prison, and you won't care, no more nor i cares fur my stiff joint." flo was silent, not finding janey's conversation comforting. "come," said that young person after a pause, "i thought you'd want a bit o' livenin' hup. wot does yer say to a ghost story?" flo's eyes, slightly startled, were turned on her companion. "as big a ghost story as hever was got up in any gaff," continued janey, her naughty face growing full of mischief, "and it 'appened in this 'ere cellar, flo." "oh! it worn't mother come back, wor it?" asked flo. "just you wait heasy. no, it worn't yer mother, ef you _must_ know, but as real a ghost as hever walked fur all that." "tell us," said flo, really roused and interested. "oh, you wants fur to know at last! well, i must be paid. i'm poor and clemmed, and i can't tell my tale fur nothink, not i." "'ow can i pay you, janey?" "oh, yer can, heasy enough. why mother said as yer sold quite a 'eap o' dolls to-day at the races, there! i'll tell 'bout the ghost fur a penny, no fur three ha'pence--there!" "well, tell away," said flo, throwing the coins into her companion's lap. janey thrust them into her mouth, then taking them out rubbed them bright with her pinafore, and held them firmly in her bony little hand. "pease puddin' fur the ha'penny," she said, "meat and taters fur the penny--'tis real mean o' yer not to make it tuppence. now i'll begin. were's that ere dawg? were's that hawful, 'owlin' dawg?" "oh! i don't know," said flo, "i don't know nothink 'bout my dear scamp." "oh yes, 'ees dear scamp to be sure," said janey. "well, _i'll_ tell yer 'bout scamp, and hall i 'opes is that we may never lay heyes on 'im no more." "why?" asked flo. "there! i'm a comin' to wy. last night wen you, and dick, and jenks, and mother was orf to the derby, and i mad like at bein' left, which mother _would_ do 'cause i was lame, i came hover and sat close to the cellar, a-listenin' to scamp, who was 'owlin' real orfle, and i thought as it 'ud be a lark to go down into the cellar, fur i knew he wor tied, and hanger 'im a bit, and i tried the door, but it wor locked as firm as firm, so arter a bit i went away, and i got a little stool and sat up on the ground houtside our cellar, and there i dropped orf asleep. and wen i 'woke it wor dark, and on'y the `twinkle, twinkle, little stars' hout, and there wor a noise, and i looked, and hout o' your cellar, as was locked as firm as no one could move it, wor a man's 'ead a comin'--a man wid a round 'ead, and thick body, and bandy legs, and in 'is arms, a 'owlin' and a struggling that 'ere blessed dawg." "oh! the willan!" said flo. "'ee stole my dawg. did yer foller 'im, janey?" "no, i didn't," said janey; "_i_ foller 'im--i'd like it. wy, flo darrell, 'ee worn't a man at all. 'ow was a _man_ in yer locked hup cellar? no, 'ee wor a ghost--_that's_ wot 'ee wor. and scamp ain't a real dawg, but a ghost dawg, and yer well rid o' 'im, flo darrell." chapter nine. flo in the witness-box. a small knot of policemen stood outside q--police-court. they chatted and talked one to another, now and then alluding to the different cases to be tried that day, now and then dwelling on the ordinary topics of the times, now and then, too, speaking to a companion of home interests, and home, and personal hopes and fears. for these stalwart-looking myrmidons of the law are just human beings like the rest of mankind, and they are quite capable now and then even of feeling and showing pity for a prisoner. "any cases of interest coming on to-day?" asked a young policeman of constable b. "nothing of moment--a few thefts committed on the derby day. by the way, i have just brought in the drollest figure of a child to appear as witness in one of these cases." just then a little woman in a black dress, black, tight-fitting bonnet, and black veil, came up timidly to the constable and asked if she might see the trials. "certainly, missis; you have nothing to do but to walk in. stay, i will show you the way to the court. may i ask if there is hany particular case as you is wanting to hear?" "not--not--that is, i am not a witness," replied the little woman, whose lips trembled. "i have a curiosity to see the proceedings." "well, ma'am, the affairs coming on are mostly hacts of robbery committed on the derby day--but some of them may interest you. walk this way, ma'am," and the constable preceded the little woman into the court. "there," he said kindly, seeing that for some reason she appeared a good deal either upset or excited, "you need not stand where the crowd are, you may go up and seat yourself on that bench where the witnesses be. you'll be more quiet and comfortable hup there, and will see heverything." "thank you," replied the little woman, and she placed herself on the extreme edge of the witnesses' bench. there was a case then on hand, one of those sad cases which police-courts see so many of. a woman had been brought up to be tried for that sin which, more than any other, blights homes, ruins children, spreads destruction through the land, sends souls to hell,--she was accused of drunkenness and disorderly conduct. she stood in the prisoner's dock with a sullen, bleared, indifferent face, her half-dead, listless eyes gazing vacantly at the magistrate. she had appeared in that court charged with the same offence forty times. mr vernon, the gentleman before whom she was accused, asked her what she had to say for herself. even at this question the indifferent countenance never woke into life. "nothing," she answered listlessly, for the love of strong drink had killed all other love in that woman's breast. she hardly listened as mr vernon addressed her in a few solemn but kindly words, and when her sentence--a month at wandsworth with hard labour--was pronounced, received it with the same stoical indifference. then two boys were led in by the jailor, and constable b. appeared as the first witness against them. as he passed into his place in the witnesses' box he gave the little woman in black a nudge and an intelligent look, which would have told her, even if she had not known it before, that one of the derby robbery cases had come on. through her thick veil she looked at the two lads; one hung down his face, but the other gazed about him, apparently untroubled and unashamed. this hardened expression on the elder boy's face seemed to cause her much pain, she turned her head away, and some tears fell on her hands. and yet, could she but have seen into their hearts, she would have perceived something which would have kindled a little hope in her soul. each boy, standing in this dreadful position, thought of his mother. dick, with that sea of faces about him, with the eyes of the judge fixed on him, felt that the memory of his mother was the hardest thing of all to bear, for the conscience of the child who had stood out against temptation for so long was by no means yet hardened, and though he knew nothing of god, his mother's memory stood in the place of god to him. so the most ignorant among us have a light to guide us. let us be thankful if it is a star so bright as that of mother's love. for, strange to say, the older lad, the boy who stood in the dock with that brazen, unabashed face, the clever, accomplished london thief, who though not unknown to the police, had hitherto by his skill and cunning almost always escaped the hands of justice, he too, down deep in his heart of hearts, thought of his mother; he took one quick, furtive glance around as if to look for her, then, apparently relieved, folded his arms and fixed his bold eyes on mr vernon. then the trial, in the usual form in which such trials are conducted in police-courts, went on. the prisoners' names and ages were first ascertained. "william jenks, aged fourteen; richard darrell, aged ten," sounding distinctly in the small room. then police constable b. identified the boys as the same whom he had caught in the act of removing a gold watch and purse from a gentleman's pocket in the midst of the crowds who thronged the streets on tuesday. he described very accurately the whole proceedings, stating how and why his suspicions had been aroused--how he had dodged the boys for some little time, had observed them whispering together, had seen dick buy his false nose and sixpenny fiddle, had overheard a few words which gave him a further clue to some mischief, had seen them separate, had closely noticed dick's antics, had watched the violent push he gave the old gentleman, and finally had laid his hand on jenks as he drew forth the watch and purse from his victim's pocket. his statements, delivered slowly and impressively, were taken down by a clerk of the court, and then read over to him, and signed as quite correct; then the constable retiring, the old gentleman who had been the victim of the robbery appeared in the witness-box. very irate was this witness, and very indignant the glances he gave over his spectacles at the prisoners. those were the boys of course! well, he had been befooled by the small chap's funny nose and absurd antics--any one else would have been the same. well, he _had_ a personal interest in the great race, and had come out to meet some friends who were returning from epsom, he had given the small boy only a passing thought. when violently knocked by him, he had believed it to be accidental, and caused by the eagerness and swaying of the crowd--his was not a suspicious nature. no, he had felt no hand in his pocket--and knew nothing of any robbery until the policeman showed him his own purse and watch in the elder prisoner's hand. though obliged to the constable for his zeal, he must add he thought it _shameful_ that such a thing could happen in any well-governed land! "will you tell us precisely what your purse contained, and describe its appearance?" asked mr vernon. "i can do that to the letter," replied the angry man. "i am not likely to forget my own purse or my own money." "we must ask you to confine your remarks to answering the questions put to you," interfered the magistrate. "how much did your purse contain, and what kind of purse was it?" "the purse you wish me to describe, and which i repeat i _can_ describe, was a green russian leather one, with silver fastenings. it contained (i know to a farthing what it contained) five sovereigns in gold, a half-sovereign, two florins, and sixpence, besides in one pocket a cheque for twenty pounds on the city bank. the cheque was not signed." the purse being opened, and its contents found to answer to this description, it was handed back to the old gentleman, who was then requested to describe his watch; and on his doing so, and also getting back this property, he became much more gracious, and retired, with his anger considerably cooled, to his former place beside the little woman in black. "if you have a watch, ma'am, hold it safely," he whispered to her. "even here, and surrounded by the officers of the law, we are not safe from the light fingers of these young ruffians." just then there was a bustle, and a movement of fresh interest in the court. another witness was appearing. led by the hand of constable b. a little girl was led into the witnesses' box, a little girl with an old woman's face, grave, worn, pale. at the sight of this witness dick changed colour violently, and even jenks gave way to some passing emotion. for an instant a pair of sad dark eyes gazed steadily at both the boys. they were speaking eyes, and they said as plainly as possible--"i cannot save you. i would help you, even _you_, jenks, out of this, but i cannot. i have come here to speak the truth, and the truth _will_, the truth _must_ do you harm." flo, with all her deep ignorance, had one settled conviction, that no one was ever yet heard of who told a lie in the witnesses' box. "how old is the little girl?" asked mr vernon. the question was repeated to her. "don't know," she answered promptly. "have you no idea, child? try and think!" "no, i doesn't know," said flo. then she added after a pause, "_mother_ knowed me age, and she said ef i lived till this month (ain't this month june?) as i'd be nine." "nine years old," said the magistrate, and the clerk of the court took a note of the fact. "now, little girl, what is your name?" "darrell." "darrell, do you know the nature of an oath?" "eh?" questioned flo. "do you know who god is? you have got to take a solemn oath to god that you will speak nothing but the truth while you stand there." "yes," said flo, "i'll on'y speak the truth." "do you know about god?" "mother used to say `god 'elp me.' i don't know nothink else--'cept 'bout heve," she added after another pause. "what do you know about eve?" "she wor the first thief, she wor. she prigged the apple off god's tree." a laugh through the court; but the odd little figure in mother's old bonnet never smiled, her eyes were turned again reproachfully on dick-- he was following in the footsteps of "heve." "you may administer the oath," said the magistrate to the usher of the court, and then the bible was placed in flo's hands and the well-known solemn words addressed to her. "the evidence you shall give to the court, shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing else but the truth, so help you god." "yes," answered flo. "kiss the book," said the usher. she did so gravely, and handed it back to him. "now, darrell, just answer the questions put to you, and remember you are on your oath to speak the truth. who are these boys? do you know them?" "yes, yer washup." flo had heard mr vernon spoken to as "your worship," and had adopted the name with avidity. "what are they called?" "little 'un's dick--t'other jenks." "which of the two is your brother?" "little chap." "do you live together--you and your brother and jenks?" "yes; number seven, duncan street." "have you a father and mother?" "no. father fell from a 'ouse and wor killed--he wor a mason; and mother, she died a year ago. we 'ad scamp wid us too," added flo; "leastways we 'ad till the night o' the derby." "who is scamp?" "my dawg." a laugh. "do not mind about your dog now, darrell," said the magistrate. "tell me how you live." "'ow i lives? course i lives on wittles; and when i can't get wittles i lives on nothink." "mr vernon means, what do you do to earn money?" explained the constable. "oh! i translates." "you translate!" said mr vernon, raising his eye brows in wonder that anything literary should find its way to flo's hands; "i did not know that you could read." "no, more i can--i knows nothink 'bout `read and pray.' i never was glad to see that 'ere day. no--i translates; and ef they is down at the 'eel, and bust at the sides, and hout at the toes, wy i makes 'em as good as new fur hall that." "she cobbles old boots and shoes, your worship," explained the amused constable. "they call it translating down in duncan street." "oh! does your brother translate also, darrell?" "no, yer washup; dick 'ave a broom and crossin'. 'ee wor doin' a tidy lot lately wid 'is broom and crossin'." "now remember you are on your oath. how did you spend your time on the derby day?" "i sold small dolls to the gents." "were you with your brother and the other prisoner?" "no, yer washup. jenks 'ee said as we worn't to keep company." "did he tell you why?" "'ee said as we'd do better bis'ness apart. 'ee was in the blackin' line, and dick in the fusee line." "where were you at the time of the robbery?" "close ahint jenks and dick." "did they see you?" "no." "what were they doing? what did you see them do?" "dick, 'ee 'ad a funny little red nose on, and 'ee capered about, and played the fiddle." "well, go on." "the people, they was pressing hevery way, and the folks was cheerin', wen--hall on a sudden--" "well?" "dick--'ee gave a great leap in the hair, and down 'ee come slap-bang 'gainst that 'ere gent," pointing to the red-faced gentleman; "and jenks--" "what about jenks? don't forget your oath, darrell." "i'm not a forgettin'--i'm a comin' to jenks. no, jenks," suddenly turning round and addressing him, "i wouldn't tell on you ef i wasn't standin' yere where no lies was hever spoke. 'ee stepped forrard as soft as soft, and pulled hout a purse and a watch hout o' the gent's pocket." "are these the watch and purse?" "yes." the clerk of the court then read over flo's evidence, and as she could neither read nor write, she was shown how to put her mark to the paper. "you may go now," said the magistrate; "i don't wish to ask you anything further." constable b. took her arm, but she struggled against him, and held her ground. "please, yer washup, i 'ave spoke the truth." "indeed, i hope so." "may the little chap come 'ome wid me, and i'll--" but here official authority was called to interfere, and flo was summarily ejected from the witness-box. she found a seat at the other side of the little woman in black, who took the child's trembling hand in hers. a few moments of patient summing up of evidence, and then the magistrate asked the prisoners if they had anything to say for themselves. "please, i'll never do it no more," said poor little dick, in a tone which nearly broke his sister's heart; but jenks, the older and more hardened offender, was silent. then the sentence was made known. dick, in consideration of his youth, and its being a first offence, was only to go to a reformatory school, but jenks was doomed to wandsworth house of correction for nine long months. chapter ten. the little woman in black. "come home with me," said the little woman by flo's side. she had thrown up her veil now, and the face the child saw was nearly as pale and sad as her own. she hardly noticed it, however, she was absorbed in a recognition. the little woman in black had the gentle voice and kind eyes, the little woman in black _was_ her friend of the derby day. "my dear, i am real glad to find you again. you shall come to my house and have a bit of dinner." "no, ma'am," said flo, shaking away her hand, "i knows yer, ma'am, and you is werry kind. but i'm not a goin' 'ome wid yer, missis; i'm not 'spectable to be in yer 'ouse. dick, 'ee be a thief and in prison, i'm not 'spectable no more." flo said this without tears, and defiantly. "oh, my dear, you are quite respectable enough for me. you are poor and in trouble, child--just the one that jesus christ wants; and surely if the king of glory wants you, i may want you too." "wot's glory?" asked flo. "glory, child; that's where the king lives." "ain't kings and queens the same?" "oh! now, my dear, i see you don't know nothing about the matter, or you wouldn't speak of any king or queen in the breath with my king. come and have a bit of dinner with me, and then i'll tell you about my king." "i ain't 'ungry," said flo; "but i'd real like to 'ear o' that king as wants me. would 'ee make a swell o' me, missis?" "he can raise you very high, little girl," said the woman; and taking flo's hand, they walked together in silence. "you was fond of poor jenks?" said the little woman at last. "yes, ma'am; 'ee wasn't a bad sort o' a feller. but 'ee shouldn't 'ave tempted the little chap. i don't go fur to blame jenks, ma'am, fur 'ee 'adn't no mother--but 'ee shouldn't 'ave tempted dick." at these words the little woman withdrew her hand from flo's, and pulling out her handkerchief, applied it to her eyes; and flo, wondering what made her cry, and what made her appear so sad altogether, walked again by her side in silence. they passed down several streets until at last they came to one of those courts hidden away from the general thoroughfares, so well-known to london district visitors. there are sun streets in london, where the sun never shines--there are jubilee courts, where feasts are never held, where satan and his evil spirits are the only beings that can rejoice. this place was called pine apple court, and doubtless a few years ago it as nearly resembled cherry court and may-blossom court as three peas resemble each other; but now, as flo and the little woman walked into it, it really and truly, as far as sweetness and purity went, was worthy of its name. here, in the midst of london, was actually a place where the decent poor might live in comfort and respectability. [one of miss octavia hill's courts.] the freshly-painted, white-washed houses had creepers twining against them; and before the doors was a nicely-cared-for piece of ground, where trees were planted, where the women could dry their clothes, and where, out of school-hours, the children could play. the little woman conducted flo across this pleasant court into one of the freshest and cleanest of the white-washed houses, where she brought her into a room on the ground floor, as bright as gay chintz curtains to the windows, neat paper on the walls, and the perfect purity which the constant use of soap and water produces, could make it. the polished steels in the grate shone again, a little clock ticked on the mantel-piece, and a square of crimson drugget stood before the fire-place. the window-sash was wide open, and on the ledge stood two flower-pots, one containing a tea-rose, the other a geranium in full blossom. the rose was ticketed, prize st, and stood in a gaily ornamented pot, doubtless its prize at the last poor people's flower show. had flo ever heard of paradise she would have supposed that she had reached it; as it was she believed that she had come to some place of rest, some sweet spot where weary limbs, and weary hearts too, might get some repose. she sat down thankfully on a small stool pointed out to her by her hostess and gazed around. "please, ma'am," she said presently, "wot am i to call yer?" at this question the little woman paused, and a faint colour came into her pale cheeks. "why, now," she said, "that's a curious thing, but my name's jenks, same as that poor fellow they put in prison this morning--mrs jenks is my name, little darrell." "yes, missis," replied flo respectfully. she had admired mrs jenks very much on the derby day, but now her feelings of wonder and admiration amounted almost to fear. for aught she could tell the owner of such a room might be a "dook's" wife in disguise. "you sit in this chair and rest," said mrs jenks, "and i'll see about dinner." and flo did rest, partly stunned by what she had witnessed and undergone, partly soothed by the novel scene now before her. mrs jenks had made her take off mother's old bonnet, and had placed her in the very softest of easy-chairs, where she could lie back and gaze at the little woman, with a wonder, a hunger of spiritual want, a sadness of some unexplained desire, all shining out of her eyes. there were baked potatoes in a small oven at the side of the fire-place, and over the potatoes some nice pieces of hot bacon, and mrs jenks made coffee, fragrant coffee, such as flo had never tasted, and toasted bread, and buttered it. then she drew a little table up close to the open window, and placed a snowy cloth on it, then plates, and knives and forks, and then the potatoes and bacon, the coffee and toast; and when all was ready she put a chair for flo, and another for herself. but before they began to eat a more astonishing thing still happened. the little woman stood up, and folded her hands, and closed her eyes, and said these words:-- "i thank thee, my god, for the dinner thou hast given me; but more than all i thank thee that thou hast let me have one of thy outcast little ones to share it with." then she opened her eyes, and bustled about, and helped flo. and flo, who had found her appetite come back in full vigour at the first smell of the coffee and bacon, ate very heartily of mrs jenks' liberal helpings, leaning back in her chair when she had finished, with quite a pink flush on her thin cheeks, and the hunger of bodily want gone out of her eyes. "now," said the little woman, after all the plates and dishes were washed up and put away, "now," she said, "i will get to my work, and you shall tell me all that story over again. all about your poor dear mother and the boys, and when that poor fellow with the same name as mine came to live with you." "yes," answered flo, whose little heart was so drawn to mrs jenks, and so comforted by her, that any words she asked her to say came easily to her lips; and the story of the derby day was repeated with fuller confidence by the child, and listened to with fuller understanding on the part of her kind listener. flo told over again all about her mother, and mother's death, and the promise they had given mother--then of their own lives, and what hard work translating was, and how little dick earned by his broom and crossing--finally how jenks came, and how good-natured he was at first, and how glad they were to have him, and how they wondered what his trade was, and how he had promised to teach them both his trade. then at last, on the day she saw regent street and the queen, and tasted 'ot roast goose for the first time, then too she discovered that jenks was a thief. then she related her interview with jenks, and how he had promised to leave dick alone, and _not_ to teach him his wicked trade, and how on those terms she had allowed him to remain in the cellar; and then at last, when she was feeling so sure and so happy, he had deceived her, and now she was in great trouble, in great and bitter trouble, both the boys in prison, both thieves, and now mother could never rest any more. here flo broke down and sobbed bitterly. "i think if i were you, i would leave all that about your dear mother to god, my child," said little mrs jenks. "his ways are not as our ways. if i were you, i would not fret about your mother--i would just leave her to god." "who is god?" asked flo, stopping her tears and looking up. "who is god?" repeated mrs jenks. "why, he's the king of glory i had to tell you about; and now i remember, at the trial to-day you seemed to know very little about him--nothing, in fact. well, you shall not leave this house without knowing, i promise you that. why, god--god, little darrell, he's your best friend, and your poor mother's best friend, and dick's best friend, and my--that is, jenks' best friend too. he loves you, child, and some day he'll take you to a place where many poor people who have been sad, and hungry, and wanting for everything down here, are having rest, and good times for ever." "and will god give me a good time in that place?" asked flo. "yes. if you love him he will give you a better time than the queen has on her throne--a time so good, that you will never want to change with anybody in all the world." "tell me about god," asked flo in a breathless voice, and she left her stool and knelt at mrs jenks' feet. "god," said little mrs jenks, putting down her work and looking up solemnly, "god--he's the father of the fatherless, and you are fatherless. god's your father, child." "our--father--chart--'eaven," repeated flo. "your father in heaven--yes, that's it." then the little woman paused, puzzled how best to make her story plain enough and simple enough for the ignorant child. words came to her at last, and flo learned what every child in our england is supposed to know, but what, alas! many such children have never heard of; many such children live and die without hearing of. do we blame them for their social standing? do we blame them for filling their country with vice and crime? doubtless we do blame them, we raise our own clean skirts and pass over on the other side. in church we thank god that we are not as these men are--murderers--thieves--unclean--unholy. let them go to prison, and to death--fit ends for such as they. true! virtue is to them not even a name, they have never heard of it at all. the fountain opened for sin and for uncleanness has never come in _their_ path. their iniquities are unpurged, their sins unpardoned. christ, it is certain, would wash them white enough, and give them a place in his kingdom; but they know nothing of christ, and we who do know, to whom his name is a sound too familiar to excite any attention, his story too often read, too often heard of, to call up any emotion--we are either too lazy, or too selfish, or too ignorant of their ignorance, to tell them of him. now for the first time flo learned about god, and about god's dear son, our saviour. a little too about heaven, and a very little about prayer. if she spoke ever so low, down in her dark cellar, god would hear her, and some day, mrs jenks said, he would come for her, and carry her away to live with him in heaven. only a glimmering of the great truth could be given at one time to the child's dark mind, but there is a vast difference between twilight and thick darkness, and this difference took place in flo's mind that day. she listened with hardly a question--a breathless, astonished look on her face, and when mrs jenks had ceased speaking, she rose slowly and tied on mother's old bonnet. "may i come again?" asked flo, raising her lips to kiss the little woman. "yes, my child, come again to-morrow. i shall look out for you to-morrow." and flo promised to come. chapter eleven. maxey's young 'un. as flo walked down the street, the wonderful news she had heard for the first time completely absorbed her mind, so much so that she forgot that dick was a thief, that dick and jenks were both suffering from the penalty of their crime, that she was returning to her cellar alone, without even scamp to keep her company. the news she had heard was so great, so intensely interesting in its freshness and newness, that she could think of nothing else. she walked down, as her wont was, several by-streets, and took several short cuts, and found herself more than once in parts of the town where no respectable person was ever seen. the gutter children working at their several wretched trades called after her as she passed, one addressing her as "old bonnet," another asking how much she wanted a-piece for the flowers that dangled so ludicrously on her forehead. and being a timid child, and, london bred as she was, sensitive to ridicule, she walked on faster and faster, really anxious to find any quiet place where she could sit down and think. at last, as she was passing a more open piece of ground, where a group of boys were playing pitch-and-toss, they, noticing her quickened movements, and rather frightened face, made a rush at her, and flo, losing all presence of mind, began to run. little chance would she have had against her tormentors, had not just then a tall policeman appeared in sight, whereupon they considered it more prudent to give up their chase, and return to their interrupted amusements. poor flo, however, still believing them to be at her heels, ran faster than ever down a narrow lane to her right, turned sharp round a corner, when suddenly her foot tripped against a cellar grating, the grating, insecurely fastened, gave way, and the child, her fall partly broken by a ladder which stood against the grating, found herself bruised, stunned, almost unconscious, on the ground several feet below the street. for some moments she lay quiet, not in pain, and not quite insensible, but too much frightened and shaken to be capable of movement. then a sound within a foot or two of her caused her heart to leap with fresh fear. she sat up and listened intently. it was a stifled sound, it was the whine of a dog. for scamp's sake flo had learned to love all dogs. she made her way, though not without pain, to this one now, and put her hand on its head. instead of being angry and resenting this freedom, as a strange dog might, a quiver of joy went through the animal, its tail wagged violently, its brown eyes cast melting glances of love at flo, its small rough tongue tried to lick her face and hands, and there, gagged and tied, but well fed, as yet unhurt, and a platter of broken meat by its side, was her own dog, her lost dog, scamp. flo laid her head on the head of the dog, and burst into tears of joy. the pain of her fall was forgotten, she was very glad she had knocked against that broken grating, that by this means she had stumbled into this cellar; her dog could accompany her home--she would not be so lonely now. with her own hands she unfastened the gag, and loosened the chain from scamp's neck, and the dog, delighting in his recovered freedom, danced and scampered madly round her, uttering great, deep bays of joy. alas! for scamp, his foolish and untimely mirth excited undue attention to him. his loud and no longer muffled bark brought two men quickly into the cellar. flo had the prudence of mind to hide behind some old boards, and scamp with equal prudence did not follow her. "down, you brute," said the short thick-set man whom jenks on a former occasion had addressed as maxey. "wot a noise, 'ee's makin'; the perleece'll get scent of the young dawg wid his noise," and the cruel wretch shied a great blow at scamp, which caused the poor animal to quiver and cry out with pain. "'ee'll be quiet enough afore the night is hover," said the man's companion, with a loud laugh. "lor! won't it be fun to see the bull-dawg a tearin' of 'im? i'm comin' to shave and soap 'im presently; but see, maxey, some one 'as been and tumbled inter the cellar, down by the gratin', as i'm alive! see! them two bars is broke right acrost." "run and put them together, then, the best way possible," called out maxey, "and i'll look round the cellar to give it to any one as is in hidin'." how fast flo's heart beat at those words, but maxey, though he imagined he had searched in every available nook, never thought of examining behind the three thin boards almost jammed against the wall, and behind which the child had crushed her slight frame. he believed that whoever had fallen into the cellar had beaten a hasty retreat, and after tying up scamp more firmly than ever, took his departure. now was flo's time. she had only a few moments to effect her escape and the dog's escape. a dreadful meaning had maxey's words for her--her dog's life was in peril. never heeding an acute agony which had set in by this time in her right foot, she made her way to scamp's side, and first putting her arms round his neck, entreated him in the most pathetic voice to be quiet and not to betray them by any more barking. if dogs cannot understand words and their meanings, they are very clever at comprehending tones and _their_ meanings. perfectly did this dog's clear intelligence take in that flo meant them both to escape, that any undue noise on his part would defeat their purpose. he confessed to himself that in his first joy at seeing her he had acted foolishly, he would do so no more. when she unfastened him he bounded up the ladder, and butting with his great strong head against the broken grating, removed it again from its place, then springing to the ground, was a free dog once more. half a moment later flo was by his side. there were plenty of people, and idle people too, in the streets, but, strange to say, no one noticed the child and dog, and they passed on their way in safety. a few moments' walking brought them to duncan street, then to their own cellar, down the ladder of which scamp trotted with a happy, confident air. flo followed him feebly, and tottering across the floor, threw herself on her straw bed. not another step could she go. she was much hurt; she was in severe pain. was her foot broken? hardly that, or she could not have walked at all, but her present agony was so great, that large drops stood on her brow, and two or three sharp cries came from her patient lips. how she longed for dick then, or jenks then, or janey then. yes, she had scamp, and that was something--scamp, who was lying abject by her side, pouring out upon her a whole wealth of love, who, knowing what she had done for him, would evermore do all that dog could do for her sake. she raised her hand to his head and patted him, glad, very glad that she had rescued him from an unknown but dreadful fate. but she wanted something else, something or some one to give her ease in her terrible agony, and god, her loving father, looking down from heaven, saw his little child's sore need, and though as yet he sent her no earthly succour, he gave to her the blessed present relief of unconsciousness. flo fainted away. when she recovered an hour or two later, the scanty light that ever penetrated into the cellar had departed, and at first, when the child opened her eyes in the darkness, pain and memory of all recent events had completely left her. she fancied she was lying again by her mother's side on that very straw mattress, she stretched out her arms to embrace her, and to ask her the question with which she had greeted her for the last three months of her life. "be yer werry tired, mother?" but then the empty place, the straw where the weary form was no longer lying, brought back remembrance; her mother was not there--her mother was gone. she was resting in her quiet grave, and could never help, or succour, or protect her more. but then again her thoughts were broken. there were rude noises outside, a frightened cry from scamp at the foot of the bed, the cellar door was violently opened, two men scrambled down the ladder, and with many oaths and curses began tossing about the wretched furniture, and calling loudly for the missing dog. where was he? not on flo's bed, which they unmercifully raked about, unheeding her moans of pain; not anywhere apparently. vowing vengeance on _whoever_ had stolen the dawg, the men departed at last. then again all was silence, and in a few moments a cowed-looking and decidedly sooty animal might, had any light been there to see, have been observed descending from the chimney where he had lain _perdu_. of the life-preserving qualities scamp possessed a large share, as doubtless before this his story proves. perhaps his cur mother had put him up to a wrinkle or two in his babyhood; at any rate, fully determined was he to meet no violent end, to live out his appointed time, and very clever were the expedients he used to promote this worthy object. now he shook himself as free as he could of the encumbrances he had met with in the smoky, sooty chimney, and again approached flo's side. she laid her hand on his head, praised him a little for the talent he had shown in again escaping from maxey, and the dreadful fate to which maxey meant to consign him; then the two lay quiet and silent. a child and a dog! could any one have looked in on them that night they would have said that in all the great city no two could be more utterly alone and forsaken. that individual, whoever he might have been, would have gone away with a wrong impression--they were not so. any creature that retains hope, any creature that retains faith, which is better, than hope, cannot be really desolate. the dog had all the large, though unconscious faith of his kind in his creator. it had never occurred to him to murmur at his fate, to wish for himself the better and more silken lives that some dogs live. to live at all was a blessed thing, to love at all a more blessed thing--he lived and he loved--he was perfectly happy. and the child--for the first time she knew of and had faith in a divine father, she had heard of some one who loved her, and who would make all things right for her. she thought of this love, she pondered over it, she was neither desolate nor unhappy. god and god's son loved her, and loved dick--they knew all about her and dick; and some day their father would send for them both and give them a home in his house in heaven. flo had at all times a vivid imagination, since her earliest days it had been her dear delight to have day dreams, to build castles in the air. no well-dressed or happy-looking child ever crossed her path that she did not suppose herself that child, that she did not go through in fancy that child's delightful life. what wardrobes had flo in imagination, what gay trinkets adorned her brow, her arms, her neck! what a lovely house she lived in, what heaps of shillings and sovereigns she possessed! now and then, in her moments of most daring flight, she had even a handle to her name, and people addressed her as "lady flo." but all the time, while happy in these dreams, she had always known them to be but dreams. she was only flo, working as a translator of old boots and shoes, down in a dark cellar--she had no fine dresses, no pretty ornaments, no money, she was hungry and cold, and generally miserable, and as far as she could possibly see there was never any chance of her being anything else. she generally came down from her high imaginings to this stern reality, with a great burst of tears, only one sad thought comforting her, to be alive at all she could never be worse than she was, she could never sink any lower. she was mistaken. last night, lying all alone and waiting for dick's trial, lying hour after hour hoping and longing for sleep to visit her, and hoping and longing in vain, she had proved that she was mistaken. lower depths of sorrow and desolation could be reached, and she had reached them. through no fault of hers, the stern hand of the law was stretched out to grasp her one treasure, to take her brother away. dick had broken a promise sealed on dying lips--dick was a thief. henceforth and for ever the brand of the prison would be on him. when, their punishment over, he and jenks were free once again, nothing now, no power, or art, or persuasion, on her part could keep those two apart. together they would plunge into deeper and more daring crime, and come eventually to the bad and miserable end her mother had so often described to her. it was plain that she and dick must separate. when the boys were released from prison, it was plain that she and they could not live together as of old. the honest could not live with the dishonest. her mother had often told her that, had often warned her to be sure, happen what might, to choose honest companions. so flo knew that unless _she_ too broke her word to mother, they must part--dick and she must part. and yet how much she loved him--how much her mother had loved him! he was not grave like her; he had never carried an old head on young shoulders; he was the merriest, brightest, funniest boy in the world-- one of those throw-all-care-to-the-winds little fellows, who invariably give pleasure even in the darkest and most shady homes. his elastic spirits never flagged, his gay heart never despaired, he whistled over his driest crusts, he turned somersaults over his supperless hours--he had for many a day been the light of two pairs of eyes. true, he had often been idle, and lately had left the brunt of the daily labour, if not all of it, to flo. but the mother heart of the little sister, who was in reality younger than himself, accepted all this as a necessity. was he not a boy? and was it not one of the first laws of nature that all girls should work and all boys should play? but now dick must work with the hard labour the law accords to its prisoners. that bright little face must look out behind a prisoner's mask, he must be confined in the dark cell, he must be chained to the whipping-post, he must be half-starved on bread and water. out of prison he was half his time without the former of these necessities of life, and at his age he would not be subjected to hard labour. but flo knew nothing of these distinctions, and all the terrible stories she had ever heard of prisoners she imagined as happening to dick now. so the night before the trial had been one long misery to the sensitive, affectionate child. now the trial was over, now dick was really consigned to prison, or to what seemed to flo like prison. with their eyes they had said good-bye to each other, he from the prisoners' dock, she from her place in the witnesses' box. the parting was over, and she was lying alone in her dark cellar, on her straw pallet, bruised, hurt, faint, but strange to say no longer unhappy, strange to say happier than she had ever been in her life before. she had often heard of bright things--she had often imagined bright things, but now for the first time she heard of a bright thing for her. she was not always to be in pain, she had heard to-day of a place with no pain; she was not always to be hungry, poor, and in rags--she had heard to-day of food enough and to spare, of white dresses, of a home more beautiful than the queen's home, of a good time coming to her who had always, always, all her life had bad times. and dick, though he was a thief, might share in the good time, and so might jenks. our saviour gave of his good times to thieves, and sinners, and poor people, if only they wanted them, and of course they had only to hear of them to want them. "may i come down, flo?" called out janey's voice at this juncture, at the cellar door. "father 'ave beat me hawful; may i come down and set by yer a bit?" the lame girl was sobbing loudly, and without waiting for flo's reply she scrambled down the ladder and threw herself on the bed by the child's side. "there now," she said, panting out her passionate words, "'ee 'ave me hall black and blue, and my lame leg 'urt worse nor hever; and i wish 'ee wor in prison, i do; and i wish i wor dead, i do." "oh! janey," said flo, with a great gasp of longing, "_wouldn't_ it be nice to be dead?" this corroboration of her desire startled janey into quiet, and into a subdued-- "_what_, flo darrell?" "to be dead, janey, and 'avin' a good time?" "well," said janey, recovering herself with a laugh, "wen i'm down haltogether in the dumps, as i wor a minute ago, i wishes fur it, but most times i 'ates the bear thought o' it--ugh!" "that's cause yer doesn't know, janey, no more nor i did till to-day. plenty of wittles, plenty of clothes, plenty of pretty things, plenty of love, all in the good time as we poor folks have arter we are dead." janey gave her companion an angry push. "there now, ef yer ain't more than hagriwating, a comin' on me wid yer old game of s'posin', and me fairly clemmed wid the 'unger. there's no good time fur me, nor never will be, i reckon," and she again lifted up her voice and wept. "there's our--father--chart--'eaven," began flo, but janey stopped her. "i don't want 'im--one father's too much fur me." flo was silent--she would tell no more of her sweet message to unbelieving ears. after a time she spoke in a different tone. "janey?" "well?" "i'd like fur to 'ear the glory song." janey had a good voice, and desired nothing better than to listen to herself. she complied readily. "`i'm glad i hever saw the day, sing glory, glory, glory, when first i larned to read and pray, sing glory, glory, glory.' "why, flo! my 'eart alive! flo, 'ere's scamp." "sing it again," murmured flo. and janey did sing it again, and again, and yet again, until the dark cellar seemed to grow full of it, and to be lit up and brightened by it, and to its music the sick and weary child went to sleep. chapter twelve. i was an hungered and ye gave me meat. all through the night flo had visions of bright, and clean, and lovely things. she dreamt that she had left the cellar for ever, that all the musty, ragged boots and shoes were mended, and paid for, and gone, and that instead of earning her bread in that hard and wretched way, god had come and placed her in a beautiful room, looking out on green fields, such as mother had told her of, and given her pure white dresses to make for the angels. and god looked so kind, and so like what she had imagined her own father to look like, that she had ventured to ask him what had become of dick, and god had told her that he himself was taking care of dick, and he himself had placed him in a good school, and all would be well with him. and she thought she sat by the open window and made the angels dresses, and was, oh! so very, very happy; and scamp lay at her feet, and was also happy; and mrs jenks was in the room, ready whenever she liked to tell her more about god, and she too was happy. yes, they all were happy, with a happiness flo had never conceived possible hitherto, and she felt that it was not the nice room, nor the lovely view, nor the pleasant occupation that made her happy, but just because god was near. at last the morning came, and she awoke to find that it all was only a dream. she was still in the cellar, she must get up as usual, she must work as usual at her old thankless work, the work that barely kept starvation from the door. she felt very faint and hungry, but she remembered that she had two shillings of the money she had earned on the derby day locked away in the box where she usually kept mother's old bonnet. she would get up at once and buy some breakfast for herself and scamp. she called the dog and told him what she was about to do, and, to judge from the way he wagged his tail and rubbed his head against her hands, he understood her, and was pleased with her intention. nay, more, to hurry her movements, he placed himself under the ladder, mounted a few rungs, came down again, and finally darted from the ladder to her, and from her to the ladder, uttering short impatient barks. what ailed flo? she was hungry, very hungry, but how slowly she rose from her bed. she removed her head from the pillow, she steadied herself on her elbow--how strange, and weak, and giddy she felt. she lay down again, it was only a passing weakness; then once more she tried, back came that overpowering sense of sickness and giddiness. well, it _should_ not conquer her this time; happen what might, she _must_ get up. she tried to put her right foot to the ground, but a great, sharp cry of agony brought scamp to her side in consternation, and brought also beads of pain to her brow. no, hungry as she was, she could not walk, by no possible means could she even stand. she lay perfectly still for a moment or two, suffering so intensely that every breath was an agony. at last this passed, and she was able to realise her position a little. in truth it was not a pleasant one. even the night before, she had been in great need, she had longed much for a drink, her pain had brought on intense thirst, she had meant to ask janey to put a cup, and a jug of cold water, by her side before she left, but the sweetness of janey's song had caused her to fall asleep before she had made known her request, and the lame girl had gone away unconscious that anything was the matter with her. it was highly probable that she might not pay flo a visit for days; unless her father gave her another beating, or some quite unexpected event occurred, the chances were that she would not come. and now flo needed meat and drink, and nursing, as she had never needed them in all her life before. though pale and delicate-looking, she had hitherto been possessed of a certain wiry strength, which those little withered city children, with every one of health's necessaries apparently denied them, in some strange way seem to have. she had never gone through severe pain before; and never, with all her privations, had she known the hunger and thirst which now tormented her. scamp, seeing that she had changed her mind about going out, fixed on her one or two reproachful glances, and then in a very discontented manner resigned himself to his fate, and to a few more hours' sleep. and flo lay and wondered what was going to become of her. she was very ill, she knew. she was alternately hot and then cold, she was alternately tortured by pangs of the most acute hunger, and then deadly sickness seemed to make the bare thought of food insupportable. she wondered what was to be her fate. was she to lie there, a little more sick, a little more weak, a little more hungry and thirsty, in a little more pain, until at last she died, as mother had died? well, what then? only last night she had thought dying a good thing, the best thing. it was bidding good-bye to all that now troubled her, it was beginning at once the good time god had put by so carefully for little outcast children like her. if only it would come at once, this kind, beautiful death--if only she had not to walk the dark bit of road between now and then, between now and the blessed moment when god would take her in his arms to heaven. but flo had been too long with the poor, with the very, very poor, had seen too many such die, not to know well that dying was often a very long business, a business so long, and so sad, that, though the dying were suffering just as much as she now suffered, yet many weary hours, sometimes many weary days, had to be passed before relief and succour came to them; before kind death came and took away all their sorrows and gave them rest, and sleep, and a good time. and this long period of waiting, even though the end was such brightness, felt very terrible to the lonely child. then, suddenly, words mrs jenks had said to her yesterday came into her head. "when you want food, or anything else very bad, and you don't know how to get it, then is the time to ask god for it. all you have to do is to say up your want, whatever it be, in as few, and small, and simple words as you like, and though you speaks down in your dark cellar, god will hear you up in heaven, and if 'tis any way possible he'll give you what you want." flo remembered these words of mrs jenks' now with great and sudden gladness. if ever a time of need and sore want had come to any one it had come to her now. what a good thing to have a father like god to tell it all to, what a wonderful thing that he could hear her, without her having to get up to go to him. her ideas of god were misty, very misty, she had not the least conception where heaven was, or what it was, she only knew there _was_ a god, there _was_ a heaven--a god for her, a heaven for her; and with all her ignorance, many of the gifted, and mighty, and learned of the earth do not know as much. now for the first time she would pray. she thought of no difficulty in making her petition known to god. no more hard to tell him of a want than it was, when her mother lived, to tell her of a desire or longing that possessed her. "please, i wants fur janey or somebody to come to the cellar afore long," she said; "i wants a sup of water werry bad, and somethink to eat. and there is two shillings stored away in mother's old bonnet-box. janey'd buy lots of wittles wid it. she'd be glad to come, 'cause i'd pay 'er, and i'm werry faint like. you'd 'ave to fetch 'er, please, god, 'cause she's not at 'ome, but away to the paper factory--but you that is real kind won't mind that." then flo lay still and listened, and waited. she had made her request, and now the answer would come any moment. any instant janey's quick step and the sound of her crutch might be heard outside, and she would look in with her surprised face, to say that notwithstanding her employer's anger she had been fetched away by god himself, and meant to wait on flo all day. and then flo pictured how quickly she would send janey out, and how eagerly and willingly, with a whole bright shilling in her greedy little hand, janey would go; and how she would commission her to buy two large mutton bones for scamp, and a jug of cold, cold water, and a hice--for flo felt more thirsty than hungry now--for herself. for half-an-hour she lay very patient, straining her ears to catch janey's expected footstep; but when that time, and more than that time passed, and every footfall still went by on the other side, she grew first fretful, then anxious, then doubtful. she had never prayed before, but mrs jenks had told her that assuredly when she did pray an answer would come. well, she had prayed, she had spoken to god very distinctly, and told him exactly what she wanted, but no answer came. he was to fetch janey to her, and no janey arrived. she had not made a hard request of him,-- she had only begged that a little child, as poor as herself, should come and give her a cup of cold water,--but the child never appeared, and flo's parched lips were still unmoistened. how strange of mrs jenks to tell her god would hear and answer prayer--not a bit of it. at least he would not hear little prayers like hers. very likely he was too busy listening to the queen's prayers, and to the great people's prayers. the great, rich people always had the best of everything, why should they not have the best of god's time too? or, perhaps--and this was a worse and darker thought--perhaps there was no god; perhaps all mrs jenks' talk of yesterday had been just a pretty fable--perhaps wicked mrs jenks had been deceiving her all the time! the more flo considered, the more did she believe this probable. after all, it was very unlikely that she should have lived so long and never, until yesterday, have heard anything of god and heaven, very unlikely that her mother should have lived her much longer life without knowing of these things! if there was a good time coming, was it likely that her mother should have lived and died without ever hearing of it? slowly and reluctantly flo gave up the hope that had brightened and rendered endurable the last four-and-twenty hours. she had no father in heaven, there was no god! great sobs broke from the poor little thing, a great agony of grief seemed to rend her very life in two. she cried her heart out, then again sank into uneasy slumber. all through the long hours of that burning summer day the child lay, now sleeping fitfully, now starting in feverish fright and expectancy. at last, as evening came on, and the air, cooler elsewhere, seemed to grow hotter and hotter in this wretched spot, she started upright, suffering more intense pangs of hunger than she had hitherto known. be her agony what it might, she must crawl, though on her knees, to the cupboard, where she knew a very old and mouldy crust still was. she rolled herself round off the straw, and then managed to move about two or three feet on the damp floor. but further movement of any description was impossible; the agony of her injured foot was greater than the agony of her hunger; she must stay still--by no possible means could she even get back to her wretched bed. she was past all reasoning or any power of consecutive thought now; she was alive to nothing but her intense bodily suffering. every nerve ached, every limb burned; her lips were black and parched, her tongue withered in her mouth; what words she uttered in her half-unconsciousness, could hardly be distinguished. in a much milder degree, it is true, scamp had also spent an uneasy day--scamp too had tried to sleep off his great hunger. it was at its height now, as he crouched by flo's side on the floor. during the time of his captivity he had been well fed, he had left behind him a large platter of broken meat; since flo had set him free neither bite nor sup had passed his lips. hungry in the morning, without doubt he was ravenously hungry now, and being of the genus designated "knowing," saw clearly that the time had come for him to set his wits to work. as a rule he partook of flo's spirit, and was, in truth, an honest dog; but he had a clause in his code of morals which taught him that when no man gave to him, then it would be right for him to help himself. he had proved the necessity of this rule once or twice in his adventurous life, and had further proved himself a clever and accomplished thief. he had some butchers' shops in his mind's eye now, some tempting butchers' shops, that he had cunningly noticed when returning home with flo yesterday. from those butchers' stalls hung pork chops, and mutton chops, ready cut, all prepared to be received into his capacious jaws. a leisurely walk down the street, a little daring, a sudden spring, and the prize would be his. should he go and satisfy this terrible hunger, and feel comfortable once more? why did he not go? why did he not at once go? why? because he had a heart,--not a human heart, which often, notwithstanding all that is said about it, is cold, and callous, and indifferent enough, but a great faithful dog's heart. with considerable disquietude he had watched flo all day. not for nothing had she lain so still, not for nothing had such piercing moans come from her lips, not for nothing did she look so pale, and drawn, and suffering now. drooping his ears, bending his head, and frowning deeply, he reflected, in dog-fashion, how flo too had tasted no meat and drank no water that day. she too was hungry and in a worse plight than him--it was his bounden duty to provide her with food. what should he bring her? a bone? bones were delicious, but strange to say neither flo, nor dick, nor jenks ever ate them! a nice pork or mutton chop: how good they were--too good for a hungry dog to think about patiently, as he reflected that a chop, if he could get it, would be only supper, and not too large a supper, for one. no, he must give up that butcher's meat in which his spirit delighted and attack the bread shops. a loaf of bread would satisfy them both! rising to his feet, and bestowing on flo one or two looks of intense intelligence, looks which said as plainly as possible, "i have not an idea of deserting you, i am going for our supper," he started off. up the ladder with nimble steps he went, and then, by a succession of cunning dives, along the street, until he came to the butchers' stalls. here his demeanour totally changed, he no longer looked timid and cowed: the currish element very prominent when, with his tail between his legs, he had scuttled up duncan street, now had vanished; he walked along the centre of the road soberly and calmly, a meditative look in his eyes, like a dog that has just partaken of a good dinner, and is out for a constitutional: not one glance did he cast at the tempting morsels, so near and yet so far. a baker's cart turned the corner--this was what scamp wanted, and expected. he joined the cart unknown to the baker's boy, he walked demurely behind, to all appearance guarding the tempting, freshly-baked loaves. his eye was on them and yet not on them. to the passers-by he looked like a very faithful, good kind of dog, who would fasten his teeth into the leg of any one who attempted to appropriate his master's property. more than one little hungry street _gamin_, on thieving intent, wished him anything but well as he passed. the cart stopped at several doors, the bread was delivered, but still no opportunity of securing a supper for himself and flo arose. scamp's lucky star was, however, in the ascendant. at number , q--street, jerry, the baker's boy, had brought mrs simpson's little bill, and evinced to that worthy woman a very righteous desire to have it settled. mrs simpson, whose wishes differed from jerry's, thought mercy, not justice, should be exercised in the matter of bills owing _from_ herself, when owing _to_ herself the case was different. in the dispute that ensued, jerry stepped into the house. here was scamp's golden opportunity. did he lose it? not he. half a moment later he might have been seen at his old game of diving and scuttling, his tail again tucked under his legs, a hangdog look on his face, but victorious for all that, for jerry's brownest and most crusty loaf was between his teeth. woe to any one who attempted to dispossess scamp of that loaf; his blood would have been up then, and serious battle would have ensued. in safety he bore it through the perilous road, down the ladder into the cellar, and panting and delighted, looking like one who had done a good deed, which indeed he had, he laid the bread under flo's nose. the smell of the good food came sweetly to the nostrils of the starving child, it roused her from the stupor into which she had been sinking, she opened her eyes, and stretched out her hot little hand to clutch at it eagerly. the dog crouched at her side, his lips watering, his teeth aching to set themselves once more into its crisp brown crust. just then footsteps stopped in reality at the cellar door, footsteps that had no idea of going away, footsteps that meant to come right in and find out about everything. for a moment flo's heart stood still, then gave a great cry of joy, for little mrs jenks stood by her side. "who sent you?" asked the trembling child. "god sent me, little darrell," said the woman, bending over her with, oh! such a tender, loving face. "then there be a god, after all," said flo, and in her weakness and gladness she fainted away. chapter thirteen. the bed god lent to flo. yes, there was a god for flo--a god and a father. for some wise and loving reason, all of which she should know some day, he had tested her very sorely, but in her hour of extremest and darkest need he sent her great and unexpected succour, and that night flo left the gloomy and wretched cellar in duncan street, never to return to it. she was unconscious of this herself, and consequently gave the miserable place no farewell looks. from that long swoon into which she sank she awoke with reason quite gone, so was unaware of anything that happened to her. she knew nothing of that drive in the cab, her head pillowed on mrs jenks' breast; nothing of that snowy little bed in mrs jenks' room where they laid her; nothing of the kind face of the doctor as he bent over her; nothing of anything but the hard battle with fever and pain, the hard and fierce conflict with death she had got to fight. for a week the doctor and mrs jenks both thought that she must die, and during all that time she had never one gleam of reason, never one instant's interval from severe pain. at the end of that time the crisis came, as it always does, in sleep. she fell asleep one evening moaning with all the exhaustion caused by fever and suffering, but the faithful little woman who sat by her side marked how by degrees her moans grew less, then ceased; her breathing came slower, deeper, calmer. she was sleeping a refreshing, healing sleep. late that night flo awoke. very slowly her eyes, the light of consciousness once more in them, travelled round the apartment. the last thing she remembered was lying very ill and very hungry on the damp cellar floor, the dog's faithful face close to her, and a loaf of bread within reach of her starving lips. where was she now? in a pure, white, delicious bed, in a room that might have been a little room out of heaven, so lovely did it look in her eyes. perhaps she was dead and was in heaven, and god had made her lie down and go to sleep and get rested before she did anything else. well, she had not had enough sleep yet, she was dreadfully, dreadfully tired still. she turned her weary head a very little--a dog was lying on the hearth-rug; a dog with the head, and back, and eyes of scamp, and those eyes were watching her now lazily, but still intently. and seated farther away was mrs jenks, darning a boy's sock, while a boy's jacket lay on her lap. the sight of the little woman's pale face brought back further and older memories to flo, and she knew that this little room was not part of heaven, but was just mrs jenks' beautiful little earthly room. how had she got here? however had she got here from that cellar where she had lain so ill and unable to move? perhaps after eating that bread that scamp had brought her she had got much stronger, and had remembered, as in a kind of dream, her appointment with mrs jenks, and still in a dream, had got up and gone to her, and perhaps when she reached her room she had got very faint again and tired, and mrs jenks had put her into her little bed, to rest for a bit. but how long she must have stayed, and how at home scamp looked! it was night now, quite night, and mrs jenks must want to lie down in her own nice pleasant bed; tired and weak as she was, she must go away. "please, mum," she said faintly, and her voice sounded to herself thin, and weak, and miles off. in an instant the little pale woman was bending over her. "did you speak to me, darling?" "please, mum," said flo, "ef you was to 'old me werry tight fur a bit, i'll get up, mum." "not a bit of you," said mrs jenks, smiling at her, "you'll not get up to-night, nor to-morrow neither. but you're better, ain't you, dearie?" "yes, mum, but we mustn't stay no later, we must be orf, scamp and me. 'tis werry late indeed, mum." "well, so it be," said mrs jenks, "'tis near twelve o'clock, and wot you 'as got to do is not to stir, but to drink this, and then go to sleep." "ain't this yer bed, mum?" asked flo, when she had taken something very refreshing out of a china mug which mrs jenks held to her lips; "ain't this yer bed as i'm a lyin' in, mum?" "it is, and it isn't," replied mrs jenks. "it ain't just that exactly now, fur god wanted the loan of it from me, fur a few nights, fur one of his sick little ones." "and am i keepin' the little 'un out o' it, mum?" "why no, flo darrell, you can hardly be doing that, for you are the very child god wants it fur. he has given me the nursing of you for a bit, and now you have got to speak no more, but to go to sleep." flo did not sleep at once, but she asked no further questions; she lay very still, a delicious languor of body stealing over her, a sense of protection and repose wrapping her soul in an elysium of joy. there was a god after all, and this god had heard her cry. while she was lying in such deep despair, doubting him so sorely, he was busy about her, not fetching janey, who could do so little, but going for mrs jenks, who was capable, and kind, and clever. he had given mrs jenks full directions about her, had desired her to nurse and take care of her. she need have no longer any compunction in lying in that soft bed, in receiving all that tender and novel treatment. god meant her to have it--it was all right. when to-morrow, or the day after, she was quite well and rested again she would try and find out more about god, and thank him in person, if she could, for his great kindness to her, and ever after the memory of that kindness would be something to cheer and help her in her cellar-life. how much she should like to see god! she felt that god must be beautiful. before her confused and dreamy eyes the angels in their white dresses kept moving up and down, and as they moved they sang "glory, glory, glory." and flo knew they were surrounding god, and she tried to catch a glimpse of god himself through their shining wings. she was half asleep when she saw them, she was soon wholly asleep; she lay in a dreamless, unbroken slumber all night. and this was the beginning of her recovery, and of her knowledge of god. when the doctor came the next day he said she was better, but though the fever had left her, she had still very much pain to suffer. in her fall she had given her foot a most severe sprain, and though the swelling and first agony were gone, yet it often ached, without a moment's intermission, all day and all night. then her fever had turned to rheumatic, and those little thin bones would feel for many a day the long lie they had had on the damp cellar floor. but flo's soul was so happy that her body was very brave to bear this severe pain; such a flood of love and gratitude was lighting up her heart, that had the ceaseless aching been worse she would have borne it with patient smiles and unmurmuring lips. for day after day, by little and little, as she was able to bear it, mrs jenks told her what she herself called the story of god. she began with adam and eve, and explained to her what god had done for them; she described that lovely garden of eden until flo with her vivid imagination saw the whole scene; she told how the devil came and tempted eve, and how eve fell, and in her fall, dishonesty, and sin, and misery, all came into the world. and because sin was in the world--and sin could not remain unpunished--adam and eve must die, and their children must die, and all men must die. and then she further explained to the listening child how, though they were sinners, the good god still cared for them, and for their children, and for all the people that should come after them; and because he so loved the world he sent his only begotten son into the world, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. and because little mrs jenks loved god and christ with all the strength of her nature in return, she told the story of the birth of jesus, of his life, of his death, so tenderly and so solemnly, that the child wept, and only the knowledge that his sufferings were now over, that he was happy now, and that he loved her, could stay her tears. what could she give him in return? why, all he asked for, all he needed. lying there on mrs jenks' little white bed which god had lent her, she offered up to the father, to the son, and to the spirit, the love and obedience of her whole heart and life for time and for eternity. chapter fourteen. the best robe. it took flo a long time to get well, but when the autumn came, and the fierce summer heat had passed away, she began to pick up strength, to leave her little white bed, to hobble on her lame foot across the floor, to sit on the crimson hearth-rug and fondle scamp; and after pondering on the fact for many days, and communicating her feelings on the subject to the dog in mrs jenks' absence, she felt that, painful as it would be to them both, they must now once more go out into the world. they must say good-bye to this bright little room and its much-loved inmate, and face once more the old days of poverty and privation. not that they ever would be quite the old days back again. however cold she now was, however hungry she now was, she had a hope which would charm away the hunger and cold, she had a strong friend who in her hour of extreme need would come again, as he had come once, to her succour. but must they both go out into the world again? this question perplexed her very often. that scamp should love quarters where beef and mutton bones were at least _sometimes_ tasted, where his bed was warm, and his life easy, was not to be wondered at. under his present gentle treatment he was growing into quite a handsome dog, a dog that really did credit to his friends. his ribs no longer stuck out in their former ungainly manner, his coat was thick and good, his eyes bright. of course he liked the comfortable feelings which accompanied these outward signs of prosperity: still he was not the dog to desert his mistress in her need; and cheerfully, and without a murmur, would he have followed her through hunger and privation, to the world's end. but the question was not, would he go, but should she take him? had she, who could do so little for him, any right to take him? perhaps when she had him back in her cellar, that dreadful maxey would again find him, and carry him away to fight with his bull-dogs, and his life would be sacrificed to her selfishness. the desolate side of the picture, which represented herself in the cellar without scamp, she resolutely turned away from, and determined that if mrs jenks would be willing to keep her dog, she should have him. and mrs jenks loved him, and had already paid the dog-tax for him, so it was very unlikely that she would refuse his society. flo thought about this for several nights while lying, awake in bed, and for several days when mrs jenks was out, and at last one evening she spoke. "mrs jenks, ma'am, is you fond of scamp?" mrs jenks had just returned after a day's charing, and now, having washed up, and put away the tea-things, and made herself clean and comfortable, she was seated in her little arm-chair, a tiny roll of coloured calico in her lap, and a mysteriously small thimble in her hand. at flo's question she patted the dog's head, and answered gently-- "yes, dear, i loves all dumb creatures." "then, mrs jenks, may be yer'd like fur to keep scamp?" "why, my child, of course you are both on a little visit with me for the present. see, flo, i am going to teach you needlework--it is what all women should be adepts in, dear." at another time flo could not have resisted this appeal, but she was too intensely in earnest now to be put off her subject. "i means, ma'am," she said, rising to her feet and speaking steadily, "i means, ma'am, wen my little wisit is hover, and you 'as back yer bed, ma'am, as god gave me the loan of--i means then, ma'am, seeing as you loves my dawg, and you'll be kind to 'im, and hall 'ee wants is no bed, but to lie on the rug, why, that you might keep my dawg." flo's voice shook so while renouncing scamp, that the animal himself heard her, and got up and thrust his great awkward head between her hands. she had hard work to restrain her tears, but did so, and kept her eyes steadily fixed on mrs jenks. that little woman sat silent for fully a moment, now returning flo's gaze, now softly stroking scamp's back--at last she spoke. "no, flo," she said, "i won't part you and scamp--you love each other, and i think god means you to stay together. he has made you meet, and let you pass through a pretty sharp little bit of life in company, and i have no idea but that he sent you his dumb creature to be a comfort to you, and if that is so, i won't take him away. as long as you stay he shall stay, but when you go back to your cellar he shall go too." scamp, whose eyes expressed that he knew all about it, and fully believed that mrs jenks understood his character, looked satisfied, and licked her hand, but flo had still an anxious frown on her face. "ef you please, ma'am," she said, "'tis better fur me to know how much longer am i to have the loan of your bed, ma'am?" "why, flo, my dear, mrs potter, who lent me the mattress i sleeps on, sent me down word that she must have it to-morrow morning for her niece, who is coming to live with her, so i'll want my bed, flo, and 'tis too little for both of us." mrs jenks paused, but flo was quite silent. "well, dear," she said cheerfully, "we'll all three lie warm and snug to-night, and we needn't meet to-morrow's troubles half way. now come over, child, and i'll give you instruction in needlework, 'tis an hart as all women should cultivate." flo, still silent and speechless, went over and received the needle into her clumsy little fingers, and after a great many efforts, succeeded in threading it, and then she watched mrs jenks work, and went through two or three spasmodic stitches herself, and to all appearance looked a grave, diligent little girl, very much interested in her occupation. and mrs jenks chatted to her, and told her what a good trade needlework was, and for all it met so much abuse, and was thought so poor in a money-making way, yet still good, plain workers, not machinists, could always command their price, and what a tidy penny she had made by needlework in her day. and to all this flo replied in monosyllables, her head hanging, her eyes fixed on her work. at last mrs jenks gave her a needle freshly threaded, and a strip of calico, and bade her seat herself on the hearth-rug and draw her needle in and out of the calico to accustom her to its use, and she herself took up a boy's jacket, and went on unpicking and opening the seams, and letting it out about an inch in all directions. night after night she was engaged over this work, and it always interested flo immensely: for mrs jenks took such pains with it, she unpicked the seams and smoothed them out with such clever fingers, then she stitched them up again with such fine, beautiful stitching, and when that was done, she invariably ironed them over with a nice little iron, which she used for no other purpose, so that no trace of the old stitching could be seen. she had a very short time each day to devote to this work, seldom more than ten minutes, but she did it as though she delighted in it, as though it did her heart and soul good to touch that cloth, to draw those careful, beautiful stitches in and out of it. and every night, while so engaged, she told flo the story of the prodigal son. she began it this night as usual, without the little girl looking up or asking for it. "once there was a man who had two sons--they were all the children he had, and he held them very dear. one--the eldest--was a steady lad, willing to abide by his father, and be guided by him, but the other was a wild, poor fellow, and he thought the home very small and narrow, and the world a big place, and he thought he'd like a bit of fun, and to see foreign parts. "so he asked his father for all the money he could spare, and his father gave him half his living. and then the poor foolish boy set off, turning his back on all the comforts of home, and thinking now he'd see life in earnest; and when he got to the far-off lands, wild companions, thieves, and such, came round him, and between them the good bit of money his father had given him melted away, and he had not a penny to call his own. then he began to be hungry, to want sore, and no man gave to him, and no man pitied him; and then, sitting there in the far country, came back to the poor, desolate, foolish lad the thoughts of home, and the nice little house, and the father's love, and he thought if he was there again, why, he'd never be dying of hunger, for in the father's house even the servants had enough and to spare. "and he thought, why should he not go back again? and he said to himself, `i will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, father, i have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be thy son.' "and he got up and went back to his father. but the loving father was looking out for him, and when he saw him coming over the hill-top, he ran to meet him, and threw his arms about him; and the son said-- "`father, i have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.' "but the father said, `bring forth the best robe and put it on him, and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet, and let us make a feast and be merry, for this my son was dead and is alive again, he was lost and is found.'" night after night flo had listened to this story, always with a question at the top of her lips, but never until to-night had she courage to put it. "was the best robe, a jacket and trousers and little weskit, ma'am?" "very like," said mrs jenks, bending over a fresh seam she was beginning to unpick. "but you hasn't no lad comin' back fur that 'ere jacket, ma'am?" mrs jenks was silent for fully two minutes, her work had fallen from her hands, her soft, gentle eyes looked afar. "yes, flo dear," she said, "i have such a lad." "wot's 'is name, ma'am?" "willie," said mrs jenks, "willie's 'is name--leastways 'is home name." "and is he a comin' back any day, ma'am? is you a lookin' hout o' the winder fur 'im any day?" "no, flo, he won't come any day, he won't come fur a bit." "wen 'is best robe is ready, ma'am?" "yes; when he comes it shall be ready." "'ow soon is 'ee like to walk in, ma'am?" "i don't know exact," said mrs jenks, "but i'll look out fur him in the spring, when the little crocuses and snowdrops is out--he's very like to turn up then." as mrs jenks spoke she folded the jacket and put it tidily away, and then she unbandaged flo's foot and rubbed some strengthening liniment on it, and undressed the little girl and put her into bed, and when she had tucked her up and kissed her, and flo hail rewarded her with a smile breaking all over her little white, thin face, something in the expression of that, face caused her to bend down again and speak suddenly. "god has given me a message for you, child, and forgetful old woman that i am, i was near going to sleep without yer 'aving it." "wot's the message, mum?" "the message is this, straight from god himself--`certainly i will be with thee.' do you know what that means, my child?" "i can part guess, ma'am." "ay, i dare say you can part guess, but you may as well know the whole sweet meaning of it. 'tis this, flo darrell--_wherever_ you be, god will be with you. back in your cellar, dark as it is, he'll come and keep you company. if you stay with me, why he's here too. when you go to sleep his arm is under your head; when you walk abroad, he's by your side--he's with you now, and he'll be with you for ever. when you come to die he'll be with you. you need never fear for nothing, for god will be always with you. he says `certainly,' and his certainly, is as big, and wide, and strong as eternity, flo darrell." "yes, ma'am," replied flo very softly, and then mrs jenks went and lay down on her mattress, and was presently sleeping the sweet and heavy sleep of the hard worker. but flo could not sleep--she lay awake, feeling the soft white sheets with her fingers, looking with her brown eyes all round the pretty room. how bright, and pure, and fresh it all looked, with the firelight flickering over the furniture, to the beauty-loving child. she was taking farewell of it then--she must go away to-morrow; back again to their cellar the dog and she must go--away from the sunlight of this bright little home, into the homeless darkness of their duncan street life. she had not expected it quite so soon, she had thought that god would give her a little more notice, a little longer time to prepare, before he asked her to return that comfortable bed to mrs jenks. well, the time had come for her to do it, and she must do it with a good grace, she must not show dear mrs jenks even half how sorry she was. that little woman had done so much for her, had changed and brightened her whole existence, had been specially chosen by god himself to do all this for her, to save her life. not for worlds would she look as though she expected more from mrs jenks. she must go away to-morrow, very, very thankful, and not too sad, otherwise the little woman would feel uncomfortable about her. she resolved that in the morning she would wear quite a cheerful face, and talk brightly of all people _had_ made by translating. she would walk away when the time came, as briskly as her lame foot would permit, scamp wagging his tail, and supposing he was only going for an ordinary walk, by her side. then they would reach the cellar, and janey's mother, who kept the key, would open it for them, and, perhaps janey herself would come down and listen to all flo's wonderful stories. well; these were for to-morrow, to-night she must say farewell; to-night, with eyes too sad, and heart too heavy for childish tears, she must look around at this cleanliness, this comfort, this luxury for the last time. flo was a poor child, the child of low people, but she had a refined nature, a true lady's heart beat in that little breast. all the finer instincts, all the cravings of a gentle and high spirit, were hers. pretty things were a delight to her, the sound of sweet music an ecstasy. born in another sphere, she might have been an artist, she might have been a musician, but never, under any circumstances, could she have led a common-place life. the past six weeks, notwithstanding her anxiety and sorrow about dick, had been one bright dream to her. the perfect neatness, the little rough, but no longer tattered, dress mrs jenks had made for her, the sense of repose, the lovely stories, had made the place little short of paradise to the child. and now by to-morrow night it would all be over, and the old dark life of poverty, hunger, and dirt would begin again. as flo was thinking this, and, leaning on her elbow, was looking sadly around, suddenly the verse mrs jenks had said good-night to her with darted like a ray of brightest sunshine into her soul. "certainly, i will be with thee." what a fool she was, to think janey's company necessary, to have any fear of loneliness. god would be with her. though unseen by her (she knew that much about god now), he would still be by her side. was it likely, when he was down with her in the dark cellar, that he would allow her to want, or even have things very hard for her? or suppose he did allow her to go through privations? suppose he asked her to bear a few short, dark days for him down here, he would give her a for-ever and for-ever of bright days, by and by. after a time she grew weary, and her heavy lids closed, and she went to sleep, but her face was no longer sad, it was bright with the thought of god. chapter fifteen. miss mary. the next morning flo watched mrs jenks very narrowly, wondering and hoping much that she would show some sorrow at the thought of the coming parting. a shade, even a shade, of regret on the little woman's face would have been pleasing to flo; it would have given her undoubted satisfaction to know that mrs jenks missed her, or would be likely to miss her, ever so little. but though she watched her anxiously, no trace of what she desired was visible on the bright little woman's features. she was up earlier than usual, and looked to flo rather more brisk and happy than usual. she went actively about her work, singing under her breath for fear of disturbing flo, whom she fancied was still asleep, some of the hymns she delighted in. "christ is my saviour and my friend, my brother and my love, my head, my hope, my counsellor, my advocate above," sang mrs jenks, and while she sang she dusted, and tidied, and scrubbed the little room; and as she polished the grate, and lit the small fire, and put the kettle on for breakfast, she continued-- "christ jesus is the heaven of heaven; my christ, what shall i call? christ is the first, christ is the last, my christ is all in all." no, mrs jenks was not sorry about anything, that was plain; there was a concealed triumph in her low notes which almost brought tears to the eyes of the listening child. perhaps she would have sobbed aloud, and so revealed to mrs jenks what was passing in her mind, had not that little woman done something which took off her attention, and astonished her very much. when she had completed all her usual preparations for breakfast, she took off her old working gown, and put on her best sunday-go-to-meeting dress. this surprised flo so utterly that she forgot she had been pretending to be asleep and sat up on her elbow to gaze at her. over the best dress she pinned a snowy kerchief, and putting on finally a clean widow's cap, drew up the blinds and approached flo's side. "i'll just see about that poor foot now," she said, "and then, while i am frying the herring for breakfast, you can wash and dress yourself, dearie." but poor flo could not help wondering, as mrs jenks in her brisk clever way unbandaged her foot, and applied that pleasant strengthening lotion, who would do it for her to-morrow morning, or would she have any lotion to put. she longed to find courage to ask mrs jenks to allow her to take away what was left in the bottle, perhaps by the time it was finished her foot would be well. and flo knew perfectly, how important it was for her, unless she was utterly to starve, that that lame foot should get well. she remembered only too vividly what hard times janey, even with a father and mother living, had to pull along with her lame foot, but she could not find courage to ask for the lotion, and mrs jenks, after using a sufficient quantity, corked up the remainder and put it carefully away. "there's an improvement here," said the little woman, touching the injured ankle. "there's more nerve, and strength, and firmness. you'll be able to walk to-day." "i'll try, ma'am," said flo. "so you shall, and you can lean on me--i'll bear your weight. now get up, dearie." as flo dressed herself she felt immensely comforted. it was very evident from mrs jenks' words, that she intended going with her to her cellar, she herself would take her back to her wretched home. to do this she must give up her day's charing, so flo knew that her going away was of some importance to the little woman, and the thought, as i have said, comforted her greatly. she dressed herself quickly and neatly, and after kneeling, and repeating "our father" quite through very softly under her breath, the three--the woman, child, and dog--sat down to breakfast. it would be absurd to speak of it in any other way. in that household scamp ate with the others, he drew up as gravely to every meal as mrs jenks did herself. his eyes were on a level with the table, and he looked so at home, so assured of his right to be there, and withal so anxious and expectant, and he had such a funny way of cocking his ears when a piece of nice fried herring was likely to go his way, that he was a constant source of mirth? and pleasure to the human beings with whom he resided. mrs jenks was one of the most frugal little women in the world; never a crumb was wasted in her little home, but she always managed to have something savoury for every meal, and the savoury things she bought were rendered more so by her judicious cooking. her red herrings, for instance, just because she knew where to buy them, and how to dress them, did not taste at all like poor flo's red herrings, cooked against the bars, and eaten with her fingers in the duncan street cellar. so it was with all her food; it was very plain, very inexpensive, but of its kind it was the best, and was so nicely served that appetites far more fastidious than flo's would have enjoyed it. on this morning, however, the three divided their herring and sipped their tea (scamp had evinced quite a liking for tea) in silence, and when it was over, and flo was wondering how soon she could break the ice and ask mrs jenks _when_ she meant to take her to duncan street, she was startled by the little woman saying to her in her briskest and brightest tones-- "i wonder, child, whether i'd best trim up that old bonnet of your mother's for you to wear, or will you go with yer little head exposed to the sun? "the bonnet's very old, that's certain, but then 'tis something of a protection, and the sun's 'ot." "please, ma'am," said flo, "i can walk werry well wid my head bare; but ef you doesn't mind i'd like to carry 'ome the bonnet, fur it was mother's sunday best, it wor." "lor, child, you're not going home yet awhile, you've got to go and pay a visit with me. here, show me the bonnet--i'll put a piece of decent brown upon it, and mend it up." which mrs jenks did, and with her neat, capable fingers transformed it into by no means so grotesque-looking an object. then when it was tied on flo's head they set off. "a lady wishes to see you, flo, and she wishes to see scamp too," explained mrs jenks; and calling the dog, they went slowly out of the court. flo had very little time for wonder, for the lady in question lived but a few doors away, and notwithstanding her slow and painful walking she got to her house in a very few moments. it was a tiny house, quite a scrap of a house to be found in any part of the middle of london--a house back from its neighbours, with little gothic windows, and a great tree sheltering it. how it came to pass that no railway company, or improvement company, or company of something else, had not pounced upon it and pulled it down years ago remained a marvel; however, there it stood, and to its hall door walked mrs jenks, flo, and scamp, now. the door was opened by a neat little parlour-maid, who grinned from ear to ear at sight of mrs jenks. "is your mistress at home, annie?" "that she is, ma'am, and looking out for you. you're all to come right in, she says--the dog and all." so flo found herself in a pretty hall, bright with indian matting, and some fresh ferns towering up high in a great stone jar of water. "we was in the country yesterday, ma'am, miss mary and me, and have brought back flowers, and them 'igh green things enough to fill a house with 'em," explained the little handmaid as she trotted on in front, down one flight of stairs and up another, until she conducted them into a long low room, rendered cool and summery by the shade of the great tree outside. this room to-day was, as annie the servant expressed it, like a flower garden. hydrangeas, roses, carnations, wild flowers, ferns, stood on every pedestal, filled twenty, thirty vases, some of rarest china, some of commonest delf, but cunningly hid now by all kinds of delicate foliage. it was a strange little house for the midst of the city, a strange little bower of a room, cool, sweet-scented, carrying those who knew the country miles away into its shadiest depths--a room furnished with antique old carvings and odd little black-legged spindle chairs. on one of the walls hung a solitary picture, a water-colour framed without margin, in a broad gilt frame. a masterpiece of art it was--of art, i say? something far beyond art-- genius. it made the effect of the charming little room complete, and not only carried one to the country, but straight away at once to the seashore. those who saw it thought of the beech on summer evenings, of the happy days when they were young. it was a picture of waves--waves dancing and in motion, waves with the white froth foaming on them, and the sunlight glancing on their tops. no other life in the picture, neither ship nor bird, but the waves were so replete with their own life that the salt fresh breeze seemed to blow on your face as you gazed. the effect was so marvellous, so great and strong, that flo and mrs jenks both neglected the flowers, only taking them in as accessories, and went and stood under the picture. "ah! there's the sea," said mrs jenks with a great sigh, and a passing cloud, not of pain, but of an old grief, on her face. "the sea shall give up her dead," said a young voice by her side, and turning quickly, flo saw one of the most peculiar, and perhaps one of the most beautiful, women she had ever looked at. was she old? the hair that circled her low forehead was snowy white. was she young? her voice was round, flexible, full of music, rich with all the sympathy of generous youth. she might be thirty--forty--fifty--any age. she had a story--who hasn't? she had met with sorrow--who hasn't? but she had conquered and risen above sorrow, as her pale, calm, unwrinkled face testified. she was a brave woman, a succourer of the oppressed, a friend in the house of trouble, or mourning, as the pathetic, dark grey eyes, which looked out at you from under their straight black brows, declared. long afterwards she told flo in half-a-dozen simple words her history. "god took away from me all, child--father--mother--lover--home. he made me quite empty, and then left me so for a little time, to let me feel what it was like: but when i had tasted the full bitterness, he came and filled me with himself--brim full of himself. then i had my mission from him. go feed my sheep--go feed my lambs. is it not enough?" "you like my picture, mrs jenks," she said now, "and so does the child," touching flo as she spoke with the tips of her white fingers. "come into this room and i will show you another--there." she led the way into a little room rendered dark, not by the great tree, but by venetian blinds. over the mantel-piece was another solitary picture--again a water-colour. some cows, four beautifully sketched, ease-loving creatures, standing with their feet in a pool of clear water: sedgy, marshy ground behind them, a few broken trees, and a ridge of low hills in the background-- over all the evening sky. "that picture," said the lady, "is called `repose,'--to me it is repose with stagnation; i like my waves better." "and yet, miss mary," replied the widow, "how restful and trustful the dumb creatures look! i think they read us a lesson." "so they do, mrs jenks; all his works read us a lesson--but come back to my waves, i want their breezes on my face, the day is stifling." she led the way back into the first room, and seated herself on a low chair. "this is your little girl, and this the dog--scamp, you call him. why did you give him so outlandish a name? he does not deserve it, he is a good faithful dog, there is nothing scampish about him, i see that in his face." "yes, ma'am, he's as decent conducted and faithful a cretur as ever walked. wot scamp he is, is only name deep, not natur deep." "well, that is right--what's in a name? come here, scamp, poor fellow, and you, little flo, you come also; i have a great deal to say to you and your dog." the child and the dog went up and stood close to the kind face. miss mary put her arm round flo, and laid one shapely white hand on scamp's forehead. "so god has taken away your little bed," she said to the child, "and you don't know where to sleep to-night." "oh! yes, mum, i does," said flo in a cheerful voice, for she did not wish mrs jenks to think she missed her bed very much. "scamp and me, we 'as a mattress in hour cellar." miss mary smiled. "now, flo," she said, "i really don't wish to disappoint you, but i greatly fear you are mistaken. you may have a mattress, but you have no mattress in number , duncan street, for that cellar, as well as every other cellar in the street, has been shut up by the police three weeks ago. they are none of them fit places for human beings to live in." if miss mary, sitting there in her summer muslin, surrounded by every comfort, thought that flo would rejoice in the fact that these places, unfit for any of god's creatures, were shut up, she was vastly mistaken. dark and wretched hole of a place as number , duncan street, was, it was there her mother had died, it was there she and dick had played, and struggled, and been honest, and happy. poor miserable shred of a home, it was the only home she had ever possessed the only place she had a right to call her own. now that it was gone, the streets or the adelphi arches stared her in the face. veritable tears came to her eyes, and in her excitement and distress, she forgot her awe of the first lady who had ever spoken to her. "please, mum, ef the cellar is shut up, wot 'ave come of my little bits o' duds, my mattress, and table, and little cobbler's stool?--that little stool wor worth sixpence any day, it stood so steady on its legs. wot 'ave come o' them, mum, and wot's to come o' scamp and me, mum?" "ah!" said the lady more kindly than ever, "that is the important question, what is to become of you and scamp? well, my dear, god has a nice little plan all ready for you both, and what you have to do is to say yes to it." "and i 'ave brought you here to learn all about it, flo," said mrs jenks, nodding and smiling at her. then miss mary made the child seat herself on a low stool by her side, and unfolded to her a wonderful revelation. she, flo, was no stranger to this lady. mrs jenks once a week worked as char-woman in this house, and had long ago told its mistress of her little charge; and miss mary was charmed and interested, and wanted to buy scamp, only mrs jenks declared that that would break flo's heart. so instead she had contributed something every week to the keep of the two. now she wished to do something more. miss mary graham was not rich, and long ago every penny of her spare money had been appropriated in various charitable ways, but about a fortnight ago a singular thing had happened to her. she received through the post a cheque for a small sum with these words inside the envelope-- "_to be spent on the first little homeless london child you care to devote it to_." the gift, sent anonymously, seemed to point directly to flo, and miss graham resolved that she should reap the benefit. her plan for her was this,--she and scamp were to live with mrs jenks for at least a year, and during that time mrs jenks was to instruct flo in reading and writing, in fine sewing, and in all the mysteries of household work and cooking, and when flo was old enough and strong enough, and if she turned out what they earnestly trusted she would turn out, she was to come to miss mary as her little servant, for miss mary expected that in a year or two annie would be married and have a home of her own. "does this plan suit you, flo? are you willing when the time comes to try to be a faithful little servant to any master or mistress you may be with?" whatever flo's feelings may have been, her answer was a softly, a very softly spoken-- "yes, ma'am." "do you know how you are to learn?" "no, ma'am; but mrs jenks, she knows." "mrs jenks knows certainly, and so may you. you must be god's little servant first--you must begin by being god's little servant to-day, and then when the time comes you will be a good and faithful servant to whoever you are with." "yes, ma'am," answered flo, a look of reverence, of love, of wonder at the care god was taking of her, stealing over her downcast face. miss mary saw the look, and rose from her seat well satisfied, she had found the child her heavenly father meant her to serve. "but please, mum," said flo, "does yer know about dick?" "yes, my dear, i know all about your little brother. mrs jenks has told me dick's story as well as yours. and i know this much, which perhaps you may not know; his stealing was a bad thing, but his being taken up and sent, not to prison, but to the good reformatory school where he now is, was the best thing that could happen to him. i have been over that school, flo, and i know that the boys in it are treated well, and are happy. they are taught a trade, and are given a fair start in life. "many a boy such as dick owes his salvation to the school he now is in. "by the way, did you notice annie, my little servant?" "yes, ma'am," and a smile came to flo's face at the remembrance of the bright, pleasant-looking handmaiden. "she has given me leave to tell you something, flo; something of her own history. "once my dear, faithful annie was a little london thief--a notorious little london thief. she knew of no god, she knew of nothing good--she was not even as fortunate as you and dick were, for she had no mother to keep her right. when not quite ten years old she was concerned in a daring city robbery--she was taken up--convicted--and at last sentenced, first for a month to wandsworth house of correction, afterwards for four years to the girls' reformatory school at that place. "she has often told me what happened to her on the day she arrived at this school. she went there hating every one, determined never to change her ways, to remain for ever hardened and wicked. "the matron called her aside and spoke to her thus: "`i know what is said of you, but i do not believe half of it--_i am going to trust you_. "`here is a five-pound note; take this note to such a shop, and bring me back four sovereigns in gold, and one in silver.' "that noble trust saved the girl. at that moment, as she herself said, all inclination for thieving utterly left her. [a fact.] from that day to this she has never touched a farthing that is not strictly her own. you see what she is now in appearance; when you know her better, you will see what she is in character--a true christian--a noble woman. all the nobler for having met and conquered temptation." miss mary paused, then added softly, "what she has become, dick may become." when mrs jenks, and flo, and scamp came home that morning, flo, who after all that had happened felt sure that nothing ever _could_ surprise her again, still could not help, when she entered the neat little room-- her _real_ home now--starting back and folding her hands in mute astonishment. the rough-looking, untidy mattress was gone, and in its place stood a tiny, bright-looking iron bedstead, on which the smallest of snowy beds was made up. over the bedstead, pinned against the wall, was a card with these words printed on it-- "god's gift to flo." chapter sixteen. bright days. and now began a happy time in a hitherto very dark little life. all her cares, her anxieties for dick even, swept away, flo had stept into a state of existence that to her was one of luxury. the effect on many a nature, after the first burst of thankfulness was over, would have been a hardening one. the bright sunshine of prosperity, without any of the rain of affliction, would have dried up the fair soil, withered, and caused to die, the good seed. but on flo the effect was different; she never forgot one thing, and this memory kept all else straight within her. in counting up her mercies, she never forgot that it was god who gave them to her; and in return she gave him, not love as a duty, but love rising free and spontaneous out of a warm, strong heart. and he whom she loved she longed to hear more of, and mrs jenks, whose love for god and faith in god was as great as her own, loved to tell her of him. so these two, in their simple, unlearned way, held converse often together on things that the men of this world so seldom allude to, and doubtless they learned more about god than the men of this world, with all their talents and cultivated tastes, ever attain to. it was mrs jenks' simple plan to take all that the bible said in its literal and exact meaning, and flo and she particularly delighted in its descriptions (not imagery to them) of heaven. and when mrs jenks read to flo out of the st and nd chapters of the revelation, the child would raise her clear brown eyes to the autumn sky, and see with that inner sense, so strong in natures like hers, the gates of pearl and golden streets. god lived there--and many people who once were sad and sorrowful in this world, lived there--and it was the lovely happy home where she hoped she and dick should also live some day. "and you too, mrs jenks, and that poor lad of yours," she would say, laying her head caressingly on the little woman's knee. but mrs jenks rather wondered why flo never mentioned now that other jenks, her namesake, who was wearing out his slow nine months' imprisonment in the wandsworth house of correction. once flo had been very fond of him, and his name was on her lips twenty times a day, now she never spoke of him. why was this? had she forgotten jenks? hardly likely. she was such a tender, affectionate little thing, interested even in that poor prodigal lad, whose best robe would soon be as ready, and as bright, and fresh, and new, as mrs jenks' fingers could make it. no, flo had not forgotten jenks, but she had found out a secret. without any one telling her, she had guessed _who_ the lad was who was expected back in the spring; who that jacket, and trousers, and vest were getting ready for. a certain likeness in the eyes, a certain play of the lips, had connected poor jenks in prison with mrs jenks in this bright, home-like, little room. she knew they were mother and son, but as mrs jenks had not mentioned it herself, she would never pretend that she had discovered her secret. but flo had one little fear--she was not quite sure that jenks _would_ come home. she knew nothing of his previous history, but in her own intercourse with him she had learned enough of his character to feel sure that the love for thieving was far more deeply engrafted into his heart than his gentle, trusting little mother had any idea of. when he was released from prison, bad companions would get round him, and he would join again in their evil ways. he could not now harm dick, who was safe at that good school for two or three years, but in their turn others might harm him, and the jacket and trousers might lie by unused, and the crocuses and snowdrops wither, and still jenks might not come. he might only join in more crime, and go back again to prison, and in the end break his mother's gentle, trusting heart. now flo wondered could _she_ do anything to bring the prodigal home. she thought of this a great deal; she lay in her little white bed, the bed god had given her, and told god about it, and after a time a plan came into her head. three times a week she went to miss mary's pleasant house to be taught knitting by annie, and reading and writing by that lady herself, and on one of these occasions she unfolded her idea to this kind listener, and between them they agreed that it should be carried out. chapter seventeen. two locks of hair. it was sunday morning at wandsworth house of correction--a fair, late autumnal morning. the trees had on their bright, many-coloured tints, the sky above was flecked with soft, greyish-white clouds, and tender with the loveliest blue. the summer heat was over, but the summer fragrance still dwelt in the air; the summer beauty, subdued, but perhaps more lovely than when in its prime, still lingered on the fair landscape of wandsworth common. in the prison the walls were gleaming snowy white, but so they gleamed when the frost and snow sparkled a little whiter outside, when the hot breath of fiercest summer seemed to weigh down the air. the symbols of the four seasons--the leafless trees, the tender, pale green trees, the drooping, heavily-laden, sheltering trees, the trees clothed in purple and gold--were unknown to those within the house of correction. the prisoners saw no trees from the high windows of their cells. when they walked out in that walled-in enclosure, each prisoner treading in those dreary circles five feet apart from his fellow, they saw a little withered grass, and a little sky, blue, grey, or cloudy, but no trees. the trees are only for the free, not for men and women shut in for the punishment of their crimes. so the seasons are felt in the temperature, but unknown to the sense of sight. on this particular sunday morning a warder might have been seen pacing slowly down the dismal corridor which divides the dark and light punishment cells. he was whistling a low tune under his breath, and thinking how by and by he should be off duty, and could enjoy his sunday dinner and go for a walk across the common with his wife and the child. he thought of his sunday treat a great deal, as was but natural, and just a little of the prisoners, whom he apostrophised as "poor brutes." not that he felt unkindly towards them--very far from that; he was, as the world goes, a humane man, but it was incomprehensible to him how men and boys, when they _were_ confined in wandsworth, did not submit to the rules of the place, and make themselves as comfortable as circumstances would permit, instead of defying everything, and getting themselves shut up in those dreary dark cells. "and this willan 'ave been in fur four days and nights now," he soliloquised, as he stopped at the door of one. "well, i'm real glad 'is punishment is hover, though 'ee's as 'ardened a young chap as hever see daylight." he unlocked the double doors, which, when shut, not only excluded all sound, but every ray of light, and went in. a lad was cowering up in one corner of the wooden bedstead--a lad with a blanched face, and eyes glowing like two coals. the warder went over and laid his hand on his shoulder--he started at the touch, and shivered from head to foot with either rage or fear. "now then, g. . ," in a kindly voice, "your punishment's hover for _this_ time, and i 'opes you'll hact more sensible in future--you may get back to your cell." the lad staggered blindly to his feet, and the warder, catching hold of him, arranged his mask--a piece of dark grey cloth, having eyelet holes, and a tiny bit of alpaca inserted for the mouth--over his face. on the back of his jacket were painted in white letters two inches long, h.c.w.s., which initials stood for house of correction, wandsworth, surrey. staying his staggering steps with his strong arm, the warder conducted him back to his cell, into which he locked him. then the boy, with a great groan, or sigh of relief, threw up his mask, and looked about the little room. he had tasted nothing but bread and water for the last four days, and his sunday breakfast, consisting of a pint of oatmeal gruel and six ounces of bread, stood ready for his acceptance, and by the side of the bread was--what? something that made him forget his great bodily hunger, and start forward with a ray of joy breaking all over his sullen face. this was what he saw. a letter was here--a letter ready for him to open. he had heard that once in three months the wandsworth prisoners were allowed to write and receive letters. this rule he had heard with indifference--in all his life he had never had a letter--what matter was it to him whoever else got them. he knew how to read and write. long ago, when a little lad, he had learned these accomplishments--he could also decipher the writing of other people, and spelt his own name now on the little oblong packet which had found its way into his cell. yes, it was a _bona fide_ letter, it had a stamp on it, and the london post-mark. it was a _bona fide_ letter, and his letter also--a letter directed to him. he gazed at it for a moment or two, then took it up and handled it carefully, and turned it round, and examined the back of it, and held it up to the light--then he put it down, and took a turn the length of his cell. unless we are quite dunned by creditors, and mean never to open anything that is sent to us by the post, we have a kind of interest in that sharp double knock, and a kind of pleasure in opening our various epistles. however many we get, our pulses _do_ beat just a quarter of a shade quicker as we unfasten the envelope. there is never any saying what news the contents may announce to us; perhaps a fortune, an advantageous proposal, the birth of a new relation, the death of an old friend, that appointment we never thought to have obtained, that prize we never hoped to have won: or perhaps, the loss of that prize, the filling up by another man of that appointment. a letter may bring us any possible or impossible news, therefore at all times these little missives, with the queen's head on them, are interesting. but what if we are in prison, if we have just been confined for days and nights in the dark cell, fed on bread and water, sentenced to the horrors and silence of the tomb; if bad thoughts, and hardening thoughts, and maddening thoughts, if satan and his evil spirits, have been bearing us company? what, if we are only addressed when spoken to at all as a number, and our human name, our christian name, is never pronounced to us; and what if we have been going through this silent punishment, this unendurable confinement, for months, and we feel that it is right and just we should be so punished, right and just that all men should forsake us, and pass us by, and forget us--and all the time, though we know that justice is dealing with us, and we ought neither to cry out nor to complain, we know and feel also, that seven devils are entering into us, and our last state will be worse, far worse than our first? and then, when we come back from the darkness, and feel again the blessed light of day, and the pure breeze of nature--coming in through the open window of our cell--is fanning our face, and though our spirit is still burning with mad and rebellious passions, our body is grateful for the relief of god's own gifts of light and air, then we, who never before, never in our happiest days, received even a halfpenny wrapper's worth through the post, see a letter--our first letter--pure, and thick, and white, awaiting us--a little dainty parcel bearing our baptismal name, and the name, unspotted by any crime, which our father bequeathed to us, lying ready for our acceptance? jenks had returned to his cell after all this severe punishment as hardened and bad a lad as ever walked--sullen, disobedient, defiant. the kind of boy whom chaplains, however tender-hearted, and however skilful in their modes of dealing with other men and boys, would regard as hopeless, as past any chance of reform. he gazed at the letter, so unexpected, so welcome. at first he was excited, agitated, then he grew calm, a look of satisfaction changed utterly the whole expression of his face. somebody in that great, wide, outer world had not forgotten him. he sat down and ate his breakfast with appetite and relish; he could enjoy things again; he was still william jenks to somebody--the boy felt human once more. but he would not open his letter at once--not he. no irreverent fingers, no hasty fingers, should tear that precious envelope asunder. when a man only gets a letter after three months of absolute silence he is never over-hasty in perusing its contents. the sweets of anticipation are very good, and must not be too quickly got over, and when a letter is once opened its great charm is more or less gone. but the first letter of all, the first letter received in one's entire life, and received in prison, must be made a very long pleasure indeed. jenks had hitherto found sunday at wandsworth the most unendurable day of the seven: the slow hours seemed really leaden-weighted. on other days he had his oakum to pick, his routine of labour to get through--on this day, with the exception of chapel and meals, he had nothing whatever wherewith to wile away the long hours. true, the chaplain supplied him with books, but jenks could not read well enough to take pleasure in reading for its own sake, and never was there a nature less studiously inclined than his. so on sunday he thought his darkest thoughts, and hatched his worst plots for the future, and prepared himself for the week of rebellion and punishment which invariably ensued. but, on this sunday all would be different, his letter would give him employment and satisfaction for many hours. he grudged the time he must spend in chapel, he wanted the whole day to hold his little missive, to gaze at the cover, to put it up to the light, to spell out the beloved direction, after a time to spell out the contents. first of all he must guess who sent it. if it took him two hours, three hours, he must guess from whom it came. who could have written to him? he was popular in his way--he had too bright a manner, too merry a face, not to be that. he had a good many acquaintances, and friends and chums, lads who, with all their thieving propensities and ruffianly ways, would have shared their last crust with him, and one and all voted him a jolly good fellow. but not one of these would write to him; he passed them over in silent contempt, at the bare possibility of their being either able or willing to write to him. jim stokes, or bob allen, or any of those other fine daring young fellows, send him a letter! send him too a letter looking like this, or directed like this! why, _this_ letter had a more genteel appearance than long ago the letters his sailor father had sent to his mother had worn. was it likely that either jim or bob, or any of the companions of jim or bob, those ignorant lads who could hardly sign their names, would send him a letter like this? had they wished it ever so much, the thing was impossible. could it be from dick? well, that was certainly an unlikely guess. dick, who was also in prison, able to write to another boy? he passed this thought by with a little laugh of derision. his next idea was flo. he had been really in his own rough fashion fond of flo, he had liked her pretty little face, and enjoyed in his flush and successful days bringing home dainties for her to cook for all their suppers. in spite of himself he had a respect for flo, and though he might have loved her better if she had been willing to learn his trade, and help him in his thieving, yet the pluck she showed in keeping honest, roused a certain undefined respect within him. but of all the ignorant children he ever met, he often said to himself that flo was the most ignorant. why she knew nothing of the world, nothing whatever. how he had laughed at her ideas of earls and dukes and marquises--at her absurd supposition that she could be the queen. was there ever before in the records of man, a london child so outrageously ignorant as this same little flo? _she_ write him a letter! she had probably never heard of a letter. besides, even if she could write, would she? what were her feelings to jenks now, that she should show him so great a kindness? he had broken his word to her, he had converted her brother, her much-loved, bright little brother, into a thief. by means of him he had tasted prison discipline, and was branded with a dishonest stain for ever. he remembered the reproach in her eyes when she stood in the witnesses' box, and gave those funny little reluctant answers about him and dick. even there too she had shown her ignorance, and proclaimed to the whole police-court that she was the greatest little simpleton that ever walked. no, be she where she might now, poor child, it was his wildest guess of all to suppose that she could write to him. _who_ wrote the letter? there was no one else left for him to guess, unless! but here his breath came quick and fast, the beads of perspiration stood on his forehead, he caught up the letter and gazed at it, a white fear stealing over him. no, thank god! he flung it down again with a gesture of intense relief--that was not _her_ writing. she knew how to write, but not like that. she had not written to him. no, thank god!--he murmured this again fervently,--things were bad with him, but they had not come to such a dreadful pass as that. _she_ thought him dead, drowned, come to a violent end; anyhow, done with this present life--she did _not_ know that he, his honest, brave father's only son, had stood in the prisoner's dock, had slept in the dark cell, had worn the prisoner's dress, with its mask, and distinguishing brand! the chapel-bell rang; he started up, thrust his precious unopened letter into his pocket, adjusted his, mask, and walked with his fellow-prisoners in silent, grim, unbroken order into chapel. had any one looked beneath the mask, they would have seen, for the first time since perhaps his entrance into that prison, that the old sullen expression had left his face, that it wore a look of interest and satisfaction. he hugged his letter very close to his breast, and edged himself into the queer little nook allotted to him, from which he could just see the chaplain, and no one else. as a rule he either went to sleep in chapel, or made faces at the chaplain, or fired pellets of bread, which he kept concealed about him, at the other prisoners. on one occasion the spirit of all evil so far possessed him, that one of these, as hard as any shot, came with a resounding report on the mild nose of the then officiating chaplain, as he was fumbling for a loose sheet of his sermon, and nobody discovered that he was the offender. how often he had chuckled over this trick, over the discomfiture of the rev gentleman, and the red bump which immediately arose on his most prominent feature; how often, how very often, he had longed to do it again. but to-day he had none of this feeling: if he had a thousand bread pellets ready, they might have lain quite harmless in his pocket. he was restless, however, and longed to get back to his cell, not to open his letter, he did not mean to do that until quite the evening, but to hold it in his hand, and turn it round and gaze at it; he was restless, and wished the hour and a quarter usually spent in chapel was over, and he looked around him and longed much to find somebody or something to occupy his attention, for jenks never dreamed of joining in the prayers, or listening to the lessons. the prison chapel is not constructed to enable the prisoners to gaze about them, and as the only individual jenks could see was the chaplain, he fixed his eyes on him. he did this with a little return of his old sullenness, for though he was a good man, and even jenks admitted this, he was so tired of him. he had seen him so very, very often, in his cell and at chapel. after spending his life amid the myriad faces of london, jenks had found the months, during which he had never gazed on any human countenance but that of his warder, the governor, chaplain, and doctor, interminably long. he was sick of those four faces, sick of studying them so attentively, he knew every trick of feature they all possessed, and he was weary of watching them. but of all the four the face of the chaplain annoyed him most, perhaps because he had watched him so often in chapel. but to-day it might be a shade better to look at him than to gaze at the hard dead wood in front of his cell-like pew--so sullenly he raised his eyes to the spot where he expected to find him. he did so, then gave a start, and the sullenness passed away like a cloud; his lucky star was in the ascendant to-day--a stranger was in the chaplain's place, he had a fresh face to study. he had a fresh face to study, and one that even in a london crowd must have occupied his attention. a man bordering on fifty, with grey hair, a massive chin, very dark, very deeply-set eyes, and an iron frame, stood before him. jenks hated effeminate men, so he looked with admiration at this one, and presently, the instincts of his trade being ever uppermost, began to calculate how best he could pick his pockets, and what a dreadful grip the stranger could give his--jenks'--throat with those great muscular hands. suddenly he felt a grip somewhere else, a pang of remorse going right through his hardened heart. the strange chaplain, for half an instant, had fixed his deep-set eyes on him, and immediately it began to occur to jenks what a shameful fellow he must be to allow such a man as that to speak without listening to him. the new face was so pleasing, that for a moment or two he made an effort to rouse himself, and even repeated "our father" beneath his breath, just to feel what the sensation was like. then old habits overcame him--he fell asleep. he was in a sound, sweet sleep, undetected by the warder, when suddenly a movement, a breath of wind, or perhaps the profound silence which reigned for a moment through the little chapel, awoke him--awoke him thoroughly. he started upright, to find that the stranger was about to deliver his text. this was the text: "and he said, who art thou, lord? and the lord said, i am jesus, whom thou persecutest." the stranger's voice was low and fervent; he looked round at his congregation, taking them all in, those old sinners, and young and middle-aged sinners, who, in the common acceptation of the term, were sinners more than other men. he looked round at them, and then he gave it to them. in that low fervent voice of his, his body bent a little forward, he opened out to them a revelation, he poured out on them the vials of god's wrath. not an idea had he of sparing them, he called things by their right names, and spoke of sin, such sin as theirs--drunkenness, uncleanness, thieving--as the bible speaks of these things; and he showed them that every one of them were filthy and gone astray utterly. when he said this--without ever raising his voice, but in such a manner, with such emphasis, that every word told home--he sketched rapidly two or three portraits for them to recognise if they would. they were fancy portraits, but they were sketched from a thousand realities. the murderer's last night in his cell--the drunkard with the legions of devils, conjured up by delirium tremens, clustering round him--the lost woman dying out in the snow. then, when many heads were drooping with shame and terror, he suddenly and completely changed his tone. with infinite pity in his voice he told them that he was sorry for them, that if tears of blood could help them, he would shed them for them. their present lives were miserable, degraded, but no words could tell what awaited them when god arose to execute vengeance. on every man, woman, and child, that vengeance was coming, and was fully due. it was on its road, and when it overtook them, the dark cell, the whipping-post, solitary confinement for ever, would seem as heaven in comparison. then he explained to them why the vengeance was so sure, the future woe so inevitable. "_i am jesus, whom thou persecutest_." did they know that? then let them hear it now. every time the thief stole, every time the drunkard degraded his reason, and sank below the level of the beasts; every time the boy and girl did the thousand and one little acts of deceit which ended so shamefully; then they crucified the son of god afresh, and put him to an open shame. _it was jesus of nazareth whom they persecuted_. would god allow such love as his son's love to be trampled on and used slightingly? no, surely. he had borne too long with them; vengeance was his, and he would repay. when the minister had gone so far, he again changed his voice, but this time it changed to one of brightness. he had not brought them to look at so dark a sight as their own sin and ruin without also showing them a remedy. for every one of them there was a remedy, a hiding-place from the wrath of god. jesus, whom they persecuted, still loved them. _still loved them_! why, his heart was yearning over them, his pity, infinite, unfathomable, encompassing them. they were not too bad for jesus--not a bit of it. for such as them he died, for such as them he pleaded with his father. if they came to him--and nothing was easier, for he was always looking out for them--he would forgive them freely, and wash their souls in his blood, and make them ready for heaven. and while on earth he would help them to lead new lives, and walk by their sides himself up the steep paths of virtue. such as they too wicked for heaven? no, thank god. jesus himself led in the first thief into that holy place; and doubtless thousands such as he would yet be found around the throne of god! there was dead silence when the preacher had finished; no eager shuffling and trooping out of chapel. the prisoners drew down their masks, and walked away in an orderly and subdued manner. no human eye could detect whether these men and women were moved by what they had heard or not. they were quieter than usual, that was all. as for jenks, he walked in his place with the others, and when he got to his cell, sat down soberly. his face was no longer dead and sullen, it had plenty of feeling, and excited feeling too. but the look of satisfaction he had worn when gazing at his letter was gone. _that parson_ had gone down straight, with his burning words, to the place where his heart used to be--had gone down, and found that same heart still there--nearly dead, it is true, but still there--and probed it to the quick. he sat with his head buried in his hands, and began to think. old scenes and old memories rose up before the boy--pure scenes and holy memories. once he had lisped texts, once he had bent his baby knees in prayer. how far off then seemed a prison cell and a criminal's life! hitherto, ever since he had taken to his present career, he had avoided thought, he had banished old times. he had, even in the dark cell, kept off from his mental vision certain facts and certain events. they were coming now, and he could not keep them off. o god! how his mother used to look at him, how his father used to speak to him! though he was a great rough boy, a hardened young criminal, tears rolled down his cheeks at the memory of his mother's kiss. he wished that parson had not preached, he was thoroughly uncomfortable, he was afraid. for the last year and more jenks had made up his mind to be a thief in earnest. he called it his profession, and resolved to give up his life to it. the daring, the excitement, the false courage, the uncertainty, the hairbreadth escapes, all suited his disposition. his prison episode had not shaken his resolve in the least. he quite determined, when the weary months of confinement were over, and he was once more free, to return to his old haunts and his old companions. he would seek them out, and expound to them the daring schemes he had concocted while in prison. between them they would plan and execute great robberies, and never be taken--oh no. he, for one, had had his lesson, and did not need a second; happen what might, he would never again be taken. not all the king's horses, nor all the king's men, should again lay hands on him, or come between him and his freedom. it was nonsense to say that every thief knew what prison was, and spent the greater part of his time in prison! _he_ would not be down on his luck like that! he would prosper and grow rich, and then, when rich, he might turn honest and enjoy his money. this was his plan--all for the present life. he had never given the other life a thought. but now he did; now, for the first time, he reflected on that terrible thing for any unforgiven soul to contemplate--the wrath of god. some day, however successful he might be in this life, he must die, and his naked soul appear before god; and god would ask him so many things, such a piled-up account of sins he would have to lay to his charge. and his father and mother would look on and reproach him, and god would pass sentence on him--he could not escape. he had crucified the son of god afresh, and put him to an open shame! jenks was not ignorant, like flo and dick, he knew of these things. the thought in his mind became intolerable. he paced up and down his cell, and hailed with pleasure the welcome interruption of his sunday dinner. when it was finished, he again drew out his letter, hoping and wishing that the old feeling of satisfaction would return at sight of it. but it did not. try as he might, it did not. he endeavoured to guess who sent it, but no fresh ideas would occur to him. he thought of flo, and he thought of his mother--he fought against the thought of his mother, and endeavoured to push it away from him. but, struggle as he might, it would come back; and at last, in desperation, he opened the letter. it was not a long letter when opened, but had appeared thick by reason of a little parcel it contained, a little parcel, wrapped in two or three folds of silver paper. jenks looked at the parcel as it lay on his knee, then took it up and began to unfold it. his fingers trembled, he did not know why. he threw the parcel from him and spread out the letter to read. not very much writing in it, and what there was, was printed in large round type. motes began to dance before his eyes, he put down the letter, and again took up the parcel. this time he opened it, unwrapping slowly fold after fold of the soft paper. two locks of hair fell out, a grey and a brown, tied together with a thread of blue silk. they dropped from jenks' fingers; he did not touch them. he gazed at them as they lay on the floor of his cell, the brown lock nearly hidden by the silver. a soft breeze came in and stirred them; he turned from them, gave them even a little kick away, and then, with a burning face, began to read his letter. "jenks,-- "i thot 'as yo'd like fur to no--yor mother 'ave furgiven yo, she nos as yo is a thif, and tho she may 'av freted a good bit at fust, she's werry cherful now--she 'av the litel jackit, and trouses, and westkit, hal redy, as yo used to war wen a litel chap. she 'av them let hout hal rond, and they'l fit yo fine. she livs in the old place--wery butiful it his, and she 'av me, flo, livin' wid 'er, and scamp to, we 'av livd yer hever sins yo and dick was in prisin, and we both furgivs yo jenks, wid hal our 'arts, and yor mother ses as yo is a comin' bak wen the singin' burds com, and the floers, and we'll 'av a diner fur yo, and a welcom, and lov. yer mother don't no as i is sendin' this and i 'av kut orf a bit of 'er 'air, unknonst to 'er, and a bit of mi 'air to, widch shos as we thincs of yo, and furgivs yo; and jenks, i wrot this mi own self, miss mary shoed me 'ow, and i 'av a lot mor in mi 'art, but no words, on'y god lovs yo, yor fond litel-- "flo. "miss mary, she put in the stops." "_i am jesus of nazareth, whom thou persecutest--it is hard for thee to kick against the pricks_." this latter part of the text came back also to the boy's memory; he bent his head over the odd little letter and saturated it with tears. he snatched up the two locks of hair and covered them with kisses. his mother had forgiven him--his mother loved him. she knew he was a thief, and she loved him. how he had tried to keep this knowledge from her, how he had hoped that during these past three years she had supposed him dead! her only son, and she a widow, dead! far better--far, far better, than that she should believe him to be a thief! he recalled now the last time he had seen her--he recalled, as he had never dared to do hitherto, the history of that parting. he had been wild for some time, irregular at school, and in many ways grieving his parents' hearts; and his father, before he started on that last voyage, had spoken to him, and begged him to keep steady, and had entreated him, as he loved his mother, as he loved him, his father, as he loved his god, to keep away from those bad companions who were exercising so hateful an influence on his hitherto happy, blameless life. and with tears in his eyes, the boy had promised, and then his brave sailor father had kissed him, and blessed him, and gone away never to return again. and for a time jenks was steady and kept his word, and his mother was proud of him, and wrote accounts, brilliant, happy accounts, of him to his father at sea. but then the old temptations came back with greater force than before, and the promise to his father was broken and forgotten, and he took really to bad ways. his mother spoke to him of idleness, of evil companions, but she never knew, he felt sure, how low he had sunk, nor at last, long before he left her house, that he was a confirmed thief. he was a confirmed thief, and a successful thief, and he grew rich on his spoils. one evening, however, as he expressed it, his luck went against him. he had been at a penny gaff, where, as usual, he had enriched himself at the expense of his neighbours. on his way home he saw a policeman dodging him--he followed him down one street and up another. the boy's heart beat faster and faster--he had never been before a magistrate in his life, and dreaded the disgrace and exposure that would ensue. he managed to evade the policeman, and trembling, entered his home, and stole up the stairs, intending to hide in his own little bed-room. he reached it, and lay down on his bed. there was only a thin canvas partition between his tiny room and his mother's. in that room he now heard sobs, and listening more intensely, heard also a letter being read aloud. this letter brought the account of his father's death--he had died of fever on board ship, and been buried in the sea. his last message, the last thing he said before he died, was repeated in the letter. "tell wife, that willie will be a comfort to her; he promised me before i went away to keep a faithful and good lad." the boy heard so far, then, stung with a maddening sense of remorse and shame, stole out of the house as softly as he had entered it--met the policeman at the door, and delivered himself into his hands; by him he was taken to the police-station, then to prison for a day or two. but when he was free he did not return home, he never went home again. his mother might suppose him dead, drowned, but never, never as long as she lived should she know that he was a thief. for this reason he had given himself up to the policeman; to prevent his entering that house he had met him on the threshold and delivered himself up. and his only pure pleasure during the past guilty years was the hope that his mother knew nothing of his evil ways. but now she did know, the letter said she did know. what suffering she must have gone through i what agony and shame! he writhed at the thought. then a second thought came to him--she knew, and yet she forgave him-- she knew, and yet she loved him. she was preparing for his return, getting ready for him. now that she was acquainted with the prison in which he was wearing out his months of captivity, perhaps she would even come on the day that captivity was over, perhaps she would meet him at the prison gates, and take his hand, and lead him home to the little old home, and show him the clothes of his innocent, happy childhood, ready for him to put on, and perhaps she would kiss him--kiss the face that had been covered with the prisoner's mask--and tell him she loved him and forgave him! would she do this, and would he go with her? "_i am jesus whom thou persecutest_." back again came the sermon and its text to his memory. "every time you commit a theft, or even a much smaller sin, you persecute jesus," said the preacher. jenks had known about jesus, but hitherto he had thought of him simply as an historical character, as a very good man--now he thought of him as a man good for him, a man who had laid down his life for him, and yet whom he persecuted. if he went on being a thief he would persecute jesus--_that_ was plain. and little flo had said in her letter that god loved him, god and jesus loved him. why, if this was so, if his mother loved him, and god loved him, and the old little bright home was open to him, and no word of reproach, but the best robe and the fatted calf waiting for him, would it be wise for him to turn away from it all? to turn back into that dark wilderness of sin, and live the uncertain, dangerous life of a thief, _perhaps_ be unlucky, and end his days in a felon's cell? and when it all was over--the short life--and no life was very long--to feel his guilty soul dragged before god to receive the full vials of the wrath of him whom he had persecuted. he was perplexed, overcome, his head was reeling; he cast himself full length on the floor of his cell--he could think no longer--but he pressed the grey lock and the brown to his lips. chapter eighteen. god calls his little servant. at last, carefully as they were all worked, and tedious as the job was, the jacket, vest, and trousers were finished. they were brushed, and rubbed with spirits of turpentine to remove every trace of grease, and then wrapped up carefully in a white sheet, with two pen'orth of camphor to keep off the moths, and finally they were locked up in mrs jenks' box along with her sunday gown, shawl, and bonnet. flo watched these careful preparations with unfeigned delight. she was quite as sure now as mrs jenks that the lad for whom such nice things were ready would come back in the spring. every word of the letter her patient little fingers had toiled over had gone forth with a prayer, and there was no doubt whatever in her mind that the god who had given her her bed, and taken care of her, would do great things for jenks also. about this time, too, there actually came to her a little letter, a funnily-printed, funnily-worded little letter from dick himself, in which he told her that he was learning to read and write, that his first letter was to her, that he was happy and doing well, and that never, no never, never, _never_ would he be a thief any more; and he ended by hoping that when the spring came, flo would pay him a little visit! when this letter was shown to miss mary and to the widow, they agreed that when the spring came this should be managed, and not only flo, but miss mary herself, and the widow, and scamp, and perhaps the widow's lad, should pay dick a visit. and flo pictured it all often in her mind, and was happy. her life was very bright just then, and in the peaceful influence of her pleasant home she was growing and improving in body and mind. she could read and write a little, she could work quite neatly, and was very tidy and clever about the various little household works that mrs jenks taught her; and miss mary smiled at her, and was pleased with her; and thought what a nice little servant she would make when annie was married; and flo looked forward to this time with a grave, half-wistful pleasure which was characteristic of her, never in her heart forgetting that to be a good earthly servant she must be god's servant first. yes, her cup of happiness was full, but it was an earthly cup, and doubtless her heavenly father felt he could do better for her--anyhow the end came. it came in this way. since flo arrived and mrs jenks had quite finished making preparations for her lad's return, she had set her sharp wits to work, and discovered quite a famous receipt for getting up fine linen. the secret of this receipt all lay in a particular kind of starch, which was so fine, pure, and excellent, so far beyond glenfield's starch, or anybody else's starch, that even old lace could be stiffened with it, instead of with sugar. mrs jenks made this starch herself, and through miss mary's aid she was putting by quite a nice little supply of money for willie when he came home--money honestly earned, that could help to apprentice him to an honest trade by and by. but there was one ingredient in the starch which was both rare and expensive, and of all places in the world, could only be got good in a certain shop in whitechapel road. mrs jenks used to buy it of a little old jew who lived there, and as the starch was worthless without it, she generally kept a good supply in the house. no londoner can forget the severe cold of last winter, no poor londoner can forget the sufferings of last winter. snow, and frost, and hail, bitter winds, foggy days, slippery streets, every discomfort born of weather, seemed to surround the great metropolis. on one of these days in february, mrs jenks came home quite early, and as she had no more charing to get through, she built up a good fire, and set to work to make a fresh supply of starch. flo sat at one side of her and scamp at the other, both child and dog watching her preparations with considerable interest. she had set on a large brass pan, which she always used on these occasions, and had put in the first ingredients, when, going to her cupboard, she found that very little more than a table-spoonful of the most valuable material of all was left to her. here was a state of affairs! she wrung her hands in dismay; all the compound, beginning to boil in the brass pan, would be lost, and several shillings' worth thrown away. then flo came to the rescue. if mrs jenks stayed to watch what was boiling, she--flo--would start off at once to whitechapel road, and be back with the necessary powder before mrs jenks was ready for it. the widow looked out of the window, where silent flakes of snow were falling, and shook her head--the child was delicate, and the day--why, even the 'buses were hardly going--it could not be! but here flo overruled her. she reminded her of how all her life she had roughed it, in every conceivable form, and how little, with her thick boots on, she should mind a walk in the snow. as to the 'buses, she did not like them, and would a thousand times rather walk with scamp. accordingly, leading scamp by his collar and chain, which miss mary had given him, she set off. mrs jenks has often since related how she watched her walk across the court, such a trim little figure, in her brown wincey dress and scarlet flannel cloak--another gift of miss mary's--and how, when she came to the corner, she turned round, and, with her beautiful brown eyes full of love and brightness, kissed her hand to the widow--and how scamp danced about, and shook the snow off his thick coat, and seemed beside himself with fun and gaiety of heart. she did not know--god help her--she could not guess, that the child and dog were never to come back. the snow fell thickly, the wind blew in great gusts, the day was a worse one than flo had imagined, but she held on bravely, and scamp trotted by her side, his fine spirits considerably sobered down, and a thick coating of snow on his back. once or twice, it is true, he did look behind him piteously, as much as to say, "what fools we both are to leave our comfortable fireside," but he flinched no more than his little mistress, and the two made slow but sure progress to whitechapel road. they had gone a good way, when suddenly flo remembered a famous short cut, which, if taken, would save them nearly a mile of road, and bring them out exactly opposite the jew's shop. it led through one of the most villainous streets in london, and the child forgot that in her respectable clothes she was no longer as safe as in the old rags. she had gone through this street before--she would try it again to-day! she plunged in boldly. how familiar the place looked! not perhaps this place,--she had only been here but once, and that was with her mother,-- but the style of this place. the bird-fanciers' shops, the rags-and-bones' shops, the gutter children, and gutter dogs, all painfully brought back her old wretched life. her little heart swelled with gratitude at the thought of her present home and present mercies. she looked round with pity in her eyes at the wretched creatures who shuffled, some of them drunken, some starving, some in rags, past her. she resolved that when she was a woman she would work hard, and earn money, and help them with money, and if not with money, with tender sympathy from herself, and loving messages from her father in heaven. she resolved that she, too, as well as miss mary, would be a sister of the poor. she was walking along as fast as she could, thinking these thoughts, when a little girl came directly in her path, and addressed her in a piteous, drawling voice. "i'm starving, pretty missy; give me a copper, in god's name." flo stopped, and looked at her; the child was pale and thin, and her teeth chattered in her head. a few months ago flo had looked like this child, and none knew better than she what starvation meant. besides the five shillings mrs jenks had given her to buy the necessary powder, she had sixpence of her own in her little purse; out of this sixpence she had meant to buy a bunch of early spring flowers for her dear miss mary's birthday, but doubtless god meant her to give it to the starving child. she pulled her purse out of her pocket, and drawing the sixpence from it, put it into the hands of the surprised and delighted little girl. "god bless yer, missy," she said in her high, shrill tones, and she held up her prize to the view of two or three men, who stood on the steps of a public-house hard by. they had watched the whole transaction, and now three of them, winking to their boon companions, followed the child and dog with stealthy footsteps. flo, perfectly happy, and quite unconscious of any danger, was tripping gaily along, thinking how lucky it was for her that she had remembered this short cut, and how certain she was now to have the powder back in time for mrs jenks, when suddenly a hand was passed roughly round her waist, while a dexterous blow in the back of her neck rendered her unconscious, and caused her to fall heavily to the ground. the place and the hour were suitable for deeds of violence. in that evil spot the child might have been murdered without any one raising a finger in her behalf. the wicked men who had attacked her seemed to know this well, for they proceeded leisurely with their work. one secured the dog, while another divested flo of her boots, warm cloak, and neat little hat. a third party had his hand in her pocket, had discovered the purse, and was about to draw it out, whereupon the three would have been off with their booty, when there came an interruption. an unexpected and unlooked-for friend had appeared for flo's relief. this friend was the dog, scamp. we can never speak with certainty as to the positive feelings of the dumb creatures, but it is plain that ever since flo turned into this bad street scamp--as the vulgar saying has it--smelt a rat. perhaps it called up too vividly before his memory his old days with maxey--be that as it may, from the time they entered the street he was restless and uneasy, looking behind him, and to right and left of him, every moment, and trying by all means in his power to quicken flo's movements. but when the evil he dreaded really came he was for the first instant stunned, and incapable of action: then his perceptions seemed to quicken, he recognised a fact--a bare and dreadful fact--the child he loved with all the love of his large heart, was in danger. as he comprehended this, every scrap of the prudent and life-preserving qualities of his cur father and mother forsook the dog, and the blue blood of some unknown ancestor, some brave, self-sacrificing saint bernard, flowed through all his veins: his angry spirit leaped into his eyes, and giving vent to a great howl of rage and sorrow, he wrenched his chain out of the man's hand who was trying to hold him, and springing on the first of the kneeling figures, fastened his great fangs into his throat. in an instant all would have been over with this ruffian, for scamp had that within him then which would have prevented his ever leaving go, had not the man's companion raised an enormous sledge hammer he held in his hand, and beat out the poor animal's brains on the spot. he sank down without even a sigh at flo's feet, and the three villains, hearing from some one that the police were coming, disappeared with their booty, leaving the unconscious child and dead dog alone. the little crowd which had surrounded them, at tidings of the approach of the police, dispersed, and the drifting hail and snow covered the dog's wounds and lay on the child's upturned face. just then a fire-engine, drawn by horses at full gallop, came round the corner, and the driver, in the fast-failing light, never, until too late, perceived the objects in his path. he tried then to turn aside, but one heavy wheel passed partly over the child's body. the firemen could not stop, their duty was too pressing, but they shouted out to the tardy policemen, who at last appeared in view. these men, after examining flo, fetched a cab, and placing her in it, conveyed her to the london hospital, and one, at parting, gave scamp a kick. "dead! poor brute!" he said, and so they left him. they left him, and the pure snow, falling thickly now, formed a fit covering for him, and so heavily did it lie over him in the drift into which he had fallen, that the next day he was shovelled away, a frozen mass, in its midst, and no mortal eye again saw him, nor rough mortal hand again touched him. thus god himself made a shroud for his poor faithful creature, and the world, did it but know it, was the poorer by the loss of scamp. chapter nineteen. queen victoria and flo. flo was carried into the buxton ward for children. they laid her in one of the pretty white cots, close to a little girl of three, who was not very ill, and who suspended her play with her toys to watch her. here for many hours she lay as one dead, and the nurses and doctors shook their heads over her--she had no broken bones, but they feared serious internal injuries. late in the evening, however, she opened her eyes, and after about an hour of confused wandering, consciousness and memory came fully back. consciousness and memory, but no pain either of mind or body. even when they told her her dog was dead, she only smiled faintly, and said she knew 'ee'd give 'is life fur 'er! and then she said she was better, and would like to go home. they asked her her name, and the address of her home, and she gave them both quite correctly, but when they said she had better stay until the morning, and go to sleep now, she seemed contented, and did sleep, as calmly as she had done the night before, in her own little bed, in mrs jenks' room. the next morning she again told them she was better, and had no pain, but she said nothing now about going home: nor when, later in the day, mrs jenks, all trembling and crying, and miss mary, more composed, but with her eyes full of sorrow, bent over her, did she mention it. she looked at them with that great calm on her face, which nothing again seemed ever to disturb, and told them about scamp, and asked them if they thought she should ever see her dog again. "i don't know wot belief to hold about the future of the dumb creatures," said little mrs jenks, "but ef i was you, i'd leave it to god, dearie." "yes," answered flo, "i leaves heverythink to god." and when miss mary heard her say this, and saw the look on her face, she gave up all hope of her little servant. she was going to the place where _his servants shall serve him_. yes, flo was going to god. the doctors knew it--the nurses knew it--she could not recover. what a bright lot for the little tired out london child! no more weary tasks-- no more dark days--no more hunger and cold. her friends had hoped and planned for a successful earthly life for her--god, knowing the uncertainty of all things human, planned better. he loved this fair little flower, and meant to transplant it into the heavenly garden, to bloom for ever in his presence. but though flo was not to recover she got better, so much better, for the time at least, that she herself thought she should get quite well; and as from the first she had suffered very little pain, she often wondered why they made a fuss about her, why mrs jenks seemed so upset when she came to see her, why the nurses were so gentle with her, and why even the doctors spoke to her in a lower, kinder tone than they did to the other children. she was not very ill; she had felt much, much worse when she had lain on the little bed that god had lent her--what agony she had gone through then! and now she was only weak, and her heart fluttered a good deal. there was an undefined something she felt between her and health, but soon she must be quite well. in the pleasant buxton ward were at this time a great many little children, and as flo got better and more conscious, she took an interest in them, and though it hurt her and took away her breath to talk much, yet her greatest pleasure was to whisper to god about them. there was one little baby in particular, who engrossed all her strongest feelings of compassion, and the nurses, seeing she liked to touch it, often brought it, and laid it in her cot. such a baby as it was! such a lesson for all who gazed at it, of the miseries of sin, of the punishment of sin! the child of a drunken mother, it looked, at nine months old, about the size of a small doll. had any nourishment been ever poured down that baby's throat? its little arms were no thicker than an ordinary person's fingers--and its face! oh! that any of god's human creatures should wear the face of that baby! it was an old man's face, but no man ever looked so old--it was a monkey's face, but no monkey ever looked so devoid of intelligence. all the pain of all the world seemed concentrated in its expression; all the wrinkles on every brow were furrowed on its yellow skin. it was always crying, always suffering from some unintelligible agony. [the writer saw exactly such a baby at the evelina hospital a short time ago.] the nurses and doctors said it might recover, but flo hoped otherwise, and her hope she told to god. "doesn't you think that it 'ud be better fur the little baby to be up there in the gold streets?" she said to god, every time she looked at it. and then she pictured to herself its little face growing fair and beautiful, and its anguish ceasing for ever--and she thought if she was there, what care she would take of the baby. perhaps she does take care of the baby, up there! one day great news came to the london hospital--great news, and great excitement. it was going to be highly honoured. her gracious majesty the queen was coming in person to open a new wing, called the grocers company's wing. she was coming in a few days, coming to visit her east-end subjects, and in particular to visit this great hospital. flo, lying on her little bed, weaker than usual, very still, with closed eyes, heard the nurses and sisters talking of the great event, their tones full of interest and excitement--they had only a short time to prepare--should they ever be ready to receive the queen?--what wards would she visit? with a thousand other questions of considerable importance. flo, lying, as she did most of her time, half asleep, hardly ever heard what was going on around her, but now the word queen--queen--struck on her half dull ear. what were they saying about the queen? who was the queen? had she ever seen the queen? then like a flash it all came back to her--that hot afternoon last summer--her ambitious little wish to be the greatest person of all, her longing for pretty sights and pretty things, the hurried walk she, jenks, and dick had taken to buckingham palace, the crowd, the sea of eager faces, the carriage with its out-riders, the flashing colour of the life guards! then, all these seemed to fade away, and she saw only the principal figure in the picture--the gracious face of a lady was turned to her, kind eyes looked into hers. the remembrance of the glance the queen had bestowed upon her had never passed from the little girl's memory. she had treasured it up, as she would a morsel of something sacred, as the first of the many bright things god had given her. long ago, before she knew of god, she had held her small head a trifle higher, when she considered that once royalty had condescended to look at her, and she had made it a fresh incentive to honesty and virtuous living. a thrill of joy and anticipation ran now through her heart. how _much_ she should like to see again the greatest woman in the world; if her eyes again beheld her she might get well. trembling and eager, she started up in bed. "please is the queen coming?" the sister who had spoken went over and stood by her side. she was surprised at the look of interest in her generally too quiet little face. "yes, dear," she said, "the queen is coming to see the hospital." "and shall i see the queen?" "we are not quite sure yet what wards she will visit; if she comes here you shall see her." "oh!" said flo, with a great sigh, and a lustrous light shining out of her eyes, "ef i sees the queen i shall get well." the sister smiled, but as she turned away she shook her head. she knew no sight of any earthly king or queen could make the child well, but she hoped much that her innocent wish might be gratified. the next day, as mrs jenks was going away, flo whispered to her-- "ef you please, ma'am, i'd like fur you to fetch me that bit of sky blue ribbon, as you 'ave in yer box at 'ome." "what do you want it for, dearie?" "oh! to tie hup my 'air with. i wants fur to look nice fur the queen. the queen is comin' to pay me a wisit, and then i'll get well." "but, my child, the queen cannot make you well." "oh! no, but she can pray to god. the queen's werry 'igh up, you knows, and maybe god 'ud 'ear 'er a bit sooner than me." "no, indeed, flo, you wrong him there. your heavenly father will hear your little humble words just as readily and just as quickly as any prayer the queen might offer up to him." "well, then, we'll both pray," said flo, a smile breaking over her white face. "the queen and me, we'll both pray, the two of us, to god--he'll 'ave 'er big prayer and my little prayer to look hout fur; so you'll fetch me the ribbon, ma'am dear." mrs jenks did so, and from that day every afternoon flo put it on and waited in eager expectancy to see the queen, more and more sure that when they both--the poor little london child and the greatest woman in the world--sent up their joint petitions to heaven, strength would return to her languid frame, and she could go back, to be a help and comfort to her dear mrs jenks. at last the auspicious day arrived, a day long to be remembered by the poor of the east end. how gay the banners looked as they waved in the air, stretching across from housetop to housetop right over the streets! at the eastern boundary of the city was a great band of coloured canvas bearing the word "welcome." and as the royal procession passed into whitechapel high-street the whole thoroughfare was one bright line of venetian masts, with streamers of flags hanging from every house, and of broad bands of red, with simple mottoes on them. but better to the heart of the queen of england than any words of welcome were the welcoming crowds of people. these thronged the footways, filled the shop-windows, assembled on the unrailed ledges of the house-fronts, on the pent-houses in front of the butchers' shops, and stood out upon the roofs. yes, this day would long be remembered by the people in the east end, and of course most of all by those in the great hospital which the queen was to visit. but here, there was also disappointment. it was discovered that in the list of wards arranged for her majesty to see, the buxton ward in the alexandra wing was not mentioned. more than one nurse and more than one doctor felt sorry, as they recalled the little face of the gentle, dying child, who had been waiting for so many days full of hope and longing for the visit which, it seemed, could not be paid to her. but the day before, flo had said to mr rowsell, the deputy chairman-- "i shall see the queen, and then i shall get well." and that gentleman determined that if he could manage it her wish should be granted. accordingly, when the queen had visited the "grocers company's wing," and had named the new wards after herself and the princess beatrice, when she had read the address presented to her by the governors of the hospital, had declared the new wing open, and visited the gloucester ward, then flo's little story was told to her, and she at once said she would gratify the child's desire. contrary to the routine of the day, she would pay the buxton ward a visit. flo, quite sure that it was god's wish that the great queen of england should come to see her, was prepared, and lay in her pretty white cot, her chestnut hair tied back with blue ribbons, a slight flush on her pale cheeks, her brown eyes very bright. it was a fair little picture, fair even to the eyes that had doubtless looked on most of the loveliest things of earth--for on the beautiful face of the dying child was printed the seal of god's own peace. "my darling," said the queen to the little girl, "i hope you will be a little better now." but queen victoria knew, and the nurses knew, and the doctors knew, and all knew, but little flo darrell herself, that on earth the child would never be well again. they knew that the little pilgrim from earth to heaven, had nearly completed her journey, that already her feet--though she herself knew not of it--were in the waters of jordan, and soon she would pass from all mortal sight, through the gates into the city. chapter twenty. sing glory. "i 'ave seen the queen," said flo that night to miss mary. "i shall get well now." she was lying on her back, the lustrous light, partly of fever and partly of excitement, still shining in her eyes. "do you want to get well very much, flo?" asked the lady. "yes--fur some things." "what things?" "i wants fur to help dick wen 'ee gets hout of that prison school, and i wants fur to tidy up fur mrs jenks the day 'er lad comes 'ome, and i wants to do something fur you, miss mary." "to be my little servant?" "yes." "do you remember what i said to you when first i asked you to be my servant?" "i must be god's servant." "just so, dear child, and i believe fully you have tried to be his servant--he knows that, and he has sent you a message; but before i give it to you, i want to ask you a question--why do you suppose that having seen the queen will make you well?" "oh! not _seein'_ 'er--but she looked real kind-'earted, and though i didn't ax 'er, i knows she be prayin' to god fur me." "yes, flo, it is very likely the queen did send up a little prayer to god for you. there are many praying for you, my child. you pray for yourself, and i pray for you, and so does mrs jenks, and better than all, the lord christ is ever interceding for you." "then i'll soon be well," said flo. "yes, you shall soon be well--but, flo, there are two ways of getting well." "two, miss mary?" "yes; there is the getting well to be ill again by and by--to suffer pain again, and sickness again--that is the earthly way." flo was silent. "but," continued the lady, "there is a better way. there is a way of getting so well, that pain, and sickness, and trouble, and death, are done away with for ever--that is the heavenly way." "yes," whispered flo. "which should you like best?" "to be well for ever-'n-ever." "flo, shall i give you god's message?" "please." "he says that his little servant shall get quite well--quite well in the best way--you are to go up to serve him in heaven. god is coming to fetch you, flo." "to live up in the gold streets wid himself?" asked flo in a bright, excited manner. "yes, he is coming to fetch you--perhaps he may come for you to-night." "i shall see god to-night," said flo, and she closed her eyes and lay very still. so white and motionless was the little face that miss graham thought she had fainted; but this was not so; the child was thinking. her intellect was quite clear, her perceptions as keen as ever. she was trying to realise this wonderful news. she should see god to-night. it was strange that during all her illness the idea of getting well in this way had never hitherto occurred to her--she had suffered so little pain, she had been so much worse before--she had never supposed that this weakness, this breathlessness, could mean death--this sinking of that fluttering little heart, could mean that it was going to stop! a sudden and great joy stole over her--she was going to god--he was coming himself to fetch her--she should lie in his arms and look in his face, and be always with him. "are you glad, flo?" asked miss mary, who saw her smile. "yes." "i have another message for you. when dick comes out of the prison school, i am to take care of him--god wishes that." "you will tell him about god." "certainly, i shall do that--and, flo, i feel it will be all right about the widow's son." "yes, god'll make it right,"--then, after a pause, going back to the older memories, "i'd _like_ to 'ear the glory song." "what is that, darling?" "oh! you knows--`i'm glad--i hever--'" "`saw the day'?" finished miss mary. "yes, that's it. poor janey didn't know wot it meant--'tis 'bout god." "shall i sing it for you?" "yes--please." miss mary did so; but when she came to the words, "i'll sing while mounting through the air to glory, glory, glory," flo stopped her. "that's wot i'll do--sing--wile mountin'--'tis hall glory." and then again she lay still with closed eyes. during that night mrs jenks and miss mary watched her, as she lay gently breathing her earthly life away. surely there was no pain in her death--neither pain nor sorrow. a quiet passing into a better land. an anchoring of the little soul, washed white in the blood of the lamb, on a rock that could never be moved. just before she died she murmured something about the queen. "tell 'er--ef she 'ears o' me--not to fret--i'm well--the best way--and 'tis hall glory." so it was. chapter twenty one. the prodigal's return. in the evening after flo's funeral mrs jenks was seated by her bright little fire. nothing could ever make that fire anything but bright, nothing could ever make that room anything but clean, but the widow herself had lost her old cheery look, she shivered, and drew close to the warm blaze. this might be caused by the outside cold, for the snow lay thick on the ground, but the expression on her brow could hardly come from any change of weather, neither could it be caused by the death of flo. mrs jenks sorrowed for the child, but not rebelliously--perhaps not overmuch. those who loved her hardly spoke of her going away as a death at all. god had come and fetched her--that was what they said. and the child was so manifestly fit to go--so evidently unfit to pass through any more of the waves of this troublesome world, that the tender regret that was felt at her loss was swallowed up in the joy at her gain. no, mrs jenks was not mourning for flo, but all the same she was troubled, nervous, unlike in every particular her usual self, so easily startled, that a very gentle knock at her door caused her to jump to her feet. "'tis only me, mrs jenks," said miss mary graham, taking off her snow-laden cloak, and sitting down on flo's little stool at one side of the fire. "i thought you'd feel lonely, and would like me to look in on you." "thank you, ma'am--yes--i'm missing the child and her dog, maybe. anyhow, without being sorry for the blessed darling, or wishing her back, i'm very low like. if i 'ad scamp, poor fellow, he'd keep me up. it was 'ard he should come by such a bad end." "oh! mrs jenks, it was not a bad end. it was quite a glorious closing of life for the fine old fellow--he died defending the one he loved best. and, do you know, i could not bear to have him here without her, he would miss her so, and we could never tell him how well off she is now." "no, ma'am--that is true. he always lay close to her side, and curled up on the foot of her bed at night--and not a look nor a thought would he give me near her. and they say he hardly suffered a bit, that his death must 'ave come like a flash of lightning to him." "yes; a woman who saw the whole thing says he dropped dead like a stone at flo's feet." miss mary paused--then, bending forward, she touched the widow's arm. "you are going to wandsworth in the morning--may i come with you?" at the word wandsworth, mrs jenks' face flushed crimson, the tears, so close to her eyes, rolled down her cheeks, and she threw her apron over her head. "oh! miss mary, don't mind me, ma'am--i'm a poor weak creature, but indeed my heart misgives me sore. suppose the lad should refuse to come back?" "suppose the lord hath forgotten to be gracious?" replied miss mary, softly. "oh! no, ma'am, it ain't that. he's gracious any way, anyhow. no, miss mary dear, i feels your kindness, but i'll go alone. it will daunt the poor boy less if i 'ave no one beside me. down on my bended knees, if need be, i'll beg of him to turn from 'is evil ways, and perhaps the lord will hear me." "yes, mrs jenks, the lord _will_ hear you, and give you back your lost son." miss mary went away, and the widow, having dried her eyes, sat on by the fire. "yes," she said after a pause. "i were a fool to misdoubt god. don't his heavenly father and his blessed saviour care more fur the lad than i do? "'twill be all right for 'im, and if flo was here to-night, she'd say, sweet lamb,-- "`mrs jenks, ma'am, ain't you about ready to get hout that jacket, and trousers, and vest, to hair 'em, ma'am?' "well! i just will get 'em hout, same as if she bid me." the widow rose, went to her trunk, unlocked it, and taking out a parcel wrapped in a snowy towel, spread its contents before the fire. there they were--the neat, comfortable garments, smelling of lavender and camphor. mrs jenks contemplated them with pride. how well grown her boy must be, to need a jacket and trousers so large as these! they would be sure to fit, she had measured his appearance so accurately in her mind's eye that sad day when he was taken to prison! she examined the beautiful stitching she had put into them with pride; when they were aired she took a clothes' brush, and brushed them over again--then she folded them up, and finally raised them to her lips and kissed them. as she did this, as she pressed her lips to the collar of the jacket, in that fervent kiss of motherly love, a great sob outside the window startled her considerably. her room was on the ground floor, and she remembered that she had forgotten that evening, in her depression and sadness of spirit, to draw down the blind. holding her hand to her beating heart, she approached and looked out. she had not been mistaken in supposing she heard a sob. a lad was lying full length on his face and hands in the snow, outside her window, and she heard suppressed moans still coming from his lips. for the sake of her own son she must be kind to all destitute creatures. she stepped out on her threshold, and spoke in her old cheery tones. "come in, poor fellow, come in. don't lie there perishing--come in, and i'll give you a cup of tea. i've just brewed some, and a good strong cup will warm you." as she spoke she went and laid her hand on the boy's arm. "i'm a thief," he said without stirring; "you won't let in a thief?" something in the hoarse, whispered tones went straight to her heart. "of all people on earth, those i 'ave most feeling for are poor repentant thieves," she said. "if you're one of them, you 'ave a sure welcome. why, there!" she continued, seeing he still lay at her feet and sobbed, "i've a lad of my own, who was a thief, and 'as repented. he's in prison, but i feel he 'ave repented." "would you let in your own lad?" asked the figure in the snow, in still that strange muffled voice. "let him in!" cried the widow; "let in my own lad! what do you take me for? i'm off to his prison to-morrow, and 'ome he shall come with all the love in his mother's heart, and the prodigal son never had a better welcome than he shall have." then the boy in the snow got up, and stumbled into the passage, and stumbled further, into the bright little room, and turning round, fixed his eyes on the widow's face, and before she could speak, threw his arms round the widow's neck. "mother," he said, "i'm that repentant lad." jenks had been let out of prison a day sooner than his mother had calculated upon. he had come back--humbled--sorry--nay more, clothed, and in his right mind: ready to sit at the feet of that jesus whom once he persecuted. all the story of how these things had come to pass, all the story of that sermon which had touched his heart, all the story of that simple, childish letter, of those two locks of hair, he told to his happy and rejoicing mother. and of her it might be said, "o woman, great was thy faith; it was done unto thee even as thou wouldest." these things happened a few months ago. how do the characters in this little story fare now? truly, with pleasure can it be said, that there is not a dark thing to relate about any of them. jenks, partly through miss mary's aid, and partly through his mother's savings, is apprenticed to a carpenter, and his strict honesty, his earnestness of purpose, joined to his bright and funny ways, have already made him a favourite with his master. humanly speaking, few are likely to do better in their calling and station than he, and his dream is some day wholly to support his beloved little mother. pick is still at the reformatory school, but he promises to do well, and miss mary promises never to cease to look after him. even little janey, through this brave woman's influence, has been rescued, and picked out of the mire of sin and ignorance, and has learned something more of the true meaning of the glory song. as for miss mary herself, she is still a sister--a true sister of the poor, going wherever sins need reproving, and misery comforting. not joining any particular denomination, wearing no special badge, she yet goes about, as her master left her an example, doing good--and in the last day, doubtless, many shall rise up and call her blessed. and the widow--when her boy came home, when her boy became a christian, she seemed to have no other earthly good thing to ask for. she is very happy, very bright, and very dear to all who know her. thus all are doing well. but surely--the one in his unbroken sleep, the other in the sunshine of her father's house--there are none we can leave so contentedly, so certain that no future evil can befall them, as the two, whom the child always spoke of as scamp and i. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the end. transcriber's note - illustration captions in {brackets} have been added by the transcriber for reader convenience. - the position of some illustrations has been changed to improve readability. - minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. these minor errors include extra or missing commas, periods, and quotation marks (" and '). - significant typographical errors have been corrected. a full list of these corrections is available in the transcriber's corrections section at the end of the book. * * * * * [illustration: {cover: witch winnie the story of a king's daughter elizabeth w. champney}] witch winnie. [illustration: {woman lowers basket from window to three men waiting below.}] witch winnie the story of a "king's daughter" by elizabeth w. champney new york dodd, mead & company publishers copyright, , by white and allen copyright, , by dodd, mead & company the burr printing house new york _dedicated to_ my little witch marie. where she's been the sunshine lingers, she's my witch and she's my mouse; she has helpful, fairy fingers, busy keeper of the house. she is tricksy and she's elfish; sure no plague could e'er be worse; she is thoughtful and unselfish, she's my gentle angel-nurse. all their jokes the brownies lend her, she's a merry, mischief thing; but her heart is very tender-- she's a daughter of the king. yes, there's something nice about her, and i'll love her till my death; no, i could not do without her-- i'm her ma, elizabeth. contents. chapter page introduction, i. boarding-school scrapes, ii. guinevere's gown, iii. the princess, iv. court life, v. little prince del paradiso, vi. mrs. hetterman throws light on the mystery, vii. winnie's confession, viii. the elder brother and mrs. halsey's strange story, ix. the king's daughters and the venetian fÊte, x. the landlord of rickett's court, xi. the guests of the elder brother, xii. with the dynamiters, xiii. the king's daughters in the country, xiv. over the hills and far away, xv. the estates del paradiso, introduction. it is but just to explain that, while all of the characters introduced in this little story are purely imaginary, the founding of the home of the elder brother was suggested by the work of some real children, younger than madame's pupils, who gave a little fair, and, helped by charitable people, instituted a lovely charity, the messiah home for little children, at rutherford place, new york city. this home still opens its doors to the children of working-women, and is helped by different circles of king's daughters, some of whom have adopted children to clothe. it is a beautiful work, founded by children for children, and it is hoped that others all over the land will join in it, and that the work may broaden until no such dens as rickett's court will remain in our fair city or country. e. w. c. witch winnie. chapter i. boarding-school scrapes. [illustration: {drawing of winnie.}] we never had any until witch winnie came to room in our corner. we had the reputation of being the best behaved set at madame's, a little bit self-conscious too, and proud of our propriety. perhaps this was the reason that we were nicknamed the "amen corner," though the girls pretended it was because the initials of our names, spelled downward, like an acrostic-- _a_delaide armstrong, _m_illy roseveldt, _e_mma jane anton, _n_ellie smith-- formed the word _amen_. but certainly the name would not have clung to us as it did if the other girls had not recognized its fitness in our forming a sanctimonious little clique who echoed madame's sentiments, and were real pharisees in minding the rules about study-hours, and whispering, and having our lights out in time, and the other lesser matters of the law which the girls in the "hornets' nest," witch winnie's set, disregarded with impunity. and verily we had our reward, for madame trusted us, and gave us the best set of rooms in the great stone corner tower, overlooking the park, quite away from the espial of the corridor teacher. they had been intended for an infirmary, but as no one was ever sick at madame's, she grew tired of keeping them unoccupied, and assigned them to us. sometimes the other girls annoyed us by making calls in study-hours, and we virtuously displayed a placard on our door bearing the inscription, "particularly engaged." it caught witch winnie's eye, as she strolled along the hall, and she scribbled beneath it, "the girls of the amen corner would have us all to know that they're _engaged_, each one engaged-- particularly so."[a] [a] this incident is borrowed from an actual occurrence. we hardly knew whether to be amused or vexed at this sally of witch winnie's. we acknowledged that it was bright, but we deplored her wildness, and had no idea how much we should love her in time to come. after all, our reputation as model pupils had a very slender foundation. it rested chiefly on emma jane's preternatural conscientiousness. the night that the cadet band serenaded our school, some of the pupils, presumably the girls in the "hornets' nest," threw out bouquets to the performers. rumor said that when madame heard of this she was greatly shocked. "i don't see how she can punish them for it," said adelaide; "there's nothing in the rules about not giving flowers to young men. still, it was a dreadful thing to do, and madame is ingenious enough to twist the rules some way, so as to 'make the punishment fit the crime.' i am glad the amen corner is guiltless." then we marched into chapel on tiptoe with excitement to see madame wreak vengeance on the wrong-doers. witch winnie sat behind me, and turning, i saw that she looked pale, but resolute. madame rose in awful dignity, her wiry curls, which milly said reminded her of spiral bed-springs, bristled ominously. "young ladies," she exclaimed, in a sharp tone of command, "you may all rise." we rose. "if you turn to the printed rules of this institution," she continued, "you will find under section vii. the following paragraph--'pupils are not allowed to disfigure the lawn by _throwing from the windows_ any bits of paper, hair, apple-parings, peanut shells, or waste material _of any kind_. scrap-baskets are provided for the reception of such matter, and any pupil throwing _anything from her window upon the school grounds_ will be regarded as having committed a misdemeanor.'" an impressive silence followed, in which witch winnie gave a sigh of relief, and whispered to cynthia vaughn, "we're all right; we didn't disfigure her precious lawn. the bouquets never touched the ground. i lowered them, with a string, in my scrap-basket (just where she says we ought to have put them), and the drum-major took them out and distributed them to the other boys." "young ladies," madame continued, in tones of triumph, "those of you who have not broken this rule within the past week may sit down." we all sat down--all but emma jane anton, who remained in conspicuous discomfort. adelaide pulled her by the basque, "sit down!" she whispered; "madame doesn't mean you." emma jane stood like a martyr while madame regarded her through her lorgnette with astonishment depicted on every feature. "if you committed this infringement of the rules at any time other than last evening you may sit down." emma jane remained standing. "then," said madame, drawing herself up frigidly, "miss anton, you may explain: what was it you threw out?" "madame," replied emma jane, "the window was open--we were listening to the music--and a bat flew in; and, madame, he would not stay in the waste-paper basket, and so, madame, i threw him out." every one laughed; discipline was forgotten for the moment, until madame rapped smartly on the desk and called for order. she complimented emma jane highly on her conscientiousness, but she looked provoked with her all the same, while witch winnie, who was stuffing her handkerchief into her mouth, nearly went into convulsions. after the sketch which i have endeavored to give of witch winnie, and the position which she occupied at madame's, i trust that we, as self-respecting pupils, will not be too severely blamed when i confess that we received, with great disfavor, madame's announcement that winnie was henceforth to room in the amen corner. the bedrooms at madame's boarding-school were clustered in little groups around study-parlors, five girls forming a family. for a long time there had been only four in our set. emma jane anton, who preferred to room alone, had the little single bedroom; adelaide and milly were chums; while i, nellie smith, familiarly nicknamed tib, had luxuriated so long in the large corner chamber that i had almost forgotten that madame told me, at the outset, that i must hold myself in readiness to receive a room-mate at any time. adelaide armstrong was the daughter of a railroad magnate. she had been brought up in the west, but, though she had traveled much, and had seen a great deal of society, her education had not been entirely neglected. she had studied a great deal in a desultory way, and contested the head of the class with emma jane anton, who was a "regular dig," and had prepared for college in the boston public schools. it was really surprising how adelaide had picked up so much. she had studied latin with a priest in new mexico, and had profited by two years at a lonely post on the confines of canada, where her father had been interested in the fur trade, to become proficient in french. strikingly handsome, a brunette with brilliant complexion and andalusian eyes, energetic and spirited, she was popular both with her instructors and her classmates. milly roseveldt was her exact contrast--a milky-complexioned little blonde, shy and sweet; she was also a trifle dull. adelaide translated her latin, and worked out her problems, and i wrote her compositions, while milly rewarded us with largesses of love and confectionery, for she was the most generous as well as the most affectionate of girls. her father, a wealthy new york banker, placed large sums of money at her disposal, and milly deluged her friends with gifts of flowers and bonbons. it seemed very natural to me that adelaide and milly should be sworn friends; but my admittance into the sacred circle was a mystery to me, and to a number of aspiring girls who asserted that i was nobody in particular, and who envied me my place in my friends' affection. my presence in the school itself was almost as great a wonder. my father was a long island farmer. we opened our house to city boarders during the summer, and one season miss sartoris, the teacher in art at madame's, boarded with us. i had taken drawing lessons at the academy, and miss sartoris took me out sketching with her. i worked like a beaver, and was never so happy in my life. i delighted miss sartoris, who wakened mother's ambition by telling her that i was the most talented pupil she had ever had. more than this: we three induced good, easy-going, generous father to let me go back to the city with miss sartoris as a pupil at madame's. my wardrobe was meagre, but not countrified, for i possessed a natural sense of color and a quick faculty for imitation. i had seen plenty of city people at scup haven, and my few dresses, i fancied, would pass muster anywhere. i was a fair scholar, and took the lead in the studio. i was not brilliant and stylish like adelaide, or rich and pretty like milly, but they liked me, and i liked myself the better for the consciousness that there must be something nice about me which attracted them. i believe now that it was an absence of self-consciousness and selfishness on my part, and my hearty admiration and devotion to them. adelaide called me, playfully, "the great american appreciator." it was just before the theatricals given by our literary society that an incident occurred which showed me how much they really thought of me. we three were arranging the stage; i was touching up the scenery, and milly holding the tacks for adelaide, who was looping the drapery, when we overheard the conversation of a group of girls on the other side of the curtain. cynthia vaughn was the first to speak. "i think adelaide armstrong is perfectly splendid!" "so do i," said another; and there was a chorus of confused voices exclaiming, "so stylish!" "perfectly elegant!" "the handsomest girl in school!" adelaide left her work and placed her hand on the curtain, but milly threw her arms impulsively around her. "let us hear what they will say," she whispered; "when they are through we can pull the cord, and all bow thanks." by this time other voices were chanting milly's praises, and adelaide turned reluctantly away, remarking, "well, if you enjoy that sort of thing, you are welcome to it. i should not be surprised, by the way they are loading it on, if they knew we were here." they did not know it, for at that instant cynthia vaughn spoke up again, "i don't see what they find to admire in that pokey lib smith." "i should think milly would be ashamed to be seen with her," said another; "her dresses always remind me of a chicken with its head through a hole in a salt-bag." adelaide sprang forward with flashing eyes to confront the speaker, but this time it was i who held her back. "let them say their say," i whispered, hoarsely, while milly cowered, trembling. "i believe her mother makes her dresses at home," said witch winnie; "and, as she can't have tib to try them on, she fits them on her grandfather." there was a hearty laugh at this sally, and another added: "i don't see how adelaide can endure her, she is so stingy. have you noticed that the girls place a fresh bouquet at her plate every morning? and i never could find out that she ever gave either of them so much as a single flower." adelaide nearly writhed herself from my grasp, but i held her tightly. "milly," she gasped, "are you a coward, to stand there and hear our friend reviled so? can't you stop them?" the blood surged into milly's pale cheeks, and she sprang before the curtain. "girls," she cried, "how can you talk so? nellie smith is our dearest friend. she is not one bit stingy; she gives us more than we have ever given her. because she does not parade her presents on the breakfast-table is no reason that she has not given me lots and lots of things, and no girl can consider herself my friend who talks so about our darling tib." here milly broke down in tears, and witch winnie exclaimed, "good for you, milly roseveldt; i didn't know you had so much spunk!" but at this point we all fled to the amen corner, and bolted the door, refusing to admit witch winnie, who impulsively shouted her apologies through the keyhole. "oh, milly!" i cried, "what made you tell a lie for me? i never gave you a thing." and i might have added, "how could i, when my allowance for spending-money is hardly sufficient to keep me in slate-pencils?" but milly stopped my mouth with kisses, and pointed to sundry original works of art with which i had decorated her apartment, and declared, besides, that helping her on that last horrid composition was a greater gift than all the roses in le moult's greenhouse. so we of the amen corner disliked witch winnie and loved each other, all but emma jane anton. we could not be said to exactly love her; we tolerated her in our midst, in spite of her uncongenial nature, because we took pride in her eminent respectability, and in the higher average of reputation for creditable scholarship and exemplary behavior which she gave to our corner. but love her! we might as well have tried to love an iceberg. witch winnie arrived on adelaide's birthday, and was a most unwelcome birthday present. emma jane anton had obtained permission for us to celebrate the occasion by sitting up an hour later that evening. milly had ordered a form of ice-cream and a birthday-cake from mazetti's, and we had invited in a half-dozen friends to share the treat. as a damper on this beautiful fête, madame had called us into her private study that afternoon, and had told us that she had decided to assign witch winnie as my room-mate. she did not scruple to tell us her reasons for doing so. winnie (according to madame) was the head-centre of a wild set of "ne'er-do-weels" who roomed in the top of the house, "a perfect hornets' nest under the eaves," madame said. madame felt that if the queen hornet was taken away, the rest would be more amenable to discipline, and that winnie, placed among such proper and well-behaved girls as we were, would herself feel our beneficial influence. "i think," said madame, "that if you knew winnie's history you would understand her better. her parents were both very talented and highly imaginative people. her father is a playwright of reputation, who married a very lovely young actress who had sustained the leading part in several of his plays. they were tenderly attached to each other. mrs. de witt had great dramatic talent; she made it the study of her life to realize his conceptions, and succeeded to his perfect satisfaction. she said that she so lived in her part that frequently she forgot her own personality, while mr. de witt was always cudgeling his brains to invent new plots, situations, and characters for his wife. mrs. de witt died when winnie was but three years of age. the child has lived with different relatives, and has been spoiled and neglected by turns, but never quite understood. i have studied her carefully, and think i see in her a combination of both parents. she has her father's highly organized imaginative nature, but instead of constructing plots for plays, it develops itself in plots for scrapes. she delights in dramatic situations, and is a natural and unconscious actress. her father hopes that she may never adopt the stage as her profession, for it was that life of mental and physical strain which killed winnie's mother. something remarkable in organization or in action the girl will certainly be, and as she takes her color, like a chameleon, from her surroundings, or, rather, her cue from the other actors, i have great hopes for your influence over her." madame's confidences made little impression upon our prejudice. we listened in silence, and, returning to our rooms, held an indignation meeting, in which emma jane led. adelaide, who ought to have sympathized with the neglected orphan, for she had lost her own mother when a little girl, and who did find in this fact a bond of fellow-feeling later on, now ignored all her claim for pity, and chose to feel that we were all grossly insulted. milly pitied me the enforced companionship, several of us were in tears, and in the midst of it all witch winnie appeared. the clatter of voices sank to sudden silence, and the new-comer, looking from face to face, instantly understood the situation. "if you feel half as badly as i do, girls," she said, with a merry laugh, "i'm sorry for you; i wouldn't intrude on you in this way if i could help it. madame tells me you are to have a spread to-night, and have invited your particular friends. it's too bad she wouldn't let me put off moving till to-morrow morning. i'll tell you what i'll do--i'll sit in the recitation-room and cram for examination until the party is over. of course you don't want me, a perfect stranger to your friends; it isn't to be supposed you would." emma jane anton looked relieved. "we provided for a limited number," she explained; "if we had known that we were to have the honor of your company--" but adelaide interrupted her instantly. "sit in that dismal recitation-room while i am having my birthday party! indeed you shall do nothing of the sort!" while milly came gallantly to the rescue, assuring her that she had ordered more ice-cream than they could possibly consume, and i did the best i could to make winnie believe that she was welcome. the girls appeared _en masse_ as soon as the bell struck for the close of evening study-hour--congratulations were offered to adelaide, and winnie was introduced. all made extravagant efforts to be gay and sociable, but there was a certain constraint, a forced quality, in it all, which had for its reason something beyond the fact of an unwelcome addition to the corner: the refreshments had not arrived. mazetti had forgotten to send them. there stood the study-table neatly spread with a table-cloth borrowed from the steward's department, and set with saucers, spoons, and plates, all disappointingly empty. adelaide tried to carry off the situation as an immense joke. milly alternated between hope and despair, fancying each noise of wheels the confectioner's cart. the guests showed their disappointment plainly, some confessing that they had slighted the evening prunes and rice in anticipation of this treat. and i heard cynthia vaughn whisper that it was a very cheap way to give a party--to pretend that there had been a mistake. at this juncture i suddenly noticed that witch winnie had disappeared. a few moments later a loud knocking, or kicking, for it was evidently bestowed with feet instead of hands, was heard at the door. "let me in, girls!" cried witch winnie's voice--"let me in, quick! before madame catches me." we opened the door, and witch winnie burst in, and sat laughing on the floor; from her dress, which had been gathered up in her hands, and had served as a market-basket, rolled a quantity of paper bags and parcels--lemons, bottles of olives, sugar, mixed pickles, crackers, sardines, macaroons, nuts, raisins, candy, etc., etc. "help yourselves, girls," she chuckled. "we'll have the spread, after all. i have been around the corner and bought out mr. beeny's little grocery." then broke in a chorus of voices-- "how did you ever get out of the house?" "was cerberus asleep?" (cerberus was our nickname for the janitor.) "how very sweet of you!" "but how extravagant!" "o girls! these pickled limes are too lovely for anything." adelaide appeared with her ewer. "i'll make the lemonade," she said, and began rolling the lemons with milly's curling-stick, while emma jane anton manipulated the can-opener with energy and success. each girl flew to her room for her tooth-mug, and we drank witch winnie's health in brimming bumpers of lemonade. "how did you ever manage it?" milly asked again. "i climbed down the fire-escape." witch winnie giggled. "but you had to drop twelve feet onto the sidewalk!" "what of that? i've done it in the gymnasium from the trapeze many a time." "but you never came back that way?" "hardly. i rang the basement bell, and when cerberus said he'd tell madame, i made him a present of three packages of cigarettes and some limburger cheese, and i am quite certain that he will never say a word." witch winnie's generosity and good-fellowship had won the day. from that moment we took her into our hearts. the ice-cream which milly had ordered arrived the next day, but we were all too ill to touch it; we had feasted without restraint on our new chum's bountiful but somewhat heterogeneous repast, and were paying the penalty with rousing headaches, but in our fiercest pangs we were still ready to declare that if there ever was a trump it was witch winnie. chapter ii. guinevere's gown. aristocratic adelaide was now as deeply attached to "that little witch" winnie as she had been prejudiced against her, and winnie, who had hitherto spoken of her new friend as "that stuck-up armstrong girl," was now her devoted admirer. [illustration: {drawing of adelaide.}] although this state of affairs was perfectly agreeable to the amen corner, it was not equally so to the hornets. they had endured winnie's removal as a piece of madame's tyranny, had looked upon their queen as a martyr, and had taken it for granted that we would make things extremely uncomfortable for her. they perceived, with astonishment, that we welcomed her heartily, and when it dawned upon them by degrees that winnie was herself happy in the change, that she actually promenaded in the corridor with an arm lovingly twined about the waist of that odious tib smith, that the placard "engaged" appeared as frequently on the outer door of the amen corner, and that winnie's lessons and behavior improved so much that she was actually becoming a favorite with the teachers instead of their special torment--the indignation of the hornets' nest knew no bounds. it showed itself in a practical joke originated by cynthia, which might have been very amusing had it not been spiced with malice. i have spoken of our literary society and its projected entertainment. we were to have a series of tableaux; among others, guinevere kneeling before an altar. milly had been chosen to represent guinevere on account of her beautiful hair, and because she spent her saturdays and sundays at home, and could have any costume arranged for herself. what was our disappointment, one monday morning, to receive a note from milly saying that she would not be able to take part in the entertainment, as her mother was going to washington for a fortnight, and had decided that, as milly looked pale, a little outing would do her good. this note was read to the literary society amid groans from the members. "we can't give up that tableau." "adelaide, _you_ take the part." "can't; my hair is as black as a crow's wing. tib's hair is lovely when it is down. it falls to her knees, and it has the sheen of molten gold. girls, you must see it," and adelaide proceeded to pull my braids apart; i protesting all the time that it was absurd to have a freckled guinevere who was as homely as a hedge fence. "granted," replied witch winnie, "but nobody is going to see your face, child; you pose with your back to the audience, and as none of the girls know what regal hair you have, it will be such fun to have them guess who it is." all of the other girls joined in persuading me, excepting one of the hornets, who lifted her voice in favor of cynthia vaughn. "but, girls, what am i to do for a costume?" "why didn't milly think to send hers along?" said adelaide. "we might write her." "no, there's no time; she leaves this morning on the 'limited.'" "if you would like, i'll take the part," cynthia vaughn suggested. "i've all that canton flannel ermine, and the ruff made out of the old window curtains, which i wore when i was queen elizabeth." "that ruff would be a frightful anachronism," said emma jane anton. "and the ermine has served three times already. thank you, we'll manage somehow," witch winnie asserted, confidently. we retired to the amen corner to talk it over. "if worse comes to worst," said witch winnie, "i know i can make a magnificent train out of the plush table-cloth in madame's library." "but how will you ever get it?" "emma jane must ask her to lend it to us; she'll do anything for emma jane." "emma jane declines to act in this emergency," said miss anton, firmly. "you wouldn't be so mean!" "but i would; adelaide, please read milly's letter again; i didn't half hear it." "i must have dropped it in the society hall; i will get it after dinner. if she had thought that tib might be chosen to take her place, she would have done anything for the honor of the amen corner." here some one tapped at the door, and announced, "a letter for miss armstrong." "it's from milly!" exclaimed adelaide, "and it looks as if it had been opened, and pasted up again." "i thought madame boasted that she never submitted her young ladies to that sort of espionage," said witch winnie. "girls, girls!" adelaide fairly shrieked; "just listen to this! milly writes-- "'i forgot to say in my last that mamma's maid is putting the finishing touches to my costume, and gibson will bring it around to-morrow. the dress (purple velvet) is one which mamma wore last summer when she was presented to the queen. the lace which trims it was made to order from a pattern of her own selection in brussels. you may keep the crown, for the gems in it are only rhinestones. aunt fanny wore it at a costume ball, and they sparkle like the real thing. be careful of the lace, for mamma prizes it highly. 'yours, milly. 'p. s.--i've coaxed papa to lend you a silver chatelaine, old french repoussé, linked with emeralds, which he keeps in his cabinet of curiosities. it shows finely against the velvet.'" how we all exclaimed and chattered! "now what will the hornets' nest say to that?" "canton flannel ermine indeed!" "i should like to see them bring on their old mosquito-netting ruff!" "real emeralds! a diadem flashing with diamonds!" "don't tell them a word about it until tib dawns on them in all her glory on wednesday night." it was hard to keep this resolution, but we did. the hornets were giggling and whispering among themselves as we marched in to dinner, with all the importance given by the possession of a state secret. the other girls relapsed into silence as we took our seats, and watched us with strange, significant looks. "i've been looking up the matter in racinet's work on costume," remarked cynthia vaughn, "and i find you were right, miss anton; ruffs did not come in until long after arthur's reign." "i would like to consult the book," emma jane replied, "unless you can tell me whether chatelaines were worn at that period." here a small hornet was seized with strangulation, and had to be vigorously thumped upon the back by her friends. "oh, i think so," cynthia replied, sweetly, disregarding her friend's condition. "wouldn't it be sweet to have guinevere wear one? miss smith is so artistic, i'm sure she could cut one out of gilt paper." adelaide scouted the idea. "whatever we get up for that costume," she said, "i am determined shall be _real_, no _imitation_ chatelaines, or anything else." cynthia lifted her eyebrows. "perhaps you will secure one of queen victoria's court robes?" she remarked, icily. it was on adelaide's lips to reply that we might have a robe which had figured at a court reception of the english queen, but she felt witch winnie's foot upon hers, and replied that in undertaking this tableau the amen corner felt confident that they could carry it through creditably, and we therefore begged to be excused from the dress rehearsal that afternoon. we left the dining-room in a body, and the hornets laughed aloud before we closed the door. "'they laugh best who laugh last,'" said witch winnie. "won't those girls fairly expire when they see tib in her grand rôle!" tuesday was a long and weary day for us. we started at every knock, expecting a summons to the janitor's room to receive a package, but none came. we retired much disappointed; and we held a council of war before breakfast. the roseveldts' butler had evidently proved false to his trust, and the costume was waiting for us at the family mansion on fifth avenue. "i will ask madame at breakfast to excuse me from my morning lessons to do an important errand," said witch winnie; "i will tell her the entire story, and i know that, rather than disappoint us all, she will let us go to the roseveldts' for the things." madame proved to be in good-humor, and on reading milly's letter readily gave winnie and me the desired permission, sending for a hansom to take us to our destination. all of the hornets at the lower end of the table heard this conversation, and adelaide thought that cynthia vaughn turned green with envy. an hour later, as we came down the front stairs to take our hansom, cerberus popped his head from his office to tell us that a package had just been received for miss adelaide armstrong. "come back, girls!" adelaide cried excitedly; "here is the costume. it can be nothing else. my, what a big bundle!" we carried it between us in triumph up the staircase. the hornets were clustered on the very top landing; their faces peered over the balustrade, and as they caught sight of our procession a peal of derisive laughter echoed through the hall as they scuttled away to their nest under the eaves. "those hornets have certainly gone crazy," emma jane remarked, practically. she was carrying her corner of the package, and was as interested as the rest of us in the arrival of the costume. we entered our study-parlor in suppressed excitement, and impatiently cut the knots, and tore open the wrappings, when, behold! another package, scrupulously tied. this paper removed revealed another, then another, and another, and the fact slowly dawned upon us that we had been victimized. "girls!" exclaimed witch winnie, sitting down on the floor in despair, "it's a wicked sell of those hornets: there is nothing here." emma jane anton kept on methodically removing the wrappers and folding them neatly. "perhaps," suggested adelaide, "they have merely arranged this hoax to fool us, and the costume is still at the roseveldts'." "it's just like that cynthia vaughn to do such a thing; we'll go, all the same," witch winnie replied, rising hopefully and tying on her veil. at this juncture emma jane reached a pasteboard box marked "violet velvet court dress." lifting the lid discovered a quantity of trash. an empty sardine-box bore the label "diamond crown;" a dilapidated bustle was marked "brussels point lace;" a mixed-pickle bottle was filled with apple-parings and labeled "old repoussé châtelaine, reign of arthur i.; the _real_ article; must be returned." a howl of mingled laughter and dismay rose from our corner. "cynthia vaughn wrote that letter which purported to be from milly. well, it's a real good practical joke, anyway," said witch winnie; "better than i thought the hornets could get up without my help. let us show them that we can take a joke, and good-naturedly acknowledge ourselves sold." "and in the mean time what am i to do for a costume? you know the tableaux come off to-night." "that puts another face on the matter." "i suppose cynthia would be only too glad to take the part even now." "after all we have said, and your name printed on the programme--never!" this from adelaide. "i'll tell you what we will do," suggested winnie; "the hansom is still waiting at the door; tib and i will drive to a costumer's and hire something. i found the address of a place on the bowery the other day and fortunately saved it. hold your heads up high; we will not acknowledge ourselves defeated yet." as witch winnie and i sped out of the quiet square and down the great teeming thoroughfare, the elevated trains jarring overhead and the motley crowd surging about us, a misgiving of conscience swept over me. what would madame say? this was not what we had obtained permission to do. this was very different from fifth avenue, and not at all a quarter of the city in which young ladies should be wandering without chaperons. we were quite desperate, however, and it seemed too late to turn back. the hansom stopped before a hebrew misfit clothing store where dress suits were announced as on hire by the evening. flaunting placards above told that costumes for the theatrical profession and for fancy balls were to be let in the fourth story. we climbed a dirty staircase, and after knocking by mistake at an intelligence office for _dienst mädchen_, a hair-dyeing and complexion-enameling rooms, a chiropodist's, and a clairvoyant's, we found ourselves in a room piled from floor to ceiling with costumes. a fat german, who looked as if he were some second-hand piece of furniture, very much soiled as to his linen, and the worse for wear as to his physical mechanism, admitted us and did the honors of the establishment. i glanced around at the motley objects which filled the wareroom; gaudy spangled dresses, with a sprinkle of saw-dust (suggestive of the arena) clinging to the worn cotton velvet, many-ruffled shockingly brief skirts of rose-colored gauze that had spun like so many teetotums behind flaring foot-lights, tinfoil suits of armor that had come in all mud-besplashed from parading the streets at the last grand procession, the faded banners which flapped above them so jauntily, drooping wearily now from the rafters, covered with dust and festooned by the spiders. a row of dominoes dependent from a neighboring clothes-line rustled with an air of mystery, and a heap of masks upon the floor seemed to leer and wink from their eyeless windows. "i am afraid," said winnie, drawing nearer the door, "that you haven't anything so nice as i want." "i haf effery dings, effery dings," replied the ponderous costumer; "you don't t'ink i keeps dose fine procade for the costume ball out here in te tust, ain't it?" "i wanted something for a school entertainment," winnie explained. "so, so; i haf effery dings, i tole you, for de school. ya, from dose kindergarten to dot universities. dings for little peebles and dings for big peebles." "i should like to know what kind of big people patronize your establishment?" "sometimes dose ladies who make de church fair. i have some angel wing for de christmas mystery, de mask for de muzzer goose pantomine. sometimes dose fine ladies dey make some peesness mit me. when de shentlemen step on dose trail or spill coffee on dot tablier, den i buys dot dress, and my designer she make it all new again. i haf one ferry nice designer; she haf many times arrange ze historical costume for dose grand painting what make ze artists." "then i think i would like to talk with her," said winnie. "ya, ya, dat vas right. here, mrs. halsey, mrs. halsey! perhaps you petter go in de sewing-room, ain't it?" he opened the door into a back room where a sweet pale-faced woman sat sewing little bells on a jester's cap. we were struck from the outset with mrs. halsey's refined appearance, and we were not surprised when she showed, by her complete understanding of what we required, that she had read tennyson and had some idea of historical periods in costume. she drew a purple velvet robe from a great bundle. i exclaimed in disapproval as i noticed a horrid crimson border. "but this is coming off," said the little woman, using her scissors briskly, "and instead, i will stitch some gold braid appliqué in a lily design. see, how do you like this effect?" and her deft fingers flew, coiling and twisting the gilt braid until a really regal combination was produced. "then we will have it open at the side to show a white satin petticoat, also laced with gold, and the sleeves can be puffed and slashed with white satin. i arranged a costume like that for mary anderson." "is it possible that such a noted and successful actress gets her costumes at a place like this?" asked witch winnie. "oh, no," replied mrs. halsey, with a sigh; "when i made miss anderson's dresses i was designer for madame céleste's establishment. i should be there now if it were not for jim." she was fitting the dress to me, and as this would take several minutes, winnie asked, "who is jim?" "jim is my son; he is twelve years old, and the brightest little fellow, for his age, you ever saw. he leads his classes at the public school, has a record of in mathematics, for all that he has such a poor chance at preparing his lessons." "how does that happen?" it was i who inquired this time. "jim is an ambitious boy; ambitious to help me as well as to keep a place in his class, and a milkman pays him a dollar a week for driving his cart over to jersey city to meet the milk train and fill his cans for him every morning." "that is very nice." "if it did not break so cruelly into the poor boy's hours for sleep. in order to dress and snatch a bite before he goes down to the stable and harnesses, he has to rise at o'clock. this enables the milkman to sleep until jim arrives with the milk at o'clock, in time to begin the morning rounds. i make the boy take an hour's sleep after this, but it is not enough." "he ought to go to bed very early." "yes, but the lessons; when are they to be learned? he shouts them out in his sleep. 'if i gain seven hundred dollars from a rise of - / per cent. in pennsylvania railroad stock, what was my original investment?' he has his father's quickness for figures. bless his heart! he never had any money to invest in railroad stocks, and by heaven's help he never will." "i am not so sure about that," said witch winnie. "how did it happen that you lost your position at madame céleste's on account of jim?" she had finished the fitting and was removing the pins from her mouth, but winnie drew on her gloves very slowly; we were both interested. "madame kept me for such late hours that i did not reach home until jim was asleep, and at last she proposed to raise my salary, but said that i must sleep in the establishment, so as to be on hand to open early in the morning. this was after madame's very successful winter, when she bought a house out of town, and did not find it convenient to come in until late in the day. i told her that i would accept her offer if jim could be with me; but there was no room for him, and we thought it best to stick together. i get through here at o'clock, and can cook jim's dinner. but it's hard for the boy. if i could only afford to let him have his entire time for his study--but his dollar a week half pays our rent." "wouldn't it have been better for you both if you had remained at madame céleste's, and had sent jim to boarding-school? there are such nice cadet schools up the hudson." a faint smile overspread the woman's face. "madame always insisted that her employees should dress well. i know exactly what it cost me. it would have left just a dollar and a half a week for jim. do you know of any boarding-school that would have taken him at those rates?" winnie sorrowfully confessed that she did not, and we reluctantly took our leave, mrs. halsey promising to finish the costume immediately, and to send it by jim in ample time for the evening's performances. our escapade lay heavily upon my conscience in spite of our success in obtaining the costume, but i felt still more troubled for poor mrs. halsey and her overworked boy. "i wonder," i said to winnie, "if madame could not make him useful here at the school, and let him work for his board, tend furnace and run errands." "you could not tell her about him without confessing our lark, and don't you do that for the world!" "no," i promised, against my will, "of course not, unless you consent; the secret is half yours, but i really think it would be the best way." adelaide was greatly interested in our report. "i am to have my violin dress for the concert made at madame céleste's," she said, "and i mean to ask her about this mrs. halsey." jim came with the package while we were at supper, and adelaide ran down to the office to receive it. she told us that he was an undersized, stoop-shouldered boy, with a cough which she fancied he had contracted by driving in the early morning mists. he took off his hat like a little gentleman, however, and his finger-nails and teeth were clean. any clown might wear good clothes, adelaide insisted, but these little details marked the gentleman. he had at first declined the dime which adelaide proffered, but accepted it on her insistence that it was only for car-fare and it was raining. he put it away carefully in a little worn purse which contained just one cent, at the same time remarking, "i don't mind the rain, and i can get ma the quinine the doctor says she ought to be taking." "that's the boy for me," witch winnie remarked; "he's got clear grit, and tenderness for his mother besides." and guinevere's gown? it was a beauty. the golden lilies gave it a sumptuous effect, and it fulfilled almost exactly the promises of the forged letter; there was even a _rivière_ of fish-scale pearls and glass beads down the side, which really resembled a châtelaine. the hornets were overcome with amazement--simply dazzled and dazed. according to adelaide--who always resorted to french to express her superlatives, and, when that language proved inadequate, pieced it out with translations of american slang or coinage of her own--they were "_completement bouleversées, stupefiées, mortifiées, et frappée plus haute q'un--q'un--kite_!" chapter iii. the princess. [illustration: {drawing of the dear old lady.}] that's the dear old lady, in a green tabby gown and a great lace cap, with long lace ruffles hanging down. there she sits in a cushioned high-backed seat, covered over with crimson damask, with a footstool at her feet. you see what a handsome room it is, full of old carving and gilding; the house is, one may be sure, of the elizabethan style of building. --_mary howitt._ our interest in mrs. halsey and her son slumbered for a time; not that we forgot her, or gave up our determination to do something for jim whenever the opportunity offered. it was soon to come, but our time and interest were filled with other things. just now it was a mystery--and what so dear to a girl's imagination? it was brought up for discussion afresh, because miss prillwitz had said to emma jane anton that the diadem which i wore as guinevere was not a suitable one for a queen, but a rather nondescript arrangement half-way between that of a marquis and an earl. this assumption of authoritative knowledge in regard to coronets revived an old rumor as to the noble birth of miss prillwitz. no one could tell who first circulated the report that miss prillwitz was a princess. it developed little by little, i fancy, but when it began to be whispered we received it without a shadow of doubt. miss prillwitz was a prim little woman, who always came to madame's receptions dressed in the same brocade dress, once gaudy with a great bouquet pattern, but now faded into faint pink and primrose on a background of silvery-green, with the same carefully cleaned gloves and fine old fan of the period of marie antoinette. she wore her perfectly white hair à la pompadour, and further increased her diminutive height by french heels, but in spite of these artificial contrivances she was a tiny woman, though she had dignity enough for a very tall one. adelaide said she had "the unmistakable air of a _grande dame_," and that she would have suspected her in any disguise. milly had once spied, half tucked in her belt and dependent from a slender chain, a miniature, set in brilliants, of a handsome young man in uniform, a row of decorations on his breast, crosses and stars hanging from strips of bright ribbon. this was a great discovery, and milly was sure that the original was no less a personage than peter the great. she had thought out a thrilling romance of true love crossed by jealousy and heartbreak, which the rest of the girls accepted as more than probable, until emma jane anton suggested that as peter the great died in , it would really make the princess much older than she appeared, to fancy that he was the hero of her girlhood. emma jane anton always had a disagreeable faculty of remembering dates. the other girls were unanimous in the opinion that she knew entirely too much, and each one looked and longed for an opportunity of publicly detecting her in a mistake and correcting her--an opportunity which never came. milly never made herself offensive by being certain of anything, and was loved and petted accordingly. the myth of a royal lover was a congenial one, and gained credence, though none of us dared to give him a name or date, at least not in the presence of emma jane anton. no one had the temerity to question adelaide's infallibility in detecting a great lady at first sight. it did not ever occur to emma jane anton to ask how many princesses she had met, and what was the "unmistakable air" of distinction and nobility which announced them like a herald's proclamation. perhaps this was because adelaide herself possessed this grand air by nature, and was far more regal in appearance and feeling than many a guelph or stuart. witch winnie, perhaps because she was the mad-cap of the boarding-school, and was always getting into scrapes herself, snuffed a political plot, and suggested that the princess had been exiled on account of deep-laid machinations against one of the reigning families, a supposition which would account for her living in exile and disguise, and even in comparative poverty. this explanation, as being the most ingenious, and affording fascinating scope for the imagination, was the most popular one, and was more or less elaborated according to the individual fancy of the young lady. emma jane anton was obliged to admit that she might be a princess, and that there was no harm in calling her so amongst ourselves. madame had let fall some very singular expressions when she announced the fact that we were to have her for our teacher in botany. emma jane had heard her, and it was she who had reported the news to the others. "girls," she said, "did you ever hear anything so absurd! we are going to recite our botany to the princess." "you don't mean it!" "honest! she lives in that funny old house across the square, that winnie always pretends to think is haunted. we are to parade over there three days in the week. madame says it's a great opportunity, for she is really quite eminent; writes for scientific journals, has traveled in all sorts of foreign countries, and _has moved in court circles_." "i told you so!" exclaimed adelaide, triumphantly. "i always said she was a true-blue princess." "i don't know that you have quite proved it yet," replied emma jane anton, coolly, "but madame did say that we would have an opportunity of learning much more from her than mere botany--etiquette, i presume--for she went on to hint that she had been brought up in a different school of manners from that of our own day and country, that we would find her peculiar in some ways, and that she trusted to our native courtesy to humor her little foibles, and a hundred more things of the same sort, winding up with that stock expression which she always uses when she has talked a subject to shreds and tatters--'a word to the wise is sufficient.'" "i wish i had heard her," said witch winnie; "i don't consider this subject talked to tatters, by any means. i propose that this botany class constitute itself a committee of investigation to clear up the mystery in regard to the history of the princess. we are supposed to be devoted to the study of nature, but i consider _human_ nature a deal the more interesting. it will almost pay for having to mind one's _p_'s and _q_'s. i wonder what she would say if she caught me sliding down her palace balusters! we'll all have to practice curtseying--one step to the side, then two back. oh! i'm ever so sorry i knocked over that stand. was the vase a keepsake or anything? i'll buy you another. no, i can't, for i've spent all my allowance for this month. well, you may have that _bonbonnière_ of mine you liked so much." the vase was a treasure, but no one could be vexed with witch winnie, and i forgave her, of course, and would none of the _bonbonnière_. our first glimpse at the house in which the princess lived was as appetizing to our imaginations as the little lady herself. it had been built as a church-school, and straggled around the church, shaping itself to the exterior angles of that edifice, and in so doing gained a number of queerly shaped rooms, some long and narrow, and others with irregular corners, but all bright with southern sunshine. the princess rented only the upper floor and the front room in the basement. the rest of the house had been let to other parties, but was now vacant. how strange and lonely it must seem, we thought, to go up and down those long staircases, and peep into the uninhabited rooms! rather eerie at night. "i wouldn't live that way for the world," shivered milly. "i should be afraid of robbers." "burglars don't usually choose an unoccupied house for their operations," emma jane remarked, sententiously. later, when we were better acquainted with the princess, milly asked her if she was never timid. she acknowledged that she was, but assured us that rats _were one great comfort_. "what do you mean?" milly asked. "whenevaire," said the princess (in the quaint broken english which we always found so fascinating, english which had only the foreignness of pronunciation and idiom, and which adelaide insisted was rarely so maltreated as to be really _broken_, but was only a little dislocated)--"whenevaire i hear one cautious sawing noise which shall be as if ze burglaire to file ze lock, i say to myself, 'ah, ha! monsieur rat have invited to himself some companie in ze pantry of ze butler.' when zere come one _tappage_ on ze _escalier_, as zo some one make haste to depart ze house, i turn myself upon my bed and make to myself explanation--rats! when ze footsteps mysterious steal so softly down ze hall, and make pause justly at my door, then i reach for ze great cane of my fazzer, which i keep at all times by ze canopy of my bed, and i pound on ze floor--boom, boom, monsieur rat _scélérat_, and it is thus i make my reassurance." the princess received us in what had been the basement dining-room, which she called her laboratory. the entire south side was one broad window of small diamond-shaped panes. forming a sill to this window was a row of low, wide cases for the reception of herbaria, and the room had a peculiar herby smell, a mixture of sweet-fern and faint aromatic herbs. the cushions which converted the tops of these cases into seats were stuffed with dried beech-leaves. the princess quoted latin to us for her preference for the fine springy upholstery which beech-leaves give. _silva domus, cubilia frondes._ ("the wood a house, the foliage a couch.") the other furniture in the room was a long table placed in front of the book-case divan, a table covered with piles of ms. books, a press for specimens, two microscopes, and a great blue china bowl containing pussy-willows in water--our specimens for the day's study. high book-cases, whose contents could only be guessed at, for the glass doors were lined with curiously shirred green silk, were ranged against the wall opposite, and at one end of the room stood a monumental german stove in white porcelain; at the other was miss prillwitz's chair, a high-backed gothic affair, which had once served as an episcopal _sedilium_, but had been removed on the occasion of a new furnishing of the church. it formed a stately background for the little figure. i often found myself making sketches of her on the sheets of soft paper between which we pressed our flowers, instead of listening to the lecture. i liked to imagine how she would look in a great ruff, not of cynthia vaughn's mosquito net, but of real _point de venise_. and yet her talks were very interesting; she was a true lover of nature, and made us love her. she regretted that she could not take us into the deep woods, but she opened our eyes to the wealth of country suggestiveness which we could find in the city. she introduced us personally to the scanty two dozen or so of trees in the little park, and from the intimate acquaintance formed with each of these, our appetites were whetted for vast wildernesses of forest primeval. she opened to us the beauty which there lies in the simple branching of the trees in their winter nudity, the tracery of the limbs and twigs cut clearly against a yellow sunset, or picked out with snow; how the elms gave graceful wine-glass and greek-vase outlines; the snakily mottled sycamore undulated its great arms like a boa-constrictor reaching out for prey; the birch, "the lady of the woods," displayed her white satin dress; the gnarled hemlocks wrestled upward, each sharp angle a defiance to the winter storms with which they had striven in heroic combat, the bent knees clutching the rocks, while the aged arms writhed and tossed in the grasp of the fiends of the air. she showed us the beautiful parabolic curve of the willows, a bouquet of rockets; the military bearing of a row of lombardy poplars standing, in their perfect alignment, like tall grenadiers drawn up in a hollow square. before the first tender blurring of the leaf-buds we knew our trees, and loved them for their almost human qualities. miss sartoris had taught me, the preceding summer, to look for the decorative beauty to be found in common roadside weeds, and we had made sketches together of dock, elecampane, tansy, thistles, and milkweed. i had one rich, rare day with her in a swamp, when i ruined a pair of stockings, and made the discovery that a skunk-cabbage was as beautiful in its curves as a calla. i brought these sketches to the princess, and she congratulated me on the possession of my country home with its gold-mines of beauty all around. "you are one heiress, my dear," she said, "to ze vast wealths which you have only to learn how you s'all enjoy. only t'ink of ze sousands of poor city people who haf never had ze felicity to see a swamp!" i grew to appreciate the country, and to feel that i was richer than i had thought. milly found a branch of study which was not above the measure of her intellect. she soon mastered the long names, and learned to think, and teachers in other departments noted an improvement. there was need for this, for the hornets long kept up a tradition that at one of the history examinations milly had been asked, "what is the salic law?" and had replied, confidently--"that no woman or _descendant of a woman_, can ever reign in france." chapter iv. court life. [illustration: {drawing of mrs. grogan.}] mrs. grogan, the baby-farmer of rickett's court, could hardly have been described as a court lady, and yet she was a very typical specimen of the women of this locality. but before introducing the reader to the society of rickett's court, i must first explain how it was that we came to make its acquaintance. as the time approached for the concert of which i have spoken, adelaide was reminded of her determination to have a "violin dress" made by madame céleste. adelaide played the violin, as we thought, divinely; she was at least the best performer at madame's. "the violin is the violet," i said, quoting from "charles auchester." "you must have a violet-colored gown." "a very delicate shade of china crêpe will do," adelaide replied, "made up with a darker tint, and the sleeves must be puffed like that dress the princess wore to the tableaux." "adelaide, dear," murmured milly, "you ought to wear angel sleeves to show your lovely arms." "and have them flop about like a ship's pennant in a lively breeze, during that bit of rapid bowing? that would be too grotesque." "puff them to the elbow," i suggested, "and then have a fall of soft lace that will float back and give the turn of your wrist as you whip the strings." "see here, adelaide," remarked witch winnie, "if you want something really fine, get that mrs. halsey to design it for you." "you don't suppose that i would hire a dress for the concert at a costumer's?" "i didn't say that; you could have it made wherever you pleased, but get mrs. halsey's ideas on the subject; they are really remarkable." adelaide considered the subject and acted upon it, but, greatly to my relief, she refused to do so without explaining the entire affair to madame. "i'll not stand in the way of your having a nice gown," said witch winnie. "come, tib, let's confess." i was overjoyed, and madame, though duly shocked, was not severe. she even allowed witch winnie to take adelaide to see mrs. halsey, stipulating only that she should be chaperoned by one of the teachers. adelaide chose miss sartoris, at my suggestion, both because we liked her, and from my feeling that her artistic instinct might be of service. the girls were disappointed to find that mrs. halsey was no longer at the costumer's. he had "pounced" her, he said, because she was "too much of a lady for de peesness." fortunately he could give the girls her address--no. , sixth floor, rickett's court. it was a very disagreeable part of town. miss sartoris looked doubtful as they approached it, and was on the point of getting into the carriage again as they alighted, but witch winnie had already darted through a long dark hall which led to the court in the centre of the block, and there was nothing for it but to follow. evil smells nearly choked them as they ran the gauntlet of that hall, and they were no better off on emerging upon the sloppy court. the space overhead, between the buildings, was laced with an intricate network of clothes-lines filled with garments. adelaide said she realized now where all upper new york had its laundry work done, for this was evidently not the wash of the court people. from their appearance it was only fair to conjecture that they were so busy doing other people's washing that they never had time for their own. the dirty water seemed to be thrown from the windows into the court, where it stood in puddles or feebly trickled into the sewer, from which emanated nauseous and deadly gases. sickly children were dabbling in these puddles. "it makes me think of hood's 'lost heir,'" said miss sartoris-- "the court, where he was better off than all the other young boys, with two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster shells, and a dead kitten by way of toys." they mounted a ricketty staircase grimed with dirt. smells of new degrees and varieties of loathsomeness assaulted them at every landing. the italian rag-pickers in the basement were sorting their filthy wares, while a little girl was concocting for them the garlic stew over a charcoal brazier. the mingled fumes came thick from the open door. mrs. grogan on the first floor had paused in her washing to take a pull at a villainous pipe. she came to the door still smoking, and carrying in her arms an almost skeleton baby, who sucked at a dirty rag containing a crust dipped in gin. winnie obtained one glimpse of the interior of mrs. grogan's domicile, and drew back quite pale. "adelaide," she said, "the room literally _swarmed_ with babies; that woman cannot have so many all of the same age." inquiry of mrs. halsey enlightened them. mrs. grogan was a "baby-farmer," and boarded these children, making a good income thereby, as their mothers were servants in good families. on the next floor a family of eight were working in a hall-bedroom, at rolling cigars. the large rooms were occupied by some chinese. mrs. halsey thought that they used them as an opium den. past more doors, up three more pairs of stairs, and they paused at no. . they knocked several times, but they could not make themselves heard above the buzz and whirr of a sewing-machine. finally winnie opened the door, and there sat mrs. halsey bent over the machine, while the floor was piled with dainty underclothing neatly tucked. she sprang up, evidently pleased to see winnie again, and motioned her callers to the only seats which the room afforded--a chair, a trunk, and a stool. winnie apologized for the interruption, and explained her errand. "but perhaps you are too busy to design this dress," adelaide said; "i see you have plenty of work." "it will not take long to make a little sketch," mrs. halsey replied, "and it will be a real pleasure for me to do it." as her fingers moved rapidly over the paper the girls took an inventory of the room. a cracked cooking-stove, and a cupboard behind it formed of a dry-goods box, but all the utensils were scrupulously clean. a closet, another dry-goods case on end, with a chintz curtain in front, concealed, as winnie's prying eyes ascertained, a roll of bedding, which was evidently spread on the floor at night. mrs. halsey knelt before a worn table, and this, with the sewing-machine, completed the furnishing of the apartment. no, in the window there was a row of fruit-cans containing some geraniums. miss sartoris discovered them, and mrs. halsey apologized for their condition. "they were just in bud," she said, "but we were without coal for several days, and they were nipped by frost." poor woman! she looked as if _she_ had been nipped by the frost too during that bitter experience. she coughed, and adelaide remarked, "you ought to drink cream, mrs. halsey; they say it is better for a cough than cod-liver oil." "i have plenty of milk," the little woman replied. "the milkman for whom my jim works lets him have the milk that he finds left over in the cans when he washes them out after his rounds. sometimes there's as much as a pint, and almost always enough for our oatmeal." mrs. halsey spoke cheerily and proudly--as of a luxury which she owed her boy. the design was completed, and adelaide was delighted. "would you like to have me make the costume in tissue-paper?" mrs. halsey asked; "the sleeve, at least, and this drapery; then any seamstress can make it." "how much will it be?" adelaide asked, doubtfully--wondering if her five-dollar bill would cover the charge. "do you think seventy-five cents too much? it would take me an afternoon." "but you could certainly earn more than that by your sewing." mrs. halsey smiled rather bitterly. "would you really like to know the rates at which i work?" she asked. adelaide expressed her interest. "these pretty mother hubbard night-gowns sell well, i am sure, but i know you can't get very much for making them, for i bought a pair at a bargain counter for a dollar." "it is the bargain counter which makes the low pay. i get a dollar and thirty cents _a dozen_ for making them," said mrs. halsey, calmly. "a dozen!" cried winnie; "and how many can you make in a day?" "eight." "then you make--" "eighty-five cents a day; but i cannot average that." "can't you do better with something else?" "i have made flannel skirts--tucked--at a dollar a dozen, but i can only make eight of those in a day, so that is less. i have received a dollar and twenty cents a dozen for making chemises, which sell at seven dollars a dozen; and seventy-five cents a dozen for babies' slips, three tucks and a hem; forty cents a dozen for corset covers. i have a friend who works a machine in a ruffling factory; she makes a hundred and fifty yards of hemmed and tucked ruffling a day, for which she receives twenty-five cents. so, you see, i am better off than some."[a] [a] see "campbell's prisoners of poverty" for still more harrowing statistics. "and can you live on five dollars a week?" "six dollars, madame; jim earns one dollar and the milk." "you pay for rent--" "six dollars a month; yes, it _is_ hard to earn that." "you must be thankful that you have only jim to provide for." "the sandys, on the floor below, have six children; five of them earn wages. i think they earn more than their cost." "but," said miss sartoris, "i thought child labor was prohibited by law." "not out of school hours, or at home. then the parents often swear a child is over fourteen, but small of its age, and get it into a factory. you wouldn't blame them, madame, if you knew all the circumstances i do. i keep jim at his books, but the study, with the night work, i'm afraid is killing him. they tempt him at the saloon, too, to take what they call a 'bracer' as he goes out to drive the milk cart at in the morning, but i get up and have tea ready for him, so that he does not yield." "we must go now," said miss sartoris, kindly. "you will send jim with the paper pattern to-night?" adelaide slipped a dollar into mrs. halsey's hand, and would take no change. and the three went down the stairs thoughtful and sad. "what can we do for her?" winnie asked. "i am sure i don't know," replied miss sartoris; "she certainly seems capable of securing better wages." "i will speak to madame céleste about her," said adelaide; and she was as good as her word. winnie accompanied adelaide when she took the pattern to the fashionable dress-maker. the modiste listened in rapt attention to adelaide's explanation of the gown wanted. she examined the design with interest. "it is perfectly made," she said. "who constructed this for you? it is the work of an expert. ah, miss, if i only had now in my establishment a designer who was with me last year! she had such a mind for _costumes de fantaisie_! for greek costumes to be worn at the harp, and for directoire dresses, i miss her cruelly, but mademoiselle's design is so explicit that we will have no trouble." "was your designer a mrs. halsey?" winnie asked. "the same, miss. do you know her? can you give me her address? i must try to get her back." "i think you may be able to obtain her. she made this pattern for me; but you will have to bid high, for she has her boy with her now." "ah yes! the boy; that was the trouble between us. seamstresses have no business to be mothers. mrs. halsey ought to give up the child entirely to some asylum for adoption; he will always be a handicap to her; but she does not see this, and clings to him as though she thought him her only chance for fortune. there is a mystery in mrs. halsey's life. her husband has deserted her, and she lives in the vain hope that he will come back some day and explain everything. she patronized me once, long ago, when she was in better circumstances. she will not talk about her husband, and i fancy that he is one of those defaulting cashiers who have run away to canada. i am willing to take her back on the old terms, but she must give up her boy. i have an order for a set of costumes for one of our queens of the opera. mrs. halsey is just the one to take it in hand. where did you say she could be found?" "i think you had better communicate with her through me," adelaide replied; "i am not at liberty to give her address." "and it is very possible," winnie spoke up, eagerly, for she had seen a gleam in madame céleste's eyes, "that her friends will provide for the boy. in that case she will be more independent, and perhaps will not be willing to return at the old salary. what shall we say is the most that you will offer." "five dollars a week and her board; that is very good pay, miss; fifty cents more than i paid her when she was with me." the girls could hardly wait to reach the amen corner to talk the matter over. milly was all sympathy. "i will write to papa," she said, "and get him to send jim to a boarding-school. i'll send for several circulars, and find out how much it costs." as an answer from mr. roseveldt might be expected the next day, we decided to wait for it. adelaide regretted that her father was in omaha, as she was sure that he would have aided in the scheme. mr. roseveldt's answer was most discouraging. he regarded milly's plan as mere sentimental nonsense, and would take no interest in it. "you might save something out of your allowance, milly," suggested the audacious winnie. "i give away three-fourths of it now," milly replied, in an injured tone. "what with the flowers i have on the organ every day for miss hope, and the favors for the german, which i always furnish, and the bonbons i give you girls, and all my other extras--" "but, milly dear," i exclaimed, "we would all ever so much rather you spent the candy money for jim than on us." "but i want _some_ candy for myself, and i am not going to be so mean as to munch it, and not pass any to the other girls." it would have been a real deprivation to milly to do without her beloved candy. she gloated over luscious pasty "lumps of delight" in the way of marshmallows and chocolate creams, candied fruits and marrons glacées, and her silver bonbonnière was always filled with the most expensive candied violets and rose-leaves. worse than this, there were certain little cordial drops, which were a peculiar weakness of milly's; none of us knew with what an awful danger she was playing, or that milly inherited a taste for alcoholic beverages through several generations. but milly was not selfish. "very well, girls," she said, with a sigh, "if you will go without, i will, and we will form a total abstinence candy society. i know just how much that means for jim, for i paid maillard eight dollars last month." "you are a good girl," spoke up emma jane, "and if you hold to that resolution, milly roseveldt, i will deal you out a cake of maple sugar every day, from a box i've just received from some vermont cousins. i was wondering what i should do with it, for i don't care for sweets." milly's face brightened; all unconsciously she was doing as great a kindness to herself as to jim, and the pure maple sugar was a good substitute for the unwholesome concoctions of the confectioner; it satisfied her craving for sweets, and did not poison her appetite. the rest of us added our small contributions, but the aggregate only amounted to three dollars a week, and we were unable to learn of any boarding-school to which jim could be sent at those rates. winnie had communicated madame céleste's offer to mrs. halsey. "it would be just the thing if i were alone," she replied, "but what would jim do without me?" "perhaps you can board him somewhere," winnie suggested; and she told of the sum which we girls had promised. "if i knew of any respectable place where he would have good influences, i would accept your kindness, as a loan, for a little while," mrs. halsey replied, "for my first earnings must go for clothes. i have friends in connecticut; perhaps they will take jim." but mrs. halsey found that her friends had moved west. she thanked us for our interest, but said that there seemed nothing better to do than to continue as they were. "i can't bear to tell madame céleste that she declines her offer," said adelaide. "_we_ must find a place for that boy." "i don't see how," replied winnie; but she saw, that afternoon; it came to her all by a sudden inspiration during our botany lesson. chapter v. little prince del paradiso. [illustration: {drawing of the little prince del paradiso.}] that day the botany class found their teacher in a flutter of excitement. there was a fresh, pink glow in the faded cheeks, and an unusual sparkle in the kindly eyes. she seated herself in the episcopal chair, lifted her lorgnette, and began to arrange the specimens for the day's lesson, but her hand trembled so that she could scarcely adjust the microscope, and the papers on which her notes were written sifted through her fingers and were strewn in confusion on the floor. "are you ill, miss prillwitz?" adelaide asked, in alarm. "no, miss armstrong," replied the princess, "it is not a painful in my system, and it is not a sorry; it is a pleasant. i shall expect to myself a company, and this is to me so seldom that i find myself _égaré_--what you call it?--scatter? sprinkled?--as to my understanding." we all looked our interest, and winnie ventured to ask--"one of your relations, miss prillwitz?" "yes," replied the little lady; "he is of my own family, though to see him i have never ze pleasure. it ees ze little prince del paradiso." we girls pinched each other under the table, while milly murmured, "a prince! how perfectly lovely!" "yes," replied miss prillwitz; "ze birthright to ziss little poy is one great, high, nobilitie, _la plus haute noblesse_, but he know nossing of it, nossing whateffer. he haf ze misfortune to be exported from his home when one leetle child; he haf been elevated by poor peoples to think himself also a poor. he know nossing of ze estates what belong his family, and better he not know until he make surely his title, and he make to himself some education which shall make him suit to his position." "how did you know about this little stolen prince?" emma jane asked. "i receive message from his older bruzzer to take him to my house _provisionellement_, till his rights and his--his--what you call--his sameness?" "you mean his identity?" "yes, yes, his die entity can be justly prove." "it seems to me," said witch winnie, impulsively, "that he can't be a very kind elder brother to be so indifferent." "my dear child, you make my admiration with what celeritude you do arrive always at exactly ze wrong conclusion. ze prince haf made great effort to recover his little bruzzer, but he must guard himself from ze false claimants, ze impostors." "then the little boy who is coming to you," said emma jane, "may not be the real prince, after all?" "that is a possible," miss prillwitz admitted, "but it is not a probable. somesing assure me zat he s'all prove his nobility." "how very interesting," said milly. "was he stolen away from home by gypsies?" "no, my child, he was not steal. he wandered himself away from his fazzer's house and was lost." "how old is he now?" "twelve year." witch winnie started; that was just jim halsey's age, and what a difference in the destiny awaiting the two boys! one the son of a king, the other of a criminal. "will you to see ze little chamber of ze petit prince?" asked miss prillwitz. we were all overjoyed by the suggestion, and the eager little woman led us to a room just under the roof, with a dormer-window looking out upon the roof of the church. milly ran directly to this window, and drawing aside the curtains looked out, but started back again half frightened, for a carved gargoyle under the eaves was very near and leered at her with a malicious, demoniacal expression. he was a grotesque creature with bat wings, lolling tongue, and long claws, but harmless enough, for the doves perched on his head and preened their iridescent plumage in the sunshine. the church roof just here was a wilderness of flying buttresses and pinnacles; the chimes were still far overhead, and rang out, as we entered the chambers, my favorite hymn--"sun of my soul, thou saviour dear." i have not yet described the room itself. we all exclaimed at its quaint beauty as we entered. it was papered with an old-fashioned vine pattern, the green foliage twined about a slender trellis, and this gave the room, which was really quite small, the effect of an arbor with space beyond. there was a patch of dark green carpet with a mossy pattern before the bed, which was very simple and dressed in white. in the window recess was a dry-goods box, upholstered in a fern-patterned chintz of a restful green tint, and serving, with its cushions, both as a divan and as a chest for clothing. there was a little corner wash-stand with a toilet set decorated with water-lilies and green lily-pads, and there was a little sliding curtain of green china silk with a shadow-pattern at the window, while through the uncurtained upper space one saw, beyond the church roof, the trees of the park. "o miss prillwitz!" i exclaimed, "it is just aurora leigh's room over again. you modeled it on mrs. browning's description, did you not?-- "'i had a little chamber in the house, as green as any privet-hedge a bird might choose to build in ... ... the walls were green, the carpet was pure green; the straight small bed was curtained greenly, and the folds hung green about the window, which let in a dash of dawn dew from its greenery, the honeysuckle.'" "i haf nefer ze pleasure to know zat room," said miss prillwitz, her eyes kindling. "how perfectly sweet!" exclaimed adelaide. "it is like 'a lodge in some vast wilderness.' i didn't know that there was a place in new york so like the country." "will the prince study botany with us?" milly asked, as we descended the stairs. "i fear he is not ready for ze botany. his education haf been neglect. but you s'all see him oftenly. i must beg you not to tell him zat he is a prince; zis must not divulge to him until ze proper time." "and then," added emma jane, "it would be cruel to excite hopes which may be doomed to disappointment." the princess smiled. "i do not fear zat," she said. "and now, young ladies, i must make you my excuse, and beg miss armstrong she s'all hear ze class ze remains of ze hour; i must go to ze market for prepare ze young prince his supper." she hurried away, and we attempted to turn our minds to our lesson. adelaide had just exclaimed that in botany the term _hop_ signified small, and _dog_ large, but she broke off the statement with the exclamation, "and do you see, girls, what this proves?" "that dog-roses are large roses," replied emma jane. "that the chinese laundry man around the corner, hop sin, is a little sinner," said winnie. "no, no, i don't mean that, but she said that the prince del paradiso was related to her; then, of course, she must belong to the paradiso family as well, and what we have so long suspected is really true. she is a genuine princess, and probably the daughter of a king." "i am not so sure of that," replied emma jane. "do you suspect miss prillwitz of being an impostor?" adelaide asked, coldly. "certainly not," replied emma jane; "but in many european countries every son of a prince is called a prince, instead of the eldest son only, as in england, and all the sons of all the younger sons are princes, and so on to the last descendant; and i presume it is so with the daughters as well; so that the title must often exist where there are no estates." "but miss prillwitz said that the prince del paradiso was heir to immense estates," milly insisted. "but that proves nothing in her own case," adelaide admitted. "some day, perhaps she will tell us more about herself, since she has begun to open her heart to us." at that moment the door-bell rang, and as the princess kept no servant, winnie went to the door. she was gone a long time, and came back looking grave and distraught--giving an evasive answer when we asked her who had called. i wondered at this because, as i sat nearest the door, i had overheard a part of the conversation, and knew that it referred to the little boy who was expected. "he cannot come," a voice had said; "he has a situation where he can learn a trade." this was of so much interest to us all that i wondered why winnie did not immediately report it. as soon as we returned to the school she obtained an interview with madame, and permission to see mrs. halsey in reference to the céleste situation; madame stipulating that she must not ask this favor for a long time, as she did not like to have her pupils frequent the tenement district. i offered to go with winnie, and was surprised that she declined my company. she returned glowing with suppressed excitement. "mrs. halsey has accepted madame céleste's offer," she exclaimed; "she leaves the court to-morrow, let us hope for good and all. o girls, it is a horrible place! i saw worse sights than when i was there before." "and jim?" we asked. "jim is provided for. we are to pay three dollars a week for him for the present, until mrs. halsey gets on her feet." "did she find a good place for him?" "an excellent place; but you must not ask me another question, and if any mysterious circumstances should come to your observation within a few days, you are not to say a thing, or even look surprised. promise, every one of you." "a mystery! how delightful!" exclaimed milly. "it's almost as good as the little prince. you can rely on us; we will help you, winnie, whatever it is, for we know it's all right if it's your doing." emma jane was not present, and i remarked that, while the rest of us would believe in winnie without understanding her, and even in spite of the most suspicious circumstances, i was not sure that we could trust emma jane so far. "emma jane will see nothing to suspect, and milly, i know, will stand by me. it's only you two that i am afraid of--adelaide, because she has seen jim; and tib, from her natural smartness in smelling out a secret." "whatever it is, winnie, we believe you could never do anything very bad," said adelaide. "but i have," winnie replied; "something just reckless. i'm in for the worst scrape of my life, and just as i was trying so hard to be good. i shall never be anything but a malefactor, and maybe get expelled, and throw the dear amen corner into disgrace. i'd better have staid queen of the hornets, for i shall be nothing but witch winnie to the end of the chapter." chapter vi. mrs. hetterman throws light on the mystery. [illustration: {drawing of mrs. hetterman.}] mrs. hetterman came into our life in consequence of a train of troubles which arose in the boarding-school from the frequent change of the cook. madame had been served for several years by a faithful colored man, who had suddenly taken it into his head to go off as steward on a gentleman's yacht. she had supplied his place by a biddy, who was found intoxicated on the kitchen floor. a woman followed who turned out to be a thief, and we were now enduring an incompetent creature who made sour bread and spoiled nearly every dish which passed through her hands. half of the girls were suffering with dyspepsia, and all were grumbling. the amen corner was especially out of sorts. milly, who was always fastidious, had eaten nothing but maple-sugar for breakfast, and had a sick headache; emma jane was snappish; witch winnie had stolen a box of crackers from the pantry, which she had passed around. adelaide and i had regaled ourselves upon them, but emma jane had declined on high moral grounds, and was virtuously miserable. it was in this unchristian frame of mind, or rather of stomach, that we took our next botany lesson. we found the princess beaming with pleasure. "my tear young ladies," she exclaimed, "you must felicitate me. it is all so much better as i had hoped. ze leetle prince has not been so badly elevated after all. he haf been taught to be kind and unselfish; zat is already ze foundation of a gentleman." miss prillwitz had occasion to leave the room a few minutes later. adelaide sniffed the air, and remarked, "girls, don't you smell something very nice?" "it's here on the stand in the corner," said witch winnie, lifting a napkin which covered a tray, and exclaiming, "fish balls! only see! the most beautiful brown fish balls!" "it's the remnants of their breakfast; she has forgotten to take it away," said adelaide. "they make me feel positively faint with longing; i don't believe she would mind if we took just one." we ate of the dainties, even emma jane yielding to temptation; they were delicious, and, having begun, we could not stop until they were all devoured. then we looked at one another in shame and dismay. "who will confess?" asked adelaide. "you ought to; you put us up to it," said emma jane anton. "let's write a round-robin," i suggested, "and all sign it." "i'll stand it," said winnie. "i led you into temptation." a step was heard in the hall. winnie stepped forward and began to speak rapidly; the rest of us looked down shamefacedly. "miss prillwitz, please forgive us; we were so hungry we could not stand it. if you knew what a dreadful breakfast we had this morning, i'm sure you would not blame us--" but she was interrupted by a cry of dismay--"oh! have you eaten them all? i bought them for aunty." looking up, we saw a manly little boy with an expression of distress on his frank features. adelaide uttered a sharp exclamation. i thought she said, "it's him!" and yet adelaide seldom forgot her grammar. winnie drew a deep breath, and caught adelaide by the arm. the boy looked up from the empty platter to the girls' faces, and his expression changed. "oh! it's you," he said. "well, no matter, only i meant 'em for a present for _her_--miss prillwitz, you know. she's no end good to me. mrs. hetterman, down at rickett's court, makes 'em for regular customers every friday morning. they are prime, and mother gave me a quarter for pocket-money this month, so i got ten cents' worth for aunty; she lets me call her so. i thought she'd like 'em, and it would patronize mrs. hetterman, and show her i hadn't forgotten old friends, if i had moved up in the world." "here's ten cents to get some more from mrs. hetterman," said adelaide, "and maybe we can get her a wholesale order to furnish our boarding-school. i'll speak to madame about it this very day." "and if madame doesn't order them, we girls will club together and have a spread of our own," said winnie. miss prillwitz came in at this juncture, and explanations followed. "if madame is in such trouble in regards of a cook," said miss prillwitz, "i vill write her of mrs. hetterman, and perhaps it will be to them both a providence. can she make ozzer sings as ze croquettes of codfish?" "oh yes, indeed," the little prince spoke up, eagerly; "soup, and turnovers, and _such_ bread! she gave me a little loaf every baking while mother had the pneumonia. mr. dooley, the butcher, gave me a marrow bone every monday, and i always took it to mrs. hetterman to make into soup. it made mother sick to boil it in our little room, and mrs. hetterman would make a kettle of stock, and showed me how to keep it in a crock outside the window, so mother could have some every day; it was what kept mother's strength up through it all. we had such good neighbors at the court! but mrs. hetterman was best of all. she has five children of her own, too. bill is a messenger boy, and jennie works in a feather factory. mary is a cripple, but she is just lovely, and tidies the house, and takes care of the two little ones. mr. hetterman was a plasterer and got good wages, but he fell from a scaffolding and broke his leg, and he's at the hospital." "and does mrs. hetterman support the family on ze croquettes of codfish?" asked miss prillwitz. "she scrubs offices, but she could get a place as cook in a family if it wasn't for the children." he looked longingly at miss prillwitz as he spoke, but she did not seem to notice the glance. "here, mon garçon, run down to ze court, and tell mrs. hetterman to take a basket of her cookery to ze boarding-school. i t'ink she will engage to herself some beesness." the lesson proceeded, but adelaide and winnie both blundered; they were evidently thinking of something else. a change came over witch winnie; she lost her old reckless gayety and became subdued and thoughtful. the hornets said she was studying for honors, but i knew this was not the case, for her lessons were not as well prepared as formerly. she would sit for long periods lost in reverie. winnie had charge of the money collected for jim's board. she reported, after one week, that his mother did not need as much; two dollars would supply the margin between what was required and the sum she was able to pay. none of us, with the exception of adelaide, knew where winnie had domiciled jim, but we were content to leave the matter in her hands. a week later mrs. halsey only needed one dollar. mrs. hetterman was engaged as cook for the boarding-school, and we all rejoiced in the change. i went down to the kitchen to see her, one afternoon, and found her a buxom englishwoman who dropped her _h_'s, but was always neat and civil. she was delighted when she found that i knew the names of her children. "it was a little boy who used to live in your court who told me about them," i said, "and who introduced us to your good fish balls." "oh yes, miss, i mind; it was little jim 'alsey; 'e's the prince of fine fellers, 'e is." jim halsey the prince! my head fairly reeled, and yet this explained many things which had seemed mysterious. winnie's agency in the matter was still not entirely clear to me. i did not connect her remorseful remarks about another scrape, with jim, and i believed that by some remarkable coincidence he was really miss prillwitz's little prince incognito. i wondered whether mrs. hetterman knew anything of his real history, but she preferred to talk at present about her own family. she was very happy in the prospect of introducing her oldest daughter, jennie, into the house as a waitress. "it will be so much better for jennie," she said, "than the feather factory. the hair there is not good for 'er lungs." i did not understand, at first, what mrs. hetterman meant by the _hair_, but when she explained that it was "the hatmosphere," her meaning dawned upon me. "it will make it a bit lonelier for mary and the little ones," she admitted, "but i go down every night, after the work's over, to tidy them up and to see that hall's right. the court is not a fit place for the children. if i could find decent lodgings for them, such as mrs. 'alsey 'as got for her jim! i think i could pay as much, if the place was only found; i'm 'oping something will turn hup, miss." "i hope so," i replied; and i asked winnie that afternoon if she thought the person who was boarding jim halsey would take the hettermans, but she utterly discouraged the idea. we saw a good deal of the little prince. miss prillwitz called him giacomo, and was deeply attached to him. he did her credit too, for he was docile and bright. his mother was right in saying that he inherited his father's facility for mathematics, but with this faculty he possessed also a love for mechanics and for machinery of every sort. "he will make one good engineer some day," said miss prillwitz, in speaking of him to us. "that is a strange career for a prince," said adelaide. "my tear, it may be many year before he ees call to his princedom, and in ze meanstime he muss make his way. zen, too, ze sons of ze royal houses make such study, and it is one good thing for ze country whose prince interest himself in ze science." "i wonder how he would like to study surveying by and by," adelaide said. "i know that father could employ him in the west." "zat is one excellent idea," said miss prillwitz. "we will see, when ze time s'all arrive." we were all fond of the little prince. after all, miss prillwitz had decided to let him attend the botany lessons on saturdays. "if he s'all be one surveyor in ze west," she said, "he s'all have opportunity to discover ze new species of flower; he must learn all ze natural science." the prince attended the public school during the week, and held his place at the head of his class with ease. it was not hard to do so, now that he could sleep all night. emma jane, who had had her spasms of doubt in regard to him, and had even gone so far at first as to say that miss prillwitz was a crank, and she had no faith in the boy's nobility, had been won over by the boy himself, and remarked one afternoon that the internal evidence was convincing; giacomo was not like common children; he was evidently cast in a finer mold; he would do honor to any position; birth would tell, after all. it was all that dear milly could do not to betray the secret to the little prince. he was very fond of milly, but deferential and unpresuming, as became his apparent position. "some day our places may be reversed. you may live in a beautiful home and have hosts of friends," milly said to him. "will you remember me then, giacomo?" "how can that ever be?" the boy asked. "you will grow up and be a fine rich lady; i will be a poor young man whom you will have quite forgotten." "not necessarily poor," milly hastened to reply. "if you go west you may, by working hard, become rich and famous. will you forget your old friends then?" and jim promised that he would never, never forget. then a shade came across his face. "maybe i will, after all," he said, "for i have forgotten mary hetterman for more than a week. i did not think i could be so mean." adelaide and i had a conference in regard to the prince. it seemed that she had recognized him as jim halsey from the first. "i have been wondering," she said, "whether it was not a case like that of little lord fauntleroy, and whether mrs. halsey could not be proved to be the wife of a prince, but i see that cannot be the explanation of the matter; and i have concluded that jim is her adopted child. she must have taken him, when she was in better circumstances, from the people who brought him to this country when he was a very little fellow, and so he has no recollection of any other home." "she always spoke of him as her very own," i said, "and seemed fonder of him than a foster-mother could be. it will be very hard for her to part with him, if his real relatives claim him." "not if he goes to high rank and great estates," said adelaide. "she probably had no idea of his noble birth when she adopted him; and it just proves that bread cast upon the waters returns, for he will probably care for her right royally, when he comes into his own, and she will find that adopting that boy was the best investment she ever made in her life." winnie came in while we were talking. "why didn't you tell us, winnie," i asked, "that jim halsey was the little prince?" "it did not seem necessary," winnie replied, looking unnecessarily alarmed, as it seemed to me. "you pay his board directly to miss prillwitz, i suppose?" adelaide said. "no, i give it to his mother, and she sends it by mail." "well, i don't see any harm in letting miss prillwitz know that we know his mother, and are helping in his support." "i do, and i wish you would not tell her this," winnie entreated. "just as you please," adelaide replied, "but i hate mysteries." "so do i," said winnie, with a deep sigh. "what is the matter with you, any way, winnie?" adelaide asked. "that is my business," winnie replied, shortly, and left the room, banging the door behind her. "winnie isn't half as jolly as she used to be," said milly, in an injured tone. "i always depend on her to save me when i'm not prepared for recitation. when professor todd was coming down the line in the virgil class and was only two girls away from me, i made the most beseeching faces at winnie, who sits opposite, and usually she is so quick to take the hint, and come to the rescue by asking professor todd a lot of questions about the sites of the ancient cities, and where he thinks the hesperides were situated. she gets him to talking on his pet hobbies, and he proses on like an old dear, until the bell rings for change of class. but this time she just stared at me in the most wall-eyed manner, while i signaled her in a perfect agony as he got nearer and nearer. i tried to think of some question of my own to ask him, and suddenly one popped into my head which i thought was very bright. he had just been talking about Æneas' shipwreck, and he referred to st. paul's, with a description of the ancient vessels, and how he met the same mediterranean storms, and i plucked up courage and said, 'professor todd, why is it that we hear so much about virginia, and in all the pictures of the shipwreck we see her standing on the deck of the ship, and paul rushing out into the surf to rescue her? now i have read the chapter in acts which describes st. paul's shipwreck, very carefully, and in that, and in all the history of paul, there is not one word about virginia.' "you should have heard the girls shout; i think they were just as mean as they could be. that odious cynthia vaughn nearly fell off the bench, and professor todd looked at me in such a despairing way, as though he gave me up from that time forth. i just burst into tears, and winnie came over and took me out of the room. she acknowledged that it was all her fault, and that she ought to have come to my rescue sooner." poor milly! we could only comfort her with our assurances that we loved her all the more for her troubles. summer was approaching, and we were making our plans for vacation. milly's mother had invited adelaide to spend the season with them at their cottage at narragansett pier; and winnie's father had consented to her spending june and july with me on our long island farm. winnie cheered up somewhat at the prospect. "it's the warm weather which makes me feel muggy," she said; "i shall feel better when we get out of the city too. the noise and racket distract me, and seeing so many miserable people makes me miserable and sick at heart." "i don't feel so at all," i replied. "it makes me happy to see how much good even we can do. mrs. halsey would not have obtained her situation with madame céleste but for us, or have been able to place jim with miss prillwitz." winnie winced. "don't talk about them; i am sick and tired of hearing about the little prince. do you know, i don't believe he is a prince at all!" "what! do you imagine that this story of miss prillwitz's is only a fabrication?" "perhaps so, or at least a hallucination on her part; and even if it is all true jim may not be the boy. i wonder what proof she has of his identity, or whether she has written yet to his relatives. i mean to ask her--this very day." but winnie did nothing of the kind, for we were surprised on arriving at miss prillwitz's to find three new children sitting in the broad window-seats. one was a thin girl with crutches, whom i at once guessed must be mary hetterman; two chubby, freckle-faced little ones sat in the sunshine looking over a picture-book together, while miss prillwitz beamed upon them. "my tears," she said, "you see i haf some more companie. giacomo haf brought these small people to spend ze day." jim came in a little later, and introduced his friends. he was flushed and excited, and it presently appeared that the visit was a part of a deep-laid scheme of his own. "i wanted you to know the hettermans," he said, "because they are such nice children, and rickett's court is no place for them, for the family next door have the fever, and mr. grogan has the tremens, and scares them most to death. mrs. hetterman gets twenty dollars a month as cook now, and she says she can pay a dollar a week apiece for each of the children if she can board them where it is healthful and decent; and you young ladies were so kind as to help my mother at first, and now, as she don't need it any longer, maybe you would help the hettermans, and then maybe aunty would take them in. mary is very handy, for all she's a cripple, and the babies' noise is just nothing but a pleasure, and--" here the tears stood in his eyes, and he looked at miss prillwitz, who was frozen stiff with astonishment, with piteous appealing--"and i would eat just as little as i could." the good woman's voice trembled, "take ze children to play in ze park," she said; "ze young ladies and i, we talk it some over." mary hetterman tied the children's hoods on with cheerful alacrity. she evidently had high hopes, while jim threw his arms around miss prillwitz--"aunty," he said, "they deserve that you should be kind to them more than i do." "what reason is zere that i should take them in more as all ze uzzer children in ze court?" "just as much reason as for you to take me," replied the boy, running away. "bless his heart!" said miss prillwitz, as he closed the door; "he knows not ze reason zat draw me to him, ze cherubim. but i did not know you to help his muzzer until now." adelaide explained matters, and the case of the hettermans was discussed, miss prillwitz agreeing to take them in if we would assist in their support. "i shall leaf zem in my apartement for ze summer," she said, "for it is necessaire to me zat i go ze shore of ze sea, and i s'all take giacomo with me, for i cannot bear to separate myself of him. zis is so near to your school zat mrs. hetterman can sleep her nights here. but i have not decided to myself where i shall repose myself for ze summer." i spoke up quickly, referring her to miss sartoris for the beauties of our part of long island and for mother's low price for board. miss prillwitz was evidently pleasantly impressed. she thought she would like to study the seaweed of that part of the coast, and when she heard of the lighthouse, against which the birds of passage dashed themselves, and how the keeper had kept their skins, waiting for some one to come that way and teach him to stuff them, she was quite decided in our favor. i noticed that winnie grew suddenly silent. as we left the house she pinched me softly. "you didn't mean any harm, tib," she said, "but if they go, it will take every bit of pleasure out of my summer." chapter vii. winnie's confession. [illustration: {drawing of wilhelm kalbfleisch.}] wilhelm kalbfleisch, the butcher's boy, was one of the most uninteresting specimens of humanity that i have ever seen. that any of us would ever give him even a passing glance seemed quite beyond the range of probability, and yet wilhelm's stolid, good-natured face haunted winnie's dreams like a very nemesis, and came to acquire a new and singular interest even in my own mind. we passed a little catholic church on our way to the boarding-school. "we are early," said winnie. "let's go in." it was lent, and the altar was shrouded in black, and only a few candles burning dimly. we stood beside a carved confessional. a muffled murmur came from the interior, and the red curtains pulsated as though in time to sobs. "let us go out," whispered milly; "i am stifling." she looked so white that i was really afraid she was going to faint. "i feel better," she gasped, when we reached the open air. "it was frightfully close," winnie said, "and the air was heavy with incense." "it was not that," said milly, "it was the thought of it all; that there was a poor woman in that confessional telling all her sins to a priest. i never could do it in the world." "it would be a comfort to me," said winnie, fiercely. "i only wish there was some one with authority, to whom i could confess my sins, that i might get rid of the responsibility of them." "there is," i said, before i thought; "'he hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows.'" winnie gave me a quick look. "you don't usually preach, tib," she said, and burst into a merry round of stories and jokes, which convulsed the other girls, but did not in the least deceive me. i could see that she was troubled, and was trying to carry it off by riding her high horse. "girls," she said, "i want you to come around to the butcher's with me. they have such funny little beasts in the window. i mean to get one, and the butcher's boy, wilhelm, is such a princely creature--just my _beau idéal_--i want you to see him." the funny little beasts proved to be forms of head-cheese in fancy shapes. strange roosters and ducks, with plumage of gayly colored sugar icing, and animals of uncouth forms and colors. winnie bought a small pig with a blue nose and green tail, all the while bombarding the butcher's boy, who was a particularly stupid specimen, with keen questions and witty sallies. he was so very obtuse that he did not even see that she was making sport of him. as we hurried home to make up for our little escapade, winnie amused us all by asking us how we thought wilhelm would grace a princely station. "just imagine, for an instant, that he was the lost prince paradiso! what a figure he would cut in chain armor, or in a court costume of velvet and jewels! did you notice the elegance of his manners and the brilliancy of his wit?" "winnie, winnie, have you gone wild?" adelaide asked. "why do you make such sport of the poor fellow? he is well enough where he is, i am sure." "is he not?" winnie replied, a little more soberly; "i was only thinking what a mercy it is that people are so well fitted for their stations in life by nature. now, think of jim as a butcher, growing up to chop sausage-meat and skewer roasts!" "jim never could be a butcher," adelaide replied; "even if miss prillwitz's dreams do not come true, the education she is giving him will do no harm. he will carve a future for himself." we went into the house, and the subject was dropped. the next morning a message came from miss prillwitz that one of the hetterman children was sick. it was the fever, contracted in their old home, and we were told that our botany lessons must be interrupted for the present. we heard through mrs. hetterman that the child was not very sick. it was one of the chubby little ones that had looked so well. she was quarantined now in jim's room, the green one up under the roof, and had a trained nurse to care for her. mrs. hetterman did not see the child, but talked with her daughter mary in the basement every evening she thought it was a great mercy that they had completed their moving before the child was taken sick. this did not seem to me to be exactly generous to miss prillwitz, but i could not blame the mother for the feeling, for under the careful treatment the child speedily weathered the storm, and came out looking only a little paler for the confinement. we were expecting a summons to return to our lessons, when mrs. hetterman told us that jim was sick. we were not greatly alarmed, for the little girl's illness had been so slight that we fancied we would see our favorite about in a fortnight. milly sent in baskets of white grapes and flowers, and adelaide carried over a beautiful set of photographs of italian architecture. "it may amuse him to look them over," she said, "and it is just possible that his ancestral palace figures among them." adelaide hoped to go to europe as soon as she graduated. "if jim is established in his rights by that time, i shall visit him," she said, "so, you see, i am only mercenary in my attentions to him now." winnie looked up indignantly, "then you deserve to be disappointed." adelaide laughed merrily. "i thought you knew me well enough, winnie, to tell when i am in fun. i like jim so much, personally, that i would do as much for him if he had no great expectations; but i do not see that there is any harm in thinking of the kindnesses which he may be able to do me." "if you don't count too surely on them. miss prillwitz has had time to notify his relatives, and they do not seem to take any interest in him." it is the unexpected that always happens. that very evening mrs. hetterman brought us this note from miss prillwitz. she wrote better than she spoke, for on paper there was no opportunity for the foreign accent to betray itself: "my dear young ladies: "the elder brother have arrived, and i fear you will have no more opportunity to see little giacomo, for i think he will take him away very shortly to his father's house. "you must not be too sorry, but think what a so great thing this is for poor little giacomo, to be called so soon to his beautiful estate; no more poorness or trouble, in the palace of the king. giacomo desire me to thank you for all you kindness to him. he hope some time you will all come to him at his beautiful country of everlasting springtime, and the elder brother invite you also. mrs. halsey is here. she is much troubled. she forget that giacomo was not her very own, and the pain of parting from him is great. she can not rightly think of the good fortune it is to him. she wish to go with him, but that is not possible for now. giacomo hope you will comfort her. he hope, too, we will continue our care to the children hetterman. come not to-night, dear young ladies, to bid him farewells; i fear you to cry, and so to trouble his happiness. "your at all times loving teacher, "cÉlestine prillwitz." "the idea of our crying, like so many babies!" said emma jane anton; "why, it's the best thing that possibly could happen to him, and i, for one, shall congratulate him heartily." "i suppose so," milly assented, doubtfully, "but i shall miss him awfully, he is such a nice little fellow." "so much the better," said adelaide; "how glad the prince must be to find that his little brother is really presentable. as winnie was saying, 'fancy his feelings if he had found him a coarse, common creature like wilhelm, the butcher's boy!' and now, winnie, what do you say to my being too sure about visiting him some day? here is the invitation from the prince himself. i wonder just where in italy they live!" so the girls chatted all together, but winnie was strangely silent. "i ought to see miss prillwitz at once," she exclaimed, suddenly. "it's too late, now," replied emma jane; "there! the retiring-bell is ringing, and if you look across the square you can see that miss prillwitz's lights are all out; besides, she particularly requested us not to come until morning." "then i must run over before breakfast," said winnie, "for it is very important." she set a little alarm-clock for an hour earlier than our usual waking-time; but she was unable to sleep, and her restlessness kept me awake also. she tossed from side to side, and moaned to herself, and at last i heard her say, "oh! what wouldn't i give if some one would only show me the best way out of it." "winnie," i said, softly, "i am not asleep. what is the matter? are you in trouble?" "yes, tib." "do you need money?" "no." "are you in love?" "the idea! a thousand times no." "are you going to be expelled?" "not unless i tell on myself; perhaps not even then. but oh, tib, i told you i was in for a scrape. i thought i could stick it through, but it's worse than i thought. i can't keep the secret; i've got to tell." "i would, and then you'll feel better." "no, i will not, for telling will not do any good. i'm not sure but it will do harm." "you poor child, what can it be?" "just this--jim is _not_ the prince." "i don't see how you know that, or, if you do, what business it is of yours." "because i deceived miss prillwitz, and got jim in there by making her think he was the boy she had heard about, while the real boy is somewhere else. i've _got_ to tell her before his friends take him away, and before that other boy disappears from view entirely." "that is really dreadful, but if you know where the true prince is, it can't be quite irreparable. what ever made you do such a thing? and how did you manage to do it?" "why, you see, i hadn't any faith in this story of a lost prince at all. i thought that miss prillwitz was just a little bit of a crank, who had been imposed on by designing people and i was sure, when i saw the woman at the door who came to tell miss prillwitz that her boy had a situation and could not come, that she had been in league with the person who had told miss prillwitz about the lost prince, but had backed out of the plot because she was afraid. miss prillwitz had evidently not suspected that she knew anything of the boy's supposed expectations, for she had merely promised to take him to board, teach, and clothe, for whatever the mother could give her, the woman having said that she was going into a family as german nursery governess, and agreeing to send a trifle toward her boy's support whenever she received her salary. it was just the time that mrs. halsey was looking for a place for jim. it was so easy to have him come at the time agreed upon and take the place of the other boy. i was afraid, at first, that miss prillwitz would be surprised by the regularity of our payments and the amount we sent, but she didn't seem to suspect anything, and she is so fond of him, and he deserves it all--and everything worked so well up to the coming of the prince." "but, winnie, why didn't you tell her the whole story at first? i think she would have taken him, all the same, and then you would not have got things into this awful muddle." "indeed she would not have taken him, a mere pauper out of the slums, unless she had thought that he was something more. she is a born aristocrat, and she never could have taken jim to her heart so if she had not believed that he was of her own class--of her family, even. why, even adelaide would never have seen half the fine qualities in him which she thinks she has discovered if she had not thought him a noble; and it has thrown a fine halo of romance over him for milly; and even emma jane, who was hard to convince at first, is firmly persuaded that he is made of a little finer clay than the rest of us. and you, tib, confess that you are disappointed yourself." "i am bitterly disappointed," i admitted; "but that is nothing to the extent that miss prillwitz will feel it. i wouldn't be in your shoes, winnie, for anything." "i know it; i know it. i have been wicked, but i had no idea that the family would ever look him up. i hardly believed the story that there had been any prince lost. and, tib, if there had not been, where would have been the harm in what i did?" "it would have been wrong, all the same, winnie, even if it had seemed to turn out well. deception is always wrong, and i did not think it of you. but there, don't sob so, or you will make yourself sick, and you need all your wits and strength to carry you through the ordeal of setting things straight to-morrow. i'll stand by you. i'll go with you if it will be any help." "no, you shall not; miss prillwitz might think you were implicated in the affair. the fault was all mine, and i will not have any one else share the blame; only be on hand at the door, tib, with an ambulance to carry away the remnants, for i shall be all broken into smithereens by the interview." i tried to soothe the excited girl, and fancied that she had fallen asleep, when she suddenly began to laugh hysterically. "i haven't told you who the real prince is," she said. "aren't you curious to know?" "have i ever met him?" "yes, indeed; it's wilhelm the butcher's boy." "impossible!" "isn't it too absurd for anything? that was the situation which his mother, or foster-mother, preferred to miss prillwitz's care. what will adelaide say now about blue blood telling even in low circumstances? there is _blood_ enough about wilhelm if that is all that is desired. and won't that foreign prince be just raving when he is introduced to his long-lost brother! but poor miss prillwitz!--that's the worst of all. no doubt she has been writing with pride and delight the most glowing letters in reference to jim's fitness for his high position. how chagrined and mortified the dear old lady will be! tell me now, tib, that things were not better as i managed them." "it does seem as if there must be a mistake somewhere. still, the truth is the truth, and i believe in telling it, even if the heavens fall. this matter is all in the hands of providence, winnie, and i believe you got into trouble simply by thinking that you knew better than providence, and that the world could not move on without you." "i must say you are rather hard on me, tib, but perhaps you are right. do you suppose that if i hand the tangle i have made right to god, he will take it from my hands and straighten it out for me? i should think he would have nothing more to do with it, or with me." "that is not the way our mothers behave when we get our work into a snarl." this last remark comforted her. she laid her head upon my shoulder and prayed: "dear heavenly father, i have done wrong, and everything has gone wrong. help me henceforth to do right, and wilt thou make everything turn out right. for thy dear son's sake, i ask it. amen." then trustfully she fell asleep, her conscience relieved of a great weight, and with faith in a power beyond her own. chapter viii. the elder brother and mrs. halsey's strange story. [illustration: {drawing of child sleeping in bed.}] notwithstanding winnie's protestations to the contrary, i insisted on going with her the next morning when she went to make her confession. the little alarm-clock made its usual racket, but winnie slept peacefully, and i was dressed before i could make up my mind to waken her. but i knew how disappointed she would be if she could not make her call on miss prillwitz before breakfast, and i wakened her with a kiss, and made her a cup of coffee over the gas while she was dressing. then we put on our ulsters and hoods, and slipped out of the house just as the rising-bell was ringing. we knew that miss prillwitz was habitually an early riser, or we would not have planned to call at such an hour, but we were surprised to find a cab standing before her door. "i wonder whether the prince and jim are just about to leave," winnie exclaimed. "i did not know that any of the ocean steamers sailed so early in the morning. what if they have gone and we are too late!" something was the matter with the door-bell, and just as we were about to knock, the door opened and a stout gentleman came down the steps, and drove away in the carriage. jim was not with him, and miss prillwitz stood inside the door. winnie caught her arm and asked, "was that the prince, the elder brother?" "no, tear," said miss prillwitz, gravely. "why haf you come, when i write you you must not?" "oh miss prillwitz, it was because i have something so particular, so important, to tell you. do not tell me that jim has gone, and that it is too late!" "no, tear, giacomo haf not gone already. i think ze elder brother take him very soon, and we keep our little giacomo not one leetle longer. go in ze park by ze bench and i vill come and talk zare wiz you." we wondered at her unwillingness to let us in, but obeyed her directions, and presently she came out to us with a shawl thrown about her and a knitted boa outside her cap. even then she did not sit near us, but on a bench at a little distance, having first noted carefully that the wind blew from our direction toward her. all this might have seemed strange to us had we not been so thoroughly absorbed in what winnie was about to say. the poor child blundered into her story at once, and told it in such broken fashion that miss prillwitz never could have understood it but for my explanations. when we had finished, the tears stood in miss prillwitz's eyes. "my tear child," she said, kindly, drawing nearer to us, "how you haf suffer! yes, you have done a sin, but you are sorry, and god he forgive ze sorrowful." "but do you forgive me, miss prillwitz?" winnie cried, passionately. "can you ever love me again?" "yes, my tear, i forgive you freely, and i love you more as ever." "and the elder brother and jim? have jim's expectations been raised? will he be greatly disappointed, and will the prince be very angry?" "my tear, in all zis it is not as you have t'inked. see, you haf not understand my way of talk. i t'ink giacomo will, all ze same, pretty soon go to his fazzer's house. ze elder brother is may be gone wiz him by now. you have not, then, understand zat dis elder brother is ze lord christ? zat ze beautiful country is heaven? our little giacomo lie very sick. ze doctor, whom justly you did meet, he gif no hope. his poor muzzer sit by him so sad, so sad, it tear my heart. she cannot see he go to ze palace to be one prince del paradiso." we sat bolt upright, dazed and stunned by this astounding information. "do you mean to say," winnie said, slowly, grasping her head as though laboring to concentrate her ideas, "that jim is dying, and that he is no more a prince than any of us? i mean that the other boy is not a real prince, and that no child ever strayed away from its father's house, or elder brother has been seeking for a lost one? oh miss prillwitz, how could you make up such a story?" "my tear, my tear, it is all true, and i t'ought you to understand my leetle vay of talk. giacomo is a prince in disguise; you, my tears, are daughters of ze great king. zat uzzer boy, ze butcher, he also inherit ze same heavenly palace. all ze children what come in zis world haf wander avay from zat home, and ze elder brother he go up and down looking for ze lost. he gif me commission; he gif effery christians commission to find zose lost prince--to teach him and fit him for his high position. i did not have intention to deceive you, my tear. it was my little vay of talk." "oh! oh!" exclaimed winnie, "i feel as if my brain were turning a somersault, but i cannot realize it. then i did not really deceive you, after all, miss prillwitz, though i was just as wicked in intending to do so. and jim--do not say there is no hope!" "no, my tear. i know all ze time zis was not ze boy i expect. but i say to myself, 'how he come i know not, but he is also ze child of ze king.' ze elder brother want him to be care for also. may be ze elder brother send him, and i take him very gladly. and surely, i never find one child to prove his title to be one prince of paradise better as giacomo. so gentle, so loving, so generous and soughtful. i not wonder at all ze elder brother want him. i sank him, i sank you, too, winnie, i have privilege to know one such lovely character." miss prillwitz looked at her watch. "i can no longer," she said quickly, and hurried back to her home. we crossed the park thoughtfully and entered the school. there was just time to tell the girls the news before chapel. the knowledge that dear jim was lying at death's door overwhelmed every other consideration, and yet we talked over miss prillwitz's little allegory also. "we were stupid not to see through it at first," said adelaide. "she is just the woman to create an ideal world for herself and to live in it. i have no grudge against her because we misunderstood her meaning, and yet there certainly is something very fine in jim's nature." "now i think it all over," said emma jane, "she has said nothing which was not true." "i understand her letter better now," i said. "we have all been parts of a beautiful parable, and we have been as thickheaded as the disciples were when jesus said, 'o fools, and slow of heart to believe.'" milly was silently weeping. "all the beauty of the idea doesn't change the fact that jim is dying," she said. "i have never loved any one so since i lost my mother and my baby brother," said adelaide. "i can't remember how he looked--it was ten years ago, and i have no photographs, only this cameo pin, which father bought because it reminded him of mother. not the face either, only the turn of the neck. he said she had a beautiful neck--and as he came home from his business at night he always saw her sitting in her little sewing-chair by the window looking every now and then over her shoulder for him with her neck turned so, and her profile clear cut against the dark of the room like the two colors of agate in this cameo." it is not natural for girls to talk freely on what stirs them most deeply, and little more was said on the subject that morning, but we each thought a great deal, and if our hearts could have been laid bare to each other, we would have been startled by the similarity of the trains of thought which this event had roused. all through the morning's lessons our imaginations wandered to the house across the park, and we wondered whether all was indeed over, and dear, cheery, helpful jim had gone. we did not remember that we had declared we would gladly let him go to an earthly princedom, and yet this was far better for him. our imaginations saw only the white upturned face upon the pillow, the grief-stricken mother, and miss prillwitz flitting about drawing the sheet straight, and placing white lilacs in his hands. adelaide confessed to me, long after, that all of her worldly thoughts in reference to visiting jim some day came back to her in a strange, sermonizing way. she said that in her secret heart she had rather dreaded the visit because she knew so little of the etiquette of foreign courts, and was afraid she might make some mistake. she had even studied several books on the subject, and knew the sort of costume it was necessary to wear in a royal presentation, just the length of the train, the degree of décolletée, and the veil, and the feathers. the thought came over her with great vividness that she had never studied the etiquette of heaven or attempted to provide herself with garments fit for the presence of the king. mrs. hetterman had a habit of singing quaint old hymns. there was one which we often heard echoing up from the basement-- "at his right hand our eyes behold the queen arrayed in purest gold; the world admires her heavenly dress, her robe of joy and righteousness." this scrap was borne in upon adelaide's mind now. "a robe of joy and righteousness," she thought to herself; "i wonder how it is made! it surely must be becoming." then she thought again of her mingled motives, of how glad she had been that she had befriended jim because she could claim him as an acquaintance as a prince, in that foreign country, and how she had wished that she might entertain more traveling members of the nobility in his country in order to have more acquaintances at court. "if the poor are christ's brothers and sisters," she said to herself, "i have abundant opportunity to make many friendships which may be carried over into that unknown country;" and a new purpose awoke in her heart, which had for its spring not the most unselfish motives, but a strong one, and destined to achieve good work, and to give place in time to higher aims. afternoon came, and no message had arrived from jim. "girls," said adelaide, as we sat in the amen corner, "if jim dies, i propose that we carry this sort of work on of fitting poor children for something higher, and broaden it, as a memorial to him. i don't exactly see my way yet, but we can do a good deal if we band together and try." "oh! don't talk about jim's dying," said milly, "we'll do it, anyway." "i can't see why we don't hear from miss prillwitz," said winnie, impatiently. "it is recreation hour; let us go out into the park, and perhaps she will see us and send us some word." we walked around and around the paths which were in view from miss prillwitz's windows. presently we saw mary hetterman coming toward us with a note in her hand. "i know just what that note says," exclaimed milly, sinking upon a bench. "the little prince has gone to his estates." "hush!" exclaimed adelaide. "see! is it a ghost?" we looked as she pointed, and saw at jim's window a perfect representation of adelaide's cameo. a white face against the dark interior. it vanished as she spoke, leaving us all with a strange, eerie sensation, a feeling that this was certainly an omen of jim's death. but our premonitions, like so many others, did not come true. the note was not for us. mary hetterman passed us with a smile and a nod, and a moment later miss prillwitz herself came out to us. we knew by her face that she brought good news, but none of us spoke until she answered our unuttered question. "no, tears, jim haf not gone. ze prince haf been here, but i sink he not take him zis time already. the doctor sink we keep him one leetle time longer. i cannot stay. it is time i go give him his medicine, and let loose ze nurse, for i care for him ze nights. good-bye, my tears. ah! i am so happy zat ze little prince go not yet to his estates; so happy, and yet so sleepy also." and we noticed for the first time the great dark rings which want of sleep and anxiety had drawn around miss prillwitz's eyes. "good-bye, princess," i cried; "surely no one deserves that title more than you, for you have proved yourself a royal daughter of the king. we have called you so a long time among ourselves--our princess del paradiso." she smiled, waved her hand, and vanished into the queer house which she had made a palace. it was some time before adelaide could recover from the shock of the apparition at the window, though we assured her that it was probably only the trained nurse; and we afterward ascertained that it was in reality mrs. halsey, who had come to the window for a moment to greet the glad new day, and who was now as joyful as she had been despairing. so much tension of feeling, so great extremes of joy and sorrow, had affected her deeply, and she wept out her gratitude on miss prillwitz's sympathizing heart. "you have been very good to him," mrs. halsey said, with emotion. "some time, when the past all comes back to me, as i am sure it will some day, i may be able to return your kindness." mrs. halsey had made several mysterious allusions to the past, and miss prillwitz, who had a kindly way of gaining the confidence of everyone, said sweetly, "tell me about your early life, my tear." "it is a strange story," mrs. halsey replied. "i had a happy childhood and girlhood, and a happy married life up to the time that my dear parents died, and even after that, for my husband was the best of men, and i had a sweet little daughter. their faces come back to me, waking and sleeping, though i have lost them, i sometimes fear, forever." "did they die?" miss prillwitz asked. "no, dear, i think not; but now comes the strange part of my story: i remember a journey vaguely, and a steamer disaster, a night of horror with fire and water, and then all is a frightful blank; a curtain of blackness seems to have fallen on all my past life. i am told that i was rescued from the burning of a sound steamer, with my baby-boy in my arms, and given shelter by some kindly farmer folk. i had received an injury--a blow on the head--and had brain-fever, from which i recovered in body, but with a disordered mind, my memory shattered; i could remember faces, but not names. i could not tell the name of the town in which i had lived, or my own name. i remained with the kind people who first received me for several months, but i did not wish to be a burden to them, and i hoped that i might find my home. i knew that it had been in a city, and i felt sure that if i ever saw any of my old surroundings, or old friends i would recognize them at once. it was thought, too, that new york physicians might help me, so i came to new york, and my case was advertised in the papers. but months had passed since the accident, and my friends either did not see the advertisement, or did not recognize me in the story given. the doctors at the hospital pronounced me incurable, and i was discharged. i wandered up and down the streets, but although i felt sure that i had been in new york before, i could not find my home. i read the names on the signs, hoping to recognize my own name, but i never came across it. meantime i took the name of halsey; it was necessary for me to live, and i knew that i could sew, and that i had a faculty for designing; and seeing madame céleste's advertisement for a designer, i applied at once for the situation. it seemed to me at first that i had seen madame céleste before, but she was repellent in manner, and i did not dare question her, and gradually that impression faded. i hired a woman to take care of jim, and though he was not well cared for, he lived, and we got on until he was large enough to play upon the streets. then i took him home to the little room in rickett's court, and finding that i could not be with him as much as he needed, i gave up my place at madame céleste's and worked at first for the costumer, where the young ladies found me, and afterward tried to keep soul and body together by taking sewing home. it was the life of a galley-slave, but i did not care so long as i could keep my boy at school, and with me out of school hours. but i could not do that, for to earn the money which was absolutely necessary for our support jim had to work too, and driving the milkman's cart in the early morning was the best we could find for him out of school hours. he was so proud and happy to do it, and to help earn for us both; but, as you know, it cut into his hours for sleep, and left him no time to study. oh! i was nearly in despair, when god sent you as angels to my help and jim's." "and have you never been able to guess what your old name was?" miss prillwitz asked. "never; sometimes it seems to me that i remember it in my dreams, but when i awake it is gone; still, i cannot help feeling that i shall find my own again. sometimes there comes a great inward illumination, and the curtain seems to be lifting. i cannot think they have forgotten me--my husband tender and true, and my little girl with the great questioning eyes." miss prillwitz did not share mrs. halsey's confidence, but her sympathy was enlisted, and she caressed and comforted mrs. halsey. "it shall be as you hope, my tear; if not just now and here, zen surely by and by, and zat is not very long. and meantime you have found some friends, ze young ladies and me, and ze elder brother have found you, and we are all one family, so you can be no longer lonely and wizout relation, even in zis world." chapter ix. the king's daughters and the venetian fÊte. "o ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day, please trundle your hoops just out of broadway, from its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride, and the temples of trade which tower on each side, to the alleys and lanes where misfortune and guilt their children have gathered, their city have built. * * * * * then say, if you dare, spoiled children of fashion, you've nothing to wear!" [illustration: {drawing of milly roseveldt.}] milly roseveldt made an important entry in her diary a few days after this. she was very exact about keeping her diary, recording for the most part, however, very trivial matters, but the day that she wrote "we have organized a 'king's daughters ten'" was a day with a white stone in it, and deserved to be remembered. jim had passed the crisis of the fever, and recovered rapidly. neither of the other hettermans was taken ill. the house was thoroughly cleansed and disinfected, and after a few weeks we took up our interrupted botany lessons. but jim's illness had made more than a transient impression, and adelaide's suggestion that we should broaden and deepen our work was talked over amongst us. "there is a society," said emma jane, "which i have heard of somewhere, which is called 'the king's daughters.' i think they have much the same idea that miss prillwitz has expressed. it is formed of separate links of ten members, bound together by the common purpose of doing good. now, i think, we might form such a link, with miss prillwitz for our president. there are five of us, but we need five more. whom shall we ask?" "girls," said winnie, "i'm afraid you won't agree, but there is real good stuff in those hornets." "the hornets! oh, never!" "what an idea!" "why, they hate us!" "no, they simply think that we despise them." "well, so we do. i am sure, the way that cynthia vaughn behaves is simply despicable." "perhaps so," winnie admitted, "but the other three girls are not so bad. little breeze"--that was our nickname for tina gale--"is a real good-natured girl, and a perfect genius for getting up things. when i roomed in the nest she was devoted to me; so they all were, for that matter. i could make them do whatever i pleased, and rosaria ricos, the cuban heiress, is just as generous as she can be. 'trude middleton is a great sunday-school worker when she is at home, and puss seligman's mother has a longer calling-list than milly's, i do believe. don't you remember what a lot of tickets she sold for the theatricals? if we are going to get up a charitable society we must use some brains to make it succeed, and those girls are a power. you know very well that it is the hornets' nest and the amen corner which support the literary society, and when we unite on any ticket-selling or other enterprise it is sure to succeed." "yes," replied emma jane anton, "that is because we appeal to entirely different sets of girls--between us we carry the entire school." "i will take all in," said adelaide, "except cynthia. she has been too hateful to tib and milly for anything!" "oh, don't mind me," murmured milly; "i dare say she could not help laughing when i made that mistake about paul and virginia." "i don't believe she will join us," i said, doubtfully; "but i am sure i would a great deal rather have her for a friend than an enemy." "she will be so surprised and flattered that she will be as sweet as jam," said winnie, confidently. "you have no idea what a lofty reputation you girls have. i used to reverence and envy you until it amounted to positive hatred. that is what made me behave so badly. i knew we couldn't approach you in good behavior, and i determined to take the lead in something. that's just the way with cynthia. she imagines that you would not touch her with a ten-foot pole, and she wants you to think that she doesn't care, but she does." milly promptly furnished the wherewithal for a spread, and the hornets were invited. adelaide said that they acted as if a sense of gratification were struggling with a sneaking consciousness of unworthiness, and it was all that she could do not to display the scorn which she was afraid she felt. but milly was as sweetly gracious as only milly knew how to be, and winnie put them all at their ease with her rollicking good-fellowship. i was sure that cynthia at first suspected some trick, but even she succumbed at last to our praise of her banjo-playing, which was really admirable. they melted completely with the ice-cream--little ducks with strawberry heads and pistache wings; and when winnie told them the entire story of the little prince they were greatly interested. "now," said winnie, "i have been talking with jim, and he says that the tenement house in which he lived swarms with children who ought not to pass the summer there, who will die if they do; and what i want to propose is, that we club together and have some sort of entertainment, to send them to the country, or do something else for them." the proposition met with favor, as did the plan for the king's daughters society, which was organized at once, and officered as follows, the "spoils" being divided equally between the amen corner and the hornets: president--miss prillwitz. vice-presidents--adelaide armstrong and gertrude middleton. secretary--cynthia vaughn. treasurer--emma jane anton. executive committee--the foregoing officers and the rest of the society. "little breeze" then made a practical suggestion: "you know," said she, "that the literary society is always allowed to give an entertainment the week before the graduating exercises, to put the treasury in funds, or, rather, to pay old debts. we have no debts this year, and i am sure that the society will let us have the occasion. whatever we ten favor is sure to be carried in the literary society." "that is what i said," remarked winnie. "so if miss anton will get madame's permission for the change, i have no doubt we can make at least three hundred dollars." "nonsense! we will make twice that," said puss hastings. "but what shall we have?" "i know the sweetest thing," said little breeze. "a venetian fête! it is really a fair, but the booths are all made to represent gondolas. they are painted black, and have their prows turned toward the centre of the room. we can have it in the gymnasium. the gondolas are canopied in different colors and hung with bright lanterns. we must all be dressed in venetian costume, and have music and some pretty dances. it will be lovely!" the fair was planned out: each girl had a gondola assigned her, with permission to work other girls in, and enthusiasm had reached a high pitch, when the retiring-bell clanged and the hornets took their departure, the utmost good feeling prevailing between what had been until this evening rival factions of the school. after our next botany lesson we lingered to inform miss prillwitz of what we had done, and to ask her to accept the presidency of our ten. she listened with much interest. "my tears," she said, "i sink perhaps you s'all do much good. i have justly been sinking, sinking; but ze need is great. i know not how we s'all come at ze money which we do need." then miss prillwitz explained that she had visited rickett's court, and had found so many little children in those vile surroundings; some of them, whose mothers were servants in families, and received good wages, were "boarding" with mrs. grogan, the baby-farmer. she had met one such mother in the court--a waitress on fifth avenue, who had three children with mrs. grogan. "i pay her fifteen dollars a month," she said; "it is cheaper than i can board them elsewhere, and all that i can pay; but it makes my heart sick to see them sleeping and playing beside sewers and sinks, and to have them exposed to language of infinitely worse foulness. i know that if they do not die in childhood, of which there is every likelihood, they will grow up bad; and i don't know which i would choose for them. i wouldn't mind slaving for them, if there was any hope, if i could see them in decent surroundings, with some prospect of their turning out well in the end; but now, when i ask myself what all my toil amounts to, it seems to me that the best thing which could happen to us all would be to die." the waitress knew of other servants who could have no home of their own for their children, but who could pay something for their support, and whose maternal love and feeling of independence kept them from giving their children up to institutions; who had entrusted their little ones to bad people, who hired them to beggars, beat and half starved them. and now the summer was approaching, and it was dreadful to think of those closely packed tenement houses under the stifling heat. miss prillwitz said that it had seemed to her positively wrong for her to go away to the seashore for the summer while so many must remain and suffer. "i don't see that," said adelaide, "unless by staying you can make their condition better." "perhaps i can so," replied miss prillwitz, "if ze king's daughters will help me." and then she developed a plan of jim's. he had noticed the vacant floors in her house, which had remained unlet all the winter. "if you could rent them for the summer, miss prillwitz," he had suggested, "we wouldn't need much furniture, but could just invite a lot of the children in and let them camp down. the rooms are so clean, and there is such lovely fresh air and no smells, and such beautiful bath-tubs, and the park for the little ones to play in, and mary hetterman could watch them." "you forget," miss prillwitz had replied, "zat zose children are use probably to eat somet'ings." no, jim had not forgotten that, but mrs. hetterman would be out of a place for the summer vacation, and would cook for them, and the children's mothers would pay something, and he would do the marketing. after the public school closed the older children could earn something, he thought. he was all on fire with the idea, and his enthusiasm had communicated itself to our princess. "i haf even vent to see my landlord," she confessed; "he is von very rich man. i sought maybe he let me use ze rooms for ze summer, since he cannot else rent them. but no, he did not so make his wealths. we can have them von hundred dollar ze months; six months, five hundred. we cannot else. now do you sink you make five hundred dollar from your fair?" "oh, i think so; indeed, i am sure of it!" adelaide exclaimed; "dear little jim, what an angel he is! we will go right to work and see what we can do." of course the fair was a success, as fairs go. i have since thought that a fair is a poor way for christian people to give money to any charitable purpose. so much goes astray from the goal, so much is swallowed up in the expenses, that if people would only put their hands in their pockets and give at the outset what they do give in the aggregate, more would be realized, and much time, vexation, and labor saved. but people do not yet recognize this, and we knew no better than to follow in the old way. i had charge of the art gondola, with miss sartoris and all the studio girls to help me. we decided that, as it was a venetian fête, we would make a specialty of italian art. miss sartoris suggested etchings, and one of the leading art dealers allowed us to make our choice from his entire collection, giving them to us at wholesale, as he would to any other retail dealer, we to sell them at the regular retail price, thereby taking no unfair advantage over our purchasers, and yet making a handsome profit on each etching sold, while we ran no risk, as all unsold stock was to be returned. we were surprised to find how many venetian subjects had been etched. there were half a dozen different views of st. mark's cathedral--exteriors and interiors; san giorgios and la salutes; there were rainy nights in venice, and sunny days in venice, canals and bridges, shipping and palaces, piazzas and archways and cloisters. then we obtained a quantity of photographs of the italian master-pieces, chiefly from the works of titian and the venetian school, though we included also the madonnas of raphael. miss sartoris found an italian curiosity-shop, which was a perfect treasure-trove, for here we secured, on commission, a quantity of venetian glass beads, the beautiful blossomed variety, with tiny smelling-bottles of the same material, together with sleeve-buttons of florentine mosaic, ornaments of pink neapolitan coral, and broken pieces of antique roman marbles, all of which we sold at immense profit. we had not thought of having any statuary, until jim came to us, one afternoon, saying that miss prillwitz had told him that we intended to have an italian fête, and as several of the families whom he wished benefited were italians, who lived in rickett's court, he thought they might help us. "what do they do?" i asked. "the older stavini boys peddle plaster-of-paris images, and some of them are very pretty. pietro will bring you a basket of them, i am sure, and take back all you don't sell." the plaster casts proved to be artistic and new. there was a set of five singing cherubs which we had seen on sale in the stores at twenty-five dollars a set, which pietro offered us at fifty cents each, and others in like proportion. we sold his entire basketful at advanced prices, and received several orders for duplicates. winnie had charge of the refreshment department, and had a troop of the "preparatories" dressed as contadinas, who were to serve neapolitan ices in colored glasses. jim enabled her to introduce a very taking novelty by telling her of vincenzo amati, a cook in an italian restaurant, who had three motherless little girls who were candidates for the summer home. vincenzo agreed to come and cook for us while the fair lasted, mrs. hetterman kindly giving him place in the kitchen, so that we were able to add to our other attractions that of a real italian supper, served on little tables in an adjoining recitation-room. vincenzo brought us several dozen chianti wine flasks, the empty bottles at the restaurant having been one of his perquisites. they were of graceful shapes, with slender necks, and wound in wicker, which miss sartoris gilded and further ornamented with a bow of bright satin ribbon. these flasks, empty, decorated each of the little tables, and one was given to each guest as a souvenir. the menu consisted of-- riso con piselli, } (soup). minestra zuppa, } olives. bistecca (beefsteak). macaroni al burro (with butter). macaroni a pomidoro (with potatoes). testa de vitello (calf's head). carciofi (artichokes). cavolifiori (cauliflower). salami di bologna (bologna sausage). crostata di frutti (fruit tarts). formaggio (cheese). adelaide was musical director, and led the singing class in "dolce napoli" and other italian songs. the girls were dressed in costume, and there was one fisher chorus, which made a very effective tableau with a background of colored sails and nets. vincenzo allowed his little girls to appear with a neighbor's hand-organ, and when they passed their tambourines they gathered a goodly harvest of pennies. [illustration: {drawing of the venetian fête.}] little breeze arranged the tableaux and the dances, mrs. halsey sending in designs for the costumes; and cynthia vaughn ran a side show of stereopticon views, professor todd kindly working the lantern. milly had the flower gondola, or booth of cut flowers, supplied from her father's conservatory, and miss prillwitz contributed to this department a quantity of little albums and herbaria containing pressed flowers and seaweed from different italian cities. our dear princess was present, beaming with happiness, and the "ten" introduced her proudly to their parents and friends. mr. roseveldt seemed much interested, in an amused way, in what we were trying to do. "go ahead, my dear," he said to milly, "and if you don't come to me to shoulder a lot of bad debts before the summer is over, i shall be greatly surprised, and have a far higher respect for what little girls can do than i now possess." "'little girls,' indeed!" milly repeated, with scorn. "there are younger gentlemen, sir, who consider us young ladies, if you do not. but we will compel your respect, and we will not ask you for one penny either." this was rather hard, for we had secretly hoped, all along, that milly's father would help us, and now she had made it a point of pride not to ask him. he behaved very well, however, for although he bantered us cruelly on our utopian enterprise, he bought a button-hole bouquet of his own violets from milly, paying a five-dollar bill for it and neglecting to ask for change, and then took miss prillwitz, madame, emma jane anton, miss sartoris, and miss hope successively out to supper. he purchased, too, an alabaster model of the leaning tower of pisa, which madame had contributed on condition that it should be sold for not less than twenty dollars, and which we had feared would not be disposed of, as we had voted that there should be no raffling. madame was greatly interested in the fair; it drew attention to her school, and she smiled on everyone--a self-constituted reception committee. she was even gracious to the cadet band which had serenaded the school in the fall term. the cadets to a man invited milly out to dinner. she went with each of them in succession, and as the viands were sold _à la carte_, she bravely ordered the more expensive dishes over and over again, enduring a martyrdom of dyspepsia for a week in consequence. of course jim was present, and his mother. adelaide was attentive to both; there seemed to be a mutual attraction that kept them together, and whenever adelaide left mrs. halsey, and taking up her baton (milly's curling-stick), led her orchestra, mrs. halsey's eyes followed her with a strange wistfulness. winnie, with her usual heedlessness, had neglected to introduce adelaide to mrs. halsey when she called on her in the court, and she now turned to jim and asked her name. it happened that jim thought that she referred to the pianist instead of to adelaide, and he replied that the young lady in question was miss hope, the music-teacher. mrs. halsey gave a little sigh of disappointment, and continued her spell-bound gaze. i was about to correct the mistake which i was sure jim had made, when it was announced that mrs. le moyne, the celebrated interpreter of robert browning, would kindly recite a poem of mrs. browning's. mrs. halsey and jim moved nearer the rostrum, and my opportunity for explanation was lost. if i had known the effect that the name of adelaide armstrong would have had upon mrs. halsey, chains could not have kept me in my gondola--so many invisible gates of opportunity are closed and opened to us all along life's pathway! the poem recited was, most appropriately, "the cry of the children." tears welled into the eyes of many a mother as the practiced art of the speaker rendered most feelingly the pathetic words: "but these others--children small, spilt like blots about the city quay and street and palace wall-- take them up into your pity! patient children--think what pain makes a young child patient yonder; wronged too commonly to strain after right, or wish or wonder; sickly children, that whine low to themselves and not their mothers, from mere habit, never so-- hoping help or care from others; healthy children, with those blue english eyes, fresh from their maker, fierce and ravenous, staring through at the brown loaves of the baker. can we smooth down the bright hair, o my sisters, calm, unthrilled in our hearts' pulses? can we bear the sweet looks of our own children? o my sisters! children small, blue-eyed, wailing through the city-- our own babes cry in them all; let us take them into pity!" that poem was worth a great deal to our cause. those of the mothers of our ten who were present were won to us at once. mrs. middleton, our vice-president's mother, and the wife of a clergyman, entered into our scheme with enthusiasm, and felt sure that her husband's church would assist us. mrs. seligman and mrs. roseveldt put their heads together and planned to interest their society friends. one of hers, mrs. roseveldt was sure, would contribute the coal, and another the flour, while mrs. seligman would provide the blankets, and a friend of her acquaintance would certainly assume the butcher's bill. madame céleste, the dress-maker, who was present, was about to refurnish her parlors, and would contribute curtains. madame céleste bought a quantity of my photographs of old italian portraits, and i have no doubt that they were very serviceable to her in the way of suggestions for æsthetic costumes. we knew before the evening closed that the fair must have realized more than we had hoped, and emma jane, the treasurer of the new society, announced at our next meeting that the fair had cleared six hundred dollars. vociferous applause followed, and we immediately adjourned to miss prillwitz's to report the unexpectedly happy result. our princess had talked over the scheme with such of our mothers as were present at the fair; and she now advised that we create them a board of managers of the proposed home, to carry it on for us, as we were all minors, and lacked the necessary experience, we to labor for it harder than ever. this was immediately done, and after this, affairs marched with great rapidity. the home of the elder brother was licensed and fitted up for its little guests within a week. the vacant floors in miss prillwitz's house were rented--not for the summer only, as we had at first planned, but, to our great surprise, for a year. an "unknown friend," who had admired our efforts, sent in a subscription of nine hundred dollars, thereby more than doubling the amount obtained by the fair, and guaranteeing that amount annually as long as the home was continued. mr. roseveldt had been better than his word, and the home was placed on an assured basis for a year. what it would be after that we could not tell. it was only permitted to see one step ahead, but that step we could take with thankful assurance. madame sent over a quantity of furniture, as she intended to refit the students' rooms during the summer vacation. donations of every kind poured in, and twenty-five little iron bedsteads were dressed in white, and set in the sunny rooms which were to be used as dormitories. madame céleste had said that she would not require mrs. halsey during the three summer months, and the little woman offered her services for that interim as nursery care-taker. another surprise came when emma jane anton announced that she had written home and obtained permission to remain as matron. she had a talent for housekeeping, and she gave her services freely. "i am not rich," she said. "i can't give money, but i can give myself. i am not used to children; i don't believe they will like me, for i don't care for them overmuch; but mrs. halsey will mother them, and i can keep the house sweet and clean; i can market economically, and keep accounts exactly, and i mean that the princess shall not give up her visit to tib. she must go to the country for a part of the summer at least." "and when she comes back," i said, "you must take your turn, emma jane; we will be so glad to have you!" "oh, immensely! i am a genial, sweet creature, i know, an addition to society; but i thank you, all the same, and if i feel run down, i will come and get a sniff of sea air." the king's daughters' ten held their last meeting before the breaking up of the school. the money gained was entrusted to emma jane's care for the summer, and each of the members bound herself to carry the scheme with her wherever she went, to interest others, to gather and forward funds, and to work for the home in every possible way. then we paid our last visit, for that term, to miss prillwitz, and our first to our little guests, and returning, packed our trunks, attended the graduating exercises of the senior class (the amen corner and the hornets were all juniors and sophomores, with the exception of emma jane, who graduated), hugged and wept over each other, and elected winnie corresponding secretary for the summer, and promised to write to her every month, reporting work done for the home, and separated with mingled hilarity and depression of spirits. mr. roseveldt called at the home with milly and adelaide before they left town. it was a little plan of the girls to interest him in jim, and it succeeded admirably. after a number of other questions, mr. roseveldt asked jim if he could drive. "i managed the milkman's nag," the boy replied, "and he was an awfully hardmouthed, ugly brute." "then i fancy you will have no trouble with milly's pony, which is as gentle as a kitten," mr. roseveldt replied. "i want a boy in buttons just to sit in the rumble while the girls drive about the country." and so jim was engaged to go to narragansett pier, and would have a happy summer with milly and adelaide. chapter x. the landlord of rickett's court. "and yet it was never in my soul to play so ill a part: but evil is wrought by want of thought as well as by want of heart." --_thos. hood._ [illustration: {drawing of solomon meyer.}] solomon meyer, who collected the rents at rickett's court, was looked upon by the tenants as the landlord, though he distinctly disclaimed that honor, explaining that he was only the agent, empowered merely to receive money, never to disburse. according to mr. meyer the landlord was a heartless miser, whom he had entreated to make repairs and to lower rents, but who always turned a deaf ear to such appeals. if he, solomon meyer, only owned rickett's court, there would be no end to the reforms which his tender heart would cause him to institute; as it was, there was no hope for anything of the kind; his orders were explicit--if tenants could not pay, they must leave. many of the tenants believed that mr. meyer was really the owner of their building, and that the landlord whom he represented as responsible for all their discomfort was purely imaginary, but in this they wronged the agent. solomon meyer had no scruples against telling a lie whenever it would serve his purpose, but here the truth did very well. rickett's court had a landlord who, although he was not the inhuman wretch which solomon represented him, still cared nothing for his tenants, and, while the agent had never suggested any reforms or repairs, might well have guessed that they were needed. adelaide armstrong would have been shocked beyond expression if she had known that the true landlord of rickett's court was no other than her own father. mr. armstrong would have been no less shocked if he had known of the abuses for which he was really responsible. he had never seen his own property. it had been represented to him as a profitable investment, and had proved so. he was only in new york for brief intervals each year, and he left the entire management of rickett's court to solomon meyer, well pleased with the returns which he rendered, and not suspecting that they were less than the sums wrung from the tenants. he had mentally set aside rickett's court as adelaide's property, and he used its proceeds to defray her expenses. there was a neat little surplus left over each quarter-day, which he placed in the savings bank to her credit, and with which he intended to endow her on her marriage. but of all this adelaide of course knew nothing. mr. armstrong's more important business ventures were in western railroad speculations. these absorbed his attention, and needed the closest application of his faculties. he was glad of this. the east had grown distasteful to him since the loss of his wife and infant son. he felt that he might have been a different man if his wife, whom he tenderly loved, had lived; and adelaide had never ceased to mourn her mother, whom she could not remember. "what shall i ever do," she frequently asked, "when i finish school? if i only had a mother to be my companion and counselor! but i shall be so lonely, and so unfit to take care of myself!" the circumstances which i relate in this chapter because they belong here in sequence of time, did not come to my knowledge until long after their occurrence. mr. armstrong came on from the west the evening of our fair. he was weary and much occupied by matters of business, and he did not attend it, much to our regret. he lent a kindly ear to adelaide's description of it, for he was fond and proud of his beautiful daughter, and he liked to see her a leader in everything. he manifested apparently little interest, however, in what she had to tell him of rickett's court. "there, there, puss!" he said, lightly, "you must not get fanatical, and rant. i hardly think things are as bad down there as you make them out." "but, papa," adelaide interrupted, "i went there myself. i saw it with my own eyes. it is horrible to think that human beings should be obliged to live in such filth and misery. i think the landlord of rickett's court ought to be prosecuted. i wish i knew that old rickett! i would give him a piece of my mind." "i've no doubt of it; but spare me, puss, since my name is not rickett." he must have felt a sharp twinge of conscience as he spoke, while his daughter's words could not have failed to make an impression on the false rickett. he had read in the cars a little book entitled "uncle tom's tenement," by alice wellington rollins, and helen campbell's "prisoners of poverty." he wondered if their pictures of tenement life were indeed true. a few days later he listened to some remarks of mr. felix adler's on tenement reform. he knew what mr. charles pratt was doing in brooklyn, and his better man told him that now was his opportunity. why should he not put the plumbing in his tenement in decent repair; it might not cost much more, after all, than to bribe the inspector to report it as all right--a proceeding which solomon meyer advised. he could at least drain the sink in the court, and do away with the unchristian smells which now drove the chance visitor from the vicinity. and if he should have the rooms cleaned and whitewashed, he might even pose before the public as a humanitarian landlord, and so gain the cooperation of some of the philanthropists of the day for some other schemes which he had in mind. he visited the court with a plumber, and found it in worse condition than he had imagined. there was a leak from the sewer in the back basement. all of the rooms were foul with vermin, and rats scuttled back into the walls through great holes. many of the tenants had left, for various reasons. the opening of the home of the elder brother was in great part responsible for the emptying of rickett's court, for the better class of its tenants had embraced this great opportunity to place their children in good surroundings. so many children had been transferred from mrs. grogan's care to the home by their mothers that mrs. grogan, finding her occupation gone, betook herself to petty larceny and was arrested. the italian rag-pickers had taken to the road, with a monkey and an organ as tramps for the summer, leaving their filth behind them. mr. armstrong looked into their vacated den, and found it impossible to imagine what it could have been when occupied. the windows had been stoned by the street boys until hardly a pane remained, and the staircase had rotted so that he thrust his foot through it. the house would need plastering and glazing as well as replumbing. it began to look like a great undertaking. however, he bade the plumber make and send him his estimates, and hurried out of the court, not taking a full breath until he was fairly on broadway. then he sent a mason and a carpenter to look at the building. "i must make some repairs," he said to himself, "or i shall get no tenants whatever." he had noticed another defect: there was but one staircase. he must add a fire-escape, for the place was a death-trap. he had a feeling of responsibility in regard to endangering the lives of human beings by fire, and he was trying to invent a scheme for heating and lighting railroad cars in such a manner as to do away with the danger of fire in case of accident. so far, the full completion of the invention escaped him, but he worked at it by night and day, not so much because it would be an immense boon to the age, but because he was sure that, if introduced only on his own railroad, it would boom the line above a rival route, and if patented, would make his fortune. solomon meyer, in enumerating the tenants of the court, had mentioned a mr. trimble, a poor inventor, who occupied the back attic, whom it would be well to turn out, as he had paid no rent for some time, though he had promised well, saying that he had just invented a scheme for the safe heating of cars, from which he hoped to realize a large sum. mr. armstrong thoughtlessly displayed before his agent the interest which he felt. "bring the man to me," he exclaimed; "if he has really worked out the problem, it is just what i want." the agent at once paid a visit to the poor inventor and possessed himself of his plans and model, promising to do his best for him. mr. armstrong saw at a glance that the inventor had compassed just what had baffled him so long. "what will he take for this invention?" he asked, eagerly. "not one cent less as five t'ousand dollar," replied mr. meyer. "that is a good round sum," remarked mr. armstrong, "but the right to it is worth more than that to me. arrange the papers for me, get the gentleman to sign them, give him this check for a thousand dollars, and i will send him another, soon, for four thousand." mr. meyer saw his opportunity here. he returned to mr. trimble, assured him that his contrivance had been anticipated and already patented by another man: he was too late. the poor man's disappointment was intense; his head and hands trembled. "i thank you for trying for me," he said; "there is nothing for me now but the river. i have occupied this room in the hope of paying my rent when i realized from that invention, but i have no longer any expectations, and i had better go and drown myself." then for the first time mr. meyer realized that there was another person in the room. jim had come down to the court to see his old friends, and had dropped in to inquire after mr. trimble's son, a merry little fellow who had been a playmate of his in the old days. jim had retreated into a corner when the agent called, but he now sprang forward and threw his arms around the poor inventor's neck. "no, no!" he cried; "mr. meyer will beg mr. rickett to let you stay until the first of the month, and something may turn up by that time." some sense of shame prompted solomon meyer to yield to this request, though in his secret heart he knew that his own plans could be more safely carried out if his victim did drown himself; and the sooner the better. then he hurried away to collect rents of the new tenants, with the money which mr. armstrong had sent stephen trimble burning like a coal in his pocket. the contract for the new invention was returned to mr. armstrong at the same time with the estimates of the different mechanics for the improvements of rickett's court. it would cost three thousand dollars to put the tenement in decent repair, and this did not include the fire-escape. mr. armstrong whistled as he added up the items. it was really not convenient for him to place his hand on so much ready cash; certainly not without using the money which he had placed in the savings bank to adelaide's credit. mr. meyer stood cringing before him, and mr. armstrong explained the situation. the agent promptly disapproved of the improvements. they would be a great waste of money. no one would rent the tenements after they were repaired, for it would be necessary to charge a higher rent, and tenants able to pay it, or desiring bathrooms and sanitary plumbing, would not occupy such a quarter of the city. "but suppose i do not charge any more rent, but simply try to educate my old tenants to better habits of life?" mr. meyer explained that mr. armstrong could throw away his money in that way if he wished, but that the class of tenants who patronized rickett's court could not be educated. they preferred filth to cleanliness, and, however respectable their quarters were made, would soon convert them into sinks again. mr. armstrong reminded his agent that his best tenants had left him, that the house was practically deserted, and that something must be done to attract new occupants. mr. meyer assured him that applications had already been received for the rooms in their present state. a ship-load of emigrants had just arrived: polish jews and exiled russians, who had been imprisoned as nihilists, and who had suffered such barbarities that rickett's court, horrible as it was, seemed positively comfortable to them. mr. armstrong hesitated. he did not like to give up his scheme of renovation; still, there were the papers waiting for his signature for the transfer of the invention, and this he had decided he must have; it was sure to bring in a great deal of money, and another year he could much better afford to make these improvements. he decided, reluctantly, that he would put them off for the present. "i will have a fire-escape put up," he said to his agent, "and we will do the rest as soon as possible." solomon meyer shrugged his shoulders. "there is no danger of fire," he said, "and i was about to propose that you take out a fire insurance policy on that building; that cost about the same, and much more sensible." mr. armstrong thought a moment. "if the danger of fire is sufficient to warrant me in insuring, it is also great enough to make furnishing the fire-escape an imperative duty. i insist on your seeing that one is adjusted immediately. you may also take out an insurance policy for twenty thousand. see if mr. trimble can wait for the rest of his money until the first of the month. (the agent's face fell.) you have given him my check for one thousand; he ought to be willing to wait a few days for the rest. if he is not satisfied, tell him to come down and see me, and we'll come to some agreement." this was exactly what solomon meyer did not wish. "i will try my best to make him sign the papers on those terms," he said, and carried them away to his own den, where he forged the name of stephen trimble to both contract and check. he found no difficulty in cashing the check, for mr. armstrong's name was well known, though stephen trimble's was not. and in the mean time the poor inventor sat in his garret trying to think. his wife was in the hospital, and his little son busied himself with washing the supper dishes. it was not a heavy task, for their supper had consisted only of some cold griddle-cakes which, the flap-jack man had given them. when the boy had finished his work he crept close to his father and laid his head on his knee. "why don't you light the lamp?" mr. trimble asked, rousing himself. "there isn't any oil, daddy." "no matter. i can think better in the dark, and you had better go to bed." "i am going out pretty soon to help the flap-jack man wheel his cart." "very well, lovey, if he is a good man; i don't want you to do anything wrong." "he's good to me, daddy." "i'm glad of that; you need a friend, and you may need one more." he kissed his little boy as he went out--an unwonted action on the father's part--and waited until he was sure that the child had left the building, then rose, with a desperate look upon his face, and stepped out on the landing. the house was very full now; people had been coming for two days past with great bales of foul clothing, offensive with odors of the steerage, and had packed into the already dirty rooms. it was an unusually warm night for spring, and the house was unbearably close. the tenants had resorted to the roof, and were sitting under the stars, trying in vain to find fresh air, and screaming and scolding at one another in a strange, harsh language. stephen trimble was about to descend the staircase, when two men of unpleasant aspect stopped him. "you are the machinist who lives on the top floor?" "yes." "have you time for a little job?" "plenty of time. thank god!" he added, mentally, "who has sent me help in time." "then come down-stairs with us: we are your neighbors, and are just under you. "what do you want me to do?" "we'll show you." the men admitted him to their room, and carefully locked the door behind them. one of them struck a light, and in so doing dropped a match upon the floor. the other sprang upon it quickly, ground it out with his heel, and cursed him for his carelessness. stephen trimble looked about him, and saw that one end of the room was piled with boxes and tin cans, one of which was open, showing a compound slightly resembling maple sugar. a table stood before the low window, and on it was apparatus or machinery of some sort. the first man placed his candle on the table, and drew up a packing-box for mr. trimble to sit upon. there was no other furniture in the room. "you do not live here?" said the inventor. "no," replied the first man, who constituted himself the spokesman for both; "it isn't a sweet place to live in. we hire it as a workshop. you see, we are perfecting a sort of torpedo. you've heard of the submarine torpedoes that did such good service in blowing up the turkish ships in the russo-turkish war?" "oh yes," replied stephen trimble, much interested. "i thought that stuff looked like dynamite! so you are inventing a new torpedo, which you mean to sell the government? that's a good idea. they are thinking of increasing the navy, and it's always better to deal with the government than with private individuals." the silent man nudged his partner and remarked, "yes, we're agoin' to deal with the government. that's a good way to put it." the other man made an impatient gesture, and proceeded to explain a small machine to mr. trimble. "you don't exactly understand my friend," he said, "but no matter. this kind of a torpedo isn't of the submarine kind; we pack the explosives here, matches here, friction paper just beside them; but just here we are stuck, and we need you or some other mechanic to show us how the thing can be set off by electricity, the operator to touch a button at a distance." mr. trimble bent himself to an examination of the contrivance. he asked several questions, and as his scrutiny continued, his expression of satisfaction changed to one of mistrust and alarm. suddenly he sprang from his seat and pushed the model from him. "that is an infernal-machine!" he exclaimed. "that's about the long and the short of it," said the man, calmly. "then i will have nothing to do with it," and he turned toward the door. "hold on, my friend, ain't you a trifle in a hurry? all we want you to do is to fix that attachment for us, and if you won't do it some other man will, but we're willing to pay you a hundred dollars for the job. that's a goodish sum to pay, if the job is a little queer, but i take it you're used to doing queer things by the big checks that pass through your hands." "what do you mean?" stephen trimble asked, with some indignation. "oh! you needn't pretend innocence and poverty. a man doesn't scatter round thousand-dollar checks who's as poor as you pretend to be, or as good, either." "tell me what you mean." "now don't tell us you know nothing of a check for a thousand dollars which we happened to see in the pocket-book of the agent of this building when he dropped in here to collect the rent." "i never saw a check for a thousand dollars in my life." "if you don't believe me, ask that sharp little boy of yours. it was he who first let me know there was a scientific man in the building. he saw me unpacking my machine. i happened to leave the door open just a minute. i never saw such a sharp little fellow. in he comes and says, 'my father makes machines too. he's going to make us awful rich some day.' "after that he got in the way of knocking at the door and asking to see my machinery. i thought it would be a good idea to let him, for he is too little to suspect anything, and i could stuff him with the idea that i was making a new kind of telegraph, for i was pretty sure that he would tell it around, and that people would believe it and think there couldn't be anything shady in what i was doing if i let anybody and everybody have the freedom of the room. "well, the day i'm speaking of, your little chap was sitting there turning the crank of that machine just as cheerful as if it wouldn't have blown him to kingdom come if the attachment had only been on, when in come another little feller who had been looking for him. 'see here,' says my partner, 'there's getting to be too many children here; we don't keep a sunday-school, we don't.' they were just going to leave, when the agent he come in with the rent contract for us to sign. well, the boys lingered round, full of curiosity, as boys are, and we signed the paper and handed over the cash. mr. meyer in stuffing it away in his pocket-book brought to light that thousand-dollar check i was telling you about. he fumbled to hide it, but it dropped on the floor, and a little gust of wind carried it over to where the boys were. the oldest boy--jim, i think your son called him--picked it up, and took a good look at it. 'hullo!' says he, 'here's your father's name, lovey. "pay to the order of stephen trimble one thousand dollars"!' the agent he just made one dive for that check, with his fist lifted as though he were going to strike the boy, who dropped the check, and both the little shavers scooted, and none too soon either, for meyer looked mad enough to kill the youngster, though he tried to laugh it off, and turned the check over and showed me that it was his fast enough, for it was endorsed on the back, 'pay to the order of solomon meyer.'" stephen trimble put his hand to his head in a dazed way. "you are fooling me," he said. "not we, but somebody is, if you don't know anything about it. well, if you are not the bloated bondholder we took you for, perhaps you'll consider our little offer?" "no, gentlemen, not to-night at least; give me time to think it over. one bad man may have wronged me, but i've no call to go against the law." "oh yes, take plenty of time"--and they opened the door. some one was knocking at stephen trimble's own room. it was the flap-jack man, and he had a white, scared face. "what is the matter?" asked the inventor. "lovey's been--" "run over?" gasped the poor father. "no; arrested." stephen trimble gave one exclamation of horror--then asked, "what's he done?" "nothing but wheeling my cart; they'd have caught me, too, but i cut and run. this is a pretty country where one is arrested for trying to earn an honest living!" this was the last straw. stephen trimble had said that he had no reason to resist the law, but he could not hold to that now. he staggered feebly down-stairs, knocked at the door of the dynamiters, and said. "i've come back sooner than i thought i would. give me five dollars in advance, and i'll undertake that business of yours to-morrow, and maybe i'll get up a little infernal-machine for my own use at the same time, but just now i must find my boy." the man handed him some greasy bills. "you look sick," he said. "you had better go down to the free-lunch counter at the saloon, and have a good square meal." stephen trimble went and ate and drank to excess. he did not look for his little son, and he did not return to the dynamiters' the next morning, for he was drunk--and drunk for three days thereafter. then he sobered down and applied himself to the task which they had set him--a task intended to bring ruin to the class which had wronged him. he knew the aims, now, of the men for whom he was working, and he believed that he sympathized with them. they told him how they had borne imprisonment and torture for no wrong in russia, and had come to this country expecting to find it the land of justice and kindness, but had met only the same tyranny of the rich over the poor--the rich, who cared for nothing but their own pleasures, and ground the poor under their chariot wheels. as he worked he thought of his own private wrongs, and determined that as soon as his task was done he would seek out the man who had defrauded him. he was sure now that the check which the men had seen had something to do with his invention, but he believed that the true criminal was some one behind solomon meyer, the man to whom the agent said he had given his invention--the landlord of rickett's court. it was like a man who would compel human beings to live in such a state as this to commit such a fraud. he would hunt him down presently, and in the name of his tenants, as well as in his own cause, wreak such revenge that the ears of those who heard should tingle. the landlord of rickett's court, all unconscious of the volcano upon which he was treading, attended the closing exercises of madame's school, and listened with pride to his daughter's prize essay on "the dangerous classes." there was a quotation from ruskin at the close which pricked his heart a little, and made him regret that it was not convenient to carry out his good intentions just at present. how charming she looked in the white india silk, and how well she read that final quotation! "if you can fix some conception of a true human state of life to be striven for--life for all men as for yourselves--if you can determine some honest and simple order of existence following those trodden ways of wisdom, which are pleasantness, and seeking those quiet and withdrawn paths, which are peace; then, and so sanctifying wealth into 'commonwealth,' all your art, your literature, your daily labors, your domestic affection, and citizen's duty, will join and increase into one magnificent harmony. you will know, then, how to build well enough; you will build with stone well, but with flesh better--temples not made with hands, but riveted of hearts, and that kind of marble, crimson-veined, is indeed eternal." mr. armstrong entirely ruined a new pair of kid gloves in applauding his daughter. he consigned her to mrs. roseveldt for the summer, and in reply to that lady's urgent request that he would visit them, explained that narragansett pier was fraught with so many memories that he had never been able to revisit it. "i own a cottage a little distance from the town," he said. "it was there that both my children were born. we were in the habit of occupying it every summer, but since my wife's death i have neither been able to bring myself to go there, or to rent it, and it has remained closed." "o papa, will you not let me have it for the summer?" adelaide asked. "certainly, puss, if you want to fit it up for a studio or that sort of thing; but it is in a lonely wood, and you must have suitable company with you if you think of staying there. if you manage to change the place and infuse new life in it, i may bring myself to look in upon you there. at all events, i will join you at the roseveldts' as soon as i can; just now important business detains me." the business, as we know, was the securing and putting in service of the new invention for heating and lighting cars. it was necessary for him to go to washington to arrange for the patent, and it was on this trip that a clue most unexpectedly fell into his hands which seemed to lead to a startling discovery--a discovery which was more to him than any fortune which the invention could bring. it all came about through a scrap of paper which fell in his way as he was looking about his hotel bedroom for a piece of wrapping-paper with which to cover the model of the machine which he was about to carry to the patent office. he could find nothing for this purpose but an old newspaper which lined a bureau drawer. in this he wrapped his machine, and took his seat in the street-car, the package resting on his knees. his fellow-passengers were uninteresting, and he fixed his gaze upon his package. a heading to one of the shorter articles in the old newspaper attracted his attention. "remarkable case of loss of identity; the doctors puzzled." he read on aimlessly. "the physicians of ---- hospital have an interesting case. one of their patients, a lady, was injured at the burning of the _henrietta_ in the sound in october last. this accident has resulted in a partial loss of memory, and total confusion as to her identity. the unfortunate lady is unable to give her own name or that of her friends. a remarkable circumstance in the case is the fact that, through all the horror and suffering of the accident, which has resulted in a partial loss of her reason, the poor lady kept her infant boy safely clasped in her arms, and the child, entirely uninjured, was rescued with her. any person who believes that he recognizes a lost friend in this case is requested to communicate with dr. h. c. carver, of the ---- hospital." mr. armstrong read this item over and over again. he had believed that his wife and child were lost in the burning of this steamer. was it possible that they still lived? and what had ten years of separation done for them? the horse-car passed the patent office, but he did not see it. he sat staring at the newspaper until the car brought him to the end of the route and the conductor touched him on the shoulder. "pardon me, sir; i forgot you wished to stop at the patent office." mr. armstrong woke from his reverie. "no," he exclaimed, "at the railway station. i want to catch the next train for new york--none until o'clock? then i _will_ go to the patent office; but, first, tell me where i can send a telegram." [illustration: {drawing of girls near rowboat.}] chapter xi. the guests of the elder brother. "and man may work with the great god; yea, ours this privilege; all others, how beyond! * * * * * effectually the planet to subdue, and break old savagehood in claw and tusk; to draw our fellows up as with a cord of love unto their high-appointed place, till from our state barbaric and abhorred we do arise unto a royal race, to be the blest companions of the lord." --henry g. sutton. [illustration: {drawing of girl writing.}] a few days before school closed saw the home filled for the summer. the gathering in was achieved principally by jim, mrs. hetterman, and vincenzo amati. vincenzo was an italian of the better sort. he had lived in america long enough to acquire some of our ways of life. he earned a fairly good salary as cook, and he had kept his little family in comparative comfort in the best apartment which rickett's court had to offer, until the death of his pretty wife giovanina. since then the three little girls had done their best, but there was a woeful change. they became slatternly in appearance, and the two rooms grew dirty and cheerless. worse than this, the girls affiliated with a lower class of their own nationality, the children of the rag-pickers in the basement, already referred to, who lived upon the chances of garbage barrels and beggary, and who spent much of their time in picking over and assorting the old bones, rags, paper, and other refuse dumped each night upon the floor of their sleeping and living room, as the result of their father's daily toil. these children were sickly and miserable, tainted morally as well as physically; and their parents, who were contented with their disgusting lives, were laying up money, in fact, for a return to italy. but vincenzo was not contented that his children should live in such fashion or have contaminating associates. he was one of the first applicants to place his children in the home, paying cheerfully the highest sum asked for board, it having been early decided that the rates for each child should be proportioned to the wages of the parent. then several children previously "farmed out" to mrs. grogan, whose mothers were servants in good families, were received on similar terms. a german woman, a mrs. rumple, brought her two children, saying that she was going west, but, as she knew not what fortune awaited her there, wished to place her children in the home until she could send for them. she paid their board in advance for the summer, taking the money in coin from her petticoat pocket. "why do you leave new york?" asked emma jane anton. "it ish not de guntry. de guntry ish a very goot guntry. it ish de beeples," said mrs. rumple. "what is the matter with the people?" asked emma jane. "i comes de seas over a pride, mit my man heinrich rumple; dat is ten years aco alreaty. heinrich is one very goot man; he trinks only one mug of lager every days; he comes every saturday home mit his moneys, and oh, mine fraulein, how he luf me! pretty soon py und py de peer ish not coot, and he takes one leetle glass of schnapps instead. den de leetle babies come, one, tree, four, six, and it cost all de time more to live, and he pring all de time less moneys mit de saturdays. but he trinks all de time more schnapps--one, two, tree, four glass de every days, and i know not how much de sundays, and i tink he not luf me now so much as sometimes. den de sickness comes, de shills and de fevers, and we all de time shake, shake, and first one little children die, and den anudder, all but carl and de little gracie; and mine man not haf any moneys to py medicines, put he haf blenty to py schnapps, and he all de time trink more as is goot for him, and one night he comes home and he knows not vat he does, and he sthrikes de leetle gracie, and she is long time very sick. mine soul! i tinks she vill die, and heinrich rumple--dot ish my man--he puts his name mit de bledge, and says he vill not any times trink any more, und de gracie gets vell, und ve are all wery happy, but he all de same trinks again shust so pad as ever. py und py pretty soon i says, 'heinrich rumple, i cannot sthand dis nonsense any more ain't it. i cannot haf dose childer all their bones broke any more; i put dem in one 'sylum avay from you, and i goes in dot western land seek my fortune.'" "and so you left your husband?" asked miss anton. "ya. i left mine man," replied the woman. "and don't you suppose he will ever reform, and send you money to come back to him?" "no, i s'pose so. he said to me dat day: 'barbara, it is de beeples. i haf too many friends, and i trinks mit dem all de time, too often; i tinks if i am in de west, where i know nobodys, i would be a petter husband to you alretty.' and so he goed away mit me." "do you mean to say that you and your husband are leaving new york for the west together?" "ya. i left him, and he say, 'barbara, you has right; i leaf myself, too.' but i cannot trust him alretty mit de chillern. i leaf dem one six month, to try what come of it all." "i hope your husband has indeed left his worst self behind him," said emma jane; and on suitable security being provided, the rumple children were admitted. in almost all cases it was not the desperately and hopelessly pauperized and vicious--who were provided for by reformatories and the city charities--whom they helped, but the class just above them, who were slipping over the brink, and would surely have fallen and contributed to swell the dangerous classes, if not reached by this timely assistance. "prevention is better than cure," and it was the hope of the "king's daughters" to rescue the innocent children of decent and struggling parents before they should need reformation. rosaria ricos, the cuban heiress, endowed a bed to be used for some child whose parents could do nothing whatever toward its support. she wished to have more free beds, but miss prillwitz showed her how much better it was for the parents to do something, however little it might be, for their children, and not be pauperized by having every feeling of independence and ability to care for their own taken from them. exceptional circumstances might arise, when a mother out of employment, could wisely be helped over a great exigency, but she advised that miss ricos's "emergency bed" be given for short periods only. it was first occupied by lovell trimble, familiarly, but most inappropriately, nicknamed by the other children, lovey dimple. he was a homely, unprepossessing boy, with a pug nose and a disproportionately large head. his father was the unsuccessful inventor of rickett's court, with whom we are already acquainted. he spent all his former earnings in securing patents for various great inventions which were to make all their fortunes. his mother had been a shop-girl in a large dry-goods store, and had supported the family until long-continued standing had sent her to the hospital. lovey had tried to take her place in supporting his father by wheeling "the machine" of a hot-flap-jack seller, while the flap-jack man devoted his attention to frying the cakes, flipping them on to a plate, and serving them up with a dab of butter and a lake of molasses. they did their best business winter nights after the theatres were out--sheltered from the snow by an awning or a convenient door-way, and they knew which places of amusement were out first, and would race at ambulance speed from harrigan and hart's to the bowery, to secure the custom of each. lovey liked the business, for, besides the pay, after the day's trade was over the flap-jack man let him eat whatever was left, for the batter would not keep, and he had always a few cakes to carry home to his father of the full brain and empty stomach. but one night a member of the society for the prevention of cruelty to children, who had had his eye on the flap-jack man as employing too young a child for labor involving so much privation, descended upon the cart with a policeman; and the flap-jack man having discreetly absconded, they arrested lovey in default of his employer. miss prillwitz appeared in court at jim's request, for in some way jim had heard of his friend's apprehension, and having ascertained that mr. trimble had gone upon a spree, she rashly, but not unnaturally, decided that nothing was to be expected from such a father, and next paid a visit to mrs. trimble, at the hospital. learning there that there was a prospect of her cure, she offered lovey the hospitality of the emergency bed until his mother should be able to work once more. this case established relations between the society for the prevention of cruelty to children and the new home; and a little girl--who had been forced to sell lead-pencils on the street at night by a drunken mother, though her father was a brakeman, who could well afford to support her--was committed to the home through the agency of the society; and the father, on being notified, approved the action, and paid her board regularly. one desirable result of the home was its effect on emma jane's character. from being, as she had truly said of herself, an unlovely and unloving girl who disliked children, her nature sweetened by contact with them; and taking them one by one into her heart, it broadened and softened, till an expression which was almost madonna-like trembled in a face which had been grim and repellent. lovey dimple was the first to scale the fortress of emma jane's affections. he inherited his father's aptitude for mechanics. among the old books and papers contributed to the home were, strangely enough, some bound volumes of the _scientific american_ and a few stray patent office reports, and over these he pored until his head seemed full of revolving cog-wheels and pulleys, and pistons, and his heart beat like a stationary engine. he was certain that he would be an inventor some day, like ericsson or edison; indeed, he was an inventor already, for had he not constructed unnumbered mill-wheels and windmills, weathercocks and whirligigs, besides taking to pieces the clock (which he could not get together again), and adapting his mother's sewing-machine to fret-saw purposes? he had studied every machine which he had seen in the stores, from the corn-sheller to the great patent mower, and believed that he understood the action of each. "patent" was a word that stirred his soul, though he had but a dim conception of its meaning. it was something, his father had said, that the government would give him if he invented a really useful, labor-saving machine, one which would "supply a felt want." lovey knew what a felt hat was, but it was several days before he really knew what his father meant by a felt want. as soon as he had grasped the idea he began in earnest. "mother halsey," he asked, "what part of your work bothers you most?" mrs. halsey looked hot and flustered. half an hour before this she had put her room and the nursery in order, had dressed the twenty-five children; from combing their hair and scrubbing the little ones, and introducing them into each separate garment, to merely tying apron-strings and buttoning the "behind buttons" of the older ones, and giving them a final dress review before starting them to the public school. in view of this state of affairs, it is not to be wondered at that mrs. halsey said that dressing the children gave her more bother than anything else. lovey, with a pencil and paper, sat down to invent a machine which should do this for her. he reflected that such a machine would be hailed with delight in nearly every family, and if he could manage to sell them at a dollar apiece his fortune was assured. he took as his models the washing-machine, a cross-cut saw, and a corn-sheller, and in a few moments had made his drawing of a combination of the three machines. the motive power, he decided, should be furnished by the father of the family, who could turn the crank; and on days when this was not convenient the smoke from the cooking-stove could be utilized, the stove pipe being turned so that the smoke should strike the paddles of the main wheel, and the continuous stream passing across the edge of the wheel and up the chimney, he felt certain, would turn it. just back of the machine, and above it, there was to be a great hopper into which the naked children could climb by means of a ladder, and where the clothing could be tossed promiscuously, the machine sorting it and robing each child properly. the cross-cut saw near the mouth would shingle each child's hair, and save the trouble of curling, while the children, completely dressed, would be poured through this spout into their mother's arms. [illustration: {hand drawing of the invention.}] lovey exhibited this drawing to mrs. halsey and to miss anton, and begged them to show it to president harrison and obtain a patent for him as soon as possible; but, somehow, though the invention was received with applause and approbation by the entire family, nothing was ever done about it. the droll conceit attracted emma jane to the boy. "perhaps some day he may become an inventor of something more practical," she said, and ever after watched him with increasing interest. lovey had had great trouble with his arithmetic, and he had decided that a grand labor-saving machine would be one which would save a boy the trouble of studying. he thought that it would be a good idea to bore a hole in a boy's head when he was asleep, introduce the end of a funnel into the opening, and then with a coffee-mill grind up the usual text-books and stuff his brains. he made a drawing of this machine also, and merry twinkle and he came very near trying it practically, but they never could quite agree as to who should be the operator and who should be operated upon. lovey had another brilliant inspiration. he noticed that his rubber ball, which had a hole in it, had a remarkable power of suction, and that if he held the orifice to his cheek and squeezed the ball, when he let go it would pucker his cheek in a way to remind one distantly of a kiss. he imagined that if the ball were drawn out into a tube, and that tube continued indefinitely the action would still be the same. here was a discovery. how many separated friends and lovers would be glad to patronize a kissaphone, an instrument by which kisses could be sent and actually felt. he imagined the establishment of offices on both sides of the atlantic, and the laying of a submarine tube. [illustration: {hand drawing of the book-grinding machine.}] a young physician, a friend of mrs. roseveldt's, was visiting the home just as lovey completed this triumph. "another invention of lovey dimple's," emma jane explained, as the child handed her the drawing. dr. curtiss came oftener than the sanitary condition of the home really demanded, and he was well acquainted with lovey's genius in this direction. "yes, sir," promptly replied lovey, "and i have met a felt want now, sure," and then he explained the kissaphone. "try it on me, lovey, and let me see how it feels," asked the doctor. lovey did so, and dr. curtiss made a wry face. "it strikes me that is a very poor substitute for the genuine article," he said, "but perhaps i am not qualified to judge. "now if you could have a nice looking lady operator, and could attach your tubing to the back of her head, and have her transmit the kiss as the mouthpiece of the machine, i should think your invention might be very popular." lovey received this suggestion with entire good faith. "miss anton," he said, beseechingly, "won't you act as mouthpiece and let me send a kiss to dr. curtiss?" and he could never quite decide why emma jane, who was usually so kind, declined in great confusion to render him this trifling service. there was another little boy in the home who made remarkable drawings--the one already referred to as merry twinkle. all of his family, even the female portion, were sea-faring people; his grandfather had been a sailor, and was now an inmate of the sailors' snug harbor. his mother sometimes took merry to visit him when she was back from a voyage, for she was stewardess on an ocean steamer. his father had been engineer on the same boat, but had been killed by a boiler explosion, and merry had been _boarded_ hitherto with mrs. grogan. one evening, after a visit to his grandfather, merry handed emma jane a series of wonderful marines. "grandfather sang me a very old song to-day," he said. "it went this way: two gallant ships from england sailed; blow high, blow low, so sailed we: one was the _princess charlotte_, the other _prince of wales_, cruising down on the coast of barbaree. "this is a picture of the _princess charlotte_," handing emma jane his drawing. "it is night, and the captain is pacing the lonely deck; he has set his lantern on a small stand, and has put his hands in his pockets to keep them warm. the second verse goes this way: 'up aloft! up aloft!' our gallant captain cried; blow high, blow low, so sailed we. 'look ahead, look astern, look aweather, look alee,' cruising down on the coast of barbaree. 'oh, i've seen on ahead, and i've seen on astern,' blow high, blow low, so sailed we; 'and i see a ragged wind and a lofty ship at sea,' cruising down on the coast of barbaree. 'ahoy! ship ahoy!' our gallant captain cried, blow high, blow low, so sailed we; 'are you a man-of-war, or a privateer?' says he; cruising down on the coast of barbaree. 'oh! i am no man-of-war or privateer,' says he, blow high, blow low, so sailed we; 'but i am a jolly pirate seeking for my fee,' cruising down on the coast of barbaree. "this is the picture of the pirate ship and the fight. captain kidd has cut off the head of one of the men who boarded his ship. one of his men is firing a cannon, the rest of his crew may be seen between-decks. 'twas broadside to broadside, so quickly then came we; blow high, blow low, so sailed we; until the _princess charlotte_ shot her masts into the sea, cruising down on the coast of barbaree. then 'quarter! oh, quarter!' the pirate captain cried; blow high, blow low, so sailed we; but the quarters that we gave them were down beneath the sea, cruising down on the coast of barbaree. "grandfather called it the story of captain kidd, because he thought he must have been the pirate whose ship the _princess charlotte_ sunk. captain kidd was taken to london and hanged in chains, and i've made a picture of that too." emma jane hardly approved of the sanguinary spirit displayed by these drawings, but she could not expect that the boy's antecedents and surroundings would produce an angel. she endeavored to draw his attention to gentler subjects for his pencil, recited tender and loving ballads, and changed the current of the boy's thought and aspiration, realizing that here was material which, in the fostering atmosphere of rickett's court, might easily develop into an anarchist--a menace to the state. the sandy girls were the last to be received from the court. the father had been a truckman, but a heavy box had fallen upon him, and he had lived in pain and misery for a year and had then died. mrs. sandy, by making men's clothing, managed to keep the wolf from the door--no, only snarling _at_ the door with fierce, hungry eyes. all of her six children helped her. the oldest girl did the ironing and finishing; the next child, a boy, carried the great bundles back and forth in the intervals of his profession as a bootblack; the second girl did all of their poor housework; the twins sewed on buttons and pulled out basting threads, and the youngest boy sold newspapers, while mrs. sandy herself ran the sewing-machine ten or twelve hours in the day. when mrs. hetterman asked her why she did not give up this desperate battle with the point of the needle, and leave her vile surroundings to take service in some good family, she replied that she had often thought of this, but she must keep a home, however poor, for the children. "the two boys could live at the newsboys' lodging-house, for they earn enough to support themselves, but what would i do with my four girls?" when mrs. hetterman assured her that there was a home where they could all be cared for in cleanliness, health, and comfort, and have time for study and schooling and industrial education, which would fit them to earn their own living in future, and all for a sum quite within the means of any domestic, she brought her cramped hand down with a heavy blow upon the sewing-machine. "i don't mind if i break every bone in yer body, ye satan's grindstone!" she said to the machine; "it's the last time that mary sandy'll grind soul and body thin at ye, praise be to a delivering providence!" mrs. hastings, one of the managers of the home, had had great trouble with incompetent and ungrateful servants, and she gladly took the faithful scotch woman into her family. these, then, were the guests of the elder brother, for that first summer, from rickett's court: jim halsey, american. hettermans, english. amatis, italian. babies from mrs. grogan's, irish. carl and gracie rumple, german. lovey dimple, american. merry twinkle, american. sandy girls, scotch. in all, nineteen children transplanted from the filth and vice, hunger and ignorance, of the court, and six more from other localities as bad, to sweet, wholesome surroundings. it was thought best that those children of school age should attend a public school to avoid "institutionizing" them; and for this end they wore no uniform, and mingled freely with other well-behaved children in the park under mrs. halsey's motherly supervision. their birthdays were celebrated with a little party, with cake and candles, and everything was done to cultivate a home-like feeling. they drew their books like other children from the children's new free circulating library, and were taught to guard them carefully. they had a sewing society--in reality a sewing-class--where boys and girls were alike taught to mend and darn, to sew on buttons, and to make button-holes--all but the sandy children, who, it was judged, had served a long enough apprenticeship in this department, and were sent to mrs. hetterman to learn how to cook. miss prillwitz was anxious that the boys should have industrial training, and brought the matter before the board of managers, who entirely agreed with her, and voted that a subscription sent them by mr. armstrong be used to secure a suitable teacher. it was just at this time that a letter was received from adelaide announcing that she had fitted up the cottage which her father had placed at her disposal, and would like to have mrs. halsey occupy it with the youngest children for the heated term. miss prillwitz was delighted. jim was already at the pier with the roseveldts, and it would be pleasant for his mother to be near him, and a fine thing for the little girls and the babies. this would leave the nursery vacant, and it could be fitted up as a workshop for the boys. she had a chat with mrs. halsey the day before she left, and asked her if she knew of anyone who could teach the boys carpentry. "mr. trimble, lovey's father, is a perfect jack-of-all-trades," replied mrs. halsey. miss prillwitz was doubtful. "mr. trimble is a drunkard," she said. "not irreclaimable, i am sure," said mrs. halsey. "he was a sober man when i knew him. despair alone could have driven him to drink. i wish you would send and ask him to call and see you." so a letter was sent, and none too soon, for affairs were now at their worst with stephen trimble. chapter xii. with the dynamiters. "while we range with science, glorying in the time, city children soak and blacken soul and sense in city slime; where among the glooming alleys progress halts on palsied feet, crime and hunger cast out maidens by the thousand on the street; where the master scrimps his haggard seamstress of her daily bread, and a single sordid attic holds the living and the dead." --_anon._ [illustration: {drawing of the anarchist of rickett's court.}] the anarchist of rickett's court, under whose influence the inventor had fallen, was a thoroughly bad man, and the writer has no sympathy to waste upon him or his methods, but with his deluded and desperate victim we should all sympathize. stephen trimble had brooded over his troubles and wrongs until he was half crazed, and the men for whom he worked added fuel to the flame. "why should you be so precious careful of the rich?" his employer said. "what have the rich ever done for you? they've murdered your wife, as i make out, insisting on her standing all day long, when she was not able to do so, and might have done her work just as well sitting. they've sent your innocent little boy to jail along with common pickpockets. they've robbed you of your money--" "stop!" cried stephen trimble; "you've said that over and over, until i believe it, though i don't know why i should take your word any quicker than that of anyone else. you've made much of your kindness in telling me, though i don't see what good it does me, unless you are willing to go into court and testify for me as to what you've seen." the men shook their heads. "no going into court for us! we want to keep as far away from the law as possible." "then i don't see but you are as much against me as the rest. i've worked with you long enough to know what your aims are; your machine is now in working order, ready to blow up the finest house, the largest audience, in new york, church or armory, bank-vault or prison; and if all you say is true, you may blow away, for all i care, and blow yourselves up with the rest, and me too. if the world is the sodom and gomorrah it seems to me, we have bible warrant for its destruction. my work for you is done; give me my money, and we are through with each other." "see here, trimble," said the anarchist, "we have already paid you fifteen dollars, and you ought not to be too close with us." "you promised me a hundred; do you mean to say--" "don't be so touchy; what i mean to say is this: we cannot help you by testifying in court, as you suggested; it wouldn't do you any good if we did; but find out the man who has wronged you, and we will help you to your revenge. in a few days our society will begin its operations. we are out of funds now, but there will be a new deal soon. we begin with the banking-house of roseveldt, gold & co., and as soon as the fireworks are over we will be rich enough, and you shall have a fair share." stephen trimble sprang to his feet. "i thought you were anarchists! do you acknowledge that you are common burglars?" "no, my friend, we acknowledge nothing of the kind. be good enough to attend to your own business." "it is time that i did," replied the inventor; "i have neglected it long enough." stephen trimble walked out of the building. he had three things to do--to discover the landlord of rickett's court; to see his wife for the last time; and to free his little son, whom he believed to be still in prison. there was quite a commotion in the court; some men were putting up a fire-escape. "what ever put it into solomon meyer's head to do that?" he asked. "'tain't solomon meyer," a workman replied; "it's the landlord himself. he ordered it done some time ago, and was mad as a hornet because meyer hadn't attended to it." "see here, my friend," said stephen trimble, "if you know who the landlord of this tenement is, you will do me a favor by directing me to him." "armstrong's the man--alexander armstrong, president of the ---- r. r. co.; his office is over the banking-house of roseveldt & gold, no. ---- broadway. he rooms there too, when he's in town--back of his office." stephen trimble stood very still for a moment. the information which he thought would be so difficult to obtain had come to his door. the vengeance which he had fancied might take long days and nights of plotting, hung now over the man who had wronged him. he need do absolutely nothing, and alexander armstrong was doomed. he must inevitably be killed in the explosion and conflagration which was planned to cover the robbery of the bank beneath him. they had changed places, and the landlord of rickett's court was his victim. one-third of his task was accomplished. he walked now in the direction of the hospital, and asked to see his wife. he hardly expected to be admitted, but he would at least make the attempt. to his surprise he was shown into a cheerful parlor, and mrs. trimble was sent for. she came down, looking pale, but happy. "o stephen," she cried, "it has been so long since i have seen you! but never mind, i am almost well now, and we shall soon be together again. the doctor tells me i may leave next week. they have been so very kind to me here, it has been like heaven. the rich are thoughtful and generous to provide such places for the poor. i am so grateful; and i have rested so that i shall be able to take hold with new courage." he listened in a stupefied way, and seeing that he was not inclined to speak, she ran on, "and isn't it beautiful about lovey?" this stung him to speech. "beautiful? to be arrested and sent to prison?" "why, no, dear. haven't you heard? a sweet, kind woman--miss prillwitz--called, and told me that he is being cared for at a little home, for nothing, stephen; and they will keep him there until we are on our feet again. if that isn't brotherly love, i don't know what is. it makes me believe that there is such a thing as christianity, after all." still stephen trimble was silent. she was happy, and he would not dispel her illusion, at least not now. evidently there were _some_ good people in new york, and she had experienced their kindness. he had expected to find her suffering from neglect and cruelty. he would not have been surprised if she had died. he could hardly believe that a _charity patient_ had received such attention. that their little son had been also tenderly cared for passed his belief, but he would see for himself, and he took the address of the home. he bade his wife good-bye gently. "i shall come back to you very soon, stephen," she said, "and things will go better then." he could not tell her of his deep despair. he tried to smile, but only succeeded in giving her a pitiful, longing look. he walked on toward the home of the elder brother, sure that its name was a lie, and that he would find lovey abused. but he was met at the door by mrs. halsey, whom he had known at rickett's court, who called his little son to come down and see his papa, and who told him of the plan of which she had just been speaking to miss prillwitz. and a moment later lovey, well dressed, clean, fat, and jolly, tumbled into his arms with a cry of rapture. "do you want to come home, lovey?" he asked. "no, daddy, i want you to come here. please, mrs. halsey, mayn't he come?" "we would like to have him very much to teach our boys the use of tools for a few hours every day. it is just what i have been telling your father." "a week ago," said stephen trimble, "your offer would have been heaven to me; now i am afraid it is too late." "don't say so," urged mrs. halsey; and she called miss prillwitz to talk the matter over with him. miss prillwitz's first argument was to ask him to luncheon. he ate the nourishing food--the first good meal that had passed his lips for many days--and he said, as he bade them farewell, "i will come to you if i can, and teach your boys mechanics; if i don't come it will be because something has happened to me, and if anything happens to me i want to ask you to lend a helping hand to my wife--and may god bless you." a new impulse stirred within his heart, gratitude, which he had not felt toward any human being for years. he was softened, and tears stood in his eyes. he could almost forgive the landlord of rickett's court now. an impulse to see the man, though not with any hope of gaining anything from the interview, came over him. it was still early, and he walked down broadway to the building designated, and looked into the bank. how wealthy and strong it looked, with the clerks busily at work calling off fabulous sums to one another, and handling the piles of bills and coin! the safe-doors stood open, and he could see the great bolts and bars, and complicated combinations; and he smiled scornfully as he thought how easily the little machine upon which he had been working would open them all. a policeman saw him staring in at the window, and asked him his business. "i want to find mr. armstrong, the r. r. president." "then you must go up-stairs. there is the door." he walked up and saw another room, with gentlemen sitting in easy attitudes in comfortable chairs. he asked a clerk for mr. armstrong, and was told that he was in washington, on business. "business connected with a patent?" "yes; i believe so. what did you want of him?" "nothing. say only that stephen trimble called." "what! is this stephen trimble?" exclaimed a hearty voice behind him; and, turning, the inventor saw an earnest but kindly looking man, who had just entered carrying a hand-bag. "that is mr. armstrong," said the clerk, and stephen trimble stared fascinated. "step into my private office," said the financier, "i am glad you have come. it is always better to transact business at first hand, and i was sorry you could not come when mr. meyer asked you to do so." "i do not know what you mean, sir." "did not solomon meyer tell you that i wanted you to call, with reference to the four thousand dollars still unpaid on our patent transaction?" "solomon meyer told me that i was too late, and that you did not care for my invention." mr. armstrong sprang from his chair. "and he never gave you my check for a thousand dollars?" "never; though i heard that he had it;" and stephen trimble related what the anarchist had told him. mr. armstrong unlocked a safe, and took from it the contract in regard to the patent. "is not this your signature?" he asked. "no, sir: i never saw the paper." "then solomon meyer is a swindler." "very likely, sir." "go home; say nothing, and i will have him arrested. stop--a little money may not come amiss to you just now. here is fifty dollars on our account. i will see you again to-morrow, but i have an important appointment now." "i don't know how to thank you, sir, or what to say," said stephen trimble, utterly confounded. "there are no thanks due; on the contrary, i owe you a small matter of five thousand dollars--perhaps more--for it seems you have not signed this paper, and perhaps may not be willing to sell your invention for so small a sum." as he spoke, the confidential clerk tapped at the door and remarked, "dr. carver, sir, of ---- hospital, says you telegraphed to him from washington to meet you here." instantly stephen trimble saw that mr. armstrong had forgotten his existence; his entire expression changed from kindly benevolence to intense eagerness and anxiety. "what has he got to worry about, i wonder!" thought the inventor, as he gave place to the physician, and descended the stairs. force of habit led his steps toward rickett's court, but he walked like a different man, and the workman who had seen his cringing, crouching manner as he slouched out of the court that morning, did not recognize the man who entered with buoyant, determined step. the change had begun when he left the door of the home of the elder brother. there his faith in his kind had been restored. had the good fortune of the afternoon befallen him before that experience he could not have believed it, or the stupendous change would have driven him insane. but it had come upon him, mercifully, by degrees, and he was rapturously happy, and clearer in mind than he had been for months. it was as if a great and crushing weight had been lifted from heart and brain. suddenly, as he crossed the threshold, he remembered the infernal-machine. the anarchists would probably use it that night, and alexander armstrong, his benefactor, was doomed. he wondered how he could ever have been so mad as to aid them. there was only one thing to be done: he must undo his work, render the contrivance harmless, and save his friend. he knocked at the door; there was no answer; the men were probably out. he tried to open it, but it was locked. he could easily have picked the lock, but people were coming and going. the new fire-escape suggested itself to his mind, and he decided to go to his room and, as it was already dark, descend by it to the workroom. this resolution was quickly accomplished. he lighted a candle and was just reaching toward the machine, when the door opened and the anarchists entered. "what are you doing? i thought you had finished your work," said his former employer. "no, i have not finished," replied stephen trimble, nervously taking up a tool and beginning to remove a screw. "you are tampering with the machine; put it down!" and the man seized it angrily. "let go!" shouted stephen trimble, "you touch it at your peril; the button is under your hand!" the warning came too late--there was a blinding flash, then a crash as though the heavens had fallen; then blackness and silence. chapter xiii. the king's daughters in the country. "her father sent her in his land to dwell, giving to her a work that must be done; and since the king loves all his people well, therefore she, too, cares for them, every one. and when she stoops to lift from want and sin, the brighter shines her royalty therein. she walks erect through dangers manifold, while many sink and fail on either hand; she dreads not summer's heat nor winter's cold, for both are subject to the king's command. she need not be afraid of anything, because she is the daughter of a king." _anon._ [illustration: {drawing of woman sitting on fence.}] while all these sad things were happening winnie and i were enjoying a happy summer at my beloved home in the blessed country. it is not to be imagined that winnie dropped all her wild ways and became a saint at once. she had been sobered by her sad experience in plotting and scheming for the little prince; but since her full forgiveness her elastic spirits rose to the surface, and her cheerful disposition asserted itself in many playful pranks and merry, tricksy ways. we did not forget our promise to work for the elder brother, but for a time we did nothing but rest fully and completely. she was delighted with the country. the fresh air and free, wholesome life acted upon her like wine. she climbed walls and trees, leaped brooks, whistled, shouted, rode on the hay-carts, helped in the kitchen and in the garden, drove dobbin about the country roads, went berrying, and was a prime favorite with all the boys, though i regret to say that at first, perhaps on this very account, the country girls were a little jealous and envious of her. but not a whit cared winnie for this. she tramped over the fields and through marshes, with her botanist's can swung across her shoulder by a shawl-strap, searching for specimens. she boated and bathed, taking like a duck to the water, and learning to swim more quickly than any other person i had ever known. she loved to work in our old-fashioned garden, pulled weeds diligently, and seemed to love to feel the fresh earth with her fingers. our flowers were all such as had grown there in my grandmother's time. it seemed to me that she must have modeled it on mary howitt's garden, for we had the very flowers which she describes in her poems. "and there, before the little bench, o'ershadowed by the bower, grow southernwood and lemon thyme, sweet-pea and gillyflower; "and pinks and clove carnations, rich-scented, side by side; and at each end a holly-hock, with an edge of london-pride. "i had marigolds and columbines, and pinks all pinks exceeding; i'd a noble root of love-in-a-mist, and plenty of love-lies-bleeding." there was a bed of herbs, too, which my mother cherished--sweet-marjoram and summer savory, sage, rue, and rosemary. winnie took a great interest in all of these plants. the country girls thought it odd that she should care for the wild plants which were so common in our vicinity, not knowing winnie's enthusiasm for botany, and her desire to make a large collection to show the princess. an unusually ignorant girl met her on one of her botanizing expeditions, and winnie asked her if maiden-hair grew in our region. "of course it does!" the girl replied, indignantly; "you didn't s'pose we all wore wigs, did you?" it was some time before winnie could control herself and explain that the maiden-hair of which she was in search was a kind of fern. "do you want it for a charm?" the girl asked. "no," replied winnie; "what will it do?" "if you put it in your shoe and say the right kind of a charm, you will understand the language of the birds." "then i shall certainly try it," said winnie, "for that would be great fun." another day mother brought the same girl into the garden, where winnie was at work, to give her some vegetables. "did you try the charm?" the girl asked. "yes, indeed," winnie replied. "and did it work?" "oh, famously! there is a wood-pecker in the old tree just outside of my window, and he wakes me by his drumming every morning. this morning i understood for the first time just what he has been saying. it was 'wake up, wake up! little rascal, little rascal, little rascal!'" the girl stared at winnie in open-mouthed astonishment. "you must be a witch," she said. "that's what they call me--witch winnie." they were standing beside mother's bed of herbs, and the frightened girl pulled up a stalk of rue and held it at arm's length, as though it were a protection. "don't come nigh me! don't work any of your tricks on me!" she said. winnie explained that she was only in sport, but the girl was only half reassured, and still clung to the spray of rue. miss prillwitz afterward explained that rue, like vervain, was supposed to "hinder witches of their will," probably from the fact that it was once used in the church of rome, bound in fagots, as a holy-water sprinkler, and is spoken of in old writings as the "herb of grace." in this way witch winnie's name was revived again, and was applied to her by her new friends, even though they did not believe in her uncanny powers. the princess came to us later in the season for a visit of a month, and we came to know her intimately and love her dearly. she brought five of the boys from the home with her, for mother was pleased with the enterprise, and father had said that he guessed it wouldn't break him to give those city children a taste of what the country was like, and if we women folk could stand them he supposed he could. winnie took the boys in charge and led them off with her on her long tramps and to row in the safe, flat-bottomed boat. they had great sport, crabbing, bathing, swimming, and fishing, and their vacation did them a world of good. these were the boys for whom the princess had planned the industrial classes, but mr. trimble lay at the hospital injured, it was thought, unto death by the explosion at rickett's court, and that plan was postponed for the present. the boys attracted much attention in the sabbath-school and wherever they appeared. many questions were asked, and miss prillwitz was requested to explain the plan of the home, in public and in private at the sewing society, and at the fourth of july picnic. we were not all ignorant country bumpkins at scup harbor, and we were not all poor. there were plenty of farmers, who dressed coarsely and fared plainly, who had bank accounts that would have bought out many a new yorker of fashion. they were not selfish either. i have heard somewhere of a stingy deacon who, on hearing of a case of heart-rending distress, prayed for it in this wise: "o lord, 'giving doth not impoverish thee, neither doth withholding enrich thee,' but giving doth impoverish us, and withholding doth enrich us; therefore do thou attend to this case, good lord; do _thou_ attend to this case." now this story may not be exaggerated, but i can only say that he did not live in our section of the country. our deacons were soft-hearted, though horny-handed men, and though they had the poor of their own church and vicinity to look out for, and performed that office well, they decided that scup harbor was rich enough to extend a helping hand to new york, since new york was either too poor or too hard-hearted to care for its own. accordingly a collection was taken up in church that made miss prillwitz's heart sing for joy; and the ladies' benevolent sewing society voted to have a box of clothing ready for the home by cold weather. the grown people were not the only ones interested; there were girls among us of gentle manners and hearts, and who were far better educated than milly roseveldt. some of these heard of miss prillwitz's eminence as a scientist, and helped me to organize a class for her in natural history, and the remainder of the summer took on an aspect of mental improvement as well as of physical recreation. miss prillwitz mapped out a course of work and reading for each of us to carry on after her return to the city, and the circle arranged to meet at the homes of the members, and read essays and discuss different scientific subjects. winnie was surprised at the amount of intelligence and information displayed, and soon acquired a sincere respect for country girls. it was at one of our meetings after the princess had returned to new york that she noticed that ethel stanley, the daughter of a wealthy dairy farmer, wore a little silver cross with a purple ribbon knot. "has it come here, too?" she asked; "are you a king's daughter?" "oh yes," replied ethel; "i belong to the helpful ten, and there is a cheer-up ten at the corners. what do you call your link?" "the seek-and-to-save ten," winnie replied; and she explained the mission of our circle, and how we hoped to help the elder brother in his search for the little lost princes. ethel was delighted. "i think we might help you," she said; "we are methodists, but we don't mind working for you if you will let us. i suppose you are all episcopalians in new york?" "oh dear, no!" exclaimed winnie, "we are everything; tib is a congregationalist, and emma jane is a unitarian, adelaide is presbyterian; 'trude middleton is a dutch reformer; rosario ricos is catholic; puss seligman is a jewess; little breeze comes from philadelphia quaker stock, though she is so gay you wouldn't think it; cynthia vaughn is a baptist; milly roseveldt is the only episcopalian; and i'm a--heathen." "no you are not," i protested; "you are a follower of the elder brother, winnie, and that means you are a christian." she gave my hand a little squeeze, and ethel exclaimed, "i should think your society would go to pieces; i don't see how you can work together with such different views." "that depends," said winnie, thoughtfully, "whether in the future we all pull in different directions, and tear our charity to pieces between us, or whether each of us uses all her force to bring in people from our different church organizations to help in the work, and make it widely and purely undenominational. i mean to write a little parable on that subject some day, for i feel full of it." "do!" we all exclaimed; "write it for the next meeting at ethel's." "i don't know; it would hardly be a scientific essay, you know." "i am not sure about that," replied ethel; "i think it might be called a scientific method of carrying on charitable enterprises. please write it, and i will invite our ten, and the cheer-up ten from the corners, and the loyal legion, and the missionary society, and all the girls i know generally." the plan was carried into effect, and at the next meeting winnie read us this fable, which she called a fish story.[a] [a] note.--this allegory was first published in _good company_, of . "once upon a time the fishes and salt-water animals down in the bay decided to organize a home for sea-urchins. "the circumstances of the remarkable agitation which suddenly spread among the peaceful denizens of the deep became known to me by my inadvertently getting a spray of sea-fern in one of my bathing-sandals. i suddenly discovered that i could understand the voices of the little creatures that i had so often watched from tib's father's dory, or sported among when i took my sea-bath. i lay in the dory one afternoon, looking down into the clear depth of the water, watching the tricks and manners of a sea-anemone, and thinking how similar her behavior was to that of a reigning belle at a popular watering-place, when it dawned upon me that she _was_ the belle of the cove, surrounded by a circle of obsequious masculine admirers, prominent among whom were the hermit-crab, the octopus, the jelly-fish, the lobster, the conger-eel, the king-iyo, and the stickleback--" "now, winnie," i objected, "you never saw an octopus or a king-iyo in our cove, and you can't make me believe it!" "my dear tib," winnie replied, "didn't i tell you this was a fish story? pray do not interrupt again. the animals that i have mentioned were all aspirants to the hand of the sea-anemone, and the first remarks which i overheard and comprehended were her confidences to her friend the gold-fish, in which she intimated that she considered the jelly-fish the most amiable, the lobster the richest, the king-iyo (a titled foreigner from japan) the most _distingué_, and the conger-eel the most polite; but, after all, the hermit-crab was really the best, and she liked him more than any of the others, with the exception of the octopus, who was so fascinatingly wicked. "the next time that i looked into the cove was during a meeting of the managers of the sea-urchins' home. "the sea-anemone had just been unanimously elected to the presidency on account of her popularity. "the cuttle-fish had been created secretary in recognition of his remarkable facility in throwing ink, while all official documents were stamped by the seal. "the electric-eel was made visiting physician; and the shark, surgeon and lecturer on vivisection. "the hermit-crab, who had been detailed to make observations on the _modus_ in which such societies were carried on among human beings, made the following report: "miss president and fellow-fishes: "your committee have made a careful investigation of the subject assigned them, and agree that while man's faculties have not been cultivated to so high an extent as those pertaining to fishes, he is still a moral and intellectual animal. we believe that if he were put in possession of the advantages accorded to our race, and were submerged in salt-water for several centuries, his brain would undoubtedly become so pickled as to reduce it in size and intensify its quality. favorable conditions of brain-pickling are all that is necessary, in our opinion, to develop some of the most advanced specimens of this _genus_ into a low form of _mollusk_. "the opinions of the hermit-crab were considered a marvel of liberality and generous thinking. he proceeded to explain the society-forming instinct of the human race as a professor of our own species might lecture on the concretions of deep-sea corals, and continued swimmingly, as fishes usually do, until a white-whiskered sea-lion begged leave to make a motion, in the language of a motto of conduct which he had often heard shouted to seamen by their commanders: 'when you are in the navy, do as the knaves do.' 'let us,' he added, 'act upon this principle of conformity, by doing amongst men as the many do, and immediately organize a fair to meet the salaries of our officers and pay the debt on the society building.' "'but none of us need salaries,' objected the lobster, 'and we have no debt.' "'as to declining a salary because i do not need it,' replied the sea-lion, 'i can only say that i find no such example set by the race whose customs we are following; and without a debt, or at least a deficit in the accounts of our treasurer, the respectability of our society may well be questioned.' "a committee of codfish aristocrats was at once authorized to secure a debt of magnificent proportions, at whatever cost, and the salary of each member of the society was set according to his own estimates. frequent meetings of the managers were appointed for the purpose of drawing the salaries, and as the care of the sea-urchins could with the utmost ingenuity be made to take up but a small portion of the time, each of the managers seized upon these meetings as opportunities to air their own particular opinions. the lobster, who was something of an autocrat, and had determined from the outset to run the concern, took the entire business management into his own claws, greatly incensing the ladies on the debt committee by intimating that they knew nothing of business, and that his office-boy, the craw-fish, could have devised a debt of far nobler proportions. the king-iyo, or three-tailed fish of japan, trusted that the philosophy of the orient was to have its full recognition in the principles of the society, and that the sea-urchins would be instructed in buddhism. the octopus, who had been one of the most desperate characters in the bay, carried his change of heart so far as to assert that no one could be considered as religious, or even respectable, who had not been extremely wicked, and urged that only the most depraved and hopeless young sea-urchins be admitted into the home. while the octopus raved over essential wickedness, and the king-iyo of philosophy, the jelly-fish dabbled in humanitarianism, and asserted that brains were not to be tolerated, thought was to be considered a crime, and a heart the only organ necessary for the spiritual body. all books on theology and philosophy should be sold for old paper, and the proceeds invested in charlotte russe for tramps and criminals. every measure in the least savoring of logic or common sense must be vetoed. "the stickleback, who luxuriated in controversy, and in making himself generally disagreeable, summed up the remarks of those preceding him as the merest vaporing of idiocy, and denounced every system of belief held by his fellow-managers, before hearing it, with the same impartiality. antagonism, he asserted, was the only rational attitude for any fish under all circumstances. the conger-eel, managing to gain possession of the floor, endeavored to pour oil on the troubled waters. he was sure that if the heterogeneous, and even antipathetic, ideas held by the different managers were only presented in writing, they would, properly mingled, blend as sweetly as lemon juice and loaf sugar in a cooling summer libation. the cuttle-fish, was unanimously elected chairman of a committee for eliciting and reconciling the opinions of the managers in a printed constitution. he opened the ball with a statement of his own views, which he passed to each member in turn, asking them to add their several criticisms and corrections. when the paper had gone the rounds it was read in open session by the hermit-crab, who summed up everything that had gone before, in a paper entitled 'a historical review of the documents, beginning with the king-iyo's criticism of mr. snapping-turtle's attack on mr. shrimp's vindication of mr. jelly-fish's apology of mr. conger-eel's deprecatory answer to mr. lobster's satire on mr. stickleback's challenge to mr. octopus's dogmatic denunciation of mr. shark's strictures on miss sea-anemone's conciliatory explanation of mr. cuttle-fish's exposition of the views of the society.' "of course this paper satisfied no one, and the meeting plunged at once into a whirlpool of ruinous discussion. "the stickleback bristled his spines and glared angrily about him, shrieking, 'antagonism! nihilism!' "'fanaticism, sensationalism!' yelled the octopus. "'dogmatism! absolutism!' replied the lobster, hurling clams about him in the belief that they were works on combative theology. "'asceticism! monasticism!' groaned the hermit-crab, retreating into a pipe bowl and blocking the entrance with a pearl-oyster. "'humanitarianism!' warbled the jelly-fish, as he choked three sea-melons and a quart of sea-mushrooms into the mouth of a sick grampus. "'paganism! barbarianism!' retorted the king-iyo, punching the jelly-fish. "'optimism! universalism!' sweetly chanted the conger-eel, but as he spoke the entire convention broke up and floated away, leaving the little sea-urchins crying for their supper, and only a debt of colossal proportions to mark the site of the proposed home." "and how do you propose to avoid the fate of the fish society?" ethel asked, after the storm of applause which followed winnie's paper had subsided. "by recognizing, from the first, that we unite only for this special purpose, and that we all have very varied and contradictory opinions, which we will make no attempt to reconcile or ventilate. i think we can make our very differences an element of strength, if it is acknowledged from the outset that we are to be different. as corresponding secretary of our ten i have received the most encouraging reports from the girls. they are all working hard for the home, and all working in different ways, and each seems to think that the home belongs to her individually--as it really does--and that her organization is responsible for its success. i am sure that when we next meet, the girls will accept mrs. middleton's proposition to have the home of the elder brother entered as one of the dutch reformed charities, and i hope that each of the other girls will take measures to have it recognized as one of the charities of her particular church organization. i have a letter from little breeze, saying that the friends' meeting in philadelphia, of which her mother is a member, propose to own a bed in the home; and puss seligman writes that the hebrew charitable association, of which her brother is vice-president, have voted to hold themselves responsible for every child of their race whom we entertain. cynthia vaughn reports that the church of ----burgh, pennsylvania, will keep us in coal on condition that a delegation of the children go to the baptist sunday-school. miss prillwitz has already divided the home into detachments, sending the children, as far as possible, to the churches which their mothers prefer, and there is a strong division of baptists." "i think," said ethel, "that our methodist church would like to have a share in the work. i am sure that father will be glad to supply you with milk and butter as his own private subscription." the president of the loyal legion then spoke up, and proposed that their organization furnish barrels and make the rounds of the farms in procession, soliciting apples and potatoes, which they would freight to the home, on condition that a loyal legion temperance society be organized among the children of the elder brother, to be considered as a branch of the scup harbor legion. the cheer-up ten from the corners held a brief meeting in the orchard, and returned to report that they had decided to adopt one of our children to clothe. they desired that the child of the poorest parents be assigned them, and promised that if the proper measurements were sent, they would keep it respectably dressed in garments of their own make. i suggested little georgie, a child rescued from mrs. grogan, whose mother could only furnish fifty cents a week from her scanty earnings for his support; and our convention broke up for that day, after partaking of strawberries and cream, singing a good old hymn, slightly altered for the occasion by winnie. "here we raise our ebenezer, hither by god's grace we come; and we hope, by his good pleasure, long we may remain a home." * * * * * note.--the messiah home, rutherford place, new york, a charity founded for children by children, whose beautiful work suggested to the author this simple story, has been greatly helped by circles of the king's daughters, several of whom have adopted children to clothe after the manner of the cheer-up ten. the writer commends this work to any other circles of the king's daughters eager to do the work of the elder brother. chapter xiv. over the hills and far away. "when smale foules maken melodie, that sleepen alle night with open eye, than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages." _chaucer, prologue to "canterbury tales."_ [illustration: {drawing of landscape.}] it must not be imagined that our entire summer was given over to works of charity and mercy. there were times when we quite forgot the home of the elder brother in merry romping and girlish enjoyment; and one of the pleasantest experiences of that season was an excursion in two tin-peddler's carts, or rather, in two carts belonging to one tin-peddler; a pilgrimage which was undertaken solely and simply as a lark, and most successfully realized its aims. toward the end of june, while miss prillwitz was still with us, father fell into a state of body or mind which he called "the malary." it was the fashion for everyone in our region to dub every disease with which they might be afflicted, from indigestion to inherited insanity, malaria; and the prescription given by our wise old physician for this disease of many manifestations was always the same. "i don't know exactly what has caused this trouble," he would say, "but i know what will cure it. you need a change. if you've been living high, diet. if you've been starving yourself, have thanksgiving dinner every day. take a change of air and a change of scene, a change of occupation, and, above all, a change of habits, and somewhere we'll hit the nail on the head that has done the mischief." the prescription pleased my father. he decided that he needed a change from the coast to the interior, and from exercise to a sedentary life. "instead of tramping around this farm," he said, "i would like to be driving over the western massachusetts hills. i am as sick of this eternal pound, pound of the surf on the shore as of the sea-fog in my throat." "take the horses, father," said mother, cheerfully, "and drive through connecticut up to your brother asahel's farm in hawley. i can run this household well enough without you." "it would be a rather lonesome drive," father demurred, though his eyes shone with longing. "zen why not to take us wiz you, mr. smiss?" asked miss prillwitz. "we would each stand her share of ze expenses, and such a tour of _diligence_ would be most delightful." upon this the matter was thoroughly canvassed, and it was finally decided that mother should remain at home with the five little boys, whom ethel stanley and the helpful ten had agreed to amuse during our absence; and that miss prillwitz, miss sartoris, winnie, mr. stillman, and i should accompany father. mr. stillman was a summer-boarder from new york, who came to us every season to fish and hunt. hearing that miss prillwitz was fond of ornithology, and that the lighthouse-keeper sent her dead birds, he tried to please her by shooting others and bringing them to her, but she soon made him understand that she preferred studying them alive and at liberty. "zese poor leetle tears zat haf cast zemself on ze lighthouse," she explained, "zey have not been kill for me, zey could not else, but i wish i could hinder zem of it." "it is not much fun to shoot birds, after all," mr. stillman admitted, "only the exultation in hitting a difficult mark. i hate to pick them up afterward." "if it is only ze chase and ze difficulty which make you admiration," said miss prillwitz, "why do you not buy to yourself a camera of detective for ze instantaneousness, whereby you can photograph ze bird on his wing? zey tell me it shall be much more difficult to do zat zan to shoot him dead." and so mr. stillman had sent to new york for an amateur photographer's outfit, and had fitted up a dark-room in the old smoke-house, where he developed his negatives. he was a man to whom almost everything he tried was easy, and he tried his hand at many things. he had traveled much, and assured us that wherever he went he tried to learn some new accomplishment. in china he had learned the art of making fireworks, and earlier in the season the smoke-house had served as a chemical laboratory for the manufacture of rockets. before miss prillwitz had suggested amateur photography, mr. stillman had amused us by setting off fireworks on the beach at night, but the new craze seemed destined to supersede every other; pyrotechnics were neglected, and the shot-gun and rifle rusted from lack of use. a tin-peddler lived not far from us--an enterprising man, the proprietor of two carts, one of which his wife was accustomed to conduct, following him in caravan style on his summer journeyings; but this season the man was sick, his wife busied in his care, and the great carts, piled with wares, stood waiting in the sheds. "i've a notion," said father, "to buy eben ware's stock and hire one of his carts. i can hitch my span of horses to it, and i will make enough selling tinware, as we go, to pay the expenses of the whole trip." this plan did not strike me pleasantly at first, but before i had time to object mr. stillman joined in enthusiastically. "a capital idea, mr. smith, but you know our board is to be paid regularly to mrs. smith during our absence. miss sartoris, miss prillwitz, and i all insist upon that. i will take the peddler's horses and his second cart, which i will load up with my photographic outfit, the ladies' baggage, camp supplies, etc., and i will fill in any spare space with fireworks, which i will offer for sale along the route, all profits to be devoted to the charity in which the ladies are interested. the fourth of july is so near that i fancy the rockets will meet with a ready sale." all joined in the plan with zest. our wardrobe was reduced to a minimum. it was discovered that the two carts were arranged to turn into ambulances for camping at night, and would furnish comfortable accommodation for the feminine portion of the party, while a small tent was provided for father and mr. stillman. in reality we camped but one night, preferring to stop at wayside inns, but it was pleasant to know that we could do so whenever we wished. a roll of army blankets and comfortables, a few kitchen utensils, and some canned goods were stored away in mr. stillman's cart, with miss prillwitz's botanizing equipments, miss sartoris's sketching materials, his own belongings, and all the fireworks which he could manufacture in time; and still there was room in the capacious interior. the rifle was added at winnie's urgent request, as a defense against wild beasts, though we all joined in ridiculing her fears that bears might be found in the massachusetts woods, little thinking that we should have a thrilling adventure with a grizzly bear. at the last moment mr. stillman added another camera and more chemicals. "this means," he replied, in answer to our questions, "that i have rented a tintype outfit of a photographer over at the corners, and propose to add to our resources by taking tintypes as we go." mr. stillman's ready invention, so fertile in expedients, received hearty applause, and the gypsy caravan set out in high feather. we took the steamboat with the carts to new haven, and from that point struck into the interior by turnpikes and country roads, father leading the way with his jingling coach, miss prillwitz and winnie perched high beside him, and miss sartoris, mr. stillman, and i, who called ourselves the art contingent, bringing up the rear. how beautiful the roads were, shaded by willows or arched by elms! often fascinating lanes led off from the highway toward comfortable farm-houses, or grass-grown, deserted roads mounted through shady gorges to the lonely hills, tempting us from the beaten track. but the highway was beautiful enough. sometimes it followed the curves of some vagrant stream, or wound around gently undulating hills. miss sartoris pointed out the fact that it was most frequently a succession of curves, while french highways are laid out as straight as the surveyor can make them, and do not compose as well in landscape paintings. the connecticut roads we found easy to travel, well kept, and for the most part level or of easy grade. it was not until we reached western massachusetts that we walked up the hills to lighten the load, or that the driver pressed his foot hard on the brake as the cart coasted down the steep inclines like a toboggan. winnie was delighted with a bit of gorge road which played at hide and seek with a wayward brook. "it seems to me," she said, "that the wood is a matter-of-fact business man, and the brook is his sweet but willful little wife. see how he tries to adapt himself to her whims and pranks, keeping as close to her as he can, while the side which she does not touch is stern with rock and shadow! and she, coquettish little thing, wanders away from him into the deepest part of the ravine, where he cannot follow, and hides herself in a tangle of fern and wild-flowers, till, just as the lonely old road, quite in despair at having lost her, crosses the ravine on a bridge of logs, apparently for the sole purpose of seeking her, the merry little brook flies under the mossy bridge and is close beside him on the side which he thought farthest from her." "that is a very good parable," said father. "you've struck the nail pretty fairly. that's the way it has always been with my wife and me. my daughter, too, is one of the brook kind, but you needn't conclude that the old road doesn't enjoy all the company of blackberry vines and laurel and ferns that the brook attracts to itself, and which never would have come near the road but for the brook. i mean you and miss sartoris and the rest." "and sometimes," winnie added, "the road has its grains of corn or wheat dropped from a passing cart, you know, to give to the sparrows, and the brook likes that ever so much." father always called the boys from the home "the sparrows," and he was pleased by this allusion to his generosity. we found ourselves following the circus at one stage of our journey, and we pitched our tent and made camp not far from the fair-grounds. we chose for our camp a site which had once been occupied by a house that had been burned to the ground. the only out-building which had escaped the conflagration was a root-house, or cellar, excavated, cave-like, in the side of a hill. it struck mr. stillman as a particularly good "dark-room," and we at once pre-empted it. miss sartoris painted a sign-board for the photographic studio, and winnie and i arranged a bower with a flowery background for mr. stillman's sitters. we had a rich harvest that day, winnie acting as cashier, and miss sartoris, as assistant, posing the groups. mr. stillman was quite exhausted when evening fell. he said he had never done such a day's work in his life, and his tintype material was nearly used up. we were patronized not only by the country people who came to see the show, sheepish lovers who wished to have their portraits taken together, and parties of merry young people, but also by the showmen themselves. the living skeleton and the fat lady, the strong man supporting a great weight by his teeth, the lion tamer with his pets, and the snake charmer, were all among mr. stillman's patrons. when it was understood that he had an instantaneous camera with him, the equestrienne desired him to take a photograph of her while performing her famous feat of riding five horses at once, and the acrobats challenged him to catch their rapid evolutions. he surprised them by his remarkable success in obtaining a perfect negative. it was our most successful day, from a financial point of view, for we realized over twenty dollars. father had a rather annoying experience which made him desire to avoid the circus in the future. among the articles which the tin-peddler had given him was a soldering furnace and irons, for mending old tinware. father made his first attempt to use these tools on this afternoon. the door-keeper of one of the tents brought him his japanned tin strong-box to mend, and father attacked the task laboriously, succeeding in making it firm by a rather too plentiful application of solder. he was so interested in his task that he did not notice that an organ-grinder, one of the followers of the circus, had pressed quite near and was regarding the coins, which the door-keeper had temporarily turned into his handkerchief, with hungry eyes. suddenly the monkey, which had been tied to the organ, became loose, and springing straight to the little furnace, seized and brandished the heated soldering-iron. a great excitement ensued, for no one dared to take the formidable weapon from the mischievous creature. the owner of the monkey seemed at his wits' end. he raged, stamped, tore his hair, commanded and entreated the monkey to bring back the iron, all to no avail. the monkey, having burned himself, finally dropped it, but, frightened by the pain or by his master's threats, continued his flight into the woods, followed by the organ-grinder. when the excitement occasioned by this event had subsided, a still greater one ensued on the discovery that the door-keeper's handkerchief and money had disappeared. the man angrily charged father with its theft, but mr. stillman came running from his dark-room with a negative which he had just developed. he had been standing at the door, with his detective camera in his hand, and, quite unintentionally, had done real detective work, for, intending only to catch the monkey with the soldering-iron, he had focused upon it at the very first, and the unerring eye of the camera had seen and recorded what every one else had been too preoccupied to discover--the organ-grinder snatching the gate-keeper's money. the negative was a sufficient witness, and the organ-grinder was at once sought for, but the earth seemed to have swallowed him. the monkey was found nursing his burned paw in a tree, but his master and the money were not to be found. there was such a train of beggars and questionable characters in the wake of the circus that it was decided not to pursue our moneyed advantage by following with them; and the next day we stood back from the road to let the heavy, shambling elephants and long train of gaudily decorated wagons pass by. mr. stillman had his detective camera out, and took some interesting views of the procession. father had taken a dislike to the soldering outfit, and congratulated himself that the monkey had lost the iron, but the last in the procession, a gypsy fortune-teller, handed it to him, saying that it was a lodestone, which would bring evil fortune to the person who possessed it, and advising him to give it to his worst enemy. "i am a witch," winnie laughed, "and can reverse all omens--so we need not fear." turning from the highway, we now struck across the country, through chestnut woods, where miss prillwitz taught us to recognize the song of the thrush, the sweetest of new england songsters, and cousin of the mocking-bird. mr. stillman was vexed that he could not obtain a single photograph of a thrush, but she is a shy bird, and keeps hidden in leafy thickets, and though we heard her song frequently, we never saw her. mr. stillman became very skillful in photographing other birds, even fixing the agile little fly-catchers in their eccentric movements, the watchful bobolink atilt on a mullein-stalk, the swallows skimming the river's surface, and the sagacious crows, who, having proved that a very natural scarecrow was harmless, were less suspicious of him. the withered limbs on certain old apple-trees were favorite perches for the birds, for there was no foliage here to impede their flight, and outlined against the sky they were capital targets for the camera. mr. stillman secured a gentlemanly king-bird in such a position, his white breast and black back and tail feathers reminding winnie of a dandy in full evening dress. miss prillwitz remarked on the brilliant plumage of the new england birds, and said that it was a mistake to imagine that those of the south were more beautiful. she pointed out the black and gold orioles, the lovely bluebird, the scarlet tanagers, as brilliant as flamingoes, the beautiful rose-breasted grosbeaks, with a rich crimson heart upon their breasts, and the red-winged blackbirds, with their scarlet epaulets, reminding one of brisk artillerymen. it was the last of june--the most perfect of all the months--and as we rode we repeated all of the poets' praises of the month that we could remember. we agreed that lowell had sung the season best: "the bobolink has come, and, like the soul of the sweet season vocal in a bird, gurgles in ecstasy we know not what, save june! dear june! now god be praised for june." but margaret deland pleased us nearly as well in her homage to the queen month: "the dark laburnum's chains of gold she twists about her throat; perched on her shoulder, blithe and bold, the brown thrush sounds his note! "and blue of the far dappled sky, that shows at warm, still noon, shines in her softly smiling eye-- oh who's so sweet as june?" father was not a very successful tin-peddler. the thrifty new england housewives were not pleased because he was unwilling to exchange his wares for rags, after the manner of other itinerant venders. he was uncertain as to the prices which he ought to charge; asking so little for his brooms that one patron purchased all his stock, at a decided loss to himself, as he afterwards learned, and demanding so much for nutmeg graters that a sagacious purchaser showed him the door with scorn. the soldering outfit, too, caused him much woe. it seemed that the original peddler was a clever tinker; and all sorts of broken articles, from clocks to umbrellas, were brought out for father to mend. at first father good humoredly tried his best, but having burned holes in his clothing, as well as blistered his hands, and succeeding in no instance in satisfying his patrons, he was tempted to throw the little furnace away, but his sense of economy would not allow him to do this, and he stowed it away vindictively in the depths of his cart. shortly after this we spent two very interesting days in visiting mt. holyoke and smith colleges. they gave both to winnie and me a desire for a higher education than that which we were receiving at madame's. miss sartoris wandered slowly through the art building of smith, looking longingly at its superb equipment. the college is charmingly situated in the old town of northampton. we were told that the students had just acted a greek play, the "electra" of sophocles, very successfully, and we looked at one another in envy as we thought how impossible it would have been to present such a drama at madame's. we passed the holyoke range on july . this barrier marks as distinct a climatic change as cape cod in the atlantic currents, for, just as, south of the cape, and apparently threatened by her bent arm, the gulf stream sweeps to the north the tropic sea-weeds, and north of it, and gathered close in its embrace, the arctic mosses cling to the cold heart of new england; so, south of the holyoke range the air may be tepid and lifeless, while beyond it invigorating breezes from the northland are dancing cheerily. we had eaten the last native connecticut strawberries, but they were just in their glory north of the barrier, and though the almanac said july, it was june weather still. mount tom and mount holyoke stand as sentinels at the entrance of a lovely region, through whose elm-covered villages we drove at leisurely pace, resting over a sabbath at old hadley, one of the most charming places, with its principal street a double cloister of elms and maples, and where a sabbath peace and stillness brooded even on week-days. mr. stillman found, for the next few days, a ready sale for his fireworks, exhausting his stock and adding twenty-five dollars to the treasury. about twelve miles north of mount holyoke rises mount toby, a noble mountain, which assumes, from certain directions, the shape of a crouching camel. the resemblance is even more marked than that of the rock of gibraltar to a lion. it dominates the country round about, and from its summit nearly a score of nestling towns and villages are visible. among these mr. stillman sold his rockets, and proposed that we should spend fourth of july night on its summit, and there watch the little fire-fountains on the plain below. it was an attractive plan, but mr. stillman had not counted the weather into his reckoning. it had been a sultry day. as we stopped at a farm-house on our way from sunderland to mount toby, the good woman told us to look out for rain. "the grass has been waiting two days to be cut," she said, "but it looks kinder lowry, and the men-folks daresn't begin haying." there were two superb cumulus clouds in the west, shaped like elm-trees, or wine-glasses touching rims, and there was a blue rain-cloud in the southeast, with fringes trailing the landscape, and blurring it from our view. "the rain may not reach mount toby at all," father said; "showers travel about among those hills in a curious fashion. i have seen it raining hard on one side of sugar-loaf, while the other was dry and dusty. there is a deserted railway station at the foot of toby, where we can spend the night. there were picnic grounds laid out on the mountain at one time, but the enterprise failed, and trains no longer stop there." a view of the station, which we reached early in the afternoon, confirmed father's recommendation of it. the roof was weather tight, and it was a roomy, comfortable building, a good refuge should a shower overtake us. we picnicked beside a beautiful cascade, and leaving the horses picketed beside the carts, proceeded to climb the mountain on foot. it was glorious with masses of white and pink laurel, which i had never before seen in its perfection, and miss prillwitz introduced me to many other plants and flowers new to me. the amherst basket-fern, shaped like a corinthian capital, grew in perfection, the columbine blew her flame-colored trumpets, and the harebell rang her inaudible chimes from mossy clefts in the gray rocks. miss prillwitz said she had last picked harebells in austria. "you know," said miss sartoris, "that mary howitt calls the harebell 'the very flower to take into the heart, and make the cherished memory of all pleasant places; name but the light harebell, and straight is pictured well where'er of fallen state lie lonely traces. old slopes of pasture ground, old fosse and moat and mound, where the mailed warrior and crusader came; old walls of crumbling stone with ivy overgrown, rise at the mention of the harebell's name.'" miss prillwitz pointed out more obscure plants, and gave us interesting bits of information in regard to them. some had strangely human characteristics. the cassia, a shrinking sensitive-plant with yellow blossoms, was one of these, while the poison-ivy in its unctuous growth had an evil and malignant appearance which seemed to hint at its inimical nature. she told us how to tell the poisonous sumac from the harmless variety, the poisonous kind being the only one that has pendant fruit. she gave us also a little chat about parasitic plants, suggested by a _gerardia_, a little thief which draws its nutriment from the roots of huckleberry. "i did not know that plants had so little conscience," said winnie. "it reminds me of a guest a southern gentleman had, who remained twelve years, and after the death of the host married his widow." "plants seem also to be cruel," said miss prillwitz. "zere is ze _apocynum_, a carnivorous plant which eat ze insect. you should read of him by darwin. he set a trap for ze fly wiz some honey, and when mr. fly tickle ze plant, quick he is caught, and mr. apocynum he eat him, and digest him at his leisures." "miss prillwitz, you should write a book for young people, and call it 'near nature's heart,'" i suggested. "i would so like," replied miss prillwitz, "but if i waste my time to write, how should i earn my lifes? i have know many author, and very few do make their wealths by--by their authority." miss prillwitz brought out the last word triumphantly, quite sure that she had achieved a success in our difficult language. i turned aside to mr. stillman, that she might not see my smile. "how interesting she makes our climb," i said, "and all these wayside weeds! 'she illustrates the landscape.'" "in my humble opinion it is miss sartoris who 'illustrates the landscape,'" he replied. "see what a picture she makes reaching after those sweet-briar blossoms! i wish i had not left my detective at the station." miss sartoris was indeed very pretty. it seemed to me that she grew younger and more bewitching with every day of our trip. each changing pose as she leisurely picked the wild roses was full of grace, but i could hardly understand why mr. stillman should greatly regret not securing this particular view, when she had figured in at least half of the photographs which he had taken. we reached the top of the mountain just at sunset. the west glowed with a yellow-green color. the strange clouds, which had been as white as curds in the afternoon, were now dark blue, lighted by flashes of heat lightning. they moved forward like the pillar which led the israelites, great billowy masses piled one on the other and toppling at the summit, while they melted at the base into a mist of rain. behind them was the background of the sunset, like a plate of hammered gold dashed with that sinister green. there were threatening rumblings in the east also, and amherst and its college buildings were blotted out by the rain clouds, which resembled the petals of a fringed gentian, and seemed to be traveling rapidly in our direction. father took a rapid view of the horizon. "there will be no fireworks display for us to-night," he said. "there are two showers which will meet in an hour's time, and toby will be just about in the centre of the fracas. we had better hurry down the mountain if we want to escape a wetting." miss sartoris gave a longing look at the beautiful panorama of nestling villages, forest and winding river (a view unsurpassed in massachusetts), and now glorified by the magnificent cloud effects. "can we not rest for half an hour?" she asked. "i think not," father replied, and we reluctantly retraced our steps. when half-way down the mountain the wind, which preceded the march of the cloud battalion, caught up with us. the chestnuts crouched low and moaned, the poplars shivered and shook their white palms, and the hemlocks writhed and tossed their gaunt arms as though in agony. then there was a hush, when they seemed to stand still from very fear, and a minute later the storm burst upon us. we were but a short distance from the station when this occurred, and the foliage which roofed the road was so dense that we were not very wet when we reached our shelter. there was an invigorating scent of ozone in the air, and a certain exhilaration in being out in a storm, and in hearing the crash of falling limbs far back in the woods. we noticed the gentleness of the rain, which, though apparently fierce, did not break a single fragile wild-flower. each leaf, sponged free from dust, brightened as though freshly varnished, and each blade of grass threaded its necklace of crystal beads. the cascade, swollen and turbid, roared angrily at our side, and a shallower rivulet made the path slippery as we hurried on; but a few moments of laughing scramble brought us panting into the dry station, safely housed for the night from the storm. father and mr. stillman arranged shelter for the horses by spreading the tent between the two carts, and we ate our supper at what had formerly been a refreshment counter. then the ticket-office was assigned to the gentlemen as their dormitory, and hammocks were hung for the rest of us in the ladies' waiting-room. we told ghost stories for a time by the light of a spirit-lamp and a few candles, but retired early, as we were thoroughly tired from our long walk, and were soon asleep, lulled by the monotone of the falling rain. we were not destined, however, to enjoy a night of undisturbed repose, for the principal adventure of our journey occurred that night. i do not know how long we had slept when we were all suddenly awakened by a startling scream. "what is it? oh, what is it?" gasped winnie. "is it a catamount?" asked miss sartoris. i thought of the railroad track, which ran close beside us, and suggested that it might be the shriek of a passing engine, when suddenly it came again on the side of the station opposite to the track. father sprang up, exclaiming, "something is the matter with the horses!" the rain was still pouring, and a dim light from the swinging lantern illumined the room. as father spoke, one of the windows, which had been left open for ventilation, was suddenly filled by an uncouth form, which, with much scrambling and snorting, was proceeding to force an entrance. "it is a bear!" shrieked winnie; and so it was. mr. stillman rushed forward with his rifle. there was a loud report, and a heavy fall on the outside. "horses can scent bears at a distance," said father, as he took down the lantern; "but who would have thought there were any such creatures in these woods?" "perhaps it has broken away from the circus," suggested mr. stillman, reloading his rifle; for there was an ominous growling outside. human voices were presently heard whose intonations were almost as harsh as those of the brute. father unbarred the door, and we saw two men bending over the wounded bear, which he now saw was muzzled, and the property of the men, who had evidently heard of the old station, and had thought to take refuge in it from the storm. "here's a pretty state of things!" father exclaimed, with a whistle. "you have shot a performing bear, stillman, and these showmen will probably make us pay dearly for the mistake." we had all been terribly frightened; but we recovered instantly on this announcement, and hurriedly dressing, we peered out at the men as they stood about the wounded animal and discussed the situation. one of the showmen was a foreigner, who swore and grumbled in some strange language, which miss prillwitz afterward told us was russian. the other was unmistakably a jew, and he took a jewish advantage of the accident. "you haf ruined our pizness--dot bear he wort one, two hundert dollar!" "nonsense!" replied father, as confidently as if he were accustomed to trade in that species of live-stock; "he's dear at fifty. besides, he isn't dead, nor anything like it. hold him with this halter, you two, and i'll examine him. there! i told you so; it's only a flesh wound in the right foreleg. there are no bones broken. he will be ready for travel in a week. all you've got to do is to stay here for a few days--and where could you be better off? we leave in the morning, and no one will dispute your possession of this house. i will leave you enough provisions to keep you until you are ready for the road again." the men talked it over in russian, and seemed far from satisfied, though mr. stillman offered to give them twenty dollars as an equivalent for what they would have gained during the next week, and father added his remaining stock of small tinware, which, he explained, they could easily sell from door to door at the farm-houses and villages in the vicinity. he was tired of his occupation as a tin-peddler, and glad to get rid of the obnoxious soldering furnace, as well as the patty-pans and muffin-rings. a settlement was finally effected when, in addition to this, mr. stillman agreed to their demand for fifty dollars cash indemnity. there was no more sleep for us that night, and it was with rueful countenances that we discussed the adventure among ourselves. "to think," lamented winnie, "that, just as we were congratulating ourselves on gaining so much money for the home, we should be obliged to pay it all out, and more besides, to these wretched men, and all for nothing too!" "yes," replied mr. stillman, "that is the provoking part. if i had only killed the creature we might have bear-steak for breakfast (though it would have been pretty expensive meat), and i could have had his hide mounted as a rug, and have exhibited it to my friends with truthful braggadocio as one of my hunting trophies." i sympathized with winnie in regard to the depleted condition of our treasury; but miss prillwitz remarked, enigmatically, that the adventure might not prove to be such a losing one as we imagined. we begged her to explain; but she bade us wait until we were at least ten miles from our encampment. we relinquished the station to the showmen after a very early breakfast, and drove away with lightened carts and subdued spirits. the rain had ceased, but was likely to begin again at any moment, for the sky was thickly overcast, and father suggested that, as this was a famous trout region, we might do well to spend the morning in fishing. this plan pleased all but miss prillwitz, who whispered to father that she had particular reasons for reaching a telegraph station as soon as possible, and we accordingly directed our course at a rattling pace toward the shire town of greenfield. on the way miss prillwitz confided to us her suspicions; and in order that the reader may understand them, i must anticipate the events which are to be related in the next chapter, and explain that, after the explosion at rickett's court, solomon meyer and one of the anarchists had disappeared from new york, and mr. armstrong had offered a reward for their apprehension. the anarchist was known to be a russian, and though miss prillwitz had never seen solomon meyer, she felt sure, from lovey trimble's description of him, that he had decided to avoid the ordinary routes of travel, and to journey toward canada on foot, disguised as an itinerant showman. she had more proofs of his identity than these suspicions. the men had conversed very freely with each other in russian, never dreaming that there was any one present who could understand the language. the russian had complained bitterly that this accident would delay their journey to canada, and the jew had replied that it might be as well to lie hidden until the search was over. arrived at greenfield, miss prillwitz telegraphed to mr. armstrong, and in two hours received the following reply: "have the local authorities arrest the parties and detain them until i can reach greenfield." accordingly mr. stillman and father, with a sheriff and a constable, drove back toward mount toby in a sort of picnic wagon. father advised us to await him at deerfield, one of the most interesting villages in the connecticut valley--both from its intrinsic beauty and its historic associations. we engaged lodgings at the small hotel, where we found but one other traveler, a dejected book-agent. it was nearly dinner-time, and the landlord looked rather alarmed by the unexpected arrival of so many hungry-looking guests, but he soon set before us a capital dinner of broiled chicken, and after a little rest we took a stroll through the beautiful old town. we were informed that the memorial hall, a museum of antique furniture, books, costumes, and other curiosities, was well worth visiting; and so, indeed, we found it. one object which greatly interested me was an old spinnet, with a quaint collection of music, both sacred and secular. here was a great bass-viol which formerly groaned out an accompaniment to the male voices of the choir as they took their part in such strange, metrical arrangements as "come, my beloved, haste away, cut short the hours of thy delay; fly like a youthful hart or roe, over the hills where spices grow." the library, too, a collection of "the (literary) remains" of many celebrated doctors of divinity, was a fascinating room, and one in which we would have enjoyed prowling for a long time. hawthorne has given such an admirable description, in his "old manse," of just such a library, that i cannot forbear quoting it here. "the old books would (for the most part) have been worth nothing at an auction. they possessed an interest quite apart from their literary value; many of them had been transmitted down through a series of consecrated hands from the days of the mighty puritan divines. a few of the books were latin folios written by catholic authors; others demolished papistry as with a sledgehammer, in plain english. a dissertation on the book of job, which only job himself could have had the patience to read, filled at least a score of small, thick-set quartos, at the rate of two or three volumes to a chapter. then there was a vast folio 'body of divinity.' volumes of this form dated back two hundred years and more, and were generally bound in black leather, exhibiting precisely such an appearance as we should attribute to books of enchantment. others equally antique were of a size proper to be carried in the large waistcoat pockets of old times: diminutive, but as black as their bulkier brethren. these little old volumes impressed me as if they had been intended for very large ones, but had been, unfortunately, blighted at an early stage of their growth. then there were old newspapers, and still older almanacs, which reproduced the epochs when they had issued from the press with a distinctness that was altogether unaccountable. it was as if i had found bits of magic looking-glass among the books, with the images of a vanished century in them." we lingered long in the library, and in the indian room, where stands an old door gashed by the tomahawks of the indians who, with a company of french, in , surprised deerfield, massacred a great part of the inhabitants, and carried a hundred and twelve as prisoners to canada. yellow and crumbling letters, uncertainly spelled and quaintly phrased, hung around the room, telling how perilous such a driving-tour as we had just taken would have been in those pioneer days. one, dated and written to captain john burt in the crown point army, read as follows: "dear husband. "it is a crasie time in this place. there is but little traviling by the massachusetts fort which makes it more difficult to send letters. capt. chapin and chidester and his son were killed and scalpt by the enemy near the new foort at hoosack." sarah williams, of roxbury, in announces to her friends at deerfield the expected return of many of their friends who had been carried off in different raids--"we have had news that unkel is coming with one hundred and fifty captives." the number dwindled, and many who were carried away on that dreary march through the winter snow never returned, but among the relics preserved in the archives of memorial hall is a pathetic little red shoe which walked all the way from hatfield to canada and back, on the foot of little sally colman. it is hardly more than a tiny sole, with a rag of the scarlet upper clinging to it, but it tells the story of the cruel march, and the heroic efforts of the noble men who effected the rescue of their friends, better than many a page of print. we were so much interested in memorial hall that it was long past supper-time before we thought of leaving. the book-agent advised us to visit the old burying-ground, and, after supper, offered to show us the way. we found it grass-grown and neglected; in some portions, a thicket of climbing vines and tangling briers. indeed, the entire god's acre was so given over to nature that the birds built undismayed, while the squirrel frisked impudently on the headstones, and the woodchuck burrowed beside the tombs. it had not been used for many years; a newer cemetery raised its white monuments on the hillside, while here lichens nearly filled the carving, and the stones leaned at tipsy angles, proving that grief for any buried here had been long assuaged, that the very mourners had passed away, and it was doubtful whether a single aged man still lingered in the town of whom it could be said that "these mossy marbles rest on the lips which he has pressed in their bloom. and the names he loved to hear have been carved for many a year on the tomb." as miss sartoris remarked, the place did not suggest sadness, but gentle retrospection, while curiosity provoked the fancy to fill out the histories so provokingly suggested in the inscriptions. here was buried mrs. williams, whom her epitaph declares to be "the virtuous and desirable consort of mr. john williams," and mr. mehuman hinsdale, who was "twice captivated by the barbarous savages." the book-agent read us another epitaph, copied in vernon, vt., which suggested a three-volume novel in the history which it gave of early indian times. our imaginations sank exhausted as we attempted to follow the heroine through all her matrimonial complications, i give it as it was dictated to me: mrs. jemima tute, successively relict of messrs. william phips, caleb howe, and amos tute. the two first were killed by the indians, phips, july , ; howe, june , . when howe was killed, she and her children, then seven in number, were carried into captivity. the oldest daughter went to france, and was married to a french gentleman. the youngest was torn from her breast, and perished with hunger. by the aid of some benevolent gentlemen, and her own personal heroism, she recovered the rest. she died march , , having passed through more vicissitudes and endured more hardships than any of her contemporaries. "'no more can savage foe annoy, nor aught her widespread fame destroy.'" it was dark when we wandered back to the hotel, past the old manse built for the reverend john williams by his parishioners after his return from captivity. we were told that some one residing in the house of late had occasion to move a tall piece of furniture in one of the chambers, and discovered a door. opening this, a secret staircase was found leading from the cellar to the attic. no one living had known of its existence, and many were the wild guesses made as to its object. when we returned to the hotel we found that father and mr. stillman had not yet arrived. miss sartoris seemed very anxious, and feared that there might have been trouble in arresting the tramps. winnie cheered us by suggesting the trout fishing, which mr. stillman had reluctantly abandoned when we left mt. toby. it would be a good night for fishing, the landlord said; perhaps they had remained for it, since the distance to toby was too long to be comfortably made three times in one day. after breakfast the next morning, as our travelers were still absent, miss sartoris and i unpacked our sketch-boxes and began to make a study of the street from the north end, just at the point where the french and indians, "swarming over the palisades on the drifted snow, surprised and sacked the sleeping town." miss prillwitz and winnie, with their botanists' cans, followed a little brook that ran at the back of the hotel, and came back laden with blue german forget-me-nots. father and mr. stillman arrived just before dinner, mr. stillman carrying in one hand a string of beautiful speckled trout, and in the other something which looked like a buffalo-robe. he looked very triumphant and happy, while father followed, carrying in a rather sheepish manner--what but the old soldering furnace! we greeted them with so much laughter and so many questions that it was some time before they could give an account of their adventures. arrived at the mount toby railroad station, they had found it deserted. the men having evidently decided that it was not safe to await the recovery of the bear, had accordingly killed it, and secreted it in a cave at the foot of the mountain. the sheriff knew of this cave, and in examining it in search of the men, found the carcass of the bear. "and so," exclaimed mr. stillman, exhibiting the skin, "i secured my rug, after all, but we concluded that the meat looked rather tough, and we would not take it. i shall express this skin straight to a taxidermist that i know, and have it handsomely mounted." "but the men!" i asked; "you don't mean to tell me that they escaped?" "no," replied father; "but if you can't keep quiet i shall not be able to tell you how they were caught. it was this very ill-luck-bringing soldering outfit that did it. when we found that they had left, i suspected that they had taken the morning train for canada at the montague station, for no trains stopped at toby; and in case they had done that, there was hardly a chance of our reaching the station and ascertaining the fact in time to telegraph and effect their arrest before they could leave the country. we had driven from greenfield pretty rapidly, and our horses were tired; then we took a wrong turning, and got off into leverett, or some other unhappy wilderness; but after a while we found a farmer who provided us with fresh beasts, and we reached the montague station toward evening. it was shut up, and the station-master had gone home, but after another half-hour we found him. yes, our men had bought tickets for montreal that morning. then you should have seen our hurry to telegraph; but the station-master advised us to keep cool, and wait a little. 'they bought their tickets,' he said, 'but they didn't go there.' so that was a feint, i thought, to throw us off the track. but no; on their way from toby they had decided that they would have a cup of coffee, and they had sat down behind a barn to make it on my soldering furnace, and as they were doubtless as tired of carrying the old thing as i was, they left it there. the wind blew the coals into the hay, and in a few minutes the barn was on fire. someone had seen them leave the yard, and before the train came along for which they were waiting, they were arrested as incendiaries, and taken to the greenfield jail. as this was precisely where the sheriff wished to take them, there was nothing for him to do but to return and notify the authorities that the men would be wanted soon on more serious charges. and as the station-master informed us that there was some good trout-fishing nearby, we decided to spend the night in montague. so we let the sheriff and constable drive back to greenfield without us, and telegraphed mr. armstrong that his birds were caught." "if they only turn out to be his birds!" said winnie. "i haf no doubtfuls of zat," said miss prillwitz. "but why did you bring back that wretched little furnace and iron?" i asked. "why, the curious part of it is that the farmer who drove us over this morning had found them in the ruins of his barn, and he brought them along, thinking that we might like them to help in identifying the rascals. i couldn't refuse his kindness, but i certainly shall not carry them away from this place. i don't believe in such nonsense, but the gypsy's prediction has come true so far, and they brought bad fortune to the gentlemen to whom i presented them." mr. armstrong, who had been telegraphed for, arrived with a police officer that night; and miss prillwitz, father, and mr. stillman were absent all the next morning making depositions to aid in the identification of the prisoners. it was finally decided to remove them to new york to await trial on mr. armstrong's charges. we set out that afternoon for ashfield, our route leading us over beautiful hills, and affording us views of rare loveliness. ashfield is a village loved by literary men as deerfield is by artists. deerfield nestles in a valley, while ashfield lies on the breezy hill-top; george william curtis is the centre of the coterie of rare minds who make ashfield their summer home. mr. curtis gives a lecture here once a year for the benefit of the sanderson academy. at this time every manner of vehicle brings the country-people over the winding roads, which converge in ashfield like the spokes of a wheel in their hub. we were not fortunate enough to light on this red-letter day, and we accordingly rested over night at the long low inn, and started early the next morning for uncle's home in hawley. the distance was short, as the crow flies, but it seemed to be all up-hill. the last mile was through one of those gorges so common in this region, where the fissure between the hills is so narrow that the sun only looks in for two or three hours. slowly climbing the long, green-vaulted stairway, the dusky tapestry was at length looped back for us, and the road, emerging from the wooded ravine, gleamed yellow-white between the grassy mounds. crowning one of these knolls stood a long, white farm-house, spreading out wing after wing in hospitable effort to shelter the entire hill-top. beside the road stood a post with a letter-box affixed, for the reception of the mail left by the daily stage. we passed a huddle of old barns and out-buildings, among which i recognized a carpenter's shop, a carriage-shed, a sugar-house in convenient proximity to a grove of maples, a dairy through which ran the brook, keeping cool and solid the eighty pounds of butter which my cousins made each week, a cider-mill, and behind it an orchard of russet apple-trees, and a long row of bee-hives fronting the flower-garden. uncle expected us, and it was delightful to see the meeting between the two brothers, who had not seen each other in twelve years. there were plenty of airy bedrooms, hung with pure white dimity, and after our gypsy life it seemed very pleasant to find once more the comforts of a home. we spent several days at the maples, attending service in the dear old-fashioned church with its high, square pews. aunt prue had all of our travel-soiled clothing neatly washed, and refilled the emptied hampers and lunch-baskets with abundant supplies from the products of the farm and her own good cookery. uncle was a large, easy man, who dearly loved to tell a story to match his own ample proportions, only the twinkle in his eye redeeming him from the charge of deception. aunt prue's rigid conscience revolted at uncle's romances. "asahel smith!" she would exclaim, "how can you lie like that; and you a church-member?" "now, prudence," uncle asahel would reply, "the catechism says a lie is a story told with intention to deceive, and when i told these girls that i drove the oxen home with the last load of hay so fast that i got it into the barn before a drop of water fell, while it was raining so hard behind me that watch, who was following the wagon, actually _swam_ all the way up from the medder--when i told 'em that, i cal'late i didn't deceive 'em; i was only cultivating their imaginations." aunt prue groaned in spirit, and began to sing, in a high, cracked voice. "false are the men of high degree, the baser sort are vanity; weighed in the balance, both appear light as a puff of empty air." while at the maples we made an excursion to cummington, formerly bryant's home. we sat in the library, shut in by a thick grove, where he composed his translations of the odyssey and iliad, and we played with a little pet dog of which he had been very fond. not far from the estate is a fine library, bryant's gift to the little town. "bryant's river" is a brawling little stream which flows through a very picturesque region. we amused ourselves by fancying that we recognized spots described in several of his poems. there was a grand old oak upon the place which might have inspired his lines-- "this mighty oak-- by whose immovable stem i stand, and seem almost annihilated--not a prince in all that proud old world beyond the deep e'er wore his crown as loftily as he wears the green coronal of leaves with which thy hand has graced him." the scenery about cummington and hawley tempted us to a frequent use of our sketching-materials. mr. stillman, too, found several birds new to him, and took some beautiful landscape photographs. miss sartoris gave him new ideas about choosing views where mountain and cloud, trees and reflections, composed well, and his photographs became much more artistic. he began to talk about the importance of placing his darkest dark here, and his highest light there, of balancing a steeple in this part of his picture by a human interest in the foreground, of massing his shadows, of angular composition, of tone and harmony, and the rest of the cant of the studio. nor was it all cant; miss sartoris had taught him to see more in nature than he had ever seen before, and while his ambition had hitherto been to secure sharp photographs of instantaneous effects--mere feats of mechanical skill--his aim was now to produce pictures satisfying to highly cultivated tastes. he acknowledged that all this was due to miss sartoris, who had opened a new world to him, though it seemed to me that he really owed quite as much to miss prillwitz, but for whose influence he would never have taken up photography. i was a little jealous for our princess, and felt that, though miss sartoris was young and fair, and miss prillwitz old and wrinkled, this was no reason why honor should not be rendered where honor was due. there was a pond with a bit of swamp land on uncle's farm, which he considered the blot on the place, but which miss sartoris declared was a real treasure-trove for a picture. one end was covered with lily-pads, and great waxy pond-lilies were opening their alabaster lamps here and there on the surface, while the yellow cow-lilies dotted the other end with their butter-pats. cat-tails and rushes grew in the shallower portions, and here was to be found the rare moccasin-flower, a pink and white orchid of exquisite shape. miss sartoris painted a beautiful picture here. she said it reminded her of the pond which ruskin describes with an artist's insight and enthusiasm. "a great painter sees beneath and behind the brown surface what will take him a day's work to follow; and he follows it, cost what it will. he sees it is not the dull, dirty, blank thing which he supposes it to be; it has a heart as well as ourselves, and in the bottom of that there are the boughs of the tall trees and their quivering leaves, and all the hazy passages of sunshine, the blades of the shaking grass, with all manner of hues of variable, pleasant light out of the sky; and the bottom seen in the clear little bits at the edge, and the stones of it, and all the sky. for the ugly gutter that stagnates over the drain-bars in the heart of the foul city is not altogether base. it is at your will that you see in that despised stream either the refuse of the street or the image of the sky; so it is with many other things which we unkindly despise." we all regretted when our short visit at the maples came to an end, but miss prillwitz felt that she must be hastening back to the home, and we had already transgressed the bounds which we had set to our outing. we decided to vary our journey by returning through berkshire. we drove, the first day, to pittsfield, a flourishing little city, and now for the first time we felt ourselves out of place in the peddler's carts. nowhere else had we attracted any special attention. it was a common thing for tin-peddlers to take their feminine relatives with them on their jaunts, and as we dressed very plainly, and conducted ourselves with gravity, no one gave us a second look. at pittsfield, however, we came in contact once more with "society," and the loungers on the hotel veranda gave us a broadside of astonished looks as we alighted. "it is very disagreeable to be stared at in this way," winnie remarked to miss prillwitz as we entered. "my tear," replied the good lady, "it takes four eyes to make a stare."[a] [a] a remark once made by professor maria mitchell to a student of vassar college who had made a similar complaint. winnie colored deeply, for she knew that if she had been less self-conscious she would not have felt the curious and impertinent gaze. we left pittsfield so early the next morning that none of the hotel loungers were on the piazza to comment on our appearance. we drove, that day, over the lovely lenox hills, once covered by stony pastures, dotted here and there by lonely farm-houses, but now a succession of beautiful parks and aristocratic villas and mansions. mr. stillman had his camera out, and photographed a number of the handsome residences as we passed, and one of the gay little village-carts driven by a young woman dressed in the height of fashion, and presided over by a footman in livery. "that does not seem to me a sensible way of going into the country," said winnie. "i don't believe she has half the fun that we have in this old caravan." "perhaps not," i replied, "but i presume that adelaide and milly are driving about in much the same style; and we know that better-hearted girls never lived." we picnicked near "stockbridge bowl," a lovely lake, blue as geneva and encircled by beautiful hills. as father brought out the lunch-hamper i noticed a queer expression on his face. "what do you suppose i have found stowed away in the back part of the cart?" he asked. "not the soldering furnace?" we all replied, in unison. he smiled grimly, and, instead of replying, placed it before us. "that deerfield landlord must have packed it up without your knowledge," said miss sartoris. "its reappearance is becoming really amusing; let us make one grand final effort to get rid of it by sinking it in the middle of the lake." "will you do it?" "certainly." miss sartoris took the furnace and ran down to the lake, whence she presently returned empty-handed. "did you drown the creature?" "not exactly, but i gave an ancient fisherman whom i found there a quarter to commit the crime for me. i told him that it was something which we were tired of, and never wished to see again, and he promised me, in rather a mixed manner, that 'human hand should never find hide nor hair of it, nor human eye set foot on it again.'" a general laugh followed this announcement. how should we know that the man's suspicions were excited by miss sartoris's anxiety to get rid of the object, and that instead of sinking it in the middle of "the bowl" he wrapped it carefully in brown paper, and labeling it "to be kept till called for," hid it under the bank! "somebody will come for that object," he said to himself; "shouldn't wonder if it was wanted at court as circumstantial evidence of somethin' or 'nother." another event occurred while we were resting at "the bowl." miss sartoris remarked that a view which she had obtained as she returned from the lake was the most enchanting that she had seen on the trip. "how i wish that i had time to sketch it!" she said. "i will photograph it for you," mr. stillman exclaimed, with alacrity, "if you will kindly show me just where you would like to have the view taken." they walked back together, a turn in the road hiding them from our view. we waited for them a long time, and at length father became impatient and drove on, leaving me to hold mr. stillman's horses. when they came back there was an expression on their faces which told everything. i should have known it even if mr. stillman had been able to keep the words back, but he was too happy to be silent. "you were lamenting, this morning," he said to me as he took the reins, "that we had only two more days to journey together." "that is all," i replied, "unless miss sartoris and you have decided to make a longer trip." "yes," he replied, "you have guessed it exactly: miss sartoris has just consented to journey on through life with me." i was surprised, and yet, when i came to think of it, i saw that i ought to have suspected it from the time they first met; and, all things considered, they were admirably suited to each other. so i could only rejoice in their happiness, though i wondered, a little selfishly, what madame's would be without miss sartoris, and whether i should ever have a teacher whom i should love as well. when we caught up with the other cart father asked whether he got a successful negative. "no," replied mr. stillman, "i didn't get a very decided negative, and i confess i didn't want one." there was a look of blank astonishment on all their faces, and then a peal of laughter as his meaning dawned upon them. after the storm of congratulations and exclamations had ceased, miss sartoris suddenly exclaimed, "you left your detective camera!" "that is so," mr. stillman replied, "shall we drive back after it?" "not unless you want to catch that shower," father remarked, pointing to a threatening cloud. "i'll get you ladies under shelter first, and then i really think i must look it up," said mr. stillman. but before we reached stockbridge we met a coaching-party conducted by a nattily dressed young man of slender build, who managed his spirited four-in-hand with considerable skill, and who reined them in as we approached, exclaiming, "stillman! by all that's odd!" mr. stillman introduced the gentleman as a mr. van silver, an old friend from the city, and mutual explanations followed. he was now on his way to lenox, and agreed to stop at the spot which mr. stillman indicated, and if he could find the camera express it to mr. stillman at scup harbor. very little more of interest to the reader occurred until we reached home. we followed the housatonic for the greater part of our way, and when we had nearly reached its mouth, drove across to new haven, from which port, having completed our round-trip, we took the steamer for home. father found a letter from mr. armstrong in relation to the thieves taken in montague, who were proved to be the criminals of rickett's court, whose retribution shall be related in the next chapter. the little boys left in mother's care had conducted themselves in as exemplary a manner as could be expected, there having been no cases of really bad conduct, and only two slight accidents. miss prillwitz took them under her wing and left with them for the home, all looking happier, browner, and rounder for their stay in the country. winnie regretted that our scheme for filling the treasury of the home had not been a success, since the aggregate of money made by peddling tinware and rockets, and by taking tintypes, did not meet the expenses of the trip. mr. stillman, however, insisted on presenting the institution with a handsome check, "as an inadequate thank-offering," so he said, for the great blessing which had come to him in our journeying "over the hills and far away." miss sartoris left almost immediately for her own home, and mr. stillman followed her soon after. two express packages came to him before he left us. one was the bearskin, handsomely mounted, the other was preceded by a note from his friend mr. van silver, which said that he had overtaken a venerable fisherman walking off with his camera, and that it required considerable persuasion of a "sterling quality" to rescue it from him. mr. stillman opened the package with grateful anticipation, and found--the soldering furnace! chapter xv. the estates del paradiso. "i have been here before, but when, or how, i cannot tell; i know the grass beyond the door, the sweet, keen smell, the sighing sound, the lights around the shore. you have been mine before, how long ago i may not know; but just when, at that swallow's soar, your neck turned so, some veil did fall--i knew it all of yore." --_rossetti._ [illustration: {drawing of woman.}] we must now return to mr. armstrong, whom we left in chapter xii. in conference with dr. carver over the doctor's advertisement of the case of lost identity inserted in the daily papers ten years before. the physician listened gravely to mr. armstrong's account of the loss of his wife and infant son, the wild hopes which were now awakened, and to his request for the address of the lady referred to, and gave him a pitying glance as he replied: "so many bereaved persons have come to me fancying that they recognized a loved one in that notice, only to be cruelly disappointed; and mrs. halsey has in the past been subjected to so many trying interviews of this description, that i hesitate to encourage your visiting her, unless you have positive proof of what you hope. a photograph would give this proof." "and, unfortunately, i have none of mrs. armstrong." "but i had one taken of mrs. halsey, which i have kept in the hope that it might be identified some day;" and the doctor drew from his pocket-book a thumbed and discolored photograph, which he placed in mr. armstrong's hand. the effect was unmistakable. the strong man rose to his feet, staggered, and fainted, for he had recognized his wife. the physician quickly restored him to consciousness, and after waiting until the effect of the shock had partially passed away, he said: "i see that there is no danger of any mistake, and that i may direct you where to find mrs. halsey--i beg pardon, mrs. armstrong. her address, when i last saw her, was no. rickett's court." "rickett's court!" exclaimed mr. armstrong, in horror. "yes, sir; it is not the best quarter of the city, but many of the respectable poor live there; and you must remember, sir, that your wife must necessarily have had a hard struggle to support herself and your little son, alone and friendless, in this great city." mr. armstrong groaned aloud. rickett's court had not seemed so bad to him for other men's children and wives, but that _his_ child, _his_ wife, should live in such vile surroundings was horrible. he sprang to his feet, seized his hat, and with a hasty "i will see you again, doctor," hurried in the same direction which stephen trimble had taken not a half-hour before. it was only a short distance, but it seemed miles to him. just as he came in sight of the building every window in its front was illuminated with a sudden flash, and a heavy detonation shook the earth. then smoke poured from the broken panes, and the air was filled with flying splinters and débris, while shrieks from within, and shouts of "fire! fire!" from without, added to the confusion. [illustration: {drawing of city street and buildings.}] the smoke cleared in a moment, and people were seen at the windows dropping down the fire-escape. only a few minutes later a fire-engine came tearing around the corner, and the hoarse voice of a fireman was heard dominating the tumult and giving orders, but before this alexander armstrong, possessed of but one idea--that his wife and child were somewhere within--had rushed into the burning building. one glance showed him that this was hopeless. the staircase had been torn out by the explosion, and the flames were roaring up the space which it had occupied, as through a chimney. he was dragged back to the court by the fireman, who exclaimed, "man alive! can't you see that the staircase has gone, and that they are coming down the fire-escape? there wouldn't have been the ghost of a chance for them but for that. bless the man who had it put there!" the words gave him a little heart, and he stood at the foot, helping the women and catching the children handed to him, hoping in vain to recognize his wife. they stopped coming. "are all out?" he shouted. "there's some one in the fourth story," said a woman, and before the fireman could lay his hand on the fire-escape mr. armstrong was half-way up. the façade still stood, but the entire interior of the building was in flames, and blinding smoke and scorching sparks poured from the windows. at the fourth story a man had staggered to the window and lay with his arm outside, holding on to the sill. mr. armstrong uttered a cry when he saw that it was a man, but, none the less, he lifted him tenderly out, and into the arms of the fireman following close behind them. then drawing his coat over his mouth and nostrils, he entered the room. another man lay at a little distance, or a body that had been a man, terribly torn and shattered by the explosion. it was the anarchist who had been the principal in the plot; the other had escaped. mr. armstrong descended, looking into every apartment as he came down to be sure no living thing was left inside that furnace. "you are a hero, sir! will you give me your name? i represent ----." it was the omnipresent reporter on hand for an item. mr. armstrong turned from him, without reply, to the man whom he had rescued, stephen trimble, who lay with a foot torn from the ankle, and a broken arm. a hospital surgeon knelt at his side bandaging deftly. a policeman had sent the call when mr. armstrong started up the fire-escape, and the ambulance, a more conclusive "evidence of christianity" than that dear old dr. hopkins or any other theologian ever wrote; nobler exponent of civilization than the fire department even, since that is the rich man's provision for saving his own property, while the ambulance is the rich man's provision for saving the poor man's life--the ambulance, with surgeon on the back seat coolly feeling for his instruments, and bare-headed driver clanging the gong, and lashing his already galloping horses, had torn like mad down broadway. and as it came, aristocratic carriages hurrying with ladies just a little late for a grand dinner, and an expectant bridegroom on his way to grace church, halted and waited for it to pass; express and telegraph agents, and rushing men of business, gave it the right of way as it bounded on its errand of mercy. alexander armstrong spoke for a moment with the surgeon, long enough to learn that stephen trimble's injuries were probably not mortal, and to urge every attention possible. then he caught sight of solomon meyer bowing and cringing at a little distance, and he sprang upon him like a panther on his prey. solomon, greatly surprised, could only imagine that the loss of the property had driven him insane, and gasped, "ze insurance bolicy is all right," whereat the ex-landlord gave his agent such a shaking that his teeth rattled in his head, only pausing to inquire if he knew anything of a tenant by the name of mrs. halsey. solomon meyer assured him that mrs. halsey had long since quitted the building, but this only partially reassured him, for he placed very little reliance on the man's word. his wife, almost found, was lost to him again. he could not believe that she perished in the burning building; still, there was this horrible possibility. there was no one to tell him that she had just gone to narragansett pier at his daughter's bidding, and was occupying the very cottage where so many of her happier years were passed; and he threw himself more unreservedly into his business projects, not, however, forgetting the poor inventor at the hospital, whom he visited frequently, and cared for as tenderly as though he had been his brother. after the excitement of the fire was over, he remembered that the law had an account to settle with solomon meyer, but he was not then to be found. his guilty conscience had taken the alarm, and the subtle magnetism which draws bad people together had caused him to form a partnership with the anarchist who had escaped the explosion, and but for miss prillwitz's timely recognition they would have fled to canada. mr. armstrong found them, as we know, in the greenfield jail, and had no difficulty in identifying them, and in having them brought to justice. as the time approached for the trial of solomon meyer and the russian anarchist, mr. armstrong was troubled with the fear that stephen trimble might not be able to testify in court. he visited him frequently at the hospital, and whenever he approached the subject of his dealings with the anarchists he became excited and confused. his little son, lovey dimple, was seated beside him during one of mr. armstrong's calls. he was allowed to visit his father, and waited upon him day by day, sometimes telling him of the pleasant times he had had at the seashore, and at others watching him quietly. his presence seemed to do his father good; and on this visit mr. armstrong was able to obtain much more information from stephen trimble than upon any previous occasion. "you are quite sure," mr. armstrong asked, "that you never saw this check, which someone has cashed at the bank, and which is indorsed with your name?" "never, never!" replied the wounded man. "i see it, though," lovey dimple spoke up, promptly. "jim had come down to the court to see me, and i wanted to show him the machine in the rooshans' room, and we follered him in there. mr. meyer dropped a piece of paper which looked like that, and jim picked it up. he could tell you what was written on it." "i must have jim as a link in our chain of testimony," mr. armstrong replied. "is he at the home of the elder brother?" "no, sir; jim used to be there, but he had the luck to be adopted. he went away just for to be a tiger for some swells, and they liked him so much they permoted him. he's jim roservelt now." so this was the lad of whom adelaide had spoken to him. mr. armstrong wrote to his friend mr. roseveldt, requesting that jim should be sent to the city. his testimony at the trial was so clear and concise, and his entire appearance so manly, that mr. armstrong was greatly drawn to him. "if my own boy had lived," he said to mr. roseveldt, who had come to the city with jim, "he would have been about the age of this little fellow. i am about to make a western trip of six or seven weeks, and would like to take him with me. should the liking which i have taken to him grow upon acquaintance, i beg of you to relinquish him to me; i need him, for i am a stricken man, and you are a fortunate one, or i would not ask it." mr. roseveldt replied that, though he was fond of jim, he would willingly give him up to mr. armstrong for adoption after his return from the west, provided the boy's mother would consent to the transfer. singularly enough, the name of that mother was not mentioned, and mr. armstrong took jim with him to colorado, little dreaming that the boy was his own son. he had said that he needed jim; and he needed him in more ways than he knew. he had grown world-soiled, as well as world-weary, and the companionship of a soul white and young was destined to exert upon him a purifying as well as rejuvenating influence. before the grand mountain scenery jim's fresh enthusiasm stimulated mr. armstrong's sated admiration, and the child's naive ideas of right and wrong were a rebuke to the man's sophistries. they journeyed together through the wild and beautiful cañons of the rocky mountains, and the boy was deeply impressed by the stupendous cliffs rising on each side--walls that were sometimes two thousand feet in height, and so close together that the narrow river, which had cut its way down from the surface, sometimes filled the entire space at the bottom of the gorge. but even here the ingenuity of man had surmounted the barriers of nature, and the observation-car on which they rode dashed along upon a shelf cut in the solid rock, with a sheer wall on one hand, and a dizzy precipice on the other. such a cañon was the royal gorge of the arkansas; in one portion an iron bridge hangs suspended from strong supports fixed in the solid walls, and the train glides along it, swaying as in a hammock, over the brawling river. the climax of their tour was reached in the black cañon. the scenes here are awful, even in broad daylight, for the sombre crags tower to the height of several thousand feet. our travelers passed through the chasm at night. far overhead the stars were shining in the little rift of sky, which was all that they could see between the walls; and in the mysterious half-lights of the illumined portions, and the utter blackness of the shadows, the grotesque shapes of the crags took on strange forms and awful suggestions. at times it seemed as if the train was about to dash itself against a wall of solid masonry, which opened, as though thrown back by genii, as they approached. at one point, catching the moonlight, a silvery cascade swept over the rocks like a bow of crystal; and at another, a mighty monument of rosy stone, the curricanti needle, towered far above the cliffs, like the sky-piercing spire of some grand cathedral. "the people who live here must be very good," jim gasped, as they emerged from the valley of enchantment, "one is so much nearer to god out here!" "nobody lives in the cañon now," mr. armstrong replied; "indians lived here not very long ago. they used to hold their councils on that shelf of rock where the pines grow, the last accessible spot on the curricanti pinnacle, but the settlers in the neighborhood did not have your idea about their being such very good men, and as the cañon was the best pathway through the mountains for the railroad, they were driven out." "i am sorry for the indians," jim said, simply. "if i had owned that cañon i wouldn't have liked to have given it up, would you?" mr. armstrong evaded the question. "you will not have so much pity for them when you know them better," he replied. "they are a low lot, and if they do not know enough to improve the advantages which they possess, it is only fair that they should be appropriated by those who will make a better use of them." jim did not quite understand what mr. armstrong meant by appropriating the indians' advantages, but he was to learn more in relation to that word before the journey was over. returning to denver, mr. armstrong took the boy with him on a tour through some of the pueblos of new mexico. the word "pueblo" signifies town, and the pueblo indians are those who build houses instead of tents and wigwams, and live from generation to generation in towns and cities, instead of wandering about the plains and mountains like the other tribes. there are twenty-six of these communities in new mexico, and some of the cities were old when the pilgrims landed at plymouth. when new mexico was ceded to the united states by mexico, the right of the pueblo indians to their towns and to certain tracts of land surrounding them was confirmed by treaty, so that these indians are better off in many ways than any others. mr. armstrong had a special reason for visiting the pueblos. he had purchased several large herds of cattle, and wished to rent land of the indians for pasturage. a man by the name of sanchez, who traded among the pueblos, could speak the language, and had gained the confidence of the indians, happened to be on the train, and recognizing mr. armstrong as a wealthy capitalist, who had large interests in cattle, as well as in railroads, at once guessed pretty nearly the nature of his errand in the indian country. he introduced himself, and, learning that mr. armstrong intended to visit the pueblo of taos, to witness the celebration of the festival of san geronimo, offered his services as interpreter and courier. these mr. armstrong was very glad to accept, for he had heard of the man, and knew that he had considerable influence among the indians. there was something repellent, however, in his insinuating, cringing manner which made one feel that here was a man who was not to be trusted. the party was increased by an army officer and a catholic priest, who were also going to taos to witness the festival. the pueblo lies at a distance of twenty miles from the railroad station, but an indian was found waiting for mr. sanchez with a rough wagon, and that gentleman invited the others to ride with him. they crossed the rio grande river and drove along beside it in a northeasterly direction, through a not very interesting country. the coloring was all yellowish brown--the sandy earth, the crisp parched grass, the distant hills, even the water when taken from the turbid river, were all of a like monotonous tint. now and then they met or passed an indian, wrapped in a striped blanket and mounted on a small shaggy pony. toward evening they came in sight of the pueblo. the first view was very picturesque. the houses of adobe, or sun-dried brick, were built in ranges one above the other, like a great stairway, the roof of the lower house serving as the dooryard for the one above. ladders were placed against the walls, and up and down these, nearly naked indian children scrambled like young monkeys. they parted their long elf-locks with their hands, and stared at the strangers with wild, black eyes. mr. sanchez conducted them to an unoccupied house, which he said would be at their service during the festival for quite a good sum. there was no hotel, and this seemed the best thing to be done. it had evidently been suddenly cleared for the unexpected guests, and some of the utensils and furniture remained. the priest pointed out with pleasure a gaudy print of the virgin. there were strings of red peppers drying on the outer wall, and a great olha, or decorated water-pot, within, but there was no bedding or food. the gentlemen, however, had each brought with them army blankets, and mr. sanchez offered to act as their commissary and skirmish for provisions. he presently returned, followed by a woman carrying a bowl of stewed beef and onions, and a boy driving a donkey, whose panniers were filled with melons. this, with some coffee, which the officer made over a spirit-lamp, and some crackers contributed by mr. armstrong, constituted their supper, which hunger made palatable. after this refreshment they mounted to their roof and watched the preparations for the festivities of the next day. mr. sanchez pointed out the entrance to the _estufa_, or underground council-chamber, into which the young men of the tribe were disappearing for the celebration of mysterious pagan rites. "i thought the pueblos were roman catholics," mr. armstrong remarked. the catholic priest shook his head sadly. "our converts have always remained half pagan," he said; "the early missionaries were content to engraft as much christianity as they could on the old customs, thinking that the better faith would gradually supplant the old, but the old rites and ceremonies have remained. still we must hesitate to say that the fathers did wrong, since it was the only way to win the savages to the holy faith." the priest strolled away to visit the church and to find a mexican brother who was to celebrate mass on the next day. the church was a ruinous building which stood apart from the others. the army officer told of the siege which it sustained during the mexican war, and pointed to the indentations made in its walls by cannon-balls. the situation was such a strange one that jim slept but little. all night long he could hear the dull beat of the tom-toms in the _estufa_, and as soon as the first streak of dawn illumined the sky the pueblo was awake and all excitement. indians from neighboring towns poured in, some on foot, and others mounted on ponies or donkeys. in the plaza stood a great pole resembling a flag-staff, but instead of a banner there dangled from the top a live sheep and a basket of bread and grain, with a garland of fruits and vegetables. the church bell was clanging for mass, and jim followed the others. an old mexican priest was the celebrant, and a few young indians in red cotton petticoats and coarse lace overskirts waited upon him awkwardly as altar-boys. when the host was elevated, an indian at the door beat the tom-tom, and four musket-shots were fired. the priest then marched down the centre of the church, followed by the altar-boys, one of whom bore a hideous painting, which mr. sanchez assured them was painted in spain by the great murillo, and might be had, through him, for a trifling sum. the congregation joined in the procession and followed to the race-track, where games, races, and dances were participated in by fifty young men of taos against fifty from other pueblos. the sports were witnessed by fully two thousand spectators, who swarmed along the terraces, and formed a packed mass of men, women, children, horses, and donkeys around the race-track. there was a group of visitors standing near our travelers, who regarded the races with intense interest. it consisted of an old man dressed in white linen blouse and trousers, with a red handkerchief knotted about his gray locks, an obese and not over cleanly old lady in full indian toggery, and a young girl in a pink calico dress, with a black shawl over her head and shoulders. they watched one of the runners with the most intense excitement, and when he came off victor in several of the contests, their enthusiasm knew no bounds. "that old man is the governor of the pueblo of ----," said mr. sanchez. "it is his son who has just stepped out to lead the corn-dance. the daughter, little rosaria, is pretty, is she not?" he approached her as he spoke, with easy assurance, and taking her by the chin, made some remarks in the pueblo language intended to be complimentary; but the girl twisted herself from his grasp with hot indignation; and sanchez returned, grumbling that since she had been to the ramona school at santa fé she was too much of a lady to speak to anyone. jim was standing beside her; and sure, from her manner, that she understood english, he asked her to explain the corn-dance to him. she did so, very kindly, and the hunt-dance which followed, when the painted clowns brought out grotesque clay images, and after adoring them fired at them, and shattered them in fragments, the crowd scrambling for the pieces. the young man who had been pointed out as the governor's son secured a piece, and brought it to the girl in triumph. "that is the ear of a wolf," she said. "it means that he will have success in the south; we, who have been taught better, do not believe these old charms any more." the last thing on the programme was the climbing of the pole for the sheep, which was finally won by a young brave of taos. there was racing on ponies afterward by young indians and mexicans, but this was informal, and not included in the rites of the day. the young girl looked at the races enviously. "my brother ought to win there," she said, "for we had the swiftest ponies of any of the pueblos, and ought to have them, for our pasture lands are the best, but we have sold nearly all our live-stock, and the pastures are no longer of any use to us." mr. armstrong overheard this remark, and asked rosaria if her people would be willing to rent their lands. she conferred with her father in the pueblo language, and mr. sanchez immediately joined in the conversation, talking volubly to the old man, and translating to mr. armstrong. "he says you are welcome to return to his pueblo with him," explained mr. sanchez, "and he will call a council of his townspeople to deliberate on your proposition." there was more conversation, and it was decided to accept the governor's invitation. mr. armstrong engaging mr. sanchez to go with them and help him in the transaction. this seemed to him the only thing which he could do, since he did not understand the language, and the governor seemed to place confidence in the trader. the party set out the next morning for san ----, mr. armstrong and jim in mr. sanchez's wagon, and the governor and his children following on diminutive donkeys. several days elapsed before the bargain could be made. the indians were very suspicious of being entrapped into some fraud, and it needed all of mr. sanchez's eloquence to persuade them that the arrangement would be to their advantage. mr. armstrong had told mr. sanchez that he was willing to pay fifteen hundred dollars for the rental of the land for three years, and that he (sanchez) might deduct his fee for services from this sum. "then if i can persuade them to let you have the land for twelve hundred," asked mr. sanchez, "i may claim three hundred for my assistance in the matter?" "that is a pretty round fee," replied mr. armstrong, "but it does not matter to me who has the money. the land is worth fifteen hundred dollars to me, and if you can persuade the indians to take less, so much the better for you." jim was much interested in the negotiations. he sat beside mr. armstrong in the council-chamber, trying to make out from the expressive gestures what it was that the indians were saying, and sometimes it seemed to him that mr. sanchez did not translate correctly. at such times he went out to where rosaria stood by the open door listening, with other children. she translated for him the treaty as mr. sanchez read it, and he was astonished to find that it offered the indians only three hundred dollars as rent for their land, the wily sanchez having reserved twelve hundred as his own share. "but mr. armstrong is willing to pay your people fifteen hundred," jim protested to rosaria, and the girl slipped into the council-chamber just as the governor was about to sign the paper, and snatched it from his hand. "is it true," she asked of mr. armstrong, "that you are willing to pay more for our land? mr. sanchez offers us but three hundred dollars!" mr. armstrong, surprised at the man's effrontery, acknowledged that he was ready to pay more, while sanchez, furious at seeing his opportunity slipping from him, poured upon rosaria all manner of abuse, and threatened mr. armstrong that unless he held to his bargain to allow him whatever margin he could make he would spoil the trade for him. "here's a pretty affair!" said mr. armstrong to jim. "you had better have kept quiet and let the old swindler feather his nest. now i fear that i shall not be able to make any bargain with the indians." "but it was not right, was it," asked jim, "that the indians should have so little and mr. sanchez so much?" "the proportion does seem unfair," mr. armstrong admitted to jim; but he added, to sanchez, "i hold to my part of the bargain. i will give you whatever margin you can make between their demands and fifteen hundred dollars." sanchez attempted to regain his lost advantage, but all this time rosaria had been talking excitedly, explaining to one after another of the indians, now pointing to the figures in the treaty, now scornfully at sanchez, arguing, entreating, scolding, and when the trader began his defense of her charges, laughing him to scorn. the governor put an end to the altercation by tearing the treaty in pieces and ordering two stout indians to lead sanchez from the room. he then bade rosaria tell mr. armstrong that fifteen hundred dollars was the very least that they were willing to take for their land. mr. armstrong bowed, and replied that he would think over the matter. he expected to have an opportunity to discuss it with his agent, but when he left the council-chamber he saw his wagon on the road to santa fé, at a long distance from the pueblo, and was handed the label from a peach can, on the back of which was scribbled: "that boy of yours is too smart to live; the plaguey indians have given me an hour to leave their reservation. manage your own concerns without the help of-- sanchez." the bargain was accordingly struck without the aid of a middle-man, and mr. armstrong was conceded the right to pasture his cattle for three years in consideration of the sum of five hundred dollars, to be paid in advance at the beginning of each season. mr. armstrong was much amused. "it has turned out all right," he said to jim, "but you must acknowledge that it was really none of your business, and i would advise you, in future, not to meddle in matters which do not concern you." "i will try," jim replied, much abashed. "i ought to have told you instead of rosaria, and you would have fixed it all right," he added, cheerfully. "i ought to have known that you wouldn't have let the indians be cheated." mr. armstrong felt the reproach in the undeserved confidence. here was a companion who was a sort of embodied conscience. it was not always profitable to have a conscience in business, and yet there was something satisfactory and refreshing in the way in which this affair had terminated. "they say 'honesty is the best policy,'" he said to himself; "i wonder if this little fellow would not be a mascot to bring me good luck. i have a notion to make him my partner in some of my risky ventures; providence seems to smile upon him and his principles; perhaps if i make my good-fortune his as well, it will smile upon me." what he said to jim was this: "you seem fond of a wild western life, jim, and of the indians. our business among the pueblos is ended. we are going back to colorado. i have a notion to show you what the colorado indians are like. they are utes, and they do not live in houses, like the pueblos, but rove about in a perfectly savage manner; they are not peaceful and industrious, like the pueblos, but lazy and ugly. i do not think that they are susceptible of civilization. i would as soon think of educating a coyote as a ute. "now the utes possess some of the best mining lands in colorado, but will never develop them; so it seems to me better that they should be removed to the desert lands, which are worthless for purposes of civilization, and let the whites have their opportunity. i have my eye on a gulch which i discovered while hunting in the san juan mountains four years ago, and which i mean to pre-empt just as soon as we get the utes to give up their present reservation and pack off to utah. we shall go back that way, and i will show you the spot." jim opened his eyes very wide. he did not quite comprehend what mr. armstrong had said. surely he could not mean to defraud the indians in any way! he would doubtless pay them the worth of their mine, and if they liked the ready money better than the trouble of mining the silver for themselves it would be all fair. at antonito mr. armstrong left the railroad, provided himself with a span of horses, a wagon, camping outfit, and a brace of greyhounds, and struck out through the ute reservation for the mountains. he told some gentleman whom he met at antonito that he proposed to enjoy a little coursing for antelope; but there was a set of surveyors' instruments in the wagon, which proved that he intended to locate the mine which he had come across during his previous visit. his acquaintance attempted to discourage his making the trip alone, saying that the utes had been restless of late, owing to a failure in receiving their supplies from government, and it was hardly safe to approach their reservation. "you need not be afraid of the utes," another gentleman replied. "i knew their old chief, ouray, and was entertained once in his house--a neater farm-house than many a white settler can show, and i was hospitably waited upon by his wife, chipeta, who gave me peaches from their own orchard, and saleratus biscuit, and when i saw the familiar yellow streaks in them, and tasted the old chief's whisky, i had to confess that the indian was capable of civilization." mr. armstrong laughed, but the first speaker bade him be careful, for all the utes were not like ouray, who had so well earned his title of the white man's friend. "now," exclaimed mr. armstrong, after he had driven out of sight of the last human habitation--"now at last we can breathe! what do you think of it, jim?" "i didn't know the world was so big," the boy replied; "these must be the estates del paradiso which miss prillwitz talks about. why, there's room for all new york to spread itself out, and every child to have a yard to play in. it seems a little bit lonely," he added, after a pause. "i should think you would have liked to have had some of those gentlemen go with you." "why, you see, jim," mr. armstrong replied, "i am going to hunt up that silver mine, and i had a little rather not share the secret with any one but you. besides, i like the loneliness. i grow very tired of people sometimes, jim, and it seems good to get away from them. don't you ever feel so?" "mother did," jim said. "she likes helping at the home very much, but she got a little tired just before the young ladies sent for her to go to the seashore, and she came across one verse in the bible which sounded so beautiful. it was, 'come ye yourselves apart into a desert place and rest awhile, for there were many coming and going, and they had no leisure so much as to eat.'" "i didn't know they had such hurrying times down in galilee," mr. armstrong replied, lightly. he was in good spirits, and they drove a long distance that day, camping at night by a small stream, in which he caught some fine trout. as jim curled up close to him under the army blanket, mr. armstrong felt a slight tremor run through the boy's frame. "what is the matter?" he asked. "are you afraid? we are still miles away from the indians." "it isn't the indians," jim replied, "but it's all so still! i don't hear horse-cars, nor the elevated, nor people passing, nor nothing. down at the pier it was something like this, but there was always the sea; and at the pueblo there were the dogs; while here it seems as if something had stopped." "'all the roaring looms of time,'" mr. armstrong replied, quoting from tennyson, "have stopped for a little while for us, my boy, and that's the beauty of it. but the old machines will have us in their grip again very soon." the next day mr. armstrong enjoyed a rabbit hunt. jim, though he took part in the sport, could hardly be said to enjoy it. "it seems such a pity to kill the pretty things!" he said. but this did not keep him from making a hearty meal of broiled rabbit, or from hoping that they might find antelope before the trip was over. the loneliness which he had felt the night before came on again toward evening, and jim was not sorry, on their third day out, to see that they were approaching a new frame house. "an old half-breed guide used to have a tepee here," said mr. armstrong; "i shall engage his services for our trip. he is a good cook, a good hunter, faithful to his employers, and he knows every rock and clump of sage-brush in all the region. his only fault is that he will get drunk. he was with me when i found the silver ore, and i need him to guide me to the spot again." as they came nearer, mr. armstrong seemed greatly surprised to see a large field of waving corn in front of the house, while some cows were being driven toward an out-building by a young indian in checked shirt and brown overalls. "what can have come over old charley!" exclaimed mr. armstrong. "when i was here before, nothing would induce him to degrade himself by farm labor. some boomer must have established himself here. it's illegal, for the land still belongs to the indians." they drove up to the front door, and were met by the same young man whom they had seen driving the cows, but the overalls were replaced by a faded pair of army trousers, and a paper collar had been hastily added to the checked shirt. he bade them enter, in good english, and the interior of the house was clean and inviting. the walls were papered with newspapers, a bright patchwork quilt was spread upon the bed, and a pleasant-faced girl was frying ham and eggs over the stove; while there was a shelf of books over the table. an indian woman emerged from a shadowy corner and expressed a welcome by pantomime. "is not this charley's wife?" mr. armstrong asked, and the woman smiled and nodded her recognition. "where is your husband?" was the next question. "charley no good," was the wife's frank reply; "gone hunting with white men." this was a disappointment that mr. armstrong had not anticipated; he was not sure that he could find his way to the silver mine without charley's help, but it was worth trying. the odor of the frying ham was appetizing, and the invitation to supper was promptly accepted. "are you charley's son?" mr. armstrong asked of the young man, who presently brought in a foaming pail of milk, and assisted his mother and sister in waiting on their guests. "yes, sir," was the prompt reply, "and my name is charley too--charles sumner." mr. armstrong stared in astonishment. "where did you learn to speak english so well?" he asked. "at the indian industrial school at carlisle, pennsylvania." "then you are one of captain pratt's boys?" "yes, sir," and a smile lightened the somewhat stolid features. mr. armstrong did not believe in eastern schools for indians, and he asked, rather sarcastically, "and what did you learn when you were in the east--latin and theology?" the boy shook his head. "i learned to work on the farm," he said, "and to read and write, and do a little arithmetic; and i learned some carpentry--enough to build this house, and make that table, and the cupboard and things." "very creditable, i am sure," mr. armstrong replied, half incredulously, "but how did you come into the fortune necessary to set you up in this flourishing style?" "i helped build the new depot at s----, and they paid me off with the lumber that was left, and i built the house out of that. then i had some money which i had put in the savings-bank from my earnings every vacation in the east, and i bought the cows with that; and then i made a churn, and we've been making butter the way i saw them do it in pennsylvania, and i sell it for a good price at the springs." "well, you have more stuff in you than i ever thought it possible for an indian to have," mr. armstrong replied, fairly won, in spite of himself, to admiration. "i always supposed that those carlisle students, as soon as they returned to old surroundings, went back to savagery." "it is pretty hard for us," the boy replied. "last year i planted about three times as much corn as you see here. i had taken a contract to supply the quartermaster at fort ----, and i thought i should make a good deal of money; but just as it was green, all of our relations came to see us. there were ten families. they camped there by the creek, and they stayed until they had eaten every roasting ear. they said they had come to celebrate my home-coming, and father made them welcome, and gave a dance, and killed one of our cows for them. they would have killed them all, but i drove them off into the mountains, and hid them. that is the reason i have planted so little corn here this season. i have another field over in a little valley in the mountains which i hope they will not find, and i drive the cattle up the cañon every morning, for they may be here any day." "you poor fellow!" said mr. armstrong. "i have heard the proverb, 'save us from our friends!' but i never understood the full force of it before." after the hearty meal the little house was put at the service of the travelers, the family camping outside, and, much to mr. armstrong's contentment, they passed a comfortable and restful night. the next morning mr. armstrong asked charles sumner if he was familiar with the mountains, and could guide him to a certain valley, which he indicated as having a chimney-like formation at one end. "why, certainly," the young man replied; "don't you remember i was with father when he took you hunting four years ago? he killed an eagle that had her nest on a ledge high up on the chimney, and i climbed up for the young ones." "ah yes, i remember now, but you were such a little fellow then that i could not realize the change." "i grew more at carlisle," said the young man, significantly, "than at any other time of my life. we all grew at carlisle." "then you will take us to the chimney," mr. armstrong asked, "and cook for us while we are out? what will you charge?" "i don't think i ought to ask you anything, sir, for there is good pasturage thereabout, and i can drive my cows along, and herd them there until after the visit of our relatives. my sister is going to b---- with all the green-corn that the ponies can carry, so when they come they will find mother, and very little else. the valley in which my other corn is planted is in that direction, and perhaps you will let me bring some of it in your wagon when we come back?" charles sumner rode cheerily beside them on a diminutive pony, driving his cows and the pack pony, and chatting freely of many things. sometimes jim sprang from his seat to make him change places and rest awhile. the pony had a fascination for jim, and he speedily learned from charles sumner how to manage it, and to "round up" the herd of cows and calves. the young indian taught him, also, how to make arrows, and to shoot with them, to picket the horses, and to use the lasso, to make camp coffee, and to set up and take down the tepee, or tent of buffalo hide, which the pack-pony dragged between long poles. "you would like to be a cow-boy, wouldn't you, jim?" mr. armstrong asked, but charles sumner shook his head. "cow-boys are no good," he said, emphatically; "they shoot indians as if they were wild beasts. better stay in the east, where the white people are good. i wish i could, but the government insists that as soon as we are educated we must go back to our reservations. i wish it would let us stay and earn our living in the east, where it is so much easier to stay civilized." jim, on the other hand, was delighted with everything he saw. "if all the boys in rickett's court could only come out here!" he exclaimed, "and ride, and herd cows, and hunt, and camp out, and all the indian boys could only go east, and go to school, and work at trades--how nice it would be!" mr. armstrong admitted that the change might be good for both, but while speaking they came in sight of the chimney-shaped pinnacle, and he hastily unpacked his theodolite and other instruments, and began to take angles, and to jot down memoranda. "this is the first time that i have ever seen a surveyor on the ute reservation," said charles sumner, "and i think that our troubles will be ended sometime by that little machine. just as soon as the government divides up our land and gives each indian his own share, then each good indian will cultivate his own farm, and will have some heart to work. how can he now, when the land belongs as much to every lazy indian in the tribe as to himself? o sir, is it possible that the government has sent you to begin this division?" mr. armstrong confessed that his observations were made only for his own amusement. he was surprised to find that the young man had such advanced views on the "land in severalty" question, and he asked whether any of the other indians of the tribe shared his opinions. "there are a good many who have staked out farms and are cultivating them, just as i have," he replied, "but we know that we have no right to the land, and may be turned out any day, whenever bad white men persuade our chiefs to give up this reservation and move away to the bad lands in the west." mr. armstrong winced a little under the earnest, questioning look with which jim regarded him. to turn his train of thought he said, "there is the old eagle's nest on the ledge still, charles sumner. can you climb up there to-day as nimbly as you did four years ago?" for answer, the young man threw himself from his pony and began to ascend the cliff. it was very steep, but he chose his way cautiously, seizing each point of vantage in the way of a crevice or projection. he had almost reached the nest when he paused, looked away to the southward, and began rapidly to descend. "there is a band of utes coming over the divide," he said; "i think it would be as well for us to go a little further up the valley." he hurriedly collected his herd, and drove them before him through a pass into a long, shady gorge. mr. armstrong followed with the team. "this is the place!" he exclaimed, excitedly, as they entered the ravine. "it was in this little cañon that i found the silver. a vein cropped right out to the surface, and i filled my pockets with the ore. i set up a buffalo skull to mark the spot. there it is--at the foot of that pine. it must have rolled down, for i placed it higher. hold the reins, jim, while i scramble up the bank and see if i see any signs of the vein." with the agility of a younger man, mr. armstrong climbed the steep bank, and came down with his hands filled with crumbled ore. "it is there, fast enough," he said, triumphantly; "if it were not on the indian reservation i would be the owner of that mine now. they cannot hold the lands long, and when they are opened to settlement this cañon shall be ours, jim. you say you would like to live a western life. if your mother, of whom you seem so fond, is of the same opinion, you shall pre-empt a claim here, and i will take one just beside you, and between us we will own the mine. you don't understand it, my boy; but i have taken a fancy to you, and i mean to make your fortune." "and will this ravine be my very own?" jim asked--"mother's and mine?" "yes, my boy; and i am curious to see what you will make of it, and what you will make of yourself while you are waiting to come into your possessions. i mean to put you in the way of getting a good practical education, which shall be of use to you out here." "and can i learn surveying?" "yes; and mining engineering and assaying and mechanics, and all that." "that is what lovey dimple would like to learn too. can he come with me? he'd invent a machine right off to dig the silver just as easy." "we will see, jim. i would like to give him a good turn for his father's sake; but don't take too many into our company, or we shall have to water the stock too freely." they had nearly reached the head of the gorge, and they found that charles sumner had paused, and had corraled his cows in a little natural amphitheatre, where they were resting contentedly. "i must watch them pretty sharply," the indian explained, "for the corn i told you about is in the next valley, and if they should get into that, they would be as bad as our relations. just walk to the top of the hill, mr. armstrong, and see what a nice field of it i have over there." mr. armstrong returned bringing an armful of fine roasting ears, but charles sumner thought it best not to build a fire until the party of utes had passed, and they sat down to a cold supper of canned baked beans. after supper jim had a long talk with charles sumner, and ascertained that the young man had fixed his heart upon making this particular section his home farm as soon as the reservation should be divided in severalty among the indians, which he hoped would happen before many years. "then," said jim, "you think that the white people will never have a chance to come in here and take up land?" "do you think they ought to be allowed to do so, when the land is ours?" charles sumner asked. "no, i don't," jim replied, promptly. "i think it is really yours, and you ought to keep it; and i'll just tell you a secret about this cañon. it is worth a great deal more than you know. there is a silver mine in it, and i'll show you where, and you had just better go back east and study the best way to mine silver, and then when you get your claim you will know how to work it. i wish you would take me in as your partner, for mr. armstrong is going to have me taught all about mining. he thought he might pre-empt this mine for me, but, of course, when he sees that it really belongs to you, he will not want to, unless, perhaps, you would like to sell out your right in it." jim had spoken so rapidly that he did not notice that mr. armstrong had approached, and was listening with an astonished expression to what he was saying. "jim, are you crazy?" mr. armstrong exclaimed, as soon as he could recover himself. "don't you see that you are throwing away your chances?" "oh no," jim replied, with a smile, "i hadn't any chance at all. you didn't know, but it all belongs to charles sumner." their conversation was interrupted by a whoop in the valley below. the band of utes had discovered the traces of their last camp, and had followed their trail into the cañon. "drive over into the next ravine!" said charles sumner; "they will camp here when they find my cows. wait for me just below the corn-field, and i will join you as soon as i can. they will not hurt you if they find you, but they will beg and steal everything." mr. armstrong hurriedly followed charles sumner's advice, and was joined about midnight by the young indian, who drove before him three cows, all he had been able to rescue from a herd of twelve. the young man wiped his brow with a despairing gesture. "they were ugly," he said. "some durango cow-boys have been pasturing their cattle on the reservation, and they insisted that my cows were a part of the herd, and that the owners were somewhere near. if they had found you, they might have treated you roughly. i think we had better get away while they are feasting." it occurred to mr. armstrong that it looked very much as if charles sumner had saved their lives at the sacrifice of his property, and a feeling of gratitude and liking sprang up in his heart for the young man. "i don't know what i shall do," the indian continued, dejectedly. "it doesn't seem to be any use to try to be civilized in this country." "no, my poor fellow!" replied mr. armstrong, "it really does not. in your place, i think i should go back to the blanket and be a savage with the rest. i will tell you what to do: come east again with your mother and sister. i will let you try farming on a piece of land which i have taken a fancy to in massachusetts, where you will not have these discouragements. when the land question is settled, you and jim shall come back here and form a partnership. if it is divided in severalty to the utes, then i will establish your right to the cañon, and you shall take jim in as your partner; and if it is opened to the whites for settlement, he will take up the land and give you a share in it." this proposition was accepted by charles sumner and his sister, the mother preferring to remain with her husband. after establishing the young indians in massachusetts, mr. armstrong brought jim with him to narragansett pier. a short space must now be given to milly and adelaide, who, though mingling in a very different class of society, had an experience that summer not unlike our own. mrs. roseveldt gave a lawn-party at the beginning of the season to organize a tennis club. tennis was the rage that season. many of the cottages had tennis courts, and the different players wished to plan for a grand tournament at the end of the season. a pretty uniform was designed of white flannel, the skirt embroidered with a deep greek fret in gold thread, and laid in accordion pleats. a little jacket lined with gold-colored silk, and embroidered in the same pattern, was to be worn over the shirt waist, and a gold-colored sash ending in a tassel, with a white tam o'shanter, completed the costume. milly had planned that mrs. halsey should have the making of these costumes while at the pier. a fund was contributed with which to purchase a trophy for the prize player. it rose quickly to a hundred and fifty dollars, and a meeting was held to decide what the trophy should be. most of the members thought that a gold pin in the shape of a racket, with a pearl ball, manufactured by tiffany, would be the correct thing, and this idea would certainly have been adopted if milly had not turned the current by a neat little speech. "i am sure," she said, "that we do not want to vulgarize our club by making it professional, and a prize of any great money value would certainly do this. so i move that the prize be a simple wreath of laurel tied with a white ribbon, on which the date of the tournament and name of the club be printed." the members all agreed that this would be in better form, but asked what was to be done with the money already contributed. then milly rose to the occasion, and flung out the banner of the home. "it seems as if we had no right to be romping in this delicious fresh air while poor children are gasping in the vile smells of the city." the fresh-air fund and the working girls' vacation society were both popular charities, and were proposed by different members as proper recipients of our funds. milly was ready to agree to this, but one young man, supposed until that day to be a mere gilded youth, without an idea above his neckties, suggested that it was always pleasanter to be the distributer of one's own benefits, and moved that the club get up a little fresh-air fund of its own. "we might rent a cottage down here and send for a dozen or so young beggars, and take turns in caring for them." a general laugh followed this remark. "what would you do, personally, mr. van silver?" asked one of the girls. "i would put my coach and four-in-hand at the service of the enterprise," he said, "and make myself expressman and 'bus driver. i'd take the children out to drive every day, for one thing." everyone insisted that they would like to see him do it, but he persisted until they were convinced of his sincerity. mr. van silver's patronage had given an aristocratic stamp to the enterprise, and some one now proposed that they rent a cottage for the children for the season. milly then explained that adelaide had already fitted up her cottage for the purpose, and was expecting an invoice of children by the next day. adelaide invited the party to visit the cottage that afternoon, and the entire club climbed to the top and interior of mr. van silver's coach; mr. stacy fitz-simmons, the whilom drum-major of the cadet band, blowing the coach horn for all he was worth. they found a park overgrown into a forest, in the depth of which stood a pleasant cottage, with broad verandas, which once commanded a beautiful view of the glistening bay, with newport in the distance. "i intend to have some of these trees cut away, so as to leave a vista through to the water," adelaide explained. they entered the house, and found it renovated from the mold and decay with which ten years had encumbered it, sweet and fresh with new paint, and papering of pretty design. light and graceful ratan furniture and chintz hangings added to the beauty of the room, simple straw mattings covered the floor. it was as lovely a home as heart could wish. "i have done all i can afford," adelaide said, simply, "and if the club would like to use this cottage for their city children it is at their service, but first milly wants to entertain the younger children of the home of the elder brother here for a couple of weeks." "and we will each of us take his or her turn for a week," said mr. van silver; and so the "paradiso seaside home" was provided for. mrs. halsey came with the children. from the moment that she left the station she seemed to be in a dream. "it all looks so familiar!" she exclaimed; "i am sure i have been here before! there is something caressing in the feeling of the damp air, as though it kissed my cheek like an old friend. and the scent of the salt-water! i remember it so well; and shall we hear the surf? oh, when was it, where was it, that i knew it all?" when they drove into the grounds she shook her head. "no, it was not this place," she said, with a wistful look in her eyes; "there were no trees." but at the first glimpse of the house a trembling seized her, and she could hardly mount the steps. within doors a puzzled expression came into her face. "it is familiar, yet unfamiliar," she said. "i cannot be sure. if i could only see some face that i had known before, then i could tell." "perhaps the face will come," adelaide said; and it came. a few weeks later mr. armstrong returned with jim from the western trip, and came down to the pier to make the visit which his daughter so greatly desired. adelaide had driven to the station for them in milly's pony carriage, jim mounted to his old place on the rumble, mr. armstrong settled himself for the drive, and adelaide took the reins. "i am going to take you around by the cottage, papa," she said. "i want to show you what i have done there, and how happy the home children are." mr. armstrong drew himself up, as though wincing from some sudden pain. "i did not intend to go there again, daughter," he said; "i shall miss a face at the window." "i know, papa--the cameo; but she would have been glad to see the cottage used as it is." they turned into the drive, and mr. armstrong nerved himself for the sight of his old home. suddenly he cried out, and caught his daughter's arm. "is it only memory, or have i lost my senses? the face is there!" adelaide laughed reassuringly. "i don't wonder that it gave you a turn, papa; it did me, too, when i saw the same sight in miss prillwitz's window last winter, but it is only dear mrs. halsey looking out for us." "then thank god!" exclaimed mr. armstrong, leaping from the vehicle and hurrying forward. "do you not remember me? my own!--my wife!" his wife remembered: the veil which had blinded her for years fell at the sight of her husband's face. happily the shock had not been as sudden as it seemed; during the time which she had spent in the cottage the conviction had grown upon her that this had been her home. she had asked adelaide its history, and learning that it had been built for her mother, who had been drowned in the great steamboat disaster, a hope had sprung up in her heart, which she dared not express to any one, that she had found her own again. adelaide had said that she expected her father, and mrs. halsey waited only to see his face to be assured of the truth. adelaide's delight at finding that mrs. halsey was her lost mother, and jim her brother, was genuine and intense. "i knew, all the time, that jim was somebody's child," she exclaimed, incoherently. "it is all too good to be true! too good to be true!" "jim deserves a better father than he has found," said mr. armstrong, "and by god's grace he shall have a better. "it is too bad to break up this nice little arrangement of a summer home for the poor children," he added, "and i will allow the cottage to be used for this purpose just so long as the tennis club desire to maintain it; but i must have my wife. please remember that we have been parted from each other a very long time. i am going west next week, and i must take her with me; and it will not do adelaide any harm to have a glimpse of the great west before we send her to school in the fall. jim has had as much of the west as he can stand at present, and we will leave him in the best school that we can find." "but what shall we do for a housekeeper for the cottage?" adelaide asked, in dismay. "mrs. trimble has just left the hospital, fully recovered, but i have no doubt she would prefer to run your little enterprise rather than to return to the store; and as i have deprived you of your housekeeper i don't mind paying mrs. trimble to supply her place for the remainder of the summer. it will do mr. trimble good, too, to complete his convalescence here, and perhaps in the winter they will accept the janitorship of your tenement." "my tenement!" adelaide replied, in surprise. "yes, i intend to give you the management of this property, which i have always considered your own. you have a matter of twenty thousand dollars insurance money, which, with the ten thousand which i have deposited to your name in the savings bank, you may use in erecting a model tenement on the site of the old rickett's court building. i think i shall have some more money for you to put into the enterprise if the patent works well. i shall give mr. trimble a share in the profits of that invention over and above the five thousand dollars already paid him, but i think that he would like one of your suites of rooms in return for acting as janitor and agent of the building, and it will not interfere with his teaching mechanics to the boys at the home." "if you please, papa," said adelaide, "i like the plan of engaging mr. trimble as janitor, but i would rather be my own agent and collect the rents myself; then i can see just what improvements are needed, and be sure that my tenants are all comfortable." for the remainder of their stay in the east the armstrongs busied themselves with architects' plans and specifications. adelaide enjoyed planning the bathrooms and conveniences of different kinds. "and the paving-stones must be taken up in the court," she said, "and a nice grass-plot laid out in their place, and we will have pretty iron balconies before every window, and a fire-escape." "yes, daughter," replied her father, "i will make you a present of that, outside the other matters--the very best kind of fire-escape to be found in the city; and, while we are about it, i will send one to the home of the elder brother." adelaide's interest in her tenement did not wean her away from the home, and i have since observed that it is always those who, seemingly, are already doing as much as they can in the way of charity who are always ready to lend a helping hand to other enterprises, and that it is the earnest workers of little means, as well as the wealthy philanthropists, who "to the ages fair bequests, and costly, make." the armstrongs went west, and adelaide created an interest for the home in her new surroundings, while milly kept up the enthusiasm of the tennis club at the pier. that club flourished in a manner unheard of, heretofore, in a place where everyone was so busy doing nothing that even the exertion of tennis had been voted a bore. it was not tennis, however, that kept them together, or gave the members their bright, jolly looks, but the paradiso cottage. "for we may find a zest in any true employ which, like a whetstone in the breast, shall give an edge to joy." but while we all worked in our different ways, it was our corresponding secretary who was the clasp to the necklace, or rather, the central battery which sent currents of life pulsating through the connecting wires. the scapegrace who plotted and schemed mischief, she who had erstwhile reveled in the name of "the malicious, seditious, insubordinate, disreputable, skeptical queen of the hornets," had become a wise and enterprising central manager of a helpful charity. the summer vacation is over, and we have all met again for another winter at madame's; amen corner and hornets all filled with a fine enthusiasm for our work, and a deep, true affection for one another. the home rests, we are told, on very slender foundations. there is no financier as a backer, no estate, no great endowment, nothing to ensure its existence from year to year but the hearts and hands of ten young girls. nothing else? they forget that we have behind us and with us the elder brother, with all the estates del paradiso. "by each saving word unspoken, by thy will, yet poorly done, hear us, hear us, thou almighty! help us on." the end. * * * * * transcriber's corrections following is a list of significant typographical errors that have been corrected. - page , "celeste's" changed to "céleste's" (position at madame céleste's). - page , "insistance" changed to "insistence" (on her insistence). - page , "ochestra" changed to "orchestra" (led her orchestra). - page , "vicenzo" changed to "vincenzo" (and vincenzo amati). - page , "pictture" changed to "picture" (i've made a picture). - page , "any one" changed to "anyone" (of anyone else). - page , "winnnie" changed to "winnie" (replied winnie). - page , "formerely" changed to "formerly" (which formerly groaned). - page , "salvages" changed to "savages" (barbarous savages). - page , "amstrong" changed to "armstrong" (mr. armstrong evaded). - page , "sante" changed to "santa" (road to santa fé). - page , "pantomine" changed to "pantomime" (welcome by pantomime). - page , "f r" changed to "for" (station for them). of the digital library@villanova university (http://digital.library.villanova.edu/)) contents chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi chapter vii chapter viii chapter ix _old sleuth's own._ no. . the twin ventriloquists; or, nimble ike and jack the juggler. a tale of strategy and jugglery. by old sleuth. [illustration: "great scott, the hound spoke!"] new york: j. s. ogilvie publishing company, rose street. the twin ventriloquists; or nimble ike and jack the juggler. a tale of strategy and jugglery. by old sleuth. copyright, , by parlor car publishing company. all rights reserved. new york: j. s. ogilvie publishing company, rose street. try murine eye remedy [illustration: murine for your eyes. an eye tonic.] to refresh, cleanse and strengthen the eye. to stimulate the circulation of the blood supply which nourishes the eye, and restore a healthful tone to eyes enfeebled by exposure to strong winds, dust, reflected sunlight and eye strain. to quickly relieve redness, swelling and inflamed conditions. murine is compounded in the laboratory of the murine eye remedy co., chicago, by oculists, as used for years in private practice, and is safe and pleasant in its application to the most sensitive eye, or to the eyes of a nursing infant. doesn't smart. murine is a reliable relief for all eyes that need care. your druggist sells murine eye remedies. our books mailed free, tell you all about them and how to use them. may be sent by mail at following prices. murine eye remedy c., c., $ . deluxe toilet edition--for the dressing table . tourist--autoist--in leather case . murine eye salve in aseptic tubes c., . granuline--for chronic sore eyes and trachoma . murine eye remedy co. no. nine east ohio street, chicago, u. s. a. the twin ventriloquists; or, nimble ike and jack the juggler. a tale of strategy and jugglery. by old sleuth. chapter i. nimble ike encounters an extraordinary adventure and two wonderful ventriloquists play parts against each other with astonishing results. "great cæsar!" the exclamation with which we open our narrative fell from the lips of nimble ike, one of the most remarkable ventriloquists that ever sent a human voice rambling around through space under the most extraordinary inflectional disguises. detectives disguise their appearance, but ventriloquists disguise their voices, and make them represent at will all manner of individualities, in the human or animal. nimble ike, as we have intimated, was a wonderful ventriloquist; he had played more pranks and worked more wonders with his talent than any other person possessed of the remarkable gift. he had paralyzed professionals and amazed amateurs, and with the aid of his marvelous vocal powers had performed many good deeds on the side of right and justice, forcing rogues to confessions and scaring schemers and roués out of their wits. he was a daring youth, possessing many talents other than the gift of ventriloquism to a remarkable degree. he had never met his match, and when not engaged in aiding some persecuted person or working with detectives he amused himself in various ways by an exercise of his powers. as stated, ike had never met his match either among professionals or amateurs. he stood number one as a ventriloquist wonder. he had been told of a youth who also possessed the gift in a most remarkable manner. he had never met the youth and was led to doubt the fact that there was another who came anywhere near him. one day ike, having nothing else to do, determined to visit the metropolitan museum in central park. he had been there before and enjoyed himself every time, but he had never attempted any of his pranks. on the occasion when we introduce him to our readers, he was standing beside a mummy case containing the linen-bound remains of some poor egyptian who died thousands of years ago, and he was deeply interested in the description and explanations offered by a sallow-faced gentleman who was a great scientist and egyptologist. an old maid teacher of an archæological turn of mind had chaperoned her class of young lady pupils and had secured the services of the sallow-faced man with the big spectacles to act as guide and expositor for the occasion. as stated, ike was greatly interested in what the professor had to say; he felt quite serious and was in no mood to amuse himself, when a most startling, soul-thrilling incident occurred. the professor had all the young ladies gathered close around him like so many serious mourners standing around the casket of a deceased friend. he had been descanting in a very earnest manner and finally said: "now, ladies, if that mummy could speak he would." here the professor stopped suddenly, his spectacles fell from his face, his hands went up and his face blanched, while the young ladies fell back trembling with terror, for, from the interior of the mummy case came the astounding announcement: "i can talk. what do you want me to tell you?" the words came clear and distinct, and they came, as appeared, directly from the lips of the mummy; and so realistic was the declaration that one might expect to see the lurid-looking object rise in its thousands of centuries old shroud and look forth from the sunken hollows where its eyes had once beamed forth. as stated, ike was standing near the mummy case, but the wonderful ventriloquist was as much amazed as any one. he did not believe the mummy spoke--he was too great an expert in vocal deceptions--but he was amazed all the same, and his amazement arose from the discovery that there was one living person besides himself who could produce such amazing results. he glanced around and there was only the one party who had been standing near the mummy, and that was the professor with the ladies gathered around him. some distance off a very trimly-built youth stood gazing at the stuffed birds in a case. our hero had not seen his face; he could not be the vocal deceiver, however, and the question arose, who had performed this marvelous trick? meantime the professor had gathered his spectacles from the floor and had to a certain extent recovered from his surprise and bewilderment, and he ejaculated: "that was most extraordinary." he beckoned the ladies about him once again, but they came forward very reluctantly and our hero, nimble ike, scanned their faces to learn which one of the pretty girls was the ventriloquist who had worked the great trick. all their faces wore an expression of surprise and alarm, and he was forced to conclude that the voice magician was not one of them, and his final conclusion was that the sallow-faced scientist was the culprit--yes, the sallow-faced man with the big nose and goggles had made the inviting statement, knowing that he could seemingly make the mummy talk. his surprise and alarm, our hero concluded, was all a pretense and a part of his little joke, and it was then that ike turning away uttered the ejaculation "great cæsar!" his blood was up; the professor was a wonderful ventriloquist, but ike determined to have some sport and give the professor ventriloquist, as he appeared to be, the surprise of his life. he determined to make the mummy do some tall talking and force the professor to a betrayal of genuine surprise. "yes," mentally concluded ike, "the next time you'll shed your goggles for fair." ike was in no hurry, however; he intended first to watch the professor and find out if he were really the vocal wonder. the young ladies finally gathered around, for the professor's talk had really been very interesting. he said: "young ladies, i wish to ask you a question. what scared you?" the ladies did not answer, and the professor again inquired: "were you scared by my demonstration or did you, ah--ah--well, did you hear a voice?" one of the young ladies answered: "we heard a voice." "you did?" "yes, sir." "then it was not a delusion; no, it was not a delusion, but it was one of the most extraordinary incidents that ever occurred since the days of miracles, or, to explain it on scientific grounds, we were all so engrossed on the subject under conversation that by some singular psychologic phenomena, our imaginations were momentarily spellbound by a concentration of all the nerve forces upon a given thought, and thereby our imaginations were abnormally stimulated to such a degree as to make the extraordinary deception possible." the girls stared, but did not comprehend the professor's explanation, although it was about as plain as scientific and medical explanations usually are. ike was unable to decide. the professor appeared to have fully recovered and again became rapt in the subject of his discourse. the young ladies also appeared to have recovered from their alarm and were deeply interested in all the professor said. ike, however, had lost all interest in the lecture. he was piqued, he did not understand how it could be that there was really another who possessed a ventriloquistic talent almost equal to his own. as stated, he watched the professor and finally the good man again arrived at a point when he said: "if that relic of the past centuries could speak he----" "i can speak," again came the voice from the mummy case. the professor stared, the ladies stared, but the expression of surprise was not equal to what it had been at the first exhibition. the professor, however, came to a dead stop, he looked slowly around and finally in a husky voice remarked: "i do not understand it." neither did ike, for he was convinced that the professor was not the acrobatic vocalist. the latter, however, was a man of nerve, a genuine scientist, and he said: "young ladies, do not be scared; that linen-wrapped object, that corpse, that has lain swathed in its funeral habiliments for over thirty centuries, says he can speak. we will let him talk." and from the mummy case came the statement: "i think a fellow who has been silent for thirty centuries should have a chance to get a word in." ike was "on to it." he was too great an expert not to fathom the mystery. he had met his match at last. he was fully assured that the lithe-looking chap who was studying the ornithological department was the ventriloquist, and our hero muttered: "you are having lots of fun, mister, but now i'll give you a scare." the ventriloquist stranger was still gazing in the bird case, when close to his ear came the startling announcement, seemingly from the bird case: "what's the matter with you? why do you disturb that poor old egyptian who has been asleep for over three thousand years?" ike's test brought its result. he saw the strange youth give a start. he turned about, but he did not look at the talking stuffed bird; he turned around to see who it was that had so cleverly matched him. it was a great game all round. the professor was bewildered, the ladies were bewildered, and the young fellow at the bird case, who had bewildered every one else, was himself bewildered. in fact, ike, the master, was the only one who at that moment held the key to the whole mystery, and knew just what it was all about. ike enjoyed his momentary triumph, and so for a few moments nothing startling occurred. the professor kept repeating, "this is most extraordinary," and the balance of his party evidently thought so. the young man who had been looking in the bird case, however, as it proved, was a "jim dandy," as the boys say. he was not to be kicked out so easily. he also, as our narrative will prove, was an expert and a very brave and resolute lad. he walked around looking into several cases for a few moments and then quietly edged over toward the mummy case around which still lingered the professor and his party, and ike realized that a most remarkable duel was portending--a duel between two wonderful vocal experts. our hero had fully identified the young man on whom he had retorted as the individual who had made the mummy speak. "i'll have first shot," thought ike, and as the young man passed close to a second mummy case and stood a moment looking at the bandaged face as a "throw off," the relic of a thousand years appeared to say to him in a hoarse whisper: "look out, young man, look out, you may get hit with a club made three thousand years ago." there was a perplexed look upon the young man's face for a moment, and then his bright, clear eyes wandered around and he too fell to a discovery, as he believed. the professor meantime had become exceedingly nervous and he said: "i believe i will adjourn the lecture for to-day." as the professor spoke, there came a voice from the mummy case saying: "yes, you had better adjourn it forever, for you don't know what you are talking about." the professor advanced close to the mummy case to gaze directly at the lips of the three-thousand-year corpse. he was determined to solve the mystery, but as he bent over the venerable object there came an unearthly yell that froze the blood in his veins. he leaped back, the young ladies ran screaming away and there would have been a great scene were it not that at the time there were no other persons in that particular department of the museum. the professor led the way down to the office to tell his wondrous tale, while the young man who had first started the joke approached and gazed intently on the face of our hero, the great nimble ike. the latter returned the gaze and for a few moments it was a duel of stare; neither appeared disposed to open the conversation, while in the mind of each there dawned a suspicion, and finally the young stranger mustered up sufficient courage to ask: "say, young fellow, who are you?" chapter ii. a mutual recognition follows between two wonderful ventriloquists and at once they commence together their extraordinary pranks. ike did not conclude to reveal his identity at once, and met the question with a similar one: "say, young fellow, who are you?" "i asked first." "did you?" "i did." "well?" "it's your place to answer." "do you want an answer?" "i do." "i'll tell you something: you asked the wrong person. go and ask that stuffed owl who i am." the young man stared. "you want an answer to your question?" "oh, come off," said the young stranger. "that settles it," said ike. there came a smile upon the face of the youth and he caused a voice to come like a halloo from away down the other end of the room, inquiring: "say, owl, who is this young chap?" ike was amazed, but the owl uttered its peculiar hoot and answered seemingly: "he's the devil himself." the halloo came again. "i thought so, for he is not square; he don't keep his promises." "why not?" asked the owl. "he promised you should tell who he was." there came a hoot and an owlish sort of laugh, with the statement: "his name is isaac andro." "nimble ike?" came the halloo. "yes;" and the owl added: "now it's your turn to keep your promise." the halloo came in answer: "i am jack the juggler." ike at once advanced, offering his hand and saying: "shake, old fellow, i am glad to meet you. i've heard about you." "and i've heard about you. i am delighted to meet you." "and i am delighted to meet you," answered ike. "we must be friends." "sure." "we can have a heap of fun." "we can." "we are against the deck." "we are." "will you visit me at my home?" said ike. "go with me now." "i will be delighted." "do you live in the city?" "i did live here, but i've broken up my home." the two wonderful lads wandered off together--ike the ventriloquist, and jack the juggler, also a ventriloquist and hypnotist. the two soon arrived at ike's house and the latter showed his guest all through his place, exhibiting his contrivances. ike ordered a meal sent in and the two remarkable geniuses sat down in a very social conversation. ike told his strange, weird story, all about the old necromancer and the mysterious box. and jack told all about himself, and finally ike said: "see here, we are two of a kind." "we are." "let's become partners." "i am agreed." "take up your abode with me." "on one condition." "name your condition." "i am to share the expense of living in this house." "agreed, as it don't cost much to live." neither of the lads had told their romance. they had only told the simple story of their lives, and when the meal was over they commenced by mutual consent to practice together, and so several days passed. ike with his unusual brightness invented a signal code so they could converse with each other and no one else understand their talk. one evening the two lads were playing a game of billiards together in a well-known billiard room, when a very handsome young fellow entered, whom ike at once introduced to jack as his friend, henry du flore. ike and du flore held a few moments talk and then du flore departed. the moment he was gone the ventriloquist said to his new comrade: "that young man is a detective." "he don't look like one." "he is a splendid officer, brave, shrewd and persistent. i have several detective friends, but i've taken quite a fancy to this young fellow and i am aiding him all i can." "is he a frenchman?" asked jack. "no, he is an american born. his father was an engineer on an ocean steamer. he was drowned when henry was quite a lad. henry was left an orphan at an early age, compelled to knock around and pick up a living as best he could. he got appointed on the police force, won promotion and is now a regular detective. i want him to make a great success, and i am aiding him all i can." "i took a fancy to him at the first glance," said jack. "i am glad of that." "yes, i am in with you and when we can do him a good turn we will." "i am much obliged to you, and we can aid him right now. he has been assigned to run down some burglars who are infesting a section of country over in jersey. the gang has become very daring. they are very expert and the losses of the people have been heavy; they have raised a fund which is offered as a reward for the capture of the thieves. the chief in new york is anxious to aid the officials across the river and has detailed my friend henry on the case. it will be a big thing for the young officer if he can run down those thieves." "we will secure the big thing for him," said jack. "i've had a little experience in detective work." "so i've heard." "when does he start in?" "i am to hear from him later." the two ventriloquists finished their game and walked over to a table where two experts were playing a great game in presence of quite a crowd of witnesses. ike and jack were both very fond of the game, although neither of them could play an expert game, with all their talents; their genius did not run in this direction. it is remarkable that a great many men who are expert in one direction are singularly deficient in others. there was a party of young smart alecs watching the game. they were very boisterous and demonstrative--really interfered with the players--and they were very unmannerly in several ways, pushing forward and crowding quieter people in a very rude manner. ike and jack fixed their eyes on the dudes and then exchanged glances; and that exchange of glances meant a little fun for the tricksters and discomfiture for the boisterous dudes, the sons of rich men who because of their social position were permitted to cut up their capers where better youths would have been kicked out of the place. the dudes every few moments would break through the crowd and go to the bar, and upon their return they would push through to the front, shoving others aside as though the balance of the beholders were mere serfs; and in pushing through upon one of their returns, ike became their victim. the young ventriloquist did not submit to be pushed so rudely and said: "see here, mister man, you should wear better clothes. you are such a pusher you should have gotten ahead in the world." the youth stared and the bystanders laughed. the joke was a good one. many times it could be applied in a crowd, for there are so many rude people who appear to think there is no one in the world besides themselves. "don't you like it?" demanded the pusher. "oh, yes, i like it," answered ike with a laugh. "it's quite an honor to be knocked around by a thing like you." "i'll punch you in the head if you say much." "oh, i won't say much. i'll be as quiet as a lamb. i won't even bleat. it's all right; excuse me for being in your way. i am proud--very proud--to be knocked aside, certainly." at that moment there came a voice asking: "why don't you rap that dude on the head?" the dude looked around to learn who had offered the bold suggestion, and then demanded: "who spoke then?" "i did," came a voice, but no one appeared to know just who the "i did" was. but there came the suggestion: "don't look so fierce. you're around to swipe pocketbooks, you are. i advise these gentlemen to be on the lookout." the three dudes all closed in close to each other. their faces were white with rage and they had just liquor enough in them to be anxious for a brawl, and one of them said: "i'll give a hundred dollars to know who spoke." "what will you give?" came the voice. ike stood still and apparently as mute as a sexton at a funeral. "you haven't got a hundred cents; you just hung your last drink at the bar." "you're a liar," came the declaration from one of the dudes. "and you're a thief, or let's see your money." the dude went down in his pockets, drew forth a roll and exclaimed, as he waved it aloft: "here's my money. a hundred to ten you are a liar, and a hundred to one you dare not show your face." "here i am." the voice sounded as though the speaker stood directly in the midst of the trio of dudes. the "chappies" looked at each other in amazement. "send for an officer," came a voice. "i've lost my pocketbook." it appeared as though the voice came from the opposite side of the crowd to where the dudes were standing. the dudes were dumfounded; indeed, the game was stopped and the owner of the billiard hall walked over to learn what the row was. very well, at this point the row commenced. one of the youths, calling the proprietor of the hall by name, said, or seemed to say: "you go away from here, you duffer. we own this place and don't want any of your interference." the declaration took the proprietor's breath away for a moment. he just stood and gazed, when another of the youths appeared to say: "charley, why don't you smash decker in the jaw? what business has he to come around here and interfere with our fun?" "who are you talking to?" demanded the proprietor, his face white with rage. "_you_," seemingly came the answer from the dude. the proprietor could stand no more. he made a rush. he did not care at that instant if the dudes were the scions of the governor of the state. he grasped the chap who it appeared had given him the insolence by the loose part of his trousers and the collar of his coat, and he walked him french fashion toward the door. the youth made a vigorous protest. his friends also joined in, when the bartender rushed from behind the counter and seized another of the "chappies," and a guest who was a vigorous fellow seized the third one; and then commenced a grand march toward the street door, and each one of the dudes was thrown into the street and a kick was administered to each as he was thrust out. poor dudes! they had not been guilty of the particular sin for which they suffered, but they deserved all they got, just the same, for they had made nuisances of themselves. jack and ike left the place. they were delighted with the rebuke they had administered, but the fun was not over. the three dudes were standing at the corner of the street talking over their grievances. they espied ike and jack and one of them said: "there are the fellows who drew us into this trouble." "let's hammer them." neither ike nor jack were formidable-looking chaps, and the dudes sailed for them. well, a lively scene followed. the two ventriloquists were both lithe, active athletes, and the way they polished off the "chappies" was a sight to behold, and they were having a heap of fun when suddenly both were seized by the collars of their coats and found themselves in the grasp of two stalwart policemen. neither lad was scared. they did not mind their arrest on such a trivial charge at all, and they were led off. ike asked by signal: "what shall we do?" "what do you think?" came the answer. "shall we be locked up and raise old cain in the station house, or shall we make these officers dance right here?" "let's make them dance," came the answer. the lads struck a good chance even as the word was passed. they were passing a tenement house and a man had just raised a window to close the shutters or something, when there came as though from the man a mad cry of "fire!" the officers stopped short, and again there came several cries, seemingly from different parts of the house. the officers let go their hold upon their prisoners. a fire in a tenement house was a far more serious matter than the arrest of two youths for fighting in the street. as stated, the lads were released, and they darted away to secure hiding places from which they could witness the fun and excitement, and there was excitement. one of the officers rapped for assistance and the second one ran to the fire-alarm box to give the signal, and officer number one made a rush to the house. he found the door open and he ran up the stairs shouting "fire! fire! fire!" the tenants rushed from their apartments and there followed a scene of wild confusion, and while the yelling and screaming were at their height two engines arrived, also a platoon of police, and the firemen of the engine company entered the house, but still there was no sign of either fire or smoke. a thorough examination followed. no signs of a fire could be discovered. the sergeant in charge of the platoon of police asked the two officers who had given the alarm where they had seen the fire. they protested they had not seen any fire, but that a man had raised the window of one of the front rooms and had shouted "fire!" the firemen meantime were thoroughly convinced that there was no fire, and they were mad at being called out on a fake alarm. they commenced to abuse the police, who protested that the cry had come from the house. the tenants had all returned to their rooms and they also had been loud in their protests and threatened to make a complaint at headquarters. "from what room did the cry come?" asked the sergeant. the two policemen pointed out the room. the sergeant, accompanied by the two officers, went up to the room. there were several very respectable men in the room and they all protested that they had given no alarm. all declared that they were prepared to swear that they had not. the sergeant was bothered, and said to the two patrolmen: "this matter must be explained." "we did hear a cry of fire." "no one else appears to have heard it." "we heard it." "where is your proof?" one of the officers said: "i wish we could find those two lads. they heard it." "we can't find them." the two men were ordered to report at the station house to answer charges for their lark, as the sergeant termed it. other men were put on the beat and our two ventriloquists crawled forth from their hiding-places and ike said: "that was a pretty severe joke." "yes, it was very amusing." "we must do something to save those men or they may be broke." "how can we do it?" "we can." "how?" "we'll rattle the sergeant on the same scheme," came the answer. chapter iii. the ventriloquists do rattle the sergeant and his platoon and again raise old cain in a most remarkable manner. the two vocal experts fell to the trail of the sergeant and his platoon, but kept well out of sight. they were determined to set the two patrolmen right after getting them in such a bad scrape. the whole charge against them was having claimed that they had overheard cries of fire. the sergeant was discussing the matter with the roundsman when suddenly from a private house before which at the moment they were passing came a series of wild, frantic screams, and the next instant the screams were followed by cries of "fire! fire!" "well," exclaimed the sergeant, "it's a fire this time. run to the alarm box and summon the engines." the roundsman dashed off to give the alarm and the sergeant ran up the stoop of the house and commenced to bang on the door with his club, and the two ventriloquists were enjoying the joke. the door of the house was opened by a gentleman enveloped in a dressing-gown, who in great excitement demanded: "what in thunder do you want?" with equal excitement the sergeant demanded: "where is the fire?" "what fire?" "the fire in this house." "there is no fire in this house." "then why in thunder did you yell 'fire, fire?'" "no one yelled fire. what is the matter with you?" the owner of the house discerned that it was a sergeant of police to whom he was talking. "have you gone crazy?" he asked. "gone crazy! no; but what did you mean by yelling fire?" "i did not yell fire. every one in this house has been in bed a long time." "who was it screamed?" "no one screamed." "do you mean to tell me you did not yell fire?" "no one yelled fire." "and no one screamed in this house?" "no one screamed." at that moment the engines reappeared and the owner of the house said: "i'll have this matter inquired into. if this is a joke you will find it an expensive one." the foreman of the engine company approached and demanded: "where is the fire?" "there is no fire," said the owner of the house. "no fire?" "no fire, and i don't know what the officer means by banging on my door and arousing my family at this hour of the night." "and i can't understand," said the foreman, "what he means by calling out the engines every five minutes on a false alarm." "there is my platoon of men, there is my roundsman. they will all testify they heard a cry of fire, followed by screams, coming from this house." "then your platoon of men and your roundsman will testify to a falsehood," said the house owner. "is there a fire in your house?" demanded the foreman of the engine company. "no, sir." "is there a fire anywhere around here?" "no, sir, not that i know of, unless it's in the upper story of these policemen." "say, sergeant, let me ask you one question: have you received orders to test our department by these false alarms?" "no, sir, i'll swear and prove that there came an alarm of fire from this house." "that's what your men said down at the tenement house. i reckon it's a night off for the police department, or else they all want a night off. but let me tell you, if you didn't receive orders to give these fake alarms i'll know the reason why you did give them; that's all." the sergeant was clear beat out. he apologized to the owner of the house, went down among his men and asked: "did you men hear those screams?" "we did," came the answer. "did you hear the cries of 'fire, fire?'" "we did," came the answer. "all right; we'll find out about this." "how are you going to find out all about it, sergeant?" popped in the roundsman. "i don't know." the roundsman was a friend of the two men who had been sent to the station house in disgrace, and he again asked: "how about jones and o'brien?" "i've been thinking about them." "we heard it; they claim they heard the cries. i don't see how they can be held responsible." "i don't know what to think of it." "can i advise?" "yes." "send the two men back on post and say nothing about the whole affair. that's my advice." "roundsman, it's all very strange." "it is." "it's one of the mysteries of the century." "it is." "i am not crazy. i'd think so, only we could not all go crazy." "i'll swear i heard the cries." the platoon started for the station house. the men were all greatly mystified, but a greater mystery was yet to confront them. the ventriloquists had been witnesses of the result of their pranks and determined to press the matter along. they followed the platoon at a safe distance, one of them going around the square so that they approached the station from opposite quarters. the men were just in the station; the last man was passing the door when right at his ears sounded a wild, unearthly yell, followed by the cry of "fire! fire! fire!" the man stood like one paralyzed, then the sergeant rushed into the street. not a soul was near, and yet even while he stood there again right at his ear sounded the weird cry, "fire! fire! fire!" the man was dumfounded. he stood and gazed in wild dismay. the sergeant at the desk came rushing forth, demanding: "what's the matter? where's the fire? what are you all standing here for?" "do you think there is a fire?" "didn't you hear the cry?" "yes; did you?" "i did." "then go find the fire. we've heard cries of fire all the night, but devil a fire can we find." jack and ike had had fun enough in that one direction and they started off toward ike's home. they had not gone far, however, when they struck another little adventure--a very peculiar one. indeed, possessing their singular talents they were continually running into adventures, as their gifts gave them great powers in every direction. a little girl had stopped a crabbed, sleek-looking old gentleman and had asked him for alms. the man had said: "go to the station house," and he spoke in cruel, hard tones. the girl with a sigh turned away, and ike said: "let's give that old skinflint a dose." "agreed," came the response. ike ran forward and dropped a silver dollar in the girl's hand and then slid along and joined jack. the two secured advantage ground, for the old gentleman had stopped to gaze in the windows of one of the great hotel restaurants. suddenly there sounded in his ears: "cruel, cruel old man!" the old gentleman looked around in every direction and saw no one near him, yet the words had sounded, as stated, close beside his ear. while he was still gazing again there came a voice, saying: "cold, cold-hearted!" the old gentleman looked around in an amazed manner, and with anger in his heart, but he saw no one. he became a little bewildered, when again there came a voice saying: "go to the station house! go to the station house!" the old man turned pale. it was the most mysterious incident of his whole life, and again came the words: "go to the station house!" the admonition sounded close in his ears, and yet there was not a living soul near him that he could see. he began to tremble, and again, even while he glanced around, the voice repeated: "please give me money for bread," and there came the response in exact imitation of the old man's tones: "go to the station." "great mercury!" ejaculated the man. "i am pursued by a phantom." "yes, you are pursued by a phantom, you who refused to give a poor child money for bread." "i'll give the next child i meet a dollar," murmured the old man in trembling tones. "you promise?" "i do." "all right; i'll leave you until my presence is required again. good-night." the old gentleman moved toward his home, and it is to be hoped he became a more charitable man. the two lads started on their way and were moving on up fifth avenue when ike, who was quick-eyed and observant, saw a man rush out of a hallway. the fellow's actions were suspicious and our hero remarked to his companion: "hello! jack, there is something going on here." the two lads determined to trail the man. they saw him go up the street, where he joined a second man. the ventriloquists stole up close, and both being lithe and active they were able to secure a position very near where the two men stood, and they heard one of them ask: "are you sure it's dead easy?" "yes." "are you sure you have the right house?" "yes." "that woman is very smart." "she is?" "yes." "how do you know?" "i've been watching her for weeks. there is something strange about her and her movements, but she's got the stuff; of that i am sure. she lives alone in that big house with only one servant--an old man--whom we can silence in about two minutes. she is a stranger in new york, and does not appear to have any friends. if we can get in there and away again we can make a big haul, and all in good movable swag. i'll bet she's got twenty thousand dollars' worth of diamonds alone, and where there are so many sparks there are other fireworks, you bet." ike and jack appreciated that, indeed, they had "tumbled on to a big thing." the men did not talk in particularly low tones; no one appeared to be near them. "we need a big haul." "we do." "i am run way down." "i am also." "we struck a big thing when we followed that woman from boston." "we did." "we are not known in new york and the scent will be on natives." "that's it exactly. we can get away with our haul, return to boston and read the papers and learn how these smart new york officers are closing in on the robbers." "yes, yes." both men laughed in a very complaisant manner, and one of them said: "it will prove the softest trick we ever played. we are in luck to strike a neat, clean affair like this." "we are, you bet. when will you work the racket?" "i've got all the points down. we'll jump in and do the job to-morrow night." "at what hour?" "well, about two o'clock is a good time." "where will we meet?" the man named a meeting-place. "i will be on deck." "we will have this all to ourselves." "we will." "and i tell you it's the easiest job we ever struck, and we'll make a big pull." "that will suit me to a dot." "the police here are on the watch, for crooks are running riot in new york just about these days." "so i see by the papers." "they are all too noisy about their jobs. we'll go it slow, easy and sure." "we will." the two men sauntered away and the two ventriloquists followed them. ike expressed a desire to learn where they "hung out," as he put it. the men went down to a small hotel on a side street and then the shadowers once more started for their home. on the way ike said: "jack, it's a great thing to possess our power." "yes, but it does not require our power to capture those fellows. all we have to do is notify the detectives and those men will be gobbled. any one could do that." "yes, but we can have some fun. you must learn that i like to do these things my own way and give those rascals a lesson beyond the mere punishment they will get for their crimes. do you know, i take a very serious view of housebreaking." "you do?" "yes, i do." "i am with you there." "it's something terrible to be securely sleeping, as one feels, and to have one or two of these devils steal into one's house to rob, and if need be do murder. robbers are a mean class, and i could never understand the sentiment of romance that is thrown about them. i look upon it as the most cruel and cold-blooded method adopted by any class of criminals." "i am with you, but you said you proposed to adopt a peculiar method in capturing these fellows." "yes." "you may lose them." "not if the court knows itself. they feel dead sure. they think they have everything dead to rights. they will move with less caution than usual. it appears there is a lady living in that house practically alone; from what we overheard she has many valuables. the chances are that if discovered there would follow a cruel murder. i tell you, my experience here in new york has been a strange one. just watch the daily papers and learn the number and variety of crimes that are committed. already there has been a call for an increase of the detective force, and it's needed; but in our humble way we'll do a neat job in the line of justice; yes, just once at least." "what is your plan?" "i'll think it out and reveal the whole business to you; but besides arresting these fellows and saving the lady, i want to give them the surprise of their life." "it's easy for us to surprise people. we are doing that all the time." "we'll give these fellows a big surprise--a stunner." "then you have decided on a plan?" "in outline." the two lads arrived at their home and were soon resting from their singular labors. on the following day ike revealed his plan and jack heartily fell into the whole scheme. jack loved surprises and enjoyed a good joke equally with the inimitable ike. ike owned a variety of animals, all of which were well trained. had he concluded to appear as a professional performer he would have astonished his audiences beyond all belief. among other possessions was an immense siberian bloodhound. he had owned the animal from its puppy days and it was one of the most remarkably trained dogs on earth. some men possess a peculiar talent for the training of animals. it is a special profession. ike possessed this special talent to a great degree. he and jack went forth. they had their breakfast at a near-by restaurant and played no pranks. both the ventriloquists were very particular; they only played their tricks and exercised their powers where there was a purpose to be gained. after their meal they proceeded down to a point where they met ike's new friend, the young detective whom our hero was anxious to serve. to him he said: "du flore, we've got a great catch for you." ike proceeded and related all that had occurred, and when he had concluded, du flore remarked: "this is very strange." "it is?" "yes." "how?" "i am already on that case." "you are?" "yes." "well, that is strange." "it is wonderful," said du flore. the latter was a rising man in the profession. he was a powerful young officer, and, as we have intimated, very brave and ambitious. "i've a strange story to tell you, ike," he said. "we are listeners." "it is a very strange story." "so you said, and repeating that fact is not opening up your story." "well, you see, in these prosaic days we seldom strike a romance just like the one i am about to relate. you remember a great wedding we had in new york about ten years ago?" "i don't," answered ike bluntly. "well, the daughter of a very rich man married a german nobleman, and a few years after their marriage they separated. she ran away from him. it is the old story: he and all his relatives felt themselves so much better than the young american girl. they insulted her in the grossest manner--and made her life miserable. she bore it for a long time, but being a full-blooded yankee woman, beautiful and spirited, she determined to stand it no longer. her father had been smart enough to secure all her fortune to herself during her life, and one bright morning she just dusted and left the count and his high-bred relatives to pay their own bills. she had done so for years and only received insults and snubs in return." "it's the fate, i reckon, of most of these rich american girls who are marrying foreigners," suggested ike. "yes, i reckon they could all tell sad tales a year after their marriage. this case, however, is a refreshing one, for in the end the yankee girl recovered from her blind adoration of rank and came down to a good common-sense view of the full value of money." "go on and tell the tale." "that is the story. she just skipped, and, as i said, left her high-born relatives by marriage to pay their own bills; and now i come to the american end of the strange romance." chapter iv. ike and jack listen to an odd narrative and with the detective lay plans to make a grand capture. du flore, continuing his narrative, said: "the lady has a son who some day will be a count if he lives, and she stole her own boy when she ran away, and she has put that lad up in new england with her yankee relatives, determined that if he lives there will be one count who has had a proper bringing up. she has just returned from a visit to her son. he is thriving finely, but one day while in boston she saw her husband and believes he saw her, and she fears he means her some harm. she left boston immediately, and on the train and boat became conscious that a man was dogging her steps. she believes the man to be a confederate of the count, but the story you tell me leads me to determine that the man was merely a common thief, attracted by her jewels and the prospect of a robbery. it was probably his intention to rob her on the road, but she, thinking her husband was on her track, was very careful and cautious. it appears, however, from what you tell me that the men have shadowed her down to her home and have made plans to rob and possibly murder her." "i reckon," said ike, "that this is the true solution. the count may show up later on." "i hope he does," said jack. "why, partner?" "well, we'll make his life miserable--make him feel that it is better to be in germany without a dollar than in new york with a million. we must protect this american woman, that is dead sure." "will we? we will, you bet; but now we have those thieves to look after and i have a plan," said ike. "what is your plan?" ike related his plan. the detective preferred to adopt another course for the capture of the rascals, but he was well aware of ike's wonderful ability, and for reasons thought it best to let the remarkable youth have his own way. later ike took du flore around to show him where the thieves were staying, and as good luck would have it he had a chance to point out one of the rascals. later du flore called upon the countess, and acting under ike's orders he let her indulge the idea that her house was to be visited by emissaries of her husband, and she said: "then i will flee away." "only to be pursued and shadowed again." "i have managed to keep out of his way for nearly two years." "that is all right, but we want to put these men out of the way. they are walking right into your power." "how?" "we can claim that they are burglars and scare the life out of them almost, and we may scare the whole party--count and all--back to germany." "i don't think they mean to do me any harm. the count is not a bad man. he believes, however, that he has a right to the child. he has a legal right, i believe, and i propose to keep the child away from him, at least for the present." "then the best plan is to let him go back to germany." "i do not understand why these men seek to enter my house." "they may think you have the child here, or it may be that they are thieves who have learned some facts from the count, and they may intend to rob you. at any rate, i have positive evidence that your house is to be invaded and i wish to place a guard here, and i will be at hand at the proper time. in these days, when so many strange crimes are occurring, it is always better to be on the right side every time." "i believe you exaggerate the danger, but as i am in your hands for my own protection i will agree to any plan that you may propose." "i will introduce two remarkable youths into your house. they will be accompanied by an immense hound. i ask you to permit them to do just as they think proper in adopting measures for the capture of two men who i am sure will make an attempt to enter your house. afterward i will have much to reveal to you, but at present i know i am acting in your best interests and in the interests of your son." du flore explained to the countess how the two youths would enter her house, and then departed. along about six o'clock in the evening, a poor-looking old man applied at the door of the house of the countess. he was admitted, and a little later quite a stylish young man also sought an entrance, and a little later still the poor-looking old man and the stylish youth were alone with the countess, who was disposed to ask them a great many questions. the lads were sorely tempted to give the countess a little initiation, but concluded to reserve their didos for the two thieves. at about eleven o'clock the countess retired to a room on the top floor. she proved very complaisant, doing in all things just as requested, although it was evident that she was a very spirited woman and wondrously handsome, as she was still under thirty. the two ventriloquists lay around until twelve o'clock, when they entered the bedroom proper of the countess, her vacated room for the occasion, and they went through a very amusing rehearsal with the hound. the lads were both very jubilant, for they were in their element--about to carry out a scheme which was a delight to them. "the robbers believe they are to have a walk-over," said jack. "they will," responded ike, a twinkle in his eyes; "a walk over to the station house, and then a smooth ride up to sing sing prison." "will your man be on hand?" "if he fails i'll act as his substitute. we are going to capture those robbers, and don't you forget it." thus the boys continued to talk until about two o'clock. both were on the alert, and ike said: "we are not to be disappointed, our game is here." sure enough, they could see the narrow gleam from a mask lantern. the burglars were at the open door of the room. a moment passed and an arm was thrust forward. the light from the mask lantern shot over the room. apparently, in the bed lay a sleeper. on the dressing bureau was a box, evidently a jewel case. a mirror permitted the two lads to see the movements and faces of the two rogues, and there came an expression of triumph and gratification to the face of both as their glance rested on the jewel case, and indeed the surroundings all appeared to indicate an "easy thing," as one of the fellows had put it the previous evening. they were very deliberate in their movements, and when satisfied that the road was clear they stepped into the room, their eyes fixed on the bed where the sleeper was supposed to be lying. they had arrived half-way across the floor toward the jewel case on the dressing bureau when suddenly an immense hound confronted them--arose before them as though he had suddenly come up through the floor. the men were both armed and carried their weapons ready for instant use, but they stood and glared. they were paralyzed, as it were, with astonishment. the thing was not quite so easy at that moment, but one can imagine their bewilderment when, as they stood and gazed, the dog appeared to say in a singularly doglike fashion, after a regular dog yawn: "i've got my eye on you fellows. don't attempt to use those revolvers or i'll chew you to mince-meat." one of the men managed to ejaculate: "great scott! the dog spoke!" the men were struck nerveless, and their terror and bewilderment increased when the dog appeared to say, with a strange, doglike laugh: "it's dead easy, old man; it's dead easy." the men's faces became ghastly and one of them in gasps managed to say: "it's the devil!" "no, you are the devils, and i am after you; yes, i am, dead sure. you miserable skunks, to steal into a house to rob!" the men were struck speechless and they lost all power to move voluntarily. they stood and trembled involuntarily, and the dog continued: "oh, isn't it dead easy? what a bully old swag you will carry to boston! the new york detectives will bark up the wrong tree, but i won't. no, no, you rascals, i'll bark you, and i am a new york detective lying around here for boston thieves. i reckon boston became too hot for you, and you thought you'd try your hands here; but, my dearies, when you get out of a new york jail i'd advise you to go to alaska. there it's dead easy for a good slide, but you can't slide back to boston from here with your swaggy--no, no. just watch my tail waggy, you villains." the men were just dead gone, and then the hound appeared to say: "i told you that you had barked up the wrong tree this time. i'll bark now." the dog did bark, and the latter was genuine. he had secured his signal and his bark was followed by the entrance of du flore, accompanied by a second officer, and the two detectives did not stand on any ceremony. they just clapped their irons on the two nerveless men, and then du flore said: "well, gentlemen, this was not so dead easy after all." with men to talk to the thieves to a certain extent recovered their nerve. it was too late to avoid them, but they did ask: "what is that?" they pointed toward the hound. "that is our chief of police," came the answer. the two burglars were carted off, and we will here state that their "dead easy" thing did land them in sing sing prison, for the proofs were dead against them. when the lady was informed of all the particulars she was greatly surprised and exceedingly grateful. a week passed. the two ventriloquists, having no serious business on hand, determined to have a little sport, and one day they visited the stock exchange, determined to throw a little confusion in among the brokers. they secured a good position at different points, and having arranged their programme prepared for active work. they saw one man who was conspicuous as a shouter, and as it appeared both formed a dislike for the fellow on appearances. he yelled a hundred of a fluctuating stock for sale. a man close at his arm appeared to make a bid. the fellow turned round sharply to accept. the man who had appeared to make the bid repudiated having done so, and the stock was again offered, seemingly bid in also by the same man, and when the seller again offered delivery the bid was repudiated. the seller had become enraged. he suspected he was being fooled. he became angry, words followed, and a crowd gathered around. the excitement ran high, when suddenly, right in the midst of the crowd, there occurred the loud barking of a dog and there was a general scatter, but no dog was seen. then there came the grunt of a pig and a dog appeared to attack the pig. the latter squealed and seemed to be running all around the room, and immediately there followed a regular barn-yard chorus. confusion reigned. all business came to a standstill and the question arose, who was doing the barking, the squealing, the cackling and the quacking? one accused another, rows followed, pandemonium reigned and amid the confusion the two authors of the whole trouble stole forth to the street. they had a heap of fun. an investigation would have followed, for the men believed the trick had been played by some of their members, but so general had been the confusion no proof could be obtained, and later the business of the exchange proceeded. "well, ike, that was high," said jack. "it was." the boys started to walk up the street, when they met a veiled lady who was walking rapidly along. ike stopped short and said: "jack, that means something." "the veiled lady?" "yes." "what makes you think so? there are plenty of veiled ladies knocking around every day." "that's so; but do you see that lady's excitement?" "how can i when she is veiled?" "but you can see it in her movements. let's follow her and learn what is up. i tell you we will be on to something before we know it and i'd like to do some one a good turn." "i'll let you investigate and i will go and do a little business i have on hand." the youths agreed to meet later. jack went his way, and ike, who was a persistent fellow, followed the lady. she turned into one of the large office buildings. the ventriloquist followed and saw her enter a lawyer's office. he remained in the hall, and it was fully an hour before the lady came forth. when she did her veil was raised. ike recognized that she was very beautiful and refined looking, and he saw also that she had been weeping. as she dropped her veil he fell to her trail. she descended to the street and with slower steps proceeded on her way. our hero was a good-looking chap. he had increased in strength and stature since first introduced to our readers in a former story, number of "old sleuth's own." he determined to follow and seize the first opportunity to speak to the pretty maid, who evidently was in some sort of trouble. while following her he was joined by jack, and a little later ike, who, as has been intimated, was observant, saw a man turn to follow the veiled lady. "hello!" he muttered, "the game is opening up. i wonder if that fellow is acquainted with the girl, or is merely following her on speculation?" the girl walked through nassau street as far as the city hall and boarded a fourth avenue car. jack and ike boarded the same car, and as the latter glanced in at the lady he saw that she was giving way to considerable emotion under her veil, and he also observed that the man who had started in to follow her had secured a seat directly opposite to her and had his evil eyes fixed upon her; for the lad discerned that the man did possess evil eyes. "jack," he said, "we are on to something, sure." "it looks so." the lady left the car at the park and started to walk through that great pleasure ground. the man left the car also and followed the girl, and it is needless to say that the two ventriloquists also followed on a double trail. "the lady acts very strangely," remarked jack. "she does." "and i've a suspicion." ike's eyes brightened up as he asked: "and what is your suspicion?" "she is going to throw herself into the lake. she is in trouble." "but why does the man follow her?" "i believe he is a rascal who means her no good." "and i mean to see that he does her no harm." "suppose she does plunge into the lake?" "we will fish her out." from the course that the lady took it did appear as though she really intended to drown herself, as jack had intimated. she finally, however, sat down on a bench near the water of the lake. the man stood off at a little distance watching her. the ventriloquists also lay off, ready to be at hand in case of emergency. chapter v jack and ike play a trick on a bad man and verify ike's suspicion that there was something up--the bad man takes a swim instead of the veiled girl. the girl removed her veil a moment and gazed into the waters of the lake and her beautiful face was revealed. the man who had been shadowing her had a chance to observe her beauty. ike had his eye upon the man and arrived at a conclusion. he concluded from the expression on the fellow's face that he was a villain and meant the beautiful girl no good. he was very handsomely dressed, wore diamonds of the biggest sort and altogether appeared like an individual whom a young girl would have good reason to fear. "jack," said our hero, "that fellow is a bad one. he means the girl no good." we write girl, for the veiled lady was but a mere girl, as revealed when her veil was removed. she had only removed her face covering for a moment. the man advanced toward her and the lads stepped closer, hiding in the shrubbery to the rear of the rustic seat where the girl had placed herself. as the man approached he said: "why, miss galt, good-morning." "i beg your pardon, sir," said the lady; "you have made a mistake." it was the old trick--merely a pretense to speak to the girl. "is it possible i have made a mistake?" said the man. "you have certainly made a mistake." if the man had been a gentleman he would have apologized and have moved on, but he said: "it's so strange. you are a perfect picture of the lady i know as miss galt." "i am not miss galt, sir, and you will please not address me further." "it's a beautiful day," said the man. the girl betrayed her surprise from under her veil, but made no reply, evidently believing the man would move on; but instead he approached nearer to her. the girl rose as though to walk away, when the man said: "excuse me, but are you sure you are not playing me a little trick? are you really not miss galt?" the girl started to move away, when the man looked around furtively and then boldly approached. the girl was terrified. she attempted to scream, when the man actually grasped her arm. she was paralyzed with fear; she could not scream. her eyes expressed her terror, her face became deathly pale, and no one can tell what might have occurred if at that critical moment ike and jack had not darted forth, and ike exclaimed: "hold on there! you scoundrel, what are you doing?" the man was large and apparently powerful. he glared at the two slender youths, and evidently concluded that with but little effort he could toss them both into the lake if so inclined. he said: "you two young rascals, how dare you address me?" he had released his hold upon the arm of the lady and the latter, woman-like, remained, hoping even in her weakness to be of some service to the two handsome youths who had interfered in her behalf. in a few moments, however, she learned that they did not need any assistance. these two young wonders were perfectly capable of taking care of the big insulter of womanhood. in reply to his words to them, the two ventriloquists gave him a laugh. he became enraged. he felt mean anyhow, as he had been caught in a contemptible act. he was prepared to become enraged very readily. "you laugh at me, you young rascals?" "certainly we do, you mean scoundrel." "you call me a scoundrel?" "that's what we call you." "you two rascals, get away from here or i'll hurt you." "you will?" "yes." "you can't hurt any one. you're a big fraud." the man moved toward the speaker, when a dog barked savagely at his heels. he leaped in the air and turned quickly, but there was no dog there. he supposed the fierce animal had skipped away, and with an oath he advanced another step toward the laughing and jeering lads, when again the dog barked savagely at his heels, and again he leaped in the air, but there was no dog visible. the man was confused, and ike said: "you are a villain. you should be lynched or ducked." "let's duck him," said jack. "it's a go," answered ike. the man gazed in amazement at their audacity, and he was about to make a rush, when seemingly there came a gruff voice behind him, preceded by a shrill whistle. "hold on there! what are you about?" the man thought that indeed a park policeman was at hand. he turned. he was standing near the edge of the water, for the ventriloquists had purposely changed their own position so as to draw him down in that direction. as he turned ike ran forward head first and made a clear dive straight at the small of the man's back. over he went, face forward, paralyzed by the blow, and then the two lads jumped on him. over and over they rolled him toward the water. at this instant the lady interfered, but her protest came too late. the man was rolled into the water about waist deep, and the water restored his strength, and there followed a mighty floundering as he struggled toward the shore. the boys roared with laughter. the man crawled out and made a rush for them, when again the dog barked at his heels, and he made a leap in the air; and as he turned and saw no dog, terror seized him, and a sudden impulse, for away he ran like a deer, all wet and dripping as he was. then ike advanced toward the veiled girl and said: "excuse us, miss, but he got just what he deserved. we saw him seize you and we made up our minds to scare him out. we will bid you good-morning. he will not molest you again." the girl stood and gazed in silence a moment and then said: "i thank you," and involuntarily she added: "oh, what shall i do?" "are you in trouble, miss?" asked ike. the girl had betrayed herself to a certain extent, and she answered: "yes, i am in great trouble." "possibly we can aid you." "no, no, you cannot aid me as readily and manfully as you did just now." "but possibly we can." the girl looked the two handsome lads over, and again she murmured, as though unable to control her emotions: "oh, what shall i do?" "we can help you." "no, you cannot help me." "yes, we can." "no, no; i wish you could. no one can help me; i am ruined." "come, we will walk away from here and you shall tell us your trouble. we can aid you. you will find out that we can." they were both bright-faced youths. they had just given an exhibition of their nerve and courage. "come, do not be afraid. we can aid you, no matter what your trouble." "it's so strange," murmured the girl. "what is so strange?" "that you should offer to aid me." "well, we can aid you. that's our mission in life." the girl did not understand the remark, but she was charmed with the two bright-faced, honest-looking lads. she said: "i am half inclined to tell you my trouble. i am a stranger in new york; i have no one to confide in. yes, i will tell you my trouble, but you cannot aid me." "i reckon we can aid you, no matter what the trouble may be." the girl walked away with the two ventriloquists, but occasionally she glanced back at the lake and both the youths were convinced that she had really intended suicide. when some distance away from the lake and in a retired part of the park, the girl said: "mine is a very strange story. i do not know as you will believe it." "we will believe anything you tell us," said ike gallantly. "a week ago i came on from san francisco. my father died a year ago; my mother has been dead for a long time. my father knew he was to die, as he had an incurable disease, and he gave me all his savings, converted everything he had into cash and placed it in my hands, and when it came near the last he told me after his death to come on here to new york. he said he once had a brother whom he had not seen or heard from for thirty years. 'my brother may still be living; if so he will be your friend and protector, and you will not be dependent upon him, as you will have five thousand dollars.' "after my father's death i remained in san francisco a year to complete my education, and then i started for new york. the money i had changed into non-registered bonds, and i put them in my trunk. i arrived in new york a week ago and went to a place to board that had been recommended to me by a friend in san francisco. last night i opened my trunk to look at the bonds and discovered to my horror that they were gone. i at once informed the landlady, who told me she could do nothing, that she knew nothing about my bonds. she evidently did not believe my story. she looks upon me as a swindler. i saw in this morning's paper the name of a lawyer. i called upon him to consult him, but first i went to the captain of police in my district. he evidently did not believe my story, and then, as i said, i went to the lawyer. i told my tale to him. he said he could do nothing for me--i must depend upon the police. he also, i think, did not believe my story. they look upon me as an adventuress. i have no proofs. i have no way to prove that i ever had the bonds. they have been stolen, and in claiming them i am losing my reputation. i am looked upon as a swindler myself. i tell you the truth. i did have the bonds and they have been stolen from me. i am ruined. no one will believe me. you do not believe my story." "yes, i do believe your story," said ike, "and we will recover your bonds." "you will recover them?" exclaimed the girl. "yes, we will recover them." "no, no; never," she said in a despairing tone. "we will see about that. when did you last see your bonds?" "the night after my arrival in new york." "where?" "in my trunk." "after you had arrived at your present boarding-house?" "yes." "is there any one in the house whom you suspect?" "i know not whom to suspect, but they were stolen after my arrival in that house. the landlady refuses to believe my story; the captain of police refuses to believe my story, and the lawyer to whom i went and offered one thousand dollars as a fee refuses to believe my story." "and my friend and i do believe your story, and we are the only ones who can aid you in recovering them. one would have to know you to believe your tale. it is indeed a strange one." "and you do not know me." "well, we have other reasons for believing your story. i tell you we will recover your bonds. you can rely upon my word." "how can you do it?" "we have our own method for going about it." "the landlady has hinted that she would like to have me leave the house. i have no money to go anywhere else, for all my money i had placed in my trunk and that is gone also." "how much money did you have?" "i had over two hundred dollars." "and it has been stolen?" "yes; whoever took the bonds took my money also, and my jewelry--for all my valuables were in my trunk." jack looked at ike in a dubious sort of way, for the story was becoming quite odd. ike, however, believed the tale. he said: "it's hard luck to lose all that way, but you shall have it returned to you." "i don't know what i shall do." "did you tell any one else in the house about your loss save the landlady?" "no, i have not said one word to any one else, and the landlady told me not to do so." ike was thoughtful a moment and then said: "i will find your bonds. in the meantime i believe it well for you temporarily to find another boarding-place." "i do not know where to go." "i can recommend you to a very nice, motherly lady who will see to your comfort." there came a look of sudden suspicion to the girl's eyes and she said: "i have no money. i do not know what to do." ike, as our readers know, possessed wonderfully quick and observant eyes, and he could discern in a most remarkable manner. "you need not bother about the money part of it. i know this lady well; she is a very reputable person, the widow of a man who was a great detective. she will be willing to wait for her pay until you recover your money and bonds." "but i may never recover them." "yes, you will recover them; on that point you can make your mind easy. when i and my friend here set out to accomplish a thing we never fail, and you shall satisfy yourself that the lady will really become your friend before you take up your home with her." ike had organized a great scheme. he was satisfied in his own mind that the money had been stolen either by the landlady or one of her boarders. he had a way of bringing people to a betrayal that was all his own. he held some further talk with the girl, and then asked: "what is your name?" the girl hesitated. "you need not fear to tell me your name. i will go with you if you choose to the captain of police and he shall vouch for my honor and loyalty." "it is not necessary," said the girl, who was really bright and self-reliant. "my name is sara sidney." "miss sidney," said our hero, "we will go to the home of the lady where i propose that you shall board while i am conducting the hunt for your missing bonds. you can satisfy yourself of her respectability before you remove to her home." the girl hesitated. "you need not hesitate. i will not only find your bonds, but i will find your uncle for you if he still be living, or his sons or daughters in case any of your cousins may be living." "why should you take all this trouble on my behalf?" "i will confide to you a secret: i am a sort of detective. it is my duty to look out for you." "i will go with you," said the girl. ike arranged to meet jack later on and proceeded with sara to the house of the lady where he proposed she should remain. the moment sara was introduced to the lady the latter won the girl's confidence, and our hero left his charge with his friend, and the latter arranged to go with sara and have her trunk removed. meantime ike met his comrade jack, and the latter said: "well, ike, i yield the palm to you. yes, sir, you are the most observant and quickest person i ever met. i thought i was great, but you are the greatest fellow on earth, in my opinion." "well, it is strange how we chanced to fall to this girl, so beautiful and so helpless." "yes, she is beautiful, and i will say that there are thousands of undeveloped romances in new york at this very moment." "yes, that is true; if a man desires to get into an adventure of a strange character he can easily do it here in this great metropolis." "say, ike, she is a beautiful girl." "she is indeed. have you fallen in love with her?" "i don't know." "i wish you'd find out," said ike, with a very meaning smile on his face. "hello! is that the case, ike?" "is what the case?" "are you dead gone so soon?" "i don't know how i am, but she is a lovely girl and her case is a peculiar one." "and you have promised to recover her bonds?" "i have." "you have undertaken a big job." "you think so?" "i do." "i'll get them." "you will?" "yes." "have you a plan?" "i have." "will you tell me your plan?" ike revealed his plan to jack, and the latter said: "well, i'll be shot if you haven't a head for a detective, and it's right here where our gifts come in." "yes, sir." "and you want me to aid you?" "sure." "when will you start in?" "at once." the same afternoon that the incidents occurred which we have related, ike, gotten up in good shape and furnished with a letter of introduction, called at the house where sara sidney had been robbed, and he succeeded in engaging board. he pretended to be an art student, and the first night he appeared at the dinner table he glanced around to take in the general appearance of his fellow boarders. he was just the lad to measure human faces. he had questioned sara very particularly about her fellow boarders in the house, and he was well posted when he sat down to the table, after the usual introduction in a general way. the people he found to be the usual representative class that one finds in a city boarding-house. there was the doctor who occupied the rear parlor, a lawyer, two lady typewriters, one a creature who knew it all from a to z. there were in all about twenty people in the house. ike went over them all. he studied in his quiet, cute way every face, and did not see one person whom he was led to suspect, and the sequel will prove how unerring was his facial study of those people. when the meal was about half through there came bouncing into the room a young man. he was a bold-faced, bumptious sort of a chap, and as he took his seat he ran his eyes over the people assembled and then asked: "where is miss sidney?" the landlady said: "she has left us." the young man was thoughtful a moment, and then asked: "when did she go?" "this afternoon." "what reason did she give for going?" there was an interested look in the young fellow's eyes as he asked the question. "she gave no reason." "where has she gone?" "i do not know." "i must find out," said the youth. "i was greatly taken with miss sidney; she was a very charming young lady. we shall miss her." at that instant there came the announcement: "miss sidney left the house because she was robbed." every one started. no one appeared to know who had spoken, but the young man gave a start, turned pale and asked in a voice that trembled perceptibly: "who says she was robbed?" at that moment the landlady returned to the room. she saw that something had gone wrong. "what is the matter?" she asked. no one answered, and there followed a moment's awkward silence, broken at length by the bumptious young man, who said: "some one stated that miss sidney left here because she had been robbed." the landlady's face flushed scarlet as she said: "who made the statement?" no one answered. "it's false," said the landlady, "and i should like to know who said she had been robbed." "i said so." the voice appeared to come from the old maid typewriter, and the landlady at once exclaimed: "miss gaynor, did you state that miss sidney left here because she was robbed?" "i did not," declared miss gaynor, indignantly. "i said so," came a voice from the far end of the table. the landlady looked in the direction indicated. an old man sat there and the voice was that of an old man. "did you say so, mr. smith?" "i did not, madam," declared the elderly gentleman in an angry tone. again there followed a silence, when the landlady remarked: "it's very strange; if any one makes such a charge, i wish they would come out and do so openly." "mr. goodlove made the statement," came a voice. mr. goodlove was the bumptious young man. he at once rose to his feet and in an indignant tone declared: "it's a lie, i did not make the statement. who says i did?" "i do," came the answer, and it appeared to come from the young lady typewriter number two, who was a pretty, delicate-looking young girl, quiet, modest, and least likely to speak out boldly. the man goodlove looked at her and demanded: "do you dare say i made the statement?" "i said nothing," she answered timidly, adding, "i did not speak at all." "what is all this ado about, anyhow?" came a voice. "mr. goodlove knows better than any one else that miss sidney was robbed; why does he pretend ignorance as to the cause of her leaving?" the young man turned ghastly. "who spoke then?" he asked. "oh, it's no use asking who spoke; you know all about the robbery." "whoever says that is a liar." the landlady was becoming greatly excited. she said: "miss sidney did claim that she was robbed, but i have proof that she is an adventuress and a blackmailer. she told me she had been robbed and she really wanted to work upon my sympathies. she did not possess anything to be robbed of, and i told her she had better go away." "you did right," said mr. goodlove. "i did not wish to tell you, madam, but i suspected all along that the minx was an adventuress." a voice came, saying: "you've changed your mind; you said she was a lovely girl and that you were very much taken with her. well, i reckon you did take." "who spoke?" demanded goodlove. "oh, you know who spoke, and you know more about this whole affair than any one else. the police are after you." the man wilted as he asked: "did miss sidney hint that i was the robber?" as goodlove spoke his eyes wandered around to learn who it was who had addressed him. "no, she didn't accuse any one; you have accused yourself. you were seen, however, to deposit a whole lot of gold." "she didn't have any gold," came the excited declaration. ike had _struck his man_ at last. it was a strange scene in that room at that moment, and the great mystery was who did the talking. no one appeared to know and there was great confusion, and it was because of the confusion that no one appeared to recognize, as stated, who was doing the talking. there came a voice demanding, when goodlove said she had no gold: "how do you know? were you rummaging in her trunk?" the man became confused; indeed, he looked as though about going into collapse. the most mysterious part of it all was the fact that no one knew who was doing the talking. the people looked into each other's faces and could not discern, and yet the voice sounded distinct and clear. some one was talking. who was it? during all this time ike was as mute as an owl after dawn. he looked around with an inquiring and surprised look upon his face, seemingly as greatly mystified as any one, and the voice pitilessly continued: "better be careful, mister man. the detectives have their eyes on you." goodlove turned to the landlady and almost yelled: "madam, send for an officer. this is going too far." "i will not have an officer in my house; no need." "but, madam, who is it insulting me?" "i do not know." the landlady was as much dazed and mystified as any one. the voice, however, ceased--became hushed; but a strange feeling pervaded those who had been witnesses and listeners during the strange scene. one after the other they rose and left the table and the room. goodlove and ike remained. the fellow looked over at ike sharply and said: "say, my friend, did you notice who used the insulting language?" the voice was again heard. it appeared to come from the hall and the words were: "that young man does not know anything about it. don't question him, you thief." goodlove rushed out to the hall. there was not a soul there. he ran up the stairs, but saw no one. each one of the boarders had either retired to his room or had gone out. ike left the table and passed goodlove in the hall. he did not speak to the man, but went to the hatrack, secured his hat and stepped out to the street. goodlove meantime entered the parlor and commenced pacing the floor. the landlady joined him. "madam," he said, "this is a most extraordinary occurrence." "it is, sir." "you were present. you know who made those insulting remarks." "i do not." "i will know, madam." "i hope you will be able to learn, for the occurrence will do me great injury unless the mystery is explained." "there is no mystery about it. you have an impudent rascal in your house. who is your new boarder?" "he came to me highly recommended." "it's all very strange, madam." "can it be possible," asked the landlady, "that the new boarder is a detective?" goodlove's face became ghastly. he walked more rapidly, and finally, seizing his hat from the hatrack, stepped out to the street. he had gone but a few steps, however, when a hand was laid on his shoulder--a heavy hand. the man would have shrieked if he had not been actually paralyzed with terror. "hello, goodlove," said the man who had seized him. "where are you going?" the man trembled, but could not answer. "well, we've got you, mister. but let me ask you, is this your first offense? if it is it's all the better for you, that's all. we may let up on you, but we've got you dead to rights." the man managed to gasp: "what do you mean?" "oh, come off! we've got you all right. we didn't close in on you until we had all the proof. where are the bonds you stole from miss sidney's trunk, and the money?" the detective talked in such a matter-of-fact tone, with such absolute assurance, that the culprit was all "broke up." he just wilted. "who says i stole the bonds?" "oh, come off! don't attempt that. old man, see here; do you want to be locked up? turn over the stolen property, and if this is your first offense i'll let you go; but if you attempt to deny or play 'possum i'll lock you up and you will go to sing sing prison; that's all." "how strange!" muttered the prisoner. "strange that you were found out?" "yes." "why, you fool, we knew all the time that you stole the bonds. thieves always get found out, but it depends upon how smart they are in getting away. crime never pays; criminals always come to a bad end. this is your first offense. you have learned a lesson that will last you all your life. it always pays to be honest; it's always a losing game to be dishonest. now what is your decision? will you go to jail or surrender the stolen property?" "if i surrender it will you let me off?" "as this is your first offense i will let you off, and as i do not wish to spoil your future chances i will say nothing about your guilt. but let me tell you, if you ever steal again you will surely be caught and will pay the full penalty." "i will surrender the property." chapter vi. ike recovers the bonds through his friend, detective du flore, and he and his fellow ventriloquist fall into new adventures. the property was surrendered--the bonds, all the jewelry and all the money to a cent--and placed in the hands of ike, who, when he met his "side partner" at their home, said: "well, jack, i didn't need you. i caught my fish easy." "yes, 'dead easy,' as the two robbers said." "they missed, i won." "you did." "so much for this adventure. to-morrow i will return the stolen property to the owner, and then----" "what then?" "we will lie around for a new adventure. we're having a heap of fun." "we are, and doing a heap of good even if i say it myself." on the day following the incidents we have related ike and jack in company called upon the young lady for whom they had done so great a service. she received them in the little parlor, but she appeared very anxious and careworn, and she said after the usual greetings: "i am very unhappy." "you are?" "i am." "why?" "i cannot remain here with this good lady when i am unable to pay for my board." "what will you do?" asked ike, a pleasant brightness in his eyes. "i do not know what i will do. i am already in her debt." "you are?" "yes; she paid my board bill at the last place when she went with me to get my trunk." "and you think you will not be able to pay her?" "i do not know what i will do." "you can pay her when you recover your stolen property." "i will never recover that." "did i not promise that i would recover it for you?" "yes, in the goodness of your heart you did; but the lady here, with whom i am staying, says the chances are very much against my ever recovering my property." "and has she intimated that you had better find another home?" "on the contrary, she has told me i can remain here as long as i please--until i find my uncle or secure a position that will enable me to earn my living." "you can set your mind at rest; when i promise a thing i usually keep my promise. i will not keep you in suspense. here is your property restored to you." the girl almost fainted, so great was her excitement. she could not speak for a full minute, but when she did find voice she exclaimed: "and you really have recovered all my property?" "you can recognize your own property; here it is." "this is wonderful." "it's jolly good, that's all. i said i would recover it and i've kept my word; and now you are independent." "oh, i am so grateful! how did you do it?" "well, we did it." "who was the thief?" "one of the boarders in that house." "who was the guilty party?" "whom would you suspect?" "no one; they all seemed good people." "and you had no suspicion?" "i did not suspect any one particular person." "a young man named goodlove was the thief." the girl stared. "he was the thief?" "yes." "i never would have suspected him, he was so kind to me. he was the only one to whom i told anything about myself." "yes, and he took advantage of your confidence in him to rob you." "i did not tell him i had any money." "he evidently suspected you did have, but all's well that ends well; and now you will remember i made you another promise." "you said you would find my uncle." "i said i would find him if he were living." "and can you succeed as you have in recovering this property?" "i can and will, if he is alive. and now can i advise you?" "yes." "make your home here for the present, until such time as we report as concerns the whereabouts of your uncle." "now that i can pay my board i will gladly remain here. i propose to take music lessons and become a teacher. i shall be self-supporting. i am pretty well advanced in music already." "that is good. can we call and see you occasionally?" "i shall always be delighted to have you call upon me; you have proved yourselves my real friends. but will you tell me how you managed to recover my bonds?" "not to-day; some day we will tell you all about it." "and goodlove--is he in jail?" "no, it was his first offense and we let him off. he will leave new york, however, and start afresh. i think he has learned a lesson and will become honest." on the day following ike and jack were at breakfast in a restaurant when they overheard the proprietor of the place and a customer discussing a great robbery that had taken place under the most startling circumstances. ike, after the meal, secured a paper and read the account. the robbery was indeed a very startling one. an old miser had lived in a tumble-down house for twenty-odd years. no one knew that he possessed one cent; indeed, his neighbors were not aware that he was the owner of the old tumble-down house in which he resided. he was seldom seen on the streets, then only at night. he never begged alms, lived in the most frugal manner, as was supposed, as no one could tell where he did procure his food. he occupied the little old house alone, and, as stated, had gone on for years, never attracting any attention until one morning through the police the startling announcement was made that the old man was really a possible millionaire. thieves had broken into his old house, chloroformed him and ransacked his apartments, and according to the old man's statement had carried off gold, bills, silver bonds, and securities to an amount which under all the circumstances appeared incredible. indeed, as it appeared, the police had been in possession of the facts of the robbery for several days, but they had doubted the old man's story, doubted that he had ever possessed any property at all, but later revelations established the truthfulness of the old man's statement beyond all question. as it also appeared, the old man had gone to south america when a very young man. he had returned to new york twenty years previous to the time of the robbery, and had then purchased the old house where, for reasons of his own, he had lived seemingly the life of a miser. the papers spoke of him in contemptuous tones as an old miser, and said by intimation that it served him right to be robbed. it was a just retribution visited upon a man who for the pure love of possession had denied himself the comforts of life just to accumulate his hoards, which were useless to him and the thousands of needy people whom he might have aided. the robbery had been a very mysterious one. no one had been seen by any one lurking in the vicinity of the house, but some time between midnight and morning three men, as the old miser declared, had entered his house, had chloroformed him and then had deliberately gone all through his apartments and had taken everything of value they could lay their hands on. after the robbery, as it appeared, the old man had refused to take any one into his house as a guard. he did not relish the visits of the police, but declared that everything portable of any value had been taken. he had been very methodical and had the numbers of most of his bonds, and the usual notifications were sent to dealers; but it was well known that quite a number of the securities were unregistered and negotiable. indeed, as it proved later, the old man was mistaken; the bulk of them were negotiable. besides the securities, jewels of great value and hoards of gold and silver were taken. ike and jack read over the account and later met their friend, detective du flore, who knew all about the case, and he said: "i was coming to see you. i wonder if we can get in on this job with any hope of success?" "i don't know about the hope of success," said ike, "but we can get in on the job." "i will tell you something privately: there is an immense reward offered. it will be the job of our lives if we can run down those plunderers." "we can try." "ike, you are a wonder, and hoping to have your aid i have had myself specially assigned to the case. my reputation for life will be made, and we will all receive a big sum of money. i owe my present reputation to you. the capture of those two burglars has set me away up, and if i can solve this mystery and run down the robbers i am a great man." "we will see what we can do." "it's a great case and some of the oldest men on the force are on it. i would like to prove a winner." "we will do the best we can." "you have a great head, ike." "thank you; i'll do the best i can." "what is your plan for a starter?" "i must have a chance to think the matter over. it will take me two or three days to make up my mind, but let me tell you, du flore, i have an idea that we can solve this mystery and get on the thieves." "we are just made for life if we can. when will you see me again?" "in a few days or in a few hours possibly," said ike. the detective and the ventriloquist separated, and as ike and jack walked away the former said: "jack, we've got a big job on hand. let's walk down and take a look at the old miser's house, for to-night we may wish to play burglar." "what do you mean?" "i am going to take great chances. i am going to get into that house." "sneak in?" "yes." "you will get into a scrape, i fear." "eh, jack, do you fear? i did not think you knew what fear meant." jack laughed and said: "don't take me so quick, ike. all i intended to convey was that we should be cautious. that house will be under surveillance. it might prove awkward if you were caught sneaking into the old man's place." "would you sneak in if you had a plan?" "to own up square, i would." "all right; we won't be caught, and if we do, with your brave aid we'll get out of the scrape. i've an idea--a very funny one. i won't tell it to you now, or even you might call me a crank. but i tell you, i am going to take big chances and get into the old man's house on the sly, in spite of the police, detectives and every one else. i've a scheme." the two lads arrived in the vicinity of the house and scanned the surroundings very carefully, and as they walked away ike said: "we have a chance for a joke on hand, jack." "yes, i am on to it." "what are you on to?" "we have been spotted and a detective is on our track." "yes, a snide. we'll give him a lesson." "when?" "oh, we'll shake him now, but to-night we'll show up again and have our fun, and with our fun we'll do some business." the ventriloquists were right. they had been spotted and a "snide" detective was on their track, and the youths did succeed in giving him the "shake," and they just kept under cover until night, when, having fully arranged for their adventures, they issued forth and proceeded again down to the old miser's house, and just as they suspected the "snide" detective got on to their track again, and the second time he started in to follow them he was satisfied he had struck something. as ike and jack walked away the former said: "now the fun commences. we will give that fellow a great steer." ike and jack were both well posted all over the city of new york, and they proceeded to a public-house which had been for years under the surveillance of the police. it was a regular thieves' resort and many a bad fellow had been trailed from that very house. once in the house they sat down at a table and called for their beer, and, as both suspected, in a few moments the "snide" entered. he pretended to be looking at everything else but the two youths, when in reality he was watching every movement. ike had been revolving in his mind how to give the fellow a layout. he knew the man well. he was a real "snide"--a detective beat--in fact, not a genuine detective, but the agent of a detective agency. he thought himself, however, very smart. ike, as stated, knew the house well, and knew that a number of very prominent politicians were in the habit of gathering in a back room on the second floor, where they indulged a little game of cards _for fun only_, and discussed their political plans. they were men away up politically, not thieves in the general sense of the word; at least, they were not liable to arrest, and they were very bold and resolute and had a very high idea of themselves. even while ike sat there he saw two of these men enter the place and pass through a rear side door to the hall. ike knew these men well. he was aware, as stated, that they met in this room to discuss their political plans. they were in session, and after a little while the "snide" who had been watching the two ventriloquists crossed over to the table where they were sitting and pretended to have met one of them before. "see here, mister," said ike, "you are barking up the wrong tree." the man gazed in astonishment. "we are not under glances now, but there's bigger game in this house." the "snide" recognized at once that the two young fellows were "on to him," as the saying goes. "who are you fellows anyhow?" he demanded. "oh, we're just out, we are. you have no use for us, nor we for you." "you say there's bigger game in this house?" "yes, there is." "give me the points." "oh, you can't work it alone." "i can't?" "no." "you give me the points and we will see if i can." "go and get your pard. it will take two of you, and i'll let you on to a big call. i want to get square; that's how i stand." "you put me on to a big lay and i'll make it worth your while." "you will?" "i will. you know me, don't you?" "i only know you are a cop, that's all." "did i ever have any dealings with you?" "never; but i want to get square. there are a couple of men in this house who swore us away once." our readers will bear in mind that both the ventriloquists were under a disguise that permitted them to play the role they were working at that moment. "what is the lay?" "oh, it's the old miser business. i knew the moment that thing came out who did that job." "it may be you did," said the detective wisely. "do you think we were in it?" "you may have been." "then take us, and we'll have the laugh on you and the real game will skip. i say i can set you on to a dead sure game to prove your arrest." "you can?" "i can." "how?" "when i agree i can do it easy enough, but you had better get a pard. these villains are wild fellows; they might do you up." "i'll take chances." "you will?" "i will." "all right; i'll give you the points." chapter vii. ike resorts to a very cunning trick and uses his great gift in a very remarkable manner--his joke is followed by startling results. the man's face beamed. he believed he was on to a big thing. we have not attempted to go into the full details and describe just how ike got down to his deception. we have just outlined the conversation, but for the purpose he had in view our hero talked straight to the point and his proposition was not an unreasonable one; it was just the dodge to hook a fellow of the stripe of the "snide." our hero knew just how to work his trick and adapted his plan to his man. ike had his fish well hooked, and then he became very confidential. he told his man to go to the rear room and play off so as not to attract attention. the man obeyed and a little later ike joined him, and then, after looking around furtively, still maintaining his play, he said: "in the rear room upstairs are the fellows who robbed the old miser. they are discussing a division of the swag. now, if you want proof i'll go up the stairs with you and you can overhear their talk and get all the points--get your men located." the detective's eyes bulged. he, of course, recognized the possibility that ike was giving him a "steer," and then again it was possible he was giving him the real facts. "you needn't take my word," said ike. "all you have to do is listen at the door. they are not looking for eavesdroppers. make sure of your points, then away with your information, get your aids and capture the whole gang. i'll teach those fellows to give it to me in the neck," concluded our wily hero. the "snide" and ike stepped into the hall and noiselessly moved up the stairs, and as they approached the door of the room where the politicians were the "snide" heard the murmur of voices. no ventriloquistic trick was ever played better in imitating the murmur of several voices behind a closed door, and as the "snide" drew close to the door a voice was heard to exclaim: "hold on! that is not a square deal." "what do you want--the earth?" came the retort. "no, but i want my share of the negotiable bonds," came the answer. "you fellows are taking all the easy things and giving me the registered ones. they're no good, you know, and i want you fellows to remember i fell to that old miser and it was i who put up the job. we made a good haul without any blood-letting. i want a square deal, i do. everything is hunky; we've given the police a dead steer away and we're all right. don't you fellows try to rob me, do you hear?" the "snide" heard and his face became radiant. he stepped away from the door and said to ike: "you go away. it's dangerous to be around here." little did the speaker know how dangerous it really was. he was destined to experience the full force of the danger in a most remarkable manner a few moments later, for ike managed to perform a second marvelous ventriloquistic trick--one of the most wonderful of all. he managed to make, seemingly, a woman scream in a shrill tone: "look out, in that room! there's a sneak peeping at the door." the words had hardly left the woman's lips, as it appeared, when the door opened. the "snide" was actually caught with his ear to the keyhole, so suddenly had the door opened. well, a scene followed. the politicians were really discussing a very important political matter. they looked upon the "snide" as a sneak who was merely seeking for information to steal it, and they were mad. indeed, there was danger around there just at that moment. as intimated, the politicians were mad; they believed this "ward heeler," as they mistook the "snide" to be, had gotten on to their whole little affair. they did not stand on ceremony--they just broke loose. they were all really toughs, and the way they went for mister snide was lovely to behold, especially had any one been present who really recognized what a mean sneak the "snide" was. "let me get at him," cried one politician. no one interfered. he was permitted to get at him and the first blow knocked the "snide" to the landing of the stairs. the second blow was a terrific kick which sent him headlong down the steps. he, fortunately for himself, did not break his neck in his descent, and gained his feet and made a rush into the bar on his way to the door to the street, but he did not get there before one of the politicians was at his heels. he received a kick that lifted him clear off the floor, then another man took a rap at him, and at each kick up he leaped involuntarily; so, with kicks and raps, he was knocked clear out to the street, and there stood the two ventriloquists to see him come forth. ike expected him, and the young fellow's expectations were not disappointed; a worse laying out no sneak ever received. the man fell helpless on the sidewalk, and when a policeman ran to his aid he told his tale and yelled: "arrest those men. they are the robbers of the old miser." the policeman believed the man drunk or crazy, and rapped for assistance, and when his mate joined him they toted him off to the station. all the way the man protested, and when he arrived at the station he told his tale to the sergeant. the latter was bound to give the story his attention. he led the man back to the resort and up to the room. the politicians had reassembled. the sergeant knocked for admission and was let in. well, a scene followed. the sergeant knew every man present in the room, knew that none of them were crooks, and he was confirmed in the impression that the man was drunk or crazy. the "snide" was led back to the station house and put in a cell. he yelled and protested, and no wonder. he foamed at the mouth in his excitement. the most partial observer would have counted him crazy. ike and jack, however, had accomplished their purpose. our hero said: "the road is clear now; that fellow was hanging around the old miser's house all the time. now i reckon i can make an entrance and interview the old man." the two ventriloquists proceeded down to the old house and arrived just in time to meet another embarrassment. a policeman entered the house just as they arrived in sight. "hello, ike," said jack; "what's that?" "a disagreeable discovery." "that fellow is probably going to remain in the house over night." "it looks so, and yet the papers said the old man had a guard and had declined to go to other quarters." "we must get rid of that fellow." "it is possible he will not remain there." the hour was about eleven o'clock and jack, after looking at his timepiece, said: "possibly he has just entered to see that everything is all right with the old man." the lads waited around for about an hour, when to our hero's delight he saw the policeman come from the house. the two young men had made a thorough search around the neighborhood and were convinced that there was no one on the watch. after the policeman had been gone some little time ike bade jack remain on the watch. the daring young man then leaped the gate of the old alleyway and passed around to the rear of the house. he saw the glimmer of a light shooting forth from the windows of the room on the second floor. he remained a moment studying the rear of the house, then descended the areaway and in a few moments managed to gain an entrance, although the door was bolted on the inside; but the woodwork had rotted and he easily gained an entrance, as stated. all was cold and damp. as he stepped inside the hallway he drew his mask lantern and glanced around. it was a dreary sight that met his view. "i reckon," he muttered, "the old man never comes down here and it is a wonder he is alive, living over all this filth and decay." on tiptoe ike ascended to the parlor floor. he entered the front parlor, and as he flashed his light around he experienced a shock of surprise. there were articles of great value lying around; marble statues had rolled from their pedestals and had fallen to the floor, and on the walls were very valuable paintings, their frames moldy and the pictures apparently ruined. there was one picture that had been covered, and at a glance our hero discerned that it had been cared for--the only article in the room which had evidently ever been dusted or cleaned. "a picture of the old fellow's wife," thought ike, and after a moment he added: "i will have a glance at it." the young man was doing a nervy piece of business, and yet he was as cool and deliberate as though in his own house. he moved about with great care and in a noiseless manner, and he advanced to the picture, removed the cloth, flashed his light upon it and recoiled as though gazing at an apparition. it was the one great surprise of his life. there he stood, as he supposed gazing upon a portrait of sara sidney, the beautiful girl whom he had served in such a signal manner. he stood gazing in rapt attention, and so engrossed was he that he did not observe a counter-light in the room, nor become aware of the presence of another until he was startled almost to a condition of terror when a voice demanded: "who are you, and what do you want here?" ike turned and beheld a strange-looking old man standing within a few feet of him. in his hand the old man held a light, and his deep, sunken eyes were illuminated with a strange gleam as their glance rested on the ventriloquist. "are you mr. ward?" "i am mr. ward," came the answer. "who are you?" "your friend." the old man chuckled and said: "you are here to rob me, i suppose; but, mr. burglar, there is nothing left for you. the scoundrels who came here before took everything--yes, everything." "i did not come here to rob--i came here to aid you." "to aid me?" "yes." "i don't need aid; if i do there is aid at hand." "you don't understand me." "well, let me understand you." "i came here as your friend." the old man chuckled again, and said: "i need no friends. i've lived many years independent of all friendship. but what do you think of that picture?" there came an eager light in the old man's eyes as he asked the question. "that picture is a mystery to me." "a mystery?" "yes." "why?" "i hardly dare tell you." "do you know anything about that picture?" "shall i speak right out?" "certainly." "i know the original of that picture." "young man, you lie, and you need not come here with any such wild story. hark you, i have but to give an alarm--touch a button--and i will have a whole platoon of police here." "you do not need the police." "how do i know?" "i will convince you." "you will convince me?" "i will." "do so." "i repeat, i know the original of that picture." "are you a maniac or a rogue?" "i am neither." "let me look in your face." ike stood with his face turned toward the strange old man. the latter thrust his light forward and carefully studied the ventriloquist's features. "you do not look like a rogue or a maniac." "i am neither." "then why did you force yourself into my house?" "i came here as your friend." "i need no friends." "yes, you need me." "i do?" "yes." "how is it i need you?" "i am going to do you a great service." "you are?" "i am." "how?" "i will recover your bonds and all the property stolen from you." the old man again laughed in a strange, weird manner, and said: "that is what they all told me. i have not yet seen my bonds and jewels." "we will talk about that later on. what i desire to know is, who is the lady whose portrait i see here?" "what business is it of yours who the lady is?" "i tell you i know the original." "then why do you ask me who she is?" the question was a cute one. "there is a mystery here." "is there?" "there is." the old man appeared to be a clear-headed, nervy individual, although he might be a miser. "what is the mystery?" "i said i knew the original of that picture." "you did." "i will say i know one for whom that picture might be taken as a portrait." "you do?" "i do." "who is the person?" the old man was again all eagerness and attention. "i will not say yet, but i would like to know who the real original of the picture is." "i would first like to know who you are and how you dared force an entrance into my house." "you shall know all about me later on." "oh, yes, that is what you said, but it is not satisfactory. you say you know one for whom that picture might be accepted as the portrait?" "i do." "the picture is mine." "i will not dispute that, but i tell you there is a mystery. i can see now that the party i know is not the original of the portrait, but the likeness is very remarkable--yes, wonderful. the party i know could be a twin sister." "say, young man, what is it you are trying to accomplish?" "on my honor, sir, i am telling the truth. is your real name ward?" the old man showed signs of great excitement as he demanded: "what business is it of yours who i am?" "is your real name sidney?" the old man uttered a cry, and advancing toward ike seized his arm and demanded: "what do you mean? who are you?" "we had better settle right down to full confidences, mr. sidney. i tell you i am your friend." "will you explain your words?" "i will." "do so." "i asked you if your name was sidney." "you did." "i know a young lady named sidney who could be taken for the original of that picture. i concluded she must be a family connection; indeed, i am in the habit of putting little bits of evidence together and i arrived at a conclusion, following a suspicion aroused by the strange resemblance; that's all. i am telling you the truth." "you look like an honest youth. come upstairs with me. we will talk this matter over. my name is ward; yes, my name is ward, but i once knew a man named sidney. he was the friend of my boyhood. i have not seen or heard from him for many, many years." "did he go to california?" "yes, he went to california. yes, yes, i remember he did; but come upstairs. i wish to talk to you." the old man led the way to the room on the second floor, and, remembering what he had seen in the lower part of the house, ike was surprised to behold the air of comfort and neatness presented in this apartment. "sit down," said the old man. ike obeyed and the old miser continued in an eager tone: "now tell me about this girl who you say is the daughter of my old friend sidney." chapter viii. ike makes a most remarkable discovery and also picks up clues which enable him to start out intelligently on a shadow for the bond thieves. ike had his own suspicions, but he did not project them. he was going very slow, as he hoped to draw the old man on and force him to a very startling confession. he told the story of sara sidney--told it in a straightforward, simple manner. the old man listened attentively and betrayed considerable emotion, and he muttered: "how unfortunate i have been robbed! how much i might have done for this daughter of my old friend! but alas! i am a poor man now--yes, a poor man." "all your wealth can be recovered." "oh, they all say that." "who says so?" "the detectives who have been here; but they will never recover one dollar. i will never get my property back." "that is what your niece said," projected ike suddenly. the old man almost screamed as he said: "my niece! what do you mean?" "i will speak plainly. i cannot be deceived--this man sidney was more to you than a friend. i recovered the stolen property of sara sidney; i will recover your property." "who are you, young man?" "you may call me the devil or tom walker if you choose, it makes no difference. i will recover your property, and now i tell you i know your name is sidney and the girl i know is your niece, and that accounts for the wonderful resemblance to the portrait of your daughter." the old man glared. ike, as our readers will observe, was pressing right ahead in his impressions. he had arrived at a conclusion and he was assuming a tone calculated to force the old man to an admission. he said: "you need not fear. your niece is independent; she will not become a burden to you. she is a brave, true, energetic young girl. she has some means--enough to maintain her until she is in a position to support herself by her labor. i tell you, when you see her you will be proud of her." the old man was very thoughtful for some moments but finally he said: "can i trust you, young man?" "yes, you can trust me." "my real name is sidney. i did have a brother who went to california. this is all very strange. i have not heard from my brother for nearly thirty years. if what you say is true this girl may be my niece. when can i see her?" "you cannot see her until i have caught the thieves and restored the property or come to you and admit that i have failed." the old man appeared dazed and ike said: "tell me your story. yon can trust me." "i believe i can," said the old man; "i will. i have admitted that my name is sidney, and that i am a brother of the sidney who went to california. i went to south america and while there met a young american girl, the daughter of the united states consul. she became my wife and one child was born to us; but alas! my wife died, carried off by fever, ere the child was a year old, and from that moment i devoted my life to my daughter. i am of humble birth, and i set to work to accumulate a great fortune for my child. i brought out masters from europe to educate her. she was beautiful, amiable, bright and accomplished, and i was happy. but alas! death came stealing along one night and wrapped its cold arms around my child, and i laid her beside her mother. from that moment i lost all ambition, all interest in life. i had heard many years previously that my brother was dead. i had never heard of his marriage and did not suppose he had left a child. strange fate! i live, but my child is gone; he has gone and his child lives. i converted all my wealth into bonds, money, jewels and securities, and i came home to america. they call me a miser, alas! in my own way, secretly, i have been aiding the poor and needy for twenty-odd years. the portrait you see is a portrait of my child. in the south, you know, girls mature very fast. she was but thirteen when she died. well, i have had no interest in life. i fear nothing, i have cared for nothing. i have only been waiting for death to come and claim me. his visit has been long delayed and now my wealth is gone. i did not care, but now i do care, for if you are not deceiving me i would have had something for the child of my brother; and you say she resembles the portrait. well, when my brother and i were boys we greatly resembled each other. and now listen to me: i accept your gage. i will not ask to see my niece until you have made good your promise; either you shall recover my fortune or you shall come to me and say you have failed." "it will be strange if i ever come to you and say that i have failed. you can trust me. i seek no reward, but i believe i can recover your fortune, and now i have a double motive for doing so." there came a quick, searching glance to the old man's eyes, but he said nothing until after an interval, when he declared: "recover the fortune and you shall not complain of your reward." "have you talked much to the detectives?" "i have not, because until now i was indifferent." "if i can secure the slightest clue i will promise success. have you any recollection of the appearance of either of the men?" "yes; i had a struggle with them before they chloroformed me." the old man proceeded and gave quite an accurate description of one of the men. "this is great!" said ike, and he asked: "where did the struggle take place?" "down in my parlor. i heard them down there as i heard you, despite your care, and there i met and fought them until overpowered." ike went down to the parlor. he spent one minute gazing at the portrait and then set to work. he had associated so much with detectives he had their methods down to a fine point; and besides, as our readers know, he was naturally a perfect wonder in shrewdness and cunning. he drew his mask lantern and the old man asked: "are you a detective?" "a sort of amateur," came the answer. ike got down on the floor, face forward, and flashed the light of his mask lantern over every inch of the carpet, asking questions of the old man as to just where the first grapple commenced, and soon he cried, "eureka!" the old man had become eagerly interested. "what have you found?" "all i need, added to your description." ike had come across several strands of hair. he rose from the floor and held the threads under the full glare of his lantern, and the old man exclaimed: "i remember; yes, i did grasp one of them by the hair and must have pulled a few locks." "hardly a few locks, but enough," said ike. the young ventriloquist obtained what he most desired. he had the description, as stated, and he knew the color of the hair of at least one of the robbers. let him find one of them and he well knew he would not only run down the men but the "swag." he felt quite jubilant, and after a long talk with mr. sidney, in which he gave the old gentleman very minute instructions, he passed out the front door, and as he did so a man seized him. "hello, young fellow! what are you doing in there?" came the question. "i am not in there; i am out here," answered ike coolly, and at the same instant jack ran up and said: "look out for that fellow, ike. he's a bad one." "i want you," said the man. ike suddenly drew his mask lantern, which he had not extinguished, and flashed the light straight in the fellow's face. the man uttered an oath, drew a revolver and made as if to strike ike a blow, but instead he received a rap on the head which felled him as though he had been hit with an iron bar. as the man fell ike leaped over his form and he and jack sped away. our hero had reasons for speeding away, for he believed he was on to a great thing. once out of sight jack asked: "what happened; ike?" "wonders upon wonders, jack; it's a night of wonders. i can't stop to tell you now; but who is that fellow? you said he was a bad one." "i'll tell you. while i was waiting for you i saw him and another man come stealthily down the street. i stole behind them and overheard their conversation. they were not looking for you, but some one else. i think when you came forth they mistook you for the man they were looking for." "they are not officers?" "no." "we must trail that fellow. he is probably associated with the robbers." the two ventriloquists worked a transform and separated, but both were making for the one objective point and both got on to the trail of the man whom jack had so opportunely knocked over just as he aimed a blow at ike. as intimated, they got on the trail of the man and followed him until he met a second man on the bowery. the latter had come from a saloon--a brilliantly illuminated gin palace. he stood right under the glare of the electric lights and ike had a clear, full view of him. "there's our man," said ike. "what do you mean, iky?" quickly ike stated that he had received a clue and that he identified the man standing in the doorway of the gin palace beyond all question as one of the burglars. "this is great!" said jack. "let's close in on him, and i'll try a little hypnotism on him." "you may have plenty of chance yet for the exercise of your mysterious power, jack." we will here state that jack had given ike an exhibition of his wondrous gift as a hypnotist. ike was the greater ventriloquist, but he did not possess the hypnotic power; while jack possessed it, as the readers of his former adventures as recorded in number of our series are aware, to a remarkable degree. ike was not naturally excitable. he was singularly cold-blooded, but upon discovering his man so soon his blood did course rather rapidly through his veins. there is one other fact we wish to state: burglars, as a rule, do not leave the great cities. they find them safer hiding-places than anywhere else, despite the great number of detectives hovering around. there are all sorts of burglars--the bunglers and the accomplished chaps who proceed on almost scientific principles. these men are strategic. they study out all their plans weeks in advance. they calculate all their chances, both to accomplish their burglaries and also to prepare for their retreat and hiding. ike calculated that the men who had robbed mr. sidney were accomplished and veteran crooks who would be likely to remain in the city, especially after making such a big haul; and when he secured the specific clue he calculated upon finding his man, but certainly did not hope to drop on him so soon. "what shall we do?" asked jack, after a few moments. "we will follow this fellow. he will go home by and by, and----" the lads did follow the man, but he did not go home, and they were destined to have quite a long shadow ere they ran their game down. they located him in his haunts, but did not trail to any permanent abiding-place; and finally, well on toward morning, they returned to their home well wearied out but hopeful. ike was sure the man would remain in the city and that he could locate him almost any time when he needed. it was late on the following afternoon when our hero visited sara sidney. he listened to a long and hopeful talk of the girl's plans. he did not say anything direct, but did project: "suppose you should find your uncle, and he should disapprove of your plans?" "i do not expect ever to find my uncle." "well, now, i once made you a promise." "i know you did, but remember, it is thirty years since my father saw his brother." "well, some men live to a pretty old age. i am sure i will find your uncle." "what makes you so certain?" "oh, it came to me in a vision. yes, i will make you a positive promise: i will find your uncle. i know that he is alive, or was a few weeks ago." the girl became quite interested, and she looked very animated and beautiful as she urged ike to tell her how he had learned that her uncle was living a few weeks previously. ike, however, did not tell his tale, but he hoped to tell her in the near future, and with it also add the wonderful narrative of the recovery of a great fortune. three weeks passed, and during that time either ike or jack or detective du flore was on the trail of the light-haired man whom our hero had identified as one of the robbers. one day jack asked: "ike, are you sure you have the right man?" "yes, i am sure, and we'll get down to him." "possibly the fellow knows we are on his track." "no, but he is well aware that detectives are liable to be on his track and he is playing away from his lair; but he'll go home sure." on the day following the conversation recorded ike was on the trail. all three did not "dog" the man at one time--they did so alternately. it was ike's "tour," as boatmen say, and the ventriloquist struck his "lay" at last. hope is the propelling force of energy, and it was constant hope that made our hero so persistent on the track of his man. often during the three weeks he had visited sara sidney. he enjoyed her importunity as she urged him to explain what he meant when he told her that he knew her uncle was still living. it was delightful to him. the girl was a constant charm to him when in her presence, and a memory of her sweet personality haunted him when he was away from her. yes, he had a strong motive for sticking to the trail, and, as intimated, he at length fell to a great lead. he had followed his man to staten island, or rather followed him on board one of the staten island boats, and then a great game commenced. he saw the thief wander all over the boat scanning the face of every man and woman on board, and the ventriloquist made a second discovery. he had seen the man exchange signals with a fine-looking lady on board, and as the burglar wandered around ike saw the lady watch him in a most intent manner, and he muttered as a great suggestion came to him: "at last! at last!" chapter ix. ike's pertinacity is rewarded in a most remarkable manner--he proves all theories and redeems all promises. the exchange of signals between the burglar and the woman was an incident of great significance to our hero. the burglar was a very gentlemanly looking and acting man--a fellow far above the usual personality of robbers. ike was after him, however, and in his own mind had arrived at a conclusion. a little time passed. the man made the circuit of the boat, appeared to be satisfied and returned to the cabin where the woman sat. he walked boldly up to her and they engaged in a very earnest conversation, while our hero muttered: "at last! at last!" when the boat reached the landing the woman went ashore alone, and ike was in a dilemma. he did not wish to lose sight of either of them. he believed he was not only on to the burglars, but also going direct toward the hiding-place of the stolen property. he decided to follow the woman, but knew how necessary it was to be very careful. we will here state that nearly all burglars have women confederates, and we will also state that the most romantic dénouements have time and again followed the running down of an expert burglar. burglars are not all vulgar, rough men. some of them are rascals possessing æsthetic tastes. the police records will show that many burglars have been married to very reputable women whom they have kept in total ignorance of their criminal life. it is upon the records that burglars have been known to be very fond of their families. of course, these cases are exceptions, as the usual housebreaker is a vulgar rascal. ike, however, knew of many singular romances connected with criminals and believed that he had fallen to one, a romance of a peculiarly exceptional character. as stated, he desired to follow the woman, but did not dare show his hand. he left the boat, however, and a few moments later saw the burglar pass around to the returning boat. it was evident he had met the woman and was about to return to new york. ike boarded the staten island rapid transit train. he had seen the woman go on the train and she rode to the third station, where she alighted. our hero was on the alert. he alighted from the train also. his disguise was a good one. again, in a rural district he could lay away back. he followed the lady until to his surprise he saw her enter a very handsome villa house, and then he remembered he had overheard just one word between the lady and the burglar. as he saw her enter that villa residence he fell to the significance of the man's words. he intended to visit the house that night, and our hero was put to his wits' end to decide upon his course in the emergency. two propositions were presented to him: was the stolen property in the villa, and did the man intend to come that night and take it away, or did he intend to remove it from some other place and hide it in the villa? the ventriloquist meditated a long time and finally decided he had the burglar located. he had the villa located. he had reason to believe the man was to visit the villa that night. the chances favored a double catch--the burglars and the "swag." ike determined to return to new york, notify jack and du flore and with them return to staten island and stand ready for a grand dénouement. before returning, however, he "piped" the house a bit and saw a man greet the woman as she stepped upon the grand piazza. he then returned to the station, muttering as he went: "it will be great luck if we capture both burglars and all the swag. great ginger! what a man the young detective du flore will be!" our hero arrived in the city, got in communication with his detective friend and told his story. du flore was all excitement. he said: "ike, you have got on to the whole business, sure, and you've done it all yourself. yes, that property is in that villa. we will have a great sensation for the public, who are never tired of great sensations, but we will give them a dandy this time, sure." ike, jack and the detective got themselves up in first-class disguises, and taking different boats proceeded singly to the island, where they all arrived just about dark. they met and our hero indicated the road to the villa, and some time later they were all laying low and on the watch near the house where they expected to make the capture of the season. it had been arranged between ike and jack to exchange signals, but it was some hours before they had the opportunity and then ike signaled that their man had arrived. our hero recognized his gait. the rogue went straight to the villa, which was illuminated on the first and second floors, and the woman evidently heard the step, for she came to the door to meet her friend. the ventriloquists and detective came together and held a few moments' conversation, and it was decided that ike should steal into the house, as he was the one most experienced in that sort of work. ike started right in. he had reconnoitered the house earlier in the day and knew just where to effect an entrance. he succeeded, and once in the house he went very slow. he saw no servants and decided they had all retired; or, as it proved later, had been granted a holiday, for only one servant was in the house. as it also proved, this servant was really a confederate and had retired. ike observed that all the lights on the lower floor had been extinguished, and he ascended to the second floor and fell to his old game of peep and listen. the man and woman were seated at a table. the latter was a sharp, shrewd-faced woman. ike heard the man say: "mosely will not be here to-night." "then what do you propose to do?" "look over the swag." "do you not think it risky?" "no, the detectives have given it up as a bad job." "how do you intend to make a division?" "the jewels are all yours. the money and bonds we will take." the woman's face betrayed her delight. "all right," she said; "such a division is agreeable to me. i will bring the bonds and let you count them over." "are all the windows tightly closed?" "we can close them." "do so." the woman did close all the windows, and then going to an adjoining room returned in a few moments, bearing in her arms, we will say, a bundle of bonds. ike well recognized the documents. he had seen so many bonds--indeed, had captured so many at different times from thieves. the woman laid the certificates on the table and the man said: "where are the jewels and the money?" "i thought they were to be my share." "certainly, but i wish to look them over. i wish to see the full amount of our great capture." the woman's face displayed a little disconcertion, but she went to the adjoining room and soon returned, bringing with her a jewel case and a bag which clinked, showing its contents to be gold. the man opened the bag and tossed gold and bills on the table, and his eyes glittered as his glance fell upon the wealth. ike had seen enough for the time being. he slid down the stairs, gave a signal and was joined by his friends. to them he told the wondrous news. he said: "we've got it all. it's right to our hands." as stated, he told the tale and then led his companions into the house. a programme had hastily been arranged. they all gathered at the door of the room. just one moment they stood and then there sounded a wild, weird shriek, and it appeared to be in the very room where the robber and his female pal were counting the gold and examining the jewels. the shriek had been sent forth with a purpose. both the man and the woman were paralyzed with terror, so sudden had come the yell, in all its shrill and piercing distinctness. as they stood and gazed du flore, armed with a pair of cocked revolvers, entered the room. the man attempted to draw a weapon, but du flore called out: "hold on there! you're covered." ike and jack entered the room. both were armed, and ike went directly to the woman and in a strange, weird voice said: "you do not wish to die." "throw up your hands," commanded du flore. the man did not obey. the click of a hammer sounded in his ears and he muttered: "it's all up with us, maggie. who is to blame?" du flore was a powerful fellow. he suddenly leaped forward and quicker than a wink struck the man a blow that felled him to the floor. the robber was unprepared, and fell as though shot; and jack, ever ready as usual, clapped the darbies on him while ike with singular dexterity performed the same service for the woman, and the job was over. it had been a bold, well-played game from first to last. the bonds and gold and jewels were scooped into a bag, the man and woman were led down the stairs, and a little later the whole party were on board one of the staten island ferryboats. jack remarked: "the servants in that house will wonder where their mistress is when they walk downstairs in the morning." the two prisoners were taken to headquarters, and within two hours the "pard" of the robber was captured on information which the chief of police secured from the woman. the mystery of the robbery had been solved, and on the following morning our hero proceeded to the home of mr. sidney. he found the old gentleman in his usual placid humor, but he did display just a little excitement when ike said: "i'm ready now to introduce you to your niece." the old man stared. "is it possible?" he ejaculated. "yes, sir, it is possible. it's true your fortune has been recovered--every bond, every dollar, every jewel." the old man stood a moment lost in deep thought, and finally he said: "this is indeed wonderful--yes, very wonderful!" "it is true, and now i go to prepare your lovely niece to receive you." ike did proceed to the home of sara sidney. he found the young lady in quite a happy mood, and her lovely face became radiant as she entered the little parlor where ike waited to meet her. "i am so glad you have come." "indeed!" "yes." "do you anticipate the news i have to tell you?" "i do not." "i have great news for you, but first let me tell you a strange tale." ike proceeded and told the tale of the robbery--told it as though he were merely relating an interesting story with which miss sidney had no connection--and proceeded and told how he and his friend jack, with detective du flore, had recovered all the stolen bonds, money and jewels. the girl listened and was deeply interested, evidently believing that jack was merely telling a tale of his success, and she said when he had concluded: "you are one of the greatest detectives on earth." "i will not lay claim to that distinction until i have found your uncle. you know i told you i had a clue." "yes, and it would be so strange if after all these years i should meet my father's brother, my uncle." "would you like to meet him?" "how can you ask such a question? do you know what it means to be alone in the world?" "yes, i know exactly what it means to be alone in the world. i am alone in the world. i do not know that i have a living relative on earth." "ike, you never told me your story." "shall i tell you my story?" "yes; i should be delighted to hear it." "i will tell it to you. all i can remember of my earliest days is that i was traveling around the world from city to city with a strange man who bade me call him uncle. he was a great magician. he taught me his trade. i had a natural aptitude for the business. i evidently possessed a gift in that direction, and he cultivated my natural gift so that i became a wonder to him and a wonder to myself. well, one day, without any previous warning, the old man announced to me here in new york that he was going away--to leave me. i was amazed and heart-broken. he had been in america a year when he made the announcement. he would not tell me why he deserted me; he would not tell me where he was going and would not assure me that i should ever see him or hear from him again. and what was stranger still, although i knew that he was rich--for together we had been very successful--he was leaving me practically penniless. all he gave me was five dollars, and when i reproached him he said: "'you can earn the money you need with your wonderful gift.' he gave me a great deal of good advice as concerned my conduct while making the struggle of life." "did you not ask him about your parentage?" "i did, but he refused to give me any information." "did he deny knowing about you?" "he indicated that he did know the story of my earliest life, but he refused to give me any information. he did say, however, that some day if i lived i would learn all about myself." "how cruel he was!" "it would appear so, but after all it is proved that he knew what he was talking about. he said i could earn all the money i needed with my great gift, and his words have proved true. i have not wanted for anything since the night he so strangely disappeared. before going he gave me a box and told me i must not open that box until i was twenty-one, or until such time as i might fall into some dreadful calamity; then, when all other means failed, i was to open the box." "and you have that box?" "i have." "you never opened it?" "i have never opened it." "oh, how i would like to see what is in that box!" said sara in an eager tone. "no doubt you are a true daughter of eve, but i will not open that box until i am one-and-twenty. i have never had any excuse for opening it, as far as having been overtaken by any dire calamity. my life has been pleasant and successful. i have been enabled to perform many good deeds for people who needed aid and assistance." "you did a wonderful deed for me." "i propose to do more for you. i propose to find your uncle." "but that box, ike?" "well, what about the box?" "are you sure it is safe?" "yes, i am sure it is safe." "oh, how i should like to be present when you open that box!" "maybe you can be," said ike. "oh, i should go wild in anticipation." "some day--not now--but some day i may propose a condition whereby you may earn the privilege of being present when i open that box." "no doubt it contains some wonderful secret." "it is possibly a secret concerning me. it may inform me that i am the unknown son of a beggar, or it may tell me that i am a prince, a lord or a duke." "a prince, ike! yes, it will inform you that you are a prince." "the prince of ventriloquists," said ike with a laugh--a very merry laugh. "oh, ike, you are really a lord or a duke," cried sara in tones of great enthusiasm. ike observed her enthusiasm, and, for reasons which our readers shall learn when we tell the story of the opening of the mysterious box, our hero was quite pleased, and the girl again said: "ike, remember your promise. you are to give me an opportunity to be present when you open that mysterious box. oh, how i would like to learn its secret! not for myself, but for you. it will be a great and pleasing discovery when you open that box." "maybe i have a great and pleasing disclosure to make to you now." the girl's face assumed a sudden pallor. "what do you mean, ike?" "i made you another promise. i told you i would find your uncle." "i see, i see! you have found him?" "yes, i have found him." "i know now why you told me the story of the old miser and the loss and recovery of his treasures." "you discern why i told?" "yes." "why did i tell you?" "i hardly dare answer." "do not fear. tell me what you suspect." "that old miser is my uncle?" "yes, sara, that old miser is indeed your uncle, and i have a great surprise for you." sara was thoughtful a moment and then asked: "are you sure he is my uncle?" "i am." "you have absolute proof?" "i have." "and i am the niece of a soulless miser!" murmured sara in a disconsolate tone. "no, he is not an old miser--he is a warm-hearted, generous man. i will tell you more about him later on." "but are you sure you have the proof?" "yes, i am sure." "tell me what the proof is." "i am going to show you the proof. i have a great surprise for you. come, put on your hat and cloak. you are to go with me and behold something that will make you stare." "i shall not stare at my uncle; and again, ike, i assure you i must have positive proof." "you shall have positive proof. this is a most strange and remarkable romance. it is fate. i am a strong believer in fate. i have encountered so many strange incidents during my short life. see my meeting with you; remember the tragic incidents that followed. you intended to drown yourself in the park lake." the girl's face became ghastly. "no, no, ike." "yes, i know." "i will admit the temptation to drown myself after the discovery of my loss was very great; but no, no, i would have recoiled at the last moment." "i am so glad to hear you say so. i do not think much of people who on the appearance of every little trouble rush to kill themselves. it shows lack of mind strength. but come; i am to take you to meet your uncle." the girl hesitated. she did not appear as glad as ike had thought she would be. the fact was, he did not know the lovely girl yet. he was to learn more about her later on, and there was to follow an intense romance as a result of his meeting with this lovely little lady from the far west. "come, your uncle awaits you." "does he know about me?" "yes." "does he accept the proof?" "he will when he sees you." "what do you mean?" "that is my little secret for the present. i tell you i still have in reserve a great surprise for you--the proof for you, the proof for him. it is a most remarkable coincidence, and here again fate comes in. yes, yes, there is a wonderful surprise for you." while ike was talking he could not keep his eyes off the face of the lovely girl. its changing expressions made her look wondrously beautiful. he was charmed--charmed as he had never been charmed before in all his life. we will not say yet that he had met his fate, but we will say that he was in a very dangerous position. our hero finally persuaded sara to go and prepare herself for the street, and together they started to go to the home of the old miser. when they arrived in front of the house the girl stood still; a shudder passed over her delicate frame and she said: "must i enter that old miserable-looking house to meet my uncle?" "yes, but i am surprised. i do not understand your reluctance." "never mind. i must go and i will." ike led the way into the house. he had completed all his arrangements for the meeting. he knew just what he was about. once in the house he led the fair girl into the parlor. there had been no cleaning done. everything was moldy, old and decaying as upon the night when ike first forced an entrance. the girl looked around in a disdainful manner, and again ike did not understand her mood. she did not appear even pleased when he had thought she would be so delighted. he dusted off a chair, bade her sit down and then he lit the gas; for there was gas in the old house. after lighting the gas he went to the covered picture and said: "sara, look at this and tell me how old you were when you sat for this picture." as he spoke he removed the cover and the beautiful face of the old man's dead daughter was revealed as pictured upon the canvas. it was a beautiful painting, and the resemblance to the living girl who gazed upon the face was marvelous. she did not speak--she could not speak. she just gazed with all her eyes. "this is something i did not promise to find," said ike; "but it is the proof that mr. sidney is your uncle. this is a portrait of his----" ike stopped short, and the girl gasped: "go on. of whom?" "mr. sidney's daughter--your cousin--the daughter whose place in his affections you are to supply; for she is dead, and that is why he lives the life which led people to believe that he was a miser. he is not a miser, but a kind, generous, liberal man, and in finding your uncle for you i have found one whom you can and will love." sara appeared to be completely overcome with astonishment. "i do not understand it," she said. ike had told the story of the robbery. he proceeded and told the previous history of mr. sidney, and when he had concluded he said: "it's all very strange and wonderful. indeed, mysterious are the ways of providence, but the most remarkable feature of this whole series of incidents, miss sidney, is the fact that the portending dénouement was all brought about through two very mean and contemptible robberies. but all's well that ends well, as i've often had occasion to say in the past, and i wish you to meet your uncle." ike had no reason, however, to go and call the old miser, for there occurred a most unexpected metamorphosis. our hero had just concluded the last remark above quoted when he chanced to turn, and there stood a fine-looking old gentleman, clean shaved, his hair cut and his attire perfect. ike started in amazement, for despite the startling metamorphosis he recognized mr. sidney. sara also beheld the old man, and she stood and gazed aghast. for a few moments both stood and gazed at each other as though they were looking upon a visitant from the grave. it was mr. sidney who broke the silence. he said: "indeed you have brought to me my child from the grave. i need no further proof. this is my niece." sara's voice was broken as she said: "no, no, there is no call for proof. it is wonderful--it is wonderful! it would appear that my father had come to me from his grave." "my dear child, your father and i were twin brothers. forty years ago we quarreled. the quarrel was due to me. i have mourned your father long before he went away to california, and now that he is dead this is more than i deserve that he should have left as his legacy to me a child to solace the remaining years of my life." a little later jack and du flore entered the room. many explanations followed and also a very enjoyable time. jack and ike had performed several great feats, but later they were led into another series of adventures together which we shall relate in number of "old sleuth's own," wherein our readers will learn the thrilling romance of the life of nimble ike, the most wonderful ventriloquist yet known in all the world, and also will be revealed the secret of the mysterious box. the end. note.--remember there are some charming stories in the back numbers of "old sleuth's own." back numbers are always in print. when books are ordered in advance they will be sent as soon as issued. eureka detective series [illustration] all of the books in the =eureka series= are clever detective stories, and each one of those mentioned below has received the heartiest recommendation. ask for the =eureka series= detective books. . inspector henderson, the central office detective. by h. i. hancock . his evil eye. by harrie i. hancock . detective johnson of new orleans. by h. i. hancock . harry blount, the detective. by t. j. flanagan . harry sharp, the new york detective. by h. rockwood . private detective no. . by john w. postgate . not guilty. by the author of "the original mr. jacobs" . a confederate spy. by capt. thos. n. conrad . a study in scarlet. by a. conan doyle . the unwilling bride. by fergus w. hume . the man who vanished. by fergus w. hume . the lone inn. by fergus w. hume . the world's finger. by t. hanshew . tour of the world in eighty days. by jules verne . the frozen pirate. by w. clark russell . mystery of a hansom cab. by fergus w. hume . a close call. by j. l. berry . no. ; a detective story. by arthur griffith . the sign of the four. by a. conan doyle . the mystery of the montauk mills. by e. l. coolidge . the mountain limited. by e. l. coolidge . gilt-edge tom, conductor. by e. l. coolidge . the mossbank murder. by harry mills . the woman stealer. by harry mills . king dan, the factory detective. by g. w. goode see other advertisement for other list of titles in the =eureka series=. you can obtain the =eureka series= books where you bought this one, or we will mail them to you, postpaid, for = = cents each. address all orders to j. s. ogilvie publishing co. rose street, new york transcriber's notes: italics represented with _underscores_. bold represented with =equals signs=. added table of contents. page , added missing comma after " c." page , changed "had became enraged" to "had become enraged" and "become angry" to "became angry." page , changed "mean time" to "meantime" for consistency. page , added missing open quotes to first two paragraphs on page. page , changed "starred" to "stared." page , changed "statemen" to "statement." page , changed "politicially" to "politically." page , changed "althugh" to "although." page , changed "aked" to "asked." page , changed "burlgars" to "burglars." page , changed "appeear" to "appear." [illustration: chickens and "poetry." page .] the martin and nelly stories. nelly's first schooldays. by josephine franklin. author of "nelly and her friends." boston: fred'k a. brown & co., publishers, cornhill. . entered according to act of congress, in the year , by brown and taggard, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. riverside, cambridge: stereotyped and printed by h. o. houghton and company. list of the "martin and nelly stories." i. nelly and her friends. ii. nelly's first schooldays. iii. nelly and her boat. iv. little bessie. v. nelly's visit. vi. zelma. vii. martin. viii. cousin regulus. ix. martin and nelly. x. martin on the mountain. xi. martin and the miller. xii. trouting, or gypsying in the woods. contents. page chapter i. milly chapter ii. "melindy" chapter iii. comfort's neffy chapter iv. "let's make friends!" chapter v. chickens and "poetry" chapter vi. getting lost nelly's first school-days. chapter i. milly. not very far from nelly's home, stood a small, time-worn, wooden house. it was not a pleasant object at which to look. a few vines that had been trained over one of the front windows, and a stunted currant-bush which stood by the door, were the only green things within the broken fence. in summer, the cottage looked bald and hot, from its complete exposure to the sun (no trees grew near to shade it), and in winter, the rough winds rattled freely around its unprotected walls. in this house lived a family by the name of harrow. it consisted of the widowed mother, a woman who had once moved in a far higher sphere of life, and her two daughters, milly and elinor. there was a son, too, people said, but he did not live at home, having had the ingratitude, some time before the harrows moved to the village, to desert his home and run away to sea. mrs. harrow and her children were very poor. no one knew but themselves how hard they found it to get work enough to earn their daily bread. the neighbors, among whom they were much respected, had long supposed from many outward signs that the family had no means to spare, but they were far from conjecturing that often, the mild, patient-looking mrs. harrow, and her two gentle girls, were losing their strength from actual famine. the little money they had, came to them through their own exertions; their needle-work was celebrated far and near for its delicacy and exquisite finish. in that small neighborhood, however, the sewing which was brought to them to undertake, did not amount to much, and the prices, too, were low, and provision-rates very high. at last, just as despair was dawning on the household, elinor, the eldest daughter, heard of a situation as domestic in the family of a farmer, who lived over the mountains, near nancy's old home. the poor girl's pride was dreadfully wounded at the thought of applying for such a place, she a lady born and bred, but necessity knew no law, and a few days only elapsed before pretty miss elinor was located at the farm as a servant. it was a hard trial; mournful tears forced themselves from her eyes whenever she gave herself time to think about such a state of affairs. the farmer was a poor, hard-working, painstaking man, and his wife was quite as thrifty and industrious, so that between them they managed to lay by a little money, every year, in the savings bank. when elinor came to them, the bustling farmer's wife could not realize that the tall, pale, elegant-looking creature was not quite as able to rub and scrub from morning to night as she was herself. she did not take into consideration that the girl was unaccustomed to much hard labor, and that her frame was not equal to the burdens that were put upon it. the consequence was that when elinor went to her room at night, she was too completely worn out to sleep, and in the mornings, rose feeling sick and weary. she did not complain, however, but went about her duties day after day, growing gradually more pale and feeble, and storing in her system the seeds of future disease. when the farmer's wife saw her moving slowly around her tidy, spotless kitchen, she thought her a lazy girl, and often told her so in a loud, sharp tone, that was a very great trial to hear patiently, which elinor always did, and then set about working more steadily than ever. so the weeks went on, till, one morning, the maid of all work was missing from her place. she had been seized with a sickness, that had long been secretly hanging over her, and now she could not rise from her bed. martin, a boy who lived at mr. brooks', told nelly that miss elinor fell at her post like a sentinel wounded on duty. when the doctor came, he informed the farmer and his wife that their servant had lost the use of her limbs, through an affection of the spine, which had been brought on by lifting too heavy burdens, and she was indeed as unable to move hand or foot to help herself as a baby could be. her mind, however, was not impaired. the farmer thought it would have been fortunate if it had been, for she seemed to suffer such terrible mental anguish about her misfortune, and the new care and misery she was bringing on her mother and sister. the farmer took her home in his wagon, a confirmed cripple. her mother and milly helped him to carry her up to her old bedroom, and there she lay, suffering but little pain, it is true, but at the time of our story, having no hope of recovery. the days were very long to elinor now. she despised herself for ever having repined at fate before. what was all she had endured previously, to this trial? there was no light work of any kind, not even sewing, which she could do, as she lay on her bed, and this made the time seem longer. she was forced to be idle from daylight till dark. she could have read, it is true, but she had no books, and to buy any was an extravagance, of which, with the scanty means of the family, she did not allow herself to dream. the neighbors were shocked to hear of elinor's misfortune. they visited her, and at first, sent her little delicacies to tempt her appetite, but by and by, although they pitied her as much as ever, they forgot her in the events of their own domestic circles. one very cold winter night milly came into mrs. brooks's kitchen, and asked comfort, a colored woman who worked for the family, where her mistress was. comfort promptly led the way to the sitting-room, where grouped coseyly around the centre-table were the different members of the farmer's family. a bright fire blazed on the hearth, and the woolen curtains were tightly drawn to keep out the winds that whistled around the farm-house. at the sight of this picture of comfort, milly's pretty lips quivered. she took kind-hearted mrs. brooks aside. "dear mrs. brooks," said milly, "i _must_ say it; we are starving! elinor lies dying with cold and hunger, in her bed. mother has not tasted a mouthful since yesterday, and she is so proud she would not let me beg. what _are_ we to do? i have run over here to ask your sympathy and aid, for we have not one friend to whom we feel as though we might apply." tears gathered in milly's eyes. "and pray," said the farmer's wife, "what do you consider _me_, milly, if not a friend? you ought not to have delayed so long in this matter. i feel really hurt. why did you not come to me before?" she led the way into the kitchen that the young girl's sad tale might not draw upon her too close attention from the children. milly harrow sank upon a seat, before the fire on the hearth, and wept such bitter, heart-breaking tears as it is to be hoped no one who reads her story has ever known. she was a gentle, refined, well-educated girl of twenty, and had met much more sorrow than happiness. "milly," said the farmer's wife kindly, and advancing as she spoke, from the open door of the pantry, "come here to the table and see how a bit of this roast fowl tastes. and try this glass of currant wine,--you need not be afraid of it, it is home-made. while you are busy with it, i'll get a little basket ready, and put on my cloak to run over with you when you go back." milly blushed crimson. it was difficult to her to learn the hard lessons of poverty. nevertheless, she ate some bread and cold chicken, and was quite ready to praise the delicate wine for the grateful warmth it sent thrilling throughout her frame. when she had finished, mrs. brooks was ready to accompany her, and comfort too, having received private instructions, stood with her shawl over her head, and a large basket of wood in her hand. so they set out together, milly leading the way, the snow crunching under their feet, along the path. in a short time, a bright fire was burning in patient elinor's room, while the remains of a little feast on a table in the centre, showed that the family suffered no longer from the pangs of actual starvation. elinor was bolstered up in bed, looking like a wan, despairing woman of fifty, instead of a girl of twenty-two. care and sickness had aged her before her time. a faint, sweet flush was dawning on her cheeks to-night, however, for she was not now enduring hunger, and mrs. brooks sat there by the cheerfully blazing hearth with her mother and sister, and talked hope into all their hearts. "i tell you what it is, mrs. harrow," said the farmer's wife, in a pleasant, hearty tone, "we must set this milly of yours to work. things ought not to go on this way with your family any longer." "work!" echoed milly, a little bitterly. "i've seen the time, dear mrs. brooks, when i would have given anything for a month's work. only tell me something to do, and see how grateful i shall be." "well," said the farmer's wife, "the darkest hour is just before day, milly; who knows but that yours is now over, and dawn is coming. i have been thinking about your opening a school." mrs. harrow clasped her hands eagerly. "oh, if she could! oh, if she could!" she cried. "but who would think of sending their children to us, when there are already two or three other schools in the village?" "miss felix is just giving hers up, and is going to the city," said mrs. brooks. "i know it to be a fact, because i went to see her about taking nelly last week. that will be quite an opening. i can go to her to-morrow, get a list of her pupils, and call on the parents to secure their good-will, if you say so, milly." milly could scarcely answer for sobbing. at last she said in a broken voice, "dear, dear mrs. brooks, this is more than i have any reason to hope. how can i ever repay you for your kindness?" "by taking good care of nelly when i send her to you as your first pupil," was the cheerful reply. "and now let me see what are your accommodations. you must have our martin for a day or two, to knock you together some long benches with backs, and comfort can help you cover and cushion them with some old green baize that i have in the garret. what room can you give to the use of the schoolmistress, mrs. harrow?" "well," said the old lady, smiling for the first time in a month, "the front room, down-stairs, is best, i think, because it opens directly on the road. i can take the furniture out, (what there is of it!) and clean it up like a june pink, in a day or two." "the carpet is rather shabby and threadbare," suggested milly. "and little pegged shoes will soon spoil it completely," added mrs. brooks. "i should say a better plan will be to take it up entirely. a clean board floor, nicely swept and sanded every morning, is plenty good enough. what books have you, milly?" "all my old school-books, and brother's, and elinor's too," said the young girl. "that will do to begin on till the pupils purchase their own." "i could teach french," put forth elinor's voice from the bed,--"that is, if it would answer for the class to come up here. you know, mother, i used to speak it fluently when i was at madame thibault's. don't you think i might try? my voice and my patience are strong, if _i_ am not;" and she smiled, oh, such a smile! it brought tears into the eyes of all in that poor, little, desolate apartment. "try!" said the farmer's wife; "why, elinor, that is just the thing for you! you may count _me_ as one in your class. it was only yesterday i was regretting having no opportunity to practise what little of the language i know already. we must arrange your room a little, ellie, and have everything looking spruce, and frenchified, eh?" at this elinor herself began to cry. "you are so, s-o-o g-o-o-o-d," she exclaimed. "good! not at all!" said mrs. brooks; and by way of proving how far from good she was really, she hopped up like a bird, and was at the bedside in a minute, smoothing out the pillows and kissing elinor's pale forehead. "i'll take my first lesson to-morrow afternoon," she said, "if you have no objections; and your kind mother here, can begin to profit herself at once by your labor, and send over to our meal-bag and dairy as often as she pleases." chapter ii. "melindy." mrs. brooks fulfilled her promise, and so faithfully did she work in the good cause, that a dozen little pupils were engaged for miss milly's school before preparations were fairly made to open it. these did not take long, however, as miss felix, the teacher, who was going away, sent to mrs. harrow's house two long forms of desks and benches, with her compliments and best wishes to milly for her future success. milly fairly began to dance around the room, in the new joy of her heart, on receiving this, to her, valuable present. "everybody," she said, "must not be so kind to us, or i shall have a sickness brought on by too much happiness." poor milly! she had so long had a "sorrow-sickness," that the present good fortune was almost too much to endure. for a week she went about cleaning, and sweeping, and dusting, and making ready generally, for the great event, the opening of her school. singing as gayly as a lark, she moved furniture up-stairs and down, and debated over and over again upon the best arrangement for effect. the front room was to be especially devoted to the use of her class. the carpet was removed, and thoughtful miss felix's desks and benches placed in it, along the walls. mrs. brooks sent an old white muslin dress to be made into window-curtains, and martin spent a whole day in forming a little platform out of boards, on which, when covered with green baize, the teacher's table and chair were to rest. even elinor's sick-chamber assumed a different aspect. one day, when mr. brooks was in the village on business, he stepped into a paper-hanger's, and chose a cheap, but pretty paper for the lime-washed wall. it was very cheerful-looking, being formed of alternate stripes of white and rose-color; "for," said the farmer, when he reached home, "i warrant miss elinor grows tired of seeing the same cracks in the plaster, year in and year out. she must have something new and gay, like this, that will help to keep her spirits up!" mrs. harrow and the farmer's wife pasted this paper on the walls themselves, with a little assistance from nelly, who stood ready to lift benches, hand the scissors back and forth, and give any other slight aid of which she was capable. the house was only one-story high, with a garret, so elinor's room had a slanting roof and a dormer window. mrs. brooks said it would be a great improvement, if the striped paper were pasted on the ceiling too, and joined in the peak with a wood-colored border resembling a heavy cord or rope. this made the place look, when it was done, like a pink canvas tent. the change was wonderful. an imitation of a pair of tassels of the same color and style as the rope border, which the paper-hanger, hearing of the design, sent to the house as a present to miss elinor, when pasted carefully at each end of the peak, against the wall, made the illusion perfect. elinor said she lived in the tent of kindness. the neighbors who came in to inspect all these preparations, said elinor's was the very prettiest dormer-room they had ever seen. there was enough left of the old dress to curtain the single window, which being done, everything was at last pronounced to be in a state of readiness. and now we must go back to nelly, who, i suppose, some of my readers remember, is the adopted daughter of mr. and mrs. brooks. nelly had known much sorrow in her short life, as will be seen on reference to the little story called "nelly and her friends." she had never experienced what it was to be loved by father and mother till now; and when the farmer and his wife began to teach her to call them by those sacred titles, she felt herself a very happy little girl. she was delighted at the prospect of attending school. she had never been to one, and, therefore, perhaps, the novelty of the thing was half the attraction. when the important day arrived, and the child found herself seated in the class-room with twelve or fourteen other little folks, she was filled with awe and dismay, so much so, that she scarcely dared turn around to take a good look at her next neighbor, a girl of twelve, in the shy dread that she might be caught in the act, which circumstance would, doubtless, have occasioned her much confusion. miss harrow did not give her pupils any lessons to learn this first morning. she said, as no one had books, it should be a day of pleasure and not of work, and on the morrow they would begin to study in earnest. so, during the whole morning, the children drew funny little pictures on slips of paper, which were handed them for the purpose of amusing them; and in the afternoon, the teacher made them pull their benches close to the fire, in cosy rows, while she told them stories. as, with the deepest interest, nelly gravely listened, she came to the conclusion that this was just the best school of which she had ever heard, everything was _so_ pleasant. there was a little dark-haired boy in a blue jacket, who sat near, and who whittled her pencil, oh _so_ sharp, every time she blunted it! she told comfort, in confidence, when she went home, that this little boy's pictures were quite as good as any martin could make. he drew ships under full sail, oh, beautiful! and as for those men, squaring off to fight, up in the corner of the paper, they made you think at once of uz and buz the two roosters, that quarrelled every morning in the barnyard, about which should have the most corn. in a week or two, however, nelly's rapture abated somewhat; and one day she came home with her books in her hands, and threw herself on one of the chairs in the kitchen, crying heartily. "heyday," cried comfort, looking up from the fire, over which she was broiling a fish. "heyday, what ar's the matter now?" "o comfort," cried nelly, "she struck me, she struck me, before them all!" "what!" cried comfort, standing erect with surprise. "miss nelly's been for whippin' a'ready? why, nelly, shame, shame! dis yer conduct is oncommon bad of yer." "it wasn't miss harrow, at all," said nelly, reddening; "it was that horrid, old thing, melindy." "oh, melindy," echoed comfort, in a tone of relief. "yes," continued nelly, "she tries to get me to laugh in school, every day. she makes eyes at me, big, round ones, _so_, comfort." comfort chuckled. "i don't wonder yer laugh, if she does that way, chile." "but that isn't all," added nelly indignantly. "she chews paper-balls, and sends them over the room, right at the tip of my nose. sometimes they stick there a second or so, till i can put up my hand; and then the scholars giggle-like. oh, you've no idea, comfort, what an awful girl melindy is. she punches me, too." "punches, nelly?" "yes, and to-day, when school was out, she gave me _such_ a whack,--right in my ribs; shall i show you how, comfort?" "no, thank yer," answered the old woman, laughing. she had a cause for being good-humored that day. "but why whack such a little critter as you be, nell?" "oh," said nelly, hesitating, "_she_ knows." something in her manner made comfort suspicious. she sat down and called nelly to her. taking hold of both her hands, she looked her full in the eyes. "speak the truff," she said; "didn't yer whack melindy _fust_?" "yes," said nell, with a curious mixture of honesty and triumph, "i did, comfort; i gave her a _good_ one, _i tell you_! i didn't stop to think about what i was doin' till i felt her whackin' o' _me_ back again." "then she sarved yer right," said the old colored woman, going back to her fish, "and i hope she'll treat yer so every time yer begin the aggrawation." "but she snowballed _me_ first, and called out that i was nobody's child, and was taken out of the streets, and such like. i couldn't stand _that_, anyhow. i _had_ to whack her, comfort." "no you hadn't," said comfort, sternly, and at the same time gesticulating earnestly with the fish-fork. "it wasn't your part to do any punishin', whatsomever. leastways, no punishment but one." "and what's that?" demanded nelly, making large a's and o's in the steam that had settled on the windows. here martin suddenly put down a big newspaper he had been reading in a corner, and which had hidden him entirely from view. "have you so soon forgotten your old rule of good for evil, nell?" he asked. "don't you know that is what comfort means?" comfort nodded at him approvingly. "but melindy is ugly, _powerful_ ugly, martin," said nell, coloring, "and anyway she _will_ knock all us little girls. it's born in her. i think she must have been meant for an indian, that pulls the hair off your head, like mother told us about. doing good to melindy is just of no account at all." "did you ever try it?" asked martin. "well, no-o. you see i could tell it was of no use. and miss harrow, she stands melindy on a chair with a paper cap on her head, every day, at dinner-time." "poor girl," said martin, "i am sorry for her." "i'm not," said nell, promptly, "it keeps her from mischief, you know." martin was silent. comfort began to sing a tune over her fish, interrupting herself at times with a low, quaint laugh, as though particularly well pleased with some thought. "what's the matter, comfort?" asked nelly. "oh, nuthin'," was the answer; "i guess i'm not very miserable to-day, that's all;" and off she went in a chuckle again. "nelly," said martin, after another grave pause, "you used to be a better girl than you are now. last summer, about the time marm lizy died, you tried ever so hard to be good, and you improved very much indeed." "i know it," said nell, a little sadly, "and i would be good now, if it wasn't for melindy porter. ever since i've been to school i've felt hard and wicked. she torments and worries me so, that i think sometimes there's no use in tryin' to be good at all. i do and say wrong things, just when i don't mean to, all along o' melindy." "if you and melindy were friends, you wouldn't feel so, would you?" "i s'pose not, but who wants to be friends with anybody like _that_?" was the ready retort. "still, you would rather be friends than enemies, nell, wouldn't you? you would prefer that this little girl"-- "big one, ever so big," interrupted nelly, quickly. "you would prefer that this big girl, then, should bear you no malice, even if you didn't like her, and she didn't like you. isn't it so?" "well, yes. i would like to have her stop pinchin' and pullin' the hairs of all o' us little ones. that's what i'd like, martin." "that's easy done, nelly," said martin in a confident tone. "easy, martin? how easy?" "_be kind to her._ show her that you bear her no ill feeling." "but i _do bear her ill feeling_, martin! what's the good of fibbing about it to her? i can't go to her and say, 'melindy, i like you ever so much,' when all the time i despise her like poison, can i? i am sure that wouldn't be right." "no," broke in comfort, "that ar wouldn't be right, martin, for sartain." martin looked a little puzzled. "but, comfort," he said at length, "i don't want her to speak pleasantly to melindy till she _feels_ pleasantly. _that's_ the thing. i wouldn't have nell _act_ an untruth, a bit more than i'd have her tell one. but i _do_ want her to try to _feel_ like givin' melindy a little good for her evil." martin said this with such a pleading, earnest look, smiling coaxingly on nelly as he spoke, that, for the moment, the heart of the little girl was softened. "well, martin," she said, "you are _always_ preachin' ar'n't you? but it's nice preachin' and i don't hate it a bit. some day, when i get real, _awful_ good, you'll leave off, won't you? i'll think about melindy, and may-be i can screw my courage up to not mind bein' cracked at by her." "pray for them that uses yer spitefully," said comfort with solemnity. nelly seemed struck by this. "what, pray for melindy?" she asked meditatingly. "chil'en," said the old woman, "don't never forget that ar mighty sayin'. yer may be kind and such like to yer enemys, but if yer don't take time to _pray_ for his poor ole soul's salvation, you might as well not do nuthin'. that's the truff, the gospil truff." "well," said nell with a deep sigh, "i'll pray for melindy then, and for that bad, little johnny williams, too, to-night when i go to bed; but i shall have, oh, comfort, _such_ hard work to _mean_ it, _here_!" and her hands were pressed for an instant over her breast. the next morning, just as nelly was starting for school, martin drew her, mysteriously, aside. "which hand will you have, nell?" he asked, holding both behind him. "this one," she said, eagerly, touching the right hand, in which she had caught a side glimpse of something glittering like burnished gold. martin smilingly extended towards her a small, oval box, covered with a beautiful golden paper. "how very, very lovely," cried nell, opening it. "it is yours," said martin, "but only yours to give away. i want you to do something with it." "can't i keep it? who must i give it to?" "melindy!" "oh, martin, i can't, i just can't,--there!" "then you don't wish to make her good, nell! you want her to be cruel and wicked and hard as long as she lives!" "oh no, no, i don't wish that _now_. i _prayed_ for her last night." the last sentence was added in a very low tone. "you refuse then?" she looked at him, sighed, and turned away. martin put his box in his pocket, and walked off in the direction of the barn. at dinner-time, nelly came home quite radiant. lessons had gone smoothly. miss harrow had praised her for industry at her books, "and, would you believe it, martin," she added in an accent of high satisfaction, "melinda didn't make but two faces at me all the whole morning! wasn't that nice? they were pretty bad ones, though,--bad enough to last! she screwed her nose all up, this way! well, if you'll give me the box now, i'll take it to her this afternoon. i don't feel hard against melindy at all, now." martin brought it to her after dinner, with great alacrity; and nell walked very slowly to school with it in her hands, opening and shutting the lid a dozen times along the road, and eyeing it in an admiring, fascinated way, as though she would have no objection in the world to retain possession of it herself. it was a hard effort to offer it to melinda. so pretty a box she had never seen before. "i mean to ask martin," she thought, "if he cannot find me another just like it." near the door of mrs. harrow's little house, nelly encountered her tormentor, quite unexpectedly. she was standing outside, talking in a loud, boisterous way to two or three of the other children. melinda was a tall, rather good-looking girl, of about fourteen years of age. she was attired in a great deal of gaudy finery, but was far from being neat or clean in appearance. at the present time, a large, freshly-torn hole in her dress, showed that in the interval between schools, she had been exercising her warlike propensities, and had come off, whether victor or not, a little the worse for wear. her quilted red silk hood was now cocked fiercely over her eyes, in a very prophetic way. nelly knew from that, as soon as she saw her, that she was in a bad frame of mind. not daring to speak to her then, nelly was quietly proceeding towards the door of the school, when with one or two tremendous strides, melinda met her face to face. "how did you like the big thumping i gave you yesterday?" she asked, with a grim smile. nelly walked on very fast, trying to keep from saying anything at all, in the fear that her indignation might express itself too plainly. "why don't you speak up?" cried melinda. still nelly went on in silence. melinda walked mockingly side by side with her, burlesquing her walk and serious face. at last, irritated beyond control, melinda put out suddenly one of her feet, and deliberately tripped up her little schoolmate, who, before she could even cry out, found herself lying flat on her nose, on the snow. the attack was made so abruptly, that nelly had no time to see what was coming. confused, stunned, angry, and hurt, she raised herself slowly to her knees and looked around her. there was at first, a dull, bruised feeling, about her head, but this passed away. something in the deadly whiteness of her face made melinda look a little alarmed, as she stood leaning against the wall, ready to continue the battle, if occasion required any efforts of the kind; but knowing well, in the depths of her cowardly heart, that, as the largest and strongest child at school, her victims could not, personally, revenge themselves upon her, to any very great extent. looking her companion in the eyes, like a hunter keeping a wild animal at bay, nelly staggered to her feet. she had meant to be so good that day! and this was the encouragement she received! truly, the influence of melinda on nelly's character was most pernicious. all the evil in her nature seemed aroused by the association. tears, not resulting from physical pain, but from the great effort she still made to control her temper, rose to her eyes, as she saw a sneering smile on melinda's countenance. till now she had striven to bear martin's advice in mind; but as this sneering smile broke into an ill-natured laugh, nelly's self-control gave way. her face burned. she tossed the little golden gift, with disdainful roughness, at her persecutor's feet, and said, in a gruff, and by no means conciliating voice,-- "there's a box for you, melindy. and martin says i mustn't hate you any more. but i do, worse than ever! there!" melinda gave a contemptuous snort. she walked up to the little gilt box, set her coarse, pegged shoe upon it, and quietly ground it to pieces. then, without another word, she pushed open the school-room door, entered, and banged it to again, in poor nelly's red and angry face. the child leaned against the house and cried quietly, but almost despairingly. "i wanted to be good," she sobbed; "i wanted to be good so much, but she will not let me!" chapter iii. comfort's neffy. "comfort," said nell, that night, leaning her head on her hand, and looking at the old woman sideways out of one eye, as she had seen the snowbirds do when they picked up the crumbs every morning around the kitchen door, "comfort, can't you tell me what you were laughing about yesterday afternoon, when you were br'iling of the fish for tea?" "yes," said comfort, "i think i can." nelly sat waiting to hear the expected revelation, yet none came. comfort was busy with her pipe. she paused every now and then to puff out great misty wreaths of bluish-gray smoke, but she didn't condescend to utter one word. "comfort," said nelly, getting impatient, "why don't you tell me, then, comfort?" "tell yer what, chile?" "what you said you would." "i never said i _would_; i said i _could_. be more petik'lar with yer 'spressions, nelly. and 'sides that, yer hadn't oughter say '_br'iling_ fish.' missus don't. leave such words to cullu'd passons, like me." "well, but tell me," persisted nelly, smilingly, brimming with the curiosity she could not restrain. "i know it was something good, because you don't often laugh, comfort." "no," said comfort, "that ar's a fact. i don't 'prove of little bits o' stingy laughs, every now and then. i likes one good guffaw and done with it." "well," said nelly, "go on. tell me about it." "yer see," said comfort, taking her pipe from between her lips, and giving a sudden whirl to the smoke issuing from them, "yer see, nelly, i was laughin' 'bout my neffy." "your neffy, comfort? what's that?" "lor! do tell! don't yer know what a neffy is _yet_? i didn't 'spect yer to know much when yer was marm lizy's gal, but now, when mrs. brooks has adopted of yer, and sent yer to school to be edicated, we look for better things. don't know what a neffy is, eh?" "no," said nelly, looking somewhat disturbed. "tell me, comfort. is it something that grows?" "grows!" screamed comfort, bursting into a laugh that certainly was not a stingy one; "grows! goodness! hear this yere chile! ho, ho, ho! i--b'lieve--i shall--crack my poor ole sides! grows! oh my!" "you mustn't laugh so, comfort," said nelly, with dignity, "you make me feel,--well, leastways, you make me feel real bad." "oh dear, dear," mumbled the old woman in a faint voice. "that does beat all! why, see here, nelly,--s'pose now, i had a sister once, and that ar sister got married and had a little boy, what ought he to call _me_, eh?" "why, his aunt comfort, to be sure," was the reply. "and i ought to call him neffy john, or johnny, for short, oughtn't i? well, it was 'bout my neffy johnny i was laughin' yesterday. now i'll tell yer how it was, sence i've done laughin' 'bout him to-day,--oh my! you see, johnny is a slave down south, ever so far off, on a rice plantation." "_slave?_" repeated nelly, with growing interest; "what's _slave_, comfort?" "oh, somethin' that grows," answered comfort, chuckling. "a slave is a black man, woman, or chile that has a marster. this _marse_, as we call him, can sell the slave to anybody for a lot o' money, and the poor slave, as has been a t'ilin', strivin' soul all his days, can say nuthin' ag'in' it. it's the _law_, yer see." "comfort," said nelly, "stop a minute. do you think that is a right law?" "no," said comfort, "i can't say as i does. some marsters are good, and some, on the contrary, are oncommon bad. now my little neffy has a good 'un. ever sence his poor mammy's death, i've been savin' and savin', and t'ilin' and t'ilin', to buy johnny and bring him north, 'cause i set a good deal on him. this ere good marse of his agreed to let me buy him, when he was nuffin' but a baby; and he's been keepin' of him for me all this yere long time." "i'm glad i'm not johnny," said nell, earnestly; "if bein' a slave is getting bought and sold like a cow or a dog, a slave is just what i don't want to be. hasn't johnny any relations down there, comfort?" the old woman shook her head. "i'm the only one of his kin in the 'varsel world." "poor little fellow!" said nelly meditating; "i don't wonder you want to buy him. how old is he?" "twelve year." "and you've got enough money, comfort?" a bright smile beamed suddenly all over that dark face. "ho!" she cried, "that ar's just what i was laughin' at yesterday. i want only a leetle more, and 'deed, my neffy will have no marse ag'in,--only a missus, and that'll be _me_, thank the lord!" the old colored woman tossed her apron over her head, and from the odd puffing noises that immediately began to sound from behind it, nelly supposed she was weeping. she thought she must have been mistaken, however, the next moment, for comfort pulled down the apron a little savagely, as though ashamed of having indulged in such a luxury as a private groan or two, and in a stern voice bade nelly go up in her (comfort's) room, feel under the bolster, on the side nearest the wall, and bring down to her the foot of a stocking which she would find there. "and don't let the grass grow under yer feet, neither," said comfort, by way of a parting benediction, as the child softly closed the door. it was reopened almost immediately, and nelly's smiling face appeared. "i say, comfort." "well chile, what now?" "i'm real, _real_ sorry for that little neffy of yours you've been tellin' me about. and, comfort, when he comes i'll be as good to him as i can. i was thinkin' i would knit a pair of gray, woollen stockings to have ready for him, shall i? how big is he?" "'bout your size," replied comfort. "the notion of them stockings is quite nice. i'm much obleeged to yer, nelly." nelly looked delighted, and started to go up-stairs once more. in about a minute and a half, her face was peering into the kitchen again. "comfort, i guess i'll knit a red binding at the top of the stockings, to look handsome, shall i?" "why, yes," said comfort, mightily pleased; "that will make 'em smart, won't it?" "a red yarn binding," continued the little girl, "knit on after the stocking is toed off,--a binding full of little scallops and such like!" "laws, chile," said comfort, benignantly, "i sorter think yer might stop short of them scallops. neffy won't be anxious about scallops, i reckon, seein' as how he has only wored nater's stockings so far, with no petik'lar bindin' at all, that i knows on. come, now, mind yerself and run up-stairs. i can't be wastin' all my time, a-waitin'." nelly shut the door, and went singing up-stairs, two at once, while the old woman employed her valuable time in smoking her pipe. in a short time eager, young footsteps were heard dancing along the entry, and into the room came nelly, looking as happy as though for her there existed no ill-natured schoolmate in all the world. "here it is!" she said, holding triumphantly up the foot of an old stocking, ragged at the edges, but scrupulously clean,--the same in fact, from which comfort had once given her a small gift of money; "here it is, comfort; but didn't i have a powerful hunt for it! i dived under the bolster and under the mattrass,--at the foot,--at the head,--at the sides,--and then i found it on the sacking. hear how it jingles! what fun it must be to earn money, comfort! do look at my hair,--if i haven't got it full of feathers, poking among your pillows!" sure enough, starting up all over her curls were gray and white downy particles. "laws sakes," exclaimed comfort, helping her to pick them off, "that ar hole must a broke loose ag'in in my bolster! i can sew it up every saturday night, and sure as i'm livin', it bursts ag'in monday mornin'." "that's 'cause your brain is too heavy; you've got too many thoughts in it, perhaps," laughed martin, who entered at that moment, and began to stamp the snow from his feet on the kitchen doormat. "o martin," cried nell, "see how rich comfort is! she has saved that fat stocking full of money, to buy her neffy." "buy her neffy!" repeated martin, unbuttoning his overcoat. "yes, he's a slave, you know." "no," said the boy, "i don't know, nelly; i never even heard of neffy before." "oh, his _name_ isn't neffy, martin. oh, no, not at all," said the little girl, with an air of importance. "he is called john, and comfort is going to buy him, and i am to begin a pair of stockings for him to-morrow." comfort held up her bag half full. "this yere is my money-box," she said, overflowing with satisfaction. "_box!_" repeated nell. "why, it is not a _box_ at all, comfort. it's the foot of a worn-out stocking." the old woman turned upon her a little grimly, "stockin' or no stockin' i _calls_ it my money-box, and that's enough. box it is." "that's funny," said nelly; "i don't see much good in calling a stocking a box as long as it is a stocking." "well, i does," said comfort, sharply; and with some of the old ill-temper she once used to vent so largely on nell, she snatched up the bag, and giving it a toss upon a pantry shelf, slammed the door with a mighty noise. for a little while silence descended on the group. it was an uncomfortable silence. no one in the room felt happy or at ease. of such power is a single ill-natured expression! comfort was restless, because her conscience reproached her, while at the same time nelly was experiencing secret remorse for having irritated her by thoughtless words. perhaps martin wray was more distressed than either of his companions, at what had taken place. his was naturally a peaceable disposition, and he could not bear to witness scenes of discord. the sight of his pleasant face saddened, did not tend to make little nell feel happier. she longed to have him reprove her, or exhort her, as he so often did, to better behavior; but martin sat in his chair by the fire, sorrowful and mute. nothing was heard but the hissing of the burning wood on the wide hearth, and the whistling sounds and muffled roars of the wind without. it was too much to bear this any longer. nelly got up with a long, penitent face, and hovered rather wistfully around the chair where comfort sat, still smoking her pipe. the old domestic had taken advantage of the fact of her eyes being half closed, to pretend that she did not see the little figure standing at her side, on account of just going off into a most delightful doze. she even went so far as to get up a gentle, extempore fit of snoring, but nelly was not to be deceived. "comfort," she said, in a mild, quiet voice. no answer, excepting three exceedingly distinct snores. "com_fort_," was repeated, in a louder tone. "what!!" growled the old woman, opening her eyes so suddenly that the child started back. comfort began to laugh, however, so nell felt no fear of having disturbed her in reality. "i am sorry i said that wasn't your money-box, comfort. i didn't mean to contradict, or such like. it was all along o' my contrary temper, and if you'll forgive me, i'll try not to act so again." the old colored woman appeared a little confused. "'deed, honey," she said, "yer haven't done nuthin' wrong; it's all _me_. i dunno what gits into me sometimes. well, now, hand me that ar plaguey stocking, and i'll let you and martin count my money." nelly smiled, looked delighted at being restored to favor, and flew to the pantry. the bag was on too high a shelf for her to reach, however, and she had got the poker and was in the act of violently punching and hooking it down, as she best could, her eyes and cheeks bright with the exertion, when martin--the sadness quite gone from his face--advanced to help her. comfort took the bag from him, and with a grand flourish, emptied it on the vacant table. the flourish was a little _too_ grand, however, and much more effective than comfort had intended. the shining silver dollars, with which the stocking was partially filled, fell helter-skelter on the table, and many of them rolled jingling and glittering over the floor. nelly laughed and scrambled after them, martin shouted and tumbled down on hands and knees to help find them, while the owner, quite dismayed, stood still and did nothing. "'deed, 'deed!" she said; "how could i be so keerless? but there's thirty of 'em, and thirty i'll find." before the children knew what she was about, she seized the broom and began to sweep the rag-carpet with great nervous dashes, that had no other effect than to raise a tremendous dust. [illustration: "comfort relinquished the broom at this, and began to count." page ] "stop!" cried martin; "don't sweep, please, comfort; nelly and i will find them for you. that dust just goes into our eyes and blinds us. if you are sure there were thirty, it is easy enough to search till we make up the number." comfort relinquished the broom at this, and began to count; as fast as the children found any of the coins they dropped them into her lap. "twenty-six, twenty-seven," she said, at length; "three more, and we've got all the little shiners back." "here's two," cried martin, "behind the dust-pan." "and here's the thirtieth," exclaimed nelly, "sticking out from under your shoe, comfort! how funny!" and so, laughing, the children saw comfort's money-box bulge again to its original size. "that ar's only my last five months' wages. mrs. brooks paid me yesterday," said the old woman, proudly, as she tied the stocking together with a piece of yellow, time-stained tape. "i've got three hundred jes' like 'em in a bank in the city; and when with a little extry t'ilin' and savin', i git in all, three hundred and fifty, my neffy will never be a slave no more!" here the kind voice of mrs. brooks was heard calling the children into the sitting-room. "good-night, comfort," said martin; "i wish _i_ had thirty dollars; yet i do not envy you yours, one bit,--no, not one bit!" "yes," added nell, rising to go, "and _i_ don't envy either, but i wouldn't mind owning another stocking just like that. and, comfort, i am going to ask mother to let me set all the eggs of my white bantam hen, early in the spring; and i'll _sell_ the chickens and give you the money to help buy your neffy." chapter iv. "let's make friends!" the beams of the afternoon sun streamed gayly through the windows of miss harrow's school-room, and fell, like a crown of light, on the head of the young teacher, as she sat at her desk making copies for her pupils. it was writing afternoon, and on this particular occasion, that which was considered a high reward was to be given to the most diligent child. whoever showed the greatest interest, neatness and industry, was to be allowed to remain for a few hours after the closing of the school, in order to make a wreath of evergreen to decorate a certain picture in miss elinor's apartment. the christmas holidays were near, and the little school-room had already received, at the willing hands of the children, a thorough dressing with laurel, pine, and hemlock-boughs. it had been for a week past the great delight of the pupils to weave, after school-hours, festoons for the whitewashed walls, and garlands for miss milly's desk. many were the regrets that the work was now almost over. miss elinor's gentle ways had, from the first, made her a great favorite. there were never any rebellions, any doubtful conduct, in the few classes she undertook to hear recite in her sick-room. her very infirmity endeared her to the hearts of her scholars. this wreath for an engraving that hung at the foot of her bed, was the only christmas-green elinor desired to have placed in her apartment, and on that account, as well as from devotion to her personally, many pairs of little hands were eager to achieve the honor of the task. very patient, therefore, were their youthful owners with their writing, this afternoon,--very exact were they to cross the t's, dot the i's, and avoid pens, as melinda expressed it, "that scratched like sixty." miss milly had done very wisely in holding out this reward, for never before had such attention and such care been visible in the class. nelly sat at her high desk, as busy and as excited to win as any child there. her copy-book lay before her, and though she had not as yet reached beyond "pot-hooks and trammels," she was quite as likely to come off victor as those who wrote with ease and accuracy, because it was not a question of penmanship, but of neatness and industry, as i have already said; for the first quality, the books themselves were to speak; and miss milly's watchful eyes were the judges of the latter, as, from time to time, she raised them from her own writing and scanned the little group. scratch, scratch, scratch went the pens, and papers rustled, and fingers flew about their work till the hour being up, miss milly rang her bell as a signal for perfect silence. "it is time to put away your pens, children," she said, in a clear voice; and at once they were laid aside. nelly was just placing her blotting paper between the leaves of her writing-book, when a sorrowful exclamation near her made her turn her head. this exclamation came from melinda, who sat a few benches off. her eyes were fixed with a look of most profound distress on a large blot which a drop of ink from her pen had just left in the centre of the day's copy. her sleeve had accidentally swept over it too,--and there it was, a great, black disfigurement! and on this afternoon of all others! melinda wrote a very pretty hand. she was an ambitious girl, and had done her very best, that she might win the prize. nelly saw the tears rise in her eyes, and her cheeks flush with the bitterness of her disappointment. "oh, dear!" cried lucy rook, a little girl, who sat next; "oh, dear! there's a blot, melindy!" "yes," was the answer; "i wonder if i could scratch it out, so that the page will look neatly again. lucy, lend me your knife, will you?" mistress lucy looked straight at melinda, and laughed a little cruel, mocking laugh. in the rattle of papers and temporary confusion of the room, she thought herself unheard by the teacher. "who wouldn't play tag, yesterday, eh?" asked lucy. "who spoiled the game; did you hear anybody say?" "why, i did, i s'pose," spoke melinda roughly; "and what of it?" "i guess i want my knife, myself, that's all," was lucy's reply. "i don't think i could conclude to lend it to-day," and she laughed again. nelly involuntarily put her hand in her pocket, where lay a little penknife nancy had given her, as a keepsake, a few weeks before. the thought flashed through her mind, "shall i, or shall i not?" and the next moment she reached over, and the little knife was glittering on melinda's blotted copy. she did not speak; she only blushed, and smiled, and nodded pleasantly, to show her good-will. melinda looked at her with a frowning brow. then a better impulse seemed to prevail; she glanced gratefully back at nelly, and taking up the penknife began to give some doleful scratches over the blot. presently, however, miss milly's command was heard from the desk: "all arms to be folded!" melinda, with a sigh, folded hers, and sat like a picture of despair. the books were then collected, and examined carefully, while the scholars began to prepare to go home. nelly was quite ready, when she was startled by hearing miss milly pronounce her name to the school as the winner of the prize. "i find," said miss harrow, "that almost every child has taken unusual pains to-day, in writing; and i am pleased to see it, i can assure you. where all have been so careful, it is very difficult to find one who stands highest; nelly box, however, i think deserves the reward. never, before, has she evinced such diligence and patience; hoping that she will always do as well in future, i give her permission to go up to miss elinor's room to begin the wreath, at once. elinor will give you instructions, nelly, and perhaps tell you some little story while you are busy with your task." at first nelly's face shone with delighted triumph, at the news of her success. but in a little while she began to realize that many of the pupils were sorely disappointed at this award not falling on themselves, and the thought dampened her ardor. she had reached the door to leave the room, when miss milly added: "melinda, i am glad to see that you, too, have been attentive and anxious to do well. if it were not for this huge blot, i should have given the palm to you." "i couldn't help it," said melinda, eagerly. "i was just folding it up, when it happened. i am as sorry as can be." "are you?" said miss milly, kindly. "yes," broke in nelly, with honest warmth; "and it was an--an _accident_, as i think they call it, miss milly. the girls who saw it, say so. the ink just dropped right down, _ker-splash_." melinda held down her head and looked conscious. "well, then," said the good teacher, smiling at the "_ker-splash_," "if it was an accident, i think we will have _two_ wreath-makers, instead of one. melinda may go up-stairs with nelly, if she wishes, and both are to be very quiet and orderly, for miss elinor is not quite as well as usual, to-day." melinda glanced towards nelly, and was silent. she did not like to go, under such circumstances as these. she wished the honor of making the wreath, it is true, but she did not desire that distinction to be bestowed upon her as _a favor_. she felt galled too, that this very favor was accorded to her through nelly box's means,--little nelly, whom, every day, she had been in the habit of cuffing about as though she were an animal of totally inferior condition. she happened to raise her eyes, however, and they fell on the glad, beaming face of this same nelly box, who stood waiting for her. it was so evident that nelly's good-will towards her was sincere, it was so plain that this little schoolmate of hers desired to be friends with her, and to forget and forgive all the unpleasantness of the past, that melinda could not resist the good impulse which impelled her onward. a feeling of shame and awkwardness was all that hindered her from accompanying nelly up-stairs at once. she stood looking very foolish, her glance on the floor, and her fingers twitching at the upturned corner of her apron. "come, melinda," said miss milly, in a gentle, but brisk tone; "don't keep nelly waiting." the young girl could resist no longer. she smiled, in spite of herself, a great, ear-to-ear, bashful, happy, half-ashamed smile, and followed nelly slowly up-stairs to miss elinor's room, where they found her bolstered up in bed, as usual, and quite ready to give them instructions how to form her wreath. a sheet was already spread in the middle of the floor, and on this was a pile of evergreens. "what, _two_!" said miss elinor, smiling, as they entered. "i am glad to see you both, although i expected but one. how is your mother, melinda?" "better, ma'am," said melinda; "she is coming to see you next week, if she is well enough. what shall we do first, miss elinor?" the sick girl told the children how to begin, and, half sitting up in bed as she was, showed them how to tie together the fragments of evergreen with strings, so as to form the wreath. at first, the girls thought it hard work enough. the little sprays of hemlock would stand up, as nelly termed it, "seven ways for sunday," and all they could do did not bring them into shape. miss elinor could not help them much more than to give directions. she lay looking at them from her bed, half amused, and entirely interested in the proceedings. "dear, dear!" said melinda, after she had endeavored several times, quite patiently for her, to force a sprig to keep its place; "dear me, i don't think we can ever make this 'ere wreath look like anything but father's stump fences. just see how that hemlock sticks out!" "well," said miss elinor, "i like to see stump fences, very much indeed, melinda. i think they are beautiful. the great roots look like the hands of giants, with the fingers stretched out to grasp something. so you see, i don't mind if you make my wreath look like them." "father says stump fences are the very best kind," remarked melinda, knowingly. "i guess not the _very best_, melindy," nell ventured to say. "yes, they are," persisted melinda, with a toss of her head; "father says they last _forever_,--and he _knows_, for he has tried 'em!" the young teacher smiled, and turned away her head. "did you ever see a church dressed with evergreens, miss elinor?" asked one of the children. "often," said the sick girl; "not here, in the village, but in the city. i have not been able to attend church much since we have been here. they entwine garlands around the high pillars, and put wreaths of laurel over the arched windows. the reading-desk and pulpit have their share too, and above the altar is placed a beautiful cross. sometimes the font is filled with delicate white flowers, that are renewed each sabbath as long as the evergreens are permitted to remain." "i wish i could see a church looking like that," remarked nelly, stopping in her work, and looking meditatively about her. "miss elinor," said melinda, "what do they mean when they say 'as poor as a church-mouse?' why are _church_-mice poorer than house-mice?" "because," was the reply, "in churches there are no nice pantries, filled with bread and meat, for the little plagues to feed upon. no stray crumbs lie on the floor,--no pans of milk are to be found at which to sip. so, you see, church-mice _have_ a right to be considered poor." "well," said melinda, "how funny! i never thought of that before." "once," continued her teacher, "i saw an odd scene with a church-mouse. i'll tell you about it. i was visiting in the country, a great many miles from here; such a kind of country as you can have but a faint idea of, unless you should see it yourself. it was out west. the houses there are not like those you have always been accustomed to see, but are built of the trunks of trees. they are called log cabins. the gaps, or holes, between these logs are filled with mud and moss, which keep out the rain in summer, and the wind and snow in winter." "what do they do for windows?" asked nell. "some of them have none,--others make an opening in the logs; a small shutter, hinged with stout leather, is its only protection in time of storms. glass is too expensive to be used, for the people are very poor. well, i was visiting once a family who lived in one of these log huts. it was somewhat better than its neighbors, certainly, and much larger, but it was not half as comfortable as the little house we are in. it was in october, and i remember as i lay awake in bed, at night, i felt the autumn wind whistle over me. it makes my nose cold to think of it," laughed elinor. "when sunday came, i was surprised to find that, although the church was five miles distant, no one thought of staying at home. "'what!' said my uncle, 'do you think, elinor, we are short-walk christians? no indeed,--five miles through the woods is nothing to us when a good, sound sermon, and a couple of beautiful hymns are at the end of it!'" "it was your uncle, then, you were visiting?" questioned melinda. "yes; he had moved out west some years before, bought a farm, and built himself a log cabin. he lives there now, and is fast making a fortune." "is he?" said nell. "did you go to the church, miss elinor, in the woods?" "yes; no one stayed at home. we had the dinner-table set before we started, which was early, on account of the distance. i think it was about half past eight o'clock in the morning (for we did not want to hurry), when uncle shut the cabin door, and saw that everything was right." "didn't you lock it?" asked melinda. "lock what?" "the door." "no. not a man, woman, or child thinks of locking doors, out in that wild country. thieves don't seem to be found there, and everybody trusts his neighbor. if a tramper comes along, he is welcome to go in and help himself to whatever he wants. it is not an unusual thing on reaching home, after an absence of an hour or so, to find a poor, tired traveller, asleep in his chair, before the fire. besides," said miss elinor, with a twinkle in her eyes, "there is another excellent reason why the farmers out there never think of locking their doors." "oh, i know!" cried melinda; "i know!" "well, why is it?" "they have no locks!" and the two children began to laugh as if they had never heard anything so funny in all their lives. "i like that," said nell; "i want to live in just such an honest country, and where they are good to poor travellers, too. that's the splendid part. i feel as if i wanted to settle there, this very minute. well, miss elinor, don't forget about going to church." "we got off the track so, i had nearly forgotten what my story is about," said miss elinor. "we started very early to go to church. uncle had no wagon, so driving was out of the question; but he had a beautiful mare called 'lady lightfoot,' and an old side-saddle, which my aunt had owned ever since she was a girl. it was settled that my aunt and i were to take turns riding on lady lightfoot, so that neither should get too fatigued. uncle and cousin robert were to walk, and lightfoot's pretty little long-legged colt ambled in the rear. my aunt took the first ride, and i was talking quietly to uncle and robert, when i saw, bounding along a rail fence at the side of the road, the old fat cat, wildfire. her name just suited her, for she was one of the most restless, proud, affectionate, daring cats i had ever seen. "'why!' i exclaimed; 'see wildfire on the fence! she will get lost,--we must send her home.' "'lost, eh?' said cousin robert; 'i reckon not. if any one can lose wildfire, i'll give him a treat in the strawberry patch next summer, and no mistake.' "'but what shall we do?' i asked; 'we don't want her to go to church with us. make her go home, robert, do.' "'not a bit of it,' said robert, laughing; 'did you never see a cat go to meeting before? wildfire has attended regularly, every summer, for the last three years. she always follows us. the minister would not know how to preach without her.' "'but,' said i, 'how it must look! a cat in church! a dog would not be so bad. but a cat! go home, wildfire!' and i took off my red shawl and shook it at her, and stamped my foot. "robert laughed again, and told me it was no use; that they had often tried to send her back, and sometimes had fastened her up, but that she almost always broke loose, and would come bounding after them, kicking her heels in the air, as though to show her utter defiance of any will but her own. when i shook my shawl at her, she just rose quietly up on her hind legs, and while her green eyes darted flames of anger, she ruffled her fur as cats do when attacked by dogs, indicating as plainly as possible that go she would; and go, indeed, she did. robert saw i was mortified at the thought of walking to meeting in company with a cat, and he told me i needn't be ashamed, because the churches out there were vastly different from those i had been in the habit of attending. 'women,' said he, 'who can't afford them, come without hats, and men, on hot days, walk up to their seats in their shirt-sleeves, with their house-dogs tagging after them. i counted ten dogs in meeting once. the animals seem to understand the necessity for good behavior, for they are as quiet as their masters; perhaps more so, sometimes. they lie down under the seats of their friends, and go to sleep, only opening their eyes and mouths now and then to snap at some flies, buzzing around their noses. wildfire does the same. our bench is near the door, and we could easily put her out if she did not behave as becomes a good, well-reared cat. if people didn't _know_ that she followed us each sunday, they would never find it out from her behavior in meeting-time.' "seeing there was no help for it, and understanding there was no fear of mortification, i dismissed the thought of wildfire from my mind. shortly afterwards, my aunt dismounted to give me my turn. cousin robert helped me on, handed me the lines, and gently touching lady lightfoot with my twig-whip, i began to trot a little away from the party. the road was magnificent. none, my dear children, in our village can compare with it. the earth was smooth and hard, and but very little broken by wheels. something in the character of the soil kept it generally in this condition. we had just entered the woods. overhead the stately branches of old trees met and laced themselves together. it was like one long arbor. scarcely any sunshine came through on the road, and when it did, the little wavy streaks looked like threads of gold. the morning was mild and cool, almost too cool for the few autumn birds that twittered their cheerful songs far and near. i was enjoying myself very much, when, suddenly, i heard a snorting noise just beside me. i could not imagine what it was. i looked down, and there--what do you think i saw?" "wildfire!" cried the two children. "yes, it was wildfire, on the full trot, snorting at me her delight in the race. i slackened my pace, and the cat and i walked peaceably all the rest of the way to the meeting-house. "when we arrived there, i was as much surprised as amused at the scene which presented itself. the church was a nice, neatly-painted building, in the midst of a small clearing." "clearing?" said nell. "a clearing is a piece of ground from which the trees have been removed. one or two young oaks, however, were left in this instance, to serve as hitching posts, if any should be required, which was very seldom the case. "many of the farmers of the vicinity had arrived when we got there. they had unharnessed their animals and left them to graze around the meeting-house, a young colt accompanying almost every turn-out. at the first glance i thought the spot was full of colts, such a frisking and whisking was going on around the entrance. one impertinent little thing even went so far as to poke its head in the door-way and take a survey of the congregation. "some of the families who attended there, came from ten to fifteen miles,--for the country was by no means thickly settled. a large dinner-basket, nicely packed under the wagon-seat, showed which these families were. "all the people were more or less roughly dressed; none were attired in a way that looked like absolute poverty. "cousin robert aided me to dismount, left lady lightfoot and her colt free to graze with the other animals, and with aunt and uncle we went in the church. the walls were plaster, with no lime or wood-work to improve their appearance. behind a pine desk at one end of the room sat the minister. a bunch of white pond-lilies, which some one had just given him, rested beside the bible lying before him." "and wildfire,--where was wildfire?" asked nelly, with great eagerness. "she followed us in, very demurely, and the moment that her favorite, robert, sat down, she curled herself in a round, soft ball at his feet, and went to sleep. i was soon so interested in the sermon that i forgot all about her. the minister's text seemed to have been suggested by his flowers. it was 'consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; and yet, i say unto you, that even solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. wherefore, if god so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, o ye of little faith?' the sermon was not well delivered, because of the lack of knowledge in the preacher, but it was pure and sound, and full of a true, tender, and loving regard for the welfare of that people in the wilderness. the heartiness with which all present joined in the closing hymn, proved that the effect of the discourse was a good one on the congregation. just as the last note died away, my attention was suddenly attracted to a little moving object near the door. i looked twice before i could realize that it was a mouse. it peered about with its pretty, bright eyes, as if it were too frightened and bewildered to know what to do next. it was a little thing, and must have strayed unknowingly away from its companions. "from a slow, stealthy sound, that came all at once from cousin robert's feet, i knew that wildfire had seen it too, and was preparing an attack. the minister was pronouncing the final benediction, however, and i did not dare to look around, for fear of attracting attention. scarcely was the closing word uttered, when there was a sudden spring from the cat, and a shrill squeak on mousey's part. proudly lashing her tail, like a panther, wildfire laid her victim, in an instant, dead at her young master's feet, (we sat very near the door, i believe i told you,) gazing in his face with such an air of triumph, and such an anxious request for praise in her glittering eyes, that cousin robert, very thoughtlessly, as it seemed to me, stooped and patted her head." "did she eat it?" asked melinda. "no," replied the sick girl; "she left it lying there, on the floor, and followed us unconcernedly out, as if there were not such a thing as a mouse in the world. she had no desire to be left behind." "perhaps," said melinda, "as it was a church-mouse, she thought it too poor to eat. i wish i had such a cat as wildfire, miss elinor." "and so do i," cried nelly. "i'll teach my cat, nancy, to be knowing, just like her. look at the wreath, miss elinor! hasn't it grown handsome while you were telling about wildfire? it don't seem a bit like a stump fence now, does it?" it was, indeed, very beautiful. miss elinor raised herself on her elbow and said so, as she looked at it. all that it wanted now, she told them, was a few scissors clips on the ends of the longest sprays, to make them even with the others. melinda leaned it against the wall, and clipped away with great care and precision. nelly stood gazing at it lovingly and admiringly. before the children were quite ready to go home, miss milly came in and hung the precious wreath on a couple of nails which she drove for that purpose, over the picture, for which it was intended. it represented a little bare-footed gypsy-girl dancing a wild, fantastic dance, with her brown arms flung gracefully out, and mischief and innocent fun gleaming in her black eyes. "of all the engravings i have ever seen," said miss elinor, "this one is the best calculated for an evergreen frame. thank you, dears, for making it. i hope each of you will pass a merry christmas and a happy new year." as the two children went down the stairs together, nelly said, "isn't she good, melindy?" melinda was not accustomed to behave herself for so great a length of time; her stock of good conduct was now pretty nearly exhausted, so she answered rather sharply, "of course she is. i know that as well as you, without bein' told." nelly felt something choking her in her throat. "_i will not_," she said firmly to herself, "i will not answer back. i'll do as martin says, and make a friend of melindy, if i can. she isn't so very bad, after all. why, i do believe i rather like her." they gathered their books together in the school-room. melinda opened the door first, to go. "well, good-bye," she said, gruffly, looking back at nell. "good-bye," replied nelly; and then she added, bravely, "oh, melindy, we needn't quarrel any more, need we? _i_ don't wish to, do you? let us be friends; come, shake hands." melinda turned very red, indeed. "i am not going to be forced to make friends with any one," she said, in a most forbidding voice. she gave the school-door a terrific bang as she spoke, and darted off homeward. but in that last rough action the final trace of the ill-will she bore nelly disappeared forever. the next morning, as the family were sitting at breakfast, there came a knock at the door. comfort, hastily setting her dress to rights, went to answer it. there stood melinda, her school-books in one hand, and in the other, two of the biggest and roundest and reddest apples she had been able to find in all her father's bins. "give them to nelly, if you please," she said. "and i declar'," added comfort, when she came in and told the family, "the minit she spoke that ar' she ran off frightened like, and in a mos' drefful hurry." from that day melinda and nelly were friends. chapter v. chickens and "poetry." spring came again, and deepened slowly towards the summer. leaves budded on the trees, herbs sprouted from the warm earth, and birds sang in all the hedges. "i am _so_ glad!" said nelly; "for i love the spring sunshine, and all the pleasant things that come with it." when the weather grew mild, nelly was as good as her word about raising chickens for the benefit of comfort's nephew, the little slave. the eggs of the favorite hen were carefully put aside to accumulate, and as soon as she had done laying, and went about the barnyard clucking, with her feathers ruffled and her wings drooping, nelly knew, with joy, that it was time to set her. so she filled the same nest in which the eggs had been laid, with clean, fresh straw, and placed them in it, ready for the bantam when martin could catch her to put her on. they found that the hen needed no coaxing, but settled herself at once in the well-filled nest, giving at the same time an occasional cluck of high satisfaction. in three weeks from that time she came off with eleven chicks,--all safe and well. when she was put in her coop, under the big apple-tree by the fence, nelly fed her with moistened indian meal, every day. she thought it a pretty sight, when biddy minced up the food for her babies, and taught them how to drink out of the flower-pot saucer of water that stood within her reach. nelly seemed never to get tired of looking at her little snow-white pets. she felt that they were her own, and therefore she took a double interest in them. when she was home from school, and lessons were studied for the next morning, she would go out to the apple-tree, and sit on the clean grass an hour or two, to watch every movement of the brood, and the solicitude of the caged mother when her offspring wandered too far away. one day in particular, as she sat there, the child's thoughts were busy with the future; her imagination pictured the time when full-grown, and more beautiful than any others, as she thought they were sure to become, her eleven chickens were to be sent to market. "i hope," she said half aloud; "i hope they will bring a good price, for comfort's sake; i should not like to offer her anything less than five dollars. that is very little, i think, compared to all the trouble i have had night and morning to feed and take care of them." she stopped a moment, and heaved a deep sigh, as she saw the little yellow dots flit back and forth through the long grass, some of them running now and then to nestle lovingly under the wings of the mother. "oh dear!" she went on; "i do believe i am getting to love my hen and chickens too much to part with them; every day i think more and more of them, and all the while they grow prettier and sweeter and tamer. i wish i could keep them and have the money too! dear little chickies! oh, comfort, comfort!" she pronounced the last two words so ruefully, that her mother, who was passing along the garden-path, near the apple-tree, called out,-- "well, nelly dear, what is the matter with your precious comfort, eh? has she met any great misfortune?" "no, ma'am," said nelly; "i was only talking to myself about how hard it would be to sell the little chickens, even for dear comfort's sake, when i love them so." mrs. brooks drew near. "well, my child, that is a dilemma i have not thought of before. perhaps, who knows, something will turn up to keep your darlings nearer home. when autumn comes, if i feel desperately in want of bantams, i may purchase your brood myself,--but i will not promise about it. in the meantime, don't get to loving them too much; and remember, that if you told comfort you would give her the money, you must keep your word." "yes," said nell, with another sigh; "there is just my trouble; i want to be honorable to comfort, and kind to myself too." mrs. brooks passed on. she went into a little vegetable garden beyond, found what she wanted, and came back. she paused again, and with the little girl, looked at the chickens. "nelly," she said, "it has just struck me that you have been a great deal in the kitchen with comfort, lately, of evenings. now, though i respect and love comfort for many things, i want you to stay more with your father, and martin, and myself, in the sitting-room." "what?" nelly cried, in innocent wonder; "isn't comfort good any longer?" mrs. brooks smiled. "yes, dear, comfort's as good as ever. she tries to do her duty, and is a faithful old creature. she has many excellent qualities, but she is not educated nor refined, as i hope one day _you_ will be. you are too young to be exposed to her influence constantly, proper as it may be in most respects. i want you to fill a different rank in life from comfort's, nelly." tears were in nelly's eyes as she answered gravely, "yes, ma'am." "comfort is a servant, and you are my little daughter. i want you to be diligent, and cultivate a love of books. if you grow up in ignorance, you can never be esteemed a lady, even if you were as rich as an empress. i will give you the credit to say that you have improved very much since you have been with me, both in your conduct and in the language you use." "comfort told me i mustn't say 'br'iling fish,' as she did, because _you_ did not! _that_ was kind of her, wasn't it?" mrs. brooks felt her eyes moisten at this unexpected remark, more, perhaps, at the tone than at the words themselves. she saw that nelly was deeply attached to comfort, and she felt almost that she was wrong in seeking to withdraw the child from the grotesque attraction she had lately seemed to feel for her society. but duty was duty, and she was firm. she stooped and imprinted a light kiss on nelly's cheek. "yes," she said, "comfort is very kind to you. but i do not wish you to spend more time with her when you are out of school than you do with the rest of the family. remember not to hurt her feelings by repeating to her this conversation." "yes, ma'am," said nelly; and then she added, "comfort was going to show me how to write poetry, to-night, when she got through with her work. couldn't i go in the kitchen for this one evening?" "comfort--teach--poetry?" echoed mrs. brooks, with some dismay and amusement. "yes, ma'am." "well,--yes,--you may stay in the kitchen, if you like, for this once. certainly, i have no objection to your learning to write poetry," and she walked away, laughing quietly. surely enough, when night fell, and comfort, radiant in a showy, new, red cotton turban, sat down to her knitting,--her day's work over, everything in its place, and the kitchen-floor white with extreme cleanliness,--nell came skipping into the room, pencil and paper in hand. "you see," she said, as she arranged her writing materials on the table, and drew the solitary tallow candle towards her; "you see, comfort, school breaks up next week, and the spring vacation begins. it lasts a month, only think of it! will not i have good times, eh? johnny bixby,--you know johnny bixby, comfort? well, he goes to his home in the city as soon as vacation commences, and as we may not see him again, he wants each of the little girls to write him some poetry so that he can remember us by it; and that's the way i come to want to learn how." "oh," said comfort, "i understand now. johnny boards with those ar harrowses, eh?" "yes," said nell; "and he's such a very quiet boy, you've no idea, comfort." "he's the fust _quiet_ boy ever _i_ heerd on, then," said comfort. "weel, what do you want to say to johnny in your poetry? that's the first and important p'int; don't begin to write till you finds what you are a goin' to say." "oh, i want to tell him good-bye, and all that sort of thing, comfort, and how i hope we will meet again. i've got the first line all written; that's some help isn't it? melindy's and my first lines are just alike, 'cause we made it up between us." "how does it go?" asked comfort, puffing at her pipe. "this way," said nelly, taking up her paper and reading: "our days of youth will soon be o'er." "well," said comfort, after a moment's reflection, "i think that's very good. now you must find something to rhyme with that ar word 'o'er.'" nelly bent over her papers, and seemed to be considering very hard indeed. once she put forth her hand as if she were going to write, but drew it back again. evidently she found writing poetry very difficult work. comfort was looking at her, too, and that made her nervous, and even the solemn stare of the cat, nancy, from the hearth, where she sat purring, added to her embarrassment. "oh, comfort," she said, at last, with a deep sigh; "i can't! i wonder if johnny bixby would take as much trouble as this for me. do tell me what rhymes with 'o'er,' comfort!" "'o'er,' 'o'er,'" repeated comfort, slowly; "why, tore, gnaw, boar, roar, and such like. roar is very good." "but i don't want 'roar' in poetry, comfort," said nelly, considerably ruffled. "i don't see how you can bring 'roar' in. i wonder if 'more' would not do." she took up her pencil, and in a little while, with beaming eyes, read to her listener these lines: "our days of youth will soon be o'er, in harrows' school we'll meet no more." "that's pretty fair, isn't it, comfort?" "'pears like," was the answer that came from a cloud of smoke on the other side of the room. "i'm sorry the 'roar' couldn't come in, though. don't disremember to say something nice about his writin' to tell yer if he gits safe home, and so, and so." "no," said nell; "i'll not"--"forget" she meant to have added, but just then came a heavy knock on the kitchen-door that made both of them start. comfort opened it, and there stood a boy, nearly a man, in the dress of a sailor. his hair was long and shaggy, his face was brown, and over his shoulder swung a small bundle on a stick. he was not, however, as rough as he looked, for he took off his hat and said in a pleasant voice, "can you tell me where a widow by the name of harrow lives in this neighborhood? i was directed this way, i think." "over yonder is the house," said comfort, pointing out into the night. "and the next time yer come, be keerful not to thump so hard. we are not used to it in this 'ere part of the country." nelly heard the young man laugh as he walked down the path from the house; and something in the sound brought miss milly to her mind. the more she thought of it, the more certain she became that the young man's voice was like her teacher's. she sat still a little while, thinking, and idly scratching her pencil back and forth. at length she said, quite forgetful of her writing, "comfort, didn't mrs. harrow's son run away to sea, ever so long ago?" this question, simple as it was, seemed to fill comfort with sudden knowledge. she clapped her hands together joyfully. "my stars! ef that don't beat all! i do b'lieve sidney harrow is come back again!" she went to the door to look after him, but his figure had long since vanished down the path. the gloom of night reigned, undisturbed, without. there was no sailor-boy to be seen. "my stars!" said comfort, again and again; "ef that was only miss milly's brother come back to help keer for the family, instead of runnin' off like a bad ongrateful feller, as he was, i'll be glad for one." "and i'll be glad too," cried nelly; "and then dear miss elinor need not teach, but can read books all day, if she likes, and be happy. oh, kitty, kitty! will not that be nice?" and in the delight of her heart, the little girl caught up the cat from the hearth, and began to caress her in a joyful manner, that the sober puss must have considered rather indecorous, for she sat still in her lap, looking as grave as a judge, and never winked or purred once at her young mistress. here the clock struck nine. "dear, dear!" said nelly; "and i haven't finished my poetry yet! and very soon i must go to bed." back she went with renewed vigor. "what were you saying, comfort, when that young man knocked? oh, i know,--to tell johnny to write to me; i remember now. don't you think it will seem strange to johnny to be with his mother all the time, instead of sending her letters from school? eh, comfort?" but the old woman was lost in her thoughts and her smoking, and did not reply. nelly bent over her paper, read, and re-read the two lines already accomplished, and after musing in some perplexity what should come next, asked, "comfort, what rhymes with b?" "stingin' bee, nell?" "no, the _letter_ b." "oh, that's it, is it? well, let me think. i haven't made poetry this ever so long. there's 'ragin' sea,'--how's that?" said comfort, beginning to show symptoms of getting deeply interested. "now take to 'flectin' on that ar, nell." nell did reflect some time, but to no purpose. some way she could not fit in comfort's "ragin' sea." it was no use, it would not go! she wrote and erased, and erased and wrote, for a full quarter of an hour. after much anxious labor, she produced finally this verse, and bidding comfort listen, read it aloud, in a very happy, triumphant way. then she copied it neatly on a piece of paper, in a large, uneven, childish handwriting, which she had only lately acquired. it was now ready to be presented on the morrow. to johnny bixby. our days of youth will soon be o'er, in harrow's school we'll meet no more; you'll write no more to mrs. b., oh then, dear johnny, write to me! "and now," said nelly, as she folded up the precious paper, after having duly received comfort's congratulations and praise,--"and now i'm going straight to tell mother about sidney harrow." chapter vi. getting lost. the next day, when nelly went to school with her verse-paper in her hand, all ready for presentation, she found the children talking together in little groups, in tones of great surprise and delighted satisfaction. melinda, now grown kind and loving to nelly, as a consequence of that little girl's own patience and affectionate effort, came forward at once to tell the news. "only think!" she said; "mrs. harrow's son, sidney, has come home, and oh, miss milly and miss elinor are _so_ glad!" "and so am i," cried nelly; "if ever there was good luck, that is." "i am not so sure about that," said melinda, with a sage, grown-up air; for she liked to seem like a woman, and often told her companions, "dear knows, if _she_ wasn't big enough to be thought one, she would like to know who _was_!" "why, isn't mr. sidney a nice young man, melindy?" asked nelly, in bewilderment. "hush!" said melinda, drawing her into a corner; "don't talk so loud. you see, he's come home as poor as he went, and folks are afraid that he will go on just as he did before,--that is, spend all his own earnings and plenty of his mother's, too." "dear, dear!" said nelly; "that will be hard for miss milly." "anyway," continued melinda, wisely, "we can hope for the best, you know. miss milly is so glad to have him back, that she came into this 'ere school-room, this very morning, and told the scholars she was going to take them all on a picnic, to-morrow, up yonder, on mr. bradish's mountain. we are to ask our mothers if we can go, and then come here with our dinners in our baskets, and set off together as soon as the grass dries. fun, isn't it?" nelly's eyes danced. "a picnic! well, if that isn't nice! i hope comfort will put something real good in my basket, to-morrow." then she added, thoughtfully, "i wonder if martin might not go, too?" "i'll ask," said melinda; and up she went to miss milly, who at that moment entered. little johnny bixby, a boy of ten, now came up to wish nell good-morning, and talk about the picnic. nelly gave him her poetry, and he read it, and said, "it's splendid, nelly; i'll show it to mother as soon as i get home." the next day came. the skies were clear, but the wind was high, and swayed the branches of the trees around the farm-house, and swept the long, wet grass to and fro. "is it going to storm?" asked nelly, anxiously, of martin, as immediately after breakfast they stood together in the door-way and looked forth. "no," said martin; "i think it will not storm, but the breeze will be a pretty stiff one all day. perhaps miss milly will postpone the picnic." "oh, dear!" cried nelly; "i hope not. what! put it off after comfort has baked us that great, bouncing sponge-cake, martin?" martin was going too, for miss milly had sent him an invitation, and mr. brooks had granted him, very willingly, a holiday. he had only to help milk the cows early in the morning, and then he was free to follow his pleasure till sundown. he was dressed now in his sunday suit; his hair was combed smoothly over his forehead, and his best cloth cap was in his hands. altogether he looked so tidy, so good, so happy, that when mr. brooks came in the room, he asked comfort, with a smile, if she didn't think a lad of about the age of martin ought to have at least a dime of spending money, when he went to picnics. on comfort's saying heartily, without taking one single instant for reflection, "yes, sir," the farmer put his hand in his pocket, drew out a new and bright quarter of a dollar, and dropped it in martin's cap. martin tried to return it, but mr. brooks would not hear to any such thing, but shouldered his hoe and went off, whistling, into the garden. "i'll tell you what to do with it," said nelly, in a confidential whisper; "buy round hearts; they're four for a penny. only think of four times twenty-five round hearts! how much is that, martin?" martin laughed, and said he guessed he would not invest in round hearts, for comfort's cake was so large. "so _monstrous_ large," put in nelly, dividing a glance of affection between comfort and the cake. "yes," continued martin; "it is so _monstrous_ that it ought to last, at least, two whole days." the farmer's wife came in just then, and told them she would pack the dinner-basket herself, to see that everything was right, and that it was full enough, for she said she had heard somebody remark that good appetites were sure to go along on picnics. nelly and martin stood by and looked at her as she unfolded a clean white towel, and outspread it in the basket, so that the ends hung over the sides. after this she took some thin pieces of cold beef and put them between slices of bread and butter, and these she packed away first. now came comfort's sponge-cake, cut in quarters, and as many little lady-apples as remained from the winter's store,--for it was late in the spring. a cup to drink out of the mountain streams was also added, and the towel-ends were nicely folded over the whole and pinned together. a happy pair they were, when they set out,--martin carrying the provisions, and nelly singing and making flying skips beside him. when they reached the school-house, nearly all the children were assembled. miss milly was there, and her brother too, a handsome young lad, of about eighteen, with a very brown, sunburnt face. nelly knew him, the moment she saw him, to be the same person she had seen before. they were not to start for an hour yet, for, high as the wind had been, and was, the grass was still glittering with dew. the little road-side brooks were furrowed into white-crested waves, and the school-house creaked and moaned with the gusts that blew against it. "i am almost afraid to venture taking the children out," said miss milly; but upon hearing this, such a clamor of good-humored expostulation arose, and so many sorrowful "oh's," and "oh dear me's," resounded through the room, that sidney harrow, as any other boy would have done, begged his sister to have mercy and never mind the wind. in a little while the party started. mr. bradish's mountain, the proposed scene of the picnic, was distant about one mile from the school-house. the route to it lay through a long, shady lane that gradually wound towards the woods, and lost itself at last amid the huge, gray rocks and dense shade of the hill-top itself. it was spring-time, and the grass was very green, and delicate wild flowers starred all the road-side. here and there, in the crevice of a mossy stone, grew a tuft of wild pinks, nodding against a group of scarlet columbines, while, wherever the ground afforded unusual moisture, blue violets thrust up their graceful heads in thick masses. "hurrah!" cried johnny bixby, as they reached the summit of the mountain; "hurrah! here we are at last. the picnic's begun!" miss milly said the children might stray around together for some time before it would be the dinner-hour, and they might gather as many wild flowers as they wished, to decorate the picnic grounds. all the girls set to work, and such a crowd of violets, anemones, wild buckwheat, and pinks as was soon piled around miss milly's feet, was a sight to behold. while sidney harrow with martin and the rest of the boys were fishing in a little stream that ran over the mountain, about one quarter of a mile distant, miss milly's party tied bouquets to the branches of the trees, and hung garlands on the bushes, around the spot where they were to dine. the wind died away, the birds sung out merrily, and the air grew soft and warm, so that, after all, there was no fear of little folks taking cold. the brook where sidney and martin led the boys was not a very deep one, and therefore it was not dangerous, but it was celebrated for miles around for its fish. a large, overhanging rock, under the shade of a tree, served, as martin said, for a "roosting-place," and from it they found the bites so frequent that quite a little string of fish was made, and hung on some dead roots that projected from the bank. "what a wild place this is," said martin, looking around him, as he drew in his line for the fourth time. "yes," said sidney; "it is. that is the best of it. i wouldn't give a fig for it if it wasn't. look at that cow coming to drink. i wonder where she hails from! how she looks at us!" the cow did indeed regard them with a long stare of astonishment, and then, scarcely tasting the water, she plunged, bellowing, into the woods again. "she is frightened," said martin; "that's old duchess, one of mr. bradish's cows. he turns them out with their calves every summer, to take care of themselves till fall." "why, is the pasture good enough for that, up here on this mountain?" asked sidney, baiting his hook. "yes," replied martin; "i think so; it's rather rough, but cows are mighty knowin', and pick out the best. besides, they have their freedom, and they thrive on that as much as anything. then the calves are so well grown in the fall by these means, that when farmers, who put them out, go to drive them home to winter-quarters, they hardly know their own again." "there, she's coming back!" cried a little boy; "and a whole lot with her!" martin looked where the crashing of boughs told of the approach, and saw about a dozen cows, headed by duchess, making for that part of the stream where they were fishing. some half-grown calves scampered at their heels, in a frightened way, that showed they were not much accustomed to the sight of human beings. "poor duchess! good duchess!" said martin, in a kind tone; but duchess tossed up her nice, brown nose, and snorted at him. "she don't like the looks of us, that's flat," said sidney, with a little alarm that made martin smile; "i'm sure i don't like _her_ appearance one bit. suppose she should horn us!" and he jumped hastily up from the rock. "what!" said martin; "you, a sailor, who know what it is to face death on the ocean, every day of your life, and yet afraid of a cow! besides, she hasn't a horn to her head! just look at her. she has nothing but two little, miserable stumps!" sidney came back again, for he had retreated a step or two, under the trees, and looked somewhat ashamed. "what's the use of jumpin'?" said johnny bixby, in a big, pompous tone, that he meant to be very courageous and manly; "duchess is only frightened at seeing us. this is her drinking-place, may be." "oh!" said sidney; "of course _i_ am not afraid;" but his lips turned blue as duchess made a sudden move, half-way across the stream, and then stood still, and roared again. "she's a little scared at us, that's all," said martin; "she'll get used to the sight of us pretty soon." "after she's made the water muddy and spoiled the fishing," said sidney, in an ill-natured tone. martin took off his shoes and stockings, rolled up his trousers, and waded slowly across the brook towards the herd of cattle, holding out his hand and speaking to one or two of the animals by name, in a coaxing, petting way: "come here, spotty,--come here, good little white sue,--come here, my poor old duchess!" the cows stood and looked at him, very quietly. the one he called sue, was small, and entirely white, with the exception of a bright red star on her forehead; she was a very pretty creature. she seemed to remember having seen martin before, for presently she marched slowly up to him and sniffed his hand, while staring at him from head to foot. the boy scratched her ears, as he had often done before upon passing mr. bradish's barnyard; she appeared to be pleased, and rubbed her head against his shoulder. "softly, there, susie," said martin; "i don't like that. that's my sunday go-to-meeting coat." he stepped back as he spoke, and the abrupt movement alarmed the whole troop. white sue gave a loud bellow, and dashed abruptly across the stream into the woods on the other side,--her companions hurriedly following, splashing the water over themselves and their calves as they did so. sidney harrow dropped his pole, and with a half-shriek, ran in the opposite direction, towards the picnic ground. as the fishing at that place was now over, on account of the disturbance of the water, martin told the boys they had better join the rest of the party; so they gathered up the fish and bait, and left the spot, martin carrying the rod of the brave sailor in addition to his own. they found miss milly building a fire in a small clearing, where it would not scorch the trees. sidney was with her. as he saw the boys approach he got down on his knees and began to blow the flame into a blaze, and puffed and panted so hard at his work, that he could not even get his breath to say "thank you," when martin remarked, "here is your rod, sidney. you left it on the rock. i'll lean it against this maple, till you are ready to take charge of it." "i am glad you have come," said miss milly to the group of boys; "for we are getting magnificent appetites, and i wanted sidney and martin to roast the clams." "clams!" cried martin; "that was what made sidney's load so heavy, then, coming up the hill. how i like roasted clams!" miss milly showed him sidney's empty basket, and told him that she and melinda had prepared a compact bed of the clams on the ground, and that they had then placed over them a quantity of dry branches, ready to kindle when sidney should come with the matches, which he carried in his pocket, and had brought for the purpose. the tablecloth was already spread on a flat rock near at hand, and the little girls were still busy arranging the contents of their baskets upon it, for, by general consent, they were to dine together that day, and share with each other the eatables that had been provided for the excursion. martin reached down his and nelly's basket, from a high limb where he had hung it for safety, and comfort's big cake, which mrs. brooks had cut in quarters, was fitted together and placed in the centre of the cloth for the chief ornament. "will not comfort feel proud when she hears it?" whispered nelly to martin, as she passed him with her hands full of knives and forks. the fire was soon blazing and sputtering over the clams, and in a short time sidney pronounced them cooked. with branches of trees, the boys then drew the burning fragments away, and scattered the red coals till the bed of baked clams presented itself. miss milly tried one and found it was just in a fine state to eat, and then the children were told that all was ready. armed with plates, pieces of bread and butter, and knives and forks, they drew near, and the talking and laughing that ensued, as each opened the hot shells, for his or herself, made a merry scene of it. there were enough for all, and to spare; and when they left the clam-bed, still smoking and smouldering, to assemble around "table-rock," as melinda called it, where the daintier part of the feast was spread, martin said he had never tasted such finely roasted clams in his life. "i expect," said miss milly, "that the charm lies in our appetites." "yes," said johnny bixby, taking an enormous bite of cake, and, to nelly's great horror, speaking with his mouth full--"yes, i think goin' on picnics and such like, is real hungry work." this speech was received with a shout of approbation; and, on sidney remarking that he thought that johnny should be made the orator of the occasion, the children laughed again, and quite as heartily as though they fully understood what _orator_ meant. when the dinner was over, and the larger girls began to gather up the fragments, and restore plates and spoons to their owners, the rest prepared for a ramble. miss milly said they must not go far, nor stay long, and, promising to obey, the children set out together. as soon as they were separated from the others, which happened insensibly, johnny bixby gave nelly, with whom he was walking, a very animated account of sidney harrow's behavior at the fishing-ground. "afraid of cows!" said nell; "well, that beats all i ever heard. i am afraid that sidney will not help miss milly along much. come, show me where you fished, johnny, will you?" johnny led the way, and in a little while he and nelly stood on the very rock from which the boys had dropped their lines in the morning. the moss upon it was trodden under foot, and it was quite wet where the fish had been hauled in. "i wonder if this is a creek," said nell, looking up and down the brook with an admiring gaze; "marm lizy used often to tell me of a creek where she rowed a boat, when she was young." "marm lizy?" asked johnny; "who's that, nell?" nelly turned very red, and was silent. she remembered, like a flash of lightning, that john was a stranger in the village, his home being in the adjacent city, and that therefore he had, perhaps, never heard the story of her degraded childhood. pride rose up and made her deceitful. "marm lizy!" she repeated, carelessly; "oh, i don't know; somebody or other who used to live in the village. what's that, johnny, flopping about in the grass?" she pointed to the rock-side, where, as johnny soon saw, a decided "flopping" was indeed going on. "a fish! a fish!" cried the boy, catching it and holding it up in both hands, so that nell could look at it; "i'll take it to martin to put on the string with the rest. it must have floundered off." "oh, let us put it back," cried nelly; "poor mr. fish! i think you would really like to try your hand at swimming again." "fin, you mean," laughed john; "fishes don't have hands that ever _i_ heard tell. shall i let it go?" "oh, yes!" cried nell; "but wait till i get down from the rock so that i can see it swim away." she clambered down, and soon stood by johnny's side on the long grass that grew close to the brook's edge, and mingled with the little white bubbles on its surface. johnny stooped, and, holding the fish, put his hands under the water. the moment the poor, tortured thing felt the touch of its native element, it gave a start and would have darted away. "oh, johnny!" exclaimed nell; "don't tease it so cruelly. please let it go." johnny lifted up his hands, and instantly the fish swam off so swiftly that they could scarcely see which way it went. at last nelly espied it under the shadow of the rock, puffing its little sides in and out, and looking at them with its keen, bright eyes, in a very frightened way. [illustration: "johnny lifted up his hands, and instantly the fish swam off." page .] "poor fish!" said johnny; "swim away, and remember not to nibble at boy's hooks again. a worm is a very good thing for you when it isn't at the end of a piece of string." the fish gazed at him a little longer, then seeming to take his advice, darted from the rock to where the water was deeper and darker, and was soon lost to sight. "that's the place sidney's cows came from," said johnny, pointing to the opposite side of the stream, where the bushes were torn and trodden, and marks of hoofs were in the mud and grass. "let us take off our shoes and stockings and wade over and follow their track, to see where it leads," cried nelly; and, suiting the action to the word, the two children soon found themselves bare-footed,--nell tying her boots to dangle one from each of her apron-strings, and johnny carrying his in his hands. nell got her feet in first, but drew back, saying it was cold; so johnny dashed over, splashing his little bare legs, and leaving a muddy track all across the brook. "there," said he, somewhat boastfully, "that's the way! i am glad i'm not afraid like girls." nelly did not like this treatment, and she was about giving a hasty and angry answer, when, sobered by the recollection of the deep fault she had already committed, by her late untruth, she only said,-- "sidney was afraid of _cows_!" and waded slowly and silently through the water. they found the path to be quite a well-worn one. it was evidently that by which the cows were in the habit of coming to drink. it was pretty, too, and very wild. in a little while, as they left the brook farther and farther behind them, the walking became dry and very good, so that they resumed their shoes, but not their stockings,--johnny stating that he hated the latter, and would rather "scratch himself to pieces" on the blackberry thorns than put them on again. the shade was very pleasant. once or twice they paused to rest on the large stones which were scattered here and there through the path, but this was not for any great length of time; they wandered on and on, taking no note of time, nor of their prolonged absence from their companions, but enjoying every thing they saw, and wishing all the days in the year were like this one. the openings in the trees were very few; they were penetrating, although they did not know it, into the very heart of the wood. once, and once only, they caught a glimpse, through the branches, of a small clearing. half-burned stumps still showed themselves amid the rank grass. on the top of an elevation, at one side of this clearing, a horse was quietly grazing. as he moved, johnny saw he was lame, and from this the children judged that, like the cows, he was turned out to pasture for the summer. as nelly parted the bushes to look at him, he gave a frightened start, and began to paw the grass. he still stood on the little hill, in beautiful relief against the soft blue of the sky, the rising breeze of the coming sunset blowing his long, black mane and tail gracefully in the air as the children turned away to pursue their journey. the cow-path soon branched into others more winding and narrow than the one they had just quitted. the time since dinner had passed so rapidly and happily, that they did not dream night was coming, or that they had strayed too far away from their companions. the wild flowers grew so thickly, and the mosses were of such surprising softness and length, that it was scarcely any wonder they forgot their teacher's parting injunction. when night at last really began to approach, and nelly looked anxiously around at the gathering twilight in the woods, johnny said it was nothing but the natural shadows of the trees, and so they concluded to go on a little farther to gather a few of the laurel blossoms they saw growing amid their shining green leaves, a short distance beyond. when they had reached this spot, and captured the desired treasures, nelly saw with dismay, that the path ended abruptly against the side of an immense rock, quite as large, she thought, as the whole of the farm-house at home. "nell!" said johnny, suddenly; "i believe we are lost! how to find our way back again over these long paths we have been walking through all the afternoon, i am sure i do not know." "and i am so tired now, i can hardly stir," said nelly, in a complaining tone; "and night is near, as i told you before." johnny looked around without answering. he saw that there was no help for it; they must return the way they came, long as it was, or stay in the woods all night. "come, nelly," he said, "we must go back on the same path, if we can." it was getting quite dusky. they took each other by the hand and trudged along. one by one the flowers dropped from nelly's full apron, to the ground, and at length her weary fingers unclasped, and the apron itself resumed its proper position. everybody knows how easy it is to lose one's way, and what a difficult thing it is to find it again. our wanderers discovered it to be so. they got upon a wrong path that led them into soft, wet ground, where, the first thing they knew, they were up to their ankles in mud; and when they had extricated themselves as well as they could, and struck out boldly for home, confident that they were now making a direct short-cut for it, they found themselves, in a little while, on the same path, at the foot of the same large rock where they were before. this was a little too much for the patience of the two picnickers. johnny looked at nell gravely. "don't!" he said, "don't, nelly dear!" "don't what?" asked nelly, dropping down where she stood, so completely exhausted as to be glad of a moment's rest. "don't cry. you look just like it. all girls cry, you know." [illustration: "they saw then, that this huge rock was on the very summit of the mountain." page .] "do they?" asked nell, absently looking about her. then she asked, with energy, "johnny, do you know what i think we ought to do? we must climb this big mountain of a rock, some way, and see what there is on the other side of it. maybe we are near home." "i guess not," said johnny; "but i can climb it if you can." after thinking the case over, they clasped hands once more, and began the ascent. they had to sit down several times, to rest, on the way. the sharp points of the rock and the narrow crevices which they mounted, hurt their tired feet. at last they reached the top, and found themselves in comparative daylight, because they were now out of the woods. they saw then, that this huge rock was on the very summit of the mountain on which the picnic had taken place. they beheld from it, distinctly, their homes in the valley beneath. the rock was entirely free from foliage, and nothing obscured the splendor of the landscape below. the sun had just set red and misty in the west, shedding his parting glow over the peaceful village and the scattered farm-houses, on its outskirts. no wonder the two children were overcome by fatigue,--they had been gradually, but unconsciously ascending the hill the whole afternoon. they stood there now, hand in hand, looking down upon their far-off homes. "are you afraid, nell?" asked her companion, in a low voice. "no," said nell; "not now, that we are out of those dark woods; besides, i have thought of a plan to make them see us from below. look here." she put her hand in her pocket and drew forth a match. "sidney harrow dropped this when he was kindling the fire, and i thought of comfort's savin' ways and picked it up. can you guess what i am going to do? we must get together some brush-wood, and make a fine blaze that they will see in the village." "and even if they don't come to bring us home," said johnny, "it will keep us warm till morning, and then we can find our own way. but we must go down the rock to get the wood. oh dear! i don't think much of picnics, do you, nell?" very soon a fire burned on the top of the rock, and notwithstanding their fatigue, the children kept it in a broad blaze. as the last bright cloud of sunset faded away, the flames spread boldly into the night air, a signal of distress to those who were safely housed in the farm-houses beneath. having got the fire well going, and a large stock of wood on hand to feed it, the weary, dispirited children sat down to rest, beside it. neither spoke for a long time. they listened intently for the expected aid, yet nothing but the dreary hoot of the owls met their ears, mingled with the moan of the wind, which now being steadily increasing, blew the flames high in the air. nelly got up to poke the coals with a branch she kept for that purpose, and when she had done so, she stood leaning upon it and looking sorrowfully into the valley, where she saw lights twinkling from windows. "johnny," she said, softly, "do you believe anybody can be _perfectly_ good in this world?" "yes," said johnny, carelessly, "i s'pose so, if a fellow tries hard enough. i guess it's pretty tough work though, don't you?" "the more _i_ try, the worse i seem to be; at least,--well, you see, the worse i _feel_ myself to be." "we've neither of us been very good to-day, nell. miss milly told us not to go far, nor to stay long, and i believe we've gone as far as we could, and i'm sure we've stayed a deal longer than we want to,--_i_ have. are you afraid _now_, nell?" "god takes care of us, always," said little nell, solemnly, still leaning on her branch and crossing her feet. "comfort tells me that, and mother reminds me of it when she hears me say my prayers on going to bed." "do you believe it? does he see us _now_?" questioned her companion, raising himself on his elbow and gazing at her as she stood between him and the bright fire. "i believe it," was the reverent answer. "dear johnny, let us not forget our prayers to-night, if we stay up here." there was another long, long pause. "johnny?" "well, nell." "i was wicked to you to-day. i was proud, and told you i didn't know who marm lizy was, when you asked me. that wasn't true, and now i'm sorry." "well, who was she, nell?" tears of repentance for her own sin, and likewise of sorrow at the recollection of poor marm lizy's misspent life, rose to nelly's eyes, and glittered on her cheeks in the red firelight, like rubies. johnny looked at her with redoubled interest. "marm lizy," said nell, getting through her self-imposed confession with a little difficulty, "marm lizy was a--a--a sort of mother to me. she wasn't good to me, and i wasn't good to her. she beat me sometimes, and--and i didn't know any better than to hate her. i wouldn't do so _now_, i think. i should be sorry for her." "where is marm lizy now, nelly?" the boy did not know what remembrances that simple question awoke. nelly did not answer, but crouched down by the fire, and buried her face in her hands. after a long interval she started up again. she heard shouts, faint at first, but gradually growing nearer. she and johnny set up a long, loud, eager cry in return, that woke a dozen mountain echoes. then dogs barked, lanterns gleamed through the dark woods, the shouts burst forth again, and many voices were heard calling them by name! the fire had done its work. the lost were found at last, for in a short time nelly was clasped in her father's arms. so terminated the picnic. the end. transcriber's note: spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained as in the original publication except as follows: page fish-fork. it wasn't your _changed to_ fish-fork. "it wasn't your page i--'blieve--i shall--crack _changed to_ i--b'lieve--i shall--crack nelly,--'spose now, i had _changed to_ nelly,--s'pose now, i had page growing interest; what's _slave_ _changed to_ growing interest; "what's _slave_ page little grimly, "stockin' or no stockin' _changed to_ little grimly, "stockin' or no stockin' page evergreens are permitted to remain. _changed to_ evergreens are permitted to remain." page 'what!' said my uncle _changed to_ "'what!' said my uncle page all the people were more _changed to_ "all the people were more page it do'n't seem a bit _changed to_ it don't? seem a bit page patience of the two picnicers _changed to_ patience of the two picnickers aunt hattie's library for girls. series i. vol. i. the sheep and lambs. " ii. lily's birthday. " iii. little miss fret. " iv. maggie and the mice. " v. the lost kitty. " vi. ida's new shoes. aunt hattie's library for boys. series ii. vol. i. the apple boys. " ii. the chest of tools. " iii. the factory boy. " iv. frankie's dog tony. " v. the golden rule. " vi. lying jim. [illustration: aunt hattie's library] the factory boy. by aunt hattie, author of the "brookside series," etc. "trust in the lord and do good, ... and verily thou shalt be fed." david. boston: published by henry a. young & co., no. cornhill. entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by rev. a. r. baker, in the clerk's office of the district court for the district of massachusetts. rockwell & rollins, stereotypers, washington street. to nellie, roland cotton, annie, and fuller appleton, children of my beloved nephew, the rev. john cotton smith, d.d., these small volumes are affectionately inscribed, with the earnest prayer that their lives may prove them to be lambs in the fold of the great and good shepherd of israel. contents. chapter i. page the silver dollar, chapter ii. kind friends, chapter iii. the new boots, chapter iv. a sad story, chapter v. going to school, chapter vi. johnny a favorite, chapter vii. johnny's trust, chapter vii. johnny's new father, chapter ix. the new house, the factory boy. chapter i. the silver dollar. "take a cup of porridge, johnny, dear. it's too cold to go to work without something warm." johnny looked in the bowl which stood on the hearth, near a few smouldering brands, and shook his head as he answered,--"i'm not very hungry, mother. there's only enough for you and ella." then without another word he hurried away, for the factory bell was ringing; and he knew that he must not be late. poor little johnny! how he shivered as he shuffled along that frosty december morning! he could not pick up his feet, as the boys say, and run; for his shoes were much too large for him, and the heels were so worn that it was only by shuffling that he could keep them on his feet. he had scarce a quarter of a mile to go; but cold and hungry as the child was, it seemed a long way to him. he could not help wishing he were a baby like ella, and could lie in bed all day, with his dead father's coat thrown over him to keep him warm. it was early yet; and few people were stirring except the men, women, and children who were hurrying to enter the factory before the bell ceased to toll. johnny hurried, too, for he remembered the scolding he had received the day before for being five minutes too late, and was just crossing the railroad track when his toe hit against something, which he stooped to pick up. it was a silver dollar; but he did not know it. he had never seen one. he thought it was a temperance medal, like what he had seen strung around the boys' necks. his eyes shone with pleasure; he had often wished for a medal, and he determined that when he reached the factory he would thread a piece of yarn through the hole and wear it outside his jacket. the place where johnny worked was a stocking factory. his part was to wind the skeins of yarn upon the long spools, from which the men and large boys wove it into stockings. he had forgotten about his hunger now, and was tying a knot in the string he had put through the dollar, when a young woman came toward him. "what are you doing?" she asked. he held up the medal, saying, eagerly, "i found it." "it's a dollar, a silver dollar, johnny." "oh, goody!" cried the boy; "now i can have some new shoes. i thought it was a father matthew's medal; but i'd rather have a dollar. oh, i'm so glad!" the woman looked in his pale face, and couldn't help saying, as she did so,-- "are you hungry, child?" "not very." "what did you have for breakfast?" his lips quivered, but he knew by her kind face that she was a friend; and he told her the whole story of his mother's long sickness; and how they had grown poorer and poorer, until there was nothing now but what he earned. "i knew ella would be hungrier than i," he said, looking the woman full in the face with his clear blue eyes; "and so i didn't take the porridge." "wait a minute; you sha'n't go to work so," was all she said; and then she was off through the door, down the long steps in a hurry. he pulled his stool close to the small wheel, on which was a large skein of fine yarn, and began to turn it with his foot, when the woman came back, bringing a small basket. "here, johnny, eat this and this," giving him a buttered biscuit and a piece of cold meat; "and carry the rest home. there is enough for you, your mother, and ella, to have a good dinner." poor johnny was dumb with astonishment. he could scarcely realize that all this was for him; but as the woman waited to see him eat, he pulled the hard silver dollar from his pocket and held it out to her. "no! no!" she exclaimed; "give it to your mother. she'll know what to do with it, i dare say." that was a happy day for johnny; almost the happiest he had ever known. he had begun it by giving up his own comfort for that of his mother and sister, and by-and-by god sent him friends to care for him. chapter ii. kind friends. donald miles was the name of the superintendent of the stocking factory. he had just married a young wife, and brought her to live in one of the new houses near the mill. she was a christian woman, who tried to follow her master, and do good wherever she had opportunity. she took a class in the sabbath school, and told her husband she meant to have some scholars from the factory. two or three times she had noticed johnny running up the steps, and thought, "that boy is too small for such work." you can imagine, then, how she felt when she heard his simple story. in the evening johnny and his mother were eagerly talking over the various events and scenes of the day when mrs. miles opened the door and presented herself before them. "i feel sure," she had said to her husband, "that the child told me the truth. his eyes were too honest to deceive; but still i mean to go this very day and see for myself. why, they have nothing to eat and are on the very verge of starvation!" "i wish, johnny," mrs. talbot was saying, "that the dollar was ours; and then you should have a pair of shoes; but it is not, and we must contrive some way to find the owner." the room was very poor, but clean as hands could make it. on the floor in the corner was a straw bed, between the windows, a long chest, and near the fire three small wooden stools standing before an old rickety table. mrs. miles soon convinced the poor woman that she was a friend; and, before the visit was ended, she found that though one was very poor, and the other comparatively rich, there was one tie which bound them together,--they both loved christ, and looked forward to living with him forever in heaven. when she rose to go she said to johnny,-- "i'll take the dollar with me, and ask my husband what shall be done to find the owner, and i'll see about the work for you right away. why," she added, with a smile, "i can earn a dollar a day closing socks; and i never was called smart with my needle; so keep up good courage. better days are coming for us." "but i've tried a great many times to get work," answered the poor woman, shaking her head. "they always told me there was none." mrs. miles gave her head a little toss, as much as to say, "no one need tell me that story." then she laughed as she exclaimed,-- "well, if i can't get work for you, i'll bring you mine. you need it more than i do. now don't cry,--it will hurt your eyes; but say your prayers and go to bed. i'll be sure to come again soon." when she shut the door, mrs. talbot began to cry; but these were happy tears, which brought relief to her overburdened heart. then she said to johnny,-- "let us kneel down and thank god for sending us such a friend." "o mother!" exclaimed the boy, when they arose from prayer; "wasn't that bread and butter nice? i never tasted anything so good." "yes, dear; and when your father was alive we had bread and butter every day." the next morning, when the little boy went to his work, he looked all about for his kind friend; but he did not see her until he had been dismissed for dinner. he was passing along the sidewalk, when he heard a tap on the window of a house close by, and, looking up, he saw mrs. miles beckoning to him. she had a bundle rolled up in a towel, which she told him to give his mother, and tell her she would have company in the evening. and true enough, just as ella was safely in bed, there was a knock at the humble door, and mrs. miles walked in, followed by her husband. johnny had never seen this gentleman except in the factory; and then he looked very grave as he talked with the men or with merchants who came from the city. now it was very different. his young wife had told him a pitiful story about the widow; and he came prepared to help her. "so you were lucky to-day, johnny, and found a dollar," he began, taking the silver piece from his pocket. "i have made inquiries for you, and can find no one who claims it; so i think you may keep it with a good conscience." johnny's eager face expressed his thanks. "what would you like to buy with it?" "a pair of shoes, sir." "well, come on to the shoe-store." "yes," said the lady, with a smile; "and while you are gone, i'll give mrs. talbot a lesson in closing the seams of the stockings." chapter iii. the new boots. as they walked together toward the store, mr. miles became as much interested in his young companion as his wife could have wished. the child discovered so much intelligence, and had evidently been so well trained, that the superintendent fully agreed with mrs. miles, that it was a pity he should not have a chance to go to school. [illustration: mr. mills going with johnny to buy shoes series ii, vol. iii, p. .] when they reached the store, the gentleman said, laughing,-- "show us your best goods, now; we want a pair of stout brogans, such as you can warrant will turn water." "for him?" asked the merchant, nodding his head toward johnny. "yes, for him. you see he needs them badly enough." "boots would be better." "ah, yes." mr. miles's eyes began to twinkle. he had a happy thought; and so he put johnny's silver dollar, which he had been twirling by the string, into his vest pocket, and began to examine carefully one pair after another of the boots laid out for him on the counter. "this is a good pair," he said, at last. "what is the price?" "three dollars. i'll warrant those; they are custom made; but they were too small for the child whose mother ordered them. i should have charged her five if they'd suited." "yes, i see they're first-rate boots,--what, in the hose line, i should call 'a, number one.' now i'll tell you what i propose. this little fellow is the son of a widow, who, when my wife found her, had literally not one mouthful of food. just think of such destitution if you can!--a good christian, too; but the death of her husband and her own long sickness have exhausted everything. i propose to give half the price, and let you give the other." "oh, i can't afford that! why, i've taken off two dollars already." "look here, now," urged mr. miles; "i'm going to start a subscription for the benefit of the widow. it would make your heart ache to see how very destitute she is of everything. i want your name down, of course; i must have it. so here goes,--'allen manning, one dollar and a half.' there, you'll be glad whenever you think of having made a child happy and comfortable." "well, if you say so, i suppose i must." "thank you. now i want your wife to join with mine and just make the widow's hovel a little more tenantable. they'll work together finely, i know. mrs. miles says she is sure a little nourishing food will do more for the poor soul than a shop-full of medicine. you see, the poor creature thinks herself in a decline." mr. manning tied up the bundle and handed it to johnny; and then the two started off for home, the boy having looked the thanks his trembling lips refused to utter. "now, johnny," said mr. miles, "here's your medal; wear it around your neck as long as you are a truthful boy. when you tell your first lie, bring it to me." "i don't dare to tell lies, sir; mother says god hates liars; but 'those that speak the truth are his delight.'" "that's true doctrine; and here we are." mrs. miles opened the door when she heard her husband's voice, and said, in a pleasant tone, and manner,-- "she learned the stitch in half the time i did." the proud husband tapped her glowing cheek. i am sure he was thinking what a darling little wife he had. and when johnny eagerly related the story of the boots, i know she thought,-- "that is so like donald; he has such a noble heart." "and i have the medal,--i mean the dollar, too, mother. i'm to keep it till i tell a lie." "which i hope will never happen, dear. but did you thank our good, generous friends? i have no words to express my gratitude." "never mind for words, mrs. talbot. good-night." chapter iv. a sad story. it was, indeed, time that help should come to the poor widow, for a cough had fastened itself on her lungs, which would soon have ended her life. the room was damp and chilly, and her clothing quite too scant for winter. mrs. miles would not wait till she had earned money to buy wood and clothing and food. "they would all freeze and starve," she told the people where she went begging. "i want to get something to save their lives; and then, when she is comfortable, the woman can earn enough to support her family." in two weeks you would never have known the room; the glass was mended, and now the sun shone in. there was a pretty, old-fashioned bedstead, four nicely painted chairs, a table with leaves, a tiny mirror, a patch spread, and the cunningest little cooking-stove, which kept the room beautifully warm. at least, johnny thought so when he came dancing home from his work. besides all this, mrs. miles had procured from an old lady some healing syrup, which had nearly cured the troublesome cough; and mrs. talbot could sew now very well, without that terrible pain in her side. she told her dear friend one day, that if she could only forget her past trouble, she should be quite happy,--happier than she had ever expected to be again. "you must tell me about your troubles," mrs. miles said. and one afternoon, when johnny was at work in the factory, and ella was taking her nap, mrs. talbot began,-- "i was married when i was only seventeen, and went with my husband to the western part of new york state. he was a carpenter, and could get good wages, which supported us in great comfort. johnny was almost seven years old when dexter, that is, my husband, told me he wanted to bring home one of his workmen to live with us. the man had no home, and, as he did not think it right to spend his evenings in a tavern, he was very lonely. his name was robert hardy, and he gave very little trouble. he grew to be fond of johnny, and spent many leisure hours in amusing him and making him playthings. "but one day he came home sick; and for two weeks he never left his bed. dexter and i took all the care of him. when he grew better, he went away to his mother. he sat by the fire thinking. i expected he would thank us; but he did not. he held dexter's hand like a vise; and he tried to say good-by to me; but his voice failed. i have never seen him since. i feel sure he was grateful. the doctor had told him our care saved his life. "the very night he left, dexter grew delirious; he had stayed at home with a cold for a week. the doctor came again, and said he had taken the fever. "oh, those were dreadful days! he grew worse and worse, and i--it breaks my heart when i think that i had nursed a stranger, and couldn't nurse my own husband--i was lying on a bed in the same room; and my little ella lay beside me. every moan of dexter's went through my heart; and when he died, all hope and joy died with him. i cared for nothing. i remember but little of those long, weary months which followed. i should have died but for the kindness of my neighbors. "the rector visited me; but i scarcely understood what he said. when dexter died, there were three hundred dollars laid by in the bank. fifty of it went for his funeral expenses and my mourning; and the rest went little by little, till i had not a shilling left. then johnny was taken sick. i hoped he would die; i hoped we all should die; but i began to think that i was not prepared to follow my husband to heaven. he loved his saviour, and i did not. "i tried to pray. the rector's wife prayed with me, and led me to jesus. i learned to trust in him; but i was wholly inexperienced, and knew not how to earn a living for myself and my little ones. i thought if i could only get home to my parents that i should be happy; but i had nothing left to pay my expenses. "one by one my pieces of furniture were sold, and i was dependent on charity for my daily food. at last they raised the money to pay my fare, and, with all i had in the world packed in dexter's chest, i left the place where i had experienced the greatest joy and the greatest sorrow i had ever known. "when i reached home i found my father helpless from a paralytic stroke, and mother worn out with care of him. one of my friends owned this old house, and offered me the use of it. he said, as it was near the factory, we could get work. i might have done something, but i took cold and was unable to sit up. afterward, when i inquired again and again at the factory, i was told that they had already more applicants than they could supply. "at last johnny got a place there; but his wages were small, and--and--unless you had found us, i think we should really have starved." chapter v. going to school. spring came at last; and then what delight ella felt in being allowed to run out of doors, and play on the new, fresh grass with the pussy mrs. miles had given her! johnny was still in the factory; and mrs. talbot worked away at the hose, making a very comfortable living. she could smile now at ella's cunning ways, and laugh with johnny at the news he brought from the mill, after his day's work was done. he was in mrs. miles's class in sabbath school,--her best scholar, she said. he had won a prize already for obtaining two new scholars; and what do you think it was? why, a new bible with clasps; and very proud he was of it, too. every sabbath he learned his verses in it,--putting in the red ribbon-mark with great care. in the evening, johnny read to his mother while she sewed, and now he was learning to write. mrs. talbot made a copy on the slate, and he wrote underneath, trying to make every line better than the last. one day he came running home from his work, his face looking very bright and happy. "mother! mother!" he called out; "i'm going to school! i'm not going to work any more,--i mean not all day. mrs. miles has settled it! and o mother! i'm to go there this evening for a big bundle of clothes. she's made me a jacket out of a coat of her husband's, and that was what she wanted my other jacket for. oh! oh! i'm so glad!" "that is news!" exclaimed mrs. talbot. "i'm to be advanced," he added; "she says so, and paid by the hour; and i shall earn just as much working between schools as i do now. o mother! isn't mrs. miles splendid?" in the evening, johnny went for the bundle; and the lady accompanied him home to see how the new clothes fitted. "it's my first trial," she said, laughing; "and i'm very proud to think that i've succeeded so well." johnny turned round and round, as directed, to show first the back, then the shoulders and front. "i find i have a natural gift at tailoring," cried mrs. miles. "i shall throw up making hose, and devote myself to my new calling. just see that sleeve, now! it looks as well as if it were bought from a fashionable store." "i don't know how to thank you," murmured the widow, laughing through her tears. "i should have tried to cut them over, of course; but i'm afraid i should have made a bungling piece of work of it." "well, then, if you confess so much, i will tell you that i have a right to be proud; for the times that jacket has been ripped and sewed, and ripped and basted and pressed, are beyond calculation. i made a study of mr. miles's wedding-coat, at last, particularly the sleeves, and then i found out what my trouble was. but the victory was worth all the pains; so i don't count the four days i spent on it lost time." "i mean to be very careful of my new clothes," said johnny, who had been listening in open-mouthed wonder. they both laughed at his grave tone; and then mr. miles came for his wife; and they talked about the sabbath school. "i want you, mrs. talbot, to do my wife a favor," said the gentleman, trying to look serious. "she is desirous of having an infant class in the sabbath school, and wants you for the teacher. ella, she says, is old enough to go with you." "me!" exclaimed the widow, in great astonishment. "me! why, i am not competent to teach any one." "neither am i," urged mrs. miles; "but i do love my saviour; and i want the boys and girls around me to love him; so i try to tell them what a good being he is, and what he has done for us. can't you do that?" with a deepened color the widow answered,-- "at least, i will try." "i knew you would; and if you will only tell them the 'sweet story of old,' as i heard you telling it to johnny one of the first visits i made you, and while i was waiting in the entry for you to answer my knock, it is all i will ask. ever since that time i have only been waiting for summer so that the little ones, ella among the rest, can go out." [illustration: johnny with a new scholar for the sabbath-school. series ii, vol. iii, p. .] "she tells me beautiful stories about daniel in the lion's den," exclaimed johnny; "and about joseph in prison. i can read them, too, in my new bible." "there is a small vestry which seems made on purpose for your school," suggested mr. miles. "where we hope to see you next sabbath," added the lady. "i will do the best i can," was the humble reply; "and i am sure i shall love the work." chapter vi. johnny a favorite. i wish you could have seen johnny the first morning he started for school. his face was as clean as soap and water could make it; his hair was nicely parted on his broad forehead; his eyes shone like stars; and his mouth was wreathed with smiles. he wore the new suit mrs. miles had given him, and a clean linen collar around his neck. in one hand he carried a little pail full of dinner; and under his other arm, his spelling-book, reader, and slate. he was to call at mrs. miles's for a pencil; and so, after bidding his mother good-by and hearing her call after him, "be a good lad, johnny, and don't let any idle boys turn you from your book," he hurried away to be in season to choose a seat. this was the first day of the term, and the earliest scholars had the best chance. mrs. miles met him at the door with the long slate-pencil nicely sharpened in her hand; and, having looked at him from head to foot, she said, approvingly,-- "you are just right, johnny, and i'm proud of you." then she kissed his glowing cheek, and he ran down the steps. i suppose you would like to know where the silver dollar was all this time. why, round johnny's neck, to be sure! you know he was to wear it till he told a lie; and, as he had never departed from the truth, it was still there, fastened to a nice ribbon that his mother had bought for it. at school, johnny liked his teacher and the boys; and they liked johnny. in school he was as grave as a judge, studying his lessons with all his might; but at recess there was not a merrier boy among the whole set. playing ball or catcher were new games to him, who had always been obliged to work so hard, and he enjoyed every moment of the time given to them. then he was always fair at his plays, and ready to oblige his companions. by-and-by it used to be said,-- "don't cheat, now! be fair, like johnny talbot." this pleased johnny's friends more than all the rest. to be sure they liked to have him a good scholar,--to have him popular among his school-mates; but it was best of all to know that he tried to do what god would approve. at home he was just the same boy that he was when i first began to tell you about him, and was as ready to give up his pleasure to his mother and ella as he had been to give up his scant breakfast of indian porridge, when he knew there was not enough for all. as you may imagine, johnny was a very busy child. he rose almost as soon as he could see, and reached the farm where his mother and mrs. miles bought their milk, before the farmer was ready for him. then he was back with his two pails, and off for the factory for a couple of hours. he was very happy here, for all the men and women smiled upon him, so he whistled away at his work, though the noise of the machinery prevented any one but himself hearing his music. when the town-clock struck eight he was off for home, where he had only just time to eat his breakfast, wash and dress for school, before it was the hour to start. after school, he changed his clothes again, and had three more hours for work before dark. so the summer passed happily away. sometimes, indeed, when the boys were starting off for nuts; or when he heard them on the common, flying their kites, he used to wish, just for one moment, that he were rich, so that he could have time to go with them; but he did not cherish such thoughts. he knew that god had been very kind to him, and that his heavenly father had ordered all things for his best good. his mother had explained to him that it was for joseph's future advancement that god allowed him to be put into prison, and that this great and good being is always watchful over those who love and trust him. at home, though johnny had little leisure, yet he contrived to please ella so much that she longed for his presence, and would run forth to meet him, her apron full of grass and flowers, which she had gathered for dear johnny. chapter vii. johnny's trust. by the industry of johnny, and the wages of his kind mother, the family at the cottage had passed a very comfortable summer; but now work was scarce, and the widow looked forward with some dread to the cold weather. she well knew that more than one third of the women who worked for the factory had received no hose for several weeks; and that it was only through her friend's exertions that mr. miles sent it regularly to her. then, although her earnings had provided them with abundance of good plain food, yet this sum, even if continued, would not supply fuel and warm clothes. nor was there anything to pay for mending the roof, where the rain dripped in during every shower. it was on a dreary november evening that mrs. talbot talked with her son while ella, untroubled by anxiety or care, lay soundly sleeping in the bed at the farther corner of the room. with a sigh, the widow told her boy she feared trouble was before them. "everything seems dark," she went on; "i can't see where help to carry us through the winter is coming from. we can't live in this house much longer unless it has new shingles on the roof; and i know that is a very costly job. then we all need warm clothes. i'm afraid, johnny, you'll have to leave school and work harder than you have ever worked before;" and she sighed again. johnny's chin trembled. "i can't work in the mill, mother," he began, trying to keep back a sob. "one of the men told me to-day there were no orders from the merchants, and they would have to stop." the widow covered her pale face with her hands. "we shall starve, then," she cried out, in a voice of agony. "oh, if your father were only alive!" she leaned on the table and wept bitterly. "mother," faltered johnny, drawing his coat-sleeve across his eyes; "mother, you told me our heavenly father loves us better than any earthly father. won't he help us if we pray to him? don't cry so, mother; i think he knows about it, and perhaps he'll take care of us, as he did when we were starving before." "johnny! johnny! i've been wicked. i've been doubting him all day. yes, my child, he is good, merciful, and true to his promises, even to poor, weak creatures like me. we will pray, and we will trust. i feel happier already. i have been carrying my burden of care when he says we may cast it on him. come, johnny, we will pray." they kneeled together by the firelight; and the woman, with a full heart, thanked her heavenly father for her precious boy,--that his faith had not wavered when she so wickedly doubted his power or his willingness to help them. she thanked him again for his former care of them, and she urged his gracious promise, "i will be the widow's god, and a father to the fatherless." she arose and took her seat with almost a smile. "all my anxiety has gone," she said, in a cheerful tone; "i know my heavenly father is able and willing to help us. johnny, my precious boy, how could i murmur when you and ella are spared?" "i prayed in my heart all the way home," faltered the boy; "i didn't know what we should do; but i kept saying to myself,-- "'god knows all about it,--just as he did about joseph in prison.'" his mother drew him to her side, and kissed his forehead. "now you must go to bed," she said. "though we trust god for the future, we must do all we can to help ourselves. i have work for another week; and you must be off early to yours. when this fails, i feel sure that we shall be provided for somehow." johnny lay quiet on his couch, and his mother thought him asleep. she read chapter after chapter of god's holy word, comforting herself in his gracious promises, when she was startled by hearing her boy say,-- "mother, there's my silver dollar, you know. that will buy a good deal." "yes, dear." her voice trembled. she knew how much he prized that dollar, and how often mr. miles had asked to see it, "to be sure," he said, "that it was not lost or forfeited." she resolved that not until everything else had been sacrificed should that dollar be parted with. two days later johnny ran home with the joyful announcement,-- "mrs. miles has come home! i've seen her. she beckoned me to go in, and, o mother! what do you think she showed me? the cunningest little baby i ever saw. she wants you to come right over, and she----" mrs. talbot interrupted him by saying,-- "that is good news! i'll go at once, and take ella, so that i can stay and help her. rake up the fire as quickly as you can, and put on ella's hood." "i felt a little troubled for you," exclaimed the lady, when, after a cordial embrace, she had heard a confession of the widow's fears; "but i am sure all will come out right and bright. that dear johnny! i hope my boy will be just like him;" and here she gave the baby a good squeeze. "if the mill is shut, as i suppose it must be, we shall go to my father's for the winter. it will be a trial to all of us; but we will trust it is for the best. my husband told me that he should know certainly at the end of another week. if no orders come in before that time, they can't keep on." mrs. talbot took the baby and began to caress it to hide her troubled face; but presently said, with a smile,-- "how thankful we ought to be that there is one who orders all events in our lives, and that this being is he who calls himself our father." chapter viii. johnny's new father. the cold weather came on early this year. as he ran shivering home from school, johnny saw, at almost every house, the preparations for winter. here was a pile of wood, and there a large heap of coal, suggestive of warmth and comfort. two days more and the important question about the factory would be decided. if mrs. miles went away, it would be very desolate. god only knew how they should be able to get along. he thought of all this one night as he was returning from the factory, and to comfort himself began humming his favorite tune,-- "i have a father in the promised land." as he came in sight of the cottage, he wondered at the bright light which reflected from the windows; but he wondered still more at the scene presented within. their one table was set in the middle of the floor, and spread with such abundance as he had never seen there. his mother was hurrying to and fro, and intent on the cakes she was frying, while at the same time she talked with a well-dressed man who sat near the fire holding ella in his lap. "i haven't forgotten your favorite dish," she said, with an arch smile. "you liked rye fritters best, while dexter preferred buckwheats." "ah, there is johnny!" exclaimed the stranger, holding out his hand. "don't you remember me?" it was, indeed, an old friend,--the man who had been watched and nursed by mrs. talbot and her husband, and from whom she had never since heard. he had spent a week in searching for her, he said; and now he meant to take care of her and the children. after supper, he rocked ella to sleep, and then begged to hold her awhile; for, he said, "i have something to tell you." "you know i had not fully recovered when i went away," he began. "i tried to thank you, but i couldn't; my heart was too full. i heard of dexter's death, and felt that i had lost a brother. the next thing i did was to make a resolution to be a brother to you and yours. i worked hard and saved every penny. not that i thought money could pay you for your care of me; but i felt that you might need help. "there," he added, holding out a package, "is the first i earned. i laid it aside for you." the widow's face flushed as she saw written on a corner of the wrapper, "two hundred dollars." "i found a good place and succeeded well. every day i repeated the prayer johnny taught me on my sick-bed, and god answered it. i saw my need of a saviour, and gladly accepted the one offered me in the bible. i wrote again and again to you, sending my letters to our old place; but i had no reply. at last i grew too anxious to wait longer, and, settling my business, i set out to find you. i wish i had started a year ago." "god's time is the best time," murmured the widow, her eyes full of tears. then mr. hardy bade johnny bring the bible, and they had reading and prayers together. early as the widow rose the next morning, their guest was up before her, and on the roof examining the building. in the course of the day the leak was stopped, the broken steps mended, and a new lock put on the door. toward night he went out, but soon returned with a wagon containing a barrel of flour, two casks of potatoes, beside sundry small parcels. an hour later the wagon came again with a neat bedstead, mattress, and two stout blankets, and a whole web of cotton cloth for sheets. mrs. talbot clasped her hands on her breast, saying to herself, "the lord has, indeed, appeared for me." when she tried, with a broken voice; to thank mr. hardy, he only smiled as he said,-- "wait a little. you'll find i'm selfish after all." they had a long talk that evening, after the children were asleep, which accounted perhaps for the pretty pink in the widow's cheek, when johnny saw her the next morning. "come here, my boy," said mr. hardy, drawing a stool to his side; "i loved your father. he was one of the best men i ever knew. but as he is gone, your mother last night consented that i should be a father to you and ella. will you be my true and loving son?" he opened his arms, and johnny was clasped to his breast. "i will try to be a good son," he whispered. as mr. hardy urged there was no use in delay, the next sabbath morning they went to the rector's house and were married, mr. miles giving the bride away. when mr. hardy examined the cottage, he did it with the resolution to repair it, if it proved worth the expense. but he found many of the timbers rotten, and the sills sunken into the ground. he thought it better, therefore, to put up a new house, for which he had abundant means. he hired an old barn, and fitted it up for a shop, and then, when not otherwise engaged, labored diligently at getting out the frame, doors, and windows for his new building. chapter ix. the new house. the factory was closed, but only for a few weeks. just as mr. miles was making preparation to leave, orders came in, which obliged him to employ all their old hands. johnny did not leave school, but worked two hours in the morning, as before. he did not work at night, because his new father insisted that every boy must have some time to play; and then, when mr. hardy began to have more work than he could do, johnny must get kindlings for his mother, or run of errands for her. in the spring the new house was finished; a plain, neat building, with a pretty portico over the front door. johnny and his mother often talked about their old trials, and always remembered with pleasure that in the hour of their sorest need, they did not forget to trust in the great and good god. would you like to know what kind of a house it was to be? i will try to describe it as mr. hardy did to johnny and his mother one evening, with ella sitting on his knee. "there," he said, drawing a plan on johnny's slate, "is the front door, which leads into the entry. out of this on one side is a room, which we will call the sunday-room; because i shall, by and by, have an organ in there, and we will sing psalm tunes on sunday." johnny gave a scream of delight, and ella asked, "may i sing, too?" "certainly, my dear. now here on the other side is the room where we shall live and take our meals. behind the front entry is a large closet, into which i mean to put lockers and drawers, so that your mother can keep her dishes nicely arranged, as they used to be in her old home. i remember," he added, with a smiling glance at his wife, "how cosily the room used to look when dexter and i came home from our work, and how i thought i should be the happiest man living if i had somebody to care for me as you did for dexter. "besides, there will be a kitchen and a shed beyond, where you will have a chance to cut and pile wood. ella must have some work, too, and so here goes the chicken-house, where she will have to feed the biddies, and find the nice white eggs. upstairs, johnny, there will be four chambers, beside a tiny room over the front entry." "mother is crying!" exclaimed ella, springing to the floor. "it seems like a dream, a happy dream," said mrs. hardy, softly. "only a few weeks ago, and we were so destitute, and knew not where to turn for help!" "but we prayed to god, mother, and he heard us. i guess that's why he sent mr. hardy here, don't you?" * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious punctuation errors repaired. available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/housewithsixtycl chil [illustration: the house with sixty closets by frank samuel child with illustrations by j. randolph brown] [illustration: the children take possession of the house. page .] the house with sixty closets a christmas story for young folks and old children by frank samuel child author of "an old new england town" "the colonial parson of new england" "a colonial witch" "a puritan wooing" etc. with illustrations by j. randolph brown boston lee and shepard publishers copyright, , by lee and shepard all rights reserved the house with sixty closets to frank and bess and arthur and theodora and grace and ruth and amy and the "little judge" and all their merry friends all about it a page house, people, things b the house that the judge built c the people who live in the house that the judge built d the things that happened to the people who live in the house that the judge built i portraits walk and talk ii closets talk and walk iii the procession of goat, dog, cat, bicycles, portraits, closets, ruth, and the "little judge" iv the party with supper for seventeen, and toasts with a toasting-fork v stockings filled with music, rainbows, sense, backbone, sunsets, impulses, gold spoon, ideals, sunshine, star, mantle, flowers,--and the like queer stuff e happy day list of illustrations. page the children taking possession of the house _frontispiece._ initial o mrs. "judge" planning the closets mrs. "judge's" living-room candlestick and bible initial i nailing flag to chimney the children taking a ride initial i ruth sees figures in the fire stepping out of the frames susie and little judge entering the clock initial t playing tag champaign complaining the closets talk and walk the judge sitting on the cog-wheel initial i billy eating funeral cloth and wreath the procession starts billy, satan, and turk taking a ride mrs. "judge" and man in moon returning from the church initial w the walk around there was the greatest confusion initial r ruth and satan the room was a blaze of glory the room studded with twinkling, radiant stars a house, people, things _i will first describe the house._ _then i will tell something about the people that live in it._ _after that i will speak of the very strange things which happened there the night before christmas._ b the house that the judge built b. the house that the judge built. once upon a time there lived a good judge in an old new england town. people said the reason that he was so good was because his father was a minister. but he may have gotten his goodness from his mother. i don't know. or he may have had it from his uncle who took him into his family and sent him to college. for the minister was poor, and like many of his brethren he had a big family; so his brother who was a rich lawyer and a statesman helped his nephew get his education. now, this son of a minister and nephew of a great man studied law and became a judge. he was liked by every one who knew him. people felt that he was an honest, noble man who had mastered all the law books, and showed more common sense than any other person in the state. so they made him judge. this man who started poor and had to make his own way in the world earned a great deal of money. people came to him from all parts of the country, and sought his advice. they put into his hands the most important law cases. only sometimes he would not have anything to do with the cases that he was asked to manage because he thought them wrong. as years went by he saved his money, and the time came when he was ready to build a house. the judge had become the most honored and the best known man in the state. he had many friends among the great people of the land. he enjoyed company, and was a famous host. so it seemed well to him and his wife that they build a house which should be large enough to hold their friends, and fine enough to satisfy the taste of the society in which they moved. the judge was not moved by pride or a wish to make a show. he wished to do the right thing. everybody said that he ought to have the largest and the finest house in town. he was not only a lawyer and rich, but he was deacon in the church and the leading man in society. he was likewise a great scholar; and many people said that he was the most eloquent speaker of his state. such a person must live in a generous way. so the judge built this house. now, when it came to drawing plans the wife had a good deal to say about it; for the house was to be her home just as much as his; and he always tried to do what he knew was for the pleasure of his wife. "i think," said she when they began to talk about building, "that it should have a great many closets." had you been a friend of mrs. "judge" you would have seen why she said this. she was not only a woman who liked to have all her friends come to visit her, but she was also very liberal and kind. she was always doing some nice thing for people, and always giving presents. she was able to do this because she had the things to give away. i know men and women who would make a great many presents if they had the money to buy them--at least they say that they would. such people like to tell how they would act if they had all the money that some neighbor has saved. they are great on giving away things that do not belong to them. now, the judge's wife was the best giver in town; and she gave to her friends, and the poor, and everybody that was in need, all sorts of things. but in order to do this she must buy the gifts that she scattered so freely; and when she bought things she wanted a place to keep them until the time came for her to give them away. this was why she spoke to the judge about the closets. [illustration] "well, my dear," said the judge (he was always kind and polite), "you may have just as many closets as you wish." so she began her plans of the house by drawing the closets. i don't know exactly how she managed to arrange it on paper. very likely she said to herself, "i shall want thirty closets." and then she would divide the number into four parts and say, "let me see, i suppose that four will be enough for the cellar. then i shall need ten on the first floor, and twelve on the second floor, and six in the attic. that makes--why, that makes thirty-two. dear me! i wonder if that will be enough?" and as she thinks over the various uses to which she will put her closets, and the many things she will store in them, she says, on the next day, "well, i believe that i must have five or six more closets." so she starts her drawing by marking down thirty-eight closets. after she has settled it that the main floor shall have thirteen of them, she puts upon the paper some dots showing the size of each little room; then she draws the other rooms about them, and so she gets one story arranged. but no sooner does she begin the plans for the next floor, than she thinks of one or two more closets which she needs for the first, and so goes back to her work of yesterday, and does it all over again, making several changes. and so very likely the weeks are spent in making paper closets, and drawing the halls and parlors and bedrooms and other rooms about them, until she puts her plans by the side of the judge's plans; then they get an architect; and then she asks for four more closets, which makes forty-four. after a time the men begin to build; and she sends for the builder, and tells him of course that she finds she will certainly need five more closets,--one in the cellar, two on the first story, and three on the second. he is a pleasant man; and the changes are made. but ere the house is half built other needs appear, and mrs. "judge" insists upon three new closets, which make fifty-two. and without doubt on the very week that the carpenters leave the handsome mansion, she asks them for several changes and three closets more. and will you believe it, they move into the new house, get nicely settled, and everything running in good order, when the generous housewife finds that the carpenter must come, for she still wishes five new closets, which added to the others make sixty. and so you have the house with sixty closets. it seems to me that i have made it clear how there came to be so many of these curious rooms and spaces in the judge's house. at least you know all that i know about it; and i do not believe that ever another house was built in such a way. but i must tell you how the house was divided. a plan of each story will be the best means of fixing this in the mind; and then you can turn back to it whenever you lose your way in the house, and wish to get what are called "your bearings." we must begin at the bottom and work toward the top. the cellar was really three cellars,--a big one, a fair-sized one, and the wine cellar. there was a small closet in this deep, dark place where they kept certain kinds of liquor. the main cellar was divided lengthwise through the middle, and there were two closets for provisions on each side. the main floor had twenty-seven closets. for my own part, i think that woman is a remarkable person who can invent and arrange such a number of little nooks and rooms. but if this is a mark of genius, what shall we say when it comes to keeping track of all the closets and their contents? why, i should be obliged to carry a plan of the whole house with me, and every few minutes i should pull it out and study it. the judge's wife was a most wonderful woman. she built her closets, and then she filled them, and then she remembered all about them and their contents. here is the plan of the first floor. a hall through the middle. on the left as you enter is the library. there was one closet connected with this room, and a door opened into it from the northeast corner. back of the library was the dining-room. it had three closets connected with it; doors leading to them from three corners of the room. to the left of the dining-room you passed into a side entry. three doors opened into three large closets. the kitchen adjoined the dining-room. there was one closet in it, and two closets out of it to the right, and these two latter had one closet and two closets respectively. [illustration] on the right of the hall was the parlor. it had one closet. a large window reaching to the floor gave entrance to this room near the northeast corner. back of the parlor was a long, dark closet which made a passage-way from the hall to the schoolroom. back of this closet was a first-floor chamber with three closets. the third of these closets opened into the chamber from the north. it was formerly mrs. "judge's" store-room. another large closet was connected with it, and these two large closets contained two small closets. to the east of this chamber was the schoolroom (formerly the judge's library). this room had two closets in it, and two closets out of it. the room to the north of the schoolroom was the annex to the judge's library, and it held his books bequeathed to the minister. it also held two closets. and now my first story is ended. the short hall on the second floor opens at the rear into a long, narrow hall. there are five chambers in this part of the house. the front room on the right as you look toward the street is the "study," and it has two closets, one on each side of the big chimney. the two chambers back and to the left as you face the chimney are without a single closet; but the lack is made up when you pass to the other side of the house. the front chamber has two closets, one on each side of the chimney. as you pass into the one on the right (you face the chimney, remember) a door opens to the right and leads you into another large closet with a window in it. going across this closet to the right another door opens into a big, dark closet; turning to the street and stepping back three paces you open a door into another closet; passing into this one (there is a small window in it) you open a door into the linen closet. withdrawing from this series of small rooms, you get into the betsey-bartram room, and there you find on the south side two doors leading into two large closets. north of this room is another bedroom. one closet lies in the southeast corner, and one opens to you from the west side of the room. the thirteenth closet on this floor is at the end of the back hall, and the fourteenth is by the side of the chimney in the room above the down-stairs chamber. the attic was one big room with five closets scattered around the chimneys. they hung hams in the larger one. it was a fine place to smoke meat. there was always a greasy, smothered flavor to the air in that place. now, if you have kept track of the closets you will see that we number only fifty-one. there had been three neat, retired little closets under the stairs in the first-floor hall. when the hall was enlarged these poor things were taken out. it was on this occasion that samuel said: "see how rich we are; for we have closets to burn." and still there are six closets missing. well, the closet with the skeleton in it is a mystery, and i do not like to speak of it. three closets were found one day carefully tucked away in a corner of the attic. the other two missing ones have simply grown up and become big rooms with windows in them. they put on a good deal of style, and look down upon the other closets. what a lovely time the judge's wife had in furnishing her new home. i have been reading the bills, yellow-stained and time-worn. she had a taste for handsome things. as the house was a colonial building, the grandest in that part of the country, she tried to get furniture that matched. there were mahogany chairs and tables, sofas and bedsteads, cabinets and stands. she paid $ in gold for her gilt-framed looking-glass, which stood between the front windows in the parlor, and $ for her grecian sofa with cushions. there were twelve fancy-chairs and two arm-chairs. her rocker cost $ . then she had another little work-table, for which they paid $ . . her parlor carpet was made in england. the judge had it made to order; so you may believe it was uncommonly fine. the curtains were yellow damask, lined with chintz. during the summer these curtains were stored away on long shelves in one of the closets, and lace curtains hung in their places. every large room in the house had a fireplace, and the supply of andirons was enormous. some of them cost $ and $ . then there were venetian blinds in the parlor; and on the centre table stood an astral bronzed lamp worth $ , and on the mantle, high silver candlesticks. a plated pair cost them $ , and the snuffers and tray $ more. there were the best brussels carpets, the most fashionable china and silver, the richest linen for the table,--a vast amount of things needed to make a house pleasant and comfortable. [illustration] c. the people who live in the house that the judge built. c. the people who live in the house that the judge built. it was on this wise that the present family came to live in the parsonage. the church had been without a pastor for several months, and the people were tired of hearing tom, dick, and harry in the pulpit. but what was to be done? they had found no man that suited them. one minister was too young, and another too old. the first candidate had a very long neck, a sort of crane neck, and it made some of the ladies nervous. the last candidate was fat, and everybody said he must be lazy. several were so anxious to come that the congregation turned against them. there was always some reason why each man was not liked. so it began to look as if they might never get another minister. the society finally asked the ladies their views upon the subject. it was one afternoon when the dorcas daughters were sewing for the poor. the president of the little band had been reading a missionary letter. "well," she said, "i have heard so much about filling the pulpit that i am sick of it. i think it's about time that we filled the parsonage. just see what kind of ministers we have had for the last thirty years. two bachelors, and one married man without a chick or a child. i say that it's time for us to call a man to fill the parsonage." "why, that's what i think!" remarked one of the mothers present. "it is a shame to have that great house given over to the rats and mice. and i know that not a minister has been in it for all these years that used more'n half or two-thirds of the room. but, dear me, it would take a pretty big family to fill the parsonage! let me see; there are twenty-seven rooms and sixty closets, aren't there?" "so they say," replied the president. "i never counted them. but that would just suit some folks." "where is that letter that you read us at the last meeting?" inquired one of the sisters. "how many children did that man say he had? i remember that we never sent another box like it to a home missionary in all the history of this church." "i've got the letter right here in my hand," said the president, "and i've had that man in mind for a week. he's got fifteen children,--eight of his own, and seven of his deceased sister. i shouldn't wonder if he was the very one we want." one of the younger women nodded. she was thinking of playmates for her boys and girls. "and then if they overflowed the house," continued the president, "there is the little building in the yard. they might start a cottage system. you know that is the way they do in schools these days. divide up the young folks, and set them in small companies. the minister might do it; and if the family expanded we might build two or three extra cottages." "now, mrs. president," said one of the ladies, "i fear you are making fun. but i think that letter from the missionary with fifteen children in the family was the best we ever had. a man that could write such a letter must be very much of a man." "he is," replied the president. "i have looked him up in the year book, and i have written to the secretary of the missionary society. he's a very good man. nobody has done better work in that frontier country." so the ladies said that they would ask the church to call this parson with the big family. when the meeting was held and everybody was talking, one gentleman arose, and told the people that the ladies had a candidate. his name being proposed, the president of the dorcas society explained how she felt, that they ought to have a man to fill the parsonage, and this man whom they named was the one to do it; therefore the meeting voted unanimously to call him. "i think we had better charter a train to bring them from the west," said one of the deacons. but it was finally decided to engage a car; so everything was arranged, and in four weeks they came. when the train stopped at the station, the church committee was on hand with three carryalls. it reminded one of an orphanage, or a company of fresh-air children. but a hearty welcome was given; they were hurried into the carriages, and soon the whole family was in the parsonage. a nice dinner had been prepared by the ladies of the parish. after the travellers had washed and made some slight changes, they all sat down to the feast. it was a happy thing that the church and the judge furnished the parsonage. this poor, large-hearted missionary brought nothing with him but books and children; his library was really a very fine one, and it had filled the small house in the west. his own family of children had been increased by the seven orphans left when his sister and her husband died. there was nothing for him to do but adopt them; so they had been packed into the little home until one was reminded of a box of sardines. but this sort of kindness was like the good man. he was ready to share the last crust with any one who needed it. "why, what a big house it is!" exclaimed grace. "just see; i guess we could put the whole of our western house right here in the parlor." and i think they could if they had only brought it along with them. when dinner was over the children scattered all through the mansion and the grounds. what a delightful sense of freedom and importance they had. could it be possible that all these things belonged to them? were the ten acres of lawn, garden, orchard, field, and pasture really for their use and pleasure? as parents and children wandered through the big rooms, and peered into the sixty closets, and looked out of the numerous windows, it seemed to them like a dream. and yet the dreamy sensation soon passed; for the parson and his wife, happening to look out of a front window, were struck with the expression of alarm, amusement, or interest shown by several people going along the street. it was caused by the way in which the family was showing its presence and possession. there were three children on the front piazza standing in a row gazing at the sea; four of the younger ones were climbing in and out of the windows on the second floor, running along the tin roof of the piazza; two boys had already climbed a tree looking for birds' nests; three children had hurried through the attic to the roof, and leaned against the big chimneys that towered over the house. with curious interest they were taking a general survey of the town and country, quite unconscious that their rashness attracted any attention. the other youngsters were having a frolic in the yard, walking along the top of the picket-fence, jumping from one gate-post to another, shouting with healthful lungs, and making the very welkin ring. had a pack of wild indians swooped down upon the house, they could not have made themselves more evident, or excited any greater concern in town. it was clear that the minister who was called to fill the parsonage answered the purpose. he filled it; and the contents were overflowing from doors and windows on to piazzas and roofs, or into yard and trees and street. what a waking up for the rats and mice it was! the mere racket and clatter were enough to drive them out of their holes. but what a shaking up for the old town! the house stood on the main street. it was an object of historic veneration. everybody knew all about it, and had a sort of watch-care over it. anything that went on in that house belonged to the whole neighborhood. so that it was not long before all the people were talking about the new arrivals. men, women, and children felt an impulse to walk or ride by the parsonage on that eventful day. and it was a startling sight; for the minister's family seemed to think that the house really belonged to them, and they were to enjoy it just the way they pleased. this running all through the many rooms, and popping out of the many windows upon the piazza, and climbing up to the roof, and playing tag in the yard, and hunting for birds' nests, and walking on the tops of the pickets along the fence, was their way of enjoying the place. [illustration] "let's nail the flag to the chimney," shouted harry, the third boy. they had carried the flag in hand all through their journey from the west. "yes," shouted the other boys, who were wildly patriotic. "come on! come on!" so they all came on except the youngest; and she finally came in the arms of her father, who followed the mother, who followed the children, to see what was doing in the attic or on the roof. and just at this time the most important man in the church and town drove by with his family. do you wonder that this important man and his family gazed with surprise and alarm at the sight? there on the roof of the house was the whole family. henry was nailing the flag to the tallest chimney. but when the children saw this kind man pass along the street (he was one of the committee that met them at the station, and it was his horses that had carried them to the parsonage), they waved their hands, and shook their handkerchiefs, and shouted "hurrah! hurrah!" with such spirit that the gentleman must needs take off his hat, smile and bow, and turn to his family with some pleasing remark. there was no doubt in his mind or in the mind of the passer-by that the town was captured. the west had made a sudden onset; and the standard of victory now floated from the chimney of the judge's mansion. the only thing for the natives to do was to submit and make the best of the situation. as i said, the good people of the parish furnished the parsonage. the carpets were down, and the chairs, tables, sofas, bedsteads, stands, book-cases, and other things, were put in their places. all the minister's wife had to do was to unpack her trunks, and divide up their contents among the closets. all the minister had to do was to unpack his boxes, and arrange his books in the study. so they were settled in a trice. here is the picture of the children. you must know them in order to understand what happened in the house. elizabeth was the oldest. she must have been seventeen or eighteen. she was ready for college. it was hard for the mother to get along without her, since she had brought up all the younger ones, and given her mother a chance to go round with her father in his work. elizabeth was very mature, but she had all the frankness and cordiality of a typical westerner. she seemed almost too free and easy in her manners for the slow east. but you couldn't help liking her. a little western gush does good in the town. [illustration] samuel came next. he knew everything. he was ready for college too. he was slow, and not always just as agreeable as one would like to have him. it has been said that somebody stepped on his toes when he was a very little child, and that he still has spells of being angry about it. samuel was a mechanic. he kept things in order,--machines, carts, clocks, and like objects,--when he hadn't any girls to tease; for he was an awful tease, and so was liked in a general way by all of them. his manner toward the younger members of the family was rather severe and overbearing. but what would you expect from a big boy who knows so much, and has such a host of children to live with? helen was the third one. she was literary, and gave a great deal of time to books. she hated to darn stockings above all things, and would often read a story to the children, or write one for them, if she could get somebody to do her darning for her. i think she will make an author. the family hadn't been in the house one day before she said that the closets must be named. her mother or the children would never be able to keep track of them, unless they were reduced to a system, and properly numbered like rooms in a hotel, or labelled like drugs in a store. henry and miriam were twins. they were just about as unlike as you could make them,--one light and the other dark; the first lean and the second fat; he quick and she slow. and so we might go through a long list of things, and find that one was opposite to the other. for this reason they got along well together and were very happy. then came cousin george, who was fond of music and could sing like a lark; and theodora, who was born to be a lady, and always took the part of mrs. rothschild or mrs. astor in their plays; and cousin herbert, who will be a doctor, and who was so ingenious about getting into mischief that i think he will be able to invent enough bad doses to cure the very worst sicknesses; and cousin ethel, the pink of propriety, who never got a spot on her dress, and always said, "will you please give me this or that?" or "thank you," when she took anything; and cousin grace, the demure and quiet puss who had a wonderful faculty for stirring up the whole family, and yet freeing herself from trouble; and cousin susie, who is always sweet and good-tempered, and loves everybody; and cousin william, the precocious (i mean very smart), who will be president of the united states; and cousin nathaniel, who was said by his brothers and sisters and cousins to be "just too cute for anything," flying hither and thither like a humming-bird, never two minutes in one place except when his aunt got him into his nest at night. how many does that make? let me count them up. have i mentioned them all but ruth? ruth was seven years old. she could ask more questions in five minutes than any lawyer in cross-examining witnesses. and when she was tired of asking questions she would tease for more things in a second five minutes than any twenty children rolled into one. and not only would she ask the same question seventeen times at once, or tease for the same thing thirteen times without stopping, but she did it in just the same unvarying, shrill tone of voice; so that it was like the monotonous rasping of a saw, and had a tendency to drive a sensitive person out of his head. how many times did the older members of the family run from her as though she had a contagious disease, so that they might get relief from that endless asking and teasing? and yet she had many good traits, and was certainly very bright. if there had been some comfortable way of putting a muzzle upon talkative and tedious children, her parents would probably have done it; but they simply used all the powers of restraint that they had and let it go at that. ruth was evidently cut out for a poet or a woman's rights speaker; for she was all the time getting up rhymes, or talking in a high key and impulsive way to such members of the family as would listen to her. when the baby came everybody said that he must be called "the little judge," in honor of the good man who gave the house to the church for the minister. no sooner was the family really settled than the children began to ask about this famous judge. they had never lived in an old, historic house before, and they were interested. they knew how the judge and his wife looked, for their portraits hung in the east parlor. what fine old people they must have been! if those oil paintings did them justice they were about as nice-looking as anybody that you see preserved in oil in the great galleries of the world. whenever the children stood before the pictures, they asked questions: who was the judge? what did he do? how much of a family did he have? did he like children? when did he die? who attended the funeral? where was he buried? what became of his things? and a hundred other questions. so the minister began to read about the judge and his work. and the more he read, the more he admired and loved. the enthusiasm which the minister showed in his attempts to learn all he could about the generous giver of the parsonage excited the curiosity of the children to such an extent that they begged their father and uncle to write a book about him. helen herself talked about doing something of the kind. "i've found out more things in the life of the judge," the minister would say; and then all the children gathered around him just after supper, as the fire burned gayly on the hearth in his study, and he would tell them some fresh incident, and add a few lines to his pen portrait of the man. so the months chased each other; and the judge and his wife made not only the most common topic of conversation, but they became as real to the young people in the parsonage as the boys and girls they met on the street. i suppose it was because they thought and talked so much about them that the strange things which i am to relate happened (or didn't happen) in the house. they had not lived many weeks in the house before they got into all sorts of trouble about the closets. they kept losing something, or losing themselves, or losing the closets. "we'll number them," suggested herbert. "no; let's name them," cried william. they had all met to talk the matter over; so it was decided to do both. when names run out they would fall back on numbers. "i feel like adam when he named all the cattle and the fowls and the beasts," exclaimed helen. "we'll hang a plan of the house on each floor, and then we can refer to it without running up-and down-stairs." this was samuel's remark. he was always for saving steps. so names were suggested, plans were drawn, every closet was given its dues, and the atmosphere was thick with champagne, darkest africa, turpentine, leghorn, daisy, pansy, violet, rose, panama, china, greece, dublin, clementine, serpentine, argentine, morocco, and other appropriate names. d. the things that happened to the people who live in the house that the judge built. i. portraits walk and talk. i. portraits walk and talk. it was christmas eve. excitement had reached fever heat. the children knew nothing about christmas in the east; and their western festivals had always been simple, for there was little money to use in buying gifts. but this year friends had remembered them, and they had also earned several dollars by various kinds of work; so that they were sure of many nice things. had they not been buying presents for each other these ten days? and was not every closet in the house made the hiding-place for some treasure? the nervous strain on the parents was great. such confusion and anxiety passed words. was it possible ever to get the house and the family settled down to plain, every-day living again? it happened that the children had all met in the east parlor. this was the room where the pictures of the judge and his wife adorned the wall. the two portraits hung on the right of the fireplace, you remember, just over the piano. a lamp was giving a faint light on the marble centre-table, and a cheerful wood fire was burning on the hearth. in front of the piano was the music stool. the children were all talking. the hum and buzz of their many voices filled the room. one said, "i wonder if santa claus will bring me a doll;" and another said, "there is no such person as santa claus;" and a third said, "i want a new sled;" and a fourth said, "father promised me a book about birds;" and so the talk continued. but ruth for once kept still. she was worn out with excitement. as she flung herself into a big arm-chair, she turned her head towards the fire, and began to see all sorts of funny creatures dancing in and out among the coals. ruth was a poet, you remember, gifted with a wonderful imagination; and she could see more strange things, and tell more wild stories, than any other child in the family; and that is saying a great deal, for they all had a way of telling about things which they had heard and seen that constantly reminded their neighbors of western largeness and exaggeration. [illustration] as ruth watched the queer creatures playing in the fire her eyes grew heavy; and then she turned her head away for a moment, and her eyes became fixed upon the pictures of the judge and his wife. did her head droop to one side, and did it fall softly upon the cushion against the arm, or did her eyes suddenly open wide with surprise, and did she gaze with startled look upon a strange scene before her? for both the judge and his wife seemed to be moving; and they looked so natural and pleasant when they smiled and bowed, that ruth said to herself, "why, they must be alive." and the judge reached out his hand from the canvas which held him, and took the hand of his wife, who had responded to his motion, and said, "my dear, wouldn't you like to step down and out for a little while?" [illustration] "yes, thank you," she replied; "i think it would rest me." and then he laid down the pen, which he holds in the picture, and stepped lightly upon the piano, still keeping her hand in his; and then he helped her down upon the piano, and then he stepped down to the music stool, and finally on the floor, and she followed. this was all done with the grace and dignity that marked the usual movements both of the judge and his wife. and it seemed the most natural thing in the world for them to step down and out. ruth sprang toward them on the instant that they stood upon the floor. she rubbed her eyes to make sure that she was not dreaming; and then as she saw them really before her, looking for all the world like natural folks, she greeted them with delight. "why, how do you do?" she exclaimed. "i always thought you looked as if you would like to talk. that, i suppose, is why people say that your pictures are a 'speaking likeness.' but i never thought you'd get out of the pictures. how did you do it?" but the judge and his wife were too much absorbed in the scene before them to reply immediately. the old room had changed since their day; they were noting the changes. and then this roomful of children took them by surprise. "my dear," said the judge to his wife, "this is delightful." "yes," continued ruth, "they all belong to us. i heard the president of the dorcas society say that when the church called this minister they expected him to fill the parsonage just as much as the pulpit. and we did it." "yes, this is delightful," repeated the judge. "how many are there?" he said this to his wife, but ruth answered. "oh! there are only fifteen of us when we are by ourselves. there are a good many more when the neighbors' children come in; and then don't we have grand times!" "it almost takes my breath away." mrs. "judge" was speaking to her husband. "my dear, have you my fan in your pocket?" and the judge felt in his pocket, but he didn't find any fan. "why, it's christmas! you don't want a fan," said ruth, who was bound to take part in the conversation, and play the hostess on this wonderful occasion. and then the judge and his wife stood stock-still, and gazed with increasing pleasure and interest upon the scene. their descent from the picture had been so noiseless and unexpected that ruth was the only one to observe it. but when this keen, talkative sister began to question the guests, the other children turned their heads, and they beheld the curious sight. there stood the judge and his wife exactly as they appeared in the portraits. only they had their legs on them, and the pictures didn't. but the children noticed even the smallest details of dress, and they were the very originals of the portraits. suddenly the whole company stood up. "why, it's just like a reception or a wedding," said ruth. "i think they're all waiting to be introduced." and the children advanced one after another, or ruth led the judge and his wife to different parts of the room, and each brother and sister and cousin was properly presented. "how did you get out?" inquired ruth a second time. everybody in the room was now standing, and all eyes were looking for the next move in this strange parlor drama. "we just stepped out," replied the judge, who seemed prepared at length to talk with ruth or the other children. "but where did you keep your legs all the time?" when ethel asked this question mrs. "judge" blushed. elizabeth, the eldest daughter, pushed her way forward, and said, "s-s-s-s-h!" and samuel said, with a nudge of the arm, "keep still, can't you?" but you might as well tell the steaming teakettle to stop boiling as it sits upon a lively fire. "we are very glad to see you," interrupted helen. she was a most hospitable girl, and she had read a great deal of history; although henry knew more history than she did, and he had read everything about the judge that he could lay his hands on. "we are very glad to see you, and should like to ask about the 'hartford convention,'" said henry. "he's been talking about it for a month," continued ruth. "i wish you'd tell him all about it, and then maybe he'd keep still. i don't care anything about it, neither do the other children. but henry thinks he's very smart in such things ever since he got a prize in history." "did you say these were all the children?" it was mrs. "judge" that now spoke. and as she made the inquiry susie ran out of the parlor, and disappeared in the gloom of the hall. "why, we forgot all about the baby!" exclaimed ruth. "he's up-stairs asleep, i guess. dear me, you must see the baby. he's the cutest little thing you ever saw." "yes, we should like to see him, of course. we both like babies, good babies." [illustration] "babies that don't cry i suppose you mean," said ruth. "well, he doesn't cry much,--only when he's hungry, or a pin sticks into him, or he gets mad, or somebody lets him fall, or hits his head against the door or a chair." here ruth paused for breath. then she exclaimed, "why, of course, you must see the baby! why, he is named for you!" this was said to the judge with greatest excitement. and just as ruth was saying it everybody turned toward the door, and there stood little susie hugging the baby to her breast, his nightdress dragging on the floor, her short arms barely reaching around his plump body; both baby and susie having their faces wreathed in smiles. staggering under the burden this youngest sister pressed through the company with her precious armful; and as the judge saw her approach he stepped forward, bent down above her, and took the little fellow into his arms, where he settled with a most contented and happy expression. it was a very pretty sight,--this stately old gentleman holding a beautiful baby on one arm, and reaching over to the lovely, dignified wife by his side with the other arm; for she had taken hold of his hand again after he had fixed the baby comfortably on his arm, and ruth had stationed herself close by the judge's wife on the other side, and taken possession of the lady's free hand. "and this is the baby, is it?" inquired mrs. "judge." "what a dear little boy he is! and what did you say you called him?" for the lady was either deaf or absorbed so that she did not hear all that ruth had said about the baby's name. "why, we call him after your husband. didn't you hear me say so? he is the "little judge." just see how he clings to his namesake. is he the judge's namesake or the judge his namesake? i don't know which is which, only it's something about namesake, and he's named for the judge." this latter talk on the part of ruth was quite as much to herself as to the visitors. and all the time the judge was gazing down into the infant's face with earnest, wistful look, seeming almost to forget that he was once more standing in the old east parlor. yes, for a moment he had really forgotten where he did stand; for he was thinking of the many years ago when two other baby boys had been placed in his arms, and with what hope and tenderness he had handled the small, helpless pieces of humanity. "don't you like the name?" interrupted ruth. "we thought it would please you. what makes you look so solemn? oh, i know!" now, ruth did not intend to be cruel. she was simply thoughtless like many other children. "you had a baby boy once, didn't you? two of 'em, didn't you?" and then she saw that mrs. "judge" seemed to feel bad too, and that she let go the judge's hand for a moment, and dashed away some tears from her eyes. "i'm sorry if i've hurt your feelings," said ruth. "i didn't mean to. i was just thinking about your two baby boys. they would have been awful old if they had lived till now, wouldn't they? and we never should have lived in this house if they had lived, would we?" a hush had fallen on the company. neither the judge nor his wife made any reply. they were lost in thought, while the children watched them with breathless interest. "we didn't dare give him your full name," continued ruth. "that's what dr. blank did to one of his baby boys, and it died. mother was afraid if we called our baby after you, with the three long names, that it might kill him, so she said; so we dropped the middle one, and i think it much better, don't you?" "dear little boy," said the judge affectionately, as he looked down into his face again. "dear little boy." and then the judge bent down and kissed him, and the baby beamed with delight. it was almost like a baptism in church. "i thought maybe you were going to pray over him. that's the way father does, you know." but the judge didn't seem to hear. "my dear," he said, turning to his wife and holding the baby toward her. she knew what he meant, for she likewise bent down over the little fellow and printed another kiss upon his sweet, upturned, dimpled face, and then another, and a third, while the judge stood looking on with happy indulgence; and all the children noted every motion in this singular drama. "what did your boys die of?" asked ruth, who did not wish to lose any time, since she had so many questions to ask, and she feared that her visitors might not stay as long as she wished them. "ruth!" exclaimed samuel, who had drawn near the young inquisitor, and felt it was time to stop her; "aren't you ashamed of yourself?" he said this in a low tone, thinking that the judge and his wife might not hear. they were watching the baby with such eagerness that they had almost forgotten the rest of the company. "i think," remarked mrs. "judge," as she lifted her head from the baby and glanced around the room, "that it is very pleasant in the old house." "oh, yes; we think so too." it was ruth again speaking. the other members of the family had little chance to say anything. "can't get in a word edgewise," whispered henry to helen. "what a perfect nuisance ruth is!" "wouldn't you like to go over the house?" of course it was ruth who asked the question. she was always taking people over the house. it might be monday morning when everything was in dire confusion, and all the younger children still in bed, or it might be early evening after the baby and susie had been playing in crib and bed, and things were assuming their wonted appearance of disorder. if the notion took her she was always ready to seize a caller by the hand, and lead him from cellar to garret. "i think i would like to look around a little," replied the lady. "i am wondering how many closets you have now in the house." "oh, there is an awful lot!" exclaimed ruth. "we have sixty," observed elizabeth, who liked to be precise. "that's right, that's right," continued mrs. "judge." "i had that number put in. i was afraid you might have given away some of them." when she said this the children looked rather queer. who ever heard of giving away closets? one might think they were flowers, or eggs, or peaches. "you used to give away a great deal, didn't you?" exclaimed ruth. "but i don't see how you could give away closets." and now the whole company started on a tour of sight-seeing in the old house. samuel and elizabeth naturally took the lead, being the oldest and quite the lady and gentleman. the judge with the baby on one arm and his wife leaning on the other followed. ruth still clung to the right hand of mrs. "judge." then the remaining children came in a dense crowd just behind them. "the parlor looks much as it did when we left it, except the furniture," said the lady. "now let us see if they have kept the other rooms as well." they passed next into the hall. "dear me! what is this?" exclaimed the judge. "where are we?" for it was not the old hall at all. that had been rather short and small. this was long, reaching through the house. "why, what has become of my bedroom?" inquired the lady. "they have made it into this hall. and where are all the nice little closets under the stairs? you certainly have given them away. oh, dear! oh, dear! i'm so sorry." "i guess you're tired," said ruth. "it makes you nervous to walk much, doesn't it? why, yes, i know, because they say you never went up-stairs for ever so many years. oh, i know what we'll do! you can ride." all this time mrs. "judge" was looking about her in a dazed way, quite at sea in respect to her surroundings. for the hall had been completely changed until it appeared about as different as different could be. and the good lady was really shocked. "do you see those things under the stairs? they are our bicycles." and the judge and his wife gazed with perplexed faces in the direction indicated. there was a whole row of them. seven, altogether,--full-grown, half-grown, or any size you might wish. it was like a carriage shop. "i think you might ride one all through the house down-stairs," said ruth to the lady guest. "then you wouldn't have to walk." and as the suggestion was made, ruth's eyes flashed, and her cheeks grew flushed with excitement. what fun it would be to push the good woman on a bicycle from room to room, and show her the present arrangements of the beloved house. but mrs. "judge" was horrified. she clung very closely to her husband, as if she thought that she might have to perch upon one of the machines whether she wished it or not. her breath came fast and short. her cheeks grew hectic. "you don't mean to say that people ride those things!" she finally exclaimed when her first flurry of agitation was past. "yes," replied ruth delightedly; "we all ride 'em." "not your father and mother,--the minister and the minister's wife?" "why, yes, and the episcopal minister too, and his wife." "are you sure, judge, that you didn't bring a fan with you?" the good woman seemed very faint, and she looked beseechingly toward her husband. "here's one," shouted susie, who ran to the cabinet and found a lovely piece of feather work, which scattered very fine feathers over your clothes and through the room on every motion you made with it. and as the judge's wife waved it back and forth the feathers began to fly. "it looks like a snow-storm," whispered herbert to theodora. and soon the feather flakes adorned their garments and floated through the air, so that one was really reminded of a fresh fall of snow. it took the good lady a long time to get her breath. the hall closets were all gone; and in their places stood seven things called bicycles, upon which the minister, his wife, and the children were said to ride. it was awful. and ruth was urging her to try one. alas! the hall was too much for her self-possession. "let us go into the west room," she said faintly. so they all came into what is now the family sitting-room and library. here everything was strange. the door into the kitchen was covered with a high book-case filled with literature. the small cubby-hole through which dishes and food had been passed from dining-room to kitchen was now made into a door. but there was one familiar object before them. in the far corner stood the clock, grave and stalwart sentinel for the house. "my dear, do you see the clock?" it was the judge speaking to his wife. he knew there must be many changes in the house. he accepted them very quietly; but he was glad to see this old familiar friend. he had expected to find it in the hall where it had always stood during his day; but he was just as glad to see it here in the old dining-room. that clock had been present on all the great occasions of life. it had marked the hours for every event connected with the history of the house. when the long line of famous men and women entertained by the judge and his wife came to mind, it was to be recollected that the clock had seen them all, and winked and blinked at them morning, noon, and night, and sounded his warning notes in their ears, when it was time to rise or retire, or to eat, or to go to court, or to drive to town, or to start for church. it was like meeting a tried and beloved friend. both the judge and his wife were overjoyed. it might have been that some indifferent family had lived in the house, and thrown the clock out of doors or stored it in the attic. there are people so dull and unimaginative, people with so little sentiment, that they never care for keepsakes or heirlooms. they want everything fresh and new about them. antiques are a perfect bore or nuisance. happily the minister's family was not one of this kind. they all had a great deal of what is called historic sense. they liked old things; and the clock was their most sacred possession. how much they had talked about it, and dreamed about the scenes which had passed before it! while ruth had invented more wild stories in connection with that one object than could be told in many a day. the other things in the room attracted little attention. the visitors made their slow and stately way across to the corner where the clock stood. as they looked up into its serene face, the object of their interest looked down upon them with a very knowing expression, seeming to recognize them on the instant, extending them a very hearty welcome; for the tick, tick was louder than ever before, the very frame of the huge thing began to tremble with suppressed excitement, and then eight long, loud strokes sounded through the entire house, as much as to say, "they've come," "how'd do?" "glad t'see you," and other kind greetings. the children had all followed the judge and his wife, and they were eagerly watching for the next movement on the part of the visitors. [illustration] it made quite a striking picture,--the tall, solemn clock in the far corner of the room, the judge and the baby on his arm, and the wife holding ruth by the hand, standing in front of it; then the throng of alert and wondering children bringing up in the rear, for they all felt that something out of the ordinary was about to happen. in fact, the whole visit of these former inhabitants of the house was rather unusual, so that the children would naturally expect fresh marvels at any moment. it was clear that mrs. "judge" was getting tired; nobody had offered her a chair, and she had refused to get on a bicycle. suddenly the door of the clock swung open. "i think you had better rest, my dear," said the judge; "we'll step in here." and as he made the remark he put his foot into the clock and gave a lively spring, filling the small doorway. "oh, please don't take the baby away!" screamed ruth, as she saw them both disappearing. "who'll nurse him? and mamma'll feel so bad." but it was all done so quickly that ruth never finished her speech, for the judge still held his wife's hand and helped her into the clock; then as ruth held all the faster to the lady's hand, she was caught up too, they all went into the clock and the door shut upon them. the other children were struck dumb with amazement. "i always thought it looked like a coffin," exclaimed samuel; "but i never expected to see four people buried alive in it." "i've wanted to hide in it a hundred times," said helen, "but i never supposed"-- "ten thousand times are hid in it," interrupted henry. "times out of mind," whispered herbert. "time, time," cried samuel; and soon they indeed had a "time." ii. closets talk and walk. ii. closets talk and walk. the first thing that the children who were left behind did was to examine the clock. they all made a rush for it, and pulled open the door. "tick, tock, tick, tock," went the huge machine. they saw the pendulum swing back and forth. and that was all they did see. the judge, his wife, ruth, and the baby had disappeared. "i believe this house is bewitched, or we are!" exclaimed helen. she had read about the strange things said and done in the old town more than two centuries ago, when witches rode through the air on broomsticks, and very lively times stirred up the people. "it was on this very spot, i've heard father say, that one of the witches lived." "oh, pshaw!" cried samuel, who knew everything; "there isn't any such thing as witchcraft. they've just stepped out for a moment, and they'll come back soon." "i think they've stepped in," replied henry, who stood close to the clock when their visitors disappeared with ruth and the baby. "let's play 'tag' while we're waiting for them to come back." this was a good way to work off their nervousness; for they were all more or less nervous, either because they really thought that the witches might be upon them, or because they would have to answer to their parents for the absence of ruth and the baby. [illustration] "we'll start from the piano," said samuel. it was christmas eve, you remember, and everything seemed rather uncommon and surprising. so they all jumped upon the piano,--thirteen of them altogether,--and it made the old instrument shiver and rattle, and try to shake them off. then they started on the game of "tag." samuel sprang from the piano to the cabinet, from the cabinet to the mantle, and from the mantle to the glass book-case in the corner; and they all jumped after him and each other. then he swung himself over to the hall door, for his arms and his legs were simply prodigious. from the top of the door he leaped to the big picture frame between the front windows. how it swayed and creaked and screamed! so he dropped down upon a low book-case beneath, and balanced himself on the edges of a crystal loving-cup. but henry and herbert had started in the other direction from the piano, and they came face to face with samuel on the loving-cup. then this elder brother sprang over to the marble centre-table, and then across to the piano again, and upon the high set of book-shelves in the southwest corner of the room. here he began to grab the books, and throw them at the other children as they came near him. then they threw books back at him. and what a commotion there was! children were passing and repassing with the speed of the wind. they were leaping from picture to picture, and mantle to table, and piano to book-case, and table to chairs, and cabinet to door; books were flying in every direction, the piano was groaning and shaking and scolding, and there was the din of many voices, shoutings, laughter, cries, boys' clothes and girls' clothes woven into a perfect mass of changing colors and shapes, the bang and rattle of moving furniture, and whatever you may be pleased to imagine. all this time the judge, his wife, ruth, and the baby sat composedly behind the face of the clock, and looked down delightedly upon the hilarious scene. there was a hole in the clock's face which served them for a window. ruth had often observed it; and she had told her mother more than a few times that she was perfectly sure there must be a big room up there, and lots of people in it, for she had seen the flash of their eyes when they peeped down into the room and watched (wouldn't it be more proper to say clocked) the people. ruth, of course, was right; for wasn't there a big room in the top of the clock? and didn't the judge and his wife know all about it? it was there that they had gone to rest. the first thing they did was to put mrs. "judge" to bed. this they did with her shoes on. the next thing was to get the baby to sleep. so the judge sat down in a rocking-chair, and began to sing to his little namesake; and when he got tired of singing the judge whistled. the baby was just as good as he could be. he laughed, and cooed, and hit the old gentleman on the cheek with a tiny hand, and tried to pick his eyes out one by one, count all his teeth, and pull off his eyebrows, dig into his ears, and find what he did with his nose, and how he kept his cravat on. meanwhile ruth was looking down upon the children, and reporting their doings to her visitors. "i think it will do them good to have a little frolic," said the judge. "yes, let them play," replied mrs. "judge." "it makes me feel as if we were once more back in the old home, and had children to fill it and bring us joy." "but you wouldn't let your children play like that," said ruth. "why, i think they're going to break every thing to pieces. and what will the church committee say? they have charge of the house, you know." "let's see what they are doing!" exclaimed the judge. so he put the baby down by his wife while he looked through the eye of the clock. just at that moment the children had all jumped upon the centre-table; and it was crowded with thirteen of them, and the lamp in the middle. there was a brief struggle, then the lamp went out, and the noise of a great fall and crash sounded through the room, after which darkness and silence prevailed. something had evidently happened. "don't you think we might visit the closets now?" inquired ruth. the judge turned to his wife to see what she answered. "i am too tired to go through them," she said. "but i should like to have them come to me." now, this was quite an original idea; but it pleased ruth. "why, yes, i think they would like to come." ruth was speaking with great animation. "we've named them, you know; and i think if i should call them by their names they'd all be glad to see you. can you sit here by this hole in the clock?" "oh, yes!" replied mrs. "judge." "that would be very nice. and the closets can all pass in front of us, and i can have a little talk with them." so ruth looked down again into the room where the children had been playing, and saw that it was quite light and the children were all gone. at once she called the closets. "i've got a list of their names in my pocket," she explained to mrs. "judge." "we can't remember as you can. even as it is, mother's all the time losing something in some of the closets, and she tries so hard to think where she puts things. she ought to carry a blank-book with her, and set everything down." the judge's wife was rested now, so that she sat up and took her place before the hole in the clock. the baby was back again in the arms of his namesake. then ruth shouted out the names of the closets. "champagne," she cried. this was the name of the wine-closet. it was a big black hole in the main cellar, just under the parlor. very soon there was a heavy tread in the west parlor where the clock stood, and in swung champagne. although such a great closet he looked very thin and dismal. [illustration] "good-evening," said the judge's wife. "how do you do?" replied champagne; and there was a great deal of pain in his voice. "you don't seem happy," said mrs. "judge." "i'm thirsty;" and the closet's voice sounded as if a fever had parched it. "poor folks live here now. they haven't put a bottle of wine into me in forty years. i'm drying up. i shall cave in one of these days." "that would be dreadful, wouldn't it?" exclaimed ruth. "would the house go down if the wine-cellar caved in?" "hope so," answered champagne testily. "don't even keep wine for sick folk. somebody did put a couple of bottles of something into me when the children had the measles, but somebody else came and stole it out of me. i thought i'd help bring the measles out, but they didn't give me a chance." "poor fellow!" exclaimed mrs. "judge." "i'm sorry for you. but these are days of total abstinence, you know. you mustn't expect much wine. don't they keep butter in you?" "no, they don't make any. and when they get some in the house it goes as fast as it comes. this family eats an awful sight of butter." "well, i'll see what i can do for you, champagne." "we can fill him up with water," whispered ruth. "for the cistern leaks now, and father says the overflow all goes into the wine-cellar. i'll call 'greece' next." champagne stepped one side, and stood by the front door. "greece, greece." the name was spoken with shrill, positive tones; and greece came hurrying down-stairs. this closet was in the attic. they smoked the hams in him, and they sometimes put bacon and dried beef up there. "how do you get along?" inquired mrs. "judge," as the closet shambled into the west room. "how'd' do, ma'am?" there was a strong smell of ham when greece made his appearance. "i've mostly given up smoking these days. i'm a poor, ham-sick fellow. they are trying to starve me to death. i haven't had anything in me for months. they won't let me say anything. they shut me up all the time." "i think greece smells bad, don't you?" said ruth as she turned to her guest. and then ruth put her thumb and forefinger up to her nose to keep out the bad odors that seemed to come up from poor greece. "i'm going to call 'china.'" so greece stepped one side without one kind word. "china, china, china." there was a very loud rattling of dishes, jingling of glasses, and much music, as the long closet between the kitchen and the dining-room stepped briskly before them. "i'm glad to see you," said the judge's wife by way of greeting. she was a lover of fine ware, and the house had been filled with it. "i'm very glad to see you," replied china. "i am living a wretched life." "dear me, don't talk like that!" exclaimed the good lady, much annoyed at all this mourning and fault-finding. "i guess you'd talk worse than that if you had been cut down, torn to pieces, burnt up, and boxed as i have been. don't you see that there is hardly anything left of me? as likely as not to-morrow they'll set to work and do something else to me,--make me smaller yet, or drive me out of the house. i can't tell what a day will bring forth. and just look at the dishes. did you ever see such a lot of nicked, broken, mismatched, cracked, blackened, ugly old ware as they keep on my shelves? it makes me sick. i wish you'd come back." all this time china had been talking in a most despondent tone, giving a fresh shake of discontent to the curious assortment of ware displayed on the shelves. it made the judge's wife nervous. she didn't like it. neither did ruth. it was not what they expected. such talk was hardly in keeping with christmas eve. "china, you just go right out-doors and wait in the cold," said ruth. "i'm going to call 'panama.' that, you know, is the closet that connects father's study right over this room with the bedroom behind it. come, panama," she cried. there was a great rustling of papers, and dust filled the room as panama entered. "what does this mean?" inquired mrs. "judge," who began to sneeze and feel very thirsty. "why, this is the closet where father keeps his sermons. i think they must rustle and make so much noise because they are dry." "good-evening," said the lady in the clock as she bowed. "good-evening," replied panama. "it's a long time since we've seen you, madam. have you come back to stay?" and one could detect anxiety in the manner and speech. "oh, no! we are here just for the evening. we thought it would be pleasant to step down and out for a little while. we were in the portraits on the east parlor wall, you remember. when the wind gets in the east we shall be obliged to go back." then panama began to cry; and as fast as he cried he drank up his tears. "i don't see what's got into the closets to make them talk so and act so!" exclaimed ruth. "they just seem bent on being disagreeable to-night. and i thought we'd have such a nice time with them. they're a discontented and complaining lot. i'm going to call 'leghorn.'" during this little talk the judge's wife was lost in thought. her chin had dropped down upon her breast, and a far-away look appeared in her eyes. "leghorn, leghorn, come here!" shouted ruth. the children had given this name to the east-corner closet in mrs. "judge's" bedroom. she used to keep her bonnets there. one of them was a white, beautiful leghorn, which cost more than twenty-five dollars. this closet was full of shelves, and it proved very useful to the minister's family. "good-evening," said the lady. leghorn looked up with surprise. he recognized her voice. "how do you do? when did you come? what's the news?" leghorn spoke in a very familiar way; for he had always stayed close to the head of the bed in the room, and overheard all the conversation between the judge and his wife. there was no better informed closet in the house than leghorn. "you look quite cheerful," said the lady. "yes'm," he replied; "i keep very busy, and have really more than i can 'tend to. you know, we have a perfect crowd of girls here in the house, and their hats just fill me up to the brim. hear 'em fuss as i shake 'em." and as the folks in the clock listened they heard such a racket of straw and such a shrill chirping that they were quite startled. "dear me, what is that queer noise?" inquired mrs. "judge." "have you a flock of birds inside of you?" "oh! i know what that is," explained ruth. "i can hear it above the rustling of the straw. it's all the birds we have had on our hats. they are feeling so good. for we have joined the audubon society, and we can't wear any more birds. how they flutter and sing, don't they?" "you don't mean that you really wear whole birds on a hat or a bonnet, do you?" one could tell from the way she spoke that the visitor was horrified. "why, yes; and you ought to see folks come to church with them. i've counted seventeen kinds of feathers and nine pieces of birds on the girls and ladies while father was preaching his sermon. we've had a bird-class here, you know, and i can tell a great deal about 'em. there was a blackbird and there was a bluebird; and one lady had a hawk's wing, and another a rooster's tail, and elizabeth had the breast and beak of a scarlet tanager, and helen wore heron's feathers, and mother had ostrich plumes; and you ought to see the beautiful plumage we took from a wild turkey sent us from the west; and we put it on susie's hat, and it was just too lovely for anything. but we've all joined the audubon society now, and can't kill any more birds or wear many feathers." "i'd like to join too," interrupted leghorn. "i'm sick of birds in me. they make such a noise, and keep me stirred up all the time, so i don't get good sleep. i'm very nervous, but i'm quite happy." "there, we've found one happy closet anyway," said ruth. "you just sit down here and make yourself comfortable." "darkest africa next," shouted ruth. this was another of the closets connected with the down-stairs bedroom. he came stumbling and grumbling along. "what do you want?" he said in a grumpy, disagreeable way. "you've kept me in the dark so long, i've lost the use of my windows." "well, you needn't be so cross about it," answered ruth. "don't you see it's mrs. 'judge' that's come back to see you?" "what? what?" cried darkest africa, rubbing his eyes and speaking in his natural voice. "where is she?" "why, up here in the clock, of course. haven't you any sense?" [illustration] "oh, such a life as we're living!" he said, turning toward the visitor. "you remember how you used to keep all your groceries in me, and how my shelves were heavy with every good thing,--tea, coffee, spices, fruits, and a thousand things. well, now they've shut the blinds, and covered the windows, and turned me into a photograph-room. it's very nasty. bad smells hang all about me. stove-pipe, pans of dirty water, chemicals, and i don't know what, make me very unhappy. and the children run through your bedroom just as if it were a public street. such goings on you never did see. i want to leave this world." "i'm ashamed of you to talk that way, darkest africa. you go out on the piazza, and wait in the cold, too, until i call you. such talk makes mrs. 'judge' feel real bad." and this closet withdrew, still mumbling about his troubles. "i'm going to call three together now," said ruth; "for the baby'll wake up before we get through, if i don't hurry." the judge had really sung and whistled the baby to sleep; and there the good man sat on the edge of a cog-wheel, holding the little fellow in his arms. [illustration] "come, 'pride,' 'vanity,' and 'ophir,'" screamed ruth. one of these closets held the clothes of the older girls--that was pride; vanity was filled with the many dresses of the younger girls; and ophir was the closet where the present family kept their small stock of valuables, like jewelry, silverware, and family heirlooms. these three closets came prancing down together, and they certainly felt good. it was christmas eve, and they knew it, for they were running over with all sorts of packages; their shelves were filled; their hooks were burdened with garments; the very floors were piled high with stuff. mrs. "judge" did not know them so well by night, for she hadn't visited them for many years before her going away. she bowed to them, and they bowed to her; but they kept their hands in their pockets. "why don't you say something?" it was ruth's remark to them as they stood in a row before the clock. "we're waiting for you to say something first," was the reply. "how do you feel?" this was by way of starting the conversation. "we feel jolly. don't you?" mrs. "judge" smiled. this was pleasant to hear, and she was very cheerful. she could see thirty-seven or fifty dresses. there were all sizes, colors, materials, and patterns. their brightness and variety fascinated her. "look here, my dear," she said, turning to her husband. "i can't. i should wake the baby," and he smiled in a very happy, dignified way. "i'll call 'morocco,' too," said ruth. "there's plenty of room, and i like to see them together." "morocco, morocco." and then there was such clattering and pattering of shoes that it seemed as if the baby must wake up; for morocco was the shoe closet, and there were so many pairs of old shoes in the place that it reminded one of a cobbler's shop. there were little shoes and big, slippers and rubber-boots, patent leathers and copper toes, high-heeled shoes and no-heeled shoes; there were blacking and brushes and shoe-strings and button-hooks and dirt. and as morocco walked in, every shoe and boot and slipper and brush was in a most frolicsome mood, jumping hither and thither, knocking the sides of the closet, and raising a great dust. the judge's wife looked from pride to vanity, then from ophir to morocco. as the clothes shook and rustled, as the silver and the old-fashioned jewelry jingled, as the foot-gear banged and rattled, ruth began to sing and dance, and the lady nodded her head to keep time; and then the judge caught the movement and beat time with his foot, and whistled an old tune; and then the baby woke up, clapped his hands, and cooed with delight. but time was passing very quickly, and there was a great deal to do before midnight came or the east wind arose. so ruth hurried the closets along in their march before the guests. "'valentine,' 'argentine,' 'serpentine,' 'clementine,' and 'turpentine,' come along with you," she shouted urgently. these were the five closets which belonged to the judge's library. valentine had nothing but broken furniture in him; argentine was loaded down with old and useless silver (plated ware) and like stuff; serpentine contained aged newspapers and magazines; clementine was pretty well filled with a variety of dolls, and they played merrily as the closet came into the room, and stood first on one foot and then on the other; turpentine brought a good deal of dust with him. he used to hold the judge's private papers. they were dry as dust. the judge was so interested in the baby that he paid no attention to the closets. "i'm going to call the closet with the skeleton in it," whispered ruth. "we named him the 'wandering jew;' we've never seen him, you know. somebody told us that the key was lost, and then the keyhole, and finally the closet itself, and it must be so; for where that closet was in your day there isn't anything now." during this remark mrs. "judge" looked very restless and sorrowful. "i just want to see what a skeleton in the closet is like. i've heard that every family has got one, but they keep them out of sight. wandering jew, wandering jew," whispered ruth with suppressed excitement; and almost on the instant the lost closet walked into the room from nowhere. he was quite small; as he walked something rattled in him. the child shivered. was it the skeleton? and would she see it? then she remembered that the key and the keyhole were both lost. "what's in it?" whispered ruth. and then she noticed for the first time that the lady was weeping. there was a strange silence. mrs. "judge" put her hands upon ruth's head, and looking down pathetically into her eager eyes said gently, "i would rather not put any questions to the wandering jew, or try to make him say anything. let him pass along out of my sight." and ruth, who was quite awed by the grief of mrs. "judge," told the closet to hurry out of sight as soon as possible. so she never knew whether it was blasted hopes or withered love, or the ghost of a chance or the dry bones of scholarship, or something else that was locked in that strange little haunted room. and now the closets were hurried along as fast as ruth could name them. but mrs. "judge" seemed to have lost her interest. the closet with a skeleton in it had thrown her off her balance. she had little or nothing to say to any of the others; and ruth herself grew tired, so that she was very glad when they had all made their bows and said their short say, and something else might be done for the entertainment of her company. iii. the procession of goat, dog, cat, bicycles, portraits, ruth, and the "little judge." iii. the procession of goat, dog, cat, bicycles, closets, portraits, ruth, and the "little judge." "[illustration: i] think it would be real nice for us to take a little ride about the town, don't you?" ruth was speaking to the judge and his wife. "yes, i think i am rested enough to go a short way," was the lady's reply. "but what shall we do with the judge and the baby?" "why, take them along with us!" ruth was always ingenious, and she had plans for every occasion. "i think we might take a ride in the closets." "what!" exclaimed mrs. "judge." "i am going to hitch up the closets and have a procession," exclaimed ruth. "you leave it to me and it'll come out all right. i'll call the cat and the goat and 'turk,' and tell them to get out the bicycles and fasten them to the closets, all in a row, and then they shall take us to ride." on any other occasion or under other circumstances this would have appeared a curious arrangement, but to-night it was quite in keeping with all that had happened. [illustration] "here billy, billy, billy, turk, turk, come kitty, come kitty," cried ruth; and the goat appeared on the minute, and with him satan the black cat and with him "turk," the bird-dog. "you must hitch up the bicycles, and hitch on the closets, and take us a-riding," ordered ruth. now, billy was an obliging goat, although his taste was not of the best; for when one of the neighbors died, and crape and flowers were hung on the front door, he went over and climbed up to the interesting objects, and ate both the cloth and the wreath. he lacked taste, but he did enjoy running up and down the street. satan, the black cat, was very fond of ruth, and would do anything she told him when he didn't want to do anything else, and he knew what she was talking about. turk was always on hand ready for a frolic. so billy, satan, and turk got the bicycles fastened together; and then ruth called out the names of the closets, beginning with the very smallest in the house. the goat and the cat took a spool of red cotton-thread, and tied all the closets in a row or a tow (just as you see boats in a row and a tow when a tug pulls them up the river). when all was ready, billy and satan and turk took their places at the head of the procession, and stood waiting for their passengers. "i think we had better put the baby in the first closet," said ruth. "that is the smallest, you know, and he will fit in like a bug in a rug." "what have you got to put around him?" inquired the lady. there had been a slight fall of snow in the evening, and then it had turned cold. "i'm afraid he will get chilly, you know." "oh! i'll wrap him up in an envelope. paper is very warm, i've heard. i'll just put him into the envelope, and then cut two holes for his eyes, and then seal him up like a letter." so the "little judge" was fixed. but it occurred to mr. judge at this point that his wife was not prepared for winter. she was a delicate person, and she wore the same clothes that she had on when her portrait was painted. the cap with frilled border was very pretty, but it was not warm. "my dear," said the judge to his wife, "you are not properly clad for a ride." "i've got plenty of clothes and things in my pocket," said ruth. "now, here is a nice postage-stamp with a picture of the queen upon it. that will do for a bonnet. i'll stick it on tight." and she did. "here is a lot of red crinkly paper that we use to make lamp-shades. i'll do her up like a bundle from the store. there, doesn't she look well?" and the child wound the bright paper all about the matronly form of mrs. "judge," and fastening it under her chin with a big safety pin, stood off and admired the brilliant result. "there won't any cold creep in through that red stuff," exclaimed ruth. "isn't she pretty?" but the judge only smiled and looked interested. "now you must be fixed," and ruth turned toward the judge. "i'll tie this handkerchief over your head, and use a piece of red thread for a muffler. and here is a nice white canton-flannel bag in my pocket that herbert has used for his marbles. you jump into that, and i'll tie you up." "but how shall we get down into the closets?" the judge seemed perplexed. "fall down, of course," exclaimed the child. "and i'm going to wear mother's feather-bed. then, if it 'thunders and lightens' i won't be afraid." so at length everything was ready, and they stood on the weight of the clock, and went down to the door which swung open into the west parlor; and then they tumbled out into the room, and made their way to the front piazza like boys engaged in a bag-race. and there before the house stood the procession of the closets. "what's become of the old portico?" asked the lady. "you must have made it into this long sitting-place." she glanced up and down the roomy piazza. "what color do you call this?" she asked, referring to the brown paint upon the house. "we always had it white." "this color doesn't show the dirt," said ruth. "all the dust of the town flies this way, mother says." at that moment there was a rumbling, hissing, and flashing in the distance. the house shook and the sky brightened. was it an earthquake, or what? "my dear," whispered mrs. "judge," "i feel a little timid. i think it's because i've been in the picture so long. i'm shaking all over. it seems to me as if something dreadful was going to happen. what is that awful noise; and i see strange flames of pale blue light shoot into the sky." "oh, don't be scared!" said ruth; "that's nothing but the trolley. see, there it comes!" down the street towards them swept a thing of light, shaking the very earth beneath, and speeding past into the night like some meteor. it was several seconds before the lady was able to speak. "child, what did you say it was?" and she trembled with fright. "why, it's the trolley-car. we ride on it. it runs by electricity, the same as lightning." and ruth popped her head in and out of the feather-bed as she replied, the feathers sticking to her hair and fluttering about her face in a most comical way. "i think we'd better start before another car comes, for billy and satan might run away. sometimes they're afraid." "yes, let us get right into our places," said the judge, who was sorry to see his wife distressed. so the baby rolled into the little closet next to the seven bicycles, and ruth jumped into the next one, and the judge and his wife shuffled into the third. "i think we must make a real funny show," exclaimed ruth, as she lifted her head out of the feathers again, and gave orders to billy and satan and turk. [illustration] "get up there, boys!" she said to this remarkable team. and then they were all in motion,--the billy-goat and the black cat and the dog, the seven bicycles, the little closet with the baby in the blue envelope, the second closet with ruth in a feather-bed, the third closet with the judge in a white flannel-bag and a handkerchief over his head, and mrs. "judge," done up in red paper, wearing a postage stamp for a bonnet, followed by fifty-seven closets of all shapes, sizes, patterns, conditions. there was a banging of wood, a slamming of doors, a creaking of windows, a dancing of shoes, a rattling of dishes, a rustling of clothes (starched clothes), a fluttering of sermons, a pounding of pots and kettles and pans, a rolling about of fruit glasses and jelly jars and canned food, a falling of hams, and a rising of flour, and a decline in vegetables simply frightful. "this is a very fine road," observed the judge. "it's just as smooth as a floor. what an improvement over the roads in our day!" "yes," answered ruth as she peered out from her feathers, "we are very proud of our roads. they are--what is it you call them? adam, cadam, oh! i've got it now, macadam roads. they cost thousands of dollars. but we've some very good men in town, just the kind you are, i suppose, and they've given us miles and miles of it. you ought to see how we skim along the road now on a bicycle. it would fairly make your head swim." "my head does swim," whispered mrs. "judge." "it's so long since i took a ride in the fresh air, and i've staid such a time in the picture and become so stiff, that the motion makes me dizzy. i think we'd better stop for a few minutes." "what is this?" exclaimed the judge. they had gone only to the corner of the green. there was a very thin covering of fluffy snow on the ground. suddenly the clouds broke away, and the moon flooded the scene with light. and there, standing distinct and stately against the black background, glistening and shimmering in the mild radiance, was the church. "where is the old meeting-house?" and the judge rubbed his eyes, and got the handkerchief loose upon his head; and mrs. "judge" in her agitation dislocated the postage-stamp that served for a bonnet so that she felt a cold draught in her left ear. "why, judge, we aren't here, are we? we must be somewhere else." then ruth uncovered her head, and let a few feathers fly back in the face of her guest and laughed merrily. "that's the new church. our new stone church. isn't it lovely? did you ever see anything like it? whoa, billy and satan and turk! wait a minute! we want to take a look at things." "you don't mean to say you have another meeting-house, do you? what's become of the old one?" "oh! that was set on fire. you ought to've seen it burn. father said it was the saddest, beautifulest sight he ever saw. it was like a church built of fire; and it blazed away,--walls, roof, floor, all glorious without and within, and then it was caught up into heaven, so father says. it made us think of elijah going up in his flaming chariot. and then we built this stone church. don't you like it? why, of course you do; why, i heard father say that you wanted a stone church, and gave something for one." "like it, child, of course we like it! and we did want a stone church, and we tried to get the folks to build one, but they thought they weren't rich enough. like it! why this is one of the happiest moments of my life. what a striking building it is!" "yes; and there is some of your money in it, for i've heard father say so. they got pay for the old church when it burned, and that went right into the new. and it was an english company that had to pay the insurance; and folks said it was no more than right that the english should pay it, for they burned down the one in when they burnt up the town, you know." "you know a great deal about history and things, don't you?" it was mrs. "judge" that made the pleasing remark. "yes, i know many things. it's because i ask so many questions, i suppose. but mother says i lack 'capacity.' i don't know what she means; it's something dreadful, i suppose. perhaps i'll make it up when i get big. wouldn't you like to stop at the church and go inside? i've got a key right here in my pocket. samuel and i carry keys to about everything." "i think we might take a little rest here," said the judge. "do you think the team will stand?" and his eyes twinkled curiously as he looked out upon billy and satan and turk. [illustration] "oh, yes! they'll be all right. if they get tired of waiting they can take a short run on the bicycles. go up there to the front door. 'whoa!'" this was said to the team. when they came to a stop ruth tumbled out first, then the judge and his lady followed, scuffing along as best they could. they unlocked the door; and ruth rolled back to the first closet, picked up the envelope with the baby in it, tucked him into the feather-bed by her side, and returned to the vestibule. they observed that the church was all lighted and warm. so ruth slipped off the feather-bed, although a thousand feathers stuck to her, making the child appear like a new kind of overgrown fowl. the judge took the baby on his arm, for he had also slipped out of herbert's marble bag, and then ruth led them through the building. every part was explained,--the windows, the organ, the gaslights, the carved pillars, the glass screen, the chapel, the piano, the library, the parlor, the furnaces; everything was noted. "why, how lovely it is to be warm in meeting," said mrs. "judge." "you know we used to have foot-stoves, or hot baked potatoes, or a piece of stone. that was all." "you don't mean to say that they gave you hot baked potatoes with butter in meeting, and that was the way you kept warm?" "oh, we didn't eat them!" interrupted mrs. "judge." "we held them in our hands, or put them to our feet. but the little stoves were better. and then finally we had stoves, big stoves, in the meeting-house. i thought i should faint dead away when they first used them. it seemed to me so hot and stuffy in the room. and then i remember that my husband laughed at me when i drove home (i always had to ride, child; i wasn't able to walk so far for many years); for he said there hadn't been any fires kindled yet in the new stoves. but i got used to them after a time, and they were real comfortable. but i should certainly faint away to see the heat coming right up out of the floor, and think that underneath me was a raging fire." "why that's the way we warm the parsonage," said ruth. "didn't you see the registers?" "have you got one of those fires in the cellar?" asked mrs. "judge." "dear me, judge, i shall never feel safe again so long as we hang on the east parlor wall. why, we shall be liable to burn up any moment. think of having one of those awful things, full of fire, right under your feet. i'm so sorry that i know anything about it." "oh, you'll get used to it! you have got used to it, haven't you? there has been a furnace in the parsonage ever so many years." they were all seated in the minister's pew in church at this time. the judge was bowed in thought. "he looks as if he was going to pray," whispered ruth, somewhat awe-struck by his expression and the stillness of the place as well as the solemnity of the occasion. but it was hard for her to keep from asking questions. "did you see the man in the moon as we came into church?" she turned to mrs. "judge." "the man in the moon!" exclaimed the lady; "he's the very person that i want to speak to. i think it's years since i've seen him." "well, he's out to-night in great style. it must be because it's christmas eve. did you hang up your stocking when you were a little girl?" "do what?" inquired the lady. "hang up your stocking, to be sure, for santa claus to fill it with presents." the judge's wife looked with astonishment upon the child by her side. it was impossible for her to imagine what was meant. "i never heard of such a thing," she replied. then ruth enlightened her. "you know that jesus was born on the twenty-fifth of december?" "yes, my child." "and you know god gave him to the world?" "yes." "well, don't you think it's nice for us to give things to each other on that day? and don't you believe that santa claus comes down the chimney and brings us lots of presents?" "why, i never thought of it." and the dear old lady began to think a good deal about it. "we keep it right here in church too. we have a christmas-tree, and sing carols, and all the children get presents and candy, and ever so many nice things; and everybody is just as happy as can be. don't you think that is a nice way to remember the coming of jesus and god's gift to all of us?" "well! well! well! and so to-night is the very night, is it? judge, did you know that our folks now keep christmas in their churches and their homes? do you think there is any sin in it?" he was startled out of his reverie by the question, and ruth was obliged to explain to him what she had said to his wife. then he thought upon it for a little time, and replied to mrs. "judge." it pleased him. he wished to see what it was like. "why, i think, my dear, that it might be made a very happy, helpful festival. why couldn't we have one over at the house to-night?" "we are going to have one there in the morning," exclaimed ruth. "we all get up bright and early, and our stockings are filled, and there is a little tree, and candles, and oranges, and shiny balls, and beautiful things; and we dance around, and sing, and have oh! such a happy, happy time. i wish you would stay and see it." "my dear," the judge was now speaking to his wife, "don't you think you could get up a little party for the children to-night? we can't stay until morning, you know. we must go back into the pictures. and the east wind may rise at any hour." [illustration] "judge, i'll step out a moment and speak with the man in the moon. he's out to-night, ruth says, and perhaps we can arrange something. i'll be back very soon." so she walked down the aisle, and passed into the vestibule with all the liveliness of a young dame. "i think this must be the very spot where i used to sit in the meeting." the judge was talking to himself as much as to ruth. "i wonder what they did with the old box pew that belonged to me? how times have changed! but this is very rich and dignified, and satisfies me." as this was said he surveyed the chaste and elegant interior with approving eye. "i am glad to see it. but i wish it had been in my day. there are some ideas that i should like to have embodied in stone on this spot. strange world this." and then he bowed his head in thought again. "i'm going to meet mrs. 'judge,'" said ruth, "unless you will stand up and make a speech to me. do you think you are as good and wise and great as people say? i've heard father tell how you could speak better'n any minister or lawyer in new england. could you? because i'd like to hear you if you could." the judge blushed to hear such praise. "i'm out of practice," he replied. "i believe my voice has lost itself. it's very trying on the vocal organs to hang in a picture for a hundred years or so. but i will say a few words." then the judge walked up into the pulpit, made a very graceful bow, and began to recite psalms. his voice was remarkably rich and sympathetic. he put so much soul into the words that ruth sat perfectly still, a thing she had never been known to do before in all her life. had it not been for the floating about of feathers as she breathed, and drove them hither and thither, she would have appeared like one dead. when the judge finished he came down from the pulpit, and ruth was so overcome that she didn't say one word for as much as a minute and one half. then the spell was broken. mrs. "judge" came hastily in, saying that she was ready to go, and the team had just returned from their run on the bicycles; then they all came out of church, and the organ played, and the bell rang, and the gas fixtures jingled, and when the company was fixed in their closets they continued on the ride. "did you see the man in the moon?" inquired ruth. "oh, yes!" replied mrs. "judge"; "i've made all the arrangements; and when we get back the house will be ready, and we'll wake up the children, and it will be our first real christmas party. i am going to invite only the closets and the children. i want to get the closets all filled up again for once; and then i want to see every one of you children so full of happiness that you'll run over and make other people happy too." [illustration] as they were passing the town hall the judge was again reminded of old times; for that was the very place where he had argued many of his cases, and won some of his greatest victories. "my dear," he said, "i could almost imagine we were set back to the war of , and i was going over to the court house to express my views to our citizens." "it looks as though they'd done something to the building," remarked the lady. "how they change everything these days!" and then they swung down beach lane, and came to the old cemetery. "look at that!" exclaimed ruth. "isn't it fine?" she referred to the thick, solid, stone wall enclosing the grounds, and the beautiful lich-gate that stood over the entrance. "we're right up to the times here," continued the child. "the daughters of the american revolution and some of our ladies did that. we can sit on those stone seats hot summer days, and it's just as cool as cool can be. and it's such a nice place to play 'hide-and-seek' behind the grave-stones and the wall among the trees." "now, this is what i love to see," observed the judge. "this shows the true spirit of reverence. i am proud of these good daughters. what did you say they were called? daughters of the american revolution? why, they must all be dead by this time." "oh, no!" explained ruth; "these are their daughter's daughters, you know. and they have such good times. why, mother is going to their meetings a good deal of the time. they talk about the revolution and things, and wear flags and pins, and have refreshments and papers, and elect officers, and get up plays, and go to washington, and keep inviting each other somewhere, and all the while say ever so much about washington's birthday and the fourth of july and the battle of lexington. why, we children know so much about history that it seems sometimes as if we'd lived all through the whole fight, and seen the town burned, and helped drive the british away. don't you think we're smart?" "i shall have to be very careful how i talk about these things, or you will catch me in some mistake, i suppose." the judge looked serious, but there was that funny twinkle in his eyes. "suppose we now drive around the new cemetery, and see if everything is as trim and neat there. we'd like to look at our own graves, and see how things are." "well, i think that's a very unpleasant way to spend christmas eve; and i'm sure that billy and satan and turk will be afraid to go into that place, and so shall i; and you can't see much from the road; so let's drive up to round hill, and watch for santa claus." "oh! just as you please," continued the judge. "this is your circus, not mine." and he smiled indulgently upon ruth. so they turned about on the beach road, and slipped up to round hill. while they were viewing the scenery, the man in the moon winked at mrs. "judge," as much as to say that the house was all ready, and it was time for the party to return. iv. the party with supper for seventeen, and toasts with a toasting-fork. iv. the party with supper for seventeen, and toasts with a toasting-fork. when they returned to the parsonage, billy unhitched himself and opened the front door. the judge and his wife with ruth and the baby hastened into the warm rooms as fast as the feather-bed, the white flannel bag, the blue envelope, and the red paper would permit them. "why, what a change there is here!" exclaimed ruth. "it must be exactly as you used to have it." "yes," replied mrs. "judge"; "i told the man in the moon to make things look natural. this seems really like coming home. i feel very much as i did whenever i drove down to new york, and came back to the dear house. it is so nice to see these beautiful carpets again, and the same chairs and tables and sofas; the very damask curtains i made; my little sewing-stand; the clock right there in its place near my bedroom door; and there is the refrigerator. i always had it stand in my bedroom, you know. that made it very convenient. and i kept all the stores in"-- "me," groaned darkest africa, who still remained in front of the house awaiting the orders of ruth. "yes, in you," continued mrs. "judge"; "and i expect to see you very happy again to-night. i never kept christmas. we didn't approve of such things when i was a child." she was now talking to ruth. "but if they have a christmas-tree in the meeting-house, and the minister thinks it's all right, it must be so. i am really quite glad to get up a party to-night. i shall have it to think about when i go back into the picture. and that reminds me, child, that i want you to come into the parlor very often and speak to me. it's very very lonely staying there day and night, summer and winter, year in and year out. why don't you ask the judge and me to play church with you and the rest of the children some of the times when you come into the parlor?" "why, i never thought of that!" exclaimed ruth. "i'll do it the very next time (which will be sunday, i suppose) that we have church again." by this time they had taken their wraps off and put them up. that is to say, ruth got out of the feather-bed, and had turk carry it up-stairs, while she took the handkerchief and the marble-bag off from the judge, and the postage-stamp and the red crinkly paper off from mrs. "judge," and put these things in her pocket. then they all went into the lady's chamber, and took the baby out of the envelope, laying him on the bed, and covering him with a soap-dish and a hair-brush to keep him warm, for he had gone to sleep. "now we must get ready for the party," said ruth, "and then i'll call the children and dress them. but, dear me! what will you and the judge wear? we've got tired of seeing you in the same clothes all the time. oh, i'll tell you! let's play dress up just as we children do, and then i can fix you out in fine style." "just as you say, child. it's your party, and you can do much as you please. and the truth is that i am pretty tired of wearing the same clothes all these many years. i don't think it makes so much difference to a man. but we women like to have something new once in a while, say once in fifty or seventy-five years." "oh! won't it be fun?" cried ruth. "we'll have 'providence' come in here and show us what he's got in him. you know providence is the big closet in the corner of the betsey-bartram room. come here, providence." this closet ambled into the bedroom, and mrs. "judge" took a silver candlestick with a wax candle in her hand, and stepped into the closet followed by the judge and ruth. what a medley of stuff they found! there were silks and satins of all colors and kinds. there was velvet and calico, lawn and broadcloth, furs and flowers, laces and linens, swallow-tail coats and fancy vests, a waterproof, a riding-habit, bicycle suits, pajamas, flags and bunting, forming an infinite assortment or mixture of everything under the sun in the shape of dry goods. "you don't keep an old-clothes exchange, do you, child?" asked the astonished visitor. "oh, no! these are mother's treasures (that's what she calls them). we get 'em when her ship comes in. it always seems to come in the night. we children have watched for it ever since we lived west and could remember. but the first we know is that mother tells us some day how the ship has come in, and another cargo has been unloaded in providence. then we all make a rush and overhaul the cargo; one thing fits one child, and another thing fits another child, and what doesn't fit we make over, and then we appear in our new outfits. you ought to see us go into church a week or two after a fresh cargo of treasures has been distributed. it's great fun." during this talk ruth was rummaging about in the trunks or on the shelves in search of something becoming to her guests. "i think the judge ought to have something solemn on, don't you?" she said, addressing his wife. "now, this long, black waterproof is the thing. and he can wear samuel's bicycle stockings and shoes. then, here's a broad purple ribbon for a necktie; and i'll put this ermine boa around his neck, for don't judges sometimes wear ermine? doesn't he look cute?" she had helped him on with the things while mrs. "judge" stood by smiling her approval. "i think this green velvet waist and this red silk skirt will look well on you." ruth was speaking to the lady. "then i'll do your hair up with this white lace and these yellow flowers. it's so cold i think you had better wear mittens. i think you ought to have a train to your dress. i'll take some safety-pins, and fasten a few yards of this white satin on behind. doesn't it look elegant? you must have a corsage bouquet." and she twisted up some dry grasses and pink roses, and pinned them to her belt. "and this white gauze veil will add to the effect." so it was spread over the lady's head, and fell in scant folds across her brow. "i shall get into this pink crape," ruth continued, "slip these muffs up my ankles, and take this black fur cape and that lovely, lovely lavender bonnet. i'm going to wear white kid gloves, and have a train of that yellow satin. will you, please, tie this bow of nile-green velvet about my neck? and i must have a veil too. this one with little red spots like the measles all over it will suit me, i guess. there, now, don't i look just too nice for anything?" both the judge and his wife bowed and smiled. "i'll put this black lace one side for the baby when he wakes up. we'll dress him up with that and some tissue paper i've got in my pocket. and now let's go and take a look at the house again." but their talking roused the baby; so they dressed him as ruth had planned, winding the paper and lace about his body as though he were a mummy; and then they started for the parlor, the judge carrying his namesake on one arm and supporting his wife on the other, with ruth dragging on behind, clinging to the right hand of mrs. "judge." at the foot of the stairs ruth proposed that she go and call all the children. for at this late hour they had gone to bed. but the visitors thought it better to wait. "we must ask a few questions and find out what the children want for christmas," said mrs. "judge." so they passed into the parlor, and sat down on the grecian sofa. a soft, gentle light fell from the astral lamp and the wax candles on the mantle-piece. the wood fire on the hearth, the heavy damask curtains at the windows, the rich mahogany furniture scattered about through the room, the handsome pictures upon the walls, gave the place a very inviting appearance. "now, ruth, we're going to put something in each child's stocking." mrs. "judge" was speaking. "it seems to me a foolish custom, but now that you all do it we will follow suit. tell us what to get." "father says there's a difference between what we want and what we need. we want a great many things, but we need only a few." "that's sound talk," observed the judge. "your father must be quite a man." "oh!" was the reply, "he weighs almost a hundred and ninety pounds. i heard mother tell the teacher the other day that she thought i lacked capacity. i don't get along in school at all. there are so many things to do besides study that it takes all my time. i think mother would be pleased if you gave me something of the kind. that's what i need i suppose. but what i want is to know about everything. that's why i ask so many questions and tease to go all the time. i'm trying to find out things for myself. how should i learn how old a girl or a lady is if i didn't ask? and what's my tongue for if it isn't to use in talking?" "to be sure," replied mrs. "judge." "but i used my tongue for eating too, until i got into the picture. i think it's almost a hundred years since i had anything to eat." "mercy! aren't you hungry?" exclaimed ruth. "but you don't look thin, and you certainly don't grow old. i've heard folks say so when they looked at your picture. 'why, how nice and fresh and lifelike they seem.' that's what our visitors say when we take them into the parlor to see the portraits. but, dear me, we shall never get through the list if i keep on talking. i can't help talking. i seem made for it. i've heard father say that several of his family were deaf, but none of 'em were ever dumb." the judge and his wife appeared quite interested in this lively flow of speech on the part of the child, so they nodded their heads with encouragement, and ruth continued. "now, there's helen, she's always talking about writing a book. i think she wants to write a book above all things. you might give her the book she is going to write. but what she really needs is curls. that straight black hair makes her look horrid. i wish you'd bring her a whole lot of curls. isn't it queer that we can't have a baby with curls? we've had a regular cry over it more than once. not a single curl in all the fifteen. every hair of our heads as straight as a string. don't you think you'd better write the things down as i tell them to you? but then you've got such an awful memory i suppose you can remember everything. now, there's samuel. you tell him two things and father says he's sure to forget three. mother says if his memory was as good as his forgetery, he'd make something remarkable." "i think if you will lend me a piece of paper,--that red crinkly stuff that the baby has on,--and a stick of candy or a poker, i will write down the articles you mention." it was the judge speaking. "why don't you take the quill and the paper that you hold in the portrait, and use them?" inquired ruth. "to be sure!" exclaimed the judge. "what a bright girl you are!" "father doesn't think so. i don't know how many times he's said to me when i've done something queer, 'ruth, you don't seem to have any sense.' susie said one day, 'well, i'll give her my two cents.' and she did, and i spent it for candy. father would be so pleased if you gave me some sense for a christmas present, i know." the visitors smiled as the child prattled, and let her continue without interruption. "i know what samuel wants. i know a lot of things he wants. mother says he always wants to go home with the girls. but you couldn't call that a present, could you? oh! i know one thing he wants very much. whenever he tries to race with any of the boys, and he comes out a long way behind, he says he wants wind. just put that down, please. but i think the thing he needs most of anything is courtesy. at least father keeps talking to him about it. if you would bring a big lot of it i'm sure we'd all be pleased. it must be something very nice, for father says something about it every day of his life." the judge nodded his head, and wrote with his quill upon the sheet of paper. "theodora is always wanting clothes. she's never had enough. i don't know how many times we've heard her say she had nothing to wear. and then father says she'd better go to bed. i wonder if she'll have all the clothes she wants in heaven?" neither the judge nor his lady ventured to answer. "what theodora really needs, i think, is a gold spoon. mother says she was certainly born with a gold spoon in her mouth; but the spoon has been lost, for i've never seen it, and it would be such a nice thing to give her one in its place. or, maybe, you could bring her the very one she had when she was born. i should like to see what kind of a spoon it was." so the judge put that down. "it's easy enough to tell what ethel wants. she's always talking about it. she wants some _new_ clothes. she says she's sick to death of second-hand stuff. mother's always having something made over for her or some of the younger girls. we've never seen anything real fresh and new. father says we ought to be thankful to have clothes at all. i suppose we had. what ethel needs is application. her teacher says so, and so does everybody else. she doesn't stick to a thing." "poor child," said the judge. "she'll have a hard time, i fear. i'll see what we can do for her." "now, miriam hasn't any gumption, father says. i wonder what that is? i think that must be the thing she needs the most. she's such a chicken-hearted girl samuel says. and that makes me think what it is miriam always wants. she tells mother, i don't know how many times a day, that she wishes she'd have some spring chicken. you don't know how fond she is of 'em. but they're very high here, you know. and spring chickens enough to go around in such a family as ours would soon ruin us, mother says. but ethel is so fond of them. how she wants 'em! do you think you could fill her up for once?" "why, spring chickens are not in my line of treasures, my child; but i might find something that would take the place of such fowls." "henry says elizabeth's a regular old goose. and samuel calls susie 'duckie.' i wonder if you couldn't help grace. she needs balance, everybody says. i think she's smart enough, but she's a high-flyer. you never can tell what will happen next when she's around. please bring some balance for a present. but what she wants is frederick. he's the boy in the next block. i don't think it's right to think so much of boys unless they're your brothers. elizabeth says her brothers are her bothers. and i think so too." ruth looked very severe. the judge simply continued his writing. "do you think you could bring all of us a very great deal of sweetness of disposition? i've heard so much about that thing that i'm real tired of it; but i know it would please both father and mother, for they have talked about it ever since i can remember. i know a little baby girl down south who is so sweet they call her 'sugar.' samuel says if we named our children as they ought to be named, some of them would be called 'vinegar.' but he's 'funning,' i guess. mother says his bark is always worse than his bite. "now, george needs heart. samuel says george will never die of heart disease, because he hasn't any heart. he has a gun, and elizabeth calls him nimrod. he wants to go to war. but we're afraid he might get shot in the back. but he's a real good boy after all. i should hate to see him going around with a hole in his back." just at this point the judge coughed and looked queer. "henry is crazy about music. he wants a violin, but mother says he needs an ear for music. i should like to know what he'd do with a third ear. would you put it on the top of his head? and he wants to sing; but, dear me, father says he needs a voice. he has voice enough, _i_ think. you can hear him all over town. did you write it down?" ruth looked keenly at the judge as his pen flew with the speed of a snail over the paper. "yes, here it is in white and black." "now, william is an awfully forward boy. he's so forward father says that he's growing round-shouldered. he wants to be president. that's ever since he went to the white house with mother. it was a very cold day, the day he went; and william had his mittens on, and mother couldn't get to him to take 'em off when he shook hands with the president. neighbors say that what he needs is training. but they don't train now as they used to. father says they used to train out here on the green several times a year. i know the best thing you could bring william is a training. and susie, she wants something she hasn't got. i don't think it makes any difference what it is. mother says if she hasn't got it she wants it. and then she snivels when she doesn't get it. i heard some one say the other day that what she needed was a spanking. but i don't think that would be a very nice present, do you?" "well, not for christmas, anyway," whispered mrs. "judge." "there's nathaniel, he always wants to go somewhere. father says that if we lived in beersheba nathaniel would want to move into dan, and when he got into dan he'd be sure to start the next day for beersheba. he needs a good deal of watching, mother says. samuel, elizabeth, helen, henry, and miriam have all got watches; but you see we can't all have them at once. "now, just look at elizabeth. you'd think we all belonged to her, wouldn't you? she wants to _run_ everything. and then she runs so much that mother says she runs down. but father says she needs experience, and then everything will come out all right. if you could bring her that ripe experience that i've heard folks talk about, i think it would make father and mother feel real pleased. "herbert needs backbone. i felt of his back the other day, and i didn't see but that he had just as much bone in it as the rest of the children, but father says not. mother says you can twist him around your little finger. that would be a queer sight, wouldn't it? herbert is always talking about a good time. that's the thing he wants. could you bring something of that sort to him?" "well, my child," answered the judge, "i am thinking about bringing a good time to every one of you. it's such a pleasure to see the old house full of children that i should like to do anything in the world possible to make them happy." when this was said mrs. "judge" beamed an approval, and seemed very happy herself. "but you haven't told us what to give the baby." "dear me, why that's the best of all! but everybody knows what the baby ought to have. i've been a-looking to see if you've brought it along with you. when folks come to see the baby they smile and trot him on the knee and kiss him, and then say, 'i'm so glad you named him for the judge. he was a good, great man. may his mantle fall upon his namesake.' and then they kiss him again and go away. it's your mantle that we expect you to give the baby. but you didn't bring it with you, and i'm so sorry. and it isn't in the picture either. for i've looked there a great many times. i thought maybe it was left in the house, but we never hear anything about it. now you're right here with the baby i thought if you only had it you might give it to him at once. could you send it to him? it must be something very fine. even father talks about it." a tear stole down the cheek of the judge. it was chased by another and a third. he seemed deeply moved. for the judge was human like the rest of folks, even if he did stay a hundred years in a picture. and who does not like to be remembered with such loving words and beautiful praises? can one help feeling kindly and grateful? the judge's voice choked with emotion as he replied to the noble sentiments of the child. it was very hard for him to express himself. "my little ruth," he stooped and looked down into her face with wondrous and pathetic tenderness, "you have done me more good than all that i can do for you. these very words that you have just spoken are more precious to me than all the money in the world." "why, you don't mean it, do you?" interrupted the child. "i was saying what everybody says. i don't know how many times i've heard father say that your memory was a--a--a benediction, that's the word. a very big word for such a little girl as i am; but, dear me! i've heard folks use it so many times about you that i can speak it all right. it must be something very good. why, of course, that's what they call the end of church service. i think it's the very best part of going to meeting. i always feel so happy when they come to the benediction. i think everybody else does too. and now about the mantle. will you send it to the baby?" "why, ruth, i think it must be pretty nearly worn out. only what you say about it, and what you say others say, makes me think that perhaps it might be worth saving, so that i could give it to the baby if folks think best. i'll look it up and talk with my wife, and perhaps i'll give it to the dear little fellow. i wish it were a better mantle, however. i'd like to see him wear one more worthy than mine." "don't you think it's time to call the children?" said ruth. "send turk," replied the judge, with that same funny twinkle in his eye. so ruth took the dog, and ran up-stairs and down-stairs and in the lady's chamber, and wakened the children, telling them to hurry right down to the party. [illustration] they didn't have time to dress much. the boys all put on their trousers and stockings and slippers, and then they wrapped around them whatever was most handy. samuel wore his father's loud, red, double gown. henry pulled on a canvas shooting-jacket. herbert did himself up in a rose blanket. george had on an afghan. nathaniel brought with him a crazy-quilt. william got into his mother's golf-cape. the girls were a little more particular. they put on all their clothes except dresses. then they wound sheets about themselves, and tied their heads up in pillow-cases. when the boys tumbled down-stairs they looked like a lot of escaped lunatics. when the girls came pushing into the parlor they made one think of ghosts. the first thing was a walk around headed by turk and the black cat. you couldn't fancy a more startling procession. then they played games, and sang songs, and told riddles, and looked for a needle in a haystack, and turned the house upside down and inside out. the great event of the party was the supper. mrs. "judge" had told the man in the moon what she wished for the occasion, and while the children were rollicking in the east parlor the clock sounded out the alarm for the feast. the judge carried his namesake on the left arm, while his wife leaned upon his right. ruth still kept hold of the lady's hand. the rest of the company followed in a good deal of disorder, for they were all curious to see what sort of a supper would be given them. when they came into the west parlor or dining-room they saw a long table, but there was nothing on it. the children looked at each other and at the judge and his wife in blank amazement. they expected to sit down to a table laden with all the goodies of the land. but there wasn't even a table-cloth before them. the judge took the head of the table, and his wife sat at the foot with ruth. the baby was put in a clothes-basket, and sat on my lady's work-table by the side of the judge. the other children took the places that were most convenient to them. "where's the feed?" exclaimed ruth. "the what?" replied mrs. "judge" curiously. "why, the things you were going to give us to eat." just then "dublin," the linen closet, came meandering into the room, made a bow, and emptied out a long, white, snowdrop tablecloth. "why, it must be that we're to set the table ourselves," cried ruth, as she started to undo the cloth and shove it along. "here you give that to me, will you?" said samuel, with a tone of authority any commanding officer in the army or navy might envy. then he took one end of it, and elizabeth the other, and they spread it carefully over the table. just then china came rattling into the room with the dishes. it was easy enough for him to get into the room; but it was quite another thing for him to move gracefully about the table, for china, you remember, was thin, long, and rather narrow. but he managed to get to the judge, and drop a plate before him and the baby; and then he twisted around like a snake, and got down to the end of the table, and dropped a plate before mrs. "judge." then he went from one child to another, and banged down a plate before each one of them. after this was done, china stepped back and stood by the side of dublin, near the wall. el dorado came next. he brought the silver, and there was a fine display of it. beautiful knives and forks and spoons for every person in the room, and ever so many little furnishings that helped to brighten the table. how these things rattled and jumped and rang as they were tumbled hither and thither into their rightful places. the children didn't have to move a hand or a finger to put them in order. every knife, fork, spoon, salt-cellar, or other article seemed to know where to go, and got there in less time than one could say "jack robinson." then the silver candlesticks from the mantle jumped over to the table, and took their places with a good deal of brightness and sprightliness. at this point the antique sideboard stepped close up to the table, and rolled seventeen very thin cut-glass goblets upon the board. they made a right merry sound as they jingled out their christmas greetings. "don't let the baby have a goblet!" shouted ruth. "he'd bite a piece right out of it. that's what elizabeth did when she was a baby, mother says. isn't it a wonder she didn't die?" but everybody was watching this extraordinary way of setting the table, so that the child's remark fell unnoticed. there was a most lively and musical ringing of bells at this stage of the table setting. turpentine came dancing into the room. turpentine was the closet in the judge's study that had been used to store the church-bells in. when the last wooden meeting-house had burned they took the old bell, which rang for the last time the sad alarm of fire on the memorable night, and they sent it away to be melted up and made into five hundred little bells. there were dinner-bells and tea-bells and call-bells and sleigh-bells and play-horse bells on lines, and i don't know how many other kinds. nearly all of these had been sold, but thirty or forty remained in the closet. turpentine came into the room playing with these, and rolled one down in front of each person at the table. "how would you like to have the dinner served, ruth?" inquired mrs. "judge." "oh, served of course," she replied. "bells first course," shouted samuel. the older children all snickered. "i think you ought to call turpentine 'bells-ze-bub!'" samuel whispered to helen. "see?" for by this time the children had all come to a familiar footing with their visitors, and they were expressing themselves with a good deal of freedom and having a right good time. the refrigerator entered the room now, and tramping heavily over to mrs. "judge," swung open his door, and flung gracefully upon the table a big dish of half-shells. no sooner were they placed where they belonged than they began to roll about to the different plates, like a lot of marbles, only they seemed to know how to divide themselves up so that every one had a proper share. then the refrigerator dumped out another large dish of something fresh and green; and this stuff sailed along the table, as one sees seaweed float back and forth on the tide. "i know what it is. they grow down by the brook. caresses. aren't they nice and fresh?" "third course, caresses," shouted samuel. and then he bent over and kissed the girl next to his side; the judge kissed the baby, ruth kissed mrs. "judge," and the rest of the children kissed each other. "awful sweet course!" exclaimed henry. "very much of it makes a fellow sick." this was followed by the entrance of the kitchen closet number one. a fine brass kettle popped out upon the table. there was a great rattling and clashing. everybody tried to look into the bottom of it. "that's a pretty kettle of fish," said samuel, who was the first to get a glance at the contents. and sure enough it was; for there were seventeen tin fishes, such as you see floating around after a magnet on some basin of water at christmas time. "look out for bones," cried herbert. "what next?" and then vanity came down-stairs, giggling and simpering, and passed something around. "crimps," said ruth, "hot and steaming, straight from the irons." a very strong odor of scorched hair pervaded the room. "goodness me, what a treat!" exclaimed henry. "give 'em to the girls. they are fond of 'em." kitchen closet number two came hurrying into the room. china rushed forward with bowls which he had borrowed from the bowling-alley; and each bowl was filled with bean porridge hot, bean porridge cold, bean porridge in the pot nine days old. "here comes the spring chicken!" exclaimed herbert, as the refrigerator distributed one spring with chicken attached. "do-nots for old-fashioned boys and girls," wheezed out darkest africa, as he pushed his way into the room. the company was getting pretty large, for all the closets had come. one stood behind each person at the table, and the other forty-three were pressing against each other, trying to see the table and hear the conversation, or do any little waiting upon the merry party. they were all busy eating, talking, drinking, having the best time in all the world. there was an abundance of everything. i don't know what all. but as the courses were brought on the judge and his wife became a little restless. they felt that the east wind was rising. and when the clock struck twelve it was necessary for them to be back in the pictures, whether there was any east wind or not. so there was some confusion, considerable crowding, and a good deal of haste during the latter part of the feast. "i'm afraid the children will get dyspepsia, judge," observed the cautious lady. "the children are eating too fast. the closets are bringing on too many things at a time." "time and tide wait for no man," replied the judge, who had caught the hilarity of the company, and was enjoying every moment of the fun. "i wish to see this board cleared up before we clear out." now, mrs. "judge" was the least bit shocked at such undignified speech on the part of her husband. but she knew he didn't mean any harm. he was only entering into the spirit of the frolic. yet she felt that he ought to set an example of sober conversation, so that they would remember him with the highest respect. the judge, however, had a sense of humor that could not be held altogether in check. "i think we ought to have some toasts," said samuel. "all in favor of the nomination say, 'dickery, dickery dock, the mouse ran up the clock, the clock ran down, the mouse came down, dickery, dickery dock;' and samuel rose to propose the first toast. kitchen closet number three came forward, and put into his hand a nice, big toasting-fork. flourishing this about his head, and hitting henry on the right ear with it, samuel lifted a goblet filled with hot air to his lips, and proposed the health of the judge and his wife. the applause was overwhelming. the children clapped their hands, and lifted their voices on high. the dishes jumped like mad. the bells rang so that you couldn't hear yourself think. the closets creaked and groaned, and slammed their doors, and shook their shelves, until it seemed that they must fall in pieces. the judge gathered his waterproof about him, pulled on his necktie for a moment, cleared his throat, and then responded. "children and closets," he said. the children all rose and bowed, the closets all turned around twice and stood on one corner. "this is in some respects the greatest day of my life." "you mean night, don't you, judge?" interrupted samuel. "oh! i beg pardon, night of my life. correct, my son." he bowed good-naturedly to the critic. "we haven't stayed in those portraits on the east parlor wall for nothing all these years. we've been waiting for such a time as this. i think the east wind is rising, and soon we shall have to go back to our pictures; but i am glad to say that this is the sort of family that i always had in mind when i built this house. it's lonesome to live without children. this is a strange world. i have observed generally that the people who want children don't have them. and the people who have them don't always want them. and the people who know the most about bringing them up are the people who never had any, and never lived in a family of children when they were young. but i really believe that one never gets much out of this world except it comes to him through children. and now i hope that you will be such children that when you grow to be men and women we shall not be ashamed of you. my wife and i expect to stay in the portraits. we shall always be on the watch for you and sometimes in the clock. there isn't anything in the world that would give us such pleasure as to see you children grow and become the best men and women in all the nation. i suppose you have enough boys to make a foot-ball team, and enough girls to drain a common pocket-book and spread it all over your backs; but you are going to make something better than idlers and spendthrifts. some of you will take to one thing, and some to another, but you will all take to the right. i expect to see you filling up the house with nice friends, going off to college, and bringing back good company and great honors. by and by you will all settle in life, and have homes of your own; but we shall keep at home here on the wall, and look for your frequent visits. ruth has made me very happy. i'll tell you how. she has said some of the things to me that people have said to her about me,--kind things, sweet praises, words of happy remembrance. now, i hope that you will live and love in such a true way that when you get into a picture and stay a hundred years, and then step down and out for a little while, people will say just as noble things about you. 'tis sweet to be remembered. and i feel very anxious to do something for all you children. this is the first time we ever kept christmas. we're going to make you some christmas presents. but they shall be put in your stockings." "i'll hang up my hip boots," interrupted samuel. "i'll hang up my golf stockings," exclaimed henry. "i'll hang my trousers; and you, elizabeth, can hang your bicycle bloomers." the judge smiled, and waited a moment, and then continued. "these presents are different from the ordinary gifts you receive. you'll have plenty of candy and dolls and such things. we shall give you things that you can always keep and carry with you. and they will be worth more than money, in case you use them according to directions. and remember that we give them because we have learned to love you, even if we do live in pictures, and that we expect you will honor the house, the people, and the state." the judge swallowed a tear. "we never had boys and girls to go out into the world to make their mark. our two boys," and here the judge's voice was feeble and trembling, and he stopped for a moment and wiped away two or three tears, "our boys were sick, and after quite a good many years they went away forever. children, i want you to fill their places, and more. i expect that you will go out into the world, and do so much good, and serve your country with such zeal and wisdom, that people will by and by come here to see the house, and say, 'this is where samuel and henry, george or herbert, william, nathaniel, or the "little judge" lived, and were brought up.' or 'this was the childhood home of elizabeth, helen, miriam, theodora, grace, ruth, ethel, or susie. i wonder who slept in that room, and if this was the favorite window, and which one of the family planted this shrub or vine or tree, and what was the best-loved play nook,' and all sorts of questions. don't you think it will be nice? and then my wife and i will say, or try to say, or make them understand in some way, that you belonged to us next to belonging to your parents, and that we guarded the house day and night, for you know that in the picture we are always awake; come into the east parlor at any hour of the twenty-four and we always have our eyes open, and we know everything that is going on. we'll make them understand that a part of the love and thanks they feel belongs to us, and we shall be so happy, and when we meet again we shall have so many things to tell each other. now ruth will see to the presents, for we are not educated up to a belief in santa claus. ruth will"--just at this point the clock began to strike twelve. now, the judge and his wife were the most polite, really the best-mannered people in all the world. but that striking of the clock seemed to knock all the manners out of them. the judge sprang from the table quick as a flash, and in his haste turned the clothes-basket with the "little judge" in it bottom side up. mrs. "judge" jumped up as spry as a girl, and ran toward the judge, who grabbed her by the hand, and pushed her hard against the closets in the way, and struggled to get into the hall. [illustration] there was the greatest confusion imaginable in the house. the children were all hitting the dishes, scattering the silver, overturning the goblets, tumbling over the chairs. the closets all made a rush for the door, and jammed themselves so close together that samuel and henry had to raise the front windows, and jump out on the piazza, and climb in at the parlor windows, and the other children followed them pell-mell. there was the greatest noise you ever heard in a house. the clock sounded with terrific strikes. the front door-bell, the dinner-bell, and all the other bells rang an alarm. things in the closets seemed breaking themselves to pieces or going into fits. the piano roared and shrieked like a hurricane. every board and brick and nail and bit of glass, metal, or wood squeaked or rattled. the very carpets shook with dust and fear. and then, as the children caught a glimpse of the judge and his wife back again in the portraits, the clock struck the twelfth stroke, the lights all went out, the children were back in bed, and silence reigned throughout the old mansion. v. stockings filled with music, rainbows, sense, backbone, sunsets, impulses, gold spoon, ideals, sunshine, star, mantle, flowers,--and the like queer stuff. v. stockings filled with music, rainbows, sense, backbone, sunsets, impulses, gold spoon, ideals, sunshine, star, mantle, flowers,--and the like queer stuff. ruth was the only one left awake in the house. and it was very lonesome for her. but she had promised to distribute the presents. mrs. "judge" told her that the man in the moon would bring them at twelve o'clock, and that he would put them in turpentine. ruth didn't like to go into the judge's old study, but that was where she would find turpentine; so she ran and got the baby, who had red hair, and served the purpose of a light, and then she bravely went into the far away part of the parsonage. she took satan, the cat, because his eyes were like coals of fire, and helped to drive away the darkness; and she had turk for company's sake. the baby was soon astride his back, crowing like a good fellow. [illustration] [illustration] when they got into the old study the light shone right through the door that led into turpentine. it frightened ruth. she thought the house might be on fire. but the door swung open of itself; and she and the baby, satan and turk, all entered. the little room was a blaze of glory. she had to put her hands up to her eyes and shade them, because the light was so strong. it all came from a row of packages arranged on the shelves. and such a wonderful, mysterious, lovely sight you never saw. the packages were various shapes and sizes. they were all done up in nothing with greatest care, and each was tied with a narrow piece of something or other. several packages had strings of blue sky around them, ending in curious bows. three packages were tied with real little rainbows. they were beautiful objects. the rest of them had sunsets twisted about them, gorgeous colors streaming from them in all directions. do you wonder that ruth's eyes were dazzled? a singular thing about the packages was, that being done up in nothing, and bound with such tenuous and transparent stuff as blue sky, sunsets, and rainbows, one could see straight through these coverings and fastenings, and gaze upon the beautiful things within. each present had a label of light above it. for instance, there were the shining letters, s,a,m,u,e,l, worked upon the background of darkness over the present for samuel. the letters seemed to hover above the package just as you see light hover above children's heads in some pictures of the old masters. so it was very easy for ruth to pick out the different gifts, and put them where they belonged. there were seventeen of them. one for each child, one for the minister, and one for his wife. "how nice to remember father and mother!" said ruth to the dog, the cat, and the baby. "i never thought of that. now, how shall i carry them?" for she felt that she would like to show them to the judge and his wife. so she raised the window that connected this closet with the parlor, and taking each gift, carried it to the piano, and arranged the whole show where mr. and mrs. "judge" might see it from the pictures. the baby, turk, and satan watched her while she made the change. the parlor was warm; and just as soon as she brought the marvellous presents into the room, every nook and cranny was a perfect splendor of brightness. "dear me!" exclaimed the child, "i must go up-stairs and get some colored glasses or i shall lose my eyesight." she was gone and back again in one minute and thirteen seconds. the green goggles gave her a wise and aged appearance, and she seemed to feel the importance of the occasion. "here are the presents, judge." she was now addressing the pictures. "they are just too sweet for anything. how nice it is that i don't have to undo any of them, but can look right straight through their covers, and see what's in every package!" the judge and his wife were both wide awake, taking in every word that ruth spoke. "now, what is this for samuel? a flower, i do believe. he can wear it in his buttonhole. oh, how sweet and beautiful it is! the house seems full of its sweetness. i love it." ruth bent over to kiss the airy, fragile thing. "why, here's a name under it, and a sentence. did you write it judge?" and the picture seemed to nod as much as to say "yes." "courtesy." "to be worn all one's waking hours. it will make the wearer welcome." the next package was shaped round like a ball. the bow on it was blue sky. "it looks to me like a--what is it you call it, when you look into a mirror? oh! i've got it. it's a reflection. now, that must be for helen. yes, i see her name in fine letters of flame above. h,e,l,e,n. you didn't send the curls, did you?" ruth looked anxiously at mrs. "judge." "i suppose you thought that as helen was going to write a book she needed reflection more than the curls." the third package was long. the thing within was long, and it looked like nothing that one had ever seen. "what can it be?" said ruth to herself. as she took it and felt of it, she found that it was sensitive, yet quite firm. the object was pure white, not a spot or wrinkle on it. the floating label above the package spelled out the letters h,e,r,b,e,r,t. ruth read the name. "that can't be backbone. it's too light for that. and yet how strong it is. how in the world can he ever get that inside of him where it belongs?" the fourth package was about seven inches in length, rather narrow, and larger at one end than the other. "i do believe it's a spoon," shouted ruth. "it must be for theodora. they've found her gold spoon, and sent it to her. and yet it doesn't look like gold. how funny! when i feel of it i don't feel of anything. it isn't so pretty as i thought it would be. it has a kind of dull look. but how much better one feels to hold it." ruth had taken the curious object in her hand, and was putting it up to her lips, and going through various motions with it. "here is some writing. the spoon is marked. what big letters they are! theodora hasn't all those initials. c,o,n,t,e,n,t,m,e,n,t. well, that beats me. but i suppose she'll know what it means." the child now picked up her own present. they all seemed so bright and wonderful that she had forgotten to choose her own first. ruth's package had a great many sides to it. every color imaginable appeared on the surface. it was tied with several little rainbows, and there were ever so many streamers and rosettes upon it. she saw her name above; and she saw some letters printed into the leaves of the flower, for it was a lovely, shining little blossom that was contained within her package. it seemed to her that all the colors of all the rainbows in the sky had been woven into this matchless posey. there were nine leaves to it, and each leaf was made up of half a dozen shades of one or another color. and then on each leaf there was distinctly seen a letter done in diamond embroidery; so that the light which shot forth from such delicate tracery was almost as bright as the sun. one leaf had s, a second e, a third n, a fourth t, a fifth i, a sixth m, a seventh e, an eighth n, and the ninth and last t. ruth spelled it out carefully. s,e,n,t,--here she paused and thought a moment. "why, to be sure!" she exclaimed; "it has a very sweet scent. i think it smells quite as good as samuel's. but i told you, you remember" (she was now addressing the pictures), "that father said i needed sense. i'm afraid he'll say that one 'sent' isn't enough." then she continued her spelling. "i, ment. well, now, isn't that queer? 'i meant.'" she repeated it several times. "i meant cent. were you trying to correct me, judge? when i said sense did i mean (what is it they call it), oh, singular, not plural? everybody says i've got a great deal of imagination, but i lack (father says sense but that isn't what i mean now)--i lack."... and then ruth looked at the flower again; and spelled the word, and spoke it aloud. "'sentiment,' that's it. sentiment. i know what it is. i shall certainly be a poet. they all say so. thank you, dear judge and mrs. 'judge.' i'm going to begin to-morrow and write poetry. i feel as if i could write some now. but i must go through the presents and put them in the children's stockings first." so ruth put down her package of "sentiment," and examined the other gifts. she took the one marked h,e,n,r,y into her hands, and the room was filled with the most heavenly music. the package was the shape of a cylinder. it had a transparent cylinder within it. and this cylinder was written all over with strange characters, exactly as you see or feel on the cylinder of a graphophone. only it didn't seem to be made of anything, and when ruth took the object into her hands it was like holding a pinch of air. it appeared to run of its own accord. ruth was enchanted with the melodies. they made her think of everything good "in the heavens above, and in the earth beneath, and in the waters under the earth." she was so happy that she cried. every tear that she dropped went into the machine, and made the music all the sweeter. then she read the words under the package. "music in the soul;" and she felt as if it were really stealing into her, and as if it were impossible to keep it there, and she must let this music in the soul go in every direction. "isn't this lovely!" she exclaimed. "i never dreamed music in the soul was so sweet. why henry'll be the happiest boy in all the world." ruth then took into her hands a heart-shaped package. it was tied up with a sunset that was gorgeous with a great many shades of red. "i know what's inside that package without looking," she said. although of course she had looked, and seen the form of the present, and noted the colors used in tying it up. "that's a heart; and it's for george. isn't it cunning? why, what a little thing it is? and it's soft. will this make george soft-hearted and tender-hearted and good-hearted? i hope so. it's real nice of you to send it." the next present was for elizabeth. it was circular shape, like a small hoop; some parts of it were light and some dark, some very beautiful and some almost ugly. yet the darkest, ugliest spots upon it were illuminated and glorified by brilliant flashes of what looked like lightning playing around the hoop. when ruth held the object this singular brightness would flame up into her face. it didn't hurt. it fascinated her. she felt like sitting down and watching every change. the words underneath the circle read, "experience is the best teacher." she spelled it out, then her eyes beamed with delight. "it's the very thing that elizabeth needs. i was afraid you couldn't give it to her. i have heard it was hard to pass on experience to other people. now elizabeth can run the house and mother can travel. that will be real jolly." "here is something for susie," cried ruth, as she put down elizabeth's package, and took up the next one. "it's a cup made of--of--of--why, isn't that queer?--made of wishes. this is the first time i ever really saw a wish. now, susie always teases for the wish-bone. and here's a cup made, not of wish-bones, but of wishes. i wonder if she can drink out of it. she's always telling how 'thursday' she is. we're sometimes afraid she'll drink the well dry. why, the cup is full of something. it sparkles. 'a draught of bliss.' that's what it says under the cup. i know what that means. it means to feel as good as one can feel. well, i'm glad she's going to have it. if the cup spills over we'll catch some of the drops. and if she feels good we'll all feel better." thus wisely remarked the child to the pictures. the next package had a dream wrapped up in it. you never saw anything more curious. it was as light as a feather, as bright as a button, as sweet as a rose, as gay as a lark, as true as steel, as deep as the sea, as high as heaven, as wise as an owl, as you like it. it had all the hues of the rainbow. it was as odd as dick's hatband. it went floating against the blue sky. it dipped down into several sunsets as you see swallows dip down or fly up when a storm is coming. it seemed well suited to nathaniel, the humming-bird sort of a boy. and there were the letters in shotted light over against the gloom, n,a,t,h,a,n,i,e,l. "dear little nathaniel," said ruth, as she handled the dream carefully, putting it back in its wrappings of nothing, and tying it up again with blue sky, sunsets, and rainbows all mixed together. "won't he be surprised to see a real dream, and carry it all around town to show folks. and it's a good dream, a nice dream, i know. i can tell by touching it and feeling of it all over." the next package was a large one; and it was for grace, although she was not one of the largest girls. it was shaped like a triangle, and when you took hold of it the thing seemed to stretch bigger and bigger. "what can it be, i wonder," mused ruth. and then looking keenly through the nothing that covered it, she discovered that there were a great many little, charming, luminous objects packed into the package. they were different shapes and colors and sizes. but every one of them was pleasant to the touch, alluring to the eye, and melodious to the ear. whether each one contained a music-box or not, it was impossible to say, but strains of angelic songs kept escaping. it reminded ruth of henry's "music in the soul." underneath the triangular box she read these words: "a fine assortment of generous impulses. warranted pure." the big words she skipped, except the two, generous impulses. she knew them at once, for she had heard her father say a great deal on that subject. "judge, it's very good of you to send these dear, blessed things to grace. i'm perfectly sure she'll divide up and give every one of us as many as we like. i should think there might be a hundred in the box. i'm a-going to climb right up here on the piano and kiss both of you." and she did; and she carried the generous impulses with her when she did it. when ruth jumped down on the floor again she examined miriam's package. it held a star, a real star. the man in the moon brought it down from the sky. "isn't this wonderful beyond anything!" exclaimed the child. "how many times we've said 'twinkle, twinkle little star, how i wonder what you are,' and now here you are." the little, shrewd, cunning fellow sparkled and glistened so that ruth's eyes ached in spite of her green goggles. he seemed a very intelligent creature. he could almost talk. "i heard father say something about plucking the stars from heaven the other day, and then he repeated something about the stars growing cold. this star isn't cold, i know. and there's his name down at the bottom. 'a star of hope.' hope so. now miriam will be proud enough. we shall see her going around with her star. i've heard about babies being born under some star or other. i see now how they could get under. judge, will miriam be a star herself now? do you think she will star it? 'star of hope.' this beats me." ethel's present was next. the package was so bright that it was impossible to tell the shape of it. from every direction the light rayed forth in dazzling brilliancy. "i'm sure it is a box of glory," cried ruth. the writing underneath the shining, beautiful thing said "sunshine." "haven't we been singing 'rise, shine?' how lovely it will be to have ethel go about the house scattering sunshine! what strange stuff it is!" as she said this ruth took a handful of it out of the package and examined it very closely. "it keeps slipping out of the hands and dropping down to the floor or rising up to the wall. dear me! how shall i get it back?" she chased it in ten ways at the same time. "but i can't catch it," she continued; "and see, there is quite as much of it left as there was in my hands and the box before it floated away. oh! won't this be nice on rainy days? we can have the house filled with sunshine, even if it does rain, and the sky is black with clouds. i do think i never saw such elegant, wonderful presents in all my life, and i don't believe any other children in all this world ever got such things as we have for our christmas." the next present was for william. as ruth looked at it she seemed lost in thought. she was studying it out. there wasn't any shape to the thing. the package itself didn't have any shape. it was a beautiful mass of light. yet the longer you looked at it, the more lovely, attractive, and real it appeared. finally it did take a shape; and when you made up your mind that it was round or square or octagonal or irregular or something else, the shapeliness of the thing vanished. "i wonder if it's a thought?" the child said to herself. "i've often thought i'd like to see what a thought looks like. i hear so much about thought and thoughts, that i'm real curious. father told mother the other day that i was a very thoughtful child. if i'm thought_ful_, seems to me i ought to see a good many or feel 'em." then she looked down under the package, and read, "a bundle of i,d,e,a,l,s." "why, i don't see any bundle," she exclaimed. but that moment the mass of light changed into strands of willowy brightness, and she could see there was a neat little bundle of these shining threads. she took the bundle into her hands and pulled out one. this first strand was straight as an arrow, and there suddenly showed itself at the bottom of it a chain of letters. the strand of splendor, in fact, appeared to grow out of these letters. they were m,a,n,l,i,n,e,s,s. the letters were made in quaint forms, and they were indescribably beautiful. ruth pulled out another strand from the bundle. this seemed larger and more solid than the first, and quite as precious. letters soon formed into a chain at the lower end, and these were w,o,r,t,h. she pulled out the third strand. it seemed almost alive, being in constant motion. the chain of letters beneath it was as follows: s,e,r,v,i,c,e. a fourth strand had the letters h,o,n,o,r entwined about one end. and there were many other similar strands. ruth had on her thinking-cap (made of nothing particular, and trimmed with everything in general) all the time that she was examining them. of a sudden the word "ideals" struck her. "i know now what these bright, lovely things are," she cried. "i've heard father preach about them, and he has told us children i think hundreds of times. he says we must all have them, and have the best too. why didn't you think of it before? judge, you're just as good as you can be." ruth was talking to the pictures. "father and mother will be very thankful that you have brought all these into the family. i know what an ideal is. it's what you want to be, and try to be. haven't i heard samuel and elizabeth and the older ones talk about high ideals?" as she spoke she shook the radiant little bundle, and saw all sorts of great, noble men and fine, lovely women spring right out of the brightness, taking form before her face and eyes. "i do declare that looks like william." she was gazing at one of the tiny, luminous faces that appeared against the shadows. "we shall all pop into the light like that, i expect. that must be what father calls attaining one's ideal. isn't it grand? yes, there come the other children. one springs out of one ideal, and another out of another. it's just like a fairy tale. but i never dreamed what curious things ideals were. how rich we shall be?" then ruth gathered the ideals together, and put them back where she found them. the next present was for her mother. it was resting on an air-cushion in a casket of love. it seemed to ruth that the sun and moon and a good many stars had got into that package. it took more rainbows than you can shake a stick at to tie up the package securely, so that nothing could get to it. the present was a crown, and underneath were the words "a mother's jewels." there were fifteen of them, no two alike. the crown was a cloud with a silver lining. ruth took it in her hands, and putting it on her head, felt the light running all down her head and over her face. it wasn't the least bit uncomfortable. but the top of the crown was the most wonderful. all the fifteen jewels studded it, so that, as one wore it, anybody standing by would almost think that the brightest lights in the heavens had been borrowed, and wrought into this head-dress. and each jewel had a name all about it, the letters being made of the very smallest stars that you can find out of doors. the child was too astonished and delighted to talk as she examined this gift. she put it back in its casket without one word. it took her breath away, so that she couldn't say anything. by the side of this package was one for her father. she was glad to turn to it, for it was not so splendid and marvellous that it dumfounded her. his package had a bottle in it. "i believe it's made of forget-me-nots," said ruth. she took it into her hands, and found it was woven like basket work, a sort of wicker bottle. only the stems of the plants were so intertwisted that the blossoms all came to the outside. but both stems and blossoms were perfectly transparent, so you could see straight through into the inside. "e,s,s,e,n,c,e of c,h,e,e,r,f,u,l,n,e,s,s. to be taken eternally." this was written beneath, and ruth spelled the two big words slowly. "i know what that means," she continued. "the judge is going to give father some more sense. for essence, of course, is only another kind of sense. oh! i forgot the essence man. he brings us peppermint and vanilla and cologne. we season things, and make ourselves smell good. now, that's what you've sent to father, isn't it? essence of cheerfulness. you want him to season things with cheerfulness, don't you, and make himself and all the rest of us fragrant? and he'll do it. he's always saying that we ought to be cheerful. but what kind of stuff is it?" and ruth tipped up the bottle to taste of its contents. she smacked her lips and beamed with delight. "i do believe it's a spirit. father says, you can't see spirit but you can feel it. i can't see anything but light in that bottle, but i can feel something all through me. i must dance a little, i feel so good. oh, dear me! that's the way people sometimes act when they've drunk from bad bottles. but i can't help it." she caught her skirts in each hand, and airily waltzed up and down the room. "i must see if the mantle is here," she suddenly exclaimed. "how strange that i've just thought of it!" and then she stopped to look at the baby's present. "it can't be that the judge's mantle would go into such a little package as that." so ruth remarked as she took the tiny thing in hand. it was tied with the most brilliant sunset that eyes ever saw. the streamers attached to the bow were much bigger than the package itself. when ruth undid it, and held the singular object before her eyes, it seemed to grow large and long. it was truly the judge's mantle. as she shook it out, and let its folds drop down to the floor, the pictures fairly beamed with glory. "silver threads among the gold," exclaimed the child, as the beauteous garment flashed its splendors into her eyes. for the warp was the pure gold of character, while the woof was the fine silver of influence. and they were woven into a fabric of surpassing richness. then this matchless weaving was covered with fairest embroidery. every color that imagination ever conceived appeared upon the garment. there was the white light of truth, the red of sacrifice, the purple of royalty, the greens of fresh life, the pink of propriety, the red that you see in a green blackberry, the blue of a minister's monday, and true blue, auburn from a child's head, hazel from a child's eyes, black as thunder cloud, pale as death, the lemon of lemon ice, orange from orangeade, and a great many others. and these colors were worked into words, flowers of rhetoric, scenes indeed, pictures of love, kindness, wisdom, and peace. it was also adorned with quite a number of gems of poetry, and it had a pearl of great price to fasten it at the throat. the first thing which ruth did was to try it on, but it dragged on the floor. it occurred to her that the baby must wait until he was grown up before it fitted him. still, she tried it on the baby. no sooner did she wrap it around him than it seemed to shrink to his size. "why, we can use it for a winter coat," she said. and the "little judge," who had fallen asleep before the fire, where he had crawled with turk and the cat, cooed and laughed when the mantle was wrapped about him, seeming to feel that it was the very thing that would make him happy and comfortable. all the time that ruth was handling the magic thing, it continued to throw off little points of light and countless mites of color, and these settled down on the furniture and carpet and the curtains and the walls and the ceiling, until the room was like a palace studded with twinkling, shifting, radiant stars; and every present on the piano was shining and scattering light, the air being filled with music, and ruth was wild with delight and excitement. [illustration] the next thing was to carry the gifts to the stockings where they belonged. wherever she went, there was the brightness of noonday, so she never had a fear. even the closet with the skeleton in it did not make her tremble. beginning with father and mother, she visited every stocking, and put each gift in its proper place; then she carried the baby to bed, and left turk and satan snuggled up together in front of the fire; and then it seemed to her that she floated away in a sea of light; and then mounting upon the wings of the wind, she suddenly met the sand man who pushed her into the land of nod. the last that she remembered was blue sky, gems of poetry, rainbows, shooting stars, flowers of rhetoric, strains of music, sunsets, closets, stockings, christmas cheer, sunshine, and a great many other things, all standing around the type-writer in her father's study, telling the machine what to say, and begging that everything might be set down in a book and live forever. e. happy day. e. happy day. now, when it grew toward morning ruth awakened first, and what did she do but jump out of bed and feel of her stocking; the thing which she found was a book, and she knew without looking into it that the book told all about the judge and the pictures, the house and the children, and the strange things that had happened on this eventful night. later there was the sound of many voices, scores of "i wish you a merry christmas," went flying through the air, carols burst upon the ear, and a whole host of happy, loving children shifted from one room to another, and finally gathered beneath the pictures of the judge and his lady. did the good man lift his hands in benediction? did he beam with the joy of the christ-life? the light was rather dim in the parlor, for it was early in the morning. but the children were constantly turning their eyes to the portraits. it seemed to them that new life throbbed within their souls, that grand purposes had been awakened, that charity and tenderness, the love of god and the love of one another, were moving to all kinds of well-doing. they felt as never before that they were living in the home of this great, good man, and that they must go forth into the world as his manly and womanly representatives. peace not only filled the house, but it rested upon them. it was the most joyful day of all the years. never a quarrel darkened a heart. never a harsh word fell from any lips. never a mean thought rose in their breasts. it was real christmas cheer. and i believe that every child of them was made richer by the blessed presence (presents) of the judge and his lady. * * * * * transcriber's note: repeated chapter titles were retained as some were laid out differently than at the chapter itself. page , "clause" changed to "claus" (as santa claus) page , "to" changed to "too" (think so too) page , "bookcase" changed to "book-case" to match rest of usage in text (a low book-case beneath) page , extraneous quotation mark removed before (i'll call 'greece') page , "surpressed" changed to "suppressed" (with suppressed excitement) page , "everthing" changed to "everything" (everything under the sun) page , single closing quotation mark changed to double (and use them?") page , closing quotation mark added (it means.") page , closing quotation mark added (is!" as she said this) generously made available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/bessieherfriends math bessie and her friends * * * * * * _books by joanna h. mathews._ i. the bessie books. vols. in a box. $ . . ii. the flowerets. a series of stories on the commandments. vols. in a box. $ . . iii. little sunbeams. vols. in a box. $ . . iv. kitty and lulu books. vols. in a box. $ . . v. miss ashton's girls. vols. in a neat box. $ . . vi. haps and mishaps. vols. $ . . _by julia a. mathews._ i. dare to do right series. vols. in a box. $ . . ii. drayton hall stories. illustrative of the beatitudes. vols. in a box. $ . . iii. the golden ladder series. stories illustrative of the lord's prayer. vols. $ . . robert carter and brothers, _new york_. * * * * * * [illustration: bessie's friends. frontis.] [illustration: decoration] bessie and her friends. by joanna h. mathews, author of "bessie at the seaside," "bessie in the city," &c. "_speak not evil one of another._" "_bear ye one another's burdens._" new york: robert carter & brothers, broadway. entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by robert carter and brothers, in the clerk's office of the district court of the united states for the southern district of new york. to _my sister bella_, whose loving consideration _has lightened the "burden" of many an otherwise weary hour_. _contents._ page _i. jennie's home_ _ii. the police-sergeant's story_ _iii. little pitchers_ _iv. papa's story_ _v. light through the clouds_ _vi. uncle ruthven_ _vii. an unexpected visitor_ _viii. franky_ _ix. bear ye one another's burdens_ _x. two surprises_ _xi. blind willie_ _xii. maggie's book_ _xiii. disappointment_ _xiv. aunt patty_ _xv. willie's visit_ _xvi. willie's recovery_ [illustration: beginning of book] _bessie and her friends_. i. _jennie's home._ "morher," said little jennie richards, "isn't it 'most time for farher to be home?" "almost time, jennie," answered mrs. richards, looking up from the face of the baby upon her lap to the clock upon the mantel-piece. a very pale, tiny face it was; so tiny that sergeant richards used to say he had to look twice to be sure there was any face there; and that of the mother which bent above it was almost as pale,--sick, anxious, and worn; but it brightened, as she answered jennie. "it is five minutes before six; he will be here very soon now." away ran jennie to the corner, where stood a cane-seated rocking-chair, and after a good deal of pushing and pulling, succeeded in drawing it up in front of the stove; then to a closet, from which she brought a pair of carpet slippers, which were placed before the chair. "i wish i was big enough to reach farher's coat and put it over his chair, like you used to, morher." "that will come by and by, jennie." "but long before i am so big, you'll be quite well, morher." "i hope so, dear, if god pleases. it's a long, long while to sit here helpless, able to do nothing but tend poor baby, and see my dear little daughter at the work her mother ought to do." "oh, morher, just as if i did not like to work! i don't like 'e reason why i have to do it, but it's right nice to work for you and farher. and i wouldn't like to be lazy, so i hope i will always have plenty to do." "dear child," said mrs. richards, with a sigh, "you're like enough to see that wish granted." "'at's good," said jennie, cheerfully, taking her mother's words in quite a different spirit from that in which they were spoken; "it's so nice to be busy." and indeed it would appear that this small maiden--small even for her six years--did think so; for as she talked she was trotting about the room, busying herself with arranging half a dozen trifles, which her quick eye spied out, and which, according to her way of thinking, were not just in proper order. first, the hearth, on which no spot or speck was to be seen, must be brushed up anew; next, the corner of the table-cloth was to be twitched into place, and a knife laid more exactly into straight line; then a ball, belonging to one of the younger children, was picked up and put in the toy-basket, with the reminder to little tommy that father was coming, and the room must be kept in good order. one would have thought it was already as neat as hands could make it. plain enough it was, certainly, but thoroughly comfortable. the carpet, though somewhat worn, and pieced in more than one place, was well swept and tidy, and the stove and the kettle which sang merrily upon its top were polished till they shone. the table in the centre of the room was ready set for tea, and, though it held no silver or cut glass, the most dainty lady or gentleman in the land need not have hesitated to take a meal from its white cloth and spotless delf ware. the only pieces of furniture which looked as if they had ever cost much were a large mahogany table with carved feet, which stood between the windows, and a bookcase of the same wood at the side of the fireplace; but both of these were old-fashioned, and although they might be worth much to their owners, would have brought little if offered for sale. not a speck of dust, however, was to be seen upon them or the rest of the furniture, which was of stained pine; while at the side of mrs. richards' arm-chair stood the baby's wicker cradle, covered with a gay patchwork spread. and that tiny quilt was the pride and delight of jennie's heart; for had she not put it all together with her own small fingers? after which, good mrs. granby, who lived up-stairs, had quilted and lined it for her. on the other side of the mother, sat, in a low chair, a boy about nine years old. his hands were folded helplessly together, and his pale face wore a sad, patient, waiting look, as if something were coming upon him which he knew he must bear without a struggle. one looking closer into his eyes might notice a dull film overspreading them, for willie richards was nearly blind, would be quite blind in a few weeks, the doctors said. between jennie and the baby came three little boys, sturdy, healthy children, always clamoring for bread and butter, and frequent calls for bread and butter were becoming a serious matter in the policeman's household; for provisions were high, and it was not as easy to feed eight mouths as it had been to feed four. this year, too, there had been severe sickness in the family, bringing great expenses with it, and how the wants of the coming winter were to be provided for, sergeant richards could hardly tell. with the early spring had come scarlet fever. the younger children had gone through it lightly, jennie escaping altogether; but poor willie had been nigh to death, and the terrible disease had left its mark in the blindness which was creeping upon him. then, watching her boy at night, mrs. richards had taken cold which had settled in her limbs, and all through the summer months she had lain helpless, unable even to lift her hand. and what a faithful little nurse jennie had been to her! then two months ago the baby sister was born, whose coming jennie had hailed with such delight, but whose short life had so far been all pain and suffering. the mother was better now, able to sit all day in the cushioned chair, where the strong arms of her husband would place her in the morning. but there she remained a prisoner, unable to move a step or even to stand, though she could so far use her hands as to tend her baby. but mrs. richards had not felt quite discouraged until to-day. now a fresh trouble had come, and she felt as if it were the last drop in the cup already too full. the children knew nothing of this, however, and if mother's face was sadder than usual, they thought it was the old racking pain in her bones. the three little boys were at the window, their chubby faces pressed against the glass, peering out into the darkness for the first glimpse of father. his duty had kept him from home all day, and wife and children were more than usually impatient for his coming. it was a small, two-story, wooden house, standing back from the street, with a courtyard in front, in the corner of which grew an old butternut tree. it bore but few nuts in these latter days, to be sure, but it gave a fine shade in the summer, and the young occupants of the house took great pride and comfort in it. the branches were almost bare now, however, and the wind, which now and then came sighing up the street, would strip off some of the leaves which still remained, and scatter them over the porch or fling them against the window. "you couldn't do wi'out me very well; could you, morher?" said jennie, as she straightened the corner of the rug, "even if good mrs. granby does come and do all the washing and hard work." "indeed, i could not," answered mrs. richards. "my jennie has been hands and feet to her mother for the last six months." "and now she's eyes to willie," said the blind boy. "and eyes to willie," repeated his mother, tenderly laying her hand on his head. "and tongue to tommy," added willie, with a smile. jennie laughed merrily; but as she was about to answer, the click of the gate was heard, and with shouts of "he's coming!" from charlie, "poppy, poppy!" from the younger boy, and a confused jargon from tommy, which no one but jennie could understand, the whole three tumbled down from the window and rushed to the door. a moment later it opened, and a tall, straight figure in a policeman's uniform appeared. "halloa, you chaps!" said a cheery voice. "suppose two or three dozen of you get out of the way and let me shut the door; it won't do to keep a draught on mother." he contrived to close the door, but as for getting farther with three pair of fat arms clasping his legs, that was quite impossible. the father laughed, threw his cap upon a chair, and catching up first one and then another of his captors, tossed them by turns in the air, gave each a hearty kiss, and set him on his feet again. "there, gentlemen, now let me get to mother, if you please. well, mary, how has it gone to-day? poorly, eh?" as he saw that in spite of the smile which welcomed him, her cheek was paler and her eye sadder than they had been when he left her in the morning. "the pain is no worse, dear,--rather better maybe," she answered; but her lip quivered as she spoke. "then that monstrous baby of yours has been worrying you. i am just going to sell her to the first man who will give sixpence for her." "no, no, no!" rose from a chorus of young voices, with, "she didn't worry scarcely any to-day, farher," from jennie, as she lifted her face for his kiss. willie's turn came next, as rising from his chair with his hand outstretched, he made a step forward and reached his father's side. one eye was quite dark, but through the thick mist which was over the other, he could faintly distinguish the tall, square figure, though, except for the voice and the sounds of welcome, he could not have told if it were his father or a stranger standing there. then began the grand amusement of the evening. mr. richards pulled down the covering of the cradle, turned over the pillow, looked under the table, peeped into the sugar-bowl, pepper-pot, and stove, and at last pretended to be much astonished to discover the baby upon its mother's lap, after which the hunt was carried on in search of a place big enough to kiss. this performance was gone through with every night, but never lost its relish, being always considered a capital joke, and was received with shouts of laughter and great clapping of hands. "father," said jennie, when mr. richards was seated in the rocking-chair, with a boy on each knee, "we have a great surprise for your supper to-night." if jennie did not resemble her father in size, she certainly did in feature. in both there were the same clear, honest gray eyes, the same crisp, short curls, the same ruddy cheeks and full red lips, the same look of kindly good-nature, with something of a spirit of fun and mischief sparkling through it. "you have; have you?" he answered. "well, i suppose you know it takes a deal to surprise a member of police. we see too many queer folks and queer doings to be easy surprised. if you were to tell me you were going to turn a bad, lazy girl, i might be surprised, but i don't know as much short of that would do it." jennie shook her head with a very knowing look at her mother, and just then the door opened again and a head was put within. "oh, you're home, be you, sergeant richards?" said the owner of the head. "all right; your supper will be ready in a jiffy. come along, jennie." with this the head disappeared, and jennie, obeying orders, followed. in five minutes they both returned, the head this time bringing the rest of the person with it, carrying a tray. jennie held in her hands a covered dish, which she set upon the edge of the table with an air of great triumph. she was not tall enough to put it in the proper spot before her father's place; but she would by no means suffer him to help her, although he offered to do so. no, it must wait till mrs. granby had emptied the tray, and could take it from her hands. what the policeman's family would have done at this time without mrs. granby would be hard to tell. although a neighbor, she had been almost a stranger to them till the time of willie's illness, when she had come in to assist in the nursing. from that day she had been a kind and faithful friend. she was a seamstress, and went out to work by the day; but night and morning she came in to see mrs. richards and do what she could to help her, until one evening she had asked mr. richards if she might have a talk with him. the policeman said, "certainly," though he was rather surprised, for mrs. granby generally talked without waiting for permission. "i guess things ain't going just right with you; be they, sergeant richards?" she began. richards shook his head sadly. "i suppose if it wasn't right, it wouldn't be, mrs. granby; but it's hard to think it with mary lying there, bound hand and foot, my boy growing blind, and the poor little baby more dead than alive; with me away the best part of the day, and nobody but that green irish girl to do a hand's turn for them all, unless yourself or some other kind body looks in. jennie's a wonderful smart child, to be sure; but there's another sore cross, to see her working her young life out, when she ought to be thinking of nothing but her play. and then, how we're going to make both ends meet this year, i don't know." "so i thought," answered mrs. granby; "and it's the same with me about the ends meetin'. now just supposin' we helped one another along a bit. you see they've raised my rent on me, and i can't afford it no way; besides that, my eyes is givin' out,--won't stand sewin' all day like they used to; so i'm not goin' out by the day no more, but just goin' to take in a bit of work and do it as i can. that biddy of yours ain't no good,--a dirty thing that's as like as not to sweep with the wrong end of the broom, and to carry the baby with its head down and heels up. she just worries your wife's life out; and every time she goes lumberin' over the floor, mary is ready to screech with the jar. now you just send her packin', give me the little room up-stairs rent free for this winter, and the use of your fire for my bits of meals, and i'll do all she does and more too,--washin', scrubbin', cookin', and nussin'. you won't have no wages to pay, and though they mayn't come to much, every little tells; and mary and the babies will be a sight more comfortable, and you, too, maybe, if i oughtn't to say it. you're just right, too, about jennie. it goes to my heart to see her begin to put her hand to everything; she's more willin' than she's able. pity everybody wasn't the same; it would make another sort of a world, i guess. what do you say to it? will it do?" do! the policeman thought so indeed, and was only too thankful. but it was a one-sided kind of a bargain, he said, all on their side, and mrs. granby must take some pay for her services. this she refused; she was not going to give them all her time, only part of it, and the room rent free was pay enough. but at last she consented to take her meals with them, though somehow she contrived to add more to the rather slender table than she took from it. now she had a chicken or tender steak for mrs. richards, "it was so cheap she couldn't help buying it, and she had a fancy for a bit herself," but it was always a very small bit that satisfied her; now a few cakes for the children, now a pound of extra nice tea or coffee. "sergeant richards needed something good and hot when he came in from duty, and he never took nothin' stronger, so he ought to have it." from the time that she came to them, mrs. richards began to improve; there was no longer any need to worry over her disorderly house, neglected children, or the loss of comfort to her husband. the baby ceased its endless wailing, and with jennie to keep things trim after they had once been put in order, the whole household put on its old air of cosy neatness. truly she had proved "a friend in need," this cheerful, bustling, kind-hearted little woman. "now you may uncover the dish, farher," said jennie, as having brought a little stand and placed it at her mother's side, she led willie to the table. mr. richards did so. "broiled ham and eggs!" he exclaimed. "why, the breath is 'most taken out of me! i know where the ham came from well enough, for i bought it myself, but i'd like to know who has been buying fresh eggs at eight cents apiece." "no, sergeant richards, you needn't look at me that way," said mrs. granby, holding up the tea-pot in one hand; "i ain't been doin' no such expenses. i brought them home, to be sure; but they was a present, not to me neither, but to your wife here. here's another of 'em for her, boiled to a turn too. fried eggs ain't good for sick folks. 'twasn't my doin' that you got some with your ham neither; i wanted to keep 'em for her eatin', but she said you was so fond of 'em, and she coaxed me into it. she does set such a heap by you, she thinks nothin' ain't too good for you. not that i blame her. i often says there ain't a better husband and father to be found than sergeant richards, look the city through; and you do deserve the best, that's a fact, if it was gold and diamonds; not that you wouldn't have a better use for them than to eat 'em; diamonds fetches a heap, they tell me, but never havin' had none of my own, i can't rightly tell of my own showin'. come, eat while it's hot. i'll see to your wife. no, thank you, none for me. i couldn't eat a mouthful if you was to pay me for it. don't give the little ones none, 'taint good for 'em goin' to bed. jennie might have a bit, she's been stirrin' round so all day, and willie, too, dear boy." mrs. granby's voice always took a tenderer tone when she spoke of willie. "well, i'll just tell you how i come by them eggs. this afternoon i took home some work to an old lady, a new customer mrs. howard recommended me to. when i was let in, there she stood in the hall, talkin' to a woman what had been sellin' fresh eggs to her. there they was, two or three dozen of 'em, piled up, lookin' so fresh and white and nice, enough to make your mouth water when you looked at 'em and thought what a deal of nourishment was in 'em. so when the lady was through with the woman, says i, 'if you'll excuse the liberty, ma'am, in your house and your presence, i'd just like to take a couple of eggs from this woman before she goes.' "'certainly,' says the lady, but the woman says, 'i can't spare no more, there's only a dozen left, and i've promised them to another lady;' and off she goes. well, me and the old lady settles about the work, and she tells me she'll have more in a month's time, and then she says, 'you was disappointed about the eggs?' "'yes, ma'am,' says i. "so, thinkin', i s'pose, 'twasn't for a poor seamstress like me to be so extravagant, she says, 'eggs are high this season,--eight cents apiece.' "i didn't want to be settin' myself up, but i wasn't goin' to have her take no false notions about me, so i says, 'yes, ma'am, but when a body's sick, and ain't no appetite to eat only what one forces one's self to, i don't think it no sin to spend a bit for a nice nourishin' mouthful.' "and she says, very gentle, 'are you sick?' "'not i, ma'am,' says i, 'but a friend of mine. bad with the rheumatics these six months, and she's a mite of an ailin' baby, and don't fancy nothin' to eat unless it's somethin' delicate and fancy, so i just took a notion i'd get a couple of them eggs for her.' "and she says, 'i see you have a basket there, just let me give you half a dozen of these for your friend.' i never thought of such a thing, and i was took all aback, and i said would she please take it out of the work. i couldn't think of takin' it in the way of charity, and she says, 'if i were ill, and you had any little dainty you thought i might like, would you think it charity to offer it to me?' "'no, ma'am,' says i; 'but then there's a difference.' "'i see none in that way,' she said; 'we are all god's children. to one he gives more than to another, but he means that we shall help each other as we find opportunity, and i wish you to take this little gift for your friend as readily as you would offer it to me if i were in like need.' now wasn't that pretty? a real lady, every inch of her. and with her own hands she laid half a dozen eggs in the basket. she was askin' some more questions about my sick friend, when somebody pulls the door-bell as furious, and when it was opened, there was a servant-gal lookin' as scared as anything, and she tells the old lady her little granddaughter was lost, and couldn't be found nowhere, and was she here, and did they know anything about her? well, they didn't know nothin', and the old lady said she'd be round right away, and she herself looked scared ready to drop, and i see she hadn't no more thought for me nor my belongin's, nor couldn't be expected to, so i just takes my leave. and when i come home and shows mary the eggs, nothin' would do but you must have a couple cooked with your ham for supper." all the time mrs. granby had been telling her story, she was pouring out tea, waiting on mrs. richards, spreading bread and butter for the children, and now having talked herself out of breath, she paused. at the last part of the story, the police-sergeant laid down his knife and fork, and looked up at her. "what is your lady's name?" he asked. "mrs. stanton," answered mrs. granby. "and who is the child that was lost?" "i don't know, only a granddaughter; i don't know if it's the same name. why, have you seen the child?" "i can't tell if it's the same," answered richards, "but i've got a story for you to-night. i have been thinking all the afternoon i had a treat for jennie." "is it a duty story, farher?" asked his little daughter. "yes, it is a duty story." "oh, that's good!" whenever her father had a story to tell of anything which had happened to him during his daily duties, jennie always called it a "duty story," and she was very eager for such anecdotes. [illustration: decoration, end of chap. ] [illustration: title decoration, chap. ] ii. _the police-sergeant's story._ tea was over, the dishes neatly washed and put away by mrs. granby and jennie, the three little boys snugly tucked in their cribs up-stairs, the baby lying quiet in its cradle, and mrs. granby seated at the corner of the table with her sewing. jennie sat upon her father's knee, and willie in his usual seat at his mother's side, and the policeman began his story. "it might have been about two o'clock when, as i was at my desk, making out a report, policeman neal came in with a lost child in his arms, as pretty a little thing as ever i saw, for all she did look as if she had been having rather a hard time of it,--a gentleman's child and a mother's darling, used to be well cared for, as was easy to be seen by her nice white frock with blue ribbons, and her dainty shoes and stockings. but i think her mother's heart would have ached if she had seen her then. she had lost her hat, and the wind had tossed up her curls, her cheeks were pale and streaked with tears, and her big brown eyes had a pitiful look in them that would have softened a tiger, let alone a man that had half a dozen little ones of his own at home; while every now and then the great heavy sighs came struggling up, as if she had almost cried her heart out. "when neal brought her in, she looked round as if she expected to see some one, and so it seems she did; for he put her on thinking she'd find some of her own folks waiting for her. and when she saw there was no one there, such a disappointed look as came over her face, and her lip shook, and she clasped both little hands over her throat, as if to keep back the sobs from breaking out again. a many lost children i've seen, but never one who touched me like her. "well, neal told where he'd found her, and a good way she'd wandered from her home, as we found afterwards, and how she said her name was brightfort, which was as near as he'd come to it; for she had a crooked little tongue, though a sweet one. i looked in the directory, but no name like that could i find. then neal was going to put her down and go back to his beat, but she clung fast to him and began to cry again. you see, she'd kind of made friends with him, and she didn't fancy being left with strange faces again. so i just took her from him, and coaxed her up a bit, and told her i'd show her the telegraph sending off a message how she was there. i put her on the desk, close to me, while i set the wires to work; and as sure as you live, what did i hear that minute but her saying a bit of a prayer. she didn't mean any one to hear but him she was speaking to, but i caught every word; for you see my head was bent over near to hers. and i'll never forget it, not if i live to be a hundred, no, nor the way it made me feel. 'dear father in heaven,' she said, 'please let my own home father come and find me very soon, 'cause i'm so tired, and i want my own mamma; and don't let those naughty boys hurt my flossy, but let papa find him too.' i hadn't felt so chirk as i might all day, and it just went to the soft place in my heart; and it gave me a lesson, too, that i sha'n't forget in a hurry." mr. richards stopped and cleared his throat, and his wife took up the corner of her shawl and wiped her eyes. "bless her!" said mrs. granby, winking hers very hard. "ay, bless her, i say, too," continued the policeman. "it was as pretty a bit of faith and trust as ever i saw; and after it she seemed some comforted, and sat quiet, watching the working of the wires, as if she was quite sure the one she'd looked to would bring her help. well, i carried her round and showed her all there was to see, which wasn't much, and then i set her to talking, to see if i could find out where she belonged. i saw she'd been confused and worried before neal brought her in, and i thought like enough she'd forgotten. so, after some coaxing and letting her tell her story in her own way,--how her dog ran away and she ran after him, and so got lost, she suddenly remembered the name and number of the street where she lived. with that she broke down again, and began to cry and sob out, she did want to go home so much. "i was just sending out to see if she was right, when up dashes a carriage to the door, and out gets a gentleman on crutches. the moment the little one set eyes on him, she screams out as joyful as you please, 'oh, it's my soldier, it's my soldier!' "talk of an april day! you never saw anything like the way the sunlight broke through the clouds on her face. the moment he was inside the door, she fairly flung herself out of my arms on to his neck; and it was just the prettiest thing in the world to see her joy and love, and how she kissed and hugged him. as for him, he dropped one crutch, and held fast to her, as if for dear life. i knew who he was well enough, for i had seen him before, and found out about him, being in the way of duty. he's an english colonel that lives at the ---- hotel; and they tell wonderful stories about him,--how brave he is, and what a lot of battles he's fought, and how, with just a handful of soldiers, he defended a hospital full of sick men against a great force of them murdering sepoys, and brought every man of them safe off. all sorts of fine things are told about him; and i'm bound they're true; for you can tell by the look of him he's a hero of the right sort. i didn't think the less of him, either, that i saw his eyes mighty shiny as he and the baby held fast to each other. she wasn't his child, though, but mr. bradford's up in ---- street, whom i know all about; and if that crooked little tongue of hers could have said 'r,' which it couldn't, i might have taken her home at once. well, she was all right then, and he carried her off; but first she walked round and made her manners to every man there as polite as you please, looking the daintiest little lady that ever walked on two feet; and when i put her into the carriage, didn't she thank me for letting her into the station, and being kind to her, as if it was a favor i'd been doing, and not my duty; and as if a man could help it that once looked at her. so she was driven away, and i was sorry to lose sight of her, for i don't know as i ever took so to a child that didn't belong to me." "is that all?" asked jennie, as her father paused. "that's all." "how old was she, farher?" "five years old, she said, but she didn't look it. it seemed to me when i first saw her as if she was about your size; but you're bigger than she, though you don't make much show for your six years." "how funny she can't say 'r' when she's five years old!" said jennie. "yes, almost as funny as that my girl of six can't say 'th,'" laughed the sergeant. jennie smiled, colored, and hung her head. "and you thought maybe your lost child was mrs. stanton's granddaughter; did you?" asked mrs. granby. "well, i thought it might be. two children in that way of life ain't likely to be lost the same day in the same neighborhood; and we had no notice of any other but my little friend. you don't know if mrs. stanton has any relations of the name of bradford?" "no; she's 'most a stranger to me, and the scared girl didn't mention no names, only said little bessie was missin'." "that's her then. little bradford's name was bessie; so putting two and two together, i think they're one and the same." they talked a while longer of little bessie and her pretty ways and her friend, the colonel; and then mrs. granby carried willie and jennie off to bed. "now, mary," said richards, going to his wife's side the moment the children were out of hearing, "i know your poor heart has been aching all day to know what the eye-doctor said; but the boy sticks so close to you, and his ears are so quick, that i couldn't do more than whisper 'yes' when i came in, just to let you know it could be done. i was bringing willie home when i met jarvis with a message that i was to go up to the chief on special business, so, as i hadn't a minute to spare, i just had to hand the poor little man over to jarvis, who promised to see him safely in your care. dr. dawson says, mary, that he thinks willie can be cured; but we must wait a while, and he thinks it best that he should not be told until the time comes. the operation cannot be performed till the boy is stronger; and it is best not to attempt it till the blindness is total,--till both eyes are quite dark. meanwhile, he must be fed upon good nourishing food. if we can do this, he thinks in three months, or perhaps four, the child may be able to bear the operation. after that he says we must still be very careful of him, and see that his strength does not run down; and when the spring opens, we must send him away from town, up among the mountains. and that's what your doctor says of you, too, mary; that you won't get well of this dreadful rheumatism till you have a change of air; and that next summer i ought to send you where you will have mountain air. dr. dawson's charge," richards went on more slowly, "will be a hundred dollars,--he says to rich folks it would be three hundred, maybe more. but five thousand is easier come at by a good many people than a hundred is by us. so now we know what the doctor can do, we must make out what we can do. i'm free to say i think willie stands a better chance with dr. dawson than he does elsewhere; but i don't see how we are to raise the money. i'd live on bread and water, or worse, lie on the bare boards and work like a slave, to bring our boy's sight back; but i can't see you suffer; and we have the rest of the flock to think of as well as willie. and i suppose it must bring a deal of expense on us, both before and after the operation; at least, if we follow out the doctor's directions, and he says if we don't, the money and trouble will be worse than thrown away. "the first thing i have to do is to see dr. schwitz, and find out how much we owe him for attending you and the children, off and on, these six months. i've asked him half a dozen times for his bill, but he always said 'no hurry' and he 'could wait;' and since he was so kind, and other things were so pressing, i've just let it go by." when he had spoken of the doctor's hope of curing willie, his wife's pale face had brightened; but as he went on to say what it would cost, her head drooped; and now as he spoke of the other doctor's bill, she covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears and sobs. "why, mary, what is it, dear?" [illustration: bessie's friends. p. ] "oh, tom! tom!" she broke forth, "dr. schwitz sent his bill this morning. a rough-looking man brought it, and he says the doctor must have it the first of the year, and--and--" she could get no farther. the poor woman! it was no wonder; she was sick and weak, and this unlooked-for trouble had quite broken her down. "now, don't, mary, don't be so cast down," said her husband. "we'll see our way out of this yet. the lord hasn't forsaken us." "i don't know," she answered between her sobs, "it 'most seems like it;" and taking up a book which lay upon the table, she drew from between its leaves a folded paper and handed it to him. he was a strong, sturdy man, this police-sergeant, used to terrible sights, and not easily startled or surprised, as he had told his little daughter; but when he opened the paper and looked at it, all the color left his ruddy cheeks, and he sat gazing at it as if he were stunned. there was a moment's silence; then the baby set up its pitiful little cry. mrs. richards lifted it from the cradle. "oh, tom," she said, "if it would please the lord to take baby and me, it would be far better for you. i've been only a burden to you these six months past, and i'm likely to be no better for six months to come, for they say i can't get well till the warm weather comes again. you'd be better without us dear, and it's me that's brought this on you." then the policeman roused himself. "that's the hardest word you've spoken to me these ten years we've been married, mary, woman," he said. "no, i thank the lord again and again that that trouble hasn't come to me yet. what would i do without you, mary, dear? how could i bear it to come home and not find you here,--never again to see you smile when i come in; never to hear you say, 'i'm so glad you've come, tom;' never to get the kiss that puts heart into me after a hard day's work? and the babies,--would you wish them motherless? to be sure, you can't do for them what you once did, but that will all come right yet; and there's the mother's eye to overlook and see that things don't go too far wrong; here's the mother voice and the mother smile for them to turn to. no, no; don't you think you're laid aside for useless yet, dear. as for this wee dolly,"--and the father laid his great hand tenderly on the tiny bundle in its mother's arms,--"why, i think i've come to love her all the more for that she's so feeble and such a care. and what would our jennie do without the little sister that she has such a pride in and lays so many plans for? why, it would break her heart to lose her. no, no, mary, i can bear all things short of that you've spoken of; and do you just pray the lord that he'll not take you at your word, and never hurt me by saying a thing like that again." trying to cheer his wife, the brave-hearted fellow had almost talked himself into cheerfulness again; and mrs. richards looked up through her tears. "and what are we to do, tom?" she asked. "i can't just rightly see my way clear yet," he answered, thoughtfully, rubbing his forehead with his finger; "but one thing is certain, we've got to look all our troubles straight in the face, and to see what we can do. what we _can_ do for ourselves we _must_, then trust the lord for the rest. as i told you, that little soul that was brought up to the station this afternoon gave me a lesson i don't mean to forget in a hurry. there she was, the innocent thing, in the worst trouble i suppose that could come to such a baby,--far from her home and friends, feeling as if she'd lost all she had in the world,--all strange faces about her, and in what was to her a terrible place, and not knowing how she was to get out of it. well, what does she do, the pretty creature, but just catch herself up in the midst of her grieving and say that bit of a prayer? and then she rested quiet and waited. it gave me a sharp prick, i can tell you, and one that i needed. says i to myself, 'tom richards, you haven't half the faith or the courage of this baby.' there had i been all day fretting myself and quarrelling with the lord's doings, because he had brought me into a place where i could not see my way out. i had asked for help, too, or thought i had, and yet there i was, faithless and unbelieving, not willing to wait his time and way to bring it to me. but she, baby as she was, knew in whom she had trusted, and could leave herself in his hands after she had once done all she knew how. it's not the first teaching i've had from a little child, mary, and i don't expect it will be the last; but nothing ever brought me up as straight as that did. thinks i, the lord forgive me, and grant me such a share of trust and patience as is given to this his little one; and then i took heart, and i don't think i've lost it again, if i have had a hard blow i did not look for. i own i was a bit stunned at first; but see you, mary, i am sure this bill is not fair. dr. schwitz has overcharged us for certain; and i don't believe it will stand in law." "but we can't afford to go to law, tom, any more than to pay this sum. four hundred dollars!" "i would not wonder if mr. ray would see me through this," said richards. "he's a good friend to me. i'll see him, anyhow. i never thought dr. schwitz would serve me like this; it's just revenge." "have you offended him?" asked mrs. richards, in surprise. "yes," answered the policeman. "yesterday i had to arrest a nephew of his for robbing his employer. schwitz came to me and begged i'd let him off and pretend he was not to be found, saying he would make it worthwhile to me. i took offence at his trying to bribe me, which was but natural, you will allow, mary, and spoke up pretty sharp. he swore he'd make me pay for it if i touched the lad; but i never thought he would go this far. and to think i have had the handling of so many rogues, and didn't know one when i saw him!" "and willie?" said the poor mother. "ah! that's the worst," answered richards. "i'm afraid we sha'n't be able to have much done for willie this next year; for even if dr. dawson will wait for his pay, there's all the expense that's to come before and after the operation; and i don't see how we are going to manage it." long the good policeman and his wife sat and talked over their troubles; and when kind mrs. granby came back, she was told of them, and her advice asked; but three heads were no better than two in making one dollar do the needful work of ten. [illustration: decoration, end of chap. ] [illustration: title decoration, chap. ] iii. _little pitchers._ three young ladies sat talking over their work in the pleasant bow-window of mrs. stanton's sitting-room, while at a short distance from them two little curly heads bent over the great picture-book which lay upon the table. the eyes in the curly heads were busy with the pictures, the tongues in the curly heads were silent, save when now and then one whispered, "shall i turn over?" or "is not that pretty?" but the ears in the curly heads were wide open to all that was passing in the bow-window; while the three young ladies, thinking that the curly heads were heeding nothing but their own affairs, went on chattering as if those attentive ears were miles away. "annie," said miss carrie hall, "i am sorry to hear of the severe affliction likely to befall your sister, mrs. bradford." "what is that?" asked annie stanton, looking up surprised. "i heard that mrs. lawrence, mr. bradford's aunt patty, was coming to make her a visit." "ah, poor margaret!" said annie stanton, but she laughed as she spoke. "it is indeed a trial, but my sister receives it with becoming submission." "why does mrs. bradford invite her when she always makes herself so disagreeable?" asked miss ellis. "she comes self-invited," replied annie. "margaret did not ask her." "i should think not, considering the circumstances under which they last parted," said carrie hall. "oh, margaret has long since forgotten and forgiven all that," said annie, "and she and mr. bradford have several times endeavored to bring about a reconciliation, inviting aunt patty to visit them, or sending kind messages and other tokens of good-will. the old lady, however, was not to be appeased, and for the last three or four years has held no intercourse with my brother's family. now she suddenly writes, saying she intends to make them a visit." "i should decline it if i were in the place of mr. and mrs. bradford," said carrie. "i fear i should do the same," replied annie, "but margaret and mr. bradford are more forgiving. i am quite sure though that they look upon this visit as a duty to be endured, not a pleasure to be enjoyed, especially as the children are now older, and she will be the more likely to make trouble with them." "i suppose they have quite forgotten her," said carrie. "harry and fred may remember her," answered annie, "but the others were too young to recollect her at this distance of time. bessie was a baby, maggie scarcely three years old." "shall you ever forget the day we stopped at your sister's house on our way home from school, and found mrs. lawrence and nurse having a battle royal over maggie?" asked the laughing carrie. "no, indeed! nurse, with maggie on one arm and bessie on the other, fairly dancing about the room in her efforts to save the former from aunt patty's clutches, both terrified babies screaming at the top of their voices, both old women scolding at the top of theirs; while fred, the monkey, young as he was, stood by, clapping his hands and setting them at each other as if they had been two cats." "and your sister," said carrie, "coming home to be frightened half out of her senses at finding such an uproar in her well-ordered nursery, and poor little maggie stretching out her arms to her with 'patty vip me, patty vip me!'" "and margaret quite unable to quell the storm until brother henry came in and with a few determined words separated the combatants by sending nurse from the room," continued annie, with increasing merriment. "poor mammy! she knew her master's word was not to be disputed, and dared not disobey; but i think she has never quite forgiven him for that, and still looks upon it as hard that when, as she said, she had a chance 'to speak her mind to mrs. lawrence,' she was not allowed to do it." "but what caused the trouble?" asked laura ellis. "oh, some trifling mischief of maggie's, for which auntie undertook to punish her severely. nurse interfered, and where the battle would have stopped, had not henry and margaret arrived, it is difficult to tell." "but surely she did not leave your brother's house in anger for such a little thing as that!" said laura. "indeed, she did; at least, she insisted that maggie should be punished and nurse dismissed. dear old mammy, who nursed every one of us, from ruthven down to myself, and whom mother gave to margaret as a treasure past all price when harry was born,--poor mammy, who considers herself quite as much one of the family as any stanton, duncan, or bradford among us all,--to talk of dismissing her! but nothing less would satisfy aunt patty; and margaret gently claiming the right to correct her own children and govern her own household as she saw fit, and henry firmly upholding his wife, aunt patty departed that very afternoon in a tremendous passion, and has never entered the house since." "greatly to your sister's relief, i should think," said laura. "why, what a very disagreeable inmate she must be, annie! i am sure i pity mrs. bradford and all her family, if they are to undergo another visit from her now." "yes," said annie. "some sudden freak has taken her, and she has written to say that she will be here next month. you may well pity them. such another exacting, meddling, ill-tempered old woman it would be difficult to find. she has long since quarrelled with all her relations; indeed, it was quite wonderful to every one how margaret and her husband bore with her as long as they did. i do not know how the poor children will get on with her. she and fred will clash before she has been in the house a day, while the little ones will be frightened out of their senses by one look of those cold, stern eyes. do you remember, carrie, how, during that last unfortunate visit, maggie used to run and hide her head in her mother's dress the moment she heard aunt patty's step?" "yes, indeed," said carrie. "i suppose she will be here at christmas time too. poor little things! she will destroy half their pleasure." all this and much more to the same purpose fell upon those attentive ears, filling the hearts of the little listeners with astonishment and dismay. it was long since maggie's hand had turned a leaf of the scrap-book, long since she or bessie had given a look or thought to the pictures. there they both sat, motionless, gazing at one another, and drinking in all the foolish talk of those thoughtless young ladies. they meant no harm, these gay girls. not one of them but would have been shocked at the thought that she was poisoning the minds of the dear little children whom they all loved towards the aged relative whom they were bound to reverence and respect. they had not imagined that maggie and bessie were attending to their conversation, and they were only amusing themselves; it was but idle talk. ah, idle talk, idle words, of which each one of us must give account at the last great day! so they sat and chatted away, not thinking of the mischief they might be doing, until, at a question from miss carrie, annie stanton dropped her voice as she answered. still now and then a few words would reach the little ones. "shocking temper"--"poor margaret so uncomfortable"--"mr bradford very much displeased"--"patience quite worn out" until bessie said,-- "aunt annie, if you don't mean us to know what you say, we do hear a little." aunt annie started and colored, then said, hastily "oh, i had almost forgotten you were there. would you not like to go down-stairs, pets, and ask old dinah to bake a little cake for each of you? run then, and if you heard what we were saying, do not think of it. it is nothing for you to trouble your small heads about. i am afraid we have been rather imprudent," she continued uneasily when her little nieces had left the room. "margaret is so particular that her children shall hear nothing like gossip or evil speaking, and i think we have been indulging in both. if maggie and bessie have been listening to what we were saying, they will not have a very pleasant impression of mrs. lawrence. well, there is no use in fretting about it now. what is said cannot be unsaid; and they will soon find out for themselves what the old lady is." yes, what is said cannot be unsaid. each little word, as it is spoken, goes forth on its errand of good or evil, and can never be recalled. perhaps aunt annie would have regretted her thoughtlessness still more if she had seen and heard the little girls as they stood together in the hall. they had no thought of old dinah and the cakes with this important matter to talk over. not think of what they heard, indeed! that was a curious thing for aunt annie to say. she had been right in believing that maggie must have forgotten mrs. lawrence. maggie had done so, but now this conversation had brought the whole scene of the quarrel with nurse to her mind. it all came back to her; but in recollection it appeared far worse than the reality. aunt patty's loud, angry voice seemed sounding in her ears, uttering the most violent threats, and she thought of the old lady herself almost as if she had been some terrible monster, ready to tear in pieces her own poor frightened little self, clinging about nurse's neck. and was it possible that this dreadful old woman was really coming again to their house to make a visit? how could papa and mamma think it best to allow it? such mischief had already been done by idle talk! "maggie," said bessie, "do you remember about that patty woman?" "yes," answered maggie, "i did not remember about her till aunt annie and miss carrie said that, but i do now; and oh, bessie, she's _awful_! i wish, i wish mamma would not let her come. she's the shockingest person you ever saw." "aunt annie said mamma did not want her herself; but she let her come because she thought it was right," said bessie. "i wonder why mamma thinks it is right when she is so cross and tempered," said maggie, with a long sigh. "why, she used to scold even papa and mamma! oh, i remember her so well now. i wish i didn't; i don't like to think about it;" and maggie looked very much distressed. bessie was almost as much troubled, but she put her arm about her sister and said, "never matter, dear maggie, papa and mamma won't let her do anything to us." "but suppose papa and mamma both had to go out and leave us, as they did that day she behaved so," said maggie. "nursey has so many to take care of now, and maybe she'd meddle again,--aunt annie said she was very meddling too,--and try to punish me when i did not do any blame." "jane would help nurse _pertect_ us," said bessie, "and if she couldn't, we'd yun away and hide till papa and mamma came." "she shouldn't do anything to you, bessie. i wouldn't let her do that, anyhow," said maggie, shaking her head, and looking very determined. "how could you help it if she wanted to, maggie?" "i'd say, 'beware, woman!'" said maggie, drawing her eyebrows into a frown, and extending her hand with the forefinger raised in a threatening manner. "oh!" said bessie, "what does that mean?" "i don't quite know," said maggie, slowly, "but it frightens people very much." "it don't frighten me a bit when you say it." "'cause you don't have a guilty conscience; but if you had, you'd be, oh, so afraid!" "how do you know i would?" "i'll tell you," said maggie. "uncle john had a picture paper the other day, and in it was a picture of a woman coming in at the door, and she had her hands up so, and she looked as frightened, as frightened, and a man was standing behind the curtain doing so, and under the picture was 'beware, woman!' i asked uncle john what it meant, and he said that was a wicked woman who was going to steal some papers so she could get some money, and when she came in, she heard somebody say, 'beware, woman,' and she was so frightened she ran away and was never seen again. i asked him to tell me more about it, but he said, 'no, it was a foolish story, not fit for little people.' then i asked him if foolish stories were only fit for big people, but he just laughed and pinched my cheek. but i coaxed him to tell me why the woman was so frightened when the man did nothing but say those two words, and he said it was because she had a guilty conscience, for wicked people feared what good and innocent people did not mind at all. so if that old mrs. patty--i sha'n't call her aunt--don't behave herself to you, bessie, i'll just try it." "do you think she has a guilty conscience, maggie?" "course she has; how could she help it?" "and will she yun away and never be seen again?" "i guess so," said maggie; "anyhow, i hope she will." "i wonder why mamma did not tell us she was coming," said bessie. "we'll ask her to-morrow. we can't do it to-night because it will be so late before she comes home from riverside and we'll be asleep, but we'll do it in the morning. and now, don't let's think about that shocking person any more. we'll go and ask dinah about the cakes." but although they resolved to try to forget aunt patty for the present, they could not help thinking of her a good deal and talking of her also, for their young hearts had been filled with dread of the old lady and her intended visit. the reason that mr. and mrs. bradford had not spoken to their children of mrs. lawrence's coming was that it was not yet a settled thing; and as there was not much that was pleasant to tell, they did not think it best to speak of her unless it was necessary. it was long since her name had been mentioned in the family, _so_ long that, as mrs. bradford had hoped and supposed, all recollection of her had passed from maggie's mind, until the conversation she had just heard had brought it back. [illustration: decoration, end of chap. ] [illustration: title decoration, chap. ] iv. _papa's story._ the next morning while they were at breakfast, the postman brought three letters for papa and mamma. "margaret," said mr. bradford, looking up from one of his, "this is from aunt patty to say that she will put off her visit until spring." maggie and bessie both looked up. "oh!" said mrs. bradford, in a tone as if she were rather more glad than sorry to hear that aunt patty was not coming at present. papa glanced at her with a smile which did not seem as if he were very much disappointed either. probably the children would not have noticed tone or smile had they not been thinking of what they heard yesterday. "holloa!" said fred, in a voice of dismay, "aunt patty is not coming here again; is she? you'll have to look out and mind your p's and q's, midget and bess, if that is the case. we'll all have to for that matter. whew-ee, can't she scold though! i remember her tongue if it is four years since i heard it." "fred, fred!" said his father. "it's true, papa; is it not?" "if it is," replied his father, "it does not make it proper for you to speak in that way of one so much older than yourself, my boy. aunt patty is not coming at present; when she does come, i hope we shall all be ready to receive her kindly and respectfully." "i see you expect to find it difficult, papa," said the rogue, with a mischievous twinkle of his eye. before mr. bradford had time to answer, mrs. bradford, who had been reading her letter, exclaimed joyfully,-- "dear elizabeth rush says she will come to us at new year, and make us a long visit. i wish she could have come at christmas, as i begged her to do, but she says she has promised to remain in baltimore with her sister until after the holidays." "mamma," said bessie, "do you mean aunt bessie is coming to stay with us?" "yes, darling. are you not glad?" "indeed, i am, mamma; i do love aunt bessie, and the colonel will be glad too." "that's jolly!" exclaimed fred; and a chorus of voices about the table told that aunt bessie's coming was looked forward to with very different feelings from those which aunt patty's excited. "mamma," said maggie suddenly, as they were about leaving the table, "don't you wish you had forty children?" "forty!" exclaimed mrs. bradford, laughing. "no, that would be rather too large a family, maggie." "but, mamma, if you had forty children, the house would be so full there would never be room for aunt patty." the boys laughed, but mamma was grave in a moment. "do you remember aunt patty, my darling?" she asked, looking rather anxiously at maggie. "oh, yes, mamma, i remember her ever so well," answered poor maggie, coloring all over her face and neck, and looking as if the remembrance of aunt patty were a great distress. "i thought you had quite forgotten her, dear," said her mother. "i had, mamma, but yesterday aunt annie and miss carrie were talking about her, and then i remembered her, oh! so well, and how fierce she looked and what a loud voice she had, and how she scolded, mamma, and how angry she used to be, and oh! mamma, she's such a dreadful old person, and if you only wouldn't let her come to our house." "and, mamma," said bessie, "aunt annie said nobody had any peace from the time she came into the house until she went out, and you know we're used to peace, so we can't do without it." by this time maggie was crying, and bessie very near it. their mamma scarcely knew how to comfort them, for whatever they might have heard from annie and her friends was probably only too true; and both she and papa had too much reason to fear with bessie that the usual "peace" of their happy household would be sadly disturbed when aunt patty should come there again. for though the old lady was not so terrible as the little girls imagined her to be, her unhappy temper always made much trouble wherever she went. all that mrs. bradford could do was to tell them that they must be kind and respectful to mrs. lawrence, and so give her no cause of offence; and that in no case would she be allowed to punish or harm them. but the thing which gave them the most comfort was that aunt patty's visit was not to take place for some months, possibly not at all. then she talked of miss rush, and made pleasant plans for the time when she should be with them, and so tried to take their thoughts from aunt patty. "and uncle ruthven is coming home," said maggie. "grandmamma had a letter from him last night, and she said he promised to come before the winter was over; and _won't_ we all be happy then?" mamma kissed her little daughter's april face, on which the tears were not dry before smiles were dancing in their place, and in happy talk of uncle ruthven, aunt patty was for the time forgotten. uncle ruthven was mamma's only brother, and a famous hero in the eyes of all the children. none of them save harry had ever seen him, and he had been such a very little boy when his uncle went away ten years ago, that he could not recollect him. but his letters and the stories of his travels and adventures had always been a great delight to his young nieces and nephews; and now that he talked of coming home, they looked forward to seeing him with almost as much pleasure as if they had known him all their lives. as for the mother and the sisters who had been parted from him for so long, no words could tell how glad they were. a sad rover was uncle ruthven; it was easier to say where he had not been than where he had. he had climbed to the tops of high mountains and gone down into mines which lay far below the surface of the earth; had peeped into volcanoes and been shut up among icebergs, at one time had slung his hammock under the trees of a tropical forest, at another had rolled himself in his blankets in the frozen huts of the esquimaux; had hunted whales, bears, lions, and tigers; had passed through all manner of adventures and dangers by land and by sea; and at last was really coming home, "tired of his wanderings, to settle down beside his dear old mother and spend the rest of his days with her." so he had said in the letter which came last night, and grandmamma had read it over many times, smiled over it, cried over it, and talked of the writer, until, if maggie and bessie had doubted the fact before, they must then have been quite convinced that no other children ever possessed such a wonderful uncle as this uncle ruthven of theirs. when he would come was not quite certain,--perhaps in two months, perhaps not in three or four, while he might be here by christmas or even sooner. and now came faithful old nurse to hear the good news and to have her share in the general family joy at the return of her first nursling, her beloved "master ruthven." "and will your aunt patty be here when he comes, my dear lady?" she asked. "i think not," said mrs. bradford, at which mammy looked well pleased, though she said no more; but maggie and bessie understood the look quite well. mrs. bradford had intended by and by to talk to her children of mrs. lawrence and to tell them that she was rather odd and different from most of the people to whom they were accustomed, but that they must be patient and bear with her if she was sometimes a little provoking and cross. but now she found that they already knew quite too much, and she was greatly disturbed when she thought that it would be of little use to try and make them feel kindly towards the old lady. but the mischief had spread even farther than she had imagined. that afternoon maggie and bessie with little franky were all in their mamma's room, seated side by side upon the floor, amusing themselves with a picture-book. this book belonged to harry, who had made it himself by taking the cuts from magazines and papers and putting them in a large blank book. it was thought by all the children to be something very fine, and now maggie sat with it upon her lap while she turned over the leaves, explaining such pictures as she knew, and inventing meanings and stories for those which were new to her. presently she came to one which quite puzzled her. on the front of the picture was the figure of a woman with an eagle upon her shoulder, intended to represent america or liberty; while farther back stood a man with a gun in his hand and a lion at his side, who was meant for john bull of england. miss america had her arm raised, and appeared to be scolding mr. england in the most terrible manner. maggie could not tell the meaning of it, though she knew that the woman was america, but franky thought that he understood it very well. now master franky had a good pair of ears, and knew how to make a good use of them. he had, also, some funny ideas of his own, and like many other little children, did not always know when it was best to keep them to himself. he had heard a good deal that morning of some person named patty, who was said to scold very much; he had also heard of his uncle ruthven, and he knew that this famous uncle had hunted lions in far-away africa. the picture of the angry woman and the lion brought all this to his mind, and now he suddenly exclaimed,-- "oh, my, my! dere's a patty wis her chitten, and she stolds uncle 'utven wis his lion." this was too much for maggie. pushing the book from her knees, she threw herself back upon the carpet and rolled over, screaming with laughter at the joke of america with her eagle being mistaken for aunt patty with a chicken; bessie joined in, and franky, thinking he had said something very fine, clapped his hands and stamped his feet upon the floor in great glee. mrs. bradford herself could not help smiling, partly at the droll idea, partly at maggie's amusement; but the next moment she sighed to think how the young minds of her children had been filled with fear and dislike of their father's aunt, and how much trouble all this was likely to make. "children," said mr. bradford, that evening, "who would like to hear a true story?" papa found he was not likely to want for listeners, as three or four eager voices answered. "wait a moment, dear," he said, as bessie came to take her usual place upon his knee, and rising, he unlocked a cabinet secretary which stood at the side of the fireplace in his library. this secretary was an object of great interest to all the children, not because it held papa's private papers,--those were trifles of very little account in their eyes,--but because it contained many a relic and treasure, remembrances of bygone days, or which were in themselves odd and curious. to almost all of these belonged some interesting and true story,--things which had happened when papa was a boy, or even farther back than that time,--tales of travel and adventure in other lands, or perhaps of good and great people. so they were pleased to see their father go to his secretary when he had promised "a true story," knowing that they were sure of a treat. mr. bradford came back with a small, rather worn, red morocco case, and as soon as they were all quietly settled, he opened it. it held a miniature of a very lovely lady. her bright eyes were so sparkling with fun and mischief that they looked as if they would almost dance out of the picture, and the mouth was so smiling and lifelike that it seemed as if the rosy lips must part the next moment with a joyous, ringing laugh. her hair was knotted loosely back with a ribbon, from which it fell in just such dark, glossy ringlets as clustered about maggie's neck and shoulders. it was a very beautiful likeness of a very beautiful woman. "oh, how sweet, how lovely! what a pretty lady!" exclaimed the children, as they looked at it. "why, she looks like our maggie!" said harry. "only don't flatter yourself you are such a beauty as that, midget," said fred, mischievously. "oh, fred," said bessie, "my maggie is a great deal prettier, and i don't believe that lady was so good as maggie either." "she may have been very good," said harry, "but i don't believe she had half as sweet a temper as our midge. i'll answer for it that those eyes could flash with something besides fun; could they not, papa?" "was she a relation of yours, papa?" asked fred. "yes," answered mr. bradford, "and i am going to tell you a story about her." "one summer, a good many years ago, two boys were staying on their uncle's farm in the country. their father and mother were travelling in europe, and had left them in this uncle's care while they should be absent. it was a pleasant home, and the boys, accustomed to a city life, enjoyed it more than i can tell you. one afternoon, their uncle and aunt went out to visit some friends, giving the boys permission to amuse themselves out of doors as long as they pleased. all the servants about the place, except the old cook, had been allowed to go to a fair which was held in a village two or three miles away, so that the house and farm seemed to be quite deserted. only one other member of the family was at home, and this was an aunt whom the boys did not love at all, and they were only anxious to keep out of her way." "papa," said fred, eagerly, "what were the names of these boys and their aunt?" "ahem," said mr. bradford, with a twinkle in his eye, as he saw fred's knowing look. "well, i will call the oldest boy by my own name, henry, and the youngest we will call aleck." "oh," said fred, "and the aunt's name was, i suppose--" "henrietta," said his father, quickly; "and if you have any remarks to make, fred, please keep them until my story is done." "very well, sir," said fred, with another roguish look at harry, and his father went on. "henry was a strong, healthy boy, who had never known a day's sickness; but aleck was a weak, delicate, nervous little fellow, who could bear no excitement nor fatigue. different as they were, however, the affection between them was very great. gentle little aleck looked up to his elder and stronger brother with a love and confidence which were beautiful to see, while the chief purpose of henry's life at this time was to fulfil the charge which his mother had given him to care for aleck, and keep him as far as he could from all trouble and harm, looking upon it as a sacred trust. "there was a large old barn standing at some distance from the house, used only for the storing of hay; and as they found the sun too warm for play in the open air, henry proposed they should go there and make some boats which later they might sail in the brook. aleck was ready enough, and they were soon comfortably settled in the hayloft with their knives and bits of wood. but while they were happily working away, and just as henry was in the midst of some marvellous story, they heard a voice calling them. "'oh, dear,' said little aleck, 'there's aunt henrietta! now she'll make us go in the house, and she'll give me my supper early and send me to bed, though aunt mary said i might sit up and have tea with the rest, even if they came home late. let us hide, henry.' "no sooner said than done. the knives and chips were whisked out of sight, aleck hidden beneath the hay. henry, scrambling into an old corn-bin, covered himself with the corn-husks with which it was half filled, while the voice and its owner came nearer and nearer. "'you'd better take care; she'll hear you,' said henry, as he heard aleck's stifled laughter; and the next moment, through a crack in the bin, he saw his aunt's head appearing above the stairs. any stranger might have wondered why the boys were so much afraid of her. she was a tall, handsome lady, not old, though the hair beneath her widow's cap was white as snow. she stood a moment and cast her sharp, bright eyes around the hayloft; then, satisfied that the boys were not there, went down again, saying quite loud enough for them to hear,-- "'if i find them, i shall send henry to bed early, too; he's always leading dear little aleck into mischief. such nonsense in mary to tell that sick baby he should sit up until she came home!' "now it was a great mistake for auntie to say this of henry. he did many wrong things, but i do not think he ever led his little brother into mischief; on the contrary, his love for aleck often kept him from harm. so his aunt's words made him very angry, and as soon as he and aleck had come out of their hiding-places, he said many things he should not have said, setting a bad example to aleck, who was also displeased at being called 'a sick baby.' "'let's shut ourselves up in dan's cubby-hole,' said henry; 'she'll never think of looking for us there, if she comes back.' "dan's cubby-hole was a small room shut off from the rest of the hayloft, where one of the farm hands kept his tools; and here the boys went, shutting and bolting the door behind them. they worked away for more than an hour, when aleck asked his brother if he did not smell smoke. "'not i,' said henry; 'that little nose of yours is always smelling something, aleck.' "aleck laughed, but a few moments after declared again that he really did smell smoke and felt it too. "'they are burning stubble in the fields; it is that you notice,' said henry. but presently he sprang up, for the smell became stronger, and he saw a little wreath of smoke curling itself beneath the door. 'there is something wrong,' he said, and hastily drawing the bolt, he opened the door. what a sight he saw! heavy clouds of smoke were pouring up the stairway from the lower floor of the barn, while forked flames darted through them, showing that a fierce fire was raging below. henry sprang forward to see if the stairs were burning; but the flames, fanned by the draught that came through the door he had opened, rushed up with greater fury, and drove him back. how could he save aleck? the fire was plainly at the foot of the stairs, even if they were not already burning, while those stifling clouds of smoke rolled between them and the doors of the haymow, and were now pouring up through every chink and cranny of the floor on which he stood. not a moment was to be lost. henry ran back, and closing the door, said to his terrified brother,-- "'aleck, you must stay here one moment until i bring the ladder. i can let myself down from this little window, but cannot carry you. stand close to it, dear boy, and do not be frightened.' "stretching out from the window, he contrived to reach an old worn-out leader which would scarcely bear his weight, and to slide thence to the ground. raising the cry of 'fire!' he ran for the ladder, which should have been in its place on the other side of the barn. it was not there. frantic with terror, as he saw what headway the fire was making, he rushed from place to place in search of the missing ladder; but all in vain; it could not be found. meanwhile his cries had brought his aunt and the old cook from the house. henry ran back beneath the window of the little room where he had left aleck, and called to him to jump down into his arms, as it was the only chance of safety left. but, alas, there was no answer; the poor little boy had fainted from fright. back to the door at the foot of the stairs, which were now all in a blaze, through which he was about to rush, when his aunt's hand held him back. "'live for your father and mother. _i_ have _none_ to live for.' "with these words, she threw her dress over her head, and dashing up the burning stairs, was the next moment lost to sight. two minutes later, her voice was heard at the window. in her arms she held the senseless aleck, and when henry and the old cook stood beneath, she called to them to catch him in their arms. it was done; aleck was safe. and then letting herself from the window by her hands, she fell upon the ground beside him scarcely a moment before the flames burst upward through the floor. aleck was quite unhurt, but his aunt was badly burned on one hand and arm. she insisted, however, upon sitting up and watching him, as he was feverish and ill from fright. late in the night henry awoke, and, opening his eyes, saw his aunt kneeling by the side of the bed, and heard her thanking god that he had given her this child's life, beseeching him, oh, so earnestly, that it might be the means of turning his young heart towards her, that there might be some one in the world to love her. will you wonder if after this henry felt as if he could never be patient or forbearing enough with this poor unhappy lady?" "but what made her so unhappy, papa, and why were the boys so afraid of her?" asked maggie. "well, dear, i must say that it was her violent temper, and her wish to control every one about her, which made her so much feared not only by the boys, but by all who lived with her. but perhaps when i tell you a little more, you will think with me that there was much excuse for her. "she was the only daughter and youngest child in a large family of boys. her mother died when she was a very little baby, so that she was left to grow up without that tenderest and wisest of all care. her father and brothers loved her dearly; but i am afraid they indulged and spoiled her too much. she had a warm, generous, loving heart, but she was very passionate, and would sometimes give way to the most violent fits of temper. the poor child had no one to tell her how foolish and sinful this was, or to warn her that she was laying up trouble for herself and her friends, for her father would never suffer her to be contradicted or corrected." "papa," said bessie, as her father paused for a moment, "do you mean the story of this passionate child for a lesson to me?" "no, darling," said her father; "for i think my bessie is learning, with god's help, to control her quick temper so well that we may hope it will not give her much trouble when she is older. it is not for you more than for your brothers and sister. but i have a reason for wishing you all to see that it was more the misfortune than the fault of the little henrietta that she grew up with an ungoverned will and violent temper. whatever she wanted was given without any thought for the rights or wishes of others; so it was not strange if she soon came to consider that her will was law and that she must have her own way in all things. perhaps those who had the care of her did not know the harm they were doing; but certain it is, that this poor child was suffered to grow up into a most self-willed woman." "i am very sorry for her," said bessie, "'cause she did not have such wise people as mine to tell her what was yight." "yes, she was much to be pitied. but you must not think that this little girl was always naughty; it was not so by any means. and in spite of the faults which were never checked, she was generally very bright, engaging, and sweet. as she grew older, she became more reasonable, and as every one around her lived only for her pleasure, and she had all she desired, it was not difficult for her to keep her temper under control. it is easy to be good when one is happy. "this picture, which shows you how very lovely she was, was taken for her father about the time of her marriage, and was said to be an excellent likeness. soon after this, she went to europe with her husband and father. there she passed several delightful months, travelling from place to place, with these two whom she loved so dearly. "but now trouble, such as she had never dreamed of, came to this poor girl. they were in switzerland, and one bright, sunny day, when no one thought of a storm, her husband and father went out in a small boat on the lake of geneva. there sometimes arises over this lake a terrible north-east wind, which comes up very suddenly and blows with great violence, causing the waves to rise to a height which would be thought almost impossible by one who had not seen it. for some reason henrietta had not gone with the two gentlemen, but when she knew it was time for them to be coming in, she went down to the shore to meet them. she soon saw the boat skimming along, and could almost distinguish the faces of the two dear ones for whom she was watching, when this terrible wind came sweeping down over the water. she saw them as they struggled against it, trying with all their strength to reach the shore; but in vain. wave after wave rolled into the little boat, and before many minutes it sank. henrietta stood upon the shore, and as she stretched out her helpless hands toward them, saw her husband and father drown. do you wonder that the sight drove her frantic? that those who stood beside her could scarcely prevent her from throwing herself into those waters which covered all she loved best? then came a long and terrible illness, during which that dark hair changed to snowy white." "papa," said bessie, whose tender little heart could not bear to hear of trouble or distress which she could not comfort,--"papa, i don't like this story; it is too mournful." "i have almost done with this part of it, dear," said her father, "and i tell it to you that you may know how much need this poor woman had that others should be kind and patient with her, and how much excuse there was for her when all this sorrow and trouble made her irritable and impatient. "her brother came for her and took her home, but not one of her friends could make her happy or contented; for this poor lady did not know where to turn for the best of all comfort, and she had no strength of her own to lean upon. so the faults of temper and disposition, which had been passed over when she was young and happy, now grew worse and worse, making her so irritable and cross, so self-willed and determined, that it was almost impossible to live with her. then for years she was a great sufferer, and besides all this, other troubles came upon her,--the loss of a great part of her fortune through one whom she had trusted, and various other trials. so by degrees she drove one after another of her friends from her, until she seemed to stand quite alone in the world, and to be, as she said, 'without any one to care for her.'" "did not aleck love her after the fire?" asked bessie. "i think he was very grateful to her, dear, but i am afraid he never became very fond of her. he was a gentle, timid little fellow, and though his aunt was never harsh to him, it used to frighten him to see her severity with other people." "i'd have loved her, even if she was cross," said maggie, looking again at the picture. "i'd have been so good to her that she couldn't be unkind to me, and if she had scolded me a little, i wouldn't have minded, because i'd have been so sorry for her." "oh, midget," said harry, "you would have been frightened out of your wits at her first cross word." "no, i wouldn't, harry; and i would try to be patient, even if she scolded me like--like aunt patty." "and what if she was aunt patty?" said fred. "but then she wasn't, you know." "but she was," said papa, smiling. maggie and bessie opened their eyes very wide at this astonishing news. "you said her name was henrietta, papa," said maggie. "aunt patty's name is also henrietta," replied mr. bradford, "and when she was young, she was generally called so." "and henry was this henry, our own papa," said fred, laying his hand on his father's shoulder. "and aleck was uncle alexander, who died so long ago, before any of us were born. i guessed it at the beginning." "well, now," said mr. bradford, "if aunt patty comes to us by and by, and is not always as gentle as she might be, will my little children remember how much she has had to try her, and how much there is in her which is really good and unselfish?" the boys promised readily enough, and bessie said doubtfully that she would try, but when papa turned to maggie, she looked as shy and frightened as if aunt patty herself had asked the question. "what is my rosebud afraid of?" said mr. bradford. "papa," said maggie, "i'm so sorry for that pretty lady, but i can't be sorry for aunt patty,--and oh, papa, i--i--do wish--aunt patty wasn't"--and poor maggie broke down in a desperate fit of crying. mr. bradford feared that his story had been almost in vain so far as his little girls were concerned, and indeed it was so. they could not make the pretty lady in the picture, the poor young wife whose husband and father had been drowned before her very eyes, or the brave, generous woman who had saved little aleck, one and the same with the dreaded aunt patty. the mischief which words had done words could not so easily undo. [illustration: decoration, end of chap. ] [illustration: title decoration, chap. ] v. _light through the clouds._ christmas with all its pleasures had come and gone, enjoyed perhaps as much by the policeman's children as it was by the little bradfords in their wealthier home. for though the former had not the means of the latter with which to make merry, they had contented spirits and grateful hearts, and these go far to make people happy. their tall christmas-tree and beautiful greens were not more splendid in the eyes of maggie and bessie than were the scanty wreath and two foot high cedar branch, which a good-natured market-woman had given mrs. granby, were in those of little jennie richards. to be sure, the apology for a tree was not dressed with glittering balls, rich bonbons, or rows of tapers; its branches bore no expensive toys, rare books, or lovely pictures; but the owner and the little ones for whose delight she dressed it, were quite satisfied, and only pitied those who had no tree at all. had not good mrs. granby made the most extraordinary flowers of red flannel and gilt paper,--flowers whose likeness never grew in gardens or greenhouses of any known land; had she not baked sugar cakes which were intended to represent men and women, pigs, horses, and cows? were not the branches looped with gay ribbons? did they not bear rosy-cheeked apples, an orange for each child, some cheap but much prized toys, and, better than all, several useful and greatly needed articles, which had been the gift of mrs. bradford? what did it matter if one could scarcely tell the pigs from the men? perhaps you may like to know how mrs. bradford became interested in the policeman's family. one morning, a day or two before christmas, maggie and bessie were playing baby-house in their own little room, when they heard a knock at mamma's door. maggie ran to open it. there stood a woman who looked rather poor, but neat and respectable. maggie was a little startled by the unexpected sight of a strange face, and stood holding the door without speaking. "your ma sent me up here," said the woman. "she is busy below, and she told me to come up and wait for her here." so maggie allowed the stranger to pass her, and she took a chair which stood near the door. maggie saw that she looked very cold, but had not the courage to ask her to come nearer the fire. after a moment, the woman smiled pleasantly. maggie did not return the smile, though she looked as if she had half a mind to do so; but she did not like to see the woman looking so uncomfortable, and pushing a chair close to the fire, she said, "there." the woman did not move; perhaps she, too, felt a little shy in a strange place. maggie was rather vexed that she did not understand her without more words, but summing up all her courage, she said,-- "i think if you took this seat by the fire, you'd be warmer." the woman thanked her, and took the chair, looking quite pleased. "are you the little lady who was lost a couple of months ago?" she asked. "no," said maggie, at once interested, "that was our bessie; but we found her again." "oh, yes, i know that. i heard all about her from policeman richards, who looked after her when she was up to the station." "bessie, bessie!" called maggie, "here's a woman that knows your station policeman. come and look at her." at this, bessie came running from the inner room. "well," said the woman, laughing heartily, "it is nice to be looked at for the sake of one's friends when one is not much to look at for one's self." "i think you're pretty much to look at," said bessie. "i think you have a nice, pleasant face. how is my policeman?" "he's well," said the stranger. "and so you call him your policeman; do you? well, i shall just tell him that; i've a notion it will tickle him a bit." "he's one of my policemen," said bessie. "i have three,--one who helps us over the crossing; the one who found me when i came lost; and the one who was so good to me in his station-house." "and that is my friend, sergeant richards. well, he's a mighty nice fellow." "yes, he is," said bessie, "and i'd like to see him again. are you his wife, ma'am?" "bless you, no!" said the woman; "i am nothing but mrs. granby, who lives in his house. your grandmother, mrs. stanton, sent me to your ma, who, she said, had work to give me. his poor wife, she can scarce creep about the room, let alone walking this far. not but that she's better than she was a spell back, and she'd be spryer yet, i think, but for the trouble that's weighin' on her all the time, and hinders her getting well." "does she have a great deal of trouble?" asked maggie, who by this time felt quite sociable. "doesn't she though!" answered mrs. granby. "trouble enough; and she's awful bad herself with the rheumatics, and a sickly baby, and a blind boy, and debts to pay, and that scandal of a doctor, and no way of laying up much; for the children must be fed and warmed, bless their hearts! and a police-sergeant's pay ain't no great; yes, yes, honey, lots of trouble and no help for it as i see. not that i tell them so; i just try to keep up their hearts." "why don't they tell jesus about their troubles, and ask him to help them?" asked bessie, gently. "so they do," answered mrs. granby; "but he hasn't seen best to send them help yet. i suppose he'll just take his own time and his own way to do it; at least, that's what sergeant richards says. he'll trust the lord, and wait on him, he says; but it's sore waiting sometimes. maybe all this trouble is sent to try his faith, and i can say it don't fail him, so far as i can see. but, honey, i guess you sometimes pray yourself; so to-night, when you go to bed, do you say a bit of a prayer for your friend, sergeant richards. i believe a heap in the prayers of the young and innocent; and you just ask the lord to help him out of this trouble. maybe he'll hear you; anyway, it won't do no harm; prayer never hurt nobody." "oh, mamma!" exclaimed bessie, as her mother just then entered the room, "what do you think? this very nice woman lives with my station policeman, who was so kind to me, and his name is yichards, and he has a lame baby and a sick wife and a blind boy, and no doctor to pay, and the children must be fed, and a great deal of trouble, and she don't get well because of it, and he does have trust in the lord, but he hasn't helped him yet--" "and my bessie's tongue has run away with her ideas," said mamma, laughing. "what is all this about, little one?" "about bessie's policeman," said maggie, almost as eager as her sister. "let this woman tell you. she knows him very well." "i beg pardon, ma'am," said mrs. granby. "i don't know but it was my tongue ran away with me, and i can't say it's not apt to do so; but when your little daughter was lost, it was my friend, sergeant richards, that saw to her when she was up to the station, and he's talked a deal about her, for he was mighty taken with her." "bessie told me how kind he was to her," said mrs. bradford. "yes, ma'am; there isn't a living thing that he wouldn't be kind to, and it does pass me to know what folks like him are so afflicted for. however, it's the lord's work, and i've no call to question his doings. but the little ladies were just asking me about sergeant richards, ma'am, and so i came to tell them what a peck of troubles he was in." "what are they, if you are at liberty to speak of them?" asked mrs. bradford. "any one who has been kind to my children has a special claim on me." so mrs. granby told the story, not at all with the idea of asking aid for her friends,--that she knew the good policeman and his wife would not like,--but, as she afterwards told them, because she could not help it. "the dear lady looked so sweet, and spoke so sweet, now and then asking a question, not prying like, but as if she took a real interest, not listening as if it were a duty or because she was ashamed to interrupt. and she wasn't of the kind to tell you there was others worse off than you, or that your troubles might be greater than they were. if there's a thing that aggravates me, it's that," continued mrs. granby. "i know i ought to be thankful, and so i mostly am, that i and my friends ain't no worse off than we are, and i know it's no good to be frettin' and worryin' about your trials, and settin' yourself against the lord's will; but i do say if i fall down and break my arm, there ain't a grain of comfort in hearin' that my next-door neighbor has broken both his. quite contrary; i think mine pains worse for thinkin' how his must hurt him. and now that i can't do the fine work i used to, it don't make it no easier for me to get my livin' to have it said, as a lady did to me this morning, that it would be far worse if i was blind. so it would, i don't gainsay that, but it don't help my seeing, to have it thrown up to me by people that has the full use of their eyes. mrs. bradford aint none of that sort, though, not she; and the children, bless their hearts, stood listenin' with all their ears, and i'd scarce done when the little one broke out with,-- "'oh, do help them! mamma, couldn't you help them?' "but i could see the mother was a bit backward about offerin' help, thinkin', i s'pose, that you and mary wasn't used to charity, and not knowin' how you'd take it; so she puts it on the plea of its bein' christmas time." and here mrs. granby paused, having at last talked herself out of breath. all this was true. mrs. bradford had felt rather delicate about offering assistance to the policeman's family, not knowing but that it might give offence. but when she had arranged with mrs. granby about the work, she said,-- "since your friends are so pressed just now, i suppose they have not been able to make much preparation for christmas." "precious little, ma'am," answered mrs. granby; "for sergeant richards don't think it right to spend a penny he can help when he's owin' others. but we couldn't let the children quite forget it was christmas, so i'm just goin' to make them a few cakes, and get up some small trifles that will please them. i'd have done more, only this last week, when i hadn't much work, i was fixin' up some of the children's clothes, for mrs. richards, poor soul, can't set a stitch with her cramped fingers, and there was a good deal of lettin' out and patchin' to be done." "and how are the children off for clothes?" asked mrs. bradford. "pretty tolerable, the boys, ma'am, for i've just made willie a suit out of an old uniform of his father's, and the little ones' clothes get handed down from one to another, though they don't look too fine neither. but jennie, poor child, has taken a start to grow these last few months, and i couldn't fix a thing for her she wore last winter. so she's wearin' her summer calicoes yet, and even them are very short as to the skirts, and squeezed as to the waists, which ain't good for a growin' child." "no," said mrs. bradford, smiling. "i have here a couple of merino dresses of maggie's, and a warm sack, which she has outgrown. they are too good to give to any one who would not take care of them, and i laid them aside until i should find some one to whom they would be of use. do you think mrs. richards would be hurt if i offered them to her? they will at least save some stitches." "indeed, ma'am," said mrs. granby, her eyes dancing, "you needn't be afraid; she'll be only too glad and thankful, and it was only this mornin' she was frettin' about jennie's dress. she ain't quite as cheery as her husband, poor soul; 'taint to be expected she should be, and she always had a pride in jennie's looks, but there didn't seem no way to get a new thing for one of the children this winter." "and here is a cap of franky's, and some little flannel shirts, which i will roll up in the bundle," said mrs. bradford. "they may, also, be of use." away rushed maggie when she heard this to her own room, coming back with a china dog and a small doll, which she thrust into mrs. granby's hands, begging her to take them to jennie, but to be sure not to give them to her before christmas morning. "what shall we do for the blind boy?" asked bessie. "we want to make him happy." "perhaps he would like a book," said mamma. "but he couldn't see to read it, mamma." "oh, i dare say some one would read it to him," said mrs. bradford. "does he not like that?" she asked of mrs. granby. "yes, ma'am. his mother reads to him mostly all the time when the baby is quiet. it's about all she can do, and it's his greatest pleasure, dear boy, to have her read out the books he and jennie get at sunday-school every sunday." "can he go to sunday-school when he's blind?" asked maggie. "why, yes, honey. every sunday mornin' there's a big boy that goes to the same school stops for willie and jennie, and totes them with him; and if their father or me can't go to church, he just totes them back after service. and when willie comes in with his libr'y book and his 'child's paper' and scripture text, he's as rich as a king, and a heap more contented, i guess." while mrs. granby was talking, mrs. bradford was looking over a parcel which contained some new books, and now she gave her one for blind willie's christmas gift, saying she hoped things would be ordered so that before another christmas he would be able to see. there is no need to tell mrs. granby's delight, or the thanks which she poured out. if mrs. bradford had given her a most magnificent present for herself, it would not have pleased her half so much as did these trifles for the policeman's children. that evening, after the little ones were all in bed, mrs. granby told mr. richards and his wife of all that had happened at mrs. bradford's. mrs. richards was by no means too proud to accept the lady's kindness; so pleased was she to think that she should see jennie warm and neat once more that she had no room in her heart for anything but gratitude. mrs. granby was just putting away the treasures she had been showing, when there came a rap from the old-fashioned knocker on the front-door. "sit you still, sergeant richards," she said. "i'm on my feet, and i'll just open the door." which she did, and saw a tall gentleman standing there, who asked if mr. richards was in. "he is, sir," she answered, and then saying to herself, "i hope he's got special business for him that he'll pay him well for," threw open the door of the sitting-room, and asked the gentleman in. but the police-sergeant had already done the "special business," for which the gentleman came to make return. mr. richards knew him by sight, though he had never spoken to him. "mr. bradford, i believe, sir?" he said, coming forward. "you know me then?" said the gentleman. "yes, sir," answered richards, placing a chair for his visitor. "you see i know many as don't know me. can i be of any service to you, sir?" "i came to have a talk with you, if you are at leisure," said mr. bradford. "perhaps you may think i am taking a liberty, but my wife heard to-day, through your friend, that you were in some trouble with a doctor who has attended your family, and that you have been disappointed in obtaining the services of mr. ray, who has gone to europe. i am a lawyer, you know, and if you do not object to consider me as a friend in his place, perhaps you will let me know what your difficulties are, and i may be able to help you." the policeman looked gratefully into the frank, noble face before him. "thank you, sir," he said; "you are very good, and this is not the first time that i have heard of your kindness to those in trouble. it's rather a long story, that of our difficulties, but if it won't tire you, i'll be thankful to tell it." he began far back, telling how they had done well, and been very comfortable, having even a little laid by, until about a year since, when mrs. richards' father and mother, who lived with them, had died within a month of each other. "and i couldn't bear, sir," he said, "that the old folks shouldn't have a decent burying. so that used up what we had put by for a rainy day. maybe i was foolish, but you see they were mary's people, and we had feeling about it. but sure enough, no sooner was the money gone than the rainy day came, and stormy enough it has been ever since." he went on, telling how sickness had come, one thing following another; how dr. schwitz had promised that his charges should be small, but how he never would give in his bill, the policeman and his wife thinking all the while that it was kindness which kept him from doing so; how it had taken every cent of his salary to pay the other expenses of illness, and keep the family barely warmed and fed; of the disappointment of their hopes for willie for, at least, some time to come; and finally of the terrible bill which dr. schwitz had sent through revenge, the police-sergeant thought, and upon the prompt payment of which he was now insisting. "he's hard on me, sir, after all his fair promises," said richards, as he handed mr. bradford the bill; "and you see he has me, for i made no agreement with him, and i don't know as i can rightly say that the law would not allow it to him; so, for that reason, i don't dare to dispute it. but i thought mr. ray might be able to make some arrangement with him, and i _can't_ pay it all at once, nor this long time yet, that's settled. if he would wait, i might clear it off in a year or two though how then we are to get bread to put into the children's mouths i don't see. and there is the rent to pay, you know. we have tucked the children and mrs. granby all into one room, and let out the other two up-stairs; so that's a little help. and mary was talking of selling that mahogany table and bookcase that are as dear to her as if they were gold, for they were her mother's; but they won't fetch nothing worth speaking of. the english colonel that came after your little daughter, when she was up at the station that day, was so good as to hand me a ten dollar bill, and we laid that by for a beginning; but think what a drop in the bucket that is, and it's precious little that we've added to it. i don't see my way out of this; that's just a fact, sir, and my only hope is that the lord knows all." "you say dr. schwitz tried to bribe you by saying he would send in no bill, if you allowed his nephew to escape?" said mr. bradford. "yes, sir, and i suppose i might use that for a handle against him; but i don't like to, for i can't say but that the man was real kind to me and mine before that. if he presses me too hard, i may have to; but i can't bear to do it." "will you put the matter in my hands, and let me see this dr. schwitz?" asked mr. bradford. richards was only too thankful, and after asking a little more about blind willie, the gentleman took his leave. there is no need to tell what he said to dr. schwitz, but a few days after he saw the police-sergeant again, and gave him a new bill, which was just half as much as the former one, with the promise that the doctor would wait and allow richards to pay it by degrees, on condition that it was done within the year. this, by great pinching and saving, the policeman thought he would be able to do. the good gentleman did not tell that it was only by paying part of the sum himself that he had been able to make this arrangement. "i don't know what claim i have upon you for such kindness, sir," said richards, "but if you knew what a load you have taken from me, i am sure you would feel repaid." "i am repaid, more than repaid," said mr. bradford, with a smile; "for i feel that i am only paying a debt." the policeman looked surprised. "you were very kind to my little girl when she was in trouble," said the gentleman. "oh, that, sir? who could help it? and that was a very tiny seed to bring forth such a harvest as this." "it was 'bread cast upon the waters,'" said mr. bradford, "and to those who give in the lord's name, he gives again 'good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over.'" but the policeman had not even yet gathered in the whole of his harvest. [illustration: title decoration, chap. ] vi. _uncle ruthven._ christmas brought no uncle ruthven, but christmas week brought miss elizabeth rush, the sweet "aunt bessie" whom all the children loved so dearly. and it was no wonder they were fond of her, for she was almost as gentle and patient with them as mamma herself; and, like her brother, the colonel, had a most wonderful gift of story-telling, which she was always ready to put in use for them. maggie and bessie were more than ever sure that there were never such delightful people as their own, or two such happy children as themselves. "i think we're the completest family that ever lived," said maggie, looking around the room with great satisfaction, one evening when colonel and mrs. rush were present. "yes," said bessie; "i wonder somebody don't write a book about us." "and call it 'the happy family,'" said fred, mischievously, "after those celebrated bears and dogs and cats and mice who live together in the most peaceable manner so long as they have no teeth and claws, but who immediately fall to and eat one another up as soon as these are allowed to grow." "if there is a bear among us, it must be yourself, sir," said the colonel, playfully pinching fred's ear. "i don't know," said fred, rubbing the ear; "judging from your claws, i should say you were playing that character, colonel; while i shall have to take that of the unlucky puppy who has fallen into your clutches." "i am glad you understand yourself so well, any way," returned colonel rush, drily. fred and the colonel were very fond of joking and sparring in this fashion, but bessie always looked very sober while it was going on; for she could not bear anything that sounded like disputing, even in play; and perhaps she was about right. but all this had put a new idea into that busy little brain of maggie's. "bessie," she said, the next morning, "i have a secret to tell you, and you must not tell any one else." "not mamma?" asked bessie. "no, we'll tell mamma we have a secret, and we'll let her know by and by; but i want her to be very much surprised as well as the rest of the people. bessie, i'm going to write a book, and you may help me, if you like." "oh!" said bessie. "and what will it be about, maggie?" "about ourselves. you put it in my head to do it, bessie. but then i sha'n't put in our real names, 'cause i don't want people to know it is us. i made up a name last night. i shall call my people the happys." "and shall you call the book 'the happy family'?" asked bessie. "no; i think we will call it 'the complete family,'" said maggie. "that sounds nicer and more booky; don't you think so?" "yes," said bessie, looking at her sister with great admiration. "and when are you going to begin it?" "to-day," said maggie. "i'll ask mamma for some paper, and i'll write some every day till it's done; and then i'll ask papa to take it to the bookmaker; and when the book is made, we'll sell it, and give the money to the poor. i'll tell you what, bessie, if policeman richards' blind boy is not cured by then, we'll give it to him to pay his doctor." "you dear maggie!" said bessie. "will you yite a piece that i make up about yourself?" "i don't know," said maggie; "i'll see what you say. i wouldn't like people to know it was me." the book was begun that very day, but it had gone little farther than the title and chapter first, before they found they should be obliged to take mamma into the secret at once. there were so many long words which they wished to use, but which they did not know how to spell, that they saw they would have to be running to her all the time. to their great delight, mamma gave maggie a new copy-book to write in, and they began again. as this was a stormy day, they could not go out, so they were busy a long while over their book. when, at last, maggie's fingers were tired, and it was put away, it contained this satisfactory beginning:-- "the complete family. "a tale of history. "chapter i. "once upon a time, there lived a family named happy; only that was not their real name, and you wish you had known them, and they are alive yet, because none of them have died. this was the most interesting and happiest family that ever lived. and god was so very good to them that they ought to have been the best family; but they were not except only the father and mother; and sometimes they were naughty, but 'most always afterwards they repented, so god forgave them. "this family were very much acquainted with some very great friends of theirs, and the colonel was very brave, and his leg was cut off; but now he is going to get a new leg, only it is a make believe." this was all that was done the first day; and that evening a very wonderful and delightful thing occurred, which maggie thought would make her book more interesting than ever. there had been quite a family party at dinner, for it was aunt bessie's birthday, and the colonel and mrs. rush were always considered as belonging to the family now. besides these, there were grandmamma and aunt annie, grandpapa duncan, uncle john, and aunt helen, all assembled to do honor to aunt bessie. dinner was over, and all, from grandpapa to baby, were gathered in the parlor, when there came a quick, hard pull at the door-bell. two moments later, the parlor door was thrown open, and there stood a tall, broad figure in a great fur overcoat, which, as well as his long, curly beard, was thickly powdered with snow. at the first glance, he looked, except in size, not unlike the figure which a few weeks since had crowned their christmas-tree; and in the moment of astonished silence which followed, franky, throwing back his head and clapping his hands, shouted, "santy caus, santy caus!" but it was no santa claus, and in spite of the muffling furs and the heavy beard, in spite of all the changes which ten long years of absence had made, the mother's heart, and the mother's eye knew her son, and rising from her seat with a low cry of joy, mrs. stanton stretched her hands towards the stranger, exclaiming, "my boy! ruthven, my boy!" and the next moment she was sobbing in his arms. then his sisters were clinging about him, and afterwards followed such a kissing and hand-shaking! it was an evening of great joy and excitement, and although it was long past the usual time when maggie and bessie went to bed, they could not go to sleep. at another time nurse would have ordered them to shut their eyes and not speak another word; but to-night she seemed to think it quite right and natural that they should be so very wide awake, and not only gave them an extra amount of petting and kissing, but told them stories of uncle ruthven's pranks when he was a boy, and of his wonderful sayings and doings, till mamma, coming up and finding this going on, was half inclined to find fault with the old woman herself. nurse had quite forgotten that, in those days, she told uncle ruthven, as she now told fred, that he was "the plague of her life," and that he "worried her heart out." perhaps she did not really mean it with the one more than with the other. [illustration: bessie's friends. p. .] "and to think of him," she said, wiping the tears of joy from her eyes,--"to think of him asking for his old mammy 'most before he had done with his greetings to the gentlefolks! and him putting his arm about me and giving me a kiss as hearty as he used when he was a boy; and him been all over the world seein' all sorts of sights and doin's. the lord bless him! he's got just the same noble, loving heart, if he has got all that hair about his face." uncle ruthven's tremendous beard was a subject of great astonishment to all the children. fred saucily asked him if he had come home to set up an upholsterer's shop, knowing he could himself furnish plenty of stuffing for mattresses and sofas. to which his uncle replied that when he did have his beard cut, it should be to furnish a rope to bind fred's hands and feet with. maggie was very eager to write down the account of uncle ruthven's home-coming in her history of "the complete family," and as mamma's time was more taken up than usual just now, she could not run to her so often for help in her spelling. so the next two days a few mistakes went down, and the story ran after this fashion:-- "the happys had a very happy thing happen to them witch delited them very much. they had a travelling uncle who came home to them at last; but he staid away ten years and did not come home even to see his mother, and i think he ort to don't you? but now he is come and has brought so many trunks and boxes with such lots and lots of things and kurositys in them that he is 'most like a norz' ark only better, and his gret coat and cap are made of the bears' skins he shot and he tells us about the tigers and lions and i don't like it and fred and harry do and bessie don't too. and he is so nice and he brought presents for every boddy and nurse a shawl that she's going to keep in her will till she dies for harry's wife, and he has not any and says he won't because uncle ruthven has no wife. that is all to-day my fingers are krampd." strange to say, maggie was at home with the new uncle much sooner than bessie. little bessie was not quite sure that she altogether approved of uncle ruthven, or that it was quite proper for this stranger to come walking into the house and up-stairs at all hours of the day, kissing mamma, teasing nurse, and playing and joking with the children, just as if he had been at home there all his life. neither would she romp with him as the other children did, looking gravely on from some quiet corner at their merry frolics, as if she half-disapproved of it all. so uncle ruthven nicknamed her the "princess," and always called her "your highness" and "your grace," at which bessie did not know whether to be pleased or displeased. she even looked half-doubtfully at the wonderful stories he told, though she never lost a chance of hearing one. uncle ruthven was very fond of children, though he was not much accustomed to them, and he greatly enjoyed having them with him, telling mrs. bradford that he did not know which he liked best,--bessie with her dainty, quiet, ladylike little ways, or maggie with her half-shy, half-roguish manner, and love of fun and mischief. maggie and all the boys were half wild about him, and as for baby, if she could have spoken, she would have said that never was there such an uncle for jumping and tossing. the moment she heard his voice, her hands and feet began to dance, and took no rest till he had her in his arms; while mamma sometimes feared the soft little head and the ceiling might come to too close an acquaintance. "princess," said mr. stanton, one evening, when he had been home about a fortnight, catching up bessie, as she ran past him, and seating her upon the table, "what is that name your highness calls me?" "i don't call you anything but uncle yuthven," answered bessie, gravely. "that is it," said her uncle. "what becomes of all your r's? say ruthven." "er--er--er--yuthven," said bessie, trying very hard at the r. mr. stanton shook his head and laughed. "i can talk plainer than i used to," said bessie. "i used to call aunt bessie's name very crooked, but i don't now." "what did you use to call it?" "i used to say _libasus_; but now i can say it plain, _lisabus_." "a vast improvement, certainly," said mr. stanton, "but you can't manage the r's yet, hey? well, they will come one of these days, i suppose." "they'd better," said fred, who was hanging over his uncle's shoulder, "or it will be a nice thing when she is a young lady for her to go turning all her r's into y's. people will call her crooked-tongued miss bradford." "you don't make a very pleasant prospect for me to be in," said bessie, looking from brother to uncle with grave displeasure, "and if a little boy like you, fred, says that to me when i am a big lady, i shall say, 'my dear, you are very impertinent.'" "and quite right, too," said uncle ruthven. "if all the little boys do not treat you with proper respect, princess, just bring them to me, and i will teach them good manners." bessie made no answer, for she felt rather angry, and, fearing she might say something naughty, she wisely held her tongue; and slipping from her uncle's hold, she slid to his knee, and from that to the floor, running away to aunt bessie for refuge. after the children had gone to bed, uncle ruthven went up to mrs. bradford's room, that he might have a quiet talk with this his favorite sister. mrs. bradford was rocking her baby to sleep, which business was rather a serious one, for not the least talking or moving about could go on in the room but this very young lady must have a share in it. the long lashes were just drooping upon the round, dimpled cheek when uncle ruthven's step was heard. "ah-oo-oo," said the little wide-awake, starting up with a crow of welcome to the playfellow she liked so well. mamma laid the little head down again, and held up a warning finger to uncle ruthven, who stole softly to a corner, where he was out of miss baby's sight and hearing, to wait till she should be fairly off to dreamland. this brought him near the door of maggie's and bessie's room, where, without intending it, he heard them talking. not hearing his voice, they thought he had gone away again, and presently maggie said in a low tone, that she might not rouse baby, "bessie, have you objections to uncle ruthven?" "yes," answered bessie, slowly,--"yes, maggie, i think i have. i try not to, but i'm 'fraid i do have a little objections to him." "but why?" asked maggie. "_i_ think he is lovely." "i don't know," said bessie. "but, maggie, don't you think he makes pretty intimate?" "why, yes," said maggie; "but then he's our uncle, you know. i guess he has a right if he has a mind to." "but he makes more intimate than uncle john, and we've known him ever so long, and uncle yuthven only a little while. why, maggie, he kisses mamma!" "well, he is her own brother," said maggie, "and uncle john is only her step-brother,--no, that's not it--her brother-of-law--that's it." "what does that mean, maggie?" "it means when somebody goes and marries your sister. if somebody married me, he'd be your brother-of-law." "he sha'n't!" said bessie, quite excited. "he's a horrid old thing, and he sha'n't do it!" "who sha'n't do what?" asked maggie, rather puzzled. "that person, that brother-of-law; he sha'n't marry you; you are my own maggie." "well, he needn't if you don't want him to," said maggie, quite as well contented to settle it one way as the other. "and you needn't feel so bad, and sit up in bed about it, bessie, 'cause you'll take cold, and mamma forbid it." "so she did," said bessie, lying down again with a sigh. "maggie, i'm 'fraid i'm naughty to-night. i forgot what mamma told me, and i was naughty to uncle yuthven." "what did you say?" "i didn't _say_ anything, but i felt very passionate, and i thought naughty things,--how i'd like to give him a good slap when he teased me, and, maggie, for a moment i 'most thought i wished he did not come home. i am going to tell him i'm sorry, the next time he comes." "i wouldn't," said maggie, who was never as ready as bessie to acknowledge that she had been wrong; "not if i didn't do or say anything." "i would," said bessie. "it is naughty to feel so; and you know there's no 'scuse for me to be passionate like there was for aunt patty, 'cause my people are so very wise, and teach me better. and it grieves jesus when we feel naughty, and he saw my naughty heart to-night." "then ask him to forgive you," said maggie. "so i did; but i think he'll know i want to be better if i ask uncle yuthven too." "well," said maggie, "maybe he will. but, bessie, why do you speak about yourself as if you are like aunt patty. you're not a bit like her." "but i might be, if i wasn't teached better," said bessie, "and if jesus didn't help me. poor aunt patty! papa said she was to be pitied." "i sha'n't pity her, i know," said maggie. "but, maggie, mamma said we ought to try and feel kind to her, and to be patient and good to her when she came here, 'cause she's getting very old, and there's nobody to love her, or take care of her. i am 'fraid of her, but i am sorry for her." "if she has nobody to take care of her, let her go to the orphan asylum," said maggie. "i just hope papa will send her there, 'cause we don't want to be bothered with her." "and don't you feel a bit sorry for her, maggie?" "no, not a bit; and i'm not going to, either. she is quite a disgrace to herself, and so she'd better stay at her house up in the mountains." maggie, in her turn, was growing quite excited, as she always did when she talked or thought of aunt patty. it was some time since the children had done either, for christmas, aunt bessie, and uncle ruthven had given them so much else to think about, that they had almost forgotten there was such a person. and now mamma, who had laid baby in her cradle, coming in to stop the talking, was sorry to hear her little girls speaking on the old, disagreeable subject. she told them they must be still, and go to sleep. the first command was obeyed at once, but maggie did not find the second quite so easy; and she lay awake for some time imagining all kinds of possible and impossible quarrels with aunt patty, and inventing a chapter about her for "the complete family." while little maggie was thinking thus of aunt patty, the old lady, in her far-away home, was wondering how she might best contrive to gain the hearts of her young nieces and nephews, for she was not the same woman she had been four years ago. during the last few months a new knowledge and a new life had come to her, making her wish to live in peace and love with every one. but she did not know how to set about this; for the poor lady had grown old in the indulgence of a bad temper, a proud spirit, and a habit of desiring to rule all about her; and now it was not easy to change all this. she had humbled herself at the feet of her lord and saviour, but it was hard work to do it before her fellow-men. she could not quite resolve to say to those whom she had grieved and offended by her violence and self-will, "i have done wrong, but now i see my sin, and wish, with god's help, to lead a new life." still, she longed for the love and friendship she had once cast from her, and her lonely heart craved for some care and affection. she well knew that mr. and mrs. bradford would be only too ready to forgive and forget all that was disagreeable in the past, and she also felt that they would do nothing to prejudice the minds of their children against her. she thought she would go to them, and try to be gentle and loving, and so perhaps she should win back their hearts, and gain those of their little ones. but old habit and the old pride were still strong within her, and so, when she wrote to mr. bradford to say she was coming to make them a visit, she gave no sign that she was sorry for the past, and would like to make amends. but shortly before the time she had fixed for the visit, something happened which caused her to change her purpose, and she chose to say nothing of her reasons for this, only sending word that she could not come before spring, perhaps not then. now, again she had altered her plans, and this time she chose to take them all by surprise, and to go to mr. bradford's without warning. "margaret," said mr. stanton softly, as his sister came from the bedside of her little girls, and they went to the other side of the room, "what a sensitive conscience your darling little bessie has! it seems i vexed her to-night, though i had no thought of doing so. i saw she was displeased, but the feeling seemed to pass in a moment. now i find that she is so penitent for indulging in even a wrong feeling that she cannot rest satisfied without asking pardon, not only of her heavenly father, but also of me." and he told mrs. bradford of all he had heard the children say, with some amusement, as he repeated the conversation about himself. "yes," said mrs. bradford, "my dear little bessie's quick temper gives her some trouble. i am often touched to see her silent struggles with herself when something tries it, how she forces back each angry word and look, and faithfully asks for the help which she knows will never fail her. but with that tender conscience, and her simple trust in him who has redeemed her, i believe all the strength she needs will be granted. god only knows how thankful i am that he has thus early led my precious child to see the sin and evil of a passionate and unchecked temper, and so spared her and hers the misery which i have seen it cause to others." uncle ruthven came in the next morning, and, as usual, "making intimate," ran up to mamma's room. she was not there; but maggie and bessie were, busy over "the complete family." but maggie did not look at all as if she belonged to the happys just then. she had composed, what she thought, a very interesting chapter about aunt patty, and commenced it in this way: "there came to the happys a very great aflekshun." but when she had written this last word, she had her doubts about the spelling, and carried the book to mamma to see if it were right. mamma inquired what the affliction was, and finding, as she supposed, that it was aunt patty, she told maggie she did not wish her to write about her. maggie was very much disappointed, and even pouted a little, and she had not quite recovered when her uncle came in. in his hand he carried a little basket of flowers, which the children supposed was for mamma, and which he stood upon the table. bessie loved flowers dearly, and in a moment she was hanging over them, and enjoying their sweetness. uncle ruthven asked what they were about, and to bessie's surprise, maggie took him at once into the secret, telling him all about "the complete family" and her present trouble. uncle ruthven quite agreed with mamma that it was not wisest and best to write anything unkind of aunt patty, and told maggie of some very pleasant things she might relate, so that presently she was smiling and good-natured again. then mr. stanton took bessie up in his arms. "bessie," he said, "did i vex you a little last night?" bessie colored all over, but looking her uncle steadily in the eyes, answered, "yes, sir; and i am sorry i felt so naughty." "nay," said uncle ruthven, smiling, "if i teased you, although i did not intend it, i am the one to beg pardon." "but i was pretty mad, uncle, and i felt as if i wanted to be naughty. i think i ought to be sorry." "as you please then, darling; we will forgive one another. and now would you like this little peace-offering from uncle ruthven?" and he took up the basket of flowers. "is that for me?" asked bessie, her eyes sparkling. "yes. i thought perhaps i had hurt your feelings last night, and so i brought it to you that you might see _i_ was sorry." "but i could believe you without that." bessie felt reproached that she had told maggie she had "objections to uncle ruthven," and now she felt as if they had all flown away. "perhaps you could," said uncle ruthven, smiling as he kissed her; "but the flowers are your own to do with as you please. and now you must remember that i am not much accustomed to little girls, and do not always know what they like and what they do not like; so you must take pity on the poor traveller, if he makes a mistake now and then, and believe he always wishes to please you and make you love him as far as he knows how." [illustration: title decoration, chap. ] vii. _an unexpected visitor._ uncle ruthven had brought home with him two servants, the elder of whom was a swede, and did not interest the children much, being, as maggie said, such a "very broken englishman" that they could scarcely understand him. but the other was a little persian boy about twelve years old, whom a sad, or rather a happy accident, had thrown into mr. stanton's hands. riding one day through the streets of a persian town, as he turned a corner, this boy ran beneath his horse's feet, was thrown down and badly hurt. mr. stanton took him up and had him kindly cared for, and finding that the boy was an orphan, with no one to love him, he went often to see him, and soon became much interested in the grateful, affectionate little fellow; while hafed learned to love dearly the only face which looked kindly upon him. when the time came for mr. stanton to go away, hafed's grief was terrible to see, and he clung so to this new friend, that the gentleman could not find it in his heart to leave him. it was not difficult to persuade those who had the care of him to give him up; they were only too glad to be rid of the charge. so, at some trouble to himself, mr. stanton had brought him away. but if he needed payment, he found it in hafed's happy face and tireless devotion to himself. he was less of a servant than a pet; but his master did not mean him to grow up in idleness and ignorance, and as soon as he knew a little english, he was to go to school to learn to read and write; but at present he was allowed time to become accustomed to his new home. the children thought him a great curiosity, partly because of his foreign dress, and that he had come from such a far-off country; partly because he could speak only half a dozen english words. hafed took a great fancy to the little girls, and was never happier than when his master took him to mr. bradford's house, and left him to play with them for a while. maggie and bessie liked him also, and they immediately set about teaching him english. as yet, he knew only four or five words, one of which was "missy," by which name he called every one who wore skirts, not excepting franky, who considered it a great insult. maggie was very eager to have him learn new words, and was constantly showing him something and repeating the name over and over till he could say it. but though he took great pains, and was an apt scholar, he did not learn fast enough to satisfy maggie. "hafed," she said to him one day, holding up her doll, "say 'doll.'" "_dole_," repeated hafed, in his soft, musical tones. "doll," said maggie, not at all satisfied with his pronunciation, and speaking in a louder voice, as if hafed could understand the better for that. "dole," said hafed again, with a contented smile. "d-o-o-ll," shrieked maggie, in the ear of her patient pupil, with no better success on his part. miss rush was sitting by, and she called maggie to her. "maggie, dear," she said, "you must not be impatient with hafed. i am sure he tries his best; but you must remember it is hard work for that little foreign tongue of his to twist itself to our english words. he will learn to pronounce them in time." "but, aunt bessie," said maggie, "mamma said it was always best to learn to do a thing well at first, and then one will not have to break one's self of bad habits." "and so it is, dear; but then we cannot always do that at once. when mamma teaches you french, you cannot always pronounce the words as she does; can you?" "no; ma'am; but those are hard french words, and we are trying to teach hafed english, and that is so easy." "easy to you, dear, who are accustomed to it, but not to him. it is even harder for him to frame the english words than it is for you to repeat the french; and you should be gentle and patient with him, as mamma is with you." the little persian felt the cold very much, and delighted to hang about the fires and registers. he had a way of going down on his knees before the fire, and holding up both hands with the palms towards the blaze. the first time nurse saw him do this, she was quite shocked. "the poor little heathen," she said. "well, i've often heard of them fire-worshippers, but i never expected to see one, at least, in this house. i shall just make so bold as to tell mr. ruthven he ought to teach him better." but hafed was no fire-worshipper, for he had been taught better, and thanks to his kind master, did not bow down to that or any other false god. it was only his delight in the roaring blaze which had brought him down in front of it, not, as nurse thought, the wish to pray to it. "let's teach him about jesus," said bessie to her sister. "first, we'll teach him to say it, and then he'll want to know who he is." so kneeling down beside the little stranger, she took his hand in hers, and pointing upwards said, "jesus." the boy's face lighted up immediately, and to bessie's great delight, he repeated jesus in a tone so clear and distinct as to show it was no new word to him. he had a pretty way when he wished to say he loved a person, of touching his fingers to his lips, laying them on his own heart, and then on that of the one for whom he wished to express his affection. now, at the sound of the name, which he, as well as bessie, had learned to love, he tried, by a change in the pretty sign, to express his meaning. touching first bessie's lips and then her heart with the tips of his fingers, he softly blew upon them, as if he wished to waft to heaven the love he could not utter in words, saying, "missy--jesus?" bessie understood him. she knew he wished to ask if she loved jesus, and with a sunny face, she answered him with a nod, asking, in her turn, "do you, hafed,--do you love jesus?" the boy went through the same sign with his own heart and lips, saying, "hafed--jesus," and bessie turned joyfully to her sister. "he knows him, maggie. we won't have to teach him; he knows our jesus, and he loves him too. oh, i'm so glad!" "now the good shepherd, that has called ye to be his lambs, bless you both," said old nurse, with the tears starting to her eyes. "that's as cheering a sight as i want to see; and there was me a misjudging of my boy. i might have known him better than to think he'd let one as belonged to him go on in darkness and heathendom." nurse always called mr. stanton her "boy" when she was particularly pleased with him. from this time hafed was almost as great a favorite with nurse as he was with the children, and seeing how gentle and thoughtful he was, she would even sometimes leave them for a few moments in his care. one morning mamma and aunt bessie were out, and jane, who was sick, had gone to bed. hafed was in the nursery playing with the children, when the chamber-maid came in to ask nurse to go to jane. nurse hesitated at first about leaving her charge, but they all said they would be good, and hafed should take care of them. nurse knew that this was a safe promise from maggie and bessie, but she feared that, with every intention of being good, mischievous franky would have himself or the others in trouble if she stayed away five minutes. "see here," she said, "i'll put ye all into the crib, and there ye may play omnibus till i come back. that will keep ye out of harm's way, franky, my man, for if there's a chance for you to get into mischief, ye'll find it." this was a great treat, for playing in the cribs and beds was not allowed without special permission, and franky, being provided with a pair of reins, and a chair turned upside down for a horse, took his post as driver, in great glee; while the three little girls were packed in as passengers, maggie holding the baby. hafed was rather too large for the crib, so he remained outside, though he, too, enjoyed the fun, even if he did not quite understand all it meant. then, having with many pointings and shakings of her head made hafed understand that he was not to go near the fire or windows, or to let the children fall out of the crib, mammy departed. they were all playing and singing as happy as birds, when the nursery-door opened, and a stranger stood before them. in a moment every voice was mute, and all five children looked at her in utter astonishment. she was an old lady, with hair as white as snow, tall and handsome; but there was something about her which made every one of the little ones feel rather shy. they gazed at her in silence while she looked from one to another of them, and then about the room, as if those grave, stern eyes were taking notice of the smallest thing there. "well!" exclaimed the old lady, after a moment's pause, "this is a pretty thing!" by this time bessie's politeness had gained the better of her astonishment, and scrambling to her feet, she stood upright in the crib. as the stranger's eyes were fixed upon hafed as she spoke, the little girl supposed the "pretty thing" meant the dress of the young persian, which the children thought very elegant; and she answered, "yes, ma'am, but he is not to wear it much longer, 'cause the boys yun after him in the street, so uncle yuthven is having some english clothes made for him." "where is your mother?" asked the old lady, without other notice of bessie's speech. "gone out with aunt bessie, ma'am." "and is there nobody left to take care of you?" "oh, yes, ma'am," answered bessie. "maggie and i are taking care of the children, and hafed is taking care of us." "humph!" said the old lady, as if she did not think this at all a proper arrangement. "i shall give margaret a piece of my mind about this." bessie now opened her eyes very wide. "papa don't allow it," she said, gravely. "don't allow what?" asked the stranger, rather sharply. "don't allow mamma to be scolded." "and who said i was going to scold her?" "you said you were going to give her a piece of your mind, and pieces of mind mean scoldings, and we never have mamma scolded, 'cause she never deserves it." "oh!" said the old lady, with a half-smile, "then she is better than most people." "yes, ma'am," answered bessie, innocently, "she is better than anybody, and so is papa." "just as well _you_ should think so," said the lady, now smiling outright. "and you are maggie--no--bessie, i suppose." "yes, ma'am. i am bessie, and this is maggie, and this is baby, and this is franky, and this is hafed," said the child, pointing in turn to each of her playmates. "and is there no one but this little mountebank to look after you?" asked the old lady. "where is your nurse?" "she is coming back in a few minutes," answered bessie. "and hafed is not a--a--that thing you called him, ma'am. he is only a little persian whom uncle yuthven brought from far away over the sea, and he's a very good boy. he does not know a great many of our words, but he tries to learn them, and he knows about our jesus, and tries to be a good little boy." dear bessie wished to say all she could in praise of hafed, whom she thought the old lady looked at with displeasure. perhaps hafed thought so, also, for he seemed very much as if he would like to hide away from her gaze. meanwhile maggie sat perfectly silent. when the old lady had first spoken, she started violently, and, clasping her arms tightly about the baby, looked more and more frightened each instant; while baby, who was not usually shy, nestled her little head timidly against her sister's shoulder, and stared at the stranger with eyes of grave infant wonder. "and so you are maggie," said the lady, coming closer to the crib. poor maggie gave a kind of gasp by way of answer. "do you not know me, maggie?" asked the old lady, in a voice which she intended to be coaxing. to bessie's dismay, maggie burst into one of those sudden and violent fits of crying, to which she would sometimes give way when much frightened or distressed. "why, why!" said the stranger, as the baby, startled by maggie's sobs, and the way in which she clutched her, raised her voice also in a loud cry. "why, why! what is all this about? do you not know your aunt patty?" aunt patty! was it possible? at this astounding and alarming news, bessie plumped down again in the bed beside maggie, amazed at herself for having dared to speak so boldly to that terrible person. and yet she had not seemed so terrible, nor had she felt much afraid of her till she found out who she was. but now mrs. lawrence was losing patience. certainly she had not had a very pleasant reception. coming cold and tired from a long journey, she had found her host and hostess out, and no one but the servants to receive her. this was her own fault, of course, since she had not told mr. and mrs. bradford to expect her; but that did not make it the less annoying to her. it is not always the easier to bear a thing because we ourselves are to blame for it. however, she had made up her mind not to be vexed about it, and at once went to the nursery to make acquaintance with the children. but the greeting she received was not of a kind to please any one, least of all a person of aunt patty's temper. and there was worse still to come. "what is the meaning of all this?" asked mrs. lawrence, in an angry tone. "here, maggie, give me that child, and stop crying at once." as she spoke, she tried to take the baby, but poor maggie, now in utter despair, shrieked aloud for nurse, and held her little sister closer than before. aunt patty was determined, however, and much stronger than maggie, and in another minute the baby was screaming in her arms. "oh, maggie, why don't somebody come?" cried bessie. "oh, do say those words to her?" maggie had quite forgotten how she had intended to alarm aunt patty if she interfered with them; but when bessie spoke, it came to her mind, and the sight of her baby sister in the old lady's arms was too much for her. springing upon her feet, she raised her arm after the manner of the woman in the picture, and gasped out, "beware, woman!" for a moment aunt patty took no notice of her, being occupied with trying to soothe the baby. "beware, woman!" cried maggie, in a louder tone, and stamping her foot. mrs. lawrence turned and looked at her. "beware, woman!" shrieked maggie, and bessie, thinking it time for her to come to her sister's aid, joined in the cry, "beware, woman!" while franky, always ready to take part in any disturbance, struck at aunt patty with his whip, and shouted, "'ware, woman!" and hafed, knowing nothing but that this old lady had alarmed and distressed his young charge, and that it was his duty to protect them, raised his voice in a whoop of defiance, and snatching up the hearth-brush, brandished it in a threatening manner as he danced wildly about her. nor was this all, for flossy, who had also been taken into the crib as a passenger, commenced a furious barking, adding greatly to the uproar. [illustration: bessie's friends. p. .] it would be difficult to say which was the greatest, aunt patty's astonishment or her anger; and there is no knowing what she would have done or said, for at this moment the door opened, and uncle ruthven appeared. for a moment he stood perfectly motionless with surprise. it was indeed a curious scene upon which he looked. in the centre of the room stood an old lady who was a stranger to him, holding in her arms the screaming baby; while around her danced his own little servant-boy, looking as if he might be one of the wild dervishes of his own country; and in the crib stood his young nieces and franky, all shouting, "beware, woman!" over and over again. but aunt patty had not the least idea of "running away, never to be seen again," and if her conscience were "guilty," it certainly did not seem to be at all alarmed by anything maggie or bessie could do. nevertheless, mr. stanton's appearance was a great relief to her. baby ceased her loud cries, and stretched out her dimpled arms to her uncle, with a beseeching whimper; hafed paused in his antics, and stood like a statue at sight of his master; and the three other children all turned to him with exclamations of "oh, uncle ruthven; we're so glad!" and "please don't leave us," from maggie and bessie; and "make dat patty be off wiz herself," from franky. mr. stanton recovered himself in a moment, and bowing politely to mrs. lawrence, said, with a smile sparkling in his eye, "i fear you are in some trouble, madam; can i help you?" "help me?" repeated the old lady; "i fear you will want help yourself. why, it must need half a dozen keepers to hold these little bedlamites in any kind of order." "they are usually orderly enough," answered mr. stanton as he took baby from aunt patty, who was only too glad to give her up; "but i do not understand this. what is the matter, maggie, and where is nurse?" but maggie only answered by a new burst of sobs, and bessie spoke for her. "she's aunt patty, uncle yuthven; she says she is." "well," said uncle ruthven, more puzzled than ever, for he knew little of mrs. lawrence, save that she was mr. bradford's aunt, "and do you welcome her with such an uproar as this? tell me where nurse is, bessie." as he spoke, nurse herself came in, answering his question with, "here i am, sir, and--" nurse, in her turn, was so astonished by the unexpected sight of aunt patty that she stood quite still, gazing at her old enemy. but, as she afterwards said, she presently "recollected her manners," and dropping a stiff courtesy to mrs. lawrence, she took the baby from mr. stanton, and in a few words explained the cause of her ten minutes' absence. the tearful faces of her nurslings, and that of aunt patty, flushed and angry, gave nurse a pretty good guess how things had been going while she had been away, but she saw fit to ask no questions. "my lady is out, ma'am," she said, with a grim sort of politeness to mrs. lawrence, "and i think she was not looking for you just now, or she would have been at home." then mr. stanton introduced himself, and asking mrs. lawrence if she would let him play the part of host till his sister came home, he offered the old lady his arm, and led her away. poor aunt patty! she scarcely knew what to do. the old angry, jealous temper and the new spirit which had lately come to dwell in her heart were doing hard battle, each striving for the victory. she thought, and not without reason, that her nephew's little children must have been taught to fear and dislike her, when they could receive her in such a manner; and the evil spirit said, "go, do not remain in a house where you have been treated so. leave it, and never come back to it. you have been insulted! do not bear it! tell these people what you think of their unkindness, and never see them again." but the better angel, the spirit of the meek and lowly master, of whom she was striving to learn, said, "no, stay, and try to overcome evil with good. this is all your own fault, the consequence of your own ungoverned and violent temper. your very name has become a name of fear to these innocent children; but you must bear it, and let them find they have no longer cause to dread you. and do not be too proud to let their parents see that you are sorry for the past, and wish it to be forgotten. if this is hard, and not what you would have expected, remember how much they have borne from you in former days; how patient and gentle and forbearing they were." then, as her anger cooled down, she began to think how very unlikely it was that mr. or mrs. bradford had said or done anything which could cause their children to act in the way maggie and bessie had done that morning. this was probably the work of others who remembered how perverse and trying she had been during her last visit. and aunt patty was forced to acknowledge to herself that it was no more than she deserved, or might have looked for. and so, trying to reason herself into better humor, as she thought the matter over, she began to see its droll side (for aunt patty had a quick sense of fun) and to find some amusement mingling with her vexation at the singular conduct of the children. meanwhile, mr. stanton, who saw that the poor lady had been greatly annoyed, and who wondered much at all the commotion he had seen in the nursery, though, like nurse, he thought it wisest to ask no questions, was doing his best to make her forget it; and so well did he succeed, that presently mrs. lawrence found herself, she scarcely knew how, laughing heartily with him as she related the story of maggie's strange attack upon her. mr. stanton understood it no better than she did, perhaps not so well; but he was very much amused; and as he thought these young nieces and nephews of his were very wonderful little beings, he told aunt patty many of their droll sayings and doings, making himself so agreeable and entertaining, that by the time his sister came in, the old lady had almost forgotten that she had cause to be offended, and was not only quite ready to meet mrs. bradford in a pleasant manner, but actually went so far as to apologize for taking them all by surprise. this was a great deal to come from aunt patty. she would not have spoken so four years ago; but mrs. bradford was not more surprised by this than she was at the difference in look and manner which now showed itself in the old lady. surely, some great change must have come to her; and her friends, seeing how much more patient and gentle she was than in former days, could not but think it was the one blessed change which must come to the hearts of those who seek for love and peace by the true way. [illustration: decoration, end of chap. ] [illustration: title decoration, chap. ] viii. _franky._ but although such a great and delightful alteration had taken place in mrs. lawrence, and although mrs. bradford and miss rush did all they could to make the children feel kindly towards her, it was some days before things went at all smoothly between the old lady and the little ones, and annie stanton, seeing the consequence of her thoughtlessness, had more than once reason to regret it, and to take to herself a lesson to refrain from evil speaking. maggie and bessie, it is true, were too old and too well behaved to speak their fear and their dislike openly, by word or action, but it was plainly to be seen in their looks and manners. poor aunt patty! she heard the sweet, childish voices prattling about the house, ringing out so freely and joyfully in peals of merry laughter, or singing to simple music the pretty hymns and songs their dear mother and mrs. rush had taught them; but the moment she appeared, sweet song, innocent talk, and gay laugh were hushed; the little ones were either silent, or whispered to one another in subdued, timid tones. little feet would come pattering, or skipping along the hall, a small, curly head peep within the door, and then vanish at sight of her, while a whisper of "she's there; let's run," told the cause of its sudden disappearance. she saw them clinging around their other friends and relations with loving confidence, climbing upon their knees, clasping their necks, pressing sweet kisses on their cheeks and lips, asking freely for all the interest, sympathy, and affection they needed. father and mother, grandparents, aunts, and uncles, colonel and mrs. rush, the very servants, who had been long in the house, all came in for a share of childish love and trust. but for her they had nothing but shy, downcast looks, timid, half-whispered answers; they shrank from the touch of her hand, ran from her presence. yes, poor aunt patty! the punishment was a severe one, and, apart from the pain it gave her, it was hard for a proud spirit such as hers to bear. but she said nothing, did not even complain to mrs. bradford of the reception she had met with from maggie and bessie, and it was only by uncle ruthven's account and the confession of the little girls that their mamma knew what had occurred. on the morning after mrs. lawrence's arrival, maggie, as usual, brought the "complete family" to her mother to have the spelling corrected, and mrs. bradford found written, "'beware, woman!' is not a bit of use. it don't frighten people a bit; not even gilty conshuns, and uncle john just teased me i know. it is real mean." mamma asked the meaning of this, and, in a very aggrieved manner, maggie told her of uncle john's explanation of the picture, and how she thought she would try the experiment on aunt patty when she had insisted on taking the baby. "but it was all of no purpose, mamma," said maggie, in a very injured tone; "she did not care at all, but just stood there, looking madder and madder." mamma could scarcely wonder that aunt patty had looked "madder and madder," and she told maggie that she thought her aunt wished to be kind and good since she had not uttered one word of complaint at the rude reception she had met with. but the little girl did not see it with her mother's eyes, and could not be persuaded to think less hardly of aunt patty. but that rogue, franky, was not afraid to show his feelings. he was a bold little monkey, full of life and spirits, and always in mischief; and now he seemed to have set himself purposely to defy and brave mrs. lawrence, acting as if he wished to see how far he could go without meeting punishment at her hands. this sad behavior of franky's was particularly unfortunate, because the old lady had taken a special love for the little boy, fancying he looked like the dear father who so many years ago had been drowned beneath the blue waters of the swiss lake. a day or two after aunt patty came, she, with mrs. bradford and miss rush, was in the parlor with three or four morning visitors. franky had just learned to open the nursery door for himself, and this piece of knowledge he made the most of, watching his chance and slipping out the moment nurse's eye was turned from him. finding one of these opportunities for which he was so eager, he ran out and went softly down-stairs, fearing to hear nurse calling him back. but nurse did not miss him at first, and he reached the parlor in triumph. here the door stood partly open, and putting in his head, he looked around the room. no one noticed the roguish little face, with its mischievous, dancing eyes, for all the ladies were listening to aunt patty, as she told them some very interesting anecdote. suddenly there came from the door, in clear, childish tones, "ladies, ladies, does patty stold oo? oo better wun away, she stolds very dreadful." after which master franky ran away himself as fast as his feet could carry him, laughing and chuckling as he mounted the stairs, as if he had done something very fine. mrs. lawrence went straight on with her story, not pausing for an instant, though that she heard quite as plainly as any one else was to be seen by the flush of color on her cheek, and the uplifting of the already upright head. as for poor mrs. bradford, it was very mortifying for her; but what was to be done? nothing, just nothing, as far as aunt patty was concerned. it was not a thing for which pardon could well be asked or an apology made, and mrs. bradford thought the best way was to pass it over in silence. she talked very seriously to franky, but it seemed impossible to make the little boy understand that he had done wrong; and, although nothing quite as bad as this occurred again for several days, he still seemed determined to make war upon aunt patty whenever he could find a chance of doing so. and yet, strange to say, this unruly young gentleman was the first one of the children to make friends with his old auntie; and it came about in this way:-- aunt bessie had brought as her christmas gift to franky a tiny pair of embroidered slippers, which were, as her namesake said, "perferly cunning," and in which the little boy took great pride. nurse, also, thought a great deal of these slippers, and was very choice of them, allowing franky to wear them only while she was dressing or undressing him. but one day when she brought him in from his walk, she found his feet very cold, and taking off his walking-shoes, she put on the slippers, and planted him in front of the fire, telling him to "toast his toes." no sooner did the little toes begin to feel at all comfortable than franky looked around for some way of putting them to what he considered their proper use; namely, trotting about. that tempting nursery-door stood ajar, nurse's eyes were turned another way, and in half a minute he was off again. mammy missed him very soon, and sent jane to look for him. she met him coming up-stairs, and brought him back to the nursery with a look in his eye which nurse knew meant that he had been in mischief. and was it possible? he was in his stocking feet! the precious slippers were missing. in vain did the old woman question him; he would give her no answer, only looking at her with roguishness dancing in every dimple on his chubby face; and in vain did jane search the halls and staircase. so at last nurse took him to his mother, and very unwilling he was to go, knowing right well that he had been naughty, and that now he would be obliged to confess it. "where are your slippers, franky?" asked mrs. bradford, when nurse had told her story. franky hung his head and put his finger into his mouth, then lifted his face coaxingly to his mother for a kiss. "mamma cannot kiss you till you are a good boy," said mrs. bradford, and repeated her question, "where are your slippers?" "in patty's pottet," said franky, seeing that his mother would have an answer, and thinking he had best have it out. "and how came they in aunt patty's pocket?" "she put dem dere hersef," answered the child. "did she take them off your feet, franky?" "no, mamma," answered franky, liking these questions still less than he had done the others. "how did they come off then?" "me trow dem at patty," said franky. at last, after much more questioning and some whimpering from the child, he was brought to confess that he had gone to the library, where he found aunt patty. defying her as usual, and trying how far he could go, without punishment, he had called her "bad old sing," and many other naughty names; but finding this did not bring the expected scolding, he had pulled off first one and then the other of his slippers and thrown them at the old lady. these mrs. lawrence had picked up and put in her pocket, still without speaking. little franky could not tell how sorrow and anger were both struggling in her heart beneath that grave silence. when mrs. bradford had found out all franky could or would tell, she told him he was a very naughty little boy, and since he had behaved so badly to aunt patty, he must go at once and ask her pardon. this franky had no mind to do. he liked very well to brave aunt patty from a safe distance; but he did not care to trust himself within reach of the punishment he knew he so justly deserved. besides, he was in a naughty, obstinate mood, and would not obey his mother as readily as usual. but mamma was determined, as it was right she should be, and after rather a hard battle with her little son, she carried him down-stairs, still sobbing, but subdued and penitent, to beg aunt patty's forgiveness. "me sorry, me do so any more," said franky, meaning he would do so no more. to his surprise, and also somewhat to his mother's, the old lady caught him in her arms, and covered his face with kisses, while a tear or two shone in her eye. "don't ky; me dood now," lisped franky, forgetting all his fear, and putting up his hand to wipe away her tears; and from this minute aunt patty and franky were the best of friends. indeed, so indulgent did she become to him, that papa and mamma were quite afraid he would be spoiled; for the little gentleman, finding out his power, lorded it over her pretty well. mrs. bradford, coming in unexpectedly one day, actually found the old lady on her hands and knees, in a corner, playing the part of a horse eating hay from a manger; while franky, clothes-brush in hand, was, much to his own satisfaction, pretending to rub her down, making the hissing noise used by coachmen when they curry a horse, and positively refusing to allow his patient playfellow to rise. but maggie and bessie could not be persuaded to be at all friendly or sociable with aunt patty. true, after their first dread of her wore off, and they found she was by no means so terrible as they had imagined, they no longer scampered off at the least sound of her voice or glimpse of her skirts, as they had done at first; and bessie even found courage to speak to her now and then, always looking however, as if she thought she was running a great risk, and could not tell what would be the consequence of such boldness. for after all they had heard, our little girls found it impossible to believe that such a great change had taken place in aunt patty, and were always watching for some outbreak of temper. unhappily there was one thing which stood much in aunt patty's way, not only with the children, but perhaps with some grown people also, and that was her old way of meddling and finding fault with things which did not concern her. this she did, almost without knowing it; for so it is, where we have long indulged in a habit, it becomes, as it were, a part of ourselves, and the older we grow, the harder it is to rid ourselves of it. and there are few things which sooner rouse the evil passions and dislike of others than this trick of fault-finding where we have no right or need to do so, or of meddling with that which does not concern us. so mrs. lawrence, without intending it, was constantly fretting and aggravating those around her while maggie and bessie, who thought that all their mamma did or said was quite perfect, were amazed and indignant when they heard her rules and wishes questioned and found fault with, and sometimes even set aside by aunt patty, if she thought another way better. [illustration: decoration, end of chap. ] [illustration: title decoration, chap. ] ix. "_bear ye one another's burdens._" one sunday when mrs. lawrence had been with them about two weeks, maggie and bessie, on going as usual to their class at mrs. rush's, found that they two were to make up her whole class that morning; for gracie howard was sick, and lily norris gone on a visit to her grandfather who lived in the country. mrs. rush was not very sorry to have her favorite scholars by themselves, for she wished to give them a little lesson which it was not necessary that the others should hear. and maggie gave her the opportunity for which she wished by asking colonel rush for the story of benito. "for," said the little girl, "if we were away and lily and gracie here, and you told them a new story, we should be very disappointed not to hear it; so bessie and i made agreement to ask for an old one, and we like benito better than any." "very well; it shall be as you say," replied the colonel, who, provided his pets were satisfied, was so himself, and after the children had gone, he said to his wife, "certainly there are few things in which our sweet little maggie does not act up to the golden rule, of which she is so fond. she does not repeat it in a parrot-like way, as many do, but she understands what it means, and practises it too, with her whole heart." so when the lessons were over, the colonel told the story of benito, which never seemed to lose its freshness with these little listeners. when he came to the part where benito helped the old dame with her burden, mrs. rush said, "children, what do you think that burden was?" "we don't know," said bessie. "what?" "neither do i _know_," answered mrs. rush. "i was only thinking what it _might_ be. perhaps it was pain and sickness; perhaps the loss of friends; perhaps some old, troublesome sin, sorely repented of, long struggled with, but which still returned again and again, to weary and almost discourage her as she toiled along in the road which led to the father's house. perhaps it was all of them; but what ever it was, benito did not pause to ask; he only thought of his lord's command, 'bear ye one another's burdens;' and so put his hand to the load, and eased the old dame's pain and weariness. was it not so?" she asked of her husband. "i think so," he answered. "but a little child could not help grown persons to bear their sins, or to cure them," said bessie; "they must go to jesus for that." "yes, we must go to jesus; but the very love and help and pity we have from him teach us to show all we can to our fellow-creatures, whether they are young or old. one of the good men whom jesus left on earth to do his work and preach his word tells us that christ was 'touched with the feeling of our infirmities, because he was in all points tempted like as we are.' this means that, good and pure and holy as he was, yet he allowed himself to suffer all the trials and struggles and temptations which can come to poor, weak man, so that he might know just what we feel as we pass through them, and just what help we need. yet, sorely tempted as he was, he never fell into sin, but returned to his father's heaven pure and stainless as he left it. since then christ feels for all the pains and struggles through which we go for his sake, since he can make allowance for all our weakness and failures; and as he is so ready to give us help in our temptations, so much the more ought we who are not only tempted, but too apt, in spite of our best efforts, to fall into sin, to show to others all the kindness and sympathy we may at any time need for ourselves. so may we try to copy our saviour, 'bearing one another's burdens,' even as he has borne ours, by giving love and pity and sympathy where we can give nothing else. benito was a very young child, scarcely able to walk on the narrow road without the help of some older and wiser hand, and his weak shoulders could not carry any part of the old dame's load; but he put his baby hands beneath it, and gave her loving smiles and gentle words, and these brought her help and comfort, so that she went on her way, strengthened for the rest of the journey. and, as we know, benito met his reward as he came to the gates of his father's house. so much may the youngest do for the oldest; and i think _we_ know of an old dame whose 'burden' our little pilgrims, maggie and bessie, might help to bear, if they would." "i just believe you mean aunt patty!" exclaimed bessie, in such a tone as showed she was not very well pleased with the idea. "and," said maggie, with just the least little pout, "i don't believe she is a dame pilgrim, and i don't believe she is in the narrow path, not a bit!" "there i think you are mistaken, maggie, for, so far as we can judge, there is reason to think aunt patty is walking in the safe and narrow road which leads to the father's house; and, since she has not been brought to it by paths quite so easy and pleasant as some of us have known, there is all the more reason that we happier travellers should give her a helping hand. it may be very little that we can give; a word, a look, a smile, a kind offer to go for some little trifle that is needed, will often cheer and gladden a heart that is heavy with its secret burden. and if we now and then get a knock, or even a rather hard scratch from those corners of our neighbor's load, which are made up of little faults and odd tempers, we must try not to mind it, but think only of how tired those poor, weary shoulders must be of the weight they carry." "but, mrs. rush," said maggie, "aunt patty's corners scratch very hard, and hurt very much." "but the corners are not half as sharp as they were once; are they, dear?" asked mrs. rush, smiling. "well," said maggie, slowly, as if she were considering, "maybe her temper corner is not so sharp as it used to be, but her meddling corner is very bad,--yes, very bad indeed; and it scratches like everything. why, you don't know how she meddles, and what things she says, even when she is not a bit mad. she is all the time telling mamma how she had better manage; just as if mamma did not know a great deal better than she does about her own children and her own house, and about everything! and she dismanages franky herself very much; and she said dear aunt bessie deserved to have such a bad sore throat 'cause she would go out riding with uncle ruthven, when she told her it was too cold; and she said the colonel"-- "there, there, that will do," said mrs. rush, gently. "do not let us think of what aunt patty does to vex us, but see if we do not sometimes grieve her a little." "oh! she don't think you do anything," said maggie; "she says you are a very lovely young woman." "well," said the colonel, laughing, "neither you nor i shall quarrel with her for that; shall we? there is one good mark for aunt patty; let us see how many more we can find." "she was very good to patrick when he hurt his hand so the other day," said bessie. "she washed it, and put a yag on it, and made it feel a great deal better." "and she likes uncle ruthven very much," said maggie. "that is right," said mrs. rush, "think of all the good you can. when we think kindly of a person, we soon begin to act kindly towards them, and i am quite sure that a little love and kindness from you would do much to lighten aunt patty's burden. and if the sharp corners fret and worry you a little, remember that perhaps it is only the weight of the rest of the burden which presses these into sight, and then you will not feel them half as much. will you try if you can be like benito, and so receive the blessing of him who says the cup of cold water given in his name shall meet its reward?" "we'll try," said maggie, "but i don't think we'll succeed." "and if at first you don't succeed, what then?" "then try, try, try again," said maggie, cheerfully, for she was already trying to think what she might do to make aunt patty's burden more easy; "but--" "but what, dear?" "i hope she won't shed tears of joy upon my bosom," said maggie, growing grave again at the thought of such a possibility; "i wouldn't quite like _that_." "and what does bessie say?" asked the colonel. "i was thinking how precious it is," said the little girl, turning upon the colonel's face those serious brown eyes which had been gazing so thoughtfully into the fire. "how precious what is, my darling?" "to think jesus knows how our temptations feel, 'cause he felt them himself, and so knows just how to help us and be sorry for us." colonel rush had his answer to both questions. that same sunday evening, the children were all with their father and mother in the library. mrs. lawrence sat in an arm-chair by the parlor fire, alone, or nearly so, for miss rush and mr. stanton in the window at the farther side of the room were not much company to any one but themselves. certainly the poor old lady felt lonely enough, as, with her clasped hands lying upon her lap, her chin sunk upon her breast, and her eyes fixed upon the fire, she thought of the long, long ago, when she, too, was young, bright, and happy; when those around lived only for her happiness. ah! how different it all was now! they were all gone,--the youth, the love, the happiness; gone, also, were the wasted years which she might have spent in the service of the master whom she had sought so late; gone all the opportunities which he had given her of gaining the love and friendship of her fellow-creatures. and now how little she could do, old and feeble and helpless as she was. and what hard work it was to struggle with the evil tempers and passions to which she had so long given way; how difficult, when some trifle vexed her, to keep back the sharp and angry word, to put down the wish to bend everything to her own will, to learn of him who was meek and lowly in heart! and there was no one to know, no one to sympathize, no one to give her a helping hand in this weary, up-hill work, to guess how heavily the burden of past and present sin bore upon the poor, aching shoulders. in her longing for the human love and sympathy she had once cast from her, and which she could not now bring herself to ask, the poor old lady almost forgot that there was one eye to see the struggles made for jesus' sake, one hand outstretched to save and to help, one voice to whisper, "be of good courage." true, mr. and mrs. bradford were always kind and thoughtful, and all treated her with due respect and consideration; but that was not all she wanted. if the children would but love and trust her. there would be such comfort in that; but in spite of all her efforts, they were still shy and shrinking,--all, save that little tyrant, franky. even fearless fred was quiet and almost dumb in her presence. so aunt patty sat, and sadly thought, unconscious of the wistful pair of eyes which watched her from the other room, until by and by a gentle footstep came stealing round her chair, a soft little hand timidly slipped itself into her own, and she turned to see bessie's sweet face looking at her, half in pity, half in wonder. "well, dear," she asked, after a moment's surprised silence, "what is it?" truly, bessie scarcely knew herself what it was. she had been watching aunt patty as she sat looking so sad and lonely, and thinking of mrs. rush's lesson of the morning, till her tender little heart could bear it no longer, and she had come to the old lady's side, not thinking of anything particular she would do or say, but just with the wish to put a loving hand to the burden. "do you want anything, bessie?" asked mrs. lawrence again. "no, ma'am, but"--bessie did not quite like to speak of aunt patty's troubles, so she said, "_i_ have a little burden, too, aunt patty." aunt patty half smiled to herself as she looked into the earnest, wistful eyes. she, this innocent little one, the darling and pet of all around her, what burden could she have to bear? she did not know the meaning of the word. then came a vexed, suspicious thought. "who told you that i had any burden to bear, child?" she asked, sharply. "every one has; haven't they?" said bessie, rather frightened; then, strong in her loving, holy purpose, she went on. "everybody has some burden; don't they, aunt patty? if our father makes them very happy, still they have their faults, like i do. and if he don't make them very happy, the faults are a great deal harder to bear; are they not?" "and what burden have you, dearie?" asked the old lady, quite softened. "my tempers," said the child, gravely. "i used to be in passions very often, aunt patty, till jesus helped me so much, and very often now i have passions in myself when some one makes me offended; but if i ask him quite quick to help me, he always does. but it is pretty hard sometimes, and i think that is my burden. maybe it's only a little one, though, and i oughtn't to speak about it." aunt patty was surprised, no less at the child's innocent freedom in speaking to her than at what she said, for she had never suspected that gentle little bessie had a passionate temper. she looked at her for a moment, and then said, "then thank god every day of your life, bessie, that he has saved you from the misery of growing up with a self-willed, ungoverned temper. thank him that his grace has been sufficient to help you to battle with it while you are young, that age and long habit have not strengthened it till it seems like a giant you cannot overcome. you will never know what misery it becomes then, with what force the tempter comes again and again; _no one_ knows, _no one_ knows!" perhaps mrs. lawrence was talking more to herself than to bessie; but the child understood her, and answered her. "jesus knows," she said, softly, and with that tender, lingering tone with which she always spoke the saviour's name. "jesus knows," repeated the old lady, almost as if the thought came to her for the first time. "yes, jesus knows," said bessie, putting up her small fingers with a little caressing touch to aunt patty's cheek; "and is it not sweet and precious, aunt patty, to think he had temptations too, and so can know just how hard we have to try not to grieve him? mrs. rush told us about it to-day, and i love to think about it all the time. and she told us how he helped every one to bear their burdens; and now we ought to help each other too, 'cause that was what he wanted us to do. but if sometimes we cannot help each other, 'cause we don't know about their burdens, jesus can always help us, 'cause he always knows; don't he?" "bessie, come and sing," called mamma from the other room, and away ran the little comforter to join her voice with the others in the sabbath evening hymn. yes, she had brought comfort to the worn and weary heart; she had put her hand to aunt patty's burden and eased the aching pain. "jesus knows." again and again the words came back to her, bringing peace and rest and strength for all days to come. she had heard it often before; she knew it well. "jesus knows;" but the precious words had never come home to her before as they did when they were spoken by the sweet, trustful, childish voice,--"jesus knows." there is no need to tell that they were friendly after this, these two pilgrims on the heavenward way,--the old woman and the little child, she who had begun to tread in her master's footsteps so early in life's bright morning, and she who had not sought to follow him until the eleventh hour, when her day was almost ended. for they were both clinging to one faith, both looking to one hope, and the hand of the younger had drawn the feet of the elder to a firmer and surer foothold upon the rock of ages, on which both were resting. and how was it with our maggie? it was far harder work for her to be sociable with aunt patty than it was for bessie; for besides her fear of the old lady, there was her natural shyness to be struggled with. as for speaking to her, unless it was to give a timid "yes" or "no" when spoken to, that was, at first, by no means possible; but remembering that mrs. rush had said that a look or a smile might show good-will or kindness, she took to looking and smiling with all her might. she would plant herself at a short distance from aunt patty, and stare at the old lady till she looked up and noticed her, when she would put on the broadest of smiles, and immediately run away, frightened at her own boldness. mrs. lawrence was at first displeased, thinking maggie meant this for impertinence or mockery; but mrs. bradford, having once or twice caught maggie at this extraordinary performance, asked what it meant, and was told by her little daughter that she was only "trying to bear aunt patty's burden." then followed an account of what mrs. rush had taught the children on sunday. "but, indeed, indeed, mamma," said poor maggie, piteously, "i don't think i can do any better. i do feel so frightened when she looks at me, and she don't look as if she liked me to smile at her, and this morning she said, 'what are you about, child?' _so_ crossly!" mamma praised and encouraged her, and afterwards explained to aunt patty that maggie only meant to be friendly, but that her bashfulness and her friendliness were sadly in each other's way. so mrs. lawrence was no longer displeased, but like the rest of maggie's friends, rather amused, when she saw her desperate efforts to be sociable; and after a time even maggie's shyness wore away. before this came about, however, she and bessie had made a discovery or two which amazed them very much. surely, it might be said of each of these little ones, "she hath done what she could." [illustration: title decoration, chap. ] x. _two surprises._ some time after this aunt patty bought a magnificent toy menagerie, not for a present to any of her young nieces and nephews, but to keep as an attraction to her own room when she wished for their company. even maggie could not hold out against such delightful toys, and after some coaxing from bessie, and a good deal of peeping through the crack of the door at these wonderful animals, she ventured into aunt patty's room. the two little girls, with franky, were there one morning while mamma and aunt patty sat at their work. the animals had been put through a great number of performances, after which it was found necessary to put the menagerie in thorough order. for this purpose the wild beasts were all taken from their cages, and tied with chains of mamma's bright-colored worsteds to the legs of the chairs and tables, while the cages were rubbed and dusted; after which they were to be escorted home again. this proved a very troublesome business, for the animals, as was quite natural, preferred the fields, which were represented by the green spots in the carpet, to the cages, where they were so closely shut up, and did not wish to be carried back. at least, so maggie said when mamma asked the cause of all the growling and roaring which was going on. "you see, mamma," she said, "they want to run away to their own forests, and they tried to devour their keepers, till some very kind giants, that's bessie and franky and me, came to help the keepers." but now flossy, who had been lying quietly on the rug, watching his chance for a bit of mischief, thought he had better help the giants, and rushing at an elephant with which franky was having a great deal of trouble, tossed it over with his nose, and sent it whirling against the side of the room, where it lay with a broken leg and trunk. alas, for the poor elephant! it was the first one of the toys that had been broken, and great was the mourning over its sad condition, while flossy was sent into the corner in disgrace. of course, it was not possible for the elephant to walk home; he must ride. "patty," said franky, "do down-'tairs and det my water-tart; it's in de lib'ry." "franky, franky!" said mamma, "is that the way to speak to aunt patty?" "please," said franky. "aunt patty has a bone in her foot," said mrs. lawrence. franky put his head on one side, and looking quizzically at the old lady, said, "oo went down-'tairs for oo bastet wis a bone in oo foot, so oo tan do for my tart wis a bone in oo foot." maggie and bessie knew that this was saucy, and expected that aunt patty would be angry; but, to their surprise, she laughed, and would even have gone for the cart if mamma had not begged her not to. "franky," said mamma, as the little girls, seeing aunt patty was not displeased, began to chuckle over their brother's cute speech, "you must not ask aunt patty to run about for you. it is not pretty for little boys to do so." "but me want my tart to wide dis poor efelant," said franky, coaxingly. bessie said she would go for the cart, and ran away down-stairs. she went through the parlor, and reaching the library-door, which stood ajar, pushed it open. aunt bessie and uncle ruthven were there; and what did she see? was it possible? "oh!" she exclaimed. at this the two culprits turned, and seeing bessie's shocked and astonished face, uncle ruthven laughed outright, his own hearty, ringing laugh. "come here, princess," he said. but bessie was off, the cart quite forgotten. through the hall and up the stairs, as fast as the little feet could patter, never pausing till she reached mamma's room, where she buried her face in one of the sofa cushions; and there her mother found her some moments later. "why, bessie, my darling, what is it?" asked mamma. "what has happened to you?" bessie raised her flushed and troubled face, but she was not crying, as her mother had supposed, though she looked quite ready to do so. "oh, mamma!" she said, as mrs. bradford sat down and lifted her up on her lap. "what has troubled you, dearest?" "oh, mamma, such a shocking thing! i don't know how to tell you." "have you been in any mischief, dear? if you have, do not be afraid to tell your own mamma." "oh! it was not me, mamma, but it was a dreadful, dreadful mischief." "well, darling, if any of the others have been in mischief, of which i should know, i do not think you will speak of it unless it is necessary!" "but you ought to know it, mamma, so you can see about it; it was so very unproper. but it was not any of us children; it was big people--it was--it was--uncle yuthven and aunt bessie; and i'm afraid they won't tell you themselves." "well," said mrs. bradford, trying to keep a grave face, as she imagined she began to see into the cause of the trouble. she need not have tried to hide her smiles. her little daughter buried her face on her bosom, as she whispered the, to her, shocking secret, and never once looked up at her mother. "mamma,--he--he--_kissed_ her!--he did--and she never scolded him, not a bit." still the disturbed little face was hidden, and mamma waited a moment till she could compose her own, and steady her voice. "my darling," she said, "i have a pleasant secret to tell you. you love dear aunt bessie very much; do you not?" "yes, mamma, dearly, dearly; and, mamma, she's very much mine,--is she not?--'cause i'm her namesake; and uncle yuthven ought not to do it. he had no yight. mamma, don't you think papa had better ask him to go back to africa for a little while?" bessie's voice was rather angry now. mamma had once or twice lately seen signs of a little jealous feeling toward uncle ruthven. she, bessie the younger, thought it very strange that bessie the elder should go out walking or driving so often with uncle ruthven, or that they should have so many long talks together. uncle ruthven took up quite too much of aunt bessie's time, according to little bessie's thinking. she had borne it pretty well, however, until now; but that uncle ruthven should "make so intimate" as to kiss aunt bessie, was the last drop in the cup, and she was displeased as well as distressed. "and if papa had the power," said mrs. bradford, "would my bessie wish uncle ruthven sent away again, and so grieve dear grandmamma, who is so glad to have him at home once more, to say nothing of his other friends? i hope my dear little daughter is not giving way to that ugly, hateful feeling, jealousy." "oh! i hope not, mamma," said bessie. "i would not like to be so naughty. and if you think it's being jealous not to like uncle yuthven to--to do that, i'll try not to mind it so much;" and here a great sob escaped her, and a tear or two dropped on mamma's hand. mrs. bradford thought it best to make haste and tell her the secret. "my darling," she said, "you know, though you are so fond of dear aunt bessie, she is not related to you,--not really your aunt." "yes'm, but then i love her just as much as if she was my very, very own. i have to love her for so many yeasons; 'cause she is her own self and i can't help it, and 'cause i'm her namesake, and 'cause she's my dear soldier's own sister. mamma, don't you think that is plenty of yeasons to be fond of her for?" "yes, dear, but you must be willing to have others fond of her too. and do you not think it would be very pleasant to have her for your own aunt, and to keep her always with us for our very own?" "oh, yes, mamma! but then that could not be; could it?" "well, yes," said mrs. bradford; "if uncle ruthven marries her, she will really be your aunt, and then she will live at grandmamma's, where you may see her almost every day, and feel she is quite one of the family." "and is he going to, mamma?" asked bessie, raising her head, and with the utmost surprise and pleasure breaking over her face; "is uncle yuthven going to marry her, and make her our true aunt?" "yes, i believe so," answered her mother; "it was all settled a few days ago. we did not mean to tell you just yet, but now i thought it better. but, bessie, if you send poor uncle ruthven away to africa again, i fear you will lose aunt bessie too, for she will go with him." "i was naughty to say that, dear mamma," said bessie, her whole face in a glow of delight, "and i am so sorry i felt cross to uncle yuthven just when he was doing us such a great, great favor. oh, he was so very kind to think of it! he has been trying to give us pleasure ever since he came home, and now he has done the very best thing of all. he knew just what we would like; did he not, mamma?" mamma laughed. "i rather think he knew we would all be pleased, bessie." "i must thank him very much indeed,--must i not, mamma?--and tell him how very obliging i think he is." "you may thank him just as much as you please, dear," said mamma, merrily. "here comes maggie to see what has become of us. she must hear this delightful secret too." so maggie was told, and went capering round the room in frantic delight at the news, inventing, as usual, so many plans and pleasures that might fit in with this new arrangement, that bessie was better satisfied than ever, and even forgave uncle ruthven the kiss. and here was a second joy at hand; for in came a message from mrs. rush, asking that the little girls might come over to the hotel and spend the rest of the day with her and the colonel. they were always ready enough for this, and in a short time they were dressed and on their way with starr, the colonel's man, who had come for them. starr was a soldier, straight, stiff, and very grave and respectful in his manner; and now, as he walked along, leading a little girl in each hand, they wondered to see how very smiling he looked. "starr," said bessie, peeping up in his face, "have you some good news?" "i've no bad news, miss," said starr, with a broader smile than before. "you look so very pleased," said bessie; to which starr only replied, "it's likely, miss," and became silent again. when they reached the long crossing, who should be standing on the corner but sergeant richards. bessie saw him at once, and went directly up to him. "how do you do, mr. station policeman?" she said, politely, and holding out her morsel of a hand to him. "this is my maggie." "well, now, but i'm glad to see you, and your maggie too," said the police-sergeant. "and how have you been this long time?" "pretty well," answered bessie. "how are your blind boy and your lame wife and your sick baby, and all your troubles?" "why, the wife is able to move round a little," said richards, "and the baby is mending a bit too." "and willie?" asked bessie. a shadow came over the policeman's honest face. "willie is drooping," he said, with a sigh. "i think it's the loss of the sight of his mother's face and of the blessed sunlight that's ailing him. his eyes are quite blind now,--no more light to them than if he was in a pitch-dark cell." "but i thought the doctor could cure him when his eyes were all blind," said bessie. "not just now, dear. next year, maybe, if all goes well. that's the best we can hope for, i believe. but here i am standing and talking to you, when i've business on hand that can't be put off." so saying, he shook hands again with bessie and walked rapidly away. "i s'pose he means he can't afford to pay the doctor now," said bessie, as she and maggie went on again with starr. "mrs. granby said they were pretty poor, and she was 'fraid they couldn't do it this year. it's so long for willie to wait. i wonder if papa wouldn't pay the doctor." "there's the mistress watching for the little ladies," said starr, and, looking up, the children saw mrs. rush standing at the window of her room and nodding to them. in two minutes more they were at the door, which she opened for them with even a brighter face than usual; and, after kissing them, stood aside to let them see the colonel, who was coming forward to meet them. yes, there he came, and--no wonder mrs. rush looked bright and happy, no wonder starr was smiling--without his crutches; moving slowly, to be sure, and leaning on a cane, but walking on two feet! if colonel rush imagined he was about to give his little friends a pleasant surprise, he found he was not mistaken. "oh!" exclaimed bessie, but it was in a very different tone from that in which she had uttered it once before that day. maggie gave a little shriek of delight which would almost have startled any one who had not known maggie's ways, or seen her sparkling face. "oh! goody! goody! goody!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands and hopping about in a kind of ecstasy. "how lovely! how splendid! how--how--superfluous!" maggie had been trying to find the longest "grown-up" word she could think of, and as she had that morning heard her father say that something was "altogether superfluous," she now used the word without a proper idea of its meaning. but the colonel was quite content to take the word as she meant it, and thanked her for her joyous sympathy. he knew that bessie felt none the less because she was more quiet. she walked round and round him, looking at him as if she could not believe it, and then going up to him, took his hand in both hers, and laid her smooth, soft cheek upon it in a pretty, tender way which said more than words. "do let's see you walk a little more," said maggie. "it's so nice; it's just like a fairy tale, when a good fairy comes and mends all the people that have been chopped to pieces, and makes them just as good as ever; only this is true and that is not." "who put it on?" asked bessie, meaning the new leg. "starr put it on," answered the colonel. "and did you make it, too, starr?" asked bessie. "no, indeed, miss;" said starr, who still stood at the door with his hat in his hand, and his head on one side, looking at his master much as a proud nurse might look at her baby who was trying its first steps,--"no, indeed, miss; that was beyond me." "starr would have given me one of his own, if he could have done so, i believe," said the colonel, smiling. "so would i," said maggie, "if mine would have fitted. i think i could do very well with one foot; i hop a good deal, any way. see, i could do this way;" and she began hopping round the table again. "and you run and skip a good deal," said mrs. rush, "and how could you do all that on one foot?" maggie considered a moment. "but i am very attached to the colonel," she said, "and i think i could give up one foot if it would be of use to him." "i believe you would, my generous little girl," said the colonel; and mrs. rush stooped and kissed maggie very affectionately. "will that new foot walk in the street?" asked maggie. "yes, it will walk anywhere when i'm accustomed to it. but i am a little awkward just yet, and must practise some before i venture on it in the street." it seemed almost too good to be true, that the colonel should be sitting there with two feet, which certainly looked quite as well as papa's or uncle ruthven's, or those of any other gentleman; and it was long before his affectionate little friends tired of looking at him and expressing their pleasure. "we have some very good news for you," said bessie; "mamma said we might tell you." "let us have it then," said the colonel; and the grand secret about uncle ruthven and aunt bessie was told. "i just believe you knew it before," said maggie, who thought colonel and mrs. rush did not seem as much surprised as was to be expected. "i am afraid we did, maggie," said the colonel, smiling; "but we are none the less pleased to hear bessie tell of it." "but if uncle yuthven did it for a favor to us, why did he not tell us first?" said bessie, rather puzzled. "well," said the colonel, with a little twinkle in his eye, "it is just possible that your uncle ruthven took some other people into consideration,--myself and marion, for instance. can you not imagine that he thought it would be very pleasant for us to be related to you?" "will you be our yelations when uncle yuthven marries aunt bessie?" asked bessie. "i think we shall have to put in some claim of that sort," said the colonel. "aunt bessie is my sister, and if she becomes your own aunt, i think my wife and i must also consider ourselves as belonging to the family. what should you say to uncle horace and aunt may?"--may was the colonel's pet name for his wife. it was not likely that either of our little girls would find fault with this arrangement; and now it was impossible to say too much in praise of uncle ruthven and his very kind plan. the children spent a most delightful day. mrs. rush had ordered an early dinner for them; after which the carriage came, and all four--the colonel and his wife and maggie and bessie--went for a drive in the central park. it was a lovely afternoon, the air so soft and sweet with that strange, delicious scent in it which tells of the coming spring, and here and there, in some sunny nooks, the children were delighted to see little patches of green grass. sparrows and chickadees, and other birds which make their home with us during the winter, were hopping merrily over the leafless branches, and twittering ceaselessly to one another, as if they were telling of the happy time near at hand, when the warm south winds would blow, and the trees and bushes be covered with their beautiful green summer dress. presently starr, turning round from his seat on the box beside the coachman, pointed out a robin, the first robin; and then maggie's quick eyes discovered a second. yes, there were a pair of them, perking up their heads and tails, with a saucy, jaunty air, which seemed to say, "look at me; here i am to tell you spring is coming. are you not glad to see me?" and as the carriage drove slowly by, that the children might watch the birds, one of them threw back his head and broke into the sweetest, merriest song, which told the same pleasant story. yes, spring was in the air, and the birdies knew it, though earth as yet showed but few signs of it. "he sings just as if he was so glad he couldn't help it," said maggie, "and i feel just like him." when they drove back to the city, the children were rather surprised to find they were taken again to the hotel instead of going home at once; but mrs. rush said, that as the weather was so mild and pleasant, mamma had promised they might stay till after dark. this was a suitable ending to such a very happy day, especially as it was arranged for them to take their supper while their friends dined. mrs. rush thought nothing too much trouble which could give pleasure to these two dear little girls. they were listening to one of the colonel's delightful stories when mr. stanton and miss rush came in, with the double purpose of paying a short visit to the colonel and his wife and of taking home their young visitors. scarcely were they seated when bessie walked up to mr. stanton with "uncle er-er-er-yuthven,"--bessie was trying very hard for the r's in these days, especially when she spoke to her uncle,--"we do thank you so very much. we think you are the most obliging gentleman we ever saw." "really," said uncle ruthven, gravely, "this is very pleasant to hear. may i ask who are the 'we' who have such a very high opinion of me?" "why, mamma and the colonel and mrs. yush and maggie and i; and i s'pose all the fam'ly who know what a very great favor you are going to do for us." "and what is this wonderful favor?" asked mr. stanton. "to marry aunt bessie, so she will be quite our very own," answered the little girl. "and then you see that makes my soldier and mrs. yush our own too. they are uncle horace and aunt may now, for the colonel said we might as well begin at once. we are all very, very pleased, uncle yuthven, and maggie and i think you are the kindest uncle that ever lived." "i am glad you have found that out at last," said uncle ruthven. "here i have been living for your happiness ever since i came home, and if i had made this last sacrifice without your finding out that i am the best and most generous uncle in the world, it would have been terrible indeed." "i don't believe you think it is a sacrifice," said maggie. "i guess you like it 'most as well as bessie and i do." "_does_ he, aunt bessie?" asked little bessie, in a tone as if this could not be; at which uncle ruthven's gravity gave way, and the older people all laughed heartily, though the children could not see why. if bessie had known how to express her feelings, she would have said that it was uncle ruthven's manner when he was joking which caused her to "have objections" to him. when uncle john was joking, he had such a merry face that it was quite easy to see what he meant; but uncle ruthven always kept such a sober face and tone that it was hard to tell whether he were in earnest or no. and now, when he caught her up in his arms, and stood her upon the mantel-piece, she felt as if she still only half approved of him; but it was not in her heart to find fault with him just now, and she readily put up her lips for the kiss which she knew he would claim before he let her go. [illustration: decoration, end of chap. ] [illustration: title decoration, chap. ] xi. _blind willie._ "maggie and bessie," said mrs. bradford, one day soon after this, "i am going to send jane over with some work to mrs. granby. would you like to go with her and see the policeman's children?" bessie answered "yes," readily enough, but though maggie would have liked the long walk on this lovely day, she was rather doubtful of the pleasure of calling on those who were entire strangers to her. but after some little coaxing from bessie, who said she would not go without her, she was at last persuaded, and they set out with jane, taking flossy with them. the children had their hooples, which they trundled merrily before them and flossy went capering joyously along, sometimes running ahead, for a short distance, and then rushing back to his little mistresses, and if any rough boys made their appearance, keeping very close at their side till all danger was past. for since flossy was stolen, he had been very careful as to the company he kept, and looked with a very suspicious eye upon any one who wore a ragged coat, which was not very just of flossy, since a ragged coat may cover as true and honest a heart as ever beat; but as the poor puppy knew no better, and had received some hard treatment at the hands of those whose miserable garments covered hard and cruel hearts, he must be excused for thinking that the one was a sign of the other. flossy had turned out quite as pretty a little dog as he had promised to be. his coat was long, soft, and silky, and beautifully marked in brown and white; his drooping ears hung gracefully on each side of his head, while his great black eyes were so knowing and affectionate that it was hard to believe no soul looked out of them. it was no wonder that almost every child they passed turned to take a second look, and to wish that they, too, had such a pretty merry pet. flossy was in great favor that day on account of a droll trick which he had played, much to the amusement of the children. harry and fred were very anxious to teach him all manner of things, such as standing on his head, pretending to be dead, and so forth; but maggie and bessie declared he was too young to be taught anything except "to be good and polite," and would not have him teased. beside, he had funny tricks and ways of his own which they thought much better than those, and was as full of play and mischief as a petted doggie could be. harry had a weak ankle, which in his boyish frolics he was constantly hurting, and now, having given it a slight sprain, he was laid up on the sofa. on the day before this, his dinner had been sent to him, but as it did not exactly suit him, he called flossy, and writing on a piece of paper what he desired, gave it to the dog, and told him to take it to mamma. he was half doubtful if the creature would understand; but flossy ran directly to the dining-room with the paper in his mouth, and gave it to mrs. bradford. as a reward for doing his errand so well, she gave him a piece of cake, although it was against her rules that he should be fed from the table. on this day, harry had been able to come down-stairs; and while the children were at their dinner, flossy was heard whining at the door. patrick opened it, and in he ran with a crumpled piece of paper, on which franky had been scribbling, in his mouth, and going to mrs. bradford held it up to her, wagging his tail with an air which said quite plainly, "here is your paper, now give me my cake." "poor little doggie! he did not know why one piece of paper was not as good as another, and mrs. bradford could not refuse him, while all the children were quite delighted with his wisdom, and could not make enough of him for the remainder of the day." maggie and bessie were rather surprised at the appearance of the policeman's house. it was so different from those which stood around it, or from any which they were accustomed to see in the city; but it looked very pleasant to them with its green shutters, old-fashioned porch, and the little courtyard and great butternut tree in front. the small plot of grass behind the white palings was quite green now, and some of the buds on the hardier bushes were beginning to unfold their young leaves. altogether it looked very nice and homelike, none the less so that jennie richards and her three younger brothers were playing around, and digging up the fresh moist earth, with the fancy that they were making a garden. but their digging was forgotten when they saw jane with her little charge. "does mrs. granby live here?" asked jane, unlatching the gate. "yes, ma'am," answered jennie. "will you please to walk in?" and opening the doors, jennie showed the visitors into the sitting-room. mrs. richards sat sewing, with willie, as usual, beside her, rocking ceaselessly back and forth in his little chair; while good mrs. granby, who had been seated close by the window, and had seen jane and the children come in, was bustling about, placing chairs for them. on willie's knee was a maltese kitten purring away contentedly; but the moment she caught sight of flossy, she sprang from her resting-place, and, scampering into a corner, put up her back, and began spitting and hissing in a very impolite manner. if miss pussy had been civil, flossy would probably have taken no notice of her; but when she drew attention upon herself by this very rude behavior, he began to bark and jump about her, more with a love of teasing than with any idea of hurting her. it was quite a moment or two before these enemies could be quieted, and then it was only done by maggie catching up flossy in her arms, and mrs. granby thrusting the kitten into a bureau drawer with a cuff on its ear. the commotion being over, with the exception of an occasional spit from the drawer, as if kitty were still conscious of the presence of her foe, bessie walked up to mrs. richards, and politely holding out her hand, said, "we came to see you and your fam'ly, ma'am, and we're sorry to make such a 'sturbance." "well," said mrs. richards, smiling at what she afterwards called bessie's old-fashioned ways,--"well, i think it was the kitten was to blame for the disturbance, not you, nor your pretty dog there; and i'm sure we're all glad to see you, dear. are you the little girl that was lost and taken up to the station?" "yes, i am," said bessie; "but i was not taken up 'cause i was naughty, but 'cause i could not find my way home. is my policeman pretty well?" "he's very well, thank you, dear; but he'll be mighty sorry to hear you've been here, and he not home to see you." "mother," said willie, "what a sweet voice that little girl has! will she let me touch her?" "would you, dear?" asked mrs. richards; "you see it's the only way he has now of finding what anybody is like." "oh! he may touch me as much as he likes," said bessie, and coming close to the blind boy, she put her hand in his, and waited patiently while he passed his fingers up her arm and shoulder, then over her curls, cheek, and chin; for willie richards was already gaining that quick sense of touch which god gives to the blind. the mother's heart was full as she watched the two children, and saw the tender, pitying gaze bessie bent upon her boy. "poor willie!" said the little girl, putting her arm about his neck, "i am so sorry for you. but perhaps our father will let you see again some day." "i don't know," said willie, sadly; "they used to say i would be better when the spring came, but the spring is here now, and it is no lighter. oh, it is so very, very dark!" bessie's lip quivered, and the tears gathered in her eyes as she raised them to mrs. richards. but mrs. richards turned away her head. she sometimes thought that willie had guessed that the doctor had had hopes of curing them in the spring, but she had not the courage to ask him. nor could she and his father bear to excite hopes which might again be disappointed, by telling him to wait with patience till next year. but bessie did not know what made mrs. richards silent, and wondering that she did not speak, she felt as if she must herself say something to comfort him. "but maybe next spring you will see, willie," she said. "maybe so," said willie, piteously, "but it is so long to wait." bessie was silent for a moment, not quite knowing what to say; then she spoke again. "wouldn't you like to come out and feel the spring, willie? it is nice out to-day and the wind is so pleasant and warm." "no," answered willie, almost impatiently, "i only want to stay here with mother. i know it feels nice out; but the children come and say, '_see_ the sky, how blue it is!' and '_look_ at this flower,' when i can't see them, and it makes me feel so bad, so bad. i know the grass is green and the sky is blue, and the crocuses and violets are coming out just as they used to when i could see, but i don't want them to tell me of it all the time; and they forget, and it makes me feel worse. but i wouldn't mind the rest so much if i could only see mother's face just a little while every day, then i would be good and patient all the time. oh! if i only could see her, just a moment!" "don't, don't, sonny," said his mother, laying her hand lovingly on his head. it was the ceaseless burden of his plaintive song,--"if i only could see mother's face! if i only could see mother's face!" "and maybe you will some day, willie," said bessie; "so try to think about that, and how she loves you just the same even if you don't see her. and don't you like to know the blue sky is there, and that jesus is behind it, looking at you and feeling sorry for you? none of us can see jesus, but we know he sees us and loves us all the same; don't we? couldn't you feel a little that way about your mother, willie?" "i'll try," said willie, with the old patient smile coming back again. poor willie! it was not usual for him to be impatient or fretful. but he had been sadly tried that day in the way he had spoken of, and the longing for his lost sight was almost too great to be borne. but now mrs. granby, suspecting something of what was going on on that side of the room, came bustling up to willie and bessie, bringing maggie with her. maggie had been making acquaintance with jennie while bessie was talking with the blind boy. "willie," said mrs. granby, "here's just the prettiest little dog that ever lived, and he is as tame and gentle as can be. if miss maggie don't object, maybe he'd lie a bit on your knee, and let you feel his nice long ears and silken hair." "yes, take him," said maggie, putting her dog into willie's arms. flossy was not usually very willing to go to strangers; but now, perhaps, his doggish instinct told him that this poor boy had need of pity and kindness. however that was, he lay quietly in willie's clasp, and looking wistfully into his sightless eyes, licked his hands and face. maggie and bessie were delighted, and began to tell willie of flossy's cunning ways. the other children gathered about to listen and admire too, and presently willie laughed outright as they told of his cute trick with the crumpled paper. and now, whether miss kitty saw through the crack of the drawer that her young master was fondling a new pet, or whether she only guessed at it, or whether she thought it hard that fun should be going on in which she had no share, cannot be told; but just then there came from her prison-place such a hissing and sputtering and scratching that every one of the children set up a shout of laughter. not since his blindness came upon him had his mother heard willie's voice sound so gleeful, and now in her heart she blessed the dear little girl who she felt had done him good. then as the children begged for her, kitty was released; but as she still showed much ill-temper, mrs. granby was obliged to put her in the other room. soon after this our little girls, with their nurse, took leave, having presented willie with a new book, and his mother with some useful things mamma had sent, and giving willie and jennie an invitation to come and see them. they did not go back as joyfully as they had come. somehow, in spite of the good laugh they had had, the thought of blind willie made them feel sad, and giving jane their hooples to carry, they walked quietly by her side, hand in hand. bessie was half heart-broken as she told her mamma of the blind boy's longing to see his mother's face, and neither she nor maggie quite recovered their usual spirits for the remainder of the day. mamma was almost sorry she had allowed them to go. "and what makes my princess so sad this evening?" asked uncle ruthven, lifting bessie upon his knee. "don't you think you'd be very sad, sir, if you were blind?" "doubtless i should, dear. i think, of all my senses, my sight is the one i prize most, and for which i am most thankful. but you are not going to lose your sight; are you, bessie?" "no," said bessie; "but willie richards has lost his. he is quite, quite blind, uncle, and can't see his mother's face; and they can't let the doctor cure him, 'cause they are too poor. maggie and i wished to help them very much, and we wanted to ask them to take all the glove-money we have,--that is what mamma lets us have to do charity with,--but mamma says it would not be much help, and she thinks we had better keep it to buy some little thing willie may need. and we are very grieved for him." "poor little princess!" said mr. stanton. "and why did you not come to me for help? what is the good of having an old uncle with plenty of money in his pockets, if you do not make him 'do charity' for you? let me see. how comes on the history of the 'complete family,' maggie?" "oh! it's 'most finished," said maggie. "at least, that book is; but we are going to have another volume. mamma likes us to write it. she says it is good practice, and will make it easy for us to write compositions by and by." "very sensible of mamma," said mr. stanton. "but i think you said you wished to sell it when it was finished, so that you might help the poor." "yes, sir." "well, you know i am going away to-morrow morning,--going to take aunt bessie to baltimore to see her sister. we shall be gone about a week. if your book is finished when we come home, i shall see if i cannot find a purchaser for it. and you might use the money for the blind boy if you like." just at this moment nurse put her head in at the door with "come along, my honeys. your mamma is waiting up-stairs for you, and it's your bed-time." "in one instant, mammy," said mr. stanton. "is it a bargain, little ones? if i find a man to buy your book, will you have it ready, and trust it to me, when i come back?" the children were willing enough to agree to this; and maggie only wished that it was not bed-time, so that she might finish the book that very night. uncle ruthven said they would talk more about it when he returned, and bade them "good-night." "my darlings," said mamma, when they went up-stairs, "i do not want you to distress yourselves about blind willie. when the time comes for the doctor to perform the operation on his eyes, i think the means will be found to pay him. but you are not to say anything about it at present. i only tell you because i do not like to see you unhappy." "are you or papa going to do it, mamma?" asked bessie. "we shall see," said mrs. bradford, with a smile. "perhaps we can help you a little," said maggie, joyfully; and she told her mother of her uncle's proposal about the book. [illustration: title decoration, chap. ] xii. _maggie's book._ uncle ruthven and aunt bessie went away the next morning, and were gone nearly a week, and very much did the children miss them, especially as the week proved one of storm and rain, and they were shut up in the house. during all this stormy weather aunt patty seemed very anxious to go out, watching for the first glimpse of sunshine. but none came, and at last, one morning when there was a fine, drizzling rain, she came down dressed for a walk. mrs. bradford was much astonished, for mrs. lawrence was subject to rheumatism, and it was very imprudent for her to go out in the damp. in vain did mrs. bradford offer to send a servant on any errand she might wish to have done. aunt patty would not listen to it for a moment, nor would she allow a carriage to be sent for, nor tell where she was going. she stayed a long time, and when the boys ran home from school in the midst of a hard shower, they were surprised to meet her just getting out of a carriage which had drawn up around the corner. aunt patty did not seem at all pleased to see them, and in answer to their astonished inquiries, "why, aunt patty! where have you been?" and "why don't you let the carriage leave you at the house?" answered, sharply, "when i was young, old people could mind their own affairs without help from school-boys." "not without help from school-_girls_, when _she_ was around, i guess," whispered fred to his brother, as they fell behind, and let the old lady march on. nor was she more satisfactory when she reached home, and seemed only desirous to avoid mrs. bradford's kind inquiries and anxiety lest she should have taken cold. this was rather strange, for it was not aunt patty's way to be mysterious, and she was generally quite ready to let her actions be seen by the whole world. but certainly no one would have guessed from her manner that she had that morning been about her master's work. uncle ruthven and aunt bessie came home that afternoon, and found no reason to doubt their welcome. "we're very glad to see you, uncle er-er _r_uthven," said bessie, bringing out the _r_ quite clearly. "hallo!" said her uncle, "so you have come to it at last; have you? you have been learning to talk english while i was away. pretty well for my princess! what reward shall i give you for that _r_uthven?" "i don't want a reward," said the little princess, gayly. "i tried to learn it 'cause i thought you wanted me to; and you are so kind to us i wanted to please you. besides, i am growing pretty old, and i ought to learn to talk plain. why, uncle ruthven, i'll be six years old when i have a birthday in may, and the other day we saw a little girl,--she was blind willie's sister,--and she couldn't say _th_, though she is 'most seven; and i thought it sounded pretty foolish; and then i thought maybe it sounded just as foolish for me not to say _r_, so i tried and tried, and maggie helped me." "uncle ruthven," said maggie, coming to his side, and putting her arm about his neck, she whispered in his ear, "did you ever find a man to buy my book?" "to be sure," said mr. stanton, "a first-rate fellow, who promised to take it at once. he would like to know how much you want for it?" "i don't know," said maggie; "how much can he afford?" "ah! you answer my question by another. well, he is pretty well off, that fellow, and i think he will give you sufficient to help along that blind friend of yours a little. we will not talk of that just now, however, but when you go up-stairs, i will come up and see you, and we will settle it all then." "here is a prize," said mr. stanton, coming into the parlor some hours later, when the children had all gone; and he held up maggie's history of the "complete family." "what is that?" asked colonel rush, who with his wife had come to welcome his sister. mr. stanton told the story of the book. "but how came it into your hands?" asked mr. bradford. "oh, maggie and i struck a bargain to-night," said mr. stanton, laughing, "and the book is mine to do as i please with." "oh, ruthven, ruthven!" said his sister, coming in as he spoke, and passing her hand affectionately through his thick, curly locks, "you have made two happy hearts to-night. nor will the stream of joy you have set flowing stop with my little ones. that poor blind child and his parents--" "there, there, that will do," said mr. stanton, playfully putting his hand on mrs. bradford's lips. "sit down here, margaret. i shall give you all some passages from maggie's book. if i am not mistaken, it will be a rich treat." poor little maggie! she did not dream, as she lay happy and contented on her pillow, how merry they were all making over her "complete family," as uncle ruthven read aloud from it such passages as these. "the happy father and mother brought up their children in the way they should go, but sometimes the children went out of it, which was not the blame of their kind parents, for they knew better, and they ought to be ashamed of themselves, and it is a great blessing for children to have parents. "the colonel had a new leg, not a skin one, but a man made it, but you would not know it, it looks so real, and he can walk with it and need not take his crutches, and the souls of m. and b. happy were very glad because this was a great rejoicing, and it is not a blessing to be lame, but to have two legs is, and when people have a great many blessings, they ought to 'praise god from whom all blessings flow;' but they don't always, which is very wicked. "this very complete family grew completer and completer, for the travelling uncle married aunt bessie, i mean he is going to marry her, so she will be our own aunt and not just a make b'lieve, and all the family are very glad and are very much obliged to him for being so kind, but i don't think he is a great sacrifice. "m. and b. happy went to see the policeman's children. blind willie was sorrowful and can't see his mother, or anything, which is no consequence, if he could see his mother's face, for if m. happy and b. happy could not see dear mamma's face they would cry all the time. i mean m. would, but bessie is better than me so maybe she would not, and willie is very patient, and the cat was very abominable, and if flossy did so, bessie and i would be disgraced of him. she humped up her back and was cross, so mrs. granby put her in the drawer, but she put a paw out of the crack and spit and scratched and did 'most everything. oh! such a bad cat!!!!!! jennie she cannot say th, and afterwards i laughed about it, but bessie said i ought not, because she cannot say r and that was 'most the same. and she is going to try and say uncle ruthven's name quite plain and hard, he is so very good to us, and he promised to find a man to buy this book, and we hope the man will give five dollars to be a great help for blind willie's doctor. i suppose he will ask everybody in the cars if they want to buy a book to print, that somebody of his wrote, but he is not going to tell our name because i asked him not to." the book ended in this way:-- "these are not all the acts of the complete family, but there will be another book with some more. adieu. and if you don't know french, that means good-by. the end of the book!" "pretty well for seven years old, i think," said mr. bradford. "mamma, did you lend a helping hand?" "only to correct the spelling," said mrs. bradford; "the composition and ideas are entirely maggie's own, with a little help from bessie. i have not interfered save once or twice when she has chosen some subject i did not think it best she should write on. both she and bessie have taken so much pleasure in it that i think it would have been a real trial to part with the book except for some such object as they have gained." "and what is that?" asked colonel rush. "the sum dr. dawson asks for the cure of willie richards," answered mrs. bradford, "which sum this dear brother of mine is allowing to pass through the hands of these babies of mine, as their gift to the blind child." "aunt patty," said bessie at the breakfast-table the next morning,--"aunt patty, did you hear what uncle ruthven did for us?" "yes, i heard," said the old lady, shortly. "and don't you feel very happy with us?" asked the little darling, who was anxious that every one should rejoice with herself and maggie; but she spoke more timidly than she had done at first, and something of her old fear of aunt patty seemed to come over her. "i do not think it at all proper that children should be allowed to have such large sums of money," said mrs. lawrence, speaking not to bessie, but to mrs. bradford. "i thought your brother a more sensible man, margaret. such an ill-judged thing!" mrs. bradford was vexed, as she saw the bright face of her little daughter become overcast, still she tried to speak pleasantly. something had evidently gone wrong with aunt patty. "i do not think you will find ruthven wanting in sense or judgment, aunt patty," she said, gently. "and the sum you speak of is for a settled purpose. it only passes through my children's hands, and is not theirs to waste or spend as they may please." "and if it was, we would rather give it to blind willie, mamma," said bessie, in a grieved and half-angry voice. "i am sure of it, my darling," said mamma, with a nod and smile which brought comfort to the disappointed little heart. ah, the dear mamma! they were all sure of sympathy from her whether in joy or sorrow. aunt patty's want of it had been particularly hard on bessie, for the dear child saw the old lady did not look half pleased that morning, and she had spoken as much from a wish to cheer her as for her own sake and maggie's. "it is all wrong, decidedly wrong!" continued mrs. lawrence. "in my young days things were very different. children were not then allowed to take the lead in every way, and to think they could do it as well or better than their elders. the proper thing for you to do, margaret, is to put by that money till your children are older and better able to judge what they are doing." "i think they understand that now, aunt patty," said mrs. bradford, quietly, but firmly; "and if they should not, i suppose you will allow that their parents are able to judge for them. henry and i understand all the merits of the present case." aunt patty was not to be convinced, and she talked for some time, growing more and more vexed as she saw her words had no effect. mr. and mrs. bradford were silent, for they knew it was of no use to argue with the old lady when she was in one of these moods; but they wished that the meal was at an end, and the children were out of hearing. and there sat miss rush, too, wondering and indignant, and only kept from replying to aunt patty by mrs. bradford's beseeching look. but at last mr. bradford's patience was at an end, and in a firm, decided manner, he requested the old lady to say nothing more on the subject, but to leave it to be settled by his wife and himself. if there was any person in the world of whom mrs. lawrence stood in awe, it was her nephew; and she knew when he spoke in that tone, he meant to be obeyed. therefore, she was silent, but sat through the remainder of breakfast with a dark and angry face. "papa," said maggie, as her father rose from the table, "do you think there is the least, least hope that it will clear to-day?" "well, i see some signs of it, dear; but these april days are very uncertain. of one thing be sure, if the weather be at all fit, i will come home and take you where you want to go." "are you tired of being shut up in the house so long, dear midget?" asked aunt bessie, putting her arm about maggie, and drawing her to her side. "yes, pretty tired, aunt bessie; but that is not the reason why bessie and i wish so very much to have it clear. papa told us, if the weather was pleasant, he would take us to the policeman's, and let us give the money ourselves. but he says, if it keeps on raining, he thinks it would be better to send it, because it is not kind to keep them waiting when they feel so badly about willie, and this will make them so glad. i suppose it is not very kind, but we want very much to take it, and see mrs. richards how pleased she will be." "we will hope for the best," said mr. bradford, cheerfully; "and i think it may turn out a pleasant day. but my little daughters must not be too much disappointed if the rain keeps on. and now that i may be ready for clear skies and dry pavements, i must go down town at once." no sooner had the door closed after mr. bradford than aunt patty broke forth again. "margaret," she said, severely, "it is not possible that you mean to add to your folly by letting your children go to that low place, after such weather as we have had! you don't know what you may expose them to, especially that delicate child, whom you can never expect to be strong while you are so shamefully careless of her;" and she looked at bessie, who felt very angry. "that will be as their father thinks best," answered mrs. bradford, quietly. "he will not take them unless the weather is suitable; and the policeman's house is neat and comfortable, and in a decent neighborhood. the children will come to no harm there." "and it is certainly going to clear," said harry. "see there, mamma, how it is brightening overhead." "it will not clear for some hours at least," persisted the old lady; "and then the ground will be extremely damp after this week of rain, especially among those narrow streets. do be persuaded, margaret, and say, at least, that the children must wait till to-morrow." "bessie shall not go unless it is quite safe for her," answered mrs. bradford, "and she will not ask it unless mamma thinks it best; will you, my darling?" bessie only replied with a smile, and a very feeble smile at that; and her mother saw by the crimson spot in each cheek, and the little hand pressed tightly upon her lips, how hard the dear child was struggling with herself. it was so. bessie was hurt at what she thought aunt patty's unkindness in trying to deprive her of the pleasure on which she counted, and she had hard work to keep down the rising passion. aunt patty argued, persisted, and persuaded; but she could gain from mrs. bradford nothing more than she had said before, and at last she left the room in high displeasure. "mamma," said harry, indignantly, "what do you stand it for? how dare she talk so to you? your folly, indeed! i wish papa had been here!" "i wish you'd let me hush her up," said fred. "it's rather hard for a fellow to stand by and have his mother spoken to that way. now is she not a meddling, aggravating old coon, aunt bessie? no, you need not shake your head in that grave, reproving way. i know you think so; and you, too, you dear, patient little mamma;" and here fred gave his mother such a squeeze and kiss as would have made any one else cry out for mercy. "i sha'n't try to bear aunt patty's burden this day, i know," said maggie. "she is _too_ mean not to want blind willie cured, and it is not any of hers to talk about, either. her corners are awful to-day! just trying to make mamma say bessie couldn't go to the policeman's house!" bessie said nothing, but her mamma saw she was trying to keep down her angry feelings. "i suppose she is tired of the 'new leaf' she pretended to have turned over, and don't mean to play good girl any more," said fred. "she has been worrying papa too," said harry. "there is never any knowing what she'll be at. there was a grove which used to belong to her father, and which had been sold by one of her brothers after he died. it was a favorite place with our great-grandfather, and aunt patty wanted it back very much, but she never could persuade the man who had bought it to give it up. a few years ago he died, and his son offered to sell it to her. she could not afford it then, for she had lost a great deal of property, and the mean chap asked a very large sum for it because he knew she wanted it so much. but she was determined to have it, and for several years she has been putting by little by little till she should have enough. she told fred and me all about it, one evening when papa and mamma were out, and we felt so sorry for her when she told how her father had loved the place, and how she could die contented if she only had it back once more after all these years, that we asked papa if he could not help her. papa said he would willingly do so, but she would not be pleased if he offered, though she had so set her heart on it that she was denying herself everything she could possibly do without; for she is not well off now, and is too proud to let her friends help her well, it seems she had enough laid by at last,--a thousand dollars,--and she asked papa to settle it all for her. he wrote to the man, and had a lot of fuss and bother with him; but it was all fixed at last, and the papers drawn up, when what does she do a week ago, but tell papa she had changed her mind, and should not buy the grove at present." "harry, my boy," said mrs. bradford, "this is all so, but how do you happen to know so much about it?" "why, she talked to me several times about it, mamma. she was quite chipper with fred and me now and then, when no grown people were around, and used to tell us stories of things which happened at the old homestead by the hour. the other day when you were out, and mag and bess had gone to the policeman's, she told me it was all settled that she was to have the grove; and she seemed so happy over it. but only two days after, when i said something about it, she took me up quite short, and told me that affair was all over, and no more to be said. i didn't dare to ask any more questions of her, but i thought it no harm to ask papa, and he told me he knew no more than i did, for aunt patty would give him no reason. he was dreadfully annoyed by it, i could see, although he did not say much; he never does, you know, when he is vexed." "quite true," said his mother; "and let him be an example to the rest of us. we have all forgotten ourselves a little in the vexations of the morning. you have been saying that which was better left unsaid, and your mother has done wrong in listening to you." "no, indeed, you have not," said fred, again clutching his mother violently about the neck; "you never do wrong, you dear, precious mamma, and i'll stand up for you against all the cross old aunt pattys in creation." "my dear boy," gasped his mother, "if you could leave my head on, it would be a greater convenience than fighting on my account with aunt patty. and your mother must be very much on her guard, fred, if a thing is to be judged right by you because she does it. but, dearest children, did we not all determine not to allow ourselves to be irritated and vexed by such things as have taken place this morning? this is almost the first trial of the kind we have had. let us be patient and forgiving, and try to think no more of it." but it was in vain that mrs. bradford coaxed and persuaded, and even reproved. her children obeyed, and were silent when she forbade any more to be said on the subject; but she could not do away with the impression which aunt patty's ill-temper and interference had made. poor aunt patty! she had practised a great piece of self-denial, had given up a long-cherished hope, that she might have the means of doing a very kind action; but she did not choose to have it known by her friends. and having made up her mind to this, and given up so much to bring it about, it did seem hard that her arrangements should be interfered with, as they seemed likely to be by this new plan which had come to her ears the night before. but now as she stood alone in her own room, taking herself to task for the ill-temper she had just shown, she felt that it would be still harder for the children; she could not allow them to be disappointed if it were still possible to prevent it; that would be too cruel now that she saw so plainly how much they had set their hearts upon this thing. at first it had seemed to her, as she said, much better that they should put by the money until they were older, but now she saw it was the desire to carry out her own will which had led her to think this. but aunt patty was learning to give up her own will, slowly and with difficulty it might be, with many a struggle, many a failure, as had been shown this morning; but still, thanks to the whispers of the better spirit by whose teachings she had lately been led, she was taking to heart the lesson so hard to learn because so late begun. and now how was she to undo what she had done, so that maggie and bessie might still keep this matter in their own hands? for aunt patty, hearing the little ones talk so much of the blind boy and his parents, had become quite interested in the policeman's family. she did not know them, it was true, had never seen one of them, but the children's sympathy had awakened hers, and she felt a wish to do something to help them; but to do this to much purpose was not very easy for mrs. lawrence. she was not rich, and what she gave to others she must take from her own comforts and pleasures. what a good thing it would be to pay dr. dawson and free the policeman from debt! what happiness this would bring to those poor people! what pleasure it would give little maggie and bessie! but how could she do it? she had not the means at present, unless, indeed, she put off the purchase of the grove for a year or two, and took part of the sum she had so carefully laid by for that purpose, and if she did so, she might never have back the grove. she was very old, had not probably many years to live, and she might pass away before the wished-for prize was her own. and these people were nothing to her; why should she make such a sacrifice for them? so thought aunt patty, and then said to herself, if she had but a short time upon earth, was there not more reason that she should spend it in doing all she could for her master's service, in helping those of his children on whom he had laid pain and sorrows? she had been wishing that she might be able to prove her love and gratitude for the great mercy that had been shown to her, that she might yet redeem the wasted years, the misspent life which lay behind her, and now when the lord had given her the opportunity for which she had been longing, should she turn her back upon it, should she shut her ear to the cry of the needy, because to answer it would cost a sacrifice of her own wishes? should she bear the burdens of others only when they did not weigh heavily on herself? and so the old lady had gone to dr. dawson and paid him the sum he asked for curing willie's eyes. what more she had done will be shown hereafter. if the children had known this, perhaps they could have guessed why she would not buy the grove after all papa's trouble. there were several reasons why mrs. lawrence had chosen to keep all this a secret; partly from a really honest desire not to parade her generosity in the eyes of men, partly because she thought that mr. bradford might oppose it, and fearing the strength of her own resolution, she did not care to have it shaken by any persuasions to the contrary, and partly because she had always rather prided herself on carrying out her own plans without help or advice from others. this fear that she might be tempted to change her purpose had also made aunt patty so anxious to bring it to an end at once, and had taken her out in the rain on the day before this. and now it seemed that her trouble so far as regarded dr. dawson was all thrown away. but the question was, how should she get the money back from the doctor without betraying herself to him or some of the family? for this aunt patty was quite determined not to do. it was not a pleasant task to ask him to return the money she had once given, and that without offering any reason save that she had changed her mind. every limb was aching with the cold taken from her exposure of yesterday, and now if she was to be in time, she must go out again in the damp. true, it was not raining now, but there was another heavy cloud coming up in the south; she should surely be caught in a fresh shower. if she could have persuaded mrs. bradford to keep the children at home until the next day, she could go to dr. dawson that afternoon if the weather were clear, and so escape another wetting. for the doctor had told her he did not think he could see the policeman before the evening of that day. but margaret was "obstinate," said the old lady, forgetting that she herself was a little obstinate in keeping all this a secret. so there was nothing for it but to go at once. poor old lady! perhaps it was not to be wondered at that, as she moved about the room, making ready to go out, she should again feel irritable and out of humor. she was in much pain. the plans which had cost her so much, and which she had thought would give such satisfaction, were all disarranged. she was vexed at being misjudged by those from whom she had so carefully concealed what she had done, for she saw plainly enough that they all thought her opposition of the morning was owing to the spirit of contradiction she had so often shown. she was vexed at herself, vexed with mrs. bradford, vexed even with the little ones whom she could not allow to be disappointed, and just for the moment she could not make up her mind to be reasonable and look at things in their right light. nor were her troubles yet at an end. as she left the room, she met mrs. bradford, who, seeing that she was going out again, once more tried to dissuade her from such imprudence, but all to no purpose. aunt patty was very determined and rather short, and went on her way down-stairs. as mrs. bradford entered her nursery, mammy, who had heard all that had passed, said, with the freedom of an old and privileged servant,-- "eh, my dear, but she's contrary. she's just hunting up a fit of rheumatics, that you may have the trouble of nursing her through it." mrs. lawrence heard the old woman's improper speech, but did not hear mrs. bradford's gently spoken reproof, and we may be sure the first did not help to restore her good-humor. [illustration: decoration, end of chap. ] [illustration: title decoration, chap. ] xiii. _disappointment._ bessie's high spirits had all flown away. the scene with aunt patty, and the fear that the weather would not allow maggie and herself to carry uncle ruthven's gift to blind willie, on which pleasure, in spite of her father's warning, she had quite set her mind, were enough to sadden that sensitive little heart. more than this, she was very much hurt at what aunt patty had said of her mother. _she_, that dear, precious mamma, always so tender and devoted, so careful of her by night and day, to be so spoken of! no one else had ever dared to speak so to mamma in her hearing, and she did not feel as if she could forgive it. poor little soul! she was very indignant, but she kept down her anger, and all she had allowed herself to say had been, "she would not like to be blind herself a whole year; but she has not a bit of _symphethy_." at which long word mamma could not help smiling; but as she looked at the grieved face, she felt as if she could scarcely keep her own patience. "come here, bessie," said miss rush, who was sitting by the window, "i have something to show you; see there," as bessie climbed upon her lap. "a few moments since i saw a break in the clouds, and a bit of blue sky peeping out. i did not call you right away, lest you should be disappointed again; but the blue is spreading and spreading, so i think we may hope for a fine day, after all. and see, there is the sun struggling through. ah, i think you will have your walk with papa." yes, there came the sun shining quite brightly now, and the pools of water on the sidewalk began to dance in his beams as if they were saying, "how do you do, mr. sun? we are glad to see you after a week's absence, even though you do mean to make us disappear beneath your warm rays." bessie watched for a few moments, and then ran to find maggie, who had gone up-stairs with mamma for a new story-book which aunt bessie had promised to read for them. "maggie, maggie!" she called from the foot of the stairs, "come and see how the blue sky is coming out and how the sun is shining;" and as she spoke, maggie ran along the upper hall, and came down, saying, dolefully,-- "oh, bessie! i saw it up-stairs, and i went to the window to look, and there's a great cloud coming over the sun. there, see! he's all gone now. i just believe it is going to rain again." it was too true, and as the little girls ran to the front-door, and maggie drew aside the lace which covered the large panes of glass in the upper part, so that they might peep out, they saw that the blue sky had disappeared, and a moment later, down splashed the heavy drops of rain. bessie felt a great choking in her throat, and maggie said, impatiently, "it is _never_ going to clear up; i know it. it just rains this way to provoke poor children who want to go out." "maggie, darling, who sends the rain?" came in aunt bessie's gentle tone through the open parlor-door, and at the same moment a stern voice behind the children said,-- "you are very naughty, child. do you remember that god hears you when you say such wicked words?" both children turned with a start to see mrs. lawrence in hat and cloak, and with an enormous umbrella in her hand. "no," she said, severely, as poor frightened maggie shrank before the glance of her eye, "you will not go out to-day, nor do you deserve it." then bessie's anger broke forth. "you are bad, you're cruel!" she said, stamping her foot, and with her face crimson with passion. "you want poor willie to be blind all his life. you don't want him to be well, even when our father--" what more she would have said will never be known, save by him who reads all hearts; for as these last two words passed her lips, she checked herself, and rushing to aunt bessie, who had gone to the parlor-door at the sound of mrs. lawrence's voice, buried her face in the folds of her dress. "our father!" was she his little child now when in her fury and passion she had forgotten that his holy eye rested upon her, when she was grieving and offending him? such was the thought that had stopped her, even as she poured forth those angry words. for one moment she stood with her face hidden, sending up a silent, hurried prayer to the great helper, then turning to aunt patty, she said, with a touching meekness,-- "please forgive me, aunt patty. i didn't try hard enough that time; but i'll try not to do so again. the wicked passion came so quick;" and then she hid her face once more against miss rush. yes, the passion had come quickly, but it had been quickly conquered, and as aunt patty looked at her, these words came to her mind: "greater is he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city;" and she stood humbled before this little child. turning away without a word, she opened the front-door and passed out, while miss rush led the children back to the parlor. aunt bessie's own eyes glistened as she lifted the sobbing child upon her lap, while maggie stood beside her, holding bessie's hand in one of her own, and with her pocket-handkerchief wiping the tears that streamed from her little sister's eyes. "oh, it has been such a bad day, and we thought it was going to be such a nice one, didn't we?" said bessie. "we were so very glad when we woke up this morning, and we have had such very _misable_ times all day, and now i was so naughty. and i did ask for help to be good, too, this morning. aunt bessie, why didn't it come?" "i think it did come, darling," said aunt bessie. "if it had not, you could not have conquered yourself as you did the moment you remembered you were displeasing your heavenly father. if you forgot for a moment, and your temper overcame you, i think he knew how you had struggled with it this morning, and so pitied and forgave, sending the grace and strength you needed as soon as you saw your own want of it." "it's all aunt patty's fault, anyhow," said maggie. "she provoked us, hateful old thing! i know i ought not to say that about the rain, aunt bessie, 'cause it's god's rain, and he can send it if he chooses; but it was not her business to meddle about, and i am a great deal more sorry for your speaking so kind than for all the scolding. i just wish--i wish--" "i would not wish any bad wishes for aunt patty, dear," said miss rush. "that will not help any of us to feel better." "i don't know about that," said maggie, gravely shaking her head. "i think i'd feel more comfortable in my mind if i wished something about her. i think i'll have to do it, aunt bessie." "then wish only that she were a little more amiable, or did not speak quite so sharply," said miss rush, smiling at maggie's earnestness. "oh, pooh! that's no good," said maggie. "she never will learn to behave herself. i'll tell you, i just wish she was a lot's wife." "lot's wife?" said miss rush. "i mean lot's wife after she 'came a pillar of salt, and then maybe she'd be all soaked away in this pouring rain, and no more left of her to come back again and bother us." there was never any telling where maggie's ideas would carry her, and at the thought of the droll fate she had imagined for aunt patty, miss rush fairly laughed outright, and even bessie smiled, after which she said she would go up-stairs and talk a little to her mother, which always did her good when she was in trouble. this shower proved the last of the rain for that day, and by twelve o'clock the clouds had all rolled away and the pavements were drying rapidly, giving fresh hope to maggie and bessie that they would be able to go over to the policeman's house; but before that aunt patty had returned. she was very silent, almost sad, and the many troubled looks she cast towards the little girls made mrs. bradford think that she was sorry for her unkindness of the morning. this was so, but there was more than that to trouble the old lady, for her errand to dr. dawson had been fruitless. when she reached his house, he was out, but she sat down to wait for him. he soon came in and without waiting for her to speak, told her that, having an hour to spare, he had just been up to the police-station to give richards the good news. so it was too late after all, for now that the policeman knew of her gift, mrs. lawrence could not make up her mind to ask it back. then the doctor asked her if she had any further business with him, to which she answered "no," and walked away, leaving him to think what a very odd old lady she was, and to say indignantly that he believed "she had not trusted him, and had come to see that he kept faith with her." "bradford," said mr. stanton, as he stood in his brother-in-law's office that morning, "those dear little girls of yours have put me to shame with their lively, earnest desire to do good to others. here have i been leading this lazy, useless life ever since i came home, looking only to my own comfort and happiness; and in my want of thought for others scarcely deserving the overflowing share of both which has fallen to me. your little ones have given me a lesson in their innocent wish to extend to others the benefits which god has heaped upon them; now cannot you help me to put it into practice? i am still so much of a stranger in my own city that i should scarcely know where to begin the task of carrying help to those who need it; but you were always a hand to know the claims and deserts of the poor. i have, thank god, the means and the time; can you show me where i can best spend them?" "doubtless, my dear fellow," answered mr. bradford. "i think you are rather hard upon yourself; but i can show you where both time and money can be laid out with a certainty of doing good and bringing happiness to those who deserve them. just now--but how far do your benevolent intentions go?" "tell me the necessities of your _protegée_ or _protegées_," said mr. stanton, smiling, "and i will tell you how far i am inclined to satisfy them. i had not thought much about it, having just been roused to a sense that it was time i was doing somewhat for the welfare of those who are not as well off as myself." "i was about to say," continued mr. bradford, "that at present i know of no more worthy case than that of the father of the blind boy in whom my children are so much interested. if an honest, god-fearing heart, a trusting, cheerful, yet submissive spirit, can give him a claim upon our help and sympathy, he certainly possesses it. i have watched him and talked to him during the last few months with considerable interest, and i honestly believe his troubles have not arisen through any fault of his own, but through the dealings of providence. he has been sorely tried, poor fellow, and i should like to see him set right once more with the world, free from the pressure of debt, and able to save his earnings for the comfort of his family. i had intended to undertake the payment of dr. dawson for the treatment of willie's eyes, but since you have done this, i shall hand to richards the sum i had intended for that purpose. whatever you may choose to add to this, will be so much towards relieving him from his debt to this schwitz." "and how much is that?" asked mr. stanton. mr. bradford named the sum, and after hearing all the circumstances, mr. stanton drew a check for the amount needed to pay the rest of the debt to dr. schwitz, and gave it to his brother-in-law, asking him to hand it to the policeman with his own gift. "you had better come with us this afternoon, and see for yourself," said mr. bradford. "it is going to be fine, and i have promised those dear little things that they shall carry their prize to the blind boy's home. i believe we are likely to find richards there about three o'clock, and i should like you to know him." so mr. stanton was persuaded; and as maggie and bessie were watching eagerly from the window for the first glimpse of papa, they saw him coming up the street with uncle ruthven. when they were ready to go, those three precious notes, the price of willie's sight, were brought by maggie to her father, with many prayers that he would take the best of care of them. she was not satisfied till she had seen them in his pocket-book, where she herself squeezed them into the smallest possible corner, next thrusting the pocket-book into the very depths of his pockets, and ramming in his handkerchief on top of that, "to be sure to keep it all safe." but there was a sore disappointment in store for these poor children. as they were leaving the house, and before mr. bradford had closed the door behind them, who should appear at the foot of the steps but sergeant richards himself, with his broad, honest face in a glow of happiness and content. "ah! richards, how are you?" said mr. bradford. "at your service, sir," answered the policeman, politely touching his cap. "i just came round to say a word to you, but i see you are going out. i sha'n't detain you two moments, though, if you could spare me that." "willingly," said mr. bradford. "we were on our way to your house, but our errand will keep;" and he led the way back to the parlor, followed by the whole party. mrs. bradford and miss rush were there also, just ready to go out; while aunt patty sat in the library, where every word that passed in the front room must reach her ears. "no, i'll not sit down, thank you, sir," said the policeman, "and i'll not keep you long. you have been so kind to me, and taken such an interest in all my difficulties, that i felt as if i must come right up and tell you of the good fortune, or, i should say, the kind providence, which has fallen to me. i have been furnished with the means to pay my debt to dr. schwitz; and more, thank god! more than this, dr. dawson has received the amount of his charge for the operation on willie's eyes. i shall be able to hold up my head once more, and that with the chance of my boy having his sight again." "and how has this come about?" asked mr. bradford. "i cannot say, sir. some unknown friend has done it all; but who, i know no more than yourself, perhaps not so much;" and the policeman looked searchingly into mr. bradford's face. "and i know absolutely nothing," said the gentleman, smiling. "i see, richards, you thought i had some hand in it, and expected to find me out; but i assure you, it is not my doing. these little girls of mine had, through the kindness of their uncle, hoped to place in your hands the sum needed for dr. dawson, and it was for this purpose that we were on our way to your house; but you say some one has been beforehand with us." "that's so, sir," said richards; "but none the less am i most grateful to you and the little ladies and this kind gentleman for your generous intentions. i am sure i don't know what i have done that the lord should raise me up such friends. but it is most strange as to who could have done this, sir, and about that old lady." "what old lady?" asked mr. bradford. "why, sir, she who either has done this or has been sent by some one else. if i don't keep you too long, i should just like to tell you what i know." "not at all," said mr. bradford. "let us have the story." "yesterday morning," said the policeman, "mrs. granby was sitting by the window, when she saw an old lady going to 'most all the houses, and seeming to be asking her way or inquiring for some one. so mrs. granby puts out her head and asks if she was looking for any one. 'i want mrs. richards, the policeman's wife,' says the old lady. mrs. granby told her that was the place and opens the door for her. well, she walked in, but a stranger she was, to be sure; neither my wife nor mrs. granby ever set eyes on her before, and they did not know what to make of her. all sorts of questions she asked, and in a way mary did not like at all, never telling who she was or what she came for. well, after a while she went away, but never letting on what she had come for, and mrs. granby and mary set it down that it was only for spying and meddling. but last night when i took up the bible to read a chapter before we went to bed, out drops a sealed packet with my name printed on it. i opened it, and there, will you believe it, sir, were two one hundred dollar bills, and around them a slip of paper with the words, printed, too, 'pay your debts.' no more, no less. you may know if we were astonished, and as for my wife, she was even a bit frightened. after talking it over, we were sure it could have been no one but the old lady that had put it there. but who was she, and how did she know so much of my affairs? mrs. granby said she remembered to have seen her fussing with the leaves of the bible, sort of careless like, as it lay upon the table, and she must have slipped it in then. but whether it was her own gift, or whether she was sent by some one else, who does not care to be seen in the matter, i don't know. the women will have it that it was the last, and that she did not like her errand, and so eased her mind by a bit of fault-finding and meddling, and i must say it looks like it." "and you have no possible clew to who this person was, richards?" asked mr. bradford. "none, sir. i might track her easy, i suppose, but since she didn't seem to wish it to be known who she was or where she came from, i wouldn't feel it was showing my gratitude for the obligations she's laid me under, and you see by the printing she don't wish to be tracked even by her handwriting. nor was this all. early this morning, round comes dr. dawson to the station, asking for me; and he told me that an old lady had been to his house yesterday, and after asking a lot of questions, had paid him a hundred and fifty dollars for undertaking the operation on willie's eyes, and took a receipted bill from him. by all accounts, she must be the same person who was at my place yesterday, and if ever a man was as mad as a hornet, he's the one. when he asked if he might take the liberty of inquiring what interest she had in my family, she asked if it was necessary to willie's cure that he should know that; and when he said, 'no, of course not,' she said it _was_ a great liberty, and as good as told him to mind his own affairs. he quite agrees with my wife and mrs. granby that she was only a messenger from some unknown friend, and that she was not pleased with the business she had in hand. the doctor is very much occupied just now, and told her he could not well see me before this evening; but he found he could make time to run over and tell me this morning, and kindly did so. so, you see, sir, i do not rightly know what to do, joyful and grateful as i feel; and i thought i would just run over and tell you the story at once, and ask if you thought i might safely use this money without fear of getting into any difficulty. you see it's such a strange and mysterious way of doing things that i won't say but i would think it odd myself if i heard another person had come by such a sum in such a way." "i see no possible objection to your using the money," said mr. bradford. "it certainly has been intended for you, however singular the way in which it has been conveyed to you, or however disagreeable the manner of the messenger. it has probably been the work of some eccentric, but kind-hearted person who does not choose to have his good deeds known." "i can't say but i would feel better to know whom it came from, mr. bradford, grateful from my very soul as i am. i shouldn't have been too proud to take such a favor from one who i knew was a friend to me, with the hope, maybe, of one day making it up, but it's not so comfortable to have it done in this secret sort of way, and as if it were something to be ashamed of." "do not look at it in that way, richards, but believe that your friend has only acted thus from a wish that his left hand should not know what his right hand has done. look at it as a gift from the lord, and use it with an easy heart and a clear conscience, as i am sure your benefactor intended." "well, may god bless and prosper him, whoever he is," said the policeman. "i only wish he knew what a load is lifted from my heart. and thank you too, sir, for your advice and for all your interest in me." while the policeman had been telling his story, maggie and bessie had stood listening eagerly to him. at first they looked pleased as well as interested, but when it was made plain to them that some stranger had done the very thing on which they had set their hearts, a look of blank dismay and disappointment overspread their faces. by the time he had finished, bessie, with her head pressed against her mother's shoulder, was choking back the tears, and maggie, with crimson cheeks and wide-open eyes, was standing, the very picture of indignation. "papa," she exclaimed, as mr. richards said the last words, "does he really mean that woman went and paid that money for blind willie to be cured?" "yes, my darling," said her father, with a feeling of real pity for the disappointment of his two little daughters, "but i think--" "it's too bad," said maggie, without waiting for her father to finish his sentence; "it's as mean, as mean as--oh! i never heard of anything so mean; the horrid old thing! something ought to be done to her. i know she just did it to make a disappointment to bessie and me. oh, dear! it's too bad!" she finished with a burst of tears. "my dear little girl," said her father, "i know this is a great disappointment to you; but you must not let it make you unreasonable. this person is probably an entire stranger to you; and any way, she could know nothing of your purpose." "you will find plenty of uses for the money," said uncle ruthven, catching bessie up in his arms. "put it away till you find another blind boy, or lame girl, or some old sick body, who would be glad of a little help. papa will find you ways enough to spend it." "but," said bessie, mournfully, as she wiped her eyes, "we wanted to use it for willie, and we thought so much about it, and we were so glad when we thought how pleased he would be! oh! we are very much _trialed_; are we not, maggie?" "now the lord love you for your thought of my boy," said the policeman, "and i'm sure i wish, for your sake, that the old lady had stopped short of dr. dawson's door, keeping her money for some other folks that had need of it, and leaving it to you two dear little ones to do this kind turn for my child. but willie will think just as much, as i do, of your meaning to do it, as if you'd done it out and out; and if you'll allow it, madam,"--here he turned to mrs. bradford, "i'd like to bring him over, that he may say so." mrs. bradford said she would be very glad to see willie, and asked mr. richards to bring him and jennie over the next day, and let them spend an hour or two with the children. this she did, thinking it would be a pleasure to her little girls to see the blind boy and his sister, and wishing to do all she could to console them for their disappointment. the policeman promised to do this, and then, once more thanking mr. bradford and his family for all their kindness, he went away. [illustration: decoration, end of chap. ] [illustration: title decoration, chap. ] xiv. _aunt patty._ but maggie and bessie, especially the former, were quite determined not to be consoled. they thought such a terrible disappointment deserved to be sorrowed over for some time to come, and sat with tearful faces and a very mournful manner, quite unable to do anything but grieve. "i hope i shall have strength to bear it, but i don't know," said maggie, with her pocket-handkerchief to her eyes. mamma told her that the way to bear a trial was not to sit fretting over it and thinking how bad it was, but to look at its bright side, and see what good we or others might gain from it. "but _this_ has no bright side; has it, mamma?" asked bessie. "i think so," replied her mother. "this unknown friend has done much more for the policeman and his family than you could have done, and she has not only given the money for dr. dawson, but has, also, paid the debt to dr. schwitz; while your uncle is kind enough to allow you to keep your money for some one else who may need it." "but, mamma," said maggie, with her eyes still covered, "uncle ruthven was going to pay the debt himself; papa told us so. so it would have been just as good for the policeman." "i declare," said mr. stanton, "i had quite forgotten that i was disappointed too! well, well;" and he leaned his head on his hand, and put on a very doleful air. "bradford," he continued, in the most mournful tones, "since we are not to go over to the policeman's this afternoon, i had thought we might have some other little frolic; but of course, none of us are in spirits for the visit to the menagerie i had intended to propose." at this, maggie's handkerchief came down, and bessie raised her head from her mother's shoulder. "i do not know but i might go, if i could make up a pleasant, happy party to take with me," said mr. stanton. "_you_ could not think of it, i suppose, maggie?" "i don't know," said maggie, half unwilling to be so soon comforted, and yet too much pleased at the thought of this unexpected treat to be able to refuse it. "perhaps i might. i think maybe it would do me good to see the animals." but she still sat with the air of a little martyr, hoping that uncle ruthven would press her very much, so that she might not seem to yield too easily. "i thought perhaps it might bring _me_ a little comfort to see the monkeys eat peanuts, and then make faces at me, while they pelted me with the shells," said mr. stanton, in the same despairing tone. at this bessie broke into a little low laugh, and the dimples showed themselves at the corners of maggie's mouth, though she pursed up her lips, and drew down her eyebrows in her determination not to smile. but it was all useless, and in two moments more uncle ruthven had them both as merry as crickets over this new pleasure. mamma and aunt bessie were coaxed to give up their shopping and go with them, and the three boys, harry, fred, and franky, being added to the party, they all set off in good spirits. the blind boy and the terrible disappointment were not forgotten, but the children had made up their minds to take mamma's advice,--bear it bravely, and look on the bright side. aunt patty saw them go, and was glad to be left to herself, although her own thoughts were not very pleasant company. she had done a kind and generous action in an ungracious way, causing those whom she had benefited to feel that they would rather have received the favor from another hand, bringing a real trial upon these dear children, and vexation and regret to herself. she could not look upon her work or its consequences with any satisfaction. what though she had done a good deed, she had not done it quite in the right spirit, and so it seemed it had not brought a blessing. self-will and temper had been suffered to overcome her once more. bessie had shamed her by the self-control which she, an old woman, had not shown, and she had been outdone by both these little ones in patience and submission. the policeman's family would have been quite as well off as they were now, and she might still have had the long-desired grove, the object of so many thoughts and wishes, had she never taken up the matter, or had she even allowed her intentions to be known. she had really had an honest desire to keep her generous self-sacrifice a secret, that it should not be published abroad to all the world; but there was, also, an obstinate little corner in her heart which made her determine to keep it from her nephew, lest he should oppose it. "for i want none of his advice or interference," she said, to herself; it being generally the case that those who deal most largely in those articles themselves are the most unwilling to receive them from others. so the poor old lady sadly thought, taking shame and repentance to herself for all the peevishness and ill-temper of the last two days, seeing where she had acted wrongly and unwisely, and making new resolutions for the future. ah, the old besetting sin, strengthened by long habit and indulgence, what a tyrant it had become, and how hard she had to struggle with it, how often was she overcome! yes, well might little bessie be thankful that wise and tender teachers had taught her to control that passionate temper, which later might have proved such a misery to herself and her friends. then came back to her the dear child's trusting words, "jesus knows," bringing with them a comforting sense of his near love and presence, and a feeling that his help and forgiveness were still open to her, though she had again so sadly given way. oh, that she had little bessie's simple faith! that this feeling of the saviour's nearness, this constant looking to him for help and guidance, which were shown by this little one, were hers also! she bethought herself of a hymn, which she had heard mrs. bradford teaching to her children during the last week, and which they had all sung together on sunday evening. she could not recollect the exact words, but it seemed to her that it was the very thing she needed now. she searched for it through all the hymn-books and tune-books on which she could lay her hands, but in vain; and, as was aunt patty's way, the more she could not find it, the more she seemed to want it. should she ask the children for it when they came home? to do so, would be the same as confessing that she had done wrong, and that was the hardest thing in the world for the proud old lady to do. but yes, she would do it! nay, more, she would no longer be outdone by a little child in generosity and humility. she would tell the children that she was sorry for her unkindness of the morning. it did aunt patty no harm, but a great deal of good, that long afternoon's musing in the silent house, where no patter of children's feet, nor any sound of young voices was heard; for baby had gone to her grandmamma, so that even her soft coo and joyous crow were missing for some hours. meanwhile the children were enjoying themselves amazingly; for a visit to the menagerie with uncle ruthven, who knew so much of the wild beasts and their habits, and who told of them in such an interesting way, was no common treat. the day had been as april-like within as without, clouds and sunshine by turns, ending at last in settled brightness; and no one who had seen the happy faces of our maggie and bessie would have thought that they could have worn such woeful looks but a few hours since. after reaching home, they were passing through the upper hall on their way down to the parlor, where they had left papa and uncle ruthven, when aunt patty's door opened, and she called them. they stood still and hesitated. "come in," said mrs. lawrence again, in a gentle tone; "aunt patty wants to speak to you." maggie and bessie obeyed, but slowly and unwillingly, as the old lady grieved to see, the former with drooping head and downcast eyes, while bessie peeped shyly up at her aunt from under her eyelashes. "aunt patty was cross, and vexed you this morning," said mrs. lawrence; "but she is sorry now. come, kiss her and be friends." in a moment bessie's rosebud of a mouth was put up for the desired kiss, but maggie still held back. it was not that she was unforgiving, but this meekness from aunt patty was something so new, and so contrary to all the ideas she had formed of her, that she did not know how to believe in it, or to understand it. "kiss her," whispered bessie; "it is not 'bearing her burden' if you don't." so maggie's face was lifted also, and as her aunt bent down and kissed her, she was astonished to see how gentle and kind, although sad, she looked. the "corners" were all out of sight just now, and maggie even began to feel sorry that she had wished aunt patty to be "a pillar of salt which might be soaked away in the rain." mrs. lawrence asked them if they had enjoyed themselves, and put a question or two about the menagerie in a pleasant, gentle tone, which showed that her ill-temper was all gone. then there was a moment's silence, the children wishing, yet not exactly knowing how, to run away; at the end of which, mrs. lawrence said, in rather an embarrassed voice, as if she were half ashamed of what she was doing, "bessie, where did you find that little hymn, 'listen, oh, listen, our father all holy'?" "oh, it is in our dear little 'chapel gems,'" said the child. "is it not pretty, aunt patty? mamma found it, and i asked her to teach it to us, 'cause it was so sweet to say when any of us had been naughty. when we sing it, i think it's just like a little prayer in music." "can you find the book for me?" asked the old lady. "mamma lent it to mrs. rush. she wanted to have the music, so we might have it for one of our sunday-school hymns. i'll ask mamma to let you have it as soon as aunt may sends it back." "it is of no consequence," said mrs. lawrence, in a tone in which bessie fancied there was some disappointment. "do not let me keep you if you want to go." both children turned toward the door, but before they reached it, bessie lingered, also detaining maggie, who held her hand. "aunt patty," she said, sweetly, "i think it is of consequence if you want it. and--and--i know 'our father all holy.' if you would like, i can say it to you." "come, then, darling," answered the old lady, and standing at her knee with aunt patty's hand resting on her curls, bessie repeated, slowly and correctly, this beautiful hymn:-- "listen, oh, listen, our father all holy! humble and sorrowful, owning my sin, hear me confess, in my penitence lowly, how in my weakness temptation came in. "pity me now, for, my father, no sorrow ever can be like the pain that i know; when i remember that all through to-morrow, missing the light of thy love, i may go. "for thy forgiveness, the gift i am seeking, nothing, oh, nothing, i offer to thee! thou to my sinful and sad spirit speaking, giving forgiveness, giv'st all things to me. "keep me, my father, oh, keep me from falling! i had not sinned, had i felt thou wert nigh; speak, when the voice of the tempter is calling so that temptation before thee may fly. "thoughts of my sin much more humble shall make me, for thy forgiveness i'll love thee the more; so keep me humble until thou shall take me where sin and sorrow forever are o'er."[a] "'i had not sinned, had i felt thou wert nigh,'" she said again, after she was through with the last line. "i wish we could always remember our father is nigh; don't you, aunt patty? we know it, but sometimes we forget it a little, and then the naughtiness comes, and so we grieve him. but is not that a sweet hymn to say when we are sorry for our sin, and want him to help and forgive us again? i felt it was yesterday when i had been angry and spoken so naughty to you." "oh, child, child!" was all the answer mrs. lawrence gave. her heart had been softened before, now it was quite melted, and putting her arm about bessie, she drew her to her and kissed her on both cheeks; while maggie stood by wondering as she heard the tremor of aunt patty's voice and saw something very like a tear in her eye. "out of the mouth of babes and sucklings, thou hast perfected praise," murmured the old lady to herself, when the door had closed behind the children. "lord, make me even like unto this little child, granting me such faith, such grace, such patience, such an earnest desire to do thy will, to live only to thy glory." yes, such were the lessons learned even by an old woman like aunt patty from this little lamb of jesus, this little follower of her blessed lord and master. "even a child is known by his doings." "who is for a summer among the mountains?" asked mr. bradford as the family sat around the table after dinner. "i am, and i, and i!" came from a chorus of young voices, for from papa's look it was plainly to be seen that the question was addressed to the children, and that the grown people had had their say before. even baby, who was learning to imitate everything, made a sound which might be interpreted into an "i;" but one little voice was silent. "and has my bessie nothing to say?" asked papa. "is the sea at the mountains, papa?" said bessie, answering his question by another. "no, dear," said her father, smiling, "but among the mountains to which we think of going, there is a very beautiful lake, on the border of which stands the house in which we shall stay." "i am very fond of the sea, papa," answered bessie, "and i think i would prefer to go to quam beach again,--i mean if the others liked it too." "i do not doubt we should all enjoy ourselves at quam," said mr. bradford, "for we spent a very pleasant summer there last year. but grandmamma does not think the sea-side good for aunt annie's throat, and wishes to take her up among the mountains. the colonel's doctor has also advised him to go there, so we shall not have the same delightful party we had last summer if we go to quam. about four miles from the old homestead, and higher up in the chalecoo mountains, is this very lovely lake set deep among the rocks and woods. here lives a man named porter,--you remember him, aunt patty?" "certainly," answered mrs. lawrence, "he has been adding to and refitting his house, with the intention of taking boarders, i believe. do you think of going there?" "yes. i remember even in former days it was an airy, comfortable old place, and with the improvements which i hear porter has made, i think it will just suit our party. what do you say, bessie? would you not like to go there with all the dear friends, rather than to quam without them?" "oh, yes," said bessie; "i like my people better than i do the sea; but then i do wish there was just a little bit of sea there, papa." papa smiled at bessie's regret for the grand old ocean, which she loved so dearly; but as he told her of the many new pleasures she might find among the mountains, she began to think they might prove almost as delightful as those of the last summer at quam beach. so the plan was talked over with pleasure by all. papa and uncle ruthven were to start the next morning to go up to the lake, see the house, and, if it suited, to make all the necessary arrangements. the party was a large one to be accommodated,--grandmamma and aunt annie, uncle ruthven and aunt bessie, colonel and mrs. rush, and mr. and mrs. bradford with all their family; and as soon as it was found to be doubtful if this could be done, all the children, even bessie, were in a flutter of anxiety lest they should be disappointed. this was of no use, however, for the matter could not be decided till papa and uncle ruthven returned. "i have a little private business with maggie and bessie," said papa, as they rose from the table. "young ladies, may i request the honor of your company in my room for a few moments?" wondering what could be coming now, but sure from papa's face that it was something very pleasant, the little girls went skipping and dancing before him to the library, where, sitting down, papa lifted bessie to his knee, and maggie upon the arm of the chair, holding her there with his arm about her waist. when they were all settled, mr. bradford said, "uncle ruthven and i have a plan which we thought might please you, but if you do not like it, you are to say so." "papa," said maggie, "if it's any plan about that money, i think we'll have to consider it a little first. you see it seems to us as if it was very much willie's money, and we will have to be a little accustomed to think it must do good to some one else." this was said with a very grave, businesslike air, which sat rather drolly upon our merry, careless maggie, and her father smiled. "i shall tell you," he said, "and then you may have the next two days, till uncle ruthven and i come back, to consider it. dr. dawson thinks it necessary for willie richards to have change of air as soon as he is able to travel. of course his mother must go with him, to take care of him; and, indeed, it is needful for the poor woman herself to have mountain air. i have thought that we might find some quiet farmhouse at or near chalecoo, where willie and his mother could go for two or three months at a small cost; but i do not believe it is possible for the policeman to afford even this, without very great discomfort and even suffering to himself and his family. now, how would you like to use the money uncle ruthven gave you to pay the board of willie and his mother, and so still spend it for his good and comfort? as i said, you may take two days to think over this plan, and if it does not suit you, you can say so." ah! this was quite unnecessary, as papa probably knew. _this_ needed no consideration. why, it was almost as good as paying dr. dawson,--rather better, maggie thought. but bessie could not quite agree to this last. "i am very satisfied, papa," she said, "but then it would have been so nice to think our money helped to make blind willie see his mother's face." "maggie, have you forgiven that old woman yet?" asked fred, when his father and little sisters had joined the rest of the family in the other room. "oh, yes!" said maggie. "i think she is lovely! she has made things a great deal better for us, though she did not know it, and blind willie is to go to the country. but you are not to talk about it, fred, for he is not to be told till it is all fixed, and papa has found the place; and we are to pay the board, and i'm so sorry i said bad things about her, even if she was only the messenger, and some one sent her." "hallo!" said fred, "anything more?" "i am so full of gladness, i don't know what to do with it," said maggie, who very often found herself in this state; "but i am so very tired i can't hop much to-night." [illustration: decoration, end of chap. ] [illustration: title decoration, chap. ] xv. _willie's visit._ "there," said mrs. granby, holding willie richards at arm's length from her, and gazing at him with pride and admiration,--"there, i'd like to see the fellow, be he man, woman, or child, that will dare to say my boy is not fit to stand beside any gentleman's son in the land." certainly mrs. granby had no need to be ashamed of the object of her affectionate care. his shoes, though well worn and patched, had been blacked and polished till they looked quite respectable; the suit made from his father's old uniform was still neat and whole, for willie's present quiet life was a great saving to his clothes, if that were any comfort; his white collar was turned back and neatly tied with a black ribbon, and mrs. granby had just combed back the straight locks from his pale, fair forehead in a jaunty fashion which she thought highly becoming to him. there was a look of hope and peace on his delicate face which and not been there for many a long day, for last night his father had told him that the doctor had an almost sure hope of restoring his sight, if he were good and patient, and that the operation was to take place the next week. the news had put fresh heart and life into the poor boy, and now, as mrs. granby said this, he laughed aloud, and throwing both arms about her neck, and pressing his cheek to hers, said,-- "thank you, dear auntie granby. i know i am nice when you fix me up. pretty soon i shall _see_ how nice you make me look." "come now, jennie, bring along that mop of yours," said mrs. granby, brandishing a comb at jennie, and, half laughing, half shrinking, the little girl submitted to put her head into mrs. granby's hands. but, as had been the case very often before, it was soon given up as a hopeless task. jennie's short, crisp curls defied both comb and brush, and would twist themselves into close, round rings, lying one over another after their own will and fashion. "i don't care," said jennie, when mrs. granby pretended to be very angry at the rebellious hair,--"i don't care if it won't be smoothed; it is just like father's, mother says so; and anything like him is good enough for me." "well, i won't say no to that," said mrs. granby, putting down the brush and throwing jennie's dress over her head. "the more you're like him in all ways, the better you'll be, jennie richards, you mind that." "i do mind it," said jennie. "i know he's the best father ever lived. isn't he, willie?" "s'pose that's what all young ones says of their fathers and mothers," answered mrs. granby, "even s'posin' the fathers and mothers ain't much to boast of. but you're nearer the truth, jennie, than some of them, and it's all right and nat'ral that every child should think its own folks the best. there's little miss bradfords, what you're goin' up to see, they'd be ready to say the same about their pa." "and good reason, too," chimed in mrs. richards. "he's as true and noble a gentleman as ever walked, and a good friend to us." "that's so," answered mrs. granby, "i'll not gainsay you there neither. and that's come all along of your man just speaking a kind word or two to that stray lamb of his. and if i'd a mind to contradick you, which i haint, there's sergeant richards himself to back your words. the bairns is 'most ready, sergeant; and me and mary was just sayin' how strange it seemed that such a friend as mr. bradford was raised up for you just along of a bit of pettin' you give that lost child. it's as the gentleman says,--'bread cast upon the waters;' but who'd ha' thought to see it come back the way it does? it beats all how things do come around." "under god's guidance," said the policeman, softly. "the lord's ways are past finding out." "i'll agree to that too," answered mrs. granby, "bein' in an accommodatin' humor this afternoon. there, now, jennie, you're ready. mind your manners now, and behave pretty, and don't let willie go to falling down them long stairs at mrs. bradford's. there, kiss your mother, both of you, and go away with your father. i s'pose he ain't got no time to spare. i'll go over after them in an hour or so, sergeant richards." here tommy began very eagerly with his confused jargon which no one pretended to understand but jennie. "what does he say, jennie?" asked the father. "he says, 'nice little girl, come some more. bring her doggie,'" said jennie; then turning to her mother, she asked, "mother, do you b'lieve you can understand tommy till i come back?" "i'll try," said her mother, smiling; "if i cannot, tommy and i must be patient. run now, father is waiting." mrs. granby followed them to the door, and even to the gate, where she stood and watched them till they were out of sight, for, as she told mrs. richards, "it did her a heap of good to see the poor things goin' off for a bit of a holiday." the policeman and his children kept steadily on till they reached the park near which mr. bradford lived, where they turned in. "how nice it is!" said willie as the fresh, sweet air blew across his face, bringing the scent of the new grass and budding trees. "it seems a little like the country here. don't you wish we lived in the country, father?" "i would like it, willie, more for your sake than for anything else, and i wish from my heart i could send you and mother off to the country this summer, my boy. but you see it can't be managed. but i guess somehow father will contrive to send you now and then up to central park, or for a sail down the bay or up the river. and you and jennie can come over here every day and play about awhile, and that will put a bit of strength in you, if you can't get out into the country." "and then i shall see; sha'n't i, father? i hear the birds. are they hopping about like they used to, over the trees, so tame and nice?" "yes," answered his father, "and here we are by the water, where's a whole heap of 'em come down for a drink." in his new hope, willie took a fresh interest in all about him. "oh, i hear 'em!" said willie, eagerly, "and soon i'll see 'em. will it be next week, father?" and he clasped tightly the hand he held. "i don't know about next week, sonny. i believe your eyes have to be bandaged for a while, lest the light would be too bright for them, while they're still weak, but you will have patience for that; won't you, willie?" willie promised, for it seemed to him that he could have patience and courage for anything now. "oh!" said jennie, as they reached mr. bradford's house, and went up the steps, "don't i wish i lived in a house like this!" "don't be wishing that," said her father. "you'll see a good many things here such as you never saw before, but you mustn't go to wishing for them or fretting after the same. we've too much to be thankful for, my lassie, to be hankering for things which are not likely ever to be ours." "'tis no harm to wish for them; is it, father?" asked jennie, as they waited for the door to be opened. "it's not best even to wish for what's beyond our reach," said her father, "lest we should get to covet our neighbors' goods, or to be discontented with our own lot; and certainly we have no call to do that." richards asked for mrs. bradford, and she presently came down, bringing maggie and bessie with her. jennie felt a little strange and frightened at first when her father left her. making acquaintance with maggie and bessie in her own home was a different thing from coming to visit them in their large, handsome house, and they scarcely seemed to her like the same little girls. but when maggie took her up-stairs, and showed her the baby-house and dolls, she forgot everything else, and looked at them, quite lost in admiration. willie was not asked to look at anything. the little sisters had thought of what he had said the day they went to see him, and agreed that bessie was to take care of him while maggie entertained jennie. he asked after flossy, and the dog was called, and behaved quite as well as he had done when he saw willie before, lying quiet in his arms as long as the blind boy chose to hold him, and putting his cold nose against his face in an affectionate way which delighted willie highly. there was no difficulty in amusing jennie, who had eyes for all that was to be seen, and who thought she could never be tired of handling and looking at such beautiful toys and books. but perhaps the children would hardly have known how to entertain willie for any length of time, if a new pleasure had not accidentally been furnished for him. maggie and bessie had just taken him and his sister into the nursery to visit the baby, the canary bird, and other wonders there, when there came sweet sounds from below. willie instantly turned to the door and stood listening. "who's making that music?" he asked presently in a whisper, as if he were afraid to lose a note. "mamma and aunt bessie," said maggie. "would you and jennie like to go down to the parlor and hear it?" asked bessie. willie said "yes," very eagerly, but jennie did not care to go where the grown ladies were, and said she would rather stay up-stairs if maggie did not mind. maggie consented, and bessie went off, leading the blind boy by the hand. it was both amusing and touching to see the watch she kept over this child who was twice her own size, guiding his steps with a motherly sort of care, looking up at him with wistful pity and tenderness, and speaking to him in a soft, coaxing voice such as one would use to an infant. they were going down-stairs when they met aunt patty coming up. she passed them at the landing, then suddenly turning, said, in the short, quick way to which bessie was by this time somewhat accustomed, "children! bessie! this is very dangerous! you should not be leading that poor boy down-stairs. where are your nurses, that they do not see after you? take care, take care! look where you are going now! carefully, carefully!" now if aunt patty had considered the matter, she would have known she was taking the very way to bring about the thing she dreaded. willie had been going on fearlessly, listening to his gentle little guide; but at the sound of the lady's voice he started, and as she kept repeating her cautions, he grew nervous and uneasy; while bessie, instead of watching his steps and taking heed to her own, kept glancing up at her aunt with an uncomfortable sense of being watched by those sharp eyes. however, they both reached the lower hall in safety, where bessie led her charge to the parlor-door. "mamma," she said, "willie likes music very much. i suppose you would just as lief he would listen to you and aunt bessie." "certainly," said mamma. "bring him in." but before they went in, willie paused and turned to bessie. "who was that on the stairs?" he asked in a whisper. "oh! that was only aunt patty," answered the little girl. "you need not be afraid of her. she don't mean to be so cross as she is; but she is old, and had a great deal of trouble, and not very wise people to teach her better when she was little. so she can't help it sometimes." "no," said willie, slowly, as if he were trying to recollect something, "i am not afraid; but then i thought i had heard that voice before." "oh, i guess not," said bessie; and then she took him in and seated him in her own little arm-chair, close to the piano. no one who had noticed the way in which the blind boy listened to the music, or seen the look of perfect enjoyment on his pale, patient face, could have doubted his love for the sweet sounds. while mrs. bradford and miss rush played or sang, he sat motionless, not moving a finger, hardly seeming to breathe, lest he should lose one note. "so you are very fond of music; are you, willie?" said mrs. bradford, when at length they paused. "yes, ma'am, very," said he, modestly; "but i never heard music like that before. it seems 'most as if it was alive." "so it does," said bessie, while the ladies smiled at the boy's innocent admiration. "i think there's a many nice things in this house," continued willie, who, in his very helplessness and unconsciousness of the many new objects which surrounded him, was more at his ease than his sister. "and mamma is the nicest of all," said bessie. "you can't think how precious she is, willie!" mrs. bradford laughed as she put back her little daughter's curls, and kissed her forehead. "i guess she must be, when she is your mother," said willie. "you must all be very kind and good people here; and i wish, oh, i wish it was you and your sister who gave the money for dr. dawson. but never mind; i thank you and love you all the same as if you had done it, only i would like to think it all came through you. and father says"-- here willie started, and turned his sightless eyes towards the open door, through which was again heard mrs. lawrence's voice, as she gave directions to patrick respecting a parcel she was about to send home. "what is the matter, willie?" asked mrs. bradford. "nothing, ma'am;" answered the child, as a flush came into his pale cheeks, and rising from his chair, he stood with his head bent forward, listening intently, till the sound of aunt patty's voice ceased, and the opening and closing of the front-door showed that she had gone out, when he sat down again with a puzzled expression on his face. "does anything trouble you?" asked mrs. bradford. "no, ma'am; but--but--i _know_ i've heard it before." "heard what?" "that voice, ma'am; miss bessie said it was her aunt's." "but you couldn't have heard it, you know, willie," said bessie, "'cause you never came to this house before, and aunt patty never went to yours." these last words brought it all back to the blind boy. he knew now. "but she _did_," he said, eagerly,--"she did come to our house. that's the one; that's the voice that scolded mother and auntie granby and jennie, and that put the money into the bible when we didn't know it!" mrs. bradford and miss rush looked at one another with quick, surprised glances; but bessie said, "oh! you must be mistaken, willie. it's quite _un_possible. aunt patty does not know you or your house, and she never went there. besides, she does not"--"does not like you to have the money," she was about to say, when she thought that this would be neither kind nor polite, and checked herself. but willie was quite as positive as she was, and with a little shake of his head, he said, "ever since i was blind, i always knew a voice when i heard it once. i wish jennie or mrs. granby had seen her, they could tell you; but i know that's the voice. it was _you_ sent her, after all, ma'am; was it not?" and he turned his face toward mrs. bradford. "no, willie, i did not send her," answered the lady, with another look at miss rush, "nor did any one in this house." but in spite of this, and all bessie's persuasions and assurances that the thing was quite impossible, willie was not to be convinced that the voice he had twice heard was not that of the old lady who had left the money in the bible; and he did not cease regretting that jennie had not seen her. but to have jennie or mrs. granby see her was just what mrs. lawrence did not choose, and to avoid this, she had gone out, not being able to shut herself up in her own room, which was undergoing a sweeping and dusting. she had not been afraid of the sightless eyes of the little boy when she met him on the stairs, never thinking that he might recognize her voice; but she had taken good care not to meet those of jennie, so quick and bright, and which she felt would be sure to know her in an instant. but secure as aunt patty thought herself, when she was once out of the house, that treacherous voice of hers had betrayed her, not only to willie's sensitive ears, but to that very pair of eyes which she thought she had escaped. for, as the loud tones had reached maggie and jennie at their play, the latter had dropped the toy she held, and exclaimed, in a manner as startled as willie's, "there's that woman!" "what woman?" asked maggie. "the old woman who brought the money to our house. i know it is her." "oh, no, it is not," said maggie; "that's aunt patty, and she's an old lady, not an old woman, and she wouldn't do it if she could. she is real mean, jennie, and i think that person who took you the money was real good and kind, even if we did feel a little bad about it at first. aunt patty would never do it, i know. bessie and i try to like her, and just as we begin to do it a little scrap, she goes and does something that makes us mad again, so it's no use to try." "but she does talk just like the lady who came to our house," persisted jennie. "you can see her if you have a mind to," said maggie, "and then you'll know it is not her. come and look over the balusters, but don't let her see you, or else she'll say, 'what are you staring at, child?'" they both ran to the head of the stairs, where jennie peeped over the balusters. "it _is_ her!" she whispered to maggie. "i am just as sure, as sure. she is all dressed up nice to-day, and the other day she had on an old water-proof cloak, and a great big umbrella, and she didn't look so nice. but she's the very same." "let's go down and tell mamma, and see what she says," said maggie, as the front-door closed after aunt patty. away they both rushed to the parlor; but when jennie saw the ladies, she was rather abashed and hung back a little, while maggie broke forth with, "mamma, i have the greatest piece of astonishment to tell you, you ever heard. jennie says she is quite sure aunt patty is the woman who put the money in the bible and paid dr. dawson. but, mamma, it can't be; can it? aunt patty is quite too dog-in-the-mangery; is she not?" "maggie, dear," said her mother, "that is not a proper way for you to speak of your aunt, nor do i think it is just as you say. what do you mean by that?" "why, mamma, you know the dog in the manger could not eat the hay himself, and would not let the oxen eat it; and aunt patty would not buy the grove, or tell papa what was the reason; so was she not like the dog in the manger?" "not at all," said mrs. bradford, smiling at maggie's reasoning. "the two cases are not at all alike. as you say, the dog would not let the hungry oxen eat the hay he could not use himself, but because aunt patty did not choose to buy the grove, we have no right to suppose she would not make, or has not made some other good use of her money, and if she chooses to keep that a secret, she has a right to do so. no, i do not think we can call her like the dog in the manger, maggie." "but do you believe she gave up the grove for that, mamma? she would not be so good and generous; would she?" "yes, dear, i think she would. aunt patty is a very generous-hearted woman, although her way of doing things may be very different from that of some other people. mind, i did not say that she _did_ do this, but willie and jennie both seem to be quite positive that she is the old lady who was at their house, and i think it is not at all unlikely." "and shall you ask her, mamma?" "no. if it was aunt patty who has been so kind, she has shown very plainly that she did not wish to be questioned, and i shall say nothing, nor must you. we will not talk about it any more now. we will wind up the musical box, and let willie see if he likes it as well as the piano." very soon after this, mrs. granby came for willie and jennie, and no sooner were they outside of the door than they told of the wonderful discovery they had made. mrs. granby said she was not at all astonished, "one might have been sure such a good turn came out of _that_ house, somehow." [illustration: decoration, end of chap. ] [illustration: title decoration, chap. ] xvi. _willie's recovery._ willie seemed amazingly cheered up and amused by his visit, and told eagerly of all he had heard and noticed, with a gay ring in his voice which delighted his mother. it was not so with jennie, although she had come home with her hands full of toys and picture-books, the gifts of the kind little girls she had been to see. she seemed dull, and her mother thought she was tired of play and the excitement of seeing so much that was new and strange to her. but mrs. richards soon found it was worse than this. "i don't see why i can't keep this frock on," said jennie, fretfully, as mrs. granby began to unfasten her dress, which was kept for sundays and holidays. "surely, you don't want to go knocking round here, playing and working in your best frock!" said mrs. granby. "what would it look like?" "the other one is torn," answered jennie, pouting, and twisting herself out of mrs. granby's hold. "didn't i mend it as nice as a new pin?" said mrs. granby, showing a patch nicely put in during jennie's absence. "it's all faded and ugly," grumbled jennie. "i don't see why i can't be dressed as nice as other folks." "that means you want to be dressed like little miss bradfords," answered mrs. granby. "and the reason why you ain't is because your folks can't afford it, my dearie. don't you think your mother and me would like to see you rigged out like them, if we had the way to do it? to be sure we would. but you see we can't do more than keep you clean and whole; so there's no use wishin'." jennie said no more, but submitted to have the old dress put on; but the pleasant look did not come back to her face. anything like sulkiness or ill-temper from jennie was so unusual that the other children listened in surprise; but her mother saw very plainly what was the matter, and hoping it would wear off, thought it best to take no notice of it at present. the dress fastened, jennie went slowly and unwillingly about her task of putting away her own and her brother's clothes; not doing so in her usual neat and orderly manner but folding them carelessly and tumbling them into the drawers in a very heedless fashion. mrs. granby saw this, but she, too, let it pass, thinking she would put things to rights when jennie was in bed. pretty soon tommy came to mrs. granby with some long story told in the curious jargon of which she could not understand one word. "what does he say, jennie?" she asked. "i don't know," answered jennie, crossly. "i sha'n't be troubled to talk for him all the time. he is big enough to talk for himself, and he just may do it." "jennie, jennie," said her mother, in a grieved tone. jennie began to cry. "come here," said mrs. richards, thinking a little soothing would be better than fault-finding. "the baby is asleep; come and fix the cradle so i can put her in it." the cradle was jennie's especial charge, and she never suffered any one else to arrange it; but now she pulled the clothes and pillows about as if they had done something to offend her. "our baby is just as good as mrs. bradford's," she muttered, as her mother laid the infant in the cradle. "i guess we think she is the nicest baby going," said mrs. richards, cheerfully; "and it's likely mrs. bradford thinks the same of hers." "i don't see why mrs. bradford's baby has to have a better cradle than ours," muttered jennie. "hers is all white muslin and pink, fixed up so pretty, and ours is old and shabby." "and i don't believe mrs. bradford's baby has a quilt made for her by her own little sister," answered the mother. "and it has such pretty frocks, all work and tucks and nice ribbons," said jennie, determined not to be coaxed out of her envy and ill-humor, "and our baby has to do with just a plain old slip with not a bit of trimming. 'taint fair; it's real mean!" "jennie, jennie," said her mother again, "i am sorry i let you go, if it was only to come home envious and jealous after the pretty things you've seen." "but haven't we just as good a right to have them as anybody else?" sobbed jennie, with her head in her mother's lap. "not since the lord has not seen fit to give them to us," answered mrs. richards. "we haven't a right to anything. all he gives us is of his goodness; nor have we a _right_ to fret because he has made other folks better off than us. all the good things and riches are his to do with as he sees best; and if one has a larger portion than another, he has his own reasons for it, which is not for us to quarrel with. and of all others, i wouldn't have you envious of mrs. bradford's family that have done so much for us." "yes," put in mrs. granby, with her cheery voice; "them's the ones that ought to be rich that don't spend all their money on themselves, that makes it do for the comfort of others that's not as well off, and for the glory of him that gives it. now, if it had been you or me, jennie, that had so much given to us, maybe we'd have been selfish and stingy like; so the lord saw it wasn't best for us." "i don't think anything could have made you selfish or stingy, janet granby," said mrs. richards, looking gratefully at her friend. "it is a small share of this world's goods that has fallen to you, but your neighbors get the best of what does come to you." "then there's some other reason why it wouldn't be good for me," said mrs. granby; "i'm safe in believin' that, and it ain't goin' to do for us to be frettin' and pinin' after what we haven't got, when the almighty has just been heapin' so much on us. and talkin' of that, jennie, you wipe your eyes, honey, and come along to the kitchen with me; there's a basket mrs. bradford gave me to unpack. she said it had some few things for willie, to strengthen him up a bit before his eyes were done. and don't let the father come in and find you in the dumps; that would never do. so cheer up and come along till we see what we can find." jennie raised her head, wiped her eyes, and followed mrs. granby, who, good, trusting soul, soon talked her into good-humor and content again. meanwhile, maggie and bessie were very full of the wonderful discovery of the afternoon, and could scarcely be satisfied without asking aunt patty if it could really be she who had been to the policeman's house and carried the money to pay his debts; also, paid dr. dawson for the operation on willie's eyes. but as mamma had forbidden this, and told them that they were not to speak of it to others, they were obliged to be content with talking of it between themselves. if it were actually aunt patty who had done this, they should look upon her with very new feelings. they had heard from others that she could do very generous and noble actions; but it was one thing to hear of them, as if they were some half-forgotten story of the past, and another to see them done before their very eyes. aunt patty was not rich. what she gave to others, she must deny to herself, and they knew this must have cost her a great deal. she had given up the grove, on which she had set her heart, that she might be able to help the family in whom they were so interested,--people of whom she knew nothing but what she had heard from them. if she had really been so generous, so self-sacrificing, they thought they could forgive almost any amount of crossness and meddling. "for, after all, they're only the corners," said maggie, "and maybe when she tried to bear the policeman's burden, and felt bad about the grove, that made her burden heavier, and so squeezed out her corners a little more, and they scratched her neighbors, who ought not to mind if that was the reason. but i do wish we could really know; don't you, bessie?" putting all things together, there did not seem much reason to doubt it. the policeman's children were positive that mrs. lawrence was the very lady who had been to their house, and aunt patty had been out on two successive days at such hours as answered to the time when the mysterious old lady had visited first them, and then dr. dawson. papa and uncle ruthven came home on the evening of the next day, having made arrangements that satisfied every one for the summer among the mountains. porter's house, with its addition and new conveniences, was just the place for the party, and would even afford two or three extra rooms, in case their friends from riverside wished to join them. the children were delighted as their father spoke of the wide, roomy old hall, where they might play on a rainy day, of the spacious, comfortable rooms and long piazza; as he told how beautiful the lake looked even in this early spring weather, and of the grand old rocks and thick woods which would soon be covered with their green summer dress. still bessie gave a little sigh after her beloved sea. the old homestead and aunt patty's cottage were about four miles from the lake, just a pleasant afternoon's drive; and at the homestead itself, where lived mr. bradford's cousin, the two gentlemen had passed the night. cousin alexander had been very glad to hear that his relations were coming to pass the summer at chalecoo lake, and his four boys promised themselves all manner of pleasure in showing their city cousins the wonders of the neighborhood. "it all looks just as it used to when i was a boy," said mr. bradford. "there is no change in the place, only in the people." he said it with a half-sigh, but the children did not notice it as they pleased themselves with the thought of going over the old place where papa had lived when he was a boy. "i went to the spot where the old barn was burned down, aunt patty," he said. "no signs of the ruins are to be seen, as you know; but as i stood there, the whole scene came back to me as freshly as if it had happened yesterday;" and he extended his hand to aunt patty as he spoke. the old lady laid her own within his, and the grasp he gave it told her that years and change had not done away with the grateful memory of her long past services. she was pleased and touched, and being in such a mood, did not hesitate to express the pleasure she, too, felt at the thought of having them all near her for some months. about half-way between the homestead and the lake house, mr. bradford and mr. stanton had found board for mrs. richards and her boy. it was at the house of an old farmer who well remembered mr. bradford, and who said he was pleased to do anything to oblige him, though the gentlemen thought that the old man was quite as well satisfied with the idea of the eight dollars a week he had promised in payment. and this was to come from maggie's and bessie's store, which had been carefully left in mamma's hand till such time as it should be needed. all this was most satisfactory to our little girls; and when it should be known that the operation on willie's eyes had been successful, they were to go to mrs. richards and tell her what had been done for her boy's farther good. mrs. bradford told her husband that night of all that had taken place during his absence, and he quite agreed with her that it was without doubt aunt patty herself who had been the policeman's benefactor. "i am not at all surprised," he said, "though i own that this did not occur to me, even when richards described the old lady. it is just like aunt patty to do a thing in this way; and her very secrecy and her unwillingness to confess why she would not have the grove, or what she intended to do with the money, convinced me that she was sacrificing herself for the good of some other person or persons." then mr. bradford told his wife that aunt patty meant to go home in about ten days, and should willie's sight be restored before she went, he hoped to be able to persuade her to confess that she had had a share in bringing about this great happiness. he was very anxious that his children should be quite certain of this, as he thought it would go far to destroy their old prejudice, and to cause kind feelings and respect to take the place of their former fear and dislike. mrs. bradford said that good had been done already by the thought that it was probably aunt patty who had been so generous, and that the little ones were now quite as ready to believe all that was kind and pleasant of the old lady as they had been to believe all that was bad but two days since. she told how they had come to her that morning, maggie saying, "mamma, bessie and i wish to give aunt patty something to show we have more approval of her than we used to have; so i am going to make a needle-book and bessie a pin-cushion, and put them in her work-basket without saying anything about them." they had been very busy all the morning contriving and putting together their little gifts without any help from older people, and when they were finished, had placed them in aunt patty's basket, hanging around in order to enjoy her surprise and pleasure when she should find them there. but the poor little things were disappointed, they could scarcely tell why. if it had been mamma or aunt bessie who had received their presents, there would have been a great time when they were discovered. there would have been exclamations of admiration and delight and much wondering as to who could have placed them there,--"some good fairy perhaps who knew that these were the very things that were wanted," and such speeches, all of which maggie and bessie would have enjoyed highly, and at last it would be asked if they could possibly have made them, and then would have come thanks and kisses. but nothing of this kind came from aunt patty. she could not enter into other people's feelings so easily as those who had been unselfish and thoughtful for others all their lives; and though she was much gratified by these little tokens from the children, she did not show half the pleasure she felt; perhaps she really did not know how. true she thanked them, and said she should keep the needle-book and pin-cushion as long as she lived; but she expressed no surprise, and did not praise the work with which they had taken so much pains. "what is this trash in my basket?" she said, when she discovered them. "children, here are some of your baby-rags." "aunt patty," said mrs. bradford, quickly, "they are intended for you; the children have been at work over them all the morning." "oh!" said mrs. lawrence, changing her tone. "i did not understand. i am sure i thank you very much, my dears; and when you come to see me this summer, i shall show you how to do far better than this. i have a quantity of scraps and trimmings of all kinds, of which you can make very pretty things." this was intended to be kind; but the promise for the future did not make up for the disappointment of the present; and the children turned from her with a feeling that their pains had been almost thrown away. "mamma," bessie had said afterwards, "do you think aunt patty was very grateful for our presents?" "yes, dear, i think she was," said mamma, "and i think she meant to show it in her own way." "but, mamma, do you think that was a nice way? you would not have said that to any one, and i felt as if i wanted to cry a little." mamma had seen that her darlings were both hurt, and she felt very sorry for them, but she thought it best to make light of it, so said, cheerfully, "i am quite sure aunt patty was gratified, pussy, and that whenever she looks at your presents, she will think with pleasure of the kind little hands that made them." "when i am big, and some one gives me something i have pleasure in, i'll try to show the pleasure in a nice way," said maggie. "then you must not forget to do it while you are young," said mamma. "let this show you how necessary it is to learn pleasant habits of speaking and acting while you are young." "yes," said maggie, with a long sigh, "and aunt patty ought to be excused. i suppose, since she was not brought up in the way she should go when she was young, she ought to be expected to depart from it when she is old. we must just make the best of it when she don't know any better, and take example of her." "yes," said mamma, rather amused at the way in which maggie had put into words the very thought that was in her own mind; "let us make the best of everything, and be always ready to believe the best of those about us." all this mrs. bradford told to her husband, and agreed with him that it was better not to endeavor to find out anything more till the trial on willie's eyes was over. maggie's new volume of "the complete family" was begun the next day in these words: "once there was a man who lived in his home in the mountains, and who always listened very modestly to everything that was said to him, so his wife used to say a great deal to him. and one day she said, 'my dear, mr. and mrs. happy, with all their family, and a great lot of their best friends, are coming to live with us this summer, and they are used to having a very nice time, so we must do all we can to make them comfortable, or maybe they will say, "pooh, this is not a nice place at all. let us go to the sea again. these are very horrid people!"' and the man said, 'by all means, my dear; and we will give them all they want, and let them look at the mountains just as much as they choose. but i do not think they will say unkind words even if you are a little disagreeable, but will make the best of you, and think you can't help it.' which was quite true, for m. happy and b. happy had a good lesson the man did not know about, and had made a mistake; and sometimes when people seem dreadfully hateful, they are very nice,--i mean very good,--so it's not of great consequence if they are not so nice as some people, and they ought not to be judged, for maybe they have a burden. and m. happy made two mistakes; one about mrs. jones, and the other about that other one mamma don't want me to write about. so this book will be about how they went to the mountains and had a lovely time. i guess we will." rather more than a week had gone by. willie richards lay on his bed in a darkened room, languid and weak, his eyes bandaged, his face paler than ever, but still cheerful and patient. it was five days since the operation had been performed, but willie had not yet seen the light, nor was it certain that he would ever do so, though the doctor hoped and believed that all had gone well. they had given the boy chloroform at the time, and then bound his eyes before he had recovered his senses. but on this day the bandage was to be taken off for the first, and then they should know. his mother sat beside him holding his thin, worn hand in hers. "willie," she said, "the doctor is to be here presently, and he will take the bandage from your eyes." "and will i see then, mother?" "if god pleases, dear. but, willie, if he does not see fit to give you back your sight, could you bear it, and try to think that it is his will, and he knows best?" willie drew a long, heavy breath, and was silent a moment, grasping his mother's fingers till the pressure almost pained her; then he said, low, and with a quiver in his voice, "i would try, mother; but it would be 'most too hard after all. if it could be just for a little while, just so i could see your dear face for a few moments, then i would try to say, 'thy will be done.'" "however it is, we must say that, my boy; but, please the lord, we shall yet praise him for his great goodness in giving you back your poor, dear eyes." as she spoke, the door opened, and her husband put his head in. "here's the doctor, mary," he said, with a voice that shook, in spite of his efforts to keep it steady; and then he came in, followed by the doctor and mrs. granby. the latter, by the doctor's orders, opened the window so as to let in a little softened light, and after a few cheerful words the doctor unfastened the bandage, and uncovered the long sightless eyes. willie was resting in his mother's arms with his head back against her shoulder, and she knew that he had turned it so that her face might be the first object his eyes rested on. it was done; and, with a little glad cry, the boy threw up his arms about his mother's neck. "what is it, willie?" asked his father, scarcely daring to trust his voice to speak. "i saw it! i saw it!" said the boy. "saw what, sonny?" asked his father, wishing to be sure that the child could really distinguish objects. "i saw mother's face, her dear, dear face; and i see you, too, father. oh, god is so good! i will be such a good boy all my life. oh, will i never have to fret to see mother's face again?" "ahem!" said the doctor, turning to a table and beginning to measure some drops into a glass, while mrs. granby stood crying for joy at the other end of the room. "if you're not to, you must keep more quiet than this, my boy; it will not do for you to grow excited. here, take this." "who's that?" asked willie, as the strange face met his gaze. "ho, ho!" said the doctor. "are you going to lose your ears now you have found your eyes? i thought you knew all our voices, my fine fellow." "oh, yes," said willie, "i know now; it's the doctor. doctor, was i just as patient as you wanted me to be?" "first-rate," answered the doctor; "but you must have a little more patience yet. i'll leave the bandage off, but we will not have quite so much light just now, mrs. granby." willie begged for one look at auntie granby, and then jennie was called, that he might have a peep at her, after which he was content to take the medicine and lie down, still holding his mother's hand, and now and then putting up his fingers with a wistful smile to touch the dearly loved face he could still see bending over him in the dim light. that evening the policeman went up to mr. bradford's. he was asked to walk into the parlor, where sat mr. bradford and aunt patty, while old nurse was just taking maggie and bessie off to bed. "oh, here is our policeman!" said bessie; and she ran up to him, holding out her hand. "how is your willie?" "that's just what i came to tell you, dear. i made bold to step up and let you know about willie, sir," he said, turning to mr. bradford. "and what is the news?" asked the gentleman. "the best, sir. the lord has crowned all his mercies to us by giving us back our boy's sight." "and has willie seen his mother's face?" asked bessie, eagerly. "yes, that he has. he took care that should be the first thing his eyes opened on; and it just seems as if he could not get his full of looking at it. he always was a mother boy, my willie, but more than ever so since his blindness." "how is he?" asked mr. bradford. "doing nicely, sir. rather weakish yet; but when he can bear the light, and get out into the fresh air, it will do him good; and i hope he'll come round after a spell, now that his mind is at ease, and he's had a sight of that he'd set his heart on, even if we can't just follow out the doctor's orders." bessie felt as if she could keep her secret no longer. "may i, papa,--may i?" she asked. papa understood her, and nodded assent. "but you _can_ follow the doctor's orders," said she, turning again to the policeman, "and willie can have all the fresh air he needs,--fresh mountain air, he and his mother. and maggie and i are to pay it out of the money that uncle ruthven gave us for the eye doctor whom the"--here bessie looked half doubtfully towards aunt patty--"the old lady paid. and now, you see, it's a great deal nicer, 'cause if she hadn't, then, maybe, willie couldn't go to the country." bessie talked so fast that richards did not understand at first, and her father had to explain. the man was quite overcome. "it's too much, sir, it's too much," he said, in a husky voice, twisting his cap round and round in his hands. "it was the last thing was wanting, and i feel as if i had nothing to say. there ain't no words to tell what i feel. i can only say may the lord bless you and yours, and grant you all your desires in such measure as he has done to me." mr. bradford then told what arrangements had been made, in order to give richards time to recover himself. the policeman thought all these delightful, and said he knew his wife and boy would feel that they could never be thankful and happy enough. "and to think that all this has come out of that little one being brought up to the station that day, sir; it's past belief almost," he said. "so good has been brought out of evil," said mr. bradford. as soon as the policeman had gone, maggie and bessie ran up-stairs to tell their mother the good news, leaving papa and aunt patty alone together. mr. bradford then turned to the old lady, and laying his hand gently on her shoulder, said,-- "aunt patty, you have laid up your treasure where moth and rust do not corrupt; but surely it is bearing interest on earth." "how? why? what do you mean, henry?" said mrs. lawrence, with a little start. "come, confess, aunt patty," he said; "acknowledge that it is to you this good fellow who has just left us owes his freedom from debt, his child's eyesight, his release from cares which were almost too much even for his hopeful spirit; acknowledge that you have generously sacrificed a long-cherished desire, given up the fruits of much saving and self-denial, to make those happy in whom you could have had no interest save as creatures and children of one common father. we all know it. the policeman's children recognized you, and told my little ones. why will you not openly share with us the pleasure we must all feel at the blind boy's restoration to sight? did you not see dear bessie's wistful look at you as she bade you good-night? these little ones cannot understand why there should be any reason to hide such kindness as you have shown to these people, or why you should refuse to show an interest you really feel. it is true that we are told not to let our left hand, know that which is done by our right hand; but are we not also commanded so to let our light shine before men that they may see our good works and glorify our father in heaven? and can we do so, or truly show our love to him, if we hide the services rendered for his sake behind a mask of coldness and reserve? my dear aunt, for his sake, for your own, for the sake of the affection and confidence which i wish my children to feel for you, and which i believe you wish to gain, let me satisfy them that it was really you who did this thing." the old lady hesitated for a moment longer, and then she broke down in a burst of humility and penitence such as mr. bradford had never expected to see from her. she told him how she had heard them all talking of the policeman and his troubles, and how much she had wished that she was able to help him; how she had thought that the desire to have the grove was only a fancy, right in itself perhaps, but not to be indulged if she could better spend the money for the good of others; and how, without taking much time to consider the matter, she had decided to give it up. then she had half regretted it, but would not confess to herself or others that she did so, and so, feeling irritable and not at ease with herself, had been impatient and angry at the least thing which seemed to oppose her plans. the children, she said, had shamed her by their greater patience and submission under the disappointment she had so unintentionally brought upon them, and now she felt that the ill-temper she had shown had brought reproach on the master whom she really wished to serve, and destroyed the little influence she had been able to gain with the children. mr. bradford told her he thought she was mistaken here, and if the children could only be quite certain that it was she who had proved such a good friend to the policeman's family, they would forget all else in their pleasure at her kindness and sympathy. so mrs. lawrence told him to do as he thought best; and she found it was as he said; for when maggie and bessie came down in the morning, full of joy at the happiness which had come to willie and his parents, they ran at once to aunt patty, and bessie, putting her little arms about her neck, whispered,-- "dear aunt patty, we're so much obliged to you about willie, and if we had only known it was you, we wouldn't have felt so bad about it. now we only feel glad, and don't you feel glad, too, when you know how happy they all are?" then maggie sidled up, and slipping her hand into aunt patty's, said,-- "aunt patty, please to forgive me for saying naughty things about you when i didn't know you was the queer old lady." aunt patty was quite ready to exchange forgiveness; and for the two remaining days of her stay, it seemed as if her little nieces could not do enough to show how pleased and grateful they were; and when she left them, they could tell her with truth how glad they were that they were to see her soon again in her own home. and if you are not tired of maggie and bessie, you may some time learn how they spent their summer among the mountains. footnotes: [a] "chapel gems." our common land (and other short essays). [illustration: logo] our common land (and other short essays). by octavia hill. london: macmillan and co. . [_all rights reserved._] charles dickens and evans, crystal palace press. contents. i. page our common land ii. district visiting iii. a few words to volunteer visitors among the poor iv. a more excellent way of charity v. a word on good citizenship vi. open spaces vii. effectual charity viii. the future of our commons our common land. i. our common land. probably few persons who have a choice of holidays select a bank holiday, which falls in the spring or summer, as one on which they will travel, or stroll in the country, unless, indeed, they live in neighbourhoods very far removed from large towns. every railway station is crowded; every booking-office thronged; every seat--nay, all standing room--is occupied in every kind of public conveyance; the roads leading out of london for miles are crowded with every description of vehicle--van, cart, chaise, gig--drawn by every size and sort of donkey, pony, or horse; if it be a dusty day, a great dull unbroken choking cloud of dust hangs over every line of road. yet in spite of all this, and in spite of the really bad sights to be seen at every public-house on the road, in spite of the wild songs and boisterous behaviour, and reckless driving home at night, which show how sadly intoxication is still bound up with the idea and practical use of a holiday to hundreds of our people, how much intense enjoyment the day gives! how large a part of this enjoyment is unmixed good! and the evil is kept in check very much. we may see the quiet figure of the mounted policeman as we drive home, dark in the twilight, dark amidst the dust, keeping order among the vehicles, making the drunken drivers mind what they are doing. he keeps very tolerable order. and then these days in the country ought to lessen the number of drunkards every year; and more and more we shall be able to trust to the public opinion of the quiet many to preserve order. and watch, when at last the open spaces are reached towards which all these lines of vehicles are tending--be it epping, or richmond, or greenwich, or hampstead--every place seems swarming with an undisciplined, but heartily happy, crowd. the swings, the roundabouts, the donkeys, the stalls, are beset by dozens or even hundreds of pleasure-seekers, gay and happy, though they are not always the gentlest or most refined. look at the happy family groups--father, and mother, and children, with their picnic dinners neatly tied up in handkerchiefs; watch the joy of eager children leaning out of vans to purchase for a halfpenny the wonderful pink paper streamers which they will stick proudly in their caps; see the merry little things running untiringly up and down the bank of sand or grass; notice the affectionate father bringing out the pot of ale to the wife as she sits comfortably tucked up in shawls in the little cart, or treating the children to sweetmeats; sympathise in the hearty energy of the great rough lads who have walked miles, as their dusty boots well show; their round, honest faces have beamed with rough mirth at every joke that has come in their way all day; they have rejoiced more in the clamber to obtain the great branches of may than even in the proud possession of them, though they are carrying them home in triumph. to all these the day brings unmixed good. now, have you ever paused to think what londoners would do without this holiday, or what it would be without these open spaces? cooped up for many weeks in close rooms, in narrow streets, compelled on their holiday to travel for miles in a crowded stream, first between houses, and then between dusty high hedges, suddenly they expand into free uncrowded space under spreading trees, or on to the wide common from which blue distance is visible; the eye, long unrefreshed with sight of growing grass, or star-like flowers, is rejoiced by them again. to us the common or forest looks indeed crowded with people, but to them the feeling is one of sufficient space, free air, green grass, and colour, with a life without which they might think the place dull. every atom of open space you have left to these people is needed; take care you lose none of it; it is becoming yearly of more vital importance to save or increase it. there is now a bill for regulating inclosure before the house of commons. mr. cross has said what he trusts will be its effect if it becomes law; but those who have been watching the history of various inclosures, and the trials respecting special commons, are not so hopeful as mr. cross is as to the effect this bill would have. it makes indeed good provisions for regulating commons to be kept open for the public when a scheme for regulation is applied for. but the adoption of such a scheme depends in large part on the lord of the manor. will he in nine cases out of ten ever even apply for a scheme for regulating a common, when he knows that by doing so he shuts out from himself and his successors for ever the possibility of inclosing it, and appropriating some part of it? do any provisions for regulating, however excellent, avail anything when no motive exists which should prompt the lord of the manor to bring the common under them? and, as the bill stands, it cannot be so brought without his consent. secondly, the bill provides that urban sanitary authorities can purchase rights which will enable them to keep open any suburban common, or may accept a gift of the same. but then a suburban common is defined as one situated within six miles of the outside of a town of , inhabitants. now, i hardly know how far out of a large town bank-holiday excursionists go, but i know they go every year farther and farther. i am sure that a common twelve, nay, twenty, miles off from a large town is accessible by cheap trains to hundreds of excursionists all the summer, to whom it is an inestimable boon. again, is the privilege of space, and light, and air, and beauty not to be considered for the small shopkeeper, for the hard-working clerk, who will probably never own a square yard of english land, but who cares to take his wife and children into the country for a fortnight in the summer? do you not know numbers of neighbourhoods where woods, and commons, and fields used to be open to pedestrians, and now they must walk, even in the country, on straight roads between hedges? the more that fields and woods are closed, the more does every atom of common land, everywhere, all over england, become of importance to the people of every class, except that which owns its own parks and woods. "on the lowest computation," says the report of the commons preservation society, " , , acres of common land have been inclosed since queen anne's reign; now there are but , , acres left.[ ] the right of roving over these lands has been an immense boon to our people; it becomes at once more valued and rarer year by year. is it impossible, i would ask lawyers and statesmen, to recognise this right as a legal one acquired by custom, and not to be taken away? mr. lefevre suggested this in a letter to _the times_. he says: "the right of the public to use and enjoy commons (which they have for centuries exercised), it must be admitted, is not distinctly recognised by law, though there is a remarkable absence of adverse testimony on the subject. the law, however, most fully recognises the right of the village to its green, and allows the establishment of such right by evidence as to playing games, &c., but it has failed as yet to recognise the analogy between the great town and its common, and the village and its green, however complete in fact that analogy may be. but some of these rights of common, which are now so prized as a means of keeping commons open, had, if legal theory is correct, their origin centuries ago in custom. for long they had no legal existence, but the courts of law at last learned to recognise custom as conferring rights. the custom has altered in kind; in lieu of cattle, sheep, and pigs turned out to pasture on the commons, human beings have taken their place, and wear down the turf instead of eating it. i can see no reason why the law, or, if the courts are too slow to move, the legislature, should not recognise this transfer and legalise this custom. again, it is probable that commons belonged originally much more to the inhabitants of a district than to the lord. feudal theory and its subsequent development--english real property law--have ridden rather roughly over the facts and the rights of the case. the first placed the lord of the manor in his position as lord, giving him certain privileges, and coupling with them many responsibilities. the second gradually removed these responsibilities, and converted into a property what was at first little more than an official trust. if these considerations are beyond the scope of the law courts, they are proper for parliament. one step has been made. it has been proved that it is not necessary to purchase commons for the public, but that ample means of protecting them from inclosure exist. it is also obvious that the rights which constitute these means are now in practice represented by a public user of commons for recreation. the legislature should, i venture to think, recognise this user as a legal right." if the legislature would do this, commons all over england might be kept open, which, i venture to think, would be a great gain. hitherto the right to keep commons open has been maintained, even in the neighbourhood of towns, by legal questions affecting rights of pasturage, of cutting turf, or carting gravel. this is all very well if it secures the object, but it is on the large ground of public policy, for the sake of the health and enjoyment of the people, that the conscience of the nation supports the attempt to keep them open; it cares little for the defence of obsolete and often nearly valueless customs, and it would be very well if the right acquired by use could be recognised by law, and the defence put at once on its real grounds. i have referred to the opinion expressed by lawyers and members of parliament that the opportunity of applying for schemes for regulation provided by the bill now before the house will not be used at all largely, owing to the necessity of the consent of those owning two-thirds value of the common, and of the veto possessed by the lord of the manor. they tell me also (and it certainly appears to me that both statements are evident on reading the bill) that _unless mr. cross consents to insert a clause forbidding all inclosures except under this act_, the passing of it will be followed by a large number of high-handed inclosures under old acts, or without legal right. for unless the right of some independent body like the public who use the space can be recognised as having a voice in opposing illegal inclosures, what chance have the rural commons? the agricultural labourers, often tenants-at-will of a powerful landlord, can be ejected and their rights immediately cancelled; moreover, they do not know the law, they have few to advise them, to plead their cause, or to spend money on expensive lawsuits. mr. lefevre says in the same letter quoted above, "i would at least ask them to declare all inclosures not authorised by parliament to be _primâ facie_ illegal and to remove the necessity of litigation by persons actually themselves commoners, by authorising any public body, or public-spirited individual, to interfere in the case of any such inclosures, and put the lord to strict proof of his right." and do not let us be too ready to see the question dealt with as a matter of mere money compensation. it is much to be feared lest the short-sighted cupidity of one generation of rural commoners may lose a great possession for future times. this danger is imminent because we are all so accustomed to treat money value as if it were the only real value! can we wonder if the eyes of poor men are often fixed rather on the immediate money value to themselves than on the effect of changes for their descendants? should we stand by, we who ought to see farther, and let them part with what ought to be a possession to the many in the future? a few coals at christmas, which rapidly come to be looked upon as a charity graciously accorded by the rich, or the recipients of which are arbitrarily selected by them, may in many cases be blindly accepted by cottagers in lieu of common rights. is the influence of such doles so healthy that we should wish to see them taking the place of a common right over a little bit of english soil? the issue at a nominal charge of orders to cut turf or furze by a lord of the manor has been known gradually to extinguish the right to do so without his leave. is the influence of the rich and powerful so slight that we should let it be thus silently strengthened? is the knowledge just brought so prominently before us that one quarter of the land in england is owned by only seven hundred and ten persons so satisfactory that we will stand by and see quietly absorbed those few spots which are our common birthright in the soil? it is not likely that farms or estates will diminish in size; and the yeoman class is, i suppose, passing away rapidly. with the small holdings, is there to pass away from our people the sense that they have any share in the soil of their native england? i think the sense of owning some spaces of it in common may be healthier for them than even the possession of small bits by individuals, and certainly it now seems more feasible. lowell tells us that what is free to all is the best of all possessions: 'tis heaven alone that is given away, 'tis only god may be had for the asking; there is no price set on the lavish summer, and june may be had by the poorest comer. hugh miller, too, points out how intimately the right to roam over the land is connected with the love of it, and hence with patriotism. he says, speaking of his first visit to edinburgh: "i threw myself, as usual, for compensatory pleasures, on my evening walks, but found the inclosed state of the district, and the fence of a rigorously-administered trespass-law, serious drawbacks; and ceased to wonder that a thoroughly cultivated country is, in most instances, so much less beloved by its people than a wild and open one. rights of proprietorship may exist equally in both; but there is an important sense in which the open country belongs to the proprietors and to the people too. all that the heart and intellect can derive from it may be alike free to peasant and aristocrat; whereas the cultivated and strictly fenced country belongs usually, in every sense, to only the proprietor; and as it is a much simpler and more obvious matter to love one's country as a scene of hills, and streams, and green fields, amid which nature has often been enjoyed, than as a definite locality, in which certain laws and constitutional privileges exist, it is rather to be regretted than wondered at that there should be often less true patriotism in a country of just institutions and equal laws, whose soil has been so exclusively appropriated as to leave only the dusty high-roads to its people, than in wild open countries, in which the popular mind and affections are left free to embrace the soil, but whose institutions are partial and defective." so writes at least one man of the people; and whether we estimate the relative value of just laws or familiar and beloved scenes quite as he does, or not, i think we must all feel there is deep truth in what he says. let us then press government, while there is still time, that no bit of the small portion of uninclosed ground, which is the common inheritance of us all as english men and women, shall be henceforth inclosed, except under this bill; which simply means that each scheme shall be submitted to a committee of the house, and considered on its merits. surely this is a very reasonable request. do not let us be satisfied with less. do not let us deceive ourselves as to the result of this bill if it pass unamended. footnote: [ ] the amount remaining uninclosed and subject to common-rights is variously estimated; a report of the inclosure commissioners in putting it at about , , for england and wales, while the recent return of landowners, prepared by the local government board, makes the uninclosed area little more than , , acres. ii. district visiting.[ ] i have assumed throughout this paper that most district visitors feel a certain dissatisfaction both with district visiting and with systems of relief as they exist, even where such systems are best organised. some may think that there is too much relief given, some that there is too little, others that what is given is of the wrong kind. i believe, also, some visitors feel that their spiritual influence is interfered with in different ways by the unsatisfactory character of the temporal relief. to some of them it seems incongruous to carry tracts in one hand and coal-tickets in another; to others, that carrying either, still more carrying both, as a matter of course, shuts them off from true intercourse with the best kind of working men and women; others, again, feel that carrying tracts without coal-tickets when the grate is empty seems a little like want of sympathy; and others that carrying coal-tickets without tracts is treating the poor as if they were only concerned with the outside things of life. however earnestly our clergy have desired to solve this problem of how to deal wisely with the temporal condition of their flocks, it remains a problem still. however tenderly our visitors have mourned over it, as it affects hundreds of individuals, it remains mournful still. what prospect is there of its being vigorously studied with a view to solution, or even to radical improvement, by those who have power to effect improvement? busy, overworked clergymen, with services and sermons, and churches and schools, and thousands of souls to see to, have inherited systems of relief in their parishes which they hardly have time to reform, and the gigantic pressure of daily duty perpetuates many unwise plans, though many, i am well aware, are being abolished. how far the best still falls below what they would like to see let the clergy themselves say. i believe most of them, if asked, would reply: "i have tried honestly to make my system of relief as satisfactory as i could, but it is far from my ideal." and this is so from another cause. you can never make a _system_ of relief good without perfect administration, far-sighted watchfulness in each individual case; and this is specially true in an age in which bad systems of relief have trained the people to improvidence. given your entirely enlightened clergyman, he cannot in a large london parish do much more than see to his people when the crisis of distress has come. he cannot watch over them before it comes, yet it is then that distress is preventable. on whom does the continuous watchfulness devolve at best? visitors, young, inexperienced, untaught, undertake districts; they find themselves part of a system, and follow in its lines; they meet individual cases of want, improvidence, disease, and though they know little themselves how to deal with such, they hesitate to make calls upon the time of a too busy clergyman, kind as he is in helping, gladly as he would reply to a practical question about the individual; they cannot talk out with him radical means of dealing with the roots of such evils. what can they do? they give or withhold the soup-ticket or the shilling. has the clergyman usually time, has the visitor often knowledge to do much more than deal with the individual question of relief or no relief at the moment in the special case? and yet the problem has become appalling, gigantic: viewed in its entirety, it might make us almost tremble? statesmen, philanthropists, political economists, try their hands at it, or rather their heads. do they succeed better than the clergy and the visitors? do they not often succeed worse? for the clergy and the visitors at least bear witness to the poor of sympathy with them, and deal with the wants round them practically; while the theorists, let their theories be ever so excellent, somehow stand so far off that they bring little practically into operation. who does not know of good laws passed which are nearly inoperative because not enforced by brave persons face to face with the evils which should be removed by them? who does not know of sound principles of political economy clearly enunciated to those unconcerned by them, which never reach the ears of those whose lives they deeply affect, still less are brought before them by those whom they would trust? now these two classes, the studious, more leisurely, generalising thinkers, and the loving, individualising doers, need to be brought into communication; and that is what in this paper i wish most emphatically to enforce. each has knowledge the other requires; separated, they are powerless; combined, they may do much. for i have drawn miserable pictures of the weakness of both, but see on the other hand what each has of strength. the clergy have all that is pitiful, all that is generous in the hearts of their richer parishioners on their side--the power of calling out workers from among them, the power of directing a large part of their alms, the distribution of money, the leadership of the men. besides these they have the enormous accumulated knowledge of the poor, gathered in long years of intimate observation of them in their homes--a mass of information over which they may not have much time to brood, and from which they may not be in the habit of generalising, yet what might not the theorists learn from it? and the visitors. i have called them inexperienced, and i might have added that their work is less valuable in many ways, because it is intermittent; but pause to think what these visitors are and might be. hundreds, perhaps thousands, of gentle, earnest, duty-doing souls, well born, well nurtured, well provided for, possibly well educated, turning aside out of the bright paths which they could pursue continuously, to bring a little joy, a little help, to those who are out of the way. a voluntary gift this, if a very solemn duty. i have heard persons who give their whole time to the poor speak a little disparagingly of these fleeting visits, and young girls themselves, fevered with desire to do more, talk rather enviously of those who can give their time wholly to such work; but have they ever thought how much is lost by such entire dedication?--or, rather, how much is gained by her who is not only a visitor of the poor, but a member of a family with other duties? it is the families, the homes of the poor, that need to be influenced. is not she most sympathetic, most powerful, who nursed her own mother through her long illness, and knew how to go quietly about the darkened room; who entered so heartily into the sister's love and marriage; who obeyed so perfectly the father's command when it was hardest? better still if she be wife and mother herself, and can enter into the responsibilities of a head of a household, understands her joys and cares, knows what heroic patience it needs to keep gentle when the nerves are unhinged and the children noisy. depend upon it, if we thought of the poor primarily as husbands, wives, sons, and daughters, members of households, as we are ourselves, instead of contemplating them as a different class, we should recognise better how the house training and high ideal of home duty was our best preparation for work among them. nay, to come down to much smaller matters than these family duties, to the gladness of party, ball, and flower-show, i believe these, too, in innocent and happy amount, when they brighten the eyes and bring the ready smile to the face, and make the step free and joyous, prepare us to bring a gleam of sunlight into many a monotonous life among the poor. what, in comparison with these gains, is the regularity of work of the weary worker, whose life tends to make her deal with people _en masse_, who gains little fresh spring from other thoughts and scenes? for what is it that we look forward to as our people gradually improve? not surely to dealing with them as a class at all, any more than we should tell ourselves off to labour for the middle class, or aristocratic class, or shop-keeping class. our ideal must be to promote the happy natural intercourse of neighbours--mutual knowledge, mutual help, of a kind, certainly, but not this professed devotion of a life; and it will be better from the beginning to mould our system so that it shall bear witness of what it ought to become. if we establish a system of professed workers, amateur or paid, we shall quickly begin to hug our system, and perhaps to want to perpetuate it even to the extent of making work for it. well, here we have then our wonderful company of visitors full of real care for the people, with time and intelligence to apply the wisest principles, did they but know them, with fullest thought, to individual cases; capable of inspiring confidence, of winning allegiance; of getting those whom they visit to understand what is best for their future, and to make up their minds to do it. is not this precisely what is needed--the individual thought which can apply the wise principles, the love which can influence the wills which should be brought into harmony with those principles? then turn to consider how these principles are now being thought out, with what painstaking devotion, what science, what accuracy some of our greatest men are studying them. what a mass of information they have accumulated! how day by day they are learning to explain better the meaning of it all! think of the doctors, the legislators, the poor-law reformers, the advocates of co-operation, the members of the charity organisation society, how they examine, study, and expound. once duty to the poor was supposed to consist in giving large alms; once, self-sacrifice and devotion were thought sufficient qualifications for a worker among the poor; now it is seen that to these must be added the farthest sight, the wisest thought, the most self-restraining resolution to make a useful worker. these two classes, gentle doers and wise thinkers, stand far apart, yet, if they could be brought into close communication, both would gain much; the people for whom they are both labouring would gain much more. in what follows i have tried to show how such a communication might be made a practical reality. the scheme described is not based wholly on theory, but has substantially been in operation in a district of marylebone for some years, and has been lately adopted by two other districts. to effect a union, to establish communication with so numerous a body as the district visitors of london, would be in itself difficult. the difficulty is increased by the fact that they are not only a very numerous, but very changeful body; not only does death, marriage, or migration take them wholly away, but they are often interrupted by temporary absence from home, household duties, illness, and this far more than would be the case with paid workers, their district work being only a secondary, though a very real, duty. these incessant changes could never, without enormous labour and much likelihood of confusion, be registered at one centre; and this necessitates that the visitors must be dealt with by certain selected persons, who may be local leaders or centres. large numbers of them are already gathered in district groups, round various churches and chapels. my first very natural thought was to ask the ministers of those churches and chapels to accept new duties towards their visitors, to bring before them whatever it might seem to the theorists ought to come under their notice, and to transmit to the theorists any individual problems quite too hard for solution in the locality, and to be ready to furnish other information to visitors on questions affecting the temporal condition of their people. but it was obviously impossible to ask hard-worked london clergymen and ministers to undertake additional work, especially such a work as this. for its whole value should depend on the constant, living, detailed interchange of information. and, besides, though the district visitors attached to churches and chapels are by far the most numerous bodies to be enrolled, there are other groups which it is important to secure, and there are also individual visitors to be enlisted who might be ready to help with tangible work, and not prepared to take spiritual work. and this is another reason for not asking the clergy to take up the task. on the whole, then, it appears to me best to suggest leaving the question of all spiritual and moral work exactly where it is--where it almost must be, gathering round the clergy and ministers, everything affecting it being referred to them, and of course all funds and charities now in their hands being as hitherto managed and distributed wholly under their direction; but at the same time to ask them to consider whether they could single out someone from each ecclesiastical district, or from any given group of visitors, who should be a secretary to the others--a means of communication between them and the people dealing as officials or theorists with questions affecting large bodies of the poor. i will describe what i think such a secretary should be and do. she need at first have no special knowledge of laws affecting the poor, institutions established for them, or the principles of action which those who have thought most on the subject unite in thinking best; ladies furnished with such knowledge would not be found in many districts, and though such information would doubtless be of immense value, it would not be essential to secure it at first, as a great deal would be rapidly acquired by anyone holding the post of which i speak. she ought to have a good deal of time for writing, and seeing her fellow-workers. she need not have time for visiting the poor. in fact i should advise selecting someone who had experience in visiting them, but was content to resign that work, as i think her full available power should be devoted to her secretarial duties. she should be able, however, to attend regularly at least one meeting weekly of the charity organisation committee of her district. if she has a house of her own, or so much control over one as would enable her to see the visitors often there, it would be a great advantage; in fact, some way of seeing them frequently and individually appears to me essential. she should be one who, for the greater part of the year, is resident in town; for though of course a temporary successor could be appointed, or her post left vacant, absences, especially if frequent, would be a drawback to her usefulness. she ought to have tact, gentleness, and firmness. she must be a careful, conscientious woman of business, with clear head, or very methodical ways; for next to ready sympathy, method will be of all things most necessary to her. such a secretary should, in that capacity, busy herself only with matters relating to the temporal condition of the poor. she would have relations to her own group of visitors, to the locality in which she lived, and to the metropolis generally. those to her own fellow-workers would be different probably in different cases; but i suppose she would help and advise new visitors, tell them of the local charities, consult with them about special cases, register their temporary absence, getting the clergy to fill in such gaps if possible, show them how to keep written records of families under their charge in given form, so as to be of use to succeeding visitors, whether temporary or permanent, and communicate to visitors, new and old, all facts within her knowledge which might be of value to them. with regard to the local organisation, i will not stay to describe in detail the ways in which she might be valuable to the school board officer, to the relieving officer, to the inspector of nuisances, who might learn to look to her for more radical means of help than are at their command, both material and moral, and for information as to details such as rarely reaches officials, and yet might enable them to bring beneficent laws more powerfully to bear on special cases. the secretary should not only avail herself of the investigating machinery of the charity organisation society, but she should, as i said, attend the committee meetings. there she will learn an immense deal about wise principles of relief, new and important facts of law affecting the people, and the working of various institutions; in short, she ought to get there nearly all the instruction she requires. she would also be invaluable to the committee. she would be well acquainted with the principles on which relief is given by those whom she represents, could tell whether they would be likely to make a grant in a certain case, and, approximately, how large such grant would be. she would know, too, how to enlist that individual gentle help which is so often needed in cases coming before the charity organisation society after the preliminary investigation is made, and which the paid agent has neither time nor capacity to give. in fact, for applicants from every street, and court, and lane, in which a visitor was at work, she would know to whom to turn for the personal attention which the charity organisation committee feel they so urgently need. nor would her services end there. not only would she obtain the aid of the visitors she represented at such times of crisis in the history of a poor family as those in which they usually apply to the charity organisation society, not only would she be able to supply a detailed report of the past life of the applicant on points which might bear on the committee's decision, but afterwards, when the decision was made and relief granted or withheld, through succeeding years she would get the people watched over with that continuous care without which right decisions at any particular crisis of life lose half their efficacy; indeed, she might often avert such a crisis altogether. for instance, she might get the visitors to induce the man to join a provident dispensary or club; which would be more satisfactory, though not perhaps more necessary, than refusing him aid when he has not done so. sometimes, when i think of those charity organisation committees so much misunderstood by many, because they have so resolutely determined to give no fresh unsatisfactory relief, some of them tenderly pitiful of the poor, some of them a little far off from them, but all trying to help them in thoughtfully considered ways, and of the great current of careless, inconsiderate relief going on unchecked and uncontrolled by them, i feel as if a union between you and them would do more than almost anything else to help the poor. there they are all ready for you in every district of london, asking you to co-operate, asking you to study with them what is best, and you leave them in too many cases to be mere repressors of the grossest forms of mendicity, and by no means organisers of charity. if the plan i suggest were adopted by only a few visiting societies, i delight to think what might be gained by furnishing the committees with a few gentle workers representing many more, and associated with the charities of the neighbourhood. but i pass on to consider the relations of these secretaries to the metropolis. they ought to be supplied with information about the laws affecting the poor, sanitary laws, poor laws, education acts, &c.; they ought to get notice of important meetings about medical charities; of new suggestions and arrangements as to the best methods of collecting and storing the earnings of the poor. and how is this to be done? much of it might even now be done through the charity organisation society. all of it, i hope, will be done through the society in the future; but the committees are too busy, too occupied with their daily labour, to deal with this new matter with the fulness of detail which at first it will require; and perhaps they do not everywhere nor always command the full sympathy and confidence of their district. added to which, i have noticed that people, curiously enough, are more willing to invite information from private persons than from official bodies. something must be done to meet the wants of a time of transition, and i trust i am not over-bold in offering, while the plan is new, to do what i can to fill the gap; but in the future we ought to endeavour to secure that the visitors should be so organised that they themselves can compare notes, and each communicate to each how practical difficulties have been met in particular localities--so organised that facts bearing on their work should reach them swiftly and certainly, and that their experience should be accessible for legislators and reformers. i have set before you nothing great, nothing grand, no new society, no fresh light even on the problems respecting wiser systems of relief, or their applications to individuals, which you are desiring so much to solve, each in your own parish or court. i do believe those problems to be capable of solution. i do believe that our almsgiving has been cruel in its kindness. it is for the sake of the people themselves that i would see it decreased, yes, even put down altogether; i believe they would be richer, as well as happier, for it. for the sake of the energy of the poor, the loss of which is so fatal to them, for the sake of that intercourse with them, happy, friendly, human intercourse, which dependence renders impossible, seek to your utmost for better ways of helping them. we can give you no general rules which will obviate necessity of thought, singly must your difficulties be met, singly conquered; but see that you throw upon them all available light from the experience of others, the thoughts of the thoughtful. no new society, no great scheme, have i to urge, only if here or there any one or two of the groups of visitors care to select one among them to be their secretary, and send me her name and address, i will tell her what i can which i think may be helpful to her or them. we might meet, too, we secretaries, now and again, to talk over important questions and strengthen one another; and though i could not possibly find time to deal with difficulties in detail, i might show, or get shown, what plans have been found useful in places which i know. i might help, too, a little about finding employment. i hear of a good many situations of an exceptional kind, and difficult to fill up suitably, and notice of such vacancies i might send on to secretaries, who could find among their visitors someone who would care to spend thought and time in fitting into an exceptional place the person best adapted for it. the large demands for labour are, i believe, best dealt with by advertisement or registry; but there is not any more valuable way of helping individuals than by fitting them in where they are wanted, in ways that are not possible except to those who have personal knowledge of candidates. mere routine notices might thus meet great human needs. i have spoken throughout this paper of outward means and appliances; i have referred very little to improvement of the lives and spirits of men. this is not because i do not care for those lives and spirits. they are reached, we must remember, in many different ways. a great deal of life is necessarily spent in getting its surroundings into order, and in london here, this machinery of ours, all the tangible things round us, need a great deal done to them; it tests us better than any words can do. it is very difficult--impossible, i believe--to make the things of this world fair and orderly, to arrange them justly, to govern them rightly, without living very nobly. the right use of money, the laws affecting houses and lands, involve principles which test the sincerity of a man or a nation; they test it, i say, as words cannot test it. i think our poor see this very clearly, and that, strange as it may seem, the messages about god's nature, and about his relation to them, come in a subtle way through our acts. more perhaps than through our words. this is emphatically so just now. they have heard a great many words, and have been puzzled because our actions have often seemed to them at variance with those words. i know how hopelessly we must fail in any attempt to live up to the unspeakable majesty of god's tenderness, and the boundless wisdom of his righteousness; but even our failure, after sincere trial, brings a message of what he is to his children. our actions are speaking to them. for this reason i have never felt the execution of the most minute duty with regard to tangible things beneath my notice, and i do not feel that in urging any of you to consider the right settlement of questions of temporal relief, i am asking you to devote yourselves to a task which is otherwise than holy. on the contrary, i have felt that it can be only rightly dealt with by those who are content to carry it on in silent allegiance to one who will judge with farther sight than feeble men, who will know what deeper mercy there may be in the act which looks to men harsh at the moment. indeed, i dare not, trust the difficult things there may be to do in refusal of immediate help to any mere reasonable political economist. the generals who can direct the sad retracing of our foolish steps should be those who care for the people because their father cares, and so desire to make them what he would have them to be; and the only ones who will have fortitude to bear the misunderstanding this may cause will be those who feel tenderest pity for the people. not a small thing, even in itself, is the dealing with the tangible and soulless things of earth. we may be very proud, justly proud, of the well-ordered spot of earth, the well-spent income, the self-restrained providence, whether they are our own, or whether we have helped another so to regulate the talents entrusted to him; but the glad pride breaks away, and a deep thankfulness overpowers us, if ever by word or deed we seem to have helped anyone to catch even a little glimpse of the mighty love which enwraps his spirit, uniting it in solemn harmony with all that _is_ contained, as well as all that _cannot_ be contained, in this wonderful, visible world. footnote: [ ] read on the th of may, , to a meeting of district visitors and clergy at the bishop of gloucester and bristol's house in london. iii. a few words to volunteer visitors among the poor.[ ] you have asked me to speak to you to-day about work in this parish, and you know i have not the pleasure of knowing it or you. if anything i say is inapplicable you must forgive my ignorance; but if i am able to give you any hints which are of use it will not be strange, for one comes across the same kind of difficulties in many various districts of london just now. after the paper is read, if there are any special questions affecting your own district which any of you care to ask me about, i shall be delighted to answer them to the best of my power from this place, or we will have a little general conversation about them later. now i am going to say a great deal about hurtful gifts; but do not misunderstand me, and jump to a conclusion that because i speak of these i have lost sight of the great and good gifts we are each of us bound to make. the needs of the poor we must consider our special charge, and each of us give what we can that _is_ real help--not only time, and heart, and spirit, and thought, but money too; only we must see that it is really helpful, which needs thought and experience, and if we haven't experience we must seek it. there are gifts of money to be made; there are hard workers recovering from illness to be sent to convalescent homes; there are orphans to be supported and well educated; there are pensions to feeble old people who have worked hard, to be given to meet their own savings or compensate for lost savings; there are children to be placed in industrial schools; girls to be fitted out for service; travelling expenses to be paid for people going to better fields of work; but the decision about even these safer forms of gift requires experience. give, by all means, abundantly, liberally, regularly, individually, with all enthusiasm, by all manner of means, but oh, give wisely too. now to secure this wise relief, i am convinced you will require good investigation, co-operation on the part of your donors, thought and time given by your wisest men. all these are essential, but i am not going to dwell on them just now; the part of your work i am naturally most interested in is your district visiting. i wonder whether you have among you instances of the solitary, inexperienced district visitor, and can feel for her difficulties? do you know what i mean? a lady, well born, highly cultivated, well nurtured, becomes convinced that she has duties to the poor. perhaps some great personal pain drives her to seek refuge from it in christian service of the poor; perhaps some family loss darkens her whole horizon, and opens her eyes to other forms of sorrow; perhaps some stirring sermon startles her in the midst of triumphant pleasure, making her feel that she ought to give some slight offering of time to the poor; perhaps weariness of all superficial glitter of amusement makes her seek for deeper interests in life. be it what it may--desire to do good, or the urgent request of a friend, or desire to escape pain, she determines to volunteer as a district visitor. she is welcomed by the clergy, and requested to take such and such a district--i really think she has often little more preparation or instruction than that. she does not start with the desire of knowing the poor, but of helping them; help being in her mind synonymous in such cases with temporal help. she does not think of them primarily as _people_, but as _poor_ people. but though her ideas naturally therefore turn to questions of _relief_ as if these were her main concerns, she has never studied what has been found to be the effect of different ways of alms-giving, she knows little about the earnings of the poor, little of their habits and expenses, little about poor-law relief, little about the thousand and one societies for granting various kinds of help, little about the individual donors at work in the neighbourhood, little about distant fields of labour and demands for workers in them. now just pause and think of the effect of her actions when she begins--as begin she must by the very fact of her view of her duty--to deal practically with questions of relief; questions which, to say the least, are so difficult to deal with wisely that our most earnest, experienced, and thoughtful men pause in awe before them, advance slowly to practical conclusions, and speak humbly about them after years of study. ladies would pause before they went in and offered to help a house-surgeon at a hospital by undertaking a few patients for him, yet are they not doing something like it when they don't seek advice in district visiting? gradually, after weeks, months, perhaps years of worse than wasted labour, those who persevere begin to realise the disastrous effect of their action; hundreds who do not steadily persevere never even catch a glimpse of it, and go on blindly scattering gifts to the destruction of the recipients. for just pause and think what these gifts do to them. you or i go into a wretched room; we see children dirty and without shoes, a forlorn woman tells us a story of extreme poverty, how her husband can find no work. we think it can do no harm to give the children boots to go to school; we give them, and hear no more. perhaps we go to scotland the following week, and flatter ourselves if we remember the children that that gift of boots at least was useful. yet just think what harm that may have done. perhaps the woman was a drunkard, and pawned the boots at once and drank the money; or perhaps the man was a drunkard neglecting his home, and the needs of it, which should have been the means of recalling him to his duties, he finds partially met by you and me and others; or perhaps the clergy have seen that the poor woman cannot support the children and her husband, who is much too ill to find work, and have felt that if she and they are not to die of starvation they must go into the workhouse, for it is the only means of getting enough for them; charity, not being organised in the district, cannot undertake to do all that is wanted for them, and so had better do nothing. for gifts so given may raise false hopes which you and i, now pleasantly enjoying ourselves, never think of. because we went in and gave those boots, because others like us gave coal-tickets and soup-tickets last winter, what may not turn up? the poor woman asks herself. that gambling, desperate spirit enters into her heart, the stake being freedom and home. she plays high: she wins, or loses. we charitable people first of all never investigated the case to learn what it really was, what the character of the people was, whether the home was worth keeping together, whether with or without club-money it would cost more than we were ready or able to give; we raised hopes which it is a chance whether we fulfil; we met the want before us without thought; we forgot to consider the influence of that action on the life. such gifts are uncertain, insufficient, based on no knowledge. let us imagine that in another case we give to a man whose income is small; what is the effect on his character of these irregular doles? do they not lead him to trust to them, to spend up to the last penny what he earns, and hope for help when work slackens or altogether fails? does he try, cost what it may, to provide for sickness, for times when trade is dull and employment scarce? yet though we have by our gifts encouraged him in not making the effort to do this, are we quite sure to be at hand when the need comes? are we not most likely to be away? trade is slack when london is empty and district visitors away. every man's riches depend on his providence; they do so tenfold more markedly the nearer poverty he is, yet we have undermined his providence by uncertain action. do not our doles encourage him to keep his big daughter at home, earning a few pence in the street, where she has what she calls "freedom," instead of training her for decent service? i believe our irregular alms to the occupant of the miserable room, to the shoeless flower-seller, are tending to keep a whole class on the very brink of pauperism who might be taught self-control and foresight if we would let them learn it. i believe too that our blanket charities, soup-kitchens, free dormitories, old endowed charities distributing inadequate doles, have a great tendency to keep down the rate of wages of the very lowest class, partly because they come in like a rate in aid of wages, not so regular as that of the old poor-law, yet still appreciable--partly because they tempt large numbers who might raise themselves to hang on to low callings, and make competition fiercer in them and the chance of absolute want greater. the street-sellers and low class desultory workers usually remain what they are by choice; a little self-control would raise them into the ranks of those who are really wanted, and who have made their way from the brink of pauperism to a securer place, and one where they are under better influences. above all is this true of the children. a little self-control would enable the daughters of most of these people to rise into the class of domestic servants; and their sons, instead of remaining street-sellers, would soon learn a trade or go to sea if they cared to do regular work. we are largely helping, by our foolish gifts, to keep them herded together in crowded, dirty, badly-built rooms, among scenes of pauperism, crime, and vice. and we each of us think it is only the two shillings and sixpence, only the shilling for this or that perfectly justifiable object we have given. i have sometimes wanted to move some widow and her children to the north, where the children would learn a trade and support themselves well, where the woman would find much more work at washing and charring, and where the family would have a cottage healthy and spacious, instead of the one close room. the widow has been a little fearful of making so important a step. if the guardians, if the clergy, if, above all, the visitors, have let the need of work teach its own natural lesson, that family has removed and has been happy and independent. i have now several such well established in the north. but if the various donors have broken in with their miserable pittances of fixed or desultory relief, the family, in poverty and uncertainty of income, have dragged on here in london. in nearly every case requiring help there is some such step of _self_-help which ought to be taken by the family itself, or some member of it; some girl ought to go to service, some boy to get a place, some member of the family to begin learning a trade, some cheaper lodging to be found. depend on it, you cannot wisely help a family, you cannot tell whether help at all is needed, till the circumstances and character of each member has been well investigated. lay this to heart as a fact--i am certain of it. let it be with any of you who desire to do good a strict rule to yourselves to have the case of every family you want to help thoroughly scrutinised. if you can make up your mind not to give anything pending the receipt of a report, so much the better. but if you can't (i think you soon will), at any rate never give a sixpence without sending for a report on the case; it will guide your future action in that and other instances. it is not much i ask of you. the charity organisation society in every district in london will do the work for you free of charge. i am afraid i cannot yet promise you that it will always advise you as to efficient treatment; some of the committees could, and all that could would. but it is even more difficult to advise as to suitable treatment than to investigate a case, and it is not easy to find members for thirty-eight committees yet who know very much of the subject. but every charity organisation committee will know _far_ more than inexperienced visitors, and i should strongly advise all visitors to consult the committee about families in their district apparently needing relief. i hope you will notice that i have dwelt on the need of restraining yourselves from alms-giving on the sole ground that such restraint is the only true mercy to the poor themselves. i have no desire to protect the purses of the rich, no hard feeling to the poor. i am thinking continually and only of what is really kindest to them--kindest in the long run, certainly, but still kindest. i think small doles unkind to them, though they bring a momentary smile to their faces. first of all, i think they make them really poorer. then i think they degrade them and make them less independent. thirdly, i think they destroy the possibility of really good relations between you and them. surely when you go among them you have better things to do for them than to give them half-crowns. you want to know them, to enter into their lives, their thoughts, to let them enter into some of your brightness, to make their lives a little fuller, a little gladder. you who know so much more than they might help them so much at important crises of their lives; you might gladden their homes by bringing them flowers, or, better still, by teaching them to grow plants; you might meet them face to face as friends; you might teach them; you might collect their savings; you might sing for and with them; you might take them into the parks, or out for quiet days in the country in small companies, or to your own or your friends' grounds, or to exhibitions or picture galleries; you might teach and refine and make them cleaner by merely going among them. what they would do for you i will not dwell on, for if the work is begun in the right spirit you will not be thinking of that; but i do believe the poor _have_ lessons to teach us of patience, vigour, and content, which are of great value to us. we shall learn them instinctively if we are among them as we ought to be as friends. it is this side of your relation to them, that of being their friends, which has given all the value to your work as district visitors; it has been because you have been friends, in as far as you have been friends, that the relation between you has been happy and good. the gift has often darkened this view of you, and prevented the best among the poor from wishing to know you; when it has absolutely been the expression of friendship, its evil has been reduced to a great extent. but the gift you have to make to the poor, depend upon it, is the greatest of all gifts you can make--that of yourselves, following in your great master's steps, whose life is the foundation of all charity. the form of it may change with the ages, the great law remains, "give to him that asketh of thee, and from him that would borrow of thee turn not thou away;" but see that thou give him bread, not a stone--bread, the nourishing thing, that which wise thought teaches you will be to him helpful, not what will ruin him body and soul; else, while obeying the letter of the command, you will be false to its deep everlasting meaning. my friends, i have lived face to face with the poor for now some years, and i have not learned to think gifts of necessaries, such as a man usually provides for his own family, helpful to them. i have abstained from such, and expect those who love the poor and know them individually will do so more and more in the time to come. i have sometimes been asked by rich acquaintances when i have said this whether i do not remember the words, "never turn your face from any poor man." oh, my friends, what strange perversion of words this seems to me. i may deserve reproach; i may have forgotten many a poor man, and done as careless a thing as anyone, but i cannot help thinking that to give _oneself_ rather than one's _money_ to the poor is not exactly turning one's face from him. if i, caring for him and striving for him, do in my inmost heart believe that my money, spent in providing what he might by effort provide for himself, is harmful to him, surely he and i may be friends all the same. surely i am bound to give him only what i believe to be best. he may not always understand it at the moment, but he will feel it in god's own good time. footnote: [ ] read at westminster, june rd, . iv. a more excellent way of charity.[ ] you have asked me to speak to you to-night, though i am a stranger to your parish, and know nothing of its special needs or special advantages. why, then, am i here? i suppose i may safely assume that it is mainly because i represent those who have deep care for the poor, and _also_ strong conviction that organisation and mature thought are necessary to any action which shall be really beneficial to them. i fancy your parish, like many another--like most others that have not passed through the stage and answered the problem--is just now questioning itself as to whether investigation, organisation, deliberate and experienced decision, which it feels to be essential if wise relief is to be secured, are, or are not, compatible with gentle and kindly relief; whether charity can be fully of the heart, if it is also of the head. if so, how are you to get the full strength of head and heart. if this is impossible, what in the world you are to do, for you cannot give up either. you ask practically, i fancy, when you invite me here, what i think on these points. i answer, then, emphatically and decidedly, that my experience confirms me entirely in the belief that charity loses nothing of its lovingness by being entirely wise. now it cannot be wise without full knowledge of the circumstances of those to be dealt with--hence the necessity of investigation; it cannot come to satisfactory conclusions on those facts unless it employs the help of experienced men--hence the need of a committee for decision; it will not be gracious and gentle, nor fully enter into individual needs, unless it secures the assistance of a good body of visitors. i do not wish to draw your attention to any special form of organisation, but i believe you will find, the more you think of it, that some form is needed, and that whatever it be, it will have to secure those three as essentials--good investigation, decision by a wise committee, and the help of a staff of visitors. i shall say nothing further on the first head, investigation, except that i consider it is done best by a good paid officer. a great deal of the preliminary work is quickly and well done by an experienced person, which it would be difficult for a volunteer to do; neither is it a sort of work which it is worth while for a volunteer to undertake. i refer to verifying statements as to residence, earnings, employment, visiting references, and employers. the finishing touches of investigation, the little personal facts, the desires and hopes, and to a certain extent the capacities of the applicant, no doubt a volunteer visitor would learn more thoroughly, but that can always be done separately from the preliminary and more formal inquiry. and now to turn to the consideration of the visitors--those who must be the living links binding your committee with the poor, the interpreters of their decision, the bearers of their alms, the perpetual guardians to prevent renewed falling into want. i have spoken in so many other places of the extreme value of such a body working in concert with a wise committee, and of the mistakes they are likely to make where undirected, that i am unwilling to dwell on either point in much detail here. i will only briefly reiterate that i think no committee can do its work with real individual care unless it contains those who will watch over each family with continuous interest, interpret its decisions intelligently and kindly, and learn all personal detail which may assist the committee in judging rightly. unhappily, visitors have very seldom any special training for their work, nor is the need of it pointed out to them. i earnestly wish we could get this recognised; not that any should be deterred from working from want of training, but that in every district some plans for advising and helping the inexperienced visitors, and binding all visitors more together, should be adopted. i have, in a paper read elsewhere, given a sketch of a practical scheme for securing this end. but even without the help there spoken of, visitors might try to look a little farther into the result of their action. they think of the immediate effect, and very little of the future one. now in all things we must beware of hasty action. it is not well, in the desire to alleviate an immediate want, to produce worse want in the future. i do not know the poor of your district: there may be many more of them, and they may be poorer, than i suppose; but in really populous poor parishes i have found, and surely you should find here, that an immense deal more might be done by the people for themselves than has been done hitherto. whatever may be the difficulties of finding work for them, aim at that first. try to get them to bring up their children to callings requiring skill, and which will raise them to the higher ranks of labour; help them to save; encourage them to join clubs; lend them books; teach them to cultivate and care for flowers. these and other like influences will indirectly help them far more even as to outward comforts, than any gifts of necessaries. but do not, when a family wants help, hesitate to give largely, if adequate help will secure permanent good. remember, if you establish people in life so that they can be self-supporting, it is well worth while to do it, cost what it may. i know little of your parish. but if it be, as i fancy, one in which the rich are many and the poor few compared to other places, i should like to add a word or two to such residents as are in good health and working here, urging them to consider the needs of more desolate districts, and pause to think whether or not they could transfer some of their time to them. i know it is a difficult question, and one to be judged in each case on its merits. i know well what may be urged on the ground of individual friendships formed with dwellers in your neighbourhood, on the score of want of strength and time, and the claims of your own parish. weigh these by all means, but think of the other side too, if by chance you can realise it. friendship with poor old women in your district! respect its claims; but are there no times when it may be worth while to make a change in work, even if it cause one to see less of friends? have you ever seen the ward of an east end workhouse, where from year's end to year's end the old women live without any younger life round them, no sons or daughters whose strength may make their feebleness more bearable, no little grandchildren to be cared for, and make the old which is passing forget itself in the young which is coming into vigour! is your bright young presence not asked for by the gray, monotonous, slowly-ebbing life of those wards? if your strength does not allow you to visit in remote districts, i grant that an unanswerable argument; for strength is meant to be temperately used and not thrown away. time! well, it takes time to go backwards and forwards; but isn't one hour where the need is great and the workers very few worth more than many hours in a more favoured district? have you ever realised what those acres and acres of crowded, heated, badly-built houses, over which you pass so quickly by train when you go in and out of london, mean? what kind of homes they make? what sort of human beings live and die there? have you asked yourselves whether your presence, your companionship, is needed there? whether the little children want your teaching? whether your gentleness, your refinement, your gaiety, your beauty, are wanted there? neighbourhood! oh yes, it has strong claims--some of the best possible; but then we must take care that we let our neighbours come round us naturally, rich _and_ poor. i only know this neighbourhood as i see it from the station, and it is possible it is otherwise inside, for i know quarters where the poor lodge often escape the eye of a casual observer; but i do know districts which _are_ very like what yours _looks_, where the villas cover all the ground, and there is no place for the poor man's cottage. where the idea of building for him would be mentioned with awed abhorrence by the comfortable residents, and they would talk about the unpleasantness of the poor living so near, chances of infection, &c. &c. where the few persons required to serve the needs of the residents live, in a somewhat pampered and very respectful dependence, in small districts decently withdrawn from view, visited and over-visited by ladies who haven't far to go--where the poor say there isn't a house to be had, and the rich say they get everything from a distance. while you are determined to have the _rich_ neighbourhoods, you must have the poor ones elsewhere. when you have gathered the poor round you, built for them, taught them, purified their houses and habits by your near presence, by all means talk about the claims of neighbourhood. but till then you must, i believe, take a wider outlook, and think of the neighbourhoods you have left, where moreover those who indirectly serve you earn their bread. you who are merchants' wives and daughters, nay, even those of you who buy the merchants' goods, have the dock-labourers no claims upon you? if the question, who is my neighbour? is asked by you, how do you think god answers it from heaven when he looks down and sees the vast multitudes of undisciplined poor by whose labour you live, and the few heroic workers whose lives are being spent for those poor almost forsaken by you? and if some of you went there to give what little of leisure, what little of strength, you have to spare, would your own neighbourhood suffer? i fancy not. for it seems as if usually where there are few poor and many rich living near together, the former become dependent in fat unenergetic comfort on the latter; and if this be such a neighbourhood, a few finding a call for their sympathy and help elsewhere might do good to all. it might be a real blessing to the place where you live to transfer to other and needier districts some of the superfluous wealth and unneeded care which from its very abundance may be spoiling and pampering your native poor. what a good thing it might be if each of your congregation here would undertake to help with money and with workers some poor district where wise principles were being strenuously and faithfully worked out. only remember, though you may send your money, and send it to those who use it wisely, the gift is a very poor one compared with that of yourselves. it is _you_ who are wanted there, your love, your knowledge, your sympathy, your resolution--above all, your knowledge; for if you saw, you could not leave things as they are. for instance, on a summer evening sultry as this, there are thousands of families who have no place to sit in but one close room, in which the whole family has eaten, slept, washed, cooked. it is stifling. they go to the doorstep; their neighbours are at their steps. it gets hotter, the children swarm in the narrow court; the dust flies everywhere; the heat, the thirst is insufferable, the noise deafening, the crowd bewildering; they go to the public-house: do you wonder? it may be there are a few spaces unbuilt over close by, but who will open the gates for them, plant a few flowers, put a few seats? the garden of lincoln's inn fields is certainly kept very lovely; but how few eyes are allowed to see it; red lion square is a howling ugliness; the board school playgrounds are closed on saturday;[ ] the little graveyard in drury lane[ ]--half the graveyards in london--are close locked and barred, and left in ugliness too; the quakers are actually deciding to sell for building purposes their ancient burial-ground near bunhill fields.[ ] can they not afford to let the place allotted to their dead be consecrated to the poor and become a place of rest to the weary living before their pilgrimage is over? money, money, money, to spend where we see its effect in parks, or villas, or cosy suburban houses, and not a glimpse of what we might do with it in the districts where the poor live and die. of course this is only one side of the truth, and no one knows the converse better than i. i know how people are coming forward year by year to do and to feel more and more of their duty to the poor. the interest deepens and spreads, and that rapidly. haven't i myself such a body of fellow-workers as makes me hardly know how to be thankful enough? and doubtless many of you here are doing exactly what i urge, or better things than i have thought of. but forgive me if the sight of all that is needed sometimes makes me a little impatient, and urge the point with some implied reproach towards those who delay to come and do what it looks as if they might. i daresay they may many of them have better reasons than i know for holding aloof: all have not the same duties; but sure i am that the need is urgent, and that to many such work would add new and deeper interests to life. i only say, "look for yourselves what the need is, consider what your duty may be, and when seen do it resolutely, quietly, hopefully." and now, leaving the subject of visitors, let us consider, in conclusion, the third point essential to wise dealing with the poor--the decisions of your committee after the facts are gathered for it by investigating agent and volunteer visitor. now, to secure right decision, one must have a distinct object in view. what is to be the ultimate object of your decisions respecting relief? let us at once distinctly clear the way by assuming that it must be the good of the people themselves. we have nothing to do with saving the money of the rich. it is possible--nay, probable--that in our first attempts to put charity on a right footing, we may have to spend more than we did before, and make larger demands on the purses of the wealthy. a few substantial gifts, wisely bestowed, may easily make up a larger sum than a multitude of petty careless doles. a weekly pension, a grant of a few pounds to help a family to migrate, is more than the money-equivalent of many a random shilling. but if, on reflection, we decide to withhold gifts of any kind whatsoever, it is only to be done for the sake of the people themselves. if doles, or bread-tickets, or coal-tickets, are proved to help the people, we are bound to give them to the extent of our power. if they are proved to injure them, we are bound not to give them, however pleasant it may be, however easy, however it may seem to pave the way for other influences. do we want to make the poor depend on relief, which is ready at a moment's notice, instead of having the fortitude to save a little to meet a sudden emergency? if so, we shall be always treating cases as urgent, and relieving pending investigation, and assuming that discretionary power of granting instant help must be vested somewhere besides in the relieving-officer. i know parishes where benevolent people plead that starvation or great need may arise if they have a weekly committee and no officer empowered to deal with urgent cases. suppose we ourselves had lost the pride of independence which does still exist in the middle and upper classes, though the tendency to look for extraneous help is, i sometimes fear, eating gradually upwards; but suppose we had no hesitation on the score of pride in asking our richer neighbour for a meal, or new clothes or boots, or additional blankets, or a ton of coal, would it be better for us to use just the amount of providence necessary for us to go to him a week beforehand and say, "please we shall want our dinner next sunday," or would it be better for us to be led to expect that if we called on saturday to tell him the fact, and he was out at a garden-party, when he came home he would say: "dear me, perhaps they have no dinner, and sunday too. i dare not wait to see why they are in want; whether there is any member of the family who might be helped to a place where he can earn more. i'd better send some roast meat. i don't like to be enjoying myself at garden-parties with my wife and daughter and not consider my poorer neighbours"? do you think that, be our earnings much or little, that kind of help would be likely to be helpful? the smaller the earnings the more need of providence; and there is no man so poor but he might, by effort, at least have a few shillings in hand for emergency, if he really felt it important. literally, that is all that is wanted to do away with this clamour about urgency. that every man should at some time of his life put aside five or ten shillings which should be ready for need, and apply for help directly he saw need to draw upon that, instead of when he hadn't a crust in the house. i don't know whether you are troubled with this great bugbear of "urgency" here; it frightens many districts, but always disappears when approached. depend upon it, starvation cases are more likely to arise where we have trained our poor to look for instantaneous help, than where they rely on their own forethought at least to the extent i have mentioned; for _if_ they trust to sudden aid, and any accident prevents their receiving it, then they have no money, and are in need indeed. depend on it, the poor-law, which the poor do not turn to readily, which has, moreover, a strong permanent machinery in every parish in england, is the only right source of relief for urgent cases. no respectable family but has friends, neighbours, or savings to fall back on just while you look well into their cases. those who are not respectable want, and, in my estimation, should have, help; but they cannot be helped easily with grants in urgent haste; they need thought, and influence, and much power. if, then, we decide that urgent cases can be left to the poor-law, your committees will have those only left to deal with whose circumstances they can thoroughly know and deliberately decide upon. and these, i believe they will find, class themselves into cases in which temporary help will raise the applicants into permanently self-supporting positions, and chronic cases. the first, no doubt, they will try to help liberally, carefully, and kindly. the second they will probably help only if they can do so adequately, which i should fancy here you might easily do, if you all heartily and thoughtfully co-operated, and knew each what the other was doing, so that no work was done twice over. such organisation of alms-giving would be, i should think, the limit of your aim at present. perhaps you will also add to these relieved persons a very large number of sick, whom i should be glad to see after, say, a year's notice, forced into some independent form of sick-club. for i do not myself believe that we from above can help the people so thoroughly and well in any other way as by helping them to help themselves. this i think they are meant to do--this i believe they can do by association and by forethought. when they do provide necessaries for their own families, i think it leaves our relation to them far better, and enables us to help them more fully in better ways. after all, what are the gifts of these outside things compared to the great gifts of friendship, of teaching, of companionship, of advice, of spiritual help? i know some people think the half-crown, or packet of tea, the best introduction to these. i cannot say i have seen it so. i do not remember a single example in any age or country in which a class in receipt of small occasional doles was in a position of honourable healthy friendship with the givers of such, or fit to receive from them any intelligent teaching. of course the receipt of alms produces curtsies and respectful welcomes, and perhaps attendances at church or chapel from those who care more for the gifts than for the quiet dignity of independence which is found in many humble people; more for the good tea than for any sermon or service. but how do the better ones feel it? haven't your gifts absolutely tended to alienate them from churches and chapels? do they not scorn them, and desire to be seen to benefit nothing by them? the application for help is nearly always made by the wife, and the respectable husband would no more make it than you or i would, in nine cases out of ten. only notice what happens whenever the rule is that the man must come up to ask for help; they hardly ever come, but simply earn the needed amount. and among the women, too, the better ones hold aloof from anything that looks like bribery to come to a place of worship. i would ask any clergyman whether he does not think that the mixing of temporal gifts with spiritual teaching has not a direct tendency to lower the value of the teaching in the eyes of the recipient? of old, when apostles preached, they treated the gospel as good news which the people would care to receive for itself; they honoured it in treating it as if it were a blessing. of course it is difficult to distinguish between the actions which come from the radiant outpouring of every species of good gift in mere wealth of joyful human love springing from vivid sense of divine love, which we see in earnest preachers of all ages, from the gift which is meant to be, and felt to be, a bribe. in many cases, probably, the gifts comprise a mixture of love and a purpose to attract, which it would be impossible to separate. but religious teaching, i have no manner of doubt whatever, has suffered of late years incomparably more than it has gained by this confusion. let the gift, then, stand or fall by its own intrinsic value; if it be helpful in itself, cultivating such right qualities as will make the recipient richer in such outside things as itself, let it be made. if not, withhold it. and for god's sake let his truth stand on its own merits. if it be a real need of his children, trust him in his own good time to make this plain to them. preach it by word, by deed, by patient abiding; but do not use bribes, or even what look like bribes, to make men take it in. depend on it, it cannot be taken so. it has been accepted in this and other ages by men ready to meet poverty, toil, scorn, death, rather than be false to it; it has been accepted with acclaim by multitudes who felt in it the answer to their difficulties, the great good news for their lives. the lowest natures, when they have received it, have done so through the noble feelings which are latent in the worst of us. it is only through appeal to these--their fortitude, their reverence--that it can come home to them. i cannot believe that god's truth has ever entered one human heart wrapped up in a bribe. let it speak quietly for itself; it is very strong. shall we doubt it? our special form of it, or application of it, may not commend itself to our neighbours. do not let this disappoint us; let us with single-minded zeal try to get those neighbours to be and to do what they see to be right, and then will be revealed to them, gradually, whatever form of truth they can comprehend and apply. they will help to form god's church, which is of many members; and if our little systems have their day, they have their day and cease to be, we must remember that the words go on: they are but broken lights of thee, and thou, o lord, art more than they. footnotes: [ ] read at a meeting held in a suburban district in july, . [ ] eighteen of these are now to be opened. [ ] now open to the public, and planted as a garden. [ ] since sold for building. v. a word on good citizenship. i have often, on previous occasions, felt bound to urge, not only the evils of indiscriminate alms-giving, but the duty of withholding all such gifts as the rich have been accustomed to give to the poor. at the same time i have realised so fully how tremendous the responsibility of abstaining from such gifts is considered by the donors, that i have not thought they could act on my advice without themselves seeing that it would be merciful as well as wise to withhold such gifts. i have, therefore, usually said: "look for yourself, but look with the sound of my words ringing in your ears." and those words have been distinctly to proclaim that i myself have no belief whatever in the poor being one atom richer or better for the alms that reach them, that they are very distinctly worse, that i give literally no such alms myself, and should have no fear for the poor whatever if any number of people resolved to abstain from such alms. but, on the other hand, i have long felt, and feel increasingly, that it is most important to dwell on the converse of the truth. the old forms in which charity expressed itself are past or passing away. with these forms are we to let charity itself pass? are there no eternal laws binding us to charitable spirit and deed? are we, who have become convinced that doles of soup, and loans of blankets, and scrubbing-brushes sold at less than cost-price, have failed to enrich any class--have helped to eat out their energy and self-reliance--thereon to tighten our purse-strings, devise new amusements for ourselves, expend more in luxurious houses and expensive dinners, cultivate our own intellects, indulge elegant tastes, and float down the stream of time in happy satisfaction that the poor cannot be bettered by our gifts--in fact, must learn self-help--we meantime going to flower-shows, or picture galleries, or studying systems of political economy? are the old words, "bear ye one another's burdens," to pass away with the day of coal-tickets? have the words, "ye are members one of another," ceased to be true because our tract and dole distribution has broken down? are there no voices still speaking in our hearts the old commandment, "love one another?" is that love to be limited henceforward to the pleasant acquaintances who call upon us, and like the same poets, and can talk about rome and the last clever book? or is it, as of old, to go forth and gather in the feeble, the out-of-the-way, the poor? is humanity, is nationality, is citizenship too large for our modern love or charity to embrace, and shall it in the future be limited to our family, our successful equals, or our superiors? are we going to look out and up, but never down? the love of our master christ, the love of st. francis, the love of howard, the love of john brown, the burning love of all who have desired to serve others, has been a mighty, all-embracing one, and specially tender, specially pitiful. all modern forms of alms-giving may pass and change, but this love must endure while the world lasts. and if it endure, it must find expression. charity such as this _does_ find expression. it finds expression, when healthiest and most vigorous, not in weak words, but in strong acts. if we would not be mere butterflies and perish with our empty, fleeting, self-contained lives; if we would not be fiends of intellectual self-satisfaction living a cold and desolate life; if we would not leave the hungry, the forlorn, the feeble, to perish from before us, or to rise and rend us; we must secure such love as that which lighted and intensified the lives of heroes and of missionaries, and struggle to see what scope there is for acts which shall embody that love. the mistake the old-fashioned donors make is not in their benevolence--that cannot be too strong--but they forget to watch whether the influence of their deeds is beneficent. i should not at all wonder if even thirty years ago doles were more beneficent than now. if the poor had at that time not learned to trust to them, if they came straight from the loving hands of those who cared to step aside from beaten tracks to know and serve the poor they must have had very different results from any they have now, when people _have_ learned to depend on them, when they are almost the fashion, and often the relief for the consciences of those who don't feel quite easy, if they give _no_ time, _no_ heart, _no_ trouble, nor _any_ money to the poor. i have no manner of doubt, that just now gifts of necessaries are injurious. what form, then, shall our charity take in the immediate future? take that question home to yourselves, each of you who has not answered it already; ask it of yourselves, not as if you were asked to take the position of hero, or martyr, or professed philanthropist, but as if i had said to you, "what do you, as a man or woman, feel bound to do beyond the circle of your family for those who are fellow-men, fellow-citizens, many of them sunk into deep ruts of desolation, poverty, and sin?" find some answer, live up to it, so shall your own life, your own city, your own age be better. i will tell you what kind of answer i think may come to you. first, as to money, which is perhaps the most difficult thing to give without doing harm. don't sit down under the conviction that therefore you are to buy or spend it all for yourself. if you like to earn rather less, to pause in middle life, and give full thought to spending what you have, or, better still, to give time which might have made money, i shall certainly not complain of you. but do not think there is no scope for beneficent gifts of money because soup-kitchens and free dormitories are not beneficent. there is abundant scope for large gifts, large enough to please the proudest of you. are there no great gifts of open spaces to be made for the rich and poor to share alike in the time to come--spaces which shall be to the child no more corrupting than the mountain to the highlander, or the long sea horizon to the fisherman's lad? they will come to him as an inheritance he possesses as a londoner or an english child; most likely being taken, like light and air, straight from god, and not in any way tending to remind him of men's gifts, still less to pauperise him. but if a memory of you as a donor comes to him as youth ripens into manhood, long after you are in your grave, the thought is more likely to incite him to make some great, abidingly useful gift to his town, than in any way to paralyse his energies or weaken his self-respect. are there no places to plant with trees, no buildings to erect, no libraries to found, no scholarships to endow? are there, moreover, none of those many works to achieve, which a nation, a municipality, a vestry, first needs to see done, to learn the use of by using, though finally such a community may prize them more by making an effort to establish similar ones? for instance, no one would dwell more urgently than i on the need of making healthy houses for the poor remunerative; and now the problem of doing so has been in a great measure solved. but do we not owe this to the efforts of a body of men in earlier time who were content to lose money in experiments and example? pioneers must risk, if not give, largely, that we may travel smoothly over the road which they made with such difficulty. are we in turn never to be pioneers? are there no improved public-houses, no improved theatres, no better machinery for collecting savings, which we may establish and give our money to? the same kind of far-sighted policy might be adopted with all smaller gifts, making them either radically beneficial in themselves, as when they train an orphan for service-work in life, or give rest to an invalid whose savings are exhausted; or they may be gifts of things which no one is bound to provide for himself, but which give joy--as if you helped to put coloured decoration outside our schools or houses in dingy streets, or invited a company of poor people whom you know to tea in your garden during the fair june weather, or even sent some shells from your home by the sea to small children in one of our few london playgrounds. but to leave the question of money and come to the greater gift of _time_. here especially i would beg you to consider whether you have each of you done your utmost. a poor district in london is inhabited by a number of persons, ill-educated, dirty, quarrelsome, drunken, improvident, unrefined, possibly dishonest, possibly vicious. i will assume that we, too, have each of us a good many faults--perhaps we are selfish, perhaps we are indolent. i am sure all the virtue is not among the rich; but certain advantages they surely have which the poor have not--education, power of thinking out the result of certain courses of action, more extended knowledge of facts or means of acquiring it, habits of self-control, habits of cleanliness, habits of temperance, rather more providence usually, much more refinement, nearly always a higher standard, perhaps a high standard, of honesty. have we not a most distinct place among the poor, if this be so? is not our very presence a help to them? i have known courts nearly purified from very gross forms of evil merely by the constant presence of those who abhorred them. i know, you probably all know, that dirt disappears gradually in places that cleanly people go in and out of frequently. mere intercourse between rich and poor, if we can secure it without corrupting gifts, would civilise the poor more than anything. see, then, that you do not put your lives so far from those great companies of the poor which stretch for acres in the south and east of london, that you fail to hear each other speak. see that you do not count your work among them by tangible result, but believe that healthy human intercourse with them will be helpful to you and them. seek to visit and help in parishes in which this is recognised as an end in itself. again, we have got our population into a state of semi-pauperism, from which individuals and societies cannot raise them merely by abstaining from gifts by guardians or withdrawing out-relief. we have accustomed them to trust to external help, and only by most patient individual care shall we raise them. neither can we persuade donors, unaccustomed to study the future results of their acts, to abstain from distinctly unwise charity unless we are among them, unless we are ready, too, to consider with them about each human soul, which is to them and to us inexpressibly precious, what is at the moment the wise thing to do. have most gentlemen any idea how much this work needs doing in the poor districts of london? the charity organisation society came forward now some years ago to try to get the donors of london to meet and consider this question in detail in every district in london. it undertook to look carefully into all cases brought to its offices, and to report the results of its inquiries. it did _not_ undertake to make additional gifts except where they might secure enduring benefit, but it said to the donors, "associate yourselves, relieve after due thought, after investigation, and in conjunction one with another." that society has made great way; it has established offices in every district, and has provided an investigating machinery of inexpressible value, of which every londoner may avail himself. but, i ask, where are the donors? where are the representatives of the various relieving agencies? the clergy? the district visitors? there are of course a certain number who have co-operated heartily, but, as a rule, i am forced to reply very mournfully, after all these years they are for the most part going on with their ill-considered relief very much the same, not using the machinery, and reproaching the charity organisation society that _it_ is not relieving largely, and that it is not composed of themselves! now, till these relieving agencies come in and take their share, and give their gentler tone to the somewhat dry machinery, are these offices to be places where mere routine business is done by an agent who cannot have much individual care for the applicants? or is there to be anyone to watch over each applicant with real charity, questioning him gently, thinking for him sympathetically, seeking for him such help as will be really helpful? in some offices in the poor districts we have found honorary secretaries to do this, and splendid work it has been. wherever such help has been forthcoming the poor have been well served, and the old-fashioned donors have been in some measure won to wiser courses of action. but many more such honorary secretaries are needed, and that imperatively and immediately. are there no men of leisure, with intellect and heart, who will come forward? i have known no such urgent need as this in the many years i have spent face to face with the poor since i came to london--the need of advice, of sympathy, of thoughtful decision for poor man after poor man, as he comes up to our offices at a crisis in his life. one more instance of the way help can be given, and i have done; for i will not dwell now on the good that might be done by the purchase and management of the houses of the poor, by teaching, by entertainments for them, by oratorios, by excursions, by the gift of beautiful things. i will only point out now that as guardians or vestrymen the most influential sphere of work presents itself. if you try to get into parliament, many men of equal education, high principles, and refinement probably contest the place with you; if you succeed they fail; if you try to make a name among the fashionable or wealthy circles, you may or may not succeed; but if you fail no one misses you much. but if, instead of trying to get high up, you were to try to get down low, what a position of usefulness you would have! you would learn much from vigorous colleagues, much i fancy which would make you ashamed; but what might not they gain, what might not the locality gain, if the administration of its affairs were carried on under the influence of men of education! as guardians, how you might see to the poor, leading them back to independence in most thoughtful ways, watching over them individually that no wrong was done! as vestrymen, how you might be on the side of far-sighted expenditure or the suppression of corruption! when i see people all struggling to get up higher, they seem to me like people in a siege, who should all rush to defend the breach for the glory and renown of it, and trample one another to death, and leave little doors unwatched all round the town; and i can't help wondering sometimes why more of them don't pray marion erle's prayer when she leaves the wedding-dress unfinished to go and nurse the fever-stricken patient, "let others miss me, never miss me, god." i don't the least mean that the works i have suggested are the only ones, or the best, or even that always that _kind_ of work may be best. the form that charity takes in this age or in that must be decided by the requirements of the time, and these i describe may be as transient as others. only never let us excuse ourselves from seeking the best form in the indolent belief that no good form is possible, and things are better left alone; nor, on the other hand, weakly plead that what we do is _benevolent_. we must ascertain that it is really _beneficent_ too. vi. open spaces.[ ] all that is strictly practical that i have to say to-day could be summed up in a very few words. i have no changes in the law to suggest. i have not thought it well to relate the past history of inclosures, nor even to prepare for you statistics, neither have i touched on recent legislation respecting commons. i have had but one end in view in writing this paper--the laying out and opening small central spaces as public gardens. i have to interest you in accomplishing the object. "there is little to see, and little to say; it is only to do it," as was once said by a hard worker. i cannot transport you all to see the good sample-work which there is in some few neighbourhoods in london. i can, therefore, only ask you to let me describe in some detail the need of these gardens, then what has been, and what, it seems to me, should be, done, with various kinds of small spaces. this paper contains this description and information, as to the very simple preliminary steps necessary to be taken to render some of these spaces available for public use; but though so much of it is thus necessarily descriptive, it is only on the ground of its bearing on distinct practical results that i trouble you with it. there are two great wants in the life of the poor of our large towns, which ought to be realised more than they are--the want of space, and the want of beauty. it is true that we have begun to see that a whole family living in one room is very crowded, and we have been for some years well aware that it would be a good thing if we could manage so to build that a working man could pay for two or even three rooms; it is true that we have learned that the extreme narrowness of our courts and alleys, and the tiny spaces, often only four or five feet square, called by courtesy "yards," which are to be found at the back of many of the houses filled with families of the poor, appear to us insufficient. we wish we could enlarge them, we wish that building acts had prevented landlords thus covering with rent-producing rooms the gardens or larger yards which once existed at the back of high houses; and we are alive to the duty of trying to obviate, as soon as may be, this want of space, to any degree to which it may yet be possible. but there is a way in which some compensation for this evil may be provided, which appears only to have begun lately to dawn upon the perception of men. i mean the provision of small open spaces, planted and made pretty, quite near the homes of the people, which might be used by them in common as sitting-rooms in summer. even in england there are a good many days when at some hours sitting out of doors is refreshing, and when very hot days do come, it seems almost a necessity. i fancy very few of you know what a narrow court near drury lane or clerkenwell is on a sultry august evening. the stifling heat, the dust lying thick everywhere, the smell of everything in the dirty rooms, the baking, dry glare of the sun on the west window of the low attic, just under the roof, making it seem intolerable--like an oven. the father of the family which lives there, you may be pretty sure, is round the corner at the public-house, trying to quench his thirst with liquor which only increases it; the mother is either lolling out of the window, screaming to the fighting women below, in the court, or sitting, dirty and dishevelled, her elbow on her knee, her chin on her hand, on the dusty, low door-step, side by side with a drunken woman who comments with foul oaths on all who pass. the children, how they swarm! the ground seems alive with them, from the neglected youngest crawling on the hot stones, clawing among the shavings, and potato-peelings, and cabbage-leaves strewn about, to the big boy and girl "larking" in vulgarest play by the corner. the sun does not penetrate with any purifying beams to the lower stories of the houses, but beats on their roofs, heating them like ovens. the close staircase is sultry, the dust-bins reek, the drains smell, all the dirty bedding smells, the people's clothes smell. the wild cries of the thirsty, heated, irritated crowd driven to drink, the quarrelling children's voices echo under the low and narrow archway by which you enter the court. everyone seems in everyone else's way. you begin to wonder whether a human being, man, woman, or child, is in very deed in any sense precious, either to god who made them, or to their own family, or to their fellow-citizens. somehow you wonder whether, when one of them is carried out by the undertaker at last, to use a common old saying, "his room is not worth more than his company," so fearful is the life to which people take under such conditions, so terribly does the need of a little more space strike you, so impossible seems any quiet in which tone might be recovered by these exhausted creatures. and yet every one of those living beings, crowding almost under your feet, having to move from doorway or stair as you enter, has a human form, a human character too; somebody knows and loves him, some mother, father, sister, brother, child, watches for that face among the many, and would feel a great gap left in the world if that one came never any more up the court. even the reeling drunkard would be missed. each is surrounded by a love which makes him precious, each has also some germ and gleam of good in him, something you can touch, or lead, or strengthen, by which in time he might become the man he was meant to be. each is a child of god, meant by him for some good thing. put him in a new colony with wood, or heath, or prairie round him, or even lead him into the quiet of your own study, and you will begin to see what is in the man. it is this dreadful crowding of him with hundreds more, this hustling, jostling, restless, struggling, noisy, tearing existence, which makes him seem to himself or you so useless, which makes him be so little what he might be. can you give him a little pause, a little more room, especially this sultry summer afternoon? i think you may. there are, all over london, little spots unbuilt over, still strangely preserved among the sea of houses--our graveyards. they are capable of being made into beautiful out-door sitting-rooms. they should be planted with trees, creepers should be trained up their walls, seats should be placed in them, fountains might be fixed there, the brightest flowers set there, possibly in some cases birds in cages might be kept to delight the children. to these the neighbouring poor should be admitted free, under whatever regulations should seem best. the regulations will vary according to the size of the ground and other local circumstances. in some cases where the ground is large it might, no doubt, be thrown absolutely open, as leicester square is, a man being always in attendance to keep order, though the people will themselves help to keep order very soon. in the case of very small grounds admission might be given to certain numbers by tickets placed in the hands of guardians, schoolmasters, ministers of all denominations, bible-women, and district visitors. though, no doubt, much supervision would be needed at first, after a time an old man, any not too feeble old pensioner, especially if fortified with some kind of uniform, would be amply sufficient, if always there, to keep order. his wages would be small, and employing him would be a double charity. in these gardens, near to their own homes, and therefore easily accessible to the old and feeble, they might sit quietly under trees; there the tiny children might play on gravel or grass, with a sense of mother earth beneath them. there comrades might meet and talk, whose homes are too small and wretched for them to sit there in comfort, and for whom the public-house is too often the only place to meet in, or to read the newspaper. if visitors could gather small groups of children together, and use these out-door sitting-rooms as places to teach them games, read to them, or get leave for them to train the creepers up the wall, much good might be done, and much of the evil of playing in the streets prevented. it is to the conversion of these churchyards into gardens that i would specially turn your attention to-day; there are a vast number of them all over london, as shown in a map prepared by the commons preservation society, , great college street, westminster. i have ventured to draw the attention of some few london vicars to the question, and if you would each of you look in any crowded neighbourhood known to you, what might be done, and bring the question before the incumbents, churchwardens, or leading vestrymen, a great many of these graveyards might rapidly be made available. of course there may be special local difficulties here and there, but the process is very simple where there is no opposition; and if those parishes where there is none would lead the way, that would soon bring the others to follow so good an example. the first step to be taken is to secure the leave of the incumbent of the parish. notice must then be placed on the church-doors giving notice that a vestry meeting will be called to consider the scheme. the vestry then obtains a faculty from the dean of arches. the vestry can then be asked for a grant, and they can apply to the metropolitan board of works for a further grant. in the case of st. george's-in-the-east £ , was voted by the vestry, and £ , by the metropolitan board of works. this was of course a specially expensive scheme, the churchyard itself being large, and the freehold of adjoining ground, which was formerly a burial-ground belonging to dissenters, having to be absolutely bought. the expense in the case of the drury lane ground was about £ ; the vestry became responsible for the whole, but hope the neighbouring parishes and private persons will help. it appears to me that the vestries should in the first instance be applied to, though doubtless private people would gladly help if necessary. it may be interesting to you to know, so far as i can tell you, what has already been done in planting and opening churchyards. mr. harry jones has induced his vestry to co-operate with him, and has made a public garden of the churchyard of st. george's-in-the-east. he obtained the hearty co-operation of his parishioners, and the place bears the stamp of being one in which they feel they all have a share. i believe the churchwarden gave the fountain, and the vestry, instead of having to be urged on to spend more, actually ordered , bulbs this spring, in their enthusiasm to make the place bright and pretty! the high wall covered with spikes, which separated the church from the dissenting burial-ground, has been pulled down, and the whole thrown into one. the ground has been laid out with grass, flower-beds, broad gravel walks, and plenty of seats have been placed there. the day i was last there, there were many people in the garden, one or two evidently convalescents. the ground was in perfect order, a gardener and one man being in attendance; but the people, though evidently of the lower class, were clearly impressed with a feeling that the garden should be respected. in fact the special feature of this garden seemed to me to be the evident sense of its being common property--something that everyone had had a share in doing, and in which they had a common interest. the tombstones are all removed, but measurements were taken, and an authorised plan made of the ground, showing precisely the place of every grave, also a certified copy of every tombstone has been entered in a large book. these precautions for carefully preserving power of identifying the spot where any body is buried, and securing the record of the inscription, have entirely satisfied the owners of graves and the legal authorities, and it would be well for vicars having disused churchyards to remember the plan as one which has met all difficulties in the way of removing tombstones. the little churchyard in bishopsgate which has been planted is probably well known to most of you. it is, i believe, a delight to many. a friend said to me the other day, "i often pass through it; it is certainly very nice. the only thing i am sorry about is that they have taken away the peacock and put two swans instead." "are they not as pretty?" i asked. "oh, i daresay they are," he replied; "it was the swans i was thinking of, they have so small a space, while the peacock was quite happy, because he always had plenty of people to admire his tail!" the rev. g. m. humphreys brought the question of opening the little burial-ground in drury lane before the notice of the st. martin's-in-the-fields vestry. they agreed to carry forward the work, and it was opened last week to the people as a garden. it is a refreshing breathing-space in a terribly crowded neighbourhood. it is bounded by a small piece of ground on the north which is admirably fitted for a block of dwellings for working people. if the duke of bedford, to whom i understand it belongs, would build, or arrange for others to build there, a block of houses where abundant air would be secured to them, and transfer there the population of some crowded court, he would do a great and good work. by-the-way, this paper was written before the news reached me of the temporary closing of the garden until such time as the vestry have decided in what way to regulate the admission of the public in future. as much will doubtless be heard of this temporary closing, i may as well explain, that my friend, miss cons, was there on thursday, and saw the extent of mischief done, and went pretty thoroughly into the whole question. there does not appear to have been any destructiveness of mischievous feeling--the people availed themselves in such crowds of the privilege of going in, that the ivy was very much trampled on, and the yuccas which had been planted in the middle of the gravel without any sort of protection had their leaves spoiled; but the shrubs were hardly injured, nor does there appear to have been any intentional mischief done. it is hardly wonderful that the ivy should be trampled on, seeing that no low wire fence, such as guards the beds in leicester square, nor little hoops, such as protect them in st. george's-in-the-east, had been placed. at the same time i may add that, seeing how very small the ground is in proportion to the dense population near drury lane, in the letter in which i brought the subject of planting it before the vicar, i suggested opening it by tickets distributed by workers in the district, rather than throwing it absolutely open to everyone. i thought that might have been done later, if it were found possible. i also pointed out to the man in charge, as i left the ground last week, that _at first_ much supervision would be needed. if the vestry has the smallest doubt about the possibility of succeeding in keeping it in order, i have not the smallest hesitation in undertaking to do it for them for a year, if they like to trust me with it, and so meet the first difficulties by special individual care, and prove the possibility of conducting the experiment there, as well as it has been done in st. george's-in-the-east. but i have no doubt they will see their way effectually to carry through the good work they have begun, only i have not had time to communicate with them yet. the large churchyard in the waterloo road is in process of being turned into a garden. the rev. arthur robinson has collected £ , and is laying it out more like a country garden, and less like a place planned by a board of works, than any other i have seen. he has stumps prepared for ferns to grow on (and wants some, by-the-way, which some of you might send him); he has a nice bank, winding walks between the turf, knows which side of the church his wisteria will grow, spoke with hope of getting the large blue clematis to flower, wants numberless creepers to cover the church walls, and to wreathe around and make beautiful the few tombs which he leaves unmoved because relatives are still living and care to retain them. i understand he purposes applying to the vestry for help, and in view of the many churchyards there are to deal with, this would seem the right thing to do in general. at the same time, i can see we should get a more country-like garden, the more the planning of it could be left in the hands of a man of culture, who loves plants and colour. i believe st. pancras churchyard is now open as a garden; limehouse is, i understand, thus utilised as far as the tombstones allow. the rev. w. allen has got his parishioners to memorialise the vestry to take some steps towards opening the ground in bermondsey, but hitherto without success, and there may be others either now laid out or in progress--i earnestly hope there are--of which i have no knowledge. i regret to say that an attempt to induce the quakers to appropriate to the same purpose a burial-ground belonging to them in bunhill fields has utterly failed. the ground was one which would have been of almost more value for the purpose than any i know in london. it is close to whitecross street, which some of you may know as a street quite swarming with costermongers; the houses there are tunnelled every few yards with archways leading to as crowded courts as i know anywhere. many houses of the poor actually overlooked the ground. in coleman street, which bounds the ground on the north, is a factory from which crowds of workmen turn out daily at dinner-time, many, no doubt, to adjourn to the public-house. but one hot day last summer, when i was there, dozens of them were sitting on the dusty pavement, their backs leaning against the great, dead, heated wall, which hid from them the space occupied by the burial-ground. there is not a tombstone in it, and it might have been planted and thrown open easily. last summer i wrote to the quakers, hearing they were about to sell the ground for building, laying before them the reasons for devoting it to the public as a garden. after urging them to give it thus to the poor themselves, i added a request that if they did not see their way to do this, they would at least pause to enable me and my friends who were interested in such undertakings to see whether we could not raise enough money to secure it for the poor, even if they determined to exact for it full building-land value. i certainly could hardly believe that quakers could thus sell land once devoted to their dead, and which had never brought them in rent, but i thought it just possible they might hesitate to give what belonged to the society all to the poor. at any rate, i was determined no want of effort on my part should lose for the people so valuable and unique a space lying in the heart of a crowded neighbourhood. my letter was never even considered by the meeting. the company in treaty for the ground did not purchase it then, because they thought it irreverent to disturb the dead. yet although i have again and again seen and written to leading quakers about it, and addressed several letters to their organ, _the friend_, they have deliberately just sold it for building. no builder could be found who liked to buy the ground and disturb the bodies, and the quakers themselves employed workmen to accomplish the most ghastly unearthing of the contents of the graves, uprooting five thousand bodies, which, i should think, never was undertaken before. they are selling the land for dwellings for the poor, and are excusing themselves by harping on the need of dwellings; but the immediate neighbourhood is to be dealt with under the artisans dwellings bill, by means of which a large number of healthy homes for the poor will be erected, while i fear there is no chance of any other garden being made in their midst. and, especially as only a portion of the quakers' burial-ground is to be devoted to workmen's dwellings, the number of rooms provided in the district will not be sensibly affected. they have excused themselves, too, because they have not dug up george fox, but only some of their lesser leaders and their nameless dead. even if they formed a slightly different estimate of the relative advantages of a few more rooms and a garden, i own to an amazed sorrow that the quakers rejected a scheme by which the land might have been rendered a blessing to the living, without doing violence to what seems to me to be a natural instinct of reverence, ineradicable in every human heart, for whatever has been associated with the loved, or the great and noble who are no longer with us. nor could i have borne, if i had been they, to draw so marked a distinction between the unknown, who had surely been loved, and the known, who had been famous, as to uproot five thousand bodies and spare george fox's grave. i am sorry english workmen were called in to "separate those who had lain side by side for two centuries," that "the bones of young and old were" by them "placed in coarse deal boxes and re-interred in a large hole at the other end of the ground." that "many of them, while awaiting this fresh burial, were piled in a rude heap in a corner," with carbolic acid poured over them. is this the lesson our workmen are to learn? are they, too, valueless because so nameless? these poor bodies now mouldering away were once animated by spirits of beloved men and women. that which was once the form which embodied any human soul, named or unnamed, would have seemed to me worth a little gentler care. better have let it mingle quietly with the dust and feed the trees and the daisies, keeping the resting-place of the dead one also for the weary and the poor. i deal with the matter thus at length because the quakers still have a burial-ground in whitechapel and one in bermondsey, which would be available as gardens, and which they have not yet sold; and also because i am not aware that they have decided how they will deal with the small portion of the bunhill fields ground which they cannot build over, where they have re-buried their unearthed dead. have any of you influence with them, or can anything be done? the whitechapel ground, though not nearly so central and important as bunhill fields, is well worth preserving. it is overlooked by the workhouse, in the chronic wards of which there must be many who would rejoice to look out over trees and flowers, and who will never see them again unless this ground is planted with them. on the east side of the ground, too, is a wall; only to pull down that wall and put a railing instead, would give light and air to a whole street. yet though mr. lefevre, on behalf of the commons preservation society, has twice asked them to say whether, and if so on what terms, they would arrange for the ground to be put in order and used as a garden for the people, they give evasive answers, and i believe have it in contemplation to sell it for building. the rector of whitechapel has written to them, the guardians have memorialised them. they make no responsive sign. i make these remarks in no spirit of hostility to the quakers; some of my oldest and best friends are quakers, and i have the deepest respect for them as a body, and well know they have been leaders in much that is good, thoughtful, and liberal in times past, to the poor to a remarkable degree, and i know the value of such gardens is only beginning to attract notice; but i think the facts as concerning the land should be well known to the whole society and to the public, and i only hope that the society will consider them thoroughly at their yearly meeting this month. within the last few days i have received letters from leading quakers, asking me to bring the question before their yearly meeting; but i think i must really leave it in their own hands; the responsibility is wholly theirs. their best ground is now almost gone, the facts are well before them, and mr. shaw-lefevre's offer is not only well known to the whole society, but the correspondence between him and their committee has been published in _the friend_ newspaper. there is another body which i hope will swiftly become aware of their opportunities for doing good with land which is under their control--the london school board. they have in all fifty-seven acres of playground, which they entirely close on the children's one holiday, saturday, and during the summer evenings. it seems almost incredible, does it not? but so it really is. of course the fact is that the board has not considered how to manage the supervision. but surely that difficulty ought to be met either by the board itself paying for it, if that is within its powers, or by some society, such as that which has summoned us here to-day, or by individual donors. having the ground which, however small, is at least available for games for a certain number of children selected by the masters, it seems ridiculous not to use it. a deputation from this society will wait on the school board on may , to press the opening of the ground upon them--for that deputation influential support is much needed. if any of you can help, i hope you will communicate with miss lankester. i spoke of the very corrupting influence of the streets, though i did so with reference to the small companies of children who might be brought together for quiet pastimes in our churchyard-gardens of the future. the school board playgrounds would afford scope for the more active games. surely this should be afforded by anybody who realises how very beneficial athletic exercise and active play would be to the children's health, and how happy it would make them. why, i have seen two swings make children so happy, i have been ashamed to think how few we have in london. they don't take much space, and what delight they give! a clergyman near here is about to fit up a yard as a gymnasium for the men belonging to a workmen's club, and doubtless others will do the same. the uses to which even a small playground in london may be put would take long to describe. i have charge of two, where, besides opening them every saturday and in the summer evenings, every may we have a real maypole--flowers from the country in thousands, flags flying, band playing, swings, and see-saws fully used, children marching, dancing, and skipping, and a kind and able body of ladies and gentlemen who know them amusing them, keeping order, and increasing by their presence the sense of festivity. the trustees of lincoln's inn fields have, for the last two or three years, kindly granted to me leave to take in a company of the children of our tenants one afternoon each summer. it is a pleasant sight. the square is larger, i believe, than any in london, and the trees are most beautiful. they have also just given permission to the boys from the refuge in great queen street to exercise there two mornings a week from seven to nine o'clock. but this is a small amount of use to make of one of the largest, and most beautiful, and most central spaces of the metropolis, where there are few or no residents to be disturbed or interfered with at the hours when the ground would be most valuable; and it is to be earnestly hoped that the trustees will soon extend the privileges that they have hitherto kindly accorded to us to others. it appears to me to be simply a question of adequate supervision, and for this there are people who would be willing to pay. it is well known that the temple and lincoln's inn gardens are now opened regularly on summer evenings to children. why the managers limit the privilege to children i cannot think. surely older people need the air, and surely they would help unconsciously to keep order too. the more of such places that are open, the less will the grass in each be worn--the better the people will learn to behave. i have sometimes heard it urged against opening places to the poor that there is a chance of their conveying infection to children of a higher class. setting aside the fact that out of doors is the last place people are likely to take infection, and that i presume the richer children would be under supervision as to playing with strangers, i ask you seriously to consider who ought to monopolise the few spaces there are in this metropolis for outdoor amusements. is it the children whose parents take them to the sea, or the country, or the continent, when the summer sun makes london unbearable? is it the children who, if their little cheeks look pale, or their strength flags after an illness, are at once sent under careful supervision to hastings or malvern? is it even the children whose sturdy and vigorous father has amassed a little money, and delights to take them by train on a saturday afternoon to richmond, bushey, or erith? or is it not rather the tiny child of the hard-working widow, whose frail form seems almost to grow smaller year by year instead of larger? is it not the pale child with great sunken eyes, just discharged from the hospital, the bed being wanted, convalescent, but to whom fresh air and a little quiet are still so needful? is it not to the careful, motherly, little elder sister, patient nurse of eight or nine years old, hugging the heavy, round-cheeked baby, with two or three other children clinging to her dress, she who cannot get as far as the park? is it not the sturdy urchin, son of a costermonger perhaps, whose hardy and energetic spirit scorns the bounds of the narrow court, and seeks wider fields with freer power of movement, but who has no chance, even when july comes, of climbing cliffs or jumping ditches? should not the few spaces be available for these latter to the very utmost of your power? and again, do you really think now, people who live in comfortable houses, that you do or can escape infection by any precautions if small-pox and fever rage in the back courts of your city? you take all manner of precautions, i know (except, perhaps, what i should call the best of all), but you have no idea how near you, how all round you, this infection is, if it be indeed the subtle thing doctors say. the shops you enter, the cabs you travel in, the clothes you wear, the food you eat, all bring you into communication with those who are coming in contact with patients whenever disease is rife. depend on it, your best chance of escape is to make the places inhabited by the poor healthy, to let them have open space where the fresh wind may blow over them and their clothes, places where they may be less crowded and gain health. you never will, or can, really separate yourselves from your neighbours; accept then the nobler aim of making them such that you shall desire not separation--but union. among the small open spaces which we must hope to see thrown open to the people in the time to come in a greater or less degree are the squares. of course i know that the ground in the square gardens is the property of the freeholder, and that with the leases of the surrounding houses are granted certain privileges with regard to the gardens, which neither can nor ought to be arbitrarily withdrawn. but i hope the day is not far distant when it may dawn upon the dwellers in our west end squares that during august and september not one in fifty of their families is in town, and that it is a rather awful responsibility to lock up the only little bit of earth which is unbuilt over, which is within reach of the very old, the very feeble, or the very young; and that when they leave town they will, in their corporate capacity, grant such discretionary power to those who stay in town, to admit the poor to sit under the trees, as may seem consistent with their rights as leaseholders, interpreted perhaps a little liberally, as they contrast the utmost they _can_ give in the somewhat dingy, early dried-up, london plane-tree, with the wealth of magnificent foliage of wood, or park, or mountain, to which they and their rejoicing family, baby and all, grandmother and all, go before the autumn sun dries up poor scorched london. also, oh, you rich people, to whom the squares belong, some few of whom too own private gardens actually in london, adjoining hyde park or regent's park, or saved on some great estate round the landowner's house, i think you might have a flower-show or large garden-party, once a year, for the poor of your neighbourhood, while you are in town to meet them. i have seen such things done in squares with delightful results. a whole district gathered together, old friends and new, in happy fellowship under the trees, the band playing, and the place looking its gayest. i have seen tents filled with flowers reared in the houses of the poor, each in itself a poor plant, yet, gathered together, looking quite bright and flourishing; and friends whom circumstances had parted, former clergymen, former visitors, meeting the poor friend whom else it might have been difficult to see. have such a party once a year if you can; one afternoon in the summer will never be missed by the dwellers in the square, while the memories of many a poor neighbour may be enriched by the thought of the bright gathering in the soft summer air. i never was present at the flower-shows at westminster abbey, nor do i know how far they grew out of previous intercourse with the poor; but i feel sure that is the way to use any open space in london. the more the festivals can be connected with previous work the better; but those few who own ground easily accessible to the people will do well to put the ground once yearly at the service of those who _do_ know the poor for a flower-show or garden-party. i know nothing that with less trouble gives more joy, or more thoroughly brings corporate life into a parish. there are, besides the grander squares, some, i think, which are deserted by the rich, where "life"--that is, plenty going on--would be more acceptable than quiet; where the residents would be actually glad to have the gates thrown open, the beds set with bright flowers, the seats available for all, as in leicester square. i think even a band on a saturday afternoon might be thought a gain. it is a pity these deserted wildernesses, with their poverty-stricken privet-hedges, are not by some common consent made to adapt themselves to the needs of the neighbourhood. i have thus far dwelt mainly on open spaces as affecting the health or social life of our people, but there is another way in which such spaces might be made most valuable to them. that is, if they could be made really beautiful. londoners are surrounded with the most depressing ugliness; the richer ones try with more or less good taste to mitigate this by decoration indoors; but those who have little or no superfluous wealth, and far less refinement, to lead them to spend any part of it in this way, are, at home and abroad, from year's end to year's end, surrounded by ugliness. if we could alter this, it would go far to refine and civilise them. now it would be difficult to do this in their own homes at once; besides, that is a sphere where each should do it for his own family; but wherever a common meeting-place is arranged, within doors or without, there it seems to me that rich people might find a really useful scope for spending money. the poor man's independence does not demand that he should plant trees and flowers for himself, or decorate with colour wall or door, still less does it require that he should provide such beautiful things for the public, rich or poor. my sister has founded a society, called, after the man of ross, the kyrle society, which has for its object to bring beauty into the haunts of the poor; it has met with much support, and i hope the day may come when hospitals, mission-rooms, school-rooms, workmen's clubs, and, in fact, all common meeting-places of the poor, may be enriched by beautiful things given by it. it is dealing also with open spaces, is not only planting and bringing plants to the poor, but it is trying in other ways to beautify these spaces, and i am not without hope that gradually either mural decorations, inscriptions in tiles, or possibly cloisters, might be given by those who cared to obtain for their fellow-citizens, not only space, but beauty. this is being done in some cases. i will read you a short poem now being painted on zinc by a lady, to put up on a wall of a tiny little garden in a court in whitechapel which is under my care. song of the city sparrow. when the summer-time is ended and the winter days are near; when the bloom hath all departed with the childhood of the year; when the martins and the swallows flutter cowardly away, then the people can remember that the sparrows always stay. that although we're plain and songless, and poor city birds are we, yet before the days of darkness we, the sparrows, never flee. but we hover round the window, and we peck against the pane, while we twitteringly tell them that the spring will come again. and when drizzly dull november falls so gloomily o'er all, and the misty fog enshrouds them in a dim and dreary pall; when the streets all fade to dreamland, and the people follow fast, and it seems as though the sunshine was for evermore gone past; then we glide among the house-tops, and we track the murky waste, and we go about our business with a cheerful earnest haste. not as though our food were plenty, or no dangers we might meet; but as though the work of living was a healthy work and sweet. when the gentle snow descendeth, like a white and glistening shroud, for the year whose life hath ended, floated upwards like a cloud; then although the open country shineth very bright and fair, and the town is overclouded, yet we still continue there. even till the spring returneth, bringing with it brighter birds, unto whom the city people give their love and gentle words, and we yet again, descended to become the least of all, take our name as "only sparrows," and are slighted till we fall. still we're happy, happy, happy, never minding what we be; for we have a work and do it, therefore very blithe are we. we enliven sombre winter, and we're loved while it doth last, and we're not the only creatures who must live upon the past. with a chirrup, chirrup, chirrup, we let all the slights go by, and we do not feel they hurt us, or becloud the summer sky. we are happy, happy, happy, never minding what we be, for we know the good creator even cares for such as we. is it not pleasant to think of the children having those words to read--painted in pretty colours, too--rather than looking at a blank wall? sometimes i think we might even hope to carry with us the hearts of people by setting up for them deliberately very solemn and beautiful words indeed, coloured richly in lasting tiles. i do not see why at any rate our churches should not bear on their face some message to the outside world. i was fancying the other day, as i looked at the great, blank, dirty, dead side wall of a london church, which was seen from a principal thoroughfare, and which bounded the graveyard, long disused, but full of graves, how beautiful it would be to put in coloured tiles, along the whole length of the wall, kingsley's words: do noble things, not dream them, all day long, and so make life, death, and that vast for-ever, one grand, sweet song. the words are simple, and would go home to the hearts of every passer-by; the bright colours, the look of expensive care bestowed on them, the fact that they are on the wall of a church, would give them a look of serious purpose, too great, it seems to me, for any sense of jar as to their publicity to be felt for a moment. it seemed to me that as the hurrying crowd went its way along the thoroughfare, the words might recall to someone high purposes once entertained and long forgotten, either in the struggle of life or the more deadening influence of success or ease--startle him to memories, at least, of a greater, nobler life than he was leading; to the weary and dejected it seemed to me they might point to the continuance in that great hereafter of all we seem to lose here, and all the while the words would be felt to be keeping watch over the dead, whose sudden silence is so hard to bear, but the harmony of whose grand, sweet song in that vast for-ever we catch now and again when we _are_ doing noble things, and so tuning our hearts into more perfect sympathy with the music of god's universe. i have spoken mainly of making open spaces, because i think the usefulness of the parks and the embankment is much more generally known. i am rather afraid of their being supposed to supersede the need of small open spaces quite near the homes of the poor, than of their value being underrated. the old and the very young cannot get to them often, nor from all parts of london. but i ought hardly to pass them over in absolute silence; they certainly do meet a quite distinct want on the part of the stronger portion of the community, who can get some sense of power of expansion, can see the fair summer sun going down behind the towers of westminster abbey, a space of sky being visible, so rarely seen from the streets or courts. let us be very thankful for them. also when i undertake to speak to you about open spaces, though i cannot to-day dwell on them at length, i dare not omit all reference to those which are perhaps most precious of any, and which are by no means secured to us as yet as the parks are--our commons--the only portion of the land of england which remains in a living sense of the birthright of the people of england, and which, bit by bit, gradually and insidiously is filched away, under this and that pretext, by one big landowner after another, quietly surrounded by his effectual railing, and added to his park or field. often is this done under shadow of law, often without any legal right, but just because no one is careful enough, or rich enough, or brave enough to oppose. my friends, there is a society which has done much good work, much unpopular work, which this session even saved you from encroachments on mitcham and barnes commons; it is little known, it wants money support, and it deserves your full support of every kind--the commons preservation society. note down its address, , great college street, westminster, give it what support you can, but above all if ever you see a common threatened, or a piece of one inclosed, write and ask the society whether it is legally done--what chance of redress there is. the society has set itself to fortify local effort by advice, by parliamentary support, sometimes by money; it watches over the interests of englishmen in the small amount of uninclosed land yet remaining to them. while house is being added to house and field to field, while one small farm after another is being swallowed up in the big estate, there are yet left for the common inheritance of englishmen who have small chance of ever owning even a little garden of their very own, some few moorland spaces, set with gorse and heather, fringed by solemn rank of guardian fir-trees, where in the sandy banks their children yet may hollow caves, where the heath-bell waves in the faint evening breeze, and from which--oh, wondrous joy to us londoners--still the far blue distance may be seen, witness to us for ever, as it lies there still, and calm, and bright, that the near things which overshadow us, which seem so tremendous, like tall london houses, built by man, and covering so large a portion of our horizon and sky, hemming us in with terrible oppressive sense of dreariness, may fade back and back from us in distance, till they become even lovely in god's fair sunlight, little jagged peaks only against his calm sky, and all softened into sweetest colour by the light he sheds over them. keep those fair, far, still places for your children, and your children's children, if you can: the more cities increase, the more precious they will be; for the more man's soul will long for the beauty, for the quiet, which the city does not, cannot give. footnote: [ ] read at a meeting of the national health society, may , . vii. effectual charity.[ ] tender pity for the poor has been a growing characteristic of this age; a better sign of it still is the increased sense of duty to them, not only as _poor_ men, but as _men_. there needs, however, it appears to me, something still before our charity shall be effectual for good. the feeling is there, the conscience is there, but there is wanting the wise thought and the resolute, because educated, will. our charity, if by the word we mean our loving-kindness, has been good in itself, but if we mean by the word, alms-giving, can we flatter ourselves that it has been productive of a satisfactory state of things? we have taught our poor to live in uncertainty as to their resources, which is producing among them a reckless want of forethought, which is quite appalling. the most ordinary occurrences of their lives--the regular winter frost which stops the work of some men year by year; the changes in the labour market, caused by the london season; the expenses attending illness; the gradual approach of old age--are not dwelt on now usually among the poor as reasons for trying to provide a fund to meet them. thus there are hundreds of our people living on the extremest brink of pauperism or starvation, learning more and more to be dependent on the chance coal-ticket, or half-crown, or blanket; and if it does not happen to be given at the moment when it is wanted, how forlorn is the position of the improvident man? but look also on the even more important question of their spirit, and of their relation to those above them in class. can there be energy, independence, vigour, healthy activity among them? can there be between them and the donors any of that happy manly interchange of thought, by which the possessors of education, refinement, leisure, might help, or be helped by, the active, self-reliant working-man, with his large capacity for fresh vigorous joy, and his store of power accumulated during a long period of endurance and patient effort? if different classes, like different people, have separate characters which are meant to act and react one on the other, are we not, by allowing the help to be one of a dole of money, destroying the possibility of the better help that might have been? and is our money doing any good? did you ever see the district--the family--the individual that was richer for this repeated alms-giving? has it ever been powerful, even for outside good, to be recipients? is the bed better covered in the long run for the lent blankets, or the children better fed for the free distribution of soup? or is it consistent with our ideal that there should be this body of people dependent for the most ordinary necessities of life on the gifts of another class? rely upon it, if we foster this state of things it will continue to increase. here we are, however, in the midst of this alms-giving, aimless, thoughtless, ineffectual to achieve any object its donors had in view. it is a gigantic system, or rather no system, which has grown up around us. what is our duty with regard to it? specially what is the duty of those of us who are, in any sense of the word, trustees of charitable funds? there is a society which you all know well enough by name--the charity organisation society--which has set itself to help distributors of alms in two important ways. first, it has offered to examine, free of all charge, carefully, for anyone who wants to learn about them, the circumstances and character of applicants for relief. donors cannot decide what help it is wise to give until they know all about an applicant; the society can learn such facts in a far more complete way than donors possibly can. clearly then, to my mind, donors or distributors of gifts ought to accept this proffered help. but the society offers a second advantage; it will give an opinion on the case of an applicant. when the facts respecting his condition and character are ascertained, the problem is simply this. how can he be so helped that the help may soon be needed no longer; how placed speedily out of the reach of want, in an honourable useful place where he can help himself? or if his need be necessarily chronic, how can he be provided for adequately and regularly--so regularly that he shall be tempted neither to begging nor extravagance? it is very difficult to set a man up again in the world; and the main hope of doing it is to pause deliberately over his case, to bring to bear upon it all the collected information, all the practised experience, and intelligent thought of men and women accustomed to think out such problems, and to watch the results of many attempts to solve them. the ordinary district visitor has no qualifications for forming an opinion on the best way of meeting the difficulties of the case, nor usually has the busy clergyman much more. the visitor has very rarely even a glimmering notion that there is such a way of dealing with the poverty she pities, she hardly dreams that it is possible to attack it at its roots, and so she gives the ticket or the shilling. the clergyman usually feels that this is an unsatisfactory way of treating the matter; but he knows probably no more than the visitor, in what part of the country there may be an opening for work for the man whose trade is slack in london; nor what training would enable the invalid girl who can only use her hands, and lies bed-ridden and helpless, to contribute something to the common income; nor what institution would receive, and how the guardians might pay for, the cripple who is made an excuse for begging for the whole family, and how he might learn a trade, and in the future honourably support himself. it is only a body accustomed to deal with many such cases, to devote attention to practical questions mainly, that acquires the knowledge of what measures can be taken under different circumstances, and knows the latest news as to the labour market, and the opportunities open to the needy. i am far from saying that the charity organisation society has, as yet, in each of the thirty-eight divisions of london, a committee capable of giving a valuable opinion on a case; nor even that in every district the committee has realised that to give such an opinion is its real end and aim. but i do say that this is the intention of the society, and that on the committee, if anywhere, you will in each neighbourhood find the men and women most alive to the importance of fulfilling this duty; for more and more of the district committees are finding members who set before themselves the necessity of learning to execute it. i know little of your own charity organisation committee, but i would ask you to remember that it is not a separate society coming from afar and settling down among you. it is what you workers among the poor make it; it is you who ought to form it. and that which i said above you separately were not able to do, collectively you, and none but you, can do--decide what help it is wise to give to every poor man or woman who comes before you at a crisis in life. a representative from every local charity, a few men conversant with the work of every great metropolitan charity, two or three active guardians, the clergy and ministers of all denominations, or some leading member of their staff or congregations, these should form your district committee. after careful investigation by a skilled paid officer, the case of an applicant for charity, when it comes before such a committee as that, has a fair chance of really effectual treatment. either someone present will know of work that needs to be done; or, if the applicant's wants can only be met by distinct gift, then, all the givers or their representatives being present, the gift can after due deliberation be made without chance of overlapping, with certainty that it is sufficient and its object well thought out. district visitors will find it valuable to study with the district committee many questions respecting relief. the work of visitors is one in which i have long taken the deepest interest; their gentle influence in their informal visits is just what is wanted to bridge over the great chasm which lies open between classes. rich and poor should know one another simply and naturally as friends, and the more visitors can enter into such real friendship the better. when, however, they attempt to deal with cases of relief, i feel that they possess few of the qualifications requisite for doing it wisely, and i would most seriously urge them, either to leave this branch of help entirely to others, or with deliberate purpose to set themselves to learn all that it is essential to them to know before they can do it well. for there is more at stake, a great deal more, than the wasting of their own or their friends' money: that would matter comparatively little if the effect of mistake in its use were not positively disastrous to the poor. but it is disastrous. we go into the house of a young working-man; we meet with ready gift the first need as it arises; we do not pause to remember how the effort to meet that need was a duty for the young husband and father. we discourage the quiet confidence, the careful forethought which would have made a man of him; we diminish his sense of responsibility; the way he spends his earnings begins to appear to him a matter of smaller moment--he dissipates them in the public-house; he gets into the habit of doing so; we, or succeeding visitors, feel the hopelessness of help increase; not only does the drag upon our purse become heavier and heavier, but it becomes clearer to us that the money we give does not adequately feed the wife and children, while it does lead the husband to hope that if he yields to the strongly increased temptation to drink, some lady will help, some charity interpose, the children won't quite starve. we have weakened the natural ties, broken the appointed order, and the neat, tidy little home has sunk into the drunkard's desolate room. or we take up the case of a widow, and instead of once for all considering how much she can do for her own and her children's support, and deliberately uniting our forces to relieve her once for all of that part of the cost which she cannot meet, we let her come up to our house whenever she cannot fulfil her engagements, and we give her, when her story or tears move us, a few shillings. we ease our own feelings by doing this, but what besides have we done. we have not fortified her for the battle of life; we have not cultivated in her the habit of deliberate arrangement as to the best expenditure of her scanty means. we have done something to teach her how easy it is, if she gets into debt and the brokers are put in, to go round to one house after another and get a few shillings from each, and having met the difficulty for the moment to begin involving herself in another. look at her a few years later. the sincere grief of the widowed mother has been degraded into a means of begging; the ready tears come, or appear to come, at call; the sacred grief is for everyone to see in hopes someone may alleviate it with half-a-crown. the sense of a right to be helped has grown, the sense of her own duty has diminished. work has not paid so well that it has been steadily persevered in. the easily begged money has been easily spent; the powers of endurance, the habits of industry are gone; grief is her stock-in-trade; its frequent use has diminished the power of feeling strongly and sincerely. perhaps she has discovered that professions of piety are rewarded with half-crowns, and expressions, once sincere, have become cant phrases. we are shocked at her; we say we were glad enough to help her when she was working, and was feeling simply and strongly, but now it is different. my friends, who made it different? god gave her the sacred sorrow and the difficulties of her life to soften and to train her. it might have been well that we should like true friends have stood by her, and so far diminished her difficulty as to make it just within her power to meet it; it might have been well for us to support one child, to pay school-fees, or to help in some other way by some one distinct payment, so regular as to become very natural to her, but in some way we ought to have left her responsibilities to have been met by her own energies. then we should have been able to take and keep the position of friends; she would not have learned to watch our faces to see what expression on her part extorted pity or shillings best, but would have come to us when the memories of the past were too heavy to bear alone, and the words of hope in god's mercy and wisdom would have been spoken from the heart to the heart. let visitors be friends, and nothing else, leaving money help to others; or else study seriously all wise effectual ways of help, that they may not be driven to miserable doles of half-crowns and bread-tickets, which are surely destructive of vigorous life in the poor, and of natural healthy relation between friends. i could, you could yourselves, multiply instances of this a hundredfold. it will be more profitable to study how in the future they may be avoided. a marked advantage of district committees is that, while doing nothing to weaken local action, they present a larger area to the sympathy of their members. when parishes were first constituted, each parish must in general have had its own rich and poor. but this has ceased to be so in many cases, owing to the large population dwelling in a small area. the tendency of late has been to subdivide ecclesiastical districts. the rich are not anxious to have the poor living in very close proximity to them, and every class is more and more driven into quarters appropriated exclusively to itself. the consequence of this is--and increasingly--that if a rich man says, "i will help in my own parish," there are vast numbers of poor living perhaps near to him, probably within what in the country would be considered easy walking distance, and certainly in the same town, whose lives he does not touch. i cannot tell you how terrible to me appear these vast spaces of ground covered with houses inhabited by persons at one dead level of poverty; sometimes the tracts appropriated to the houses of the wealthy seem to me in another way more terrible. all good gifts, for which we are bound to lift our hearts in praise to god, seem to retain their sanctity only when they are shared; and it seems to me often as if the luxury, the ease, the splendour, yes, even the fair spaces of lawn and terrace were almost ghastly when they are enjoyed by those who never consider the poor, in whom no spirit of self-sacrifice leads to resolute appropriation of some large share of the good things to those who are out of the way. there are few who do not recognise the duty of giving or sharing in some measure; but the subdivision of districts, leaving one poor and another rich, the ever-extending size of london making the poor farther and farther off from the rich, has a tendency to shut out many poor from this sympathy. the charity organisation society has done something to mitigate this evil, to make you feel that you are parts of a larger whole than your ecclesiastical parish. the poor-law has compulsorily made you feel it. when it became clear that it was intolerably unjust to throw the burden of the largest number of paupers on the poorest ratepayers, poor-law areas were enlarged so as to unite rich and poor neighbourhoods; also, certain expenditure was charged to a metropolitan rate. that poor-law arrangement, however, never touched your hearts. it is doubtful whether the dwellers in fitzroy park feel more united with those in somer's town because they are both in st. pancras parish, nor much added tenderness for the sick man in poplar, because if he has small-pox he is carried to a hospital supported by a metropolitan rate. the alteration has done good because it has equalised burdens, and enforced the fulfilment of a duty. but the charity organisation society does more--it asks you to accept this duty as a privilege, and voluntarily and gladly to help, remembering the less favoured districts which are near you, or which, though farther off, still belong to the same city. it has taken the poor-law boundary to mark its area; it has asked all charitable people within that area to meet and consult about their charities; it has arranged that the working expenses of office and agent shall be shared by a large district, it has formed a meeting-place, where workers for the poor shall be able to learn each what the other is doing, even at the farther extremes of a long parish like this. you will certainly enlarge your sympathies if thus you meet; for when there come before you the stories of living men and women wanting help in districts where funds are not abundant, when you learn to know the clergy and others labouring in poorer places, you will begin to interpret the word "neighbour" in a large and liberal sense. do you realise how limited is our notion of it now, and what it has brought us to? have you any picture before you of the parts of london where for acres and acres the ground is covered with the dwellings of the poor alone, where no landlord can afford many feet of space unbuilt over at the back of his house; where the clergyman toils on almost singlehanded, for unrefreshed year after unrefreshed year; where curates will hardly go and work; where no gay life enlivens the monotony of toil, which is interrupted only by the wild unholy carousal of a bank holiday; where the clergyman's wife can hardly sleep because of the wild mirth of the surrounding streets? we talk of the claims of parish and neighbourhood, and they should be seriously remembered; but are they not sometimes urged rather from a lazy desire not to take the trouble to go farther, or from the easy agreeable wish to oblige the neighbouring minister, who calls to ask a new resident for help in the sunday school or district? if, indeed, the decision is a deliberate choice of a near duty distinctly seen, rather than of a far off one less realised, one may respect it. but we must remember there are other claims than those arising out of proximity, and that it may be our duty to realise what is not brought under our eyes. we live upon the labours of the poor in districts far from our homes. our fathers and brothers may have chambers, factories, offices right down among them. we are content to draw our wealth from these. does this imply no duty? is the whole duty fulfilled when the head of a firm draws a cheque for donations to the local charity, and are the gentle ministrations of the ladies of the family to be confined to the few pampered poor near their house? it is our withdrawal from the less pleasant neighbourhood to build for ourselves substantial villas with pleasant gardens, which has left these tracts what they are. even when there is nothing sensationally terrible in the wickedness or destitution of a place, when it is covered with little houses of laundresses or small shopkeepers, are we who have advantages of education or refinement not needed there? have we no bright flowers to take to the people, no books to lend, no sweet sympathy and young brightness to carry among them? ought we not to be accumulating those memories which will give us a place near them as real friends if the time of loss and trial comes? i would urge you all who are inhabitants of a large parish, markedly divided into poor and rich districts, as citizens of a city fearfully so divided, to weigh well your duties; and, never forgetting the near ones to home and neighbourhood, to remember also that when europe is sacrificed to england, england to your own town, your own town to your parish, your parish to your family, the step is easy to sacrifice your family to yourself. whereas if you try to accept the duty as our lord showed it, and to carry with you joyfully in such acceptance those who are nearest and dearest to you, you will find that a large and true imagination will show you the place which every duty should hold in your lives; you will not find any human being so away but that your sympathy will reach, and your desire to help will tell in due degree if the need of help comes. your life, be it shadowed ever so much by individual loss or pain, will be full and blessed; for all god's children will be dear to you, and his earth sacred; you will have no real conflict of duties, nor long doubt about their relative importance; no pain shall overwhelm, nor doubt confound you; for the blessing of guidance shall be yours, and you will assuredly learn what those words mean, "when thou passest through the waters i will be with thee, and through the rivers they shall not overflow thee." "though the lord give thee the bread of adversity, and the water of affliction, yet shall not thy teachers be removed into a corner any more; but thine eyes shall see thy teachers, and thine ears shall hear a word saying, this is the way, walk ye in it, when ye turn to the right hand or when ye turn to the left." footnote: [ ] paper read at a meeting of the charity organisation society, at highgate, june th, . viii. the future of our commons. the question of the appropriation of the common land of england is one which is of great importance now, and which will be of increasing importance as time goes on. the matter is not simply one of providing a public park or common in the near neighbourhood of cities which are now large and rapidly increasing, nor of securing a cricket or recreation ground and an acre or two of cottage gardens to a few villagers. the question before the country--and it is well we should realise its magnitude before important decisions are made--is whether, consistently with all private rights, there is still any land in england which can be preserved for the common good; and, secondly, in what way such land can best be used. is it best to parcel it out amongst various owners, and increase the building or corn-growing area? is it best to let the largest possible amount of it in allotments to the poor? is it well to devote any portion of it, in rural as well as suburban districts, to the public, to be by them enjoyed in common, in the form of beautiful, wild, open space? it must be observed that the nation as a nation is not held to possess the open, uncultivated, unappropriated land of england. true, generation after generation has passed over much of it freely, but it seems that the people are not thereby held to have acquired a right to do so. perhaps this is because such right has no money value, for rights of way, rights of light, rights of possession of soil, even rights on these very open spaces of pasturing cattle, cutting furze and of playing games are recognised by law when they have been long enjoyed. had the right to wander freely, and to enjoy the beauty of earth and sky, been felt to be a more distinct possession, it may be that these rights also would have been legally recognised; but it has not hitherto been so. it is, therefore, lords of manors and commoners who have mainly the control of such waste places. when, however, they come to parliament to ask to have their respective rights settled, and to get leave to inclose, parliament has, under the inclosure acts, distinctly a voice in deciding the appropriation of the land. what ought its decision to be, having in view the future life of the nation as well as the present one? that æsthetic considerations govern individuals in the disposition of their own estates is clear. when a gentleman possesses an estate he apportions it to various uses. he asks himself how much of it he will devote to arable land and kitchen garden; some small part he may set aside for his children, that they may dig in it and plant it in their spare time; and a part of it he will devote probably to a flower-garden or a park; for he knows that the family has need of enjoyment and of rest, and that beauty sustains in them some higher life than the mere material one. are we as a nation to have any flower-garden at all? can we afford it? do we care to set aside ground for it, or will we have beet-root and cabbages only? in other words, is all the land, so far as the people are concerned, from sea to sea, to be used for corn-growing, or building over only? are those who own estates to have their gardens, and the people to have none? or, if any, how many and how pretty may they be? is there only land enough for exercise near the big city, or can we have any for beauty far away from it? surely we want some beauty in our lives; they cannot be all labour, they cannot be all feeding. when the work is done, when the eating is finished, the soul and spirit of men ask for rest; they want air, they want the sense of peace, they want the sense of space, they want the influence of beauty. men seek it on the rocky sea-shore, on the peaks of the mountains, by the streams in the valleys, or on the heather-covered moorlands. over-excited in the cities, over-strained by toil, they need, if it were but once in their lives, that wonderful sense of pause and peace which the near presence of the great creations of god gives. the silence brings them marvellous messages, the clouds seem their companions, the lights which pass over the heather-covered hills fill them with an immeasurable joy. old cares seem so far away as hardly to be real; and in the great peace which surrounds them the whole spirit is brought into harmony with grander music, tuned to nobler imaginings, and nerved for mightier struggles. "man does not live by bread alone." and the words god speaks to us on the moorlands proceed, indeed, from his mouth with audible power, and memories of them haunt us with ennobling and consoling thought in the bustle, the struggle, and the pain to which we must return. this as individuals we know. there are signs that, as a nation, we are beginning to see it. a very remarkable change with regard to the relative value of different uses of land has taken place in england during the last thirty years, as the course taken by the legislature sufficiently proves. mr. cross, in introducing the commons act of last year, laid stress upon this change. he pointed out that the inclosure act of was framed when the notion of statesmen was that england must depend, at any rate in case of war, wholly on herself for the wheat which her people needed. the corn laws were not then repealed; the country was not nearly so thickly populated; space was far more abundant; and the production of wheat seemed the best possible use to which land could be devoted. it was far different now. corn reached our shores untaxed; our population had so vastly increased that it necessarily depended largely on imported wheat; we had learned much more about the importance to health of fresh air and exercise, and we felt increasingly the value of space as well as food for our people. the needs of the nation in demanded inclosure for purposes of cultivation, and the act of that year was accordingly specially drawn to facilitate it. but now the case was different, and mr. cross stated that his bill was specially intended to promote regulation to meet the growing need of open space. further proof of the change in public opinion is afforded by the course taken by parliament with regard to the new forest. in no public objection was raised to an act which was passed, empowering the crown to plant formal and monotonous plantations of fir-trees, valuable as timber, in such a manner as eventually to cover the whole expanse of forest; while in this act was repealed in favour of one which provided that the ancient trees and wild undergrowth should be left henceforward undisturbed; thus showing that the nation is now willing to sacrifice the profits accruing from fast-growing timber in order to preserve forest glades and heathery slopes, valuable only for their beauty. the advantages to the nation of possessing uninclosed land in perpetuity in certain instances, as opposed to the advantage of cultivating every available acre, have thus been distinctly recognised. but the proportion and situation of such uninclosed land remains to be determined, and will be decided by parliament in the course of the next year or two. mr. cross's act prescribes that the application for regulation or inclosure shall be made to the inclosure commissioners (who were appointed under the act of ), the commissioners are to hold a local inquiry, and then prepare a scheme which is to be submitted to a committee of the house. the scheme, when approved by the committee, comes before the house for confirmation. it may prove unfortunate that agents originally selected to administer an act having for its main object _inclosure_--_i.e._ the dividing of the land among separate owners--should have been chosen to carry out one specially intended, as mr. cross explained, to facilitate _regulation_--_i.e._ the preserving of the land open for the use of all. so great has been the tendency to inclose that, out of , acres available for allotments, recreative-grounds, &c., under the act of , only , had actually been thus allotted; whilst in , out of , acres proposed to be inclosed, such were the views of the commissioners, that they considered nine acres to be adequate reservation for public purposes--viz. three for recreation, and six for field-gardens. and the four schemes hitherto submitted to parliament under the new act contained a provision for only seventeen acres to be reserved for recreation and sixty-five for field-gardens out of , to be inclosed. the lords of the manors subsequently offered two more in each case, if opposition in committee were withdrawn. the offer was accepted by the committee, but the attempt to pass the bill at the fag end of the session was most fortunately frustrated. there is yet time, therefore, for consideration whether regulation would not meet the requirements of some of these cases rather than inclosure; and in some of them, or at least those parts of them which are commons or waste lands of manors strictly speaking, as distinguished from commonable lands, it would seem that if ever regulating schemes are to be adopted in rural districts, these are cases most suitable for them. one of the commons recommended for inclosure--riccall dam--is pasture land, and will never be available for growing corn, as it is subject to floods. it is close to the village, and is constantly used for cricket. the chief objection to its present condition is that the existing rights of turning out cattle upon it are improperly used, an evil which it is admitted could be remedied by regulation. if such an open space is to be inclosed, it is difficult to conceive what rural common, in the opinion of the inclosure commissioners, would be a fit subject for regulation. the conviction is forced upon us that, unless the inclosure commissioners insist upon regulation wherever it is practicable, there will be little prospect of this part of the recent act having a fair trial. those who are pecuniarily interested in the commons--the lords of the manors and the commoners--will, as a rule, prefer inclosure to regulation, and the bias of the commissioners will probably be in the same direction; and if the option rests only with them there is little doubt which course will be preferred. it behoves, then, the commissioners to carry out the intentions of mr. cross, and to refuse inclosure in any case where regulation may be applicable, and not to act only upon the instance and preferment of those interested. the failure so far of the regulating clauses of the act of bears out the views of those who opposed the act, and who, while conceding the good intents of the promoters, pointed out that the regulating clauses were so hampered by the necessity of consents that they practically presented no alternative to inclosure, and who predicted that few, if any, schemes would ever come before parliament under this part of the act. it has been shown that in all probability thirty-seven schemes for inclosure come before parliament next session. many thousands of acres now open will be subjected to inclosure under these schemes, and they will form the precedent for dealing with others in the future. they will come before parliament; but the evidence in each case is heard only by a small committee; and there are but few outside that committee who will notice or care anything about each scheme as it successively comes forward. and yet, if the schemes are all carried out, england will have next year from this cause alone thirty-seven fewer open spaces than she has hitherto possessed. a great deal of this land might be saved if public attention were aroused, and aroused in time. on the next two or three years the fate of our commons will mainly depend. for seven years past, pending legislation, it has been possible to resist all schemes for inclosure; but since the passing of the act of postponement of action is no longer possible, and each scheme must be dealt with immediately, and on its own merits. there is danger lest, as the schemes may relate each to a small area, and may not come before the public simultaneously, the gravity of the issue may not be generally perceived. it is no less a one than what proportion of the soil of england--of its commons, charts, and forests, its scars, fells, and moorlands--shall be retained to be used in common by her people as open unappropriated space both now and in the time to come. such, however, has been the growth of public opinion, that we may assume that parliament would not sanction the inclosure of a common in the near neighbourhood of any large and populous town. but there seems some danger lest our legislators and the public should not duly consider how rapid is the growth of many towns, and that some which are not large and closely packed now may in a few years become so, and may need commons in their vicinity; nor how in many places suburb stretches beyond suburb as year succeeds year, and thus the town approaches the commons which once were rural. increased facilities of swift and inexpensive travelling, and the opening of new lines of railway, make many a common once out of reach of the dwellers in town practically easy of access. and there is a reason why even the still more distant rural commons should if possible be saved from inclosure. every year, in many country neighbourhoods, population is increasing, and houses for letting are being built; more and more the field-paths by the river-side are being closed, and the walks through the cornfields or bright upland meadows are being shut. the hedge through the many gaps of which it was easy once to step into the roadside-wood and to gather primroses in thousands is now stoutly repaired, and new boards are put up warning trespassers that they "will be prosecuted." in self-defence the landowners erect barriers and warn off the public wherever that public becomes numerous. the field shut up for hay in the remote country has so small a chance of being trampled on, that the farmer, hospitably or carelessly, leaves the gate unlocked; but as the neat little rows of lodging-houses come to be built near it, or as substantial villas multiply in the neighbourhood, and the buttercups tempt the more numerous little children to run in among the tall grass near the path, or the great boughs of may induce the big boys to make long trampled tracks beside the hedge, the farmer is obliged to lock his gate, put up his notices, or, if "right of way" exist, erect a fence which should leave the narrowest admissible pathway for the public. so it is, so it will be, year by year increasingly, with all private property. it is not only the artisan who, on his day's holiday, will depend more and more on the common or public park; the professional man, the shopkeeper who is able to take a house or lodgings for a few weeks in august or september for his family, will also depend more and more each year on finding some neighbourhood where there is a heath, or forest, or moor which is public. he does not take his wife and children away only to breathe fresher air, nor is the small lodging-house garden all they want to spend the day in. to walk merely along the roads, if these roads pass between parks or fields barricaded from entrance, frets the human love of freedom which makes us want to wander farther, to escape the dusty prescribed track, to break away over the hills, or pause in the meadow by the pool or the river, or gather the flowers in the wood. the more these are and must be closed, the more intensely precious does the common or forest, safe for ever from inclosure, become. it is not only the suburban common, it is the rural also which is of value to us as a people. nor does the allotment scheme, admirable as it is in giving the landless classes a share in our common soil, in the least degree meet the need for beauty. under all the schemes for inclosing rural commons, it is probable that henceforward provision will be made for field-gardens. this is excellent. but do not let it be supposed that such allotments compensate for the entire loss of all open unappropriated land. it is, moreover, possible that allotments might, as time goes on, be provided from quite other sources than our commons. the very considerable area held in trust for charitable purposes may well furnish ground for the purpose. moreover, future changes which should facilitate the transfer of land, and should enable men to buy or rent it in small quantities, would meet the demand for allotments. such changes might easily be effected when englishmen come to the conclusion that small gardens are desirable for the people. if the allotments are not made now we may still hope for them in the future; but if we lose our open spaces now, shall we ever recover them? think of the cost of purchasing them back! think of the compulsory powers to compel sale of contiguous plots! think of the impossibility of breaking them ever again into uneven surface of woodland, dingle, or old quarry, or getting the forest trees on them again; and pause before you barter them for a few cultivated gardens, rented at high rates to a small group of men--valuable as field-gardens in themselves maybe. note, too, by-the-way, what is done in giving them. for allotments, working-men will pay four or five times the agricultural value and have done so, under the old inclosure acts. that proves them to be appreciated. under the recent act the amount of payment is limited. but is it not strange to take away free enjoyment from many, and to offer in exchange, at any money payment, a privilege to the few? we have mentioned the schemes of inclosure now coming before the legislature, but besides these there is another extensive process of inclosure going on for which the legislature is not responsible. it is that which is silently pursued by lords of manors, without any distinct legal settlement of rights. they _may_ be taking only their due; they may be taking more. in some cases they are offering to the commoners, or to the poor, where lands are left for their benefit, gifts of money or land or coals, in lieu of their old rights of cutting fuel or turning out a cow. perhaps the coals are quite equivalent to the value of the fuel to the individual cottager; but they depend often on the will of squire or lord, are administered by churchwardens to the needy, and become a form of dole instead of a birthright. again, all land in england is increasing in value. why should the ignorant agricultural labourer be induced, by the gift of a few poles of land, to part with the valuable inheritance of his descendants? why should the lord absorb to himself alone the "unearned increment of the land?" it ought not to be left to any private person to make such terms with his tenants, still less ought he to be allowed to decide, by high-handed erection of fence, how much is his and how much is theirs. yet there are numbers of such inclosures silently going on throughout england in districts where there is no one powerful enough, rich enough, or with knowledge enough to carry the matter into a court of law, or watch effectually that justice be done. such suits are very costly; the law in such cases is often complicated; a large amount is needed to secure the plaintiff against loss should he not have costs awarded him; and landowners, knowing that these difficulties prevent their being opposed when they inclose the tempting ground adjoining their park, and give a little bit of it to all neighbours likely to be troublesome, too often exercise a power which there is no one at hand to prevent. even the metropolitan commons, which might have been thought to be already secured by the metropolitan commons act of , are not absolutely safe. no one now would apply for leave to inclose one of these _in toto_, but there is hardly a company advocating a scheme for a reservoir or sewage farm, sidings for a railway or what not, that does not cast longing eyes on the cheap common land, one little bit of which it is supposed will hardly be missed. accordingly, application is made to parliament for compulsory power to take a small portion. so our metropolitan commons even may be nibbled away, and polluted and spoilt by the proximity of objectionable buildings or works. no less than five such schemes came before the public in affecting barnes, mitcham, and hampstead. the reader will perceive from what has been said that three distinct dangers threaten our common land:-- st. that due use should not be made of the powers given by the act of last year, to promote regulation rather than inclosure, and that in the separate schemes about to be presented to parliament no weight whatever should be given to the growing importance of wild open spaces free to all. nd. that illegal inclosure should take place unnoticed, or be unopposed, for want of legal knowledge or money to organise resistance. rd. that the commons already protected by the metropolitan commons act should be injured by the action of bodies applying for compulsory powers of purchase for small portions of them. it remains only to consider what can be done to meet these three dangers. first. let the public take care that they thoroughly understand the bearings of every scheme submitted to parliament. let due notice be taken that the proportion of land allotted to the public be adequate, and that the situation of it be well selected. much depends also on its character. to revert to the parallel of the disposition of land made by the owner of an estate, who certainly would not place his kitchen-garden in the loveliest part of his park, do not let the nation surrender forest or hillside, but, preserving them intact, apportion for purposes of cultivation the less beautiful, flatter, and probably more productive ground. let the public watch how many of the schemes brought forward relate to regulation, not inclosure. mr. cross announced, as we have said, that his bill was intended to promote regulation; let us watch that its intention is thoroughly fulfilled. the machinery of the act to regulate commons being now provided, it remains for those who care for open space to see that it is not used to promote inclosure. second. the high-handed inclosures for which no parliamentary sanction is sought, are more difficult to meet. the expense of opposing is considerable; the legal questions complicated. few individuals can deal with the problem single-handed. here again, however, happily, the machinery exists ready to our hands. the commons preservation society[ ] was founded twelve years ago with the express object of watching over the interests of the public in the remaining commons of england in parliament and in the courts of law. how much this was needed will be seen when we consider that about , , acres have been inclosed since the reign of queen anne, and that there remain only , , acres of open land, according to the domesday-book, for all present and future needs. the committee of this society gives advice (free from all cost), to those who wish to consult them respecting the course to be adopted when open spaces in their neighbourhood are threatened with inclosure. if the neighbourhood is poor, and legal resistance is the only way to meet the difficulty, the society will, to the best of its means, aid with money and influence. it appears to me that the objects of this society are so important and far-reaching that it ought to be a large national union, every one joining it as members and supporting it to the utmost of their power. it is not a question which ought longer to be left to a comparatively few zealous men; it ought to be supported by, and its machinery used by, everyone who cares to keep the common land open. if legal decisions are to be arrived at, if landowners are to be made to feel that they will be called to account for any inclosures made by them, the matter cannot be left in the hands of individuals, and it is only by combination, and under good legal advice, that the undertakings can be rightly and wisely begun and brought to a successful issue. to meet the third danger--that arising from attempts to obtain compulsory power to purchase small portions of the metropolitan commons supposed to be protected under the act of --it is important (equally as in the case of rural commons) to watch each scheme that may be brought forward, and thus to let parliament see that the matter is one about which the nation cares. the schemes previously referred to, relating to commons at barnes, mitcham, and hampstead, were only defeated by strenuous public opposition. under these schemes it was actually proposed to take four acres of barnes common for a sewage farm, and to widen the railway that crosses it by additional sidings and coal depôts; to cut up mitcham common with additional lines of railway, and to take acres of it for sewage purposes, and to surround and partly undermine hampstead heath with a railway provided with three or four stations situated on some of its prettiest spots! one other point bearing on the question of metropolitan commons may be noted here. whenever the question of their inclosure has come up before the courts of law to be tried, it has been hitherto found that the rights of commoners have been adjudged sufficient to preserve them from inclosure. it is therefore deeply to be regretted that last session the board of works again resorted to their old practice of purchasing these rights; they gave £ , for bostal heath, near woolwich. the purchase was clearly unnecessary in this case, because a decree of the court of chancery exists preventing the inclosure of the heath. the board probably took this step from a dislike to the trouble of defending their scheme for regulation. such a practice must heavily burden the ratepayers of london, already quite sufficiently taxed. and this is done in order to secure for them that which there seems no reason to suppose could not be secured without any such expenditure, open spaces having already been legally preserved without purchase in the cases of epping, coulsden, berkhampstead, and others. it is an old idea of the metropolitan board, and not a harmless one. in , the chairman and members of the board proposed to make the board the central authority to protect and preserve commons; they asked for large taxing powers in order to raise money sufficient to buy up all rights of the lords of the manors and commoners, and to sell parts of the metropolitan commons for building, in order in some degree to recoup the ratepayers. the committee of the house of commons which was then considering the question rejected this scheme of the metropolitan board, holding that the rights of commoners being amply sufficient to keep the commons open, purchase was unnecessary. this opinion has since been repeatedly confirmed by decisions in the law courts. there seems no reason to suppose that hampstead heath, for which the metropolitan board gave nearly £ , , might have not been kept open without purchase had the matter been carried to an issue. the question is an important one as far as the ratepayers are concerned; it is also very important as a matter of precedent. the plan of operation of any body of men which, like the commons preservation society, should examine the rights of the public and uphold them by law, is much to be preferred to the purchase scheme, though this may be more acceptable to large landowners, and have more appearance of magnificence. to sum up. it is by watchful care that every scheme under the new act can be well considered and wisely decided when it is brought before parliament; it is by steady co-operation to bring to a legal issue every unauthorised inclosure that a share in our common land can alone be preserved for the landless classes. shortly--before, perhaps, as a nation, we awake to its importance--will this great question be permanently decided. in england there is a very small and continually decreasing number of landowners. we have no peasant proprietors as in france; and few tenants of small holdings, as in ireland. yet the love of being connected with the land is innate; it deepens a man's attachment to his native country, and adds dignity and simplicity to his character. each family cannot hope to own a small piece of cultivated land as in france--no inaccessible mountain-ranges exist for our people to learn to love as in switzerland--but it may be that in our common-land we are meant to learn an even deeper lesson:--something of the value of those possessions in which each of a large community has a distinct share, yet which each enjoys only by virtue of the share the many have in it; in which separate right is subordinated to the good of all; each tiny bit of which would have no value if the surface were divided amongst the hundreds that use it, yet which when owned together and stretching away into loveliest space of heather or forest becomes the common possession of the neighbourhood, or even of the county and nation. it will give a sense of a common possession to succeeding generations. it will give a share in his country to be inherited by the poorest citizen. it will be a link between the many and through the ages, binding with holy happy recollections those who together have entered into the joys its beauty gives--men and women of different natures, different histories, and different anticipations--into one solemn joyful fellowship, which neither time nor outward change can destroy--as people are bound together by any common memory, or common cause, or common hope. charles dickens and evans, crystal palace press. footnote: [ ] offices, , great college street, westminster. _by the same author._ homes of the london poor. extra fcp. vo, price s. d. "the book should be carefully read by all those whose duties under mr. cross's recent bill are just now commencing."--_medical times._ "we offer her our hearty commendation, and we trust that her little book will have a wide sale. it is not less interesting than instructive."--_builder._ "there are few who have so good a right to be heard on the matter as the author of this volume. she has not only thought long and deeply on the problem to be solved, but she has worked nobly to aid in its solution.... we know nothing in literature of this kind more touching than the simple, unaffected tale of her struggles, disappointments, and triumphs. there is not a word of mere sentimentalism in any one of her papers; she is clear, practical, and definite."--_globe._ "miss octavia hill has grappled successfully with one of the most difficult and disheartening of our social problems."--_nonconformist._ macmillan and co., london. macmillan & co.'s publications. the service of the poor. an enquiry into the reasons for and against the establishment of religious sisterhoods for charitable purposes. by caroline e. stephen. crown vo, s. d. "she examines the question patiently and thoroughly, and her book contains much information, and will be useful as a text-book to those who are desirous to use their abilities to the best advantage in the wide and difficult field of philanthropy."--_athenæum._ "we recommend miss stephen's book to all who are thinking of entering sisterhoods, and still more to all who are engaged in the conduct of them. they will find in it much that deserves consideration, much from which, if they will honestly apply it, they cannot fail to derive profit."--_saturday review._ homes of the london poor. by octavia hill. extra fcap. vo, s. d. "there are few who have so good a right to be heard on the matter as the author of this volume. she has not only thought long and deeply on the problem to be solved, but has worked nobly to aid in its solution.... we know nothing in literature of this kind more touching than the simple, unaffected tale of her struggles, disappointments, and triumphs. there is not a word of mere sentimentalism in any one of her papers; she is clear, practical, and definite."--_globe._ streets and lanes of a city. being the reminiscences of amy dutton; with a preface by the bishop of salisbury. second and cheaper edition. extra fcap. vo, s. d. first lessons on health. by j. berners. seventh edition. mo, cloth, s. household management and cookery. by w. b. tegetmeier. with an appendix of recipes used by the teachers of the national school of cookery. mo, s. first lessons in the principles of cooking. by lady barker. second edition. mo, s. macmillan and co., london. more bed-time stories. by louise chandler moulton, author of "bed-time stories," and "some women's hearts." _with illustrations by addie ledyard._ [illustration: logo] boston: roberts brothers. . [illustration: missy.--page .] entered according to act of congress, in the year , by louise chandler moulton, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington. _cambridge: press of john wilson & son._ _to my daughter florence._ [after a twelvemonth.] _"more bed-time stories," sweetest heart,_ _and all to you belong:_ _all that i have and am, my dear,_ _i give you with my song._ _all that i have and am, my dear,_ _is not too much to pay_ _as tribute to the fair, young queen_ _who rules my heart to-day;_ _as tribute to the dear, blue eyes,_ _and to the golden hair,_ _and sweet, new grace of maidenhood_ _that wraps you everywhere,--_ _the shy surprise of maidenhood,_ _that still turns back to hear_ _the tales i tell at shut of day:--_ _so these are yours, my dear._ _l. c. m._ _october, ._ contents. page against wind and tide blue sky and white clouds the cousin from boston missy the head boy of eagleheight school agatha's lonely days thin ice my lost sister: a confession what came to olive haygarth uncle jack nobody's child my little gentleman ruthy's country job golding's christmas my comforter more bed-time stories. against wind and tide. jack ramsdale was a bad boy. he had been a bad boy so long that secretly he was rather tired of it; but he really did not know how to help himself. it was his reputation, and it is a curious thing how naturally we all live up to our reputations; that is to say, we do the things which are expected of us. there is a deal of homely sense in the old proverb, "give a dog a bad name and hang him." give a boy a bad name, and he is reasonably sure to deserve one. not but that jack ramsdale had fairly earned his bad name. his mother had died before he was old enough to remember her, so he had never known what a home was. once, when his father was unusually good-natured, he had asked him some questions about his mother. "she was one of god's saints, if ever there was one," the man answered, half reluctantly. "everybody wondered that she took up with me, but maybe it was because she saw i needed her more than anybody else did. she might have made a different man of me if she'd lived; at least, i've always thought so. i never drank so much when she was alive but what i kept a comfortable home over her head. but when she was gone, it didn't appear to me there was any thing left to live for. i lacked comfort sorely, and i don't say but what i've sought for it in by-paths,--by and forbidden paths, as she used to say." "i wish i could ha' seen her," said jack. "she was a dreadful motherly creetur, and was always hangin' over you. cold nights i've known her get up half-a-dozen times, often, to see if the clothes was all up over your shoulders; and sometimes i've seen her stand there looking down at you in the biting cold till i thought she'd freeze; but i didn't dare to say any thing, for her lips were movin', and i knew she was prayin' for you. she was a prayin' woman, your mother was. i used to think her prayers would save both of us." "i can't make out how she looked," jack persisted. he was so anxious to hear something about this dead mother who had loved him so. ever since she died, he had been knocked round from pillar to post, as they say, with his father. sam ramsdale was good help, as all the farmers knew, when he was sober; but he was not reliable, and then he had the disadvantage of always being incumbered with the boy, whom he took with him everywhere,--an unkempt, undisciplined little fellow whom no one liked. now, as his father talked, it seemed to him so strange a thing to think that some one used to stand beside his bed in cold winter nights and pray for him, that he could hardly believe it; and he said again, out of his desolate longing,-- "i wish i could ha' seen how she looked." "i don't suppose folks would ha' said she was much to look at." his father spoke, in a musing sort of way. "she was a little pale slip of a woman, with soft yellow hair droopin' about her white face, and eyes as blue as them blue flowers you picked up along the road. but there, i can't talk about her, and i ain't a goin' to, what's more; and don't you ever ask me again!" from that time jack never dared to ask any more questions about his mother, but all through his troublesome, turbulent boyhood he remembered the meagre outlines of the story which had been told him. no matter how bad he had been through the day, the nights were few when he failed to think how once a pale slip of a woman, with soft yellow hair around her white face, and eyes blue as the blue gentians, had bent above his slumbers and said prayers for him. when he was ten years old his father died in the poor-house. drink had enfeebled his constitution; a sudden cold did the rest. there were a few weeks of terrible suffering, and then the end came. jack was with him to the last. there was nowhere else for him to be, and the father liked to have him in his sight. one day, just before the end, when they were all alone, the man called the boy to his bedside. "i can't tell you to follow my example, jack; that's the shame of it. i've got to hold myself up as a warnin', and not as an example. just you steer as clear o' my ways as you can; but remember that your mother was a prayin' woman. i s'pose nobody'd believe it, jack; but since i've been lyin' here i've kinder felt nearer to her than i ever did before since she died. seems as if i could a'most hear her prayin' for me; and i think, by times, that the god she lived so close to won't say no. it's the 'leventh hour, jack, the 'leventh hour, i know that as well as anybody; but she used to sing a hymn about while the lamp holds out to burn. when i get there i shall get rid of this awful thirst for drink. it's been an _awful_ thirst; no hunger that i know of can match it; but i shall get rid of that when this old body goes to pieces. and what does a saviour mean, if it ain't that he'll save us from our sins if we ask him?" as he said these last words he seemed sinking into a sort of stupor, but he started out of it to say once more,-- "never follow my example, jack, boy. remember your mother was a prayin' woman." those were the last connected words any one ever heard him speak. after that the night came on,--the double night of darkness and of death. once or twice the woman who acted as nurse, bending over him, heard him mutter, "the 'leventh hour, jack!" and afterwards she wondered whether it was a presentiment, for it was just at eleven o'clock that he died. jack had been sent to bed a little before, and when he got up in the morning, he knew that he was all alone in the world. after the funeral deacon small took him home. he wouldn't be of much use for two or three years to come, the deacon said. maybe he could drive up the cows, and ride the horse to plough, and scare the crows away from the corn, but he couldn't earn his salt for a number o' years to come. however, somebody must take him, and he guessed _he_ would. it would be a good spell before the "creetur" would come of age, and the last part of the time he might be smart enough to pay off old scores. but surely jack ramsdale must have eaten more salt than ever boy of ten ate before if he did not work enough for it, for it was jack here, and jack there, all day long. jack did everybody's errands; jack drew mrs. small's baby-grandchild in its little covered wagon; jack scoured the knives; jack brought the wood; jack picked berries; jack weeded flower-beds. from being an idle little chap, in everybody's way, as he had been in his father's time, he was pressed right into hard service, for more hours in the day than any man worked about the place. now work is good for boys, but all work and no play--worse yet, all work and no love--is not good for any one. jack grew bitter; and where he dared to be cruel, he was cruel; where he dared to be insolent, he was insolent. not toward deacon small, however, were these qualities displayed. the deacon was a hard master, and the boy feared, and hated, and obeyed him. but as the years went on, five of them, he grew to be generally considered a bad boy. at fifteen he was strong of his age, a man, almost, in size. his schooling had been confined to the short winter terms, and he had always been the terror of every successive schoolmaster. when he was fifteen, a new teacher came,--a handsome, graceful young man, just out of college. he was slight rather than stout, well-dressed, well-mannered, fit, you would have said, for a lady's drawing-room, rather than the country schoolhouse in winter, with its big boys, tough customers, many of them, and jack ramsdale the toughest customer of all. after mr. garrison had passed his examination, one of the committee, impressed by what he thought a certain-fine-gentleman air in the young man, warned him of the rough times in store for him, and especially of the rough strength and insubordination of jack ramsdale. ralph garrison smiled a calm smile, but uttered no boasts. he had been a week in the school before he had any especial trouble. jack was taking his measure. the truth was, the boy had a certain amount of taste, and garrison's gentlemanliness impressed him more than he would have cared to own. it is possible that he might have gone on, quietly and obediently, but that now his bad name began to weigh him down. the boys who had looked up to him as a leader in evil grew impatient of his quiet submission to rules. "got your match, jack?" said one. "goin' to own beat without giving it a try?" said another. and jack began to think that the evil laurels he had won, as the bravo and bully of the school, would fall withered from his brow if he didn't make some effort to fasten them. so one morning, midway between recess and the close of school, he took out an apple and began paring it with a jack-knife and eating it. for a moment mr. garrison looked at him; then he remarked, with ominous quietness, in a tone lower and more gentle than usual,-- "jack, this is not the place or time for eating." "my place and time to eat are when i am hungry," jack answered, with cool insolence, cutting off a mouthful, and carrying it deliberately to his mouth. "you will put up that apple instantly, if you please." still the teacher spoke very gently, and turned a little pale. the persuasive words and the slight paleness misled jack. he thought his victory was to be so easily won, there would not even be any glory in it. he smiled and ate, quite at his ease. "you will come here whether you please or not," was the next sentence from the teacher's desk. jack cut off another mouthful and sat still. then, he never knew how it was, but suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye, he felt himself pulled from his seat out into the middle of the floor while knife and apple flew from his hand. he kicked, he struggled, he tried to strike; but an iron grasp held his wrists. the strong muscles of the stroke-oar at harvard did good service. the handsome face was pale, but the lips were set like steel, and the cool eyes never wavered as they fixed and held those of the young bully. then suddenly he whipped from his pocket a ball of strong fish-line and bound the struggling wrists tightly, and, pushing a chair toward his captive, said, coolly,-- "i want nothing more of you till after school. you can sit or stand, as you please. now i will hear the first class in arithmetic." there was a strange hush in the school, and every scholar knew who was master. when all the rest had gone, the teacher turned to jack ramsdale. "i took you a little by surprise," he said. "perhaps you are not yet satisfied that i am stronger than you." "yes, i'm satisfied," jack answered. "i ain't so mean but what i'm willing to own beat when it's done fair and square." mr. garrison, meanwhile, was untying his wrists. as he unwound the last coil, he said,-- "the forces of law and order are what rule the world. i think if you fight against them, you'll always be likely to find yourself on the losing side." a great bitter wave of defiance swelled up in jack's heart; not against mr. garrison as an individual, but against such as he,--handsome, graceful, cultured; against his own hard lot; against a prosperous world; against, it almost seemed, god, himself. "what do _you_ know about it?" he said sullenly. "you never had to fight. it was all on your side. god did it. he made you handsome and strong, and had you go to school and college, and grow up a gentleman. and he made me"--how the face darkened here--"what you see. he took my mother, who did love me and pray for me, away from me when i wasn't more than three years old. he gave me to a father who drank hard and taught me nothing good. and then he took even him from me, and handed me over to deacon small; and i tell you, teacher, you don't know what a tough time is till you've summered and wintered with deacon small. i've got a bad name, and who wonders? and i feel like living up to it. i hadn't any thing against you, specially; but if i'd given in peaceably to all your rules, the boys would have said i had grown chicken-hearted, and a little name for pluck is all the name i have got." mr. garrison looked at him a few moments, steadily. then he said,-- "it does seem as if fate had been hard on you. but do you know what i think god has been doing for you, in giving you all these hard knocks; for things don't _happen_; god never lets go the reins." the boy looked the question he did not speak, and mr. garrison went on. "i think he has been making you strong, just as rowing against wind and tide made my wrists strong, until now you could fight all your enemies if you would. "the thing we are put here for," he continued, "is to do our best; and if we are doing that, in god's sight, there is nothing that can prevail against us; not fate, or foes, or poverty, or any other creature. there is nothing in all the universe that is strong enough to stand against a soul that is bound to go up and not down. you may go home, now." it was one of mr. garrison's merits that he knew when to stop. jack ramsdale went home with that last sentence ringing in his ears,-- "there is nothing in all the universe that is strong enough to stand against a soul that is bound to go up and not down." the words went with him all the rest of the day. they lay down with him at night, and he looked out of his window and fixed his eyes on a bright, far-off star, and thought of them. what if he should turn all the strength that was in him to going up and not down? if he did right, who could make him afraid? if he served willingly, he need fear no master. it was very late, and the star, obedient to the law which rules the worlds, had marched far on, out of his sight, before he went to sleep. he had made a resolve. in the strength of that resolve he awoke to the new day. "i will not go down," he said to himself; "i will go up and on!" he was not all at once transformed from sinner to saint. such sudden changes do not belong to this slow world. but the purpose and aim of his life was changed. never again did he lose sight of the shining heights he meant to climb. if the mother in the heavenly home could look down on the world below, she knew that not in vain had she been "a praying woman." to mr. garrison the boy's devotion was something wonderful,--humble, loyal, faithful, and never ceasing. from being the teacher's terror, jack had become the teacher's friend. blue sky and white clouds. "say yes, and you'll be such a dear papa." papa bent down and kissed his girl, before he asked, half reproachfully,-- "and how if i say 'no'? shan't i be dear, then?" kathie blushed, and then laughed. "why, of course you'll be dear, any way; but may be it's partly because you are so good, and hate so to say no to your own little daughter, that i love you so much." "to my little daughter as tall as her mother? do you know, small person, that i've often thought it might be better for that same little daughter if i said no to her oftener? i couldn't love you more, but i'm afraid i might love you more wisely. a hundred and twenty-five dollars for a new party dress! bring your own mature judgment to bear on it, and tell me if it appears quite sage, even to you." kathie thought so hard for a moment that she fairly scowled with earnestness; then she answered,-- "yes, on the whole, i think it will be eminently judicious. you see, i shall be going out a good deal now, and i can do so many different things with a handsome silk, and if i got a tarleton, or any of those cheap, thin goods, it would be used up at once." papa smiled. "well, if you are quite sure you're right, i'll bring the check home this noon, and you and mamma can begin your search for this wonderful yellow gown." "yellow!" kathie clapped her hands to her ears. "what did i ever do to make you think i would wear a horrid yellow gown?" "oh, was it red you said you wanted?" "worse and worse. you talk like a hottentot. my gown is to be blue, soft, and lustrous, like a summer sky, and i am to look in it,--well, you shall see on christmas eve." then, with half a dozen good-by kisses, the father of this only child--happy, easy-going, and too indulgent--took himself off down town, and kathie danced away to the sewing-room to find her mother and inform her of her success. kathie mason, at sixteen, was a girl bright, and sweet, and bonny enough to tempt any parent to a little over-indulgence. she had soft, sunny, yellow hair; and lovely, dark brown eyes; with a look in them that kept saying, "oh, be good to me!"; a delicate, flower-like face; and a mouth red as fair rosamond's, which has long been dust now, but which poets and painters raved about centuries ago. she had a graceful little figure, and a clear, fresh young voice; and she had a heart, too, which was in the right place, though she herself was almost a stranger to it. she loved beauty dearly, whether in books, or nature, or human faces, or blue silk gowns, and it was just as natural to her to be a picture, whatever way she looked or moved, as it was to be kathie. as she danced along she was humming a verse of a gay little french _chanson_, where some lover said his love was like a rose; and you thought it might have been written about herself, only kathie had no thorns. as she drew near the sewing-room she stopped, for her mother and the dress-maker were talking busily. miss atkinson was a pathetic little woman, with eyes which looked as if the color had been washed out of them by many tears, a thin, frail body, and a voice not complaining, but simply plaintive. somehow kathie hated to break in upon the slow pathos of those tones with her blue silk ecstasy, so she stood leaning against the door for a few moments and waited. "you see," the little woman was saying, "it was a great pull-back, my being sick two months in the summer, and then my brother being so much worse. but it will all come right, somehow. if i can manage to get alice clothed up so she can go to school, i shall be thankful; for she's a bright child, and it's too bad to have her wasting her time. but then, food and fire must come first, and if people are sick they are sick, and two hands can't do any more than they can." there was nothing to oppose to this mild fatalism; so kathie's mother only said, very sympathizingly, that it was hard, and that it seemed as if, with her sister and her sister's child to support, miss atkinson had all she could do before, without undertaking any new responsibilities for the ailing brother and his family. "oh! but there's no one else to do it if i don't, you see," quoth the little dress-maker, almost cheerfully--as cheerfully, that is, as her voice could be made to speak; but kathie noticed that a moment after she pressed her hand on her side and drew a sharp, hard breath. "does your side pain you, miss atkinson?" she asked, kindly. "not much more than usual. it's rather bad, most days. i went to work too soon after i was sick, the doctor said. but he didn't tell me how the rest were going to live if i laid by any longer; and, dear me, i'm thankful enough to be able to work at all." kathie thought she should be ashamed to have this poor little woman, who had two people besides herself to provide for, entirely, and no knowing how many more, in part, work on her blue silk superfluity. clearly _that_ must be made by some other dress-maker; and she could not even speak to her mother about it now; so she just asked for some work, and sat down with it, thinking more seriously than, perhaps, she had ever thought in her gay, butterfly life before. "how old is your little niece, alice?" she asked, after a while. "ten, and she is as far along in her studies now as a good many girls of twelve. i did mean to have sent her straight through, normal school and all, and let her prepare to be a teacher; but it doesn't look much like it, now william's taken so poorly. i expect i shall have to pretty much clothe his three children besides alice." "can't your sister, little alice's mother, help you at all?" "well, yes, she does help. she does all she's able to, and more; for, you see, she's feeble, too. she keeps house for us, and cooks, and washes and makes our things after i fit them, and keeps us mended; but there's nothing she can do to bring in any thing. but there, i beg your pardon ten times over, apiece. it's against my principles to go out sewing, and harrow up folks' minds with my troubles; only, you see, i'm a little nervous and unsettled to-day on account of alice's crying pretty hard this morning because she hadn't any thing to wear to school." papa mason took kathie aside when he came home to dinner, and with a little fun, and teasing, and pretence of mystery, produced the check. there it was, one hundred and twenty-five dollars, all right, and three weeks between now and christmas eve to get her blue silk gown made. while she ate her roast beef she began to think again. one question kept asking itself over in her mind,--why should some people have blue silk gowns, and others have no gowns at all? i rather think we have all asked ourselves this same thing, in one form of words or another. since the great father made and loves us all, why should one be queen victoria and another little alice staying at home from school for want of a few yards of woollen and a pair of boots? political economists have ciphered it all out, beautifully; but kathie did not know that, and so the vexing question puzzled her. what if it was done just to give us a chance to help each other? she asked herself, at last, and the text of a sermon she heard once came into her mind,--"bear ye one another's burdens." if all fared just alike there would be no chance for helpfulness, or charity, or self-denial; so may be clothes would be put on people's backs at the expense of better things in their hearts. it must be that god knew best. oh! if one couldn't think that, the world might as well fall to pieces at once. "will you have pudding, dear? i have asked you three times," said mrs. mason's voice, with a little extra energy in it; and kathie looked up out of her dream with a certain vagueness in her eyes, and answered,-- "a hundred and twenty-five," whereat they all laughed. "i can't give you a hundred and twenty-five puddings; but, if you'll please make a beginning with this one, no doubt the rest will come before the year is over." whereupon kathie roused herself from her speculations, ate her pudding, and sent her plate for more, with a good, healthy, girlish appetite. that afternoon she sewed quite diligently, and talked little; but her eyes were bright, and her face all the time eager with some thought. after tea was over, and miss atkinson had gone, and papa had stepped out to see a business friend, kathie sat down, as was one of her habits, on a low stool beside her mother, and laid her head in her lap. mrs. mason knew that all the afternoon's thinking would come out before the child got up again; so she just smoothed the fluffy, yellow hair with her hand and waited. "don't you think, mamma, that miss atkinson must be a good deal better christian than the rest of us, she's such a patient burden-bearer? she never seemed to think for one moment that it was hard she should have to work so, or that she couldn't have what she wanted herself. all that troubled her was because she couldn't do what she had planned for alice." then, when mrs. mason had made some slight answer, there was silence again for a time; and then kathie cried impulsively,-- "mamma, what a perfect good-for-nothing i am. i never carried a burden for any one in my life. i have just been a dead weight on some one else's hands." "not a _dead_ weight, by any means," and mrs. mason laughed, "and really, papa and i have found it rather a pleasure than otherwise to carry you." the loving girl kissed the hand that had been stroking her hair, but she was quite too much in earnest to laugh. "well, mamma, you know it doesn't say,--'bear ye one another's burdens, all of you but kathie, and she needn't.' i think this rule without any exceptions means me, just as much as it does any one; and i shan't feel quite right in my own mind till i begin to follow it. i want to bear part of alice." kathie was talking very fast by this time, and her cheeks were very pink, and her brown eyes very bright. "you see i've thought it all out, this afternoon. if miss atkinson will feed her and house her, i do think i might undertake to clothe her until she is through school and ready to teach; and don't you think i'd feel better when i came to die to have done some little thing for somebody? you see it would come very easy. my dresses, and cloaks, and hats would all make over for her. there wouldn't be much to buy outright, except boots, and stockings, and under clothes, generally." "and wouldn't you find all that rather a heavy drain on your pocket-money? i don't ask to discourage you, childie; only i want you to consider it all thoroughly, for if you should once undertake this thing and lead miss atkinson and alice to depend on it, there could be no drawing back then." "yes, i have thought about it all. didn't you see me working it out in my head this afternoon, like a sum in arithmetic? i think half the money papa gives me for lunches, and presents, and the other things pocket-money goes for, would be just as good for me as the whole; and i am sure with half of it i could keep alice along nicely after i once got her started; and its just about this start i want to speak to you now. papa gave me a hundred and twenty-five dollars to-day to buy me a blue silk gown for aunt jane's christmas-eve party. now fifty dollars will get me a lovely white muslin, and a blue sash, and all the fresh little fixings i should need; and that would leave seventy-five dollars, with which i could buy flannels, and boots, and water-proof, and a good, warm, strong outfit altogether, for alice to commence with. now do you think papa would be willing? i don't want to ask him, for he doesn't understand silks and muslins, or what alice needs; but would you answer for him? just think, mamma, what burdens poor miss atkinson has to bear." mrs. mason started to say,--"it is all for her own relations,"--but stopped, for the command didn't read, "relations, bear _ye_ one another's burdens." had she any right to interfere between kathie and this first work of charity the child had ever been inspired to undertake? would not this object of interest outside herself, apart from blue silk gowns, and flounces, and furbelows, do something for her girl that was likely to be left undone otherwise? what a very cold loving-one-another we were most of us doing in this world, after all? so she bent over and kissed the eager, lovely, upturned face that waited for her words, and said fondly,-- "yes, i will answer for papa, my darling. i approve your plan heartily, but i will not offer help. this shall be all your own good work." the next morning miss atkinson was told of the new plan. her faded eyes opened twice as widely as usual. she was not sure she heard aright. "do you mean to say miss kathie, that you undertake, with your mamma's full consent, to clothe alice until she is through school?" "that is precisely what i bind myself to do," kathie answered, gravely copying the solemnity of the little dress-maker. "then all i have to say is, bless you, and bless the lord. you never can tell what good you're doing." and then the poor little woman began to cry, just for pure joy; and she sobbed till mamma mason felt her eyes growing misty, and kathie ran away out of the room. be sure that miss atkinson made up kathie's muslin lovingly. it would not be her fault if it were not prettier than any silk. and truly, when christmas eve came and kathie was dressed for aunt jane's party, there could hardly have been a more radiant vision than this white-robed shape with the sunny, soft hair, the gleaming brown eyes, and the wild-rose cheeks, where the color came and went. her father looked her over with all his heart in his eyes, and a tenderness which quivered in his voice, though he tried to speak jestingly. "so there wasn't blue sky enough for any thing but your sash, and you had to take white clouds for the rest." "_just_ that. don't you like the clouds?" he bent and kissed her. "yes, i like the clouds; and i think the sunshine struck through them for somebody." the cousin from boston. we had been friends ever since i could remember, nelly and i. we were just about the same age. our parents were neighbors, in the quiet country town where we both lived. i was an only child; and nelly was an only daughter, with two strong brothers who idolized her. we were always together. we went to the same school, and sat on the same bench, and used the same desk. we learned the same lessons. i had almost said we thought the same thoughts. we certainly loved the same pleasures. we used to go together, in early spring, to hunt the dainty may-flowers from under the sheltering dead leaves, and to find the shy little blue-eyed violets. we went hand in hand into the still summer woods, and gathered the delicate maiden-hair, and the soft mosses, and all the summer wealth of bud and blossom. gay little birds sang to us. the deep blue sky bent over us, and the happy little brooks murmured and frolicked at our feet. in autumn we went nutting and apple gathering. in the winter we slid, and coasted, and snowballed. for every season, there was some special pleasure,--and always nelly and i were together,--always sufficient to each other, for company. we never dreamed that any thing could come between us, or that we could ever learn to live without each other. we were thirteen when nelly's cousin from boston--lill simmonds, her name was--came to see her. it was vacation then, and i had not seen nelly for two days, because it had been raining hard. so i did not know of the expected guest, until one morning nelly's brother tom came over, and told me that his aunt simmonds, from boston, was expected that noon, and with her his cousin lill. "she'll be a nice playmate for you and nelly," he said. "she's only a year older than you two, and she used to have plenty of fun in her. nelly wants you to come over this afternoon, sure." that was the beginning of my feeling hard toward nelly. i was unreasonable, i know, but i thought she might have come to tell me the news, herself. i felt a sort of bitter, shut-out feeling all the forenoon, and after dinner i was half minded not to go over,--to let her have her boston cousin all to herself. my mother heard some of my speeches, but she was wise enough not to interfere. when she saw, at last, that curiosity and inclination had gotten the better of pique and jealousy, she basted a fresh ruffle in the neck of my afternoon dress, and tied a pretty blue ribbon in my hair, and i looked as neat and suitable for the occasion as possible. at least i thought so, until i got to nelly's. she did not watch for my coming, and run to the gate to meet me, as usual. of course it was perfectly natural that she should be entertaining her cousin, but i missed the accustomed greeting; and when she heard my voice at the door, and came out of the parlor to speak to me, i know that if my face reflected my heart, it must have worn a most sullen and unamiable expression. "i'm so glad you've come, sophie," she said cheerfully. "lill is in the parlor. i want you to like her. but you can't help it, i know, she's so lovely; such a beauty." "perhaps i shan't see with your eyes," i answered, with what i imagined to be most cutting coldness and dignity. "oh yes! i guess you will," she laughed. "we have thought alike about most things, all our lives." i followed her into the parlor, and i saw lill. if you are a country girl who read, and have ever been suddenly confronted with a city young lady in the height of fashion, to whom you were expected to make yourself agreeable, you can, perhaps, understand what i felt; particularly if by nature you are not only sensitive, but somewhat vain, as i am sorry to confess i was. i had been used to think myself as well-dressed, and as well-looking as any of my young neighbors; i was neither as well-dressed nor as well-looking as lill simmonds. nelly was right. she was a beauty. she was a little taller than nelly or i,--a slender, graceful creature, with a high-bred air. it was years before they had begun to crimp little girls' hair, but i think lill's must have been crimped. it was a perfect golden cloud about her face and shoulders, and all full of little shining waves and ripples. then what eyes she had--star bright and deep blue and with lashes so long that when they drooped they cast a shadow on the pale pink of her cheeks. her features were all delicate and pure; her hands white, with one or two glittering rings upon them; and her clothes! my own gowns had not seemed to me ill-made before; but now i thought nelly and i both looked as if we had come out of the ark. it was the first of september, and her dress had just been made for fall,--a rich, glossy, blue poplin, with soft lace at throat and wrists, and a pin and some tiny ear jewels of exquisitely cut pink coral. "yes," i thought to myself bitterly, "no wonder nelly was dazzled. _she_ may like to be the contrast, to help miss fine-airs show off; but i object to that character, and i shall keep pretty clear of this house while miss lill is in it." i spoke to her politely enough, i suppose; and she answered me, it might have been either shyly or haughtily: i chose in my then mood to think the latter. decidedly the afternoon was not a success. nelly did her best to make it pleasant; but she and i couldn't go poking about into all sorts of odd places, as we did when we were alone, and we did not know what the boston cousin would like to do; so we put on our company manners and _talked_, and for an illustration of utter dulness and dreariness commend me to a "talk" between three girls in their early teens, who have nothing of the social ease which comes of experience and culture, and where two of them have nothing in common with the other, as regards daily pursuits and habits of life. lill talked a little about burnham's--it was before loring's day--but we had read no novelists but scott and dickens, and we couldn't discuss with her whether it wasn't too bad that gerald married isabel and did not marry margaret. we might have brightened a little over the supper, but then mrs. simmonds, who had been sitting upstairs with nelly's mother, was present,--a stately dame, in rustling silk and gleaming jewels, who overawed me completely. i was glad to go home; but the little root of bitterness i had carried in my heart had grown, until, for the time, it choked out every thing sweet and good. while the boston cousin stayed, i saw little of nelly. i am telling the truth, and i must confess it was my fault. i know now that nelly was unchanged; but, of course, she was very much occupied. whenever i saw her she was so full of lill's praises that i foolishly thought i was nothing to her any more, and lill was every thing. if i had chosen to verify her words, instead of chafe at them, i, too, might have enjoyed lill's grace and beauty, and learned from her a great many things worth knowing. but i took my own course, and if the cup i drank was bitter, it was of my own brewing. at last, one afternoon, nelly came over by herself to see me. i was most ungracious in my welcome. "i don't see how you could tear yourself away from your city company," i said, with that small, hateful sarcasm, which is so often a girl's weapon. "they say self-denial is blest: i hope yours will be." perhaps nelly guessed that my hatefulness had its root in pain; or it may have been that her own heart was too full of something else for her to notice my mood. "lill is going to-morrow," she said, gently. "indeed!" i answered; "i don't know how the town will support the loss of so much beauty and grace. i suppose i shall see more of you then; but i must not be selfish enough to rejoice in the general misfortune." nelly's gentle eyes filled with tears at last. "sophie," she said, "how can you be so unkind, you whom i have loved all my life? i am going, too, with lill, and that is what i came to tell you. ever since she has been here, aunt simmonds has been trying to persuade mother to let me go back for a year's schooling with lill, but it was not decided until last night. mother thought, at first, that i must wait to have my winter things made; but aunt simmonds said she could get them better in boston, and the same woman would make them for me who makes lill's." "indeed! how well dressed you will be!" i said bitterly. "how you will respect yourself!" "sophie, i don't _know_ you," nelly burst out, indignantly. "the hardest of all was to leave you, for we've been together all our lives; but you are making it easy. good-by." she put her arms round me, even then, and kissed me, and i responded coldly. oh how could i, when i loved her so? i watched her out of sight, and then i sank down upon the grass, and laid my head upon a little bench where we had often sat together, and sobbed and cried till i could scarcely see. i was half tempted to go over to nelly's, and ask her to forgive me; but my wicked pride and jealousy wouldn't let me. lill would be there, i thought, and she wouldn't want me while she had lill. so i stayed away. the next morning they all went off. when i heard the car-whistle at the little railroad station a mile and a half away, i began to cry again. then, if it had not been too late, i would have gone and implored my friend to forgive me, and not shut me out of her heart. but the day for repentance was over. the slow months went on. i missed nelly at school, at home, everywhere. i longed for her with an incurable longing. it was to me almost as if she were dead. people wrote many less letters in those days than they do now, and neither nelly nor i had learned to express any thing of our real selves on paper. we exchanged three or four letters, but they amounted to little more than the statement that we were well, and the list of our studies. one look into nelly's eyes would have been worth a thousand such. there were other pleasant girls in town, but i took none of them into nelly's vacant place: how could i? who of them would remember all my past life, as she did,--she who had shared with me so many perfect days of june, so many long, bright summers and melancholy autumns, and winters white with snow? i was, as i have shown you, jealous and hateful and cruel, but never for a moment fickle. at last nelly came again. it was a day in the late june, and she found me just where she had left me, under the old horse-chestnut tree in the great old-fashioned garden. i knew it must be almost time for her coming, but i had not asked any one about it. somehow i couldn't. i very seldom even spoke her name in those days. so she stole upon me unawares, and the first i knew her arms were round me,--her warm, tender lips against my own,--and her sweet, unchanged voice cried,-- "o sophie, this is good, this is coming home, indeed!" i cried like a very child. nell didn't quite understand that; but then she had not had, like me, a hard place in her heart, which needed happy tears to melt it away. i think, in spite of the tears, i was more glad of the meeting even than she. after a little while she said,-- "come, i want you to go home with me now, and see lill." will you believe that even then the old, bitter jealousy began to gnaw again at my heart? she had been with lill almost a year; could she not be content to give me a single hour without her? perhaps she saw my thought in my face; for she added, in such a sad, pitiful tone, "poor lill!" "poor lill," indeed! with her beautiful golden hair, and her eyes like stars, and her lovely gowns, and her city airs, "poor lill!" "i should never think of calling miss simmonds poor," i said, with the old hardness back in my voice. "you will when you see her, now," nelly answered gently. "she had a hard fall on the icy pavement, last winter, and she hurt her hip, and it's been growing worse and worse. she can hardly walk at all, now, and she has suffered awfully. but she has been, oh so patient!" and how i had dared to envy that girl! i was shocked and silenced. i walked along by nelly's side very quietly. when we got there she took me up into her room, and there i saw lill simmonds. i should hardly have known her. the golden glory of hair floated about her still. the eyes were star-bright yet, but the cheeks which the long lashes shaded were pink no longer, and they were so thin and hollow that it was pitiful to see them. she wore a wrapper of some soft blue stuff, and on her lap lay her frail, transparent hands. she started up to meet us with a smile which for a moment gave back some of the old brightness to her face, but which faded almost instantly. i sat down beside the lounging-chair where she was lying, but i could not talk to her. the sight of her wasted loveliness was all too sad. after a little while she said to nelly,-- "won't you, you are always so good to me, go and fetch me a glass of the cool water from the spring at the foot of the garden?" nelly went instantly, and then lill turned to me and put her hand on my arm. "i asked her to go, sophie," she said, "because i wanted to speak to you. i wanted to say something to you which it would hurt her to hear. i used to be very jealous of you, sophie. i wanted nelly to love me best, but she never did. she had loved you so long that i could see you were always first in her heart. and now i am glad. i shall never be well again, and when i am gone i would not like nelly to be so unhappy as she would be if she had loved me first and best. she will miss me, and she will be very sorry for me; but she will have you, and you can comfort her. i am ashamed now of that old jealousy. i think it made me not nice to you last summer." lill jealous of me! i was dumb with sheer amazement. and i, how much bitterness and injustice i had to confess! but before i could put it into words nelly had come back, and a look from lill kept me silent. that night, when i went away, i put my arms round my darling and kissed her with my whole heart, as i had not done for a year. she never knew how much went into that kiss, of sorrow and shame and self-reproach. what months those were which followed! i was constantly with nelly and her cousin. mrs. simmonds was there, but lill spent most of her day-time hours with us girls; to spare her mother, probably, who was with her every night, and also because she loved us both. sometimes, on fine days, she would walk a little under the trees; and i have knelt unseen, in a passion of loving humility, and kissed the grass over which she had dragged after her her helpless foot. growing near to death, she grew in grace. as nelly said, one day,-- "her wings are growing. she will fly away with them soon." and so she did. through the summer she lingered, suffering much at times, but always patient and gentle and uncomplaining. and when the dead leaves of autumn went fluttering down the wind, she died with the dead summer, and upborne on the wings of some messenger of god her soul went home. even her mother hardly dared mourn for her,--her life had been so pure and so peaceful,--her death was so tranquil and so happy. i had ceased, long before, to be jealous of her. no one could love her too much. she was my saint; and her memory has hallowed many a thought during the long, world-weary years since. i need but to close my eyes to see a pale, patient face, with its glory of golden hair and its eyes bright as stars; and often, on some soft wind, i seem to hear her voice, speaking again the last words i ever heard her speak,-- "love each other always, my darlings, and remember i loved you both." we have obeyed her faithfully, nelly and i. through the long years since, no coldness or estrangement has ever come between us. my first and last jealousy was buried in lill's grave; and nelly and i have proved, to our own satisfaction at least, that a friendship between two girls may be strong as it is sweet, faithful as it is fond,--the inalienable riches of a whole life. missy. miss hurlburt had wandered farther into the woods than was her habit, beguiled by the wonderful loveliness overhead, underfoot, all about her. it was an afternoon in early october, but warm as june. the leaves were of a thousand brilliant hues; for one or two nights of keen frost, a week before, had seemed to set them on fire. there were boughs as scarlet as the burning bush before which moses wondered and worshipped. there were others of deep orange; and others, still, of variegated leaves, where the green lingered and was mixed with scarlet and brown and yellow, till some of them looked like patterns in a kaleidoscope. underfoot was the delicate, fresh woodland moss. sometimes pine needles made the path soft; and sometimes, leaves, which had died earlier than their mates, rustled under miss hurlburt's tread. above, high over the flaming tree boughs, was the deep, lustrous, blue sky, with all its heavenly secrets. the air was full of that wonderful, radiant haze of autumn which makes the distance vague with beauty. and the temperature, as i said, was of june; so warm that miss hurlburt had taken off her hat, and let the scarlet mantle fall from her shoulders. she herself, had a painter been there to study the scene, would have been no unworthy wood nymph. her figure was full, but not too full for grace. health and strength were in every line of it. her fine, abundant hair, like that of which lowell wrote, "outwardly brown, but inwardly golden," was brushed back from her low, broad forehead, and coiled in a great heavy knot, from which a stray curl or two had escaped, at the back of her proud little head. she had great brown eyes, full of thought and feeling; cheeks, in which the rich, warm color glowed; bright, full, half-parted lips. she carried herself with grace, regal though unstudied. she never consciously remembered that she was eleanor hurlburt,--whose father owned the two great factories in the valley, and all the lands far and near, even these royal woods through which she walked,--but, unconsciously to herself, the fact gave firmness and elasticity to her step, and self-possession to her air. she very seldom wandered alone so far away from home. the factory hands were a necessary part of the great wealth which surrounded miss hurlburt's life with ease and luxury; but some of them might not be altogether pleasant to meet in lonely places,--so she usually was driven out in the elegant victoria, with the spanking bays which were her father's pride, by the decorous family coachman; or drove herself in her jaunty little pony phaeton, with her own man, all bands and buttons, seated in the rumble behind. but to-day it happened that she was walking. i said "it happened," because we speak in that way before we think; though nothing is farther from my belief than that any thing ever _happens_ in this world which god has made, and in which he never loses sight of the smallest or poorest thing. at any rate, miss hurlburt was walking, and she wandered on, until at last she heard a tender little voice singing a tender little song. it was so fine and clear, it might almost have been the carol of a bird, only birds have not yet learned the english language, and _this_ voice sang: "your brother has a falcon, your sister has a flower; but what is left for manikin, born within an hour? "i'll nurse you on my knee, my knee, my own little son; i'll rock you, rock you in my arms, my least little one." such a quaint little song, such a quaint little voice! miss hurlburt wondered for a moment who it could possibly be. then she remembered hearing that, while she was away in the summer, an elderly english woman and a little girl had been allowed to take possession of the cabin in the woods which her father owned. it was a little house with two rooms, which had been built, long ago, as a lodge for hunters; but which had for several years stood vacant, being too far from the factories to be a convenient residence for any of the hands. miss hurlburt went on a few steps farther, and saw the singer. it was a pretty picture. a little creature, who looked about five or six years old, sat in the door-way tending a battered doll. she was almost as brown as a gypsy, this small waif, but there was a singular grace about her. her black hair hung in thick, short curls. she had great, bright, black eyes; lips as red as strawberries; and teeth as white as pearls. miss hurlburt moved on softly, so as not to disturb her; and the waif took up her doll, and talked to it wisely and soberly, after the manner of some mothers. "now, pinky, me love, i have singed you a song. now you must be good for a whole week of hours, or i shan't sing to you, never no more. i mean any more, pinky. be very careful how you speak, always; no good children ever go wrong in their talking." by this time miss hurlburt had almost reached her side. "does your child give you much trouble?" she said, in a tone friendly and inviting confidence. the mite shook her head, with all its black curls. "pinky, me love? no; she only gives me trouble when she is bad. she is good most always, unless it rains." "is she bad then?" with an air of anxious interest. "certain she is: who wouldn't be? she has to stay in the house then; and she doesn't like it. would you? how can persons be good when they don't have what they want?" by this time a nice, motherly-looking old english woman had heard the talk, and came forward to the door. "missy," she said, "always thinks pinky is bad when she is bad herself; and missy is most always cross when it rains." "what is your name?" miss hurlburt asked, bending to smooth the black curls. "berenice ashford," the child answered, in a slow, painstaking manner, as if the words had been taught her with care; "but they don't call me that,--they call me 'missy.'" "is she your grandchild?" was the next question, addressed to the elderly woman, who had set a chair near the door and asked the young lady to sit down. "no, that she isn't, and i would like much to find out whose child she is. to be sure, i should miss her more than a little, if i had to part with her: but, all the same, i should like to find her kindred. she belongs to gentle-folks, and i can't do for her what ought to be done." a few more questions drew out the whole story. the woman, mrs. smith, had a son in america, who was doing well at his trade of dyeing; and he had sent for her to come out to him. he had sent money enough for her expenses, and she had taken passage in the second cabin of a steamer. among her fellow-passengers were missy and her mother,--the latter a beautiful young lady, mrs. smith said, but very pale and sad. she had complained sometimes of a keen and terrible pain in her heart; but she had made little conversation with any one. when they were five days out, she had been found in the morning dead in her berth, with missy sound asleep beside her. there was no possible clew to her history. in her trunk, full of her own clothes and missy's, was no scrap of handwriting, no address. the one or two books which were there, bore on their fly-leaves only the inscription "e. forsyth." she had taken passage as mrs. forsyth, but the captain knew nothing more about her. mrs. smith had somehow taken possession of missy. she had played with the child and amused her a good deal, before her mother died; and now the little creature clung to her as her only friend. there was something over a hundred dollars in the mother's trunk, but as yet mrs. smith said she had not used it. when she reached new york, instead of being met by her son, an old neighbor came for her to the steamer, brought her the news of his death, and gave her the money--nearly a thousand dollars in all--which he had been saving to make the new home they were to have together comfortable. it was an awful blow, and she clung to missy, then, for it seemed as if the child was all she had left in the world. the captain said that he would advertise for the little one's friends; but, meantime, he was evidently very glad to be relieved of the responsibility of her. "how happened you to come here?" miss hurlburt asked. "i had always lived in the country, miss, and i didn't want to stay any longer than i could help in new york; and my son had been meaning to bring me here. it seemed a little comfort, to come where i should have come with him. he had engaged with mr. hurlburt--the one who owns the big factories--to come here and see to the dyeing; and mr. hurlburt was so good as to give me this little house rent-free, for a while. by and by i want to get something to do. if i could be housekeeper somewhere where i could keep missy, or head-nurse, or something of that sort, it would suit me,--but there's no hurry." "mr. hurlburt is my father," the young lady said, when she had heard the story through. "we must see what can be done. missy, should you like to live with me?" the child considered. then she addressed her doll, inquiringly. "pinky, me love, should _you_ like to live with the lady? i guess she's good. would you go, if your mother went?" then she pretended to listen. "'no, i thank you,' pinky says; 'she couldn't go without grandma smith.'" "of course pinky couldn't," miss hurlburt said, laughing. "well, then, i'll come again to see you, and bring pinky's new gown." that evening, at dinner, miss hurlburt was radiant. she knew her father liked to see her well dressed, and she made a handsome toilet. she coaxed him into his very best humor by all the arts only daughters of widowed fathers are wont to use; and then, when he was seated comfortably before the open fire, which tempered the chill of the october evening, she unfolded her plan and her wishes. the beginning and the end were that she wanted missy,--she must have missy,--and the middle was that she couldn't be so cruel as to take from mrs. smith her one comfort, so she wanted mrs. smith. she represented herself as fearfully overworked, in keeping the establishment in order. now how nice it would be if mrs. smith could take all the troublesome details of that off her hands; could see that the house was clean, and the washing well done, and the buttons on. she had needed just such a person a long time, but she hadn't known where to find her; and now here she was, really made to order, as it seemed. of course she had her way. the world called jonathan hurlburt a stern man, but it was not often he could say "no" to his motherless daughter. the very next day miss hurlburt went with her proposition to the little cabin in the wood; and, before a week was over, missy and grandma smith were duly installed as members of the hurlburt household. as for the business part of the experiment, mrs. smith proved worth her weight in gold, as they say. before three months were over, mr. hurlburt discovered that she saved him five times her wages in money, and added immeasurably to the household comfort,--indeed, he concluded that she was, as eleanor had said, really made to order. as for missy, with her quaint ways, her odd, old-fashioned speeches, and the little songs she sang, she was speedily the delight of the household. she lost no whit of her affection for grandma smith, but it was miss hurlburt who was her idol. "pinky, me love," she used often to say to her faithful doll friend, "did you ever see any miss so nice as our miss hurlburt? you had better not say you did, pinky, me love; because then it would be me very sorrowful duty to whip you for telling lies." miss hurlburt's delight in her little waif was unbounded. she dressed her up, like a child in a story-book. when she drove in her victoria, missy always sat beside her, gorgeous in velvet suit and soft ermine furs; and at home missy was never far away. before spring, another strange event took place. i will not say happened, for no chapter of accidents would ever have read so strangely. a young english manufacturer came over to america. mr. hurlburt had had, by letter, various dealings with the firm which he represented; and, on hearing of his arrival in new york, wrote, begging a visit of some length from him. the young man, whose object in his american journey was partly business and partly pleasure, saw an opportunity to combine both in this visit, and accepted the invitation. he amused himself more or less with missy, as did every one who came to the house; but he had been a member of the household for several days before it occurred to him that she was not miss hurlburt's young sister. under this impression he remarked one night,-- "how curiously slight is the resemblance between yourself and your little sister, miss hurlburt!" "oh! missy is not my sister," was the smiling answer. "she is treasure-trove, mr. goring." and a little later, when missy had danced away in search of pinky, she told him the whole story. he listened with intense interest. "and do you know her name?" he asked, at last. "she says it is berenice ashford. you would laugh to hear the slow, painstaking way in which she pronounces it." mr. goring had turned pale as she spoke. "excuse me, miss hurlburt, but i truly believe your missy is my niece. my half-brother married against the wishes of his family, and i was the only one of them who ever made the acquaintance of his poor, pretty young wife. even when he died, last year, the rest would not have any thing to do with her. she had a brother in america, and she wanted to come here, so i took passage for her in the "asia." she insisted on coming in the second cabin, because it was quieter, she said; but i think it was to save expense, as well. tom had left her nothing; and, after the rest of the family had rejected her, i could see that it hurt her pride cruelly to let me help her. she should be all right, she said, when she reached her brother. she was to write me when she got there, but i have never heard a word. i confess that the hope to hear of her was one motive for my coming to this country." "but she was mrs. forsyth," miss hurlburt said, in a curiously bewildered state of mind. "certainly: forsyth was my brother's name. berenice ashford is the child's christian name. it was the name of tom's mother and mine." "but i wonder you did not know missy at once." "of course to find her here was the very last thing i could have expected. then i had not seen her for two or three years. i had communicated with my sister-in-law chiefly by letter; and it was my man of business, and not myself, who put her on board the steamer." "but her brother? why has he never looked for his sister nor her child?" goring smiled. "you are bent on making me prove my title to missy, as one does to stolen goods. i think mrs. forsyth must have gone on without writing to him in what steamer she was coming, and he probably did not know my address. nor do i think he had ever shown any especial interest in his sister. it was only her indomitable pride which made her so determined to go to him, when the family of her husband rejected her. now, i think, i have proved property, and i'm ready to pay the cost of advertising." just then missy's voice was heard in the hall, addressing a solemn exhortation to "pinky, me love," on the duty of never being greedy at table. miss hurlburt called her in. "missy," she said, "what was your papa's name?" "i never knew; did you ever know, pinky, me love? mamma called him tom." "and did you ever hear mamma speak of uncle richard?" mr. goring broke in, eagerly. "you do remember, pinky, me love. it is wicked to look as if you didn't. she said we couldn't go to america and find uncle john, if uncle richard had not given us the money. _i_ remember that, but i had 'most forgotten; so if you forgot, too, i shall not whip you, pinky, me love." "i am your uncle richard," the englishman said with entire calmness of manner and gesture, but with tears in his voice and his eyes. perhaps he expected the child to come at once to his arms; but she stood there, the same composed, self-poised little mite as ever. "_your_ great-uncle, pinky, me love," she announced,--manifesting an unexpectedly clear knowledge of degrees of kinship. "i think maybe we shall like him." "and you will go with me back to england?" he asked, eagerly; for the little creature's likeness to his dead brother stirred his heart. "does _she_ say i must?" missy asked, shyly, looking at miss hurlburt. "i will never say you must, missy." "then, please, uncle richard, i am afraid going in a ship wouldn't agree with pinky; and we'd rather stay here, unless our miss hurlburt will go too." "soh, soh!" and mr. goring smiled a quizzical smile, "i see i have a heart to storm." whose heart he did not say. but he lingered some time in america, coming back at frequent intervals to visit missy, as he said. the result was that when he returned to england little missy had become ready to go with him, even at the risk of exposing "pinky me love," to the perils of the sea; and miss hurlburt, thinking she needed something other than masculine oversight, concluded to go with her and take care of her, having first changed her own name to mrs. goring. and they all said what a fortunate thing it was that mrs. smith was there to keep house. the head boy of eagleheight school. the boys in eagleheight school made up their minds before the first fortnight of max grenoble's stay among them was over that he had no spirit. the truth was, they didn't exactly understand him. they began when he first came to exercise upon him their usual arts of torture,--the initiation ceremonies for all new boys,--and found him practically a non-resistant. they could not, indeed, be quite sure that they even succeeded in vexing him: he was so imperturbable. at last hal somers, goaded to a degree of exasperation by the quiet calmness of the new boy, struck him, with the outcry,-- "there, boys, see how this suits the quaker." it was a sound, ringing blow; but max only laughed a laugh which had a good deal of scorn in it, and said,-- "that's very little to take." then regarding hal curiously, "i looked for a tougher blow than that. to see you, somers, one would think you had a good deal of strength in your arms; but a bad cause is always weak." hal would have liked then to "pitch into him" with whatever of strength he had; but i think he was afraid. so he only turned on his heel, muttered something about a fellow not worth fighting with, and walked away. from that time those who did not vote max grenoble a coward pronounced him a mystery. he did not look at all as if he were wanting in spirit. he was a great strong saxon of a fellow, with the head of a young greek, covered with thick, short golden curls. i wish i could photograph him for you: he was such an embodiment of fresh, vigorous life, with his clear, fearless blue eyes, his short, smiling upper lip, his well-cut features. he was just the fellow to be popular, if only he had not been misunderstood in the first place, and especially if he had not happened to incur hal somers's enmity. hal had been there two years, and was a positive force in the school. he had a large capacity in several other directions besides mischief. he had been the best scholar at eagleheight before max came to dispute his laurels with him; a favorite, therefore, with the teachers, who always passed over his escapades, which were not few, as lightly as they could. in fact he was a sort of ringleader of the faster boys, and he found time, in spite of his never failing in class, to plan out and head the execution of most of the jollifications which were the terror of the quiet villagers around eagleheight. he seldom had any of his offences positively brought home and proven, it is true, and the faculty of the institution liked him too well to condemn him on suspicion, or even to try very hard to strengthen suspicion into certainty. they, the aforesaid faculty, were not at all too ready to give max grenoble his due when he first came. he was not, like hal, of their own training. he had come to them from a rival school, and they were secretly ill pleased to find in him a dangerous competitor with their best scholar. but before six months were over they were obliged to recognize his claims, and had even come to heartily like him. and, indeed, he was a fellow, as edmund sparkler would have said, with no nonsense about him, and likely to make his own way anywhere. whenever he had the opportunity to show his skill he was found to excel in all athletic sports; but this was not often, for the boys rather shunned him, and if there were enough for an undertaking without him he was usually left out of it. he had one friend, however,--a poor little weakling of a fellow, named molyneux bell, who had been friendless before max came. hal somers and his roystering set had always shoved poor little "miss molly," as they called young bell, to the wall; and it opened paradise to him when great, strong, bright, cheery max grenoble took him under his protecting wing. he gave as much as he received too; for max had a strongly affectionate nature, and would have found himself desolate enough without some one to be fond of. only "miss molly" knew the secret of his friend's non-resistance. one day max had carried him in his arms across a stream they came to in one of their walks, and set him gently down on the other side. molyneux looked up gratefully. "what great strong arms you have, max! why, you carry me as gently as a cradle. i believe you could whip hal somers himself, just as easy as nothing. honest, now, don't you think you could? o, i _wish_ you would! the boys wouldn't dare then to call us 'miss molly and her sister.'" max laughed heartily. "i shouldn't be much afraid to try it," he said. "the truth is, i have been awfully tempted to pitch in, sometimes. but last year i made up my mind that the bible meant what it said when it forbade us to return evil for evil and railing for railing. it comes tough on human nature, though, boy human nature at any rate; but there'd be no merit if there was no struggle, and we're put here to fight with the old man in us, as my father calls it." "but if you'd tell 'em _why_ you never knock a fellow down when he sauces you." max's face crimsoned like a girl's. "don't you understand that a fellow _couldn't_ tell such things? at least, i couldn't. i should feel like the pharisee in the bible." at the end of the school year there was to be a competitive examination. the credits for conduct and for recitations were to be taken into account, and the boy who stood highest on the books, and passed the best examination also, was to be the head boy of the school for the next year. from the first the field was abandoned to two competitors,--hal somers and max grenoble. all hal's emulation was aroused. he _would_ succeed. he even forsook his old ways, and for weeks together engaged in nothing that was contraband. he had really fine abilities. he learned some things more readily than max himself, and he felt that all his prestige depended on his securing this leadership. max took the matter more coolly, but still he worked with all diligence. and so, till within ten days of the examination, they were neck and neck. just then there came a dark night,--a warm, tempting june night,--when the moon was old, and only the stars shone, like very far-away lamps indeed, through the dusk. a friend of hal somers was night monitor, and doubtless the temptation afforded by such apparent security was too much for mischief-loving hal. it chanced that max grenoble had received permission from one of the tutors to go to the neighboring village of an errand, and this fact was known only to his own room-mate, molyneux bell. about half-past nine he was returning, and for greater speed crossed a lot belonging to the president of the institution, which saved him an extra quarter of a mile of road. half way across the lot he met hal somers with three other boys behind him, face to face. hal carried a small lantern, and a great pair of shears such as are used to shear sheep. the light from the lantern struck upon the shears with a glitter which led max to notice them. in the hands of one of hal's followers he saw the long, silvery tail of a white horse, and another carried a bunch of hair of a similar hue, evidently the mane of the same animal. "hal somers!" he spoke in his first moment of surprise, without consideration; but there came no answer. the lantern was blown out in a moment, and the boys made the best of their way toward eagleheight. as max walked on more slowly he heard a pitiful neigh, and following the sound, he found president king's pet horse, utterly denuded of mane and tail. it was a joke carried a little too far even for hal somers's effrontery, he thought to himself. if there was any thing outside of his school that president king loved and prided himself on more than another, it was snowflake. he gave her something of the fond care a family man bestows upon his children. every afternoon she was the companion of his solitude, to whom he talked, with a sort of grave humor of his own, as he took his constitutional upon her back. he would not be likely to have much toleration for the young rascals who had shorn her of all her glory. max went on, reported himself to professor vane, from whom he had obtained his leave of absence, and went to bed without hinting what he had seen, even to his room-mate. the next morning when the school went to chapel, there was a sense of thunder in the air. president king had seen his favorite, as those who were guilty did not need to be told, after one look at his lowering face. he conducted the devotions with more than his usual solemnity, and then detained the school a little longer. he uttered a few withering sentences, setting forth what had been done, and commenting satirically upon the invention, the gentlemanliness, the good sense of young men whose brains could originate nothing more brilliant or entertaining than the disfigurement of an unlucky quadruped, and an annoyance and insult to a teacher who had at least this claim upon their respect, that their parents had put them under his charge. then he gave them the opportunity to confess their folly, assuring them that confession was good for the soul, and adding that he should take it as a favor if any one who knew any thing of the affair, whether personally concerned in it or not, would give him all the information in his power. it was not the practice at eagleheight to ask any individual boy whether or not he had been guilty. it was one of president king's notions that to ask such a question of any one who had not manliness enough to confess his fault voluntarily was only leading him into temptation, offering safety as a premium for lying. as the fellows filed out of chapel, hal somers said to his chum,-- "it's all up with me about the leadership. of course grenoble will tell, especially now the prex makes a merit of it." "fool if he wouldn't," was the reply, "after the way we fellows have all treated him, too." all day hal was in hourly expectation of being sent for to an interview solemn and awful in the president's room. but the hours went on and no summons came. about four o'clock he saw max grenoble go into the dreaded chamber of audience. now, he thought, all would come out. of course max had gone to tell all he knew. would he be suspended, or expelled, he wondered, or would the prex be satisfied with giving him black marks enough to put the leadership altogether beyond his reach? then a plan came to him. the president's room was on the lower floor, and over one of its windows grew a grape vine large enough to conceal him from observation. he would go there and listen. that it was a very mean thing to do he knew as well as any body, but temptation was too strong for him, and giving one look to make sure that he was not observed he hid himself away under the open window. the first words he heard were in the voice of the president: "as soon as vane told me you were out last evening, it occurred to me that you would know who was at the bottom of the affair, and it seems you do." "yes, sir," firmly and quietly. "then there can be no possible doubt that it is your duty to tell." "it cannot be my duty, sir, to be a sneak. this secret came into my hands by accident. if i had been monitor for the evening, it would, of course, be my duty to make it known. not having been in any such capacity, _i_ think were i to turn telltale i should be no gentleman." "it's a new order of things when fifty must come to fifteen to be told what it is to be a gentleman," the president said, hotly. "perhaps you don't know, sir, that if you persist in your resolution you lose all hope of the leadership? you will be considered an accessory in the crime, and you will lose as many credit marks as would be taken from the ringleader were he detected." "i can afford to lose those better than my own self-respect," max said, stoutly, and then added, "i think _you_ would have done the same, president king, when you were at my age." hal waited to hear no more, but edged cautiously from his place of concealment. he thought he was not above profiting by max's generosity. he tried to think max was a fool, but there was an inner voice in his heart which whispered that there was something sublime in such folly, and, try as he might, this inner voice would not altogether be silenced. the days went on swiftly. max kept his scholarship up to the highest standard, but the twenty credit marks taken from his list put all hope of his attaining the leadership out of the question. it was the very night before the examination when president king answered a tap on his door with his well known, resonant "come in." his visitor was hal somers. the next morning, after prayers, the president said, very quietly,-- "young gentlemen, before the examination commences i have to detain you long enough to perform a simple act of justice. i acquit max grenoble of all complicity in the misdemeanor committed on the night of the th of june; the entire burden of the same having been assumed by henry somers, in behalf of himself, william graves, george saunders, and john morse. and as this confession was voluntary, i shall visit upon the offenders no severer penalty than the loss of all their credit marks for the last quarter." poor little molyneux bell forgot time and place, and threw his handkerchief into the air with one glad shout:-- "i knew max would come out right at last; i knew he would." so max went back the next year to eagleheight, as the head boy; and under his leadership a new state of affairs was brought about. he led them not only in class, and in athletic exercises, but in all true manliness. they had found out at length that he had plenty of "pluck and grit," even though he might not emulate sayers or heenan. one of his warmest friends was hal somers, in whose character enough nobility was latent to recognize at last the sterling worth even of his rival. agatha's lonely days. they had buried agatha's mother,--put her away under a sheltering tree, beloved of bird and breeze, which waved its boughs between her and the bending, changeful summer sky. agatha thought no other spot in the world could be so pleasant or so dear; and she longed, from the depths of her little, ten-years-old heart, to stay there with bird, and breeze, and tree, and the buried mother, who must hear her voice, she thought, even though she could never reply to it again in all the years. her father, pale with sorrow himself, had never come near enough to his child to be her comforter now. he talked little to any one of either his joys or his sorrows. agatha loved him, partly because she had always been taught to love and have faith in him; and, partly, too, because she knew well, with that childish and intuitive perception which discovers every thing, how dear he was to her mother; but she did not feel near to him, and she could not possibly have told him how she longed to stay there beside that grave. she made no protest when he took her hand to lead her away, though it seemed to her that she left her heart behind her, and that the lump in her breast was a cold stone to which warmth would never come back any more. she went home, and some one took off her little black hat, and put on an apron over her mourning gown, and then she was left in peace to sit at the window, and look out toward the spot where they had laid her mother, and wonder what was to become of _her_. they called her to supper, but she was not hungry,--she thought she never should be again,--and there was no mother to beguile her with dainty morsels. when they found she did not want to come they let her alone, and still she sat there and wondered. at last the twilight fell, and in the dusk her father came to her. he loved her very dearly; and especially now, that her mother was gone, and only she was left to him, he felt for her an unspeakable tenderness; literally unspeakable, for he did not know how to utter one word of it to his child. he longed to comfort her,--to tell her how dear she was to him,--but he could not. he sat down beside her, and looked at her little pale face, outlined against the western window, with such a depth of pity that it seemed to make his voice quieter and colder than ever when he spoke, because it required such an effort to speak at all. "to-morrow, agatha, i shall take you to your aunt irene. every girl needs a woman's care, and she will watch over you as faithfully as if you were her own." agatha never dreamed of objecting. she tried to think that she might as well be in one place as another, for she shouldn't live long anywhere without her mother. but she dreaded aunt irene's watching, as she dreaded few things in the world. she had made visits now and then at the quiet old homestead of which this aunt was mistress, and it seemed to her, on such occasions, that aunt irene did nothing but watch her from the time she entered the house; and in those days it had taken all the sunshine of her mother's joyous nature to gild the visits into some substitute for the pleasures other children took in their vacations. now, to go without her mother--all alone--and be "watched over" by her aunt! she began to know that she had a heart, after all, by its frightened fluttering. aunt irene was her father's sister, with all the raymond peculiarities of pride, and reserve, and silence, which made him half a stranger to his own child, intensified in her by her life of seclusion and of absolute authority over herself and her possessions. her experiences had been narrow, and her aims had been narrow also. mr. raymond saw this, his one sister, always at her best; and, through long knowledge of her, he understood her really trustworthy and excellent qualities. he felt that he was doing for agatha the best which fate now permitted him to do, in confiding her to this guidance, so sure to be wise, as he believed, even if not loving. the long car-ride next day was almost a silent one. agatha would have rejected with hot juvenile scorn, the idea that the presence or absence of any material comforts could affect her grief; and yet she would have felt a little less desolate, i think, if the heat had not been so intense, the dust so choking, and the seat so hard and straight. when she had made the journey in other years with her mother, how much shorter the way had seemed. the fresh linen frocks she used to wear were so much easier and cooler than the stifling black gown she had on to-day; and somehow her mother knew just when to open the windows and when to shut them, and if the seat was straight and hard, there was always mamma's lap or shoulder to lean against; and she forgot to be weary when mamma beguiled the time by poem or story. but her father rode silently, looking into vacancy for a face he would never see again; and after he had once bought agatha's ticket, and seated her beside him, it did not occur to him to do any thing to relieve the monotony of the long, dusty ride. it was dusk when the stage from the railway station set them down at aunt irene's door. agatha walked up the path timidly. it was a long, straight path, and either side of it grew thoroughly well-disciplined flowers; a rosebush on one side, just opposite to a rosebush on the other,--agatha wondered if either of them would have dared to bear one rose more than the other did,--a peony on one side and its mate opposite; so of a syringa bush, a flowering almond, and a root of lilies. between the well-marshalled ranks of flowers, which somehow made the child think of soldiers on guard, she followed her father up to the door, where aunt irene waited, grim chatelaine. mr. raymond shook hands with his sister, and then said gravely,-- "irene, i have brought you my poor, motherless little girl," and aunt irene put out her firm, strong, unyielding hand and took the child's into it, then bent and--not kissed her, kisses belonged to the dead days--but laid her lips on her cheek, and so agatha went in. every thing was good and substantial in aunt irene's house. you found there no frail stands which a careless touch might throw over, no brittle ornaments, no egg-shell china. the carpets were dark and rich and sombre. the tables and chairs were all of solid wood, and stood high and square. the sofas were heavy and firm, and the whole air of the place was grave and respectable, as aunt irene's surroundings should have been. i am not sure that any light, modern, fancy articles, suggestive of elegant idleness, had they been placed in her rooms, would not themselves have perceived their unsuitableness, and trundled off on their own castors. the supper which awaited the travellers followed the prevailing fashion of the house. the biscuits were three times as large as the biscuits on other tea-tables. there were no frisky rolls, no light-minded whips or wafers. but there were good old-fashioned preserve, serious-looking cake, and substantial slices of cold meat. aunt irene herself, sitting behind the tea-urn--solid silver, of course--comported with all the rest. she was a solid woman, with no superfluous flesh, and yet with a well-fed, well-to-do aspect, which was unmistakable. her head was high and narrow, her features good, her strong hair had disdained to turn gray, and her eyes were keen if cold. her lips, which had never cooed over babies, or soothed the sorrows of little children, or talked nonsense to any listener, were thin, as to such seldom-used lips seemed natural. they shut tightly over all her secrets. agatha's head began to ache furiously, and she could not eat. the room swam round and round till she felt as if she were the centre of a rolling ball, and her chair rocked, she thought, and she was slipping off it, when her father saw her white, strange face and wavering figure, and sprang up just in time to catch her in his arms. "she is sick, irene," he said. "where is her room? let me carry her there." while he went upstairs with her she revived, and lifted her tired head from his shoulder to look into his eyes. "i wish you were not going away, papa," she ventured to say. "i can't stay on in the old places, where i have lived with your mother, without her," was the answer which came, and which was like giving her a key wherewith to unlock her father's heart, and so made the two nearer to each other than they had ever been before. "some time will you come back, and let me live with you?" she whispered, wondering at her own rashness. "if you are good, dear, and learn to be womanly and helpful, and to take care of yourself, i will come back for you, or you shall come to me, and we will be together always." no one knew with what passionate yet timid hope agatha's little heart beat as she lay there alone on her strange, high bed. womanly and helpful,--that was what he had said, and she would be just that. she would do all aunt irene said, and never mind how much she was watched, since watching might help to make her nearer right, and get her ready all the sooner to go to her father and be his comfort. the very next day he left her. the death of his wife had seemed to sweep away all his old landmarks. he had been, hitherto, a quiet unadventurous man contented with his narrow routine of daily duty, which always brought him back to the tenderness of her welcoming smile. now that smile was frozen for ever on her cold lips, and a strange restlessness possessed him. he had meant to stay a few days with agatha in her new home, but he felt as if the inaction would drive him mad, so he hurried away; and a week afterward aunt irene showed agatha his name in the passenger list of a european steamer. it was june then, and the gay summer went on working its daily miracles round agatha's quiet home. bright birds sang to her, and gay flowers bloomed for her picking; and nature ran riot in a wood a quarter of a mile away, where the flowers asked no leave of aunt irene to blow, or the birds to sing. the child used to go there when her daily tasks were done, but she carried with her so sad a heart that nothing seemed to cheer her. she wondered what all the growing things were so glad about, in the summer weather, and, remembering an old phrase she had heard, she concluded it was because nature was their mother, and nature never died. "oh, mother nature, i wish you were a relative of mine!" she used to cry, sometimes, with unconscious quaintness; but before the summer was over, leaning her head so much on the mosses, a sense of kinship began to thrill in her pulses, and before she knew it the pain in her heart was eased a little, and she began to think of her mother, not as buried up and hidden away from her, but as near to her and waiting for her. meantime she never forgot her father's words,--"womanly and helpful,"--they were the keynote of her life. aunt irene wondered at her. she had thought her a mischievous little elf in the old days, but there was no mischief in her now. she herself respected no more religiously the rules of the household than did this little quiet child. as for trouble, why the creature gave none,--she was learning to do every thing for herself. at last even aunt irene grew half frightened at this still patience, which she felt must be unnatural to childhood. she began to wish that she could hear agatha laugh or shout,--that sometimes the child would tear her gowns, when she had on her oldest ones, at least,--that she would show some self-will, some little trace of her descent from apple-eating adam of the old time. she wrote to her brother how good and quiet his little girl was; but her heart misgave her. she did not know what more she could do to make her small inmate comfortable, but she had a vague sense that agatha was living an unchildlike life, and was less happy than in the old days when the little girl and her mother came there together. mother nature has her own methods of exacting compensation, and for agatha's overstrained and unnatural life pay-day came in the autumn. it had grown too cold to lie with her ear on the mosses, listening to the earth's pulse-beats, and the child sat quietly within doors, until one day she turned very pale and rolled off her stiff, straight chair to the carpet, and aunt irene picked her up, a lighter weight now than in the spring-time, and carried her to her room. dr. greene was sent for at once, and he looked at his little patient very gravely, and then whispered "typhoid" to her aunt. aunt irene wrote a hurried line to agatha's father, and then took up her post at the bedside, which for five weeks she scarcely left. she had a heart, only long ago she had concluded it was an inconvenience and locked it up; but now it broke loose from its confinement and half frightened her by its throbbings. her brother was very dear to her. she had loved him all his life, after the deep, silent, undemonstrative fashion of those who love but few; and now if this fresh grief was to come upon him how could she bear to see him suffer? but she did not allow these thoughts to interfere with her usefulness at agatha's bedside. day and night she watched over the child, who never once knew her, but who constantly mistook her for her mother, and clung to her passionately in the delirium of her fever. "o mother!" she would say, "i thought i never, never should see you again. no one was cross to me, mamma darling; but no one loved me since you went away. i've been trying to grow womanly and helpful, so papa would be glad to have me with him by and by; but now you've come and you'll love me whether i'm good or not." then again she seemed roaming through the woods. "hark," she would say, "hear how the birds sing, and see the gay flowers swing in the wind! their mother doesn't die, and they have no aunts. o birdies! you don't know how cold aunt irene's lips are." and aunt irene, listening, bent over the bed with tears blinding her eyes. had her life been all a failure? she asked herself. she had tried to do her duty: was it all nothing, because she hadn't loved? oh! if agatha would but get well she would find some way to make her happy. before the crisis of the child's fever came, her father had arrived. the letter found him in paris, and he had set out in twenty-four hours upon his homeward journey. "is she alive?" he asked, when his sister met him at the door, and started back, shocked by his haggard face. "yes, she lives, and the doctor says her fever must turn soon. come and see her." the little flushed face had never been so beautiful in its brightest days of health and joy, as now, with the clustering rings of hair framing in scarlet cheeks and large, strangely brilliant eyes. the father's heart almost broke as he stood there, unable to make her recognize his presence. while he watched, she said what she had said so often during the hours of that wasting sickness,-- "i have tried to be womanly and helpful. i think papa will want me after awhile. i hope so for aunt irene's lips are cold." how keenly he reproached himself then for having left her, only god knew. he was a silent man, as i have said, and silently he shared aunt irene's vigil without even thinking of rest after his journey. the next night dr. greene waited also by that bedside for the crisis he foresaw. at last the child slept. "when she wakes we shall know what to expect," he said, and went away into the next room for a little rest. but the father and the aunt never moved. it was midnight, and every thing was strangely, unnaturally still, as it always seems to watchers in the middle of the night, when they heard agatha call out of the hush and the stillness, with a sudden, glad cry of recognition,-- "o mamma! mamma!" "is she dying?" mr. raymond's look asked, for his lips refused to speak, and his sister's face made answer, "not yet." the hours, the long, slow hours went on. the night grew darker and deeper. then above the hills there stretched a faint line of dawn-light which deepened at length to rose, and then was shot through by a golden arrow from the rising sun. and then, as the dawning glory touched the little white, still face upon the pillows, the eyes opened, and a voice--agatha's own natural voice, but oh, so faint and low!--said, softly but gladly,-- "i have seen mamma. i wanted to go with her, but she said papa and aunt irene both needed me, and i was to stay here and grow well and happy. and so i shall." "and so, please god, you shall," dr. greene said, cheerily, having come in from the next room; and the father sank upon his knees by the bedside, with some murmured words, which only the father in heaven understood, upon his lips; and aunt irene hurried off, she said, to get something for the child to take, but she stopped a long time upon the way. "i knew you were here, papa," and agatha reached out her thin little fingers to touch the bowed head beside her. "i knew, because mamma told me." strangely enough, all her timidity had vanished. mamma had said that papa and aunt irene needed her, and that was enough. soon her aunt came in, and she looked up, gratefully. "you have been so good to me, aunt irene," she said, "so good that i thought it was mamma who was tending me, but i know now it was you, and i think you must love me, because you have kept me alive." and so my story of agatha's lonely days ends; for after this she never was lonely any more. her father and aunt had learned that little hearts need something more than to be clothed and fed; and agatha had learned, by their care for her, their love for her, and never doubted again that she had her own place in their hearts. but had she seen her own mamma? you ask. ah, who knows the mysteries of the border land between life and death? some of you will believe that she but dreamed a dream; and others, perchance, will think the father, who has so often sent his angels to comfort his earthly children, sent to her the home-faced angel whom her heart loved. i cannot tell. i only know that agatha believed always that a beloved voice not of this world had spoken to her. thin ice. the little village of westbrook seemed to have been standing still, while all the rest of the world had gone on. the people lived very much as their fathers and grandfathers had lived before them. they were all farmers except the doctor and the minister. the doctor was a very skilful man; but he had been reared on a westbrook farm, and when he went out into the world to get his medical education he had brought back with him, to quiet westbrook, only the knowledge he sought, and none of the airs and graces of town life. the minister, too, was westbrook born and bred, and his wife had scarcely ever been outside the town in all her days, so that there was no one in the simple community to set extravagant fashions, or turn foolish heads by gayety or splendor. [illustration: thin ice.--page .] it was, therefore, as much of an event as if queen victoria herself were to come and spend the winter in boston, when it became generally known that a rich widow lady and her son were to come, the last of september, and very probably stay on through the winter under dr. simms's roof. a famous city physician, with whom dr. simms had studied once, had recommended him and westbrook to mrs. rosenburgh, when it became necessary for her to take her puny boy into some still, country retreat. they came during the last golden days of september, and all westbrook was alive with interest about them. the lady looked delicate, but she was as pretty as she was pale, and her boy was curiously like her,--as pale, as pretty, almost as feminine. there was plenty of opportunity to see them, for the city doctor had given orders that the young gentleman should keep out of doors all the time; so, mornings, he and his mother were always to be seen in their low, luxurious carriage, drawn by high-stepping bay horses, and driven by a faithful, careful, middle-aged man, with iron-gray hair and an impenetrable face. sometimes, in the afternoons, they would all be out again, but oftener mrs. rosenburgh remained at home, and her son drove, for himself, a pair of pretty black ponies, while the impenetrable, iron-gray man sat behind, ready to seize the reins in case of accident. at first the boy's face seemed often drawn by pain, or white with weariness, and he would look round him listlessly, as he drove, with eyes that saw nothing, or at least failed to find any object of interest. but the clear autumn air proved invigorating, and when the glorious, prismatic days of late october came he looked as if, indeed, he had been re-created. and now one could see that he began to take a natural, human interest in what went on around him. he would drive up his little pony carriage to the wall, and look over it to watch the apple-pickers and the harvesters. no one spoke to him, and he spoke to no one. the lads of his own age, who watched his ponies with boyish envy, never dreamed that the owner of these fairy coursers could be as shy as one of themselves, and, indeed, as much more shy as delicate weakness naturally is than rosy strength. they thought his silence was pride, and felt a half-defiant hatred of him accordingly. yet many and many a day he went home to his mother, and sitting beside her with his head upon her knee, cried out, in very bitterness,-- "oh if i only could be like one of those healthy boys! how gladly i'd give up pease-blossom and mustard-seed, to be able to run about as they do! shall i never, never be strong, mamma?" and she would comfort him with the happy truth that every day he was growing stronger, and that she expected him to be her great, brave boy, by and by, who would take care of her all the days of her life. meantime, other boys, in other homes, talked to other mothers. for the very first time the evil spirit of envy had crept into quiet westbrook. why should ralph rosenburgh have every thing he wanted, and they nothing? what clothes he wore,--and a watch, a real gold watch they had seen him take out of his pocket,--and those ponies; for wherever they began they always ended with those ponies. and, as not all the mothers in westbrook were wise, any more than elsewhere in the world, while the wise ones would say that strong boy-legs were worth more than horses' legs, the weak ones would foster the evil spirit, and answer,-- "he ain't a bit better than you are, with all his watches and ponies. pride will have a fall some day, see if it don't, and he may be glad enough to stand in your shoes yet, before he dies." jack smalley was the son of one of these injudicious mothers, and so his envy grew, unchecked; till he nourished a vigorous hatred for ralph rosenburgh in his heart, without ever having exchanged a single word with him. it was a hatred, however, of which its object never could have dreamed. he had been so accustomed to be petted and pitied, and he was so very sorry for himself, that he could not be a wide-awake, vigorous, ball-playing, leaping, running boy, it would never have occurred to him that any one else could fail to see his condition in the same light. so he went steadily on the even tenor of his way, gaining something day by day and week by week, and hoping--how earnestly no one knew--for the happy time when pease-blossom and mustard-seed might stand idle in their stalls, and he go about on his own feet with the rest. the cold weather came on early that year. before the middle of december westbrook pond was frozen over, and then began the winter's fun. every afternoon ralph rosenburgh drove his ponies down to the very edge of the pond, and sat there for awhile, a patient looker-on at the frolics he could not share. with christmas, however, there came to him from the fond, maternal santa claus, a chair constructed on purpose for pushing over the ice, and then he became a daily partaker in the festivities upon the pond. the chair was modelled after a certain kind of invalid, garden chair, which is arranged to be either propelled by some one else from behind, or by the occupant turning a kind of crank at the sides. ralph soon learned to manage it for himself, and finding himself strong enough to do so, he used to make the iron-gray man stay with the ponies, while he himself moved round among the skaters. and, now that he seemed really one of themselves, the young people, all except jack smalley, began to feel a kindly interest in him. jack alone went on hating him more and more, finding daily fresh causes of offence in this boy who wore velvet and fur in place of his own coarse gray cloth, and woollen, hand-knit comforter. what was he, this puny wretch, without pluck enough to stand on his own legs, that he should wear the garments of a young prince? you see that master smalley had the primitive idea of young princes, and supposed them clad in everlasting velvet and ermine. but there were no princes in america, thank heaven, and nobody in westbrook wanted fools round who tried to look like king's sons. very innocent of trying to look like any one was poor ralph, if the truth had been known,--this mother's darling of a boy, who took no more thought of his attire than a weed, but whom mrs. rosenburgh wrapped assiduously in all that was softest and warmest, as she had, all his life, surrounded him with warmth and softness. after a while there came a january afternoon, over which a gray, moist sky brooded. already the ice had shown some symptoms of breaking up, and everybody was out, making the most of it while it lasted. among the rest ralph rosenburgh came down to the pond,--left pease-blossom and mustard seed in the iron-gray man's charge, as usual, and began to propel himself over the ice, with arms whose increasing vigor was a daily and happy astonishment to himself. at last he wandered away a little from most of the skaters. he felt himself and his chair rather in their way, they were wheeling and zigzagging so swiftly, and he moved along the pond quite rapidly toward the eastern end. it chanced that no one noticed his course except jack smalley, and jack knew that he was going directly toward a place where the ice had been recently cut, and where it was thin and treacherous now. slowly jack followed him. "i'd like to see him and that fine chair of his get a good ducking," jack muttered. "it would serve him right. i guess all them prince's feathers and fineries would look a little more like common folks', after they'd been soused." i do not think another and darker possibility crossed jack's mind. hating ralph rosenburgh though he did, i do not think one wish for his death had ever entered his heart. he himself had been in the water, time and again, and got no other harm from it than perhaps a hard cold. he did not realize what a different thing it would be for this delicate invalid, seated in his heavy chair. and so ralph propelled himself along toward destruction, and jack, with an evil sneer on his face, skated slowly after him. suddenly a third figure shot from the group of skaters,--the fastest skater of them all, and the one boy in the world whom jack smalley loved,--his own cousin, nelson smalley. he, too, had turned his eyes and seen in what fatal direction the chair with the delicate, golden-haired invalid in it was tending. he did not speak a word: he had but one thought,--to reach ralph rosenburgh in time to save him. he skated on, with the swiftness of light. and jack smalley saw him coming, nearing him, passing him, on toward the thin ice. now, indeed, he shrieked at the top of his voice,-- "nell, nell, come back. the ice out there is thin. come back--come back. don't you hear?" "i hear," floated backward on the wind from the flying figure; "i hear, but don't you see rosenburgh? i must save him." then jack himself skated after, making what speed he might. but he seemed to himself slow as a snail; and already rosenburgh was very near the treacherous ice, and nelson was almost up with him, flying like the wind. he heard nelson's voice: "stop, rosenburgh, stop. the ice beyond you is just a crust. stop, you will be drowned." and then he heard a plash, and looked. it was nelson, who had gone on, and gone under, unable to arrest, in time, his own headlong speed. and then, while he himself was shrieking madly for help, he saw rosenburgh, prince's feathers and all, just throw himself out of his chair, and down into the cold, seething water where nelson smalley had gone under. the ice grew thin suddenly, just where the saw had cut it squarely away, so the chair stood still upon the solid ice, and by that rosenburgh held with one hand, while with the other he grasped the long hair of nelson smalley, who was rising for the first time. excitement was giving him unnatural strength, but for how long could he hold on? now, at last, the skaters had perceived the real state of the case, and such a wail as one might hear afterwards through his dreams for ever, went up to the bending sky. hurry, all who can. run, iron-gray man, as you never ran before, or how shall you drive home to that boy's waiting mother? how was it done? how is it ever done? who can ever tell in such a crisis? i do not know how long they were in reaching the thin ice, for at such times moments seem hours, and seconds are bits of eternity. but rosenburgh held on, and the iron-gray man threw himself flat upon the cracking ice, with the boys holding fast to him, and drew them both out, and then rosenburgh turned limp and white on his hands, and whether he was dead or not he could not tell. there were enough others to care for smalley, and already the older ones had begun trying to restore him, and some of the younger were running in various directions for wiser aid. so the iron-gray man just lifted his own young master in his arms, and got him straight into the pony wagon, and drove pease-blossom and mustard-seed home as they had never been driven before. at the gate he met dr. simms coming out, and told his story in a few words. it was almost an hour before the blue eyes opened again, and the mother felt sure that her boy was still hers to have and to hold, to love and to cherish. indeed, it was many days before she felt altogether safe and sure about him. she was constantly expecting some after consequences from his exposure,--some fever, or cough, or terrible nervous prostration. but, strangely enough, he seemed to be none the worse; and one day, after a careful examination of him, dr. simms said to her,-- "i venture to tell you, now, what i have thought all along. this has been the very best thing for him that could possibly have happened. the severe shock was exactly what he needed, though certainly it was what i should not have dared to take the responsibility of subjecting him to. he is going to be the better and stronger for it." "and the brave, splendid fellow who was risking his own life to save him?" "is all right too. duckings are good for boys, not a doubt of it. trust me, this cold bath will go far to make a man of yours." and the doctor was right. the languid pulses which that awful peril had quickened never throbbed so languidly again. it was ralph rosenburgh's awakening to a new life. somehow the shyness in him passed away with the weakness, and he became a general favorite. the boys no longer envied him his ponies, when one or other of them was always asked to share his drives; and their cure was completed when he grew strong enough to take part in all their sports, when pease-blossom and mustard-seed were left to "eat their heads off" in their stall, and ralph rosenburgh and his chosen and dearest friend, nelson smalley, scaled rocks and climbed hills with the best of them. this strong friendship would have cost jack smalley some envious pangs, perhaps, if the awful terror of that january afternoon had not made him afraid of the evil in his own soul. my lost sister: a confession. i have a confession to make. when i went home from my grandmother's,--being set down at the home-door by the stage-driver, in whose care i had been placed,--and found my little sister in my mother's arms, a quick growing hate of her struck its black roots in my heart. i know that this seems unnatural. in most houses the baby is the very light and joy of them,--the little idol to whom, from the least to the greatest, the whole family do willing homage. but remember that i had grown to be ten years old, with no rival near the throne, accustomed to be the first object with my father and mother, petted, indulged, as much "the baby" as if i had worn white long clothes. it was not strange that it should come hard to be deposed from my throne of babyhood in one moment. when i went into the house, nurse sikes met me with a smile which struck me like a blow. "somebody's got her nose broke, i guess," she said, with a tantalizing laugh. before this, no one had spoken to me about the new-comer, and there, i think, was where the wrong began; but the woman's meaning flashed into my mind in a moment, and i tossed my head scornfully, without speaking. nurse sikes was probably not an ill-natured woman,--she could not have been, since no face was so welcome as hers in the sick rooms of all the neighborhood,--but she was a very injudicious one. i suppose my idle, vain contempt and indignation amused her, and so she went on provoking me. "ho, ho, miss fine airs! doesn't want to see her baby sister, don't she? well, to tell the truth, i don't think you'll be much missed. papa and mamma are pretty well wrapped up in miss baby. _she's_ a novelty, you know, and i guess she'll be taken care of, even if you don't trouble yourself." i would not for worlds have let her see the passion of grief and rage which shook me. i went out of her sight, and fled, not to my own room, which opened from my mother's, but to a remote spare chamber, and there i bore my pain alone. to cry would have infinitely relieved me, but my evil pride restrained me from that. they should not see my eyes red, and know how i felt; i would die first, i said, bitterly, to myself, i, who had cried out every sorrow of my life, hitherto, on my mother's tender bosom. after a while i heard them calling me,-- "annie! annie! annie! why, the child came in half an hour ago. where is she?" then i knew i must go down. so i looked at myself in the glass, and saw a face which, indeed, no tears stained, but which was disfigured by pride and passion; and thinking to myself,--'no one will notice how _i_ look, now,' i went to my mother's room. "come here, my darling," her gentle voice said, "come and look at baby." baby! could she not say a fond word to me, after i had been away from home two weeks, without bringing in baby! i moved reluctantly toward her. "baby is twelve days old," she went on, wistfully, seeing my sullen mien. "i wouldn't let any one tell you, for i thought it would be such a surprise." "a surprise, indeed!" i echoed her word with a scorn in my voice, which must have pained that gentle heart sorely. "isn't she sweet?" and, still trying to win my love for her new treasure, mamma uncovered the little, dimpled, rosy face, and held it toward me. "i suppose so; i don't think i care for babies," i said, ungraciously. "but you do care for mamma, and you haven't so much as kissed _me_ yet, my darling." perhaps if, even then, she could have put her arms around me, and held me fast against her loving heart, as she used to when i was grieved or naughty, it might have driven away the evil spirit, and made me her own child again; but she could not, for there, in her lap, was baby. so i took her kiss passively, returned it coldly, and then went away. it seems so incredible to my grown-up self, looking back upon it, that i could have gone on hating my baby sister more and more, that i can scarcely expect you to believe it; and i think i would hardly write out this, my confession, did i not hope it might lead some other, tempted as i was, to examine her heart in time, and root out from it the evil weed of jealousy, which bears always such bitter fruit. from the first, little lilias, or lily, as they all called her, was a singularly lovely child. as a baby, she cried very little, and never in anger. nothing but real pain ever made the red lips quiver, or filled the violet eyes with tears. she never could see any face more grave than usual without trying, in her baby fashion, to brighten it. i can remember, oh, how distinctly, times when my father would come home, worn and tired, and she would, quite untold, go through her little _rôle_ of accomplishments till she won a smile from him, clapping her fairy hands, nodding her gleaming, golden head, showing her two small teeth,--all the little winning wiles she had. she was a very frail, delicate child, always, and she did not walk nearly as early as other children. but she talked very soon indeed. she was scarcely ten months old, when she learned to call us all by our names; and, strangely enough, mine was the first name she spoke. "nan! nan! nan!" she would call me, half the day, like a little silver-voiced parrot. she was very fond of me, in a certain way. i never tended her unless i was obliged, and my mother, noticing with deep grief my spirit toward my little sister, waited for the evil feeling to wear itself out, and seldom called on me to amuse the child, or to give up for her sake any whim or fancy of my own. lily was not used, therefore, to have me hold or play with her. perhaps she thought i _could_ not, but it seemed to afford her infinite satisfaction just to have me in her sight. it may be she felt, in some vague way, that i was nearer babyhood than the rest, and so more of her kind. at any rate, she always seemed perfectly happy and content when she could watch me, at any of my pursuits; and when i left the room, the little silvery voice would call after me,-- "nan! nan! nan!" she was a full year and a half old before she began to walk, and then she was so small and delicate that she looked as you might fancy a baby out of fairy land would look, flitting round on her tiniest of feet, her yellow hair glinting goldenly in every chance sunbeam, and her wistful eyes blue as a blue flower. how could i help loving her? ay, how could i? i fancy i must have loved her a little, even then, only i had grown so in the habit of regarding her as an interloper, a rival, an alien, who was taking from me all which had formerly been mine, that i never owned, even in the silence of my own heart, to any softening toward her. father and mother were good to me beyond my deserts, and beyond my poor words to describe. i have known, since, with what infinite love and grief they sorrowed over me, while waiting for this evil growth in my heart to be uprooted, as they felt sure it would be, some time. they had the wisdom to know that reproof would be vain, and simply to love me and be silent. but if they loved _me_, and were to me most patient and kind, they were devoted to little lily, as was natural. she was so frail and so fair, so needed their constant watchfulness, that it is not strange she had it. one day, when she was two years old and i was twelve, i sat in a corner of the sitting-room, putting a dissected map together, while a lady was calling upon my mother. she looked earnestly and long at lily; but that was not uncommon; the child's dainty beauty was a pleasant thing to watch. at last, after she had risen to go, she said, as if she couldn't help saying it,-- "take good care of that little one, mrs. allen. she looks to me like one of the children the angels love." i saw the quick dew suffuse my mother's eyes, as she made some answer which i failed to hear, and then went to the door with her guest. am i to tell all the sad and bitter truth? i understood, as well as they did, that they thought our lily so frail we should have hard work to make her flourish in the cold soil of the earth; and for one moment a feeling of evil triumph swelled my heart. when she was gone, i should be _all_ to my father and mother, as i used to be before she came. they would love me, when they had no one else to love. i felt a guilty flush mounting to my cheeks, and i swept my map into its box hastily, and got up to leave the room. as i went out of the door lily's voice followed me, sweetly shrill,--"nan! nan! nan!" and, for the very first time in my life, a conviction smote me that there would be a sense of loss when that voice could never follow me again, with its soft calling, through all the years. the next summer was a strange, warm, oppressive summer,--the summer of ' . with its july heats our lily began to droop. such care as she had, such nursing, such love! but she had been always like a blossom from heaven, sprung up by mistake in the rough soil of this world, and she needed for her healing the wind which blows for ever through the leaves of the tree of life. she soon grew so weak that she could not run about any more, but would lie all day, except when, for a change, my mother held her in her arms, in a little rose-curtained crib, out from which the blue, wistful eyes followed all our movements, with a sweet, loving, lingering look, which i cannot describe. on me, in especial, that long gaze used to rest; and never could i leave the room without that sweet, small voice calling after me plaintively. there came a day, at last, when the doctor sat half an hour by lily's side, watching her with grave, silent face, and then went into another room alone with my mother. he came out first, and went away, and when she followed him, her eyes were very red. i knew afterwards, what i suspected the moment i saw her face, that he had been telling her that she must make up her mind to part with her little darling. my heart was not quite stone, after all, for it grew strangely soft and strangely afraid then. she was going home to god, this little lily of heaven; and would she tell him that i had hated, all through, the baby sister he had given me? i went away by myself and prayed. i had said my prayers night and morning, all my life, but this was quite another thing, this cry of the child's heart becoming conscious of its guilt and woe, to the pitying father. at last, i went to my mother. lily was asleep, and mamma sat by her side, pale as death, but with face that made no complaint. i knelt down beside her. "o mother!" i cried, "i have been so wicked,--and now i cannot undo it! oh, if i could! oh, if i could only die,--i who am not fit to live,--and let you keep lily!" she bent over me, and drew me into her arms, against her bosom. "if you are not fit to live, my darling, you are not fit to die," she said gently. "i can better part with lily, for she is pure yet as when god gave her to me. i have seen your sin and your suffering, and i have known your repentance would come." "oh, it has, it has! mother, how can i bear it? _will_ she go home to god, and tell him i have hated her?" "do you think she could tell _him_ any thing which he does not know? but lily has never found out what hate means. she has always loved you, and she does not know but that all the world loves her. the pain which your sin has caused has not rested on lily,--thank god for that." "but i might have made her happier,--i might have been good to her,--and now, perhaps i shall never have any little sister any more in all the world." just then the child awoke, and put out her frail little hands, with a low, sweet call i was destined to listen for in vain through all the empty, after years. i ran to her, and took her in my arms. she saw the tears upon my face, and touched them with her mites of fingers. "naughty nan," she said, in fond reproach, "naughty nan, to cry,--make lily cry too." and then i wiped away my tears, and tried to be cheerful; but, oh, how heavy my heart was! and, mourn as i would, i could not bring back the dead months and days wherein i might have loved my little sister, and had hated her instead. what else? nothing, but that, with the fading summer flowers, she, too, faded and died. in her case was wrought no miracle of healing. "we all do fade as the leaf;" but she had never been a strong, green leaf, tossed by summer winds, freshened by summer rains, gay in summer sunshine. just a pale, sweet day-lily, that lived her little life, and died with the sunset. and the first words she ever spoke, were the last words, also. she opened her tender eyes after a long silence, during which she had scarcely seemed to breathe, and they rested on me. "nan! nan! nan!" she cried, as if it were a call to follow her into the strange, new life, the strange, new world, whither, a moment after, she was gone. if there has been any good in my life since then, if i have striven at all to be tender and gentle and unselfish, let me offer such struggles as a tribute to her memory, as one lays flowers upon an altar or a grave. whither she has gone, i pray god to guide my feet also, in his own good time and way; and i shall know that i have reached the place whither my longings tend, when i hear, soft falling through the eternal air, her low, sweet call,-- "nan! nan! nan! welcome, nan!" what came to olive haygarth. a christmas story. it was the afternoon of the th of december, a dull, gray afternoon, with a sky frowning over it which was all one cloud, but from which neither rain nor snow fell. a certain insinuating breath of cold was in the air, more penetrating than the crisp, keen wind of the sharpest january day. olive haygarth shivered as she walked along the bleakest side of harrison avenue, down town. she was making her way to dock square, to carry home to a clothing store some vests which she and her mother had just completed. after a while she turned and walked across into washington street, for an impulse came over her to see all the bright christmas things in the shop windows, and the gay, glad people, getting ready to keep holiday. she had meant, when she set out on her walk, to avoid them, for she knew that her mood was bitter enough already. she had left no brightness behind her at home. there were but two of them, herself and her mother, and they were poor people, with only their needles between them and want. they had never known actual suffering, however, for mrs. haygarth had worked in a tailor's shop in her youth, and had taught olive so much of the intricacies of the business as sufficed to make her a good workwoman. accordingly they did their sewing so well as to command constant employment and fair prices. but after all it was ceaseless drudging, just to keep body and soul together. what was the use of it all? not enjoyment enough in any one day to pay for living,--why not as well lie down and die at once? she walked on sullenly, thinking of these things. an elegant carriage stopped just in front of her, and a girl no older than herself got out, trailing her rich silk across the sidewalk, and went into a fashionable jeweller's. olive stopped, and looking in at the window, ostensibly at the vases and bronzes, watched the girl with her dainty, high-bred air. she noted every separate item of her loveliness,--the delicate coloring, the hair so tastefully arranged, the pure, regular features. then she looked at the lustrous silk, the soft furs, the bonnet, which was a pink and white miracle of blonde and rosebuds. how much of the beauty was the girl's very self, and how much did she owe to this splendid setting? olive had seen cheeks and lips as bright and hair as shining when she tied on her own unbecoming dark straw bonnet before her own dingy looking-glass. she went on with renewed bitterness, asking herself, over and over again, why? why? why? did not the bible say that god was no respecter of persons? but why did he make some, like that girl in there, to feed on the roses and lie in the lilies of life,--to wear silks, and furs, and jewels, and laces, and then make _her_ to work buttonholes in butler & co.'s vests? was there any god at all? or, if there was, did he not make some people and forget them altogether, while he was heaping good things on others whom he liked better? she could not understand it. and then to be told to _love_ god after all; and that he pitied her as a father pitied his children! why! that girl in the silk dress could love god, easily,--that command must have been meant for her. going on she caught a glimpse of an illumination in the window of a print shop. "peace on earth and good-will toward men" was the legend set forth by the brilliantly colored letters. what a mockery those words seemed to be! there had never been peace or good-will in their house, even in the old days when they were tolerably prosperous, before her father went away. she walked very slowly now, for she was thinking of that old time. she had loved her father more than she had ever loved any one else. to her he had always been kind; he had never found fault with her, and had smoothed all the rough places out of her life. her mother had been neat and smart and _capable_, as the new england phrase is. higher praise than this mrs. haygarth did not covet. but like many capable women, she had acquired a habit of small faultfinding, a perpetual dropping, which would have worn even a stone, and george haygarth was no stone. the woman loved her husband, doubtless, in some fashion of her own, but to save her life she could not have kept from "nagging" him. she fretted if he brought mud upon his shoes over her clean floor, if he spent money on any pleasure for himself, any extra indulgence for olive; above all, if he ever took a fancy to keep holiday. just five years ago things had come to a climax. olive was thirteen years old then, and he had brought her home for christmas some ornaments,--a pin and earrings, not very expensive, but in mrs. haygarth's eyes useless and unnecessary. she assailed him bitterly, and for a marvel he heard her out in dumb silence. when she was all through, he only said,-- "i think i can spare the eight dollars they cost me, since i am not likely to give the girl any thing again for some time. it will be too far to send christmas gifts from colorado." mrs. haygarth's temper was up, and she answered him with an evil sneer,-- "colorado, indeed! colorado is peopled with wide-awake men. it's no place for you out there." he made no reply, only got up and went out; and, going by olive, he stooped and kissed her. how well she remembered that kiss! through the week afterward he went to his work as usual, but he spent scarcely any time at home, and when there made little talk. all his wife's accustomed flings and innuendoes fell on his ears apparently unheeded. the night before new year's he was busy a long time in his own room. when he came out he handed mrs. haygarth a folded paper. "there," he said, "is the receipt for the next year's house rent, and before that time is out i shall send you the money, if i am prospered, to pay for another year. i have taken from the savings-bank enough to carry me to colorado and keep me a little while after i get there; and the bank book, with the rest of the five hundred dollars, i have transferred to you. if i have any luck you shall never want,--you and olive. you'll be better off without me. i think i've always been an aggravation to you, martha,--only an aggravation." he went back again into his room, and came out with a valise packed full. "i think i'll go away now," he said. "the train starts in an hour, and there is no need of my troubling you any longer." then he had taken olive into his arms, and she had felt some sudden kisses on her cheek, some hot tears on her face; but he had said nothing to her, only the one sentence, gasped out like a groan,-- "father's little one! father's little one!" olive shivered and then grew hot again, as she remembered it; and remembered how wistfully he had looked afterwards at his wife, reading no encouragement in her sharp, contemptuous face. "i guess you'll see colorado about as much as i shall," said martha haygarth, sneeringly. "your courage may last fifty miles." he did not answer. he just shut the door behind him and went out into the night,--and she had never seen him since, never heard his voice since that last cry,--"father's little one!" she felt the thick-coming tears blinding her eyes, but she brushed them resolutely away, and looked up at the old south clock just before her. almost five. the sun had set nearly half an hour ago, and the night was falling fast. how long a time she had spent in walking the short distance since she came into washington street! how late home she should be! she quickened her steps almost to a run, went to the clothing store, where she had to wait a little while for her work to be looked over and paid for, and heard the clocks strike six just as she reached the corner of essex street, on her homeward way. the dense, hurrying crowd jostled and pressed her, and she turned the corner. she would find more room on the avenue, she thought. she had not noticed that two young men were following her closely. they would have been gentlemen if they had obeyed the laws of god and man. as it was, there was about them the look which nothing expresses so well as the word "fast." their very features had become coarse and lowered in tone by the lives they led; and yet they were the descendants of men whose names were honored in the state, and made glorious by traditions of true christian knighthood. on the other side of the way, alike unnoticed by olive and her pursuers, a man walked on steadily, never losing sight of them for a moment. at last, as she came into a quiet portion of the street, the two young men drew near her. they were simply what i have said, "fast." they perhaps meant no real harm, and thought it would be good fun to frighten her. "'where are you going, my pretty maid?'" said one, the bolder and handsomer of the two. "'my face is my fortune, sir, she said,'" responded the other, in a voice which the wine he had taken for dinner made a little thick and unsteady. "you ought not to be out alone," the first began again. "you are quite too young and too pretty." "that she is," a loud, stern voice answered, "when there are such vile hounds as you ready to insult an unprotected girl." surely it was a voice olive knew, only stronger and more resolute than she had ever heard it before. she turned suddenly, and the gas light struck full on her flushed, frightened, pretty face, which the drooping hair shaded. the man, who had crossed the street to come to her rescue, looked at her a moment, and then, as if involuntarily, came to his lips the old, fond words, the last she had ever heard him speak,-- "father's little one!" he opened his arms, and she, poor tired girl crept into their shelter. the two young men stood by waiting, enough of the nobility of the old blood in them to keep them from running away, though their nerves tingled with shame. george haygarth spoke to them with quiet, manly dignity. "when i saw you following this girl i had no idea she was _my_ girl, whom i had not seen for five years. it was enough for me that she was a woman. to my thinking it's a poor manhood that insults women instead of protecting them. i meant to look out for her, and, be she who she might, you should not have harmed her." "we never meant her any real harm," the elder of the two said humbly; "but we have learned our lesson, and i think we shall neither of us forget it. young lady, we beg your pardon." then they lifted their hats and went away; and george haygarth drew his daughter's hand through his arm and walked on, telling his story as he walked. he had been unsuccessful at first. for more than eighteen months he had scarcely been able to keep himself alive. fever had wasted him, plans had failed him, hope had deserted him. the very first money he could possibly spare he had sent home, with a long loving letter to the absent, over whom his heart yearned. but money and letter had both come back to him after a while, from the dead-letter office. "yes," olive said, "we were too poor to keep on there after the year for which you paid was out, and we have moved two or three times since then. the postman did not know where to find us, and after the first year we gave up asking for letters at the office." her father's hand clasped hers tighter, in sympathy, and then he told the rest of his story. he had never been very prosperous, never seen any such golden chances as the mining legends picture, but he had come home better off than he ever should have been if he had stayed in the east. for a whole week he had been in boston searching for them everywhere, and no knowing how much longer he might have had to wait but for this accident. "don't say accident, father," olive answered, softly. "it was god's way of bringing us together. i begin to see now what it means when the bible says, 'he is touched by our infirmities, and pities our necessities.' and yet, only this afternoon i was losing all my faith, and thinking that if he cared for all the rest of the world. he had forgotten me. here we are,--the next house is home." "your mother--how will she receive me, olive?" olive's heart seemed to stand still. her mother had been so bitter through all these years; had said such cruel things about this man, whom she accused of deserting his family and leaving them to starve, of caring only for himself. she did not speak,--she did not know what to say. "you must go in and break it to her," george haygarth said, as they climbed the stairs of the humble tenement house, the third story of which the mother and daughter occupied. "i will stay outside and wait. it won't be coming home at all if martha doesn't bid me welcome." olive went in, trembling. "here is the money, mother." mrs. haygarth reached out her hand for it and looked at it. "yes, it's all right; but i thought you were never coming home. what kept you?" "i looked into the windows a good deal as i went down, and then i had to wait at the store, and i've been thinking, mother. it will be five years next week since father went away. what if we could see him again?" she paused, expecting to hear some of the old bitter words about her father; but, instead, her mother's voice fell softly upon her ear. "_i've_ been thinking too, olive, and i believe he is dead. i don't think i used to be patient enough with him, and perhaps i wore his love out. but he _did_ care for _you_, and seems to me nothing short of death could have kept him away so long." "but if you _could_ see him, mother?" olive persisted, with trembling voice. some new thought pierced martha haygarth's brain. a strange thrill shook her. she looked an instant into olive's eyes. then, without a word, she sprang to the door and threw it open. olive heard a low, passionate cry. "george! george! if i was cross i _did_ love you!" and olive saw a figure come out of the shadow and take her mother close in its arms. and then she hid her eyes, and said a little prayer, she never knew what. so, after all, god had not forgotten them. just when their want was sorest their help had come. and they needed all they had suffered, perhaps, to teach her mother what love was worth, and what forbearance signified. "peace on earth and good-will toward men!" from the very sky the words seemed to drop down to her, like an angelic blessing; and now to their home the reign of peace had come, and she understood what the benediction meant. [illustration: uncle jack.--page .] uncle jack. "what young bears most boys are!" said my uncle jack, watching his oldest hope pushing his sister in the swing so vigorously that she almost fell out, and then pulling one side of the rope at a time, making her fairly dizzy with swaying from side to side while she alternately screamed and entreated. "just about the same, all of them," uncle jack went on. "talk about boyish chivalry, i never found it, especially toward a boy's own kith and kin. there may be some highland marys with juvenile adorers, but nine times out of ten a boy would rather frighten a girl than kiss her. my john here's just a specimen. come here, sir," raising his voice. "do you want to hear a story about the days when i was just such another cub as yourself?" this suggestion brought john and his sister both in from the swing. when uncle jack began to "spin a yarn," as he often called it, all the family were sure to want to be present at its unravelling. "you see," he began, "my sister nelly wasn't my sister at all; but it was all the same, as far as my feeling for her went. when i was only three years old my mother's best friend died, and left nelly, a little, wailing, two-months-old baby, to my mother's care. her father had been killed before she was born, in a railroad accident, so there was no one but my mother to see to her; and she brought the little thing home and adopted her, thankfully enough, for though she had four good stout boys, of whom i was the youngest, there was never a girl in the family till nelly came. "we all loved her, as she grew older. she was a pretty little blossom as you would want to see, with her black eyes, and the crisp, black hair falling about her rosy cheeks. she had a funny little rose-bud of a mouth, too, and the daintiest little figure,--well-made all through, and no mistake about it. "i think i loved her, if any thing, better than the rest did, considering that she was nearer my age, and so we were more continually together, but, bless you, there wasn't any chivalry in it. it didn't keep me from painting her doll's face black, or hiding its shoes, or from listening when she was talking with her girl cronies, and then bursting out among them, and yelling their choicest secret to the four winds. "i would have knocked any boy down, from the time i was big enough to use my fists, who had said a saucy word to nelly; but i said plenty of them myself. i believe i liked to tease her for the sake of hearing her beg me not to; just as i've seen you tease your sister a hundred times, master john. "you would think she would have hated me: but that's one curious thing about girls and women; they don't always hate where you would naturally expect them to; and nelly cared a good deal more about me than i deserved. she seemed to be proud of me, because i was a great, strong, roystering fellow, and she never bore malice for any of the tricks i served her. "i have wondered many a time since how i could have had the heart to torment her, for she never once tried to revenge herself on me, nor can i recollect her ever being angry with me. when i got myself into disgrace with parents or teachers, it was always her gentle voice which pleaded for me, and hard enough folks found it to say no to her, whether it was the dark eyes and bright cheeks, or a little winning, coaxing way she had. "when i was fourteen and nelly was eleven we went one day to a huckleberry picnic. we had great fun all the afternoon, and stayed a good deal later than we meant to, so that it was almost dark when we started to go home. we had two miles to walk, and the first half of the distance our way lay with the rest of the company. i had got well stirred up by the general merriment, and wasn't half satisfied with the frolic ending there. "nelly, i remembered afterwards, was very quiet, and seemed tired. she was a delicate little thing, any way, and got worn out with fatigue or excitement a good deal sooner than most of her mates. finally our road turned off away from the rest, and led through a long pine wood. as we went on under the thick trees it grew darker and darker, and nelly cuddled up closer to my side. "you'd have thought that at fourteen i was old enough for chivalry, and that sort of thing, if i was ever going to be; but not a bit of it,--i was just a great, strong, rollicking boy, with some heart, to be sure, but liking fun better than any thing, and headstrong and inconsiderate to an extent which i am ashamed to remember. full still of unexhausted animal spirits, and, as i said, not half satisfied with the frolic i had had, i began, in default of other amusement, to tease nelly. "i told her a ghastly story or two, and then i would rush away from her among the thick trees, as if in pursuit of something, and come back again to her side, in a few minutes. i wanted her to scream after me, but she didn't. she was so still that i actually thought she didn't care; and after a while i grew vexed because i couldn't vex her, and make her implore me to stay with her, and confess her dependence upon me. "at last, when we were about a third of a mile from home, a path led through the woods, branching off from the main path on which we were, to the farm where my greatest crony lived. i thought of something i wanted to say to him. here was a chance, to tease nelly well,--let her see whether she was just as comfortable without me as with me. "you look at me as if you didn't believe i could have been such a brute; but i was, and what is more, i did not at all realize at the time that i was doing any harm. that nelly would have a little scare, and hurry home somewhat faster than usual, was the most i apprehended; so i said, with a sort of boyish swagger,-- "'it just occurs to me that there is something i want to say to hal somers, and we are so near home now that you won't be afraid, so i'll just branch off there. tell mother i had supper enough at the picnic, and she needn't wait for me.' "it was too dark to look at nelly, or perhaps her white face, sad and frightened as i know it must have been, would have turned me from my purpose. she did not speak one word, and i struck off at a tearing pace through the woods. "by the time i had reached hal somers's place, i began to get sobered down a little, and to feel somewhat uncomfortable about what i had done. i had to wait a few minutes before i could see him, but i did my errand briefly, and it was not more than an hour after i had left nelly before i myself was at home. i found mother in the porch, looking out anxiously. "'i'm so glad you've come, children,' she cried, when she heard my footsteps, and then, as i drew nearer, 'why, jack, where is nelly?'" "'here, i suppose,' i answered, trying to face the music boldly. 'i left her about an hour ago in the woods, where the path branches off to go to hal somers's, and she had nothing to do but to come straight home.' "'you left nelly in the woods, an hour ago!' my mother cried, in a tone which made my heart stand still, and then turn over with a great leap. and then she sprang by me like some wild creature, and called through the darkness to my father to come with his lantern, quick, quick, for nelly had been alone in the dark woods for an hour. "instantly, as it seemed to me, my father and my oldest brother were following mother along the woodland path, and i stole after them, feeling like a second cain. it was but a very few minutes before we came up to nelly, for there she was, just where i left her. she had sunk to the ground, and was half sitting there, her back leaning against a tree beside the path. the light from the lantern flashed on her face, a face white and set as death, but with the wide-open eyes glaring fearfully into the dark beyond. "it was my mother who touched her first; and felt to see whether her heart had stopped beating. "'is she dead?' my father asked huskily. "'i don't know. it seems to me i can feel the very faintest throb, but i cannot tell until we get her home. if she isn't dead, i am afraid she is worse,--frightened out of her senses, for ever.' "then father and william made preparations to carry her. i asked, timidly, if i could help. i think none of them had noticed before that i was there. "'you!' my father said, with such concentrated scorn and wrath in his voice as i cannot describe; and then mother said, more mildly, but so sadly it was worse than any anger,-- "'no, i trusted her to you once. i supposed you loved her.' "so i saw them move off, carrying her between them, and i followed after like an outcast, until it occurred to me that, at least, i could call a physician. so i flew by them like the wind, and off on the road to town. by some singular good fortune, if we ought not always to say providence and never fortune, before i had gone forty rods i met dr. greene, who was coming in our direction to visit a patient. so i had him with me on the door-stone when they brought nelly in. "i did not dare to go into the room where they carried her; but i waited outside in an agony which punished me already for my sin. at last my mother had pity on me and looked out. "'she is not dead, jack,' she said, 'but she is still insensible, and until she is restored to consciousness there is no telling what the result will be.' "then an awful terror came over me, which i cannot put into words. what if she died, or what if she never had her reason again? who in that house would ever bear to look at me? when cain had murdered his brother he had to go forth alone,--what was left for me, another cain, but to go also alone into the world? "we lived nine miles away from a seaport town from which whaling vessels were continually starting, and it came into my mind that i might ship on board one for a three years' cruise; and, by the time it was over, the folks at home might have learned to forgive me for being in the world. so off through the night i hurried. "how strangely our ways seem made ready for us, often, in the great moments, big with fate, of our lives! i found a whaler which was to sail in the early morning, a captain disappointed in one of his green hands, whose place i could have, and before i had been half an hour in the town my bargain was made, i had been fitted out with necessaries, and i went into a tavern to write a note to my mother. "a strange, incoherent note it was; but it told her where i was gone and why, and begged her, whatever came, to forgive her boy, who loved her, and who might never see her again. "never mind about the long, long days, and weeks, and months which followed,--the empty hours of solemn nights and gusty days, during which i was face to face with my own soul. "of course before a week had gone by i was sorry enough for the rash step i had taken. it seemed to me i could not live for three years and not know what had become of nelly. i would have gone barefoot to the ends of the earth to find out about her, but i could not walk the sea. i was growing so wild with grief and anxiety that i sometimes think i should have walked overboard some night, and so ended all my pain for this world, if providence had not raised me up a friend in my need--only a common sailor, and a man whose strange history i never knew, but a gentleman and a scholar, in whose locker were milton, and shakespeare, and don quixote. "i had studied pretty well at school; and was rather forward than otherwise, for a boy of fourteen; and i have sometimes thought no course of study in any school would have been so much to me as was the entire absence of frivolous and worthless literature, and the constant companionship of these great minds. besides these, i read daily in my pocket testament; and i owed a great deal also to the instructions and explanations of the friend who was, as it has always seemed to me, god's especial gift to my needs. "our voyage appeared destined, at first, to be a highly successful one; but just as we were nearly ready to return, we encountered a storm which strewed the sea with wrecks. we saw our vessel go down, but we were fortunate enough to escape in our boats; my friend and i, and two or three more, were with the second mate in his boat, and we were soon separated from the others. we made land on a fruitful island, peopled by savages who were not unfriendly; but it was many months before, at last, we got away in an east indiaman, and while we were on the island my friend had died suddenly, leaving untold the story of his life. "i will not enter into the particulars of my return home,--how from port to port and ship to ship i made my way, until, at length, after five years of absence, i sighted the well-known landmarks of the old town from whence i embarked. "how familiar it all looked to me! i knew every field through which the homeward road led, and i walked the nine miles between the town and my father's farm in the night, as i had done before. it was three o'clock of a september morning when i reached the old place, and i had nearly two hours to wait before there were any signs of life about it. for now, after all these years, i had not the courage to summon them from their rest. how i passed those waiting hours, divided betwixt hope and fear, you can guess. i lived over in them all the torturing anxieties of the last five years. was nelly dead or alive? should i ever see my mother again? what had changed, while the old house among the trees had stood so still? "at last i heard a sound. a door opened, and my mother, who of old always used to be the first to move, looked out. her hair was white, and her thin cheeks were pale; but i knew the kind eyes that looked forth to meet the morning, and should have known them despite any amount of change. i sprang forward to greet her. "'mother,' i said. she knew my voice and turned toward me trembling. "'o jack, jack! i thought you were dead long ago. o my boy, my own boy!' "and her arms were round my neck, her tender lips were kissing me; and so she drew me in, into peace, shelter, home. "'and nelly?' i asked, half afraid to call the name. "'nelly is well. oh, if you had but waited to see. she was ill for awhile, but no serious harm came to her; and, instead, it was my own boy who went away to break my heart.' "'and has come back to heal it,' i cried, growing bold and merry with my relief and joy. "by this time the rest heard us, and came to the scene,--father, brothers, and last of all, nelly; such a beautiful nelly of sweet sixteen, ten times fairer and brighter than my brightest memories of her, and all ready to forgive me, and make much of me. "_then_ was when the chivalry began. _then_ i was ready enough to fetch and carry for miss nelly of the dark eyes and the bright cheeks." "oh," said john, laughing, "then when a fellow is nineteen he can be chivalrous to his own sister?" "very likely he can," uncle jack answered, "but my experience doesn't prove it; for i began to be glad, very soon indeed, that nelly was only my adopted sister, after all. it was a good while before i got my courage up to ask her whether she would trust herself to me on the long home stretch through life. be sure that i promised her, if she would, that i'd never leave her in any dark places." "and what did she say?" "oh! i mustn't tell her secrets. go and ask her. there she comes, with her first grandchild in her arms. her cheeks are not bright now, she says, but somehow they look to me just as they used to look; and i know her eyes are as dark and deep as ever; and though i call her 'mother,' with the rest of you, when you are all round, there is never a night that i don't say to her, before she goes to sleep, 'god bless you, nelly!'" nobody's child. the summer sun was warm in the five-acre lot, and the east porch was cool and pleasant, so the owner of the lot lingered in the porch and talked awhile with his wife. he had married her only the april before, and to live with her and love her had not yet grown to be an old story. it would be her fault if it ever did grow to be one; for he was a tender, kindly man, this marcus grant, with a gentle and clinging nature, and a womanly need of loving. his wife, though she was young and pretty, with bright eyes, and bright lips, and soft, waving hair, was harder than he, and colder, and more selfish. but she had given him all the heart she had, and in these early days she cared very much indeed about pleasing him, and keeping him satisfied with her; or, rather, making him continue to admire her, for quiet satisfaction on his part would not have been enough. he had thrown himself down on the door-stone, and his head was leaning against her lap, as she sat on her low chair in the porch, and ran her fingers in and out of his thick chestnut hair, thinking to herself what a fortunate woman she was to be the wife of this manly, handsome fellow, whom so many girls wanted, and the mistress of his well-filled, comfortable house. from this east porch where they sat they could see down the long line of dusty road that led to the church and the few houses clustered round it, which passed for a village. the farmhouse stood on the top of a high hill; and up this hill they now saw a woman toiling slowly. the summer sun burned fiercely down on her, the dust rose with every step in a choking cloud about her, but still she struggled on. little events are full of interest in country solitudes, and both grant and his wife watched the wanderer with curiosity. "well, i never saw her before, that's certain," the husband said, after a long look as she drew nearer. "nor i," returned his wife. "but see, mark, she has a baby in her arms. she's trying to keep the sun off it with that shawl; and, sure as you live, she is turning in here." "why, so she is;" and grant rose to his feet. "may i sit down in the shade and rest?" asked the stranger, drawing nigh. she spoke in a clear, silvery voice, which betrayed some of her secrets, since it was the voice of a lady, and also it was the utterance of despair, for its hopeless monotone was unvarying. "certainly," and mrs. grant rose and offered her own low chair, for clearly this was no common tramp. "and might i trouble you for a glass of water?" "i'll go for some fresh," grant said, full of hospitable intent. but before he got back with the water he heard his wife calling him, and hurrying forward at the sound, he found her holding the stranger's head, on her shoulder, and the baby, who was just opening sleepy eyes, in her arms. "quick, mark, do something. i think she is dying. she must be sun-struck." and so it proved. no one ever knew how far she had toiled in that intense heat, with the baby in her arms,--no one ever knew any thing more about her, for when the sun set, which had scorched and withered her life, she, too, was gone to unknown shores. she spoke only once after she asked for the glass of water, and that was just before she died. the baby, in another room, uttered a cry, and she tried to turn her head toward the sound. "it is your baby," mrs. grant said, kindly, "but she is all right. what do you call her?" the strangest change came over the dying face: it may have been only a foreshadowing of death, but it seemed more like a mortal agony of renunciation and of despair. "nothing," she said, as evenly and with as little change of inflection as if she were already a ghost; "nothing: she is nobody's child." but in half an hour after that she was dead, and mrs. grant, who was very literal in her ideas, always thought that the stranger had not known what she said; but, she used to add, the child _was_ nobody's child, for all they should ever know about it. after the mother was buried, she began to think it was time to dispose of this child, which was nobody's. she was not without heart, and she had worked diligently to fashion small garments enough to make the little creature comfortable; but now, she thought, her duty was done, and she wondered mark said nothing about taking the baby to the alms-house. at last, one evening, she herself proposed it. her husband looked at her in mild surprise. he supposed all women loved babies by instinct, and he took it for granted that of course his wife wanted this one, only she probably thought he wouldn't like it round. "why, did you think i wouldn't let you keep it?" he asked quietly. "i think god has sent it to us, and we've really no right to turn it over to any one else, to say nothing of the pleasure it is to have the little bundle." as i said, mrs. grant was still in a state of mind not to be satisfied without her husband's admiration. she would not have fallen short of his ideal of her for any thing; she would, at least, _seem_ all that he desired her to _be_. she was quick enough to understand that he _would_ think less of her if he saw her unwilling to keep the baby, so she smiled on him with what cheerfulness she could summon, and treated the matter as settled. thus the child, which was nobody's, grew up in the grant household. she had been six months old, apparently, when she came there, and by midwinter she began to totter round on her little feet, and to say short words. but no one ever taught her to say papa or mamma, those lovely first words of childhood. what had nobody's child to do with such names? it might have seemed strange to most people that julia grant did not love this little thing, so thrown upon her mercy in its tender babyhood. but, despite theories, all women are not fond of children. every woman is, perhaps, fond, in a blind, instinctive way, of her own; but the more heavenly love which takes all children in its arms and blesses them is not by any means universal. the most powerful trait in mrs. grant's character was a silent, unobtrusive selfishness. the whole world revolved, to her thought, about _her_. rains fell, dews dropped earthward, winds blew and suns shone for julia grant. she had consented with secret reluctance to keep the child, and from that moment a root of bitterness and jealousy had sprung up in her heart. if her husband had thought much of _her_ comfort, she used to say to herself, he would not have wanted to put all this care upon her. she was quite ready, therefore, to be jealous, and to feel as if something was taken from her every time he tossed the little one in his arms, or called it a pet name; and after a while--not at once, for he was naturally the most unsuspicious of men--some instinct revealed this to him, and made him, lover of peace as he was, very chary of manifesting in his wife's presence any especial tenderness for the little stranger within his gates. but summer and winter came and went, and with their sun and shade nobody's child grew on toward girlhood. she had a great deal of beauty, of a shadowy, delicate kind. she was seldom ill, but she was a very frail-looking child. the quick, changeful color in her cheeks, the depth of feeling in her dark eyes, the tremulous curves about her mouth, all indicated an organization of extreme sensitiveness; a nature to which love would be as the very breath of life, but which was too shrinking and timid ever to put forth any claims for it, or make any advances. for ten years she was the only little one in the grant household. their affairs prospered, they grew richer every year, as if nobody's child had brought a blessing with her; but it was a constant source of bitterness to mrs. grant that they were laying up for strangers, or perhaps for this waif, whom no one else claimed, and who seemed likely to remain in their house for ever, like some noiseless, unwelcome shadow. but at last, when the child had been for ten years her unwelcome housemate, to mrs. grant herself was given a little baby girl, god's messenger of love, as i think every child must be, to every mother. never had baby a warmer welcome. the preparations made for her were worthy of a little queen, and she opened her eyes on a world of love and of summer. but perhaps no one, not even her mother, lavished upon her such a passion of devotion as the poor little waif, nobody's child, who had never in her life before had any one whom she dared to caress. perhaps her devotion to baby touched mrs. grant's heart; at any rate she saw that she could trust the little one to her without fear, and so nobody's child became a self-constituted but most faithful nurse and body-guard to this other child, whom loving hearts were so proud and glad to own. and little rose--for so they named the summer baby--clung to her young nurse with a fond tenacity, very exacting and wearing, indeed, but unutterably sweet to the shy girl whom no one else loved. she began to feel that she was of some use,--even she had her own name and place in the world; and this reminds me that i have not yet told you her name. she had been christened annette soon after she came under the grant roof, but little rose called her "nanty," and this odd title was the very first word that small person ever spoke. she was a lovely baby, one of the rosy, fat, dimpled, laughing kind, and so thoroughly healthy that she seldom cried, except when "nanty" disappeared for a moment from her sight. the touch of her baby fingers seemed to make marcus grant and his wife both young again. day by day some line of care faded out of their faces, which time had begun to harden. the mother smiled, as she had never smiled before, on her baby; and here, at last, was an object on which the father's great, loving heart could lavish itself, unblamed, and unquestioned. rose was a year and a half old, when one cold winter night her father and mother were persuaded to go to a house warming, a mile away. mrs. grant was seldom willing to leave her baby, but this gay company was to assemble at the new house of one of her best friends, and she took a fancy to be present. "'nanty' will be just as careful of rose, to do her justice, as i should," she said; "and i think it's only neighborly to go." her husband, always sociable in his nature, assented readily enough; and eight o'clock saw them well tucked in under the buffalo robes of their sleigh, and started for the scene of festivities. "nanty," for her part, was well content. rose was already asleep, her little cheek, pink as the heart of one of her namesake flowers, resting on one dimpled hand, while the other was tossed above her head, as we have all seen babies sleep. the maid-of-all-work went off early to her bed in the next chamber, and the man, who had a family of his own not far away, took his departure, and then "nanty" raked up the fire, and crept softly into bed beside little rose. it was nearly midnight when she woke, roused from her slumber by a light, a vivid, red light, brighter than day. in one moment she realized her position. the house was on fire, and the flames were already far advanced. she sprang to the door and opened it, but it was only to be met and driven back by a sheet of fire. there was no hope of escape that way. rose was her only thought. if she could save the child, she did not care for herself. she opened the chamber window. the leap seemed desperate to her timid gaze, but the snow underneath the window might break the fall. then she thought of something better. she caught the blankets from the bed, and rolled rose in them hurriedly, then dragged off the feather-bed, by an effort of uttermost strength, and forced it through the window; and then, reaching out as far as she could, she dropped rose, closely wrapped in the blankets, upon the bed, and sprang herself from another window, lest she might fall upon the child. for her there was no bed underneath, and no wrapping of soft woollens. heavily she fell to the ground, and a violent shock, followed by deadly pain, told her that she had broken her arm. she thanked god, in that breathless moment, that it was not her leg, for somehow she must move rose to a place of safety, out of reach, at least, of falling timbers. how she did it she never could have told, but in thirty seconds rose and the bed were out of the yard and across the street, and then she sank down beside her charge, utterly unconscious. mr. and mrs. grant were driving home after the festival when they caught the gleam of a wild, strange light in the direction of their own home. "the house is on fire!" mrs. grant cried, with white lips. "rose!" the father answered hoarsely, and whipped his horse into a run. a quarter of a mile away from home they met the maid. "master, mistress," she screamed after them, "the house is on fire, and i'm going for help." they did not stop for questions. had "nanty" also forsaken little rose? but they found "nanty" at her post, though at first they thought she was dead. the mother pulled away the blankets from the little bundle beside her, and baby rose rubbed her chubby hands into her sleepy eyes. "where is i?" she said, "and what for you make morning so soon?" "o mark, mark! she's all right," the mother cried, in a passion of joy. "'nanty' has saved her;" and then she bent over the little girl in her thin night-gown, and took her by the arm. "nanty, nanty!" she had seized the broken arm, and the pain roused the fainting girl. "yes'm," she said, starting up. "i'm so sorry to be good for nothing just now, when you want me so much, but i broke my arm jumping out." afterwards, when the family had found a new shelter, the whole story came out. the maid, judith, had read herself to sleep, and her candle had tipped over and set the bed on fire. the flames had aroused her to a terror which utterly swept away whatever presence of mind she might have had under other circumstances, and without one thought for rose or "nanty" she had hurried off to call the neighbors to the scene of action. one might have feared that the fright and exposure would prove fatal to one so frail and delicate as "nanty" had always been; but by the time her arm was well healed she was stronger than ever before, drawing new life, as it seemed, from the love and care lavished on her so freely; for now even mrs. grant's heart had opened and taken her in. one day marcus grant said to his wife,-- "but for 'nanty' we should have had no child at all. it seems hard that she, who saved our darling, should be nobody's child herself." "you think we ought to adopt her, and make her ours legally?" his wife answered, smiling cheerfully. "i have been thinking the same thing myself. we will do it when you please, for i believe god sent her to us, to be our own, just as much as ever he sent rose." so it came about, before another spring, that "nanty" was no longer nobody's child. father, mother, and little sister all belonged to her, and she had name and place in life, and a happy home where love smiled for ever. my little gentleman. for a year the great house rising on the summit of prospect hill had been an object of interest and observation, and a chief subject for talk to the quiet country neighborhood surrounding it. hillsdale was an old town--a still, steady-going farming place--where the young men ploughed the unwilling fields, and coaxed reluctant crops out of the hard-hearted new england soil, as fathers and grandfathers had done before them. but in all the generations since the town was settled, no one had ever thought of building on prospect hill. it had been used as pasture ground, until now, when a man from boston had bought it, and had had a road made to its top, and a house built on its very brow. this house was a wonder of architectural beauty. "with its battlements high in the hush of the air, and the turrets thereon." it was built of a kind of mixed stone; so that its variegated coloring had an air of brightness and gayety very unusual. the farmers about were exercised in mind over the amount of ox-flesh and patience required to drag stone enough for the great building up the high hill; but that did not trouble the architect, who gave his orders composedly, and went on with his business, quite unheeding comment. the house, itself, puzzled the neighbors, with its superb, arched dining-hall, its lovely, frescoed drawing-room, its wide passages, its little music-room, and its great library all lined with carven oak. then, why there should be so many chambers, unless, indeed, mr. shaftsbury had a very large family. but it was when the furniture began to come in that wonder reached its height. such plenishings had never been seen before in hillsdale. the carpet on the drawing-room must have been woven in some loom of unheard-of size; for it seemed to be all in one piece, with a medallion in the centre, a border round the edge, and all over its soft velvet--into which your feet sank as into woodland moss--the daintiest flowers that ever grew. marble statues gleamed in front of the great mirrors; and pictures of lovely landscapes, and radiant sunsets, and handsome men, and fair women, hung upon the walls. in the music-room were placed a grand piano, a harp and a guitar. the shelves which ran round the library on all sides, half way from floor to ceiling, were filled with substantially bound books; and above them were busts of great men by whom immortal words had been written. it was a dream of beauty all through,--and when it was finished, and a troop of servants, men and women, came to make all things ready, expectation reached its height. a presidential progress could hardly have excited more interest than did the arrival of a quiet, gentlemanly-looking man, dressed in gray, with iron-gray hair and beard, at the little railroad station, where a carriage had been sent down from prospect hill to meet him. this, of course, was mr. shaftsbury. he was accompanied, in spite of the many chambers, by a family of only two,--a lady much younger than himself, dressed with elegant simplicity, with a face full of all womanly sweetness, and a boy, about twelve or thirteen, apparently,--a high-bred little fellow in his appearance, but somewhat pale and delicate, and in need of the bracing air of prospect hill. they drove home in the sunset,--this little family of three,--and looked for the first time on their new abode. mr. shaftsbury had selected the location, and bought the land, somewhat more than a year before; and then had put the whole matter into the hands of a competent architect, while he took his family to europe, so that the new residence had as entirely the charm of novelty for him as for the others. for a month after that he was to be seen busily superintending matters about his place in the forenoon, while his wife and boy sauntered along, never far away from him, or driving with them in the pleasant may afternoons,--always these three only, and always together. the first of june, the summer term of the district school began. it was an intense surprise to the scholars to find, first of all in his place, young shaftsbury, from the hill. "robert shaftsbury, thirteen years old," he replied to the teacher, who asked his name and age. he studied quietly till recess, and even then lingered in his seat, with evident shyness, though he watched the others with a look of interest on his face. they stood apart, and talked of him among themselves, instead of rushing out at once to play, as was their wont. at last, after a good deal of wonderment and talk, one boy, bolder or more reckless than the rest, marched up to him. "i say, velvet jacket, how came you here?" was his salutation. "seems to me you're too much of a gentleman for our folks." a slight flush warmed young shaftsbury's pale cheeks; but he answered, with frankness as absolute as his courtesy was perfect:-- "i have been taught at home, up to now, but my father wants me to be with other boys of my own age; and he says a true gentleman belongs everywhere." the boys all heard what he said; and, in spite of their boyish rudeness, it inspired them with a certain respect. that was the beginning of the title which they gave him, among themselves, of "little gentleman,"--_only_ among themselves, at first; though afterwards, when they grew more familiar with him, they used to address him by it, more often than by his name. if there had been a philosophical observer to take note of it, it would have been curious to watch how unconsciously the boys were influenced by my little gentleman,--how their manners grew more gentle,--how they avoided coarse or unclean or profane words in his presence, as if he had been a woman. he led his classes, easily, in their studies. the teacher had never to reprove him for carelessness in his duties, or for broken rules. his father had said, "a true gentleman belongs everywhere;" and he was quietly proving it. the scholars liked him,--they could not help it, for his manner was as courteous as his nature was unselfish and kindly; and yet in their feeling for him there was a little strain of envy,--a slight disposition to blame him for the luxury and elegance to which he was born; and, because of his very courtesy, to underrate his courage and the real manliness of his character. but there was one in whose eyes he was, from first to last, a hero. jamie strong was yet more delicate than young shaftsbury. he had something the matter with one of his ankles, and could not join in the rough sports of the others. he was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow. her husband and her other three children had all died of typhoid fever, and been, one after another, carried out of the little, lonesome cottage at the foot of the hill, where the sun seldom came, and now jamie was the last. he would never be strong enough to do hard work. sowing, ploughing, mowing, harvesting,--he could never manage any of these; so for his weak limbs his quick brain must make up; and widow strong had determined that he should be a scholar,--a minister, if it pleased the lord to call him to that; if not a teacher. so she quietly struggled on to keep him at school, and to earn money to provide for future years of academy and college. she sewed, she washed, she picked berries,--she did any thing by which she could add a dollar to her hoard. jamie understood and shared her ambition, and studied with might and main. he was used to harshness and rudeness from stronger boys, and he had grown shy and shrunk into himself. to him the coming of my little gentleman was as grace from heaven. here was one who never mocked at his feebleness, or his poverty,--who was always kind, always friendly, and who did many a little thing to make him happy. young shaftsbury on his part was quick to perceive the tender and loyal admiration of the other; and there grew between them the tie of an interest which had never been put into words. it had been a damp and strange summer, intensely warm, even in that hilly region. it had rained continually, but the rains, which kept the fields green and made vegetation so unusually lush and ripe, had seemed scarcely to cool at all the fervid heat of the air. wiseacres predicted much sickness. indeed, several cases of slow fever were in the town already. one day my little gentleman looked about in vain for his friend jamie, and finally asked for him anxiously, and found that the boy was ill of typhoid fever. at recess he heard the boys talking of it. "he'll never get well," one said. "his father died just that way, and his three brothers. you see it's damp, down in that hollow, and the sun hardly ever touches the house. i heard dr. simonds say it was ten to one against anybody who was sick there." when school was over robert shaftsbury hurried home. he found his mother sitting, dressed all in white, in the music-room, playing a symphony on the piano, while his father sat a little distance off, listening with half-closed eyes. he waited until the piece was over, and then he told his story and preferred his request. the doctor had said it was ten to one against any one who was sick in that little damp house in the hollow; and he wanted jamie brought up the hill to their own home. he watched the faces of his father and mother as he spoke; and it seemed to him that a refusal was hovering upon their lips, and he said, earnestly,-- "don't speak, just yet. remember that he is his mother's only son, as i am yours. if i lay sick where there was no hope for me, and some one else might, perhaps, save me by taking me in, would you think they ought to try it, or to let me die?" mr. shaftsbury looked into his wife's eyes. "robert is right," she said, with the sudden, sweet smile which always seemed to make the day brighter when it came to her lips. "if the poor boy can be helped by being brought here, we must bring him." "i will go and see," mr. shaftsbury answered, at once. "and i, too, papa," said my little gentleman. "not you, i think. i fear contagion for you." "i think there is no danger for me, living on this bright hill-top, in these great, airy rooms,--but even if there were, i am sure you would let me go if you knew how much jamie loves me." "come, then," his father said, quietly. he had been, all his son's life, preaching to him of heroism and self-sacrifice and devotion. he dared not interfere with almost his first opportunity for any real exercise of them. so the two went down the hill together. it chanced that they met dr. simonds coming away from the house, and proposed to him the question of the removal. it would not do, the doctor declared at once,--the disease had made too much progress. to remove him now would be more dangerous than to leave him where he was. "then i must go and see him," robert said, resolutely. "you know he has only his mother, and i must spend all the time i can spare from school with him." "but i will send an excellent nurse, my son. do you not see that i cannot have you expose yourself?" "send the nurse, too, please, papa; but do not keep me from going. he will not care for the nurse, and he does care very much for me. i do not believe in the danger, and i know how glad he will be to see me." mr. shaftsbury hesitated. this boy was as the apple of his eye. must he indeed begin so soon to look danger in the face, for the sake of others? but dared he withhold him, when the boy felt that honor and duty called? it ended by his walking in with him quietly. it was something to see how jamie's face brightened. he had been very dull and stupid all day, his mother said, and some of the time his mind had been wandering. but now a glad, eager light came into his eyes, and a smile curved his parched lips. he put out his hot hands. "oh! is it you, my little gentleman?" he said: "i had rather see you than any thing else in the world." "well, then, i will come every day as soon as i am through school," robert shaftsbury answered. "do you know what you have done?" his father asked, when, at last, they stood outside the house together. "yes, papa. i have promised that poor, sick, helpless little fellow all the comfort i can give him. i have promised to do by him as i should want him to do by me if i were jamie strong, and he was robert shaftsbury." mr. shaftsbury was silenced. this, indeed, was the rule of living he had taught. should he venture to interfere with its observance? so my little gentleman had his way. he took every precaution which his mother's anxiety suggested, such as going home to lunch before he went to the little cottage where the sick boy lay and longed for him. but he went regularly. and no matter how wild jamie might be, his presence would bring calmness. the dim eyes would kindle; the poor, parched lips would smile; and mrs. strong said the visit did jamie more good than his medicines. at school the boys looked upon my little gentleman with a sort of wondering reverence. they all knew of his daily visits to the fever-haunted place, which they themselves shunned, and they marvelled at his courage. this was the boy they had fancied to be lacking in manliness, because he was slight and fair,--because he was carefully dressed and tenderly nurtured! they said nothing; but in a hundred subtile ways they showed their changed estimate. the days went on, and with them jamie strong's life went toward its end. the doom of his house had come upon him; and love and prayers and watching were all, it seemed, of none avail. one night the fever reached its crisis, and the doctor, who watched him through it, knew that the end was near. jamie knew it, also. when the morning dawned he whispered faintly to his mother,-- "i shall never see another morning; but oh, if i can only live till night, and see my little gentleman!" she proposed to send for him; but that was not what the boy wished. "no," he said, feebly, "i want to see him coming in, at the old time, with some flowers in his hand, 'and make a sunshine in a shady place.' somebody said that, mother, i forget who; i forget every thing now; but that's what _he_ does; he makes a sunshine in this shady place." a dozen times that day it seemed as if the breath coming so faintly must be his last; but he clung to life with a strange, silent tenacity. at last, just a few moments before it was time for the accustomed visit, he said,-- "kiss me good-by, mother. i want to save the rest of my strength for him." she kissed him, with her bitter tears falling fast. he put up a hand so thin that you could almost see through it, and brushed the tears away. "don't cry," he said; "it hurts me. life here was hard, and up above christ says it will be all made easy." then he was silent, and presently robert came with a great bunch of white lilies in his hand. "the lilies of heaven," murmured jamie, in a low, strange tone. then into his eyes broke once more the light which never failed to respond to robert's coming, and a wan smile fluttered over his lips, as a soul might flutter before it flies away. "i am going now," he said. "i waited to say good-by, my little gentleman. do you think they are all gentlemen up there?" with this question his life went out, and voices we could not hear made answer. this was the beginning of robert shaftsbury's career. no harm came to him through his presence in the fever-tainted house,--but he had learned a lesson there. the one thing for which he has striven in life is to be a gentleman; and his interpretation of that much-abused phrase he finds in the book which tells us to do unto others as we would that they should do unto us. [illustration: ruthy's country.--page .] ruthy's country. it was such a strange, sad, old face to be on such a young, slight form, that you could not help looking at it again and again. otherwise there was nothing remarkable about her. she was just a girl sweeping a crossing, in a bustling, dirty street, on a muddy, sloppy march day. she was thinly clothed, but not more so than others of her class; and there was nothing in particular to make me notice her except this queer, expressive, melancholy, unyouthful countenance. she wore a worsted hood which left the whole face visible. you could see the forehead, broad and low, and lined with puzzled thinking; the dusky, tumbled hair; the wishful, pathetic mouth with its drooping corners; and the great, strange, olive-colored eyes, which looked as if they had asked for something they could never find for such a weary while that now they would never ask again,--eyes dark with despair, and yet with a suggestion of something else in them which set you questioning. patiently she swept on. sometimes she had to spring aside from the rapid passage of cart or carriage, sometimes she made clean the way of some dainty foot passenger, who rewarded her with a penny; but all the time the hopeless, unchildlike visage never betrayed the slightest gleam of interest. i was dabbling in art a little, just then; and i stood in the window of a picture store and watched her, thinking that her strange, impassive face ought to fit, somewhere, in the illustrations i was making for a book of ballads, but not knowing quite how to use it. all at once, as i watched, i saw a singular change pass over her. she held her broom motionless, her lips parted, a light as if at midnight the sun should rise, lighted the darkness of her eyes, her whole expression kindled with something,--interest, surprise, expectation,--i hardly knew what, but something that transformed it as by a spell. i stepped to the door then, and followed her eyes up the street. it takes ten times as long to tell this as it was in happening. it all came in an instant,--the change in her face, my going out to look for its cause, and the sight which, following her eyes, i saw,--a carriage coming swiftly down street, an elegant open barouche, in which sat a lady dressed in furs and velvet, and a wonderfully beautiful, golden-haired child. it was at the child that my little crossing-sweeper was looking, with a gaze which seemed to me to say,-- "so this, then, is childhood? _this_ is what we ought to be when we are young; and how beautiful it is!" she looked so intently that she forgot she was standing in the way, until the coachman shouted out to her, while he tried with all his strength to pull up his horses. she had looked one moment too long. somehow the pole knocked her down, and the horses stepped over or on her, which i could not see; but in another moment they were drawn up a rod farther on, the lady was getting out of her carriage, and i myself was in the heart of the crowd which gathered at once, as usual. "her arm is broken," one cried. "she has fainted," said another. "where is her home; can any one tell?" asked the lady in the furs and the velvet, standing now beside her. a ragged little newsboy stepped from the ranks and pulled at some ghost of a cap. "please, ma'am, i know," he said. "it's down here in moonstone court, with old sally." "hey for sally, in our alley," sang another little limb of evil, vexed that he had not been the one who knew the local habitation aforesaid. newsboy no. was elevated to the coachman's box, and was desired to show the way. the lady got into the carriage herself, and received the injured and swooning girl, whom there were strong arms enough to lift,--the golden-haired child looked on with the compassion of an angel in her angelic face,--newsboy no. hung on behind dexterously, making sure that his offence would pass unnoticed in the general _mêlée_, and the carriage rolled away toward moonstone court. presently the golden-haired child spoke. "what if they haven't any good place for her there, mamma?" mrs. brierly, for that was the lady's name, bent forward and addressed newsboy no. , on the box. "is the old sally you spoke of the girl's mother?" "no, ma'am. she ain't no relation to her. i've heard folks say, ruthy's father and mother died, and old sally took her in to beg for her; to be a sufferin' orphin, you know; and lately ruthy won't beg any more, and they say the old un do beat her awful." "o mamma!" it was all the pitiful, childish lips said; but the blue eyes full of tears finished the prayer. "don't be afraid, gracie," the lady answered, smiling; "she shall not go there." then she turned to newsboy no. . "here is some money for you. you can tell old sally that the girl got hurt, and has been taken to the hospital. you had better go and let her know at once." so newsboy no. got down from his unwonted elevation, pulled again at the phantom of a cap, and, looking curiously at the fresh, crisp currency in his hand, walked away. newsboy no. , correctly divining that nothing was to be gained by remaining, while, by following his comrade he might perhaps come in for a treat, let go his hold on the carriage, and went after the other. "now, james," mrs. brierly said to the coachman, "you may drive to the children's hospital, on rutland street." "we shall go right by home, shan't we, mamma?" "yes, dear." "i suppose we couldn't be a hospital, could we?" "not very conveniently, i think. it is better to help keep up a hospital outside than to turn our own house into one." "yes'm," gracie said, thoughtfully, "only this once, when we did the hurting, i didn't know but it would be nice if we did the curing." just then, before mrs. brierly answered, the swooning girl revived, and opened for an instant her curious, olive-colored eyes. there was something in their look, perhaps, which went farther than gracie's argument. at any rate, the lady said,-- "after all, james, you may as well leave us at home, and go at once for dr. cheever." in five minutes more the carriage had stopped before a substantial, prosperous-looking house, the coachman had carried the poor, suffering little waif upstairs in his arms, and mrs. brierly had summoned mrs. morris, the good, motherly woman who had been gracie's nurse, to her councils. when dr. cheever came, he found his patient in clean, pure clothes, in a fresh, lovely room, waiting for him with a piteous, silent patience which it was pathetic to see. she suffered cruelly from her hurt, a compound fracture of the wrist, but she was not used to making moans or receiving sympathy; and it would have seemed to her a sort of sacrilege to cry out with human pain in this paradise to which she had been brought. one could only guess at her suffering by her compressed lips, with the white pallor round them, and the dark rings about her eyes. dr. cheever listened to the account of the accident, while he dressed the poor hurt wrist with a gentleness which soothed the pain his touch caused. when he had done all he could, he followed mrs. brierly from the room. "this will be an affair of several weeks," he said. "would it not have been better to take the girl to one of the hospitals?" "i thought so, at first; but, as gracie said, we did the hurting, and it seemed right we should do the healing. besides, the child's face interested me strangely, and i think it will not be a bad thing for us to have a little experience of this sort." meantime ruthy lay and looked about her, as we have all fancied ourselves looking when, the death sleep over, we shall open our eyes to a new morning in some one of the father's "many mansions." to a denizen of moonstone court this peaceful spot in which ruthy found herself might well seem no unworthy heaven. the walls were tinted a soft, delicate gray, with blue borderings. on the drab carpet blue forget-me-nots blossomed. blue ribbons tied back the white muslin curtains, and all the little china articles for use or ornament were blue and gilt. only one picture was in the room, and that hung over the mantel, directly opposite the pure white bed where ruthy lay. it was a landscape by gifford,--one of those glorified pictures of his which paint nature as only a poet sees her. soft meadows sloped away into dreamy distance on one side, and, on the other, into the green enchantment of a wood a winding path beguiled you. in the centre, with her raised foot upon a stile by which she was about to cross into the peaceful meadows, a young girl stood with morning in her eyes. just as she raised her foot she had paused and turned her head to look over her shoulder, as if she heard a voice calling her, and was hesitating whether to go on her appointed way or back into the green wood's enchantment. there was a wonderful suggestion for a story in the girl's face, her attitude, her questioning eyes. but if ruthy felt this at all, it was very vaguely and unconsciously; yet the picture revealed to her a new world. somewhere, then, meadows bloomed like these meadows, and woods were green, and light flickered through tender leaves, and over all the great, glorious blue sky arched and smiled. somewhere! that must be country,--outside of the pavements and the tall, frowning houses. oh, if she _could_ go! oh, but she _would_ go! let her wrist but get well, and then! she had never had these dreams before. the vision of the country, the true country, had never dawned on her till now. and yet she must have seen pictures of it in the windows of print shops; but her eyes had not been anointed, or gifford had not painted the pictures. all through the quiet weeks in which her sore hurt was healing, she watched that painted landscape, and her longing to find it grew and grew. but she never said a word about it. indeed, she seldom spoke at all except to answer some question. mrs. brierly became strangely interested in her in spite of this silence, which piqued and disappointed gracie. the child could not understand what the mother guessed at,--the sense of isolation which tormented ruthy. she was among them, but not of them, the girl felt. she had been injured by an accident for which these people in some wise held themselves responsible, and so they were good to her, and gave her this glimpse of heaven. but they were of the chosen people, and she a gentile, an outcast at their gates. if she could but go away from every thing she had ever known, and follow that winding path into the still wood, she should be happy. who knew what she might not find there,--love, may be, and friends, and home,--perhaps, even, the father and mother who, as old sally said, were dead? who knew? one day mrs. brierly came in to sit with her. ruthy could sit up now, and she was in a low rocking-chair, still facing the picture. the lady saw the direction of her eyes, and said, gently,-- "i think you must like pictures very much, ruthy?" the olive-colored eyes gleamed, and a flickering flush came and went in the thin cheeks, but the girl answered shyly and guardedly, as her wont was. "i don't know, ma'am; i have never seen any. i like this one. it is the country; isn't it?" mrs. brierly smiled. "yes; it is the country as gifford, the man who made the picture, saw it. country means ploughed fields and potatoes to some people, and paradise to others. i think _you_ could find gifford's country, ruthy." the girl's heart gave a great, sudden bound. that was just what she meant to do; but she was silent. soon mrs. brierly asked,-- "do you remember your father and mother, ruthy? i think they must have been very different people from old sally." "yes, ma'am, i remember my mother. father died so long ago i have forgotten all about him, and mother and i grew poorer and poorer, until one day i woke up, as it seemed, from a long dream, with my hair all gone, and very weak; and the neighbors said mother and i had both had a fever, and she was dead. then sally took me and sent me out to beg, until i wouldn't beg any more; and since then i've sold matches and swept crossings, and done any thing else i could. my wrist is getting so i can use it now, and i must go to work again. i am very thankful to you, ma'am. i would have my wrist broke twenty times to come once into this house and lie in this white bed, and see that picture. but to-morrow i shall be well enough to put on my own clothes again and go to work, and i will, please, ma'am." "these are your own clothes that you have on, ruthy, your very own. and here are more changes for you in this drawer, and here in the closet are your shawl and hat. you must not go away yet, till you are much stronger; but when you do go, all these things are your own." "my very own!" it was a sort of glad cry which came from the girl's quivering lips. her eyes filled, and the flickering color came into her cheeks. mrs. brierly got up and went away. she had never heard ruthy speak so many words before, and she began to feel that she should get to the girl's heart in time, but she would not let her excite herself any more, now. and ruthy sat and looked at the picture, and thought. the next morning rose bright and clear,--a summer morning, which had slipped away from its kindred and stolen on in advance to brighten the last week in april. nurse morris went first into ruthy's room, and found the little white bed empty, and the room empty also. she called the maid who had been sweeping down the steps and washing the sidewalk, and asked if she had seen any one go out. no one, the girl said, but she had left the door unfastened while she just chatted a bit with katy, next door, and some one might have gone, and she not know it. mrs. morris went next to mrs. brierly with her tale, and mrs. briefly came in dressing-gown and slippers to look at the empty room. the hat and shawl she had put in the closet for ruthy were gone, but the changes of clothes in the drawer were untouched; and upon them lay a piece of paper on which the girl had printed laboriously, in great capital letters,-- "i am going to find the country. i did not tell, for fear i would not be let to go. god bless you, ma'am, i'm very thankful." it seemed useless to try to follow her on her unknown road. no one could guess in what direction she had gone. tender-hearted little gracie cried over her departure; mrs. brierly felt very anxious and uneasy, but they could only wait. and it was three days before any news came. it was brought, at last, by an odd messenger. a market-man stopped with his wagon before the house, and, ringing the bell, asked to see the mistress, and was shown upstairs. "did a young girl, sort of delicate lookin', leave you lately, ma'am?" "yes, on tuesday morning. can you tell me any thing of her?" "well, you see, i get up nigh about in the middle of the night to get things ready for market, and wednesday morning i found a girl lying in a dead faint on my barn floor. i called my wife, and we brought her to, and wife asked her where she came from. 'mrs. brierly's, no. tremont street,' she answered, straight enough; and then she went off again, and the next time we brought her to there was no more sense to be got out of her. she just kept saying over something about finding the country, and 'it ain't there.' "i had to come off to market, but we carried her into the house, and in the middle of the forenoon wife see the doctor goin' by, and she jest called to him. he said it was brain fever; and she don't get any better; and wife said i'd better stop at , and if there was a mrs. brierly here, why, i could let her know. we live at highville, about fifteen miles from boston; and if you ask for job smith's you'll find my house." so poor little ruthy had walked all those lonesome miles to find the country that gifford saw, and had found, instead, pain and weariness, and who knew what more? that day mrs. brierly drove out there, and took nurse morris with her; ruthy recognized neither of them, and at length mrs. brierly drove sadly away, leaving nurse morris behind to care for the sick child, as busy mrs. job smith, with all her kindliness, was unable to do. and after a while the fever wore itself out, and ruthy, a white wraith of a girl, was carried back into the chamber of peace, where the country gifford saw was hanging on the wall. but the days went by, and the spring came slowly up that way, and the young summer followed, and ruthy was still a pale, white wraith, and grew no rosier and no stronger. "do get well, ruthy," loving little gracie used to say, "and we'll take you to find the country." but ruthy would shake her head with a slow, mournful motion, and answer,-- "no use, miss gracie, it is in the picture, but it ain't anywhere else." and by and by they began to know that ruthy would never go where pleasant paths led through the wood's green enchantment, or peaceful meadows smiled in the summer sunshine. sorrow and privation and weariness had done their work too well, and the little heart, that beat so much too fast now, would stop beating soon. but ruthy was very happy. the unrest that had possessed her before she went to find the country was all over. she had tried her experiment, and found out, as she thought, that the true country was not to be reached by earthly winding ways, and she was content to watch it as gifford painted it, and dream her silent dreams, which no one knew, as she watched. one night when gracie bade her good-night and danced away, she looked after her with the old, wistful wonder in her eyes, and then looked up at mrs. brierly. "how beautiful god can make children, ma'am. i think they'll _all_ be so, in the true country." then reaching forward she took mrs. brierly's hand and touched it for the first time with her humble, grateful lips. "oh, ma'am," she said, "you are so dear and good." the next morning, when they found her lying still, she was whiter than ever. she would never speak again to tell her disappointment or her joy, but a wonderful smile, a smile of triumph, was frozen on her young, wistful mouth, and mrs. brierly, looking at her, stooped to kiss gracie's tears away, and said,-- "do not cry, my darling,--i think, at last, ruthy has found the true country." job golding's christmas. it was very strange, thought old job golding, that he couldn't be master of his own mind. he had lived a great many years, and neither remorse nor memory had ever been in the habit of disturbing him; but now it seemed to him as if the very foundations of his life were breaking up. he was through with his day's work,--he had dined comfortably,--he sat in an easy-chair, in a luxurious room whose crimson hangings shut out the still cold of the december afternoon,--for the th of december it was. he was all ready to enjoy himself. how singular that this state of things should remind him of a coming time when his life work would be all done,--even as his day's work was all done now,--when he would be ready to sit down in the afternoon and look over the balance sheet of his deeds. how curiously the old days came trooping in slow procession before him. his dead wife; he had not loved her much when she was with him, but how vivid was his memory of her now! he could see her moving round the house, noiseless as a shadow, never intruding on him, after he had once or twice answered her gruffly, but going on her own meek, still ways, with her face growing whiter every day. he began to understand, as he looked back, why her strength had failed and she had been ready, when her baby came, to float out on the tide and let it drift her into god's haven. she had had enough to eat and to drink, but he saw now that he had left her heart to starve. he seemed to see her white, still face, as he looked at it the last time before they screwed down the coffin lid, with the dumb reproach frozen on it, the eyes, that would never again plead vainly, closed for ever. he recalled how passionately the three-days-old baby cried in another room, just at that moment, moving all the people gathered at the funeral with a thrill of pity for the poor little motherless morsel. she _was_ a passionate, wilful baby, all through her babyhood, he remembered. she wanted--missed without knowing what the lack was--the love which her mother would have given her, and protested against fate with all the might of her lungs. but, as soon as she grew old enough to understand how useless it was, _she_ had grown quiet, too; just like her mother. he recalled her, all through her girlhood, a shy, still girl, always obedient and submissive, but never drawing very near him. did she have tastes, he wondered--wants, longings? she never told him. but suddenly, when she was eighteen, the old, passionate spirit that had made her cry so when she was a baby must have awakened again, he thought; for she fell in love then, and married in defiance of his wishes. he remembered her standing proudly before him, and asking,-- "father, do you know any thing against harry church?" "yes," he had answered wrathfully; "i know that he is as poor as job was when he sat among the ashes; he can't keep a wife." "any thing else, father?" looking him steadily in the eye. "no, that's enough," he had thundered; "and i'll tell you, besides, that if you marry him you must lie in the bed you will make. my doors will never open to you again, never." he met with a will as strong as his own that time. she _did_ marry harry church, and went away with him from her father's house. she had written home more than once afterwards, but he had sent the letters all back unopened. he wished, to-day, that he knew what had been in them; whether she had been suffering for any thing. he wondered why he had opposed the marriage so much. harry church had been a clerk in his store; faithful, intelligent, industrious, only--poor. in that word lay the head and front of his offending. he, job golding, was rich,--had been rich all his lifetime,--but what special thing had riches done for him? he was an old man now, and all alone. "all alone;" he kept saying that over and over, with a sort of vague self-pity. and all this time a message was on its way to him. he heard a ring at the door, but he went on with his thoughts, and did not trouble himself about it. meantime, two persons had been admitted into the hall below; a man and a little girl, eight years old, perhaps. her companion took off her hood and her warm wrappings, and the child stood there,--a dainty, delicate creature,--her golden curls drooping softly round her face, with its large blue eyes and parted scarlet lips. the housekeeper had come into the hall, and she turned pale as she saw that little face. "miss amy's child," she said to the man, nervously. "it is as much as my place is worth to let her come in here." "you are mrs. osgood, are you not?" said the little girl, looking at her. "hear the blessed lamb! who in this world told you there _was_ a mrs. osgood?" "mamma. you loved mamma, didn't you? she said you were always so kind to her." "loved your ma? well, i _did_ love her. the old house has never been the same since she went out of it." "then you'll let me go up alone and see grandpa? that is what mamma said i was to do." mrs. osgood hesitated a moment, then love and memory triumphed over fear, and she said,-- "yes, you shall. heaven forbid i should hinder you! go right upstairs and open the first door." the man who had come with her sat down in the hall to wait, and the little figure, with its gleaming, golden hair, tripped on alone. she opened the door softly, and went in. she did not speak; perhaps the stern-looking old man sitting there awed her to silence. she just stepped up to him and handed him a letter. he took it, scarcely noticing, so busy was he with his thoughts, at the hand of what strange messenger. he looked at the outside. it was his daughter's writing. ten years ago he had sent her last letter back unopened; but this one,--what influence apart from himself moved him to read it? it was not long, but it commenced with "dear father." he had never been a dear father to her, he thought. she had waited all these silent years, she told him, because she was determined never to write to him again until they were rich enough for him to know that she did not write from any need of his help. they had passed these ten years in the west, and heaven had prospered them. her husband was a rich man, now; and she wanted from her father only his love,--wanted only that death should not come between them, and either of them go to her mother's side without having been reconciled to the other. "let _her_ lips speak to you from the grave," she wrote; "her lips, which you must have loved once, and which never grew old or lost their youth's brightness,--let them plead with you to be reconciled to her child. surely, you will not turn away from the messenger i send,--your own grandchild." the messenger,--he had forgotten about her. he turned and she was standing there, like a spirit, on his hearthstone, with her white face and her gleaming golden hair. he looked at her, and saw her father's broad, full brow and thoughtful eyes, and below them the sweetness of her mother's smile. his grandchild--his! his heart throbbed chokingly. he grew hungry to clasp her,--to feel her soft arms clinging round his neck, her tender lips kissing away the furrows of his hard life from his face. but he feared to startle her. he tried to speak gently,--he, to whom gentleness was so new and strange. "come here, little girl," he said; and she went up to him fearlessly. "can you tell me how old you are, and what your name is?" "i am eight, grandpapa, and my name is amy." another amy! he felt the great sobs rising up from his heart, but he choked them back. "what have they told you about me?" he asked her anxiously. could it be possible, he wondered, that they had not taught her to hate him? "they always told me that you were far away toward where the sun rose; and if i were good they would fetch me to see you some day. and every night i say in my prayers, 'god bless papa and mamma, and god bless grandpapa.'" "why _didn't_ they fetch you; what made them let you come alone?" "mamma said she would surprise you with your big grandchild. they are waiting at the hotel, and john is down-stairs. they want you to come back with me. will you, grandpapa?" mrs. osgood looked on in wonder, as her master came downstairs and put on his overcoat,--came down holding the child's hand in his, her golden hair floating beside him. was that old job golding? he stepped into the carriage in which careful mistress amy had sent her messenger. the horses did not go fast enough. he would have been in a fever of impatience, but the child's hand in his quieted him. through it all he was wondering vaguely what it meant,--whether he were his own old self, or some one else. at last they were there, and the child led him in,--up the long hotel stairs, across hall and corridor,--until, at length, she opened a door and said cheerily,-- "mamma, here's grandpapa." his head swam. he was fain to sit down, and there were his own amy's arms about his neck. why had he never known what he lost, in losing the sweetness of her love, through all these vanished years? he held her fast now, and he heard her voice close to his ear:-- "father, are we reconciled at last?" "i don't know, daughter, until you've told me whether you've forgiven me." "there need be no talk about forgiveness," she said. "you went according to your own light. it is enough that god has brought us together again in peace. i thought that no one could resist my little amy, least of all her grandpapa." he looked up, and the child stood by, silently; the firelight glittering in her golden hair, her face shining strangely sweet. he put out his arms and drew her into them, close--where no child, not even his own, had ever nestled before. oh, how much he had missed in life! he thought. he felt her clinging hold round his neck,--her kisses dropped upon his face like the pitying dew from heaven, and he--_was_ it himself, or another soul in his place? "here, father," amy's voice had a cheerful ring to it, and her happy married life had made of her a fine, contented, matronly-appearing woman, "here are harry and the boys waiting to speak to you." he shook his son-in-law's hand heartily. old feuds, old things, were over now, and all was become new. then he looked at the boys,--six-years-old hal, three-years-old geordie,--brave, merry little fellows, of whom he should be proud some day; only they could never be to him quite like this girl in his arms,--his first-found grandchild. he sat there among them, surrounded by the peace and warmth of their household love, and felt as if a new life had come. he did not go away until long after, by the rules of any well-ordered nursery, those three pairs of bright little eyes should have been closed in sleep; but they must sit up to see the last of grandpapa. when, at length, he went, he told them that they must all come home to him on the morrow,--there must be no more staying at hotels, when his big, lonesome house was waiting for them. "to-morrow is christmas," his daughter said, half doubtfully. "all the better. if christmas was never kept in my house, it ought to be. come round to dinner,--three o'clock sharp,--and bring all the boxes with you. that will give you time to pack up, and mrs. osgood time to get your rooms ready." "boxes and boys,--won't they be too much for you, father?" "when they are i'll tell you,"--with a last touch of the old gruffness. then he went out on the street, and began looking for christmas gifts. it was new business for him, but he went into it earnestly and anxiously. it was so late, and every one seemed so busy, he thought it would never do to trust to the shopmen for sending things home. so he perambulated the streets like a bewildered santa claus,--and went home, at last, laden with books and toys and jewels and bon-bons,--with a doll that could walk, and a parrot that could talk, and no end of sweets and confections. he called mrs. osgood to help him put them away, and when they were all disposed of he said, with a curious attempt at maintaining his old sternness and dignity, which caused the good woman a secret smile,-- "mrs. osgood, i hope you will do yourself and me credit to-morrow. my daughter, mrs. church, is coming home with her husband and children, and i want the best christmas dinner you can get up, to be on the table at a quarter-past three." mrs. osgood had always loved miss amy, in the old days, and had been hoping against hope, all these years, for the reconciliation which had come now. so her heart was in her task, and the dinner was a master-piece,--a real work of genius, as she used to say, when she told the story afterwards. amy, and amy's husband, and the roystering boys, and, best of all, the little girl close at grandpapa's side, with her happy eyes shining, and her golden hair gleaming, and her quiet, womanly little ways,--what a jubilant party they were! and among them all job golding saw, or fancied that he saw, another face, over which, almost thirty years ago, he had seen the grave-sod piled,--a face sad and wistful no longer, but bright with a strange glory. no one else saw _her_, he knew, for the gay laughs were going round, but close at his side she seemed to stand; and he heard, or fancied that he heard, a whisper from her parted lips, which only his ear caught,--the christmas anthem,-- "peace on earth and good will toward men." my comforter. i got up and hung a shawl over the canary's cage to keep him quiet. he had been singing all day, till it seemed to me i could not bear it any longer. that morning the doctor had told me that my mother would never be any better. she was liable, he said, to die at any time. at the longest, it was only a question of days or weeks. and my mother was all i had in the world. my father had been dead a year. in his lifetime we had lived in a pleasant country home. he had been employed in the county bank, and we had lived most comfortably, and even with some pretensions to elegance. i had been sent to school, and learned a little french, a little music, and something of art. i had, too, a great deal of skill in fancy work, and had been used to find in that and my painting my amusements. indeed, we all had what are called elegant tastes,--tastes which suited a much larger income than ours, and we indulged them. this was unwise, perhaps. people said so, at any rate, when my father died suddenly, and left us with no property and no dependence save our home. it was to escape alike their censure and their pity, as much as because i fancied i could find more openings for employment, that i persuaded mother to join me in selling our little place, and remove to new york. she was willing enough to do this. i think that it was a relief to her to go away from all the familiar sights and sounds which kept so constantly before her the memory of the dead husband who had made her life among them so blessed. she fancied, perhaps, that when she was among unfamiliar things the first bitterness of her grief would wear away. but with her, as it proved, change of place was only change of pain. she was not made of the stuff to which forgetfulness is possible. our home and furniture brought us a little over three thousand dollars, and with this sum we went to new york. in spite of my mourning for my father i had the elasticity of youth, and i did not make this removal, enter into this wide, strange, new life, without my share of the high hopes and brilliant anticipations of youth. we went first to a hotel, and then looked up a boarding-place in a quiet, unpretentious street, suited to our means. we expected to use two or three hundred dollars before we got well established; and then i hoped to earn enough to keep us, with the help of the interest of the three thousand we should still have remaining, without encroaching upon the principal. i might have succeeded, perhaps,--for i was not long in procuring fancy work from two fashionable trimming stores,--if, when we had been there a little while, my mother's health had not begun seriously to decline. i think she made an effort to live on, after all the joy of her life was dead, for my sake; but she failed, and by and by she grew weary and gave up the struggle. of course her illness brought upon us new expenses. i would have for her the best medical advice, however she might protest against it as useless; and there were various little comforts and luxuries that i could not and would not deny myself the pleasure of procuring for her. so we were gradually going behindhand all the time. this had troubled me a little; but now that the doctor had spoken my mother's doom, the matter of dollars and cents faded into utter insignificance. there would be more than enough to take care of her to the last, and after that i could not bring myself to think. i would have shuddered at the thought of self-destruction, but i believe the prayer was in my mind, every moment in the day, that god would let me care for her till the end, and then lie down and die beside her. so i carried back the work i had from richmond's and la pierre's, and spent all my time with her,--my darling. often when i tried to talk with her, the thought how soon she would be past all hearing would rise up and choke me, and i would turn away to hide the sudden rush of tears. it was on wednesday the doctor had told me what i must expect; and up to saturday night i had kept it from her, trying my poor best to wear a cheerful face. that night i sat beside her in the twilight. she was on the lounge, bolstered up with pillows, and i on a low hassock, which brought my face on a level with hers. we had been silent a long time, since the last ray of sunset touched our western windows, and now the dusk had fallen so that we could see each other no longer. at last out of the shadows came her voice, clear and sweet,-- "beyond the sowing and the reaping, beyond the watching and the weeping, beyond the waking and the sleeping, i shall be soon." then she put out her hand and touched my wet face. "do not grieve, my darling," she said,--oh, how tenderly,--"because i am going home. the only pang i feel is for you, and it will not be long before you come." "it may be years," i said, bitterly. "i am young and strong. oh, i wish i wasn't,--if god would only take me too, and not make me stay in this great, empty world without you!" "i think, darling, he will send you a comforter." "oh, i am not so bad that i do not want his spirit. i do believe; i do try to follow the dear lord; but i want a human comforter,--something to see and feel,--tender lips, gentle fingers. the flesh is so weak." "and i meant a human comforter. i believe he will send you one in his own time and way,--when you learn, perhaps, to forget yourself in helping some one still more desolate." "as if that could be. o, mother, when you are gone there won't be in the whole wide world such a lonesome, aching heart as mine." "people always say that, dear; always think there is no sorrow like their sorrow, until god teaches them better, either by making their own burden heavier, or by showing them how to help some one else. god grant it may be this last with you, bessie." "but is there no hope, mother?" i said, with a wild longing for a little of the comfort a doubt would give. "i think none. dr. west told you so wednesday, did he not? and you have been trying to keep it from me,--as if i could not read it in your face, every time you looked at me." all reserve broke down then. i was in her arms, sobbing and crying on her bosom; i that so soon would have no mother's bosom for my refuge any more for ever. the doctor had said her life was a question of days or weeks. she lived four weeks after he told me that, and then one night she talked with me a long, long time. at last she said she was tired, and would go to sleep. then she kissed me, as she always did, and turned her gentle face toward the wall. she awoke again in another world than ours. but by the calm blessedness of the smile on the dead face i knew that her soul had departed in peace. it was a smile that made her young and fair again, as the mother i remembered away back in my childhood. oh, what a desolate funeral that was! i had no friends near enough to give them any claim to be sent for, and i wanted no one. i made all the arrangements myself, and the third day i buried my dead. i remember the minister, after the funeral rites were over, stopped a moment beside the grave to speak a few words of sympathy to me, sole mourner. but i was deaf with sorrow. i made no answer, and presently he turned away. i don't know how long i stood there. after a while my driver came up, touching his hat, respectfully, and asked,-- "would ye plaise to start soon, miss?" and mechanically i went toward the carriage, and he put me in and shut the door. so i went back to the desolate room where she had died. some one had been in during my absence and made it all bright and tidy, but i would rather have found it dark, and gloomy, and comfortless, as when i went away. the days which followed were sad and evil. my soul rose in revolt. i asked why i, of all others, should be so set apart by sorrow,--left so lonely and so desolate. for a whole week i had been thus mutinous. i had seen in my god no father, but an avenger. all the promises of love and joy were sealed from me. i passed through the very valley and shadow of death, and in its darkness the powers of evil did battle for my soul; until at last i slept, one night, and dreamed of mother, for the first time since she died. in the dream she seemed beside me, but not as of old. a spiritual beauty sat upon her face, a blessedness such as mortals never know looked from her eyes, but her voice came, low and sweet, as it used: "i think, darling, the father will send you a comforter." i woke refreshed, as i had not been before by any slumber. the voice of my dream lingered with me, and calmed me, as my mother's words used to. i began to have faith. i remembered _how_ she had thought my comforter was to come. but when and where should i find some one more desolate than myself to help? at any rate, not by sitting still to nurse my woe, an idler in the vineyard. i must go to work. i put on my deep mourning bonnet and went out. if i could get my old work from the trimming stores, i could earn enough now to take care of myself, and keep what money i had left as surety against the proverbial rainy day. i made my way first to richmond's. as i went in i noticed a little lame girl with her crutch sitting beside the door. one sees such objects of charity often enough in new york. i doubt if this one would have attracted me but for her singular beauty. she had the fairest skin i ever saw, with large, dark eyes, and hair of a pure auburn tint. it was a face full of contrasts, and yet of the most exquisite loveliness. i noticed she attracted others as well as myself, for while i stood a few moments looking at her, no one went into the store who did not drop a few pennies in the little outstretched hand. i followed the universal example as i went in, and at my gift, as at every other, a deep blush crimsoned the sensitive little face. i made my arrangements to resume my old employments, and then went out, and down the street to la pierre's. when i came back, half an hour later, the child was still sitting there; and i looked at her again, wondering anew at her delicate beauty. then a thrill of compassion warmed my heart for the poor little waif. it was a cold day in the autumn, and she was very thinly clad; sitting, poor little morsel, upon the cold stone, too lame, it seemed, to move about and warm herself, even if she wished; evidently, too, ashamed and miserable over her occupation. i went up to her and spoke to her. "what is your name?" "jennie green." "whose little girl are you?" "nobody's, ma'am." oh, perhaps i should not have understood the wail of sadness in those words if i, too, had not been nobody's girl. "have you no friends?" i asked, putting my question in a new form. "no, ma'am. mother died last spring, and i've had no friends since." "but you live somewhere?" "oh, yes; there was a woman in the next room to mother, and she took me when mother died, and every day she sends me out like this, and she takes the money i get to pay for my keeping." "do you like to live with her?" i pursued, getting strangely interested. a quick shudder of repugnance answered me before her words,-- "oh, no, no!" a sudden impulse moved me. i beckoned to a policeman who stood near by watching us. "do you know any thing of this child?" i inquired. "not much. she seems a quiet, well-disposed young one. a woman brings her here, a pretty rough customer, and leaves her here, and comes back after her toward night. i've seen her use her pretty hard, sometimes." "that woman is no relation to her," i said, "only a person in the house, that kept her when her mother died,--to make money out of her, i suppose. would it be against any law if i took her home with me, without letting any one know where she was gone, and took care of her? could that woman claim her again?" the policeman whistled, by which token proving himself yankee born, and considered a moment. then he answered, deliberately,-- "no, it ain't agin no law, as i knows of. i don't think the woman would dare to take her from you, and 'tain't likely any one would disturb you. all i'm thinking on is,--you're young, miss,--would your folks like it, and wouldn't you get tired on her?" "i have no folks," i said, with the old sadness rising up and choking me. "will you kindly call a carriage, and put her in?" i had given my direction without at all consulting the child. when he was gone for the hack i went up to her and asked her if she would go home with me, and have it for her home. "do you mean me to leave mrs. mcguire?" she cried, with wide eyes. "yes, if you want to." "and not--not come out for money any more?" "not, please god, while i have strength to work for us both." "oh, i do want to go, i do!" she cried, wild with eagerness. and then she drew her little crutch toward her, and painfully raised herself and stood there waiting. "oh, can't we go now?" she asked, in an eager whisper. "it's almost time for mrs. mcguire." just then the carriage came up to the sidewalk, and i carried my poor little foundling home. * * * * * yesterday was the anniversary of my dear mother's death, and i lived over again the old sorrow, tasted its bitterness anew. i laid my head on the pillow where she died, and sobbed out the passion of desolation which swept over me. and as i lay there crying i heard gentle footsteps, and then felt soft lips on my cheek, and heard a voice,-- "oh, can't i comfort you, miss bessie? can't i do any thing for you, now you've made my life all new and bright?" and i opened my arms, and took into them my little dark-eyed, bright-haired girl, and realized that god indeed had sent me my comforter,--a comforter found, as my mother had predicted, when i forgot myself in trying to comfort one yet more desolate. i should never have dared to act upon the impulse which led me to bring the child home, had i been less utterly alone in the world. but i have never regretted it. i found that her parents had brought her up in the fear of god, and all the rude and rough associations, which had worked their worst on her after her mother's death, had never soiled her innate purity. my care and tenderness have made of her all i hoped. dr. west's skill has almost cured her lameness, and she walks without a crutch now, and with only the slightest suggestion of a limp. she helps me at my tasks, and for her sake i have recalled my old pencil craft, and here i foresee that the pupil is soon to surpass her teacher; and some day i fancy you may see on the walls of the academy a picture by a girl artist with brown eyes and auburn hair,--the child who was my comforter. cambridge: press of john wilson and son. _messrs. roberts brothers' publications._ bed-time stories. by louise chandler moulton. with illustrations by addie ledyard. square mo. price $ . . "mrs. moulton's 'bed-time stories' are tender and loving, as the last thoughts of the day should be. they are told simply and sweetly. all of them teach unselfishness, faithfulness, and courage. 'what jess cotrell did,' and 'paying off jane,' are perhaps the best; although 'mr. turk, and what became of him,' is such a sympathetic revelation of a bit of child life, that we are half inclined to give it the first place. the stories are not for very young children, but for those old enough to think for themselves; and the influence they exert will be pure, gentle, and decidedly religious. the dedication is very graceful."--_boston daily advertiser._ "it is long years since we were a lad; but, as we have read these tales, we have dreamed ourself a boy again, have exulted with some of the young heroes and heroines of mrs. moulton's coinage, and have wept sweet tears with others, just as, we have no doubt, many a boy and girl will do who takes our advice and secures this delightful budget of stories out of their first savings. parents, who appreciate the difficulty of providing suitable reading for young people when they are at the doubtful age which burns describes as being ''twixt a man and a boy,' will find mrs. moulton one of the most graceful and thoughtful purveyors of an elevated literature, especially adapted to the wants and tastes of their bright-eyed and quick-witted sons and daughters."--_christian intelligencer._ "very delicately and prettily are these stories for children told.... children, the kindest and sharpest of critics, will willingly read them too. and not on the other side of the atlantic only, but on this, and in every land where the english language is spoken. real stories these for real children, not namby-pamby, teachy-teachy little tales, but regular stories, full of life, told in the good old-fashioned, diffuse, delightful manner."--_the london bookseller._ _in preparation._ more bed-time stories. _sold by all booksellers. mailed, postpaid, by the publishers_, roberts brothers, boston. what katy did. by susan coolidge. author of "the new year's bargain." with illustrations, by addie ledyard. one vol. square mo. cloth. price $ . . _from the lady's book._ "the new years bargain" was one of our pleasantest juvenile books for the last holidays. now we have by the same author a story of child-life so natural and so charming that the authoress has fairly earned a foremost place among her class. it takes a great deal to write a good story for children. women who think it easy, and sit down with a stock of platitudes and worn-out incidents, always fail miserably. this book tells "what katy did" in a way that will make all its readers long to hear about her again. _from the christian register._ it must have been with a smile of rare complacency that roberts brothers sent forth such a brace of volumes as susan coolidge's "what katy did" and miss alcott's "shawl-straps." not only will the children "cry for them," but the grown-up people will laugh over them until they too shall have tears in their eyes. two books so bright, wise, and every way delightful, are seldom given to the public at once by a single firm. _from the woman's journal._ since "little women" we have not seen a more charming book than this for children. it possesses the crowning merit of all story books,--that of being perfectly natural without becoming tedious. the author has the happy gift of knowing what to leave out; and describes the amusing or sorrowful incidents of child-life in the pleasantest manner, while unobtrusively instilling lessons of courtesy, patience, and kindness. illustrations by addie ledyard add to the attractions of the story. _from the buffalo courier._ none who take it up will want it to leave their hands until they reach the last page. as to the author, she is one of the few lucky mortals who know how to write for the little ones,--and that is saying a great deal. _from hearth and home._ the author of that delightful book, "the new year's bargain," has prepared another rare treat for her young friends. it is a story of child-life; and is so perfect in its delineations, so sweet and tender at times, and again so irresistibly funny, that it starts both tears and laughter. _sold everywhere. mailed, postpaid, by the publishers_, roberts brothers, boston. sheer off a. l. o. e. books, volumes, uniform-- cents each. claremont tales. adopted son. young pilgrim. giant-killer, and sequel. flora; or, self-deception. the needle and the rat. eddie ellerslie, etc. precepts in practice. christian mirror. idols of the heart. pride and his prisoners. shepherd of bethlehem. the poacher. the chief's daughter. lost jewel. stories on the parables. ned manton. war and peace. robber's cave. crown of success. the rebel reclaimed. the silver casket. christian conquests. try again. cortley hall. good for evil. christian's panoply. exiles in babylon. giles oldham. nutshell of knowledge. sunday chaplet. holiday chaplet. children's treasury. the lake of the woods. sheer off. [illustration: "franks had but an instant to try to save him by catching at the rein, as the maddened hunter rushed like a whirlwind by." frontispiece.] sheer off. a tale. by a. l. o. e. author of "claremont tales," "giant-killer, and sequel," etc. new york: robert carter & brothers, broadway. . contents. i. the first-born, ii. the falling almshouses, iii. the curate's visit, iv. joyous and free, v. an appeal, vi. the return, vii. brightness and gloom, viii. pleading, ix. the invitation, x. a happy home, xi. temptation, xii. ice below, xiii. the return home, xiv. norah's story, xv. norah's story continued, xvi. passing events, xvii. perilous peace, xviii. self-reproach, xix. the test, xx. the momentous question, xxi. an old letter, xxii. peace from above, xxiii. the wife's resolve, xxiv. the blind maiden, xxv. honorable scars, xxvi. a scrap of news, xxvii. nancy's return, xxviii. a search, xxix. pleasure or principle? xxx. found at last, xxxi. the baronet's return, xxxii. the bonfire, xxxiii. watching for souls, xxxiv. put to the question, xxxv. village talk, xxxvi. a struggle, xxxvii. the sudden summons, xxxviii. conclusion, sheer off. i. the first-born. "why, there are the church-bells a-ringing! as if it wasn't enough to have all the school-boys going in procession with their garlands, and nosegays, and nonsense!" exclaimed nancy sands, the wife of the clerk of colme, as she stood in the shop of ben stone the carpenter, with her arms a-kimbo, and an expression anything but amiable upon her flushed face. "one might fancy that our new young baronet was a-coming home, or bringing a bride, or that the queen and all the royal family were a-visiting colme, instead of this fuss being for nothing but the christening of a school-master's brat!" "ned franks is a prime favorite with all the village," observed the stout, good-humored carpenter, as he went on with his occupation of planing a bit of mahogany, which his visitor wanted for a shelf in her cottage. "a broken-down sailor, with only one arm!" exclaimed nancy, with a snort of disdain. "but with a good head and a better heart," observed the carpenter. "ned franks manages so well to keep his lads in order without thrashing them, that one arm is one too many for all that they need in that way. not but that the wooden affair which i knocked up for him myself, with an iron hook for fingers and thumb, might serve well enough on a pinch to knock a little wit into a blockhead, if that were ned franks's fashion of teaching," added ben stone with a little chuckle. "teaching! he has no more learning in him than my mangle," muttered the scornful nancy. "but, like your mangle, he has a wonderful knack of getting things smooth and straight. i don't know what we'd have done in colme without him, now our poor vicar has been tied up so long; it's ned as has kept everything going like clockwork. of course the young curate isn't just at once up to the ways of the place, letting alone that he looks as young as a boy, and as shy as a girl; he does his best, no doubt, but he couldn't get on without ned franks showing him the ins and outs of everything." nancy gave another contemptuous snort, but without specifying for whom it was intended. ben stone went on with his planing of the shelf and his praise of the school-master, his hand having a very different effect from his tongue; for the more he planed, the smoother grew the wood; while the more he praised, the rougher grew the temper of nancy. ben stone saw this, and took a little malicious pleasure in stirring up the envy and jealousy of his customer; for, though he was not one to break the peace himself, and had never been known to be either out of spirits or out of temper, ben stone was certainly not a man to be reckoned amongst the peacemakers. he rather enjoyed "poking the fire in a neighbor's grate," as he once jestingly observed to his wife, and there was always plenty of dry fuel in nancy's. but why should praise of ned franks be as gall and wormwood to the clerk's wife, seeing that the one-armed sailor, now school-master at colme, had never willingly wronged a person in his life, but was, on the contrary, ready to do a good turn for any one? nancy had never forgiven ned for having been given the place of school-master, to which she thought her own husband better entitled. ned's appointment was, in her eyes, a standing grievance, a shameful injustice, a cause for quarrelling, not only with him, but with all the world. "as if a fellow who has been accustomed to nothing but tarring old ropes, and running like a cat up the rigging, could be compared for one moment with a man like john sands, who has been clerk for ten years in the parish, next to a parson, one might say, and who can draw out a certificate of baptism or marriage in the neatest and clearest of hands." not that nancy had herself much veneration for her husband, or, if report spoke truly, treated him with any kind of respect; but she did not choose that any one should be put over his head, least of all "that canting tar with a wooden arm," as she scornfully termed ned franks. whenever nancy met the school-master, she scowled at him under her black brows, as if he had done her a wrong. and she was never tired of speaking against him whenever she could get a listener. now she spoke of the arts with which he had wheedled himself into the favor of mr. curtis, the vicar, though every one knew that ned was simple and straightforward as a child; then she spoke of his violent temper, pitied his wife, "poor unlucky soul!" from the bottom of her heart, though all in the village were aware that persis franks was one of the happiest wives in the world, and that if ever a young couple deserved the famous dunmow flitch, she and ned might have claimed it. the happiness of persis was now as complete as earthly happiness can be; for after nearly three years of wedded life, the desire and prayer of her heart had been granted,--she had presented her first-born babe to his father. but this seemed a new grievance to nancy sands. had not she, too, once had a son? and was he not lying under the shadow of the church-yard wall? why should these franks be so happy when she was childless? why should all be sunshine with them when her sky was clouded with gloom? nancy did not attempt to answer the question, but it soured her spirit; and the sound of the merry church-bells, chiming for the baptism of franks's little son made her feel as gloomy and wretched as when she had heard the knell tolled at the funeral of her own. but we will not linger with nancy sands, but rather turn towards him who is at once the object of her outward scorn and her secret envy,--the one-armed school-master of colme. a very gay scene meets our eyes on the green in front of the school-house, which is full of groups of village children seated on the grass, enjoying a simple feast of oranges, nuts, and home-made cakes; for, on the occasion of the christening of the first-born, ned franks entertains, in his homely fashion, all his scholars and their little sisters; he feels in his joy as if he should like to feast all the world. every guest has a bunch of wild flowers,--the violets, cowslips, and primroses of spring; and merry is the sound of the prattle of nearly a hundred young voices, the ringing laugh, the snatches of song. persis franks, quiet and serene in her happiness, moves from group to group with her child in her arms, receiving the congratulations of all, and, with a mother's fond pride, drinking in the praises of her little treasure. of course there was never such a beauty, at least in her eyes, as her little pink-faced babe, with his downy head and dimpled fingers. ned is less calm than his wife; being of a temperament naturally impetuous and warm, with rather more of the sailor than of the school-master in his manner, he shows the keen enjoyment of a boy. to the great amusement of his scholars, ned displays his skill, maimed as he is, in dandling a baby three weeks old; and persis, who, despite her confidence in her husband, feels a little nervous on account of her fragile treasure, is not sorry when the infant is once more resting upon her own gentle breast. but the buoyant mirth of the young father is calmed down, and his sunburnt face, though still bright with happiness, wears a graver and more earnest expression when he stands up to address a few words to his guests. as he raises his right hand a little, all the murmur of merry voices is hushed at once, and for some seconds there is no sound heard but the soft breeze stirring the young leaves budding on the elms. then franks speaks a few earnest words; for, whether in sorrow or in joy, the teacher at colme never forgets the office to which he has been appointed by his heavenly master,--that of feeding, as far as he has power to do so, the lambs committed to his charge. "my children," thus the sailor began, "this is a very joyful, a very thankful, and also a very solemn day to me and my wife. we have seen, as it were, a little boat freighted with an immortal soul, launched on the wide sea, bound for the port of heaven. if i did not trust that he who gave it will guide it, i should have many fears when i think of all the storms that it may meet on its course, the rocks and the shoals on which many a poor bark has been wrecked. but i have given my boy to god, and whether the voyage be a long or a short one, a rough or a smooth one, i trust that the little boat will drop anchor in the harbor of glory at last!" ned paused a little, and persis, as she bent down and pressed a long, fond kiss on her sleeping infant, left a tear on his soft cheek, but not a tear of sorrow; no feeling of misgiving dimmed the bright hope of the mother's heart. "and now," continued franks to his pupils, "let me just add a few words to yourselves. you also have all been launched on the great voyage, and i trust that you all have faith for your compass, the bible for your chart, and heaven for your port; but i must remind you that you have need to keep a good lookout for breakers ahead, that you must steer warily, and mind your soundings. there's danger of running on the sandbank of the love of money, or of being drawn into the whirlpool of intemperance; there's the iceberg of falsehood on the one hand, the sunken rock of self-righteousness on the other. when temptation would, like a strong current, draw you near any dangerous place, don't trust your own seamanship, boys, to sail close under a rock and yet not strike it; give it as wide a berth as you can; sheer off, i would say, sheer off! and, above all, look straight up to him whose wind alone can fill your sails, and bear you onwards in your course; look to him in storm and in calm, in gloom and in sunshine, praying that he may guide you here by his grace, and afterwards receive you to glory!" the address of ned franks was simple and homely, characteristic of the speaker, and suited to the hearers, who were well accustomed to his sea-phrases. franks had once compared himself to a buoy anchored down to warn vessels where navigation is dangerous; and not only his pupils, but many a tempted one who came in his wandering course nigh to the school-master of colme, had cause to thank god for the buoy. if the account of such a life of lowly usefulness as that of ned franks have any attraction for the reader; if, in his own voyage over life's perilous sea, while he blesses the beacon, he despises not the buoy; while honoring god's gifted ministers, if he feels that there is spiritual work also for those who have little eloquence but that of a consistent christian life,--he may find in these pages something to interest him, and possibly, if god bless my humble labors, to help him to "sheer off" from some of the dangerous points where hopes have too often been wrecked, and promising barks have gone down. ii. the falling almshouses. "i'm afraid, ned, that there were but poor collections in church to-day," observed persis to her husband, as they sat together by the fire on the evening of the following sunday. "i'm not afraid, but i'm certain of it," replied ned franks. "sands told me this afternoon that the whole collections after the two sermons only came up to four pound three, and when our poor vicar's bank-note was added, there were not ten pounds altogether. what are ten pounds to repair seven almshouses that have scarcely been touched for the last hundred years, and to build up another that has fallen down through sheer old age! the state of those cottages is a disgrace to the village. i wish that queen anne's old counsellor, when he built these eight almshouses for our poor, had left something for keeping the places in repair. those still standing are hardly safe, and as for comfort--one would almost as lief live in an open boat as in one of them; they let in the wind from all the four quarters of the compass, and the rain too, for the matter of that." "poor old mrs. mills tells me that she is in fear every windy night of her chimney coming down through the roof, or of her casement being blown right in," observed persis; "and sarah mason's wall leans over so to one side, that if it is not propped up soon, the whole cottage will be coming down with a crash, and burying the old dame under its ruins!" "i must see to that propping myself to-morrow after lessons are over," said the school-master, rather to himself than to his wife; "ben stone will give us a beam or two, like a good-natured fellow as he is; the worthy old woman shall not be buried alive if we can hinder it." propping mrs. mason's tumble-down wall would not be the first piece of work done by the one-armed school-master of colme for the old almshouses in wild rose hollow. many a time had ned clambered up to the top of one or other of the wretched dwellings, as actively as he would have made his way up into the shrouds of a vessel, to replace thatch blown away, or in winter to clear off the heavy masses of snow that threatened to crush in the roofs by their weight. scarcely a day passed without some aged inmate of one of the almshouses hobbling to the school to ask ned franks if nothing could be done to mend a chimney that would smoke, or a window that would rattle, or whether there were no way of keeping the rain from making little ponds in the floor. ned, with his one hand, was more clever at "stopping a leak" or "splicing a brace" than most men with two hands, for he worked with a will; but when he had done all that he could for the counsellor's tumble-down almshouses, he was wont to say that no caulking of his could make such crazy old hulks seaworthy. "they need to be hauled into a dry dock, and rigged out new:" such was the one-armed sailor's oft expressed opinion, and it was one which no one could contradict. "everything seemed against our having a good collection to-day," remarked persis; "our old baronet dead, and his lady away, dear mrs. lane absent in france, and, worst of all, our vicar still so ill, and unable to preach the sermon himself. his nephew the curate is very nice, but--but of course it is not the same thing." "i'm afraid that half the people did not hear mr. leyton, and half of those who did would not understand him," observed ned franks; "yet he gave us true gospel sermons; there was nothing to find fault within the matter, and one shouldn't be too nice about the manner." "mr. leyton is so young and shy," said persis, "he cannot speak with authority like his uncle, and then he scarcely knows any of us yet; but i dare say that when he gets courage--" "i'll be bound you're talking of our young parson," exclaimed a jovial voice, as the door of the school-master's little room was thrown open, and ben stone, the stout carpenter, entered. ben stone always considered himself a privileged person, and usually omitted tapping for admittance. "i never care to knock," quoth the jovial carpenter, "unless i've a hammer in my hand, and a nail to drive in, and then there's a knocking and no mistake." stone came in, nodded a good-evening to persis, and taking possession of a chair by the fire, as if he felt perfectly at home, he stretched out his broad hands to the cheerful blaze, for the weather was rather cold. "you were talking of the young parson," he continued; "he's not one to conjure money out of folks' pockets. did you ever hear such a sermon? what had all the silver and gold, and shittim wood, and precious onyx-stones, that he talked of, to do with repairing a set of old almshouses? our people might open their eyes wide at his grand words, but they kept their purses close shut, i take it." "the sermon had plenty of meaning; there had been much study spent upon it," observed franks, who disliked criticism on preachers, and who had besides a kindly feeling towards the young curate of colme. "meaning! oh, i dare say, if one could get at it," laughed the carpenter; "but when one wants to give a loaf of bread to a hungry man, one does not generally stick it at the top of a pole; there's not every one as can climb as you do, ned franks, or bring down onyx-stones and shittim wood to patch up rotten deal timbers. why, there was but one little bit of gold to-day in the plate, and a scanty sprinkling of silver, though one might have thought the state of those wretched cottages would have preached loud enough of itself." persis and ned could have told where that one little bit of gold had come from, and why it was that a certain hearth-rug with a pattern of lilies and roses which had taken the fancy of the school-master's wife, and was to have been a present from her husband on the anniversary of their wedding, still hung up in grant's shop, while their old one, faded and patched, still kept its place in front of their fire. but these family matters were things which the franks never cared to talk of to others; they had given the gold with cheerful hearts, as a joint-offering to the lord; and though it was more from them than a thousand pounds would have been from sir lacy barton, they never thought that there was any merit in the little sacrifice which they had made. "i dare say," continued ben stone, "that mr. claudius leyton is a fine scholar, but he's no more fitted for parish work than a gimlet is to saw through a plank." while the carpenter was picking holes in the curate's preaching, he was at the same time, unconsciously of course, picking another with the end of his stick in persis's unfortunate rug. "why, he's afraid of the sound of his own voice, and can't so much as touch his hat to you, without blushing up to his eyes. it was rare fun to see him yesterday. he came to my workshop in the morning, to ask me where he could find mrs. sands, the wife of our clerk. 'now,' thinks i, 'i know well enough why you want to visit nancy. she showed in the face of half the village yesterday, that she had had a drop too much, and you think that it's a parson's business to reprove as well as to teach. but if you ever screw up your courage to rebuke nancy sands, i'll give my new hatchet for a two-penny nail!' i told the young parson where sands's cottage lay, just in sight of my own, and i watched him as he slowly walked towards it. i'd half a mind to go after him, and see how such a lamb of a shepherd would manage such a vixen of a sheep. i marked him shaking his head slightly as he walked, as if he were conning over what he should say; and though i could only see his back, i could just fancy the anxious, uneasy look on his smooth young face." "poor young clergyman!" said persis. "he was about the most painful of all a minister's duties. i should be very sorry myself to have to rebuke nancy sands." "something like having to pull out a tigress's teeth!" laughed ben stone, who had succeeded in making a large hole out of a very little one in the old rug. "but mr. leyton never got so far as the pulling! i watched him, would you believe it, walk three times up and down before the gate of nancy's little garden; it was clear he couldn't screw up his courage to go in. then she chanced to come out of her door. maybe she was wondering why the parson took that bit of road for his quarter-deck walk, or she guessed what he was after, and thought she would brave out the business." "do you know what passed between the two?" inquired franks. "i saw mr. leyton raise his hat a bit, in his very polite way, and nancy drop a little saucy bob of a courtesy, as who should say, 'what have you come here for?' and almost immediately afterwards the parson walked away a good deal quicker than he had walked to the place. i was curious to know what had passed, so i put down my saw, and went up the road to nancy, who was still in her garden, pulling up groundsel; she has a rare crop of it there, and little besides. 'what said the young parson to you, nancy?' says i. 'oh!' says she, 'he hummed and hawed a bit, and then told me--as if i didn't know it afore--that as his uncle is ill he has come to this here place to do duty for him, and that i must remember;' and at that he stuck and stammered and blushed, so i took him up sharp, and i says,--says i (ben stone mimicked the insolent toss of nancy's head as he repeated her words), 'yes, i remember this aint the first time as you've been at colme; your mother brought you to the vicarage afore you was out of petticoats; that aint so very long ago.'" "how could she?" exclaimed persis franks; but ben went on with his story. "'and so,' continued nancy, 'he was put down in a moment and took himself off. i guessed what he'd come after, and i wasn't going to be lectured and preached to by a smooth-faced boy like that!'" ben burst into a hoarse laugh, as if he thought the discomfiture of the youthful minister a very good jest; neither of his hearers joined in his mirth. "why, you don't seem to see the fun of it," cried ben stone; "but if you'd heard nancy sands, you'd have laughed as i do. the old tigress is more than a match for the shy young blushing boy of a parson." ben stopped suddenly short, for there was a knock at the outer door, and he was aware that whoever gave it must have overheard his last sentence, for ben habitually spoke very loudly. moreover, there was something peculiar in the knock: it was unlike what would have been given by the knuckles of any rustic. the three in the school-master's parlor intuitively rose from their seats, even before the door was opened, and mr. claudius leyton appeared. the curate did indeed look extremely youthful. a small frame, delicate features, and a complexion like a maiden's, with smooth, fine, flaxen hair parted down the middle, gave the impression that the curate might be five or six years younger than he really was, and that a student's cap and gown would have suited him better than the dress which he wore. notwithstanding his shy, nervous manner, however, claudius leyton was thoroughly the gentleman, and ben stone felt more awkward than he would have cared to own at his slighting observations having been overheard. the burly carpenter first made matters worse by a muttered "beg pardon, didn't know who was there;" and suddenly becoming aware that an apology was a blunder, he said something about his old woman wanting him at home, and, in his hurry to make his escape, first dropped his stick, then, in recovering it, stumbled over the cradle which was at the side of mrs. franks, and awoke the baby. the cry of the infant effected a seasonable diversion; it covered the retreat of the carpenter, and gave persis an opportunity of soon quitting the room and carrying the child upstairs, that the curate might have an undisturbed conversation with her husband. franks placed a chair for mr. leyton with more of courteous respect than he would have shown to his cousin, sir lacy, the lord of the manor, while ben stone went home and made his wife merry with the account of what had occurred, wondering, between his explosive bursts of laughter, how the curate had liked to hear himself called "a blushing boy of a parson." no one knows how often claudius leyton had repeated to himself, as if the words haunted him, the exhortation to timothy, _let no man despise thy youth_; nor what a burden the want of self-confidence, added to natural shyness, was to the curate of colme. mr. leyton lacked neither talent nor zeal, but he was painfully aware that as yet he had not the weight and influence with his flock which every faithful pastor should have; and the young clergyman sometimes seriously contemplated wearing spectacles, although his sight was perfect, in order to take away that boyishness of appearance which marred his usefulness so much. iii. the curate's visit "i have many apologies to make, mr. franks, for calling so late, and on a sunday evening," said mr. leyton, after nervously motioning to the school-master to take a seat opposite to him; "and i'm afraid that i've disturbed mrs. franks." "you are welcome, sir, at any hour, and on any day," replied ned, "for i am sure that you come on your master's business. my noisy little man will be better upstairs." "i'm anxious to consult you, mr. franks," said the curate, sitting forward in his chair, and speaking faintly, for his voice was weak, and two full services had almost exhausted his powers. "the proceeds of the collections to-day are, as you are probably aware, insufficient--sadly insufficient for the purpose for which they are required. it is most unfortunate that the illness of my uncle prevented his preaching himself." franks could not speak a flattering untruth even to soothe the evident mortification of the poor young clergyman, who had spared no pains in preparing his unsuccessful appeals. there was a little pause, which was broken by mr. leyton. "my aunt, mrs. curtis, wrote last week about the state of the almshouses to mrs. lane, and i sent a letter to sir lacy," (mr. leyton was related on the mother's side to the lord of the manor, as he was on the father's to the wife of the vicar of colme); "these are the only large proprietors in the parish. neither my aunt nor i have as yet received any reply." "you are never likely to get any from our new baronet," thought franks, who knew well that the money of sir lacy was far more likely to go on the race-course, than in relieving the wants of the poor. he, however, only remarked aloud, "the silver and the gold is the lord's, sir; and, as the need is great, i trust and believe that he will send the supplies." "the illness of mr. curtis prevents our being able to trouble him with anything like business," continued mr. leyton, "and my aunt scarcely quits his bedside. she and i have, however, been anxiously revolving what can be done; for if the almshouses be not soon put under thorough repair, not one of them will be standing next year, and their poor old inmates will have no home but the union." "that would fall especially hard on one like sarah mason," remarked franks; "she has lived in her little cottage as wife and widow for twenty years, and her one earthly wish is to die in it. 'twould well-nigh break her heart to be forced to turn out of the place." "my aunt was suggesting to me that bat bell, the miller, is one to whom an appeal might be made. he has given nothing as yet to the cause." "nor is likely to give, i fear," said the sailor. "he is rich, as i hear," observed mr. leyton. "he has a thriving business at the mill, sir, and some hundred acres of land besides, which he lets to advantage. bat bell has but one child, for whom it is supposed that he is saving; for, if reports be true, bat never spends one-half of what he gets, and must have put by enough of money to rebuild all the almshouses, if he choose to do so. but it is not always those who make most who are found most ready to part with their cash. if the heavily freighted vessel runs on the sandbank, the more she has in her the deeper she sinks; and if a man has passed half his life in getting, without giving, it needs a strong cable indeed, and a mighty power, to draw him off that sandbank,--the love of money." "i have heard from my aunt something of the character of the close-fisted miller," said the curate; "yet, in our necessity, she thinks that a strong personal appeal ought to be made. the almshouses of wild rose hollow can be seen from the mill; the object for which we plead is directly before the eyes of this bell." franks smiled and shook his head: "had mere pity been enough to draw him out, the money would have been forthcoming long ere this, sir," said he. "bat bell has seen those cottages gradually falling to pieces year after year, and has talked with the old folks in them; yet i've good reason to know that not so much as a wisp of straw for thatching has ever come from the mill. pity isn't a cable strong enough to move a nature like that of bat bell." the young minister looked perplexed, and passed his hand across his forehead. "but, sir," continued franks, "we know that the shortest road to every man's heart is through heaven, and it's not for us to give up any work for god as hopeless. no doubt the lady is right; there had better be a personal appeal." a light flush suffused the countenance of the clergyman. he avoided looking at franks, and played uneasily with the light cane which he held as he said, speaking with evident effort, "i came to consult you about it. i am a comparative stranger here; the parishioners scarcely yet know me, and--and it's a new thing to me to ask for money. i thought that if you were to speak instead of me, mr. franks, the appeal would have better chance of being successful." full before the mind of claudius leyton was his late encounter with nancy sands, and perhaps it was also remembered by the sailor, as he simply replied, "i can but try, sir." an expression of relief passed over the face of the youthful clergyman. his thanks were brief; but when he almost instantly rose to take leave, he held out his hand to the school-master, and his fair small fingers closed on ned's strong sunburnt hand with a kindly pressure, which told more than his words. when the door had closed behind mr. leyton, ned franks thought, with a smile, "that poor, shy young minister will sleep more soundly to-night from knowing that he is not to be the one to board bat bell. a gentleman like that feels it so awkward to play the beggar, even for the holiest cause." on hearing the outer door close, persis returned to her husband, and the babe, who had again fallen asleep, was gently replaced in his cradle. "persis," said the school-master, gayly, "i'm to go and try to draw money from the miller. i believe i might as well try to draw money from the millstone. i doubt whether bell would put down half-a-crown to-day, to save all the seven remaining almshouses from being pulled down to-morrow. but i could not refuse speaking to him, mr. leyton was so anxious about it." "i wish you success," said persis. "your wishes are stronger than your hopes, i take it. bell is a thoroughly selfish man, except as regards love for his child,--sunk in the love of gold. it seems to me, wife, that we might almost divide the world into two classes,--those whose motto is 'get, get,' and the other whose motto is 'give, give;' those of the closed fist, and those of the open palm. the one set make money their idol; the other make money their servant. now, we know that _the love of money is the root of all evil_; that is written in the word of truth; and if one sees the root in a man, what can one look for but evil fruits? remember what our lord himself said, _how hardly shall they who trust in riches enter the kingdom of god_!" "but let us likewise remember what our lord also said on the subject, dear ned: _with man it is impossible, but not with god, for with god all things are possible._ think of zaccheus; he who had been covetous and an extortioner,--the publican, who had clearly made money by false accusation, or he would never have spoken of restoring it fourfold." "ay, ay," replied ned franks, thoughtfully; "there was a vessel sunk over hulk--over bulwarks--deep in the sand, only the masts seen above it; and yet it could be drawn out, and cleansed, and righted, and floated, and sent on with a favoring breeze, as goodly and fair as if it had never grounded upon that dangerous bank. but it was the power of the master that did this, and the love of christ was the mighty chain that drew the publican from his old habits and evil ways, and made the covetous man give half of his goods to the poor." "that power still can work--that love still can constrain," said persis. "so let us ask for a blessing on my visit," cried franks. "i'll be up to-morrow before sunrise, to see to the propping of old sarah's wall, and after the morning's lessons, i'll be off to the mill. don't you wait dinner for me, persis; maybe i'll not manage to get back till the boys meet for lessons again." iv. joyous and free. ned franks took down his cap from its peg, as soon as his merry young scholars, like a swarm of bees from the hive, had poured out from the low-browed porch of the school-house. but before he had time to start for the mill, persis, baby in arms, was at his side, with a sandwich neatly put up in paper for her husband to eat on his way. "no fear of my being put on half rations while wifie has charge of the stores," said ned franks. he only lingered to kiss the soft little face of his babe, fragrant and sweet as a rosebud, and then set off for his visit to bat bell, though not very hopeful as to its result. the sun was shining brightly, the trees bursting into leaf; the lark in the blue sky, the thrush from its bough, were pouring forth songs of joy. every sight, scent, and sound was a source of pleasure to ned franks. "those merry little fellows are piping aloft," thought he, "to cheer their mates in their nests. well may my heart sing, too, for who has such a home, and such a mate, and such a nestling as mine? the birds carol merrily, for they cannot look forward, the pleasure of the day is enough for them; but far more cause have i to sing, for i _can_ look forward and think,--the spring-time is bright, but the harvest will be brighter; there is joy now, but the _fulness of joy_ is to come! ay, i can look forward and upward, too, and see what the birds cannot see,--the hand that scatters the blessings over my path, the father's hand that filleth all things with plenteousness! and even like his free bounty should be that of his children; _freely ye have received, freely give_!" a thin, weary wayfarer was sitting on the side of the path; his patched coat, his half-worn-out shoes, and sunken cheek told of need, although the man was no beggar. following simply the impulse of his heart, franks pulled out his sandwich and courteously offered it to the stranger. the smile and hearty blessing with which it was received sent the one-armed school-master on his way with a heart even more joyous than it had been a few minutes before. to give is a godlike pleasure, and he who does not know what it is to do so _with delight_ has missed one of the richest luxuries which man can enjoy below. as ned franks passed along the high road, he could see in a neighboring field a man engaged in sowing. "to bury seed is not to lose seed," thought ned, "though it seem for a while to disappear, like money which is given to the lord, or to the poor for his sake. a man who spends all that he has on himself or his family alone seems to me like one who grinds and bakes and eats all his seed-corn. he gains some present advantage, no doubt, but he will find want and dearth in the end, for he has not sown for the future. and the man who lays by and hoards what ought to be given in charity is like one who locks up his seed-corn in a chest until it grows mouldy and worthless. it neither feeds him nor grows for him; it is worse than good for nothing. while _he that gives to the poor lends to the lord_, and the lord will give him rich increase, not because of the man's deserts, but because of our heavenly father's own free bounty towards those who seek to please him." ned, walking on with quick, active step, overtook ben stone, who, carrying his basket of carpenter's tools, was proceeding at a more leisurely pace in the same direction. "whither bound, messmate?" cried franks, as he came up with the burly carpenter. "i've a job at the hall," replied stone; "the new baronet will be coming down to the old house one of these days, and will want to find everything right there. where are you going, ned franks?" "i'm going to see if bat bell won't add something to the collection for the tumble-down cottages in wild rose hollow. he was not at church yesterday." ben stone burst out laughing, as he had a habit of doing upon the slightest occasion. "going to ask bat bell for money! going to try how much meal you can scrape off an old knife-board! ha! ha! ha! i put my shilling in the plate yesterday;"--the carpenter said this with a self-satisfied air, as one who felt conscious of having done the handsome thing;--"but i don't mind promising to double whatever you manage to squeeze out of bat bell; only, of course he mustn't know that i've said so." "don't make a rash engagement, messmate," said ned franks, with a smile; "i may come down upon you for some ready rhino." "well, and if you do," answered the good-humored carpenter, "i'll not flinch from my word. i've enough and to spare, and what one gives away, as we all know, goes to our good account in the end." "that depends on the spirit in which we give," said franks, more gravely, for he had good reason for suspecting that his companion held very mistaken views on the subject. "one can't keep a debtor and creditor account in heaven. we know from the bible that a man might give all his goods to feed the poor, and yet that it might profit him nothing to do so." "that's one of the texts as i never can make out the meaning of," said the carpenter. "to give is to give, and money is money; and why, when two men do exactly the same thing, one should have a blessing, and another none, quite passes my poor understanding." "if one could suppose that all money given in charity could be put to a test, that only what is really offered for the lord's sake should remain money, and all the rest be turned into withered leaves, don't you think we should have heaps of dry leaves, as in autumn, to be scattered about by the wind? consider all that's given for mere show, all that's given from natural pity, all that's given because it would be thought strange and mean to do less than others; _none_ of that money is given to god, so we must not expect that god will accept it." "well, i grant ye this," said the carpenter, "if every man's almsgiving could be known only to himself and to god, there's many a one as gives now would keep his money snug in his pocket. but i'm not one of those, my good friend. i know, as we can carry nothing out of the world, that it's best to have something laid up in the bank above. but here your way divides from my way,--you go down the dell, i keep to the road. good-day to you, ned franks, let me know what you get from bat bell; i'll be bound 'twill be nothing to ruin me. i've not much to do at the hall to-day, but measuring and fitting, so maybe i'll be back before you return; just drop in at my shop and tell me what's your success;" and with a friendly nod and complacent smile, the carpenter went along the high road, while the school-master turned down the little wooded lane which led to the mill. "i should have liked to have had a little longer talk with ben stone," thought franks. "i'm afraid that he thinks that he is actually _buying_ god's favor, and _earning_ heaven, by the little kind acts that he does! that's a kind of error which so many people run foul of. the sunken rock of self-righteousness is, maybe, just as dangerous as the sandbank of love of money. i must have a care that i don't take to judging others, and so split on it myself. i spoke very hardly yester-evening of bat bell the miller, yet, when i consider what a poor wretched sinner i am, receiving so much from god, and showing my gratitude in such a poor way, i'm scarce likely to run on that rock. when one measures one's little drop of charity, and even that not pure, with the great unfathomable ocean of love of him who gave his life-blood for us, one is far more inclined to ask forgiveness for doing so little, than to expect reward for doing so much. there's nothing that _can_ give the best of us any claim to the least of god's mercies, but the merits of christ. that is a truth that i see the more plainly the longer i live. to attempt to hold by one's own merits would be like trying to go to sea in a bark made of gossamer threads. the gossamer web looks goodly enough when the sunbeams are glinting upon it, and the dew-drops are nestling in it, but no man in his senses would trust his life to its power to bear up his weight. it would be a madder thing still for him to trust his soul's salvation to his own merits. if any mortal had anything in himself to boast of or to trust to, that mortal was st. paul, who was ready to spend and to be spent; who had _suffered the loss of all things_ for god,--a very different kind of self-denial from what we dare to call by that name,--and yet what was the feeling of st. paul? did he think thus he had earned heaven? did he not say, _god forbid that i should glory save in the cross of our lord jesus christ_? if we were to strip ourselves of all that we have, if we were to give away health and time and life itself for god's service, we should never get beyond that verse, we should have nothing whereof to boast, nothing (out of christ) whereon to rest." ned had now descended to the bottom of a beautiful little dell, through which gushed a rapid stream of water, turning the large wheel of bell's mill. the wheel was, however, at this time still, and its monotonous clack did not mingle with the gurgle of the brook and the song of the birds. franks had many delightful associations connected with that wooded dell; for there stood the cottage in which persis, as a maiden, had dwelt with her aged grandfather; it was there that he had wooed and won her; from that little ivy-mantled nest he had, three years before, taken his bride to church. the cottage had now other inhabitants, but franks could not pass the spot without stooping to pluck a violet to carry back to his wife. "i'll give this to persis," he said to himself; "she'll like a flower from the old home, though, thank god, i believe that she has never regretted leaving it for the new one. this much i can answer for, leastways, that every day since that happy one on which god gave her to me has made me prize his gift more dearly." v. an appeal. bat bell was a particular man, regular and precise in all his ways, who had, as it were, stiffened into his own mould, especially since the death of his wife, and who did not choose, as he often said, "to be put out for nobody." bell hated a visitor at work-time, and he was so keen after making money that his work-time began early and ended late. he hated a visitor at meal-time, probably because he did not wish any one to share his meal. franks was aware of this, and tried so to time his visit to the mill that he should catch bell in that half-hour of rest which usually followed his early dinner. "he'll be playing with his bessy," thought franks, "and there's nothing on earth that softens and opens a man's heart like hearing the voice of his own little child, or dancing it on his knee." such was the conclusion to which the school-master came after his four weeks' experience of the feelings of a father. franks, however, found little bessy, not with her parent, but amusing herself in the lane close by the mill. she ran up to him with open arms, and held up her little face for a kiss, for ned was a prime favorite with every child who knew him, and, during her mother's last illness, bessy had spent a week at a time under the care of the franks. she was a plump, rosy-cheeked, merry little girl, of about five years of age. "is father at home, my little lass?" asked ned. "yes; father's in there," replied bessy, nodding in the direction of the door of the cottage attached to the mill; "but he lets me be here to look for the flowers." "mind you don't go near the water, little one," said franks; "keep to the primroses under the hedge;" and, smiling a good-by to the child, he proceeded to the dwelling of her father. bat bell was alone in his parlor, seated on his high-backed wooden chair before the solid deal table, on which appeared the remains of some bread and cheese, and the empty pewter pot which had held his beer. bell was a tall, bony man, naturally of rather a dark complexion, but skin, hair, and dress were all powdered with the flour which showed what was his daily occupation, his shaggy black brows especially having formed a resting-place for the white dust, as the thatched eaves of a dwelling for snow. "good-day to you, ned franks, glad to see you; what brings you this way?" asked the miller, holding out his bony, whitened hand to his visitor, with as much of a smile on his face as the stiffness of the leathery skin would allow. franks was not one to approach any subject in a round about way; if there was any difficulty before him, he usually took what he called "a header" into the very middle of it. he did not say he had just looked in to see an old friend, or to ask if little bessy would come and look at his baby, or utter any remark about the weather, or express any hope that business was brisk; he said what he had come to say the moment after he had taken a seat. "i've called, neighbor, to talk to you about the almshouses yonder in wild rose hollow;" through the window towards which ned glanced as he spoke, the chimney of the nearest one could be seen. "i was up at sarah mason's early this morning, to try what i could do for her wall; but no patching of mine can make the place fit for a human being to live in, let alone a rheumatic old woman. you know well the state of the cottages; something must be done for them without much delay, or the old hulks will soon fall to pieces." every symptom of a smile had disappeared from the hard face of bat bell as soon as his visitor had mentioned wild rose hollow; and when ned paused, the miller's only reply was a "humph," uttered in a very discouraging tone. "don't you think that it would be a shame and disgrace to colme, if dwellings that have afforded shelter for two hundred and fifty years to the aged respectable poor of our village were all suffered to go to utter decay from neglect, as one of them already has done?" "why don't young sir lacy mend 'em? he has money enough," said the miller, "and flings it away right and left, they say, in ways that are little to his credit." "if he does not come forward, is his backwardness an example to be followed?" asked franks. "let the clergy see to it; it's their business," said bell, with a little disagreeable twitch of the nostril, which with him was always a sign that something was "putting him out." "mr. leyton preached twice yesterday in aid of the work, but the collections made were wretched,--not one tenth of what is absolutely required." "the parish overseers must do something." "they refuse to stir a finger," said franks; "they say it's no business of theirs." "then i'm sure that it's no business of mine," interrupted the miller. "is it no business of ours," said the school-master, earnestly, "that they whom we have known for years, they who have lived amongst us, and hoped to die amongst us, should be deprived of the comfort, the quiet, the independence which they so dearly prize?" "i'm sorry for them," said the miller, carelessly; "the founder should have left something to keep the wheel going." "what is wanted is the full stream of christian love," observed franks. "there are scores of charities in london kept constantly working by nothing but that stream." the miller did not look as if he had a drop of such love within him. "it is clear," thought franks, "that i'm not in the right tack yet. let me try him on that of conscience. why," he continued, aloud, "there's no plainer command in the bible than _to do good and to distribute, forget not; let us do good unto all men, and specially unto them that are of the household of faith_." "i know something of the bible, too," replied bat bell, coldly, and the twitch was more unpleasant than before. "i'm a father, and i don't forget that it's written that _he who provideth not for his own is worse than an infidel_." "never let that text be repeated to justify hoarding!" exclaimed franks, with some warmth, for it flashed across his mind how the devil himself can quote scripture. "if we are to be content with food and raiment for ourselves, shall we not be content with them also for our children, without gathering up for them gold and silver, which may only prove a snare, as has happened in thousands of cases? i am a father, too," ned added more mildly, for he saw on the countenance of bell that he had spoken too warmly; "i am a father, and love my little one as much as a father can love; but if thoughts of saving for him made me close my hand and heart against the claims of god's poor, i should feel, that whatever else i might leave him, i dared not expect to leave him that blessing which alone giveth true riches. i should feel that my babe was coming between my soul and my god, and that i must look for god to punish me in him. of whatever we make our idol, the lord is wont to make his rod." "i've no such superstitious fears!" cried bat bell, rising from his seat with a gesture of impatience. had his visitor been any one but ned franks, from whom he had received kindness in time of sorrow, he would have given his guest a broader hint to depart. "let us not talk of fear, then, neighbor," said franks, also rising, but with no intention of yet giving up his attempt to move that cold, hard heart. "have patience with me a few moments more, while i speak of a nobler motive,--the love of god. look around you, bat bell, look at this comfortable home, where want is unknown; you were ill last winter; look at the health and strength restored you now; listen to the merry voice of your child,"--a joyous carol was heard from without,--"and then ask yourself from whom came all these blessings, the loss of any one of which would throw you into sore distress. the goods that you have you owe"-- "to hard work, the labor of my hands in the sweat of my brow," interrupted the miller. "who gave the hand strength and the mind reason? whose power made the stream which turns your mill? whose sunshine ripens the corn on your fields? but why speak only of earthly blessings,--we have more, far more to thank god for! we have not only bodies but souls to care for; we have not only time but eternity to live for. can we be content to sit still and do nothing for others, when we know what god's son hath done for us; when we think at what a price he bought our salvation; how, though he was rich, yet for our sakes he became poor? he calls us to make no sacrifice for him that he has not first made a thousand-fold for us; and when he would teach us what charity should be, the lord sums up all in the words, _love one another as i have loved you_." ned franks's appeal was interrupted by the door being thrown suddenly open, and little bessy's running into the room. the white pinafore of the child, held up by one chubby hand, formed a receptacle for a number of wild flowers which she had been gathering in the lane. with her blue eyes sparkling with pleasure, the child ran up to her father. "see, i've plucked 'em for you, every one!" she cried, emptying her pinafore on the chair from which bat bell had lately risen; "no,--all but this dead primrose,--it's withered and bad, it's not fit to give father!" bessy threw the faded flower away. "i've brought you the _first_ i could find; now, i'll run and get more for myself." bell caught up his girl, lifted her up high, and then kissed her again and again before he set her again on the floor. bessy nodded merrily at ned. "you shall have some, too," she said; "but the _first_ are always for father;" and away ran the happy child, leaving her spring flowers behind her. and bessy left something besides. the visit of the little one had seemed to bring sunshine with it. the hard lines on the parent's face were softened, every feature relaxed, the cold, money-making man was a parent, and a fond parent still. franks felt that the unconscious bessy had acted the part of a little ally; that she was helping to stir the deeply-imbedded vessel which he had been trying to move. "will that dear little girl enjoy her flowers less because the _first_ are always for her father?" said franks, as soon as the sound of the pattering feet was heard no longer. "would that god's children were more like her, bringing their gifts with readiness, with joy, and not like too many of us, offering only the withered thing, the dead thing, that which we will not miss, to him whose goodness towards us has been greater than that of any father on earth!" bat bell's hand approached his pocket, though he did not actually put it in. "ned franks," said the miller, "i tell you honestly, that i wouldn't stand this kind of talk from any man but yourself; but i know that your practice is better than your preaching; so, as you've set your heart on getting something for these cottages, just as a matter of favor to you"--bell stopped short; he could not make up his mind either to finish his sentence, or to draw out his purse. "i do not want you to give as a matter of favor to me," cried franks, "nor is the state of the cottages what is uppermost now in my mind. i came here, indeed, anxious to get something for _them_, but i am a hundred-fold more anxious to get something for you!" the miller raised his dusty eyebrows with surprise, but franks went on, without giving him time to interrupt the earnest flow of his speech. "if we knew that our lord and master had come down again to this earth, that he was in our land, our country, our village, nay, that he was deigning to dwell in one of these cottages, which, wretched as they are, are better than the bethlehem stable, would we not deem it the first of honors to be allowed to bring gifts to him? would not you and i be ready to pull down our own dwellings to get beams and rafters for his, and think the best that we have, yea, _all_ that we have, too little to offer to our king? and it is all the same, bat bell: what we give to the poor for his sake, christ receives as given to himself. _inasmuch as ye did it unto the least of these, my brethren, ye did it unto me._ yes, my friend, i want help for the cottages, but i much more want something for _you_,--the joy of hearing at the last day the saviour's welcome, _come, ye blessed of my father_." vi. the return. the fervent appeal, coming as it did from the very heart of the pleader, had stirred the stubborn hearer a little, though but a little way from his first position. bat bell could not help remembering that there was a reverse to the blessing, a "_depart ye cursed_," for those of whom christ would witness, "_ye did it not unto me_." bell feared that he might have lived all his life under the shadow of that curse; so, anxious to justify himself to his own conscience even more than to franks, he took refuge in the remembrance of what he deemed a good deed. "i can give,--i _have_ given, and largely, too," said the miller, leaning his head against the wall. "there's my nephew, rob gates; did i not pay fifty pounds to 'prentice him out,--_fifty pounds_," repeated the miller emphatically, "of which i have not had one penny back, though the ungrateful dog has been in business these three years?" upon this one act of generosity bell always fell back when any call on his charity was made, as if he considered that the lent fifty pounds covered every claim which could be made on his purse by religion or by humanity. it always gave him an opportunity of declaiming against the ingratitude of mankind; because his nephew had not repaid his loan, all who needed aid from the miller became in his eyes covetous and thankless, if not dishonest. bat bell tried to believe that in hazarding fifty pounds he had already given enough to god; it would have startled him to have been told that not one farthing of the money could be reckoned as real charity. bell had helped his nephew from _natural affection_, and from _family pride_. the miller had acted exactly as he would have acted if he had been a turk or an infidel,--exactly as he would have acted had he never heard the name of the lord. tried by this test, of how small a part of our alms, alas! will the master be able to say, _ye did it unto me_! "that miserable fifty pounds," thought ned, who had heard of it often before, and who knew too well that the miller used its loss as a perpetual argument to silence conscience, and excuse his neglect of the poor. "you see, ned franks," continued the miller, "a man who has once made sacrifices for others, and has only met with ingratitude; who has spent upon a good-for-nothing scapegrace of a nephew--" the miller suddenly stopped and started. ned, whose back was towards the open door, only knew by the change on the face of bell, the look of surprise that flashed across it, that a third party had unexpectedly joined them. turning round he saw a stout young man, in a shaggy coat, with a knapsack on his shoulders, and a broad grin on his good-humored face, who advanced with both hands extended to the miller, exclaiming in a loud, hearty tone, "here's the good-for-nothing scapegrace to answer for himself." [illustration: "here's the good-for-nothing scapegrace to answer for himself." p. .] bell gave his nephew a cordial welcome both with hand and voice, and franks was so glad to see the hearty greeting, that he did not ask himself whether it were possible that the uncle's pleasure at seeing the young man might partly be owing to the hope of his now having the old debt cleared off. "so you were giving me a pretty character, uncle," cried rob gates, after he had thrown himself on a chair; "well, i can't grumble at that, as you've neither seen nor heard from me for many a long year; but i never was much of a scribe, and don't trouble the postman from january to december. i don't care to write till i've something to say, so i waited till i could play the postman myself, and bring a kind of notes that are easily read, and will tell more of gratitude, duty, and that sort of thing, than reams of foolscap scribbled all over." with a look of honest satisfaction, the young man pulled a large leathern pocket-book from his breast-pocket. his movements were watched with keen interest by the miller, as rob opened the clasp, and then slowly drew out, one after another, unfolding and smoothing out each as he did so, ten five-pound notes of the bank of england. he spread them with his broad, rough hands over the table, as if he took a boyish pleasure in making the greatest possible show of his wealth. "uncle, here's the fifty pounds which i owe you," said rob; "you're not sorry now, i hope, that you lent a helping hand to your scapegrace of a nephew? i can't believe that a fellow ever has cause to be sorry for doing a kindness; it always in one way or other comes back." franks glanced at the miller, and fancied that he saw his thin lip quiver a little, and that something like moisture rose in the usually dark, cold eye. ned could not tell what was passing in the mind of that man, as he laid his hand on one of the notes. slowly, half reluctantly, the miller raised it, and then, as if moved by an impulse, which even his selfish nature could not withstand, bell handed that note to the sailor, saying, "you came at a lucky time; take that,--it's for wild rose hollow." ned stood amazed at success so far beyond all his hopes. he had indeed been led to that dwelling in a happy moment, when bell's hard heart had been softened and touched, or, to use his own simile, "when a spring-tide had set in so strongly as to help the stranded craft off the shoal." his words of thanks were hearty, and while the miller set about preparing a meal for his hungry guest, the one-armed sailor joyously started on his homeward way. merrily franks sped up the glen, his blithe whistle mingling with the chord of the lark that hung quivering over his head. ben stone, the carpenter, who had just returned from the hall, was standing at the door of his shop, on the lookout for ned franks. "why, he looks as gladsome as if he'd just come in for a fortune himself," muttered the carpenter, "and he's whistling away like a bird! but all that jollity must be put on to cover disappointment, for if he got more than a crooked four-penny bit from that miserly miller, i'm a dutchman, that's all! well, ned franks," cried the jovial carpenter aloud, "how many brass farthings has bat bell pulled out of his hoard to prop up the houses in wild rose hollow?" franks waved the crisp, fluttering bank-note in reply. "you don't mean--what--no--not a _bank-note_--a five-pound note!" exclaimed the astonished stone, scarcely able to credit his eyes. his exclamation was echoed by his wife and two neighbors who joined him at the moment. "it must be a toy-note," suggested mrs. stone. "no," laughed ned, "it is a good honest note of the bank of england, worth five sovereigns of any man's money. bat bell was unexpectedly repaid a large loan at the very time when i was with him to ask help for wild rose hollow; the first note which he touched he gave to god, and i trust that god will bless him for it," added franks, with fervor; "it was more from him than a much larger sum would have been from another man." "the sum's pretty large from anybody," said the carpenter, with rather a rueful face, for bat bell's generosity had taken him by surprise in an inconvenient way. "i hope that i'm not expected to hold to my unlucky offer; where bell gives once, i give a hundred times; he may plump out a five-pound note and not miss it, but i've not the knack of turning deal shavings into gold." "no, no, neighbor," cried franks, "no one would think of holding you to such a bargain. you have not suddenly come into money like bell, or, i've not a doubt, you'd give to the full as large as he." "but i'm not the man to flinch from my word," said stone; "if i can't give the money, i'll give the money's worth in work when i've time to spare; so you may count that five pounds as fairly doubled, my friend." "that will be a lucky bank-note to you, mr. franks," observed the carpenter's wife; "for now that you've brought in such a sum to help the collection, i'm sure and certain that you'll be the man fixed upon to be clerk at our church, instead of john sands." "instead of sands! why, he's not going to resign the place, surely?" cried franks. "he'll have to give it up; he could not for shame stand up just below the reading-desk, give out the psalms, and lead the singing, as if nothing had happened," observed ben stone, with a shake of his head. "why, sands is the most quiet, steady, sober--" "but his wife, she's the mischief, she's the ruin of him; a man is what a woman makes him," quoth the jovial carpenter, giving a self-complacent nod towards his own partner. "parsons, we're told, must have their own houses in subjection, and i guess the same rule holds with their clerks. all colme is talking about it. we'll have you, our one-armed sailor, clerk as well as school-master; there's no one so fit for the place!" vii. brightness and gloom. "so there's a chance of my being made clerk as well as school-master of colme," said ned franks to himself, as he walked towards his home. "such a breeze of good fortune is more than i ever could have hoped for. why, there would be twenty-six pounds a year, besides what i have now, and no trifle in the way of fees! now that i am a family man, i shall find plenty to do with the money. i shall be able to fulfil my heart's desire, to give my boy, when he's old enough to learn, a first-rate education. little ned shall have every advantage, bless him! there's no saying what he may turn out in time,--may be a parson, maybe a bishop, one of these days!" franks laughed to himself, and walked on with brisker step at the thought. "then i'll be able to insure my life, so that if anything should happen to me, my persis shouldn't be cast adrift on the waves, or have to pull the oar herself in a heavy sea! and we'll have something to give to others. i think that i'll devote the fees for the first year, at least, to the repair of the old almshouses in wild rose hollow. persis will approve of that, i am sure. grand news i have to carry home to wifie to-day! when i was nothing but a poor jack-tar, and then lost my arm by an awkward accident, and thought that the storm of misfortune was throwing me back on my native shore like a battered wreck that never would float again, how little i dreamed what a prosperous gale that storm was for me! here am i, as far from being a wreck as ever i was in my life (barring that instead of my left arm i've timber and a hook, which serve my purpose quite well), scudding along, buoyant as a cork, with the best of wives and the sweetest of babes and the happiest of homes, with teaching work, which is just to my liking, and now with the prospect in addition of being appointed clerk of colme, in the place of john sands!" but the last words, like a touch to a sleeper, broke the charm of ned franks's pleasant day-dream. "shame on me!" he muttered, half aloud; "here am i rejoicing, like a shameless wrecker, in the ruin of a poor fellow who never did harm to me or mine! the proverb says, 'it's ill standing in dead men's shoes,' but this is something worse. if poor sands has to resign the snug berth he's held with credit for the last ten years, it will be because he has the misery of having a wife who has taken to drink; her disgrace falls upon him, and because his home is wretched, he may have the very bread taken out of his mouth! instead of feeling for him, as any man, let alone a christian, should feel, i, who have had my cup of blessings already filled to overflowing, i am counting on his loss as my gain; because his happiness is shipwrecked, i'm looking to get my share of the spoils! out upon me for a selfish, covetous fellow!" exclaimed the indignant tar. "that same prosperous gale that i thought so much of seems to be blowing me right on that sandbank of love of money, from which i've been warning others. i must take care to sheer off myself!" the road along which the school-master of colme was passing, led him by the cottage of sands the clerk, and he glanced, as he went by, at the untidy, weed-grown garden, the window with the broken pane stuffed with rags, which told a sad tale of sorrow and neglect. the cottage was rather a large and good one, and a few years back had worn an appearance of comfort and prosperity, such as befitted the home of the respectable clerk of colme. franks remembered the lines stretched out along the garden, whitened with linen hung out to dry; for nancy sands, a strong and active woman, had added many a pound to her husband's gains by her skill in laundry-work. now one of the poles lay rotting on the ground; a broken, dirty cord, hanging loose from the wall, was all that remained of the lines. families no longer cared to trust nancy sands with their washing, and, if report spoke truth, the poor clerk had sometimes to iron his own shirts himself, to keep up the decent appearance indispensable to one in his station. ned franks had not gone many yards past the dwelling of sands, when he saw before him the poor man himself, advancing slowly, as if there were little to attract him towards his home. the figure of the clerk of colme, by its peculiar stiffness and formality, was easily recognized at a distance. he always dressed in black, and so appropriate did the cloth appear to the wearer, that no one could imagine john sands appearing in any less grave attire. even in his best days the clerk of colme had seemed as if he could never look happy. the closely cropped hair, black and almost as thick as the fur of a beaver, was seen above a thin, sallow face, always so solemn and serious that it was supposed to be incapable of smiling. there had been some thought, years before the beginning of this story, of appointing john sands as school-master at colme; but there was not one of the scholars who would not have regarded such an appointment with exceeding dislike and disgust. the boys were certain that the old raven, as they called the clerk, must have been brought up in an undertaker's shop, and been cradled in a coffin; they believed that he had never laughed when a baby, nor played at cricket or football when a boy; indeed, a doubt was expressed as to whether the clerk had ever been a boy at all, but had not rather grown out of a liliputian man, clad in a tiny black coat, and miniature white neck-cloth. no one was very intimate with john sands; no one ever addressed him by his christian name, or thought of clapping him on the shoulder, or telling him a bit of good news, or asking him to "come and share pot-luck." yet nothing could be said against the clerk, except that he did not rule his own house well, and was thought to be henpecked by nancy. when the sailor (for such franks still considered himself, and was considered by other to be, though he had not been afloat for years) saw john sands coming towards him, he had something of a feeling of shame; it seemed to his kindly, honest nature as if he had done his neighbor wrong by even thinking of taking his place. franks lifted his cap with a courteous "good-day," as he was about to pass john sands, but the clerk stood stock-still on the path, and clearly did not wish to be passed. "mr. franks," he said, to the sailor, "if you could spare me a few minutes, i should like to have a quiet talk with you. the church is hard by; will you come with me into the vestry?" now franks was in great haste to get home; he was impatient to tell his wife of his wondrous success with bat bell; besides, having given away his breakfast, he was exceedingly hungry; for, having risen at four o'clock that morning, and having eaten nothing since an early breakfast, his sharp appetite reminded him that it was long past his usual dinner-time. franks had calculated on having just a quarter of an hour in which to satisfy hunger, and tell all his news, before his pupils would gather again for afternoon lessons. had john sands not been in trouble, franks might have asked him to put off his proposed quiet talk; but the sailor was sorry for nancy's husband, and only reminded the clerk that lessons would begin again at two, and that the school-master must be at his post. franks doubted whether sands had even noticed this hint. the clerk turned back, and, at a slower pace than was pleasant to his hungry companion, proceeded towards the village church, not uttering a single word as he went. the two passed along the little walk which led to the back door which opened into the vestry. the clerk very slowly, at least so it seemed to franks, drew the large key out of his pocket, and fitted it into the lock. the creaking door was opened, and the two men entered the little room which looked so neat, solemn, and silent, with the light from the diamond-paned window falling on its green cloth-covered table, with the heavy desk, and the big registry book upon it. it is probable that the clerk felt more at home in this place than in his own cheerless dwelling; here at least there was peace. there were in the mind of ned franks very pleasant recollections connected with that vestry-room. the very chair which he now took had been occupied by his bride, when, for the last time, she had signed herself "persis meade;" in that place he had first called her "wife," and there, but two days ago, their first-born babe had been registered as received by baptism into the church. the clerk also seemed to have the latter event in his mind; for, as he seated himself under the window, with his back to the light, he observed, in the slow, measured tone which he always used, "your child was christened in this church on last saturday, mr. franks." "if that is all he has to say to me," thought the half-famished sailor, "i need scarcely have lost my dinner for it;" but he waited, with what patience he could command, for the next slow sentence which might drop from the lips of john sands. these two men, who had once been rival aspirants for the post of school-master at colme, formed a singular contrast to each other,--sands, with that primly-cut hair, which lay like a judge's black cap on his head, and his face as grave as if he were that judge pronouncing sentence; franks, with light brown locks, which seemed to curl themselves round with very good-humor, and bright blue eyes, always ready to sparkle with fun, as well as to beam with kindness. no one could wonder at the preference felt by the boys for the one-armed sailor, though he had not half the learning of sands. we know that _he that hath a merry heart hath a continual feast_; and where such a heart is possessed by a school-master, his boys enjoy, as it were, the crumbs of that feast. ned franks's inspiriting "now, my hearties, let's to work," would set his scholars to their tasks with a cheerful energy almost as great as that with which they rushed out to play. the sailor felt that these young beings were entrusted to his care, not merely that he might teach them to be wise, but help them to be happy; and the influence which he thus gained over their affections greatly aided franks in reaching the very highest mark of education,--that of training young immortals to be wise unto salvation, and happy because serving the lord. viii. pleading. "mr. franks, you have a happy home," said the clerk, after a little pause; and then he added, with a sigh, "so had i once." ned knew not what to reply; he thought that all england held no two women more unlike each other than nancy sands and his own sweet persis. "you see, mr. franks," continued the clerk, drooping his head, and looking on the carpet, "it was all sorrow that did it. there was not a better manager in colme than mrs. sands, till--till we buried our only boy;" the poor man's voice faltered as he spoke; "and then she fancied that there was comfort in a drop. i don't mean to say she was right, but it's too common a mistake; i--i think the world's hard upon her, mr. franks,--she has been tempted, grievously tempted; but there's very good metal in her yet." there was something touching to the sailor in the effort of the poor injured husband to throw a veil of indulgence over the glaring fault of his wife. though her intemperance was ruining his comfort, and disgracing his name, and might seriously injure his worldly position, sands's anxiety was to find some excuse for his wretched partner. for the affections of the quiet, stiff, formal man still clung to the choice of his youth. john sands had loved nancy almost from his boyhood; often had he been jested about his fancy for the boisterous black-eyed girl, who cared so little for him. when nancy had grown into a bold, self-willed woman, ready enough to receive his attentions, but trifling with his feelings, and not returning his love, sands had seen, time after time, some rival preferred to himself, and had heard, with silent anguish, that the only girl that he had ever cared for was to be married to some one else. yet, somehow or other, every engagement of nancy's was broken off; perhaps few men, when it came to the point of decision, would have wished to be linked for life to bangham's termagant daughter. so, after many long years of patient, sorrowful waiting, john at length had the wish of his heart granted, and found, as too many find, that he had chosen ill for his own peace of mind. nancy might have made a good, hard-working wife to a man who would have ruled as well as loved her,--one who would have taught her to obey; but where she should have had a master, she found a servant; she despised sands for his very anxiety to please her, and readiness to yield to her wishes. there was no open rupture between them; the wife ruled and the husband obeyed and never complained, till at length nancy's indulgence in the vice of intemperance made john's misery a thing which no longer could be concealed from the world. the clerk seemed to expect some reply. the sailor was puzzled what to say; he feared to hurt sands by expressing any pity, and he was too sincere to express any hope. but as the dead silence became very painful, ned broke it by saying, "i wish with all my heart i could help you." "that's it, that's just it," said john sands, raising his drooping head a little; "you're the only man i could have asked. you see," he continued, uneasily, "mrs. sands is always right, as she should be, when i'm by; she has the best of hearts; the metal is good, very good; but i can't be always beside her, and i'm called up to london to-morrow on business, which i cannot put off. i thought that perhaps, somehow, you'd look in a little, or--or take a sort of kind of care,"--the poor man looked wistfully into the face of ned franks; he knew not how to finish his sentence. "really, mr. sands," said the embarrassed sailor, "i do not see what i could possibly do. i'm not in high favor with your wife; any interference on my part she would certainly take amiss." all the village knew that nancy had done all in her power, by trying to blacken ned's character, to prevent his being appointed school-master at colme, and that she cordially disliked him. "it was your wife's influence i was thinking of," said the clerk. "i know that mrs. sands has a high opinion of mrs. franks. i have myself heard her say"--he stopped short, for he could hardly have repeated the compliment to the wife in the presence of the husband, as it was that "persis meade was fifty times too good for that canting fellow with the wooden arm." "i am afraid that even my wife would be unable to do anything," replied ned. "oh! don't say that, mr. franks," cried the clerk piteously, as if his last hope were being cut away. "it's wonderful what the influence of a woman can do. do we not all know that mrs. franks, and you helping her, were able to convert even a hard-hearted, unbelieving jew! is not the baptism of benjamin isaacs, and of benoni his son, down in the register there, and was it not all from the speaking of you and your wife? if she could do so much for a jew, don't say she can do nothing for a christian." franks was touched by the earnest appeal, but could not help thinking in his heart that benjamin isaacs, with all his jewish prejudices, had been a more hopeful subject than nancy sands. he did not, however, speak; he only shook his head to express a doubt. "mrs. franks could make her way with mrs. sands, i feel certain of it," said the clerk, after another painful silence. "women know how to speak to women. could she not take the babe with her? nancy is fond of babies." sands's voice dropped almost to a whisper, as he added, "she'd have gone through fire and water for our boy; there was never a better mother; it was sorrow that set her wrong." ned could hold out no longer. "i'll ask my wife to call upon mrs. sands to-morrow, and to take the baby, and maybe she'll get her to return the visit," said the sailor, cheerily. "keep up a good heart, neighbor; there may be better days in store for you yet." there was a little sound in the clerk's throat, something between a cough and sob, and he pulled his handkerchief hastily out of his pocket, for his eyes were brimming over with tears. franks, who hated to see a man cry, made his departure rather abruptly. "it is getting very late," he observed; "i must wish mr. sands good-day." "i could not help it; i could not help striking my flag when he boarded me like that," muttered the sailor to himself, as with long strides he hurried towards his school-house. "but to think of my engaging my poor persis to tackle a tigress, who's too much for the parson himself! but how could i say him nay? he's nigh broken-hearted, poor fellow! certainly, if any one in the world is likely to say a word to nancy that will help her to sheer off from the whirlpool that's drawing her in, that one is my sweet cherub of a wife." franks found that he was even later than he had supposed himself to be; the pupils were already thronging to school; and heated, hungry, and tired as he was, the master had almost directly to set to work. he had not even time to snatch a hasty meal. the benches were half filled with their noisy young occupants before ned franks took his usual place behind his high desk. he fancied that he heard a little tittering amongst the boys, for at their very last meeting he had given them a lecture upon punctuality. "so, my lads, you think that you have caught me napping for once," cried ned franks, in his cheerful tone; "but i'll not be hard on any one who is a minute and three-quarters beyond time," franks glanced at the large clock on the wall, "if he brings as good an excuse for delay as i do now. here," he cried, waving his bank-note triumphantly, "here are five pounds given to the collection for wild rose hollow, by our friend, bat bell, the miller." a deafening shout arose from the boys. the miller had so long been regarded as a money-making, money-saving screw, that they cheered him at the top of their voices in his new character of a money-giving man. "i can match your piece of good news with another," said persis franks, who had come into the school-room on purpose to tell her tidings to her husband. "mr. leyton called while you were out, to let us know that his aunt had this morning received a letter from mrs. lane, enclosing for the same purpose a check for ten pounds." there was a cheer for mrs. lane, but not quite so uproarious, because the announcement excited less surprise. "i'll top your story," said the smiling sailor, speaking so that all the boys might hear. "ben stone, the carpenter, has kindly promised to give five pounds' worth of his labor to repair the tumble-down almshouses in wild rose hollow." a very loud hurrah followed this announcement, mingled with clapping of hands. the young curate, who chanced to be passing the school at that time, paused in some surprise on hearing such a shout, and thought that the naval school-master must have a novel and curious way of educating his pupils. but ned franks was teaching his boys a lesson quite as important as even the multiplication-table. "now you see, my lads," said the sailor, raising his hands to enforce attention, "that he who cannot give much money to a charity, may give his own honest hard work. now, i've lately read in a capital book[a] of school-boys, who, when shown how to go about it, actually built a house for themselves, that the purses of generous friends might be spared as much as possible. now, i think that there's no one here present, but myself, that has not two hands, and on those hands ten fingers and thumbs. if any one here present wants to help to set the almshouses to rights, and is willing to give an odd hour of labor every week-day till the job is done, let him now hold up his right hand." instantly, above the dark cluster of boys, a number of hands--white, red, clean, and soiled--were held up. "or," continued franks, "as the days are now long, if there be any one who could and would give two hours daily to serving god, by thus helping his poor, let that one now hold up both hands." up went all the left hands, to the sound of a cheer louder and more joyous than the first; and then all the hands were employed in clapping, as if, instead of an invitation to labor, the boys had received an invitation to a feast.[b] "blessings on the noble-hearted little fellows!" thought the school-master, as he looked down on that mass of bright young faces. and persis, as she fixed her proud eyes on her husband, thought, "ned can lead these boys wherever he will; for he never asks them to do a brave, or kind, or generous thing, without first showing them how to do it by his example!" [a] liefde's "six months amongst the charities of europe." [b] i wish that the united energies of the children of every school in britain, whether for the rich or the poor, could thus be enlisted in some good work. masters and mistresses would find the beneficial effect in the minds of their pupils. even ragged schools might have a collecting box for farthings; or children's sympathies might be enlisted in behalf of some charity near them. working _together_ for god promotes union, and it is a blessed thing for the young to learn to delight in such work. ix. the invitation. "was it a shame in me, my darling, to bring you into this engagement about nancy sands?" asked ned at a later hour of the day, when, seated at a comfortable meal, he made up for lost time by attacking the food with a vigor which amused his wife, who did not know of his having given away his sandwich to the wayfaring man. "nay, i think that it would have been a shame had we refused to do what we could for poor mr. sands in his trouble. besides there is nothing very formidable in paying a morning visit to nancy," added persis, with a smile; "she has always been rather civil to me. i remember that when i lived in the dell, before my marriage, when my poor old grandfather was ill, nancy once brought me some broth of her own making, to keep up his strength, as she said." "perhaps what her husband told me is true; there may be good metal in her after all, though i own that i don't like the ring of it. he ought to know her best; but i'm not very hopeful about nancy sands," said franks, pushing back his empty plate; "you see, wifie, when once a _woman_ takes to the glass, they say that there's not a chance of her ever getting rid of the habit." "i never like to hear that said," observed persis. "why should a woman, any more than a man, be beyond reach of god's mercy and grace? a woman has often strong, deep affections, and especially shrinks from dragging down her family to misery and ruin." "but when she is once right in the middle of the whirlpool, can she help being sucked in?" said the sailor, gravely. "intemperance is like a whirlpool, wifie. round about it, at some distance from the centre, it looks not much more than a ripple of the sea; the careless pilot might venture upon it, and, unless he keep a sharp lookout at his bearings, scarcely guesses what a strong current is drawing him in, closer and closer, to the down-whirl of waters. let him sheer off at once, and he is safe; if he slacken sail, and let the vessel drift, why, he's lost,--he comes to a point where he _can't_ get her off, let him strain every muscle as he may. and it's just so with the drinking. a man feels sick, or a woman feels sad; a drop of something will warm and cheer them, they think; and i don't say but that it may often do so, and that spirits may be used as medicine, and be found a good gift of god. but when the 'drop' comes to be taken pretty often; when there is less of water and more of spirits mixed together; when the man (or woman) begins to relish the glass, and think that he can't do without it,--then's the time to sheer off! don't let him wait till the habit begins to draw him in as with the grasp of a giant, till he finds that the ship won't answer the helm, that he's getting into the wild whirl and will soon be carried whither he would not; let him fix his quantity, measure it, and not go one oar's breadth beyond it; or, if he has not the firmness for that, let him, at any cost, give up the drink altogether, neither taste, nor touch, nor look at it, lest he be engulfed in the treacherous maelstrom, and soul and body perish together!" "o ned," exclaimed persis, "how fearful it is to think what multitudes are lost in that whirlpool! god grant that poor nancy be rescued in time!" "we'll not forget her in our prayers," said ned franks. on the following day john sands started for london, with a heavy, anxious heart, only lightened by the thought that the sailor was certain to keep his word. sands lingered at the door of his home, with his carpet-bag in his hand, turning half round in a hesitating manner, as if he fancied that something might have been forgotten. "i suppose that you've left your papers behind, or maybe your purse," said nancy, who stood on the threshold to see her husband start on his journey. "no, it's not that, my dear," half stammered the clerk; "it's that i'm not just easy in mind leaving you here all alone." "i don't care three farthings for being alone," cried the ungracious wife; "i can find occupation enough, and amusement enough, if i choose." "that's it, that's just it; i wanted you to promise, dear,--while i'm away, just while i'm away, you understand,--that you--you won't step over to the 'chequers.'" "i'll not promise that to you, nor to nobody," said nancy, with a toss of her head and a snort of disdain; "a pretty pass it's come to, indeed, if i mayn't go and have a gossip with a friend. mrs. fuddles of the 'chequers,' was my school-fellow; you know that as well as i do." john sands drew a heavy sigh, and wished from the bottom of his heart that mrs. fuddles and the "chequers" were somewhere at the other side of the world, instead of down in the dell, just beyond the mill. he felt, however, that there was no use in his saying anything more; so sands set off on his walk to the nearest station, and nancy stood at the door watching him, as long as the prim figure dressed in black remained within sight. then she went back into her parlor and sat down, resting her hands on her knees, and gazing with a fixed, dull, joyless stare on the opposite wall. nancy felt very desolate at that moment, for she had parted with the only being in all the world who really loved her. mrs. sands knew that she was already "the talk of the village;" that her neighbors, who had once looked on her as "a thriving, well-to-do woman," now regarded her with contempt; she knew that she was lowered in the eyes of all; and, though she would not have owned that she was so, nancy was lowered in her own. she scorned, she despised herself for the very vice to which she clung so strongly. she could not bear to be alone with her thoughts; she must drown them in the fiery poison which was already consuming her credit, her happiness, and her peace. nancy rose, walked up to the cupboard, and took out of it a bottle and a glass. just as she had pulled out the cork from the former, she heard a soft tap at the door. "why, mrs. franks, who would have thought of seeing you! and you've brought the baby!" exclaimed nancy, her face relaxing into an expression of something like pleasure; for she was gratified by the unexpected visit of one whose character stood so high in the village, at a time when her own had so grievously sunk. persis took the seat which was offered to her, and listened complacently to the praise of her beautiful boy, and when she marked the shade of sadness in nancy's tone as she said, "oh! i know what a mother feels with her first-born babe in her arms," she was glad that she had come on her errand of kindness to the lonely and tempted woman. "i did not think as you'd have walked as far as this, mrs. franks, leastways carrying the child, for you're not over strong," said mrs. sands. "you've not been here for a long time; we met oftener when you were persis meade." "yes, you came to see me in the dell. i remember well your kindness in bringing broth to my poor old grandfather; excellent broth it was; i've no doubt that it did him good." this little acknowledgment of a single act of past kindness had more effect in thawing the heart of nancy sands than persis could have expected. nancy's pride would have rebelled at the idea of franks's wife conferring any favor upon her, but her owning herself to be the obliged party set mrs. sands at once at her ease. she liked to talk over past days, happy days as she now thought them, when her own poor boy was living. no one who had only seen nancy sands on that morning, sitting chatting with persis franks, would have thought of her as the "tigress" whose temper, especially when she was under the influence of drink, made her the terror of her neighbors. "i'm glad of your visit," she observed after a while; "i was feeling a bit dull all alone." "i hope that you will return my visit," said persis; "could you not come over this evening at seven to tea?" "i suppose your man's out?" said nancy, shortly. "i warrant you he'd not care to see me." "oh, no, my clear husband will be at home; he knew that i was going to invite you. i never do anything without his consent." "humph!" grunted nancy; "that's what i call slavery. i take it a wife's not like a red indian, tied to a stake." "no," replied persis, smiling; "rather like a vine fastened to a supporting, sheltering wall." "i'm none of your creepers!" cried nancy, with a saucy toss of the head. "i'm a standard for the matter of that, and don't want to lean upon nobody;" and certainly she did not look like anything that needs a prop, with those stout, strong arms, bared to the elbows, and a red face which might once have been handsome, but which now looked only coarse. "i suppose," continued mrs. sands, "that you're one of them meek ones as have old-fashioned notions about wedlock and its duties." "very old ones," replied persis, gently swaying herself to and fro, to rock to slumber the soft little burden so tenderly folded in her arms; "as old, or more so, as the days of abraham and sarah." "i'm one as sticks up for woman's rights," said nancy, and she drew herself up proudly. "so am i," observed persis, looking down on her babe; "but i see them in a different light, perhaps, from what you do. i fancy that it is the husband's right to support, the wife's to lean; the husband's to guide, the wife's to obey; _both_ to honor, to cherish, and to love; at least, it's so with my ned and me." nancy glanced at the happy wife and mother before her, and though she might not choose to imitate, she could neither pity nor despise. she only said, however, "there's no doubt but that wedlock's a yoke to most. if i'd been fastened to one who chose to pull hard one way, why i'd just have dragged the harder the t'other way, and--" "and i am afraid that then no great progress would have been made either way," said persis, timidly yet playfully. mrs. sands gave a short, harsh laugh. "i for one could never abide to be dragged down by such clogs as what folks call duty and obedience. why do you smile, mrs. franks?" "i smiled because your words reminded me of a little fable of a clock." "what's that? i never heard the fable," said nancy. persis bent down and kissed her baby two or three times, perhaps to give herself time to collect her thoughts, and then began,-- "once upon a time, all the upper parts of a great kitchen-clock rebelled against the weights. 'of what use in the world they can be passes my understanding!' cried the wheel. 'great, heavy, leaden clogs as they are, always dragging down towards earth!' "'i'm sure that i've nothing to thank them for,' exclaimed the minute-hand, briskly; 'every one looks at me as i go travelling round and round, but who would ever care to stoop to look at the weights below?' "'they're not fit to be seen!' added the hour-hand; 'if they could be twitched off at once, i dare be bound that i'd go as fast as you do!' "'i'm tired to death of them!' clicked the pendulum. 'i'm certain that i don't need 'em to keep me swinging steadily backwards and forwards. i'd get on much better without 'em!' "'they're dumb as fish!' observed the little bell inside. 'i wonder that any clock-maker in his senses ever burdened a clock with weights!' "one day an idle boy in a fit of mischief pulled both the weights off the clock. it was not long, as you may believe, ere the different parts of the machine found out the effect of the loss. "the wheel could not turn itself round; the pendulum grew feeble and would not swing. "'i've come to a dead lock!' cried the minute-hand. "'i can't get on!' groaned the hour-hand. "and though both were pointing to twelve, the little hammer could not strike on the bell. "'ah,' said the key, that was hanging close by, 'i guess that the clock-maker knew what he was about when he hung on those weights.'" when persis franks stopped, mrs. sands laughed. "i suppose," she said, "that the moral of your fable is that wives get on better with the clogs of duty and obedience than they would do without them! but i find that _my_ hands will move fast enough, and my clapper strike readily enough without my bothering myself to please my man, much less to obey him! but you're not going away yet, mrs. franks?" persis had risen as if to depart. "i hope to see you so soon again; you are coming,--at least will you not come and take tea with us this evening? you will not wish to stay all alone." "oh! i'll not be alone anyhow," said nancy, also rising from her seat; "i thought i'd look in on mrs. fuddles." this made persis press her invitation. "you've never passed an evening with me since my marriage," she said; "i'd take it so kind if you'd come." "humph!" said nancy, doubtfully. an evening at the public-house was more suited to her degraded taste than one at the school-house; but she felt the advantage of being able to say to her neighbors that she had taken tea at mrs. franks's. "i want you to see more of my husband," pleaded persis. a suspicion flashed across nancy that there might be some design to convert her. suddenly and almost fiercely she asked, "franks won't be after preaching goodness and that sort of thing?" "no, he'll not preach," answered persis, quietly, "but he will _practise_," she added to herself. "my husband has many amusing sea-stories," said persis aloud. "did you ever hear of his crocodile adventure in madagascar?" "well, i'll come; seven is your hour, i think, that you told me." "yes, we take our meal later now, as ned goes after lessons, with his boys, to work in wild rose hollow." the invitation being accepted, persis was about to leave the place, when her eye fell on the bottle which nancy had taken out of the cupboard. the scent which pervaded the room told that its contents must be gin. "what avails it to keep her from the public-house," thought persis, "if she has the poison with her at home?" mrs. franks's foot was on the threshold, but she suddenly turned and came back; her heart fluttered and her cheek flushed, but her resolution was taken. "mrs. sands," she said rather nervously, "i see that you have a bottle of spirits in the house. poor walter baynes, who is almost sinking, has been ordered strong stimulant by the doctor; it is almost necessary to keep him alive. as you happen to have gin at hand, will you, to do me a favor, let me carry that bottle to him?" persis was astonished at the boldness of her own request, and nancy was scarcely less so. "he can get it elsewhere," she said sharply. "i should like so much, so very much, to take it to him now from you. i pass his cottage on my way." mrs. sands put her stout arms a-kimbo, and persis was alarmed at the savage expression which came over her features as she said, "don't you think i don't guess what you're after. some one has been slandering me to you. you think that that bottle is safer in your hands than mine." franks's wife, trembling, pressed her baby closer to her heart, but she did not utter any denial of the truth. "you'd be a-wanting to get me to give up the drink, not just for to-day, but always." "and if i could do so," said persis, speaking with agitation, for she was nervous and frightened, "if i could persuade you to give it up for your own sake, your husband's, the father of your poor boy, should i be acting the part of an enemy or of a friend?" nancy sands was silent for some moments, painful moments to persis. she could not read that woman's heart; she did not venture to glance into her face, or she might have seen in the heart the pang of remorse, in the face the sullenness of shame. mrs. sands knew, felt, that she was being drawn into misery and degradation, and that persis, the gentle, pure-minded wife, was only acting as a guardian angel might act, seeking to save a perishing soul. anything like stern rebuke nancy's proud spirit would not have borne; but persis, trembling while she pleaded, with moisture glistening on her downcast lashes, did not stir up all the fierce wrath and resentment that would in a moment have silenced conscience. suddenly, half fiercely, nancy cried, "take the bottle; i don't care; i can get more; the poor fellow is welcome to the gin." persis did not let the opportunity slip. in a minute she had possessed herself of the dangerous bottle, and after stammering thanks, to which nancy would not listen, mrs. franks hurried away from the place. "oh, i'm so thankful that visit is over!" she exclaimed half aloud as she passed through the garden gate; "and i shall be thankful when the evening also is over. i hope, oh, i do hope, that she'll come to us sober!" x. a happy home. nancy did come perfectly sober, and ned franks kept his engagement made for him by his wife. not a word was uttered which even the irritable mrs. sands, conscious of her own evil habit, could possibly twist into a reproach. on the contrary, persis took care to thank her guest for her kindness in sending what had been valuable medicine to baynes, and let her know how the poor sinking sufferer had seemed to revive under its effect. everything was done by the frankses to make the evening pass pleasantly to their guest. their parlor with its jars of fresh flowers, the snow-white cloth spread on the table covered with the pretty tea-service, which had been a wedding-gift to persis, tempting bread and butter and the home-made cake for which the school-master's wife was famous,--all formed a picture of neatness and comfort. mrs. sands could not help contrasting franks's cottage with her own. how different the home where holiness and love went hand in hand, from the untidy, comfortless dwelling of the drunkard! ned made himself exceedingly amusing; he told some of his very best stories, and nancy, under the genial influence of pleasant society, brought out some of her own, which she related with a good deal of spirit. persis was surprised to find that her guest could be really agreeable, and franks, for the first time, was able to guess what could possibly have made poor john sands take a fancy to nancy. there was nothing to ruffle mrs. sands's temper, much to amuse and please her, and the buoyant cheerfulness of the one-armed sailor was infectious to every one near him. so passed the evening till a quarter before nine, when persis glanced at her husband. it was the time when they always had prayer and bible-reading together. "mrs. sands," said the sailor, "i don't think you'll mind our going on in our own old way; we have a little reading and prayer at this hour, and perhaps you'll like to join us." the clerk's wife expressed no objection, though persis fancied that her face clouded over a little. "he'll be reading at me, or praying at me," was the unspoken thought of the conscious guest. but nancy sands was mistaken. the short portion of scripture, impressively read by franks, was about the joys of the blessed, the exquisite description of the white-robed ones rejoicing before the throne. and when the frankses and their guest knelt down to pray, there was nothing in the words of the sailor that might not have been uttered had nancy sands been as lowly and pure-hearted and meek a christian as persis herself. the proud sinner felt humbled and subdued. she felt as if she had been nearer to heaven on that evening than she had ever been before in her life, and yet that there was some terrible, impassable barrier shutting her out from closer approach. "now i must go home," she remarked in a tone of regret. "but you will come again and take tea with us to-morrow," said persis, after asking ned's consent with a glance, and receiving it in a smile. "mr. sands will not be back till thursday." "yes, i'll come; you're very kind," replied nancy, wondering what could make her company desired by one like franks, to whom she had shown so much rudeness, or by his wife, who was herself such a pattern of sobriety and quiet behavior. "i'll convoy you home," said ned franks, taking down his cap from its peg. "oh, dear, no. i could find my way blindfold, and there's clear moonlight to-night." "i'll see you safe in port," said the sailor, with quiet firmness. he remembered that the "blue boar" must be passed on the road. it was a night of exquisite beauty. the softness of the breeze, the silvery light of the moon, seemed in perfect harmony with the holier feelings which had been wakened in nancy's breast by the sight of a christian home. "you are very happy," she abruptly observed, as she walked by the sailor's side. "we _are_ happy," was the brief but fervent reply. "perhaps clocks do go better with weights after all," muttered nancy; a remark which to ned sounded so odd, and so utterly foreign to their subject, that, had he not known that nancy had had nothing stronger than his wife's good tea, he would have suspected that she had taken "a drop too much." as franks and his companion passed the church, the soft moonlight lay like a silvery robe on the graveyard, throwing deep shadows from the tombstones over the mossy mounds. nancy heaved a low sigh;--in that quiet spot lay the remains of her only son. "life is a bitter thing," she murmured. "it would be if this life were our all," said franks. the sentence was short but suggestive; nancy knew that the world had been _her_ all; that she had thought little of, and cared less for, anything beyond the cares and pleasures of this life. she knew that what shed radiance on the home of persis was not merely the domestic love and peace within it, but the hope of a better home beyond earth, and that such hope, like the moon, could beautify and brighten, not only the cheerful cottage, but even the silent grave. franks was more pleased with the quiet, subdued manner in which nancy bade him good-night at the door of her dwelling, than he had been with her lively conversation in his own. never had mrs. sands felt more disgusted with the untidy aspect of her parlor than when she entered it on that night. how unlike it was to that which she had quitted! what a different wife she had been from persis! nancy thought of what she heard at church about a broad way and a narrow way. she had a terrible consciousness that the broad was that which she herself was pursuing; she knew that it must--not only according to scripture, but the natural course of events--end in destruction, and she felt more keenly than ever that _the way of transgressors is hard_. nancy sands was very low in spirits,--a reaction after excitement,--and she also, no doubt, missed the stimulant to which she had been accustomed. but for persis having carried away the gin, which had not been replaced, the clerk's unhappy wife would certainly have all at once drowned uneasy thoughts by indulging in her fatal habit. happily, however, on this night no supply of spirits was at hand, and perfectly sober, but deeply sad, nancy sands retired to rest. but the enemy, who _goeth about as a lion seeking whom he may devour_, will not lightly leave hold of a victim on whom his deadly gripe has once been laid. while the frankses were thankful for success of their first attempt to win nancy from her course of misery and sin, they felt how utterly unable they were in themselves to work any effectual change. fervent were their prayers to him who willeth not that any should perish, that he, by the might of his spirit, would rescue the tempted one from satan and from herself. xi. temptation. "well, franks, you're an odd chap," exclaimed ben stone, the jovial carpenter, as ned, on the following afternoon, was passing his shop, going with a party of young volunteers to work in wild rose hollow. "why, what's in the wind?" asked ned. "to think of your having the tigress to tea with your wife! i wonder she hasn't left marks of her teeth and claws!" the carpenter gave his merry chuckle. "but, joking apart, i don't think that nancy is fit company for mrs. franks. i can't think why you should ask her; it's really encouraging vice." ned franks attempted no explanation. the easy-going, self-satisfied ben would not have understood the motives of one who, like his master, could show kindness to sinners whilst abhorring their sin. "if you've any idea of _converting_ nancy," the carpenter continued, laughing at the idea as utterly absurd, "you might as well try to turn my old lathe into a lady's piano-forte! why the woman's just passed this on her way to the 'chequers,'"--he pointed with his thumb towards the dell,--"and if she come back sober, why, i'm a dutchman, that's all!" franks was more vexed than surprised at the news. he quickened his steps, and overtook nancy when she had almost reached the door of the "chequers." "on with you, my lads," cried ned to his boys, "i'll be after you in a twinkling; see if you can be sharp enough as to finish that bit of clearing before i join you." he then walked up to nancy, and laid his hand on her arm. "mrs. sands, just you come on with us, and see me and my crew at work." there was nothing in the words, but much in the manner, that conveyed an earnest warning. "i will, presently; i must just step in here first," said nancy, looking restless and annoyed. "mrs. sands, you joined us last night in the prayer, _lead us not into temptation_; are you not steering right into the middle of it now?" nancy's face flushed very red; there was anger, but also some irresolution. she stood for a moment as if she could not make up her mind, when a shrill voice was heard from the open window of the tap-room, "i say, nancy sands, i've been wondering what has become of you. i thought as how you must have jogged up to lunnon on a spree!" that call from mrs. fuddles decided the hesitating woman. nancy roughly pulled away her arm from franks, and hurried up the path to the "chequers." "can't save her against her will," said the sailor, sadly, as he went on his way. "i've no more power to keep her back from the whirlpool, than i have to stop that great mill-wheel with a touch of my wooden arm." even the scene of cheerful activity into which the sailor soon entered did not entirely remove the painful impression left by the conduct of nancy. ned was, however, too busy to attend much to anything but what lay directly before him. the almshouses in wild rose hollow were, one by one, to be put into perfect repair, gardens, buildings, and all. the funds subscribed had not been nearly sufficient to cover the expense; so but few skilled workmen could be employed; but under them, with energy and great zeal, labored the village boys, whom their one-armed teacher had enlisted to help in the work. to these young volunteers fell the simpler part of the business,--fetching and carrying, levelling ground, clearing off rubbish, and digging drains. but they needed an overseer, or, with all their good will, the merry crew might rather have marred than helped on the work. ned's energies were therefore fully employed, and it was not till working time was over, and the little laborers had begun to scatter on their way to their various homes, that he had much time to think about nancy. [illustration: "to these young volunteers fell the simpler part of the business--fetching and carrying, leveling ground, clearing off rubbish, and digging drains." p. .] ned was sauntering slowly and wearily along the road, and had nearly reached the water-mill, where the clack, clack of the revolving wheel showed that the miller's day of labor did not close at sunset, when he was startled by a loud and piercing cry. it was succeeded by another and another! the first idea of the sailor was, that one of his boys, in careless play, had fallen into the mill-stream. he darted forwards, and in half a minute was in the centre of a group of lads, who, with alarm and horror, were gazing into the water, and shouting out frantically, "stop the wheel! stop the wheel! she'll be under it; she'll be torn into pieces!" franks saw a form struggling under the water, and one red hand raised above it. he had no time to distinguish more, not even an instant to pull off his coat, before plunging into the stream, lest the poor wretch, dragged on by the force of the current, should be crushed by the ponderous wheel. ned was a bold and skilful swimmer, but he was a maimed man, and encumbered with his clothes; and, though he had not paused to reckon chances before dashing in to the aid of a drowning woman, he felt, when he was once in the water, that he was quite as likely to share an awful fate as to succeed in saving her from it. the rush of the stream was terrible. never had the struggling swimmer found himself in greater danger. the cries and shouts of the boys on the bank, who were far more anxious for the safety of their beloved teacher than for that of the intoxicated nancy, the terrible clack of that merciless wheel, for weeks afterwards haunted the memory of ned franks. he reached the woman, he entangled his iron hook in her clothes,--for his right hand, his only hand, could not be spared from swimming,--and wrenched her back by main force from her awful position close under the wheel. by desperate efforts franks succeeded in struggling back near enough to the bank to be caught by a dozen eager young hands, and, gasping, choking, almost exhausted, he and his still shrieking burden were drawn up to a place of safety. ned could scarcely distinguish, through the dull, booming sound in his ears, the exclamations of horror around him, "her arm! oh, it's smashed, smashed to bits!" a fearful appearance was indeed presented by nancy; her dripping, clotted, tangled black hair hung over a face now pale as that of a corpse, and the sight of her arm, mangled and crushed, shocked and sickened the bystanders. "what shall we do,--where shall we take her?" was the question passed around, for her hurts were evidently too fearful for village treatment. nancy herself answered the question, for, though she had fallen intoxicated into the stream, the sudden plunge, the terrible shock, had effectually sobered the miserable woman. "the hospital,--the hospital!" she gasped. every one knew that there was one in the town but a few miles distant. there was a cry of "bring a shutter from the 'chequers,'" when the sound of wheels was heard, and mr. leyton, the curate, in a small open carriage, drove rapidly down the dell. the clergyman knew from the cries and shouts of the crowd, that something terrible must have occurred. "lift her in here, gently,--gently. i'll take her to the hospital at once," exclaimed the kind-hearted curate. a blanket brought from the "chequers" was hastily wrapped round the dripping woman, and the carriage was driven off at speed, that its fainting occupant might be placed as quickly as possible under a surgeon's skilful hands. it was not till the chaise had disappeared from his view, that ned franks had leisure to think of himself. he felt sick and faint, and thankfully took the glass of hot brandy and water that was brought to him by one of his boys, but he declined the offer of the miller to come in and warm and dry himself at his fire, and change his dripping clothes. "thanks to you all the same, bat bell, but a quick walk home will heat my blood, and persis will soon set all to rights with me," said the sailor, as he shook the drops from his curly brown hair. "i've got no real hurt, thank god! i wish we could say as much for poor nancy. sands will have a sad coming home to-morrow when he hears of this dreadful accident." "no man can say but that it serves her right," was the observation of ben stone, when he heard of what had happened to nancy. "she was walking into something worse than a mill-stream with her eyes wide open; providence stopped her, when man could not stop her. there are worse evils than a plunge into a mill-stream, or even a broken arm." franks rose the next morning before sunrise, that he might have time to go to the town for news of nancy before his scholars met. all during the night the frightful scene of the preceding evening had disturbed him in his sleep, and he had repeatedly awoke with a start, fancying that he was dragging the shrieking nancy from under the wheel. persis anxiously awaited her husband's return from the hospital. "have you seen nancy?" she eagerly asked, as, tired and heated with his long walk, ned re-entered the school-house. franks shook his head sadly. "the poor arm has been taken off," he replied; "they could not save it. she has passed a very bad night, but there are good hopes that she may recover. poor sands,--poor fellow! 'twill be a terrible blow to him!" "and yet, dear ned, who knows but that a blessing may come even out of this grievous trial? in the hospital poor nancy may be broken of her sad habit; she will have time for thought, for prayer. oh, how can we be thankful enough that she was not suddenly summoned, when in a state of intoxication, to appear in the presence of her god!" xii. ice below. sincere and strong as was the pity felt by the frankses for the sufferings of nancy, a letter, which came by the post a few minutes after ned's return from his visit to the hospital, diverted their attention to a subject of still closer interest to themselves. "why, ned, here's a letter to you from our norah!" cried persis to her husband, who, wearied with his long, early walk, was snatching a hasty breakfast. "that will be something pleasant; norah's letters are always pleasant," said ned franks, as he broke open the envelope with the help of his hook. "it's come to cheer us a bit, for i don't feel up to much this morning." "you're not looking well, ned," said the wife, glancing anxiously at his pale and haggard face. "that plunge into the mill-stream yesterday to save poor drowning nancy has, i fear, given you a chill, and all your extra work to repair the almshouses after school-hours are over is too much for your strength." "yes, if one is to be kept awake half the night with a squalling baby," added franks. "our little man seemed determined that we should have enough of his music. i suppose that one will get used to it some time, just as one gets used at sea to the noise of the winds and the waves. why, there he's at it again!" the baby, which persis held in her arms, began crying loudly, as he had been doing at intervals all the night through. "i'm afraid that the darling has something the matter with him," said persis, rocking the child gently to and fro to hush his cries. "nothing the matter with his lungs, anyhow," observed the sailor, who, though fondly loving his boy, had become somewhat weary of his roaring, and who had awoke with a headache,--a bad preparation for playing school-master to a swarm of noisy young rustics. "but let's see what norah has to say for herself; dear girl, her letters are always like sunshine!" and the sailor began reading to himself the note from his young orphan niece. "i fear there is not much sunshine in that letter," thought persis, as she saw a cloud gathering on her husband's brow, usually so open and clear. "i don't know what to make of this!" exclaimed ned, in a tone of irritation, starting up from the table on which lay his unfinished breakfast. "just listen to this, persis. oh, can't you stop the child's crying for a minute? it's enough to drive a fellow distracted!" and the sailor read aloud the letter from norah, with the accompaniment of little ned's squalling. "dear uncle,--i am so grieved, but mistress has given me warning, and i'm to go to-morrow. i hope you won't be very angry, after all you've taught me, and all my resolutions. i can't stop in london just now, as i would not know where to go to; so i'm coming down to you by the train that arrives at half-past three. i hope that you won't mind; that it won't put auntie out much. my love to her and the baby. your sorrowful niece, "norah peele." "when we thought her so comfortably settled in a good situation, doing so well," muttered franks. "what can mrs. lowndes mean by cutting the poor lass adrift at a day's notice!" "norah must have got into some scrape," observed persis. "ay, that's plain as a flag-staff. she might have given us a notion of what the scrape is, instead of writing about my teaching and her own resolutions, which we knew all about before. but poor bessy's motherless girl must always find a home under our roof." "oh, yes," said persis, cheerfully. "while you are busy with the boys, i'll see to clearing out the little room, and having all right and tight for our norah. i think that she is as dear to me as to you, and that is saying a good deal." "i loved the lass from the first day i saw her, and i thought there was the making of a very good girl in her, too, only she and her brother had been brought up so badly, scarce knowing a lie from the truth. but poor bessy,--she's gone, and it's not for her brother to be diving down to bring up her failings to the light. she loved her children, anyhow, and couldn't teach them what she didn't know clearly herself. but who's to meet norah at the station?" added ned franks, abruptly. "you can't go because of baby, and i can't go because of the boys." "i am afraid that norah must find her way home by herself," observed persis, "unless the miller is going to the town. i'll walk over to the dell and ask him. but norah knows the road so well that her coming alone matters less." "it matters a great deal," cried franks, with impatience. "here the lass is returning with a wet sail and a heavy heart, i warrant ye, and she finds no one to take her by the hand and welcome her to port, or to carry her bundle for her. i'd not have minded it if she'd been coming with colors flying to pay us a visit. why on earth should she choose an hour when she knows i'm always in the school-room?" persis did not know how to answer the question, and had no time to do so had she known, for the sound of young voices, and the trampling of heavy boots in the adjoining room, told that the boys were beginning to assemble. never had franks been less inclined to begin his daily labor; never had he met his scholars with less of kindly good-humor. for ned was no model of perfection. he was naturally of a hot and hasty spirit; and though, from christian principle, he usually held his temper under such command that he had the reputation of possessing a good one, it had cost him many a struggle to make it obey the rein. on this particular morning, with an aching head, weary frame, and worried mind, he felt irritable and impatient. he was angry with the dull lad who could not remember that _seven times eight_ is not _seventy-eight_; and when bill doyle, repeating his natural-history lesson, said that horses ran wild on the _staircase_ in russia, instead of the _steppes_, ned, who at another time might have smiled at the blunder, which was probably made half in fun, muttered something about "blockhead," and sent the boy to the bottom of the class. bill, the son of sir lacy barton's groom, being a sharp, pert little fellow, was not disposed to take his punishment quietly, or to be called blockhead on any subject connected with horses. he whispered to the boy who sat next him, "he don't know nothing about horses hisself." "what's that?" exclaimed ned franks, whose sharp ear had caught the whisper. "father says sailors have never no notion of riding," said the saucy little urchin, "and when they mounts a horse, are as likely to get up with their face to the tail as the head." at which observation a little titter ran round the school. it has been remarked that few things nettle a man so much as to doubt his skill in riding; and ned, who was always jealous for the honor of his old profession, was in no humor to take as a jest the slight thus cast on the whole of the navy. "then you may tell your father, when you go home," he said, angrily, "that there are no better horsemen than some of our blue-jackets; and as for riding,--when we were lying off alexandria, every day that we could get leave ashore, i and my messmates mounted and galloped at a pace that would have made your jockeys stare." as the word of the one-armed school-master was always implicitly believed, ned could see that he had raised himself not a little in the eyes of his pupils, especially those of bill doyle, by the accomplishment of horsemanship to which he had thus laid claim. but ned had hardly spoken the hasty sentence, when he was angry with himself for having been betrayed by foolish pride into uttering it. he felt that for once he had been guilty both of exaggeration, and of (without actually speaking untruth) misleading the boys as to his meaning. any one of a soul less transparently candid than that of ned franks might have thought it weak scrupulosity to let the mind dwell for a moment on such a seeming trifle as this. there is a marvellous difference between the consciences of men. some have become hard as the horny hoof of an ass; little short of a bullet (by which figure i would represent some open act of wickedness) can make them feel pain at all. other consciences are tender and sensitive as the apple of the human eye, and what to many would seem an almost invisible speck of sin greatly disturbs and troubles them. this is one of the reasons why holiness and humility are so often found together; while the hardened offender, whose conscience is seared, seems almost past feeling remorse. franks knew that he had spoken very idle words, and though he was inclined, as most people are, to make excuses for himself, his honest soul could not rest at ease until he had openly repaired his error as well as he could. when lessons were over, and the boys were about to disperse, ned stopped their going out of the school-room by a gesture of his hand. he stood up with his honest face a good deal more flushed than usual, for the acknowledgment which he was forcing himself to make was humiliating and painful. "boys," said he, in that clear voice which always commanded attention, "there's something which i want to say to you before you go home. there's nothing that i have more warned you against than the iceberg of falsehood. a man who habitually lies will, we know from the word of god, be shut out from heaven. now, an iceberg is a thing clear enough to be seen, and, unless he come across it at night, one might say that a pilot had no excuse for running a vessel upon one; but there's a part of the mass which one can't see,--that's the part hidden beneath the green waves, and as that may stretch out much wider than the white peak glistening above, it is clear that a ship might strike on the sunken ice while seeming to give a wide berth to the berg. now, it's just the same with falsehood. there's an upper part, easily seen, and i hope that we all try to steer clear of it; that no boy here is so mean and base as to tell a downright lie. every boy here knows that _lying lips are an abomination to the lord_. but not all are on their guard against the _sunken ice_ stretching below. we strike on it when we exaggerate, or when in any way we deceive, though not a word may be spoken, or what is spoken may be literal truth. my own keel grated against the sunken ice to-day." ned felt a good deal embarrassed as he went on, all the more so from the profound silence of the listening boys. "i said that there were no better riders than some of our own blue-jackets. now, that may be true, or it may not, but i certainly did not speak from my knowledge, and i'm afraid that i ran foul of exaggeration. and i said that when our ship was lying off alexandria, we tars rode about on shore as often as we'd a chance,--and that was true enough, though the chance came but seldom; but i suppose that you fancied, from what i said, that we galloped about upon horses?" there was a general murmur of assent. "now, i never mounted a horse in my life; the beasts which we rode were _donkeys_." there was a laugh from some of the boys, almost instantly suppressed, however, for ned franks looked unusually grave. "now, my lads, i've thought it best to say all this to you openly, both for my own sake and for yours. i want you to feel how hard it is to keep off altogether from that same smooth, slippery ice of deceit,--to know how treacherously it lies under the surface; and i want you to resolve, if ever you find yourselves touching it, be it ever so slightly, to sheer off at once, like honest christians, and let no temptation draw you from the straight course of perfect truth." the school-master's effort was over; painful as it had been, ned franks was glad that he had made it. his frank confession of so small a deviation from that straight course, had made a deeper impression on the minds of his boys than hours of lecturing on the perils of falsehood would have done. "if our master said one thing, and half the village said another, i'd take ned franks's word against all the rest," was the observation of one of the lads as he left the school-house. "i never knew any one so partic'lar about truth," said bill doyle. "franks has such a sharp eye for the least bit of deceit, that i guess he'd catch sight of that there slippery ice that he talked of, if it be'd fifty feet down under the waves!" xiii. the return home. a sweet, pleasing-looking girl, of between seventeen and eighteen years of age, occupied a place that day in a third-class carriage of the down train from london. norah peele--for it was she--was on her way to her native village of colme; but she had none of the joyousness which she would have felt, under other circumstances, in making a journey home. all the brightness was gone from that young face, the drooping eyelids were red with the traces of tears, and she looked rather embarrassed than glad at finding that the clerk of colme chanced to be one of her travelling companions. certainly, john sands was not one to enliven any society, though he served as a very good protector to the young maiden whom he had known from her childhood. he made a few attempts at conversation, and gave norah the latest news of the village, casting--as was natural with him--a melancholy hue over all. mr. curtis continued ill; the clerk was sure that he would not recover, and that his wife would break down with the nursing; the almshouses were rotting to pieces where they stood, and the collection made for them at church had been smaller than he had ever known one to be before. after these not very cheerful communications, john sands relapsed into silence, keeping his eyes gravely fixed on the knob of his gingham umbrella, while a melancholy train of thought was evidently flowing through his mind. "here we are," he said at last, slowly raising his head, as the shrill whistle announced their approach to b----; "if you're going to the village on foot, norah peele, we may as well walk there together." john sands, with stiff politeness, helped norah out of the train. she had hardly stepped on the platform, when they were met by bat bell, the miller, whose hard, dry features wore a graver expression than usual. "mr. sands," he said, addressing himself to the clerk, with merely a nod of recognition to norah, "as ned franks could not come here to-day, and i had business in town, persis asked me to wait here and tell you"--the miller dropped his voice as he added the words--"about your wife." painful anxiety agitated the sallow face of john sands; no news of her was likely to be good news. the clerk nervously clutched his umbrella; his pale lips moved, but they framed no question. "she'd an accident last evening; fell into my pond,--no, no, not drowned; ned franks got her out; but her arm is badly hurt, and she's in the hospital here." the clerk waited to hear no more; turning round, without uttering a word, he went off with long strides in the direction of the place where his wretched wife lay on her bed of pain. "her arm is smashed, has been taken off," said the miller to norah; "but for your brave uncle, the poor, intoxicated wretch would have been torn limb from limb by my wheel." "and he--oh, is he hurt?" cried the shuddering girl. "he'd a narrow shave for his life," said the miller, "but he got off without even a scratch. he's a gallant fellow, is your uncle; but i say it was folly in him, a husband and father, to risk his life for a ranting vixen, who'll drink herself to death one of these days. but you'll come with me now, norah peele; my cart's waiting near here, and will carry you and your bundle; like a sensible girl, you don't sport much luggage, i see." as the miller's cart rattled on its way, bell went on with his talking, at every second sentence giving a cut with his whip to his horse; for the miller liked rapid motion, to "get on" being a ceaseless impulse with him. "you'll find changes in colme, norah peele. misfortunes never come single; there was nancy sands struggling in the mill-pond yesterday, and to-day, ben stone the carpenter, as strong and hale a man as one could find in the county, is struck down, just as he had finished breakfast, with a kind of a fit. they say that something has given way within him, and that though he may live weeks or months, he'll not last to the end of the year. now, there's a man who looked likely to see ninety; only a little too full-blooded perhaps," added the miller, who had not an ounce of superfluous flesh on his bones. tears came into the eyes of norah. the carpenter was a popular man in colme; every one knew so well the portly form, the good-humored, self-complacent smile, the loud voice, the jovial chuckle of ben, it was difficult to associate with him any idea of sickness or of death. but bell saw that his news had saddened his young companion, and as his light cart rapidly wheeled round a corner of the road, he as rapidly turned the current of conversation. "you've chosen a pleasant time of the year for your visit to the country, norah. how long are you likely to stay with your uncle?" "i don't know; i can't say,--i suppose till i get another place," answered the girl. "ah, you've tired of london, after a village life; i always thought that you would. noise, bustle, and bother! talk of the clack of my mill-wheel,--why, in london there are thousands of wheels perpetually going, and streams of people perpetually flowing; there's something always on the grind. i like you the better for getting away as fast as you possibly can from london." "i'd have stopped there if i could," said the young servant in a scarcely audible voice. "then why did you give warning?" asked the miller. "i did not give warning," replied poor norah, blushing and hanging down her head; "my mistress gave warning to me." "there's simple truth, anyways," said the miller, a grim smile rising to his lips. "you are just like your sailor uncle: franks is his name, and frank's his nature. i don't believe he ever told an untruth in his life." norah turned her head, and gazed sadly on the meadows and groves, clad in spring's fresh green, by which she was rapidly passing; but her thoughts did not follow her eyes. the miller's remark had awakened a train of painful reflections. "oh, that it had indeed been so with me!" thought poor norah; "that i had always kept my lips pure from falsehood; i would not then be returning to be a burden upon my kind and generous uncle. i, whose character stood so high, sent away in disgrace! i, whose word was at once believed! i feel as if i could not bear to tell uncle all,--to let him know of the direct falsehood, and the deceit carried on for months, my mistress's trust so abused by his niece! uncle will think that all his care and kindness have been thrown away upon norah; that i am still the foolish, deceitful, bad girl that i was when he first came to colme, and tried to teach me to be honest and truthful, and straightforward, as a christian should be. it seems as if i could endure anything rather than the loss of his good opinion, and that of dear aunt persis! and yet,"--thus norah pursued her reflections, to which the miller now left her, his mind being occupied in reckoning up the amount of his savings deposited in the county bank of b----,--"and yet, the safest, the best course for me now, must be to be perfectly frank and open. alas! i cannot recall the past, but i can draw from bitter experience a lesson for the future. i will confess everything to my uncle, conceal nothing, make no excuses; and oh, may the god of truth help me from this time forward indeed to _take heed to my ways, that i offend not with my tongue_!" i will not dwell on the kindly welcome given to norah peele by persis and ned franks. she was received as a daughter, no questions asked, no painful inquiries made as to the cause of her leaving her place. "leave the lass to tell her own story when and how she likes," the one-armed sailor had said to his wife. so the baby now happily sleeping, was shown and admired; topics of general interest were alone spoken of at the evening meal which followed franks's day of toil; the state of the almshouses in wild rose hollow, the progress made in their repair, the accident to the clerk's wife, the sudden and serious illness of stone the carpenter, the good report of improvement in the health of the vicar,--all these were made subjects of conversation, everything being avoided which might possibly embarrass the guest. all was done to make her feel at her ease. norah, it was said, would be so useful in helping to nurse the baby; norah would look after the flowers, now that her uncle was too busy all day to have time to work in his garden. how delighted old sarah mason would be to have norah to read the bible to her again! the poor girl felt grateful for the kindness and consideration thus shown her, and thankful that such a home was left to her still; but a burden was weighing on her mind, and even while conversation was going on, in which she appeared to join, a smothered sigh, or a sudden moistening of her eyes, showed that her thoughts were wandering to something painful. when the tea-things had been cleared away by the active persis, assisted by norah, when cups and saucers had been washed and replaced on the shelf, and the outer door closed for the night (it never was bolted or barred), norah sat down on a little wooden stool at the feet of her aunt, and recounted, with simple truthfulness, all the circumstances that had led to her hasty dismissal from the service of mrs. lowndes. i shall give you the story, not in norah's words, but my own, beginning it by a short account of her early days in colme. xiv. norah's story. norah and her brother were the only children of the half-sister of ned franks, bessy peele, a woman who, in every important respect, had been an utter contrast to her brother. while ned's maxim was to do everything in clear daylight, bessy was one who, if possible, always took an underground way. he considered the straight road always the shortest; she wound and doubled like a fox. he was convinced that honesty is the best policy; she looked upon cunning as wisdom. one of the earliest lessons learned by mrs. peele's unfortunate children was that the great thing in life is to pick up money by any _safe_ means; by "safe" being meant whatever would not lead to the prison or the gallows. there was no harm, she said, in telling a lie,--at least a _white_ lie, that hurt no one, and helped one's self on in the world. what need was there to be so very particular about a little slip of the tongue? she was sure, for her part, that god would not notice such trifles as these. it is said that some chinese parents are actually so inhuman as to blind their children, that the poor, wretched creatures may earn more money by begging. mrs. peele, a fond though a foolish parent, would have been horrified at the idea of inflicting such an injury upon her children, while actually doing them a wrong yet more cruel. for was it not such to _blind their consciences_, to make them unable to distinguish the wrong from the right, at the risk of their walking, through the darkness of their souls, into everlasting destruction? and this all for the sake of paltry gain, miserable profits of sin, more dearly bought than the alms given to the poor blinded chinese beggars! the mischief done to the characters of bessy peele's children was very serious as regarded her son, and had norah long remained under the roof of her mother, the principles of the young girl might, like his, have been utterly ruined. happily norah went early into service, and became the attendant of an aged christian lady, who gave her every opportunity of hearing the gospel faithfully preached, and made her read to her the bible and other religious books. under her roof norah received religious impressions; her young and tender heart turned towards him of whose love and compassion she heard so much. but, alas! the poison-seeds sown in childhood had left their evil roots in the soil. norah would one hour be listening in church with tearful eyes to the account of peter's sin and repentance, and the next hour be falling, _without repentance_, into a similar sin of untruth! she was fearfully inconsistent,--not because she was insincere, but because she had actually no clear line drawn in her mind as to where innocence ended and guilt began. norah had been led to fancy that little sins were no sins,--"white lies" no falsehood,--picking _not_ to be classed with stealing. she wished to please a merciful god and go to heaven, but she felt not that the god of love is the god of holiness also; that _all_ sin, if unforgiven, must end in death; that the _least_ can be washed out in nothing less precious than the blood of the saviour, and that for every idle, untruthful _word_ the sinner must give account at the judgment. the return to england of her maimed uncle, the sailor, at this time proved a great blessing to norah. she met with one whose standard of right was the bible standard,--one who spake the truth as a man who serves the god of truth should speak, and who trampled on deceit as he would have set his heel on a venomous serpent. norah's eyes were opened to see that religious profession is but a mask if it do not influence the conduct; that to have prayer on the lips at one moment and untruth at another is fearful mockery before god! norah peele asked the help of the holy spirit to enable her to walk in the path of holiness, which she now found to be so much more narrow than she had before believed it to be. she became watchful over herself,--she set a guard over her tongue; the little bark, with heaven's wind swelling its sails, did "sheer off" from the treacherous iceberg of falsehood. mrs. peele died rather suddenly after a few days' illness, and closed her worse than useless life with little consciousness of sin, and no sincere repentance. she had been a good mother, she said; god was merciful; she was going to a better world. the habit of a life continued to the end; and, having constantly tried to deceive others, poor bessy deceived herself at the last. she had built her house on the sand; there was no solid foundation for her hope; she had heard the word, and done it not; what could she plead, where would she stand, in the last awful day? very different was it with norah's aged mistress, when, about a year afterwards, she gently sank to rest, in humble trust that he whom she had loved and served would receive her unto himself. by that holy, happy death-bed norah learned a lesson which she never could forget. she nursed her lady night and day, and, when her gentle spirit was released from earthly suffering, the young servant mourned for her loss with grief most sincere. norah would then have gone home to her uncle, ned franks, had not mr. lowndes, the younger brother of her late mistress, at once offered to take her into the service of his wife. he knew well, he said, the value of such a servant as norah, a really high-principled girl, who would be found honest in word as well as in deed. in entering the service of mrs. lowndes, norah had made a great rise in life. instead of being the general servant of a clergyman's widow, whose narrow life-income barely supplied her need, norah became the trusted attendant of the only child of wealthy parents, and earned wages which nearly doubled what she had received before. the place was one which offered many other advantages. mrs. lowndes was strict, indeed, almost to severity, but never intentionally unjust. she was extremely anxious that her selina should be kept from all knowledge of evil. the little girl was seldom allowed to mix with other children, lest she should learn any harm from example. mrs. lowndes often boasted to her friends, that her selina was brought up in such a habit of speaking the truth, that to her to utter a lie would be an _impossible_ thing. the lady would not suffer any one to be near her darling in whose scrupulous truthfulness she could not place perfect trust. truth, she would say, is the very foundation on which a character must rest. she would never overlook or forgive in a servant the smallest attempt to deceive. norah had passed several pleasant months in london, in the service of mrs. lowndes, with the consciousness that she was faithfully performing her duty and giving satisfaction to her mistress, when an incident occurred, which showed her more clearly than ever the importance of having a character for truthfulness and honesty. "why, there's your bell and my bell a-ringing together, and rung so loud, too! what can missus want us both for at once?" exclaimed martha, the housemaid, to norah, who was helping her, as usual, to make the bed in the little girl's room. martha's manner was flurried and frightened. "we'd better go and answer the bells directly," said norah. "i hope and trust that nothing's the matter with dear little missy!" the two maids entered the dining-room together. mr. lowndes was seated in his large red arm-chair, with his feet on the fender, and his spectacles on his nose, apparently engaged in studying the _times_. mrs. lowndes, a large, tall, and rather formidable-looking lady, dressed in a very stiff silk, sat, even more erect than usual, at the breakfast-table, on which she was resting her folded hands. she had a peculiarly deep-toned voice, and the voice sounded deeper, her manners seemed sterner than norah had ever thought them before, as she addressed the young maid with the question, "did you enter my room this morning?" "yes, ma'am, to put by your comb and brush." "and when?" "just the minute after you had left it." "did you see a sovereign on the dressing-table?" asked the lady, with the air of a magistrate questioning a witness. "no, indeed, ma'am, i did not," said norah. "did _you_ see one when you tidied my room?" mrs. lowndes turned her keen gray eyes upon martha, to whom this last question was addressed. "no, i never saw a sovereign, nor nothing like it, ma'am; i could take my oath that i did not. i did not so much as enter the room till norah had been there, and gone out again." mrs. lowndes looked very grave, and somewhat perplexed. "i certainly left a sovereign on that table when i came down to breakfast, and an hour afterwards it as certainly was gone. there are only two individuals who could have entered, and did enter, that room during my absence, and both deny having seen the money. i cannot doubt that one of them is uttering a falsehood, and that she who utters it is also the thief." the idea of being suspected of such a crime as theft covered the face of norah with crimson; she attempted to speak, but could not bring out a word. "o ma'am!" exclaimed martha, in alarm; "norah went in first; you heard her own that she went in the first." "i never saw the sovereign," gasped norah. [illustration: "i'll be bound that norah never touched the gold," said the gentleman. p. .] mr. lowndes, who had every now and then been glancing up over the _times_, which he held in his hand, now laid it down on his knee, and wheeled round on his arm-chair a little, so as to face the two maids. "i'll be bound that norah never touched the gold," said the gentleman, who had once been a magistrate. "when i was at b----, about three years ago, my poor sister placed in my hands a bag of money, which had been picked up by norah, her maid, in the street, and given over into her charge. _a bag of sovereigns_," repeated mr. lowndes, emphatically. "now, no one in his senses would believe that a girl, who would not take eight sovereigns dropped in the street by a stranger, would rob her mistress, betray her trust, and forfeit her own good character, by stealing _one_, which was certain to be missed and sought after." and, having thus given his decided opinion, mr. lowndes again took up his _times_, and wheeled his chair round to the fire. "and o mamma!" exclaimed little selina, running forward from a corner of the room in which she had been standing, a deeply interested spectator of all that had passed, "norah _could not_ have taken the money, because she says that she never saw it. norah always tells the truth," pleaded the eager little witness, whose presence in the room had been until now forgotten by her mother. "when i broke the tumbler, martha said, 'never mind, miss, you need say nothing about it;' but norah told me never to hide anything from you, for it was always best to speak out the truth boldly: and i did what norah said, and you were not very angry, mamma." "i am never very angry except where there is deceit and dishonesty," said the lady, fondly stroking back the light ringlets from the brow of her darling. "and you are sure that norah did not take the money, mamma, for she _said_ that she did not even see it." "i am sure," answered the lady decidedly, "as sure of her innocence as i am of your own." bending her keen eyes on martha, she continued, sternly, "you had better do what you can to repair your fault by a frank confession." "indeed, indeed, ma'am, but i never saw, or touched, or thought of the sovereign; it's very hard that it should be put upon me," cried martha, bursting into passionate tears. "i was not the first to enter into that room; i don't see why _i_ am suspected." "and yet i cannot but feel suspicions so strong," said the lady, "that i cannot retain in my household one in whom my confidence is lost." "i hope, i hope, ma'am, you are not going to send me away without a character!" sobbed martha, while selina's heart was so much touched by her sorrow, that the child could scarcely forbear from crying herself. "i shall tell the exact truth to any lady who may inquire for your character. i shall mention why i send you away, but i shall add that you were not the first to enter the room, and that i have no proof that you touched the money." "but, mamma, mamma, if she's sorry, if she will promise never to do it again, won't you try her a little longer?" cried the tender-hearted selina. "no, my child," replied mrs. lowndes; "had i no other cause for displeasure against her, i would never have any one near you on whose word i could not depend. a girl who would teach my daughter to hide anything from her parent is not likely to be very open when the fault committed is her own." the maids were then dismissed from the dining-room. how different were the feelings of the two as they quitted it! norah hurried upstairs to her own little chamber, and, falling on her knees, fervently thanked her heavenly father for having preserved that character which was to her more precious than life. she remembered the struggle in her own mind about that very same bag of sovereigns to which mr. lowndes had referred. she had found it just at the time when her uncle's influence was beginning to tell powerfully upon her, when she was seeking with earnest prayer to give herself wholly to the lord, and live as a child of god and heir of heaven should live. that had been a turning-point in the life of norah. she had then by faith resisted the devil, and he had fled. had she yielded to that temptation, and a very strong one it had been, the whole course of her life would have been altered. now, against suspicious appearances, her word was trusted at once; her character was spotless in the eyes of her master and mistress, a great danger had safely been passed, and the heart of the young servant-maid overflowed with thanksgiving to god. xv. norah's story continued. _let him who thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall._ norah was soon to experience how much needed is this warning from the scriptures. a few days before the dishonest martha left mrs. lowndes's service, as norah was returning home after making some little purchases for her mistress, on turning a corner she came suddenly upon an old friend, and gave an exclamation of pleasure at a meeting so unexpected and so pleasant. "milly--oh, i'm so delighted to see you!" cried norah, shaking her friend by both hands. had they not been in a street, she would have warmly embraced her. for had not milly, when housemaid to mrs. lane, shown her kindness in many ways; had she not helped her to nurse norah's dying mother, and sat up all night with mrs. peele when the girl's strength had given way? there were very few indeed whom norah regarded with so much affection as she did the kind-hearted milly. "who would have thought of seeing you here in london!" continued norah, whose face was beaming with pleasure. "i have not met you since your marriage. what has brought you and your husband up to town?" "my husband,--don't talk of him!" cried milly, in a tone of anguish which startled norah. then looking closer into the face of her friend, norah could see a sad change there. the features of milly bligh had grown sharper and thinner; there were furrows on her brow which norah had never seen there before. she observed now, also, what in the excitement of first meeting her friend she had not noticed, that the dress of milly looked shabby: though it was winter-time, she wore a thin shawl, which was quite insufficient to protect her from the cold. "why--what--has he"--a feeling of delicacy prevented norah from finishing the sentence. "_deserted me!_" moaned milly, as if to utter these two words was to wring blood from her heart. "o norah, if you knew what i've had to bear! but it's all over now,--i don't know where he is,--i'm never like to see him again!" the street chanced to be very quiet; milly turned, and, as she walked by the side of her friend, in low earnest tones they went on with their conversation. "then what will you do, my poor dear milly?" asked norah, with heartfelt sympathy and pity. "i must go into service again. i've come up to london to look out for a situation. my difficulty is that mrs. lane, with whom i lived all my years of service, is somewhere abroad, i don't know where, and, as i left her to be married, i did not so much as secure a written character from her." "oh, i'm so glad!" exclaimed norah, suddenly. "what,--glad that i've not a corner to turn to?" asked milly. "oh, no, not glad of that, but glad that i may be able to help you. mrs. lowndes--she's my mistress--asked me only this morning if i knew of any nice housemaid who could take martha's place. my lady had nearly fixed on one yesterday, but the character did not suit, so she's in a hurry to find another." "mrs. lowndes is not likely to take a servant on your recommendation, i should fear." "you don't know what confidence she has in me, what trust she puts in my word," said norah, with a little natural pride. "if i tell her that you have been five years in one place, and that i have known you all the time, and that i'm certain that if your mistress were not abroad, she would give you a first-rate character, i'm sure--at least i'm almost sure that she'll take you." "o norah, you're like a comforting angel!" cried poor milly; "if you only knew what a service you're going to do me! i've been almost in despair; half of my clothes are in pawn; i thought that i'd never succeed in getting a respectable place!" "and this is such a good one!" cried norah, quite excited with pleasure; "and how delightful it will be for us both to be always together! a companion whom i could love as a friend was the only thing wanting to make me perfectly happy, and there is no one on earth whom i should so gladly have as my milly." norah could hardly refrain from skipping for joy as she walked. a thought, however, occurred to her mind, which somewhat damped her pleasure. "the only thing that makes me afraid that you may not get the place," she said, "is that i know that mrs. lowndes objects to married servants. i have heard her say myself that she will never engage one, the husbands give so much trouble." "i do not even know where mine is," sighed milly; "but i don't see why anything at all need be said about my being married." norah became very grave. "would it be right to hide such a fact?" she said; "would it not be like deceiving my mistress?" "well, if you're going to let out a poor friend's secrets, and deprive her of her best chance of earning her bread in an honest way, you're not the girl that i took you for," said milly, with bitterness. there is no need to relate all the conversation that passed, nor to tell how milly tried to persuade norah, and how norah tried to persuade herself, that to suppress the truth was no falsehood; that it was not in the least necessary that mrs. lowndes should ever know that her housemaid was married. norah promised to do all that she could to procure the situation for milly, and on reaching home at once went to her lady, and pleaded the cause of her friend. "five years in one place,--that looks well," observed mrs. lowndes; "there would at any rate be no harm in my seeing the girl. you have known her, you say, all your life. you may tell her to call this evening, and i will judge for myself. it's hard for good servants when they lose their places by a mistress going abroad." norah knew that milly had not lost her place on account of mrs. lane's going abroad, but she was only too glad that her lady should think so. we may always suspect that we are in danger of striking against the iceberg of deceit, when we allow ourselves to _wish_ something to be believed which we _know_ to be quite untrue. "stay," said mrs. lowndes, as the eager norah was about to retire from the room; "of course your friend is not married?" norah was taken by surprise; in an unguarded moment the false "no" slipped from her tongue, and she passed through the doorway biting her lip, and wishing--fervently wishing that she had not been betrayed, even by friendship, into uttering a lie. "but i cannot go back now. oh, no!" thought the conscience-stricken girl. mrs. lowndes saw milly that evening, liked her appearance and manner, and engaged her as housemaid at once. norah could not feel as happy as she would have done had her mind been at rest, but dared not confess her fault, as she deemed that to do so would be cruelly wronging milly. she resolved to be more careful in future; she hoped that this would be the very last time on which she would be guilty of speaking untruth. alas! lies link themselves on one to another like the rings of a chain; and who that harbors one unconfessed, unforgiven sin dare hope that it will be _the last_? months passed quietly over. norah now seldom thought of her falsehood. if she was colder in prayer, if she was less able to lift up her heart to god, if she took less pleasure in recalling the counsels of her uncle, she hardly traced these effects to their real cause,--_peace of conscience forfeited by sin_. one morning norah found milly in her room weeping violently, and trembling with agitation. an open letter lay on her knee. "what has happened?" cried norah, anxiously. "he's found,--my poor, poor lost one is found!" sobbed milly; "but he's in the hospital dying; he wants to see me at once. o norah, i must go to him this day! ask mistress to give me leave for an hour; she's kind, she'll not have the heart to refuse it!" "do you wish me to ask her to let you go to the hospital to see your _husband_, when she does not know that you have one?" asked norah, feeling extremely uneasy at the idea of her falsehood being found out at last. "no, no; that would never do, that would get us both into trouble, and, oh, i've trouble enough already! go and ask her to let me go to the hospital to visit a dying _mother_." oh! what a tangled web we weave, when once we practise to deceive! norah found herself now in a position of greater temptation than ever. milly was in such a state of misery and excitement that norah dreaded that any opposition might throw her into a nervous fever. the poor, anxious wife would listen to no objection, had patience for no scruple, and was almost wild when norah showed hesitation about doing her bidding. miserable, and hating herself for the deceit into which she was drawn, norah went to her mistress and told the falsehood put into her mouth by milly. mrs. lowndes was all kindness. day after day the housemaid was permitted to go and see her sick mother, carrying sometimes little delicacies sent from her mistress's table. when milly, from the effect of distress and excitement, herself fell ill, mrs. lowndes sent norah instead of her to the hospital two or three times to see "the poor old lady," and questioned her on her return as to the sufferer's state. thus norah was led deeper and deeper into deceit. she had to speak of _her_ illness, _her_ danger, _her_ thanks, when coming from the death-bed of a young man, and she felt that her whole character was becoming gradually lowered and degraded. never since she had first sought the lord had norah been in so low a spiritual state; even to speak of religion to little selina appeared to her to be an act of hypocrisy now. norah had sometimes a terrible doubt as to whether she had ever been a christian at all! happily for norah she was suddenly to be stopped in this downward path. it was a mercy to be arrested even by a blow. one afternoon in april the bell summoned norah to the presence of her mistress. she went down the stairs with a sinking at the heart, a feeling of misgiving from which she now very frequently suffered. what was her alarm, on opening the drawing-room door, to see, seated near her mistress, the chaplain of the hospital, whom she had met before on one of her visits to doyle! norah dared not even glance at her lady, but the sound of that terrible, deep-toned voice, so expressive of subdued indignation, made the wretched norah guess but too well what was coming. "mr. chancie has called to ask me to break to my housemaid the news of the death of her _husband_." there was a marked emphasis on the last word. "am i to understand that this is the person whom she, and whom you have visited again and again, and spoken of repeatedly to me under the name of her _mother_?" norah pressed the nails of her right hand so tightly into the flesh of the left that traces were left for days! "am i to understand," continued the lady, speaking in the same low, terrible tone, "that you and milly have deliberately conspired together for months to deceive the mistress who trusted you?" norah wished that she could sink down anywhere out of sight, into the cellar, or into the grave. "you leave this house to-morrow," said the lady, who could not but read confession in the silence of her maid, and her aspect of misery and shame. "if your family were in london, you should not stay here for another hour. to think that i should have entrusted my child to the care of such a"--norah could not catch the concluding word, perhaps none was uttered, but her own conscience supplied the blank with "viper." "of course you can expect no character from me; your vile deceit has done much to shake my faith in all my kind; i shall never trust a servant again as you were trusted by me. i could no more answer for your honesty now, wretched girl, than i could for your truth. she who could deliberately carry on such a course of deceit would be capable of taking my money." norah was utterly unable to speak a word in her own defence; she was miserable, crushed, almost in despair. milly was, of course, involved in the same disgrace as herself, though not so hastily sent out of the house. mrs. lowndes found it more easy to show some indulgence to her, because she had never placed in her the same absolute trust; she had never given to milly the charge of an only, a much-loved child. norah wrote off a hasty note to her uncle at colme, and made her preparations for leaving her place with an almost bursting heart. one of her keenest pangs was that caused by the distress of little selina, who could not at first be persuaded to believe her dear norah to be capable of speaking an untruth. "you never did tell a story. oh, i'm sure that you _could not_! say, only say that it's all a dreadful mistake!" cried the child, bursting into tears. norah was too wretched to weep; she did not close her eyes all that night; the house in which she had once been so happy had become to her now like a stifling prison. yet she dreaded returning to her native village; she shrank from meeting the clear blue eye of her uncle; she felt herself unworthy of any kindness,--she who had sinned against light, she who had stained her soul with falsehood! norah's only comfort was in the thought that at least her course of deception was over; she need play the hypocrite no longer; prayer was not now a mockery as it had seemed lately to be. sin is in itself a thing more dreadful than the sharpest punishment for sin. xvi. passing events. norah had finished her sad story in tears. neither ned franks nor his wife had interrupted the thread of it by a single question; they had sat grave and silent listeners. when all had been confessed, the sailor gently laid his hand on the shoulder of his sobbing niece. his manner was subdued and kind. "norah, my girl," he said, "let's be thankful that all was brought to daylight at last. i'd rather have you coming here, even in trouble and disgrace, than seeming to prosper in a course so dangerous to your soul. i only wish that your lady had known all through your own confession, instead of--but let that pass; i trust and believe that henceforth you will always be true as steel, and avoid the slightest approach to deceit all the more carefully because of your sufferings now. i need not say that we will never mention the subject to you again; you are heartily welcome to stay here as long as you will; you'll live, please god, to be a comfort and credit to us yet." of course there was much gossip in the village as to the cause of norah's sudden return. there was a succession of visitors to the school-house on the following day. many questions were put to ned franks and persis, by those who were more curious than kind, as to the cause of norah's so unexpectedly leaving her place. both husband and wife maintained a resolute silence; they made no evasions, threw out no hints to mislead. "people need not trouble themselves about my niece's concerns," was ned's rather impatient remark when hard pressed for an answer to some impertinent question. "she has come to us for quiet and peace, and no one shall annoy her whilst she is under my roof." of course curiosity was not satisfied nor gossip silenced in colme. some of the neighbors guessed that norah had done something very foolish or wrong; some that she had had a disappointment in love; but as no one had the means of proving the truth of his guesses, it might be hoped that curiosity would at last die out like a fire unsupplied with fuel. to be exposed to painful remarks, to be viewed with some suspicion, was the heavy but just penalty which norah must make up her mind to pay for her sin. there were other subjects of interest at that time to divide the attention of the gossips of colme,--the illness of the carpenter stone, and the accident to sands's wife, being constant topics of conversation. day after day the cottagers saw the poor clerk plodding on his weary way to the town to visit his suffering nancy. he looked neither to the right nor the left, nor even stopped to speak to a neighbor, and there was always the same unvarying expression of dull care on his sallow face. on sundays alone his duties as clerk made it impossible for the anxious husband to go to the hospital at b----; and then, as the miller observed, sands always looked at church like a condemned man, hearing the sermon preached before his own execution. john sands was not the only person to visit poor nancy in the hospital at b----. several times, at considerable inconvenience, persis, with her babe in her arms, found her way to the ward, cheering it by her presence, like one of the rays of sunshine which streamed through the window to brighten the couch of pain. and more often yet, mr. leyton came to visit the poor afflicted member of his flock, who no longer scorned to listen to his words. the shyness of the young curate wore off in the presence of suffering and sin; he forgot himself in his work. nancy, at first a silent, gloomy listener, began at last to look forward to the minister's visits. mr. leyton was wont to bring fruit to the sufferer during her tedious illness, and flowers from the vicar's gardens; but it was not this alone that made his visits welcome. nancy, during the long, sleepless days and wearisome nights, had much time for thinking; her mind also was clear, for she had no longer the power to procure the fatal stimulants which had so nearly been her ruin. there was no sudden change in the violent, high-tempered woman; but influences were at work upon her, which, like the morning shower and the evening dew, were gradually softening the hardened soil so that it might receive the word of truth. and so passed the month of april, that month of mingled sunshine and shower, when the fruit-trees burst into blossom, and the groves into music. to persis and ned it was a very happy and very busy time. they watched their own little blossom opening under the sunshine of their love, and felt that for them life had a new interest and delight. poor norah, who was in very low spirits, tried to hide her sadness, that she might throw no shadow over the cheerful home of the frankses. and in the meantime work proceeded briskly in wild rose hollow. never did nobleman, building a proud mansion for himself, watch the progress of its erection with more pleasure than did ned franks the repairing--with some almost rebuilding--of the old thatched dwellings. he threw his heart and soul into the work, and infected even the money-making miller with some of his own enthusiasm. we usually take an interest in that which has cost us a sacrifice, and the more men do for any cause the more they are apt to be ready to do. pleasant to the ears of bat bell were the sounds of labor from the direction of the almshouses which his money was helping to restore. he sometimes would take his little bessy to the spot to see the one-armed sailor and his boys hard at work,--and a goodly quantity of straw for thatching found its way from the mill. bat bell had begun to taste the luxury of doing good; he was realizing the truth of that divine declaration, _it is more blessed to give than to receive_. ned franks, on his way to wild rose hollow, had daily to pass the cottage of sands and the workshop of stone the carpenter. the door of the first was always closed, and the place wore an air of desolation and neglect, which often drew a sigh from the kind-hearted sailor. it was equally sad to him to pass the empty shop, to hear no more from it the sound of the hammer or saw, or the whizzing hum of the lathe, mingled perhaps with snatches of jovial song. ben stone was so well known in the village where he had spent all his days that his illness could not but cause a blank there. the portly form, so familiar to all, was missed from the accustomed place in church; the voice, rather loud than tuneful, from the music of the hymns in which it had so constantly joined. the responses of ben stone had been almost as clearly heard as those of the clerk. even the children of colme missed the sight of the carpenter in his sunday clothes, with his wife, rather showily dressed, resting on his strong arm, as with his big prayer-book in hand he used to walk through the porch into the church-yard with a smile or a nod, or a cheerful greeting to every one whom he met, all being his neighbors, and many his friends. ben stone was a man who had known very little of trouble, and even when trouble had come, it had no more rested on his soul than rain on a sloping roof. he had hitherto been prosperous, healthy, and strong; and though a kind husband to a wife who often was sickly, stone never let his easy serenity of soul be disturbed by the pains and aches of his partner. now, illness, serious and sudden, had come upon himself, and the question was, how would he bear it? the trial would not be sharpened by poverty, for stone had, as he was wont to say, laid by for a rainy day, and his wife had money of her own. he was in no distress for the necessaries, nor even for the comforts of life; but how would the carpenter bear to have his working-days brought to so unexpected a close? above all, how would he look forward to the great change which was slowly and painlessly, but not the less surely, approaching? would not the current of a life, lately so smooth and shallow, become both rougher and more deep when near the point where the great final leap must be made, and the small concerns, the petty interests of this life, be swept away into eternity's ocean? xvii. perilous peace. in a quiet and peaceful nook stands the vicarage of colme, almost in the village, yet entirely screened from it by extensive shrubberies. high, green walls of luxuriant laurel, and rhododendra, with their thick buds swelling into blossoms, border the winding drive, and girdle the lawn, on whose smooth slope lies the shadow of a lofty cedar, the pride of the place. the vicarage itself is not large, but exceedingly pretty, with its rural porch and picturesque gables, and mullioned windows overhung with honeysuckle and clematis. if we were to pass over that velvet lawn, and glance in through the window at the right of the porch, we should see the vicar himself resting in his arm-chair, very pale and very thin from recent dangerous illness, but looking calm and serene. though this is saturday, there is no sign of preparation for the morrow's service; there is no desk open, no book on the table save the well-worn bible. the vicar has been called into the "wilderness" of sickness to "rest for a while," and he may not yet venture to enter the church even as a worshipper, far less as a preacher. it is only to-day that his wife has been able to leave his side for a long round of visits amongst his parishioners. mr. curtis is anxious to hear of each and all of those amongst whom the good pastor has lived for twenty years as a father among his children; so his wife has set out this afternoon with a large basket on her arm, to visit half the cottages in colme. mr. curtis is not sitting alone; his wife's nephew, the young curate, mr. leyton, is beside him, giving him an account of his own work on that day. claudius leyton is, as has been before mentioned, of extremely youthful appearance; the smooth cheek, small features, and slight, delicate frame of the curate might induce a stranger to guess his age as scarcely beyond eighteen years. summoned immediately after his ordination to take entire charge of the parish of mr. curtis, then alarmingly ill, the curate, whose life had been spent in london, eton, and cambridge, and who had scarcely ever so much as entered a cottage, had found himself at first almost overwhelmed by the sense of responsibility. mr. leyton had felt somewhat as a landsman might feel should he be called to take the command of a vessel on the very first occasion on which he ever entered one. the curate lacked neither talent nor devotion, but he had no experience in the peculiar work of a village pastor, and with a tender sensitive disposition and natural shyness, it seemed as if he had undertaken a task beyond his strength. the change was great from the easy luxury of home and college life to the position of a hard-working curate, with long church-services to tax a weak voice, and the various needs of a parish, in which almost every one was to him a stranger, to try his energies and test his discretion. mr. leyton had prayerfully resolved to do his very best to be a faithful minister to his flock, and overcome the difficulties before him. he had, some time before his ordination, left off some of his favorite pursuits, that he might devote himself to his duties; he had given away his cigar-case, had parted with his books of light literature, locked up his flute, and left his paint-box untouched for months. claudius leyton had resolutely turned his thoughts to sermons and schools, and other matters connected with parish business. but it had been a great trial to the young clergyman to have, as it were, to find his way almost alone in, to him, a new country. he was unable for weeks to avail himself of the experience of the vicar, and but for the information and help always cheerfully given him by ned franks, the curate would often have felt utterly discouraged by the difficulties attending his charge. it was no small relief to the young man to be at last able to consult the vicar, receive his sympathy, and ask his advice; for claudius had none of the proud self-confidence which too often accompanies inexperience and youth; he was not one of those who need to be taught modesty by a number of failures. "and where have you been this day, claudius?" asked the vicar, as the curate, tired with a long, hot walk, seated himself beside him, and wiped his own heated brow, where the pressure of the hat had left a reddened line on the smooth, fair skin. "i have been to the hospital to see mrs. sands." [illustration: "and where have you been this day, claudius?" asked the vicar, as the curate, tired with a long, hot walk, seated himself beside him. p. .] "ah! the poor creature who nearly lost her life by falling into the mill-stream." "when in a state of intoxication," gravely added the curate. "and who has had to endure the loss of her right arm,--a terrible loss to any one, especially to a working woman," said the vicar, in a tone of compassion. "it is a mercy that she did not lose her life," observed claudius; "but for the gallant conduct of ned franks, who risked his own to save it, the unhappy creature must have perished, a victim to that horrible vice of intemperance. bad as it is in a man, it is doubly disgusting in a woman." "it seems almost like a possession by a devil," said the vicar; "but we have the encouragement of knowing that our master has power even to cast out devils. does poor nancy seem conscious of her sin before god? does she show any sign of repentance?" "i do not know what to think," replied the curate, undecidedly. "the woman listens in silence to what i have to say; she does not fire up as she would have done a short time since at anything like reproof; her black eyes have lost their fierceness, but i fear that rather sullen gloom than humble contrition has taken its place. i cannot tell what to make of her manner; it is so difficult to read the human heart." "difficult, indeed," said the vicar; and he added, but not aloud, "especially for those who have but lately mastered even its alphabet." "i have suggested to her total abstinence," continued claudius leyton. "i have read and heard that where there is a passion for strong drink, the only chance of overcoming that passion is by never tasting a drop." "you are right; there are cases where temperance is impracticable without total abstinence from all intoxicating liquors. the enemy is so determined to gain admission, that the door must be, as it were, bolted and barred against him, for, if the smallest opening were left, he would rush in with irresistible force. but how did nancy take your suggestions?" "in sullen silence, as usual," replied mr. leyton. "she stares fixedly at the wall before her, and i scarcely know whether she is listening or not to what i say. i fear that it shows a want of charity in myself," continued the young clergyman, "but i own that that woman inspires me with a feeling of repulsion." "hers is a case which needs much prayer and patience," observed the vicar. "i certainly should never go to see her but from a sense of duty," said the young man, who had scarcely yet acquired the grace of patience, and to whom a violent-tempered woman, addicted to intoxication, was rather an object of disgust than of pity. "how different was my next visit to a sick-bed! how refreshing to the spirit it was to sit by that excellent man, ben stone, and see how calmly and cheerfully a christian can bear sickness, and look forward to death!" "ah! so you have been with our poor friend, the carpenter? how did you find him?" asked the vicar, with interest. "perfectly peaceful, perfectly happy; not a cloud over his soul!" replied mr. leyton. the curate's fair young face brightened as he spoke, but its brightness was not reflected in the countenance of the vicar. it was in a grave, rather anxious tone, that he inquired, "is he resting on the rock? has he found true peace through christ?" "surely, i should have no hesitation in saying so," answered claudius leyton. "his manner, however, was not quite so decided as his words; it seemed rather to convey an idea that an unpleasant doubt had been unexpectedly suggested to his mind. stone is evidently glad to receive spiritual comfort; he listens, he agrees to everything." "agrees! yes, he always listens, always assents. how glad i should often have been to have heard a question from him,--i had almost said a contradiction; that would have served to show, at least, that some interest in spiritual things had been aroused." "you surprise me, my uncle," said the curate. "i thought that stone was a very good man; everybody speaks well of him; everybody seems to like him." "_i_ like him," replied the vicar, emphatically; "but it is because i like him so much that i am the more anxious about him. if my only desire for my flock was to have them moral, respectable, regular in church-going, quiet citizens, kind neighbors, honest men, i should be well pleased if all in the village were like the carpenter stone. and yet, during my twenty years of labor at colme, there is not one of my parishioners on whom those labors have, i fear, made less impression than on him. stone has not only heard thousands of sermons in church, but i have repeatedly conversed with him in private on the concerns of his soul, and i have always left him with the discouraging conviction that he is not so much as grounded in the first principles of our religion; that he has always the same assurance of going to heaven, because such an honest, respectable, sober man as he is must by a kind of necessity go there. satisfied with this false assurance, he has never been induced to make the slightest effort to examine whether it have any safe ground to rest on. i have felt myself, when conversing with stone, like one firing cannon at a thick earthwork. there is no strong resistance, such as is made by a stone wall, but the balls sink into the soft mud and are lost, and the fortification, seemingly so easy to be assailed, remains as firm and unmoved as if no efforts at all had been made to shake it. i have found, in the course of my long ministry," continued the vicar, "that it is easier to impress a profligate or to convince an infidel, than to lead to true faith and repentance a self-satisfied, self-sufficient soul like that of poor stone." claudius leyton gave a sigh of disappointment. "i fear that i have been doing harm, then, where i meant to do good," he observed, "saying, _peace, peace, where there is no peace_. i took it for granted that such a kind-hearted, respectable man as stone must be a christian indeed." "my dear boy," said the silver-haired vicar, kindly, "yours was a most natural mistake, especially for one so young in the ministry. it is extremely difficult to distinguish mere outward good conduct and amiability from that which results from the hidden life of faith in the heart. the sad thing is," continued the pastor, "that the individual who misleads us is usually himself misled; while in danger he believes himself to be perfectly safe, and may approach even the hour of death without the slightest fear or misgiving. with him there is no cry for mercy to the saviour of sinners, no looking unto him who was lifted up, as the brazen serpent in the wilderness, as the one only means of salvation offered to the perishing sons of men." the invalid had spoken with animation, and a sensation of exhaustion immediately followed. he leaned wearily back on his pillow, and closed his eyes. claudius leyton, aware that the interview had lasted too long for his uncle's strength, quietly arose and quitted the study. the young minister sought his own room, feeling more strongly than ever how difficult it is to be a good physician to souls, and not give an opiate to a conscience already too much inclined to sink into dangerous sleep. mr. leyton unclosed his bible with a sigh, but the promise on which his eye rested came with comfort to his soul: _if any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of god, that giveth to all men liberally and upbraideth not. but let him ask in faith, nothing wavering._ xviii. self-reproach. "are you going to see poor stone to-morrow?" said persis franks to her husband on the evening of that same saturday. "ay, sunday is the only day when i can find time now to visit a sick friend." "i am sure that in this case it is 'the better day the better deed,'" observed persis, as her fingers briskly plied the needle, while the pile of unmended stockings on her right hand was gradually growing small, as pair after pair, neatly darned and folded, were transferred to the left. "mrs. stone was saying to me to-day how much her husband enjoys your calls. you will never regret these visits, ned." "now it's odd enough, wife, that at the moment when you spoke to me i was thinking of these same visits of mine to poor stone, and thinking of them _with_ regret. i might use a stronger word," continued franks, as his wife glanced up with mild surprise; "i've been taking myself to task for these same sunday visits." "surely, dearest, _it is lawful to do good on the sabbath day_; that is what our lord himself has told us." "ay, _to do good_," repeated franks; "but i'm not clear that i've not rather done ben stone harm. you and i are alone, wifie, and i don't mind saying to you what i wouldn't say to any one else." franks lowered his voice as he went on. "stone's voyage through life has been a very easy one; it seems almost as if his vessel had been one that could guide itself without any pilot at all; he has never met a storm that i've heard of,--all has been smooth sailing with him. and yet, wifie, i fear that stone has not had his eye fixed on the pole-star, nor his finger tracing the right course on the bible-chart. self-righteousness is a sunken rock, none the less dangerous for being sunken, and if a poor bark go to pieces upon it, we know that it's just as surely lost as if it had gone down in the whirlpool of drunkenness, or of any other open vice." "but i do not exactly see what _you_ have to reproach yourself with if poor stone think himself a better christian than he actually is," observed persis. "don't you see i've a kind of credit in the village for hanging out my colors boldly, and trying at least to sail by the chart? when i go sunday after sunday and sit with a sick, i fear a dying man, and join with him in cheerful talk, as if i'd never an object but to make the time pass pleasantly, i only cause him to think, 'there's ned franks, a dreadfully strict and precise old tar; he must be sure that i'm steering all right, for if he saw danger he'd be certain to bid me _sheer off_.'" "but i have no doubt that your conversation often takes a religious turn," observed persis. "a religious turn!" repeated franks, in a rather sarcastic tone; "ay, a kind of sop to my conscience, and, perhaps, poor fellow, to his. we talk, maybe, of the sermon, and the way in which busy hands are getting on with repairing the almshouses, and what a good minister the vicar is, and how glad we shall be if the lord lets him fill the pulpit again. there's a text put in here and there, and stone says something about being thankful for having no pain, and having been given a good wife and a comfortable home, and such peace in his mind. but i know that such conversations as these held with one who, in a few months, will probably suffer that great change for which i cannot in charity think him prepared, is but a kind of idle beating and tacking about; it is not going to the heart of the matter; it never makes him ask himself when i leave him, 'am i in the right course? is this peace of which i talk the peace of a converted or of a dead soul? what shall i plead when i stand, as i soon must, in the immediate presence of a heart-searching god?'" franks rose from his seat, and paced up and down his little room, as he was wont to do when anything disturbed or perplexed him. "do you intend then," asked persis, laying down her work, "to speak faithfully to our poor friend when you visit him to-morrow?" ned passed his hand through his curly hair; he looked perplexed and undecided. "i wish i were fit for such speaking," said he. "if mr. curtis were able to get about, he'd go right to the point with stone at once; but i don't think there's anything in life so hard as to convince a self-righteous man that he's a sinner in need of a saviour." "surely," said persis, very softly, "it is the holy spirit alone that can convince of sin; it is only god himself who can open the eyes of the blind." "then to god we must turn for the blessing, wife, but we must not neglect the means. i'll try to drop in a word of warning to-morrow, though it's just such an office as i'd gladly make over to any one else if i could; but i really care for poor ben, and i can't help thinking of the lines,-- "'who speaks not needed truth lest he offend, hath spared himself--but sacrificed his friend.' i hope that my visit to stone to-morrow may not be as utterly profitless as i fear that the three last have been." xix. the test. while persis and ned franks are conversing together in their little parlor, we will turn for a short time to norah, whom we shall find in their little garden, with a full glow of the setting sun around her, as she is stooping over a flower-bed busily engaged in weeding. even in the bright season of spring, even in the cheerful home of the frankses, since her return from london, the time had passed wearily and anxiously to norah. she shrank from notice, she dreaded questions, and, though nothing was said to make her feel that it was so, she knew that her maintenance must be a burden on the slender income of her uncle. the accommodation in the school-house was small. persis, at some inconvenience, had given up her only store-closet to serve as a sleeping-room for norah; and if the good housewife cheerily laughed over her own little difficulties in finding a place where she might stow away jams and bacon, and franks declared that the closer people were packed together, the less danger there was of their chafing one another, norah felt that the little domestic circle had been complete without her, and that her pale, sad face could not add to the cheerfulness of a married pair. even the food of which the orphan guest was so kindly pressed to partake freely must make a sensible difference in the household expenses of those who had so little to spare. norah longed for the means of earning her own bread; but employment in needle-work, even had she been clever at sewing, could scarcely be procured in the retired neighborhood of colme. the young girl would gladly have gone again into service; but to whom could she apply for a character? how often, with bitter regret for the past, did norah ask herself that question? her only resource was prayer. she entreated him whose mercy, as she trusted and believed, had forgiven her sin, to open for her some door of usefulness, to give her some means of honestly earning a livelihood. norah was ready to take the lowest place, the hardest work, the smallest wages, if she might but struggle back to a position in which she could again maintain herself by her labor. as norah rose from her stooping posture, she saw mrs. curtis, the vicar's wife, approaching towards her. the lady, who was the general counsellor and friend of the villagers of colme, had always shown kindness to norah, and to be spoken to by her would, in former times, have called up a beaming smile in the face of the girl; but norah now met the vicar's wife with a feeling of shame and fear. "good-evening to you, norah peele; i am glad to find you alone, for i wish a little quiet talk with you," said mrs. curtis. "let us go to yon arbor at the end of the garden, where we shall be undisturbed." norah followed the lady along the narrow gravel path which franks had bordered with box. the poor girl dreaded the interview before her, but silently prayed, as she walked along, that she might be enabled to answer truthfully whatever painful questions might be asked her. when the arbor was reached, mrs. curtis seated herself on the rustic bench, which was the handiwork of the one-armed sailor. no one could approach the spot unseen; the lady had chosen it in order that the conversation between herself and norah might not be interrupted or overheard. "norah," said mrs. curtis, "my housemaid is about to leave me to be married to rob gates, the nephew of the miller. i am therefore looking out for a trustworthy girl to take her place. knowing both you and your family for so long as i have done, it is natural that my thoughts should turn towards you." the girl's heart throbbed fast with a newly awakened hope which she yet scarcely dared to indulge. "but," continued the lady, (what a terrible word was that _but_!) "i cannot offer you a situation without a clear knowledge of the cause of your leaving your last one. the information which has reached me may or may not be correct. many innocent persons are hardly judged; some are the victims of a slander. a mistress may be injudicious, or she may be unjust to her servants." "oh, no, mrs. lowndes was not unjust, at least not in sending me away," said norah, the large tears gathering in her downcast eyes. "she was kind and generous, and good to me, till--till"--a smothered sob closed the sentence. "norah, you must feel that no idle curiosity leads me to question you thus. i would give no needless pain. but will you tell me, as a friend who has your best interests much at heart, the simple truth regarding the circumstances which led to your leaving london? i cannot know how to serve you, i cannot know how to advise, without that full information which can only really satisfy me when given by yourself." "have i not suffered enough yet?" was the silent thought of poor norah. "must i tell to her, whose good opinion i prize so much, that which will make me lose that good opinion forever, and prevent her from thinking of taking such a deceitful girl into her service?" and then came the strong temptation to soften and gloss over her own fault, to lay the chief blame upon milly, or to avoid telling of any direct falsehood, or long-carried-on scheme of deceit. again the bark was in danger of striking against the iceberg. again rose the silent prayer, followed by the brave resolve to be honest and truthful now, at however painful a cost. the happy bees were humming amongst the blossoming limes, but norah did not hear them; she did not notice how richly perfumed came the breeze from the hawthorn full in flower; there was that on her mind which shut out surrounding objects. briefly, but as clearly and truthfully as she had told her tale to ned franks, she now confessed all to mrs. curtis, without attempting to make the slightest excuse for her fault. norah closed her account with a deep sigh, and stood as if awaiting with humble submission the rebuke which she knew must follow. but mrs. curtis uttered no word of reproach; her voice when she spoke was more kindly and cheering than it had been when she had first addressed norah peele on that bright evening in may. "i am very thankful, my child, that you have made a statement so frank and truthful, one which so perfectly accords with what your last mistress has written." mrs. curtis drew a note from her pocket, and norah at once recognized the familiar handwriting of mrs. lowndes. "before speaking to you of the situation in my household, i thought it well to write to london, to ascertain facts from the lady whom you had served. her reply, i own, startled me a little; i thought at first that i must give up all idea of engaging you in my service. but i consulted the vicar, and he took a different view of the question. 'the young girl,' he said, 'has no doubt committed a serious fault, but she may at this moment be sincerely repenting it; if so, let us give her an opportunity of retrieving her character here.'" "kind, merciful!" murmured norah. "'but how,' i asked, 'can we know whether she sincerely regrets her fault?' 'the surest sign of true repentance,' replied my husband, 'is _amendment_. go and question norah peele; see if she now makes any fresh attempt to deceive. if she be candid and open with you, we may take it as a proof that no habits of falsehood are formed, and that, warned by the past, she is likely to become as truthful and trustworthy as her sailor uncle himself.' i have done as the vicar advised; i have tried you, norah peele, and you have well stood the trial. i am quite willing, if you wish to come to me, to engage you from this day week." then, indeed, norah could hear how merrily the bees were humming, and feel how delicious was the scented breath of may on her cheek, and admire the glorious glow of the sinking sun! all nature seemed to brighten around her, and she thought that life might be to her again a peaceful and happy thing. eagerly she closed with the offer of mrs. curtis. with a heart and a step how much lighter than what they had been an hour before, norah retraced that gravel walk along which she had passed so sadly, and, after showing her new mistress to the gate, ran into the house to carry to her uncle and aunt her good tidings, sure of their ready sympathy in her joy as well as in her sorrow! xx. the momentous question. "ah! glad to see ye, ned franks, always glad to see ye!" cried ben stone, holding out both his hands to the school-master of colme. "i sent my bell off to afternoon church, for i said, says i, there will be ned franks sure to drop in and give me a bit of the news. there, take a chair, my good fellow, you're always heartily welcome." stone himself was reclining on a bed, and well propped up with soft cushions; a flannel dressing-gown wrapped round his large form, and a scarlet shawl over that, with a red nightcap on his head. there was an air of comfort and of neatness visible in the partly darkened room. stone liked, as he said, "to have things look respectable-like" about him. the appearance of the sick man would have conveyed to none but a practised eye the idea of serious illness. there was no wasted cheek, no hollow eye, to tell the insidious fatal disease within. even the voice of ben stone, though not perhaps as strong, sounded as jovial as ever. franks could hardly realize, as he drew his chair near to the bed, that he who rested upon it was actually dying by inches. ned made inquiries how the patient was feeling that afternoon. "not just up to felling an oak-tree, or splitting it up into planks," said the carpenter, gayly; "the doctor says i can't last till winter; but who knows? 'the greatest clerks are not always the wisest men,' as good queen bess once said." "no one can indeed know whether you or i will be taken first," observed ned; "but it's well to be prepared for the end, whether it comes sooner or later than we have been led to expect." "yes, yes, i'm not one of those as is afraid of hearing the worst," said stone, still in the same easy manner. "death must come one day or another to all, and it's no such great odds when we go." "the question is certainly not _when_, but _whither_ we go," remarked franks. "there's the comfort of religion," said the carpenter, complacently folding his hands. "don't we all hope to go to heaven when we die?" "yes, heaven's the port we all hope to land in," replied ned franks; "but i should just like, neighbor, for us to talk the matter over a little together; to see if you and i have embarked in the same boat, since we wish our cruise to end in the same harbor. would you mind now telling an old friend what reason you have for thinking that you're bound for heaven?" ben stone looked half perplexed, half amused, at the question. "it's not for a man to speak up for himself," he said good-humoredly; "but you and all the village know that i've not wandered far astray. i don't pretend to be such an out-and-out saint as you are," he added with a smile; "but i'm not worse than my neighbors, and i don't doubt but that we'll both land in heaven at last." "and do you suppose that _i_ dare start in the voyage to eternity in such a cockle-shell as my own merits, all leaky and worthless!" exclaimed ned franks. "no, no, neighbor; i know too well that if i did so, i must go to the bottom. as when the flood was coming upon the world, there was but _one_ safe vessel, and that was the ark, so there is now but _one_ means of salvation, which god himself has provided,--_faith in the lord jesus christ_. can we fancy that in those old days of the flood there were no boats and no sailors,--that none could row, and none could swim? it's likely that there were men who had vessels, and trusted in them, and were proud of them, too,--who believed that these vessels could ride through the fiercest storm that ever blew; and that may have been the very reason why, despite of warning, these men would not fly to the ark; and so, when the flood came, they perished. _my_ only hope of heaven is in the merits and death of my lord. i don't fear death, because i know that i've already taken refuge in the ark of salvation, which is faith in christ, the saviour of sinners." "these things are too deep for me," said the carpenter. "i'm a simple, plain man, and don't puzzle my head with matters of doctrine. i never can make out what you thorough-going people consider yourselves to be. there are saints and sinners in the world, that's clear. nancy sands is a sinner, and you are a saint,--nay, don't stop me, i must have out my say. now, i don't count myself much either of a saint or a sinner; i'm a plain, honest man, who don't like extremes, and i dare say that i shall do just as well as others in the end. but what puzzles me," continued the carpenter, "is that the saints will insist upon it that they are the sinners; they flare up, as you did now, at the very notion of being taken to heaven because they are good, and seem to think that they can't be safe unless they declare that they are sinful!" the invalid would have laughed aloud, had there not been a grave earnestness in the face of franks, which checked any such unseemly mirth. "and is not the prayer in the litany, have mercy upon us miserable sinners, put into every mouth?" observed franks, who had a clear recollection of the very audible tone in which ben had joined in that prayer when attending church-service. "yes, to be sure. i could say half the litany by heart." "what a wide difference there is," thought ned franks, "between saying it _by_ heart, or _from_ the heart! do you think," he asked aloud, "that that prayer is suited for _every one_ who repeats it?" ben stone hummed a little before he replied. "well, i should say, suited better for some than for others; but there's no harm in any one saying it." "there would be harm in any one calling himself a sinner before god if he did not _believe_ himself to be one," observed franks. "but i've no doubt, neighbor, that if st. paul and st. peter had lived in these days, they'd have been able to cry from the bottom of the heart, 'have mercy upon us, miserable sinners.'" ben stone gave a look which seemed to say that he neither understood nor cared to understand how that could be. ned franks's feelings were much like what mr. curtis had described as his own. it seemed a hopeless matter to try to make any real impression upon that mass of quiet, self-complacent, good-humored insensibility. ned had to repeat to himself, "he's a dying man, and dying without looking to the saviour," in order to overcome his own strong inclination to give up in despair all attempt to convince or to move. "i suppose that you'll agree," said the school-master aloud, "that job was a saint if there ever lived one in this world; god himself declared that there was none upon earth like him; and yet, what were the words of job? _i abhor myself, and repent in dust and ashes._" "i never can make out why job should feel that," observed stone; "there was nothing in what the almighty had said to him to bring him to such a confession." "i believe that it was not so much what god had _said_, as what he had found god to _be_, that so humbled job as to make him confess himself to be a miserable sinner. the truth is, neighbor, we think so little of our own sinfulness, because we think so little of god's holiness. the clear light of his purity does not stream into our souls, and therefore we don't mark the spots and the stains in those souls. we think sins small and trifling which in the lord's eyes are hateful and deadly. eve plucks a forbidden fruit, moses loses his temper, a man of god lets himself be drawn into what we might deem a small excusable act of disobedience: it is clear enough from the punishments which followed, that a holy god did not regard these things as _trifles_, though man in his blindness might do so." "ah! all these examples are from the old testament," said ben stone; "as for me, i hold by the new. there's none of that terrible strictness now." "the god of the new testament is the god of the old," observed franks; "the same just and holy being who hath declared, _the soul that sinneth, it shall die_." "you talk like a jew," said stone; "yet you know as well, and better than i do, that we've the gospel to look to now, and that's all mercy and love." "the new testament rests on the old; it has grown out of it; it forms with it a complete whole. we cannot really accept the one without the other," replied franks, with an animation of manner which strongly contrasted with the carpenter's stolid composure. ben stone shook his tasselled cap, and half smiling observed, "the new is enough for me." ned franks glanced around for something that might serve to illustrate the important truth which his companion could not, or would not, understand. he took up a cut flower which had been placed in a glass of water on the table. "the old testament is the bud of the new; or rather as the green sheath enclosed the bud, so in the old-testament scriptures is the precious gospel held and enclosed," he said, looking down on the flower. "granted, if you wish it," said the carpenter; "but now we've done with the sheath, and only the flower is left." "not so," cried the school-master eagerly; "look here, this is the green sheath of the bud, the green cup or calyx, as they call it, still holding and supporting the flower; less noticed, certainly, under the bright petals, but keeping them all together. what would happen, ben stone, were we to tear that green part away?" "why, the flower would of course fall to pieces." "and if it were possible to separate new-testament truth entirely from that contained in the old testament,--but it is _not_ possible," exclaimed franks, interrupting himself in the midst of his sentence. "_the word of the lord endureth forever!_ the old testament is the very support and foundation of the gospel. if we would know _who_ the lord jesus is, we learn, from the old testament, that he is _the mighty god_,[c] _whose goings forth have been from everlasting_;[d] _the man that is my fellow, saith the lord god of hosts_.[e] if we should know _why_ he died, again we find the gospel enclosed in the ancient scriptures, like the bud in the sheath: _he was wounded for our transgressions; the lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all_."[f] "still, there's ever so much in the old testament that does not concern us christians at all," said the carpenter; "and though i don't pretend to have the bible at my finger-ends, as you have, i can show you that in a moment. we have no concern whatever with all those endless sacrifices of bullocks and lambs, which the jews were perpetually making; you might cut out of the bible every chapter about them, and we should never miss them at all." franks's expressive face showed surprise at the utter ignorance betrayed by such a remark. "why, the very _keystone_ of gospel truth rests on the doctrine taught by those very sacrifices!" he exclaimed, bending forward in his eager earnestness. "there were two mighty lessons taught by those sacrifices, which were ordained by god himself; these lessons were, that _without shedding of blood there is no remission_,[g] and that justice would accept of one life as given _instead_ of another. no israelite, no, not even the holy moses, could be forgiven and accepted without a _sacrifice_ for sin, the sprinkled blood of atonement; no christian, not even a st. paul, can be forgiven and accepted, without a sacrifice for sin; and ours, in one of which all the burnt-offerings made by the jews was but a type, the sacrifice, once and forever, made on the cross by him who is _the lamb of god that taketh away the sins of the world_! o ben stone, my friend," continued the sailor, with emotion, "i believe, from my soul i believe, that _there is none other name under heaven given among men whereby we must be saved_,[h] but the name of him who died for sinners; that there is nothing that can make the soul pure, but _the blood of christ which cleanseth from all sin_.[i] faith in that name is the ark in which alone i dare hope for salvation, and through that blood shed for me, i have the blessed assurance of being received after death into that heaven which the lord hath prepared for them that love him!" ned franks rose hastily from his seat as he concluded the last sentence; for, after what had been uttered on a subject so solemn, he could enter on no common theme. he pressed the hand of the sick man, and, with no other form of taking leave, quitted the carpenter's cottage. the sailor sighed heavily as he passed from the darkened sick-room into the glowing sunshine without. "how weakly i have spoken, how little have i said of what i wished to say!" he murmured to himself. "the words of my persis are true indeed: it is only the holy spirit that can convince of sin. then i know that my manner is too impetuous. i am always running the chance of offending, rather than persuading; and i don't know how to put into words the thoughts that are swelling within me like a stream that is bursting its bounds. i cannot restrain myself, when any one would put aside (as if they could be worn out by time) those old-testament scriptures which our lord himself bade us search, as testifying of him; when any look upon the faith of abraham, isaac, and jacob, as quite a distinct thing from that required of us; when, like poor stone, they seem to conclude that justice and holiness are confined to the old testament, mercy and love to the new! ah! the truth is"--franks quickened his steps, as if to keep pace with the current of his thoughts--"the truth is, that satan knows that he has a terrible advantage over us, if he can but persuade us to try any way but god's way to reach the kingdom of heaven. satan is willing that we should look on the lord as a great example, or a great teacher, or even as a great king, if he can only keep us from acknowledging christ as also a great sacrifice for sins, for _our_ sins; and so prevent us from throwing ourselves entirely upon his mercy and merits. to draw us back from the ark, that is satan's chief aim; to make us believe that we do not require a saviour. as if the son of god would have died, had there been any less costly means of purchasing heaven for his people; as if we did not see most clearly, in his sufferings on the cross, the _holiness_ of god that abhors sin, the _justice_ of god in punishing it, joined with the boundless _mercy_ and _love_, which made god not spare even his son, but give him freely for our salvation!" [c] isaiah ix. . [d] micah v. . [e] zechariah xiii. . [f] isaiah liii. , . [g] hebrews ix. . [h] acts iv. . [i] john ii. . xxi. an old letter. "well, bell, my dear," said the carpenter, as his wife returned from afternoon service, "tell me what you've heard to-day, and i'll tell you what i've heard." "mr. leyton preached as usual," replied mrs. stone, as she unloosed the red strings of her bonnet. "i think he's getting less shy, and more earnest. his text was, '_if we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us._'" "why, that would ha' done for the text of the sermon i've had all to myself," said ben stone. "sermon,--what do you mean?" asked his wife, pausing in the act of taking off her shawl. "there's ned franks been here, and--talk of earnestness--he's earnest with a vengeance! there was nothing would content him but that i should own myself to be a downright, miserable sinner; and he threw out something more than a hint, that i'm like to come to the same end as those who wouldn't go into the ark, and so were drowned in the flood." "i wish that ned franks would mind his own business," exclaimed mrs. stone, indignantly. "i'm sure that he, and every one knows that there's not a better man in the parish than you are; it would be well if, with all his fine talking, mr. franks were but half so good!" "softly, softly, my dear," said ben stone, amused and pleased at her warm defence. "ned franks is a capital fellow; a brave, noble-hearted man." "let him be what he likes," exclaimed mrs. stone, angrily pulling off her boots. "if he comes here a worritting and lecturing you, i shall shut the door upon him!" "his visit was certainly very unlike that which the young curate paid me. mr. leyton, with his gentle way and soft voice, spoke of my trials and my hope; and said that a true christian is not afraid even of death. then says i, 'sir, i'm never afraid of death;' so, of course, he takes it for granted that i'm a true christian, and all right, and goes away quite pleased and happy. but as for ned franks,"--ben stone gave his little chuckling laugh, though it sounded less merry than usual,--"he'll take nothing for granted, except that i _must_ be a sinner. he leans forward and looks right into your eyes, as if he meant to read you through and through, and let you see right into his soul also. i can just fancy," continued the sick carpenter, laughing again, "what sort of a sailor he was when he served the queen,--how he'd stick by his colors, and go slap-bang at an enemy!" "but you're no enemy," cried mrs. stone, "neither his nor any one else's, and i'll not let him go slap-bang at you! let him preach away as much as he likes to that wretched nancy sands whom he pulled out of the mill-stream!" "there's not much chance of _her_ deceiving herself, and saying that she has no sin," observed stone. "it was small kindness to her husband to save her," continued the carpenter's wife; "sands has little cause to thank ned. the poor clerk is growing thinner every day, and looked at church this afternoon as if he was going to be hanged. he knows that when nancy comes out of hospital she'll be at her old tricks again, drinking him out of house and home; far better for _him_ if all had been over at once! i couldn't help giving her a bit o' my mind about that, when i went to see her yesterday!" "you did!" exclaimed stone, in amused surprise; "how did she take it? if nancy returned you a bit o' _her_ mind," he continued, with a laugh, "i guess you'd the worst of the exchange. you never were a match for nancy, my dear." "she said nothing, but looked as if she could have eaten me," replied mrs. stone. "her accident must have pulled her down a bit, if she'd not something sharper than a look to fling at you," observed ben. "you and she used to go at it like poker and tongs, but nancy could hit hardest and longest; she'd a tongue like a mill-wheel if once you set it a-going. but put the kettle on the fire, my dear, and lets have a drop of good tea. in the evening i'll do what i've been intending to do for these many years past,--look over that box of old things belonging to my poor mother, whom i lost when i was a little chap but nine years of age. i want to sort 'em,--put by what i mean to keep, and burn what's of use to no one. ned franks himself would say it was right for a sick man to put his house in order." the task of looking over the contents of that old box, which had been stowed away in a cupboard for a great length of time, was one which the carpenter had put off from day to day, and year to year, perhaps because--till illness came--he had led a busy, active life, or more probably because his cheerful, easy nature disliked any occupation that might awaken melancholy thoughts. and who but is saddened by turning over memorials of one loved and lost, even though, as in the case of stone, forty or fifty years may have elapsed since the friend departed. this sunday evening, as twilight came on, ben stone fulfilled the long-deferred task. his wife brought the old box,--a deal one covered with faded paper,--and placed it on a chair close to his bed, that he might examine its contents with ease. she lighted a candle and put it on the table beside her husband, and then sat down with some little curiosity to see her mother-in-law's hoarded treasures, but a secret conviction that the box would hold nothing but "old-fashioned rubbish." the late mrs. stone had not been an orderly woman, or perhaps death had taken her by surprise, so that she had left her things in confusion,--such was the silent reflection of her son's wife, as ben went slowly over the contents of the box. they were a strange medley. there were two gilt lockets, a nutmeg-grater, an old tooth-brush and silver thimble, a collar, an unfinished bit of embroidery, a sampler, several skeins of silk and cotton of various colors in a tangled mass together, fragments of gimp and tape, a red leather pocket-book much the worse for wear, a prayer-book without a cover, and a padlock without a key. there were also heaps of papers, recipes for cures, and recipes for dishes, old patterns, old letters, old bills, a jumble of all sorts of things which it was scarcely matter of wonder that no one had cared to reduce into order. "you may use all these receipted bills to light the fire with, my dear," said ben stone; "they at least can be useful to nobody. but i'll keep this old bit of an almanac,-- ! well, well; how time passes! it seems strange to look back to the days when this almanac was a new one!" "i think that this may go into the fire too," said mrs. stone, who had been vainly trying to unravel a silken tangle. "ah! here's something curious," observed ben, as he drew out an old letter, written on very coarse paper, in a very round, childish hand, a letter which had been fastened with a big red wafer pressed down with a button, and which was soiled with many a blot. "here is, i suppose, the very first letter as ever i wrote. i didn't remember that i had ever written to my mother. she died--poor, dear soul!--the week after i first went to school." mrs. stone was of course interested, as any good wife would have been, in the first specimen of her husband's handwriting. she pushed the candle nearer to him, and read over his shoulder, as she might have done at the distance of half the length of the room, the school-boy's big, blotted scrawl. "dear mother, i hope your well. i am ill my head is so bad pleas get me home _quick_ quick your dutiful son b. s." mrs. stone smiled, but her husband looked grave. strange old recollections, and those by no means of a pleasing nature, were brought back to his mind by the sight of that--till now--forgotten letter to his mother. ben put up his hand to his forehead, and pushed up the nightcap from his temples. "yes, yes," he muttered to himself, "i remember writing that letter as if it were but yesterday; i remember the very button which i used to press down the wafer. i was very wretched on first going to school,--the boys bullied me, and i could not bear regular work; so to get my poor mother to take me home, i wrote that letter with a big falsehood in it. it was the first,--the only note as ever i sent her, and it was full of lies! strange that that should turn up now!" "there's nothing to take to heart in such an old matter as that," observed mrs. stone, struck by the unusual gravity of her husband, who generally turned everything into a jest. "nobody thinks of raking up what they've done wrong forty or fifty years back." "tut, i should not care a toss of a straw about it," replied stone, "had i told the falsehood to any one but my mother, and that just a few days before i lost her. i'd never an opportunity of telling her that i'd deceived her, or of asking her to forgive me, for i did not go home till she lay in her coffin. to think of that vile bit of paper turning up against me now!" ben doubled the note, and, tearing it into pieces, threw the fragments on the floor. it may be a matter of surprise that a sin of childhood should have in the slightest degree ruffled the easy conscience of such a man as ben stone. he had thought very little indeed of sinning against god, but his natural affections made him feel pain at having sinned against a sick mother. perhaps the words of franks had not been so utterly unheeded as they had seemed at first to be, and had served to rouse a suspicion, confirmed by the school-boy's letter, that there might be many a forgotten fault of the highly respectable man that would "turn up against him" some day; faults for which forgiveness had never been granted or asked. be that as it may, stone suddenly found out that he was tired and sleepy, and bade his wife shut up the box and take it away. the evening was getting on; it was time for him to take his night-draught, and go quietly to rest. though the night-draught was taken and the pillows carefully beaten up and sleep soon closed the invalid's eyes, it was not quiet rest. a confused medley of thoughts shaped themselves into dreams, which took their color from what had occurred during the day. ben stone in his sleep was still looking over and examining things of the past; his whole room appeared to be filled up with boxes, one piled on another, and there seemed to be a necessity for him to open and put them all into order. this was in itself an oppressive feeling to the dreamer; but the oppression became much greater when he found that each box was filled to overflowing with bills,--old, forgotten bills,--and that not one of them was receipted; not one had ever been paid. stone had a dim idea that all these debts were connected with unforgiven sin, from that falsehood contained in his first letter to the last "idle word" which had fallen from his lips. as box after box was emptied, and every unpaid bill thrown down in despair, the white paper seemed to turn into foam, a sea was rising around him, and it appeared to stone as if his numberless debts would drown him at last. ned franks was by the side of the dreamer, helping him to look over his boxes, and saying, every now and then, in an earnest, anxious tone, "ben stone, if you don't pay, you are a ruined man!--if you don't pay, you are ruined forever!" so strong was the impression left on the dreamer's mind, that he awoke with the words on his lips, "if you don't pay, you are ruined forever!" very still was the room when stone opened his eyes with a start, relieved to find that he had, after all, been but dreaming. one feeble night-light was making "darkness visible" in the chamber, where no other object could distinctly be seen. even so faint a light had stone's conscience hitherto thrown upon spiritual things, as different from the clear radiance of truth as the night-light from the sun. the sinner had not known his sinfulness because his light had been too dim to enable him to see it. as ben stone lay silent and still on his pillow, the breeze bore to him, more distinctly than he ever before had heard it in his cottage, the sound of the church clock striking one. for once stone felt something solemn in the sound; he felt that time was being meted out to him, that his remaining hours might be few, and that he _was not prepared_ for eternity. then stone thought of ned franks. the sailor was not afraid of death, but his reason for not fearing it was something utterly different from the easy reliance on his own goodness which the carpenter knew to have been his own. ned franks had shrunk from the idea of his safety depending on his merits. on what then _did_ it depend? the invalid, with a dawning perception that he himself might not be quite as secure as he had lately thought himself to be, felt desirous to know more clearly what was franks's hope of salvation; and when, in the morning, mrs. stone was preparing her husband's breakfast, he asked her to stop the sailor when next he should pass their door, and ask him to step in and see him. xxii. peace from above. "you went off in such haste yesterday that we'd not time to have out half our say," said ben stone to ned franks, as, called in by the carpenter's wife, he walked up to the patient's bedside. franks smiled, agreeably surprised to find that stone wished to renew such a conversation. "take a chair, my good friend, and sit down. bell, you needn't stop in for me. i know franks won't grudge me a half-hour for once, even on a week day." mrs. stone soon quitted the cottage, but not till she had warned her visitor with raised finger and shake of the head, "don't you bother my husband about anything to make his mind uneasy." when she had closed the door behind her, ben stone turned to franks, and said, "i was looking over old papers, yesterday, which reminded me of my boyhood, and i suppose it's that which has brought back to me a bit of rhyme which i learned from my mother, and which has been running in my brain all this day, though it had gone clean out of my memory for years,-- "'there's not a sin that i commit, or wicked word i say, but in thy dreadful book 'tis writ against the judgment-day.' "now, do you suppose," said stone, with an effort to speak in his usual careless tone, "that god keeps an account like that, as a creditor with his debtors, and that when folks die there are all the old bills, as it were, brought up, even debts that they'd clean forgotten?" "yes, assuredly, _unless all those debts have been paid_." "that's the very nail that i want you to hit," cried the carpenter. "how are we to make sure that the debts _are_ all paid,--i mean, that god has forgiven us outright? are you sure that _your_ debts are all paid?" "yes, thank god!" cried the sailor; "my debts were paid, every one of them, when my saviour died on calvary. does not st. paul say that christ blotted out _the handwriting of ordinances that was against us, which was contrary to us, and took it out of the way, nailing it to his cross_?" "were every one's sins blotted out then?" asked stone. "the sins of all who have living _faith_ in the lord." "ah! _faith_; that's what you're always talking about, and i can never quite make out what it means." "it simply means that we believe from the heart that the son of god _died for us_," said ned franks. "is that all?" exclaimed stone, in surprise. "why, a poor wretch like nancy sands might believe that as well as yourself!" "and if poor nancy does believe that _from the heart_, her sins, be they few or many, _are_ forgiven her for the sake of him who bore the punishment for them all." "that's a dangerous doctrine, a very dangerous doctrine," said the carpenter, shaking his head; "you wouldn't put nancy, i hope, on the same footing as yourself or as me?" "the ark of salvation is as open to nancy as to us," replied franks; "and if any of us reach god's heaven, it can only be in that ark." "i don't understand what you mean," said ben stone. "would you put bad and good all together?" "perhaps i can explain myself best by referring to noah's ark," replied franks. "god made known that a deluge was coming on the earth, and that the only way of escaping it was by going into an ark which noah was commanded to prepare. it is clear that those who were _saved_ were those who _believed_. it was _faith_ in god's word that made noah and his family enter the ark; they were saved because they were _in it_, and not, as i tried to explain yesterday, because of their merits as sailors or swimmers. it is clear, also, that they could not be _half_ saved by the ark, and _half_ by their own boats or rafts. so, if we trust our souls to christ, we must do so _entirely_; we must give up all notion of saving ourselves, and own that our hopes of forgiveness and heaven rest on _nothing but his mercy and merits_. we own ourselves, indeed, to be miserable sinners, but we are able to take our firm stand on the gospel doctrine that _christ died for sinners_,--for that is our ark." "i'm afraid that people who make sure of being saved by faith will lead very careless lives," said the carpenter, who could not get over his repugnance to being classed with nancy sands. "they can only be saved by living, true faith," replied franks. "merely to say that we believe is nothing; nay, a cold conviction that the bible is true, is nothing,--_the devils also believe and tremble_." "how are you to know true faith from false faith?" asked ben, with rather a sarcastic smile, as if he thought he had driven ned franks into a corner. "how do you know a real fire from a painted one?" asked ned. "well, it does not need much wit to tell the one from the other, if the painting were ever so clear," replied stone; "the real fire warms us, of course; it aint a thing only to be looked at." "and so real faith warms the heart, fills it with a glow of grateful love towards him who gave himself for us. and that love makes us loathe and detest sin, because it is displeasing to our lord,--the one thing which he hates. true faith and sin are just as much opposed to each other as fire and water. you said just now that you were afraid that people would live very careless lives if they hoped to be saved by faith. do you find it to be so in your experience of men, ben stone? those who are the most active in good works, the most steady in conduct, the best husbands, parents, neighbors, are they not the very people who have no hope of heaven but in the great sacrifice for sin?" "i can't deny that," answered ben stone, who knew that ned franks himself had a standard of duty that made his own appear but a low one. "but i can't see how that should be." "because every man _that hath that hope_ in christ, _purifieth himself even as he is pure_;[j] because true faith is a gift of god's holy spirit, and it must be followed by two others,--the love of christ and that _holiness without which no man shall see the lord_.[k] as a good man once said, 'we come to christ just as we are, but not to remain as we have been.' when we are once in the ark, stone, it will lift us above the waters of wilful sin, as well as the waves of destruction; none serve god like those who have received the assurance,--'go in peace; thy sins are forgiven thee.'" the conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of mr. leyton. franks respectfully rose, and gave up his chair to the young clergyman, and, at his request, brought the large bible, which always occupied a conspicuous place in ben's home. very few words were exchanged, but franks felt that the portion of scripture selected by the curate was peculiarly well suited to deepen any impression which the late conversation might have left. it was the fifty-first psalm which mr. leyton read, almost without comment, by the sick-bed of one just beginning to have his eyes opened to the truth that he, too, had need to cry, _have mercy upon me, o lord! create in me a clean heart, and renew a right spirit within me!_ the eyes of ben stone were never again to be utterly closed to that truth; as life's day waned, a better light dawned on the invalid's soul. [j] john iii. . [k] hebrews xii. . xxiii. the wife's resolve. on, on flowed the stream, round and round went the mill-wheel; and even so flows the current of time, and the circle of daily occupation goes round and round. little bessy, the miller's child, used every afternoon to watch ned and his little band of workers going cheerfully to their toil; for the short cut to wild rose hollow was through the wooded glen. whistling and singing, laughing and shouting, the boys came along, and often a nosegay from a cottage garden, or a garland of flowers from the hedge, was left on the way for bessy. the almshouses she always called _her_ cottages, and the boys who labored to repair them _her_ workmen; and the child's day-dream, as she sported by the stream, was to build a whole village of cottages, the prettiest that ever were seen, so that every poor old woman in england might have one with a garden all brilliant with flowers. before ned and his "jovial crew," as he called the school-boys, had left off working in wild rose hollow, just at the hour of six they always saw john sands return from visiting the hospital of b----. the hollow, though a little apart from the high road, yet commanded a view of it, and, punctual as the clock, with his black coat, white neck-cloth, and a narrow-brimmed hat surmounting his close-cropped black hair, the lean, stiff figure of the clerk was seen passing a certain thorn-tree which grew by the dusty highway. the boys were so much accustomed to this sight of the poor husband pursuing his silent, joyless way back to his solitary home, that he would certainly have been missed by them, had he on any day failed to appear. it was as natural to catch that glimpse of him passing the thorn-tree, as it was on sundays to see him in his place under the reading-desk in church; whatever john sands did, there seemed to be a kind of necessity that he should go on doing it forever. it caused no small surprise, then, amongst the boys, when, on one evening in the latter part of may, as the clerk appeared at his usual hour, instead of passing the thorn-tree as usual, he turned off to the left from the high road, and, at the same pace, descended the narrow path which led down into wild rose hollow. any deviation from john sands's daily course appeared as strange as if the mill-stream had suddenly taken to flowing in some new channel. the attention of the boys was even distracted from old matthews, the cake and biscuit-man, who, with his well-known basket, had come that evening down into the hollow to tempt the "jovial crew" to spend some of their half-pence and farthings in buying its sweet contents. persis, who had brought her baby on that bright, warm afternoon to the hollow, partly that she might visit old sarah mason, and partly that she might watch her husband and his crew at their work, looked up with an inquiring glance from the low wall on which she was seated, as john sands came, with his long strides, towards the party. "why, here comes the old raven himself! what can be a-bringing him here?" cried one of the boys; "sure he's not a-going to work!" the idea of john sands shouldering a pick-axe seemed so funny, that it set the auditors laughing. "he's a bit red in the face,--i never seed him look like that afore,--as if he was going to smile; i fear he's been drinking like his wife!" exclaimed another boy; for anything resembling either a color or a smile on the sallow face of john sands had never been seen in the memory of the oldest of franks's "jovial crew." "he's a-walking right up to old matthews. oh, if he ben't a-going to buy lollypops!" almost screamed a little urchin, in the excitement of surprise. every young eye was watching with curiosity the movements of the clerk, who went up straight to the cake and biscuit seller. "will you take half-a-crown for all these?" asked john sands, pointing to the contents of the basket. the wondering boys gathered around, while old matthews, after a short mental calculation of the value of his sweeties and cakes, signified assent by a nod of the head. john sands pulled out an old black leather purse, opened it with fingers that seemed to tremble as he did so, and drew forth a half crown. he gave it into the old man's hand, and then, turning with a kind of nervous little giggle to the boys, he said,-- "there, you may have a scatter if you like it!" so much amazement was excited by such an unaccountable act of generosity on the part of the stiff and usually melancholy man, that the boys stood staring and gaping at him for one or two seconds before they gave the donor of the sweets the loud, joyous cheer, which was instantly succeeded by a scatter and a scramble. meantime, john sands strode up to franks, who was standing by the wall with a measuring-line; the clerk took hold of ned's one hand with both his own, and wrung it hard without uttering a word; then, to complete the astonishment of the beholders, went up to persis, stooped down, and actually kissed the baby,--a thing which he had never been known before to do to any neighbor's child, and which he could only have done, all were persuaded, under the pressure of most unusual excitement. john sands then turned on his heel and departed as he had come, anxious to escape from the noisy gratitude of the boys, whom he had treated for the first and last time in his life. had one of the jackdaws that haunted the old church-tower taken to soaring and singing like a lark, or had the ancient yew-tree been found on some morning bursting out into rose-colored blossom, it would hardly have excited more amazement than this strange conduct of john sands, the clerk. franks looked anxiously at his wife, and unconsciously touched his own forehead with his finger. the same thought was passing through the mind of each: "grief has turned the poor fellow crazy." but grief had nothing to do with the matter; sands was as sane and as sober as he had ever been in the course of his life. if his conduct appeared odd to those who had never known him but gloomy, solemn, and stiff, it was because such a (to him) strange guest had come to the poor man's heart in the shape of _joy_, that it had overturned everything before it; and sands, in the excitement of receiving such a guest, scarcely knew what he was doing. to explain the cause of this strange new sensation of joy to one dried up, as it were, by care and sorrow, we must relate what had occurred not an hour before, when john sands had stood in the hospital-ward by the bedside of his suffering wife. interviews between them had taken place regularly on every week-day. it had seemed as if poor sands could find little comfort in his visits to nancy. after his long walk from colme he would sit, silent and sad, listening to his wife's complainings and moans, or enduring her gloomy silence, which was almost harder to bear. sands was not a man of many words, at least, words of his own,--well as his voice was known in the responses in church. he never attempted to comfort, but he felt for his suffering nancy; and--little as he guessed that such was the case--very dear was his sympathy to her who was proving, week after week, the strength of his patient, much-enduring affection. on this particular afternoon nancy had been more silent than usual, and sands was thinking of rising and taking his leave at his accustomed time of departure, when his wife broke out suddenly with the exclamation,-- "i'll do it! i've made up my mind she shan't never throw that at me again!" "throw what, my dear?" mildly inquired the clerk. "bell stone was here last saturday," said nancy, speaking with strong but restrained emotion. "she threw out a hint,--she did,--that it is no great thing for you that i'm getting over my accident, for that a _dead_ wife is a deal better for a man to have than a _drunken_ one!" "my dear!" exclaimed sands, much shocked. "she did say it!" repeated nancy, vehemently, "and she thought it, and all the world thinks it, and _i_ think it, too, for it's the fact, though i could have torn out her eyes when she said it!" the woman of fiery passions, weakened by illness and pain, lost all her self-command, and burst into a torrent of tears. john sands knew not how to soothe her passion of grief, and could only repeat, "my dear, my dear!" in a deprecating tone of distress. "i'm not angry with her now!" cried nancy, suddenly stopping in her weeping and drying her eyes. "the young curate came just after stone's wife had left. i did not think much of the lad at first, but he, too, spoke what was truth, though in a different way from bell. what he was a-saying i've been turning over in my mind ever since. 'twill be hard work, but i'll do it. then i've been thinking, oh, many and many's the time, of that evening i spent with the frankses just afore i fell into the stream! i've been saying to myself, 'what a different home persis gives her husband from what i've given to mine!' she has a good husband,--i'll not deny it,--but he don't deserve better of her than you do of me, john sands, let any one deny that as can!" "my dear!" repeated the poor clerk, in a softened tone. it was a new thing to him to have a kind word from his wife. "now," continued nancy, who did not care to be interrupted, "i've lost an arm, and my right one, and it's not much as i can do now. but i'd do what i can, john sands, and i'll _not do_ what i've done," she went on, more vehemently. "i'll _not_ go a-disgracing you, spending your money, and breaking your heart. i'll take the pledge to-morrow, and, god helping me, i'll keep it; never a drop of the poison shall pass my lips again!" and this was the piece of good news which had sent the poor clerk on his homeward way almost dizzy with joy, so glad that he could not rest until he had got others to share it, though only by the very simple means of a scatter of sugar-plums and cakes! but nancy's conversation with her husband had not closed with her promise to take the pledge. there was something else on the woman's mind. "we've done nothing yet, john sands, to show that we're not ungrateful to that sailor whom i've been a worritting and abusing ever since he came to the village; and who yet jumped into the water and saved me, just as i was drawn under that fearful wheel. i'll never forget the horror;--i thought all was over with me then!" "i'd do anything," began the clerk, but nancy, as usual, cut him short. "you go home, and get my pretty cuckoo-clock, the clock as was given me on my marriage, and send it over to the frankses with a letter, a handsome letter; you're a scholar, and can write one as good as a parson. and, mind you,"--a grim, strange smile came over nancy's features as she added,--"and mind you, don't forget to send the weights, john sands. persis told the truth, and i'll never forget it,--a clock can't get on without the weights." john sands did not forget to take down the clock that evening, and to send it to the school-house, with a letter written so neatly that it looked like copperplate. it was a fine specimen of composition also, for the clerk could write well, though he could not speak well; and if ever there was a man inspired by grateful joy, that man was the husband of nancy. he did not, however, in his letter make the slightest allusion to his wife's late bad habits, nor to her intention of taking the pledge; there was a feeling of delicacy on the part of the husband that made him shrink from unnecessarily touching on so tender a subject. but often and often did the clerk mutter to himself on that evening, before he went to his rest, "didn't i always say it; she was tempted, poor dear, and went wrong, but the metal was always good,--very good!" xxiv. the blind maiden. we are now going to change the scene of our story, and, leaving for a while the quiet village of colme, with its rushing stream and blossoming hedges, turn towards busy, bustling london. my reader may chance to remember a slight mention made by sands, in an earlier chapter, of a jew and his son, of whose conversion persis and franks had been the happy instruments more than three years previously. it is to the humble abode of the converted jew that i will now direct my reader's attention. in a gloomy kitchen in a lodging-house situated in a low street of london, a poor girl sat, not on a chair, but on a box, for scanty indeed was the furniture in that dark, close room. the carpetless floor was uneven, the paper on the walls half peeled away, the plaster in the ceiling smoke-stained, cracked, and broken in several places. but it was not the aspect of the place that distressed sophy claymore; had it been adorned by rich tapestry, and pictures in gilded frames, it would have been all the same to her as far as regarded its appearance, for she was totally blind. though years had passed since the heavy affliction had come upon her, the poor young woman had never yet become reconciled to the loss of her sight. she longed, she pined to look on the sunbeams once more, to see the flowers, and behold again the faces of men. and then to sophy claymore poverty was a terrible trial. she had not been accustomed to it in her childhood. sophy, the daughter of a worthless sharper, who had spent lavishly what he had gained wickedly, had known more of pleasure and folly during the first fifteen years of her life than usually falls to the lot of girls in her station. now she was an orphan, poor, penniless, having hardly the necessaries of life, and owing even those necessaries to the generous kindness of a friend. isaacs, the converted jew, though no relative of sophy, had adopted her as his own child at a time when he was better able to support her, and would not now throw her off, though he had scarcely a crust to share with the poor blind girl. then sophy had sharp pain added to poverty and blindness. ever since the terrible illness which had deprived her of sight, she had been subject to attacks of rheumatism, sometimes in her limbs, sometimes in her head. as she sat on the box in that low-ceiled room, dreadful shootings of pain from eye and ear and cheek made her ever and anon start and draw in her breath, and then utter a low plaintive moan. but it was not only these trials, sore as they were, that made poor sophy's blind eyes overflow with tears, and drew from her that impatient wish that she might lie down and die. sophy had a wounded spirit as well as a suffering body. she had not the calm rest of that loving faith which has so often made god's children _joyful in tribulation_. she felt very impatient under her troubles, even though well aware that she had partly brought them on herself. sophy had the fear of god in her heart; but she had as yet but little love, and therefore could hardly keep from murmuring, though she tried hard not to rebel. "oh, here comes benoni, at last!" exclaimed sophy claymore, hastily drying her eyes, as a light footstep was heard on the dark wooden stair leading down to the kitchen. sophy had never seen the face of her little brother, as she called the son of isaacs; she had never met the smile of the child; but she would sometimes say that she could _hear_ the smile in his voice; and she loved to fancy him like the picture of a fair white-winged cherub, with a ray streaming down on his bright, uplifted face, which she had admired when she was a child. if sophy could have seen benoni as he entered the kitchen, she would have beheld something very unlike the image in her mind; he would have appeared as a pale, sickly boy, of about nine or ten years of age, with a jewish cast of feature, and very shabbily dressed. but perhaps sophy was after all not so much mistaken as many might have thought her, and benoni, seen with the eyes of the soul, might have looked much like a cherub still. there _was_ a ray streaming down upon him, though not such as can be seen by mortal eyes. "oh! have you sold them, benoni?" cried sophy anxiously, as she heard her adopted brother softly enter the room. there was not "a smile in the voice," but there was hope in it as the boy made reply, "not to-day, dear sophy. people seemed all so busy and bustling, they would not attend to me. but i hope to-morrow to sell some of your beautiful knitted things;" and benoni put down a card-board box containing small cuffs and kettle-holders,--a box, alas! just as full as when he had taken it out that morning to try to sell something in the streets. "i wish that the money thrown away on the wool had gone for bread!" said sophy, desperately. she was dreadfully disappointed at the failure, and ready to burst into tears. benoni went and sat upon the box beside her, took her hand in his own, stroked and fondled it, and looked up lovingly into her face. "poor sister," he said very softly, "i'm afraid you are still in sore pain; i wish i could take it away!" "you feel for me, benoni, you pity me," replied sophy, almost with a sob; "why does not god pity too?" "god does!" exclaimed benoni, looking shocked at what sounded so much like the expression of a doubt of the love of his merciful creator. "it does not seem like it," muttered sophy, half aloud, "or why does god leave us in misery like this?" "god knows why, and we must trust him," said benoni, simply. "why, you trust even _me_, dear sophy, a poor, foolish, little boy like me, when i lead you about in the street; you are sure that i won't bring you into danger, or take you where you would get any harm. you just hold me tight by the hand and walk on, and are never afraid. i think that's how we should feel about greater things. we should let the good lord take us by the hand, and then not start back and feel frightened. he sees, you know, though we cannot see, what is the best road to take us along." "i wish that i could feel as you do," sighed sophy. "how do you get such comfort in religion? i scarcely ever have any." "my comfort comes by thinking all about the lord jesus," said benoni. "i'm often getting anxious and sad, and then when i think about him, all seems to grow sunny again." "i also think of the lord in his glory," observed sophy; "but it seems as if in the midst of all the happiness of heaven he would not care to think about me." "but i like best to think about the lord when he was on earth," said benoni; "most of all when he was a little boy living at nazareth with his mother. then i know he can understand all that i feel, and the little things that trouble me so. joseph was not a rich or a great man you know; he was only a simple carpenter, and had to work for his bread. don't you think that joseph may sometimes have been ill, or out of work like my father, and that mary may scarcely have known how to get food to give to her husband and son?" "perhaps so," replied sophy, thoughtfully, "but one can hardly fancy it. all the pictures of the virgin mary that i used to see made her look dressed like a queen, and sitting on clouds, and one can't imagine that either she or the holy child could ever really want a meal." "ah! but one can't trust _pictures_," said benoni; "it is very likely, as i once heard dear persis say, that the lord jesus had a hard, struggling kind of life when he was a boy. and then he lived in a very wicked place; we know that from the bible. i dare say that he often heard bad words and saw things that would grieve him; and i dare say that bad boys would tempt him, and jeer at him, and torment him, because he never would join them in doing anything wrong. you can't think what a comfort it is to me to think that the lord had such common troubles as these." "_in all points tempted like as we are_," repeated sophy, the apostle's words recurring to her mind. "i do love," continued benoni, "to remember that it was when he was a boy, not many years older than i am, that the lord said, _wist ye not that i must be about my father's business_? it showed that _doing_ god's will was in his mind then, that he was preparing when he was a child for the great, great work,--the business of saving the world. and perhaps the lord had something to suffer, too, when he was a boy, preparing him for the terrible trials that came upon him at last; perhaps he had little crosses--like ours--before he had to take up the great one, and many a thorn to pain him, even in his quiet home, long before the cruel soldiers put the platted crown round his head. now, being hungry and having very little to eat may have just been one of these thorns." "but i dare say that the lord could have covered the table with abundance even when he was a boy, if he had chosen to do so," said sophy. "but i don't suppose that he ever did choose to do that," replied benoni, in a very thoughtful tone, for he was a child who reflected much. "the lord wouldn't make bread for himself when he was a man; it is not at all likely that he would do so when he was a boy. no, i dare say that the holy one tried to help joseph, and to cheer his mother, and told them that he was sure that their heavenly father would never forget them. i dare say that the lord looked _then_ at the sparrows and the lilies, and thought how god clothed and fed them, and then up to the blue, blue sky, where his heavenly father dwells, and never doubted that father's love, however hungry and poor he himself might be." benoni isaacs expressed himself like a child, but sophy felt that the love and joy and peace that breathed in his simple words were not of earth, but from above. the little one beside her was, like samuel, early called to listen to the word of god, and to answer in trustful obedience, _speak lord, for thy servant heareth_. sophy envied benoni his power of looking upwards by faith, and seeing god's love in all things, more than she envied him the sight of his bodily eyes. the girl and her adopted brother might be compared to travellers on a wide ocean. with benoni there were heavings and tossings, a gale of trouble lifting the waves on high; but love to god was like bright sunshine on that stormy sea, turning the foam into crests of pearls, the billows to waves of gold. but sophy was like one who journeys towards a frozen north, at a time when the sun for long days is absent. all around her was becoming dreary and chill; the ice of mistrust was gradually gathering and thickening around her, till it seemed as if it would hold her fast as in a prison, so that she should make no more progress towards heaven;--never get forward, never get through to open water and a brighter sea! there is something more terrible in this gradual freezing round the soul than in the sudden shock of temptation. it seems more impossible to "sheer off" from a danger like this. if we can thus find _mistrust_ beginning to spread around us its deadly chill, if the slightest doubt of god's love arise like a film on the water, let us instantly turn our thoughts towards the sun of righteousness though his rays may be hidden from our eyes; let us not be content to rest for an hour where shoals of unbelief are forming around; let the very north wind of trouble only drive us more rapidly towards the clear south, till we feel at last the warmth of that sun which has healing and life in each beam. xxv. honorable scars. "here's father!" suddenly exclaimed benoni, as he heard a familiar step on the stair, and rose to meet his parent. "oh, may he bring us good news!" sighed sophy. instinctively she turned her head in the direction of the door, longing to be able to read in the face of her adopted parent whether he had met with success in his quest for employment or assistance. all was darkness with sophy; but benoni saw in a moment, from the heavy cloud on his father's brow, the compressed lips, the haggard cheek, that he had met with severe disappointment. benjamin isaacs almost threw to benoni the single loaf which he brought, as with suppressed bitterness he said, "take it--i got it by pledging the last of my tools." "god has forsaken us!" muttered sophy, putting up her hands to each side of her head. there had been a shooting pain through it at that moment, but a sharper pang still had pierced through the poor girl's heart. the one chair in the kitchen had been left for benjamin isaacs, but he did not take it; he was too restless to sit down. under a manner usually quiet, he was a man of passions naturally fierce. these had been kept under control, first by a habit of reserve, then by the principles which he had adopted with the christian religion, but now and then they broke through restraint, and a short but vivid glimpse was given of an impetuous, fiery spirit. [illustration: "then go to the christians," he said, mockingly, waving me out of the shop. p. .] "man at least has forsaken us!" he exclaimed, with but half-suppressed passion. "i went first to elkanah da costa, him under whom i worked as a journeyman for years. there he was in his shop, surrounded by the silver and the gold and the gems that are dear to him as his soul. i told him of my difficulties; how anxious i am to find work, even if my wages be much reduced. he knows _how_ i work,--many of the glittering jewels in his cases had been set by these hands. 'i don't see you, benjamin isaacs, in the synagogue now,' he drawled forth; he who cares less for religion, be it in christian or hebrew, than for the lightest grain of gold dust that falls from the graver! 'no,' i replied; 'for these three years and more i have attended a christian church.' 'then go to the christians,' he said, mockingly, waving me out of the shop. 'you will at least give me a certificate of character,' i began. he cut me short with, 'go to the christians for _that_,' with a sneer on his face which made the blood mount to mine; and i turned my back on that place with its glittering wealth--forever! "i had not walked many paces from the shop," continued benjamin isaacs, "when whom should i come upon suddenly, on turning a corner of the street, but my near blood relation, my cousin reuben. he and i had played when children together, shared the same meals, read out of the same book, slept in the same room at night. i had written to reuben after my conversion, but i had received no reply. i did not doubt that he would be angry at my having left our common faith; but he is under obligation to me,--deep obligation,--and i scarcely thought that even religious differences would entirely break the threefold tie of gratitude, friendship, and blood." benjamin isaacs paused, knit his dark brows, and pressed his lips tightly together. benoni thought of that which is written, _brother shall rise up against brother_, and silently thanked god that he and his father, at least, had at the same time given themselves to the lord. isaacs continued his narration; it seemed a relief to him thus to pour out the bitterness of his spirit in words,-- "'reuben,' said i, and held out my hand; he drew back, and looked as if he would as lief have grasped a viper. 'turncoat, dog of a christian!' he hissed forth, and passed me with a gesture, which, had i _not_ been a christian, would have made me strike him to the pavement, and stamp upon him as he lay there!" the dark eyes of isaacs seemed to flash fire as he said this, and intuitively he clenched his thin hand. "o father, dear, then you'll have your scars to show!" cried benoni. the soft, sweet voice of the boy sounded to sophy like music after a storm. "scars! what do you mean?" asked isaacs. "ned franks said that what we have to suffer for christ, because we are his faithful soldiers, will be to us at last like the scars left by wounds got in battle." there was something soothing in the idea to one who was at the moment smarting from persecution borne for righteousness' sake. the furrows on isaacs' brow smoothed down; he seated himself wearily on the chair, and drew his little boy towards him. "you seem to have a good memory, benoni, for everything done or said by your good friend the sailor, though you were so young when we left the village of colme." "we had such happy days there," said benoni; "the happiest days in all my life, when you and i lodged in the pretty cottage with old mr. meade and dear persis, and every evening ned franks came to court her for his wife. he used to take me on his knee, and tell me stories, and i think of them now so often,--most of all at night when i can't get to sleep; it seems as if they brought those dear old times back again." benoni, in that gloomy london kitchen, could not repress a little sigh. as memory may have recalled to adam the sights and sounds of eden, so she pictured to benoni the cottage mantled with creepers, buried in its green wooded dell, with the gurgle of the stream and the clack of the mill and the happy voice of persis singing hymns at her grandfather's door. "and what was it that franks said about wounds and scars?" asked isaacs. "you know that ned franks had served the queen, and had been in more than one battle; yet he told me that he had never so much as received a scratch in fight, and that he half envied the fellows that carried away some marks that they'd been in the struggle; for that though wounds may be sore at the time, an old soldier or sailor likes afterwards to look at his scars. franks said, that if the bright angels in heaven, who have nothing but peace, happiness, and love, could envy us poor mortals anything, it must be the opportunity of giving up something and suffering something for the sake of the lord jesus, who suffered so much for us. the angels may have the harps of gold and the crowns of life, but they can't have the victor's _scars_, for no one has ever hated or persecuted them for righteousness' sake. sometimes," continued the boy, nestling closer to his father, and speaking on, because he felt that his simple words were giving comfort,--"sometimes i like to think of all the lord's faithful soldiers marching in glory before him, when all their trials and battles are over, and when everything which they have borne for him will be remembered. there will be joseph,--he got his scar when he was thrown into prison; daniel, his in the den of lions; the three brave jews, in the burning, fiery furnace. and then there will be the scars of those who have been reviled and spoken against and laughed at because they would serve the lord; scars of those who have lost money for christ, who have given up sunday gains, or wouldn't take bribes, or get gold in any bad way, and so were sometimes hungry and poor while they lived upon earth. and sometimes it has seemed to me," continued benoni, "that even if i _could_ get so easily through life as never to have a hard word or want a comfort because i served the saviour, i would _rather_ have some little scars to show,--not because they would make me deserve anything as a reward from my king, but because they would be like _marks_ to prove how dearly i had loved him." "ay, ay," said isaacs, calmly and even cheerfully, "_blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake_. it is the master himself who bade his wounded servants _rejoice and leap for joy_. if we have never received so much as a scratch in the long struggle against the world, the flesh, and the devil, it looks as if our fighting had been but a sham,--that we had kept out of the fire, and thought a great deal more of our own comfort than of the honor of our leader. he bore shame and loss for us; we should welcome shame and loss for him." the thought was taking from isaacs all the venom that had been rankling in his wounded spirit. "such sorrows are blessings and honors," cried benoni, and his pale face brightened as he said it. "but what are sorrows," thought poor sophy, "that come upon us, not because we have followed the lord, but because we have wandered from him?" she had listened to the preceding conversation in silence, bitterly conscious that the wounds which festered in her heart were not those received in christian warfare, but rather, in part at least, the consequences of her early folly and neglect of religion. sophy knew too well how entirely her mind had been set on the world. a gay ribbon or dress, a gaudy bead necklace, a sunday "lark," or a dance, had been more to her silly, sinful heart than all the truths contained in the bible. she had not given up one folly for the sake of her lord; she had not through sense of duty ever renounced the smallest gain; her dangerous pleasures had been torn from her,--not yielded up of her own free will; she had clutched them as long as she could; she had been made poor, desolate, and blind; but this had been because her waywardness had rendered chastisements needful, not because her faithfulness to god had led her into persecution or trouble. and yet sophy was far more disposed to repine than were isaacs and his son; she was more tempted to distrust god's love, though her very afflictions were a token of it. sophy had been a wandering sheep, straying upon the mountains of sin and folly, now near to the brink of the precipice, now close to the den of the lion who lurketh in wait for souls to destroy them. she would not then hear the voice of the shepherd: she chose her own dangerous path. when her friend, norah peele, under the influence of her uncle, had begun to try in earnest to lead a new life, sophy had done all in her power to hinder and keep her back; had first laughed at her good resolutions, and then quarrelled with norah because she could not be persuaded to break them. it was in mercy indeed that sorrow and sickness had been sent to sophy, like the rough sheep-dog after the straying lamb to frighten or drag it back to the fold; sophy, if left to herself, must have been lost forever. it is not always that trials are blessings, but such they had been to her. sophy had been suddenly checked in her mad career, shut out by blindness from many temptations which she had never been able to resist,--love of dress, of flattery, of folly,--temptations which were drawing her farther and farther away from her god. sophy in her misery had learned to pray, but she had not yet learned to praise; as a penitent she was sincere, but as a believer she was weak. she reverenced the lord as her king, had hope in him as her saviour; but she did not cling to him with rejoicing trust as the friend, the loving friend who bids us cast all our care upon him, because he careth for us. "shall we never go back to colme, father?" asked benoni, after along interval of silence, during which the boy's thoughts had been wandering back to what he considered the pleasantest spot upon earth. "there would be no opening in a village like colme, for a jeweller like me," replied benjamin isaacs. "i finished the business that took me there,--that of arranging and getting into order the curiosities and gems at the hall. my patron, sir lacy barton, is dead, and his heir knows nothing about me. i would never go to colme to be a burden upon the kindness of ned franks and his wife,--better enter a poor-house, or starve!" there was an independence of character in the jew which he carried almost to a fault; benoni knew that his father would suffer the extremity of want rather than beg or borrow from a friend. "it is long, very long, since we have heard either from the frankses, or from my dear friend norah," said sophy. "they know not where a letter would find us, my daughter; i have twice changed our lodgings since last i wrote, which i did when returning money most kindly offered. franks has his own family to care for; i accept nothing but from those who are my relations by blood." "or by adoption," added benoni, glancing kindly at sophy, and then at her basket of knitted goods. "you and sophy are alike my children," said isaacs; "our purse shall always be one; our good or bad fortune we share together. so," he added more cheerfully, "take yon loaf, my boy, and divide it between your sister, yourself, and me. 'better the dinner of herbs where love is, than the stalled ox and hatred therewith.' we'll thank god for the bread which he gives to-day, and trust him to send more on the morrow." xxvi. a scrap of news. heavy and joyless, sophy on the following morning arose from her bed, which was little better than a heap of rags, in a kind of cupboard off the kitchen. heavy and joyless she groped her way into the room where isaacs and his son were waiting for her coming to offer their daily morning sacrifice of prayer and of praise. sophy joined them in the former, but when she attempted to sing "praise god, from whom all blessings flow," her voice faltered, and she broke down; tears came instead of music. the remains of the loaf were shared for breakfast, and taken with some almost colorless tea. then isaacs and benoni quitted the kitchen, the one to seek again for work, the other,--with the basket on his arm,--to try to sell sophy's knitting. when they had left her, the poor girl seated herself on the box. she had no materials for work, even if she had had the spirit to labor. she gave herself up to sad thought, with her elbow on her knee, and her brow on her hand. "i wonder where norah is now, and whether she ever thinks of me! when she and i were merry young girls together, singing, and laughing, and building all kinds of castles in the air, how we used to promise each other that our friendship should last as long as our lives! she will have new friends now,--better friends than i ever was, who will not fill her head with follies and her spirit with pride. if she ever thinks of me, it will be with---- but i do not believe that she ever _does_ think of me," continued sophy, in bitterness of soul; "she is happy, earning her living honestly and cheerfully; she is not dependent, despised, despairing,--a poor, blind wretch, like me!" surely the ice of mistrust was growing very thick around sophy, making her doubt, not only the care of her heavenly father, but the love of her earthly friend! and on that very day, norah peele was not only thinking of sophy, but thinking of scarcely anything else. one of those strange little incidents which sometimes occur, small in themselves, but hinges on which great events may turn, had brought poor sophy on that morning forcibly before the mind of her friend. norah was on her knees, lighting the kitchen fire at the vicarage, with a bit of the advertisement sheet of the _times_, which was used as waste paper in her master's house, when her eye chanced to fall on the following notice:-- "next of kin. _if the nearest relative of the late tabitha turtle apply to messrs. grant, bold, & co., ---- lincoln's inn, he will hear of something to his advantage._" "tabitha turtle! surely i know that name!" exclaimed norah, pausing with the lighted match in her hand. "yes, to be sure, that is the name of poor sophy's aunt, who lived somewhere near portman square. i remember how we two silly young things used to laugh and joke at the name, and wonder whether she who had it was like a turtle-dove or a tortoise! _something to his advantage--nearest of kin!_ why, what if sophy herself should be nearest of kin,--if there should be money waiting for her,--she who is living now upon the charity of the jew who has adopted her, and who, i fear, has but little for himself! oh, that would be delightful, delightful!" and norah threw down the match, and tore off the little scrap from the paper, as eagerly as if it had contained the greatest piece of good news for herself. she could hardly settle to her work, so impatient was she to go and ask her mistress's leave to run over to the school-house, to consult her uncle ned franks as to what could be done for sophy. however, it was clear that the harder norah worked, the sooner her business would be over. she therefore plied her fingers so diligently, that, before eleven o'clock had struck, she received leave to go, "just for a quarter of an hour," to speak to her uncle on something of great importance. there was no time for norah to change her working-dress, scarcely time to wash her hands. on ordinary days there would have been no use in going to ned franks before school-hours were over; but this was hay-making time, and a week's holiday had been given to his pupils. carrying her precious little scrap of paper in her hand, norah hurried along the path to the school-house, where she found ned franks, with persis carrying her baby, just starting to pay a visit to nancy sands, who had, on the previous day, returned from the hospital to her home. "why, here comes norah!" exclaimed ned franks, gayly, "scudding along like a yacht in a race!" and as he spoke, his niece came up breathless alike in eagerness and the pace at which she had been going, for her walk had quickened into a run. "i've not more than five minutes," she began, and stopped to pant, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks glowing with excitement. "come in, then, and take breath, and tell us what news you have to bring us. what's this?" as norah thrust the scrap of soiled paper into his hand,--"what have we to do with tabitha turtle? she was certainly none of our kith or kin." as they returned into the school-house, norah hastily informed her uncle of her reasons for thinking that the notice might be of importance to her poor blind friend. franks and persis listened with interest. "certainly sophy should know of this," said ned franks; "but she's blind, and isaacs is scarcely likely to see the _times_, and if he did, it's a thousand chances to one that he should connect his adopted daughter with the name of an aunt whom she appears never to have seen, and may never even have mentioned." "we must write to sophy at once!" cried norah. "but how can we write," asked persis, "when we do not know her address? ned has not heard from isaacs for months, and then our friend mentioned that he was about to leave his lodgings, without saying where the next one would be." ned franks passed his hand through his thick curly hair, as if, by so doing, he could draw out some bright idea. "i've half a mind," he said, "as it's holiday-time, to be off to london myself, see the lawyers, and find out if it's likely that there's really any money left to sophy, and then hunt her out, if i can; though looking for any one in london is like searching for a needle in a haystack." "oh, if you will only go!" exclaimed norah, eagerly, "i'll pay the expense so gladly, as soon as i get my quarter's wages!" "no, no, lass," said the school-master, laughing; "i've enough shot in my locker to manage without your little store. only"--ned glanced at his wife; he knew that persis had been looking forward with the pleasure of a child to his holiday-time; for him to go to london would spoil a pleasant plan which the frankses had talked over for months. they were to have gone on that very afternoon on a short pleasure-trip to the sea-side; for franks longed, as he owned, "to smell salt water again," which he had not done since he had left the profession of a sailor. "what do you say, sweetheart?" asked franks of his wife. "i leave the decision to you." persis stooped down and kissed her baby, probably to get a moment for thought, and then raising her head, said, with a smile which cost her some effort,-- "i think that you'd better be off to london." franks glanced at the clock, nancy sands's cuckoo-clock, which hung in his little parlor. "i might be off by the - train if i hoisted all sail," he cried. "i'll get my kit ready in no time. if i'm early in town i may see the lawyers to-day. i must stay over sunday in london, but if i've a prosperous cruise, i hope to be back upon monday." persis was too busy helping her husband, and putting up his dinner of cold meat, to have time to think of her own disappointment, till ned franks, quick and prompt in everything, had started off for the station at almost a running pace, with his little bundle fastened to a stick hanging over his shoulder. norah had at once returned to the vicarage, full of hope for her friend, having perfect confidence that whatever business her uncle undertook he would do, and do well. persis gave a little sigh as her husband disappeared in the distance, and with him all her prospect of a holiday-trip; yet she was glad that she had made the sacrifice of her own inclination; and, taking up her baby from the cradle in which she had placed him, at a slow pace she proceeded along the dusty road towards the cottage of her neighbor. xxvii. nancy's return. with very mingled feelings had nancy sands returned to her home. it was in the twilight that she entered her native village. "i do not care," she said, "to have the gossips staring at me, or stopping me to talk." john sands would have hired a conveyance for his wife, as the walk from the town was a long one for an invalid just discharged from an hospital; but his wife, in her short, determined way, declined his proposal to get one. "i've two feet if i've only one arm," she said, almost sharply. "if i've walked that road once, i've walked it a hundred times; the fresh air will do me good." mrs. sands set out briskly at her husband's side; but before they had gone a mile she felt that she was no longer what she had once been,--that the sufferings and confinement which she had undergone had greatly told on her strength. her pace very sensibly slackened. "my dear, would you take my arm?" suggested the clerk, timidly, for he was still afraid of a rebuff from his hot-tempered wife. but this time there was no rebuff; nancy thankfully took the proffered arm, and leaned on it as she had never done since the first week after her marriage. whether it were that these old days were brought back to her mind, or whether the very necessity for _leaning_ made her realize the position of a wife in regard to her husband, who should be, according to scripture, her "head" and her "lord," we need not decide; but never had nancy sands felt her wilful, wayward heart so drawn towards her spouse as on that homeward walk in the twilight. as for john sands, his spirit was full of tenderness towards the wife of his youth. very few words were spoken by either of the two as they slowly proceeded on their way. nancy was too weary for much conversation, and so perhaps was her husband; but as they passed the carpenter's shop, she observed,-- "so poor stone is ill and not likely to live? he and i were the two strongest people in the parish." very much tired was nancy when she re-entered her home. she wearily sank on a chair; exhausted nature craved the support of a stimulant. an intense desire arose for a glass of spirits or a tumbler of ale; but she had taken the pledge, and neither she nor her husband liked to mention what was in the minds of both. john sands went to the cupboard and brought out of it the supper which he had provided for his wife, and himself arranged it on the table. there were little luxuries, in which the poor clerk had never thought of indulging during her absence. pickled salmon,--nancy had a weakness for pickled salmon,--bath chop, fresh butter, and white rolls. nancy noticed the consideration shown for her tastes, and drew her chair to the table, well disposed to do justice to the dainties before her. sands filled her plate, and then shyly--for he was afraid of hurting his wife by showing that he remembered that she had no longer a right hand--he cut up the viands into small pieces, and quietly pushed the plate to its place, avoiding looking at nancy as he did so. "it must pain her, poor dear, to be so helpless, though i'm sure it's a pleasure to me to help her," thought the indulgent husband. nancy had scarcely begun her meal when she stopped short, and fixed her eyes upon a tumbler of water at the right hand of the clerk, where she never before had missed at supper the pint of beer. "where's your beer, john?" she asked, abruptly. "well, my dear, i thought--i did not want"--stammered forth the clerk, nervously. "you do want it; it does you good; _you_ have not taken the pledge." "no, but"--there was a look of perplexity on john sands's sallow face; he did not know how to finish his sentence. "the truth is, you can't trust me even to _see_ it," observed nancy, gloomily. "i thought that i should not like to be different from you, my dear," said sands, in a deprecatory tone. he would have made any other sacrifice of his own comfort, as he made this, for the sake of rescuing his wife from her fearful vice. "different,--you can't help being different," murmured nancy, "you who never in all your born days took one drop too much. it's hard for you to be kept from your beer. but perhaps you're right, john," she added, looking her husband full in the face; "at least just at the first. i suspect that if i saw any strong drink it would not end with the _seeing_; i'd give the world at this moment for a draught of good double stout." nancy rose on the following morning much the better for a calm night's rest, and the breakfast was decidedly more cheerful than the supper had been. the clerk had afterwards to attend a christening, but his wife was not long left alone, for a succession of visitors came to see her, some from curiosity, some from kindness. one of the first to appear was stone's wife, the former motive being that which moved her, though she deceived herself into thinking that she was performing a charitable deed by going to see "that wretched creature nancy, who must be ashamed to show her face." "i hope that this will be a warning to you, mrs. sands, a solemn warning," said mrs. stone, after the first greetings and inquiries had been exchanged. "you've lost an arm, but you might have lost your life; if you'd been taken _then_"--bell paused, for there was something in nancy's face which told her that the temper of the old tigress might be lurking in her still, and that it might be dangerous to rouse it. it was hardly to be expected that mrs. sands would endure that any officious bungler should, as it were, tear off the bandage and probe the yet unhealed wound in her spirit. had john sands plied his wife with reproaches and admonitions after the fashion of bell stone, it is probable that nancy would have returned to his dwelling, not as a penitent, but as a savage-hardened offender. the entrance of mrs. fuddles put a stop to what might have ended in what she would have called a "flare up." mrs. stone suddenly recollected that she could not stop long away from her poor dear patient, and hurried away, shrugging her shoulders and saying to herself, as she left the place, that it was clear, from the company kept by nancy, that in spite of all that had happened, she'd be as bad as ever again. mrs. fuddles's manner was an utter contrast to that of the visitor just before her. she was excited and flurried in her greeting; she declared that she was delighted to see her dear old friend again, and looking well, wonderfully well, all things considered; only she'd need to take plenty of good nourishing stuff to get up her strength again, after such a terrible illness. "a little drop of something, taken hot, just the first thing in the morning, my dear; i've known it work wonders," said the publican's wife, who doubtless spoke from personal experience. "you forget i've taken the pledge," replied nancy, who needed no explanation as to the nature of the "drop" recommended. "now, really, i heard something about it, but i could not believe it. a sensible woman like you! but people do get round sick folks, and wheedle, and coax, and frighten them so!" "no one ever wheedled, or coaxed, or frightened _me_," replied nancy, sternly; "what i did, i did of my own free will, and i'll hold to it too." "to be sure, quite right; i'd be the last to try to persuade you against your wishes," cried mrs. fuddles, instantly changing her ground; "you don't know how i've been cut up about you,--and to think of its having happened after your leaving my house, though i said, and always will say, _that_ had nothing to do with a slip of the foot; any one might have a slip of the foot; the parson himself might have tumbled into the mill-stream! but you won't keep away from the old house, nancy, my dear," continued the publican's wife in a fawning tone, edging her chair nearer to that on which mrs. sands was seated; "you and i won't give up our pleasant chats over a--a cup of tea, if you like it; i won't press you to anything to put your husband out, or to offend the young parson; i'll offer you nothing stronger than tea, unless, of course, it was good for your health?" mrs. fuddles thought that she saw symptoms of yielding in her of whom she dared to call herself a _friend_. the woman, doing the work of the tempter of souls, knew well enough that there was something within poor nancy which was making her only too willing to be persuaded against her better judgment, and that if she crossed the threshold of the "chequers," that craving for stimulant, which had been like a disease, would become altogether irresistible. mrs. fuddles, eager to press her point, was annoyed by the interruption caused by another visitor. "why, if here ben't mrs. franks!" she exclaimed, rising from her chair with ill-concealed vexation; a feeling which was increased by the very cordial manner in which nancy received the wife of her brave preserver. it almost seemed as if the gentle, pure-minded mother, bearing her innocent babe on her bosom, had come as a guardian angel to the aid of a tempted soul. a purer atmosphere was breathed around persis; the fragrance of the roses, which she had brought from her garden as a gift to nancy did not contrast more strongly with the odor of brandy which clung to the publican's wife, than did the meek dignity of the christian matron contrast with the fawning vulgarity of the mistress of the "chequers." "my game's up for this time," thought mrs. fuddles, as she soon after took her bustling leave. the cottage seemed a holier as well as a quieter place when rid of her presence. "i am so glad to see you back here," said persis, looking with kindly interest at nancy, as one who had so narrowly escaped a terrible death. "i know that you are, persis franks; you have always been a true friend to me," replied mrs. sands; and the ear of ned's wife caught with pleasure the emphasis on the word _you_. then the baby was duly exhibited and admired; the heart of poor nancy always warmed towards a baby. how he had grown,--how much he was improved,--how like he was to his father, especially when the little one laughed and crowed, and showed the dimple on his cheek! persis was always a patient, smiling listener to the praises of either her husband or her child. the conversation, however, took before long an abrupt turn. nancy had something on her mind which, as was usual with her, soon found its way to her tongue. "do you think i shall be _able_ to keep the pledge?" she asked suddenly, though persis had made no allusion to the subject. mrs. franks, however, easily connected the abrupt question with the visit of mrs. fuddles. nancy repeated it rather impatiently, as persis hesitated before giving a reply. "i think that depends upon two things," she answered, looking down as she spoke, perhaps to avoid meeting the gaze of the keen black eyes fixed upon her. "what are these two things, persis franks? you need not mind speaking out boldly; you are not one to force your advice where it's not asked, nor to set yourself up, like bell stone, for being a deal better than your neighbors. i want to keep the pledge if i can, if only for the sake of poor john; but how am i to do it?" "the first thing, at least so it seems to me," replied persis, "is to keep out of all way of temptation." "you don't mean to say i'm to cut an old friend," said nancy, who was longing to renew her dangerous visits to mrs. fuddles. "if i were you i would never venture near the 'chequers;' at least, not without my husband," replied persis. nancy flushed, and muttered something that sounded like "with a keeper;" but her good sense approved of that which had offended her pride; and, after a short struggle with herself, she said, "yes, yes, i'll never more enter the 'chequers' without john, and that's next thing to saying that i'll never go there again. what's the second thing that you meant, persis franks?" persis lifted up her heart for a moment in supplication for wisdom before she ventured to reply. "i think that your next,--your _best_ safeguard, mrs. sands, must be earnest, daily prayer to him who alone can keep you,--or any of us, from falling. while we shun temptation, we must also _watch and pray_." nancy made no reply, and persis, after a pause, went on. "i feel myself, mrs. sands, that i am no more able to stand firm without the help of god's holy spirit, than my babe is able to support himself without a parent's embracing arms. i come to god, just as a little child, for the daily grace which i need. i have no strength to hold him fast, but he will hold _me_ fast, if--with all my weakness and sinfulness--i give myself up entirely to him." tears rose to persis's eyes as she spoke, and tears were also glistening in those of nancy. "shun temptation,--watch and pray," she repeated, as if to impress the words on her memory; then, looking fixedly at mrs. franks, and speaking in the measured tone of one who has made up her mind, nancy said, "i will never forget your advice. i believe that i shall one day bless you for it in heaven." and from that time forth nancy sands was never seen at the "chequers," and not a morning or evening passed without the voice of simple, earnest prayer arising from what had been once the home of the drunkard. xxviii. a search. with all the speed which he had made, ned franks was scarcely in time to catch the train for london. the journey was without incident, and the village school-master ere long found himself in the centre of the noise, glare, heat, and bustle of the great city in the dog-days. "difficult navigation this," said the former sailor to himself, as he made his way across roads crowded almost to blockade. "i suppose it's because i'm not used to the thing; but i can't understand how children or old folks can manage this steering behind and before and between omnibuses, carts, cabs, and vans, dodging right under horses' noses, and all in the midst of such confusion and noise! i'd not bide in such a rackety place as this to be made lord mayor of london!" ned's first care was to visit the office of messrs. grant, bold, & co. he there obtained more precise information regarding the object of the advertisement in the _times_. mrs. tabitha turtle having died intestate, her little savings, amounting to something above two hundred pounds, would of course revert to her next of kin. she had had no brother, and but one sister, who, as the lawyer informed ned franks, had been married more than twenty years before to a man of the name of peter claymore; but whether mrs. claymore were living, or whether she had had any children, had not as yet been ascertained. no answer had been made from any quarter to repeated advertisements in the _times_. "i can pilot you a little lower down, sir," said ned franks to his informant. "mrs. claymore died long ago, her husband about a year back,--in a penal settlement; he had changed his name more than once, i believe. they have left but one daughter, whose name is sophy. she is now blind, and, having been adopted by benjamin isaacs, a christian jew, is probably called by his name, which may make it harder to find her. but it is worth any trouble to do the poor orphan right, for she has not a farthing in the world, and i fear that the generous jew is scarcely able to support her and his son." "can you give me any clue to her present place of abode?" asked mr. grant, with a languid air of indifference. "i'll give you what was isaacs' address when he last wrote to me, sir," replied franks; "but that was some months back, and he was about to change his lodging. i've not had a line from him since, but i'll be off to islington at once, and try if i can't hunt him out. poor sophy shall not miss such a chance for want of a friend who will take a little trouble to find her." ned franks took more than a little trouble; not feeling rich enough to afford hiring a cab, he, a perfect stranger to london, was puzzled beyond measure how to find his way through its endless labyrinth of streets. "i'm like a blind man steering amongst shoals," muttered the one-armed sailor. twenty times had he to ask his way, "veering about and tacking to half the points in the compass," as he afterwards laughingly told his wife, and it was not till after the lapse of several hours that ned found himself, much heated, tired, and with a racking headache, at the door of isaacs' old lodging at last. here little comfort was to be obtained. the shrewish-looking landlady who had unwittingly quitted her supper to answer the sailor's impatient and repeated summons, seemed half-inclined to shut the door in his face, and told him that she knowed nothing, not she, of benjamin isaacs. a working jeweller with a boy and a blind girl had lived there once, she owned, when more closely questioned by ned; but they had gone long since, she could not tell whither; if they were alive or if they were dead, she didn't know and she didn't care! slamming the door, the woman went back to her supper, grumbling at being "bothered by impudent fellows like that coming to hunt up old lodgers." "where am i to turn up now?" thought poor franks, almost knocked up, and a little discouraged by the result of his search. the street lamps were lighted, the public houses flaring, night was coming on; but it seemed as if to london and its suburbs night would bring no interval of quiet or repose. the village school-master longed for food, sleep, and rest. "but i won't give up my chase yet," ned said to himself. "knowing sophy and isaacs by sight, i'm much more likely to find them out than a stranger would be; besides, i put more heart into the business than that grand, sleepy-looking gentleman in black, who seemed not to care the turning of a straw whether the money found its way into sophy's pocket or into the sea." a thought occurred to ned franks as he stood in perplexity leaning against a lamp-post. "i'll step into one of the post-offices, and ask for a sight of one of the big red books that hold all kinds of addresses. though isaacs' will not be put down there, i may light upon some relation of his; and if i can but get hold of one end of the line, i may manage to follow out the clue." after a little more of inquiring his way along those noisy streets, where no one seemed at leisure to answer a question, franks found a post-office, which he entered. the shopman was putting up the shutters, and at first desired the sailor to wait till monday; but, perhaps struck by the worn, weary looks of the inquirer, he good-naturedly let him have a sight of the directory, which he took down from a shelf, bidding the sailor, however, make haste. franks hurriedly turned over the leaves by gas-light, and came to the name of "isaacs." it was perplexing to him to see how many persons in london bore it; how should he choose between them? ned ran his finger down the closely printed column till he came to the name of "reuben," and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction as his eye fell upon the word. "ah! that's a jew's name, anyhow; and now i remember isaacs telling me that he had in london a cousin called reuben, who was to him as a brother. i'm on the right tack at last! but 'lisson grove;' where's lisson grove?" asked the weary stranger of the good-natured shopman. "i hope that it's hard by, though i have not seen anything hereabouts like a grove." the londoner smiled at the observation. "you must not look for trees there," he said, "but a lot of low, dirty, narrow streets; and, as for the distance from here, i should say at a guess, four miles." "four miles!" repeated poor ned to himself, as, after thanking his informant, he quitted the shop. "tired as i am, i'd rather walk forty miles on a country road than four miles through this labyrinth of london. i could scarcely steer my course while i'd daylight; at night i'd not have a chance. i must hail a cab, and to pay for it i'll do without supper to-night, and maybe without dinner to-morrow, for i must keep enough of the ready rhino to pay for my journey back." a cab was hailed, and in due course of time ned franks, at the cost of a half crown, found himself standing in front of a pawnbroker's shop, where the blaze of gas-light fell on a crowd of the poor, thronging around the door, some to pledge and some to redeem articles of clothing, blankets, or plate. "i'm glad he's not shut up yet, though the hour's so late," thought franks, as, with a little difficulty, he made his way through the throng. the moment that he caught sight of the pawnbroker, the strong likeness borne to his cousin by reuben made franks feel certain that he had "hit upon the right isaacs." he had to wait, however, which he did with no small impatience, till the pawnbroker had leisure to attend to his business, and then franks knew that he must put it into as few words as might be, as the night was now far advanced. "pray, sir, haven't you a cousin of the name of benjamin isaacs, who has adopted a blind girl as his daughter?" asked ned, in a rapid tone. "ay, more fool he!" muttered reuben. "that mayn't prove the case in the long run, my friend," said the warm-hearted sailor. "no one's the worse in the end for helping widow or orphan. the girl's just come in for some money. can you tell me where to find her, or your cousin?" little did franks, himself the soul of candor and truth, suspect the perfidy and malice that prompted the pawnbroker's reply. "if you're seeking them out to tell them of such a bit of good luck, you're a day too late for the fair. benjamin, his boy, and the girl, the whole lot of them, sailed last week for australia!" "are you certain of that?" inquired ned, anxiously. "as sure as i am that my name's reuben isaacs. i saw them to the docks myself;" and the man turned suddenly round to a customer, perhaps to hide the smile of gratified malice which rose to his lips. "then my work is done!" exclaimed franks, leaving the place with a sense of bitter disappointment. "nothing remains for me now but to find some berth for the night." and it was close upon midnight before the weary man found one. xxix. pleasure or principle? ned franks had wished to combine cheapness and comfort in his lodging, but this appearing to be an impossible arrangement, he gave up the second for the sake of the first, and passed in a dirty boarding-house one of the most uncomfortable nights that he had ever known. accustomed as he had been when a sailor to "roughing it," ned franks could have slept soundly in an open boat or under a hedge; but the suffocating atmosphere of an almost air-tight room, shared with a dirty portuguese, made him, weary as he was, unable to snatch more than a few minutes of broken, feverish slumber, to which the name of repose could not be given. franks was glad when morning broke, and he was able to rise and go forth into the air from what he considered to be "as bad as any black-hole." "i wish that i were back again amongst our own green fields, or that i'd never had the folly to come on such a wild cruise as this," muttered franks to himself, he being in a somewhat irritable mood. "persis and i might have been now,--but there is no use regretting what's done. i believe that the search, useless as it has turned out, was the right thing to be attempted. it's our part in life to try and do our duty; and then, if it seems that we've worked in vain, we must remember that all is in god's hands, and that he has always some wise, good, kind reason for sending us disappointment or trouble." if there was one sin more than another, from which franks was resolved always to "sheer off" at once, it was _mistrust_,--that gathering shoal-ice. he had been working hard; exerting all his energies, and giving up his pleasures, not so much for the sake of a girl in whom he had no particular interest (for sophy had never been a favorite of franks), but from obedience to him who commends to us the cause of the fatherless and poor. what is done unto the lord can never be done altogether in vain. when he bids us work for him, he bids us do so in a cheerful, trustful spirit, looking to him for a blessing, thanking him for success when success is granted; and, if it seem to be denied, never daring to doubt for a moment that _he hath done all things well_. "now, if this were any day but sunday," thought franks, as he walked through the street where, even at an early hour, the cries of the water-cress seller and the hawker unpleasantly broke on the comparative stillness, "if this were any day but sunday, i'd be off by the first train, and not spend another hour in this hot, close city. and why should i _not_ go to-day, although it is sunday? would there be any harm? i should be in plenty of time for afternoon service at least, and should pass a much holier, as well as happier, sabbath in colme than in london. i should be with my persis and my boy, and those who love and serve god, and not tossing about here like a stray bit of sea-weed on the waves. why, in the midst of crowds here, i've not a single being to speak to; and i feel as lonely in a city as crusoe did in his island! i think that i'd better go back at once to my home!" franks quickened his steps as he heard the shrill whistle from a railway station near, which reminded him that there are plenty of travellers from london, every sunday, bound on errands of business or pleasure. the temptation to franks was strong; so many excuses offered themselves to his mind for breaking the fourth commandment only _this once_. health, convenience, economy, the pleasure of giving a joyful surprise to his wife, from whom he had never before been separated for a single day since their marriage,--all combined to draw franks to the conclusion, that a journey on sunday was excusable in his case, if not perfectly lawful. as the struggle was going on in the mind of the one-armed school-master of colme, a woman, with a basket filled with pottles of strawberries, stopped him with the question, "buy any nice strawberries, sir, this morning?" "i never buy or sell on the lord's day, and i am sorry to see you doing either," replied franks, gravely but kindly. "sir, i can't help it," said the woman, with a sigh. "if i don't sell, my children can't eat." "obey god's command, and trust his promise, my friend. his command is, _remember the sabbath day to keep it holy_. his promise is, _trust in the lord, and verily thou shalt be fed_. god, who has all things in his power, will return unto his servants a hundred-fold in the end, whatever they lose upon earth by faithfully doing his will." franks walked on; but the whole current of his thoughts had been changed by the little incident; he felt that in reproving another he had condemned himself. "shame on me," he muttered, "that i, who know so well a christian's duty, should be so slack in performing it! i can see the mote in my brother's eye, indeed; let me pull the beam out of my own! there is no necessity for my travelling to colme to-day; no one would be really the better for my doing so; nay, my pupils might be injured by seeing the inconsistency of one to whom they look for an example. i must take heed that i _offend not one of these little ones_, by making them think lightly of the sin of breaking the fourth commandment. as for my passing a holier sunday in colme than in london, the day or the place is holy to us, whenever the presence of the saviour is with us. nothing but sin can divide us from him. i will stay, and take my meals quietly or unquietly, as the case my be, at the boarding-house which i've entered; and if i lack comfort for the body, there's many a church in this great city in which i can get pure and wholesome food for the soul. there are the church-bells ringing for early service,--the sweetest sound i've heard in london! and there goes the railway whistle again! the two calls seem, on this sunday morn, like god's invitation and the world's. how could i doubt which to accept?" xxx. found at last. saturday had been to sophy one of the darkest days of her life. isaacs and his son had been absent during the greater part of it, and the blind girl had been left to her loneliness and pain, the former only broken by a visit from an angry landlord demanding rent which isaacs had been unable to pay. isaacs, on his return, had found sophy in tears, and he was little able to cheer her, for again had the convert been unsuccessful in his anxious attempt to get work. he seated himself wearily, folded his arms, and, drooping his head, sat silent as one who feels that life is full of trials. but who "can suffer and be still,"--submissive and uncomplaining? "if i had but a little capital to start with," he began, speaking rather to himself than to sophy; but he cut himself short by the remark, "if god had thought it good for me to have it, he would not have withheld it; i am content that my portion should not be in this life. _better the reproach of christ, than all the riches of egypt!_" "success, success! see what i've brought!" cried the cheerful voice of benoni at the door. benjamin raised his head,--sophy turned her sightless eyes in the direction of the welcome sound. "i've sold all; emptied your basket, emptied and filled it again!" cried benoni. "here's bread, and delicious bacon, and a nice bit of butcher's meat too! it's saturday evening, so i got it for five-pence. have i not made a good bargain?" the boy turned with an appealing smile to his father. "how did you contrive to sell everything in the basket?" asked isaacs. "and how much did it all bring?" inquired sophy. "i'll tell you all about it. i had been wandering about for five or six hours, and had sold but three kettle-holders for a penny apiece, when i thought i'd try a woman who was standing at the door of a shop where things just like yours are sold. i begged her to buy; she looked doubtful. i told her she might have everything that was left for a shilling, and so she cleared off all that was in the basket at once!" isaacs shook his head with a rather sad smile. "you are no great hand at making a bargain in the selling line, whatever you may be in the buying," said he. "a shilling would not pay for the wool!" murmured sophy, in a tone of bitter disappointment. little benoni looked mortified and distressed. "you told me to sell the things for what they would bring," he said, sadly. "yesterday they brought nothing at all. i dare say i've done very foolishly, but i wanted to bring home plenty of nice food for sunday." "and you have brought plenty; and we have to thank sophy for feeding us all by the work of her hands," said isaacs, kindly. "i wish that i had earned as much to-day as you and she have, my boy." benoni looked gratefully at his father, but the cloud did not pass from the brow of sophy. what hopes she had built on that basket of work! how she had counted on the proceeds of its sale, not only to supply present need, but to buy materials for future labors! she had probably over-estimated the value of her little store as much as benoni had done the contrary, and now all that it had been sold for would be consumed in two or three meals, and nothing be left with which she might start afresh! sophy, hungry as she was, scarcely cared to touch the supper, purchased at what seemed to her at so very costly a price. we know that severe cold is apt to benumb those who are exposed to it, to make them dislike making efforts, even when life may depend on their doing so, and that they are in danger of sinking into a sleep from which they waken no more. the ice of mistrust brings to the soul a peril much like this. a chill of despair often comes over sufferers who doubt the love of their god. they are not inclined to struggle against its benumbing effects, to wrestle in earnest, or to press onwards with resolute faith. thus it was with sophy claymore. when, on the sunday morning, isaacs asked her if she were going with him to church, she shook her head, and said that she was not well enough to go. her sickness was more of the soul than the body,--it came from the tempter's whisper, "where is thy god? he heareth thee not." "if sophy can't go with us, benoni," said isaacs, "i'll do as i once promised,--take you to attend service in westminster abbey. now bring me the bible; we'll have our morning reading, my son." isaacs read about the story of the woman of canaan,--the touching account of persevering pleading, of faith that would take no denial. when the bible was closed, benoni, as was his wont, began to talk over the passage to which he had just been listening. "how happy that woman must have been!--so much happier than if the lord had granted her prayer directly!" "i don't see why," said sophy. "do you not?" cried benoni. "why, if the lord had made her child well at once, she would never have heard that delightful word, 'o woman, great is thy faith!' i always fancy that the lord smiled upon her as he said that, but that he sighed when he said to peter, 'o thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?' i suppose," continued the boy, "that both the woman and st. peter really loved and served their master, but he spoke very differently to them. sometimes i think--perhaps it is a childish thought--that when god's people have no more troubles, and they are welcomed up to glory, and see that what looked wrong really was right, those who _trusted_ most will be those to _rejoice_ the most. to some, then, the saviour may say, 'great was thy faith;' and oh, the delight to hear him say _that_! but i'm afraid that to most he will rather say, 'thou of little faith, why didst thou doubt?'" these words from the lips of a child were as a soft warm breeze from the south, melting and stirring the ice round the heart. sophy felt that her sullen mistrust was dishonoring her lord, and that, had _she_ been in the place of the woman of canaan, the first discouragement would have driven her away from the saviour. the blind girl made no reply, but a few minutes afterwards she said, "i'll go to church this morning; there's really nothing to hinder me." "yes, yes, we will all go together!" cried benoni, cheerfully giving up at once, and without any apparent regret, the plan of going to westminster abbey, a place too distant for sophy to walk to. it was agreed that the three should, as usual, attend service in their own parish church. and sophy, like many other sorrowful ones, found the saviour in the temple of god. her burden grew lighter as she listened to the numerous voices around her joining in singing the praise of the lord. she thought of the multitudes clothed in white robes, come out of _great tribulation_, and felt that those who will share such bliss _then_, may learn _now_ to _glory in tribulations also_. sophy and the isaacs were among the last to quit marylebone church. as the blind girl slowly walked down the steps under the portico, she was almost startled by the joyful exclamation, "hurrah! i've found them at last!" "ned franks!" cried isaacs and benoni in a breath. it would be difficult to decide who was most delighted by a meeting so unexpected,--franks, or those whom he had so anxiously sought. isaacs invited his friend to go home with him; then almost repented having done so, for he was ashamed of his miserable abode. benoni was secretly glad that for once there was something better than a crust to offer to the guest. franks was so eager to tell his good news, that he could scarcely wait till they had reached a more quiet place than the marylebone road. his eagerness was greatly increased by the poverty betrayed by the appearance of his friends. "help has not come before it was needed," he thought, as he looked at their thin, sunken features, and their shabby, though still decent, dress. "how thankful i am that i came on this cruise! and doubly thankful that i did not start for colme this morning, and so lose the prize which was right ahead of me!" franks kept his great secret tolerably well, only letting the fact that he had some good news ooze out a little, till the party had entered together the gloomy lodging of isaacs. then, indeed, he enjoyed to the full that feast to a kindly heart, the power of imparting glad tidings. the very bareness of the kitchen seemed to make his message brighter, like a dark background setting off a pattern of gold. isaacs' grave features relaxed into a smile; benoni clapped his thin hands and could hardly keep from shouting; sophy looked at first as if she could hardly believe what she heard, then clasped her hands and raised her sightless eyes towards heaven. "father," cried benoni, "you said that if you'd but a little capital to start with, you could make your way"--isaacs hurriedly stopped him short by gesture and glance. "i shall advise sophy how to lay out her little property to the best advantage for herself," said the jew. "and that is by your taking it, using it, doing what you will with it!" cried sophy with emotion. "o my father, have you not called me your child; have you not said again and again that our purse should always be one? have you not shared your little with me, fed and clothed me for years? what is mine is yours and my brother's; let it start you in business, and we will all share together whatever your gains may be. i would rather throw the money into the street, and myself go into the workhouse, than have property and not enjoy it with you and my dear benoni!" "the lass says well," observed franks. "her money can't be better laid out than in giving you the power to support all three." "i might take it as a loan, if sophy would trust me," said benjamin isaacs. "_trust you!_" exclaimed the blind girl, while joyful tears coursed down her cheeks; "you to whom i owe so much, you who have been to me as a father, from whom i deserved nothing, and yet have received everything! it would be strange indeed if i could not trust you!" did conscience then whisper to sophy that it had been stranger still that she should mistrust one who _like as a father pitieth his children_, who had loved and watched over her from her cradle, and would love and bless her even to the end? and so the long struggle with poverty came to a close with benjamin isaacs. from that time he was to be as successful in business as he had formerly been unfortunate. the working jeweller was to realize how true is the word of god, _the blessing of the lord it maketh rich, and he addeth no sorrow with it_. sophy laid out her little property to very good interest when she lent it to her father by adoption. the blind girl never recovered her bodily sight, but the darkness had passed from her soul; she had learned to _rejoice in the lord_, and to wait with trustful hope for the day when all clouds of sorrow and mists of doubts shall be rolled away forever. xxxi. the baronet's return. ned franks had an exceedingly pleasant journey home. he arrived at colme in high spirits, and received a joyful welcome from persis; to whom he gave a very amusing account of all his adventures in london, and of their happy conclusion. persis, on her part, had a good deal to tell, though, like a sensible wife, she let her husband first have out his say. she told of her visit to nancy sands. franks listened to her account with interest and pleasure; and, when he heard that the poor woman had attended church upon sunday, his honest blue eyes lighted up with an expression of joy. "it's a real pleasure," he cried, "to see a fellow-creature lifted out of poverty, and given a good start in life, like benjamin isaacs; but it's a still greater pleasure to see a poor sinner that was going to ruin raised out of the mire, and turning her face towards zion. o persis! i trust that there's many a one that man would have rooted up as worthless tares that will be found in the heavenly garner at last!" "and poor ben stone is, i hear, far more anxious about his soul than he ever was before," said persis. "i do trust that he is now resting on sure ground; that he is giving up all vain hopes of being saved by anything but living faith in the one great sacrifice for sin." "you and i are exchanging good tidings, my persis," said franks. "all seems bright sunshine now, within as well as without, in this glorious month of june." "i cannot quite say that, dear ned. we had something of a cloud sweeping over colme yesterday in the shape of a carriage and four, with postilion and post-horn, dashing through the village during church-time, on the way to the hall." "you don't mean to tell me that young sir lacy barton has come to take possession of his property!" exclaimed ned franks, looking startled at the news. "i had hoped with all my heart and soul that he would have kept away for years. you know that i had but too good an opportunity of judging of the character of that young man when i was a sailor on board the same man-of-war in which he was serving. i don't like to think ill, still less to speak ill, of any one who has served under the dear old union-jack of england; but i should be sorry to think that the queen has another officer to match that young scapegrace, barton. i wish that the old baronet had lived till he was a hundred years old; it might have saved our village from the mischief which must be brought by the influence and example of such a man as his son." ned franks, who had been doing all in his power to train the village boys under his charge to be not only good scholars but good christians, felt like a shepherd who hears that a bear has been let loose in the midst of his flock. the lord of the manor would be like a little king at colme amongst his tenants, and his influence for good or for evil would be very extensive indeed. "the new baronet did indeed drive to the hall yesterday," said persis, "and he took good care that all the village should know of his arrival; for, as he dashed past the church where we were listening to mr. leyton's sermon, the post-boy blew a loud flourish on his horn. the church doors were open on account of the heat, so you may imagine the effect of the trampling of horses, and the sudden loud blast upon our little congregation. every one turned his head round, half the people rose from their seats, some of the children ran out of church to see the great man drive past! one could hardly blame them, poor little things. it was strange in sir lacy to return thus to the home of his poor dead father." "just like him, just like him," muttered franks. "you should have seen how our young curate flushed up to his forehead, and for a moment or two could hardly go on with his sermon," said persis. "it was a personal insult to mr. leyton for sir lacy barton to have the horn blown at the very door of his church," cried franks. "it is the more strange that the baronet should behave thus, as our curate is his own cousin, and, i've heard, the heir to his title and property." "sir lacy might not like him the better for that," observed the school-master's wife, with a smile. "mr. sands told me yesterday that he believed that the noise was made on purpose to spite the young preacher; for sands, as clerk, had had to carry a message to the curate just before service began, asking him to have the church-bells rung for the next hour in honor of the baronet's arrival in colme." "did you ever hear of such a thing!" exclaimed the indignant franks. "what answer did our young curate return?" "oh, a courteous one, you may be sure! i don't think that mr. leyton could be rude to any one if he tried; but i believe that he proposed to sir lacy a little delay. of course bell-ringing during church-service was out of the question, so the baronet gave us horn-blowing instead." "mean, sneaking spite!" muttered franks. "we are likely to have a stormy time of it if sir lacy stays long at the hall." "you and he are not likely to have anything to do with each other, i trust," said persis. "do you think that sir lacy will remember having seen you on board of his ship?" "i don't know,--i was nothing to him,--he was not likely to take much notice of a common sailor, and it is nigh four years now since we trod the same planks. but if sir lacy _does_ chance to remember me, he will not care to have any one in colme who knows so much of his pranks at sea as i do. i doubt he'll let me stay here long." "i don't know what he has to do with your going or staying," said persis, speaking, however, with a little nervous hesitation, for she was aware that the lord of the manor must be a powerful enemy. "do you not know," asked franks, quickly, "have you lived here so long without hearing, that this school was founded and endowed by a barton ages ago, and that the family have a right to appoint the master of it?" "i thought," replied persis, turning rather pale, "that you had been appointed by our good vicar, mr. curtis." "oh! the last old baronet let our vicar appoint whom he would, thinking, i suppose, that mr. curtis knew more about schools and school-masters than he did himself. but the patronage of the place goes along with the property." "then you must walk warily, ned." "that's not a thing i can do!" exclaimed the late sailor. "when i see an unprincipled fellow trying to corrupt others, and making use of wealth and position only to do the more mischief, i feel a kind of game-cock spirit stirring within me; it seems as if i must have a dash at him, come what may." ned franks's blue eyes sparkled with animation; he looked as one of the soldiers at waterloo might have looked at the call, "up, guards, and at them!" persis was fondling in her arms her little babe, that smiled up at her, unconscious of the shade of anxious care passing over the mother's face. she gazed wistfully first at ned, then at their boy, as she said, "oh, do not forget that you are a husband and father now." "no," replied franks, more quietly; "it is wonderful what a difference that makes in a man. it's well that tars are not allowed to take a wife or children to sea, or they'd think twice before they ran a ship within range of the enemy's guns. i could bear a pinch of poverty well enough myself, but i'm a bit of a coward when it comes to seeing you or the baby in want. bless him!" the father stooped forward and kissed the soft lips of his child. "but i can't answer for my own self-command, if i've much to do with that worthless barton. i detest him more than any other man in the world." "now, ned, darling, will you let me say a little thing to you?" asked persis, with a shy, tender glance at her husband, as she laid her hand on his shoulder. "do you think that our blessed religion allows us to detest any being on earth?" "it makes us hate sin!" exclaimed franks. "but surely _not_ sinners, my love." "the truth is," said the sailor school-master, "that i'm by nature of an impatient, fiery spirit. i'm one of those of whom it is said that they make good lovers and good haters." "a good lover, if you will," observed the wife with a pleasant smile; "but it always seems to me that the expression, 'a good hater,' can never describe a christian, who is bound by the lord's command, not only not to detest but to love his enemies." "that's a most difficult command to obey." "i am sure that it is," observed persis. "but he who gave the command, can also give grace to keep it. it seems to me, as if hatred, revenge, and all the fierce passions so natural to man, are like satan's fire-ships that he sends against even those who are going on the straightest course towards heaven--" "and you would have me 'sheer off,'" cried franks, gayly, "as soon as i see one bearing down on me, because i carry a dangerous quantity of gunpowder down in my hold! you're afraid of an explosion, wifie, and you're right. i dare say now that there's something of pride in my very contempt for a fellow like barton (he really is _not_ a gentleman); i despise him too much in the spirit of _stand by, i am holier than thou_." "and should we not remember," said persis, softly, "that those whom we cannot respect are our fellow-creatures still; they, like ourselves, have souls, precious souls, that must live forever? if they, through rejecting mercy, will have at last to share the misery of the rich man in the parable, should not our deep, deep pity swallow up every feeling of dislike? and if, on the contrary, they are to be found in the end amongst those whose sins have been forgiven, can we not bear with them a while in patience, even as god has borne so long with them, and with us?" ned franks answered the question by giving his wife a hearty kiss, in return, as he said, for her lecture. he promised to keep on his guard, less against sir lacy barton than against his own fiery temper, and to "sheer off" as fast as he might, whenever he found that satan's fire-ships of hatred, malice, or revenge, were drifting on the current towards him. xxxii. the bonfire. the holidays given on account of the hay-making season were soon over, and with their daily lessons at school, the boys of colme resumed their cheerful labors in wild rose hollow. already there was a pleasant change in the aspect of two of the cottages, which, through the combined efforts of workmen and boys, were declared by franks to be "quite weather-tight and seaworthy." the third was now "to be laid up in dock, and well overhauled." franks was ambitious to make the almshouses pretty as well as comfortable. he set the boys to gathering a large quantity of tough boughs which, tastefully interlaced, and painted to preserve them from decay, were to form seven rustic porches, round which creepers should be trained to climb. "they'll be like cool, pretty bowers for the old folks to sit in during the hot summer days," said franks; and he took especial pleasure in the gradually increasing pile of collected branches stripped of their leaves, which formed one of the most conspicuous objects in what ned called "the building yard" in wild rose hollow. cheerfully, on the day when work was resumed, the one-armed teacher led his jovial crew of noisy young workers along the familiar road which led to the scene of their labors. as ned passed the cottage of sands, nancy came forth to greet him with a good-humored smile on her face, which, if it looked paler and older than when he last had seen it, had certainly gained in pleasantness of expression since her accident in the stream. "a good-day to you, ned franks!" she cried, as she leaned over the little gate of her garden. "i wonder if you and your good wife could just step in and pass a quiet evening with me and john sands? i can promise you a good cup of _tea_," she added, with an emphasis on the last word which was meant to assure the hearer that she had faithfully kept the pledge. "i shall be happy to come, if persis can manage it; but the ladies settle these matters," replied ned, gayly; "and there's a little troublesome fellow, you know, who will have a voice, though he is not quite up to talking." "oh, you must bring the baby of course!" cried nancy. "the days are so long, and the evenings so warm, that he can't now take any harm." the invitation frankly given was frankly accepted, and nancy returned into her cottage saying to herself, "how strangely things do change, and people change as strangely! it's not three months since i used to call ned franks that canting jack with the wooden arm. i hated him,--i hated his ways,--i'd have done him a mischief if i could. and now i've lost an arm as well as himself,--i'm crippled far worse than he, and yet i believe that i'm better off and happier now than i was when i mocked and jeered at him. and, as for these pious ways of his, which made me so mad against him, i only wish i could follow them myself, and have the same lookout for another world as honest ned franks and his wife." "nancy sands is a changed woman if ever there was one," mused the school-master, as he hurried along the dusty road after his boys, who had gone on in advance. "there never was a being who tried my patience more sorely than she did, with her waspish temper and her stinging tongue. why, i remember biting my lip till it bled, to keep in the passionate retort to her very provoking taunts. yes, the fire-ships were bearing down upon me then; and if i was enabled to 'sheer off' and avoid an explosion, it was because conscience stood at my helm, and my sails had been filled with prayer. let no one make an excuse for passion by saying, 'it's in my nature;' the office of grace is to conquer nature, and tame the unruly spirit to the meekness and lowliness which become a christian." ten minutes afterwards, ned and his crew were busy as bees at their work, sawing and digging, carrying bricks and piling up wood, some of the boys singing cheerily as they labored, while the miller's little girl, seated on a stone, watched the work, and joined in the song with her sweet, childish voice. suddenly the singing ceased. franks, who was working hard with his back towards the path which led up to the high road, did not at first notice the cause of the interruption, till he heard a loud, coarse, and too familiar voice, exclaim, "you boys there, what are you about?" ned franks did not need the murmur of "sir lacy--sir lacy barton," which ran through the groups around him, to make him aware who had appeared. he turned round quickly, and saw a young man not more than two-and-twenty years of age, but whose bloated features already showed the effects of the evil habits which must soon have caused his expulsion from the noble service which he disgraced, had not his succession to the baronetcy given him an excuse for quitting the navy of his own accord. as the baronet stood on the path leading down into the hollow, between his fingers the lighted cigar which he had just removed from his lips, ned gravely touched his cap out of respect to his position as lord of the manor. the moment that the eyes of the two men met, the school-master felt certain that sir lacy had recognized him, though the settled purplish-red on the baronet's cheek would scarcely admit of a deepened flush. he took no notice of franks's salutation but by a haughty stare, and turned towards one of the boys who was standing with his foot resting on his spade. "what are you all about?" repeated sir lacy. "please, sir," answered the boy, "we's be a-building up them old houses," and he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "and what do such young fry as you get for your work?" "please, sir, we don't not get nothing," replied the little brown-faced rustic. "ned franks, he be our school-master, there; he tells us to work for the pleasure of helping the poor." sir lacy gave a loud, very scornful whistle, and then a still louder laugh. "if you listen to such twaddle," he cried, "i'll tell you what you'll come to, my lad. your ears will grow longer than your purse, and you'll have to take to browsing on thistles, like a donkey, as you are!" and to give point to his wit, the young man caught hold of the ear of the unfortunate boy, and gave it a pull, apparently to hasten the lengthening process, but which had only the effect of forcing out a sharp cry of pain. the circle of boys retreated a pace backwards, and franks had to press his lips very tightly indeed together to keep in the word "brute!" "and what's that?" asked the baronet, turning to another young worker, who looked by no means anxious to be singled out for conversation with the lord of the manor. sir lacy was pointing with his cigar to the great pile collected for making the seven cottage porches. "them be branches," stammered out the child. "i dare say; i did not take them for buttercups, wiseacre! so you've been making preparations for a grand bonfire in honor of my return?" the poor little boy gave a frightened, appealing glance towards franks. "answer me; i suppose you've a tongue in your head," said sir lacy. the boy was trembling for his ears. "them be for the porches, sir," faltered the poor little fellow, who had been one of the most active in collecting for the purpose the strongest and most pliable branches. "ah! but i say they're for a bonfire, and as a bonfire they shall blaze!" cried sir lacy. "here's a light,--you set fire to the heap!" again the frightened child looked to his master, though not daring to refuse to take into his hand the lighted cigar. franks strode forward, and, with as much calmness as he could command, addressed sir lacy barton. "i hope, sir, that you will not destroy that which it has cost us some time and trouble to collect, and which is intended to add to the few comforts of the respectable poor." "mind your own business, and hold your tongue," was the insolent reply; "and you, little dog, do what i bid you, or i'll toss you on the top of the blaze." in a few minutes the pile of branches was a crackling heap of smoke and flame, that curled up pale in the yet brilliant light of the declining sun. sir lacy laughed, rubbed his hands, and bade the boys give a good british cheer, if they knew how to do it. about half the number obeyed, though the shout sounded different indeed from that which had burst from them freely, at no man's command,--when they had resolved to give two hours daily to working for the poor. "now off with ye all to your homes," cried sir lacy, as soon as what he called "the fun of the thing" was over; "unless you've a mind to come and look on at a famous match between some game-cocks that i'm going to have up at the hall." several of the boys cheered again at the great man's invitation, and, whether from a regard for their ears, or a mean desire to curry favor, not one of them seemed to be in the least disposed to return to work. in short, as soon as sir lacy had lighted another cigar, and turning on his heel began reascending the path, the jovial crew dispersed in one direction or another. they were afraid or ashamed to appear to mind the school-master's "twaddle." "they've not the spirit of a tom-twit amongst them!" muttered franks, almost more indignant at the defection of his boys than at the insolence of sir lacy. "they just follow one another like sheep!" little bessy, with her face glowing scarlet, ran up to the sailor, who was standing alone. "oh, isn't he a bad, bad man," she cried, "to burn up all in that great big fire, and to make the boys go away? but don't mind him, don't mind him, ned franks. i'll work with you, if they won't work. i can carry a brick all by myself!" and she suited the action to the word. "there's a brave little lass!" said franks, stooping to pat her curly head. "you won't be daunted by difficulties, nor bullied into baseness by a"--he stopped short; the sight of the still burning pile recalled to him persis's simile of the fire-ships. he felt the fierce glow rising hotter in his heart than the flame from the branches which scorched his brow. he must not trust himself to say more, even to the child, lest he should utter words which he might in vain desire to recall. ned returned to his work, and labored with even greater energy than usual. perhaps the strong efforts of the arm relieved the pressure on the spirits, or perhaps the hard blows which descended on pillar and post were an outward expression of the struggle going on within, to strike down, and then to keep down, the stubborn passions of the natural heart. xxxiii. watching for souls. the evil effects of sir lacy's residence at the hall were soon seen in the village school. franks found that his boys became less regular in attendance, and less respectful in manner. he more than once, when giving a serious reproof, heard, from a distant corner of the room a whisper, in which "twaddle" and "donkey's ears" were the only words to be distinguished. few of his jovial crew now ever worked in wild rose hollow; it was not the fashion to do so. franks would see little rustics, instead of engaging in healthful labor, sauntering about with their hands in their pockets and smoking. the great ambition of the boys was to get a cigar; and half-used ones, thrown away by sir lacy or his rollicking guests, were counted as prizes. great was the annoyance of the good old invalid vicar of colme, great the vexation of mr. leyton, his curate, when it was given out that sir lacy would have a cricket-match every sunday afternoon on his lawn, and treat the boys to strong ale, or, as it was rumored, to something stronger. the vicar and curate held anxious consultations together in the study, where the old minister, feeble and suffering, reclined in his large arm-chair. "i have written a strong remonstrance to sir lacy, as you will see here," said the vicar, handing a letter to his nephew. "i have tried to write as temperately as i could. but would it not be well, claudius, as you are the baronet's near relation, that you should go and speak to him yourself on the subject? he may be rather careless than actually wicked. we know that "'evil is wrought by want of thought as well as by want of heart.'" the young minister shook his head sadly. "i have not the slightest influence with my cousin," he said. "he asked me to dinner once after his arrival at colme, and i thought it right not to refuse his first invitation. but what i saw at the hall, and still more what i heard, made me return home sickened and disgusted, and with a resolve that i would never cross the threshold again. it is a misfortune to the whole place that such a man as sir lacy barton should hold the chief position in it." the curate, who was just beginning to know his flock, and be known by them, to overcome his own painful shyness, and become accustomed to parish work, looked overwhelmed by the new and unexpected difficulties which had started up before him. "my dear boy," said the old vicar, in his fatherly way, "this will be a sifting time in the village; but we must not forget that temptation itself is turned into a cause of rejoicing to those who in god's strength overcome it. were there no battle, where would be the victory? it is _when the enemy comes in like a flood_ that _the spirit of the lord shall lift up a banner_ against him. let the danger to our flock make us but more watchful, more vigilant, more earnest in prayer. god is above all, and even sinners are made unconscious instruments in his hands for working good that they intend not. is it not written, _surely the wrath of man shall praise thee, and the remainder of wrath shalt thou restrain_?" "one comfort is that we have ned franks to look after the school," observed mr. leyton. "he has such an energy and intelligence, his heart is so thoroughly in his work, and then his piety is so sincere, that his influence is always for good." "such men as ned franks are indeed _the salt of the earth_," said the vicar. "the christian's calling is, not only himself to be, through god's grace, purified, but to become a means of preserving all over whom his influence extends from the corruption of sin. no man can live merely unto himself; the effect of his example is ever silently working on others; it is a talent entrusted to him, for which he will, at the last day, render an account." "for one like barton how fearful an account!" cried the curate. "he needs our prayers," said the vicar. the letter of mr. curtis was sent to the hall; sir lacy was at the billiard-table when he received it. he tore it open, glanced at its contents, then, laughing, twisted the paper round and round, and used it to light his cigar. "since the good parson's squeamish about sunday cricketing," he said, "we'll have a little cock-fighting instead to please him." the vicar was so much annoyed at this attempt to draw away his people from church, and make them violate the sanctity of the day set apart for worship, that all the entreaties of his wife, backed by the orders of the doctor, were scarcely sufficient, as norah told her uncle, to prevent him from having himself carried up to the pulpit on the following sunday (as he could not have walked up the steps), to preach on the fourth commandment. very unwillingly the good old pastor gave up to his curate the work which he had not the bodily strength to perform. he felt like a wounded veteran standard-bearer, when obliged to resign into the hands of the young recruit at his side the banner which he would fain have defended himself to the last. never before had bodily infirmity been so painful a trial to the vicar. he was rather grieved than surprised to hear how empty the benches had been at afternoon service, though claudius leyton had exerted his utmost efforts in the morning sermon to warn, to convince, to persuade. "i should have been utterly disheartened," said the weary curate to his uncle on the sunday evening, "had not nancy sands been seated just before me, looking so quiet, attentive, and earnest. when i remember what she was, and see what she is, i feel that i dare never despair." "_oh, rest in the lord, wait patiently for him, and he shall give thee thy heart's desire_," repeated the vicar. difficulties were however to thicken, and trials to increase. an incident occurred on the following day which caused great excitement through the village of colme. xxxiv. put to the question. persis sat with her work in her hand by her open window in the little room over that in which the school was assembled below. pleasant to her ear was the hum of voices rising from beneath, for it told her that her husband was, as usual, opening the day by devotion, and her busy needle stopped, and she silently joined in the lord's prayer repeated by many young voices. persis was then about to set to her work again, when, chancing to glance out of the window, her attention was drawn to three gentlemen walking along the road, each smoking a cigar. though mrs. franks had not before seen the baronet, who never appeared at church, she instantly recognized him as the central person in the group, by the description which she had heard of him. there was no mistaking the short, thick figure, the face where the color lay in patches of purplish-red, and the hat cocked a good deal upon one side, over a mass of sandy-colored hair. sir lacy's companions were a young lawyer and a medical student, neither of whom looked as if they would be likely to do much credit to their respective professions. persis franks dropped her work on her knees, instinctively clasped her hands, and drew back a little from the window, while keeping her eyes anxiously fixed upon the unwelcome strangers. "i hope and trust that they'll pass by the school without entering it," she said to herself, while the sound of their coarse laughter grew louder as they drew nearer. the hopes of franks's wife were not realized. the three men were evidently on their way to the school. persis could catch a few of their words,--something about badgering and baiting, and putting the fellow to the question. hot as was that july morning, persis grew cold and trembled, and for the first time let her baby cry in his cradle for at least two minutes before she went to see what her darling wanted. she had a terrible misgiving that nothing good could come of the visit of those three men who had just disappeared under the porch. earnestly persis prayed that her husband might be able to command his temper under any provocation, and so defeat the malice of one whom she could not but regard as an enemy. franks, upon every monday morning, as soon as prayers were ended, questioned his boys on the subject of the sermon heard on the preceding day. this was his invariable custom, and he found it to be followed by two good results: it made the boys listen more attentively to the sermon, and it enabled him to explain to them in his simple, homely way, whatever had been too hard for them to understand. the addresses of the young curate, unlike those of the vicar, were often above the comprehension of some of his ignorant hearers. franks, upon this particular monday morning, had just begun his questioning with the words, "now, sims, what was the text?" when there was a murmur of "sir lacy, sir lacy," heard through the school-room, and every eye was turned towards the door through which the three gentlemen were entering. it must be owned that to franks the visitors were extremely unwelcome, and especially at that time. the influence of the baronet was already working for evil amongst the colme boys, and he was but too likely, not only to take offence at the subject of the sermon, but to try to turn into ridicule any religious instruction that he might hear. there was some stiffness in the air of the school-master as he received the lord of the manor. "go on, go on, just as if i were not here," said the baronet, replacing the cigar which he had taken out of his mouth for a moment; and franks felt that for the sake of his boys he must go on. his pupils must see in him no cringing fear of man overcoming the fear of god. had he changed his regular custom on account of the baronet's presence, he would have shown himself unfit to train boys to do their duty faithfully and fearlessly in the face of all the world. "what was the text of the sermon?" repeated ned franks, addressing himself again to young sims. but if the one-armed school-master preserved his presence of mind, the scholar certainly did not do so also. sims, the same boy who had had his ear twitched by sir lacy in wild rose hollow, looked with an uneasy, frightened expression, not at his questioner, but at the formidable visitor who was standing with his hands behind his back to listen. the boy began to stammer forth, "remember the--the," and then stopped short, not daring to finish the verse. sir lacy barton burst out laughing at his evident confusion. "a precious bright scholar you!" he exclaimed. "if you'd been questioned as to whether sharpspur or redcomb had the best of it yesterday, you'd have answered him a deal quicker;" and the baronet wound up his sentence with a loud oath, such as had never been heard before within the walls of that school-room. franks felt that the honor of his master, the welfare of his pupils, forbade him to pass over in silence, on account of the rank of the offender, what in the case of any one else would have called forth instant and stern rebuke. "_thou shalt not take the name of the lord thy god in vain_," he said, in a tone not loud but clear, which, in the breathless silence kept by the awe-struck boys, was heard distinctly in the farthest corner of the room; and, as he spoke the message of god, the master fixed his eyes calmly and fearlessly upon the profane young man, who quailed and blanched under their gaze. the effect upon the astonished boys was greater than would have been produced by the most eloquent sermon against swearing. they saw that in franks they had a leader who would not only bid them wage war against vice in every shape, but who would himself head the charge, and expose himself freely in the conflict. badham, the lawyer, came to the assistance of the discomfited barton. he had a supercilious, sarcastic manner, almost more disgusting to franks than the coarseness of sir lacy himself. "you are well up in the commandments, i perceive, my good friend," he observed, addressing himself to the school-master, "and no doubt your knowledge on all other parts of education is equally deep. may i ask in what college you have studied?" badham winked at the baronet as he asked the question. "i was never at college," replied ned franks; "i was brought up at a village school, but left it early to go to sea." "but of course you have read and studied a good deal since, or you would hardly have been placed by the late sir lacy barton in the position which you now hold." ned franks flushed. he felt as if he were being put upon his trial, and before judges determined beforehand to condemn him. "i have not great book-learning," he replied; "but mr. curtis recommended me to sir lacy as one who could fulfil the duties of school-master here." "but the present sir lacy takes such a fatherly interest in the school which his ancestors founded," said the lawyer, winking again at the baronet, "that he wishes to judge for himself as to the competency of one entrusted with such a responsible charge as yours. he has desired me to ask you a few educational questions, to which, i have not the slightest doubt, you will give a prompt and able reply." "i do not think this the time or place for such an examination," said the school-master, whose countenance was glowing with indignation at the insidious proposal. "i will wait upon sir lacy at the hall at any hour that he may choose to appoint." "no time or place like the present!" cried the baronet, who had a keen relish in the "baiting and badgering" of the school-master in the presence of his pupils. "as i'm the patron of this school, i've a good right, i take it, to see that the teacher isn't a blockhead or a dunce." and then, at a sign from him, the flippant lawyer began to aim a shower of questions, like a flight of arrows, against the unfortunate school-master,--questions ingeniously contrived to perplex and puzzle even one who had received a better education than had fallen to the lot of ned franks. at every query to which no reply was or could be given by him who had passed his youth at sea, the baronet burst out into an insulting laugh, which was echoed by the medical student; as if the ignorance of franks regarding neri and bianchi, palleschi and piagnone, the respective styles of french, german, and dutch infidel writers, and the names of female favorites of bourbon kings, was as absurd as if he had been unable to repeat the multiplication-table. certainly, sir lacy could not have himself answered one of the questions. but what of that? one needs no deep study to learn how to laugh; and it was rare fun to him to humble and degrade the teacher before all his pupils. franks was more annoyed by the titter from some of his scholars, which now followed the gentlemen's uproarious mirth, than he was by the more direct insults of the strangers. that his "jovial crew," that a single boy amongst them, should be mean enough to join in the laugh against him, was almost more than his spirit could endure. _i am purposed that my mouth shall not transgress_, had been the text which franks had chosen on that morning for his meditation during the day. sorely he needed it now. as he stood silent before his persecutor, with flushed cheek and flashing eye, again and again he repeated that text to himself, to keep in the burning words that were rising to his tongue. he had spoken out boldly when the insult was against his master; there was the more need that he should show self-command when the attack was personal to himself. "you don't mean us to conclude," said badham at last, "that you have never so much as heard of all these well-known matters before?" "sir," replied franks, as calmly as he could, though his tone betrayed some emotion, "my work is to train village lads for usefulness here and happiness hereafter; and i do not suppose that farm-lads will be the less suited for either the one or the other because they can't give the names of italian factions or of the favorites of french kings." badham shrugged his shoulders, the baronet and the medical student shrugged theirs, to express their utter contempt for such a very ridiculous observation. the baronet was the first to break the silence which followed, which he did by addressing himself to badham. "what say you to our master here,--you who have all kinds of learning at the ends of your fingers,--is he fit to be a teacher of boys?" "about as fit as to be a performer on a lady's grand piano," said the lawyer. "while he remains here, the motto of the school had better be, 'where ignorance is bliss 'tis folly to be wise,'" observed the medical student. "it was a shame for mr. curtis to recommend such a fellow to my father," said sir lacy. "you see how unfit he is for the place." "utterly unfit!" cried the lawyer. "disgracefully incompetent!" chimed in the student. "i suppose," said sir lacy, in his insolent manner, "that school-masters, like footmen, expect their masters to give a month's warning. what day is this?--the sixth of july. well, on the sixth of august you will bundle yourself off, my fine fellow, and i'll take precious good care not to consult the old parson as to whom your successor should be. he might, in his wisdom, recommend some saint from the idiot asylum!" and with another laugh at this brilliant joke, which was echoed by his two companions, but by none of the boys, who stood aghast at the sudden dismissal of their master, sir lacy sauntered out of the school-room, accompanied by the lawyer and medical student. there were a few moments of silence after they had left, during which the ticking of the large school-clock sounded almost painfully loud. it was broken by ned franks himself, who, turning towards his class, resumed the interrupted thread of the morning studies by asking sims for the third time the question, "what was the text of yesterday's sermon?" xxxv. village talk. very uneasy had persis felt while sir lacy was in the school-room; very anxiously she watched the porch, in hopes of seeing him and his visitors quit it. she could hear from beneath the sound of laughter; but it was laughter which raised in her soul a very opposite feeling to that of mirth. she listened intently; but her baby was fretful from cutting teeth, and his crying soon drowned every other noise. persis fondled him in her arms, and hushed him on her bosom, and just as she had succeeded in quieting the child, saw, to her relief, the three strangers issue from under the porch. she did not, however, like their looks, still less the laughter which followed words of which she could not catch the exact meaning, but which she was certain had none which was good. persis watched the three men till they disappeared down a turn in the road, and then heaved a long, anxious sigh. lessons were evidently going on as usual below,--persis knew _that_ from the hum of voices from the school-room. she had to wait in restless expectation till the school broke up for an hour's recess, and she saw the stream of boys come issuing forth from the porch. their grave yet excited looks frightened the wife yet more. that something remarkable had happened was written on every young face, as the boys thronged together in knots of three or four, all seeming far more eager to speak than to listen. but persis was not much longer to be kept in suspense; she knew the step of her husband; she saw him enter, looking paler than she had ever seen him before. franks seated himself beside his wife, put his arm round her, and drew her tenderly towards him, unwilling to inflict pain, scarcely knowing how to break the news that he was a ruined man. persis had guessed the truth before franks said, in a tone which he vainly tried to make cheerful, "well, sweetheart, you and i will have to set out on our travels together." but when ned gave his wife a more detailed account of what had occurred; when he told of the absurd questions, the mocking laughter, the insolent taunts which had made his blood boil, even natural anxiety concerning his future prospects was swallowed up for the time in passionate indignation. "i longed to strike him," exclaimed the late sailor, "and i had to chain even my tongue! wife--wife--it is no easy matter to endure, or to forgive insults and injuries such as that man has heaped upon me! to hold me up to the contempt of my own boys,--that was the most intolerable wrong of all! i actually heard sam barker and peter core tittering behind me, the little sneaking--but your fire-ships are bearing down upon me full sail; i must not trust myself to speak on these matters,--i must try not to let my mind brood over them,--would that i could drive the whole scene out of my memory forever!" persis did not, as most wives would have done, stir up her husband's wrath to a blaze, and heap on it the fuel of her own grief, fears, and regrets. she tried in her gentle, loving way to make him look beyond second causes, to see that the trial--bitter as it was--was sent in wisdom and love, and that man could inflict no real injury except by drawing into sin. persis did not say much, but she looked bright and hopeful, to keep up the spirits of her husband. if they were to leave their happy home at colme, their pleasant occupation in the village, it might be because god had provided for them something better still, some wider field of usefulness in which they might humbly serve him. they were spared to one another, and their darling was left to them still. "whilst i have you and our boy," cried persis, as she rested her head on her husband's shoulder, "i feel that i could be contented in a hovel, or in a prison." the news that ned franks, the one-armed school-master, had been dismissed by sir lacy, spread like wildfire through colme. the tidings were received with almost universal regret and indignation, for both ned and persis were great favorites in the village. mrs. fuddles of the "chequers," indeed, observed, as she wiped the dust from a bottle of whiskey, "i guess that sir lacy knows what he's about. it aint likely that a sailor that's been spending his life in mopping up decks should know much about hedication." but the publican's wife was almost the only person who did not regret the disgrace of the frankses. bat bell, the miller, declared that to send off an honest fellow like franks from the school was like damming up a mill-stream; and that everything would come to a dead lock,--while his little girl cried as if her heart would break, and wished that that wicked sir lacy never had come to make every one unhappy. ben stone the carpenter, on his bed of sickness, heard the news with less than his usual placid calmness. "sir lacy," he observed to his wife, "is like the idiot who sawed at the branch on which he was seated. if he goes on with this kind of work he'll come down with a crash one of these days, though i shan't live to see it," added the invalid, whose increasing weakness warned him that his hours were numbered. i will not say that the clerk of colme looked grave and solemn when he carried the tidings to his wife, for he never looked otherwise, except on the very rarest occasions; but his solemnity and melancholy were of a shade so much more intensely black than usual, that his nancy exclaimed, as soon as she saw him, "why, john sands, has any one been murdered to-day?" but when she heard that ned franks had been dismissed,--dismissed in disgrace as incompetent and ignorant,--the wrath of the clerk's wife blazed up with a sudden fierceness that showed that the old shrewish spirit was not quite dead in her yet. as her torrent of indignation poured forth like lava-streams from a volcano, john sands scarcely knew whether he was glad or sorry to be so forcibly reminded of the nancy of former days. nancy was certain that the school would go to rack and ruin; they would never, never again see the like of ned franks and his wife! but perhaps in no place did the news cause deeper regret than in the vicarage. norah was almost overwhelmed by the sudden blow, and her letter to sophy claymore, informing her of what had happened, was wet with the young girl's tears. mr. curtis lay awake half the night, meditating over a second letter to sir lacy (which was--when written and sent--to meet with just the same fate as the first), and the invalid had, in consequence, a relapse of fever in the morning. claudius leyton, the young curate, broke through his resolution,--never again to enter the hall, and, like a man on a forlorn hope, set out to endeavor to move and persuade his cousin to recall his hasty words. the nervous shyness of the curate was not lessened by his being handed into a room full of rollicking revellers; a room which in ancient days had been used as a chapel, but which was reeking, even at that early hour, with the fumes of tobacco and the odor of spirits. it need scarcely be added that the visit of the young clergyman was as unsuccessful as regarded its object, as it was to himself painful and disgusting. the baronet, laughing, said to his cousin, "my dear fellow, you have come a day too late for the fair. i have already written up to my friend, dick sharpey,--you know dick,--all the world knows him as the luckiest card-player in london. i've bid him look out for a cute fellow who can teach the clods in the day, and be my billiard-marker at night. that's what i call killing two birds with one stone, ha! ha! ha!" it was with a heavy heart that the curate again turned his back on the hall, not surprised, though grieved, at the utter failure of his mission. mrs. curtis, a very practical as well as kind woman, directed her efforts to writing to friends in various quarters to try by their means to procure some other situation for franks before he should quit the one which at present he held. as ned would have nothing to fall back upon except his very trifling pension as a disabled sailor, mrs. curtis knew that, unless he could procure some work, he and his family would be reduced to absolute want. she also quietly set on foot a subscription to raise a little fund to supply his immediate need and the expenses of removal to some new home, perhaps at a distance. "it is only right," said the vicar's wife, and her husband warmly seconded her proposal, "that a testimonial should be given, on his departure from colme, to a school-master who has for years so faithfully performed his duties, and who has won the good will and respect of all whose approbation is worth having." ned franks and his wife knew nothing of this secret subscription. the most active agent in collecting it was nancy sands, who went from cottage to cottage gathering the pence given with willing hearts by the children, and the little offerings freely bestowed even by the old tenants of the almshouses in wild rose hollow. had the power of the villagers to give been equal to their will, ned would have been the wealthiest man in colme; but it needs a great weight in copper to make up a single sovereign's worth, and even the vicar, whose charity never left him a full purse, was unable to contribute largely, though he gave with all his heart. xxxvi. a struggle. two, three, almost four weeks passed, every week bringing fresh disappointments to franks and his wife. the vicar sent over to them every morning the advertisement sheet of the _times_; and anxiously were the columns of the paper searched and searched over again each day, and many were the letters written by ned, or by persis to his dictation, to take advantage of what they fondly hoped might be openings to some new sphere of work. but few of these letters brought any reply, and there was not one of an encouraging nature. ned always frankly stated the facts that he had passed no regular examination, and that he had lost his left arm; and one or other of these disqualifications seemed ever to bar his way to obtaining any employment. isaacs had exerted himself greatly in his friend's behalf in london, but hitherto without any success. he thought that the chance of ned's making his way would be greater were he himself on the spot, and sent a pressing invitation in the name of sophy to the family of the frankses. it was arranged that ned, persis, and their baby should travel up to london on the succeeding thursday, the day on which their dear home must be given up to a stranger. the new school-master had already arrived at the hall, and was constantly showing himself in the village. he even made his appearance at church, where, on the first sunday in august, the vicar had come to return thanks for recovery after his long and dangerous illness. the irreverent manner of the school-master-elect, who looked like--what he was--a low sharper, likely to teach the boys little but how to play, or to cheat at cards, made a very painful impression, not only on the vicar and curate, but upon all who cared for religion or morality in the parish. a very sad sunday was that to ned and persis. even under happier circumstances, the thought that it would be their last at colme would have sufficed to throw a shade over the brightest prospects. all their happy wedded life had been spent in the place. there seemed to be dear associations connected with every cottage, nay, almost with every tree. the friends who were dearest to them, the children whom they had taught, the pastor whom they revered, all, all must be left behind. would they ever see them again? and what darkness hung over the future! would franks, a one-armed man, succeed in earning enough to support a wife and child? and if not, what distress might be before them! and all this wrecking of peace, this breaking up of one of the happiest of homes, was the work of the wanton malice of one unprincipled man! on the sunday evening, ned franks, usually so cheerful and brave in spirit, was overpowered by deeper depression than he had ever experienced since he had first met with persis. he sat gloomy and silent in the darkening twilight, with his hand pressed over his eyes. persis had just placed her babe in his cradle, and drawing forward a footstool, she now seated herself upon it, at the feet of her husband. she longed to give comfort, yet scarcely ventured to speak, and at last, feeling that the words of the lord were far more likely to soothe a troubled spirit than any of her own, she repeated very softly, "_peace i leave with you, my peace i give unto you_." "if i had only that," said franks, sadly, as he removed his hand from his eyes, "i should care less for the troubles that have come upon us thus. do you know me so little, persis, as to think that i'm so downhearted just because we're in a few days to be turned out of our home, or because we've been disappointed in these letters from london? i do not say that i do not feel these things, but i should be a coward if i could not bear them, and a fool if i'd expected that troubles never would come." then, suddenly appearing to change the subject of conversation, ned abruptly asked, "did you hear what mr. leyton said to me this afternoon when we had just come out of church?" "no, i was speaking to nancy sands." "he said, 'poor stone is now sinking fast. the vicar himself is going to administer the communion to him--i fear for the last time--to-morrow evening at six. stone told me that he hoped that you and your wife would come over and partake of the lord's supper with him, as he owes more to you than to any one else upon earth!'" "and what did you reply, ned?" asked persis. "nothing. mr. leyton noticed nancy sands at that moment, and turned to ask her a question, and, as you know, you and i then walked home." "surely," observed persis, "it will be a satisfaction to us both--once more--in this dear, dear place--to"--she dared not go on, lest her voice should betray her distress at leaving the village. "how can i share the feast of love," exclaimed ned franks, bitterly, "when my heart is full of hatred! i've been searching and examining myself ever since mr. leyton spoke, and i _dare not_ go to the lord's table!" the school-master rose from his seat, and began pacing up and down the room while continuing to speak. "'to be in charity with all men,'--that is absolutely needful; without that i should but profane the holiest service. i can't shut my eyes to the truth, i can't deceive my own heart,--i do hate and detest sir lacy, more for what he _is_ than for what he has done! so i must keep away--like an outcast--from the feast to which i am so lovingly invited; i must not share it with my poor dying friend, or the pastor whom i reverence, though, by keeping away, i shall own before all the village that i know myself to be unworthy to join in christian communion. and if i am unfit to partake of the holy supper, i am also unfit to die, unfit to appear in the presence of my god! o persis!" exclaimed the agitated man, throwing himself again on his chair, "people talk well of me, think well of me--much too well; tell me that i've helped them on their way to heaven; but what will it profit me if, after preaching to others, i myself should be a castaway!" "god forbid!" exclaimed persis. "but, ned dearest, surely it is not the entrance of sin into the soul, but the harboring it there, that makes us unfit for heaven, or unworthy to receive the means of grace." "i _do_ harbor malice and hatred," muttered franks. "but you would turn them out this moment if you could." "i can't; whenever i think of sir lacy"-- "oh, think of him only when you're on your knees!" cried persis. "ned, i share your temptation, i feel what you feel,--not quite so warmly perhaps, but just as deeply. let us kneel down together now; let us confess our sin, our heart sin, to our heavenly father; let us together ask of him that holy spirit that can cast out the 'strong man armed,' and keep him out; and make us ready to forgive even as we have been forgiven!" the husband and wife knelt down side by side, and silently poured out their confession of sin and prayer for help unto him who could himself pardon his murderers. night darkened around as they prayed; and with the night came a rush of refreshing rain after the fervent heat of the long summer day. when franks arose from his knees his manner was calmer and more subdued. "persis," he said, after he had resumed his seat, "god has been showing me my weakness. i cannot by myself subdue the fierce passions within; but he can, and he will send his spirit, even as he sends his rain from heaven to quench the fire, and calm the proud, resentful spirit! i have made one resolution,--and may god help me to keep it!--never, if possible, even to name sir lacy, except in my prayers. yes, persis, you and i will not harbor malice and hatred as guests, but resist them as foes; and, to gain strength for the struggle, you and i will to-morrow seek the lord in his own ordinance by the bedside of our poor dying friend." xxxvii. the sudden summons. on the following morning franks started before breakfast for a spot called cliff farm, to make arrangements with the owner of the place for the loan of his cart to carry the school-master's family, and what little luggage they possessed, to the station on the succeeding thursday. the errand was not a pleasant one, but franks had no longer the heavy weight on his heart which had oppressed him so long as he felt that, not being in charity with man, he could not be at peace with his god. franks could now look calmly up at the clear blue sky, flecked with rosy morning clouds, with a spirit in harmony with the tranquil, holy beauty of nature. cliff farm owed its name to its position. it stood on very high ground, and was approached by a road steep enough to try the breath and mettle of any horse drawing a conveyance. on one side, not a hundred yards to the right of the farm-house, there was an abrupt fall of the ground, forming a sheer perpendicular descent of some fifty or sixty feet, down which tumbled a light sparkling cascade. it was the joyous leap of the young stream which, not a mile lower down, turned the wheel of the mill, after winding its way past the village of colme. the brook, rushing with a pleasant gurgling sound over its rocky bed, added to the charm of the spot, which was one of the loveliest in the county. franks had often bent his steps towards cliff farm, and stood on the edge of that steep, rocky bank, to enjoy the extensive view which it commanded. and there the school-master now lingered to gaze, perhaps for the last time, from that point on the beautiful landscape before him. there lay beneath him the village of colme, the ivy-mantled church in which he had been married to persis, and to which they had brought their first-born babe to offer him unto the lord. there was the dear little school-house, at once the scene of franks's earliest labors, and the home in which he had known more of pure happiness than falls to the lot of most men, even during the longest life. the eye of the school-master wandered along the high road leading towards the town; his gaze lingered on the cottage of nancy sands; never would he remember that dwelling and its inmates but with feelings of thankful joy. then the glance of franks fell on the chimneys of stone's house; trees intervening hid the rest of the building from his view; there the one-armed sailor had sought faithfully, and not unsuccessfully, to open blinded eyes to the truth. farther on--how well franks knew its position!--lay the wooded dell in which persis had dwelt when he wooed her, and where he had first met with isaacs, then an unconverted jew,--now, partly through his words, his prayers, his example, a consistent christian believer. the little stream plunging over the cliff, which was almost at the feet of ned franks, was the same from which--by the mill in that same wooded dell--he had drawn the drowning nancy at the imminent peril of his life. the pines on yon eastern hill looked down, as the school-master well knew, on the almshouses nestling in wild rose hollow. how greatly would he be missed there! if that thought was sad, it also was sweet. there would be many a tear shed by aged eyes in those cottages which he had labored so hard to repair. ned sighed to think that his work there must be left unfinished. still farther on roved the eye of franks. on another hill, girdled with woods, stood the hall; he could see its upper windows glancing in the light of the morning sun. "o god! thy blessing may yet rest on that dark place--as it seems to us," said the school-master half aloud. "thou sendest thy sunshine to all, so may none be shut out from thy grace. it seems to me at this moment as if i could forgive from my soul even sir lacy barton." as ned pursued his meditations, suddenly he was startled by a cry of "stop him! stop him!" from behind, with the sound of the clattering hoofs of a horse rushing on in wild, frantic career down the steep slope just above the spot on which franks was standing. turning quickly round, he beheld a black hunter dashing towards him at a furious speed, which its rider, tugging at the rein, tried in vein to check, as his horse was carrying him direct towards the cliff and--unless it were possible to stop his career--to inevitable destruction! franks had but an instant to calculate chances, to recognize the rider, to resolve to try to save him by catching at the rein as the maddened hunter rushed like a whirlwind by! franks made the attempt, but failed, and was struck to the earth with violence! the hand of no single man would have sufficed to stop the furious and powerful animal which the baronet rode. ned instantly sprang to his feet, and, as he did so, saw the fearful plunge over the cliff, and heard the wild cry for help from one beyond all human help. then followed a terrible crash below! "he's lost!" exclaimed the owner of cliff farm, who came panting up to the spot, followed by one of his men, who had also witnessed the frightful catastrophe, and ned's gallant though fruitless effort to avert it. "let's make our way down without a moment's delay!" cried ned; "he may be living still!" the three men, franks the foremost of the party, with all speed clambered to the bottom of the cliff, at a place where a little roughness in the ground, and a few bushes to hold by, enabled them to manage the descent. i will not dwell on the fearful sight which awaited them. the black horse lay dead, the rider apparently dying. franks took the lead in doing all that could be done for the sufferer. one messenger was sent off to the hall, another to the town for a surgeon. there was no difficulty in finding messengers, for country people, who had seen the horse when it first started off, now came running to the scene of the disaster. with all the tenderness that he could have shown to his dearest friend, ned helped to place the crushed and senseless sir lacy upon a shutter, and to carry him by a steep path which wound up the cliff at a little distance from the cascade, to the shelter of cliff farm. franks did not quit him till his own people, summoned hastily from the hall, were around him, and amongst them the school-master-elect. then, as he could be of no farther use, ned franks, thoughtful and grave, returned to his home. he found his pupils already assembled. of course the tidings of the accident to sir lacy barton were on every one's lips, and the boys awaited from their master an account of all that had happened, perhaps with such comments as what they deemed a judgment upon a wicked man might call forth from their teacher. but franks was not one to condemn a poor sinner already under the chastening of heaven, nor to gratify private malice under the pretence of enforcing a lesson. he was much more grave and serious than usual, but avoided making any allusion to the fate of his persecutor, though the awful scene which he had witnessed was the uppermost thought in his mind. it was a relief to franks, when, study-time being over, his pupils dispersed, and he was able to go to his own quiet room, where persis was anxiously awaiting him. she, of course, like every one else in colme, knew what had occurred, and knew, also, that the baronet had by this time been conveyed to the hall, where he lay in a very critical state. "persis, how thankful i am that god had enabled me to forgive that man," said ned franks to his wife as they met. "poor fellow! poor fellow! had he wronged me far more than he has done, i could feel nothing but pity for him now. let us pray that god may spare him yet for a new and a better life." the day wore on, and franks and persis did not fail at the appointed time to go to the cottage of stone; a neighbor taking care of their baby during the short time of their absence. glorious was that evening in august! the fields were dotted with golden sheaves, where the summer harvest of joy was following the early sowing in tears. mr. curtis, the venerable vicar, himself raised from what had been likely to prove a death-bed, came to administer the holy supper to a dying, penitent man. while the pastor had been a prisoner to his own room, as had for many months been the case, he had been constantly visiting in thought the dwellings of his flock; if he could not preach to them, he could pray for them. there were two of his parishioners whose cases had then lain particularly heavy on the mind of the good old man, nancy sands and ben stone. at the beginning of the year they had been the two in all the village who might have been pointed out, from their appearance, as giving promise of long life; the brawny carpenter, jovial and hearty, and the clerk's wife with her strongly built form, muscular arms, and loud voice. they were also the two about whose spiritual state their pastor had felt most concern. nancy, a slave to violent passions, furious temper, and a craving for drink. stone, free from all these vices, yet, in his self-righteousness and blindness of heart, almost as far from the kingdom of heaven as the neighbor whom he despised. almost at the same time the two had been stricken down, the one by a terrible accident, the other by sudden illness. affliction had come to both the pharisee and the publican. one had been raised and restored, though maimed, to her home; the other was never to quit his cottage till carried forth in his coffin. but mercy had visited each, and, as they met to attend the solemn service together, both penitents could say in the words of the psalmist, _it is good for me that i have been afflicted_. this was the first time that nancy had been a communicant; she had never before dared to approach the table of the lord. stone, on the contrary, had attended regularly, at stated times in the year; but with him, until now, the service had been but an empty form, only tending to increase the blindness of his conscience, by leading him to think that he had fulfilled all righteousness, when he made thus open profession of faith, without one spark of its living reality. at that time ben stone would have scouted the idea of nancy sands, whom he deemed the worst woman in colme, being permitted to enter his cottage on an occasion so solemn, to show that she shared his faith and his hopes, and might share his happiness in the mansions above. yet there they were now together, pharisee and publican, both brought to the foot of the cross; the once despised drunkard meekly giving god thanks that she was not what she once had been, and the pharisee, not raising up so much as his eyes unto heaven, but silently uttering the prayer, _god be merciful to me a sinner_! often had persis and her husband joined in the holy service, but never had they felt heaven nearer to them, and the christian's hope sweeter, than they did in stone's cottage on that bright august eve. they saw the saving power of the gospel in the two penitents before them, the one rescued from the rock of self-righteousness, the other from the whirlpool of intemperance. the little flock gathered together in that peaceful home seemed an emblem of that blessed band, who, through god's mercy and grace, shall, after life's troubles and tossings, reach in safety the heavenly shore. as the frankses returned, after the solemn meeting by the sick-bed of stone, a rich, golden glow was over the sky, and a deep stillness in the air; heaven seemed to be all brightness, and earth all peace. then came a sound, solemn at all times, but especially so at that hour, the measured tolling of the church-bells for a departed soul. it was the first announcement to those who had met in stone's cottage that the unhappy sir lacy had been called to his last account. yes, the bells that had been silent on his arrival at his ancestral home, now, with slow and mournful peal, announced his departure. soon would a dark and narrow home receive the mortal remains of the late possessor of thousands of acres. had power, wealth, and high station been a blessing or a curse to him who had not indeed _buried_ his talents, but made them an instrument of evil? the profane tongue was now silenced; the hand that had rattled the dice, the brain once so busy with evil designs, the heart that had been a den of wickedness, now lay lifeless and cold. the baronet's spirit had passed from earth, and left no sweet memories behind. another and a far better man would now bear his title and rule in his hall, and dispense happiness as widely as the late lord of the manor had tried to spread the contagion of evil. every toll of the solemn bell, which pealed through the calm evening air, seemed, with a voice more impressive than that of man, to repeat the warning, _he that being often reproved, hardeneth his neck, shall suddenly be destroyed, and that without remedy_. xxxviii. conclusion. franks and his wife received a message from mr. curtis, on the following morning, to desire them to come to the vicarage at one. at their accustomed time of assembling for study, the boys of colme flocked to their school-house, full of expectation and excitement, the congratulations beaming in their eyes which their lips did not venture to utter; for something in their master's manner told them that they must not speak to him of any change in his prospects likely to be caused by the baronet's death. the boys, who were rejoicing in the assurance that they would keep their "dear old ned franks," since there was a new baronet now, could hardly settle to business or attend to their tasks. had not their teacher found it quite as difficult to do so himself, he would have had to reprove or correct half his pupils for the most ridiculous blunders. there was also an unusual amount of nodding, whispering, and smiling, which ned franks for once tried in vain to repress. the boys had never seemed to care so little for addition or multiplication, or found it so impossible to master a column of spelling. "he'll never leave us, not he;" "won't the curate be glad to keep him!" "that fellow with the sly look, who was to have been our master, will have to take himself off sharp, like a beaten dog!" "won't we have jolly days now, and won't we work double hard at wild rose hollow!" such were the eager whispers which passed from mouth to mouth. it must be owned that franks seemed to be an inefficient school-master on that day, and had very inattentive pupils. lesson time was over at last, and punctual to their appointment, the frankses appeared at the vicarage just as the church clock struck one. the boys, instead of dispersing as usual, had followed them, like an escort, as far as the garden gate. norah, with a beaming countenance, was waiting at the door to usher them in. the young maiden had double cause for her joy, for her mistress had received a letter that morning from mrs. lowndes, mentioning that the confession of martha, her late housemaid, that she had taken the lost sovereign which had accidentally dropped on the floor, had entirely cleared norah from all suspicion of theft. mrs. lowndes expressed her satisfaction that norah had succeeded in getting a place, and gave her testimony that, except in one unhappy act of deception into which she had been drawn, a more truthful and faithful servant than norah she never had known. norah had not at this moment time to tell the frankses of this letter, which had been a great relief to her affectionate heart, but her pleasure was seen in her looks. she ushered her uncle and his wife into the study, and then would herself have retired, but her mistress, with a kindly smile, beckoned her to remain. never had she been more readily obeyed. in the vicar's study were collected several of the villagers of colme, looking on with curiosity and interest. sands, the clerk, unusually placid and serene in his mien, stood by the side of his wife, whose dark eyes expressed pleasure mingled with something like triumph. the sturdy miller was also present, holding by the hand his little bessie, who looked brimming over with joy. mr. curtis, who was seated in his large arm-chair, shook hands with the school-master, and then persis received first from her pastor, and then from his wife, the same kindly greeting. had there been any doubt before on the subject, the manner of mr. and mrs. curtis, and the smiles of the villagers present, would have assured the frankses that they were summoned to hear good news. the pastor when he spoke was listened to in respectful silence. "i have been requested, franks, by mr.--i mean sir claudius--to express to you his hope that you will continue, and _long_ continue," there was a strong emphasis on the word long, "to instruct the boys of our village school. he has had, during the time that he has been curate at colme (as i have had during a much longer period), the opportunity of seeing how faithfully, zealously, and successfully you have performed the duties of your office. to no one could we more gladly, more confidently, entrust the charge of our boys." ned franks bowed and colored at the praise; persis exchanged a glance of pleasure with norah. "and i have another pleasant office to perform," continued the old vicar, turning to receive from the hand of his wife a well filled crimson purse which had lain on the study table. "when we were afraid that we were going to lose you, that you and your good wife were about to leave colme, a little subscription was set on foot, to procure a testimonial to be given at parting to those who have earned the respect--i may say the affection--of those amongst whom they have dwelt." "they have--they have," murmured nancy, and little bessie squeezed tightly the hand of her father to express _her_ silent assent. "we are happily to keep you with us in colme," continued the vicar; "but our friends"--here he turned smilingly towards the parishioners who represented the subscribers,--"our friends will not lose the opportunity of offering the _present_, though we all unite in hoping that the _parting_ may be very far off." ned franks, by whom this tribute of regard from his neighbors had been altogether unexpected, was taken by surprise, and looked more confused and embarrassed than if he had been receiving a reproof instead of a present. "no--indeed, sir--i am very thankful--grateful to you--to all--but i could not,"--he stammered forth, shrinking from touching the proffered purse. "pray, let the money be returned to the subscribers. i feel, from my heart i feel, their great kindness all the same as if i availed myself of it." "they won't touch it, not a penny of it!" exclaimed nancy, who was standing behind the vicar's chair. "i went round to every one this morning. you must take the purse, ned franks, if it be but to throw it away!" john sands, who had a high sense of decorum, looked aghast at his wife thus venturing "to put in her word" in the vicar's own study; but the clerk only attempted to stop her by a faintly murmured "my dear!" "no, indeed, i will never throw away money so kindly, so generously given," said franks. "pray, sir," he continued, addressing mr. curtis, "let the contents of the purse go towards repairing the almshouses in wild rose hollow. i and my wife have everything that we need, and i think that i can answer for persis that this is the way in which she would best like the money to be spent." there was a little murmur through the circle of villagers, in which admiration of the sailor's generosity was mingled with something like dissatisfaction at his giving everything away. nancy said, in a very audible whisper, "they could have had their trip to the sea-side." mrs. curtis, who had hitherto remained a silent though interested spectator, now spoke. "perhaps all parties will be gratified by a compromise," said the lady; "let half of the contents of the purse be contributed by franks to the object for which he has pleaded and worked so hard, and let him satisfy his friends here by using the other half for a little holiday-trip for himself and his wife, when his pupils for a time give up their studies for gleaning." the proposal of the lady gave universal satisfaction, and when ned franks and his happy wife had quitted the vicar's house, the loud ringing, joyous cheer which greeted them from the boys who had been waiting outside went as warm to their hearts as the praise of their pastor, and the practical token of the loving esteem of their neighbors. when the sound of cheers had died away, and all the shaking of hands and exchange of words of kindness were over at last, franks and his wife, thankful and happy, turned towards their own home, whilst neighbors and boys dispersed to theirs. for several minutes neither husband nor wife spoke a word; perhaps each understood too well what was passing in the mind of the other for any words to be needful. at length the silence was broken by ned. "persis," he said, with emotion, "i think i'm more humbled than exalted by all this kindness, and all this praise. how our friends judge by the outside! it is god alone who reads the heart. how little they guess what a struggle with evil was going on here," ned laid his hand on his breast, "and that not forty-eight hours since!" "god gave you the victory," said persis, softly. "he helped me in the hour of temptation," said franks; "and when the enemy of souls takes advantage of my weakness, and sends his fire-ships again to set this impatient spirit in a blaze, may i be enabled to be watchful and vigilant, and steer my onward course in the safe track left by him who was _meek and lowly in heart_!" my little story is almost ended. i shall not linger over any description of the well-earned holiday-trip, which was greatly enjoyed by franks and his wife. the almshouses in wild rose hollow were put in most perfect repair before winter, and each one had a beautiful porch. the work of ned and his "jovial crew" was helped forward by the ready purse of the new baronet. sir claudius never forgot that he was the minister of the gospel, as well as the lord of the manor. i will but give a short glimpse of the party of village boys gathered together on the following christmas day in the school-room, not for study, but to partake of a substantial feast provided for them by sir claudius. the large room was richly decked out with wreaths of bay and holly, bunches of mistletoe, and sprigs of laurel. even blind sophy had helped to form the garlands; for the long-cherished wish of benoni had been gratified at last, and isaacs had brought him and his adopted sister to spend their christmas at colme. the preparations for the banquet had been made by persis, with norah and nancy sands as her cheerful assistants, while benoni, proud of the charge, had insisted on taking care of the baby. "what a different christmas this is from my last!" thought nancy, with a humbling recollection of having made the last anniversary of her lord's birth an occasion for plunging into mad and sinful excess! such memories but deepened her thankfulness to him who had snatched her from the whirlpool of destruction. "what a different christmas this is from the last!" observed benoni, looking up with a glad smile into the face of persis, his first friend in colme, and still the one most tenderly loved. "last christmas we were in london, and there was such a yellow fog that we could not see to read without a candle, and we had no candle to light! and we should have stood shivering round the fire, only there was no fire to stand round! and when we came home from church, we were hungry enough for our christmas dinner, only," the boy added, with a laugh, "dry bread and cold tea didn't look much like christmas fare!" "you must have had a sad time of suffering, then, dear benoni!" "it would have been sad indeed, except that the lord was with us in our trouble, as he is now in our joy!" "ah! my boy," said ned franks, who had overheard the last observation, "that is the secret of having life's voyage a safe and a happy one. it is when the master is with us that we are guided through the rocks and the shoals, and kept from running aground. it is having the master with us that turns the storm into a calm, so that the winds and waves are still. and so, when the children of god reach the heavenly shore, it will only be because the master was with them, and hath brought them at last, through his power and his love, unto their desired haven." the end. transcriber's note obvious typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected. hyphenation has been made consistent throughout. footnotes have been moved to the end of the chapter. blank pages before illustrations have been removed. emphasised text is shown thus: _italics_