mmu mmummmmimmimmmimuii 
 
 1i(M^!^^Mk:^^'^^^^^^^MP^^^. 
 
 iww—— —■ > Mj | j I .^. iat t-i- rwMwww mi i uwuLL. .mmm i H iw wiiuiLi. i 
 
 'ft 
 
 
 mmmm. 
 
 wmmmm 
 
 i M ' mi ' JlMW ii lt l 
 
 ROIili^RD 
 
 l^^BW«W•www»K?«4ic«:^-.s>..^ ,. 
 
 ^!:^^J!^5:^P^^?|5^^^^5^^^ 
 
Class 
 Book 
 
i 
 
 > 
 
 
ARTHUR BONNI CASTLE. 
 
DR. HOLLAND'S WORKS. 
 
 Each in one volume 12mo. 
 
 ARTHUR BONNICASTLE, f 1 75 
 
 *BITTER-SWEET; a Poem, 1 50 
 
 *KATnRINA: a Poem, 150 
 
 * LETTERS TO YOUNG PEOPLE, ... 1 50 
 *O0LD-F0IL, hammered from Popular Proverbs 1 75 
 
 •LESSONS IN LIFE, 1 75 
 
 *PLAIN TALKS, on Familiar Subjects, . . 1 75 
 
 LETTERS TO THE JONESES, 1 75 
 
 UI&S GILBERTS CAREER, 2 00 
 
 BAY PATH, 2 00 
 
 THE MARBLE PROPHECY, and other Poemt, 1 50 
 GARNERED SHEAVES, Complete Poetical 
 
 Works, red line edition, 4 00 
 
 * These six volumes are is/sued in cabinet size {16mo), 
 ** Brightwood Edition," at same prices as above. 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 AMERICAN NOVEL 
 
 BY 
 
 Jl G. HOLLAND, 
 
 author of 
 
 'The Bay Path," "Miss Gilbert's Career," "Bitter -Sweet," 
 
 "Kathrina," etc., etc 
 
 With twelve full-page Illustrations by Mary A, Hallock. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG & CO 
 
 1874. 
 

 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by 
 
 SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG & CO., 
 la the Ofi&ce of the Librarian of Congress, at Washingt<»\. 
 
 
 Stereotyped at the 
 
 women's printing HOUSB, 
 
 56, 58 and 60 Park Street, 
 
 New York. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGR 
 
 Chapter I. Thank a Blind Horse for Good Luck 9 
 
 Chapter II. I visit an Ogress and a Giant in their Enchanted 
 
 Castle 37 
 
 Chapter III. I go to The Bird's Nest to live, and the Giant persists 
 
 in his Plans for a Sea Voyage 5^ 
 
 Chapter IV. In which the Course of True Love is not permitted to 
 
 run at all 68 
 
 Chapter V. The Discipline of The Bird's Nest as illustrated by two 
 
 startling public Trials , 77 
 
 Chapter VI. I become a Member of Mrs. Sanderson's Family and 
 
 have a wonderful Voyage with Jenks upon the Atlas 99 
 
 Chapter VII. I leave The Bird's Nest and make a great Discovery . 114 
 
 Chapter VIII. I am introduced to new Characters and enter the 
 
 Shadow of the great Bedlow Revival 130 
 
 Chapter IX. I pass through a terrible Tempest into the Sunlight. . . 151 
 
 Chapter X. I join a Church that leaves out Mr. Bradford and Millie. 165 
 
 Chapter XI. The old Portrait is discovered and old Jenks has a real 
 
 Voyage at Sea 180 
 
 Chapter XIL Mrs. Sanderson takes a Companion and I go to Col- 
 lege 195 
 
 Chapter XIII. The Beginning of College Life.— I meet Peter Mul- 
 lens, Gordon Livingston, and Temptation 209 
 
 Chapter XIV. My first Visit to New York, and my first Glass of 
 
 Wine 223 
 
 Chapter XV. I go out to make New- Year's Calls and return in Dis- 
 grace 233 
 
Contents, 
 
 PAGB 
 
 Cjiapter XVI. Peter Mullens acquires a very large Stock of old 
 
 Clothes 248 
 
 Chapter XVII, I change my Religious Views to conform with my 
 
 Moral Practice, and am graduated without Honors 256 
 
 Chapter XVIII. Hemy becomes a Guest at The Mansion by force 
 
 of Circumstances. 272 
 
 Chapter XIX. Jenks goes far, far away upon the Billow, and never 
 
 comes back 286 
 
 Chapter XX. Mr. Bradford tells me a Story which changes the De- 
 terminations of my Life 293 
 
 Chapter XXI. I meet an old Friend who becomes my Rival 309 
 
 Chapter XXII. Mrs. Sanderson meets her Grandson and I return to 
 
 my Father's Home 327 
 
 Chapter XXIII. I take Arthur Bonnicastle upon my own Hands 
 
 and succeed with him 348 
 
 Chapter XXIV. In which I learn something about Livingston, Mil- 
 lie Bradford, and Myself, 359 
 
 Chapter XXV. I win a Wife and Home of my own, and The Man- 
 sion loses and gains a Mistress 368 
 
 Chapter XXVI, Which briefly records the Professional Life of Rev. 
 
 Peter Mullens •. 384 
 
 Chapter XXVII. In which I say Good-night to my Friends and the 
 
 Past, and Good-morrow to my Work and the Futur«. , 393 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 1. What have you come Here for? Frontispiece. 
 
 2. "One Thing more, please," I said; "I want to tell you 
 
 that i love you." 
 
 3. "Jenks," said the Lady, "take this Boy to his Father." 
 
 4. The Appeal from Man to Woman — from Justice to Mercy. 
 
 5. Claire's Hand lighted the Candle with which I led him 
 
 TO his Room. 
 
 6. Stepping up behind him, I put my Hand upon his Shoulder, 
 
 AND said: "Well, how do you like it?" 
 
 7. Mrs. Beldln held Claire's Hand. 
 
 8. Mr. Bradford and Arthur on the Steamer. 
 
 9. Mrs. Belden knelt at Henry's Bed with her Arms around 
 
 his Neck. 
 
 10. The old Cook regarded us in wondering Silence, 
 
 11. The Water-lily's Secret. 
 i2>. The Rev. Peter Mullens. 
 
ARTHUR BONNICASTLE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THANK A BLIND HORSE FOR GOOD LUCK. 
 
 Life looks beautiful from both extremities. Prospect and 
 retrospect shine alike in a light so divine as to suggest that the 
 first catches some radiance from the gates, not yet closed, by 
 which the soul has entered, and that the last is illuminated from 
 the opening realm into which it is soon to pass. 
 
 Now that they are all gone, I wTap myself in dreams of them, 
 and live over the old days with them. Even the feeblest mem- 
 ory, that cannot hold for a moment the events of to-day, keeps 
 a firm grasp upon the things of youth, and rejoices in its treas- 
 ures. It is a curious process — this of feeling one's way back 
 to childhood, and clothing one's self again with the little frame 
 — the buoyant, healthy, restless bundle of muscles and nerves — 
 and the old relations of careless infancy. The growing port 
 of later years and the ampler vestments are laid aside ; and one 
 stands in his slender young manhood. Then backward still 
 the fancy goes, making the frame smaller, and casting aside 
 each year the changing garments that marked the eras of early 
 growth, until, at last, one holds himself upon his own knee — 
 a ruddy-faced, wondering, questioning, uneasy youngster, in his 
 first trousers and roundabout, and dandles and kisses the dear 
 little fellow that he was ! 
 
 They were all here then — father, mother, brothers and sis- 
 ters ; and the family life was at its fullest. Now they are all 
 
lO Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 gone, and I am alone. All the present relations of my life are 
 those which have originated since. I have wife and children, 
 and troops of friends, yet still I am alone. No one of all the 
 number can go back with me into these reminiscences of my 
 earliest life, or give me sympathy in them. 
 
 My father was a plain, ingenious, industrious craftsman, and 
 a modest and thoroughly earnest Christian. I have always 
 supposed that the neighbors held him in contempt or pity for 
 his lack of shrewdness in business, although they knew that he 
 was in all respects their superior in education and culture. 
 He was an omnivorous reader, and was so intelligent in matters 
 of history and poetry that the village doctor, a man of literary 
 tastes, found in him almost his only sympathetic companion. 
 The misfortunes of our family brought them only too frequently 
 together ; and my first real thinking was excited by their con- 
 versations, to which I was always an eager listener. 
 
 My father was an affectionate man. His life seemed bound 
 up in that of my mother, yet he never gave a direct expression 
 to his affection. I knew he could not live without her, yet I 
 never saw him kiss her, or give her one caress. Indeed, I do 
 not remember that he ever kissed me, or my sisters. We all 
 grew up hungry, missing something, and he, poor man, was 
 hungriest of all ; but his Puritan training held him through life 
 in slavery to notions of propriety which forbade all impulses to 
 expression. He would have been ashamed to kiss his wife in 
 the presence of his children ! 
 
 I suppose it is this peculiarity of my father which makes me 
 remember so vividly and so gr-cccfully a little incident of my 
 boyhood. It was an early summer evening ; and the yellow 
 moon was at its full. I stood out in the middle of the lawn 
 before the house alone, looking up to the golden-orbed won- 
 der, which — so high were the hills piled around our little 
 valley — seemed very near to me. I felt rather than saw my 
 father approaching me. There was no one looking, and he 
 half knelt and put his arm around me. There was something 
 in the clasp of that strong, warm arm that I have never forgot- 
 
Arthur Bonnicastie, 1 1 
 
 ten. It thrilled me tlirough with the consciousness that I was 
 most tenderly beloved. Then he told me what the moon was, 
 and by the simplest illustrations tried to bring to my mind a 
 comprehension of its magnitude and its relations to the earth. 
 I only remember that I could not grasp the thought at all, and 
 that it all ended in his taking me in his arms and carrying me 
 to my bed. 
 
 The seclusion in which we lived among the far New Hamp- 
 shire hills was like that in which a family of squirrels lives in 
 the forest; and as, at ten years of age, I had never been ten 
 miles from home, the stories that came to my ears of the great 
 world that lay beyond my vision were like stories of fairy-land. 
 Fifty years ago the echoes of the Revolution and the War of 
 1812 had not died away, and soldiers who had served in both 
 wars were plenty. My imagination had been many times excited 
 by the stories that had been told at my father's fireside ; and 
 those awful people, "the British," were to me the embodiment 
 of cruelty and terror. One evening, I remember, my father 
 came in, and remarked that he had just heard the report of a 
 cannon. The phrase was new, and sounded very large and 
 significant to me, and I attributed it at once to the approach 
 of '* the British." My father laughed, but I watched the con- 
 verging roads for the appearance of the red-coats for many 
 days. The incident is of no value except to show how closely 
 between those green hills my life had been bound, and how 
 entirely my world was one of imagination. I was obliged to 
 build the world that held alike my facts and my fancies. 
 
 When I was about ten years old, I became conscious that 
 something was passing between my father and my mother of an 
 unusual character. They held long conferences from which 
 their children were excluded. Then a rich man of the neigh- 
 borhood rode into the yard, and tied his horse, and walked 
 about the farm. From a long tour he returned and entered 
 the stable, where he was joined by my father. Both caniQ into 
 the house together, and went all over it, even down to the cellar, 
 where they held a long conversation. Then they were closeted 
 
12 
 
 Ai'thur Bo7inicastle, 
 
 for an hour in the room which held my father's \Miting-desk. 
 At last, my mother was called into the room. The children, 
 myself among them, were huddled together in a corner of the 
 large kitchen, filled with wonder at the strange proceedings ; 
 and when all came out, the stranger smiling and my father and 
 mother looking very serious, my curiosity was at a painful height ; 
 and no sooner had the intruder vanished from the room — 
 pocketing a long paper as he went — than I demanded an 
 explanation. 
 
 My sisters were older than I, and to them the explanation was 
 addressed. My father simply said at first : " I have sold the 
 place." Tears sprang into all our eyes, as if a great calamity 
 had befallen us. Were we to be wanderers? Were we to 
 have no home ? Where were we to go ? 
 
 Then my father, who was as simple as a child, undertook the 
 justification of himself to his children. He did not know why 
 he had consented to live in such a place for a year. He 
 told the story of the fallacious promises and hopes that had 
 induced him to buy the farm at first ; of his long social depri- 
 vations ; of his hard and often unsuccessful efforts to make the 
 year's income meet the year's constantly increasing expenses ; 
 and then he dwelt particularly on the fact that his duty to his 
 children compelled him to seek a home where they could secure 
 a better education, and have a chance, at least, to make their 
 way in the world. I saw then, just as clearly as I see to-day, 
 that the motives of removal all lay in the last consideration. 
 He saw possibilities in his children which demanded other cir- 
 cumstances and surroundings. He knew that in his secluded 
 home among the mountains they could not have a fair chance 
 at life, and he would not be responsible for holding them to 
 associations that had been simply starvation and torment to 
 him. 
 
 The first shock over, I turned to the future with the most 
 charming anticipations. My life was to be led out beyond the 
 hills into an unknown world ! I learned the road by which we 
 were to go ; and beyond the woods in which it terminated to 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 13 
 
 my vision my imagination pushed through splendid towns, 
 across sweeping rivers, over vast plains and meadows, on and 
 on to the wide sea. There were castles, there were ships, 
 there were chariots and horses, there v/as a noble mansion 
 swept and garnished, waiting to receive us all, and, more than 
 all, there was a life of great deeds which should make my fathei 
 proud of his boy, and in which I remember that " the British ' 
 were to be very severel}^ handled. 
 
 The actual removal hardly justiiied the picture. There were 
 two overloaded three-horse teams, and a high, old-fashioned 
 wagon, drawn by a single horse, in which were bestowed the fam 
 ily, the family satchels, and the machinery of an eight-day clock 
 — a pet of my father, who had had it all in pieces for repairs ever)' 
 year since I was born. I did not burden the wagon with my pres- 
 ence, but found a seat, when I was not running by the way- 
 side, with the driver of one of the teams. He had attracted 
 me to his company by various sly nods and winks, and by a 
 funny way of talking to his horses. He was an old teamster, 
 and knew not only every inch of the road that led to the dis- 
 tant market-town to which we were going, but every landlord, 
 groom, and bar-keeper on the way. A man of such vast geo- 
 graphical knowledge, and such extensive and interesting 
 acquaintance with men, became to me a most important per 
 sonage. When he had amused himself long enough with stories 
 told to excite my imagination, he turned to me sharply and 
 said : 
 
 " Boy, do you ever tell lies ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," I answered, without hesitation. 
 
 "You do ? Then why didn't you lie when I asked you the 
 question ? " 
 
 '■'• Because I never lie except to please people," I replied. 
 
 " Oh ! you are one of the story-tellers, are you ? " he said, 
 in a tone of severity. 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "Well, then, you ought to be flogged. ' If I had a story- 
 telling boy I would flog it out of him. Truth, boy — always 
 
14 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 stand by the truth ! It was only this time last year that I wag 
 carrying a load of goods down the mountain for a family the 
 same as yours, and there was a little boy who went with me 
 the same as you are going now. I was sure I smelt tobacco. 
 Said I, * I smell tobacco.' He grew red in the face, and I 
 charged him with having some in his pocket. He declared he 
 had none, and I said, ' We shall see what will come to liars.' 
 I pitied him, for I knew something terrible would happen. A 
 strap broke, and the horses started on a run, and off went the 
 boy. I stopped them as soon as I could, ran back and picked 
 him up insensible, with as handsome a plug of tobacco in his 
 pocket as you ever saw ; and the rascal had stolen it from his 
 grandmother ! Always speak the truth, my boy, always speak 
 the truth ! " 
 
 "And did you steal the tobacco from him ? " I asked. 
 
 "No, lad, I took it and used it, because I knew it would 
 hurt him, and I couldn't bear the thought of exposing him to 
 his grandmother." 
 
 " Do you think lying is worse than stealing ? " I asked. 
 
 " That is something we can't settle. Tobacco is very pre- 
 serving and cleansing to the teeth, and I am obliged to use it. 
 Do you see that little building we are coming to ? That is 
 Snow's store : and now, if you are a boy that has any heart — 
 any real heart — and if you have saved up a few pennies, you 
 will go in there and get a stick of candy for yourself and a plug 
 of tobacco for me. That would be the square thing for a bov 
 to do who stands by the truth, and wants to do a good turn to 
 a man that helps him along ; " and he looked me in the eye so 
 steadily and persuasively that resistance was impossible, and 
 my poor little purse went back into my pocket painfully empty 
 of that which had seemed like wealth. 
 
 We rode along quietly after this until my companion asked 
 me if I knew how tall I was. Of course I did not know any- 
 thing about it, and wished to learn the reason of the question. 
 He had a little boy' of his own at home — a very smart little 
 fellow — who could exactly reach the check-rein of his leading 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 15 
 
 horse. He had been wondering if I could do the same. He 
 should think we were about the same height, and as it would be 
 a tiptoe stretch, the performance would be a matter of spring 
 and skill. At that moment it happened that we came to a 
 watering-trough, which gave me the opportunity to satisfy his 
 curiosity ; and he sat smiling appreciatively upon my frantic and 
 at last successful efforts to release the leader's head, and lift it 
 again to its check. 
 
 We came to a steep acclivity, and, under the stimulating 
 influence of the teamster's flattery, I carried a stone as large 
 as my head from the bottom to the top, to stay the wheels when 
 the horses paused for breath. 
 
 I recall the lazy rascal's practice upon my boyish credulity 
 and vanity more for my interest in my own childishness than 
 for any interest I still have in him ; though I cannot think that 
 the jolly old joker was long ago dust, without a sigh. He was 
 a great man to me then, and he stirred me with appeals to my 
 ambition as few have stirred me since. And " si:anding by the 
 truth," as he so feelingly adjured me to stand, I may confess 
 that his appeals were not the basest to which my life has re- 
 sponded. 
 
 The forenoon was long, hot and wearisome, but at its close 
 we emerged upon a beautiful valley, and saw before us a char- 
 acteristic New England village, Avith its white houses, large 
 and little, and its two homely wooden spires. I was walking 
 as I came in sight of the village, and I stopped, touched with 
 the poetry of the peaceful scene. Just then the noon-bell 
 pealed forth from one of the little churches — the first church- 
 bell I had ever heard. I did not know what it was, and was 
 obliged to inquire. I have stood under the belfry of Bruges 
 since, and heard, amid the dull jargon of the decaying city, the 
 chimes from its silver-sounding bells with far less of emotion 
 than I experienced that day, as I drank my first draught of 
 the wonderful music. O sweet first time of everything good in 
 life! 
 
 Thank heaven that, with an eternity of duration before us, 
 
1 6 Arthur Bomiicastle, 
 
 theie is also infinity of resources, with ever- varying supply 
 and ministry, and ever-recurring first times ! 
 
 JNIy father and the rest of the family had preceded us, and 
 we found them waiting at the village tavern for our arrival. 
 Dinner was ready, and I was quite ready for it, though I was 
 not so much absorbed that I cannot recall to-day the fat old 
 woman with flying cap-strings who waited at the table. Indeed, 
 were I an artist, I could reproduce the pictures on the walls 
 of the low, long dining-room where we ate, so strongly did tliey 
 impress themselves upon my memory. We made but a short 
 stay, and then in our slow way pressed on. My friend of the 
 team had evidently found something more exhilarating at the 
 tavern than tobacco, and was confidential and affectionate, not 
 only toward me but toward all he met upon the road, of whom 
 he told me long and marvelous histories. But he grew dull 
 and even ill-tempered at last, and I had a quiet cry behind a 
 projecting bedstead, for very weariness and homesickness. 
 
 I was too weary when at dusk we arrived at the end of our 
 day's progress to note, or care, for anything. My supper was 
 quickly eaten, and I was at once in the oblivion of sleep. The 
 next day's journey was unlike the first, in that it was crowded 
 with life. The villages grew larger, so as quite to excite my 
 astonishment. I saw, indeed, the horses and the chariots. 
 There were signs of wealth that I had never seen before, — 
 beautifully kept lawns, fine, stately mansions, and gayly- 
 dressed ladies, who humiliated me by regarding me with a sort 
 of stately curiosity ; and I realized as I had never done before 
 that there were grades of life far above that to which I had 
 been accustomed, and that my father was comparatively a poor, 
 plain man. 
 
 Toward the close of the second afternoon we came in sight 
 of Bradford, which, somewhere within its limits, contained our 
 future home. There were a dozen stately spires, there were 
 tall chimneys waving their plumes of pearly smoke, there were 
 long rows of windows red in the rays of the declining sun, 
 there was a river winding away into the distance between its 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, - 17 
 
 borders of elm and willow, and there were white-winged craft 
 that glided hither and thither in the far silence. 
 
 " What do you think of that, boy ? " inquired my friend the 
 teamster. 
 
 "Isn't it pretty!" I responded. "Isn't it a grand place to 
 live in ? " 
 
 " That depends upon whether one lives or starves," he said. 
 " If I were going to starve, I would rather do it where there 
 isn't anything to eat." 
 
 " But we are not ^oing to starve," I said. " Father never 
 will let us starve." 
 
 " Not if he can help it, boy ; but your father is a lamb — a 
 great, innocent lamb." 
 
 " Wliat do you mean by calling my father a lamb ? He is as 
 good a man as there is in Bradford, any way," I responded, 
 somewhat indignantly. 
 
 The man gave a new roll to the enormous quid in his mouth, 
 a solace that had been purchased by my scanty pennies, and 
 said, with a contemptuous smile, " Oh ! he's too good. Some 
 time when you think of it, suppose you look and see if he has 
 ever cut his eye-teeth." 
 
 *• You are making fun of my father, and I don't like it. How 
 should you like to have a man make fun of you to your little 
 boy?" 
 
 At this he gave a great laugh, and I knew at once that he 
 had no little boy, and that he had been playing off a fiction 
 upon me throughout the whole journey. It was my first en- 
 counter with a false and selfish world. To find in my hero of 
 the three horses and the large acquaintance only a vulgar ras- 
 cal who could practice upon the credulity of a little boy was 
 one of the keenest disappointments I had ever experienced. 
 
 " If I could hurt you, I would strike you," I said in a rage. 
 
 " Well, boy," he replied almost affectionately, and quite ad- 
 miringly, " you will make your way, if you have that sort of 
 thing in you. I wouldn't have believed it. Upon my word, I 
 wouldn't have believed it. I take it all back. Your father is a 
 
1 8 ArtJmr Bonnicastle, 
 
 first-rate man for heaven, if he isn't for Bradford; and he's 
 sure to go there when he moves next, and I should Hke to be 
 the one to move him, but I'm afraid they wouldn't let me in to 
 unload the goods." 
 
 There was an awful humor in this strange speech which I fully 
 comprehended, but my reverence for even the name of heaven 
 was so profound that I did not dare to laugh. I simply said : 
 " I don't like to hear you talk so, and I wish you wouldn't." 
 
 "Well, then, I won't, my lad. They say the lame and the 
 lazy are always provided for, and I don't know why the lambs 
 are not just as deserving. You'll all get through, I suppose ; 
 and a hundred years hence there will be no ditference." 
 
 " Wlio provides for the lame and the lazy ? " I inquired. 
 
 " Well, now you have me tight," said the fellow with a sigh. 
 " Somebody up there, I s'pose ; " and he pointed his whip up- 
 ward with a little toss. 
 
 " Don't you know ? " I inquired, with ingenuous and undis- 
 guised wonder. 
 
 " Not a bit of it. I never saw him. I've been lazy all my 
 life, and I was lame once for a year, falling from this very 
 wagon, and a mighty rough time I had of it, too ; and so far 
 as I am concerned it has been a business of looking out for 
 number one. Nobody ever let down a silver spoon full of 
 honey to me ; and what is more, I don't expect it. If you 
 have that sort of thing in your head, the best way is to keep it. 
 You'll be happier, I reckon, in the long run if you do ; but I 
 didn't get it in early, and it is too late now." 
 
 "Then your father was a goat, wasn't he?" I said, with a 
 quick impulse. 
 
 " Yes," he replied with a loud laugh. " Yes indeed ; he was 
 a goat with the biggest and wickedest pair of horns you ever 
 saw. Boy, remember what I tell you. Goodness in this world 
 is a thing of fathers and mothers. I haven't any children, and 
 I shouldn't have any right to them if I had. People who bring 
 children into the world that they are not fit to take care of, and 
 who teach them nothing but drinking and fighting and swearing, 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 19 
 
 ought to be shot. If I had had your start, I snould be all right 
 to-day." 
 
 So I had another lesson, — two lessons, indeed, — one in the 
 practical infidelity of the world, and one in social and family 
 influence. They haunted me for many days, and brought to me 
 a deeper and a more intelligent respect for my father and h's 
 goodness and wisdom than I had ever entertained. 
 
 " I wish I were well down that hill," said my teamster at last, 
 after we had jolted along for half a mile without a word. As 
 he said this he looked uneasily around upon his load, which, 
 with the long transportation, had become loose. He stopped 
 his horses, and gave another turn to the pole with which he 
 had strained the rope that, passing lengthwise and crosswise the 
 load, held it together. Then he started on again. I watched 
 him closely, for I saw real apprehension on his face. His 
 horses were tired, and one of them was blind. The latter fact 
 gave me no apprehension, as the driver had taken much pains 
 to impress upon me the fact that the best horses were always 
 blind. He only regretted that he could not secure them for 
 his whole team, principally on account of the fact that not hav- 
 ing any idea how far they had traveled, they never knew when 
 to be tired. The reason seemed sound, and I had accepted it 
 in good faith. 
 
 When we reached the brow of the hill that descended into 
 the town, I saw that he had some reason for his apprehension, 
 and I should have alighted and taken to my feet if I had not 
 been as tired as the horses. But I had faith in the driver, and 
 faith in the poor bnites he drove, and so remained on my seat. 
 Midway the hill, the bHnd horse stepped upon a rolling stone ; 
 and all I remember of the scene which immediately followed 
 was a confused and violent struggle. The horse fell prone 
 upon the road, and while he was trying in vain to rise, I was 
 conscious that my companion had leaped off. Then something 
 struck me from behind, and I felt myself propelled wildly and 
 resistlessly through the air, down among the struggling horses, 
 after which I knew no more. 
 
20 Arthur Boitnzcastle. 
 
 * 
 
 When consciousness came back to me it was night, and I 
 was in a strange house. A person who wakes out of healthy 
 sleep recognizes at once his surroundings, and by a process in 
 which volition has no part reunites the thread of his life with 
 that which was dropped when sleep fell upon him. The un- 
 consciousness which follows concussion is of a different sort, 
 and obliterates for a time the memory of a whole life. 
 
 I woke upon a little cot on the floor. Though it was sum- 
 mer, a small fire had been kindled on the hearth, my father was 
 chafing my hands, my brothers and sisters were looking on at 
 a distance with apprehension and distress upon their faces, and 
 the room was piled with furniture in great confusion. The 
 whole journey was gone from my memory; and feeling that I 
 could not lift my head or speak, I could only gasp and shut my 
 eyes and wonder. I knew my father's face, and knew the 
 family faces around me, but I had no idea where we were, or 
 what had happened. Something warm and stinging came to 
 my lips, and I swallowed it with a gulp and a strangle. Then 
 I became conscious of a voice that was strange to me. It was 
 deep and musical and strong, yet there was a restraint and a 
 conscious modulation in its tone, as if it were trying to do that 
 to which it was not well used. Its possessor was evidently 
 talking to my mother, who, I knew, was weeping. 
 
 " Ah ! madam ! Ah ! madam ! This will never do — never 
 do ! " I heard him say. " You are tired. Bless me ! You 
 have come eighty miles. It would have killed Mrs. Bradford. 
 All you want is rest. I am not a chicken, and such a ride in 
 such a wagon as yours would have finished me up, I'm sure." 
 
 " Ah, my poor boy, Mr. Bradford ! " my mother moaned. 
 
 " The boy will be all right by to-morrow morning," he re- 
 plied. " He is opening his eyes now. You can't kill such a 
 little piece of stuff as that. He hasn't a broken bone in his 
 body. Let him have the brandy there, and keep his feet warm. 
 Those little chaps are never good for anything until they have 
 had the daylight knocked out of them half-a-dozen times. I 
 wonder what has became of that rascal, Dennis ! " 
 
Arthur Bo?micastle, 21 
 
 At this he rose and walked to the window, and peered out 
 into the darkness. I saw that he was a tall, plainly dressed 
 man, with a heavy cane in his hand. One thing was certain : 
 he was a type of man I had never seen before. Perfectly self- 
 possessed, entirely at home, superintending all the 'affairs of the 
 house, commanding, advising, reassuring, inspiring, he was 
 evidently there to do good. In my speechless helplessness, my 
 own heart went out to him in perfect trust. I had the fullest 
 faith in what he said about myself and my recovery, though at 
 the moment I had no idea what I was to recover from, or 
 rather, what had been the cause of my prostration. 
 
 ** There the vagabond comes at last ! " said the stranger. 
 He threw open the door, and Dennis, a smiling, good-natured 
 looking Irishman, walked in with a hamper of most appetizing 
 drinks and viands. An empty table was ready to receive them, 
 and hot coffee, milk, bread, and various cold meats were placed 
 one after another upon it. 
 
 " Set some chairs, Dennis, and be quick about it," said Mr. 
 Bradford. 
 
 The chairs were set, and then Mr. Bradford stooped and 
 offered my mother his arm, in as grand a manner as if he were 
 proffering a courtesy to the Queen of England. She rose and 
 took it, and he led her to the table. My father was very much 
 touched, and I saw him look at the stranger with quivering lips. 
 This was a gentleman — a kind of man he had read about in 
 books, but not the kind of man he had ever been brought much 
 in contact with. This tender and stately attention to my mother 
 was an honor which was very grateful to him. It was a touch 
 of ideal life, too, — above the vulgar, graceless habits of those 
 among whom his life had been cast. Puritan though he was, 
 and plain and undemonstrative in his ways, he saw the beauty 
 of this new manner with a thrill that brought a crimson tint to 
 his hollow cheeks. Both he and my mother tried to express their 
 thanks, but Mr. Bradford declared that he was the lucky man 
 in the whole matter. It was so fortunate that he had happened 
 to be near when the accident occurred ; and though the service 
 
2 2 A7^thur Bonnicastle, 
 
 he had rendered was a very small one, it had been a genuine 
 pleasure to him to render it. Then, seeing that no one touched 
 the food, he turned with a quick instinct to Dennis, and said : 
 " By the way, Dennis, let me see you at the door a moment." 
 
 Dennis followed him out, and then my father bowed his head, 
 and thanked the Good Giver for the provision made for his 
 family, for the safety of his boy, and for the prosperous journey, 
 and ended by asking a blessing upon the meal. 
 
 When, after a considerable interval, Mr. Bradford and his 
 servant reappeared, it was only on the part of the former to say 
 that Dennis would remain to assist in putting the beds into such 
 shape that the family could have a comfortable night's rest, and 
 to promise to look in late in the morning. He shook hands in 
 a hearty way with my father and mother, said " good-night " to 
 the children, and then came and looked at me. He smiled a 
 kind, good-humored smile, and shaking his long finger at me, 
 said : " Keep quiet, my little man : you'll be all right in the 
 morning." Then he went away, and after the closing of the 
 door I heard his brisk, strong tread away into the darkness. 
 
 I have often wondered whether such men as Mr. Bradford 
 realize how strong an impression they make upon the minds of 
 children. He undoubtedly realized that he had to deal with a 
 family of children, beginning with my father and mother — as 
 truly children as any of us ; but it is impossible that he could 
 know what an uplift he gave to the life to which he had minis- 
 tered. The sentiment which he inspired in me was as truly 
 that of worship as any of which I was capable. The grand 
 man, with his stalwart frame, his apparent control of unlimited 
 means, his self-possession, his commanding manner, his kindness 
 and courtesy, lifted him in my imagination almost to the dig 
 nity of a God. I wondered if I could ever become such a man 
 as he ! I learned in after years that even he had his weaknesses, 
 buj: I never ceased to entertain for him the most profound respect. 
 Indeed, I had good and special reason for this, beyond what at 
 present appears. 
 
 After he departed I watched Dennis. If Mr. Bradfojd way 
 
Arthur Bofim'castle. 23 
 
 my first gentleman, Dennis was my first Irishman. Oh, sweet 
 first time ! let me exclaim again. I have never seen an Irish 
 man since who so excited my admiration and interest. 
 
 " Me leddy," said Dennis, imitating as well as he could the 
 grand manner of his master, "if ye'll tek an Irish b'y's advice, 
 ye' 11 contint yoursilf with a shake-down for the night, and set 
 up the frames in the marnin'. I'm thinkin' the Squire will lit 
 me give ye a lift thin, an it's slape ye' re wantin' now." 
 
 He saw the broad grin coming upon the faces of the children 
 as he proceeded, and joined in their unrestrained giggle when 
 he finished. 
 
 "Ah! there's nothing like a fine Irish lad for makin' little 
 gurr'ls happy. It's better nor whisky any day." 
 
 My poor father and mother were much distressed, fearing 
 that the proprieties had been trampled on by the laughing 
 children, and apologized to Dennis for their rudeness. 
 
 " Och ! niver mind 'em. An Irish b'y is a funny bird any 
 way, and they're not used to his chirrup yet." 
 
 In the meantime he had lighted half a dozen candles for as 
 many rooms, and was making quick work with the bedding. 
 At length, with the help of my mother, he had arranged beds 
 enough to accommodate the family for the night, and with many 
 professions of good-will, and with much detail of experience 
 concerning moving in his own country, he was about to bid us 
 all "good-night," when he paused at the door and said: 
 " Thank a blind horse for good luck ! " 
 
 " What do you mean, Dennis ? " inquired my lather. 
 
 "Is it what I mane? ye ask me. Wasn't it a blind horse 
 that fell on the hill, and threw the lad aff jist where the Squire 
 was standin,' and didn't he get him in his arms the furr'st one, 
 and wasn't that the beginnin' of it all? Thank a blind horse 
 for good luck, I till ye. The Squire can no more drap you 
 now than he can drap his blissid ould hearr't, though it's likely 
 I'll have to do the most of it mesilf." 
 
 My mother assured Dennis that she was sorry to give him 
 the slightest trouble. 
 
24 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 " Never mind me, me leddy. Let an Irish b'y alone for 
 bein' tinder of himsilf. Do I look as if I had too much worr'k 
 and my bafe comin' to me in thin sUces ? " And he spread 
 out his brawny hands for inspection. 
 
 The children giggled, and he went out with a " good-night." 
 Then he reopened the door, and putting only his head in, said, 
 *' Remimber what I till ye. A blind horse for good luck ; " 
 and, nodding his head a dozen times, he shut the door again 
 and disappeared for the night. 
 
 AVhen I woke the next morning, it all came back to me — 
 the long ride, the fearful experience upon the hill, and the 
 observations of the previous evening. We were indebted to 
 the thoughtful courtesy of Mr. Bradford for our breakfast, and, 
 after Dennis had been busy during half the morning in assisting to 
 put the house in order, I saw my gentleman again. The only 
 inconvenience from which I suffered was a sense of being 
 bruised all over ; and when he came in I greeted him with such 
 a smile of hearty delight that he took my cheeks in his hands 
 and kissed me. How many thousand times I had longed for 
 such an expression of affection from my father, and longed in 
 vain ! It healed me and made me happy. Then 1 had an 
 opportunity to study him more closely. He was fresh frora 
 his toilet, and wore the cleanest linen. His neck was envel- 
 oped and his chin propped by the old-fashioned " stock " of 
 those days, his waistcoat was white, and his dark gray coat and 
 trousers had evidently passed under Dennis's brush in the 
 early morning. A heavy gold chain with a massive seal de- 
 pended from his watch-pocket, and he carried in his hand what 
 seemed to be his constant companion, his heavy cane. At 
 this distance of time I find it difhcult to describe his face, be- 
 cause it impressed me as a whole, and not by its separate feat- 
 ures. His eyes were dark, pleasant, and piercing — so much 
 I remember ; but the rest of his face I cannot describe. I 
 trusted it wholly ; but, as I recall the man, I hear more than I 
 see. Impressive as was his presence, his wonderful voice was 
 his finest interpreter to me. I hngered upon his tones and 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 25 
 
 cadences as I have often listened to the voice of a distant water- 
 fall, lifted and lowered by the wind. I can hear it to-day as 
 plainly as I heard it then. 
 
 During the visit of that morning he learned the situation of 
 the family, and comprehended with genuine pain the helpless- 
 ness of my father. That he was interested in my father I could 
 see very plainly. His talk was not in the manner of working- 
 men, and the conversation was discursive enough to display his 
 intelligence. The gentleman was evidently puzzled. Here 
 was a plain man who had seen no society, who had lived for 
 years among the woods and hills ; yet the man of culture could 
 start no subject without meeting an intelligent response. 
 
 Mr. Bradford ascertained that my father had but little money, 
 that he had come to Bradford with absolutely no provision but 
 a house to move into, that he had no definite plan of business, 
 and that his desire for a better future for his children was the 
 motive that had induced him to migrate from his mountain 
 home. 
 
 After he had made a full confession of his circumstances, 
 with the confiding simplicity of a boy, Mr. Bradford looked at him 
 with a sort of mute wonder, and then rose and walked the room. 
 
 " I confess I don't understand it, Mr. Bonnicastle," said he, 
 stopping before him, and bringing down his cane. " You want 
 your children to be educated better than you are, but you are 
 a thousand times better than your circumstances. Men are 
 happiest when they are in harmony with their circumstances. 
 I venture to say that the men you left behind you were con- 
 tented enough. What is the use of throwing children out of 
 all pleasant relations with their condition ? I don't blame you 
 for wanting to have your children educated, but I am sure that 
 educating working people is a mistake. Work is their life ; 
 and they worked a great deal better and were a great deal hap- 
 pier when they knew less. Now isn't it so, Mr. Bonnicastle ? 
 isn't it so?" 
 
 Quite unwittingly Mr. Bradford had touched my father's 
 sensitive point, and as there was something in the gentleman's 
 
26 ArtJmr Bonnicastle, 
 
 manner that inspired the conversational faculties of all with 
 whom he came in contact, my father's tongue was loosed, and 
 it did not stop until the gentleman had no more to say. 
 
 " Well, if we differ, we'll agree to differ," said he, at last ; 
 " but now you want work, and I will speak to some of my 
 friends about you. Bonnicastle — Peter Bonnicastle, I think ? " 
 
 My father nodded, and said — "a name I inherit from I do 
 not know how many great-grandfathers." 
 
 '' Your ancestor was not Peter Bonnicastle of Roxbury ?^' 
 
 " That is what they tell me." 
 
 " Peter Bonnicastle of Roxbury ! " 
 
 " Ay, Peter Bonnicastle of Roxbury." 
 
 " By Jove, man ! Do you know you've got the bluest blood 
 in your veins of any man in Bradford ? " 
 
 I shall never forget the pleased and proud expression that 
 came into the faces of my father and mother as these words 
 were uttered. What blue blood was, and in what its excel- 
 lence consisted, I did not know ; but it was something to be 
 proud of — that was evident. 
 
 " Peter Bonnicastle of Roxbury ! Ah yes ! Ah yes ! I under- 
 stand it. It's all plain enough now. You are a gentleman 
 without knowing it — a gentleman trying in a blind way to get 
 back to a gentleman's conditions. Well, perhaps you will ; I 
 shall not wonder if you do." 
 
 It was my first observation of the reverence for blood that I 
 have since found to be nearly universal. The show of con- 
 tempt for it which many vulgar people make is always an affec- 
 tation, unless they are very vulgar indeed. My father, who, 
 more than any man I ever knew, respected universal human- 
 ity, and ignored class distinctions, was as much delighted and 
 elevated with the recognition of his claims to good family 
 blood as if he had fallen heir to the old family wealth. 
 
 "And what is this lad's name?" inquired Mr. Bradford, 
 pointing over his shoulder toward me. 
 
 " My name is Arthur Bonnicastle," I replied, taking the 
 words out of my father's mouth. 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 27 
 
 *' And Arthur Bonnicastle has a pah- of ears and a tongue,'' 
 responded Mr. Bradford, turning to me with an amused expres- 
 sion upon his face. 
 
 I took the response as a reproof, and blushed painfully. 
 
 " Tut, tut, there is no harm done, my lad," said he, rising 
 and coming to a chair near me, and regarding me very kindly. 
 *' You know you had neither last night," he added, feeling my 
 hand and forehead to learn if there were any feverish reaction. 
 
 I was half sitting, half lying on a lounge near the window, 
 and he changed his seat from the chair to the lounge so that 
 he sat over me, looking down into my face. " Now," said he, 
 regarding me very tenderly, and speaking gently, in a tone 
 that was wholly his own, " we will have a little talk all by our- 
 selves. What have you been thinking about ? Your mouth 
 has been screwed up into ever-so-many interrogation points 
 ever since your father and I began to talk." 
 
 I laughed at the odd fancy, and told ti^m I should like to 
 ask him a few questions. 
 
 "Of course you would. Boys are always full of questions. 
 Ask as many as you please." 
 
 "I should like to ask you if you own this town," I began. 
 
 "Why?" . 
 
 "Because," I answered, "you have the same name the town 
 has." 
 
 " No, my lad, I own very little of it ; but my great-grand- 
 father owned all the land it stands on, and the town was 
 named for him, or rather he named it for himself." 
 
 " Was his blood blue ? " I inquired. 
 
 He smiled and whistled in a comical way, and said he was 
 afraid that it wasn't quite so blue as it might have been. 
 
 " Is yours?" 
 
 "Well, that's a tough question," he responded. ' I fancy 
 the family blood has been growing blue for several generations, 
 and perhaps there's a little indigo in me." 
 
 " Do you eat anything in particular?" I inquired. 
 
 " No, nothing in particular ; it isn't made in that way." 
 
28 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 *' How is it made ? " I inquired. 
 
 "That's a tough question, too," he replied. 
 
 " Oh ! if you can't answer it,'' I said, " don't trouble youp 
 self; but do you think Jesus Christ had blue blood ?" 
 
 *'Why yes — yes indeed. Wasn't he the son of David — • 
 when he got back to him — and wasn't David a King?" 
 
 " Oh ! that's what you mean by blue blood ; — and that's 
 another thing," I said. 
 
 "What do you mean by another thing, my boy ?" inquired 
 Mr. Bradford. 
 
 " I was thinking," I said, " that my father was a carpenter, 
 and so was his ; and so his blood was blue and mine too. And 
 there are lots of other things that might have been true." 
 
 "Tell me all about them," said my interlocutor. "What 
 have you been thinking about ? " 
 
 " Oh ! " I said, " I've been thinking that if my father had lived 
 when his father lived, and if they had lived in the same country, 
 perhaps they would have worked in the same shop and on the 
 same houses ; and then perhaps Jesus Christ and I should have 
 played together with the blocks and shavings. And then, 
 when he grew up and became so wonderful, I should have grown 
 up and perhaps been one of the apostles, and written part of 
 the Bible, and preached and healed the sick, and been a martyr, 
 and gone to heaven, and — and — I don't know how many other 
 things." 
 
 " Well, I rather think you would, by Jove," he said, rising 
 to his feet, impulsively. 
 
 " One thing more, please," I said, stretching my hands up to 
 him. He sat down again, and put his face close to mine. "I 
 want to tell you that I love you." 
 
 His eyes filled with tears ; and he whispered : " Thank you, 
 my dear boy : love me always. Thank you." 
 
 Then he kissed me again and turned to my father. " I think 
 you are entirely right in coming to Bradford," I heard him say. 
 "I don't think I should like to see this little chap going back 
 to the woods again, even if I could have my own way about it." 
 
Arthur Bonnzcastle, 29 
 
 For some minutes he walked the room backward and forward, 
 sometimes pausing and looking out of the window. My father 
 saw that he was absorbed, and said nothing. At length he 
 stopped suddenly before my father and said: "This is the 
 strangest affair I ever knew. Here you come out of the woods 
 widi this large family, without the slightest idea what you are 
 going to do — with no provision for the future whatever. How 
 did you suppose you were going to get along ? " 
 
 How well I remember the quiet, confident smile with which 
 my father received his strong, blunt words, and the trembling 
 tone in which he replied to them ! 
 
 " Mr. Bradford," said he, " none of us takes care of himself. 
 I am not a wise man in worldly things, and I am obliged to 
 trust somebody ; and I know of no one so wise as He who 
 knows all things, or so kind as He who loves all men. I 
 do the best I can, and I leave the rest to Him. He has never 
 failed me in the great straits of my life, and He never will. I 
 have already thanked Him for sending you to me yesterday ; 
 and I believe that by His direction you are to be, as you have 
 already been, a great blessing to me. I shall seek for work, 
 and with such strength as I have I shall do it, and do it well. I 
 shall have troubles and trials, but I know that none will come 
 that I cannot transform, and that I am not expected to trans- 
 form, into a blessing. If I am not rich in money when the 
 end comes, I shall be rich in something better than money." 
 
 Mr. Bradford took my father's hand, and shaking it warmly, 
 responded : "You are already rich in that which is better than 
 money. A faith like yours is wealth inestimable. You are a 
 thousand times richer than I am to-day. I beg your pardon, 
 Mr. Bonnicastle, but this is really quite new to me. I have 
 heard cant and snuffle, and I know the difference. If the Lord 
 doesn't take care of such a man as you are, he doesn't stand 
 by his friends, that's all." 
 
 My father's reverence was offended by this familiar way ot 
 speaking a name which was ineffably sacred to him, and he 
 made no reply. I could see, too, that he felt that the humilitx 
 
30 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 with which he had spoken was not fully appreciated by Mr. 
 Bradford. 
 
 Suddenly breaking the thread of the conversation, Mr. Brad- 
 ford said : " By the way, who is your landlord ? I ought to 
 know who owns this little house, but I don't." 
 
 " The landlord is not a landlord at all, I believe. The owner 
 is a landlady, though I have never seen her — a Mrs. Sanderson 
 ■ — Ruth Sanderson." 
 
 " Oh ! I know her well, and ought to have known that this is 
 her property," said Mr. Bradford. " I have nothing against the 
 lady, though she is a little odd in her ways ; but I am sorry 
 you have a woman to deal with, for, so far as I have observed, 
 a business woman is a screw by rule, and a woman without a 
 business faculty and with business to do is a screw without 
 rule." 
 
 In the midst of the laugh that followed Mr. Bradford's 
 axiomatic statement he turned to the window, and exclaimed : 
 *' Well, I declare ! here she comes." 
 
 I looked quickly and saw a curious turn-out approaching the 
 house. It was an old-fashioned chaise, set low between two 
 high wheels, drawn by a heavy-limbed and heavy-gaited black 
 horse, and driven by a white-haired, thin-faced old man. Be- 
 side the driver sat a little old woman ; and the first impression 
 given me by the pair was that the vehicle was much too large 
 for them, for it seemed to toss them up and catch them, and to 
 knock them together by its constant motion. The black horse, 
 who had a steady independent trot, that regarded neither stones 
 nor ruts, made directly for our door, stopped when he found 
 the place he wanted, and then gave a preliminary twitch at the 
 reins and reached down his head for a nibble at the grass. 
 The man sat still, looking straight before him, and left the little 
 old woman to alight without assistance ; and she did alight in 
 a way which showed that she had little need of it. She was 
 dressed entirely in black, with the exception of the white 
 widow's cap drawn tightly around a little face set far back 
 in a deep bonnet. She had a quick, wiry, nervous way in 
 
Arthur Bormicastle, 31 
 
 walking ; and coming up the path that led through a little gar- 
 den lying between the house and the street, she cast furtive 
 glances left and right, as if gathering the condition of her prop- 
 erty. Then followed a sharp rap at the door. 
 
 The absorbed and embarrassed condition of my father and" 
 mother was evident in the fact that neither started to open the 
 door; but Dennis, coming quickly in from an adjoining room 
 where he was busy, opened it, and Mr. Bradford went forward 
 to meet her in the narrow hall. He shook her hand in his 
 own cordial and stately way, and said jocularly : " Well, 
 Madame, you see we have taken possession of your snug little 
 house." 
 
 Her lips, which were compressed and thin as if she were, 
 suffering pain, parted in a faint smile, and her dark, searching 
 eyes looked up to him in a kind of questioning wonder. There 
 was nothing in her face that attracted me. I remember only 
 that I felt moved to pity her, she seemed so small, and 
 lonely, and careworn. Her hands were the tiniest I had ever 
 seen, and were merely little bundles of bones in the shape of 
 hands. 
 
 " Let me present your tenants to you, Mrs. Sanderson, and 
 commend them to your good opinion," said Mr. Bradford. 
 
 She stood quietly and bowed to my father and mother, who 
 had risen to greet her. I was young, but quick in my instincts, 
 and I saw at once that she regarded a tenant as an inferior, 
 with whom it would not do to be on terms of social famili- 
 arity. 
 
 *' Do you find the house comfortable ? " she inquired, speak- 
 ing in a quick way and addressing my father. 
 
 " Apparently so," he answered ; and then he added : " -we 
 are hardly settled yet, but I think we shall get along very well 
 in it." 
 
 " With your leave I will go over it, and see for myself," she 
 said quietly. 
 
 " Oh, certainly ! " responded my father. " My wife will go 
 with you." 
 
32 Arthur Bo7i7iicastle, 
 
 " If she will ; but I want you, too." 
 
 They went off together, and I heard them for some minutes 
 talking around in the different parts of the house. 
 
 "Any more questions?" inquired Mr. Bradford with a 
 smile, looking over to where I sat on the lounge. 
 
 " Yes, sir," I replied. " I have been wondering whether 
 that lady has a crack in the top of her head." 
 
 "Well, I shouldn't wonder if she had a very, very small 
 one," he replied ; " and now what started that fancy? " 
 
 "Because," I continued, "if she is what you call a screw, I 
 was wondering how they turned her." 
 
 " Well, my boy, it* is so very small indeed," said Mr. Brad- 
 ford, putting on a quizzical look, " that I'm afraid they can't 
 turn her at all." 
 
 When the lady came back she seemed to be ready to go 
 away at once ; but Mr. Bradford detained her with the story of 
 the previous night's experiences, including the accident that 
 had happened to me. She listened sharply, and then came 
 over to where I was sitting, and asked me if I were badly hurt. 
 I assured her I was not. Then she took one of my plump 
 hands in her own little grasp, and looked at me in a strange, 
 intense way without saying a word. 
 
 Mr. Bradford interrupted her, with an eye to business, by 
 saying : " Mr. Bonnicastle, your new tenant here, is a carpen- 
 ter ; and I venture to say that he is a good one. We must do 
 what we can to introduce him to business." 
 
 She turned with a quick motion on her heel, and bent her 
 eyes on my father. "Bonnicastle?" said she, with almost a 
 fierce interrogation. 
 
 "Oh! I supposed you knew his name, Mrs. Sanderson," 
 said Mr. Bradford ; and then he added, " but I presume your 
 agent did not tell you." 
 
 She made no sign to show that she had heard a word that 
 Mr. Bradford had said. 
 
 "Peter Bonnicastle," said my father, breaking the silence 
 with the only words he could find. 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 2iZ 
 
 " Peter Bonnicastle ! " she repeated almost mechanically, 
 and continued standing as if dazed. 
 
 She stood with her back toward me, and I could only guess 
 at her expression, or the strangely curious interest of the scene, 
 »by its reflection in Mr. Bradford's face. He sat uneasily in his 
 chair, and pressed the head of his cane against his chin, as if 
 he were using a mechanical appliance to keep his mouth shut. 
 He knew the woman before him, and was determined to be 
 wise. Subsequently I learned the reason of it all — of his 
 silence at the time, of his reticence for months and even years 
 afterward, and of what sometimes seemed to me and to my 
 father like coolness and neglect. 
 
 The silence was oppressive, and my father, remembering 
 the importance which Mr. Bradford had attached to the fact, 
 and moved by a newly awakened pride, said : " I am one of 
 many Peters, they tell me, the first of whom settled in Roxbury. 
 
 " Roxbury ? " and she took one or two steps toward him. 
 *' You are sure ? " 
 
 *' Perfectly sure," responded my father. 
 
 She made no explanation, but started for the door, dropping 
 a little bow as she turned away. Mr. Bradford was on his feet 
 in a moment, and, opening the door for her, accompanied her 
 into the street. I watched them from the window. They 
 paused just far enough from the driver of the chaise to be be- 
 yond his hearing, and conversed for several minutes. I could 
 not doubt that Mr. Bradford was giving her his impression of 
 us. Then he helped her into the chaise, and the little gray- 
 haired driver, gathering up his reins, and giving a great pull at 
 the head of the black horse, which seemed fastened to a 
 particularly strong tuft of grass, turned up the street and drove 
 off, tossing and jolting in the way he came. 
 
 There was a strong, serious, excited expression on ]\Ir. 
 
 Bradford's face as he came in. "My friend," said he, taking 
 
 my father's hand, " this is a curious affair. I cannot explain 
 
 it to you, and the probabilities are that I shall have less to do 
 
 with and for you than I supposed I might have. Be sure, 
 2* 
 
34 Arthur Bonmcastle. 
 
 however, that I shall always be interested in your prosperity ; 
 and never hesitate to come to nie if you are in serious trouble. 
 And now let me ask you never to mention my name to Mrs. 
 Sanderson, with praise ; never tell her if I render you a 
 service. I know the lady, and I think it quite likely that you 
 will hear from her in a few days. In the mean time you will 
 be busy in making your family comfortable in your new home." 
 Then he spoke a cheerful word to my mother, and bade us all 
 a good-morning, only looking kindly at me instead of bestow- 
 ing upon me the coveted and expected kiss. 
 
 When he was gone, my father and mother looked at each 
 other with a significant glance, and I waited to hear what they 
 would say. If I have said little about my mother, it is because 
 she had very little to say for herself. She was a weary, worn 
 woman, who had parted with her vitality in the bearing and 
 rearing of her children and in hard and constant care and work. 
 Life had gone wrong with her. She had a profound respect for 
 practical gifts, and her husband did not possess them. She 
 had long since ceased to hope for anything good in life, and her 
 face had taken on a sad, dejected expression, which it never 
 lost under any circumstances. To my father's abounding hope- 
 fulness she always opposed her obstinate hopelessness. This 
 was partly a matter of temperament, as well as a result of 
 disappointment. I learned early that she had very little faith 
 in me, or rather in any natural gifts of mine that in the future 
 might retrieve the fortunes of the family. I had too many of 
 the characteristics of my father. 
 
 I see the two now as they sat thinking and talking over the 
 events and acquaintances of the evening and the morning as 
 plainly as I saw them then — my father with his blue eyes all 
 alight, and his cheeks touched with the flush of excitement, and 
 my mother with her distrustful face, depreciating and question- 
 ing everything. She liked Mr. Bradford. Mr. Bradford was a 
 gentleman ; but what had gentlemen to do with them ? It was 
 all very well to talk about family, but what was family good for 
 -\ithout money ? Mr. Bradford had his own affairs to attend to, 
 
Artliuj' Bonnicastle. 
 
 35 
 
 and we should see precious little more of him ! As for Mrs. 
 Sanderson, she did not like her at all. Poor people would get 
 very little consideration from an old woman whose hand was 
 too good to be given to a stranger who happened to be- her 
 tenant. 
 
 I have wondered often how my father maintained his courage 
 and, faith with such a drag upon them as my mother's morbid 
 sadness imposed, but in truth they were proof against every de- 
 pressing influence. Out of every suggestion of possible good 
 fortune he built castles that filled his imagination with almost a 
 childish delight. He believed that something good was soon 
 to come out of it all, and he was really bright and warm in the 
 smile of that Providence which had manifested itself to him in 
 these new acquaintances. I pinned my faith to my father's 
 sleeve, and believed as fully and as far as he did. There was 
 a rare sympathy between us. The great sweet boy that he was 
 and the little boy that I was, were one in a charming commu- 
 nion. Oh God ! that he should be gone and I here ! He has 
 been in heaven long enough to have won his freedom, and I am 
 sure we shall kiss when we meet again ! 
 
 Before the week closed, the gray-haired old servant of Mrs. 
 Sanderson knocked at the door, and brought a little note. It 
 was from his mistress, and read thus, for I copy from the faded 
 document itself: — 
 
 ■ *• The Mansion, Bradford. 
 " Mr. Peter Bonnicastle : — 
 
 ** I should like to see you here next Monday morning, in regard to some 
 repairs about The Mansion. Come early, and if your little boy Arthur is 
 well enough you may bring him. 
 
 *'RuTH Sanderson." 
 
 The note was read aloud, and it conveyed to my mind in- 
 stantaneously a fact which I did not mention, but which filled 
 me with strange excitement and pleasure. I remembered that 
 my name was not once mentioned while Mrs. Sanderson was in 
 the house. She had learned it therefore from Mr. Bradford, 
 
36 AiHhtir Bonnicastle, 
 
 while talking at the door. Mr. Bradford liked me, I knew, and 
 he had spoken well of me to her. What would come of it all ? 
 So, with the same visionary hopefulness that characterized my 
 fatlier, I plunged into a sea of dreams on which I floated over 
 depths paved with treasure, and under skies bright with promise, 
 until Monday morning dawned. When the early breakfast wa<? 
 finished, and my father with unusual fervor of feeling had com- 
 mended his family and himself to the keeping and the blessing 
 of heaven, we started forth, he and I, hand in hand, with as 
 cheerful anticipations as if we were going to a f ^ast 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 I VISIT AN OGRES-S AND A GIANT IN THEIR ENCHANTED 
 
 CASTLE. 
 
 " The Mansion " of Mrs. Sanderson was a long half-mile 
 away from us, situated upon the hill that overlooked the little 
 city. It appeared grand in the distance, and commanded the 
 most charming view of town, meadow and river imaginable. 
 We passed Mr. Bradford's house on the way — a plain, rich, un- 
 pretending dwelling — and received from him a hearty good- 
 morning, with kind inquiries for my mother, as he stood in his 
 open doorway, enjoying the fresh morning air. At the window 
 sat a smiling little woman, and, by lier side, looking out at me, 
 stood the prettiest httle girl I had ever seen. Her raven-black 
 hair was freshly curled, and shone like her raven-black eyes ; 
 and both helped to make the simple frock in which she was 
 dressed seem marvelously white. I have pitied my poor little 
 self many times in thinking how far removed from me in condi- 
 tion the petted child seemed that morning, and how unworthy 
 I felt, in my homely clothes, to touch her dainty hand, or even 
 to speak to her. I was fascinated by the vision, but glad to 
 get out of her sight. 
 
 On arriving at The Mansion, my father and I walked to 
 the great front-door. There were sleeping lions at the side 
 and there was a rampant lion on the knocker which my father 
 was about to attack when the door swung noiselessly upon its 
 hinges, and we M^ere met upon the threshold by the mistress 
 herself. She looked smaller than ever, shorn of her street 
 costume and her bonnet ; and her lips were so thin and her 
 face seemed so full of pain that I wondered whether it were 
 her head or her teeth that ached. 
 
38 Arthti}^ Bofinicastle, 
 
 " The repairs that I wish to talk about are at the rear of the 
 house," she said, blocking the way, and with a nod directing 
 my father to that locality. There was no show of courtesy in 
 xicT words or manner. My father turned away, responding to 
 her bidding, and still maintaining his hold upon my hand. 
 
 " Arthur," said she, " come in here." 
 
 I looked up questioningly into my father's face, and saw that 
 it was clouded. He reUnquished my hand, and said : " Go 
 with the lady." 
 
 She took me into a little library, and, pointing me to a chair, 
 said: "Sit there until I come back. Don't stir, or touch 
 anything." 
 
 I felt, when she left me, as if there were enough of force in 
 her command to paralyze me for a thousand years. I hardly 
 dared to breathe. Still my young eyes were active, and were 
 quickly engaged in taking an inventory of the apartment, 
 and of such rooms as I could look into through the open 
 doors. I was conscious at once that I was looking upon 
 nothing that was new. Everything was faded and dark and 
 old, except those things that care could keep bright. The 
 large brass andirons in the fireplace, and the silver candlesticks 
 on the mantel-tree were as brilliant as when they were new. 
 So perfect was the order of the apartment — so evidently had 
 every article of furniture and every little ornament been ad- 
 justed to its place and its relations — that, after the first ten 
 minutes of my observation, I could have detected any change 
 as quickly as Mrs. Sanderson herself 
 
 Through a considerable passage, with an open door at either 
 end, I saw on the wall of the long dining-room a painted por- 
 trait of a lad, older than I and very handsome. I longed to 
 go nearer to it, but the prohibition withheld me. In truth, J 
 forgot all else about me in my curiosity concerning it — forgot 
 even where I was — yet I failed at last to carry away any im- 
 pression of it that my memory could recall at will. 
 
 It may have been half an hour — it may have been an hour — 
 that Mrs. Sanderson was out of the room, engaged with my 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle. 39 
 
 father. It seemed a long time that I had been left when she 
 returned. 
 
 " Have you moved, or touched anythmg? " she inquired. 
 
 " No, ma'am." 
 
 " Are you tired ? " 
 
 "Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " WQiat would you like to do ? " 
 
 " I should like to go nearer to the picture of the beautiful 
 little boy in that room," I answered, pointing to it. 
 
 She crossed the room at once and closed the door. Then she 
 came back to me and said with a voice that trembled : "You 
 must not see that picture, and you must never ask me any- 
 thing abQut it." 
 
 " Then," I said, " I should like to go out where my father 
 is at work." 
 
 " Your father is busy. He is at work for me, and I do not 
 wish to have him disturbed," she responded. 
 
 " Then I should like a book," I said. 
 
 She went to a little case of shelves on the opposite side of the 
 room, and took down one book after another, and looked, not 
 at the contents, but at the fly-leaf of each, where the name of 
 the owner is usually inscribed. At last she found one that 
 apparently suited her, and came and sat down by me, holding 
 it in her lap. She looked at me curiously, and then said : 
 " What do you expect to make of yourself, boy ? What do 
 you expect to be ? " 
 
 " A man," I answered. 
 
 " Do you ? That is a great deal to expect." 
 
 "Is it harder to be a man than it is to be a woman ? " I 
 inquired. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because it is," she replied almost snappishly. 
 
 " A woman isn't so large," I responded, as if that statement 
 might contain a helpful suggestion. 
 
 She smiled faintly, and then her face grew stern and sad ; and 
 
40 Arthur B^nnzcastle, 
 
 she seemed to look at something far off. At length she turned 
 to me and said : ''You are sure you will never be a drunkard ? " 
 
 " Never," I replied. 
 
 " Nor a gambler ? " 
 
 "I don't know what a gambler is." 
 
 " Do you think you could ever become a disobedient, un 
 grateful wretch, child ? " she continued. 
 
 I do not know where my responding words or my impulse to 
 utter them came from : probably from some romantic passage 
 that I had read, coupled with the conversations I had recently 
 heard in my home ; but I rose upon my feet, and with real 
 feeling, though with abundant mock-heroism in the seeming, ] 
 said : " Madame, I am a Bonnicastle ! " 
 
 She did not smile, as I do,, recalling the incident, but she 
 patted me on the head with the first show of affectionate re- 
 gard. She let her hand rest there while her eyes looked far 
 off again ; and I knew she was thinking of things with which 
 I could have no part. 
 
 " Do you think you could love me, Arthur ? " she said, look- 
 ing me in the eyes. 
 
 " I don't know," I replied, " but I think I could love any- 
 body who loved me." 
 
 '•'• That's true, that's true," she said sadly ; and then she 
 added : " Would you like to live here with me ? " 
 
 " I don't think I would," I answered frankly. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because it is so still, and everything is so nice, and my 
 -father and mother would not be here, and I should have no- 
 body to play with," I replied. 
 
 "But you would have a large room, and plenty to eat and 
 good clothes to wear," she said, looking down upon my humble 
 garments. 
 
 " Should I have this house when you get through with it ? " 
 I inquired. 
 
 "Then you would like it without me in it, would you ?" she 
 said, with a smile which she could not repress. 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 41 
 
 " I should think it would be a very good house for a man to 
 live in," I replied, evading her question. 
 
 " But you would be alone." 
 
 " Oh no ! " I said, " I should have a wife and children." 
 
 " Humph ! " she exclaimed, giving her head a little toss and 
 mine a little rap as she removed her hand, "you will be a 
 man, I guess, fast enough ! " 
 
 She sat a moment in silence, looking at me, and then she 
 handecTme the book she held, and went out of the room again 
 to see my father at his work. It was a book full of rude pic- 
 tures and uninteresting text, and its attractions had long been 
 exhausted when she returned, flushed and nervous. I learned 
 afterwards that she had had a long argument with my father 
 about the proper way of executing the job she had given him. 
 
 My father had presumed upon his knowledge of his craft to 
 suggest that her way of doing the work was not the right way ; 
 and she had insisted that the work must be done in her way or 
 not done at all. Those who worked for her were to obey her will. 
 She assumed all knowledge of everything relating to herself and 
 her possessions, and permitted neither argument nor opposi- 
 tion ; and when my father convinced her reason that she had 
 erred, she was only fixed thereby in her error. I knew that 
 something had gone wrong, and I longed to see my father, but 
 I did not dare to say anything about it. 
 
 How the morning wore away I do not remember. She led 
 me in a dreary ramble through the rooms of the large old 
 house, and we had a good deal of idle talk that led to nothing. 
 She chilled and repressed me. I felt that I was not myself, — 
 that her will overshadowed me. She called nothing out of me 
 that interested her. I remember thinking how different she 
 was from Mr. Bradford, whose presence made me feel that I 
 was in a large place, and stirred me to think and talk. 
 
 At noon the dinner-bell rang, and she bade me go with her 
 to the dining-room. I told her my father had brought dinner 
 for me, and I would like to eat with him. I longed to get 
 out of her presence, but she insisted that I must eat with hei 
 
/\2 Arthur Bonnzcastte, 
 
 and there was no escape. As we entered the dining-room, 
 I looked at once for my picture, but it was gone. In its 
 place was a square area of unfaded wall, where it had hung 
 for many years. I knew it had been removed because 1 
 wisli?4 to see it and was curious in regard to it. The spot 
 where it hung had a fascination for me, and many times my 
 eyes went up to it, as if that which had so strangely vanished 
 might as strangely reappear. 
 
 "Keep your eyes at home," said my snappish little hostess, 
 who had placed me, not at her side, but vis a vis ; so afterward, 
 when they were not glued to my plate, or were not watching 
 the movements of the old man-servant whom I had previously 
 seen driving his mistress's chaise, they were fixed on her. 
 
 I could not but feel that "Jenks," as she called him, dis 
 liked me. I was an intruder, and had no right to be at 
 Madame' s table. Wlien he handed me anything at the lady's 
 bidding, he bent down toward me, and uttered something 
 between growling and muttering. 1 had no doubt then that 
 he would have torn me limb from limb if he could. I found 
 afterward that growling and muttering were the habit of his 
 life. In the stable he growled and muttered at the horse. In 
 the garden, he growled and muttered at the weeds. Blacking 
 his mistress's shoes, he growled and muttered, and turned them 
 over and over, as if he were determining whether to begin to 
 eat them at the toe or the heel. If he sharpened the lady's 
 carving-knife, he growled as if he were sharpening his own 
 teeth. I suppose she had become used to it, and did not 
 notice it ; but he impressed me at first as a savage monster. 
 
 I was conscious during the dinner, to which, notwithstand- 
 ing all the disturbing and depressing influences, I did full 
 justice, that I was closely observed by my hostess ; for she 
 freely undertook to criticise my habits, and to lay down rules 
 for my conduct at the table. After every remark, Jenks 
 growled and muttered a hoarse response. 
 
 Toward the close of the meal there was a long silence, 
 and I became very much absorbed in my thoughts and fancies. 
 
Arthtcr Boniizcastle, 43 
 
 My hostess observed that something new had entered my 
 mind — for her apprehensions were very quick — and said 
 abruptly : " Boy, what are you thinking about ? " 
 
 I blushed and replied that I would rather not tell. 
 
 " Tell me at once," she commanded. 
 
 I obeyed with great reluctance, but her expectant eye wai 
 upon me, and there was no escape. 
 
 "I was thinking," I said, "that I was confined in an 
 enchanted castle where a little ogress lived with a gray-headed 
 giant. One day she invited me to dinner, and she spoke very 
 cross to me, and the gray-headed giant growled always when 
 he came near me, as if he wanted to eat me ; but I couldn't 
 stir from my seat to get away from him. Then I heard 
 a voice outside of the castle walls that sounded like my father's, 
 only it was a great way off, and it said : 
 
 *Come, little boy, to me, 
 On the back of a bumble-bee.* 
 
 Then I tried to get out of my chair, but I couldn't. So I 
 clapped my hands three times, and said : 'Castle, castle, Bonni- 
 castle!' and the little ogress flew out of the window on a 
 broomstick, and I jumped up and seized the carving-knife and 
 slew the gray-headed giant, and pitched him down cellar 
 with the fork. Then the doors flew open, and I went out to 
 see my father, and he took me home in a gold chaise with a 
 black horse as big as an elephant." 
 
 I could not tell whether amazement or amusement prevailed 
 in the expression of the face of my little hostess, as I proceeded 
 with the revelation of my fancies. I think her first impression 
 was that I was insane, or that my recent fall had in some 
 way injured my brain, or possibly that fever was coming on, 
 for she said, with real concern in her voice : " Child, are you 
 sure you are quite well ? " 
 
 " Very well, I thank you, ma'am," I replied, after the 
 formula in which I had been patiently instructed. 
 
 Jenks growled and muttered, but as I looked into his face 
 
44 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 I was sure I caught the slightest twinkle in his little gray eyes 
 At any rate, I lost all fear of him from that moment. 
 
 " Jenks," said the lady, " take this boy to his father, and tell 
 him I think he had better send him home. If it is necessary, 
 you can go with him." 
 
 As I rose from the table, I remembered the directions my 
 mothf^r had given me in the morning, and my tongue being 
 relieved from its spell of silence, I went around to Mrs. 
 Sanderson, and thanked her for her invitation, and formally 
 gave her my hand, to take leave of her. I am sure the lady 
 was surprised not only by the courtesy, but by the manner in 
 which it was rendered ; for she detained my hand, and said, 
 in a voice quite low and almost tender in its tone : " You do 
 not think me a real ogress, do you ? " 
 
 ''Oh no ! " I repHed, " I think you are a good woman, 
 only you are not very much like my mother. You don't seem 
 used to little boys : you never had any, perhaps ? " 
 
 Jenks overheard me, pausing in his work of clearing the 
 table, and growled. 
 
 "Jenks, go out," said Mrs. Sanderson, and he retired to the 
 kitchen, muttering as he went. 
 
 As I uttered my question, I looked involuntarily at the vacant 
 spot upon the wall, and although she said nothing as I turned 
 back to her, I saw that her face was full of pain. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," I said, in simplicity and earnestness. 
 My quick sense of what was passing in her mind evidently 
 touched her, for she put her arm around me, and drew me close 
 to her side. I had unconsciously uncovered an old fountain of 
 bitterness, and as she held me she said, " Would you like to 
 kiss an old lady ? " 
 
 I laughed, and said, " Yes, if she would like to kiss a boy." 
 
 She strained me to her breast. I knew that my fresh, boyish 
 lips were sweet to hers, and I knew afterwards that they were 
 the first she had pressed for a quarter of a century. It seemed 
 a long time that she permitted her head to rest upon my shoul- 
 der, for it quite embarrassed me. She released me at length, 
 
Arthtir Bonnicastle, 45 
 
 f(ir Jenks began to fumble at the door, to announce that he 
 was about to enter. Before he opened it, she said quickly: 
 " I shall see you again ; I am going to have a talk with your 
 father." 
 
 During the closing passages of our interview, my feelings to- 
 wards Mrs. Sanderson had undergone a most unexpected change. 
 My heart was full of pity for her, and I was conscious that for 
 some reason which I did not know she had a special regard for 
 me. When a strong nature grows tender, it possesses the most 
 fascinating influence in the world. When a powerful will bends 
 to a child, and undertakes to win that which it cannot com- 
 mand, there are very few natures that can withstand it. I do 
 not care to ask how much of art there may have been in Mrs. 
 Sanderson's caresses, but she undoubtedly saw that there was 
 nothing to be made of me without them. Whether she felt 
 little or much, she was determined to win me to her will ; and 
 from that moment to this, I have felt her influence upon my 
 Hfe. She had a way of assuming superiority to everybody — of 
 appearing to be wiser than everybody else, of finding everybody's 
 weak point, and exposing it, that made her seem to be one 
 whose word was always to be taken, and whose opinion was 
 always to have precedence. It was in this way, in my subsequent 
 intercourse with her, that she exposed to me the weaknesses of 
 my parents, and undermined my confidence in my friends, and 
 showed me how my loves were misplaced, and almost absorbed 
 me into herself. On the day of my visit to her, she studied me 
 very thorouglily, and learned the secret of managing me. I 
 think she harmed me, and that but for the corrective influences 
 to which I was subsequently exposed, she would well-nigh 
 have ruined me. It is a curse to any child to have his whole 
 personality absorbed by a foreign will, — to take love, la\y and 
 life from one who renders all with design, in the accompHsh- 
 ment of a purpose. She could not destroy my love for my 
 father and mother, but she made me half ashamed of them. 
 She discovered in some way my admiration of Mr. Bradford, 
 and managed in her own way to modify it. Thus it was 
 
46 Arthur Bomticastle. 
 
 with every acquaintance, until, at last, she made herself to me 
 the pivotal point on which the world around her turned. 
 
 As I left her, Jenks took me by the hand, and led me out, 
 with the low rumble in his throat and the mangled words be- 
 tween his teeth which were intended to indicate to Mrs. San- 
 derson that he did not approve of boys at all. As soon, how- 
 ever, as the door was placed between us and the lady, the 
 rumble in his throat was changed to a chuckle. Jenks was not 
 given to words, but he was helplessly and hopelessly under 
 Mrs. Sanderson's thumb, and all his growling and muttering 
 were a pretence. He would not have dared to utter an opin- 
 ion in her presence, or express a wish. He had comprehended 
 my story of the ogress and the giant, and as it bore rather 
 harder upon the ogress than it did upon the giant, he was in 
 great good humor. 
 
 He squeezed my hand and shook me around in what he in- 
 tended to be an affectionate and approving way, and then gave 
 me a large russet apple, which he drew from a closet in the 
 carriage -house. Not until he had placed several walls between 
 himself and his mistress did he venture to speak. 
 
 ''Well, you've said it, little fellow, that's a fact." 
 
 " Said what ? " I inquired. 
 
 " You've called the old woman an ogress, he ! he ! he ! and 
 that's just what she is, he ! he ! he ! How did you dare to do 
 such a thing ? " 
 
 " She made me," I answered. " I did not wish to tell the 
 story." 
 
 "That's what she always does," said Jenks. "She always 
 makes people do what they don't want to do. Don't you ever 
 tell her what I say, but the fact is I'm going to leave. She'll 
 wake up some morning and call Jenks, and Jenks won't come ! 
 Jenks won't be here ! Jenks will be far, far away ! " 
 
 His last phrase was intended undoubtedly to act up?" my 
 boyish imagination, and I asked him with some concern whuJier 
 he would go. 
 
 " I shall plough the sea," said Jenks. " You will find no 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle. 47 
 
 Jenks here and no russet apple when you coma again. I shall 
 be on the billow. Now mind you don't tell her" — tossing a 
 nod toward the house over his left shoulder — "for that would 
 spoil it all." 
 
 I promised him that I would hold the matter a profound se- 
 cret, although I was conscious that I was not quite loyal to my 
 new friend in keeping from her the intelligence that her servant 
 was about to leave The Mansion for a career upon the ocean. 
 
 " Here's your boy," said Jenks, leading me at last to my 
 father. "Mrs. Sanderson thinks you had better send him 
 home, and says I can go with him if he cannot find the way 
 alone." 
 
 " I'm very much obliged to Mrs. Sanderson," said my father 
 with a flush on his face, "but I will take care of my boy my- 
 self. He will go home when I do." 
 
 Jenks chuckled again. He was delighted with anything that 
 crossed the will of his mistress. As he turned away, I said : 
 " Good-by, Mr. Jenks, I hope you won't be very sea-sick." 
 
 This was quite too much for the little old man. He had 
 made a small boy believe that he was going away, a,nd that he 
 was going to sea ; and he returned to the house so much de- 
 lighted with himself that he chuckled all the way, and even 
 kicked at a stray chicken that intercepted his progress. 
 
 During the remainder of the day I amused myself with watch- 
 ing my father at his work. I was anxious to tell him of all that 
 had happened in the house, but he bade me wait until his work 
 was done. I had been accustomed to watch my father's face, 
 and to detect upon it the expression of all his moods and feel- 
 ings ; and I knew that afternoon that he was passing through a 
 great trial. Once during the afternoon Jenks came out of 
 the house with another apple ; and while he kept one eye 
 on the windows he beckoned to me and I went to him. Plac- 
 ing the apple in my hand, he said : " Far, far away, on the 
 billow ! Good-by." Not expecting to meet him again, I was 
 much inclined to sadness, but as he did not seem to be very 
 much depressed, I spared my sympathy, and heartily bade him 
 
48 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 "good luck." So the stupid old servant had had his practice 
 upon the boy, and was happy in the lie that he had passed 
 upon him. 
 
 There are boys who seem to be a source of temptation to 
 every man and woman who comes in contact with them. The 
 temptation to impress them, or to excite them to free and 
 characteristic expression, seems quite irresistible. Everybody 
 tries to make them believe something, or to make them 
 say something. I seemed to be one of them. Everybody 
 tried either to make me talk and give expression to my 
 fancies, or to make me believe things that they knew to be false. 
 They practiced upon my credulity, my sympathy, and my im- 
 agination for amusement. Even my parents smiled upon my 
 efforts at invention, until I found that they were more interested 
 in my lies than in my truth. The consequence of it all was s 
 disposition to represent every occurrence of my life in false 
 colors. The simplest incident became an interesting advent- 
 ure ; the most common-place act, a heroic achievement. With 
 a conscience so tender that the smallest theft would have made 
 me utterly wretched, I could lie by the hour without compunc- 
 tion. My father and mother had no idea of the injury they 
 were doing me, and whenever they realized, as they sometimes 
 did, that they could not depend upon my word, they were sadly 
 puzzled. 
 
 When my father finished his work for the day, and with my 
 hand in his I set out for home, it may readily be imagined that 
 I had a good deal to tell. I not only told of all that I had 
 seen, but I represented as actual all that had been suggested. 
 Such wonderful rooms and dismal passages and marvelous pic- 
 tures and services of silver and gold and expansive mirrors as 
 I had seen ! Such viands as I had tasted — such fruit as I had 
 eaten ! And my honest father received all the marvels with 
 hardly a question, and, after him, my mother and the children. 
 I remember few of the particulars, except that the picture of 
 the boy came and went upon the wall of the dining-room as if 
 by magic, and that Mrs. Sanderson wished to have me live with 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 49 
 
 her that I might become her heir. The last statement my 
 father examined with some care. Indeed, I was obhged to tell 
 exactly what was said on the subject, and he learned that, while 
 the lady wished me to live with her, the matter of inheritance 
 had not been suggested by anybody but myself. 
 8 
 
CHAPTER III. • 
 
 I GO TO THE bird's NEST TO LIVE, AND THE GIANT PERSISTS 
 IN HIS PLANS FOR A SEA-VOYAGE. 
 
 My father worked for Mrs. Sanderson during the week, but he 
 came liome every night with a graver face, and, on the closing 
 evening of the week, it all came out. It was im])ossible for him 
 to cover from my mother and his family for any length of time 
 anything which gave him either satisfaxtion or sorrow. 
 
 I remember how he walked the room that night, and swung 
 his arms, and in an excitement that was full of indignation and 
 self-pity declared that he could not work for Mrs. Sanderson 
 another week. " I should become an absolute idiot if 1 were 
 to work for her a month," I heard him say. 
 
 And then my mother told him that she never expected any- 
 thing good from Mrs. Sanderson — that it had turned out very 
 much as she anticipated — though for the life of her she could 
 not imagine what difference it made to my father whether he 
 did his work in one way or another, so long as it pleased Mrs. 
 Sanderson, and he got his money for his labor. I did not at all 
 realize what an eftect this talk would have upon my father then, 
 but now I wonder that with his sensitive spirit he did not upbraid 
 my mother, or die. In her mind it was only another instance 
 of my father's incompetency for business, to which incompe- 
 tency she attributed mainly the rigors of her lot. 
 
 Mrs. Sanderson was no better pleased with my father than 
 he was with her. If he had not left her at the end of his first 
 week, she would have managed to dismiss him as soon as she 
 had secured her will concerning myself. On Monday morning 
 I was dispatched to The Mansion with a note from my father 
 
ArtJntr Bonrdcastle, 51 
 
 ■which informi^d IMrs. Scanderson that she wa^ at liberty to suit 
 herseh^ with other service. 
 
 ]\Irs. Sanderson read the note, put her lips very tightly to- 
 gether, and then called Jenks. 
 
 " Jenks," said she, " put the horse before the chaise, change 
 your clothes, and drive to the door." 
 
 Jenks disappeared to execute her commands, and, in the 
 meantime, Mrs. Sanderson busied herself with preparations. 
 First she brought out sundry pots of jam and jelly, and then 
 two or three remnants of stuffs that could be made into clothing 
 for children, and a basket of apples. When the chaise arrived 
 at the door, she told Jenks to tie his horse and bestow the 
 articles she had provided in the box. When this task w^as com- 
 pleted she mounted the vehicle, and bade me get in at her side. 
 Then Jenks took his seat, and at Mrs. Sanderson's command 
 drove directly to my father's house. 
 
 When we arrived, my father had gone out ; and after express- 
 ing her regret that she could not see him, she sat down by my 
 mother, and demonstrated her kno\yledge of human nature by 
 wanning her confidence entirely. She even commiserated her 
 on the impracticable character of her husband, and then she 
 left with her the wages of his labor and the gifts she had 
 brought. My mother declared after the little lady went away 
 that she had never been so pleasantly disappointed as she had 
 been in Mrs. Sanderson ! She was just, she was generous, she 
 was everything that was sweet and kind and good. All this my 
 father heard when he arrived, and to it all he made no reply. 
 He was too kind to carry anger, and too poor to spurn a freely 
 offered gift, that brought comfort to those whom he loved. 
 
 Mrs. Sanderson was a woman of business, and at night she 
 came again. I knew my father dreaded meeting her, as he 
 always dreaded meeting with a strong and unreasonable will. 
 He had a way of avoiding such a will whenever it was possible, 
 and of sacrificing everything unimportant to save a collision 
 with it. There was an insult to his manhood in the mere exist- 
 ence and exercise of such a will, while actual subjection to it 
 
52 AiHhur Bonnicastle, 
 
 was the extreme of torture. But sometimes the exercise of 
 such a will drove him into a corner ; and when it did, the 
 shrinking, peaceable man became a lion. He had seen how 
 easily my mother had been conquered, and, although Mrs. 
 Sanderson's gifts were in his house, he determined that what- 
 ever might be her business, she should be dealt with frankly 
 and firmly. 
 
 I was watching at the window when the little lady alighted 
 at the gate. As she walked up the passage from the street, 
 Jenks exchanged some signals with me. He pointed to the 
 east and then toward the sea, with gestures, which meant that 
 long before the dawning of the morrow's sun Mrs. Sanderson's 
 aged servant would cease to be a resident of Bradford, and would 
 be tossing " on the billow." I did not have much opportunity 
 to carry on this kind of commerce with Jenks, for Mrs. Sander- 
 son's conversation had special reference to myself. 
 
 I think my father was a good deal surprised to find the lady 
 agreeable and gracious. She alluded to his note as something 
 which had disappointed her, but, as she presumed to know her 
 own business and to do it in her own way, she supposed that 
 other people knew their own business also, and she was quite 
 willing to accord to them such privileges as she claimed 
 for herself. She was glad there was work enough to be done 
 in Bradford, and she did not doubt that my father would get 
 employment. Indeed, as he was a stranger, she would take the 
 liberty of commending him to her friends as a good workman. 
 It did not follow, she said, that because he could not get along 
 with her he could not get along with others. My father was 
 very silent and permitted her to do the talking. He knew that 
 she had come with some object to accomplish, and he waited 
 for its revelation. 
 
 She looked at me, at last, and called me to her side. She 
 put her arm around me, and said, addressing my father : "I 
 suppose Arthur told you what a pleasant day we had together." 
 
 " Yes, and I hope he thanked you for your kindness to him," 
 my father answered. 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle. 53 
 
 *' Oh, yes, he was very polite and wonderfully quiet for a 
 boy," she responded. 
 
 My mother voluntee/ed to express the hope that I had not 
 given the lady any trouble. 
 
 "I never permit boys to trouble me," was the curt response. 
 
 There was something in this that angered my father — some- 
 thing in the tone adopted toward my mother, and something 
 that seemed so cruel in the utterance itself. My father be- 
 lieved in the rights of boys, and when she said this, he re- 
 marked with more than his usual incisiveness that he had no- 
 ticed that those boys who had not been permitted to trouble 
 anybody when they were young, were quite in the habit, when 
 they ceased to be boys, of giving a great deal of trouble. He 
 did not know that he had touched Mrs. Sanderson at a very 
 tender point, but she winced painfully, and then went directly 
 to business. 
 
 " Mr. Bonnicastle," said she, " I am living alone, as you 
 know. It is not necessary to tell you much about myself, but 
 I am alone, and with none to care for but myself. Although I 
 am somewhat in years, I come of a long-lived race, and am 
 quite well. I believe it is rational to expect to live for a con- 
 siderable time yet, and though I have much to occupy my mind 
 it would be pleasant to me to help somebody along. You 
 have a large family, whose fortunes you would be glad to ad- 
 vance, and, although you and I do not agree very well, I hope 
 you will permit me to assist you in accomplishing your wish." 
 
 She paused to see how the proposition was received, and was 
 apparently satisfied that fortune had favored her, though my 
 father said nothing. 
 
 " I want this boy," she resumed, drawing me more closely to 
 her. " I want to see him growing up and becoming a man un- 
 der my provisions for his support and education. It is not pos- 
 sible for you to do for him what I can do. It will interest me 
 to watch him from year to year, it will bring a little young blood 
 into my lonely old house occasionally, and in one way and 
 another it will do us all good." 
 
54 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 My father looked ver}^ serious. He loved me as he loved 
 his life. His great ambition was to give me the education 
 which circumstances had denied to him. Here was the oppor- 
 tunity, brought to his door, yet he hesitated to accept it. After 
 thinking for a moment, he said gravely : " Mrs. Sanderson, God 
 has placed this boy in my hands to train for Himself, and I can- 
 not surrender the control of his life to anybody. Temporarily 
 I can give him into the hands of teachers, conditionally I can 
 place him in your hands, but I cannot place him in any hands 
 beyond my immediate recall. I can never surrender my right 
 to his love and his obedience, or count him an alien from my 
 heart and home. If, understanding my feeling in this matter, 
 you find it in your heart to do for him what I cannot, why, you 
 have the means, and I am sure Go4 will bless you for employ- 
 ing them to this end." 
 
 "I may win all the love and all the society from him I can? " 
 said Mrs. Sanderson, interrogatively. 
 
 " I do not think it would be a happy or a healthy thing for 
 the child to spend much time in your house, deprived of young 
 society," my father replied. '' If you should do for him what 
 you suggest, I trust that the boy and that all of us would make 
 such expressions of our gratitude as would be most agreeable 
 to yourself ; but I must choose his teachers, and my home, how- 
 ever humble, must never cease to be regarded by him as his 
 home. I must say this at the risk of appearing ungrateful, 
 Mrs. Sanderson." 
 
 The little lady had the great good sense to know when she 
 had met with an answer, and the adroitness to appear satisfied 
 with it. She was one of those rare persons who, seeing a rock 
 in the way, recognize it at once, and, without relinquishing their 
 purpose for an instant, either seek to go around it or to arrive 
 at their purpose from some other direction. She had concluded, 
 for reasons of her own, to make me so far as possible her 
 possession. She had had already a sufficient trial of her power 
 to show her something of what she could do with me, and she 
 
Ai^tlmr Bonnicastle. 55 
 
 calculated with considerable certainty that she could managf* 
 my father in some way. 
 
 " Very well : he shall not come to me now, and shall never 
 come unless I can make my home pleasant to him," she said 
 " In the meantime, you will satisfy yourself in regard to a desir- 
 able school for him, and we will leave all other questions foi 
 time to determine." 
 
 Neither my father nor my mother had anything to oppose to 
 this, and my patroness saw at once that her first point was 
 gained. Somehow all had been settled without trouble. Every 
 obstacle had been taken out of the way, and the lady seemed 
 more than satined. 
 
 " When you are ready to talk decisively about the boy, you 
 will come to my house, and we will conclude matters," she 
 said, as she rose to take her leave. 
 
 I noticed that she did not recognize the existence of my 
 little brothers and older sisters, and something subtler than 
 reason told me that she was courteous to my father and mother 
 only so far as was necessary for the accomplishment of her pur- 
 poses. I was half afraid of her, yet I could not help admiring 
 her. She kissed me at parting, but she made no demonstration 
 of responsive courtesy to my parents, who advanced in a cor- 
 dial way to show their sense of her kindness. 
 
 In the evening, my father called upon Mr. Bradford and 
 made a full exposure of the difficulty he had had with Mrs. San- 
 derson, and the propositions she had made respecting myself ; 
 and as he reported his conversation and conclusions on his re- 
 turn to my mother, I was made acquainted with them. Mr. 
 Bradford had advised that the lady's offer concerning me should 
 be accepted. He had reasons for this which he told my father 
 ho did not feel at liberty to give, but there were enough that 
 lay upon the surface to decide the matter. There was nothing 
 humiliating in it, for it was no deed of charity. A great good 
 could be secured for me by granting to the lady what she re- 
 garded in hei own heart as a favor. She never had been greatly 
 given to deeds of benevolence, and this was the first notable 
 
56 Arthur Bo7i7iicastle, 
 
 act in her history that looked like one. He advised, however, 
 that my father hold my destiny in his own hands, and keep me 
 as much as possible away from Bradford, never permitting me 
 to be long at a time under Mrs. Sanderson's roof and immediate 
 personal influence. "When the youngster gets older," Mr. 
 Bradford said, " he will manage all this matter for himself, bet- 
 ter than we can manage it for him." 
 
 Then Mr. Bradford told him about a famous family school in 
 a country village some thirty miles away, which, from the name 
 of the teacher, Mr. Bird, had been named by the pupils " The 
 Bird's Nest." Everybody in the region knew about The Bird's 
 Nest ; and multitudinous were the stories told about Mr. and 
 Mrs. Bird ; and very dear to all the boys, many of whom had 
 grown to be men, were the house and the pair who presided 
 over it. Mr. Bradford drew a picture of this school which 
 quite fascinated my father, and did much — everything indeed — 
 to reconcile him to the separation which my removal thither 
 would make necessary. I was naturally very deeply interested 
 in all that related to the school, and, graceless as the fact may 
 seem, I should have been ready on the instant to part with all 
 that made my home, in order to taste the new, strange life it 
 would bring me. I had many questions to ask, but quickly ar- 
 rived at the end of my father's knowledge ; and then my im- 
 agination ran wildly on until the images of The Bird's Nest and 
 of Mr. and Mrs. Bird and Hillsborough, the village that made 
 a tree for the nest, were as distinctly in my mind as if I had 
 known them all my life. 
 
 The interview which Mrs. Sanderson had asked of my father 
 was granted at an early day, and the lady acceded without a 
 word to the proposition to send me to The Bird's Nest. She 
 had heard only good reports of the school, she said, and was 
 apparently delighted with my father's decision. Indeed, I sus- 
 pect she was quite as anxious to get me away from my father 
 and my home associations as he was to keep me out of The 
 Mansion and away from her. She was left to make her own 
 arrangements for my outfit, and also for my admission to the 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 57 
 
 school, though my father stipulated for the privilege of accom- 
 panying me to the new home. 
 
 One pleasant morning, some weeks afterward, she sent for 
 me to visit her at The Mansion. She was very sweet and 
 motherly ; and when I returned to my home I went clad in a 
 suit of garments that made me the subject of curiosity and 
 envy among my brothers and mates, and with the news that in 
 one week I must be ready to go to Hillsborough. During all 
 that week my father was very tender toward me, as toward 
 some great treasure set apart to absence. He not only did not 
 seek for work, but declined or deferred that which came. It 
 was impossible for me to know then the heart-hunger which he 
 anticipated, but I know it now. I do not doubt that, in his 
 usual way, he wove around me many a romance, and reached 
 forward into all the possibilities of my lot. He was always as 
 visionary as a child, though I do not know that he was more 
 childlike in this respect than in others. 
 
 My mother was full of the gloomiest forebodings. She felt 
 as if Hillsborough would prove to be an unhealthy place ; she 
 did not doubt that there was something wrong about Mr. and 
 Mrs. Bird, if only we could know what it was ; and for her part 
 there was something in the name which the boys had given the 
 school that was fearfully suggestive of hunger. She should 
 always think of me, she said, as a bird with its mouth open, 
 crying for something to eat. More than all, she presumed that 
 Mr. Bird permitted his boys to swim without care, and she 
 would not be surprised to learn that the oldest of them carried 
 guns and pistols and took the little boys with them. 
 
 Poor, dear mother ! Most fearful and unhappy while living, 
 and most tenderly mourned and revered in memory ! why did 
 you persist in seeing darkness where others saw light, and in 
 making every cup bitter with the apprehension of evil ? Why 
 were you forever on the watch that no freak of untoward for- 
 tune should catch you unaware ? Why did you treat the Provi- 
 dence you devoutly tried to trust as if you supposed he meant 
 to trick you, if he found you for a moment off your guard ? Oh, 
 
58 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 the twin charms of hopefuhiess and trustfuhiess ! What power 
 have they to strengthen weary feet, to sweeten sleep, to make 
 the earth green and the heavens blue, to cheat misfortune of 
 its bitterness and to quench even the poison of death itseh^! 
 
 It was arranged that my father should take me to Hills- 
 boroufich in Mrs. Sanderson's chaise — the same vehicle in which 
 I had first seen the lady herself. My little trunk was to be at- 
 tached by straps to the axletree, and so ride beneath us. Tak- 
 ing leave of my home was a serious business, notwithstanding 
 my anticipations of pleasure. My mother said that it was not 
 at all hkely we should ever meet again ; and I parted with her 
 at last in a passion of tears. The children were weeping too, 
 from sympathy rather than from any special or well-compre- 
 hended sorrow, and I heartily wished myself away, and out of 
 sight. 
 
 J-enks brought the horse to us, and, after he had assisted 
 my father in fastening the trunk, took me apart from the 
 group that had gathered around the chaise, and said in a con- 
 fidential way that he made an attempt on the previous night to 
 leave. He had got as far as the window from which he in- 
 tended to let himself down, but finding it dark and rather cloudy 
 he had concluded to defer his departure until a lighter and 
 clearer night. " A storm, a dark storm, is awful on the ocean, 
 you know," saidjenks, "but I shall go. You will not see me 
 here when you come again. Don't say anything about it, but 
 the old woman is going to be surprised, once in her life. She 
 will call Jenks, and Jenks won't come. He will be far, far 
 away on the billov/." 
 
 " Good-by," I said ; " I hope I'll see you again somewhere, 
 but I don't think you ought to leave Mrs. Sanderson." 
 
 " Oh, I shall leave," said Jenks. " The world is large and 
 Mrs. Sanderson is — is — quite small. Let her call Jenks once, 
 and see what it is to have him far, far away. Her time will 
 come." And he shook his head, and pressed his lips together, 
 and ground the gravel under his feet, as if nothing less than 
 an earthquake could shake his determination. The case seemed 
 
Arthti7' Boiinicastle, 59 
 
 quite hopeless to me, and I remember that the unpleasant pos- 
 sibihty suggested itself that I might be summoned to The Man- 
 sion to take Jenks's place. 
 
 At the close of our little interview, he drew a long paper box 
 from his pocket, and gave it to me with the injunction not to 
 open it until I had gone half way to Hillsborough. I accord- 
 ingly placed it in the boot of the chaise, to wait its appointed 
 time. 
 
 Jenks rode with us as far as The Mansion, spending the 
 time in instructing my father just where, under the shoulder 
 of the old black horse, he could make a whip the most effective 
 without betraying the marks to Mrs. Sanderson, and, when we 
 drove up to the door, disappeared at once around the corner 
 of the house. I went in to take leave of the lady, and found 
 her in the little library, awaiting me. Before her, on the table, 
 were a Barlow pocket-knife, a boy's playing-ball, a copy of 
 the New Testament, and a Spanish twenty-five cent piece. 
 
 "There," she said, "young man, put all those in your 
 pockets, and see that you don't lose them. I want you to write 
 me a letter once a month, and, when you write, begin your let- 
 ters with ' Dear Aunt.' " 
 
 The sudden accession to my boyish wealth almost drove me 
 wild. I had received my first knife and my first silver. I im- 
 pulsively threw my arms around the neck of my benefactress, 
 and told her I should never, never forget her, and should 
 never do anything that would give her trouble. 
 
 "See that you don't ! " was the sharp response. 
 
 As I bade her good-by, I was gratified by the look of pride 
 which, she bestowed on me, but she did not accompany me to 
 the door, or speak a word to my father. So, at last, we were gone, 
 and fairly on the way. I revealed to my father the treasures I 
 had received, and only at a later day was I able to interpret the 
 look of pain that accompanied his congratulations. I was in- 
 debted to a stranger, who was trying to win my heart, for pos- 
 sessions which his poverty forbade him to bestow upon me. 
 
 Of the delights of that drive over the open country I can 
 
6o Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 give no idea. We climbed long hills ; we rode by the side of 
 cool, dashing streams ; we paused under the shadow of way- 
 side trees ; we caught sight of a thousand forms of frolic life 
 on the fences, in the forests, and in the depths of crystal pools ; 
 we saw men at work in the fields, and I wondered if they did not 
 envy us ; we met strange people on the road, who looked at 
 us with curious interest ; a black fox dashed across our way, 
 and, giving us a scared look, scampered into the cover and was 
 gone ; bobolinks sprang up in the long grass on wings tangled 
 with music, and sailed away and caught on fences to steady 
 themselves ; squirrels took long races before us on the road-side 
 rails ; and far up through the trees and above the hills white- 
 winged clouds with breasts of downy brown floated against a sky 
 of deepest blue. Never again this side of heaven do I expect 
 to experience such perfect pleasure as I enjoyed that day — a 
 delight in all forms and phases of nature, sharpened by the 
 expectations of new companionships and of a strange new life 
 that would open before I should sleep again. 
 
 The half-way stage of our journey was reached before noon, 
 and I was quite as anxious to see the gift which Jenks had 
 placed in my hands at parting as to taste the luncheon which 
 my mother had provided. Accordingly, when my repast was 
 taken from the basket and spread before me, I first opened the 
 paper box. I cannot say that I was not disappointed ; 
 but the souvenir was one of which only I could understand 
 the significance, and that fact gave it a rare charm. It con- 
 sisted of a piece of a wooden shingle labeled in pencil 
 " Atlantick Oshun," in the middle of which was a little ship, 
 standing at an angle of forty-five degrees to the plane of 
 the shingle, with a mast and a sail of wood, and a figure 
 at the bow, also of wood, intended doubtless to represent 
 Jenks himself, looking off upon the boundless waste. The 
 utmost point of explanation to which my father could urge me 
 • was the statement that some time something would happen at 
 The Mansion which would explain all. So I carefully put the 
 "Atlantick Oshun" into its box, in which I preserved it for 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 6i 
 
 many months, answering all inquiries concerning it with the 
 tantalizing statement that it was " a secret." 
 
 Toward the close of the afternoon, we came in sight of 
 Hillsborough, with its two churches, and its cluster of embow- 
 ered white houses. It was perched, like many New England 
 villages, upon the top of the highest hill in the region, and we 
 entered at last upon the long acclivity that led to it. Half- 
 way up the hill, we saw before us a light, open wagon drawn by 
 two gray horses, and bearing a gentleman and lady who were 
 quietly chatting and laughing together. As we drew near to 
 them, they suddenly stopped, and the gentleman, handing the 
 reins to his companion, rose upon his feet, drew a rifle to his 
 eye and discharged it at some object in the fields. In an 
 instant, a little dog bounced out of the wagon, and, striking 
 rather heavily upon the ground, rolled over and over three 
 or four times, and then, gaining his feet, went for the game. 
 Our own horse had stopped, and, as wild as the little dog, I 
 leaped from the chaise, and started to follow. When I came 
 up with the dog, he was making the most extravagant plunges 
 at a wounded woodchuck, who squatted, chattering and show- 
 ing his teeth. I seized the nearest weapon in the shape of a 
 cudgel that I could find, dispatched the poor creature, and bore 
 him in triumph to the gentleman, the little dog barking and 
 snapping at the game all the way. 
 
 " Well done, my lad ! I have seen boys who were afraid of 
 woodchucks. Toss him into the ravine : he is good for 
 nothing," said the man of the rifle. 
 
 Then he looked around, and, bowing to my father, told him 
 that as he was fond of shooting he had undertaken to rid the 
 farms around him of the animals that gave their owners so 
 much trouble. " It is hard upon the woodchucks," he added, 
 *' but kind to the farmers." This was apparently said to defend 
 himself from the suspicion of being engaged in cruel and 
 wanton sport. 
 
 At the sound of his voice, the tired and reeking horse which 
 my father drove whinnied, then started on, and, coming to the 
 
62 Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 back of the other carriage, placed his nose close to the genlle- 
 man's shoulder. The lady looked around and smiled, while 
 the man placed his hand caressingly upon the animal's head 
 "Animals are all very fond of me," said he. "I don't under- 
 stand it : I suppose they do." 
 
 There was something exceedingly winning and hearty in the 
 gentleman's voice, and I did not wonder that all the animals 
 liked him. 
 
 " Can you tell me," inquired my father, "where The Bird's 
 Nest is ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I'm going there. Indeed, I'm the old Bird himself." 
 
 " Tut ! who takes care of the nest ? " said the lady with a 
 smile. 
 
 " And this is the Mother Bird — Mrs. Bird," said the gentle- 
 man. 
 
 Mrs. Bird bowed to us both, and, beckoning to me, pointed 
 to her side. It was an invitation to leave my father, and take 
 a seat with her. The little dog, who had been helped into his 
 master's wagon, saw me coming, and mounted into his lap, 
 determined that he would shut that place from the intruder. I 
 accepted the invitation, and, with the lady's arm around me, 
 we started on. 
 
 " Now I am going to guess," said Mr. Bird. " I guess your 
 name is Arthur Bonnicastle, that the man behind us is your 
 father, that you are coming to The Bird's Nest to live, that 
 you are intending to be a good boy, and that you are going to 
 be very happy." 
 
 " You've guessed right the first time," I responded laughing. 
 
 "And I can always guess when a boy has done right and 
 when he has done wrong," said Mr. Bird. "There's a httle 
 spot in his eye — ah, yes ! you have it ! — that tells the whole 
 story," and he looked down pleasantly into my face. 
 
 At this moment one of his horses discovered a young calf by 
 the roadside, and, throwing back his ears, gave it chase. I 
 had never seen so funny a performance. The horse, in genuine 
 frolic, dragged his less playful mate and the wagon through the 
 
ArtJmr Bonnicastle. 63 
 
 gutter and over rocks for many rods, entirely unrestrained by 
 his driver until the scared object of. the chase sHpped between 
 two bars at the roadside, and ran wildly off into the field. At 
 this the horse shook his head in a comical v/ay and went 
 quietly back into the road. 
 
 " That horse is laughing all over," said Mr. Bird. " He 
 thinks it was an excellent joke. I presume he will think of it, 
 and laugh again wh(?n he gets at his oats." 
 
 " Do you really think that horses laugh, Mr. Bird ? " I in- 
 quired. 
 
 " Laugh? Bl^ess you, yes," he replied. *' All animals laugh 
 when they are pleased. Gyp " — and he turned his eyes upon 
 the little dog in his lap — "are you happy ?" 
 
 Gyp looked up into his master's face, and wagged his tail. 
 
 "Don't you see 'yes' in his eye, and a smile in the wag of 
 his tail ? " said Mr. Bird. " If I had asked you the same 
 question you would have answered with your tongue, and 
 smiled with your mouth. That's all the difference. These 
 creatures understand us a great deal better than we under- 
 stand them. Why, I never drive these horses when I am 
 finely dressed for fear they will be ashamed of their old har- 
 ness." 
 
 Then turning to the little dog again, he said : " Gyp, get 
 down." Gyp immediately jumped down, and curled up at his 
 feet. " Gyp, come up here," said he, and Gyp mounted 
 quickly to his old seat. " Don't you see that this dog under- 
 stands the English language?" said Mr. Bird; "and don't you 
 see that we are not so bright as a dog, if we cannot learn his ? 
 Why, I know the note of every bird, and every insect, and 
 every animal on all these hills, and I know their ways and 
 habits. What is more, they know I understand them, and you 
 will hear how they call me and sing to me at The Bird's Nest." 
 
 So I had received my first lesson from my new teacher, and 
 little did he appreciate the impression it had made upon me. 
 It gave me a sympathy with animal life and an interest in its 
 habits which have lasted until this houi. It gave me, too, an 
 
64 Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 insight into him. He had a strong sympathy in the Hfc of a 
 boy, for his own sake. Every new boy was a new study that 
 lie entered upon, not from any sense of duty, or from any 
 scheme of poUcy, but with a hearty interest excited by the boy 
 himself. He was as much interested in the animal play of a 
 boy as he had been in the play of the horse. He watched a 
 grouj) of boys with the same hearty amusement that held him 
 while witnessing the frolic of kittens and lambs. Indeed, he 
 often played with them; and in this sympathy, freely mani- 
 fested, he held the springs of his wonderful power over them. 
 
 We soon arrived at The Bird's Nest, and all the horses were 
 passed into other hands. My little trunk was loosed, and 
 carried to a room I had not seen, and in a straggling way we 
 entered the house. 
 
 Before we alighted, I took a hurried outside view of my 
 future home. On the whole, ''The Bird's Nest" would have 
 been a good name for it if a man by any other name had pre- 
 sided over it. It had its individual and characteristic beauty, 
 because it had been shaped to a special purpose ; but it seemed 
 to have been brought together at different times, and from wide 
 distances. There was a central old house, and a hexagonal 
 addition, and a tower, and a long piazza that tied everything 
 together. It certainly looked grand among the humble houses 
 of the village ; though I presume that a professional architect 
 would not have taken th-e highest pleasure in it. As Mr. Bird 
 stepped out of his wagon upon the piazza, and took off his hat, I 
 had an opportunity to see him and to fix my impressions of his 
 appearance. He was a tall, handsome, strongly-built man, a 
 litde past middle life, with a certain fullness of habit that comes 
 of good health and a happy temperament. His eye was blue, 
 his forehead high, and his whole face bright and beaming with 
 good-nature. His companion was a woman above the medium 
 size, with eyes the same color of his own, into whose plainly- 
 parted hair the frost had crept, and upon whose honest face 
 and goodly figure hung that ineffable grace which we try to 
 characterize by the word " motherly." 
 
Arthur Bomiicastle, 65 
 
 I heard the shouts of boys at play upon the green, for it was 
 after school hours, and met half-a-dozen little fellows on the 
 piazza, who looked at me with pleasant interest as " the new 
 boy ; " and then we entered a parlor with curious angles, and 
 furniture that betrayed thorough occupation and usage. There 
 were thrifty plants and beautiful flowers in the bay-window, foi 
 plants and flowers came as readily within the circle of Mr. 
 Bird's sympathies as birds and boys. There was evidently an 
 uncovered stairway near one of the doors, for we heard two or 
 three boys running down the steps with a little more noise than 
 was quite agreeable. Immediately Gyp ran to the door where 
 the noise was manifested, and barked with all his might. 
 
 " Gyp is one of my assistants in the school," said Mr. Bird, 
 in explanation, *' especially in the matter of preserving order. 
 A boy never runs down-stairs noisily without receiving a scold- 
 ing from him. He is getting a little old now and sensitive, and 
 I am afraid has not quite consideration enough for the young- 
 sters." 
 
 I laughed at the ide^ of having a dog for a teacher, but with 
 my new notions of Gyp's capacity I was quite ready to believe 
 what Mr. Bird told me about him. 
 
 My father found himself very much at home with Mr. and 
 Mrs. Bird, and was evidently delighted with them, and with my 
 prospects under their roof and care. We had supper in the 
 great dining-room with forty hungry but orderly boys, a pleas- 
 ant evening with music afterward, and an early bed. I was 
 permitted to sleep with my father that night, and he was per- 
 mitted to take me upon his arm, and pillow my slumbers there, 
 while he prayed for me and secretly poured out his love upon 
 me. 
 
 Before we went to sleep my father said a few words to me, 
 but those words were new and made a deep impression. 
 
 "My little boy," he said, "you have my life in your hands. 
 If you grow up into a true, good man, I shall be happy, al- 
 though I may continue poor. I have always worked hard, and 
 I am willing to work even harder than ever, if it is all right 
 
66 Arthur Bo7inicastle. 
 
 with you ; but if you disappoint me and turn out badly, you 
 will kill me. I am living now, and expect always to live, in 
 and for my children. I have no ambitious })ro]ects for myself. 
 Providence has opened a way for you which I did not antici- 
 pate. Do all you can to please the v/oman who has under- 
 taken to do so much for you, but do not forget your father and 
 mother, and remember always that it is not possible for any- 
 body to love you and care for you as we do. If you have any 
 troubles, come to me with, them, and if you are tempted to do 
 wrong pray for help to do right. You will have many struggles 
 and trials — everybody has them — but you can do what you 
 will, and become what you wish to become." 
 
 The resolutions that night formed — a thousand times shaken 
 and a thousand times renewed — became the determining and 
 fruitful forces of my life. 
 
 The next morning, when the old black horse and chaise were 
 brought to the door, and my father, full of tender pain, took 
 leave of me, and disappeared at last at the foot of the hill, and 
 I felt that I was wholly separated from , my home, I cried as if 
 I had been sure that I had left that home forever. The pas- 
 sion wasted itself in Mrs. Bird's motherly arms, and then, with 
 words of cheer and diversions that occupied my mind, she cut 
 me adrift, to find my own soundings in the new social life of 
 the school. 
 
 Of the first few days of school-life there is not much to be 
 said. They passed pleasantly enough. The aim of my teach- 
 ers at first was not to push me into study, but to make me 
 ha]Dpy, to teach me the ways of my new life, and to give me an 
 opportunity to imbibe the spirit of the school. My apprehen- 
 sions were out in every direction. I learned by watching 
 others my own deficiencies ; and my appetite for study grew 
 by a natural process. I could not be content, at last, until I 
 had become one with the rest in work and in acquirements. 
 
 There lies before me now a package of my letters, made 
 sacred by my father's interest in and perusal and preservation 
 of them ; and, although I have no intention to burden these 
 
Arthtcr Bonnicastle. 67 
 
 pages with their cnidenesses and puerilities, I cannot resist the 
 temptation to I'eproduce the first which I wrote at The Bird's 
 Nest, and sent home. I shall spare to the reader its wretched 
 orthography, and reproduce it entire, in the hope that he will 
 at least enjoy its unconscious humor. 
 
 *' The Bird's Nest. 
 "Dear precious father: — 
 
 ** I have lost my ball. I don't know where in the world it can be. It 
 seemed to get away from me in a curious style. Mr. Bird is very kind, 
 and I like him very much. I am sorry to say I have lost my Barlow knife 
 too, Mr. Bird says a Barlow knife is a very good thing. I don't quite 
 think I have lost the twenty-five cent piece. I have not seen it since yes- 
 terday morning, ai\d I think I shall find it. Henry Hulm, who is my 
 chum, and a very smart boy, I can tell you, thinks tlie money will l^e found. 
 Mr. Bird says there must be a hole in the top of my pocket. I don't knov^ 
 what to do, I am afraid Aunt Sanderson will be cross about it. Mr 
 Bird thinks I ought to give my knife to the boy that will find the money, 
 and the money to the boy that will find the knife, but I don't see as I 
 should make much in that way, do you ? I love Mrs. Bird very much. 
 Miss Butler is the dearest young lady I ever knew. Mrs. Bird kisses us all 
 when we go to bed, and it seems real good. I have put tiie testament in 
 the bottom of my trunk, under all the things. I shall keep that if possible. 
 If Mrs. Sanderson finds out that I have lost the things, I wish you would 
 explain it and tell her the testament- is safe. Miss Butler has dark eye- 
 brows and wears a belt. Mr. Bird has killed another woodchuck. I won- 
 der if you left the key of my trunk. It seems to be gone. We have real 
 good times, playing ball and taking walks. I have walked out with INIiss 
 Butler, I wish mother could see her hair, and I am your son with ever so 
 much love to you and mother and all, 
 
 "Arthur Bonnicastle." 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IN WHICH THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE IS NOT PERMITTED TO 
 RUN AT ALL. 
 
 The first night which I spent in The Bird's Nest, after my 
 father left me, was passed alone, though my room opened into 
 another that was occupied by two boys. On the following day 
 Mr. Bird asked me if I had met with any boy whom I would 
 like for a room-mate ; and I told him at once that Henry 
 Hulm was the boy I wanted. He smiled at my selection, and 
 asked for the reason of it ; and he smiled more warmly still 
 when I told him I thought he was handsome, and seemed 
 lonely and sad. The lad was at least two years older than I, 
 but among all the boys he had been my first and supreme 
 attraction. He was my opposite in every particular. Quiet, 
 studious, keeping much by himself, and bearing in his dark 
 face and eyes a look of patient self-repression, he enlisted at 
 once my curiosity, my sympathy and my admiration. 
 
 Henry was called into our consultation, and Mr. Bird in- 
 formed him of my choice. The boy smiled gratefully, for he 
 had been shunned by the ruder fellows for the same qualities 
 which had attracted me. As the room I occupied was better 
 than his, his trunk was moved into mine; and while we 
 remained in the school we continued our relations and kept 
 the same apartment. If I had any distinct motive of curiosity 
 in selecting him he never gratified it. He kept his history cov- 
 ered, and very rarely alluded, in any way, to his home or his 
 family. 
 
 The one possession which he seemed to prize more highly 
 than any other was an ivory miniature portrait of his mother, 
 which, many a time during our life together, I saw him take 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle. 69 
 
 from his trunk and press to his Hps. I soon learned to respect 
 his reticence on topics which were quite at home on my own h'ps. 
 I suspect I did talking enough for two boys. Indeed, I threw 
 my whole life open to him, with such embellishments as my 
 imagination suggested. He seemed interested in my talk, and 
 was apparently pleased with me. I brought a new element 
 into his life, and we became constant companions when out of 
 school, as well as when we were in our room. 
 
 We were always wakened in the morning by a " whoop " and 
 " halloo " that ran from room to room over the whole estab- 
 lishment. A little bell started it somewhere ; and the first boy 
 who heard it gave his call, which was taken up by the rest and 
 borne on from bed to bed until the whole brood was in full cry. 
 Thus the school called itself It was the voices of merry and 
 wide-awake boys that roused the drowsy ones ; and very rarely 
 did a dull and sulky face show itself in the breakfast-room. 
 
 This morning call was the key to all the affairs of the day 
 and to the policy of the school. Self-direction and self- 
 government — these were the most important of all the lessons 
 learned at The Bird's Nest. Our school was a little community 
 brought together for common objects — the pursuit of useful 
 learning, the acquisition of courteous manners, and the practice 
 of those duties which relate to good citizenship. The only 
 laws of the school were those which were planted in the con- 
 science, reason, and sense of propriety of the pupils. The 
 ingenuity with which these were developed and appealed to has 
 been, from that day to this, the subject of ray unbounded ad- 
 miration. The boys were made to feel that the school was 
 their own, and that they were responsible for its good order. 
 Mr. Bird was only the biggest' and best boy, and the accepted 
 president of the establishment. The responsibility of the boys 
 was not a thing of theory only. It was deeply realized in the 
 conscience and conduct of the school. However careless and 
 refractory a new boy might be, he soon learned that he had a 
 whole school to deal with, and that he was not a match for the 
 public opinion. He might evade the master's or a teacher's 
 
7o Art^iur Bojinicastle. 
 
 will, but he could not evade the eyes or the sentiments of the 
 little fellows around him. 
 
 On the first Friday evening of my term, I entered as a 
 charmed and thoroughly happy element into one of the social 
 institutions of the school. On every Friday evening, after the 
 hard labor of the week was over, it was the custom of the 
 school to hold what was called a " reception." Teachers and 
 pupils made the best toilet they could, and spent the evening 
 in the parlors, dancing, and listening to music, and socially 
 receiving the towns-people and such strangers as might happen 
 to be in the village. The piano that furnished the music was 
 the first I had ever heard, and at least half of my first recep- 
 tion-evening was spent by its side, in watching the skillful and 
 handsome fingers that flew over its mysterious keys. I had 
 always been taught that dancing was only indulged in by wicked 
 people ; but there were dear Mr. and Mrs. Bird looking on ; 
 there was precious Miss Butler without her belt, leading little 
 fellows like myself through the mazes of the figures ; there were 
 twenty innocent and happy boys on the floor, their eyes spark- 
 ling with excitement ; there were fine ladies who had come to 
 see their boys, and village maidens simply clad and as fresh as 
 roses ; and I could not make out that there was anything wicked 
 about it. 
 
 It was the theory of Mr. Bird that the more the boys could 
 be brought into daily familiar association with good and gra- 
 cious women the better it would be for them. Accordingly he 
 had no men among his teachers, and as his school was the 
 social center of the village, and all around him were interested 
 in his objects, there were always ladies and young women at 
 the receptions who devoted themselves to the happiness of the 
 boys. Little lads of less than ten summers found no difiiculty 
 in securing partners who were old enough to be their mothers 
 and grandmothers ; and as I look back upon the patient and 
 hearty efforts of these women, week after week and year after 
 year, to make the boys happy and manly and courteous, it en- 
 hances my respect for womanhood, and for the wisdom which 
 
Arthttr Boimicastle, yi 
 
 laid all its plans to secure these attentions and this influence 
 for us. I never saw a sheepish-looking boy or a sheepish-act- 
 ing boy who had lived a year at The Bird's Nest. Through the 
 influence of the young women engaged as teachers and of those 
 who came as sympathetic visitors, the boys never failed to be- 
 come courteous, self-respectful, and fearless in society. 
 
 Miss Butler, the principal teacher, who readily understood 
 my admiration of her, undertook early in the evening to get me 
 upon the floor ; but it was all too new to me, and I begged to 
 be permitted for one evening to look on and do nothing. She 
 did not urge me ; so I played the part of an observer. One 
 of the first incidents of the evening that attracted my attention 
 was the entrance in great haste of a good-natured, rollicking boy, 
 whose name I had learned from the fellows to be Jack Linton. 
 Jack had been fishing and had come home late. His toilet 
 had been hurried, and he came blundering into the room with 
 his laughing face flushed, his neck-tie awry, and his heavy boots 
 on. 
 
 Mr. Bird, who saw everything, beckoned Jack to his side. 
 "Jack," said he, "you are a very rugged boy." 
 
 "Am I ? " And Jack laughed. 
 
 " Yes, it is astonishing what an amount of exercise you re- 
 quire," said Mr. Bird. 
 
 " Is it ? " And Jack laughed again. 
 
 " Yes, I see you have your rough boots on for another walk. 
 Suppose you walk around Robin Hood's Barn, and report 
 yourself in a light, cledu pair of shoes, as soon as you return." 
 
 Jack laughed again, but he made rather sorry work of it ; 
 and then he went out. " Robin Hood's Barn " was the name 
 gi^n to a lonely building a mile- distant, to which Mr. Bird was 
 in the habit of sending boys whose surplus vitality happened to 
 lead them into boisterousness or mischief Gyp, who had been 
 an attentive listener to the conversation, and apparently under- 
 stood every word of it, followed Jack to the door, and, having 
 dismissed him into the pleasant moonlight, gave one or tv.o 
 lig]it yelps and went back into the drawing-room. 
 
72 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 Jack was a brisk walker and a lively runner, and before an 
 hour had elapsed was in the drawing-room again, looking as 
 good-natured as if nothing unusual had occurred. I looked at 
 his feet and saw that they were irreproachably incased in hght, 
 shining shoes, and that his neck-tie had been readjusted. He 
 came directly to Mr. Bird and said : " I have had a very pleas- 
 ant walk, Mr. Bird." 
 
 "Ah ! I'm delighted," responded the master, smiling; and 
 then added : 
 
 " Did you meet anybody ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I met a cow." 
 
 " What did you say to her ? " 
 
 " I said ' How do you do, ma'am ? How's your calf?' " 
 
 " What did she say ? " asked Mr. Bird very much amused. 
 
 " She said the calf was very well, and would be tough enough 
 for tlie boys in about two weeks," replied Jack, with a loud 
 laugh. 
 
 Mr. Bird enjoyed the sally quite as much as the boys who 
 had gathered round him, and added : 
 
 " We all know who will want the largest piece. Jack. Now 
 go to your dancing." 
 
 In a minute afterward, Jack was on the floor with a ma- 
 tronly-looking lady to whom he related the events of the even- 
 ing without the slightest sense of annoyance or disgrace. But 
 that was the last time he ever attended a reception in his rough 
 boots. 
 
 The evening was filled with life and gayety and freedom. 
 To my unaccustomed eyes it was a scene of enchantment. I 
 wished my father could see it. I would have given anything 
 and everything I had to give could he have looked in upon it. 
 I was sure there was nothing wrong in such amusement. I 
 could not imagine how a boy could be made worse by such 
 happiness, and I never discovered that he was. Indeed, I can 
 trace a thousand good and refining influences to those even- 
 ings. They were the shining goals of every week's race with 
 my youthful competitors ; and while they were accounted sim- 
 
ArtJmr Bonnicastle. 73 
 
 ply as pleasures by us, they were regarded by the master and 
 the teachers as among the choicest means of education. The 
 manners of the school were shaped by them ; and I know that 
 hundreds of boys attribute to them their release from the bond- 
 age of bashfulness, under which many a man suffers while in 
 the presence of women during all his life. 
 
 I repeat that I have never discovered that a boy was made 
 worse by his experiences and exercises during those precious 
 evenings ; and I have often thought how sad a thing it is for a 
 child to learn that he has been deceived or misinformed by his 
 parents with relation to a practice so charged with innocent 
 enjoyment I enter here no plea for dancing beyond a faith- 
 ful record of its effect upon the occupants of The Bird's Nest 
 I suppose the amusement may be liable to abuse : most good 
 things are ; and I do not know why this should be an excep- 
 tion. This, however, I am sure it is legitimate to say : that 
 the sin of abuse, be it great or little, is venial compared with 
 that which presents to the conscience as a sin in itself that 
 which is not a sin in itself, and thus charges an innocent amuse- 
 ment with the flavor of guilt, and drives the young, in their 
 exuberant life and love of harmonious play, beyond the pale 
 of Christian sympathy. 
 
 As I recall the events of the occasion I find it impossible to 
 analyze the feeling that one figure among the dancers begot in 
 me. Whenever Miss Butler was on the floor I saw only her. 
 Her dark f^es, her heavy shining hair, the inexpressible ease of 
 her motions, her sunny smile, — that combination of graces 
 and manners which makes what we call womanliness, — fasci- 
 nated me, and inspired me with just as much love as it is pos- 
 sible for a boy to entertain. I am sure no girl of my own age 
 could have felt toward her as I did. I should have been 
 angry with any boy who felt toward her thus, and equally 
 angry with any boy who did not admire her as much, or who 
 should doubt, or undertake to cheapen, her charms. How can 
 I question that it was the dawn within me of the grand passion 
 ^an apprehension of personal and spiritual fitness for compan- 
 
74 Arthur Bonnicastce, 
 
 ionship? Pure as childhood, inspired by personal loveliness/ 
 clothing its object with all angelic perfections, this boy-love 
 for a woman has always been to me the subject of pathetic 
 admiration, and has proved that the sweetest realm of love is 
 untainted by any breath of sense. 
 
 There was a blind sort of wish within me for possession, 
 even at this early age, and I amused the lady by giving utter- 
 ance to my feelings. Wearied with the dancing, she took m)/ 
 hand and led me to a retired seat, where we had a delightful 
 chat. 
 
 " I think you were born too soon," I said to her, still cling- 
 ing to her hand, and looking my admiration. 
 
 " Oh ! if I had been born later," she replied, " I should not 
 be here. I should be a little girl somewhere." 
 
 " I don't think I should love you if you were a little girl," I 
 responded. 
 
 " Then perhaps you were not born soon enough," she sug« 
 gested. 
 
 " But if I had been born sooner I shouldn't be here now," 
 I said. 
 
 " That's true," said the lady, " and that would be very bad, 
 wouldn't it?" 
 
 "Yes, ever so bad," I said. "I wouldn't miss being here 
 with you for a hundred dollars." 
 
 The mode in which I had undertaken to measure the pleas- 
 ure of her society amused Miss Butler very much ; and as I felt 
 that the sum had not impressed her sufficiently, I added fifty 
 to it. At this she laughed heartily, and said I was a strange 
 boy, a statement which I received as pleasant flattery. 
 
 "Did you ever hear of the princess who was put to sleep for 
 a hundred years and kept young and beautiful through it all ? " 
 I inquired. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Well, I wish Mr. Bird were an enchanter, and wojuld put 
 you to sleep until I get to be a man," I said. 
 
 "But then I couldn't see you for ten years," she replied. 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 75 
 
 " Oh dear ! " I exclaimed, '' it seems to be all wrong." 
 
 " Well, my boy, there are a great many things in the world 
 that seem to be all wrong. It is wrong for you to talk such 
 nonsense to me, and it is wrong for me to let you do it, and we 
 will not do ^vTong in this way any more. But I like you, and 
 we will be good friends always." 
 
 Thus saying, my love dismissed me, and went back among 
 the boys ; but little did she know how sharp a pang she left in 
 my heart. The forbidden subject was never mentioned again, 
 and like other boys under similar circumstances, I survived. 
 
 There was one boy besides myself who enacted the part of 
 an observer during that evening. He was a new boy, who had 
 entered the school only a few days before myself. He was from 
 the city, and looked with hearty contempt upon the whole 
 entertainment. He had made no friends during the fortnight 
 which had passed since he became an occupant of The Bird's 
 Nest. His haughty and supercilious ways, his habit of finding 
 fault with the school and everything connected with it, his 
 overbearing treatment of the younger boys, and his idle habits 
 had brought upon him the dislike of all the fellows. His name 
 was Frank Andrews, though for some reason we never called 
 him by his first name. He gave us all to understand that he was 
 a gentleman's son, that he was rich, and, particularly, that he 
 was in the habit of doing what pleased him and nothing else. 
 
 He was Idressed better than any of the other boys, and 
 carried a watch, the chain of which he took no pains to con- 
 ceal. During all the evening he stood here and there about 
 the rooms, his arms folded, looking on with his critical eyes and 
 cynical smile. Nobody took notice of him, and he seemed 
 to be rather proud of his isolation. I do not know why he 
 should have spoken to me, for he was my senior, but toward 
 the close of the evening he came up to me and said in his 
 patronizing way : 
 
 "Well, httle chap, how do you like it ?" 
 
 " Oh ! I think it's beautiful," I replied. 
 
 '•'■Do yoM ! That's because you're green," said Andrews. 
 
76 . ArtJmr Bonnicastle, 
 
 ^^ Is it!" I responded, imitating his tone. "Then they're 
 all green — Mr. Bird and all." 
 
 "There's where you're right, Httle chap," said he. "They 
 are all green — Mr. Bird and all." 
 
 "Miss Butler isn't green," I asserted stoutly. 
 
 " Oh ! isn't she ? " exclaimed Andrews, with a degree of 
 sarcasm in his tone that quite exasperated me. " Oh, no ! Miss 
 Butler isn't green of course," he continued, as he saw my face 
 reddening. "She's a duck — so she is ! so she is ! and if you 
 are a good little boy you shall waddle around with her some 
 time, so you shall ! " 
 
 I was so angry that I am sure I should have struck him if 
 we had been out of doors, regardless of his superior size and 
 age. I turned sharply on my heel, and, retiring to a corner 
 of the room, glared at him savagely, to his very great amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 It was at this moment that the bell rang for bed ; and receiv- 
 ing, one after another, the kisses of Mr. and Mrs. Bird, and 
 bidding the guests a good-night, some of whom were departing 
 wliile others remained, we went to our rooms. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE DISCIPLINE OF THE BIRD'S NEST AS ILLUSTRATED BY TWO 
 STARTLING PUBLIC TRIALS. 
 
 Scarcely less interesting than the exercises of reception- 
 evening were those of the "family meeting," as it was called, 
 which was always held on Sunday. This family meeting was 
 one of the most remarkable of all the institutions of The Bird's 
 Nest. It was probably more influential upon us than even the 
 attendance at church, and our Bible lessons there, which occurred 
 on the same day, for its aim and its result were the application 
 of the Christian rule to our actual, every-day conduct. 
 
 I attended the family meeting which was held on my first 
 Sunday at the school with intense interest. I suspect, indeed, 
 that few more interesting and impressive meetings had ever 
 been held in the establishment. 
 
 After we were all gathered in the hall, including Mrs. Bird 
 and the teachers, as well as the master, Mr. Bird looked kindly 
 out upon us and said : 
 
 "Well, boys, has anything happened during the week that 
 we ought to discuss to-day? Is the school going along all 
 right ? Have you any secrets buttoned up in your jackets that 
 you ought to show to me and to the school ? Is there any- 
 thing wrong going on which will do harm to the boys ? " 
 
 As Mr. Bird spoke, changing the form of his question 
 so as to reach the consciences of his boys from different direc- 
 tions, and get time to read their faces, there was a dead silence. 
 When he paused, every boy felt that his face had been shrewdly 
 read and was still under inspection. 
 
 " Yes, there is something wjong : I see it," said Mr. Bird. 
 " I see it in several faces; but Tom Kendrick can tell us just 
 
78 Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 ^diat it is. And he will tell us just what it is, for Tom Ken- 
 drick never lies." 
 
 All eyes were instantly turned on Tom, a blushing, frank-faced 
 boy of twelve. Close beside him sat Andrews, the new boy, 
 who had so roused my anger on Friday night. His face wore 
 the same supercilious, contemptuous expression that it wore 
 that night. The whole proceeding seemed to impress him 
 as unworthy even the toleration of a gentleman's son, yet I felt 
 sure that he would be in some way implicated in Tom Ken- 
 drick's revelations. Indeed, there was, or I thought there was, 
 a look of conscious guilt on his face and the betrayal of 
 excitement in his eye, when Tom rose to respond to Mr. Bird's 
 bidding. 
 
 Tom hesitated, evidently very unwilling to begin. He 
 looked blushingly at Mrs. Bird and the teachers, then looked 
 down, and tried to start, but his tongue was dry. 
 
 " Well, Tom, we are all ready to hear you," said Mr. Bird. 
 
 After a little stammering, Tom pronounced the name of 
 Andrews, and told in simple, straightforward language, how 
 he had been in the habit of relating stories and using words 
 which were grossly immodest ; how he had done this repeatedly 
 in his hearing and against his protests, and furthermore, how- 
 he had indulged in this language in the presence of smaller 
 boys. Tom also testified that other boys besides himself had 
 warned Andrews that if he did not mend his habit he would be 
 reported at the family meeting. 
 
 There was the utmost silence in the room. The dropping 
 of a pin could have been heard in any part of it, for, while the 
 whole school disliked Andrews, his arrogance had impressed 
 them, and they felt that he would be a hard boy to deal with. 
 I watched alternately the accuser and the accused, and I 
 trembled in every nerve to see the passion depicted on the fea- 
 tures of the latter. His face became pale at first — deathly pale 
 — then livid and pinched — and then it burned with a hot flame 
 of shame and anger. He sat as if he were expecting the 
 roof to fall, and were bracing himself to resist the shock. 
 
Arthur Bojinzcasile. 79 
 
 When Tom took his seat Andrews leaned toward him and 
 muttered something in his ear. 
 
 " What does he say to you, Tom ? " inquired Mr. Bird. 
 
 " He says he'll flog me for telling," answered Tom. 
 
 " We will attend to that," said Mr. Bird. " But first let us 
 hear fi-om others about this matter. Has any other boy heard 
 this foul language ? Henry Hulm, can you tell us anything?' 
 
 Henry was another boy who always told the truth ; and 
 Henry's testimony was quite as positive as Tom's, though it 
 was given with even more reluctance. Other boys testified in 
 confirmation of the report of Tom and Henry, until, in tlip 
 opinion of the school, Andrews was shamefully guilty of the mat 
 ter charged upon him. I was quite ignorant of the real char- 
 acter of the offense, and wondered wdiether his calling Miss 
 Butler a duck was in the line of his sin, and whether my testi- 
 mony to the fact was called for. No absurdity, such as this 
 would have been, broke in upon the earnest solemnity of the 
 occasion, however, and the house was silent until Mr. Bird said : 
 
 " What have you to say for yourself, Andrews ? " 
 
 The boy was no whit humbled. Revenge was in his heart 
 and defiance in his eye. He looked Mr. Bird boldly in the 
 face ; his lips trembled, but he made no reply. 
 
 "Nothing?" Mr. Bird's voice was severe this time, and 
 rang like a trumpet. 
 
 Andrews bit his lips, and blurted out : "I think it is mean 
 for one boy to tell on another." 
 
 "I don't," responded Mr. Bird; "but I'll tell you what is 
 mean : it is mean for one boy to pollute another — to fill his 
 mind with words and thoughts that make him mean ; and I 
 should be sorry to believe that I have any other boy in school 
 who is half as mean as you are. If there is anything to be 
 said about mean boys, you are not the boy to say it." 
 
 At first, I confess that I was quite inclined to sympathize 
 with the lad in his view of the dishonor of "telling on" a boy, 
 notwithstanding my old grudge ; but my judgment went with 
 the majority at last. 
 
8o Arthur Bomiicastle, 
 
 Mr. Bird said that, as there were several new boys in the school, 
 it would be best, perhaps, to talk over this matter of reporting 
 one another's bad conduct to him and to the school. 
 
 " When boys first come here," said Mr. Bird, " they invariably 
 have those false notions of honor which lead them to cover up 
 all the wrong-doings of their mates ; but they lose them just as 
 soon as they find themselves responsible for the good order of 
 our little community. Now we are all citizens of this little town 
 of Hillsborough, in which we live. We have our own town 
 authorities and our magistrate, and we are all interested in the 
 good order of the village. Suppose a man should come here 
 to live who is in the habit of robbing hen-roosts, or setting 
 barns on fire, or getting drunk and beating his wife and chil- 
 dren : is it a matter of honor among those citizens who behave 
 themselves properly to shield him in his crimes, and refrain 
 from speaking of him to the authorities ? Why, the thing is 
 absurd. As good citizens — as honorable citizens — we must re- 
 port this man, for he is a public enemy. He is not only dan- 
 gerous to us, but he is a disgrace to us. So long as he is per- 
 mitted to live among us, unreproved and uncorrected, every man 
 in the community familiar with his misdeeds is, to a certain ex- 
 tent, responsible for them. Very well : we have in this house 
 a little republic, and if you can learn to govern yourselves here, 
 and to take care of the enemies of the order and welfare of the 
 school, you will become good citizens, prepared to perform the 
 duties of good citizenship. I really know of nothing more de- 
 moralizing to a boy, or more ruinous to a school, than that 
 false sense of honor which leads to the covering up of one an- 
 other's faults of conduct." 
 
 Mr. Bird paused, and, fixing his eye upon Andrews, who had 
 not once taken his eye from him, resumed : "Now here is a 
 lad who has come to us from a good family ; and they have 
 sent him here to get him away from bad influences and bad 
 companions. He comes into a community of boys who are 
 trying to lead good lives, and instead of adopting the spirit oi 
 the school, and trying to become one with us, he still holds the 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle. 8i 
 
 spiiit of the bad companions of his previous life, and goes per- 
 sistently to work to make all around him as impure and base 
 as himself Nearly all these boys have mothers and sisters, 
 who would be pained almost to distraction to learn that here, 
 upon these pure hills, they are drinking in social poison with 
 every breath. How am I to guard you from this evil if I do 
 not know of it ? How can I protect you from harm if you 
 shield the boy who harms you ? There is no mischief of which a 
 boy is capable that will not breed among you like a pestilence 
 if you cover it ; and instead of sending you back to your homes 
 at last with healthy bodies and healthy minds and pure spirits, 
 I shall be obliged, with shame and tears, to return you soiled 
 and spotted and diseased. Is it honorable to protect crime ? 
 Is it honorable to shield one who dishonors and damages you ? 
 Is it honorable to disappoint your parents and to cheat me ? 
 Is it honorable to permit these dear Httle fellows to be spoiled, 
 when the wicked lad who is spoiling them is allowed to go free 
 of arrest and conviction ? " 
 
 Of course I cannot pretend to reproduce the exact words in 
 which Mr. Bird clothed his little argumentative address. I was 
 too young at the time to do more than apprehend the meaning of 
 it.: and the words that I give are mainly remembered from rep- 
 etitions of the same argument in the years that followed. The 
 argument and the lesson, however, in their substance and prac- 
 tical bearings, I remember perfectly. 
 
 Continuing to speak, and releasing Andrews from his regard 
 for a moment, Mr. Bird said : " I want a vote on this question. 
 I desire that you all vote with perfect freedom. If you are not 
 thoroughly convinced that I am right in this matter, I wish you 
 to vote against me. Now all those boys who believe it to be 
 an honorable thing to report the persistently bad conduct of a 
 schoolmate will rise and stand." 
 
 Every boy except Andrews rose, and with head erect stood 
 squarely upon his feet. The culprit looked from side to side 
 with a sneer upon his lip, that hardened into the old curl of 
 defiance as he turned his eyes upon Mr. Bird's face again. 
 
82 Arthur Bo7inicastle, 
 
 ''Very well," said Mr. Bird, "now sit down, and remembei 
 that you are making rules for the government of yourselves. 
 This question is settled for this term, and there is to be no 
 complaint hereafter about what you boys call " telling on one 
 another." I do not wish you to come to me as tattlers. In- 
 deed, I do not wish you to come to me at all. If any boy 
 does a wrong which I ought to know, you are simply to tell 
 him to report to me what he has done, and if he and I cannot 
 settle the matter together I will call upon you to help us. 
 There will be frictions and vexations among forty boys ; I 
 know that, and about these I wish to hear nothing. Settle 
 these matters among yourselves. Be patient and good-natured 
 with each other; but all those things that interfere with the 
 order, purity, and honor of the school — all those things that 
 refuse to be corrected — must be reported. I think we under- 
 stand one another. The school is never to suffer in order to 
 save the exposure and punishment of a wrong-doer. 
 
 " As for this boy, who has offended the school so grossly 
 and shown so defiant a spirit, I propose, with the private as- 
 sistance of the boys who have testified against him, to make 
 out a literal report of his foul language and forward it to his 
 mother, while at the same time I put him into the stage-coach 
 and send him home." 
 
 It was a terrible judgment, and I can never forget the pas- 
 sion depicted upon Andrews' face as he comprehended it. He 
 seemed like one paralyzed. 
 
 " Every boy," said Mr. Bird, "who is in favor of this punish- 
 ment will hold up his right hand." 
 
 Two or three hands started to go up among the smaller boys, 
 but as their owners saw that they had no support, they were drawn 
 down again. Four or five of the boys were in tears, and dear 
 Mr. Bird's eyes were full. He gathered at a glance the mean- 
 ing of the scene, and was much moved. " Well, Tom Ken- 
 diick, you were the first to testify against him ; what have you 
 to say against this punishment ? " 
 
 Tom rose with his lips trembling, and every nerve full of 
 
A^'thur Bonnicastle, 83 
 
 excitement. " Please, sir," said Tom, " I should like to have 
 you give Andrews another chance. I think it's an awful thing 
 to send a boy home without giving him more than one chance." 
 
 Tom sat down and blew his nose very loud, as a measure of 
 relief. 
 
 I watched Andrews with eager eyes during the closing pas- 
 sasres of his trial. When Tom rose on behalf of the whole 
 
 o 
 
 school to plead for him — that he might have one more chance 
 — the defiant look faded from his face, and he gave a convulsive 
 gulp as if his heart had risen to his throat and he were struggling 
 to keep it down. When Tom sat down, Andrews rose upon his 
 feet and staggered and hesitated for a moment ; then, overcome 
 by shame, grief and gratitude, he ran rather than walked to 
 where Mrs. Bird was sitting near her husband, and with a wild 
 burst of hysterical sobbing threw himself upon his knees, and 
 buried his face in the dear motherly lap that had comforted so 
 many boyish troubles before. The appeal from man to woman 
 — from justice to mercy — moved by the sympathy of the boys, 
 was the most profoundly touching incident I had ever witnessed, 
 and I wept almost as heartily as did Andrews himself. In 
 truth, I do not think there was a dry eye in the room. 
 
 " Tom," said Mr. Bird, " I think you are right. You have 
 helped me, and helped us all. The lad ought to have another 
 chance, and he shall have one if he desires it. The rest of 
 this matter you can safely leave to Mrs. Bird and myself Now 
 remember that this is never to be alluded to. If the lad remains 
 and does right, or tries to do right, he is to be received and cher- 
 ished by you all. No one of us is so perfect that he does not 
 need the charity of his fellows. If Andrews has bad habits, 
 you must help him to overcome them. Be brothers to him in 
 all your future intercourse, as you have been here to-day ; and 
 as we have had business enough for one family meeting, you 
 may pass out and leave him with us." 
 
 " Gorry ! " exclaimed Jack Linton, wiping his eyes and wring- 
 ing his handkerchief as he left the door, '' wasn't that a freshet } 
 Wettest time 1 ever saw in Hillsborough." 
 
84 - Arthur Bonnicastle, , 
 
 But the boys were not in a jesting mood, and Jack's drolleritjs 
 *were not received with the usual favor. Every thoughtful and 
 sympathetic lad retired with a tableau on his memory never to be 
 forgotten — a benignant man looking tearfully and most affec- 
 tionately upon him, and a sweet-faced, large-hearted woman 
 pillowing in her lap the head of a kneeling boy, whose destiny 
 for all the untold and unguessed ages was to be decided there 
 and then. 
 
 It was more than an hour before we saw anything of Mr. 
 and Mrs. Bird. When they issued from their retirement they 
 were accompanied by a boy who was as great a stranger to 
 himself as he was to the school. Conquered and humbled, 
 looking neither to the right nor the left, he sought his room, 
 and none of us saw his face until the school was called together 
 on Monday morning. His food was borne to his room by Mrs. 
 Bird, who in her own way counseled and comforted him, and pre- 
 pared him to encounter his new relations with the institution. 
 The good, manly hearts of the boys never manifested their 
 quality more strikingly than when they undertook on Monday 
 to help Andrews into his new life. The obstacles were all taken 
 out of his path — obstacles which his own spirit and life had 
 planted — and without a taunt, or a slight, or a manifestation 
 of revenge in any form, he was received into the brother- 
 hood. 
 
 On Monday evening we were somewhat surprised to see him 
 appear, dressed in his best, his hands nicely gloved, making his 
 way across the village green. No one questioned him, and all 
 understood the case as he turned in at the gate which led to the 
 home of the village minister. 
 
 When any lad had behaved in an unseemly manner at church, 
 it was Mr. Bird's habit to compel him to dress himself for a call, 
 and visit the pastor with an apology for his conduct. " It is not 
 a punishment, my boy," Mr. Bird used to say, " but it is what 
 one gentleman owes to another. Any boy who so far forgets 
 his manners as to behave improperly in the presence of a clergy- 
 man whose ministration, he is attending owes him an apology, 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 85 
 
 if he proposes to be considered a gentleman ; and he must 
 make it, or he cannot associate with me or my school." 
 
 In this case he had made conformity to his rule a test of the 
 genuineness of the boy's penitence, and a trial of his newly-pro- 
 fessed loyalty. The trial Avas a severe one, but the result grati- 
 fied all the boys as much as it did dear Mr. and Mrs. Bird. 
 
 I was very much excited by the exposure of Andrews, and 
 put a good many serious questions to myself in regard to my 
 own conduct. The closing portion of the Sunday evening on 
 which the event occurred was spent by several boys and myself 
 in our rooms. We were so near each other that we could easily 
 converse through the open doors, and I was full of questions. 
 
 ** What do you think Mr. Bird will do with Andrews ? " I in- 
 quired of Jack Linton. 
 
 " Oh, nothing : he's squelched," said Jack. 
 
 " I should think he would punish him," I said, '^ for I know 
 Mr. Bird was angry." 
 
 " Yes," responded Jack, " the old fellow fires up sometimes 
 like everything; but you can't flail a boy when he's got his 
 head in a woman's lap, can you, you little coot ? " 
 
 " That's the way my mother always flailed me, any way," I 
 said, at which Jack and all the boys gave a great laugh. 
 
 " Flailing," said Jack, taking up a moralizing strain, when 
 the laugh was over, " don't pay. The last school I»went to be- 
 fore I came here was full of no end of flailing. There gets to 
 be a sort of sameness about it after a while. Confound that 
 old ruler ! I used to get it about every day — three or four 
 whacks on a fellow's hand ; first it stung and then it was numb ; 
 and it always made me mad, or else I didn't care. There isn't 
 quite so much sameness about a raw-hide, for sometimes you 
 catch it on your legs and sometimes on your shoulders, but 
 there gets to be a sort of sameness about that too. But here 
 in this school ! My ! You never know what's coming. Say, 
 boys, do you remember that day when I was making such a row 
 out in the yard, how Mr. Bird made me take a fish-horn, and 
 blow it at each corner of the church on the green ? " 
 
86 Arthur Bonmcastle, 
 
 The boys laughed, and Henry Hulni said : " Yes, Jack, but 
 you liked that better than that other punishment when he sent 
 you out into the grove to yell for three-quarters of an hour." 
 
 " I'll bet I did," responded Jack. " I got so hoarse that time 
 I couldn't speak the truth for a week, but that's enough better 
 than meditating. If there's anything I hate it's meditating on 
 my misdemeanors and things, kneeling before a tree by the 
 side of the road, like a great heathen luny. I suppose half the 
 people thought I was praying like an old Pharisee. Gorry ! 
 If the minister had found me there I believe he'd have kneeled 
 right by the side of a fellow; and wouldn't that have been a 
 pretty show ! Did any of you ever hug a tree for an hour ? " 
 
 None of them ever did. " It's awful tiresome," continued 
 Jack, upon whose punishments Mr. Bird seemed to have exer- 
 cised all his ingenuities. "It's awful tiresome and it isn't a bit 
 interesting. If it was only a birch-tree a fellow might amuse 
 himself gnawing the bark, but mine was a hemlock with an ant- 
 heap at the bottom. Oh ! I tell you, my stockings wanted 
 tending to when I got through : more ants in 'em than you 
 could count in a week. Got a Httle exercise out of it, though 
 — fighting one foot with the other. After all it's better than it 
 is when there's so much sameness. It's tough enough when 
 you are at it, but it doesn't make you mad, and it's funny to 
 think of afterwards. I fell you, old Bird — '' 
 
 " Order ! Order ! Order ! " came from all the boys within 
 hearing. 
 
 "Well, what's broke now?" inquired Jack. 
 
 "There isn't any Old Bird, in the establishment," said one 
 of them. 
 
 " Mr. Bird, then. Confound you, you've put me out. I for- 
 get what I was going to say." 
 
 Here I took the opportunity to inquire whether any sins of 
 the boys were punishable by " flailing." 
 
 "Yes," rephed Jack, "big lying and tobacco. Unless a fel- 
 low breaks right in two in the middle, as Andrews did to-day, 
 he'd better make his will before he does an}/ thing with either of 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle. Zy 
 
 'em. Old Bird — Mr. Bird, I mean — don't stand the weakest 
 sort of a cigar ; and look here, Arthur Bonnicastle" (suddenly 
 turning to me), "you're a little blower, and you'd better hold 
 up. If you don't, you'll find out whether there's any flailing 
 done here." 
 
 The conversation went on, but I had lost my interest in it. 
 The possibility of being punished filled me with a vague alarm. 
 It was the first time I had ever been characterized as "a little 
 blower," but my sober and conscientious chum had plainly told 
 me of my fault, and I knew that many statements which I had 
 made during my short stay in the school would not bear exami- 
 nation. I resolved within myself that I would reform, but the 
 next day I forgot my resolution, and the next, and the next, 
 until, as I afterwards learned, my words were good for nothing" 
 among the boys as vouchers for the truth. I received my cor- 
 rection in due time, as my narrative will show. 
 
 My readers will have seen already that The Bird's Nest was 
 not very much like other schools, though I find it difficult to 
 choose from the great variety of incidents with which my mem- 
 ory is crowded those which will best illustrate its peculiarities. 
 The largest liberty was given to us, and we were simply respon- 
 sible for the manner in which we used it. We had the freedom 
 of long distances of road and wide spaces of field and forest. 
 Indeed, there was no limit fixed to our wanderings, except the 
 limit of time. There were no feuds between the town-boys 
 and the school. It was not uncommon to see them at our 
 receptions, and everybody in Hillsborough was glad when The 
 Bird's Nest was full. 
 
 During the first week of my active study I got very tired, and 
 after the violent exercise of the play-ground I often found my- 
 self so much oppressed by the desire for sleep that it was 
 simply impossible for me to hold up my head. It was on one 
 such occasion that my sleepy eyes caught the wide-awake 
 glance of Mr. Bird, and the beckoning motion of his finger. I 
 went to his side, and he lifted me to his knee. Pillowing my 
 head upon his broad breast, I went to sleep j and thus holding 
 
88 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 me with his strong arm he went on with the duties of the 
 school. Afterwards, when similarly oppressed, or when lan- 
 guid with indisposition, I sought the same resting-place many 
 times, and was never refused. A scene like this was not an 
 uncommon one. It stirred neither surprise nor mirth among 
 the boys. It fitted into the life of the family so naturally that 
 it never occasioned remark. 
 
 It must have been three weeks or a month after I entered 
 the school that, on a rainy holiday, as I was walking through 
 one of the halls alone, I was met by two boys who ordered me 
 peremptorily to " halt." Both had staves in their hands, taller 
 than themselves, and one of them addressed me with the words : 
 " Arthur Bonnicastle, you are arrested in the name of The 
 High Society of Inquiry, and ordered to appear before that 
 august tribunal, to answer for your sins and misdemeanors. 
 Right about face ! " 
 
 The movement had so much the air of mystery and romance 
 that I was about equally pleased and scared. Marching be- 
 tween the two officials, I was led directly to my own room, 
 which I was surprised to find quite full of boys, all of whom 
 were grave and silent. I looked from one to another, puzzled 
 beyond expression, though I am sure I preserved an unruffled 
 manner, and a confident and even smiling face. Indeed, I 
 supposed it to be some sort of a lark, entered upon for passing 
 away the time while confined to the house. 
 
 " We have secured the offender," said one of my captors, 
 " and now have the satisfaction of presenting him before this 
 honorable Society." 
 
 '' The prisoner will stand in the middle of the room, and 
 look at me," said the presiding officer, in a tone of dignified 
 severity. 
 
 I was accordingly marched into the middle of the room and 
 left alone, where I stood with folded arms, as became the grand 
 occasion. 
 
 "Arthur Bonnicastle," said the officer before mentioned, 
 *• you are brought before The High Society of Inquiry on a 
 
Arthur Bojinicastle, 89 
 
 charge of telling so many lies that no dependence whatever 
 can be placed upon your words. What have you to reply to 
 this charge. Are you guilty or not guilty ? " 
 
 "I am not guilty. Who says I am?" I exclaimed indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 " Henry Hulm, advance ! " said the officer. 
 
 Henry rose, and walking by me, took a position near the 
 officer, at the head of the room. 
 
 " Henry Hulm, you will look upon the prisoner and tell the 
 Society whether you know him." 
 
 " I know him well. He is my chum," replied Henry. 
 
 " What is his general character ? " 
 
 " He is bright and very amiable." 
 
 " Do you consider him a boy of truth and veracity ? " 
 
 " I do not." 
 
 " Has he deceived you ? " inquired the officer. " If he has, 
 please to state the occasion and circumstances." 
 
 *' No, your Honor. He has never deceived me. I always 
 know when he lies and when he speaks the truth." 
 
 " Have you ever told him of his crimes, and warned him to 
 desist from them ? " 
 
 "I have," replied Henry, '^many times." 
 
 " Has he shown any disposition to mend ? " 
 
 " None at all, your honor." 
 
 " What is the character of his falsehood ? " 
 
 " He tells," replied Henry, " stunning stories about himself. 
 Great things are always happening to him, and he is always 
 performing the most wonderful deeds." 
 
 I now began with great shame and confusion to realize that 
 I was to be exposed to ridicule. The tears came into my eyes 
 and dropped from my cheeks, but I would not yield to the im- 
 pulse either to cry or to attempt to fly. 
 
 "Will you give us some specimens of his stories?" said the 
 officer. 
 
 " I will," responded Henry, "but I can do it best by asking 
 him questions." 
 
90 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 " Very well," said the officer, with a polite bow. " Pursue 
 the course you think best." 
 
 "Arthur," said Henry, addressing me directly, " did you ever 
 tell me that, when you and your father were on the way to 
 this school, your horse went so fast that he ran down a black 
 fox in the middle of the road, and cut off his tail with the wheel 
 of the chaise, and that you sent that tail home to one of your 
 sisters to wear in her winter hat ? " 
 
 " Yes, I did," I responded, with my face flaming and painful 
 with shame. 
 
 " And did your said horse really run down said fox in the 
 middle of said road, and cut off said tail ; and did you send 
 home said tail to said sister to be worn in said hat ? " inquired 
 the judge, with a low, grum voice. "The prisoner will answer 
 so that all can hear." 
 
 " No," I replied, and, looking for some justification of my 
 story, I added : " but I did see a black fox — a real black fox, 
 as plain as day ! " 
 
 " Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! " ran around the room in chorus. " He 
 did see a black fox, a real black fox, as plain as day ! " 
 
 "The witness will pursue his inquiries," said the officer. 
 
 "Arthur," Henry continued, "did you or did you not tell 
 me that when on the way to this school you overtook Mr. and 
 Mrs. Bird in their wagon, that you were invited into the wagon 
 by Mrs. Bird, and that one of Mr. Bird's horses chased a calf 
 on the road, caught it by the ear and tossed it over the fence 
 and broke its leg ? " 
 
 "I s'pose I did," I said, growing desperate. 
 
 " And did said horse really chase said calf, and catch him by 
 said ear, and toss him over said fence, and break said leg ? " in- 
 quired the officer. 
 
 " He didn't catch him by the ear," I replied doggedly, " but 
 he really did chase a calf." 
 
 " Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! " chimed in the chorus. " He didn't catch 
 him by the ear, but he really did chase a calf ! " 
 
 "Witness," said the officer, "you will pursue your inquiries.'' 
 
Arthur Bomiicastle. 91 
 
 " Arthur, did you or did you not tell me," Henry went on, 
 " that you have an old friend who is soon to go to sea, and thai 
 he has promised to bring you a male and female monkey, a 
 male and female bird of paradise, a barrel of pineapples, and a 
 Shetland pony ? " 
 
 " It doesn't seem as if I told you exactly that," I replied. 
 
 " Did you or did you not tell him so ? " said the officer, se- 
 verely. 
 
 " Perhaps I did," I responded. 
 
 " And did said friend, who is soon to go to said sea, really 
 promise to bring you said monkeys, said birds of paradise, said 
 pine-apples, and said pony ? " 
 
 " No," I replied, " but I really have an old friend who is going 
 to sea, and he'll bring me anything I ask him to." 
 
 " Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! " swept round the room again. *' He really 
 has an old friend who is going to sea, and he'll bring him any- 
 thing he asks him to." 
 
 "Hulm, proceed with your inquiries," said the officer. 
 
 " Did you or did you not," said Henry, turning to me again, 
 "tell me that one day, when dining at your Aunt's, you saw a 
 magic portrait of a boy upon the wall, that came and went, and 
 came and went, like a shadow or a ghost ? " 
 
 As Henry asked this question he stood between two windows, 
 while the lower portion of his person was hidden by a table be- 
 hind which he had retired. His face was lighted by a half-smile, 
 and I saw him literally in a frame, as I had first seen the pict- 
 ure to which he alluded. In a moment I became oblivious to 
 everything around me except Henry's face. The portrait was 
 there again before my eyes. Every lineament and even the 
 peculiar pose of the head were recalled to me. I was so much 
 excited that it really seemed as if I were looking again upon the 
 picture I had seen in Mrs. Sanderson's dining-room. Henry was 
 disconcerted, and even distressed by my intent look. He was 
 evidently afraid that the matter had been carried too far, and 
 that I was growing wild with the strange excitement. Endeavor- 
 ing to recall me to myself, lie said in a tone of friendliness : 
 
92 ArthtLV Bo7t7tzcastle. 
 
 "Did you or did you not tell me the story about the poi trail, 
 Arthur?" 
 
 " Yes," I responded, " and it looked just like you. Oh ! it 
 did, it did, it did ! There — turn your head a little more that 
 way — so ! It was a perfect picture of you, Henry. You never 
 could imagine such a likeness." 
 
 " You are a little blower, you are," volunteered Jack Linton, 
 from a corner, 
 
 *' Order ! Order ! Order ! " swept around the room. 
 
 " Did said portrait," broke in the voice of the officer, "come 
 and go on said wall, like said shadow or said ghost ? " 
 
 " It went but it didn't come," I replied, with my eyes still 
 fixed on Henry. 
 
 " Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! " resumed tihe chorus. " It went but it 
 didn't come ! " 
 
 " Please stand still, Henry ! don't stir ! " I said. " I want 
 to go nearer to it. She wouldn't let me." 
 
 I crept slowly toward him, my arms still folded. He grew 
 pale, and all the room became still. The presiding officer and 
 the members of The High Society of Inquiry were getting 
 scared. " It went but it didn't come," I said. " This one 
 comes but it doesn't go. I should like to kiss it." 
 
 I put out my hands towards Henry, and he sank down be- 
 hind the table as if a ghost were about to touch him. The 
 illusion was broken, and I started as if awakened suddenly 
 from a dream. Looking around upon the boys, and realizing 
 what had been done and what was in progress, I went into a 
 fit of hearty crying, that distressed them quite as much as my 
 previous mood had done. Nods and winks passed from one 
 to another, and Hulm was told that no further testimony was 
 needed. They were evidently in a hurry to conclude the case, 
 and felt themselves cut short in their forms of proceeding. At 
 this moment a strange silence seized the assembly. All eyes 
 were directed toward die door, upon which my back was 
 turned. I wheeled around to find the cause of the interrup- 
 tion. There, in the doorway, towering above us all, and look- 
 
A^'thtcr Bo7in{castle, 93 
 
 ing questioningly down upon the little assembly, stood Mn 
 Bird. 
 
 "What does this mean?" inquired the master. 
 
 I flew to his side and took his hand. The officer who had 
 presided, being the largest boy, explained that they had been 
 trying to break Arthur Bonnicastle of lying, and that they were 
 about to order him to report to the master for confession and 
 correction. 
 
 Then Mr. Bird took a chair and patiently heard the whole 
 story. 
 
 Without a reproach, further than saying that he thought me 
 much too young for experiments of the kind they had insti- 
 tuted in the case, he explained to them and to me the nature 
 of my misdemeanors. 
 
 " The boy has a great deal of imagination," he said, " and a 
 strong love of approbation. Somebody has flattered his power 
 of invention, probably, and, to secure admiration, he has exer- 
 cised it until he has acquired the habit of exaggeration. I 
 doubt whether the lad has done much that was consciously 
 wrong. It is more a fault of constitution and character than a 
 sin of the will ; and now that he sees that he does not win 
 admiration by telling that which is not true, he will become 
 truthful. I am glad if he has learned, even by the severe 
 means which have been used, that if he wishes to be loved and 
 admired he must always tell the exact truth, neither more nor 
 less. If you had come to me, I could have told you all about 
 the lad, and instituted a better mode of dealing with him. He 
 has been through some sudden changes of late that have had 
 the natural tendency to exaggerate his fault. But I venture to 
 say that he is cured. Are n't you, Arthur?" And he stooped 
 and lifted me to his face and looked into my eyes. 
 
 " I don't think I shall do it any more," I said. 
 
 Bidding the boys disperse, he carried me down stairs into his 
 own room, and charged me with kindly counsel. I went out 
 from the interview humbled and without a revengeful thought 
 in my heart toward the boys who had brought me to my trial 
 
94 ArthtL^" Bomiicastle, 
 
 I saw that they were my friends, and I was determined to prove 
 myself worthy of their friendship. 
 
 Jack Linton was waiting for me on the piazza, and wished to 
 explain to me that he hadn't anything against me. " I went in 
 with the rest of 'em because they wanted me to," said Jack, 
 " and because I wanted to see what it would be like ; but 
 really, now, I don't object so much to blowing myself. There's 
 a sort of sameness, you know, about always telling the truth 
 that there isn't about blowing, but it's the same thing with hash 
 and bread and butter, and it seems to be necessary." 
 
 I told him that I wasn't going to blow any more, and 
 that I had arranged it all with Mr. Bird. He shook hands with 
 me and then stooped down and whispered : "You don't catch 
 me trying any High old Society of Inquiries on a chap of your 
 size again." 
 
 As soon as I settled into the routine of my school life the 
 weeks flew away so fast that they soon got beyond my count- 
 ing. The term was long, but I was happy in my study, happy 
 in my companionships, and happy in the love of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Bird, and in their control and direction. I wrote letters home 
 every week, and received prompt replies from my father. The 
 monthly missives to "My dear Aunt," were regularly written, 
 though I won no replies to them. I learned, however, that 
 Mr. Bird had received communications from her concerning 
 myself On one occasion she sent her love to me through 
 him, and he delivered the message with an amused look in his 
 eyes that puzzled me. 
 
 The summer months passed away, and that great, mysterious 
 change came on which reported the consummation of growth 
 and maturity in the processes and products of the year. The 
 plants that had toiled all summer, evolving flower and fruit, 
 were soothed to sleep. The birds stopped singing lest they 
 should waken them. The locusts by day and the crickets by 
 night crooned their lullaby. A dreamy haze hung around the 
 distant hills, and here and there a woodbine lighted its torch 
 in the darkening dingle, and the maples in mellow fire signalled 
 
Arthtcr Bomiicastle, 95 
 
 each other from hill to hill. The year had begun to die. 
 There were chills at night and fevers by day, and stretches of 
 weird silence that impressed me more profoundly than I can 
 possibly reveal. It was as if the angels of the summer had fled 
 at the first frost, and the angels of the autumn had come down, 
 bringing with them a new set of spiritual influences that sad- 
 dened while they sweetened every soul whose sensibilities were 
 delicate enough to apprehend and receive them. 
 
 During those days I felt my first twinges of genuine home- 
 sickness. I was conscious that I had grown in body and mind 
 during my brief absence ; and I wanted to show myself to the 
 dear ones with whom I had passed my childhood. I imagined 
 the interest with which they would fisten to the stories of my 
 life at school ; and I had learned enough of the world already to 
 know that there was no love so sweet and strong as that which 
 my home held for me. I had been made glad by my father's 
 accounts of his modest prosperity. Work had been plenty and 
 the pay was sure and sufficient. The family had been reclothed, 
 and new and needed articles of furniture had been purchased. 
 
 I wrote to Mrs. Sanderson and asked the privilege of going 
 home to spend my vacation, and through my father's letters I 
 learned that she would send for me. A week or more before 
 the close of the term I received a note addressed to me in a 
 hand-writing gone to wreck through disuse, from old Jenks. If 
 I were to characterize the orthography in which it was clothed, 
 I should say it was eminently strong. I do not suppose it was 
 intended to be blank verse, but it was arranged in discon- 
 nected lines, and read thus : 
 
 ** Bring home your Attlus. 
 
 *' I stere boldly for the Troppicks. 
 
 " Desk and cumpusses in the stable. 
 
 ' ' When this you see burn this when this you see. 
 
 ** The sea rolls away and thare is no old wooman thare. 
 
 ** Where the spisy breazes blow. 
 
 •' I shall come for you with the Shaze. 
 
 *• From an old Tarr 
 
 " Theophilus Jenks." 
 
96 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 This unique document was not committed to the flames, 
 according to the directions of the writer. It was much too 
 precious for such a destiny, and was carefully laid away between 
 the leaves of my Testament, to be revealed in this later time. 
 
 The last evening of the term was devoted to a reception. 
 Many parents of the boys who had come to take their darlings 
 home were present ; and sitting in the remotest corner of the 
 dancing-room, shrunken into the smallest space it was possible 
 for him to occupy, was old Jenks, gazing enchanted upon such 
 a scene as had never feasted his little gray eyes before. I had 
 learned to dance, in a boy's rolHcking fashion, and during the 
 whole evening tried to show off my accomplishments to my old 
 friend. One after another I led ladies — middle-aged and young 
 — to the floor, and discharged the courtesies of the time with 
 all the confidence of a man of society. Occasionally I went to 
 his side and asked him how he liked it. 
 
 "It's great — it's tremenduous," said Jenks. " How do you 
 dare to do it — eh ? say ! " said he, drawing me down to him by the 
 lappel of my coat : "I've been thinking how I'd like to have 
 the old woman on the floor, and see her tumble down once. I 
 ain't no dancer, you know, but I'd dance a regular break-down 
 over her before I picked her up and set her on her pins again. 
 Wouldn't it be fun to see her get up mad, and limp off into a 
 corner?" 
 
 I laughed at Jenks's fancy, and asked him what he thought of 
 the last lady I danced with. 
 
 " She's a beauty," said Jenks. " I should like to sail with 
 her — ^just sit and hold her hand and sail — sail away, and keep 
 sailing and sailing and sailing." 
 
 *' I'm glad you like her," I said, "for that is my lady-love. 
 That's Miss Butler." 
 
 "You don't say!" exclaimed Jenks. "Well, you don't 
 mind what I say, do you ? " 
 
 "Oh no," I said, "you're too old for her." 
 
 "Well, yes, perhaps I am, but isn't she just — isn't she rather 
 — that is, isn't she a bit too old for you ? " 
 
Arthur Boiimcaslle, 97 
 
 <* I shall be old enough for her by and by," I replied. 
 
 " Well, don't take to heart anything I say," responded Jenks. 
 " I was only talking about sailing, any way. My mind is on the 
 sea a good deal, you know. Now you go on with your danc- 
 ing, and don't mind me." 
 
 The next morning there were all sorts of vehicles at the 
 door. There were calls and farewells and kisses, and promises 
 to write, and hurrahs, and all the incidents and excitements of 
 breaking up. With a dozen kisses warm upon my cheeks, 
 from teachers and friends, I mounted the chaise, and Jenks 
 turned the old horse toward home. 
 
 I suppose the world would not be greatly interested in the 
 conversation between the old servant and the boy who that 
 day drove from Hillsborough to Bradford. Jenks had been 
 much moved by the scenes of the previous evening, and his mind, 
 separated somewhat from the sea, out toward whose billowy 
 freedom it had been accustomed to wander, turned upon 
 women. 
 
 "I think a woman is a tremenduous being," said Jenks. 
 " When she's right, she's the rightest thing that floats. When 
 she's wrong, she's the biggest nuisance that ploughs the sea, 
 even if she's Httle and don't draw two feet of water. Perhaps 
 it isn't just the thing to say to a boy like you, but you'll never 
 speak of it, if I should tell you a Httle something ? " 
 
 " Oh, never ! " I assured him. 
 
 "Well, I 'spose I might have been a married man;" and 
 Jenks avoided my eyes by pretending to discover a horse-shoe 
 in the road. 
 
 " You don't say so ! " I exclaimed in undisguised astonish- 
 ment, for it had never occurred to me that such a man as Jenks 
 could marry. 
 
 " Yes, I waited on a girl once." 
 
 " Was she beautiful ? " I inquired. 
 
 "Well, I should say fair to middling," responded Jenks, 
 pursing his lips as if determined to render a candid judgment. 
 " Fair to middling, barring a few freckles." 
 
98 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 "But you didn't leave her for the freckles ? " I said. 
 
 " No, I didn't leave her for the freckles. She was a good 
 girl, and I waited on her. It don't seem possible now, that 
 I ever ra'aly waited on a girl, but I did." 
 
 "And why didn't you marry her?" I inquired warmly. 
 
 " It wasn't her fault," said Jenks. " She was a good girl." 
 
 "Then why didn't you marry her?" I insisted. 
 
 " Well, there was another fellow got to hanging round, 
 and — you know how such things go. I was busy, and — didn't 
 'tend up very well, I s'pose — and — she got tired waiting for 
 me — or something — and the other fellow married her, but I've 
 never blamed her. She's been sorry enough, I guess." 
 
 Jenks gave a sigh of mingled regret and pity, and the subject 
 was dropped. 
 
 The lights were shining cheerfully in the windows as we 
 drove into Bradford. When we came in sight of my father's 
 house, Jenks exacted a pledge from me that all the confidences 
 of the day which he had so freely reposed in me should never 
 be divulged. Arriving at the gate, I gave a wild whoop, 
 which brought all the family to the door, and in a moment I 
 was smothered with welcome. 
 
 Ah ! what an evening was that ! What sad, sweet tears 
 drop upon my paper as I recall it, and remember that every 
 eye that sparkled with greeting then has ceased to shine, 
 that every hand that grasped mine is turned to dust, and that 
 all those loving spirits wait somewhere to welcome me home 
 from the school where I have been kept through such a long, 
 eventful term. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 I BECOME A MEMBER OF MRS. SANDERSON'S FAMILY AND HAVE 
 A WONDERFUL VOYAGE WITH JENKS UPON THE ATLAS. 
 
 At an early hour on the following morning, dressed in my 
 best, I went to pay my respects to Mrs. Sanderson at The 
 Mansion. As I walked along over the ground stiffened with 
 the autumn frost, wondering how "my dear Aunt" would 
 receive me, it seemed as if I had lived half a lifetime since my 
 father led me over the same road, on my first visit to the same 
 lady. I felt older and larger and more independent. As 
 I passed Mr. Bradford's house, I looked at the windows, hoping 
 to see the little girl again, and feeling that in my holiday 
 clothes I could meet her eyes unabashed. But she did not 
 appear, nor did I get a sight of Mr. Bradford. 
 
 The autumn was now in its glory, and, as I reached the 
 summit of the hill, I could not resist the temptation to pause 
 and look off upon the meadows and the distant country. 
 I stood under a maple, full of the tender light of lemon-colored 
 leaves, while my feet were buried among their fallen fellows 
 with which the ground was carpeted. The sounds of the town 
 reached my ears mellowed into music by the distance, the 
 smoke from a hundred chimneys rose straight into the sky, the 
 river was a mirror for everything upon it, around it and above 
 it, and all the earth was a garden of gigantic flowers. For that 
 one moment my life was full. With perfect health in my 
 veins, and all my sensibilities excited by the beauty before me, 
 my joy was greater in living than any words can express. 
 Nothing but running, or shouting, or singing, or in some way 
 violently spending the life thus swelled to its flood, could give 
 it fitting utterance ; but, as I was near The Mansion, all these 
 were denied me, and I went on, feeling that passing out of the 
 
lOO A^^thur Bonnicastle, 
 
 morning sunlight into a house would be like going into a 
 prison. Before reaching the door I looked at the stable, and 
 saw the old horse with his head out of one window, and Jenks's 
 face occupying another. Jenks and the horse looked at one 
 another and nodded, as much as to say : " That is the little 
 fellow we brought over from Hillsborough yesterday." 
 
 That Mrs. Sanderson saw me under the tree, and watched 
 every step of my progress to the house, was evident, for when 
 I mounted the steps, and paused between the sleeping lions, 
 the door swung upon its hinges, and there stood the little old 
 woman in the neatest of morning toilets. She had expected 
 me, and had prepared to receive me. 
 
 " And how is Master Bonnicastle this pleasant morning ? " 
 she said as I entered. 
 
 I was prepared to be led into any manifestation of respect 
 or affection which her greeting might suggest, and this cheery 
 and flattering address moved me to grasp both her hands, 
 and tell her that I was very well and very happy. It did not 
 move me to kiss her, or to expect a kiss from her. I bad 
 never been called "Master" Bonnicastle before, and the new 
 title seemed as if it were intended so to elevate me as to place 
 me at a distance. 
 
 Retaining one of my hands, she conducted me to a large 
 drawing-room, into which she had admitted the full glow of the 
 morning light, and, seating me, drew a chair near to me for her- 
 self, where she could look me squarely in the face. Then she 
 led me into a talk about Mr. and Mrs. Bird, and my life at 
 school. She played the part of a listener well, and flattered 
 me by her little comments, and her almost deferential attention. 
 I do her the justice to believe that she was not altogether play- 
 ing a part, thoroughly pre-considered, for I think she was really 
 interested and amused. My presence, and my report of what 
 was going on in one little part of the great world which was so 
 far removed from the pursuits of her lonely life, were refreshing 
 influences. Seeing that she was really interested, my tongue 
 ran on without restraint, until I had told all I had to tell. 
 
Arthur Bon^iica^^tle, loi 
 
 Many times, when I found myself tempted to exaggerate, I 
 checked my vagrant speech with corrections and qualifications, 
 determined that my old fault should have no further sway. 
 
 " Well, my boy," she said at last, in a tone of great kindness, 
 " I find you much improved. Now let us go up-stairs and see 
 what we can discover there." 
 
 I followed her up the dark old stairway into a chamber 
 whose windows commanded a view of the morning sun and the 
 town. 
 
 " How lovely this is ! " I exclaimed. 
 
 *' You like it, then ? " she responded with a gratified look. 
 
 " Yes," I said, *' I think it is the prettiest room I ever saw." 
 
 *' Well, Master Bonnicastle, this is your room. This new 
 paper on the walls and all this new furniture I bought for you. 
 Whenever you want a change from your house, which you 
 know is rather small and not exactly the thing for a young 
 gentleman like you, you will find this room ready for you. 
 There are the drawers for your linen, and there is the closet 
 for your other clothes, and here is your mirror, and this is a 
 pin-cushion which I have made for you with my own hands." 
 
 She said this, walking from one object named to another, 
 until she had shown me all the appointments of the chamber. 
 
 I was speechless and tearful with delight. And this was all 
 mine ! And I was a young gentleman, with the prettiest room 
 in the grandest house of Bradford at my command ! It was 
 like a dream to me, bred as I had been in the strait sim- 
 plicity of poverty. Young as I was, I had longed for just this 
 — for something around me in my real life that should corre- 
 spond with my dreams of life. Already the homely furniture of 
 my father's house, and the life with which it was associated, 
 seemed mean — almost wretched ; and I was distressed by my 
 sympathy for those whom I should leave behind in rising to 
 my new estate. By some strange intuition I knew that it would 
 not do to speak to my benefactress of my love for my father. 
 I was full of the thought that my love had been purchased, 
 and fairly paid for. I belonged to Mrs. Sanderson. She who 
 
I02 ArtJucr Bonnicastle. 
 
 had expended so much money for me, without any reward, had 
 a right to me, and all of my society and time that she desired. 
 If she had asked me to come to her house and make it my 
 only home, I should have promised to do so without reserve, 
 but she did not do this. She was too wise. She did not in 
 tend to exact anything from me ; but I have no doubt that she 
 took the keenest delight in witnessing the operation and con- 
 summation of her plans for gaining an ascendency over my 
 affections, my will, and my life. 
 
 Her revelations produced in me a strange disposition to 
 silence which neither she nor I knew how to break. I was 
 troubled with the fear that I had not expressed sufficient grati- 
 tude for her kindness, yet I did not know how to say more. 
 At length she said : " I saw you under the maple : what were 
 you thinking about there?" 
 
 " I was wondering if the world was not made in the fall," I 
 replied. 
 
 "Ah?" 
 
 " Yes," I continued, " it seemed to me as if God must have 
 stood under that same maple-tree, when the leaves were chang- 
 ing, and saw that it was all very good." 
 
 With something of her old asperity she said she wished my 
 boyish fancies would change as well as the leaves. 
 
 " I cannot help having them," I replied, " but if you don't 
 like them I shall never speak of them again." 
 
 " Now I tell you what I think," said she, assuming her pleas- 
 ant tone again. " I think you would like to be left alone for a 
 little while." 
 
 " Oh ! I should like to be alone here in my own room ever 
 so much ! " I responded. 
 
 " You can stay here until dinner if you wish," she said, and 
 then she bent down and kissed my forehead, and retired. 
 
 I listened as she descended the stairs, and when I felt that 
 she was far enough away, I rose, and carefully locked my door. 
 Then I went to the mirror to see whether I knew myself, and 
 to find what there was in me that could be addressed as ''Mas- 
 
Arthur Boiuiicastle. 103 
 
 ter," or spoken of as ''a young gentleman." Then I ransacked 
 the closet, and climbed to a high shelf in it, with the vague hope 
 that the portrait which had once excited my curiosity was hid- 
 den there. Finding nothing I had not previously seen, I went 
 to the window, and sat down to think. 
 
 I looked off upon the town, and felt myself lifted immeasura- 
 bly above it and all its plodding cares and industries. This was 
 mine. It had been won without an effort. It had come to me 
 without a thought or a care. I believed there was not a boy in 
 the whole town who possessed its equal, and I wondered what 
 there was in me that should call forth such munificence from 
 my benefactress. If my good fortune as a boy were so great, 
 what brilliant future awaited my manhood ? Then I thought of 
 my father, working humbly and patiently, day after day, for bread 
 for his family, and of the tender love which I knew his heart held 
 for me ; and I wondered why God should lay so heavy a burden 
 upon him and so marvelously favor me. Would it not be mean 
 to take this good fortune and sell my love of him and of home 
 for it ? Oh ! if I could only bring them all here, to share my 
 sweeter lot, I should be content, but I could not even speak of 
 this to the woman who had bestowed it on me. 
 
 It all ended in a sweet and hearty fit of crying, in which I 
 sobbed until the light faded out of my eyes, and I went to 
 sleep. I had probably slept two hours when a loud knock 
 awakened me, and, staggering to my feet, and recognizing at 
 last the new objects around me, I went to the door, and found 
 Jenks, in his white apron, who told me that dinner was waiting 
 for me. I gave a hurried glance at the mirror and was startled 
 to find my eyes still red ; but I could not wait. As he made 
 way for me to pass down before him, he whispered : " Come 
 to the stable as soon as you can after dinner. The atlas and 
 compasses are ready." 
 
 I remembered then that he had borrowed the former of me 
 on the way home, and secreted it under the seat of the chaise. 
 
 Mrs. Sanderson was already seated when I entered the 
 dining-room. 
 
I04 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 " Your eyes are red," she said quickly. 
 
 " I have been asleep, I think," I responded. 
 
 Jenks mumbled something, and commenced growling. His 
 mistress regarded me closely, but thought best not to push in 
 quiries further. 
 
 Conversation did not promise to be lively, especially in the 
 presence of a third party, between whom and myself there 
 existed a guilty secret which threatened to sap the peace of thf» 
 estabhshment. 
 
 At length I said : " Oh ! I did not think to tell you anything 
 about my chum." 
 
 "What is his name?" she inquired. 
 
 " His name is Henry Hulm," I replied ; and then I went on 
 at length to describe his good qualities and to tell what ex- 
 cellent friends we had been. " He is not a bit like me," I 
 said, *' he is so steady and quiet." 
 
 ** Do you know anything about his people ? " inquired the 
 lady. 
 
 " No, he never says anything about them, and I am afraid 
 he is poor," I replied. 
 
 " How does he dress ? " 
 
 " Not so well as I do, but he is the neatest and carefullest 
 boy in the school." 
 
 "Perhaps you would like to invite him here to spend your 
 vacation with you, when you come home again," she suggested. 
 
 " May I ? Can I ? " I eagerly inquired. 
 
 " Certainly. If he is a good, respectable boy, and you would 
 like him for a companion here, I should be delighted to have 
 you bring him." 
 
 " Oh ! I thank you : I am so glad ! I'm sure he'll come, and 
 he can sleep in my room with me." 
 
 " That will please you very much, will it not ? " and the lady 
 smiled with a lively look of gratification. 
 
 I look back now with mingled pity of my simple self and 
 admiration of the old lady who thus artfully wove her toils 
 about me. She knew she must not alarm my father, or im- 
 
Arthur Bo7inicastle. 105 
 
 prison me, or fail to make me happy in the gilded trap she had 
 set for me. All her work upon me was that of a thorough 
 artist. What she wanted was to sever me and my sympathy 
 from my father and his home, and to make herself and her 
 house the center of my life. She saw that my time would pass 
 slowly if I had no companion ; and Henry's coming would be 
 likely to do more than anything to hold me. My pride would 
 certainly move me to bring him to my room, and she would 
 manage the rest. 
 
 After dinner, I asked liberty to go to the stable. I was fond 
 of horses and all domestic animals. I made my request in the 
 presence of Jenks, and that whimsical old hypocrite had the 
 hardihood to growl and grumble and mutter as if he regarded 
 the presence of a boy in the stable as a most offensive intru- 
 sion upon his special domain. I could not comprehend such 
 duplicity, and looked at him inquiringly. 
 
 " Don't mind Jenks," said Madame : "he's a fool." 
 
 Jenks went growling out of the room, but, as he passed me, 
 I caught the old cunning look in his little eyes, and followed 
 him. When the door was closed he cut a pigeon-wing, and 
 ended by throwing one foot entirely oyer my head. Then he 
 whispered: "You go out and stay there until I come. Don't 
 disturb anything." So I went out, thinking him quite the 
 nimblest and queerest old fellow I had ever seen. 
 
 I passed half an hour patting the horse's head, calling the 
 chickens around me, and wondering what the plans of Jenks 
 would be. At length he appeared. Walking tiptoe into the 
 stable, he said: "The old woman is down for a nap, and 
 we've got two good hours for a voyage. Now, messmate, let's 
 up sails and be off!" 
 
 At this he seized a long rope which depended from one of 
 the gi'eat beams above, and pulled away with a " Yo ! heave 
 oh ! " sotto voce, (letting it slide through his hands at every call), 
 as if an immense spread of canvas was to be the result. 
 
 " Belay there ! " he said at last, in token that his ship was 
 under way, and the voyage begun. 
 5* 
 
io6 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 "It's a bit cold, my hearty, and now for a turn on the 
 quarter-deck," he said, as he grasped my hand, and walked 
 with me back and forth across the floor. I was seized with ar 
 uncontrollable fit of laughter, but walked with him, nothing 
 loth. " Now we plough the bilkw," said Jenks. " This is what 
 I call gay." 
 
 After giving our blood a jog, and getting into a glow, he bf 
 gan to laugh. 
 
 " What are you laughing at ? " I inquired. 
 
 " She made me promise that I wouldn't tease or trouble you, 
 she did!" and then he laughed again. "Oh yes; Jenks is a 
 fool, he is ! Jenks is a tremenduous fool ! " Then he suddenly 
 sobered, and suggested that it was time to examine our chart. 
 Dropping my hand, he went to a bin of oats, built like a desk, 
 and opening from the top with a falling lid. To this lid he had 
 attached two legs by hinges of leather, which supported it at a 
 convenient angle. Then he brought forth two three-legged 
 milking-stools and placed them before it, and plunging his 
 hand deep down into the oats drew out my atlas, neatly 
 wrapped in an old newspaper. This he opened before me, and 
 we took our seats. 
 
 *' Now where are we ? " said Jenks. 
 
 I opened to the map of the world, and said : " Here is New 
 York, and there is Boston. We can't be very far from either 
 of 'em, but I think we are between 'em." 
 
 " Very well, let it be between 'em," said Jenks. " Now 
 what?" 
 
 " Where will you go ? " I inquired. 
 
 " I don't care where I go; let us have a big sail, now that 
 we are in for it," he replied. 
 
 " Well, then, let's go to Great Britain," I said. 
 
 "Isn't there something that they call the English Channel?" 
 inquired Jenks with a doubtful look. 
 
 " Yes, there is," and cruising about among the fine type, I 
 found it. 
 
 " Well, I don't like this idea of being out of sight of land. 
 
Arthtir Bonnicastle, \o^ 
 
 It's dangerous, and if you can't sleep, there is no place to go 
 to. Let's steer straight for the English Channel — straight as a 
 ramrod." 
 
 " But it will take a month," I said ; " I have heard people 
 say so a great many times." 
 
 " My ! A month ? Out of sight of land ? No old woman 
 and no curry-comb for a month ? Hey de diddle ! Very well, 
 let it be a month. Hullo ! it's all over ! Here we are : now 
 where are we on the map ? " 
 
 "We seem to be pretty near to Paris," I said, "but we don't 
 quite touch it. There must be some little places along here 
 that are not put down. There's London, too : that doesn't 
 seem to be a great way off, but there's a strip of land between 
 it and the water." 
 
 " Why, yes, there's Paris," said Jenks, looking out of the 
 stable window, and down upon the town. "Don't you see? 
 It's a fine city. I think I see just where Napoleon Bonaparte 
 lives. But if s a wicked place ; let's get away from it. Bear 
 off now;" and so our imaginary bark, to use Jenks' s large 
 phrase, " swept up the channel." 
 
 Here I suggested that we had better take a map of Great 
 Britain, and we should probably find more places to stop at. 
 I found it easily, with the " English Channel " in large letters. 
 
 " Here we are ! " I said ; " see the towns ! " 
 
 "My! Ain't they thick!" responded Jenks. "What is 
 that name running lengthwise there right through the water ? " 
 
 " That's the * Strait of Dover,' " I replied. 
 
 " Well, then, look out ! We're running right into it I 
 It's a confounded narrow place, any way. Bear away there ; 
 take the middle course. I've heard of them Straits of Dover 
 before. They are dangerous ; but we're through, we're through. 
 Now where are we ? " 
 
 " We are right at the mouth of the Thames," I replied, " and 
 here is a river that leads straight up to London." 
 
 " Cruise off ! cruise off ! " said Jenks. " We're in an enem/s 
 country. Sure enough, theie's I^ondon;" and he looked out 
 
io8 Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 of the window with a fixed gaze, as if the dome of St. Paul s 
 were as plainly in sight as his own nose. After satisfying him- 
 self with a survey of the great city, he remarked, interroga- 
 tively, " Haven't we had about enough of this ? I want to 
 go where the spicy breezes blow. Now that we have got our 
 sea-legs on, let us make for the equator. Bring the ship 
 round ; here we go ; now what ? " 
 
 "We have got to cross the Tropic of Cancer, for all that I 
 can see," said I. 
 
 "Can't we possibly dodge it ? " inquired Jenks with concern. 
 
 " I don't see how we can," I replied. " It seems to go clean 
 around." 
 
 " What is it, any way ? " said he. 
 
 " It don't seem to be anything but a sort of dotted line," I 
 answered. 
 
 " Oh well, never mind ; we'll get along with that," he said 
 encouragingly. "Steer between two dots, and hold your 
 breath. My uncle David had one of them things." 
 
 Here Jenks covered his mouth and nose with entire gravity, 
 and held them until the imaginary danger was past. At last, 
 with a red face, he inquired, " Are we over ? " 
 
 " All over," I replied ; "and now where do you want to go ? '* 
 
 " Isn't there something that they call the Channel of Mo- 
 zambique?" said Jenks. 
 
 "Why?" I asked. 
 
 "Well, I've always thought it must be a splendid sheet of 
 water ! Yes : Channel of Mozambique — splendid sheet of 
 water ! Mozambique ! Grand name, isn't it? " 
 
 " Why, here it is," said I, " away round here. We've got to 
 run down the coast of Africa, and around the Cape of Good 
 Hope, and up into the Indian Ocean. Shall we touch any- 
 where ? " 
 
 " No, I reckon it isn't best. The niggers will think we are 
 after 'em, and we may get into trouble. But look here, boy ! 
 We've forgot the compasses. How we ever managed to get 
 across the Atlantic without 'em is more than I know. That's 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 109 
 
 one of the carelessest things I ever did. I don't suppose we 
 could do it again in trying a thousand times." 
 
 Thereupon he drew from a corner of the oat-bin an old pail 
 of carpenter's compasses, between which and the mariner's 
 compass neither he nor I knew the difference, and said : " Now 
 let us sail by compasses, in the regular way." 
 
 " How do you do it ? " I inquired. 
 
 *' There can't be but one way, as I see," he replied. "You 
 put one leg down on the map, where you are, then put the 
 other down where you want to go, and just sail for that leg." 
 
 "Well," said I, "here we are, close to the Canary Islands. 
 Put one leg down there, and the other down here at St. 
 Helena." 
 
 After considerable questioning and fumbling and adjusting of 
 the compasses, they were held in their place by the ingenious 
 navigator, while we drove for the lonely island. After a con- 
 siderable period of silence, Jenks broke out with : " Doesn't 
 she cut the water beautiful ? It takes the Jane Whittlesey ! " 
 
 "Oh!" I exclaimed, "I didn't know you had a name for 
 her." 
 
 " Yes," said Jenks with a sigh — still holding fast to the com- 
 passes, as if our lives depended upon his faithfulness — " Jane 
 Whittlesey has been the name of every vessel I ever owned. 
 You know what I told you about that young woman ? " 
 
 " Yes," I said ; " and was that her name ? " 
 
 Jenks nodded, and sighed again, still keeping his eye upon 
 the outermost leg of the instrument, and holding it firmly in its 
 place. 
 
 " Here we are," he exclaimed at last. " Now let's double 
 over and start again." 
 
 So the northern leg came around with a half circle, and went 
 down at the Cape of Good Hope. The Tropic of Capricorn 
 proved less dangerous than the northern corresponding line, and 
 so, at last, sweeping around the cape, we brought that leg of 
 the compasses which we had left behind toward the equator 
 again, and, working up on the map, arrived at our destinatioiu 
 
no Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 " Well, here we are in the Channel of Mozambique," I said. 
 
 " What's that blue place there on the right hand side of it ?" 
 he inquired. 
 
 "That's the Island of Madagascar." 
 
 "You don't tell me!" he exclaimed. "Well! I never ex- 
 pected to be so near that place. The Island of Madagascar ! 
 The Island of Mad-a-gas-car ! Let's take a look at it." 
 
 Thereupon he rose and took a long look out of the win- 
 dow. " Elephants — mountains — tigers — monkeys — golden 
 sands — cannibals," he exclaimed slowly, as he apprehended 
 seriatim the objects he named. Then he elevated his nose, and 
 began to sniff the air, as if some far-off odor had reached him 
 on viewless wings. " Spicy breezes, upon my word ! " he ex- 
 claimed. "Don't you notice 'em, boy ? Smell uncommonly 
 like hay ; what do you think ? " 
 
 We had after this a long and interesting cruise, running into 
 various celebrated ports, and gradually working toward home. 
 I was too busy with the navigation to join Jenks in his views of 
 the countries and islands which we passed on the voyage, but 
 he enjoyed every league of the long and eventful sail. At last 
 the Jane Whittlesey ran straight into Mrs. Sanderson's home in- 
 closures, and Jenks cast anchor by dropping a huge stone 
 through a trap-door in the floor. 
 
 " It really seems good to be at home again, and to feel every- 
 thing standing still, doesn't it?" said he. " I wonder if I can 
 walk straight," he went on, and then proceeded to ascertain by 
 actual experiment. I have laughed a hundred times since at 
 the recollection of the old fellow's efforts to adapt himself to 
 the imaginary billows of the stable-floor. 
 
 " I hope I shall get over this before supper-time," said Jenks, 
 " for the old woman will know we have been to sea." 
 
 I enjoyed the play quite as well as my companion did, but 
 even then I did not comprehend that it was simply play, with 
 him. I supposed it was a trick of his to learn something of 
 geography before cutting loose from service and striking out 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, iii 
 
 into the great world by way of the ocean. So I said to him : 
 " What do you do this for"? " 
 
 " What do I do it for ? What does anybody go to sea for ? " 
 he inquired with astonishment. 
 
 " Well, but you don't go to the real sea, you know," I sug- 
 gested. 
 
 " Don't I ! That's what the atlas says, any way, and the atlas 
 ought to know," said Jenks. " At any rate it's as good a sea 
 as I want at this time of year, just before winter comes on. If 
 you only think so, it's a great deal better sailing on an atlas 
 than it is sailing on the water. You have only to go a few 
 inches, and you needn't get wet, and you can't drown. You 
 can see everything there is in the world by looking out of the 
 window, and thinking you do; and what's the use spending so 
 much time as people do travelling to the ends of the earth ? 
 The only thing that troubles me is that Bradford's Irishman 
 down here has really come across the ocean, and I don't s'pose 
 he cared any more about it than if he'd been a pig. If 
 I could only have had a real sail on the ocean, and got 
 through with it, I don't know but I should be ready to die." 
 
 " But you will have, some time, you know," I said encour- 
 agingly. 
 
 " Do you think so ? " 
 
 " When you run away you will," I said. 
 
 " I don't know," he responded dubiously. " I think per- 
 haps I'd better run away on an atlas a few times first,just tc 
 learn the ropes." 
 
 Here we were interrupted by the tinkle of a bell, and it wa/ 
 marvelous to see how quickly the atlas disappeared in the oat^ 
 and the lid was closed over it. Jenks went to the house and I 
 followed him. 
 
 Mrs. Sanderson did not inquire how I had spent my time. 
 It was enough for her that I had in no way disturbed her after- 
 dinner nap, and that I came when she wanted me. I told her 
 I had enjoyed the day very much, and that I hoped my father 
 would let me come up soon and occupy my room. Then I 
 
112 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 went up-stairs and looked the room all over again, and tried to 
 realize the extent and value of my new possession. When I 
 went home, toward night, she loaded me with nice little gifts 
 for my mother and the children, and I lost no time in my haste 
 to tell the family of the good fortune that had befallen me. My 
 mother was greatly delighted with my representations, but my 
 father was sad. I think he was moved to sever my connection 
 with the artful woman at once, and take the risks of the step, 
 but a doubt of his own ability to do for me what it was her in- 
 tention 9,nd power to do withheld him. He consented at last to 
 lose me because he loved me, and on the following day I went 
 out from my home with an uneasy conviction that I had been 
 bought and paid for, and was little better than an expensive 
 piece of property. What she would do with me I could not 
 tell. I had my doubts and my dreams, which I learned to keep 
 to myself; but in the swift years that followed there was never 
 an unkind word spoken to me in my new home, or any unkind 
 treatment experienced which made me regret the step I had 
 taken. 
 
 I learned to regard Mrs. Sanderson as the wisest woman liv- 
 ing ; and I found, as the time rolled by, that I had adopted her 
 judgments upon nearly every person and every subject that 
 called forth her opinion. She assumed superiority to all her 
 neighbors. She sat on a social throne, in her own imagination. 
 There were few who openly acknowledged her sway, but she 
 was imperturbable. Wherever she appeared, men bowed to 
 her with profoundest courtesy, and women were assiduous in 
 their politeness. They may have flouted her wh^n she was out 
 of sight, but they were flattered by her attentions, and were al- 
 ways careful in her presence to yield her the pre-eminence 
 she assumed. No man or woman ever came voluntarily into 
 collision with her will. Keen, quiet, alert, self-possessed, she 
 lived her own independent life, asking no favors, granting few, 
 and holding herself apart from, and above, all around her. The 
 power of this self-assertion, insignificant as she was in physique, 
 was simply gigantic 
 
Arthur Bo7inicastle, 113 
 
 To this height she undertook to draw me, severing one by 
 one the sympathies which bound me to my family and my com- 
 panions, and making me a part of herself. I remember dis- 
 tinctly the processes of the change, and their result. I grew more 
 silent, more self-contained, more careful of my associations. 
 The change in me had its effect in my own home. I came to be 
 regarded there as a sort of superior being ; and when I went 
 there for a day the best things were given me to eat, and cer- 
 tain proprieties were observed by the family, as if a rare stranger 
 had come among them. In the early part of my residence at 
 The Mansion, some of the irreverent little democrats of the 
 street called me "Mother Sanderson's Baby," but even this 
 humiliating and maddening taunt died away when it was whis- 
 pered about that she was educating her heir, and that I should 
 be some day the richest young man in the town. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 I LEAVE THE BIRD's NEST AND MAKE A GREAT DISCOVERY. 
 
 Life is remembered rather by epochs than by continuous de- 
 tails. I spent five years at The Bird's Nest, visiting home twice 
 every year, and becoming more and more accustomed to the 
 thought that I had practically ceased to be a member of my 
 own family. My home and all my belongings were at the Man- 
 sion ; and although I kept a deep, warm spot in my heart for 
 my father, which never grew cold, there seemed to be a differ- 
 ence in kind and quality between me and my brothers and sis- 
 ters which forbade the old intimacy. The life at 'home had 
 grown more generous with my father's advancing prosperity, 
 and my sisters, catching the spirit of the prosperous community 
 around them, had done much to beautify and elevate its ap- 
 pointments. 
 
 The natural tendency of the treatment I received, both dt 
 my father's house and at The Mansion, was for a long time to 
 concentrate my thoughts upon myself, so that when, on my 
 fifteenth birthday, I entered my father's door, and felt pecu- 
 liarly charmed by my welcome and glad in the happiness which 
 my presence gave, I made a discovery. I found my sister 
 Claire a remarkably pretty young woman. She was two years 
 my senior, and had been so long my profoundest worshipper 
 that I had never dreamed what she might become. She was 
 the sweetest of blondes, with that unerring instinct of dress 
 which enabled her to choose always the right color, and so to 
 drape her slender and graceful figure as to be always attractive. 
 My own advance toward manhood helped me, I suppose, to 
 appreciate her as I had not hitherto done ; and before I parted 
 with her, to return to the closing term of Mr. Bird's tuition, I 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 115 
 
 had become proud of her, and ambitious for her future. I 
 found, too, that she had more than kept pace with me in study. 
 It was a great surprise. By what ingenuities she had managed 
 to win her accompUshments, and become the educated lady that 
 she was, I knew not. It was the way of New England girls 
 then as it is now. I had long talks and walks with her, and 
 quite excited the jealousy of Mrs. Sanderson by the amount of 
 time I devoted to her. 
 
 In these years Mrs. Sanderson herself had hardly gi-own ap- 
 preciably older. Her hair had become a little whiter, but she 
 retained, apparently, all her old vigor, and was the same strong- 
 willed, precise, prompt, opinionated woman she was when I 
 first knew her. Jenks and I had many sails upon the atlas suc- 
 ceeding that which I have described, but something had always 
 interfered to prevent him from taking the final step which would 
 sever his connection with the service of his old mistress for- 
 ever. 
 
 Every time during these five years that I went home to spend 
 my vacation, I invited Henry to accompany me, but his mother 
 invariably refused to permit him to do so. Mrs. Sanderson, in 
 her disappointment, offered to defray all the expenses of the 
 journey, which, in the mean time, had ceased to be made with 
 the old horse and chaise ; but there came always from his mother 
 the same refusal. The old lady was piqued at last, and became 
 soured toward him. Indeed, if she could have found a vaHd 
 excuse for the step, she would have broken off our intimacy. 
 She had intended an honor to an unknown lad in humble cir- 
 cumstances; and to have that honor persistently spurned, with- 
 out apparent reason, exasperated her. " The lad is a churl, 
 depend upon it, when you get at the bottom of him," was the 
 stereotyped reply to all my attempts to palliate his offence, and 
 vindicate the lovableness of his character. 
 
 These years of study and development had wrought great 
 changes in me. Though thoroughly healthy — thanks to the 
 considerate management of my teacher — I grew up tall and 
 slender, and promised to reach the reputed altitude of the old 
 
ii6 Arthttr Bonntcasile, 
 
 Bonnicastles. I was a man in stature by the side of my sister 
 Claire, and assumed the dress and carriage of a man. Though 
 Henry was two years older than I, we studied together in every- 
 thing, and were to leave school together. Our companionship 
 had been fruitful of good to both of us. I stirred him and he 
 steadied me. 
 
 There was one aim which we held in common — the aim at 
 personal integrity and thorough soundness of character. This 
 aim had been planted in us both by Christian parents, and it 
 was fostered in every practicable way by Mr. and Mrs. Bird. 
 There was one habit, learned at home, which we never omitted 
 for a night while we were at school — the habit of kneeling at 
 our bedside before retiring to slumber, and offering silently a 
 prayer. Dear Mrs. Bird — that sweet angel of all the Httle boys 
 — was always with us in our first nights together, when we en- 
 gaged in our devotions, and sealed our young lips for sleep with 
 a kiss. Bidding us to pray for what we wanted, and to thank 
 our Father for all that we received, with the simple and hearty 
 language we would use if we were addressing our own parents, 
 and adjuring us never, under any circumstances, to omit our 
 offering, she left us at last to ourselves. " Remember," she used 
 to say, " remember that no one can do this for you. The boy 
 who confesses his sins every night has always the fewest sins 
 to confess. The habit of daily confession and prayer is the 
 surest corrective of all that is wrong in your motives and con- 
 duct." 
 
 In looking back upon this aspect of our life together, I am 
 compelled to believe that both Henry and myself were in the 
 line of Christian experience. Those prayers and those daily 
 efforts at good, conscientious living, were the solid beginnings 
 of a Christian character. I do not permit myself to question 
 that had I gone on in that simple way I should have grown into 
 a Christian man. The germination and development of the 
 seed planted far back in childhood would, I am sure, have been 
 crowned with a divine fruitage. Both of us had been taught 
 that we belonged to the Master — that we had been given to 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle. 117 
 
 Him in baptism. Neither of us had been devoted to Him by 
 parents who, having placed His seal upon our foreheads, thence- 
 forth strove to convince us that we were the children of the 
 devil. Expecting to be Christians, trying to live according to 
 the Christian rule of life, never doubting that in good time we 
 should be numbered among Christian disciples, we were already 
 Christian disciples. Why should it be necessary that the aggre- 
 gate sorrow and remorse for years of selfishness and transgres- 
 sion be crowded into a few hours or days ? Why should it be 
 necessary to be lifted out of a great horror of blackness and 
 darkness and tempest, into a supernal light by one grand sweep 
 of passion ? Are safe foundations laid in storms and upheavals ? 
 Are conviction and character nourished by violent access and 
 reaction of feeling? We give harsh remedies for desperate dis- 
 eases, and there are such things as desperate diseases. I am 
 sure that Henry and I were not desperately diseased. The 
 •vhole drift of our aims was toward the realization of a Chris- 
 .ian life. The grand influences shaping us from childhood 
 were Christian. Every struggle with that which was base and 
 unworthy within us was inspired by Christian motives. Im- 
 perfect in knowledge, infirm in will, volatile in purpose as boys 
 always are and always will be, still we were Christian boys, who 
 had only to grow in order to rise into the purer light and better 
 life of the Christian estate. 
 
 I am thus particular in speaking of this, for I was des- 
 tined to pass through an experience which endangered all 
 that I had won. I shall write of this experience with great 
 care, but with a firm conviction that my unvarnished story 
 has a useful lesson in it, and an earnest wish that it may advance 
 the cause which holds within itself the secret of a world's re- 
 demption. I am sure that our religious teachers do not com- 
 petently estimate the power of religious education on a great 
 multitude of minds, or adequately measure the almost infinite 
 mischief that may be inflicted upon sensitive natures by methods 
 of address and influence only adapted to those who are sluggish 
 in temperament or besotted by vice. 
 
Ii8 Arthttr Bonni castle. 
 
 My long stay at The Bird's Nest was a period of iinintermpled 
 growth of mind as well as of body. Mr. Bird was a man who 
 recognized the fact that time is one of the elements that enter 
 into a healthy development of the mind — that mental digestion 
 and assimilation are quite as essential to true growth as the re- 
 ception of abundant food. Hence his aim was never to crowd 
 a pupil beyond his powers of easy digestion, and never to press 
 to engorgement the receptive faculties. To give the mind ideas 
 to live upon while it acquiued the discipline for work, was his 
 steady practice and policy. All the current social and political 
 questions were made as familiar to the boys under his charge as 
 they were to the reading world outside. The issues involved 
 in every political contest were explained to us, and I think we 
 learned more that was of practical use to us in after-life from 
 his tongue than from the text-books which we studied. 
 
 Some of the peculiarities of Mr. Bird's administration I have 
 already endeavored to represent, and one of these I must recall 
 at the risk of repetition and tediousness. In the five years which 
 I spent under his roof and care, I do not think one lad left the 
 school with the feeling that he had been unjustly treated in any 
 instance. No bitter revenges were cherished in any heart. If, 
 in his haste or perplexity, the master ever did a boy a wrong, 
 he made instant and abundant reparation, in an acknowledg- 
 ment to the whole school. He was as tender of the humblest 
 boy's reputation as he was of any man's, or even of his own. 
 When I think of the brutal despotism that reigns in so many 
 schools of this and other countries, and of the indecent way in 
 which thousands of sensitive young natures are tortured by men 
 who, in the sacred office of the teacher, display manners that 
 have ceased to be respectable in a stable, I bless my kind stars 
 — nay, I thank God — for those five years, and the sweet influ- 
 ence that has poured from them in a steady stream througli all 
 my life. 
 
 The third summer of my school life was "Reunion Summer," 
 and one week of vacation was devoted to the old boys. It 
 was with inexpressible interest that I witnessed the interviews 
 
A rth It r Bonnicastle, 1 1 g 
 
 between them and their teacher. Young men from college 
 with downy whiskers and fashionable clothes ; young men in 
 business, with the air of business in their manners; young 
 clergymen, doctors, and lawyers came back by scores. They 
 brought a great breeze from the world with them, but all be- 
 came boys again when they entered the presence of their old 
 master. They kissed him as they were wont to do in the times 
 which had become old times to them. They hung upon his 
 neck ; they walked up and down the parlors with their arms 
 around him ; they sat in his lap, and told him of their changes, 
 troubles and successes ; and all were happy to be at the old nest 
 again. 
 
 Ah, what fetes were crowded into that happy week ! — what 
 games of ball, what receptions, what excursions, what meetings 
 and speeches, what songs, what delightful intermingHngs of all 
 the social elements of the village ! What did it matter that we 
 small boys felt very small by the side of those young men whose 
 old rooms we were occupying? We enjoyed their presence, 
 and found in it the promise that at some future time we should 
 come back with whiskers upon our cheeks, and the last triumphs 
 of the tailor in our coats ! 
 
 Henry and I were to leave school in the autumn ; and as the 
 time drew near for our departure dear Mr. and Mrs. Bird grew 
 more tender toward us, for we had been there longer than any 
 of the other boys. I think there was not a lad at The Bird's 
 Nest during our last term whom we found there on our entrance 
 five years before. Jolly Jack Linton had become a clerk in a 
 city shop, and was already thrifty and popular. Tom Kendrick 
 was in college, and was to become a Christian minister. An- 
 drews, too, was in college, and was bringing great comfort to 
 his family by a true life that had been begun with so bad a 
 promise. Mr. Bird seemed to take a special pleasure in our so- 
 ciety, and, while loosening his claim upon us as pupils, to hold us 
 as associates and friends the more closely. He loved his boys as 
 a father loves his children. In one of our closing interviews, he 
 and Mrs. Bird talked freely of the life they had Hved, and its 
 
I20 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 beautiful compensations. They never wearied with their \^iork, 
 but found in the atmosphere of love that enveloped them an in- 
 spiration for all their labor and care, and a balm for all their trials 
 and troubles. " If I were to live my life over again," said Mrs. 
 Bird to me one evening, " I should choose just this, and be per- 
 fectly content." There are those teachers who have thought 
 and said that ** every boy is a born devil," and have taught for 
 years because they were obliged to teach, with a thorough 
 and outspoken detestation of their work. It is sad to think 
 that multitudes of boys have been trained and misunderstood and 
 abused by these men, and to know that thousands of them are 
 still in office, untrusted and unloved by the tender spirits which 
 they have in charge. 
 
 My connection with Mrs. Sanderson was a subject to which 
 Mr. Bird very rarely alluded. I was sure there was something 
 about it which he did not like, and in the last private conversa- 
 tion which I held with him it all came out. 
 
 " I want to tell you, Arthur," he said, "that I have but one 
 fear for you. You have already been greatly injured by Mrs. 
 Sanderson, and by the peculiar relations which she holds to 
 your life. In some respects you are not as lovable as when 
 you first came here. You have become exclusive in your so- 
 ciety, obtrusive in your dress, and fastidious in your notions of 
 many things. You are under the spell of a despotic will, and 
 the moulding power of sentiments entirely foreign to your nat- 
 ure. She has not spoiled you, but she has injured you. You 
 have lost your liberty, and a cunning hand is endeavoring to 
 shape you to a destiny which it has provided for you. Now no 
 wealth can compensate you for such a change. If she make 
 you her heir, as I think she intends to do, she calculates upon 
 your becoming a useless and selfish gentleman after a pattern 
 of her own. Against this transformation you must struggle. 
 To lose your sympathy for your own family and for the great 
 multitude of the poor ; to limit your labor to the nursing of an 
 old and large estate ; to surrender all your plans for an active 
 life of usefulness among men, is to yield yourself to a fate worse 
 
Arthur Boimicastle, 121 
 
 than any poverty can inflict. It is to be bought, to be paid for, 
 and to be made a slave of. I can never be reconciled to any 
 such consummation of your life." 
 
 This was plain talk, but it was such as he had a right to in- 
 dulge in ; and I knew and felt it to be true. I had arrived at 
 tli£ conviction in my own way before, and I had wished in my 
 heart of hearts that I had had my own fortune to make, like 
 the other boys with whom I had associated. I knew that 
 Henr^^s winter was to be devoted to teaching, in order to pro- 
 vide himself with a portion of the funds which would be neces- 
 sary for the further pursuit of his education. He had been 
 kept back by poverty from entering school at first, so that he 
 was no further advanced in study than myself, though the years 
 had given him wider culture and firmer character than I pos- 
 sessed. Still, I felt entirely unable and unwilling to relinquish 
 advantages which brought me immunity from anxiety and care, 
 and the position which those advantages and my prospects 
 gave me. My best ambitions were already sapped. I had be- 
 come weak and to a sad extent self-indulgent. I had acquired 
 iio vices, but my beautiful room at The Mansion had been 
 vnade still more beautiful with expensive appointments, my 
 wardrobe was much enlarged, and, in short, I was in love with 
 liches and all that riches procured for me. 
 
 Mr. Bird's counsel produced a deep impression upon me, 
 and made me more watchful of the changes in my character 
 and the processes by which they were wrought. In truth, I 
 strove against them, in a weak way, as a slave might strive 
 with chains of gold, which charm him and excite his cupidity 
 while they bind him. 
 
 Here, perhaps, I ought to mention the fact that there was 
 
 one subject which Henry would never permit me to talk about, 
 
 viz., the relations with Mrs. Sanderson upon whose baleful 
 
 power over me Mr. Bird had animadverted so severely. Why 
 
 these and my allusions to them were so distasteful to him, I did 
 
 net know, and could not imagine, unless it were that he did 
 
 not like to realize the difference between his harder lot and 
 6 
 
122 ' Arthur Bon^iicastle. 
 
 mine. " Please never mention the name of Mrs. Sanderson to 
 me again," he said to me one day, ahnost ill-naturedly, and 
 quite peremptorily. " I am tired of the old woman, and I 
 should think you would be." 
 
 Quite unexpectedly, toward the close of the term, I received 
 a letter from my father, conveying a hearty invitation to Henry 
 to accompany me to Bradford, and become a guest in his house. 
 With the fear of Mrs. Sanderson's displeasure before my eyes, 
 should he accept an invitation from my father which he had 
 once and many times again declined when extended by herself, 
 I was mean enough to consider the purpose of withholding it 
 from him altogether. But I wanted him in Bradford. I wanted 
 to show him to my friends, and so, risking all untoward con- 
 sequences, I read him the invitation. 
 
 Henry's face brightened in an instant, and, without consult- 
 ing his mother, he said at once : " I shall go." 
 
 Very much surprised, and fearful of what would come of it, 
 I blundered out some faint expression of my pleasure at the 
 prospect of his continued society, and the matter was settled. 
 
 I cannot recall our parting with Mr. and Mrs. Bird without 
 a blinding suffusion of the eyes. Few words were said. "You 
 know it all, my boy," said Mr. Bird, as he put his arms around 
 me, and pressed me to his side. " I took you into my heart 
 when I first saw you, and you will live there until you prove 
 yourself unworthy of the place." 
 
 For several years a lumbering old stage-coach with two 
 horses had run between Hillsborough and Bradford, and to 
 this vehicle Henry and I committed our luggage and ourselves. 
 It was a tedious journey, which terminated at nightfall, and 
 brought us first to my father's house. Ordering my trunks 
 to be carried to The Mansion, I went in to introduce Henry 
 to the family, with the purpose of completing my own jour- 
 ney on foot. 
 
 Henry was evidently a surprise to them all. Manly in size, 
 mould and bearing, he bore no resemblance to the person 
 whom they had been accustomed to regard as a lad. There 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 123 
 
 was embarrassment at first, which Henry's quiet aud unpre- 
 tending manners quickly dissipated ; and soon the stream of 
 easy conversation was set flowing, and we were all happy to- 
 gether. I quickly saw that my sister Claire had become the 
 real mistress of the household. The evidences of her care were 
 everywhere. My mother was feeble and prone to melancholy ; 
 but her young spirit, full of vitality, had asserted its sway, and 
 produced a new atmosphere in the little establishment. Order, 
 taste, and a look of competency and comfort prevailed. Without 
 any particular motive, I watched the interchange of address 
 and impression between Henry and my sister. It was as 
 charming as a play. Two beings brought together from dif- 
 ferent worlds could not have appeared more interested in each 
 other. Her cheeks were flushed, her blue eyes were luminous, 
 her words were fresh and vivacious, and with a woman's quick 
 instinct she felt that she pleased him. Absorbed in his study 
 of the new nature thus opened to him, Henry so far forgot 
 the remainder of the family as to address all his words to her. 
 If my father asked him a question, he answered it to Claire. 
 If he told a story, or related an incident of our journey home- 
 ward, he addressed it to her, as if her ears were the only ones 
 that could hear it, or at least were those which would hear it 
 witli the most interest. I cannot say that I had not anticipated 
 something like this. I had wondered, at least, how they would 
 like each other. Claire's hand lighted the -candle with which I 
 led him to his room. Claire's hand had arranged the little 
 bouquet which we found upon his table. 
 
 ** I shall like all your father's family very much, I know," 
 said Henry, in our privacy. 
 
 I was quick enough to know who constituted the largest 
 portion of the family, in his estimate of the aggregate. 
 
 It was with a feeling of positive unhappiness and humilia- 
 tion that I at last took leave of the delightful and dehghted 
 circle, and bent my steps to my statelier lodgings and the 
 society of my cold and questioning Aunt. I knew that there 
 would be no hope of hiding from her the fact that Henry had 
 
124 Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 accompanicjd me home, and that entire frankness and prompt- 
 ness in announcing it was my best policy ; but I dreaded th© 
 impression it would make upon her. I found her awaiting my 
 arrival, and met from her a hearty greeting. How I wished 
 that Henry were a hundred miles away ! 
 
 " I left my old chum at my father's," I said, almost before 
 she had time to ask me a question. 
 
 " You did ! " she exclaimed, her dark eyes flaming with anger. 
 " How came he there ? " 
 
 " My father invited him and he came home with me," I re- 
 plied. 
 
 " So he spurns your invitation and mine, and accepts your 
 father's. Will you explain this ? " 
 
 " Indeed I cannot," I replied. " I have nothing to say, ex- 
 cept that I am sorry and ashamed." 
 
 " I should think so ! I should think so ! " she exclaimed, ris- 
 ing and walking up and down the little library. " I should 
 think so, indeed ! One thing is proved, at least, and proved to 
 your satisfaction, I hope — that he is not a gentleman. I really 
 must forbid" — here she checked herself, and reconsidered. 
 She saw that I did not follow her with my sympathy, and 
 thought best to adopt other methods for undermining my friend- 
 ship for him. 
 
 "Arthur," she said, at last, seating herself and controlling 
 her rage, "your model friend has insulted both of us. I am an 
 old woman, and he is nothing to me. He has been invited 
 here solely on your account, and, if he is fond of you, he has 
 declined the invitation solely on mine. There is a certain 
 chivalry — a sense of what is due to any woman under these 
 circumstances — that you understand as well as I do, and I 
 shall leave you to accept or reject its dictates. I ask nothing 
 of you that is based in any way on my relations to you. This 
 fellow has grossly, and without any apology or explanation, 
 slighted my courtesies, and crowned his insult by accepting 
 those coming from a humbler source — from one of my own ten- 
 ants, in fact." 
 
Arthtcr Bonnicastle. 125 
 
 " I have nothing to say," I responded. *' I am really not to 
 blame for his conduct, but I should be ashamed to quarrel with 
 anybody because he would not do what I wanted him to do." 
 
 " Very well. If that is your conclusion, I must ask you never 
 to mention his name to me again, and if you hold any commu- 
 nication with him, never to tell me of it. You disappoint me, 
 but you are young, and you must be bitten yourself before you 
 will learn to let dogs alone." 
 
 I had come out of the business quite as well as I expected 
 to, but it was her way of working. She saw that I loved my 
 companion with a firmness that she could not shake, and that 
 it really was not in me to quarrel with him. She must wait foi 
 favoring time and circumstances, and resort to other arts to 
 accomplish her ends — arts of which she was the conscious mis- 
 tress. She had not forbidden me to see him and hold inter- 
 course with him. She knew, indeed, that I must see him, and 
 that I could not quarrel with him without offending my father, 
 whose guest he was — a contingency to be carefully avoided. 
 
 I knew, however, that all practical means would be used to 
 keep me out of his company during his stay in Bradford, and I 
 was not surprised to be met the next morning with a face cleared 
 from all traces of anger and suUenness, and with projects for 
 the occupation of my time. 
 
 " I am getting to be an old woman, Arthur," said she, after 
 a cheery breakfast, " and need help in my affairs, which you 
 ought to be capable of giving me now." 
 
 I assured her most sincerely that nothing would give me 
 greater pleasure than to make what return I could for the kind- 
 ness she had shown me. 
 
 Accordingly, she brought out her accounts, and as she laid 
 down her books, and package after package of papers, she 
 said : " I am going to let you into some of my secrets. All 
 that you see here, and learn of my affairs, is to be entirely con- 
 fidential. I shall show you more than my lawyer knows, and 
 more than anybody knows beyond myself." 
 
 Then she opened an account book, and in a neat hand made 
 
126 ArtJntr Bonnicastle. 
 
 out a bill for rent to one of her tenants. This was the form 
 she wished me to follow in making out twenty-five or thirty 
 other bills which she pointed out to me. As I did the work 
 with much painstaking, the task gave me employment during 
 the whole of the morning. At its close, we went over it to- 
 gether, and she was warm in her praises of my handwriting and 
 the correctness of my transcript. 
 
 After dinner she told me she would Hke to have me look over 
 some of the papers which she had left on the table. " It is pos- 
 sible," she said, " that you may find something that will interest 
 you. I insist only on two conditions : you are to keep secret 
 everything you learn, and ask me no question about what may 
 most excite your curiosity." 
 
 One ponderous bundle of papers I found to be composed 
 entirely of bonds and mortgages. It seemed as if she had her 
 hold upon nearly every desirable piece of property in the town. 
 By giving me a view of this and showing me her rent-roll, she 
 undoubtedly intended to exhibit her wealth, which was certainly 
 very much greater than I had suspected. " All this if you con- 
 tinue to please me," was what the exhibition meant ; and, young 
 as I was, I knew what it meant. To hold these pledges of real 
 estate, and to own this rent-roll was to hold power ; and with 
 that precious package in my hands there came to me my first 
 ambition for power, and a recognition of that thirst to gratify 
 which so many men had bartered their honor and their souls. 
 In that book and in those papers lay the basis of the old lady's 
 self-assurance. It was to these that men bowed with deferen- 
 tial respect or superfluous fawning. It was to these that fine 
 ladies paid their devoirs ; and a vision of the future showed all 
 these demonstrations of homage transferred to me — a young 
 man — with life all before me. The prospect held not only 
 these but a thousand delights — travel in foreign lands, horses 
 and household pets, fine equipage, pictures, brilliant society, and 
 some sweet, unknown angel in the form of a woman, to be loved 
 and petted and draped with costly fabrics and fed upon dainties. 
 
 I floated off into a wild, intoxicating dream. All the possi- 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 127 
 
 bilities of my future came before me. In my imagination I 
 already stood behind that great bulwark against a thousand ills 
 of life which money builds, and felt myself above the petty 
 needs that harass the toiling multitude. I was already a social 
 center and a king. Yet after all, when the first excitement 
 was over, and I realized the condition that lay between me and 
 the realization of my dreams — "all this if you continue to 
 please me " — I knew and felt that I was a slave. I was not 
 my own : I had been purchased, I could not freely follow 
 even the impulses of my own natural affection. 
 
 Tiring of the package at last, and of the thoughts and 
 emotions it excited, I turned to others. One after another I 
 took them up and partly examined them, but they were mostly 
 dead documents — old policies of insurance long since expired, 
 old contracts for the erection of buildings that had themselves 
 grown old, mortgages that had been canceled, old abstracts of 
 title, etc., etc. At last I found, at the bottom of the pile, a 
 package yellow with age ; and I gasped with astonishment as 1 
 read on the back of the first paper : '•''James Mansfield to Peter 
 Bomiicastler I drew it quickly from the tape, and saw ex- 
 posed upon the next paper : '•''Julius IVJieeler to Peter Bonni- 
 castle" Thus the name went on down through the whole 
 package. All the papers were old, and all of them were deeds 
 — some of them conveying thousands of acres of colonial 
 lands. Thus I learned two things that filled me with such de- 
 light and pride as I should find it altogether impossible to 
 describe ; first, that the fortune which I had been examining, 
 and which I had a tolerable prospect of inheriting, had its 
 foundations laid a century before by one of my own ancestors ; 
 and second, that Mrs. Sanderson and I had common blood in 
 our veins. This discovery quite restored my self-respect, 
 because I should arrive at my inheritance by at least a show 
 of right. The property would remain in the family where it 
 belonged, and, so far as I knew, no member of the family 
 would have a better right to it than niyself I presumed that 
 my father was a descendant of this same Peter Bonnicastle, 
 
128 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 who was doubtless a notable man in his time ; and only the 
 accidents of fortune had diverted this large wealth from my 
 own branch of the family. 
 
 This discovery brought up to my memory the conversations 
 that had taken place in my home on my first arrival in the 
 town, between Mr. Bradford and my father. Here was where 
 the "blue blood" came from, and Mr. Bradford had known 
 about this all the time. It was his hint to Mrs. Sanderson 
 that had procured for me my good fortune. My first impulse 
 was to thank him for his service, and to tell him that I probably 
 knew as much as he did of my relations to Mrs. Sanderson ; but 
 the seal of secrecy was upon my lips. I recalled to mind Mrs. 
 Sanderson's astonishment and strange behavior when she first 
 heard my father's name, and thus all the riddles of that first 
 interview were solved. 
 
 Pride of wealth and power had now firmly united itself in my 
 mind with pride of ancestry ; and though there were humili- 
 ating considerations connected with my relations to Mrs. 
 Sanderson, my self-respect had been wonderfully strengthened, 
 and I found that my heart was going out to the little old lady 
 with a new sentiment — a sentiment of kinship, if not of love. 
 I identified myself with her more perfectly than I had hitherto 
 done. She had placed confidence in me, she had praised my 
 work, and she was a Bonnicastle. 
 
 I have often looked back upon the revelations and the 
 history of that day, and wondered whether it was possible that 
 she had foreseen all the processes of mind through which I 
 passed, and intelligently and deliberately contrived to procure 
 them. She must have done so. There was not an instrument 
 wanting for the production of the result she desired, and there 
 was nothing wanting in the result. 
 
 The afternoon passed, and I neither went home nor felt a 
 desire to do so. In the evening she invited me to read, and 
 thus I spent a pleasant hour preparatory to an early bed. 
 
 " You have been a real comfort to me to-day, Arthur," she 
 said, as I kissed her forehead and bade her good-night. 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 129 
 
 What more could a lad who loved praise ask than this ? I 
 went to sleep entirely happy, and with a new determination to 
 devote myself more heartily to the will and the interests of my 
 benefactress. It ceased to be a great matter that my com- 
 panion for five years was in my father's home, and I saw little 
 of him. I was employed with writing and with business 
 errands all the time. During Henry's visit in Bradford I was in 
 and out of my father's house, as convenience favored, and always 
 while on an errand that waited. I think Henry appreciated 
 the condition of affairs, and as he and Claire were on charming 
 terms, and my absence gave him more time with her, I presume 
 that he did not miss me. All were glad to see me useful, and 
 happy in my usefulness. 
 
 When Henry went away I walked down to bid him farewell. 
 "Now don't cry, my boy," said Henry, "for I am coming 
 back; and don't be excited when I tell you that I have 
 engaged to spend the winter in Bradford. I was wondering 
 where 1 could find a school to teach, and the school has come 
 to me, examining committee and all." 
 
 I was delighted. I looked at Claire with the unguarded im- 
 pulse of a boy, and it brought the blood into her cheeks pain- 
 fully. Henry parted with her veiy quietly — indeed, with 
 studied quietness — but was warm in his thanks to my father 
 and mother for their hospitality, and hearty with the boys, with 
 whom he had become a great favorite. 
 
 I saw that Henry was happy, and particularly happy in the 
 thought of returning. As the stage-coach rattled away, he 
 kissed his hand to us all, and shouted " Au revoir /" as if his 
 anticipations of pleasure were embraced in those words rather 
 than in the fact that he was homeward-bound. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 I AM INTRODUCED TO NEW CHARACTERS AND ENTER THE 
 SHADOW OF THE GREAT BEDLOW REVIVAL. 
 
 While Henry was a guest at my old home, Mr. Bradford 
 resumed his visits there. That he had had much to do with 
 securing my father's prosperity in his calling, I afterwards 
 learned with gratitude, but he had done, it without his humble 
 friend's knowledge, and while studiously keeping aloof from 
 him. I never could imagine any reason for his policy in this 
 matter except the desire to keep out of Mrs. Sanderson's way. 
 He seemed, too, to have a special interest in Henry; and 
 it soon came to my ears that he had secured for him his place 
 as teacher of one of the public schools. Twice during the 
 young man's visit at Bradford, he had called and invited him 
 to an evening walk, on the pretext of showing him some of the 
 more interesting features of the rapidly growing little city. 
 
 Henry's plan for study was coincident with my own. We 
 had both calculated to perfect our preparation for college 
 during the winter and following spring, under private tuition ; 
 and this work, which would be easy for me, was to be accom- 
 plished by him during the -hours left from his school duties. 
 I made my own independent arrangements for recitation and 
 direction, as I knew such a course would best please Mrs. 
 Sanderson, and left him to do the same on his return. With 
 an active temperament and the new stimulus which had come 
 to me with a better knowledge of my relations and prospects, 
 I found my mind and my time fully absorbed. Wlien I was 
 not engaged in study, I was actively assisting Mrs. Sanderson 
 in her affairs. 
 
 One morning in the early winter, after Henry had returned, 
 and had been for a week or two engaged in his school, I met 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 131 
 
 Mr. Bradford on the street, and received from him a cordial 
 invitation to take tea and spend the evening at his home> 
 Without telling me what company I should meet, he simply- 
 said that there were to be two or three young people beside 
 me, and that he wanted Mrs. Bradford to know me. Up to 
 this time, I had made comparatively few acquaintances in the 
 town, and had entered, in a social way, very few homes. 
 The invitation gave me a great deal of pleasure, for Mr. Brad- 
 ford stood high in the social scale, so that Mrs. Sanderson 
 could make no plausible objection to my going. I was careful 
 not to speak of the matter to Henry, whom I accidentally 
 met during the day, and particularly careful not to mention 
 it in my father's family, for fear that Claire might feel herself 
 slighted. I was therefore thoroughly surprised when I entered 
 Mrs. Bradford's cheerful drawing-room to find there, engaged 
 in the merriest conversation with the family, both Henry and 
 my sister Claire. Mr. Bradford rose and met me at the door 
 in his own hospitable, hearty way, and, grasping my right hand, 
 put his free arm around me, and led me to Mrs. Bradford 
 and presented me. She was a sweet, pale-faced Uttle woman, 
 with large blue eyes, with which she peered into mine with a 
 charming look of curious inquiry. If she had said : " I 
 have long wanted to know you, and am fully prepared to be 
 pleased with you and to love you," she would only have put 
 into words the meaning which her look conveyed. I had 
 never met with a greeting that more thoroughly delighted me, 
 or placed me more at my ease, or stimulated me more to show 
 what there was of good in me. 
 
 " This is my sister. Miss Lester," said she, turning to a prim 
 personage sitting by the fire. 
 
 As the lady did not rise, I bowed to her at a distance, and 
 she recognized me with a little nod, as if she would have said : 
 *' You are well enough for a boy, but I don't see the propriety 
 of putting myself out for such young people." 
 
 The contrast between her greeting and that of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Bradford led me to give her more than a passing look. I con- 
 
132 Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 eluded at once that she was a maiden of an age more advanced 
 than she should be willing to confess, and a person with ways 
 and tempers of her own. She sat alone, trotting her knees, 
 looking into the fire, and knitting with such emphasis as to 
 give an electric snap to every pass of her glittering needles. 
 She was larger than Mrs. Bradford, and her dark hair and 
 swarthy skin, gathered into a hundred wrinkles around her black 
 eyes, produced a strange contrast between the sisters. 
 
 Mrs. Bradford, I soon learned, was one of those women in 
 whom the motherly instinct is so strong that no Hving thing 
 can come into their presence without exciting their wish to 
 care for it. The first thing she did, therefore, after I had 
 exchanged greetings, was to set a chair for me at the fire, 
 because she knew I must be cold and my feet must be wet. 
 When I assured her that I was neither cold nor wet, and she 
 haid accepted the statement with evident incredulity and 
 disappointment, she insisted that I should change my chair 
 for an easier one. I did this to accommodate her, and then 
 she took a fancy that I had a headache and needed a bottle 
 of salts. This I found in my hand before I knew it. 
 
 As these attentions were rendered, they were regarded by 
 Mr. Bradford with good-natured toleration, but there issued 
 from the corner where *' Aunt Flick" sat — for from some lip I 
 had already caught her home-name — little impatient sniffs, and 
 raps upon the hearth with her trotting heel. 
 
 " Jane Bradford," Aunt Flick broke out at last, " I should 
 think you'd be ashamed. You've done nothing but worry that 
 boy since he came into the room. One would think he was a 
 baby, and that it was your business to 'tend him. Just as if he 
 didn't know whether he was cold, or his feet were wet, or 
 his head ached ! Just as if he didn't know enough to go to 
 the fire if he wanted to ! Millie, get the cat for your mother, 
 and bring in the dog. Something must be nursed, of course." 
 
 " Why, Flick, dear ! " was all Mrs. Bradford said, but Mr. 
 Bradford looked amused, and there came from a corner of the 
 room that my eyes had not explored tl\e merriest young laugh 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 133 
 
 imaginable. I had no doubt as to its authorship. Seeing 
 that the evening was to be an informal one, I had already- 
 begun to wonder where the little girl might be, with whose face 
 I had made a brief acquaintance five years before, and of 
 whom I had caught occasional glimpses in the interval. 
 
 Mr. Bradford looked in the direction of the laugh, and ex- 
 claiming : " You saucy puss ! " started from his chair, and found 
 her seated behind an ottoman, where she had been quietly 
 reading. 
 
 ** Oh, father ! don't, please ! " she exclaimed, as he drew her 
 from her retreat. She resisted at first, but when she saw that 
 she was fully discovered, she consented to be led forward and 
 presented to us. 
 
 " When a child is still," said Aunt Flick, " I can't see the 
 use of stirring her up, unless it is to send her to bed." 
 
 " Why, Flick, dear !" said Mrs. Bradford again ; but Mr. Brad- 
 ford took no notice of the remark, and led the little girl to us. 
 She shook hands with us, and then her mother caught and 
 pulled her into her lap. 
 
 ''Jane Bradford, why will you burden yourself with that 
 heavy child ? I should think you would be ill." 
 
 Millie's black eyes flashed, but she said nothing, and I had 
 an opportunity to study her wonderful beauty. As I looked at 
 her, I could think of nothing but a gypsy. I could not imagine 
 how it was possible that she should be the daughter of Mr. and 
 Mrs. Bradford. It was as if some unknown, oriental ancestor had 
 reached across the generations and touched her, revealing to 
 her parents the long-lost secrets of their own blood. Her hair 
 hung in raven ringlets, and her dark, healthy skin was as 
 smooth and soft as the petal of a pansy. She had put on a 
 scarlet jacket for comfort, in her distant corner, and the color 
 heightened all her charms. Her face was bright with intel- 
 Hgence, and her full, mobile lips and dimpled chin were charged 
 with the prophecy of a wonderfully beautiful womanhood. I 
 looked at her quite enchanted, and I am sure that she was 
 conscious of my scrutiny, for she disengaged herself gently from 
 
134 Arthur Bonni castle, 
 
 her mother's hold, and saying that she wished to finish the 
 chapter she had been reading, went back to her seclusion. 
 
 The consciousness of her presence in the room somehow 
 destroyed my interest in the other members of the family, and 
 as I felt no restraint in the warm and free social atmosphere 
 around me, I soon followed her to her corner, and sat down 
 upon the ottoman behind which, upon a hassock, she had en- 
 sconced herself. 
 
 "What have you come here for?" she inquired wonderingly, 
 looking up into my eyes. 
 
 " To see you," I replied. 
 
 " Aren't you a young gentleman ? " 
 
 *' No, I am only a big boy." 
 
 "Why, that's jolly," said she. "Then you can be my com- 
 pany." 
 
 " Certainly," I responded. 
 
 " Well, then, what shall we do ? I'm sure I don't know 
 how to play with a boy. I never did." 
 
 " We can talk," I said. " What a funny woman your Aunt 
 Flick is ! Doesn't she bother you ? " 
 
 She paused, looked down, then looked up into my face, and 
 said decidedly : "I don't like that question." 
 
 " I meant nothing ill by it," I responded. 
 
 " Yes you did ; you meant something ill to Aunt FHck." 
 
 " But I thought she bothered you," I said. 
 
 "Did I say so?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Well, when I say so, I shall say so to her. Papa and I 
 understand it." 
 
 So this was my little girl, with a feeHng of family loyalty in 
 her heart, and a family pride that did not choose to discuss 
 with strangers the foibles of kindred and the jars of home life. 
 I was rebuked, though the consciousness of the fact came too 
 slowly to excite pain. It was her Aunt Flick ; and a stranger 
 had no right to question or criticise. That was what I gath- 
 ered from her words ; and there was so much that charmed me 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 135 
 
 in this fine revelation of character, that I quite lost sight of the 
 fact that I had been snubbed. 
 
 " She has a curious name, any wa)''," I said. 
 
 At this "her face lighted up, and she exclaimed : *' Oh ! I'll 
 tell you all about that. When I was a little girl, ever so much 
 smaller than I am now, we had a minister in the house. You 
 know mamma takes care of everybody, and when the minister 
 came to town he came here, because nobody else would have 
 him. He stayed here ever so long, and used to say grace at 
 the table and have prayers. Aunt Flick was sick at the time, 
 and he used to pray every morning for our poor afflicted sister, 
 and papa was full of fun with her, just to keep up her courage, 
 I suppose, and called her *'Flicted,' and then he got to calling 
 her * nick ' for a nickname, and now we all call her Flick." 
 
 " But does she like it ? " 
 
 " Oh, she's used to it, and don't mind." 
 
 Millie had closed her book, and sat with it on her lap, her 
 large black eyes looking up into mine in a dreamy way. 
 
 " There's one thing I should Hke to know," said Millie, 
 "and that is, where all the books came from. Were they 
 always here, like the ground, or did somebody make them ? " 
 
 ** Somebody made them," I said. 
 
 " I don't believe it," she responded. 
 
 " But if nobody made them, how did they come here ? " 
 
 " They are real things : somebody found them." 
 
 " No, I've seen men who wrote books, and women too," I 
 said. 
 
 ** How did they look?" 
 
 *' Very much like other people." 
 
 ** And did they act like other people ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 ** Well, that shows that they found them. They are hum- 
 bugs." 
 
 I laughed, and assured her that she was mistaken. 
 
 " Well," said she, " if anybody can make books I can ; and 
 if I don't get married and keep house I shall." 
 
136 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 Very much amused, I asked her which walk of life she would 
 prefer. 
 
 " I think I should prefer to be married." 
 
 " You are sensible," I said. 
 
 "Not to any boy or young man, though," responded the 
 child, with peculiar and suggestive emphasis. 
 
 "And why not?" 
 
 " They are so silly ; " and she gave her curls a disdainful 
 toss. " I shall marry a big man like papa, with gray whiskers 
 — somebody that I can adore, you know." 
 
 " Well, then, I think you had better not be married," I re- 
 plied. " Perhaps, after all, you had better write books." 
 
 *' If I should ever write a book," said MiUie, looking out of 
 the window, as if she were reviewing the long chain of charac- 
 ters and incidents of which it was to be composed, " I should 
 begin at the foundation of the world, and come up through 
 Asia, or Arabia, or Cappadocia . . . and stop under palm- 
 trees . . . and have a lot of camels with bells. ... I should 
 have a young man with a fez and an old man with a long beard, 
 and a chibouk, and a milk-white steed. ... I should have a 
 maiden too beautiful for anything, and an Arab chieftain with a 
 military company on horseback, kicking up a great dust in the 
 desert, and coming after her. . . . And then I should have some 
 sort of an escape, and I should hide the maiden in a tower 
 somewhere on the banks of the Danube. . . . And then I'm 
 sure I don't know what I should do with her." 
 
 *'You would marry her to the young man with the i^Zy 
 wouldn't you?" I suggested. 
 
 " Perhaps — if I didn't conclude to kill him." 
 
 " You couldn't be so cruel as that," I said. 
 
 " Why, that's the fun of it : you can stab a man right through 
 the heart in a book, and spill every drop of his blood without 
 hurting him a particle." 
 
 "Well," I said, "I don't see but you have made a book al- 
 ready." 
 
Arthur Bonmcasile. 137 
 
 " Would that really be a book ? " she asked, looking eagerly 
 into my face. 
 
 " I should think so," I replied. 
 
 " Then it's just as I thought it was. I didn't make a bit of 
 it. I saw it. I found it. The/re everywhere, and people 
 see them, just like flowers, and pick them up and press 
 them." 
 
 It was not until years after this that with my slower mascu- 
 line intellect and feebler instincts I appreciated the beauty of 
 this revelation and the marvelous insight which it betrayed. 
 These crude tropical fancies she could not entertain with any 
 sense of ownership or authorship. They came of themselves, 
 in gorgeous forms and impressive combinations, and passed 
 before her vision. She talked of what she saw — not of wliat 
 she made. I was charmed by her vivacity, acuteness, frank- 
 ness and spirit, and really felt that the older persons at the 
 other end of the drawing-room were talking common-places 
 compared with Millie's utterances. We conversed a long time 
 upon many things ; and what impressed me most, perhaps, was 
 that she was living the life of a woman and thinking the 
 thoughts of a woman — incompletely, of course, and unrecog- 
 nized by her own family ! 
 
 When we were called to tea, she rose up quickly and whis- 
 pered in my ear : " I like to talk with you." As she came 
 around the end of the ottoman I offered her my arm, in the 
 manner with which my school habits had familiarized me. She 
 took it without the slightest hesitation, and put on the air of a 
 grand lady. 
 
 '* Why this is like a book, isn't it?" said she. Then she 
 pressed my arm, and said : " notice Aunt Flick, please." 
 
 Aunt Flick had seen us from the start, and stood with ele- 
 vated nostrils. The sight was one which evidently excited her 
 beyond the power of expression. She could do nothing but 
 sniff as we approached her. I saw a merry twinkle in Mr. 
 Bradford's eyes, and noticed that as he had Claire on his arm, 
 and Henry was leading out Mrs. Bradford, Aunt Flick was left 
 
138 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 alone. Without a moment's thought, I walked with Millie 
 straight to her, and offered her my other arm. 
 
 Aunt Flick was thunder-struck, and at first could only say : 
 " Well ! well ! well ! " with long pauses between. Then she 
 found strength to say : " For all the world like a pair of young 
 monkeys ! No, I thank you ; when I want a cane I won't 
 choose a corn-stalk. I've walked alone in the world so far, and 
 I think I can do it the rest of the way." 
 
 So Aunt Flick followed us out, less vexed than amused, I am 
 sure. 
 
 There are two things which, during all my life, have been 
 more suggestive to me of home comforts and home delights 
 than any others, viz. : A blazing fire upon the hearth, and the 
 odor of fresh toast. I found both in Mrs. Bradford's supper- 
 room, for a red-cheeked lass with an old-fashioned toasting- 
 jack in her* hand was browning the whitest bread before our 
 eyes, and preparing to bear it hot to our plates. The subtle 
 odor had reached me first in the far corner of the drawing-room, 
 and had grown more stimulating to appetite and the sense of 
 social and home comfort as I approached its source. 
 
 The fire upon the hearth is the center and symbol of the 
 family life. When the fire in a house goes out, it is because 
 the life has gone out. Somewhere in every house it burns, and 
 burns, in constant service ; and every chimney that sends its 
 incense heavenward speaks of an altar inscribed to Love and 
 Home. And when it ceases to burn, it is because the altar is 
 forsaken. Bread is the symbol of that beautiful ministry of 
 God to human sustenance, which, properly apprehended, trans- 
 forms the homeliest meal into a sacrament. What wonder, 
 then, that when the bread of life and the fire on the hearth 
 meet, they should interpret and reveal each other in an odor 
 sweeter than violets — an odor so subtle and suggestive that 
 the heart breathes it rather than the sense ! 
 
 This is all stuff and sentiment, I suppose ; but I doubt 
 whether the scent of toast has reached my nostrils since that 
 evening without recalling that scene of charming domestic life 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 139 
 
 and comfort It seemed as if all the world were in that room 
 — and, indeed, it was all there — all that, for the hour, we could 
 appropriate. 
 
 As we took our seats at the table, I found myself by the side 
 of Millie and opposite to Aunt Flick. Then began on the 
 part of the latter personage, a pantomimic lecture to her niece. 
 First she straightened herself in her chair, throwing out her 
 chest and holding in her chin — a performance which Millie 
 imitated. Then she executed the motion of putting some 
 stray hair behind her ear. Millie did the same. Then she 
 tucked an imaginary napkin into her neck. Millie obeyed 
 the direction thus conveyed. Then she examined her knife, 
 and finding that it did not suit her, sent it away and received 
 one that did. 
 
 In the mean time, Mrs. Bradford had begun to dispense the 
 hospitalities of the table. She was very cheerful ; indeed, she 
 was so happy herself that she overflowed with assiduities that 
 ran far into superfluities. She was afraid the toast was not 
 hot, or that the tea was not sweet enough, or that she had for- 
 gotten the sugar altogether, or that everybody was not prop- 
 erly waited upon and supplied. I could see that all this 
 rasped Aunt FHck to desperation. The sniffs, which were 
 light at first, grew more impatient, and after Mrs, Bradford had 
 urged half a dozen things upon me that I did not want, and 
 was obliged to decline, the fiery spinster burst out with : 
 
 " Wouldn't you like to read the Declaration of Independence ? 
 Wouldn't you like to repeat the Ten Commandments? 
 Wouldn't you like a yard of calico ? Do have a spoon to eat 
 your toast with ? Just a trifle more salt in your tea, please ? " 
 
 All this was delivered without the slightest hesitation, and 
 with a rapidity that was fairly bewildering. Poor Millie was 
 overcome by the comical aspect of the matter, and broke out 
 into an irrepressible laugh, which ^yas so hearty that it became 
 contagious, and all of us laughed together except Aunt Flick, 
 who devoted herself to her supper with imperturbable gravity. 
 
 "Why, Flick, dear!" was all that Mrs. Bradford could say 
 
140 Arthur Bonntcastle, 
 
 to this outburst of scornful criticism upon her well-meant cour- 
 tesies. 
 
 Just as we were recovering from our merriment, there was a 
 loud knock at the street door. The girl with the toasting-jack 
 dropped her implement to answer the unwelcome summons. 
 We all involuntarily Hstened, and learned from his voice that 
 the intruder was a man. We heard him enter the drawing- 
 room, and then the girl came in and said that Mr. Grimshaw 
 had called upon the family. In the general confusion that fol- 
 lowed the announcement, Millie leaned over to me and said : 
 " It's the very man who used to pray for Aunt Flick." 
 
 Mr. Bradford, of course, brought him to the tea-table at 
 once, where room was made for him by the side of Aunt Flick, 
 and a plate laid. The first thing he did was. to swallow a cup 
 of hot tea almost at a gulp, and to send back the empty vessel 
 to be refilled. Then he spread with butter a whole piece of 
 toast, which disappeared in a wonderfully brief space of time. 
 Until his hunger was appeased he did not seem disposed to 
 talk, replying to such questions as were propounded to him 
 concerning himself and his family in monosyllables. 
 
 Rev. Mr. Grimshaw was the minister of a struggling Congre- 
 gational church in Bradford. He had been hard at work for 
 half a dozen years with indifferent success, waiting for some 
 manifestation of the Master which would show him that his 
 service and sacrifice had been accepted. I had heard him 
 preach at different times during my vacation visits, though Mrs. 
 Sanderson did not attend upon his ministry ; and he had always 
 impressed me as a man who was running some sort of a 
 machine. He had a great deal to say about " the plan of sal- 
 vation" and the doctrines covered by his creed. I cannot 
 aver that he ever interested me. Indeed, I may say that he 
 always confused me. Religion, as it had been presented to 
 my mind, had been a simple thing — so simple that a child 
 might understand it. My Father in Heaven loved me ; Jesus 
 Christ had died for me. Loving both, trusting both, and serv- 
 ing both by worship, and by affectionate and helpful good- 
 
A rthttr Bonn icastle. 141 
 
 will toward all around me was religion, as I had learned it ; 
 and I never came from hearing one of Mr. Grimshaw's ser- 
 mons without finding it difficult to get back upon my simple 
 ground of faith. Religion, as he preached it, was such a tre- 
 mendous and such a mysterious thing in its beginnings ; it in- 
 volved such a complicated structure of belief; it divided God 
 into such opposing forces of justice and mercy ; it depended 
 upon such awful processes of feeling ; it was so much the pro- 
 duct of a profoundly ingenious scheme, that his semions always 
 puzzled me. 
 
 As he sat before me that evening, pale-faced and thin, with 
 his intense, earnest eyes and solemn bearing and self-crucified 
 expression, I could not doubt his purity or his sincerity. There 
 was something in him that awoke my respect and my sympathy. 
 
 Our first talk touched only common-places, but as the meal 
 drew toward its close he ingeniously led the conversation into 
 religious channels. 
 
 " There is a very tender and solemn state of feeling in the 
 church," said Mr. Grimshaw, " and a great deal of self-examin- 
 ation and prayer. The careless are beginning to be thought- 
 ful, and the backsliders are returning to their first love. I most 
 devoutly trust that we are going to have a season of refresh- 
 ment. It is a time when all those who have named the name 
 of the Lord should make themselves ready for His coming." 
 
 Aunt FHck started from her chair exactly as if she were 
 about to put on her hat and cloak ; and I think that was really 
 her impulse ; but she sat down again and listened intently. 
 
 I could not fail to see that this turn in the conversation was 
 not relished by Mr. Bradford ; but Mrs. Bradford and Aunt 
 Flick were interested, and I noticed an excited look upon the 
 faces of both Henry and Claire. 
 
 Mrs. Bradford, in her simplicity, made a most natural re- 
 sponse to the minister's communication in the words : " You 
 must be exceedingly delighted, Mr. Grimshaw." She said this 
 very sweetly, and with her cheerful smile making her whole 
 countenance light. 
 
142 Arth2ir Bo7inicastle. 
 
 " Jane Bradford ! " exclaimed Aunt Flick, " I believe you 
 would smile if anybody were to tell you the judgment-day had 
 come." 
 
 Mrs. Bradford did not say this time : "Why, Flick, dear !" 
 but she said with great tenderness : " When I remember who 
 is to judge me, and to whom I have committed myself, I think 
 I should." 
 
 " Well, I don't know how an5^body can make light of such aw- 
 ful things," responded Aunt Flick. 
 
 " Of course, I am rejoiced," said Mr. Grimshaw, at last get- 
 ting his chance to speak, "but my joy is tempered by the 
 great responsibility that rests upon me, and by a sense of the 
 lost condition of the multitudes around me." 
 
 "In reality," Mr. Bradford broke in, "you don't feel quite 
 so much like singing as the angels did when the Saviour came 
 to redeem the world. But then, they probably had no such 
 sense of responsibility as you have. Perhaps they didn't appre- 
 ciate the situation. It has always seemed to me, however, as 
 if that which would set an angel singing — a being who ought 
 to see a little further forward and backward than we can, and 
 a little deeper down and higher up — ought to set men and 
 women singing. .1 confess that I don't understand the long 
 faces and the superstitious solemnities of what is called a sea- 
 son of refreshment. If the Lord is with his own, they ought 
 to be glad and give him such a greeting as will induce him to 
 remain. I really do not wonder that he flies from many con- 
 gregations that I have seen, or that he seems to resist their en- 
 treaties that he will stay. Half the prayers that I hear sound 
 like abject beseechings for the presence of One who is very 
 far off, and very unwilhng to come." 
 
 This free expression on the part of Mr. Bradford would have 
 surprised me had I not just learned that the minister had at one 
 time been a member of his family, with whom he had been on 
 familiar terms ; yet I knew that he did not profess to be a relig- 
 ious man, and that his view of the matter, whether sound or 
 otherwise, was from the outside. There was a subtle touch of 
 
Arth^tr Bonnicastle, 143 
 
 satire in his words, too, that did not altogether please me ; but 
 I did not see what reply could be made to it. 
 
 Aunt Flick was evidently somewhat afraid of Mr. Bradford, 
 and simply said : " I hope you will remem-ber that your child is 
 present." 
 
 " Yes, I do remember it," said he, " and what I say about it 
 is as much for her ears as for anybody's. And I remember 
 too, that, during all my boyhood, I was made afraid of religion. 
 I wish to save her, if I can, from such a curse. I have read 
 that when the Saviour was upon the earth, he took little chil- 
 dren in His arms and blessed them, and went so far as to say 
 that of such was the kingdom of heaven. If He were to come 
 to the earth again. He would be as apt to take my child upon 
 His knee as any man's and bless her, and repeat over her the 
 same words ; and if He manifests His presence among us in any 
 way I do not wish to have her kept away from Him by the im- 
 pression that there is something awful in the fact that He is 
 here. My God ! if I could believe that the Lord of Heaven 
 and Earth were really in Bradford, with a dispensation of faith 
 and mercy and love in His hands for me and mine, do you think 
 I would groan and look gloomy over it ? Why, I couldn't eat ; 
 I couldn't sleep ; I couldn't refrain from shouting and singing." 
 
 Mr. Grimshaw was evidently touched and impressed by Mr. 
 Bradford's exhibition of strong feeling, and said in a calm, judi- 
 cial way that it was impossible that one outside of the church 
 should comprehend and appreciate the feelings that exercised 
 him and the church generally. The welfare of the unconverted 
 depended so much upon a revival of religion within the church 
 — it brought such tremendous responsibilities and such great 
 duties — that Christian men and women were weighed down with 
 solemnity. The issues of eternal life and death were tremen- 
 dous issues. Even if the angels sang, Jesus suffered in the 
 garden, and bore the cross on Calvary; and Christians who are 
 worthy must suffer and bear the cross also. 
 
 " Mr. Grimshaw," said Mr. Bradford, still earnest and excited, 
 " I have heard from your own lips that the fact that Christ was 
 
144 Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 to suffer and bear the cross was at least a part of the inspiration 
 of the song which the angels sang. He suffered and bore the 
 cross that men might not suffer. That is one of the essential 
 parts of your creed. He suffered that He might give peace to 
 the world, and bring life and immortality to light. You have 
 taught me that He did not come to torment the world, but to 
 save it. The religion which Christendom holds in theory is a 
 religion of unbounded peace and joy ; that which it holds in fact 
 is one of torture and gloom ; and I do not hesitate to say that 
 if the Christian world were a peaceful and joyous world, taking 
 all the good things of this life in gratitude and gladness, while 
 holding itself pure from its corruptions, and not only not fear- 
 ing death, but looking forward with unwavering faith and hope 
 to another and a happier life beyond, the revivals which it 
 struggles for would be perpetual, and the millennium which it 
 prays for would come." 
 
 Then Mr. Bradford, who sat near enough to touch me, laid his 
 hand upon my shoulder, and said : " Boy, look at your father, 
 if you wish to know what my ideal of a Christian is, — a man of 
 cheerfulness, trust and hope, under discouragements that would 
 kill me. Such examples save me from utter infidelity and 
 despair, and, thank God, I have one such in my own home." 
 
 His eyes filled with tears as he turned them upon his wife, 
 who sat watching him with intense sympathy and affection, 
 while he frankly poured out his heart and thought. 
 
 " I suppose," said the minister, " that we should get no nearer 
 together in the discussion of this question than we did when 
 we were more in one another's company, and perhaps it would 
 be well not to pursue it. You undoubtedly see the truth in a 
 single aspect, Mr. Bradford ; and you will pardon me for say- 
 ing that you cannot see it in the aspects which it presents to 
 me. I came in, partly to let you and your family know of our 
 plans, and to beg you to attend our services faithfully. I 
 hope these young people, too, will not fail to put themselves in 
 the way of religious influence. Now is their time. To-morrow 
 or next year it may be too late. Many a poor soul is obliged 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 145 
 
 to take up the lament after every revival : ' The harvest is past, 
 the summer is ended, and my soul is not saved.' Before the 
 spirit takes its flight, all these precious youth ought to be 
 gathered into the kingdom." 
 
 I could not doubt the sincerity of this closing utterance, for 
 it was earnest and tearful. In truth, I was deeply moved by it ; 
 for while Mr. Bradford carried my judgment and opened before 
 me a beautiful life, I had always entertained great reverence for 
 ministers, and found Mr. Grimshaw's views and feelings most 
 in consonance with those I had been used to hear proclaimed 
 from the pulpit. 
 
 The fact that a revival was in progress in some of the 
 churches of the town, had already come to my ears. 
 
 I had seen throngs pouring into or coming out of church- 
 doors and lecture-rooms during other days than Sunday ; and 
 a vague uneasiness had possessed me for several weeks. A 
 cloud had arisen upon my life. I may even confess that my 
 heart had rebelled in secret against an influence which promised 
 to interfere with the social pleasures and the progress in study 
 which I had anticipated for the winter. The cloud came nearer 
 to me now, and in Mr. Grimshaw's presence quite overshadowed 
 me. Was I moved by sympathy ? Was I moved by the spirit 
 of the Almighty ? Was superstitious fear at the bottom of it 
 all ? Whatever it was, my soul had crossed the line of that 
 circle of passion and experience in whose center a great mul- 
 titude were groping and crying in the darkness, and striving to 
 get a vision of the Father's face. I realized the fact then and 
 there. I felt that a crisis in my life was approaching. 
 
 On Aunt Flick's face there came a look of rigid determina- 
 tion. She was entirely ready to work, and inquired of Mr. 
 Grimshaw what his plans were. 
 
 " I have felt," said he, " that the labor and responsibility are 
 too great for me to bear alone, and, after a consultation with 
 our principal men, have concluded to send for Mr. Bedlow, the 
 e-^angelist, to assist me." 
 
 " Mr. Grimshaw," said Mi*. Bradfofd, " I suppose it is none of 
 
146 Arthtir Bonnicastle, 
 
 my business, but I am sorry you have done this. I have no faith 
 in the man or his methods. Mrs. Bradford and her sister will 
 attend his preaching if they choose : I am not afraid that they 
 will be harmed ; but I decidedly refuse to have this child of 
 mine subjected to his processes. Why parents will consent to 
 yield their children to the spiritual manipulation of strangers I 
 cannot conceive." 
 
 Mr. Grimshaw smiled sadly, and said : "You assume a grave 
 responsibility, Mr. Bradford." 
 
 " /assume a grave responsibility ? " exclaimed Mr. Bradford : 
 " I had the impression that I relieved you of one. No, leave 
 the child alone. She is safe with her mother ; and no such man 
 as Mr. Bedlow shall have the handling of her sensibilities." 
 
 We had sat a long time at the tea-table, and as we rose and 
 adjourned to the drawing-room Mr. Grimshaw took sudden leave 
 on the plea that he had devoted the evening to many other calls 
 yet to be made. He was very solemn in his leave-taking, and 
 for some time after he left we sat in silence. Then Mr. Brad- 
 ford rose and paced the drawing-room back and forth, his coun- 
 tenance full of perplexity and pain. I could see plainly that a 
 storm of utterance was gathering, but whether it would burst in 
 thunder and torrent, or open with strong and healing rain, was 
 doubtful. 
 
 At length he paused, and said : " I suppose that as a man old 
 enough to be the father of all these young people I ought to say 
 frankly what I feel in regard to this subject. I do not believe 
 it is right for me to shut my mouth tight upon my convictions. 
 My own measure of faith is small. I wish to God it were 
 larger, and I am encouraged to believe that it is slowly strength- 
 ening. I am perfectly aware that I lack peace in the exact 
 proportion that I lack faith ; and so does every man, no matter 
 how much he may boast. Faith is the natural and only healthy 
 attitude of the soul. I would go through anything to win it, 
 but such men as Grimshaw and Bedlow cannot help me. They 
 simply distress and disgust me. Their whole conception uf 
 Christianity is cramped and mean, and their methods of opei 1- 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 147 
 
 tion are unwise and unworthy. I know how Mr. Grimshaw 
 feels : he knows that revivals are in progress in the other 
 churches, and sees that his own congregation is attracted to 
 their meetings. He finds it impossible to keep the tide from 
 retiring from his church, and feels the necessity of doing some- 
 tliing extraordinary to make it one of the centers and receivers 
 of the new influence. He has been at work faithfully, in his 
 way, for years, and desires to see the harvest which he has been 
 trying to rear gathered in. So he sends for Bedlow. Now I 
 know all about these Bedlow revivals. They come when he 
 comes, and they go when he goes. His mustard-seed sprouts 
 at once, and grows into a great tree, which withers arixi dies as 
 soon as he ceases to breathe upon it. I never knew an instance 
 in which a church that had been raised out of the mire by his 
 influence did not sink back into a deeper indifference after he 
 had left it, and that by a process which is just as natural as it 
 is inevitable. An artificial excitement is an artificial exhaus- 
 tion. He breaks up and ruins processes of religious education 
 that otherwise would have gone on to perfection. He has one 
 process for the imbruted, the ignorant, the vicious, the stolid, 
 the sensitive, the delicate, the weak and the strong, the old 
 and the young. I know it is said that the spirit of God is with 
 him, and I hope it is ; but one poor man like him does not 
 monopolize the spirit of God, I trust ; nor does that spirit re- 
 fuse to stay where he is not. No, it is Bedlow — it's all Bedlow ; 
 and the fact that a revival got up under his influence ceases 
 when he retires, proves that it is all Bedlow, and accounts for 
 the miserable show of permanently good results." 
 
 There was great respect for Mr. Bradford in his own house 
 hold, and there was great respect for him in the hearts of the 
 three young people who listened to him as comparative 
 strangers ; and when he stopped, and sank into an arm-chair, 
 looking into the fire, and shading his face with his two hands, 
 no one broke the silence. Aunt Flick had taken to her cornel 
 and her knitting, and Mrs. Bradford sat with her hands on hel 
 lap, as if waiting for something further. 
 
148 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 At length Mr. Bradford looked up with a smile, and regard- 
 ing the silent group before him, said : " upon my word, we are 
 not having a very merry evening." 
 
 " I assure you," responded Henry, " that I have enjoyed 
 every moment of it. I could hear you talk all night." 
 
 " So could I," added Claire. 
 
 I could not say a word. The eyes of the minister still 
 haunted me : the spell of a new influence was upon me. What 
 Mr. Bradford had said about Mr. Bedlow only increased my 
 desire to hear him, and to come within the reach of his power. 
 
 " Well, children," said Mr. Bradford, " for you will let me 
 call you^uch, I know, I have only one thing more to say to 
 you, and that is to stand by your Christian fathers and mothers, 
 and take their faith just as it is. Not one of you is old enough 
 to decide upon the articles of a creed, but almost any faith is 
 good enough to hold up a Christian character. Don't bother 
 yourselves voluntarily with questions. A living vine grows 
 just as well on a rough trellis of simple branches as on the 
 smoothest piece of ornamental work that can be made. If you 
 ever wish to change the trellis when you get old enough to do 
 it, be careful not to ruin the vine, that is all. I am trying to 
 keep my vine alive around a trellis that is gone to wreck. I be- 
 lieve in God and His Son, and I believe that there is one thing 
 which God delights in more than in all else, and that is Chris- 
 tian character. I hold to the first and strive for the last, 
 though I am looked upon as little better than an infidel by all 
 but one." 
 
 A thrill, sympathetically felt by us all, and visible in a blush 
 and eyes suffused, ran through the dear little woman seated at 
 his side, and she looked up into his face with a trustful smile 
 of response. 
 
 After this it was difficult to engage in light conversation. 
 We were questioned in regard to our past experiences and 
 future plans. We looked over volumes of pictures and a cab- 
 inet of curiosities, and Millie amused us by reading, and at an 
 early hour we rose to go home. Millie went to her corner as 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle. 149 
 
 soon as we broke up, giving me a look as she passed me. I 
 took the hint and followed her. 
 
 "Shall you go to hear Mr. Bedlow?" she inquired. 
 
 *' I think I shall," I answered. 
 
 " I knew you would. I should like to go with you, but you 
 know I can't. Will you tell me what he is like, and all about 
 it?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 I pressed her hand and bade her "good-night." 
 
 Mr. Bradford parted with us at the door with pleasant and 
 courteous words, and told Henry that he must regard the house 
 as his home, and assured him that he would always find a wel- 
 come there. I had noticed during the evening a peculiarly affec- 
 tionate familiarity in his tone and bearing toward the young man. 
 I could not but notice that he treated him with more consider- 
 ation than he treated me. I went away feeling that there were 
 confidences between them, and suffered the suspicion to make 
 me uneasy. 
 
 I walked home with Henry and Claire, and we talked over 
 the affairs of the evening together. Both declared their adhe- 
 sion to Mr. Bradford's views, and I, in my assumed pride of 
 independent opinion, dissented. I proposed to see for myself 
 I would listen to Mr. Bedlow' s preaching. I was not afraid of 
 being harmed, and, indeed, I should not dare to stay away 
 from him. 
 
 As I walked to The Mansion, I found my nerves excited in a 
 strange degree. The way was full of shadows. I started at 
 every noise. It was as if the spiritual world were dropped 
 down around me, and I were touched by invisible wings, and 
 moved by mysterious influences. The stars shivered in their 
 high places, the night-wind swept by me as if it were a weird 
 power of evil, and I seemed to be smitten through heart and 
 brain by a nameless 'fear. As I kneeled in my accustomed 
 way at my bed I lost my confidence. I could not recall my 
 usual words or frame new ones. I lingered on my knees like 
 one crushed and benumbed. What it all meant I could not 
 
ICQ ArtJmr Bonnicastle. 
 
 tell. I only knew that feelings and influences which long had 
 been gathering in me were assuming the predominance, and 
 that I was entering upon a new phase of experience. At last 
 I went to bed, and passed anight crowded with strange dreams 
 and dreary passages of unrefreshing slumber. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 I PASS THROUGH A TERRIBLE TEMPEST INTO THE SUNLIGHT. 
 
 I HAD never arrived at an)^ definite comprehension of Mrs. 
 Sanderson^s ideas of religion. Whether she was reHgious in 
 any worthy sense I do not know, even to-day. The respect 
 which she entertained for the clergy was a sentiment which she 
 shared with New Englanders generally. She was rather gener- 
 ous than otherwise in her contributions to their support, yet 
 the most I could make of her views and opinions was that re- 
 ligion and its institutions were favorable to the public order 
 and security, and were, therefore, to be patronized and perma- 
 nently sustained. I never should have thought of going to her 
 for spiritual counsel, yet I had learned in some way that she 
 thought religion was a good thing for a young man, because it 
 would save him from dissipation and from a great many dangers 
 to which young men are exposed. The whole subject seemed 
 to be regarded by her in an economical or prudential aspect. 
 
 I met her on the morning following my visit at the Bradfords, 
 in the breakfast-room. She was cheery and expectant, for she 
 always found me ialkative, and was prepared to hear the full 
 story of the previous evening. That I was obliged to tell her 
 that Henry was there with my sister, embarrassed me much, 
 for, beyond the fact that she dishked Henry intensely, there 
 was the further fact — most offensive to her — that Mr. Bradford 
 was socially patronizing the poor, and bringing me, her protege^ 
 into association with them. Here was where my chain galled 
 me, and made me realize my slavery. I saw the thrill of 
 anger that shot through her face, and recognized the effort she 
 made to control her words. She did not speak at first, and 
 not until she felt perfectly sure of self-control did she say : 
 " Mr. Bradford is very unwise. He inflicts a great wrong upon 
 
152 Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 young people without position or expectations, when he undei 
 takes to raise them to his own social level. How he could d(i 
 such a thing as he did last night is more than I can imagine, 
 unless he wishes either to humiliate you or offend me." 
 
 For that one moment how 1 longed to pour out my love for 
 Henry and Claire, and to speak my sense of justice in the vindi- 
 cation of Mr. Bradford ! It was terrible to sit still avid hold 
 my tongue while the ties of blood and friendship were con- 
 temned, and the motives of my hospitable host were miscon- 
 strued so cruelly. Yet I could not open my lips. I dreaded a 
 colUsion with her as if she had been a serpent, or a furnace of 
 fire, or a hedge of tho)ns. Ay, I was mean enough to explain 
 that I had no expectation of meeting either Henry or my sister 
 there ; and she was adroit enough to reply that she was at least 
 sure of that without my saying so. 
 
 Then I talked fully of Mr. Grimshaw's call, and gave such 
 details of the conversation that occurred as I could without 
 making Mr. Bradford too prominent. 
 
 "So Mr. Bradford doesn't like Mr. Bedlow," she remarked; 
 "but Mr. Bradford is a trifle whimsical in his likes and dislikes. 
 I'm sure I've always heard Mr. Bedlow well spoken of. He 
 has the credit of having done a great deal of good, and if he is 
 coming here, Arthur, I think you cannot do better than to go 
 and hear him for yourself." 
 
 Like a flash of light there passed through my mind the 
 thought that Providence had not only thus opened the way for 
 me, but with an imperative finger had directed me to walk in it. 
 God had made the wrath of woman to praise Him, and the re- 
 mainder He had restrained. Imagining myself to be thus di- 
 rected, I should not have dared to avoid Mr. Bedlow' s preach- 
 ing. The whole interview with Mr. Grimshaw, the fact that, 
 contrary to my wont, I had not found myself in sympathy with 
 my old friend, Mr. Bradford, and the strange and unlooked-for 
 result of my conversation with Mrs. Sanderson, shaped them- 
 selves into a divine mandate to whose authoritymyspij it bowed 
 in ready obedience. 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle. 153 
 
 Mr. Bedlow made his appearance in Mr. Grimshaw's pulpit on 
 the following Sunday ; and a great throng of excited and ex- 
 pectant people, attracted by the notoriety of the preacher, and 
 moved by the influences of the time, were in attendance. The 
 hush of solemnity that pervaded the assembly when these two 
 men entered the desk impressed me deeply. My spirit was 
 thrilled with strange apprehension. My emotional nature was 
 in chaos ; and such crystallizations of opinion, thought, and 
 feeling as had taken place in me during a life-long course of 
 religious nurture and education were broken up. Outside of 
 the church, and entirely lacking that dramatic experience of 
 conversion and regeneration which all around me regarded as 
 the only true beginning of a religious life, my whole soul lay 
 open, quick and quivering, to the influences of the hour, and 
 the words which soon fell upon it. 
 
 The pastor conducted the opening services, and I had never 
 seen him in such a mood. Inspired by the presence of an im- 
 mense congregation and by the spirit of the time, he rose en- 
 tirely out of the mechanisms of his theology and his stereotyped 
 formg of expression, and poured out the burden of his soul in 
 a prayer that melted every heart before him. Deprecating the 
 judgments of the Most High on the coldness and worldliness of 
 the church ; beseeching the Spirit of all Grace to come and 
 work its own great miracles upon those who loved the Master, 
 moving them to penitence, self-sacrifice, humility and prayer ; 
 entreating that Spirit to plant the arrows of conviction in all 
 unconverted souls, and to bring a great multitude of these into 
 the Kingdom — a multitude so great that they should be like 
 doves flocking to their windows — he prayed like a man inspired. 
 His voice trembled and choked with emotion, and the tears 
 coursed down his cheeks unheeded. It seemed as if he could 
 not pause, or be denied. 
 
 Of Mr. Bedlow' s sermon that followed I can give no fitting 
 idea. After a severe denunciation of the coldness of the church 
 that grieved and repelled the Spirit of God, he turned to those 
 without the fold — to the unconverted and impenitent. He told 
 
154 Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 us that God was angry with us every day, that every imagination 
 of the thoughts of our hearts was only evil continually, that we 
 were exposed every moment to death and the perdition of un- 
 godly men, and that it was our duty to turn, then and there, from 
 the error of our ways, and to seek and secure the pardon which a 
 pitying Christ extended to us — a pardon which could be had 
 for the taking. Then he painted with wonderful power the joy 
 and peace that follow the consciousness of sin forgiven, and the 
 glories of that heaven Avhich the Saviour had gone to prepare 
 for those who love Him. 
 
 I went home blind, staggering, almost benumbed — with the 
 words ringing in my ears that it had been my duty before rising 
 from my seat to give myself to the Saviour, and to go out of 
 the door rejoicing in the possession of a hope which should be 
 as an anchor in all the storms of my life ; yet I did not know 
 what the process was. I was sure I did not know. I had not 
 the slightest comprehension of what was required of me, yet 
 the fact did not save me from the impression that I had com- 
 mitted a great sin. I went to my room and tried to pray, and 
 spent half an hour of such helpless and pitiful distress as I 
 cannot describe. Then there arose in me a longing for com- 
 panionship. I could not unbosom myself to Mrs. Sanderson. 
 Henry's calm spirit and sympathetic counsels were beyond my 
 reach. Mr. Bradford was not in the church, and I could only 
 think of my father, and determine that I would see him. I ate 
 but little dinner, made no conversation with Mrs. Sanderson, 
 and, toward night, left the house and sought my father's home. 
 
 I found the house as solemn as death. All the family save 
 Claire had heard Mr. Bedlow, and my mother was profoundly 
 dejected. A cloud rested upon my brothers and sisters. My 
 father apprehended at once the nature of my errand, and, 
 by what seemed to be a mutual impulse and understanding, 
 we passed into an unoccupied room and closed the door. The 
 moment I found myself alone with him I threw my arms around 
 his neck, and bursting into an uncontrollable fit of weeping, 
 exclaimed : "Oh, father ! father ! what shall I do ? " 
 
Arthur Bon^ticastle, 155 
 
 For years I had not come to him with a trouble. For years 
 I had not reposed in him a single heart-confidence, and foi the 
 first time in his life he put both his arms affectionately around 
 me and embraced me. Minutes passed while we stood thus. 
 I could not see his face, for my own was bowed upon his shoul- 
 der, but I could feel his heart-beats, and the convulsions of 
 emotion which shook him in every fiber. At last he gently put 
 me off, led me to a seat, and sat down beside me. He took 
 my hand, but he could not speak. 
 
 " Oh, father ! what shall I do ? " I exclaimed again. 
 
 " Go to God, my boy, and repeat the same words to him with 
 the same earnestness." 
 
 " But he is angry with me," I said, " and you are not. You 
 pity me and love me. I am your child. You cannot help be- 
 ing sorry for me." 
 
 " You are his child too, my boy, by relations a thousand 
 times tenderer and more significant than those which make you 
 mine. He loves you and pities you more than I can." 
 
 "But I don't know how to give myself to him," I said. 
 
 " I have had the impression and the hope," my father re- 
 sponded, " that you had already given yourself to him." 
 
 " Oh, not in this way at all," I said. 
 
 My father had his own convictions, but he was almost mor- 
 bidly conscientious in all his dealings with the souls around 
 him. Fearful of meddling with that which the Gracious Spirit 
 had in charge and under influence, and modest in the assertion 
 of views which might possibly weaken the hold of conviction 
 upon me ; feeling, too, that he did not know me well enough 
 to direct me, and fearful that he might arrest a process which, 
 perfected, might redeem me, he simply said : " I am not wise ; 
 let us pray together, tliat we may be led aright." 
 
 Then he kneeled and prayed for me. Ah ! how the blessed 
 words of that prayer have Hngered in my memory ! Though 
 not immediately fruitful in my experience, they came to me 
 long years after, loaded with the balm of healing. " Oh, 
 Father in Heaven I " he said, " this is our boy, — thy child and 
 
156 Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 mine. Thou lovest and pitiest him more than I can. Help 
 him to go to .Thee as he has come to me, and to say in perfect 
 submission, ' Oh, Father, what shall I do ! ' " 
 
 I went home at last somewhat calmed, because I had had 
 sympathy, and, for a few moments, had leaned upon another 
 nature and rested. I ate little, and, as soon as the hour ar- 
 rived, departed to attend the evening service, previously having 
 asked old Jenks to attend the meeting and walk home with 
 me, for I was afraid to return alone. 
 
 A strange and gloomy change had come over the sky ; and 
 the weather, which had been extremely cold for a week, had 
 grown warm. The snow under my feet was soft and yielding, 
 and already Httle rivulets were coiu-sing along the ruts worn by 
 the sleighs. The nerves which had been braced by the tonic 
 of the cold, clear air were relaxed, and with the uncertain foot- 
 ing of the streets I went staggering to the church. 
 
 In the endeavor now to analyze my feelings I find it impos- 
 sible to believe that I was convinced that my life had been one 
 of bold and intentional sin. A considerable part of my pain, 
 I know, arose from the fact that I could not realize my own 
 sinfulness as it had been represented to me. I despaired be- 
 cause I could not despair. I was distressed because I could 
 not be sufficiently distressed. There was one sin, however, of 
 which I had a terrified consciousness, viz., that of rejecting 
 the offer of mercy which had been made to me in the morning, 
 and of so rejecting it as to be in danger of forever grieving 
 away the Spirit of God which I believed was at work upon my 
 heart. This was something definite and dreadful, though I felt 
 perfectly ignorant of the exact thing required of me and impo- 
 tent to perform it. If I could have known the precise nature 
 of the surrender demanded of me, and could have compre- 
 hended the effort I was called upon to make, I believe I should 
 have been ready for both ; but in truth I had been so mystified 
 by the preacher, so puzzled by his representation of the mira- 
 cle of conversion, which he made to appear to be dependent 
 on God's sovereign grace entirely, and yet so entirely depend 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 157 
 
 ent on me that the whole guilt of remaining unconverted would 
 rest with me ; I was so expectant of some mighty, overwhelm- 
 ing influence that would bear me to a point where I could see 
 through the darkness and the discord — an influence which did 
 not come — that I was paralyzed and helpless. 
 
 I was early in the church, and saw the solemn groups as 
 they entered and gradually filled the pews. The preachers, 
 too, were early in the desk. Mr. Bedlow sat wliere he could 
 see me and read my face. I knew that his searching, magnetic 
 eyes were upon me, and in the exalted condition of my sensi- 
 bilities I felt them. In the great hush that followed the en- 
 trance of the crowd and preceded the beginning of the exer- 
 cises I saw him slowly rise and walk down the pulpit stairs. I 
 had never known anything of his methods, and was entirely 
 unprepared for what followed. Reaching the aisle, he walked 
 directly to where I sat, and raising his finger, pointed it at me 
 and said : " Young man, are you a Christian ?" 
 
 " I suppose not,"* I answered. 
 
 " Do you ever expect to become one ? " 
 
 " I do," I replied. 
 
 At this he left me, and went to one and another in the con- 
 gregation, putting his question and making some remark. Sen- 
 sitive men and women hung their heads, and tried to evade his 
 inquiries by refusing to look at him. 
 
 At length he went back to his desk, and said that the church 
 could do no better than to hold for a few minutes a season of 
 pra)'^er, preparatory to the services of the evening ; and then 
 he added : " Will some brother pray for a young man who 
 expects to become a Christian, and pray that that expectation 
 may be taken away from him." 
 
 Thereupon a young man, full of zeal, kneeled before the 
 congregation and poured out his heart for me, and prayed as 
 he had been asked to pray : that my expectation to become a 
 Christian might be taken away from me. He was, however, 
 considerate and kind enough so far to modify the petition as to 
 Beg that I might lose my expectation in the immediate realiza- 
 
1 58 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 tion of a Christian experience — that my hope to become a 
 Christian might be swallowed up in my hope of a Christian's 
 reward. 
 
 This kindness of the young man, however, to whose zeal and 
 good-will I give hearty honor, could not efface the sore sense 
 of wrong I had suffered at the hand of Mr. Bedlow. Why he 
 should have singled me out in the throng for such an awful 
 infliction I did not know, and why he should have asked any- 
 body to pray that all expectation of becoming a Christian 
 should be taken away from me I could not imagine. I felt 
 that I was misunderstood and outraged, at first, and as my 
 anger died away, or was quenched by other emotions, I found 
 that I was still more deeply puzzled than before. Was I not 
 carefully and prayerfully seeking ? And was not this expecta- 
 tion the one thing which made my life endurable ? Would I 
 not give all the world to find my feet upon the sure foundation ? 
 Had I not in my heart of hearts determined to find what there 
 was to be found if I could, or die ? 
 
 No : Mr. Bedlow, meaning well no doubt, and desiring to 
 lead me nearer to spiritual rest, had thrust me into deeper and 
 wilder darkness ; and in that darkness, haunted by forms of tor- 
 ment and terror, I sat through one of the most impressive ser- 
 mons and exhortations I had ever heard. I went out of the 
 church at last as utterly hopel-ess and wretched as I could be. 
 There was a God of wrath above me, because there was the 
 guilt of unfulfilled duty gnawing at my conscience. It seemed 
 as if the great tragedy of the universe were being performed in 
 my soul. Sun, moon, stars, the kingdoms and glory of the 
 world — what were all these, either in themselves or to me, com- 
 pared with the interests of a soul on which rested the burden of 
 a decision for its own heaven or hell ? 
 
 As I emerged into the open air, I met Jenks at the door, 
 waiting for me, and as I lifted my hot face I felt the cold rain 
 falling upon it. Pitchy darkness, unrelieved save by the dim 
 lights around the town and the blotched and rapidly melting 
 snow, had settled upon the world. I clutched the old servant's 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 159 
 
 ann, and struck off in silence towards home. We had hardly 
 walked the distance of a block before there came a flash of 
 blinding lightning, and we were in the midst of that impressive 
 anomaly, a January thunder-storm. It was strange how har- 
 moniously this storm supplemented the influences of the ser- 
 vices at the church, from which I had just retired. To me it 
 was the crowning terror of the night. I had no question that 
 it was directed by the same unseen power which had been 
 struggling with me all day, and that it was expressive of His in- 
 finite anger. As we hurried along, unprotected in the pouring 
 rain, flash after flash illuminated the darkness, and peal after 
 peal of thunder hurtled over the city, rolled along the heavens, 
 and echoed among the distant hills. I walked in constant 
 fear of being struck dead, and of passing to the judgment un- 
 reconciled and unredeemed. I felt that my soul was deahng 
 directly with the great God, and under the play of his awful en- 
 ginery of destruction I realized my helplessness. I could only 
 pray to him, with gasps of agony, and in whispers : " Oh, do 
 not crush me ! Spare me, and I will do anything ! Save my 
 life, and it shall be thine ! " ' 
 
 When I arrived at the house I did not dare to go in, for then 
 I should be left alone. Without a word I led Jenks to the 
 stable, and, dripping with the rain, we passed in. 
 
 " Oh, Jenks," I said, " I must pray, and you must stay with 
 me. I cannot be left alone." 
 
 I knelt upon the stable-floor, and the old man, touched with 
 sympathy, and awed by the passion which possessed me, knelt 
 at my side. Oh, what pledges and promises I gave in that 
 prayer, if God would spare my life ! How wildly I asked for 
 pardon, and how earnestly did I beseech the Spirit of all Grace 
 to stay with me, and never to be grieved away, until his work 
 was perfected in n e ! 
 
 The poor old man, with his childish mind, could not under 
 stand my abandonment to grief and terror ; but while I knelt 
 I felt his trembhng arm steal around me, and knew that he was 
 sobbing. His heart was deeply moved by pity, but the case 
 
i6o Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 was beyond his comprehension. He could say nothing, but 
 the s}^mpathy was very grateful to me. 
 
 And all this time there was another arm around me, whose 
 touch I was too benumbed to feel ; there was another heart 
 beside me, tender with sympathy, whose beatings I was too 
 much agitated to apprehend ; there was a voice calling to the 
 tempest within me, ''Peace ! be still!" but I could not hear it. 
 Oh, infinite Father ! Oh, loving and pitying Christ ! Why 
 could I not have seen thee, as thou didst look down upon and 
 pity thy terror-stricken child ? Why could I not have seen thy 
 arms extended toward me, and thy eyes beaming with ineffable 
 love, calling me to thy forgiving embrace? How could I have 
 done thee the dishonor to suppose that the simple old servant 
 kneeling at my side was tenderer and more pitiful than thou ? 
 
 We both grew chilly at last, and passed quietly into the house. 
 Mrs. Sanderson had retired, but had left a bright fire upon the 
 hearth, at which both of us warmed and dried ourselves. The 
 storm, meantime, had died away, though the lightning still 
 flapped its red wings against the windows, and the dull rever- 
 berations of the thunder came to me from the distance. . With 
 the rehef from what seemed to be the danger of imminent death, 
 I had the strength to mount to my room alone, and, after an- 
 other prayer which failed to lift my burden, I consigned myself 
 to my bed. The one thought that possessed me as I lay down 
 was that I might never wake if I should go to sleep. My ner- 
 vous exhaustion was such that when sinking into sleep I started 
 many times from my pillow, tossing the clothes from me, and 
 gasping as if I had been sinking into an abyss. Sleep came at 
 last, however, and I awoke on the morrow, conscious that I 
 had rested, and rejoicing at least in the fact that my day of pro- 
 bation was not yet past. My heart kindled for a moment as I 
 looked from my window into the face of the glorious sun, and 
 the deep blue heaven, but sank within me when I remembered 
 my promises, and felt that the struggle of the previous day was 
 to be renewed. 
 
 This struggle I do not propose to dwell upon further in ex 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, i6i 
 
 tended detail. If the record of it thus far is as painful to read 
 as it is to write, the reader will have tired of it already. It 
 lasted for weeks, and I never rationally saw my way out of that 
 blindness. There were literally hundreds in the city who pro- 
 fessed to have found a great and superlatively joyous peace, 
 but I did not find it, nor did it come to me in any way by 
 which I dreamed it might come. 
 
 The vital point with me was to find some influence so power- 
 ful that I could not resist it. I felt myself tossing upon a 
 dangerous sea, just outside the harbor, between which and me 
 there stretched an impassable bar. So, wretched and worn 
 with anxious waiting, I looked for the coming in of some 
 mighty wave which would lift my sinking bark over the forbid- 
 ding obstacle, into the calm waters that mirrored upon their 
 banks the domes and dwelhngs of the city of the Great King. 
 
 Sometimes I tired of Mr. BedJow, and went to other churches, 
 longing always to hear some sermon or find some influence 
 that would do for me that which I could not do for myself I 
 visited my father many times, but he could not help me, beyond 
 what he had aheady done. One of the causes of my perplex- 
 ity was the fact that Henry attended the prayer-meetings, and 
 publicly participated in the exercises. I heard, too, that, in a 
 quiet way, he w^: very influential in his school, and that many 
 of his pupils had begun a religious life. Why was he different 
 from myself ? Why was it necessary that I should go through this 
 experience of fear and torment, while he escaped it altogether ? 
 All our previous experience had been nearly identical. For 
 years we had been subjected to the same influences, had 
 struggled for the same self-mastery, had kneeled at the same 
 bed in daily devotion ; yet here he was, busy in Christian ser- 
 vice, steadily rejoicing in Christian hope, into which he had 
 grown through processes as natural as those by which the rose- 
 tree rises to the grace of inflorescence. I see it all now, but 
 then it not only perplexed me, but filled me with weak com- 
 plaining at my harder lot. 
 
 During these eventful weeks I often met Millie Bradford on 
 
i62 Arthtir Bonnicastle, 
 
 her way to and from school. I have no doubt that, from her 
 window, she had made herself familiar with my habits of going 
 and coming, and had timed her own so as to fall in with me. 
 
 In communities not familiar with the character and history of 
 a New England revival, it would be impossible to conceive of 
 the universality of the influence which they exert during the 
 time of their highest activity. Multitudes of men neglect their 
 business. Meetings are held during every evening of the 
 week, and sometimes during all the days of the week. Chil- 
 dren, gathered in their own little chambers, hold prayer- 
 meetings. Religion is the all-absorbing topic, with old and 
 young. 
 
 Millie was like the rest of us ; and, forbidden to hear Mr. 
 Bedlow preach, she had determined to win her experience at 
 home. It touches me now even to tears to remember how she 
 used to meet me in the street, and ask me how I was getting 
 along, how I liked Mr. Bedlow, and whether he had helped me. 
 She told me that she and her mother were holding little prayer- 
 meetings together, but that Aunt Flick was away pretty much 
 all the time. She was seeking to become a Christian, and at 
 last she told me that she thought she had become one. I was 
 rational enough to see that it was not necessary for an innocent 
 child like her to share my graver experiences. Indeed, I 
 listened eagerly to her expressions of simple faith and trust, and 
 to her recital of the purposes of life to which she had com- 
 mitted herself. One revelation which she made in confidence, 
 but which I am sure was uttered because she wanted me to 
 think well of her father, interested me much. She said her 
 father prayed very much alone, though he did not attend the 
 meetings. The thought of my old friend toiling in secret over 
 the problem which absorbed us all was very impressive. 
 
 Thus weeks passed away, and the tide which rose to its flood 
 began to ebb. I could see that the meetings grew less fre- 
 quent, and that the old habits of business and pleasure were 
 reasserting themselves. Conversions were rarer, and the 
 blazing fervor of action and devotion cooled. As I realized 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 163 
 
 this, and, in realizing it, found that I was just as far from the 
 point at which I had aimed as I was at the beginning, a strange, 
 desperate despair seized me. I could hope for no influences in 
 the future more powerful than those to which I had been sub- 
 jected. The stimulus to resolution and endeavor was nearly- 
 expended. Yet I had many times vowed to the Most High 
 that before that season had passed away I would fmd Him, and, 
 with him, peace, if He and it were to be found. What was I 
 to do ? 
 
 At last there came a day of in-gathering. The harvest was to 
 be garnered. A great number of men, women, and youth were 
 to be received into the church. I went early, and took a seat 
 in the gallery, where I could see the throng as they presented 
 themselves in the aisles to make their profession of faith and 
 unite in their covenant. When called upon they took their 
 places, coming forward from all parts of the audience in front of 
 the Communion table. Among them were both Henry and 
 Claire. At sight of them I grew sick. Passage after passage 
 of Scripture that seemed applicable to my condition, crowded 
 into my mind. They came from the North and the South and 
 the East and the West, and sat down in the Kingdom of God, 
 and I, a child of the Kingdom, baptized into the name of the 
 Ineffable, was cast out. The harvest was past, the summer 
 was ended, and my soul was not saved ! I witnessed the cere- 
 monies with feelings mingled of despair, bitterness, and despe- 
 ration. On the faces of these converts, thus coming into the 
 fold, there was impressed the seal of a great and solemn joy. 
 Within my bosom there burned the feeling that I had honestly 
 tried to do my duty, and that my endeavors had been spurnt;d. 
 In a moment, to which I had been led by processes whose end 
 I could not see, my will gave way, and I said, " I will try no 
 longer. This is the end." Every resolution and purpose within 
 me was shivered by the fall. 
 
 To what depth of perdition I might be hurled — under what 
 judgment I might be crushed — I could not tell, and hardly cared 
 to imagine. Quite to my amazement, I found myself at perfect 
 
164 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 peace. What did it mean ? Not only was the burden gone, 
 but there thrilled through my soul a quick, strong joy. My 
 spirit was Hke a broad sea, alive all over with sunlit ripples, 
 with one broad track of glory that stretched across into the un- 
 fathomable heaven ! I felt the smile of God upon me. I felt 
 the love of God within me. Was I insane ? Had satan ap- 
 peared to me as an angel of light and deceived me ? Was this 
 conversion ? I was so much in doubt in regard to the real nat-. 
 ure of this experience, that when I left the house I spoke to 
 no one of it. Emerging into the open air, I found myself in a 
 new world. I walked the streets as lightly as if wings had been 
 upon my shoulders, lifting me from point to point through all 
 the passage homeward. Ah, how blue the heavens were, and 
 how broad and beautiful the world ! What a blessed thing it 
 was to live ! How sweet were the faces not only of friends, 
 but even of those whom I did not know ! How gladly would I 
 have embraced every one of them ! It was as if I had been un- 
 clothed of my mortality, and clothed upon with the immortal. 
 I was sure that heaven could hold no joy superior to that. 
 
 When passing Mr. Bradford's, I saw MilHe at the window. 
 She beckoned to me, and I went to her door. " How is it 
 now ? " she said. 
 
 " I don't know, Millie," I replied, " but I think it is all right. 
 I never felt before as I do now." 
 
 " Oh, I was getting so tired ! " said she. " I've been pray- 
 ing for you for days, and days, and days ! and hoping and hop- 
 ing you'd get through." 
 
 I could only thank her, and press her little hand ; and then I 
 hurried to my home, mounted to my room, shut and locked the 
 door, and sat down to think. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 I JOIN A CHURCH THAT LEAVES OUT MR. BRADFORD AND 
 MILLIE. 
 
 How shUl I write the history of the few weeks that followed 
 my new experience ? I had risen, as on wings, from the depths 
 of despair to the heights of hope. I had emerged from a valley 
 of shadows, haunted by ten thousand forms of terror and shapes 
 of anguish, and sat down upon the sunny hills of peace. The 
 world, which had become either mocking or meaningless to me, 
 was illuminated with loving expression in every feature. Far 
 above the deep blue of the winter skies my imagination caught 
 the sheen of winged forms and the far echoes of happy angel- 
 voices. I lifted my face to the sun, and, shutting my eyes, felt 
 the smile of God upon me. Every wind that blew brought its 
 ministry of blessing. Every cloud that swept the sky bore its 
 message of good-will from heaven. I loved life, I loved the 
 world, I loved every living thing I saw, and, more than all, I 
 loved the Great Father who had bestowed upon me such gra- 
 cious gifts of hope and healing. 
 
 Mrs. Sanderson, though she had said little, and had received 
 no confidence from me, had been troubled for many weeks. 
 She had seen in my haggard eyes and weary look the evidences 
 of a great trial and struggle ; but without the power to enter 
 into it, or to help me out of it, she had never done more than 
 to ask me if, for my health's sake, it would not be better for 
 me to attend fewer meetings and take more sleep. The weeks 
 that followed were only more satisfactory to her from the con- 
 viction that I was happier, for I gave myself with hearty zeal 
 to the work which I felt had been imposed upon me. 
 
 My father was happy in iry new happiness, never doubting 
 
1 66 Arthtir Bonnicastle. 
 
 that it had come to me through the Grace of Heaven. I was 
 assured on every hand that I had passed through that change 
 of regeneration which was the true basis in me, and in many at 
 least, of the new Hfe. Meeting Mr. Bradford, I spoke freely to 
 him of my change, and he told me with a sigh that he was glad 
 I was at peace. He evidently did not say all that he felt, but 
 he said nothing to discourage me. 
 
 It soon became known to Mr. Grimshaw and the members 
 of his church that I had become a convert, and I found abun- 
 dant opportunities at once to exercise such gifts as I possessed 
 to induce others to drink at the fountain from which I had 
 drawn such draughts of peace and pleasure, I prayed in pub- 
 lic ; I exhorted ; I went from one to another of my own age 
 with personal persuasions. Nay, I was alluded to and held up, 
 in public and private, as one of the most notable of the trophies 
 which had been won in the great struggle with the powers of 
 darkness through which the church had passed. 
 
 I look back now upon the public life that I lived in those 
 youthful days with wonder. Audiences that I then faced and 
 addressed without embarrassment would now send fever into 
 my lips and tongue, or strike me dumb. I rejoiced then in a 
 prominence from which I should now shrink with a sensitiveness 
 of pain quite insupportable. I was the youthful marvel of the 
 town; and people flocked again to the church where I was to 
 be seen and heard as if a new Bedlow had come down to them 
 from the skies. 
 
 This publicity did not please Mrs. Sanderson, but she saw 
 farther, alas ! than I did, and knew that such exaltation could 
 not be perpetual. Could I have had a wise counsellor then, 
 it would have saved me years of wandering and years of sorrow. 
 The tendency of this public work was to make me vain, and 
 induce a love of the sound of my own voice. Without experi- 
 ence, flattered by attention, stimulated by the assurance that I 
 was doing a great deal of good, and urged on by my own de- 
 light in action, I fairly took the bit in my teeth, and ran such a 
 race as left me at last utterly exhausted. I went from meeting 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 167 
 
 to meeting all over the city. There was hardly a church in 
 which my voice was not heard. Everywhere I was thanked 
 and congratulated. I did not realize then as I do now that I 
 was moved by a thirst for praise, and that motives most human 
 mingled strangely and strongly with the divine in urging me 
 forward. O Heaven ! to think that I, a poor child in life and 
 experience, should have labored in Thy name to win a crown 
 to my personal vanity ! 
 
 I shudder now at the cruelty practiced upon the young nearly 
 everywhere, in bringing them to the front, and exposing them 
 to such temptations as those which then had the power to 
 poison all my motives, to brush away from my spirit the bloom 
 of youthful modesty, and to expose me to a process which was 
 certain to ultimate in spiritual torpor and doubt. I always 
 tremble and sicken when I behold a child or youth delighting 
 in the exercises of a public exhibition ; and when I see, inside 
 or outside of church walls, children bred to boldness through 
 the public show of themselves and their accomplishments, and 
 realize what part of their nature is stimulated to predominance 
 by the process, and what graces are extinguished by it, I do 
 not wonder at the lack of reverence in American character, 
 and that exhaustion of sensibility which makes our churches so 
 faint and fitful in feeling. 
 
 Having given up all my earlier ideas of religion, and learned 
 to regard them as wholly inadequate and unworthy, I could be 
 in my new work little more than a parrot. I had passed 
 through but a single phase of what I had learned to regard as a 
 genuine religious experience, and my counsels were but the 
 repetitions of what I had heard. If some wise man or woman 
 could have told me of myself — of the proprieties that belong to 
 the position of a neophyte — of the dangers of public labor, and of 
 being publicly petted and exliibited, how well for me would it have 
 been ! But I had no such counsellor. On the contrary, I was 
 seized upon at once as a fresh instrumentality for carrying on a 
 work already waning. I am ashamed to think of the immod- 
 esty of some of my personal approaches to my elders whom I 
 
1 68 Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 regarded as needing my ministry, and humiliated by the memoiy 
 of the considerate forbearance with which I was treated for 
 rehgion's and my motive's sake. 
 
 It was in labors and experiences like these that a few weeks 
 passed away. Another in-gathering of the great spiritual har- 
 vest approached. I, among others, was to make a public pro- 
 fession of my faith, and become a member of the church. Mr. 
 Grimshaw put upon me the task of persuading the young of my 
 own age to join me in this solemn self-dedication, and I had 
 great success in my mission. 
 
 Among the considerable number whom I had selected as 
 proper subjects of my counsels and persuasions, was my in- 
 teresting friend Millie Bradford : but I knew she was quite too 
 young to decide so momentous a question, and that her father 
 would not permit her to decide it for herself. To tell the 
 truth, I did not like to meet Mr. Bradford with my proposition, 
 for I anticipated objections, and did not feel qualified to argue 
 with him. I consulted with Mr. Grimshaw in regard to the 
 case, and it was finally decided that we should visit Mr. Brad- 
 ford together. 
 
 Accordingly we called upon him, and spent an evening in 
 conversation, which, although it won no new members to my 
 group, left a deep impression upon my mind and memory. 
 
 The conversation was begun by Mr. Grimshaw, who said : 
 " We have called, Mr. Bradford, with the purpose of conferring 
 with you in regard to )'Our daughter Millie. I know but little 
 of her, but I learn through Arthur that she is a sharer in the 
 blessings of our great revival. Have you any objection to her 
 union with our church, provided she shall choose to become a 
 member ? " 
 
 " Have you no invitation for any one else in the family ? " 
 inquired Mr. Bradford, with a smile. 
 
 "I was not aware that there were other converts in the 
 family," responded the minister. 
 
 " I speak it with great humility, Mr. Grimshaw," said Mr. 
 Bradford, " but I count myself a disciple. I am a learner at the 
 
Arthicr Bonnicastle. 169 
 
 feet of your Master and mine ; and I have been a learner for 
 years. I do not regard myself as having attained, or fully ap- 
 prehended, but I follow on, and I should like society on the 
 way, as well as any one." 
 
 " But your views do not accord with those professed by our 
 church," said Mr. Grimshaw. 
 
 " I do not know what business the church may legitimately 
 have with my private opinions. I learn from the New Testa- 
 ment that he who repents and believes on the Lord Jesus Christ 
 shall be saved. A man who does this belongs at least to the 
 invisible church, and I do not recognize the right of a body of 
 men calling themselves a church to shut out from their com- 
 munion any man or woman who belongs to the church invisible, 
 or any one whom the Master counts among his disciples." 
 
 " But we must have some standard of faith and belief," said 
 Mr. Grimshaw. 
 
 " I suppose you must," responded Mr. Bradford, " but why 
 should you construct it of non-essential materials ? Why 
 should you build a high fence around your church, and insist 
 that every man shall climb every rail, when the first is all that 
 the Master asks him to climb. I recognize repentance and 
 trust as the basis of a Christian character and life, and I regard 
 character as the one grand result at which the Author of Chris- 
 tianity aimed. He desired to make good men out of bad men ; 
 and repentance and trust form the basis of the process. When 
 you go beyond this, with your dogmas and your creeds, you in- 
 fringe upon the liberty of those whom repentance and trust 
 have made free. Personally, I feel that I am suffering a great 
 wrong, inflicted in ignorance and with good motives no doubt, 
 but still a wrong, in that I am shut out from Christian sympathy 
 and fellowship. I will not profess to believe any more than I 
 do believe. It is simply impossible for me, a rational, honest, 
 mature man, to accept that which you prescribe for me. I am 
 perfectly willing that you should believe what seems to you to 
 be true, touching all these points of doctrine. I only insist 
 that you shall be a Christian in heart and life — an honest disci 
 
170 Arthtir Bonnzcastle, 
 
 pie. If you cannot give me the same liberty, under the same 
 conditions, we can never get any nearer together." 
 
 " You seem to forget," responded the minister, " that our 
 creed is the product of whole ages of Christian wisdom — that 
 it has been framed by men of wide and profound experience, 
 who have learned by that experience what is essential to the 
 stability and purity of the church." 
 
 "And you seem to forget," said Mr. Bradford, "that the 
 making and defense of creeds have rent the seamless garment 
 of the Lord into ten thousand fragments — that they have been 
 the instruments for the destruction of the unity of the church in 
 fact and feeling — that they have not only been the subjects of 
 controversies that have disgraced the church before the world, 
 and embittered the relations of large bodies of Christians, but 
 have instigated the crudest persecutions and the most out- 
 rageous murders and martyrdoms. You are not so bigoted as 
 to deny that there are Christians among all the sects ; and you 
 are liberal enough to give to the different sects the liberty of 
 faith which they claim. The world is growing better in this 
 thing, and is not so intolerant as it was. Now, why will you 
 not give me the same liberty, as a man, that you give to churches 
 founded on creeds at variance with yours? You invite the 
 teachers of other sects into your pulpit. You invite their peo- 
 ple to your communion table, while you shut me away by con- 
 ditions that are just as impossible to me as they would be to 
 them." 
 
 I could see that Mr, Grimshaw was not only overwhelmed in 
 argument but deeply moved in feeling. He grasped Mr. Brad- 
 ford's hand, and said: "My dear sir, it would give me one of 
 the greatest pleasures of my life to receive you into our com- 
 munion, for I believe in your sincerity and in your character, 
 but I could not if I would." 
 
 " I know it," responded Mr. Bradford : " your sympathies 
 go beyond your creed, and your most earnest convictions stop 
 short of it. Your hands are tied, and your tongue must be 
 dumb. You and your church will go on in the old way. The 
 
Arthitr Bonnicastle, 171 
 
 young who do not think, and the mature who will not try to 
 think, or do not dare to try, will accept what you prescribe for 
 them. Women, more trustful and religious than men, will con- 
 stitute the majority of your members. In the mean time, the 
 thinking men — the strong, influential, practical men of society 
 — the men of culture, enterprise, and executive power — will re- 
 main outside of the church — shut out by a creed which their 
 reason refuses to accept." 
 
 " I am afraid the creed is not altogether to blame for their 
 exclusion," said the minister. " * Not many wise ' — you re- 
 member the quotation." 
 
 " When Christianity was an apostasy from a church to which 
 all the wise and mighty were attached," replied Mr. Bradford, 
 " your quotation was doubtless true as a statement of fact, but 
 we belong to another nation and age. I hold myself a type 
 and representative of a large class, who cannot enter the church 
 without self stultification and a sacrifice of that liberty of 
 thought and opinion which is their birthright. We cannot 
 afford to do without you, and you cannot afford to do without 
 us. It is your business to make a home for us, for we are all 
 passing on to that stage and realm of being where opinions will 
 be of small account, and where character will decide everything." 
 
 " We have wandered ver>' far from your daughter, Mr. Brad- 
 ford, about whom we came to talk," said Mr. Grimshaw. 
 
 An expression of pain passed over Mr. Bradford's face. 
 Then he rose, and walking to a door which closed another 
 room, opened it, and called his daughter. Millie entered the 
 room with a question in her eyes, and shaking hands with us, 
 went to her father's side, where she stood with his arm around 
 her during the remainder of the interview. 
 
 " Millie," said her father, " Mr. Grimshaw and Arthur have 
 come here to invite you to join the church. Would you like 
 to do so ? " 
 
 " If you and mamma think I ought to," she replied. 
 
 At this moment, Mrs. Bradford, conjecturing, I suppose, the 
 object of our visit, entered the room, and giving us a most 
 
172 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 friendly greeting, took a seat near her daughter. Mr. Bradford 
 repeated our proposal to her, and Millie's reply to it. 
 
 " I should regard it as one of the sweetest 'satisfactions of my 
 life to have my child with me in church communion," she said, 
 looking down to hide the tears that she felt filling her eyes. 
 
 " And I sympathize with you entirely in your feeling," added 
 Mr. Bradford. 
 
 " Then," said Mr. Grimshaw, " nothing will stand in the way, 
 provided, upon examination, your daughter gives evidence of 
 an intelligent entrance upon a Christian experience." 
 
 " Which means, I suppose," said Mr. Bradford, " that if she 
 will accept your whole creed and scheme on trust, as well as 
 give evidence of having determined upon a Christian life, you 
 will endow her with the privileges of membership." 
 
 *'We have but one condition for all, as you know," re- 
 sponded the minister. 
 
 " I suppose so ; and it is my duty to tell you that it is a very 
 cruel thing ; for her intelligence reaches no further than the one 
 essential thing which makes her a Christian child, viz., personal 
 loyalty to the Master. Beyond this she knows absolutely 
 nothing, and for her it is enough. To insist that she shall re- 
 ceive a whole body of divinity about which she is utterly 
 ignorant, and which, at present, has no relation to her 
 Christian character and life, is to do that which you have no 
 right to do. When Jesus took little children in his arms and 
 blessed them, and declared that of such was the kingdom of 
 heaven, he did not impose any conditions upon them. It was 
 sufficient for him that they were in his arms, and had trust and 
 confidence enough to nestle and be contented and happy 
 there. You take the responsibility of going beyond him, and 
 of making conditions which cannot be complied with without a 
 surrender of all future liberty of thought and opinion. You 
 have members in your church to-day who committed themselves 
 to opinions when young, or under excitement, that they now 
 hold most loosely, or with questionings that are a constant tor- 
 ture to them. I know it, for they have told me so ; and I can- 
 
Arthur Boftnzcastle, 173 
 
 not consent that my child shall be denied the free and 
 unrestrained formation of opinions when her maturer mind 
 becomes able to form them. The reason that has no range 
 but the bounds of a creed, constructed by human hands, will 
 become dwarfed as certainly as the wings of a bird are weak- 
 ened by the wires of a cage." 
 
 Mr. Grimshaw listened attentively to the speaker, and then 
 said : "I fear that your ideas would form a very poor basis for 
 a church. We should be deprived of any principle or power 
 of cohesion, without unity of belief. Such liberty as you desire, 
 or seem to think desirable, would soon degenerate into license. 
 The experience of the church has proved it, and the united 
 wisdom of the church has declared it." 
 
 '' My ideas of the true basis of the church are very simple," 
 said Mr. Bradford. "I would make it an organization of 
 Christian disciples — of Christian learners ; you would make it 
 a conservatory of those who have arrived at the last conclu- 
 sions in dogmatic theology. I would make it a society of 
 those who have accepted the Master, and pledged their hearts 
 and lives to him, with everything to learn and the liberty to 
 learn it by such means as they can command ; you would frame 
 it with limits to all progress. You would make it a school 
 where all are professors ; I would make it a school where all 
 are learners. In short, you would make a sectarian church, 
 and I would make a Christian church ; and I cannot but be- 
 lieve that there is such a church awaiting us in the future — a 
 church which will receive both me and my daughter, to give 
 me the rest and fellowship I long for, and her the nurture, 
 restraint and support which she will need among the world's 
 great temptations." 
 
 I do not know what the minister thought of all this, for he 
 said but little. He had been accustomed to these discussions 
 with Mr. Bradford, and either deemed them unfruitful of good 
 or found it difficult to maintain his position. He felt sure of 
 me, and did not regard it of consequence to talk on my 
 account. As Mr. Bradford closed, he sighed and said ; 
 
174 Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 "Well, Millie, I suppose you will do as your father wishes, 
 and stay away from us." 
 
 Millie looked at her father and then at her mother, with "a 
 quick, earnest glance of inquiry. 
 
 Mrs. Bradford said : "Mr, Bradford and I never differ on 
 anything relating to our child. So far as our creed is con- 
 cerned I am entirely content with it ; but I have no wish to 
 commit my child to it, thougSl I freely instruct her in it." 
 
 " Very well," said the minister, " perhaps it will be better to 
 leave her with you for the present." 
 
 Then he advanced to Mr. Bradford for a private conference 
 upon some other subject, apparently, and Millie started quickly 
 and walked to the window where I joined her. 
 
 "Are n't you sorry? " I inquired. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I thought you would be," I said. 
 
 " No, it is all right. Father knows. Don't you think he's 
 splendid ? " 
 
 " I suppose he thinks he is right," I responded. 
 
 " Why, I know he's right," she said warmly. "He's always 
 right ; and isn't it sweet of him to let me hear him talk about 
 everything ? " 
 
 Here was the personal loyalty again. Beyond this the girl 
 could not go. She could trust her father and her Master. 
 She could obey both and love both, and it was all of religion 
 that she was capable of. I supposed that the minister must 
 know better than any of us, but I had no doubt of Millie's fit- 
 ness for the church, and wondered why it was that a baptized 
 child should be shut out of the fold by a creed she was utterly 
 incapable of comprehending. I confess, too, that I sympathized 
 with Mr. Bradford's view of the church as it related to himself, 
 yet I had given my trust to the minister, and it was only my 
 personal loyalty to him that reconciled me to his opposing 
 opinions. Then there flashed upon me the consciousness that 
 I was to profess before God and men a belief in dogmas that I 
 had not even examined, and was entirely without the power of 
 
Arthur Bomiicastle, 175 
 
 explaining or defending to myself or others. The fact made 
 me tremble, and 1 dismissed it as soon as possible. 
 
 I fear that I should weary my reader by dwelling upon the 
 spiritual experiences that attended the assumption of my vows 
 Since the memorable day on which I stood among twent}^ 
 others, and publicly pledged my Hfe to the Redeemer, and 
 ga\ e my unqualified assent to the doctrines of the creed, I have 
 never been able to witness a similar scene without tears. 
 With all the trust natural to youth I received that which was 
 presented to me, and with all the confidence of youth in its 
 own power to fulfill its promises, I entered into the most 
 solemn covenant which man can make. There was no sus- 
 picion in me of a possible reaction. There was no anticipation 
 of temptations before which I should tremble or fall. There 
 was no cloud that portended darkness or storm. I regarded 
 myself as entering a fold from which I should go out no more, 
 save under the conduct and ward of a Shepherd who would 
 lead me only through green pastures and beside still waters. 
 
 All my friends, including Mrs. Sanderson, were present. 
 Mr. Bradford and his family sat near me, and I saw that he 
 had been deeply moved. He read the future better than I, 
 and saw before my intense and volatile spirit that which I could 
 not see. He knew the history of one human heart, and he 
 interpreted the future of mine by his own. At the close of the 
 services Mrs. Sanderson drove home alone with Jenks ; and the 
 Bradfords with Henry and my own family walked home to- 
 gether. As I left my father at his door, with Henry and 
 Claire, I found myself with Millie. We fell behind her father 
 and mother, and after she had looked around to make sure that 
 she was not observed, she unfolded her handkerchief and 
 showed me a crumb of the sacramental bread. 
 
 " Where did you get it ? " I inquired. 
 
 " I prayed that it might drop when it was handed to my 
 mother, and it did," she replied. 
 
 " What are you going to do with it ? " I inquired. 
 
176 Ai'tlm7' Bonnicastle, 
 
 " I am going to my room when I get home, and have a 
 communion all by myself." 
 
 " But do you think it will be right ? " I inquired. 
 
 " I don't think He will care. He knows that I love him, and 
 that it is the only chance I have. It is his bread, and came 
 from his table, and Mr. Grimshaw has nothing to do with it." 
 
 I was dumb with astonishment, and could offer no remon- 
 strance. Indeed I sympathized with her so much that I could 
 not have deprived her of her anticipated enjoyment. 
 
 Then I asked her what she would do for wine. 
 
 " I shall kiss my mother's Hps," she replied, and then added : 
 "I wonder if she will know that anything is gone, as the 
 Saviour did when the woman touched him ? " 
 
 I think if I could have retired with Millie to her seclusion, 
 and shared her crumb away from the eyes of a curious world, 
 and the distractions of the public gaze, I should have come 
 out stronger and purer for the feast. I left her at her door, 
 and went slowly home, imagining the little girl at prayer, and 
 tasting the crumb which had fallen from the Master's table. 
 The thought of the reverent kiss which the mother was to re- 
 ceive that night, all unconscious of the draught of spiritual 
 comfort which her child would quaff there, quite overcame me. 
 
 And it was this child, with her quick insight and implicit 
 faith, that had been shut out of the fold because she had no 
 opinions ! It was her father, too, carefully seeking and prayer- 
 fully learning, who had been refused admittance, because he 
 would not surrender his reason and his liberty of thought ! 
 Already I began to doubt the infallibility of my Pope. Al- 
 ready there had crept into my mind the suspicion that there 
 was something wrong in a policy which made more of sound 
 opinions than of sound character. Already I felt that there 
 was something about these two persons that was higher in 
 Christian experience than anything I could claim. Already I 
 had become dimly conscious of a spiritual pride in myself, that 
 I did not see in them, and convinced that they were better 
 fitted to adorn a Christian profession than myself. 
 
Arthur Bonntcastle, 177 
 
 So the struggle was over, and I was called upon by the rap- 
 idly advancing spring to resume the studies which had long 
 been interrupted. As I addressed myself with strong deter- 
 mination to my work, I was conscious of a greatly impaired 
 power of application. The effect of the winter's excitement 
 and absorption had been to dissipate my mental power, and 
 destroy my habits of mental labor. It took me many weeks 
 to get back upon my old track, and I was led through many 
 discouragements. When I had fairly accomplished my purpose 
 and felt that I was making genuine progress, I discovered that 
 it was impossible to keep up the public life I had been leading, 
 and the zeal which had spurred me on in my Christian work. 
 For weeks I faithfully continued my attendance on the meetings 
 of the church, which, by becoming less frequent, had adapted 
 themselves somewhat to my new circumstances, but to my great 
 sorrow I found my zest in their exercises gradually dying 
 away. I prayed often and long that I might not become a 
 back-slider, and that the joy and comfort of the early days might 
 abide with me. It was all in vain. The excitement of sym- 
 pathetic crowds and the predominance of a single topic in the 
 public mind had passed away, and, unsupported by those stimuH, 
 I was left to stand alone — an uncertain, tottering, self-suspi- 
 cious youth — with the great work of life all before me. 
 
 Gradually the old motives which had actuated me came back 
 and presented themselves ; and to my sad surprise they found 
 that in me which responded to them. The wealth which had 
 held before me its glittering promise still possessed its charm- 
 ing power, and suggested its worldly delights. The brilliant 
 college career which I had determined to achieve for honor's 
 and glor/s sake came up to me among my suspended purposes, 
 and shone with all its old attractions. The pride of dress and 
 social position was not dead — it had only slept, and waited but 
 a toucli and a nod to spring into life again. The temptations 
 which the world held for my sensuous nature found my appetites 
 and passions still unsubdued. 
 
 Then there came upon me first the conviction and the con- 
 8* 
 
178 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 sciousness that my life was to be one of warfare, if it was to 
 be a Christian Ufe at all — that I was really back upon my old 
 ground, and that whatever of genuine progress I should make 
 would be through prayerful, rigid, persistent culture. That 
 there was something unspeakably discouraging in this, I need 
 not affirm. It had the power to make the experiences through 
 which I had so recently passed seem altogether hollow and 
 unreal. I had only dreamed of regeneration, after all. The 
 new birth had only been tiie birth of a purpose, which needed 
 nursing and strengthening and educating like an infant. 
 
 Still I would not, could not, admit that I had not made the 
 genuine beginning of a religious life. If I had done this, I 
 should have grown callous or desperate at once. 
 
 And now I beg the privilege of saying to those who may be 
 interested in this narrative, that I have not addressed myself to 
 the task of writing down revivals. I am detailing the experi- 
 ences of a human soul. That revivals are useful in communi- 
 ties where great excitements are necessary to attract the atten- 
 tion of the careless and the vicious, I can well believe. That 
 multitudes begin a religious life through their influence there is 
 no doubt. That they are dangerous passages for the church to 
 pass through would seem also to be well established, as by the 
 laws of the human mind all great excitements and all extraordi- 
 nary labors are followed by corresponding depressions and ex- 
 haustions. I seriously doubt whether Christian growth is 
 greatly forwarded by these exceptional agencies. All true 
 growth in the realm of nature is the result of a steady unfold- 
 ing from a germ : and the realm of grace is ruled by the same 
 Being who perfects the flower and builds the tree. I can afford 
 to be misconstrued, misunderstood and misrepresented if I can 
 do anything to direct the attention of the church to the fact 
 that there are better methods of progress than those which are 
 attended with such cost and such danger, and that in the Chris- 
 tian nurture of children and the wide opening of the Christian 
 fold to them abides the hope of the church and the world. I 
 shall be ten thousand times repaid for any suspicion of my mo- 
 
Art liter Bonnicastle. 170 
 
 lives, if I can bring a single pastor, or a single church, to the 
 realization of the fact that true Christian beginnings are not nee 
 essarily conformed to any special dramatic experience ; that a 
 pastor can lead his flock better than a stranger whose voice they 
 do not know, and that their creeds are longer and more elabo- 
 rate than they have any right to make. If the labor expended 
 upon revivals were spread evenly over greater space, and 
 applied with never-flagging persistency to the shaping and the 
 nurture of the plastic and docile minds of the young, I am sure 
 that the Christian kingdom would increase in numbers and ad- 
 vance in power by a progress at once natural, healthy and irre- 
 sistible. The fiery shower that pours its flood upon the earth 
 in an hour, leaves the ground fresh for the day, but it also leaves 
 it scarred and seamed, the swollen torrents carrying half its 
 wealth into the sea, while the steady rain of days sinks into the 
 earth to nourish the roots of all things, and make the springs 
 petennial. 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE OLD PORTRAIT IS DISCOVERED AND OLD JENKS HAS A 
 REAL VOYAGE AT SEA. 
 
 The spring passed quickly away, and the fervors of the June 
 sun were upon us. IS Irs. Sanderson, wliose health had been a 
 marvel of uniformity, became ill, and showed signs of that fail- 
 ure of the vital power which comes at last to all. She was ad- 
 vised by her physician that she needed a change of air, and en- 
 couraged to believe that if she should get relief at once she 
 might retain her hold upon life for some years longer. Ar. 
 rangements were accordingly perfected to send her with a trusty 
 inaid to a watering-place a few leagues distant. I have no 
 doubt tliat she had come to look upon death as not far away 
 from her, and that she had contemplated the possibility of its 
 visitation while absent from home. I could see that her eye 
 was troubled and anxious. Her lawyer was with her for two 
 days before her departure. 
 
 On the morning before she left she called me into her little 
 library, and delivering her keys into my keeping, said : 
 
 " I have nothing to tell you, Arthur, except that all my af- 
 fairs are ai ranged, so that if I should never return you will find 
 everything in order. You know my ways and wishes. Follow 
 out your plans regarding yourself, and my lawyer will tell you 
 of mine. Maintain the position and uphold the honor of this 
 house. It will be yours. I cannot take it with me ; I have 
 no one else to leave it to — and yet — " 
 
 She was more softened than I had ever seen her, and her sad 
 and helpless look quite overwhelmed me. I had so long ex- 
 pected her munificence that this aftected me much less than 
 the change, physical and mental, which had passed over her. 
 
 " My dear, precious Aunt," I said, " you are not going to 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, i8i 
 
 die. I cannot let you die. I am too young to spare you. You 
 will go away, and get well, and live a long time." 
 
 Then I kissed her, and thanked her for her persistent kir dness 
 and her splendid gifts, in words that seemed so poor and inad- 
 equate that I was quite distressed. 
 
 She was deeply moved. Her physical weakness was such 
 that the iron rule of her will over her emotions was broken. I 
 believe she would have been glad to have me take her in my 
 arms, like a child, and comfort her. After sitting awhile in 
 silence, I said : " Please tell me what you were thinking of 
 when you said : * And yet ' ? " 
 
 She gave me no direct reply, but said : " Do you remember 
 the portrait of a boy which you saw when you first came to the 
 house ? " 
 
 " Perfectly," I replied. 
 
 ** This key," said she, taking the bunch of keys from my 
 hand which I still held, " will open a door in the dining-room 
 which you have never seen opened. You know where it is. 
 After I am gone away, I wish you to open that closet, and 
 take out the portrait, and hang it just where it was before. I 
 wish to have it hang there as long as the house stands. You 
 have learned not to ask any questions. If ever I come back, 
 I shall find it there. If I do not, you will keep it there for my 
 sake." 
 
 I promised to obey her will in every particular, and then the 
 carriage drove up to bear her away. Our parting was very 
 quiet, but full of feeling ; and I saw her turn and look back af- 
 fectionately at the old house, as she passed slowly down the hill. 
 
 I was thus left alone — with the old servant Jenks — the mas- 
 ter of The Mansion. It will be readily imagined that, still re- 
 taining my curiosity with regard to the picture, I lost no time 
 in finding it. Sending Jenks away on some unimportant 
 errand, I entered the dining-room, and locked myself in. Un- 
 der a most fascinating excitement I inserted the key in the lock 
 of the closet. The bolt was moved with difficulty, like one 
 long unused. Throwing open the door, I looked in. First I 
 
1 82 ArtJmr Bonnicastle, 
 
 saw an old trunk, the covering of rawhide, fastened by brass 
 nailfj wliich had turned green with rust. I Hfted the Ud, and 
 found it full of papers. I had already caught a glimpse of the 
 picture, yet by a curious perversity of will I insisted on seeing 
 it last. Next I came upon an old punch-bowl, a reminder of 
 the days when there were men and revelry in the house. It 
 was made of silver, and had the Bonnicastle arms upon its side. 
 How old it was, I could not tell, but it was evidently an heir- 
 loom. A rusty musket stood in one corner, of the variety then 
 known as " Queen's Arms." In another corner hung a military 
 coat, trimmed with gold lace. The wreck of an ancient and 
 costly clock stood upon a shelf, the pendulum of which was a 
 swing, with a little child in it. I remember feeling a whimsical 
 pity for the child that had waited for motion so long in the 
 darkness, and so reached up and set him swinging, as he had 
 done so many million times in the years that were dead and 
 gone. I lingered long upon every article, and wondered how 
 many centuries it would take of such seclusion to dissolve 
 them all into dust. 
 
 I had no excuse for withholding my eyes from the picture 
 any longer. I lifted it carefully from the nail where it hung, 
 and set it down by the dining-room wall. Then I closed and 
 locked the door. Not until I had carefully cleaned the paint- 
 ing, and dusted llie frame, and hung it in its old place, did 
 I venture to look at it with any thought of careful study ; and 
 even this observation I determined to take first from the point 
 where I sat when I originally discovered it. I arranged the 
 light to strike it at the right angle, and then opening the pas- 
 sage into the library, went and sat down precisely where I had 
 sat nearly six years before, under the spell of Mrs. Sanderson's 
 command. I had already, while handling it, found the date of 
 the picture, and the name of the painter on the back of the 
 canvas, and knew that the lad whom it represented had become 
 a man considerably past middle life, or, what seemed more 
 probable, remembering Mrs. Sanderson's strange actions in re- 
 gard to it, a heap of dust and ashes. 
 
Arthur Bonntcastle, 183 
 
 With my first long look at the picture, came back the old 
 days ; and I was again a little boy, with all my original interest 
 in the beautiful young face. I expected to see a likeness ojf 
 Henry, but Henry had grown up and changed, and I found it 
 quite impossible to take him back in my imagination to the 
 point where his face answered, in any considerable degree, to 
 the lineaments of this. Still there was a likeness, indefinable, 
 far back in the depths of expression, and hovering around the 
 contour of the face and head, that at first puzzled me, and at 
 last convinced me that, if I could get at the secrets of my 
 friend's life, I should find that he was a Bonnicastle. I had 
 often while at school, in unexpected glimpses of Henry's feat- 
 ures, been startled by the resemblance of his face to some of 
 the members of my own family. The moment I studied his 
 features, however, the likeness was gone. It was thus with 
 the picture. Analysis spoiled it as the likeness of my friend, 
 yet it had a subtle power to suggest him, and to convince me 
 that he was a sharer of the family blood. 
 
 I cannot say, much as I loved Henry, that I was pleased 
 with my discovery.- Nor was I pleased with the reflections 
 which it stirred in me ; for I saw through them something of 
 the mercenary meanness of my own character. I was glad 
 that Mrs. Sanderson had never seen him. I was glad that he 
 had declined her invitation, and that she had come to regard 
 him with such dislike that she would not even hear his name 
 mentioned. I knew that if he were an accepted visitor of the 
 house I should be jealous of him, for I was conscious of his su- 
 periority to me in many points, and felt that Mrs. Sanderson 
 would find much in him that would please her. His quiet bear- 
 ing, his steadiness, his personal beauty, his steadfast integrity, 
 would all be appreciated by her ; and I was sure she could not 
 fail to detect in him the family likeness. 
 
 Angry with myself for indulging such unworthy thoughts, I 
 sprang to my feet, and went nearer to the picture — went where 
 I could see it best. As I approached it, the likeness to Henry 
 gradually faded, and what was Bonnicastle in the distance be- 
 
184 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 came something of another name and blood. Another nature 
 mmgled strangely with that to which I was consciously kindred. 
 Beneath the soft veil which gentle blood had thrown over the 
 features, there couched something base and brutal. Some- 
 where in the family history of the person it represented the 
 spaniel had given herself to the wolf. ' Sheathed within the foot 
 of velvet was hidden a talon of steel. Under those beautiful 
 features lay the capacity of cruelty and crime. It was a won- 
 derful revelation, and it increased rather than lessened the fasci- 
 nation which the picture exerted upon me. Not until an hour 
 had passed away, and I knew that Jenks had returned from his 
 errand, did I silently unlock the doors of the dining-room and 
 go to my chamber for study. 
 
 When the dinner-hour arrived, I was served alone. Jenks 
 had set the table without discovering the returned picture, but 
 in one of the pauses of his service he started and turned pale. 
 
 " What is the matter, Jenks ? " I said. 
 
 " Nothing," he replied, " I thought it was burned. It ought 
 to be." 
 
 It was the first intimation that I had ever received that he 
 knew anything about the subject of the picture ; but I asked 
 him no more questions, first, because I thought it would vir- 
 tually be a breach of the confidence which its owner had re- 
 posed in me, and, second, because I was so sureof Jenks's reti- 
 cence that I knew I had nothing to gain by asking. He had 
 kept his place because he could hold his tongue. Still, the 
 fact that he could tell me all I wanted to know had the power 
 to heighten my curiosity, and to fill me with a discomfort of 
 which I was ashamed. 
 
 A few days of lonely life passed away, in which, for a de- 
 fense against my loneliness, I devoted myself with unusual dili- 
 gence to study. The first letter I received from Mrs. Sander- 
 son contained the good news that her strong and elastic consti- 
 tution had responded favorably to the change of air and place. 
 Indeed, she was doing so well that she had concluded to stay 
 by the sea during the summer, if she should continue to find 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 185 
 
 herself improving in strength. I was very much relieved, for in 
 truth I had no wish to assume the cares of the wealth she 
 would leave me. I was grateful, too, to find that I had a genuine 
 affection for her, and that my solicitude was not altogether selfish. 
 
 One warm evening, just before sunset, I took a chair from 
 the hall and placed it upon the landing of the steps that led 
 from the garden to the door, between the sleeping lions, and 
 sat down to enjoy the fresh air of the coming twilight. I had 
 a book in my hand, but I was weary and listless, and sat look- 
 ing off upon the town. Presently I heard the sound of voices 
 and laughter from the hill below me ; and soon there came in 
 sight a little group whose approach made my heart leap with 
 delight. Henry, Claire and IMillie were coming to make a call 
 upon their lonely friend. ■ 
 
 I greeted them heartily at a distance, and Henry, with his 
 hat in his hand, walking between the two girls, sauntered up 
 to the house, looking it over, as it seemed to me, very carefully. 
 Suddenly, Millie sprang to the side of the road, and plucked a 
 flower which she insisted upon placing in the button-hole of his 
 coat. He bent to her while she fastened it. It was the work 
 of an instant, yet there was in it that which showed me that the 
 girl was fond of him, and that, young as she was, she pleased 
 him. I was in a mood to be jealous. The thoughts I had in- 
 dulged in while looking at the picture, and the belief that Henry 
 had Claire's heart in full possession, to say nothing of certain 
 plans of my own with regard to JVIillie, reaching far into the fut- 
 ure — plans very vague and shadowy, but covering sweet pos- 
 sibilities — awoke a feeling in my heart towards Henry which I 
 am sure made my courtesies seem strangely constrained. 
 
 I invited the group into the house, and Claire and Millie ac- 
 cepted the invitation at once. Henry hesitated, and finally 
 said that he did not care to go in. The evening was so pleas- 
 ant that he would sit upon the steps until we returned. Re- 
 membering his repeated refusals to go home with me from 
 school, and thinking, for a reason which I could not have 
 shaped into words, that I did not wish to have him see the pict- 
 
1 86 Artlmr Bonnzcastle, 
 
 ure in the dining-room, I did not urge him. So the two girls 
 and myself went in, and walked over the house. Millie had 
 been there before with her mother, but it was the first time that 
 Claire's maidenly figure had ever entered the door. The 
 dining-room had already been darkened for the night, and we 
 only looked in and took a hunied glimpse of its shadowy furni- 
 ture, and left it. Both the girls were curious to see my room, 
 and to that we ascended. The outlook was so pleasant and the 
 chairs were so inviting that, after looking at the i^ictures and 
 the various tasteful appointments with which the room had been 
 furnished, we all sat down, and in our merry conversation 
 quite forgot Henry, and the fact that he was waiting for us to 
 rejoin him. 
 
 -Near the close of our pleasant session I was conscious that 
 feet were moving in the room below. Then I heard the sound 
 of opening or closing shutters. My first thought was that 
 Jenks had come in on some errand. Interrupted in this 
 thought by the conversation in progress, the matter was put 
 out of ray mind for a moment. Then it returned, and as I re- 
 flected that Jenks had no business in that part of the house at 
 that hour, I became uneasy. 
 
 " We have quite forgotten Henry," I said ; and we all rose 
 to our feet and walked down stairs. 
 
 Millie was at the foot in a twinkling, and exclaimed : *'Why, 
 he isn't here ! He is gone ! " 
 
 I said not a word, but went straight to the dining-room. 
 Every shutter was open, and there stood Henry before the pict- 
 ure. He appeared to be entirely unconscious of my entrance ; 
 so, stepping up behind him, I put my hand upon his shoulder, 
 and said : " Well, how do you like it ? " 
 
 He started as if I had struck him, trembled, and turned pale. 
 
 " The fact is, I got tired with Avaiting, my boy," he said, " and 
 so came in to explore, you know, ha ! ha ! ha ! Quite an old 
 curiosity- shop, isn't it ? Oh ! * How do I like it ? ' Yes, quite 
 a picture — quite a picture, ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 There certainly was no likeness in the picture to the Henry 
 

 Stepping up behind hnn, I put my hand upon his, shouldei , and said: "Well, 
 how do you like it." 
 
 (p. i86.) 
 
A^'thur Bonnicastle, 187 
 
 who stood before it then. Haggard, vacant, convulsed with 
 feehng which it was impossible for him to conceal, he stood be- 
 fore it as if fastened to the spot by a relentless spell. I took 
 him by the arm and led him into the open air, with his hollow- 
 sounding voice and his forced, mechanical laugh still ringing in 
 my ears. The girls were alarmed, and asked him if he were ill. 
 
 " Not in the least," he replied, with another attempt at a 
 laugh which made me shiver. The quick instinct of his com-' 
 panions recognized the fact that something unpleasant had hap- 
 pened, and so, overcoming the chill which his voice and man- 
 ner had thrown upon them, they thanked me for showing them 
 the old house, and declared that it was time for them to go 
 home. Bidding me a hearty good-night, they started and went 
 out of the gate. Henry lingered, holding my hand for a mo- 
 ment, and then, finding it impossible to shape the apology he 
 had evidently intended to make, abruptly left me, and joined 
 the girls. They quickly passed out of sight, Claire tossing me 
 a kiss as she disappeared, and I was left alone. 
 
 I was, of course, more mystified than ever. I did not think 
 it stl*ange or ill-mannered for Henry to enter the dining-room 
 unattended, for I had invited him in, I had kept him long wait- 
 ing, and there was no one to be disturbed by his entrance, as 
 he knew ; but I was more convinced than ever that there was 
 some strange connection between that picture and his destiny 
 and mine. I was convinced, too, that by some means he had 
 recognized the fact as well as I. I tossed upon my bed until 
 midnight in nei*vous wakefulness, thinking it over, permitting 
 my imagination to construct a thousand improbable possibiH- 
 ties, and chafing under the pledge that forbade me to ask a 
 question of friend or servant. 
 
 It was a week before I saw him again, and then I found him 
 quite self-possessed, though there was a shadow of restraint 
 upon him. No allusion was made to the incident in the dining- 
 room, and it gradually fell back into a memory, among the 
 things that were, to be recalled years afterward in the grand 
 crisis of my personal history. 
 
t88 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 N()t a day passed away in which Jenks did not inquire for 
 the health of " the mistress." He seemed to be lost without 
 her, and to feel even more anxious for her health than I did. 
 " How is she now?" and " When does she say she is coming 
 back ? " were always the inquiries, after he had brought me a 
 letter. 
 
 One day I said to him : " I thought you did not like my Aunt. 
 You were always wanting to get away from her." 
 
 "I don't say that I do like her," said Jenks, with a quizzical 
 expression of countenance, as if he were puzzled to know ex« 
 actly what his feelings were, "but the fact is she's a good woman 
 to get away from, and that's half the fun of living. When she's 
 here I'm always thinking of leaving her, and that takes up the 
 time and sets me contriving, you know." 
 
 " You can't sail quite as much as you used to," I said, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 " No," said he, " I'm getting rather old for the sea, and I 
 don't know but thinking of the salt water so much has given 
 me the rheumatism. I'm as stiff as an old horse. Any way, I 
 can't get away until she comes back, if I want to ever so much. 
 I've nothing to get away from." 
 
 " Yes, Jenks," I said, " you and your mistress are both get- 
 ting old. In a few years you'll both get away,- and you will 
 not return. Do you ever think of what will come after ? " 
 
 "That's so," he responded, "and the thing that bothers me 
 is that I can't get away from the place I go to, whether it's 
 good or bad. How a man is going to kill time without some 
 sort of contriving to get into a better place, I don't know. Do 
 you think there's really such a place as heaven?" 
 
 " Of course I do." 
 
 " No oftense, sir," said Jenks, " but it seems to me some- 
 times as if it was only a sort of make-believe place, that peO' 
 pie dream about just to pass away the time. They go to meet- 
 ing, and pray and sing, and take the sacrament, and talk about 
 heaven and hell, and then they come home and laugh and carry 
 on and work just the same as ever. It makes a nice way to 
 
Arthur Boniiicastle. 189 
 
 pass Sunday, and it seems to me just about the same thing as 
 saihng on an Atlas. One day they make believe very hard, 
 and the next it's all over with. Everybody must have his fun, 
 and everybody has his own way of getting it. Now here's this 
 Miss Lester down at Mr. Bradford's. She's got no end of a 
 constitution, and takes it out in work. She goes to all the 
 prayer-meetings, and knits piles of stockings for poor people ; 
 but, dear me ! she has to do something, or else she couldn't 
 live. So she tramps out in all sorts of weather, and takes solid 
 comfort in getting wet and muddy, and amuses herself thinking 
 she's doing good. It's just so with the stockings. She must 
 knit 'em, any way, and so she plays charity with 'em. I reckon 
 we're all a good deal alike." 
 
 " No, Jenks," I said, " there's really and truly such a place 
 as heaven." 
 
 "I s'pose there is," he responded, "but I don't see what I 
 can do there. I can't sing." 
 
 "And there's another place." 
 
 "I s'pose there is — that's what they say, and I don't see 
 what I am going to do there, for I don't like the sort of people 
 that live there. I never had anything to do with 'em here, and 
 I won't have anything to do with 'em anywhere. I've always 
 kept my own counsel and picked my own company, which has 
 been mighty small, and I always expect to." 
 
 These last remarks of Jenks were a puzzle to me. I really 
 did not know what to say, at first, but there came back to me 
 the memory of one of our early conversations, and I said : 
 " What if she were to go to one place and you to the other ? " 
 
 " Well," he replied, his thin lips twitching and quivering, 
 "I shouldn't be any worse off than I am now. She went to 
 one place and I went to another a good while ago ; but do you 
 really think people know one another there ? " 
 
 " I have no doubt of it," I replied. 
 
 " Well, I shouldn't care where I was, if I could be with her, 
 and everything was agreeable," sa'd Jenks. 
 
 " So you still remember her." 
 
IQO Artlm7^ Bonni castle, 
 
 " How do you s'pose I could live if I didn't ?" 
 
 At this he excitedly unbuttoned the wristband of his left 
 arm, and pulled up his sleeve, and there, pricked patiently into 
 the skin, after the manner of sailors, were the two names in 
 rude letters : " Theophilus Jenks and Jane Whittlesey." 
 
 "I did it myself," said Jenks. ''Every prick of the needle 
 hurt me, but the more it hurt the happier I was, just to see 
 the two names together where no man could rub 'em out ; and 
 I think I could stand 'most anything else for the sake of being 
 with her." 
 
 I was much impressed by this revelation of the inner life of 
 the simple old man, and the frankness with which he had given 
 me his confidence. Laboring from day to day, year after year, 
 in a position from which he had no hope of rising, he had his 
 separate life of the affections and the imagination, and in this 
 he held all his satisfactions, and won all his modest mental and 
 spiritual growth. At the close of our conversation I took out 
 my watch, and, seeing that it was time for the mail, I sent him 
 off to obtain it. When he returned, he brought me among 
 other letters one from Mrs. Sanderson. He had placed it upon 
 the top of the package, and, when he had handed it to me, he 
 waited, as had become his custom, to learn the news from his 
 mistress. 
 
 When I had opened the letter and read a few lines, I ex- 
 claimed : *' Oh, Jenks ! here's some great news for you." 
 And then I read from the letter : 
 
 ** My physician sas that I must have a daily drive upon the beach, but 
 I really do not feel as if I should take a moment of comfort without my 
 old horse and carriage and my old driver. If you can manage to get along 
 for two or three weeks with the cook, who is entirely able to take all the 
 service of the house upon her hands, you may send Jenks to me with the 
 horse and carriage. The road is very heavy, however, and it is best for 
 him to put everything on the Belle of Bradfoi-d, and come with i^ him- 
 self. The Belle touches every day at our wharf, and the horse will be 
 ready for service as soon as he lands." 
 
 I read this without looking at Jenks' s face, but when I finir^hed 
 
Arthtir Bonnzcastle, 191 
 
 I glanced at him, expecting to see him radiant with delight. 
 I was therefore surprised to find him pale and trembling in 
 every fiber of his frame. 
 
 "That's just like an old woman," said Jenks. " How does 
 she s'pose a horse is going to sea ? What's he to do v/hen the 
 steamer rolls ? " 
 
 " Oh, horses are very fond of rolling," I said, laughing. 
 " All he will have to do will be to lie down and roll ail the 
 way, without straining himself for it." 
 
 " And how does she s'pose a carriage is going to keep right 
 side up ? " 
 
 " Well, you can sit in it and hold it down." 
 
 Jenks looked down upon his thin frame and slender legs, 
 and shook his head. " If there's anything that I hate," said 
 he, "it's a steamboat. I think it will scare the old horse to 
 death. They whistle and toot, and blow up and burn up. 
 Now, don't you really think — candid, now — that I'd better 
 drive the old horse down? Don't you think the property' 11 
 be safer? She never can get another horse like him. She 
 never' 11 get a carriage that suits her half as well as that. It 
 don't seem to me as if I could take the responsibiUty of risking 
 that property. She left it in my hands. ' Take good care of 
 the old horse, Jenks,' was the last words she said to me ; and 
 now because she's an old woman, and does' n't know any better, 
 she tells me to put him on a steamboat, where he's just as 
 likely to be banged about and have his ribs broke in, or be 
 burned up or blowed up, as he is to get through alive. It seems 
 to me the old woman is out of her head, and that I ought to 
 do just as she told me to do when she was all right. * Take 
 good care of the old horse, Jenks,' was the last words she said." 
 
 The old man was excited but still pale, and he stood waiting 
 before me with a pitiful, pleading expression upon his wizen 
 features. 
 
 I shook my head. " I'm afraid we shall be obliged to risk 
 the property, Jenks," I said. " Mrs. Sanderson is very particu- 
 lar, you know, about having all her orders obeyed to the letter. 
 
1^2 Arthur Bonnzcastle, 
 
 She will have no one to blame but herself if the whole estab- 
 lishment goes overboard^ and if I were you I wouldn't miss 
 this chance of going to sea at her expense for anything." 
 
 Then Jenks resolutely undertook to bring his mind to it. 
 " How long will it take ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Oh, three hours or so," I replied carelessly. 
 
 " Do we go out of sigfit of land ? " 
 
 *' No, you sail down the riyer a few miles, then you strike the 
 ocean, and just hug the shore until you get there," I replied. 
 
 " Yes ; strike the ocean — hug the shore — " he mumbled to 
 himself, looking down and rubbing the bald spot on the top of 
 his head. " Strike the ocean — hug the shore. Three hours — 
 oh ! do you know whether they have life-preservers on that 
 steamboat ? " 
 
 " Stacks of them," I replied. " I've seen them often." 
 
 " Wouldn't it be a good plan to slip one on to the horse's 
 neck when they start ? He'll think it's a collar, and won't be 
 scared, you know ; and if there should happen to be any trouble 
 it would help to keep his nose up." 
 
 " Capital plan," I responded. 
 
 " What time do we start? " 
 
 " At eight o'clock to-morrow morning." 
 
 Jenks retired with the look and bearing of a man who had 
 been sentenced to be hanged. He went first to the stable, and 
 made all the necessary arrangements there, and late into the 
 night I heard him moving about his room. I presume he did 
 not once close his eyes in sleep that night. I was exceedingly 
 amused by his nervousness, though I would not have intimated 
 to him that I had any doubt of his courage, for the world. He 
 was astir at an early hour in the morning ; and breakfast was 
 upon the table while yet the early birds were singing. 
 
 " You will have a lovely day, Jenks," I said, as he handed 
 me my coffee. 
 
 As he bent to set the cup beside my plate, there came close 
 to my ear a curious, crepitant rustle. " What have you got 
 about you, Jenks ? " I inquired. 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 193 
 
 He made a sickly attempt to smile, and then pulling open 
 the bosom of his shirt, displayed a collapsed, dry bladder, with 
 a goose-quill in the neck ready for its inflation. 
 
 ''That's a capital idea, Jenks," I said. 
 
 *' Do you think so ? What do you think of that ? and he 
 showed me the breast pocket of his coat full of corks. 
 
 It was impossible for me to restrain my laughter any longer. 
 
 ''Number one, you know," said Jenks, buttoning up his 
 coat. " Number one, and a stiff upper lip." 
 
 " You're a brave old fellow, any way, Jenks, and you're going 
 to have the best time you ever had. I envy you." 
 
 I drove down to the boat with him, to make the arrangements 
 for the shipment, and saw him and the establishment safely on 
 board. The bottom of the carriage was loaded with appliances 
 for securing his personal safety in case of an accident, includ- 
 ing a billet of wood, which he assured me was to be used for 
 blocking the wheels of the carriage in case of a storm. 
 
 I bade him good-by at last, and went on shore, where I waited 
 to see the steamer wheel into the stream. The last view I had 
 of the old man showed that he had relieved himself of hat and 
 boots, and placed himself in light swimming order. In the place 
 of the former he had tied a red bandanna handkerchief around his 
 head, and for the latter he had substituted slippers. He had 
 entirely forgotten me and the existence of such a town as Brad- 
 ford. Looking dreamily down the river, out towards that mys- 
 terious sea, on which his childish imagination had dwelt so long, 
 and of which he stood in such mortal fear, he passed out of 
 sight. 
 
 The next evening I heard from him in a characteristic letter. 
 It was dated at " The Glaids," and read thus : — 
 
 ** The Bell is a noble vessel. 
 ** The horse and carridge is saif. 
 ** She welcomed me from the see. 
 ** It seems to me I am in the moon. 
 " Once or tv/ise she roaled ferefully. 
 "But she rited and drove on. 
 9 
 
194 Arthur Bonnicastle^ 
 
 " 1 count nineteen distant sales. 
 
 ** If you will be so kind as not to menshun the blader. 
 " The waves roll in and rore all night. 
 *' The see is a tremenduous thing, and the atlus is nowhare. 
 ** From an old Tarr 
 
 "Theophilus Jenks." 
 
 A few days afterwards, Henry and I made a flying trip to 
 New Haven, passed our examination for admission to the fresh- 
 man class, and in the weeks that followed gave ourselves up to 
 recreations which a debilitating summer and debilitating labor 
 had made necessary. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MRS. SANDERSON TAKES A COMPANION AND I GO TO COLLEGE 
 
 During the dosing days of summer, I was surprised to meet 
 in the street, walking alone, the maid who accompanied Mrs. 
 Sanderson to the sea-side. She courtesied quite profoundly 
 to me, after the manner of the time, and paused as though she 
 wished to speak. 
 
 " Well, Jane," I sdd, " how came you here ? " 
 
 She colored, and her eyes flashed angrily as she replied 
 " Mrs. Sanderson sent me home." 
 
 " If you are willing, I should like to have you tell me all 
 about it," I said. 
 
 " It is all of a lady Mrs. Sanderson met at the hotel," she 
 responded, — " a lady with a pretty face and fine manners, who 
 is as poor as I am, I warrant ye. Mighty sly and quiet she 
 was ; and your aunt took to her from the first day. They walked 
 together every day till Jenks came, and then they rode 
 together, and she was always doing little things for your aunt, 
 and at last they left me out entirely, so that I had nothing in 
 the worlds to do but to sit and sew all day on just nothing 
 at all. The lady read to her, too, out of the newspapers and the 
 books, in a very nice way, and made herself agreeable with her 
 pretty manners until it was nothing but Mrs. Belden in the 
 morning, and Mrs. Belden at night, and Mrs. Belden all the 
 time, and I told your aunt that I didn't think I was needed 
 any more, and she took me up mighty short and said she didn't 
 think I was, and that I could go home if I wished to ; and 
 I wouldn't stay a moment after that, but just packed up and 
 came home in the next boat." 
 
 The disappointed and angry girl rattled off her story as ii 
 
196 Arthur Bo7iiiicastle, 
 
 she had told it forty times to her forty friends, and learned it 
 all by rote. 
 
 "I am sorry, Jane, that you have been disappointed," 
 I responded, " but is my aunt well ? " 
 
 " Just as well as she ever was in her hfe." 
 
 "But how will she get home without you?" I inquired, 
 quite willing to hear her talk farther. 
 
 " She'll manage the same as she does now, faith. You may 
 wager your eyes the lady will come with her. You never 
 saw the like of the thickness there is between 'em." 
 
 " Is she old or young ? " I inquired. 
 
 " Neither the one nor the other," she replied, " though I 
 think she's older than she looks. Oh, she's a sharp one — she's 
 a sharp one ! You'll see her. There ^vas a world of quiet 
 talk going on between 'em, when I couldn't hear. They've 
 been at it for more than a month, and it means something. I 
 think she's after the old lady's money." 
 
 I laughed, and again telling Jane that I was sorry for her 
 disappointment, and expressing the hope that it would all turn 
 out well, parted with her. 
 
 Here was some news that gave me abundant food for reflec- 
 tion and conjecture. Not a breath of all this had come to 
 me on the wings of the frequent missives that had reached me 
 from Mrs. Sanderson's hand ; but I had an unshaken faith 
 in her discretion. The assurance that she was well was an 
 assurance that she was quite able to take care of herself. It 
 was natural that the maid should have been irate and jealous, 
 and I did not permit her words to prejudice me against Mrs. 
 Sanderson's new friend. Yet, I was curious, and not quite 
 comfortable, with the thoughts of her, and permitted my mind 
 to frame and dwell upon the possible results of the new con- 
 nection. 
 
 It was a week after this meeting, perhaps, that I received 
 a note from Mrs. Sanderson, announcing the confirmation of 
 her liealth, stating that she should bring a lady with her on her 
 return to Bradford, and giving directions for the preparation 
 
ArtJmr Bonnicastle, 197 
 
 of a room for her accommodation. It would not have been 
 like my aunt to make explanations in a letter, so that I was 
 not disappointed in finding none. 
 
 At last I received a letter informing me that the mistress of 
 The Mansion would return to her home on the following day. 
 I was early at the wharf to meet her — so early that the 
 steamer had but just showed her smoking chimneys far down 
 the river. As the boat approached, I detected two female 
 figures upon the hurricane deck which I was not long in 
 concluding to be my aunt and her new friend. Jenks, in his 
 impatience to get quickly on shore, had loosed his horse from 
 the stall, and stood holding him by the bridle, near the carriage, 
 upon the forward deck. He saw me and swung his hat, in 
 token of his gladness that the long trial was over. 
 
 The moment the boat touched the wharf I leaped on board, 
 mounted to the deck, and, in an impulse of real gladness 
 and gratitude, embraced my aunt. For a moment her com- 
 panion was forgotten : then Mrs. Sanderson turned and presented 
 her. I did not wonder that she was agreeable to Mrs. San- 
 derson, for I am sure that no one could have looked into her 
 face and received her greeting without being pleased with her. 
 She was dressed plainly but with great neatness ; and every- 
 thing in her look and manner revealed the well-bred woman. 
 The whole expression of her personality was one of refinement. 
 She looked at me with a pleased and inquiring gaze which 
 quite charmed me — a gaze that by some subtle influence 
 inspired me to special courtesy toward her. When the carriage 
 had been placed on shore, and had been made ready for the 
 ride homeward, I found myself under the impulse to be as 
 polite to her as to my aunt. 
 
 As I looked out among the loungers who always attended 
 the arrival of the Belle^ as a resort of idle amusement, I caught 
 a glimpse of Henry. Our eyes met for an instant, and I 
 detected a look of eager interest upon his face. My recognition 
 seemed to quench the look at once, and he turned abrupdy 
 on his heel and walked away. It was not like him to be 
 
198 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 among a company of idlers, and I knew that the arrival of Mrs. 
 Sanderson could not have attracted him. It was an incident, 
 however, of no significance save as it was interpreted by sub- 
 sequent events which wait for record. 
 
 Mrs. Sanderson was quite talkative on the way home, in 
 pointing out to her new companion the objects of interest pre- 
 sented by the thriving little city, and when she entered her 
 house seemed like her former self. She was like the captain 
 of a ship who had returned from a short stay on shore, having 
 left the mate in charge. All command and direction returned 
 to her on the instant she placed her foot upon the threshold. 
 She was in excellent spirits, and seemed to look fonvard upon 
 life more hopefully than she had done for a long time previ- 
 ous. Mrs. Belden was pleased with the house, delighted with 
 her room, and charmed with all the surroundings of the place ; 
 and I could see that Mrs. Sanderson was more than satisfied 
 with the impression which her new friend had made upon me. 
 I remember with how much interest I took her from window to 
 window to show her the views which the house commanded, 
 and how much she gratified me by her hearty appreciation of 
 my courtesy and of the home to which circumstances had 
 brought her. 
 
 I saw at once that she was a woman to whom I could yield 
 my confidence, and who was wholly capable of understanding 
 me and of giving me counsel. I saw, too, that the old home 
 would become a very different place to me from what it ever 
 had been before, with her gracious womanliness within it. It 
 was love with me at first sight, as it had been with my more 
 critical aunt. 
 
 The next morning Mrs. Sanderson called me into her little 
 library and told me the whole story of her new acquaintance. 
 She had been attracted to her by some heartily-rendered cour- 
 tesy when she found herself among strangers, feeble and alone, 
 and had learned from her that she was without relatives and a 
 home of her own. They had long conversations, and were led, 
 step by step, to a mutual revelation of personal wishes and 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 199 
 
 needs, until it was understood between them that one was in 
 want of a companion in her old age, and the other was in want 
 of a home, for which she was willing to give service and society. 
 
 *' I have come," said my aunt, " to realize that I am old, and 
 that it is not right for me to stay in the house alone as I have 
 done ; and now that you are to be absent for so long a time, I 
 shall need society and help. I am sure that Mrs. Belden is the 
 right woman for me. Although she will be in a certain sense a 
 dependent, she deserves and will occupy the place of a friend. 
 I do not think I can be mistaken in her, and I believe that you 
 will like her as well as I do." 
 
 I frankly told my aunt of the pleasant impression the lady 
 had made upon me, and expressed my entire satisfaction with 
 the arrangement ; so Mrs. Belden became, in a day, a member 
 of our home, and, by the ready adaptiveness of her nature, 
 fitted into her new place and relations without a jar. 
 
 On the same day in which Mrs. Sanderson and I held our 
 conversation, I found myself alone with Mrs. Belden, who led 
 me to talk of myself, my plans, and my associates. I told her 
 the history of my stay at The Bird's Nest, and talked at length 
 of my companion there. She listened to all I had to say with 
 interest, and questioned me particularly about Henry. She 
 thought a young man's intimate companions had much to do 
 with his safety and progress, and was glad to learn that my 
 most intimate friend was all that he ought to be. 
 
 " You must never mention him to Mrs. Sanderson," I said, 
 " for he offended her by not accepting her invitation to spend 
 his vacations with me." 
 
 "I shall never do it, Arthur," she responded. "You can 
 always rely upon my discretion." 
 
 " We are to be chums at college," I said. 
 
 " How will you manage it without offending your aunt ? " 
 she inquired. 
 
 '' Oh, she knows that I like him ; so we agree not to men- 
 tion his name. She asks me no questions, and I say nothing. 
 Besides, I think she knows something else and — ^" I hesitated. 
 
200 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 "And what?" inquired Mrs. Belden, smiling. 
 
 " I think she knows that he is fond of my sister Claire," 1 
 said. 
 
 Mrs. Belden gave a visible start, but checking herself, said, 
 coolly enough, " Well, is he ? " 
 
 " I think so," I answered. " Indeed, I think they are very 
 fond of one another." 
 
 Then, at the lady's request, I told her all about my sister — 
 her beauty, her importance in my father's house, and her ac- 
 complishments. She listened with great interest, and said that 
 she hoped she should make her acquaintance. 
 
 " If you are to be tied to my aunt in the society you meet 
 here you will be pretty sure not to know her," I responded. 
 " My father is Mrs. Sanderson's tenant, and she has very strict 
 notions in regard to poor people, and especially in regard to 
 those who occupy her houses. She has never invited a mem- 
 ber of my family into her house, and she never will. She has 
 been very kind to me, but she has her own way about it." 
 
 " Yes, I see ; but I shall meet your sister in some way, I 
 know, if I remain here," Mrs. Belden replied. 
 
 I had never seen Jenks so happy as he appeared the next day 
 after his arrival. He had been elevated immensely by his voy- 
 age and adventures, and had been benefited by the change quite 
 as much as his mistress. He went about humming and growl- 
 ing to himself in the old way, seeking opportunities to pour into 
 my amused ears the perils he had encountered and escaped. 
 There had been a terrific "lurch" on one occasion, when every- 
 body staggered; and a suspicious sail once "hove in sight" 
 which turned out to be a schooner loaded with lumber ; and 
 there were white caps tossing on a reef which the captain 
 skillfully avoided; and there was a "tremenduous ground swell " 
 during a portion of the homeward passage which he delighted 
 to dwell upon. 
 
 But Jenks was in no way content until I had pointed out his 
 passage to him on the map. When he comprehended the 
 humihating fact that he had sailed only half an inch on the larg- 
 
Arthzir Bonnicastle, 201 
 
 est map of the region he possessed, and that on the map of 
 the world the river by which he passed to the sea was not large 
 enough to be noticed, he shook his head. 
 
 "It's no use," said the old,man. "I thought I could do it, 
 but I can't. The world is a big thing. Don't you think, your- 
 self, it would be more convenient if it were smaller? I can't 
 see the use of such an everlasting lot of water. A half an inch ! 
 My ! think of sailing a foot and a half! I give it up." 
 
 " But you really have been far, far away upon the billow," 
 I said encouragingly. 
 
 * "Yes, that's so — that's so — that is so," he responded, nod- 
 ding his head emphatically: "and I've ploughed the waves, 
 and struck the sea, and hugged the shore, and embarked and 
 prepared for a storm, and seen the white caps, and felt a ground 
 swell, and got through alive, and all that kind of thing. I tell 
 you, that day when we swung into the stream I didn't know 
 whether I was on my head or my heels. I kept saying to. my- 
 self: *Theophilus Jenks, is this you? Who's your father and 
 who's your mother and who's your Uncle David? Do you 
 know what you're up to?' I'll bet you can't tell what else I 
 said?" 
 
 " No, I'll not try, but you'll tell me," I responded. 
 
 "Well, 'twas a curious thing to say, and I don't know but it 
 was -wicked to talk out of the Bible, but it came to me and 
 came out of me before I knew it." 
 
 " What was it, Jenks ? I'm curious to know." 
 
 " Says I : * Great is Diany of the 'Phesians ! ' " 
 
 I laughed heartily, and told Jenks that in my opinion he 
 couldn't have done better. 
 
 "That wasn't all," said Jenks. "I said it more than forty 
 times. A fellow must say something when he gets full, and if 
 he doesn't swear, what is he going to do, I should like to know ? 
 So always -when I found myself running over, I said ' Great is 
 Diany of the 'Phesians,' and that's the way I spilt myself all 
 the way down." 
 
 It was a great comfort to me, on the eve of my departure, to 
 9* 
 
202 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 feel that the two lives which had been identified with my new 
 home, and had made it what it had been to me, were likely to 
 be spared for some years longer — spared, indeed, until I should 
 return to take up my permanent residence at The Mansion. 
 Mrs. Belden's presence, too, was reassuring. It helped to give 
 a look of permanence to a home which seemed more and more, 
 as the years went by, to be built of very few and frail materials. 
 I learned almost at once to identify her with my future, and to 
 associate her with all my plans for coming life. If my aunl 
 should die, I determined that Mrs. Belden should remain. 
 
 There was one fact which gave me surprise and annoyance, 
 viz., that both my father and Mr. Bradford regarded the four 
 years that lay immediately before me as the critical years of my 
 history. Whenever I met them, I found that my future was 
 much upon their minds, and that my experiences of the previ- 
 ous winter were not relied upon by either of them as sufficient 
 guards against the temptations to which I was about to be sub- 
 jected. They knew that for many reasons, growing out of the 
 softening influence of age and of apprehended helplessness on 
 the part of Mrs. Sanderson, she had become very indulgent to- 
 wards me, and had ceased to scan with her old closeness my 
 expenditures of money — that, indeed, she had a growing pride 
 in me and fondness for me which prompted her to give me all 
 the money that might be desirable in sustaining me in the po- 
 sition of a rich young gentleman. Even Mr. Bird came all the 
 way from Hillsborough to see his boys, as he called Henry and 
 myself. He, too, was anxious about me, and did not leave 
 me until he had pointed out the mistakes I should be likely to 
 make and exhorted me to prove myself a man, and to remember 
 what he and dear Mrs. Bird expected of me. 
 
 These things surprised and annoyed me, because they indi- 
 cated a solicitude which must have been based upon suspicions 
 of my weakness, yet these three men were all wise. What 
 could it mean ? I learned afterwards. They had seen enough 
 of life to know that when a young man meets the world, tempta- 
 tion comes to him, and always seeks and finds the point in his 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 203 
 
 character at which it may enter. They did not know where 
 that point was in me, but they knew it was somewheie, and 
 that my ready sympathy would be my betrayer, unless I should 
 be on my guard. 
 
 I spent an evening with Henry in my father's family, and 
 recognized, in the affectionate paternal eye that followed me 
 everj^vhere, the old love which knew no diminution. I believe 
 there was no great and good deed which my fond father did not 
 deem me capable of performing, and that he had hung the 
 sweetest and highest hopes of his life upon me. He was still 
 workmg from day to day to feed, shelter and clothe his depend- 
 ent flock, but he looked for his rewards not to them but to me. 
 The noble hfe which had been possible to him, under more 
 favorable circumstances, he expected to live in me. For this 
 he had sacrificed my society, and suffered the pain of witness- 
 ing the transfer of my affections and interests to another home. 
 
 On the day before that fixed for my departure, a note was 
 received at The Mansion inviting us all to spend the evening 
 at Mrs. Bradford's. The good lady in her note of invitation 
 stated that she should be most happy to see Mrs. Sanderson, 
 and though she hardly expected her to break her rule of not 
 leaving her house in the evening, she hoped that her new com- 
 panion, Mrs. Belden, would bear me company, and so make 
 the acquaintance of her neighbors. My aunt read the note to 
 Mrs. Belden, and said : " Of course I shall not go, and you 
 will act your own pleasure in the matter." Hoping that the 
 occasion would give me an opportunity to present my friend 
 and my sister to Mrs. Belden, I urged her to go with me, and 
 she at last consented to do so. 
 
 1 had strongly desired to see my friend Millie once more, and 
 was delighted with the opportunity thus offered. The day was 
 one of busy preparation, and Mrs. Belden was dressed and 
 ready to go when I came down from my toilet. As we walked 
 down the hill together toward Mr. Bradford's house, she said : 
 "Arthur, I have been into society so little during the last few 
 years that I feel very uneasy over this affair. Indeed, ever)/ 
 
204 Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 nerve in my body is trembling now." I laughed, and told her she 
 was going among people who would make her at home at once 
 — people whom she would soon learn to love and confide in. 
 
 I expected to see Henry and Clah-e, and I was not disap- 
 pointed. After greeting my hearty host and lovely hostess, and 
 presenting Mrs. Belden, I turned to Henry, who, with a strange 
 pallor upon his face, grasped and fairly ground my hand within 
 his own. He made the most distant of bows to the strange 
 lady at my side, who looked as ghost-like at the instant as him- 
 self. The thought instantaneously crossed my mind that he 
 had associated her with Mrs. Sanderson, against whom I knew 
 he entertained the most bitter dislike. He certainly could not 
 have appeared more displeased had he been compelled to a mo- 
 ment's courtesy toward the old lady herself. When Mrs. Bel- 
 den and Claire met, it was a different matter altogether. 
 There was a mutual and immediate recognition of sympathy 
 between them. Mrs. Belden held Claire's hand, and stood and 
 chatted with her until her self-possession returned. Henry 
 watched the pair with an absorbed and anxious look, as if he 
 expected his beloved was in some way to be poisoned by the 
 breath of her new acquaintance. 
 
 At last, in the general mingling of voices in conversation 
 and laughter, both Mrs. Belden and Henry regained their 
 usual manner ; and the fusion of the social elements present 
 became complete. As the little reunion was given to Henry 
 and myself, in token of interest in our departure, that departure 
 was the topic of the evening upon every tongue. We talked 
 about it while at our tea, and there were many sportive specu- 
 lations upon the possible transformations in character and 
 bearing which the next four years would effect in us. As we 
 came out of the tea-room I saw that Mrs. Belden and Claire 
 still clung to each other. After a while Henry joined them, 
 and I could see, as both looked up into his face with amused 
 interest, that he was making rapid amends for the coolness 
 with which he had greeted the stranger. Then Mr. Bradford 
 went and took Claire away, and Mrs. Belden and Henry sat 
 
Arthtcr Bonnicastle, 205 
 
 dc»wn by themselves and had a long talk together. All this 
 pleased me, and I did nothing to interfere with their tete-a-tete ; 
 and all this I saw from the corner to which Millie and I had 
 retired to have our farewell talk. 
 
 " What do you expect to make ? " said Millie, curiously, 
 continuing the drift of the previous conversation. 
 
 " I told Mrs. Sanderson, when I was a little fellow, that I 
 expected to make a man," I answered ; " and now please tell 
 me what you expect to make." 
 
 " A woman, I suppose," she replied, with a little sigh. 
 
 " You speak as if you were sad about it," I responded. 
 
 " I am." And she looked off as if reflecting upon the bitter 
 prospect. 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " Oh, men and women are so different from children," she 
 said. "One of these years you'll come back with grand airs, 
 and whiskers on your face, and you will find me grown up, 
 with a long dress on ; and I'm afraid I shan't like you as well 
 as I do now, and that you will like somebody a great deal bet- 
 ter than you do me." 
 
 " Perhaps we shall like one another a great deal better than 
 we do now," I said. 
 
 ''It's only a perhaps," she responded. "No, we shall be 
 new people then. Just think of my father being a little boy 
 once ! I presume I shouldn't have liked him half as well as I 
 do you. As likely as any way he was a plague and a pester." 
 
 " But we are growing into new people all the time," I said. 
 *' Your father was a young man when he was married, and now 
 lie is another man, but your mother is just as fond of him as 
 she ever was, isn't she? " 
 
 " Why, yes, that's a fact; I guess she is indeed ! She just 
 adores him, out and out." 
 
 " Well, then, what's to hinder other people from liking one 
 another right along, even if they are changing all the time ? " 
 
 " Nothing," she replied quickly. " I see it : I understand 
 
2o6 Arthur Bojinicastle. 
 
 There's something that does'n't change, isn't there? or some 
 thing that need' n't change : which is it? " 
 
 " Whatever it is, MilUe," I answered, " we will not let it 
 change. We'll make up our minds about it right here. When 
 I come back to stay, I will be Arthur Bonnicastle and you shaP 
 be Milhe "Bradford, just the same as now, and we'll sit and talk 
 in this corner just as we do now, and there shall be no Mister 
 and Miss between us." 
 
 Millie made no immediate response, but looked off again in 
 her wise way, as if searching for something that eluded and 
 puzzled her. I watched her admiringly while she paused. At 
 last a sudden flash came into her eyes, and she turned to me 
 and said : " Oh, Arthur! I've found it ! As true as you live, 
 I've found it ! " 
 
 " Found what, Millie ? " 
 
 "The thing that does'n't change, or need'n't change," she 
 replied. 
 
 "Well, what is it?" 
 
 "Why, it's everything. When I used to dress up my little 
 doll and make a grand lady of her, there was the same doll, 
 inside, after all ! Don't you see ? " 
 
 " Yes, I see." 
 
 " And you know how they are building a great church right 
 over the little one down on the corner, without moving a single 
 stone of the chapel. The people go to the big church every 
 Sunday, but all the preaching and singing are in the chapel. 
 Don't you see?" 
 
 "Yes, I see, Millie," I answered; "but I don't think I 
 should see it without your eyes to help me. I am to build a 
 man and you are to build a woman right over the boy and girl, 
 without touching the boy and girl at all ; and so, when we come 
 together again, we can walk right into the little chapel, and find 
 ourselves at home." 
 
 "Isn't that lovely !" exclaimed Millie. "I can see things, 
 and you can make things. I couldn't have said that — about 
 our going into the little chapel, you know." 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 207 
 
 "And I couldn't have Scaid it if you hadn't found the chapel 
 for me," I responded. 
 
 " Why, doesn't it seem as if we belonged together, and had 
 been separated in some way ? " 
 
 At this moment Mr. Bradford rose and came near us to get 
 a book. He smiled pleasantly upon us while we looked up to 
 him, pausing in our conversation. When he had gone back 
 and resumed his seat, Millie said : 
 
 " There's a big church over two chapels. He has a young 
 man in him and a boy besides. The boy plays with me and un- 
 derstands me, and the young man is dead in love with mamma, 
 and the old man takes care of us both, and does everything. 
 Isn't it splendid ! " 
 
 Ah, Millie ! I have heard many wise men and wise 
 women talk philosophy, but never one so wise as you ; and I 
 have never seen a young man whose growth had choked 
 and destroyed his childhood, or an old man whose youth had 
 died out of him, without thinking of our conversation that 
 night. The dolls are smothered in their clothes, and the little 
 chapels are fated to fall when the grand cathedral walls are fin- 
 ished. The one thing that need not change, the one thing that 
 should not change, the one thing which has the power to pre- 
 serve the sweetness of all youthful relations up to the change 
 of death, and, doubtless, beyond it, is childhood — the innocent, 
 playful, trusting, loyal, loving, hopeful childhood of the soul, 
 with all its illusions and romances and enjoyment of pure and 
 simple delights. 
 
 Millie and I talked of many things that evening, and partici- 
 pated very little in the general conversation which went on at 
 the other end of the drawing-room. I learned from her of the 
 plans already made for sending her away to school, and realized 
 with a degree of pain which I found difficult to explain to my- 
 self, that years were to pass before we should meet for such an 
 hour of unrestrained conversation again. 
 
 Before I bade the family farewell, Aunt Flick presented to 
 
2o8 Arthur Bomiicastle. 
 
 both Henry and myself a little box containing pins, needles, 
 buttons, thread, and all the appliances for making timely re- 
 pairs upon our clothing, in the absence of feminine friends. 
 Each box was a perfect treasure-house of convenience, and had 
 cost Aunt Flick the labor of many hours. 
 
 " Henry will use this box," said the donor, " but you " (ad- 
 dressing me) " will not." 
 
 " I pledge you my honor. Aunt Flick," I responded, " that 
 I will use and lose every pin in the box, and lend all the needles 
 and thread, and leave the cushions where they will be stolen, 
 and make your gift just as universally useful as I can." 
 
 This saucy speech set Millie into so hearty a laugh that the 
 whole company laughed in sympathy, and even Aunt Flick's face 
 relaxed as she remarked that she believed every word I had said. 
 
 It was delightful to me to see that while I had been engaged 
 with Millie, Mrs. Belden had quietly made her way with the 
 family, and that Henry, who had met her coldly and almost 
 rudely, had become so much interested in her that when the 
 time of parting came he was particularly warm and courteous 
 toward her. 
 
 The farewells and kind wishes were all said at last, and with 
 Mrs. Belden upon my arm I turned my steps toward The Man- 
 sion. The lady thought the Bradfords were delightful people, 
 that Henry seemed to be a young man of a good deal of in- 
 telligence and character, and that my sister Claire was lovely. 
 The opening chapter of her life in Bradford, she said, was the 
 most charming reading that she had found in any book for 
 many years ; and if the story should go on as it had begun she 
 should be more than satisfied. 
 
 I need not dwell upon my departure further. In the early 
 morning of the next day, Henry and I were on our way, with 
 the sweet memory of tearful eyes in our hearts, and with the 
 consciousness that good wishes and prayers were following us 
 as white birds follow departing ships far out to sea, and with 
 hopes that beckoned us on in every crested wave that leaped 
 before us and in every cloud that flew. 
 
CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 THE BEGINNING OF COLLEGE LIFE 1 MEET PETER MULLENS, 
 
 GORDON LIVINGSTON, AND TEMPTATION. 
 
 The story of my college life occupies so large a space in my 
 memory, that in the attempt to write it within practicable 
 limits I find myself obliged to denude it of a thousand inter- 
 esting details, and to cling in my record to those persons and 
 incidents which were most directly concerned in shaping my 
 character, my course of life, and my destiny. 
 
 I entered upon this hfe panoplied with good resolutions and 
 worthy ambitions. I was determined to honor the expectations 
 of those who had trusted me, and to disappoint the fears of 
 those who had not. Especially was I determined to regain a 
 measure of the religious zeal and spiritual peace and satisfac- 
 tion which I had lost during the closing months of my stay in 
 Bradford. Henry and I talked the matter all over, and laid 
 our plans together. We agreed to stand by one another in all 
 emergencies — in sickness, in trouble, in danger — and to be 
 faithful critics and Mentors of each other. 
 
 Both of us won at once honorable positions in our class, and 
 the good opinion of our teachers, for we were thoroughly in 
 earnest and scrupulously industrious. Though a good deal of 
 society forced itself upon us, we were sufficient for each other, 
 and sought but Httle to extend the field of companionship. 
 
 We went at once into the weekly prayer-meeting held by the 
 religious students, thinking, that whatever other effect it might 
 have upon us, it would so thoroughly -declare our position that 
 all that was gross in the way of temptation would shun us. 
 Taking our religious stand early, we felt, too, that we should 
 have a better outlook upon, and a sounder and safer estimate 
 of, all those diversions and dissipations which never fail to come 
 
2IO ArtJmr Bonnicastle, 
 
 with subtle and specious temptation to large bodies of young 
 men deprived of the influences of home. 
 
 The eftect that we aimed at was secured. We were classed 
 at once among those to whom we belonged ; but, to me, I 
 cannot say that the classification was entirely satisfactory. I 
 did not find the brightest and most desirable companions 
 among those who attended the prayer-meetings. They were 
 shockingly common-place fellows, the most of them — par- 
 ticularly those most forward in engaging in the exercises. 
 There were a few shy-looking, attractive young men, who 
 said but little, took always the back seats, and conveyed 
 to me the impression that they had come in as a matter of 
 duty, to give their countenance to the gatherings, but without 
 a disposition to engage actively in the discussions and prayers. 
 At first their position seemed cowardly to me, but it was only 
 a few weeks before Henry and I belonged to their number. 
 The meetings seemed to be in the possession of a set of young 
 men who were preparing themselves for the Christian ministry, 
 and who looked upon the college prayer-meeting as a sort of 
 gymnasium, where they were to exercise and develop their 
 gifts. Accordingly, we were treated every week to a sort of 
 dress-parade of mediocrity. Two or three long-winded fel- 
 lows, who seemed to take the greatest delight in public 
 speech, assumed the leadership, and I may frankly say that 
 they possessed no power to do me good. It is possible that 
 the rest of us ought to have frowned upon their presumption, 
 and insisted on a more democratic division of duty and priv- 
 ilege ; but, in truth, there was something about them with which 
 we did not wish to come into contact. So we contented our- 
 selves with giving the honor to them, and cherishing the hope 
 that what they did would bring good to somebody. 
 
 Henry and I talked about the matter in our walks and times 
 of leisure, and the result was to disgust us with the semi-pro- 
 fessiona.1 wordiness of the meetings, as well as with the little 
 body of windy talkers who made those meetings so fruitless 
 and unattractive to us. We found ourselves driven in at lengtJi 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 211 
 
 upon our own resources, and became content with our daily 
 prayer together. This was our old habit at The Bird's Nest, 
 and to me, for many months, it was a tower of strength. 
 
 Toward the close of our first term an incident occurred which 
 set me still more strongly against the set of young men to whom 
 I have made allusion. There was one of them who had been 
 more offensive than all the rest. His name was Peter Mullens. 
 He was an unwholesome-looking fellow, who wore clothes that 
 never seemed as if they were made for him, and whose false shirt- 
 bosom neither fitted him nor appeared clean. There was a 
 rumpled, shabby look about his whole person. His small, cun- 
 ning eyes were covered by a pair of glasses which I am sure he 
 wore for ornament, while his hair was combed back straight 
 over his head, to show all the forehead he possessed, though it 
 was not at all imposing in its height and breadth. I had made 
 no inquiries into his history, for he was uninteresting to me in 
 the last degree. 
 
 One evening, just before bedtime, he knocked at our door and 
 entered. He had never done this before, and as he seemed to 
 be in unusually good spirits, and to come in with an air of good- 
 fellowship and familiarity, both Henry and myself regarded his 
 call with a sort of questioning surprise. After the utterance cf 
 a few commonplace remarks about the weather, and the very 
 interesting meetings they were having, he explained that he 
 had called to inquire why it was that we had forsaken the prayer- 
 meetings. 
 
 Henry told him at once, and frankly, that it was because he 
 was not interested in them, and because he felt that he could 
 spend his time better. 
 
 Still more frankly, and with less discretion, I told him that 
 the meetings seemed to be in the hands of a set of muffs, who 
 knew very little and assumed to know everything. 
 
 '' The trouble with you fellows," responded Mr. Peter Mul- 
 lens, " is that you are proud, and will not humble yourselves 
 to learn. If you felt the responsibility of those of us who are 
 fitting for the ministry, you would look upon the matter in a very 
 
212 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 different way. We have begun our work, and we shall cany it 
 on, whether men will hear or forbear." 
 
 " Is it any of your business whether they hear or forbear ? " 
 said I, touchily : " because, if it is, Henry and I will sweep the 
 floor and get down on our knees to you." 
 
 ''It is my business to do my duty, in the face of all the 
 taunts and ridicule which you may heap upon me," replied Mr. 
 Mullens, loftily. 
 
 "Excuse me, Mr. Mullens," I said, "but it seems to me that 
 fellows of your sort thrive on taunts and ridicule. Don't you 
 rather like them now ? " 
 
 Mr. Mullens smiled a sad, pitying smile, and said that no one 
 who did his duty could hope to live a life of gratified pride or of 
 ease. 
 
 " Mr. Mullens," said Henry, " I suppose that so far as you 
 know your own motives, those which led you here were good ; 
 but lest you should be tempted to repeat your visit, let me say 
 that I relieve you of all responsibility for my future conduct. 
 You have done me all the good that you can possibly do me, 
 except in one way." 
 
 "What is that ? " inquired Mullens. 
 
 " By carefully keeping out of this room, and out of my sight," 
 responded Henry. 
 
 " Henry has expressed my feelings exactly," I added ; "and 
 now I think there is a fair understanding of the matter, and we 
 can feel ourselves at liberty to change the conversation." 
 
 Mullens sat a moment in thought, then he adjusted his spec- 
 tacles, tucked down his false shirt-bosom, which always looked 
 as if it were blown up and needed pricking, and turning to me, 
 said with an air of cunning triumph : " Bonnicastle, I believe 
 you are one of us." 
 
 "What do you mean ?" I inquired. 
 
 " Why, one of us that have aid, you know — what they call 
 charity students." 
 
 " Charity students ! " I exclaimed in astonishment. 
 
 " Oh, I've found it out. You are luckier than the rest of us, 
 
Arthur Bonntcastle. 213 
 
 for you have no end of money. I wish you could manage in 
 some way to get the old woman to help me, for I really need 
 more aid than I have. I don't suppose she would feel a gift of 
 fifty dollars any more than she would one of fifty cents. So 
 small a sum as ten dollars would do me a great deal of good, 
 or even five." 
 
 "How would you like some old clothes?" inquired Henry, 
 with a quiet but contemptuous smile. 
 
 " That is really what I would like to speak about," said Mr. 
 Mullens. "You fellows who have plenty of money throw away 
 your clothes when they are only a little worn ; and when you 
 have any to give away, you would oblige me very much by re- 
 membering me. I have no new clothes myself. I take the 
 crumbs that fall." 
 
 "And that reminds me," resumed Henry, "that perhaps 
 you might like some cold victuals." 
 
 " No, I'm provided for, so far as board and lodging are con- 
 cerned," responded Mr. Mullens, entirely unconscious of the 
 irony of which he was the subject. 
 
 Henry turned to me with a hopeless look, as if he had 
 sounded himself in vain to find words which would express his 
 contempt for the booby before him. As for myself, I had been 
 so taken off my guard, so shamed with the thought that he and 
 his confreres regarded me as belonging to their number, so dis- 
 gusted with the fellow's greed and lack of sensibility, and so 
 angry at his presumption, that I could not trust myself to 
 speak at all. I suspected that if I should begin to express my 
 feelings I should end by kicking him out of the room. 
 
 Henry looked at him for a moment, in a sort of dumb won- 
 der, and then said ; " Peter Mullens, what do you suppose I 
 think of you ? " 
 
 There was something in the flash of Henry's eye and in the 
 tone of his voice, as he uttered this question, that brought 
 Mullens to his feet in an impulse to retire. 
 
 " Sit down," said Henry. 
 
 Mr. Mullens sat down with his hat between his knees, and 
 
214 Arthur Bo7inicastle, 
 
 mumbled something about having stayed longer than he in* 
 tended. 
 
 "You cannot go yet," Henry continued. "You came in 
 here to lecture us, and to humiliate one of us ; and now I pro. 
 pose to tell you what I think of you. There is not the first 
 element of a gentleman in you. You came in here as a bully 
 in the name of religion, you advertise yourself as a sneak by 
 boasting that you have been prying into other people's affairs, 
 and you end by begging old clothes of those who have too 
 much self-respect to kick you for your impudence and your 
 impertinence. Do you suppose that such a puppy as you are 
 can ever prepare for the ministry ? " 
 
 I think that this was probably the first time Peter Mullens 
 had ever heard the plain truth in regard to himself He was 
 very much astonished, for his slow apprehension had at last 
 grasped the conclusions that he was heartily despised and that 
 he was in strong hands. 
 
 " I — really — really — beg your pardon, gentlemen," said Mr. 
 Mullens, ramming down his rising shirt-bosom, and wiping his 
 hat with his sleeve ; " 1 meant no offense, but really — I — I — 
 must justify myself for asking for aid. I have given myself to 
 the church, gentlemen, and the laborer is worthy of his hire. 
 What more can I do than to give myself? The church wants 
 men. The church must have men ; and she owes it to them 
 to see that they are taken care of If she neglects her duty 
 she must be reminded of it. If I am wiUing to take up with 
 old clothes she ought not to complain." 
 
 Mr. Mullens paused with a vocal inflection that indicated a 
 deeply wounded heart, rammed down his shirt-bosom again, 
 and looked to Henry for a response. 
 
 " There is one thing, Mr. Mullens," said Henry, " that the 
 church has no right to ask you to give up ; one thing which 
 you have no right to give up ; and one thing which, if given 
 up, leaves you as worthless to the church as despicable in 
 yourself, and that is nianhood ; and I know of nothing that 
 kills manhood quicker than a perfectly willing dependence on 
 
Artlmr Bonnicastle, 215 
 
 others. You are beginning life as a beggar. You justify your- 
 self in beggary, and it takes no prophet to foresee that you will 
 end life as a beggar. Once down where you are willing to sell 
 yourself and take your daily dole at the hand of your purchaser, 
 and you are forever down." 
 
 "But what can I do ? " inquired Mullens. 
 
 '^ You can do what I do, and what thousands of your betters 
 are doing all the time — work and take care of yourself," re- 
 plied Henry. 
 
 " But the time — ^just think of the time that would be lost to 
 the cause." 
 
 "I am not very old," responded Henry, "but I am old 
 enough to know that the time which independence costs is 
 never wasted. A man who takes fifteen years to prepare 
 himself for life is twice the man, when prepared, that he is who 
 only takes ten ; and the best part of his education is that which 
 he gets in the struggle to maintain his own independence. I 
 have an unutterable contempt for this whole charity business, 
 as it is applied to the education of young men. A man who 
 has not pluck and persistence enough to get his own education 
 is not worth educating at all. It is a demoralizing process, and 
 you, Mr. Peter Mullens, in a veiy small way, are one of its 
 victims." 
 
 Henry had been so thoroughly absorbed during these last 
 utterances that he had not once looked at me. I doubt, 
 indeed, whether he was conscious of my presence ; but as he 
 closed his sentence he turned to me, and was evidently pained 
 and surprised at the expression upon my face. With a quick 
 instinct he saw how readily I had applied his words to myself, 
 and, once more addressing Mullens, said : " When a childless 
 woman adopts a relative as a member of her family, and makes 
 him her own, and a sharer in her love and fortune, it may be 
 well or ill for him, but it is none of your business, and makes 
 him no fellow of yours. And now, Mr. Mullens, if you wish 
 to go, you are at liberty to do so. If I ever have any old 
 clothes I shall certainly remember you." 
 
2i6 Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 " I should really be very much obliged to you," said Mr. 
 Mullens, '* and " (turning to me) " if you should happen to be 
 writing to your aunt — " 
 
 "For Heaven's sake, Mullens," exclaimed Henry, "go 
 now," and then, overwhelmed with the comical aspect of the 
 matter, we both burst into a laugh that was simply irresistible. 
 Mullens adjusted his spectacles with a dazed look upon his face, 
 brushed back his hair, rammed down his shirt-bosom, buttoned 
 his coat, and very soberly bade us a good-evening. 
 
 Under ordinary circumstances we should have found 
 abundant food for merriment between ourselves after the man's 
 departure, but Henry, under the impression that he had unin- 
 tentionally wounded me, felt that nothing was to be gained by 
 recalling and explaining his words, and I was too sore to risk 
 the danger of further allusion to the subject. By revealing my 
 position and relations to Mullens, Henry had sought, in the 
 kindest way, to place me at my ease, and had done all that he 
 had the power to do to restore my self-complacency. So the 
 moment Mullens left the room some other subject was broached, 
 and in half an hour both of us were in bed, and Henry was 
 sound asleep. 
 
 I was glad in my consciousness to be alone, for I had many 
 things to think of. There was one reason for the omission of 
 all comment upon our visitor and our conversation, so far as 
 Henry was concerned, which, with a quick insight, I detected. 
 He had, in his anxiety to comfort me, spoken of me as a rel- 
 ative of Mrs. Sanderson. He had thus revealed to me the 
 possession of knowledge which I had never conveyed to him. 
 It certainly had not reached him from Mrs. Sanderson, nor had 
 he gathered it from Claire, or my father's family ; for I had 
 never breathed a word to them of the secret which my aunt had 
 permitted me to discover. He must have learned it from the 
 Bradfords, with whom he had maintained great intimacy. I had 
 long been aware of the fact that he was carrying on a secret life 
 into which I had never been permitted to look. I should not 
 have cared for this had I not been suspicious that I was in some 
 
Arthur Bomiicastle. 217 
 
 way concerned with it. I knew that he did not like my rela- 
 tions to Mrs. Sanderson, ?.nd that he did not wish to speak of 
 them. I had learned to refrain from all mention of her name ; 
 but he had talked with somebody about her and about me, and 
 had learned one thing, at least, which my own father did not 
 know. 
 
 All this, Jiowever, was a small vexation compared with the 
 revelation of the influence which my position would naturally 
 exert upon my character. However deeply it might wound 
 my self-love, I knew that I was under the same influence which 
 made Mr. Peter Mullens so contemptible a person. He was a 
 willing dependent upon strangers, and was not I ? This de- 
 pendence was sapping my own manhood as it had already de- 
 stroyed his. If Mullens had come to me alone, and claimed 
 fellowship with me, — if Henry had not been near me in his 
 quiet and self-respectful independence to put him down, — 1 felt 
 that there would have been no part for me to play except that 
 of the coward or the bully. I had no ground on which to stand 
 for self-defense. Mr. Peter Mullens would have been master 
 of the situation. The thought galled me to the quick. 
 
 It was in vain that I remembered that I was an irresponsible 
 child when this dependence began. It was in vain that I as- 
 sured myself that I was no beggar. The fact remained that I 
 had been purchased and paid for, and that, by the subtly de- 
 moralizing influence of dependence, I had been so weakened 
 that I shrank from assuming the responsibility of my own life. 
 I clung to the gold that came with the asking. I clung to the 
 delights that only the gold could buy. I shuddered at the 
 thought of taking myself and my fortunes upon my own hands, 
 and I knew by that fact that something manly had sickened or 
 died in me. 
 
 I do not know how long I lay revolving these things in my 
 mind. It was certainly far into the night ; and when I woke in 
 the morning I found my heart discontented and bitter. I had 
 regarded myself as a gentleman. I had borne myself with a 
 considerable degree of exclusiveness. I had not cared for rec- 
 30 
 
2x8 A rth 2L r Bon n u as tie, 
 
 ognition. FTavi'ng determined to do my work well, and to seek 
 no man's company as a thing necessary to fix my social status, 
 1 had gone on quietly and self-respectfully. Now 1 was to go 
 out and meet the anger of Peter Mullens and his tribe. I ^vas 
 to be regarded and spoken of by them as a very unworthy 
 member of their own order. My history had been ascertained, 
 and would be reported to all who knew me. 
 
 All these reflections and suggestions may seem very foolisli 
 and morbid to the reader, but they were distressing to me be- 
 yond my power of telling. I was young, sensitive, proud, and 
 self-loving, and though I prayed for help to enable me to face 
 my fellows, and so to manage my life as to escape the harm 
 which my position threatened to inflict upon me, I could not 
 escape the conviction that Peter Mullens and I were, essenti- 
 ally, on the same ground. 
 
 Up to this time I had looked for temptations in vain. No 
 temptations to dissipation had presented themselves. I was 
 sure that no enticement to sensuality or gross vice would have 
 power to move me. Steady employment and daily fatigue held 
 in check my animal spirits, and all my life had gone on safely 
 and smoothly. The daily pra3'"er had brought me back from 
 every heart-wandering, had sweetened and elevated all my 
 desires, had strengthened me for my work, and given me some- 
 thing of the old peace. Away from Henry, I had found but 
 little sympathetic Christian society, but I had been entirely at 
 home and satisfied with him. Now I found that it required 
 courage to face the little world around me ; and almost uncon- 
 sciously I began the work of making acquaintances with the 
 better class of students. Although I had held myself apart 
 from others, there were two or three, similarly exclusive, whom 
 I had entertained a private desire to know. One of these was 
 a New Yorker, Mr. Gordon Livingston by name. He had the 
 reputation of belonging to a family of great wealth and splen- 
 did connections, and although his standing as a student was not 
 the best, it was regarded as an honor to know him and the lit- 
 tle set to which he belonged. I was aware that the morality of 
 
Arthur Bojtntcastle, 219 
 
 the man and his immediate companions was not much believed 
 in, and I knew, too, that the mean envy and jealousy of many 
 students would account for this. At any rate, I was in a mood, 
 after my interview with Mr. Mullens, to regard him very chari- 
 tably, and to wish that I might be so far recognized by him and 
 received into his set as to advertise to Mullens and his clique 
 my social removal from them. I determined to brace myself 
 around with aristocratic associations. I had the means in my 
 hands for this work. I could dress with the best. I had per- 
 sonal advantages of which I need not boast here, but which I 
 was conscious would commend me to them. I had no inten- 
 tion to cast in my life with them, but I determined to lose no 
 good opportunity to gain their recognition. 
 
 One evening, walking alone, outside the limits of the town — 
 for in my morbid mood I had taken to solitary wanderings, — I 
 fell in with Livingston, also alone. We had approached each 
 other from opposite directions, and met at the corners of the 
 road that led to the city, toward which we were returning. We 
 walked side by side, with only the road between us, for a few 
 yards, when, to my surprise, he crossed over, saying as he ap- 
 proached me : "Hullo, Mr. Bonnicastle ! What's the use of 
 two good-looking fellows like us walking alone when they can 
 have company ? " 
 
 As he came up I gave him my hand, and called him by 
 name. 
 
 " So you've known me, as I have known you," he said cor- 
 dially. "It's a little singular that we haven't been thrown to- 
 gether before, for I fancy you belong to our kind of fellows." 
 
 I expressed freely the pleasure I felt in meeting him, and told 
 him how glad I should be to make the acquaintance of his 
 friends ; and we passed the time occupied in reaching the col- 
 lege in conversation that was very pleasant to me. 
 
 Livingston was older than I, and was two classes in advance 
 of me. He was therefore in a position to patronize and pet me 
 — a position which he thoroughly understood and appreciated. 
 In his manner he had that quiet self-assurance and command 
 
-2 20 Arthur Boiinicastle, 
 
 that only come from life -long fimiliarity with good society, 
 and the consciousness of unquestioned social position. He 
 had no youth of poverty to look back upon. He had no asso- 
 ciations with mean conditions and circumstances. With an 
 attractive face and figure, a hearty manner, a dress at once 
 faultlessly tasteful and unobtrusive, and with all the prestige of 
 wealth and family, there were few young fellows in college 
 whose notice would so greatly flatter a novice as his. The men 
 who spoke against him and affected contempt for him would 
 have accepted attention from him as an honor. 
 
 Livingston had undoubtedly heard my story, but he did not 
 sympathize with the views of Mr. Peter Mullens and his friends 
 concerning it. He found me as well dressed as himself, quite 
 as exclusive in my associations, liked my looks and manners, 
 and, with all the respect for money natural to his class, con- 
 cluded that I belonged to him and his set. In the mood of 
 mind in which I found myself at meeting him, it can readily be 
 imagined that his recognition and his assurance of friendliness 
 and fellowship brought me great relief. 
 
 As we entered the town, and took our way across the green, 
 he became more cordial, and pulled my arm within his own. 
 We were walking in this way when we met Mr. Mullens and a 
 knot of his fellows standing near the path. It was already 
 twilight, and they did not recognize us until we were near 
 them. Then they paused, in what seemed to have been an 
 excited conversation, and stared at us with silent impertinence. 
 
 Livingston hugged my arm and said coolly and distinctly : 
 " By the way, speaking of mules, have you ever familiarized 
 yourself with the natural history of the ass ? I assure you it is 
 very interesting — his length of ear, his food of thistles, his 
 patience under insult, the toughness of his hide — in short — " 
 "Ry this time we were beyond their hearing and he paused. 
 
 I gave a scared laugh which the group must also have heard, 
 and said : " Well that was cool, any way." 
 
 "You see," said Livingston, "I wanted to have them un« 
 derstand that we had been improving our minds, by devo- 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 221 
 
 tion to scientific subjects. They were bound to hear what we 
 said and I wanted to leave a good impression." 
 
 The cool impudence of the performance took me by surprise, 
 but, on the whole, it pleased me. It was a deed that I never 
 could have done myself, and I was astonished to find that there 
 was something in it that gratified a spirit of resentment of 
 which I had been the unconscious possessor. The utter indif- 
 ference of the man to their spite was an attainment altogether 
 beyond me, and I could not help admiring it. 
 
 Livingston accompanied me to my room, but we parted at 
 the door, although I begged the privilege of taking him in and 
 making him acquainted with my chum. He left me with an 
 invitation to call upon him at my convenience, and I entered 
 my room in a much lighter mood than that which drove me 
 out from it. I did not tell Henry at once of my new acquaint- 
 ance, for I was not at all sure that he would be pleased with 
 the information. Indeed, I knew he would not be, for he was 
 a fair measurer of personal values, and held Livingston and 
 Mullens in nearly equal dislike. Still I took a strange comfort 
 in the thought that I had entered the topmost clique, and that 
 Mullens, the man who had determined to bring me to his own 
 level, had seen me arm-in-arm with one of the most exclusive 
 and aristocratic fellows in the college. 
 
 And now, lest the reader should suppose that Henry had a 
 knowledge of Livingston's immorality of character which justi- 
 fied his dislike of him, I ought to say at once that he was not a 
 bad man, so far as I was able to learn. If he indulged in im- 
 moral practices with those of his own age, he never led me 
 into them. I came to be on familiar terms with him and them. 
 I was younger than most of them, and was petted by them. 
 My purse was as free as theirs on all social occasions, and I 
 was never made to feel that I was in any way their inferior. 
 
 Henry was a worker who had his own fortune to make, and 
 he proposed to make it. He was conscious that the whole 
 clique of which Livingston was a member held nothing in com- 
 mon with him, and that they considered him to be socially be- 
 
222 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 neath them. He knew they were not actuated by manly aims, 
 and that they had no sympathy with those who were thus act- 
 uated. They studied no more than was necessary to avoid 
 disgrace. They intended to have an easy time. They were 
 thoroughly good-natured among themselves, laughed freely 
 about professors and tutors, took a very superficial view of life, 
 and seemed to regard the college as a mill through which it was 
 necessary to pass, or a waiting-place in which it was considered 
 the proper thing to stop until their beards should mature. 
 
 The society of these men had no bad effect upon me, or 
 none perceptible to myself for a long time. Braced by them 
 as I was, Mr. Mullens made no headway against me ; and I 
 came at last to feel that my position was secure. With the 
 corrective of Henr/s society and example, and with the habit 
 of daily devotion unimpaired, I went on for months with a 
 measurable degree of satisfaction to myself Still I was con- 
 scious of a gradually lowering tone of feeling. By listening to 
 the utterance of careless words and worldly sentiments from 
 my new companions, I came to look leniently upon many 
 things and u])on many men once abhorrent to me. Uncon- 
 sciously at the time, I tried to bring my Christianity into a com- 
 promise with worldliness, and to sacrifice my scruples of con- 
 science to what seemed to be the demands of social usage. I 
 had found the temptation for which I had sought so long, and 
 which had so long sought without finding me, but alas ! I did 
 not recognize it when it came. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MY FIRST VISIT TO NEW YORK, AND MY FIRST GLASS OF WINE. 
 
 Relying upon my new associations for the preservation of 
 my social position, now that my history had become known in 
 the college, it was necessary for me to be seen occasionally 
 with the set to which I had been admitted and welcomed. 
 This api:)arent necessity not unfrequently led me to their rooms, 
 in which there were occasional gatherings of the fellows, and 
 in one or two of which a surreptitious bottle of wine was in- 
 dulged in. Of the wine I steadily refused to be a partaker, 
 and it was never urged upon me but once, when Livingston 
 interposed, and said I should act my own pleasure. This made 
 the attempt to carry on my double life easier, and saved me 
 from being scared away from it. There was no carousing and 
 no drunkenness — nothing to offend, in those modest symposia 
 — and they came at last to wear a very harmless look to me, 
 associated as they were with good fellowship and hospitality. 
 
 Walking one day with Livingston, who fancied me and liked 
 to have me with him, he said : " Bonnicastle, you ought to see 
 more of the world. You've been cooped up all your life, and 
 are as innocent as a chicken." 
 
 " You wouldn't have me anything but innocent would you ?" 
 I said laughing. 
 
 " Not a bit of it. I like a clean fellow like you, but you 
 must see something, some time." 
 
 *' There'll be time enough for that when I get through study," 
 I responded. 
 
 *' Yes, I suppose so," he said, "but, my boy, I've taken it 
 into my head to introduce you to New York life. I would 
 like to show you my mother and sisters and my five hundred 
 
2 24 Arthzir Bonnicastle, 
 
 friends. I want to have you see where 1 Hve and how I live, 
 and get a taste of my sort of Ufe. Bradford and your aunt are all 
 very well, I dare say, but they are a little old-fashioned, I fancy. 
 Come, now, don't they bore you?" 
 
 " No, they don't," I replied heartily. " The best friends I have 
 in the world are in Bradford, and I am more anxious to please 
 and satisfy them than I can tell you. They are very fond of 
 me, and that goes a great way with such a fellow as I am." 
 
 " Oh, I understand that," said Livingston, " but I am fond 
 of you too, and, what's more, you must go home with me next 
 Christmas, for I shall leave college when another summer 
 comes, and that will be the last of me, so far as you are con- 
 cerned. Now you must make that little arrangement with your 
 aunt. You can tell her what a splendid fellow I am, and 
 humbug the old lady in any harmless way you choose; but the 
 thing must be done." 
 
 The project, to tell the truth, set my heart bounding with a 
 keen anticipation of delight. Livingston was the first New 
 York friend I had made who seemed to be worth the making. 
 To be received into his family and introduced to the acquaint- 
 ance of his friends seemed to me to be the best opportunity 
 possible for seeing the city on its better side. I was sure that 
 he would not willingly lead me into wrong-doing. Lie had 
 always forborne any criticism of my conscientious scruples. 
 So I set myself at work to win Mrs. Sanderson's consent to the 
 visit. She had become increasingly fond of me, and greedy 
 of my pfesence and society with her increasing age, and I knew 
 it would be an act of self-denial for her to grant my request. 
 However, under my eloquent representations of the desirable- 
 ness of the visit, on social grounds, she was persuaded, and I 
 had the pleasure of reporting her consent to Livingston. 
 . I pass over the events of the swift months that made up the 
 record of my first year and of the second autumn of my col- 
 lege life, mentioning only the facts that I maintained a respect- 
 able position in my class without excellence, and that I visited 
 home twice. Everything went on well in my aunt's family. 
 
Arthtir Bonnicastle, 225 
 
 She retained the health she had regained; and Mrs. Belden 
 had become, as her helper and companion, everything she had 
 anticipated. She had taken upon herself much of the work I 
 had learned to do, and, so far as I could see, the family life was 
 harmonious and happy. 
 
 My vanity was piqued by the reflection that Henry had 
 achieved better progress than I, and was much more generally 
 respected. He had gradually made himself a social center 
 without the effort to do so, and had pushed his way by sterling 
 work and worth. Nothing of this, however, was known in 
 Bradford, and we were received with equal consideration by all 
 our friends. 
 
 For months the projected holiday visit to New York had 
 shone before me as a glittering goal ; and when at last, on a 
 sparkling December morning, I found myself with Livingston 
 dashing over the blue waters of the Sound toward the great 
 city, my heart bounded with pleasure. Had I been a winged 
 spirit, about to explore a new star, I could not have felt more 
 buoyantly expectant. Livingston was as delighted as myself, 
 for he was sympathetic with me, and anticipated great enjoy- 
 ment in being the cup-bearer at this new feast of my life. 
 
 We passed Hellgate, we slid by the sunny islands, we ap- 
 proached the gray-blue cloud pierced by a hundred shadowy 
 spires under which the city lay. Steamers pushed here and 
 there, forests of masts bristled in the distance, asthmatic little 
 tugs were towing great ships seaward, ferry-boats crowded with 
 men reeled out from their docks and flew in every direction, 
 and a weather-beaten, black ship, crowded with immigrants, 
 cheered us as we rushed by them. As far as the eye could see, 
 down the river and out upon the bay, all was life, large and 
 abounding. My heart swelled within me as I gazed upon the 
 splendid spectacle, and in a moment, my past life and all that 
 was behind me were dwarfed and insignificant. 
 
 As we approached the wharf, we saw among the assemblage 
 of hacks and their drivers — drivers who with frantic whips en- 
 deavored to attract our attention — a plain, shining carriage, 
 10* 
 
2 26 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 with a coachman and footman in livery on the box. The men 
 saw us, and raised their hats. The footman jumped from his 
 place as we touched the wharf, and, relieved by him of our 
 satchels, we quietly walked through the boisterous crowd, en- 
 tered the coach, and slowly took our way along the busy streets. 
 To be thus shut in behind the cleanest of cut-glass, to recline 
 upon the most luxurious upholstery, to be taken care of and 
 shielded from all the roughness of that tumultuous out-door 
 world, to be lifted out of the harsh necessities that made that 
 world forbidding, to feel that I was a favored child of fortune, 
 filled me with a strange, selfish delight. It was like entering 
 upon the realization of a great, sweet dream. 
 
 Livingston watched my face with much secret pleasure, I do 
 not doubt, but he said little, except to point out to me the moie 
 notable edifices on the route. I was in a city of palaces — 
 warehouses that were the homes of mighty commerce and 
 dwelUngs that spoke of marvelous wealth. Beautiful women, 
 wrapped in costly furs, swept along the pavement, or peered 
 forth from the windows of carriages like our own ; shops were 
 in their holiday attire and crowded with every conceivable arti- 
 cle of luxury and taste, and the evidences of money, money, 
 money, pressed upon me from every side. My love of beauti- 
 ful things and of beautiful life — life relieved of all its homely 
 details and necessities — life that came through the thoughtful 
 and skillful ministry of others — life that commanded what it 
 wanted with the waving of a hand or the breathing of a word — 
 life that looked down upon all other life and looked up to none 
 — my love of this life, always in me, and more and more devel- 
 oped by the circumstances which surrounded me, was stimu- 
 lated and gratified beyond measure. 
 
 At length we drew up to a splendid house in a fashionable 
 quarter of the city. The footman opened the door in a twink- 
 ling, and we ran up the broad steps to a landing at which an 
 eager mother waited. Smothered with welcoming kisses fiom 
 her and his sisters, Livingston could not immediately present 
 me, and Mrs. Livingston saved him the trouble by calling ni} 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 227 
 
 name and taking my hand with a dignified cordiality which 
 charmed me. The daughters, three in number, were shyer, 
 but no less hearty in their greeting than their mother. Two of 
 them were young ladies, and the third was evidently a school- 
 girl who had come home to spend the holidays. 
 
 Livingston and I soon mounted to our room, but in the brief 
 moments of our pause in the library and our passage through 
 the hall my eyes had been busy, and had taken in by hurried 
 glances the beautiful appointments of my friend's home. It 
 was as charming as good taste could make it, with unlimited 
 wealth at command. The large mirrors, the exquisite paint- 
 ings, the luxurious furniture, the rich carvings, the objects of 
 art and vertu, gathered from all lands, and grouped with faultless 
 tact and judgment, the carpets into which the foot sank as into 
 a close-cropped lawn, the artistic forms of every article of ser- 
 vice and convenience, all combined to make an interior that 
 was essentially a poem. I had never before seen such a house, 
 and when I looked upon its graceful and gracious keepers, and 
 received their gentle courtesies, I went up-stairs with head and 
 heart and sense as truly intoxicated as if I had been mastered 
 by music, or eloquence, or song. 
 
 At the dinner-table, for which we made a careful toilet, all 
 these impressions were confirmed or heightened. The ladies 
 were exquisitely dressed, the service was the perfection of quiet 
 and thoughtful ceremony, the cooking was French, the china 
 and glass were objects of artistic study in their forms and deco- 
 rations, the choicest flowers gathered from a conservatory which 
 opened into the dining-room, breathed a delicate perfume, and 
 all the materials and ministries of the meal were wrapped in 
 an atmosphere of happy leisure. Livingston was evidently a 
 favorite and pet of the family, and as he had come back to his 
 home from another sphere and experience of life, the conver 
 sation was surrendered to him. Into this conversation he 
 adroitly drew me, and under the grateful excitements of the hour 
 I talked as I had never talked before. The ladies flattered me 
 by their attention and applause, and nothing occurred to 
 
228 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 dampen my spirits until, at the dessert, Mrs. Livingston begjjed 
 the pleasure of drinking a glass of wine with me. 
 
 Throughout the dinner I had declined the wine that had 
 been proffered with every course. It was quietly done, with 
 only a motion of the hand to indicate refusal, and I do not 
 think the family had noticed that I had not taken my wine with 
 themselves. Now the case was difterent. A lady whom I 
 honored, whom I desired to please, who was doing her best to 
 honor and please me — my friend's mother at her own table — 
 offered what she intended to be a special honor. My face 
 flamed with embarrassment, I stammered out some sort of 
 apology, and declined. 
 
 " Now, mother, you really must not do anything of that sort," 
 said Livingston, " unless you wish to drive Bonnicastle out of 
 the house. I meant to have told you. It's one of the things 
 I like in him, for it shows that he's clean and plucky." 
 
 "But only one little glass, you know — ^just a sip, to celebrate 
 the fact that we like one another," said Mrs. Livingston, with 
 an encouraging smile. 
 
 But I did not drink. Livingston still interposed, and, al- 
 though the family detected the disturbed condition of my feel- 
 ings, and did what they could to restore my equanimity, I felt that 
 my little scruple had been a discord in the music of the feast. 
 
 Mr. Livingston, the head of the house, had not yet shown 
 himself. His wife regretted his absence, or said she regretted 
 it, but he had some special reason for dining at his club that 
 day ; and I may as well say that that red-faced gentleman 
 seemed to have a special reason for dining at his club nearly 
 every day while I remained in New York, although he con- 
 sented to get boozy at his own table on Christmas. 
 
 We had delightful music in the evening, and my eyes were 
 feasted with pictures and statuary and the bric-a-brac gathered 
 in long foreign travel ; but when I retired for the night I was 
 in no mood for devotion, and I found myself quarreling with 
 the scruple which had prevented me from accepting the special 
 friendly courtesy of my hostess at dinner. 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 229 
 
 Wine seemed to be the natural attendant upon this high and 
 beautiful life. It was the most delicate and costly language in 
 which hospitality could speak. There were ladies before me, 
 old and young, who took it without a thought of wrong or of 
 harm. Was there any wrong or harm in it? Was my objection 
 to it born of a narrow education, or an austere view of life, or 
 of prejudices that were essentially vulgar? One thing I saw 
 very plainly, viz., that the practice of total abstinence in the 
 society and surroundings which I most courted would make me 
 uncomfortably singular, and, what was most distressing to me, 
 suggest the vulgar rusticity of my associations. 
 
 From my childhood wine and strong drink had been repre- 
 sented to me to be the very poison on which vice and immo- 
 rality lived and thrived. My father had a hatred of them which 
 no words could express. They were the devil's ow^n instnunents 
 for the destruction of the souls and lives of men. I was bred 
 to this belief and opinion. Mr. Bradford had warned me against 
 the temptation to drink, in whatever form it might present 
 itself. Mr. Bird was a sworn foe to all that had the power to 
 intoxicate. When I went away from home, it was with a de- 
 termination, entered into and confirmed upon my knees, that I 
 would neither taste nor handle the seductive draught which had 
 brought ruin to such multitudes of young men. 
 
 Yet I lay for hours that first night in my friend's home, while 
 he was quietly sleeping, debating the question whether, in the 
 new and unlooked-for circumstances in which I found myself, I 
 should yield my scruples, and thus bring myself into harmony 
 with the life that had so many charms for me. Then my im- 
 agination went forward into the beautiful possibilities of my fu- 
 ture life in The Mansion, with the grand old house refitted and 
 refurnished, with its service enlarged and refined, with a grace- 
 ful young figure occupying Mrs. Sanderson's place, and with all 
 the delights around me that eye and ear could covet, and taste 
 devise and gather. 
 
 In fancies like these I found my scruples fading away, and 
 those manly in>pulses and ambitions which had moved me 
 
230 Arthur Bo7iii{castle, 
 
 mightily at first, but which had stirred me less and less with the 
 advancing months, almost extinguished. I was less interested 
 in what I should do to make myself a man, with power and in- 
 fluence upon those around me, than with what I should enjoy. 
 One turn of the kaleidoscope had changed the vision from a 
 mass of plain and soberly tinted crystals to a galaxy of bril- 
 liants, wliich enchained and enchanted me. 
 
 I slid at last from fancies into dreams. Beautiful maidens 
 with yellow hair and sweeping robes moved through grand sa- 
 loons, pausing at harp and piano to flood the air with the rain 
 of heavenly music; stately dames bent to me with flattering 
 words ; groups in marble wreathed their snowy arms against a 
 background of flowering greenery ; gilded chandeliers blazed 
 through screens of prismatic crystal ; fountains sang and 
 splashed and sparkled, yet all the time there was a dread of 
 some lurking presence — some serpent that was about to leap 
 and grasp me in its coils — some gorgon that would show his 
 grinning head behind the forms of beauty that captivated my 
 senses — some impersonated terror that by the shake of its 
 finger or the utterance of a dreadful word would shatter the 
 beautiful world around me into fragments, or scorch it into 
 ashes. 
 
 I woke the next morning unrefreshed and unhappy. I woke 
 with that feeling of weariness which comes to every man who 
 tampers with his convictions, and feels that he has lost some- 
 thing that has been a cherished part of himself This feeling 
 wore away as I heard the roar of carriages through the streets, 
 and realized the novelty of the scenes around me. Livingston 
 was merry, and at the breakfast table, which was crowned with 
 flowers and Christmas gifts, the trials of the previous night were 
 all forgotten. 
 
 The Livingstons were Episcopalians — the one Protestant 
 sect which in those days made much of Christmas. We all 
 attended their church, and for the first time in my life I wit- 
 nessed its beautiful ritual. The music, prepared with great 
 care for the occasion, was more impressive than any I had 
 
Arthttr Bo7Z7ztcastle. 231 
 
 ever heard. My aesthetic nature was charmed. Everything 
 seemed to harmonize with the order and the appointments of 
 the house I had just left. And there was my stately hostess, 
 with her lovely daughters, kneeling and devoutly responding — 
 she who had offered and they who had drunk without offense 
 to their consciences the wine which I, no better than they, had 
 refused. They could be Christians and drink wine, and why 
 not I ? It must be all a matter of education.. High life could 
 be devoutly religious life, and reHgious life was not harmed by 
 wine. My conscience had received its salvo, and oh, pitiful, 
 recreant coward that I was, I was ready to be tempted ! 
 
 The Christmas dinner brought the temptation. Mr. Living- 
 ston was at home, and presided at his table. He had broached 
 a particularly old and choice bottle of wine for the occasion, 
 and would beg the pleasure of drinking with the young men. 
 And the young men drank with him, and both had the dishonor 
 of seeing him stupid and silly before he left the board. I did 
 not look at Mrs, Livingston during the dinner. I had refused to 
 drink with her the day before, and I had fallen from my resolu- 
 tion. The wine 1 drank did not go down to warm and stimu- 
 late the sources of my life, nor did it rise and spread confusion 
 through my brain, but it burned in my conscience as if a torch, 
 dipped in some liquid hell, had been tossed there. 
 
 It was a special occasion — this was what I whispered to my 
 conscience — this was the breath that I breathed a hundred 
 times into it to quench the hissing torture. It was a special 
 occasion. What was I, to stand before these lovely Christian 
 women with an assumption of superior virtue, and a rebuke of 
 their habits and indulgences ? I did not want the wine ; I 
 did not wish to drink again ; and thus the fire gradually died 
 awa3^ I was left, however, with the uncomfortable conscious- 
 ness that I had in no degree raised myself in the estimation of 
 the family. They had witnessed the sacrifice of a scruple and 
 an indication of my weakness. Livingston, I knew, felt sadly 
 about it. It had brought me nothing that I desired or expected. 
 
 The days between Christmas and New Year's were packed 
 
232 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 with a thousand pleasures. A party was gathered for us in 
 which I was presented to many beautiful girls and their stylish 
 brothers. We visited the theaters, we were invited everywhere, 
 and we often attended as many as two or three assemblies in 
 an evening. The days and nights were a continued round of 
 social pleasures, and we lived in a whirl of excitement. There 
 was no time for thought, and with me, at least, no desire for it. 
 But the time flew away until we waited only the excitements 
 of New Year's Day to close our vacation, and return to the 
 quiet life we had left under the elms of New Haven. That 
 day was a memorable one to me and demands a chapter for 
 its record. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 I GO OUT TO MAKE NEW YEAR's CALLS AND RETURN IN 
 DISGRACE. 
 
 New Year's morning dawned bright and cold. " A happy 
 New Year to you ! " shouted Livingston from his bed. The 
 call woke me from a heavy slumber into delightful anticipa- 
 tions, and the realization of a great joy in living, such as comes 
 only to youth — an exulting, "superabounding sense of vitality 
 that care and age never know. 
 
 We rose and dressed ourselves with scrupulous pains-taking 
 for calls. On descending to the breakfast-room, we found the 
 young ladies quite as excited as ourselves. They had prepared 
 a little book in which to keep a record of the calls they ex- 
 pected to receive during the day, for, according to the uni- 
 versal custom, they were to keep open house. The carriage 
 was to be at the disposal of my friend and myself, and we were 
 as ambitious concerning the amount of courtesy to be shown 
 as the young ladies were touching the amount to be received. 
 We intended, before bedtime, to present our New Year's greet- 
 ings to every lady we had met during the week. 
 
 Before we left the house, I saw what preparations had been 
 made for the hospitable reception of visitors. Among them 
 stood a row of wine bottles and decanters. The view sad- 
 dened me. Although I had not tasted wine since " the special 
 occasion," my conscience had not ceased to remind me, though 
 with weakened sting, that I had sacrificed a conscientious scru- 
 ple and broken a promise. I could in no way rid myself of 
 the sense of having been wounded, stained, impoverished. I 
 had ceased to be what I had been. I had engaged in no de- 
 bauch, I had developed no appetite, I was not in love with my 
 
234 Arthur Bo7inicastte, 
 
 sin. I could have heartily wished that wine were out of the 
 world. Yet I had consented to have my defenses broken into, 
 and there had been neither time nor practical disposition to 
 repair the breach. Not one prayer had I offered, or dared to 
 offer, during the week. My foolish act had shut out God and 
 extinguished the sense of his loving favor, and I had rushed 
 blindly through my pleasures from day to day, refusing to lis- 
 ten to the upbraidings of that faithful monitor which he had 
 placed within me. 
 
 At last, it was declared not too early to begin our visits. 
 Already several young gentlemen had shown themselves at the 
 Livingstons, and my friend and I sallied forth. The coachman, 
 waiting at the door, and thrashing his hands to keep them warm, 
 wished us "a happy New Year" as we appeared. 
 
 " The same to you/* responded Livingston, " and there'll be 
 another one to-night, if you serve us well to-day." 
 
 " Thankee, sir," said the coachman, smiling in anticipation 
 of the promised fee. 
 
 The footman took the list of calls to be made that Living- 
 ston had prepared, mounted to his seat, the ladies waved 
 their hands to us from the window, and we drove rapidly away. 
 
 " Bonnicastle, my boy," said Livingston, throwing his arm 
 around me as we rattled up the avenue, " this is new business 
 to you. Now don't do anything to-day that you will be sorry 
 for. Do you know, I cannot like what has happened ? You 
 have not been brought up like the rest of us, and )'Ou're all 
 right. Have your own way. It's nobody's business." 
 
 I knew, of course, exactly what he meant, but I do not know 
 what devil stirred within me the spirit of resentment. To be 
 cautioned and counseled by one who had never professed or 
 manifested any sense of religious obligation — by one above 
 whose moral plane I had fancied that I stood — made me half 
 angry. I had consciously fallen, and I felt miserably enough 
 about it, when I permitted myself to feel at all, but to be re- 
 minded of it by others vexed me to the quick, and rasped my 
 wretched pride. 
 
Arthur Bo7inicastle, 235 
 
 " Take care of yourself," I responded, sharply, " and don't 
 worry about me. I shall do as I please." 
 
 "It's the last tmie, old boy," said Livingston, biting his lip, 
 which quivered with pain and mortification. "It's the last 
 time. When I kiss a fellow and he spits in my face I nevei 
 do it again. Make yourself perfectly easy on that score." 
 
 Impulsively I grasped his hand and exclaimed: "Oh ! don't 
 say that. I beg your pardon. Let's not quarrel : I was a 
 fool and a great deal worse, to answer as I did." 
 
 "All right," said he; "but if you get into trouble, don't 
 blame me ; that's all." 
 
 At this, we drew up to a house to make our first call. It Was 
 a grand establishment. The ladies were beautifully dressed, 
 and very cordial, for Livingston was a favorite, and any young 
 man whom he introduced was sure of a welcome. I was flat- 
 tered and excited by the attention I received, and charmed by 
 the graceful manners of those who rendered it. House after 
 house we visited in the same way, uniformly declining all the 
 hospitalities of the table, on the ground that it was too early 
 to think of eating or drinking. 
 
 At last we began to grow hungry for our lunch, and at a 
 bountifully loaded table accepted an invitation to eat. Several 
 young fellows were standing around it, nibbling their sandwiches, 
 and sipping their wine. A glass was poured and handed to me 
 by a young lady with the toilet and manner of a princess. I 
 took it without looking at Livingston, held it for a while, then 
 tasted it, for I was thirsty ; then tasted again and again, until 
 my glass was empty. I was as unused to the stimulant as a 
 child ; and when I emerged into the open air my face was 
 aflame with its exciting poison. There was a troubled look on 
 Livingston's face, and I could not resist the feeling that he v/as 
 either angry or alarmed. My first experience was that of de- 
 pression. This was partly moral, I suppose ; but the sharp 
 air soon reduced the feverish sensation about my head and 
 eyes, and then a strange thrill of exhilaration passed through 
 
236 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 me. It was different from anything I had ever known, and I 
 was conscious, for the first time, of the charm of alcohol. 
 
 Then came the longing to taste again. I saw that I was in 
 no way disabled. On the contrary, I knew I had never been 
 so buoyant in spirits, or so brilliant in conversation. My im- 
 agination was excited. Everything presented to me its comi- 
 cal aspects, and there were ripples and roars of laughter where- 
 ever I went. After repeated glasses, I swallowed at one house 
 a draught of champagne. It was the first I had ever tasted, 
 and the cold, tingling fluid was all that was necessary to make 
 me noisy and hilarious. I rallied Livingston on his long face, 
 assured him that I had never seen a jolly fellow alter so rap- 
 idly as he had since morning, begged him to take something 
 that would warm him, and began to sing. 
 
 " Now, really you must be quiet in this house," said he, as 
 we drew up to an old-fashioned mansion in the suburbs. 
 " They are quiet people here, and are not used to noisy fellows." 
 
 " I'll wake 'em up," said I, " and make 'em jolly." 
 
 We entered the door. I was conscious of a singing in my 
 ears, and a sense of confusion. The warm air of the room 
 wrought in a few moments a change in my feelings, but I strug- 
 gled against it, and tried with pitiful efforts to command my- 
 self, and to appear the sober man I was not. There was a 
 little group around us near the windows, and at the other end 
 of the drawing-room — somewhat in shadow, for it was nearly 
 night — there was another. At length a tall man rose from this 
 latter group, and advanced toward the light. Immediately be- 
 hind him a )^oung girl, almost a woman in stature and bearing, 
 followed. The moment I could distinguish his form and feat- 
 ures and those of his companion, I rushed toward them, for- 
 getful for the instant that I had lost my self-control, and em- 
 braced them both. Then I undertook to present Mr. Bradford 
 and my friend Millie to Livingston. 
 
 It did not seem strange to me to find them in New York. 
 What foolish things I said to Mr. Bradford and what maudlin 
 words to Millie I do not know. Both carried grave faces. 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 237 
 
 Millie's eyes — for even through all that cloud of stupid insanity, 
 from this far point of distance I see them still — burned first 
 like fire, then filled with tears. 
 
 For what passed immediately after this, I am indebted to an* 
 other memory and not to my own. 
 
 After watching me and listening to me for a minute in silence, 
 Millie darted to the side of Livingston, and looking him fiercely 
 in the face, exclaimed : *' You are a wicked man. You ought 
 to be ashamed to let him do it. Oh ! he was so good and 
 so sweet when he went away from Bradford, and you have 
 spoiled him — you have spoiled him. I'll never forgive you, 
 never ! " 
 
 " Millie ! my daughter ! " exclaimed Mr. Bradford. 
 
 Millie threw herself upon a sofa, and burying her head in 
 the pillow, burst into hysterical tears. 
 
 Livingston turned to Mr. Bradford and said : " I give you 
 my word of honor, sir, that I have not drunk one drop o! 
 wine to-day. I have refrained from drinking entirely for his 
 sake, and your daughter's accusation is most unjust." 
 
 Mr. Bradford took the young man's hand cordially and said : 
 " I believe you, and you must pardon Millie. She is terribly 
 disappointed, and so am I. She supposed her friend had been 
 tempted by bad companions, and as you were with him, she at 
 once attributed the evil influence to you." 
 
 " On the contrary," responded Livingston, " no man has 
 tempted him at all, and no man could tempt him. None but 
 women who prate about their sufferings from drunken husbands 
 and brothers could have moved him from his determination. 
 I am ashamed to tell you who attacked his scruples first. It 
 was one who has reason enough, Heaven knows, to hate wine ; 
 but her efforts have been followed by scores of younger 
 women to-day, who have seemed to take delight in leading him 
 into a mad debauch." 
 
 Livingston spoke bitterly, and as he closed, Millie sprang 
 from the sofa, and seizing his hand, kissed it, and wet it with her 
 tears. 
 
238 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 " Please take him home, and be kind to him," she said. " I 
 am sine he will never do it again." 
 
 In the meantime, entirely overcome by the heat of the room, 
 acting upon nerves which had been stimulated beyond the 
 power of endurance, I had sunk helplessly into a chair, where 
 I stared stupidly upon the group, unable to comprehend a 
 word of the conversation. 
 
 Mr. Bradford took Livingston aside, and after some words of 
 private conversation, both approached me, and taking me by 
 my arms, led me from the house, and placed me in the car- 
 riage. The dusk had already descended, and I do not think 
 that I was observed, save by one or two strangers passing upon 
 the sidewalk. The seal of secrecy was placed upon the lips of 
 the household by the kind offices of Mr. Bradford, and the 
 story, so far as I know, was never told, save as it was afterward 
 told to me, and as I have told it in these pages. 
 
 The carriage was driven rapidly homeward. The house of 
 the Livingstons was upon a corner, so that a side entrance was 
 available for getting me to my room without public observa- 
 tion. The strong arms of Livingston and the footman bore 
 me to my chamber, removed my clothing, and j)laced me in 
 bed, where I sank at once into that heavy drunken slumber 
 from which there is no waking except that of torture. 
 
 The morning after New Year's was as bright as that which 
 preceded it, but it had no'brightness for me. The heart which 
 had leaped up into gladness as it greeted the New Year's dawn, 
 was a lump of lead. The head that was as clear as the sky it- 
 self on the previous morning, was dull and heavy with a strange, 
 throbbing pain. My mouth was dry and hot, and a languor 
 held me in possession from which it seemed impossible to rouse 
 myself Then all the mad doings of the day which had wit- 
 nessed my fall came back to me, and it seemed as if the slianie 
 of it all would kill me. Livingston brought me some cooling 
 and corrective draught, on the strength of which I rose. The 
 dizzy feeling was not entirely gone, and I reeled in a pitiful 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 239 
 
 way while dressing ; but cold water, a cool room, a,nd motion, 
 soon placed me in possession of myself. 
 
 "I can't go down to breakfast, Livingston," I said. "I 
 have disgraced you and all the family." 
 
 " Oh ! women forgive, my boy," said he, with a contemptuous 
 shrug. "Never you mind. If they don't like their own work, 
 let them do it better." 
 
 " But I can't face them," I said. 
 
 "Face them! Bah! it's they who are to face you. But 
 don't trouble yourself You'll find them as placid as a summer 
 morning, ignoring everything. They're used to it." 
 
 He insisted, and I descended to the breakfast room. Not 
 an allusion was made to the previous day's experiences, except 
 as a round of unalloyed pleasure. The young ladies had 
 received an enormous number of calls, and on the sideboard 
 stood a row of empty decanters. There was no thought of the 
 headaches and heart-burnings with which the city abounded, no 
 thought of suicidal habits begun or confirmed through their 
 agency, no thought of the drunkards they were nursing into 
 husbands. There sat the mother in her matronly dignity, dis- 
 pensing her fragrant cofFee, there were the young ladies chat- 
 tering over their list, and talking of this one and that one of 
 their callers, and there was I, a confused ruin of hopes and 
 purposes which clustered around a single central point of con- 
 sciousness and that point hot with shame and remorse. 
 
 We were to return on the afternoon boat that day, and I was 
 not sorry. I was quite ready to turn my back on all the splen- 
 dors that had so charmed me on my arrival, on all the new 
 acquaintances I had made, and on my temptations. 
 
 Special efforts w^ere made by Mrs. Livingston and her 
 daughters to reinstate me in my self-respect. They were cor- 
 dial in their expressions of friendship, begged that I would not " 
 forget them, invited me to visit them again and often, and 
 loaded me with all courteous and friendly attentions. Living- 
 ston was quiet and cold through it all. He had intended to 
 return me as good as he brought me, and had failed. He was 
 
240 ArtJnc7' Boimzcastle. 
 
 my senior, and had entertained a genuine respect for my con- 
 scientious scruples, over which, from the first moment I had 
 known him, he had assumed a sort of guardianship. He was 
 high-spirited, and as 1 had once rej^elled his cautioning care, I 
 knew I should hear no more from him. 
 
 "When we arrived at the boat, I went at once into the cabin, 
 sank into a chair, buried my face in my hands, and gave my- 
 self up to my sorrow and shame. I was glad that I should not 
 find Henry in my room on my return. He had been gone a 
 month when I left, for, through the necessities of self-support, 
 he had resumed his school duties in Bradford for the winter. 
 I thought of him in his daily work, and his nightly visits at my 
 father's house ; of the long conversations that would pass be- 
 tween him and those whom I loved best about one who had 
 proved himself unworthy of their regard ; of the shameful man- 
 ner in which I had betrayed the confidence of my beneflictress, 
 and the disgi-ace which I had brought upon myself in the eyes 
 of Mr. Bradford and Millie. It then occurred to me for the 
 first time that Mr. Bradford was on a New Year's visit to his 
 daughter, whom he had previously placed in a New York 
 school. How should I ever meet them again? How could 
 they ever forgive me ? How could I ever win their respect 
 and confidence again ? " O God ! O God ! " I said, in a whis- 
 per of anguish, " how can I ever come to Thee again, when I 
 knew in my inmost heart that I was disobeying and grieving 
 Thee ? " 
 
 I was conscious at this moment that steps approached me. 
 Then followed a light touch upon my shoulder. I looked up, 
 and saw Mr. Bradford. I had never before seen his counte- 
 nance so sad, and at the same time so severe. 
 
 "Don't reproach me," I said, lifting my hands in depreca- 
 tion, •■ don't reproach me : if you do, I shall die." 
 
 " Reproach )-ou, my boy ? " he said, drav/ing a chair to my 
 side while his lips quivered with s}Tnpathy, " there would be no 
 need of it if I were disposed to do so. Reproach for error be- 
 tween erring mortals is not becoming." 
 
Mr. Bradford and Arthur on the steamer, 
 
 (p. 240.) 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle. 241 
 
 " Do you suppose you can ever forgive me and trust me 
 again?" I asked. 
 
 " I forgive you and trust you now. I give you credit for 
 common-sense. You have proved, in your own experience, 
 the truth of all I have told you,, and 1 do not believe that you 
 need to learn anything further, except that one mistake and 
 misstep like yours need not ruin a life." 
 
 "Do you really think," said I, eagerly grasping his arm, 
 "that I can ever be again what I have been ? " 
 
 " Never again," he replied, sadly shaking his head. " The 
 bloom is gone from the fruit, but if you hate your folly with a 
 hatred which will forever banish it from your life, the fruit is 
 uninjured." 
 
 " And are they to know all this in Bradford ? " I asked. 
 
 " Never from me," he replied. 
 
 ** You are too kind to me," I said. " You have always been 
 kind." 
 
 "I don't know. I have intended to be kind, but if you are 
 ruined through the influence of Mrs. Sanderson's money I shall 
 curse the day on which I suggested the thought that brought 
 you under her patronage." 
 
 "Will you accept a pledge from me," I said eagerly, "in 
 regard to the future ? " 
 
 " No indeed, Arthur. No pledge coming from you to-day, 
 while you are half beside yourself with shame and sorrow, 
 would have the value of a straw. A promise can never redeem 
 a man who loses himself through lack of strength and principle. 
 A man who cannot be controlled by God's Word certainly 
 cannot be controlled by his own. It ^vill take wrecks for you 
 to arrive at a point where you can form a resolution that will 
 l^e of the slightest value, and, when you reach that point, no 
 resolution will be needed. Some influence has changed your 
 views of hfe and your objects. You have in some way been 
 shaken at your foundations. When these become sound again, 
 you will be restored to yourself, and not until then. You fan- 
 cied that the religious influences and experiences which we 
 11 
 
242 Arthtir Bomiicastle, 
 
 both remember had done much to strengthen you, but in truth 
 they did nothing. They interrupted, and, for the time, ruined 
 the processes of a rehgious education. You fancied that in a 
 day you had built what it takes a Hfetime to build, and you 
 were, owing to the reactions of that great excitement, and to 
 the confusion into which your thoughts and feelings were 
 thrown, weaker to resist temptation than 'when you returned 
 from The Bird's Nest. I saw it all then, just as plainly as I see 
 it now. I have discounted all this experience of yours — not 
 precisely this, but something like it. I knew you would be 
 tempted, and that into the joints of a harness too loosely knit 
 and fastened some arrow would find its way." 
 
 *' What am I to do ? What can I do ? " I said piteously. 
 
 " Become a child again," he responded. " Go back to the 
 simple faith and the simple obedience which you learned of 
 your father. Put away your pride and your love of that which 
 enervates and emasculates you, and try with God's help to grow 
 into a true man. I have had so many weaknesses and faults of 
 my own to look after, that I have never had the heart to under- 
 take the instruction of others ; but I feel a degree of responsi- 
 bility for you, and I know it is in you to become a man who 
 will bring joy to your father and pride to me." 
 
 " Oh ! do believe me, Mr. Bradford, do," I said, " when I 
 tell you that I will try to become the man you desire me to 
 be." 
 
 " I believe you," he responded. " I have no doubt that you 
 will try, in a weaker or stronger way and more or less persist- 
 ently, to restore yourself to your old footing. And now, as 
 you have forced a promise upon me, which I did not wish you 
 to make, you must accept one from me. I have taken you 
 into my heart. I took you into its warmest place when, years 
 ago, on our first acquaintance, you told me that you loved me. 
 And now I promise you that if I see that you cannot be what 
 you ought to be while retaining your present prospects of 
 wealth, I will put you to such a test as will prove whether you 
 have the manhood in you that I have given you the credit for, 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 243 
 
 and whether you are worth saving to yourself and youi 
 friends." 
 
 His last words wounded me. Nay, they did more — they 
 kindled my anger. Though grievously humiliated, my pride 
 was not dead. I questioned in my heart his right to speak so 
 strongly to me, and to declare his purpose to thrust himself 
 into my life in any contingency, but I covered my feeHngs, and 
 even thanked him in a feeble way for his frankness. Then I 
 inquired about Henry, and learned in what high respect he was 
 held in Bradford, how much my father and all his acquaintances 
 were delighted in him, and how prosperously his affairs were 
 going on. Even in his self-respectful poverty, I envied him — 
 a poverty through which he had manifested such sterling man- 
 hood as to win the hearts of all who came in contact with him. 
 
 *'I shall miss him more than I can tell you," I said, "when 
 I get back to my lonely room. No one can take his place, and 
 I need him now more than I ever did before." 
 
 " It is as well for you to be alone," said Mr. Bradford, " if 
 you are in earnest. There are some things in life that can only 
 be wrought out between a man and his God, and you have just 
 that thing in hand." 
 
 Our conversation was long, and touched many topics. Mr. 
 Bradford shook my hand heartily as we parted at the wharf, and 
 Livingston and I were soon in a carriage, whirling towards the 
 town. I entered my silent room with a sick and discouraged 
 feeling, with a sad presentiment of the struggle which its walls 
 woyld witness during the long winter months before me, and 
 with a terrible sense of the change through which I had passed 
 during the brief week of my absence. 
 
 And here, lest my reader be afflicted with useless anticipa- 
 tions of pain, I record the fact that wine never tempted me 
 again. One bite of the viper had sufficed. I had trampled 
 upon my conscience, and even that had changed to a viper 
 beneath my feet, and struck its fangs deep into the recoiling 
 flesh. From that day forward I forswore the indulgence of the 
 cup. While in college it was comparatively easy to do this, for 
 
244 Arthur Bonnicasile, 
 
 my habit wa,s known, and as no one but Livingston knew of 
 my fall, it was respected. I was rallied by some of the fellows 
 on my sleepy eyes and haggard looks, but none of them imag- 
 ined the cause, and the storm that had threatened to engulf me 
 blew over, and the waves around me grew calm again, — the 
 waves around me, but not the waves within. 
 
 For a whole week after I returned, I was in constant and al- 
 most unendurable torture. The fear of discovery took posses- 
 sion of me. What if the men who were passing at the time Mr. 
 Bradford and Livingston lifted me into the carriage had known 
 me ? Was Peter Mullens in New York that night, and was he 
 one of them ? This question no sooner took possession of my 
 mind, than I fancied, from the looks and whisperings of him 
 and his companions, that the secret was in their possession. I 
 had no peace from these suspicions until I had satisfied myself 
 that he had not left the college during the holidays. Would 
 Mr. Bradford, by some accident, or through forgetfulness of his 
 promise to me, speak of the matter to my father, or Henry, or 
 Mrs. Sanderson ? Would Millie write about it to her mother ? 
 Would it be carelessly talked about by the ladies who had wit- 
 nessed my disgrace? Would it be possible for me ever to show 
 myself in Bradford again ? Would the church learn of my 
 lapse and bring me under its discipline ? Would the religious 
 congregations I had addressed hear of my fall from sobriety, 
 and come to regard me as a hypocrite ? So sore was my self- 
 love, so sensitive w^as my pride, that I am sure I should have 
 lied to cover my shame, had the terrible emergency arisen. It 
 did not rise, and for that I cannot cease to be grateful. 
 
 It will readily be seen that, while the fear of discovery was 
 upon me, and while I lived a false life of carelessness and even 
 gayety among my companions, to cover the tumults of dread 
 and suspicion that were going on within me, I did not make 
 much progress in spiritual life. In truth I made none at all. 
 My prayers were only wild beseechings that I might be spared 
 from exposure, and pledges of future obedience should my 
 prayers be answered. So thoroughly did my fears of men pos« 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 245 
 
 sess me, that there was no room for repentance toward God, 
 or such a repentance as would give me the basis of a new de- 
 parture and a better hfe. I had already tried to live two lives 
 that should not be discordant with each other ; now I tried to 
 live two lives that I knew to be antagonistic. It now became 
 an object to appear to be what I was not. I resumed at inter- 
 vals my attendance upon the prayer-meetings to make it appear 
 that I still clung to my religious life. Then, while in the soci- 
 ety of my companions, I manifested a careless gayety which I 
 did not feel. All the manifestations of my real life took place 
 in the solitude of my room. There, wresding with my fears, 
 and shut out from my old sources of comfort and strength, I 
 passed my nights. With a thousand luxurious appliances around 
 me, no sense of luxury ever came to me. My heart was a 
 central living coal, and all around it was ashes. I even feared 
 that the coal might die, and that Henry, when he should return, 
 would find his room bereft of all that would give him welcome 
 and cheer. 
 
 As the weeks passed away, the fear slowly expired, and alas ! 
 nothing that was better came in its place. No sooner did I 
 begin to experience the sense of safety from exposure, and 
 from the temptation which had brought niic such grievous harm, 
 than the old love of luxurious life, and the old plans for secur- 
 ing it, came back to me. I felt sure that wine would never 
 tempt me again, and with this confidence I built me a foun- 
 dation of pride and self-righteousness on which I could stand, 
 and regard myself with a certain degree of complacency. 
 
 As for efficient study, that w^as out of the question. 1 was 
 in no mood or condition for work. I scrambled through my 
 lessons in a disgraceful way. The better class of students 
 were all surpassing me, and I found myself getting hopelessly 
 into the rear. I had fitful rebellions against this, and showed 
 them and myself what I could do when I earnestly tried : but 
 the power of persistence, which is born of a worthy purpose, 
 held strongly in the soul, was absent, and there could be no 
 true advancement without it. 
 
246 Arthur Boimi castle, 
 
 I blush with shame, even now, to think how I tried to cover 
 my dehnquencies from my father and Mrs. Sanderson, by 
 becoming more attentive to them than I had ever been in the 
 matter of writing letters. I knew that there was nothing that 
 carried so much joy to my father as a letter from me. 
 I knew that he read every letter I wrote him, again and again 
 — that he carried it in his pocket at his work — that he took it 
 out at meals, and talked about it. I knew also that Mrs. 
 Sanderson's life was always gladdened by attentions of this sort 
 from me, and that they tended to keep her heart open toward 
 me. In just the degree in which I was conscious that I 
 was unworthy of their aftection, did I strive to present to 
 them my most amiable side, and to convince them that I was 
 unchanged. 
 
 I lived this hypocritical, unfruitful life during all that winter ; 
 and when Henry came to me in the spring, crowned with the 
 fruits of his labor, and fresh from the loves and friendships 
 of his Bradford home, with his studies all in hand, and with such 
 evident growth of manhood that I felt almost afraid of him, 
 he found me an unhappy and almost reckless laggard, with 
 nothing to show for the winter's privileges but a weakened will, 
 dissipated powers, frivolous habits, deadened moral and religious 
 sensibiUties, and a life that had degenerated into subterfuge 
 and sham. 
 
 My natural love of approbation — the same greed for the good 
 opinion and the praise of others which in my childhood made 
 me a liar — had lost none of its force, and did much to shape 
 my intercourse with all around me. The sense of worthless- 
 ness which induced my special efforts to retain the good-will 
 of Mrs. Sanderson, and the admiration and confidence of my 
 father, moved me to a new endeavor to gain the friendship 
 of all my fellow-students. I felt that I could not afford to 
 have enemies. I had lost none of my popularity with the 
 exclusive clique to which I had attached myself, for even 
 Livingston had seen with delight that I was not disposed to 
 repeat the mistake of which he had been so distressed a wit- 
 
ArtJmr Bonnicastle, 247 
 
 ness. I grew more courteous and complaisant toward those I 
 had regarded as socially my inferiors, until I knew that I was 
 looked upon by them as a good fellow. I was easy-tempered, 
 ready at repartee, generous and careless, and although I 
 had lost all reputation for industry and scholarship, I possessed 
 just the character and manners which made me welcome to 
 every group. I blush while I write of it, to remember how I 
 curried favor with Mr. Peter Mullens and his set ; but to such 
 mean shifts did a mean Hfe force me. To keep the bark of 
 my popularity from foundering, on which T was obliged to trust 
 everything, I tossed overboard from time to time, to meet 
 every rising necessity, my self-respect, until I had but little 
 left 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 PETER MULLENS ACQUIRES A VERY LARGE STOCK OF OLD 
 CLOTHES. 
 
 Though Mr. Peter Mullens had but slender relations to my 
 outer life — hardly enough to warrant the notice I have already 
 taken of him — there was a relation which I recognized in my 
 experience and circumstances that makes it necessary for me 
 to say more of him. He had recognized this relation him- 
 self, and it was this that engendered my intense personal dislike 
 of him. I knew that his willing dependence on others had 
 robbed him of any flavor of manhood he might at one time 
 have possessed, and that I, very differently organized, was suf- 
 fering from the same cause. I watched the effect upon him of 
 this demoralizing influence, with almost a painful curiosity. 
 
 Having, as he supposed, given up himself, he felt that he 
 had a right to support. There seemed to him to be no sweet- 
 ness in bread that could be earned. Everything came amiss 
 to him that came with personal cost. He was always looking for 
 gifts. I will not say that he prayed for them, but I have no 
 doubt that he prayed, and that his temporal wants mingled in his 
 petitions. No gift humiliated him : he lived by gifts. His greed 
 for these was pitiful, and often ludicrous. Indeed, he was the 
 strangest mixture of piety, avarice, and beggarly meanness that 
 I had ever seen. 
 
 My second spring in college was verging upon summer. 
 The weather was intensely hot, and all the fellows had put 
 themselves into summer clothing — all but poor Peter Mullens. 
 He had come out of the winter very seedy, and his heavy 
 clothing still clung to him, in the absence of supplies of a 
 lighter character. Although he had a great many pairs of 
 
Arthur Bonmcastle, 249 
 
 woolen socks and striped mittens, and a dozen or two neck- 
 ties, which had been sent to him by a number of persons to 
 whom he gave the indefinite designation of " the sisters," there 
 seemed to be no way by which he could transform them into 
 summer clothing. He was really in a distressed condition, and 
 " the sisters " failed to meet the emergency. 
 
 At a gathering of the fellows of our clique one night, his 
 affairs were brought up for discussion, and it was determined 
 that we should go through our respective wardrobes and weed 
 out all the garments which we did not intend to wear again, 
 and, on the first dark night, take them to his room. I was to 
 make the first visit, and to be followed in turn by the others. 
 
 Accordingly, having made up a huge bundle of garments 
 that would be of use to him, provided he could wear them — ■ 
 and he could wear anything, apparently — I started out one 
 evening, and taking it in my arms, went to liis room. This 
 was located in a remote corner of the dormitory, at the bottom 
 of a narrow hall, and as the hall was nearly dark, I deposited 
 my bundle at the door and knocked for admission. 
 
 *' Come in ! " responded Mullens. 
 
 I entered, and by good fortune found him alone. He was 
 sitting in the dark, by the single open window of his room, and 
 I could see by the dim h'ght that he was stripped of coat and 
 waistcoat. He did not know me at first, but, rising and strik- 
 ing a light, he exclaimed : " Well, this is kind of you, Bonnicastle. 
 I was just thinking of you." 
 
 He then remembered that his glasses had been laid aside. 
 Putting them on, he seemed to regard himself as quite present- 
 able, and made no further attempt to increase his clothing. I 
 looked around the bare room, with its single table, its wretched 
 pair of chairs, its dirty bed, and its lonely occupant, and con- 
 trasting it with the cosy apartment I had just left, my heart 
 grew full of pity for him. 
 
 " So you were thinking of me, eh ? " I said. " That was very 
 kind of you. Pray, what were you thinking ? Nothing bad, I 
 hope." 
 
 11* 
 
250 Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 " No, I was thinking about your privileges. I was thinking 
 how you had been favored." 
 
 It was strange that it had never occurred to Mullens to think 
 about or to envy those who held money by right, or by the 
 power of earning it. It was only the' money that came as a 
 gift that stirred him. There were dozens or hundreds of fellows 
 whose parents were educating them, but these were never the 
 subject of his envious thoughts. 
 
 " Let's not talk about my privileges," I said. ^* How are you 
 getting along yourself ? " 
 
 "I am really very hard up," he replied. *'If the sisters 
 would only send me trousers, and such things, I should be all 
 right, but they don't seem to consider that I want trousers any 
 more than they do, confound them." 
 
 The quiet indignation with which this was uttered amused 
 me, and I laughed outright. But Mullens was in sober earnest, 
 and going to his closet he brought forth at least a dozen pairs 
 of thick woolen socks, and as many pairs of striped mittens, 
 and laid them on the table. 
 
 " Look at that pile," said Mullens, " and weep." 
 
 The comical aspect of the matter had really reached the 
 poor fellow's apprehension, and he laughed heartily with me. 
 
 " What are you going to do with them ? " I asked. 
 
 " I don't know," he replied ; " I've thought of an auction. 
 What do you say ? " 
 
 "Why don't you try to sell them at the shops ? " I inquired. 
 
 ** Let me alone for that. I've been all over the city with 
 *em," said he. " One fellow said they didn't run even, and I 
 don't think they do, very, that's a fact. Another one said they 
 looked like the fag-end of an old stock ; and the last one I went 
 to asked me if I stole them." 
 
 " Well, Mullens, the wind is tempered to the shorn lamb," 1 
 said, consolingly. " It's June." 
 
 " But it don't apply," said Mullens. " I'm not shorn. The 
 trouble is that I've got too much wool." 
 
 This was bright for Mullens, and we both laughed again. 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 251 
 
 After the laugh had passed, I said : " I think I know of eight 
 or ten fellows who will relieve you of your surplus stock, and. 
 as I am one of them, I propose to take a pair of socks and a 
 pair of mittens now." 
 
 The manner of the man changed immediately. His face 
 grew animated, and his eyes fairly gleamed through his specta- 
 cles. He jumped to his feet as I spoke of purchasing, and ex- 
 claimed : "Will you? What will you give? Make us an 
 offer." 
 
 " Oh, you must set your own price," I said. 
 
 "Well, you see they are very good socks, don't you ?" said 
 Mullens. " Now, every stitch in those socks and mittens was 
 knit upon honor. There isn't a mercenary inch of yarn in 'em. 
 Take your pick of the mittens. By the way, I haven't shown 
 you my neck-ties," and, rushing to his closet, he brought forth 
 quite an armful of them. 
 
 The humble sufferer had become a lively peddler, bent upon 
 driving the sharpest bargain and selling the most goods possible 
 to a rare customer. Selecting a pair of socks, a pair of mittens, 
 and a neck-tie of a somewhat soberer hue than I had been ac- 
 customed to wear, he laid them by themselves, and then, wiping 
 his forehead and his glasses with a little mop of a handkerchief, 
 he put on a mildly judicial face, and said : 
 
 " Bonnicastle, my dear friend, I've always taken a great deal 
 of interest in you ; and now you have it in your power to do 
 me a world of good. Think, just think, Bonnicastle, of the 
 weary hours that have been spent on these articles of apparel 
 by those of whom the world is not worthy ! Think of the be- 
 nevolence that inspired every stitch. Think of the — of the — 
 thoughts that have run through those devoted minds. Think 
 of those sisters respectively saying to themselves : ' I know not 
 whom I am laboring for — it may be for Mullens or it may be 
 for one more worthy, — but for whomsoever it is, it is for one who 
 will stand up in defense of the truth when I am gone. His feet, 
 bent upon errands of mercy, will be kept comfortable by these 
 stockings. His hands, carrying succor to the fallen and con- 
 
252 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 solation to the afflicted, will be warmed by these mittens. 
 These neck-ties will surround the neck — the — throat — of one 
 who will breathe words of peace and good- will.' My dear Bon- 
 nicastle, there is more in these humble articles of apparel than 
 appears to the carnal eye — much more — incalculably more. 
 Try to take it in when we come to the matter of price. Try to 
 take it all in, and then discharge your duty as becomes a man 
 who has been favored." 
 
 " Look here, Mullens," said I, " you are working on my feel- 
 mgs, and the articles are getting so expensive that I can't buy 
 them." 
 
 " Oh, don't feel that way ; " said he, " I only want to have 
 you get some idea what there is in these things. Why, there's 
 love, good- will, self-sacrifice, devotion, and woman's tender 
 heart." 
 
 " Pity there couldn't have been some trowsers," said I. 
 
 Mullens' lip quivered. He was not sure whether I was jok- 
 ing or not, but he laid his hand appealingly upon my knee, and 
 then settled back in his chair and wiped his forehead and spec- 
 tacles again. Having made up my mind that Mullens had de- 
 termined to raise an enormous revenue from his goods, I was 
 somewhat surprised when he said briskly, " Bonnicastle, what 
 do you say to a dollar and a half? That's only fifty cents an 
 article, and the whole stock will bring me only fifteen or twenty 
 dollars at that price." 
 
 " I'll take them," said I. 
 
 " Good ! " exclaimed Mullens, slapping his knee. " Who'll 
 have the next bowl ? Walk up, gentlemen ! " 
 
 Mullens had evidently officiated in an oyster booth at militia 
 musters. In his elated state of feeling, the impulse to run into 
 his old peddler's lingo was irrepressible. I think he felt com 
 plimented by the hearty laugh with which I greeted his cry. 
 
 " If I'm going into this business," said Mullens, " I really 
 must have some brown paper. Do you suppose, Bonnicastle, 
 that if you should go to one of the shops, and tell them the 
 object, — a shop kept by one of our friends, you know, — one 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 253 
 
 who has the cause at heart — he would give you a package of 
 brown paper ? I'd go myself, but I've been around a good 
 deal." 
 
 " Wouldn't you rather have me buy some ? " I asked. 
 
 " Why, no ; it doesn't seem to be exactly the thing to pay 
 out money for brown paper," responded Mullens. 
 
 " I'm not used to begging," I said. 
 
 " Why, it isn't begging, Bonnicastle; it's asking for the cause." 
 
 " You really must excuse me, Mullens." 
 
 "All right," said he; " here's an old newspaper that will do 
 for your package. Now don't forget to tell all your friends that 
 I am ready for 'em. Tell 'em the cause is a good one — that 
 it really involves the — the welfare of society. And tell 'em 
 the things are dirt cheap. Don't forget that." 
 
 Mullens had become as cheerful and lively as a cricket ; and 
 while he was doing up my package, I opened the door and 
 brought in my bundle. As I broke the string and unfolded the 
 bountiful contents, he paused in a pleased amazement, and 
 then, leaping forward and embracing me, exclaimed : " Bonni- 
 castle, you're an angel ! What do you suppose that pile is 
 worth, now, in hard cash ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know ; if s worth a good deal to you," I re- 
 plied. 
 
 " And you really don't feel it at all, do you now? Own up." 
 
 "No," I answered, "not at all. You are welcome to the 
 whole pile." 
 
 " Yes, Bonnicastle," said he, sliding smoothly back from the 
 peddler into the pious beneficiary, " you've given out of your 
 abundance, and you have the blessed satisfaction of feeling that 
 you have done your duty. I don't receive it for myself, but 
 for the cause. I am a poor, unworthy instrument. Say, Bonni- 
 castle, if you should see some of these things on others, would 
 you mind?" 
 
 " Not in the least," I said. " Do you propose to share your 
 good fortune with your friends ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Mullens, "I shall sell these things to them, 
 
254 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 very reasonably indeed. They shall have no cause to com- 
 plain." 
 
 At this moment there was a knock, and Livingston, with a 
 grave face, walked in with his bundle, and opening it, laid it 
 upon the table. Mullens sank into his chair, quite overwhelmed. 
 ** Fellows," said he, " this is too much. I can bear one bun- 
 dle, but under two you must excuse me if I seem to totter." 
 
 Another and another followed Livingston into the room, and 
 deposited their burdens, until the table was literally piled. Mul- 
 lens actually began to snivel. 
 
 " It's a lark, fellows," said Mullens, from behind his handker- 
 chief. "It's a lark : I know it. I see it; but oh, fellows ! it's 
 a blessed lark — a blessed, blessed lark ! Larks may be em- 
 ployed to bring tribute into the storehouse. Larks may be 
 overruled, and used as means. I know you are making fun of 
 me, but the cause goes on. If there isn't room on the table, 
 put them on the floor. They shall all be employed. If I have 
 ever done you injustice in my thoughts, feltows, you must for- 
 give me. This wipes out everything ; and as I don't see any 
 boots in your parcels, perhaps you'll be kind enough to re- 
 member that I wear tens, with a low instep. Has the last 
 man come ? Is the cup full ? What do you suppose the whole 
 pile is worth ? " 
 
 Mullens ran on in this way, muddled by his unexpected good 
 fortune and his greed, with various pious ejaculations which, 
 for very reverence of the words he used, my pen refuses to 
 record. 
 
 Then it suddenly occurred to him that he was not making the 
 most of his opportunities. Springing to his feet, and turning 
 peddler in an instant, he said : " Fellows, Bonnicastle has 
 bought a pair of socks, a pair of striped mittens and a neck- 
 tie from my surplus stock. I've got enough of them to go all 
 around. What do you say to them at fifty cents apiece ? " 
 
 "We've been rather expecting," said Livingston, with a 
 quiet twinkle in his eye, " that you would make us a present of 
 these." 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle. 255 
 
 This was a new thought to Mullens, and it sobered him at 
 once. " Fellows," said he, " you know my heart ; but these 
 things are a sacred trust. They have been devoted to a cause, 
 and from that cause I cannot divert them." 
 
 " Oh ! of course not," said Livingston ; " I only wanted to 
 test your faithfulness. You're as sound as a nut." 
 
 The conversation ended in a purchase of the " surplus stock," 
 and then, seeing that the boys had not finished their fun, and 
 fearing that it might run into some unpleasant excesses, Liv- 
 ingston and I retired. 
 
 The next morning our ears were regaled with an account of 
 the remaining experiences of the evening, but it does not need 
 to be recorded here. It is sufficient to say that before the 
 company left his room, Mullens was arrayed from head to foot 
 with a dress made up from various parcels, and that in that 
 dress he was obliged to mount his table and make a speech. 
 He appeared, however, the next morning, clothed in comforta- 
 ble garments, which of course were recognized by their for- 
 mer owners, and formed a subject of merriment among them. 
 We never saw them, however, upon any others of his set, and 
 he either chose to cover his good fortune from them by selling 
 his frippery to the Hebrew dealers in such merchandise, or 
 they refused to be his companions in wearing garments that 
 were known in the college. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 I CHANGE MY RELIGIOUS VIEWS TO CONFORM WITH MY MORAL 
 PRACTICE, AND AM GRADUATED WITHOUT HONORS. 
 
 From the first hour of my direct violation of my conscience, 
 there began, ahiiost imperceptibly at first, a change of my 
 views of religious doctrine and obligation. It was one of the 
 necessities of my position. Retaining the strict notions of my 
 childhood and younger youth, I should not have enjoyed a 
 moment of peace ; and my mind involuntarily went to work 
 to reconcile my opinions to my looser life. It was necessary 
 to bring my convictions and my conscience into harmony 
 with my conduct, else the warfare within me would have been 
 unendurable. The first change related to duty. It seemed 
 to me that God, remembering that I was dust, and that I was 
 peculiarly weak under specific temptations, would be less rigid 
 in his requirements of me than I had formerly supposed. As 
 this conclusion seemed to make him more lovable to me, I 
 permitted it to deceive me wholly. Then there was something 
 which flattered me in being considered less "blue" than the 
 majority of those who made a profession of religion. It was 
 pleasant to be liberal, for liberality carried no condemnation 
 with it of the careless life around me. 
 
 But this was not all. It was only the open gate at which 
 I entered a wide field of doubt. All my religious opinions took 
 on an air of unreality. The old, implicit faith which, like an 
 angel with a sword of flame, had stood at the door of my 
 heart, comforting me with its presence, and keeping at a dis- 
 tance all the shapes of unbelief, took its flight, and the dark 
 band gathered closer, with a thousand questions and sugges- 
 tions. Was there a God ? Was the God whom I had learned 
 to worship anything more than a figment of conspiring im- 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle. 257 
 
 aginations? If He were more than this, had he revealed 
 himself in words ? Was Jesus Christ a historical character 
 or a myth ? Was there any such thing, after all, as personal 
 accountability? Was the daily conduct of so insignificant a 
 person as myself of the slightest moment to a Being who held 
 an infinite universe in charge? Who knew that the soul 
 was immortal, and that its condition here bore any relation to 
 its condition there ? Was not half of that which I had looked 
 upon as sin, made sin only by a conscience wrongly educated ? 
 Was drinking wine a sin in itself? If not, why had it so wounded 
 me ? Other consciences did not condemn an act which had 
 cost me my peace and self-respect. Who knew but that 
 a thousand things which I had considered wrong were only 
 wrong because I so considered them ? After all my pains-tak- 
 ing and my prayers, had I been anything better than a slave 
 to a conscience perverted or insufficiently informed ? 
 
 The path from an open violation of conscience to a condi- 
 tion of religious doubt, is as direct as that which leads to 
 heaven. It was so in my case, and the observation of a long 
 life has shown me that it is so in every case. Just in the pro- 
 portion that my practice degenerated did my views become 
 modified to accommodate themselves to my life. 
 
 I said very little about the changes going on in my mind, 
 except to my faithful companion and friend, Henry. When he 
 returned from Bradford, he, for the first time, became fully 
 aware of the great change that had taken place in me. He was 
 an intense hater of sham and cant, and sympathized with me 
 in my dislike of the type of piety with which we were often 
 thrown in contact. This, I suppose, had blinded him to the 
 fact that I was trying to sustain myself in my criticism of oth- 
 ers. I could not hide my growing infidelity from him, however, 
 for it seemed necessary for me to have some one to talk with, 
 and I was conscious of a new disposition to argue and defend 
 myself. Here I was misled again. I fancied that my 
 modification of views came of intellectual convictions, and 
 that I could not be to blame for changes based upon what 
 
258 Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 I was fond of calling " my God-given reason." I lost sight of 
 the fact that the changes came first, and that the only office 
 to which I put " my God-given reason " was that of satisfying 
 and defending myself Oh, the wretched sophistries of those 
 wretched days and years ! 
 
 I do not like to speak so much of prayer as I have been com- 
 pelled to in these pages, for even this sounds like cant to many 
 ears ; but, in truth, I cannot write the story of my life without 
 it. I do not believe there can be such a thing as a truly 
 religious life without prayer. The religious soul must hold 
 converse and communion with the Infinite or its religion can 
 not live. It may be the simple expression of gratitude and 
 desire. It may be the prostration of the soul in worship and 
 adoration. It may be the up-springing of the spirit in strong 
 aspiration ; but in some way or form there must be prayer, or 
 religion dies. There must be an open way between the heart 
 of man and the heart of the Infinite — a ladder that reaches 
 from the pillow of stone to the pillars of the Throne, where 
 angels may climb and angels may descend — or the religious 
 life of the soul can have no ministry. 
 
 In my changed condition and circumstances, I fpund myself 
 deprived of this great source of life. First my sin shut me 
 away, and my neglect of known and acknowledged duty. Then 
 my frivolous pursuits and trifling diversions rendered me unfit 
 for the awful presence into which prayer led me. Then, un- 
 belief placed its bar before me. In truth, I found in prayer, 
 whenever I attempted it, only a hollow expression of penitence, 
 from a weak and unwilling heart, toward a being in whose ex- 
 istence I did not more than half believe. 
 
 I bowed with Henry at our bed every night, but it was only 
 a mockery. He apprehended it at last, and questioned me 
 about it. One night, after we had risen from our knees, he 
 said : " Arthur, how is it with you ? I don't understand how 
 a man who talks as you do can pray with any comfort to himself. 
 You are not at all what you used to be." 
 
 "I'll be frank with you, Henry," I answered. "I don t pray 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle. 259 
 
 with any comfort to myself, or any profit either. It's all a 
 sham, and I don't intend to do any more of it." 
 
 " Oh, Arthur, Arthur, has it come to this ! " exclaimed the 
 dear fellow, his eyes filling with tears. " Have you gone so 
 far astray ? How can you live ? I should think you would 
 die." 
 
 " You see ! " I said carelessly : " I'm in very good health. 
 The world goes on quite well. There are no earthquakes or 
 hurricanes. The sun rises and sets in the old way, and the 
 wicked prosper like the righteous, the same as they have always 
 done, and get along without any serious bother with their con- 
 sciences besides. The fact is that my views of everything 
 have changed, and I don't pray as I used to pray, simply be- 
 cause the thing is impossible." 
 
 Henry looked at me while I said this, with a stunned, 
 bewildered expression, and then, putting his arms around my 
 neck, bowed his head upon my shoulder and said, half choked 
 with emotion : "I can't bear it; I can't bear it. It must not 
 be so." 
 
 Then he put me off, and looked at me. His eyes were dry, 
 and a determined, almost prophetic expression was in them as 
 he said : " It will not be so ; it shall not be so." 
 
 "How are you going to prevent it ? " I inquired, coolly. 
 
 *' I shall not prevent it, but there is one who will, you may 
 be very sure," he replied. " There is a God, and he hears the 
 prayers of those who love him. You cannot prevent me from 
 praying for you, and I shall do it always. You and I belong 
 to the same church, and I am under a vow to watch over 
 you. Besides, you and I promised to help one another in every 
 emergency, and I shall not forget the promise." 
 
 " So I am under a guardian, am I ? " 
 
 " Yes, you are under a guardian — a very much more powerful 
 guardian than I am," he replied. 
 
 " I suppose I shall be taken care of, then," I said. 
 
 "Yes, you will be taken care of; if not in the mild way with 
 which you have hitherto been treated, then in a rough way to 
 
26o Arthur Boniticastle, 
 
 which you are not used. The prayers and hopes and expecta- 
 tions of such a father as yours are not to be disregarded or 
 go for nothing. By some means, tender or terrible, you are to 
 be brought out of your indifference and saved." 
 
 There was something in this talk which brought back to me 
 the covert threat that I had heard from the lips of Mr. Brad- 
 ford, of which I had not thought much. Were he and Henry 
 leagued together in any plan that would bring me punishment ? 
 That was impossible, yet I grew suspicious of both of them. I 
 did not doubt their friendship, yet the thing I feared most was 
 an interference with my prospects of wealth. Was it possible 
 that they, in case I should not meet their wishes, would inform 
 Mrs. Sanderson of my unworthiness of her benefactions, and 
 reduce me to the necessity and shame of taking care of 
 myself? This was the great calamity I dreaded. Here was 
 where my life could only be touched. Here was where I felt 
 painfully sensitive and weak. 
 
 A little incident occurred about this time which rendered me 
 still more suspicious. I had been in the habit of receiving let- 
 ters from Mrs. Sanderson, addressed in the handwriting of Mrs. 
 Belden. Indeed, not a few of my letters from The Mansion were 
 written entirely by that lady, under Mrs. Sanderson's dictation. 
 I had in this way become so familiar with her hand-writing 
 that I could hardly be mistaken in it, wherever I might see it. 
 From the first day of our entering college, Henry had insisted on 
 our having separate boxes at the Post-Office. I had never known 
 the real reason for this, nor had I cared to inquire what it might 
 be. The thought had crossed my mind that he was not willing 
 to have me know how often he received letters from my sister. 
 One morning he was detained by a severe cold from going, in 
 his accustomed way, for his mail, and as I was at the office, I 
 inquired whether there were letters for him. I had no object 
 in this but to do him a brotherly service ; but as his letters were 
 handed to me, I looked them over, and was startled to find an 
 address in what looked like Mrs. Belden' s hand-writing. I ex- 
 amined it carefully, compared it with several addresses from hel 
 
Arthur Bo7Z7itcastle, 261 
 
 hand which I had in my pocket, and became sure that my first 
 suspicions were correct. 
 
 Here was food for the imagination of a guilty man. I took 
 the letters to Henry, and handing them to him in a careless 
 way, remarked that, as I was at the office, I thought I 
 would save him the trouble of sending for his mail. He 
 took the package, ran it over in his hand, selected the letter 
 that had attracted my attention, and put it into his pocket un- 
 opened. He did not look at me, and I was sure he could not, 
 for I detected a flush of alarm upon his face at the moment I 
 handed the letters to him. I did not pause to see more, or to 
 make any inquiry for Bradford friends, and, turning upon my 
 heel, left the room. 
 
 I could not do else than conclude that there was a private 
 understanding of some sort between him and Mrs. Belden. 
 What this was, was a mystery which I taxed my ingenuity to 
 fathom. My mind ran upon it all day. I knew Henry had 
 seen Mrs. Belden at Mr. Bradford's, and even at my father's 
 during the winter, for she had maintained her friendship for 
 Claire. Could there have sprung up a friendly intimacy be- 
 tween her and Henry of which this correspondence was an 
 outgrowth ? It did not seem likely. However harmless my 
 surmises might be, I always came back to the conclusion that 
 through Mrs. Belden and Henry an espionage upon my conduct 
 had been established by Mrs. Sanderson, and that all my words 
 and acts had been watched and reported. As soon as this 
 conviction became rooted in my mind, I lost my faith in Henry, 
 and from that hour, for a long time, shut away my confidence 
 from him. He could not but notice this change, and he was 
 deeply wounded by it. Through all the remainder of the time 
 we spent in college together, there was a- restraint in our in- 
 tercourse. I spent as little time with him as possible, though 
 I threw new guards around my conduct, and was careful that he 
 should see and hear nothing to my discredit. I even strove, 
 in a weak way, to regain something of the ground I had lost in 
 
262 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 study ; but as I was not actuated by a worthy motive, my prog- 
 ress was neither marked nor persistent. 
 
 I certainly was not happy. I sighed a thousand times to 
 think of the peace and inspiration I had lost. My better am- 
 bitions were gone, my conscience was unsatisfied, my disposi- 
 tion to pray had fled, my Christian hope was extinguished, and 
 my faith was dead. I was despoiled of all that made me truly 
 rich ; and all that I had left were the good-will of those around 
 me, my social position, and the expectation of wealth which, 
 when it should come into my hands, would not only give me 
 the luxurious delights that I craved as the rarest boon of life, 
 but command the respect as well of the rich as of those less 
 favored than myself. I longed to get through with the bond- 
 age and the duty of my college life. I do not dare to say that 
 I longed for the death of my benefactress. I will not acknowl- 
 edge that I had become so base as this, but I could have been 
 reconciled to anything that would irrevocably place in my power 
 the wealth and independence 1 coveted. 
 
 It is useless to linger further over this period of my life. I 
 have traced with sufficient detail the influences which wrought 
 my transformation. They have been painful in the writing, 
 and they must have been equally painful in the reading, to all 
 those who had become interested in my career, welfare and 
 character. My suspicions that Henry was a spy upon my con- 
 duct were effaced for the time whenever I went home. Mrs. 
 Sanderson, upon whom the passing years began to lay a 
 heavy finger, showed no abatement of affection for me, and 
 seemed even more impatient than I for the termination of my 
 college life and my permanent restoration to her home and so- 
 ciety. Mrs. Belden was as sweet and ladylike and cordial as 
 ever. She talked freely of Henry as one whom she had learned 
 to admire and respect, and thought me most fortunate in hav- 
 mg such a companion. There was a vague shadow of disap- 
 pointment on my father's face, and I saw too, with pain, that 
 time and toil had not left him untouched with change. 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 263 
 
 My visits in Bradford always made me better. So much was 
 expected of me, so much was I loved and trusted, so sweet and 
 friendly were all my acquaintances, that I never left them to 
 return to my college life without fresh resolutions to industry 
 and improvement. If these resolutions were abandoned, those 
 who know the power of habit and the influence of old and un- 
 renounced companionships will understand the reason why. I 
 had deliberately made my bed, and I was obliged to lie in it. 
 My compliant disposition brought me uniformly under the 
 yoke of the old persuasions to indolence and frivolous pursuits. 
 
 Livingston went away when his time came. There was 
 much that was lovable in him. He had a stronger character 
 than I, and he had always been so used to wealth and the expec- 
 tation of wealth that he was less harmed than I by these influ- 
 ences. Peter Mullens went away, and though I occasionally 
 heard about him, I saw him no more for several years. I 
 became at last the leader of my set, and secured a certain 
 measure of respect from them because I led them into no 
 vicious dissipations. In this I took a degree of pride and satis- 
 faction ; but my teachers had long abandoned any hope that I 
 should distinguish myself, and had come to regard me coldly. 
 My religious experiences were things of the past. I continued 
 to show a certain respect for religion, by attending the public 
 services of the church. I did everything for the sake of 
 appearances, and for the purpose of blinding myself and my 
 friends to the deadness and hollowness of a life that had ceased 
 to be controlled by manly and Christian motives. 
 
 At last the long-looked-for day of release approached, and 
 although I wished it to come, I wished it were well over and for- 
 gotten. I had no honors to receive, and I knew that it was uni- 
 versally expected that Henry would carry away the highest of 
 his class. I do not think I envied him his eminence, for I 
 knew he had nobly earned it, and that in the absence of other 
 advantages it would do him good. I had money and he had 
 scholarship, which, in time, would give him money. In these 
 possessions we should be able to start more evenly in life. 
 
264 Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 The time passed away, until the day preceding the annual 
 Commencement dawned. In the middle of this da/s excite- 
 ments, as I was sitting in my room, there was a rap at my door. 
 There were a dozen of my fellows with me, and we were in a 
 merry mood. Supposing the caller to be a student, I made a 
 response in some slang phrase, but the door was not opened. 
 I then went to it, threw it wide, and stood face to face with my 
 father. I was not glad to see him, and as my nature was too 
 transparent to permit me to deceive him, and he too sensitive 
 to fail of apprehending the state of. my feelings, even if I had 
 endeavored to do so, the embarrassment of the moment may 
 be imagined. 
 
 " Well, father ! " I said, " this is a surprise ! " 
 
 The moment I pronounced the word " father," the fellows 
 began to retire, with hurried remarks about engagements, and 
 with promises to call again. It was hardly ten seconds before 
 every man of them was out of my room. 
 
 The dear old man had dressed himself in his plain best, and had 
 come to see realized the great hope of his life, and I, miserable 
 ingrate that I was, was ashamed of him. My fellows had fled the 
 room because they knew I was, and because they wished to save 
 me the pain of presenting him to them. As soon as they were 
 gone I strove to reassure him, and to convince him that I was 
 heartily glad to see him. It was easy for him to make apolo- 
 gies for me, and to receive those which I made for myself. 
 He had had such precious faith in me that he did not wish to 
 have it shaken. He had left his work and come to the City of 
 Elms to witness my triumphs. He had intended to give me a 
 glad day. Indeed, he had had dreams of going about to make 
 the acquaintance of the professors, and of being entertained 
 with a view of all the wonders of the college. I knew him so 
 well that I did not doubt that he expected to be taken in hand 
 b}' his affectionate son on his arrival, and conducted every- 
 where, sharing his glory. Never in my life had I received so 
 startling a view of the meanness of my own character as on 
 that morning. I could not possibly hide myself from myself ; 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 265 
 
 and my disgust with myself was measureless. Here was a man 
 whom I loved better than I loved, or had ever loved, any other 
 human being — a man worthy of my profoundest respect — the 
 sweetest, simplest, purest, noblest man whom I had ever known, 
 with a love in his heart for me which amounted to idolatry — yet I 
 could have wished him a thousand miles away, rather than have 
 my gay and aristocratic companions find me in association with 
 him, and recognize the relations that existed between us. 
 
 What should I do with him? Where could I put him? 
 How could I hide him ? The thought of showing hini around 
 was torture. Why had he not stayed at home ? What could 
 I say to him to explain my failure ? How could I break the 
 force of the blow which he must soon receive ? I inquired 
 about home and its affairs. I talked of everything but that 
 which he most desired to talk about \ and all the time I was 
 contriving ways to cut him adrift, or to cover him up. 
 
 I was saved the trouble I anticipated by my good friend 
 Henry, who, when he came, was so heartily delighted to see my 
 father that the whole course of relief was made plain. Henry 
 knew me and my circumstances, and he knew that my father's 
 presence was un^yelcome. He at once took it upon himself to 
 say that I had a great many companions, and that they would 
 want me with them. So he should have the pleasure of look- 
 ing after my father, and of showing him everything he wanted 
 to see. He disregarded all my protests, and good-naturedly 
 told me to go where I was wanted. 
 
 The good old man had a pleasant time. He visited the cab- 
 inets, he was introduced to the professors when he chanced to 
 meet them, he saw all that was worth seeing. He had a con- 
 versation with Henry about me, which saved me the making of 
 apologies that would have been essential falsehoods. I had 
 won no honors, Henry told him, because I had had too much 
 money ; but I was popular, was quite the equal of many others, 
 and would receive my degree. I saw them together, going 
 from building to building and walking under the elms and along 
 the streets. That which to my wretched vanity would have 
 13 
 
266 Arthicr Bonnicastle. 
 
 been pain was to Henry's self-assured and self-respectful man- 
 hood a rare pleasure. I doubt whether he spent a day during 
 his whole college life more delightfully than that which he spent 
 with my father. 
 
 At night I had another call. Mr. Bird came in. I went to 
 him in my old way, sat down in his ample lap, and put my 
 arms around his neck. 
 
 " Arthur, my boy, I love you," he said. " There is a man 
 in you still, but all that I feared might be the result of your cir- 
 cumstances has happened. Henry has outstripped you, and 
 while we are all glad for him, we are all disappointed in you." 
 
 I tried to talk in a gay way about it, but I was troubled and 
 ashamed. 
 
 " By the way, I have seen your father to-day," he said. 
 
 " And what did he say ? " I inquired. 
 
 " No matter what he said : he is not happy. You have disap- 
 pointed him, but he will not upbraid you. He is pained to feel 
 that privileges which seemed to him inestimable should have 
 been so poorly improved, and that the boy from whom he 
 hoped and for whom he has sacrificed so much should have 
 shown himself so careless and unworthy." 
 
 " I'm sorry for him," I said. 
 
 " Very well, my boy ; and now tell me, has the kind of life 
 which has cost him so much pain paid you ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Are you going to change ? " 
 
 " I don't know : I doubt if I do," I responded. 
 
 *' Has money been a good thing for you ? " 
 
 " No ; it has been a curse to me." 
 
 " Are you willing to relinquish it ? " 
 
 " No: I'm spoiled for poverty. It's too late." 
 
 « Is it ? We'll see." 
 
 Then the good man, with a stern look upon his face, kissed 
 me as he used to in the old times, and took his leave. 
 
 Here was another warning or threat, and it filled me with 
 uneasiness. Long after Henry had fallen asleep that night, I 
 
Arthur Boiinicastle, 267 
 
 lay rev^olving it in my mind. I began to feel that I had been 
 cruelly treated. If money had spoiled me, who had been to 
 blame? It was forced upon me, my father consenting. It 
 had wrought out its natural influence upon me. Somebody 
 ought to have foreseen it. I had been wronged, and was now 
 blamed for that which others were responsible for. 
 
 Commencement day came, with its crowd of excitements. 
 The church in which the public exercises were held was 
 thronged. Hundreds from the towns and cities around had 
 assembled to witness the bestowal of the honors of study upon 
 their friends and favorites. Our class had, as usual on such 
 occasions, our places together, and as I did not belong to the 
 group of fellows who had appointments for orations, I was with 
 the class. Taking my seat, I looked around upon the multi 
 tude. Beautifully dressed ladies crowded the galleries, and I 
 was deeply mortified that I should win neither their smiles nor 
 their flowers. I was, for the time at least, a nonentity. They 
 had eyes for none but those who had won the right to ad- 
 miration. 
 
 At my right I saw a figure which I thought to be that of an 
 acquaintance. His head was turned from me, while he con- 
 versed with a strikingly beautiful girl at his side. He looked 
 towards the stage at last, and then I saw that it was Mr. Brad- 
 ford. Could that young woman be Millie ? I had not seen 
 her since I so shamefully encountered her more than two years 
 before. It was Millie. She had ripened into womanhood dur- 
 ing this brief interval, and her beauty was conspicuous even 
 among the score of beauties by which she was surrounded. 
 
 The orators came and went, receiving their tributes of ap- 
 plause from the audience, and of flowers from their friends ; but 
 I had no eyes for any one but Millie. I could regard her with- 
 out hinderance, for she did not once look at me. I had always 
 carried the thought of her in my heart. The little talks we 
 had had together had been treasured in my memory among its 
 choicest possessions. She had arrived at woman's estate, and 
 I had now no laurels to lay at her feet. This was the one 
 
268 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 jmngent drop of gall in my cnp of wormwood, for then and 
 there I acknowledged to myself that in a vague way I had 
 associated her in my imagination with all my future life. When 
 I had dreamed of one who should sit in Mrs. Sanderson's chair, 
 after she had passed away, it was always Millie. I had not 
 loved her with a man's love, but my heart was all open toward 
 her, ready to kindle in her smile or the glance of her marvelous 
 eyes. I knew there was only one whom she had come to see, 
 and rejoiced in the thought that she could be nothing more 
 to him than a friend, yet I grudged the honor which he was that 
 day to win in her eyes. 
 
 At last the long list of speakers was exhausted, and Henry 
 came upon the stage to deliver the valedictory. He was re- 
 ceived with a storm of cheers, and, perfectly self-possessed, 
 came forward in his splendid young manhood to perform his 
 part. I knew that Mr. Bird was somewhere in the audience, 
 looking on and listening with moistened eyes and swelling 
 heart. I knew that my father, in his lonely sorrow, was think- 
 ing of his disappointment in me and my career. I knew that 
 Mr. Bradford and Millie were regarding Henry with a degree 
 of pride and gratification which, for the moment, shut me out 
 of their minds. As his voice rang out over the vast congrega- 
 tion, and cheer after cheer greeted his splendid periods, I bent 
 my head with shame ; and tears that had long been strangers to 
 my eyes fell unbidden down my cheeks. I inwardly cursed my 
 indolence, my meanness, and the fortune which had enervated 
 and spoiled me. 
 
 As Henry made his bow in retiring, there was a long-con- 
 tinued and universal burst of applause, and a rain of bouquets 
 upon the platform which half-bewildered him. I watched for 
 the Bradfords, and the most beautiful bouquet of all was handed 
 by Millie to her father and tossed by him at Henry's feet. He 
 picked up all the others, then raised this to his lips, and, look- 
 ing up at the gallery, made a profound bow to the giver and 
 retired. Knowing that with my quicker brain it had been in 
 my power to win that crowning honor, and that it was irrevo- 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 269 
 
 cablylost to me, the poor diploma that came to me among the 
 others of my class gave me no pleasm-e. 
 
 I knew that the young woman was right. She was true to 
 her womanly instincts, and had no honors to bestow except 
 upon the worker and the hero. The man who had demon- 
 strated his manhood won the honor of her womanhood. Henry 
 was everything ; I was nothing. " The girl is right," I said to 
 myself, " and some time she shall know that the stuff she wor- 
 ships is in me." 
 
 A young man rarely gets a better vision of himself than that 
 which is reflected from a true woman's eyes, for God himself 
 sits behind them. That which a man was intended to be is 
 that which unperverted womanhood demands that he shall be. 
 I felt at the moment that a new^ motive had been born in me, 
 and that I was not wholly shorn of power and the possibilities 
 of heroic life. 
 
 Before we left New Haven, Mr. Bradford, Mr. Bird, and my 
 father met by appointment. What their business was I did not 
 know, but I had little doubt that it related to me. I was 
 vexed by the thought, but I was too proud to ask any ques- 
 tions. I hoped that the whole Bradford party would find 
 themselves in the same conveyance on the way home ; but on 
 the morning following Commencement, my father, Henry, and 
 myself took our seats in the coach, and Mr. Bradford and Mil- 
 lie were left behind. I had not spoken to either of them. I 
 did not like to call upon Millie, and her father had not sought 
 me. 
 
 I was not disposed to talk, and all the conversation was 
 carried on by my father and Henry. I saw that the young 
 man had taken a warm place near my father's heart — that they 
 understood and appreciated one another perfectly. Remember- 
 ing what an idol I had been, and how cruelly I had defaced my 
 own lineaments and proved myself unworthy of the worship, a 
 vision of this new friendship was not calculated to increase my 
 happiness. But I was full of my plans. I would win Millie 
 Bradford's respect or I would die. My imagination constructed 
 
270 Artlnir Bonnicastle, 
 
 all sorts of impossible situations in which I .was to play the part 
 of hero, and compel her admiration. I would devote myself to 
 labor ; I would acquire a profession ; I would achieve renown ; 
 I would become an orator ; I would win ofhce ; I would 
 wrench a bough from the highest laurel, and, dashing it at her 
 feet, say : " There ! I have earned your approval and your 
 smile ; give them to me ! " 
 
 The practical power that resides in this kind of vaporing 
 is readily appreciated. I had at last my opportunity to de- 
 monstrate my possession of heroism, but it did not come in the 
 form I anticipated and hoped for. 
 
 Our welcome home was cordial. My poor mother thought 
 I had grown thin, and was afraid I had studied too much. The 
 unintended sarcasm did not reassure me. Henry and Claire 
 were happy, and I left the beloved group to seek my own 
 lonelier home. There I manifested a delight I did not feel. I 
 tossed my diploma into Mrs. Sanderson's lap, and lightly told her 
 that there was the bit of sheepskin which had cost her so much. 
 Mrs. Belden congratulated me, and the two women were glad 
 to have me at home. I spent the evening with them, and led 
 the conversation, so far as I could, into channels that diverted 
 their minds from uncomfortable inquiries. 
 
 Our life soon took on the old habits, and I heartily tried to 
 make myself tributary to the comfort and happiness of the 
 house. Poor old Jenks was crippled with rheumatism, and while 
 he was made to believe that the domestic establishment could 
 not be operated without him, he had in reality become a burden. 
 A^s the weather grew intensely hot, and Mrs. Sanderson showed 
 signs of weakness, Mrs. Belden took her away to the seaside 
 again, leaving me once more the master of The Mansion. 
 
 A little incident occurred on the morning of Mrs. Sander- 
 son's departure which left an uncomfortable impression upon 
 m)'- mind. She went into the dining-room, and closed the door 
 behind her. As the carriage was waiting for her, I un think 
 ingly opened the door, and found her before the picture. The 
 tears were on her cheeks, and she looked pale and distressed. 
 
At till tr Bo7inicastle, 271 
 
 I impulsively put my arm around her, bent down and kissed 
 her, and led her away. A^ I did this, I determined that I 
 would find out the secret of that picture if I could. I was old 
 enough to be trusted with it, and I would have it. I did not 
 doubt that many in the town could tell me all about it, though 
 I knew there were reasons connected with my relations to Mrs. 
 Sanderson which had thus far forbidden them to speak to me 
 about it 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 HENRY BECOMES A GUEST AT THE MANSION BY FORCE OF 
 CIRCUMSTANCES. 
 
 It was natural that the first business which presented itself 
 to be done after the departure of Mrs. Sanderson, should be 
 the reinstatement of my social relations with the Bradfords, yet 
 how it could be effected without an invitation from them I 
 could not imagine. I knew that they were all at home, and 
 that Henry and Claire had called upon them. Day after day 
 passed, however, and I heard nothing from them. The time 
 began to drag heavily on my idle hands, when, one pleasant 
 evening, Mr. Bradfoid made his appearance at The Mansion. 
 I had determined upon the course to be pursued whenever I 
 should meet him, and after some common-place conversation, 
 I said to him, with all my old frankness, that I wished to open 
 my heart to him. 
 
 " I cannot hide from myself the fact," I said, " that I am in 
 disgrace with you and your family. Please tell me what I can 
 do to atone for a past for which I can make no apology. Do 
 you wish to see me at your house again ? Am I to be shut 
 out from your family, and shut up here in a palace which your 
 proscription will make a prison ? If I cannot have the respect 
 of those whom I love best, I may as well die." 
 
 The tears filled my eyes, and he could have had no doubt as 
 to the genuineness of my emotion, though he made no imme- 
 diate-reply. He looked at me gravely, and hesitated as if he 
 were puzzled as to the best way to treat me. 
 
 At length he said : " Well, Arthur, I am glad you have got 
 as far as this — that you have discovered that money cannot buy 
 everything, and that there are things in the world so much more 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 273 
 
 precious than money, that money itself is good for nothing 
 without them. It is well, at least, to have learned so much, 
 but the question with me is : how far will this conviction be per- 
 mitted to take practical hold of your life ? What are your plans ? 
 What do you propose to do to redeem yourself? " 
 
 " I will do anything," I answered warmly and impulsively. 
 
 " That is very indefinite," he responded, " and if you have 
 no plans there is no use in our talking further upon the sub- 
 ject." 
 
 " What would you have me do ? " I inquired, with a feeling 
 that he was wronging me. 
 
 " Nothing — certainly nothing that is not born of a principle. 
 If there is no higher purpose in you than that of regaining the 
 good opinion of your friends and neighbors, you will do nothing. 
 When you wish to become a man for manhood's sake, your 
 purpose of life and work will come, and it will be a worthy one. 
 When your life proceeds from a right principle, you will secure 
 the respect of everybody, though you wll care very little about 
 it — certainly much less than you care now. My approval will 
 avail little ; you have always had my love and my faith in your 
 ability to redeem yourself As for my home it is always open 
 to you, and there is no event that would make it brighter for 
 me than to see you making a man's use of your splendid 
 opportunities." 
 
 We had further talk, but it was not of a character to reassure 
 me, for I was conscious that I lacked the one thing which he 
 deemed essential to my improvement. Wealth, with its immu- 
 nities and delights, had debauched me, and though I craved the 
 good opinion of the Bradfords, it was largely because I had 
 associated Millie with my future. It was my selfishness and 
 my natural love of approbation that lay at the bottom of it all ; 
 and as soon as I comprehended myself I saw that Mr. Bradford 
 understood me. He had studied me through and through, 
 and had ceased to entertain any hope of improvement ex- 
 cept through a change of circumstances. 
 
 As I went to the door with him, and looked out into the 
 13* 
 
2 74 Arthur Bormicastle, 
 
 night, two dark figures were visible in the middle of the road. 
 They were standing entirely still when the door was opened, 
 for the light from the hall revealed them. They immediately 
 moved on, but the sight of them arrested Mr. Bradford on the 
 step. When they had passed beyond hearing, he turned to me 
 and, in a low voice, said : " Look to all your fastenings to- 
 night. There is a gang of suspicious fellows about town, and 
 already two or three burglaries have been committed. There 
 may be no danger, but it is well to be on your guard." 
 
 Though I was naturally nervous and easily excited in my im- 
 agination, I was by no means deficient in physical courage, 
 and no child in physical pruwess. I was not afraid of anything 
 I could see ; but the thought of a night-visitation from ruffians 
 was quite enough to keep me awake, particularly as I could 
 not but be aware that The Mansion held much that was valu- 
 able and portable, and that I was practically alone. Mr. Brad- 
 ford's caution was quite enough to put all my senses on tension 
 and destroy my power to sleep. That there were men about 
 the house in the night I had evidence enough, both while I lay 
 listening, and, on the next morning, when I went into the gar- 
 den, where they had walked across the flower-beds. 
 
 I called at the Bradfords' the next day, meeting no one, how- 
 ever, save Mr. Bradford, and reported what I had heard and 
 seen. He looked grave, and while we were speaking a neigh- 
 bor entered who reported two burglaries which had occurred on 
 the previous night, one of them at a house beyond The Man- 
 sion. 
 
 " I shall spend the night in the streets," said Mr. Bradford 
 decidedly. 
 
 "Who will guard your own house?" I inquired. 
 
 " I shall depend upon Aunt Flick's ears and Dennis's hands," 
 he replied. 
 
 Our little city had greatly changed in ten years. The first 
 railroad had been built, manufactures had sprung up, business 
 and population had increased, and the whole social aspect of 
 the place had been revolutionized. It had entirely outgrown 
 
Arthzcr Bonnicastle, 275 
 
 its unchanged police machinery and appointments, and now, 
 when there was a call for efficient surveillance, the authorities 
 were sadly inadequate to the occasion. Under Mr. Brad- 
 ford's lead, a volunteer corps of constables was organized and 
 sworn into office, and a patrol established which promised pro- 
 tection to the persons and property of the citizens. 
 
 The following night was undisturbed. No suspicious men 
 were encountered in the street ; and the second night passed 
 away in the same peaceable manner. Several of the volunteer^ 
 constables, supposing that the danger was past, declined to 
 watch longer, though Mr. Bradford and a faithful and spirited 
 few still held on. The burglars were believed by him to be 
 still in the city, under cover, and waiting either for an opportunity 
 to get away, or to add to their depredations. I do not think 
 that Mr. Bradford expected his own house to be attacked, but, 
 from the location of The Mansion, and Mrs. Sanderson's repu- 
 tation for wealth, I know that he thought it more than likely 
 that I should have a visit from the marauders. During these 
 two nights of watching, I slept hardly more than on the night 
 when I discovered the loiterers before the house. It began to be 
 painful, for I had no solid sleep until after the day had dawned. 
 The suspense wore upon me, and I dreaded the night as much 
 as if I had been condemned to pass it alone in a forest. I had 
 said nothing to Jenks or the cook about the matter, and was 
 all alone in my consciousness of danger, as I was alone in 
 the power to meet it. Under these circumstances, I called 
 upon Henry, and asked as a personal favor that he would come 
 and pass at least one night with me. He seemed but little in- 
 clined to favor my request, and probably would not have done 
 so had not a refusal seemed like cowardice. At nine o'clock, 
 however, he made his appearance, and we went immediately to 
 bed. 
 
 Fortified by a sense of protection and companionship, I 
 sank at once into a slumber so profound that a dozen men 
 might have ransacked the house without waking me. Though 
 Henry went to sleep, as he afterwards told me, at his usual 
 
276 Arthur Bonnzcastle, 
 
 hour, he slept lightly, for his own fears had been awakened by 
 the circumstances into which I had brought him. We both 
 slept until about one o'clock m the morning, when there came 
 to me in the middle of a dream a crash which was incorporated 
 into my dream as the discharge of a cannon and the rattle of 
 musketry, followed by the groans of the dying. I awoke be- 
 wildered, and impulsively threw my hand over to learn whether 
 Henry was at my side. I found the clothes swept from the 
 bed as if they had been thrown off in a sudden waking and 
 flight, and his place empty. I sprang to my feet, conscious at 
 the same time that a struggle was in progress near me, but in 
 the dark. I struck a light, and, all unclad as I was, ran into 
 the hall. As I passed the door, I heard a heavy fall, and 
 caught a confused glimpse of two figures embracing and rolling 
 heavily down the broad stairway. In my haste I almost tum- 
 bled over a man lying upon the floor. 
 
 " Hold on to him — here's Arthur," the man shouted, and I 
 recognized the voice of old Jenks. 
 
 " What are you here for, Jenks ? " I shouted. 
 
 "I'm hurt," said Jenks, "but don't mind me. Hold on to 
 him ! hold on to him ! " 
 
 Passing Jenks, I rushed down the staircase, and found 
 Henry kneeling upon the prostrate figure of a ruffian, and 
 holding his hands with a grip of iron. My light had already 
 been seen in the street ; and I heard shouts without, and a 
 hurried tramping of men. I set my candle down, and was at 
 Henry's side in an instant, asking him what to do. 
 
 " Open the door, and call for help," he answered between 
 his teeth. " I am faint and cannot hold on much longer." 
 
 I sprang to the door, and while I was pushing back the bolt 
 was startled by a rap upon the outside, and a call which I 
 recognized at once as that of Mr. Bradford. Throwing the 
 door open, he, with two others, leaped in, and comprehended 
 the situation of affairs. Closing it behind him, Mr. Bradford 
 told Henry to let the fellow rise. Henry did not stir. The 
 ruffian lay helplessly rolUng up his eyes, while Henry's head 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 277 
 
 dropped upon his prisoners breast. The brave fellow was 
 badly hurt, and had fainted. Mr. Bradford stooped and lifted 
 his helpless form, as if he had been a child, and bore him up 
 stairs, while his companions pinioned his antagonist, and 
 dragged him out of the door, where his associate stood under 
 guard. The latter had been arrested while running away, op 
 the approach of Mr. Bradford and his posse. 
 
 Depositing his burden upon a bed, Mr. Bradford found 
 another candle and came down to light it. Giving hurried 
 directions to his men as to the disposition of the arrested 
 burglars, he told one of them to bring Aunt Flick at once from 
 his house, and another to summon a surgeon. In five minutes 
 the house would have been silent save for the groanings of 
 poor old Jenks, who still lay where he fell, and the screams o^ 
 the cook, who had, at last, been wakened by the din and com 
 motion. 
 
 As soon as Henry began to show signs of recovery from his 
 fainting fit we turned our attention to Jenks, who lay patiently 
 upon the floor, disabled partly by his fall, and partly by his 
 rheumatism. Lifting him carefully, we carried him to his bed, 
 and he was left in my care while Mr. Bradford went back to 
 Henry. 
 
 Old Jenks, who had had a genuine encounter with ruffians 
 in the dark, seemed to be compensated for all his hurts and 
 dangers by having a marvelous story to tell and this he told 
 to me in detail. He had been wakened in the night by a noise. 
 It seemed to him that somebody was trying to get into the house. 
 He lay until he felt his bed jarred by some one walking in the 
 room below. Then he heard a little cup rattle on his table — 
 a little cup with a teaspoon in it. Satisfied that there was 
 some one in the house who did not belong in it, he rose, and 
 undertook to make his way to my room for the purpose of giv- 
 ing me the information. He was obliged to reach me through 
 a passage that led from the back part of the house. This he 
 undertook to do in the stealthy and silent fashion of which he 
 was an accomplished master, and had reached the staircase 
 
278 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 that led from the grand hall, when he encountered the intruder 
 who, taking him at once for an antagonist, knocked him down. 
 The noise of this encounter woke Henry, who sprang from his 
 bed, and, in a fierce grapple with the rascal, threw him and 
 rolled with him to the bottom of the staircase. 
 
 I could not learn that the old man had any bones broken, or 
 that he had suffered much except by the shock upon his nervous 
 system and the cruel jar he had received in his rheumatic joints. 
 After a while, having administered a cordial, I left him with the 
 assurance that I should be up for the remainder of the night 
 and that he could sleep in perfect safety. Returning to my 
 room I found Aunt Flick already arrived, and busy with service 
 at Henry's side. The surgeon came soon afterwards, and 
 having made a careful examination, declared that Henry had 
 suffered a bad fracture of the thigh, and that he must on no ac- 
 count be moved from the house. 
 
 At this announcement, Mr. Bradford, Henry and I looked at 
 one another with a pained and puzzled expression. We said 
 nothing, but the same thought was running through our minds. 
 Mrs. Sanderson must know of it, and how would she receive 
 and treat it ? She had a strong prejudice against Henry, of 
 which we were all aware. Would she blame me for the invita- 
 tion that had brought him there ? would she treat him well, and 
 make him comfortable while there ? 
 
 " I know what you are thinking of," said Aunt Flick sharply, 
 *' and if the old lady makes a fuss about it I shall give her a 
 piece of my mind." 
 
 " Let it be small," said Henry, smiling through his pain. 
 
 The adjustment of the fracture was a painful and tedious 
 process, which the dear fellow bore with the fortitude that was 
 his characteristic. It was hard for me to think that he had 
 passed through his great danger and was suffering this pain for 
 me, though to tell the truth, I half envied him the good fortune 
 that had demonstrated his prowess and had made him for the 
 time the hero of the town. These unworthy thoughts I thrust 
 from ni} mind, and determined on thorough devotion to the 
 
Artlmr Bonnicastle, 279 
 
 companion who had risked so much for me, and who had pos 
 sibly been the means of saving my life. 
 
 It seemed, in the occupation and absorption of the occasion, 
 but an hour after my waking, before the day began to dawn ; 
 and leaving Aunt Flick with Henry, Mr. Bradford and I retired 
 for consultation. 
 
 It was decided at once that Mrs. Sanderson would be of- 
 fended should we withhold from her, for any reason, the news 
 of what had happened in her house. The question was whether 
 she should be informed of it by letter, or whether Mr. Bradford 
 or I should go to her on the morning boat, and tell her the 
 whole story, insisting that she should remain w^here she was un- 
 til Henry could be moved. Mr. Bradford had reasons of his 
 own for believing that it was best that she should get her intel- 
 ligence from me, and it was decided that while he remained in 
 or near the house, I should be the messenger to my aunt, and 
 ascertain her plans and wishes. 
 
 Accordingly, bidding Henry a hasty good-morning, and de • 
 dining a breakfast for which I had no appetite, I walked down 
 to the steamer, and paced her decks during all her brief pas- 
 sage, in the endeavor to dissipate the excitement of which I 
 had not been conscious until after my departure from the house. 
 I found my aunt and Mrs. Belden enjoying the morning breeze 
 on the shady piazza of their hotel. Mrs. Sanderson rose with 
 excitement as I approached her, while her companion became 
 as pale as death. Both saw something in my face that betok- 
 ened trouble, and neither seemed able to do more than to utter 
 an exclamation of surprise. Several guests of the house being 
 near us, I offered my arm to Mrs. Sanderson, and said : 
 
 " Let us go to your parlor : I have something to tell you." 
 
 We went up-stairs, Mrs. Belden following us. When we 
 reached the door, the latter said : " Shall I come in too ? " 
 
 " Certainly," I responded. " You will learn all I have ts 
 tell, and you may as well learn it from me." 
 
 We sat down and looked at one another. Then I said : 
 " We have had a burglary." 
 
28o Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 Both ladies uttered an exclamation of terror. 
 
 " What was carried away?" said Mrs. Sanderson sharply. 
 
 " The burglars themselves," I answered. 
 
 " And nothing lost ? " 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 "And no one hurt? " 
 
 " I cannot say that," I answered. " That is the saddest part 
 of it. Old Jenks was knocked down, and the man who saved 
 the house came out of his struggle with a badly broken limb." 
 
 " Who was he ? How came he in the house ? " 
 
 " Henry Hulm ; I invited him. I was worn out with three 
 nights of watching." 
 
 Mrs. Sanderson sat like one struck dumb, while Mrs. Bel- 
 den, growing paler, fell in a swoon upon the floor. I lifted her 
 to a sofa, and calling a servant to care for her, after she began 
 to show signs of returning consciousness, took my aunt into 
 her bed-room, closed the door, and told her the whole story in 
 detail. I cannot say that I was surprised by the result. She 
 always had the readiest way of submitting to the inevitable of 
 any person I ever saw. She knew at once that it was best for 
 her to go home, to take charge of her own house, to superin- 
 tend the recovery of Henry, and to treat him so well that no 
 burden of obligation should rest upon her. She knew at once 
 that any coldness or lack of attention on her part would be 
 condemned by all her neighbors. She knew that she must put 
 out of sight all her prejudice against the young man, and so 
 load him with attentions and benefactions that he could never 
 again look upon her with indifference, or treat her with even 
 constructive discourtesy. 
 
 While we sat talking, Mrs. Belden rapped at the door, and 
 entered. 
 
 " I am sure we had better go home," she said, trembHngly. 
 
 "That is already determined," responded my aunt. 
 
 With my assistance, the trunks were packed long before the 
 boat returned, the bills at the hotel were settled, and the ladies 
 were ready for the little journey. 
 
Artlmr Bonnicastle, 281 
 
 I had never seen Mrs. Belden so thoroughly deposed from 
 
 her self-possession as she seemed all the way home. Her agi- 
 tation, which had the air of impatience, increased as we came 
 in sight of Bradford, and when we arrived at the door of The 
 Mansion, and alighted, she could hardly stand, but staggered 
 up the walk like one thoroughly ill. I was equally distressed 
 and perplexed by the impression which the news had made 
 upon her, for she had always been a marvel of equanimity and 
 self-control. 
 
 We met the surgeon and Mr. Bradford at the door. They 
 had good news to tell of Henry, who had passed a quiet day ; 
 but poor old Jenks had shown signs of feverish reaction, and 
 had been anxiously inquiring when I should return. Aunt 
 Flick was busy in Henry's room. My aunt mounted at once 
 to the young man's chamber with the surgeon and myself. 
 
 Aunt Flick paused in her work as we entered, made a distant 
 bow to Mrs. Sanderson, and waited to see what turn affairs 
 would take, while she held in reserve that " piece of her mind " 
 which contingently she had determined to hurl at the little mis- 
 tress of the establishment. 
 
 It was with a feeling of triumph over both Henry and his 
 spirited guardian, that I witnessed Mrs. Sanderson's meeting 
 with my friend. She sat down by his bedside, and took his 
 pale hand in both her own little hands, saying almost tenderly : 
 *' I have heard all the story, so that there is nothing to say, 
 except for me to thank you for protecting, my house, and to 
 assure you that while you remain here you will be a thousand 
 times welcome, and have every service and attention you need. 
 Give yourself no anxiety about anything, but get well as soon 
 as you can. There are three of us who have nothing in the 
 world to do but to attend you and help you." 
 
 A tear stole down Henry's cheek as she said this, and she 
 reached over with her dainty handkerchief, and wiped it away 
 as tenderly as if he had been a child. 
 
 I looked at Aunt Flick, and found her face curiously puck- 
 ered in the attempt. to keep back the tears. Then my aunt 
 
282 . Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 addressed her, thanking her for her service, and telling her that 
 she could go home and rest, as the family would be quite suffi- 
 cient for the nursing of the invalid. The woman could not 
 say a word. She was prepared for any emergency but this, 
 and so, bidding Henry good-night, she retired from the room 
 and the house. 
 
 When supper was announced, Mrs. Sanderson and I went 
 down stairs. We met Mrs. Belden at the foot, who declared 
 that she was not in a condition to eat anything, and would go 
 up and sit with Henry. We tried to dissuade her, but she was 
 decided, and my aunt and I passed on into the dining-room. 
 Remembering when I arrived there that I had not seen Jenks, 
 I excused myself for a moment, and as silently as possible 
 remounted the stairs. As I passed Henry's door, I impulsively 
 pushed it open. It made no noise, and there, before me, 
 Mrs. Belden knelt at Henr/s bed, with her arms around his 
 neck and her cheek lying against his own. I pulled back the 
 door as noiselessly as I had opened it, and half stunned by 
 what I had seen, passed on through the passage that led to the 
 room of the old servant. The poor man looked haggard and 
 wretched, while his eyes shone strangely above cheeks that 
 burned with the flush of fever. I had been so astonished by 
 what I had seen that I could hardly give rational replies to his 
 inquiries. 
 
 "I doubt if I weather it, Mr. Arthur; what do you think ?" 
 said he, fairly looking me through to get at my opinion. 
 
 " I hope you will be all right in a few days," I responded. 
 ** Don't give yourself any care. I'll see that you are attended 
 to." 
 
 ** Thank you. Give us your hand." 
 
 I pressed his hand, attended to some trifling service that he 
 required of me, and went down stairs with a sickening mis- 
 giving concerning my old friend. He was shattered and worn, 
 and, though I was but little conversant with disease, there was 
 something in his appearance that alarmed me, and made me 
 feel that he had reached his death-bed. 
 
Mrs. Belden knelt at Heniy's bed, with her arm around his neck. 
 
 (p. 282. 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 283 
 
 With the memory of the scene which I had witnessed in 
 Henry's room fresh in my mind, with all its strange sugges 
 tions, and with the wild, inquiring look of Jenks still before me, 
 I had little disposition to make conversation. Yet I looked 
 up occasionally at my aunt's face, to give her the privilege 
 of speaking, if she were disposed to talk. She, however, was 
 quite as much absorbed as myself. She did not look sad. 
 There played around her mouth a quiet smile, while her eyes 
 shone with determination and enterprise. Was it possible that 
 she was thinking that she had Henry just where she wanted 
 him ? Was she glad that she had in her house and hands an- 
 other spirit to mould and conquer ? Was she delighted that 
 something had come for her to do, and thus to add variety to 
 a life which had become tame with routine ? I do not know, 
 but it seemed as if this were the case. 
 
 At the close of the meal, I told her of the impression I had 
 received from Jenks' s appearance, and begged her to go to his 
 room with me, but she declined. There was one presence into 
 which this brave woman did not wish to pass — the presence 
 of death. Like many another strongly vitalized nature hers 
 revolted at dissolution. She could rise to the opposition of 
 anything that she could meet and master, but the dread 
 power which she knew would in a few short years, at most, 
 unlock the clasp by which she held to life and her possessions 
 filled her with horror. She would do anything for her old 
 servant at a distance, but she could not, and would not, wit- 
 ness the process through which she knew her own frame and 
 spirit must pass in the transition to her final rest. 
 
 That night I spent mainly with Jenks, while Mrs. Belden 
 attended Henry. This was according to her own wish ; and 
 Mrs. Sanderson was sent to bed at her usual hour. Whenever 
 I was wanted for anything in Henry's room, Mrs. Belden 
 called me ; and, as Jenks needed frequent attention, I got very 
 little sleep during the night. 
 
 Mrs. Sanderson was alarmed by my haggard looks in the 
 morning, and immediately sent for a professional nurse to at- 
 
284 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 tend her servant, and declared that my watching must be 
 stopped. 
 
 Tired with staying in-doors, and wishing for a while to sepa- 
 rate myself from the scenes that had so absorbed me, and the 
 events that had broken so violently in upon my life, I took a 
 long stroll in the fields and woods. Sitting down at length in the 
 shade, with birds singing above my head and insects humming 
 around me, I passed these events rapidly in review, and there 
 came to me the conviction that Providence had begun to deal 
 with me in earnest. Since the day of my entrance upon my new 
 life at The Mansion, I had met with no trials that I had not 
 consciously brought upon myself Hardship I had not known. 
 Sickness and death I had not seen. In the deep sorrows of the 
 world, in its struggles and pains and self-denials, I had had no part. 
 Now, change had come, and further change seemed imminent. 
 How should I meet it ? What would be its effect upon me .? 
 For the present my selfish plans and pleasures must be laid 
 aside, and my lifje be devoted to others. The strong hand of 
 necessity was upon me, and there sprang up within me, respon- 
 sive to its touch, a manly determination to do my whole duty. 
 
 Then the strange scene I had witnessed in Henry's room came 
 back to me. Wliat relations could exist between this pair, so 
 widely separated by age, that warranted the intimacy I had 
 witnessed ? Was this woman who had seemed to me so nearly 
 perfect a base woman ? Had she woven her toils about Henry ? 
 Was he a hypocrite? Every event of a suspicious nature 
 which had occurred was passed rapidly in review. I remem- 
 bered his presence at the wharf when she first debarked in the 
 city, his strange appearance when he met her at the Brad- 
 fords for the first time, the letter I had carried to him written 
 by her hand, the terrible effect upon her of the news of his 
 struggle and injury, and many other incidents which I have not 
 recorded. There was some sympathy between them which I 
 did not understand, and which filled me with a strange misgiv- 
 ing, both on account of my sister and myself ; yet I knew that 
 she and Claire were the closest friends, and I had never re- 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 285 
 
 ceived from her anything but the friendliest treatment. Since 
 she had returned, she had clung to his room and his side as if 
 he were her special charge, by duty and by right. One thing 
 I was sure of : she would never have treated me in the waj 
 she had treated him. 
 
 Then there came to me, with a multitude of thoughts and 
 events connected with my past history, Mrs. Sanderson's sin- 
 gular actions regarding the picture that had formed with me 
 the subject of so many speculations and surmises. Who was 
 the boy ? What connection had he with her Hfe and history ? 
 Was she tired of me ? Was she repentant for some great in- 
 justice rendered to one she had loved? Was she sorrowing 
 over some buried hope ? Did I stand in the way of the reali- 
 zation of some desire which, in her rapidly declining years, 
 had sprung to life within her ? 
 
 I do not know why it was, but there came to me the con- 
 sciousness that events were before me — ready to disclose 
 themselves — shut from me by a thin veil — which would change 
 the current of my life ; and the purpose I had already formed 
 of seeking an interview with Mr. Bradford and asking him the 
 questions I had long desired to ask, was confirmed. I would 
 do it at once. I would learn my aunt's history, and know the 
 ground on which I stood. I would pierce the mysteries that 
 had puzzled me and were still gathering around me, and front 
 whatever menace they might bear. 
 
CHAPER XIX. 
 
 JENKS GOES FAR, FAR AWAY UPON THE BILLOW AND NEVER 
 COMES BACK. 
 
 On returning to the house I found myself delayed in the 
 execution of my determination by the increasing and alarming 
 sickness of the old servant Jenks, and by his desire that I 
 should be near him. The physician, who was called at once, 
 gave us no hope of his recovery. He was breaking down 
 rapidly, and seemed to be conscious of the fact. 
 
 On the following morning, after I had spent the most of the 
 night in his room, he requested the nurse to retire, and calling 
 me to his bedside said he wished to say a few words to me. I 
 administered a cordial, which he swallowed with pain, and after 
 a fit of difficult breathing caused by the effort, he said feebly : 
 " It's no use, Mr. Arthur; I can't hold on, and I don't think I 
 want to. It's a mere matter of staying. I should never work 
 any more, even if I should weather this." 
 
 I tried to say some comforting words, but he shook his head 
 feebly, and simply repeated : " It's no use." 
 
 " What can I do for you, Jenks ? " I said. 
 
 " Do you know Jim Taylor's wife ? " he inquired. 
 
 " I've seen her," I replied. 
 
 "She's a hard working woman." 
 
 " Yes, with a great many children." 
 
 "And Jim don't treat her very well," he muttered. 
 
 " So I've heard." 
 
 He shook his head slowly, and whispered : "It's too bad; 
 it's too bad." 
 
 " Don't worry yourself about Jim Taylor's wife ; she's noth- 
 ing to you," I said. 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 287 
 
 "Do you think so? — nothing to me? Don't say that; I 
 can't bear it." 
 
 "You don't mean to tell me that Jim Taylor's wife is — " 
 
 He nodded his head ; and I saw that he had not yet finished 
 what he had to say about her. 
 
 " Have you any message for her ? " I inquired. 
 
 "Well, you know, Mr. Arthur, that she's been everything to 
 me, and I'd like to do a httle something for her. You don't 
 think she'd take it amiss if I should leave her some money, do 
 you ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, she's very poor," I said. " I think she would be 
 very grateful for anything you can do to help her along." 
 
 His eye lighted, and a feeble smile spread over his wizen 
 features. 
 
 " Pull out that little box under the bed," he said. " The 
 key is under my pillow." 
 
 I placed the box on the bed, and, after fumbling under his 
 pillow, found the key and opened the humble coffer. 
 
 "There's a hundred clean silver dollars in that bag, that I've 
 been saving up for her for thirty years. I hope they'll do her 
 good. Give them to her, and don't tell Jim. Tell her Jenks 
 never forgot her, and that she's been everything to him. Tell 
 her 1 was sorry she had trouble, and don't forget to say that I 
 never blamed her.^^ 
 
 I assured him that I would give her the money and the 
 message faithfully, and he sank back into his pillow with a satis- 
 fied look upon his face that I had not seen there since his sick- 
 ness. The long contemplated act was finished, and the work 
 of his life was done. 
 
 After lying awhile with his eyes closed, he opened them and 
 said : " Do you s'pose we shall know one another over 
 yonder ? " 
 
 " I hope so ; I think so," I responded. 
 
 " If she comes before Jim, I shall look after her. Do you 
 dare to tell her that ?" and he fixed his glazing eyes upon me 
 with a wild, strained look that thrilled me. 
 
288 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 " I think it would scare her," I answered. " Perhaps you had 
 better not send her such a message." 
 
 " Well, I shall look after her, any way, if I get a chance, and 
 perhaps both of 'em won't go to one place — and — ^" 
 
 What further possibilities ran through the old man's imagina- 
 tion I do not know, for he seemed exhausted, and ceased to 
 speak. I sat for an hour beside his bed, while he sank into a 
 lethargic slumber. At last he woke and stared wildly about 
 him. Then, fixing his eyes on me, he said : " Now's my time ! 
 If I'm ever going to get away from this place I must go to- 
 night ! " 
 
 There was a pathetic and poetic appositeness in these words 
 to the facts of his expiring life that touched me to tears, and I 
 wiped my eyes. Then listening to some strange singing in his 
 ears, he said: "Doesn't it rain ? Doesn't it pour? You'll 
 take cold, my boy, and so shall I." 
 
 The thought carried him back over the years to the scene in 
 the stable where in agony I knelt, with the elements in tumult 
 above me and his arm around my neck, and prayed. 
 
 " Pray again, Arthur. I want to hear you pray." 
 
 I could not refuse him, but knelt at once by his bed, and 
 buried my face in the clothes by his side. He tried to lift his 
 hand, but the power to do so was gone. I recognized his wish, 
 and lifted his arm and placed it round my neck. It was several 
 minutes before I could command my voice, and then, choking 
 as on the evening which he had recalled, I tried to commend 
 his departing spirit to the mercy and fatherly care of Him who 
 was so soon to receive it. Having prayed for him it was easiei 
 to pray for myself; and I did pray, fervently and long. As 1 
 closed, a whispered "Amen" came from his dying lips. 
 " There," he said ; " let's go into the house ; it's warm there." 
 There was something in these words that started my tears 
 again. 
 
 After this his mind wandered, and in his delirium the old 
 passion of his life took full possession of him. 
 
 " To-morrow I shall be far, far away on the billow 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 289 
 
 The old woman will call Jenks, but Jenks won't be here. 
 Jenks will be gone ! . . . . This is the craft : up with her sails : 
 down with the compasses : My ! how she slides ! Run her 
 straight for the moon ! . . . . Doesn't she cut the water beau- 
 tiful! .... The sea rolls and swings, and rolls and swings, 
 and there are the islands ! I see 'em ! I see 'em ! . . . . It's 
 
 just hke a cradle, and I can't keep awake Oh, I'm 
 
 going to sleep ! I'm — going — to — sleep Tell the old 
 
 woman I bore her no ill will, but I had to go I was 
 
 obliged to go Straight along in the track of the moon." 
 
 He said all this brokenly, with his eyes closed ; and then he 
 opened them wide, and looked around as if suddenly startled 
 out of sleep. Then life went out of them, and there came on 
 that quick, short breathing, unmistakable in its character, even 
 to a novice, and I rose and called the nurse and Mrs. Belden 
 to witness the closing scene. 
 
 So, sailing out upon that unknown sea made bright by a 
 hovering glory, with green islands in view and the soft waves 
 lapping his little vessel, escaping from all his labors and pains, 
 and realizing all his dreams and aspirations, the old man passed 
 away. There was a smile upon his face, left by some sweet 
 emotion. If he was hailed by other barks sailing upon the 
 same sea, if he touched at the islands and plucked their golden 
 fruit, if there opened to his expanding vision broader waters 
 beyond the light of the moon, and bathing the feet of the 
 Eternal City, we could not know. We only knew that his clos- 
 ing thought was a blessed thought, and that it glorified the 
 features which, in a few short days, would turn to dust. It was 
 delightful to think that the harmless, simple, ignorant, dear old 
 boy had passed into the hands of his Father. There I left him 
 without a care — in the hands of One whose justice Only is ten- 
 derer than His mercy, and whose love only is stronger than His 
 justice. 
 
 The superintendence of all the affairs connected with his 
 funeral was devolved upon me ; and his burial^ was like the 
 burial of an old playfellow. I could not have believed that 
 13 
 
290 Arthtiv Bonnicastle, 
 
 his death would grieve me so. It was the destruction of a part 
 of my home. Now nothing was left but a single frail woman, 
 whose years were almost told; and when her time should be 
 spent, the house would be empty of all but myself, and those 
 whom I might choose to retain or procure. 
 
 His remains were followed to the grave by Mrs. Sanderson 
 and myself in the family carriage, and by the Bradfords, with 
 some humble acquaintances. His relatives were all at a dis- 
 tance, if he had any living, or they had left the world before 
 him. The house seemed more lonely after his death than I 
 had ever felt it to be before, and poor Mrs. Sanderson was 
 quite broken down by the event. The presence of death in 
 the house was so sad a remembrancer of previous occurrences 
 of which I had had no knowledge, and was such a suggestion 
 to herself of the brevity of her remaining years, that she was 
 wonderfully softened. 
 
 She had, ever since her return, lived apparently in a kind of 
 dream. There was something in Henry's presence and voice 
 that had the power to produce this tender, silent mood, and 
 Jenks's death only deepened and intensified it. 
 
 When all was over, and the house had resumed its every-day 
 aspects and employments, I took the little s-um that Jenks had 
 saved with such tender care, and bore it to the woman who had 
 so inspired his affection and sweetened his life. I found her a 
 hard-faced, weary old woman, whose Hfe of toil and trouble had 
 wiped out every grace and charm of womanhood that she had 
 ever possessed. She regarded my call with evident curiosity ; 
 and when I asked her if she had ever known Jenks, and 
 whether anything had occurred between them in their early 
 life that would make him remember her with particular regard, 
 she smiled a grim, hard smile and said : " Not much." 
 . "What was it? I have good reasons for inquiring." 
 
 "Well," said she, "he wanted me to marry him, and I 
 wouldn't. That's about all. You see he was a kind of an in- 
 nocent, and I s'pose I made fun of him. Perhaps I've had m^ 
 pay for't." 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 291 
 
 " Do you know that he has loved you dearly all his life ; 
 that lie has pricked your name into his arm, and that it was 
 the tenderest and sweetest word that ever passed his lips ; that 
 the thought of you comforted him at his work and mingled 
 with all his dreams ; that he would have gone through fire and 
 water to serve you ; that he saved up money all his life to give 
 you, and that he hopes you will die before your husband, so 
 that he may have the chance to care for you in the other coun- 
 try to which he has gone ? " 
 
 As I uttered these words slowly, and with much emotion, 
 her dull eyes opened wider and wider, and filled with tears 
 which dropped unregarded from her cheeks. I suppose these 
 were^ the first words of affection that had been spoken to her 
 for twenty years. Her heart had been utterly starved, and my 
 words were hke manna to her taste. She could not speak at 
 first, and then with much difficulty she said : " Are you tell- 
 ing me the truth ?" 
 
 " I am not telling you half of the truth. He loved you a 
 thousand times more devotedly than I can tell you. He would 
 have worshiped a ribbon that you had worn. He would have 
 kissed the ground on which you stepped. He would have 
 been your slave. He would have done anything, or been any- 
 thing, that would have given you pleasure, even though he had 
 never won a smile in return." 
 
 Then I untied the handkerchief in which I had brought the 
 old man's savings, and poured the heavy silver into her lap. 
 She did not look at it. She only looked into my face with a 
 sad gaze, while the tears filled her eyes anew. 
 
 "I don't deserve it: I don't deserve it," she repeated in a 
 hopeless way, " but I thank you. I've got something to think 
 of besides kicks and cuffs and curses. No — they won't hurt 
 me any more." 
 
 Her eyes brightened then so that she looked almost beauti- 
 ful to me. The assurance that one man, even though she had 
 regarded him as a simpleton, had persistently loved her, had 
 passed into her soul, so that she was^ strengthened for a life- 
 
292 Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 time. The little hoard and the love that came with it weie a 
 mighty re-enforcement against all the trials which a brutal hus- 
 band and forgetful children had brought upon her. 
 
 I left her sitting with her treasure still in her lap, dreaming 
 over the old days, looking forward to those that remained, and 
 thinking of the man who would have asked for no sweeter 
 heaven than to look in and see her thus employed. Afterwards 
 I saw her often. She attended the church which she had long 
 forsaken, with clothes so neat and comfortable that her neigh- 
 bors wondered where and how she had managed to procure 
 them, and took up the burden of her life again with courage and 
 patience. 
 
 She went before Jim. 
 
 Whom she found waiting on the other side of that moonlit 
 sea over which my old friend had sailed homeward, I shall 
 know some time ; but I cannot turn my eyes from a 
 picture which my fancy sketches, of a sweet old man, grown 
 wise and strong, standing upon a sunny beach, with arms out- 
 stretched; to greet an in-going shallop that bears still the name 
 of all the vessels he had ever owned — " the Jane Whittlesey I " 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 MR. BRADFORD TELLS ME A STORY WHICH CHANGES THE 
 DETERMINATIONS OF MY LIFE. 
 
 I HAVE already alluded to the effect which Henry's presence 
 produced upon Mrs. Sanderson. For a few days after her re- 
 turn, I watched with covert but most intense interest the devel- 
 opment of her acquaintance with him. Mrs. Belden had been 
 for so long a time her companion, and was so constantly at 
 Henr/s bedside, that my aunt quickly took on the habit of go- 
 ing in to sit for an hour with the lady and her charge. I was 
 frequently in and out, doing what I could for my friend's amuse- 
 ment, and often found both the ladies in attendance. Mrs. 
 Sanderson always sat at the window in an old-fashioned rock- 
 ing chair, listening to the conversation between Mrs. Belden and 
 Henry. Whenever Henry laughed, or uttered an exclamation, 
 she started and looked over to his bed, as if the sounds were 
 familiar, or as if thsy had a strange power of suggestion. 
 There was some charm in his voice and look to which she sub- 
 mitted herself more and more as the days went by — a charm so 
 subtle that I doubt whether she understood it or was conscious 
 of its power. 
 
 Two or three days passed after I had executed Jenks's will, 
 with relation to his savings, when my old resolution to visit Mr. 
 Bradford recurred. In the meantime, I felt that I had won 
 strength from my troubles and cares, and was better able to 
 bear trial than I had ever been before. I was Htde needed in 
 the house, now that Jenks was gone, so, one morning after 
 breakfast, I started to execute my purpose. As I was taking 
 my hat in the hall, there came a rap upon the door, and as I 
 stood near it I opened it and encountered MilUe Bradford 
 
294 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 She met me with a cordiality that spoke her friendship, but with 
 a reserve which declared that the old relations between us had 
 ceased. I know that I blushed painfully, for she had been 
 much in my thoughts, and it seemed, somehow, that she must 
 have been conscious of the fact. I knew, too, that I had disap- 
 pointed and shamed her. 
 
 " My father is busy this morning, Mr. Bonnicastle," she said, 
 " and I have been sent up to inquire after the invalid." 
 
 Ah, how her " Mr. Bonnicastle " removed me from her ! 
 And how much more lovely she seemed to me than she had 
 ever seemed before ! Dressed in a snowy morning wrapper, 
 with a red rose at her throat, and only a parasol to shade her black 
 hair and her luminously tender eyes, and with all the shapely 
 beauty in her figure that the ministry of seventeen gracious 
 years could bestow, she seemed to me almost a goddess. 
 
 I invited her in, and called my aunt. Mrs. Belden heard 
 her voice soon afterwards and came down, and we had a pleasant 
 chat. As soon as Mrs.' Belden appeared, I noticed that Millie 
 addressed all her inquiries concerning Henry to her, and that 
 there seemed to be a very friendly intimacy between them. 
 
 When, at last, the girl rose to go, I passed into the hall with 
 her, and taking my hat, said : " Miss Bradford, I was about to 
 go to your house for a business call upon your father, when you 
 came in. May I have the pleasure of walking home with you ? " 
 
 '' Oh certainly," she replied, though with a shadow of reluct- 
 ance in her look, " but I fear your walk will be fruitless. My 
 father has gentlemen with him, and perhaps will not be at 
 liberty to see you." 
 
 "Still, with your leave I will go. I shall win a walk at 
 least," I responded. 
 
 The moment I was alone with her, I found myself laboring 
 under an embarrassment that silenced me. It was easy to talk 
 in the presence of others, but it was "Arthur" and "Millie" 
 no more between us. 
 
 She noticed my silence, and uttered some common-place 
 remark about the changes that had taken place in the city. 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 295 
 
 "Yes," I said, " I see they have the cathedral finished yonder.'* 
 
 " Entirely," she responded, " and the little chapel inside has 
 been torn down." 
 
 How much she meant by this, or whether she intended any 
 allusion to the old conversation, every word of which I recol- 
 lected so vividly, I could not tell, but I gave her the credit of 
 possessing as good a memory as myself, and so concluded that 
 she considered Arthur Bonnicastle, the boy, as a person dead 
 and gone, and Mr. Bonnicastle the young man as one whom 
 she did not know. 
 
 As we came in sight of her house, we saw three gentlemen at 
 the door. Two of them soon left, and the third, who was Mr. 
 Bradford, went back into the house. 
 
 " I believe those two men are my father and Mr. Bird," I 
 said. " I don't think I can be mistaken." 
 
 " You are not mistaken," she responded, looking flushed .and 
 troubled. 
 
 " What can they want of your father at this time of the 
 morning?" I said. 
 
 She made no reply, but quickened her steps, as if she wished 
 to shorten the interview. Whatever their business was, I felt 
 sure that she understood its nature, and almost equally sure 
 that it related to myself. I knew that the three had met at 
 New Haven; and I had no doubt that they had the same 
 business on hand now that they had then. I determined to 
 learn it before I left the house. 
 
 As we approached the gate, she suddenly turned to me in 
 her impulsive way, and said : 
 
 " Arthur Bonnicastle, are you strong this morning ? " 
 
 " Yes," I replied, " I can meet anything." 
 
 " I am glad ; I believe you." 
 
 That was all. As we mounted the steps we found Mr. 
 Bradford sitting before the open door, reading, or pretending to 
 read, a newspaper. 
 
 " Here's Mr. Bonnicastle, father," Millie said, and passed 
 tlirough the hall and out of sight. 
 
296 Arthtir Bonntcastle. 
 
 Mr. Bradford rose and gave me his hand. My coming had 
 evidently agitated him, though he endeavored to bear himself 
 calmly. 
 
 " 1 wish to ask you some questions, and to talk with you," 
 I said. 
 
 " Let us go where we can be alone," he responded, leading 
 the way into a little library or office which I had never seen 
 before. Throwing open the shutters, and seating himself by the 
 window, at the same time pointing me to a chair opposite to 
 him, he said : "Now for the questions." 
 
 " I want you to tell me what person is represented by the 
 picture of a boy in Mrs. Sanderson's dining-room." 
 
 " Her own son, and her only child," he repUed. 
 
 ** Is he living or dead ? " 
 
 "He is dead." 
 
 " Will you tell me his history ? " I said. 
 
 He hesitated a moment, looking out of the window, end 
 then replied slowly : " Yes, I will. It is time you should know 
 it, and everything connected with it. Have you leisure to 
 hear it now ? " 
 
 " Yes. That is my business here this morning." 
 
 " Then I must begin at the beginning," he replied. " I sup- 
 pose you may have learned before this time that Mrs. Sander- 
 son was a Bonnicastle." 
 
 " I know it," I said. 
 
 " You have learned, too, that she is a willful woman. In 
 her youth, at least, she was unreasonably so. She was an heir- 
 ess, and, in her young days, was pretty. For fifty miles around 
 she was regarded as the finest " catch " within the reach of any 
 ambitious young man. Her suitors were numerous, and 
 among them was the one to whom, against the wishes of her 
 parents, she at last gave her hand. He was handsome, bright, 
 gallant, bold and vicious. It was enough for her that her 
 parents opposed his attentions and designs to secure for him 
 her sympathy. It was enough for her that careful friends 
 warned her against him. She turned a deaf ear to them all, 
 
Arthtir Bonnicastle, 297 
 
 and became fixed in her choice by the opposition she enc;oun- 
 tered. To the sorrow of those who loved her and wished her 
 well, she was married to him. Her parents, living where she 
 lives now, did the best they could to secure her happiness, and 
 opened their home to their new son-in-law, but witnessing his 
 careless treatment of their daughter, and his dissipations, died 
 soon afterwards, of disappointed hopes and ruined peace. 
 
 " The death of her parents removed all the restraint which 
 had thitherto influenced him, and he plunged into a course of 
 dissipation and debauchery which made the life of his wife an 
 unceasing torment and sorrow. He gambled, he kept the 
 grossest companions around him, he committed a thousand 
 excesses, and as he had to do with a will as strong as his own, 
 the domestic life of The Mansion was notoriously inharmonious. 
 
 *' After a few years, a child was born. The baby was a boy, 
 and over this event the father indulged in a debauch from 
 which he never recovered. Paralysis and a softened brain re- 
 duced him in a few months to essential idiocy, and when he died 
 the whole town gave a sigh of relief. Self-sufficient in her nature, 
 your aunt was self-contained in her mortification and sorrow. 
 No one ever heard a complaint from her lips, and no one ever 
 dared to mention the name of her husband to her in any terms 
 but those of respect. His debts were paid, and as his time 
 of indulgence had been comparatively short, her large fortune 
 was not seriously impaired. 
 
 *' Then she gave herself up to the training of her boy. I 
 think she saw in him something of the nature of his father, and 
 set herself to the task of curbing and kiUing it. No boy in 
 Bradford ever had so rigid a training as Henry Sanderson. 
 She did not permit him to leave her sight. All his early edu- 
 cation was received at her hands. Every wish, every impulse, 
 even every aspiration of the child, was subjected to the iron 
 rule of her will. No slave that ever lived was more absorbed, 
 directed and controlled by his master than this unfortunate 
 child was by his mother. Not one taste of liberty did he ever 
 know, until she was compelled to send him away from her to 
 13* 
 
298 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 complete his education. The portrait of him which has 
 excited your curiosity for so many years was painted when he 
 was less than twelve years old, though he was not permitted to 
 leave his home until some years later. 
 
 " 1 was young at that time myself, though I was older than 
 Henry — young enough, at least, to sympathize with him, and to 
 wish, with other boys, that we could get hini away from her 
 and give him one taste of social freedom and fellowship. 
 When she rode he was with her, looking wistfully and smilingly 
 out upon the boys wherever he saw them playing, and when 
 she walked she held his hand until he was quite as large as her- 
 self. Every act of his life was regulated by a rule which con- 
 sulted neither his wish nor his reason. He had absolutely no 
 training of his own will — no development within his own heart 
 of the principles of right conduct, no exercise of liberty under 
 those wise counsels and restraints which would lead him safely 
 up to the liberty of manhood. He was simply her creature, 
 her tool, her puppet, slavishly obedient to her every wish and 
 word. He was treated as if he were a wild animal, whom she 
 wished to tame — an animal without affection, without reason, 
 without any rights except those which she might give him. She 
 was determined that he should not be like his father. 
 
 " I have no doubt that she loved this child with all the 
 strength of her strong nature, for she sacrificed society and a 
 thousand pleasures for the purpose of carrying out her plans 
 concerning him. She would not leave him at home with ser- 
 vants any more than she would give him the liberty of inter- 
 course with other children, and thus she shut herself away from 
 the world, and lived wholly with and for him. 
 
 "He was fitted for college in her own house, by the tuition 
 of a learned clergyman of the town, who was glad to eke out 
 a scanty professional maintenance by attending her son, though 
 she was present at every recitation, and never left him for a 
 moment in the tutor's company. 
 
 " When the work of preparation was completed, she went 
 through the terrible struggle of parting with her charge, and 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 299 
 
 sending him away from her for the first time. He went from her 
 as dependent and self-distrustfal as a child of three — a trembling, 
 bashful, wretched boy, and came back in less than a year ]\i%i 
 what any wise man would have anticipated — a rough, roystering, 
 ungovernable fellow, who laughed at his mother, turned her or- 
 derly home into a pandemonium, flouted her authority, and made 
 her glad before his vacation ended to send him back again, out 
 of her sight. Untrained in self-control and the use of liberty, he 
 went into all excesses, and became the one notorious rowdy of 
 the college. He was rusticated more than once, and would have 
 been expelled but for the strong influence which his mothei 
 brought to bear upon the government of the college. 
 
 " After his graduation, he was for a time at home ; but Bradford 
 was too small to cover up his debaucheries and immoralities. 
 He had all the beauty and boldness of his father, and inherited 
 his dominant animal nature. After a long quaiTel with hi? 
 mother, he made an arrangement with her by which he was al- 
 lowed a generous annuity, and with this he went away, drifting 
 at last to New Orleans. There he found college classmates 
 who knew of his mother's wealth, and as he had money enough 
 to dress like a gentleman, he was admitted at once into society, 
 and came to be regarded as a desirable match for any one of 
 the many young women he met. He lived a life of gayety, 
 gambled with the fast men into whose society he was thrown, and 
 at last incurred debts which, in desperation, he begged his mother 
 to pay, promising in return immediate and thorough reform. 
 After a long delay his request was granted ; and I have no 
 doubt that he honestly undertook the reform he had promised, 
 for at this time he became acquainted with a woman whose in- 
 fluence over him was purifying and ennobling, and well calcu- 
 ted to inspire and fortify all his good resolutions. She was not 
 rich, but she belonged to a good family, and was well educated. 
 
 " Of course he showed her only his amiable side ; and the 
 ardent love she inspired in him won her heart, and she married 
 him. At this time he was but twenty-five years old. His mother 
 had been looking forward wearily to the hour when he would ' 
 
300 ArtJmr Bonnicastle. 
 
 see the folly of his course, would complete the sowing of his 
 wild oats, and be glad to return to his home. She had her own 
 ambitious projects concerning a matrimonial alliance for him ; 
 and when he married without consulting her, and married one 
 who was poor, her anger was without bounds. Impulsively she 
 sat down and wrote him the cruelest letter that it was in her 
 power to write, telling him that the allowance which she had 
 hitherto sent him would be sent to him no longer, and that her 
 property would be left to others. 
 
 " The blow was one from which he never recovered. He 
 was prostrated at once upon a bed of sickness, which, acting 
 upon a system that had been grossly abused, at last carried 
 him to his grave. Once during this sickness his wife wrote 
 to his mother a note of entreaty, so full of tender love for her 
 sick and dying husband, and so appealing in its Christian 
 womanliness, that it might well have moved a heart of stone ; 
 but it found no entrance at a door which disappointed pride 
 had closed. The note was never answered, and was un- 
 doubtedly tossed into the fire, that the receiver might never be 
 reminded of it. 
 
 " The son and husband died, and was buried by alien hands, 
 and his mother never saw his face again." 
 
 Here Mr. Bradford paused, as if his story was finished. 
 
 "Is this all?" I asked. 
 
 " It is, in brief, the history of the boy whose portrait you 
 have inquired about," he replied. 
 
 " What became of his widow ? " I inquired. 
 
 " She returned to her parents, and never wrote a word to 
 Mrs. Sanderson. She had been treated by her in so cruel a 
 manner that she could not. Afterwards she married again, and 
 removed, I have since learned, to one of the Northern States." 
 
 I sat in silence for some moments, a terrible question burn- 
 ing in my throat, which I dared not utter. I felt myself trem- 
 bling in every nerve. I tried to thrust the question from me, 
 but it would not go. 
 
 Then Mr. Bradford, who, I doubt not, read my thoughts, 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 301 
 
 and did nof feel ready to "answer my question, said : " You 
 see how differently Mrs. Sanderson has treated you. I have 
 no doubt that she reasoned the matter all out, and came to 
 the conclusion that she had acted unwisely. I have no doubt, 
 though she never acknowledged it to any one, that she saw the 
 reason of the failure of the plan of training which she adopted 
 in the case of her son, and determined upon another one for 
 you." 
 
 " And that has failed too," I said sadly. 
 
 " Yes : I mean no reproach and no unkindness when I 
 frankly say that I think it has. Both plans ignored certain 
 principles in human nature which must be recognized in all 
 sound training. No true man was ever made either by absorb- 
 ing and repressing his will, or by removing from him all stimulus 
 to manly endeavor." 
 
 " Do you think my aunt cares much for these things that 
 happened so long ago ? " I inquired. 
 
 " Yes, I think that she cares for them more and more as 
 the days go by, and bring her nearer to her grave. She has 
 softened wonderfully within a few years, and I have no doubt 
 that they form the one dark, ever-present shadow upon her life. 
 As she feels the days of helplessness coming, she clings more 
 to companions, and misses the hand that, for sixteen long and 
 laborious years, she tried to teach obedience, and train into 
 helpfulness against the emergency that is almost upon her. 
 She mourns for her child. She bewails in secret her mistakes ; 
 and, while she is true to you to-day, I have no doubt that if 
 the son of her youth could come to her in rags and wretched- 
 ness, with all his sins upon him, and with the record of his 
 ingratitude unwashed of its stains, she would receive him with 
 open arms, and be almost content to die at once in his em- 
 brace." 
 
 The tears filled my eyes, and I said : " Poor woman ! I 
 wish he could come." 
 
 Mr. Bradford's observations and conclusions with regard to 
 her coincided with my own. I had noticed this change coming 
 
302 Artlmr Bomiicastle, 
 
 ■« 
 over her. I had seen her repeatedly standing before the pict- 
 ure. I had witnessed her absorption in revery. Even from 
 the first day of my acquaintance with her I saw the change had 
 been in progress. Her heart had been unfed so long that it 
 had begun to starve. She had clung more and more to me ; 
 she had lived more and more in the society of Mrs. Belden ; 
 and now that Henry had become an inmate of her house, she 
 evidently delighted to be in his presence. Her strong charac- 
 teristics often betrayed themselves in her conduct, but they 
 were revealed through a tenderer atmosphere. I pitied her 
 profoundly, and I saw how impossible it was for me, under any 
 circumstances, to fill the place in her heart of one who had 
 been nursed upon it. 
 
 W^ went on talking upon various unimportant matters, both 
 of us fighting away from the question which each of us felt was 
 uppermost in the other's mind. At last, summoning all my 
 resolution and courage, I said : "Was there any child ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Is that child living ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I think so — yes." 
 
 I knew that at this reply to my question the blood wholly 
 forsook my face. My head swam wildly, and I • reeled heav- 
 ily upon my feet, and came close to the window for air. 
 Mr. Bradford sprang up, and drew my chair close to where I 
 stood, and bade me be seated. I felt like a man drifting resist- 
 lessly toward a precipice. The rocks and breakers had been 
 around me for days, and I had heard indistinctly and afar the 
 roar of tumbling waters ; but now the sound stunned my ears, 
 and I knew that my hurrying bark would soon shoot into the 
 air, and pitch with me into the abyss. 
 
 ** Does Mrs. Sanderson know of this child ?" 
 . " I do not think she does. There has been no one to tell 
 her. She comn:!unicates with no one, and neither child nor 
 mother would ever make an approach to her in any assertion 
 of their relations to her, even if it were to save them from 
 starving. But the man undoubtedly lives to-day to whom Mrs. 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 303 
 
 Sanderson's wealth will belong by every moral and natural 
 right, when she shall have passed away." 
 
 The truth had come at last, and although I had anticipated 
 it, it was a plunge into warring waters that impelled, and held, 
 and whelmed, and tossed me like some poor weed they had 
 torn from sunny banks far away and above. Would they play 
 with me for an hour, and then carry me with other refuse out 
 to the sea, or would they leave me upon the shore, to take root 
 again in humbler soil and less dangerous surroundings ? I did 
 not know. For the moment I hardl}'- cared. 
 
 Nothing was said for a long time. I looked with compressed 
 lips and dry eyes out of the window, but I knew that Mr. 
 Bradford's eyes were upon me. I could not but conclude 
 that it was the intention of my friends that Mrs. Sanderson 
 should be informed that her grandson was living, else Mr. Brad- 
 ford would not have told me. I knew that Mrs. Sanderson 
 had arrived at that point in life when such information woulc' 
 come to her like a voice from heaven. I knew that the fortune 
 I had anticipated was gone ; that my whole scheme of life was 
 a shattered dream ; that I was to be subjected to the task of 
 taking up and bearing unassisted the burden of my destiny ; 
 that everybody must know my humiliation, and that in my 
 altered lot and social position I could not aspire to the hand 
 of the one girl of all the world whose love I coveted. 
 
 The whole dainty fabric of my life, which my imagination 
 had reared, was carried away as with the sweep of a whirlwind, 
 and the fragments filled the air as far as I could see. 
 
 When reaction came, it was at first weak and pitiful. It 
 made me angry and petulant. To think that my own father 
 and my old teacher should have been plotting for months with 
 my best friend to bring me into this strait, and that all should 
 not only have consented to this catastrophe, but have sought 
 it, and laid their plans for it, made me angry. 
 
 '' Mr. Bradford," I said, suddenly and fiercely, rising to my 
 feet, " I have been abused. You led me into a trap, and now 
 my own father and Mr. Bird join with you to spring it upon me. 
 
304 Arthur Bonnuaslle, 
 
 You have wheedled them into it ; you have determined to ruin 
 me, and all my hopes and prospects for life, because I do not 
 choose to model my life on your stingy little pattern. Who 
 knows anything about this fellow whom you propose to put in 
 my place ? A pretty story to be trumped up at this late day, 
 and palmed off upon an old woman made weak by remorse, 
 anxious to right herself before she goes to her grave ! I will 
 fight this thing to the death for her and for myself. I will not 
 be imposed upon ; nor will I permit her to be imposed upon. 
 Thank you for nothing. You have treated me brutally, and I 
 take your grand ways for just what they are worth." 
 
 I whirled upon my feet, and, without bidding him good morn- 
 ing, attempted to leave* the room. His hand was on my shoul- 
 der in an instant, and I turned upon him savagely, and yelled : 
 "Well, what more do you want? Isn't it enough that you 
 ruin me ? Have you any new torture ? " 
 
 He lifted his free hand to my other shoulder, and looked me 
 calmly and with a sad smile in the face. 
 
 " I forgive it all, Arthur," he said, " even before you repent 
 of it. The devil has been speaking to me, and not Arthur 
 Bonnicastle. I expected just this, and now that it is come, let 
 us forget it. This is not the mood in which a wise man en- 
 counters the world, and it is not the mood of a man at all, but 
 of a child." 
 
 At this, I burst into tears, and he 'drew me to his breast, 
 where I wept with painful convulsions. Then he led me back 
 to my seat. 
 
 " Wlien you have had time to think it all over," he said 
 calmly and kindly, ** you will find before you the most beauti- 
 ful opportunity to begin a true career that man eVer had. It 
 would be cruel to deprive you of it. Your aunt will never 
 know of this heir by your father's lips, or Mr. Bird's, or my own. 
 Neither the heir nor his mother will ever report themselves to 
 her. Everything is to be done by you, of your own free will. 
 You have it in your power to make three persons superlatively 
 happy, and, at t\iQ same time, to make a man of yourself If 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 305 
 
 you cannot appropriate such an opportunity as this, then your 
 manhood is more thoroughly debased, or lost, than I sup 
 posed." 
 
 I saw how kindly and strongly they had prepared it all foi 
 me, and how all had been adjusted to a practical appeal to my 
 manhood, to my sense of justice, and to my gi-atitude. 
 
 " I must have time," I said at last ; " but where is this man ? " 
 
 " In his grandmother's house, with a broken leg, suffered in 
 the service of his friendship for you ; and his mother is nursing 
 him!" 
 
 " Grandmother's house ? . . . Henry Hulm ? . . . Mrs. 
 Belden ? " 
 
 I was so stunned by the information that I uttered the words 
 in gasps, with long pauses between. 
 
 "Yes, the Providence that has cared for you and me has 
 brought them there, and fastened them in the home where they 
 belong. There has been no conspiracy, no intrigue, no scheme. 
 It has all been a happening, but a happening after a plan that 
 your father learned long before I did to recognize as divine." 
 
 " Do they know where they are ? " 
 
 I asked the question blindly, because it seemed so strange 
 that they should know anything about it. 
 
 " Certainly," Mr. Bradford said, " and Henry has always 
 known his relations to Mrs. Sanderson, from the first day on 
 which you told him of your own. When you first went to her, 
 I knew just where both mother and son were, and was in com- 
 munication with them ; but I knew quite as well then that any 
 attempt to reconcile Mrs. Sanderson to the thought of adopting 
 them would have been futile. Things have changed with her 
 and with you." 
 
 "Why are they here under false names? Why have they 
 kept up this deception, and carried on this strange masquer- 
 ade ? " I asked. 
 
 "Henry very naturally took his step-father's name, because 
 he was but a child at his mother's second marriage ; and Mrs. 
 Belden Hulm chose to be known by a part of her name only; 
 
3o6 Arthur Boitnicastle, 
 
 for the purpose of hiding her personality from Mrs. Sanderson, 
 whom she first met entirely by accident." 
 
 " Do they know that you have intended to make this dis- 
 closure ? " I inquired. 
 
 " No, they know nothing of it. It was once proposed to 
 them, but they declared that if such a thing were done they 
 would fiy the city. Under Mr. Bird's and your father's advice 
 I have taken the matter into my own hands, and now I leave 
 it entirely in yours. This is the end of my responsibility, and 
 here yours begins." 
 
 "Will you be kind enough to send a messenger to Mrs. 
 Sanderson, to tell her that I shall be absent during the day ? " 
 I said. *'I cannot go home now." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 I shook his hand, and went out into the sunlight, with a 
 crushed, bruised feeling, as if I had passed through a great ca- 
 tastrophe. My first impulse was to go directly to my father, 
 but the impulse was hardly born before I said aloud, as if moved 
 by some sudden inspiration : " No ; this thing shall be settled 
 between God and myself" The utterance of the words seemed 
 to give me new strength. I avoided the street that led by my 
 father's door, and walked directly through the town. I met 
 sun-browned men at work, earning their daily bread. On every 
 side I heard the din of industry. There were shouts and calls, 
 and snatches of song, and rolling of wheels, and laughter of 
 boys. There was no sympathy for me there, and no touch of 
 comfort or healing. 
 
 Then I sought the solitude of the woods, and the silence of 
 nature. Far away from every sight and sound of man I sat 
 down, but even there went on the ceaseless industries of life. 
 The bees were plundering the flowers with not a thought of 
 me or of play. A humming bird probed a honeysuckle at my 
 side, and darted away like a sunbeam. A foraging squirrel 
 picked up his dinner almost at my feet, and ran up a tree, 
 where he sat to eat it and scold me for my idleness. A spring 
 of water, twinkling in the light, gushed from under a rock, and 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 307 
 
 went singing down the valley on its mission of service. Baclt 
 and forth a robin flew, carrying food to her young. The air was 
 loaded with the breath of flowers and the scent of balsams, 
 beauty appealed to my eyes wherever I turned them, and the 
 summer breezes fanned my feverish cheeks. Industry and 
 ministry — these were the words of the world, and God had 
 uttered them. 
 
 I looked up through the trees into the deep blue Heaven, 
 and thought of the Being of whom that sky was but an emana- 
 tion, with its life-giving sun and its wilderness of unseen stars 
 wheeling in infinite cycles of silence, and there came unbidden 
 to my lips those words — a thousand times divine — " My father 
 worketh hitherto, and I work." I realized that to live outside 
 of work was to live outside of the universal plan, that there 
 could be no true godUness without work, and that manliness 
 was simply godliness made human. 
 
 I thought I knew from the first what I should do in the end ; 
 but I felt the necessity of being led to my act by deliberation. 
 I need not tell how many aspirations went up from my heart 
 that day. I threw my soul wide open to every heavenly influ- 
 ence, and returned at night strong. 
 
 On the way, I thought over all that had occurred in my inter- 
 course with Henry, and wondered why I had not apprehended 
 the facts which now seemed so plain to me. I thought of his 
 reticence, his reluctance to enter the door of his friend and 
 companion, his likeness to his father's portrait, his intimacy 
 with Mrs. Belden, of a thousand incidents that pointed to this 
 one conclusion, and could never have led to anything else. It 
 is more than Hkely that the reader of this history anticipated 
 all that I have recorded, but to me it was a staggering surprise 
 that would have been incredible, save for the consj)iring testi- 
 mony of every event and fact in our intercourse and history. 
 
 I entered the house with a new glow upon my face, and a 
 new light in my eyes, Mrs. Sanderson noticed my altered look, 
 and said she was glad I had spent the day away. 
 
 In the evening, I went out upon the broad acres that lay 
 
3o8 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 about me, looked up at the grand old house and the splendid 
 elms that stood around, and said : " I can do it, and I will." 
 
 Then I went to bed, and with that sweet and strong deter- 
 mination locked in my breast, I slept, brooded over and wrapt 
 around by a peace that held every nerve and muscle of my 
 body and every faculty of my soul in downy bonds until mom' 
 ing. * 
 
CHAPTER XXL 
 
 I MEET AN OLD FRIEND WHO BECOMES MY RIVAL. 
 
 When I woke, on the following morning, it was with a stiit 
 and a pang. It was like the shrinking shiver one feels in pass- 
 ing from a room full of warmth and the perfume of flowers and 
 the appliances of comfort into one that is bare and chill ; or, 
 it was Hke rising from a bed, sweet with invitations to dreams 
 and languid luxury, to an icy bath and a frosty toilet. The 
 pang, however, did not last long. With the consciousness that 
 I was relinquishing the hopes and plans of a life, there was 
 mingled a sense of power over other lives that was very stimu- 
 lating and pleasant. It was a great thing to be able to crown 
 my benefactress with the highest earthly blessing she could 
 wish for. It was a great thing to be able to make my faithful 
 friend and fellow rich, and to restore to him his rights. It was 
 a great thing to have the power to solve the problems of three 
 lives by making them one. 
 
 Mr. Bradford and his advisers were exceedingly wise in leav- 
 ing everything to me, and placing all the responsibility upon 
 me. The appeal to my sense of justice — to my manliness — 
 was simply irresistible. If Henry had been other than what he 
 was — if he had been a young man inheriting the nature of his 
 father — I should doubtless have had difficulty enough with him, 
 but they would have stood by me. He would have made my 
 place hot with hate and persecution, and they would have sup- 
 ported me and trrned against him ; but they knew that he was 
 not only the r.atural heir to all that had been promised to me, 
 but that he would use it all worthily, in carrying out the pur- 
 poses of a manhood worthily won. 
 
 It was strange how my purposes with regard to the inmates 
 
3IO ArtJmr Bonnicastle. 
 
 of The Mansion glorified them all in my sight. Mrs. Sanderson 
 shone like a saint in the breakfast-room that morning. Mrs. 
 Belden was as fresh and beautiful as a maiden. I sat with 
 Henry for an hour, and talked, not lightly, but cheerfully. 
 The greatness of my sacrifice, prospective though it was, had 
 already enlarged me, and I loved my friend as I had nevei 
 loved him before. My heart reached forward into the future, 
 and took hold of the new relations which my sacrifice would 
 establish between us ; and I drank of his new love, even before 
 it had welled from his heart. 
 
 Thus all that morning I bore about my secret ; and, so long 
 as I remained in the presence of those whom I had the power 
 and the purpose to make happy, I was content and strong ; but 
 when, at length, I went out into the street, and met the courteous 
 bows and warm greetings that came to me from every side as 
 the heir of Mrs. Sanderson, and appreciated the difference be- 
 tween that position and the one to which I should fall as soon 
 as my duty should be done to my benefactress and my friend, 
 I groaned with pain, and, lifting my eyes, exclaimed : " God 
 help me ! God help me ! " 
 
 Without a very definite purpose in my walk, I bent my steps 
 toward my father's house, and on my way was obliged to pass 
 the house of Mr. Bradford. The moment I came in sight of 
 it, I recognized the figure of Millie at work among her flowers 
 in the garden. I saw a quick motion of her head, as she 
 caught the sound of my steps approaching upon the opposite 
 side of the way, and then she rose without looking at me and 
 walked into the house. I had already begun to cross the street 
 toward her ; but I returned and passed the house with many 
 bitter thoughts. 
 
 It had come, to this ! As the heir of a large property, I was 
 one whose acquaintance was worth the keepl*^g. As a penni- 
 less young man, with his fortune to make, I was quite another 
 person. I wondered if Millie Bradford, the young woman, flat- 
 tered herself with the supposition that Millie Bradford, the lit- 
 tle girl, was still in existence I 
 
A rth ti r Bonn teas tie. 3 1 1 
 
 The helpless position in which I found myself with relation 
 to this girl worried me and discouraged me. Loyal to her 
 fath'er in every thought and affection, I knew she would not 
 and could not approve my course, unless I followed out his 
 conviction concerning my duty. Yet, if I should do this, what 
 had I to offer her but poverty and a social position beneath 
 her own ? I could never make her my wife without her father's 
 approval, and when I had secured that, by the sacrifice of all 
 my expectations, what had I left to offer but a partnership in a 
 struggle against odds for the means and ministries of the kind 
 of life to which she had been bred ? To surrender all that I 
 had expected would be my own, and Millie Bradford too, was 
 more than I had bargained for, in my negotiation with my- 
 self. 
 
 I had not yet learned that a duty undone is always in the 
 •way — that it stands so near and high before the feet that it be- 
 comes a stumbling-bl^ck over which thousands are constantly 
 plunging into disaster. Since those days, in which I was taking 
 my first lessons in life, I have learned that to do one's next 
 duty is to take a step towards all that is worth possessing — that 
 it is the one step which may always be taken without regard to 
 consequences, and that there is no successful life which is not 
 made up of steps thus consecutively taken. 
 
 I reached home, not expecting to find my father there, but I 
 was informed by my mother, with many sighs and with the ex- 
 pression of many confidential fears, that he was breaking down 
 and had taken to his bed. Something, she said, had been 
 preying on his mind which she was unable to induce him to re- 
 veal. She was glad I had come, and hoped I would ascertain 
 what the trouble was. She had been looking forward to some- 
 thing of this kind for years, and had frequently warned my 
 father of it. Mr. Bird had been there, and had accompanied 
 my father to Mr. Bradford's, whence he had returned with a ter- 
 rible headache. She always had believed there was something 
 wrong about Mr. Bird, and she always should believe thus. 
 As for Mr. Bradford, she had nothing to say about him ; but 
 
312 Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 she had noticed that men with strange notions about religion 
 were not to be trusted. 
 
 I listened to the long and doleful story, conscious all the 
 time that my father's illness was one into which he had been 
 thrown by his sympathy for me. He had been trying to do his 
 duty by me, and it had made him ill. In a moment, Millie 
 Bradford went out of my mind, and I only delayed going into 
 his room long enough to prepare myself to comfort him. I 
 presume that he had heard my voice, for, when I entered the 
 dear old man's chamber, his face was turned to the wall, and 
 he was feigning unconsciousness of my presence in the house. 
 
 "Well, father, what's the matter?" I said cheerfully. 
 
 " Is that you ?" he responded feebly, without turning his head. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " How are you ? " 
 
 " I was never better in my life," I responded. 
 
 " Have you seen Mr. Bradford ? " 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 " And had a talk with him ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Has he told you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Are you going to do it ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 I was laughing, — I could not help it, — when I was sobered 
 at once by seeing that he was convulsed with emotion. The 
 bed shook with his passion, and he could not say a word, but 
 lay with his face covered by his hands. I did not know what 
 to say, and concluded to say nothing, and to let his feeling 
 take its natural course. For many long minutes he lay silently 
 trying to recover the mastery of himself At last he seized the 
 wet handkerchief with which he had been trying to assuage the 
 pain and fever of his head, and threw it into a corner of the 
 room, and then turned toward me, laughing and crying to- 
 gether, and stretched his arms toward me. I bowed to his 
 embrace, and so the long years of the past were blotted out in 
 our mutual tears, and we were boys once more. 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 313 
 
 I brought him his clothes, and he put them on. Then I 
 turned the key in the door, and, sitting down side by side upon 
 the bed, we talked the matter all over. I confessed to him my 
 idleness, my meanness, my shameless sacrifice of golden op- 
 portunities, my weakness and my hesitations, and promised 
 that when the right time should come I would do what I could 
 to give Henry and his mother the home that belonged to them, 
 and to bestow upon my benefactress the boon which she would 
 prize a thousand times more than all the money she had ever 
 expended upon me. 
 
 " And you are not going to be unhappy and blame me ? " 
 he said. 
 
 " Never." 
 
 " And are you coming home ? " 
 
 " Yes, to look after and serve you all, so long as you may 
 live." 
 
 We looked in one another's faces, and the same thought 
 thrilled us. We knelt at the bed, and my father poured out 
 his gratitude for the answer that had come with such sweet and 
 beautiful fulfillment to his prayers. There was but little of 
 petition in his utterances, for his heart was too full of thankful- 
 ness to give a place to his own wants or to mine. When he 
 rose, there was the peace of heaven on his features, and the 
 light of a new life in his faded blue eyes. 
 
 " Does my mother know of this," I inquired. 
 
 " No," he replied ; " and this is the one great trouble that 
 lies before me now." 
 
 " Let me break it to her, then, while you go out of the 
 house," I said. 
 
 In the state of mind in which my father found himself at the 
 close of our interview, it would have been cruel to subject him 
 to the questions and cavils and forebodings of my mother. So, 
 taking his way out of the house by a side door, he left me at 
 liberty to seek her, and to reconcile her to the new determina- 
 tions of my life. 
 
 I do not suppose it would be interesting to recount the long 
 
314 Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 and pain fill conversation I had with her. She had foreseen 
 that something of this kind would occur. She had never be- 
 lieved that that great fortune would come to me, but she had 
 never dreamed that I should be the one to give it up. She was 
 disappointed in Henry, and, as for Mrs. Belden, she had always 
 regarded her as a schemer. She presumed, too, that as soon as 
 Henry found himself the possessor of a fortune he would forsake 
 Claire — a step which she was sure would kill her. It all came of 
 mingling with people wlio have money. Mr. Bradford was 
 very officious, and she was glad that I had found out Mr. Bird 
 at last. Her life had been a life of trial, and she had not been 
 deceived into supposing that it would be anything else. 
 
 During all the time I had been in the house, Claire and the 
 boys had been out. My task with my mother was interrupted 
 at last by the sound of Claire's voice at the door. She was 
 trolling in her own happy way the refrain of a familiar song. 
 I had only time to impress upon my mother the necessity of 
 keeping all knowledge of the new phase of my affairs from her 
 and the rest of the family,, and to secure her promise in accord- 
 ance with it, before Claire entered the room. I knew it would 
 be best that my sister should learn cerything from the lips of 
 Henry. She would have been distressed beyond measure at 
 the change in my prospects as well as the change in her own. 
 1 knew she had learned to look forward upon life as a struggle 
 with poverty, by the side of a brave man, equipped for victory. 
 She had dreamed of helping him, solacing him, blessing him with 
 faith and love, and rising with him to the eminence which she felt 
 sure he had the power to achieve. No wildest dream of her 
 young imagination had ever enthroned her in The Mansion, or 
 made her more than a welcome visitor there after its present 
 mistress should have passed away. 
 
 I exchanged a few pleasant words with her, assuring her that 
 I had cured my father by a few talismanic touches, and sent 
 him out to get some fresh air, and was trying my cure upon my 
 mother when she interrupted me. Then we talked about 
 Henry, and his rapid progress toward recovery. I knew that 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle. 315 
 
 she did not expect or wish to see him, because the visit that 
 such a step would render necessary would be regarded as the 
 advertisement of an engagement which had not yet been openly 
 confessed. But she was glad to hear all about him, and T 
 gratified her by the rehearsal of all the details that I could 
 remember. I could not help thinking, as I talked with her, 
 that I had in hand still another destiny. It was astonishing 
 how fruitful a good determination was, when it took the path of 
 Providence and of natural law. I had already four for one, 
 and felt that I could not foresee how many more would be 
 added to the gain already made. 
 
 When, at last, I bade my mother and Claire a "good morn- 
 ing," the only question left upon my mind concerned the time 
 and manner of the announcement to Mrs. Sanderson of the 
 relations of Mrs. Belden and Henry to her. Henry, I knew, 
 was still too weak to be subjected to strong excitement with- 
 out danger, and this fact made it absolutely necessary to defer 
 the proposed revelation and the changes that were sure to 
 follow. 
 
 I went out upon the street with a buoyant feeling, and with 
 that sense of strength that one always feels when his will is 
 consciously in harmony with the Supreme will, and his deter- 
 minations proceed from his better nature. But my trials had 
 not all been seen and surmounted. 
 
 Making a detour among the busier streets, that my passage 
 to The Mansion might be longer and more varied, I saw, walk- 
 ing before me, an elegant young man, in the jauntiest of morn- 
 ing costumes. I could not see his face, but I knew at once 
 that he was a stranger in the city, and was impressed with the 
 conviction that I was familiar with his gait and figure. If I 
 had seen him where I had previously known him, his identity 
 would have been detected at once ; but he was the young man 
 furthest from my thoughts, and the one old companion whom 
 I had learned to count out of my life. I quickened my steps, 
 and, as I approached him, some sudden and characteristic 
 movement of his head revealed my old college friend Livingston. 
 
3t6 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 " Well, well, well ! Man in the Moon ! When did you drop, 
 and where did you strike ? " I shouted, running up behind him. 
 
 He wheeled and grasped both my hands in his cordial way, 
 pouring out his greetings and compliments so freely that pas- 
 sengers involuntarily stopped upon the walk to witness the 
 meeting. 
 
 *' 1 was wondering where you were, and was about to in- 
 quire," he said. 
 
 ''Were you ? How long have you been in town ? " 
 
 " Two or three days," he replied. 
 
 "You must have been very desirous to find me," I re- 
 sponded. " I have a good mind to leave you, and send you 
 my address. Permit me to bid you good-morning. This 
 meeting in the street is very irregular." 
 
 " None of your nonsense, my boy," said he. " I came here 
 on business, and pleasure comes after that, you know." 
 
 " Oho ! Business ! We are becoming useful are we ? Can I 
 assist you ? I assure you I have nothing else to do." 
 
 "Bonnicastle," said he, "you are hungry. You evidently 
 want something to stop your mouth. Let's go into the hotel 
 and get a lunch," 
 
 Saying this, he grasped my arm, and we walked together 
 back to his hotel, and were soon seated at a table in his par- 
 lor, doing the duty of two hearty young men to a chop and a 
 salad. 
 
 We talked of old times, then of his employments since he 
 left me at college two years before, and then I told him of my- 
 self, of the encounter at The Mansion which had resulted in 
 Henry's confinement there with a broken limb, and of the way 
 in which I had been passing my time. 
 
 " What are you going to do next ? " he inquired. 
 
 "That's a secret," I said, with a blush, all the frolic goj'ng 
 out of me in a moment. 
 
 " I know what you are going to do." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " You are going to Europe and the East with me. We are 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 317 
 
 to be gone two years, and to see everything. We'll sing Yan- 
 kee Doodle on the Pyramids, have a fish-fry on the shores of 
 Galilee, light our cigars at Vesuvius, call on the Pope, see all 
 the pictures, and dance with all the pretty girls firom Vienna 
 and Paris to St. Petersburg, and call it study. On very rainy 
 days, we'll write dutiful letters to our friends, conveying assui 
 ances of our high consideration, and asking for remittances." 
 
 Little did the merry fellow imagine, as he rattled off his pro- 
 gramme, what a temptation he was placing before me. It pre- 
 sented the most agreeable path out of my difficulty. I believed 
 Mrs. Sanderson would deny me nothing, even should I re- 
 nounce all my expectations, and surrender my home to him to 
 whom it naturally belonged. The act of surrender would 
 place her under such obligations to me that any request that 
 might come with it would, I supposed, be sure to be granted. 
 Then it would let me down easily, and save me the necessity 
 of facing my townsmen under my new circumstances. It 
 would furnish me with a knowledore of the world which would 
 
 o 
 
 be useful to me in the future task of providing for myself. It 
 would complete my education, and give me the finest possible 
 start in life. Livingston's connections would carry me into the 
 best society, and bring me advantages such as I could not 
 secure by means within my own command. 
 
 " Are you in earnest ? " I inquired, hesitatingly. 
 
 " I never was more so in my life." 
 
 " You tempt me." 
 
 "Well, you know just how much my rattle means," said he, 
 sobered by the tone of my inquiry. " You know I take care 
 of myself, and others too — when they let me. We can have a 
 good time and one that will do us good." 
 
 While I felt pretty sure that I should not go with him, unless 
 Mrs. Sanderson should voluntarily offer me the means for the 
 journey, and my friends should urge me to accept them, I toW 
 him I would think of it. 
 
 "That's right," he said, "and you'Jl conclude to go/' 
 
 "When?" 
 
3i8 ArtJmr Bonnicastle, 
 
 •< Next month." 
 
 Wixs this Providence too ? Was my road out of my difficulty 
 to be strewn with flowers ? How could I tell ? Unexpect- 
 edly, at the exact moment when it would meet with a greedy 
 welcome, came this proposition. To accept it would be to 
 take me away from every unpleasant association, and all the 
 apprehended trials attending the execution of my great pur- 
 pose, and give me pleasure that I coveted and culture that I 
 needed. To reject it was to adopt a career of hardship 
 at once, to take up my life beneath my father's humble roof, 
 to expose myself to the triumphant sneers of the coarse men 
 who had envied me, and to forsake forever those associations 
 which had become so precious to me. I could do justice to 
 Henry and my benefactress, and secure this great pleasure to 
 myself also. Had Providence directed all tliis ? 
 
 Many things have been accepted first and last, among men, 
 as providential, under the mistaken supposition that the devil 
 does not understand the value of times and opportunities. 
 Evil has its providences as well as Good ; and a tempted man 
 is often too much befogged to distinguish the one from the 
 other. Interpreting providences by wishes is the favorite trick 
 of fools. 
 
 After a long and discursive talk on the subject of foreign 
 travel generally, and of the project before us particularly, I was 
 bold enough to ask Livingston what business it could be that 
 had brought him to Bradford. He fought shy of the question 
 and seemed to be embarrassed by it. Licensed by the famil- 
 iarly friendly terms of our previous intercourse, I good-nat- 
 uredly pressed my question. He gave all kinds of evasive 
 and unsatisfactory replies ; and then I pushed the matter further 
 by asking him what friends he had in the place, and endeavor- 
 ing to ascertain what new acquaintances he had made. I 
 could not learn that he knew anybody in Bradford but Henry 
 and myself, and I became satisfied at last that he had not 
 been frank with me. It is true that he was not accountable to 
 me, and that I had no right to pry into his affairs ; but he had 
 
ArtJmr Donnicastle, 319 
 
 volunteered to say that his errand was a business errand; 
 and I felt that in a place where I was at home, and he was 
 not, I could serve him if he would permit me to do so. 
 
 As soon as he could divert me from my purpose, he put me 
 the question whether I had remained heart and fancy free; 
 "for you know," he said, "that it will never do for rovers to 
 leave pining maidens behind them." 
 
 I assured him (with those mental reservations with which 
 uncommitted lovers so ingeniously sophisticate the truth) that 
 there was not a woman in the world, with the exception of cer- 
 tain female relatives, who had any claim upon my affection. 
 
 " By the way," said Livingston with sudden interest, as if the 
 thought had struck him for the first time, " what has become 
 of that little Bradford girl, whom we met on that memorable 
 New Year's at the Spencers' ; you remember that old house 
 in the suburbs? or were you too foggy for that ? " 
 
 If Livingston had realized how painful such an allusion 
 would be to me, he would not have made it ; but his standard 
 of morality, so far as it related to excesses in drink, was- so 
 different from mine, that it was impossible for him to appreciate 
 the shame which my fall had caused me, and the shrinking sor- 
 row with which I still looked back upon it. 
 
 I told him frankly that I remembered the meeting imper- 
 fectly, and that I heartily wished I had no memory of it what- 
 ever. " I made an ass of myself," I said, " and worse ; and I 
 doubt whether it has ever been forgotten, or ever will be." 
 
 There was a quiet lighting of his eye as he heard this ; and 
 then he went on to say that her New York friends told very 
 extravagant stories about her beauty and attractiveness, and 
 that he should really Hke to fall in with her again. Then he 
 went on to moralize, after the wise manner of young men, on 
 the heartlessness of city life, and particularly of city girls, and 
 said that he had often told his mother that no hot-house rose 
 should ever adorn his button-hole, provided he could pluck a 
 satisfactory wayside daisy. 
 
 A jealous lover has no rival in the instantaneous construe- 
 
320 ArtluLT Bonnicastle, 
 
 tion of a hypothesis. I saw at once the whole trick. Tiring of 
 his New York life, having nothing whatever to do, remember- 
 ing the beautiful face and hearty manner of Millie Bradford, 
 and moved by some recent conversations about her with her 
 friends, he had started off from home with the determination to 
 meet her in some way. Endeavoring first to assure himself that 
 I had no claim upon her, he undoubtedly intended to engage 
 my services to bring about a renewal of his acquaintance with her. 
 
 I had met my rival ; for I could not but feel that if he had 
 been impressed by her when she was little more than a child, 
 her charms of womanhood — her beautiful person, and her 
 bright, pure nature — would impress him still more. It was a 
 bitter draught for me to drink, without the privilege of making 
 a wry face or uttering a protest. He was maturer than I, and 
 possessed of every personal attraction. He carried with him, 
 and had behind him, the highest social consideration and 
 influence. He was rich, he was not base, he was the best of 
 his set, he was the master of himself and of all the arts of 
 society ; he was one of those young men whose way with 
 women is easy. What was I by the side of a man like him ? 
 The only occasion on which Millie Bradford had ever seen him 
 was one associated with my disgrace. She could never meet 
 him again without recalling my fall, and his ov/n honorable 
 freedom from all responsibility for it. The necessity of getting 
 him out of the country by a period of foreign travel seemed 
 laid upon me. To have him within an easy distance, after I 
 had voluntarily forsaken my fortune, and before I had had an 
 opportunity to prove my power to achieve a fortune for 
 myself, was to live a life of constant misery, with the chances 
 of having the one grand prize of existence torn from my hands 
 and borne hopelessly beyond my reach. 
 
 "Oh, it's a daisy business, is it?" I said, with a pale face 
 and such carelessness of tone as I could assume. *' There are 
 lots of them round here. They're a bit dusty, perhaps, in dry 
 weather, but are fresh after a shower. You would never be 
 contented with one : what do you say to a dozen ? " 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 321 
 
 Livingston laughed, and laughed in such a way that I knew 
 he had no business in Bradford. But why had he kept away from 
 me ? Why had he been three days in the town without appris- 
 ing me of his presence ? 
 
 He held up his hand and looked at it with a curious smile. 
 " Bonnicastle," said he, " do you see anything peculiar on the 
 back of that hand ? " 
 
 " Nothing," I replied, " except that it seems to be clean." 
 
 " Does it seem to you that there is one spot on it that is 
 cleaner than all the rest ? " he inquired. 
 
 I confessed that I was unable to detect any such locality. 
 
 " Well, my boy, there is a spot there which I could define to 
 you, if I should try, that I have kept clean for two years, and 
 which has a life and sacredness of its own. It once had a sen- 
 sation — the sweetest and most thrilling that you can imagine. 
 It was ]3ressed by a pair of innocent lips, and wet by as sweet 
 a dew-drop as ever nestled in the heart of a rose. You never 
 thought me romantic, but that little touch and baptism have 
 set that hand apart — for the present, any way." 
 
 " If you wish to give me to understand that Milly Bradford 
 ever kissed your hand and dropped a tear upon it, you have 
 brought your chaff to the wrong market," I said, the anger ris- 
 ing in my heart and the color mounting to my face. 
 
 " Don't be hasty, old fellow," said he, reaching over and 
 patting me on my shoulder. ** I've said nothing about Millie 
 Bradford. I've lived among roses and daisies all my life." 
 
 Whether Livingston saw that I had a little personal feeling 
 about the matter, or felt that he had been foolishly confidential, 
 or were afraid that I should push him to an explanation, which 
 would compel him to reveal the circumstances under which 
 Millie had begged his forgiveness with a kiss, for charging him 
 with my intoxication — a fact of which I was too stupid at the 
 time to be conscious — I do not know ; but he assured me that 
 he had been talking nonsense, and that I was to lay up and 
 remember nothing that he had said. 
 
 We had already pushed back from the table, and he had 
 14* 
 
322 Arthtir Bonnicastle, 
 
 rung for a waiter to have it cleared. In response to the boll, 
 a man came with his tray in one hand and a card in the other. 
 Handing the latter to Livingston, the young man- took it with a 
 strange, embarrassed flush on his face. Turning it over, and 
 looking at it the second time, he exclaimed : " I wonder how 
 he knew me to be here. It's your friend Mr. Bradford." Then 
 turning to the waiter, he added : "Take these dishes away and 
 ask him up." 
 
 I rose at once to go ; and he did not detain me, or suggest 
 a future meeting. I shook his hand and bade him "good-morn- 
 ing," but was arrested at the door by finding Mr. Bradford wait- 
 ing outside. Seeing Livingston within, he came forward, and, 
 while he took my arm and led me back, said : " I a.m some- 
 what in haste this morning, and so have followed my card at 
 once. I am not going to separate two fellows like you ; so, 
 Arthur, sit down." 
 
 I did not believe my presence welcome to Livingston during 
 this interview ; but as I was curious to witness it, and had a 
 sufficient apology for doing so, I sat down, and remained. 
 
 " I have just taken from the office," Mr. Bradford went on, 
 "a letter from my friends the Spencers, who tell me that you 
 are to be here for a few days ; and as the letter has evidently 
 been detained on the way, I have called at once to apologize 
 for not having called before." 
 
 Livingston was profuse in his protestations that it was not of 
 the slightest consequence, and that while he should have been 
 glad to meet Mr. Bradford, he had passed his time quite pleas- 
 antly. I saw at once what had occupied him during those 
 three days, in which he had not announced his presence to me. 
 He had been awaiting the arrival of this letter. He had chosen 
 to be introduced in tliis way, rather than bear the letter him- 
 self It was a cunningly-contrived, but a very transparent, 
 proceeding. 
 
 Livingston was invited to the Bradfords to dine the next day, 
 of course, and quite of course, as I was present when the invi- 
 tation was given, I was invited to meet him. This was satis- 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 323 
 
 factory to me, though I doubt whether Livingston was pleased 
 with the arrangement, for he had evidently intended to see 
 Millie Bradford before he announced himself to me. , 
 
 Inviting my friend to call at The Mansion during the after- 
 noon and make my aunt's acquaintance, and renew his ac- 
 quaintance with Henry, I took my leave of him and passed out 
 with Mr. Bradford. I was not a little surprised to learn how 
 pleasantly the latter remembered my college acquaintance, and 
 how high an estimate he placed upon him. If Livingston 
 could have heard his hearty words of praise, he would have 
 learned how smoothly the way was paved to the accomplish- 
 ment of his hopes and his possible purposes. In my jealousy, 
 every word he uttered was full of discouragement, for I was sure 
 that I knew the motive which had drawn Livingston to the 
 town, while Mr. Bradford was as innocent as a child of any 
 suspicions of such a motive. 
 
 As we came near his house, I said : " You are in haste this 
 morning, but I wish to see you soon — before to-morrow, if you 
 can spare me the time." 
 
 *' Come in to-night, then," he responded. 
 
 At night, accordingly, I went, and he received me alone, as 
 he did on the previous day. I told him of my interview with 
 my father and mother, and of the determination at which I had 
 arrived with relation to Mrs. Sanderson and Henry. He list- 
 ened to me with warm approval, which was evident, though he 
 said but little ; but when I told hun of Livingston's proposition 
 to travel, and my wishes in regard to it, he dropped his head 
 as if he were disappointed. I urged the matter, and frankly 
 gave him the reasons for my desire to absent myself for a 
 while after the change in my circumstances. 
 
 He made me no immediate reply, but rose and walked the 
 room, as if perplexed and uncertain concerning the response 
 which he ought to make to the project. At length he paused 
 before me, and said : " Arthur, you are young, and I am afraid 
 that I expect too much of you. I see very plainly, however, 
 that if you go away for a protracted absenc e, to live still longer 
 
324 Arthur Bonnicastth 
 
 on Mrs. Sanderson's benefactions, you will return more dis- 
 qualified than you are at this moment to take up an indepen- 
 dent life. I do not approve of your plan, but I will not lift a 
 finger to thwart it. After you have surrendered your place in 
 Mrs. Sanderson's family, you will be in a better position to 
 judge whether your plan be either desirable or practicable." 
 
 Then he laid his hand upon my shoulder, in an affectionate 
 way, and added : " I confess I should be sorry to lose sight of 
 you for the next two years. Your father needs you, and will 
 need you more and more. Besides, the next two years are to 
 confirm you more than you can see in the style of character 
 and manhood which you are to carry through life. I am very 
 anxious that these two years should be made the most of." 
 
 The interview was a brief one, and I left the presence and 
 house of my friend under the impression that he not only did 
 not approve my plan, but that he thought it very doubtful 
 whether I should have the opportunity to realize it. He said 
 but little, yet I saw that his faith in Mrs. Sanderson's gener- 
 osity, where her own selfish ends were not involved, was not 
 very hearty. 
 
 On the following day I met Livingston at Mr. Bradford's 
 table. The family were all at home, and Millie, most becom- 
 ingly dressed, never had seemed so beautiful to me. Living- 
 ston was evidently very much impressed by her charms, and 
 showed by the attention he bestowed upon her his desire to 
 appear at his best in her presence. I was distressed by my 
 own youth, and the easy superiority which he manifested in all 
 his manners and conversation. 
 
 It was strange, too, to see how the girl's quick nature had 
 shot beyond mine into maturity, and how, in her womanliness, 
 she matched my friend better than myself. I was full of em- 
 barrassment and jealousy. The words that were addressed to 
 me by the other members of the family were half unheard and 
 but clumsily replied to, absorbed as I was in watching Living- 
 ston and Millie, and seeing how happily they carried on their 
 conversation. I was enraged with myself — I who had always 
 
Artlnir Bonnicastle, 325 
 
 been quick and careless — for I knew that I did not appear well, 
 and felt that the girl, whose senior I was by several years, re- 
 garded me as a youth in whom the flavor and power of maturity 
 were lacking. Livingston was a man, she was a woman, and I 
 was a boy. I saw it all and felt it all, with pangs that none may 
 know save those who have experienced them. 
 
 The evening did not pass away, however, without giving me 
 an opportunity for a quiet talk with MiUie. There was one 
 woman whose sharp vision did not fail to dqj^ct the real state 
 of affairs. Aunt Flick was on the alert. She had watched the 
 play from the first, with eyes that comprehended the situation, 
 and in her own pei-verse way she was my friend. She managed 
 to call Livingston away from Millie, and then I took a seat at 
 her side. I tried to lead her into conversation on the subject 
 most interesting to me, but she declined to say a word, though 
 I knew that she was aware of all that was occurring in relation 
 to my life. 
 
 The moments were precious, and I said impulsively, out of 
 the burden of my heart, " Miss Bradford, I am passing through 
 a great trial." 
 
 " I know it," she replied, looking away from me. 
 
 " Are you sorry ? " 
 
 *'No," — still looking away. 
 
 *' Are you my friend ?" 
 
 "That depends." 
 
 " I get very little sympathy," I responded bitterly. " No one 
 but my dear old father seems to understand how hard this is, 
 and how hard all have helped to make it for me. The revolu- 
 tion of one's life is not a pleasant process. A dozen words, 
 spoken to me by the right lips, would make many things easy 
 and anything possible." 
 
 She turned to me in a startled way, as if I had given her sud- 
 den pain, and she had been moved to ask me why I had done 
 it. I was thrilled by the look, and thoroughly ashamed of the 
 words that had inspired it. What right had I to come to her 
 with my troubles ? What right had I to seek for her sympatliy ? 
 
326 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 Was it manly for me to seek help from her to be a man ? If 
 she had not pitied me and seen further than I did, she would 
 have spurned me. 
 
 This conversation was nothing but a brief episode in the 
 evening's experiences, but it made a healthy impression upon 
 me. 
 
 Livingston and I left the Bradfords together, and, as we 
 were to take opposite directions to our lodgings, we parted at 
 the door. Not a word was said about Millie ; and all that he 
 said about the Bradfords was in the guarded words : " These 
 friends of yours seem to be very nice people." I knew that he 
 would be there again, as soon as it would be practicable, and 
 that he would be there without me. I was quite reconciled to 
 this, for I saw that he monopolized attention, and that I could 
 be nothing but a boy by his side, when he chose that I should 
 be. 
 
 He remained in the town for a week, calling upon the Brad- 
 ford family nearly every day, and on one occasion taking a drive 
 with them in the family carriage. In the meantime Henry 
 made rapid strides toward recovery, and the dreaded hour 
 approached when it would be necessary for me to take the step 
 which would abruptly change the current of my life. 
 
 When I parted with Livingston, he still entertained the proj- 
 ect of travel, and said that he should return in a fortnight to 
 ascertain my conclusions. 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 MRS. SANDERSON MEETS HER GRANDSON AND I RETURN TO MY 
 father's HOME." 
 
 Livingston had been gone three or four days when, one 
 morning, Henry's surgical attendant came down stairs from his 
 regular visit to the young man, and announced that his patient 
 was sitting in a chair by the window, and that he would soon 
 be able to take a little passive exercise in the open air. Having 
 given me directions with regard to getting him back to his bed, 
 when he should become tired with sitting, he went away. The 
 sudden realization that Henry was so near the point of perfect 
 recovery sent the blood to my heart with a dull throb that made 
 me tremble. I knew that he would endeavor to get away as 
 soon as possible, and that he would go whenever his mother 
 should consider it safe for him to be separated from her. 
 
 "Are you well to day?" I said, lifting my eyes to my 
 aunt. 
 
 " Perfectly well." 
 
 " Are you wiUing to have a long talk with me this morning ? " 
 I inquired. 
 
 She looked at me with a quick, sharp glance, and seeing that 
 I was agitated, replied with the question : " Is it a matter of 
 great importance ? " 
 
 " Yes, of the greatest importance." 
 
 " H'm ! You're not in love, I hope ? " 
 
 " No," I responded, coloring in spite of the terrible depres- 
 sion that had come upon me, " though I probably should not 
 tell of it if I were." 
 
 "I'm sure I don't see why you shouldn't," she ai:iswered 
 quickly. 
 
328 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 " No," I said, " it has nothing to do with that. I wish it 
 had, but it doesn't look as if anything of that kind would ever 
 come to me." 
 
 " Psh ! You're a boy. Don't worry yourself before your 
 time." 
 
 We were seated in the little library where she first received 
 me. I rose from my chair, went to the door that opened into 
 the hall, and locked it. The door into the dining-room stood 
 ajar, and I threw it wide open. Then I went back to my chair 
 and sat down. She watched these movements in silent aston- 
 ishment, and her eyes fairly burned with excited curiosity when 
 I concluded them. 
 
 Looking into the dining-room upon the picture that still hung 
 where I had replaced it, I said : " Aunt, you must forgive 
 me ; but I have learned all about that picture, and I know the 
 whole history of the person whom it represents." 
 
 "Who has been base enough to tell you?" she almost 
 screamed. 
 
 "A person who wishes no harm either to you or me," I 
 replied. 
 
 She had risen to her feet at the first announcement, but she 
 sank back into her chair again, and covered her face with her 
 hands. Suddenly steeling herself against the feelings that were 
 overwhelming her, she dropped her hands, and said, with a 
 voice equally charged with fright and defiance : " So, this is 
 the important business, is it ! You have listened to the voice 
 of a slanderer, who has represented me to be little better than 
 a fiend ; and I am to be lectured, am I ? You, to whom I have 
 given my bread and my fortune — you, to whom I have given 
 my love — are turning against me, are you? You have con- 
 sented to sit still and hear me maligned and condemned, have 
 you? Do you wish to forsake me ? Have I done anything to 
 deserve such treatment at your hands? Does my presence 
 defile you ? Do I go about meddling with other people's busi- 
 ness ? Have I meddled with anything that was not my own ? 
 I would like to know v/ho has been poisoning your mind against 
 
ArtJmr Bomiicastle. 329 
 
 me. Has there been anything in my treatment of you that 
 would lead you to think me possessed of the devil ? " 
 
 She poured out these words in a torrent so impetuous and 
 continuous that I could not even attempt to interrupt her ; and it 
 was better that she should spend the first gush of her passion with- 
 out hinderance. It was to me a terrible revelation of the 
 condition of her mind, and of the agitations to which it was 
 familiar. This was doubtless the first utterance to which those 
 agitations had ever forced her. 
 
 I paused for a minute to collect my thoughts, while she 
 buried her face in her hands again. Then I said : " Mrs. San- 
 derson, I have noticed, since my return from college particularly, 
 that you have been in trouble. I have seen you many times 
 before that picture, and known that it was associated in your 
 mind with distressing thoughts. It has troubled me, because it 
 has given me the impression that I am in some way, directly or 
 indirectly, connected with it. I have sought for the explanation 
 and found it. No one has prejudiced my mind against you, as I 
 will prove to you by such a sacrifice as few men have been called 
 upon to make. You have been very kind to me, and I do not 
 now see how it is possible for me ever to cease to be grateful to 
 you. You have been my most generous and indulgent bene- 
 factress, and it is partly because I am grateful, and desire to 
 prove my gratitude, that I have sought this interview." 
 
 She looked up to me with a dazed, distressed expression 
 upon her sharpened features, as if waiting for me to go on. 
 
 " There was once a little boy," I said, " who grew up in this 
 old house, under his mother's care ; and then he went away, 
 and went wrong. His mother was distracted with his ingrati- 
 tude and his excesses, and finally cut him adrift, with the means 
 of continuing his dissipations. After a time he married one of 
 God's Dwn angels." 
 
 "You know nothing about it," she interrupted, spitefully. 
 " You know nothing about her. She was a poor girl without any 
 position, who managed to weave her net about him and inveigle 
 him into marriage. I cursed her then, and I curse her still." 
 
330 Arthu7' Bonnieastle, 
 
 " Don't, aunt," I said. " I am sure you have done some 
 thin^^s in your life that you are sorry for, and I know you will 
 be sorry for this." 
 
 " Don't lecture me, boy." 
 
 "I don't lecture you. I don't presume to do anything of 
 the kind, but I know I speak the truth." 
 
 "Well, then, what about the angel?" 
 
 " She did her best to make him what his mother had failed 
 to make him." 
 
 "And the angel failed," she said contemptuously. "Cer- 
 tainly a woman may be excused for not accompUshing what a su- 
 perior being failed to accomplish." 
 
 "Yes, the angel failed, mainly because his mother would not 
 help her." 
 
 " I tell you again that you know nothing about it. I am a 
 fool for listening to another word." 
 
 It was a strange thing to me, as I sat before this agitated 
 woman, quarreling with her own history, and helplessly angry 
 with me and with the unknown man who had given me my infor- 
 mation, to find myself growing cool and strong with every burst 
 of her passion. I had found and pierced the joints of her 
 closely-knit harness. I was in the center of the rankling secret 
 of her life, and she was self-contained no longer. I was in 
 power, and she was fretfully conscious that she was not. 
 
 " Yes, the angel failed, because his mother would not help 
 her. I presume the mother intended to drive that angel to for- 
 sake him, and compel him to return to herself. If she did not 
 have so good a motive as this, she intended to drive him to the 
 grave into which he was soon gathered." 
 
 " Oh, Arthur ! Arthur ! Arthur ! Don't say it ! don't say it ! " 
 
 The anger was gone, and the old remorse which had been 
 eating at her heart for years resumed its sway. She writhed 
 in her chair. She wrung her hands. She rose and paced the 
 room, in a painful, tottering way, which distressed me, and 
 made me fear that I had been harsh, or had chosen the wrong 
 plan for approaching her and executing my purpose. 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 331 
 
 " Yes, aunt, the woman was an angel. If she had not been, 
 she would have become a torment to you. Did she ever write 
 to you ? Did she ever ask a favor of you ? Do you suppose 
 that she would ever receive from you a farthing of the wealth 
 that her husband would rightly have inherited, unless first you 
 had poured out your heart to her in a prayer for forgiveness ? 
 Has she acted like a mercenary woman ? No, aunt, it is you 
 who know nothing about her." 
 
 " She was nothing to me," Mrs. Sanderson said. " She 
 never could have been anything to me." 
 
 " That you don't know." 
 
 " Well, v/hat else have you to say ? " 
 
 " She is living to-day, and, in a self-respectful way, is earn- 
 ing her own livelihood." 
 
 " I tell you again she is nothing to me," my aunt responded. 
 " She is doing to-day what I presume she did before her mar- 
 riage. I know of no reason why she should not earn her living. 
 She probably knows me well enough to know that I will do 
 nothing for her, and can be nothing to her. If you have taken 
 it into your head to try to bring me to recognize her and give 
 her money, I can tell you that you have undertaken a very 
 foolish and fruitless enterprise. If this is all you have to say 
 to me, we may as well stop our conversation at once. It is a 
 boy's business, and if you know what is for your own good you 
 will never allude to her again." 
 
 She rose impatiently as if determined to close the interview, 
 but I did not stir; so, seeing me determined, she sat down 
 as^ain. 
 
 "Mrs. Sanderson," I said, "is your heart satisfied with me? 
 Have you not, especially in these last years and months, longed 
 for some one of your own blood on whom to bestow your af- 
 fections? I grant that you have treated me like a son. I 
 grant that I not only have nothing to complain of, but that I 
 have a thousand things to be grateful for. You have tried to 
 love me. You have determined with all your power of will to 
 make me everything to yourself ; but, after all, are you satisfied ? 
 
332 Arthur Bonnzcastle, 
 
 Though one of your kindred, my blood does not come near 
 enough to yours to make me yours. Have you not longed to 
 do something before you die to wipe out the memories that 
 haunt you ? " 
 
 She watched me with sad, wide-open eyes, as I firmly and 
 tenderly said all this, and then, as if she could conceive of but 
 one conclusion, her anger rose again, and she exclaimed : 
 " Don't talk to me any more about this woman ! I tell you I 
 will have nothing to do with her." 
 
 " I am saying nothing about this woman, aunt," I responded. 
 " I am going to talk about some one besides this woman, for 
 she had a child, of whom your son was the father." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 Half exclamation, half interrogation, the word pierced my 
 ears like a scream. 
 
 " Mrs. Sanderson, you are the grandmother of as noble a 
 man as breathes." 
 
 She cried ; she laughed ; she exclaimed : " Oh, Arthur ! Oh 
 God!" She covered her face; she threw her handkerchief 
 upon the floor ; she tore open her dress to relieve her throbbing 
 heart, and yielded herself to such a tumult of conflicting pas- 
 sions as I had never witnessed before — such as I hope I may 
 never be called upon to witness again. I sat frightened and 
 dumb. I feared she would die — that she could not survive 
 such agitations. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! I have a grandson ! I have a grandson ! 
 Oh, Arthur ! Oh, God ! Is it so ? Is it so ? You lie ! You 
 know you lie ! You are deceiving me. Is it so, Arthur ? Say 
 it again. It can't be so. I should have known it. Somebody 
 has lied to you. Oh, how could you, how could you deceive 
 an old woman, with one foot in the grave — an old woman who 
 has loved you, and done all she could for you ? How could 
 you, Arthur ? " 
 
 Thus she poured out her emotions and doubts and depreca- 
 tions, unmindful of all my attempts to interrupt her, and I saw 
 at once that it was the only mode by which she could ever be- 
 
Arthttr Bonnicastle, 333 
 
 come composed enough to hear the rest of my story. The 
 storm could only resolve itself into calm through the processes 
 of storm. When she had exhausted herself she sank back in hei 
 chair. Then, as if moved by an impulse to put me under the 
 strongest motive to truthfulness, she rose and came to me. 
 With a movement so sudden that I was entirely unprepared for 
 it, she threw herself upon my lap, and clasping her arms around 
 my neck, placed her lips close to my ear, and said in a voice 
 surcharged with tender pleading: *' Don't deceive me, dear! 
 Don't be cruel to me ! I have never used you ill. Tell me 
 all about it, just as it is. I am an old woman. I have only a 
 little while to live." 
 
 " I have told you everything just as it is," I responded. 
 
 *' And I have a grandchild ? " 
 
 " One that you may love and be proud of. " 
 
 *' And can I ever see him ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Do you know him ? " 
 
 «*Yes." 
 
 " Do you suppose he will come to live with me, if I ask 
 him?" 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Does he hate me?" 
 
 "I don't think he hates anybody." 
 
 *' Is he with his mother ? " 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 "Is he fond of her?" 
 
 " So fond of her," I answered, " that he will accept no invi- 
 tation from you that does not include her." 
 
 " I take it all back, Arthur," she said. " He is right. He 
 is a Bonnicastle. When can I see him ? " 
 
 " Soon, I think." 
 
 " And I have really a grandson — a good grandson ? how 
 long have you known it ? " 
 
 "Only a few days." 
 
334 ArtJutr Bo7inuastle. 
 
 " Perhaps I shall not live forty-eight hours. I must see him 
 at once." 
 
 '' You shall see him soon." 
 
 Then she patted my cheek and kissed me, and played with 
 my hair like a child. She called me her good boy, her noble 
 boy. Then, struck suddenly with the thought of the changes 
 that were progressing in her own mind and affections, and the 
 changes that were imminent in her relations to me, she rose and 
 went back to her chair. When I looked her in the face again, 
 I was astonished at the change which a single moment of reflec- 
 tion had wrought upon her. Her anger was gone, her remorse 
 had vanished, her self-possession had come back to her, en-- 
 veloping her as with an armor of steel, and she was once more 
 the Mrs. Sanderson of old. How was she to get rid of me ? 
 What arrangement could she make to get me out of the house, 
 loosen my hold upon my expectations, and instal the rightful 
 heir of her wealth in her home ? She turned to her new life 
 and her new schemes with the eager determination of a woman 
 of business. 
 
 "What has led you to this announcement, Arthur?" she 
 inquired. 
 
 "A wish to do justice to all the parties to whom it relates," 
 I replied. 
 
 " You have done right," she said, " and of course you have 
 counted the cost. If my grandson comes here, you will not 
 expect to stay. Have you made any plans ? Have you any 
 reward to ask for your sacrifice ? I trust that in making up 
 your mind upon this point, you will remember what I have done 
 for you. You will find my expenses on your account in a book 
 which I will give you." 
 
 The cool cruelty of the woman, at this supreme moment of 
 her life, angered and disgusted me. I bit my lips to keep 
 back the hot words that pressed for utterance. Then, with all 
 the calmness I could command, I said : " Do you suppose that 
 I have come to you to-day to sell your grandson to you for 
 money ? Do you suppose that your dollars weigh a pin with 
 
Arthttr Bonnie as tie, 335 
 
 me ? Can't you realize that I am voluntarily relinquishing the 
 hopes and expectations of a lifetime ? Can't you see that I 
 anr going from a life of independence to one of labor and 
 struggle ? " 
 
 " Don't be angry, Arthur," she responded coolly. " I have 
 given you your education, and taken care of you for years. I - 
 have done it under the impression that I had no heir. You tell 
 me that I have one, and now I must ]-)art with you. You foresaw 
 this, and I supposed that you had made your plans for it. The 
 simple question is, how much do you want in consideration of 
 your disappointment ? How are we to separate, so that you 
 shall feel satisfied that I have done you justice ?" 
 
 " I have no stipulations to make," I answered ; " I under- 
 stand that you have done much for me, and that I have done 
 very little for you, indeed ; that I have very poorly improved 
 the privileges you have bestowed upon me. I understand that 
 you do not consider yourself under the slightest obligation to 
 me, and that so soon as you may get your grandson into your 
 possession, through my means, you will drop me and be glad to 
 be rid of me forever." 
 
 "You speak bitterly, Arthur. I shall always be interested in 
 your welfare, and shall do what I can to serve you ; but when 
 we separate we must be quits. You know my mode of doing 
 business. I exact my rights and pay my dues." 
 
 " I have no bargains to make with you, Mrs. Sanderson," I 
 said. " We are quits now. I confess that I have had a dream 
 of travel. I have hoped to go away after this change in my 
 life, and to forget it among new scenes, and prepare myself to 
 take up and bear a burden for which my life here has done 
 nuich to unfit me. I have dreamed of getting away from Brad- 
 ford for a time, until the excitement that will attend these 
 changes shall have blown over. I confess that I shrink from 
 meeting the questions and sneers that await me ; but we are 
 quits now." 
 
 " Have you any idea what the expenses of a foreign tout 
 will be ? " she inquired in a cool, calculating tone. 
 
336 Arthur Bomticastle, 
 
 " Mrs. Sanderson, you have just come into the possession of 
 the most precious knowledge the world holds for you, and 
 through it you expect to receive the great boon of your life. 
 All this comes through me. Neither your daughter-in-law nor 
 your grandson would ever have made themselves known to you, 
 and now, when I have sacrificed the expectations of a life to 
 them and to you, you talk about the price of a foreign trip for 
 me, as if you were bargaining for a horse. No, madam ; I 
 wash my hands of the whole business, and it is better for us both 
 to talk no more about this matter. We are quits to-day. I 
 shall feel better by and by, but you have disappointed me and 
 made me very unhappy." 
 
 Even while I talked, I could see her face harden from 
 moment to moment. Her heart had gone out toward her heir 
 with a selfish affection, which slowly, quietly, and surely shut out 
 every other human being. She grudged me every dollar of her 
 fortune on his behalf. The moment she ceased to regard me as 
 her heir, I stood in the same relation to her that any other poor 
 young man in Bradford occupied. Her wealth was for her grand- 
 son. She would pay to him, on his father's account, every dollar 
 she held. She would lavish upon him every aifection, and every 
 service possible. She would ofi'er herself and her possessions 
 to atone for wrongs for which her conscience had upbraided her 
 more and more, as her life had approached its close. She 
 longed for this consummation, and looked to it for peace. 
 
 Thus I reached the moment of transition, and in disappoint- 
 ment and bitterness — feeling that my sacrifice was not appre- 
 ciated, and that my benefactress had lost all affection for and 
 interest in me — T took up the burden of my own life, determined 
 that on no consideration would I receive, beyond the clothes I 
 wore, one dollar more of the fortune on which I had lived. 
 
 *' When can I see my grandson ? " 
 
 " When you choose." 
 
 "Today?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Bring him to me." 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 337 
 
 " I must go to my room first," I said. 
 
 I mounted to my chamber, and threw myself into my 
 accustomed chair by the window. I had passed into a new 
 world. The charming things about me, which I had counted 
 my own, were another's. The old house and the broad, beau- 
 tiful acres which stretched around it were alienated forever. I 
 realized that every dollar that had been bestowed upon me, 
 and every privilege, service, and attention I had received, had 
 come from a supremely selfish heart, through motives that sought 
 only to fill an empty life, and to associate with an honored 
 ancestral name the wealth which could not be taken out of the 
 world with its possessor. A mercenary value had been placed 
 upon every sentiment of gratitude and respect and love which 
 my benefactress had inspired in me. I had been used as a 
 thing of convenience, and being a thing of convenience no 
 longer, I was dropped as a burden. I was humiliated, shamed, 
 angered by the way in which I had been treated, but I was 
 cured. The gifts that I had received looked hateful to me. The 
 position I had occupied — the position in v/hich I had not 
 only grown to be content, but in which I had nursed and devel- 
 oped a degree of aristocratic pride — seemed most unmanly. I 
 had been used, played with, petted, fed with daily indulgences 
 and great promises, and then cast away, there being no further 
 use for me. 
 
 " Never again ! " I said to myself — "never again ! I would 
 not take another dollar from this estate and its owner to keep 
 myself from starving." 
 
 The dream of travel was shattered. My new life and rela- 
 tions were squarely before me. Where and what I should be 
 in a week I did not know. What old friends would fall away 
 from me, what new friends I should make, how I should earn 
 the bread which had thus far been supplied, was all uncertain. 
 
 I believed, however, that I had done my duty ; and out of all 
 
 my shame and disappointment and disgust and apprehension, 
 
 there rose within me a sentiment of self-respect and a feeling 
 
 of strength. And when I thought of all the circumstances 
 
 15 
 
338 ArthiLr Botinicastle, 
 
 that had conspired to bring me to this point, I could not doubt 
 that Providence — the great will that embraces all wills — the 
 supreme plan that subordinates and weaves into serviceable 
 relations all plans — the golden fabric that unrolls from day to 
 day, with the steady revolutions of the stars, and rolls up again, 
 studded thick with the designs of men — had ordered everything, 
 and ordered it aright. It was best for me that I had gone 
 through with my indulgences and my discipline. It was best 
 for me that I had passed through the peculiar experiences of 
 my life. It was best for Mrs. Sanderson that she had been 
 tormented, and that, at last, she was passing into the hands that 
 were strong and steady — hands that would lead her aright — 
 hands into which she was ready to throw herself, with self-aban- 
 doning love and trust. It was best that Henry had struggled 
 and learned the worth of money, and acquired sympathy and 
 respect for the poor. It was best that the feet of all the per- 
 sons concerned in this great change of relations should be 
 brought together at last, by a series of coincidences that 
 seemed well-nigh miraculous. 
 
 One thing struck me as being very singular, viz. : that Mrs. 
 Sanderson was so easily satisfied that she had a grandson, and 
 that I not only knew him, but that he was close at hand. It 
 only showed how eagerly ready she was to believe it, and to 
 believe that I had prepared everything to satisfy her desire. 
 In another frame of mind — if another frame of mind had been 
 possible — she would have questioned me — doubted me — put 
 me to the proof of my statements; but she was ready to 
 accept anything on my simple assurance. After sitting quietly 
 for an hour, I rose with a long sigh. I had still the duty of 
 presenting Henry Sanderson — for that was his real name — to 
 his grandmother. My heart throbbed wildly every time the 
 thought of this meeting came to me. I had said nothing to 
 Henry, for I knew that it would distress him beyond measure, 
 — nay, that, disabled as he was, he would contrive some way 
 to get out of the house and out of the town. Nothing but a 
 sense of freedom from detection and discovery had ever recon- 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 339 
 
 ciled him and his mother to an hour's residence in The Mansion. 
 Hidden away in this New England town, toward which they had 
 drifted from the far South, partly on the current of circumstan- 
 ces, and partly by the force of a desire to see and know the 
 early home and associations of the husband and father, they 
 did not doubt that they could cover their identity so perfectly 
 that it would not be suspected. Henry had studiously kept 
 away from the house. His mother had met Mrs. Sanderson 
 entirely by accident, and had taken a sweet and self-amusing 
 revenge by compelling her to love and trust her. They had 
 confided their secret to but one man, and he had had their 
 permission to confide it to his family. Through all these long 
 years, the two families had been intimate friends, and Mr. Brad- 
 ford had endeavored in every possible way to obtain their con- 
 sent to the course he had pursued, but in vain. After the 
 death of Mrs. Sanderson, he would doubtless have informed 
 me of Henry's natural claims to the estate, relying upon my 
 sense of justice and my love for him for its division between 
 us ; but he saw that my prospects were ruining me, and so had 
 taken the matter into his own hands, simply confiding the facts 
 of the case to my father and Mr. Bird, and acting with their 
 advice and consent. 
 
 I drew out my trunk, and carefully packed my clothing. Not 
 an article in the room that was not necessary to me did I take 
 from its place. It would be Henry's room, and all the choice 
 ornaments and appointments that I had had the happy pains to 
 gather, were left to please his eye and remind him of me. The 
 occupation, while it pained me, gave me strength and calmness. 
 When the work was done, I locked my trunk, put the key in 
 my pocket, and was about to leave the room when there came 
 to me the sense of a smile from the skies. A cloud had been 
 over the sun, and as it passed a flood of sunlight filled the room, 
 growing stronger and stronger until my eyes were almost blinded 
 by the sweet effulgence. I was not superstitious, but it seemed 
 as if God had given me His benediction. 
 
 I turned the key in my door, and bowed at my bed. " Dear 
 
340 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 Father," I said, " at last nothing stands between Thee an J me. 
 That which I have loved better than Thee is gone, and now I 
 beg Thee to help me and lead me in Thine own way to Thyself. 
 I shrink from the world, but Thou hast made it. I shrink from 
 toil and struggle, but Thou hast ordained them. Help me to 
 be a man after Thine own heart. Give me wisdom, guidance, 
 and assistance. Help me to lay aside my selfishness, my love 
 of luxury and ease, and to go down heartily into the work of 
 the world, and to build my life upon sure foundations." 
 
 Then there rose in me a flood of pity and charity for one 
 who had so long been my benefactress ; and I prayed for her — 
 that in her new relations she might be blessed with content and 
 satisfaction, and that her last days might be filled with some- 
 thing better than she had known. I forgave her for her quick 
 and complete renunciation of myself, and the cruel wounds she 
 had inflicted upon my pride, and felt the old good-will of child- 
 hood welling in my heart. I enveloped her with my charity. I 
 crowned her with the grace of pardon. 
 
 When I went down stairs I found her awaiting me in the room 
 where I had left her. She sat holding a paper in her hand. She 
 had dressed herself in her best, as if she were about to receive 
 a prince. There was a bright spot of red on either thin and 
 wrinkled cheek, and her eyes shone like fire. 
 
 " You are sure you have made no mistake, Arthur ? " she 
 said, with a voice quite unnatural in its quavering sharpness. 
 
 " Quite sure," I answered. 
 
 " This," said she, holding up her paper, " is my will. There 
 is no will of mine beside this in existence. I have no time to 
 ask my lawyer here to-day to make another. Life is uncertain, 
 and there must be no mistake. I wish you to go with me to 
 the kitchen." 
 
 She rose and I followed her out. I could not imagine what 
 she would do, but she went straight to the old-fashioned fire- 
 place, where the dinner was cooking, and holding the paper in 
 her hands, opened it, and asked me to read the beginning of it 
 and the sigqatures. I did so, and then she laid it upon the 
 
Artlmr Bonnicastle, 341 
 
 coals. The quick flame shot up, and we both looked on in 
 silence, until nothing was left of it but white ashes, which a 
 breath would scatter. The elements had swallowed all m)'' claim 
 to her large estate. The old cook regarded us in wondering 
 silence, with her hands upon her hips, and watched us as we 
 turned away from the fire, and left her alone in her domain. 
 
 When we returned to the library, Mrs. Sanderson said : " The 
 burning of that will is equivalent to writing another in favor of 
 my grandson ; so, if I make no other, you will know the rea- 
 son." 
 
 She pressed her hand upon her heart in a distressed way, and 
 added ; " I am as nearly ready as I ever can be to see — " 
 
 " Henry Sanderson," I said. 
 
 ** Is that his name? Is that his real name?" she asked, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " It is." 
 
 " And it will all go to Henry Sanderson ! " 
 
 The intense, triumphant satisfaction with which she said this 
 was almost enough, of itself, to repay me for the sacrifice I 
 had made. 
 
 "Mrs. Sanderson," I said, "I have put into my trunk the 
 clothes I need, and when I go away I will send for them. I 
 have left everything else." 
 
 " For Henry — my Henry Sanderson ! " 
 
 "Yes, for your Henry ; and now I must go up and see my 
 Henry, and Mrs. Belden ; for after I have presented your grand- 
 son to you I shall go away." 
 
 I mounted the stairs with a throbbing heart, and a face that 
 told the tale of a terrible excitement and trouble. Both Henry 
 and his mother started as I came into the room, and simultane- 
 ously uttered the words, "What is it, Arthur?" 
 
 " Nothing, except that my aunt and I have had a talk, and I 
 am going away." 
 
 A quick, involuntary glance passed between the pair, but 
 both waited to hear my announcement. 
 
 '* I am glad you are here," I said. " You can stay as long 
 
342 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 as you wish, but I am going away. I shall see you again, but 
 never as an inmate of this house. I want to thank you for all 
 your kindness and love, and to assure you that I shall always 
 remember you. Mrs. Belden, you never kissed me : kiss me 
 now." 
 
 The dear woman looked scared, but obeyed my wish. I sat 
 down on Henry's bed and laid my head beside his. " Good- 
 by, old boy ; good-by ! Thank you for all your faithfulness to 
 me and for your example. I hope some time to be half as 
 good as you are." 
 
 My eyes were flooded with tears, and both Mrs. Belden and 
 Henry were weeping in sympathy. 
 
 " What is it, Arthur ? what is it ? Tell us. Perhaps we can 
 help you." 
 
 "Whatever it is, it is all right," I answered. "Some time 
 you will know, and you will find that I am not to blame." 
 
 Then I shook their hands, went abruptly out of the room, 
 and ran down stairs to Mrs. Sanderson. She saw that I was 
 strangely agitated, and rose feebly as I entered. 
 
 " I wish you to go up stairs with me before I leave," I said. 
 " Will you be kind enough to go with me now ? " 
 
 There was no dawning suspicion in her heart of what I 
 had prepared for her. She had expected me to go out and 
 bring in a stately stranger for whose reception she had pre- 
 pared her toilet. She had wondered how he would look, and 
 by what terms she should address him. 
 
 I gave her my arm and we slowly walked up the stairs to- 
 gether, while my heart was beating so heavily that I could hear 
 it, blow upon blow, in my ears. I knocked at Henry's door 
 and entered. The moment Henry and his mother saw us to- 
 gether, and caught the agitated look that both of us wore, they 
 anticipated the announcement that was imminent, and grew 
 pale as ghosts. 
 
 " Mrs. S'anderson," I said, without offering her a seat, " this 
 is Mrs. Belden Hulm, your daughter-in-law, and this (turning 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 343 
 
 to Henry) is your grandson, Henry Sanderson. May God 
 bless you all ! " 
 
 I dropped her arm and rushed to the door. A hurried 
 glance behind me showed that she was staggering and falling. 
 Turning swiftly back, I caught her, while Mrs. Hulm supported 
 her upon the other side, and together we led her to Henry's 
 bed. Then she dropped upon her knees and Henry threw his 
 arms around her neck, and said softly : " Grandmother ! " 
 
 " My boy, my boy ! " was all she could say, and it was 
 enough. 
 
 Then I left them. I heard Henry say : " Don't go," but I 
 did not heed him. Running down stairs, with limbs so weak 
 with excitement that I could hardly stand, I seized my hat 
 in the hall, and went out of doors, and hurriedly took my 
 way toward my father's house. I did not even cast a glance 
 at the Bradford residence, so absorbed was 1 in the events 
 in which I had been an actor. The vision of the three 
 persons clustered at Henry's bed, the thought of the powerful 
 emotions that were surging in them all, the explanations that 
 were pouring from Henry's lips, the prayers for forgiveness that 
 my old benefactress was uttering, and the dreams of the new 
 life of The Mansion which I Had inaugurated blotted out the 
 sense of my own sacrifice, and made me oblivious to all around 
 me. Men spoke to me on the street, and I remembered after- 
 wards that I did not answer them. I walked in a dream, and 
 was at my father's door before I was aware. I felt that I was 
 not ready to go in, so I turned away and continued my walk. 
 Up the long streets I went, wrapped in my dream. Down 
 through the busy life along the wharves I wandered, and looked 
 out upon the water. The sailors were singing, children were 
 playing, apple-women were chaffing, but nothing could divert 
 me. My heart was in the room I had left. The scene was 
 burnt indelibly upon my memory, and no new impression could 
 take its place. 
 
 Slowly I turned toward home again. I had mastered myself 
 sufficiently to be able to think of my future, and of the necessi- 
 
344 
 
 Arthur Boiinicastle, 
 
 ties and proprieties of my new position. When I reached my 
 father's house, I found Mrs. Sanderson's man-servant — old 
 Jenks's successor — waiting at the gate with a message from 
 Henry, desiring my immediate return to The Mansion, and re- 
 questing that I bring with me my sister Claire. This latter 
 request was one that brought me to myself. I had now the 
 responsibility of leading another through a great and unantici- 
 pated excitement. Dismissing the servant, with a promise to 
 obey his new master's wish, I went into the house, and found 
 myself so much in self-possession that I told Claire with calm- 
 ness of the message, and refrained from all allusion to what had 
 occurred. Claire dressed herself quickly, and I could see as 
 she presented herself for the walk that she was full of wonder. 
 Nothing was said as we passed out. There was a strange 
 silence in the family. The message meant a great deal, and 
 all so thoroughly trusted Henry that no questions were asked. 
 
 When we were away from the house, I said : " Claire, you 
 must be a woman to-day. Strange things have happened. 
 Brace yourself for anything that may come." 
 
 "What can you mean? Has anything happened to — to 
 him?" 
 
 "Yes, much, — much to him, and much to me ; and some- 
 thing very strange and unexpected will happen to you." 
 
 She stopped short in the street, and grasping my two hands 
 nervously, exclaimed : " Tell me what it is." 
 
 " My dear," I said, " my Hfe at Mrs. Sanderson's has ceased. 
 I am no more her heir, for Henry is discovered to be her own 
 grandson." 
 
 " You deceive me ; you can't mean it." 
 
 " It is just as I tell you." 
 
 She burst into a fit of weeping so passionate and uncontrol- 
 lable that in a low voice I said, " You must command your- 
 self. You are observed." 
 
 We resumed our walk, but it was a long time before she 
 could speak. At length she said, " I am so sorry for you, and 
 so sorry for myself. I do not want it so. It changes all my 
 
Arthur Bonmcastle. 345 
 
 plans. I never can be to him what I could be if he were poor ; 
 and you are to work. Did he know he was her grandson ? " 
 
 " Yes, he has always known it." 
 
 " And he never told me a word about it. How could he 
 treat me so like a child ? " 
 
 She was half angry with the thought that he had shut from 
 her the most important secret of his life. As to the fortune 
 which was opened to her, it did not present to her a single 
 charm. The thought of it oppressed and distressed her. It 
 made her life so large that she could not comprehend it. She 
 had had no natural growth up to it and into it. 
 
 When we reached The Mansion she was calm ; and it seemed, 
 as we stood at the door and I looked inquiringly into her face, 
 as if her beauty had taken on a maturer charm while we had 
 walked. I led her directly to Henry's room, and there, in the 
 presence of Mrs. Sanderson, who sat holding Henry's hand as 
 if she were determined that her newly-found treasure should 
 not escape her, and in the presence of Henry's mother, neither 
 of whom she either addressed or regarded, she stooped and re- 
 ceived her lover's kiss. I saw simply this, and with tears in 
 my eyes went out and closed the door softly behind me. What 
 occurred during that interview I never knew. It was an inter- 
 view so tenderly sacred that neither Henry nor Claire ever al- 
 luded to it afterwards. I went down stairs, and awaited its 
 conclusion. At the end of half an hour, I heard voices whis- 
 pering above, then the footsteps of Mrs. Sanderson going to 
 her chamber, and then the rustle of dresses upon the stairs. 
 I went out into the hall, and met Mrs. Hulm and Claire Avith 
 their arms around each other. Their eyes were wet, but they 
 were luminous with a new happiness, and I knew that all had 
 been settled, and settled aright. 
 
 " Henry wishes to see you," said his mother. 
 
 I cannot tell how much I dreaded this interview. I knew 
 of course that it would come, sooner or later, and I dreaded it 
 as much on Henry's account as on my own. 
 
 I sat down by his bed, and gave to his eager grasp both 
 15* 
 
346 Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 my hands. He looked at me with tears rolling down his 
 cheeks, with lips compressed and with the perspiration standing 
 unbrushed from his forehead, but without the power to speak a 
 word. I pulled out my handkerchief, and wiped his forehead 
 and his cheeks. 
 
 "Are you happy, Henry?" I said. 
 
 " Yes, thank God and you," he answered, with choking emo- 
 tion. 
 
 '' So am I." 
 
 "Are you? Are you? Oh Arthur! What can I ever do 
 to show you my gratitude ? How can I look on and see you 
 toiling to win the bread you have voluntarily given to me ? " 
 
 " You have had your hard time, and I my easy one. Now 
 we are to change places, that's all, and it is right. You have 
 learned the value of money, and you will spend this which has 
 come to you as it ought to be spent." 
 
 " But it is not the money ; it is the home of my father — the 
 home of my ancestors. It is a home for my mother. It is 
 rest from uncertain wandering. I cannot tell you what it is. 
 It is something so precious that money cannot represent it. It 
 is something so precious that I would willingly work harder all 
 my hfe for having found it. And now, my dear fellow, what 
 can I do for you ? " 
 
 " Nothing — only love me." 
 
 " But I must do more. Your home must be here. You 
 must share it with me." 
 
 " No, Henry, the word is spoken. You have come to your 
 own, and I shall go to mine. My lot shall be my father's lot, 
 until I can make it better. We shall be friends forever. The 
 surrender I have made shall do me more good than it has done 
 you. You did not absolutely need it, and I did. You could 
 do without it and I could not. And now, let's not talk about 
 it any more." 
 
 We embraced and kissed as if we had been lovers, and I left 
 him, to walk back with Claire. That night the story was all 
 told in our little home. My trunk was brought and carried to 
 
ArtJmr Bonnicastle, 347 
 
 my bare and cramped chamber; and when the accustomed 
 early hour for retirement came I knelt with the other children 
 and worshipped as of old. My father was happy, my mother 
 was reconciled to the change, for Claire had been recognized 
 at The Mansion, and I went to bed and rested through a dream- 
 less sleep until the morning light summoned me to new changes 
 and new duties. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 1 TAKE ARTHUR BONNICASTLE UPON MY OWN HANDS AND SUC- 
 CEED WITH HIM. 
 
 In a small town like Bradford, the birds have a way of collect- 
 ing and carrying news, quite unknown in more Considerable 
 cities ; and, apparently, a large flock of them had been around 
 The Mansion during the events narrated in the preceding 
 chapter ; for, on the following day, the community was alive 
 with rumors concerning them. A daily paper had just been 
 established, whose enterprising editor deemed it his special duty 
 and privilege to bruit such personal and social intelligence as 
 he could gain by button-holing his victims on the street, or by 
 listening to the voluntary tattle of busy-bodies. My good angel, 
 Mr. Bradford, apprehending an unpleasant notoriety for me, 
 and for the occurrences associated with my name, came to me 
 at once and heard my story. Then he visited the editor, and 
 so represented the case to him that, on the second morning 
 after taking up my home with my father, I had the amusement 
 of reading a whole column devoted to it. The paper was very 
 wet and very dirty ; and I presume that that column was read 
 with more interest, by all the citizens of Bradford, than anything 
 of national import which it might have contained. I will re- 
 produce only its opening and closing paragraphs : 
 
 Romance in High Life. — Our little city was thrown into intense excite- 
 ment yesterday, by rumors of a most romantic and extraordinary character, 
 concerning occurrences at 
 
 A CRRTAIN MANSION, 
 
 which occupies an elevated position, locally, socially, and historically. It 
 
- Arthur Bonnicastle, 349 
 
 appears that a certain estimable young man, whose heroic feat cost him so 
 dearly in a recent struggle with 
 
 A MIDNIGHT ASSASSIN, 
 
 is the natural heir to the vast wealth which he so gallantly rescued from spol- 
 iation, and that 
 
 A CERTAIN ESTIMABLE LADY, 
 
 well known to our citizens as the companion of a certain other lady, also 
 well known, is his mother. Nothing more startling than the developments 
 in this case has occurred in the eventful history of our city. 
 
 A MYSTERY 
 
 has always hung around these persons, and we are not among those who 
 are surprised at the solution. But the most remarkable part of the story 
 is that which relates to the young man who has been reared with the expec- 
 tation of becoming the ovnier of this magiiificent estate. Upon learning the 
 relations of the young man previously alluded to, to his benefactress, he at 
 once, in loyalty to his friend and his own personal, honor, renounced for- 
 ever his expectations, surrendered his position to the heir so strangely dis- 
 covered, and took up his abode in his father's humble home. This act, than 
 which none nobler was ever performed, was, we are assured by as good au- 
 thority as there is in Bradford^ wholly voluntary. 
 
 WE GIVE THAT YOUNG MAN OUR HAT— 
 
 Miller & Sons' best — and assure him that, in whatever position he may 
 choose to take in this community, he will have such support as our humble 
 editorial pen may give him. We feel that no less than this is due to his 
 nobility of character. 
 
 After half a dozen paragraphs in this strain, the article closed 
 as follows : — 
 
 It is rumored that the newly-found heir has formed 
 
 A TENDER ALLIANCE 
 
 with a beautiful young lady — a blonde — who is not a stranger in the 
 family of our blue-eyed hero — an alliance which will enable her to 
 
 SHARE HIS BONNY CASTLE, 
 
 and unite the fortunes of the two families in indissoluble bonds. Long 
 may they wave I 
 
350 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 Far be it from us, enthroned upon the editorial tripod, and wielding the 
 scepter of the press, to invade the sanctities of private life, and we there- 
 fore withhold all names. It was due to the parties Concerned and to the 
 public, however, to state the facts, and put an end to gossip and conjecture 
 among those who have no better business than that of tampering with the 
 secrets of the hearthstone and the heart. 
 
 During the day, I broke through the reluctance which I nat- 
 urally felt to encounter the pubhc gaze, after this exposure of 
 my affairs, and went out upon the street. Of course, I found 
 myself the object of universal curiosity and the subject of uni- 
 versal remark. Never in my life had I been treated with more 
 deference. Something high in position had been won back to 
 the sphere of common life ; and common life was profoundly 
 interested. My editorial friend had so represented the case 
 as to win for me something better than sympathy ; and a good- 
 natured reticence under all inquiries, on my own part, seemed 
 to enhance the respect of the people for me. But I had some- 
 thing more important on hand than seeking food for my van- 
 ity. I had myself on hand and my future ; and the gossip of 
 the community was, for the first time in my life, a matter of in- 
 difference. 
 
 It occurred to me during the day that an academy, which a 
 number of enterprising people had built two or three years be- 
 fore, had been abandoned and closed, with the conclusion of 
 the spring term, for lack of support, and that it would be pos- 
 sible for me to secure it for the field of my future enterprise. 
 I called at once upon those who held the building in charge, 
 and, before I slept, closed a bargain, very advantageous to my- 
 self, which placed it at my disposal for a term of three years. 
 The next day I visited my friend the editor, whom I found with 
 bare arms, well smeared with ink, at work at his printer's case, 
 setting up the lucubrations of the previous night. He was 
 evidently flattered by my call, and expressed the hope that 
 what he had written with reference to myself was satisfactory. 
 Assuring him that I had no fault to find with him, I exposed 
 my project, which not only met with his hearty approval, but 
 
Art liter Bonnicastle, 351 
 
 the promise of his unstinted support. From his office I went 
 directly to the chambers of the principal lawyer of the city, and 
 entered my name as a student of law. I took no advice, J 
 sought no aid, but spoke freely of my plans to all around me. 
 I realized almost at once how all life and circumstance bend 
 to the man who walks his own determined way, toward an ob- 
 ject definitely apprehended. People were surprised by my 
 promptness and energy, and indeed I was surprised by myself. 
 My dreams of luxury and ease were gone, and the fascinations 
 of enterprise and action took strong possession of me. I was 
 busy with my preparations for school and with study all day, 
 and at night, every moment stolen from sleep was filled with 
 planning and projecting. My father was delighted, and almost 
 lived and moved and had his being in me. To him I told 
 everything ; and the full measure of his old faith in me was re- 
 covered. 
 
 When the autumn term of the academy opened, of which I 
 was principal, and my sister Claire the leading assistant, every 
 seat was full. Many of the pupils had come from the towns 
 around, though the principal attendance was from the city, and 
 I entered at once upon a life of the most fatiguing labor and 
 the most grateful prosperity. My purse was filled at the out- 
 set with the advanced installment upon the term-bills, so that 
 both Claire and myself had a delightful struggle with my father 
 in our attempt to compel him to receive payment for our 
 board and lodgings. Our little dwelling was full of new life. 
 Even my mother was shaken from her refuge of faithlessness, 
 and compelled to smile. Since those days I have had many 
 pleasant experiences ; but I doubt whether I have ever spent 
 three years of purer happiness than those which I passed with 
 Claire beneath the roof of that old academy — old, now, for 
 though put to strange uses, the building is standing still. 
 
 There was one experience connected with this part of my 
 history of which it is a pain to speak, because it relates to the 
 most subtle and sacred passage of my inner life ; but having 
 led the reader thus far, I should be disloyal to my Christian 
 
352 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 confession were I to close my lips upon it and refuse its revela- 
 tion. 
 
 From the hour when I first openly joined a band of Chris- 
 tian disciples, I had been conscious of a mighty arm around me. 
 Within the circuit of that restraining power I had exercised an 
 almost unrestricted liberty. I had violated my conscience in 
 times and ways without number, yet, when tempted to reckless 
 wandering, I had touched the obstacle and recoiled. In what- 
 ever direction I might go, I always reached a point where I 
 became conscious of its living pulsations and its unrelaxing em- 
 brace. Unseen, impalpable, it Was as impenetrable as ada- 
 mant and as strong as God. The moment 1 assumed respon- 
 sibility over other lives, and gave my own life in counsel and 
 labor for the good of those around me, the arm came closer, 
 and conveyed to me the impression of comfort and health and 
 safety. I thanked God for the restraint which that voluntary 
 act of mine had imposed upon me. 
 
 But this was not all. My life had come into the line of 
 the divine plan for my own Christian development. I had 
 been a recipient all my life ; now I had become an active 
 power. I had all my life been appropriating the food that came 
 to me, and amusing myself with the playthings of fancy and 
 imagination ; now I had begun to act and expend in earnest 
 work for worthy objects. The spiritual attitude effected by 
 this change was one which brought me face to face with all that 
 was unworthy in me and my past life, and I felt myself under 
 the operations of a mighty regenerating power, vyhich I had 
 no disposition to resist. I could not tell whence it came or 
 whither it went. If it was born of myself, it was a psycholog- 
 ical experience which I could neither analyze nor measure. It 
 was upon me for days and weeks. It was within me like 
 leaven in the lump, permeating, enlivening, lifting me. It was 
 like an eye-stone in the eye, searching for dust in every place 
 and plication, and removing it, until the orb was painless 
 and the vision pure. There was no outcry, no horror of great 
 darkness, no disposition to publish, but a subtle, silent, sweet 
 
Arthzcr Bonnicastle, 353 
 
 revolution. As it went on within me, I grew stronger day by 
 day, and my life and work were flooded with the light of a 
 great and fine significance. Sensibility softened and endurance 
 hardened under it. 
 
 Spirit of God ! Infinite Mother ! Thou didst not thunder 
 on Sinai amidst smoke and tempest ; but in the burning bush 
 thou didst appear in a flame that warmed without withering, 
 and illuminated without consuming. Thou didst not hang 
 upon the cross on Calvary, but thou didst stir the hearts of the 
 bereaved disciples as they walked in the way with their risen 
 Lord. All gentle ministries to the spiritual life of men emanate 
 from Thee. Thou brooding, all-pervading presence, holding a 
 weeping world in thy maternal embrace, with counsel and ten- 
 der chastening and holy inspirations, was it thy arms that had 
 been around, me all these years, and came closer and closer, 
 until- 1 felt myself folded to a heart that flooded me with love ? 
 I only know that streams rise no higher than their fountain, 
 and that the fountain of spiritual life in me had sunk and ceased 
 to flow long before this time. Could anything but a long, 
 stronsf rain from the skies have filled it ? All the thinsjs we see are 
 types of things we do not see — visible expressionsof the things 
 and thoughts of God. All the phenomena of nature — the persist- 
 ent radiance of the sun and moon — the coming, going, and unload- 
 ing, and the grace and glory of the clouds — the changes of the 
 seasons and of the all-enveloping atmosphere, are revelations 
 to our senses and our souls of those operations and influences 
 which act upon our spiritual natures. I find no miracle in this ; 
 only nature speaking without material interpreters — only the 
 God of nature shunning the coarser passages of the senses, and 
 finding his way direct to the Spirit by means and ministries and 
 channels of his own. 
 
 Was this conversion ? It was not an intellectual matter at 
 all. I had changed no opinions, for the unworthy opinions I 
 had acquired had fallen from me, one by one, as my practice 
 had conformed more and more to the Christian standard. In- 
 deed, they were not my opinions at all, for they had been 
 
354 Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 assumed in consequence of the necessity of somewhat bringing 
 my spiritual and intellectual natures into harmony. My deep- 
 est intellectual convictions remained precisely what they had 
 always been. No, it was a spiritual quickening. It had been 
 winter with me, and I had been covered with snow and locked 
 with ice. Did I melt the bonds which held me, by warmth 
 self-generated ? Does the rose do this or the violet ? There 
 was a sun in some heaven I could not see that shone upon me. 
 There was a wind from some far latitude that breathed upon 
 me. To be quickened is to be touched by a vital finger. To 
 be quickened is to receive a fructifying flood from the great 
 source of life. 
 
 The change was something better than had happened to me 
 under Mr. Bedlow's preaching, long years before ; but neither 
 change was conversion. Far back in childhood, at my 
 mother's knee, at my father's side, and in my own secret cham- 
 ber, those changes were wrought which had directed my life 
 toward a Christian consummation. My little rivulet was flow- 
 ing toward the sea, increasing as it went, when it was disturbed 
 by the first awful experiences of my life ; and its turbid waters 
 were never, until this latter time, wholly clarified. My little 
 plant, tender but upright, was just rising out of its nursing 
 shadows into the light when the great tempest swept over it. 
 If my later experience was conversion, then conversion may 
 come to a man every year of his life. It was simply the re- 
 vivification and reinforcement of the powers and processes of 
 spiritual life. It was ministry, direct and immediate, to devel- 
 opment and growth ; and with me it was complete restoration 
 to the track of my Christian boyhood, and a thrusting out of 
 my life of all the ideas, policies and results of that terrible winter 
 which I can never recall without self-pity and humiliation. 
 
 The difference in the respective effects of the two great 
 crises of my spiritual history upon my power to work illus- 
 trated better than anything else, perhaps, the difference in 
 their nature. The first was a dissipation of power. I could 
 not work while it lasted, and it was a long time before I could 
 
Arthur Bo7inicasile. 355 
 
 gather and hold in hand my mental forces. The second was 
 an accession of strength and the power of concentration. I 
 am sure that I never worked harder or better than I did during 
 the time that my late change was in progress. It was an up- 
 lifting, enlightening and strengthening inspiration. One was 
 a poison, the other was a cure ; one disturbed, the other har- 
 monized; one was surcharged with fear, the other brimmed 
 with hope ; one exhausted, the other nourished and edified 
 me ; one left my spirit halting and ready to stumble, the other 
 left it armed and plumed. 
 
 After my days at the academy, came my evening readings of 
 the elementary books of the profession which I had chosen. 
 There were no holidays fur me ; and during those three years I 
 am sure I accomplished more professional study than nine-tenths 
 of the young men whose every day was at their disposal. I 
 was in high health and in thorough earnest. My physical pow- 
 ers had never been overtasked, and I found myself in the 
 possession of vital resources which enabled me to accomplish 
 an enormous amount of labor. I have no doubt that there 
 were those around me who felt a measure of pity for me, but 
 I had no occasion to thank them for it. I had never before 
 felt so happy, and I learned then, what the world is slow to 
 learn, that there can be no true happiness that is not the re- 
 sult of the action of harmonious powers steadily bent upon 
 pursuits that seek a worthy end. Comfort of a certain sort 
 there may be, pleasure of a certain quality there may be, in 
 ease and in the gratification of that which is sensuous and 
 sensual in human nature ; but happiness is never a lazy man's 
 dower nor a sensualist's privilege. That is reserved for the 
 worker, and can never be grasped and held save by true man- 
 hood and womanhood. It was a great lesson to learn, and it 
 was learned for a lifetime ; for, in this eventide of life, with 
 the power to the rest, I find no joy Hke that which comes to 
 me at the table on which, day after day, I write the present 
 record. 
 
 During the autumn and winter which followed the assump- 
 
356 Arthur Bonnuastle, 
 
 tion of my new duties, I was often at The Mansion, and a 
 witneiis of the happiness of its inmates. Mrs. Sanderson was 
 living in a new atmosphere. Every thought and feeling seemed 
 to be centered upon her lately discovered treasure. She lis- 
 tened to his every word, watched his every motion, and seemed 
 to feel that all her time was lost that was not spent in his pres- 
 ence.- The strong, indomitable, self-asserting will which she 
 had exercised during all her life was laid at his feet. With her 
 fortune she gave herself. She was weary with the long strain 
 and relinquished it. She trusted him, leaned upon him, lived 
 upon him. She was in the second childhood of her life, and it 
 was better to her than her womanhood. He became in her 
 imagination the son whom long years before she had lost. His 
 look recalled her boy, his voice was the repetition of the old 
 music, and she found realized in him all the dreams she had in- 
 dulged in concerning him who so sadly dissipated them in his 
 own self-ruin. 
 
 The object of all this tmst and tenderness was as happy as 
 she. It always touched me deeply to witness the gentleness of 
 his manner toward her. He anticipated all her wants, deferred 
 to her slightest wish, shaped all his life to serve her own. The 
 sense of kindred blood was strongly dominant within him, and 
 his grandmother was held among the most sacred treasures of 
 his heart. Whether he ever had the influence to lead her to 
 higher sources of joy and comfort than himself, I never knew, 
 but I know that in the old mansion that for so many years had 
 been the home of revelry or of isolated selfishness, an altar was 
 reared from which the incense of Christian hearts rose with the 
 rising sun of morning and the rising stars of night. 
 
 Henry passed many days with me at the academy. In truth, 
 my school was his loitering place, though his loitering was of 
 a very useful fashion. I found him so full of the results of ex- 
 perience in the calling in which I was engaged that I won from 
 him a thousand valuable suggestions ; and such was his love 
 for the calling that he rarely left me without hearing a recitation, 
 which he had the power to make so vitally interesting -to my 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 357 
 
 pupils that he never entered the study-hall without awakening 
 a smile of welcome from the whole school. Sometimes he 
 went with Claire to her class-rooms ; and, as many of her pupils 
 had previously been his own, he found himself at home every- 
 where. There was no foolish pride in his heart that protested 
 against her employment. He saw that she was not only useful 
 but happy, and knew that she was learning quite as much that 
 would be useful to her as those who engaged her efforts. Her 
 office deepened and broadened her womanhood ; and I could 
 see that Henry was every day more pleased and satisfied with 
 her. If she was ill for a day, he took her place, and watched 
 for and filled every opportunity to lighten her burdens. 
 
 Mr. Bradford was, perhaps, my happiest friend. He had had 
 so much responsibility in directing and changing the currents 
 of my life, that it was with unbounded satisfaction that he 
 witnessed my happiness, my industry and my modest pros- 
 perity. Many an hour did he sit upon my platform with me, 
 with his two hands resting upon his cane, his fine, honest face 
 all aglow with gratified interest, listening to the school in its 
 regular exercises ; and once he came in with Mr. Bird who 
 had traveled all the way from Hillsborough to see me. And 
 then my school witnessed such a scene as it had never wit- 
 nessed before. I rushed to my dear old friend, threw my arms 
 around him and kissed him. The silver had begun to show 
 itself in his beard and on his temples, and he looked weary. 
 I gave him a chair, and then with tears in my eyes I stood out 
 upon the platform before my boys and girls, and told them 
 who he was, and what he had been to me. I pictured 
 to them the life of The Bird's Nest, and assured them that if 
 they had found anything to approve in me, as a teacher and a 
 friend, it was planted and shaped in that little garden on the 
 hill. I told them further that if any of them should ever come 
 to regard me with the affection I felt for him, I should feel 
 myself abundantly repaid for all the labor I had bestowed upon 
 them — nay, for the labor of a Hfe. I was roused to an elo- 
 quence and touched to a tenderness which were at least new to 
 
358 Arthur Bo7inicastle. 
 
 them, and their eyes were wet. When I condiideci, poor Mr, 
 Bird sat with his head in his hands, unable to say a word. 
 
 As we went out from the school that night, arm in arm, he 
 said : " It was a good medicine, Arthur — heroic, but good." 
 
 ** It was," I answered, " and I can never thank you and Mr. 
 Bradford enough for it." 
 
 First I took him to my home, and we had a merry tea- 
 drinking, at which my mother yielded up all her prejudices 
 against him. I showed him my little room, so like in its 
 dimensions and appointments to the one I occupied at The 
 Bird's Nest, and then I took him to The Mansion for a call 
 upon Henry. After this we went to Mr. Bradford's, where we 
 passed the evening, and where he spent the night. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 IN WHICH I LEARN SOMETHING ABOUT LIVINGSTON, MILLIE 
 BRADFORD AND MYSELF. 
 
 Since the old days of my boyhood, when Millie Bradford 
 and I had been intimate, confidential friends, she had never 
 rei^eived me with the cordiality that she exhibited on that 
 evening. I suppose she had listened to the account which her 
 father gave of my meeting with my old teacher, and of the 
 words which that meeting had inspired me to utter. I have no 
 doubt that my later history had pleased her, and done much to 
 awaken her old regard for me. Whatever the reasons may 
 have been, her grasp was hearty, her greeting cordial, and her 
 face was bright with welcome. I need not say that all this 
 thrilled me with pleasure, for I had inwardly determined to 
 earn her respect, and to take no steps for greater intimacy until 
 I had done so, even if it should lead me to abandon all hope 
 of being more to her than I had been. 
 
 It was easy that evening to win her to our old corner in the 
 drawing-room. Mrs. Bradford and Aunt Flick were ready 
 listeners to the conversation in progress between Mr. Bradford 
 and Mr. Bird, and we found ourselves at liberty to pursue our 
 own ways, without interruption or observation. 
 
 She questioned me with great interest about my school, and 
 as that was a subject which aroused all my enthusiasm, I talked 
 freely, and amused her with incidents of my daily work. She 
 could not but have seen that I was the victim of no vain regrets 
 concerning my loss of position and prospects, and that all my 
 energies and all my heart were in my nev/ life. I saw that she 
 was gratified; and I was surprised to find that she was pro- 
 foundly interested in my success. 
 
360 Arthtir Bonnicastle, 
 
 " By the way," I said, after having dwelt too long upon a 
 topic that concerned myself mainly, " I wonder what has be- 
 come of Livingston ? He was going to "Europe, but I have not 
 heard a word from him since I parted with him months ago. 
 Do you know anything of him ? " 
 
 *' Have n't heard from him ? " she said, with a kind of in- 
 credulous gasp. 
 
 " Not a word." 
 
 " Have n't you seen him ? " 
 
 " Why, I have n't been out of the town." 
 
 "No, but you have seen him here ?" 
 
 "Not once." 
 
 " You are sure ? " 
 
 " Perfectly sure," I responded, with a smile at her obstinate 
 unbelief. 
 
 " I don't understand it," she said, looking away from me. 
 
 " Has he been here ? " I inquired. 
 
 " Twice." 
 
 I saw that she was not only puzzled, but deeply moved ; and 
 I was conscious of a flush of mingled anger and indignation 
 sweeping over my own tell-tale face. 
 
 " Did he call on Henry when he was here ? " I inquired. 
 
 " He did, on both occasions. Did not Henry tell you ? " 
 
 " He did not." 
 
 " That is strange, too," she remarked. 
 
 " Miss Bradford," I responded, " it is not strange at all. I 
 comprehend the whole matter. Henry knew Livingston better 
 than I did, and, doubting whether he would care to continue his 
 acquaintance with me after the change in my circumstances, had 
 not mentioned his calls to me. He knew that if I had met him, 
 1 should speak of it ; and as I did not speak of it, he concluded 
 that I had not met him, and so covered from me by his silence 
 the presence of my old friend in the city. Livingston did not 
 call upon me because, having nothing further in common with 
 me, he chose to ignore me altogether, and to count all that had 
 appeared like friendship between us for nothing. I was no 
 
Arthtir Bonnicastle. 361 
 
 longer an heir to wealth. I was a worker for my own bread, 
 with my position to make by efforts whose issue was uncertain. 
 I could be his companion no further ; I could be received at 
 his father's home no more. Every attention or courtesy he 
 might render me could be rendered no more except as a matter 
 of patronage. I can at least give him the credit for having 
 honesty and delicacy enough to shun me when he could meet 
 me no more on even temis." 
 
 " Even terms ! " exclaimed the girl, with a scorn in her man- 
 ner and voice which verged closely upon rage. " Is that a 
 style of manhood that one may apologize for ? " 
 
 "Well," I answered, "considering the fact that I was at- 
 tracted to him at first by the very motives which control him 
 now, I ought to be tolerant and charitable." 
 
 "Yes, if that is true," she responded ; " but the matter is in- 
 credible and incomprehensible." 
 
 "It begins to seem so now, to me," I replied, "but it did 
 not then. Our clique in college were all fools together, and 
 fancied that, because we had some worldly advantages not 
 shared by others, we were raised by them above the common 
 levek We took pride in circumstances that were entirely inde- 
 pendent of our manhood — circumstances that were gathered 
 around us by other hands. I am heartily ashamed of my old 
 weakness, and despise myself for it ; but I can appreciate the 
 Strength of the bonds that bind Livingston, and I forgive him 
 with all my heart." 
 
 " I do not," she responded. " The slight he has put upon you, 
 and his new friendship for Henry, disgust me more than I can 
 tell you. His conduct is mercenary and unmanly, and offends 
 me from the crown of my head to the sole of my foot." 
 
 In the firm, strong passion of this true girl I saw my old self, 
 and realized the wretched slough from which I had been lifted. 
 I could not feel as she did, however, toward Livingston. After 
 the first flush of anger had subsided, I saw that, without some 
 radical change in him, he could not do otherwise than he had 
 done. Though manly in many of his characteristics, his scheme 
 
362 Arthur Bo7inicastle. 
 
 of life was rotten at its foundation, in that it ignored manliness. 
 His standard of respectability was not natural, it was conven- 
 tional ; and so long as he entertained no plan of life that was 
 based in manliness and manly work, his associations would be 
 controlled by the conventional standard to which he and those 
 around him bowed in constant loyalty. 
 
 After her frank expression of indignation, she seemed inclined 
 to drop the subject, and only a few more words were uttered 
 upon either side concerning it. I saw that she was troubled, 
 that she was angry, and that, during the moments devoted to 
 the conversation, she had arrived at some determination whose 
 nature and moment I could not guess. Sometimes she looked 
 at me : sometimes she looked away from me ; and then her lips 
 were pressed together with a strange spasm of firmness, as if 
 some new resolution of her life were passing step by step to its 
 final issue. , 
 
 I did guess afterward, and guessed aright. Livingston had 
 fascinated her, while she had so wholly gained his affection 
 and respect, and so won his admiration, that he was laying 
 siege to her heart by all the arts and appliances of which he was 
 so accustomed and accomplished a master. He was the first 
 man who had ever approached her as a lover. She had but just 
 escaped from the seclusion of her school4ife, and this world of 
 love, of which she had only dreamed, had been opened to her 
 by the hands of a prince. He was handsome, accomplished in 
 the arts of society, vivacious and brilliant ; and while he had 
 made comparatively little progress in winning her heart, he had 
 carried her fancy captive and excited her admiration, and only 
 needed more abundant opportunity to win her wholly to himself. 
 
 The revelation of the real character of the man, and of his 
 graceless deahng with me — the hollow-heartedness of his friend- 
 ship, and the transfer of his regard and courtesy from me to 
 Henry — offended all that was womanly within her. From the 
 moment when she comprehended his position — its meanness, 
 its injustice and unmanliness — she determined that he should be 
 forever shut out of her heart. She knew that her judgment 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle. , 363 
 
 and conscience could never approve either his conduct or hira 
 — that this one act could never be justified or apologized for. 
 The determination cost her a struggle which called into action 
 all the forces of her nature. I have been a thousand times 
 thankful that I did not know what was passing in her mind, for 
 I was thus saved from all temptation to attempt to turn hei 
 heart against him, and turn it toward myself. 
 
 She wrote him a letter, as I subsequently learned, which was 
 intended to save him the mortification of visiting her again ; but 
 he came again, armed with his old self-possession, determined 
 to win the prize upon which he had set his heart ; and then he 
 went away, visiting neither Heniy nor myself. Aften\-ard he 
 went to Europe, and severed forever all his relations to the 
 lives of his Bradford acquaintances. 
 
 When Millie and I closed our conversation about Livingston, 
 I found her prepossessed and silent ; and, as if by mutual im- 
 pulse and consent, we rose from our seats, and returned to the 
 other end of the drawing-room, where the remainder of the 
 family were gathered. There we found a conversation in pro- 
 gress which I had no doubt had been suggested by my own 
 personality and position ; and as it was very fruitfully sugges- 
 tive to me, and became a source of great encouragement to me, 
 I am sure my readers will be interested in it. We came within 
 hearing of the conversation, just as Mr. Bird was sa}ing : — 
 
 " I never saw a man with anything of the real Shakspeare in 
 him — using him as our typical man — who could not be any sort 
 of a man that he chose to be. A genuinely practical m.an — a 
 man who can adapt himself to any sort of life — is invariably a 
 man of imagination. These young men who have the name of 
 being eminently practical — especially among women, who 
 usually consider all practical gifts to be those which relate to 
 making money and providing for a family — are the least 
 practical, in a ^vide sense, of anybody. They usually have a 
 strong bent toward a certain industrial or commercial pursuit, 
 and if they follow that bent, persistently, they succeed ; but if 
 by any chance they are diverted from it, they fail irrevocably. 
 
364 . Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 Now the man of imagination is he who apprehends and com- 
 prehends the circinnstances, proprieties and opportunities ol 
 every life in which his lot may be cast, and adapts himself to 
 and employs them all. I have a fine chance to notice this in 
 my boys ; and whenever I find one who has an imagination, I 
 see ten chances to make a man of him where one exists in 
 those less generously furnished." 
 
 " Yet our geniuses," responded Mr. Bradford, " have not 
 been noted for their skill in practical affairs, or for their power 
 to take care of themselves." 
 
 "No," said Mr. Bird, "because our geniuses, or what by 
 courtesy we call such, are one-sided men, who have a single 
 faculty developed in exceptionally large proportion. They are 
 practical men only in a single direction, like the man who has 
 a special gift for money-making, or aftairs ; and the latter is 
 just as truly a genius as the former, and both are necessarily 
 narrow men, and Hmited in their range of effort. This is not 
 at all the kind of man I mean ; I allude to one who has fairly 
 symmetrical powers, with the faculty of imagination among 
 them. Without this latter, a man can never rise above the 
 capacity of a kind of human machine, working regularly or ir- 
 regularly. A man who cannot see the poetical side of his work, 
 can never achieve the highest excellence in it. The ideal must 
 always be apprehended before one can rise to that which is in 
 the highest possible sense practical. I have known boys who 
 were the despair of their humdrum fathers and mothers, because, 
 forsooth, they had the faculty of writing verses in their youth. 
 They were regarded by these parents with a kind of blind pride, 
 but with no expectation for them except poverty, unsteady pur- 
 poses and dependence. I have seen these same parents, many 
 times, depending in their old age upon their verse-writing boys 
 for comfort or luxury, while their practical brothers were tug- 
 ging for their daily bread, unable to help anybody but themselves 
 and their families." 
 
 Mr. Bradford saw that I was intensely interested in this talk 
 of Mr. Bird, and said, with the hope of turning it more thor- 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 365 
 
 oughly to my own practical advantage : "Well, what have you 
 to say to our young man here ? He was so full of miagination 
 when a lad that we could hardly trust his eyes or his con- 
 science." 
 
 He said this with a laugh, but Mr. Bird turned toward me 
 with his old affectionate look, and replied : " I have never seen 
 the day since I first had him at my side, when I did not believe 
 that he had the making of a hundred different men in him. He 
 was always a good student when he chose to be. He would 
 have made, after a time, an ideal man of leisure. He is a 
 good teacher to-day. He has chosen to be a lawyer, and it 
 rests entirely with him to determine whether he will be an 
 eminent one. If he had chosen to be a preacher, or an author, 
 or a merchant, he would meet no insurmountable difficulty in 
 rising above mediocrity, in either profession. The faculty of 
 imagination, added to symmetrical intellectual powers, makes 
 it possible for him to be anything that he chooses to become. 
 By this faculty he will be able to see all the possibilities of any 
 profession, and all the possibilities of his powers with relation 
 to it." 
 
 " As frankness of speech seems to be in order," said Mr. 
 Bradford, " suppose you tell us whether you do not think that 
 he spends money rather too easily, and that he may find future 
 trouble in that direction." 
 
 Mr. Bird at once became my partisan. "What opportunity 
 has the boy had for learning the value of money ? When he 
 has learned what a dollar costs, by the actual experiment of 
 labor, he will be corrected. Thus far he has known the value 
 of a dollar only from one side of it. He knows what it will 
 buy, but he does not know what it costs. Some of the best 
 financiers I ever met were once boys who placed little or no 
 value upon money. No man can measure the value of a dol- 
 lar justly who cannot place by its side the expenditure of time 
 and labor which it costs. Arthur is learning ail about it." 
 
 "Thank you," I responded, " I feel quite encouraged about 
 myself." 
 
366 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 " Now, then, what do you think of Henry, in his new cir- 
 cumstances ? " inquired Mr. Bradford. 
 
 " Henry," replied Mr. Bird, " never had the facuUy to kiarn 
 the vahie of a dollar, except through the difficulty of getting it. 
 The real superiority of Arthur over Henry in this matter is in 
 his faculty, not onl}' to measure the value of a dollar by its cost, 
 but to measure it by its power. To know how to win money 
 and at the same time to know how to use it when won, is the 
 prerogative of the highest style of practical financial wisdom. 
 Now that money costs Henry nothing, he will cease to value 
 it ; and with his tastes I think the care of his fortune will be 
 very irksome to him. Indeed, it would not be strange if, in five 
 years, that care should be transferred to the very hands that 
 surrendered the fortune to him. So our practical boy is quite 
 likely, in my judgment, to become a mere baby in business, 
 while our boy whose imagination seemed likely to run away 
 with him, will nurse him and his fortune together." 
 
 " Why, that will be delightful," I responded. " I shall be 
 certain to send the first business-card I get printed to Henry, 
 and solicit his patronage." 
 
 There was much more said at the time about Henry's future 
 as well as my own, but the conversation I have rehearsed was 
 all that was of vital importance to me, and I will not burden 
 the reader with more. I cannot convey to any one an idea of 
 the interest which I took in this talk of my old teacher. It 
 somehow had the power to place me in possession of myself. 
 It recognized, in the presence of those who loved but did not 
 wholly trust me, powers and qualities which, in a half-blind way, 
 I saw within myself. It strengthened my self-respect and my 
 faith in my future. 
 
 Ah ! if the old and the wise could know how the wisdom 
 won by their experience is taken into the heart of every earnest 
 young man, and how grateful to such a young man recognition 
 is, at the hauvi of the old and the wise, would they be stingy 
 with their hoard and reluctant with their hand ? I do not be- 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle. 367 
 
 lievB they would. They forget their youth, when they drop 
 peas instead of pearls, and are silly rather than sage. 
 
 When I left the house to return to my home, I was charged 
 with thoughts which kept me awake far into the night. The 
 only man from whom I had anything to fear as a rival was in 
 disgrace. My power to win a practical man's place in the 
 world had been recognized in Millie Bradford's presence, by 
 one whose opinion was verj' highly prized. I had achieved the 
 power of looking at myself and my possibiHties. through the 
 eyes of a wisdom-winning experience. I was inspired, encour- 
 aged and strengthened, and my life had never seemed more full 
 of meaning and interest than it did then. 
 
 Early the next morning I went for Mr. Bird, accompanied 
 him to the stage-office, and bade him good-by, grateful for such 
 a friend, and determined to realize all that he had wished and 
 hoped for me. 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 I WIN A WIFE AND HOME OF MY OWN, AND THE MANSION LOSES 
 AND GAINS A MISTRESS. 
 
 In those early days, professional study was carried on very 
 generally without the aid of professional schools ; and during 
 my three years at the academy, accomplished with sufficient 
 pecuniary success, I read all the elementary books of the pro- 
 fession I had chosen, and, at the close, was admitted to the 
 bar, after an examination which placed me at once at the head 
 of the little chque of young men who had fitted themselves for 
 the same pursuit. Henry, meantime, had realized a wish, long 
 secretly cherished, to study divinity, and, under a license from 
 the ministerial association of the county, had preached many 
 times in the vacant pulpits of the city and the surrounding 
 country. Mrs. Sanderson always went to hear him when the 
 distance did not forbid her ; and I suppose that the city did 
 not hold two young men of more unwearied industry than our- 
 selves. 
 
 My acquaintance with Millie Bradlord ripened into confiden- 
 tial friendship, and, so far as I was concerned, into something 
 warmer and deeper, yet nothing of love was ever alluded to be- 
 tween us. I saw that she did not encourage the advances of 
 other young men which were made upon every side, and I was 
 quite content to let matters rest as they were, until my pros- 
 pects for life were more definite and reliable than they were 
 then. We read the same books, and talked about theni. We 
 engaged in the same efforts to arouse the spirit of literary cult- 
 ure and improvement in the neighborhood. In the meantime 
 her womanhood ripened day by day, and year by yeaij until she 
 
Arthicr Bonnicastle, 369 
 
 became the one bright star of my life. I learned to look at mji 
 own character and all my actions through her womanly eyes. 
 I added her conscience to my own. I added her sense of that 
 which was proper and becoming and tasteful to my own. 
 Through her sensibilities I learned to see things finely, and by 
 persuasions which never shaped themselves to words, I yielded 
 myself to her, to be led to fine consummations of life and 
 character. She was a being ineffably sacred to me. She was 
 never associated in my mind with a coarse thought. She lifted 
 me into a realm entirely above the atmosphere of sensuality, 
 from which I never descended for a moment ; and I thank 
 God that I have never lost that respect for woman which she 
 taught me. 
 
 I have seen, since those days, so charged with pure and pre- 
 cious memories, many women of unworthy aims, and low and 
 frivolous tastes, yet I have never seen anything that bore the 
 form of woman that did not appeal to my tender consideration. 
 I have never seen a woman so low that her cry of distress or 
 appeal for protection did not stir me like a trumpet, or so base 
 that I did not wish to cover her shame from ribald eyes, and 
 restore her to that better self which, by the grace of her nature, 
 can never be wholly destroyed. 
 
 Soon after the term had closed which severed the connection 
 of Claire and myself with the academy, I was made half wild 
 with delight by an invitation, extended to Henry and Claire, as 
 well as to Millie and myself, to visit Hillsborough, and join the 
 Bird's Nest in their biennial encampment. I knew every rod 
 of ground around the beautiful mountain-lake upon whose 
 shores the white tents of the school were to be planted, for, 
 though six miles away from my early school, I had visited it 
 many times during hoHdays, and had sailed and angled and 
 swam upon its waters. For many years it had been Mr. Bird's 
 habit, at stated intervals, to take his whole school to this lovely 
 spot during the fervors of the brief New England summer and 
 to yield a fortnight to play. The boys looked forward to this 
 event, through the long months of their study, with the most 
 16* 
 
370 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 charming anticipations, and none of them could have been 
 more delighted with the prospect than Henry and myself. We 
 were now the old boys going back, to be looked at and talked 
 about by the younger boys. AVe were to renew our boyhood 
 and our old associations before undertaking the professional 
 work of our lives. 
 
 As both Mr. Bradford and my father trusted Mr. and IMrs. 
 Bird, it was not difficult to obtain their consent that Millie and 
 Claire should accompany us ; and when the morning of our 
 departure arrived, we were delighted to find that we should be 
 the only occupants of the old stage-coach which was to bear us 
 to our destination. The day was as beautiful as that on v/hich 
 my father and I first made the journey over the same route. 
 The objects along the way were all familiar to Henry and my- 
 self, but it seemed as if we had lived a whole lifetime since we 
 had seen them. We gave ourselves up to merriment. The 
 spirit of play was upon us all ; and the old impassive stage- 
 driver must have thought us half insane. The drive was long, 
 but it might have been twice as long without wearying us. 
 
 I was going back to the fountain from which I had drunk 
 so much that had come as a pure force into my life. Even the 
 privilege to play, without a thought of work, or a shadow of 
 care and duty, I had learned from the teachings of Mr. Bird. I 
 had been taught by him to believe — what many others had en- 
 deavoured to make me doubt — that God looked with delight 
 upon his weary children at play, — that the careless lambs that 
 gambolled in their pasture, and the careless birds singing and 
 flying in the air, were not more innocent in their sports than 
 men, women and children, when, after work faithfully done, 
 they yielded to the recreative impulse, and with perfect freedom 
 gave themselves to play. I believed this then, and I believe it 
 still ; and I account that religion poor and pitiful which ascribes 
 to the Good Father of us all less delight in the free and care- 
 less sports of his children than we take in the frolic of our 
 own. 
 
 The whole school was out to see the new-comers when we 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 371 
 
 arrived, and we were received literally with open arms by the 
 master and mistress of the establishment. Already the tents 
 and cooking utensils had gone forward. A few of the older 
 boys were just starting on foot for the scene of the fortnight's 
 play, to sleep in neighboring barns, so as to be on the ground 
 early to assist in raising the tents. They could have slept in 
 beds, but beds were at a discount among lads whose present 
 ambition was to sleep upon the ground. The whole building 
 was noisy with the notes of preparation. Food was preparing 
 in incredible quantities, and special preparations were in pro- 
 gress for making Millie and Claire comfortable ; for it was sup- 
 posed that " roughing it " was something foreign to their taste 
 and experience. 
 
 On the following morning, I was roused from my dreams by 
 the same outcry of the boys to which I had responded, or in 
 which I had joined, for a period of five happy years. I was 
 obliged to rub my eyes before I could realize that more than 
 seven years lay between me and that golden period. When at 
 last I remembered how, under that roof, breathed the woman 
 dearer to me than all the rest of the world, and that for two 
 precious weeks she would be my companion, amid the most 
 enchanting scenes of nature, and under circumstances so fresh 
 and strange as to touch all her sensibilities, I felt almost guilty 
 that I could not bring to Mr. and Mrs. Bird an undivided 
 heart, and that The Bird's Nest, and the lake, and the camp- 
 fires, and the free life of the wilderness would be compara^ 
 tively meaningless to me without her. 
 
 Our breakfast was a hurried one. The boys could hardly 
 wait to eat anything, and started off by pairs and squads to 
 make the distance on foot. A huge lumber-wagon, loaded with 
 supplies, was the first carriage dispatched. Then those who 
 would need to ride took their seats in such vehicles as the 
 school and village afforded, and the straggling procession moved 
 on its way. Henry and I spurned the thought of being carried, 
 and took our way on foot. We had not gone half the distance, 
 however, when Millie and Claire insisted on joining us. So 
 
372 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 our little party bade the rest good-by, and we were left to take 
 our own time for the journey. 
 
 We were the last to arrive at the encampment, and the sun 
 was already hot in the sky. Poor Claire was quite exhausted, 
 but Millie grew stronger with every step. The flush of health 
 and happiness upon her face drew forth a compliment from 
 Mr. Bird which deepened her color, and made her more charm- 
 ing than ever. The life was as new to her as if she had ex- 
 changed planets ; and she gave herself up to it, and all the 
 pleasant labor which the provision for so many rendered neces- 
 sary, with a ready and hearty helpfulness that delighted every one. 
 She could not move without attracting a crowd of boys. She 
 walked and talked with them ; she sang to them and read to 
 them ; and during the first two or three days of camp-life, I be- 
 gan to fear that I should have very little of her society. 
 
 The days were not long enough for our pleasures. Bathing, 
 boating, ball-playing and eating through the day, and singing 
 and story-telling during the evening, constituted the round of 
 waking delights, and the nights, cool and sweet, were long 
 with refreshing and dreamless slumber. 
 
 There is no kinder mother than the earth, when we trust- 
 fully lay our heads upon her bosom. She holds balm and 
 blessing for the rich and the poor, for the hardy and the dainty 
 alike, which the bed of luxury never knows. Pure air to 
 breathe, pure water to drink and a pillow of stone — ah ! how 
 easy it is for the invisible ministers of health and happiness to 
 build ladders between such conditions and heaven ! 
 
 Far back over the dim years that have come between, I see 
 those camp-fires glowing still, through evenings full of music 
 and laughter. I see the groups of merry boys dancing around 
 them. I hear their calls for Echo to the woods, and then, in 
 the pauses, the plash of oars, as some group of late sailors 
 comes slowly in, stirring the lake into ripples that seem phos- 
 phorescent in the firelight. I watch those fires crumbling 
 away, and dying at last into cloudy darkness, or into the milder 
 moonlight which then asserts its undivided sway, and floods 
 
Arthur Bojinicastle. 373 
 
 lake and forest and mountain, and all the night-sweet atmos- 
 phere with its steady radiance. I see the tent in which my 
 sister and my love are sleeping, and invoke for them the guar- 
 dian care of God and all good angels. I go at last to my own 
 tent, and lie down to a sleep of blessed, blank unconscious- 
 ness, from which I am roused by the cry of healthy lungs that 
 find no weariness in play, and by the tramping of feet around 
 me that spring to the tasks and sports of the day with unflag- 
 ging appetite and interest. 
 
 Did Mr. and Mrs. Bird know how much pleasure they were 
 giving to the young life around them ? Did they know that 
 they were enabling us all to lay up memories more precious 
 than gold ? Did they know they were developing a love of 
 nature and of healthful and simple pleasures that should be a 
 constant guard around those young feet, when they should find 
 themselves among the slippery places of life and the seductive 
 influences of artificial society. Did they know that making 
 the acquaintance of the birds and flowers and open sky and 
 expanding water and rough life was better than the culture and 
 restraint of drawing-rooms ? Did they know that these boys, 
 deprived of this knowledge and these influences, would go 
 through life lacking something inexpressibly valuable ? Surely 
 they did, or they would not have sacrificed labour and care and 
 comfort to achieve these objects and results. A thousand 
 blessings on you, my wise, patient, self-sacrificing friends ! It 
 is no wonder that all who have lived under your ceaseless and 
 self-devoted ministry love you ! 
 
 The moon was new when we went into camp, and as it grew 
 larger the weather grew finer, until, as the fortnight waned, it 
 came to its glorious full, on a night whose events made it for- 
 ever memorable to me. 
 
 I do not know why it is that a boy, or a collection of boys, 
 is so keen in the discovery of tender relations between young 
 men and young women, but I think that, from the first, the 
 school understood exactly the relations of Heniy to Claire 
 and of MiUie to myself. There was a lively family interest in 
 
374 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 us all, and the young rogues seemed to understand that mat 
 ters were all settled between the former pair, and that they 
 had not reached a permanent adjustment between the latter. 
 Henry and Claire could always be with each other without in- 
 terruption. They could go down to the shore at any time of 
 tlie day or evening, enter a boat, and row out upon the lake, 
 and find nothing to interfere with their privacy ; but Millie and 
 I could never approach a boat without finding half a dozen 
 little fellows at our side, begging to be taken out with us upon 
 the water. There was always mischief in their eyes, and an 
 evident wish to make the course of true love rough to us. 
 There was something so amusing in all this, to me, that I never 
 could get angry with them, but Millie was sometimes disturbed 
 by their good-natured persecutions. 
 
 On one of the later evenings, however, MiUie and I took 
 advantage of their momentary absorption in some favorite 
 game, and quietly walked to the shore, unnoticed by any of 
 them. She took her seat in the boat, and, shoving it from the 
 sand, I sprang in after her, and we were afloat and free upon the 
 moonlit water. For some minutes I did not touch the oars, but 
 let the boat drift out with the impulse I had given it, while we 
 watched the outlines of the white tents against the sky, and the 
 groups which the camp-fires made fantastic. 
 
 It was the first time, since our residence at the camp, that I 
 had been alone with her under circumstances which placed us 
 beyond hearing and interruption. I had been longing and 
 laboring for this opportunity, and had determined to bring 
 matters between us to a crisis. I had faithfully tried to do 
 those things and to adopt those plans and , purposes of life 
 which would command her respect and confidence. I had 
 been so thoroughly sincere, that I had the consciousness of 
 deserving her esteem, even though her heart might not have 
 been drawn toward me with any tenderer regard. I had been 
 in no haste to declare my passioii, but the few days 1 had 
 spent with her in camp had so ripened and intensified it, that 
 I saw I could not carry it longer, uncertain of its issue, without 
 
Arthzcr Bonnicastle, 375 
 
 present torment or prospective clanger. It seemed, sometimes 
 to my great horror, as if my life hung entirely upon hers — as if 
 existence" would be a curse without her companionship. 
 
 After a while spent in silence and a strange embarrassment, 
 I took the oars, and as quietly as possible rowed out into the 
 middle of the lake. The deep blue sky and the bright moon 
 were above us, and the pure water below ; and all the sounds 
 that came to us from the shore were softened into music. 
 
 At last I broke the spell that had held my voice with what I 
 intended for a common-place, and said : " It seems a comfort 
 to get away from the boys for a little while, doesn't it ! " 
 
 " Does it ? " she responded. " You know you have the 
 advantage of me ; I haven't that pleasure yet." 
 
 " Oh ! thank you," I said. " I didn't know that you still 
 regarded me as a boy." 
 
 " You were to remain a boy, you know. Didn't you prom- 
 ise ? Have you forgotten ? " 
 
 " Have I fulfilled my promise ? " 
 
 " Yes, after a weary time." 
 
 *' And you recognize the boy again, do you ? " 
 
 " I think so." 
 
 " Are you pleased ? " 
 
 " I have no fault to find, at least." 
 
 " And you are the same girl I used to know ? " I said. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Does the fact forbid us to talk as men and women talk ? " 
 
 " We are here to play," she replied, " and I suppose we 
 may play that we are man and woman." 
 
 " Very well," I said, " suppose we play that we are man and 
 woman, and that I am very fond of you and you are very fond 
 of me." 
 
 *' It seems very difficult to play this, especially when one of 
 us is so very much in earnest." 
 
 "Which one?" 
 
 " The one who wishes to play." 
 
 " Ah ! Millie," I said, " you really must not bandy words 
 
2^"]^ Arthur Bonnicastle. 
 
 with me. Indeed, I am too much in earnest to play. I 
 have a secret to tell you, and this is my first good opportunity 
 to tell it, and you must hear it." 
 
 "A secret? do you think so? I doubt it." 
 
 " Do you read me so easily ? " 
 
 She reached out her hand upon the water to grasp a dark 
 little object, past which we were slowly drifting, and broke otif 
 from its long, lithe stem a water-lily, and tossed it to my 
 feet. "There's a secret in that little cone," she said, "but I 
 know what it is as well as if the morning sun had unfolded it." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that my secret has opened under the 
 spell of your eyes every day like the water-lily to the sun ? " 
 
 " Yes, if you insist on putting it in that very poetical way." 
 
 " Are you fond of water-liUes ? " 
 
 "Very : fonder of them than of any other flower I know." 
 
 <'Well," I responded, "I'm a man, or a boy — ^just which 
 you choose — and don't pretend to be a water-lily, though I 
 wish my roots were as safely anchored and my life as purely 
 surrounded and protected. I beUeve that maidenhood mo- 
 nopolizes all the lilies for its various impersonations, but for 
 the present purpose, I should really like to ask you if you 
 are willing to take the water-lily for the one flower of your 
 life, with all its secrets which you claim to understand so fully." 
 
 " Charmingly done," she said — "for a boy." 
 
 " You taunt me." 
 
 " No, Arthur," she responded, " but you really are hurrying 
 things so. Just think of trying to settle everything in five 
 minutes, and think, too, of the inconvenience of this little 
 boat. You cannot get upon your knees without upsetting 
 us, and then you know I might be compelled to adopt a water- 
 lily." 
 
 " Particularly if the lily should save your life." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Suppose we go ashore." 
 
 " Not for the world." 
 
 " Ah ! Millie, I think I know your secret," I said. 
 
I 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, ■ 377 
 
 "It isn't hard to discover." 
 
 "Well, then let's not talk in riddles any more. I love you 
 more than life, Millie ! may I continue to love you ? " 
 
 She paused, and I saw tears upon her face, glittering in the 
 moonlight. 
 
 *' Yes," she said, " always." 
 
 " Thank you ! thank God ! " I said with a hearty impulse. 
 " Life is all bright to me now, and all full of promise. I 
 wish I could come to you and close this business in the good 
 old orthodox fashion." 
 
 She laughed at my vexation, and counseled patience. 
 
 There is something very provoking about the coolness of a 
 woman under circumstances like those in which I found 
 myself For many days I had permitted myself to be wrought 
 into an exalted state of feeling. Indeed, I had been mustering 
 strength for this interview during all the time I had lived in 
 the camp. I was prepared to make a thousand protestations 
 of everlasting devotion. I was ready to cast at her feet my 
 hopes, my life, my all ; yet she had anticipated everything, and 
 managed to hold the conversation in her own hands. Then 
 she apparently took delight in keeping me at my end of the 
 boat, and in dissuading me from my ardent wish to reach the 
 shore. I said I thought it was time for us to return. She 
 protested. The people would miss us, I assured her, and 
 would be apprehensive that we had met with an accident. She 
 was equally sure that they would not miss us at all. Besides, 
 if they should, a little scare would give piquancy to the night's 
 pleasure, and she would not like to be responsible for such a 
 deprivration. In truth, I think she would have been delighted 
 to keep me on the lake all night. 
 
 I finally told her that I held the oars, that if she wished to 
 remain longer she would accommodate me by jumping over- 
 board, and assured her that I would faithfully deliver her last 
 messages. As she made no movement, I dipped my oars and 
 rowed toward the dying lights of the camp-fires, congratulating 
 myself that I should land first, and help her from the boat. 
 
378 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 Und(;r the sheltering willows, I received her into my arms, 
 and gave her my first lover's kiss. We walked to her tent 
 hand in hand, like children, and there, while the boys gathered 
 round us to learn where we had been, and to push their 
 good-natured inquiries, I bent and gave her a good-night kiss, 
 which told the whole story to them all. 
 
 It seems strange to me now that I could have done so, and 
 that she would have permitted it, but it really was so like a 
 family matter, in which all were interested in the most fiiendly or 
 brotherly way, that it was quite the natural thing to do. Millie 
 immediately disappeared behind her muslin walls, while I was 
 overwhelmed with congratulations. Nor was this all. One 
 little fellow called for three cheers for Miss Bradford, which were 
 given with a will ; and then three cheers were given to Arthur 
 Bonnicastle ; and as their lungs were in practice, they cheered 
 Henry and Claire, and Mr. and Mrs. Bird, and wound up that 
 part of their exercise by three cheers for themselves. Then 
 they improvised a serenade for the invisible lady, selecting 
 "Oft in the stilly night," and "The Pirate's Serenade," as 
 pardcularly appropriate to the occasion, and went to their 
 beds at last only under tiie peremptory commands of Mr. Bird. 
 
 There were two persons among the fifty that lay down upon 
 the ground that night who did not sleep very soundly, though 
 the large remainder slept, I presume, much as usual. I had 
 lain quietly thinking over the events of the evening, and trying 
 to realize the great blessing I had won, when, at about two 
 o'clock in the morning, I heard the word "Arthur" distinctly 
 pronounced. Not having removed all my clothing, I leaped 
 from my blanket, and ran to the door of the tent. There I 
 heard the call again, and recognized the voice of Millie Brad- 
 ford. 
 
 *' Well, what is it ? " I said. 
 
 " There is some one about the camp." 
 
 By this time Henry was on his feet and at my side, and both 
 of us went out together. We stumbled among the tent-stakes 
 in different directions, and at last found a man so muddled with 
 
Arthitr Boimicastle, 379 
 
 liquor that he hardly knew where he was. We collared him, 
 and led him to our tent, where we inquired of him his business. 
 As he seemed unable to tell us, I searched his pockets for the 
 bottle which I presumed he bore about him somewhere, and in 
 the search found a letter, the address of which I read with the 
 expectation of ascertaining his name. ^ Very much to my sur- 
 prise, the letter was addressed to Henry. Then the whole 
 matter became plain to me. He had been dispatched with this 
 letter from Hillsborough, and on the way had fallen in with dis- 
 solute companions, though he had retained sufficient sense to 
 know that the camp was his destination, 
 
 Henry broke the seal. The letter was from his mother, in- 
 forming him that Mrs. Sanderson was very ill, and that she de- 
 sired his immediate return to Bradford. I entered Mr. Bird's 
 tent and told hiui of the letter, and then satisfied the curiosity 
 of Millie and Claire. In such clothing as we could snatch 
 readily from our tents we gathered for a consultation, which re- 
 sulted in the' conclusion that any sickness which was sufficiently 
 serious to call Henry home, was sufficient to induce the entire 
 Bradford party to accompany him. He protested against this, 
 but we overruled him. So we simply lay down until daylight, 
 and then rose for a hurried breakfast. Mr. Bird drove us to. 
 Hillsborough, and at seven o'clock we took the stage for home. 
 
 The ride homeward was overshadowed by a grave apprehen- 
 sion, and the old driver probably never had a quieter fare over 
 his route, than the party which, only a few days before, had as- 
 tonished him by their hilarity. 
 
 On reaching Bradford we found our worst fears realized. 
 The old lady was rapidly declining, and for three days had been 
 vainly calling for her grandson. When he arrived he brought to 
 her a great flood of comfort, and with her hand in his, she de- 
 scended into the dark valley. What words she spoke I never 
 knew. I was only sure that she went out of her earthly life in 
 an atmosphere of the most devoted filial affection, that words 
 of Christian counsel and prayer were tenderly spoken to her 
 deafening senses, and that hands bathed in tears closed her eyes. 
 
380 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 Tlie funeral was the largest and most remarkable I had evcf 
 seen in Bradford, and Henry went back to his home, its owner 
 and master. 
 
 On the day following the funeral my father was summoned to 
 listen to the reading of Mrs. Sanderson's will. We were all 
 surprised at this, and still more surprised to learn, when he re- 
 turned, that the house in which he lived had been bequeathed 
 to him, with an annuity which would forever relieve me from 
 supporting him after he should cease to labor. This I knew to 
 be Henry's work. My father was the father of his future wife, 
 and to save him the mortitication of being dependent on his 
 children, he had influenced Mrs. Sanderson to do that which he 
 or I should be obliged to do at some time not far in the future. 
 
 My father was very grateful and tearful over this unexpected 
 turn in his fortunes. My mother could not realize it at all, and 
 was sure there must be some mistake about it. One of the 
 most touching things in the prayer offered that night at our 
 family altar was the earnest petition by this simple and humble 
 saint, that his pride might not be nourished by this good fort- 
 une. 
 
 After this the matter came to a natural shape in the good 
 man's mind. It was not Mrs. Sanderson's gift. She had been 
 only the almoner of Providence. The God whom he had 
 trusted, seeing that the time of helplessness was coming, had 
 provided for his necessities, and relieved him of all apprehen- 
 sion of want, and more than all, had relieved me of a burden. 
 Indeed, it had only fulfilled a life-long expectation. His natu- 
 ral hopefulness would have died amid his hard life and cir- 
 cumstances if it had not fed itself upon dreams. 
 
 I am sure, however, that he never felt quite easy with his 
 gift, so long as he lived, but carried about with him a sense of 
 guilt. Others — his old companions in labor — were not blessed 
 with him, and he could not resist the feeling that he had wronged 
 them. They congratulated him on his " luck," as they called 
 it, for they were all his friends; but their allusions to the matter 
 always pained him, and he had many an hour of torment over 
 
Arthur Bon7ttcastle. ~ 381 
 
 the thought that some of them might think him capable of for- 
 getting them, and of pUiming his pride upon his altered circum- 
 stances. 
 
 It was, perhaps, a fortnight after the death of Mrs. Sander- 
 son, that Henry came to my father's house one morning, and 
 asked me v/hen I intended to begin business. I informed 
 him that I had already been looking for an eligible office, and 
 that I should begin the practice of the law as soon as the op- 
 portunity should come. Then he frankly told me that looking 
 after his multiplied affairs was very distasteful to him, and that 
 he wished, as soon a^ possible, to place everything in my hands. 
 He advised me to take the best and most central chambers I 
 could find, and offered me, at little more than a nominal rent, 
 a suite of rooms in one of his own buildings. I took tlie rooms 
 at once, and furnished them with such appointments and books 
 as the savings of three industrious years could command, and 
 Henry was my first, as he has remained my constant, client. 
 The affairs of the Sanderson estate, of which I knew more than 
 any man except Mrs. Sanderson's lawyer, were placed in my 
 hands, where they remain at this present writing. The business 
 connected with them was quite enough for my support in those 
 days of moderate expenses and incomes, but it brought me so 
 constantly into contact with the business men of the city that, 
 gradually, the tide of legal practice set towards me, until, in 
 my maturer years, I was almost overwhelmed by it. I was en- 
 ergetic, enthusiastic, persevering, indomitable, and successful ; 
 but amid all my triumphs there was nothing that gave me such 
 pure happiness as my father's satisfaction with riiy eftbrts. 
 
 I never engaged in an important public trial for many years, 
 in which he was not a constant attendant at the court-house. 
 All the lawyers knew him, and my position commanded a seat 
 for him inside the bar. Every morning he came in, leaning on 
 his cane, and took the seat that was left or vacated for him, 
 and there, all day long, he sat and watched me. If for a day 
 he happened to be absent, I missed the inspiration of his in- 
 terested face and approving eyes, as if he were a lover. My 
 
382 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 office was his lounging-place, and my public efforts were his 
 meat and drink. A serener, sweeter old age than his I never 
 saw, and when, at last, I missed him — for death came to him 
 as it comes to all — I felt that one of the loveliest lights of my 
 life had gone out. I have never ceased to mourn for him, and 
 I would not cease to mourn for him if I could. 
 
 A year after I commenced the practice of my profession, Mr. 
 Grimshaw exhausted his narrow lode and went to mine in other 
 fields. Naturally, Henry was called upon to fill temporarily 
 the vacant pulpit, and quite as naturally, the people learned in 
 a few weeks that they could serve themsdtves no better than by 
 calling him to a permanent pastorate. This tliey did, and as 
 he was at home with them, and every circumstance favored his 
 settlement over them, he accepted their invitation. On the 
 day of his ordination — a ceremony which was very largely at- 
 tended — he treated his new people to a great surprise. Before 
 the benediction was pronounced, he descended from the pulpit, 
 took his way amid the silence of the congregation to my father's 
 pew, and then led my sister Claire up the broad aisle to where 
 an aged minister stood waiting to receive them, and join them 
 in holy wedlock. The words were few which united these two 
 lives that had flowed in closely parallel currents through so 
 long a period, but they were spoken with great feeling, and 
 amid the tears of a crowd of sympathetic friends. So the church 
 had once more a pastor, and The Mansion once more a mis- 
 tress ; and two widely divided currents of the Bonnicastle blood 
 united in the possession and occupation of the family estate. 
 
 I do not need to give the details of my own marriage, which 
 occurred a few months later, or of our first experiments at 
 house-keeping in the snug home which my quick prosperity en- 
 abled me to procure, or of the children that came to bless us 
 in the after-years. The memory of these events is too sweet 
 and sacred to be unveiled, and I cannot record them, though 
 my tears wet the paper as I write. The freshness of youth has 
 long passed away, the silver is stronger than the jet among the 
 curls of the dear woman who -gave herself to me, and bore in 
 
Arthitr Bonnicastle, 383 
 
 loving pain, and reared with loving patience, my priceless flock 
 of children ; my own face is deeply furrowed by care and labor 
 and time ; but those days of young love and life never come 
 back to me in memory save as a breeze across a weary sea 
 from some far island loaded with odors of balm and whispers 
 of blessing. 
 
 Thank God for home and woman ! Thank God a thousand 
 times for that woman who makes home her throne ! When I 
 remember how bright and strong a nature my young wife pos- 
 sessed — how her gifts and acquirements and her whole person- 
 ality fitted her to shine in society as a center and a sun — and 
 then recall her efforts to serve and solace me, and train my chil- 
 dren into a Christian manhood and womanhood, until my house 
 was a heaven, and its presiding genius was regarded with a love 
 that rose to tender adoration — I turn with pity, not unmingled 
 with disgust, from those I see around me now, who cheapen 
 marriage, the motherly office and home, and choose and advo- 
 cate courses and careers of life independent of them all. 
 
 Neither Henry's marriage nor my own was in the slightest 
 degree romantic — hardly romantic enough to be of interest to 
 the average reader. 
 
 It was better so. Our courtships were long and our lives 
 were so shaped to each other that when marriage came it was 
 merely the warrant and seal of a union that had already been 
 established. Each lover knew his love, and no misunderstand- 
 ings supervened. The hand of love, by an unconscious pro- 
 cess, had shaped each man to his mate, each woman to her 
 mate, before they were joined, and thus saved all after-discords 
 and collisions. All this may be very uninteresting to outsiders, 
 but to those concerned it was harmony, satisfaction and peace. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 WHICH BRIEFLY RECORDS THE PROFESSIONAL LIFE OF REV. 
 PETER MULLENS. 
 
 It must have been three or four years after Henry took 
 charge of his parish, and I had entered upon the duties of my 
 profession, that I met him one morning upon the street, wear- 
 ing that pecuHar smile on his face which said, as plainly as 
 words could have told me, that he was the bearer of news. 
 
 " Who do you think spent the night at The Mansion, and is 
 even now reveling in the luxuries of your old apartment ? " 
 said he. 
 
 " I was never good at conundrums," I replied. " Suppose 
 you tell me." 
 
 " The Rev. Peter Mullens." 
 
 " Clothed, and in his right mind ? " 
 
 " Yes, clothed, for he has one of my coats on, which I have 
 told him he may carry away with him ; and in his right mind, 
 because he has the coat, and expects to live upon the donor 
 for a few days." 
 
 We both laughed over the situation, and then Henry told me 
 that Mullens was in a good deal of perplexity on account of 
 the fact that he had two " calls " on hand, to which answers 
 must be made immediately. 
 
 " I have agreed with Mullens," said Henry, " to invite you 
 to dinner, in order that he may have the benefit of your 
 advice." 
 
 " Thank you. Is there a fee ?" 
 
 " Nothing stipulated, but I think you had better bring a pair 
 of trowsers," he replied. " Mullens, you know, wants to see 
 
The Rev. Peter Mullens. 
 
 (p. 385- 
 
Arthiir Bonnicastle, 38 5 
 
 the advantages that are likely to come from following your 
 advice, and if he has them in hand he can decide at once." 
 
 The prospect of dining with Mullens was not an unpleasant 
 one. I was curious to see what he had made of himself, and 
 to learn what he was going to do. So I congratulated Henry 
 on the new light that had risen upon his domestic life, and 
 promised him that I would meet his guest at his table. 
 
 On entering The Mansion that day in my usual informal 
 way, I found the Rev. Peter Mullens lying nearly upon his 
 back, in the most luxurious chair of the large drawing-room, 
 apparently in a state of serene and supreme happiness. He 
 was enjoying the privileges of the cloth, in the house of a pro- 
 fessional brother who had been exceptionally " favored." For 
 the time, the house was his own. All petty cares were dis- 
 missed. All clouds were lifted from his life, in the conscious- 
 ness that he had a good coat on which had cost him nothing, and 
 that, for a few days at least, board and lodging were secure at 
 the same price. His hair was brushed back straight over his 
 head in the usual fashion, and evidently fastened there by the 
 contents of a box of pomatum which he had found in my old 
 chamber. He had managed to get some gold-bowed specta- 
 cles, and when I met him he presented quite an imposing 
 front. Rising and greeting me with a cordial and somewhat 
 patronizing air, he quickly resumed his seat and his attitude, 
 and subsided into a vein of moralizing. He thought it must 
 be a source of great satisfaction to me that the property which 
 had once been my own, apparently, had been devoted to the 
 ministry, and that henceforth The Mansion would be the home 
 of those who had given themselves to the church. 
 
 Mullens evidently regarded himself as one who had a cer- 
 tain pecuniary interest in the estate. The house was to be 
 his tavern — his free, temporary home — whenever it might be 
 convenient for him to pass a portion of his time in the 
 cit)^. Indeed, he conducted himself as if he were my host, 
 and expressed the hope that he should see me always when 
 visiting the town. His assumptions amused me exceedingly, 
 
386 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 though I was sorry to think that Henry and Claire would feel 
 themselves obliged to tolerate him. 
 
 At the dinner-table, Mr. Mullens disclosed the questions in 
 regard to his settlement. "The truth is," said he, "that I am 
 divided on a question of duty. Given equal opportunities of 
 doing good, and unequal compensation, on which side does 
 duty lie? That is the question. I don't wish to be mercen- 
 ary ; but when one Church offers me five hundred dollars a 
 year, payable quarterly in advance, and the other offers me 
 five hundred dollars a year, payable quarterly at the end of the 
 quarter, with an annual donation-party, I feel myself divided. 
 There is an advantage in being paid quarterly in advance, and 
 there is an advantage in a donation-party, provided the peo- 
 ple do not eat up what they bring. How great this advantage 
 is I do not know ; but there is something very attractive to me 
 in a donation-party. It throws the people together, it nourishes 
 the social element, it develops systematic benevolence, it ce- 
 ments the friendship of pastor and people, it brings a great 
 many things into the house that a man can never afford to buy, 
 and it nuist be exceedingly interesting to reckon up the results. 
 I've thought about it a great deal, and it does seem to me that 
 a donation-party must be a very valuable test of usefulness. 
 How am I to know whether my services are acceptable, unless 
 every year there is some voluntary testimonial concerning 
 them ? It seems to me that I must have such a testimonial. 
 I find myself looking forward to it. Here's an old farmer, 
 we'll say, without any public gifts. Hosannas languish on his 
 tongue, and, so far as I can tell, all devotion dies. He brings 
 me, perhaps, two cords or two cords and a half of good hard 
 wood, and by that act he says, ' The Rev. Mr. Mullens has 
 benefited me, and I wish to tell him so. He has warmed my 
 heart, and I will warm his body. He has ministered to me in 
 his way, and I will minister to him in my way.' Here's a 
 woman with a gift of flannel — a thing that's always useful in a 
 minister's family — and there's another with a gift of socks, and 
 here's another with a gift of crullers, and here's a man with a 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle. 387 
 
 gift of a spare-rib or a ham, and another with a gift of potatocfj, 
 and"— 
 
 Mr, Mullens gave an extra smack to his lips, as, in the 
 midst of his dinner, this vision of a possible donation-party 
 passed before the eyes of his imagination. 
 
 " It is plain to see which way your inclination points," I 
 said to him. 
 
 "'Yes, that is what troubles me," he responded. " I wish 
 to do right. There may be no difference between having 
 your pay quarterly in advance and the donation-party ; but the 
 donation-party, all things considered, is the most attractive." 
 
 " I really think it would suit you best," I said, " and if the 
 opportunity for doing good is the same in each place, I'm sure 
 you ought not to hesitate." 
 
 " Well, if I accept your advice," said Mr. Mullens, " you 
 must stand by me. This place is only six miles from Bradford, 
 and if I ever get hard up it will be pleasant to think that I have 
 such friends at hand as you and Brother Sanderson." 
 
 This was a new aspect of the affair, and not at all a pleasant 
 one ; but I had given my advice and could not retract it. 
 
 Mullens remained at The Mansion several days, and showed 
 his white cravat and gold-bowed spectacles all over the city. 
 He was often in my office, and on one occasion accompanied 
 me to the court-room, where I gave him a seat of honor and 
 introduced him to my legal friends. He was so very comfortable 
 in his splendid quarters, so shielded from the homely affairs of 
 the world by his associations, and so inexpensive to himself, 
 that it was a hardship to tear himself away at last, even with 
 the prospect of a donation -party rising beforr him in the at- 
 tractive perspective of his future. 
 
 He had been several days in the house, and had secured such 
 plunder as would be of use to him, personally, when he sur- 
 prised us all by the announcement that he was a married man, 
 and was already the father of a helpless infant. He gave us 
 also to understand that Mrs. Mullens was, like himself, poor, 
 that her wardrobe was none of the most comfortable, and that 
 
388 Arthui^ Bo7tnicastle. 
 
 her *' helpless infant " would rejoice in garnienls cast off by 
 children more *' favored " than his own. His statement was in- 
 tended to appeal to Claire and Millie, and was responded to 
 accordingly. When he went away, he bore a trunk full of 
 materials, that, as he said, " would be useful in a minister's 
 family." 
 
 Henry and I attended his installation shordy afterwards, and 
 assisted him in beginning his housekeeping. We found Mrs. 
 Mullens to be a woman every way adapted to the companion 
 she had chosen. She was willing to live upon her friends. She 
 delighted in gifts, and took them as if they were hers by right. 
 Everything was grain that came to her mill in this way. Her 
 wants and her inability to supply them were the constant 
 theme of her communications with her friends and neighbors, 
 and for ten long years she was never without a "helpless in- 
 fant" with which to excite their laggard and weary charities. 
 Whenever she needed to purchase anything, she sent to me or 
 to Millie, or to her friends at The Mansion, her commission, — 
 always without the money. She either did not know how much 
 the desired articles would cost, or there was such danger of los- 
 ing money when sent by post, or she had not the exact change on 
 hand ; but she assured us that Mr. Mullens would call and pay us 
 when visiting Bradford. The burden thus rolled upon M'r. Mul- 
 lens was never taken up by him ; and so, year after year, we 
 consented to be bled by this amiable woman, while the Mullens 
 family went on increasing in numbers and multiplying in Avants. 
 It became a matter of wonder that any religious society should 
 be content wi h the spiritual ministrations of such a man as 
 Mullens ; but mis society was simple and poor, and their pastoi 
 had an ingenious way of warming over his old broth an' 1 the 
 old broth of others which secured for him a certain measure of 
 respect. His tongue was glib, his presence imposing, and his 
 self-assurance quite overwhelming. 
 
 But at last there came a change. New residents in the 
 parish saw through his shallow disguises, and raised such a storm 
 of discontent about his ears that he was compelled to resign his 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 389 
 
 pulpit and to cast about for other means of living. No other 
 pulpit opened its doors to him. The man's reputation outside 
 of his parish was not a desirable one. Everybody had ceased 
 to regard him as a man capable of teaching ; and he had so 
 begged his way and lived upon his acquaintances, and had so 
 meanly incurred and meanly refused to recognize a thousand 
 little debts among his early friends, that it was impossible for 
 him to obtain even a temporary engagement as a preacher. 
 
 There was nothing left for him to do, but to become a ped- 
 dler of some sort, for which office he had rare natural gifts. 
 Leaving his family where they were, he took an agency for the 
 sale of the Cottage Bible. He drove a thrifty business with this 
 publication, going from house to house, wearing always his white 
 cravat, living upon the ministers and deacons, and advertising 
 himself by speeches at evening meetings and Sunday-schools. 
 Sometimes he got an opportunity to preach on Sunday, and hav- 
 ing thus made his face familiar to the people, drove a brisk 
 business among them on Monday. His white cravat he used as 
 a sort of pass on railroads and steamboats, or as an instrument 
 by which it was to be secured. Every pecuniary consideration 
 which could be won from a contemptuous business world, by the 
 advertisement of the sacred office which he once held, he took 
 the boldest or the most abject way to win. 
 
 It must not be supposed that " old Mullens," as people 
 learned to call him, was really distressed by poverty. Never 
 paying out a cent of money that came into his hands if he 
 could avoid it, he accumulated a handsome property, which he 
 skillfully hid away in investments, maintaining his show of pov- 
 erty, through all his active life. Henry shook him off at last 
 and helped me to do the same. We heard of him not long ago 
 lecturing to Sunday-schools and buying wool, and it is not ten 
 years since he appeared in Bradford as an agent of a life-insur- 
 ance company, with specially favorable terms to clergymen who 
 were kind enough to "board him during his visit. I shrink from 
 writing here the stories I heard about him, concerning the way 
 in which he advertised his business by mixing it with his public 
 
390 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 religious teachings, because it associates such base ideas with 
 an office which I revere as the highest and hoUest a man can 
 hold ; but when I say that in his public addresses he represented 
 the Christian religion as a system of life-insurance of the 
 spiritual kind, I sufficiently illustrate his methods and his 
 motives. 
 
 He passed a useless life. He became a nuisance to his 
 professional brethren, a burden to all who were good-natured 
 enough to open their houses to him, and a disgrace to the 
 Christian ministry. Wearing the badge of a clergyman, exact- 
 ing as a right that which was rendered to others as a courtesy 
 or a testimonial of love and friendship, surrendering his man- 
 hood for the privileges of ministerial mendicancy, and indulg- 
 ing his greed for money at the expense of a church to which 
 he fancied he had given his life, he did, unwittingly perhaps, 
 what he could to bring popular contempt upon his profession, 
 and to associate with the Christian religion the meanest type of 
 personal character it is possible to conceive. 
 
 Amid the temptations of this poor, earthly life, and the 
 weaknesses of human nature, even the most sacred profession 
 will be disgraced, now and then, by men who repent in dust 
 and ashes over their fall from rectitude, and the dishonor they 
 bring upon a cause which in their hearts they love ; but Mul- 
 lens carried his self-complacency to the end, and demonstrated 
 by his character and influence how important it is that dunces 
 shall not be encouraged to enter upon a high walk of life by 
 benefactions which rarely fail to induce and develop in them 
 the spirit of beggars. I am sure there is no field of Christian 
 benevolence more crowded with untoward results than that in 
 which weak men have found the means for reaching the Chris- 
 tian ministry. The beggarly helplessness of some of these men 
 is pitiful ; and a spirit of dependence is fostered in them which 
 emasculates them, and makes them contemptible among those 
 whom they seek to influence. 
 
 Though the Rev. Peter Mullens is still living, I have no fear 
 that I shall be called to an account for my plain treatment of 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle. 391 
 
 him, as Le vvill never buy this book, or find a friend who will 
 be willing to give or lend it to him. Even if he had such a 
 friend, and he should recognize his portrait, his amour propre. 
 would not be wounded, and he would complacently regard him- 
 self as persecuted for righteousness' sake. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 IN WHICH I SAY GOOD-NIGHT TO MY FRIENDS AND THE PAST 
 AND GOOD-MORROW TO MY WORK AND THE FUTURE. 
 
 Thus I have lived over the old Hfe, or, rather, the young Hfe 
 which Hes with all its vicissitudes of pain and pleasure, and all 
 its lessons and inspirations, embalmed in my memory ; and here, 
 alas ! I must re- write the words with which I began. " They 
 were all here then — father, mother, brothers and sisters ; and 
 the family life was at its fullest. Now they are all gone, and 
 I am alone. I have wife and children and troops of friends, 
 yet still I am alone." No later relation can remove the sense 
 of loneliness that comes to him whose first home has forever 
 vanished from the earth. 
 
 As I sit in my library, recording this last chapter of my little 
 history, I look back through the ceaseless round of business 
 and care, and, as upon a panorama unrolling before me, I see 
 through tears the events which have blotted out, one after an- 
 other, the old relations, and transferred the lives I loved to 
 another sphere. 
 
 I see a sun-lit room, where my aged father lies propped 
 among his pillows, and tells me feebly, but with a strange light 
 in his eyes, that it is so much better for him to go before my 
 mother ! She can do better without him than he can without 
 her ! It is sweet to learn that she who had always been re- 
 garded by her family and friends as a care and a burden to him, 
 had been his rest and reward ; that there had always been 
 something in his love for her which had atoned for his hard lot, 
 and that, without her, his life would be undesirable. 
 
 I read to him the psalms of assurance " and consolation: 
 " Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 393 
 
 I will fear no evil." I repeat the words of the tried and patient 
 patriarch: "I know that my Redeemer liveth." I join with 
 the family in singing the inspiring lines which he had never un- 
 dertaken to read aloud without being crushed into sobbing 
 silence : 
 
 ** There is a calm for those who weep, 
 A rest for weary pilgrims found ; 
 They softly lie and sweetly sleep 
 Low in the ground. 
 
 ** The storm that wrecks the winter sky 
 No more disturbs their deep repose 
 Than summer evening's latest sigh 
 That shuts the rose. 
 
 ** I long to lay this painful head 
 
 And aching heart beneath the soil. 
 To slumber in that dreamless bed 
 From all my toil. 
 
 ** The sun is but a spark of fire, 
 A transient meteor in the sky ; 
 The soul, immortal as its sire. 
 Shall never die." 
 
 I press his hand, and hear him say : " It is all well. Take 
 care of your mother." 
 
 We all bend and kiss him ; a few quick breaths, and the 
 dear old heart is still — a heart so true, so tender, so pure, so 
 faithful, so trusting, that no man could know it without recog- 
 nizing the Christian grace that made it what it was, or finding 
 in it infallible evidence of the divinity of the religion by whose 
 moulding hand it was shaped, and from whose inspirations it 
 had drawn its life. Then we lay him to rest among the June 
 roses, with birds singing around us, and all nature robed in the 
 glowing garb of summer, feeling that there are wings near us 
 which we do not see, that songs are breathed which we do not 
 hear, and that somewhere, beyond the confines of mortal pain 
 and decay, he has found a summer that will be perennial. 
 
394 Arthur BonnicastCe, 
 
 The picture moves along, and I am in the same room again ; 
 and she who all her life, through fear of death, had been sub- 
 ject to bondage, has come to her final hour. She has reached 
 the door of the sepulchre from a long distance, questioning 
 painfully at every step : " Who shall roll away the stone ? " and 
 now that she is arrived, she finds, to her unspeakable joy and 
 peace, that the stone is rolled away. Benignant nature, which 
 has given her so strong a love of life, overcomes in its own 
 tender way the fear of death that had been generated in her 
 melancholic temperament, and by stealing her senses one by 
 one, makes his coming not only dreadless, but desirable. She 
 finds the angels too, one at the head, the other at the foot 
 where death has lain, with white hands pointing upward. I 
 weep, but I am grateful that the life of fear is past, and that 
 she can never live it again, — ^grateful, too, that she is reunited 
 to him who has been waiting to introduce her to her new being 
 and relations. We lay her by the side of the true husband 
 whose life she has shared, and whose children she has borne 
 and reared, and then go back to a home which death has left 
 without a head — to a home that is a home no longer. 
 
 The picture moves on, and this time I witness a scene full 
 of tender interest to me in my own house. A holy spell of 
 waiting is upon us all. Aunt Flick comes in, day after day, 
 with little services which only she can render to her tenderly 
 beloved niece, and with little garments in her hands that wait 
 the coming of a stranger. It is night, and there is hurrying to 
 and fro in the house. I sit in my room, wrapped in pity and 
 feverish with anxiety, with no utterance save that of whispered 
 prayers for the safety of one dearer to me than life. I hear 
 at last the feeble wail of a new being which God has intrusted 
 to her hands and mine. Some one comes and tells me that 
 all is well, and then, after a weary hour, I am summoned to 
 the chamber where the gre^t mystery of birth has been enacted. 
 I kneel at the bedside of my precious wife. I cover her hands 
 and her face with kisses. I call her my darling, my angel, 
 while my first-born nestles upon her arm, wrapped in the at- 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 395 
 
 mosphere of mother-love which her overflowing heart breathes 
 out upon it. I watch her day by day, and night by night, 
 through all her weakness and danger, and now she sits in her 
 room with her baby on her breast, looking out upon the sky and 
 the flowers and the busy world. 
 
 Still, as the canvas moves, come other memorable nights, 
 with varying fortunes of pain and pleasure, till my home is res- 
 onant with little feet, and musical with the voices of children. 
 They climb my knees when I return from the fatigues of the 
 day ;. I walk in my garden with their little hands clinging to 
 mine; I listen to their prayers at their mother's knee ; I watch 
 over them in sickness ; I settle their petty disputes ; I find in 
 them and in their mother all the solace and satisfaction that I 
 desire and need. Clubs cannot win me from their society ; 
 fame, honor, place, have no charms that crowd them from my 
 heart. My home is my rest, my amusement, my consolation, 
 my treasure-house, my earthly heaven. 
 
 And here stoops down a shadow. I stand in a darkened 
 room before a little casket that holds the silent form of my 
 first-born. My arm is around the wife and mother who weeps 
 over the lost treasure, and cannot, till tears have had their way, 
 be comforted. I had not thought that my child could die — that 
 my child could die. I knew that other children had died, but 
 I felt safe. We lay the little fellow close by his grandfather at 
 last ; we strew his grave with flowers, and then return to our 
 saddened home with hearts united in sorrow as they had never 
 been united in joy, and with sympathies forever opened toward 
 all who are called to a kindred grief. I wonder wherfe he is 
 to-day, in what mature angelhood he stands, how he will look 
 when I meet him, how he will make himself known to me, 
 who has been his teacher ! He was like me : will his grand- 
 father know him ? I never can cease thinking of him as cared 
 for and led by the same hand to which my own youthful fingers 
 clung, and as hearing from the fond lips of my own father, the 
 story of his father's eventful life. I feel how wonderful to me 
 has been the ministry of my children— how much more I have 
 
396 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 learned from them than they have ever learned from me— 
 how by holding my own strong life in sweet subordination to 
 their helplessness, they have taught me patience, self sacrifice, 
 s'elf-control, truthfulness, faith, simplicity and purity. 
 
 Ah ! this taking to one's arms a little group of souls, fresh 
 from the hand of God,, and living with them in loving compan- 
 ionship through all their stainless years, is, or ought to be, like 
 living in heaven, for of such is the heavenly Kingdom. To no 
 one of these am I more indebted than to the boy who went 
 away from me before the world had touched him with a stain. 
 The key that shut him in the tomb was the only key that could 
 unlock my heart, and let in among its sympathies the world of 
 sorrowing men and women, who mourn because their little 
 ones are not. 
 
 The Httle graves, alas ! how many they are ! The mourners 
 above them, how vast the multitude ! Brothers, sisters, I am 
 one with you. I press your hands, I weep with you, I trust 
 with you, I belong to you. Those waxen, folded hands, that 
 still breast so often pressed warm to our own, those sleep- 
 bound eyes which have been so full of love and life, that sweet, 
 unmoving, alabaster face — ah ! we have all looked upon them, 
 and they have made us one and made us better. There is no 
 fountain which the angel of healing troubles with his restless 
 and life-giving wings so constantly as the fountain of tears, and 
 only those too lame and bruised to bathe miss the blessed 
 influence. 
 
 The picture moves along, and now sweeps into view The 
 Mansion on the hill — my old home — the home of my friend 
 and sister. I go in and out as the years hurry by, and little 
 feet have learned to run and greet me at the door, and young 
 lips have been taught to call me " uncle." It is a door from 
 which no beggar is ever turned away unfed, a door to which 
 the feeble, the despairing, the sorrowing, the perplexed have 
 come for years, and been admitted to the counsels, encourage- 
 ments, and self-denying helpfulness of the strongest and noblest 
 man I know. The ancient mistress of the establishment is 
 
Arthur Bonnicastle, 397 
 
 quite forgotten by the new generation, and the house which, 
 for so many years, was shut to the great world by the selfish 
 recluse who owned it, is now the warmest social center of the 
 town. Its windows blaze with light through many a long even- 
 ing, while old age and youth mingle in pleasant converse ; and 
 forth from its ample resources go food and clothing for the 
 poor, and help for the needy, and money for those who bear 
 the Good Tidings to the border. Familiar names are multi- 
 plied in the house. First there comes a little Claire, then an 
 Arthur Bonnicastle, then a Ruth, and last a Minnie; and Claire, 
 so like her mother in person and temper, grows up to be a 
 helpful woman. I visit my old room, now the chamber of 
 little Arthur Bonnicastle, but no regrets oppress me. I am 
 glad of the change, and glad that the older Arthur has no sel- 
 fish part or lot in the house. 
 
 And now another shadow droops. Ah ! why should it 
 come ? The good Lord knows, and He loves us all. 
 
 In her room, wasting day by day with consumption, my sister 
 sits and sees the world glide away from her, with all its indus- 
 tries and loves, and social and home delights. The strong man 
 at her side, loaded with cares which she so long has lightened, 
 comes to her from his wearying labor, and spends with her 
 every precious flying hour that he can call his own. He almost 
 tires her with tender ministry. He lifts her to her bed ; he lifts 
 her to her chair ; he reads to her ; he talks calmly with her of the 
 great change that approaches ; he sustains her sinking courage ; 
 he calls around her every help ; he tries in every way to stay 
 the hand of the fell destroyer, but it is all in vain. The long- 
 dreaded day comes at last, and The Mansion — nay, all Bradford 
 — is in mourning. A pure woman, a devoted wife, a tender 
 mother, a Christian friend, sleeps ; and a pastor, whose life is 
 deepened and broadened and enriched by a grief so great and 
 lasting that no future companionship of woman can even be 
 thought of, goes to his work with a new devotion and the unc- 
 tion of a new power. There is still a Claire to guide the 
 
398 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 house, and the memory and influence of a saint to hallow all 
 its walls, and chasten all its associations. 
 
 The picture sweeps along, and presents to my imagination 
 a resistless river, calm in its beginnings, but torn and turbulent 
 as it proceeds, till it plunges in a cataract and passes from my 
 sight. Along its passage are little barks, each bearing a mem- 
 ber of my family — my brothers and sisters — separated from me 
 and from each odier by miles of distance, but every one moving 
 toward the abyss that swallows them one by one. The disease 
 that takes my sister Claire takes them all. Each arriving at 
 her age passes away. Each reaching the lip of the cataract, 
 lets go the oars, tosses up helpless hands, makes the fatal 
 plunge, and the sob surge and of the waters, wind-borne to my 
 shrinking ears, is all that is left to me. Not all, for even now 
 a rainbow spans the chasm, to promise me that floods shall 
 never overwhelm them again, and to prove to me that tears 
 may be informed with the same heavenly light that shines in living 
 flowers, and paints the clouds of sunrise. 
 
 The noise of the cataract dies away in the distance, the 
 river dissolves, and I sit inside a new and beautiful church. 
 The old one has been torn down to make way for a larger and 
 better one. It is communion-da}^, and behind the table on 
 which is spread the Christian feast of commemoration sits my 
 boyhood's companion, my college friend, my brother and pastor, 
 Henry Sanderson. The years have strewn silver over his tem- 
 ples and graven furrows upon his face, but earnestness, strength, 
 and benignity are the breath and burden of his presence. An 
 event is about to take place of great interest to him, to the 
 church, and to a large circle of business men. Mr. Bradford, 
 for the first time, publicly takes his stand among the Christian 
 family. He is old now, and the cane which he used to carry for 
 company, and as a habit, has become a necessity. He takes 
 his place in the aisle, and by his side my own dear wife, who from 
 her childhood has stood loyally by him and refused to unite 
 with a church until he could do so. The creed has been re- 
 vised. The refinements and elaborate definitions and non-es- 
 
Arthur Bojinicastle, 399 
 
 sential dogmas have been swept away, and the simple old A.pos- 
 tle's Creed, in which millions of disciples and saints have lived 
 and died in the retiring centuries, is all that is read to him, and 
 all to which he is called upon to respond. 
 
 Home at last ! Received into the fold where he has al- 
 ways belonged ! A patriarch, seated at the table of the Lord 
 from which he has been shut away by children in experience, 
 wisdom, and piety ! He is my father now, the grandfather of 
 my children, and the little wife who has trusted him and believed 
 in him all her life has at last the supreme happiness of commun- 
 ing with him and her daughter in the holy festival. 
 
 Why do I still watch the unrolling canvas ? The scenes that 
 come and pass are not painful to me, because they are all associ- 
 ated with precious memories and precious hopes, but to those 
 who read they must be somber and saddening. Why tell of 
 the news that reached me one day from Hillsborough ? Why 
 tell of that which reached me six months afterward from the 
 same place? They sleep well and their graves are shrines. 
 Why tell how Aunt Flick, from nursing one with malignant dis- 
 ease, came home to die, and left undone a world of projected 
 work ? Why tell how Mr. Bradford was at last left alone, and 
 came to pass the remnant of his life with me ? Why tell of 
 another shadow that descended upon The Mansion, and how, 
 in its dark folds, the lovely mother of my friend disappeared ? 
 
 It is the story of the world. We are born, we grow to man- 
 hood and womanhood, we marry, we work, we die. The gene- 
 rations come and go, and they come without call and go with- 
 out significance if there be not a confident hope and expectation 
 of something to follow, so grand and sweet and beautiful that 
 we can look upon it all without misgiving or pain. Faith draws 
 the poison from every grief, takes the sting from every loss, and 
 quenches the fire of every pain ; and only faith can do it. 
 W'isdom, science, power, learning — all these are as blind and 
 impotent before the great problem of life as ignorance and 
 weakness. The feeblest girl, believing in God and a hereafter, 
 is an archangel by the side of the strongest man who questions 
 
400 Arthur Bonnicastle, 
 
 her simple faith, and mounts on wings where he stumbles in 
 doubt and distress, or sinks in darkness. 
 
 To those of two homes who are living, through six long and 
 ever-memorable evenings, I have read my book, and now they 
 are all with me to-night as I draw the chair to my library-table, 
 to write these closing paragraphs. The center of the group 
 is Mr. Bradford, an old, old man, though he is still strong 
 enough to hold my youngest upon his knee. Henry sits near 
 him, talking with Millie, while the young people are gathered 
 in a distant corner, conversing quietly among themselves about 
 the events I have for the first time fully unveiled to them. 
 Their talk does not disturb me, for my thoaghts linger over 
 what I have written, and I feel that the task which has been 
 such a delight to me is soon to pass from my hands. No work 
 can come to me so sweet as this has been. I have lived my 
 life again — a life so full of interest that it seems as if I could 
 never tire of it, even though death should come nearer and 
 nearer to me, waiting for my consent to be pushed from the 
 verge of earthly existence. 
 
 I hear the quiet voices around me. I know where and what 
 I am, but I cannot resist the feeling that there are more forms 
 in the room than are visible to my eyes. I do not look up, 
 but to me my library is full. Those who are gone cannot have 
 lost their interest in those who remain, and those who are gone 
 outnumber us two to one. My own, I am sure, are close about 
 me, looking over my shoulder, and tracing with me these clos- 
 ing words. Their arms are intertwined, they exchange their 
 thoughts about me all unheard by my coarse senses, and I am 
 thrilled by an influence which I do not understand. My sister 
 sits by the side of her husband unseen, and listens to the words 
 which he is speaking to my wife, and hears her own name pro- 
 nounced with grateful tenderness. Mr. Bradford has a com- 
 panion older than the little one who sits upon his knee and 
 plays with his great gold chain, but sees her not. There are 
 
Arthur Bomiicastle. 401 
 
 wistful, sympathetic faces among the children, and they cannot 
 know why they are so quiet, or what spell it is that holds them. 
 A severe, restless little woman watches her grandson with 
 greedy eyes, or looks around upon those she once had within 
 her power, but regards us all in impotent silence. Of them, 
 but apart, companions in the new life as they were in the old, 
 are two who come to visit their boys again — boys growing old 
 in labor and preparing to join them in another school, among 
 higher hills and purer atmospheres, or to be led by them to the 
 tented shores of the River of the Water of Life. The two 
 worlds have come so near together that they mingle, and 
 there are shadows around me, and whispers above me, and 
 the rustle of robes that tell me that life is one, and the love of 
 kindred and friends eternal. 
 
 To morrow, ah ! golden to morrow ! Thank God for the hope 
 of its coming, with all its duty and care, and work and ministry, 
 and all its appeals to manliness and manly endeavor ! Thank 
 God, too, for the long dissipation of the dreams of sellish ease 
 and luxury ! Life has no significance to me, save as the thea- 
 ter in which my powers are developed and disciplined by use, 
 and made fruitful in securing my own independence and the 
 good of those around me, or as the scene in which I am fitted 
 for the work and worship of the world beyond. The little 
 ones and the large ones of my own flock are crowding me 
 along. Soon they will have my place. I do not pity, I almost 
 envy them. Life is so grand, so beautiful, so full of meaning, 
 so splendid in its opportunities for action, so hopeful in its high 
 results, that, despite all its sorrows, I would willingly live it over 
 again. 
 
 Good-night I 
 
POPEAB Affl StANDAEB ff OEKS 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG & CO. 
 
 654i Broadway, New York, 
 IN 1873. 
 
 1. BAGEHOT'S (W.) LOIIBAKD STREET. 12mo $1 75 
 
 2. BIBLE COMMENTARY. Vol. II. 8vo . 5 00 
 
 3. " " Vol. III. 8vo 5 00 
 
 4. COOK'S (F. C.) EXODUS. 8vo 1 50 
 
 5. DIEULAFAIT'S (L.) DIAMONDS AND PRECIOUS STONES. Illustrated. 
 
 12mo 2 00 
 
 6. DODGE'S (MRS. MARY MAPES) HANS BRINKER. Illustrated. 19mo. 1 50 
 
 7. FIELD'S (T. W.) INDIAN BIBLIOGRAPHY. 8vo 5 00 
 
 8. FISHER'S (DR. G. P.) HISTORY OF THE REFORMATION. 8vo 3 00 
 
 9. GUYOT'S (PROF. A.) PHYSICAL GEOaRAPHY. Large 4to 2 25 
 
 10. HALL'S (F.) MODERN ENGLISH. 12mo 2 50 
 
 11. " " FALSE PHILOLOGY. 12mD, boards 125 
 
 12. HOLLAND'S (DR. J. G.) ARTHUR BONNICASTLE. Illustrated. 12mo.. 1 75 
 
 13. HOPKINS' (DR. M.) OUTLINE STUDY OF MAN. 12mo 1 75 
 
 THE ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY OF TRAVEL AND ADVENTURE. 
 
 Each 1 vol. 12rao cloth 1 50 
 
 14. Central Africa. 15. Siam as It Was and Is. 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF CHOICE FICTION: 
 
 16. The Burgomaster's Family. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50; paper 1 00 
 
 17. Wandering Willie. 8vo. Paper 50 
 
 18. Galama. 8vo. Cloth, $1.25; paper 75 
 
 19. May. By Mrs. Oliphant. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50; paper 1 00 
 
 20. LYNDON'S OXLEY. A Novel. 12rao 150 
 
 SI. MEDHURST'S (W. H.) THE FOREIGNER IN FAR CATHAY. 12mo.... 1 50 
 
 22. PERRY'S (PROF. A. L.) POLITICAL ECONOMY. Uth edition revised. 
 
 Crown 8vo 2 50 
 
 23. SAXE HOLM'S STORIES. 12mo, extra gilt, $1.75; plain 1 50 
 
 24. STANLEY'S (H. M.) MY KALULU. Illustrated. 12mo 2 00 
 
 25. UEBERWEG'S (PROF. F.) HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. Vol. II. 8vo.. 4 00 
 
 26. VERNE'S (JULES) FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON. Illustrated. 
 
 Crown 8vo 3 00 
 
 27. VERNE'S (JULES) JOURNEY TO THE CENTRE OF THE EARTH. 
 
 Illmtrated. 12mo 2 00 
 
 28. VERY YOUNG COUPLE (A). 12mo 1 25 
 
 *^* Any of the above books sent postpaid to any \.xddress upon receipt of the pHce by 
 the publishers. 
 
Garnered Sheaves. 
 
 The Complete Poetical "Works of 
 
 J. G. HOLLAND {^Timothy Titcomb). 
 
 RED LINE EDITION. 
 
 Printed on tinted paper, with sixteen full-page illustrations, and a nev» 
 portrait of the author on steel, i vol., small 4to, 602 pages. Cloth. 
 Piice $4,00; morocco, $7.50. 
 
 This volume comprises "Bitter Sweet," "Kathrina," and the ** Marble 
 Prophecy," with the miscellaneous poems lately issued. The thousands to 
 whom these poems are already as household words, will give them a cordial 
 welcome in this very attractive form. 
 
 A New Poem by DR. HOLLAND. 
 
 THE MARBLE PROPHECY. 
 
 And Other Poems. 
 By J. G. Holland, Author of "Bitter Sweet," "Kathrina," &c., &c. 
 
 One vol. i2mo, with a full-page illustration, cloth, $1.50. 
 
 The Marble Prophecy is, next to " Bitter Sweet " and " Kathrina," Dr, Holland's 
 longest and most important poem. But it is very different in subject from its famous pre- 
 decessors. Taking for his theme the noble group Laocoon, the poet presents, in vigorous 
 and picturesque verse, some of the most vital religious and political questions of the day. 
 The minor pieces of the present collection are many of them already well known to the 
 public. Here maybe found such strong and beautiful verse as "Daniel Gray," "The 
 Heart of the War," &c., &c. The Marble Prophecy appears now for the first time, and 
 the other poems have never before been collected. Altogether it is a pure, worthy and 
 notable volume of poetry, and one that cannot fail to win a still wider reputation for thia 
 very popular author. 
 
 TA£ above works sent, post-paid, on receipt of price, 
 
 SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG & CO,, 
 
 654: Broadwayp New Yorh» 
 
roiTOTOWlW^IO^ 
 
 t 
 
 It is the design to present in this Library a series of works by the best authors of the 
 flay, the It tiding characteristics of which shall be elevation and pirrity of tone, and entire 
 fieedoir '^om everything in the remotest degree demoralizing. A broad iiage, large and 
 clear type, will mnke the successive volumes thoroughly readable, and occasionally they 
 will be carefully illustrated. 
 
 The Burgomaster's FamiSy; 
 
 OR, ^VJEAL J^NJD TV^OE IN^ J^ LITTLE ^WORLD. 
 
 By CHRISTINE MULLER. 
 One vol. 8vo, cloth, $1.50. Paper $1.00. 
 Tragedy, pathos, and humor are combined to a singular degree in this remarkable stoty. 
 The principal Dutch literary periodicals praise the flowing narrative, the simplicity, clear- 
 ness, and grace of the style, the renlity and rationaUty of her heroes and heroines, and the 
 faithful delineation of Dutch character and Dutch family hfe. 
 
 The Story of Wandering Wiiiie- 
 
 One vol. 8vo, . Paper, 50 cts. 
 
 "Wandering Willie is one of the most pathetic stories in the language. It is mainly auto- 
 biographic ; almost the entire toucliing history is told by the wanderer himself. The lesson 
 of Christian resignation under the hardest fate reserved for man— of cheery, hopeful bravery 
 —is one well worthy of learning by so gentle means as sympathy with a fictitious hero. 
 Wherever poor old WiUie shall wander with his sad, patient face, he will carry a benediction. 
 
 M ay. 
 
 A NEW NOVEL, FROM ADVANCE SHEETS. 
 
 By Mes. OLIPHANT, author of "At His Gates," "Miss Marjoribanks, "Chronicles of 
 
 Carlingford," etc. 
 
 One vol. Svo, cloth, $1.50. Paper, $1.00. 
 
 The characters are strongly contrasted, while the quaint Scotch humor one or two of 
 
 them display gives to the story a freshness and heartiness quite unusual. 
 
 Galamai or, The Beggars. 
 
 By J. B. DE LIEFDE. 
 One vol. Svo, cloth, $1.25. Paper, 75 cents. 
 Tnis is a story of love and adventure, in the times of the Dutcli Republic. The char- 
 acters are drawn with wonderful clearness ; they attract the warmest sympathy from the 
 *:ct, and every reader must follow their fortunes" to the close with the deepest interest. 
 
 At His Gates. 
 
 7\y Mss. OLIPHANT, author of "May," "Chronicles of Carlingford," etc. 
 One vol. 8vo, cloth, $1.50. Paper, $] .CO. 
 *'It is a better novel, to our mind, than any woman, 'George Eliot' excepted, hns given 
 10 the world since Charlotte Bronte laid down her peuy—LouiovUle Courier- Journal. 
 
 These volumes sent, post-2xiid, by ihe publishers on receipt ofjjrice. 
 
 SCRiBNER, ARMSTRONG & CO., 654 Broadway, N. Y. 
 
Prices and Styles of the Different Editions 
 
 OF 
 
 FROUDE'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 In half roan, gilt top, per set of twelve vols. i2mo $21. od 
 
 Elegance and cheapness are combined in a remarkable degree in this edition. It take* 
 Its name from the place of Mr. Froude's residence in London, also famous as the home 
 of Thomas Carlyle. 
 
 In cloth, at the rate of $1.25 per volume. The set (12 vols.), in a neat box. $15.00 
 The Same, in half calf extra 36.00 
 
 This edition is printed from the same plates as the other editions, and on firm, white 
 paper. It is, without exception, the cheapest set of books of its class ever issued in this 
 country. 
 
 In twelve vols, crown 8vo, cloth $30.00 
 
 The Same, in half calf extra 50.00 
 
 ' The Edition is printed on laid and tinted paper, at the Riverside Press, and is in every 
 respect worthy a place in the most carefully selected library. 
 
 SHORT STUDIES ON GREAT SUBJECTS, 
 
 By James Anthony Froude, M.A., 
 
 "History of England" " The English in Ireland during 
 the Eighteenth Century," etc. 
 
 POPULAR EDITION. Two vols. i2mo, cloth, $1.50 per vol. The Set $3.00 
 
 CHELSEA EDITION. Two vols. lamo, half roan, gilt top, $2.00 per vol- 
 ume. Per Set. 4.00 
 
 The Complete Works of Jams Anthony 
 Froude, M.A. 
 
 HISTORY OF ENGLAND AND SHORT STUDIES. 
 Fourteen vols., in a neat Box. 
 
 POPULAR EDITION $i8.oa 
 
 CHELSEA EDITION 25.0a 
 
 7',^^ adov* works sent^ post-paid^ by the publishers^ on receipt of tht 
 prke 
 
 SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG & CO., 
 
 654 Broadway, New York. 
 
"The very best, the most sensible, tl\e most practicalj 
 tl:\e most honest book or\ tl:\is matter of getting up good 
 dinners, and livir\g ir\ a decer\t Gt\ristiart way, t^at l\as yet 
 four\d its way ir\ our household." — Watchman attd Reflector. 
 
 COMMON SENSE 
 
 In the Household, 
 
 A Manual of Practical Housewifery, 
 
 By MARION HARLAND, 
 
 Author of "Alone," ^'Hidden Path/* ''Nemesis," &e., Ac. 
 
 One vol. i2mo, cloth. Price $i 75 
 
 SEE WHATTHE CRITICS, AND PRACTICAL HOUSEKEEPERS, say of H: 
 
 " And now we have from another popular novelist a cookery book, whereof our house- 
 keeper (this literary recorder is not a bachelor) speaks most enthusiastically. She says 
 that simplicit>- and clearness of expression, accuracy of detail, a regard to economy 01 
 material, and certainty of good results, are requisites in a useful receipt-book for the 
 kitchen, and Marion Harland has comprehended all these. That she has by experience 
 proved the unsatisfactoriness of housekeepers' helps in general is shown by the arrange- 
 ment of her book.* She has appended a star to such recipes as, after having tried them 
 herself, she can recommend as safe and generally simple. Such a directory will be a 
 great help to one who goes to the book for aid in preparing a pleasant and savory meal 
 without much experience in cooking. The language is so simple, and the directions so 
 plain, that a reasonably intelligent cook might avail herself of it to vary her manner of 
 preparing even ordinary dishes. The introduction to the book should be printed as a 
 tract and put in every house. The simple advice for the management of servants, the 
 general directions at the head of each department of cooking, and the excellent pages on 
 the sick-room, make as complete an aid to housekeepers as can well be desired. "^Ilar^ 
 per's Monthly. 
 
 "In the hands of the author, whose name is well known in another department of 
 literature, the subject has been treated with thoroughness and bkill, showing that a little 
 common sense may be as successful in the concoction of a toothsome viand as in the com- 
 position of X romance." — N. Y. Daily Tribune. 
 
 " It ilispires us with a great respect for the housewifery of a literary lady, and we 
 cannot err in predicting for it a wide popularity." — N. Y. Evening Post. 
 
 "Unites the merits of a trustworthy receipt-book with the freshness of a familial 
 talk on household affairs." — Albany Evening Journal. 
 
 " The directions are clear, practical, and so good in their way that the only wonder is, 
 how any one head could hold so many pots, ketdes, acd pans, and such a world of ga*- 
 L''onomic good things." — Hearth and Home. 
 
 " The recipes are clearly expressed, easy to follow, and not at all expensive. Th^ 
 suggestions about household affairs are chic. On a test comparison with three othei 
 American cook-books, it comes out ahead upon every count. Beyond this ex/>erto credd 
 nothing more need be said." — Christian Union. 
 
 Copies sent, f'ost-f'aiil, on receipt of the j>rice, by 
 
 SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG & CO., 
 
 G^t-l Jtroadway, Netc TorTc 
 
THE NOVEL OF THE YEAR. 
 
 ARTHUR BONNICASTLE, 
 
 By Dr. J. G. HOLLAND, 
 
 Author of '•'■ Bitter- Sweet;'' *■* Kathrina;'' '''■ TUcomVs Letters^'' dkc. 
 
 WITH TWELVE FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS BY 
 MARY A. HALLOCK. 
 
 One Vol. 12mo, $1.75 
 
 AsiTnnR BoNNiCASTLE is the most mature and finished prose work 
 of Its popular author. Autobiographic in form, it is partly so in material 
 jikewise ; and while of thrilling interest as a story, it presents the ripe 
 results of a life of earnest action and thought. The great lesson of the 
 book is self-respect and self-reliance— the evil influence of dependeLice 
 being exemplified in different characters and circumstances, by the youth 
 of Arthur aftid the life of Peter Mullens. For character-drawing, purpose, 
 pathos, style and savor of the soil, ARTHUR BONNICASTLE is remark- 
 able among the novels of the time. 
 
 DR. HOLLAND'S WORKS. 
 
 Each in One Volume l^mo. 
 
 ♦BITTER-SWEET; a Poem , 
 
 ♦KATHHINA ; a Poem . 
 
 ♦LETTERS TO YOUNG PEOPLE, 
 
 GOLD-FOIL, hammered from Pop- 
 ular Proverhs .... 
 
 "•LESSONS ixM LIFE 
 
 ♦PLAIN TALKS on J-amiliar Sub- 
 jects 
 
 LETTERS TO THE JONESES , 
 
 1 50 
 
 MISS GILBERT'S CAREER . 
 
 $2 00 
 
 1 50 
 
 BAY PATH 
 
 2 00 
 
 1 50 
 
 THE JIAEBLE PROPHECY, and 
 
 
 
 other Poems , . . 
 
 1 50 
 
 1 75 
 
 GARNERED SHEAVES, Complete 
 
 
 1 75 
 
 Poetical Works, "Bitter-Sweet," 
 " Kathrina," " Marble Phrophecy," 
 
 
 1 75 
 
 red line edition, beautifully iUus- 
 
 
 1 75 
 
 trated 
 
 4 00 
 
 * These six volumes are issued in Cabinet size (16mo), 
 same prices as above. 
 
 Brightwood Edition," at th« 
 
I 
 
* 
 
liiiiilMliiiii 
 
 016 112 782 6 §