STORIES 
 
 NEW ENGLAND LIFE; 
 
 OB 
 
 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 BY 
 
 MARTHA RUSSELL. 
 
 I like, too, that representation they fthe old Norsemen] hare of the tree Tgdrasyl. 
 All life is figured by them as a tree. Igdrasyl, the Ash-tree of existence, has its roota 
 deep down in the kingdoms of Hela or Death ; its trunk reaches up heaven-high, 
 spreads its boughs over the whole universe : it is the tree of Existence . Is not every 
 leaf of it a biography every fibre there an act or word ? CAHLYLE . 
 
 BOSTON: 
 I UBLISHED BY JOHN P. JEWETT AND COMPANY. 
 
 CLEVELAND, OHIO: 
 HENRY P. B. JEWETT. 
 
 NEW YORK : SHELDON, LAMPORT AND BLAKEMAN. 
 
 1857.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by 
 
 JOHN P. JBWETT & Co., ^ 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts 
 
 Stereotyped by 
 
 HOBABT 4 BOBBINS, 
 
 R t w Eng! tad Tfft ud StanotTp* FtttslcTT,
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 THE DIARY, 5 
 
 LOVE'S LABOR NOT LOST, 69 
 
 A TALE OF THE COLONY TIMES, 87 
 
 UNCLE JOHN'S VISIT, 115 
 
 AN INCIDENT ON THE SEA-HORE, 133 
 
 DEATH BY THE WAY-SIDE, 148 
 
 LITTLE BESSIE, 158 
 
 SKETCHES OF OUR VILLAGE. 
 
 I. THE STRIFE, 173 
 
 H. OUR SCHOOL-MISTRESS, 191 
 
 HI. A SABBATH OF 1776, 201 
 
 IV. THE FIRST GRAVE, 207 
 
 V. MARY GRAYSON, 218 
 
 VI. THE MILLER, 230 
 
 VH. AN HOUR ON THE CROSSING POLE, 257 
 
 PHI. THE ALMSHOUSE BOY, . . f 269 
 
 IX. MELINDA DUTTON, 294 
 
 X. THE MAIDEN OF THE FOUNTAIN, 313 
 
 XI. THE OLD MAPLE, 322 
 
 XII. LILIAN LOVIS, 344 
 
 2092098
 
 THE DIARY. 
 
 -, Nov. 9, 1851. 
 
 No, not that Album, loaded with gilt like an Eastern slave, 
 even though it be " precisely like the one on Lady Blessing- 
 ton's table," as the giver, Mr. H , assures me ; but this 
 
 one, in plain black, with only the design of the serpent and the 
 dove upon the back. It is " plain and substantial," as old 
 
 Mrs. A was pleased to say of myself; and when Harold 
 
 T gave it me, pointing to the design, he bade me heed 
 
 the symbol well, saying, in that calm, grave way of his, that 
 I lacked both wisdom and gentleness. " My master," I should 
 hardly have borne that from any one else. But perhaps he 
 was right right, also, when he said that a "woman cannot 
 exist without a confidant." I denied it then, and resented it 
 as a libel ; but, now, after a four weeks' sojourn with these 
 relatives, with whom it seems impossible to establish any- 
 thing like relations of confidence, I begin to feel its truth, 
 else I should not be blotting the blank leaves of his gift. 
 
 N. B. I wilfnever own as much to him ! 
 
 I think I will dedicate the book to Vacuna, the goddess 
 of the idle ; doubtless many of my self-constituted advisers 
 would think it very appropriate. Not that I admit that I 
 have any more of an inherent proclivity to what, in their eyes, 
 constitutes the "sum of all moral evil" idleness than 
 many others ; but I am, unfortunately, always doing those 
 things which I ought not to do, and in a way in which they 
 ought not to be done ; and, as Aunt Mirick said, when I saw 
 no impropriety in carrying from Stewart's to her house a
 
 6 LEAVES FROM TOE TREE IdDRASTL. 
 
 small parcel, containing a few yards of silk, " there w no 
 hope for me ! " 
 
 I know I am neither pretty nor graceful, but I never have 
 such a saving consciousness of the fact, as when with my 
 mother's relatives. I wonder how much such remarks, ut- 
 tered in a tone of cold, critical commiseration, as, "Elizabeth 
 is so overgrown, so gawky Elizabeth is so odd ; she has no 
 taste in dress ; her head is so large ; and then, her feet ! she 
 has not the Sewal look at all, poor child ; all Lytton ! " etc. 
 (my father's alliance being the one " blot in the escutcheon "). 
 have had to do with my awkwardness ? They are not partic- 
 ularly calculated to remedy the defect, I fancy. 
 
 Once I felt all this keenly, but I am getting bravely over 
 it. My head and my feet are as God made them ; as for 
 taste in dress, let them remember that I have had no means 
 of gratifying it, before they deny me its possession ; and, as 
 to lacking the " Sewal air," the slightest childish memory 
 that I cherish of my noble father is more to me than " the 
 blood of all the Sewals ! " 
 
 There ! There goes the dinner-bell ! My fingers are inky, 
 my collar the sixteenth part of an inch awry ; if I do not 
 stay to right it, aunt will be sure to perceive it ; if I do, I 
 shall be the sixteenth part of a minute too late at the table, 
 and uncle will look like an iceberg between them both the 
 room will be like Spitsbergen. Elizabeth will be uneasy and 
 distraite for a few moments, then fiat her <finner with the 
 self-possession of queen Vashti, of old. 
 
 Nov. \Qth. "A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in 
 pictures of silver," we are told ; but who has not felt that a 
 word fitly withheld is not less precious ? 
 
 Had I remembered this yesterday, I should have refrained 
 from shocking uncle and aunt with my heresies, and saved 
 myself a long lecture on " womanly proprieties," and " wo- 
 man's sphere," this morning. 
 
 Though some moments too late, I was happily disappointed
 
 THE DIARY. 7 
 
 on entering the dining-room, for uncle was too busily occupied 
 in talking with an old gentleman to notice my tardiness, 
 though the exquisite French time-piece on the mantel stared 
 
 him straight in* the face. Mr. H , aunt's nephew, had 
 
 dropped in to dinner. 
 
 Query, What brings him here so often of late ? An in- 
 creasing appreciation of his aunt's cuisini&re, or the laudable 
 desire to keep himself in practice, by playing off his Euro- 
 pean fascinations on a country teacher ? 
 
 He certainly is handsome ; and as aunt and he sat there, 
 both so carefully dressed, so seemingly oblivious of the fact 
 that rents and dust, lint and wrinkles, missing buttons and 
 hooks-and-eyes, are a part of the evils consequent upon "Ad- 
 am's fall," it would have been an inexpressible relief to me 
 to have seen a speck of dust on either of them ; ay, to 
 have proved their affinity for " dust and ashes," like other 
 mortals, I would have been willing to encounter a slight si- 
 rocco, or that cloud which Christian saw at the house of the 
 Interpreter, even at the expense of my new marron merino, 
 in which I fancied I was looking remarkably well. 
 
 H greeted me with his blandest smile, and uncle intro- 
 duced " my niece " to his guest, the Rev. Dr. Smith. Uncle's 
 manner of introducing me as "my niece," a title which he 
 evidently considers sufficiently distinctive for any reasonable 
 young lady, causes some mistakes ; for his guests inva- 
 riably address me as Miss Sewal. This old gentleman did 
 the same, and when I set him right, he said : 
 
 " Ah ! ay, yes ; the daughter of your sister Elizabeth, Mr. 
 Sewal. I remember your mother, my child, when she was 
 scarce as old as yourself. She married, let me see a " 
 
 " An editor," I said. 
 
 " Ah, yes, I think I met him once or twice during the 
 sitting of the Association in this city, some well some 
 twenty-five years ago. How time does fly ! He is well, I 
 hope."
 
 8 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDBASYL. 
 
 " I trust so," I said, my eyes filling with tears. But 
 before I could gather courage to go on uncle had answered 
 for me : 
 
 " Mr. Lytton is dead, sir." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said the old man, in a tone of concern. 
 " Pardon me, my dear young lady, I might have heard it, 
 but we old folks forget. But your mother, is she still in 
 the city?" 
 
 "No, sir," said I calmly, for uncle's cold tones had 
 recalled me to myself; " my father's health failed soon after 
 his marriage, and my mother accompanied him to his native 
 village, where he died when I was five years old. Mother 
 and I have continued to live at the old place, with the excep- 
 tion of a short residence at G two years ago." 
 
 " And it seems but a few months since your mother was 
 here, a girl," said the old man, looking kindly at me. " But 
 you are not like her, child, unless it be about the mouth." 
 
 " My niece is all Lytton, as I. tell her," said my uncle, as 
 we seated ourselves at the table. 
 
 So this old man had known my mother before trials, and 
 poverty, and sorrow, had changed her, and I determined to 
 make him my friend, if possible, and see if I could not get 
 from him some better conception of what she was like in her 
 youth, than I had obtained from her own family, some- 
 thing beside descriptions of her beauty, coupled with ill- 
 concealed regrets that she should have "thrown herself 
 away " upon a poor editor, who was " only a farmer's son."" 
 
 I am sorry to say that I was more occupied with these 
 thoughts than with the doctor's " grace," which was scarcely 
 ended, when aunt, reaching forward to adjust the fall of my 
 lerthe, whispered : 
 
 "That dress of yours is far too large, dear; it wrinkles 
 quite badly under the arm; and your braids on the left 
 side are slipping down. Order is Heaven's first law, you 
 know."
 
 THE DIAKY. 9 
 
 Dear Vacuna, I had met aunt's chambermaid's little tod- 
 dling nephew in the passage, as I came down, and, oblivious 
 of hair-pins and braids, had stopped to toss him " up to the 
 moon." But I did not tell aunt this, I had too much regard 
 for myself and "bubby Lee," I merely said, as I coolly cut 
 my chicken : 
 
 " Just so, aunt ; but, as we happen to be still on earth, I 
 hold it to be wiser to comply with earth's laws ; perhaps, in 
 this way, we shall, in time, come to understand and fulfil 
 those of a higher sphere." 
 
 Aunt looked a little confused, as I have noticed she not 
 (infrequently does, at my remarks ; and the old doctor, inter- 
 rupting himself in some remark, asked : 
 
 " What was that you were saying about a higher sphere ? 
 a favorite phrase with the young people of the present day, 
 Mr. Sewal." 
 
 " I was merely saying that whatever may be the laws of a 
 higher sphere, full play for the lungs is very essential here." 
 
 H laughed, and the old man, after a bland, " Very 
 
 true ; I am glad you understand something of the wonderful 
 mechanism of the human frame," turned to dissecting Dr. 
 Bushnell and his heresies, and, assisted by uncle and aunt, 
 succeeded pretty thoroughly. I ventured, once or twice, to 
 put in a sort of disclaimer, in the shape of a question, and 
 
 H gallantly seconded me ; but we were calmly put down 
 
 by a gentle hint that the carnal mind could not judge upon 
 such matters ; and I sat and wondered if the human mind 
 had really so changed since the poor and ignorant, the pub- 
 lican and sinner, had gladly accepted the truth, as it fell 
 from the lips of Jesus by the blue waters of the seas of 
 Palestine. 
 
 Then they went into the condition of the world in general, 
 and I grew quite sad at hearing how fast all Christendom 
 was retrograding into chaos and old night ; and yet, a few 
 moments before, in his " grace before meat," that kind old
 
 10 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 man had fervently thanked God for all the " manifold bless- 
 ings which of his own good will and pleasure he/ had showered 
 upon us ; but, most of all, that he had given us our being in 
 this land of Gospel light and Gospel privileges." It is 
 strange how much acceptance I find in the world, and how 
 little intelligent belief. These people were sincere, and 
 would have "thought one mad who questioned their ortho- 
 doxy ; yet, if I took them at their word, they were practical 
 atheists, denying the power of truth to regenerate the 
 world. 
 
 Uncle is a born conservative, " dyed in the wool," with a 
 perfect horror of all restless, vulgar innovators, who threaten 
 to disturb anything, from the tie of his white cravat to the 
 foundations of a state. He would ignore time himself, if 
 possible. But with Dr. Smith it is different. One can 
 readily perceive how his conservatism is but the natural 
 growth of that innate principle which is developed by years 
 and success in life, aided not a little by an unquestioning 
 adherence to certain theological notions, which have, spider- 
 like, spun theii; web so completely over his heart, that he has 
 almost forgotten the warm, gushing, sympathetic throbs of 
 its youth, or remembers them only with a pitying smile, as 
 youthful enthusiasms. Enthusiasm ! Would that we could 
 " be true to the dreams of our youth I " Would that we 
 could take them with us, as blessed realities, down the shady 
 slopes of life ! Then old age would not be so meagre and 
 barren. 
 
 So I mused, until the exclamation, "It is astonishing ! " 
 which usually forms the affix and suffix to all uncle's remarks 
 on religion and morals, roused me. " It is really astonishing 
 how sensible people, Christian people, can be so blind. I do 
 not blame the south. Were they to come here, sir, and make 
 such demands on us, we should see the impropriety, the 
 absurdity, at once. But that such men as Messrs. C 
 and G can be so led away, is incredible."
 
 THE DIAEY. 11 
 
 " All the result of narrow, sectional views, and a restless 
 desire to forestall the workings of Providence," blandly 
 answered the old doctor. 
 
 They had actually begun "to agitate," those two staid 
 pillars of conservatism, and I opened my ears, for I knew 
 that among my many unknown heresies which I had thought 
 best to leave to the unfolding hand of time, my " abolition- 
 ism," in their eyes, would be the rankest. I thought of the 
 
 days in Gr , when, from every lesson and every object, 
 
 " my master " (I like the old, sportive title best) was wont to 
 deduce arguments in favor of liberty and progress ; and how, 
 in the spirit of opposition, I sought every argument on the 
 opposite side, until obliged to yield. Those were hot battles! 
 He would never yield an inch to the sex, never condescend 
 to say I might possibly be right ; but, on the other hand, he 
 treated me as an equal, capable of thinking for myself, not 
 as a pet or puppet. I did not fully appreciate this, then ; 
 but now, ay, I see it is necessary to get at a distance from 
 some people, as well as pictures, to see them truly. I won- 
 der, if we were to meet again, if we should resume the war ; 
 I wonder but enough of this. What I would say is this, 
 
 that T 's lessons had fully qualified me to understand the 
 
 subject, and I asked inquiringly, and, I must confess, rather 
 mischievously : 
 
 " But does not God make use of human instruments to 
 carry out his plans* sir ? " 
 
 " Certainly, my child ; but not, I fear, of such incendiaries 
 as our modern reformers, men who have cast off all 
 authority, save that of their blinded, seared consciences, nor 
 of their ignorant, fanatical followers. Poor tools these, to 
 do the work of the Lord ! " 
 
 Ah, if the appointed teachers refuse to lead the people 
 over Jordan into the promised land, shall they grumble if the 
 office pass from the tribe of Levi, and hands consecrated only 
 by'an earnest love for humanity take up the sacred ark of
 
 12 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 truth ? Thus I thought, but I did not say it ; only sug- 
 gested that he might possibly misunderstand these men. 
 Moreover, they were but a small portion of the supporters 
 of the anti-slavery cause. 
 
 Uncle gave me a look that seemed to say that women were 
 to be seen, not heard, and took up the conversation just 
 where it had stood before my interference. 
 
 " Quite right, doctor; but something must be done to put 
 down these elements of disorganization, so rife among us. 
 The church and the ministry are our only hope ; and, I am 
 sorry to say, these are becoming infected. Why, Messrs 
 
 M and S have left our church, Dr. H 's church, 
 
 because they are too righteous to commune with slave- 
 holders!" 
 
 " I heard it with sorrow, Mr. Sewal ; but while we deplore 
 their errors, we must not forget that they are brethren, 
 sincere, no doubt, but victims of a restless spirit of change 
 and the pride of human reason. Let the mind once get loose 
 from sound, orthodox moorings, and there is no telling where 
 it will go ; it is a melancholy fact. If these men were guided 
 less by what they term reason, and more by a spirit of 
 humility and prayer, they would be led to see how even 
 human bondage may be reconciled with the law of love, and 
 conduce to the salvation of this poor benighted race." 
 
 All the while, during this speech, I had felt what aunt 
 calls the " Lytton spirit " rising within *me, and before the 
 old gentleman ceased it had risen to my lips. But I mas- 
 tered it, and said, quietly, " Pardon me, sir. A few moments 
 since you were kind enough to explain to me why such men 
 
 as G and S cannot be instruments of Providence, 
 
 and yet, if I apprehend you aright now, we are to view the 
 miscreants employed in the slave trade as so many mission- 
 aries engaged in the conversion of souls." 
 
 Uncle arched his eyebrows to a point, in surprise and hor 
 ror, but the good old doctor only smiled benevolently as -he
 
 THE DIART. 18 
 
 said, " What an absurd conclusion, my dear Miss Lytton ; 
 but a fair specimen of womanly logic. By no means ; I 
 would be the last to justify evil ; but there are some things 
 which we do not understand, some things permitted to us, 
 as to the ancient Hebrews, perhaps, on account of the hard- 
 ness of our hearts. But this we do know : that God permits 
 these, doubtless for some wise end ; that, though he moves in 
 a mysterious way, he can and doth overrule them all for his 
 own glory and the salvation of man. We must not attempt 
 to pry into the secret counsels of the Almighty." 
 
 I disclaimed any such intention, seeing that a dozen lives 
 would not suffice to comprehend the revelations He had given 
 us, through inspiration and nature ; but, as this was a subject 
 connected with the degradation or elevation of man, I thought 
 it might be discussed in all its bearings without once being 
 guilty of that sin. " But," I went on, " I do not feel con- 
 vinced that my inference was incorrect. These men must 
 either be doing right or wrong, serving God or the devil, 
 carrying ojit his plans or acting in direct violation of that 
 law which we are told is the holiest of all ; and, hypocriti- 
 cal, wicked, selfish as they are, I do not believe one of them 
 dare make to his own conscience the excuse that he is serv- 
 ing his Maker. They know it is wrong and unutterably sel- 
 fish ; but, as long as the wise, and learned, and pious, abet 
 them in their practice, they will continue to follow it. But, 
 that God sanctions such things " [uncle gave me a look, 
 why, such a one as Balaam might have given his ass, but 
 my spirit was up and I kept on] ; " that the infinite, all-wise 
 Creator cannot carry out his plans without such agencies ; 
 that the unspeakable horrors of the slave-ship and the inter- 
 nal traffic are a part of the ' divine economy ; ' that millions 
 of human beings must perish by the hands of their civilized 
 brethren before a remnant can be saved, is what I will not, 
 cannot believe. The intellect and heart revolt at it. I would 
 sooner be a pagan than accept such a God as that f "
 
 14 LEAVES FROM THE T&EE IGDKASYL.. 
 
 Had a Paixhan shot fallen in our midst, it could not have 
 excited greater consternation and horror than my poor words. 
 Uncle, with his silver fork arrested midway between his 
 mouth and the table, looked as if the powers of speech, and 
 what he prizes quite as highly, mastication, had deserted him 
 forever ; aunt set down her tumbler, and crossed her hands 
 with an indescribable air, as if she saw, behind my abolition- 
 ism, bloomerism, woman's-rightsism, fourierism, sedition, arson 
 
 and murder ; H forgot his usual retenue, and sat pouring 
 
 the gravy unconsciously over his plate, while the old doctor, 
 with a despondent shake of the head, and with a tone, in 
 which grave reproof struggled with real kindness, replied, 
 
 " Very likely, for ' the carnal heart is at enmity ' with 
 God ; and, my young friend, if we take your words as a cri- 
 terion, I fear we shall find you look at this subject with 
 anything but an eye of humble, trusting faith. You are 
 tinctured with the besetting sin of the age, the pride of hu- 
 man reason, that blind guide which leads so many astray. 
 It is a poor prop, my child,' a poor prop, as you will find 
 sooner or later. Not until you are willing to cast it aside 
 and look at this great subject with an humble, unquestioning 
 spirit, will the wisdom of the overruling hand be made appa- 
 rent to you. Not to the carnally-minded, to the proud of 
 heart, are these things made known, but to babes and suck- 
 lings." 
 
 Old age ! old age ! White hairs and furrowed brows ! 0, what 
 a power ye have to move this self-willed heart of mine ! As 
 I looked up in his face, and met the calm but faded blue eyes 
 bent on me half in sorrow, half in surprise, and thought how, 
 in early youth, the foundations of his faith had been laid in 
 sincerity and prayer; how it had grown with his growth, 
 and strengthened with his strength, until it enclosed him, as 
 within a consecrated temple, whose pillars were intertwined 
 with dear heart-memories, hopes that lived now, only in the 
 light of faith, sorrows that had grown into hopes ; I felt how
 
 . THE DIARY. 15 
 
 worthy of all respect is every form or creed that has typified 
 truth to the human soul, and, stretching forth my hand to the 
 old man, was about to try to translate something of this feel' 
 ing into words, when uncle's jaws collapsed, and he inter- 
 rupted me, in his coldest, most frigid tones : 
 
 " Elizabeth Miss Lytton I am astonished, perfectly as- 
 tonished, to hear such sentiments advanced by a woman, and 
 a relative of mine ! Good heavens ! what are we coming to ? 
 Let me tell you, that the ladies of your mother's family found 
 ample room for their talents in the sphere which God assigned 
 them, domestic life. They were early taught that woman's 
 province is to obey, not reason." 
 
 The tone roused my antagonism at once, and I said, coldly, 
 
 " Then, I am very sorry for them, uncle ; for, wide as that 
 sphere is, ignorant and narrow-minded men can narrow it 
 down until it becomes little better than slavery. Besides, 
 as God has actually endowed them with reason, they must 
 find it extremely difficult, at times, to obey both God and 
 man." 
 
 "I see no such difficulty," he condescended to reply; "but, 
 perhaps, the wisdom of this age may enlighten me. As to 
 ignorance and narrowness, of course that is not the question 
 with our family ; " and, with an air that seemed to say that 
 the question of woman's right to a separate individuality was 
 settled forever, he began discussing the new postal arrange- 
 ments, which H had started, and from that they went to 
 
 "non-intervention," Kossuth, etc. 
 
 I felt choked ; I care not how much a person differs from 
 me, I can respect his notions and try to understand his 
 views, if he will only let me speak out my thought, and 
 respect that as it is worthy. But this looking askance at all 
 one says, this taking a poor soul's words with the tongs and 
 throwing them out the window, or fumigating them with salt 
 and vinegar until there is no life in them, before they are per- 
 mitted to cross the threshold, saddens me. I would have each
 
 16 LEAVES FROM THE TBEE IODRASYL. 
 
 one speak out his own convictions truly, aud take them, rich 
 or poor, as a godsend. We should lose something in smooth- 
 ness and polish ; many relations, now dovetailed together with 
 such care, would find themselves breaking apart ; but we should 
 be infinite gainers in honesty, harmony and truth. 
 
 JV<w. 14*A. Scene, a beautifully furnished room, the 
 chairs, tables, sofa, w/iat-not, etc., drawn up against the wall 
 with as much precision as a company of the great Frederick's 
 soldiers, Miss Elizabeth Lytton seated on an ottoman, read- 
 ing Mrs. Browning's noble poem, " Casa Guidi Windows." 
 Enter Aunt Sewal, who goes through with a critical review 
 of the furniture, occasionally passing her delicate cambric 
 handkerchief over it, to see if Mary has left a particle of 
 dust, while she keeps up a kind of miserere over the care- 
 lessness of servants, and the troubles of housekeepers in 
 general. 
 
 "Dear me, Mary has n't half dusted the room ! It is too 
 bad to hire servants and do your work yourself ! And that 
 Sophie, too ! Elizabeth, don't you think that Sophie has 
 completely ruined my elegant coffee-pot, melted off the 
 spout ! I do feel as if I should fly every time I think of it ! 
 Such an elegant one as it was ! " 
 
 Elizabeth is buried in this passage, 
 
 " The dead upon their awful vantage ground, 
 
 The sun not in their faces, shall abstract 
 No more our strength ; we will not be discrowned, 
 
 Though treasuring their crowns, nor deign transact 
 A barter for the present, in a sound 
 
 For what was counted good in foregone days. 
 0, dead, ye shall no longer cling to us ' 
 
 we will not be oblivious 
 
 Of our own lives because ye lived before, 
 
 Nor of our acts because ye acted well ; 
 We thank ye that ye first unlatched the door, 
 
 We will not make it inaccessible 
 By thankings in the door-way any more," etc., -
 
 THE DIAHY. 17 
 
 und looks up, with all the glorious hopes it suggests warming 
 her heart, and exclaims, 
 
 " How beautiful ! " 
 
 " Yes, indeed, twice as handsome as Mrs. A 's, and 
 
 cost only the same. And to think it should be spoiled ! " 
 
 Elizabeth opens her great, gray eyes in astonishment. " How 
 what, aunt ? I don't quite understand ! " 
 
 " No, I dare say not; no one ever does think it worth while 
 to understand me or my troubles, your uncle never does. 
 As long as everything is on the table at the precise moment, 
 he never asks how it has been done, or how much I have been 
 tried. I said that careless Sophie has melted off the spout 
 to my coffee-pot." , 
 
 It was evident that aunt's usual pattern-like equanimity 
 was sorely disturbed, and that she expected me to sympathize 
 with her ; but, having never experienced the loss of a coffee- 
 urn spigot, I was somewhat at loss what to say or do ; so I 
 merely suggested that it could be mended. 
 
 " Mended ! an old, tinkered, mended thing on my table ! " 
 (N. 13. Aunt prides herself on setting the nicest table in the 
 
 neighborhood.) " What would the E s and the F s 
 
 think ? " 
 
 I ventured another suggestion, that she might purchase 
 another. And so she might, she hoped, a dozen if she chose, 
 but they would not be half so good as her old one. Mr. 
 
 R 's assortment ! she did n't want any one to tell her about 
 
 such things. Her old one was worth a dozen of them ; she 
 had used it two years, and not a dent in it. What did 
 I know about coffee-pots ? 
 
 I saw my failure, and tried another tack, Sophie's sor- 
 row over the accident, but this was only adding fuel to the 
 fire. 
 
 Well she might be sorry. To know no better than to set 
 her urn down before a red-hot range, after all she had dono
 
 18 LEA VK3 FROM XHK TR IGDRASV/.. 
 
 for her, too ! And she tripped out of the room to receive a 
 morning call, and pour her sorrows into a more appreciating 
 ear, I trust. 
 
 As for me, the steam from that unfortunate urn had com- 
 pletely dissolved my dreams of a glorious future for Italy ; so 
 I sat and wondered why aunt's servants were supposed to be 
 under such infinite obligations to her, unless, indeed, she looked 
 at the matter philosophically, and considered herself in the 
 light of a Heaven-sent trial, to exercise them in the rare virtue 
 of patience. 
 
 Nov. 14th. I was sitting by the table to-day improvis- 
 ing all sorts of designs upon a piece of Bristol board, and 
 thinking over my first lesson in drawing, and the quizzical 
 face of " my master," when he asked me whether it was in- 
 tended for a horse or a house when aunt looked up from the 
 wristband she was stitching, and asked what I was doing. 
 
 " Not much of anything," I answered. " I sat down to 
 make a horse for little bubby Lee." 
 
 ^ Is that child here again, to-day ? " she asked, sharply. 
 
 " No, I promised him some days ago." 
 
 " I really should think, Elizabeth, that child bad enough to 
 spoil him, without you. His mother and grandmother make 
 a fool of him ; and Mary, she must be running home every 
 other day to see him ; or, what is worse, he is brought over 
 here. I shall put a stop to this. I can't abide children ! " 
 
 I looked up in her pretty, delicate, well-kept face, in won- 
 dering surprise ; but when, a moment after, she turned and 
 spoke so caressingly to her pet canary, I knew that in the 
 above assertion she had belied herself and the good God. 
 Earth without children ! 0, I do not believe that He sends a 
 single soul into this world, to bear long, weary years of toil 
 and sorrow, unbrightened by the love for little children ! No, 
 nor that heaven can be heaven without childish faces and 
 childish voices ; or that paradise was quite paradise without
 
 THE DIARY 19 
 
 them ! I did not shock aunt by my heresies, however, but 
 said, gayly, 
 
 " 0, I don't wonder at Mary ! If I had such a nephew, I 
 would go twice as far to get a look at his healthy, happy face, 
 any day. It is enough to put one in good humor for a month. 
 I wish I had just such a boy ! " 
 
 I had shocked her, but had only time to catch her " Why, 
 Elizabeth Lytton ! " when a hearty laugh, followed by a deep 
 voice, crying, " A right, true, honest, womanly wish ! Stick 
 to the truth, Bessie, and shame the devil ! " started me, and I 
 
 turned to see the ample proportions of Dr. G filling the 
 
 door-way, while his cheerful, intelligent face beamed down 
 upon us from above the barriers of his fur collar, warm, heart- 
 inspiring as the sun itself. 
 
 I sprang forward to meet him, for a short illness has made 
 me acquainted with his excellences, and, what is better, won 
 him to be my friend, but stopped short when he moved his 
 broad shoulders aside, and I saw that he was accompanied by 
 
 H and Harold T ; T , whom I had not met in 
 
 more than a year. 
 
 I fancy I have some control over my nerves, but this rush- 
 ing current of blood is quite another thing. I felt it pouring 
 to my heart like water in a mill-race, impelling me to spring 
 forward and meet him ; but I mastered it, and listened, as, 
 with my hand buried in his great palm, the doctor went on, 
 
 " Get along, H , and pay your respects to your aunt. 
 
 Mr. T , let me introduce you to a young friend of mine, 
 
 Miss Elizabeth Lytton, a good, sensible sort of a girl, who, 
 if it were not for a certain Lydia Mason well, well, if 
 there were no ifs in the world some strange things would 
 happen." 
 
 This Lydia Mason is no other than the doctor's excellent 
 wife, who, according to him, stands in the way of his wedding 
 
 as many wives as Solomon. I turned to T ; but, 0, 
 
 Egypt, Thebes, Karnac and Luxor ! ye contain not within
 
 20 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDRASYL. 
 
 your mysterious temples one figure which can outrival, tho calm 
 immobility and cool indifference of his face, as, slightly touch- 
 ing my hand, he passed the usual compliments, and moved on 
 to be introduced to my aunt. 
 
 What could it mean ? He was the successful lawyer now ; 
 did he mean to ignore all memories and things connected with 
 his earlier struggles ? Possibly so ; and for one moment I felt 
 what Agassiz means by " Ice Periods." 
 
 The old doctor drew me along to a quiet sofa, and soon I 
 roused myself enough to listen to his conversation ; it was all 
 
 of T . His father had been an old college friend of his, 
 
 a man of unstable mind, who was unfortunate in everything, 
 if a man could really be said to be unfortunate who possessed 
 such a son (the doctor is childless) "the noblest, best boy 
 that ever lived ; the kindest, most considerate of sons" and, 
 
 though T had never spoken to me much of his youth, 
 
 I knew it must have been, so " mother, a lovely woman, died 
 when he was a mere boy, he 's the very image of her, 
 poor Ellen Bryne ! I knew her as a girl;" and the good man's 
 great, blue eyes filled with tears as he gazed proudly upon 
 T , who stood talking with aunt. 
 
 " She was a cousin of mine," he added, and it was well he 
 did so, for I began to wonder if some Lydia Mason had not 
 stood between them, so marked was his interest, " my cous- 
 in, and her boy inherited her spirit ; educated himself, grad 
 uated with high honor, and had just commenced the study of 
 
 law in the office of Judge B , when the man, in whose 
 
 hands the remnant of their property was deposited, failed, and 
 left his father, broken down, feeble, purposeless and energy- 
 less, dependent upon him for support. He gave up his studies 
 at once, and took the situation of principal of an academy in 
 well, somewhere in your region, I '11 be hanged if I can 
 remember the place, but somewhere on the Sound." 
 
 There was no need of his remembering I did. 
 
 " He staid there two years, when his father happily died
 
 THE DIARY. 21 
 
 M 
 
 Don't stare at me for saying happily, child. I did n't pre- 
 scribe for him ; besides, you cannot have lived in the world 
 thus long, without seeing that there are some people in it 
 
 who are evidently out of place. Mr. T was one of them 
 
 so he happily died. 
 
 " Now his son is a member of the New Haven bar, one of 
 the most talented of his class, and is here, as counsel in the 
 great case of ' Higgins versus Howe.' A noble fellow," added 
 the good man, rubbing his hands; "you must make his 
 acquaintance, surely." 
 
 So he had ignored me to one who, it seemed, was his near- 
 est friend. Well, I can be as proud as Harold T , any 
 
 day ; so I chatted with the doctor and H , who came and 
 
 took the seat on the other side of me, and allowed him to 
 wind the crochet purse I was netting over his delicate fingers 
 (I do wonder why he cannot let my work alone), and tease to 
 
 know if it was not designed for him, unchecked. Once T 
 
 looked over that way with a glance that an hour before I 
 would not have met for worlds even now, it disturbed me 
 
 for a moment ; but I thought, what right has Harold T 
 
 to stir my blood thus ? Have I thought of him as " my 
 master" until the sportive title has become real, and I am a 
 slave to cower thus before his glance ? So I glanced back 
 like a northern iceberg; but, only a few moments after, I 
 found myself yielding to the old fascination of his tones, as 
 he discussed Whipple's lecture of the evening before, and, in 
 
 reply to some remark of H , analyzed the lecture and 
 
 the lecturer in his calm, clear way, meting out praise and 
 censure like a god. How those tones recalled the past ! 
 My heart made pictures : there was the small parlor look- 
 ing out upon the sea mother on the lounge with her book 
 and knitting the two figures by the table, one occasionally 
 looking up from her drawing to answer some remark with 
 which the other had interrupted his reading ; and then thai 

 
 HZ LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDRASYL. 
 
 voice swept on again, to the accompaniment of the restless 
 waters. Did he not remember it, too ? 
 
 I was roused from my reverie by aunt's voice : 
 
 " Gr ; why, that is where you and your mother lived 
 
 awhile, Elizabeth. You must have been there about the same 
 time with Mr. T ! " 
 
 I looked T coolly in the face a second, before I replied, 
 
 " Yes, aunt." 
 
 Before she could question or comment, T said, with 
 
 half a smile, " Miss Lytton is no stranger to me ; I have had 
 the honor of meeting her before." 
 
 " The deuce you have ! " began the old doctor ; but, having 
 a sort of instinctive perception, I presume, that there was 
 something beside Lydia Mason in the way here, he very wise- 
 ly paused, and set to teasing H about his boot. Aunt, 
 
 unfortunately, had not his foresight. She kept on : " In- 
 deed, and Elizabeth is so much changed you hardly knew her. 
 Don't you think the change for the better ? We flatter our- 
 selves it is." T bowed, and I prayed that aunt might 
 
 be attacked with bronchitis anything to stop her mouth ; but 
 she kept on. " We think a year or so with us will quite 
 overcome her country manners give her quite a refined and 
 elegant air." 
 
 " Pshaw, Mrs. Sewal ! " fell in the doctor ; " we don't want 
 any air but a natural one, and the girl has that now. Don't 
 get any such nonsense into your head, child." 
 
 H and T both laughed, and I was glad when 
 
 they left, after aunt had politely invited T to " call 
 
 again." 
 
 Nov. \lth. I ought to feel flattered, I suppose ; for aunt, 
 if I do not greatly mistake her, actually thinks I may do for a 
 
 wife for her idol, H . Whether H has had any hand 
 
 in bringing her to take this view of the matter, I cannot say ; 
 I have no disposition to inquire. 0, these match-makers ! 
 
 Nov. 24th. A whole week of rainy, dirty, foggy weather !
 
 THE DIABY. 23 
 
 I don't believe any one can have patience with such weather ; 
 not even the " Shepherd of Salisbury Plain," especially if he 
 had been shut up in the house with Aunt Sewal all day, ay, 
 and all night, too, for uncle is absent, and she has insisted on 
 my occupying a cot-bed in her room, as a sort of guard I, 
 who sleep like a stone ! But I was obliged to yield, under 
 fear of seeming disobliging ; and so have been lulled to sleep, 
 
 every night, by a kind of doxology on H 's perfections. 
 
 I am cross and out of patience, and would welcome even a 
 slight shock of earthquake, if it would shake up aunt's ideas, 
 
 and give them a new direction. I like H ; I liked the 
 
 way in which he defended poor Fanny R the other day, 
 
 who, to say the least, has been more sinned against than 
 sinning. He took me by surprise. I find, under the crust 
 of fashion and conventionality, a good substratum of common 
 sense ; and I would draw it out, and make the most of it, if 
 it were not for this ridiculous plot of aunt's, and a kind of 
 fancy I have, that the gentleman does, at times, think him- 
 self irresistible. I wonder what makes most men fancy that 
 every unmarried woman is ready to fall into their arms, just 
 like a fly into a cup of sweetened water ? Is it because they 
 are so much like sweetened water ? Why cannot they have 
 sense enough to see that a woman may really like their socie- 
 ty, and feel a sincere regard for them, without " being in love 
 with them," as the phrase runs? And why cannot the world, 
 so owlish-eyed in most things, see that such a relation may 
 exist without any desire or intention, on the part of either of 
 the parties, to endow, or be endowed, " with all their worldly 
 goods " ? It would be such a gain to be able to say to a 
 person, " I like you," without being misunderstood ! It 's a 
 miserable, good-for-nothing world, any way. 
 
 Ah ! here comes Mary. That girl's face is a perfect maga- 
 zine of sunbeams. And yet they say that the death of her 
 father and brother have within two years reduced her from 
 decent competence to the position of servant. As she comes
 
 24 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRAfiYL. 
 
 singing up the stairs, she calls, " See, Miss Elizabeth ! It 'a 
 clearing up ! " 
 
 " How can you bear to sing in such weary, rainy weather, 
 Mary?" 
 
 " O, I don't know ; I sing without thinking ; I suppose it 's 
 a habit I 've got. I was thinking how nice this rain was for 
 people who needed water ! You know it has been so dry all 
 the fall, Miss, that the cisterns and wells are very low. Be- 
 sides, if one is contented, it does n't much matter about the 
 weather ; at least, mother says so," she added, in a hesitating 
 way. 
 
 Contented satisfied with one's self? Ay, that is it 
 Have n't I been all the week restless, dissatisfied, and uneasy, 
 laying all my misery to the weather? And why? It is 
 time to face this question boldly. Because I dare not look 
 
 into my heart, fearing to find there a love for Harold T , 
 
 which is neither sister's nor friend's ; that I have disgraced 
 my womanhood by loving unsought, unasked ? No ; that is 
 the world's utterance, the world's law, not mine. I am truer, 
 better, for that love ; the shame no, pain lies here, that 
 he may, has suspected it, and will teach me its futility. 'T is 
 well ; he shall find me not weak, nor backward in seconding 
 his aim. I will meet this truth like a woman who is bent 
 upon doing her best under all life's trials ! And yet, what 
 can I put in its place ? The love of God 2 Alas, the heart 
 is humanly weak ! 
 
 " See, Miss Elizabeth ! a light streak in the west. We 
 shall have fair weather to-morrow ! " cries Mary, from a dis- 
 tant chamber. 
 
 "Yes, I see!" Thank God that there are, also, light 
 streaks in the darkest hours of destiny, if we have but faith 
 and patience to watch and wait. It will dawn for me, yet ! 
 
 Evening. Uncle has returned from New York, bringing 
 dress-patterns for aunt and me. Mine is a very nice Turc 
 m satin aunt's a splendid watered silk. "It is proper that
 
 THE DIARY. 25 
 
 my niece should be well dressed ; I like to see her so, " wag 
 uncle's reply to my thanks. I wish he had not said just that ; 
 but, then, I am very grateful. I need the dress very much; 
 all the more because Miss Emilia Cranston, aunt's niece, is 
 coming up to spend the holydays here, and my old black silk 
 would look quite shabby, I fear. Mother thought I could 
 afford to have a new one, before I left home, especially if she 
 gave up buying an alpacca ; but I convinced her that the 
 alpacca must be had. I confess I am not philosophical 
 enough to get quite above this matter of dress. I think there 
 is more in the mind's craving for perfect harmony and fitness 
 in outward things, than many of our sages admit. The dress 
 of every woman should be evolved from her own mind an in- 
 dication of the grace, truth, purity, and beauty within. Haw- 
 thorne understands this ; the dark robe of Hester Prynne, 
 the gay scarlet of " little Pearl," the rusty silk of Miss 
 Hepzibah, and the variegated dressing-gown of poor Clifford, 
 are redolent of character. Only as- the " outward and visible 
 sign " of the inward harmony should dress be made a study ; 
 never for vulgar display. I am glad Miss Cranston is coming. 
 They say she is a belle and a beauty ; but, as I shall interfere 
 with her in neither of these matters, I fancy we shall be ex- 
 cellent friends. 
 
 Nov. 25th. Helping aunt and Sophia in the kitchen this 
 morning, and have won their admiration, for all time, by my 
 skill in making sponge cake and iceing. I have risen as 
 much as two degrees in aunt's estimation ; and rejoicing in 
 this and the clear sunlight, happy in the thought of my new 
 dress, Miss Cranston's expected arrival, and various other 
 things (how little it takes to make one happy sometimes!), 
 
 I was really delighted to see H when he called ; all the 
 
 more so (alas, poor human nature !) because I saw the horses 
 as he passed the window, and knew he had come to escort 
 me on a horseback ride. 
 
 0, what a glorious ride that was ! How fresh and invig- 
 3
 
 26 LEAVES FROM TILE TREK 1GDRASTL. 
 
 orating the rush of keen winter air, as we dashed down the 
 W road the ice-bound river sparkling in the sun- 
 
 light, and the bare brown hills leaning back lovingly against 
 the sky! How I longed to turn my horse's head towards 
 these hills ! I knew that among them there must be sunny 
 valleys, like the one in which I had taken my first lesson on 
 horseback, and I seemed to descry the very mountain paths 
 
 up which Annie B and I had urged our horses, on our 
 
 whortleberrying expeditions to the hills. Poor Annie B ! 
 
 no, happy Annie ! her feet have long since trod the dark 
 valley, and the opposite slopes have been smoothed for her 
 by angel hands. *'-,. C ; 
 
 Perhaps H , too, had his memories ; for he said, after 
 
 a long silence, as we sat watching the scene : 
 
 " I like to go out on a winter's day like this, the air is so 
 still, clear and cold. It seems to take from life all that is 
 merely accidental and factitious, and show it to us in its 
 original dignity and purity. I feel belittled when obliged to 
 go back to the daily routine of petty cares. Have you never 
 felt this, Miss Lytton ? " 
 
 " Often, very often," I said, in pleased surprise. " But, 
 my friend, do we take the lesson aright, if we fail to gain 
 from it wisdom and strength to dignify these same petty 
 details?" 
 
 "You are right you are always right, Miss Lytton!" 
 he said, thoughtfully. And so we chatted on, of life and 
 life's duties, until we reached home. Was there, or was 
 there not, a closer pressure of my hand than^ needful, when 
 he helped me from the horse ? Henceforth, I think I shall 
 be countrified, and spring off unassisted. 
 
 Nov. 2Qtk. All the talk is of T 's splendid plea. 
 
 His talent, his eloquence, meet me on every side prophecies 
 of his future success; and I rejoice miserable confession 
 
 when I can spare time from pitying myself. 
 
 Little "Bubby Lee" ia ill nigh unto death, they say.
 
 THE DIARY 27 
 
 Mary has gone home to assist in taking care of him. I must 
 go and see him to-morrow. 
 
 Nov. 27th. At widow Lee's. 
 
 They sleep at last, these poor, grief-stricken women, and I 
 am left alone with the child. As he turns his swollen, pur- 
 ple face uneasily on the pillow, and I think how soon it may 
 lie quite still beneath the winter snow, my eyes fill with tears 
 and my heart aches ; but not for the little one whose feet 
 have wandered but such a little way from the gate of heaven, 
 but for the mother and grandmother, along whose dreary 
 path he seems the only visible sunbeam. His disease is scar- 
 let fever, and my imprudence, as my friends term it, in 
 
 coming into it, will keep me here or at Dr. Gr 's until all 
 
 danger of the infection is over. Uncle and aunt are in a 
 
 great worry about it ; but Dr. Gr promises to take care of 
 
 me in case I do take it. He says he and his wife fear catch- 
 ing nothing of me but my " wilfulness." I intend to give 
 him a taste of it, for I shall not leave these poor people un- 
 til some one wiser than I comes to take my place ; and that 
 will not be immediately, I fancy, for the neighbors have all 
 little children, whom they dare not expose to the infection. 
 I have no fear and these poor women cling to me and look 
 up to me as if I were Minerva herself. 
 
 It is good to have one's energies taxed thus, and I thank 
 Heaven for this experience, and every other that has taught 
 me wisdom, or made me stronger for the battle of life. Mary 
 and I do everything, from the dropping of the medicine on 
 whose action hangs the life of the child, to the making of 
 the mustard paste drafts for the feet. There is no abundance 
 here, for the days when the widow's cruse was filled miracu- 
 lously have gone by ; but never did I feel so thankful for the 
 early schooling that taught me how to " make the most of 
 little" as now. 
 
 Nov. 2Sth. I sat by the fire this morning toasting a 
 piece of bread, and my faco shining a la Captain Cuttle
 
 28 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 when I heard ,Dr. G- calling me from the little entry. 
 
 Toasting-fork in hand, I hurried out, and found my hands, 
 bread, fork and all, clasped in those of H , who, oblivi- 
 ous of his fawn-colored gloves, poured forth inquiries after 
 my health. 
 
 " There, now you have seen her alive and well, with your 
 own eyes," interrupted the doctor, as I was assuring him of 
 my well-being, " I hope you are satisfied. I could n't get 
 rid of the fellow, Bessie," he went on, " though I assured 
 him you were never so well nor so handsome in your life ; 
 though you have got a ' beauty spot ' on your cheek it 
 answers for a patch, dear," he went on, grimacing, as I 
 raised my apron to efface the grim mark of the bread or 
 something else. " He doubted my honor as a Christian man, 
 the jackanapes, and insisted on seeing you with his own eyes. 
 Hang him ! he might teach perseverance to the saints." 
 
 " And in return for this interest I must turn him out the 
 door. Indeed," I said, as I put out my hand to prevent his 
 further entrance, "you must not come in. You can do no 
 good, and you may do harm to yourself and others." 
 
 " And yet you stay here, Miss Lytton, and peril your own 
 life, so dear to all your friends ! " he said reproachfully. " Is 
 there nothing I can do ? " 
 
 " Yes, you can play the widow's good angel, and replenish 
 our coal-bin ; for I confess I don't understand the art of 
 saving coal hi such weather." 
 
 " But is there nothing else nothing I can do for you ? " 
 
 " Yes, you can go away now, and tell uncle and aunt that 
 I am well, and thank them for permitting me to stay here." 
 
 " I almost forgot to tell you that Emilia Cranston arrived 
 yesterday," .-he said. 
 
 " Then you can take my place, and play the agreeable to 
 her," I said, laughing, as I shut the door in his face. 
 
 " Coolly done, thay said the doctor. " Take a little of
 
 THE DIARY. 29 
 
 the starch out of that fellow, so that common sense wil have 
 full play, and he '11 do he '11 do." 
 
 Evening. It has been a terrible day the little boy 
 wrestling with death, and the mother in hysterical swoons. 
 0, it is dreadful to see the sweet, innocent face of a child 
 thus distorted with agony ! My God, why need it be ? Mary 
 and her mother have watched over Mrs. Lee, and I have 
 hung over the child until I can scarcely breathe. I don't 
 know what ails me ; the top of my head seems hot and heavy 
 as burning lead. 
 
 Later. Doctor has come, bringing with him a hard- 
 featured, bony woman, whom he calls Mrs. Lane. She threw 
 off her things, and came up and shook my hand as if it had 
 been a mat or piece of rug, saying, half way between a laugh 
 and a cry : 
 
 " So, you 've been here all alone, and are clean fagged out, 
 as such a young crittur has a right to be ; for I know them 
 there " with a nod towards the bedroom door, where the 
 poor mother lay "kind critturs as ever breathed the 
 breath o' life do anything for other folks, but not worth a 
 snajyvhen trouble teches them. I 've thought on ye all, but 
 Jim was laid up with rheumatiz, so as he couldn't stir hand 
 nor foot. But Jim 's as kind a crittur, I must say, as ever 
 breathed ; and when he heard how bad on 't you was down 
 here, and the neighbors all skeered to death, he telled me to 
 send the boy over to Aunt Sally's, and come over ; and so I 
 did." 
 
 And she dropped my hand, and went round the room, put- 
 ting things in their places. Talk of elastic steps and fairy 
 feet, girls ! When the spontaneous goodness of our hearts 
 leads us to step as lightly in a sick-room as did this poor 
 woman, we shall have some reason to be proud ! 
 
 NLidnight. Mrs. Lane and the doctor watch the child, 
 while, too anxious to sleep, I sit and watch them. Again 
 and again the doctor examines the face of the child, while
 
 30 LEAVES FROM TILE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 his fingers never leave the thin wrist. At last a light breaks 
 over his face, and he whispers : 
 
 u He will live, Bessie ! The boy will live ! " 
 
 I sprang to my feet, and was making for the bedroom, 
 when he caught my hand. 
 
 " You foolish woman ! Will you bring that doting grand- 
 mother and half-crazy mother upon us, to undo what little 
 good we have done ? Wait an hour or so." 
 
 So I sat down again, and began watching the play of his 
 features, and thinking I wished I could sketch them, just as 
 he sat. I would rather have his portrait than Kossuth's. 
 
 "Doctor." 
 
 " Hush, you witch ! Cannot you write what you have got 
 to say, without yelling like a screechowl ? " 
 
 So I took a slip of paper, and wrote : 
 
 " Sit a little to the right, if you please, doctor." 
 
 " What for ? " in a whisper, hoarse as the voice of a 
 young Shanghai. 
 
 " I want to sketch your portrait." 
 
 " What will you do with it ? " Then, with a horrible 
 grimace, " Will that expression do ? " 
 
 " Put it in my cabinet of curiosities." 
 
 " You can't have it. Do you not know it is written, ' Ye 
 shall not make unto yourselves idols ? ' ' 
 
 " Ay, but they must be in the likeness of something in 
 heaven above or the earth beneath, you know. It is enough 
 for a reasonable man that I want it." 
 
 He looked at me closely a rnoiuent, before he replied, 
 
 "Lydia Mason shall see about that; but to prove that I 
 am reasonable, I shall take you home with me to-night. So 
 get your bonnet and cloak." 
 
 " I shall not go. Leave my charge because you say he is 
 better ! " 
 
 " You will ! " 
 
 " I shan't ! "
 
 THE DIARY. 31 
 
 Dec. 20^. At Dr. G 's. 
 
 I did go ; but how, or when, I have no distinct recollection. 
 For many days there has been no morning nor evening for 
 me ; only fever, and pain, and delirium ; the darkness that 
 steals up from the valley of the shadow of death. O, it ia 
 good to suffer ; for, without this, we should never know half 
 the kindness and love that lies deep hidden in some hearts ' 
 The rock must be smitten before the refreshing waters will 
 burst forth. 
 
 What but this could have made uncle and aunt watchers 
 
 by my bedside ; and the Lees, and Mrs. Lane, and H 
 
 too, all so anxious to do something for me; and, best of 
 
 all, glorious Doctor G and his noble wife ? Surely they 
 
 will have their reward ; " for I was a stranger and they took 
 me in ! " 
 
 Here comes the doctor, holding up a letter ; he frowns hor- 
 ribly at the sight of my occupation. Well, well, I promise 
 not another word to-day ; and so I get my letter. 
 
 Dec. 'Z\st. Mother's letter is unique. The dear woman 
 has all unconsciously achieved the desideratum in letter- writ- 
 ing ; for it places the home and neighborhood interests, cares 
 and joys, as plainly before me as if I were in the midst of 
 them myself. Yet how strange such passages as these would 
 
 sound in the ears of many of my city friends, H , for 
 
 instance, who is enthusiastic over the beauty of rural life : 
 
 " Potatoes are going down, and last week George F 
 
 carted all we have to spare to G , at fifty cents per 
 
 bushel. It makes quite a difference in the profits, as we reck- 
 oned them ; but I hope to make it up on the hay. That is 
 
 rising, and Mr. F advises me to keep it a while longer, 
 
 thinking it will get up to twenty dollars per ton before spring. 
 It has been so warm that we have not butchered the pigs 
 
 yet ; but Mr. F killed last week, and his largest weighed 
 
 four hundred and fifty Ibs. Black Ann is to help me about 
 the work ; so you need not worry about me."
 
 32 LEAVES FROM TUl: TREE IGDKA3YL. 
 
 Yet, to me, that fall in the price of potatoes is a serious 
 matter ; for, if we caunot make up the difference somehow, we 
 may find ourselves homeless; for our hard creditor, Mr. 
 
 J , gives us no choice the interest of the mortgage, or 
 
 the house and few remaining acres themselves. 
 
 Here is a postscript : 
 
 " Be very careful to please your uncle and aunt, my child. 
 It is very kind in him to notice us, and his favor can be of 
 great advantage to you in many ways." 
 
 Ah ! there spoke not my mother, but the worldly wisdom 
 which such natures as hers gain from circumstances. 
 
 O, the heaviest curse of poverty is not that we must earn 
 our bread by the sweat of the brow, but the constant canker- 
 ing care it brings, eating into the finest natures like rust ! 
 Men praise it as a teacher of great truths, and so it is ; but, 
 if it sometimes develops the intellect, it not unfrequently 
 dwarfs the heart. To be free from these petty cares to be 
 able to free others to lift the leaden weights from the spirit, 
 and give it a free development this is why I would be 
 rich. 
 
 As to uncle's kindness in noticing us, methinks it would 
 have been more apparent, and to the purpose, had he done it 
 when you, my mother, were struggling to give an education to 
 your fatherless child ! Now, when we have won for ourselves 
 friends among the good and learned, I fancy it is no conde- 
 scension in him to acknowledge " my niece." 
 
 Dec. 22d. H and Miss Cranston called to see me 
 
 to-day. She is beautiful, and was kind enough to express an 
 earnest wish to have me return to uncle's. H is cer- 
 tainly losing his tact, or he would never have forgotten him- 
 self so far as to have said it was " dull and stupid " at uncle's 
 without me, and that lady by his side! I thought Miss 
 Cranston, in spite of her retenue, looked rather annoyed. I 
 never knew him guilty of such a betise before. 
 
 Dec. 23d. I am to go home after dinner, Christmas-day.
 
 THE DIARY. 33 
 
 Aunt has been here, and doctor and she have finally settled 
 it thus. She was in excellent spirits, and talked of the par- 
 ties which were to be given during the holidays, and which 
 Emilia and I would be expected to attend "such a good 
 opportunity for me to see something of city life." 
 
 The doctor said nothing, but sat and, drew coffins on the 
 margin of the newspaper before him, as a sort of warning 
 to me, I suppose, of the end to which these parties would 
 lead ; and somehow I grew sad and dismal, and was glad when 
 aunt left. 
 
 Doctor and his wife are plotting some conspiracy, I be- 
 lieve ; for even now they are whispering outside the door. 
 When he comes in again, I will make him think his hoarse 
 whispers have betrayed his secret. 
 
 Dec. 2-itk. He came in, the good doctor, with a face so 
 sad that I almost repented of my plotted mischief. He 
 " pished " and " pshawed " at the " Era," which he took from 
 the table, and seemed in anything but a peaceable, Christian 
 .temper. At last I said : 
 
 " You need n't look so solemn, doctor, I know all about 
 it." 
 
 " The deuce you do ! " his face evidently brightening. 
 " Who could have told you? " 
 
 " 0, it 's an age of wonders ; perhaps the rapping spirits. 
 Of course I should not be left long in ignorance of what so 
 nearly concerns ^ne." 
 
 " True," and he seated himself by my side, and looked at 
 me long and earnestly, before he added, " Then you don't 
 care for this, child ? " 
 
 " Yes, indeed, very much. But I might care a little more 
 intelligently, if I only knew precisely what the great ' this ' 
 is." 
 
 " Why, you said you did know ! " 
 
 " So I do, that you and Mrs. G are plotting some 
 
 Christmas surprise for me. I heard you in the hall, - some-
 
 34 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IUDRA3YI.. 
 
 thing to add to earth's sunlight, or it would not be you, kind 
 friend ; " and my eyes filled with tears at the thought of all I 
 owed them. 
 
 " Sunlight ! I wish it was ! Such a miserable earth as 
 this is ! filled with all manuer of rascalities. I have tried to 
 make the best of it until I am tired, and the sooner it is 
 burned up the better ! '-' And he got up and gave the fore- 
 sfick a kick (he insists on my sitting by a wood fire) that sent 
 a shower of sparks up the chimney, as a preliminary, I sup- 
 pose, to the grand conflagration he deemed so desirable. 
 
 Seeing he was seriously disturbed about something, I 
 repressed the jest that rose to my lips, and waited his next 
 words in silence. 
 
 " I feel just as if I could fight, Bessie," he said at length, 
 settling himself in the chair by my side. " I am angry at 
 myself and everybody else, yourself included, for I have some- 
 thing to say to you, and you don't help me a bit." 
 
 " To me ! " I said, rather startled. " What is it ? " 
 
 " It is what you will deem an impertinent question ; but, 
 tell me, child," he went on very seriously, taking my hands 
 
 in his, " has Harold T ever been to you aught but a 
 
 friend ? ever by word or glance sought to win your love ? " 
 
 " Doctor G , will you tell me why I am to answer this 
 
 question which which " 
 
 " Does not concern me, you would say. Can you not trust 
 me thus far, my child, without a reason ? " he asked. " I said 
 by word or glance," he added, seeing me still hesitate. 
 
 0, words of mocking raillery, high courage, and earnest 
 interest, glances whose mission begun when that of words 
 ended, how ye stood out from the past ! but not one which 
 might not have fallen from a brother's lip or eye ! And so I 
 told the doctor, and more, how that I had met him at a 
 period when my moral and intellectual being were struggling 
 for some wider development than contented those around me ; 
 how he had kindly slackened his own swift pace in the march
 
 THE DIAK.T. 35 
 
 of progress, to aid my stumbling steps; how he had been 
 teacher, friend, master, but nothing more ; and an earnest 
 " Thank God ! " was the reply. 
 
 " But may I know," I added, after a moment's pause, 
 " what led you to suppose such a thing ? " 
 
 " He told me himself that he had boarded with your 
 mother more than a year, and, knowing you both, I could not 
 well conceive how it could be otherwise : besides " 
 
 "What, doctor?" 
 
 " I would not say what, were it not needed to explain my 
 impertinence. You were delirious when you were ill, 
 and " 
 
 I saw it all, and buried my burning face in my hands, 
 while tears of womanly pride rushed to my eyes. 
 
 In a moment or two, he gently raised my head as he said, 
 " Forgive me, Bessie. It was but the raving of delirium I 
 am convinced. I would n't have distressed you so for a less 
 reason." 
 
 " What is that reason ? " I asked, looking him once more 
 firmly in the face. 
 
 " Harold T is about to marry the niece of Judge 
 
 A , the widow N . I have it on what I believe good 
 
 authority ; and I could not bear to think that he who had 
 stood to me in the stead of the children God has denied me, 
 was an unmitigated scoundrel. It is bad enough as it is ! " 
 
 I drew my hand from his, that he might not mark the 
 throbbing pulse, and, after a moment's silence, asked, 
 
 "This Mrs. N ; what kind of woman is she? One 
 
 worthy of Harold T " 
 
 " Yes, rich, and vain, and ambitious ! " he replied, getting 
 up and kicking the fire, as if he were punishing Harold by 
 
 proxy. " I wonder I could be so angry when Mr. X 
 
 expressed surprise that she should stoop to him ! " 
 
 " That is no answer to my question, doctor. Is she 
 worthy of him ? "
 
 36 LEAVES FROM THE THEE IGDRASYL. 
 
 " Bessie," he said, again sitting down, ' ; I had got a plan 
 into my head which this news has sadly disturbed, and, like 
 most positive men, when they see their schemes thwarted, am 
 cross and ill-tempered. Perhaps I would play the part of 
 Providence too much, and so am reminded of my weakness. 
 Is she worthy ? but, tell me, what should Harold's wife be 
 like ? " 
 
 " Like that," I said, pointing to a drift of unsullied snow 
 without ; " pure in thought, word and deed ; yielding to him 
 like that to the rays of the sun, but firm to all the world 
 beside. She must be all the world to him, or nothing." 
 
 " And Harriet N is likelier to be something to all the 
 
 world than to her husband, unless her passion for admiration 
 be much abated," he replied, dryly. " He must be attracted 
 by her wealth, and the connection the match will afford him. 
 Her uncle has offered him a partnership in his office, I hear. 
 I will never attempt to judge character again, so honest, so 
 self-reliant, he seemed. He came here to inquire after you 
 twice before he left the city, asd, whe"n he turned away 
 his face, as I spoke of your danger, I thought but 't was 
 all a sham. 0, he has grown scheming betimes ! He will 
 be a judge, yet ! " 
 
 Why should he ask after me at all ? What was I to him, 
 what could I give him ? this poor, undeveloped girl, who 
 had caught light and life from his teachings. 
 
 And then I thought of the beautiful and accomplished 
 
 Mrs. N , of all she could do for him, the weary struggles 
 
 which her position and wealth might save him those strug- 
 gles which ever attend the first years of a poor professional 
 man's life and I spoke of this to Dr. Q- . 
 
 " Better that he face them like a man, than escape by a 
 mercenary marriage ! " thundered he. "It is just that which 
 gives strength and stamina to the character ! Faugh ! I de- 
 spise such cowardice."
 
 THE DIARY. 37 
 
 " But the marriage may not be mercenary. He doubtless 
 loves her, and she cannot fail of loving Harold T ." 
 
 " Others have, it seems," he answered dryly ; then went on 
 alternately berating them both, until, for old kindness' sake, 
 I roused myself to interfere. 
 
 " You wrong them, doctor. ' You are angry, and so wrong 
 
 them both. This Mrs. N is not unworthy simply because 
 
 she is fashionable. Besides, you say, she has two children ; 
 and she cannot be quite the frivolous thing you make her 
 out, with such a bridge between hor and heaven." 
 
 " Get out of the way, then ! " he replied, half way between 
 a grin and a smile. " fc 's enough to provoke a saint, to hear 
 you defend such folly ! If it were not proof that you do not 
 care for him, I should be tempted to swear ! " And he flung 
 himself out of the room, and, a moment after, I saw him driv- 
 ing furiously down the street. 
 
 Christmas Eve. The doctor and his wife are singing 
 Milton's glorious hymn of the Nativity below, and there is a 
 harmony and tenderness in their tones, as they reach me, 
 better than all art. So have they sung together, on every 
 Christmas eve, for twenty-five years. May it be long before 
 God calls them to sing it on high ! 
 
 " Bessie, come help us ! " calls the doctor. 
 
 No, friends ; I am passing through the Valley of Humilia- 
 tion to-night, and the Miserere Deus mei is a more fitting 
 strain for me, than that song of joy. I am struggling with 
 pride and weakness ; and when I conquer, as by the help of 
 God I surely shall, I may, perchance, find that herb, " heart's- 
 ease," which is said to grow so plentifully here, and be able 
 to sing with the shepherd-boy of whom Bunyan speaks : 
 
 " He that is down need fear no fall; 
 
 He that is low, no pride ; 
 He that is humble ever shall 
 Have God to bo his guide." 
 
 4
 
 38 LEAVES FBOM THE TREE IGDBASTL. 
 
 Christmas Day. Last night life seemed so mean and 
 worthless, I was so weak and selfish, that I could not hear 
 the song of the angels could see nothing in this great uni- 
 verse, but my own petty self; but this morning it is better. 
 There is nothing like right, true, honest, friendly words and 
 glances to lay evil spirits ! They are sometimes better than 
 prayer and fasting. I was convinced of this when I met the 
 friendly greeting of the doctor and his wife this morning, and 
 looked upon his radiant face. Surely, I told him laughingly, 
 in Sir John Suckling's words : 
 
 " No sun upon an Easter day 
 Was half so fine a sight ;" 
 
 but he suggested " warming-pan " as being, at the same time, 
 more " correct and professional." 
 
 How pleasant was that small breakfast-room, how deli- 
 cious the coffee and the buckwheat cakes ! 
 
 11 Bessie," said good Mrs. G , after breakfast, " we 
 
 always let Sally go to church on Christmas day, and, as 
 we shall have to hurry, we shall press you into the service. 
 Will you seed these raisins ? " 
 
 I don't know what there was about those raisins, but with 
 every seed I flung out my heart grew lighter, and I had 
 
 struck up an accompaniment to Mrs. G 's song, as she 
 
 tripped back and forth between the breakfast-room and the 
 kitchen, when the doctor put his head into the door with, 
 
 " Well, Lydia, I am going ! " 
 
 " Where ? " she asked, scarcely interrupting her song. 
 
 " First, to see Mi*. P , then to poor Pat Smiley's." 
 
 " I hope you '11 find them better, poor souls ! Sally, don't 
 let the rice burn ! " cried the good woman, as she went up to 
 her husband to arrange his shirt-collar, which, whatever may 
 be the prevailing fashion, always manifests something of the 
 wearer's individuality, and stands just as it has a mind to. 
 
 " 0, the deuce take the collar ! " he cried, seizing her hand
 
 THE DIARV. 39 
 
 and drawing his head in and out of his furs, like a turtle. 
 " Have you nothing to think of but rice and starch, this 
 morning ? " 
 
 " O, yes, a plenty of things ; puddings, and vegetables, 
 and the cranberry sauce, I came near forgetting that," she 
 said, laughing and attempting to get free. 
 
 But he held her tight while he said, looking down into her 
 eyes, gravely : 
 
 " There is another sauce for our Christmas dinner, wife, 
 which I am afraid you have forgotten." 
 
 " What is it ? " she asked, all the housekeeper stirring in 
 her at once. " I have tomato, quince," 
 
 " No, no," he said, interrupting her, " I see you have not 
 got it, but if you will take that nice baked spare-rib, on the 
 second shelf in the pantry (I 've been in there), a few mince 
 pies, and anything else that comes handy, and put them into 
 my carriage, I guess I can find what we want at Pat Smiley's. 
 Don't you think, wife, that the knowledge that those hungry- 
 eyed, gaunt little ghouls of his (there are a dozen or so of 
 them) are well fed for once in their lives, will give a better 
 relish to our own dinner, than ketchup or cranberry ? " 
 
 She looked up in his face a moment, before she flew to do 
 as he suggested; and that man must be worse than a Hottentot 
 who would not prize such a revelation higher than the ap- 
 plause of the whole world. 
 
 Mrs. G- and Sally both went to church, leaving me to 
 
 watch the baking ; and between that and writing a little to 
 mother I spent the morning. 
 
 When I entered the dining-room, I found out the meaning 
 of all the whispering and plotting yesterday, for "Bubby 
 Lee," looking almost as rosy and plump as before his illness, 
 ran into my arms with his " Merry Christhmath, Mith Itton ; " 
 and the two widows, mother and daughter, and Mary, came 
 round me, uttering the name kind wishes mingled with grate- 
 ful tears.
 
 4U LEAVES FROM T1IK TKEK 1UUKASYL. 
 
 They had all been invited to dinner, and the doctor, quite 
 opportunely for my composure, ordered them all to their 
 seats at the table, brandishing his carving-knife threateningly 
 at Mary, who insisted on waiting on the table with Sally. 
 
 " I am as hungry as a bear, good people," he said, as he 
 piled up their plates with good things, " and I heartily hope 
 that you will keep me company. No, no ketchup ; I got 
 enough of that sauce we spoke of this morning, to last through 
 one dinner. Wife, did you know you had an angel for your 
 husband ? " 
 
 " I thought I had a warming-pan, this morning," she said. 
 
 " All right there is a closer connection between warming- 
 pans and angels than some people think. Take some more 
 of this dressing, Mrs. Lee ? " 
 
 " What sort of an angel, doctor? " I asked ; " there are two 
 kinds, you know." 
 
 " One right from heaven, according to Pat Smiley and his 
 wife : and they, being true believers, ought to know. So no 
 insinuations, Miss." And he went on to giv"e us such a lu- 
 dicrous account of the gratitude of the poor Irish family, 
 mingled with, here and there, true touches of pathos as he 
 described the condition of the helpless father, as compelled 
 both our laughter and our tears. 
 
 The happy faces of the Lees were good sauce for our festi- 
 val dinner, and we ate it with happy hearts. And when, on 
 rising from the table, the doctor fervently thanked God, not 
 merely for the good things which had been set before us, but 
 that He had put it into our hearts to share them with others, 
 I felt the true meaning of the custom ; for the mean and 
 the dishonest, the wicked and hard-hearted, may sit at loaded 
 tables but God alone can put it into their hearts to share 
 their goods with others. 
 
 Catching up the little boy in his arms, he led the way to 
 the parlor, which I had found, to my surprise, close locked, in 
 the morning. He now unlocked the door, threw it open, and
 
 THL J'lAKY. 41 
 
 there, iu the centre of the room, stood a table covered with 
 gifts. No Christmas tree could have supported the beautiful 
 illustrated copy of Shakspeare that bore my name, nor the 
 heavy, warm material for winter clothing, which they had 
 provided for their other guests. 
 
 " That will keep you warm on your way to school, this 
 winter," said the doctor, flinging a nice " Bay State " shawl 
 over Mary's shoulders, as his wife placed in her hand a" certif- 
 icate of her membership in the " Webster High School," for 
 the ensuing term. 
 
 " Bessie was planning to make a dress-maker of you, Mary," 
 said the doctor ; " but my wife happened to see the accounts 
 you keep for your mother, and thought a clerkship in Mr. 
 
 C 's store would be much better for you, seeing that 
 
 fashionable dress-makers are, with reference to their appren- 
 tices, very much like the horseleeches, crying, ' Give ! give ! ' 
 without an adequate equivalent in return. I know something 
 about this, for Lydia Mason and I took the trouble to inquire. 
 And, Bessie, next time you feel inclined to advocate ' women's 
 rights,' please bear in mind the fact, that we men do give our 
 apprentices their board and a fair knowledge of their business, 
 if nothing more ; while a girl is made to board herself, and 
 kept sewing away at cross-stitch and back-stitch, and" the 
 Lord knows what, for a whole six months or a year, and at 
 the end knows no more about fitting a dress than I do. And 
 if she were to stay three years, it would be just so, for when 
 women do choose to serve the devil, they do it with a better 
 grace than we men. Is it not so, Bessie ? " 
 
 I was obliged to confess that I knew more than one young 
 girl, who had sewed six months for her mistress, earning her 
 fair wages, and had returned home an adept in making all 
 sorts of trimmings, but without ever having been permitted to 
 fit a common muslin dress. 
 
 People talk of the eloquence of gratitude, but when the 
 heart is full, it is still. Our guests found it so ; they had 
 4*
 
 VZ LKAVES FROM XliE TREE 10DRASYL. 
 
 " no words " they said, and that was enough. But as they sit 
 over their humble fire to-night, talking over their dinner, and 
 viewing again and again their presents, I much doubt if they 
 do not think, with Pat Smiley's wife, that the doctor and his 
 wife are good as angels, or even better, at least, better 
 judges of flannels, lambs-wool stockings and shoe-leather. At 
 least, I thought so, when, with loving words and smiles, and 
 some tears, they wrapped me up, buried me in furs and 
 
 shawls, and with Mrs. G 's motherly kiss and blessed 
 
 words on my brow and in my heart, the doctor placed me in 
 his carriage and drove to my uncle's. 
 
 My heart was full, too full for words, and the sight of the 
 happy faces in the street, the troops of rosy children, the 
 sound of the merry Christmas greetings as we drove along, 
 only deepened my sense of the divine love which it seemed 
 must penetrate every heart. 
 
 As we drove up at uncle's door, H stood on the steps 
 
 to receive us ; but, as he sprang to the side of the carriage, 
 the doctor put him aside, with some joke about being super- 
 seded by a younger man, and, taking me in his arms, bore me 
 in and placed me on the sofa. 
 
 They gathered round me with their Christmas greetings, 
 and I, like a simpleton, burst into tears. Then there was 
 confusion ; uncle crying out that I was fainting, aunt, Emilia, 
 and H , running all ways for restoratives, while the doc- 
 tor quietly seated himself by my side, undid my wrappings, 
 and whispered, " Is this really the wisest thing you can do, 
 Bessie ? " 
 
 I could not help smiling at his look ; and, taking - a glass of 
 
 water from H , I shook off my tippets, and begged uncle's 
 
 pardon for being so nervous. 
 
 Happily, uncle and aunt felt it incumbent upon them to bo 
 
 very thankful to Doctor G . and say a great deal of their 
 
 obligations. 
 
 " Obligations ! " said the latter, laughing ; " ask my wife
 
 THE DIAKY. 43 
 
 about that. Why, 't was only yesterday she convinced me 
 that we could give more in Christmas charities this year than 
 ever, because God had blessed us with the love of this girl 
 here. My wife has a curious way of seeing things; but 
 H here looks as if he understood all about it." 
 
 If H did, uncle and aunt did not ; but uncle said he 
 
 was infinitely obliged to Mrs. G for her good opinion of 
 
 his niece, and aunt always knew her "to be a very kind- 
 hearted woman ; " and so the doctor took his leave. 
 
 -Sophie came in to welcome me back ; and certainly her 
 yellow face was not the least pleasant thing that met my 
 sight. 
 
 But they were all in excellent spirits ; uncle unbent him- 
 self so far as to laugh at some of the pointed sallies flying 
 
 between H and Emilia, and aunt seemed for once in the 
 
 world quite forgetful of household cares. Tired and weak, I 
 sat and watched them, and thought how handsome they were, 
 all four, and could understand something how a man of 
 uncle's mental calibre must feel towards one as plain-looking 
 
 as " my niece." Emilia and H are both worthy of their 
 
 race. I could not help whispering some of these thoughts to 
 aunt, who opened her eyes, and answered : 
 
 " Ay, just so ; Emilia, though, is more of a Cranston than 
 
 an H . The Cranstons are a fine-looking family. But 
 
 what are you saying, child ? You are not so very plain, 
 not ugly, you know. Indeed, now, I think this illness has 
 improved you. You have lost that well, that fulness of 
 the chest and shoulders, that country look, as I call it. With 
 a little attention to dress, your figure will be quite slender 
 to what it was before. By the by, do you know H ad- 
 mires your figure ? He says it is just the style which one sees 
 in the paintings of the f old masters. W r e had quite a discus- 
 sion about it the other day, and he half convinced me that he 
 was right." 
 
 As he always does, I mentally added, while I prayed that
 
 44 LEAVES FROM TUK TREK IQDRA3YL. 
 
 H might not take it into his head to make me the chief 
 
 figure in his domestic pictures. 
 
 But this prayer was needless, my uncle, my mother's own 
 brother, has saved me any further trouble on this score. My 
 face even now burns with shame, when I think of the mean, 
 parsimonious character they must think me ; and I would fain 
 have had their esteem. 
 
 0, did they know what it is to be in debt ! to be obliged 
 to calculate every little expense, or leave my mother shelter- 
 less! Could I make up my mind to explain all this go into 
 the details ; but, no, I will not do it ; I should be but a 
 beggar in their eyes just what I seem now. I will go 
 home I will go into my school again, and He who " tempers 
 the wind to the shorn lamb " will care for us ! 
 
 But let me lok at this thing as it is. One day, before I 
 went to Mrs. Lee's, at aunt's request I accompanied her to a 
 jeweller's store. She made some trifling purchase, and then 
 asked to look at some sets of pearl ornaments, arranged in a 
 new style, which they had advertised. She asked my opinion 
 of them, and also of some elegant silver card-cases, and I said 
 they were " very beautiful." 
 
 " Lizzie Olinstead has just bought a set. Would not you 
 like one, Elizabeth ? They would be just the thing for you," 
 she said. 
 
 The sight of all these rich and beautiful things had brought 
 very vividly to my mind the thought of our poverty, and I 
 answered hastily, 
 
 " No, aunt ; I would much rather have the money they 
 would cost." 
 
 I had forgotten all about it, when, just as I was getting to 
 feel at home among them to-night, uncle placed before Miss 
 Cranston a box containing one of those identical sets of pearls, 
 and a beautifully chased card-case, as Christmas gifts from 
 himself and aunt; then, turning to me, put into my bind a 
 bank-note, saying, in his coldest, dryest tone,
 
 THE DIARY. 45 
 
 " It was the intention of your aunt and myself to give you 
 a set of ornaments and a case like Miss Cranston's, Elizabeth ; 
 but, understanding that you value ready money higher than 
 such tokens of affection, you have the equivalent there." 
 
 I did not see H 's look of wonder or Miss Cranston's 
 
 stare. I only felt them, while I saw my father laboring with 
 his pen, with the death-mark on his brow, that my mother 
 need not ask aid of those who had spurned her for his sake. 
 I heard only his low whisper, as he drew my little arms 
 around his neck, the morning he died, and, with great, bright 
 eyes looking into mine, whispered between his fits of cough- 
 ing : 
 
 " Take good care of your mother, my little Bessie ; she will 
 have no one but you now." 
 
 This memory, and the consciousness that I had fulfilled my 
 father's command, kept me on my feet now, weak as I was, 
 though I dared not trust myself to speak, but stood motion- 
 less, holding in my outstretched hand the bill towards 
 uncle. 
 
 " Is there any mistake, child ? That bill is a good one," 
 he said, in that same hard tone. 
 
 I could bear it no longer. Dropping the bill on the table, 
 I burst into tears, and fled to my room. What must they 
 think of me ? Why should I care ? 0, is this cold, proud, 
 unsympathizing man my mother's brother, and could he find 
 it in his heart to humiliate me thus? But he knew not 
 what he did. Ah, yes, father, he knew not what he did, and 
 I' can bear it. But I will go home. 
 
 There, that is aunt's step coming on the stairs ! Now no 
 more tears. 
 
 Dec. 2Qth. It was aunt, and, to my great surprise, she 
 was followed by uncle, both anxious to know if I was ill, if 
 I felt any return of my fever, that I behaved so strangely. 
 
 I felt more than ever, as I listened to their inquiries, that 
 I could not explain, so I merely said that aunt had misunder-
 
 46 LEAVES FKOM THE TRKK IOUKASYL. 
 
 stood the meaning of my remark in Mr. R 's store ; that 
 
 I had forgotten all about it, and therefore was surprised at 
 being charged with the meanness of hoarding money for 
 itself. 
 
 Uncle interrupted me by saying that he was very glad to 
 find he was mistaken ; that it seemed strange that one so 
 young should be tainted by so low a vice, especially a lady, 
 but from the knowledge he had of my family on my father's 
 side I rose to my feet at once, and, with a firmness and a 
 pride which I was scarcely conscious of possessing before, in- 
 terrupted him : 
 
 " Allow me to remind you, sir, that, under your own roof, 
 the name of a guest's father should be sacred. That is one 
 of the lessons my own father taught me as a child ; and you 
 wrong him, you wrong my mother, your own sister, sir," 
 I went on, my woman's nature getting the better of my calm- 
 ness, " when you presume to hint that he sought her from 
 mercenary motives. 0, you did not know him, or you would 
 never dream of such a thing ! " 
 
 Uncle gazed at me a moment between surprise and indig- 
 nation. I think the former predominated, for the remark 
 that he made, as soon as he gained -breath, indicated that he 
 did not dream that any one in his senses could talk thus to 
 a Sewal. It was this, and addressed to aunt : 
 
 " It must be that Elizabeth is light-headed still. Had we 
 not better send for Dr. G ? " 
 
 Aunt's woman's nature gave her an inkling of the truth. 
 She said I was weak and tired out, and rather hysterical ; 
 that she would sit with me awhile', while he went down. 
 Then Heaven help the well-meaning but simple-minded 
 soul ! she went on trying to explain to me the mistake, 
 and, in so doing, repeated the remarks my conduct had elic- 
 ited down stairs ; how grave H had looked, and how 
 
 Miss < .anston had said she would not have believed it pos- 
 sible for any lady to be so mean ; and when she had tried to
 
 THB DIARY. 47 
 
 explain, by telling something of my circumstances in life, 
 Emilia had not thought it so strange, for she " supposed poor 
 people, who are obliged to count every cent they spend, must 
 naturally think a great deal of money." 
 
 0, what a Job's comforter was this aunt of mine, with her 
 lack of tact and heart-knowledge ! Sitting there, in her 
 rich silk dress, with her exquisite cap and faultless laces, she 
 brought to my thought another figure. Which looked best in 
 the eyes of the angels, I cannot say, but I know which most 
 comforted my sore and weary heart. It was the figure of our 
 
 kind neighbor, Mrs. F , coming across the fields, with her 
 
 yellow flannel blanket on her shoulders, and a spotted muslin 
 cap, with wide, crimped borders, shading her face, to see if 
 mother was quite well if she would need any little thing 
 done for her, which her boys, Bill or John, could do, while I 
 was busy in my school always saying some strong, hopeful, 
 cheering word. That yellow flannel blanket covert.* a noble 
 heart. Would that I could rest, my head against it this 
 moment and hear her " Never mind, child, thete are briers 
 enough in one's path at times, I know, but they will all be 
 cleared away at last ! " 
 
 New-Year's Day, 1852. All goes on here the same as 
 before that scene on -Christmas evening, save that uncle's 
 manners have been a little more frigid and stately than 
 usual. Miss Cranston evidently considers me as one whom 
 she can patronize. She has shown me all her dresses and 
 jewelry, and given me a history of all her flirtations and 
 friendships ; in short, I am in a fair way to be installed as 
 confidant to a beautiful belle not to say coquette. A 
 strange position for one like me. 
 
 H seems more thoughtful, grave and manly, than he 
 
 did before that affair. He has never referred to it; unless it 
 was by a glance this morning, when he came in to ask me to 
 ride a short distance, and presented Miss Cranston and aunt 
 each with a beautiful brooch, while he placed in my hand a
 
 48 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDRASYL. 
 
 most magnificent bouquet of pansies, saying something about 
 my great love of flowers. I was touched by this proof of his 
 delicacy, and was not ashamed to let him see it. He never 
 seemed more worthy of being beloved than at that moment. 
 
 There have been several parties, the past week, which I have 
 been obliged to enjoy second-hand from the piquant descrip- 
 tions of Miss Cranston and H . I have plead ill-health 
 
 for not attending, and the excuse has been accepted. Indeed, 
 I am not strong, and so to-day I am permitted to keep my 
 room, while Emilia, after the New York custom, receives 
 calls. She flits back and forth, between the parlors and my 
 room, like a beautiful bird, to report her calls. Just now she 
 
 came in to tell me she had received a call from H , 
 
 and begged me to guess who was with him. 
 
 " How should I know, dear ? " I said, smiling at hei 
 eagerness. " Your impatience would never wait until I had 
 done guessing." 
 
 " How stupid ! Why, it was Mr. T , the young 
 
 lawyer, whonfthey are all talking about." 
 
 " Mr. T ; I thought he was in New York." 
 
 " 0, he 's on his way to Boston, and so called to see me. 
 O, I wish the P s and V s knew it ! " 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " 0, because it would vex them so. They are dying to get 
 him to visit at their houses." 
 
 " But what is there peculiar about the man ? " 
 
 " O, enough. He never compliments, or, at least, very 
 rarely. And then he says such queer things, just what he 
 thinks of you. For instance, I was playing one day when he 
 called at our house, and, at his request, kept on. I played 
 brilliantly ; and when I had finished, instead of professing 
 himself ' delighted,' ' charmed,' and all that, he never said a 
 word, only gave me a simple bow. Determined to make him 
 speak, I asked him, laughingly, if the piece was not well ex- 
 ecuted ? What do you think he said ? Why, ' No, not for
 
 THE DIARY. 49 
 
 one with my superior talent for music ana opportunities for 
 practice.' Did you ever hear anything so odd ? And yet, for 
 the life of me, I could n't be angry. By the by," she added, 
 putting her head back through the door, as she flitted out, 
 " he said he had met you here, and made due inquiries. I 
 
 referred him to H , as being the best qualified to answer, 
 
 having driven you out this morning." 
 
 " They say he i* to marry Mrs. N , of your city," I 
 
 said. 
 
 " Not if I can get him myself; " and away she flew. Well, 
 well, what is it to me ? 
 
 Jan. 8th. " But our house is so much warmer and more 
 comfortable than even the best of country houses ; so much 
 better for you, in your state of health, that you will not 
 think of going home until spring, child ; certainly not, now 
 that your mother has written advising you to stay." 
 
 Aunt and I were discussing a letter which I received from 
 mother yesterday, in which, anxious for my health, she had 
 advised me to remain in the city until the spring ; and aunt, 
 as above, warmly seconded her wish. 
 
 I suppose I shall have to remain a while longer, at least, 
 or deeply oflend these good people ; but " warmth and com- 
 fort ! " there is more warmth and comfort in my mother's 
 eyes than in all the anthracite ever discovered. 
 
 Jan. Qtk. I remember having seen somewhere a "diary" 
 of Peggy Dow, consort of the celebrated Lorenzo Dow, in 
 which divers events were put down under the head of " Re- 
 markable Experiences." I think the affair of this morning 
 must come under that head. Some half dozen times since I 
 
 came here I have met uncle's partner, Mr. A , a tall, 
 
 lean, bald-headed man, with a complexion like an old bank 
 note, all wrinkled and yellow. He has a way of talking in 
 monosyllables, as if a niggard of his breath. He has never 
 condescended to notice " my niece," further than by the short- 
 est of bows and monosyllables ; therefore, I was much sur-
 
 50 LEAVES HiO.M THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 prised this morning, when uncle sent for me to his room and 
 
 told me, in his most polite tones, that this Mr. A had 
 
 made me an offer of his hand and fortune ; he did not sa; 
 heart, and it was well he did not, for I should have laughet 
 in his face. However, I kept a grave face, while he conde 
 scended to point out to me the advantages which would result 
 both to my mother and myself, from the match. He laid 
 great stress on our present straitened condition, and the " low 
 vulgar people " with whom it necessarily forced us to come in 
 contact, if not to associate my mother's declining health ; 
 in short, he took me up to the pinnacle of the modern tem- 
 ple of wealth and position, and showed me all the goodly 
 things that might be mine if I would sell myself to this 
 
 respectable piece of old parchment, Mr. A ; and then 
 
 very politely saying, with a look at my face and figure, that 
 a woman in my position coijld hardly hope to do better, left 
 it for me to decide. 
 
 I very decidedly, but very briefly, declined the honor, say- 
 ing that he ought to know that considerations of wealth had 
 little, influence with one of my father's family. 
 
 He stared at me a moment, then coolly bowed me out of 
 his room, as he would one of his business clerks. But I see 
 he is decidedly angry, else I should be inclined to laugh at 
 the whole affair. 
 
 Jan. 10th. I must ride no more with H . It is evi- 
 dent that he loves me, and I will spare himself and me the 
 pain of an edaircissement, if possible. This Queen Vashti 
 air will not answer much longer ; but, thank Heaven, I shall 
 soon go home ! It is the most convincing proof of the truth 
 of my suspicions, that he thus defers to my will, he, the 
 accomplished man of the world. And yet, this very trait 
 renders him unfit to be my husband. He whom I call by that 
 name must be guided by no one but God and his own con- 
 victions. 
 
 Jan. \btk. They have been spoken those words which
 
 THE DIARY. 51 
 
 I so dreaded to hear; and, 0, Heaven! what am I, that I 
 should inflict such pain and suffering upon any human soul ? 
 Never did he seem so truly good and noble as when, putting 
 aside all earthly considerations, he plead in trembling tones 
 for my love, for life's best boon from my hands ! 
 
 And yet, never did I feel it more impossible to grant his 
 prayer. God knows I would have done so, if I could; I 
 would have put away my long-cherished dreams as idle, had 
 I found any response to his words. I even plead for him ; I 
 set before me all his goodness and nobleness, his growing 
 sympathy with my tastes and pursuits, the wide influence for 
 good which, he urged, I possessed over him. I thought of 
 my mother of the life of toil and isolation that lay before 
 me ; but there came no response, and I dare not trifle with 
 eternal truth. 
 
 He plead for hope, and urged the love which is the meed 
 of years of tenderness and devotion. It cannot be. I have 
 been down into the innermost recesses of my heart, and I 
 know, by the love that went out so spontaneously toward 
 another, that there are abysses of tenderness ay, passion 
 
 there, that H has no power to move ; and, knowing this, 
 
 I dare not trust to years. 
 
 So I let him look into my heart, God gave me strength to 
 do it, and, with an incoherent blessing on me for my truth, 
 he went out into the storm and darkness; but the wintry 
 sleet, nor the north wind, nor the darkness, is not more cold 
 and dreary than the heart he has left behind! 0, they 
 know not woman's heart who talk of the pride of conquest ! 
 
 There is nothing on God's earth that teaches humility, like 
 the consciousness of being deeply and truly beloved ! 
 
 Jan. IQtk. Kept my room all day, feeling sad, weak, 
 miserable. There was " a lion in the way," let me turn 
 in any direction. Aunt came up, good and prosy and practi- 
 cal, and talked about blisters back of the ears. Heaven 
 knows I would have covered myself with them if they would
 
 52 LEAVES FROM THE TREK IGDRASYL. 
 
 have drawn back my faith and hope my courage and 
 strength. I heard Emilia below chatting to some young 
 friends, for she has already become a favorite in society, and 
 I sat and pitied myself, a plain, poor, ungifted soul, until I 
 suddenly thought of Milton's noble line : 
 
 " Those serve who only stand and wait ; " 
 
 and it brought aid and comfort. What cowards we are ! 
 
 Jan. ~LSth. They say H has gone to New York, en 
 
 route for Europe ! Doctor G was sitting with us when 
 
 Emilia came in, having just heard the news up town. Sud- 
 denly, interrupting herself in her exclamations of surprise, 
 aunt turned to me : " You said H called here the even- 
 ing we went to hear Holmes' lecture. Did he say nothing of 
 this, Elizabeth?" 
 
 " No, certainly not, aunt ;" and joy that I was thus able 
 to speak the truth gave me courage to boldly face Doctor 
 G 's searching look. 
 
 But I ivas glad that uncle came in that moment, and created 
 a diversion in my favor. He never sees mystery in anything 
 
 that cannot be solved by the interest table, and thought H 
 
 gone to Europe on business. " Stocks are rising, and he has 
 some interest there, I believe," he said. 
 
 " Stocks, uncle ! " said Emilia, impatiently. " When did 
 
 Fred. H ever trouble himself about stocks, I should like 
 
 to know?" 
 
 " I 'm really afraid it 's an attack of brain fever," began 
 aunt, despondingly. " His father died of it, and he has been 
 threatened with it more than once. Don't you think so, doc- 
 tor ? " she asked, anxiously. 
 
 " Not at all, my dear madam. Not that a young fellow's 
 brain ay, and blood, too does not get into a strange sort 
 of whirl once in a while, but from other causes than conges- 
 tion." And again he scanned my face closely. 
 
 Aunt sighed, and unt 1 ^ spent a whole twenty minutes, a
 
 THE 1>IAKY. 58 
 
 long time for him, in trying to prove to her the impossibility 
 of there being any hereditary taint in the blood of her fami- 
 y a family related to him. 
 
 According to him, all his own relatives have died through 
 some oversight which might have been seen and provided for, 
 had they been endowed with his wisdom. I presume he ex- 
 pects to be translated. 
 
 Jan. 20th. Emilia takes H 's absence to heart. 
 
 What does it mean ? Underneath that war of words, which 
 sometimes bordered on sarcasm, between them, did there lurk 
 a deeper feeling? I must look to this. She is in high spirits 
 
 to-night, though, because Mr. E ,"who lectured before the 
 
 " Institute " last night, is to dine here to-morrow. She proph- 
 esies I will fall in love with him at once. Perhaps so ; I 
 shall see. 
 
 Jan. 21st. He has been here the author, poet, prophet, 
 whom I have reverenced for years. I have looked upon his 
 face, listened to his voice, and it is much to say that he did 
 not disappoint me. The face is good, grave, and serene ; but 
 his chief power lies in his voice and manner, which grows on 
 one until it becomes a complete fascination. 
 
 At least, so I thought, when he turned from the mixed 
 company, after dinner, and began to talk to me of Browning's 
 poems, which lay upon the table. Perhaps I was prepossessed 
 by the interest with which he listened to my remarks, but 
 every word seemed the echo of a loving heart, an earnest soul, 
 and a subtile intellect; subtile and beautiful, rather than 
 deep or strong passionless and calm as a Greek statue. He 
 is a wonderful man, and yet I could feel rather than see his 
 limitations ; and, though he talked so eloquently of " Hakeem 
 in the Return of the Druses," he could never be a " Hakeem " 
 for me scarcely a " Djabal." And yet, verily, there are 
 moods when it seems an exceedingly pleasant sin to fall down 
 and worship false gods ! 
 
 Jan. 22d. I don't know what is the matter here. Some 
 5*
 
 54 I.KAVEs FUOM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 demoniacal influence pervades our atmosphere, and everything 
 goes wrong. Emilia is capricious as the wind ; aunt is haunted 
 by a legion of household evils, which, like John Barleycorn, 
 " rise up again " as soon as I think I have laid them ; and I 
 get out of patience, and pray earnestly that I may never be a 
 poor-rich woman. 
 
 I have seen Mrs. N . She is visiting at her uncle, 
 
 Judge A 's, and was at the concert to-night a beautiful 
 
 woman, of right queenly presence. 
 
 Evening of Jan. 22d. Eureka! Emilia loves H ! I 
 
 went to her room to-day, and found her in a violent passion. 
 Bridget, the chambermaid, aunt's new " Bridge of Sighs," in 
 dusting Emily's room, had thrown down a paper-weight rep- 
 resenting Psyche asleep, and broken it into a dozen pieces. 
 I had often admired the beautiful little gem, and could have 
 wept when I saw it in fragments ; but I was surprised at 
 Emilia's flashing eyes and bitter reproaches. As soon as she 
 saw me she burst into tears, and exclaimed, 
 
 " I can't help it ! See there, Elizabeth ! " 
 
 The frightened Irish girl took the opportunity to escape, 
 while I sat down to try to comfort Emilia with a vision of all 
 the pretty paper-weights to be had at Kilby & Brown's, and 
 prosed on about the folly of vexing herself thus for a trifle. 
 
 She raised her head, for she had been leaning on my 
 shoulder, and said, petulantly, shaking back her long curls, 
 
 " Trifles ! That is all you know about it, Miss Lytton." 
 Then, blushing at her rudeness, she said, " Pardon me, Eliz- 
 abeth, I am really ashamed of myself; but that Psyche was 
 a gift to me, some three years since, from a friend, and I prized 
 it very much, very much, indeed, for its associations. But 
 it is as well thus," she added, with a singular expression of 
 haughty scorn. 
 
 So it was the gift of a friend, a lover, I mused, as I 
 went down stairs ; and I was fast weaving out, as is my wont, 
 a web of romance, when I was roused by aunt's voice, asking,
 
 THE DIARY. 55 
 
 " What has that Bridget done, now ? " 
 
 " Broken Emilia's Psyche ! " 
 
 " What, poor H 's gift ? " 
 
 So, so, I thought ; " poor H " (every one is always 
 
 "poor" with Aunt Sewal when absent from her) is that 
 " friend." Now for the nature of those cherished associations. 
 Aunt has not a grain of secretiveness, and one or two leading 
 questions drew from her all I wanted to know. 
 
 Before H went to Europe, he had been quite devoted 
 
 to his cousin. The families began to look upon their union, 
 at some future time, as quite possible ; but just before he left 
 they had quarrelled, and, since his return, though perfectly 
 polite to each other, they have manifested no desire to resume 
 their former relations. Aunt could not say as she was 
 " sorry, she loved them both as her own children, but they 
 might as well choose somewhere else. She had seen quite 
 enough of marrying cousins in Jane Welmot's case." Some- 
 thing tells me that it will be well with these young friends 
 yet. I rejoice! 
 
 Jan. 23d. A letter to-day from our kind neighbor, Mrs. 
 
 F . She says mother has changed very strangely within 
 
 a week ; thinks she has had a slight attack of paralysis, and 
 advises me to come home. I have announced my determina- 
 tion to start to-morrow ; but uncle and aunt talk of delay, of 
 " next week," of the necessity of being " calm," and all that. 
 They forget that my mother is all I have on earth. 
 
 I have agreed to stay until day after to-morrow, when un. 
 cle will go with me as far as New Haven, on his way to New 
 York. 0, mother, mother ! 
 
 Jan. Z&tk. I have been to bid good-by to the Lees. I 
 fear I envied them, they were so happy. Mary is at school, 
 
 thanks to the noiseless kindness of dear Mrs. Gr , and the 
 
 mother and sister showed me her first problems in algebra 
 with a mixture of pride and delight which was really amus- 
 ing. The little boy did not seem to share in their reverence
 
 56 LEAVES FROM THE TREK IGDRASTL. 
 
 for those bits of paper, for he snatched at one of them, and 
 tore it sadly, in his resentment at my considering them more 
 worthy of attention than himself. And, after all, were there 
 not in that little chubby being problems of far greater impor- 
 tance than any which mathematicians have solved to which 
 those of Newton and La Place are but trifles, save as they 
 elucidate man's capability of approximation towards the Di- 
 vine ? 
 
 From the widow's I went to Dr. Or 's. The doctor was 
 
 fortunately at home, looking over a ponderous " ledger," or 
 " day-book," and humming his favorite song, " A man 's a 
 man for a' that." 
 
 " True," I cried, as I entered softly, and stole up behind 
 him ; " and, save in the person of the writer of those words, 
 never stood text and proof in such close relation, doctor." 
 
 "How now, you thief! What business have you to be 
 stealing into a man's house after this fashion ? But sit down 
 there, while I go hunt up Lydia Mason ; she 's been looking 
 for you these two days." 
 
 " You may save yourself that trouble, for, if I mistake 
 not, I saw her go into the house of your neighbor, Mrs. 
 
 L , as I turned the corner. So prepare yourself to play 
 
 the agreeable." 
 
 " The Lord help us, then ! " he cried, with a ludicrous ex- 
 pression of resignation. " I had rather face a case of ship- 
 fever, than a fashionable young lady ! " 
 
 " And pray what entitles me to that distinction ? " 
 
 " Look at yourself and answer. Who but fools, which 
 is but good Saxon for the whole class, would put velvet and 
 furs enough about their shoulders to rig out the Grand Lama, 
 and leave their feet bare ? " and he gave a glance of wither- 
 ing contempt at my beautiful, new gaiters. 
 
 " But these are cork soles, and " 
 
 " The devil take the cork soles in such weather as this, fit
 
 THE DIARY. 5Y 
 
 only to buoy up witches ! Where were your common sense 
 and rubbers wKen you started ? " 
 
 " One minus, and the other plus," I said, laughing. " I 
 did not think the pavement damp, and my rubbers are so 
 large " 
 
 " That they make your feet look larger. Well, you are 
 pretty well off in that line," he went on, grimacing ; " but 
 what in Heaven's name do you suppose a sensible man cares 
 about how large a woman's foot is, provided it be not de- 
 formed, and she has brains enough in her skull to balance it ? " 
 
 And so he scolded and joked till Mrs. Gr came, and we 
 
 had a long talk of my future. 
 
 Why is it that I can speak to these people of things upon 
 which my lips are sealed to those of my own blood ? Blood ! 
 those alone are of our blood who understand -us, who help us 
 on the ways of life ! God bless ye, true friends ! The cur- 
 rents of life are driving us far apart, but my way cannot be 
 wholly dark while I keep the memory of your love ! 
 
 Passing through Pearl-street, on my way home, I came 
 
 suddenly upon my old playmate and schoolmate, James B . 
 
 He would have avoided me if he could, but I saw his inten- 
 tion and defeated it. He took my outstretched hand, and 
 answered my greeting without raising his eyes. Alas ! then, 
 the rumors of his " bad way" are true. The pale face, lustre- 
 less eyes, nerveless figure and shambling step, were proof 
 enough. 
 
 He seemed to wish to pass on, but I would not be put off. 
 I spoke of old times, of Annie, his sister, long since among 
 the angels; of his father, mother. Had he seen them of 
 
 late 1 No ; he had not been in D for more than a year. 
 
 Indeed ! Would he not promise to meet me there, week after 
 next, say on Thursday ? I intended paying his father and 
 mother a visit as soon as I got home, and should need him 
 there to bring up the " Roxbury russets," as of old. Would n't 
 he promise ?
 
 58 LEAVES FROM THE TREK IQDRASYL. 
 
 He muttered something of engagements ; but I urged my 
 point until he promised. 
 
 Will he keep his word ? I trust so. He has been the 
 victim of evil influences, but He who gave back without 
 Xain's gates that only son to his mother, is mighty still. 
 
 Jan. "2Qth. 0, it is sad, terrible, to come to one's home, 
 and be welcomed, not by the firm, hard clasp, the dear, loving 
 glances, the warm words of yore, but by trembling hands, a 
 shaking head, and the thick, troubled speech, that indicate 
 the presence of death in life. Mother, mother ! How shall 
 I bear this ? 
 
 Now I must find some words that will soften this hard- 
 hearted creditor, Mr. J . Yesterday, when I met him, 
 
 the memory of all his villany, the years when, as lessee of 
 these few acres,- he fleeced us gradually, the hypocrite ! until 
 by one bold manoeuvre he claimed all, rose up before me, 
 and choked me. 0, mother, would that I had been older 
 then, or you wiser ! But your wisdom was never of this 
 earth. Now I will go down on my knees to him, to keep a 
 shelter above your head for the little time that is left you. 
 He must be human, he cannot be more greedy than death ! 
 
 Shall I try uncle again ? No, I can work, not beg. I 
 told him all I could of this, as we came down yesterday, and 
 got for an answer, " Mortgages are ugly things ; best get rid 
 of it. Your mother never had any business tact. Better let 
 the place go; I advised it years ago." 
 
 Sell the place ! It might have been done, and wisely, 
 perhaps, some months ago. But now, when you cling to it 
 so childishly, mother no ! 
 
 Jan. 30th. " ' Cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou 
 shalt find it after many days.' You and yours helped me 
 years ago, my child, and now it is my turn; " and, with these 
 words, kind old Widow Dean has installed herself as my 
 mother's nurse. Ay, and I "reap also where I never scat- 
 tered ; " for there are bread, and ham, and cakes, and pies,
 
 THE DIAKY. 59 
 
 sent in by kind and thoughtful hearts, and the miracle of the 
 widow's cruse seems like to be repeated. God reward 
 them ! 
 
 Feb. 8th. To-morrow is the day of my appointment with 
 James B . I regret that I cannot keep it ; but it can- 
 not be. I will write and tell him why. 
 
 Feb. ~L9tk. I did go ; for when, to please mother, I 
 explained to whom I was writing, and why, two days ago, 
 she insisted on my going ; and when I refused fell a weeping, 
 
 like a petulant child, and complained to Mrs. T , who 
 
 happened to come in, that I was undutiful and ungrateful. 
 0, mother, mother, not even death could fall heavier on my 
 heart than these poor, senseless words and tears ! 
 
 Mrs. T advised me to go, saying that it was wisest to 
 
 keep her quiet, that she would come in and help Mrs. 
 Dean, if needed. " And you can take old Starface," added 
 the kind neighbor ; "he has not done anything in a week, for 
 father 's laid up with the rheumatiz, and the boys use the colt. 
 He is a little stiff at first, like us old folks ; but get him 
 started, and he '11 take you over there like a bird. You 
 have n't forgot how to drive . I s'pose ? " 
 
 I accepted the offer, and at sunset was sitting between old 
 
 Farmer B and his wife, talking of old things and new, 
 
 life and death, and the things which lie beyond ; for, as the 
 old man's eyes have darkened (he has been blind for more 
 than a year, he tells me), he has come to see more and more 
 with the eye of the spirit, which discerneth all things. They 
 said little of James, though I knew he was ever in their 
 thoughts ; and I did not tell them of his promise, fearing to 
 raise hopes which might be disappointed. But they told me 
 of their troubles ; of the farm, how it was fast running 
 down, buildings and fences going to decay for want of an 
 efficient master ; and thus the hours ran on till the tall old 
 clock struck nine. I still talked on* until another hour 
 slipped away, and then, sad and disappointed, took the tall
 
 60 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 TJ 
 
 glittering brass candlestick which had been waiting for -me 
 the last hour on the stand. There came a knock at the door, 
 and, begging the old lady to let me go, I hurried into the 
 little entry, shutting the door behind me. It was, indeed, 
 James. 
 
 When he saw me, his face lighted up, and, taking my 
 hand, he said: 
 
 " So you did indeed trust me, Elizabeth ! " 
 
 " Yes, indeed. Why not ? " 
 
 " Why not ! " in a tone of mingled bitterness and surprise ; 
 " do you not know what I am, a drunkard, a bankrupt, an 
 outcast, a curse to myself and others ? " 
 
 "The question is not what you are, but what you can be, 
 James. You are a man, still, for you have kept your word 
 with me." 
 
 " Perhaps so ; but who will believe it ? " he said, bitterly. 
 
 " I do. There are those in the next room who believe it. 
 Can you doubt that ? And there is One above, James, He 
 who seeth not as man seeth, He believes it. 0, beware 
 how you charge upon others the sin of your own unbelief! " 
 
 I was excited and nervous", and burst into tears, as I drew 
 him into the next room. I know not well what followed ; I 
 heard only the mother's low weeping, and the blind father's 
 broken voice, as he gave thanks for " this my son, which was 
 lost, and is found ! " 
 
 Again we gathered rorund the fire ; we did not speak of 
 the past, but the russets were brought up, and we talked 
 over the condition of the farm, every field of which was 
 almost as familiar to me as to James, .the comparative 
 qualities of the "Hudson meadow" and the "clover piece," 
 for spring wheat, the amount of available rail timber in the 
 " over-yonder " woods, and, before I slept, we had run a new 
 fence around the " Juniper lot," and James had rooted out 
 their spreading branches. May he as easily root up his evil 
 habits ! But that can hardly be ; yet, when I left this morn-
 
 THE DIARY. 61 
 
 ing, as he placed the reins in my hands, he said, earnestly, 
 " You have treated me as a man, spoken to me as one, 
 Elizabeth, and you shall see that I will be one." Ay, with 
 God's help, James. 
 
 Feb. '2th. Another stroke of paralysis, and now my 
 mother knows me no more, perhaps no more on earth. I 
 
 heard Mrs. F calling to her daughter Mary, a moment 
 
 ago. My mother will never call me again, never utter my 
 name. This is tasting the bitterness of death ! 
 
 Feb. 28th. A letter from Emilia Cranston. How strange 
 and unreal sound her gay words of "'balls, and parties, and 
 conquests ! " One thing gives me pleasure, as much as this 
 
 weary heart can feel. Fred. H did not go to Europe, 
 
 only to Cuba, and is now in New York. 
 
 March 2Qth. All is over ! My mother, my all, lies 
 pulseless and rigid in the room below. I have sat by her 
 for- hours in a kind of dull, stupidity, scarcely recognizing 
 anything, feeling anything, but this leaden sense of loss. 
 When will the end come ? 
 
 March 2lst. Last night I slept, for the first time in 
 four nights, a heavy, dreamful, troubled sleep, a coun- 
 terpart of the day. Then I rose and went down to the white 
 form, lying so still there beneath the white sheet, that which 
 was my mother, and yet was not ; and for the first time the 
 tears sprang forth tears for myself, not her. I could 
 recognize the hand of God, but not trust it. 0, how dark 
 and lonely looked the way of life ! I walked to the window 
 and looked out through my blinding tears. 0, how dreary 
 and miserable seemed that prospect which ever before had 
 worn some new phase of beauty, that long strip of " tidal 
 sand" the tall, black stakes of the "fishing ponds" the 
 ravening waves in the foreground, stealing ever in and in, as 
 death had stolen on* me the waste of wild waters backed by 
 a shroud of gray March mist, through which streamed faintly 
 the weak beams of the rising sun. 
 6
 
 62 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 Suddenly, twittering down upon a bunch of catnip, whose 
 dry stalks rustled beneath the window, came two little brown 
 sparrows. As I watched them, hopping from stalk to stalk, 
 picking at the dried seed-whorls, I remembered His words, 
 " Ye are of more value than many sparrows." Did He send 
 them ? 0, did He not ? for my heart accepted their 
 teaching, and was comforted. 
 
 March 23d. I have looked my last upon that face ; 1 
 have seen the dust heaped over the coffin; I comprehend 
 the mournful significance of the old minister's words, when 
 he thanked friends and neighbors for their assistance in 
 " burying our dead from sight." 
 
 As I turned away from that grave, now my only heritage, 
 my hand was grasped by blind old Mr. B., who, with James, 
 had come, not merely to pay the last respect to the dead, but 
 to offer to the orphan daughter a home in their house. 
 
 I was deeply touched by this kindness, but more by James' 
 words and manner, when he said, timidly, as if his happiness 
 
 might deepen my grief, that " Emily L had forgiven 
 
 him his errors that she would be his wife in the spring, and 
 longed to have me come." 
 
 For a time I may go to them, but that must not be my 
 " abiding place." A life of action must be mine. I have 
 health and education, and all up and down the great thor- 
 oughfares of our land are those waiting to be taught. Some- 
 where among these I shall find a place, and labor on until I 
 go down to the grave, one of those 
 
 " Whwn men lore not, but yet regret." 
 
 March 25th. " God said, Let there be light, and there 
 was light ! " Primordial words ; yet have they not a sig- 
 nificant relation 1 " to the experience of every soul ? Thus it 
 hath been with me. 
 
 0, the dismantling of our old home ; the moving of fur- 
 niture that seems to have been made to fill just those places,
 
 THE DIARY. 63 
 
 and none other ; the rifling of drawers, and the desecration 
 of even friendly hands touching the cherished relics of the 
 
 dead ! But it must be borne, that Mr. J may have his 
 
 " bond." He had kept his promise, and I should mine. 
 
 After seeing the few relics I had selected sent off to Mr. 
 
 F 's, who had kindly offered me a home, I begged his 
 
 wife to leave me to pass the last few hours of daylight 
 alone. 
 
 0, those hours ! too painful for me to recall. The wild 
 tumult of recollections that coursed through my mind, as I 
 wandered from room to room, each one growing dearer and 
 dearer, until, in the gathering darkness, with a blessing on the 
 threshold, I crossed it, never to return. 
 
 The daffodils, planted years ago by hands now still in the 
 grave, were out, and I gathered a handful, and stood leaning 
 over the gate, how well I remembered the time when I was 
 obliged to stand on tip-toe to reach the latch ! looking up to 
 the leafless boughs of tie maples, upon which the pale sun- 
 light still lingered. 
 
 0, those trees ! They were rooted in my heart ; they had 
 mingled their low, slumberous music with my mother's songs 
 above my cradle, murmured solemn responses to my evening 
 prayers, shaded my childish sports, my happy maiden dream- 
 ings ; and was it not meet that they should be leafless, now 
 that my path was all shadow ? Then I remembered my 
 father, as he lay in his open coffin beneath them, while 
 friends and neighbors crowded around to take a last look ; I 
 recalled the very play of the shadows on his pale face, as they 
 lifted me up to kiss his cheek ; and, resting my head upon the 
 gate, I wept with the convulsive bitterness of a child. How 
 long I knew not ; I was conscious of nothing, until a deep, 
 manly voice at my side said, " Elizabeth ! " 
 
 I did not see the face scarcely the arms that were held 
 out to me ; but the next moment I was folded close within 
 their embrace. What were earthly houses, homes, lands to
 
 64 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRA3YL. 
 
 me then, when I knew the strong heart beneath my head 
 would shelter me forever? 
 
 Winding his arms closer and closer about me, as one cradles 
 a weary child, he let me weep on, until my grief spent itself 
 in long-drawn sobs. Then, raising my head, and drawing my 
 arm through his, he said, " That will do, Elizabeth ; you are 
 getting cold." 
 
 I moved on at once. When did I ever dream of opposing 
 that tone, so quiet, yet so resistless ? I did not even ask how 
 he came there ; it was enough that it was so. Nor did he 
 tell ; but instinctively divining, as it seemed, that my way lay 
 
 towards Mr. F 's, he walked on quietly, speaking of the 
 
 shows of country life. But, when within a few yards of the 
 door, he paused, and, taking both my hands in his, said 
 earnestly, " Elizabeth, you have suffered excitement enough 
 for one day, and too much ; but, before we part to-night, it is 
 fitting and right that I should ask and you should answer one 
 question. 
 
 " I love you, Elizabeth. Tell me, is it as I hope ? does 
 your heart fully respond to mine ? will it trust me forever ? " 
 
 He ha,d put me from him, and stood looking down into my 
 eyes with that deep questioning gaze of his. For a moment 
 I could not speak. 
 
 " Elizabeth, my pupil ! " 
 
 " My master, my all ! " and then he gathered me to his 
 breast ; his lips met mine, and the garnered love of years was 
 poured out in that kiss. 
 
 Suddenly loosing me from his embrace, he said, " This is 
 wrong ; you are faint and weary, poor child. I have much to 
 say, but my words must wait until to-morrow. Let me come 
 to you, say at nine in the morning, and, in the mean time, 
 please make such temporary arrangements as you wish, for we 
 must be in New Haven to-morrow night." 
 
 " We ! so soon ? What for ? " I asked in a breath. 
 O, for several reasons," he said, smiling that old quiet
 
 THE MARY. 65 
 
 smile ; " the strongest, perhaps, because I have busied myself 
 in arranging a home there, which refuses to seem home until 
 a certain treasure is there." 
 
 " But -^ but" 
 
 " 0, you know, of old, that I never entertain ' buts !' You 
 have promised to trust me for the future, and I mean hence- 
 forth that the trust shall be no sinecure. There, now promise 
 me you will go in and go to sleep ; promise, my darling." 
 
 My darling ! Are there sweeter words in our mother 
 tongue ? I promised, but how can I sleep ? There are nights 
 enough to come, in which to sleep ; but these emotions they 
 come but once in a lifetime ; there may be others, deeper, 
 richer, more intense, but these come never again ! His dar- 
 ling! 
 
 New Haven, April ~LQth. He came that morning, and, 
 
 after some explanatory chat with dear Mrs. F , I went up 
 
 stairs, at his suggestion, to put on my travelling-dress, in order _ 
 to take a short walk before the carriage came, which was to 
 
 take us to the city. When I came down, T was still 
 
 talking earnestly with Mrs. F , who inspected my dress 
 
 closely (it was the pretty travelling-dress I had in H ), 
 
 pulled a plait here- and another there, and seemed altogether 
 nervous and excited, a thing very unusual for her. 
 
 We walked on, talking of the past, calling up the days of 
 my pupilage, and the words and glances which had at once said 
 so much and so little, until we stood by my mother's grave, 
 silently, a few moments ; then he said, " We are both orphans, 
 and both free, free to act as we choose, are we not, Eliz- 
 abeth?" 
 
 And I answered, " Yes." 
 
 " Then go with me." 
 
 I did not hesitate, though I apprehended his meaning, when 
 he drew my arm through his, and led me into the church, 
 
 where were gathered the old minister, Mr. and Mrs. F , 
 
 and a few of the old neighbors.. In a few moments we had 
 6*
 
 Ob , LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDBASYL. 
 
 ratified before the world the vows of our hearts, and turned to 
 
 meet the congratulations of the few friends. T spoke for 
 
 me, kindly and gently thanking them for all their kindness ; 
 and then, in his quiet way, stepped past them, and placed me 
 in the carriage waiting at the door. 
 
 "Jtfy wife, my own wife ! " he whispered, as he took his 
 seat by my side. 
 
 Ah, then I saw my mistake ! Then I knew that there were 
 sweeter words than those of the evening before ; but, surely, 
 none in earth or heaven that can equal these ! 
 
 Now we are at home, a pleasant home, ay, and a rich 
 one, for it contains two happy human hearts. I have been 
 too happy to ask an explanation of the past as yet. But that 
 
 Mrs. N ; I '11 ask him about her when he lays down 
 
 that paper. 
 
 " Harold, how was it about that Mrs. N ? Come, ex- 
 plain." 
 
 ." Yes, darling, when you please to enlighten me about that 
 Mr. H ." 
 
 " 0, you quibbling lawyer ! why don't you tell a straight 
 story, and say you were completely fascinated ? " 
 
 " Because no man is obliged to criminate himself, especially 
 when he is not guilty." 
 
 " But was n't you a little well, interested in her at one 
 time?" 
 
 " No, if, by interested, you mean anything more than mere 
 acquaintance. Surely, you do not believe it? " and he came 
 round to a seat on the sofa, by my side. 
 
 " No, indeed ; but what was there about it ? The interest 
 was on her side, then, was it not ? " 
 
 " I thought I taught you long ago not to ask impertinent 
 questions. Now it 's my turn to catechize. Why did n't you 
 marry young H ? " 
 
 " Because I did not love him well enough. But who told 
 you he offered himself? "
 
 THE DIARY. 67 
 
 " No one ; I inferred it from some things. Besides, I was 
 given to understand that it was a settled thing." 
 
 "Indeed! by whom?" 
 
 " Your aunt, for one." 
 
 " And you believed it? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Well, I must confess my opinion of your penetration is 
 lessened perceptibly." 
 
 "Very likely;* a not unusual experience with married 
 ladies, I believe. But, Bessie," he went on, prisoning my 
 hands in his, and speaking gravely, " you ought not to re- 
 gret it, for it taught me the best lesson I ever learned how 
 dear you were to my heart. I hoped that the absurd rumor 
 
 about. Mrs. N would do as much for you ; but it seems 
 
 you defended her like a true knight-errant." 
 
 "No, no, Harold; say rather it was a proud woman's ex- 
 piation for giving, as she thought, her heart unsought." 
 
 " My poor Bessie," he said, thoughtfully, raising my head 
 from his breast, " you must have suffered." 
 
 " I did ; but tell me, you have seen Dr. Gr ? " 
 
 11 Yes ; or I should not have you sitting by my side, my 
 wife the dearest sight a man can see on earth ; at least, not 
 until long years, perhaps of trial, had taught me the truth." 
 
 " And he told you that I " 
 
 " No, he said no such thing. But he called himself and 
 me all manner of hard names, and ordered me to come right 
 
 down to M , ' an' I loved him.' Moreover he told me 
 
 Mr. H is to marry his cousin, Miss Emilia Cranston." 
 
 " Good ! " I exclaimed ; and then, sparing H as much 
 
 as possible, I told him all the story of my stay at uncle's all 
 my trials, struggles and temptations; and he, my noble hus- 
 band, he understood them all, and pointed out to me their 
 uses ; how they had widened and deepened my sympathies with 
 humanity, made me stronger and wiser for the battle of life, 
 until I could only weep happy tears.
 
 68 LEAVES FROM THE TRIE IGDRA9YL. 
 
 Then I showed all my weakness, my want of faith ; bat he 
 only answered, drawing me closer to him, 
 
 My bride, my wife, my life ! 
 Lay thy sweet hands in mine, and trust to me."
 
 LOVE'S LABOR NOT LOST. 
 
 ' Face and figure of a child, 
 Though too calm, you think, and tender, 
 For the childhood you would lend her. 
 
 " And a stranger, when he sees her 
 In the street even, smileth stilly, 
 Just as you would at a lily." 
 
 PART I. 
 
 IN the door-way of one of those old, dilapidated, densely 
 populated houses that abound in the great city of New York, 
 sat a pale, delicate-looking child. It was a narrow, dark 
 street, leading down to the river, lined with forlorn, mouldy- 
 looking old houses, leaning against each other for support, 
 and from which divers loose boards and timbers hung creak- 
 ing in the wind, ever giving warning that they were about to 
 fall. The air in this street was a strange combination of 
 odors arising from the culinary preparations going on in the 
 over-crowded dwellings, varied occasionally by a strong smell 
 of tar, burned oakum, *nd bilge water, with which the breeze 
 from the river was laden. In short, it was anything but 
 the pure, fresh air of heaven, which God gave as the ele- 
 ment of life. Yet, on the evening of which we speak, the 
 mellow beams of the setting sun, which, like the earnest soul, 
 are ever seeking something beautiful under the most untoward 
 appearances, came peering round corners and through between 
 tumbling-down old chimneys, bringing out in strong relief the 
 grotesque mouldings on the old casements and cornices, peep-
 
 70 LEAVES FROM THE THEE IQDRASYL. 
 
 ing beneath the crushed-looking bonnets of toilworn mothers 
 returning from their labor, and bathing as in a stream of 
 golden water the heads of numberless little white-haired 
 children, as they rushed forth to meet their parents, or played 
 upon the pavement. One strong sunbeam, like an angel of 
 mercy, had spied the pale child in that gloomy door-way, 
 and, creeping from roof to roof, at length fell upon the dwell- 
 ing above her, then sliding down slowly and silently, like 
 all sweet, holy influences, rested upon her head, and lit up 
 her meek, pale face with a glow which was very beautiful to 
 behold. 
 
 A glad light sprang to her eyes, a faint smile broke 
 round her mouth, as she felt its. warmth upon her forehead ; 
 for a moment she watched the motes dancing in its golden 
 light ; then her gaze was directed, as before, earnestly up the 
 street. As she sat thus, the pavements began to echo to the 
 heavier footsteps of men returning from their work, and there 
 was a confused murmur of tongues, Irish, English, French 
 and German. But the loudest-toned among them instinc- 
 tively lowered his voice as he caught a glimpse of that child 
 sitting in the sunlight, and not a few of those hard, care-worn 
 faces greeted her with a kindly smile. One fat, motherly- 
 looking Irish woman paused beside her, and, taking a small 
 bouquet of the commonest of garden flowers from among the 
 mass of articles that crowded the basket on her arm, placed 
 it in the child's hand, saying : 
 
 " May be ye would like that, me darlint." 
 
 " 0, thank you, thank you ! " exclaimed the child, raising 
 her eyes, gushing with delighted surprise. " It is so long 
 since I have seen a flower. You are so very kind." 
 
 " An' who would n't be kind to ye, aroon, wid the angel 
 looking out of yer eyes, so like the one that once slept on my 
 own breast, and is now wid the blissed virgin in heaven?" 
 said the Irish mother, crossing herself, and pressing her hard 
 hand to her bosom with a mournful gesture, as she passed on.
 
 . LOVE'S LABOR NOT LOST. 71 
 
 To most of my readers, whose lives have been set round 
 and garlanded with those autographs of the Divinity, the 
 blessed flowers, it will be difficult to describe the intense 
 joj^ the loving tenderness, with which that little girl gazed 
 on those humble flowers, and pressed them to her lips and 
 eyes ; or what a chain of associations they awoke in her 
 young mind, which reached from earth to heaven. It seemed 
 that these were not all of joy, for the glow of delight which 
 had lit up her face faded slowly away, and in its place came 
 a look of patient sorrow a sorrow that gave to her features 
 the thoughtfulness of mature years. 
 
 As she sat, thus busy with memory, a boy, of some eight 
 years, came rapidly down the street, and, seeing that she did 
 not observe him, crept stealthily along in the deep shadow of 
 the old walls, until he stood behind her unperceived, and, 
 clapping his little brown hands with delight as he stooped to 
 kiss her, exclaimed : 
 
 " Caught, fairly caught asleep once, Susie ! " 
 
 The little girl smiled, and, holding up her flowers, said : 
 
 " See, Willie, are they not beautiful ? " 
 
 Then, in reply to his words of admiration and inquiry, she 
 went on to tell, out of the gratitude of her heart, of the kind- 
 ness of the world in general, and the fat Irish woman in par- 
 ticular, as manifested toward her ; then, returning to the 
 flowers, she said : 
 
 " Jjook here, Willie ; those two and that blue one are just 
 like the flowers that grew in our garden at Woburn. Do 
 you remember the violets and blue periwinkle each side of the 
 gate, and the clump of lilacs at the end of the alley, and 
 but no, you were too small when we left to remember. Dear 
 Woburn ! " she added, sadly, as if touched by some mournful 
 recollection. ^ 
 
 " Not the flowers, Susie, though I love them well enough for 
 their own sakes as well as for yours ; but I do remember Dr. 
 Murdock's big dog, Painter, and how he used to let me ride
 
 72 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASTL. 
 
 on his back. But don't be sad, Susie," he continued, nptic- 
 ing the shade on her face with the quick eye of affection ; 
 " when I get to be a man, which will be before a thousand 
 years," and he fairly rose two inches in his shoes, we were 
 about to say, but cannot, seeing that his feet were bare, in 
 his desire to convince her of the speedy fulfilment of his 
 words, " we will have another cottage, just like the one at 
 Woburn, with a garden and lots of flowers ; for, though I 
 don't remember much about it, you can tell me, and you 
 shall have a little room to yourself, with plants in it as big 
 as trees, if you like." 
 
 She drew him down beside her, and, passing her hand lov- 
 ingly over his mass of brown hair, said, with a smile : 
 
 " You are the best and kindest brother in the whole world, 
 Willie." 
 
 " And who would n't be kind to you, Susie ? " he replied, 
 unconsciously repeating the words of the Irish mother ; " I 
 could not be otherwise if I tried. But come, let us go into 
 the house and see mother." 
 
 " Mother has gone to carry home the clothes she has been 
 washing," said Susie, as she turned to reach behind her for 
 something within the door. 
 
 "Never mind, Susie," said her brother, laying his hand on 
 her arm, " let me be your crutch to-night. I will be very 
 steady, indeed I will." 
 
 She smiled, and, as he carefully assisted her to rise, it was 
 easy to see why she, so small and childish-looking herself, 
 should have spoken to that well-developed boy of her older 
 memory. 
 
 Her face, with its thoughtful look of patient sorrow, might 
 have been taken, as it was, in truth, for the face of a girl of 
 twelve summers, but her lower limbs \^re small even to 
 deformity, and one hip much drawn from its place. 
 
 As they turned from the door, she cast another anxious
 
 LOVE'S LABOR NOT LOST. 73 
 
 glance up the street, then her eyes sought her brother's face 
 with a look of sorrowful inquiry. 
 
 The boy understood the glance, for he replied, sadly : 
 
 " I fear he will not come to-night, Susie." 
 
 " Why not ? Have you seen him ? " she asked, eagerly. 
 
 " He came as far as the corner of street with me ; 
 
 there he met some boys, who persuaded him to go into a ten- 
 pin alley," he replied, as he slowly guided his sister's steps 
 along the gloomy old passage that led to their room. 
 
 However mean and poor the room which afforded shelter to 
 Widow Danvers and her children, however bare of even the 
 common necessaries of life, however harsh and discordant 
 the sounds which reached it from the crowded rooms around, 
 there was that in the hearts and on the faces of those chil- 
 dren, as they emerged from that dark passage, that gave to 
 its atmosphere a light and a glory which wealth could not 
 buy. 
 
 Willie began to bring forth their scanty supper, meanwhile 
 telling his sister all about the great green parrot, whose 
 gilded cage had for several days been hung from a window 
 opposite his employer's store (for Willie was an errand boy) ; 
 of its climbing, and whistling, and mocking the cries of the 
 newspaper venders ; while occasionally the noise of Susie's 
 crutches mingled with the chattering of their tongues, as she 
 assisted him in searching for something, which they were at 
 last forced to remember had been all eaten at the previous 
 meal. 
 
 They had hardly finished placing and replacing the coarse 
 dishes, with their scanty contents, upon the table, with the 
 childish wish to make them show to the best advantage, and 
 thus cheat themselves into a belief of a sufficiency, when their 
 mother entered from her weary walk. 
 
 By healthy, happy" children, br6d in the midst of plenty 
 and comfort, she might have been taken for a spectre, so wan 
 and ghostlike did she look, with that strange, unearthly light 
 7
 
 74 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 in her large, dark eyes. But these children, familiar with 
 misery, saw nothing in that face but the radiance of a moth- 
 er's love, and, in her shortened respiration and the quick 
 'throbbing of her heart, as she pressed their young hands to 
 her bosom and sank upon a chair, nothing but evidences 
 of her joy at seeing them again. True, little Susie, with her 
 premature development, born of pain and sorrow, had once 
 or twice of late felt a shudder pass over her, as if the shadow 
 of the wing of the death-angel rested upon her, when she 
 looked in her mother's face and noted her failing steps ; but 
 she had shrunk from it, and thrust it; away from her, as if 
 such a fearful thought questioned the goodness of God. 
 Childhood is so slow to apprehend death. 
 
 While the weary mother listened to the murmuring voices 
 of the children, another form emerged from the darkness of 
 the passage ; but whether its gloom still clung to him fron. 
 affinity, or whether it was owing to the atmosphere of evil 
 which for many months had been gathering round his h'eart 
 we cannot say a dark cloud rested upon his handsome, 
 boyish features, and gave to them a bitter, disagreeable 
 expression. And it seemed that neither the glad welcome 
 of the children, nor the more gentle one of the mother, had 
 power to chase it away ; for he threw himself moodily upon 
 a chair, and deigned no reply to their kind and loving words. 
 
 "I fear you are not well, to-night, George," said the 
 mother, approaching and laying her thin, bony fingers upon 
 his wrist. 
 
 He drew his arm hastily away, saying : 
 
 " Well ! I don't know what any one should wish to be 
 well for. The sooner one dies and is out of the way the 
 better." 
 
 " But, my dear child " 
 
 " Ah, yes ! I know all that you would say," he interrupted, 
 with a gesture of impatience. " I know all that cant about 
 God's wisdom, and goodness, and providence, and discipline.
 
 LOV1T3 LABOR NOT LOST. 75 
 
 and all that. It is a part of God's wisdom, I suppose, that 
 allows one man to cheat another out of all he has, a part 
 of his providential discipline that we and thousands like us 
 must drudge, drudge night and day, and starve at that, a 
 part of his boasted goodness," he went on bitterly, casting a 
 glance at little Susie, " that brings children into this world 
 only to suffer, to drag through life a burden to themselves 
 and others. Better die at once ; or, better still, never to 
 have been born." 
 
 Little Susie, who had managed to get close to his side, and 
 lay her thin hand upon his shoulder, drew in her breath, as 
 if a sharp pain passed through her, and, creeping away, 
 seated herself in the shadow of the door, for she would not 
 that they should see the tears that gathered in her eyes. 
 
 " A burden to herself and others ! " God only knows how 
 deeply those bitter words pierced her heart. They were not 
 new to her. Careless, thoughtless people had repeated them 
 in whispers to each other, as they gazed on her wasted limbs, 
 whispers which she did not fail to catch and translate into 
 words ; and lips, which should have opened only to bless and 
 pity her, had uttered them again and again in tones of quer- 
 ulous complaint ; yet custom had not dulled their point, or 
 taken from them aught of their bitterness. They brought 
 a cloud before her eyes and heart^so dark and thick, that it 
 cost the child many a weary struggle before she could again 
 see and gather up the scattered sunbeams that came to 
 brighten even her forlorn way. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 " Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not 
 More grief than ye can weep for." 
 
 Susie Danvers had spoken of her early home at "VVoburn, 
 and in the midst of a life of pain and poverty her hear*
 
 76 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 guarded the memory of the hours passed there like a holy 
 thing ; and since error and sin had driven them from its shel- 
 ter, and, like the Angel of Wrath at the gates of Eden, 
 barred the entrance, she had bathed it in the light of a pure 
 and loving nature, until, 
 
 " Of all the beautiful pictures 
 That hang in Memory's hall," 
 
 this seemed dearest, brightest and best. 
 
 Her father had been the village physician, and, though a 
 man of hasty, impulsive disposition, was generally much 
 respected and beloved. His wife's rich, genial nature was 
 like sunshine and dew to all who came within her influence. 
 There was one object towards which she felt drawn with more 
 than a woman's instinctive fondness. This was to little 
 George, her husband's child by a former marriage ; but, un- 
 fortunately for both the mother and the child, the strong 
 prejudices of his mother's family were brought to bear against 
 her, and the child at length withdrawn from her care for 
 months together. 
 
 Still, her heart followed him with loving thoughts, and 
 w.hen God filled up the measure of her cup of happiness by 
 sending her own little Susie, she did not selfishly forget the 
 motherless boy, but her thoughts turned to him with even 
 more tenderness than before ; and the first word the little 
 girl was taught to utter was the name of her brother. During 
 the short visits which he made at his father's house, the boy 
 could not, in spite of the power of prejudice, resist her gentle 
 influence ; and, as he listened to her sweet tones, and looked 
 into her soft, dark eyes, his thoughts grew troubled, and he 
 wondered how it could be that one so kind and gentle should 
 be so thoroughly selfish as he had been taught to believe her. 
 The longest of these visits was made just at the time when 
 little Susie was recovering from the terrible illness that had 
 left her a cripple for 'life. The little girl was delighted with 
 his company ; besides, she was BO gentle and patient in her
 
 LOVE'S LABOK NOT LOST. 77 
 
 s, that he could not help feeling drawn towards 
 hxf, and he soon cast off his rough habits, and learned to 
 speak softly and step lightly as his mother herself; and when 
 she was, at length, permitted to go out in her little carriage, 
 and he saw her wholly committed to his care, he was delighted 
 with the responsibility. He felt that he was trusted for the 
 first time in his life ; for the cold, suspicious temper of his 
 aunts, and their harsh judgments, were ill calculated to foster 
 in the mind of childhood either confidence or self-respect ; and 
 not unfrequently, in after years, when yielding to the evil in- 
 fluences around him, his heart recalled these brief weeks of 
 his childhood with bitter regret. When Susie was about eight 
 years old, Dr. Danvers became security for a distant relative 
 of his wife, to the amount of several thousand dollars. This 
 person soon became a bankrupt, and involved the doctor in his 
 ruin. This unfortunate affair filled up the measure of Mrs. 
 Danvers' unpopularity with his first wife's 'relations; for, 
 though she had not failed to remonstrate gently and calmly 
 with her husband, at the time, on the propriety of thus risking 
 his all, the whole blame of the affair was thrown upon her, 
 chiefly because she refused to join in the bitter reproaches 
 with which they chafed his impatient, irritable spirit. Though 
 intelligent, genial and generous, Dr. Danvers possessed but 
 little independence of character. He lacked energy to meet 
 his difficulties, and the moral courage to face his changed cir- 
 cumstances. He was one of those natures " too proud to 
 dig, and ashamed to beg ; " therefore, notwithstanding the 
 words of cheer and encouragement he received from his wife, 
 he soon yielded to despair. Well would it have been if this 
 had been all ! But, like many another proud, disappointed 
 man, he sought forgetfulness in the wine-cup, and in a short 
 time all traces of the generous spirit of his youth were 
 effaced by the rapid encroachment of the demon intem- 
 perance. 
 
 Supported by strength which ' cometh not from earthly aid, 
 7*
 
 78 LEAVES FROM THK TREE IGDRA3YL. 
 
 his gentle wife saw the sure but gradual ruin of her dearest 
 earthly hopes ; saw the quiet home in which her nature had 
 passed by such pleasant steps from timid, bashful girlhood 
 into the full life of ripened womanhood, pass into the hands of 
 strangers; and with her husband, whose temper grew more 
 and more irritable and exacting as his health yielded to his 
 evil habits, and her children, found refuge in the crowded 
 purlieus of the city. We have said " children," for, soon after 
 the failure, the marriage of one aunt and the death of 
 another had consigned George again to his father's care, and, 
 some four years previously, little Willie had been added to 
 their joys and cares. 
 
 George's character was much more marked and decided, 
 even at that early age, than his father's. .His passions and 
 prejudices were very strong, and the course of training to 
 which he had been subjected in his grandmother's house had 
 not tended to Restrain them^while it had succeeded in tinging 
 all that was genial and generous in his nature with distrust 
 and suspicion. He had been taught to recognize the law of 
 Fear, but not of Love. His own property, inherited from his 
 mother, had been lost in the general wreck ; and so deeply 
 had it been instilled into him that this loss was in some way 
 the result of his father's second marriage, that the spirit in 
 which he returned to share their poverty was little calculated 
 to add to the peace or comfort of the ruined household. The 
 selfishness of the father who, in his degradation, did not hesi- 
 tate to indulge his own appetite^ at the expense of his family 
 and his fretful, unreasonable temper, chafed and embittered 
 the quick, impetuous spirit of the boy to such a degree, thai 
 anger and contention were soon added to the many miseries 
 of their miserable home. Notwithstanding his strong preju- 
 dice, the boy had not been with them many weeks, before he 
 felt compelled to admire the unwearied patience and goodness 
 of his mother ; yet, instead of being drawn to follow her ex- 
 ample, his feeling of admiration often changed into ore of
 
 LOVE'S LABOR NOT LOST. 79 
 
 angry contempt that she could so tamely submit to the impe- 
 rious, unreasonable exactions of his father. At such times, 
 with a recklessness strange to himself, he would join his father 
 in ridiculing her unshaken faith in the goodness of God ; and 
 the infirmities of little Susie formed a never-failing illustra- 
 tion on this point ; for so rapidly had the demon gained upon 
 the man, that the father had already learned to look upon his 
 suffering child as a burden and a trouble, a care that de- 
 prived him of the undivided attention of his wife, and an 
 expense that curtailed him in many of the indulgences of his 
 former life, which, in his utter selfishness, he did not hesitate 
 to exact from the labor of his wife and children. In his in- 
 most heart the boy often bitterly regretted yielding to this 
 dark spirit ; and, though he was too proud to manifest it in 
 words, he would often take up the little girl on his knee, and, 
 while bending his head to meet her caresses, talk to her of 
 their early days at Woburn, until her pale face grew radiant 
 with delight. But beyond the walls of that humble room he 
 found little to strengthen these faint struggles of the better 
 spirit within him, but much 0, how much ! to tempt him 
 On to sin and crime. Soon after their arrival in the city, his 
 father had apprenticed him to a shoemaker, in spite of his 
 strong repugnance to the occupation, and earnest entreaties to 
 be permitted to seek some other mode of living. At the 
 time of his father's death, which happened some two years 
 after, he left his employer, and, joining a gang of reckless 
 boys like himself, subsisted, his mother knew not how, for 
 his visits home grew more and more rare, and his mood more 
 and more impatient and irritable. Even the kind greetings 
 and loving words which ever awaited him in that humble 
 home seemed a reproach to the unhappy boy, and sometimes 
 he would cease to visit them for months. 
 
 It would seem strange to one unacquainted with the myste- 
 ries of the human heart, that deep, unswerving love of little 
 Susie Danvers for this erring brother ; but sometimes and
 
 SO LEAVES FROM THE TEEB IUDRA3YL. 
 
 many of us have reason to thank God it is so the foibles 
 faults, ay, even the sins of those dear to us, draw from us a 
 tJouble share of that love they so much need. And so it was 
 that this moody, wayward brother seemed to possess even a 
 stronger, tenderer claim upon her heart than the joyous 
 Willie. 
 
 George had early manifested a passionate love of music, and 
 possessed a voice of rare purity and compass. During his 
 visits at Woburn he beguiled many of her slow hours of 
 suffering with his endless songs, and took great pleasure in 
 teaching her to accompany him. To the gay and happy, 
 music is a resource, an accomplishment, a pleasant amuse- 
 ment; but to the poor it is one of the greatest of God's 
 blessings the true Lethe of their existence, in which they 
 can forget for a few brief hours all the troubles that beset 
 them. At least so thought Susie Danvers, and so thought, 
 in all probability, the white-haired, stooping-shouldered old 
 German, who lived in a gloomy-looking house on the opposite 
 side of the square. What was poverty to him, when, as 
 evening drew on, he exchanged the implements of toil for 
 his beloved violin, and, seating himself at the open window, 
 poured forth -the glorious strains of the masters of. his 
 native land ! 
 
 Ah ! the song of Orpheus is no fable, as that old man well 
 knew, for the time-stained walls of his dwelling slowly re- 
 ceded, and the magio tones led him gently back on the track 
 of his youth, until he sat once more beneath the vine-covered 
 trellises of Andernach, with the soft eyes of his Gretchen 
 looking into his, while her sweet voice blended with that of 
 his beloved Cremona, gentle eyes, upon which the green sod 
 ia the quiet church-yard of Altenkirchen had pressed for so 
 many years ! And that, too, was a pleasant thought, and 
 there was wisdom and piety in it, which led the old man, 
 when his troop of flaxen-haired grandchildren gathered about 
 his knees, and mingled their young voices with his, to play
 
 LOVE'S LABOR NOT LOST. 81 
 
 those songs which she had loved best ; for he felt that her 
 voice, though ^indistinguishable to mortal ears, did not fail to 
 accompany them. We hear much about evil being contagious ; 
 but we belive good is not the less so ; for the happiness of that 
 poor German family, their strong affection for each other, 
 bursting forth at eve in rich melodies, seemed to breathe a 
 benediction upon that miserable neighborhood ; and to no one 
 heart did it bring such a wealth of blessing as to that of the 
 suffering Susie Danvers. 
 
 " Let me sit longer, dear mother the music eases .nis wea- 
 risome pain in my hip," she was accustomed to say, when her 
 mother spoke to her of the necessity of retiring ; and thus 
 night after night found her seated in the old door-way, watch- 
 ing the happy faces of the children, as they clustered around 
 the old man's chair, by the open window, until in the gather- 
 ing darkness she could not distinguish one face from another, 
 and catching with her quick, unerring ear every note of their 
 music, until the glorious strains of Beethoven, Handel, and 
 Bach, were as familiar to her as her cradle hymns. Presently 
 she began to accompany them, but very lowly, fearing, in her 
 timidity and bashfulness, that they would be offended at her 
 presumption, should they hear her. And this new pleasure 
 brought another, that helped to while away the wearisome 
 pain in her limbs the thought of George's surprise and 
 pleasure when he became aware of her progress; and 0, 
 how anxiously, how impatiently, did she watch for him to 
 come home ! for somehow she had got the impression that she 
 could win him to remain there, with those glorious strains. 
 
 Once, in the interval of many weeks, he had made his 
 appearance among them, but so irritable and moody that she 
 did not even. dare to mention to him her unconscious teachers, 
 the Germans ; but, after his departure, she reproached herself 
 bitterly for her cowardice, thinking that she might have 
 wronged him that perhaps, after all, he was not so ill 
 humored as he seemed ; and if she had only struck a few
 
 82 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRA3YL. 
 
 notes of one of Beethoven's symphonies, she might have 
 completely exorcised the evil spirit. 
 
 In the light of this hope she had watched for him on the 
 evening of which we have spoken. We have seen their meet- 
 ing. We know how those bitter words, " a burden to herself 
 and others," had darkened that light, and how she shrunlf 
 away in the darkness, with all the old pain in her limbs and 
 heart, fearful that even her tears would reproach him. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 "And all voices that address her, 
 Soften, sleeken, every word, 
 As if speaking to a bird. 
 
 , And all hearts do pray, ' God love her ! ' 
 Ay, and certes, in good sooth, 
 We may all be sure HE DOTH." 
 
 " Sorrow, tliere seemeth more of thee in life 
 Than we can bear and live." 
 
 And yet Widow Danvers did live, though God alone knows 
 the crushing weight of the blow, when strange hands brought 
 in her bright-eyed little Willie, and laid" him down before her, 
 a mangled corpse. And poor little Susie it seemed as if 
 that heavy wall, in crushing him, had stunned her also, so 
 mute and motionless did she sit gazing for hours upon the 
 dead child's face. Then there were heavy footsteps in that 
 dark passage, and the children of the neighborhood hung 
 round the door, and gazed shyly and curiously at the little 
 rough coffin that was borne away to the Potter's Field, and 
 placed beneath its scanty covering of earth. And well it 
 was that Susie's lameness, and the mother's failing strength, 
 prevented them following to his grave ; for thus they were 
 happily snared a knowledge of the revolting features of the 
 crowde.i burial-places of the poor. And when they thought 
 of little Willie's grave, memory recalled the green grave-yard
 
 LOVE'S LABOR NOT LOST. 83 
 
 of Woburn, with its flower-starred turf and mossy wall, and 
 it comforted their hearts to think that he slept in some such 
 quiet place. This thought of her boy's last home grew very 
 dear to the widow's heart, in proportion as the love which she 
 had borne him seemed to be drawing her slowly and surely to 
 lie down by his side. Of her dead child she could truly say, 
 " It is well ! " but of the living, the suffering and the 
 erring, there came hours in which even her strong faith in 
 God was not sufficient to face the thought of leaving them ; 
 hours which we will not attempt to describe, for none but a 
 mother's heart could sound their depths of misery. But as 
 her footsteps drew nearer and nearer the spirit-land, a ray of 
 its blessed light seemed to fall upon her troubled heart, and 
 hush it to rest. An orphan herself, she had no relations 
 nearer than cousins ; to these she wrote, confiding both her 
 children to their care, and, relying much upon the promise of 
 the kind Irishwoman (who, won by little Susie's resemblance 
 to her lost darling, had sought them out, and proved her 
 friendship by many a self-denying deed), that the little girl 
 should not suffer as long as a crust or a potato was to be 
 shared in her own family, she laid aside the needle, which her 
 trembling fingers could no longer hold, and awaited her re- 
 lease. One thought only seemed to weigh upon her mind 
 George and his future fate. Months had elapsed since his 
 footsteps had crossed their threshold, and it seemed as if the 
 hope of seeing him once more had kept alive the flickering 
 flame of life through the dreary days of winter. But day 
 after day passed, and she could only watch and pray. She 
 knew not that through her death he was to be quickened into 
 spiritual life. 
 
 " Susie," said the mother, one night, after refusing a neigh- 
 bor's offer to pass the night by her, " draw aside that curtain, 
 dear, and let the moonlight into the room. It seems as if 
 there had been neither moonlight nor sunlight in this dreary 
 city, and I would fain look on it once more," .
 
 84 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 " Mother ! " said the child, anxiously. 
 
 " Don 't be anxious, my child. I feel no worse to-night, 
 and I did wrong to speak in that impatient tone ; but I was 
 thinking of the moonlight at Woburn. Help me to move 
 my pillow a little, darling, and then sing. It will, as you 
 often say, ease this wearisome pain in my side." 
 
 The child arranged the pillows, and was about to place her 
 stool close by her mother's side, when the latter, pointing to a 
 spot where the moonlight slept on the floor, said, 
 
 " Not here, my child, but in the moonlight yonder. I can 
 see your face better there." 
 
 Susie obeyed, and, with her bird-like tones, subdued and 
 deepened by emotion, began Schubert's "Ave Maria." As 
 those plaintive notes, so full of tearful, earnest entreaty, fell 
 upon the mother's heart, she cast one long, loving glance at 
 the childish figure sitting in the moonlight; then, closing her 
 eyes as if in sleep, her soul passed with that beautiful melody 
 from earth to heaven. 
 
 But the child knew it not. The narrow strip of moonlight 
 crept stealthily nearer and nearer the wall, as if conscious of 
 the presence of the shadowy terror there ; but the singer still 
 continued to breathe forth those touching notes of supplication 
 for that aid and protection she now so much needed. The 
 moonlight stole quite away, and in the gathering darkness she 
 did not see the boyish figure that stood in that dark old door- 
 way, nor the expression of delighted surprise that lit up his 
 face as he listened to her tones. She did not hear his low 
 step as he stole across the floor, nor see the startled look of 
 horror and remorse that crossed his face, as the pale, ghastly 
 features of his mother met his gaze. But his exclamation of 
 surprise aroused her, and she drew near to his side. 
 
 " ! mother, mother ! " he groaned, taking the child's hand 
 in his, and laying it upon that pale, cold forehead. That 
 fearful chill was not to be mistaken. It seemed to strike to 
 the child's heart. She sunk down by her brother's side, and,
 
 LOVE'S LABOR NOT LOST. 85 
 
 forgetting everything but her need of love hid her face in his 
 bosom. He drew her closely to him, while he repeated, in that 
 same broken tone, " ! mother, mother, have I killed you at 
 last?" 
 
 " She blessed you only a few moments since she blessed 
 you, George, and bade me say that, if she had failed to make 
 you feel how truly she had loved you, as she feared she had, 
 you must forgive her," said Susie, raising her head from its 
 new-found resting-place. 
 
 Again that smothered cry, " ! mSther, mother ! " so full 
 of anguish and remorse, burst from the boy's lips, while the 
 child went on, in a voice broken and full of tears : 
 
 " And she told me not to grieve too bitterly, if I was left 
 alone, dear George ; for that you would come back, and love 
 me, even as she had loved me ; that you would be mother 
 and brother to me." 
 
 "And, by the help of God, I will!" exclaimed the boy, 
 earnestly. " Mother* I promise ! " he continued, rising to his 
 feet, and kissing the high, pale forehead of the dead. 
 
 Through the long watches of that night the overwearied 
 Susie slept calmly near her dead mother's side, while George 
 sat by, nursing high resolves and earnest purposes ; resolves 
 and purposes which he carried out, not without many a severe 
 struggle, and now and then a fall ; for the power of tempta- 
 tion from without and within was very strong. But an angel, 
 in the shape of a feeble child, with soft, clear eyes, and a 
 glorious voice, walked ever before him on the upward path, 
 and drew him after, by the strong cords of love, until, in 
 spite of the weakness of his own heart and the sneers of his 
 old companions in evil, he triumphed. The kind voices of his 
 neighbors bade him " God-speed," for his mother's sake, and 
 not a few hard, toil-worn hands were put forth to aid both 
 him and Susie. Among these none were more true and 
 friendly than those of old Heinrich Miiller and his family, to 
 whom they had been made known through the watchful kind- 
 8
 
 00 LEAVES FROM THE TREK IGDBASYL. 
 
 ness and unwearied tongue of their Irish friend, Biddy 
 McGee. Their voices were a sufficient passport to the old 
 man's favor, aside from their story ; but when George told 
 them, without disguise, all his past career of error and sin 
 they did not turn away from him, but all heartily assented to 
 the white-haired grandfather's remark, " If he has sinned, my 
 children, then there is so much the more reason why we should 
 treat him with kindness." Through their exertions, George 
 found a place much to his mind in a large piano manufac- 
 tory ; and, as for little Susie, she soon made herself a home 
 in their hearts, and became completely domiciled beneath their 
 roof. 
 
 " Why speak of das Geld, my son?" the good mother Lott- 
 chen was accustomed to say, whenever George laid before her 
 his scanty earnings. " Is not her gentle temper, and the sight 
 of her sweet, calm face, worth more than ten dollars a week 
 to a laboring woman like me, troubled with many things ? 
 Look at her, yonder ; see how quiet and good the little ones 
 are when with her." 
 
 Several years have passed, and few who read our story 
 would recognize, in the junior partner of the fashionable music- 
 store of Messrs. and Co., Broadway, New York, the 
 
 reckless George Danvers, the "gallows-bird," as his old 
 master, the shoemaker, was wont to term him. 
 
 But, should they manifest anything like a true love of 
 music, he might, in his enthusiasm, lead them to the neat 
 parlor adjoining the store, and, in the slight, fragile figure, 
 and clear, spiritueUe eyes of her who wakes such a world of 
 melody from the piano before her, they might recognize many 
 traces of the deformed child who was wont to sit in that 
 gloomy door-way ; and in the tenderness with which the 
 brother hangs over her and watches her every movement, they 
 will find the surest proof that she, who was " born to be only 
 a burden to herself and others," has, through the power of 
 love, grown to be the richest blessing of his life.
 
 MMHS urr 
 
 A TALE OF THE COLONY TIMES. 
 
 " In the good old Colony times, 
 When we lived under the King." 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 EVEN to this day the inhabitants of New England seldom 
 speak of the tyrannical measures of the British government 
 toward the colonies, during the reign of George III., with- 
 out some show of indignation. Yet any one familiar with 
 their history cannot fail to see that, under the preceding 
 reigns, they had often suffered from far greater wrongs than 
 those illegal taxes that struck the key-note to the revolution. 
 
 This was especially true of New Hampshire, under the 
 first royal governors. Mason, the grandson of the famous 
 Captain John, of Pequod memory, had, in asserting his 
 claims to his grandfather's grant, succeeded in separating the 
 colony from Massachusetts, under whose jurisdiction the 
 first settlement had been made. In this he was aided by his 
 relative, Edward Randolph, that " blasted wretch," as one 
 of our old historians terms him, who crossed the Atlantic no 
 less than eight times in nine years, in his indefatigable zeal 
 to procure the downfall of our charter government, in which 
 mischievous errand he but too well succeeded. 
 
 A President and Council were appointed, by his Majesty 
 Charles II., for the government of the province; and, as the 
 separation had been in direct opposition to the wishes of the 
 people, he shrewdly nominated several of the most distin-
 
 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDRASTL. 
 
 
 
 guished gentlemen in the colony to the first Council. They 
 were men who had held high offices, both civil and military, 
 under the colonial government, and nothing but the unavoid- 
 able necessity of submitting to this change, and the fear that, 
 in case of theii refusal, others, less true to the interests of 
 the people, would be substituted, induced them to accept the 
 nomination. Their acceptance was a sore disappointment to 
 Mason and his coadjutors. After striving for some months 
 to intimidate or cajole them into furthering their selfish and 
 ambitious ends, Mason returned to England, where he so 
 completely gained the ear of the voluptuous monarch, that 
 the form of 'government was once more changed, and Edward 
 Cranfield appointed royal governor. 
 
 His commission, which bears the date of May 9th, 1681, 
 gave him almost absolute power, and he was a man little cal- 
 culated, either by nature or education, to neglect any of the 
 prerogatives of his office. A stanch royalist, a devoted ad- 
 herent to the forms of the established church, he had little 
 sympathy with the thoughts, ends and aims, of that singular 
 people whom he came to govern, and his strong prejudices 
 and arrogant manners were ill calculated to win either their 
 love or respect. 
 
 He was empowered to appoint all general officers, and to 
 suspend such members of the Council as gave him just cause 
 of offence, they being, at the same time, declared not eligible 
 to the General Assembly, the only body elected by the people. 
 It was not long, therefore, before he saw himself supported 
 by a Council wholly subservient to his will. 
 
 But the members of the Assembly were sternly true to 
 their trust ; and, convoking them twice, and finding them as 
 resolute and firm in maintaining their rights as had been 
 their sires and brothers in the reign of Charles I., like that 
 unhappy monarch, at whose court his early youth had been 
 spent, and whom he seemed to take for his model, he sud- 
 denly dismissed them, and, with his Council, assumed the
 
 A TALE OF THE COLONY TIMES. 89 
 
 whole of the legislative power, taxing the people without 
 their consent, and fining and imprisoning such as dared to 
 complain of injustice. 
 
 This tyrannical conduct bore heavily upon the inhabitants 
 of Portsmouth and its vicinity. Fifty years had elapsed 
 since the so-called company of " Laconia," headed by Mason 
 and Gorges, had raised the first rude hut ear the mouth of 
 the pleasant Piscataqua, yet the inhabitants had lost none of 
 the peculiar traits that distinguished the puritan character. 
 Their patient perseverance, their quaint garb and godly 
 modes of speech, and their unshaken confidence in an over- 
 ruling Providence and his blessing on their cause, were 
 worthy even of the " Mayflower." 
 
 Indeed, there were still living in their midst gray-headed 
 old men, who remembered well the falling of the first tree, 
 and the site of the first hut ; men who could tell fearful tales 
 of the wanderings of the company through the pathless 
 forest in search of the gleaming river, and who remembered, 
 also, that discreet and godly man, Francis Williams, the 
 first colonial governor, and did not fail to contrast, in no 
 silken phrases, the arbitrary proceedings of the royal gov- 
 ernor with his wise and just measures. 
 
 But, ardent as was their love of liberty, and keenly as 
 they felt every new aggression upon their rights, they kept 
 the law ever upon their side. In spite of imprisonment, they 
 remonstrated firmly and respectfully with their rulers ; but 
 there was no open outbreak no popular riot ; for Puritan- 
 ism had little sympathy with mobs. But their prayers were 
 marked with greater earnestness, and, perhaps, duration, and 
 there was a general tendency to wait and see what the Lord 
 would do for them in the matter. 
 
 But, when the governor began to attack and suppress their 
 religious liberties, one deep, indignant throb passed through 
 the heart of the whole people. But the rulers heeded it not, 
 and soon came an order requiring them, on pain of his Maj 
 8*
 
 90 LEAVES FROM TIIE TREK 1GDRASYL. 
 
 esty's displeasure, to abstain from all manual labor on the 
 approaching Christmas, and to observe the fasts of the estab- 
 lished church. Silent, but strong, resistless as the mighty 
 under-current of the ocean, swelled the spirit of opposition 
 in every heart, and many an old veteran of the common- 
 wealth and the Indian wars glanced grimly at his brightly- 
 polished musket, with the thougkt that he was not yet too 
 old to strike a blow for freedom. 
 
 Such was the state of affairs, and such the feeling with 
 which the colonists greeted the Christmas of 1684. For 
 several weeks the snow had laift deep on the earth, and the 
 well-trodden paths had grown hard and smooth as marble. It 
 had been a prosperous and busy season with the people, both 
 on the land and sea, and, had there not been a principle at 
 stake, they could well have afforded to rest one day at the 
 call of their chief magistrate. But to them it seemed a con- 
 cession to Anti-Christ a crossing of hands with the woman 
 clothed in scarlet ; and more than one face was turned anx- 
 iously towards the heavens on Christmas eve, not to seek for 
 the star in the east, but to watch the progress of a storm of 
 sleet and rain which had set in, and which they felt might, 
 if it continued, compel them to yield, in appearance, at least, 
 to the governor's mandate. But, as if in answer to their 
 prayers, the morning broke clear, serene and cold. Long be- 
 fore the low, continuous dropping from the ice-bound trees 
 and shrubs attested the power of the sun, their farm-yards 
 were full of the shows of life and labor. The measured beat 
 of the flail and the flax-brake, the ringing stroke of the axe 
 at the wood-pile, keeping time with those in the woods, 
 echoed far and wide through the clear air, while the long 
 teams of oxen, attached to the clumsy sleds that passed the 
 governor's mansion, and the quick, determined tones of the 
 drivers, might have taught one even less versed in the knowl 
 edge of men and things than Governor Cranfield, something 
 of the spirit of the people with whom he had to deal.
 
 A TALE OF THE COLONY TIMES. 91 
 
 Mason and Randolph were both guests at the governor's 
 mansion at that time the latter holding the office of col- 
 lector, surveyor and searcher of the customs throughout New 
 England, in which capacity his arbitrary proceedings excited 
 universal contempt and distrust. 
 
 Whatever the governor might have felt at the utter con- 
 tempt with which his commands were treated, he was too 
 much of a courtier to disturb the festivities of the day by 
 any display of his chagrin. He therefore listened to the in- 
 dignant remarks of his guests, and the somewhat cutting 
 jests of Randolph, with an air of moderation, though the lat- 
 ter was too well read in the human heart, not to perceive 
 that his end was gained, that this assumed tone of modera- 
 tion was but the prelude to stronger and more stringent 
 measures towards a people whom he both despised and hated. 
 
 The great dining-room of the governor's mansion, or Prov- 
 ince House, as it was sometimes termed, presented a gay 
 and brilliant scene on that same Christmas day ; and, could 
 those old Puritans have caught one glimpse, from under 
 their steeple'-crowned hats, of the rich festoons of evergreens 
 which decked the walls (a custom held in' utter abhorrence 
 by them, as savoring strongly of the idolatry that caused 
 Israel to sin under every green tree), and the noble ladies 
 and gay cavaliers who, in the rich costume of the day, 
 thronged the dinner-table could they have listened, but 
 for one moment, to the light jests, the courtly phrases, the 
 flippant witticisms and ridiculous caricatures of their own 
 speech and manners they might have had some reasonable 
 doubt, especially after the ladies had withdrawn, as to 
 whether it was indeed a Christian 'festival, or a sacrifice to 
 not exactly Baal, but Bacchus.
 
 LEAVES FROM THK TREE IQDBASTL. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Perhaps there is nothing more indicative of the character 
 of a people than their architecture. This was peculiarly true 
 of the Puritans. Strength and endurance were among their 
 chief characteristics, and of these qualities their buildings 
 largely partook. There was none of that jumbling together 
 of different ideas and orders, which makes so many of out 
 modern buildings, especially those in country towns, look so 
 much like the cob-houses we were wont to build in our child- 
 hood ; but there was that same significant, independent, self- 
 sustained air about them, that we see looking out from the 
 portraits of the old worthies of that day. 
 
 The house of Mr. Moody, that "godly man" who for 
 many years " illuminated " the church of Portsmouth, was an 
 illustration of these remarks. It stood in an ample yard, 
 the rear of which was planted with young fruit trees, bearing 
 names whose very sound brought with them, the memory of 
 Old England. Over this yard the white snow lay in a broad 
 unbroken sheet, save where three or four paths, in the direc- 
 tion of the barn, crossed and re-crossed each other like dark 
 threads, and where one, several feet broad, led from the front 
 door to the gate, near which rose an oak of enormous girth, 
 one of the primeval children of the forest ; for even the old- 
 est settler did not remember the time when the lightning had 
 blighted its top, and raised those wide, dark seams in its 
 trunk. But the heart of the old giant was still sound, and 
 from the huge bole had risen limbs of a girth and height that 
 might well shame the growth of our own days. On each 
 side of this brave old tree stood a noble specimen of wo 
 were about to say, the American plane-tree ; but let us call 
 them by the good old names by which we have known them 
 from infancy buttonwood. Tall, erect, and symmetrical, 
 their scarred and mottled coats giving evidence of many a wild
 
 A TALE OF THE COLONY TIMES. 93 
 
 struggle with the elements, they stood, rustling a few with- 
 ered leaves, like a banner of defiance in the wind, meet sup- 
 porters of the hoary monarch. We have been, somewhat par- 
 ticular in describing these trees, ^because, in the out-of-door 
 life which, partly from necessity, and partly from a kind of 
 natural vagabondism, we have led among the New England 
 hills, we have learned to love their whole race, and many a 
 kindly deed have they done for us, both in sunshine and in 
 storm ; and, aside from these, we cannot say much for the 
 embellishments of parson Moody's yard. Doubtless, the turf 
 was thickly sown with buttercups, dandelions, and daisies, 
 through the golden summer j and, even in that bleak Decem- 
 ber of which we speak, there were some faint indications 
 there that went to show that somehow, in that roomy old 
 mansion, the spirit of beauty had found shelter ; for the 
 gnarled branches of a native grape were twisted like serpents 
 around and above the uncouth porch, and the withered ten- 
 drils of the morning-glory, that most home-like of all flowers, 
 still hung swaying from the strings that had trained them 
 over the windows. And, surely, no more fitting home could 
 it have found than in the heart of gentle Sibyl Moody. % She 
 was the minister's only child; for one sorrowful night the 
 angels of life and death had met beneath his roof, and, 
 within the same hour, the one took from him a beloved wife, 
 and the other laid in his arms a motherless infant. 
 * Mr. Moody had been sternly educated in a stern school. 
 The tenets of his faith, notwithstanding their high spiritual 
 aims, were, as generally understood and taught, little calcu- 
 lated to develop the gentler qualities of the heart ; such 
 development being looked upon by those men of iron natures 
 as a weakness little befitting those who had "a great work in 
 hand." Therefore, if he manifested in his younger days more 
 of the zeal of Peter than the gentleness of John, it is not 
 surprising. Late in life he had married a gentlewoman 
 many years younger than himself. She was one of that class
 
 94 LEAVES FROM THK fllKK IGDRASYL. 
 
 of women with whom love seems a necessity of their natures ; 
 whose affections spontaneously, as it were, cling round some 
 one or seme thing, without any very clear recognition of that 
 stern law of reciprocity so binding upon most of us. With 
 her, it was, indeed, " more blessed to give than to receive ; " 
 and for a few short years she walked by his side, looking up 
 to him with mingled love and awe, happy in the thought that 
 she was permitted to minister to the comfort of so worthy a 
 man, dreaming little of the wealth of deep, earnest feeling 
 that slept beneath his calm, severe exterior. But it is not 
 to his victims alone that death unveils mysteries. He has 
 lessons for the living, also ; and when his shadowy presence 
 darkened so suddenly the minister's dwelling, the miracle of 
 the desert was repeated from that hitherto calm, self-sus- 
 tained heart welled up to the light a fountain of pure and 
 earnest love. Then it was that his dead wife became 
 truly united to him heart and soul, and from out her grave 
 sprang joy and hope, inexpressibly tender, such as he had 
 never known before, and which he felt were for eternity. 
 From that hour the zeal of the Puritan became tempered by 
 the divine spirit of love. 
 
 In this atmosphere of chastened love and faith, Sibyl Moo- 
 dy had grown up to early womanhood. Her father had 
 watched over her with a mother's care and love ; she had 
 been his constant companion, and he had developed, guided, 
 and trained her rich genial nature, until it had the free grace ' 
 and symmetry of a young tree of the forest. Her face was 
 one of those which in a crowd might easily be overlooked, or 
 set down as passing fair ; but to childhood and old age it 
 was exceedingly beautiful, possibly, because the one was still 
 blessed with faint recollections, and the other with dim fore- 
 shadowings, of the bright denizens of their eternal home. 
 
 One man-servant and Lament Collins, or Aunt Menta, as 
 she was usually called, made up the minister's household ; the 
 latter being housekeeper, as well a"s maid-of-all-work, and, we
 
 A TALE OF THE COLONY TIMES. 95 
 
 might add, nurse, watcher, and doctress-general for the whole 
 settlement. Moreover, we take this occasion to say that her 
 name, like a great many others, was a decided misnomer, for 
 never was a more cheerful or contented being than this same 
 herb-gathering, syrup-making, salve-concocting old woman. 
 
 Like a great many other excellent souls of her day, she 
 had a great horror of any leaning to the forms of Episcopacy, 
 and, firmly believing that " c'est le premier pas qui coute" she 
 had plied her wheel to such good purpose on the aforesaid 
 Christmas day, that nearly twice the number of knots allotted 
 as a day's work had been reeled long before night, and added 
 to the goodly bunch of yarn that graced the wall of the old 
 sitting-room. 
 
 Whether Sibyl had meant to give the old dame a quiet 
 lesson in Christmas tolerance, or whether she had been day- 
 dreaming (for no one can convince us that those fair shapes 
 that blessed our fathers' households were not sometimes dream- 
 ers like ourselves, for woman's heart beat under those prim 
 bodices, and woman's love looked forth from beneath those 
 puritanic caps and bonnets), we cannot say ; but, for some 
 reason, Aunt Menta's last spool was reeled, while hers still 
 lacked many notches of being full. With her clear eyes 
 glancing occasionally from her thread to the hour-glass on 
 the table, and from thence towards the declining sun, she 
 busily plied her wheel, while Aunt Menta glided here and 
 there, with the velocity and something of the look of a blue 
 dragon-fly, for night was approaching, a puritan Saturday 
 night, when all secular business, instead of being crowded 
 into the last hours of the week, and, perchance, Sunday 
 morning, as is often the case now, was laid aside long before 
 sunset, and each soul left free to commune with itself and its 
 God. 
 
 Perhaps, of all the customs that have had an influence in 
 the formation of that peculiar character that makes us New 
 Englanders a marked people wherever we go, none has been
 
 96* LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 more lasting or important than this same habit of " keeping 
 Saturday night." 
 
 Though no watcher among the tombs, no worshipper of 
 '4inen grave-clothes," rather than the risen, glorified spirit, 
 we confess that we see with regret this old custom yielding 
 to the innovations of a new age. Not that we consider one 
 night more holy than another, all time being God's ; but it 
 came to check the current of worldliness, it gathered the fam- 
 ily beneath the paternal roof, it brought an opportunity for 
 undisturbed reflection and that self-communion so necessary 
 to anything like a true estimate of life and life's ends. It is 
 becoming quite the fashion to speak contemptuously and lightly 
 of these old mile-stones which our fathers erected on the way of 
 life, yet they have still a significance for us, would we but read it. 
 
 Sibyl's task was completed, the tea-table, with the stand- 
 ing puritanic Saturday-night dish, baked pork and beans, was 
 drawn in front of the blazing fire, when Mr. Moody, accom- 
 panied by one of the elders of his church, who had been 
 closeted in his study with him for a long tune, entered the 
 room. Their faces were unusually grave, that of the min- 
 ister even sad, as he observed, in reply to a remark of the 
 elder : 
 
 " Verily, the day of our sore" visitation is not yet passed, 
 for the prince of evil never wearieth of devices, and our 
 enemies are busy, both here and at home. The future 
 looketh dark, and our hearts might well faint, were it not 
 for the blessed assurance that God still reigns. And, as we 
 would approve ourselves to Him rather than man, so must 
 we judge in this matter of our offending brothers." 
 
 While the minister spoke, Aunt Menta was standing by 
 the window in an attitude of reverent attention ; but it must 
 be confessed that the good dame's eyes wandered more than 
 once to the opposite side of the common, along which a train 
 of clumsy but highly ornamented sleighs, or pungs, as they 
 were then termed, were passing at a furious rate.
 
 A TALE OF THE COLONY TIMES. 97 
 
 The younger and gayer portion of the governor's guests 
 were settling their dinner by a ride, and their rapid driving 
 and merry laughter, as they passed through the streets, were 
 eadly at variance with puritanic notions of propriety. As 
 Mr. Moody ceased speaking, a loud cry from the old dame 
 cut short the elder's reply, and drew them allto the window. 
 Directly in front of the house the whole train had come to a 
 stand. Some part of the harness attached to the governor's 
 sleigh had given way, and the spirited horses, so suddenly 
 checked in their mad career, were with difficulty held in by the 
 driver, while their struggles to free themselves were frightful. 
 
 The occupants of the sleigh, among whom were several 
 ladies, seemed for a moment paralyzed. Then the gentlemen 
 sprang to the assistance of the driver, and being joined by 
 several of their companions, the horses were soon disen- 
 tangled, and by the aid of Mr. Moody's man, John, the 
 broken harness repaired. Sibyl, in her terror for the young 
 beings in the sleigh, had stood with clasped hands, leaning 
 against the window-frame, watching intently the movements 
 of the frightened horses, unmindful of the admiring gaze of a 
 lady who occupied a sleigh directly in front of the window. 
 She did not hear the lady's words of admiration, or see her 
 touch her cavalier's arm and draw his attention from his im- 
 patient horse to herself; but she turned just in time to catch a 
 glimpse of a well-known face and beaming smile, which sent 
 the blood rushing to her very temples. 
 
 " Frederic Vane, as true as I live ! " exclaimed Aunt Menta, 
 who had also caught a glimpse of the face, using her strong- 
 est form of affirmation. 
 
 "Frederic Vane," repeated the minister; "you must be 
 mistaken, Menta. The youth still tarrieth in England/' 
 
 " Nay, I believe she speaketh truly, reverend sir. I met 
 the youth of whom you speak in the hall of the governor's 
 house yesterday, as I returned from my fruitless interview 
 with him," said Elder Hale. 
 9
 
 98 LEAVES FROM THE TREE 1GDRASYL. 
 
 " Indeed ! " replied Mr. Moody, while, for a moment, the sad, 
 grave expression of his features relaxed into something like a 
 smile ; " perhaps he hath already grown weary of the world's 
 vanities wealth, honor and ambition and returned to 
 seek a truer happiness here ; for the youth was well taught, 
 and by no means ignorant of the things which pertain to 
 man's highest good. Didst thou learn what brought him to 
 the province again ? " 
 
 " He came as escort to the governor's ward, Eleanor 
 Meredith, I think they call her, to whom men say he is 
 betfothed in marriage." 
 
 " Ah, is it so ? " said the old minister, sadly. " He often 
 spoke, when with us, of having his fortune to carve out, for- 
 getting, after the manner of men, that, though man proposes, 
 God disposes. Yet there was much that was noble in him 
 much that spoke to our earthly affections ; and I grieve," he 
 continued, earnestly, " I deeply grieve to hear that he has 
 chosen his lot among our oppressors. But the power of the 
 world is very strong ! " 
 
 " Who says it ? who says it ? " whispered Sibyl, suddenly 
 laying her hand upon the elder's arm. 
 
 The words and manner, so unexpected and so unusual from 
 her, caused both the old men to start. 
 
 " My child ! my Sibyl ! " exclaimed her father, anxiously, 
 as he caught a view of her white cheek, " you are ill. Some 
 water, Menta," he continued, folding his arm about her for a 
 support. " This fright has been too much for you." 
 
 " Nay, I am better, my father," she said ; " but you have 
 not replied to my question, Father Hale." 
 
 " 0, it was only the vain gossip I was compelled to hear 
 at the Province House, while waiting to see the governor. 
 Doubtless you will soon be better informed by the youth him- 
 self. But I fear you are little better than a coward, to be so 
 frightened at those horses, for all you have grown into such a 
 tall girl," "returned the grim elder, with the nearest approach
 
 A TALE OF THE COLONY TIMES. 99 
 
 to a smile that he was ever known to be guilty of on Satur- 
 day after twelve o'clock. 
 
 The evening meal was over, the chapter read, -and the fer- 
 vent prayer offered, at a much earlier hour in the minister's 
 dwelling than usual, that night, for the thick-gathering troubles 
 of his people weighed heavily upon the old man's spirit, and 
 he would be alone with his God. 
 
 " My child," he said, as he laid his hand upon her head in 
 blessing, " you are not looking quite well, and had best seek 
 repose." 
 
 Her room adjoined his own, and could he have seen her an 
 hour later, as she knelt there, pressing a richly-chased locket, 
 with its heavy lock of dark hair, to her lips could he have 
 caught the murmured words, " He false ! he wed the govern- 
 or's ward ! 0, they do not know him ; they cannot know 
 him as I do ! " he would at least have made a discovery 
 which, in the usual routine of their daily life, he seemed likely 
 never to make. He would have felt that his child was a 
 woman a woman in thought and feeling, with the strongest 
 links in her chain of destiny already forged and pressing upon 
 her heart. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Some months previous to Governor Cranfield's arrival in 
 the province, a young man, bearing the name of Frederic 
 Vane, had arrived at Portsmouth from the colony of New 
 York, with private letters of importance for that gentleman. 
 As the governor was not expected to arrive until October, 
 and the mansion chosen for his residence was undergoing ex- 
 tensive alterations, the youth took up his quarters at the 
 principal inn. The settlement suffered much from an epidemic 
 fever that season, and, among others, the landlord and the 
 young stranger were both seized with it. As was then the
 
 100 LEAYKS FROM THE TREE IQDRASYL. 
 
 custom, the minister and his family were everywhere among 
 the sufferers, not only to sympathize and advise, but to help. 
 
 Mr. Moody, seeing that both the patients could not have 
 the necessary care bestowed upon them at the inn, had the 
 young stranger removed to his own house. As was usual 
 with the members of his profession at that time, he possessed 
 considerable knowledge of medicine, and, aided by the excel- 
 lent nursing of Aunt Menta, to say nothing of her wonderful 
 syrups, prepared after a recipe given to her sainted mother 
 by one of the Bourchier family, and used in the family of the 
 Lord Protector himself, according to the good dame, together 
 with the gentle ministry of Sibyl, what wonder, the crisis 
 once passed, that the youth grew rapidly convalescent ? What 
 wonder that the gentle stranger so patient in his illness, so 
 eloquent in. his gratitude grew as rapidly dear to the min- 
 ister's family ? 
 
 Mr. Moody was a scholar, a graduate of one of England's 
 universities. The members of his flock were men of sound 
 sense and respectable attainments, but they cared little for 
 the classic lore of the schools ; therefore, the good man the 
 more keenly enjoyed this daily intercourse with a mind so well 
 cultured, so ingenuous, so full of noble aspirations, as that of 
 his young friend and guest. 
 
 Ill, a stranger in a strange land, this was, as, thank Heaven, 
 it ever has been with woman, sufficient reason for the interest 
 with which Aunt Menta and Sibyl watched over him. But, 
 as the wQeks went on, and the flush of health deepened on his 
 cheek and lit up his proud, dark eyes, was it still only this that 
 gave the sudden impetus to the young blood of the maiden at 
 the sound of his step, and sent it, blushing like a rosy dawn, 
 over neck and cheek whenever he stole upon her unawares ? 
 
 Or, as he read, with his clear, low voice an$} distinct enun- 
 ciation, those works which bear fruit for all time the glo- 
 rious essays of John Milton to the delighted old minister, 
 was it mere gratitude, and nothing more, that led him, at each
 
 A TALE OF THE COLONY TIMES. 101 
 
 divine truth and* sublime thought, to invariably turn to her. 
 as if he sought to gather from her sweet face a double harvest 
 of pleasure ? 
 
 So they thought; and, perhaps, the whole experience of 
 life does not contain hours of purer, more unallsyed happi- 
 ness, than this unconscious growth of love, this slow unfolding 
 of the heart's flower, ere passion hath breathed upon its leaves 
 for fruition or decay. 
 
 But we cannot dream forever, and the hours, which linger 
 only in the presence of sorrow, soon brought the awakening. 
 
 The business which had brought him to Portsmouth was 
 arranged, and on the evening which preceded his departure 
 fbr England, Sibyl and he found themselves alone in the large 
 old sitting-room of the parsonage. The minister had been 
 suddenly called forth on some errand of mercy, and Aunt 
 Menta was still busy with her household labors in the kitchen. 
 The night was dark and blustering, but a bright fire blazed in 
 the wide fireplace, giving a cheerful aspect to the room, near 
 which sat Sibyl, gazing intently at the glowing embers, while 
 Frederic Vane paced restlessly the oaken floor. 
 
 The maiden started suddenly, as a gust of wind drove a 
 shower of heavy rain-drops against the window, and, turning 
 her sorrowful face towards him, said, eagerly, 
 
 " Hear you that, Frederic ? The ' Adventure ' will not sail 
 to-morrow. You will stay with us another day; perhaps 
 another week." 
 
 " Sybil," said the young man, suddenly pausing before her, 
 and taking both her hands in his, " you will never forget 
 me?" 
 
 "Forget you! you, my brother!" said the young girl, 
 raising her tear-dimmed eyes to his face. 
 
 " Brother ! " repeated he, impatiently. " Do not call me 
 so again." 
 
 " And why not, Frederic ? You promised to be my brother 
 always."
 
 102 LKAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 " Because, because," he said, impatiently ," there is a love 
 stronger, deeper, truer, even, than a brother's. I have heard 
 of it, but now I know it I feel it ; and you, Sibyl," he 
 paused and gazed down into her eyes, until the tremulous, 
 white lidsdrooped, and the cotor in her cheek went and came 
 like the changeful lights in the northern sky, " you, too, 
 feel and know it," he added, as he drew her to him with a 
 glance of joy. 
 
 For one m'oment her fair head rested on his breast as he 
 whispered, "No, we cannot forget, dearest Sibyl. In two 
 years I shall return to claim " 
 
 The quick step of Aunt Menta upon the threshold inter- 
 rupted his words, but he could not fail to read aright the ex- 
 pression of those bashful eyes that for one second met his, as 
 she hurriedly slipped from his arms and escaped from the 
 room. 
 
 When she returned, she found her father there, and two of 
 the chief men of the town, who wished to avail themselves ol 
 the young man's return, to transmit letters to their friends in 
 England. 
 
 It is questionable whether either of the young people prof- 
 ited much by the sage remarks of the gentlemen, on the 
 probable length of the " Adventure's " voyage, the prospect 
 of fair weather, etc.; but his silence only raised him in their 
 esteem. 
 
 " A very discreet and sensible youth ; one who has a proper 
 respect for his elders," observed Mr. Amesbury to his com- 
 panion, as they left the house. 
 
 Mr. Moody had, indeed, noticed the thoughtful silence of 
 his young guest, but even his heart, schooled to submission by 
 many and sore trials, grew sad at the thought of parting, and 
 he did not deem it strange. The slight interruption caused 
 by the departure of the gentlemen had scarcely subsided, and 
 the family once more gathered in silence around the hearth, 
 when they were startled by a message from the captain of the
 
 A TALE OF THE COLONY TIMES. 103 
 
 ship, saying, that as there was a prospect of fine weather, and 
 the wind was getting to be fair and steady, the gentleman had 
 best come on board within a half hour or so, as he should 
 probably sail at flood-tide. 
 
 His trunks were already on board ; still there were bustle 
 and confusion in the minister's quiet dwelling, for each of its 
 members had thought of something more for his comfort. 
 Then, they once more gathered in that room, and Sibyl, with 
 the self-restraint peculiar to her puritan training, forced back 
 her sobs, while her father's low voice rose in fervnt petitions 
 for Heaven's blessing upon their young friend in all his 
 wanderings. Then the young man's head was bowed to 
 receive his blessing. Aunt Menta's good wishes responded to, 
 and repeated directions concerning his health listened to, 
 with due respect, he turned to Sibyl. For some seconds he 
 pressed her hands in silence, while his lips trembled as he 
 gazed into her tearful eyes. " God bless you, Sibyl ! You 
 will not forget," he murmured, at length. 
 
 " The child will not be likely to do that," replied the old 
 man, with a smile. " We shall all miss you much, my son, 
 and think of you often with prayers." 
 
 " But she should have something to remind her of me," he 
 said, taking from his own neck a locket attached to a light 
 gold chain. " You will permit her to wear this for my sake, 
 dear sir ; nor will she prize it the less because it was the gift 
 of my only sister." 
 
 The old man smiled, as he replied, "Be it so. Youth 
 seeks to remember, old age to forget. Such is life, my chil- 
 dren." 
 
 The maiden bent her head while the young man threw the 
 light chain over her neck, and her cheek glowed like the rose 
 when she again lifted it, for she saw that the light hair of the 
 sister, which she had often seen within the locket, had given 
 place to a lock of a darker hue.
 
 104 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRA3YL. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 On the day succeeding Christmas, the congregation of the 
 faithful, in the town of Portsmouth, came up to the house of 
 the Lord with countenances unusually grave and severe, for 
 one of their own number had fallen into grievous sin, and, 
 moreover, the arbitrary proceedings of Governor Cranfield 
 weighed heavily upon their hearts. Yet a gleam of stern joy 
 lit up more than one face at the thought of the quiet yet 
 decided rebuke conveyed in the conduct of the people on the 
 preceding day ; and the light of eternal truth which they did 
 hold, though oftentimes warped and perverted by human error, 
 never shone more brightly than on that day, darkened as it 
 was by the shadow of future trouble. 
 
 The service for the day was over when the minister proceeded 
 to lay before the church the case of John Denney, a member, 
 charged with perjury. He stated the case in detail ; but it is 
 sufficient for us to say, that this Denney was the owner of a 
 vessel which had been seized by Randolph, on plea of defraud- 
 ing the revenue. Her master, however, found means to elude 
 the vigilance of his agents, and one morning She was missing 
 from the harbor. Her owner protested that he knew nothing 
 of the affair, but, upon his trial, there appeared abundant tes- 
 timony to the contrary. He soon found the means to com- 
 pound the matter with the governor and Randolph, but the 
 church, of which he had long been a member, were not so 
 easily satisfied. 
 
 Mr. Moody, though he knew he was particularly obnoxious 
 to the governor and his party, on account of the plainness and 
 freedom of his speech, shrank from no trial in the way of 
 duty. He felt that the purity of his church was at stake, 
 and addressed a respectful note to the governor, requesting a 
 copy of the evidence against Denney, that he might be tried 
 according to their ecclesiastical discipline. The governor had 
 replied, and, upon this letter, Mr. Moody particularly wished
 
 A TALE OF THE COLONY TIMES. 105 
 
 for the opinion and counsel of the brethren. He rose and 
 read it in a firm, unfaltering voice, and with an undisturbed 
 countenance, though the faces around him grew dark with in- 
 dignation. Thus ran the missive : 
 
 " We ourselves have pardoned the man, and those to whom 
 we see fit to extend our mercy are not to be questioned by 
 any self-constituted authority ; therefore, molest him at your 
 peril." 
 
 " My brethren,^ resumed the old man, after a pause of 
 some seconds, " when, in my early manhood, I dedicated my- 
 self to the service of God, to break the bread of life to his 
 scattered and suffering people, I cast from me all fear of 
 bodily peril, and have ever striven to act in all things with a 
 single eye to God's glory. Therefore, I have but one answer 
 to make to this man whom the majesty of England hath set to 
 rule over us. Ye have heard his words, my brethren ; and it 
 is reserved unto you to say whether this church, gathered 
 amid suffering and trouble, and nurtured with so many prayers 
 and tears, shall serve God or man. Let such as fear Him, 
 rather than man, arise ! " 
 
 The congregation rose to a man, and the minister looked 
 down on a crowd of faces, toil-worn, seamed, and scarred 
 by many a battle with both temporal and spiritual foes, in 
 many cases pale and haggard from illness, but firm and undis- 
 mayed, ready to strengthen his hands, even as Aaron and 
 Hur strengthened the hands of Moses in the battle of the 
 Lord. 
 
 Then followed a unanimous vote to notify the offending 
 brother that his trial would take place on the ensuing week, 
 and a committee was appointed to visit him once more, to 
 urge upon him the duty of confession. 
 
 It was the wish of the brethren that the old minister should 
 prepare a sermon upon false swearing for the ensuing Sabbath ; 
 and, while he was very busy in his study, how sped the time 
 with his daughter?
 
 10(5 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 Still lighted by hope, although, but by that one glance of 
 recognition, Frederic Vane had not as yet manifested a knowl- 
 edge of her existence, yet, like all her sex, her invention in 
 providing excuses for the being she loved, was inexhaustible. 
 A dark tempest was gathering over her own and her old 
 father's head, while she, in her unsuspecting truth and in- 
 nocence, lived on in hope and trust. 
 
 Before another Sabbath, John Denney, touched by the 
 earnest prayers and expostulations of his brethren, came be- 
 fore them, and made ample confession of his guilt, and, with 
 fitting censure, was forgiven. It would be difficult to describe 
 the anger and mortification of the royal governor when he 
 heard of these proceedings. His occasional outbursts were 
 the more frightful from the strong self-control which he was 
 obliged to place upon himself in the presence of his guests, 
 many of whom were spending the holydays with him. Ran- 
 dolph, whose interest in the matter was quite equal to the 
 governor's, seemed to forget his own anger in the malicious 
 pleasure he took in probing that of the latter. 
 
 One evening, after the ladies had withdrawn, and the gen- 
 tlemen, some six or eight in number, still lingered around the 
 dinner-table, he arose, and, as if in reply to some gay remark 
 of his vis'&'vis, cried, jestingly : 
 
 " Hear ! 0, noble gentlemen, hear ! William de Graiville, 
 gentleman, of Sussex, England, hath fairly won ten guineas 
 of me, Edward Randolph a wager between us in the case 
 of the King versus Fanaticism ; and, certe,s, gentlemen, his 
 majesty may well look grave, when his royal authority, vested 
 in the person of our excellent host here, is thus trampled upon 
 by a crdp-eared, psalm-singing knave, unless, indeed," he 
 added, with a laugh, " the merrie monarch be more inclined 
 to consider the crestfallen condition of our puissant selves, as 
 an especial provocation to mirth, which I think the most 
 likely." 
 
 " Then, by the Lord thafrliveth ! " exclaimed the governor,
 
 A TALK OJ 1 THE COLONY TIMES. 107 
 
 in a burst of ungovernable anger, " his majesty will be the 
 only one who will care to laugh twice, at least where Edward 
 Cranfield is concerned. As for this old priest, he shall soon 
 find that he is not in heaven, saint though he claim to be. I 
 will put him where his treasonable discourses will find fewer 
 listeners ! " 
 
 For a moment deep silence followed this speech, for they 
 felt that his excellency was in no mood for joking. Then 
 one of the eldest of his guests, whose moderate counsels had 
 often saved him from rash deeds, rema'rked : 
 
 " But we must not forget that this Puritan is also an Eng- 
 lishman. We must prove his treason before we punish him." 
 
 " 0, that is easily enough done ! " said one of the younger 
 guests. "Here is Vane, who spent some months at his house. 
 He can give us proof by the bushel, I dare say." 
 
 " Yes, speak out, Vane. What treasonable homilies did 
 old Crop-ear preach to you ? " cried another, laughing. 
 
 " And so betray the man to whom, perhaps, I owe my life. 
 Never ! even were he guilty of the charge," replied the young 
 man, rising, while his beautiful mouth, in which there was a 
 singular blending of strength and indecision, grew rigid with 
 indignant scorn. " And, believe me, gentlemen," he added, 
 more calmly, " Mr. Moody, when I knew him, was a kind, well- 
 educated, generous-hearted man, though deeply imbued with 
 the spirit of his faith, I grant. He spoke to me openly, as if 
 I had been his own son, and, during my whole stay under his 
 roof, I heard nothing which could be construed into treason 
 against his majesty or the realm." 
 
 " Perhaps, among his gifts, he had that of prophecy also, 
 and foresaw that the day might come when you would really 
 stand in that filial relation to him. 'T is said the old man 
 has a pretty daughter. Eh, Vane ? " said another. 
 
 " By the mass, Darcy, your shaft has hit home," cried de 
 Graiville, seeing the mounting color on Vane's cheek. " No 
 need to blush, Vane ; I saw the damsel to-day, and she is fair
 
 108 LEAVES FROM TOE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 enough to be worth the trouble of winning. I give you fair 
 warning that I am going to enter the lists with you ; but re- 
 member that I never woo save par amours. I gave her a look 
 to-day ; and Randolph's ten guineas to a crown-piece that I 
 succeed, notwithstanding your advantage of previous acquaint- 
 ance. Your saints are never quite sound at the core." 
 
 " Rascal ! " exclaimed Vane, choking with indignation, as 
 he aimed a wine-glass at de Graiville's head. But his arm 
 was suddenly caught back, and the voice of the gentleman 
 who a few moments before had sought to moderate the gov- 
 ernor's anger, whispered in his ear, as he drew him aside, 
 
 " Rash blood, rash blood, young man ; though I grant you 
 had just cause." 
 
 For some moments the room was in confusion, when tho 
 governor, as the shortest way of settling a temporary peace 
 proposed adjourning to the drawing-room. But the syren 
 tones and marked preference of the honorable Eleanor Mere- 
 dith had lost their fascination for Frederic Vane that evening. 
 His mind, for some weeks occupied by her, was now thor- 
 oughly roused, and his thoughts busy with the past. 
 
 Hitherto, we have said little of young Vane's personal 
 appearance, and, perhaps, we may as well briefly describe it, 
 inasmuch as it was a fair index to his character. His face 
 was just such an one as ever wins the love of young and trust- 
 ing hearts, full of rich, sensuous beauty; that peculiar 
 moulding of feature and expression which, by self-culture and 
 careful training, may be developed into the noblest form of 
 manly beauty, or, by indolence and self-excess, degenerate into 
 mere sensualism. There was no lack of intellect : and, with 
 the whole energy of his nature aroused by the events of the 
 evening, perhaps he never looked more worthy of admiration 
 than on the night of which we speak, as he sat in thoughtful 
 silence by the side of the fair English lady. 
 
 As he was crossing the gallery towards his own room, late 
 that night, a servant overtook him, saying that the governor
 
 A TALE OF THE COLONY TIMES. 109 
 
 requested a few moments' private conversation with him. He 
 turned to his excellency's private room, and met, not the 
 angry, baffled ruler, but the smooth, polished courtier of the 
 reign of Charles I. 
 
 After some desultory remarks, and a graceful allusion to 
 and apology for his own want of self-control at the dinner- 
 table, the governor laid his hand on a pile of letters, and 
 said : 
 
 " I have had no opportunity to speak to you of the contents 
 of your mother's letters. She says that the death of your 
 only near male relative and guardian has left me, her distant 
 cousin, your natural friend and adviser, and wishes me to pro- 
 cure for you some situation which may be adapted to your 
 talents. I am willing to do this, as much for your own sake as 
 hers. Your natural abilities are good, my influence at court 
 not small. With such grounds to start from, it will be your 
 own fault if you do not reach a high round on fame's ladder. 
 Only be wary and prudent, boy, and let me hear no more of 
 such brawls as that we have just witnessed. Indeed, I much 
 commend your spirit, but, as a general thing, quarrels are 
 impolitic. If de Graiville challenges you, as most likely 
 he will, you must meet him ; but, henceforth, quarrel only 
 when it will further your ends better than peace. And," he 
 added, smiling, " you are young and handsome marry well. 
 Methinks you had one by your side this evening who would 
 not need much wooing. Add her wealth to my influence and 
 your talent, and your way is clear. By Jove, boy, if you 
 show one half the spirit in wooing my ward, Eleanor, that you 
 did to-night in defending that old rebel, she will be yours in 
 a fortnight ! As to his daughter, let de Graiville woo her as 
 he lists. It is naught to us." 
 
 Alas for the vanity and worldliness of the human heart ! 
 
 Where was the high and noble spirit that had hurled 
 
 defiance at de Graiville a few hours before ? Chilled by the 
 
 cold breath of worldly wisdom, until, long bef'src he again 
 
 10
 
 110 LEAVES FHOM TliE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 sought his own room, the gentle memory of Sibyl, which had 
 been so surely drawing him 1)ack to her side during the even- 
 ing hours, had faded before the fitful glare that gleamed 
 from the ambitious path which the governor's words had 
 opened. 
 
 CHAPTER v. 
 
 Day after day passed, and the light of hope glimmered 
 fainter and fainter in the heart of Sibyl Moody. The report 
 of Frederic Vane's engagement to the lovely English lady be- 
 came current among the townspeople, and, though she seldom 
 trusted her lips with his name, she could not fail to hear it. 
 Gradually came the conviction that she was forgotten, and 
 with it that hour of withering anguish, that bitter struggle 
 when the young heart finds, for the first time, that its cher- 
 ished idols are false its love and trust dishonored. It was 
 a fearful trial that feeling of utter desolation that settled 
 upon her heart, congealing for a time its very life-blood. She 
 met it alone, and alone she sought for strength to bear it. 
 Though such struggles cannot be, and leave no trace upon tlw- 
 outward frame, her old father, more than usually occupied with 
 the troubles of his society, happily failed to notice the growing 
 pallor of her cheek or the unusual lassitude of her movements. 
 They did not, however, escape the watchful eye of Aunt Menta ; 
 but she, kind soul, while she urged, nay, forced upon the 
 maiden double doses of her syrups, could not, when she 
 looked upon her bowed form and careworn face, bear to add to 
 his anxiety. 
 
 One evening, as the old man turned with a heavier step 
 than usual toward his study door, he suddenly paused and 
 gazed for some seconds anxiously on the face of his child. 
 
 " Sibyl," he said at length, " I wish to speak with you in 
 my study. Will you come ? " 
 
 The glance and the words brought a deep blush to the
 
 A TALE OF THE COLONY TIMES. Ill 
 
 maiden's cheek, as, with a mental prayer for strength to con- 
 ceal her suffering, she arose and followed him. 
 
 He took his arm-chair by the table, and, leaning his head 
 on his hands, sat for some time as if occupied in silent prayer, 
 while his daughter drew a low seat to his side, and, laying 
 her head on his knee, as in the days of childhood, awaited 
 his words. 
 
 " Sibyl," he said, at length, passing his hand fondly over 
 her hair, " thy father hath grown old and forgetful. In the 
 trials and troubles with which it hath pleased Him to sur- 
 round my age as well as my youth, I have forgotten that my 
 child hath grown to womanhood. This day, Elder Hale hath 
 reminded me of it, by asking thee in marriage for his son. He 
 is a deserving youth, of a family rich in temporal blessings, 
 but richer still, I trust, in the heavenly inheritance that 
 awaiteth the servants of the Lord. What answer shall I 
 make to this young man, my child ? " 
 
 " 0, send me not from you ! Let me live and die with v,ou, 
 my father ! " cried the poor girl, burying her face in her 
 hands upon his knee, while every nerve in her fair neck 
 twitched convulsively in her effort to suppress her emotion. 
 
 " I have no wish to send you from me Sibyl ; but sore 
 trouble, imprisonment, and perhaps death, await me. Listen, 
 my child. This day the governor hath notified me that he, 
 together with Mason and his follower Hinckes, will partake 
 of the Lord's Supper with us next Sabbath ; and, moreover, 
 he requireth me to administer it according to the forms of the 
 established -church, with liturgy and vain repetitions. This, 
 of course, I have wholly refused to do ; therefore he hath the 
 pretext against me which he hath long sought. Before 
 another day he may drag me to prison, and though I know 
 that He will not try me beyond my strength, yet the thought 
 of thee, my daughter," and, for the first time since he com- 
 menced speaking, the old man's voice grew tremulous,
 
 112 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 " homeless and exposed to the snares of the spoiler, weakeneth 
 my heart." 
 
 " Father," said Sibyl, raising her head from his knee, and 
 speaking very earnestly, " could you be happier separated 
 from your child ? " 
 
 For a moment there was a struggle in the old man's heart, 
 and the rigid lines about his mouth moved convulsively as he 
 exclaimed, " Tempt me not, my child ! O, tempt me not ! " 
 
 " Then we part no more. This governor is human ; he 
 cannot forbid the child to share her father's fate. Let that 
 be what it may, I will not shrink, if so be we may meet it 
 together. But speak no more," and the enthusiasm, which for 
 a moment had lit up her pale face, gave place to the expres- 
 sion of bitter suffering. " 0, speak no more, I entreat of you, 
 of this marriage ! " 
 
 The old man bent over her, and for some moments his with- 
 ered cheek rested upon her head, ere he trusted his voice in 
 reply. At length he said, brokenly, 
 
 " It was not thy love nor thy devotion that I doubted; but," 
 he added, slowly, " thou art fair, my Sibyl ; thou hast thy 
 mother's comely face, and I thought of my death, and the 
 power of our enemies. Yet, surely, there is one among them 
 who, forgetful as he seems, would not see thee wronged. I 
 speak of Frederic Vane." 
 
 The quick, convulsive shudder that passed through the girl's 
 frame shook even him, and for some moments he sat in bewil- 
 dered surprise. Then the truth seemed suddenly to dawn upon 
 him. He raised her head in his trembling old hands, and 
 gazed on her pale face for some moments, while his own grew 
 tremulous with emotion. " My child, my poor child ! " he 
 murmured. That mournful tone was too much for Sibyl. 
 The self-command that she had struggled to maintain gave 
 way, and, hiding her face in his bosom, she burst into tears. 
 
 " My child, my poor, motherless child ! " he murmured 
 again, as he drew her closely to his heart. " And so I cher-
 
 A TALE OF THE COLONY TIMES. lie 
 
 ished a viper under my roof. Blind mole that I was, not to 
 foresee this ! So true and noble as he seemed. Heaven 
 knows that I cherished, yea, loved him as a son, and he 
 I will" 
 
 " Forgive him, father, even as I have forgiven him," whis- 
 pered a voice in his ear. 
 
 " But you must tell me all, Sibyl, all." 
 
 She left the .room, and, after a few minutes' absence, re- 
 turned and placed in his hands Frederic Vane's parting gift, 
 the locket enclosing the lock of hair. Then, kneeling at his 
 side, she simply and briefly related the story of her love, while, 
 with one hand laid upon her head, he gazed thoughtfully down 
 upon her face. 
 
 " So my thoughtlessness has darkened the light of thy 
 young life, my daughter, and this man weds another the 
 ward of our bitterest enemy. He was unworthy of our love, 
 my Sibyl." 
 
 " Blame him not, father. The lady is said to be good, 
 beautiful, I know her to. be, for I saw her once ; more fitting 
 to be his wife than simple Sibyl Moody. Yet she can never 
 love him " Again her hands were pressed upon her eyes, 
 as if to'force back the rush of tears. " Enough, my father," 
 she added, meekly ; " if I have sinned in setting up an earthly 
 idol if I have erred in withholding this matter from you, I 
 have also suffered." 
 
 " I blame you not, Sibyl. It was but natural. Hence- 
 forth, we will part no more, and our only trust must be in 
 Him who is both able and willing to save. And kneeling 
 down by her side, in a voice shaken with grief, the old man 
 laid his daughter's sorrows before the throne of Him whom he 
 had served from his youth. 
 
 He had not miscalculated the vengeance of the governor. 
 
 Two weeks after, the doors of the prison closed behind them. 
 
 During thirteen weary weeks they were shut away from God's 
 
 punlight and fresh air ; but no royal authority could deprive 
 
 10*
 
 114 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 that old man of the light of a clear conscience, and he often 
 felt, that, like the saints of old, an angel ministered unto him 
 under the form of his child. 
 
 And when those heavy doors were opened, and, under the 
 ban of exile, he was again permitted to go forth, the angel 
 was still by his side, for she did not vanish suddenly like those 
 of which we read, but her cheek grew more and more white 
 and transparent, her eye brighter and her step slower, until, 
 with the fall of the leaves, she disappeared from his sight. 
 But the old man looked upward with a calm smile, for he 
 knew that in a few short days he should again look upon her 
 in " those boundless regions of all perfection."
 
 UNCLE JOHN'S VISIT. 
 
 A TALE FOB THE TIMES 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IT came at last, what the fire, Cassandra-like, had mut- 
 tered of for several days past ; what people prophesied to 
 each other on the street ; what Bill Lyman, the stage-driver, 
 had foreseen that morning, when he called for his heaviest 
 pea-jacket ; what young maidens and school-boys had looked 
 for with such impatient longings ; what the houseless and 
 homeless had anticipated with anxiety and dread, the snow- 
 storm. 
 
 And a right brave storm it was ; none of your light, trifling 
 affairs, that merely cover the earth with a thin frosting, like 
 that on a bridal loaf, but a regular old-fashioned snow-storm. 
 To be sure, it was rather coquettish at first, like a young 
 horse at starting, but soon it settled down, and went to work 
 in good earnest. It wove dainty coverlets for the violet beds 
 in the deep old woods, and covered them over like a careful 
 mother ; it powdered the heads of the cedars, until they looked 
 like white-haired giants, and wrapped alike the graves of rich 
 and poor in shrouds of dazzling whiteness. 
 
 0, very impartial were those same little, white, feathery 
 flakes, that came dancing down at the bidding of the storm, 
 edging alike the blue cloth cloak of Judge Edmonds and the 
 ragged garments of the beggar with 
 
 " Ermine too dear for an Earl."
 
 116 LKAVES FROM THE TBKB IGDKASYL. 
 
 Then they made a league with that cool-headed old tactician, 
 the north wind, and together they went skirring through the 
 streets, 'heaving up embankments here, and digging trenches 
 and forming curves there, rushing round corners, to attack 
 stout, rosy-cheeked gentlemen, who fought and sputtered and 
 dashed the snow from their eyebrows, to see what awaited 
 them next, while the thinly-clad shop-girls drew their shawls 
 closer about them, and scudded in troops, like little snow- 
 birds, close under the lee of the housed, to escape their bois- 
 terous greetings. In the space of an hour or so the storm 
 had the city pretty much to itself, for whoever had a shelter 
 was glad to get beneath it, and stay there. 
 
 On the corner of C and D streets was a spacious wholesale 
 clothing store, upon which, in hurrying up and down the 
 streets, after the last stragglers, the storm seemed to bestow 
 particular attention. It tried to shake the mahogany-cased 
 windows, and find some crack in them, or in the heavily pan- 
 elled door, by which it could gain ingress ; but, baffled here, it 
 contented itself with wrapping a white covering over the gilded 
 sign-board, darkening the windows, muffling the steps, and 
 piling up a barricade against the door, as if it said, " Nevei 
 mind, I '11 be ready for you when you do open ! " 
 
 Now, it was very provoking, no doubt, but none of these 
 manoeuvres seemed to disturb the equanimity of Mr. D. 
 Orestes Jimps, the owner of the store. All the clerks had 
 gone to tea ; and, while waiting their return, he sat before 
 the stove, with his heels resting upon a high stool, rather 
 above the level of his head, and his eyes fixed upon a lamp- 
 hook in the wall, as a kind of tether to .his imagination, as he 
 counted up the profits of the day's sales, a very necessary 
 and commendable process, seeing next day was New-year's, 
 and he anticipated several extra demands upon his purse. 
 Perhaps we should not be far from the truth, if we said that, 
 at the same time, he gave a sort of rough guess at his neigh- 
 bor Jumper's profits, and wondered just how muck and what
 
 UNCLE JOHN'S VISIT. 117 
 
 he would give at their pastor's donation party the next even- 
 ing ; for Mr. D. Orestes Jimps did not like to be cast in the 
 shade by any one, especially by a rival house ; besides, we 
 are all, at times, so remarkably disinterested, that we take 
 more interest in other people's concerns than our own. 
 
 But, hurrah ! the storm has triumphed ! Through the open 
 door falls the barricade of snow, followed by the wind, that 
 sends the glittering particles dancing through the whole length 
 of the store, and raises such a commotion among the various 
 garments, mentionable and unmentionable, suspended over- 
 head, that it is some time before the astonished Mr. Jimps is 
 aware of the cause of this disturbance. 
 
 But there she .stands, a little, shrinking, hollow-eyed 
 girl, with a cheek almost as white as the snow matted in 
 her abundant hair, and clinging to the folds of her miserable 
 dress. 
 
 " Well, what 's wanting, my girl ? " asked Mr. Jimps, as 
 the thin, wan face, scarcely higher than the level of the 
 counter, was turned up to him, with a timid, appealing 
 glance. 
 
 " Please, sir," began a little, trembling, piping voice, " I 
 have brought some shirts, and mother .wants to know if 
 you will be kind enough to let her have the money for 
 them." 
 
 Mr. Jimps took the package which the child drew from 
 under her shawl, and deliberately counted the coarse gar- 
 ments it contained, while the little one edged timidly towards 
 the stove. 
 
 " Three, four, five, six. Why, child," exclaimed the gen- 
 tleman, as he finished counting, " how is this ? Here is but 
 half the lot we gave out to your mother." 
 
 " Yes, sir," returned the child, as she edged back to her first 
 stand ; " mother knew that ; but little Jennie has been so sick, 
 sir, that we could not get any more done, ; and and it is 
 so cold, and the c<l is all gone. Mother hoped, sir, you
 
 118 LEAVES FROM TUB TREB IGDRASYL. 
 
 would be kind enough to pay her for these, and we will finish 
 the others as soon as we can." 
 
 "I thought your mother understood our terms. I told her, 
 when she took the work, that we made it a rule to pay only 
 when the lot was done," returned Mr. Jimps. " There are 
 plenty of people glad to work for us on these terms, and your 
 mother cannot expect us to make an exception in her favor." 
 
 " But, please, sir," plead the little one, " little Jennie is so 
 sick, and " 
 
 But Mr. Jimps did not stay to hear her out ; for, just 
 at that moment, the outer door agdin opened, and a person 
 entered, who slammed it to, right in the face of the storm, 
 and began to stamp his boots and shake his garments in a 
 way that gave strong proofs of their firm texture. As soon 
 as Mr. Jimps caught sight of the high nose that peered like a 
 projecting battlement over the folds of the red worsted com- 
 forter which enveloped the lower portion of the new-comer's 
 face, he sprang round the counter, and, seizing his hand, shook 
 it heartily, as he exclaimed, 
 
 " Why, Uncle John Markham! where did you come from? 
 Did you snow down ? " 
 
 " No, Dimmie," returned the old man, taking off his low- 
 crowned hat, and shaking a miniature snow-storm from its 
 broad brim ; " but I 'd like to been snowed under. Who 'd 
 a thought it would have come by such handfuls ? I told mother, 
 when I started, I guessed there would be more snow before I 
 got back; but I did not think of its coming so like a judg- 
 ment. Black Simon and I have had a time of it, I tell you, 
 Dimmie. Whew ! my fingers ache like the toothache ! " he 
 added, drawing off a thick pair of blue and white yarn mit- 
 tens, and spreading his hard palms to the fire. 
 
 " It is the worst storm we have had yet," returned Mr. 
 Jimps, wincing slightly at the appellation by which the old 
 man addressed him. In his native village, he had always 
 been known as " Dimmie Jimps," it being,a sort of abbrevia-
 
 UNCLE JOHN'S VISIT. 119 
 
 tion of the classical cognomen, Demosthenes Orestes, bestowed 
 upon him by his father, which he had ignored ever since his 
 establishment in the city, signing his name D. Orestes Jimps, 
 Esq. But he knew there was no use in arguing the case with 
 Uncle John. He would always remain Dimmie, with him ; 
 so he smoothed his brow, and said, heartily : 
 
 " Come, Uncle John, take a seat and make yourself com- 
 fortable, if you can, until some of the boys get back ; then \\~e 
 will go up to the house. Julia will be delighted to see you. 
 You will stay over to-morrow night with us, of course. To- 
 morrow night is Mr. E 's donation party, and you must 
 
 certainly attend that. He asks after you always, when he 
 calls." Then, chancing to let his eye fall on the waiting child, 
 whom he had quite forgotten, he said, with a gesture toward 
 the door : 
 
 " You had better run home, little girl. Your mother knows 
 my terms, can't vary for any one. A man must have some 
 rules, and stick by them, if he intends to do anything," he 
 added, turning to Uncle John. 
 
 " Ay, sound doctrine that, Dimmie. But what is this ? 
 Who could send a child out, in such a storm?" said the old 
 man, hastily rising, and striding forward to open the door, the 
 knob of which the child was vainly trying to turn. " There, 
 run home little girl, if you don't intend to be buried," he 
 cried ; " your folks are crazy to send you out in such 
 weather." 
 
 For a second, ere she crossed the threshold, the little pale 
 face was turned up to his, as if to thank him, and he saw that 
 it was wet with tears. 
 
 " What, what ! " ho muttered ; and was about to follow 
 her, when he was recalled by the voice of Mr. Jimps : 
 
 " Come in, uncle ; you will catch your death standing in 
 that draft ! " cried the little man. 
 
 " Who was that child, Dimmie ? and what possessed her
 
 120 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 friends, if she has any, to send her out in such a storm ? " 
 asked the old man, as he again seated himself by the fire. 
 
 " 0, she don't mind it ! * She is one of the thousands you 
 will find in the city ; one scarcely knows who or what they 
 are. Her^mother came here for work ; and, as she was rec- 
 ommended by one ef our hands, whom we could trust, we let 
 her take some. I should think I had heard some one say that 
 her husband was a dissipated sort of a fellow. The city is 
 full of such people." 
 
 " But what sent her here to-day ? Do you owe them any- 
 thing, Dimmie ? " 
 
 " Owe them ! " returned Mr. Jimps, laughing. " You must 
 think me hard run, not to be able to pay for half a dozen 
 shirts. I always make it a rule to pay for each lot of work 
 when it is brought in and answers inspection ; and that is 
 what I call fair on all sides. But this woman wants me to 
 do more ; she has sent in half her lot, and wants me to pay 
 her for these before the rest are done." 
 
 " And you did n't do it, Dimmie ? " said the old man. 
 
 " Not I. I should never get my work done at that rate. 
 If she does not like the terms, she must look elsewhere for 
 work." 
 
 " I s'pose there are people who would have been foolish 
 enough to have done it, or, perhaps, given her a little some- 
 thing out of their own pockets," observed the old man, watch- 
 ing the face of Mr. Jimps with a very peculiar expression. 
 
 " Yes, and foolish enough they are, as you say. Now, I 
 claim to be as liberal and benevolent as most men ; but I act 
 upon system in this as well as everything else. I pay my 
 taxes promptly, and subscribe libefally to several benevolent 
 societies; besides, my wife devotes half her time to their 
 management. If these people really are worthy, and need 
 aid, let them apply to some of these, or to the city authority. 
 Casual charity only encourages street-begging and idleness." 
 
 " But but I s'pose there are some among them so
 
 UNCLE JOHN'S VISIT. 121 
 
 proud that they would rather starve than beg," returned the 
 old man, with the same searching glance. " I dare say there 
 are a good many, just in our neighborhood, at home, who 
 would rub pretty close before they would do it." 
 
 " No doubt of it. You would be surprised at the degree of 
 pride manifested by the people who work for me, though many 
 of them are poor as Job. These people are doubtless of the 
 same stamp. Lewis," he added, addressing a young clerk, 
 who entered, out of breath with facing the storm, " put down 
 those half dozen shirts to the credit of Mrs. Ives." 
 
 " Miss Sarah Ives, George street ? " queried the boy. 
 
 " No ; Mrs. Mary Ives, Bingham Crossing, York road," 
 was the reply, as Mr. Jimps deliberately encased his dapper 
 person in a wadded overcoat, and enveloped his throat in the 
 voluminous folds of a costly merino scarf. 
 
 While he was drawing on his overshoes, his guest took from 
 his pocket a large pocket-book, and wrote a few words on a 
 blank leaf. 
 
 They were soon ploughing their way in the direction of Mr. 
 Jimps' residence, Uncle John looking the storm square in the 
 face, as if it were an old friend, and Mr. Jimps trying to give 
 it the cut by turning sideways. It bore this a while ; but, at 
 last, as they turned a corner, it sprang out upon him, and, 
 flapping the long ends of his scarf in his face, suddenly lifted 
 his shining beaver from his head, and lodged it in a snow- 
 bank, which it had been piling up right under the windows of 
 
 Governor B 's mansion, as if for the special amusement 
 
 of a group of curly-headed children and a lovely young lady, 
 who were watching the process with delight. 
 
 " 0, if it had only happened anywhere else ! " thought Mr. 
 Jimps, as, with one glance at the mischievous face of Miss 
 
 Eva B and the laughing little ones, he picked up his 
 
 beaver, and disappeared round the corner. Uncle John fol 
 lowed with steady steps. No danger of the storm's playing 
 tricks with his apparel. His hat was jammed dowr upon his 
 11
 
 122 LEAVES FBOil THE TREE IGDBASYL. 
 
 bald crown, as if he meant it to stay there ; and we have a 
 suspicion that he rather enjoyed the disasters of Mr. Jimps. 
 
 "I say, Dimmie," he remarked, seeing that gentleman 
 pause and turn his back to the storm to get breath, " that 
 little girl must have a hard time of it getting home, won't 
 she?" 
 
 " Yes, her people were crazy to send her out at such a 
 time. Ugh ! the snow almost blinds one ! " 
 
 " Very likely," returned the old man, with a peculiar 
 smile, replying to the first part of Mr. Jimps' remark ; " poor 
 people are apt to do a great many strange things. But here 
 we are at the door, and there is your wife at the window ; " 
 and, with a nod to the rather pretty-looking lady who looked 
 down upon them, the old man followed his nephew into the 
 house. 
 
 Uncle John Markham was warmly received by his nephew's 
 wife. He was a bit of a humorist, " odd as Dick's hat- 
 band," the people said in his village (and, by the way, we 
 should very much like to know in what the peculiarity of the 
 said Richard's hat-band consisted). " Eccentric" Mrs. Jimps 
 whispered to her friends, as she introduced him ; but then he 
 was rich and childless, and rich folks can afford to be " odd." 
 
 His visits were ever welcome among his nephews and nieces, 
 not merely because of his wealth ; for, though they were keen- 
 sighted business people, and perhaps did not entirely put that 
 out of the question, yet they had sense enough to love and 
 respect the old man for his intrinsic goodness. 
 
 Tea being over, and little Augustus Adelmar, Mr. Jimps' 
 son and heir, having been sent to bed, after making several 
 journeys to " Danbury Cross " on the old man's foot, the con- 
 versation turned to the approaching donation party. 
 
 " Simpson sent home the stand to-day, dear," said Mrs. 
 Jimps, turning to her husband. "It is a love of a thing. 
 
 Uncle John, you must see it, my gift for Mrs. E , our 
 
 pastor's wife. I do not believe there will be anything half so
 
 JOHN'S VISIT. 123 
 
 pretty sent in ; " and, running into the opposite parlor, she 
 returned with a beautiful papier macke work-stand. 
 
 " Why, it is a pretty thing enough," said the old man, 
 looking at it with a good deal of interest, as his niece ex- 
 plained the material and the process of manufacturing it ; 
 " that butterfly hovering over the rose, there, is as natural 
 as life. But what's it for, Julia? It is hardly strong 
 enough to hold a mouse.*' 
 
 " 0, it will hold light things ; and, then, it is such a beau- 
 tiful ornament in a parlor ! " 
 
 "And what might it have cost, niece ? " he asked. 
 
 " Only twenty dollars. Orestes, how L wish your vases 
 had been sent home, so that Uncle John could have seen 
 them, too.- They are such beauties the real Bohemian 
 glass, and no mistake." 
 
 " And what do they cost ? " 
 
 "Twenty more," was the reply. 
 
 " Well, Dimmie, you said you was liberal, to-day, and I 
 do not dispute it ; but it does seem to me, ckildren, with my 
 old-fashioned notions, that you might have laid out your 
 money more wisely, considering your minister's wife and chil- 
 dren. But you mean well, doubtless, and cannot fail to be 
 benefited by it yourselves, whatever your friends may be ; 
 for no one ever opened their purse-strings out of kindness, 
 without being the better for it." 
 
 " In that case, Uncle John, you will return a much better 
 man than you came, for I intend to make a draft on you," 
 said Julia, blushing and laughing. " We are getting up a 
 society for the suppression of idolatry among the Chinese in 
 California, and I must have you down for a good round 
 sum." 
 
 " Stay a bit, niece. Chinese I heard they were coming 
 over there by thousands, but I don't know as they are much 
 worse idolaters than our folks are there. Besides, I have
 
 124 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 one or two claims of the society to which I belong to settle, 
 before I can think of yours." 
 
 " Your society ! Why, I did not know as you belonged to 
 any one, uncle ! " 
 
 " You were mistaken, then," returned the old man, gravely. 
 " For many years I have been a member of the oldest society 
 in the world, the same of which our Saviour was a distin- 
 guished member while on earth, the Society of Human 
 Brotherhood, which has for its aim and object all the poor, 
 oppressed, fallen and down-trodden beings upon God's earth. 
 I must attend to this first, niece ; and then I will see about 
 yours." 
 
 There was silence a few moments, before the old man, who 
 had risen and walked to the window, added, gayly : 
 
 "By the by, children, I guess I'll just step round to the 
 hotel, and take a look at ' Black Simon.' " 
 
 " Not to-night, you surely need not go out to-night," 
 cried Mr. and Mrs. Jimps in the same breath. 
 
 "Why not? .See, it has stopped snowing, and I am not 
 quite so frail as Julia's stand there. Simon had a hard time 
 of it getting here, and the hostler may neglect him, poor fel- 
 low ! You need not think I am lost if I am not back in an 
 hour or two," he added, as he passed through the hall ; " I 
 may find some old friends down there, and chat a while." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " Black Simon " was looked after, and talked to for a few 
 moments, much as if he had been a child ; and then, instead 
 of returning to the warm sitting-room of the hotel, or the 
 elegant parlor of Mr. Jimps, the old man sturdily ploughed 
 his way along the snowy streets, until he reached the suburbs 
 of the city. 
 
 Here he slackened his steps, and paused occasionally to 
 decipher, by the dim light of the lamps, the numbers on somi
 
 UNCLE JOHN'S VISIT. 125 
 
 of the dilapidated buildings which lined the street. At last 
 he approached one, from which issued the sounds of music 
 and dancing, and knocked loudly at the door. It was opened 
 by a rosy-cheeked Irish girl, in a gay ball costume and dirty 
 white slippers. 
 
 " Is there a family of the name of Ives living in this 
 house ? " asked the old man. 
 
 "Yes there be the poor craythers; but- not in there, 
 sir," was the reply, as she saw Mr. Markham about to lay 
 hold of the latch of a door near by. "That is Teddy 
 McGruire's room. The Ives' are above, sir. I will be afther 
 showin' ye the way, an' ye please." v 
 
 Uncle John followed the girl up the gloomy, dirty stairs, 
 asking by the way (for the old man was a bit of a Yankee) 
 what was the cause of the festivity below. 
 
 "A wedding, sir. Mikey Flaherty is married to Tim 
 Doolan's Bridget, the night," returned the girl, with a 
 smile ; adding, as she pointed to a door at the extreme end 
 of the passage, " It 's there ye will find them ye seek." 
 
 The old man turned to thank her, but she was already 
 half way down stairs, stepping to the lively measure of an 
 Irish jig; so he walked on, and knocked gently at the door 
 which the girl had pointed out. It was opened by the same 
 pale-faced child whom he had seen in his nephew'^store. 
 She looked up to him with a quick glance of recognition, 
 singled with surprise, and then glanced toward her mother, 
 who sat leaning over a miserable bed, on which lay a little 
 child, over whose face the ashen hue of death was already 
 stealing. Seeing that her mother did not observe the stran- 
 ger, she said : 
 
 " It 's the gentleman who opened the door for me to-day, 
 mother." 
 
 Thus disturbed, the woman looked up, questioningly, 
 almost impatiently, at the intruder. 
 
 " Excuse me, ma'am," began the old man, in an apologetic 
 11*
 
 126 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 J 
 
 tone v but deliberately shutting the door behind him. " I fear 
 I intrude ; but the little girl is right. I am glad to find she 
 got home safe. My nephew, Mr. Jimps, did not quite 
 understand the child, it seems ; and I have come to make it 
 all straight." And he handed out a five-dollar bill as he 
 spoke. 
 
 The w,0man took the bill, looked at it a moment, and 
 returned it with a heavy sigh. 
 
 " I cannot change it, sir. I have not a cent of money in 
 the world." 
 
 "It's all right, ma'am. I don't want any change I 
 mean Mr. Jimps don't; he isn't at all particular that is 
 I say keep it, ma'am; you need it all, and more too, in 
 such weather as this." 
 
 The woman looked at him with mingled wonder and sus- 
 picion. At length she said : 
 
 " There is some mistake, sir. Mr. Jimps is a very partic- 
 ular man. He owes me but one dollar, and it may bring 
 both of us into trouble if I keep the money." 
 
 " Take it, I say. Zounds ! have not I a right to do as I 
 please with my I mean, has n't Mr. Jimps a right to do 
 what he pleases with his money ? Take it, and make your- 
 selves comfortable." 
 
 The^ woman waited to be urged no more; she eagerly 
 clutched the money, and burst into tears, as she cried : 
 
 " The blessing of those ready to perish be upon you both, 
 sir. I should not have sent out to-day ; but we have neither 
 food nor fuel, and little Jennie dying ! " 
 
 " Have you no one whom you can send out after food and 
 fuel ? " asked the old man, with a glance toward the further 
 corner of the room, where, from beneath a pale of rags, came 
 the heavy breathing of a man. 
 
 " Yes," returned the woman, as with a troubled expression 
 her eye followed his ; " but William, poor fellow, is not well. 
 He is worn out," she went on, with a sigh, " with care, and
 
 JOHN'S VISIT. 127 
 
 ./ 
 
 want, and trouble. If you will be kind enough to stay with 
 Ellen, sir, I wili run down myself, and get what we want. 
 It 's only two doors from here," she added, seeing the old 
 man about to remonstrate. 
 
 There was something in her manner that recalled to th 
 old man Mr. Jimps' remark about her husband's intemperate 
 habits. She fears to trust him with the money, and perhaps 
 she is right, thought he, as he drew the scanty covering over 
 the dying child, and began to look about for something to 
 kindle a fire with, against the mother's return. 
 
 The little girl laid down the coarse shirt-sleeve she was 
 stitching, and came to his aid ; but they could find nothing 
 but a few bits of paper. 
 
 " That is Willie's kite, sir," whispered she, as the old man 
 laid his hand on that article. " He brought it with him when 
 we moved from the country ; but I don't know as he will 
 mind it much if we do take it, if he can only be warm." 
 
 As she spoke, a curly head peered out from beneath the 
 rags in the corner, and, presently, a little boy of five or six 
 years old crept to her side. 
 
 " Willie, don't wake father ! " she whispered, hushing his 
 exclamation of surprise at the sight of the stranger. "We are 
 going to have a fire, and something to eat, Willie," she added. 
 "Mother has gone after the things. Mr. Jimps sent the 
 money by this gentleman, and now it 's all right." 
 
 The little boy's sleepy eyes flew wide open at the mention 
 of food and fire, and he whispered, with a shy look at Uncle 
 John : 
 
 " But will he take us away from this hateful place, sister, 
 and give us dinners every day, just as we used to have them 
 in the country? When I was so hungry, and cried, last 
 night, you said may-be some one would bring me a whole 
 pocket full of cakes, if I would go to sleep. Has he brought 
 them, sissie?" 
 
 " Mother has gone after them," said the little girl, while
 
 128 
 
 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 Uncle John took him upon his knee, and warmed his little 
 red hands between his great palms. Ellen drew close to him, 
 too, and he took her on the other knee, as he asked, 
 
 " How long has the little one been sick, dear ? " 
 
 " Mother says she has never been well ; but she ran about 
 'and played with Willie and me, until we came here. Ever 
 since, she has been poorly, and we have had to hold her all 
 the while. Sometimes she laughs when I show her my rose- 
 bush, and puts up her hands to catch the leaves. Biddy 
 Flaherty gave it to me, sir ; btrt, lately, she does not seem to 
 notice anything, and mother thinks she will die." 
 
 " And then she will go up to God, away above the clouds, 
 where the cold weather never comes," said little Willie, lift- 
 ing his sober eyes to Mr. Markham's face. " It 's a nice place 
 up there, sir. Would n't you like to go too ? " 
 
 Before the old man could reply, the mother entered, fol- 
 lowed by a man bearing food and coals.- 
 
 We do not know whose pleasure was the greatest, the 
 hungry-eyed children's, as they ate their food by the glowing 
 fire, or old John Markham's, as he sat by and looked on. We 
 think the children's, however ; for he could not but be sad- 
 dened by the tale which he heard from the lips of the poor 
 mother, as she hung over her child. It was the old story, which 
 has blotted so many of the fair pages of the book of life. 
 Poverty had followed sickness ; thrown out of work, strang- 
 ,ers in a strange place, disappointed and despairing, the hus- 
 band and father had yielded to temptation, and tasted of the 
 accursed cup, until he no longer cared for aught save the 
 gratification of his brutal appetite. For some time past they 
 had depended solely upon the earnings of the mother and 
 little Ellen for support ; and these had, of late, been much 
 curtailed by the illness of little Jennie. " I could not let her 
 lie and die before my eyes, even though we were all starved," 
 said the weeping mother. 
 
 Uncle John Markham was not an eloquent man he never
 
 UNCLE JOHN'S VISIT. 129 
 
 made a speech in his life ; yet, somehow, the words which he 
 spoke to that fallen, discouraged husband, that night, awoke 
 feelings of hope, and courage, and self-respect in the poor fel- 
 low's heart, to which he had long been a stranger. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 It was quite late when the old man reached his nephew's 
 house that night, and Mr. Jimps and his wife were too sleepy 
 to ask many questions ; but next morning, at the breakfast- 
 table, they were disposed to be quite curious on the subject 
 of his late hours. 
 
 "Fie, Uncle John," began Mrs. Jimps, smiling, as she 
 handed him his coffee ; " this never will do. I shall have to 
 write to Aunt Sarah about it." 
 
 " I think I shall write to her myself, this morning," re- 
 turned the old man, in the same light tone. 
 
 "But, uncle, these must be very interesting people, these 
 friends of yours, to keep you up so late," said Mr. Jimps. 
 
 " They are ; so much so, Dimmie, that I must introduce 
 them to you. Will you call with me some time in the course 
 of the day?" 
 
 " With great pleasure, uncle." 
 
 It being New-Year's day, however, Mr. Jimps, amid calls 
 and business, quite forgot Uncle John's proposal the more 
 readily as that old gentleman was absent most of the day on 
 business of his own, and it was not until he was about to 
 dress for the donation party in the evening that the old man 
 saw fit to remind him of his engagement. 
 
 " Why, it is too late, now, Uncle John. Julia has already 
 commenced dressing for the party," said the little man. 
 
 "Well, I can't go to this party with you until I have 
 called on these friends, that 's certain," said the old man. 
 ' If you are minded to go with me, I '11 have Black Simon
 
 130 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 and the sleigh at the door by the time you are dressed, and 
 we can be there and back again by the time Julia gets rigged, 
 if she is like most women-folks." 
 
 Black Simon was at the door in time, and bore them with 
 flying steps along the crowded streets. On, on they went, past 
 brilliantly lighted parlors, from whence came the sounds of 
 music and laughter on, to where the streets began to nar- 
 row, and the lights to dwindle, until, with a suddenness that 
 almost took Mr. Jimps' breath from his body, the old man 
 drew up before a rickety old building. 
 
 " Uncle John, you must have mistaken the place ! your 
 friends surely cannot live here ! " cried Mr. Jimps, from be- 
 neath the many folds of his scarf. 
 
 " May be so we '11 see," was the reply, as the eld man 
 sprang out, and, taking a rope from the sleigh, fastened Black 
 Simon securely to a post. 
 
 It was too cold for Mr. Jimps to remonstrate ; his teeth 
 chattered and his scarf was almost frozen to his lips, even 
 then ; so, stepping carefully in his dainty, glistening boots, he 
 followed the old man through the gloomy hall and up the 
 dirty stairs. Mr. Jimps was a somewhat fastidious person, 
 and might, more than once, have taken exception to the 
 various smells that, coming from the different rooms, seemed 
 to congregate in that hall, had he not, fortunately, been too 
 well wrapped up to be aware of them. 
 
 Uncle John rapped softly at the Ives' door, and, after 
 waiting a few moments, as no one came, opened it himself. 
 One glance around the apartment taught him the cause of 
 that silence. Near the stove, with his little boy in his arms, 
 who was sobbing in that peculiar spasmodic manner that 
 indicates the utter exhaustion of the physical frame, sat 
 William Ives, with his eyes fixed upon the bed which had 
 been arranged as decently as possible to receive the dead 
 body of little Jennie. The mother had done all her scanty 
 means allowed. She had parted the soft hair on the little
 
 UNCLB JOHN'S VISIT. 131 
 
 brow, straightened the shrunken limbs, and robed them in a 
 pretty white frock, the last relic of happier days. The dainty 
 edgings with which it was trimmed were in strange contrast 
 with the miserable bed-coverings edgings wrought by her 
 busy fingers in those happy days when a mother's glad antici- 
 pations first stirred her heart. Then she had flung herself on 
 her knees by the side of the bed, and, with her face buried in 
 the clothes, neither wept nor moved. 
 
 The grave-eyed Ellen stooped over the bed, and was trying 
 to place a poor, sickly-looking rose in the cold hands of the 
 little one. Uncle John glanced at the bush she had showed 
 him the night before, and he knew at once from whence it 
 came. It was her all, poor thing ! 
 
 She was the first to observe their entrance, and soon both 
 parents were mingling words of deep gratitude with their 
 tears. 
 
 " I shall never, never forget your kindness, sir, to the day 
 I die ! " exclaimed the mother, turning to Mr. Jimps. " Much 
 as we needed the money, starving as we were, we thought 
 not less of your confidence in us than we did of that. It 
 was so kind, so noble in you, to trust us ! But you shall be 
 repaid, sir ; William and I are determined to do it, if we 
 work our fingers to the bone ! And this gentleman, to come, 
 as he did, through the snow to aid us ! 0, how can we ever 
 be grateful enough ? " 
 
 "My kindness repay me you here!" exclaimed the 
 bewildered Mr. Jimps, turning to Uncle John, and rapidly 
 unwinding the folds of his scarf, as if pressed for breath. 
 
 " Yes, Dimmie, I was certain you did not quite understand 
 the errand of that little girl, yesterday, so I followed her 
 home, and settled your bill myself. It was well I did, for the 
 poor things needed it very much." 
 
 " Save a bit of bread for the children, and a spoonful of 
 milk for for " and the poor mother glanced sadly at the
 
 132 LEAVES FROM THE TBEB IGDRASYL. 
 
 white-robed little figure on the bed, "for her, sir, we had 
 not tasted food for two days." 
 
 Mr. Jimps was neither an unjust nor hard-hearted man ; 
 he had simply been guided by the current custom of the day ; 
 and, when he had subscribed his quota to any benevolent ob- 
 ject, allowed himself to consider his responsibility at an end. 
 Now, a new light broke in upon him ; he turned to his old 
 relative, and said, earnestly : 
 
 " Thank you, thank you, Uncle John ! you could not have 
 done me a kinder deed; or," he added, in a lower tone, 
 " taught me a better lesson. It is one which I shall never 
 forget." 
 
 And, to do Mr. Jimps justice, he never did. He told the 
 story to Julia when they got home, and bravely took his share 
 of the blame, while the tears gathered in her pretty eyes, 
 and she almost forgot her present and the donation party, in 
 her interest in the Iveses. 
 
 They assisted the father in finding employment, aided and 
 encouraged him in his struggles to overcome his evil habits, 
 and even did not grumble when Uncle John took little Ellen 
 Ives to live with him and Aunt Sally, and be a daughter to 
 them in their old age,*though they knew that the inheritance 
 of their darling Augustus Adelmar would be much curtailed 
 by the deed.
 
 AN INCIDENT ON THE SEA-SHORE 
 
 Ernst 1st das Lcben. 
 
 ABOUT midway between Sachem's Head and Double Beach, 
 those well-known watering places on the Connecticut shore, a 
 small cove or creek laps, like a silver tongue, up into the 
 main land ; and the waters, as if weary of the perpetual strife 
 and moaning seaward, cling close to the shore in little curves 
 and dents, and put out slender silver arms among the coarse, 
 green sedges of the marshes, as if seeking for that inland 
 quiet which it is their destiny never to attain. 
 
 It is a quiet bit of water that small cove, set in a frame 
 of white, wave-ribbed sand, backed by a circlet of houses, the 
 green, rank marshes, and a low range of broken upland, 
 scarcely worthy of the name of hills, but sufficient to shut off 
 all objects landward, save a blue, hazy line in the distance, 
 which indicates the outline of the Tetoket range of hills. 
 
 But seaward roll ceaselessly the blue waves of the Sound, 
 and, stretching along at the distance of from one half mile to 
 some four or five miles from shore, are scattered a dozen or 
 more islands. 
 
 " Moles that dot the dimpled bosom of the sunny, summer sea ; " 
 
 some, at high water, mere hummocks of rock and sand, over- 
 run by rock-pear, a species of cactus, bearing blossoms of deli- 
 cate yellow, with here and there a stunted pine ; others long, 
 low, barren reaches of sand, easy of access, and therefore the 
 chosen locations of " fish-houses," with their accompanying 
 12
 
 134 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDBASYL. 
 
 reds, great clumsy machines, which, -with the salty, white 
 seine, stretched over their long arms, remind one of giants 
 ready to do battle with the storms ; and some few of the 
 larger rock-bound nooks of greenery, where the whortleberry 
 and the raspberry thrive in profusion, and the whisper- 
 ing pines and ancient bass-woods shelter, summer after 
 summer, gay parties of pleasure-seekers, old and young. 
 
 Beyond these the view is unbroken, save when, on a clear, 
 sunny day, the shores of Long Island loom faintly through the 
 distance, golden, azure, and pearl-hued, like the walls of some 
 enchanted city. Many and many a time, when a child, have 
 I watched these shores from the wooded hillside pasture above 
 our old homestead, and thought of the New Jerusalem, with 
 its walls of precious stones, and its gates of pearl, where there 
 is no more night. 
 
 These few islands are not without their legendary lore, as 
 every one is aware who has ever been honored with a seat in 
 the stern of an old fisherman's boat, when he pulled off, in the 
 gray dawn or evening twilight, to visit his lobster-pots, or 
 has shared his lunch with one on the " outer reef,'' when 
 hunger grew too keen even for the patience of a fisherman 
 legends of buccaneers and smugglers ; and, sooth to say, the 
 initials of Captain Kyd, with the date of 1687, cut in the solid 
 rock on the island that bears his name, and sworn to as authen- 
 tic by the " oldest inhabitant," gives some coloring to the 
 former, to say nothing of the great cavity excavated in the 
 rock, and known as the famous captain's " punch-bowl." 
 
 But, whatever these islands might have been in former times, 
 they are noted now only as pleasant places for pic-nics, and, 
 last, but by no means least, as the best fishing-grounds in the 
 region ; and the above description, we trust, will recall to more 
 than one reader the long summer days when, with some silent, 
 grim-visaged old fisherman by his side, he sat in the rocking 
 boat, ands hand-over-hand, drew in his line with its flounder*
 
 AN INCIDENT ON THE SEA-SHORE. 135 
 
 ing, fluttering prey, or, forgetful of his sport, lay musing in 
 the stern of the boat, until 
 
 " The charmed sunset lingered low adown 
 In the red west," 
 
 A 
 
 and lent heart and eye and soul to the scene, until life, with 
 its turmoils and bitter strivings, seemed foreign and accidental, 
 and he felt, with the Lotus Eaters, 
 
 " There is no joy but calm." 
 
 The hamlet itself is small, and, though boasting a hotel duly 
 graced with veranda and piazza, almost every house is opened 
 in the summer time as a boarding or lodging house, and is 
 generally well filled, not, of course, by the most fashionable, 
 but by quiet country parties people of straitened means, 
 with pale, sickly-looking children stout, middle-aged gentle- 
 men, who come there because their fathers did before them, who 
 swear at the new-fangled cookery at the " Head " or " Beach," 
 where they go occasionally to dine with a friend, pride themselves 
 on knowing the best fishing-grounds, call the old boatmen by 
 the soubriquets which each usually bears in such a place, and 
 make a great impression upon new comers, especially women 
 and children. Add to these some dozen gentlemen from all 
 quarters, amateur fishermen, genuine lovers of the hook and 
 line, and you have a sample of the " company " which most 
 does " congregate " at the Cove. 
 
 As to the inhabitants proper, they are an amphibious race, 
 living equally well on land or water, keen, shrewd observers 
 of character, not a little given to " taking in " men as well as 
 fish, obsequious and obliging enough to strangers, but noto- 
 riously quarrelsome among themselves. 
 
 I know not whether animals of amphibious habits are 
 more irascible and belligerent than others ; but the bipeds 
 of these hamlets are invariably given to infirmities of tern-
 
 136 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IODRASYL. 
 
 per, and their chief notion of liberty seems to be the right of 
 " going to law." 
 
 Some years ago it was my fortune to spend some weeks in 
 this place. It was in the height of " the season," and the old 
 farm-house of our landlord, Mr. B , was crowded with board- 
 ers, who presented the usual variety of character. Among them 
 were three who interested me exceedingly. Two of these were a 
 mother and daughter quiet, reserved people, whose gar- 
 ments of plain, deep mourning served to confirm the rumor 
 that they were a minister's widow and child. The mother 
 looked like one who bore the burden of some unspoken grief; 
 and this was in part explained when one looked on the small, 
 delicate figure of her daughter, and noticed the deformity 
 of the spine between the shoulders, which no art of dress 
 could wholly conceal. They never mingled with the boarders 
 in the common room er on the lawn, but wandered, hand in 
 hand, alone upon the beach, or sat by the open windows of 
 their room (which was divided from my own only by a thin 
 pine partition), reading, sometimes the poete, Milton or 
 Wordsworth, but oftener from the Bible, the sublime strains 
 of David and Isaiah, or the burning words of Paul. The 
 landlord called the mother Mrs. Davenport, and the latter 
 addressed the child as Bertha, and that was all I knew of 
 them. 
 
 The other person, whose presence was food for my busy 
 mind, was Adrian Vannesse, a gentleman of some thirty-five 
 -years ; at least, so I guessed, but he might have had a dozen 
 years more or less, for his face and figure were cast in that 
 grand, noble, almost severe mould, upon which time seems to 
 leave no impress. 
 
 He proved to be a former acquaintance and fellow-traveller 
 of my dear charge and young relative, Walter Aynton. They 
 had met, a winter or two previous, in Cuba, and now renewed 
 their acquaintance with pleasure. Indeed, Walter was de- 
 lighted with this rencontre, and enthusiastic in hw praises of
 
 AN INCIDENT ON THE SEA-SHORE. 137 
 
 liis friend, and not without reason ; for Vannessc attached 
 himself to our party, and I soon found that, to the accomplish- 
 ments and varied knowledge of the man of the world, he 
 united rare scholarly attainments, habits of deep, original 
 thought, an earnest love for the truth, and that rare and re- 
 sistless individuality which wins and commands at the same 
 time. Tenderness equal to a woman's, too, I soon felt him to 
 possess, when he took my young cousin under his charge, and 
 made my office of nurse almost a sinecure. But with all 
 these rare qualities, combined with wealth and that personal 
 presence which is better than beauty, I felt that Adrian Van- 
 nesse lacked something. I could not watch him and Walter 
 long together, without feeling that the slender boy-student, 
 with his pale cheek and sunken eye, passing so slowly, yet, aa 
 my heart told me, so surely away from earth, was far the 
 richer and wiser of the two, for Adrian was an infidel. 
 
 Something I know not what but something in his 
 early experience had come to give strength and depth to those 
 doubts that sooner or later beset such earnest, inquiring na- 
 tures as his, and he had taken refuge in a refined species of 
 materialism. This knowledge was an inference drawn from a 
 series of incidental remarks, rather than from any open state- 
 ment of his own ; for he was no vulgar asserter of his creed, 
 no Jesuitical proselyter, bent upon bringing every one to his 
 views. 
 
 To Walter Aynton, pain and illness had been the angel 
 with which he had wrestled, like Jacob of old, until he had 
 obtained the blessing, the unspeakable blessing of perfect faith 
 and trust in God. Thus it was, in all our conversations on 
 life and life's ends, that all that seemed dark and intricate 
 and contradictory, Walter trusted to God, certain that in the 
 life beyond it would all be made clear in the " brightness 
 of the everlasting light." But I could read no corresponding 
 faith in the dark eyes of Yannesse no glow of hope lit up 
 the calm, stern features of his grandly-chiselled face. 
 12*
 
 138 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 One glorious day, as we sat beneath the shade trees on the 
 lawn, Adrian read, in soft, deep tones, that most musical, most 
 melancholy, because most hopeless, of all Tennyson's poems, 
 the " Lotus Eaters; " and as he closed he repeated, more to 
 himself than us, and as if in answer to some query of his 
 own mind : 
 
 There is confusion worse than death ; 
 
 Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, 
 
 Long labor unto aged breath 
 Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars, 
 And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot stars ;" 
 
 then added, slowly, " And this is the sum of life ! " 
 
 There was something so sad, so inexpressibly hopeless, in 
 his voice, that for a brief moment it did seem that this was 
 indeed all ; then a bright glow lit up Walter's pale cheek, and 
 he said : 
 
 " Not so, dear Vannesse. Old Ulysses teaches a higher, 
 better doctrine than that, heathen though he be ! " 
 
 And, taking the book from Adrian's hand, he read the no- 
 ble poem that bears the name of the sage of Ithaca that 
 poem so replete with kingly dignity, self-conscious power, 
 melancholy fortitude, and manly self-reliance, softened and 
 beautified by the memory of joys and trials long since " lived 
 down," but which have made him 
 
 " Strong to will, 
 To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield." 
 
 Vannesse did not reply for some moments ; and Walter, 
 perchance mistaking the cause of his silence, said, 'reaching 
 out a thin hand that was instantly folded in that of his friend : 
 
 " Forgive me, Adrian. I have lived fewer years than you 
 in number; but suffering, though bitter, is a rare teacher 
 and it seems to me uncommonly cowardly, so to speak, to 
 doubt the existence or the goodness of God."
 
 AN INCIDENT ON THE SEA-SHORE. 189 
 
 " I do not doubt the existence of a First Cause, Provi- 
 dence, Creator, God by whatever name you choose to 
 designate it," began Vannesse, slowly. " He must be an idiot 
 who does that. But what is this speck of a world to an infi- 
 nite being such as we conceive him ? What are we, that he 
 should stoop to interfere with our affairs, or take note of our 
 trivialities ? Your old Syriac Job felt this keenly, when he 
 exclaimed, ' What is man, that thou shouldst magnify him ; 
 that thou shouldst set thy heart upon him ; that thou shouldst 
 visit him morning and evening, and try him every moment ? ' 
 And as to his goodness and benevolence, look yonder," and, 
 by a glance, he directed us to where the slight figure of Ber- 
 tha Davenport was slowly toiling up from the beach, " there 
 is an argument to the point. What has that young girl done, 
 to be thus cursed from her birth ? Endowed, if her face does 
 not belie her, with all woman's restless yearning. for compan- 
 ionship, love, and yet shut off, by that organic curse, from 
 all but woman's sorrows. Think you her unbiased, verdict 
 would say much for his goodness? " 
 
 For a moment Walter's face was troubled; then, as he 
 caught the love-lighted glance which .the girl lifted towards 
 the window where her mother sat, and saw the spiritual ex- 
 pression of the small, sweet face, his own lighted up, and, ris- 
 ing and laying his hand on Adrian's shoulder, he said, ear- 
 nestly : 
 
 " Indeed, I do think so, my friend. Once, this same thing 
 
 would have troubled me ; but now I know, Adrian ; for, 
 
 
 
 ' Knowledge by suffering entereth, 
 And life is perfected by death.' " 
 
 Chance, as he would call it, gave Adrian Vannesse an 
 opportunity to ask these questions himself in the course of a 
 few days, as the incident I am about to relate will show. 
 
 It was towards the last of August, when, after several 
 weeks of extreme heat, there came one of those intensely hot
 
 p 
 
 140 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDRASTL. 
 
 days when the earth is like one great kiln, and the very 
 atmosphere like molten lead. The sea lay flat, motionless, 
 pulseless, prostrated beneath the fierceness of the sun's rays ; 
 the sedges were crisped and dry and husky, as if a fire had 
 passed over them. 
 
 There was no comfort anywhere ; towards night the air, 
 instead of growing cooler, seemed to be stiller, sultrier, more 
 stifling, if possible, than before, and, leaving Walter on a 
 sofa, Adrian Vannesse and I walked down to the beach. We 
 did not gain much, for the sand scorched our eyes and our feet ; 
 besides, it was " dead low water," and 4he great bare, muddy 
 flats lay reeking and steaming in the sun, in all their unsight- 
 liness ; for, whatever may be true of the great ocean, I am 
 certain that everything cast into the sea near shore does not 
 
 " Suffer a sea-change 
 * Into something rich and strange." 
 
 However, we walked on, until we left the hamlet behind 
 us, and reached a dilapidated fish-house, which served to 
 shelter the man who acted as Charon in all our sailing and 
 fishing expeditions. Once or twice I had penetrated into the 
 hidden mysteries of the place, for the sake of seeing the 
 man's bed-ridden mother a great, gaunt skeleton of a 
 woman, half palsied, who sat up in her bunk, sick or well, and 
 netted seine. 
 
 The man himself was a specimen, both in a physical and 
 psychological view, not 
 
 "Lean and lank and brown, 
 As is the ribbed sea sand," 
 
 like the ancient mariner, but sturdy, and, as Vulcan himself, 
 with a complexion like the red earth of which he was formed ; 
 neither had he the long " white beard and glittering eye," 
 which wrought such a spell upon the luckless wedding-guest, 
 but a beard short, and stiff, and grizzled, like a mildewed
 
 AN INCIDENT ON THE SEA-SHOKE. 141 
 
 stubble-field, and a light gray eye, overhung by massy, shaggy 
 eyebrows. But, like to old Chaucer's " Shipman," 
 
 " Of a nice conscience, no great care he kept;" 
 
 nor of his temper either, judging from the many stories we 
 heard of his fierce, ungovernable rage ; bursts of passion, that 
 proved him more fit for the mad-house than elsewhere ; yet 
 his neighbors had not failed to take advantage of this infirm- 
 ity, and had involved him in lawsuit after lawsuit, and given 
 him one month's residence in the county jail after another, 
 until he had been reduced from the ownership and mastership 
 of a pretty schooner, to one or two pet sail-boats, and had 
 exchanged a comfortable home for this miserable shelter, in 
 which, with his old mother and his only remaining child, a 
 bright-eyed boy of ten, he contrived to weather out summer 
 and winter. 
 
 One redeeming trait of manhood he had kept through all 
 he was always true to his word, and on all our expeditions 
 he was punctual to a minute. For the rest, to quote again 
 from Chaucer : 
 
 " In his own craft to reckon well the tides, 
 The sea's deep purrents and the shoals besides, 
 The sun's height, and the moon's, and pilotage, 
 There was none such from Hull unto Carthage." 
 
 Now he sat on a decayed piece of timber without the hut, 
 with his tarpaulin jammed down upon his head, and his red 
 flannel shirt-sleeves rolled up above his elbows, splicing a 
 parted rope. Adrian exchanged a word or two with him 
 about their plans for the next morning, and we passed on to 
 where the lee of a rocky point promised some hope of shelter 
 from the sun. Here we sat, and pertinaciously called up 
 visions of icebergs and Polar seas, of wintry shipwrecks and 
 frozen mariners, not forgetting
 
 142 LEATES FBOM THE TREE IGDRASTL. 
 
 " The schooner Hesperus, 
 
 That sailed the wintry sea, 
 And the skipper who took his little daughter, 
 To bear him companie." 
 
 But it was in vain ; we could not even raise an imaginary 
 breeze. The pale, coppery sky seemed to shut down closer 
 and closer over us, and we could only sit and laugh at our 
 own folly. At length there came one or two slight pufls of 
 air from the westward, and Adrian, viho was well versed in the 
 signs of the weather, suggested that we should go home before 
 the storm overtook us. 
 
 I laughed at the idea of a storm ; but, helping me up the 
 rocks which had sheltered us on the west, he pointed to where, 
 all along the western sky, from the horizon towards the ze- 
 nith, stretched fine lines of pale yellow light, saying : 
 
 " Look ; there is the proof of my words ; and, see," he con- 
 tinued, climbing to the highest point, which gave us an out- 
 look beyond the range of hills to the north and west, " there it 
 comes, in good earnest." 
 
 And all along the west stretched a cloud, black as night, 
 save where its beautifully-curved edge was bordered with a 
 strip of clear silvery hue. 
 
 "We shall hardly have time to reach home," observed 
 Adrian, as he watched its rapid strides up the western sky. 
 
 Still we lingered, in awe and admiration, until, lighting up 
 its edge for a few moments with a richer splendor, the sun dis- 
 appeared beneath it, and its black shadow fell on land and 
 sea. Then came the muttered thunder, followed by the crink- 
 ling lightning. There was a pause, while the light streak 
 near the horizon rapidly widened, and the ocean moaned and 
 rocked in long, undulating swells ; and then came a roar as 
 of many waters a rush as of the wings of mighty winds 
 and the storm was upon us ; not of mere rain-drops, but a 
 thick, blinding, bewildering spray and mist, driven before the 
 fiercest of winds.
 
 AN INCIDENT ON THE SKA-SHORE. 143 
 
 Adrian Vannesse drew his strong arm about me, and started 
 for the fisherman's hut, the only accessible shelter ; but he 
 proceeded only a few paces, before he stopped short, exclaim- 
 ing, in a tone of horror : 
 
 " Good God ! what madness ! " 
 
 And, following the direction of his glance, I saw, through 
 the thick mist and spray, for one moment, the white sail of a 
 boat, a few rods distant from the rocky point we had just 
 left for one moment ; then came a loud, shrill, fearful cry of 
 agony and deathly fear, swelling above the storm ; and the 
 boat, and he who uttered it, went down beneath the leaping 
 waves. 
 
 " Make for the hut ! " shouted Adrian Vannesse. 
 
 And the next moment I was alone, and he, followed by 
 another wild, bareheaded figure, that came rushing along the 
 beach, had dashed into the surf. 
 
 I did not heed the storm, scarcely moved or breathed, until 
 Vannesse emerged from the water, followed by our old boat- 
 man, bearing in his arms a human body ; then I fled to the 
 hut, and reached it in time to see them enter, and lay down 
 upon the floor the body of the boatman's only son. The man 
 looked at no one, heeded no one, nor even replied to his old 
 mother's scream of terror ; but, lifting the lad's head to his 
 knee, wrung the water from the tangled, sun-burned locks, 
 and chafed the cold, wet hands. 
 
 " Hold your tongue, mother ! " he cried, at last. " There 's 
 life in the lad yet ! Get up, you old fool, and gi'e me the 
 blanket, can't ye?" 
 
 " ! Dave, Dave, man ! the lad never '11 breathe again 
 he 's clean gone ! " screamed the old woman ; but he cut her 
 short with a volley of curses, and, with a sudden jerk, drew 
 the ragged coverlet from beneath her old bones, and wrapped 
 it round the child. 
 
 Adrian Vannesse knelt on the earthen floor, and lent all 
 his aid to assist the iuther in his efforts to resuscitate the body
 
 144 LEAVES PROM THE TREE IQDRABYL. 
 
 but in vain. At length, pointing to a dark bruise on his 
 temple, he said : 
 
 " My poor friend, this is useless. Your boy will never 
 speak or move again. He is dead ! " 
 
 " Not speak again ! not move, my Billy, the hand- 
 iest, smartest lad on the whole cove, dead ! " said the man, 
 dreamingly. " You lie ! 'Yhe shouted, turning suddenly upon 
 Vannesse ; "he never minded a ducking, he a'n't dead ! " 
 and he again set to chafing the stiffened limbs. 
 
 Adrian did not reply otherwise than by placing the miser- 
 able father's hand over the pulseless heart. The man drew 
 back with a start and a shudder that ran through his giant 
 frame ; then, sinking down on the floor, he sat gazing into the 
 child's pale, open face with a look of vacant, dumb misery. 
 
 "Dead! dead! He '11 never hail the skiff again, never. 
 O, my boy ! my boy ! " and the groans of the strong man in 
 his agony were mingled with the raging of the storm. 
 
 Suddenly the old woman raised herself up, and said, in a 
 tone that was a strange blending of childishness and authority, 
 
 " It 's the Hand o' God, Davy the hand o' God ! " 
 
 " Then why didn't he take you, you old worthless hulk, or 
 me, who am good for nothing but to die ; and not the laughin', 
 happy boy?" said the miserable man, angrily. " Ah, Billy, 
 lad, the last o' ten, all gone ! all gone ! gone where ? " 
 he muttered, as if a new thought were struggling in upon his 
 grief. Then turning io Adrian Vannesse, he seized his arm, 
 and said, eagerly : 
 
 " Ye are a larned man, sir, an' I believe a good un ! I Ve 
 heard ye and tother un readin' an' talkin' in outlandish tongues, 
 sech as the likes o' me don't understand, an' ye know a great 
 many things, say, where is my boy gone ? Shall I ever see 
 him agin ? " 
 
 And he, the all-accomplished man of the world, the rare 
 scholar, the deep thinker, who prided himself on the strength 
 of his reason, and boasted that man's intellect was sufficient
 
 AN INCIDENT ON THE SEA-SHORE. 145 
 
 for his wants, stood dumb before the mighty mystery of 
 Death ! Among all his fine-wrought arguments and subtleties 
 of the intellect, there was not one which could give comfort to 
 that wretched, questioning father, or lift his bruised spirit 
 above the lifeless lump of clay at his feet ! 
 
 " It 's a' in the Bible, man," muttered the old crone. 
 " Surely, Dave, I gin ye good schoolin' in - the days long 
 sin'." 
 
 " Ay, and bad enough sin', mother P' murmured the man ; 
 " so it is e'en as broad as 't is long ;" and again he bent his 
 deep, earnest gaze upon Vannesse. But, before his lips could 
 utter again the startling, ." Where is he gone ? " a slight figure, 
 with dripping black garments clinging to her delicate limbs, 
 and long, golden curls streaming over her shoulders, came 
 softly from a remote corner of the room, and, laying her small 
 white hand on the arm of the giant boatman, said, earnestly, 
 in low, silvery tones, that seemed somehow to carry with them 
 conviction : 
 
 " He has gone to God, sir ; that" pointing to the life- 
 less body, " is only the form, the shell, in which your little 
 boy lived while here. Now, he has gone home to our 
 Father in heaven, where there is neither sin, nor sorrow, 
 nor pain." 
 
 The bereaved father loeked straight into the clear, angel 
 face of the young girl, full a moment, before he replied : 
 
 " If he is our Father, Miss, and good as you say, why did 
 he let him die ? I would n't 'a let him." 
 
 " That you maybe the more willing to follow him, perhaps," 
 said the girl. " Tell me," she went on ; " you have lived a 
 long fime ; has life been so very pleasant? would you bring 
 him back to live just the life you have lived ? " 
 
 The man turned his thoughtful glance from her face to that 
 of the dead, a moment, before he replied. 
 
 " No ; if He is good as you say, he is better off there. But 
 13
 
 146 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASTL. 
 
 shall I ever see him agin, Miss ? Is it true, what them par- 
 sons say ? " he added, anxiously. 
 
 " Yes, you shall see him, if you obey God, for you ' shall 
 go to him, but he shall return no more to you,' " was the quiet 
 answer ; and then, in that low, sweet tone, she went on to 
 speak of God not as the Unknown, the Infinite, over whose 
 essence and attributes philosophers lose themselves in a waste 
 of words, but as the ^1-wise, all-good Father and of the 
 Son, who " carrieth the lambs in his bosom," to whom even 
 the most poor and ignorant may come, and find pardon and 
 peace. 
 
 Adrian Vannesse never forgot that lesson. With Bertha 
 Davenport leaning on his other arm, we walked home after 
 the tempest had spent its fury, and learned how she, too, had 
 been caught in the storm, and forced to seek shelter in the 
 fisherman's hut ; but he said little or nothing until we reached 
 the porch of our temporary home. Then, taking her hand, and 
 baring his head, as if in reverence, he said : 
 
 " Pardon me, Miss Davenport, and do me the justice to 
 believe that I ask from no idle motive. But this religious 
 faith of yours, tell me, has it brought you rest ? Is it suffi- 
 cient for all times and seasons ? " 
 
 The sweet, child-like face was raised to his a moment, in 
 surprise ; then, pointing to where the black clouds rolled in 
 jagged masses over the western sky, she said : 
 
 " There come days and hours, in all lives, certainly in 
 mine, when clouds and thick darkness are about us, like 
 those yonder ; but I know that behind them shines the sure 
 eun of God's love ; and I have peace, deep and abiding 
 peace." 
 
 And, surely, no one who looked upon that serene, thought- 
 ful face, could doubt it. 
 
 Adrian Vannesse, like many another thoughtful soul 
 after suffering grievous temptations, is now a preacher of
 
 AN INCIDENT ON THE SEA-SHORE. 147 
 
 God's truth ; and when doubt or discouragement beset him, 
 as they sometimes will, he has only to look down into the 
 clear eyes of her whom he once thought born only as the 
 heritor of woman's sorrows, to read there a never-failing 
 evangel of faith and hope, as he whispers the sweet, fond 
 words, " My wife."
 
 fc'ii 
 
 DEATH BY THE WAY-SIDE 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 " Never before had the forests of America witnessed such a sight . 
 Never again was there such a pilgrimage from the sea-side ' to the 
 delightful banks of the Connecticut ! ' " BANCROFT. 
 
 SUCH is the language of the eloquent historian, with refer- 
 ence to the journey of that band of pilgrims, who, in the 
 pleasant spring-time of 1636, turned their backs upon such 
 vestiges of comfort and civilization as the infant settlements 
 of Massachusetts Bay afforded, and, headed by their beloved 
 pastor, the Rev. Thomas Hooker, made their way through 
 perils innumerable, across swamps and streams, over rough 
 and rocky highlands, and through tangled woods and deep 
 green valleys, with no guide but a compass, and no shelter 
 but the heavens, until, like the Israelites of old, they crossed 
 the " goodlie river," and upon its western bank raised their 
 altars, and laid the foundation of the pleasant city of Hart- 
 ford. 
 
 And he is right. More than two hundred years have 
 elapsed, and " companies by fifties and by hundreds " of New 
 England's sons, with their wives and their little ones, have 
 gone forth from her rugged hills and sheltered valleys, to seek 
 a richer reward for their labor amid the fertile prairies of the 
 West, or by the golden-bedded streams of California ; yet, in 
 character and influence, in that true courage which lifts the 
 soul above fear, a courage, thank God ! not dependent on 
 thews and sinews, but growing out of a firm adherence to God
 
 DEATH BY THE \VAY-SIDi\ HV 
 
 and the right, and which inspires the heart of the feeblest 
 woman, as well as the strongest man, in all that goes to 
 make up true moral grandeur, none can compare with this. 
 
 It is not without significance that the old writers speak of 
 this company, as consisting of "about one hundred souls." 
 They were not mere bodies, seeking a new field for the grati- 
 fication of animal appetites and pleasures, but souls, with ends 
 and aims that took hold on eternity, and who faced famine and 
 death, not for worldly gain, but that they might obtain liberty 
 to give an external development to those truths which had 
 already made them free in spirit. In proof of this, we need 
 only adduce the fact, that, in all succeeding emigration of 
 their descendants, the seeds of whatever they have carried 
 with them that is truest, best, most ennobling, that which 
 gives vitality to their institutions, may be traced back to 
 our early fathers ; and even now they move us with a sway 
 mightier than any living influence. 
 
 No. The world, even, counts few pilgrimages like that ! 
 That there will yet arise prophets and disciples dowered with 
 a fuller and clearer knowledge of the truth, we earnestly trust 
 and believe ; yet these men shall not die ; or, rather, like Abel, 
 being dead, they shall yet speak, and their voices vibrate along 
 the chain of existence until time is no more. 
 
 It was toward the close of a rare day in June, that the 
 pilgrims from a ridge of wooded highlands caught their first, 
 faint glimpse of the beautiful river. Many a hill and valley, 
 swamp and morass, lay between ; but then it was like-a nar- 
 row silver thread on a ground of green, and, after a moment's 
 almost breathless silence, there arose an irrepressible shout 
 a clear old English shout that woke the sleeping echoes for 
 miles around. 
 
 These had scarcely died away, when, in tones deep and clear ; 
 as a bell, Mr. Hooker gave voice to the sentiment of the whole 
 company, in the eloquent words of King David : 
 13*
 
 150 LEAVES FROM THE TREK IGDRASYL. 
 
 " O, give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good : for his 
 mercy endureth forever. 
 
 " Let the redeemed of the Lord say so, whom he hath 
 redeemed from the hand of the enemy. 
 
 " They wandered in the wilderness, in a solitary way ; 
 they found no city to dwell in. Hungry and thirsty, their 
 soul fainted in them. 
 
 " Then they cried unto the Lord in their trouble, and he 
 delivered them out of their distresses. 
 
 " And he led them forth by the right way, that they might 
 go to- a city of habitation. 
 
 " O that men would praise the Lord for his goodness, and 
 for his wonderful works to the children of men ! " 
 
 At the foot of that wooded range of hills lay a beautiful 
 valley, and there they halted for the night. It was a striking 
 scene, that halt between the hills, and one well worthy of 
 the artisf s pencil. 
 
 The wild, luxuriant beauty of the landscape, over which 
 neither scythe nor sickle, plough nor axe, had as yet passed ; 
 the flush of life that trembled along the hills, and throbbed 
 and thrilled in everything around them ; the hum of the 
 myriad insect tribes, the strange birds sitting still on the 
 boughs, and pouring out their evening songs of rare and won- 
 drous melody ; the "occasional cries of wild beasts that their 
 coming had aroused from their lairs, mingled with the un- 
 wonted lowing of one hundred and sixty head of cattle which 
 the pilgrims had driven before them, and upon whose milk 
 they had chiefly subsisted during the journey, now greedily 
 satisfying their hunger upon the fresh green grass of the 
 valley, while the milkers went among them, filling their pails, 
 preparatory to the evening meal. Here, a party of men, some 
 of whom but a short time before had been the pride of Eng- 
 land's oldest university, stood, axe in hand, cutting down 
 branches of the fragrant birch, or thick-leaved maple, while 
 another arranged them into huts and couches for the shelter
 
 DEATH BY THE WAV-SIDE. 151 
 
 and comfort of the women and children. There, a group 
 were busy unloading the few pack-horses that carried their 
 extra stores, while, like a second Prometheus, the accom- 
 plished owner of Copford Hall, and ex-governor of Massa- 
 chusetts, John Haynes, might be seen with tinder-box, steel 
 and flint, in hand, kindling the fires so necessary to protect 
 them from wild beasts, as well as cook their hasty pudding, 
 and parch their quota of Indian corn. Two crotched sticks, 
 supporting a good, stout pole, from which swung an iron pot, 
 answered all the purposes of a fireplace ; and around these 
 clustered the busy-handed matrons, not a few of them the 
 cherished daughters of wealth and ease, watching the seeth- 
 ing, bubbling contents of the vessels, or tending their infants 
 in the shade ; while,, rosy-cheeked maidens brought water in 
 wooden dippers, or gourd shells, from a crystal spring, that 
 bubbled up beneath the roots of a wide-spreading birch, near 
 which stood the revered pastor himself, that " light of the 
 western churches," whose eloquence had drawn people from 
 all parts of the County of Essex to hear him, ere he was 
 silenced for non-conformity, folding the broad leaves of the 
 hickory into drinking-cups for the fair-haired, blue-eyed 
 lambs of his flock, that had gathered round him to slake 
 their thirst ; while in the background rose the dark-wooded 
 hills, and above them arched the deep, unclouded sky of 
 June. 
 
 Not far from the spring, under the shade of a magnificent 
 oak, were two huts, built of branches like the rest, but con 
 structed with far more care, for it seemed as if every one of 
 the company had been anxious to do something towards per- 
 fecting their arrangement. One was occupied by Madame 
 Hooker and her family, and near the opening of the other 
 reclined a fragile-looking girl, with hair like a floating cloud 
 at sunset, and eyes deep, serene and ( clear, as the cloudless 
 sky above her. This was Maude, the young wife of Geoffrey
 
 152 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 Winstanley, whose youth, gentleness, and failing health, made 
 her an object of peculiar interest to every heart. 
 
 " She had scarcely recovered from the effects of her sea- 
 voyage, when they started on their pilgrimage, and it had 
 been too much for her, poor thing," the matrons said, " but 
 the quiet and comfort of the settlement would soon set her 
 up again ; " and her husband listened to them eagerly, and 
 repeated their words to himself, as if by so doing he could 
 silence the terrible misgivings that haunted him. 
 
 Now, the little children brought bunches of luscious straw- 
 berries, to tempt the appetite of their favorite, and win from 
 her one of those sweet smiles, which they had learned to 
 prize higher than words ; and their elders, as they passed, 
 paused to congratulate her on their nearness to their jour- 
 ney's end alas, they little knew how true it was in her 
 case ! and to speak words of hope and comfort ; but some 
 there were who, as they gazed upon her face, and noted that 
 clear, transparent look, that gave it such a peculiar beauty, 
 turned away with a silent prayer for her and her husband ; 
 for they knew that, like all the highest beauty of earth, it was 
 but a reflex from that unseen land towards which she was 
 hastening. 
 
 " Ripening for eternity ! " said Mr. Hooker, when, after 
 evening prayers, he turned from the side of the young inva- 
 lid, with a fervent blessing, and sought the presence of his 
 wife. t 
 
 " Our gentle Maude is almost done with the things of 
 earth ! " 
 
 " And Geoffrey, poor Geoffrey ! " murmured his wife. 
 " How will he ever bear it? Even but now he hath spoken 
 to me of renewed hope." 
 
 Mr. Hooker did not answer ; but, as he stood watching the 
 noble, manly figure of Geoffrey Winstanley, as he bent over 
 his young wife, now arranging the bear-skins upon which 
 ehe reclined, with a tenderness and anxiety that seemed nevei
 
 DEATH BY THE WAY-SIDE. 158 
 
 
 
 satisfied, now pulling back the rich waves of hair that fell 
 too heavily over her cheek, and thought of the dread trial 
 that awaited him, all the human stirred within him, and 
 he, too, murmured, " Poor Geoffrey ! " 
 
 There had been a time when he and many others had 
 heard, with surprise and regret, that Geoffrey Winstanley, 
 with his strong will, clear intellect, and sincerely religious 
 heart, had become the thrall of a young beauty of sixteen, 
 the favorite niece of the haughty rector of Swindon, and 
 that he lingered in England in the hope of making her his 
 wife. They felt ready to say to him, in the words of Ma- 
 noah to Samson, " Is there no woman among the daughters 
 of thy brethren, nor among all thy people, that thou goest to 
 take a wife of the uncircumcised Philistines ? " 
 
 But when she stood among them as his wife, and they 
 heard how, for the sake of the proscribed Puritan, she had 
 braved the anger and persecution of her relatives, when they 
 saw the tenderness, meekness, and reverence, with which she 
 looked up to all her husband's friends, the heart of the most 
 rigid warmed towards her ; and with Mr. Hooker's family 
 she soon became " our gentle Maude." As the good man 
 thought of all this, and of her gentle yet earnest faith, and 
 the many times within the past few weeks when he had vis- 
 ited her in his capacity of teacher, and came away a learner, 
 his heart smote him for his injustice. 
 
 He was, indeed, right. Under the combined teaching of 
 Love and Death, Maude Winstanley was ripening for eter- 
 nity. Once she had resolutely shut her heart against even 
 the thought of the latter, it seemed so impossible that death 
 could reach her, shielded by Geoffrey's love and sheltered in 
 his arms. But as the. weeks went on, deepening the symp- 
 toms of that fatal disease that steals upon its victims silently . 
 as autumn steals upon the hills, ^ind robes them with a beauty 
 which ia not of this world, her heart awoke to a deeper in- 
 eight of spiritual truth ; the high doctrines so often discussed
 
 154 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDRASYL. 
 
 between her husband and her pastor grew clearer to her 
 understanding, and bore fruit for eternity. 
 
 Still, the human was strong within her ; and there came 
 momenta especially when she felt the deep eyes of her hus- 
 band looking down upon her with such an expression of unut- 
 terable love and sorrow, and his strong frame shake with 
 agony if she did but breathe of what awaited them when 
 her lips trembled and her heart shrunk shudderingly from the 
 thought of the grave and the winding-sheet when earth 
 with him seemed better than heaven without him. 
 
 Do not blame her too severely, thou of stronger faith, but 
 remember, she was but a gentle, loving girl, and wisdom and 
 faith grow but slowly in this sphere of ours. If you have 
 met a trial like this with more unwavering faith, thank God 
 for it ; or, if as yet the bitter cup has not been presented to 
 your lips, still thank God, for it is of his mercy alone, 
 but blame her not. 
 
 God did not, but gave to her heart that assurance, without 
 which immortality itself would be but a cheat the blessed 
 assurance that affection dies not with the breath ; that in a 
 little while, a few brief days at most, that love, freed from 
 the stains and impurities of earth, should again beam on her 
 from those beloved eyes, and those arms once more fold her 
 in their pure, holy embrace. 
 
 And Geoffrey Winstanley, while he gazed into her spir- 
 itual eyes, and listened to her low, earnest tones, as she 
 poured forth for his comfort those blessed intuitions, felt the 
 gnawing pain at his heart grow still, but only to return with 
 tenfold power when they ceased, and he found himself alone. 
 
 That was no boyish fancy that had led him to linger be- 
 hind his friends in England, and meet their looks of grave 
 reproof, for the sUke of Maude Edgerton. He had left the 
 first flush of youth some years behind, when she stole in 
 upon the unsunned side of his heart, and gave to life a new, 
 and, to him, undreamed of beauty and significance.
 
 DEATH BY THE WAY-SIDE. 155 
 
 He had been an orphan from childhood, and the influences 
 under which he had grown to manhood had not failed, while 
 they strengthened and developed to the utmost his mental 
 and moral energies, to deepen the natural reserve of his char- 
 acter, until even those who knew him best had little concep- 
 tion of the earnest enthusiasm, the boundless capacity for 
 affection, that lay concealed beneath his calm, grave, almost 
 stern, exterior. Earnest, truthful, noble, and sincerely reli- 
 gious, he yet lacked that feminine influence so necessary to 
 man's highest development : to temper justice with mercy, 
 energy with softness, inflexibility with grace, and render his 
 whole character symmetrical and in harmony with the Divine 
 Ideal. 
 
 This had been Maude's mission ; and could he part with 
 her now, when life first seemed blossoming to completeness 
 when each hour brought some new? delicious joy, of which 
 his solitary youth had been defrauded ? Could he lay that 
 head down in the grave, whose every golden tress was dearer 
 to him than life, and, looking calmly up, say, " Thy will be 
 done?" 
 
 Not without a struggle, the bitterness of which few even 
 dreamed, for his was not a nature that manifested its emo- 
 tions in those wild paroxysms which pass with most people 
 for evidences of profound feeling ; it was rather like the 
 ocean, when the fury of the tempest has beaten the waves to 
 an apparent calm, and none can judge of the wild commotion 
 below, save those who have felt its power. It is strange how 
 we misjudge the hearts of men in this world, and call that 
 coldness and indifference which is simply the tranquillity 
 resulting from intense power ! 
 
 " It is written, ' Thou shalt not make unto thyself idols,' " 
 Mr. Hooker had said, half seriously and half playfully, one 
 day, to Geoffrey, as he marked the peculiar expression with 
 which he watched the movements of his young wife ; and he 
 had been startled at the intense feeling that trembled in his
 
 156 LEAVES FKOM TUB TREE 1GDKASYL. 
 
 voice, as, pointing to where she sat, soothing the feverish 
 fretfulness of the minister's youngest child, he replied, " It 
 hath also been said, beware lest ye ' entertain angels una- 
 wares.' " 
 
 The sight of the beautiful river, which had spread such 
 joy through the band, had not failed to stir the deep enthu- 
 siasm of Geoffrey Winstanley's nature; and, as that clear 
 June day deepened into twilight, he sat by the side of Maude 
 in that sylvan tent,' and spoke, with the heart of a poet and 
 the eye of a prophet, of their future home, and the mighty 
 destiny that should yet wait on their humble efforts. 
 
 Maude listened long and in silence ; then, summoning all 
 her God-given strength, she spoke to him of the home that 
 awaited her, not with him, on the banks of the beautiful Con- 
 necticut, but by that river of life whose stream makes glad 
 the city of God. 
 
 She did not need to look up in his face ; for the trembling 
 of the arm that encircled her, and the large, burning tear- 
 drop that fell on her forehead, spoke plainly of the agony 
 her words had awoke within him. They seemed to have 
 changed natures that high-hearted, calm, grave man, and 
 the yielding, fragile maiden ; but, as she kept on, there was 
 something so serene in her faith, so holy in the calm resigna- 
 tion with which she spoke of death, BO exalting in her views 
 of the life beyond, that he was lifted above himself; and, 
 leaning his head on those golden locks, he poured out all his 
 selfish struggles, and told how for weeks past he had been 
 ready to struggle with God to retain her still on earth. 
 
 " Earth ! what is earth, my husband ? " she replied ; " but 
 a few short years of troubled joy at best ; and what is this, 
 compared with that rest which remaineth for the children of 
 God ? That rest will soon be mine ; and there I shall await 
 you. You will not fail to meet me there, beloved." 
 
 " God aiding me, I will not In this hope, and with this 
 aim, I shall live and die," he replied, fervently.
 
 DEATH BY THE WAT-SIDE. 157 
 
 For a few moments there was silence between them, while 
 the grateful evening breeze stirred the leafy covering of their 
 hut, and let in the soft June moonlight, that fell like a halo 
 of glory over the golden locks of the invalid. A smile flut- 
 tered round her mouth ; then a strange tremor for a brief 
 second shook her whole frame, and struck an icy chill to the 
 husband's heart ; for, with that passing moonbeam, the spirit 
 of Maude Winstanley swept upward from the earth. 
 
 O, death ! death ! death ! thou masked angel, whom our 
 tear-dimmed eyes cannot unveil ; thou fearful void, which 
 reason cannot fathom ; thou icy silence, which love cannot 
 break ; thou dread pause, which no earthly power can fill 
 blessed, thrice blessed is he who can hear through the dark- 
 ness and desolation, the sorrow and the anguish that wait 
 upon thy footsteps, the voice of Him, who, by that fresh 
 grave in Bethany, of erst sanctified human grief, whispering, 
 " Lo ! it is I be not afraid ! " 
 
 Not there 0, not there, with that beloved form stiffen- 
 ing in his arms, and that heavy, benumbing sense of sor- 
 row weighing down upon his heart not when, with kiss 
 after kiss upon that cold brow, he resigned her to the care 
 of the weeping women who had gathered round, and rushed 
 out into the night not when the hand of Mr. Hooker 
 grasped his in true and silent sympathy, could Geoffrey Win- 
 stanley hear that voice ! But when, in the deep watches of 
 the night, he knelt alone by the side of his dead, then it fell 
 upon his heart like an echo of her voice, only far sweeter 
 and more heavenly, and that icy silence grew tremulous, as 
 with the slow beat of an angel's wings. * =* * 
 
 They buried her " by the way," as Jacob buried Rachel ; 
 but they " set up no pillar upon her grave." Her initials, cut 
 in the smooth bark of a young birch that overhung her 
 grave, were the only memorial that marked the spot where 
 slept all that was mortal of Maude Winstanley. 
 14
 
 
 LITTLE BESSIE. 
 
 PART I . 
 
 IT was the last morning of the old year. The cold was in- 
 tense ; the dense leaden-hued clouds that covered the heavens 
 were burdened with snow, and the earth beneath was frozen 
 almost as hard as a miser's heart. The chilling north-east 
 wind, as it whistled through old passages and round sharp 
 corners, seemed laden with the last breath of frozen mariners, 
 who sit death-bound and ice-bound on board their motionless 
 ships in the far northern seas, waiting the coming of our 
 Lord. 
 
 Ugh ! it was freezing cold, and old Mrs. Lyman's hands 
 shook like brown withered leaves in autumn, as she tied the 
 hood and folded the blanket around the shoulders of her 
 grand-daughter, Bessie, preparatory to sending her forth to 
 gather material to replenish their wasting fire. But little 
 Bessie's blood was warm and quick; besides, her thoughts 
 were so divided between the new mittens (not knit of nice red 
 yarn, reader, like the pair you remember, but made out of 
 bits of red flannel), which grandmother had- finished for her 
 the night before, and the nice, white chips that Esquire 
 Brown's men had left in the Hill-side woods, and given her 
 permission to gather, that she did not mind the cold nor notice 
 the unusual tremor in her grandmother's hands. 
 
 But when the old lady placed a slice of bread in her basket, 
 saying she would need it to keep out the cold, something in 
 her voice attracted the child's attention. She gazed anxiously
 
 LITTLE BESSIE. 159 
 
 in the pale, sorrowful face that bent over her, then taking the 
 bread from the basket, eyed it closely. 
 
 " Grandmother," she said, " this is the slice I brought out 
 for your breakfast. You have eaten nothing to-day. Are 
 you ill, grandmother ? " 
 
 " No, my child." 
 
 " Then, why did you not eat it? Surely," she continued, as 
 if struck by some sudden thought, " we have food enough to 
 last until to-morrow, when I shall carry in the work to Mr. 
 
 G , and get the pay. There is the piece of bread and the 
 
 bit of fish and " 
 
 " Ay, little Bessie, you are no fairy, to turn stones into 
 bread," said the old lady, with a faint smile. " Your list is 
 soon told. Besides, you forget that there is a storm coming 
 up, and you may not be able to go to town for some days. In 
 that case, we must make what we have last as well as we 
 can." 
 
 The little girl stood for a moment gazing vacantly out the 
 window, while her great blue eyes filled with tears. Suddenly 
 her whole face lighted up ; she dashed away the tears, and, 
 pointing to a pair of little brown snow-birds hopping about on 
 the withered branches of catnip that grew beneath the window, 
 in search of seeds, said : 
 
 " See, grandmother, God feeds them ! He will not let us 
 starve." 
 
 " Right, child. May He forgive my want of faith," replied 
 the grandmother, fervently. " Now go, Bessie, and I will 
 meet you at the foot of the hill, and help you home with your 
 basket." 
 
 Grandmother Lyman and little Bessie had not always been 
 so poor ; but, as the old lady expressed it, things had been 
 going wrong with them ever since poor John, Bessie's father, 
 was crushed by the falling of a portion of the building on 
 which he was at work. After some months of suffering, God 
 took him home ; and it was not long before his heart-broken
 
 160 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDBASYL. 
 
 young wife followed him, leaving little on earth, save the 
 orphan Bessie. True, Mrs. Lyman had another son, many 
 years older than Bessie's father, who had left her, while yet a 
 boy, to gratify his passion for the sea. Though she had not 
 heard from him for many years, she was not certain of his 
 death ; therefore, whenever the great storms arose, and there 
 came frightful tales of shipwreck and death, her mother-heart 
 buried him again. 
 
 After John and his wife were laid in the grave, Poverty 
 began to look in upon her, in the shape of doctor's, apotheca- 
 ry's, and grocer's bills ; but the courageous old soul faced him 
 bravely, until fever and rheumatism lent their aid to the foe, 
 when she was obliged to yield. 
 
 When she recovered, in some degree, the use of her limbs, 
 she found that, in order to satisfy her creditors, she must 
 give up the humble but comfortable home whose very walls 
 and floors were written all over to her with household records, 
 and find a shelter for herself and Bessie elsewhere. 
 
 Many of the neighbors were disposed to assist her, and 
 some of the most excitable did not hesitate to say that the 
 doctor and grocer were well able to give in the old widow's 
 bills ; but she reminded them that the doctor had two invalid 
 sisters to assist, and that among the grocer's large family there 
 was one poor little crippled boy, for whom it would be neces- 
 sary to make some extra provision. Ah ! Grandmother 
 Lyman was a thoughtful old soul thoughtful of every one 
 before herself! Some there were who talked of the poor- 
 house, and said she would be compelled to make up her mind 
 to it at last ; but these were very few, for most of the people 
 sympathized with that feeling of self-respect (some call it 
 pride), which leads our New England population to submit 
 to many privations ere they accept the bread of public 
 charity. 
 
 A kind farmer offered her the old house in which we found 
 them, rent free. True, it stood in a solitary place, quite
 
 LITTLE BESSIE. 161 
 
 away from neighbors ; but, then, it was in close proximity to 
 the " Seahill woods," where they had permission to gather as 
 much dry wood as they pleased. Besides, as the old lady 
 was wont to observe, " Our trials and our blessings walk hand 
 in hand," and as her infirmities increased, so did little Bessie's 
 strength. She was soon able to go to the village after their 
 slight stores, or such coarse sewing and knitting as her grand- 
 mother's rheumatic hands were able to^ manage. Lately, a 
 kind lady had procured employment for them at one of the 
 
 cheap clothing stores that abound in the city of H . 
 
 Though the remuneration was the merest pittance, yet the old 
 lady's thankful spirit magnified it to quite a fortune ; more- 
 over, it afforded her the means of teaching little Bessie to 
 sew, and she was already able to stitch and cross-stitch the 
 long seams in the coarse shirts and drawers of which their work 
 consisted, when we introduced her to our readers. 
 
 The only drawback to this god-send was the long walks it 
 
 obliged the child to take. H was five good miles distant 
 
 from their home, and their employer a man of method, who in- 
 sisted on having the work brought in punctually at the given 
 time, else it would be given to some other half-starved seeker in 
 this great granary of God. Bessie did not mind the distance 
 in the warm weather, for then the birds sung marches for her 
 in the green meadows now slower ; now faster and the 
 flowers sprang up through the turf by the way-side, and made 
 a rich carpet for her little feet even to the entrance of the 
 city. But she could never quite overcome the feeling of lone- 
 liness and dread that came over her when she stood within 
 
 that long, gloomy store in F street, and heard the owner's 
 
 cold, abrupt, " Well, child, your grandmother is punctual, I 
 see ;" and in the cold winter it required all the sunshine that 
 the little girl had garnered into her heart during the long 
 summer, to brighten the way. 
 
 After this long digression, we will only add, that the last 
 lot of work was done, and must be sent in on the morrow, or 
 14*
 
 162 LEAVES FROM THE TBEE IQDRASYL. 
 
 the next day at the farthest, and leave Mrs. Lyman to pre- 
 pare it for the inspection of Mr. Gr , while we follow little 
 
 Bessie to the woods. 
 
 Bravely she breasted the keen north-east wind, occasionally 
 turning to get breath and draw her scanty blanket more close- 
 ly about her, while the withered herbage, coated with white 
 frost, crumpled beneath her little feet, as if a giant pressed it. 
 
 When she reached the brook where the. path turned into 
 the woods, she did not pause as usual to watch the nodding 
 bulrushes, now jewelled and gemmed by the frost-like fairy 
 wands, nor stop to catch a nearer glimpse of the wondrous 
 " architecture of the brooklet's winter palace ;" for her young 
 heart was very, very sad. The more she thought of their 
 scanty stores, and her grandmother's pale, wan face, the more 
 deeply she reproached herself for certain deeds of which she 
 had been guilty, and which now, seen through the chilling 
 atmosphere of want, seemed like wanton extravagance. Dur- 
 ing the autumn, she had spent whole days in the woods in 
 search of nuts. On these occasions she had often shared her 
 little parcel of dinner with a large, half-famished dog that be- 
 longed to a poor drunken pedler that lived at the distance of 
 a mile or more on the opposite side of the hill. It was 
 thought that the man had stolen the animal in some of his 
 excursions, for, instead of taking kindly to his master, he 
 wandered about the woods in search of game, where he made 
 the acquaintance of little Bessie. At first, the child was 
 somewhat afraid of her shaggy acquaintance, but he scon 
 found means to convince her of his honesty, and a warm 
 friendship grew up between them. For hours, old Jack would 
 lie by her basket while she wandered from tree to tree, occa- 
 sionally lifting his head from between his paws, and looking 
 round to assure himself of her safety, and woe to the mis- 
 chievous boy that dared to approach her basket ! Bessie, whose 
 heart overflowed with love for everything, was delighted with 
 her new friend, and had no other means of manifesting he;
 
 LITTLE BESSIE. 16 
 
 sense of his preference than by sharing with him her dinner. 
 True, the meal was rather ecant for two, and we know some 
 people, ay, and dogs, too, who would have taken exception 
 at the quality as well as the quantity ; but Bessie and Jack 
 could not afford to be very fastidious. 
 
 Though the child had often spoken of her friend Jack to 
 her grandmother, she had not ventured to acknowledge him 
 as the sharer of her dinner, from a kind of misgiving that 
 the old lady would not think it quite right. It was this 
 question that now troubled the little girl's mind. Benevo- 
 lence said that she had done right her self-denial had saved 
 the life of the poor animal ; but selfishness pointed to the 
 meagre bit of bread in the cupboard, and whispered that the 
 food should have been laid aside "against the day of want. 
 So busy was the little girl with this point of ethics, that she 
 did not hear the pattering of old Jack's feet, nor see him, 
 until he rubbed his shaggy coat against her side, and poked 
 his cold nose under her hood, as she bent over her basket. 
 
 They had not met for several days, and the poor dog's joy 
 was unbounded. And well he might be glad to see Bessie's 
 friendly face, for the marks of the rope on his chafed and 
 bleeding leg, and of the whip on his sides, proved that the 
 faces he had met of late had been anything but friendly. 
 Poor Bessie ! Her resolutions of prudence were not proof 
 against the mute eloquence of Jack's looks, and the next 
 moment the slice of bread was drawn forth from the wrapper, 
 and by far the largest part laid before her old friend, with 
 the half-uttered thought, " Poor old fellow, perhaps I shall 
 not have anything to give you again in a great while ! " 
 
 PART II. 
 
 The New Year of 184- made his entree in the midst of 
 festivities, and greeted his subjects with a clear, bright face. 
 True, there were signs of a frown hovering over his brow,
 
 164 I.KAVKS KliOM THK THEE IQDRASYL. 
 
 that, to those accustomed to study such things, hinted of 
 wild storms ; and some of his poorer subjects shuddered, and 
 declared that his breath was even colder than the dying 
 breath of his predecessor ; but their murmurs were drowned 
 amid the joyous shouts with which their more fortunate 
 brethren greeted his accession. The present custom which 
 requires ladies to- keep the house on New- Year's day, in 
 order to receive the calls of their male acquaintance was 
 
 not very prevalent in H at the time of which we speak ; 
 
 therefore the streets had not quite so much of a Turkish 
 look as at the present day. The long vista of Main-street 
 presented a joyous sight to old and young, with its groups of 
 restless, happy beings thronging in every direction. Here 
 were troops of impatient little urchins, with cheeks redder 
 than the scarlet linings of their cloaks, returning from the 
 toy-shops with their quota of gilded and sugared trifles ; then 
 a half-dozen tall, slender school-girls, their pale cheeks flush- 
 ing, half in anger, half in pleasure, at the admiring glances 
 of clerks and students; young fathers, with still younger- 
 looking mothers leaning on their arms, followed by giggling 
 boys and girls, pausing to chat with some old acquaintance 
 equally happy and equally blest ; while the children astonished 
 each other by an account of their New- Year's gifts, and the 
 lots of marbles they intended to purchase ; while sober, discreet 
 matrons, and silver-haired, benign-looking gentlemen, mindful 
 of the time when they were young, passed by with a glance 
 of pleasure and a silent " God bless you." 
 
 Ah, it was a very pleasant sight ! and so little Bessie 
 Lyman thought, ovhen, wearied by her long walk, and 
 benumbed with the cold, she emerged from the sunless atmos- 
 phere of North Main-street into the great thoroughfare of the 
 city. It seemed to the child as if the air was warmer there, 
 for the rays of the noonday sun fell brightly on the pave- 
 ments, and were reflected from the plate-glass windows that 
 lined the street; and the feeling was deepened by the sight
 
 LITTLE BESSIE. 165 
 
 of so many gay and happy faces. Happiness is contagious, 
 and blessed be God that it is 80 ! else little Bessie Lyman'a 
 fate would have been harder still, for very few among all 
 that gay throng noticed the poorly clad little figure that stole 
 along close to the side-wall, as if she felt herself an intruder ; 
 yet her heart gathered in all the stray smiles and multiplied 
 them by that wondrous process unknown to any save children, 
 until she almost forgot her cold and weariness ; and the happy 
 greetings of the New Year, that sprang from lip to lip up 
 and down the wide street, seemed addressed to her, and fell 
 upon her heart like a blessing. But when she left that broad 
 
 avenue, and entered F street, the cold breeze from the 
 
 ice-bound river almost took away her breath, and at the 
 thought of the long, gloomy store, and the unsympathizing 
 faces there, she shuddered, and the numbness again crept 
 over her heart. A few moments' walk brought her to the 
 door, and, timidly swinging it back, she entered and placed 
 her basket of work on the counter. One glance showed her 
 that there was no one in the store but a young boy, who 
 stood at the further end, arranging some goods. He advanced 
 towards her, and, feeling encouraged at the sight of his round, 
 good-humored face, she told her errand freely. 
 
 The boy took the work from the basket, counting the num- 
 ber of pieces as he did so. " All right," he said, glancing at 
 the bill which the old lady had placed in the basket. " Two 
 dozen pair, at sixpence per pair, amount to just two dollars. 
 Do you want the money to-day, little girl ? " 
 
 " If you please, sir." 
 
 " Then I am sorry you did not get here a little earlier. 
 
 Mr. G and all the rest have gone home, and left me to 
 
 close the store, for we are to have a half-holiday," he replied, 
 looking up in her face for the first time, as if he was sure she 
 would sympathize with his pleasure ; but one glance at her 
 cold cheeks and eyes filled with tears sufficed to change his 
 mood, and he said, earnestly, "I forgot; you must be very
 
 166 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 cold, little girl. Come up to the stove and warm yourself. 
 I was half frozen myself while building fires this morning." 
 
 "Thank you, I am cold; but but don't you think you 
 can pay me for the work? We need this money so much," 
 she said, eagerly. 
 
 " I don't think I can. I never meddle with the accounts ; 
 
 but stop Mr. Gr was talking with Deacon S a 
 
 moment since, just up the street. Perhaps they are there 
 yet," he continued, going to the door and looking out. 
 " Yes, there they are by his own door. If you make haste 
 you can catch him before he goes into the house." 
 
 In a second little Bessie was hurrying up the street, while 
 the young clerk turned to his work, saying : 
 
 " How much she looks like Fanny Lewis ; and Fan was the 
 prettiest girl in the whole school." 
 
 The girl's nimble feet soon brought her to the place where 
 the gentlemen were standing ; but when she saw how busily 
 they were talking, she felt tempted to pass on without speak- 
 ing. But the thought of her grandmother's trembling hands 
 and their scanty store gave her courage. She paused near 
 the door-step, and waited an opportunity to prefer her claim. 
 Here also the sunbeams fell brightly, and the sound of sweet 
 voices and merry laughter reached her from the parlor, and 
 occasionally the bright, rosy faces of children were pressed 
 against the plate-glass windows, the very pictures of mirth 
 and happiness. There was such an air of comfort about the 
 house that little Bessie could not help being infected by it. 
 She began to dream bright pictures of the nice supper that 
 she and grandmother should have when she reached home 
 with her parcels of tea and sugar ; and, while she is thus 
 occupied, let us turn a while to the conversation of the gen- 
 tlemen. They were both men who take a very active inter- 
 est in the various benevolent societies of the day ; and, as 
 their conversation related to the condition of the heathen
 
 LITTLE BESSIE. 167 
 
 and the successor missions, there will be no impropriety in 
 our acting as reporter. 
 
 " We have indeed great reason to rejoice in the success of 
 
 our operations," remarked Deacon S . " The political 
 
 changes of the last year have given us access to many fields 
 hitherto closed against us. But, unfortunately, we cannot 
 profit by this great dispensation ; for, unless some great and 
 extra exertions are made to relieve the board of its embar- 
 rassments, we shall be obliged to curtail instead of extending 
 our operations. The disbursements of the last year have 
 exceeded the receipts by many thousand dollars." 
 
 " A most unfortunate state of affairs, truly," replied Mr. 
 
 G ; " and, what is worse, the apathy that marks the 
 
 public mind throughout the country, on this subject, is truly 
 deplorable. Something must be done at once ; we must be 
 more strenuous in our efforts more self-denying. Much 
 more can be done in our own church and society than has 
 been. I feel my own remissness in this respect ; and " 
 
 " With as little reason as any man in the society," blandly 
 
 interrupted Deacon S . " We all know that no collector 
 
 ever leaves your office empty-handed. But what have we 
 here ? " he continued, directing the attention of his friend to 
 the child. 
 
 "Some street beggar, of course," replied Mr. Gr . 
 
 "What are you doing here, child? " he asked, sharply. 
 
 " Please, sir," began the child, drawing from her mitten 
 the somewhat time-stained paper, on which the trembling 
 hand of Grandmother Lyman had made out the bill, and hold- 
 ing it forth " Please, sir " 
 
 But Mr. G , with an impatient gesture, interrupted 
 
 her. " Put up your paper, child," he said, sternly. " I never 
 read petitions. They are mere impositions, and you, child, 
 are old enough to know the wickedness of your course. If 
 you are really in want," he continued, seeing her frightened 
 look, " there is the alms-house, which the public has gener-
 
 168 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 ously provided for all such characters. And now, go," he 
 said, still more sternly, " unless you wish to be sent there ! " 
 
 As the poor, terrified child stole quickly away, without 
 daring to look behind her, he turned to the deacon, saying : 
 
 " I never encourage street beggars. It only confirms them 
 in idleness and vice. It is deplorable to see how this evil in- 
 creases with us. Nezt time the city council meet, I shall 
 bring the subject before them, for it is becoming a perfect 
 nuisance. But we shall have the pleasure of seeing you and 
 your family at my wife's party to-night, when we can speak 
 further of these matters." 
 
 And, with a polite rejoinder from the deacon, the gentle- 
 men parted. 
 
 Mr. G found a great many things in this world " truly 
 
 deplorable." He was a well-meaning man, but ignorant, 
 narrow-minded, and conceited. Consequently he often fell 
 into the mistake of looking more to the shams of things than 
 the reality, and this was indeed " truly deplorable." 
 
 Little Bessie hurried a few rods up the street, then, over- 
 come by disappointment, hunger, cold and fatigue, she sank 
 against a brick wall ; and, drawing her scanty mantle about 
 her, to conceal her face, wept bitterly. It was about the city 
 dinner hour, and that cross street was comparatively deserted. 
 The few young clerks that hurried along were far too intent 
 on the thought of their dinner, or the afternoon holiday, to 
 trouble themselves about the forlorn-looking object that 
 crouched agaidst the wall ; besides, ragged, miserable-looking 
 children were no novelty to them. 
 
 Presently a number of Irish laborers came tramping up the 
 street, the rosy hue of their broad cheeks deepened almost to 
 purple by the intense cold. As they hurried along, one of 
 them almost stumbled over the child, who seemed to have lost 
 both 'sight and hearing in the bitterness of her disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 " Faith, me darlint ! " said the man, catching her by the
 
 LITTLE BES3IK. 169 
 
 arm, " and it 's a pretty time ye have taken to be sunnin* ye'self 
 here like a toad, when the cowld is so great that the blessed 
 sun himself can't shine, but is creeping behind yon big blanket 
 of a cloud ; and the wind is piping through the streets like a 
 thousand Connaught fiddlers, every tooth in a boy's head 
 dancing a devil's hornpipe to the same. There, hinney, trot 
 along wid ye." 
 
 Seeing that the child made no attempt to move, but again 
 leaned heavily against the wall, he drew aside her hood, and, 
 catching a glimpse of her pale, tear-dimmed face, he yelled 
 after his. companions : 
 
 " Hello, boys ! Bide a bit. The child is kilt with cowld 
 or hunger. Cheer up," he continued, seeing her frightened 
 look, " the boys are all friends. Spake, if you can, and tell 
 us what is it that 's ailing ye." 
 
 Mikey Corcoran's rich brogue was almost incomprehensible 
 to poor Bessie, but the genuine kindness of the tone was not 
 to be mistaken * and, taking courage from that and the kind 
 faces gajt^ered around her, she strove to keep back her tears 
 while she told her simple story. 
 
 " The marciless villain ! May the curse of St. Patrick 
 light on him ! " exclaimed Mike. 
 
 " Warm as he is in his grand biggin yonder, he will find 
 it hotter in purgatory, I 'm thinking ! " cried another. 
 
 " And it 's the tay, and sugar, and bread, ye shall have 
 for the ould one, and a warm bit for ye'self, if ye will just step 
 round the corner wid us to Pat Reilly's ; though it 's little 
 we have, to give, and the mouths at home are gaping like 
 young swallows at Whitsuntide." 
 
 " That ye shall ; and, Terence, my boy, may the blessed 
 Virgin send you a thousand happy new-years, just for that 
 same thought !" exclaimed Mikey, catching the child up in 
 his brawny arms, and leading the way to the little dwelling of 
 Pat Reilly. 
 
 15
 
 170 LEA VIS TBOM THE TREE IQDBA8YL. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 An hour later, little Bessie had lefl the city behind her, 
 and was crossing the wide, bleak plain that stretches between 
 
 H and M . She was so much occupied by the 
 
 events of the day, that she did not see that the sun was quite 
 hidden by the " big blanket of a cloud," as her Irish friend 
 termed it, nor that the atmosphere was heavy with particles 
 of snow. But when the great flakes began to fall, she quick- 
 ened her pace, for she knew that her grandmother would be 
 anzious for her safety ; besides, she much feared that the little 
 parcels in her basket, the gifts of the kind-hearted Irishmen, 
 would get wet. But she could not out-travel the storm. 
 
 Thicker and faster fell the great white flakes, now whirled 
 in her face and eyes by the wild wind that swept over the 
 plain, now sinking to the earth as quietly as the dews of 
 summer. For some time the child beguiled the weariness of 
 the way by noting the increasing depth of the snow by her 
 own footprints ; but she soon grew weary of this, and began 
 to look 0, how earnestly ! for some traveller to overtake 
 her, and give her a ride. 
 
 Soon her hands and feet began to grow stiff and numb, and 
 she could hardly make her way through the heavy snow. 0, 
 how glad she was, when she saw the guide-board that pointed 
 
 to N ! for then she knew she was but two miles distant 
 
 from home. She paused, and, dashing the snow from her 
 long eyelashes, looked round. It was almost dark, but she 
 knew that from that point there was a foot-path, leading 
 through the woods, that would shorten the distance a good 
 half mile. It was an unwise step ; but she soon made her 
 way through the drifts over the fence, and began to lay her 
 course by the well-known shrubs and bushes, for, by that time 
 the snow lay, even in the shallowest places, several inches 
 deep. She soon found that, in the deepening twilight, and 
 blinded by the enow, it was no easy matter to distinguish one
 
 LITTLE BESSIE. 171 
 
 clump of leafless shrubs from another. Still she struggled on, 
 unconscious, for a time, that every step took her further from 
 home than before. 
 
 Finally she was brought to a stand by a ledge of rocks that 
 rose perpendicularly before her to the height of many feet. 
 Then she knew that she was lost ; but hunger, cold and ex- 
 haustion, had so far done their work, that she felt neither fear 
 nor anxiety. Numbness and stupefaction had seized on all 
 her faculties ; she only felt weary, and, 0, so sleepy ! Still 
 she had a kind of indistinct consciousness that she should die 
 there all alone in the woods; therefore she knelt down at the 
 foot of an old sycamore, that grew close by the ledge, and 
 offered her nightly petition to our Father. This done, she 
 yielded to the drowsiness that oppressed her, and laid herself 
 down in a sheltered nook beneath a shelving rock. 
 
 As she laid her head on the cold, frozen earth, she thought 
 of the little birds that sat in the catnip under the window, 
 the morning before. " God cares for them he will not forget 
 me," she drowsily murmured, while a faint smile broke round 
 her blue, stiffening lips. Some time elapsed, during which 
 there was no more suffering for little Bessie. She dreamed 
 of lying on the soft, green turf, among the sweet wild flowers, 
 violets, anemones, and the golden adder's tongue, which she 
 loved so well, while above her hovered those sweet angel faces 
 so often seen in her dreams. 
 
 Presently there was a sound, as of something wallowing 
 through the snow a quick, eager snuffling of the air a 
 few short, wild barks, and then, with a perfect yell of delight, 
 old Jack came bounding through the snow to her side. 
 
 How like humati reason seemed the instinct of the noble 
 animal ! How tenderly he took her garments in his teeth, 
 and shook from them the snow, and licked her hands ay, 
 and her face, too with his warm, smooth tongue ! How 
 extravagant his joy, when his efforts to arouse her were 
 crowned with success '
 
 172 LEAVES FROM TBE TREK IGDRASYL. 
 
 _^ 
 
 " Dear old Jack ! " murmured the child, as his piteous 
 whining reached her ears ; " I have no dinner for you ; in- 
 deed, I have been very hungry myself." 
 
 At length she sat up and looked about her. The snow had 
 ceased to fall, but the scene looked so strange, beneath tho 
 faint light of the wan, ghostly-looking moon, that, fbr some 
 moments, Bessie could hardly comprehend her situation. But 
 gradually she recalled the events of the day, and with them 
 came the thoughts of her grandmother's anxiety and terror. 
 
 41 Jack," she said, passing her arm around his shaggy neck, 
 " do you think we can find the way home ? " 
 
 He looked up in her face a moment, with an expression of 
 almost human intelligence in his dark eyes, then turned, as if 
 ready to go. She rose to follow him, but found that she could 
 hardly move her benumbed limbs. The faithful creature led 
 the way, often looking back, as if to encourage her, until, 
 finally, his unerring sagacity led them to her grandmother's 
 door. 
 
 Years have passed, and Bessie Lyman is now the petted 
 plaything and acknowledged heiress of Capt. James Lyman, 
 who, after many years of absence, returned in time to soothe 
 the last days of his mother, and take charge of her little 
 Bessie. One of the first cares of the warm-hearted sailor was 
 to seek out Mikey Corcoran and his companions, and reward 
 them four-fold for their kindness to his niece. 
 
 As to Jack, his irascible master, touched by little Bessie's 
 gratitude and fondness for the dog, made her a present of him ; 
 for which good deed he also had his reward. 
 
 The noble old fellow is dead, but his memory is faithfully 
 cherished, and, over the fireplace in Captain Lyman's neat 
 parlor, hangs a large painting, which even Edwin Landseer 
 might not disdain, and which Bessie delights to point out to 
 her friends as the portrait of old Jack.
 
 SKETCHES OF OUR VILLAGE, 
 
 i. 
 THE STRIFE. 
 
 Tu follow the custom of certain wise and learned historians, 
 reader, we ought to begin at the beginning (we had well-nigh 
 put that in French, but, after all, old English is the best), 
 and speak of the geographical position of our village, define 
 its boundaries and area, describe its geological formations, 
 its rivers, lakes and mountains (for it has at least what we 
 dignify by these names), the number of its inhabitants, etc. ; 
 but we dislike details, and, besides, are not very wise our- 
 selves, having never been able to comprehend why the sun, 
 which always rises in the east, as seen from our home, should, 
 from the other side of Tetoket, seem to rise in a directly oppo- 
 site direction. 
 
 Moreover, the country round about us is so broken, the 
 roads so full of crooks and turns, that, unless you have a 
 Macgregor's aversion to plains, you will not care to seek us 
 out. Passing by, therefore, these particulars, we will pro- 
 ceed to speak of the wars, foreign and civil, that have at 
 various times caused dire commotion within our precincts ; 
 for, in this respect, our experience somewhat resembles that 
 of Hector Homespun, the renowned tailor, in Cooper's tale of 
 the " Red Rover." 
 
 We begin with the Pequod war, when those redoubted cap- 
 tains, Mason of Connecticut and Stoughton of Massachusetts, 
 pursued the royal Sassacus and his routed tribe along our 
 15*
 
 174 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDRASYL. 
 
 borders, halting at the adjoining settlement of Menunkatuck, 
 to behead two captive sachems, who nobly refused to betray 
 their chief. The name of the spot still bears witness to the 
 deed. It is now the site of a fashionable watering-place, 
 but we never pace the broad piazzas of the " Sachem Head 
 House " without recalling this scene, and it requires little aid 
 from fancy to picture forth the spot as it was at that time - 
 the rocky point, covered with the primeval growth of the 
 forest ; the white-crested waves of the Sound, sweeping tow- 
 ard the beach like a train of white-cowled friars, chanting in 
 low, monotonous murmurs solemn masses for the souls of the 
 waiting victims ; the handful of soldiers, resting on their arms 
 worn, weary, emaciated, by their harassing march through 
 the wilderness ; gazing with stern countenances, not untouched 
 by admiration, on those stately stoics of the woods, as they 
 calmly and somewhat contemptuously await the order which 
 shall send them to the happy hunting-ground ; while in the 
 foreground stood the English captains grim, gaunt and un- 
 dismayed the very personification of puritan courage. 
 
 We shall not stay to describe the stout resistance which our 
 village made to the union of the New Haven colony with that 
 of Connecticut, seeing that it is duly set forth in that famous 
 remonstrance called the " New Haven Case Stated," nor dwell 
 on the zeal with which our fathers sped the regicides on their 
 way towards that settlement, while the king's commissioners 
 gat sipping their " flip " with the good old Governor Leete at 
 Menunkatuck for before us lie the days of "Seventy-six." 
 
 Ah, reader ! could you just sit down by our ingle-side, we 
 would have a long chat about those perilous times, and we 
 would get the ancients of our village to tell us of the spirit 
 with which their fathers and brothers responded to Washing- 
 ton's requisition for more troops ; of Governor Tryon's pirat- 
 ical expedition to New Haven ; of the bustle and confusion in 
 our quiet farm-houses, as the echo of his cannon leaped from 
 hill to hill ; and of the stern faces and resolute tones of the
 
 THE STRIFE. 175 
 
 matrons, as they packed their valuables, and gave their or- 
 ders to their superannuated slaves, or boys too young for the 
 camp, preparatory to seeking safety for themselves and their 
 little ones amid the thick forests of Tetoket. Then, if you 
 are not one of those who deem the Chinese plant a nuisance, 
 you should sip your evening beverage from one of those tiny 
 china cups which date far back in the colony time ; and if it 
 chance to be a summer evening, we should place the round 
 tea-table (a part of the wedding portion of one of those same 
 matrons) under the great hickory in front of the house a 
 meet spot to " remember the days of old ; " for, rough and 
 massive as it looks now, seventy-five years ago its smooth, 
 lithe stem served as a target for certain relatives of ours, 
 when with their young comrades they exchanged, for a few, 
 brief days, the hard service of the camp for the joys of home. 
 Some rods to the east, where the smooth green knoll slopes 
 down to the spring brook, stood the old farm-house. Nothing 
 remains to mark its site, save a slight hollow in the green 
 turf; and those brave-hearted boys sleep where they fell, with 
 scores of their comrades, on the field of White Plains. 
 Another generation has passed away, but the old hickory, 
 with the bullets still in its heart, lives on, rejoicing in the 
 sunlight and dew, blessing us with its shade in summer, and 
 rattling down its burden of nuts every autumn to gladden 
 the hearts of the children. 
 
 But we forget that we have taken upon ourselves the office 
 of veritable historian ; therefore, leaving this household shade, 
 we shall note but slightly here the great domestic feud that 
 divided the village a la Montague et Capulet, somewhere 
 about the year 1732, as to the proper method of "pitching 
 the tunes in meeting ;" it being sufficient to say that, in the 
 great society meeting called upon that occasion, it was then 
 and there voted, by a large majority, to the great dismay of 
 certain musical critics, that henceforth the clerk be permitted 
 to pitch the tune after which method he pleased. Neither
 
 176 LEAVES FROM THE TAKE IGDRASYL. 
 
 shall we enter into the details of the bitter ecclesiastical 
 schisms, during whicn several influential families seceded from 
 the established Congregational order, and took upon them- 
 selves the forms of the Episcopal church, being duly de- 
 nounced by their former brethren as those whom Satan doth 
 desire to sift as wheat. Though the prejudice awakened at 
 that time still continues, in some degree, to tinge the fair cur- 
 rent of life, we shall not stay to trace its effects at present 
 for our interest lies chiefly in the grand pitched battle which 
 occurred in the centre school-district about the beginning of 
 the present century. 
 
 The old school-house, the first erected in the district, in 
 which the village fathers had learned their catechism and 
 conned over Dilworth's spelling-book, had become a reproach, 
 even to consciences usually dormant to everything like com- 
 fort or convenience in school-houses; and, after years of 
 deliberation and much canvassing, they determined to erect a 
 new building one which should reflect honor on themselves 
 and the whole town. 
 
 We must depart from our original intention so far as to 
 say that the site of our village is a small, basin-shaped val- 
 ley, scooped out from amid the hills, through the middle of 
 which a small but beautiful stream goes loitering like a truant 
 child. This stream (we call it river) separates the village 
 common from the ancient grave-yard, where sleep the first 
 settlers, and, crossing the main road, almost encircles what 
 still continues to be called the new grave-yard, though here 
 and there a sunken grave, with its rudely-sculptured slab of 
 red freestone, proves that many years have elapsed since the 
 first lone dweller was laid there. A few feet to the west of 
 the old grave-yard stood, at the time of which we speak, the 
 old meeting-house, constructed after the most rigid puritanic 
 notions of architecture, without steeple or bell, and with a 
 multitude of small square windows, which gave it more the 
 appearance of a great warehouse than anything else. Beyond
 
 THE STRIFE. 177 
 
 this, the open common stretches westward several rods, and 
 here the district decided to erect their new house. Nothing 
 like the little, low, brown house in which they had tasted the 
 benefit of birch and Daboll, would content them now ; noth- 
 ing short of a two-story, two-chimneyed building, with a room 
 on the ground floor for the common school, and the one above 
 for an academy, to the want of which they had become sud- 
 denly conscious. 
 
 It was certainly a grand affair, superior to anything in the 
 adjacent villages ; and who shall blame them if they did feel 
 certain pleasant titillations in the region of approbativeness, 
 as they gazed upon the belfry, surmounted by its glittering 
 vane that belfry from which, alas ! no bell was ever des- 
 tined to sound ? 
 
 As it was impossible to complete the building before the 
 period arrived for the commencement of the winter school, it 
 was decided to finish the lower room, and leave the rest until 
 the spring vacation. This was done, and a teacher engaged, 
 whose chief recommendation seemed to consist in the fact that 
 he had taught several terms, was very impartial, and a rigid 
 disciplinarian. In temper he was hasty and dogmatic, and, 
 like too many of his class, seemed to be utterly deficient in 
 that wisdom which seeks to win the heart of childhood, rather 
 than compel the intellect. Ferule in hand, he drove the chil- 
 dren into the house and out, he drove them through their les- 
 sons and recitations, and thus he had driven through several 
 winters, until he received his wages by far the most impor- 
 tant part of the contract with him, for what could he have 
 earned on the farm during the short days of winter? His 
 impartiality was manifested by punishing, on every possible 
 occasion, the children of those who were officially connected 
 with the school ; thereby, as he thought, showing his indepen- 
 dence. It was not long before his severity began to give rise 
 to complaints, which were duly resented by the party in 
 favor of rigid discipline ; and thus began the great storm
 
 178 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASVt. 
 
 which swept over the village, like the sirocco, blinding the 
 eyes and stifling the consciences, causing many families that 
 had hitherto sailed the sea of life together to part company, 
 and send after each other bitter words and scowls of defiance, 
 instead of good wishes and friendly cheer. 
 
 Ithiel Chittenden, or, to give his military title and name 
 as commonly abbreviated by his neighbors, Leftenant Chinnin, 
 had been one of the most active in engaging the teacher ; but 
 as long as the punishment fell only on his eldest child, Molly, 
 a beautiful, high-spirited girl of thirteen, whatever he might 
 have thought, he held his peace, only replying to her indig- 
 nant complaints, and hearty wishes that the teacher might 
 slip from the old crossing-pole into the river, and get half 
 drowned, or fall down on the ice anything to oblige him 
 to leave the school with a " Tut, tut, Molly ; I dare say you 
 are as noisy and mischievous as a flock of king-birds." 
 
 But when Mr. Evarts laid his heavy hand upon his pete, 
 his little twin boys, Joseph and Benjamin when, week after 
 week, they came home and held up to him their little, fat 
 hands, swollen and purple from the hard strokes of the ferule, 
 his spirit was moved within him. He sought an interview 
 with the teacher, and remonstrated earnestly with him on the 
 wrong of his undue severity. The teacher indignantly and 
 somewhat insultingly resented what he termed his interfer- 
 ence, and manifested his resentment and independence by 
 punishing still more severely every little fault of his children. 
 
 Notwithstanding his warlike title, the leftenant was a 
 peaceably-disposed man ; it took a good deal to rouse and 
 excite his combativeness ; but this object once fairly attained, 
 he manifested something like the obstinate tenacity of the 
 bull-dog. The circumstance of the interview between him 
 and the teacher became known, and their words duly reported 
 and distorted to suit the views of the contending parties. 
 He explained, corrected and remonstrated, until, out of all 
 patience, he vowed (the leftenant never swore) by the great
 
 THE STRIFE. 179 
 
 John Rogers, that the teacher should quit the village, or his 
 children the school. 
 
 The party in favor of rigid discipline held up their hands 
 in holy horror at this manifestation of weakness. They shook 
 their heads ominously when they spoke of little Joe and 
 Benje, and talked dolorously of the many instances in which 
 children, born ^o their parents late in life, had been ruined 
 themselves and brought ruin on their families, all for the 
 want of a little wholesome discipline. One or two even went 
 so far as to question whether they were justified in permitting 
 him to retain his commission, as his conduct might tend to 
 produce a laxity of discipline in the militia, thereby endan- 
 gering the character of that national bulwark. 
 
 The aggrieved party, on the other hand, looked upon him 
 as little less a martyr than the worthy lecturer on divinity 
 whose name he had invoked, and they began to look upon 
 the little twin boys with something like the same interest 
 with which they had been taught to view the nine small chil- 
 dren of that worthy man, as represented in a wood-cut that 
 invariably graced the pages of the New England Primer. 
 
 Those who are unacquainted with that phase of social life 
 manifested in country villages, can have no conception of the 
 bitterness and length to which petty quarrels can be carried. 
 Not that the people are worse, but their facilities are better. 
 There are few topics of foreign interest among them, few 
 incidents occur to break the ordinary routine of life, and 
 they are consequently much occupied with local affairs. Be- 
 sides, there is a certain class, which is never lacking in any 
 society, the members of which are far better versed in the 
 origin, faults, foibles, weaknesses, errors and faux pas of 
 every individual, than they are with their own ; and these, 
 eet on by one or two adroit wire-pullers, would breed a quar- 
 rel in Paradise. 
 
 Moreover, the matter is still worse where the families are 
 all connected by marriage or blood, as is the case with us,
 
 180 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 and where they still retain, to a degree perhaps beyond any 
 other place in New England, the old English aristocracy of 
 family, the first question with many of our older people be- 
 ing, to this day, whenever a stranger is spoken of, " What is 
 his family what is his breed ? " 
 
 This, perhaps, is owing to the circumstance that eight out 
 of ten of the fine farms in our township are ^wned and culti- 
 vated by the lineal descendants of their original owners, and 
 the traveller who chances to loiter away an half hour or so, 
 while waiting for his dinner at the village inn, among the 
 mossy stones in the old grave-yard, may hear most of the 
 names so rudely carved there a century ago, shouted forth 
 again and again, by the noisy schoolboys on the adjacent 
 common. 
 
 Be this as it may, our village was soon in a great uproar. 
 The teacher, the original cause of contention, soon served 
 only as a central figure in the dark picture, around which 
 became drawn, in no neutral tints, all the poor human frail- 
 ties of which each of the combatants had been guilty, and 
 some, doubtless, of which they never had thought. And so 
 did it gloom the social atmosphere, that all grew dark and 
 stifling, until men could no longer see to discern the fair 
 features of truth and charity, and, what was still worse, 
 even women and young children felt its baleful influence. 
 
 There were not wanting some calm souls to preach for- 
 bearance and peace, but their voices were scarcely heard 
 above the din ; and even the strongest influence then known 
 in a country village, reverence for the minister, was power- 
 less in this case. The old man who held the pastoral office 
 at this time, possessed a keen insight into human nature ; he 
 went from house to house, reasoning, exhorting and ridicul- 
 ing ; neither did he fail to belabor them " with apostolic blows 
 and thumps " from the pulpit ; but, alas ! he lived in the 
 eighteenth century, and could not cast out devils.
 
 THE STRIFE. 181 
 
 The disciplinarians having the majority, and being deter- 
 mined to retain Mr. Evarts in the school, the aggrieved party 
 seceded, and, leaving the new house, sacrificing all the dollars, 
 cents and mills which they had contributed towards it, with 
 many self-complacent reflections on the similarity of their 
 condition with that of ancient Lot, on a like occasion, went 
 westward some* rods, and erected a small, low building by the 
 way-side, which they painted a bright red, perhaps to make 
 the contrast between it and the white one they had left as 
 wide as possible. Their opponents christened it the Revenge, 
 and had not the name been given before it became known that 
 they had engaged for teacher an out-and-out Episcopalian, 
 one who kept Christmas, and actually did n't cook for Thanks- 
 giving, nor go to meeting on that occasion, they might have 
 called it by a more sinister name. 
 
 If this unhappy quarrel embittered the tempers and hearts 
 of friends and neighbors, its evil effects fell not less heavily 
 upon their children. Some of them took so completely the 
 tone of their parents, that they would not speak to their 
 former playmates ; and others, who neither knew nor cared 
 aught about the quarrel, were forbidden to do so by their 
 parents. None felt this estrangement more keenly than little 
 Molly Chinnin, and Mark, the son of her father's neighbor, 
 and, until this miserable contention, most intimate friend, 
 Ensign Ross. An unbroken friendship had subsisted for many 
 years between the families of these men. Their homes were 
 separated only by a green meadow and bit of pasture, and 
 from infancy they had shared their plays and lessons together. 
 Together they had learned to skate and swim ; together they 
 had conquered vulgar fractions, and received due punishment 
 on that same day for singeing the teacher's long queue in 
 commemoration of tha* event ; together they had received 
 their commissions in the militia ; and let me tell you, reader, 
 that a commission in that body, which at the present day 
 resemble? Falstaff's ragged regiment, was at that time con- 
 16
 
 182 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 sidered an honor not unmeet for the highest dignitaries in the 
 land. Together they had wooed, wedded and settled down 
 on the old homesteads, rejoiced over the birth of their chil- 
 dren, watched their growing fondness for each other ; and, as 
 Mark grew up tall and straight as a young pine, and Molly 
 like a graceful, beautiful green willow, there was nothing 
 said ; but as they watched them coming home from school, 
 full of mirth and mischief, or seated over the brawling river, 
 on the old elm-shaded pole, conning their lesson from the 
 same wofully dog's-eared book, or disputing about the exact 
 number of words on a certain page, the thoughts of both 
 sometimes reverted to a beautiful knoll, midway between 
 their dwellings, which had often been pointed out as a fine 
 building site, with a kind of wonder as to whether it would 
 ever be used for that purpose. 
 
 Ensign Ross had no child save Mark ; and, having the fate 
 of several only children before his eyes, he early determined 
 that his boy should not be spoiled by being "babied." 
 Therefore, he never took his part in any of his childish squab- 
 bles, and Mark early learned that if he got into trouble there 
 %as no use in complaining at home, for his mother was a 
 woman of too much sense to pet and pity him in secret. 
 
 Though he heartily detested Mr. Evarts, and the feeling, 
 to judge from the blows and thumps bestowed upon him, was 
 duly returned, yet his father knew nothing of the matter ; 
 or, if his wife sometimes mentioned that Mark had been pun- 
 ished, he usually replied with, " Ay, ay, and he deserved it 
 richly, I dare say ! " 
 
 Of course he was little inclined to sympathize with the 
 peculiar indulgence which his old friend manifested toward 
 his late-born twins. 
 
 " Considerin' that Molly is an onljidaughter, and was for 
 a long time an only child," was his frequent remark to his 
 wife, " I allow that they did pretty well by her. But it puts 
 me out of all manner of patience, to see such a man as Ithiel
 
 THE STRIFE. 188 
 
 Chinnin led by the nose by two such imps. Why, it makes 
 no difference who he is talking to ; if it were Thomas Jefferson, 
 and one of those precious boys were to break in with a string 
 of questions as long as the moral law, he would stop and an- 
 swer them all. He not only makes a goose of himself, but 
 spoils the boys, and I must tell him so." 
 
 He did tell him, or at least tried to ; but somehow, in this 
 case, his hints failed of their usual effect. The truth was, the 
 leftenant was dimly conscious of the least possible tendency 
 towards weakness where his boys were concerned ; he did not 
 like to admit it, even to himself, and the frequent hints of his 
 neighbor touched upon a sore spot. 
 
 Ensign Ross was by no means hard or unfeeling. He was 
 naturally genial and jovial, but he had contrived to get certain 
 fixed ideas into his head, especially upon the management of 
 children, beyond which he never troubled himself to look. 
 " Spare the rod, and spoil the child," was scripture with him, 
 and he wanted nothing better. He was naturally impatient, 
 and could not brook interruption, especially from children ; 
 therefore, he often censured as weakness that which was sim- 
 ply good nature in his slower and more patient neighbor. 
 When the teacher punished the little boys so severely, he 
 stoutly defended him, without inquiring into their offence 
 or listening to their father's explanation, and read the lef- 
 tenant such a lecture on his folly and weakness in all that 
 concerned his boys, that the latter was deeply grieved and 
 astonished. Indeed, upon reflection, he felt, himself, that he 
 had said many things that were unwarranted, even by their 
 long friendship ; but he did not like to confess it, and con- 
 tented himself with reasoning after this manner : 
 
 " If he has a mind to be mad at a hasty but well-meant 
 word, why, let him." ^ 
 
 Chinnin, on his part, thought more deliberately. " If Jon- 
 athan Ross thinks I have turned into a natural fool, why, let 
 him seek those that are wiser."
 
 184 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 Thus arose a frosty atmosphere between them, chilling alike 
 the ripened fruit of the past, and the opening hopes of the 
 future. Had they been left to themselves, doubtless the 
 memory of the past and a sense of their present folly would 
 have brought back the summer to their hearts ; but a rumor 
 of their feelings got abroad, as such things always do in a 
 country village, and the powers of scandal and schism took 
 the matter up, going from one to the other, watching every 
 word and look, distorting, exaggerating and misrepresenting, 
 until, after a few weeks, they could no longer discern, in the 
 pictures held up to them by these meddlers, any trace of the 
 old, friendly features. Still there were some grains of truth 
 in all these reports ; for they were by no means happy, and 
 their state of heart and mind was one which is prone to think 
 and say bitter things. 
 
 From the day that Leftenant Chinnin withdrew his children 
 from school, they ceased to speak together, for the epithets, 
 " Dotard " and " Busybody," which had been angrily applied 
 to each other on that occasion, seemed to stick in their throats, 
 and prevent anything like a friendly utterance. 
 
 All through the remainder of the winter the snow lay white 
 and unbroken on the fields between the two dwellings ; no 
 path, trodden hard and smooth as ice, marked the constant 
 intercourse of the families; no small foot-prints, deviating from 
 the path at every few yards, gave evidence of the presence 
 and exploring propensities of Mark and Molly. Although not 
 absolutely forbidden to speak with each other, they seldom 
 met now, never, indeed, save when Mark contrived eo 
 come round that way from school, and exchange a few words 
 with her through the palings of the front fence, during which 
 intercourse he never failed to express a very hearty wish 
 that Mr. Evarts had been in JerichPbefore he ever saw our 
 village. 
 
 Thus the strife raged through the winter months, until the 
 raw winds and heavy thaws of March came, bringing with
 
 THE STRIFE. 185 
 
 them a scourge which many in their secret consciences felt to 
 be a judgment for their sins, the scarlet fever, or, as it was 
 then called, the black canker. Something was necessary to 
 bring them back to a sense of dependence and human broth- 
 erhood. Instead of a blessing, they had made their children 
 a subject of contention, and God in his wisdom took many of 
 them home to himself. The rebuke was felt. Those who had 
 passed each other with stiff necks and averted faces, again 
 clasped hands over the graves of their little ones, and before 
 God's altar, in silence and tears. 
 
 For a time the disease seemed inevitably fatal ; fear and 
 grief sat upon every countenance ; the school was closed, and 
 parents took every precaution to guard their children from the 
 fatal contagion. Thus it happened that Mark Ross was, for 
 several weeks, shut off from all communication with his young 
 associates. He chafed like a young lion in his confinement, 
 more especially when he heard that the fever had seized upon 
 the leftenant's little boys, and it was thought that they must 
 die. They had been great favorites with Mark, and if they 
 were spoiled, as his father said, he knew that Molly and him- 
 self were, in a measure, answerable for it, for they had always 
 taken their part, and sturdily defended them, right or wrong. 
 He longed to go over and see them, but he knew that neither 
 of his parents would consent to this. And, if the truth were 
 known, not the less did his kind-hearted mother and impulsive 
 father long to go over and speak words of sympathy and com- 
 fort to their stricken neighbors. But submission to his will 
 on her part, and a sense of shame and wrong done and re- 
 ceived on his, kept them both silent. But when the news 
 ?ame that Molly, too, was stricken down, Mark's course was 
 taken. 
 
 " If fatter has a mind to be a heathea, and worse than a 
 heathen," he muttered, one morning as he watched the ensign 
 on his way to the woods, " why, well and good ; but mother 
 is a Christian, I take it. She ought to know better. I will
 
 186 LEA Via FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 give her her choice ; either die or I go over to-day and seo 
 how Molly and the boys are." 
 
 He watched his mother with a compressed lip as she went 
 about her household labor ; then, when she had smoothed 
 her hair and drawn her wheel to her accustomed corner, he 
 began : 
 
 " Mother, Lydia and Tim Linsley, Thankful Harrison, Sam 
 and David Butler, Abby Barker, and ever so many more chil- 
 dren, have died. Do you think that Joe and Benje and Molly 
 will all die, too ? " 
 
 " I don't know, Mark. Sarah Whedon says that Doctor 
 Foot gives no hope for the little boys. Poor Hannah Chin- 
 nin ! it will be a sad blow to her to lose them." 
 
 " Mother, do you remember what nice custards and jellies 
 Mrs. Chinnin used to bring me, when I had the measles ; 
 and how she watched by me and nursed me when you was too 
 much worn out to hold up your head ? " 
 
 " Yes, Mark, I shall never forget her kindness ! " and the 
 tears sprang to the mother's eyes. 
 
 " Well, then, mother," he exclaimed, rising and giving the 
 forestick a kick, as if to settle his decision, " I think it is a 
 burning shame that we should let them all die, and never go 
 near them. I, for one, am going over there to-day. I am 
 but a boy, I know, and can do nothing to help them, but the 
 children will know that I have not forgotten them. As to the 
 fever, if I catch it, I must. One had as good die with the 
 fever, as live in a quarrel all his days." 
 
 Mark had not miscalculate"d the effect of his words upon his 
 mother. She knew something of his determined spirit, and 
 exclaimed, hurriedly : 
 
 " No, no, Mark ! For you to go there would be tempting 
 Providence outright; If you should catch the fever, I should 
 never forgive myself. I will go. I witt" she continued, see- 
 ing him begin to button up his jacket. " I have wanted to go 
 for a long time, for these quarrels, as you say, are dreadful
 
 THE STRIFE. 187 
 
 Only promise me that you will not attempt to see them your- 
 self, and I will go this minute." 
 
 " I promise for to-day," replied Mark. 
 
 There was no manifestation of surprise when Esther Ross 
 entered that house of affliction nothing that marked a mem- 
 ory of the bitter estrangement between them ; but a warm 
 pressure of the hand and a grateful look from the over-wearied 
 mother, as, unable to bear any longer the last fearful struggle 
 between life and death, she relinquished her child into the 
 hands of her old friend, and buried her face on her husband's 
 shoulder. As in birth, so in death, those children were not 
 divided. Death gathered them both in the space of a few 
 hours, and kind Esther Ross (ah, how she inwardly blessed 
 the wilfulness of her boy, that had driven her forth!) smoothed 
 their fair locks with a gentle hand, and prepared their little 
 forms for the grave. Then she sought the room of Molly, 
 where her presence and thoughtful care were like dew to the 
 heart of the fear-stricken girl. 
 
 When she returned home that night, and related with a 
 mother's eloquence the sore affliction of their neighbors, Mark 
 wept outright, and the eyes of the ensign glistened as he 
 said: 
 
 " I am glad you went, Esther ! " Then, laying his hand 
 upon Mark's head, he added, " Remember, my boy, that 
 little Joe and Benje are free from anger, and sin, and sor- 
 row, now." 
 
 Esther Ross knew that her husband passed an anxious and 
 restless night, but she knew, also, that he was one of those 
 who are best left to the workings of their own convictions ; 
 therefore, she did not ask him, in so many words, to attend 
 the funeral, and bury all anger in that double grave. Mark, 
 to her surprise, did not ask to go, and, with a sad and some- 
 what anxious heart, she went over at an early hour to give 
 such assistance as might be needed. 
 
 The grave-yard and the road which led to it were in full
 
 188 LEAVES FROM THE TREK IGDEA8TL. 
 
 view from the windows of Ensign Ross' house. The ensign 
 had loitered about the wood-pile and yard all the morning, ii 
 a restless, undecided manner. When the people began to 
 gather to the house of mourning, he went into his house, and 
 paced the floor with the same restless step, occasionally join- 
 ing Mark, who had stationed himself at the window. 
 
 Mark covered his eyes with his hands when he saw the old 
 pastor issue forth from the house, followed by four boys not 
 much larger than himself, bearing the double coffin ; for he 
 could not bear to think that the fair-haired boys lay beneath 
 that heavy black pall. 
 
 But his father continued to watch the procession with a 
 troubled expression of face. Onward it crept with that slow 
 and solemn pace, and there came a convulsive twitching about 
 his mouth, as it filed into the grave-yard, and past a little, 
 short mound, headed by a slab of white marble, a few yards 
 to the right of the gate ; for he thought of the sad November 
 day when he and his wife had stood by that open grave, and 
 well did he remember whose hand had gently lowered the 
 head of his little flaxen-haired Mabel to her last home ; and 
 who, in all times of trial and affliction, had stood by his side 
 like a brother. He seized his hat, and, hurrying onward, soon 
 reached the spot, and gently made his way through the crowd 
 to the side of the grave. 
 
 When the solemn prayer of the old minister was ended, 
 with a gesture of entreaty he took a shovel from the hand of 
 a young man, and slowly and reverently sprinkled the first 
 grains of dust on the coffin below. As he returned the shovel 
 to the hand of the young man, his eye for one second met that 
 of the bereaved father, and he felt that his motive was under- 
 stood. His hand laid the last clod upon that grave ; his foot 
 was the last to turn away and join Esther, who still lingered 
 by the white tombstone of their own child. 
 
 They pursued their way home in silence, and, when they 
 reached that house of sorrow, as if by one impulse, they both
 
 THE STRIFE. 189 
 
 turned and entered. As they entered the vacant sitting- 
 room, they heard the voice of the leftenant raised in broken 
 expostulations in an adjoining room. 
 
 " No, no, my boy ; this must not be. We have suffered 
 sorely ; and if you, too, should take the fever and die " 
 
 The leftenant could not proceed ; and, as they drew near 
 the open door, they saw their own son, Mark, standing by the 
 bedside of MoHy, holding her fevered hand closely in tis, as 
 he replied, with a quivering lip : 
 
 " They have buried up little Joe and Benje, and would not 
 let me see them, but I will see Molly ; I 've seen her to-day, 
 and I '11 see her to-morrow. I don't care for fever ; my 
 father looks cross, and mother sad, and nothing is as it used 
 to be. This quarrel has made us all miserable enough." 
 
 " Ithiel ! Ithiel ! the boy is right ! " exclaimed Ensign 
 Ross, stepping through the door-way and offering his hand 
 to his startled neighbor. " I have been harsh, unkind, un- 
 christian forgive me ! " 
 
 The stricken father stared for a second in astonishment, 
 then, seizing the proffered hand, murmured, as he bowed his 
 head over it to conceal his tears : 
 
 ." And I, too, Jonathan I, too, am guilty. But I 
 have left it all there," he added, with a significant gesture 
 towards the grave-yard. " Let it be forgotten." 
 
 And so it was. After a long and-weary illness, Molly 
 recovered ; and the lives of the families again flowed on in 
 the same current until, as white-headed old men, Leftenant 
 Chirmin and Ensign Ross were laid with their fathers. 
 
 But, years before they died, the white house upon the hill, 
 which they had seen in their dreams, had become a reality, 
 and two little boys had been born there, who, at the special 
 request of the ensign, were christened Joseph and Benjamin. 
 
 The storm of contention gradually subsided, and the old 
 landmarks became visible. The land has now had rest for 
 many years, and the traces of the old battle are scarcely dis-
 
 190 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDKASYL. 
 
 cernible to any save such curious beings as ourselves. The 
 white school-house, minus the belfry, still stands; but the 
 " Revenge," where we conned our earliest lessons, has long 
 since gone to destruction.
 
 II. 
 
 OUR SCHOOL-MISTRESS. 
 
 NOT long since, while on a visit to some kind friends of 
 mine, I found myself in the company of several ladies, who 
 were discussing with much interest the subject of education, 
 and the respective merits of several fashionable seminaries in 
 that vicinity. Not feeling particularly interested in the sub- 
 ject, I joined my friend E , in looking over Darley's 
 
 graphic illustrations of Rip Van Winkle, and soon became so 
 deeply absorbed that I heard only the murmur of their voices, 
 occasionally broken by a word or two uttered in a shriller 
 key, seeming like the echo of the voice of Rip's good vrowe. 
 
 I was suddenly recalled from this enchanted valley, by the 
 voice of the fashionable Mrs. W , exclaiming : 
 
 " Ah, yes ! we will ask Miss R ." Then laying her 
 
 jewelled hand on my shoulder, as if not quite sure that I was 
 free from that drowsy atmosphere, she continued : 
 
 " You have hardly heard our argument, my dear, but we 
 were speaking of the superior advantages which seminaries in 
 the city possess over those in the country in all that relates 
 to the true finish of a young lady's education. May we ask 
 at what seminary you were educated ? " 
 
 There was something so bizarre, so ludicrous, between the 
 lady's expectant tone and the picture her words called up to 
 my mind, that I could hardly repress a smile as the unvar- 
 nished truth rose to my lips ; but one glance at her haughty 
 face brought with it the memory of her wealth, her morbid
 
 192 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 exclusiveness, her horror of anything "native to the soil," 
 and, let me confess the truth, reader, with a feeling strongly 
 akin to cowardice, I evaded a direct reply by saying, " I was 
 educated at home." 
 
 " Ah ! you had a governess, then. Your parents were so 
 wise %s to follow the good old English custom. I wish it 
 were more fashionable here, for it is much to be preferred to 
 our mixed hoarding-schools. I have sometimes thought I 
 would employ a governess for Celestia ; but it is so difficult 
 to find one possessing all the requisite qualifications. Your 
 friends must have been fortunate." 
 
 My folly had brought its reward. I colored, grew confused, 
 embarrassed, and was trying to stammer forth something, 
 
 when I caught the clear gray eyes of my friend E fixed 
 
 earnestly upon me, while a most provokingly quizzical smile 
 gathered around his mouth. All at once my confusion van- 
 ished, and, raising my eyes to the lady's face, I said, quietly : 
 
 " I fear I have led you into a mistake, Mrs. W . I 
 
 should have said, that I was educated chiefly at the district 
 school in my native village." 
 
 There was a slight, almost imperceptible raising of the 
 lady's shoulders, and her bland air of respectful attention 
 vanished at once, as she replied, with a slight drawl : 
 
 " Ah ahem ! I think I have heard Squire W say 
 
 that there have been some improvements in the common 
 schools within a few years ; " and, turning carelessly away, 
 she began to discuss with her neighbor the last new design 
 for crotchet that had appeared in the Lady's Book. 
 
 " Coolly done, that," whispered E . " You must re- 
 member that a great gulf suddenly yawns between people, 
 sometimes, even in this world. For a moment, I feared you 
 would fail to see that little red school-house, of which you so 
 often speak, in the golden atmosphere that surrounds Mrs. 
 "W >-." 
 
 As other people besides Mrs. W sometimes ask after
 
 OUR SCHOOL-MISTRESS. 198 
 
 my Alma Mater, I have determined to describe it ; partly 
 because I think " our school " was peculiar even in those days, 
 and partly because I wish to daguerre a few traits of one 
 who has long been among the angels. 
 
 Should you ever chance to visit our village, reader, you 
 will find the main road from the west, for the space of two 
 miles or so, clinging close to the foot of a rugged chain of 
 hills, known as the Tetoket range. On the l|ft, you will 
 have their precipitous front, in some places barren and bleak, 
 and crowned by huge old cliffs : 
 
 " Here, dark with the thick moss of centuries, 
 And there of chalky whiteness, where the thunderbolt 
 Has splintered them ; " 
 
 and in others draped to the very summit with a mass of tangled 
 green, through which rise the heads of the tall cedars, like 
 watch/ul sentinels. Very, very beautiful is the old mountain 
 in the genial spring-time, when he unfurls his leafy banners 
 and displays every shade of green, from the deep black hue 
 of the cedar, to the pale, faint tinge of the buttonwood and the 
 aspen, with the white blossoms of the dog-wood peeping out 
 from the midst like stars. And still beautiful is he when 
 the frosts of autumn have fallen upon him, and all the shows 
 of summer have departed; when the everlasting cedars, 
 clothed to the very topmost branch in robes of flame-colored 
 livery, stand, like old martyrs, lifting their upstretched arms 
 to heaven, and hinting, not dimly, that God still speaketh 
 from the midst of the burning bush, would we but listen. 
 
 On the right, the open country sweeps southward toward 
 Long Island Sound, but so broken and undulating that you 
 must ascend the mountain, would you catch a glimpse of the 
 blue water. As you approach the village, a valley opens, in 
 the midst of which sleep two small but beautiful sheets of 
 water, separated only by a narrow, ribbon-like bit of green 
 meadow. "Winding around these, you may trade green lanee, 
 17
 
 194 LEAVES FKOM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 crossed here and there by more public roads, and catch 
 glimpses- of the sharp roofs and heavy stone chimneys of old 
 farm-houses, rising from amidst clusters of green trees. 
 
 Not a great many rods beyond this point the mountain 
 suddenly makes a turn to the north-west, and, like the face of 
 a stern fellow-traveller relaxing into a smile at parting, 
 smooths its rugged features, and, with a gentle, loving arm, 
 embraces or village and the valley north o it, known among 
 the early settlers as the " pleasant land of Goshen." Here, 
 for the first time, you catch a view of the village, which looks 
 like a bird's nest hidden between the hills, and, just where the 
 last undulation of the mountain slopes down to meet the main 
 road, stood the red school-house. I have spoken of its origin, 
 and described its appearance in a previous sketch ; but I said 
 nothing of the old apple-tree whose boughs overhung its roof, 
 that apple-tree, which must, even as a germ, have had a kind 
 of fore-feeling of its destiny, or surely its trunk would never 
 have been garnished with such excellent knots for footholds, 
 its limbs would never have twisted themselves into such ad- 
 mirable seats for children, and its blossoms would never have 
 been the earliest and most fragrant of the season. It was 
 truly the tree of knowledge of good and evil to us urchins ; 
 and many pleasant half-hours did we sit perched up amid its 
 branches, watching the swallows that built their nests in the 
 belfry of the Episcopal church across the way, or mocking the 
 bob-o'-linkums in the meadows by the river. 
 
 Moreover, from the foot of the trunk sprang divers singu- 
 larly smooth, straight shoots, which sometimes found their 
 way into a certain corner of the school-room, as incentives to 
 learning by the inverse method. 
 
 Then, that length of fence under the apple-tree ! Never 
 were rails so smooth or so capitally arranged for climbing. 
 Blessings on the hand that laid them ! Why, our sleds made 
 nothing of it, but came darting like arrows from the hill 
 above, and paused not until we landed on the opposite side of
 
 OUR SCHOOL-MISTRESS. 19a 
 
 the street. But I must not linger here ; I can almost fancy 
 that I hear again the sound of the ferule on the window- 
 casement, the invariable signal which recalled us from our 
 sports. 
 
 To my young readers I would say, do not fancy that our 
 school-room was anything like yours, with your convenient 
 desks, your shaded windows, your globes, cabinets, and outline 
 maps. Ours was a large, square room, lighted bysix or eight 
 windows, through which, during the long summer hours, came 
 a flood of light and heat so intense as to dazzle the eyes and 
 bewilder the brain of the strongest. Around three sides of 
 the room ran rude desks, to which were attached rough, nar- 
 row planks for benches, and inside of these was a row of sim- 
 ilar benches for the smaller scholars. These were without 
 any support for the back, and all of them so high that not 
 more than one pair of feet out of a dozen could by any means 
 contrive to touch the floor. The last side, with the exception 
 of the space taken up for the door, was occupied by the great 
 fireplace, which yawned from the door-post to the opposite 
 wall. In these utilitarian days, when 
 
 " Men scarcely know how beautiful fire is," 
 
 such fires as we used to have are a rarity. No wonder that 
 the great wooden beam which served for a mantel-piece took 
 fire almost every day, even though the inventor of friction- 
 matches, on whose unfortunate head the old people of our 
 village lay the blame of all the fires which have desolated 
 city and country for several years, was not born. 
 
 Ah ! those great, blazing, crackling fires will never be for- 
 gotten. The heart of the sailor turns back to them, as he 
 paces the deck through the weary night-watches, with the 
 rain and sleet driving in his face, while the biting north wind 
 covers his long locks and shaggy pea-jacket with glittering 
 icicles ; and brightly do they gleam and glow in the restless 
 dreams of more than one famished, benumbed gold-seeker, as
 
 196 vLEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDRA3TI.. 
 
 be sinks down to his last sleep amid the snows of the Rocky 
 'Mountains. 
 
 Of maps, we had none. I doubt whether such an article 
 ever saw the inside of the red school-house, and the Japanese 
 might have been next door neighbors to us, for aught we knew 
 or cared. The labors of Lindley Murray, Home Tooke, Web- 
 ster, Ashe, Greenleaf, and Brown, were considered as entirely 
 supererogatory by both teachers and parents. Indeed, so 
 strong was this prejudice against grammar, that, when it was 
 introduced into our schools, some years later, the teachers sel- 
 dom made any application of its rules. We were taught to 
 repeat it by rote, and in this way I studied grammar for sev- 
 eral years, and could repeat the whole, from Etymology to 
 Syntax, without .being able to construe correctly a single 
 sentence. In the same manner we studied Orthography 
 and Prosody, as laid down in the early editions of Web- 
 ster's spelling-book. I doubt whether any children were 
 ever more familiar with that same spelling-book than were 
 we ; not only with the orthography of our lessons, but the 
 number of words in a column, the number of leaves in the 
 book, the leading word on each page, every typographical 
 error ; to say nothing of the hours we spent in studying the 
 beauties of those specimens of art that illustrated the fables, 
 counting tha apples on the tree in the fable of " Th,e Old Man 
 and Rude Boy," or the exact number of flies composing the 
 swarm that tormented the poor " Fox in the Bramble." In 
 reading, spelling, and arithmetic, we were, to a certain degree, 
 more carefully drilled, and a clear, well-written copy-book 
 was the teacher's and pupil's pride on the day of examination. 
 
 Thus, with the occasional diversion of " choosing sides " 
 in spelling, and a grand pitched battle with snow-balls between 
 our boys and their rivals of the white school-house, we passed 
 the winters. In the summers, when the large boys were busy in 
 the fields, writing and arithmetic were both laid aside, and in 
 their place we had patchwork with all ita endless variations.
 
 OUR SCIIOOL-MISTRESS. - 197 
 
 marking, embroidery, stitching, and plain-sewing. For the 
 qualifications of our teacher in the last, I can well vouch, for 
 I have a very distinct recollection of her compelling me to rip 
 the wristband three times from the first shirt-sleeve I ever 
 made, because, forsooth, I did not catch every gather. 
 
 It is of this teacher, or mistress, for the term was peculiarly 
 appropriate in those days, I wish to speak. I have mused 
 much upon her character, and she ever seems to have been of 
 those unto whom it is appointed to be " made perfect through 
 suffering." Her whole life was a combat a struggle with 
 physical weakness and pain. Hour after hour have I seen 
 her walk the school-room with rapid, uneven steps, her long, 
 thin fingers clenched together, her pale lips parted, while the 
 great drops of perspiration started on her brow, yet not a 
 word of murmur ever escaped her ; and, when the paroxysm 
 was past, her voice was low and gentle as the south wind 
 after a storm. Her tall, spare figure, and thin, pale face, 
 bore unmistakable traces of this warfare; but there was a 
 light in her great, dark eyes clear, serene and luminous, as 
 that of the fixed stars which spake of conquest, and a hope 
 centred in Him " in whom there is no variableness nor shadow 
 of turning." 
 
 Husbandless and childless, possessing a sufficiency of this 
 world's goods, it was a matter of surprise to many that she 
 did not seek that life of ease which her delicate health seemed 
 to require. But she feared the ennui and selfishness of a life 
 of idleness ; she felt intuitively that 
 
 " Something the heart must have to cherish ; 
 Must love and joy and sorrow learn ;" 
 
 that no woman can be happy without some occupation, some 
 interest in life ; therefore she took charge of the village school 
 for many a pleasant summer. 
 
 The children became her children ; in their progress, pleas- 
 ures, troubles and difficulties, she rejoiced or sorrowed ; and 
 17*
 
 198 LKAVES FROM THE TREE IQDRASYL. 
 
 if she could not teach the " higher branches," no one better 
 possessed the secret of inculcating in the minds of the chil- 
 dren habits of strict honesty, reverence toward God and our 
 elders, kindness and forbearance toward each other, and 
 courtesy toward all men. 
 
 She was fond of poetry, especially devotional poetry, and 
 rhymed herself with great facility. Her approbation of our 
 conduct was generally expressed in rhyme, on small, square 
 pieces of paper, ornamented with various devices in red and 
 green ink. But the highest proof of her approval, the one I 
 prized most, was permission to take a small book, which she 
 kept laid away choicely in her desk, containing poems for 
 children, by Mrs. Barbauld, Jane Taylor, and others, and to go 
 forth an hour or so, with a companion of my own choosing, 
 and lie in the deep shadow of the thick-leaved trees, or per- 
 chance sit perched up in the old apple-tree, while we com- 
 mitted one or more to memory, to be recited on our return to 
 the school-room. ' Another method of manifesting her appro- 
 bation was to send us forth in parties of three and four, to 
 commit to memory the inscriptions on the stones in the adja- 
 cent grave-yard. On a pleasant summer afternoon, when 
 the sun began to sink behind the mountain, and the shadows to 
 lengthen, the passing traveller might have seen half a dozen 
 little girls, wandering cautiously among the sunken graves, or 
 seated amid the tall grass at the foot of some old slab of red 
 sandstone, tracing the lugubrious inscription with their tiny 
 fingers. 
 
 A friend, to whom I related this peculiar trait in my early 
 education the other day, laughingly remarked : 
 
 " And to these youthful ' Meditations among the Tombs ' 
 may be traced your present literary tastes, I suppose." 
 
 Doubtless they were not without an influence upon us, for I 
 remember some curious thoughts and speculations passed 
 through my head as I sat there, such as I would not haye
 
 OUR SCHOOL-MISTRESS. 199 
 
 been likely to have spoken of to any one, certainly not to any 
 older than myself. 
 
 We always commenced our morning exercises by repeating 
 a poem called " Daily Duty," and closed at noon with another 
 entitled " Hosanna." I do not remember much of either ; 
 but I do remember how hungry I used to be before we got 
 through with the last, which was somewhat lengthy, and how 
 many times I have reached behind me into my dinner-basket, 
 and extracted a piece of cake, preferring 0, Phoebus Apollo ! 
 puritan dough-nuts to poetry. The afternoon exercises were 
 also closed with an appropriate hymn, and, by the way, it 
 should be borne in mind that these stanzas were repeated in 
 as many keys as there were voices in the school. It was not 
 often that death entered our circle, but when he did claim one 
 of our number, or a child from any of the other districts, 
 headed by our mistress, we followed in due procession to the 
 grave, where we ranged ourselves around it, after the coffin 
 had been lowered to its last resting-place, and repeated some 
 lines appropriate to the occasion, either written by our teacher 
 or selected from her favorite authors. 
 
 In looking over the manuscripts of our old school-mistress, 
 not long since, I came across the following lines, which will 
 serve to illustrate her character, as well as the occupations in 
 which she sought to overcome her life-long foes, suffering and 
 weakness. They were addressed to a sister, after a " dis- 
 tressing illness," and entitled 
 
 EXERCISE THE BEST PHYSICIAN. 
 
 " My dear, I have been spinning tow, 
 And I desire to have you know 
 How very well and strong I feel ; 
 My best physician is my wheel. 
 
 " If you should see me at my wheel, 
 Perhaps you 'd think I 'd never reel ; 
 But I can spin ten knots a day 
 A noble task for me, you '11 say.
 
 200 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 " It strengthens all my frame, I find, 
 And does invigorate my mind, 
 And makes my spirit cheerful, too; 
 All the result of spinning tow. 
 
 " I 've put aside my easy chair, 
 No longer do I need to wear 
 My blanket and my shawl, and sit 
 As if I had an ague-fit. 
 
 " Nor do I sigh and cry 0, dear ! 
 I shall be ill again, I fear ! ' 
 But I am cheerful now, and feel 
 Quite grateful to my Doctor Wheel." 
 
 The spot where the red school-house stood is now a smooth 
 green bank, the old apple-tree is gone, and the old rail-fence 
 superseded by a rough, tumbling-down-looking stone wall. 
 Time and Death have worked their will upon that merry 
 flock of children, and she, who for so many pleasant summers 
 moved in our midst like a guiding angel, has long since 
 " passed through death unto life."
 
 III. 
 
 A SABBATH OF 1776. 
 
 LATE in the fall of 1847, it was my good fortune to spend 
 several delightful hours in the gallery of the " Art Union " in 
 New York. Among the many exquisite pictures that graced 
 its walls, was one which particularly attracted my attention. 
 Not that I either comprehended or was much influenced by 
 the learned and technical criticisms of the connoisseurs at my 
 elbow, but it was a New England scene, " The First News of 
 the Battle of Lexington," by Ranney, and for its truth and 
 spirit I could well vouch. 
 
 It represented a New England landscape in the capricious 
 month of April, with all the shows of awakening agricultural 
 life and industry. A village smithy in the foreground, which 
 I could have almost identified, under the projecting roof of 
 which stood the brawny-armed smith himself, with compressed 
 lips and knitted brows, fastening a shoe to the reeking horse 
 of a courier (how much more significant the old Saxon word, 
 bode), who, still in the saddle, hurriedly told his tale of "fate 
 and fear " to the excited listeners that had already reached 
 the spot. All along the road were seen hurrying .stalwart 
 forms, with the implements of toil still in their hands ; in the 
 fields, the plough and oxen were left midway in the furrow, 
 while their master, without bridle or saddle, sprang upon the 
 stout farm-horse, and, with his strong hand twisted in his shaggy 
 mane, the gears still trailing at his heels, and nose high in 
 the air, guided him, at an undreamed-of pace, across the fields 
 and over fences, toward the scene of excitement.
 
 202 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQBRASYL. 
 
 I knew many in my native village that might have stood as 
 the originals of those men ; ay, and not a few horses that 
 might, upon occasion, have taken that very look and gait. 
 But more than this, as I gazed upon that picture, the shadowy 
 forms of the white-haired fathers of our village seemed to 
 take the place of the gayly-dressed people at my side, and 
 stand leaning, as was their wont, over their stout oaken sticks, 
 as they told over again their " tales of the times of old." One 
 of these, which that picture vividly recalled, and which would 
 not be an unmeet subject for the artist's pencil, I shall attempt 
 to relate. 
 
 One Sabbath morning, during the gloomy summer of 1776, 
 when the hopes of the patriots seemed likely to go down in 
 darkness and blood, and even the God-sustained heart of 
 Washington grew troubled, and almost sank within him, the 
 people of our village came up to the house of God with sad 
 countenances and heavy hearts. News travelled slowly then, 
 and they were chiefly indebted to such wounded soldiers as 
 passed through the village, on their way to their homes, for 
 their information of the movements of the army. They knew 
 that Washington still held New York, and the last poor 
 wounded fellow that had reached home had told a fearful 
 tale of the state of our own diminished army, and the hordes 
 of troops, under the Howes, that were gathering around it like 
 locusts. 
 
 It was a beautiful mid-summer morning. A light thunder- 
 shower, during the latter part of the preceding night, had laid 
 the dust and given coolness to the air. The rain-drops still 
 hung trembling from leaf and spray, and came dropping down 
 in showers, as the footsteps of pedestrians or the heavy tramp 
 of horse?, bearing, in most instances, the double burden of man 
 and matron, with perchance a rosy child or two, startled from 
 their quivering perches the silver-throated birds. 
 
 The grain was already harvested, but many fields of grass 
 were still standing, brown and sunburnt; and it was very
 
 A SABBATH OF 1776. 203 
 
 evident that some of the crops suffered from lack of proper 
 cultivation, for many of the most expert wielders of the hoe 
 and scythe had already exchanged them for the musket and 
 .sword. Still, here and there a piece of Indian corn stood up 
 thriftily, through the broad leaves of which the faint west wind 
 rustled with a low, murmurous sound, like the dropping of the 
 summer rain. In the south-west, just above the top of Teto- 
 ket, appeared the white caps of two or three of those singular 
 clouds, known among the country people as " thunderheads." 
 But the people, as they pursued their way along the green 
 lanes and over the forest-crowned hills, had other thoughts 
 than of the beauty of the landscape. Their hearts were with 
 their brothers and friends ; their thoughts turned towards Him 
 who is both able to build up and cast down, before whose 
 altar they were accustomed to cast all their cares and trou- 
 bles. 
 
 As with slow and reverent steps, they filed into the meet- 
 ing-house, and took their seats in the square pews, it was 
 easily seen that the greater portion of the male part of the 
 congregation consisted of men advanced in years, and boys in 
 their teens. The morning service passed as usual, and, after 
 a short intermission, the people again gathered to their places, 
 and the earnest prayer was offered, and a sermon, suited to 
 the exigencies of the times and the wants of the audience, was 
 commenced. Suddenly, the congregation was startled by the 
 heavy tramp of a horse, which rapidly approached and halted 
 by the meeting-house door. In a moment the rider bad 
 thrown himself from the saddle, and stood within the door. 
 Handing a note to the aged deacon, who was hurrying down 
 the aisle to ask the cause of this untoward interruption, with 
 an audibly whispered injunction to act with speed, he as 
 hastily mounted, and kept on his way. The deacon cast one 
 glance at the superscription of the paper, then marched rever- 
 ently up the pulpit stairs, and placed it in the hand of the 
 minister, with the same whispered injunction. Deliberately
 
 204 
 
 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDBASYL. 
 
 the old man finished his sermon and prayer, then, glancing his 
 eye over the paper, he laid its contents before the people. It 
 was a pressing requisition from Washington for more troops. 
 He was daily expecting an* attack from the combined forces 
 of the enemy, and each town and village was called upon to 
 furnish what aid it could. After a few apt and eloquent re- 
 marks on the critical situation of the beloved chieftain, the 
 worthy man continued, " Let us not be too much cast down, 
 my brethren. Our cause is that of truth, and justice, and 
 righteousness; and, strong in these, we shall yet assuredly 
 triumph. This business is urgent ; and, I trust, it will not be 
 deemed derogatory to our Christian character, nor an in- 
 fringement upon the holy Sabbath, if we take such measures 
 * as seem most pressing, to-day. Therefore, all who are wil- 
 ling to take their lives in their hands, and stand by the side 
 of the commander-in-chief, in this hour of trial, will, after the 
 close of these services, please range themselves in single file 
 upon the village common." 
 
 Then, with hands clasped, and raised towards heaven, he 
 took up the sublime invocation of David : 
 
 " Keep not thou silence, God ! hold not thy peace, and 
 be not still ! 
 
 " For, lo, mine enemies make a tumult ; they that hate thee 
 have lifted up the head. 
 
 " They have taken crafty counsel against thy people, and 
 consulted against thy hidden ones. They have said, Come, 
 let^us cut them off from being a nation, that the name of 
 Israel may be no more in remembrance. 
 
 " Let them be confounded and troubled forever ; yea, let 
 them be put to shame and perish. 
 
 "That men may know that thou, whose name alone is 
 Jehovah, art Most High over all the earth ! " 
 
 There was silence for the space of some moments, and then, 
 to the strains of old " Mear," full, clear, and distinct, from 
 all parts of the house, rose the words of the following hymn *
 
 _A. SABBATH OF 1778. 205 
 
 " Attend, ye armies, to the fight, 
 
 And be our guardian, God, 
 In vain shall numerous foes unite 
 'Gainst thine uplifted rod. 
 
 " Our troops, beneath thy guiding hand, 
 
 Shall gain a great renown ; 
 'Tis God that makes the feeble stand, 
 And treads the mighty down." 
 
 The deep silence that followed the benediction was broken 
 by the low muttering of distant thunder, for the white-capped 
 thunder-clouds of the morning were climbing with giant 
 strides up the western sky. Contrary to their usual custom, 
 the people waited in silence until their pastor had descended 
 from the pulpit and passed down the aisle ; then the aged 
 deacons moved forward, followed by the congregation in due 
 order. As they issued from the wide doorway, the whole 
 male portion, as if moved by one impulse, took their way to 
 the village common. Thoughtfully and silently, to the roll- 
 call of the booming thunder, they took their places, shoulder 
 to shoulder, and the old minister saw before him the available 
 strength of the village, each man capable of bearing a musket, 
 from the gray-haired veteran to the boy of sixteen. Grouped 
 around him was a small band, to whom age and debility had 
 left no available weapons save faith and prayer. One other 
 group must not be forgotten the mothers, wives, sisters, 
 daughters of those men upon the common, who remained clus- 
 tered around the meeting-house door, watching, with breath- 
 less interest the movements of their friends. Love, pride, 
 anxiety, hope, and faith, lit up their excited features ; but I 
 trow there was little cowardice there. 
 
 The old minister's heart glowed within him at the sight of 
 the resolute, determined-looking faces before him, as they pro- 
 ceeded to a choice of officers. The subordinate offices could 
 readily be filled ; but who should lead them to face danger and 
 death who should be their captain ? 
 18
 
 LEAVES FROM TUB TREE IQORASYL. 
 
 Who so worthy to do this as he who had stood by them in 
 all times of trial and sorrow he who had already aided them 
 to fight the good fight of faith, their spiritual teacher and 
 friend, whose moral and physical courage were undoubted? 
 and, with one accord, they named the Rev. Samuel Eells. 
 
 The old man was much moved by this unexpected proof of 
 their esteem and confidence. It was the highest honor in 
 their gift, and he fully appreciated the compliment and the 
 responsibility. He had too much of the old puritan spirit in 
 him to decline ; his heart was in the cause, and, in a few apt 
 but broken words, he signified his willingness to stand by them 
 in life and in death. Then, beckoning the females to advance, 
 he bowed his head, and, like a true Cromwellian, called down 
 the blessing of Heaven on them and their cause. 
 
 Thus was the first company raised in our village ; such wa.' 
 the spirit with which our fathers responded to the requisition 
 of Washington ; and, in justification of the wisdom of their 
 choice, let us add, that, 
 
 " Like a soldier of the Lord, 
 With his Bible and his sword," 
 
 the old pastor led them safely through manifold dangers, 
 until they joined the main army in New York.
 
 IV. 
 THE FIRST GRAVE. 
 
 " In vain do individuals hope for immortality, or any patent from 
 oblivion, in preservations below the moon : there is no antidote against 
 the opium of time, which temporarily considereth all things ; tho 
 greater part mustobe content to be as though they had not been to be 
 found in the register of God, not in the record of man." Sir Thomas 
 Brown. 
 
 NEARLY a century and a quarter ago a pleasant group were 
 gathered round the blazing fire in the comfortable dwelling of 
 David Allen, one of the settlers of our village. It was a 
 keen, clear, winter night ; the stars shone with unwonted bril- 
 liancy, the vast shadows of the unbroken forest stretched mo- 
 tionless across the pure snow, giving a still more solemn and 
 mystical seeming to the deep silence which brooded over the 
 scene, undisturbed save by the sudden cry of some night-bird, 
 or wild beast, or an occasional sharp report from the ice- 
 bound ponds in the vicinity, as their glittering mail splintered 
 beneath the quiet moonbeams. 
 
 But within there were warmth and comfort, and that happi- 
 ness which ever arises from the conviction of a day well spent. 
 The great fireplace, though it stretched across nearly one side 
 of the room, was none too spacious for the blazing logs that 
 filled it ; none too wide for the three generations gathered 
 round it. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! in these days, when the free, bold spirit of that 
 most useful of household servants is cramped and broken by
 
 208 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDRASYL. 
 
 confinement in uncouth iron prisons, "when we catch glimpses 
 of its cheerful face only through the narrow bars of its iron 
 mask, we can form little conception of its own intrinsic beauty, 
 or how kindly it was wont to fling its warm colorings and del- 
 icate shades over the meanest household group, with an artis- 
 tic grace which Titian might have envied. Like the free, glad 
 element that it was, it danced and crackled in the broad fire- 
 place of Farmer Allen on the night of which we speak, thrust- 
 ing its long, spear-like tongues between the great logs that fed 
 it, sending forth whole showers of glowing sparks is the far- 
 mer occasionally thrust back a protruding stick with his heavy 
 boot, chasing the dark shadows into corners and little recesses, 
 lingering with a softened, delicate gleam on the pale features 
 and silvery locks of the superannuated grandame, as she sat 
 in her antique arm-chair in the " warm corner," nodding 
 occasionally, as if to keep company with the youngest littto 
 one at her side, who every few moments rubbed his round 
 eyes with his chubby fists, stared fixedly at the fire, and then 
 the white lids fell drowsily down, and with a sudden nod his 
 dimpled chin rested on his breast. Then, how merrily the 
 blaze winked back at him, and danced lightly over the curly 
 heads of three or four other urchins, to the further end of 
 the huge " settle," to peer into the pretty face of Dorcas Al- 
 len, the eldest daughter of the house, as she not unfrequently 
 lifted her eyes from her knitting to the face of her buoyant- 
 hearted, handsome cousin, who sat beside her, conversing with 
 her father and mother, or with a heightened color answered 
 his questions as he turned to her for information with respect 
 
 to their young companions ; for Isaac B was a stranger 
 
 as it were in his native village, having spent most of the last 
 two years under the tuition of the Rev. Abraham Pierson, of 
 Killingworth, or rather Kennelworth, as the old colonial rec- 
 ords have it, first rector of that infant college which since, 
 under the name of " Old Yale," has, banyan-like, spread its 
 shoots over thirty different states.
 
 THE FIRST GRAVE. 209 
 
 Isaac had much to tell of his life at Mr. Pierson's, of his 
 studies and his classmates ; and his simple relations lacked 
 not their full quota of local news, marriages, births, deaths, 
 clearings, raisings, to say nothing of the " meeting-house," 
 the first " meeting-house " which had been erected during 
 Isaac's absence, and which was an inexhaustible source of 
 pride and interest to the villagers. 
 
 " Well, Isaac," said goodman Allen, taking a final squint 
 at the bow-pin he had been whittling, and carefully brushing 
 the shavings from his homespun trousers, " I suppose chop- 
 ping comes rather hard to you, after idlin' so many months 
 over your books in old Mr. Pierson's study." 
 
 " Idling ! I only wish you had to study as hard for 
 one week, uncle. But I can manage to keep up with Sam 
 yet, and that is a little more than any one else can say in these 
 parts, I fancy," replied the young man, or rather boy, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 " Ha'n't quite forgot your old knack at bragging, Isaac," 
 said the uncle, with a quiet smile. " To listen to you and 
 Sam, one would think you would turn the world over." 
 
 " May-be I shall, some day," he replied, gayly. " I shall, 
 at least, try hard to do it ; for the top round of the ladder 
 must be mine, uncle, or none ; and you see I have a long way 
 to climb." 
 
 " Isaac, Isaac, will you never be content with your lot ? " 
 said the quiet Aunt Esther. 
 
 " No, aunt, not as long as I feel that there is a better and 
 a nobler one within my reach." 
 
 " Better ! " exclaimed goodman Allen, in surprise. " Now 
 hear that ! Why, one would think you were a born pauper. 
 Where in the whole township are there two boys better off 
 than Sam and you, I 'd like to know ? You surely need n't 
 grumble because Sam had the main portion of your father's 
 land. It would go to him, of course, as the eldest. Your 
 portion will eddicate you, and give you a fair start in the 
 18*
 
 210 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 world, to say nothing of your mother's jointure, which will 
 be yours at her death. Never talk in that way, boy; it is 
 downright tempting Providence." 
 
 " Uncle David, Aunt Esther ! " said the boy, indignantly, 
 " you don't understand me ! I don't care for money. Indeed^ 
 I despise it, hate it, when I see what slaves it makes of men ; 
 how they plod on, year after year, blind and deaf to every- 
 thing but the clinking of the dollars as they scrape them 
 into their bags. Better die at once than to live a life like 
 that!" 
 
 " Child ! " said the old grandmother, in her quavering 
 tones, as, roused by the excited voice of her grandson, she 
 reached across goodman Allen, and laid her shrivelled hand 
 commandingly upon his head, " Child ! be not wise in thine 
 own conceit. Walk in the footsteps of thy fathers, so shalt 
 thou find safety and peace." 
 
 The next moment she had sank back in her usual attitude, 
 and seemed to have lost all consciousness of their presence. 
 
 " Grandmother is right, Isaac, though it 's a long time since 
 I have heard her speak so connectedly," said David Allen. 
 " Old paths are the wisest and best." 
 
 " Under your favor, uncle, I think not. What if Luther, 
 Calvin, Pym, Hampden, Russell and Cromwell, had always 
 plodded along in the old beaten paths ? Where would have 
 been our boasted freedom ? They dared to think for them- 
 selves, and to act out their thoughts, as I hold every true 
 man should do, else he is unworthy of the name ! " replied 
 the excited youth* 
 
 " Well, well, my lad, I can't say but what you may be 
 right ; but it takes a longer head than mine to see through 
 these things," said the uncle, thoughtfully. 
 
 "And what is it you wish for what is it you crave, 
 Cousin Isaac?" said the dove-eyed Dorcas, looking up from 
 her knitting. 
 
 He gazed at her full a second before he replied, not daring
 
 THE FIRST GRAVE. 211 
 
 or not caring to utter in that presence the one sweet name 
 that rose to his lips ; then reading, in her downcast eyes and 
 glowing cheek, that she partly comprehended his hesitation, 
 he said : 
 
 " Fame, Dorcas ! I would be a star among my fellow- 
 men; not," he continued, earnestly, catching the reproving 
 eye of his aunt, " from a selfish .ambition ; not to set myself 
 above them, disclaiming all fellowship or sympathy with 
 them, but to guide them in the midst of darkness and trouble 
 to raise them to a higher and purer life. When Mr. Pierson 
 tells us, as he sometimes does, of the famous men that lie buried 
 in Westminster Abbey, and how, as a boy, he used to wander 
 among their monuments, and muse on their lofty deeds, I feel 
 their spirit strong within me. I, too, have a destiny to 
 achieve. I will make myself a monument in the hearts of 
 my countrymen, so that, long after my death, in all times of 
 trouble and danger, men shall turn to my memory as sailors 
 turn to the polar star. I care not where I die, or where my 
 body lies, but I would not have my name forgotten upon 
 earth ! " 
 
 " I shall never forget one I love," said Dorcas, sadly. 
 
 " No, child, and there is no harm, as I see, in the lad's wish 
 to be remembered. It 's natural to us all. I myself should 
 feel kinder bad, if I thought, after I 'm dead, none of you 
 would take the trouble to put up a decent stone with my 
 name and a verse of Scripture or so on it, to let people know 
 where I lie," said David Allen. " By the by, Isaac, did I 
 tell you we have set off the green sloping field between the 
 meeting-house and the river, for a burial ground ? " 
 
 " No ; but they told me so in the village, as I came along ; 
 and I stopped a moment, and wondered who would be laid 
 there first." 
 
 " So I ask myself every Sabbath," said Dorcas. 
 
 " I guess I know," said one of the curled heads at the 
 other end of the settle. " Old Goodman Barker. I heard
 
 212 LEAVES FROM THE TRKB IGDRASYL. 
 
 Deacon Barnes tell father, the other day, that he was most 
 gone." 
 
 " Nathan, Nathan ! " said the mother, reprovingly. 
 
 " Who is it wants a gravestone ? " asked the. old grandame, 
 suddenly rousing up. " Now I think of it, David," she went 
 on, without waiting for a reply to her query, " you be sure 
 and see that Job Ritton puts on to mine, Abigail, relict of 
 Samuel Allen not consort, but relict, just as it is on old 
 Madam Eaton's stone." 
 
 Here Esther Allen interrupted the somewhat lugubrious 
 tone of the conversation, by taking the younger children and 
 the not less childish grandmother to their beds ; after which, 
 the others drew closer round the fire, and sat chatting cheer- 
 fully until the hour-glass on the shelf had marked the tenth 
 hour since high noon unusually late for them ; but then 
 Isaac's visits were very rare, and he was ever a favorite with 
 his simple-hearted relations. 
 
 From his childhood, Isaac's character had been marked by 
 a lofty ambition. Though that mind, which took in not only 
 the present, but the future, as its field of action, must neces- 
 sarily be widely different in its inner life from those of his 
 more contented playmates and friends, yet he possessed a gen- 
 erosity of character, and a winning kindness of manner, that 
 readily disarmed envy, and rendered him not unworthy of the 
 place he held in their hearts. 
 
 Even the sternest of his father's old friends and neighbors, 
 though they sometimes shook their heads very gravely at what 
 they termed his " carnal pride," and " new-fangled notions," 
 liked to hear him talk ; for there was a kind of charm, even 
 to them, in the earnest enthusiasm that marked all. his 
 words. 
 
 "We need hardly say how much he was to his widowed 
 mother and brother Sam. He was very young at the time of 
 his father's death ; and, as Sam was several years his senior
 
 THE FIRST GRAVE. 213 
 
 he regarded him with something like the mingled love of a 
 father and brother. Sam was the reverse of his brother in 
 many things ; he had none of his lofty aspirations ; he cared 
 little for the world, or the world's opinion ; but he had all 
 his good-humor and buoyant spirits ; and, if he was proud of 
 anything, it was Isaac. 
 
 He was wont to boast that he brought him up ; and there 
 was n't another lad in the whole township that could manage 
 a wild colt, swing a scythe, or chop into a tree, quite as slick 
 as Isaac ; and, during his short vacations, there was always a 
 trial of skill between them in all sorts of labor common to the 
 season. In good sooth, their Uncle Allen, whose good-nature 
 made him a favorite with them, had some reason for calling 
 them a " couple of brags." 
 
 The next morning, after the early breakfast was over, the 
 chapter read, and the prayer offered, in the house of David 
 Allen, Isaac started for his home, which lay about a mile and 
 a half distant, saying, in answer to their entreaties for him to 
 abide with them longer, that he had promised Sam to go on 
 to the hill with him that day, to cut the great oak that stood 
 on the edge of a deep gorge, known to this day as the " Great 
 Gulf." 
 
 " If you want to see what Sam and I can do, Uncle David, 
 just come along about ten o'clock, and you shall hear a crash," 
 he added, gayly. 
 
 " Ay, I am going along up that way myself, by-and-by ; 
 and may-be I '11 stop and lend you a hand. You '11 get tired 
 out by that time, I dare say," replied the uncle, in the same 
 jocular tone. 
 
 " Pray be careful, Isaac," said Dorcas; " you and Sam are 
 so headlong when you get together." 
 
 " Never fear for us, Dorcas," cried the youth, as he passed 
 through the gate. 
 
 " Yet it 's a pesky bad spot to Fall a tree in, lad," called
 
 214 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 David Allen after him. " Be careful, or you will have it at 
 the bottom of the Gulf before you think ! " 
 
 "Ay, ay, sir ! " came ringing back through the clear frosty 
 air. 
 
 In about an hour David Allen had drained his mug of gin- 
 gered cider, drawn on his mittens, and, standing braced out 
 upon the beam of his sled, something after the fashion of the 
 Colossus at Rhodes, drove off to the clearing he was making 
 in the vicinity of the Gulf. The hearth was swept, the old 
 grandame placed in the warm corner, the wheels of the mother 
 and daughter drawn forth, and plied with busy hands and 
 feet, while the somewhat strict discipline, which had been 
 slightly relaxed during Isaac's visit, was again put in force 
 over the younger children. The two eldest were seated on 
 square butts of trees, which served for stools, shelling the 
 bright kernels of the Indian corn into a large wooden tub that 
 stood between them, while the two little ones built cob- 
 houses on the floor, in imitation of the leaning towers of 
 Pisa. 
 
 Their voices mingled right pleasantly with the buzzing 
 murmur of the wheels and the monotonous dripping of the 
 melting snow from the eaves, and the whole room was in 
 cheerful contrast to the icy winter without. 
 
 Neither the mother nor the daughter seemed in a very gar- 
 rulous mood, though they occasionally exchanged a word about 
 some hrtisehold affair, and once or twice spoke of Isaac and 
 his ambitious dreams. Thus the hours passed on ; the shadow 
 on the window-sill had almost receded to the noon-mark, when 
 the old grandmother suddenly roused herself, and, looking 
 eagerly round, asked, in her shrill, tremulous tones: 
 
 " Where 's Isaac ? Where 's Nabby's boy ? " 
 
 " Isaac went home before you were up, mother," returned 
 Esther Allen. 
 
 "Ah, well, I did n't know what might n't 'a happened to him. 
 Was n't he talking about shrouds or grave-stones, or some
 
 THE FIRST GRAVE. 215 
 
 such things, last night? I wonder what makes him think 
 about such things?" 
 
 " Isaac's head runs upon everything, mother." 
 
 " Sure enough, so it does; but I wonder what he should be 
 thinking about his grave-stone for, when I have never quite 
 made up my mind what verse to have Job Kitton put on to 
 mine. Now, mebby that 's what made me dream so last 
 night I dreamed Isaac was dead. Queer enough that I 
 should dream of Nabby's boy's dying, a'n't it ? " she muttered, 
 spreading out the palms of her thin hands to the fire. 
 
 " Dream of a death is a sign of a wedding, mother," said 
 Esther Allen, cheerfully. 
 
 " Yes, it 's a good sign, but I 've known it to fail," returned 
 the old dame. " Many a time have I heard Submit Leete's 
 Aunt Leah tell how she dreamed, two nights running, that 
 Hilkiah Palmer was dead ; and, sure enough, he was killed, 
 not long after, in a skirmish between our troops and Prince 
 Rupert's. Kiah was Submit's sweetheart, you know. Well- 
 a-day, this happened a long time ago, before I left home and 
 came over here with your gran'ther. I spose Leah and Sub- 
 mit and they are all gone before this time. Your gran'ther 
 and Submit were kinder cousins." 
 
 " Don't you think grandmother more flighty than usual to- 
 day, mother ? " said Dorcas, upon whom the old dame's words 
 seemed to make a painful impression, as she rose and walked 
 to the window. 
 
 " She was up later than common last night, and a little 
 puts her out," returned the mother, as she left the room for a 
 distaff of flax. 
 
 As she again entered the room, Dorcas turned towards her 
 an ashen face, crying, as she pointed to the street : 
 
 11 0, mother, mother ! He is dead ! I knew it would be 
 so ; I have felt it all the morning ! " and the good woman's 
 cheek turned scarcely less pale, as she saw her husband and
 
 216 LEAVES FROM THE IEEE IGDRASYL. 
 
 Sam lift a human body from their sled, and bear it towards 
 the house. 
 
 " It is Isaac Isaac, mother ! " cried the trembling girl, 
 clinging to her for support, while the little ones, frightened 
 by her cries, fled to the same shelter. 
 
 " What 's all this pother about Isaac ? " said the old gran- 
 dame, querulously. " Why do you cry for him ? He "a to 
 be a minister, a lamed gospel minister. Fie, child! such 
 takings-on are unmaidenly and improper." 
 
 But Dorcas heard her not, her eyes were fixed on the door, 
 through which her father and cousin soon entered with uneven 
 steps, and bore their burden to a bed that occupied one 
 corner of the spacious room. There was no need to gaze 
 upon that mangled face to tell who the victim was one 
 glance at the faces of David Allen and his nephew was suffi- 
 cient. 
 
 They gathered around the bed in silence, unbroken for 
 some moments by sobs or groans. The suddenness of the 
 blow had stunned them. Sam's voice was the first to break 
 the fearful spell. " 0, my mother my poor mother! " he 
 groaned, as he stooped his head upon his Aunt Esther's shoul- 
 der and wept like a child. 
 
 We will not attempt to describe the agony of that hour 
 we cannot paint the grief that like a gloomy night shut so 
 suddenly down upon the hearts of those stricken ones, extend- 
 ing, ere nightfall, its dim shadow over the whole settlement 
 we need not, for there are few, among those who will read this 
 sketch, over whose threshold the invisible footsteps of Death 
 have not passed. 
 
 Two days after, the body of the young student, followed 
 by almost every family in the settlement, was borne along 
 the winding forest path to the recently erected house of pub- 
 lic worship. After a brief but touching address by the 
 young pastor, it was again borne out and laid down in the 
 grave. His destiny was accomplished his yearning wish
 
 THE FIRST GRAVE. 217 
 
 realized but, 0, how differently from what he had dreamed ! 
 His name is still held in remembrance among us, but not for 
 wisdom, or power, or deeds of high emprise but, as the 
 first tenant of our village grave-yard. Even to this day we 
 
 point to his moss-grown head-stone, and read, " Isaac B , 
 
 1727." 
 
 19
 
 
 V. 
 
 MARY GRAYSON. 
 
 " Man is God's image, bat the poor man is Christ's stamp to boot." 
 
 " BUT, my dear Miss R , let me assure you that this 
 
 sympathy for paupers is quite needless. Where, in the whole 
 world, is there such excellent provision for the poor as in our 
 own New England? The judge, my husband, who should 
 know something of this matter, says our paupers are much 
 better off than we. They have no taxes to pay, nothing to 
 be anxious about only to eat and drink, and, perhaps, 
 labor a little." 
 
 And my good, proper, self-satisfied, somewhat aristocratic, 
 but really kind-hearted, " fat, fair and forty " friend, Mrs. 
 Judge Lawson, who spoke thus, sank back on the sofa, into 
 her usual attitude of graceful repose, with a look of com- 
 miseration for my ignorance (I not having borne the weight 
 of public affairs, as the wife of a judge). 
 
 " Indeed ! " I replied ; " then, I suppose the judge, and, 
 of course, yourself, would gladly exchange your beautiful 
 house and establishment for a home in the almshouse ; or, 
 perhaps, you would prefer being put up at auction, to be 
 struck off at the lowest living price per week, to some coarse, 
 brutal man, whose aim would be to make you do the most 
 work on the cheapest living. How much care and anxiety 
 you would escape ! " 
 
 " How absurd ! Of course, there are different stations in 
 life. This search for duty out of our own sphere is what 
 creates so much confusion in the world," replied my friend,
 
 MABY GBAYSON. 219 
 
 with some show of vexation. " But, excuse me, my dear, 
 your secluded habits have not adapted you to appreciate 
 what the judge calls the manifold relations of life." 
 
 " Pardon me, Mrs. Lawson ; it was' because I do feel 
 these relations so deeply, that I stood beside that old pau- 
 per's grave to-day, and witnessed the hurried, heartless man- 
 ner of her burial. Our poor-laws may be very wise, but, 
 when I heard the circumstances of her death, I could not 
 help feeling that the spirit with which they are applied is 
 very different from that of Him who left us the poor as part 
 of his dying legacy. Our social life, though rich and beau- 
 tiful in many respects, has some barbarism lingering in it." 
 
 "Heaven save us! What strange ideas people do run 
 away with ! " exclaimed the judge's lady, raising herself 
 erect on the sofa. " I am astonished, my dear, that a person 
 of your correct taste and excellent judgment should indulge 
 such fancies. What could induce you to go to that old 
 woman's funeral ? " 
 
 " Respect for the character of one who, in very humble 
 and trying circumstances, has lived a true and noble life." 
 
 " Did you know, her? " 
 
 " Yes." And, catching the inquisitive glance of my 
 friend's daughter, Eveline, a rose-lipped girl of sixteen, 
 whose sense of les convenances I had somewhat offended by 
 taking her to a pauper's funeral, I added, " If you are in- 
 clined to listen I will tell you something of her story." 
 
 " 0, do, Miss E, !" exclaimed Eveline, snatching a 
 
 low ottoman, and placing herself at my feet. " I do so love 
 to hear stories, and we all know mamma's penchant that 
 way. And, pray, begin at the beginning ; for, when I see 
 such old shrivelled women, I can scarcely believe that they 
 were "ever young and fair." 
 
 "Perhaps Mary Grayson never realized the standard of 
 beauty peculiar to young ladies of sixteen, dear Eva ; but 
 she once had youth and health, which are ever intrinsically
 
 220 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASTL. 
 
 beautiful, and a goodness of heart and cheerfulness of dispo- 
 sition, which transfigured, as it were, her somewhat irregular 
 features, and gave her words and actions a charm which does 
 not belong to mere physical beauty. 
 
 " She was the only child of her mother, who died when 
 she was about ten years old. Her mother's place was soon 
 occupied, not fitted, by another woman, who, though naturally 
 kind and well-meaning, from feeble health and an excessively 
 nervous temperament, was ill-calculated for the trials,, toils 
 and cares of married life, especially when a rapidly increas- 
 ing family, together with narrow circumstances, made inces- 
 sant demands on her health and patience. Of course, the 
 atmosphere of Miles Ghrayson's house was not always clear 
 and bright as a June day. It more frequently resembled a 
 November fog ; and it would be idle to say it was not often 
 so thick and dark that the cheerful warmth of Mary's heart 
 could not gush through it. But if she could not always 
 banish the clomd from her father's brow, nor soothe the fret- 
 ful spirit of her step-mother, nor even transform the rising 
 group of children into little angels, yet, by the grace of God, 
 she could bear all with patience, which is, perhaps, the next 
 best thing. 
 
 " One thing is certain they all loved her. True, it was a 
 too selfish love, that appreciated not so much her unwearied 
 devotion as their need of it. Her true worth they appre- 
 ciated as little at they did the quiet sunshine that stole 
 through the broken windows to glorify their mean room. 
 But, when one is beloved, even in this poor way, the path of 
 life seems less barren and difficult. 
 
 "Thus passed ten years, for time does not stand still even 
 at the doors of the unhappy. Then came death, under the 
 form of a malignant fever, and carried off the father an<f four 
 of the children. A still heavier burden was now laid on 
 Mary. The expenses of sickness exhausted what little prop* 
 erty her father hal left ; the oldest remaining child, a boy
 
 MARY URAYSOX. 221 
 
 of nine, could do little to aid her ; and it was difficult to 
 say which made the largest demand on her patience and love 
 the feeble, despairing mother, or the poor, puny baby. 
 Poor Mary ! She saw how much was to be done, and how 
 little there was to do with, and almost gaVe way in despair. 
 
 "Besides, there was another sore trial. Like all young 
 maidens she had her dreams of the future; and, for the last 
 two years, she had not dreamed alone. There was one, an 
 active, intelligent young mechanic, who appreciated her 
 worth, and who had spoken to her words that had flooded 
 her heart with happiness. They were both poor. Therefore 
 they had decided to wait until the young man could lay by 
 something, before they attempted to realize together their 
 dreams of married life. Mary was no subtle reasoner, but 
 she had a strong sense of duty, aided, no doubt, in this case, 
 by her sad experience of the miseries of poverty, and its 
 frequent, though not necessary, accompaniments ill-humor 
 and sourness of spirit. 
 
 " She was deeply attached to this young man ; but now, 
 when he came to her, with kind words and loving looks, and 
 spoke hopefully and beautifully of their future, though she 
 laid up every word in her heart, she mournfully shook her 
 head and wept, from joy and sorrow joy that he was so 
 good and true sorrow that, in her present circumstances, 
 she could do nothing to bless his life or make their dream 
 real ; for how could she leave her helpless mother and the 
 little ones for a life of happiness ? Would not that little 
 babe, with its hollow eyes and its limbs swollen with scrofula, 
 haunt her, even in a husband's bosom ? And how could she 
 consent to burden him with these hapless ones ? It could 
 not be. 
 
 " The hopes that had blossomed so brightly in her dreary 
 path were too dear to be easily renounced. Long, earnestly 
 and prayerfully, she strove to choose the right ; and, to her, 
 this now seemed to be self-renunciation. I will not say this
 
 222 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDRASYL. 
 
 decision was made known to her lover calmly, or without 
 many tears, for she was a loving woman. But I know that 
 all his expostulations failed to change it, and that he, at last, 
 in some measure, felt its necessity. 
 
 " This trial over, and her thoughts all bent on what seemed 
 duty, the way of life grew clearer to her. She found a 
 place for her little brother with a kind farmer, and directed 
 all her energies to the task of supplying the wants of her 
 mother and infant sister." 
 
 " And her lover, Miss R ," interrupted Eveline ; " did 
 
 her lover take her at her word ? Did he make no more 
 efforts to win her ? " 
 
 " He did not give her up easily, Eva. For a long time he 
 cherished the hope of a ' good time coming.' He was good 
 and true, and more than once sought to change her decision. 
 But, as the years went, through the misconduct of an older 
 brother, his own mother became dependent on him for sup- 
 port, and he finally took Mary's friendly counsel, and mar 
 ried a worthy girl who had long been a friend to the* both.' 
 
 " How horribly unromantic and common-place ! " ex 
 claimed Eva. 
 
 " Yes, my dear ; but your grandfather was always mon 
 remarkable for good sense, than romance, I believe." 
 
 " My grandfather ! You are joking, Miss R ." 
 
 " No, indeed. I mean it seriously." 
 
 ""You are certainly mistaken, my dear Miss R ," 
 
 broke in Mrs. Lawson. " It cannot be that you are speak- 
 ing of Judge Lawson's father." 
 
 " It certainly was as I say. Mary Grayson's lover was 
 no other than your husband's father." 
 
 " How strange ! Now, I do recollect hearing the judge 
 say, that, owing to some reverses, the family was, at one 
 time, quite reduced." 
 
 " O, yes, mamma ! Don't you remember when papa was 
 ebk, a great many years ago, he used to make such pretty
 
 MAKY QRAYSON. 
 
 chairs and tables for my dolls, and how he told Fred, and me, 
 what nice times he and Aunt Mills used to have playing with 
 the chips and shavings in his father's shop ; and how pleased 
 they used to be with a pair of new shoes, and all that ? " 
 
 I cast a rather curious glance at my friend. For a mo- 
 ment a light frown darkened her smooth brow. Then, dis- 
 missing her judicial dignity, she gave way to the revived 
 feelings of the time, when, "as the wife of a promising 
 young attorney, she was rationally happy in her husband and 
 children. She laughed in every feature and motion, as she 
 replied : 
 
 " Yes, indeed ; and how, regularly as the day came, you 
 littered our only parlor; and Fred., the little mischief, bored 
 holes in the carpet all the carpet we had ; and how morti- 
 fied I was when Senator Smith and his wife called and found 
 our parlor transformed into a workshop." 
 
 Rejoiced to see my friend, by the force of memory and 
 love, bursting the chill shroud of conventional pride which 
 for some years she^ had endeavored to wear, I pressed her 
 hand and went on with my story. 
 
 " Mary's untiring devotion to her mother and sister awak- 
 ened much sympathy in her behalf among the neighbors. A 
 kind neighbor taught her to weave ; and, in those days, when 
 the wealthiest thought it no disgrace to wear homespun, and 
 when every young maiden was required to furnish her linen- 
 chest with the labor of her own hands, weaving, though labo- 
 rious, was a rather lucrative employment. The whirr of her 
 shuttle and the stroke of her lathe were heard from morning 
 till night. Yet how few of the good housewives and merry 
 maidens, who admired the firm texture of her cloth, or the 
 tasteful patterns of her table-linen and coverlets, understood 
 the disappointed hopes and bitter tears which the poor girl 
 had inwoven with them ! 
 
 " Then came a time, and a sore time it was, when the 
 mother could no longer bear the noise of the loom. For
 
 224 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 many months she was confined to her bed, a prey to all man- 
 ner of hypochondriac fancies. The slightest noise, a breath 
 of air, even the draught through the keyhole, she fancied 
 would cause her immediate death. For many weeks, Mary 
 sat in the close, unhealthy atmosphere of that small room, 
 ministering to her capricious wants, or soothing the frettul- 
 nesa of little ElleS, while every spare moment was devoted to 
 her needle. At length, God mercifully sent a release, by 
 taking the mother from earth. I say mercifully, Eveline. 
 Look not so surprised, for death is oftener a friend in dis- 
 guise to its victims, and those near them, than we suspect. I 
 said to your washer-woman, this morning : 
 
 " ' Your Aunt Sarah is dead, I hear.' 
 
 " Ah yes, Miss ! ' she replied with much feeling ; and then 
 added, ' She has been waiting to go a long time, and now 
 grandfather and grandmother can have their bed-room again. 
 They will be more comfortable, and grandfather's pension 
 will go much further.' 
 
 "This was not want of affection, Evejine; but poverty is a 
 hard master, and food and room are essential needs. For 
 some years after the death of her mother, Mary supported 
 herself and her little sister comfortably, and even laid by a 
 small sum to aid them in case of sickness and misfortune. 
 John, the brother, was placed at a trade, and all seemed to 
 go well. 
 
 " She had much joy, also, in the thought that her undevi- 
 ating patience and kindness had aided to work a change in 
 the heart of her invalid sister. Ellen was not without strong 
 affections, but her temper was irritable and violent. She was 
 by no means a pleasant companion for the children of the 
 neighbors ; yet she was extremely sensitive, and their slights, 
 together with the many privations of her condition, tended to 
 produce in her an envious, discordant state of mind. As she 
 grew older, these feelings developed themselves more fully, 
 until, at the time of her mother's death- she was a very disa*
 
 MARY GRAYSON. 225 
 
 greeable, unhappy child. But pain, that ' God-commissioned 
 angel,' as one of my friends calls it, is often sent to sow the 
 seed of eternal life ; and, watered and tended as it was by 
 the unwearied love of Mary, this seed, in the fulness of time, 
 produced in the heart of Ellen a rich harvest. 
 
 " She became patient, meek, self-sacrificing, and, by true 
 inward goodness, learned the great secret of making herself 
 agreeable to others. Thus, when the scrofula fell into her 
 eyes, neither she nor Mary felt as others who said the great- 
 est of all trials had come upon her. They knew that an en- 
 vious, unhappy disposition is far worse, for that blinds the 
 soul. Mary shed sorrowful tears when the darkness, that was 
 to shut out the beautiful world from her sister's eyes, began 
 to steal over them; but they bowed themselves to this 
 stroke. 
 
 " Then Mary felt her privations most 'keenly. She could 
 not bear to leave Ellen alone, day after day, in her darkened, 
 solitary room ; but she could not see to sew there, and their 
 daily bread depended on her labor, for their little hoard had 
 been eagerly expended, with the vain hope of saving the poor 
 girl's sight. Every moment she could steal from her work 
 she passed in Ellen's room ; it was not dark in their hearts, 
 though the brightness of God's sunlight was carefully ex- 
 cluded, and the shadow rested on their faces. After many 
 weeks, Ellen came forth from that darkened room, but totally 
 blinded. She soon learned, by Mary's patient teaching, to 
 fill the quills for the shuttle, and to do many other little 
 things ; and thus, humbly and trustingly, they went hand in 
 hand on the way of life for nearly thirty years, until the 
 blind one passed from the darkness of this earth into the 
 light of perfect day. 
 
 " Mary was now a gray-haired woman. The long yeara 
 of confinement and excessive toil had broken her constitution ', 
 but not until the last care was taken from her, did she feel 
 her weakness. Still she strove on, and gradually her serene,
 
 226 LEA VIS FllOM THE TREE IGDRA3YL. 
 
 motherly face, became a gladness and a light in ail those 
 dwellings about her where sickness, sorrow, or trouble, had 
 taken up its abode. She was an angel to all who suffered. 
 Her experience of trial and suffering had ennobled her. It 
 gave weight and efficacy to her creed, which she invariably 
 whispered in the ears of the sorrowing, ' We know not what 
 is best ; but our Lord, he doeth all things well.' 
 
 " There are some gentle souls, who, through the blessing 
 of God, seem to have come early into harmony with the 
 Highest, whose lives seem attuned to some inward music, so 
 quietly and gracefully do they pass along the ways of earth. 
 Others there are, whose destiny is to be made perfect 
 through suffering. By reason of passion and temptation, 
 they are ' without form and void, and darkness is on the face 
 of the deep.' For these there is combat and suffering, before 
 they can begin to utter truly the ' Miserere mei Deus,' and 
 feel that the Eternal Spirit broods over their life. At length, 
 in such souls, the jarring, conflicting elements are charmed 
 into peace at His voice, and their sad ' Miserere ' changes to 
 the joyful but solemn ' De profundis ' ' Out of the deeps 
 have I called unto thee, Lord.' There are others, meek 
 and patient, who, through sins and misfortunes not their own, 
 are compelled to bear the cross always, onward to the grave. 
 These belong, chiefly, to what are termed the ' lower classes ' 
 the Helots, the burden-bearers of life. Among these, we may 
 find angels on earth ; but, often, not till they die do their 
 nearest friends rightly appreciate them, and discover that 
 they have had angels with them. Mary Grayson was one of 
 the unobtrusive, unnoticed servants of humanity. 
 
 " For many years before her death, the conduct of her 
 brother John had caused her much sorrow. He was a good 
 workman, but of an unstable, restless temperament, steady to 
 nothing, but constantly roaming from place to place in search 
 of better work or wages. Finally, he married a young girl, 
 whose life had been passed chiefly in a factory, and who
 
 MARY GRAYSON. 227 
 
 knew little or nothing of domestic affairs. Matters went 
 badly with them. They both became intemperate, and their 
 large family of children, instead of awakening in them a 
 sense of the duties and responsibilities of life, only proved a 
 source of discord and misery. They went from place to 
 place, until, about a year ago, they took up their residence 
 
 in E . There the miserable mother sickened and died. 
 
 John, roused for a while from his habits, remembered his 
 sister Mary, and wrote to her, bewailing his errors, and 
 beseeching her to come to him. 
 
 " E was twenty miles distant; ' Aunt ' Mary was old 
 
 and feeble, and, besides, she had never in her life undertaken 
 such a journey. The neighbors advised her not to go. But 
 she thought of the children, hoped to bless her brother, and 
 went. A miserable abode, indeed, was that which awaited 
 her. She found her brother fast approaching a drunkard's 
 grave. His children were ragged, quarrelsome and ungov- 
 ernable. But love and patience can do much, "even in such a 
 place ; and gradually the discordant elements began to yield 
 to her power. She was like an angel of hope among them ; 
 but, it must be confessed, it was sometimes almost impossible 
 to feel or hear her through the tempest of violent passion that 
 was apt to rage there. Her brother died, but she had the 
 joy of knowing that he left the world sober and penitent. 
 Her mission on earth was now to close. The next morning 
 after the funeral she did not rise as usual ; and when the 
 frightened children gathered round her bed, she was speech- 
 less from paralysis. 
 
 " The town authorities of E now took the family in 
 
 hand. The children were sent as paupers to the places of 
 their birth, and Mary was carried to the almshouse, where 
 she remained several weeks, until she showed some symptoms 
 of amendment. Then she was placed in a common lumber 
 wagon, and sent to her native place. She was born and 
 lived in the second school society in this town. But the
 
 228 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 driver brought her here ; and when they proceeded to take 
 her from the wagon, they lifted out a corpse." 
 
 11 But, surely, there was no toeed of such inhuman pro- 
 ceedings ! " exclaimed the judge's lady. 
 
 " Certainly not ; but then she was only an old pauper, you 
 know ; and it is not the fashion to be very attentive or deli- 
 cate with paupers." 
 
 11 But the laws require paupers to be taken care of! " 
 
 " Ah ! yes ; but I tell you it is not so much the laws I 
 .-speak of, as the spirit in which they are applied. The select- 
 men of E would be very much astonished if any one 
 
 should charge them with inhumanity. They acted for the 
 public, and their chief aim was to save their town unneces- 
 sary trouble and expense. In my childhood I knew and 
 loved Aunt Mary ; but, in the shifting scenes of my life, I 
 had, for several years, lost sight of her. The particulars of 
 her death I gathered from one of her old neighbors, who had 
 walked nearly three miles to attend her funeral. 
 
 " ' Only to think of it, Miss R ,' she sobbed, ' that she 
 
 who was so good, and who so patiently fulfilled the blessed 
 words, " Bear one another's burdens," could not be permitted 
 to die under shelter, like a Christian ! ' " 
 
 " But, my dear friend," said Mrs. Lawson, " this case is 
 an exception to the general rule. There are few such cases, 
 I trust. Believe me, if I b.ad known her, I would have 
 attended to her myself; " and she spoke with a look of 
 earnest sincerity, that made her really beautiful. I replied : 
 
 " I do believe you ; but, until we learn to look beyond the 
 external and accidental, we shall not be likely to appreciate 
 such characters. But Eva, dear, what is it ? " I inquired, 
 on seeing Eveline look in my face, with an expression of 
 anxiety and hesitation. 
 
 " I am afraid you will think poorly of me, Miss R , 
 
 but I wish to tell you how silly I was to-day, when you left 
 the road to Mrs. Granger's and fell into that funeral proces-
 
 MABY GRAYSON. 229 
 
 sion. I wondered what you could mean by mingling with 
 such meanly-dressed people. And when Annette Granger 
 and her brother drove past, as we stood by the grave, to 
 escape their notice I let go your arm, and slipped behind that 
 great, fat, horribly-dressed woman, to whom you spoke after- 
 wards. But henceforth," she earnestly continued, " I will be 
 wiser. I deem it an honor to have followed that old pauper 
 to the grave, for she seems to me to have been a true 
 heroine." 
 
 " Yes, my love," replied the mother, " and in that sphere 
 of life, and in circumstances where it is, perhaps, most difficult 
 to live heroically, and yet where, I fear, such lives are most 
 often found. "We will thank our friend for her story, and 
 try to remember the lesson" shfc continued, glancing signifi- 
 cantly at me ; as she passed her hand caressingly through her 
 daughter's curls. 
 
 Now God be praised, I thought. If Mary Grayson can 
 look down from heaven upon them, and see how her " works 
 follow her," how they have power to thaw the benumbing ice 
 of conventionalism from the heart of my friend, will she not 
 Bay, even of her pauper death, " We know not what is best 
 He doeth all things well "? 
 20
 
 VI. 
 THE MILLER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Pull merrily rings the millstone round, 
 
 Full merrily rings the wheel, 
 Full merrily gashes out the grist 
 (Tome, taste my fragrant meal. 
 
 " The miller he 's a worldly man, 
 
 And maun hae double fee ; 
 So draw the sluice in the churl's dam, 
 And let the stream gae free." 
 
 Song of the Elfin Mller. 
 
 FAB up amid the deep gorges, the tangled thickets and 
 cedar groves of old Tetoket, spring forth numberless moun- 
 tain brooks, that come leaping and tumbling down the rugged 
 mountain sides, calling to one another in merry, musical 
 voices, like children at hide-and-seek, until wearied with their 
 sport, and catching, as it were, the deep solemn voice of the 
 ocean, they mingle their waters in one channel, and with 
 hushed voices go winding quietly through our village, to seek 
 the bosom of their mighty mother. 
 
 After this " meeting of the waters," the stream winds along 
 for about two miles, through a broken valley, then making a 
 sudden turn, finds itself imprisoned' between two hills, across 
 the southern opening of which is amassive dam, built of great 
 black logs, against which the indignant water dashes and 
 foams, and then subsiding, drips, drips, with an indescribable,
 
 THE MILLER. 231 
 
 
 
 mournful murmur, as if bewailing its fate, while the diytant 
 voice of old ocean calls in vain for her child. The eastern 
 bank rises in a high bluff, then stretches away in wide pas- 
 tures; but on the west the ground slopes gradually back, and, 
 sheer from the water's edge, is studded with magnificent oaks, 
 walnuts and maples, interspersed with here and there a dark 
 and stately cedar. The pond stretches back a half-mile or 
 so, and along its margin float the queenly water-lilies, like 
 fairy boats, intermingled with tall flags and the tassels of the 
 drooping alders. Close by the dam, and half overhanging 
 the water, as if it ever had a fancy to topple in, stands the 
 weather-beaten mill, with its great, skeleton-looking wheel, 
 which, like some giant monster, grinds and pounds the limpid 
 water, until it exhales away in glittering spray, or, escaping 
 from its clutches, sighs faintly amid the willow-roots and 
 rushes that fringe its bed below the bridge. . The floor within 
 is strewed with sacks and powdered over with 'meal, over 
 which the tracks of the miller and his visitors describe all 
 manner of figures ; the cobwebs overhead are coated over 
 until they look like frosted flowers, and the 
 
 " Very air about the door 
 Is misty with the floating meal." 
 
 Here dwelt Jedediah Sewall, the miller, for the farm-house 
 a few rods west was to him nothing more than a lodging- 
 house. Miller Jed, as he was generally called, was a little, 
 withered man, with joints distorted by hard labor, and mus- 
 cles of iron. Flesh he had none to speak of, and the tough 
 brown skin stretched over the joints, and clung to the bones, 
 as if it had some time undergone a baking process. In his 
 mealy suit, with his glittering black eyes peering out from 
 beneath the brim of his white hat and powdered hair, he 
 looked very much like one of the great spiders coiled up in 
 their white webs on the rafters overhead ; and the resem- 
 blance was true in more points than one, for, like the spider,
 
 232 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDBASYL. 
 
 whatever came within his clutches never found its way out 
 again. For more than forty years he had lived in the mill, 
 sniffing the mealy air, shouldering heavy sacks, and compel- 
 ling the free, glad waters to toil for him, while, with his keen 
 eyes bent over the trough, with his long bent fingers he 
 scooped out handful after handful of soft white meal for toll. 
 People said that his fingers were ever ready bent for grasp- 
 ing, but that no one had ever known them to relax under the 
 influence of charity and human love. 
 
 Money, money was his dream by day and night his 
 god ; and to it he had sacrificed his manhood his human- 
 ity. True, after maturely counting the cost, he married, late 
 in life, his housekeeper, to save her wages ; wisely considering 
 that she would eat no more as his wife than as his house- 
 keeper, and, besides, in this way, he should gain possession 
 of not only what he had paid her, but also the small sum 
 which she already possessed when she came there. There was 
 one result of this marriage which, although it could hardly 
 fail, in the end, of exerting a humanizing influence over him, 
 seemed for many years to render him only more miserly and 
 grasping. This was the birth of a son, whose existence cost 
 his mother her life. It would be wrong to say that the miller 
 did not feel some unusual thrills about his heart as he gazed 
 upon the helpless infant, or a strange sensation of terror and 
 awe as he looked upon the rigid features of her whom he had 
 called wife. But scarce were the clods of the grave-yard 
 pressed over her, when his thoughts returned to their 
 wonted channel, and avarice began to repine that she did not 
 live to nurse the child. It would have been such a saving. 
 
 But, as Death is deaf alike to the voice of Avarice and 
 Love, the old woman who had officiated as nurse to the 
 mother was retained to take charge of the child, which throve 
 finely under her care, and manifested a fondness for her which 
 gladdened the lone old creature's heart. Isaac, for so they 
 called the boy, was about seven years old before Miller Jed
 
 THE MILLER. 238 
 
 thought of sending him to school. Not that the boy was alto- 
 gether ignorant, for Widow Barker had taught him the names 
 and habits of the various birds and squirrels thai made their 
 homes in the woods behind the house ; he knew all the herbs 
 that grew about there, and their uses ; and something too of 
 ichthyology he knew, though if old " Grannie Barker," as he 
 called her, had heard that term applied to her lessons, she 
 would have lifted her great-eyed spectacles, and rubbed her 
 forehead in sore amazement. Nevertheless, she 'had often 
 taken him up the borders of the pond with her, in search of 
 greens, or some rare herbs, holding him closely by the hand, 
 for though Miller Jed seldom noticed him, yet, ever since his 
 wife died, he had manifested a great dread of death, and had 
 strictly forbidden Isaac to go near the pond alone, and pointed 
 out to him the minnows glancing and poising themselves in the 
 clear waters, the rosy-gilled roach, and the slender, graceful 
 perch. Then, during the long winter evenings, the old woman 
 brought into requisition her library, consisting of her Bible 
 and hymn-book, and a strangely retentive memory of the most 
 remarkable cases in Fox's Book of Martyrs, which she had 
 met with some time in her younger days. With these the 
 child became early familiar, and to their influence perhaps 
 may be traced his fate as a man. He was a bright, gentle, 
 affectionate boy, a little more thoughtful than is usual for 
 children of his age, owing to the solitary life he led with his 
 old nurse, for they saw no company, save when some farmer 
 chanced to call to see some very choice specimens of grain, or 
 some poor debtor, whose mismanagement or misfortunes had 
 given the old miller a claim upon his property. 
 
 How long his father would have kept him at home, with no 
 teacher save his old nurse, if the boy himself had not expressed 
 a wish to go to school,- we cannot say. But all through the 
 pleasant spring days the child had seen a tall, spare woman, 
 leading a little girl about his own size, come along the wind- 
 ing cart-path which led through the woods, until they reached 
 20* *
 
 284 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 
 
 a pair of bars by the road-side. Here, after helping the little 
 girl over, and placing a gayly-colored basket in her hand, the 
 woman left her, and retraced her path through the woods, 
 often turning to mark the progress of the child as she moved 
 down the green lane. And at about the same hour in the 
 afternoon, when the shadows began to lengthen, the little girl 
 came tripping up the lane, swinging her basket in her hand, 
 and was met, either by the pale-faced woman, or a white 
 haired old man. 
 
 Isaac was very curious about these people, and Widow 
 Barker told him that the child was Mercy Ward, on her way 
 to school ; and that she lived with her mother and grand- 
 father at the distance of more than a mile on the other side 
 of the woods. " And an old rickety-looking place enough it 
 is now," she added, more to herself than the child, " though I 
 mind me of the time when the Wards held their heads as high 
 as anybody ; though for that matter I can't say but they do 
 now ; for old Captain Adam Ward has pride enough himself 
 for ten generations." 
 
 Widow Barker was no great friend of schools ; she thought 
 it a crime, deserving little short of hanging, to shut children 
 up all day to pore over books ; and, as Isaac had gained all 
 his ideas from' her, he heartily pitied the little girl, and 
 thought she had much better stay and play with him. He 
 longed to tell her so ; but he was a shy boy, and contented 
 himself with watching her morning and evening, as she skip- 
 ped along by the side of her mother, or with a more demure 
 manner tried to make her uneveu steps correspond to the reg- 
 ular pace of her grandfather. It sometimes happened that 
 she arrived at the bars some moments before her friends came 
 to meet her ; and, on one of these occasions, Isaac, who had 
 been gathering raspberries along the fence, ventured to ap- 
 proach her, and, holding up the purple fruit, strung after a 
 primitive fashion, taught him by " Grannie Barker," on a long 
 spire of herds-grass, offered to share it with her. The offer
 
 'IKE MILLER. 235 
 
 was readily accepted, and when Jane Ward came to meet her 
 child, she found her seated on a large flat stone by the side 
 of Miller Jed's boy, her lips and fingers stained to a deep 
 crimson by the rich fruit, gravely striving to overcome his 
 prejudices against schools. Isaac stood on the spot, watching 
 them until the trees hid them from his sight ; then he walked 
 thoughtfully into the house, and, to the consternation of Mrs. 
 Barker, declared he was going to school. Stories of cruel 
 teachers, of great, reckless boys, of perils by the way-side, 
 made no impression upon him, and the old woman, declaring 
 it to be her honest belief that the child was " possessed," ap- 
 pealed to his father. The miller seemed struck with the idea, 
 and said the child must know something about reading, writ- 
 ing and arithmetic, to get along in the world, and might as 
 well begin then. Again the old woman, brought up her fears, 
 and, when she went on to speak of the possibility of the child's 
 being gored to death by some vicious animal in the street, ho 
 involuntarily glanced towards the corner of the room where 
 the dead body of his wife had lain, and said, hastily, that she 
 could ask old Ward's grand-daughter to call for him every 
 day. What protection there could be in the presence of little 
 Mercy Ward, Miller Jed would have found it difficult to tell ; 
 possibly, even his hard, selfish nature felt the power of inno- 
 cence. 
 
 . CHAPTER ii. 
 
 " The lovely cottage, with its own dear brook, 
 Its own small pasture, almost its own sky ! " 
 
 " Ward's Hollow " is a green, pear-shaped valley, shut in 
 between ranges of low, wooded hills. A small, clear brook, 
 that has its source in some hidden spring beneath the rocks 
 on the northern side, winds leisurely through it, as if loth to 
 leave its sheltered precincts, until, catching a view of the
 
 236 LEAVES FROM TUB TIUtK IGDRASYL. 
 
 gleaming mill-stream through an opening at the southern 
 extremity of the valley, it dashes forward with a new im- 
 petus, like a delighted school-boy, to overtake its companion. 
 
 At the northern end the hills assume a bolder front, and 
 are seamed with gray ledges of gneiss, amid the crevices of 
 which grow many wild flowers, and queer, grotesque-shaped 
 trees, butternuts principally, at all angles with the horizon. 
 The ground at -the foot of these bruffs is the highest portion 
 of the valley, and here, directly facing the southern opening, 
 stood the old Ward farm-house. 
 
 Here, at the first settlement of our village, Adam, ninth 
 son of Corporal Adam Ward of Ely, one of Cromwell's old 
 troopers, raised his rude hut of logs, and manifested the same 
 energy and perseverance in subduing the wild forest, as had 
 animated his father, when he fell, at the head of his band, at 
 the celebrated siege of Basing House. And well did mother 
 earth reward his toil. The valley, or Hollow, as he named it, 
 lay like a rich garden smiling up to heaven, and in the course 
 of years he added to it many broad acres beyond that circle 
 of green hills. They were a kind-hearted, upright, rigidly 
 honest race, somewhat opinionated perhaps, but respected by 
 all men ; and thus three generations went down to the grave, 
 leaving Adam, the grandfather of little Mercy, the sole heritor 
 of the name and estate. He was very young when his father 
 died, but so truly did his mother train him in the ways of those 
 who had gone before, that, when the revolutionary war broke 
 out, it seemed as if the very spirit of old Adam of Ely still 
 breathed in the breast of his descendant. He joined the 
 troops, where his cool bravery, his instinctive military skill 
 and intelligence, coupled with his unswerving integrity, soon 
 won him a commission. When the unrighteous strife ceased, 
 he returned to his neglected estate, poorer by hundreds in 
 piu^e, but rich in the love and esteem of his fellow-officers, 
 and the admiration and reverence of his townsmen. Most of 
 what was called the " Outside Land," which lay without the
 
 THE MILLER. 237 
 
 hills, was sold to pay off debts contracted during the war, but 
 the Hollow remained, and he diligently set himself to repair- 
 ing the inroads made upon it by so many years of neglect. 
 This done, he became more and more conscious of the loneli- 
 ness of the old farm-house, for his mother had lived barely 
 long enough to welcome him home. He was still in the prime 
 of life, and with his high character and military fame, which 
 was something more than a prestige in those days, he might 
 have chosen a bride from any of the wealthy families of his 
 acquaintance, with a dower sufficient to have repaired his 
 shattered fortunes ; but he passed by them all, and, seeking 
 out Mercy Lindsay, his early playmate in the humble farm- 
 house, where since the death of her friends she had won her 
 daily bread by the labor of her own hands, he took her to his 
 bosom as his wife, companion and friend. They had but one 
 child, and for several years this green earth contained no hap- 
 pier family than the one at Ward's Hollow. James was an 
 active, spirited boy, and, as he grew older, the green valley 
 became too narrow for him. He longed to go out and mingle 
 with the great current of life, and all that his father told him 
 of his own experience there only increased his longing. It 
 was a sad thing to his parents when they became convinced 
 that a quiet agricultural life would never content him ; but 
 they were too wise to force upon him an occupation which he 
 so thoroughly disliked ; therefore they procured him a situa- 
 tion as clerk in a mercantile house in the neighboring city, in 
 which, after two or three years' service in that capacity, he 
 became a partner. 
 
 For some years all seemed to go well. He married a pleas- 
 ant, excellent girl, and two children were welcomed as a veri- 
 table gift from God by them, and, most especially, by the soli- 
 tary old couple at the Hollow. These children spent much of 
 their time there, and their presence seemed to lead the grand- 
 parents back on the track of their youth. It was pleasant to 
 see little Adam imitating the erect, military bearing of his
 
 238 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDRASYL. 
 
 grandfather, or going through with the evolutions of the drill, 
 while the old soldier gave out the word of command. Then 
 his epaulets, cocked hat and sword, preserved with such fond 
 care, were a never-ending subject of interest to them. How 
 many times the little boy looked at that tarnished cockade 
 and faded plume, and wondered when he should be big enough 
 to wear a hat like that ! 
 
 Though Adam Ward had not passed through those years 
 of military service without knowing pinching hunger and sore 
 fatigue, yet he knew little of those bitter sorrows which touch 
 the soul. It seemed as if Providence, in its wisdom, had 
 reserved this experience for his age. A malignant fever, 
 which passed like a scourge through the city, numbered James 
 and his little boy among its first victims ; and so sudden was 
 the blow, that it was not until long after he had seen them 
 laid down by the side of the son of the old Cromwellian in the 
 village grave-yard, that he could realize its truth. His was 
 not a grief to find vent in words ; like his love, it was deep, 
 silent and strong, and there came many, many weary hours, in 
 which he was ready to exclaim, with Syrian Job, " He hath 
 stripped me of my glory and taken the crown from my head ; 
 my hope hath he removed like a tree." The sudden an- 
 nouncement of the bankruptcy of the firm of which his son 
 had been a partner was scarcely able to rouse him from this 
 mood ; but when it was found that there was strong reason 
 for suspecting the honesty of the other partner, indignation 
 and contempt came to his aid. But this was not the worst. 
 Not only the cash capital which he had advanced for his son 
 was swallowed up, but examination proved that they had used 
 his name for an amount which his whole estate would barely 
 cover. He knew that this was unjust, and appealed to the 
 law ; but it was proved that on one or two occasions he had, 
 in the negotiation of some small sum, given them liberty to 
 use his name, and the case went against him. None save 
 those whose lives are passed in some quiet nook in the green
 
 TELE MILLER. 239 
 
 country, on acres that have descended to them through many 
 generations, can form a true conception of the old man's grief 
 when called upon to part with his farm. Those fields were a 
 family biography. Each tree, shrub, rock, brook, fence and 
 gate, were so many chapters of it, and well he understood 
 their language. 0, it was a bitter trial to that white-haired 
 old man ! Not the less so, that these beloved fields were to 
 pass into the possession of one who had never been known to 
 manifest anything like sorrow or sympathy for others ; one for 
 whose character he felt a strong dislike, not to say contempt. 
 But what cared Miller Jed for old Adam Ward's misfortunes 
 or opinions, when he saw before him the prospect of grasping 
 at one clutch the green meadows and fine pastures of the Hol- 
 low ? He had had his lynx-eye upon it for years ; he had 
 counted over and over how much more it might be made to 
 yield than it did under the old-fashioned system of agricul- 
 ture pursued by its ancient owners ; he counted much on 
 James' inexperience, and chuckled inwardly when he went 
 into a store ; then he began to mine in the dark, like one of 
 the rats of his own mill ; he watched all the movements of 
 the firm, and, when he found them pressed for funds, had his 
 agents ready to lend on old Adam Ward's security ; and 
 should he forego his long-cherished plan, for the sake of prov- 
 ing himself a kind neighbor ? Not he ; he would " have his 
 bond." 
 
 There was one alternative for the old soldier ; he might 
 mortgage Uis acres for a sum sufficient to pay off the debt, 
 and many of his old friends advised him to this course. But 
 his independent spirit could not brook this ; he had been a 
 free man all his life, and would not consent, in his old age, to 
 become a servant ; therefore, he let it all go, all but the old 
 house and a bit of meadow on which it stood. Still the fields 
 retained their old name ; for, like the excellent qualities of the 
 ancient owners, it was too strongly associated with the settle- 
 ment and history of the village to be easily relinquished. At
 
 240 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 the time of the commencement of this story, the old captain's 
 wife had been laid by the side of her son, and James' widow 
 and little daughter, to whom poverty had left no other shelter 
 since the death of the husband and father, continued to reside 
 with the old man, and the industry and good management of 
 the former did much towards lengthening out the old soldier's 
 pension, while the scrupulous care with which she sought to 
 keep everything about the house as he had been accustomed 
 to see it from his youth, and the reverence and respect with 
 which she treated him, made her well worthy of the daughter's 
 place which she held in his heart. Little Mercy, how dark 
 that old house would have been without her ! was a sun- 
 beam, a hope that ever went before them, casting a serene 
 light on their otherwise cloudy future. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 4 
 
 " Childhood, with sonny brow, 
 And floating hair." 
 
 June, with her rich, vigorous life, and thousand musical 
 voices, revelled in Ward's Hollow. It had been one of those 
 " heavenly days which cannot die," and the sun, as if enam- 
 ored of earth and beauty, lingered on the western hill-tops, 
 while his level rays streamed across the Hollow, and fell on 
 the wooded range on the east, like a baptism of fire. The 
 whole beautiful valley was like an enchanted lake filled with 
 waters of the hue of burnished gold, through which the white 
 blossoms of the daisies looked forth like stars. The evening 
 meal at the old farm-house was over, and the old captain sat 
 in his great arm-chair, in front of the open door, gazing over 
 the beautiful scene with a serene countenance, for, in submit- 
 ting to the discipline awarded him, he had learned that in 
 transferring the title-deeds of his estate to another, he had 
 not parted with his inherent right to its beauty. The widow
 
 THE MILLER. 241 
 
 plied her needle by an open window, through which the faint 
 west wind brought the rich perfume of the many fragrant 
 flowers and herbs, that a century's care had collected in the 
 old garden beneath, while little Mercy sat on the door-step ; 
 that low, flat, well-worn stone step, with its edges half buried 
 in the thick turf, constructing various chains and curls from 
 the long stalks of the dandelions, with which she had filled 
 her apron, alternately talking to her grandfather and mocking 
 a whippoorwill, that nightly poured forth his plaintive strain 
 from the hedge behind the house. Suddenly she threw aside 
 her work, and, turning to the old man, said : 
 
 " Grandfather, that little boy wants to go to school with 
 me, and I shall like it very much. His mother, or the 
 woman that he lives with, asked us to-night if I might not stop 
 for him every day." 
 
 " And what boys do you know, I should like to ask ? " 
 replied the old man, laying his great hand on her shining 
 hair. 
 
 " Why, Isaac he said his name was Isaac. Isaac , 
 
 the boy that lives in the house by the mill." 
 
 Something like an expression of pain passed over the grand- 
 fathers face, as he turned to her mother, and asked : 
 
 " What is this, Jane ? Does she mean Jedediah Sewall's 
 child?" 
 
 " Yes, father ; I should have spoken to you about it when 
 we came home, but you was busy in the garden ; besides," she 
 added, with a glance at Mercy, " I did not know but we had 
 better wait until we were alone." 
 
 Jane Ward was unwilling to have her child catch aught of 
 that bitterness of spirit which she and her father could not 
 help feeling at the name of Miller Jed a name which, as if by 
 common consent, was seldom or never mentioned at the old 
 farm-house. 
 
 The old man understood her motive, ard, sending Mercy 
 21
 
 242 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 off on some slight errand, listened with compressed lips to the 
 miller's request, made known by the old housekeeper. 
 
 " Have nothing to do with them, Jane ! " he exclaimed, 
 hastily, as she ceased speaking. 
 
 41 Such was my first thought," she replied ; " but the little 
 boy plead so hard, that I could hardly find it in my heart to 
 refuse him." 
 
 44 Ay, a double-faced imp, like his father, I dare say. Let 
 the children remain strangers. No good ever did or can come 
 from knowing any of that race." 
 
 "Perhaps you are right, father. But, after all," she 
 added, after a moment's silence, " the poor child must not be 
 blamed for his father's faults ; and, when I think of him, with 
 no one to care for him but that hard-hearted, selfish old man, 
 I cannot help pitying him. Somehow, he reminded me of our 
 little Adam." 
 
 The old man arose and walked the floor for some moments ; 
 at length he paused before the window, and said : 
 
 44 And you think we might possibly do something towards 
 making this child a better man than his father. Is it not so, 
 Jane ? " he added, with a sad smile. 
 
 44 We could try, father," was the reply. 
 
 44 Well, you may be right, but I have little faith. I have 
 known Jed Sewall, man and boy, for sixty years, and I never 
 knew him otherwise than mean, grasping and underhanded. 
 But, as you say, his child is motherless ; and, as Mercy will 
 have to associate with him, if he attends' school, you can try. 
 Let her wait for him at the bars, for on no account would I 
 have her enter his house." 
 
 It mattered little to Miller Jed in what spirit a favor was 
 granted, so long as he was sure of it ; therefore he hardly 
 listened to the condition attached to this. In fact, he was 
 quite willing Mercy should keep out of his house, for who 
 knew what mischief Isaac and she might not commit thero 
 together ?
 
 THE MILLER. 243 
 
 Thus the children became schoolmates, and it was not long 
 before their little fingers began to smooth the tangled skein 
 of life between the two families, at least, as far as Isaac was 
 concerned. He often waited on the flat stone by the bars, 
 until Mercy's friends came to meet her ; and, perhaps, as with 
 Jane Ward, the memory of little Adam pleacl in the old 
 soldier's heart for the child, quite as much as his own ingenu- 
 ous face and winning manners ; at any rate, the old man's 
 prejudice wore slowly away ; and, as the weeks passed on, 
 Isaac became not only a frequent but a welcome guest at the 
 Hollow, though, in obedience to her grandfather's command, 
 Mercy's foot had never crossed his father's threshold. 
 
 And with this arrangement Miller Jed was content ; for, 
 with all his contempt of the Wards, and what he termed their 
 bad management, he could not escape feeling a kind of respect 
 for them ; besides, if the boy was there, he would be out of 
 mischief at home. 
 
 It was not often that the shrewd old miller had recourse to 
 the law ; but when Isaac was about fifteen years old, finding 
 the validity of certain mortgages in his possession questioned, 
 he placed the business in the hands of an attorney. . The case 
 was decided against him ; and so exasperated was he by the 
 loss, and the round fees demanded by his lawyer, that he 
 Swore henceforth he would have a lawyer of his own. He 
 had one son, and he should be a lawyer. Like all people 
 with only one idea in their heads, this became a mania with 
 him. True, it would cost a sight of money to educate him, 
 but then Isaac would get it all back. Lawyers could not only 
 look sharp after their own property, but their very words 
 were gold. Miller Jed retained a very vivid memory of the 
 
 sum he had paid into the hands of Squire G , and again 
 
 and again he computed how many such sums he would 
 receive in a year. The investment would bring a rare 
 interest, he thought ; therefore Isaac was sent away to school,
 
 244 LEAVES FROM TUB TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 preparatory to entering on a course of law, under the tuition 
 
 of the somewhat celebrated Judge G , of L . 
 
 It never occurred to him to consult the taste of his child 
 in this choice of an occupation; but, happily, Isaac loved 
 books better than anything else in the world, save Mercy, 
 whose sweet face had grown to be a most rare book to him 
 ever fresh and new ; therefore he made no objection. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " Let it be so. The barbarous Scythian, 
 Or he that makes his generation messes 
 To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom 
 Be as well neighbored, pitied, and relieved, 
 As thou." 
 
 Six years passed, eager, anxious, bustling years, with 
 Miller Jed, during which he had, spider-like, put forth many 
 a cunningly-laid thread around the feet of needy debtors, 
 which would eventually draw them within his clutches ; then, 
 the simpletons! if they made any outcry, Isaac would be 
 ready to deal with them. In company with such thoughts as 
 these, the old miser's heart seemed growing hard as his nether 
 millstone. "With the family at the Hollow these years had 
 gone by " as still as stars." The tall figure of the old soldier 
 was still unbent, though he leaned oftener than of yore on his 
 silver-headed cane, the gift of a brother officer, as he passed 
 along on his way to meeting on a sunny Sabbath. A few 
 white hairs gleamed upon the widow's temples, while Mercy 
 had shot up tall and graceful as a green willow. 
 
 They had counted time only by Isaac's vacations ; for then 
 the Hollow regained the old golden glow of sunshine, some of 
 which, it seemed, he took with him at his departure. His 
 vacations were mostly spent there, for his own home seemed 
 cheerless and uncomfortable. Even Widow Barker's kind 
 old wrinkled face failed to meet him at last, for her increas-
 
 THE MILLEU. 245 
 
 ing infirmities had compelled her to give up her trust, and her 
 place was occupied by a stranger. Though his father felt a 
 kind of pride in him, and did not fail to manifest toward him 
 that kind of respect which ignorance not unfrequently pays to 
 talent, especially talent which can command money, not a 
 single day passed in which the son did not feel, with a trou- 
 ble which made him sick at heart, the meanness and selfish- 
 ness of his father's character. Every visit home deepened this 
 feeling, and served to convince him that he never could con- 
 sent to become the mean, pettifogging character for which his 
 father designed him. Even the profession itself began to 
 grow repulsive to him ; and, restless, dissatisfied and unhappy, 
 he entered upon the last half-year of his term. 
 
 About this time commenced that seemingly new movement 
 in the life of the churches of New England, known under the 
 name of " Revivals of Religion." The movement soon reached 
 
 L , and Isaac and his fellow-students were numbered 
 
 among the converts. 
 
 Then, how different seemed life, with all its aims and ends 
 stretching into eternity ! If his father's life and opinions 
 looked poor and contemptible to him before, what were they 
 now, in the light of his newly-awakened feelings ? How wil- 
 lingly would he have laid down his life to have made his father 
 conscious of their wickedness ! He felt that he must see it ; 
 he could not fail to do so, God's law was so plain. He would 
 strive with him as never yet child strove with a father, and 
 then, casting aside all worldly ambition, joyfully go forth as a 
 missionary, to speak the words of life unto the suffering mil- 
 lions of earth. 
 
 Thus, in words steeped in the glowing enthusiasm of his 
 own heart, he wrote to his father and the family at the Hol- 
 low ; for, though the close of his term wa? near at hand, his 
 ardor could brook no delay. 
 
 The Wards received the tidings with unfeigned pleasure. 
 They felt that his talents were much better adapted to the 
 21*
 
 246 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDRASYL. 
 
 pulpit than the bar, and they rejoiced in the consciousness 
 that their teachings and influence had not been in vain. It 
 was not so with Miller Jed. Not until he had read the letter 
 over three times, and carefully examined the handwriting, 
 would he believe that he was not the object of some hoaz. 
 That Isaac should really think of opposing his will, he could 
 not comprehend. 
 
 "Fool!" he muttered, contemptuously ; "does he think I 
 am going to throw away so much money on a poor canting 
 priest ? Ay, I see it all now," he continued, suddenly turn- 
 ing pale with rage ; " this is old Ward's scheming. He thinks 
 to marry his grandchild to this whining fool, and so regain 
 his estate. I '11 see the devil have them all first, the poverty- 
 stricken old rascal ! He called me cheat once ; we '11 see who 
 will cheat or be cheated, now. I '11 fix matters for them ! " 
 and shutting the water-gate with a violence that brought the 
 great wheel to a sudden stand, and threw the glittering water 
 in miniature cascades from every black rib of its skeleton 
 frame, he settled nis white hat more firmly on his powdered 
 head, and sped, like a great gray moth, through the shadowy 
 forest, toward Ward's Hollow. 
 
 Had the prince of darkness himself suddenly appeared on 
 the threshold of that old farm-house, his appearance would 
 hardly have been greeted with more surprise. The old sol- 
 dier arose, as did also the mother and daughter, and stood 
 silent from astonishment. But they did not wait long, for the 
 old miller, without stopping for ceremony, began to pour forth 
 such a torrent of anger, invective, and furious vituperation, 
 as those old walls had never heard before. When he men- 
 tioned the name of Mercy, in connection with their designs on 
 his son, the hitherto flushed cheek of the girl grew pale as 
 death, and she clung to her mother for support. Not so with 
 the old soldier ; all the spirit of " seventy-six " seemed to swell 
 in his veins, as with compressed lips he listened to the old 
 miser's tirade. When the miller was fairly out of breath, he
 
 THE MILLER. 247 
 
 drew up his tall, stately form to its full height, and said, in a 
 voice which rung with the strength and clearness of youth : 
 
 " Are you mad, old man ? / seek to wed one of my race 
 with a Sewall ! Do you know of whom you speak or what 
 you say ? Begone ! " he added, with a commanding gesture 
 towards the door ; " begone, I say, and pollute neither my 
 house nor my sight any longer ! " 
 
 There was something in the mien and tone of that old sol- 
 dier, before which the brazen spirit of Miller Jed quailed. 
 Thus it had ever been in all their intercourse ; he could not 
 help feeling it, and he hated him so much the more. He 
 withdrew as suddenly and as silently as he had entered, and, 
 until his dusty figure was quite hidden behind the hills, not a 
 word was spoken by the inmates of the old farm-house. Then 
 the old man said, thoughtfully : 
 
 " My children, Isaac Sewall must come here no more. I 
 said no good would come out of it, at first ; and it seems I was 
 right. Pardon me, Jane," he continued ; " I am over-hasty. 
 Good has come of it. Isaac will be a better, wiser, truer 
 man, for the teachings he has received from you, and God be 
 praised that it is so ! Still, we must make up our minds to see 
 him no more. It will be a sad trial to him and to us, for 
 somehow the boy has become very near to me ; but better 
 bear this, than the slightest suspicion of scheming for-the end 
 of which that old man spoke." 
 
 As usual, they questioned not his wisdom, nevertheless, the 
 heart of Jane Ward yearned after the child of her adoption, 
 and Mercy sorrowed deeply but silently, at the thought of 
 meeting him no more. About a week after his father's visit 
 to the Hollow, Isaac, with a heart teeming with hope 
 and faith, came up the green lane, paused a few moments on 
 the flat stone by the bars, where he had first met with Mercy, 
 then passed on to his father's house. Miller Jed, save when 
 under the influence of some ungovernable burst of anger, was 
 a man of few words. He had decided to waste no breath
 
 248 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDRASYL. 
 
 upon his son's whims, for he had one argument, of the potency 
 of -which he had not the slightest doubt. Therefore, he greeted 
 him in his usual brief way, and listened in dogged silence 
 while Isaac spoke humbly, but eloquently, of the change in 
 his views, and of his hopes and wishes for the future ; and, at 
 his usual early hour, retired to his bed without a word of com- 
 ment. The young man found hope in his silence, and fer- 
 vently thanked God for disposing his father's heart to listen 
 favorably to his request. 
 
 The next morning, instead of going to the mill as usual, the 
 old man was busy for some time in his own room. Presently 
 he called for Isaac to join him, and, laying before him upon the 
 table a great, black leathern pocket-book, stuffed to bursting 
 with papers of all hues, bade him see whether his " school 
 larnin' " could tell how much those papers were worth. The 
 spider-like old miller seated himself at one end of the table, 
 and kept his glittering eyes steadily on his prey, while Isaac, 
 pencil in hand, examined the different notes and mortgages, 
 and made an estimate of their amount. 
 
 " Nine thousand seven hundred and sixty dollars," he said 
 at length, running his pencil again up the column of figure^ 
 to see that they were correct. 
 
 " Right, nine thousand seven hundred and sixty dollars," 
 repeat*! the old spider ; " and this year's interest will make 
 it a trifle over ten thousand. A pretty nest-egg that, Isaac ! 
 I wonder if any minister can show as good a one?" he added, 
 with a wily glance at his son, as with his crooked fingers he 
 tenderly replaced the papers in the queer old receptacle. 
 
 " Perhaps not," was the reply ; " they are men who live 
 with a higher aim than to lay up treasures on earth. Theirs 
 is, I trust, in heaven." 
 
 " Ay, I, for one, am pretty sure it a'n't here" chuckled the 
 old man ; " but come, boy, I want you to go up the hill with me." 
 
 Carefully placing the old pocket-book in the breast pocket 
 of his coat, he led the way through the dewy fields in silence.
 
 THE MILLEK. 249 
 
 When they reached the highest point of the ridge that over- 
 looked Ward's Hollow, for the first time the old man paused. 
 It was a beautiful scene that lay before them. On the east 
 stretched out the deep, green woods, along the further edge of 
 which crept the winding mill-stream, until, meeting the resist- 
 ance of the heavy dam, its waters recoiled upon themselves, 
 and lay spread out in motionless silence, like a young heart 
 when it first finds its love and trust dishonored. On_the west 
 lay the green Hollow, over whose rich midsummer beauty 
 streamed those pensive gleams of golden light, the first faint 
 prophecy of autumn. Isaac gazed abroad with a full heart. 
 Like that heart, nature seemed overflowing with love. A 
 benediction seemed to breathe forth from everything, and he 
 blessed God for life ay, even for breath. He thought of 
 Mercy, of his silent but ever deepening love for her, of the 
 time when he might fold her to his heart as the crown of all 
 blessings ; then a rude hand was laid upon his shoulder, and 
 his father's shrill tones fell upon his ears. 
 
 " It is a goodly bit, boy. From the red hills yonder to the 
 river, and from the road clean away up to Monroe's Notch, it 
 is mine ; secured by good warrantee deeds upon record. Ay, 
 you may well stare," he continued, seeing Isaac's vacant look ; 
 " it 's not many men that can show a farm like that, worth 
 good five thousand dollars to-day, to say nothing of "the mill, 
 which brings in, on an average, two hundred a year more. It 
 took a long head to get all this property, Isaac ; it will take 
 quite as long a one to keep it. I have spent e'en-a-most a 
 thousand dollars e'en-a-most a thousand to teach you how 
 to keep it, and to add now and then a penny to it ; for 
 who knows how much more I might have got, if I had only 
 known enough about the points of the law ? You do know 
 enough, and it shall be yours ; only, mark me, boy, I must 
 have no more nonsense about priests ; you must be a lawyer, 
 a rich lawyer, Isaac, and nothing else." 
 
 " I know how much you have done for me, father. Believe
 
 250 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASTL. 
 
 me, I am not ungrateful ; but do not drive me into a profes- 
 sion in which I know I shall never succeed. I don't care for 
 money, only let me follow the way which my conscience 
 and" 
 
 " Don't care for money ! " screamed the old miller, aghast. 
 "Are you mad, or a fool, or both? How often have I told 
 you that a man could succeed in anything, if .he only had 
 money enough ? " 
 
 " Father ! fatter ! " exclaimed the young man, much agi- 
 tated, " would that I could persuade you that there is some- 
 thing better, higher, worthier of a life's devotion, than money 
 It is God's love his peace. Has not Christ himself said, 
 ' What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, 
 and lose his own soul ? '" 
 
 " Don't talk to me about souls ! " angrily exclaimed the 
 father. " These I see and know," he continued, pointing over 
 the rich fields he called his own; " and these" he added, 
 striking his hand upon his breast, where lay the swollen pocket- 
 book; " but of souls you nor I know nothing. And now," he 
 went on, seeing Isaac about io speak, " I can't stand parley- 
 ing here. Once for all, are you going to obey me ? Will 
 you be a lawyer, or not ? " 
 
 The young man moved back and forth hurriedly for a few 
 moments, then, with one glance at the lovely landscape and 
 the blue heavens, he fronted his father, and said, sadly, but 
 firmly : 
 
 " Had you left it to me, father, or even consulted me, I 
 should never have chosen the profession of law. Not that it 
 is not honorable and great even sublime in its principles 
 and aims ; but our views of it are widely different. Were I 
 to follow it, you would be sadly disappointed, for never would 
 I consent to advocate a cause I knew to be wrong ; never 
 would I stoop to become the instrument of oppression and 
 injustice. When I think how some of these very lands have 
 been won, I cannot, dare not, obey you."
 
 THE MILLER. 251 
 
 " Damnation ! " exclaimed the father, trembling -with dis- 
 appointment and anger. " Then not a cent shall you have of 
 mine, to save you from the poor-house. Go, and my curse go 
 with you ! " he added, as he sprang hastily down the hill-side. 
 
 Isaac sank down upon a shelving rock, and, covering his 
 eyes with his hands, as if that beautiful scene had suddenly 
 become painful to him, strove to collect his troubled thoughts. 
 It was a fearful moment. All his past life, all his future 
 hopes, seemed pressed into it, and he could only bow his head, 
 and, in the anguish of his spirit, cry, " Our Father ! " As if 
 in answer to that prayer, a calmer mood came to bless him/ 
 He carefully scrutinized all the circumstances of his short 
 life, and the motives that had led him to renounce a course 
 which he felt could only be to him a death-in-life. Then came 
 the memory of his old nurse's legends of the early martyrs, 
 and his imagination kindled. " He that loveth father or 
 mother more than me, is not worthy of me," he murmured, as 
 he arose and slowly took the way toward the old farm-house 
 in the Hollow. Just as he entered a thicket of young birch, 
 at the foot of the hill, he met a boy with a fishing-rod over 
 his shoulder, who placed in his hands a letter, saying, old 
 Captain Ward had given him some pennies to carry it to the 
 mill. Isaac knew the old man's habits ; something unusual 
 must have occurred to rouse him to the effort of writing a let- 
 ter, and, with a foreboding of sorrow, he broke the seal. It 
 needed little skill to decipher those round, regular characters. 
 There they stood, plain as the green earth beneath him, say- 
 ing, in kind but firm words, that he must visit the Hollow no 
 more. 
 
 " Cursed by him, and through him ! " murmured the young 
 man, as, in the utter loneliness of his heart, he sank upon the 
 half-decayed trunk of a fallen tree. No one knows, no one 
 ever can know, the sorrow, doubt, agony and despair, of 
 the succeeding hours of that glorious mid-summer day.
 
 252 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " Eyes which the preacher could not school, 
 
 By wayside graves are raised ; 
 And lips say, God be pitiful,' 
 Who ne'er said, ' God be praised.' " 
 
 One, two, three, four, five, six weeks they occupy but a 
 little space on our paper, yet they crawled over the Hollow 
 like so many weary years. They brought sorrow and grief to 
 the simple, affectionate hearts there, and, were we writing a 
 mere love-story, we might tell how the heart of Mercy sank 
 beneath the first taste of life's bitter chalice. 
 
 Six weeks ! and how passed they at the mill ? We only 
 know that the great mill-wheel dashed round and round as of 
 yore, the waters moaned and sobbed, while Miller Jed con- 
 tinued to scrape up the soft meal with his bent fingers, as he 
 occasionally said to himself, " An obstinate dog ; but he '11 
 come round yet. Poverty is a rare tamer." 
 
 Then, a man on horseback paused in the whitened atmos- 
 phere at the mill door, and delivered him a letter. 
 
 " I was going on to M , and promised our minister that 
 
 I would come this way and deliver that letter," he said. " It 's 
 sorry news, I reckon, an' you be his father ; " and, with a 
 whistle to his horse, he cantered across the bridge and up the 
 hill. 
 
 Miller Jed started at his words, and stood for some time 
 turning the letter over and over, as if he already appre- 
 hended its contents. Then, suddenly breaking the seal, he 
 took them in at a glance. 
 
 " Fever come to him die death," he murmured, as 
 the paper shook in his trembling hands. " He shall not die ! " 
 he exclaimed vehemently, as he hurriedly stopped the wheel. 
 " He cannot so young, and " he started and looked over 
 his shoulder in fear. A few drops of water had fallen on his 
 hand, and he thought of the cold damp forehead of his dead 
 wife, and that old terror seized him.
 
 THE MILLER. 
 
 He hurried to his horse, and, with the meal still powdering 
 his gray locks, like the ashes of repentance, mounted his sleek 
 mare, and took the road towards L . 
 
 Weary, faint, and almost despairing, Isaac Sewall had 
 
 reached L , he hardly knew how, and, presenting himself 
 
 before Judge G and the old minister, stated all his 
 
 troubles, and besought their advice. "I am homeless an 
 outcast ; but I had rather die than become the mean, petti- 
 fogging character for which my father designs me," he said, 
 sadly. 
 
 The old men were much impressed by his earnestness, and 
 through their influence he was soon engaged as assistant in a 
 large school in that vicinity ; but he had hardly entered upon 
 his new duties before he was seized with a raging fever. 
 
 When Miller Jed reached L , the disease was near its 
 
 crisis. All that night the miserable old man sat crouched in 
 a dark corner of the room, scarcely daring to look upon the 
 face of his child, listening to his ravings and low moans, with 
 feelings too fearful for us to describe. Sometimes he was 
 with his fellow-students, but oftener at the Hollow with Mercy ; 
 and, as if a gleam of the truth still reached his troubled 
 brain, he would moag piteously, " 0, take me home ! Let 
 me see her once more ! " 
 
 It was never of his own home, but of the Hollow, that he 
 spoke, and only once his fevered lips murmured the word 
 " Father." The very tone was like a dagger to the old mil- 
 ler's heart. The next day the crisis was past, and the phy- 
 sicians spoke of hope, though the old man scarcely compre- 
 hended their words, but through the live-long day sat silent 
 in the same place, casting fearful glances at the pale attenu- 
 ated figure stretched on the bed, so like the one that had once 
 lain stiff and stark in his own house. When Isaac -was able 
 to look up, his father's presence was made known to him, and 
 a gleam of pleasure lit up his pale face, but few words passed 
 between them, and neither referred to the past. As he began 
 22
 
 254 LEAVES FROM THE TR IGDBASYL. 
 
 to gain strength, one yearning desire took possession of hia 
 mind. " Only let me go home, and I shall be well," he 
 pleaded, day after day, until the kind-hearted physician 
 yielded a reluctant consent. An easy carriage was procured, 
 and, bolstered up with beds and pillows, Isaac bade farewell 
 to his friends, and, at a snail-like pace, set out for home. 
 
 " I much doubt the wisdom of this step," said the old min- 
 ister as the carriage disappeared round the corner. rt It is 
 sixteen miles to B , and the poor child is very weak." 
 
 " So do I," replied the physician, with a sigh, " yet it can 
 make but a few weeks' difference, at the worst." Then seeing 
 the minister's inquiring look, he added, pointing to a golden 
 leaf that floated slowly toward the ground, "our young 
 friend's fate is like that. No earthly skill can change it." 
 
 When the carriage reached the point where the green lane 
 turned off to the Hollow, Isaac raised his eyes imploringly to 
 his father's face, and made a faint gesture, as if he would go 
 that way. Implicitly the old man obeyed, and, at a slow 
 funereal-pace, they drove on to the old farm-house. The sight 
 of the carriage brought the whole household to the door. 
 
 " He would come" said the old miller, as if in apology, as 
 they gathered round the carriage. . 
 
 " Yes, grandfather, mother, Mercy," said Isaac, faintly, as 
 he stretched out towards them his thin hands, " I would 
 come. You first taught me how to live you must now 
 teach me how to die. Forgive me, father," he added, laying 
 his hand in the old miller's, " they can care for me better here 
 than at home, and you will come to see me daily." 
 
 The old miller looked anxiously toward Adam Ward. " If,'' 
 he murmured, hesitatingly, " money can repay you, take all I 
 have, only let him stay only save him." 
 
 " Gladly will we take him for his own sake," replied old 
 Adam Ward, as he raised the poor invalid in his arms, and, 
 assisted by Jane, bore him into the house. 
 
 Those pensive, golden gleams, the prophecy of autumn, that
 
 THE MILLER. 255 
 
 slept upon the hills the last time that Isaac Sewall's feet had 
 trodden them, had deepened into reality ; and slowly, as the 
 leaves changed from green to crimson, and, impelled by their 
 own weight, floated toward earth, so waned the life of young 
 Isaac Sewall toward the grave. Loving hands tended him, 
 and loving hearts lavished their wealth of tenderness upon 
 him, and he was serene and happy. He knew it was much 
 better to die thus than to go through life cold, selfish and 
 unloving. And he was happy in another thought ; for all 
 those sunny, autumn days his old father sat by his side, some- 
 times sobbing like a very child as he spake of death and 
 heaven, listening humbly and earnestly to the sacred "Word as 
 it fell from the lips of Mercy, words which he had heard a 
 thousand times, but never felt before, and joining with un- 
 feigned humility in the petitions which Adam Ward raised 
 daily to the Father of all. Yes, Isaac was happy. Only 
 when his eye rested on the tear-dimmed face of Mercy, and 
 his ear caught the sobs which she could not wholly repress, 
 was his heart troubled. Then he would take her hand, and, 
 drawing her cheek down to his, murmur : 
 
 " Yes, it was a sweet dream, beloved ; but a little while, 
 only a little while at the longest, and we shall meet again." 
 
 In the mellow light of an October day they laid him in the 
 village grave-yard, with very sorrowful but calm feelings. 
 The perfect quiet of his last moments seemed to have de- 
 scended on them, especially upon the old miller. Henceforth, 
 to him, death had put off his terrors. The thought of his 
 child seemed ever before him in the way of eternal life. 
 With an eager hand he strove to repair the sorrow which his 
 grasping selfishness had caused, and most gladly would he 
 have deeded back to Adam Ward his ancient inheritance; 
 but the independent spirit of the old soldier would not permit 
 this. He declined, saying : 
 
 " Do what you please for my children ; but, for me, I have 
 about done with the cares of earth."
 
 256 LEAVES 1'ROM 1'HE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 Therefore, though no deeds witnessed the transfer of the 
 estate back to the Wards, the wealth of the old miller flowed 
 in many an open and secret channel around their lives; 
 channels opened by death. And, for many years afterward, 
 two old men might often be seen, seated like brothers near 
 the open door of the old farm-house, while the golden sun- 
 light rested like a glory from the celestial world on their 
 hoary looks, speaking earnestly and hopefully of the life to 
 come.
 
 VII. 
 AN HOUR ON THE CROSSING POLE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " WHAT a pleasant old lady ! " exclaimed Kate Lee, as we 
 turned from the door of Mrs. S . " How kind and^ agree- 
 able she is, and her face is so calm and serene so handsome ! 
 
 Surely, Miss R , she must have escaped all the trials and 
 
 sorrows which you wise people say are a part of life, though 
 I am sure I do not see why it need be so." 
 
 " Look here, Kate," I returned, pausing, and placing my 
 hand on the bole of one of the young shade-trees that lined 
 the walk. " Is not this bark very smooth and fresh ? " 
 
 " Why, yes, it feels like silk, while that above and below is 
 dark and rough. Why is it so, Miss R ? " 
 
 " Two years ago, the bark was nearly stripped from the 
 tree in this place ; but you see it is quite healed over, so that 
 none but a close observer would "detect the place of the wound. 
 It is so in life, Kate ; a serene, calm look, like that of Grand- 
 mother S , is often the badge of victory won over suffer- 
 ing and sorrow." 
 
 We walked on in silence until we reached a mossy pole, 
 that spanned the noisy mountain brook which we must cross 
 in our way home. 
 
 This pole, shaded by ancient button-woods, whose roots were 
 half unearthed by the busy stream, was a favorite resting- 
 place with me ; and, as we seated ourselves, Ellen Ashton, 
 our thoughtful young companion, spoke for the first time sinea 
 we bade good-by to our venerable friend. 
 22*
 
 258 LEAVES FROM TUB TREE IQDRASTL. 
 
 " Will you tell us more about Grandmother S , as you 
 
 all call her, Miss K ? Why, she islike the wounded tree ; 
 
 for, notwithstanding her face is so calm and serene, as Kate 
 says, so like those faces I sometimes picture to myself among 
 the clouds at sunset, and her ways are so cheerful and social, 
 I cannot help thinking that ehe has been sad, very sad, some 
 time in her life." 
 
 " Now, that is just like you, Ellen," began Kate, " always 
 fancying romances, when I see nothing but very plain matter- 
 of-fact people, who eat and drink, go to bed and get up, after 
 the same old humdrum fashion. Not that I would apply that 
 
 epithet to Grandmother S , for there is nothing humdrum 
 
 about her nothing sad or gloomy nothing " 
 
 " 0, no ! I don't mean that she is gloomy," interrupted 
 Ellen. " Indeed, it is difficult to express what I do mean," 
 she continued, after a pause ; " but it is a certain something 
 in her eyes. I have seen the same look in sister Jane's eyes 
 ever since her husband was lost at sea ; especially when she 
 stands, as she sometimes does, for a long time, gazing on his 
 portrait. It seems to me as if Grandmother S sees por- 
 traits in the air, sometimes." 
 
 " Perhaps she does, Ellen," I began ; but at that moment 
 Kate, who was as thoughtless and as graceful as the stream 
 at our feet, suddenly whisked a long branch of willow, which 
 she had been idly floating in the water, over our heads, and, 
 unmindful of the shower-bath she was giving us, exclaimed : 
 
 " Look, Ellen, look ! What a funny old buiHing! Why, 
 the roof runs completely down to the ground behind ! I won- 
 der where the back-door was; and the chimney see, it is 
 large enough for a house of itself. What was it, Miss 
 E, ; a house, or a fort, or a jail ? " 
 
 As both my young friends were natives of the city, and 
 this was the first time they had ever got beyond the suburban 
 villas which they call country, into a real agricultural district, 
 I did not so much wonder- at their curiosity concerning an
 
 AN HOUR ON THE CROSSING POLE. 259 
 
 old-fashioned farm-house, then little better than a ruin, 
 whose timbers had been laid -nearly a century and a half 
 before. 
 
 " It is, or rather was, a dwelling-house, Kate. Several 
 generations lived and died beneath its roof; and not a few 
 young maidens, fair and merry as yourself, have gone forth 
 over that old threshold to gather, the parti-colored sheaf of life 
 in other and brighter fields. Of one of these I may some 
 tune have something to tell you." 
 
 "0, tell us now ! Pray tell us now ! " they cried in a 
 breath. 
 
 Yielding to their request, I began : " Sixty -five years 
 ago" 
 
 " Mercy, what an age ! " interrupted Kate, drawing a long 
 
 breath. " Are you sure you are awake, Miss R ? Why, 
 
 it troubles me to think of it." 
 
 " You will find that trouble diminish as the years go on, 
 chatterbox," I replied, as I again took up my broken sentence. 
 
 " Sixty-five years ago, every room in that old house, even 
 the great yard around it, was busy with the stir of life. Half 
 a dozen or more negroes (for Connecticut had not then thrown 
 off the curse of slavery), their black faces and white teeth 
 glittering in the clear sunlight of a May morning, were passing 
 from the stables to the street, leading horses, with saddles, 
 side-saddles, and pillions, duly arranged ; for that was not the 
 day of wagons, though there were two or three clumsy-looking 
 covered vehicles, called chaises, in those days, that not only 
 attested the wealth and rank of their owners, but whose har- 
 nesses seemed a sore puzzle to the grinning blacks. At last, 
 two fine-spirited animals were led out to the massive old 
 "horse-block, and held as quietly as possible by the attendants. 
 
 " They did not wait long, for soon, over that old threshold, 
 came a young girl, leaning on the arm of a handsome, athletic- 
 looking youth, on whose open, manly features sorrow seemed 
 struggling with joy. After them came two gray-headed
 
 260 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDRASTL. 
 
 couples, followed by a whole troop of relatives and friends, of 
 all ages. The maiden's face was hidden by a veil ; but, as 
 she turned it aside to take one more look at the home of her 
 childhood and the dear faces clustered round her, one could 
 see that it was beautiful fresh and beautiful as that bright 
 May morning, and as dewy with tears tears which again 
 flowed rapidly, in spite of her efforts to suppress them, as, 
 with her hand clasped close in that of her companion, she 
 bowed her head to receive the parting blessing of their 
 parents, and the last good-by of those who had been her friends 
 from childhood. 
 
 " Then, her brother's stout arm encircled her, and, with 
 one kiss on her cheek, he placed her in her saddle. Her com- 
 panion sprang lightly into his, and, at a quick pace, without 
 trusting themselves to look back, they crossed the same brawl- 
 ing brook, and took the road yonder, where it winds towards 
 the west. 
 
 " The group remained in the yard, watching them until 
 they saw them turn on the brow of the hill there, and wave 
 a last farewell; then, the elder guests gathered round the 
 parents, to speak a few words of cheer ere they departed for 
 their homes. The younger ones grouped around the old porch, 
 and discussed the wedding which took place the evening before ; 
 and the children ran in and out, with huge pieces of cake in 
 their hands, supplied from the liberal store of black Time, the 
 head female slave. 
 
 " It was agreed among the elder guests that James Sher- 
 man was an intelligent, steady, industrious fellow, who was 
 sure of making his way in the world anywhere, especially in 
 that western world for which he had just started with his 
 young bride ; and many were the flattering prophecies uttered 
 with regard to his future success and position in that unsettled 
 section, to all of which the bride's mother lent a willing ear, 
 while her heart murmured, ' Poor Mary ! ' The younger rnes 
 were not the less unanimous in deciding that it was a capital
 
 AN HOUR ON THE CROSSING POLE. 261 
 
 match that they were the finest-looking couple they had 
 seen for many a day that the bride's dress was beautiful 
 that her gray-coating riding-dress and round beaver hat were 
 very becoming and ' just the thing ' for her journey ; but, 
 after all, it was a kind of wonder to them how Mary Burgiss 
 could ever consent to go ' clear away off to the Whitestown 
 country ' (as they called the settlement of old Judge White, 
 in central New York), to live among bears, and wolves, and 
 those horrible Indians ; and, as he listened to their words, 
 and recalled some of the fearful tales of frontier life which he 
 had heard, a dampness gathered upon the stout brother's eye- 
 lashes, and he, too, murmured, ' Poor Mary ! ' 
 
 " Then the guests mounted their horses, and turned chatting 
 to their homes ; and an hour later all was as quiet as usual 
 in and around yon old farm-house." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " In an open glade, formed partly by nature and partly by 
 the woodman's aze, in the heart of the solemn old forest 
 that, little more than a half-century ago, covered the rich 
 swells and luxuriant vales of what is now Herkimer county, 
 New York, stood a comfortable-looking log-house. 
 
 " All around, for miles and miles away, stretched that bil- 
 lowy sea of forest-leaves, and, save by a narrow foot-path 
 that led from the cabin-door across the clearing, and was lost 
 in the forest on the side towards the nearest settlement, the 
 dwellers in that solitary place seemed to be entirely shut off 
 from communication with the bustling, busy world. 
 
 " Everything about the clearing gave evidence of the thrift 
 and activity of the owner, and rude and rough as was the 
 exterior of the dwelling, indications were not wanting to show 
 that the hand of taste had been busy there also. The great 
 logs that formed the sides were half covered by the luxuriant 
 branches of the wild, creeping roses, while around the win-
 
 262 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDBASYL. 
 
 dow aid over the low door-way, the gay, flowering bean and 
 the home-like morning-glory mingled their scarlet and purple 
 blossoms; and in the carefully-weeded bed, beneath the 
 eaves, were a tribe of hollyhocks, marigolds, four-o'clocks, 
 bachelor's-buttons (you know I like the old-fashioned names, 
 girls), pansies and pinks, mingled with rue, hyssop, worm- 
 wood, sage and fennel every leaf, every blossom of which 
 was as dear as the face of a friend to the heart of her who 
 tended them, because so full of sweet memories of that home 
 where the seed from which they sprung had been ripened and 
 gathered, far away amid the rock-bound vales of Connecti- 
 cut. Such had been the aspect of the place through the long 
 summer hours ; but, at the time of which we wish to speak, 
 the frosty breath of autumn had withered this wealth % of 
 greenery, and the long, brown trailers of the bean and morn- 
 ing-glory swung mournfully in the breeze. 
 
 " The glorious days of the Indian summer, during which 
 the mighty forest had been as a sea of flame, almost too daz- 
 zling to behold, were already gone, and the cold, raw, whis- 
 tling winds of November began to moan and whine around 
 that lonely cabin. 
 
 " It was at the close of one of these leaden-hued days that 
 a woman appeared in the door-way of the cottage, and gazed 
 anxiously down the footpath where it disappeared in the for- 
 est. As a gust of wind lifted aside the checked apron which 
 she had'carelessly thrown over her head, it was easy to recog- 
 nize the fine features of Mary Sherman. Her cheek was a 
 shade or two browner, perhaps, than when she crossed yon 
 old threshold a bride, but her slender, girlish figure had 
 ripened into the luxuriant development of womanhood, and 
 there was an abiding light in her dark eyes, so serene, deep 
 and tender, that one felt at once that some new revelation of 
 life's mysteries had been vouchsafed to her. 
 
 "More than once she appeared in the door, looking
 
 AN HOUR ON THE CROSSING POLE. 263 
 
 anxiously into the dense forest, and at each time her brow 
 wore a deeper shade of anxiety. 
 
 " Suddenly her practised eye caught sight of a well-known 
 form hurrying along the narrow path, and, with a flush of 
 joy on her cheek, and Words of thanksgiving upon her lips, 
 she sprang forward to meet her husband. 
 
 " ' You have been frightened, Mary,' he said, in reply to 
 her exclamation of delight, as he threw his arm over her 
 shoulders, and gazed fondly down upon her upturned face. 
 
 " ' No ; at least not for myself, James, but for you,' she 
 replied. ' You are later than usual later than you prom- 
 ised, and you know there have been rumors of a party of hos- 
 tile Indians being seen in the neighborhood.' 
 
 " ' But they were twenty miles off, if, indeed, any were 
 seen, which I much doubt. Ned Emmons is always seeing 
 Indians behind every bush and stump. You would make a 
 capital frontier-man's wife, Mary, if you could only forget 
 other folks as readily as you do yourself. And now,' he con- 
 tinued, pausing and laying his hand upon her arm, as she was 
 about to raise the wooden latch to their door, ' Whom do you 
 think I have seen ? ' ' 
 
 " She looked up into his animated face for a moment, and, 
 her own glowing with sudden hope, exclaimed : 
 
 " ' Some one from home, is it not ? Brother John has 
 come ! ' 
 
 " ' No ; ' and the glowing light began to pale as her hus- 
 band went on. ' You will have to guess again, Mary ; but I 
 will not tease you. It is George Allen ; and here, see what 
 he has brought,' he added, as he drew from the deep pocket 
 of his hunting-jacket a great, square letter, directed in the 
 large, round characters which she recognized at once as her 
 father's hand. 
 
 " ' A letter ! 0, how glad I am ! ' she exclaimed. ' And 
 it will be almost as good as seeing John to see George. 
 Where is he? Why did he not come home with you ? '
 
 264 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDBASTL. 
 
 " ' He only arrived this noon, and his cousins would not 
 hear of his coming with me to-night,' replied the husband, as 
 he opened the door and set the butt of his rifle rather heavily 
 upon the floor. 
 
 "'Hush!' said Mary, softly, springing across the room, 
 and laying her hand on a clumsy cradle, evidently the work 
 of James' jack-knife and saw, while she began to murmur 
 over the nestling occupant some old New England strain. 
 James Sherman moved stealthily to her side ; and when, after 
 a few moments, the eyes of the young parents met, as they 
 lifted them from the face of their first-born child, it -was very 
 evident under what form that new revelation of life's mys- 
 teries had been given them. 
 
 " As the twilight deepened into night, the wild winds woke 
 in the forest and swept in fitful gusts across the clearing, 
 driving before them occasional showers of sleet and rain, rat- 
 tling against the cabin walls, and shaking the wooden fasten- 
 ings with a violence that threatened their security. But 
 James Sherman, confident in the strength of the good sea- 
 soned oak, only smiled as he saw his wife start at the clamor 
 of the baffled winds, and drew his chair nearer to her side, 
 while he continued to speak of the contents of the welcome 
 letter, which they had read over and over again, and of his 
 meeting with their old friend, until Mary almost forgot to 
 rock the cradle at her side in the interest which the subject 
 awakened. 
 
 " How good it does seem to get a letter from home ! ' she 
 said. ' It is almost like seeing them every one. So Grand- 
 mother Fowler is gone at last the kind, old soul. She 
 spun this very yarn that I am knitting ; and I remember, as 
 well as if it had happened to-day, what she said when she 
 gave it to me. " There, child," she said, " I have spun a 
 double portion for you, for you won't have any old grand- 
 mother to spin for you out in the woods there ; and mayhap 
 she may not be here when yon come back." '
 
 AN HOUR ON THE CROSSING POLE. 265 
 
 " After a moment's silence to the memory of her kind old 
 relative, she went on : 
 
 "' And Fred. Hoadley and Lucy Stone are married. Well, 
 I should think it was time they were, if they ever intended 
 to be. Why, he had waited on her a year or two before we 
 came away. And to think that Hannah Meigs has got a 
 baby ! That beats all. Why, they have been married as 
 much as ten years ! But when is George coming here, James, 
 and how long will he stay ? ' 
 
 " So the happy young wife ran on, and her husband 
 replied : 
 
 '"He will come here in the morning. Jim Lee is coming 
 over with him, and he will stay around herS about a week. 
 He stopped two weeks at his sister's, on the way, and he says 
 he must certainly reach home by Thanksgiving.' 
 
 " ' And, if he does, our folks will get a letter from us just 
 at the right time. They will all be at home Thankful, and 
 Sarah, and Eunice, and Eben, with their families. They will 
 all be there, James all but us ; ' and the tears sprang to 
 her eyes, as she thought of the pleasant old festival, and the 
 family gathering beneath her father's roof. 
 
 " Her husband drew her head to his shoulder, and, gazing 
 thoughtfully into her eyes a moment, said : 
 
 " ' You were ever a home-bird, Mary, and I have some- 
 times thought, when I am all alone in the woods, that I did 
 very wrong in bringing you so far away, to this lonely 
 place ' 
 
 " ' No, no, James ; how could you ever think so ? I have 
 been so happy here ! ' she added, glancing at the fair, round 
 face in the cradle. I only thought, at that moment, how 
 pleasant it would be to see them all once more for you, and 
 I, and baby, to step in upon them. Would n't they stare ? ' 
 she went on, smiling at the picture Ycr words brought up ; 
 ' for you know that they don't know anything about baby 
 yiet ; but I ehall write all abcfut her, and tell mother that v& 
 23
 
 266 LEAVES FROM TILE TREK itiDRASYL. 
 
 are going to call her Clara, after her. You are sure George 
 will come in the morning, James ? ' 
 
 " With her babe on her arm, and a smile on her lip, at the 
 thought of meeting her old friend, Mary Sherman sought her 
 bed, to dream, perchance, of yon pleasant old homestead. 
 
 " Some two hours later she was awakened by a yell that 
 i struck the terror of death to her heart. It was the terrific 
 war-whoop of the savages. Her husband sprang to his feet, 
 and, seizing his rifle, made for the door. The heavy wooden 
 bars still resisted the pressure from without ; but at that in- 
 stant the blows of half a dozen hatchets fell upon the thick 
 plank. 
 
 " The chest quick help me, Mary ! ' he whispered ; 
 and, following his motions rather than his words, the terrified 
 woman united her strength to his, which seemed at that in- 
 stant almost superhuman, and they succeeded in moving the 
 heavy wooden piece of furniture, which contained all their 
 household valuables, against the door. 
 
 " Going to the back part of the house, where there was a 
 narrow door, seldom used, and then completely hidden by the 
 clinging -roses, the husband bent his ear for a moment, and 
 listened breathlessly. 
 
 " The devils are all in front, Mary,' he whispered, going 
 . to the bed and pressing one kiss upon the soft cheek of his 
 child, as he placed it in her arms. ' Fly, dearest ; this is 
 your only hope ! Quick ! I will follow as soon as I havo 
 placed a few more things against the door. It may help to 
 deceive them. For God's sake, fly ! ' he repeated in agony, 
 as he unclasped her arm from his neck. Take the path to 
 the big oak in the east woods. I will be with you in a mo- 
 ment ! O, God ! ' he murmured, as she disappeared in the 
 darkness ; and the strong man reeled as he turned to his 
 barricade. 
 
 " Drawing her scanty night clothing around her babe, to 
 ehield it from the bitter winds, Mary Sherman fled, like a
 
 AN HOUR ON THE CROSSING POLE. 267 
 
 leaf before the gale, in the direction which her husband had 
 indicated. In the edge of the wood stood the giant oak, 
 and, crouching behind its great trunk, she awaited, in an 
 agony that no words can describe, the coming of her hus- 
 band. Unmindful of the cold, sleety rain, that drenched her 
 thin garments, but pressing her babe more closely to her 
 breast, she kept her eyes strained in the direction of her 
 home, as if she would pierce the thick darkness that lay be- 
 tween them. Suddenly a ferocious yell rent the air, and the 
 tall spiral flames shot up from the thatched roof of her 
 home, casting a red glare over the clearing, and bringing 
 into clear relief the dusky forms of the yelling savages. 
 With a groan of agony, the wretched wife sank down at the 
 foot of the friendly tree. 
 
 "From this state of happy insensibility she was at length 
 roused by the wailings of her child. The poor little thing 
 was almost dead from cold. Instinctively, she crept along a 
 few yards, to where lay a great hollow log, which she had 
 often noted in happier days. Creeping into this shelter, with 
 her baby in her arms, she awaited, in fear and agony, the 
 coming dawn. 
 
 " She almost shrieked in return, as she heard the yells of 
 the departing Indians, as they plunged into the woods, and 
 once she raised her child to flee, as a low growl from the 
 other end of her strange shelter fell on her ear. But fear 
 of the foe without gave her courage to remain and face that 
 within, if need be ; and when the gray light of dawn stole 
 into her shelter, and she saw a monstrous bear rise from his 
 bed in the opposite end of the log, and stalk slowly toward 
 the forest, without even glancing at her, she drew her child 
 closer to her breast, and thanked God that the brute had 
 been more pitiful than man. 
 
 " When George Allen and his guide from the settlement 
 reached the clearing of his old friends, the next morning, 
 they found their comfortable cottage a smouldering heap of
 
 LEAVE3 FROM THE TREE IGDKAsYL. 
 
 ashes, and about a rod from that narrow back door lay the 
 happy group of the evening before the scalped and lifeless 
 body of James Sherman, his insensible .wife, and the little 
 child moaning by their side." 
 
 "Didn't she die on the spot, Miss K ?" exclaimed 
 
 Kate Lee. " Surely no woman could survive a night like 
 that!" 
 
 " No, Katie ; as is our day, so is our strength. Mary 
 Sherman lived lived to bring up her fatherless child 
 lives now to bless with her counsel her children in the third 
 generation ; and your young eyes have failed to perceive any 
 traces of this ' baptism of pain.' " 
 
 " Our eyes, Miss B, ? Save we seen her ? " both my 
 
 young'friends exclaimed at once." 
 
 " You have looked upon her face to-day, dear girls ; for 
 Mary Sherman is now Grandmother S ."
 
 VIII. 
 THE ALMSHOUSE BOY. 
 
 "THERE take that and that and that!" and Mrs. 
 Rhoda Tallman brought her hard hand against the ears of an 
 eight-years-old urchin, with a force and dexterity that would 
 have excited the admiration of any professed pugilist in 
 Christendom. 
 
 The child was, evidently, used to it ; he did not shrink or 
 dodge, but stood and took the blows with an air of stubborn 
 indifference. Retreating a step or two, she eyed him from 
 head to foot, a moment, and again went on : 
 
 " Now, look at them 'ere trousers all plastered over 
 with mud ! You 've been through every mud-puddle between 
 here and the school-house ! Shut up not a word out of 
 your mouth ! " she continued, seeing him about to speak. 
 " Who do you think is goin' to pay me for rubbing the skin 
 off my hands every week, to keep you decent to say 
 nothing of wood and soap? Not the selectmen, I can tell 
 you ! It 's little enough they are willin' to pay." Then, as 
 if, to use one of her own expressions, " she didn't know how 
 to keep her hands off from him," she strode forward, caught 
 him by the collar of a poor, faded, forlorn-looking cotton 
 jacket, and shook him, very much as we have seen a snarling 
 eur shake a kitten that had presumed to cross his path. 
 
 " There, now go into the garden, and see if you can weed 
 23*
 
 270 LEAVES PROM THE TREE IQDRASYL. 
 
 out the beet beds ; and let me catch you picking green cur- 
 rants, or getting down on your knees in the dirt, if you dare ! " 
 
 The boy walked slowly away until he reached a corner of 
 the building, when he paused, and pouted out his lips, and 
 shook his clenched fists, in a way that indicated anything but 
 submission and respect. It was well she did not turn back, 
 as usual, to see that her orders were obeyed, but hastened in- 
 to the house to join a gossip, whom she had very impolitely 
 left alone while she performed this little scene. 
 
 After taking breath, and assuring her visitor that she 
 might " thank her stars that she had n't any of the town 
 poor to deal with, for a more provoking, shiftless, idle, lying 
 set of folks never breathed the breath of life," she took up 
 her work, and wkh it the topic of conversation which had 
 been so suddenly interrupted by the vision of little Ned Nor- 
 ris' mud-bespattered trousers. 
 
 " As to the family in the other part of the house, as I said 
 before, Mrs. Gadman, I know precious- little about them, but 
 that's quite enough. I wish they had kept where they 
 belonged." 
 
 " Why, Mrs. Rhoda, I thought you would be pleased to 
 have some one in the house with you. That part always 
 looks so dark and pokerish that I 'm almost afraid to pass it 
 after dark." 
 
 Mrs. Gadman spoke mischievously, for she well knew that 
 Mrs. Rhoda did not, as she often said, "fear the face of 
 clay," besides, she knew, also, that her vixenish temper was 
 the chief reason why the half of the house, belonging to a 
 brother, remained unoccupied ; those who had tried living 
 there declaring that people might as well try to live in a 
 hornet's nest as with such a woman. 
 
 " Yes, I dare say. There are some folks in the world who 
 are allers afeard of their own shadow can't be contented 
 without they are surrounded by a whole tribe of people ! " 
 said the old dame, sharply. " But I like their room better
 
 THE ALMSHOUSE BOY. 271 
 
 than their company. Thank the Lord, I a'n't narvaus, and 
 as to ghosts, I 'd rather deal with all that ever walked than 
 this woman's young ones. Look at that great grease-spot," 
 she went on, pointing to a stain on her well-scoured floor. 
 " They are all the time cantering through the space, and yes- 
 terday one of 'em took it into his head to come in here with 
 a great slice of bread-and-butter in his hand, and drop it on 
 my floor. Now, I may scour and scrub a month to get it 
 out. But I 'm not going to put up with their running in 
 and out here, and so I told her, pretty plainly." 
 
 " What did she say ? " 
 
 " 0, butter would n't have melted in her mouth ! ' She 
 was so sorry that sonny had made me any trouble ; but he 
 must be very careful, and promise good Mrs. Tallman not 
 to do so again.' Faugh ! I 'd a sonnied him if he 'd been 
 my boy ! " 
 
 " I dare say. But how does this woman live ? They say 
 she is very poor. Mrs. White says she never saw such a 
 mean load of goods as they brought. Yet she looks respect- 
 able enough. I met her the' other day, as I came out of 
 Darling & Brown's." 
 
 " Yes, and she fe4& respectable enough, too, I can assure 
 you. But, with all her managing, anybody can see that they 
 are as poor as Job. She has nothing but what she earns 
 with her needle ; but, la me ! she 's as particular about what 
 her young ones say and do as if she was the minister's wife. 
 They must go to school every single day, to learn geography 
 and grammar, and such like. I wonder if she expects it 
 will get 'em a meal of victuals ? The oldest boy is larnin' a 
 trade in New Haven, and I really believe that she and the 
 children would starve through the week rather than not have 
 something good when he comes home of a Sunday. Then 
 she makes such a fuss over him tells him all her plans, 
 and asks his advice, jest as if the opinion of a 'prentice boy 
 was of any consequence ! She may be a decent sort of a
 
 LEAVES JROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 woman enough for aught I know, but she ha'n't the least fac- 
 ulty to get along in the world or to govern her children. 
 There 's nothing like makin' children know their places, neigh- 
 bor Gadman, and Widow Banks will find that out before 
 many years, I guess. That oldest boy of iers rules the 
 whole roost, now ; it fairly makes me ache to see how she 
 lets 'em go on ; for, let my boys be what they may now, as 
 long as they were under my thumb, they had to walk pretty 
 straight. I 've got one thing to comfort me it can't be 
 said I spoilt them by indulgence ! " 
 
 " Certainly not," said the guest, as she rose to leave, anx- 
 ious to discuss Widow Banks' " ways and means " at the next 
 house; and "certainly not," we repeat, Mrs. Rhoda, for 
 when wert thou ever liable to the " soft impeachment " of 
 showing indulgence to aught beneath thy control ? 
 
 Rigidly just, according to thy poor, meagre conceptions 
 of justice, we grant thee ; but indulgent ! why, the sharp, 
 fife-like tones of thy voice, the cold, steady gleam of thy light- 
 blue eyes, thy sallow, diminutive, froze-and-thawed visage, 
 would be sufficient vouchers of thy innocence, even if we were 
 unable to point to the example of thy two strong-limbed, 
 stout-hearted boys, who embraced the%rliest opportunity to 
 slip from beneath thy maternal thumb, and, true to their 
 early habits, have continued to " walk straight " away, with- 
 out pausing to cast one regretful glance on the home of their 
 childhood, or wishing, even in dreams, to see again their 
 mother's face ; but, violent, selfish and unprincipled, one now 
 hunts the cunning beaver along our western waters, a savage 
 among savages, while the other makes one of the crowd that 
 fill our prisons, the victim of his own unbridled passions. 
 
 Alas ! for thee, Mrs. Rhoda Tallman ! Alas ! for all poor, 
 stinted souls, who have learned to recognize no higher law 
 than mere physical force who still cling to the old code of 
 lex talionis, as tenaciously as if they had had their birth on 
 the plains of Syria, beneath the shadow of a Hebrew tent.
 
 THE ALM3HOU3E BOY. 273 
 
 But, in justice to the old woman, we must say that, if she 
 had seen three-score years without catching one strain of the 
 angelic chorus of peace and good-will which, for eighteen 
 centuries, has been filling our atmosphere and the heart of 
 every reverent listener with hopes mightier than death and the 
 grave, it was, in part, owing to other causes than wilful ig- 
 norance. 
 
 Born amidst the squalid misery of the drunkard's home, 
 where the very atmosphere was heavy with strife and curses ; 
 alike the victim of a drunken father's rage and the ungov- 
 ernable temper of her miserable, fretful, sorely-tried mother, 
 she had grown up to maturity, with some dozen more young 
 immortals, ignorant, selfish, and ungovernable. As she had 
 advanced towards womanhood, several influences came in to 
 soften, or, rather, conceal the sharp, disagreeable points in 
 her character. At eighteen, she married Jo Tallman, an 
 easy, good-tempered, indolent fellow, who, after one or two 
 futile attempts to enforce his authority on a disputed point, 
 found himself obliged to leave the field to his shrewish part- 
 ner, and in a few weeks became as submissive as* a lamb. 
 
 If cleanliness be next to godliness, as is asserted, then 
 Mrs. Rhoda was certainly in a very enviable condition ; for 
 she possessed this virtue to an extreme degree. Even in her 
 own squalid home she had been noticeable for her habits of 
 cleanliness and industry, and, when she had a home of her 
 own, they soon came to comprise, in her view, all religion 
 and ethics ; indeed, we much doubt if she would have been 
 contented in heaven unless there were some floors there to 
 scrub or some stains to scratch out. 
 
 Jo Tallman was a blacksmith by trade, and it cannot be 
 denied that when he came in from the shop, his shoes left many 
 unsightly traces on his wife's nicely-scoured floors, especially 
 in damp, rainy weather, which were sure to call forth her 
 sharpest words. This roused the malignant spirit of recrimin- 
 ation, which left foot-prints in their hearts far more unsightly
 
 274 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 and diffictdt of erasure than those on the floor. The wordy 
 conflict was unequal. Jo had no great development of the 
 organ of language ; besides, he was too easy to scold ; so, by 
 degrees, he found that he could enjoy himself far more to his 
 mind in a corner of the village bar-room, than at his own 
 fireside, thus leaving his two little boys wholly to the control 
 of his stronger half. During their early years, by dint of 
 scolding, threatening, and whipping, the mother managed to 
 keep these boys remarkably ignorant of the mysteries of mud 
 pastry, measuring the depth of brooks, climbing trees and 
 fences, and all that department of science to which the mind 
 of childhood "doth seriously incline." As they grew in 
 years and stature, she by no means relaxed the pressure of 
 her thumb, but, by equivocation, deception, and open false- 
 hood, they often contrived to slip from beneath it, until in 
 physical strength they became more than a match for her, 
 and treated her commands with contempt and defiance. His 
 state of things was not reached without many severe struggles 
 on her part to retain her arbitrary control over them, and 
 their home not unfrequently echoed furious words of anger 
 and strife. They soon followed their father's example, and took 
 refuge in the tavern. In time, the evil influence of the place 
 began to show itself in the habits of both father and sons, 
 and the demon of intemperance was added to domestic strife. 
 But the wife and mother was the last to see it. She sat 
 alone by her nice hearth diligently plying the needle, and 
 comforting herself with the reflection that there is " no loss 
 without some gain ; " if they were away, she need n't burn 
 so much wood, neither would they be littering the room 
 up with whittlings and other rubbish ; the tavern was the 
 place for such things a handful of dirt there, more or less, 
 did not matter anyway. 
 
 Such was Rhoda Tallman in her youth, hard, querulous, 
 n.nd exacting ; and she was in no wise changed for the better
 
 THE ALMSHOUSE BOY. 275 
 
 when, husbandless and childless, she took little Ned Norris 
 to live with her. Ned was one of 
 
 " Love's outcasts on the earth ; 
 
 The child of love, betraying and betrayed, 
 The blossom opened in the Upas' shade." 
 
 So ran the rumor, for the mother, poor, young, friendless 
 thing, refused to answer questions, and, a few hours after his 
 birth, exchanged the bitter charities of the village almshouse 
 for the grave. 
 
 When the child was about four years old, the town mag- 
 nates, in their wisdom, decided that it would be less expen- 
 sive to board out the few paupers dependent on them, than 
 to support an almshouse. Accordingly, at the annual town- 
 meeting, they were put up at auction, like any other town 
 property, but with this radical difference, they were struck 
 off to the lowest instead of the highest bidder. Thus it hap- 
 pened that little Ned Norris, after going the rounds of some 
 half-dozen families that necessity or the desire for gain had 
 induced to " bid him off" at the lowest living price per week, 
 became, at last, an inmate of Mrs. Ehoda Tallman's dwelling. 
 He was a bright, quick-witted, impulsive boy, and, young as 
 he was, did not fail to see, or rather feel, that the aim of each 
 family was to make the most out of their bargain ; and, as 
 they were usually coarse people, with whom cuffs were more 
 ready coin than caresses, the consequence was, that he be- 
 came indifferent to shame and punishment, careless, idle, 
 and stubborn. 
 
 But the angel of mercy never wholly abandons the heart 
 of childhood, and sometimes a gift from a school-mate (the 
 " selectmen " always stipulated with the people who kept 
 him, for so many weeks' schooling, or, at least, a pretence 
 towards it), or a kind word from the teacher, would stir his 
 better nature, and kept it from becoming entirely encrusted 
 with evil.
 
 276 I4EAVJS FROM THE TREE IQDRASTL. 
 
 Until the Widow Banks and her children came to reside in 
 the house, Ned had never given much thought to his friend- 
 less, isolated position. Sometimes, indeed, on the " last day " 
 of school, when the picture-books were distributed, and his 
 schoolmates ran shouting home to display them to their 
 mothers and sisters, he had slackened his pace, and wondered 
 why he had no relations wishing very much that he had a 
 sister, or, at least, a cousin, to whom he could show his pic- 
 tures. 
 
 But when George and Sarah Banks became his school- 
 mates, and he listened to their ceaseless quotations of " mam- 
 ma," and references to " brother Fred.," this feeling became 
 more distinct. Many times, as he bent over the garden beds 
 after school, with his allotted task before him, his eyes" would 
 wander to the window where Mrs. Banks usually sat cease- 
 lessly plying her needle on " band, gusset and seam," occasion- 
 ally turning her head to reply to little Allan's " bo-peep" or 
 listening with a pleasant smile to the bird-like chatter of 
 George and Sarah. He could not help feeling the difference be- 
 tween their home and his ; and he wondered if Mrs. Banks 
 never scolded nor got angry like Mrs. Rhoda, and how it would 
 seem to have such a home. His fingers would forget their 
 mole-like task, and he would sit dreaming of these things 
 until the sharp voice of his mistress roused all the old Adam 
 in his nature, and be would pursue his work, muttering : 
 
 " If she wants weeds pulled any faster, she may pull them 
 herself." 
 
 After turning to bestow on Mrs. Rhoda the grin of hate 
 and defiance, on the occasion which we have described at 
 the commencement of the story, he walked slowly into the 
 garden, and began jerking up the weeds, with a strong wish in 
 his heart that he could jerk Mrs. Rhoda in just the same way 
 He did not once look up to Mrs. Banks' window, nor heed 
 the voices of her children, who were speaking very eagerly. 
 They wsre speaking of him, and, presently, Mrs. Banks laid
 
 THE ALMSHOUSB BOY. 277 
 
 down her work and came out into the garden ; but he was 
 too angry too intent on listening to the evil thoughts 
 which filled him to heed her step, until she laid her hand on 
 his head, and said : 
 
 " George tells me that you fell and hurt your ankle, while 
 helping Sarah to escape from some unruly cattle, to-^ay." 
 
 " I could n't help it ! " began the boy, in a tone of depre- 
 cation ; for Mrs. Rhoda was no believer in accidents, and he 
 mistook Mrs. Banks' tone for one of censure. " I stepped on 
 a stone, and it rolled." 
 
 " Of course you could not; no boy falls when he can help 
 it," she replied, rather amused at his manner. " I did not 
 intend to blame you for falling, but to thank you for your care 
 of Sarah, and to see how badly you are hurt. Which foot is 
 it? " she asked, bending down to examine it. 
 
 The child looked with a kind of bashful wonder into the 
 widow's face, then down upon his little, bare, brown feet, and, 
 hastily drawing back, he rinsed them in a shallow pool of 
 water left by the recent shower, and held up the ankle for 
 her examination, saying, in a tone of hesitation : 
 
 " All the black won't come off, ma'am." 
 
 " Never mind, boy. It is somewhat swollen. Now put it 
 down, and let me see you bear your weight upon it. Where 
 does it hurt worst ? " she added, pressing her fingers lightly 
 on the swollen place. 
 
 The boy winced, and said: "Please don't don't turn it 
 that way, ma'am ! " 
 
 " It is a bad sprain, and will make you lame for some 
 days, I fear. If you will go into the house, I will bind it up 
 for you." 
 
 The boy hesitated. " I am afraid Mrs. Rhoda will thrash 
 me, if I do." 
 
 " Thrash you ? " repeated the widow, in surprise. 
 
 " Yes ; whip me if I don't get all the weeds pulled in these 
 two beds, before sundown." ^ 
 
 24
 
 278 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 " Did you tell Mrs. Tallman you had hurt your ankle ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " But you should have told her when you first came home 
 and she would have bound it up nicely. Why did n't you 
 tell her ? " she asked rather curiously, as she marked his sud- 
 den change of expression. 
 
 " Because because," he stammered, while his lip trem- 
 bled at the memory of the blows that had scarcely ceased to 
 tingle ; " because she would not let me ; and if I had, she 'd 
 only said, as she oilers does, she was plaguy glad of it it 
 would learn me to stand up, next time. I won't stay here ! " 
 he continued, more vehemently, "I'll run away I hate 
 her I wish she was dead ! " 
 
 "Hush! hush! my boy," said Mrs. Banks, gently. "This* 
 is all wrong. You don't know what you are saying. You 
 don't wish any such thing." 
 
 " Yes, I do, and I wish I was dead, too, for everybody 
 thrashes me ; " and the poor boy drew his ragged straw hat 
 over his face, and burst into tears. 
 
 This time there was quite as much sorrow as anger in his 
 tones, and the motherly heart of Mrs. Banks was touched by 
 his friendless condition. 
 
 " Poor boy poor little fellow ! " she said as she gathered 
 one of his little hands in hers ; " have you no friends no 
 one to look after you ? " 
 
 The boy shook his head and continued to sob. 
 
 " You must not feel so badly, Edward," she added, after a 
 moment's silence. " I will be your friend, and I will ask 
 Mrs. Tallman to let you come and see us often. We will all 
 love you very much. Indeed, George and Sarah do already. 
 Only think, if you had been dead to-day, who would have 
 saved Sarah ? You have no mother, they say," she felt 
 the boy's hand tremble in hers, " but if you try to be a 
 good boy I will be your mother, and George and Sarah and
 
 THE ALMSHOUSE BOY. 279 
 
 little Allan shall be your brothers and sister. You will like 
 that, I dare say." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," whispered the subdued child, but with a look 
 of wonder, as if he did not comprehend just how all this was 
 to be brought about. 
 
 " I will go now, and talk with Mrs. Tallman about your 
 ankle, and, if she will permit, I will send George to help you 
 with your weeding." 
 
 Mrs. Rhoda had parted from Mrs. Gadman, and resumed 
 her work when she saw Mrs. Banks approaching her door. 
 
 " What can she be after here? " she muttered. ". To bor- 
 row something, I '11 warrant. I 've been expecting it ever 
 since she came. But I 'm not goin' to begin any such thing, 
 and so I '11 let her know in the first of it." 
 
 This amiable determination made itself felt in her fingers, 
 which twitched the needle through the coarse cloth she was 
 sewing with a more decided jerk than usual, and her whole 
 attitude said, as plainly as words can say, " I neither borrow 
 nor lend." 
 
 Mrs. Banks paused at the door, wiped her shoes with a 
 degree of care which in any other mood would have won the 
 old woman's admiration ; but she did not look up until that 
 lady said pleasantly, " Good-afternoon, Mrs. Tallman. I 
 saw you at the window, and was tempted to come in and chat 
 with you a while ; but your floor is so white I am almost 
 afraid to step on it." 
 
 This compliment acted as a slight solvent on the old wo- 
 man's determination, and she condescended to look up and say, 
 " Come in, ma'am. You need n't be afraid of stepping on 
 my floor, for it is dirty enough, I am sure, though I washed 
 it up this morning. But there 's no use in a body's trying 
 to keep decent in such weather, when it rains once in two 
 hours, and with that good-for-nothing boy to run in and out, 
 and make more tracks than a dog." 
 
 " But we housekeepers must confess that, if the frequent
 
 280 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL 
 
 showers do make bad work with our floors, they make the 
 scene without very beautiful. I have been looking at your 
 garden ; it really does me good to see how bright and thrifty 
 everything looks. I can almost sep the plants grow." 
 
 " And the weeds too, I '11 warrant ; for that boy is the la- 
 ziest of all mortals." 
 
 " Perhaps he would work better if he had some one with 
 him. I find that children soon get tired of working alone." 
 
 " Somebody with him ! Do you suppose I 'm going out 
 there to pull weeds, when I keep him for seventy-five cents a 
 week, and don't make a cent at that, the Lord knows ! " cried 
 the old woman sharply. 
 
 " Certainly not," said the Widow Banks, with a significance 
 she tried in vain to repress ; " but my George is constantly 
 teasing me for something to do. When I could afford to have 
 a garden he used to help me a great deal. He will be very 
 happy to assist Edward, if you will permit him, and, indeed, 
 I shall take it as a great favor." 
 
 Mrs. Rhoda's first thought was to refuse, but a moment's 
 reflection told her that four hands would be better than two, 
 especially as she was very anxious to have the garden 
 weeded ; besides, they would be directly under her eye ; there- 
 fore she consented. 
 
 Mrs. Banks then spoke of Ned's ankle, and the cause of the 
 injury. The old lady hastily interrupted her : 
 
 " Fell down ! I thought he had, by the look of his clothes 
 when he came home. If he 's hurt his foot, I 'm glad of it. 
 What business had he to go near the oxen ? But I don't 
 believe a word about it. He 's allers makin' up some lie tn 
 other ! " 
 
 " But his ankle is really badly sprained, Mrs. Tallman, and, 
 as it was done in assisting my child, I think I ought to attend 
 to it, though I know I shall not do it so skilfully as you 
 would." 
 
 " Skilful or not," began Mrs. Rhoda, " I shan't find ban-
 
 THE ALMSHOUSE BOY. 281 
 
 dages and liniment for every little scratch that young one 
 gets. But you can do as you like. You can afford it I 
 suppose ! " 
 
 Mrs. Banks took no notice of the sneering emphasis which 
 Mrs. Rhoda placed upon her last remark, but said mildly : 
 
 " I trust I shall never be too poor to be grateful espec- 
 ially to one who has, perhaps, saved the life of my child." 
 
 " Umph ! " muttered the old dame, as the door closed on 
 her visitor. " I should think she 'd got young ones enough of 
 her own to look after, without troubling herself with the town 
 poor. But 't would be just the same if she had a dozen. I 
 knew she had n't any faculty." 
 
 George soon joined Ned in the garden ; and, though Mrs. 
 Rhoda watched them sharply, she never caught them even 
 once gathering the currants or otherwise neglecting their work. 
 Therefore, when George came in after tea, and asked if Ned 
 might go home with him and have his ankle bound up, she 
 said, " Do go along and done with it ! " 
 
 The ankle was duly cared for ; and then there never was, 
 in Ned's opinion, such curiosities as the children displayed to 
 his admiring gaze. There Was little Allan's new alphabet, 
 gayly printed on Bristol-board which " brother Fred." had 
 brought him from the city ; there was, also, Allan's file of 
 tin soldiers, a sadly mutilated set, some wanting an arm and 
 some a "head, but all the more natural, as George observed, 
 for it proved they had seen actual service. Then, there was 
 George and Sarah's box of books a wonderful box, to say 
 nothing of its contents, with Doctor Franklin pasted on the 
 centre of the lid, flanked on either side by run-away appren- 
 tices, stray horses, dogs, cows, ships, steamboats, hats and 
 muffs ; while directly above his head ran a locomotive with a 
 whole train of cars. Ah ! it was a wonderful box quite a 
 picture-gallery in itself and it seemed as if Ned would never 
 tire of looking at it and asking questions. They had scarcely 
 come to the books when Mrs. Banks reminded them that Mrs. 
 24*
 
 LEAVES FROM IHK TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 Tallman had not given Ned permission to stay, and might bo 
 displeased if he did not return. The children were very 
 anxious to have him stay just to see one more,~and Ned looked 
 very wistfully at a red-and-blue Robinson Crusoe which sat 
 holding the gentle lama by the halter, in the book that 
 George had just opened ; but when Mrs. Banks repeated her 
 remark, saying, if he went now, Mrs. Tallman would be more 
 willing, perhaps, to let him come again, he 1 turned away reso- 
 lutely, saying, " Please, ma'am, won't you ask her ? " 
 
 " I will," and the kind widow kept her word. Mrs. Rhoda 
 consented, though in no very gracious manner, muttering, 
 " If he was there, he would be out of her way." 
 
 So little Ned became a frequent visitor at Mrs. Banks' 
 apartments. As his bashfulness wore off, she found that ho 
 was coarse and rude in his language and manners, how 
 should he be otherwise ? and very ignorant. 
 
 She did not reject him, however, as a bad boy who would 
 contaminate her own children, but her kind heart yearned 
 over him, and she strove, by kind and gentle teachings, to lead 
 him to " overcome evil with good." It was long before she 
 could perceive any radical change in those respects, yet her 
 " faith was large in time," and she did not despair. 
 
 She was right. In her room he caught glimpses of child- 
 hood's fairy land, from which he had been excluded from hi, 
 birth. He was not ungrateful, and gradually her smile of 
 approval or glance of reproof came to have more influence 
 over him than all the cuffs he had received from his birth, 
 and these had been neither few nor far between. He cer- 
 tainly was a better boy, or Mrs. Rhoda a better woman ; for, 
 though she continued to raise her hand in the old scientific 
 manner, the blows were much less frequent and heavy. Pos- 
 sibly a breath of the atmosphere of quiet happiness that per' 
 vaded Widow Banks' rooms had stolen through the key-hole 
 (Mrs. Rhoda usually kept the doors locked to keep out the 
 children), and somewhat softened the acerbity of her disposi-
 
 TH ALJISHOUSE BOY. 288 
 
 tion ; or, perhaps, the change might be traced to the many 
 daily little attentions and deeds of kindness which Mrs. Banks 
 persisted in showing her, notwithstanding the indifferent and 
 often coarse manner in which they were received. 
 
 But to whatever influence we ascribe it, it is very certain 
 that she one day called all the children to her door and divid- 
 ed between them some fine large apples, and not only gave 
 Mrs. Banks permission to fasten her clothes-line to a post on 
 her portion of the yard, a favor which she had peremptorily 
 refused when she first came there, but even accepted an in- 
 vitation to take tea from that lady. Unfortunately, this visit 
 did not terminate as happily as Mrs. Banks hoped, for the old 
 lady did not fail to criticize the management of her children, 
 and enlarge on her own superior method. 
 
 " My boys were never allowed to litter up a room like 
 that," she exclaimed, pointing to a corner where George was 
 engaged in manufacturing a chair for Sarah's doll, while she 
 and Allan watched the progress with delight. " If they 
 wanted to whittle, there was room enough out of doors, and 
 that was the place for them." 
 
 " Yes, I highly approve of out-of-door exercise for both 
 boys and girls," said Mrs. Banks, innocently ; " but I find, 
 if we leave children too much to themselves, they are liable to 
 get into mischief, contract evil habits, and " 
 
 " Do you mean to twit me to my face ? " cried the old 
 woman, angrily. " I guess my boys were no worse than some 
 others, and some folks that I know may live to see' theirs hung 
 yet ! " and, jerking her head up and down like a beetle against 
 a wall, she marched out of the room, banging the door behind 
 her. 
 
 For several weeks after this visit, she met all Mrs. Banks' 
 attempts at conciliation with a frostiness that would have 
 chilled a less hopeful nature ; but gentleness and patience, 
 combined with faith and love, can do much even in our world
 
 284 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 of discord ; and, in time, they did not fail to soften the anger 
 of Mrs. Rhoda. 
 
 To the surprise of the whole neighborhood, Mrs. Banks con- 
 tinued to reside in the house until her lease expired ; then, in 
 hope of obtaining better employment and being nearer her son 
 Fred., she removed to New Haven. 
 
 It was a sad day for Ned Norris when the Banks family 
 
 left M ; how sad none but those whose childhood has 
 
 been lone and friendless as his can tell, and God grant 
 they may be few ! He had earnestly promised the good 
 widow to remember her teachings, and to try to be a good boy ; 
 but, as he stood on the steps, watching the slow progress of 
 the wagon that bore his friends and their few household chat- 
 tels away, the prospect of ever being able to fulfil that prom- 
 ise seemed to grow more and more hopeless; and when it 
 turned the corner into the great stage-road, and George waved 
 his hat for the last time, he burst into tears. 
 
 To the honor of Mrs. Rhoda's nature be it recorded that 
 she did not box his ears, or make any demonstration towards 
 it, but contented herself with saying : 
 
 " Well, well, boy, there 's no use in crying. George could 
 not stay here forever. You '11 find enough to cry for, before 
 you die, without crying after him, though I must say," she 
 added to a neighbor who had run in to see them start, " that 
 he is one of the best-behaved boys I ever saw ; and the won- 
 der is how he comes to be so, for his mother has n't got the 
 least faculty for managing children." 
 
 " I never thought she had much faculty for anything ; if 
 she had, she kept it to herself, for she was n't a bit sociable," 
 replied the woman. " She was always kinder queer." 
 
 " Queer or not," said the old woman, rather testily, " she 
 had as few bad streaks as anybody I know, and everybody 
 has some." 
 
 Ay, and everybody has some " good streaks," friend Rhoda ; 
 but thine, which had been drawn out and made faintly Imoi-
 
 THE ALMSHOCSE BOY. 285 
 
 nous by the sun of Love, soon began to fade in its absence, 
 and, in a few weeks, became dim and dingy as before. 
 Little Ned felt the change, and, between the bitter temper of 
 the old lady and the influence of his old habits, became dis- 
 couraged and discontented, and almost ceased to wish to be a 
 good boy. 
 
 But he did not forget his friends ; and when Dick Mills, 
 the stage-coach driver, occasionally brought him some such 
 trifling presents from the Banks family as their limited 
 means enabled them to procure, he longed for something 
 to send in return some little thing to prove that he 
 was not forgetful or ungrateful. But all his little keepsakes 
 had been their gifts, and if he sometimes received a penny or 
 tw,o for some slight service rendered a neighbor, the^ were 
 always taken into the close keeping of his old mistress. 
 
 One summer day, he was at his old work in the garden, 
 when there came a thought to him which brightened his face 
 at once. There was the raspberry -bush in the corner of the 
 garden; his bush, for even Mrs. Rhoda called it his, with 
 its fine, large, delicious fruit just beginning to ripen. " They '11 
 be almost as big as acorn-cups," he said, eying them with de- 
 light, " and I'll send them. I don't believe they'll get any 
 in New Haven half as nice." 
 
 But the next thing was a basket to put them in. He 
 would not ask Mrs. Rhoda for one, because he feared being 
 forbidden to think of such nonsense. After several futile at- 
 tempts to construct one from some old splinters he found in 
 the garret, he gave it up, and decided to ask his friend, Dick 
 Mills, to lend him one. It so happened, that the day previ- 
 ous to the one on which Dick had promised to take charge of 
 his berries, Mrs. Rhoda had occasion to be absent from home. 
 She set some cold food on the table for his dinner, and, after 
 laying out work enough to keep him busy through the day, 
 left him alone. 
 
 Ned worked very industriously until he began to grow
 
 286 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDRASYL. 
 
 hungry, and cast frequent glances toward the noon-mark on 
 the kitchen window-sill. At length the lazy shadow crept 
 quite up to the notch, and he was proceeding to the house to 
 get his dinner, when he observed a forlorn-looking Indian 
 woman coming down the street with several baskets dangling 
 from her arm. Seeing him look at her very earnestly, she 
 came up to the gate, and asked him to buy one. There was 
 one just the size he wanted. Ah, how he longed to possess 
 it ! The splinters were so smooth and white, the red and 
 yellow stains upon it so gay and bright. He did not heed 
 the woman's jargon, but stood turning round and round, with 
 a very wistful look, until her " You '11 take it, my little man, 
 it's only a sixpence! " aroused him, and he put it back, 
 with a sigh, saying, " No, no, I can't." 
 
 " If your mother would just give me a bit of dinner for it," 
 suggested the woman. 
 
 Mother ! Ned sighed again ; but, suddenly remembering 
 his own dinner, he asked her to wait a moment, and, running 
 into the house, he brought out the bread and meat that Mrs. 
 Rhoda had left for him, and asked if that would answer. 
 
 " Yes, my man, though cheap as dirt at that," she replied, 
 as she took the food, and placed the basket in his hand. 
 
 Ned hid his prize in the thick currant-bushes, and returned 
 to his work in high spirits, and with such a good will that 
 even Mrs. Rhoda, on her return, condescended to say that 
 he had done quite as much as she expected. 
 
 After supper he gathered his berries, and covered them with 
 a nice piece of white paper, which George Banks had given 
 him. He was stealing past the door, when his old mistress 
 saw him, and called him back. " Her great handkerchief, 
 her great red cotton handkerchief," was missing, and he was 
 required to give an account of it. He disclaimed all knowl- 
 edge of it ; but a glimpse of the basket, which he in vain 
 tried to hide behind him, aroused her suspicions at once. 
 
 " Whose basket is that ? Where did you get it, and what
 
 THE ALMSIIOUSE BOY. 287 
 
 have you got in it, you little scamp ? " she cried, angrily, as 
 she snatched it from his hand. 
 
 " It is n't there. I have n't got it nor seen it," cried the 
 boy, earnestly, as she tore off his paper cover. 
 
 "What's all this? Where did you get the basket of 
 berries, and what are you going to do with them?" she re- 
 peated. 
 
 The boy was obliged to repeat the story of his purchase of 
 the basket, but as soon as he mentioned the 'Indian woman, 
 her anger burst forth with tenfold fury. Regardless of his 
 repeated declarations that the woman did not enter the gate, 
 and that he had not seen the missing article, she insisted that 
 the squaw had stolen it, or that he had given it to her in ex- 
 change for the basket. 
 
 Again the blows fell thick about his ears, and in a manner 
 that proved that her right hand had by no means " forgotten 
 its cunning." "There! into the house with you, you little 
 lying, thieving rascal ! " she exclaimed, driving him before her 
 to the door. 
 
 The color mounted to the boy's cheek as he paused, and, 
 facing her, said firmly, " I am no liar. Will you give me my 
 basket?" 
 
 " Your basket ! " she replied, mimicking him. " I should 
 like to know by what means it became yours. I guess 
 you '11 learn not to peddle off my things again to a drunken 
 squaw thief! " 
 
 The boy cast on her a fierce look of hatred and defiance 
 as she placed the basket in the cupboard, and ordered him 
 to bed. He went to his garret, swelling with rage and dis- 
 appointment. " She shan't have it ! " he muttered, as he 
 sat down on his bed, with clenched fists. " I hate her worse 
 than ever. I '11 steal it *and run away. I '11 go this very 
 night ! " 
 
 Mrs. Rhoda's bedroom door stood open, but Ned's bare 
 feet gave no sound, as he stole across the floor to the cup-
 
 288 LEAVES *HOM THE TKEE IGDBASTL. 
 
 board, and seized upon his basket ; neither did the slight rat- 
 1 tling of the kitchen latch, as it yielded to his pressure, disturb 
 her slumbers. 
 
 The next moment he stood beneath the quiet stars, as 
 friendless as on the day of his mother's death. But he was 
 too young to reflect ; besides, he was very, very angry ; and he 
 walked down the street with a firm step and tearless eyes, 
 until he reached the stables of the village inn. There were 
 watchful eyes 'not easily cheated, and out sprang old Lion, 
 Dick Mills' great dog, with a low growl ; but, instantly recog- 
 nizing him, he sprang upon him, wagging his tail, thrusting 
 his nose up to his face, and manifesting his delight by quick, 
 short barks. 
 
 The boy's whispered " Get out ! Get down, Lion ! " oaly 
 made him redouble his gambols ; and, fearing to wake some 
 one in the house, if he spoke louder, he permitted the dog to 
 go on, until he reached the outskirts of the village. 
 
 Noble old Lion ! He had an older claim on the boy's 
 heart than even the Banks family. After they moved away, 
 he was the only thing the child had to love, or that returned 
 his love. Ned felt this, and there was a choking sensation in 
 his throat as he pushed his old friend down, and strove to 
 speak sternly to him, and drive him back. Perhaps Lion was 
 conscious of this struggle, for he did not obey, but, springing 
 in advance a few rods, lay down directly in his path, and, 
 laying his head between his outstretched paws, looked up in 
 his face with such wistful, beseeching expression, that the 
 poor boy sat down by the road-side, and burst into .tears. At 
 length he brushed them away from his cheek, and, patting 
 the old dog's head, said : 
 
 " No, no, old Lion, you must n't go. They would say I 
 stole you, too, I suppose. Go hotae ! Go back, sir ! " he 
 continued, sternly. The dog retreated a step or two, and 
 stood eying him with the same wistful look. Ned caught up 
 a stone, and, taming away his head, hurled it at him. The
 
 THE ALMSHOUSE BOY. 289 
 
 dog gave a low hoarse growl, and turned towards home. The 
 boy went his way, but, in spite of his efforts to restrain them, 
 the tears rolled slowly down his cheeks, and he often turned 
 as if he expected nay, hoped to see old Lion at his 
 heels. At sunrise he was crossing the long bridge on the 
 eastern side of the city. His heart sank within him at the 
 sight of so many houses glittering and gleaming beneath the 
 morning sunlight, for how should he ever find the one in- 
 habited by Mrs. Banks? Then he began -to ask himself 
 what that good woman would say. She might blame him, 
 and, perhaps, send him back. He grew irresolute. Once or 
 twice he ventured to ask some boys, whom he met, to tell him 
 where Mrs. Banks lived ; but a quizzical reply, or a shout of 
 laughter, was all he received. "Weary, hungry and discouraged, 
 he wandered along Water-street, until he found himself in the 
 vicinity of Long Wharf, where he sat down on a pile of 
 lumber, and watched, with a listless gaze, the movements on 
 board of a brig which was fitting out for sea. The scene 
 soon became a very busy one. Drays and carts began to 
 rumble along the street ; then came gentlemen on foot and in 
 carriages, whose very canes had a business-like look, and, 
 finally, a large drove of mules which, amidst kickings and 
 snortings and no very gentle coaxings from the sailors, were 
 transferred to the brig's deck. The boy became interested, 
 and drew nearer and nearer, until he sat down on a box, close 
 to the vessel's side. Two portly-looking gentlemen stood 
 there talking with a powerful, athletic man, with a profusion 
 of dark crispy hair, slightly sprinkled with gray, and an open, 
 good-humored face, barring a slight irritable expression of im- 
 patience. They were about to leave the spot, when the latter 
 turned, as if to give some further orders to the man on board 
 the brig, and his eye fell on the child. 
 
 " Up with you, my lad! " he cried, hastily. "That box 
 should have gone on board before. Halloo, there ! " he added, 
 motioning to one of the m0b, "Jake that box on board, and 
 25
 
 290 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 see that it is carefully stowed." He was turning away, when, 
 struck by the boy's eager, earnest look, he said, impatiently 
 " Well, out with it, my lad. What do you want ? " 
 
 " To go to sea, sir," replied Ned, instinctively. 
 
 " To go to sea ! " replied the captain, for it was none 
 other, gazing at him from head to foot, with a quizzical 
 look. " What berth do you expect to fill? Do you know a 
 marling-spike from a rope's end ? " 
 
 " No ; but I can learn, sir." 
 
 " True enough, and in more ways than one, too. What do 
 you expect ? " 
 
 The boy looked up inquiringly. 
 
 " I mean what do you expect me to pay for your valuable 
 services ? " 
 
 " What you please, sir." 
 
 " Come, Bingham," said one of the gentlemen, who had 
 stood, during this conversation, impatiently tapping his boot 
 with his gold-headed cane ; " you have shipped one boy, and 
 that is enough." 
 
 " But the rascal has sent word he can't go, and, as you in- 
 sist on my taking out these passengers, I must have some one 
 to wait on them besides old Joe. I will overtake you in a 
 few moments." 
 
 He then turned to Ned, and, by a few well-directed queries, 
 drew from him his whole story. 
 
 " The old sea-cow ! " he muttered, as Ned related the cause 
 of his running away. " Well, you got your basket ; I 'm 
 glad of that. You are good grit. You shall go with me. 
 I '11 feed and clothe you, and give you a trifle beside, and, 
 what 's more," he continued, smiling, " a good whipping now 
 and then, just to remind you of that old alligator." 
 
 " I 'm use to that ! " cried the boy, catching the quick, 
 cheerful tone of the skipper. 
 
 The captain called to a negro, who answered to the name 
 of " Cook," and gave the boy into his cate for the day. The
 
 THE ALMSHOUSE BOY. 291 
 
 next day at twelve o'clock, the brig " Swan " was off Mon- 
 tauk Point, bound for Berbice. But as we are neither a 
 mermaid nor a Mother Carey's chicken, we will not attempt 
 to follow them, but go back to the village, and listen a moment 
 to the conversation between two of the " selectmen " who 
 stand talking at the corner of the green. Mrs. Rhoda has 
 duly notified them of Ned's elopement, and their faces wear 
 such a serene, self-satisfied look, that we scarcely need to hear 
 
 Esq. G 's closing remark, " There is no need of making 
 
 a fuss about it ; it will be quite a saving to the town," to 
 convince us that they are very public-spirited men, and 
 have a very distinct idea of the difference between dollars 
 and souls. 
 
 Twelve years have passed years in which that rare da- 
 guerrean, Time, has added many a scene to the gallery of 
 memory, sketched amidst sin and suffering, perchance, but 
 they all look beautiful in this shaded light. One sketch more, 
 and we have done. 
 
 It is, in the phrase of the old German minne-singers, the 
 
 "sweet spring-time," and our quiet town of M lies 
 
 bathed in the fresh, dewy beauty of a new creation. Its 
 aspect is little changed, for twelve years effect much less 
 change in such a place than twelve weeks in a crowded city ; 
 for time is far more lenient than a board of aldermen, or the 
 incendiary. Moss has accumulated on the northern roofs of 
 some of the old houses ; blinds have been added to some ; 
 on others the unpainted clapboards have taken a deeper 
 brown ; but few save such retrospective souls as thou and I, 
 reader, would note the change. Therefore, we need no guide 
 to Mrs. Rhoda's dwelling, nor introduction to the dame her- 
 self, who, in her clean cap and checked linen apron, stands in 
 the door-way looking down the street; for whatever mad 
 freaks time may have played with our ringlets and roses, he
 
 292 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDRASYL. 
 
 has left her unscathed ; indeed, at this distance, she even looks 
 renovated. 
 
 She is watching for some one, I '11 wager ; and here comes 
 the stage-coach, dashing past the tavern, regardless of the yells 
 of a young dog, the successor of old Lion, who has long since 
 gone the way of all dogs, and draws up at Mrs. Rhoda's door. 
 Down springs Dick Mills, whose short, stout figure and rubi- 
 cund phiz defy time and weather, and lets down the steps. 
 A handsome, manly-looking fellow, in a blue round-about 
 jacket and a Panama hat, steps out and returns the old woman's 
 greeting. 
 
 " Ned Norris ! " "We did not need her exclamation to tell 
 us that, for the eyes and hair are the same, though those 
 heavy whiskers are a foreign growth, and his cheek, between 
 wind and weather, has deepened to an oriental hue. He turns 
 to the carriage, and pretty Sarah Banks, who has been his 
 wife for more than a twelve-month, carefully places a bundle 
 in his arms. What can it be ? Some rare eggs, perhaps, or 
 a new set of choice crockery for Mrs. Rhoda's table ; some- 
 thing, at least, which he is very anxious to show her, for, 
 awkwardly enough, he begins to undo the fastenings, while 
 the old dame scolds, and Sarah, springing to the ground, says, 
 as she takes it from him, " Do wait, dear Ned, until we get 
 into the house ! " 
 
 In a few moments they are seated, and the skilful hands of 
 Sarah remove the soft wrappers, and out looks a baby a 
 beautiful, blue-eyed baby, fresh and fair as an angel. 0, 
 what a baby that is ! " Neighbors, have you such an one ? " 
 How the father's eyes glisten with pride and joy as the old 
 woman praises its beauty and points out its resemblance to 
 its mother ! How she trots it and croons over it, while Ned 
 and Sarah draw from the big basket (not Ned's little one) the 
 few trifles they have brought for her ! Trifles ! there is tea 
 and sugar enough to last a reasonable woman six months, to
 
 THE ALM8HOUSE BOY. 29S 
 
 Bay nothing of a nice new cap from Mrs. Banks, and an apron 
 from Fred.'s wife. 
 
 Ah ! Mrs. Rhoda has found her heart. See how her old 
 eyes fill with tears while she protests that Ned is " kinder to 
 her than her own son could be, and that she has not the heart 
 to take a single thing now he has a family of his own to sup- 
 port. It 's robbing the baby ; God bless it ! " . 
 
 " Never mind the baby, Aunt Rhoda," replies Ned, laugh- 
 ing. " I can manage to fill his mouth and a dozen more, if 
 need be, for to-morrow morning I sail master of the ' Orion,' 
 if wind and tide are fair ; so give the baby to me, mother, 
 and get us a good dinner, for we must go back in the return 
 
 The seed sown by the good Mrs. Banks in the heart of that 
 friendless boy did not fall on stony ground, but, under tho 
 kind and somewhat whimsical nurture of Captain Bingham, 
 throve and brought forth fruit, not unmixed with weeds, of 
 course ; but these are fast disappearing under the gentle influ- 
 ence of Sarah. 
 
 Captain Bingham never deserted him ; beneath his eye he 
 became a thorough seaman, and was gradually advanced until 
 he gained the command of a fine new brig. For some years 
 he had supplied many of Mrs. Rhoda 's wants, and though he 
 wholly refused to take her into his family to live, as Sarah 
 once suggested, he continues to provide for her, and has never 
 permitted the recently-awakened warmth in her old heart to 
 grow cold from neglect. Her Siberian visage will relax and 
 become almost tropical when she speaks of him to her neigh- 
 bors, and she is often heard to remark, " Boys will be boys, 
 and there a'n't no use in trying to make 'em walk a crack." 
 
 Wise people will tell you, dear reader, that the age of 
 miracles is past. But believe it not 0, believe it not! for 
 faith, and hope, and love, are still on earth, and the great 
 God still in heaven ! 
 
 25*
 
 IX. 
 MELINDA BUTTON. 
 
 " IT is a kind offer enough, Melinda; but why not stay here 
 and learn a trade ? " 
 
 " Because I hate sawing, and have no idea of being scolded 
 by some fretftil old seamstress or milliner. Out there I can 
 at least do as I please." 
 
 " Perhaps so ; but I shall be much surprised if you are 
 content to stay there six weeks, though I have no wish to dis- 
 courage you." 
 
 " Content !" cried the laughing girl ; " that would, indeed, 
 be something new for me. But tell me something about these 
 old relatives ; you have been there, you say. They are rich, 
 certainly." 
 
 " Yes ; I went there once with your mother. It 's quite 
 out of the world, among the woods and rocks. The place 
 gave me a notion of the world before the flood ; and Aunt 
 Eunice is nothing at all like your grandmother. I doubt if 
 her ideas ever wander beyond the limits of her farm. Your 
 mother, I remember, happened to tear her dress in passing 
 through one of their clumsy gates," continued the lady, 
 laughing. " It was a silk, and you should have heard Aunt 
 Eunice's lecture on the extravagance and degeneracy of the 
 times that permitted a woman to wear a silk dress anywhere 
 save to church. However, your mother listened with meek 
 ness, and was well repaid, for the old woman loaded us down 
 with good things when we came home. She is kind, I think.
 
 MELINDA DUTTON. 295 
 
 though certainly queer. But they are rich, and can't live 
 forever." 
 
 The above is but a fragment of the conversation that took 
 place between Mrs. Murdock, of Middletown, and her young 
 friend, Melinda Dutton. Melinda was an orphan, the pet of 
 a doting grandmother, who had done all she could towards 
 spoiling her. She was ignorant, untrained and conceited, 
 not that she had lacked facilities for education, for her grand- 
 mother had sent her to the most fashionable schools in the 
 city, and she had, as the old lady proudly observed, " been 
 through all the branches ; " yet of all that was useful and 
 necessary for one in her condition of life she was wholly 
 ignorant. Nature had given her a quick, bright intellect, and 
 a loving heart, yet, at sixteen, she was indolent, ignorant, 
 self-willed and discontented. 
 
 Melinda's mother had died soon after her birth, and her 
 father had spent most of his time at the south. His business 
 was lucrative, yet his habits were such that at his death there 
 was nothing left for his child. The grandmother did not long 
 survive him, and left the girl not only portionless, but nearly 
 friendless. In a remote corner of our town the old lady had 
 a brother and sister still living. They were unmarried, and, 
 when informed of her death, wrote to offer a home to her 
 orphan grandchild. It was this letter that gave rise to the 
 above conversation. 
 
 Mrs. Murdock has given her impression of Aunt Eunice ; 
 now, dear reader, let me give you mine. She was not, in- 
 deed, anything like Melinda's grandmother, but a shrewd, 
 strong-minded, energetic woman, who knew little and cared 
 less about that portion of the world which could not be seen 
 from the old farm-house door, where she had always dwelt 
 with her brother Jonas. Her prepossessions and prejudices 
 were very strong, and not easily changed, for she was seldom 
 contradicted, none of the neighbors caring to " get into a 
 snarl " with Aunt Eunice. Her tongue was swift and sharp,
 
 296 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDRASYL. 
 
 her manners somewhat rough ; but she had a true, kind heart, 
 though the way to reach it often seemed somewhat intricate. 
 She had about her that kind of rude dignity and that marked 
 individuality which are peculiar to people who, as one of our 
 hard-fisted neighbors expresses it, " never look up to nobody 
 but themselves ; " and, for all such as allowed themselves to 
 feel or manifest any craving to be " fashionable and gen- 
 teel," she felt a heartier contempt than a Turk feels for a 
 Christian. 
 
 Personally, she was fine-looking, tall and erect, with eyes 
 of that deep, brilliant blue whose intensity often surpasses 
 those of a darker shade, and high but well-cut features, indic- 
 ative of great firmness and decision of character. At three- 
 score not a single line of silver thridded the mass of dark- 
 brown hair which seldom suffered the confinement of cap or 
 bonnet, and her skirts were of the narrowest fashion, and her 
 short-gowns of the most antique pattern possible, made up 
 from her stores of home-made flannel, or, in summer, of gay 
 chintz which sne had purchased years ago. A flannel blanket 
 in winter, and one of Uncle Jonas' cast-off straw hats in sum- 
 mer, answered for head-gear ; and in this guise she appeared 
 in the great yard back of the house, at sunrise every morn- 
 ing, with her milking-pails on her arm and a great bowl of 
 corn-meal in her hand, followed by a motley group of hens, 
 ducks, geese and turkeys, gobbling, crowing, cackling and 
 screaming, while her own sharp voice was heard above the 
 din, lecturing some belligerent old turkey-cock or gormandiz- 
 ing gander, or in softer tones commending some motherly old 
 hen ; for, like most childless women, she had contracted the 
 habit of talking to everything, animate and inanimate, as if 
 it were human. Her house was scrupulously neat, but she was 
 too much of an utilitarian to cover her floor with a carpet 
 " plaguy dirty things, good for nothing but the moths ; " 
 neither had she sofas, lounges or ottomans, but hef parlor was 
 furnished with great arm-chairs, and these were piled full of
 
 MELINDA BUTTON. 297 
 
 woollen blankets with all sorts of striped borders, and cover- 
 lets of all imaginable patterns. 
 
 On tne cherry bureau, and in the corners of the room, were 
 divers rolls of homespun cloth, linen, and woollen, and li?isey- 
 woolsey, shining cam-colored flannel for her own use, and but- 
 ternut-colored " dress cloth " for Uncle Jonas' wear. Aunt 
 Eunice did not like black, it " was such a rotten color." 
 
 The old-fashioned round table was guiltless of lamps or 
 books, or engravings, but, at the proper season, was covered 
 with great pewter platters, full of sliced apples, or peaches, 
 or berries, drying for winter use. The walls were garnished 
 with sundry bunches of yarn, and from a projecting beam 
 hung the old people's Sunday suit. 
 
 The sitting-room or, as they called it, the " out-room," was 
 scarcely less bountifully furnished. Here were, usually, 
 baskets of apples standing about, and, across the hearth in 
 summer, stood Aunt Eunice's great wheel, while close at hand, 
 on the red chest, lay several bunches of wool-rolls ready for 
 spinning at moments of leisure from the kitchen. But Aunt 
 Eunice's peculiar province was the kitchen ; here her glory- 
 was reflected in the bright tins which lined the shelves, the 
 pails and noggins, the quantities of dried beef, and strings of 
 apples, pumpkins, red pepjper and herbs, that dangled from 
 the beams overhead. The great wooden screen before the 
 fire was hung with clean linen bags, and, perchance, a shirt 
 or pair of trousers of Uncle Jonas' ; and, in each corner of 
 the yawning fire-place, stood the dye-pot and salt-mortar 
 those lares ef our fathers' hearth-stones, quite as useful and 
 quite as venerable as those of Rome or Pompeii certainly 
 quite as venerable, for, who, I ask, ever saw a new salt- 
 mortar ? 
 
 Here, Aunt Eunice had spent sixty years, busy, independ- 
 ent, contented, and happy happy, except at two or three 
 periods, when she had been troubled with the suspicion that 
 Uncle Jonas thought of getting married. And she was
 
 298 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRA3YL. 
 
 respected and beloved too ; for the sharp words and stinging 
 proverbs which she bestowed upon her neighbors were pretty 
 sure to be followed by kind deeds. 
 
 But I must not forget Uncle Jonas. Dear, kind, sunny- 
 hearted, Uncle Jonas ! with his benevolent smile, his quiet, 
 thoughtful manner, and his few, yet pleasant, words. He 
 was the patriarch of the neighborhood, whose footsteps were 
 hallowed by angels in the shape of little children, who gath- 
 ered around and looked upon him with love and reverence. 
 
 Of course, Melinda Dutton was very poorly qualified to 
 appreciate or enjoy her new home. Mrs. Murdock's words 
 were not without their influence, and they constantly recurred 
 to her mind, after she was seated in the stage-coach that was 
 to convey her to Maplehurst ; and, by the time that vehicle 
 stopped at the rustic tavern where she was to get down, she 
 had come to seriously regard her old relatives with excessive 
 repugnance, and to pity herself as the most unfortunate and 
 wretched of mortals. 
 
 " Have you brought my niece, Mr. Green ? " asked a full- 
 toned, pleasant voice, as the driver opened the coach-door. It 
 was Uncle Jonas that spoke, and who went forward and care- 
 fully assisted her to alight. His words were so kind and 
 cheerful, his manner so cordial, as he led her into the house, 
 and asked about her journey, that tne girl's brow grew clearer, 
 and she watched his movements, as he transferred her baggage 
 to his square farm-wagon, with unexpected interest. 
 
 The Dudley farm was about three miles from the village. 
 They were soon on the road, and, as they passed along, Uncle 
 Jonas pointed out the old farm-houses, and told her the names 
 of the owners. The sun set soon after they left the village ; 
 the twilight deepened, and as the road crept carefully and 
 cautiously on among the hills, and grew more and more 
 rugged, the old man relapsed into silence. The moon arose ; 
 gradually the dark shadows fled, and the dewy forest-leaves 
 quivered and glittered like glad living spirits, as the soft
 
 MELINDA BUTTON. 299 
 
 moonbeams slid down among them in search of the sweet, 
 fragrant flowers. It was a new scene to Melinda. There 
 was that in her nature that answered to it, and she uttered a 
 low exclamation of delight. 
 
 "Ay, yes, the heavens declare his righteousness, and all 
 the people see his glory! " said the old man, in a deep, low 
 tone, involuntarily slackening his horse's pace, and raising his 
 eyes reverently to the heavens above them. 
 
 They turned into a dark, narrow lane, overhung by the 
 luxuriant branches of the cherry-trees that shaded it, and, soon 
 afterwards, the horse stopped, and Uncle Jonas, pointing to 
 the dim outline of the old farm-house, shut in by trees, told 
 her that was her home. He had scarcely ceased to speak 
 when Aunt Eunice appeared, coming from the house with a 
 tall candle in her hand, which she was trying to screen from 
 the current of air, alternately addressing that and the old 
 house-dog, who was manifesting his delight at his master's 
 return, by barking and gamboling directly in her path. 
 
 " Get out of the way, you black scamp ! Be still, I say 
 There, sweel out, will ye, plague on the pesky thing ! I 
 wish I 'd got the lantern. Jonas ! I say, Jonas, is that you ? 
 And have you got Lindy ? " 
 
 " Yes, here she is, Eunice, you can't mistake that face ! ' 
 he said, leading the girl forward ; " she 's a Dudley, every 
 inch of her." 
 
 " So much the better ! " cried the old woman, shaking her 
 heartily by the hand, and raising her light to get a better 
 view of her face. " You 're the last of a good stock, for 
 Jonas never will get married now, and I 'm proper glad you 've 
 come to live with us. But come in, child ; you are tired and 
 hungry as a bear, I dare say." 
 
 Melinda followed her into the house, and was soon seated 
 at a table loaded with eatables, but arranged in a manner tha 
 greatly disturbed all her ideas of propriety. There was a 
 great platter of cold beef, flanked by plates of butter, smoked
 
 300 LEATES FROM THE TREE IGDRASTL. 
 
 beef, pickles, cakes and pies. On opposite corners of the 
 table the old lady had placed a loaf of. bread, and almost a 
 whole cheese. Between the old people stood a pitcher of 
 cider, which they drank alternately with their tea. 
 
 " Cut for yourself, Lindy ! " said the old lady, handing 
 over the loaf and a sharp knife. The girl hesitated, and she 
 continued : " I s'pose you are used to having a whole plate- 
 ful cut up every time you eat, just as Thankful Stone did 
 here, last winter, when I sprained my ankle. But I put a 
 stop to it pretty quick. What was left was all dried up, and 
 Miss Thankful did not like dry bread nor odds and ends any 
 better than other folks, and I was n't going to stand dog for 
 the whole family. It 's rank waste to cut up bread in that 
 fashion ! " 
 
 After being pressed to take this and that, and " jest a 
 crumb more " of something else, Melinda withdrew from the 
 table, and surveyed the kitchen with visible astonishment. 
 All was strange, and Aunt Eunice, rattling away her dishes, 
 asking her questions about her journey, lecturing the dog, or 
 inquiring about some sick person, or society matters, of Uncle 
 Jonas, strangest of all. 
 
 The next morning Melinda rose at a late hour, and made 
 her way to the kitchen. 
 
 " Good morning, Lindy ! You look chirk as a cricket ! " 
 was the old lady's greeting. " Come, get your breakfast," 
 she continued, taking a covered dish from the hearth. " Jonas 
 and I eat two hours ago, but we thought we 'd let you sleep, 
 seeing you had come so far yesterday." 
 
 " Breakfast ! " echoed Melinda, with a glance at the old 
 clock. " Why, it is but eight o'clock now, and we never have 
 breakfast until that time, in town ! " 
 
 " Then you are a pesky lazy set ! I should faint clear 
 away before that time. Why could n't you get it before ? " 
 
 " Because we never got up ; or grandmother used to gel
 
 JtBLINDA BUTTON. 301 
 
 up, to be sure, but she nevejr called me until it was ready, and 
 that was at eight." 
 
 " Well, then, she did not do her duty by you," said the old 
 woman, bluntly. " I guess you '11 have to turn over a new 
 leaf here. ' Airly to bed and airly to rise ' is our creed." 
 
 The girl ate her food in silence, then loitered to the window 
 and looked out. After a while, she said, " What a lonesome, 
 dreary, out-of-the-way place this is, aunt ! I wonder how any 
 one in his senses could think of building a house here ! " 
 
 " Tour great-great-grandfather, Ambrose Dudley, settled 
 here before the old war, and if he was n't as wise as any of 
 your city folks, I should like to know it. He was a justice 
 and a deacon. Besides, when folks have enough to do, they 
 ar'n't apt to find fault with such an old homestead as- this," 
 replied the old lady, dryly. " But, come, child, if you 've 
 nothing else to do, wash up the breakfast dishes, and let me 
 see how smart you can be ; but, lawful sakes ! " she added, 
 glancing at Melinda's light muslin, " you don't expect to 
 wash dishes in that gown, I hope. It 's as bad as white, and 
 flimsy as a cobweb." 
 
 " It is one of my usual summer dresses, aunt. As to 
 tousework I never washed a dish in my life ! " 
 
 " Well, now, if that don't beat the Dutch ! E'n-a-most 
 seventeen, and never washed a dish ! " 
 
 " Housework is for servants. No lady does housework 
 it is n't genteel ! " 
 
 " Genteel! a poor, good-for-nothing set of critters they 
 must be, running in debt and cheating other folks out of their 
 honest dues, jest as Tim. Hatton did. He married a fine lady, 
 and set up for a marchant, and cut a mighty dash for a while, 
 and then run out of the little end of the horn. Some folks 
 got plaguily bit by him. Lord save us from all such crit- 
 ters ! " 
 
 "But, aunt, you are rich enough to live without work 
 Why don't you hire servants ? " 
 26
 
 302 LEAVES FKOM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 " Child ! " and the old lady was quite erect, while she flour- 
 ished the bunch of scouring-grass which she held in her hand, 
 with double vigor, " from Ambrose Dudley down, your fore- 
 fathers have been prudent, pains-taking, industrious people. 
 They never grudged a poor man a meal of victuals or a load 
 of wood ; but they were saving, and thought it no disgrace to 
 work. My father was well to do in the world ; when he 
 died we all shared alike. Your grandma married and set up 
 for a fine lady, and spent all her part years before she died. 
 Jonas and I have held our own, and added something to it, 
 mayhap. I don't want to boast ; but let me tell you, child, 
 we ar'n't going to squander what we have. Why should I 
 keep servants ? I have to slave hard enough now, and I 
 don't want a pack of servants to manage. I would n't take 
 all the southern negroes as a gift." 
 
 " O, I would ! There ought to be slaves everywhere to do 
 the drudgery. But I suppose it is of no consequence how 
 people live in such a place as this. In the city you would 
 have to live like other people." 
 
 " Have to ! I 'd like to see them that would make me 
 have to be such a lazy, good-for-nothing critter. I 'd like to 
 know, Lindy, if the folks in Middletown are all monkeys, that 
 they must ape one another ? They read their Bibles, I sup- 
 pose, and don't they know that He who made all things pro- 
 vided two hands for every mouth, and that he that won't work 
 sha'n't eat? Learn to help yourself child, and always 
 remember that the highest price you can pay for a favor is 
 to ask for it." 
 
 Melinda soon found that it would not be so easy to have 
 " her own way out there " as she fancied. Aunt Eunice, re- 
 garding all her previous habits and opinions with inexpressi- 
 ble contempt, was determined to make her a thorough house- 
 keeper, and she was a much more formidable character than 
 the girl had fancied ; but, with all her zeal, Aunt Eunice was,
 
 MELINDA DUTTON. 308 
 
 s yet, not quite wise or gentle enough to undertake to 
 emodel her niece's character with any great hope of success. 
 
 Melinda set about her tasks with considerable zeal, influ- 
 enced as much by the novelty of the thing as a desire to make 
 herself useful. But her ignorance, her carelessness, and, 
 above all, her endless inquisitiveness, hourly exhausted her 
 aunt's small stock of patience. Besides, Aunt Eunice had a 
 way of her own for doing things, and would tolerate no inno- 
 vations, and Melinda soon developed a strong passion for 
 experimenting. If she moulded the bread, it was sure to be 
 after some new method of her own ; or, if her aunt charged 
 her to stir the cream " round with the sun," she would inva- 
 riably stir it the other way, to contradict, by experiment, her 
 aunt's theory. 
 
 " I tell you, Lindy, you '11 bewitch that cream. It '11 never 
 come until doomsday if you stir it that way. It must go 
 round with the sun ! " 
 
 "The sun doesn't go round, aunt. It's the earth that 
 moves ; it 's more philosophical to stir it in this way." 
 
 " Fiddlesticks-ophical ! Are you blind or turning fool, to 
 say the sun don't go round ? Why, look yonder. A little 
 while ago you might have reached it with a pole, e'enamost, 
 from the top of High hill. Now it has got clean away up in 
 the sky, and don't it go down every night behind Joe 
 Page's woods ? " 
 
 " So it seems, aunt. But every child knows that the sun's 
 motion is only apparent ; it seems to rise and set because the 
 earth revolves on its own axis every day, something in this 
 way ; " and Melinda caught up a ball of yarn, and began twirl- 
 ing it round, in illustration of her theory. 
 
 " Dear me, there goes my nice yarn into the cream ! What 
 awful fools there are in this world ! Do you s'pose that I Ve 
 lived sixty years in this world and stood on my head half the 
 time without knowing it ? It stands to reason there is no 
 such thing. What in the name of wonder would come of us
 
 304 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 all if the world did turn over ? Every dish on my shelves there 
 would be smashed into inch pieces ! " 
 
 " Why, aunt, I supposed no one doubted the fact. As to 
 standing on your head and breaking your dishes, all that can 
 be philosophically " 
 
 " Lindy, Lindy Button, I care nothing about your floso- 
 phy ! What I do know I know for sartin. If you had 
 studied your Bible more, you wouldn't be so ignorant. 
 Did n't Joshua command the sun to stand still ? and would 
 he have done that if it had not been a moving ? I guess 
 Joshua, the son of Nun, knew as much as some folks now-a- 
 days ! " 
 
 " But, aunt " 
 
 " Silence ! Don't let me hear any more such heathenish 
 notions ! I wonder how sister Rachel could let any one put 
 such dreadful things into a child's head. It beats all ! " 
 
 Melinda had too much of her aunt's spirit to have her 
 grandmother censured without an attempt at vindication. 
 But this course only made the old lady more caustic and 
 peremptory. They did not take kindly to each other. Me- 
 linda had a quick and loving appreciation of beauty, Aunt 
 Eunice saw nature only in a potato patch or field of turnips. 
 In her view everything was useless that did not directly min- 
 ister to physical needs or fill a purse. As to spiritual needs, 
 she did not recognize any as legitimate save such as could be 
 amply satisfied by reciting the catechism and listening to two 
 sermons on the Sabbath. Therefore she forbade all the girl's 
 attempts to adorn the ample door-yard with shrubbery, and 
 made endless war on all such things as " briars and weeds 
 stuck into pots to clutter up the house ; " saying she felt it 
 her " bounden duty to break her of such shiftless habits." 
 
 With Uncle Jonas the girl was on better terms. To him 
 her young face was like a sunbeam in the wide old house. 
 He really liked her ; and though he was not blind to her 
 faults, he always had some word in palliation. He was one
 
 MELINDA DUTTOH. 305 
 
 "of those kind souls who find it difficult to frown, or believe 
 aught but good of their fellow-beings. Melinda became 
 unconsciously attached to him. He would have made it all 
 sunshine in the house ; but though, in reply to his sister's 
 daily catalogue of the girl's faults and misdemeanors, he spoke 
 many calm, wise words, the clouds would stay. 
 
 The old lady had limited her niece's society to a few fami- 
 lies for whom she had a particular regard. But the girl soon 
 grew weary of these pronouncing the girls " animated 
 churns," and the young men more stupid than their oxen. 
 Not far from the Dudley farm, though on a more frequented 
 road, lived Mr. Hatton, the father of Tim Hatton, the bank- 
 rupt, whom Aunt Eunice denounced daily with inexhaustible 
 bitterness. It was shrewdly suspected that the great leathern 
 pocket-book in which she kept her deposits was minus sev- 
 eral hundreds through Tim's failure. However this might 
 be, there was no reason to doubt her sincerity when she 
 declared that she " e'enamost hated the whole bilin' on 
 'em ! " 
 
 Melinda occasionally saw the Hatton girls at meeting. 
 Their dress and manners indicated pretensions to fashion quite 
 above those of the families she was accustomed to visit, and 
 she wished to make their acquaintance, partly because she 
 expected to find more in common with them than with the 
 others, and partly from a strong desire to contradict Aunt 
 Eunice, and have her own way. Accident favored her ; they 
 met at the village store, whither she sometimes accompanied 
 Uncle Jonas. The young clerk introduced them, and, in a 
 few moments, they had commenced an ardent intimacy. They 
 were pleased with her, and she readily promised to call on 
 them to meet their brother's wife, who was a Middletown 
 woman, and knew several of Melinda 's friends. 
 
 She had called on the Hattons several times before Aunt 
 Eunice was aware of it ; then followed a scene of bitter 
 reproaches and galling hints of dependence on one side, and 
 26*
 
 306 LEAVES FROM TUB TUBE IODRASYL. 
 
 wilful, unflinching obstinacy on the other. Henceforth Me- 
 linda threw aside all seeming restraint or respect for her 
 aunt's commands, and even Uncle Jonas began to view her 
 character with serious apprehensions. Had Aunt Eunice 
 been guided by a more intelligent appreciation of the girl's 
 mind, or more largely furnished with the wisdom of winning 
 souls, it might have been otherwise. But she was not con- 
 scious of her own shortcomings, of course, and laid all the 
 blame on her niece, whom, she said, " a bad bringing-up had 
 completely spoiled." So, when winter came with its lonely 
 sights and sounds, Melinda grew more and more unhappy and 
 dissatisfied, and longed to get away. 
 
 One evening, as she sat moodily watching the patches of 
 snow as they slid from the boughs of a hemlock tree near the 
 window, she was startled by the unusual sound of sleigh-bells 
 in the lane. Presently a sleigh paused before the door, and 
 a gentleman sprang out, whom she at once recognized as a 
 Mr. Langley whom she had known in Middletown. He was, 
 at present, clerk in a large wholesale store in New York. 
 He was spending a few days with some friends in the village, 
 and, hearing that Melinda was in the place, had called to see 
 her. She was delighted with this mark of attention ; he was 
 handsome, fashionable, agreeable, and conversant with all the 
 details of that life for which she so ardently pined. He 
 
 called frequently during his stay in M , took her to ride, 
 
 or whiled away the hours by her side, and soon read in her 
 manner that tale which no man ever reads with indifference. 
 At first this knowledge awoke no feeling but gratified vanity. 
 But soon other feelings began to unite with this, and, guided 
 by motives which he did not stop to analyze, he continued the 
 intimacy, until her whole soul was bound up in him. His 
 visits were very disagreeable to Aunt Eunice, who, partly 
 from instinct and partly from prejudice, disliked him. But 
 she did not remonstrate wisely, nor even show any of that 
 maternal wisdom that is so well versed in the mysteries of
 
 MJZLINDA BUTTON. 307 
 
 womanhood. Melinda refused to give up Langley, and began 
 to meet him by stealth. 
 
 " Full oft they met, as dawn and twilight meet 
 In northern climes ; she full of growing day, 
 As he of darkness," 
 
 until but why need I say what followed ? It was the old 
 story old as passion and time. From the fresh, up-gushing 
 fountain of her heart there arose a mist of golden splendor, 
 through which she failed to see the heartlessness and selfish- 
 ness of him in whom she trusted. She loved, was deceived, 
 led astray and destroyed ; but no, not entirely, not forever 
 destroyed. ' 
 
 It was only when she found herself deserted, miserable, 
 suffering, destitute, and an outcast in a distant city, that the 
 delusion utterly vanished. Then she saw that the halo of 
 light in which her eyes had been dazzled was but a reflection 
 from her own passionate nature, and in her misery and utter 
 self-abasement she longed to die. Then it was, with the 
 blush of shame on her cheek and its keener burnings in her 
 heart, that she began to feel that her old relatives, in spite 
 of their peculiarities, had been her only true friends. 
 
 Never had the old farm-house known such a commotion 
 beneath its roof as on the morning succeeding Melinda's 
 flight. At first the old people could not believe her gone ; 
 and, when they could no longer doubt it, they were filled with 
 anxiety, dismay and grief. Aunt Eunice spoke her indigna- 
 tion, weeping the while with heartfelt sorrow; and Uncle 
 Jonas, with great .misgivings, endeavored to hope that all 
 might yet be well. 
 
 More than a year passed, and nothing was heard from Me- 
 linda beyond a few vague rumors. Everything at the old 
 house had settled into its habitual gait, when one evening, as 
 Uncle Jonas seated himself by the candle-stand, he said : 
 
 "Eunice, hand me my spectacles; Joe Page's boy has
 
 308 LEAVES FBOM THE TREE IQDRASYL. 
 
 brought me a letter from the store. From Esq. Gleason, I 
 s'pose, something about the deeds for the grist-mill." 
 
 She took the letter up while he arranged his glasses, but 
 laid it down with a contemptuous 
 
 " I wonder if he calls that thing a J ? I vum, I can do 
 better myself! Squire Page's writing was as plain as print. 
 But now-a-days, when folks pretend to know everything, their 
 larnin' is like Cinda Jones' flannel, all thrums. Now I think 
 on t, Jonas, I want you to get me some walnut bark in the 
 morning. I want to color my blanket yarn." 
 
 He*was too much absorbed in his letter to heed her remarks. 
 She caught a word or two occasionally, as he read on, pro- 
 nouncing each word in an audible whisper, as was his habit. 
 At length, she interrupted him : 
 
 "What's that, Jonas? Who's destitute? What the 
 posset ails you, man? John Doolittle hasn't failed, has 
 he?" 
 
 " No, no," he said, in very tremulous tones. " It 's about 
 Lindy, poor child ! " 
 
 " Lindy ! you don't say, Lindy ! What of her ? Where 
 is she ? is that letter from her ? " 
 
 " Read it," he replied. 
 
 " What, I read such writing as that ! I can't make head 
 nor tail to it. It 's worse than goose-tracks. Bead it your- 
 self, Jonas." 
 
 He read the letter aloud. It was written, without Melinda's 
 knowledge, by a person who had known her in Middletown, 
 and was well acquainted with her subsequent history. It 
 gave a touching account of her present condition, and pleaded 
 earnestly with Uncle Jonas to go to her, forgive her, and take 
 her back. Uncle Jonas' voice grew husky, and it was not 
 without considerable swallowing and clearing of his throat, 
 that he read the note to the end. In Aunt Eunice's heart the 
 fountain of pride was still quite as deep as the fountain of 
 pity, and she exclaimed :
 
 MELINDA DUTTON. 309 
 
 " There, Jonas, it has turned out just exactly as I always 
 said it would. The minute I set my eyes on that feller, 
 Langley, I knew he was a good-for-nothing scamp, and I told 
 Lindy so over and over again ; but I might as well have 
 talked to the east wind. She has made her own bed, and 
 now she must lie on it. She has found out now, I guess, who 
 knows best ! " 
 
 The old man sat in deep thought, slowly folding the letter 
 and saying to himself: 
 
 " Poor child ! her mother died when she was such a little 
 girl. I 'm afraid we were too hard with her. She was not used 
 to our ways, and, then, she was so good sometimes. Poor 
 dear, what will become of her ? " He seemed weighing some 
 great question ; at length he arose, and both his looks and 
 words evinced that the decision was made. 
 
 " Eunice," he said, " you may put me up a mouthful of 
 something to eat, and get my tother clothes ready, for it 's a 
 considerable of a long way to New York, and I shall want to 
 start pretty early. I '11 just step over to neighbor Page's and 
 get Joe to come over and look after the cattle and do chores 
 while I am gone." 
 
 "Why, Jonas Dudley ! you don't mean to go to New York ! 
 How are you to find the way ? You '11 get lost, and robbed, 
 and murdered ! And what can we do with Lindy, here ? 
 How can she ever look anybody in the face again ? " 
 
 " We '11 treat her kindly, Eunice, and do our duty by her, 
 as I 'm afraid we did not when she was here. And if she is 
 a good girl and behaves herself now, I tell you, she sha'n't be 
 put upon by anybody. She 's got sadly out of the way, and, 
 mayhaps, we have our share of blame for it. Think of the 
 poor, young thing dying among strangers ! and remember our 
 blessed Saviour had words of peace and forgiveness for those 
 worse than she." 
 
 Aunt Eunice was softened. " Sure enough ; I wonder how 
 I could forget His example, a minute. But it cut me to the
 
 <J10 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 heart to have Lindy turn out so dreadfully. May-be I was 
 testy, too, and did n't have as much patience as I ought ; but 
 you shall bring her home, Jonas, and I don't care if folks talk 
 till their tongues blister." 
 
 She was thoroughly roused by Melinda's need of pity, and, 
 long after Uncle Jonas was asleep, she was still up, busily 
 engaged in making preparations for his journey prepara- 
 tions that would have sufficed for a journey to Oregon. 
 
 It is well to listen to the voice of sorrow. Aunt Eunice 
 had an intense family pride, and an intense scorn for all such 
 erring ones as Melinda, and she felt these things as women 
 frequently feel them ; but now, attacked as she was from a 
 new. quarter, they were completely broken down and dis- 
 comfited. 
 
 She went about her household affairs, reflecting upon the 
 influences under which Melinda had grown from a child, and 
 with a growing feeling of self-accusation as to the circum- 
 stances under which she went astray, until there was born in 
 her heart a larger sympathy. New light and warmth gushed 
 in; and the "winged seed dropped down from paradise,' 1 
 which had lain so long smothered, started into sudden and 
 rapid growth, rooting out many of the strong, rank- weeds. 
 
 When the day fixed for their arrival came, she was rest- 
 lessly busy in perfecting the minutest preparation for the 
 invalid. Once or twice, when everything seemed in readi- 
 ness, she drew out her wheel and tried to spin. But the flax 
 would slip from the distaff, and the thread catch in the fliers, 
 until, half angry with herself, she put it away, and piled 
 up nearly half a load of wood in the capacious chimney 
 corners. 
 
 At last, while she was yet iu the chamber doing something 
 to add to her arrangements, the joyful bark of the old dog 
 announced their approach. She hastened down, and met 
 Jonas as he entered the house, bearing his shrinking, sob- 
 bing niece in his arms, as he would have borne a little child.
 
 MELINDA BUTTON. 311 
 
 " Heaven be praised, Jonas, you 've got back alive and 
 brought our child with you ! " she cried. " I 've had the 
 fidgets about you, Lindy ; child, don't cry so ! I 'm proper 
 glad to see you ; I never was so glad to see any one in my 
 life ! " she added, as Melinda hid her face in her cloak, and 
 sobbed still more bitterly. " Let me take off your cloak, 
 child." 
 
 " Glad to see me, aunt ! " said the poor girl, attempting to 
 look up. " Can you, indeed, forgive me ? forgive all the 
 sorrow and distress I have caused you ? 0, you are too 
 good ! " 
 
 "No, not good; the Lord knoweth, not good. I've 
 been to blame. If I had been a true mother to you, I don't 
 believe you would have gone astray. But I '11 do better, 
 now ; and you '11 do better, and may the Lord forgive us all ! 
 But, that Langley I shall hate him as long as I live and 
 breathe ! " 
 
 Aunt Eunice proceeded to untie the girl's hood> and Melin- 
 da's tears fell fast on her hands, as she said : 
 
 " Heaven bless you, aunt ! I had not dared to hope for 
 this!" 
 
 " It has blessed me already, child, in showing me my errors 
 and bringing you back to us. I should have remembered that 
 you had neither father nor mother. But I '11 try to be a 
 mother to you now, Lindy." Aunt Eunice's tears came fast, 
 and she drew down her glasses and said to Uncle Jonas, " Do 
 open that entry door, Jonas. It smokes here enough to put 
 one's eyes out. It 's that pesky back-stick ; I knew it would 
 smoke when I put it on." 
 
 Many weeks passed before Melinda was able to leave her 
 room. Had there been no change in Aunt Eunice's manner, 
 there would have been a total change in her sense of it ; for, in 
 her experience of suffering, she had learned wisdom. But 
 Aunt Eunice was changed ; she strove hard to overcome her 
 fretfulness and be considerate and kind. Melinda had pre-
 
 312 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 pared herself for the severest reproaches, and this unusual 
 tenderness, that avoided even the mention of her error and 
 disgrace, was, as she said, " too much." Poor girl ! she felt 
 these words and looks to be the good angels that were 
 
 " To breathe away 
 
 The dost o' the heart with holy air." 
 
 She came forth to the world a new creature. Her saddened 
 woman's nature, whose crown had fallen, made itself a beauti- 
 ful wreath of the flowers of faith, humility and patience, which 
 suffering had caused to spring along her path. Serene and 
 strong in her love for all that was good and beautiful, she 
 became to her old relatives a ministering angel, and watched 
 and tended their old age with unwearied love and care. And 
 even Aunt Eunice came to see how divine it is to have com- 
 passion on the sinning, to save the soul that is ready to 
 perish. 
 
 It may not be amiss to add, that on the death of her old 
 relatives, when their great estate became hers, Henry Langley 
 again appeared, and sought to make her his wife. But, to his 
 surprise and confusion, he did not find the thoughtless girl that 
 his arts had seduced, and was refused with that lofty scorn 
 which every such villain deserves. Firmly and patiently she 
 walked the ways of life, doing all things nobly, because she 
 communed with the Spirit, and believed in Him whom to know 
 " is life eternal."
 
 
 X. 
 
 THE MAIDEN OF THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 " THERE there she has gone vanished ! 0, Annie ! 
 how could you waken me ? " exclaimed Richard Fanshaw, as 
 he buried his elbow in the rich moss on which he lay, and, 
 half raising himself, gazed with a look of reproach and dis- 
 appointment on the laughing face of a fair girl of some fifteen 
 summers, who, in the very spirit of mischief, stood dipping a 
 graceful wand of young birch in the limpid waters of the 
 spring at her feet, preparatory to giving him a second sprink- 
 ling. 
 
 " Wake you, Richard ! " she replied, with a musical laugh ; 
 "why, your eyes were wide open as wide as Mr. Chip's 
 yonder," she continued, casting a whole shower of bright 
 drops at a squirrel, that peered at them with his round, bright 
 eyes, from a hole in the trunk of an old hickory, a few paces 
 distant. 
 
 " I tell you, I was fast asleep," said the young man, or 
 rather boy, for he coald scarcely have seen twenty years, in a 
 tone of petulant impatience; " and your ill-timed mischief has 
 destroyed the most beautiful dream that ever blessed the 
 heart of man." 
 
 The young girl drew near him, and, laying her small hand 
 on his shoulder, looked into his disturbed face, until the ex- 
 pression of mirthfulness that a moment before had dimpled 
 over her own, gave place to one of wondering sadness. 
 27
 
 314 LEAVES raOJl THE TftEE IGDKASYL. 
 
 " You are angry with me, Richard," she said, ^ angry Vith 
 your own little Annie." 
 
 For a second, Richard Fanshaw returned her earnest 
 glance ; then a smile broke round his mouth, and stole upward 
 to his eyes, chasing away every trace of his petulant mood. 
 
 " No, no, Annie, I am not angry only sorry that you 
 awoke me so soon. I was wrong to speak so hastily ; but sit 
 down here, you little mischief! " he continued playfully, draw- 
 ing her down by his side, " and I will tell you my dream. 
 There, sit where " 
 
 He paused, and looked at her with an air of bewildered 
 surprise. 
 
 " What is the matter, now, Richard ? Are you going to 
 sleep again, or do you expect to put me to sleep ? " asked the 
 girl, archly. 
 
 " Hush ! sit still, Annie. Do not stir," he replied, in 
 almost a whisper. " There now the resemblance is wonder- 
 ful. I could almost think it was she." 
 
 " She ! who ? " said Annie, starting up and looking round 
 as if she expected to see a third person peeping from behind 
 some one of the forest-trees. 
 
 " The Maiden of the Fountain, child. There was some- 
 thing in your face, just then, when the slant sunbeams from 
 between the branches of yon old maple fell on your head, that 
 reminded me strongly of her. There, now, those mischievous 
 dimples have spoiled it all. But sit down and watch the 
 bright water while I tell you all about it. 
 
 " I had traced the ' branch ' from the* notch ' down to the 
 mill-dam, Annie, in search of trout, and, tired of my unsuc- 
 cessful morning's sport (if sport it can be called), I struck 
 across the woods for home. I reached the spring, and, after 
 slaking my thirst, lay down under the old birch, and watched 
 the sunbeams that came prying through every nook and 
 crevice in the thick green leaves, peering up the ravine yon- 
 der, as if haunted by a sense of something far more beautiful
 
 THE MAIDEN OF THE FOUNTAIN. 315 
 
 than they had yet discovered, just like me, Annie, and 
 the beautiful, and, in many cases, grotesque grouping of the 
 old trees yonder, with their deep, motionless shadows changed 
 to delicate mosaic by the restless fingers of the saucy sun- 
 beams. Then I mused on those beautiful fables of ancient 
 Greece, of which I told you the other day ; of that simple 
 faith that peopled forest and stream with living spirits, thus 
 recognizing its own intimate relations with Nature, until my 
 vivid fancy re-created 1 that time in all its freshness, and 
 peopled this spring and woods with the shapes of many a 
 ' fallen old divinity.' I fancied that I saw more than one fair 
 face peering shyly from the green depths of yonder clump of 
 
 young chestnuts, and but you laugh, Annie. This is all 
 
 nonsense to you." 4 
 
 ' ' Not exactly, Richard. I do not know much about Gre- 
 cian mythology, to be sure ; but sometimes, when I have come 
 along through the woods from school, I have fancied that the 
 trees were talking to each other, and have stopped to listen ; 
 but, though I stood very still, I could never catch a word; 
 for, when I stopped, they became silent, and seemed watching 
 and waiting for me to go on. But tell me more, Richard." 
 
 With her hand in his, and her clear eyes raised to his face, 
 the young girl, listened while Richard Fanshaw went on to 
 tell how, busy with these fancies, he fell asleep and wandered 
 in the wondrous realm of Dreamland, through regions of en- 
 chanting loveliness, steeping his soul in that bewildering 
 atmosphere, and revelling in pleasure, until he well-nigh 
 forgot his high aspirations, that would have plucked the stars 
 from heaven. How, suddenly and swiftly as the shooting of 
 a star, the memory of them came upon him, filling his soul 
 with unrest and disquiet, and, haunted by a sense of imper- 
 fection and loneliness, he fled onward through a region in 
 striking contrast to the one he had left ; arid, gloomy and 
 barren ; destitute of vegetation, save where rank, poisonous 
 water-plants grew around pools of green, slimy water, that lay
 
 316 LEAVES FROM THE TREE JQDRASYL. 
 
 sweltering beneath the lurid sun. Ugly, fiend-like faces 
 grinned at him from the murky atmosphere, and clutched at 
 him with their long, bony fingers whenever he lost his foot- 
 hold in th.e treacherous sands, or slipped by the dreary pools 
 of water. Their mocking tones were in his ears, filling him 
 with terror ; but above them all sounded one more fearful still, 
 for it seemed like the voice of his own heart driving him 
 onward to destruction. A terrible thirst consumed him ; his 
 steps began to falter, and his eyes to grow dim ; but his hear- 
 ing, like that of many dying people, became more acute, and 
 he could still hear the mocking voices and resolve the dis- 
 cordant sounds into words. One and all they cried, " Fool ! 
 dreamer! truth is a fable. Purity and goodness are idle 
 dreams ! Enjoy the presnt, for there is no future ! " while 
 that strangely-familiar voice kept repeating the words in low, 
 but distinctly audible whispers, as if it mused upon their 
 import. Just as he was about to yield to their influence, his 
 ear caught the sweet murmur of forest leaves, and a breath 
 of pure, fresh air fell on his throbbing brow. His weary 
 heart recognized them as heaven-sent messengers, and, rally- 
 ing his strength, he sprang forward in the direction from which 
 they came. 
 
 The fearful voices grew fainter, dying away like the wail- 
 ing winds of autumn ; his step grew firmer ; his eyesight 
 clearer, until every trace of that hideous landscape disap- 
 peared, and there lay around him a scene of exquisite beauty, 
 yet widely different from the one that had so enchanted him 
 at first. That atmosphere had enervated while it intoxicated ; 
 but this was pure and healthful as the kiss of a gentle mother. 
 Suddenly, he came to a crystal fountain, shaded by a drooping 
 birch, and set round with broad, cool stones ; in short, it was 
 very much like the spring at their feet, save that the waters 
 were far clearer, and the yellow sand at the bottom of a far 
 brighter golden hue. 
 
 How, choking with thirst, he eagerly knelt on the brink
 
 THE MAIDEN Off THE FOUNTAIN. 317 
 
 but just as his greedy lip neared the water, a wondrously- 
 beautiful maiden stood before him. Whether she rose from 
 the fountain, as the agitation of sand at the bottom seemed to 
 indicate, or stepped from the bole of the old tree, he could 
 not tell. With one hand she gathered her loose robe about 
 her, while in the other she held a few broad leaves of the 
 Egyptian Calla, encircling the wand-like stalk with its creamy 
 spatha and blossom. With this she motioned him back, and, 
 in tones far sweeter than the murmur of the waters, though 
 strongly like it, she said : 
 
 " Mortal, what brings you to my fountain ? " 
 
 With an effort to loosen his parched tongue, he replied : 
 
 " A weary, thirsty heart." 
 
 " Drink, and thirst no more," she replied, folding one of 
 the broad calla leaves in the shape of a cup, and placing it 
 in his hand. 
 
 Bichard Fanshaw paused, and sat for some moments look- 
 ing thoughtfully into the spring. 
 
 Little Annie, who watched his countenance intently, nestled 
 closer to his side, and pressed the hand that still clasped hers, 
 as if to remind him of her presence. 
 
 " I saw her no more," he said*, at length, " for, just as I 
 raised the cup to my lips, your love of mischief awoke me. 
 Yet she must have been a real maiden," he continued, " for 
 her hand was soft and warm as yours, Annie ; and, when her 
 fingers met mine, as she gave me the cup, a strange, indescrib- 
 able feeling run through my whole frame ; as if my heart 
 suddenly gushed over with happiness, just as the water there 
 gushes up at the bottom of the spring." 
 
 We need hardly say that Richard Fanshaw was a dreamer 
 a dweller in the beautiful land of shadows. The love of 
 beauty, from the undefined yearnings of childhood, had grown 
 with his growth, until it had become to him a passion and a 
 hope ; and, as he walked homeward, along the winding forest- 
 path, with his arm thrown protectingly around the shoulders 
 27*
 
 Q18 LEAVES FROM THE TBKE IGDRASYL. 
 
 of his young companion, still dwelling on his dream, there was 
 a light in his dark eye, and an earnestness, an exultation in 
 his tones, that told, far more plainly than his words, how 
 deeply his heart accepted the dream as a prophecy that this 
 hope would yet become a certainty. 
 
 It would be not only a curious, but an interesting study, to 
 trace out the circumstances that exercise a controlling influ- 
 ence in the formation of such characters as that of Richard 
 Fanshaw. Of course, the estimate must ever be partial, 
 because conjectural, but we are disposed to think that if those 
 who are so ready to. condemn, were to take the study up, or 
 even to look into the history of their own inner life, they 
 would gain some new lessons in psychology, and partake some- 
 what more largely of that divine charity " that thinketh no 
 evil." 
 
 We have said that young Fanshaw was imaginative ; but, 
 until now, nothing had occurred to give shape and coloring to 
 the vague reveries that thronged his busy brain. But this 
 dream this egeria of the fountain came like the angel of 
 Bethesda to stir the slumbering depths of his heart, and fill it 
 with passionate longings and delicious unrest. 
 
 That form, those eyes, c*lear, dark and deep as mountain 
 springs, haunted him by day and night, and became identified 
 with all the 
 
 " Hopes, dreams, desires of wild ambition born, 
 Whose dazzling light athwart his early morn 
 Streamed radiantly, and on his spirit fell 
 Like a fire-baptism." 
 
 Each day deepened the conviction that he was born to 
 achieve a lofty destiny, and he brooded over the thought 
 until the quiet monotony of Maplehurst became irksome to 
 him. With a crowd of proud aspirations rioting in his heart, 
 he kissed the sobbing Annie, his pet and plaything from her 
 birth, took the blessing of his dewy-eyed mother, and, eager
 
 THE MAIDEN OF THE FOUNTAIN. 319 
 
 to forestall time, threw himself into the rushing current of 
 life. 
 
 We may not follow him in all his wanderings through the 
 world-wide search which his restless, haunted heart led him. 
 Iceland and Italy, Germany and Arabia, the wild Caucasian 
 regions and those of " far Cathay," left their cosmopolitan 
 influence upon him, 
 
 t 
 
 " Until the mother that him bore 
 Would scarce have known her child." 
 
 We may not number the " shrines of beauty at which he 
 put up prayers," shrines before which his yearning heart 
 lay hushed in prophetic anticipation, like the sea beneath the 
 rising moon ; nor how they all proved but " summer pilots 
 unto the shores of nothing." 
 
 Neither will we attempt to sound the depths of error into 
 which his impetuous nature led him, the consequent suffering 
 and self-renunciation. We love not such records, and, there- 
 fore, hasten to say that after an absence of many years, gray 
 at heart, world-worn, care-worn, with his ideal still unfound, 
 and all his lofty dreams unrealized, he returned to his native 
 village, and stood beneath the roof that sheltered his child- 
 hood, a stranger. 
 
 It is a quiet spot, Our Village, so quiet as almost to 
 cheat Father Time himself into forgetfulness. Undoubtedly 
 a blank leaf or so in the church records had been filled out 
 with births, deaths and marriages ; the old brown houses had 
 taken a dingier hue, and the button-woods before the doors 
 cast a much broader shade than when he left ; a railing had 
 been added to the bridge ; but the old crossing-pole, back of 
 his mother's house, was still the same, even to the patches of 
 green moss on its crumbling sides ; and the stepping-stones, 
 which he had laid so many years before, were all in their 
 places, with the clear water rippling around them, exactly as 
 of yore. But his mother slept in the grave-yard beyond the
 
 320 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDRASYL. 
 
 river, and his brother's gentle wife eat in her place, sur- 
 rounded by a group of bright-eyed children, who were ready 
 to hide their faces in the folds of their mother's dress at every 
 word and caress from their dark-visaged, foreign-looking uncle. 
 
 The news of his arrival flew with telegraphic speed, and 
 old acquaintances, curious to hear his adventures, and eager 
 to welcome him home, called to see him, and left the house 
 disappointed. Instead of the bright-faced, joyous youth they 
 remembered, they found a tall, dignified-looking man, polite 
 but reserved, and little disposed to gratify their curiosity by 
 becoming the hero of his own story. 
 
 He heard, with more of interest than he had before mani- 
 fested, that Annie Bradford was still unmarried, and, as soon 
 as he could disengage himself from his visitors, he took tht 
 well-remembered path toward her dwelling. He had not 
 gone many rods before he diverged from it, as if struck by 
 some sudden thought, and took the more circuitous one that 
 led round by the " Sibyl's Spring." That, too, was unchanged, 
 and he stood and gazed into its clear depths, while old memo- 
 ries gushed up from his heart as rapidly as the bright 
 water from the golden land. Suddenly a light touch fell upon 
 his arm. He turned, and met the clear, friendly glance of 
 Annie Bradford. 
 
 " Richard ! " " Annie ! " they exclaimed in the same 
 breath. 
 
 With a thoughtful, yet eager look, as if he found there the 
 key to the destiny whose shadow had so long lain upon his heart, 
 he gazed into those clear eyes, now deepened and intensified 
 by all the hopes of ripened womanhood, that were upturned to 
 his, until the white lids grew tremulous, and drooped involun- 
 tarily. With ready tact, and something of her childish arch 
 ness, she said : 
 
 " Have you found her, the Maiden of the Fountain, 
 Richard ? You know you promised to bring her with you 
 when you returned."
 
 THE MAIDEN OF THE FOUNTAIN. 321 
 
 fle did not reply, but kept his eyes riveted on her face," as 
 n it were the book of fate. At length a bright smile, like a 
 star from behind a heavy cloud, broke over his sunburnt face, 
 and he replied : 
 
 " I have found her, Annie." 
 
 "Where, where is she, then? They told me you came 
 alone." 
 
 Richard Fanshaw threw his arm around her waist, "with 
 the familiarity of days long gone, and, drawing her forward a 
 step or two, pointed to the image of her own sweet face mir- 
 rored in the limpid water. 
 
 " There, Annie, there ! " 
 
 Again their eyes met, and the object of his long and weary 
 search was accomplished. His destiny was solved. 
 
 Drawing her closer to him, he continued : 
 
 " My toilsome search is ended, the dream of my boyhood 
 interpreted. I bring you but a weary, thirsty heart. Will 
 you accept it, Annie ? " 
 
 Her reply was lower, but far sweeter to his wayworn heart 
 than the musical murmur of the waters. Once more they 
 sat, hand in hand, on the green moss beneath the old birch- 
 tree, and, as Richard Fanshaw gazed on the fair face resting 
 on his shoulder, and wondered at his stupid blindness, he re- 
 peated more than once the words of one who has built to her- 
 self a shrine in every loving heart : 
 
 " 0, happiness, how far we flee 
 Thine own sweet paths in search of thee ! "
 
 XI 
 
 THE OLD MAPLE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ' I found him garrulously given, 
 A babbler in the land." 
 
 " As each person has his own separate remembrances, giving to some 
 places an aspect and significance which he alone can perceive, there 
 must be an infinite number of pleasing, mournful, or dreadful alsocia 
 tions spread over the inhabited earth.". Foster's Essays. 
 
 WAS it wholly the power of which wise John Foster 
 speaks, that made the place so sadly pleasant, as I sat by the 
 old maple, tracing with my fingers the seams in its rough 
 bark, counting the incisions through which it had for years 
 poured forth its life-blood to sweeten the teas, if not the 
 tempers, of the Brae family, and thinking? Or was the 
 spell assisted by some " fallen old divinity " hid in its mas- 
 sive bole ? The divinity must have had a share in it, for I 
 remember noting a low, musical murmur among the swelling 
 buds above me, that were yearning in their velvet prisons to 
 look out into the warm eyes of Spring. Let us reverently 
 believe so, reader mine, for neither of us, I trust, belongs to 
 that painfully wise class, 
 
 " Who think all happy things are dreams, 
 Because they overstep the narrow bourn 
 Of likelihood." 
 
 It was a pleasant, sunny spot, just like one of the " wee 
 green neuks " you wot of, fair lady, in some of the deep 
 vales of your native state ; too tame to be romantic, too 
 quiet to interest hasty observers, and. yet too sweet and dear
 
 THE OLD MAPLE. 323 
 
 to be forgotten. I doubt whether Mr. Brae, or his son 
 John, who were on 'the knoll above me, ever thought of it 
 otherwise than as a valuable part of their well-watered and 
 productive farm. I had not seen the place for years, and 
 now I felt that, for me, it was written all over with heart- 
 histories. 
 
 And then just over the knoll was the old farm-house, with 
 its spacious barns and well-thatched sheep-cotes. I wondered 
 if there were as many swallows' nests as of yore clustered 
 beneath the eaves or plastered to the rafters of the barn ; 
 arid if the old wren still built her nest in the hollow limb of 
 the apple-tree that overhung the great horse-block by the 
 gate. Ah me ! ^ had gazed on many a masterpiece of art 
 that seemed to glow with divine fire, and yet not one of them 
 spoke to my heart more deeply than that same old, rude, 
 misshapen horse-block. To us children it was a city of 
 refuge when our happiness became too obstreperous for the 
 long-suffering nerves of kind Mrs. Brae, or when, by any 
 mischance, a slice of buttered bread came in too close contact 
 with the floor. Thus in summer it was our table and play- 
 room. There often, in the warm sunshine of the springs that 
 will never come again, were Nelly Brae and I perched, with 
 a pile of willow branches, and a broken penknife which we 
 owned between us. 0, the whistles we made ! for we did 
 make some. perfect ones, though often unsuccessful ; and when, 
 after a long attempt, a perfect (that is, a very noisy) whistle 
 was finished, how proudly we sprang to our feet and poured 
 forth our notes of triumph ! 
 
 Do not frown ; for, believe me, we were daily told to " sit 
 up straight and behave like women." But, somehow, the 
 first puff of fresh air blew the lesson out of our heads. And 
 besides, all sorts of funny-looking rag babies lying about 
 bore witness that we were sufficiently feminine. And we had 
 dolls, too real wax dolls ; but, like some other careful 
 mothers, we deemed them much too choice for the touch of
 
 324 LEAVES FROM TILE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 common air. And there was also a whole set of aeorn tea- 
 cups and saucers stowed away in the great knot-hole under 
 the second step of the horse-block, which served us for a 
 china closet. 
 
 On my right, as I stood there communing with the past, 
 lay the wooded pasture, well known through the neighbor- 
 hood as the "maple lot." I looked for the narrow footpath 
 by which we were accustomed to reach the " sugar-works " 
 sooner than by the rather devious cart-path. There it was, 
 with its show of tender, green grass, looking like a narrow 
 green ribbon amid the dead, dry herbage of the preceding 
 summer. 
 
 I lef$ m J seat, and, following the path^rossed the spring 
 brook on the identical old stepping-stones, and stood on the 
 spot that had so often been the village gathering-place 
 the very centre of mischief and frolic. It was now sadly 
 changed. The rude building was gone. The rough furnace 
 was tumbling down, and from the rich, damp mould beneath 
 sprang a tall sweet-briar. Ah ! the glory had left the old 
 sugar-works ! 
 
 Some of the " sugar-trees " were still standing. But I 
 missed the stately form of many an old friend, whose Orphic 
 murmurs gave me a clearer insight into the mysteries of 
 being than I have since gained 
 \ 
 
 " from learned books, 
 Or study-withered men." 
 
 The new, white chips scattered around many of the stumps 
 showed some of the trees had been felled lately. But the 
 stumps alone remained of two that had stood in front of the 
 sugar-house, between whose half unearthed roots Nell and I 
 used to spread our red flannel blankets for carpets, and ar- 
 range our houses, when we played " go to see one another." 
 
 But the ever kind Nature, that embraces and loves even 
 what man casts off, had bidden the ground-laurel spread its
 
 THE OLD MAPLE. 325 
 
 shining green leaves around the decaying stumps, and the sil- 
 very brown umbels of the gnaphalium crowned them with an 
 everlasting crown. 
 
 Re-crossing the brook, I met Mr. Brae, and pointing to the 
 old maple I expressed my joy to find it still standing. 
 
 " Why, it is a kind of crooked disciple," he replied, " and 
 might as well be cut down. But, somehow, the children 
 always took a kind of liking to it, especially Nelly and her 
 little boy. I guess she was here as often as once a day when 
 she was at home last summer. And that little rogue, Harry, 
 says his mother's tree shall not be cut down." 
 
 Yes, Nelly loved that old tree, and well might its wide 
 shade seem to her a consecrated temple; for underneath its 
 spreading branches -she first listened to words and tones that 
 became the charm of her life, and which death has no power 
 to destroy. 
 
 But before I "tell you all about it," as the children say, 
 I have a word or two " to offer touching Nelly Brae herself. 
 Were it possible I would describe her in such terms as would 
 make her steal your hearts as entirely as she did ours. I 
 might as well attempt to describe the wind. Not that she 
 was beautiful we never thought of calling her a beauty ; 
 but she was so wild and wayward, apparently so changeful, 
 and yet so gentle and true, so full of heart. Indeed, she 
 was more like a free, glad summer breeze than aught else on 
 earth ; and, like that, she went wandering about the green 
 fields and along the shining brooks, gathering freshness and 
 fragrance, while her soul unconsciously grew rich by daily 
 seeking. 
 
 Perhaps this waywardness, this spirit of non-conformity, 
 lent the spell that saved her from becoming that most disa- 
 greeable of all pets, a spoiled grandchild. Some powerful 
 influence was needed to neutralize the effect of grandmother 
 Brae's overweening fondness. Mr. Brae was a man of the 
 old school. His notions of family government, as manifested 
 28
 
 326 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 in the training of his own children, were very strict, if not 
 always very wise. But when he undertook to pursue the 
 same course with little Nell, his heart turned traitor. 
 
 When he had cause to reprimand her, he invariably began 
 with a stern voice and still sterner look. But he never could 
 proceed far before her slight, willowy form would grow indis- 
 tinct, and he would seem to hold in his arms a rosy infant, 
 that looked up in his face, and laughed and patted his wet 
 cheeks, as he bent over the coffin that contained the dead 
 form of its fair young mother. He would remember how his 
 own brave boy died before his child saw the light ; how, 
 after the mother was laid by his side in the church-yard, 
 they brought the baby to the old farm-house and laid it in 
 the long-unused cradle ; how they sat by it, filled with heavi- 
 ness and sorrow; and how the smiles that broke over its 
 face gradually kindled their minds to faith and joy. When 
 the old man thought of all this, and how the child had been 
 to them " a smile from God " to dispel the darkness from 
 their pathway, his brow would relax, his voice grow tremu- 
 lous, and his censures all change to blessings. 
 
 Thus the child grew up like a bright wild-flower, planted 
 in some quaint, old-fashioned garden. She seemed to have 
 established a secret correspondence with Nature, for " all 
 things talked thoughts to her." For her each bird, flower 
 and passing cloud seemed to have a particular message. She 
 always spoke of them as her birds, her flowers, her clouds. 
 Strange fancies of this sort seemed to increase as\she grew 
 older ; and even on her wedding day, when I flung a twig of 
 ivy and a handful of sage into her lap, and laughingly bade 
 her study their meaning, she gathered them up, and, placing 
 them in her bosom, declared gravely that they should be the 
 oracles of her household, and that her first care should be to 
 plant with her own hand, around her new abode, those em- 
 blems of love and virtue.
 
 THE OLD MAPLE. 327 
 
 CHAPltJER II. 
 
 " Curse the tongue, 
 
 Whence slanderous rumor, like the adder's drop, 
 Distils her venom, withering friendship's faith, 
 Turning love's favor." Hillhovse. 
 
 Nelly Brae and I had been playmates from infancy. Our 
 homes were on different roads, but we were near neighbors, 
 for the long, triangular tongue of land between the roads was 
 narrow, and the well-trodden path across it showed plainly 
 that our families were not strangers to each other. < 
 
 We were still school-girls when Mr. Markham, the new 
 pastor, succeeded in awakening the people to an interest in 
 church music, which had been sadly neglected during the last 
 years of good old Parson Mines. A liberal sum of money 
 was subscribed, and a committee appointed to arrange a sing- 
 ing-school. 
 
 A winter singing-school in New England ! Who, that 
 draws breath beneath her changeful sky, does not feel his 
 heart beat quicker at those words ! Not with remembered 
 pride of progress in the heaven-born science, but at the mem- 
 ory of pleasant faces, merry greetings, " nods and becks, and 
 wreathed smiles," and friendships formed, among which, per- 
 haps, was that one which grew to dear love, and gave to him 
 the cherished one from whose eyes and voice he has since 
 learned music by heart. 
 
 The projected singing-school became a matter of absorbing 
 interest to the young people, when it was announced that the 
 committee had been so fortunate as to engage Mr. Henry 
 Wilson, a graduate of Yale College, and a personal friend of 
 Mr. Markham. My parents were very anxious that my 
 brother and I should attend the singing-school, but no persua- 
 sions could gain Mrs. Brae's consent to Nelly's attendance. 
 We talked in vain of her sweet voice ; for whenever the old
 
 328 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL, 
 
 lady seemed consenting, she would suddenly recollect that 
 there was " no one to go witfc her," for John (the only son 
 remaining at home) would not always come home when she 
 did, and Dick and I, she said, could not always come round 
 that way, for the fields would sometimes be full of snow. 
 Besides, she conjured up such horrors of colds, wet feet, brain 
 fevers, lung fevers and consumptions, that Nell and I gave 
 way in despair. 
 
 Nelly was mortified and indignant at the thought of being 
 kept at home like a little girl, a child, when she was sixteen 
 years, ten months, and I will not undertake to say exactly 
 how many days, old. But her slight figure, as well as grand- 
 mother Brae's notions, was against her, and " child " she 
 was cdnsidered by the whole neighborhood. 
 
 The teacher was to spend two or three days with his friend, 
 Mr. Markham, before he commenced his school. The morn- 
 ing after his arrival in town, as Nell and 1 sat talking it over, 
 and considering what could be done in her behalf, we were 
 almost beside ourselves with delight, to hear the old lady 
 say, as she passed the corner where we sat : 
 
 " Well, well, child, I '11 see about it. You need n't feel so 
 poorly ; may-be you '11 go, after all. There is time enough 
 to think about it between this and Thursday night." 
 
 We viewed the matter as settled, for Mrs. Brae's " I '11 see 
 about it" was always equivalent to a positive assent. Of 
 this we felt so sure, that, during recess at school that day, 
 we talked only of the dresses we should wear to the singing- 
 school, and on our way home made the important decision that 
 our hoods should be lined and trimmed with crimson instead 
 of pink. Therefore, I was somewhat surprised, that evening, 
 to see Nell come panting in, and fling herself into a chair witk 
 a look of comical distress. 
 
 "What is the matter, Nell?" asked my mother and I to 
 gether. 
 
 " They will not let me go ! "
 
 THE OLD MAPLE. 329 
 
 "Go where?" inquired my mother, who did not under* 
 stand. 
 
 "To the singing-school," she replied, endeavoring to hide 
 her tears. 
 
 " Won't let you go, Nell ! " I cried. " Why, your grand- 
 mother as good as promised you migkt go ! " 
 
 " Yes, but Mrs. Crane came over to-night, and made such 
 a fuss about her ' Bubby,' and such dreadful complaints 
 against me, that grandpa is really vexed, and grandma says 
 I shall stay at home till I can behave myself and keep out 
 of mischief." 
 
 " What has that great booby, bubby Crane, to do with 
 your going to singing-school ? Did n't you help him put on 
 his mittens ? Did you let him fall down ? " 
 
 " Worse, though I did n't mean to hurt him. You know 
 Aunt Mary gdire me a box of rhubarb for grandmother. 
 Bubby Crane thought it was ground cinnamon, and teased 
 me all the way home to let him taste it. Well, he called me 
 stingy, and made such a fuss that I opened the box and let 
 him taste. I didn't think he would be so greedy, but he 
 lapped up a great mouthful of it," she continued, with an 
 expression of merriment dimpling round her mouth, " and I 
 guess he swallowed a good dose. It half strangled him, and 
 I could not help laughing to see him spit. He ran screaming 
 home, and immediately his mother came over with a furious 
 complaint against me." 
 
 We all laughed at the idea of Mrs. Crane's baby, a great 
 boy, ten years old, with his mouth full of rhubarb 
 
 " What is to be done now, Nell ? " I asked. 
 
 "0,1 don't know ! Go homo with me, Fanny ; perhaps 
 you can persuade her." 
 
 We were soon seated, with our knitting, by the side of 
 
 Mrs. Brae. Nothing was said of Nelly's misdemeanor. The 
 
 old lady was gradually led to talk of the days of her youth, 
 
 and she soon became eloquent in maintaining that people 
 
 28*
 
 830 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASTL. 
 
 now-a-days are not half as healthy, wise, or good as they 
 were when she was young. She sang us old tunes, which 
 I praised. She made us sing with her, and qualified her 
 praise of our singing, by saying we should " do well enough 
 if we did n't open our mouths so wide and sing so loud." 
 We were all quavering away on " Majesty " when Mr. Brae 
 entered, accompanied by Mr. Markham, and a stranger, who 
 was introduced to us as our teacher, Mr. Wilson. 
 
 " I wished Mr. Wilson to become acquainted with some of 
 the families in the neighborhood, and I believe I have 
 brought him to the right place now, Mrs. Brae," said the 
 minister. " You are all singers, and my young friends here 
 will attend the singing-school, of course." 
 
 " Fanny is going, I believe," began the old lady. " I did 
 think of sending Nelly, but she is so wild and mischievous 
 that she will only trouble the gentleman. Besides, there is 
 no one to go with her ; John is such a crazy head he wouldn't 
 come home with her half the time." 
 
 " 0, you must let Nelly go ! She has a beautiful voice." 
 
 " Why, yes, she can sing a little," said the old man, look- 
 ing at her proudly and fondly. "Come here, Nelly, and 
 sing one of the old songs you sung to me last night." 
 
 Nell rose, and stood timidly by her grandfather. 
 
 " Which shall I sing ? " she asked, without venturing to 
 look up. 
 
 " Either, child ; they were all good, for they were home 
 songs." 
 
 She began the old, ever beautiful, " Afton Water," and 
 sang it through in clear, unfaltering tones. Her voice was 
 untrained, but full of deep, rich melody. Wilson listened 
 with evident surprise and delight. He turned to the old man, 
 and said : 
 
 " You will not refuse to let her become my pupil, Mr. 
 Brae ! Such a voice as that should be cultivated by all 
 means."
 
 THE OLD MAPLE. 331 
 
 The old man was pleased ; Nell looked wistfully in his 
 face, and he said, with a smile, " They are all on your side, 
 child. If there was only some one to go with you, I wouldn't 
 Bay a word." 
 
 " Dick and I will come round this way, every night," I 
 exclaimed, eagerly. 
 
 "Ay, that would do, Fanny, if there were to be no 
 snow." 
 
 " If that is your only objection, Mr. Brae," said Wilson, 
 " it can be removed, if you will trust your grand-daughter to 
 my care. I shall board with your neighbor, Mr. Morris, and, 
 if you do not object, shall be happy to call for her." 
 
 The old people hesitated, and talked of the trouble. Mr. 
 Wilson insisted that he could not do without Nelly's voice ; 
 Mr. Markham seconded his proposal, and it was finally agreed 
 that Nelly should attend the school under Mr. Wilson's es- 
 cort. 
 
 This arrangement pleased all but herself. " I wonder how 
 you could tell him I shall go ! " she said, as the door closed 
 on the visitors. 
 
 " Why, I thought you wanted to go, child." 
 
 " So I do ; but I don't want to go with him. He is so min- 
 ister-like, that I shall not dare to breathe on the way. I 
 wish Mr. Markham had not brought him here." 
 
 " Fie ! child, fie ! " said the grandmother. " Mr. Wilson's 
 offer to take care of you was very kind, and I 'm glad if you 
 are afraid of him." 
 
 " I can run away from him, you know," said Nell, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 She did not run away from him, though. After a week or 
 two, she not only breathed with her accustomed ease, but 
 laughed as merrily as ever. True she was not always with 
 him, for she was frequently kiting off, as Mrs. Brae expressed 
 it, in pursuit of some wayward fancy ; now for a slide on 
 some tempting piece of ice ; now to draw her fingers across
 
 332 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 a row of icicles that hung from the topmost rail of the fence, 
 when she would hush us all to listen to their music, as they 
 splintered in the still moonbeams. v . 
 
 Harry Wilson was an indulgent guardian, and she soon 
 found that the grave expression of his eyes could change to 
 one of mirth, and that his somewhat haughty mouth could 
 relax into a smile as sweet and merry as her own. He soon 
 became a great favorite with old and young, and his school 
 succeeded admirably. 
 
 We met in the White School House. As Mr. Wilson 
 was usually one of the last to leave, Nell, at his request, 
 waited until he was ready to attend her. This soon drew 
 the attention and excited the pleasantry of the older girls ; 
 but when Mrs. Morris, an empty-headed, gossiping busy- 
 body, assured them that Mrs. Brae as good as asked him 
 to wait on Nell, and that she knew that he wished the little 
 plague a thousand miles off, their smiles became contempt- 
 uous titters. 
 
 As the weeks went on, they grew surprised, and even indig- 
 nant, to see that, instead of making an effort to shake off the 
 " little plague," Mr. Wilson not only stopped an hour or so 
 after singing-school, but passed most of his leisure evenings 
 at Mr. Brae's. 
 
 " What could he find there to interest him ? " 
 
 Had they asked him instead of Mrs. Morris, he might have 
 answered, " A home ! " 
 
 Somehow he loved to be at Mr. Brae's ; somehow he loved 
 to sit by Nell, and hear her voice mingle with his in a favor- 
 ite melody ; somehow her wild JEolian tones gave his heart & 
 fuller, brighter sense of existence. He taught her music be- 
 cause he delighted to do so, and he did not ask himself why 
 he taught her to drop " Mr. Wilson " and call him Harry. 
 
 He might have said, also, that most other people, where 
 he called, showed an over-anxiety to impress him with the 
 notion that they knew something of gentility and fashion ;
 
 THE OLD MAPLE. 333 
 
 while many were so distressingly formal and ceremonious in 
 their manner toward him, that he did not care to call a 
 second time. 
 
 Mrs. Morris, true to her first statement, insisted that 
 " Grandmother Brae " was constantly scheming to secure to 
 Nell a double share of instruction in music ; and, in the plen- 
 itude of her benevolence, she determined to assist him out of 
 " the scrape." 
 
 " It was a shame and disgrace," she said, " that he must 
 not only have that child tagging after him to singing-school, 
 but must also go there every other evening to give her music 
 lessons." 
 
 The evening after she came to this determination, it hap- 
 pened that Mr. Wilson sat down at home to copy some music 
 for Nell. Mrs. Morris sat near him, rocking to and fro, and 
 watching for an opportunity to begin her good work. At 
 length, as he laid down his pen and opened his portfolio for 
 another sheet of paper, she began : 
 
 " You ought to have been at home this afternoon, Mr. Wil- 
 son. I had some calls, or perhaps they were intended for you ; 
 one can't always tell, you know." 
 
 " Indeed ! " he replied, taking his pen again and proceeding 
 with his copy. 
 
 " Yes," she continued, as if determined not to be foiled, 
 " Maria Bennet and Sarah Slocum have been here half the 
 afternoon. I inquired about your school ; but their heads were 
 so full of the party John Brae is going to give at his sugar- 
 works, that they could think of nothing else. You have heard 
 all about the party, I suppose." 
 
 " Yes, I believe so," he replied, bringing down his pen with 
 a heavy staccato on the last notes of the third bar. 
 
 " Thoughtless things ! it made me sad to see them," she 
 went on ; " but girls are girls, though they don't behave now 
 as they did in my day. There is Mary Grant, and Fanny 
 Alden, and my old neighbor Brae's girl ; they are nothing but
 
 334 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDRASYL. 
 
 children, and, la me ! look at them ! They are as pert and as 
 forward as if they were twenty years old. I dare say you 
 have noticed them. I like to see children know their places, 
 don't you, Mr. Wilson ? " 
 
 " Certainly," said the young man, mechanically, without 
 pausing from his work. 
 
 " Ah, I knew you would agree with me, Mr. Wilson ! I 
 hate pertness and forwardness above all things ; but you can't 
 expect much from a child whose grand-parents are constantly 
 pushing her forward, and fastening her to other people, whether 
 they want her or not. There are not many who would beat 
 it as you do." 
 
 Here Mrs. Morris was .obliged to pause, for Mr. Wilson, 
 who had not attended to a word of her harangue, caught up 
 his flute, and, after playing the music once or twice, took his 
 hat and left the room. 
 
 " Well, now," she said to herself, " he has gone right over 
 there again ! I meant to have had a little more talk with 
 him, but I have found out that it is just as I supposed. I '11 
 set matters to rights to-morrow ; I '11 go over there and tell 
 Nelly just what he thinks of her. It will be no more than 
 friendly, for she has no mother, and grandmother Brae is get- 
 ting old and foolish." 
 
 Mrs. Morris did not forget her resolution. -She went over 
 next day, immediately after school, and found Nelly alone. 
 After some inquiries about the family, the lady's voice sud- 
 denly changed from its usual loud, shrill key, to the piteous, 
 disagreeable whine commonly adopted by women of her stamp 
 on like occasions. Then she went on to relate her conversa- 
 tion with Mr. Wilson, making, from the outset, only the 
 slight mistake of imputing to him the language she had used 
 herself. 
 
 At first Nell opened her clear, brown eyes, as if she did 
 not understand. But as Mrs. Morris went on to say he 
 called her pert and forward, and laughed at her grand-
 
 THE OLD MAPLE. 335 
 
 parents, a thousand gleaming rajs seemed to converge and 
 centre in the pupils of the girl's eyes, and her sudden excla- 
 mation, " I don't believe it ! " fairly startled that amiable 
 lady. 
 
 " I suppose not, my dear ; people are not apt to believe 
 unpleasant things," she said ; " but I heard him say it, else I 
 should hardly believe it myself. But you need n't take it on 
 my word. The young folks have been talking it over this 
 month past ; if you don't believe me, ask them." 
 
 On my way to singing-school that night I called on Nell. 
 Instead of answering my merry greetings, she burst into tears, 
 and it was a long time before she would tell the occasion of 
 her grief. 
 
 " I do not believe it ! " I said, as she closed her some- 
 what disconnected account of her interview with Mrs. Mor- 
 ris. " I have heard something of this before, but I do not 
 believe Mr. Wilson ever said or thought such things. I '11 
 ask him." 
 
 Xot for the world, Fanny ! not for the world ! Mrs. 
 Moms says she heard him say it, last night, and it must be 
 so. You know he never would have thought of calling for 
 me, if grandpa and grandma had not spoken just as they did 
 about my going to singing-school. But to have him make fun 
 of me, and say I kept putting myself in his way, it is too 
 bad ! " and her tears fell fast. 
 
 I thought iWas too bad, but felt there must be some mis- 
 take. She refused to attend the singing-school again, until I 
 said such a course would occasion more talk, and told her 
 that Dick and I would come for her very early, and that 
 when there was much snow she could spend the night with 
 me. She consented to this arrangement, but refused to go 
 that night. 
 
 Harry Wilson called at the usual hour. When Xell heard 
 his steps on the threshold, she caught up a deep hood, and
 
 336 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 drawing it over her face, bent over a porringer of gruel that 
 stood on the hearth, and began to stir it. 
 
 " I have brought the music I promised you, Nelly," he said, 
 with a smile. " We shall not have time to practise it till after 
 school, for it is almost half past six now. Come, get your 
 bonnet and cloak." 
 
 Nell murmured something about her grandmother's illness, 
 and staying at home. 
 
 " Why, child, you need not stay at home on that account," 
 said the old man. 
 
 " Indeed, I think I shall not go, grandpa ; I shall be wanted 
 here," she said, with a firmer tone. 
 
 " Well, I will^sall as I return, and we will try the music. 
 
 To-morrow Mr. Markham and I start for H . We shall 
 
 be absent two or three days, and you must have the air per- 
 fect when I return. But pray don't stir the bottom of that 
 dish out while I am gone," said Mr. Wilson, laughing, as he 
 closed the door. 
 
 Long before he returned, Nell went to her chamber. She 
 was grieved, wounded, bewildered. She could not under- 
 stand such baseness, and she laid her head on her pillow 
 that night with feelings to which she had hitherto been a 
 stranger. 
 
 Harry Wilson and Mr. Markham returned late on Saturday 
 night. The next evening, on his way to singing-school, he 
 called, as usual, for Nelly. But she and I were already at 
 the school-house. He was disappointed and disturbed. Some- 
 how his short absence had made him feel, more deeply than 
 ever, that to see and speak with Nelly was necessary to his 
 happiness. And he would see her, he thought, as he returned. 
 But no ; Nelly had obtained permission to spend the night 
 with me, and before most of our companions had arranged 
 their hoods and cloaks we were half way home. 
 
 That night Mr. Wilson was in no mood to listen to the 
 endless gossip of Mrs. Morris. He was angry with himself,
 
 HIE OLD MAPLE. 337 
 
 with Nell, and not particularly pleased with the world in 
 general. 
 
 " She is too flighty, too thoughtless," he said to himself. 
 " I have seen too much of the world for such childishness to 
 trouble me." His knowledge of the world had been such as 
 to make him morbidly sensitive in all that related to the affec- 
 tions. Many a fair face had caught his fancy ; but it was 
 really true that none had touched his heart like little Nelly 
 Brae's. He now began to see that he unconsciously treasured 
 up every graceful movement and winning smile, and made them 
 the food of hia dreams. He was startled at the strength and 
 depth of his feelings. What did Nelly mean ? Why did she 
 avoid him ? What did he mean himself? 
 
 CHAPTER if i. 
 
 " ! rook, upon thy towery top 
 
 All throats that gargle sweet ! 
 All starry culmination drop 
 Balm dews to bathe thy feet ! 
 
 " The fat earth feed thy branchy root, 
 
 Th^t under deeply strikes ! 
 The northern morning o'er thee shoot 
 High up in silver spikes ! " 
 
 It was early in the sugar season, and John Brae had given 
 out invitations for a party at his shanty, on the first pleasant 
 evening of the full moon. This happened the next evening. 
 Nelly and I spent the afternoon at the " sap-works," assisting 
 John in his arrangements. His shanty was a building some 
 fifteen feet square, rudely constructed of posts and rough 
 boards. John had devised an addition, of which the two old 
 maples in front were to be the corner posts. Branches of 
 cedar and hemlock served for clapboards and thatch. Wo 
 wreathed the bare walls of the main building with evergreen ; 
 29
 
 338 , LEAVES FKOM THE THEE IQDRASTL. 
 
 and the great half-hogshead tub in the corner, covered over 
 with clean, white boards, served for a side-table, on which we 
 placed sundry dishes of butternuts, walnuts and apples. A 
 large covered-basket stood in the centre, containing bread, 
 butter, salt, and several dozens of fresh eggs, which usually 
 formed the chief article of refreshment on such occasions. 
 The last seat was arranged, the rude floors nicely swept, 
 and, having nothing more to do, we paused to survey our 
 work. 
 
 " It is really a very pretty place," said I. 
 
 " Pretty enough," Nell replied, sadly. ^ 
 
 " Pretty enough ! " I exclaimed, rather vexed at her scant 
 praise. " It is beautiful ! If it could be well lighted, it 
 would look about as well as the church on Christmas eve." 
 
 " Sure enough," said John, coming up. " Can't you contrive 
 to have it well lighted up, girls ? " 
 
 " We have candles enough, but we have only eight sticks, 
 for grandmother will not let us have her plated ones." 
 
 " Wait a bit, girls. I '11 fix it," he said, opening a box 
 that served as a kind of tool-chest ; and presently, by means 
 of augers and pine blocks, he provided a great supply of 
 candlesticks. 
 
 Our arrangements all finished, we went home to get tea, and 
 dress for the evening. Nell would gladly have remained at 
 home, but she knew that her absence would excite surprise and 
 conjecture. Besides, she had been the chief influence in per- 
 suading John to give the party. 
 
 When we reached our woodland bower, the beams of the 
 rising moon were around the leafy door-way, struggling to 
 steal in and sleep on the floor, as longingly as if it had been 
 of Parian marble ; and a few stars looked down through the 
 openings in the hemlock thatch, like guardian spirits. Our 
 candlesticks did well, and the effect of the light was fine, 
 though here and there a bunch of hemlock leaves crisped and 
 crackled as they cime in contact with the blazing wicks. The
 
 THE OLD MAPLK. 339 
 
 night was beautiful. The atmosphere was so clear and elas- 
 tic, that we could hear the voices and footsteps of our guests 
 coining across the fields long before they reached the shanty. 
 
 Ah ! those were happy hours ; as happy as youth, health 
 and unworn hearts could make them. I will not pretend to 
 say how many games of forfeit were played ; nor how many 
 of the forfeits were kisses ; nor how often the long, spiral 
 apple-peelings, when dropped over the right shoulder, formed 
 the very letters which, by all the laws of magic, they were 
 bound to form ; nor with what a half-pleased, half-coquettish 
 air the maidens held forth their palms full of apple-seeds, 
 while Johi$ Fred, or Sam, or whoever had " named the 
 ;fpples," counted them over and over, to see if they would 
 spell the given name ; nor how, if he succeeded, they were 
 thrown into his bosom with a toss of the head, and, " I won- 
 der how any one can be so ridiculous ! " 
 
 Apples ! O, blessed be apples ! they have been famed in 
 philosophy and song ; but neither the golden ones of Idalian 
 Aphrodite, nor the famous one of Sir Isaac Newton, ever pos- 
 sessed such delightful magic as the Rhode Island greenings 
 that made part of our entertainment that evening at John 
 Brae's sap-house. 
 
 The whole arcana of magic lay hid in their seeds, if one 
 only possessed the skill to interpret them, and Nelly was 
 deeply versed in all such lore. At our gatherings she was 
 the acknowledged sibyl. But she was too busy now arrang- 
 ing the table, and discussing with John and a merry-pated old 
 bachelor the precise number of minutes necessary to boil an 
 egg, to pay much attention to the calls for her. 
 
 At length Mary Grant-came into the back room, and, twin- 
 ing her arm around Nell's waist, attempted to draw her into 
 the " green room," as we styled the new apartment. 
 
 " No, excuse, Nelly," she cried ; " we are determined to 
 have our fortunes told. You are the only witch present, and 
 you must come."
 
 340 LEA ViS FROM THE TREE IGDRASYL. 
 
 " Nonsense, Mary ! I can't go ; I am busy." 
 
 " You had better come, Nelly," she said, significantly ; 
 then, lowering her voice to a whisper, she added, " some of 
 them say you would not be so sober and old-womanish if some- 
 body they could name were here." 
 
 Nell colored deeply, and, yielding to Mary's movement, 
 passed into the green-room. Here she became the centre of 
 the company, and, Mary having stealthily put a wreath of 
 holly-leaves around her head, she sat with comic gravity 
 uttering predictions that were received with shouts of laugh- 
 ter, when suddenly the rude door opened, and Harry Wilson 
 entered. He was received with a loud welcome^ and imme- 
 diately drawn into the circle. 
 
 Until within a few days Nell had poured forth her thoughts 
 and feelings with the unconstrained freedom of a bird. But 
 she was now learning to act the woman, with the owlish world 
 for a tutor, and of course her first lesson was concealment. 
 She pressed down her rising heart, and, taking advantage of 
 her assumed character, she bowed gravely to Mr. Wilson and 
 went on with her predictions. Presently she arose, and, 
 placing the wreath on Mary's head, said, " There, good folk, 
 I can stay no longer; I must away." 
 
 " No, no ! you have not told Mr. Wilson's fortune yet. 
 You cannot go yet ! " cried three or four, pressing round to 
 prevent her escape. 
 
 " Indeed, I must go ; there, John is calling me now ; do 
 let me go ! " she exclaimed hastily, as if afraid to trust her 
 -voice. 
 
 Mr. Wilson himself made way for her to pass, saying, as he 
 did so, " No, no, good friends. It is unwise to attempt to 
 compel fate. I fear my fortune would be a dark one if told 
 by an unwilling sibyl." 
 
 A merrier set than was gathered round our table that night 
 could not be found in old Connecticut. Mr. Wilson, as our 
 most distinguished guest, was seated by Nell at the head of
 
 THfi OLD MAPLE. 341 
 
 the table. But no words passed between them, save such as 
 were absolutely necessary. We kept primitive hours, and at 
 ten o'clock there was a general call for hoods and cloaks. 
 Amid the confusion, and " more last words," Mr. Wilson ap- 
 proached Nell, who stood by the table searching a great 
 basket as if she expected to find happiness at the bottom, and 
 proposed to escort her home. He did not catch her reply, for 
 at that moment half a dozen gathered round him to inquire 
 about the approaching concert. When he turned to offer his' 
 arm she was gone. 
 
 He mingled with the group around the door, but she was 
 not there. Vexed and wounded by her strange conduct, he 
 took the* more frequented path home, but he had not pro- 
 ceeded far before he caught a glimpse of her form moving 
 rapidly along the path that led round by the old maple. He 
 paused and hesitated. He knew she could not cross the 
 stream on the stepping-stones, for he had tried it that even- 
 ing. The late rains had made the crossing so difficult that he 
 had been obliged to turn back and take the other path. 
 
 The next moment he was following her with rapid steps. 
 Before he reached the crossing-place, he left the path and 
 sprang across the stream, some rods higher up. In her haste 
 she had proceeded about one third of the way across, before 
 she saw that the stones in the middle of the stream were 
 completely out of sight. She stood hesitating, when he sud- 
 denly appeared, caught her in his arms, and bore her across 
 without speaking. She gazed at him a moment in astonish- 
 ment, but, as he turned to leave her, she burst into tears. He 
 paused, and, turning back, asked eagerly : 
 
 " What does all this mean, Nelly? " 
 
 She could not reply, for tears. He stood a moment irres- 
 olute", and then led her on to the old maple. 
 
 " Will you not tell me what it means ? " he asked again. 
 
 She made an effort to stifle her sobs, and, looking up through 
 her tears, said, " I suppose it was not quite proper for me to 
 29*
 
 342 LEAVES tKOM THE TREE IQDRASYL. 
 
 bay what grandfather did. Bat he did not mean anything im- 
 proper. I was foolish to go, but I did not think you could 
 be so unkind, so cruel, Harry." 
 
 " But what have I done, Nell? " 
 
 " Perhaps you did not mean it just as Mrs. Morris makes 
 it seem ; but to think you could talk so of me ! " and she 
 sobbed again more deeply than before. 
 
 "Hush, hush, Nelly! Do explain yourself; what have I 
 said to Mrs. Morris ? " 
 
 By degrees he drew from her an account of her interview 
 with Mrs. Morris. We need not say how eagerly and indig- 
 nantly he exculpated himself; nor what earnest and beautiful 
 words he whispered, as he drew her closer and closer to his 
 bosom. Memory, or the prophetic yearnings of your own 
 heart, will tell you what they were. I will only say that the 
 lazy sap in the old tree took a livelier motion ; and ever 
 afterwards troops of sweet flowers, such as the anemone and 
 meek-eyed arbutus, came yearly to dwell at its foot, and bless 
 it with their fragrant beauty. 
 
 # # # * =* 
 
 " And is that all, Fanny ? " asks E , with a look of 
 
 disappointment not very flattering to my story-telling talent. 
 
 " Ay, that is all, and enough too. Did I not tell you the 
 story was like the old maple ? " 
 
 " But, Fanny, it is no story at all. You have not said a 
 word about the wedding : we do not even know they were 
 married." 
 
 " 0, if you wish to hear about a wedding, take up the 
 newspaper yonder. There is an account of the Empress 
 Eugenie's. These romances in white satin are wearisomely 
 alike. But I will add, that some four years ago I visited 
 Nell at her pleasant home on the banks of the Quinebaug. I 
 found them both unchanged in heart; but she had really 
 grown beautiful. Her face had gained in tone and expres- 
 sion ; her eyes beamed with light that seemed to flow from a
 
 THE OLD MAPLE. 343 
 
 heart brimming with untold happiness, and her voice was, aa 
 ever, ' the sweetest midst the cadences of girls.' 
 
 " We sat in the parlor, calling up old times. As I looked 
 from the open window, I saw that one of the pillars of the 
 piazza was wreathed with ivy, and near by, under the shade 
 of a rose-bush, grew a large bunch of sage. 
 
 " ' So you really planted them, Nelly ! the sage and ivy 
 I mean,' I said, pointing toward them. 
 
 " ' To be sure she did,' replied Harry, laughing; ' and they 
 thrive well. Come and see the fruit, Fanny.' 
 
 " He drew us both into the next room, and, putting aside a 
 muslin curtain, pointed to a beautiful babe that lay asleep in 
 its cradle. 
 
 " The young mother stooped to kiss it, and as she raised her 
 head their eyes met. Ah ! that glance, so full of unspeakable 
 happiness ! I involuntarily repeated those words of the dis- 
 ciple of wisdom : A babe in the house is. a well-spring of 
 happiness, a messenger of peace and love, a link between 
 angels and men.' "
 
 XII. 
 LILIAN LOVIS. 
 
 " SIXTY-ONE two three. It must be old Aunt Saun- 
 ders," I observed, as the tolling of the old church bell fell 
 upon my ear. For the first time in my life I listened to its 
 mournful tones with a feeling of relief, if not pleasure. Not 
 that I have so far outgrown humanity as to be able to look 
 Death in the face without fear, for I have still a childish 
 dread of shadmos, but I knew that a lamp, whose flame 
 had been long dimmed by the unwholesome vapors of earth, 
 had been relit in heaven that a harp, whose chords had 
 been too tensely drawn while here to give forth sweet music, 
 had again caught up the hymn of life in that blessed land 
 
 where all beautiful things 
 
 
 
 " Keep ths high promise of their earlier day." 
 
 I put on my bonnet, and in a few moments stood in the 
 chamber of death. I have ever had a proclivity to antiqua- 
 rianism, reader ; .but my researches have been rather in the 
 soul-world than in the world of old ruins or Koman antiqui 
 ties. I love to take some old, care-worn, world-worn face, 
 and recast it in the mould of youth to strip from it, one 
 by one, those mummy-like envelopes which time, education 
 and custom have wrapped around it, until, Galatea-like, it 
 stands before me, glowing with youth, hope and beauty. But 
 Aunt Saunders' face (she was the " village aunt," reader) ; 
 had ever been to me most tantalizing. Occasionally I fancied 
 that I could detect a gleam of light in her sunken eyes, that 
 betokened something like human interest ; but, like a spot
 
 LILIAX LOVI3. 845 
 
 of untarnished gilding on some old, illuminated manusciipt, it 
 only served to show more plainly the dilapidated condition 
 of the rest. t 
 
 How could I dream that she had ever been young and fair? 
 that those faded, sunken eyes had ever flashed back the sun- 
 light, or mirrored in their depths an image of love and hope ? 
 that those shrivelled lids had ever drooped, in very bashful- 
 ness, beneath the gaze of loving eyes which were earnestly 
 striving to read that tale which no man reads unmoved ? By 
 what magic could I smooth out the unnumbered wrinkles that 
 circled round her mouth, and make it once mofe the gate of 
 love and mirth, of song and ringing laughter ? 
 
 Death revealed to me far more than life. He did not enter 
 that solitary chamber alone. The angel of mercy had stood 
 by the pillow of the dying one, and retouched those faded 
 lineaments with something like the freshness of early life. 
 
 Then I learned (and could well credit the tale) how, in 
 early girlhood, she had been, for three blessed years, the 
 cherished flower of young Henry Gresham's heart his Lily, 
 as he fondly called her, filling his pathway with fragrance 
 and beauty. Those sunken eyes had returned light for light, 
 those shrivelled lips, love for love, and the young man forgot 
 his proud mother and worldly-wise father, while he sat by her 
 side and received both at her hands. Lilian Lovis had 
 nothing to recommend her to the wealthy Greshams but her 
 sweet face and guileless heart. These were priceless in the 
 eyes of young Harry; but, unfortunately, the old people 
 thought differently. They saw no beauty save through the 
 yellow atmosphere of gold, no worth save such as could be 
 found between the leaves of mouldy family records. Their 
 children had been trained to implicit obedience, and they did 
 not fail to represent to Harry their disapproval of his taste 
 in such a way as to leave him no choice between love and 
 what they called and, alas ! he thought duty. 
 
 They succeeded in convincing his intellect, but not hia
 
 346 LEAVES FROM THE TREE IQDRASYL. 
 
 heart, for there the fragrance of his Lily lingered long after 
 the daughter of rich Jacob Greene called him husband. And 
 once or twice, during the first years of his marriage (we say it 
 in a whisper, reader), he was so very foolish as to entertain 
 something like the thought that Manning Farm and Long 
 Acres were a poor exchange for the pure soul and loving tones 
 of Lilian Lovis. But he was prudent as well as dutiful, and, 
 in a few years, succeeded, to all appearance, in burying the 
 image of his youth, together with that of his meek-eyed Lily, 
 under a load of speculations that finally made him one of the 
 richest men in the county. 
 
 For some time after Harry Gresham's marriage, Lilian 
 Lovis' eyes had a dreamy look, and, not unfrequently, a 
 bright drop gathered on the long lashes, and fell silently 
 down her cheek. Still she did not repine. She had been too 
 deeply schooled in the " meek lessons of humanity "to do 
 that. Harry had obeyed his parents fulfilled the com- 
 mandment and, with her New England education, she could 
 not blame him. With an earnest effort to gather the sun- 
 shine into her heart once more, she lifted her head, and sought 
 strength and comfort in the strict performance of such duties 
 as fell to her lot. 
 
 Lily was still young when her mother died; but she had a 
 high character for faithfulness and honesty, and this drew 
 upon her th attention of old, rich, rheumatic John Saunders. 
 He wanted a wife, or, rather, a nurse and housekeeper under 
 that name, and his choice fell upon Lily. 
 
 She hesitated but friends whispered, nay shouted, max- 
 ims of prudence and worldly wisdom in her ears, mingled 
 with hints of dependence, until, bewildered, confused, with a 
 shudder which she prayed Heaven to forgive, as the move- 
 ment of a rebellious heart, she laid her hand in the bony one 
 that reached out to grasp hers, and gave him the name of 
 husband. 
 
 For many long months her new home seemed dark and
 
 LILIAN LOVIS. 347 
 
 empty, but " something the heart must have to cherish," 
 and, as her husband grew more and more feeble, pity took the 
 place of love, and led her to think of him with a feeling nearly 
 akin to that which a mother feels towards a peevish, suffering 
 child. Irritable and impatient, he could not bear to trust her 
 from .his sight ; and the freshness and fragrance of Lily soon 
 faded in the close atmosphere of that sick-chamber, while the 
 flower-dust of the heart was daily brushed away by some new 
 exaction on the part of the querulous invalid. Yet he loved 
 her, as well as he was capable of loving anything aside from 
 himself, and thought he made ample compensation for all her 
 care and patience by leaving her a competence in his will. 
 So thought her friends when, after a lingering struggle of 
 many years, he at length yielded to death. They spoke much 
 of his generosity, and Lilian assented to their remarks with- 
 out comprehending them. 
 
 After so many years of seclusion their voices annoyed her. 
 She had not loved old John Saunders as a wife she could 
 not ; but his pale, wrinkled face, peering over the back of his 
 arm-chair, watching her every movement his sharp, queru- 
 lous tones, calling her name until he obtained a reply, were it 
 a thousand times, had, by the mere force of habit, become a 
 part of her daily life, of herself and now, in her utter iso- 
 lation, she often turned from the condolence that sounded so 
 much like congratulation, towards that old arm-chair, almost 
 expecting, and half wishing, to hear again his sharp-toned 
 " Lilian." Her long confinement had unfitted her for the 
 rush and stir of life ; but she gradually grew to be an oracle 
 at births and deaths a rare compounder of embrocations 
 and syrups, and nurse to the whole town. To these she 
 united another occupation that of shroud-maker ; and many 
 a time have I watched her attenuated fingers pressing the 
 long needle through the starched muslin, and thought, if the 
 white folds were only gathered around her, the illusion would 
 be complete. Life and death, a funeral or a birth, seemed
 
 348 LEAVES FROM THE TREK IQDRASYL. 
 
 alike to her ; and, to me, she was a being without human sym- 
 pathies. But I was mistaken. One chord in the harp of 
 life still vibrated to the music of earth. On the day before 
 her death the rich Judge Gresham, while presiding at a meet- 
 ing of the directors of the railroad, was taken with a fit 
 
 of apoplexy. He lived but a few hours, but, during that 
 time, succeeded in .making a few orders and requests under- 
 stood. One was, that Lilian Saunders should make his 
 shroud. The person who conveyed the order to Aunt Saun- 
 ders did not note the trembling of her hands, or the sudden 
 gleam of her eye, as n*e mentioned the death of her early 
 lover and his request. For some seconds after the door 
 closed upon the messenger, she stood gazing at the snowy 
 folds of cambric in her hand, as in a dream. " 'T is more 
 than forty years since," she murmured, as she mechanically 
 laid the cambric on her pillow, and pressed her cheek against 
 the white folds. For a few moments, perchance hours, she 
 was again his Lily, and then Death and Mercy took her 
 home.
 
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