ill !! 
 

SILYERWOOD. 
 
S I L A^ E R A¥ D : 
 
 J iresio^^ ''h^e^, -J 
 
 ^ml of Pemorits 
 
 -From the sessions of sweet, silent thought, I summon up remembrance '' 
 
 Shakspeare's Sonnets. 
 
 DERBY & JACKSON", 119 NASSAU-STREET. 
 Cincinnati: — H. W. Derby & Co. 
 
 1856. 
 

 Entered according to aet of Cftii^ee^; Iv? PERCY & .I;\CKSO,N,,in the Clerk's Office of 
 
 the U. S. DistrieVcoiJrt^ffti't^Sdutferli.'DiJitricJ. of X.ew-York, in the year 
 
 of oiw Lctrd otie thttuSanfi'eight huhUleh and ftfty-six. 
 
 PUDNKY & RusSKLL, PkintEBS, '9 JoHnStREET. 
 
Turning tearfully the pages 
 
 Which the Past has written o'er, 
 With the thousand precious records 
 Of the changeful heretofore — 
 
 Records luminous, where brightly 
 Joy the sunbeam glows and shines — 
 
 Records with a throb of heart-break ; 
 Trembling all along the lines. 
 
 I have gathered of the gladness, 
 And the grief that fill the brook ; 
 
 Here some grace's shadowy outline — 
 There some tender tone or look. 
 
 Transcripts, oh ! how faint, beloved ! 
 
 Dim suggestions of the rare 
 Inner realms the world around you 
 
 Did not dream were hidden there. 
 
 Like the spies of old, I've entered, 
 Searching all the richest parts. 
 
 Bringing back these grapes of Eschol 
 From the Canaan of your hearts ! 
 
 Mmssa 
 
For I need the wine of solace, 
 
 Which this cluster sweet supplies, 
 
 Since ye pluck the food of angels 
 'Midst the hills of Paradise. 
 
 Or, as Ruth among the reapers, 
 Memory, like a gleaner, strives 
 
 Thus to gather up a handful 
 From the harvest of your lives. 
 
 Like an exile in her sorrow. 
 
 Seeking midst the cast off leaves. 
 
 Golden grains of thought and feeling, 
 Dropped from out the garnered sheaves. 
 
 If she has not filled her bosom 
 With the full and ripen'd ears, 
 
 'Twas because her eyes were clouded, 
 And she could not see for tears • 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 I. — Foreground and Background 9 
 
 If.— The Stirred Nest 19 
 
 III.— A Home Lost 25 
 
 IV.— A Home Found '. 35 
 
 v.— Fireside 41 
 
 VI.— Uncle Felix 51 
 
 VII.— The Naiad's Spring 65 
 
 Vm.— Ant-Hills 85 
 
 IX.— New Friends 93 
 
 X. — An Autumn Sermon 99 
 
 XI. — The New Governess and her Pupils 113 
 
 XII.— On the Wing 129 
 
 XIII.— Grantley- Holm 135 
 
 XIV.— A Broken Reverie 151 
 
 XV.— A Fashionable Welcome 161 
 
 XVI.— Breakfast-Table Talk 171 
 
 XVII. — Dealings with a Man of Business 179 
 
 XVIII-— Sights in a Cathedral 195 
 
 XIX.— Sympathies 205 
 
 XX.— The Way of the World 215 
 
 XXL— Contrasts 229 
 
 XXII —A Glimpse into a Heart 241 
 
YIII CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 XXIII.— Introspective 249 
 
 XXIV.— Disappointed Hopes 251 
 
 XXV.— Bread and Butter Philosophy 263 
 
 XXVI. — Leaves from the Tropics 271 
 
 XX VII.— Lawrence at Home 281 
 
 XXVIIL— The Coming Back 291 
 
 XXIX.— A Bridal 299 
 
 XXX.— Unrest 309 
 
 XXXI.— Summer Visitors 317 
 
 XXXn — Castlehead , 329 
 
 XXXIII.— Moonlight Revelations 345 
 
 XXXIV.— The Clouds Return after the Rain .' 359 
 
 XXXV.— Darkness and Light 365 
 
 XXXVI.— The Setting Sun 373 
 
 XXXVH.-Left Behind 379 
 
 XXXVIII —The Redeemed Pledge 387 
 
 XXXIX.— Clear Shining after the Rain 397 
 
SILVER¥OOD. 
 
 I. 
 
 (iitgrounir anir ^atligrounk 
 
 It was a dim, dark picture, rich with the mellow tints 
 of age ; and the broad glow of the coal fire falling over it, 
 brought out with striking effect from the background of 
 intense shadow, the figures that filled the canvas. The 
 subject of the painting was Dante's familiar story of 
 Ugolino, who, with his sons and grandsons, was impris- 
 oned in the Pisan tower, — the key thrown into the Arno, 
 and they left to die of starvation. Through the narrovv^, 
 grated window came a few struggling rays of light, barely 
 sufficient to reveal the gaunt, gray-haired old Count, 
 sitting proudly erect, — his features rigid, his hands 
 clenched, — the impersonation of unbending endurance 
 
 and stony w^oe. On his knee leaned 'Hhe little Anselm" 
 
 1 
 
10 ^ SILVEKWOOD. 
 
 of tke Poeli, hi^ iilriocent, questioning face lifted with a 
 frightened expression to the eyes, which, wholly unheed- 
 ing him, were gazing wildly into vacancy. At their feet 
 lay one of the sons already dead with hunger, and in the 
 obscurity behind, were to he seen the two other hoys in 
 attitudes that bespoke a ghastly despair, too hopeless to 
 admit of a struggle. 
 
 '' Mother," said the young man, who had been silently 
 walking the floor with folded hands behind him, but who 
 now paused before the picture as he spoke — "mother, I 
 wonder if this old painting has taught you the same kind 
 of lessons I learn from it." 
 
 " Indeed, my son, I don't know. It was always full 
 of interest for me, principally, perhaps, from home associ- 
 ations. One of the earliest memories of my childhood is, 
 being held up before it by my father, while he told me 
 the sad story it delineates, with all the touches of pathos 
 which Chaucer introduces into his version of it. I can 
 recall even yet," continued Mrs. Irvine, musingly, *^ the 
 very tones in which he used to recite some of the lines : 
 
 ' Father, why do ye weep 1 
 
 Is there no morsel bread that ye do keep 1 
 4 I am so hungry that I cannot sleep !' 
 
 As I grew older, I was, perhaps, more interested in it from 
 the fact that it used to hang on the wall in the old ances- 
 tral home of our family, on the southern border of 
 
FOREGROUND AND BACKGROUND. 11 
 
 Scotland. Your great grandfather, ^ the Laird of Newton,' 
 as he was called, looked on that picture many a time as 
 you do now, no doubt ; so that the associations it 
 furnishes, make me prize it more than its own intrinsic 
 merit as a work of art. But what particular lesson do 
 you learn from it ?" 
 
 " It teaches me to be grateful, mother dear — " 
 " That your lot was not cast in that barbarous age ?" 
 " That would be a very legitimate lesson, but it is not 
 the uppermost one in my thoughts : I make a simpler use 
 of it ; for I love to look off from the gloom and suffering 
 it depicts, to the beautiful picture about me. These 
 softly tinted walls, bright with the fire-glow, — that 
 painting of the morning landscape opposite, with its 
 cool, delicate sky, — the luxurious coloring of the carpet, — 
 the flower-stand parting the crimson curtains, — the open 
 piano, — the books invitingly scattered here and there, — 
 Zilpha's drawing-table, with all her implements upon it, 
 just as she left it when it grew too dark for her to 
 work, — Fidele lying so comfortably napping on the rug 
 at your feet, — and above all, you, mother, the centre 
 of the scene, looking so serene and happy, as if no 
 shadows had ever passed over your heart. We need contrast 
 to heighten effect ; so Count Ugolino serves as a back- 
 ground to my home-picture, such as the old masters de- 
 lighted in, — so dark as to make more lucid the lights of 
 the foreground." 
 
12 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 " Yet I have had shadows," said Mrs. Irvine, tenderly 
 laying her hand over the one that rested on the arm of 
 her chair, — " shadows that form for me just the hack- 
 ground you speak of. When, ten years ago, your father 
 was so suddenly snatched away,— dying, as he did, so far 
 from home, — leaving me with Josepha, a hahy on my 
 knee, and you, the eldest, not much more than a child in 
 years, I felt as if the burden placed in my hands was a 
 heavy one, — -as if the joy of my life was extinguished 
 forever. It would have been hard then to convince me 
 that I should again know the quiet happiness I now 
 possess. ' The Lord will provide,' I said, in my desola- 
 tion ; and I have ever since proved its truth." 
 
 "It is easy to he trustful and grateful when the 
 sunshine of prosperity is all around us, — easy to hear 
 other people's trials ; and so little experience have I had of 
 any kind of suffering, that I'm afraid I should set a soryy 
 example of patience." 
 
 " Yet when adversity does come, Lawrence, I hope the 
 same grace that upheld me, will be your stay. For 
 happy as we all are now, — so happy, indeed, that some- 
 times I reflect on it with trembling, I must believe that 
 we will not be exempt from the common lot, — 
 
 ' To each their suffering — all are men* — 
 
 ' The days of darkness ' are promised ; they will be sent 
 when God sees best." 
 
FOREGROUND AND BACKGROUND. 13 
 
 *' Never again to you^ mother, I trust," said Lawrence, 
 fondly. ^^ Let us hope and believe that your life-picture 
 will not again be darkened. As for myself, — you see I 
 have been compelled to turn to the picture behind us — " 
 
 *' I pray Grod you may want the shadows long !" 
 interrupted his mother. '^ Sometimes I feel a little 
 hesitation about Edith and you going abroad — " 
 
 ^' Why should you ? It is very unlike you, mother 
 dear, to harbor fears about anything." 
 
 ^' I'm not disposed to do it now : but we have never 
 been separated far, — ^only while you have been at college, 
 and I shrink a little from the thous^ht of it : that's all." 
 
 *' Then we will not go — " 
 
 *' And do you think I would let the matter of feeling 
 stand in the way of your improvement, mental and 
 physical ? Your long course of study has worn you 
 down a good deal, and you really need this relaxation 
 before entering upon your professional preparation. 
 No, — I am happy in the thought of all the enjoyment 
 you and your sister will have. I even wish that Zilpha 
 could go too." 
 
 "So do I, only that it would leave you too lonely for 
 them both to be away. Zilpha never seemed to have 
 such a fancy for going abroad as Edith." 
 
 "No: — as to scenery, she says she is satisfied with 
 what our own continent can show her ; and as to works of 
 art, she thinks Nature all she can desire." 
 
14: SILVERWOOD. 
 
 " Yet with her taste for the pencil, and her handling of 
 it, she would so enjoy the fine things one sees only in 
 foreign galleries." 
 
 " Bat she knows that Edith's taste will be even more 
 ministered to than her own, and I think it is her disinter- 
 estedness, principally, that makes her insist on giving her 
 the precedence, though as the elder, it would he more nat- 
 ural for her to go." 
 
 A laughing group entering the parlor, interrupted the 
 conversation. Josepha, a child not much over ten, in- 
 stalled herself ilpon her brother's knee ; Eunice, the next 
 older sister, couched herself upon the rug, and took the 
 head of the little grey -hound into her lap ; Zilpha sat on a 
 low seat beside her mother : and to the cheerful voices 
 that floated through the twilight room, the music, tender 
 and soft, which Edith's fingers awakened, formed a 
 subdued accompaniment, as she played and listened. 
 
 '' You will go to Newton Lodge, of course, when you 
 are in Scotland," said Zilpha, inquiringly. 
 
 " You must certainly do that," rejoined Mrs. Irvine. 
 
 *' At the risk of having our motives impugned, mother ?" 
 asked Lawrence. " Your old grand-uncle will, perhaps, 
 think the American nephew and niece are coming to make 
 his acquaintance, with an eye to the estate hei'll be com- 
 pelled to leave to somebody before long. Isn't he very 
 old ?" 
 
 " Very ; but we have no reason to suppose we'll get 
 
FOREGROUND AXD BACKGROUND. 15 
 
 any of it under any circumstances ; there are enough of 
 Scotch kith and kin to take precedence of us. So I don't 
 think you need let the fear of the old gentleman's sus- 
 picions keep you from seeing this ancient family home." 
 
 After the interruption of tea, the subject of the prospec- 
 tive tour was again under discussion, and the time of the 
 departure of Lawrence and his sister finally fixed at a 
 month from that period. The March winds howled and 
 fretted without, only to add more sweetness to the din 
 of cheerful voices within. Mrs. Irvine's face, — as she 
 sat where the ruddy glow of the grate, and the light from 
 the shaded lamp mingled upon it, might have seemed to 
 owe to them something of the peculiar expression of 
 beautiful cheeriness that irradiated it. But had the gleam 
 from the hearth been wanting, and had only a dim rush- 
 light been shining over the needles with which she plied 
 her light task, the room would have gained brightness 
 from her countenance, for it was pre-eminently one of 
 those, — 
 
 *' That make a sunshine in the shady place." 
 
 Her brown hair, and, at her age, unusual youthfulness of 
 complexion, — fine hazel eyes, full of changing beauty, — 
 irregular, yet singularly expressive features, were subjects 
 for constant and loving compliment from her children. 
 Yet she was not beautiful, in the common acceptation of 
 the term. But the all-embracing kindliness that looked out 
 
16 ' SILVERWOOD. 
 
 through her clear eyes, — ^the heart welcome that expressed 
 itself, as no words were subtle enough to do, in her smile, 
 — ^the ready sympathy that was like an atmosphere, 
 thoroughly pervading all she said or did, — the delicate 
 considerateness that marked her every action, — her abso- 
 lute devotion to the happiness of others, in which alone 
 her own appeared to consist, — all these charms of the out- 
 er and inner life, combined to form a character of rare and 
 exceeding loveliness. Like the old English Bishop of 
 Litchfield, her motto was, " Serve God and be cheerful." 
 
 Lawrence was like his mother, personally ; but there 
 was about him a steady gravity, and a quiet reserve of 
 manner to which she was a stranger. The auburn hair, 
 inclining to wavyness, and the fair complexion, might 
 have imparted a feminine aspect to his face ; but on the 
 contrary, it was one of peculiar manliness. The gaze of 
 the eyes was grave and settled, — the cut of the mouth 
 indicated strong decision, and about his whole appearance 
 there was a winning dignity, — a gentle repose, which, 
 while it never could repel, would seem, at first sight, to for- 
 bid familiar approach. 
 
 There was something very beautiful in his manner 
 towards his mother. He loved to choose his seat near 
 her ; he addressed to her the most of his conversation ; he 
 anticipated her minute wants, — the stool for her feet, — 
 the cushion for her head, — the books she liked best near 
 her, — the first flower of Spring, — the first tinged leaf of 
 
FOEEGEOUND AND BACKGEOUND. 17 
 
 Autumn : there was no limit to the unohstrusive manifes- 
 tations of his thoughtful love. He never overlooked her 
 presence in a room ; and many a time would he leave 
 the group of interested talkers, if he chanced to observe 
 her sitting apart, and address himself to her entertain- 
 ment. His attentions were more than the dictates of filial 
 devotion, — more than the simple homage of graceful youth 
 to riper age. Had she been a young beauty, whose fascina- 
 tions had enthralled him, there could not have been a 
 more delicate mingling of what might be termed the chiv- 
 alry of the heart with the tenderness of his love. The 
 language of look and action was, — " others may do much 
 for me, — but no suffering in my behalf, — no ministra- 
 tions, — no devotedness, can be like a mother's I" And as 
 he now sat with his arm over the back of her chair, talk- 
 ing with her of his plans and prospects, and the eyes of 
 each strayed to the circle about the table, animatedly dis- 
 cussing what particular thing they w^ould like best to 
 have brought them from abroad, — the gaze of the mother 
 and son was simultaneously raised to the grim canvas on 
 the wall, with an inward '' thank Grod," that, as yet, the 
 home-picture was shadowless. 
 
n. 
 
 ^t Stimir Best. 
 
 It was less than a fortnight after this that Lawrence 
 entered the breakfast-room with the morning papers in 
 his hand : there was no one there but Zilpha. 
 
 " My dear sister," he began, in so grave a tone that 
 she looked up from her page to see his face, " I've discov- 
 ered some unpleasant news, — something it v/ill grieve 
 you greatly to hear." 
 
 "What?" she asked, coming up to him, and looking 
 over the paper on which his eyes were fixed. 
 
 " Something that will be very unwelcome to us all, and 
 that will put an end to all the anticipations you have 
 been so unselfish as to have indulged for Edith and 
 me." 
 
 " What is it ? tell me at once ; I can't bear suspense." 
 
 " Our projected trip must be given up, — " ' 
 
 " Griven up, — and you so nearly ready to start ? Why, 
 what's the matter ?" 
 
 Lawrence answered her question by pointing to a para- 
 
20 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 graph in the paper. She ran her eye hurriedly over it, 
 
 and then with an exclamation of astonishment, sank into 
 
 a seat beside him. 
 
 " You see that puts an extinguisher at once upon our 
 
 plans," said Lawrence. '' It would be a comparatively 
 
 insignificant affair, if this were the only consequence of 
 
 it." 
 
 " And you think there can be no doubt about it ?" 
 
 " None ; here is a notice of it in this other paper." 
 
 Zilpha took the sheet he had lifted, as if, without farther 
 confirmation, she was not content to believe what her eyes 
 had already read. 
 
 " Broken I — the S Eank broken I" she exclaimed, 
 
 still half incredulously. " What a misfortune ! How 
 much of our income does it sweep away, — if indeed it be 
 really gone ?" 
 
 '' Of that we may rest assured. As to our income, I 
 suppose it robs us of more than one half — " 
 
 "And mother — " 
 
 " Yes, that is the tender point," said Lawrence, as he 
 rose, and walked back and forth with a rapid step ; "it 
 will grieve her so, for our sakes. It may circumscribe 
 her comfort somewhat, and that's something I can't think 
 of calmly. Yet no, it shan't be ; these hands will prevent 
 that." 
 
 " I dare say she will be more vexed at the disappoint- 
 ment it will occasion Edith and you than at anything. 
 
THE STIRRED NEST. 21 
 
 What a pity ! Edith's heart was so set upon this sum- 
 mer's travel." 
 
 " I cannot help blaming Mr. Bryson in some measure," 
 resumed Lawrence, as he seated himself, and again re- 
 turned to the paper. 
 
 *' How can he have had any agency in the matter ?" 
 asked Zilpha. 
 
 " None directly : but he holds our business affairs in his 
 hands, and as a great merchant, he ought to know what 
 stocks were unsafe, so as to have given us time to have 
 had our investments withdrawn. Not three months ago 
 I heard suspicions as to the soundness of this Bank, 
 and wrote to Mr. Bryson. His assurances quieted me. But 
 it is all done now, and regrets are useless, as we always 
 say, though we will still go on to utter them." 
 
 The breakfast passed from the table almost untouched 
 that morning, such was the chagrin felt for the time at 
 the news which Lawrence communicated ; yet upon the 
 whole, Mrs. Irvine bore it very bravely, — so much so 
 indeed, that her son regarded her with a new admiration. 
 As Zilpha had supposed, her keenest present regi-et was 
 the disappointment of her children in the matter of the 
 tour, which Lawrence did not fail to represent as nothing 
 of consequence. 
 
 " There is a wisdom in this dispensation," said Mrs. 
 Irvine, after she had been trying silently to familiarize 
 her mind with the reality of the loss, — *' which, as yet, we 
 
22 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 cannot see. We were too comfortable in our nest ; we 
 needed to have it stirred ; we needed to have a thorn put 
 in it to keep us from nestling there too satisfiedly." ^ 
 
 " Not in it, dear mother," interrupted Lawrence ; '' say 
 only that a portion of its down is torn away." 
 
 *' Ah I you are right, my son, and so long as any trials 
 we may be called to endure, are outside of our home-nest, 
 we scarcely ought to rate them as trials. Our heavenly 
 Father has only ' fluttered ' over it, to teach us how to 
 use the weak wings of our faith. And even if he should 
 ' take us and bear us ' forth for untried flights, we should 
 not fear ; if he sees our strength fail, he will spread be- 
 neath us the wings of his everlasting love." 
 
 " But mother," broke in Edith quickly, '' you don't 
 really mean to say that this loss may lead to any serious 
 changes ? — that we may be compelled to give up our 
 beautiful home ?" 
 
 " Oh ! no, I hope not. So long as we are thus comfort- 
 ably provided for, we do wrong to look upon ourselves as 
 sufferers. No doubt there are widows and fatherless 
 children whom this unfortunate failure will leave penni- 
 less. Let us think of them, and be thankful." 
 
 " Spoken just like you, dear mother," said Lawrence, 
 affectionately, " searching first of all for causes of grati- 
 tude, to be the more strengthened to bear your losses." 
 
 " I dont pretend to be such a stoic," replied his mother, 
 '' as not to regret this loss, particularly as it interferes so 
 
THE STIRRED NEST. 23 
 
 sadly ^rith your plans : but compared with what multi- 
 tudes are called to bear, it is a mere nothing. While I 
 have you all with me," — and Mrs. Irvine looked round upon 
 the circle with a sudden glistening of the eye that always 
 accompanied her quick emotions, — " I am surely rich in 
 the truest sense of the word." 
 
 "And after all," said Zilpha, " there is no loss so light 
 as the loss of money, — " 
 
 " I don't know about that," interrupted Edith. " Pover- 
 ty and dependance are a rather undesirable pair of ac- 
 quaintances, — " 
 
 '' Yes," said Lawrence, smiling, " unless, in regard to 
 the first, like Socrates in the fair, you can say, ' "X^Hiat a 
 sight of things do I not want !' " 
 
 " And if G-od's discipline should require you to form 
 such acquaintanceships — " 
 
 " But mother, in this instance, it is through the mis- 
 management or roguery of men that we suffer," persisted 
 Edith. 
 
 " They are only the instruments in a higher hand, my 
 dear. This thing of resting upon second causes is very 
 unwise. All trial is more easily borne, if we look beyond 
 the immediate occasion of it, and remember who arranges 
 and controls the minutest incidents of our lot. My old au- 
 thority, Charnock, says, that ' all G-od's providences are but 
 his touch of the strings of this great instrument, the world ; 
 and if we stay for fuller touches, they will be like David's 
 
24 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 harp to us,' — chasing the evil spirit of douht away.' We 
 must not forget that there is a lesson for us wrapped up 
 in every discipline ; and of all comforting doctrines, I feel 
 one of the most comforting to he, a firm faith in the par- 
 ticular and over-ruling providence of God." 
 
 '' Mother," said Lawrence, as they sat again in the 
 twilight, with the same warm fire-glow brightening up all 
 the objects around them, " I begin not quite so much to 
 need the factitious background I was speaking of not long 
 ago," — and he pointed to the picture on the wall. 
 
 "You be gin, "^^ repeated his mother, questioningly ; 
 " have you a prophetic prescience for future shadows ?" 
 
Ill 
 
 % Mmt f ost. 
 
 The high March winds roared among the elms and 
 poplars that surrounded the beautiful home of the Irvines ; 
 fierce gusts rent limbs and twigs, and flung them with 
 angry violence upon the ground, or smote them against 
 the windows ; and the dry leaves that had outbraved all 
 the winter's efforts to wrench them away, were tossing 
 hither and thither in wild confusion across the midnight 
 sky. 
 
 Lawrence raised his head to listen. He had been sud- 
 denly roused from sound sleep with the impression upon 
 his ear that he had heard his own name spoken. But the 
 branches athwart his window creaked and groaned, and 
 the wind howled like a human thing in pain ; other noises 
 there seemed to be none. He looked toward the window. 
 A glare as of fire-light was over the sky. He started up, 
 
 under the belief that a conflagration was raging in B , 
 
 a mile distant. 
 
 " Fire !" There was no doubt as to the voice now. 
 
26 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 " James !" he exclaimed, as he thought he recognized 
 the servant's voice, '' where is it ? — what is it ?" 
 
 " The back building is all in a blaze, sir ; the women 
 have been helping me throw on a few buckets of water ; 
 but that way of working is no use, — quick, sir, — fire ! 
 fire I" 
 
 But it was in vain he tried to freight the air with the 
 message he would have it bear to the sleeping town. The 
 wind outvoiced him, and drowned his alarms with its 
 wilder shriekings. A very few moments sufficed to bring 
 Lawrence to the lower part of the house. He opened the 
 door connecting the hall with the back building, but the 
 volumes of stifling smoke intermingled with flame, com- 
 pelled him to close it instantly. He flew to rouse the 
 family who yet slept unconscious of the neighborhood of 
 
 such danger. James was galloping to B , to spread 
 
 the alarm. 
 
 Consternation was depicted upon the faces that started 
 up to meet Lawrence's summons. The children could 
 not comprehend just at once, why they were snatched up 
 so hurriedly, and in their fright they made the house ring 
 with their cries. Mrs. Irvine was a woman of remarkable 
 presence of mind. No emergencies, however startling, 
 confused her so entirely as to render her helpless : and 
 though she trembled with fear, she was able at once to 
 give assistance in the removal of articles of value from the 
 house. Zilpha had still steadier nerves : danger seemed 
 
A HOME LOST. 27 
 
 to have the effect of concentrating her faculties, — of 
 making her mental workings clearer even than usual. In 
 this absence of all tremulousness and perturbation, and 
 pretty womanly weakness, — in the ability to fulfill with 
 straightforwardness the demands of the moment's exigen- 
 cy, without allowing herself to be occupied in the slightest 
 degree with her own particular feelings, — she might have 
 appeared to those who saw her only under these circum- 
 stances, too rigid, — too self-contained. They would judge 
 differently, if they looked again, when the emergency had 
 passed and the call for self-control was relaxed. She flew 
 hither and thither, — clearing out presses, — tumbling the 
 contents of drawers into the sheets she had stripped from 
 the beds, and flinging them from the windows, — singling 
 out what they would least like to part with, — in short, 
 deciding and acting with as much clearness as could have 
 been vouchsafed by the most leisurely deliberation. 
 
 The case was different with Edith. She was trembling 
 like an aspen leaf, and so weak from terror, that, even 
 what she had sufficient composure for, her physical 
 powers could not accomplish. Zilpha had already inter- 
 cepted her attempts to throw a handsome dressing-box 
 from an upper window ; and, as she rushed past Edith, 
 some minutes after, on the stairway, she discovered that 
 in the skirt of her dress, which she had caught up about 
 her, she held a quantity of common clothing ; but more 
 conspicuous were innumerable pairs of old shoes. She 
 
28 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 could scarcely suppress a disposition to smile, as she 
 begged her to expend her efforts on something more 
 valuable. 
 
 Lawrence had been mounted upon the roof of the 
 main building, — buckets of water had been passed un- 
 remittingly to him, by the few people who had assem- 
 bled ; and his exertions had been prodigious to protect it 
 from the flames. Several times had he already cut away 
 burning shingles ; but at length he relinquished the 
 hatchet, as the desired aid came. The leaping flames 
 were roaring close beside him ; the leathern pipe was 
 put into his hands ; and in his perilous situation he 
 stood guiding the stream of water. The fire flashed, 
 and wreathed itself above his head. His position be- 
 came too dangerous. He slipped — fell ; and, to the eyes 
 of the S])ectators below, seemed lost in the belching 
 flames ; but in a few minutes he was seen to descend 
 through the trap-door. His presence above could be of 
 no further use. 
 
 " Mother ! — Zilpha I — this will never do ! " he ex- 
 claimed, as he encountered them carrying out a sofa. 
 " Better everything should burn, than that you should 
 kill yourselves ;" and he compelled them to set down 
 their burden. " Come, all — all of you away. Edith, 
 don't attempt to lift that mirror ; it's entirely too 
 heavy for you. Here stands ' Ariadne' on her bracket 
 yet. T wonder you did not think of our only piece of 
 
A HOME LOST. 29 
 
 Parian. There, take it; but no time for tears now, 
 Edith." 
 
 He reached down the statuette, confiding it to his 
 sister's care. '' But where are Eunice and Josepha ?" 
 he asked, looking round anxiously for them. '' I see 
 them nowhere." 
 
 '' Where ? — where ?" — cried Mrs. Irvine, breathlessly, 
 as she attempted to penetrate through the smoke into 
 one of the rooms on the opposite side of the passage ; 
 but Lawrence held her back. 
 
 " Be calm, dear mother ; I will search for them. 
 They're safe, somewhere, I trust." 
 
 " The children I — the children ! Eunice ! — Josepha I " 
 were now the words on every tongue. 
 
 " I saw Eunice carrying out an armful of your books, 
 but a little while ago," exclaimed Zilpha. '' She may 
 have returned to the library for more. Oh ! see — see, 
 Lawrence ! — the door is open ; the room is full of smoke ; 
 you'll be stifled !" 
 
 " At any risk, I must see if she is there ;" and he 
 put aside the hand that would have detained him. 
 
 He had scarcely penetrated into the rolling cloud, 
 when Edith's voice was heard on the piazza, '' Mother, — 
 Lawrence ! here they are !" 
 
 And there indeed they were, at the far library window, 
 using the utmost of their little endeavors to hoist out a 
 pretty writing-stand with a desk attached, — their mother's 
 
80 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 peculiar property. Their brother and half a dozen others 
 flew to their aid and rescue ; and as they were lifted out 
 into the arms that were opened to receive them, Eunice 
 exclaimed with a burst of tears, — " "We thought you 
 could'nt do without that, mother ; we knew you kept 
 father's letters there !" 
 
 " Now promise me," begged Lawrence, after he had 
 removed them all to a summer seat round the base of an 
 old elm on the lawn, — " promise me that you will be 
 content to stay at this safe distance. You can do 
 nothing more, except to injure yourselves by over- 
 exertion." 
 
 '' Well I — we'll do as you wish ; but you, — I'm afraid 
 your're forgetting to take any care of yourself, — " and 
 his mother passed her hand over his shoulders. 
 
 " Why, you are thoroughly wet now, and this chilly 
 air, — " but he was gone without waiting for her charges, 
 and was soon lost amid the surging crowd. 
 
 The flames burst from one of the parlor windows, as he 
 sprang up the steps of the piazza ; and as he attempted to 
 pass through the hall to see if anything farther could be 
 done towards saving the library, he caught a glimpse of 
 the Count Ugolino's stern features, as, with a fearful splen- 
 dor, the leaping and lurid flames irradiated the dark can- 
 vas ; and even in the midst of his hurry and excitement, 
 his mind delayed for one instant, or rather the contrast 
 sprang up as he gazed, and he needed not to delay, — 
 
A HOME LOST. 3l 
 
 between the soft flush of the twilight scene he recalled, 
 and the flashing, pitiless blaze that was shrivelling up his 
 home-picture. It was too late to save it ; as he looked, it 
 fell. ^' Let it go I" he inwardly sighed : " I shall need no 
 such shadow now !" 
 
 *' Has nobody seen Fiddle ?" asked Josepha, after they 
 had kept their new post of observation but a few minutes. 
 '' Oh ! mother, let me go and beg somebody to hunt for 
 her : she must not, she shall not be burnt ; poor Fidele !" 
 and afresh the child poured forth the lamentations she 
 had been indulging in, as she recounted to Eunice the 
 various cherished treasures so remorselessly swept away. 
 But her tears for the missing pet were not permitted to 
 flow long. A boy was seen coming towards them over 
 the illuminated lawn. " Mr. Irvine told me to bring this 
 dog to one of you ladies," he called out as soon as he came 
 within speaking distance ; '' it's scared out of its wits 
 'most." Josepha sprang forward to claim Fidele with a 
 cry of joy, and child-like she was for the moment 
 consoled. 
 
 No exertions could save the house ; and the group on 
 the lawn, with dismay, saw the roof fall in — heard the 
 timbers crash — and watched, high above all, the mad 
 flames triumph over what had been to them the dearest 
 spot on earth. Few words escaped them, as they crowded 
 shiveringly together, with their moistened eyes fixed on 
 their burning home. A half suppressed sob — a stifled ex- 
 
82 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 clamation — a low wail from one of the children ; — ^this was 
 at first all. At length the grey light of the morning 
 began to streak the east — the wild winds lulled — the 
 flames had exhausted their fury, and were subsiding — the 
 crowd had drawn off, and desolate indeed looked the neat, 
 trim lawn of yesterday, with its trampled shrubbery, and 
 the just freshening grass scattered over with household ar- 
 ticles and furniture, in the greatest conceivable disorder. 
 
 Lawrence was in the midst of the group once more, — 
 weary with his night's exertion : he had managed to find 
 a dry coat, to his mother's satisfaction ; and, as he sat 
 down for a little rest, Mrs. Irvine's head sank for a mo- 
 ment upon the arm he was about to pass around her. 
 
 " And what do you think — what do you say now, dear 
 mother ?" he asked, tenderly. 
 
 ''What I said and believed in our prosperity, I must 
 say still, though it be now through tears — ' The Lord will 
 provide.' It is stern teaching this, but we will try and 
 study the lesson to the end." 
 
 " And what is to become of us, mother ?" sobbed Edith 
 — " where shall we go ?" 
 
 " We are not left wholly destitute — we have a home 
 yet — that is something to be thankful for." 
 
 " You mean the remnant of the old Virginia estate my 
 father left to me — Silverwood ? Yes, yes, as lord of the 
 manor," said Lawrence, trying to smile — " let me wel- 
 come you all to it." 
 
A HOME LOST. B3 
 
 ^^ I mean Silverwood — " 
 
 ^' That may serve as a place of shelter," interrupted 
 Edith ; ^' but a home is another thing." 
 
 *' It was your father's home — " 
 
 " Yes, mother," broke in Eunice, plaintively ; ^^ but he 
 died there — " 
 
 *' And in sight of it lies buried," said Mrs. Irvine, with 
 an unsteady voice. 
 
 '' Then don't let us go there," pleaded Josepha, laying 
 her wet cheek eoaxingly against her mother's, 
 
 " Do let us go, Sepha," said Zilpha's clear, hopeful 
 tones ; '* yes, let us go to Silverwood, mother. We will 
 love it all the better because our father stepped from it 
 into heaven." 
 
 2 
 
IV. 
 
 Six months had passed away since the occurrence of 
 the events of the last page ; and now, at the close of an 
 Octoher evening, Zilpha sat on a broken step of the old 
 porch at Silverwood. 
 
 '^ And so this is home — home /" The word was re- 
 peated with a sort of incredulous emphasis, and a sigh 
 escaped her lips as she spoke. 
 
 " Home ? — yes — do you think you can love it as such, 
 Zilpha ?" 
 
 " Ah, are you there, Cousin Bryant ? I thought I was 
 alone." 
 
 *' So I opined, or you would have been more chary of 
 your sigh. You have been so careful to appear happy 
 and cheerful, that I have not been able to tell whether 
 you have been counterfeiting or not. Confess the truth 
 candidly, now. Do you think you will be able to content 
 yourself here, without regretful pinings for what is lost 
 and left behind ?" '-...„.• - . 
 
36 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 " It would be ungrateful to be otherwise than content. 
 My present feeling is one of intense thankfulness that, 
 after our homeless sojourn among our various friends 
 during the summer, we are all gathered together again 
 under one roof, and that roof our own. If only my 
 fears for Lawrence were allayed, I think I could be posi- 
 tively happy here. But the over-exertion of that fatal 
 night of the fire — the wetting and the cold ; — ah ! Bryant, 
 you see how changed he is — how his elasticity is gone — 
 how he droops ; I tremble for him," and something like a 
 tear glistened in Zilpha's eye, which she turned away her 
 face to hide. 
 
 " It is not like you, Zilpha, to despond," said Bryant, 
 soothingly ; " you are always so brave-hearted. I confess 
 I was hardly prepared, on my arrival yesterday, for so 
 much change in Lawrence ; but we will be hopeful and 
 trustful of God's unfailing goodness. "We have only now 
 to await the opinion of the physicians to whom his case 
 has been referred ; — and, as he says himself, that he has 
 been retrograding since he has been from under their care, 
 we may suppose that their decision will be for his trial 
 of a milder climate during the coming winter. So, if they 
 say ' Southward, ho !' the sooner he goes, the better." 
 
 *' And alone ? — with his tender, gentle nature — so much 
 of an invalid, too — standing in need of such care and 
 sympathy as he does ? It seems to me impossible that he 
 should go, if it must be alone." 
 
A HOME FOUND. ^ 37 
 
 " He need not — you can go with him — " 
 
 *' Yes. I cannot imagine a more proper companion. 
 You are equable in your temperament — conscientiously 
 cheerful, — a matter of the greatest moment for an invalid, 
 — disposed to look at things in their best aspect, and pos- 
 sessed, as you must know, of a mind more self-poised than 
 falls to the lot of many of your sex." 
 
 " You exaggerate my possessions greatly, Bryant." 
 
 " Not a whit — not a whit — " 
 
 " But—but—" 
 
 " All ! I see the difficulty. You are thinking of the 
 wherewithal to accomplish this. Well, Mr. Bryson holds 
 some of your mother's money, which he may not have yet 
 invested — the proceeds of the sale of the old place at 
 
 B . As to that matter, however, please to remember 
 
 how my obligations to Cousin Mary must press upon me, 
 and what real gratification it will afford me to make some 
 tangible acknowledgment of them ; for though I'm only 
 a poor parson, I happen to have some surplus of funds, 
 which cannot be so well employed in any way, as in 
 assisting Lawrence, my foster-brother, to regain his 
 health." 
 
 " You are too kind, Bryant !" exclaimed Zilpha, turn- 
 ing her beautiful eyes, full of grateful feeling, upon him. 
 *' But Lawrence cannot brook dependance : I'm afraid 
 you could not get his consent to your arrangement." 
 
38 SILVEEWOOD 
 
 ** Necessity owns no law, you know." 
 
 " Ah ! you men overleap difficulties at one bound, that 
 we women detail out to ourselves until they seem wholly 
 insurmountable. In this new and untried home, among 
 strangers, think how sad and lonely it will be for mother 
 and Edith." 
 
 " Yes, lonely, perhaps ; but, I trust, not so sad as you 
 imagine. Let but my cousin Mary believe it to be her 
 duty to give you and Lawrence up for the winter, and 
 she will submit to it bravely. Many a time have I seen 
 her, when you were too young to observe, — for you know 
 there are a good many years between us, Zilpha, — many a 
 time have I seen her pass through a trying ordeal with as 
 uncomplaining a cheerfulness as if it were really a plea- 
 sure to her, when I was sure that her sensitive spirit was 
 enduring a species of martyrdom. Her own personal 
 feelings are always the last things she takes into con- 
 sideration." 
 
 " Yes — I have often heard her say that she long since 
 had ceased to ask herself what she liked to do — but what 
 was it her duty to do." 
 
 " Then set yourself at rest on that point. As to Edith, 
 only get her strong will and sound judgment persuaded to 
 the mastery of her feelings, and the difficulty there is 
 over." 
 
 " But Lawrence himself will be hard to convince." 
 
 " Lawrence is as passive as a child. His high, inde- 
 
A HOME FOtTND. 39 
 
 pendent, determined nature has felt the subduing effects 
 of long continued indisposition. I had never imagined he 
 would become so plastic. Have you not noticed this 
 wonderful change ?" 
 
 " Ah ! yes, till it has wrung my heart sometimes. It 
 is almost too touching to see him, on whose strength we 
 all used to lean so much, now repose himself upon us with 
 such a beautiful trust. Those words — ' Passing away ! — 
 passing away !' will keep ringing through my thoughts, 
 till often their echoes almost distract me." 
 
 " Oh ! here you are^ sister — and Cousin Barry, too. 
 We've been hunting you all over the house and garden. 
 Just come and see the tea-table, if it doesn't look like it 
 used to at home ;" and so saying, Josepha seized Zilpha's 
 hand, while Eunice made sure of Bryant's, as they drew 
 them through the open door of the halL 
 
 *^ We hunted and hunted among the packing-boxes," 
 continued Josepha, '^ for the tea-bell, to ring for you, for 
 Daphne said she couldn't find you. But it didn't turn up, 
 things are so out^of their places yet. I wonder if they'll 
 ever get into them !" 
 
 ^' And we've been helping Aunt Rose to get supper 
 early," broke in Eunice, '^ for she didn't know where 
 things were as well as Sepha and I ; and mother said we 
 must all be so tired, getting matters to rights, that we 
 needed an early supper to rest us ; so, come, sister— 
 come, Cousin Barry !" 
 
40 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 It was not dark in the old porch, for the house faced 
 the western sky, and the deep amber flush, left by the 
 sunken sun, still lingered brightly above the line of moun- 
 tain horizon. It had not seemed dark at least, until the 
 old hall door creaked shut on its unused and rusty hinges. 
 Then a desolate dimness — a forlorn and melancholy aspect 
 settled down, like the dusk shaken from the wings of 
 night, upon the deserted porch ; the clematis and honey- 
 suckle, whose intertwining branches hung drooping for 
 want of support, swayed mournfully hither and thither in 
 the growing darkness ; and the aspens, whose silvery 
 foliage had given name to this once pleasant home, rus- 
 tled sadly, as the evening wind sighed through the frost» 
 touched leaves. 
 
V. 
 
 ixts\)st. 
 
 The coolness of the evening without made a fire 
 inviting, and broad and bright the pile of hickory blazed 
 within the deep recess of the old chimney-place, as the 
 party from the porch entered the dining-room. It had 
 been many a day since those dim walls had reflected back 
 the light of a cheerful hearth, — many a day since the last 
 dwellers in the old house had made its rooms echo to the 
 sound of happy voices. The dark, oaken paneling, extend- 
 ing a third of the way to the ceiling, with a careful 
 reference to the protection of the walls from mutilation by 
 chair-backs, gave a somewhat sombre appearance to the 
 room, which the deep green of the painted plaster did not 
 help to relieve. 
 
 Yet an air of cheery comfort had been imparted to the 
 place, which, at first sight, it did not seem capable of re- 
 ceiving. The bright colored carpet, — the two or three 
 lounging chairs, — the simple divan drawn up cosily to the 
 
 2* 
 
42 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 fire, strewn over with the books and papers which Law- 
 rence had been reading, — the inviting tea-table with its 
 checked crimson cover, that so prettily set off the fair chi- 
 na, and above all, the sparkling radiance of the hearth, 
 served effectually to dispel the gloomy impressions which 
 its untenanted aspect had suggested. 
 
 " Doesn't it look nice?" exclaimed the little cicerone of 
 the occasion, as she stood with the door-knob in her hand, 
 surveying the scene with a satisfaction that proved her 
 to have had a personal concern in the effect she calculated 
 upon its producing. /' Cousin Barry, did you think, when 
 you saw it full of packages and boxes last night, that we 
 ever could make it look so much like our old dear home ?" 
 
 " I can't say but I thought you could, Sepha. I put no 
 limits to what woman's hands and taste can accomplish. 
 But, indeed, dear Cousin Mary," continued Bryant, turning 
 to Mrs. Irvine, who already sat at the waiter, "indeed, 
 this is very home-like." 
 
 " Just what Lawrence has been saying," replied Mrs, 
 Irvine, without lifting her eyes from the cups into which 
 she was busily engaged putting the sugar. " It pleases 
 me, to find you think so : any place will be like home to 
 me, where I can make you all happy." 
 
 " Spoken just like you. Cousin Mary : but where's 
 Edith?" 
 
 " Gone to prepare something tempting for my supper," 
 said Lawrence, rising from his seat before the fire, and 
 
 I 
 
FIRESIDE. 43 
 
 laying the book he had been reading, with its open face 
 upon the mantel. '^ She knows, with my capricious appe- 
 tite, that old Aunt Rose's cookery is not dainty enough 
 for me." 
 
 *' I don't believe, brother Lawrie !" exclaimed Josepha, 
 who felt as if an imputation had been cast upon the cu- 
 linary skill of the good-humored black cook, — " I don't 
 believe anything but a nice English cook would do for 
 you^ 
 
 *' You think me too fastidious, do you, Sepha ?" 
 
 " ' Fastidious ? ' " 
 
 ^' Don't you know what that means ?" asked Bryant, 
 quizzically. " Why, to hold up a glass of fair water between 
 one's eye and the light, before drinking it, which, by the 
 way, the Spanish proverb says ought never to be done." 
 
 " That's what brother Lawrie always does : he's afraid 
 of drinking bugs !" 
 
 '• He should wear a cover over his mouth, like the Hin- 
 doo fakirs, and have all his drinks strained through a 
 sieve of fabulous fineness. And don't you think it would 
 be advisable to provide Aunt Rose with a pair of micro- 
 scopic glasses, so that she may be able to detect the 
 invisible animalcules that may invade the domain of her 
 pots and kettles ?" 
 
 "Brother Lawrie's own gold spectacles would do," said 
 Josepha, laughing. 
 
 " But they are near-sighted ones, and Aunt Rose will 
 need magnifiers." ^ "^ 
 
44 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 ' Lawrence smiled quietly at the allusion to his extreme 
 daintiness, as they all took their seats at the table ; and 
 Edith soon appeared with the delicacy wherewith to tempt 
 the invalid's appetite. Eunice came, too, saying that 
 Zilpha had bidden her to tell them not to wait tea for her : 
 she would be with them presently. "Uncle Felix has 
 brought the letters, and I believe she's ^reading them," 
 the little girl proceeded to say, but a significant look from 
 her mother prevented her going on. 
 
 " I thought you liked cofTee, Edith," said Josepha, 
 
 peering into her sister's cup, which had been scarcely 
 
 touched, with a look of disappointment ; "I told Aunt 
 
 Rose how particular you were about having it just so; 
 
 * and she'll be sure to ask me if it pleased you." 
 
 '' Assure her that it does, then ; it could hardly be 
 better if she had gone to France to learn how to 
 make it." 
 
 " But you don't drink it, — nor eat your muffin either. 
 I was hoping you'd be so hungry, and think everything so 
 nice." 
 
 " Perhaps she has been watching the sunset from that 
 crazy old summer-house in the garden, ^epha ; and sitting 
 among the falling autumn leaves, with a girdle of blue 
 mountains about her, and the evening wind, whispering in 
 her ear, the tales it had caught up in the far-away gorges, 
 may have made her grow poetic ; so let her alone, for fear 
 you spoil the sonnet that may be brewing in her brain." 
 
FIRESIDE. 46 
 
 Edith felt thankful to Bryant for withdrawing the 
 child's attention ; and as soon as the tea was over, she 
 went in search of her sister. It was not her nature to 
 sit quietly waiting, as her mother could, till Zilpha should 
 make her appearance ; for she felt sure that the letters so 
 anxiously looked for, yet dreaded, had come. 
 
 Daphne, a comely negress, with great golden hoops in 
 her ears, had removed the tea-things, — leaving only a 
 nicely prepared tray for Zilpha, — and the group drew their 
 chairs again around the glowing hearth, except Lawrence, 
 who, according to his invariable habit, paced with a slow 
 step back and forth through the room. 
 
 His mother's loving eye would follow him, as he walked 
 from her, and turn away again, as he approached, — be- 
 traying an evident unwillingness that he should be aware 
 how much he was the object of her solicitude. 
 
 " Did I hear you say there were letters to-night ?" he 
 asked, stopping in his walk, and turning to his sisters, 
 who had, a little before, taken their seats at the fire, 
 t *'Yes," was Zilpha's somewhat hesitating reply; "I 
 have given them to mother to read." 
 
 " Any from Dr. Warder ? I see you think me nervous 
 about hearing, yet you know I am not easily discom- 
 posed." Mrs. Irvine put into his hand the one she had 
 just finished. He ran his eye over it without a change of 
 coaintenance, while Edith watched his face with ill-dis- 
 guised sinxiety. Calmly he folded it up, — read another, — 
 
40 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 and then, without speaking, or seeming to be conscious 
 of the looks of inquiry, as to the effect of their contents, 
 which were bent upon him, resumed his measured walk 
 again. 
 
 '' Sepha," he said at length, as he sat down and lifted 
 the little sleepyhead from Zilpha's lap, "your eyes are 
 * gathering straws ' I see ; so call the servants, and 
 Bryant, you be our household priest again to-night." 
 
 Prayers were over, the door had shut upon the retreating 
 children, and the diminished circle drew closer together 
 over the ruddy coals. No one spoke for a while. There 
 was but one th^jught on the minds of all, and that each 
 waited for the other to broach. 
 
 Lawrence was the first to break silence. 
 
 " I confess myself a little startled, mother dear, by the 
 tenor of Dr. Warder's letter. Dr. Martin's too, amounts 
 to about the same thing. Oh ! this mistaken kindness of 
 sending invalids away from home !" 
 
 " Not mistaken in j^our case, I trust, my son," said his 
 mother, in her hopeful way, as she fondly stroked back 
 the hair from his pale forehead : " think what wonders 
 a winter in Santa Cruz once effected for your Uncle 
 Walter." 
 
 " And Ronaldson, — you remember him ?" interposed 
 Bryant. 
 
 " Very well : he was in the class above us at college." 
 
 " Well, you know he looked like a walking ghost then ; 
 
FIKESIDE. ' 47 
 
 but, after leaving N , his health utterly failed. He 
 
 was ordered to the West Indies, — spent a winter there, 
 and is now a new man." 
 
 *' And our friend Williams, he died at Tampa Bay." 1 
 
 " Yes ; hut his case was very hopeless before he went 
 there." 
 
 " But to leave you all here, before you are fairly settled 
 in this strange home, — among strangers — " 
 
 " Yet what could you do for us, were you to stay, my 
 son?" ^.-^• X 
 
 " True, — what could I do, — so nerveless as I now am?" 
 and an expression of pain passed over the usually serene 
 features. 
 
 " Go and get well with all possible speed," said Zilpha, 
 '' and then, what can't you do?" 
 
 *' But the mind and body act and react so on each 
 other, the sympathy between them is so acute, that I 
 might experience more mischief in my weak condition from 
 being thus alone for the winter, than the variable climate 
 here might effect." 
 
 " Y^ou are not to think of going alone !" was the simul- 
 taneous rejoiner ; " any of us will go with you." 
 
 " Any of you ! — which can 7 As for you, Bryant, it's 
 simply out of the question for you to leave your ministe- 
 rial duties, just newly established in them as you are ; 
 mother's head and hands are needed here ; Zilpha is 
 necessary to encourage you all at home, and Edith is too 
 
48 SILVERWOOi). 
 
 much afraid of strange faces, — not brave enough, or per- 
 haps I ought to say, not self-trustful enough.'' 
 
 "But I am not easily disconcerted by strange faces, 
 and can be right brave upon occasions, if I must say it 
 myself," said Zilpha, cheerfully. " I'm not so important by 
 any means, as you imagine, at home ; so what is to pre- 
 vent my going ?" 
 
 The paleness of Mrs. Irvine's usually bright cheek alone 
 betrayed the inward emotion, whose outward tokens she 
 was endeavoring wholly to suppress. It was always her 
 principle of action to spare the feelings of others, it mat- 
 tered not at what sacrifice or trial of her own. 
 
 " Indeed, my children, I know not what to say. It will 
 be a great responsibility for Zilpha — " 
 
 " Why go at all ?" broke in Lawrence. " This is mild- 
 er than the climate I have been accustomed to ; why not 
 stay here ?" 
 
 " You shrink already from even this October tempera- 
 ture ; besides here are your physician's letters, " said Bryant, 
 taking up one of them and running his eye over it. ' ' I 
 will go with you myself." 
 
 But to such an arrangement Lawrence would not hear. 
 An hour later, and the Vv^hole matter had been settled 
 according to Bryant's first suggestion. The extreme 
 scrupulosity, and delicacy which characterized Lawrence, 
 had been over-ruled ; and so quietly had he at length 
 yielded, that even Zilpha, who had been so observant of 
 
•FIRESIDE. 49 
 
 the growing passiveness of the mind that was firm and 
 fixed in its own decisions almost to a fault, was surprised. 
 This, she had thought, would he the most difficult point to 
 carry ; yet with what apparent ease it had been managed. 
 She only saw the calm exterior ; she could not know how 
 the high, independent spirit secretly chafed, — how the 
 proud will, for an instant, rose defiantly against the iron 
 thralldom of circumstances, till it caught the whisperings 
 of faith, saying, " Thine, — not mine, be done !" 
 
VI. 
 
 Mmk Jftik 
 
 Autumn, — tender- thou ghted, dreamy autamn, — came 
 gliding down the mountain sides, throwing back from her 
 subdued brow her veil of wreathed mists, and gathering 
 about her bosom her robe of many colored dyes, as with 
 laggard step she sauntered through the dim valleys and over 
 the purple hills. The light of the sun came pallidly through 
 the woven haze that stretched across the slumberous sky, 
 and far away * 
 
 "The white, fleecy clouds 
 
 Were wandering in thick flocks above the mountains, 
 Shepherded by the slow, unwiUing wind." 
 
 The meadow-brooks ran with a hushed murmnr, and the 
 delicate vapor hung above their winding courses like the 
 lingering memory of the summer joyousness that was now 
 over and gone. Stillness was in all the air, and even the 
 occasional chirp of some lonely bird had in it a drowsy 
 
52 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 cadence. Far and wide had the sweet, pale autumn wan- 
 dered ; and the mist beneath her eyelids grew tender, and 
 gathered more and more heavily, as she listened to the 
 rustle of the crisp leaves that were searing beneath her 
 tread ; for change waited upon her lightest touch, and the 
 chaplets of oak and maple leaves, of purple asters, and of 
 golden rods, which, in idle dalliance she wove, withered 
 while she twined them. Her's was indeed a gentle, but 
 mournful mission — to soothe and beautify decay. 
 
 The family at Silverwood were all abroad in the cottage 
 lawn and garden, seeking to dispel, by means of busy em- 
 ployment, the effect of the October day's sadness, if indeed 
 any haunted them. The vines about the porch that had 
 so long followed the bent of their own wild will, must at 
 least be so gathered up and interlaced, as to afford free 
 passage ; — the straggling rose-bushes that reached out 
 their long branches in unchecked luxuriance, were to be 
 tied up, so that the once gravelled walk might be unob- 
 structed, and the sprawling syringas and guelder-roses 
 be made to keep within reasonable bounds. 
 
 Josepha stood beside " Uncle Felix," — the old negro 
 factotum of the establishment, watching him as he nailed 
 some loose palings in their place upon the carriage-gate, 
 at the bottom of the lawn, and cultivating an acquaint- 
 ance, which had already, on her side, ripened into some- 
 thing of a feeling of veneration, as she regarded him and 
 his sister, Aunt Rose, as the last remnants of the family 
 
UNCLE FELIX. 63 
 
 that had once filled this, her grandfather's home. The 
 old man had been talking to her of her father. 
 
 " Uncle Felix, what makes you call him ^ Master 
 Henry' — why don't you say ' Master Irvine V " 
 
 "La, Miss Josey, I knowed him when he wa'n't no 
 bigger nor you. Me and him used to play together when 
 we was boys." 
 
 '* Yes, I know — my father lived here before he went up 
 to my native State ; he was born here, I believe, — were 
 you ?" 
 
 ^^ Me I bless yer heart, no, honey; I b'lieve I corned 
 from Africy." 
 
 " From Africa ? I reckon not — that's a great ways off. 
 I expect it must have been from Charleston." 
 
 " Well, I comed 'cross a mighty big water ; and I'se 
 oilers heern de sea, 'tween dis an' Libeery, was powerful 
 wide." 
 
 '' And how long were you coming ?" 
 
 " A right smart time — I mos' forgits — it's been so many 
 years sence. It mought ha' been a chance of two or three 
 days. I mind ole Mas'r — yer grand pa' — was monsous 
 sick." 
 
 " Two or three days ! Why, my geography says the 
 ocean is three thousand miles across I" 
 
 *' Now, Miss Josey I you jes' wants to fool an ole nigga !" 
 exclaimed Uncle Felix, straightening himself up, and peer- 
 ing incredulously into the child's face. '^ My son Jeff,' 
 
64 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 wot's over dar — you know, Mas'r Henry, yer pa', sent all 
 his black folks, wot 'ud go, to Libeery, befo' he died. 
 Well JefF', he writ back some sich big story as dat, but I 
 didn't pay no 'tention to it ; for JefF', he oilers liked to 
 make peoples stare." 
 
 <' But its true." ' ' -- ,. 
 
 *' Well, if you say so, mebby it is true. I never 
 troubles my head 'bout der cur'us things folks tells. I'se 
 heern a queer story I wants to ax' you 'bout, 'cause I 
 don't mo' nor half b'lieve it ;" and "Uncle Felix paused 
 and sat down on a stone to rest himself, after the arduous 
 exertion of fastening on the few palings. He employed 
 the interval, however, in searching for a straight nail, 
 among some rusty ones of every size which he had in a 
 gourd — that indispensable article of nature's purveying, 
 supplying, as it does, the vacuum in the negro's lack of 
 mechanical skill, and furnishing him with everything 
 needful in the way of receptacle, from a drinking-cup to 
 a porte-monnaie, or a tobacco-box — '* I'se been telled der 
 elephants war so powerful big in Africy, dat de natives 
 hollers out places in der sides and gits in, and cuts off 
 fresh steaks every day, and der creetur don't find it out !" 
 
 Jesepha shouted with laughter at such a Munchausen 
 story. 
 
 " Why, Miss Josey, JefF' writ, las' year, 'bout 'em 
 growin' der own coffee, and raisin' He on der plantations. 
 De idear of ile grovnrC /" • - ._ ,_- . 
 
UNCLE FELIX. 56 
 
 Josepha was at some pains to impart her Peter Parley's 
 knowledge on the subject of palm-trees, and elephants, 
 and other African matters to her attentive listener, until 
 in his interest, he had well nigh forgotten his work. When 
 her instructions were over, she said, after a thoughtful 
 pause : " You were here when my father died — " 
 
 *^ Yes, Miss Josey, Mas'r Barry Woodruff and me was 
 all, 'cept Rose an' her child'en. You know, Mas'r Henry, 
 yer pa', come down to look after de ole place when yer 
 grandpa' died; and Mas'r Barry bein' older nor Mas'r 
 Lawrence, and a kind o' 'dopted son, wa'n't he ?" 
 
 <( No — ^he's a cousin of my mother ; but his parents 
 died when he was a little boy, and we were the nearest 
 relations he had, and so he has lived a great deal with us." 
 
 " Well, anyhow, he come along for company. Mas'r 
 Henry had got things pretty much straightened up. Some 
 of de black 'uns had jes got oif, to go to Libeery, and de 
 rest had gone down country to your Aunt Maria's, on 
 Jeames River. Rose's husband lived to Mas'r Preacher 
 Norris', and my ole woman, she belonged to ole Miss Sally 
 Horton ; so we was to stay here and help take care of de 
 plantation till 'twar rented. Well, as I war sayin', Mas'r 
 Henry jes' got his business finished, and was ready to 
 start home, when he took sick ; and in yon room. Miss 
 Josey — " 
 
 " No — no !" said Josepha, putting her hands over her 
 eyes, and turning her head in the other direction from 
 
56 SILVER WOOD. 
 
 that in which the old man's finger pointed — " don't tell 
 me ; I'd rather not know which room my father died in — 
 though I can't help guessing that it's the one mother has 
 taken for her chamber ; for the tears came into her eyes 
 when sister Zilpha tried to get her to choose the one oppo- 
 site to it, because it was pleasanter, and looked towards 
 Milburne ; but she said she had a reason for liking the 
 other better. I wish I hadn't heard her say that." 
 
 " Oh ! if you'd only seed him go, Miss Josey," — and 
 the expression of the black, and wrinkled, and unintelli- 
 gent face became earnest and even elevated, as he spoke, 
 — " you'd never think de place war gloomy-like. Dar's 
 been angels dar ; for I likes to b'lieve de ole Mas'r above 
 sends 'em blessed sperits for his child'en, when dey is 
 ready to go ; an' he war ready, sure. Miss Josey. I never 
 forgits it, though Mas'r Henry's been gone dead mos' dese 
 ten year. But, hi ! — yonder comes Mis' Nannie Grrant- 
 ley's fine carriage. She's gwine to call on your ma' and 
 de young mis'esses." 
 
 " Miss Nannie Grrantley ! why, I read the name on the 
 card that came with those partridges that were sent to 
 brother Lawrie, and it was Mrs. Grantley. Isn't she a 
 widow lady ?" 
 
 " Sartain she is. But, honey, you ain't usen to our 
 Virginny ways. We black 'uns never says ' Mrs. Grrant- 
 ley' — too much freed ery 'bout dat; 'sides I knowed her 
 
UNCLE FELIX. 57 
 
 when she was Miss Nannie Burton. Mighty fine folks, I 
 tell you I — kind o' stylish — " 
 
 " Then I must run and give warning, and let mother, 
 and sister, and Edith have time to get off their garden 
 gloves and sun-honnets ;" and away the little messenger 
 flew up the grass-grown pathway with her constant attend- 
 ant, Fidele, at her heels, to herald the visitor's approach. 
 
 *' Griad to welcome you among us as a resident, Mrs. 
 Irvine," said Mrs. Grrantley, in her blandest manner, as, 
 accompanied by her sister. Miss Burton, she took her seat 
 in the cottage parlor. " Our husbands' families were old 
 acquaintances, so that mutual friendship is our natural in- 
 heritance." 
 
 Mrs. Irvine's cordial greeting, and quick, kind reply, 
 gave proof that she would not be wanting on the score of 
 social feeling. 
 
 " I am really charmed that Silver wood is to be inhabit- 
 ed again," continued Mrs. Grantley, "only that it will 
 detract a little from the picturesqueness of our landscape 
 to see signs of life about the old mansion. A deserted 
 house, left to decay, and romantically hidden away among 
 overgrown shrubbery, one must allow, is an unusual sight 
 in this all-alive country of ours, though we have some- 
 thing of that kind to show in the ruins of the old Hall, 
 near you." 
 
 " And permit me to say. Madam," interposed Bryant, 
 "by no means an agreeable one." 
 
 3 
 
68 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 "Ah! think so ?" said the lady, arching her eyehrows. 
 " I confess I learned to look on it differently when in Eng- 
 land. Time-stained walls, and moss-grown roofs, and 
 ivy-covered turrets, vocal with rooks, and all that one sees 
 there, about many of the grand old remnants of a former 
 age, have so much of the delightful aroma of antiquity 
 around them, that whatever in the slightest degree suggests 
 them, is positively refreshing in our fast times." 
 
 " Silverwood does not furnish you with any thing like the 
 fragrance of antiquity, however," replied Mrs. Irvine, smi- 
 ling. '' It has been deserted long enough to have become 
 rather unsightly ; but too short a time to have assumed 
 anything of the picturesque." 
 
 " I'm not so sure as to that, Cousin Mary," said Bry- 
 ant. " The old, uninhabited ' quarters,' with the moss 
 on their clapboard roofs, and their tumble-down stone 
 chimneys, and doors hanging on one hinge, might come 
 into the category. And though you are not able to 
 supply Mrs. Grantley with a rookery, Silverwood can 
 defend itself against the imputation of having anything 
 to do with these 'fast times,' since it possesses a bat-ery, 
 as I can testify, from the number of black wings 
 which the smoke forced to take flight from my chimney 
 last night. And why should bats not be considered quite 
 as aristocratic as rooks ? The following up of their lineage 
 would at least leave us amidst the ruins of Assyrian 
 palaces." 
 
 '* Well, well; all this aside,'' replied Mrs. Grrantley, good 
 
UNCLE FELIX. 59 
 
 humoredly. '' I shall be glad to see Silverwood exchange its 
 air of desertion for one of genial life. But I'm afraid your 
 young people will sadly feel the want of society herea- 
 bouts, Mrs. Irvine, unless they mean to avail themselves 
 of the resource my sister and I adopt, and like those rare 
 caterers of domestic enjoyment, the English, spend ' the 
 season' away from their country home." 
 
 " I have no fear for them on that score. I believe they 
 have never yet learned to prefer the delights of society to 
 the simpler pleasures of their own fire-side." 
 
 " Ah I yes, I understand : an unfailing spring of in- 
 ward resources — very convenient and independent. They 
 are like my sister, yonder, in that respect. But for my- 
 self, I confess to the necessity of a little of the wine of ex- 
 citement to stimulate my mental activities. However,'' 
 continued the lady, in a patronizing, yet pleasant way, 
 *' ' Grrantley-holm' and its mistress are at their service. 
 My sister is devoted to horse-back exercises, forest scram- 
 blings, flower-huntings, in short, every kind of country en- 
 tertainment. So I'm glad for their mutual enjoyment, that 
 your daughters' tastes and hers will coincide." 
 
 Mrs. Irvine expressed her thanks. *' Even if they had 
 not," she went on to say, '' living in the midst of such a 
 panorama of mountains as we have here, would be sufficient 
 to inspire such tastes, "We are captivated with the noble 
 scenery about us." 
 
 " Very fine — very fine, no doubt. But I'm like a 
 friend of mine from the lower country, who had never 
 
60 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 seen anything in the landscape line higher than a Caroli- 
 na potatoe-hill. She arrived at Grrantley-holm at night, 
 and my sister contrived that her first impression should be 
 from our breakfast-room, which commands a near view of 
 the most striking of our mountains : so the next morning 
 she drew aside the curtains, and waited mutely for a burst 
 of enthusiasm. ' Well, what of it V my sister asked, — 
 tired of watching for the ignition of so slow a match. 
 * Why, — why, — I expect it would be very grand, if this 
 great, shaggy thing were away, so that I could see !' I 
 believe Betty has ceased to be cicerone for Nature since 
 that." 
 
 Lawrence, not aware that there were visitors in the 
 parlor, sauntered slowly in, with a book open in his hand. 
 After due presentation, the voluble lady turned to him 
 with ready adaptation, as she imagined, to his peculiar 
 bent ; for, from his pale, scholarly look, and his volume, 
 she set him down in her mind as a student. 
 
 " A heavenly day, Mr. Irvine. Just the atmosphere in 
 which to walk abroad with Nature-worshipping Words- 
 worth in one's hand." 
 
 " Beautiful, indeed !" returned Lawrence, in his quiet 
 way. 
 
 " I was remarking to my sister, as we drove here this 
 morning, that the expression of the sky was a study for 
 an artist, such as Claude Lorraine, or the English Turner. 
 The atmospheric effect recalled one of Claude's landscapes, 
 
UNCLE FELIX. 61 
 
 which I had been greatly taken with, some years since, in 
 Rome, — ^ the Mulino,' I think it is called." 
 
 Lawrence was silent, answering only by a bow ; but a 
 listener was all Mrs. Grrantley wanted. 
 
 *' But we have no Southeys, or Coleridges, or Christopher 
 Norths, among us, to dignify or give interest to our Skid- 
 daws and Helvellyns." 
 
 Lawrence seemed inclined to vouchsafe a remark, and 
 the lady paused an instant. 
 
 *' Your mountains are so grand. Madam, that even the 
 presence of nature's best spirits in their midst could add 
 nothing to their individual interest, — except, indeed, as 
 they might help us better to interpret the language of their 
 mute eloquence." 
 
 *' Glad to hear you say so, sir, — glad to hear you admire 
 the only object we have to be proud of, more especially as 
 I am allied to the soil here, and am touched by all that 
 touches the pride of our State in any way. But you must 
 allow me to dispute your position : human association 
 adds a charm to anything. Put but a human figure in a 
 picture, and what a sympathy we have with it, be it noth- 
 ing more than some ragged wayfarer, from whose contact 
 we would shrink in actual life, — a sympathy which, in 
 the want of some figure, the landscape might fail to 
 awaken. This is the reason, I believe, that I doated so 
 upon English and European scenery, where every object 
 
62 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 has its association ; and felt the barrenness of my own 
 country, on this point, when I came home." 
 
 "Yet, inasmuch as nature is purer and holier than 
 man," replied Lawrence, " do I rather enjoy these lonely 
 mountains and solitary valleys — " 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Irvine, taking up the sentence her 
 son had left unfinished ; "for do you not find that most of 
 these old-world associations are mixed up and contam- 
 inated with man's evil passions, — with battle and blood- 
 shed ?" 
 
 " But, then, think of the chivalry, — the heroic deeds 
 that sanctify the soil there I When we hunt for the inter- 
 est that attaches to the past of our landscape," and Mrs. 
 Grrantley waved her hand in the direction of the sweeping, 
 blue mountain ridges seen through the window, " we must 
 be content with the roar of bears, the screech of wild-cats, 
 and the whoops of Indians — by the v/ay no very unsullied 
 sons of nature, either, Mr. Irvine." 
 
 Lawrence smiled. " And yet, speaking of the absence 
 of the heroic Mrs. Grantley, it is never necessary to re- 
 mind a Virginian that his soil produced the truest of mod- 
 ern, or indeed of ancient heroes." 
 
 " Ah ! yes ; that was the only thing I used to be proud 
 of abroad, — that I came from the land of Washington." 
 
 After more such desultory chat, the ladies rose to take 
 leave. Mr. Irvine and Mr. Woodruff* were pressed to 
 come to Grrantley -holm, and avail themselves of its libra- 
 
UiS-CLE FELIX. 6-3 
 
 ly. '• It might contain books worthy of the eye of 
 soholars, for ]\Ir. Grrantley had selected most of it himself, 
 with great care. Many of the editions of authors were 
 rare, and nearly all were European." To Zilpha and 
 Edith were proffered carriage and horses, flowers from the 
 garden, in short, whatever the establishment had to give. 
 Even a servant was urged upon Mrs. Irvine, in case she 
 might not be fully provided, or were not through with her 
 unpacking. Miss Burton was fortunately a quiet person ; 
 but even her few words were, with some difficulty, slipped 
 in amidst her sister's overpowering and voluble leave- 
 takings. 
 
 " Has Miss Burton been to Europe, too ?" asked Josepha, 
 who had been listening to the conversation from behind 
 her mother's chair, after the visitors were gone. 
 
 " I don't know, indeed," said Zilpha. '' All her talk was 
 of the walks and rides and views there are about here." 
 
 " She must differ from her sister a good deal," was 
 Lawrence's dry remark. 
 
 " You didn't seem to 'take a shine ' to Mrs. Grrantley, 
 as Uncle Felix says. I'm sure she tried to entertain you." 
 
 *' Yes, Sepha ; but I was not strong enough to bear the 
 weight of all her ' Mulinos ' and ' Skiddaws.' " 
 
 ' ' And how kind she was to offer us horses, and mother 
 a servant." 
 
 " Yery. A Spanish hidalgo is not more so, when he 
 tells his guest that himself, and his house, and all he has, 
 are his." 
 
VII 
 
 Cjjt ItataVs Spring. 
 
 " I HAVE been thinking, Lawrence,-' said Edith to her 
 brother, some days after this, as they stood together in the 
 morning sunshine, on the now repaired and trim porch — 
 ^' I have been thinking that you might take advantage of 
 one of these fine, mild days, — so beautiful, that they seem 
 to have dropped out of June, and fallen into the lap of 
 October, — to make some acquaintance with the neigh- 
 borhood about us. You'll not be able to look upon it as 
 home, when you're gone, unless you get to know it better. 
 Suppose, if you feel strong enough, we spend part of the 
 day, and lunch, at this ' Spring,' which the children have 
 been teasing us to go and see ever since Uncle Felix 
 pioneered them to it." 
 
 '' How far away is it ?" 
 
 " Not very far beyond ' The Rtdns,^ which, for their 
 own sake, if not for Mrs. G-rantley's, you'll want to visit. 
 ' Nade's Spring' it's called, according to Uncle Felix, who 
 
 3* 
 
66 SILVEKWOOD. 
 
 * reckons somebody of that name must have owned it 
 once ;' but Eunice's mythological studies have helped her 
 to another interpretation, and she calls it ' The Naiad's 
 Spring.' You can ride, and we'll walk by your side, after 
 the fashion of the Yicar of Wakefield's family." 
 
 Mrs. Irvine came to the door at that moment, and when 
 the plan was referred to her decision, she so heartily fell 
 in with it, that her cheerful acquiescence made it seem 
 more desirable than ever. 
 
 " "We will go to-day. It will be pleasant for you to have 
 some such ' human associations,' as Mrs. Grantley says, 
 about these landscapes, — that is, if you can bear the fa- 
 tigue, and are not afraid of being so long in the open 
 air." 
 
 " He can ride Roland, mother ; and we will take the 
 balmiest part of this bright day, and be home before 
 there is a suspicion of evening chilliness in the air." 
 
 So the rural excursion was agreed upon, and Edith 
 went forthwith to give token to the others, and to purvey 
 what might be necessary for the occasion. 
 
 *' Let us have coffee out there?" exclaimed Josepha, as 
 she danced with glee in anticipation of the pleasure to be 
 realized. 
 
 " Oh, yes. Please Edith," chimed in the quieter 
 Eunice. "Uncle Felix can carry a basket with all the 
 things, and mother likes a nice cup of coffee so much I" 
 
 "And it will be such fun to make the fire, — a fire in the 
 
THE naiad's SPRIXa. 67 
 
 woods I — that'll be so gipsey-like !" and the child chuck- 
 led with delight. 
 
 Aunt Rose at once set to work to make some of her 
 nicest biscuits, and Edith referred to " Mrs. Raffalds," of 
 venerable and savory m"!mory, for some receipt of such 
 delicate compound as might please her brother's capri- 
 cious appetite. A " lemon posset " was fixed on; so 
 Eunice was employed to rasp a lemon, while Josepha's 
 effervescence overflowed itself in helping everybody. She 
 must needs measure the flour for Aunt Rose, and go 
 with Daphne down to " the spring-house," to fill the de- 
 canter Zilpha had provided with rich cream, and pack 
 some butter down in a deep little china dish, and see that 
 the ham was not cut too thick for the sandwiches — " For 
 you must know, Daphne, brother Lawrie likes ham shaved 
 down as thin as ' bath post' — an accepted term in the 
 family for the last degree of thinness, and about as well 
 comprehended by the servant as the child. 
 
 Mrs. Irvine provided a square of carpet, — a sort of 
 Prince Houssain's tapestry, according to Mr. "WoodrufPs 
 fancy, on which they only needed to seat themselves, and 
 at a given word, be wafted av/ay to their place of destina- 
 tion. 
 
 Zilpha had hunted up a great basket, and in due time 
 everything necessary had been stowed away in it. 
 
 <• Bat the hot biscuits will melt the butter, and heat 
 brother Lawrie's sherry," said Josepha, as she surveyed 
 
6B SILVERWOOD. 
 
 the disposition of the edibles — *' that'll never do. Cousin 
 Barry, suppose you slip this bottle into your pocket, and 
 I'll find a little basket for the biscuit." 
 
 ''/load my pocket with a suspicious looking bottle!" 
 exclaimed Mr. Woodruff, with an expression of sham 
 eifront. " You forget my ministerial character, child. I 
 preach against wine-drinking sometimes." 
 
 " Lawrence has Paul's warrant," said Zilpha, laughing. 
 *' So give me the sherry — I've no scruples ;" but the neck 
 of the bottle was seen peeping out of Bryant's coat pocket, 
 notwithstanding, as the party emerged from the gate. 
 
 " Who has been our book purveyor ?" asked Mrs. 
 Irvine. " Though I dare say some of you have made pro- 
 vision in that line." 
 
 "Oh I please don't take any books," begged Josepha. 
 " Let's study nature to-day, as Eunice says ;" and she tried 
 to draw away the volume she spied under Edith's arm. 
 " I wonder if sister hasn't got her sketch-book, too. I de- 
 clare she shan't sit down and draw, when we're just going 
 out to have a gipsey frolic ;" and Josepha lifted Zilpha's 
 mantle. 
 
 " Sure enough ! here it is I — Edith, I hope you haven't 
 got any paper with you." 
 
 " If she has more than she needs for her ' Forest-mus- 
 ings,' or her ' Leaves from a Dryad's Haunt,' I can borrow 
 some, Sepha, to note down the heads of my next Sunday's 
 
THE naiad's sprixg, 69 
 
 " If you do ! Cousin Barry: — "but never mind ; I'll steal 
 it all to make paper boats to sail on the spring. Brother 
 Lawrence, haven't you brought along that book of old 
 Latin hymns you're so fond of? And mother, I can 
 run back for your thimble and some of that sewing in 
 your work-basket, and hunt up my G-eography at the 
 same time. I reckon I might learn a lesson while the 
 coffee's boiling." 
 
 " Put away your discontent, my child," said her moth- 
 er. " I'll see to it that Edith writes no 'musings, ' nor 
 Cousin Bryant any sermon — so be easy. Come, Lawrence, 
 Roland is ready, and Fidele is all impatience, — so let's 
 be off. See, the shadows are shortening under the trees 
 yonder." 
 
 " Really, I'm ashamed to be so ungallant, mother 
 dear," said Lawrence. " I wish you would take the seat. 
 I can walk very well half the way, at any rate." 
 
 a Why, it's a gentleman's saddle!" exclaimed Eunice. 
 
 " Of course it is ; but you used to sit your horse so 
 firmly, when we were in the habit of riding together at 
 B , mother dear, that that needn't be a hindrance." 
 
 But Mrs. Irvine persisted in refusing ; so Lawrence 
 was fain to mount himself, and head the procession, while 
 Uncle Felix and his basket brought up the rear. Through 
 a long, green lane they threaded their way, with Eunice 
 and Josepha as pilots, till they came to " The Ruins," 
 as they were familiarly called, — a spot of varied and ro- 
 
70 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 mantio beauty. Hall had once been a place of no 
 
 ordinary interest, and there were memories and associa- 
 tions linking it with ante-revolutionary days, that gave 
 a charm to the remnants of the rude architecture. It 
 had been destroyed many years before by fire, and now, 
 over the crumbling and roofless walls, wild vines were 
 clambering, and trailing their autumn-tinted foliage, like 
 crimson banners, from the turreted chimoey-tops. 
 
 It stood surrounded on one side by a grove of forest trees, 
 and through the vistas that opened here and there, might be 
 seen a picture of singular loveliness, framed in by a bro- 
 ken line of distant mountains. The ground sloped away 
 into a pretty dale, spotted over by a browsing flock of 
 sheep ; and farther on, a well-worn path wandered through 
 a stubble-field, and lost itself in a strip of yellow woods. 
 Beyond them rose the river hills, brilliant with their many 
 dyes, and stretching yet above them, towered aloft the 
 purple chain on one hand, while on the other, nearer and 
 but half visible through the flickering foliage, swelled the 
 massive proportions of old " Castlehead," an isolated moun- 
 tain that loomed upon the landscape like some giant for- 
 tress, ^i 
 
 After many and enthusiastic exclamations over the gran- 
 deur of the scenery, our party called a hpxlt under the invi- 
 ting shade of the oaks. Mrs. Irvine produced a little sil- 
 ver cup, the familiar companion of many a woodland walk, 
 and dear to all her children and herself as a suggestive 
 
 I 
 
THE naiad's spring. 71 
 
 link in memory's electric chain. Josepha would confess 
 to no fatigue, — when do children ever get tired ? — and so, 
 while Uncle Felix trudged on, thinking that much of a 
 walk 'wa'n't no circumstance,' she pleased herself with 
 passing back and forth between a tiny spring that spouted 
 at the root of an old oak, and the group under the trees, 
 bearing to each a brimming cup of sparkling water. 
 
 Zilpha's fingers were fidgetty to be at work. So while 
 the little Hebe's back was turned, and her attention occu- 
 pied with her cup-bearing, out came sketch-book and pen- 
 cil. The wavy mountain outline, the rolling hills, the 
 meadow slope, the glade at their feet, the vine-covered 
 walls, even to the flag-like tuft of creeper, the artistically- 
 grouped fore-ground, all were quickly transferred by her 
 skillful pencil to the page before her, in outlines that 
 would not have disgraced Retsch himself. Mrs. Irvine sit- 
 ting at the foot of a gnarled oak, with Eunice's elbow res- 
 ting on her knee, her bonnet flung on the grass beside her ; 
 Josepha coming up the path, with the cup carefully bal- 
 anced in her hand ; Edith turning over the leaves of the 
 book she had brought ; Lawrence sitting sideways on his 
 horse, talking to his mother, and Bryant just before her, 
 tying up, with some dry stalks, the bunch of autumn flow- 
 ers he had been gathering, — all were there, even down to 
 Fidele. 
 
 "A sight of it, if you please," demanded Bryant, as 
 Zilpha closed her book ; but she objected. He should see it 
 when it was finished up. 
 
72 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 *' If you put US all in, your picture must look like a 
 gipsey camp." 
 
 ^' Contrasts are the artist's delight, whether he draw 
 with pencil or pen. Those calm mountains yonder, sleep- 
 ing in the dim sun as silently as if an echo had never dis- 
 turbed their solitudes, and those meadows with the haze 
 hanging like a dream over them, require a foreground full 
 of life." 
 
 " Then you put us all in ? " 
 
 a Why shouldn't I ?" Bryant did not answer her ques- 
 tion ; and when he spoke, it was to ask another. 
 
 " Do external aids help to make your memory's or mind's 
 pictures any more vivid?" 
 
 " Yes ; they refresh them greatly. I sometimes can re- 
 produce on paper a scene, which, as a whole, my memory 
 didn't seem to have possession of; but somehow, bit by 
 bit, it comes to me as I draw. Of course, I must have it 
 sketched somewhere, but so overlaid with other things, that 
 not until I attempt to give outward expression to it, does 
 it have any vividness for my mind's eye at all." 
 
 *' Yet your pencil does nothing but stimulate the inward 
 eye to concentrate itself upon the object. But pictures 
 never do anytliing but tantalize me. Now your face, for 
 instance, — why no artist in the world could paint it so true 
 as the one that hangs up in my ' chamber of imagery.' So 
 with the faces and scenes I love best to look at." 
 
 " I don't happen to have so much of the ' inner vision and 
 
THE naiad's spring. 73 
 
 the faculty divine.' But see ! they're beckoning us to 
 come. The procession has received a marching signal 
 from Josepha ; so let us go." 
 
 Away they follov^ed with the rest, down the green slope, 
 over the rustic bars, along the path through the whea^ 
 field, until after skirting the woods for some time, they 
 struck into them, and were soon within hearing of the 
 babble of the brook that ran from the *' Naiad's Spring," 
 and in sight of the spring itself. 
 
 A palisade of rocks, piled high above the tallest forest 
 trees, reared itself almost perpendicularly on one side, and 
 in a dark recess at its base, hemmed in by a circular ma- 
 son-work of nature's framing, welled the clear, cold waters. 
 How broad the unruffled surface was, they could not de- 
 termine ; but as far as their sight could reach, the water 
 stretched darkly away, and they caught murmurs as of a 
 lapsing flow still further within. A bright, resistless 
 stream poured itself from the spring over the rocks, with 
 much such splashing and dashing as the water made "that 
 came down from Lodore ;" and after widening into a shal- 
 low lakelet, found its way more silently into the little riv- 
 er beyond. 
 
 Uncle Felix had hunted out as unincumbered a place 
 as he could hit upon, for the carpet, which was already 
 spread when the party came up, with the camp stools for 
 Mrs. Irvine and Lawrence. Over the Arbor-vitse shrubs 
 that grew about the spot, the shawls were hung ; and 
 
74 SILVERWOOD, 
 
 that quick, bright look, begotten of tears, started into Mrs. 
 Irvine's eyes, as was apt to be the case when a sudden 
 pleasure came upon her, as she submitted to let herself be 
 almost pulled into a seat by Eunice and Josepha ; so eager 
 were they to have her look rested, while the older sisters 
 did the same for Lawrence. The tired look of the latter 
 reminded Bryant of the sherry he had been commissioned 
 to take care of ; and he was in haste to call the magnifi- 
 cent wine-cooler into requisition, as he termed the spring. 
 When the bottle had lain for awhile among the clean peb- 
 bles, they summoned the little cup-bearer to bring her 
 goblet. Playfully she dropped on her knees on the carpet, 
 as she presented it to her brother. 
 
 " The Naiad of the fountain I" said Edith, smiling, as 
 she pointed to the child. 
 
 "Only," said Lawrence," Pan does not grant his Naiads 
 the guardianship of such ' blushful Hippocrenes ' as fur- 
 nish draughts like this. And now, mother dear, " he con- 
 tinued, as he took the cup from Josepha, and inclined 
 his lithe, graceful form towards Mrs. Irvine, while a faint 
 flush, kindled by a momentary enthusiasm, broke over 
 his pale cheek, — "let me pledge you in keeping with the 
 classic associations Edith has been evoking. May the 
 memory of your happiness to-day be like an Arethusa, steal- 
 ing its way under the weight of years, and bubbling up for 
 your refreshment in some far island of the future I" 
 . " Quite high-flown, sir," exclaimed Bryant. " Cousin 
 
THE naiad's spring. 75 
 
 Mary, let's have a Juno-like response ; or, as you sit on 
 a sort of tripod, we may expect something of the Python- 
 ess order." 
 
 Mrs. Irvine only smiled, and kissed the forehead that 
 was bent towards her. Perhaps the allusion to the future 
 carried her mind too far forward : perhaps that sunny " is- 
 land," to her thought, lay beyond the waters of death. But 
 be that as it might, she did not allow the thought to 
 darken the present gladness of the group around her, and 
 ^orbade even the tell-tale eye to give any token of it. 
 
 " But I don't know what you mean," broke in Josepha, 
 with a puzzled look. " Who is Arethusa ?" 
 
 " Why, don't you remember Arethusa Robbins, who 
 used to go to Miss Hays' school with us ?" asked Eunice, 
 giving Josepha's sleeve an admonitory pull. " We always 
 called her ' Thusie :' but, brother Lawrie, you could'nt 
 mean that you wanted anybody to be like her, for she was 
 freckled, and had carroty hair." 
 
 " So much for an interpretation of a classic allusion !" 
 said Lawrence, laughing. 
 
 ''A very natural and literal rendering, certainly," said 
 Bryant. 
 
 The party seated themselves beside Mrs. Irvine, and 
 wiled away some time in pleasant chat : but the child- 
 ren had no idea that that was the way to ruralize. 
 
 ^' Come, sister," whispered Josepha to Zilpha, " let's kin- 
 dle the fire, and boil our water for the coffee : don't you 
 see Uncle Felix has a great pile of dry sticks ready ?" 
 
^76 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 " Oh, not yet ! we are not quite in the humor yet for 
 anything so substantial ; we want a little more of ' the 
 flow of soul ! first." 
 
 " The flow of soul ! for my part I think the flow of cof- 
 fee would be a great deal more sensible. There ! Uncle 
 Felix has lighted the fire." 
 
 " You would never answer for ' Patience on a Monu- 
 ment,' my child," said her mother. " Gro then, you and 
 Eunice, and have the water boiled — that will employ 
 you for the present ;" and permission being granted, the 
 two children were soon flitting about among the blue 
 smoke, full of busy importance over the culinary prepara- 
 tions. 
 
 Great was their delight to find that Uncle Felix had a 
 fishing-line in his pocket. A long, slender pole, cut with 
 his jack-knife from a neighboring hickory, furnished an 
 impromptu rod, and away the trio went, with Fidele gy- 
 rating about them, down to the river-bank to catch some 
 fish for their dinner. The old man was expert at the busi- 
 ness, and soon a parcel of minnows were floundering on 
 the grass beside them. 
 
 '^ But how are we to cook them ? We have no gridiron," 
 asked Josepha, quite at a stand, as she watched the pro- 
 cess of preparing the fish. But Uncle Felix was fertile in 
 expedients. G-athering some of the broad leaves of the 
 papaw, he wrapped the fish in them, and laid them beside 
 the fire, (over which the little tin cofiee-pot had been set,) 
 
THE naiad's spring. 77 
 
 ready for broiling when the blazing sticks should have 
 burnt down to a bed of coals. 
 
 *' I don't wonder," began Edith, as she looked with an 
 enjoying eye on all around her, — " I don't wonder much af- 
 ter all at the scheme that knot of English philosophers,' or 
 rather poets of some fifty years since, had in their heads 
 of emigrating to this new, unworn world, and establishing 
 a literary colony here. It was a pretty fancy — pity it was 
 a chimerical one." 
 
 " The Bristol Poets' socialistic scheme, with the high- 
 sounding name, do you mean ?" asked Bryant. 
 
 "Yes ; their ' Pantosocracy,' as they called it. I wouldn't 
 say it was socialistic, though, in our modern, disagreeable 
 sense of the word." 
 
 " It was only intended to embrace a score or so of kin- 
 dred souls, who were fretting under the old system of things 
 in England, which there was no hope of changing, and 
 who felt a feverish enthusiasm wholly at variance with 
 the sluggish current of life around them." 
 
 " You do well to call it feverish, Edith," said her moth- 
 er ; '' for I'm sure it was not a healthy state of mind." 
 
 " Or perhaps it was nothing more than the over-flush of 
 youth," said Lawrence. " They got over it as they grew 
 older, I believe." 
 
 " Well, be that as it may. Doesn't the taste of wood-life 
 we are enjoying to-day, suggest how delightful it would 
 be to have a rustic cottage — a permanent home, some- 
 
78 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 where hereabouts, away from the world and all its vexa- 
 tions, where we could do as we please, unrestrained by the 
 trammels of society, — ^happy in God, and nature, and one 
 another ?" 
 
 " But you only show one side of the picture, Edith — and 
 that the sunny side," said Zilpha. " Think of being kept 
 within doors through long, bleak rains in these woods, or of 
 being snowed up, all our store of books read, all our ideas 
 mutually exchanged, no letters to come from distant 
 friends, none of humanity's demands upon our sympathies, 
 nobody outside of our little circle to be kind to, — oh, we 
 should grow miserably selfish and contracted in our ways 
 of thinking I" 
 
 " He who made us, knows what system of things is 
 best for us, and so He places us where there is necessity 
 for this action and reaction upon each other. Much as I 
 love almost everything Cowper wrote," continued Mrs. 
 Irvine, " I can't at all echo his desire ' for a lodge in 
 some vast wilderness ;' but that was only the utterance 
 of a momentary impulse, when he was sick of the ills 
 men's passions create ; for he knew men well enough to 
 know that were they all to turn hermits, each would car- 
 ry their own portion of deceit and wickedness shut within 
 their own bosoms, and be as unlike as possible to the 'Her- 
 mit' Parnell speaks of, — 
 
 * Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.' " 
 
THE naiad's speikg. 79 
 
 " Yes, Cousin Mary, if they would all take to living like 
 Saint Simon Stylites, they would fight with themselves in 
 lack of other foes. And of course, Edith, if we all lived in 
 a rustic cottage, it must be in a rustic way. No luxuries 
 allowed to corrupt our simplicity ; no carpets, no sofas, no 
 Epicurean dishes ; all Arcadian primitiveness — " 
 
 " And no physicians within reach," interrupted Law- 
 rence ; '' no dainty preparations for morbid appetites ; none 
 of the deliciousness of neighborly aid and sympathy when 
 we were sick. Ah ! you see, my sister, what a mere poet's 
 fancy you harbor, — nothing feasible about it." 
 
 " But we should lead such temperate lives, so in har- 
 mony with all Nature's requirements, that we should nev- 
 er get sick — no late, heavy dinners, no party-going, no 
 turning of night into day. As to its making us selfish, 
 the very fact of our mutual dependence would help to 
 weed out what native selfishness was in us. Instead of 
 growing contracted, we would feel the necessity of bring- 
 ing forth all our treasures ; and as the mind is an unfail- 
 ing spring, like this beside us, and not a reservoir, we need 
 not fear its giving out. As to books and letters, it was 
 far from the plan of the English ' Pantosocratists ' to be 
 without them. Their lives were to be pre-eminently de- 
 voted to literary pursuits, except so far as they would find 
 it needful to labor, each one for his own family's suste- 
 nance, which, in a rich soil, they fancied would be mere 
 play. So, like them, we would have that sort of commu- 
 
80 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 nioation with the outer world, and have our letters, and our 
 periodical invoice of new books, or write books ourselves." 
 
 " Write books ourselves !" exclaimed Lawrence. '' Pray, 
 what should we have to tell the world ? Pliny, I remem- 
 ber, complains in one of his letters of the multitude of new 
 poets that year had brought out. What would he think if 
 he lived in these days, when books of poetry and prose 
 flood the country so as positively to threaten it with inun- 
 dation ?" 
 
 " But to be serious," said Mrs. Irvine, — '' you have need 
 to be put into the heart of society, Edith, to eradicate your 
 anchorite notions. Silverwood, I'm afraid, is not the place 
 for you. Grod made us social beings, and we must not try 
 to unmake ourselves. The old convent life you profess 
 sometimes to have a hankering after, apart, of course, I un- 
 derstand you," as Edith was about to interrupt her with an 
 explanation, " apart from its superstitious religion — this 
 convent life tended to uproot all human affections from the 
 heart of woman. And it's the idlest fancy, too, to suppose 
 that those sisterhoods didn't have constant jarrings and 
 blickerings. I dare say even at the period of their greatest 
 purity, they were the hot-beds of such strifes as private 
 households know nothing of. So get rid of all these ideas, 
 my daughter : I don't like to hear you advocate them even 
 in sport." 
 
 But the children had become impatient, and in answer 
 
THE NAIAD S SPKING. 8L 
 
 to Josepha's oft repeated sliout that the water was boiling, 
 Edith went to superintend the making of the coffee, while 
 Zilpha and Eunice busied themselves in spreading out the 
 contents of the basket. Bryant cleared the dead leaves 
 from a flat rock, smoothed the white cloth over it, and 
 amused them all with his awkward attempts at "laying 
 the table.'' Soon everything was in readiness, and Josepha 
 enjoyed to the utmost, the surprise occasioned by the sight 
 of the dish of broiled minnows. The fragrance of the coftee 
 and the savory smell of the fish, whetted all appetites, as 
 they seated themselves around their "Arcadian table," as 
 Bryant persisted in styling it. 
 
 " And now," said Mrs. Irvine, " before we begin, let us 
 ask God's favor : we should acknowledge Him in our 
 pleasures as well as elsewhere :" — and all heads were 
 bowed, as with uplifted hand, Bryant invoked a blessing 
 on their meal. 
 
 Not content with her own perfect satisfaction as to the 
 unexceptionableness of everything, Josepha must have cor- 
 roborating testimony from every lip ; and she would hard- 
 ly give them time to drink their coffee, with her continual 
 questions, between each sip, about its goodness. 
 
 " And now. Uncle Felix, it's your turn," she called out, 
 as her elders strolled away, after the meal was over, to- 
 wards the river. " Come, I'll wait on you." 
 
 " La, Miss Josey, you'se powerful good ; but I wants 
 no white lady to 'tend to me. Jes' leave me and Fidele to 
 
 4 
 
82 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 US two selves. We'll save you de trouble of packin' up 
 any of de eatins." 
 
 When they returned from then* walky all vestiges of the 
 dinner had disappeared. The dishes Avere washed and 
 put up, and Uncle Felix was just starting homeward with 
 his basket. Only a faint curl of smoke floated up from the ' 
 smouldering fire. They all sat down, and the book Edith 
 had provided, was put into Mrs. Irvine's hand — " For you 
 know, mother, none of us read so well," — Zilpha had said, 
 as she gave it to her. It was no modern vohime, fresh 
 from the press, and gay with flashy binding of blue and 
 gilt ; but a copy of the poet G-ray's Letters, full of exqui- 
 site bits of description of English and Scottish scenery, and 
 peculiarly fitted for open air reading. The fastidious au- 
 thor himself could not have asked a pleasanter or more ap- 
 preciative' rendering of his thoughts, than Mrs. Irvine's 
 beautifully modulated tone and distinct utterance gave 
 them ; and so perfectly natural was her way of reading, 
 that at times, one and another would look up, under the 
 impression that she was introducing some remark or 
 question of her own. 
 
 " But, my children," she said, as she closed the book af- 
 ter a prolonged reading, *' the sun is a good deal to the 
 west of us, and it's getting cool for you, Lawrence ; so w^e 
 had better turn our faces homeward." 
 
 " But let us have a little music before we go," plead 
 
THE naiad's spring. 83 
 
 Zilpha. ""Who can suggest a song suitable to the occa- 
 sion ?" 
 
 " Or a hymn," interposed Lawrence. " You all remem- 
 ber our home translation of that little Latin hymn of Fran- 
 cis Xavier ; you've sung it ^Yith us at B , Bryant, — 
 
 ' O ! Deus, ego arao te ! 
 Nee amo te ut salvas me ' — 
 
 it's suitable for any or every occasion, Zilpha." 
 
 "Is it the one we used to sing so often on Sunday 
 
 evenings at home — at B , I mean ?" asked Josepha — 
 
 "the one beginning — 
 
 ' Oh ! GoJ, I love thee I not alone 
 That thou to me thy grace hast shown 1 ' 
 
 Eunice and I both know that." 
 
 Sweetly the strains of the music floated out upon the 
 autumn air, mingling with the rustle of the leaves above 
 them, and the loud gurgle of the waters at their feet ; and 
 the plaintive echoes seemed still to linger, lost amid the 
 mazes of the wood, as the party threaded the homeward 
 path, and left the Naiad's Spring to its own lonely mur- 
 
VIII. 
 
 ^nt-|]iills 
 
 A FEW mornings after this, as Mrs. Irvine, Zilplia and 
 Edith were sitting together, busy over some articles of the 
 travellers' wardrobe, in anticipation of the approaching 
 journey, the latter looked up from the sleeve of the dress 
 on which her fingers were rather nervously arranging a 
 fold — " Mother," she began, " has Bryant been telling you 
 of his ' sober second thought ' about going with Law- 
 rence ?" 
 
 " Yes ; he mentioned something of the kind last night, 
 but he was interrupted, and didn't finish what he had to 
 say." 
 
 " In my place, does he mean ?" asked Zilpha. 
 
 " Then he has not consulted you about it ?" and Edith 
 looked up from her sewing with more inquiry in her eye 
 than in her voice. 
 
 " No. I supposed the matter settled as was first deter- 
 mined on. Bryant could not go without great inconven- 
 
86 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 ience to himself and injury to his congregation. Besides, 
 I don't see the necessity for it. Lawrence .seems so 
 revived within these few days, that we may hope much 
 from the climate of Cuba, and I can't say I dread the 
 responsibility greatly. Travelling is reduced to such a 
 science now-a-days, that all a lady absolutely needs, is the 
 mere show of protection, in the presence of a gentleman. 
 Invalids have worn a sort of beaten track to the "West 
 Indies, and all we'll have to do, will be to follow on 
 in it." 
 
 '' You have a marvelously quiet way of getting through 
 places where I should stick fast," said Edith, as she 
 worked away with a less nervous twitching of her fingers. 
 " The bare thought of starting out on such a journey, with 
 only a sick brother to fall back upon, in case of any difficulty, 
 quite takes away my breath. But we are so different 
 in such respects. Your physique^ somehow, is better 
 adapted to the Avill that has it in control, than mine." 
 
 '' If a thing is to be done," said Zilpha simply, " my plan 
 is to proceed with the doing of it at once, — 
 
 ' To do, or not to do, — that is the question, — ' 
 
 and when it's settled, the less we worry ourselves par- 
 leying and hunting up difficulties, the easier for us." 
 
 " Now that's just where you fail, Edith," said her 
 mother. Y^our judgment, when feeling has not knocked 
 up a dust about it, so as to blind it, sees the bearings of a 
 
ANT-HILLS. 87 
 
 point better, perhaps, than Zilpha's. But then you forget, 
 often, what a curb feeling needs. You let it have the 
 rein, and away it goes, like an unbroken colt, and your 
 more sober judgment don't catch up with it till it has tired 
 down its mettle somewhat. When you have the rein tight 
 again, you are sure to regulate your pace to suit judg- 
 ment's dictates. Zilpha don't let herself get run away 
 with,— that's all." 
 
 ^' Bat, mother, I'm just as nature made me. I wish I 
 had Zilpha's cooler way of accomplishing things. But a 
 passionate, impulsive spirit ought not to be tried by the 
 same standard as a self-contained, equable one." 
 
 " On that principle, my dear, none of us would be ac- 
 countable for the errors into v/hich our passions lead ns. 
 Our impulses toward evil are so constant and so strong, 
 that life is one interminable struggle against them." 
 
 " I'm sure I can assent to that," said Zilpha. 
 
 *' We all can, — at least all who try to stem the current 
 of these inward tendencies." 
 
 " But it seems to me that I have more stemming and 
 damming up to do than the rest of you," said Edith, half 
 dejectedly. 
 
 *' The greater volume of the current may give it more 
 impetus." 
 
 " Ah ! a salvo, mother, for the 'unbroken colt ' on v/hose 
 back you were putting me just now." 
 
 '' Not at all, my child ; but it strikes me we are wide 
 
88 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 of the subject with which we started. All I mean further 
 to say on this point is, that if it were clearly made out to 
 you a case of diity to go with your brother, you could go, 
 and you ivoukV 
 
 " I don't know ; I shrink from difficulties." 
 
 " I've no doubt there would be a deal of trouble in argu- 
 ing down your feelings. They are very sophists, and can 
 overwhelm reason with their eloquent talk ; but in the 
 end, it rises, like Gulliver among the Lilliputians, and 
 snaps all the brittle threads wi-th which they thought 
 they had made it fast. But, as I was saying, we're oft' 
 the matter in question. If either of you go with Law- 
 rence, you, Zilpha, are the one best fitted. You don't lose 
 your self-possession readily. Yet, if Bryant's presence 
 would be a comfort to your brother, then he shall go too. 
 Nothing within the compass of our ability must be S[)ared 
 to render hhn easy." 
 
 It was with a sort of choked voice Mrs. Irvine had 
 uttered these last words ; and she turned from her work, 
 and while seeming to look out of the window, quietly 
 brushed away a tear that had started to her eye. 
 
 '' The going will be the most difficult," said Zilpha, not 
 appearing to notice her mother's movement; "but after 
 Cousin Bryant has seen us well under way, I don't doubt 
 but that we shall get along admirably. As to his going, 
 I'm persuaded Lawrence would be uncomfortable to 
 think that his duties had been interfered with on his 
 
ANT-HILLS. 89 
 
 account ; and this feeling alone might create a nervous 
 restlessness that would injure him physically. And then 
 as to the coming back, — why you see we'll know the 
 way." 
 
 The coming back I Edith tried to arrange her folds 
 properly, but the furtive finger had to clear away the film 
 from the unlifted eye, and Mrs. Irvine did not reply. She 
 left the room after a little interval of silence, — for those 
 two words, " coming back," had started mingled emotions 
 of hope and fear to which she could not have given words. 
 When she returned again, her face wore its usual bright 
 look, as she laid a sprig of crimson leaves in Zilpha's lap, 
 which she had gathered from the clematis on the porch ; 
 and it was with a cheerful and steady voice she spoke of 
 the gorgeous mountain-sides, reminding her, as she smil- 
 ingly said, of the curiously mixed hues of a cashmere 
 shawl. 
 
 The travellers' preparations progressed rapidly, and it 
 was determined that at the end of a fortnight they should 
 start. They had so recently come off a journey, that the 
 continuance of it seemed all the easier. Eunice's superior 
 age gave her a privilege she often availed herself of, — that 
 of administering checks to Josepha's impatience over her 
 sewing, — for there was so much that was novel and curi- 
 ous to engage the child's attention, that the tasks which 
 were set her, — not for the assistance such little fingers 
 
 4* 
 
90 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 could render, but to keep her from habits of idleness, were 
 often sadly irksome to her. 
 
 " I've been wondering," she said, as she sat one day- 
 near the table at which her brother was writing, hemming 
 listlessly at a pocket handkerchief, and receiving a sug- 
 gestive poke occasionally, as a hint to be diligent, from 
 Eunice, who was marking " L. I." in cross-stitch on a white 
 sock, — " I've been wondering how you'll get along, brother 
 Lawrie, in the West Indies. Cousin Barry has been ask- 
 ing me if I didn't know they were named ' Antilles' by 
 some traveller, — I forget who, — who thought they were 
 more like ant-hills than anything else." 
 
 " I shall have to disregard the Spanish proverb, then," 
 said Lawrence, smiling, as he looked up from his paper, 
 " and always drink my glass of water in the sun. But 
 pray don't let us dwell on this feature of the cli- 
 mate." 
 
 " But do you believe that was the way those islands got 
 their name ?" 
 
 '' Bryant and you can settle that point. I'm not inclined 
 to push investigations in that direction." 
 
 " Bat even if there are ants and bugs of all kinds there," 
 pursued the persevering child, " there's plenty of nice 
 things, too. I've been reading all about the West Indies 
 in my big Greography, and the fine fruits it tells about 
 make my mouth water." 
 
 "Yes, brother Lawrie," said Eunice, '' you'll^get so 
 
ANT-HILLS. 91 
 
 used to oranges, and limes, and plantains, and bananas, 
 that our common fruits will seem insipid to you when you 
 come back." 
 
 " And you'll get plenty of guava-jelly, too. I wish I 
 could go along, I like good things so much !" said Josepha, 
 with a smack of her red lips. 
 
 " Be sea-sick and home-sick for the sake of guava- 
 jelly ! Why, Sepha, you're almost as bad as some of 
 the old Romans, who used to go to one feast, and then 
 go home and swallow an emetic, that they might be ready 
 for another." 
 
 '' That can't have been in any of the times I've been 
 reading about," said Eunice, incredulously, whose present 
 penchant was a devotion to G-oldsmith's Rome ; " and I've 
 got down as far as Cincinnatus." 
 
 " Oh, pray Eunice, don't get on to those Roman hills ! 
 Why, brother Lawrie, she talks about them in her very 
 sleep. Last night she was raving so about some ' quee?' 
 knoll ' or other, that she wakened me, and I had to shake 
 her to know what was the matter, and she said she was 
 dreaming she was on — " 
 
 " The Quirinal, if you please," interrupted Eunice, 
 laus^hinsf. 
 
 " Well, some hill or other in Rome ; but for my part I 
 think my ' Ant-hills ' are a great deal more interresting. 
 I want to know something more about them ; so piomise 
 
92 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 me, brother Lawrie, that you'll write and tell me whether 
 you really have to strain all the water you drink." 
 
 '' You bid fair to become an entomologist, Sepha, I see ; 
 but yonder comes mother, and our sisters, and Bryant, 
 from their walk. Let us go to meet them, and watch the 
 sun sink behind Castlehead. You can think of me when 
 I am in Cuba, as seeing it go down beneath the broad, 
 blue ocean," 
 
IX. 
 
 |tjfo-J'0iinb Jfrienbs. 
 
 *' Poor ]\Ir. Irvine I" exclaimed Mrs. G-rant, who, with 
 her t^Yo daughters, had been paying her respects to the 
 family at Silverwood, and who paused in the midst of 
 her exclamation, to return the graceful bow^with which 
 Bryant had handed them into their carriage. " Poor Mr. 
 Irvine!" she repeated, pityingly ; " much use is there in his 
 going to the Havana, or anywhere else for his health ! 
 Why, he's a walking ghost, with that white face, already." 
 
 " But his sister has a marble sort of face, too, mamma — 
 that one with the black hair, I mean ; and yet she don't 
 look like an invalid — so his want of color may be natural. 
 How interesting his appearance is I — such large, half- 
 mournful loolving eyes, and something so sweet in his 
 smile." 
 
 " Smile I" interrupted Miss Lettuce Grant. '• I saw 
 no smile, nor heard scarcely a word. He's much too 
 motionless a piece of statuary for me." 
 
94 SILVERWOPD. 
 
 *'Now J did, my dear," said Mrs. G-rant. " AVlien he 
 spoke to his mother, I couldn't but notice the beautiful 
 expression tliat came over his face, and that made my 
 heart take to him at once. Our young men don't expend 
 their gallantry much that way, now-a-days. They keep 
 their best manners, like their best coats, for going abroad 
 with." 
 
 " I confess his cousin, that young Mr. Woodruff, took 
 my fancy a great deal more — something so cavalier-like 
 in his whole bearing and appearance — quite my idea of a 
 Spanish Don, with his brunette complexion, and raven 
 hair, and flashing eyes — only he's a clergyman ; what a 
 pity!" 
 
 " Don't say so, my dear," said Mrs. G-rant. " For 
 my part, I feel glad to think that one every way worthy, 
 as he seems to be, should be willing to make this con- 
 secration of his gifts." 
 
 " But the idea of such a man, — one who has so much 
 refined courteousness and dignity, and yet easy suavity 
 of manner, — such a tone of high-breeding, and, I suppDse, 
 mind and education to match, — the idea of such a one giv- 
 ing himself up, soul and body, to some rustic parish, for five 
 hundred a year, as I dare say he does! 'What can he 
 do with his ambitious feelings ? He might become emi- 
 nent as a statesman, for there's that in him that could 
 sway men." 
 [_" His ambition is to do good," said the easy Mrs. 
 
 1 
 
NEW-FOUND FKIENDS. 95 
 
 Grraiit, who, while she had pretty correct ideas herself, 
 was content to let her daughters mould their own ; " and 
 I've no doubt his life will be a happier, more satisfactory 
 one to himself, than if he had given it up to politics ; for 
 I believe they're the ruination of many of our young 
 men." 
 
 " I can't help thinking it's a great waste of capital, not- 
 withstanding, mamma, for such a man to enter the pulpit. 
 Piety and zeal is all that is required for the plain, country 
 people to whom he probably preaches. So there's an over- 
 plus of talents that might be turned to some other ac- 
 count." 
 
 " I think. Lettuce, you would not talk so, if you had a 
 little more piety yourself." 
 
 " Well, perhaps so. But how did you like the young 
 ladies, Sara ?" 
 
 " Miss Irvine has very sweet, composed manners, I think, 
 and such pretty, brown, bird-like eyes, that I quite envied 
 them. As to the other one, she was too cold — too still ; 
 indeed, she seemed rather unsocial." 
 
 " I'm sure she tried to entertain you," said Mrs. Grant, 
 apologetically ; " but what should strangers, just meeting 
 for the first time, have in common ?" 
 
 " I reckon it was your own fault, Sara, for you know 
 you generally wait to be entertained. Now, I got on ad- 
 mirably with her," continued Miss Lettuce ; " we did up 
 the mountains, and the mists, and ' the Ruins,' and the 
 
96 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 rainbow-liues of the autumn landscape, and the cool 
 mornings and evenings, and sunny noons, and so on, and 
 so on, to perfection." 
 
 '' Just as if she hadn't seen all these for herself I" 
 
 " Oh ! that's not it at all, Sara. Why, we don't say ' it's 
 a beautiful day' to the friend we meet, because we think 
 he can't find that out for himself — it's rather to awaken 
 a mutual sympathy, by touching upon what we're both 
 aware of. So much for my philosophy of small talk. You 
 and the old lady seemed to get on finely too, mamma. Ser- 
 vants, happily, are a never-failing topic with housekeepers. 
 You were in full cry, I perceived, when I gave you a hint 
 to go." 
 
 " But she's not old," said Mrs. Grant, a little piqued. 
 " She is younger than I am, I dare say ; and what a quick, 
 elastic step she has ! Different enough from mine ; but 
 then she has not been fighting the rheumatism these ten 
 years, as I have." 
 
 " With a son who don't look less than twenty-four, or 
 thereabouts, she may honestly be reckoned in the category 
 of old folks," said Miss Lettuce. " But no reflection in 
 the world on you, mamma ; you know we think you belong 
 to the genus Amaranthus^ and that you ' flourish in 
 immortal youth.' " 
 
 " How did you find out that Mr. Woodruff was a cousin 
 of the Irvines ?" asked Miss Sara. 
 
 " I heard that pert little girl call him ' Cousin Barry.' " 
 
XEW-FOUXD FRIEXDS. 97 
 
 *' Now, / didn't think she was pert," said the kind 
 Mrs. Grant. " She seemed like a very proper child, and 
 only answered the questions you put to her." 
 
 " Lettuce has a way of making children appear pert, 
 whether they are or not," said Miss Sara. " She takes too 
 much notice of them. My way is to ignore their presence 
 altogether." 
 
 " That's not the way to make them love you, my 
 dear." 
 
 " La, mamma, who cares for the love of children? I 
 can't bear them to he lollinof on me, tumblino^ and dis- 
 arranging my dress. I leave all that for Lettuce, and I'm 
 sure she's welcome to the consequences — silks stained 
 with fruits, and crumpled collars, and spoiled pocket- 
 handkerchiefs." 
 
 " All true enough," said Miss Lettuce ; " but if they're 
 smart and saucy, I'm willing to pay the price for the 
 amusement they afford me. I delight in impudent chil- 
 dren, and if the little Irvine is'nt pert, I shan't like her 
 so well." 
 
 " Poor Mr. Irvine !" reiterated Mrs. G-rant, after she 
 had been sittinsf silent for some time. '' I wonder if a 
 
 o 
 
 few bottles of that pure Catawba wine I had made four 
 years ago, wouldn't be nice for him to take with him on 
 his journey. These foreign wines one can't trust, they're 
 so full of trash." 
 
 " Ah, yes. Let me beg Mrs. Irvine's acceptance of it on 
 
98 SILVKRWOOD. 
 
 your part, mamma," said Miss Lettuce ; '' you know you 
 think me famous for my nicely turned periods in the note 
 line ; so, by all means, let it be sent." 
 
 " Mother !" cried Josepha, running in breathlessly, the 
 evening of this, same day, from the lawn where she had 
 been gathering some white and yellow fall chrysanthe- 
 mums — " mother, there's a servant of Mrs. G-rant's out 
 here, and he has a champagne-basket on his arm, and he 
 gave me this note," she added, thrusting a billet into 
 Mrs. Irvine's hand. She opened the note and read it 
 aloud for the benefit of the assembled circle : 
 
 " Mrs. Grrant begs that Mrs. Irvine will do her the 
 kindness to accept, on her son's behalf, a few bottles of 
 very pure Catawba wine, of home manufacture, which 
 she hopes may be of some service to him on his con- 
 templated journey. The appeal which an invalid makes 
 to the sensibility of a stranger's heart, must be Mrs. 
 Grant's apology for assuming to herself thus much of the 
 duties of commissariat." 
 
 " How kind," said Mrs. Irvine, with a glistening eye — 
 '' how ki:id these Milburne people are ! Yesterday you had 
 a bag of game sent you from G-rantley-holm, Lawrence ; 
 and here is evidence of another stranger's interest in you. 
 Thase people make us forget that we are not among old 
 friends. How kind I" 
 
X. 
 
 ^it ^utuinit 3m\mi 
 
 It was a calm, sweet Sabbath morning, — the last 
 Sabbath, indeed the last day, our travellers were to spend 
 at home ; for all things were in readiness for their de- 
 parture on the morrow. In solemn stillness — in a silence 
 " breathless with adoration" — in an attitude expectant 
 as that of a gentle child who bows with drooping head 
 and veiled eyes before the father who is about to bestow 
 his blessing, — so stood Nature, mutely, that autumn Sab- 
 bath, beneath the benediction of G-od ! 
 
 Mrs. G-rant did not forget, in her kind-heartedness, that 
 all the family at Silver wood might not be provided with 
 the means of getting to church ; so she had driven out 
 of her way to take some of them up, — her daughters 
 having determined upon a ride to a country church some 
 few miles distant, at which they had heard Mr. Woodruff 
 was to officiate. Zilpha and Eunice had taken advan- 
 tage of Mrs. G-rant's offer ; Edith and Josepha went 
 
100 SILVER WOOD. 
 
 in the little carriage with Bryant ; while Lawrence and 
 his mother were left to spend the morning alone. 
 
 Beautifully stood the antique, moss-grown church, al- 
 most hidden on its sloping knoll, among giant, white- 
 branched sycamores, and stalwart oaks, and mountain 
 ashes — the heroic remnants of the primeval forest, which, 
 like the race whose council-fires they may have shaded, 
 alone remained to give token of former glory. A stream 
 of clear water crossed the road, just at the foot of the 
 knoll on which this old structure, dating away back to 
 colonial times, reared its venerable walls. A steep roof, 
 with wide, projecting eves, windows and doors scattered 
 about with not much reference to symmetry, an out.^ide 
 covered stairway, all combined to make it a most quaint- 
 looking pile. Around it, 
 
 *' Where heaved the turf in many a mouUlering heap," 
 
 slept the past generations who had worshipped there ; 
 while an occasional mound of fresh clay, that contrasted 
 strangely with those old graves, was interspersed among 
 them. G-rey, mossy slabs, wept upon many a year by 
 the leaves drooping above, till their inscriptions were 
 scarcely legible, were to be seen brightened now by a life 
 singularly at variance with the tale of decay which they 
 told ; for little, merry-eyed children were sitting upon 
 them, pulling away the long, dry grass from their sides, 
 or blowino^ the down from the thistles that had thrust 
 
I AN AUTUMN SERMON. <-' ^ ,', ] ] l^^Wl',' 
 
 \ ->/''•,•••'',.'' 
 
 tliemselves sturdily up among the neglected tomb- 
 stones. 
 
 A few handsome carriages stood about among the 
 trees, with comfortable-looking, shiny-faced drivers lolling 
 lazily on their seats. ►Saddle-horses were picketed here 
 and there, and groups of young people sat upon the logs 
 that seemed to have been placed there for the purpose, 
 exchanging neighborhood civilities and news. It was all 
 rather a novel sight to Edith and Josepha ; and as the 
 latter caught the pleasant hum of conversation, and lis- 
 tened to the occasional outbreak of laughter, she turned 
 whisperingly to her sister, and wondered if they " were 
 talking Sunday talk." 
 
 Impish-looking little negro boys were playing pranks 
 oLi one another, around the entrance to the covered stair- 
 way, and receiving, in return, sundry suggestive cuffs 
 from an old ^' aunty" with a gay turban surmounted by a 
 bonnet as venerable in appearance as herself. Josepha 
 watched them with no small amusement, quite forgetful 
 of the admonitions she had mentally been administering 
 to the people about her a few moments before. 
 
 The Misses Grrant, accompanied by a pair of attendant 
 cavaliers, were not long in seeking out our little party. 
 The gay Miss Lettuce, and the more stately Miss Sara, 
 each in their own fashion, offered their quota of entertain- 
 ment to Edith and Mr. AYoodrulT, while they were await- 
 ing the assembling of the congregation ; but neither of 
 
109. SILVERWOOD. 
 
 tlie latter were in a mood to be amused by the piquant 
 reminiscences of the old pastor, with wliich Miss Lettuce 
 furnished them. He himself was soon seen approaching ; 
 and, after his innumerable greetings had been gone 
 through with — a ceremony, however, which occupied no 
 little time — Mr. Woodruff and he took their seats in the 
 pulpit, at which signal the knots of talkers broke up ; 
 the congregation poured in through the several doors, and 
 and the stairway echoed with the heavy tramp of the 
 servants that crowded up it. 
 
 High-backed pews, guiltless of paint or varnish, but 
 time-stained to the richness of a " Vandyke brown," al- 
 most hid the worshippers, whose heads only were visible 
 in their quaint recesses. But the invocation went up 
 just as acceptably as if it had ascended through fretted 
 roof; and the holy psalm, though sung for the most part 
 by untrained voices, was not therefore the less sweet, as 
 the wind caught up its lingering notes, and whispered 
 them over again among the swaying tree-tops. The 
 silent congregation listened reverently to the message 
 which the young stranger had to convey to them. Oc- 
 casionally, their attention was diverted by the passing 
 round of the grizzly-headed black sexton, with a tin- 
 handled, tin-bound cocoa-nut ladle of water, which ever 
 and anon he replenished from the brass-hooped, wooden 
 pail that stood on the bench beneath the pulpit. Once, 
 Josepha's risibilities were severely tried, as a little child, who 
 
AN AUTUMN SERMON. 103 
 
 was likely to be overlooked in the general watering, cried 
 out, at the top of its voice, — " Me, too, Uncle Jake !~me, 
 too !" Moreover, the perfect nonchalance with which a 
 little girl would now and then walk up to the water- 
 pail, and supply her wants for herself, was quite astonish- 
 ing to one whose ideas of church decorum forbade the 
 unclosing of the pew door till the service was over. 
 
 Edith thought she had never rightly appreciated, be- 
 fore, the exceeding beauty, and eloquence, and poetry of 
 the chapter which Bryant read from the Prophet Isaiah; 
 and she wondered more and more, why clergymen should 
 give so little attention to the cultivation of the art of fine 
 reading. She remembered that the greatest actress of 
 her own, or perhaps any age, never felt prepared to 
 render, with perfect expression, and with satisfaction to 
 herself, her favorite character in Shakspeare, without a 
 fresh reading and study of it before every representation. 
 And why, she thought to herself, why should those who 
 ought to seek to give a grander rendering, if possible, to 
 the infinitely more rapt and eloquent apostrophes of 
 Scripture, content themselves to slur them over in a slo- 
 venly way, and in a monotonous tone, that, so far as they 
 can, do away with any effect whatsoever. Not so did 
 her cousin do his part. He added not a word of explana- 
 tion or comment ; and yet, as he read, a new meaning 
 burned along the sacred page. The fire of a fervid, chas- 
 tened rhetoric glowed beneath the crucible that held the 
 
10-i SILVER WOOD. 
 
 divine truth, and it flowed forth like a stream of molten 
 gold. How many a sermon had she heard that had 
 failed to convey any such impression as the simple, but 
 masterly rendering — for it was more than mere reading 
 — of that beautiful chapter ! 
 
 " A¥e all do fade as a leaf, and our iniquities, like the 
 wind, have taken us away," was the appropriate text for 
 that autumn Sabbath morning. 
 
 " — We all do fade," continued the young minister, after 
 he had brought the more didactic part of his sermon to a 
 close. " From the morning in which Adam passed out of 
 the gates of Paradise, with Eve's hand, trembling under 
 the new consciousness of sin, within his own, to the ris- 
 ing of this day's sun, that must have slanted its beams 
 for the first time, across the short mound I see through 
 yonder open door, fresh with the up-turned sod of yester- 
 day, — ' we all do fade.' Earth's surface is furrowed with 
 graves — earth's soil is rich with the spoils of humanity. 
 Life's battle-ground, broad as the world, where myriads 
 of hearts have bled, and struggled, and suffered, and con- 
 quered, and perished, — is no less a battle-ground, because 
 the ease and comfort, and provision of the present, like 
 the waving corn that nods over the sod where nations 
 have striven, and where every hand breadth of turf covers 
 a grave, hides the fact, the unrealized fact, from our 
 vision. It is not only where we have the strife of the 
 warrior, 'the confused noise, the garments rolled in 
 
AN AUTUMN SERMON. 105 
 
 blood,' — that the ^Yasting goes on : it is not only in the 
 populous city, amicl whose heats, and poverty, and 
 wretchedness, disease finds ready food : it is not only on 
 the wide deep, whose gaping jaws swallow down the 
 frantic crowd with the death-shriek on their lips: it is 
 not only along life's worn highways, where the weary 
 travellers faint and fail under their heavy burdens ;— -but 
 in the most secluded by-paths, along 'the cool seques- 
 tered vales,' beside the rural hearth, in the forest 
 home, in the loneliest hut of the wilderness, — goes on, 
 just as steadily, resistlessly, and surely, this inevitable, 
 inexorable fading away. I see it on the brow of that 
 child before me ; I feel it, — nature's own instinct, — in the 
 needed relaxation of these vigorous muscles :" — and the 
 spealcer clenched his hands tightly, and flung wide his 
 arms, and dilated his tall figure, till, to his audience, it 
 seemed an impersonation of manly strength and beauty, 
 untouched by a suspicion of decay. " I am taught it by 
 those silver hairs," he continued, — '^ that tottering step, — 
 this bended form, — those funeral weeds, — these time- 
 worn thresholds, over which have passed generations of 
 feet that shall cross them no more I Yea, ' we oAl do 
 fade.' " 
 
 '' ' As a leaf.' There was a time, — -creation's sinless 
 morning-time, — when, through all the solitudes of earth's 
 mighty forests, — among all its myriads upon myriads of 
 whispering trees — not a stain, not a speck of decay dark- 
 
 a 
 
103 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 ened upon the most liidden leaf. But the frost of sin 
 breathed over the world, and lo ! the change ! Canker- 
 spots overspread the fan* green, — the notched edges shrivel, 
 — ^the foot-stalk groves sickly, — its hold on the parent 
 stem loosens, and gives way, — it is whirled upon the 
 bosom of some turbid stream, or blown out of the sight of 
 day into some rocky crevice. And thus, in unfailing suc- 
 cession, nature's and humanity's leaf-fall have kept pace, 
 from the moment of sin's first blight, to the trembling 
 flutter of the sear foliage of to-day, over the fresh graves 
 yonder. 
 
 y See ! " — he exclaimed, pointing to a withered leaf 
 that rustled along the floor of the aisle — " thus ' our 
 iniquities, like the wind, have taken us away I' Look at 
 that helpless thing !" — and he leaned over the pulpit with 
 his eye earnestly watching it; "look at it in the in- 
 visible grasp that is hurrying it hither and thither, lifting 
 and tossing it at its will, dashing it down, and sweeping 
 it at length away into some mouldy nook, to lie forgotten 
 forever ! "What innate power is there here," — he still 
 pointed to the whirling leaf, and every eye followed the 
 guidance of his finger, — " to resist the mighty impulse that 
 can rock these deep-rooted oaks ? Just so much, ah I 
 helpless heart ! as tJwu hast, to struggle, unaided, against 
 thine own tempestuous passions and sins, that ' as the 
 wind, have taken thee away !' But the wind may be 
 hnshed. There is One who ' holds it in His fist,' who can 
 
AX AUTUMN SERMON. 107 
 
 say to it — ' Peace ! be still ! ' There is One who has 
 struggled through a life of toil, of obedience, of humilia- 
 tion, of agony, even to death, that He might win the right 
 to stay that rough wind, to turn its fury against his own 
 bosom, to gather up the broken leaf, and renew its blasted 
 powers, and make it bright with immortality, and bind it 
 into the chaplet that shall encircle the brow that once 
 ached under the pressure of the thorns. Ye must fall, 
 for all have shared the blight of sin. What will ye, 
 friends ? Shall Jesus snatch you from the clutch of the 
 destroying whirlwind, and graft you on to the tree of 
 righteousness, from whose leaves He is to weave His 
 crown ?" 
 
 " — Mr. Woodruff's sermon was admirably suited to a 
 rural audience," remarked Miss Lettuce G-rant to Edith, 
 whose heart still vibrated under the pathetic tone of the 
 closing question, as they passed from the church — '• such 
 apt illustration, — so naturally suggested by the falling 
 leaves, and all that. Pretty conceit that of the chaplet. 
 I felt as if I had my hands full of red, maple leaves, and 
 was tying them together with withered tufts of grass." 
 
 Edith did not reply for a moment. She was thinking of 
 the further illustration the volatile girl beside her was 
 furnishing—of the empty puffs of vanity that would be 
 likely to sweep away all the salutary impressions which 
 the sermon was calculated to make. " Will it do no more 
 good than this ?" she sighed to herself; but, just then, she 
 
108 SILVER WOOD. 
 
 saw an old negro stoop and pick up a withered leaf, that 
 was whirling along the path before him, and ponder it as 
 if it had been a printed page, while he held it spread 
 upon his open palm. There was something to encourage 
 her in the simple action. That narrow mind had perhaps 
 accepted and understood the lesson which had escaped 
 the refined and educated, but thoughtless listener at her 
 side. 
 
 " Cousin Bryant," said Edith, as once again seated 
 in the little carriage, the trio pursued their way home- 
 ward — " you cannot Jcnow how your words, about the 
 withering leaves, went home to my heart, Lawrence is so 
 like one. See, for example, those crimson gums and yel- 
 low hickories, how much more beautiful they are than 
 before they were touched by the frost. So my brother 
 seems : there is a spiritual light and loveliness, at times, 
 about his smile, that pierces me like a dart." 
 
 " Hope for the best, Edith : the trees you are pointing 
 out, will all be covered with their healthy green next 
 spring." 
 
 " Ah ! that is just such comfort as our Saviour offered 
 to Martha, and I ought to be content with it ; but I want 
 the present assurance she craved ; I want the leaves green 
 nowy 
 
 " That must be as Grod chooses. He went beyond 
 Martha's expectations ; He may do the same for you ; He 
 can heal the stain of decay, and, if He see best, let us 
 
AN AUTUMN SERMON. 109 
 
 rest assured He will. ' Shall not the Judge of all the 
 earth do right ?' What could be fuller of consolatory- 
 truth, than such an appeal ? It surely ought to be a pil- 
 low for the most aching head. Can you not find repose 
 for yours on it ?" 
 
 " Yes — at times, perfect : even a repose that' has joy in 
 it ; and then I can echo Madame Gruyon's feeling — 
 
 ' "Wishing fits not my condition, — 
 Acquiescence suits me best.' 
 
 " But the mood changes again : the tempest of distrust 
 rises in my heart, and my anchor-hold of that truth is 
 loosened. What it seemed easy to say in the calm, are 
 but idle words in the storm." 
 
 '' But if you would only remember who is at the helm, 
 and even when you could not see, stretch your hand of 
 faith through the darkness, and find it met by that of the 
 unerring Pilot — " 
 
 " Yes — if I could always do this, and feel this ; but un- 
 questioning submission — how hard it is ! " 
 
 Lawrence and his mother has passed a sweet, sad 
 Sabbath together. They had gathered and laid up a 
 store of mutual memories, which were to be the honeyed 
 hive from whence to draw comfort in the hours of separa- 
 tion or disappointment that were before them. They had 
 held converse, such as is not often held this side heaven, 
 for they were so soon to part. This darling son, this eldest 
 
110 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 born, this prop on wliicli, through her years of widow- 
 hood, this mother had learned to lean, was to be taken 
 away for a time, whether to be returned to her as her 
 earthly support still, she could not know. And he, the 
 loving, confiding, yet reserved youth, who shrank to a 
 fault, from intimate companionship with those of his own 
 sex and age, as if nothing less than woman's delicacy and 
 purity would satisfy his refined nature ; who had turned 
 from very boyhood to his mother for so much of heart- 
 support as the human can give — with what an aching 
 fullness of reverence, and trust and devotion, he had laid 
 his head on the lap that had pillowed it in infancy, 
 none who sat round the parlor fire that night, knew. The 
 sacredness of those innermost feelings was not marred by 
 what would have been at best but a stammering and 
 inadequate utterance of them. Rather did he prefer to 
 lie silent and apparently emotionless on the sofa, where his 
 mother sat scarcely less silent than himself, threading her 
 fingers through his long locks of auburn hair. 
 
 At the hour for evening prayers, even Zilpha's sweet 
 and serene composure almost forsook her for a moment, as 
 her brother begged that, although it was Sabbath evening, 
 she would open the piano, and accompany their hymn 
 with a particular air he designated. At first her fingers 
 glided tremulously over the Iveys, but she very quickly 
 mastered her emotion, and, in a rich, clear voice, assisted, 
 however, only by Bryant and the children, sang the 
 verses for which Lawrence had asked : 
 
AX AUTUMN SEEMOX. Ill 
 
 THE SYMPATHY OF JESUS. 
 
 The sympathy of Jesus ! — who 
 
 That ever sobbed one sorrowing moan 
 On some kind bosom, fondly true, — 
 
 Some human bosom, like our own, 
 And felt how much those lips, close prest, 
 
 That hand close-clasped, could calm our feais- 
 Can turn to His far tenderer breast, 
 
 "Without a gush of thankful tears ! 
 
 The earthly heart on which we lean 
 
 May have its separate griefs to bear ; 
 Griefs, though unspoken and unseen, 
 
 Yet rankling all the deeper there. 
 Its faltering strength may scarce sustain 
 
 The torture of its own distress ; 
 And still we add our burdening pain. 
 
 Unconscious how the weight may press. 
 
 But He whose human feet have trod 
 
 Earth's hills and valleys, — He who knew 
 N-) sympathy but that of God, 
 
 Though linked with all that craved it, too — 
 Knows all our yearning, all our need. 
 
 Yet strong to bear our utmost smart, — 
 He loves to feel the throbbing head 
 
 Close laid against His pitying heart. 
 
 To think that on the tlirone of thrones, 
 
 He wears our lowly nature still ! 
 To think that midst the loftiest tones 
 
 That through the eternal mansions thrill, 
 
112 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 Earth's humblest pleader He will hear. 
 Though only tears his anguish tell ; 
 
 That sobbing voice falls on his ear 
 More sweet than Gabriel's ever fell f 
 
 Then, sorrowing spirit ! take the grief 
 
 Thou ne'er to mortal couldst disclose. 
 And He will give thee sure relief, 
 
 Touched with the feeling of thy woes ; 
 And thou shalt understand how sweet, 
 
 How filled with more than human bliss 
 How dear — how tender — how complete 
 
 The sympathy of Jesus is ! 
 
 Bryant read the fourteenth chapter of John's gospel — 
 a favorite passage, he knew, of Mrs. Irvine's ; and as his 
 full, musical tones lingered over those beautiful words, — 
 *' Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you : 
 not as the world giveth, give T unto you. Let not 
 3^our heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid," — a 
 heavenly calm diffused itself over every one present. 
 The touching remonstrance of the suffering Saviour had 
 never come with more pleading pathos to their souls ; and 
 as, in his closing prayer, Bryant repeated the sacred words 
 — " we iviU not let our hearts be troubled, beloved Ee- 
 deemer I — we ivill not let them be afraid" — each kneeler 
 inwardly responded, '' amen I" 
 
II. 
 
 The travelling carriage was at the door ; the early 
 breakfast was over ; Zilpha was bonneted and shawled ; 
 and Mrs. Irvine was, for the dozenth time, arranging 
 Lawrence's muffler about his throat and breast, and re- 
 iterating her counsels to take every possible care of 
 himself, with a voice that strove its utmost to be clear 
 and steady. Edith could not trust herself to look fully 
 at her brother and sister ; and she nervously occupied 
 herself in selecting from a pile that lay upon the table, 
 such " magazines" and " reviews" as might furnish 
 them with agreeable vv^ayside reading. The children 
 were flitting about the carriage, making all comfortable, 
 packing away the wrappings and carpet-bags which 
 Uncle Felix had tumbled in, without much reference to 
 the convenience of the travellers. 
 
 " What's this in the carriage pocket ?" asked Josepha, 
 thrusting her hand as she spoke, into its depths, and 
 5# 
 
114 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 bringing up a brown paper package, tied with a white 
 woolen string. 
 
 " Why, Miss Josey, you see," began Uncle Felix, in a 
 deprecating tone, ^' I thought Mas' Lawrence moughtn't 
 'ject to a few 'simmons, jes' to eat on de road, like. 
 Dey's mighty nice now ; de frost's took all de bitter out 
 of 'em. I mind ole Mas' Henry, your pa', used to say 
 dey was enough better nor yer boughten figs." 
 
 "And what's in this other pocket?" 
 
 "Oh, jes' a few red-cheeked apples I got at Mas' Sam. 
 Roberts' yisterday, when I went to see my ole woman : 
 she's cook dere, you know. I 'spected, maybe. Miss 
 Zilphy would like some of 'em." 
 
 " Well, Aunt Rose," asked Eunice, as the old cook 
 made her appearance from behind the corner of the house, 
 "what have you got in that little calico bag?" 
 
 " Dey's some blackberries I dried in de summer ; and I 
 allers heerd dey's so oncommon good for folks as is got 
 weak stomachs, like poor Mas' Lawrence. Jes' slip 'em 
 in somewhere ; dey won't take much room, honey," she 
 said, handing them up to Josepha. 
 
 " But, indeed, Aunt Ross, there'll be so much to carry. 
 When they get on the cars, they'll be sure to lose some of 
 the things. See ; here are Daphne's chestnuts, too." 
 
 " La, Miss Josey," said Daphne, " Miss Zilphy and 
 Mas' Bryant can eat 'em clean up befo' dey gits to de cars. 
 And dese flowers, dey wont take up no room at all 'most. 
 
THE NEW GOVERNESS AND HER PUPILS. 113 
 
 Dey's de very las' in de garden. Please stick 'em up 
 somewhere. It'll be mighty easy to throw 'em away 
 when dey withers." 
 
 " Can't you bring something, too, Homer ?" inquired 
 Josepha, jestingly, of a little negro boy — Aunt Rose's 
 son, who was swinging on the trunk-rack. Homer, un- 
 derstanding the question as a hint for him to furnish his 
 quota, scampered off as fast as his bare feet would carry 
 him, and in a little time returned with a rimless straw 
 hat, which he held up to the carriage window. 
 
 *' Here be some wa'nuts, Miss Josey : aint got nuffin' 
 better." 
 
 Josepha laughed, and told him he should keep them, 
 and crack them for himself ; that they would not be good 
 for his Master Lawrence. 
 
 The partings in the parlor were over ; and Lawrence, 
 pale, but externally calm, shook hands silently with the 
 servants, and, stepping into the carriage, flung his arms 
 around his little sister, and kissed her over and over 
 again with an emotion very unusual in him. The pent-up 
 feeling would have way, and upon her it expended itself. 
 As Uncle Felix lifted her to the ground, there were tears 
 even on that sunny cheek, which was rarely known to 
 own any acquaintance with sorrow. While Zilpha and 
 Edith were exchanging some last words, Mrs. L'vine could 
 not forbear one more look, one more embrace, as she 
 rested upon the carriage steps, and with another fervent 
 
116 ■ SILVEEWOOD, 
 
 " God bless you, my darling son !" reached forward, and, 
 sobbing, held him to her bosom. 
 
 All I what tears we shed — what anguish we endure — 
 what heart-rendings we experience, — all, through our 
 inability to look into the dim future ! We smile in our 
 partings sometimes, when the lifting of the veil shows us 
 we should have wept ; and again we weep, when, had we 
 but known the issue, we would have smiled. Yet, G-od 
 be blessed for this close curtaining? of the future ! Of 
 what a double agony does it spare us the endurance — the 
 agony of watching the sure and steady coming of the 
 dreaded evil, heightened and intensified by long anticipa- 
 tion, superadded to a certainty terrible and inexorable as 
 death ! And of what a zest would it rob our joy I — 
 No pleasures multiplied by being unlocked for — no delight 
 that had not lost all its purple bloom by being turned 
 a thousand times over in the mind — no rapture whose 
 draught had not been diminished by many prelibations ! 
 
 Edith was the last one to whom Bryant said farewell. 
 He pressed her trembling hand between both of his ; 
 looked with gentle sympathy upon the averted face, so 
 full of grief; and then, passing his arm about her in a 
 momentary embrace — as was his kinsman's ])rivilege — 
 stepped into the carriage, gave the signal to the driver, 
 and they were gone. 
 
 Poor Edith ! As she laid her hand caressingly that 
 night upon her sister's deserted pillow, she did not forget 
 
 I 
 
THE XEW GOVERNESS AND HER PUPILS 117 
 
 to think over his kind good-bye. It is so sweet to helieve 
 in our fellow-creatures' affection ; so she put away among 
 her heart's private treasures, that bit of tender memory. 
 
 The occupation of the mind and the hands with present 
 duty, Mrs. Irvine had always inculcated, as one of the 
 best safe-guards and protections against the ingress of 
 sorrowful thoughts. " There is," she was accustomed 
 to say, in her aphoristic way — and her own happy Chris- 
 tian philosophy spared her many an hour of anxiety 
 and ennui — "there is some task set for every moment's 
 performance. AYe cannot do to-morrow the duties of the 
 wasted to-day ; for to-morrow's hours are filled with their 
 own requirements. "We cannot eat nor sleep for to-mor- 
 row, without a protest from nature for the transgression 
 of her laws. Sufficient unto each day is the good and 
 the evil thereof." And when Edith (for Zilpha was not 
 prone to do it) would sometimes allude regretfully to the 
 
 past, and to the delightful home at B , which had 
 
 been so suddenly swept from them — to the ease and even 
 luxury of her mother's early years — to her native taste 
 for society, her peculiar fitness for it, and her large sym- 
 pathies, that required something more than their present 
 limited range for their outgoing : contrasting all this 
 with the sombre aspect of Silverwood — the absence of 
 many comforts to which they had always been accus- 
 tomed — and above all, the now broken family circle — 
 how cheerfully would Mrs. Irvine put all these regrets by, 
 
118 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 with the simple repetition of the noble exclamation of 
 Job : " "What ! shall we receive good at the hand of the 
 Lord, and shall we not receive evil I" or, with the familiar 
 lines of the old poet : 
 
 " My mind to mc a kingdom is, 
 
 Such perfect joy therein I find, 
 As far exceeds all earthly bliss 
 
 That God or Nature hath assigned : 
 Though much I want, that most would have, 
 Yet still my mind forbids to crave." 
 
 And so she did not sit down with folded hands, in the 
 now lonely home, going back in the indulgence of a seduc- 
 tive grief, to him who had been the sunlight of her heart, 
 who had made the walls around her echo to his boyhood's 
 mirth, or dwelling with the minuteness in which sorrow 
 revels, on the solitary death-bed in that very chamber, 
 where, because it ivas his death-chamber, she loved the 
 better to lie ; nor did she weary and sicken her spirit, 
 and waste its resources, by studying over and over again 
 the shadows that had been gathering one by one above 
 the home-picture, which, but a few months before, poor 
 Lawrence had been rejoicing in as so bright. The altered 
 circumstances of the family rendered exertion necessary, 
 and the fingers, whose delicacy might once have shrunk 
 from the scarce lady-like occupation, now plied the busy 
 needle as she bent over some coarse garment for Uncle 
 Felix, or Homer. The smile of hopeful endurance was 
 
THE NEW GOVERNESS AND HER PUPILS. 119 
 
 still over her face ; the expression of unquestioning acqui- 
 escence ever upon her lips. 
 
 '' It grieves me, my daughter," she said one day to 
 Edith, who, since the departure of the travellers, had 
 drooped sadly ; "it grieves me that you should give way 
 to depression, and lose your interest in what is around 
 you. Do you know you worried me this morning, when 
 Mr. and Mrs. Grarrett were making their visit here, by 
 your monosyllabic replies to their remarks ?" 
 
 " I'm very sorry I should have done so, mother ; 
 but one can't feel interested just at once in perfect 
 strangers. Their visit was a sort of matter-of-course, 
 because we are henceforth to be included in the society of 
 Milburne." 
 
 "It is a happier thing, even for ourselves, always to 
 put the best construction on the actions of people that 
 they will bear. jN'ow, I prefer to believe that Mr. and 
 Mrs. G-arrett were actuated by more than mere politeness 
 and regard to the rules of society, in coming to see us. 
 I think kindness made them do it." 
 
 " AYell, I dare say you are right, mother ; you always 
 are. Forgive me that I gave you a moment's annoyance, 
 and I'll try and err in this way no more. From ex- 
 perience, I know that employment is one of the very best 
 medicines for the mind." 
 
 " Yes ; the curse pronounced on Adam has always 
 seemed to me, in our restless and sinful condition, a dis- 
 
120 SILVEEWOOD. 
 
 guised blessing. How men's passions would prey on 
 themselves, and on each other, if they were not compelled 
 in the sweat of their brows to earn their bread !" 
 
 " Well, then, as to regular occupation, mother, Eunice 
 and Josepha have been running wild, as far as studies 
 are concerned — " 
 
 " I think you must do Eunice the justice to allow that 
 her devotion to Roman history has been pretty steady. 
 Why, I found the child absorbed in the pages cf Arnold 
 this morning," 
 
 "Yes, mere reading; but study is a different thing, 
 and neither of them have loolced into a book for that 
 purpose since we left home. You see, mother, I can't 
 think this is home. AYith that word, my thoughts always 
 go back to B ." 
 
 "And yet how kindly we have been received here! 
 Remember Mrs. G-rant's wine, and Mrs. Grrantley's part- 
 ridges, and the ready-dressed dinner sent all the way from 
 the parsonage, the first day we came out here, and that 
 good Miss Sparrowhawk's hot breakfast-rolls.'' 
 
 " Yes, yes — I love them all for it. I never saw any 
 one, though, whom little charities touched as they do you, 
 mother ; and yet how small they are in your own eyes 
 when you happen to be the bestower, instead of the receiver. 
 But as to the children : suppose I take the place Miss 
 Perkins used to fill for them at B , and be their gover- 
 ness henceforth." 
 
THE NEW GOVEKXESS A^sD HER PUPILS. 121 
 
 " I should be gratified to see you do it, my dear, if the 
 confinement wouldn't weary you," 
 
 " Nothing of the kind. It ^Yill give zest to the em- 
 ployment, too, to think of being useful, and of spar- 
 ing you expense — a matter certainly to be thought of 
 now." 
 
 Accordingly, school-books were hunted up ; what re- 
 mained of the library, saved from the fire, ^yas searched 
 for proper manuals, and they were forthcoming, notwith- 
 standing Josepha's secret wish that a good proportion 
 might have been consumed. Eunice's devotion to Cincin- 
 natus and Fabius had to yield to what she thought not half 
 so interesting ; and Josepha confided to Uncle Felix the 
 unwilling permission, that "he might as well let Homer 
 know where all the hens' nests were in the barn, as she 
 expected she would have no more time for hunting eggs." 
 
 " Don't you wish, Eunice," she said one day to her 
 sister, as they sat together in the little dressing-closet 
 attached to Mrs. Irvine's chamber, which was now digni- 
 fied with the title of school-room — " don't you wish all 
 the books had been drowned in the deluge ?" 
 
 '' You foolish child !" exclaimed Eunice, Vv'ho 2freatlv 
 plumed herself on her superior knovv'ledge — " why there 
 were no books then I" 
 
 " "Weren't there though ? Those must have been grand 
 times to live in !" 
 
 " You don't like two rainy days to come together now,— 
 
122 SILVEEWOOD. 
 
 how would you have fancied a hundred and fifty, with- 
 out a sight of the ground ?" 
 
 " Oh ! I'd have heen safe in the ark : and then all 
 those animals, so tame, and heautiful ! I can play with 
 Fidele hy the hour, and I never get tired of seeing 
 menageries, and that would have been like being in a 
 mighty fine one all the time." 
 
 " Yes — you'd have been sure of being in the ark," said 
 Eunice, teasingly — " you were always so good !" 
 
 '' Certainly I am ! But, anyhow, now, don't you envy 
 Homer and Silvy? They needn't trouble their heads 
 about lessons, only to spell a little to Edith every day, 
 and hear her read Bible stories on Sundays." 
 
 " I expect that's as hard for them as geography, and 
 arithmetic, and grammar are for you." 
 
 " Oh I nonsense, Eunice. Just as if spelling wasn't 
 the easiest thing in the world. They wouldn't be so happy 
 if it was as hard as my lessons are." 
 
 " And don't you think they envy you sometimes, when 
 they are carrying in Avood, or scouring knives, or feeding 
 the chickens ?" 
 
 *' That's just fun." 
 
 " They don't call it fun. Besides, you wouldn't like 
 to grow up without knowing anything — mother, and 
 brother Lawrence, and all of us would feel so ashamed of 
 you." 
 
 " Oh ! ho I my smart young lady I you think you 
 
THE XEW GOYEKXESS AND HER PUPILS. 123 
 
 know such a powerful sight about those old dead Romans 
 that never did anything, from your accounts, hut fight 
 with each other, or their neighbors, all the time, that you 
 can crow over me." 
 
 ^' I expect you could crow a great deal better than 1 
 could," said Eunice, laughing. " You've been taking 
 lessons in the poultry yard longer." 
 
 " AYell, anyhow, I allow to know as much as you do, 
 some day ; only this poking over books ! I wish there 
 was some other way to get knowledge into a body's head. 
 It's so much pleasanter scrambling among the apple trees 
 in the orchard for mellow apples, or hunting eggs, or tak- 
 ing Homer and Silvy out to the woods yonder, to thrash 
 the chestnut trees, and open the burs for me.. Uncle 
 Felix says he's thankful people can get to Heaven with- 
 out knowing how to read ; for if they couldn't, he's afraid 
 he'd never be there." 
 
 A day or two after this, Edith called upon her pupils 
 for the compositions she had directed them to prepare. 
 Eunice came promptly at her bidding, and read the child- 
 like, straight-forward narrative of Corolianus, which she 
 had written, and received her sister's commendation 
 accordingly. Josepha was then applied to for hers. " I 
 haven't got any written," she said, with her finger in her 
 mouth. 
 
 "And why not?" 
 
 " I couldn't find a subject." 
 
124 SILYERWOOD. 
 
 '' But I gave you one : you know I don't approve of 
 your choosing for yourself." 
 
 " I hadn't enough to say about that to make a compo- 
 sition of. Nothing happened in the walk you told me 
 to describe, worth telling." 
 
 " What did happen ? Just refresh my memory with 
 the circumstances of it." 
 
 "Well — mother said it was such a pretty, sunny after- 
 noon, that we had better not lose it by staying in the 
 house ; so we all started down the lane behind the orchard. 
 We stopped at the spring near the foot of the hill, to get a 
 drink, for I never forget the silver cup. Eunice called us 
 all to come and look at a great speckled toad that had 
 been helping itself to a drink, too, I suppose, and- it made 
 us all laugh to see how it blinked its eyes, and looked up 
 at us, just as much as to say — ' And what do you want 
 with me V Mother said she wondered why Shakspeare, 
 — wasn't that the name, Eunice ?" 
 
 " Yes — she said ^Shakspeare called them ' ugly and 
 venemous.' " 
 
 " Well — she wondered what he did it for, because, for 
 her part, she thought them the most innocent, harmless- 
 looking things in the world. And then you said some- 
 thing, Edith, about its carrying a ' precious jewel in its 
 head." I reckon you meant its eyes, for they Avere as 
 bright as the diamond in mother's ring. So when we 
 had watched the toad long enough to satisfy our curiosity, 
 
THE NEW GOVERNESS AND HER PUPILS. 125 
 
 we went through the bars, and along the path across the 
 clover-field. We stopped again to knock some stunted 
 apples from the old trees there, and thought they tasted 
 right good. I think everything tastes better out of doors. 
 I wonder what can be the reason. "Well, when we came 
 to ' the Ruins,' mother and you sat down on an old log, 
 and Eunice and I hunted moss to make footstools for you. 
 After we were all seated, mother said we would have the 
 letter over again ; for being there, made her think so of 
 that day we had our pic-nic, and she took it out of her 
 pocket — sister's letter, I mean, and read it out loud. It 
 told how nicely they had got on the day they went away ; 
 how little tired brother Lawrie was with the long ride, 
 and how kind Cousin Barry had been, and how he said 
 he would go all the way to Charleston with them, 
 and see them safe on the ship. After that, we talked 
 awhile about them, and then you took out a book that 
 had some mighty pretty stories in it about fish and fish- 
 ing. I wouldn't care if all the books you carry along 
 when we walk, were like that. I forget what you called 
 it." 
 
 " Izaak Walton," suggested Eunice. 
 
 *' Mother read some in it to us," proceeded Josepha, quite 
 spiritedly. '' I remember he told how to cook perch; and 
 such a funny way as it was ! He said it must be dressed 
 with some particular kind of wine, and then it was so 
 nice, — it was fit only for a good Christian. You read a 
 
126 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 pretty song out of the book, too — ' Come live with me, 
 and be my love,' — that was one of the lines in it. Then 
 we all went down the hill to that deep place, where the 
 rocks have given way so much under ground, that the 
 tops of some of the trees that are growing down there, 
 though they are right tall, are almost even with our 
 heads. We thought there must be water at the bottom ; 
 and though mother told us we were venturesome little 
 bodies, Eunice and I went down. The sides were very 
 steep. We had to hold on by the bushes, to keep ourselves 
 from slipping ; but there was no water there, only we 
 could hear a strange noise away under the rocks, like the 
 noise Willoughby Creek used to make, not far from our 
 other home, running over the stones. Eunice began to 
 talk about snakes, and I got frightened, and we both 
 scrambled up faster than we went down. By this time 
 it was near sun-set, so we turned about and went home." 
 
 a Why did you tell me you could not wi'ite a composition 
 about our walk ?" asked Edith. " You have talked one to 
 me." 
 
 ^' That wasn't worth writing," exclaimed Josepha, 
 with a look of some contempt. " I did write seven lines 
 on ' Love of Country^'' but I couldn't get on any further ; 
 then I tried ' Education^'' but that wasn't much better — T 
 could only make eleven lines and a half about that." 
 
 " Well, my dear," said Edith, smiling ; " I'll just re- 
 peat to you the advice which a great writer, who wrote 
 
THE NEW GOVERNESS AND HER PUPILS. 127 
 
 many books, and wrote them better than most people, 
 gives on this subject. He says nothing is so easy as to 
 say what we see, if we will only not be thinking all the 
 while hoiu we say it, but whether we are making our- 
 selves entirely and exactly understood. The next time 
 you have a composition to write, just try and fancy your- 
 self talking to me, and write as you have talked in giving 
 me your description of this walk. You have mother's 
 promise, I believe, to go this afternoon in the little wagon 
 with Uncle Felix, when he goes to the mill for meal. 
 Now, let me see if you can't make your pen talk an ac- 
 count of Eunice's and your trip — both what was, and what 
 was 7iot worth the tellinsr." 
 
I 
 
Xll 
 
 §n tlje Ming. 
 
 '' Here we are at length," ran a letter received from 
 Zilpha ahout a fortnight after this, and Mrs. Irvine pro- 
 ceeded, with a breathless hurriedness, that made it neces- 
 sary for her to pause every little moment, as she tried to 
 read aloud to her no less eager listeners ; " here, in this 
 quaint, charming, foreign-looking city, and I lose no time, 
 my dearest mother — my beloved Edith, and Eunice, and 
 Sepha, for you are around me as I write— in relieving your 
 anxieties about your Avanderers. Lawrence — yes, your 
 very first question is about him. AYell, here he sits 
 beside me, looking over the ' Mercury,' and seeming 
 brighter, fresher, more elastic, than I have seen him for 
 months." 
 
 ' Mrs. Irvine could not clearly make out the next line, 
 and her voice was husky as she tried to read on. '' Oh, I 
 am so thankful !" exclaimed Edith, pressing her hands 
 together, and drawing a full inspiration, as if a heavy 
 
 6 
 
130 SILVEEWOOD. 
 
 burden were lifted from her "breast. Mrs. Irvine fairly put 
 down the letter for a moment. 
 
 There is a point where joy and "sorrow seem to touch, 
 like the meeting of the glad, transparent sky, and the 
 dark, sullen ocean ; and in the poverty of human ut- 
 terance, they have then but one common expression — 
 that of tears. The same, and yet how different ! In 
 the one case, a bitter, briny flood poured from the tempest- 
 tossed sea that rolls over the sufTering soul ; in the other, 
 sparkling, purified exhalations, which, beneath the out- 
 bursting sunshine of hope, span the heart with a bow 
 of brightness and beauty ! 
 
 But the cloud passed from Mrs. Irvine's eyes, leaving a 
 lustre behind, like " the clear shining after rain." She 
 went on witlx the letter : 
 
 ",As you read, you will join your thanksgiving with 
 those that flow out while .1 write, to the kind, loving 
 Father above, who has folded His hand no less tenderly 
 about us migratory birds on the wing, than over you in 
 the quiet nest of home. We went round by sea from 
 
 W , and although we had rather rough weather, 
 
 and were befogged a day, we experienced less incon- 
 venience than you would have supposed. I see now the 
 wisdom of Cousin Bryant coming with us thus far. He 
 has spoiled us somewhat, I'm afraid, for the rest of our 
 journey, by anticipating every want so completely, that 
 we have been spared the exertion of a thought. When 
 
ON THE WING. 131 
 
 he touched me this morning, as I lay on a sofa in 
 the saloon of the steamer, where I had passed the night, 
 I looked round in the grey light for Lawrence, who was 
 nowhere visible. ' I wanted your nap to be as long as 
 possible, and so wouldn't waken you sooner ; but tie on 
 your bonnet, and gather up your wrappings. Lawrence 
 is stowed away with the baggage, in a carriage on the 
 wharf ;' and before I was fairly awake, I found myself 
 at his side, whirling away through the streets of Charles- 
 ton to the Hotel, where we are now most comfortably 
 
 lodged. Lawrence has just dropped his ' Mercury,' and, 
 with an air of wonderful satisfaction, is counting over, 
 on his fingers, the items of his breakfast. For Josepha's 
 information, I must not forget to say, that he refused to 
 touch a morsel of what he fancied could not possibly be 
 very dainty, cooked in a cabin kitchen about as extensive 
 as Aunt Rose's hearth ; so he contented himself with 
 crackers soaked in some of Mrs. Grant's wine. By the 
 way, remind that good lady of the comfort it was to him. 
 But there he sits, counting his fingers. Thumb — coffee, — 
 genuine Mocha, he avers — none of your figure of speech, 
 or poetical license for the beverage in general. Fore-finger 
 — Indian 'egg-bread,' most golden-hued and delightful, 
 with butter as s,olid (by no means a Southern charac- 
 teristic, he thinks) as if it had been churned three days 
 before, and were the product of Orange county cows. 
 Second finger — the half of a small, fresh fish, of rare 
 
132 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 delicacy of flavor. Third finder — the whole of as light a 
 Grraham roll as ever the vesreteriaii himself sat down to. 
 Pretty fair, isn't it ? for an invalid, who has heretofore been 
 subsisting on what would no more than satisfy the ap- 
 }3etite of a canary bird. 
 
 " Bryant has gone out to see an acquaintance or two he 
 has here, and Lawrence and I have sent our cards to our 
 Newport friends, the De Lisles. There's a knock at the door, 
 and a servant hands me their names, and tells me they 
 are in the drawing-room below. So good-bye for the 
 present. 
 
 *' Our friends are gone, and I take up the broken thread 
 of my chat again. Mrs. De Lisle looks even younger 
 than when we n:iet her at Newport, two summers ago, 
 and is as overflowing with genial kindliness as ever. She 
 will listen to no denial or objections, on our part, to 
 making her house our head-quarters while we are here ; 
 so her carriage is to come for us before dinner. Her son 
 is as full of frolic, and as fond of pranks, as you remem- 
 ber, Edith, he used to be on the sea-beach, and persists 
 still in taking life as a sort of joke. The air is delight- 
 fully soft and bland here, and the trellis of the verandah, 
 opposite the window at which I am writing, is gay with 
 climbing roses. Your favorite ' cloth of gold' is there, 
 mother, if my sense of smell don't deceive me, for the 
 breeze wafts its odor this way, and I am surrounded by 
 quite an atmosphere of sweets. I wish yon witch of a 
 
ON THE WInG. 133 
 
 little darling, who is darting like a humming-bird in and 
 out of the verandah, with her amber-colored curls floating 
 over her bare, white shoulders, would fling me a bud 
 across the street to scent my letter with I 
 
 '' But I must leave you for a while, and have my effects 
 in readiness for the carriage. Besides, I had almost for- 
 gotten that Lawrence has torn his cloak on some officious 
 trunk hasp, so there's a little employment for my needle. 
 
 " I am writing in Mrs. De Lisle's morning room, look- 
 ing, not into the street, but upon a vine-shaded piazza, 
 and off" into a garden that even yet is bright with summer 
 beauty. The residences here do not face the thorough- 
 fares, as in other cities, but turn their gables to them, and 
 surrounded as they are with shrubbery, they have a 
 charming air of rural privacy. But I'm not going to 
 fill my remaining half page with statistics about the 
 ' Citadel,' and the ' guard-houses,' and the seaward look- 
 ing Battery, and such things ; nor can I take the time 
 noAv to tell you of all our kind hostess interests herself in 
 having us see — of our yesterday's visit to a rice-mill, or our 
 drive this morning to the Magnolia Cemetery, a sweet, 
 quiet ' city of the dead.' These, with many other mat- 
 ters, must be laid over as topics for tea-table talk, wdien 
 we are all together once more. How oar thoughts dwell 
 with, and linger over our beloved quartette ! Indeed, I 
 feel as if we had brought ourselves but half away, since 
 our hearts will so stay behind us I Sometimes Law^rence 
 
1"34 SILVEEWOOD. 
 
 startles me by stopping in the midst of one of his silent 
 reveries, and saying, as if he had been watching you all 
 with a sort of seer's ken : ^ mother dear is sitting at the 
 window with her sewing now, thinking of us ;' or, ' they 
 have gone out to walk now, and mother dear is reading 
 to them in the shadow of ' the Ruins.' He has just come 
 in from a ride with Mr. De Lisle, looking quite revived 
 and gay ; and as he leans over me, he bids me ask Eu- 
 nice if she has discarded Tytler, and aspired to Niebuhr 
 yet, and wants Josepha to send him word as to the pro- 
 gress of her investigations in entomology. In two days 
 we sail for Havana, and then Cousin Bryant turns his 
 face toward the shores of the Rappahannock, and we put a 
 belt of ocean between you and our untravelled hearts, 
 that ' drag at each remove a lengthening chain.' " 
 
XIII. 
 
 ^rantleu-Ufflm. 
 
 ^' We have been so cheered," said Edith, the next 
 morning, as she left the breakfast-table, where her mother 
 still sat, portioning out sugar into the servant's coffee- 
 cups, which Silvy held on a tray beside her, — " so 
 brightened up by Zilpha's letter, that we will accept 
 Mrs. G-rantley's invitation to dinner to-day, with every 
 disposition to enjoy ourselves. At what hour does her note 
 say ?" 
 
 " Five, I believe." 
 
 '' Rather late for a November country dinner ; but I 
 suppose ten o'clock breakfasts and five o'clock dinners are 
 the remnants of the many English customs that have 
 been perpetuated here ever since the cavalier days of the 
 Old Dominion, and Mrs. G-rantley sets too much store by 
 her kinship with the old Sir William, to give in to a more 
 plebeian hour. By the by, mother, I don't believe you 
 have a dress cap suitable to encounter the elite of Mil- 
 
136 SILVEltWOOD. 
 
 burne in. J wish you had been more mindful of your oayr 
 wants, and supplied yourself before we had left the region 
 of millinery shops." 
 
 '' But, my dear, there was so much to get, and j'ou 
 know we can't do as we used to — get what we ivcnit. 
 Let us be content, however, that we still can have what 
 we needy 
 
 Edith gave a sigh. The altered state of the family 
 finances was a sore subject to her ; and she had not 
 yet learned to accommodate herself to it with her 
 mother's cheerful grace. But she recovered her equa- 
 nimity in a moment ; for she caught the expression of 
 the meek eye opposite her, and she could not find it in 
 her heart to disturb its quiet by any spoken regrets. 
 
 " I have it!" she said, with sudden gaiety. "Mother, 
 I'll make you a cap." 
 
 " But would it do any better than those I have ? Re- 
 member, you have served no apprenticeship to the trade ; 
 besides, I don't know that I have the materials at 
 hand." 
 
 ''Yes; there's tnlle about the house somewhere; and 
 you remember the dress I got when 1 was bridesmaid 
 for Anne Harrison, and what a quantity of Yalenciennes 
 lace she sent me to trim it with. That will just be the 
 thing." And Edith forthvrith set to work with great 
 zeal. *- 
 
 Josepha was no way reluctant to see the cap under- 
 
 I 
 
GRAXTLEY-HOLM. 137 
 
 taken, for she tliought that it of course implied the 
 omission of lessons for that day ; in which, to her cha- 
 grin, she proved to be mistaken. The bit of millinery- 
 work was completed in time, to the satisfaction of all 
 parties — at least the children declared their mother's 
 cheeks looked like roses in the snow, through the pretty 
 cloud of lace ; and Edith protested that she had never 
 realized before that poverty had luxuries which riches 
 could not buy. 
 
 " If you had bought the cap in a city shop, mother," 
 she said, as she was fitting it on, " it would have been a 
 matter-of-course that it should be pretty, and all that, 
 and neither of us would have given it a second thought ; 
 but now we'll both enjoy it, if for no more than that it 
 cost nothing but my pleasant task of putting it together." 
 
 " Ah I" said Mrs, Irvine, with a gratified tone, as she 
 kissed Edith's full, fair cheek, " if we would only believe 
 how cheap the materials are out of which happiness is 
 made ! It is just as well to bring our mind to our cir 
 cumstances, as our circumstances to our mind ; — better 
 indeed ; for that we can always do, if we will ; while the 
 other may be out of our power." 
 
 The mansion at Crrantley-hoim, Vv^ith a wide lawn 
 sloping tovv'ards the river, and a noble background of 
 mountains, was one of the olden time, built of stone, and 
 of more cumbrous aspect and proportions than is usual in 
 this later day of Italian villas and Swiss cottages. The 
 
138 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 oaken floor* of the broad hall was waxed till it glistened 
 like a mirror; and, but for the strip of carpet laid along 
 its centre, it would have required something of a rope- 
 dancer's expertness to have glided over its glassy surface 
 without losing footing. The guests had in part arrived, 
 when Mrs. Irvine and Edith entered the drawing-room. 
 Mrs. G-rantley received them most graciously ; Miss Bur- 
 ton most calmly and quietly ; wdiile the former was pro- 
 fuse in her regrets that she had happened to be driving 
 out when the young gentlemen from Silverwood had 
 called to make their adieux. 
 
 Their hostess had evidently not been abroad in vain, for 
 Edith was not long in discovering an exquisite Psyche, 
 upon a pedestal of yellow marble, at one end of the 
 room ; and there were various pictures of real excellence 
 on the walls, which, however, with a singular disregard 
 to effect, w^ere only whitewashed. She could not help 
 fancying to herself the paroxysm of offended taste into 
 which the authors of these works of art w^ould be 
 throwai, could they see what sort of a background they 
 were disposed against, when even her own eye felt 
 the violence of the contrast between the dead, shadow- 
 less white, and the rich, glowing carpet and dark fur- 
 niture, not to speak of the statuette or the pictures. 
 Mrs. G-rant had made room for Mrs. Irvine on the 
 sofa beside her, as soon as she had sotten throup-h 
 with her salutations. Miss Burton had taken posses- 
 
GRAXTLEY-HOLM. 139 
 
 sion of Edith, and they were standing before one of 
 the paintings, when Miss Lettuce Grant joined them. 
 
 " Not paying your de^wirs to art, I hope, Miss Edith ? 
 If that's your queue, you'll be sadly out of your ele- 
 ment here, where our only ' galleries' are the aisles 
 of our forests. For your own peace of mind, I'd recom- 
 mend you to devote yourself to the ' Studies of Nature,' 
 with St. Pierre." 
 
 " I shall be able to do both," said Edith, point- 
 ing up to the picture overhead, and then to the win- 
 dow, from whence a fine view of water, v/ood,. and 
 mountain stretched indefinitely away, beneath the linger- 
 ing evening light. 
 
 " Your models in the art line will be few, I assur6 you. 
 Miss Edith. Mrs. G-rantley is the only patroness it has 
 here ; and she and you are birds of passage, Susan — off 
 to your down-country home with the first snow-flake." 
 
 " My sister's possessions are limited enough in that 
 direction," said Miss Burton ; so I don't think, Miss 
 Irvine, you lose much by the shutting up of our house. 
 Psyche is a study, it is true ; but you have as good a one 
 on your oyv^i mantel, I observed." 
 
 " She loses all ]^Iiiburne has to show^ of works of art, 
 however," rejoined Miss Lettuce ; " though I beg pardon of 
 the countless Y/ashingtons, and Jeftersons, and Madisons, 
 and Marshalls that adorn our walls. But, seriously," con- 
 tinued the gay girl, smoothing her laughing features into 
 
140 SILVEEWOOD. 
 
 affected gravity, ''I do pity you, transplanted into tlie 
 depth of the country just on the edge of winter." 
 
 *' That's the best season for transplanting young trees," 
 interposed Miss Burton, smiling. 
 
 " Yes — it may do for tough, hardy, human evergreens, 
 (like our friend, Miss Eliza Sparrowhawk, yonder), who 
 have no delicate fibres to be hurt ; but, as for you, Miss 
 Edith, I fear you'll need all the influences of the spring 
 to make you take root." 
 
 " I'm no green-house plant. Miss Lettuce," said Edith : 
 " and as this is the native soil of the stock from which 1 
 spring, the scion ought not to have its nature changed by 
 having been planted a degree or two farther north." 
 
 ^' Well, I sincerely hope so," replied Miss Lettuce, " foi' 
 really I, who am country-born, feel it something of a 
 privation to live among leafless trees, when I remember 
 how captivating cities begin to be at this season, with 
 the ladies looking like fresh-blown dahlias, in their bright 
 winter gear." 
 
 " Yet their colors fail to rival IN'ature's," said Edith, 
 ]iointing to some trees on the lawn, which were fluttering 
 their yellow and red foliage still, though it was mid No- 
 vember. 
 
 " But think what they'll be a month hence. Nature's 
 well enough in its way, but one gets a little too much of 
 it then." 
 
 ^' Too much oi Nature, do I hear you say. Miss Lettuce ? 
 
GRANTLEY-HOLM. 141 
 
 '' Ah ! is that you, Mr. Phillips ?" she said, turning 
 round to the speaker. '' Let me present you to my friend, 
 Miss Edith Irvine. Yes ; that was what I said. I am a 
 gregarious creature, and prefer herding with my kind, ra- 
 ther than finding companionship with mute rocks and trees." 
 
 " Then you're not able to discover 'tongues in trees? ' " 
 
 " Tongues in mouths I like better. For my part, I 
 think a great deal of what poets write about Nature, is 
 mere stuff. They talk of its sympathies, and of its great 
 heart beating in unison with humanity's, as if the laugh- 
 able idea of Kepler I met with the other day, were a real 
 fact." 
 
 " Enlighten us, pray, with the result of your investiga- 
 tions in that direction," said Mr. Philips, assuming an at- 
 titude of mock attention. " I'm in darkness as to ever}^- 
 thing about him, beyond what my college astronomy tells 
 me of his ' laws.' " 
 
 " Of course you ask for inform.ation, seeing the source 
 from which you seek it." 
 
 " Of course. I sit at your feet with all the reverence the 
 students of three centuries asfo did before the dausfhter of 
 the Italian astronomer — forget his name — who used to take 
 her father's place in the lecturer's chair when he was sick." 
 
 " AYell, his fancy seemed to be that Nature was a huge, 
 living creature, whose lungs were the oceans ; its veins, 
 rivers ; its hair, the forests ; and who spat fire occasionally, 
 out at Etna or Vesuvius, when in a sulky mood." 
 
142 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 " Rather a formidable creature, indeed," said Mr. Phil- 
 lips, shrugging his shoulders, " and one it would be well 
 to keep on good terms with. But what's your quarrel 
 with Nature.". 
 
 "I deny that its sympathies are what poets make them 
 out to be. For instance : I sally out in a sombre, grey 
 mood, and Nature, forsooth, instead of lending the least 
 countenance to my pensive fit, laughs out in my very face 
 — has nothinor l^^t brisrht skies and sunshine. Then 
 again, I'm as merry as a robin, and I go abroad into the 
 woods and meadows for congenial influences, and behold I 
 your tender, sympathizing Nature scowls and mutters 
 like a very virago. There — I see you have your hand 
 on a volume of Wordsworth. Compare my experience 
 with his laudations." 
 
 Mr. Phillips turned over the leaves of the book, and 
 read a few detached lines — 
 
 " 1 have learned 
 
 To look on Nature, not as in the hour 
 
 Of thoughtless youth, but hearing ollcntimes 
 
 The still, sad music of humanity. 
 
 1 have felt 
 
 A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
 Of elevated thoughts, — ?, sense sublime 
 Of something far more deeply interfused, 
 Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
 And the round ocean, and the living air. 
 
GKANTLET-HOLM. l43 
 
 Therefore, am I still 
 
 A lover of the meadows, and the woods, 
 
 And mountains, and of all that we behold 
 
 From the green earth, — well pleased to recognise 
 
 In Nature and the language of the sense. 
 
 The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse. 
 
 The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
 
 Of all my moral being." 
 
 Other and similar passages he read as he turned over the 
 pages, until, under the influence they evoked, the spirit 
 of badinage ".vas laid aside. 
 
 ''These are unfortunate quotations for your position, Miss 
 Lettuce. What do you think, Miss Irvine ?" 
 
 " While I can't agree with Miss Lettuce," said Edith, 
 ^' I'm disposed to believe that poets do carry their deifica- 
 tion of the abstract thing they call ' Nature,' to an extreme; 
 for what is Nature but the living principle that breathes 
 through all creation ? In other words, G-od," she added, 
 gravely. " If they would agree to this interpretation, I 
 could join their worship with my whole heart." 
 
 *' Yes, many of our modern poets stand in great dread 
 of writing a line that might squint towards pietism. 
 Some of them, indeed, are just about as pagan in their 
 creed as the old G-reeks ; for we have the spirit of beauty, 
 and the very things they idealised in their myths, imper- 
 sonated now under different names." 
 
 " Bless me ! Mr. Phillips !" exclaimed Miss Lettuce. 
 *' Are you going to give Miss Edith a dish of your ^sthe- 
 
144 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 tics, — that's the approved word now I believe, — already ? 
 Pray, wait till the dessert is served ; it will come in more 
 appropriately then, for she couldn't brook the vulgarity of 
 every day meat and drink after — after — " 
 
 " An ' oenomel from Ida," suggested Mr. Phillips^ 
 teasingly. '' I know that's the word you were trying to 
 think of." 
 
 " Miss Edith, don't you agree with me, that pedantry is 
 a very henious thing ?" 
 
 " I beg you wont be so personal, Miss Lettuce," said Mr. 
 Phillips, deprecatingly. " Yoa might tread upon the slipper 
 of the young lady who was quoting Kepler a moment ago.' 
 
 " Do, Mr. Bunbury, come to our rescue," called Miss 
 Lettuce, to a tame-looking young man on the opposite side 
 of the room. " Mr. Phillips is about to injure our appetites 
 for dinner, with Greek confections." 
 
 '' Ah !" said the gentleman in question, joining their 
 circle, and gazing round inquisitively, as if in search of 
 the confections, with his eyes. " If they're as tempting 
 as Stuart's, I shouldn't wonder you didn't know when to 
 stop eating. Greek ones, did you say ? How did he come 
 by them ? Didn't know they were famous for anything 
 over there but old marble." 
 
 "Nor I," said Miss Lettuce, giving Edith a sly look ; 
 *' but their next door neighbors, the Turks, are great on 
 sweet-meats, I believe. You can buy as many for a few 
 coppers, as you can carry away with you." 
 
¥ 
 
 GRANTLEY-HOLM. 145 
 
 '• Quite an inducement for you to visit Constantinople, 
 I<Iiss licttuce, if you're so fond of them." 
 
 " I encourage home-manufactures, sir. I patronise 
 maple-sugar. But Mrs. G-rantley is beckoning us to her. 
 Miss Edith, she is showing \our mamma a port-folio of 
 engravings, some of the European spoils. Mr. Phillips, 
 when you and Mr. Bunbury have done comparing tastes 
 on the subject of confections, you can join us ;" and the 
 mischievous girl, followed by Edith, moved to the other 
 side of the drawing-room. 
 
 " Some prints I brought from Italy with me," said Mrs. 
 G-rantley. "I thought they might interest you. Miss Edith, 
 as they are mostly engravings of the works of the old 
 masters. Here is a copy of Raffaelle's 'Madonna della Seg- 
 giola,' and here you see are some of Correggio's angels ;" 
 and the rubicund hostess discoursed about "purity of ex- 
 pression," and "truth of tone," and ^^chiaroscuro,^^ and "ten- 
 der light," vfith a solubility that could hardly have been ex- 
 ceeded if her life had been spent in a studio. Miss Burton 
 simply called Edith's attention to the look of maternal 
 love upon the Virgin's face, and the combined human and 
 divine beauty of the child's, as if she would fain let down 
 her sister from her hobby ; but Mrs. G-rantley was fairly 
 mounted, and picture after picture was examined, always 
 accompanied, really very much to Mrs. Irvine's and 
 Edith's satisfaction, by her reminiscences of the original. 
 
 " I lived, moved, and had my being in the Pitti Palace, 
 
146 SILVERWOOT). 
 
 while in Florence," continued Mrs. Grrantley, taking a 
 fresh mouthful of air, and starting anew ; " and it was 
 the same way in the gallery of the Vatican at Rome — " 
 
 " That was the reason you looked so thin when you 
 came home," interrupted Miss Lettuce. '• I recall now, 
 howpale you were. Pity, indeed ! Such unsubstantial food 
 was enough to starve you. ' Tender-loin' is better than 'ten- 
 der light,' after all." 
 
 " I scarcely did take time to eat," said Mrs. Grantley, 
 with a smile at the interruption. '' Studying these noble 
 artists, too, I find has given me a great distaste for the 
 modern schools, so mechanical as some of them are." 
 
 " Vice versa," said Miss Lettuce, turning to Mr. Phil- 
 lips and Mr. Bunbury, " as my devotion to maple sugar 
 destroys all power of appreciating Grreek confections — " 
 
 " In spite of Miss Lettuce," interposed Mr. Phillips to 
 Edith, " you are having the dessert before the substan- 
 tials. Suppose we step across the hall to the library, and, 
 Chinese fashion, follow up the dessert of art with the 
 strong meat of Reid or Stewart ; or, if less intellectually 
 disposed, we can whet our teeth on some of Sir Charles 
 Lyell's fossil bones. But I see dinner is announced;" and 
 presenting his arm to Edith, they followed to the dining- 
 room. 
 
 " Miss Edith I" exclaimed Lettuce G-rant, from the op- 
 posite side of the table, ''did you hear the champagne-pop 
 of my neighbor's wit? Don't attempt to prevent me, 
 
GRANTLEY-HOLM. 147 
 
 Mr. Bunbuiy. I must tell it. I was squeezing my lemon 
 into my soup, and told him he \yould find a soupgon of the 
 juice a great improvement. He says he thinks this sotqj 
 song needs improvement, — that he's tired of it, and if he 
 had the laying down of the law about dinners, he would 
 put another tune into people's heads, than this everlasting 
 beginning with so trashy a dish." 
 
 "■ I agree with Mr. Bunbury," said Miss Sparrowhawk, 
 who, as well as that gentleman, had failed to comprehend 
 Miss Lettuce's joke. " I don't see why we Americans 
 must eat just what the French do. Why, the last time I 
 was in one of those grand New York hotels, I found those 
 French pates were called for constantly." 
 
 '' Expensive livers those are," said Miss Lettuce, with 
 an innocent look — " the s^ourmands I mean." 
 
 "No; she means the geese'' s^ Miss Sparrowhawk," 
 laughed Mr. Phillips. " You see she's making game of 
 you." 
 
 "All! sir; you fired that shot with Sidney Smith's 
 fowling piece," cried Miss Lettuce, " and it fell short of 
 its aim, too ; for I hope it didn't even ruffle a feather, 
 Miss Eliza." 
 
 Miss Sparrowhawk looked puzzled ; and Edith, taking 
 compassion on her as the momentary prey of these light 
 shooters, began a grave discussion with her on the myste- 
 ries of the culinary art in general, in which the good 
 maiden lady was reported to have a sort of Soyer's skill.- 
 
148 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 The dinner was at length over, coffee handed m the 
 drawing-room, and some of the guests, Mrs. Irvine and 
 Edith among them, had taken their departure. 
 
 " Somebody told me," said Miss Sara G-rant, as the re- 
 maining ladies drew round the fire again, '' that the Ir- 
 vines had met with great reverses, and were, in fact, in 
 pecuniary straights. But did you see that cap Mrs. Ir- 
 vine had on, Susan ? The Valenciennes lace on it could 
 not have cost less than six dollars a-yard. It was that 
 wide ;" and she measured the width on her hand, 
 
 '"Everybody has their way of being extravagant," said 
 Miss Sparrowhawk. '' I dare say you have, too, Sara." 
 
 " Now, my dear," suggested Mrs. Grant, " I don't reck- 
 on there was any extravagance about it. Mrs. Irvine may 
 have got the cap before their troubles came upon them." 
 
 " I dcn't believe she ever had it on before," persisted 
 Miss Sara. 
 
 " I didn't particularly notice the cap," replied Miss 
 Burton, to whom Miss G-rant's question had been ad- 
 dressed, " for I was so much taken up with the wearer, 
 as to be quite unconscious what she had on. It's a real 
 luxury to meet with such a person — so ready to be pleased, 
 and so desirous of giving pleasure to others." 
 
 " Yes ; it's worth one's while to have something to show," 
 said Mrs. G-rantley, " when one finds people who are so 
 appreciative. As for you. Lettuce, you toss over my choice 
 
GRANTLEY-HOLM, 149 
 
 pictures as irreverently as if they were ninepence litlio- 
 graplis." 
 
 ''But, pray, bear with me, dear Mrs. Grantley. Re- 
 member I have never been to Italy — never breathed the 
 atmosphere of ataliers, and must, therefore, be excused 
 for being somewhat of a Yandal in my treatment of your 
 Roman treasures." 
 
.^= 
 
XIV. 
 
 % grolieii '§tkxk 
 
 ^ Edith sat alone, in the twilight, looking abstractedly 
 into the parlor-fire, and losing herself in such ruminations 
 as the hour was calculated to awaken. She was forget- 
 ting what she had often heard her mother say : that mere 
 aimless reverie was a species of hurtful mental dissipa- 
 tion, that left the mind weakened by its indulgence in it. 
 
 " The want of occupation is not rest," 
 
 she was accustomed to repeat, (for it was her way to 
 enforce her own wise counsels by some favorite distich or 
 apothem;) " and if you are mentally wearied, and need 
 relaxation, throw open the door to your thoughts, and let 
 them loose, like children from school, for hearty, healthful 
 play. Don't let them slide into a corner, and doze away 
 the time in waking dreams, so that when you recall 
 them, they come back to their duties with no zest — no 
 appetite for labor." But Edith could not always over- 
 
152 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 come her tendencies ; and, to-night, her reverie was long 
 and sombre-hued. She was, however, learning one lesson 
 — to suppress the outward demonstration of her emotions ; 
 for, so great was her nature's craving for sympathy, that, 
 hitherto, she had poured out all that she had felt or 
 suffered, too heedlessly. Now, the bosom that had been 
 the repository of every joy and sorrow, was far away, and 
 she would not burden her mother with the utterance of 
 thoughts so at variance with the Christian serenity which 
 she inculcated. 
 
 But her solitude was at length interrupted by the 
 entrance of candles ; and, at the same time, Mrs. Irvine 
 came from the next room, with letters in her hand. 
 
 *' One from Bryant," she said. 
 
 *' For me ?" asked Edith, rousing herself. 
 
 " It is directed to me, but intended equally for us all — 
 full of detail about the journey, and kind as his own 
 dear self." 
 
 Edith extended her hand for it ; and, while she read 
 it, her mother broke the seal of the other letter. It was 
 a short one, and she read it, folded it abstractedly up, 
 opened it again, and re-read it, before Edith had finished 
 Bryant's. 
 
 " Who is that one from ?" she asked, as she took it from 
 the passive hand ; and the disturbed expression of her mo- 
 ther's face alarmed her. She hurriedly glanced over it. 
 
A BROKEN REVEEIE. 163 
 
 *' Dear Madam : 
 
 " As your personal friend, and interested in what affects 
 the welfare of your family, I feel constrained to address 
 you on a matter of great moment to yourself Wlien you 
 were in this city, some few months ago, you told me, if I 
 mistake not, that you had placed the proceeds of the sale 
 
 of your place at B , in the hands of Mr. Thos. Bryson, 
 
 for investment. I could have told you at the time, that I 
 did not consider him a perfectly safe man, but felt a deli- 
 cacy in doing it, especially as his acquaintanceship with 
 your family dated beyond mine, and as I had had pecun- 
 iary relations with him of a character that might have 
 given me an undue prejudice against him, in your eyes. 
 Recently, however, my suspicions have been verified ; and 
 it has just transpired, that his extensive, and, I fear, un- 
 principled speculations, have ended in bankruptcy ; at 
 least, he has ' broken ' fashionably — that is, his handsome 
 house, furniture, &c., with a matter of some $30,000, to 
 boot, are settled upon his wife ; and so are beyond the 
 touch of creditors. 
 
 " Now, what I would advise is, that you come on, at 
 once, and make personal application to him for the funds 
 which he holds from you. A letter to him will probably 
 avail nothing : it is easy to throw it aside ; but a widow's 
 pleadings might move him. The creditors say they will 
 not realize fifteen cents on the dollar ; but, from the 
 reserved portion, your demand might be shamed out of 
 
 7 
 
15 i SILVER WOOD, 
 
 him. Infirm, and miused to business, as I have long been^ 
 I ^YOuld have moved in the matter at once, had I not been 
 sure that any approach, on my part^ would have made 
 against you. Come at once to my house. Jacqueline will 
 be glad to see you. Is your son spending the winter at 
 home ? My regards to the young ladies. 
 " Truly yoursy 
 
 ^' John P. DrBois," 
 
 Edith threw down the letter^ and sank hopelessly into 
 a chair. For some moments neither spoke. Edith was 
 the first to break silence. 
 
 ^' I believe it's true, mother, that troubles don't 
 come singly. See how they're accumulating upon us I 
 The loss of your money — the fire that swept away our 
 home — Lawrence ill — he and Zilpha away from us ; and 
 now this additional trial — when will it stop ? I tremble 
 to think when ;" and she covered her face with her hands, 
 
 " My child/' said her mother, tenderly, while her own 
 eyes moistened, " you do indeed make the picture look 
 dark ; but are there no mercies mingled with the trials t 
 I have been trying to think them over, and find them very 
 
 many. Our losses and trials at B- made us realize 
 
 how many v/arm, sympathizing friends we had — and then 
 we were not left houseless. "We had this remnant of your 
 father's property to come to ; and, surely, we have experi- 
 enced great kindness here. And though dear Lawrence 
 
A BROKEN REVERIE. 155 
 
 and Zilplia have had to leave us, let us he thankful that 
 Lawrence is hetter, and that the news of this misfortune 
 did not come in time to keep him from going." 
 
 *' Thankful ! Almost your first word, one of thankful- 
 ness ; mine, one of murmuring. Ah ! mother, how your 
 way of looking at things ought to reprove me ! But I 
 can't help asking myself, ivhy^ when G-od has the control 
 of everything in His hand, He does not make things 
 easier to His children, than to those who don't even 
 acknowledge Him as their Father ?" 
 
 " Do you rememher, my dear, the passage I was point- 
 ing out to you in the old author I was reading last Sah- 
 hath evening ? ' G-od's providences,' he says, ' are some- 
 times like rivers that run under ground ; but they will 
 rise again, a delightful stream, with some new medicinal 
 quality contracted from the earth by the way.' It 
 is not always best that things should be made easy 
 to us. G-od will give us what we need, not what we 
 think we need ; for we are but poor judges of what is best 
 for us. Worldly prosperity and exemption from trial He 
 has never promised to His children ; yet, even here, how 
 much of good is mixed with their necessary chastisement ! 
 and beyond them is Heaven, where all is blessedness, 
 without a shadow of alloy. AVith those who deny God as 
 their Father, how different is it all ! They have, it is true, 
 prosperity often, as if God, in very pity, granted them ease 
 and exemption from ill here, because He knew it would 
 
156 SILVER WOOD. 
 
 be their only good. He leaves them to their enjoyments, 
 undisciplined ; but whom He loves, He chastens." 
 
 "I grow better as you talk, mother. Yes; I will 
 believe in God's goodness and love still. Before this letter 
 came, I thought passive endurance was my set task ; but 
 anything is better than that. Now, perhaps, there'll be 
 something for me to do. "What about this letter ?" 
 
 *' I will write to Bryant, and get him to go and see Mr. 
 Bryson for me." 
 
 \ "He will fly at your bidding, I know ; but he has been 
 so much called off from his duties by his attentions to 
 us ; besides, could he effect as much as either you or I ?" 
 
 " But, my child, I can't go and leave you alone here." 
 
 Edith mused a few minutes. 
 
 " I will go," she said, with sudden resolution. 
 
 " You !" exclaimed Mrs. Irvine, incredulously. 
 
 " Mother, I feel that I am brave and strong, when I 
 get beyond a certain point. Wiien my physical tendency 
 to succumb is conquered, I am ready for almost anything." 
 
 " That's only a momentary feeling. Such power don't 
 avail you for any sustained effort." 
 
 a Try me. I'd plead with that dishonest, smooth- 
 tongued man, till I shamed him into doing you justice. I 
 believe I can be eloquent sometimes, under high mental 
 excitement, for that always tends to calm me outwardly." 
 
 "Who could have believed it?" mused Mrs. Irvine, as 
 if she had not heard Edith. " Mr. Bryson seemed always 
 so kind, and I trusted him so fully." 
 
A BROKEN EEVERIE. 157 
 
 '' Your only error in judgment, — forgive me for saying 
 it, mother, — is, that you are so lenient — you judge so 
 kindly. You remind me often of your old Quaker friend, 
 of whom I've heard you speak, who used to include Satan 
 himself in her benevolence, and say, ' Poor fellow ! I 
 really think he's lied on !' " 
 
 '" Whose experience in the world is of the longest stand- 
 ing ?" asked Mr?. Irvine, with a half smile. " Leniency 
 is, at least, a failing on charity's side; but I own I've 
 been mistaken in this case." 
 
 At first, the idea of Edith undertaking to go on such an 
 errand to the distant city, seemed preposterous to Mrs. 
 Irvine ; but, on turning it over in her mind, she began to 
 conclude that, after all, it was not so unfeasible. Mr. 
 Bryson would. In all probability, repel Bryant — secure in 
 the fact, that the property settled on his wife, sometime 
 previous to, and probably in anticipation of, his failure, 
 was beyond the reach of law. But Edith's pleadings on 
 behalf of a widowed mother, and an invalid brother, might 
 avail, where stronger words were powerless. Edith might 
 appeal, too, to Mrs. Bryson's sense of justice ; — a woman, 
 and a mother — she might, she surely must yield. It 
 would be a trial of Edith's strength ; but a salutary one. 
 She was growing morbid in her present seclusion. This 
 compelled glance at the moving world again, would be an 
 advantage to her. Her over-sensitive spirit needed some 
 contact with the outside life in which she must one day 
 take her part. Yes ; Edith should go. . 
 
158 SILVEEWOOD. 
 
 It was not the greater of the two difficulties which Mrs. 
 Irvine was about to let her daughter assume. It would 
 have been easier for her to have had all her own energies 
 called into play by active demands upon them, than to be 
 left to the solitude of the country, with only the compan- 
 ionship of the two children, and the paltry, but imperative 
 duties which fall to woman's hands — keeping them buSy, 
 but leaving the mind, like the winter-bound bee, to feed 
 itself on whatever bitter or sweet it may have hived for 
 its wants, through the summer's changing sunshine and 
 shower. 
 
 There is nothing heroic in the daily performance of 
 things so trivial, that only the fact of their being duties 
 gives them claim to the slightest dignity. A seamstress, 
 with few ideas ranging beyond her needle's point, might, 
 perhaps as well, if not as expeditiously, have accomplished 
 this part of Mrs. Irvine's tasks ; a conscientious governess 
 have explained as correctly, though surely not as patiently 
 and lovingly, the lessons which, in Edith's place, she 
 would now daily hear ; a well-trained servant have looked 
 as carefully, if not with such economy and judiciousness, 
 to the ways of her household ; while her active, vigorous, 
 clear-seeing intellect should be left free to exercise its 
 powers on things more in keeping with its abilities ; her un- 
 erring, discriminating judgment be brought to bear on 
 subjects worthier of its capacities ; her quick, exec- 
 utive skill be tried upon a range of higher objects ; her 
 
A BROKEN REVERIE. 159 
 
 remarkable social accomplislinients have a sphere of wider 
 influence ; her light not be hidden among the shades of 
 the nether valley, when it might have sent a trail of bright- 
 ness from some ^'city set on a hill.*' 
 
 Thus might Mrs. Irvine have reasoned — thus did she 
 not. To her, the path of duty was the only one of safety 
 or pleasure, and she walked on in it with a beautiful and 
 buoyant cheerfulness, feeling that it was not the char- 
 acter of the service at which the " srreat task-master" 
 
 o 
 
 looked, but the spirit of its performance ; that 
 
 " God doth not need 
 
 Either man's works, or His own gifts ;" 
 
 and that to the heart-searching eye of the unexacting Ee- 
 deemer, who'- sits over against life's treasury, the two 
 mites of humble, faithfully-rendered obedience, m.ay far 
 outweigh the rich gifts and high-sounding charities of 
 those who "cast in much out of their abundance" of op- 
 portunity. Ah ! of how many a lonely and self-denying 
 offerer, who, while she is bringing '• all the living that she 
 hath," is yet trembling and ashamed to think the gift so 
 small, — of how many such will He say — '' She hath cast 
 in more than they all I" 
 
 Only a few days had passed, when an incidental stran- 
 ger to the Ir vines, but well known to many of their Mil- 
 burne acquaintances, was discovered to be passing through 
 the village, on his way to a northern city, and with him 
 it was arranofed that Edith should go to . 
 
160 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 '' But, mother," she said, as she was packing her trunk, 
 the night previous to her departure, " I feel so unwilling 
 to leave you here alone. Suppose you and the children go 
 down the country, to Aunt Maria's, — we can go part of 
 the way together, — and stay there till I am ready to come 
 back." 
 
 " That would involve some additional expense that had 
 as well he avoided now," said Mrs. Irvine ; " besides, it 
 would be necessary, then, to let Lawrence and Zilpha 
 know of these difficulties, a thing to be avoided, at all haz- 
 ards. No ; it is better I should stay here, where Provi- 
 dence has clearly put n^e, and be content to let the issue 
 of all things rest in His hand." 
 
 " One thing comforts me," said Edith. " I will not be 
 long gone ; and if T come back from my mission success- 
 ful, we will be so happy again." 
 
 '* So happy again!" Under the shadow of this new 
 cloud, the former gloom, which Edith had felt to be op- 
 pressive enough, appeared a comparative brightness. So 
 relative a thing is our happiness ! We cower shiveringly 
 beneath the creeping mists that may have gathered over 
 us, persuading ourselves that all the light is darkened 
 away from our path ; but, as the gloom really deepens, 
 and we are compelled onward into the obscurity, we look 
 back to the point we had thought so shaded, and wonder 
 it had not then, the clearness we see about it now. 
 
IV. 
 
 % JfasljionaWe ^eltonie; 
 
 ' It was the first week in December. The leaden, fleecy- 
 looking clouds had been spitting snow all day ; and now, 
 as the evening closed in, Jacqueline Dubois put aside the 
 damask drapery of the window, and stood gazing aimlessly 
 into the street, along which the foot-passengers were hur- 
 rying, with heads bent to shield their faces from the gath- 
 ering storm of snow-flakes. 
 
 " An odd hour for anybody to make a visit," solilo- 
 quized the young lady, as a carriage suddenly drew up 
 before the door. " A trunk behind. It must be some- 
 body from the cars. Bless me ! I hope it isn't Anne Ste- 
 vens, coming from the country, to bore me to death with 
 a visit. John," she called to her brother, who was loll- 
 ing on a sofa, in a distant part of the room, " do come 
 and see who it is." 
 
 " If it's Miss Stevens," said the young man, walking 
 leisurely to the window, " she'll need something more to 
 
162 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 warm her than your welcome. But it isn't — luckily for 
 her own sake." 
 
 " Well, I breathe freer. But who is it ?" 
 
 ^' If I didn't know them to be in Virginia, I should say 
 it was one of the Irvines." 
 
 '' Nonsense ! What would bring any of them back at 
 this season ?" 
 
 By this time the new-comer had rung, and been admit- 
 ted. * Dr. Dubois stepped into the hall, where the lamp 
 had been lighted. 
 
 a Why, Miss Edith ! is it you ?" his sister heard him 
 exclaiming. But the opening of the outer door had admit- 
 ted some of the chilling night-air ; so the prudent Jacque- 
 line awaited the visitor in the drawing-room. 
 
 '' Edith Irvine, I declare !" she cried, with uplifted 
 hands. " Why, I thought you domesticated Avith the 
 turkeys, and chickens, and little Congoes, down on your 
 Virginia plantation ;" and kissing her, she led her to a 
 sofa, and ordered one of the chandaliers,to be lit. 
 
 " Didn't your papa tell you I was coming ?" asked 
 Edith. <' Mother wrote him that I was." 
 
 " Not a word of it. Just like him. He's fond of letting 
 one find out things for one's self. But you didn't come 
 alone ?" 
 
 Edith recouuted the few incidents of her uneventful 
 journey; and then was called on, in turn, to listen to 
 Jacqueline's stream of talk. 
 
A FASHIONABLE WELCOME. 163 
 
 *' Don't you think me improved since you saw me last, 
 Edith ? I plame myself on constantly adding charms ;" 
 and she rose as she spoke, and adjusted her flounces before 
 the tall pier-glass, that stretched from the floor to the 
 carved cornice of the ceiling. 
 
 " Miss Edith," began Dr. Dubois, mischievously, " I'm 
 really glad you've come. Jacqueline is getting so insuf- 
 ferable vain, that I trust to have your aid in pluckmg her 
 plumes." 
 
 " The sober truth is, Edith," said the young lady, sub- 
 siding into a luxurious chair, and disposing her rich fall 
 of drapery with an artistic grace quite natural to her in 
 affairs of the toilette, '' my brother John is continually 
 snubbing me. I suppose he thinks I hear so many pretty 
 things, that something of the sort is necessary to help me 
 keep my equilibrium ; for I love compliments — I love to 
 be told that I'm graceful, and pretty, and have un air 
 
 " There it is !" exclaimed Dr. Dubois, rising with a kind 
 of mock provocation. " Miss Edith, do you ever hear 
 anything quite so bare-faced as that among your Virginia 
 belles ?" 
 
 " So ho7iest^ you meant to say, Griovanni ; but take my 
 acknowledgments ;" and Jacqueline bowed her really 
 most sylph-like figure before him — " take them for the 
 implied compliment to my bellehood. You see, Edith, he 
 lets the truth out, in spite of himself." 
 
164 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 All this time Edith had sat with her bonnet still on, 
 and her wrappings unremoved. Feeling the rooms warm, 
 after the keen outer air, she unfastened the fur about her 
 neck. 
 
 " Jacqueline," said Dr. Dubois, "will you permit me to 
 suggest -that Miss Edith be invited to lay off her travelling 
 gear ? She must be tired wearing it all day." 
 
 " Ah ! pardon, Edith I "We city people are so used to 
 callers, that we forget bonnets can be laid off. But come ;" 
 and rising, with an indolent grace, Jacqueline led the 
 way up stairs. 
 
 Old Mr. Dubois was in the conservatory, into which the 
 windows of the back drawing-room opened, as into a gar- 
 den of sweets, when the two ladies entered again ; and 
 in his absorbed interest in having a servant arrange some 
 favorite azalias, where the light from the chandalier w^ould 
 show off their white and salmon-colored blooms to the 
 best advantage, he had not noticed Edith's presence, nor 
 had his inconsiderate daughter remembered to announce 
 it to him. 
 
 " That will do, Martin," he said, as he stepped back into 
 the room, through one of the glass doors, and put entirely 
 aside the crimson hangings. " Now come, Jacqueline, 
 and see how grand a show my pets make." 
 
 " Pets, indeed," said Jacqueline, coming forward from 
 the other room, followed by Edith. " I believe, papa^ you 
 pay more attention to your flowers than to me." 
 
A FASHIONABLE WELCOME. 165 
 
 '' ' My ducats and my daughter,' eh ? "Well, you see 
 your parties, and operas, and what not, take you away, 
 and I can't have you for my plaything any more ; so 
 the old man must make pets of his flowers. But who 
 have w^e here ?" and he turned round to Edith. " Dear 
 me, Jacqueline, why didn't you tell me she had come ?" 
 and he seized her hands with a warm, cordial welcome. 
 
 " Why didn't you tell me she w^as coming, papa ?" 
 
 " I did, my dear ; but you had an invitation to some- 
 where or other in your hand at the time ; so, I suppose, 
 that knocked it out of your thoughtless little head. But 
 how are all at home, Edith, my child ? Law^rence — when 
 did you hear from him ?" 
 
 '' Bless me I yes, I forgot to ask !" exclaimed Jacque- 
 line. " And Zilpha — how is she ?" 
 
 " Well, when I last heard. She is with Law^rence, in 
 the West Indies." 
 
 " In the West Indies ? for the winter, I suppose. How 
 delightful !" 
 
 " I expect Lawrence would think home more so," said 
 Dr. Dubois, who, more mindful than his sister, had been 
 interesting himself in inquiries of Edith, while Jacque- 
 line had been standing before the mirror, arranging a 
 spray of natural flowers amidst the folds of her luxuriant 
 hair. 
 
 An hour or two wore away in pleasant conversation 
 between Edith and the two gentlemen. Jacqueline de- 
 
166 SILVER WOOD. 
 
 clared herself exhausted by her last night's party; and, so 
 piling the embroidered cushions about her, she reclined 
 herself upon a sofa, after due attention to the most grace- 
 ful disposition of the never-forgotten drapery ; and with 
 closed eyes, lay like a dreaming Hebe. It had never 
 occurred to her to think that Edith might be hungry, after 
 her long day's journey, and consequently no orders had 
 been given to have the usually late tea hastened any on 
 her account. One and another gentleman visitor dropped 
 in, until quite a bevy were surrounding Jacqueline, who, 
 leaning among her cushions, in a sort of oriental languor, 
 was dispensing smiles with as seemingly careless a grace, 
 as the fine, full-flowering heliotrope on the tall, bronze tri- 
 pod near her, was diffusing its odors. 
 
 -Just as Dr. Dubois had his hand on the bell to summon 
 the tea, the servants entered with the trays, much to his 
 relief ; for he had been fidgeting for the last half hour, 
 having found out from Edith that she had gone dinnerless 
 that day. The edibles were of the slighest description — 
 black tea, delicate French rolls, some pickled oysters, 
 and a basket of macaroons ; quite enough, after the late 
 dinners all present, with the exception of Edith, had risen 
 from, only two or three hours before, but rather meagre 
 for the whetted appetite of a traveller. While Dr. Dubois 
 was putting the sugar and cream in her tea, Edith's eye 
 rested upon the silver bread- tray, on the edge of which 
 she read the words, " Z>e thankful, ^"^ embossed in old 
 
A FASHIONABLE WELCOME. 167 
 
 black-letter characters. Her momentary stirrings of hm't 
 feeling, at Jacqueline's want of consideration, — for that 
 was what she felt it to be, — subsided at that mute rebuke ; 
 and, pointing to it, she made some remark about the ap- 
 propriateness of the device. 
 
 '^ I should like to know in what way it is particularly 
 appropriate to i/ou, under present circumstances. Miss 
 Edith ;" for the doctor had not quite overcome his feeling 
 of annoyance ; — " that you're not starved outright ? Well, 
 I own that is something to 'be thankful' for. But re- 
 ally" — and he glanced over the waiter of tea-things, — 
 ^' really, with such Titania provision as this, you are not 
 fortified against it yet. Away, Martin, and tell the house- 
 keeper to send up a couple of breakfast-cups of her best 
 coffee, within fifteen minutes ; and d'ye hear ? let them 
 be flanked with some cold turkey, or a few slices of beef 
 a la 7node, and such a plate of buttered bread as may 
 reasonably satisfy hungry people." 
 
 Edith protested against the order, but the doctor was 
 imperative ; and while she still contested the point, fear- 
 ing Jacqueline might feel chagrined, the servant returned 
 to say the coffee was in course of preparation. 
 
 "' A fellow-feeling,' &c. — you remember the old line, 
 Miss Edith ; for, indeed, I was not allowed to finish my 
 dinner to my own satisfaction. Physicians are the veriest 
 slaves of society — subject to any and every man's beck." 
 
 " I wonder, then, that the entire ' faculty' don't unite, 
 
168 SILVER WOOD. 
 
 to a man, and raise a crusade against the luxuries and 
 indulojences that are makins^ us a nation of invalids. And 
 yet," said Edith, smiling, " here you are, substituting the 
 stimulant of a cup of coffee, for one of harmless black tea ; 
 and most unprofessionally, too, setting me the bad exam- 
 ple of drinking it yourself." 
 
 " Physicians are like sign-boards. Miss Edith — while 
 their theories, on the subject of dietetics, may point out a 
 safe path for others, they are not generally found following 
 it themselves. As to coffee and tea, you're right enough; 
 but I have a most un-English dislike of the one, and a 
 most French penchant for the other, — the consequence of 
 having had a Huguenot great-grandfather, perhaps ! Be 
 that as it may, I can associate nothing hospitable, com- 
 fortable, cozy or poetical, with a cup of tea." 
 
 " Cowper and Mrs. Unwin, to the contrary, notwith- 
 standing ?" 
 
 " Yes ; for while it certainly is not the cup that ' ine- 
 briates,' it fails, just as surely, to ' cheer.' However, I 
 expect to sit up half the night, with a very ill patient, 
 which may account for a departure from my usual glass 
 of cold water — since you compel me to boast of my So- 
 cratic self-control ; and as for yourself. Miss Edith, you 
 need a gentle excitant, after the fatigues of a day's travel. 
 Ah I here it is," he said, rubbing his hands together, with 
 his accustomed good humor perfectly restored, as the ser- 
 vant presented the salver, " as clear as sherry, and more 
 
A FASHIONABLE WELCOME. 169 
 
 fragrant than all the spicery of Arabia Felix. ' Dum viv- 
 imus^ — you know the familiar motto ; so we'll practice 
 on it, even at the risk of some loss of sleep to-night." 
 
 Jacqueline had quite forgotten her role — the drooping 
 languor was gone from her laughing, gipsey eyes — the 
 cushions were thrown aside, and she sat, all sprightliness 
 and gaiety, with a semi-circle of amused listeners and 
 talkers about her, till the chimes from a neighboring stee- 
 ple told that it wanted only an hour of midnight — an 
 entire contrast to the wearied thing she had seemed to be 
 before her visitors came. 
 
 Old Mr. Dubois had, long since, taken a good-night look 
 at his flowers, and retired. Edith had been so much 
 entertained by the doctor's reminiscences of a residence 
 in Paris, that she had forgotten her own need of rest — 
 only vexed with the apprehension that he was devoting 
 time to her that would have been otherwise employed, had 
 his sister been mindful of a hostess' duties ; for she remem- 
 bered his allusion to some professional call. 
 
 " Miss Edith must have been wishing that you were 
 less engaging to-night, Jacqueline," said her brother, after 
 the last gentleman had withdrawn. 
 
 " For what, pray ?" asked Jacqueline, rising, with a 
 wearied yawn, and pausing before the mirror, as she 
 passed it, to note the precise expression of lip and eye 
 which the departing guests may have carried away ; 
 " because it suggested something unkind, in making 
 myself such a foil to you, eh ?" 
 
170 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 ^' That's for Miss Edith to say. I'm afraid Time trav- 
 elled over the two hours we were awaiting your leisure, 
 with his leaden boots on — ■" 
 
 '' No, indeed," interrupted Edith. '' I can testify to his 
 borrowing Mercury's sandals." 
 
 "Pity, Messrs. Fox, Swinton, Dawson and Co., couldn't 
 have been shod therewith I Their soles need wings, Jac- 
 queline ; — why didn't you barb them with the feathers of 
 your wit ?" 
 
 " That would have involved a little borins: — a thino^ 
 I'm never addicted to," said Jacqueline, snullily, though 
 she laughed while she spoke. " With your lancet as your 
 awl, to follow up your own elegant figure, I dare say, 
 you bored Edith — only she's too polite to let you know 
 it—" 
 
 '' Oh ! no such thing !" interrupted Edith. 
 
 " Too considerate^ at least," said Dr. Dubois, " to inti- 
 mate how tired she is with her long day's journey." 
 
 " Bless me! I forgot!" exclaimed Jacqueline. " I ex- 
 pect you are tired, Edith. I didn't think of it before." 
 
XVI. 
 
 litaHast-CaHe mil 
 
 Nature had been busy all the night, fashioning for the 
 earth's shivering bosom, an ermine robe of snow, as Edith 
 perceived on her first glimpse from her chamber window, 
 the mornins^ after her arrival. Mr. Dubois and his son 
 were in possession of the breakfast-room when she descend- 
 ed ; and there svas abundance of time for the reading of 
 the morning papers over their coffee and muffins, before 
 Jacqueline made her appearance. 
 
 "Up already?" she said, giving a finger to Edith, by 
 way of morning salutation. "After the fatigues of last 
 night, G-iovanni, I should have reckoned on your ordering 
 breakfast up to Edith, to strengthen her for the exertion 
 of rising." 
 
 " Miss Edith's true Americanism would have disdained 
 anything quite so Parisian and disagreeable," replied Dr. 
 Dubois. 
 
172 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 '' And charming, I think," said Jacqueline. '' I wish 
 papa wouldn't interdict my being as French as my name ; 
 then every morning I'd have myself wakened hy a pretty 
 grisette, with a Sevres bowl of chocolate on a little silver 
 salver ; and she should lay her dainty serviette under my 
 chin, administer her draught, and leave me to simmer an 
 hour or so, in the delicious state between sleeping and wa- 
 king that I love so much." 
 
 " All that would be very suggestive of your brother's 
 craft, to me," said Edith. " I think I would almost 
 rather have to earn my own breakfast before I ate it, than 
 take it in that way." 
 
 " But for what, pray, should I get up early ?" asked 
 Jacqueline, " To see papa and my brother burying them- 
 selves behind wet sheets, like very hydropathists, while I 
 sat by, and twirled my thumbs, a silent victim to the all- 
 engrossing power of the press, eh ? Commend me rather 
 to my broken morning dozes." 
 
 " To speak professionally, Jacqueline," interrupted Dr. 
 Dubois, throwing aside his paper, " sleep is much less ef- 
 fective in broken doses, than when taken as a whole. As 
 to being victimized. Miss E^th don't seem to have been 
 so, from the zest with which she has been running over 
 this article on ' Memorable Women,' in one of these En- 
 glish magazines. I venture to affirm it has proved a 
 pleasanter excitative than your supposititious bowl of 
 chocolate." 
 
BREAKFAST-TABLE TALK. 173 
 
 " I rather detest your memorable women," replied Jac- 
 queline, with something of a sneer curling her pretty lip ; 
 ''for, of course, those are meant, who do something out- 
 side the limits set our sex. All this rant about 'superiority' 
 and 'inferiority' — about 'sympathies' and 'cravings,' and 
 the 'want of a career,' and so on, is just so much nonsense. 
 AYhat other career does a pretty girl want, than, with 
 plenty of money at her disposal, for all the demands of le 
 beau monde^ and plenty of admirers, and soirees^ and op- 
 eras, and all that, — to sparkle through her days of belle- 
 dom ; and then, when that's over, take refuge in mat- 
 rimony, — become the mistress of an elegant mansion, and 
 a leader of ton. This is sphere enough for me." 
 
 " Well, you're honest, at least, in your confessions," 
 said Dr. Dubois ; " but mere honesty can't excuse you, 
 any more than it did Rousseau." 
 
 " Bless me ! Don't put me in such a category." 
 
 " By no means, of course. I only spoke of confessions. 
 You have uttered the sentiments, Jacqueline, of about 
 three-fourths of all the women in fashionable life ; and 
 pitiable, enough, I confess, does 'the career' seem to me." 
 
 " Ah I my spoiled child I" ifiterposed Mr. Dubois, folding 
 up the sheet behind which he had been hidden, as he 
 caught Jacqueline's designation of ' a sphere ;' " you'll 
 come to be of a better mind after while, I hope. Don't it 
 ever occur to you, that women were meant to be of 
 some use in the world ?" 
 
 " Of course, papa — some of them are like the cabbage 
 
174 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 and turnips of the kitchen-garden, and their vocation is 
 clear enough : other are like the roses and lilies of your 
 conservatory — their duty is to look pretty and be sweet. 
 Now which do you like best — our cook's turnips, that send 
 up such unsavory odors from the kitchen sometimes, or 
 your ^Daphne odorata ?' " 
 
 " You've attacked me on my weak point, child," said 
 her father, laughing ; ''but if the worst should come to 
 the worst, I should give the preference to Janet's turnips, 
 for I could live on them ; but I would find rose-leaves 
 rather a Paphian diet." 
 
 " You would banish from your orbit, then," said Edith, 
 '' into some outer limbo, all who couldn't perform the duty 
 of looking pretty, or were not rich, or were troubled with a 
 surplus of that most undesirable supernumerary in a wo- 
 man — intellect." 
 
 '' Undesirable, Miss Edith?" asked Dr. Dubois. 
 
 " Yes ; as the world goes : at least I'm half inclined to 
 think that genius should all be man's, and only talent, wo- 
 man's." 
 ^ <' "Why such a distinction?" 
 
 " Because genius demands a wide range — an unob- 
 structed field for its exercise — and that is not allotted us ; 
 or, if so, granted stintedly and grudgingly." 
 
 " Then you would cross swords with that malicious 
 thing we call 'the world,' along with the Amazonian tribe 
 who are fighting for a ' wider sphere ?' Ah ! Miss Edith, 
 I had hoped better of you." 
 
BREAKFAST-TABLE TALK. 175 
 
 " By no means ! I'm perfectly content to have the 
 barriers just where they are, since I believe Providence 
 designed this circumscription. I firmly believe our sex 
 was commanded to be 'under obedience,' as part of the 
 primal curse. Our regeneration is being worked out as 
 Christianity makes progress ; and who knows but that the 
 balances may be even, by the time we have reached the 
 edge of the millenium," added Edith, with a smile. 
 
 *' Or that your side may not 'kick the beam,' " contin- 
 ued Dr. Dubois, in the same strain. '' Wouldn't there be 
 a ' turning of the tables' then ?" 
 
 " And something more than a 'rapping of spirits^'' I'm 
 thinking," pursued Mr. Dubois. " But, Edith, that doc- 
 trine of obedience chimes in with my ideas exactly." 
 
 Edith might have reminded him that his theory must 
 be very vague, since it was evident he had never reduced 
 it to any practice upon his daughter ; for she thought it^ 
 though she did not speak it. He felt it himself, perhaps, 
 for he added : 
 
 " I wish you would set Jacqueline straight. She is a 
 bona fide believer in women's rights." 
 
 " Oh, papa, how can you say so ?" exclaimed Jacque- 
 line. " I only mean so far as having as much money as 
 one wants, and going where one pleases, and doing what 
 one likes." 
 
 " Having as much money as you want," said Dr. Du- 
 bois, " embraces the control of all the finances. Going 
 
176 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 where, and doing what you like, is comprehensive enough 
 to take in all female M. D.'s, attorneys, divines, steam- 
 boat captains, and so on." 
 
 *' How you exaggerate !" said Jacqueline, with a pro- 
 voked air. " You know, well enough, that I think the 
 whole tribe of such creatures hideous — ^just made up of 
 soured old maids, who couldn't inveigle anybody into mar- 
 rying them, and so run a tilt against all man kind ; or, of 
 viragos, who have had meek husbands to hen-peck, and 
 so wondered why all wives couldn't do as they did." 
 
 *' And women in want of a career, who are not old 
 maids," added Edith. 
 
 "Want of a fiddlestick !" said Jacqueline. 
 
 " No, of a master, my dear," interrupted her father j 
 "or a husband — as you please." 
 
 " But, Miss Edith," said Dr. Dubois, "I've been accus- 
 tomed to think that intellect, under all circumstances, 
 was an unconditional blessing — one of heaven's most 
 precious gifts — " 
 
 " To man — undoubtedly." 
 
 " And why not to woman ?" 
 
 " It makes her restless ; it puts temptations before her 
 to leave the beaten track — a thing always objectionable 
 for a woman. If she is conscious of these noble strivings 
 within her, she does feel hampered by the restraints soci- 
 ty imposes. If she puts herself in print, she belongs no 
 more to herself — she has taken the public into partner- 
 
BREAKFAST-TABLE TALK. 177 
 
 ship — SO it thinks ; and a thousand things, thenceforth, 
 wound her sensitive womanhood : or, if she make the 
 drawing-room the theatre of her triumphs, that seems 
 idle, when she might move thinking men with her elo- 
 quent words : or the round of ' woman's duties,' however 
 conscientiously performed, will grow irksome, through the 
 sense of unoccupied power, — so disproportioned to the 
 objects on which it is brought to bear, — like setting a 
 steam-engine to boil a tea-kettle." 
 
 " But, in your eagerness to make out your position, you 
 narrow too much the influence woman may legitimately 
 wield. Think what drawing-rooms have accomplished — 
 Madame Roland's, for instance ; or Madame De Stael's." 
 
 " Yes ; what ? for their owners, death, and exile. But 
 the women, apart from their surroundings, — for their in- 
 tellect had nothing to do with the horror of their times, — 
 the women themselves we are accustomed to rank among 
 the masculine specimens of their sex. We can't help 
 wishing their husbands might have changed places with 
 them." 
 
 " Madame Roland is one of my heroines." 
 
 " But you would not have loved her ; and that, you 
 men delight to think, is what woman was made for." 
 
 " Well," said the doctor, rising to go, " say what you 
 please about intellect never inspiring love ; but a wo- 
 man all heart, is like a dinner all dessert. One is as 
 
 8 
 
178 SILYERWOOD. 
 
 essential to the lovableness of the perfect woman, as the 
 other, in my opinion." 
 
 " Then you differ from the facts in the case. Literary 
 and intellectual men are proverbially famous for their 
 namby-pamby wives." 
 
 '' Ah ! I see — woman-like — that you will not yield, 
 Miss Edith. So good-morning." 
 
X?II. 
 
 dealings luitlj a |Baii d fuisincss. 
 
 Jacqueline had an hour's lesson with an Italian n^iaster 
 before her ; so she left Edith with her father, wondering 
 aloud " why she was so foolish, anyhow, as to bind herself 
 down this way, like a child." But then, Caroline Ash- 
 mead, one of the most dazzling of her friends, sang Italian 
 finely, and was correspondingly admired for it ; so she 
 must not be behind her. 
 
 '' "Well, Edith," began Mr. Dubois, taking off his spec« 
 tacles, and changing his seat to her side, as soon as the 
 breakfast things were removed, " you are really a brave 
 girl to undertake the mission you have ; for, I suppose, of 
 course, my letter fb your mother, is the occasion of your 
 coming." 
 
 Edith explained' how it was ; and then followed an 
 account of the manner in which Mr. Bryson had happened 
 to be entrusted so much with the manasrement of their 
 
 o 
 
 pecuniary affairs. 
 
180 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 " Your mother has so much discrimination," said Mr. 
 Dubois, when she had finished, '' that I'm surprised she 
 has been so deceived in this man ; and yet, sometimes, I 
 don't know whether to pity or despise him most. I never 
 did think there was anything high-toned about him ; but 
 my son tells me, — for I've drifted out of the current of 
 things myself, Edith, into my quiet cove here, and don't 
 know much of what's going on, from personal observation, 
 — but John tells me that his wife is at the bottom of his 
 difficulties. She is an ambitious, extravagant woman — 
 gives grand parties — is a patroness of art — loves to be 
 surrounded with long-bearded foreigners ; and is as much 
 the awe, as she is the admiration of her husband. Do you 
 know her ?" 
 
 *' Never have seen her. Mr. Bryson was an acquaint- 
 ance of my father, and managed some business transactions 
 once very well for him ; and, after his death, my mother 
 continued to intrust him with them, as I was telling you. 
 Lawrence was not satisfied with his agency in the affair 
 
 of the Bank, and was averse to putting the proceeds 
 
 of the sale of our place at B , in his hands for invest- 
 ment ; but his own health became so shattered about the 
 time, that in our anxiety for him, it was done without 
 much reflection." 
 
 " And what investment did he make ?" 
 
 " We never heard a word from him about it." 
 
 '' I'll tell you how he disposed of your money — put it 
 
DEALINGS WITH A MAN OF BUSINESS. 181 
 
 into his own pocket, possibly intending, when he had 
 used it as a little help to himself in his embarrassments, — 
 for his wife has not reduced their style of living in the 
 least, — to invest it, and then patch up some story to cover 
 the failure of interest." 
 
 " If he is such a man as that," said Edith, discour- 
 agedly, '' it will have been useless for me to have come 
 here." 
 
 " There's something cowardly about him, though, and 
 my hope for you is there. He couldn't look you fairly in 
 the eye — that, however, was a thing he didn't use to do 
 in his most prosperous days, and gave me my first distrust 
 of him ; for, depend upon it, a man who skulks away 
 from the windows at which his soul should look out, is 
 afraid to let that soul's countenance be seen." 
 
 '' With such a piir to deal with, my case is rather 
 hopeless, I fear." 
 
 " But he prides himself on his gentlemanliness — is au 
 fait on all points of etiquette, and is as sensitive about 
 his honor ^ as a parvenu on the score of position ; so a 
 lady, a young lady, the daughter of his early friend, can 
 avail herself of all this." 
 
 " You think, then, at least, I shall have the satisfaction 
 of being cheated with all the grace of a French shopman, 
 if I am cheated." 
 
 " No doubt ; but I hope I'm too hard on him. I can't 
 believe him wholly dead to any sense of justice. The sum 
 is at least worth trying for." 
 
182 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 " It is almost our all," said Edith, with a disturbed 
 face. 
 
 " But you have your plantation in Virginia, unembar- 
 rassed ?" 
 
 " Our plantation, as you are pleased to call it, or my 
 
 brother's — for my father left it to him — only consists of 
 
 the old homestead built by my grandfather, — once, indeed, 
 
 surrounded by broad acres, but now having only some fifty 
 
 or so left, and they in a very neglected condition, owing 
 
 f- ■ 
 to the place having been for some time untenanted, and 
 
 managed only by a few negroes." 
 
 "Poor child !" said Mr. Dubois, musingly ; but his words 
 seemed to have reference to Mrs. Irvine, for he continued — 
 " with that pretty fortune she had at her marriage, who'd 
 have thoQght it? Pity it hadn't been settled upon 
 herself" 
 
 " She says my father proposed it, but she told him she 
 was not afraid to trust her money in the hands to which 
 she entrusted her self ^ 
 
 " A wise precaution, nevertheless." 
 
 " I can't see it so, sir. It tends to cause a division of 
 interests where there should be but one. Besides, what 
 true wife would ever withhold the means that might 
 extricate her husband from difficulties, if she had them in 
 her possession ? So, in the end, it amounts to the same 
 thing as if no such settlement had been made." 
 
 " You are a ' w^omen's rights' woman in no sense of the 
 
DEALINGS WITH A MAX OF BUSINESS. 183 
 
 word, Edith," said Mr, Dubois, patting her in a pleased 
 way on the shoulder. " Well, you're none the worse for 
 that ; but when do you want to see Mr. Bryson ? The 
 carriage is at your service for any hour; but you're not 
 rested yet ; wait till to-morrows" 
 
 " The sooner the better, I think," replied Edith. " Sus- 
 pense is a trying thing. Yes ; I'll go to-day." 
 
 Jacqueline's Italian lesson was over, and she came danc- 
 ing into the breakfast-room, with two or three notes tri- 
 umphantly displayed in her hand. 
 
 " Mr. Dawson is to be here at one o'clock," she ex- 
 claimed, " with his elegant turn-out, and we'll have a 
 
 magnificent sleigh-ride of it along the S . The river 
 
 is filled with skaters, and it will be so gay ! And here are 
 two separate requests for permission to be my attendant 
 
 civalier at L 's concert to-morrow night. Ah I 
 
 Edith, what it is to be a belle I" 
 
 Edith went with her up-stairs, with the intention of 
 writing home before she would go out ; but Jacqueline 
 compelled her to go to her chamber, and help her to pass 
 judgment on some articles awaiting her decision. In the 
 first place, a box of laces had been sent for her inspection 
 
 from E 's, and the man had not taken his departure 
 
 with them before another from L 's made his appear- 
 ance with a case of rich silks that had been ordered for 
 her to look at. So her maid must close all the inside 
 shutters, and light the gas, that Jacqueline might try its 
 
184 SILVEEWOOD. 
 
 effect upon blue moire antique^ or glace coleur de rose, 
 while she stepped back and forth before the cheval-glass, 
 gatheriag gracefully about her the folds of the heavy silk. 
 The knotty point of choice was settled at length — the shut- 
 ters thrown open again, and Edith about to leave the room, 
 when she was detained farther, by Jacqueline's producing 
 a bracelet for her inspection. Unloosening her sleeve, she 
 clasped it upon her own fair, round arm. " Isn't this set- 
 ting of rubies exquisite ?" she asked, holding it in various 
 positions, so as to concentrate the crimsoned light. " Now 
 a particularly good friend of mine sent me this 'toy,' as 
 he called it, two days ago, and I've returned not a word 
 of thanks yet, for lack of the most appropriate way to con- 
 vey them. I've tried my hand at some verses, but they 
 don't please me. Edith, don't you write vers de societe, 
 sometimes ?" 
 
 * '' Why, I believe everybody does, now-a-days," replied 
 Edith; "and not to be singular, I fall in, occasionally, 
 with the fashion." 
 
 " Well, write a few to my order — kind, and even a 
 little, very little tender. You understand — ^just the me- 
 rest soupgon — nothing more." 
 
 " But it is now eleven, you see," said Edith, pointing 
 to the French clock that ticked on the mantel. 
 
 '• Time enough to dress, and do that, too, before lunch." 
 
 " But I must write home — and I go out at two." 
 
 " Where, pray ?" 
 
DEALINGS WITH A MAX OF BUSIXESS. 185 
 
 *' Oil the business that brous^ht me here—" 
 
 '' You attend to business !" interrupted Jacqueline, in- 
 credulously. " Why don't you ask papa or G-iovanni to 
 do it for you ?" 
 
 " Xobody can do it but myself." 
 
 " Bless me ! can't you tell them what you want done? 
 and as to your letter — -that's soon dispatched. Come, now ; 
 for once do as I wish. Here, Jane, draw up that table to 
 the q-rate and unlocic mv desk." 
 
 There was no escape from her importunities, and Edith 
 was obliged to comply, or seem stubborn ; and so, while 
 Jacqueline was being dressed, she threw off some lines, with 
 the advantage of a running accompaniment of talk from 
 her companion, by way of concentrative to her thoughts. 
 
 "Read them aloud," bade Jacqueline, as Edith passed 
 the paper over to her. "I'm busy, you see, having my 
 hair curled." 
 
 Edith complied, thoudi her qood-nature was a little 
 stirred. 
 
 TO 
 
 Your golden circlet clasps my arm, 
 And 'midst the gems so rare, 
 lie light is trembling with the charm 
 That holds it prisoner there. 
 
 • Touched with the glowing ruby gleams, 
 Cloud-pillowed it will lie, 
 
 8* 
 
186 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 And breathe its heart in tell-tale dreams 
 Upon the evening sky. 
 
 *' But purer links than these, — inwove 
 
 With yet a subtler art, — 
 Set with that burning jewel, love, 
 
 Are clasped above my heart. 
 
 " Thought lingers, — kindUng at the glance, 
 And though it owns no thrall. 
 
 There gathers o'er my eye's expanse, 
 A haze that tells you all !" 
 
 " Too ardent, entirely !" exclaimed Jacqueline. '^ Why, 
 that's a downright confession. Couldn't you do it up in a 
 little cooler way ?" 
 
 " Well, since you don't like either the setting or the 
 cutting of the stone," said Edith, rising, "be the lapidary 
 yourself; or, Cleopatra-fashion, melt it down, to suit your 
 taste, in some critical vinegar." 
 
 But Jacqueline always had her way ; and by the time 
 the revisions she suggested were made, the sleigh (a fairy 
 enough vehicle to have served Amphitrite as a shallop) 
 was at the door, driven by a servant in half-livery, and 
 drawn by mettlesome horses, whose strings of bells kept 
 time to their impatient hoofs. Mr. Dawson came in to 
 lunch ; and, after it was over, Edith watched from the 
 window, as Jacqueline took her seat in the sleigh, — her 
 
DEALINGS WITH A MAX OF BUSINESS. 187 
 
 plumes flying, lier wavy curls floating in the wind, eyes 
 and cheeks brilliant, and lips brimming with merriment,— 
 wondering, the while, that under so captivating an exte- 
 rior should lurk, like a serpent amid the flowers, the 
 spirit of vanity and selfishness. " Yet I might have been 
 just like her," was her thought, as she turned from the 
 window, *' but for the precious guide Grod has given me. 
 Poor thing ! she never knew what it was to have a mo- 
 ther I" The sleigh was scarcely out of sight, before the 
 carriage was at the door, and Edith was soon in it, and 
 on her way to the accomplishment of her unenviable 
 errand. 
 
 To a temperament like her's — frank, self-possessed, cor- 
 dial, where she felt herself loved and appreciated ; but 
 the very reverse — withdrawn, timid and restrained, where 
 she did not know her ground, or among strangers — the 
 meeting with Mr. Bryson was most trying ; and her heart 
 throbbed quicker as the carriage stopped before an aristo- 
 cratic mansion of brown-stone. " This the home of a 
 bankrupt I" thought Edith, as she looked up to the richly 
 moulded window cornices, the carved door-w^ay, almost 
 wide enough to let in a carriage-and-four ; the sweep of 
 massive steps ; the stone balustrades of the balcony — and 
 she turned, for an instant, to her own home far away, by 
 force of contrast, and remembered that, but for the mis- 
 management, — it might be the dishonesty of the dweller 
 here, — a comfortable competence, at least, might have been 
 
188 • SILVERWOOD. 
 
 tlieir portion, nnder that humbler roof, instead of the positive 
 apprehension of poverty. With a feeling of relief she 
 could not hide from herself, she heard the servant, who 
 admitted her, say, that Mr. Bryson was not in. Finding 
 at what hour he dined, without leaving card or name, she 
 entered the carriage again, and drove to see an old friend 
 of her mother, and w^hiled away the time in listening to 
 reminiscences such as the aged delight to indulge in. 
 
 " Will you please send in your name, madam,'- added 
 the servant, after a hesitating affirmative to Edith's in- 
 quiry, as to whether Mr. Bryson had returned. To do 
 this, would be, in all probability, to subject herself to a 
 denial ; so she simply stepped into the hall, with a request 
 to see him. But In his present circumstances, Mr. Bry- 
 son was chary of seeing strangers ; so the servant returned 
 wath an answer, that he was particularly engaged. A 
 boy of some eight or ten years came bounding out of one 
 of the j^doors into the hall — "Why, papa is only reading 
 the papers in the back parlor," he said, by w^ay of correc- 
 tion. ''Why don't you ask the lady in, Robert?" and, 
 wdthout farther ceremony, the child flung wide the door, 
 and ushered Edith in. She looked round upon the costly 
 furniture of the apartment — the rich lace-lined curtains — 
 the embroidery of the divans and fauteuih — the mirrors 
 — the pictures — the articles of vertu — in short, everything 
 that met her eye, bespoke the most lavish expenditure. 
 She began to turn over the leaves of a magnificent quarto 
 
DEALINGS VflTH A :JAX OF BUSIXESS. 189 
 
 volume of French engravings that lay on a vercl antique 
 sofa-table near her, when a step, almost smothered by the 
 heavy pile of the carpet, made her look up. 
 
 " Ah ! am I to believe my eyes ?" exclaimied Mr. Bry- 
 son, approaching v>dth inquisitive glance, and extended 
 hand — " Miss Edith Irvine, as I live I Pardon me," he 
 added, drawing an ottoman in front of her, and speaking 
 in his courtly way. " Could I, for an instant, have antici- 
 pated such a pleasure as this, it would have been the far- 
 thest from my thoughts, in the world, to have allowed 
 any but the most imperative business to prevent my see- 
 ing you. I'm glad my little son took it upon himself to 
 be your gentleman-usher, as the servant produced the 
 impression that it was only a common caller. And now, 
 how is your good mother, and your brother ? Business — 
 business. Miss Edith, is an unrelenting master — leaves 
 no time for the keeping fresh old friendships. But I'm 
 impatient to hear of you all." 
 
 Edith satisfied his rapid and minute inquiries, half 
 reproaching herself as she did so, for her harsh thoughts 
 towards hirn, for he seemed really kind, and there was 
 no evidence of chagrin at her sudden appearance ; but, 
 on the contrary, a degree even of empresseinent in all his 
 manner. 
 
 " Grone to Havana, indeed ? "Well, I'm relieved to hear 
 that. We may hope for his more speedy restoration, than 
 if he had remained in Virginia. His life is so precious to 
 
190 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 you all," and Mr. Bryson paused, sympathetically, for 
 Edith had averted her eyes; "but you have reason to 
 hope for the best." And then followed a most minute 
 account of the experience of a brother-in-law of his wife, 
 who, after spending a winter on a sugar-plantation in 
 Jamaica, had come home well. There was not the slight- 
 est pause, on the part of the voluble talker ; and, without 
 an interruption that would have seemed rude, Edith could 
 find no means of giving the conversation any turn in the 
 direction she wished. Endless were the questions about 
 their new home ; pressed, too, with such an air of interest, 
 that she felt ashamed to distrust the motive ; but she had 
 wound herself up to the point, and was not to be circum- 
 vented by the lapwing-like trick. So, summoning her 
 resolution, she broke in with the sudden inquiry : 
 
 " Are you not surprised, somewhat, to see me here, in 
 , under present circumstances, Mr. Bryson ?" 
 
 " Ah! yes," he replied, quickly. " I was on the point of 
 saying, that our sweetest birds fly south, instead of north, 
 at this season ; but I felt some delicacy in making any 
 allusion that might trench upon private affairs of your 
 own. It is suspicious, when young ladies fly off in a tan- 
 gent in this way — shopping expeditions — trousseaux — 
 bridals in the prospective ; eh, Miss Edith ? And by the 
 way, 1 have not asked you whether the young gentleman 
 
 who came up with your mother, on her visit to , just 
 
 before she went south, Mr. Woodruff, I mean — whether he 
 has accompanied you." 
 
DEALINGS WITH A MAN OF BUSINESS. 191 
 
 Mr. Bryson tent for a moment towards Edith, and 
 saw the slis^ht flush that bri^fhtened on her cheek. 
 
 '' Ah, — so, — " he went on in his fidgetty, mercurial way, 
 yet, as if he had discovered something that gave him relief. 
 "Really, I must send for Mrs. Bryson, and let her try 
 if her efforts can't prevail on you to dine with us ; and 
 now just say at what hotel Mr. Woodruff puts up, and I'll 
 dispatch a servant for him — " 
 
 " Mr. Woodruff is not with me at all," interrupted 
 Edith, half provoked. " Allay all such suspicions, as 
 your words seem to intimate. I came on business." 
 
 " Ah ! indeed I" exclaimed Mr. Bryson, quite incredu- 
 lously, and stepping to the door, as if to anticipate the 
 servant who was coming to answer his ring, he called to him 
 to tell Mrs. Bryson he wished her to come down, and 
 bring Miss Evererts with her ; then, as if recollecting some 
 further order, he begged Edith's indulgence for a moment, 
 and left the room. He soon returned, however, ushering 
 in the lady in question, and his wife, a woman of mascu- 
 line proportions, in whose shadow three such men as 
 himself might have been concealed. Mrs. Bryson was for- 
 mally and condescendingly polite to Edith, and very faintly 
 echoed her husband's invitation that she would consider 
 herself their guest for dinner, which, of course, M^as 
 declined. Miss Evererts out-chatted Mr. Brvson even, and 
 had endless inquiries to make about people in Virginia, 
 of whom Edith had never heard, and whose existence 
 
192 SILYEEWOOD. 
 
 she was disposed, in her disappointment, to think a proba- 
 ble myth. It was utterly in vain to say a word about the 
 object of her visit, under the circumstances, so she rose to 
 depart, intending to ask Mr. Bryson, pointedly, as soon as 
 they were out of hearing of the ladies, to allow her an in- 
 terview at some other time. On turning to do so in the 
 hall, what was her surprise to find a servant only behind 
 her, ready to hand her out. The gentleman had bowed his 
 adieu within, and the drawing-room door was closed. Had 
 her pride been less wounded to find herself thus shuffled 
 off, she would probably have demanded still to see him ; 
 as it was, she threw herself into the carriage, disposed, wo- 
 man-like, to cry with vexation and chagrin. 
 
 Tea was over before Edith could fmd leisure for the 
 letter she had promised her mother should be written 
 
 immediately on her arrival at , and she was 
 
 leaving the parlor, to fulfill the promise, _when Jacqueline 
 detained her. 
 
 " I'm sadly puzzled over this smoking-cap. I've got the 
 pattern all wrong, you see, and I don't know how to right 
 it. You have a knack at these things, Edith. I want you 
 to help me out of the difficulty." 
 
 Edith supposed a minute or so might remedy the mis- 
 take, as she looked at the piece of velvet Jacqueline flung 
 towards her. 
 
 " It's a senseless bother, anyhow," exclaimed the ami- 
 able young lady. " If it weren't that Theodore Grates will 
 
DEALINGS WITH A MAN OF BUSINESS. 193 
 
 prize a Christmas-present made by my hands, a thousand 
 times more than any I could buy, I wouldn't trouble my- 
 self to take another stitch. Be thankful, Edith, that you 
 have no such penalty to pay for popularity." 
 
 ^' I am, — thankful that I'm not a slave dragged at Fash- 
 ion's merciless chariot wheels," replied Edith, spiritedly, 
 while a bright spot came into her cheek. 
 
 " Oh ! I claim to be one of the favored ones who sit in 
 her triumphal car," said Jacqueline, satisfiedly ; " but it's 
 the gold threads that are wrong, too. Pray, rip them." 
 
 " Oh ! never mind that everlasting letter," she persisted, 
 in reply to some words of Edith. " No news are always 
 good news ; so help me, for I have this cap, and a purse, 
 and I don't know how many more things that I must have 
 finished before Christmas." 
 
 As she spoke, a couple of gentlemen were announced, 
 and she eagerly absorbed them both, after a hurried pre- 
 sentation of them to Edith, who still sat with the embroid- 
 ery in her hand. 
 
 To have left the room just then would have seemed too 
 cognizant of being overlooked ; so Edith sat quietly work- 
 ing, and listening to the conversation made up of local al- 
 lusions and references to people of whom she knew noth- 
 ing. Thinking, at length, that she had been in durance 
 long enough, she turned quietly to Jacqueline : 
 
 " The mistake is rectified, I believe ; so you will excuse 
 
194 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 " Let me see," and Jacqueline held out her begemmed 
 hand for the velvet. " Why, yes ; it looks very nice. Just, 
 pray, do a little more, you do it so prettily. Come, now ; 
 don't be disobliging," she said, coaxingly, as Edith rose 
 to go, '' you know there's no hurry at all for that letter, 
 and there is for this." 
 
 '' I apprehend Miss Irvine is the best judge in regard to 
 the letter," interposed one of the gentlemen, as he left 
 Jacqueline's side, and approached Edith, with an evident 
 wish to enter into conversation with her ; " but if the 
 letter can be postponed, I vote for its being done." 
 
 " Oh, w^ell, if you are so bent upon it, I suppose you'll 
 have to go," said Jacqueline, quickly. " You may as well 
 take the embroidery with you, and if you don't feel like 
 joining us after your letter is written, you'll surprise me, 
 I know, by having some of those leaves finished." 
 
 Take from woman what you will — beauty, wit, 
 genius, every accomplishment and grace, but leave her, 
 above all things — leave her tenderness — tenderness of 
 look, and tone, and thought, and then will there be about 
 her an angel-light, an inner loveliness, before which all 
 these exterior charms — if they hide a cold and selfish 
 nature — will seem only as the golden casket that held 
 concealed the death's head ! 
 
XYIII. 
 
 Sigljts ill a Ca%kal. 
 
 Several tempestuous days kept Edith quite housed, and 
 entirely interfered with the immediate prosecution of the 
 business she had in hand ; but a packet of home-letters 
 proved something of a salvo to her in her disappointment. 
 
 '• I don't know how to be grateful enough," wrote her 
 mother, " for the tender care with which (as you will 
 see from the portions of their letters I enclose) Providence 
 has watched over our wanderers. Surely, ' goodness and 
 mercy have followed me all the days of my life !' Surely, I 
 can say: 'Hitherto hath the Lord helped me.' And now, 
 after all these details which I have been giving you of 
 Lawrence's improved health, and Zilpha's hopeful anticipa- 
 tions — of the comfortable way we have managed to get on 
 here without you, vvhile trying not to miss you too much, 
 will you ever again, dear child, let yourself doubt that for 
 every emergency, for every trial, for every duty, the ' Lord 
 vnll provide V He has given us proof upon proof of the 
 
196 SILVEEWOOD. 
 
 truth of His declaration in our own experience ; so, then, 
 let us trust Him on even unto the end." 
 
 ''You cannot imagine," ran another paragraph, "how 
 disposed I was, after you were fairly off, to regret that I 
 had not gone to myself, for I am afraid the busi- 
 ness may be trying to you. But I did what, under the 
 circumstances, seemed best at the time. You know my 
 idea of duty is, to get all the light we can upon the matter 
 in question, — to ask directions from above, and then act ac- 
 cording to the best of our judgment, leaving the issue in 
 the divine hand. This I endeavored to do, and so am de- 
 termined not to let any regrets trouble me. Your dear 
 father's counsel, which he used to be fond of repeating, of- 
 ten comes up to me, — ' never grieve over what can be 
 helped, but help it ; and never grieve over what cannot, 
 since it will avail nothing.' So, if you are successful in 
 your errand, we will be very thankful ; if not, we will 
 try and believe that Grod would have it so, and rest con- 
 tent." 
 
 There were pages upon pages of tissue-like paper, cov- 
 ered with the journal-letters of Lawrence and Zilpha, — 
 every line full of interest for Edith, to whom no details 
 were too minute touching those so well beloved. There 
 were descriptions of ocean in its various moods ; there 
 were clear, vivid sketches from Lawrence's hand, of some 
 of their fellow voyagers, marked by the quiet, playful hu- 
 mor peculiar to him — little incidents on -ship-board — 
 
SIGHTS IN A CATHEDRAL. 197 
 
 tlie first impressions of a foreign shore — the gallant ''Ha- 
 baneros," and the indolent life in their " hermosissima 
 isla'^ — such and kindred themes filled their pages. 
 
 " I could not help thinking how Sepha would have 
 clapped her hands at sight of the odd, gay carriages that 
 crowd the streets every evening, filled w^ith black-eyed and 
 black-haired senoritas^ with no bonnets on their heads, 
 but wreaths of flowers instead, looking like so many May- 
 queens. There is nothing that may be called winter here, 
 you know, so that flowers and foliage are in luxuriant 
 abundance, though it is almost December. The plumes of 
 the palm-trees, the rows of pomegranates, the aloe-enclosed 
 fields of pine-apples, the cofiee plantations, and scores of oth- 
 er things, make us feel as if we were much farther away 
 than we really are, from our own familiar land. Just think 
 of it, Eunice — you who are nursing so carefully the scarlet 
 cactus you brought all the way from B ; think oi hedg- 
 es formed of the most splendid varieties ! But if they have 
 flowers and fruits and winterless weather here, I assure you 
 they are wanting in a thousand matters more essential to 
 one's comfort. Imagine our great fortress-like hotel, with 
 its grated windows, innocent of a single pane of glass, doors 
 like a barn, marble flgors, and uninviting beds. Oriental 
 luxury will be sure to be associated in your mind, -Edith, 
 with tesselated pavements ; but a bright carpet is a 
 good deal more to my liking, and mother dear will hardly 
 be able to take in the barest idea of comfort within th 
 
198 SILYERWOOD. 
 
 shadow of Christmas, without a glowing fire. For the 
 peace of Sepha's mind, let me inform her that insects are 
 another component ot the atmosphere here ; at all events, 
 I am sure of having breathed them, and am of opinion that 
 it would have been well to have accepted her suggestion 
 of a strainer for my drinks. But such an aid, such a com- 
 fort as Zilpha is to me ! She interposes between me and 
 these Spanish servants, and has dishes prepared as nearly as 
 possible in the home fashion for me ; she screens my win- 
 dow at night with one of her great shawls ; she makes me 
 pleasant draughts ; she cheers me when I am depressed — 
 gives me sunshine for my spirit — strength for my heart, 
 when it is weak and weary ; and with her sweet, calm 
 words of hope and trust, helps to fix my soul more firmly 
 in the persuasion of God's unalterable love. Ah ! hew I 
 thank you all for the self-denial that made you willing to 
 give her up, and how my whole nature thrills with a 
 tenderness towards her, which language is too poor to 
 speak I" 
 
 *' We strayed out for a walk this morning," — (this page 
 was in Zilpha's hand writing,) — " having in view a sort of 
 pilgrimage to the tomb of Columbus, who, you know, is 
 buried in the Cathedral here. I will not describe the 
 interior of this building, as I have a sketch of it made for 
 ' you all's ' satisfaction, as Uncle Felix Avould say. I am 
 not apt to become enthused very much over anything, but 
 must own to a strange flutter of emotion as I stood before 
 
SIGHTS IX A CATHEDEAL. 199 
 
 the urn that held the dust of one of the noblest, most 
 self-sacrificing beings God ever made ! Do you remember, 
 Edith, how we were moved to tears when reading of his 
 being taken home to Spain in chains ? and of his ship- 
 wreck among these very islaads, when ' castled in the 
 sea,' he so heroically fought off despair, through all that 
 most disastrous year of his life ? I recalled the time 
 most vividly, and thought how little idea I then had, 
 when pouring over the book with a child's delight, under 
 the vine-covered porch at B — — , of standing before the 
 tomb of the old hero. The great incidents of his life 
 passed in momentary review before me — his disappoint- 
 ments — his sufferings — his trials — his triumphs; the 
 plaudits of a kingdom following him — royally attended, 
 yet bending the knee with chivalric reverence before his 
 queen— -his Christian death — his name that fills the world. 
 Lawrence's heart vras as full as mine, but he did not say 
 much. You know it is not his way to talk when deeply 
 moved. But we saw somethinor that touched us far more 
 
 o 
 
 than this, in the Cathedral, and I am half afraid that if I 
 confess all I felt, you will begin to tremble for my Prot- 
 estantism, and to fancy I had better be getting away from 
 this Popish country. 
 
 " AYe had lingered till most of the devotees — for it 
 were a sin to call them worshippers — were gone : only 
 here and there a scnora on her bit of carpet, with the 
 black page v/ho had carried itj kneeling behind her. Wliat 
 
200 SILVERTTOOD. 
 
 interested us so strongly, was a little side cliapel, filled by 
 a picture of Christ on the cross, — the moment, that in 
 which he utters ' it is finished,' bows his head, and gives 
 up the ghost. I have tried a thousand times to realize 
 the fearful scene — the anguish of the Redeemer's human 
 soul, with all its perfect and exquisite sensibilities, sus- 
 tained by its union with the divine, and strengthened to 
 bear in one terrific Avhole, — and in those few hours of 
 unutterable agony, what, when broken into portions, and 
 parceled out to lost angels, requires an eternity ; but nev- 
 er till this morning did I seem to have approached the con- 
 ception, even of the bodily suffering ; of the mental, of 
 course, finite mind can take in no thought. The most per- 
 fect unity pervaded the picture, and although it seems pre- 
 sumptuous in the highest degree, to attempt to portray 
 what must ever be beyond the power of human pencil, 
 there was nothing here to wound my Protestant feelings — 
 nothing to divert the mind from the one thought. There 
 were no sorrowful disciples and weeping women — no 
 bringing of mere human grief into competition with the in- 
 conceivable agony of the God-man, as if the same gauge 
 might be used to measure the anguish of the earthly and 
 the divine ! In the centre of the picture stood only the 
 cross against a back-ground of clouds, dark, heavy, thun- 
 derous, with a wild glare of lightning concentrating 
 itself upon the upturned face of the iSaviour. Those 
 words of more fearful pathos than were ever uttered in 
 
SIGHTS IN A CATHEDRAL. 201 
 
 God's universe, seemed just to have quivered on the death- 
 ly-pale lips, and succeeding to them, the thought that satis- 
 fied even Christ's mighty travail of soul — '• it is finished I" 
 The torture of the man, and the triumph of the Grod were 
 blended in mysterious union on the heavenly face, which, 
 even in the ghastliness of death, wore an expression of the 
 most unearthly and marvellous beauty. The pierced hands, 
 on which the whole weight of the suspended body hung, 
 the stretched and starting ' tendons, the bloodless arms and 
 strained sockets, the upheaved chest, the quivering feet, 
 purple with the settled gore — these might have formed a 
 combination from which one would shrink in fear. But 
 that was not the effect. The bodily suffering seemed a 
 subordinate idea. I was irresistibly drawn forward, and 
 longed to lay my cheek against that cross, and clasp those 
 bleeding feet. I thought of the sin for which such an 
 atonement alone was adequate, and remembered with a 
 streaming eye, that mine could be expiated at a cost no 
 less tremendous. 
 
 " In my absorption, I had wholly forgotten where I was, 
 and was only recalled by a chance sight of Lawrence. 
 He was kneeling on the step, and leaning over the rail- 
 ing, just as I had seen the deluded creatures do, a little 
 while before. But there was a strange radiance on his 
 face, as if he had caught something of the reflected glory 
 of the one on which he looked ; and liis expression, at all 
 times, so refined and lofty, had in it a reverent joy. His 
 
 9 
 
202 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 hands were clasped, and I caught some of his Avhispered 
 words — ' It is finished. Thou has hegun, continued, 
 completed it all I I can add nothing. "Where were the 
 need? It is finished P I feared to hreak his ecstatic 
 reverie. I did not ; hut, after a while, he turned to me 
 with a low voice — ' Zilpha, do you feel as if you could 
 go into yon street again, after having heen so close to 
 Calvary ? ' 
 
 " I have dwelt too long on this description, for I am 
 sure I have failed to convey any just idea of the picture 
 to your minds ; but I did it, principally, that I might show 
 you how dangerous is the appeal the Romish Church 
 makes to the senses of its votaries ; for the poor Papist 
 stops at the canvas : we, I trust, went beyond it — " 
 
 " Thank God !" inwardly ejaculated Edith, as she 
 folded up the last sheet, " for the blessed affections of 
 home !" 
 
 Yes, thank Grod for them — for the unworldly love — the 
 tenderness nowhere else to be found on all this broad, 
 green earth — the unflagging devotion — the beautiful one- 
 ness of interest — the perfect, unquestioning trust ! What is 
 all the happiness that genius, or wealth, or fame, or honor 
 can bestow, when brought into comparison with the pure 
 heart-refreshment, and heart-satisfaction of home I It is 
 the one spot, fresh with cool, unfailing waters, and bright, 
 as with the atmosphere of heaven, to which memory goes 
 back most achingly, most longingly, as we travel on 
 
SIGHTS IN A CATHEDEAL. 203 
 
 through, life, beneath skies that smite our heads, and 
 sands that scorch our feet, weary and athirst for the 
 draughts which the world's muddy pools, impure with the 
 green slime of envy, and distrust, and unkindness, and 
 hate, can never give. Yes ; G-od be praised for the blessed 
 affections of home ! 
 
XIX. 
 
 Sfiiuptljits. 
 
 It was the Sabbath morning, clear, cold, and sparkling, 
 and as they lingered over the late breakfast, Edith asked 
 the hour for the commencement of church services. 
 
 "Not going to church to-day, Edith?" demanded 
 Jacqueline. " Why, what grievous sin have you com- 
 mitted, that you are going to condemn yourself to the 
 penance of trying to keep your balance on pavements 
 that are slippery as glass ? It's too cold to go, besides ; 
 and I've got a new novel. You needn't look so grave ; it's 
 a sort of religious one, and if you will stay at home and 
 read it aloud to me, you may do me more good than you 
 would do yourself by going to church." 
 
 " But, Jacqueline," said Edith, gravely, '' have you no 
 hesitation in setting at nought God's direct commands — 
 ' forsake not the assembling of yourselves together,' and, 
 ' remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy V " 
 
206 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 " But I do go to church generally once a day, at least ; 
 and, pray, where's the harm in reading a religious 
 novel ?" 
 
 " Grod claims the entire day as His. We can't purchase 
 indulgences for lightly spent Sabbath evenings, by the 
 most scrupulous attention to the morning and afternoon 
 service — that is the Rominst's idea, and you, Jacqueline, 
 ought to scout that, with Huguenot blood in your veins. 
 And as to the novels, — is it for the religion in them that 
 you read them ?" 
 
 " Why, no ; not exactly. Indeed, to tell the truth, I 
 often skip the prosy sermons in them, if I can do it with- 
 out loosing any of the story." 
 
 " Then amusement is your only aim. Oh I Jacque- 
 line !" 
 
 " Well, pray, how would you have me spend the day so 
 that it should not be stupid ? I'm not religious, and it 
 would be the merest hypocrisy for me to sit with a Bible 
 in my hand, pretending to be devout. Even when I do 
 go to church, my thoughts treat themselves to a pleasure 
 excursion round the pews ; and by the time I have studied 
 the cut of the most fashionable cloaks, and the price of 
 the furs, and the probable value of the Honiton and Mech- 
 len collars, and a few more things of that un- Christian sort, 
 the sermon is about up. Now, I would like to know if 
 staying at home, and reading a good novel, is any worse 
 than that." 
 
SYMPATHIES. 207 
 
 '' Yes ; thongli the account you give of yourself is bad 
 enough, but by staying at home, you disobey a positive 
 command, and put yourself out of the way of being reached 
 by the gospel. You say truly enough that you are not 
 relisrious : but whose fault is that ?" 
 
 " Bless me ! are you going to take me for a text? I 
 
 might as well go and hear Dr. Gr sermonize. I 
 
 wouldn't be likely to find him so personal." 
 
 " No, I will spare you ; but, pray, let me ask who it is 
 you want to bless you ? Some unseen person, I suppose, 
 who has the power to grant your wish." 
 
 *' Mercy on me! how puritanical, Edith! You think 
 it's wrong, do you? Why, I don't mean anybody in 
 particular." 
 
 '' Yet you just called on some one to have mercy on 
 you. Were you in earnest ?" 
 
 '' Grood gracious! what would you have me say?" 
 
 " Not tliat^ certainly. Now look for a moment at your 
 three consecutive expressions—' bless me,' ' mercy on 
 me,' and good gracious' — a mere mincing of ' G-od be 
 gracious.' Of course, these are all appeals to the Divine 
 Being." 
 
 '' Why, I never think of such a thing !" 
 
 " Neither does the man who habitually uses the name 
 of G-od, by way of giving emphasis to his assertions." 
 
 " What must I say, then ? for I must have an explo- 
 sive of some kind." 
 
208 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 " Let your yea be yea, and your nay, nay." 
 
 *' Ah! you are 'unco good,' as Janet, our vScotch cook 
 says. I'll get on bravely, if I have nothing worse than 
 this to answer for ; and I must have something to effer- 
 vesce upon, when my brother teazes me." 
 
 " Teazes ? / supposed the teazing w^as on the other 
 side. Don't you remember, last night, you told him it 
 was your determination to persist in calling him 'Gio- 
 vanni,' just because it vexed him?" 
 
 ** And I ivill^ too — he professes to have such a scorn of 
 affectation. I shall interlard my conversation with quota- 
 tions from Alfieri, or Metastasio, you may rely on it, as 
 soon as I get to reading them." 
 
 '* You find Jacqueline a giddy thing, Edith," said Mr. 
 Dubois, who had re-entered the breakfast-room while they 
 were talking, " a giddy thing," and he kissed her fair fore- 
 head as he spoke, " but she'll settle down into something 
 sober after a while, I hope, and become good, as her mo- 
 ther was." 
 
 Yes ; let the wild weeds of youthful folly fill the garden 
 of this young heart ; let them grow up rankly ; let them 
 mature, turning up their bright but pernicious blossoms to 
 the world's sunshine ; let their seeds ripen and drop into 
 the virgin soil. These seeds will undergo a change in 
 time — how^ is not just clear; but some metamorphose will 
 take place. They will put forth vigorous, wholesome 
 shoots, which will spring up in richness and beauty — be 
 
SYMPATHIES. 209 
 
 clotlied with fragrant flowers, which shall give way to 
 fruits fit for the srarner of Grod ! 
 
 Mr. Dubois forgot that cause and effect are as inevitably 
 linked together in the spiritual as the natural world — that 
 he might as truly have expected the purple clusters of 
 grapes on the wall of his conservatory to have been pro- 
 duced from the carelessly dropped seeds of the hellebore ! 
 
 " Red eyes, I aver I" exclaimed Dr. Dubois, as they sat 
 round the dinner- table, waiting for Jacqueline, who had 
 just entered. '' Whose fictitious woes have drawn upon 
 your compassions so deeply, my weeping Niobe ?" 
 
 " No teazing, if you please, Giovanni. You would cry, 
 yourself, over such a story." 
 
 " / cry over a novel ! I see rather too much in real life 
 to move my sensibilities, to waste a scant tear over fancy 
 griefs. It's my belief that whenever benevolent impulses 
 are roused, or sympathetic tears started, which are not fol- 
 lowed up by correspondent action, there is more injury 
 sustained by the sensibilities thus moved, than if they had 
 remained unimpressed. Wliat think you^ Miss Edith ?" 
 
 " As you do. These stirred emotions, like the waters of 
 a suddenly swollen stream, ought to fertilize the meadows 
 around them, by their overflow ; but, if the waters are 
 dammed up^ they may do more harm, fretting against 
 their own banks, and drowning their verdure, than if the 
 stream had not been augmented at all." 
 
 " Your illustration don't hold good in all points, Edith," 
 
 9* 
 
210 SILVER WOOD. 
 
 said Mr. Dubois. '' Legitimately aroused sensibilities, 
 even when 'dammed up,' and doing no good to others, can 
 hardly be said to injure the nature stirred by them." 
 
 *' Now, there, sir," replied Dr. Dubois, " is the best point 
 in the simile, I contend. The oftener our sensibilities are 
 called forth, and then thrown back upon themselves, with- 
 out expending their force in the action to which they 
 impel, the more blunted they become. If it were not 
 so, wholesale devourers of novels would be the class of 
 people the most easily moved by real distress ; but they 
 are not — " 
 
 " A side stroke for me, I suppose," interrupted Jacque- 
 line, "because I wouldn't lay down my book the other 
 day, to listen to some beggar's story. Such cheats as 
 they all are ! It is enough to ^harden any one's heart 
 against them." 
 
 " Cheats, no doubt, there are in abundance among them. 
 I remember having my compassions greatly moved by be- 
 ing beset in the streets of Paris one day by a miserable 
 woman with a dead infant which she said she had not the 
 means of burying. I confess to feeling the hardening pro- 
 cess when I discovered, a iey^ days after, that the child 
 was a ivax one ! But because there is counterfeit coin 
 abroad, we must not refuse to take any. I believe," he 
 said, addressing himself to Edith again, " the secret of the 
 fact that physicians don't grow indifferent to suffering of 
 which they see so much, and are the least hard-hearted. 
 
SYMPATHIES. 211 
 
 perhaps, of any given class of men, is because their sym- 
 pathies are no sooner appealed to, than they tend to their 
 rightful end — to afford relief. But for this nice provision 
 of nature, they might become as obtuse as a fashionable 
 novel-reader." 
 
 " Bless me I what self-complacency !" exclaimed Jac- 
 queline. " Edith, I suggest that we leave him to peel his 
 orange by himself. As I am too incorrigible for any relief 
 he can give me, I had better take myself away, for fear 
 the sight of such obtuseness might injure the purple bloom 
 of his over-ripe compassions." 
 
 That same evening, as Edith sat before the library fire, 
 turning over the leaves of a volume she had taken down, 
 Dr. Dubois joined her. 
 
 " I had serious thoughts," he said, " of asking you to do 
 a deed of mercy this afternoon ; but Jacqueline put her veto 
 upon it, and I was fain to give up my idea." 
 
 " I am so sorry !" and Edith looked with a sort of re- 
 proachful inquiry towards Jacqueline, who, with her book 
 on her lap, sat on the leopard-skin mat near her. 
 
 " Sorry ! Is that all the gratitude you have, when I 
 
 saved you from a horrid, sloppy walk away to D 
 
 street, when G-iovanni had some poor miserable girl to 
 look after?" asked Jacqueline. " You'd have had to hold 
 your vinaigrette to your nose, I promise you ; and I dare 
 say she lived up five pairs of rickety stairs — your interest- 
 ing sick people always do. So in kindness to you, I told 
 
212 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 John you had taken some cold by going to church in the 
 morning ; and, besides, I had been alone all day, and 
 wanted you with me." 
 
 " But, why didn't you ask me about it? I should 
 have considered it a privilege, doctor, to have gone with 
 you, if I could have done any good. Well," continued 
 Edith, shutting up her book, while Jacqueline went on 
 with hers, and so failed to see the vexed expression with 
 which her brother regarded her, "you will let me go to- 
 morrow, or the next time you visit your patient ?" 
 
 Dr. Dubois acquiesced with an expression of warm 
 thanks ; and, after interesting Edith with some details 
 about the poor, young creature he had been visiting, he 
 went on, after a pause — 
 
 " You Christians talk about God's providence ; but 
 how can you reconcile the facts with which the world 
 abounds ? Now, there's that dying girl — patient, thank- 
 ful, unmurmuring, lying alone, without earthly comforts, 
 as utterly forsaken of man, and of God, too, one would 
 think, but from her assertion to me to-day to the contrary, 
 as if she were the most ungrateful wretch alive ; while 
 your sick sinner, who defies human and divine law, is 
 bolstered u]) with every appliance that money can provide — 
 yet he rail> and frets. I've just such patients at this 
 moment. Now, where's your just Providence all this 
 time ?" 
 
 " I am sure, to go no further than mere stoical philoso- 
 phy will take yon, doctor, you will grant that that mind 
 
SYMPATHIES. 213 
 
 has attained to the most rational point, which can be the 
 most independent of external circumstances. You remem- 
 ber Milton's lines — 
 
 " ' rie that hath light within his own clear breast — ' " 
 
 The doctor took them from Edith's lips as she paused, 
 and repeated the fine paragraph to the end. 
 
 " Well," continued Edith, " we claim infinitely more 
 for Christianity than your philosophy can teach. Would 
 you not this moment take the heavenly peace, and hope, 
 and resignation, Vvdiich you have been telling me is so re- 
 markable in the case of this poor girl, with all the sur- 
 roundings of discomfort and poverty, which touch not the 
 soul, rather than your rich patient's luxury, with its 
 accompaniment of disquiet, or perhaps anguish, of which 
 you may see but the surface ?" 
 
 " Still, you are not answering my question. Vfhj does 
 Providence thus deal with those who live so as to please 
 him best ? Why stint and treat them so harshly, if he 
 has the workl at his command, for their necessities, and 
 lavish luxuries on those who scorn him ? Surely, there is 
 no bribe held out to induce people to become Christians." 
 
 " This is part of the discipline, by means of which they 
 come to be ' put among the children.' Trial may have 
 been — must have been needed, to bring this sick girl to 
 hor present submissive state. It is hardly wrong to exalt 
 suffering to the utmost — to call it divine, if it works oat 
 the result which He who sends it, intends thnt it should." 
 
214 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 " Yon surely don't think there is anything meritorious 
 in mere sufFerinof?" 
 
 " By no means. So much do I object to the Popish 
 idea of it, that I would not have that expression — ' perfect 
 through suffering' — used as it often is used now-a-days, 
 without a special limit of it to the results of the thing, 
 not the thing itself; and is there not some such law as 
 this, underlying all the order of nature ? The ore must be 
 passed through the furnace, before we have the gold ; the 
 rough stone must be filed, before we see the sparkle of the 
 gem ; the gums must be bruised, or they will not give out 
 their precious odor ; the roses must be crushed, that we 
 may have the fragrant oil ; the soil must be torn up 
 by the plow-share, before there can be any harvest ; 
 and through such a process must the soul receive its 
 strensfth." 
 
 '' You would malvc endurance, divine — the Prometheus 
 on the rock ; but that does not relieve my difficulty. 
 Pain can by no manner of means be esteemed a good, un- 
 less the end aimed at, is to be attained in no other way. 
 To say that Grod can purify His creatures, and fit them 
 for their work here, or their reward hereafter, by no other 
 process, is to limit His power." 
 
 " We don't say that ; but we do say that it is a plan 
 He often sees proper to adopt ; and if infinite wisdom ap- 
 prove it, does it become us to demand the 'wherefore ?' 
 ' Even so, Father ! for so it seemeth good in Thy sight I' " 
 
 I 
 
XX 
 
 Clje Mm of % mioii^. 
 
 '' Mrs. Bryson is just going out," was the message 
 with which Edith was met, as she stood upon the 
 merchant's stately threshold, the next day. But through 
 the inner door of the hall, she had caught a glimpse of a 
 nodding plume, as the lady had passed into one of the 
 drawing-rooms ; so she requested the servant to show her 
 in — a thing he seemed extremely reluctant to do. Some- 
 thing very like a blush mantled her face, as she thought 
 of forcing herself thus upon Mrs. Bryson, who did not 
 advance to meet her, but stood coolly drawing on her 
 gloves, as if she failed to recognise her. 
 
 ''Ah! Miss Irvine, is it?" she said, as Edith ex- 
 tended her hand. "You are wanting to see Mr. Bryson, 
 I suppose. He is so absorbed in business, I scarcely get 
 a sight of him myself, except at the dinner-table." 
 
 " My business can as well be transacted with yourself, 
 madam," replied Edith, subsiding into a seat; for she 
 
216 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 quivered a little under the hard scrutiny of the cold eye 
 upon her. 
 
 " Business ! I am so intent upon my own this 
 morning, that I positively must refuse to undertake 
 any one else's." 
 
 She did not take a seat, and it was evident that she 
 expected Edith to understand her words as a hint to 
 go ; hut the thought of the little circle at Silverwood — 
 the rememhrance of the mother there, whose heart was 
 following her with prayerful hope — the beloved ones 
 in that far-away island, whose comfort might be so 
 greatly involved in her present action, swept with 
 strengthening influence through her mind, and she grew 
 strong again. 
 
 With a gentle manner, yet firm as it was calm, she 
 stated the object of her visit to the city — the embar- 
 rassments of her mother — the present helpless condition 
 of the family, during the absence of her brother in ill 
 health — the urgency there was, in consequence, for the 
 withdrawal of the sum of money which had been placed 
 in Mr. Bryson's hands some months before. 
 
 " And pray, why could not your mother have written 
 to my husband. It was strange for you to put yourself 
 to this trouble and expense for a matter of business 
 that might have been better arranged by letter." 
 
 " Madam," said Edith, looking up in her face, with 
 a clear, steady eye, " I will be candid, for I can stoop 
 
THE WAY OF THE WOELD. 217 
 
 to no equivocation. You may suppose the news of 
 Mr, Bryson's embarrassments would naturally reach us 
 through the letters of friends. Our absolute necessities 
 made my mother unwilling to run the risk of a letter's 
 delay ; and she hoped, besides, that a personal applica- 
 tion to your husband, would meet with more immediate 
 attention." 
 
 '' Why am I troubled then ?" 
 
 " I have sought Mr. BiTson, and have been twice 
 disappointed in seeing him." 
 
 " He is at his counting-house. T can give you the 
 number. "What should / know of his business affairs ?" 
 
 '' You have no knowledge, then, of this claim my 
 mother makes ?" 
 
 «« \Ih.j, it is absurd to suppose that I can know any- 
 thing of the business details of a house that reckons 
 its transactions by hundreds of thousands. This much 
 I do know," she added, haughtily, " that like an 
 eagle with a broken wing, my husband has been pounced 
 upon by vultures of creditors, who worry his life out 
 with their pertinacious demands. I make no doubt but 
 that you know the extent of his disability, and are 
 aware that he has given up everything. I hope that 
 satisfies them." 
 
 ''All?" responded Edith. "If he has done that, 
 more cannot be demanded of him." 
 
 '* Yes ; all, exeept what is necessary to put bread 
 
218 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 into his children's mouths. A man can't be expected 
 to be kinder to other people, than to his own family. 
 Thank fortune ! there's something I hold in my own 
 right, that may keep us from starving." 
 
 Edith looked round on the elegant appointment of 
 the apartment in which she sat, and an incredulous 
 half-smile passed over her face, as she repeated to her- 
 self Mrs. Bryson's last word. It did not escape that 
 lady's notice. 
 
 " I suppose," she said, bitterly, '' you have made 
 all haste to put in your claim with the other creditors." 
 
 " Not yet. As my mother Avas involved in no business 
 matter with Mr. Bryson, other than that he had power 
 of attorney to dispose of property and invest the money 
 for her, she thinks he will not be content to let her 
 lose so large a portion of it as she would, by taking 
 her chance with the rest." 
 
 " I should like to know what other chance she looks 
 to. I'm sorry she has been inconvenienced ; but w^hat's 
 that mere pittance to the sweep we have endured ?" 
 
 " It is very much to us ; it is nearly our all." 
 
 " Well, even if it were, you have not the mortification 
 of stepping down from such a position as I must give 
 up. You could teach, or sew, or do something of that 
 sort ; but for 7ne — " 
 
 " The provision Mr. Bryson has taken care to make for 
 you, madam, will always set you above that necessity, at 
 
THE WAY OF THE WOELD. 219 
 
 least," said Edith, her eye flashing in spite of herself as 
 she spoke. 
 
 " I hope so, indeed," rejoined Mrs. Bryson ; ''but I'm 
 in no mood to bear what may look like a tamit. G-lad 
 am I that my husband has been considerate enough as to 
 settle a small portion of his fortune upon me. Would 
 you be so cruel as to snatch that away ?" 
 
 " No ; only to ask out of it ' the pittance' of which 
 you just spoke. I beseech you, madam," and Edith rose 
 and stood before Mrs. Bryson, with a face pale from 
 ^motion ; ''I beg you to listen to me. You do not — you 
 cannot deny this just claim. You have it in your power 
 to restore it. Legally, I know, we can compel nothing 
 from you ; but you are a woman — you have a mother's 
 heart — you will not see my widowed mother, with none 
 to stand between her and the unpitying world, driven 
 out in the afternoon of her life, to earn her bread — you 
 will not recall my sick brother, and take from him his 
 last chance of life, perhaps, and condemn us, fatherless, 
 brotherless, penniless — to struggle with want and sor- 
 row. No ! I will not believe this of you. I luill hope 
 that your own trials, which must be hard to bear, have 
 given you a fellow-feeling for those who suffer still 
 more." 
 
 " I assume no such responsibility as driving your 
 mother from her home, or bringing your brother to the 
 grave, or making you beggars," said Mrs. Bryson, re- 
 
220 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 treating indignantly a few steps. " Saddle me with no 
 such gratuitous burdens. I've enough of my own to bear, 
 in all conscience. No, indeed ! That would be a pitch of 
 benevolence I don't aim at, to throw the morsel from my 
 children, even to keep Mrs. Irvine's from starving. ' Self- 
 preservation is Nature's first law.' Expect me to drown, 
 that I may give you my plank ! I'm not quite so 
 romantically philanthropic as that." 
 
 " I did not ask your plank — only our oivn little splin- 
 ter." 
 
 " You would take from me enousfh to leave me 
 swamped. No ; I tell you once for all," said Mrs. Bry- 
 son, with an emphatic gesture of the hand that held a 
 handkerchief exquisite enough in its frost-like embroidery 
 fo have cost the eyes that wrought at it, their sight, and 
 a knitting of the brow that was a damper to every hope 
 of Edith's; "you needn't think to play upon my woman's 
 nature in this way. I understand, now, why you come 
 to me instead of my husband. Heaven knows I've been 
 persecuted beyond endurance with dress-makers' and shop- 
 keepers' bills. These paltry kind of people have no feeling 
 whatever — they would sting me at every point. But you 
 will let me go now — I have been detained from an imper- 
 ative item of business, already." 
 
 " Just one word more," said Edith, speaking with a 
 marked emphasis of manner, and a keen, dilating eye. 
 
 " Mrs. Bryson, there is a God in Heaven, who calls him- 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 221 
 
 self the 'Judge of the fatherless' — who declares that who- 
 ever does violence to the orphan, shall feel his justice. 
 'AVe are fatherless — our mother a widov/.' Keep our 
 rightful means, if you will ; let them help to surround 
 you with ease while you live ; let them do their part to 
 keep away the want that may goad us ; but rest assured 
 of this — an hour will come — it ivill come, if not in health, 
 in the time of dreary sickness, or fearful death — when you 
 will be compelled to meet again the decision of this mo- 
 ment. No; hear me out," she continued, as Mrs. Bryson 
 made an attempt to interrupt her ; " you must meet this 
 deliberate determination to 'oppress the widow and the fa- 
 therless,' for yoit know, and I know, that you have the 
 power to relieve us without injury to yourself — you must 
 m^eet it before the eye of infinite justice. Enjoy, then, 
 madam, to the utmost — the richness and the glitter of this 
 princely home ;" and she swept her hand round the costly- 
 decorated room ; — let your damasks and tapestries muffle 
 the sound of the sobs it costs others for you to retain 
 them ; let your chandeliers sparkle so that your dazzled 
 eyes may not see the character of the thing you have done. 
 You will learn that in the inevitable blaze of eternity !" 
 Edith w-alked w^ith a lofty step from her presence ; and 
 it was not till she found herself again in the carriage, that 
 her old tremor returned, the overstrained nerves relaxed, and 
 the tears she could not keep back, gathered blindingly 
 over her sight. 
 
222 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 '' It is useless," she said to herself, " to go to Mr. Bry- 
 son. jifter this inexorable woman, what better can I hope 
 for from him ? But then I might reflect on myself for 
 havino^ left somethinsf untried. Mother — Lawrence — Zil- 
 pha ! Yes, I could walk through fire and water for your 
 sweet sakes ! I will go." 
 
 In one of the busiest parts of street, facing 
 
 wharves strewn with bales and boxes, amid the haunts of 
 shipping merchants, where the sight of a lady was enough 
 to elicit a stare, Edith alighted — having been furnished 
 by Mr. Dubois with the number of Mr. Bryson's house. 
 She entered a vast room, whose contents were being in- 
 voiced by several clerks, and was nearly overthrown by 
 the jostling against her of draymen, who were removing 
 barrels and bales under the direction of other employees of 
 the establishment. With one accord, they all paused in 
 their work, as Edith's slight figure passed up the room. 
 Timidly she looked round, not knowing to whom to 
 address herself. 
 
 " What's your business, ma'am ?" inquired a pert young 
 knight of the quill, looking up from his ledger. *' A queer 
 place this for a woman." 
 
 "" Hush I Jacobs !" interposed another. '' Don't you see 
 she's a lady ?" « 
 
 '' Wharves are not the places for parlor manners, or for 
 ladies either," replied the other. '' Who are you looking 
 for, Miss ?" 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 223 
 
 Edith scorned any aid from that source, and continued 
 to advance to the head of the long room, and for the mo- 
 ment, she owned to herself that she would rather forfeit 
 the sum she was in search of, than run the gauntlet thus. 
 A quiet, elderly man saw her embarrassment, and came 
 forward. 
 
 *' What is it ?" he asked. " Can I be of any service, 
 
 ma' am : 
 
 ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; by conducting me to Mr. Bryson." 
 " We have our orders, ma'am, not to admit visitors." 
 " I'm not a visitor ; I come on business." 
 " He might be displeased, ma'am ; he is very busy." 
 " I'll bear the consequences of his displeasure. It can't 
 hurt you^ I suppose." 
 
 " He's hurt me to the best of his ability, already — - 
 three months' salary in arrears. I'm in the employ 
 of the creditors now ; but I don't care to seem to beard 
 him. He's down, you know, and one hates to trample 
 on a fallen man ; but, if you're bent on it, ma'am, I sup- 
 pose I may as well show yon ; — this way, if you please." 
 Edith followed to an upper story ; and before she could 
 know where she was, the clerk had opened the door, ush- 
 ered her in, and was gone. 
 
 Desks and high stools, with clerks seated on them here 
 and there, day-books and ledgers, were all that met her 
 view ; nothing but the turning of leaves, and the monoto- 
 nous scratch, scratch of pens met her ear. She ran her 
 
224 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 eye up the apartment, and at length descried the object 
 of her search in a recess, busied over papers, and wholly 
 unconscious of her presence, until she stood before him and 
 uttered his name. He raised his gold spectacles. 
 
 " Am I to believe my eyes ? Miss Irvine ! why how 
 could you have found your way here ? The first time,, I 
 venture, these walls were ever honored by the presence 
 of one of your gentle sex. Johnson, bring this lady a seat. 
 Sorry I've no better accommodations than a hard chair. 
 Can scarcely ask you to sit down either, Miss Edith. 
 This unfortunate juncture in my business affairs, of which, 
 I can't flatter myself, you have not heard, leaves me nei- 
 ther time for eating or sleeping, I may say. A hard lot, 
 when I've been toiling so sedulously, for years, to win a 
 competence for my family, to see it swept away by the 
 unavoidable mischances of trade ; but I don't complain. 
 Miss Edith. I know who orders all things, and try to 
 submit to his will ;" and Mr. Bryson bowed his head rev- 
 erently over his desk, as if indeed he were saying, " thine 
 be done." 
 
 " Yes," said Edith, waiving away the boy who was 
 bringing her the seat, and dashing in medias res, at once 
 — " yes, Mr. Bryson, it is hard to lose our means of living, 
 ivholly, and just because it is, am I here to-day." 
 
 She then went on clearly to state her business, and her 
 family's necessities — her mother's unwillingness to have 
 her money, which he had held, classed with the claims 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 225 
 
 of the other creditors, and finished by an appeal to him to 
 press upon his wife the payment of it out of the settle- 
 ment he had made upon her — her undoubted knowledge 
 of which she gave him to understand. 
 
 " I am told that a large portion of this sum is invested 
 in stocks. Now," continued Edith, not allow- 
 ing herself to be silenced by Mr. Bryson's repeated at- 
 tempts to talk her down, " like a man who prefers a 
 stainless reputation, to all the wealth these lines of store- 
 houses, and of shipping, cover — who faces poverty, if need 
 be, rather than abate one jot of his high honor, just prom- 
 ise me that you will try and induce Mrs. Bryson to make 
 a transfer of the amount in stocks, to my mo- 
 ther, which, if she loves your honor as a wife should, she 
 will not refuse to do." 
 
 *' You are wonderfully well posted up in regard to my 
 affairs. Miss Edith. The truth is, I have managed to 
 scrape together a sufficiency to keep my family above 
 want, for the present, till I can get my affairs into a pro- 
 per train again. As to denying the full amount of your 
 mother's claim, I feel insulted at the bare suggestion. 
 Indeed, I have been so aggrieved at the issue of things, 
 as to shrink, unwarrantably, from giving her the pain the 
 communication of my disasters must necessarily occasion. 
 That^ you may well understand, kept me from broaching 
 the subject to you, a few days since, when you did me 
 the kindness to call on me. But time, Miss Edith, only 
 
 10 
 
226 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 time is wanting. I will rise yet, like a Phenix, from the 
 ashes of my downfall, and will be able to pay your mo- 
 ther principal and interest, even to the compomid. Rest 
 assured of that, and don't lacerate me by any allusion to 
 want on your part." 
 
 " Unless you can, at once, put us into possession of at 
 least part of the money, I tell you, we ivill be in need. 
 My brother must have remittances." 
 
 Mr. Bryson covered his face with his hand, as if to shut 
 out so hideous a spectre, and remained silent. Edith 
 went on. 
 
 *' I called upon Mrs. Bryson this morning, and though 
 my representations affected nothing, I am perfectly per- 
 suaded that you can induce her to regard this debt as 
 of too special a character to be classed with your others. 
 Now, by your honor as a gentleman — by your desire for 
 the character of probity among the great merchants of 
 your city — by the memory of my father's early friendship 
 for you — by your sense of justice as a man, and by your 
 hope as a debtor before God, I ask you to win your wife 
 to a compliance with my demand. "WTiat ought money 
 to be to her in comparison with your good name ? Here 
 is my mother's letter to you, in which she deputes me to 
 act as her proxy." 
 
 She laid the letter on the desk. Mr. Bryson read it 
 without a word of reply ; then folded it slowly up. 
 
 " You are hurried, no doubt," continued Edith, " and 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 227 
 
 greatly annoyed, and I don't wish, to intrude farther upon 
 you. Here is pen and paper : sign me a written pledge 
 that you will get Mrs. Bryson's consent to the adjustment 
 I desire ; for, if it is your wish to settle the matter thus, 
 she will surely comply." 
 
 " Suppose every other creditor should make a similar 
 demand, how long would my wife and children be out of 
 the alms-house ? But, I really am earnestly desirous to 
 do what I can for you. Let me see," he mused, counting 
 the fingers of his left hand, '' in five ; no, in seven days 
 hence, I may he able to make a disposition of matters 
 that shall satisfy you. By the way, where shall I call 
 on you ?" 
 
 Edith told him. 
 
 "Ah! that accounts — well, well, let me hand you 
 down to your carriage. Dispatch, dispatch is my watch- 
 word now ; or, no," he added, taking out his watch ; 
 " shall be compelled to sacrifice my gallantry for once. 
 Johnson, tell Mr. Kites to show this lady to her carriage. 
 Grood-morning, Miss Edith. You have my pledge for 
 next week : good-morning ;" and Edith found herself on 
 the outside of the door, to which Mr. Bryson had con- 
 ducted her, before she could crowd in a reply. 
 
I 
 
XXI. 
 
 Contrasts. 
 
 " I HAVE a composition to write to-day, dear sister Edith," 
 \Yas the purport of a letter received a day or two after this, 
 " and so I have begged mother to let me make a letter 
 to you out of it ; and as I have not much to say, it will 
 suit very well ; for, I remember once, you told me I must 
 write what was not worth saying, as well as what was. 
 Eunice has no trouble at all with her compositions. She's 
 got her head crammed full of those everlasting Roman 
 stories, and so she just writes one of them off. I could do 
 that, too, if I knew them ; it's a mighty easy way — a great 
 deal easier than making them out of a body's head, as I 
 have to do. 
 
 " Me and Uncle Felix has fine times — there ! Eunice 
 made me make that blot. She looked over my shoulder, 
 and said she thought a singular verb would do very well 
 for us two ; for, taking us together, we make a singular 
 pair. "Well, me and Uncle Felix have (you see I cor- 
 
230 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 rected my grammer this time!) have elegant times 
 hunting eggs now. We know of twelve nests ; and Ho- 
 mer and Silvy each got a good shaking from Uncle Felix 
 the other day for daring to go before I did to hunt the 
 nests. We have begun to save up eggs for Christmas, and 
 we are going to make a plumb-cake in honor of your com- 
 ing home. At first, mother said she thought you would 
 be satisfied with pound-cake, and that fruit was expensive 
 here ; but I quietly got Uncle Felix to carry eight 
 dozen of eggs to Milburne, and get currants, and raisins, 
 and citron for them. Mother did not know anything 
 about it. She did not dream I had saved such a parcel 
 of eggs, till Uncle Felix brought in the bundles ; and she 
 wasn't a bit angry — she only laughed, and called me ' a 
 little Yankee.' 
 
 " Last Tuesday we all were invited to dinner at Mrs. 
 Grant's. There was ever so much company there, and 
 mother said if she had known how much of a dinner-party 
 it was to be, she would not have taken Eunice and me. 
 Oh ! I must tell you about my accident. Don't you think, 
 when one of the servants was lifting the white cloth, and 
 another was putting round the finger-bowls, I gave his 
 hand such a knock with my elbow, that the bowl went 
 spinning across the table into Miss Lettuce's lap, spilling 
 all the water over the red damask cloth. I was mightily 
 ashamed, and made a dash to save it ; but Miss Lettuce 
 only laughed, and said something aibont four paivs. I 
 
COXTEASTS. 231 
 
 reckon she thonght two weren't enough to catch it. I 
 don't thank her, though, for calling my hands ^azi^s, as if 
 I was a cat I Eunice is bothering me again. She's 
 laughing ready to hurt herself, and says it was ' a French 
 phrase ' Miss Lettuce used ; but I don't believe it was. I 
 heard her say ' fore paw,' or ' four paws,' very plainly. 
 I didn't enjoy myself a great deal. There were no little 
 girls there ; and Eunice found a book, and curled herself 
 up in a corner of a sofa, and read all the time, except 
 while we were at dinner. You know how she does. 
 " Now and Then " was the name of it. I whispered to her 
 that 710W was the time to look about, and when she went 
 home, then would be the time to read ; but she's deaf and 
 blind when she gets a book she likes, and never minded 
 me. 
 
 *'Mrs. G-rantley was there, and she told us aheap about 
 her being in Europe ; and Miss Burton asked mother ever 
 so many questions about you and brother Lawrie, and 
 sister, and all how she liked Silverwood. But you ought 
 to have heard Miss Lettuce teazing Mr. Bunbury. He 
 seemed so puzzled, that it was funny to see him. I 
 think she was laughing at him ; and Eunice says she's 
 sure of it. 
 
 " Aunt Rose does make such nice muffins now ! She 
 says she ' reckons dem white L'isher cooks don't make 
 none no better for Miss Edith away yonder.' I reckon so 
 too. And now, when are you coming home, dear sister 
 
232 SILVEEWOOD. 
 
 Edith ? Eunice and I get on capitally without you ; but 
 I think mother is lonely sometimes. Last Sunday we 
 went to church right early, and mother took us to the 
 grave-yard to see where our fatffer is buried. I wish she 
 had not gone, Edith ; it made her cry, for I saw tears in 
 her eyes all the time Mr. Morris was preaching, though 
 she didn't know I was watching her. I like mother's 
 face to be bright all the time — it seems to me as if the 
 sun was not shining when she looks sorry. 
 
 " Isn't this a brave, long letter ? But I must stop, now, 
 and see if Homer has fed the turkeys. Mother and 
 Eunice send best love ; so do Uncle Felix, and Aunt 
 Rose, and Daphne. 
 
 " Your ever affectionate little sister, 
 
 '^ JOSEPHA." 
 
 Edith had read the letter without stopping to lay aside 
 her out-door wrappings, and Jacqueline entered her cham- 
 ber, as she refolded it. 
 
 '' I suppose, of course, you don't accept Mrs. Brearly's 
 invitation for to-night." 
 
 ^' Why, ' of course V " asked Edith. 
 
 " Because you have been out so long, and left no time 
 for the preparation of your toilet. What made you stay so 
 unconscionably ? I grew so impatient to have you help 
 me decide some points of my dress." 
 
 Edith might have told her that she had been sitting for 
 
CONTRASTS. 238 
 
 the two past hours at the miserable bed-side of the young 
 orphan of whom Dr. Dubois had spoken ; but she did not. 
 
 "As to my toilet, that 'ashes of roses' moir antique 
 would be quite sufficient for my wants," said Edith. 
 
 " Bless me ! that wouldn't do. It's to be a gay, fash- 
 ionable party ; and with that sad-colored thing, made up 
 to your throat, too, why that would be most antique, w^ith 
 a vengeance." 
 
 Edith remembered, with a sudden gush of tenderness, 
 that the dress so lightly tossed aside in Jacqueline's 
 thoughts, was purchased with a secret pleasure by her 
 mother, with some money she had hoarded for the purpose, 
 as a birthday present ; and she recalled the bright look of 
 gratification that dear face had worn, as she surprised her 
 with it, and displayed its rich folds, and listened to her 
 own admiration of the pure taste displayed in its selection ; 
 and then she recurred to the loving alacrity with which 
 those skilfull fingers had helped to make it up, after her 
 brother and sister had gone, bestowing all that was pos- 
 sible in the way of the most beautiful needlework upon 
 it, to add to its attractiveness as a dress — and to hear 
 it ridiculed thus ! Her heart summoned a tear, but the 
 steady eye remained unfilmed. 
 
 " I think," she only said, as she turned the key upon 
 these simple, but to her, touching memories — "I think my 
 wisdom would be shown to be superior to yours, by wear- 
 ing neck and arms covered, with the thermometer at IS° 
 
 10* 
 
234 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 Fahrenheit. It certainly is senseless folly for ladies to 
 expose themselves, as they do, at parties, with uncovered 
 necks, arms bare to the shoulder, silken hose, and satin 
 slippers, when gentlemen are shivering in broadcloth. I 
 wonder the latter are able to put any faith whatever in 
 women's sense." 
 
 "■ That's just the way John is forever railing, when he 
 sees me dressed for a party ; but I set it all down to the 
 account of his profession. But, pray, where's the use of 
 having beauty, if we don't display it to the best advan- 
 tage ? For my part, I think it would be something like 
 folly to cover up that,^^ and she swept up her loosened 
 sleeve to the shoulder, baring to Edith's view, an arm of 
 ivory whiteness. 
 » "You think with Waller— 
 
 " ' Small is the worth 
 Of beauty from the light retired.' 
 
 '' You deny imagination any exercise, by leaving no 
 charms so vaguely defined, as to offer room for its sugges- 
 tions." 
 
 " Where there is perfection, imagination can have no- 
 thing to do," said Jacqueline, conceitedly ; '' and I have 
 all the authority of art on my side. But, seriously, now, 
 you are not going to Mrs. Brearly's with that queer dress 
 on. I should feel my taste greatly compromised by letting 
 you go from this house in no better party trim." 
 
CONTRASTS. 235 
 
 '' Then I might act as your foil. But no," and Edith 
 drew herself up with a dignity that compelled Jacqueline 
 to feel for a moment that she had gone too far. " I have 
 not had the slightest intention of going, or wish to go to 
 Mrs. Brearly's to-night; so you will be spared having 
 me as your umhra.''^ 
 
 Dinner was no sooner over than Jacqueline insisted on 
 some aid at the hands of Edith. There could be no pleasure 
 in ministering to the endless demands of so selfish a nature, 
 and the pertinacious request was rebelled against, in- 
 wardly ; but Edith remembered the " seventy times seven," 
 and complied. She had j ust finished arranging some ncEuds 
 of ribbon on the dress chosen for the evening, and was 
 farther provided with a pair of white gloves, which were 
 to be edged with a fall of lace, when a servant came to 
 say, that Dr. Dubois wished to know if Miss Edith would 
 go with him to see the sick child. 
 
 " Preposterous I" exclaimed Jacqueline. " Tell him to 
 be sure not. It's too late ; besides, she's busy." 
 
 " Certainly, I will go, Jacqueline." 
 
 " Now, Edith, you'll do no such thing. It is unkind 
 in John to be wanting you to go at this hour. See, the 
 sun is down. Jane, light the gas." 
 
 " Tell him I will be there in a moment," said Edith, 
 emptying her lap of lace and ribbons ; but the servant had 
 departed with Jacqueline's message. 
 
 " Now, don't go," begged Jacqueline, seizing her hands, 
 
236 SILVEEWOOD, 
 
 as she was about to pass out. " Jane can't arrange the 
 flowers in my hair as you can ; and I want to look my 
 best to-night." 
 
 " I can be back in time to act tire- woman ;" and, dis- 
 engaging herself, she hurried down stairs. But it was too 
 late ; Dr. Dubois had gone. 
 
 Jacqueline sat in the library, her head swathed in the 
 voluminous folds of a " nubia," and a fur-lined cloak 
 thrown over her shoulders, awaiting the carriage, while 
 her maid kneeled on the carpet beside her, drawing over 
 the white slippers a pair of Polish boots, when her brother 
 entered. He surveyed the arch and radiant face, gravely, 
 even sternly, but without speaking. 
 
 '* I was extremely sorry," said Edith, laying down her 
 book, " that you had gone before I came down stairs this 
 evening, doctor. I should certainly have w^alked with you 
 to see your poor patient." 
 
 r .." I thought the message I received could not have been 
 yours." 
 
 " No. / sent it out of kindness to Edith. She is too 
 young and pretty to turn sister of charity quite yet." 
 
 *' Enough, if you please, Jacqueline. But how is the 
 poor girl ?" 
 
 " Dead," replied Dr. Dubois, laconically. 
 
 " Dead .^" repeated Edith, w4th a start. '' Why, I saw 
 her this morning, and did not conceive of the end being 
 so near." 
 
C0NTEAST3. 237 
 
 '' It is not an hour since she hreathecl her last. Jac- 
 qaeline, I wish you might have seen the look of disap- 
 pointment that wan face wore, when she asked if ]\Iiss 
 Edith would not come and see her die. It would be 
 something for you to carry with you to the party 
 to-night." 
 
 " Pray, how could I know she was going to die ?" 
 
 " It might have been the same, if you had," was the 
 somewhat bitter reply. " You have denied a dying fel- 
 low-creature the only earthly solace she asked, that a bit 
 of lace, or a knot of ribbon, might be more becomingly 
 disposed. Again, I say, I wish you joy of your evening." 
 
 He was about to turn on his heel, when Edith detained 
 him ; and Jacqueline starting up, with an exclamation, 
 that the aunt for whom she w^as to call, would be tired 
 waiting, kissed the tips of her fingers to Edith, and de- 
 parted, without vouchsafing a look towards her brother. 
 
 " Don't go," said Edith, with an earnest face, " with- 
 out letting me know, doctor, how poor Elsie died. Ah ! 
 I ought not to say j^oor. She is one of ' the just made 
 perfect' now. Her hour in Heaven has more than com- 
 pensated for the poverty and loneliness of her whole orphan 
 life. She is rich ; but how did she die ?" 
 
 " "With a strange calmness." 
 
 " I knew she would I" exclaimed Edith, with emotion. 
 " I thank God for the redemption of the promise to which 
 she was clinging so fondly this morning — ' When thou 
 passest through the waters, I will be with th^e.'" 
 
238 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 " After all, Miss Edith, there is something mysterious, 
 unfathomable to me about this religion. I have stood at 
 two death-beds to-day, — contrasts in every conceivable 
 point, — the rich old man's, one of gloom ; this destitute 
 orphan's, one of heavenly peace. During my life 
 abroad, I had almost learned to regard all religion as 
 a delusion ; but, if it is, I pray now to die so deluded." 
 ^ " I am delighted to hear you say so," said Edith, shad- 
 ing her dark eyes, as she spoke, to hide the sudden dim- 
 ness that clouded them ; " for, if there is delusion in the 
 faith Christians profess, then is there no truth anywhere. 
 Phantasies cheat us when we bring them to a stern test ; 
 but, who ever heard of a sincere believer confessing on a 
 death-bed, that his experience had been no more than a 
 fanatic's dream ? and who ever heard the dying man of 
 the world say other than that his life had been wasted — 
 his confidence in his principles deceptive ? Nothing less 
 than the faith of the Christian can carry the most heroic, 
 even, who looks death deliberately in the eye, fearlessly 
 through the terrific struggle." 
 
 " Soldiers die heroically on the battle-field — marching 
 up to their death without a tremor." 
 
 " Yes ; where thought is wholly stifled amid the wild 
 confusion of war ; w^here man, the animal, entirely holds 
 in abeyance, man, the intellectual being. Bat think how 
 delicate women, who shrink from anything like self-de- 
 pendance, step untremblingly forth into the dread un- 
 
CONTEASTS. 289 
 
 known, and meet death without a thought of fear. 
 Even children — those old enough to be accountable agents, 
 I mean, such as poor Elsie — have you not seen them bid 
 parents, brothers, sisters, farewell, with a smile of joy — 
 put their trusting little hands into that of the unseen 
 Saviour, and suffer themselves to be led away without a 
 tear ?" 
 
 " The Hindoo wife chants her death-song on the funeral 
 pile ; the Pagan Socrates encounters the future with 
 a smile ; the atheist Mirabeau breathes out his soul in a 
 sensuous rapture ; the philosophic Groethe placidly de- 
 parts with the exclamation for ' more light ' on his lips. 
 Let but the faith be unshaken in what the soul professes 
 to believe, and it can go on calmly. Christians sometimes 
 die in gloom ; and mere moralists die — " 
 
 "Ah! never in triumph," said Edith, quickly. "To 
 wear the outward garb of serenity, is the utmost their 
 philosophy can compass. Christians may pass away 
 under a cloud ; but none, I believe, ever do, who have 
 ' adorned the doctrine of G-od their Saviour,' unless phys- 
 ical reasons can account for it, as in the case of the poet 
 Cowper. You may remember Dr. Johnson's reply, when 
 he was told of the calmness with which some criminal had 
 met death — ' Sir, they never thought in their lives.' So 
 with a fearful multitude — the first thorough waking up 
 of thought is beyond the grave." 
 
 " It is all a mystery — life — death," said Dr. Dubois, 
 
240 SILVEKWOOD. 
 
 musingly. '' Under your guidance, Miss Edith, I might 
 arrive at safer conclusions than have ever visited me yet ; 
 but I am compelled to go now, most unwillingly. I wish 
 you had gone to Mrs. Brearly's, for you will have a lonely 
 time of it by yourself — though here comes my father to 
 keep you company." 
 
 " With all these silent, unobtrusive, delightful compan- 
 ions," said Edith, pointing to the rows of volumes that 
 lined the library walls, " I w^ould be most unreasonable ■ 
 to complain of loneliness ; and, I dare say, Mr. Dubois and 
 I will find our re-union composed of choicer spirits than 
 any that grace Mrs. Brearly's rooms to-night." 
 
XXII. 
 
 % §Mpt into a leart. 
 
 — << Why weepest thou ?" — Editli started at the tone and 
 the words, for there was a suffusion about her own eyes, 
 as she sat lonely and thoughtful in the corner of a pew 
 that Sabbath afternoon — a mood superinduced, perhaps, 
 in some degree, by the mournful music that had just died 
 away, leaving the air still undulating from the waves of 
 sound stirred by the full- toned organ. " Why weepest 
 thou ?" The words were again repeated by another voice 
 than the one that had conducted the previous services, 
 and Edith bent forward with a look as eager as if she 
 supposed the question specially addressed to herself. 
 
 The clergyman began, in a low pervading voice, by 
 describing the presence of death in a dwelling — the un- 
 utterable, unearthly loneliness that " stays on," even when 
 the straight, cold form is carried from the darkened cham- 
 ber, to its last resting-place — the return of the stricken 
 ones to the forsaken home, from which no sun seems bright 
 
242 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 enough ever again to chide away the gloom — the pall-like 
 settling down of 
 
 " The shadows all have known, who from their hearts 
 Have released friends to heaven." 
 
 He portrayed them as the experience of the loving Mary 
 durins: that most desolate to her of all Sabbaths — the one 
 in which her Redeemer lay in the tomb of Joseph. He 
 spoke of the restless, aching heart that could know no 
 quiet, that drew her away from her sleepless pillow before 
 the morning light, to " the place where they laid him." 
 Those hands, clasped in such speechless agony, had broken 
 the alabaster-box of precious ointment over the stirless 
 head of the beloved Master — that hair, falling over the tear- 
 stained face, had wiped the wearied feet that were never 
 more to be worn with earthly travel ; but even the 
 strange, the awful pleasure of looking, as she had hoped, 
 upon that dead brow — of binding her costly spices about 
 those wounded hands — of touching the pierced* feet, was to 
 be denied her. The indistinct thought which his words, 
 remembered but not understood, had left in her mind — the 
 something between her and utter hopelessness — was taken 
 away — Jesus was dead I The passionate intensity of her 
 woman' love and tenderness are thrown back upon heart, 
 and it is crushed — ^broken ! 
 
 " Why weepest thou ?" It was not strange the tempest 
 of such a grief should drown the divine pathos of those 
 
A GLIMPSE INTO A HEART. 243 
 
 words, — ^' They have taken away my Lord !" How 
 uncontrollable the "burst of tears at the designation she 
 herself uses ! — " my Lord I" And the head, for a moment 
 lifted, falls again upon the tightened hands in fresh bit- 
 terness. 
 
 '^ Mary V Was it from heaven the sound came ? 
 Surely that was the voice of the Beloved ! Her whole 
 being thrills to its more than human sweetness ; she looks 
 up ; the tears tremble unshed in her glistening eyes ; she 
 turns ; she springs forwards ; she falls at his feet with the 
 rapturous exclamation — " Rabboni /" Then the speaker 
 considered earth'-s many weepers, and the causes of their 
 varied sorrows — the tears that are shed over disappointed 
 hopes, worldly crosses, losses and trials; and sho»vedthat 
 not under the pressure of such griefs, when borne as the 
 world bears them, might we expect to hear the word of 
 comfort whispered divinely to our hearts. But when the 
 soul pines in sadness and desertion because the Beloved is 
 gone — goes to the cross and the tomb with the " sweet 
 spices" of love and devotion, and turns away uncomforted, 
 from those it supposes only the keepers of earthly gar- 
 dens — then it is that under such a revelation as Mary's, 
 it will be enabled with no less joy, to exclaim — "Master !" 
 
 Edith's full heart responded while she listened, and 
 under the irresistible tide of other memories and influ- 
 ences, she had almost forgotten where she was ; for, when 
 she had last heard that voice, the falling leaves of autumn 
 
244 SILVER WOOD. 
 
 were rustling around the country church through which 
 its tones rang; for it was Bryant Woodruff who occupied 
 the pulpit. 
 
 She remained in the distant pew until the congregation 
 had almost entirely dispersed, waiting to speak with him. 
 Slowly he followed down the long aisle, after parting with 
 the clergyman for whom he had officiated, and was just 
 passing out with the last stragglers, when a turn of his 
 head brought her into view. In an instant he was at her 
 side, with an expression on his face that bespoke the ut- 
 most perplexity. 
 
 " I must see more of you," he said, after a few hurried 
 questions, still pressing her hand between both of his own. 
 " If I walk with you to Mr. Dubois', I must see the fam- 
 ily, of course, and that I don't want ; and most unfortu- 
 nately, I am obliged to go by the earliest morning train. 
 Stay ! I know the sexton. Excuse me for one moment." 
 
 Bryant returned after a few minutes' absence. " The 
 sexton has the lecture-room below stairs, disarranged by 
 the Sunday-school, to get in order for a meeting to-night ; 
 so he will be about the church for some little time, and 
 we will just sit here. Now tell me all about the why 
 and wherefore of your being here so unexpectedly." 
 
 *' And why?" he asked, half reproachfully, when Edith 
 had satisfied him ; " why did Cousin Mary not write to 
 me, and put the affair into my hands ? You see I am 
 here at any rate, on some business of my own, and 
 
A GLIMPSE INTO A HEART. 245 
 
 you might have been spared all the trouble of so long a 
 journey?" 
 
 Edith explained ; but he seemed almost hurt, and in- 
 sisted that he would return, (after he had gone and per- 
 formed the marriage ceremony that called him home,) see 
 Mr. Bryson, and then conduct her safe to Silverwood. 
 
 Edith told him that the business with Mr. Bryson was 
 to be finally settled the next day — that she had his pro- 
 mise to that effect, and that the same gentleman, a 
 pleasant, elderly man, who had been her companion to 
 
 , expected to go back to Milburne in a few days ; so 
 
 that, however she might be tempted to accept his kind- 
 ness, she felt it would be wholly unnecessary to put him 
 to all that trouble. He was induced to think so, too, at 
 length. Then they talked about Lawrence and Zilpha, 
 and he gave her some of the incidents of the southward 
 journey, which their letters had omitted — incidents that 
 had more meaninsr in them to his listener's ear than he 
 was aware, perhaps, of conveying. 
 
 " Edith," he said, suddenly, tightening the clasp of his 
 fingers over her hand ; '' Edith, if the companionship of 
 the purest, loftiest-thoughted, most exquisitely-balanced, 
 and most symmetrical of all the minds I have ever had 
 knowledge of, cayi do anything for the physical man, 
 Lawrence will get well. I sounded the depth of Zilpha's 
 nature more during those few days' of travel with her, 
 than ever before. I got nearer, and looked deeper into it, 
 
246 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 and how crystalline clear it is — so placid, so serene, that 
 casual gazers might fancy its depths easily fathomed, till 
 they find, from trial, that they have no line long enough. 
 There is such a sweet simplicity — such an ingenuous 
 directness — such a singleness of purpose, in all she says 
 and does. No disguisements ; no concealments ; none of 
 the innocent and pretty vanities — forgive me for saying it — 
 which cling, in more or less degree, to almost all women. 
 She has the artless guilelessness of a child, united to the 
 ripe, mature susceptibilities of the most perfect woman- 
 hood. Ah ! Edith ! it is a beautiful soul ! I meet its 
 steady gaze out of those clear pupils, and I wonder how 
 they can reveal to me so much. I think I know now 
 what Wordsworth means by 'the harvest of a quiet 
 eye ;' but when I see how her fine, natural characteris- 
 tics are heightened and purified by the all-pervading love 
 and gentleness of Christ, you would think me extrava- 
 gant were I to say all I feel. "With many, the very depth 
 of this religious sentiment may sometimes too much 
 chasten mere earthly enjoyment ; but it is far different 
 with her. It is the lucid medium through which every 
 object seems clothed with more than its own brightness. 
 Yes ; it is a beautiful soul !" 
 
 The hand over which Bryant's had been closed, was 
 withdrawn while he had been speaking, to shade the 
 averted face ; but in his earnest utterance he had not 
 noticed the gesture. He looked up as if awaiting a reply ; 
 
A GLIMPSE INTO A HEART. 247 
 
 and if Zilpha had stood transfigured to his thought, in 
 the light of love and memory, Edith was no less so that 
 moment to his eye, for through the stained glass of the 
 western window, the setting sun poured in its rays of 
 crimson and gold over her face. 
 
 *' Ah ! don't destroy the illusion," he said, detaining her 
 from moving behind a pillar ; " you make me almost 
 fancy that Zilpha is before me. The burnished gleam on 
 your hair gives its black a chestnut tinge like hers, and 
 the glow over your white cheek warms it to her color. 
 I wonder I never traced more resemblance between you 
 before — the same straight nose ; the same short upper 
 lip and curved mouth. Yes, Edith, you are like her." 
 
 " No, no," said Edith, turning away her face ; '' there 
 is not much outward resemblance, and less inward, I'm 
 afraid. Oh ! to be more like her ! for she is even lovelier 
 than your words have made her. You are right ; Zilpha — 
 our Zilpha — " 
 
 '' Ou7' Zilpha," repeated Bryant, catching the emphasis 
 quickly; " why do you say that ?" 
 
 ^' Because — because — " Edith bowed her head down 
 upon the seat, as if a sudden faintness had seized her. 
 The choked voice could go no further. Bryant gently 
 raised her, and put back, with his finger, the fold of hair 
 that had loosened over her forehead ; but it would come — 
 that heavy drop, and he felt it fall upon his hand. 
 
 '' I am not surprised you should suffer in her absence 
 
24:8 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 from you. I know how hard that is to bear." Yet the 
 tender considerateness of his manner did not soothe 
 Edith. The touch of his hand she almost shrank from, as 
 if it had power to give her pain. 
 
 But the gathering twilight was settling down over the 
 empty pews. Just then the sexton appeared, and signi- 
 fied his readiness to close the church ; so silently drawing 
 Edith's hand within his arm, Bryant passed out with her 
 from that Sabbath solitude to the unwelcome noise and 
 hurry of the thronged pavement again. 
 
XXI IL 
 
 |ntr0spttih* 
 
 " It is over at last — my beautiful dream ! I am awake 
 now, and see all too clearly what I might have known, if I 
 would, long ago. Yes; I might have been sure that it 
 was impossible he should be associated with her as he has 
 been, and not love her with all the passion of his strong, 
 noble heart : and it is right ; she is worthier than I of 
 such love ; she is all he has described her — just as pure ; 
 just as akin to the angels above us. There is no wrong 
 done me. My own blind heart alone is to blame for the 
 throbbing pain that aches through it, and it shall bear its 
 own punishment. Many and many are the unrecognised 
 martyrs that have walked smiling over this earth, while 
 the fiery cross to which they have been bound, burned, 
 and the ashes of blight smouldered above their dead affec- 
 tions. If it is appointed me to join their train, have I any 
 risjht to murmur ? 
 
 *' Yes ; I can understand now, what I have been accus- 
 11 
 
250 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 tomed to misconstrue. It was from my book he always 
 read, when we used sometimes to study together — not 
 hers. I, silly thing ! did not dream that his unconscious 
 love — unconfcssed even to himself, perhaps, then — would 
 have blurred the lines for him, had he felt her eyes on the 
 same page — did not imagine why the voluble tongue, 
 that owned no constraint in viy presence, was often silent 
 in hers — did not know why his hand should so often close 
 untremblingly over mine, yet never touch hers I 
 
 '' How steadily she went on in the pursuit of knowledge 
 from the pure love of it ! I always knew my own motive 
 to be less noble. My heart could not hide from me, that 
 for his sake, I was striving to develope to the utmost, 
 whatever native powers I possessed — for his sake I per- 
 sisted in studies such as she thought too much out of wo- 
 man's line — ^that it was his tastes, rather than my own, I 
 was seeking to please — his stand-point I loved to assume 
 — his sympathies to which I was fitting the key, which, 
 nevertheless, wound readily through the same wards, and 
 unlocked kindred feelings in the depths of my own nature. 
 His enthusiasms did ever seem more nearly allied with 
 mine than with hers. Nature's heart interested her the 
 most. The human heart, with its loves and sufferings, its 
 hopes, and its fears, and its tendernesses, was a choicer 
 study — a more congenial theme to me, and I think, too, to 
 him. But Nature was to her only another name for 
 Grod ; and in her purer simplicity of soul, the wisdom the 
 
 I 
 
INTROSPECTIVE. 251 
 
 stars taught, was holier to her than what I gathered from 
 earthly constellations — the poetry of woods, and waters, and 
 flowers, and hirds, truer and more perfect than what I 
 learned from the heart of man. When I, following in the 
 wake of his chosen favorites, was content to find my delight 
 in the pathos or passion of classic dramatists, or, in the 
 livid gloom of Dante, or the fancy of Spencer, or the majes- 
 ty of Milton, or the philosophy of Wordsworth, receiving the 
 interpretations of Nature second-hand, from such high- 
 priests as these, she turned from them, in their ' singing 
 robes,' and with their swinging censers, and for herself, 
 entered Nature's 'holy of holies,' because the sanctifying 
 blood of a divine High Priest had forever consecrated it to 
 her as the temple of his earthly praise. Hers has been 
 the holier worship. It is right she should have the most 
 of this life's reward. 
 
 " He has loved her best, perhaps, for this very differ- 
 ence of tastes. We covet most what we do not ourselves 
 possess. There must be contrariety — beautiful and har- 
 monious antagonism. What one has not, is sought for in 
 the other — thus the cycle of qualities is completed. The 
 union of the two forms one perfect soul; and she will 
 wholly satisfy him, for love will stand and hold the 
 torrh by which they will study together all of life's beau- 
 tiful and mysterious lessons. And I ; shall I sullenly 
 shut my page, because for me, this torch is an inverted 
 one now ? Shall all my book of the future be blotted, or 
 
252 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 its record of blight be written only with bitter tears? 
 This is what a thwarted heart would dictate ; but what 
 right have I to let a fellow mortal shadow from me all 
 brightness ? There are other torches than that of love. 
 Fame holds a flaming one. Shall I let the dormant power 
 I am sometimes half conscious of, flash forth to meet it ? 
 Yes, if I would find, in the end, that from which my wo- 
 man's nature would turn, misled and unsolaced — that 
 which would go out, and leave me in pitiless gloom. 
 
 " There are others to be loved and lived for. To be hap- 
 py, was not God's first object in creatmg us, but to be holy, 
 to do, and to bear, that happiness may follow. How often 
 have J pleaded the theory of necessary discipline ; and 
 now, when it comes, to teach me to grow stronger, and bet- 
 ter, and more unselfish, I faint over the lesson, I murmur — 
 so inconsistent, and so like me I Part, ' fine gold ;' part, 
 * miry clay ! ' 
 
 "'Why weepest thou?' He might put the question 
 now. 
 
 "But a dearer than he puts it, even one who, above a' 
 others, can be ' touched with the feeling ol' our infirm' 
 ties,' earthly and human as they are ; one who will no 
 turn from me, though my heart be as an empty sepulchre, 
 if. with the weeping Mary's glad faith, I can fall at his 
 feetj exclaiming — ' Rabhonir " 
 
XXIV. 
 
 ^' To-day, I think you said, Mr. Bryson set to call upon, 
 you, or promised to let you hear from him. Has he done 
 either?" 
 
 Edith roused herself from the corner of the sofa, on 
 which she sat, to reply to Mr. Dubois' question ; and the 
 coming hack of the soul to the eye that had been gazing 
 on vacancy, was " like the advent of a star." 
 
 " Neither, did you say ? I'm afraidj Edith, he means 
 to play you some trick yet." 
 
 ^' Oh ! I hope not— I think not." 
 
 "With all my heart, I hope not, too ; but business 
 hours are over now, so you will not see him to-day, I 
 fear." 
 
 The quiet grey of night was settling down, like a 
 mother's twilight '' hush," upon the city. 
 
 " The day was done, and slowly from the scene, 
 The stooping sun had gathered his spent shafts, 
 And put thera back into his golden quiver." 
 
254: SILVERWOOD. 
 
 Edith walked alone up and down the long rooms, mur- 
 muring to herself half whisperingly, half audibly, a strain 
 that fell in with the mood that was upon her. 
 
 I TURN TO THEE. 
 
 I TURN to Thee ! My heart has been 
 
 A desecrated shrine ; 
 And on its holiest aUar, where 
 
 Should burn a flame divine, 
 Strange fire consumed a sacrifice, 
 
 That was not wholly Thine. 
 
 For when my soul in seeming faith 
 
 To Theehas sought to bow, 
 Divided worship filled each prayer, 
 
 And breathed in every vow. 
 Forgive I — my idol stands revealed — 
 
 The veil has fallen now ! 
 
 Cleanse Thou the temple, great High Priest ! 
 
 Anoint its altar-stone — 
 The blood that wet Thy wounded hands, 
 
 Is ready to atone ; 
 And be my offerings consecrate 
 
 Henceforth to God alone ! 
 
 Within Thy golden censer now, 
 
 Bear heavenward, I implore, 
 As bruis'd frankincense and as myrrh, 
 
 The tears and prayers I pour, 
 And let an earthly worship fill 
 
 My hallowed heart no more. 
 
DISAPPOINTED HOPES. 255 
 
 ^' ' No wore /'" repeated a voice at her side, as her 
 hand was lifted and laid on an arm almost invisible in 
 the growing darkness. " Madame de Stael used to say 
 those were the saddest intonations in our language, and 
 from the pathos with which they come from your lips, 
 I am not inclined to question the truth of her assertion. 
 Let me join your promenade, Miss Edith, ^vdiile you tell 
 me why you are chanting anything so mou;nful. I half 
 fancied you ill, from the pallor of your lips, to-day ; and 
 now, in my professional capacity, I might claim the right 
 to feel your pulse," and a smile, revealed to her by the 
 street lamp opposite, played over Dr. Dubois' manly face, 
 as he lightly laid his finger on her wrist. 
 
 " You are very sympathizing, doctor ; but I am perfect- 
 ly well — only disappointed, and home-sick." 
 
 " Disappointment, on a lady's lip, has a delicate 
 meaning. "We summon up une affaire de c<£ur at once." 
 
 "Unluckily, mine has regard to money — something 
 the world holds as of far higher value than hearts — " 
 
 "And for which you know the world to be a dotard. 
 But is the matter anything in which my assistance can 
 avail you ? Command me in anything — everything." 
 
 Edith thanked him — assured him that he could do 
 nothing for her in the case in question, and begged pardon 
 for having so frankly confessed the causes of any inquie- 
 tude she misfht have manifested. 
 
 "Ah!" replied Dr. Dubois, in answer to her query 
 
256 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 about Mr. Carey, the gentleman who was to accompany 
 her home — " am I bound to come out with the unwilling 
 fact ? Then I did meet him to-day, and he bade me say 
 he would leave this on the coming Thursday. But 
 Christmas is just upon us. Stay till its festivities are over, 
 or till it is warmer. Our hospitality will be compromised 
 by permitting you to go during such weather as this." 
 
 But Edith was resolute in putting aside these and a 
 dozen other reasons which he arrayed before her. 
 
 *' You would do much — practice any amount of self- 
 denial, to accomplish a good action," he persisted. " Now, 
 if you were here to keep Jacqueline within bounds, and to 
 set me right, there's no knowing what you might not eftcct 
 by Spring. Miss Edith, I am restless and dissatisfied 
 with myself and the world. I feel that you could put me 
 at one with both — " 
 
 " You overstate my power, wholly," said Edith, inter- 
 ruptingly, " I am not at one w^ith myself, always. There 
 is a want of reconcilement between the outer and the 
 inner, oftentimes." 
 
 "• You ! I thought Christians professed to possess a 
 peace above, and independent of the world — that they 
 were ' the central calm at the heart of all amtation.' " 
 
 " They ought to be, and are, when true to Grod and to 
 themselves ; but they sink beneath the burden of the same 
 weaknesses as others, and are often false to both." 
 
 " Yet it seems to me, if I believed and felt as you do, 
 
 1 
 
DISAPPOINTED HOPES. 257 
 
 I should have a happiness nothing coulc disturh. As 
 it is, I am tossed on a sea of doubts — ny head often 
 yielding, while I have been listening to 7our advocacy 
 of solemn themes, while my heart is prote^ting." 
 
 " Ah I that is just the difficulty. It is the heart always 
 that is the last brought to terms. Man's pride is so in- 
 veterate, he iviil not come to his Maker, confessing that 
 he is utterly undone and wretched." 
 
 " And would you deny humanity all claim to native 
 goodness ? We are accustomed often to speak of it in the 
 abstract, as something god-like." 
 
 " Grod-like in its capacities and unending being, but 
 ruined now, and like an ancient temple, from which all 
 the glory of tiie worship has departed, with only here and 
 there remnants of broken freize and architrave, to tell 
 what the first splendor has been. The Master-builder 
 only can ' restore the glory of the former house,' and raise 
 ' the head-stone thereof, with shoutings of Grrace ! Grrace !' 
 The ruin is all our own — the restoration wholly His. 
 As all good originates in God, so must it all terminate 
 there." 
 
 "But that He should make His own glory creation's 
 end and aim — is not that to associate the idea of selfishness 
 with Him ?" 
 
 "The creature's highest, only good, is inseparably 
 involved in the promotion of God's glory. To attain to 
 absolute perfection is the noblest aim the spirit can 
 
 11* 
 
258 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 set itself, and that is found alone in God ; so that 
 what tends to our highest good, tends equally to His 
 glory." _ 
 
 " And must there be such entire self-abnegation that 
 God and holiness must be loved, not because it is our 
 highest interest to do so, but because He commands it ?" 
 
 " We are incapable of acting without motive, and 
 motives, too, that appeals to our self-love ; and as the 
 Creator, who has so constituted us, addresses Himself in 
 all His commands to this inherent principle, we are 
 not required to divide the two. He has made it our best 
 interest to live to His glory ; and though there be self- 
 abnegation, utter and entire, as regards any innate good- 
 ness, or any claim upon God's mercy. He does permit the 
 notion of reivard to influence us ; reward, not for what 
 vje have done, but for Ins obedience who perfectly kept 
 the law, and then submitted to die under its curse, as though 
 He were the most criminal of all creatures — thus making 
 over to us that recompense for which he obeyed and suf- 
 ferred. Man has nothins^ to do but to aarree to this sub- 
 stitation, and stretch forth the hand of faith that he may 
 receive the benefits of it. In this view of the subject, 
 must not self-renunciation seem the only thing left for the 
 ingenuous mind ?" 
 
 " Ah! Miss Edith, were you my chaplain, I would insti- 
 tute daily services, and become a devout attendant." 
 
 " I would be but a faltering instructor. This city is 
 
DISAPPOIXTED HOPES. 259 
 
 fall of pulpit.Sj from whick you might have the truth in its 
 purity. AYliy not consent to put yourself in the posture of 
 a learner ?" 
 
 '' Pride, you would say, and no doubt too truly." 
 ^' But there is a humility that is ennobling — that makes 
 human pride seem a mean and dwarfed thing in the com- 
 parison : 
 
 *' * The bird that soars on highest wing, 
 Builds on the ground its lowly nest.' " 
 
 "It is when we measure the distanoe between us and the 
 fixed stars, that we learn how scarcely to be taken into 
 the reckoning, is the shadow our earth casts. So when 
 humility attempts to measure the space between her and 
 the fixed star of Grod's infinitude, does her own shadow 
 shorten into nothingness. Which then is the loftier — hu- 
 mility's upward, or pride's downward gaze ?" 
 
 But, with the lighting of the chandelier, came Jacque- 
 line from above stairs, with some gay friends as rattling as 
 herself; and the conversation which was growing so grave 
 was suspended. 
 
 " News for you !" exclaimed Jacqueline the next morn- 
 ing, as for a moment she picked up the fresh paper that 
 had just been laid on the breakfast table, and she read the 
 paragraph : 
 
 " Mr. Thomas Bryson, one of the largest shipping mer- 
 chants of our city, who has been so unfortunate as to be 
 
260 SILVERWOOD.^' 
 
 compelled to wind up business, in corsequence, ^Ye be- 
 lieve, of the failure of a foreign house, sailed on Saturday, 
 
 with his family, in the , for Liverpool. He expects 
 
 to reside abroad for some years ; as in Germany he can 
 educate his sons at less expense than here. Oar old friend 
 bears our sympathies with him in his misfortunes, and 
 constrained expatriation." 
 
 Edith dropped her fork with a pang. 
 
 "The hypocrite !" ejaculated Mr. Dubois, energetically. 
 
 " No such thing as the failure of a foreign house. That's 
 a story of his own getting up, to cover his villainous spec- 
 ulations. I don't believe a word of it — " 
 
 "Or rather his wife's heartless extravagance," interrupt- 
 ed the doctor. 
 
 " Both — both, Edith; I feared some ruse^ my dear. It 
 is too bad — too bad I" 
 
 Dr. Dubois made some demand for enlightenment, and 
 his father explained the nature of E tilth's transaction with 
 him. 
 
 "Villain ! swindler I" cried the doctor, striking his hand 
 upon tRe table vehemently. " You see, sir, what roguery 
 that unjust law leads to." 
 
 " What law ?" 
 
 " That allows the property a man may choose to make 
 over to his wife, to be free from all the liabilities of the 
 husband ; thus holding out a bribe to commit fraud. Kow 
 this woman, in the eye of common justice, is a swindler ; 
 yet she transgresses no law of the commonwealth." 
 
DISAPPOINTED HOPES. 261 
 
 " And what will become of the fine house and furni- 
 ture?" asked Jacqueline. " If there is a sale, papa, I 
 want you to buy me that beautiful copy of Raffaelle's ' For- 
 narina' that hangs in one of their rooms." 
 
 " I shall do no such thing. I wouldn't have anything 
 that would perpetuate my memory of Bryson in my house. 
 Edith, I wish the proceeds of the sale — for, of course, 
 there'll be one — could be diverted into your purse ; but I 
 dare say all is arranged fair and square to suit the honest 
 lady." 
 
 " And to think of his promise !" said Edith, in a tone of 
 the utmost disappointment. 
 
 " He was too cowardly to let you know in plain terms, 
 as his wife did, that he meant deliberately to cheat you. 
 Your poor mother — how grieved I am for her ! You will 
 have to take your chance with the other creditors now." 
 
 " Now for home — home with my heavy disappoint- 
 ment I" sighed Edith, as she threw herself into a chair 
 drawn up before her chamber fire, and tried to press back 
 the hot drops that persisted in starting from her eyes. 
 " Have pity, Father ! They succeed each other fast — 
 the brier and the thorn — and my spirit faints, as I look 
 forward and ask, ' What next ?' But, ' my grace shall be 
 sufficient for Thee — my strength shall be perfected in Thy 
 weakness.' Such promises as this Zilpha would quote, 
 were she here; and ' Jchovah-jireh ' would be my precious 
 mother's watchword still. Let me wear it as a talisman 
 on my heart, till I grow strong again I" 
 
262 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 The next week would bring Christmas, and Edith had 
 never remembered the season to pass at home, without 
 the pleasant and gleefal interchange of love-tokens. Bat 
 the rich English edition of her mother's favorite Cowper, 
 which she had fixed on for her, must be resigned for a 
 less expensive one ; the choice Leipsic copy of G-reek 
 Trasredies that Lawrence would have liked so much, was 
 not to be thought of ; Zilpha's intaglio signet-ring would 
 be too costly ; the presents for the children and the 
 servants — all must yield to the pressure of necessity. As 
 she walked along the gay streets that afternoon in search 
 of the trifles she must content herself with, the presence 
 of the fashionable thron,^ sickened her ; their smiling faces 
 mocked her ; the flashing equipages rolled by, and their 
 occupants looked complacently out of the windows, as if 
 they had never known care or trial ; and half- forgetful 
 that under the sable and the ermine, might beat hearts 
 that ached as hers never had, she walked on, thinking 
 of life's varied differences, and murmuring ^' why ?" 
 
 It was not until she was miles on her journey the next 
 day, that E iith bethought her of looking at the little 
 pacquet which Mr. Dubois had put into her hand at part- 
 ing, with the request that she would carry it to her mother. 
 She opened the unsealed note, and found it contained 
 bank bills to the amount of two hundred dollars — '' a 
 Christmas present from an old friend." 
 
XXV. 
 
 Xn'eab-iirti)-^ utter ^Ijilasop'^ti. 
 
 The utter failure of Edith's mission was a sore trial to 
 Mrs. Irvine ; but, true to her invariable principle of action, 
 she tried to put the brightest construction she could on 
 their present circumstances, and sought to lighten Edith's 
 manifest despondency, by throwing over it some of the 
 sunshine of her own beautifnl faith. As Edith had said 
 she would, she " bound for a token upon her hand, 
 and for frontlets between her eyes," the precious, oft-re- 
 peated assurance — " the Lord will provide " The increas- 
 ing difficulties were but a spur to her energies ; and though 
 the tear would occasionally glisten, as she looked on her 
 children, or thought of the beloved exiles, she would lift 
 her eyes upward, and then the clear shining of the sun of 
 righteousness left all the heaven of her hopes spanned 
 with the bow of promise. 
 
 But what should they do? where look for the means of 
 future livelihood ? She recognized a special providence in 
 
26i SILVERWOOD. 
 
 Mr. Dubois' timely gift. That would, at least, answer for 
 the necessities of the absent ones, should they need fur- 
 ther remittances, and thus they could be kept in ignorance 
 of the true state of the home finances. Yet often, often, 
 the brave cheerfulness of her mother was to Edith more 
 touching than floods of tears. 
 
 " Here are no less than three advertisements for gover- 
 nesses," said Edith one day, as she looked down the col- 
 umns of a newspaper. "Suppose I try for one of the 
 posts: Louisiana, Alabama, East-Florida — a broad range 
 to choose from." 
 
 *' You a governess I" said Mrs. Irvine, looking up from 
 the busily plied needle "hundreds of miles from home, 
 without sympathies, such as you love, or even common 
 kindnesses, if we are to believe governess-life to be what 
 story-tellers are perhaps too fond to represent it." 
 
 " But scores of sensitive, shrinking girls are glad enough 
 to help themselves, and those they love, in this way ; and 
 am I less useful, less to be relied on than other daughters? 
 Oh! mother!" 
 
 " No, my dear ; neither — neither ; but I've been turn- 
 ing over a better plan yet, in my mind — a very feasible 
 one I think. It is that we establish a family school here — 
 at home, I mean ; say half-a-dozen little girls to begin 
 with, and we may increase the number as circumstances 
 seem to require it. This will accomplish our ends better — 
 will obviate the necessity for a separation, and it will be 
 
BREAD-AND-BUTTER PHILOSOPHY. 265 
 
 better for Eunice and Josepha, than if tliey were educated 
 wholly apart from other children. We can arrange it so 
 as to have everything ready for operation before Lawrence 
 and Zilpha come home." 
 
 '' But Lawrence is fastidious, mother. How will he like 
 to have the privacy of home, which he g-uards as a sacred 
 thing, broken in upon by the presence of strangers ? You 
 know this home-exclusiveness is all to him that tempered 
 light is to an artist's studio." 
 
 " He will be glad to choose the lesser of two evils ; for 
 I cannot, I cannot consent to have my flock scattered, if 
 there is any way to prevent it. Better open the fold to 
 strange lambs. They shall love us, and live as we do, and 
 exercise no 'disagreeable restrain over our home freedom — 
 one fold still." 
 
 " 'And one shepherd,'" said Edith, fondly caressing the 
 hand that lay upon her shoulder. " Dear mother ! when 
 I'm near you, I feel strengthened, you have such an art at 
 leveling down ' the hill Difficulty.' " 
 
 '' It is only when we look at it through the exaggerating 
 atmosphere of doubt and discontent, my child, that it 
 seems so high. If we walk evenly onward, we will find 
 that the mountain sinks as we approach it ; or if it does 
 not, we find a path leading over it, which, in the distance, 
 we could not see. How often do we toil over 
 
 " ' The shadow of hills across a level thrown, 
 And pant like climbers !' 
 
266 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 fretting ourselves over anticipated troubles that never 
 come, and digging a grave to-day, for the joys we believe 
 will perish to-morrow ; but which, when the morrow 
 comes, we find are not dead for our ready-made grave. 
 Now all this is very useless, even if it w^ere not unchris- 
 tian. We may well have the w^ords applied to us continu- 
 ally—' Oh ! ye of little faith ! Wherefore do ye doubt V " 
 
 It was accordingly settled that efforts should be immedi- 
 ately made to procure the desired pupils for a summer 
 term. Letters were written to various friends, and with 
 less exertion than they expected, six little girls, about 
 Eunice's and Josepha's ages, were promised for the embryo 
 school. 
 
 Sometimes Edith had a vague idea of launching upon 
 the literary current, a venture of her own — a little argosy 
 freighted with love, and fancy, and hope, that might bring 
 her in return, the qin'd pro quo so much needed. Why 
 should she not coin her brain into dollars — be " a bread- 
 and-butter philosopher," as the Germans have it ? Others, 
 whom she believed possessed no more talents than her- 
 self, had made successful hits — why might not she ? Bar- 
 bara Butterworth had dashed off a book that had run 
 through thirty-five editions, and had she not as much 
 brains as Barbara ? People ivould read novels. The race 
 of misses just emerged from school-rooms, were a public 
 of themselves. They must have the mental opium of 
 sentimental stories, full of flash and fire — of rapture and 
 
BREAD-AND-BUTTER PHILOSOPHY. 267 
 
 anguish, as a gentle stimulant to their dragging hours. 
 
 The questionable taste would be gratified. Why should 
 she not minister to it, and win the reward ? A half score 
 of fair alliteratives had done so successfully. A pretty, 
 flowery, ferny kind of literature, the sisterhood of wood- 
 nymphs had gotten up, not rich, it is true, with the prom- 
 ise of much mature fruit. But then, we do not ask the 
 rose to furnish us with food ; it has another mission to 
 fulfill ; that done, we demand no more of it. 
 
 As to a subject — why, " every man's life," as Carlyle 
 says, "is an unwritten epic." She had mazes, too, coiled 
 away in the dim recesses of her brain that might furnish 
 threads for a golden tissue. There were leaves on her 
 life-tree, which that wizard worker, Thought, might, with 
 time and patience, turn into a silken-fair fabric, not 
 wrought for strong men's use, but such as the daintily- 
 pleased of her own sex might love to clothe their fancies 
 withal. And poetry — sho had no pretentions to the name 
 of a poet — she had never seen two rhymed lines of her 
 own in print ; but she had a secret pleasure in the '^ gaya 
 ciencia'^ " as the old Castilians prettily called it. Her 
 port- folios were running over with " scoopings from Cas- 
 taly." Might she not pour them out as an offering, with 
 which the dear Public would moisten its Silenus lips ? Or 
 had its deep draughts from chalices, fiery-red with passion, 
 spicy and foaming with pleasure-sparkles, deadened its 
 palate to the mild fragrance, and the amber flow of her 
 
268 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 brain-vintage, expressed with careful hands from clusters 
 gathered in the garden, of home — not bruised, under the 
 world's grinding wheel, till the seeds gave out their hid- 
 den bitterness. 
 
 But poetry would bring her no money, (that was the 
 thing to be thought of now,) and pebbles from the " fount 
 of song" were valueless on the Bourse — more so even 
 than the handful of shells offered as current coin by the 
 native of " the central, flowery land." She imagined 
 what the answer would be, should she attempt the barter 
 — " The market was glutted ; that sort of thing was en- 
 tirely overstocked ; their house expected to lose by what 
 had already been undertaken in that line, and if authors 
 escaped without detriment, it was all that could be ex- 
 pected. Only here and there a new work had a decided 
 run ; and then, some particular circumstance, more than 
 mere force of merit, was the line that helped to tow it 
 into the wished- for port." 
 
 But those chambers must be furnished for the expected 
 pupils, and she knew her mother was revolving in her 
 mind, how. She would anticipate her if possible. A few 
 nights of secret labor would put into marketable form, 
 some of the results of former days of study, and her book- 
 ish friend, Miss Warrington, should win them admission 
 
 into '' — 's Monthly." And so, for the first — the only 
 
 time, did Edith take up the author's pen. The Editor 
 did not. begrudge her the sum he had given her for the 
 
BREAD AND-BUTTEE PHILOSOPHY. 269 
 
 two classic '' Idyls/' redolent as they were with the breath 
 of the " Formian hills," after he heard thein attributed 
 to the scholarly hand of a professed literateur^ whatever 
 he may have thought of his bargain before. 
 
 There was much wonderment on the part of Eunice 
 and Josepha, as one evening, a few weeks later, a great 
 covered wagon, with its four horses tinkling their bells, 
 stopped before the gate at Silverwood. Edith was soon 
 apprised of the fact, that a parcel of boxes were being 
 unloaded. Uncle Felix was summoned with his wheel- 
 barrow. Homer despatched for a hatchet, and soon the 
 unbounded curiosity of the children was set at rest by 
 the opening of the boxes. The neat, walnut bedsteads 
 were screwed together : the simple dressing-tables wheeled 
 to their places ; the w^ash-stands arranged^ and then the 
 more self-composed Eunice was sent to call her mother. 
 A few words explained all ; and vfhen a tear fell on 
 Edith's cheek, as Mrs. Irvine stooped over her, to kiss her 
 thanks, she owned to her heart, that never could the bay- 
 wreath about her brow win for her so true a pleasure or 
 awaken so proud a thrill as she that moment knew. 
 
i 
 
XXVI. 
 
 Jtd.ks from tlje Cropjts. 
 
 Frequent letters had been received from Lawrence and 
 Zilpha, which, while they did not indicate such decided 
 improvement on the part of the invalid as they had hoped, 
 still buoyed them up with the assurance that at least no 
 ground had been lost. They had left Havana, after a few 
 weeks' stay there, and had taken up their abode a score of 
 miles or so distant from the capital, with an English 
 family, who sometimes opened their house as a hostelry 
 for sick strangers. 
 
 " To be sure our Spanish suffers a good deal in conse- 
 quence of our almost entire separation from all who speak 
 it,-' wrote Zilpha; " but then, in other respects, we have 
 what far more than compensates for the loss, in the home- 
 like comfort that surrounis us. Every morning we have 
 a charming ride on our little ponies — tough, wiry creatures, 
 of a remarkable, Andaluslan breed, with the pleasantest 
 possible gait — who trot with us over the hills, or along 
 
272 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 the sea-beach, where we sometimes dismount and gather 
 shells, or down to Don Jose Gronsalez's sugar plantation, 
 where we stop and get the sweet cane, which Lawrence 
 likes to chew, and where he often gets weighed. Dear 
 fellow ! how pleased he is, when he thinks he has gained 
 a little ; and how it brightens him up for the rest of the 
 day, making him think our afternoon dippings into the 
 interminable Lope de Yega quite entertaining, and 
 giving a zest to all his talk ! Every afternoon wo have 
 walks through the growth of palms and bananas, and 
 I often take little sketches of views that please Lawrence, 
 — I shall have quite a port-folio of them to show you all, — 
 he gathering flowers for my botanical dissections, while I 
 draw." 
 
 " Yesterday," ran a page from a later letter, " our par- 
 ty was augmented by the arrival of a family here from 
 New- York, composed of a Colonel Fleming, his wife, and 
 son, a young man several years older, I should think, 
 than Lawrence. They are people of wealth, apparently, 
 from their surroundings. The father has retired from the 
 army lately in a broken state of health, and it is on his 
 account they are here. Mrs. Fleming is a quiet woman, 
 of no very particular force of character, judging from the 
 little we have as yet seen of her. Lawrence seems highly 
 pleased with the young man ; indeed, for his sake, I am 
 quite glad they have come. He needs more companionship 
 than mine, to keep him fifom dwelling upon the daily 
 
LEAVES FEOM THE THOPICS. 273 
 
 phases of his invalid life. There is a little air of exclusive- 
 ness about these Flemings. Cousin Bryant, with his frank 
 and open manners, would be very apt to say they ivere 
 exclusive ; but Lawrence, with his gi'aver, quieter mien, 
 declares there is just the admixture of ease and dignity 
 which he likes. 
 
 — " We have closed as sw^eet and placid a Sabbath as I 
 ever passed," — it was Zilpha who wrote again, — "darkened 
 only by the fear that our dear LawTence is not gaining 
 much strensfth in this enervatins^ climate. I wish I could 
 see him improving as Colonel Fleming does ; but God 
 manages all things in the best w^ay. Ah I to keep that 
 truth in patient remembrance ! Mrs. Fleming and her 
 son joined us in our Sabbath occupations after breakfast. 
 The old gentleman don't seem to have any sympathies with 
 them on these points. Mr. Fleming proffered his services 
 as reader, and gave, with the same sort of power w^e have 
 often thought Cousin Bryant remarkable for, the chapters 
 Lawrence asked for, such as the sixty-third of Isaiah, 
 the nineteenth Psalm, the twelfth of Hebrews. He had 
 with him a volume of Melville's sermons, and as he read 
 that fine one on ' the humiliation of the man, Christ Jesus,' 
 Lawrence would rise from his sofa, and w^alk to and fro, 
 in a tumult of responsive feelings. Sometimes he would 
 pause before Mr. Fleming, interrupting him with remarks 
 and comments that half startled me wdth their lofty sweet- 
 ness and faith. As we sat together on the verandah in 
 
 12 
 
274 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 the evening, looking out ovel* the level sea, beneath which 
 we had watched the sun go down with a rare splendor, 
 they made me sing Sabbath hymns to them ; and though 
 Lawrence looked weak and weary, I never saw his face 
 wear a serenity so beautiful. Dear, dear Lawrence ! 
 
 — " He is bright and full of animation to-clay, and talks 
 confidently of being able to go home when the Fleming's 
 do, which will be within a few weeks at most. I am en- 
 couraged to hope he may. These kind friends are un- 
 wearying in their delicate attentions to him. The old Col- 
 onel brings him in fresh fruits gathered in his rides, and 
 between walks and talks, and the sharing of his books 
 with him, Mr. Fleming cheats the days of their tedious- 
 ness. They have many scholarly conversations, and just 
 now they have been discussing poetry in the general, and 
 Mrs. Browning in particular. Shall I take notes for you, 
 Edith, instead of finishing up these sketches I outlined this 
 morning ? Mr. Fleming had brought Lawrence the works 
 of this English writer some days ago, and he has since 
 been resjalino^ himself on them with a relish unusual to 
 him ; for, like most men, he is not fond, you know, of loo- 
 merCs books. But the secret lies, I suspect, in the uncom- 
 mon sympathy he finds in this author, with his own clas- 
 sic studies. He asked Mr. Fleming to re-read to him a 
 passage he pointed out in the preface to ' The Seraphim,' 
 as having struck him greatly by its manly strength and 
 glowing poetic thought. Since it pleased htm so, let me 
 copy it for you. 
 
LEAVES FROil THE TROPICS. 275 
 
 ^^ ^ Had Aschylus lived after the incarnation and crucifix- 
 ion of our Lord Jesus Christ, he might have turned, if not 
 in moral and intellectual, yet in poetic faith, from the sol- 
 itude of Caucasus, to the deeper desertness of that crowded 
 Jerusalem, where none had anj pity — -from the ' faded white 
 flower' of the Titanic hrow, to the ' withered grass' of a 
 heart trampled on hy its own beloved — from the glorying 
 of Him who gloried that He could not die, to the sublimer 
 meekness of the Taster of death for every man — from the 
 taunt, stung into being by torment, to His more awful si- 
 lence, when the agony stood dumb before the love ! And 
 how, ^ from the height of this great argument,' the scenery 
 of the Prometheus would have dwarfed itself even in the 
 eyes of its poet — how the fissures of his rocks, and innu- 
 merous smiles of his ocean would have closed, and waned 
 into blankness, and his demi-god stood confessed so human 
 a conception, as to fall below the aspiration of his own 
 humanity I He would have turned from such, to the rent 
 rocks and darkened sun — rent and darkened by a sympa- 
 thy thrilling through nature, but leaving man's heart 
 untouched — to the multitudes whose victim was their 
 Saviour — to the Victim whose sustaining thought, beneath 
 an unexampled agony, was not the Titanic — 'I can 7'e- 
 veng-e .'^ but the celestial — 'J can forgive I'' ^ 
 
 " Then he turned to some passages against which he had 
 run his pencil, in ' The Drama of Exile,' and asked to 
 have them over again. One beginning 
 
276 • SILVEKWOOD. 
 
 " 'Eternity stands ahvaj's fronting God,' 
 
 he lingered upon as uncommonly grand, and the words 
 put into the mouth of Christ, as he appears in vision before 
 the trembling A-dam and Eve, he thought not unworthy to 
 have made a part of our greatest epic ; but both he and 
 Mr. Fleming agreed to believe Milton's idea of our sinning 
 parents after the Fall, more in keeping vi^ith the new na- 
 ture fresh upon them, than ' The Drama's — ' 
 
 " 'Hast thou strength, beloved, 
 To look behind us V 
 
 *' And the reply, — 
 
 *' 'I have strength to look upward — to thy face,' — breathe 
 nothing of the discordant spirit of the 'Adam severe' 
 and ' ungrateful Eve ' of the ' Paradise Lost.' 
 
 "Lawrence said human love must have seemed a paltry 
 compensation tlien^ for the loss of the divine favor ; and 
 that the ' Drama ' represented Eve as too much consoled 
 by Adam's tenderness. The choruses he did not like, and 
 he wondered that even the author's manifest love for old 
 Greek art had betrayed her into modeling a Christian po- 
 em thereon. 
 
 " He said, that, after all, the greatest charm of these 
 books to him was their religious element, not the religion 
 that characterises poets in general — a mere vague belief in 
 God's providence or goodness, but the faith of the gospel of 
 
LEAVES FROM THE TROPICS. 277 
 
 Christ. The Atonement was the key-note to her song — ■ 
 that, begin where she might, or take whatever path she 
 would, she made all terminate at Calvary. 
 
 " I have transcribe J this extract, and given you just a 
 hint or two of Lawrence's conversation, that you may see 
 how changed he is in one respect — that his silence on the 
 highest of themes, on which we know he has long felt so 
 much, has lately been quite broken. 
 
 — "'I have just been looking over the ' Phoedo," ho 
 said, this mornins, as Mr. Flemins^ came into our sittinsr- 
 room, — ' and never have I been so struck before with the ab- 
 solute poverty of its arguments. Compare this best that 
 the wisest of the pagans can give us, with the logic of 
 Paul's Epistle to the Romans, and who would not be con- 
 vinced by the disparity, that the one is only human, the 
 other all G-od-like ? I used to doat upon ' Plato, the di- 
 vine,' carrying his works with me as regularly as my Bi- 
 ble, as you see ; but in the shadows amidst which I stand 
 now, how bright, how consolatory are the positive, distinct 
 utterances of the gospel of God I How contrasted the ' I 
 know ' and ' I am persuaded,^ of the Apostle of the G-en- 
 tiles, with the * noble hazard' of Socrates I' 
 
 " ' But it has not needed that you should stand with the 
 gloom of sickness about you,' I said, ' to convince you 
 of anything Paul teaches.' 
 
 ^' • Oh, no I not to convince me, but to fill me with such an 
 intense realization of the sweetness and adaptedness of 
 
278 SILVEKWOOD. 
 
 these truths to our human cravings, such as I never knew 
 in health.' 
 
 "Mr. Fleming said he thought one of the compensations 
 of sickness was the singular power it had of dissolving the 
 earthly vapors that form a distorting medium about the 
 soul, thus giving it a purified atmosphere, in which things 
 appear as they really are. He alluded to a dangerous fit of 
 illness he had had, when a student at Bonn, in Germany, 
 and dated from that time all his clearer views of life and 
 his present settled faith. 
 
 — " I had somewhat of an alarm to-day, occasioned Ly 
 Lawrence's fainting while we were out riding this morning. 
 I succeeded in assisting him from his pony, and laid him 
 down on the grass; hut when I saw him quite swoon away, 
 I felt thankful it was I, instead of Edith, who was with 
 him — she would have been so terrified. I folded some 
 plantain leaves into a cup, and ran to a little stream I had 
 remembered our crossing a few minutes before. The 
 water soon revived him ; but as he lay there, with his pale 
 face turned up to the sky, the sudden thought came — 
 what if he ivere dead ! I became frightened, and could 
 only sob ; but I turned the sob into a prayer, and soon my 
 fear was dispelled. Dear Lawrence was opening his eyes 
 again, as I sat on the ground with his head on my knee, 
 when I heard a horse's hoofs behind us. I felt so thankful 
 that I was to have the presence and aid even of one of the 
 natives ; but imagine how grateful and relieved 1 was, to 
 
LEAVES FROM THE TKOPICS. 279 
 
 find, on looking round, that it ^yas Mr. Fleming. He 
 thought, as he watched us ride away, that Lawrence looked 
 exhausted, and so he made up his mind to follow us. 
 You see, dear mother, how good Gfod is — providing for us 
 in all our emergencies. 
 
 — " It is night now, and Lawrence is sleeping most peace- 
 fully. He has talked even less than his custom, to-day ; 
 hut I will not, must not hide from you, that there is a 
 meaning calmness ahout his eyes, his words, his move- 
 ments, that affects me strangely. G-od grant it may not 
 be the serene tranquillity that sometimes gathers over the 
 sky at the setting of the sun !" 
 
XXVII. 
 
 lalorewe at foiue. 
 
 I 
 
 There was grief in each of their hearts, which neither 
 Mrs. -Irvine nor Edith spoke of to one another when the 
 last letters from Cuba were read. The hope that had been 
 o-ildinor the cloud with its sfolden frinoes, was sinking^ be- 
 neath a horizon of gathering gloom. With her ready and 
 ingenious invention, Mrs. Irvine had that very day been 
 fitting up an easy chair for Lawrence. To his nice eye, 
 she said, the velvet, so scorched and damaged by the mis- 
 haps of the fire, would be unsightly ; and so she made it 
 give way to some bright, fresh damask ; and at the will- 
 insf task she was workinsf, when Uncle Felix had brouo^ht 
 the packet. It contained a short letter from Lawrence 
 himself. There was nothing mournful in it — rather a 
 glad thankfulness that they would, he hoped, be so soon 
 all together again ; but it closed very abruptly, and as his 
 mother laid it down, there was a pressure of her lips that 
 betokened inward pain. Josepha picked it up. 
 
 12* 
 
282 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 ""Why look, Edith, how crooked the lines are, and how 
 funny brother Lawrie has made his letters. That's just 
 the trembly way / write when Eunice shakes the table." 
 
 ''Hush-sh!" said Edith, under her breath; and the 
 child wondered, as she looked up, what she had done to fill 
 her sister's eyes with tears. Mrs. Irvine left the room 
 quickly. She was long gone ; and when she came back, 
 the children scrutinized her closely, and though they saw 
 traces of weeping, she was calm then, and they thought 
 that whatever the sorrow was, it had passed away. 
 
 " And wont you finish the chair, mother ?" asked 
 Eunice, as she was bidden to gather up the things scattered 
 about, while Josepha was sent to tell Daphne to carry it 
 into another room. '' Only the damask to fasten along 
 the top, and here are the little tacks all ready." 
 
 But the question was put aside with, " Not to-night, 
 my dear ; no, not to-night." 
 
 April, with her eyes full of tears, and her hands over- 
 running with wet violets, had come. The aspens around 
 Silverwood were tufted all over with their delicate leaves ; 
 the peach trees were blushing under the gaze of the warm 
 sun, and the sweet-brier was making the old porch fra- 
 grant. The cleared spots high up the sides of the grand 
 old mountain beyond, were beginning to look fresh, and 
 the forests were brightening every day with the tender 
 green of the feathery leaves. Uncle Felix was busy dig- 
 ging the garden, and the children, who felt oppressed by 
 
LAWREN'CE AT HOME. 283 
 
 a weight upon them when within doors, which they could 
 not understand, were glad to employ their hours, when re- 
 leased from books, in assorting seeds and watching the 
 planting of them, and in coaxing the old man to "hurry 
 and have the beds and walks all trim by the time brother 
 and sister would come home." 
 
 " 'Pears to me. Miss Josey, dat ole mist'ess and Miss 
 Edith ain't areckonin' much on Mas' Lawrie comin' back, 
 nohow." 
 
 Josepha, in her surprise, scattered the bulbs she was 
 waiting on him to plant, and asked what he meant. 
 
 " La, Miss Josey, you're alive all over ; and how'd ever 
 you suspicion anything about dyin' ? Now, honey, I didn't 
 mean to say no thin' to make you cry I — mighty sorry ! 
 But look yer. Miss .Josey ; you see I'sc made a deep hole, 
 and drapt in dat sort o' Hater wot you say bears sich a 
 gran' posy — " 
 
 " That's an elegant scarlet dahlia. Plant it carefully, 
 for sister thinks so much of it ;" and in her interest to 
 have the bulb rightly set, the child forgot the tear not yet 
 dry on her cheek. 
 
 " AVell, you see it's nothin' better nor a tater now, any- 
 how ; but wait a chance. Ole Mas'r above, yonder, can 
 make it come up a mighty different sort o' thing from 
 what I'se done planted; and jes' so he do wid de body. 
 When Mas' Lawrie dies, and you dies, and me dies, he's 
 gwine to make us all spring up a sight more beautifuller 
 
284 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 nor yer fine posies, bein' if we has de true life in ns when 
 we's done covered up ; for if dis root hadn't life in it now, 
 I'se like to know where yer posies 'ud he next summer T' 
 
 " Yes, I understand; you mean if we aren't good when 
 we die ;" but Josepha did not want to hear particularly 
 about being "good" just then. It made her feel gloomy, or 
 she fancied it ought to have that effect; and between her- 
 self and gloom, there was no more affinity than between 
 sunshine and shadow; so she escaped from Uncle Felix's 
 sermon with the dahlia-bulb text, and went to aid Eunice 
 in making drills for her flower-seeds. 
 
 Days came and went mournfully — heavily for the in- 
 mates of Silverwood. For Edith, there was nothing but 
 mocking brightness in the fitful flashes of .the April sun — 
 nothing but a taunting calm in its setting splendors, as it 
 sank pavillioned in clouds behind the straight top of 
 Castlehead. She could only think of the brilliant hopes 
 quenched in tears — of the beautiful sun that might " go 
 down at noon." 
 
 Oh I that long agony of suspense, during which no let- 
 ters came ; — and the tossed spirit wandered up and down in 
 alternating lulls and storms of doubt — fear — hope and 
 despair I The worst our imaginations summon up, is, per- 
 haps, easier borne than this racking tumult of contending 
 passions. Better that hope should be shipwrecked at 
 once, than be hurled back and forth over a sea of distract- 
 ing emotions, sometimes on the crest of a wave, from 
 
LAWRENCE AT HOME. 285 
 
 which the near headland can be seen, then plunging down, 
 down, pitilessly into the abysmal trough; then within 
 frantic reach of a floating spar; then dashed, bleeding 
 and senseless, against the sharp rocks of despair ! 
 
 These were Edith's experiences during the days that 
 Uncle Felix returned from the village without letters. 
 They must have been her mother's, too ; but if they were, 
 she gave no outward sign of them, but continued to keep 
 her head and hands restlessly busy. When bending over 
 her needle, she would employ Eunice to read some favor- 
 ite devotional volume that might prove an anchor to 
 thoughts that could not be other than tempest-tossed ; and 
 when the rapid lingers would rest, and the quick step that 
 could be heard here and there about the house, as she 
 held herself firmly to the performance of every necessary 
 duty, would be still, as she sat down in her accustomed 
 seat, with the basket of keys placed on the carpet beside 
 her, she yet permitted no interval for wearying medita- 
 tion ; and Edith would sit withdrawn, regarding her with 
 silent amazement, as with a brow that gave no indication 
 of the inward disquiet, except the absence of the invariable 
 sunlight from it, she pored absorbedly over some holy page. 
 
 The sun had long faded from the western sky, not 
 even the glow lingered around the place of his setting, 
 and Edith sat on the porch straining her eyes in the di- 
 rection of the road by which Uncle Felix was to return 
 from Milburne. She heard at length the horse's hoofs, and 
 
286 SILYERWOOD. 
 
 in a tumult of anxiety, which, yet, she felt she had scarce 
 strength to bear the breaking of, she rose to go into the 
 house, to get away, if possible, from the news «he had 
 been so impatient to have hastened. Then again, with a 
 determination to master her feelings, she turned and walked 
 resolutely down the gravel path to the gate. It was so 
 dark that the outlines of the horse were just discernible. 
 She had only voice to ask — " x\ny letters. Uncle Felix ?" 
 when she felt her hand grasped by, she knew not whom ; 
 and before her scattered senses could be recalled, she found 
 herself in the parlor, in the midst of the startled group, 
 with Bryant Woodruff supj)orting her. 
 
 ^' Lawrence — Zilpha !" were the words all uttered with 
 one eager breath. Bryant folded his arm round Mrs. Ir- 
 vine, and drew her to the sofa, where he had seated Edith. 
 For some moments no one spoke — no one had voice for a 
 question; even the children pressed closer to their moth- 
 er's side, with a vague feeling of terror. " Tlie Lord gave 
 — the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the 
 LordV were the first sounds that broke upon the fearful 
 stillness of the room. It was enough — they knew it all I 
 Mrs, Irvine clasped her hands together with a convulsive 
 gesture, and a deadly paleness overspread her face, but 
 she uttered no word. The power of speech was gone. 
 Rigid, motionless, marble-like, she sat erect, shedding no 
 tears, giving forth no wail. The purple life seemed as if 
 congealed, so that the heart, though broken, was not seen 
 to bleed. 
 
LAWRENCE AT HOME. 287 
 
 A low, hopeless moan of anguish escaped Edith's lips, 
 and she sank back, mercifully bereft for the present of all 
 consciousness — deaf alike to the piteous shrieks of the 
 children and the unrestrained cries of the servants, who, 
 by this time, had assembled to learn the tidings. In their 
 fright, they imagined that their young mistress, too, was 
 dead ; and their lamentations rang through the long pas- 
 sage, as they hurried to and fro for restoratives. But 
 Bryant would let them use none. He would not rouse the 
 spirit that had succumbed under the blow, to the full sense 
 of the truth it could not bear. 
 
 But all the piercing cries, and the hastening steps, and 
 the dusky crowd pressing around the pale form that lay 
 on the sofa, where she still sat unbending and moveless, 
 failed to attract the stony gaze of Mrs. Irvine. Bryant 
 became alarmed ; he unclasped her tightened hands ; he 
 kneeled at her side, repeating one scripture promise after 
 another ; he followed the freed, glorified spirit within the 
 gates of the celestial city ; he spoke of its unutterable 
 blessedness — of the angels' joy over it, gathered, as it was 
 now, safe home — of the Saviour greeting it with his look of 
 divine love, as he recognized in it a fruit of " the travail 
 of his soul" and "was satisfied" — till at lensfth the stiffened 
 muscles began to relax ; the set eye-lids drooped ; the un- 
 locked tears streamed, and the quivering lips murmured — 
 " Thank Grod I thank G-od I— my beloved is in glory ! but 
 — the precious clayV' 
 
288 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 ^^ My brother I my brother P^ With what a wailing 
 iteration that made Bryant shudder, did Edith's cry break 
 in amidst the sobbings ! The one thought absorbed all 
 her soul — ''^ Laivrence deadV It could hold no more. 
 There was bitterness enough there to dash the cup of 
 consolation which Bryant tried to press to her pallid lips. 
 He attempted to soothe her with the precious truths — never 
 felt so precious as when we are sinking in the deep waters 
 — with which he had succeeded in starting the fountain 
 of her mother's heart, but the agony on that contracted 
 brow — the unspeakable plaintivcness of that thrilling tone 
 with which she would turn pleadingly to him — " dead — 
 Laivrence dead!''' — was too much even for his strong self- 
 control. He tried the consolation of prayer, and the Com- 
 forter," in some measure, descended, in answer to his 
 touching, tearful appeal for peace. 
 
 Oh ! the intense, the immeasurable anguish of trying 
 to bring home to the aching soul the idea of death as 
 connected with our beloved ! We link the terrible word 
 with the precious name — ^^ dead — dead 1^"^ — but fail to 
 compass a tithe of its fearfalness. We repeat and repeat 
 it, as though we thought thus to wear the conception into 
 our unwilling belief, but it remains only a drear sound. 
 
 " What is — to die ? 
 We cannot hold the meaning, more than can 
 An oak's arm clasp the wind." 
 
LAWRENCE AT HOME. 289 
 
 "We sleep, we wake, still saying— " dead ! dead!" The 
 sun rises just as it did ; it sets the same ; those about us 
 begin to talk as of old, even to smile again ; but we move 
 on through the chilling gloom as in a grim, oppressive 
 dream. We will surely awake bye-and-bye. This night- 
 mare of the soul will pass away. We listen, we long, we 
 watch, we wait; but there is "no further change." We 
 have comprehended as much of the mystery as our finite 
 natures can take in, while we walk on, still incredulously 
 murmuring—" (ie^^f// dead!''' 
 
IIVIII. 
 
 ti|e Coming JatL 
 
 " It was Sabbath evening. I had sat all day at his so- 
 fa, fanning him, as he lay in a half-dreaming state, from 
 \yhich he occasionally roused himself, and talked as Bun- 
 yan's Pilgrim talked when he drew near to the heavenly 
 city. The ' shining ones ' seemed to encompass him as 
 they did ' Christian,' and the glory of the open gates 
 streamed aromid him, ' which, when I saw, I wished my- 
 self, too, among them ! ' I was not alone. Our friends, 
 the Flemings, were watchers with m.e. But never shall I 
 forget the tender, wistful look with which my precious 
 brother caught my hands as I was bending over him, ar- 
 ranging his cushions. ' Oh ! my mother ! if she were only 
 here, it would be easier, I think, to go I ' I whispered the 
 words — ' As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I 
 comfort you, and you shall be comforted !' 
 
 " ' How sweet ! how infinitely compassionate !' he mur- 
 mured, with closed eyes. ' Yet I have such an unspeaka- 
 ble longing to see her dear face once more ! Ah ! my sister ! 
 
292 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 your love is very sweet to me ; but what human love can 
 be like a mother's I ' 
 
 '' ' Think then,' I said, ' vv^hat Jesus' must be. ' Yea, 
 a mother may forget, yet will not L' ' 
 
 "' I am content!' he sighed. 'When I see her face 
 next, it will have the radiance of heaven on it — that is 
 better.' 
 
 '' Not long after, I heard a low sound. I bent down 
 my ear, and caught the words — ' Mother — Zilpha — Edith 
 — Eunice — Sepha ; yes, all — all will come I' 
 
 "He brightened a little, and told me he wanted to have 
 a long talk with me, but that he was weary and would 
 sleep first. As we were silently watching him, I saw his 
 lips move. ^ Mother — heaven — Jesus ! ' Then there was 
 a strange stillness. ' Dearest Lawrence,' I said, laying 
 my hand on his damp forehead, ' tell me how precious you 
 feel Him to be.' It lay there while I waited for a reply. I 
 kissed his cheek to rouse him, but he did not move. Mr. 
 Fleming whispered — ' He is answering that question in 
 heaven ! — ' 
 
 — " The mother and sisters of my departed friend will 
 forgive the intrusion of a stranger into their grief ; but the 
 bereaved sufferer, who has this evening had strength 
 granted her to follow the beloved clay to its resting-place 
 beneath the tropic shade of a rural cemetery, has yielded 
 now to the pressure of the sorrow that did not come in its 
 intensity, till all was over. She has been able to lean 
 
THE COMIXG BACE. 293 
 
 vvith unquestioning submission upon the arm of the Re- 
 deemer, as I have seen none other do in ciicumstances of 
 such sore bereavement. 
 
 " The late twiUght was closing around us, as we laid the 
 head of your precious one down to rest in the sleep which 
 God ' giv^eth His beloved.' These were the words I heard 
 his sister utter, as we turned avray from the sacred spot. 
 May the pitying Father, who does not willingly afflict, 
 comfort her and you, each and all ! Do not allow the 
 thought of her desolation too afflict you too much. All 
 that Christian sympathy can do, on my mother's behalf 
 and mine, shall be done to make her feel that her sorrow 
 is ours, as well, for we had both become singularly inter- 
 ested in the lovely and beloved one who is gone. Such a 
 transparent purity of soul, whose inmost workings might 
 have been shown to the world without the dread that 
 anything would be found there that would skulk from 
 such an unveiling, I have never known. He was a ' be- 
 loved John.' 
 
 " Before we leave the Island, we will have a stone 
 placed above him, so that you shall not have the mournful 
 thought to dwell upon — that he lies in an unmarked grave ; 
 and, with Miss Irvine's permission, there shall be cut upon 
 it the words that fell from her lips as she saw them smooth 
 his green pillow — 
 
 " * He giveth His beloved sleep,' 
 
294 SILVEIRWOOD. 
 
 '• AVe expect to sail within a week, and I beg you will 
 allow yourselves no uneasiness, as I shall make it my care 
 and privilege, as a Christian friend and brother, to conduct 
 Miss Irvine home to you, as I trust, in safety. 
 
 '^ Yours in like precious faith and sympathy, 
 
 " Robert Fleming." 
 
 Such was the tenor of the letters of which Bryant was 
 the bearer. Zilpha had enclosed them to him, with the 
 request that he would himself be the bearer of the sorrow- 
 ful tidings, and help to sustain them in their lonely grief. 
 True to her self- forgetful nature, she, although alone on a 
 foreign shore, or at least with none but those who had so 
 recently been entire strangers to her, bethought herself of 
 making a provision that should, if possible, soften the vio- 
 lence of the blow to the circle at home. 
 
 As they all sat together, a week later, still heavy and 
 oppressed with sorrow, a carriage was heard at the gate, 
 and in a few minutes Zilpha and Mr. Fleming stood among 
 them. Wliat a fresh opening of the agonizing wounds ! 
 For the first time they seemed to realize the truth after 
 which they had been ineffectually grasping. "Where was 
 he who had been at her side when they had seen her last? 
 Yet, in clasping her to their bosoms, they felt as if brought 
 nearer to the dear lost one — they felt that through her eyes 
 they looked upon the far-away, forsaken, island-grave. 
 Uncle Felix deposited the ownerless trunk in the passage, 
 
THE COMING BACK. 295 
 
 filled with the garments that had been exchanged for the 
 robes of immortality ; and the old man's tears fell fast, 
 while Josepha, sitting down upon it, buried her face in 
 her apron, and sobbed aloud. 
 
 Zilpha was the first to grow calm ; and as, after a while, 
 she went over with touching detail the story of his last 
 days on earth, they all felt the influence of the meek and 
 holy resignation that breathed through all her words ; and 
 in listening to the low ripple of her voice, broken, often- 
 times, by tearful pauses, they owned in their hearts that 
 " an angel spake." 
 
 For some days the two gentlemen lingered with them, 
 but duties called each away, and they departed, leaving 
 the current of life so fearfully swollen by the storm of 
 affliction that had swept over them, to fall back in some 
 degree into its old channel. Externally, the quiet of 
 spirit returned to Mrs. Irvine. She laid away as sacred 
 relics — made doubly so by her baptism of tears — every- 
 thing that Lawrence's touch had consecrated, kissing the 
 books he had used and the clothes he had worn, and wind- 
 ing up the watch that had been last turned by the dear, 
 silent fingers, while she dimmed its face with her fast-fall- 
 ing drops. Edith shunned the sight of every memento 
 that could renew her anguish. She spiritualized the loss 
 as far as possible, allowing no object of sense to come 
 before her that might impress her with a tangible realiza- 
 tion of it, thus unwisely keeping her mind with that 
 
296 SILVEKWOOD. 
 
 certain shadow of doubt upon it, which the resolute fac- 
 ing of all these memories would have dispelled into some- 
 thins^ softer than what her imagination made her suffer. 
 
 The rose-tree, which has been beaten to the ground by 
 the driving rain, and left to lie there in its desolation, even 
 when raised again, does not turn at once to the sun, as it 
 had turned before, but in time it yields to the genial 
 influences about it. Grradually it betakes itself to the 
 support of the trellis, to which it has been bound, and the 
 shining side of its leaves are won round again to the 
 kindly light of day. 
 
 " Even the tombs where love repines, 
 Lonely tenements of tears, 
 Learn to look like happy shrines, 
 Through the golden mists of years. 
 
 " Sorrows that are sorrows still, 
 Lose the bitter taste of woe ; 
 Nothing's altogether ill 
 In the griefs of long-ago !" 
 
 Grod be evermore blessed that so it is ! — that in pity to 
 His weak and bleeding-hearted ones. He staunches the 
 wounds His own hands have made, by healing balm gath- 
 ered from the Tree of Life I 
 
 And so, as the Spring-days went by, came it to be the 
 experience of the bruised hearts at Silverwood. Mrs. 
 G-rantley, who paid them a visit of condolence, went away, 
 saying to her sister, whose eyes were moist with sympathy, 
 
THE COMING BACK. 297 
 
 that " they bore it with beautiful calmness — that Zilpha 
 looked as passionless as one of Canova's sculptures," and 
 Edith reminded, in her statuesque paleness, of a figure in 
 one of the frescoes in the Sistine chapel." 
 
 Miss Burton said, with a quick twinkling of her eye- 
 lids, that " they rather reminded her of the sisters of 
 Bethany, as they sank subdued, but suffering still, at the 
 feet of Him w^ho had ' loved Lazarus.' " 
 
XXIX. 
 
 % iribd. 
 
 How impertinent seem the intrusions of the outer world, 
 when our souls are all consecrated by " the solemn digni- 
 ties of grief !" How we sicken and turn away when its 
 inexorable demands are thrust upon us, and feel that we 
 are wronged in not being permitted to sit dumbly down 
 beside our dead sorrow, and hug it to our bosoms ! And 
 when those who love us, and better know what is fitting 
 for us, than in our unreasoning and absorbed condition, 
 we can know for ourselves — when these come in between 
 us and it, and with gentle violence separate us from it, 
 and heap smooth and green the mound of memory for us, 
 and plant the everlasting flowers of hope there, we are in- 
 clined to think them almost unfeeling — to look upon them 
 as the child does on those who carry away the cofl[ined 
 form of the darling mother, and cover it up under the 
 church-yard sod, heedless of the outstretched arms that 
 would have clung to it still ! 
 
800 SiLtERWOOD, 
 
 "With some such feelings as these did the inmates of Sil-* 
 verwood regard the necessities that compelled them to 
 arouse from their seducing apathy, and apply themselves 
 to the business of life again. 
 
 Sorrow does not long darken away the morning light 
 from the eyes of childhood ; and though Eunice's face 
 wore a softened expression that made it seem quieter than 
 usual, she could not understand the freqaent failure of her 
 mother's attempted cheerfulness — a cheerfulness that, like 
 a watery sunshine, had in it more than even the sadness 
 of tears. As to Josepha, she liked not the pervading pen- 
 siveness of the house, and under the open sky, child-like, 
 she sought to lose the remembrance of the grief that at 
 times, though she would not speak of it even to Eunice, 
 would swell her little heart. The arrival, too, of the addi- 
 tional companions, was a source of great gratification to 
 the children. Their cousins, Sophy and Maria Irvine, 
 were as merry-tempered and socially -disposed as they could 
 desire. Lucy Fletcher was thoughtful and quiet, older 
 than Eunice, even more given to withdrawn and silent 
 readings, and withal, a little suspected of home -sickness 
 by Josepha, a thing she could hardly forgive. Fanny 
 Richards she judged to be somewhat grum and hard to 
 please — an opinion, however, which she prudently confided 
 to nobody but Uncle Felix, who attributed it to her " feelin' 
 kind o' strange like." Virginia Browne and Sally Ed- 
 wards were both pleasant enough in their way — the latter 
 
A BRIDAL, 801 
 
 something of a mischief ; but upon the whole, Eunice and 
 Josepha, after gravely comparing notes, concluded they 
 would all have a very pleasant summer together. 
 
 Classes were a novelty to them, educated as they had 
 been thus far, alone ; and the competition naturally exci- 
 ted bea^an to make Eunice think that there were other 
 studies that might even vie in interest with the stories 
 of history. '' Composition" grew to be anything but a 
 bug-bear to Josepha, when half a dozen others were occu- 
 pied over the same subject, each trying who could make 
 hers the best. Sophy and Maria were never weary of tel- 
 ling their companions what '' a mighty difference there 
 was between the nice, coaxing way Cousin Zilpha and 
 Cousin Edith had of teaching, and the way their last gov- 
 erness from Vermont, Miss Fitch, had." " Yes," Virginia 
 Browne would say, " papa always says that persuasion is 
 better than force, and he has a picture to prove it, too — one 
 boy cantering away on a donkey, while he holds out over 
 its nose a long stick with a bunch of carrots fastened to 
 the end of it ; and another boy beating his donkey, and 
 making it set its feet down more stubbornly at every blow." 
 
 ^' I admire that donkey's spirit," was Fanny Richards' 
 opinion. " Nobody should ever drive me to do anything." 
 
 ^' Or coax, either, eh ?" Sally Edwards could not forbear 
 suggesting. 
 
 June, with its wealth of roses and honeysuckles, was 
 embowering Silverwood, till it looked like a nest of beauty 
 
302 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 hidden away amongst the tremulous aspens. School hours 
 were over, and the little girls were assembled on the porch 
 with their laps fulFof flowers, weaving wreaths to orna- 
 ment bridal-cakes, as that night was to witness the impor- 
 tant affair of a wedding at Silverwood, Daphne being the 
 bride elect. Maria Irvine had furnished a fine, embossed 
 sheet, and Eunice had written out in her fairest, *' copper- 
 plate hand" — " Miss Daphne Irvine, at home, eight o'clock 
 P.M. Silverwood, June 10th;" and then followed "the 
 list" of the invited guests who were to have " a bid," ta- 
 ken down from the lips of the bride. Josepha was inte- 
 rested, heart and hand, in the matter, and so, in less 
 degree, were most of the others. 
 
 Daphne appeared, as they were busy over their worky 
 with a roll of white ribbon in her hand, and the request 
 that Eunice would make rosettes out of it for her hair. 
 Sophy suggested that as there were plenty of syringa-blos- 
 soms, they would answer instead of an orange-wreath, 
 and be more appropriate than the ribbon. 
 
 " La, sakesi Miss Sophy; garden-posies arn't fitten for 
 my wool — mighty nice for white folks' har ; but to see dem 
 in a cull'ed gal's, it's contrar' to my taste." 
 
 " Why, grapes and flowers would go very well together," 
 said Sally Edwards 
 
 "Thank you. Miss Sally; you sees no grapes on my 
 head — done lef ' 'em for Homer and Silvy ; 'sides. Miss 
 Eunice, flowers 'pears cheap-like ; and Nathan," she added, 
 
A BRIDAL. 803 
 
 with a show of maidenly bashfulness at the mention of 
 the name of her affiance^ " he bought me dat whole holt, 
 purpose to have me fixed off partio'lar." 
 
 " I wonder it don't make you blush. Daphne," said Vir- 
 ginia, " to speak of Nathan before us." 
 
 " How you know but it do, Miss Grinnie ? I blushes 
 brown, you see." 
 
 " Hope you won't forget to scour your ear-rings with 
 soap and sand in honor of the occasion," broke in Fanny 
 Richards, who sat pulling the flowers to pieces instead of 
 tying them into wreaths. 
 
 Daphne lifted her hands to her great hoops with a look 
 of offended dignity. 
 
 " Miss Fanny don't mean to say dese arn't as much 
 goold as dem little dangles at her years ?" 
 
 " Hush ! Daphne !" commanded Eunice. "You mustn't 
 take liberties because we'ra making so much of you just 
 now." 
 
 '* La, Miss Eunice, I'm not takin' nothin' from nobody." 
 
 " No, not even my suggestion of sand for your brass," 
 said Fanny, coolly ; " but look here, don't scour your 
 face ; the metal there shines enough ; it might put old Mr. 
 Norris out of countenance." 
 
 " Don't tease her, Fanny," interposed Sophy. '' You'll 
 put her out of humor for to-night." 
 
 " No she shan't. Miss Sophy; nothing oughten ter put 
 me out, when I see sich powerful pretty fingers workin' 
 
304 SILVEKWOOD. 
 
 for me ; 'sides arn't I gwine to he married to-night ?" and 
 with a triumphant chuckle she disappeared behind the 
 house, as she heard Aunt Rose's shrill call. 
 
 Fanny turned up her little scornful nose, as she looked 
 down on the group seated on one of the steps. '' Some- 
 thing J'fZ be above," she said, '' making wreaths for dar- 
 kies ! Why I wouldn't do it even for our white servants." 
 
 a Why ?" asked Josepha, with a wondering look. 
 
 " Why ? why it's no business of yours to be waiting 
 on servants ; besides, it spoils them. My mother always 
 says, if you're kind to servants, you'll have them in your 
 lap ; so it's best to keep them at a distance." 
 
 " But it makes them love us better, if we show some 
 interest in their affairs," said Maria. " Mamma likes us 
 to make frocks and aprons for Mammy Winnie's and Aunt 
 Tabby's little black babies — don't she Sophy ?" 
 
 *' The idea of caring whether servants love us or not !" 
 retorted Fanny, contemptuously. 
 
 " But we do care," replied Sophy, with some spirit ; 
 " and I've heard mamma say that the very reason you all 
 had such trouble with your white servants, changing them 
 so often, was just because, up North, you take so little 
 interest in them." 
 
 " Making bibs for black babies I" persisted Fanny, in 
 quite an amused way. " Wouldn't that be good to tell to 
 
 some of our school-orirls in ?" 
 
 " All city girls are so set up I" returned Sophy. 
 
A BRIDAL. 805 
 
 '' Alir d'ye hear that Lucy Fletcher ?" 
 
 " What ?" asked Lucy, turnmg the book she had been 
 reading, back upward on the seat, and sitting down on 
 the step among the others. 
 
 " Oh! it don't apply to ijoii^ Lucy," said Sophy ; ''you 
 see you're just on a level with the rest of us now. I meant 
 it for Fanny's friends — the school-girls up yonder. For 
 my part, Fanny, I wonder your mother ever let you come 
 away from such a grand place." 
 
 " She only did it because she thought I would be health- 
 ier in the country." 
 
 " But Fm surprised yoiCll allow there's better health in 
 country than in city," chimed in Sally Edwards. 
 
 " I don't ; but it was mamma's fancy." 
 
 " Come, girls," said Eunice ; " my rosettes are finished, 
 and Sophy's and Sepha's wreaths ; and you, Maria and 
 Virginia, have surely got bouquets enough there for all the 
 bridesmaids. Come, let us go and arrange the supper- 
 table. Mother told Daphne she might use the laundry- 
 room for the occasion. Fanny," she plead, coaxingly, 
 " you have the best taste among us ; go with us and show 
 us how to do things up in city style." 
 
 Fanny was not very hard to appease, so away they all 
 went to superintend the laying of cloths, and the placing 
 of dishes. Josepha ran to beg her mother for the cut-glass 
 salvers and jelly-glasses, " for you know, mother, Nathan 
 is one of Mrs. Grrantley's house servants, and he knows 
 
 13- 
 
306 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 whafs ivhat^ as well as white folks." The request was 
 granted, and Maria followed, coaxing for the candelabra 
 from the parlor mantel — "mamma lent our's. Aunt Mary, 
 to Chrissy, my maid, when she was married." And so 
 the table began to look really tasteful under the busy 
 little hands. Sally became too interested to tease, and 
 Fanny forgot to remember that they were working only 
 for the gratification of servants. Homer and Silvy fetched 
 and carried for the young mistresses, and the whites of 
 their eyes shone and their teeth glittered in admiring 
 wonder, as the wreaths were bound round the white 
 cakes. 
 
 " D'ye ever sec der like, mammy ?" questioned Homer 
 of Aunt Rose. " Hi! but Daphne'll be sot up ! I'll de- 
 clar' she'll think she's done got white. How she'll make 
 Silvy and me fly a'ter dis — hi ! " 
 
 Uncle Felix had gone with the little carriage to bring 
 " Mas'r Preacher Norris," as the servants called him, who 
 was to take tea with the family, and afterwards perform 
 the ceremony. As he sat at the foot of the table, looking 
 kindly along the line of bright little faces, so untouched of 
 care, so expectant, so mirthful, he could not forbear con- 
 trasting them in his mind with those meek, subdued ones 
 which he had been sitting tete-a-tete with for the half 
 hour before. 
 
 In due time Uncle Felix appeared as usher, to announce 
 that the bridal party was in readiness. The little girls 
 
A BRIDAL. 807 
 
 hurried away, and arranged themselves along the wall in 
 a state of high anticipation. In the centre of the room 
 stood Nathan, a fine, aihletic negro — " G-od's image cut 
 in ebony," as old Fuller quaintly styles the African — look- 
 ing very groom-like with his spotless pants, vest and 
 gloves. Daphne, with conscious hlushes — hronni ones, of 
 course — leaned lovingly on his arm, and flourished with 
 imitative grace the "hook-muslin" handkerchief, redolent 
 with the Luhin's extract which she had begged from Sophy 
 Irvine. On either side were arrano^ed brides-maids and 
 brides-men of " assorted colors," as Sally Edwards whis- 
 pered to Virginia Browne. The old clergyman had no 
 sooner taken his station in front of the expectant couple, 
 than one of the attendants stepped forward, and with a 
 profusion of bobbing and scraping, placed a paper containing 
 the fee in Mr. Norris' hand. One better up to the points of 
 etiquette attempted to prevent the faux j)cis by grasping at 
 his coat skirts — a gesture that set the grown ones of the 
 assembled sable coterie to tittering, and the big-eyed, bare- 
 footed urchins, whose bullet heads were poking out here 
 and there among their elders, to roaring outright with 
 laughter. A few cuffs and shakes administered by some 
 of the white-turbaned "aunties" restored order, and the 
 ceremony proceeded without farther interruption. Mr. 
 Norris shook hands with the happy pair, as soon as it was 
 over, leaving the unopened paper in the bride's palm. 
 The familv did the same, and then the servants fell back. 
 
808 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 and the younger fry were turned out of doors, while " the 
 white folks" were invited forward to partake of the good 
 cheer. This done, they returned to " the house," where 
 their ears were saluted with the " tumming " of the banjo, 
 mingled with the sounds of hearty jollity and innocent 
 mirthfulness, such as set Fanny Richards to thinking 
 that perhaps, after all, it was worth while to do what one 
 could to make even servants happy. 
 
XXX. 
 
 M nx t s i , 
 
 Edith was sitting alone on the steps of an old summer 
 house, through whieh, amidst the openings in the clematis 
 that rather held it together, than, owed any support to it, 
 the early moon-beams were beginning to slant. The bell 
 had rung for an hour's evening study, and the children 
 had all just left her. She had been exerting her powers 
 as a story-teller for their amusement, and successfully, too, 
 to judge from the merry laughter that had echoed through 
 the garden as they listened to the tale. She had smiled 
 when they did, but it would have taken more discrimina- 
 ting eyes than theirs to discover that the smile came only 
 from the lips — that the heart had nothing to do with it. 
 
 How little do those who see us most constantly — who 
 know us best — who love us dearest, dream of the inner 
 world of joy or sadness — of hope or doubt — of blissfulness or 
 despair, that crowds the cycle of our being I Thousands of 
 the strongest emotions that stir us, die away unspoken. 
 
310 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 Circumstances, like pebbles thrown into a smooth lake, 
 start concentric circles of feeling, the innermost, the deep- 
 est indented ; but the far shore of our outer life, if, indeed, 
 the ripple reach it at all, is scarcely touched by the faint- 
 est emotion. The occasion of the inquietude is hidden be- 
 neath the waves that only parted to open it a way, and 
 the unruffled surface shows no scar, more than does the 
 yielding water under the blow of the hurled pebble. 
 
 "It is strange," thought Edith; "strange that there 
 should be any topic about which Zilpha and I cannot speak 
 to each other. How seldom we name Bryant ! Various 
 times, indeed, has she made very distinct allusions, with 
 an evident desire to open all her heart to me ; but I shrunk 
 from her revelations ; I would not let her go on ; I have 
 not been strong enough to hear all the truth. How like a 
 son's, are his tender letters to mother ; and what a thought- 
 ful compassion in them, too, for me I Love must be very 
 beautiful when its purple bloom is yet unbreathed upon 
 by its being spoken of to another. How beautiful Zilpha 
 must know " 
 
 " Edith, are you here ?" It was Zilpha's softly-modu- 
 lated voice that spoke. Edith bade her come and sit down 
 beside her. 
 
 - " But, my dear, mother sent me to call you in. You 
 know how averse she is to any solitary indulgence of mel- 
 ancholy moods. Don't you think you give way to them 
 too much?" 
 
UNREST. 811 
 
 '^No. It is better to unclose the flood-gates, and let 
 out the overcharge occasionally. It relieves me." 
 
 " Is your heart, then, so full of sorrow still, dear Edith?" 
 
 " Zilpha, I believe all life is a disappointment to me. 
 I feel as if my clinging to it was being loosened ; not so 
 much because I realize the overtopping claims the better 
 life has on my aftections, as that it fails me at so many 
 points. It is not what my hopes had led me to expect ; 
 in plain words, it disappoints me at every turn." 
 
 " You forget that trial, discipline, are the surest things 
 promised us. ' In the world ye shall have tribulation.' 
 Why, then, be so disappointed that a little of it has come ? 
 But it has been gently dispensed ; and if you had seen, as 
 / did, dear Lawrence's translation — for it was more like 
 that than death — you w^ould feel that the prevailing sen- 
 timent of our minds should be thanksgiving." 
 
 '' I believe I can thank Grod for the light over our 
 brother's grave. Sometimes I feel that if he were sleeping 
 beside our father up yonder," and Edith pointed in the 
 direction of the village cemetery, " I should like to lie 
 down beside him." 
 
 '' Because you can say with Paul — ' I have finished my 
 
 coursf 
 
 7 5 ?) 
 
 " I'm afraid I think too much of the rest and peace of 
 heaven, and of the weariness of earth." 
 
 " Weariness! Why, yoti are not worn down with toil, 
 like Arnauld of whom we read the other day, who would 
 
312 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 not yield to the feeling of weariness, because he ' had all 
 eternity to rest in.' You are young ; you are surrounded 
 by those that love you ; you have never known want. 
 Ah ! Grod has been very good to us. Think what our case 
 would be if He gave us our deserts." 
 
 " I feel the truth of all you say ; but somehow I can't 
 attain to that calm state of acquiescence which dear 
 mother and you have reached. If I were but as good as 
 you ! " 
 
 •' Oh ! don't say that, Edith." 
 
 " Yes, I must say it. You don't know how often, when 
 I have watched you both in trying circumstances, I have 
 envied the meekness with which you have gone through 
 them, and longed to learn the secret by which you evaded 
 the struggle that was raising a tempest in my ovvn 
 breast." 
 
 " Mother would tell you, and I think I can, too, that 
 a calm exterior does not always betoken the absence of 
 all struggle. But the secret you have — ' Thou wilt 
 keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on 
 Thee.' " 
 
 " ' Perfect peace :' " — Edith repeated the words two or 
 three times over. 
 
 " Whit a music there is in them ! " said Zilplia. 
 
 " Yes ; bat it does not drown the unquiet murmurs of 
 my restless heart." 
 
 " Why ' restless,' dear Edith ? I don't understand 
 this." 
 
UXREST. 813 
 
 Edith leaned her head on her sister's shoulder, and did 
 not at once reply. 
 
 '' I think," she said, after a long pause, " that my diffi- 
 culty is, that I look backward and forward too much, and 
 upward too little. You remind me of what is told of 
 Michael Angelo, after he had finished painting the ceiling 
 of the Sistine Chapel. His gaze had been turned upward 
 so long, that when he descended from the scaffolding, he 
 could not, without pain, look upon the ground. I keep 
 counting over one loss after another — home — friends — 
 property ; and ah ! the dreariest of all, the taking away of 
 our hope and stay ; the leagues of ocean between us and 
 his lonely grave," and Edith buried her face in her sister's 
 lap. She calmed herself again, and went on. " It grieves 
 me now to see. dear mother's incessant occupation and 
 anxiety, and — and — if you should leave us, too ! These 
 thoughts weary me, and make me wish sometimes that 
 the end were come, and we were all at home in heaven.'' 
 
 " If 7 should leave you ? " 
 
 " Sister," said Edith, straightening herself up rigidly, 
 " I know it all ; I know you are beloved : I have read it 
 in his eye. You love him ; I have read that, too, and you 
 have told me as much. I can see, then, what the end 
 must be." * 
 
 " He did not speak to you of it? " 
 
 " No — no — not exactly in so many words ; but I 
 could gather more than his tongue could have revealed." 
 
814 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 " And would it make you sorry, Edith, were I to tell 
 you that it is all so ? " 
 
 "Grlad for your sake, Zilpha," and tlie white moonlight 
 made the cheek over which it fell, look wan ; ''but I 
 dare not think how sorry for my own. Oh ! this rending 
 apart of home-ties, the sweetest, the most precious of earth, 
 how bitter it is ! " 
 
 " Don't let us think of it, then," said Zilpha, caressingly. 
 " Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." 
 
 "But I can't help thinking; and I can see how it is 
 all to be arranged. Mother and the children will go with 
 you, for we couldn't live at Silverwood, if you, our strong- 
 est arm, next to dear Lawrence, were taken away ; and 
 I — I can go and be a governess." 
 
 " Edith; dear Edith, as long as you are unclaimed, your 
 home and mine must be the same." 
 
 " "Would you condemn me to a life of dependence when 
 self-support is within my reach ? No, Zilpha, I shall 
 never marry ; I feel that, and I must teach myself thank- 
 fully to accept what hundreds do — the provision my 
 education makes for me. Others as proud-spirited as 
 myself are constrained often to be content with a depen- 
 dence that would be galling to me, however pure and 
 disinterested and ^oble were the intentions of those who 
 might invite me thus to lean on them. But I have not 
 this further trial of compelled dependence, and I ought to 
 be grateful." 
 
UNEEST. 315 
 
 *' Dear Edith, you are borrowing trouble, and paying a 
 most exorbitant interest for it," said Zilpha, soothingly. 
 " Do not attempt to look into the future, for pry as we 
 may, we cannot tell what a day may bring forth. Let us 
 trust Him who knows what is best for us all, and then 
 come what will, we can appropriate the lines we so often 
 hear dear mother use — 
 
 *' ' Give what Thou canst, without Thee w^e are poor, 
 And with Thee, rich, take what Thou wilt away ! ' " 
 
 "Yes," sighed Edith, ^^ di practical faith; I know 
 that is what I need ; mine has been too theoretical." 
 
 " ' Ask, and it shall be given.' " 
 
 " I do — I do," replied Edith, earnestly. " I will try 
 and be more like mother and you." 
 
 " Look higher, my dear ; follow Jesus." 
 
 A voice was heard shouting their names at the garden 
 gate — " Sister ! Edith ! mother wants you to come in out 
 of the dew." 
 
 " But promise me," said Zilpha, retaining Edith in the 
 seat from which she was about to rise ; " promise me that 
 you will not sadden yourself by such anticipations as you 
 have been settinsr forth to-nioiit. These unsubstantial 
 spectres of the future have no business to be here scaring 
 you in the daylight of the present." 
 
 "Promise me," replied Edith, kissing her sister, "that 
 the subject we have touched on shall not be spoken of 
 between us, unless I introduce it." 
 
316 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 *' Does it, indeed, grieve you so ?" asked Zilpha, a little 
 sorrowfully. 
 
 " You shall talk of it as much as you will, after a 
 while ; but I don't feel strong enough for it just yet. 
 Time, Zilpha ; time and prayer ;" and with intertwining 
 arms the sisters walked together to the house. 
 
XXXI. 
 
 Sinunur ^isittiXB/ 
 
 One morning, not long after this, Uncle Felix made 
 his appearance at the parlor door, where Edith was giving 
 a music lesson to one of her pupils. 
 
 '* One of de servants down to Mr. Carson's hotel hrung 
 dis note for some of you alls. Miss Zilphy." 
 
 Zilpha received it. " It's for you, Edith," she said, 
 looking at the superscription, as she handed it to her. 
 Edith colored a little, as she opened the note and glanced 
 over it. 
 
 '' Ah I here are Dr. Dubois and Jacqueline, and two or 
 three of their city friends whom I met last winter in 
 Milburne, on their way to ' the Springs.' The party go on 
 to-morrow, with the exception of the doctor and his sister 
 who expect to delay a few days to see us and our pretty 
 country hereabouts. Zilpha, it will be incumbent on us to 
 ride in and see them." 
 
 '' Certainly it will, and engage them to dinner, too." 
 
318 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 " Yes ; how kind old Mr. Dubois was to me, and the 
 doctor, too. I shall be glad of an opportunity to show 
 some appreciation of it. But need we ask these other 
 people ? You know we have entertained no company 
 since — since we put on mourning." 
 
 " It will not do to make a selection, especially if you 
 received attentions at their hands last winter." 
 
 Accordingly, Mrs. Irvine took her daughters' place in 
 the school-room, while they went to pay their duty to the 
 strangers. They found Jacqueline protesting that she was 
 in a state of general dislocation, and vowing that unless a 
 spring-seated and backed carriage were found for her use 
 and behoof, she did not think she could be induced to 
 encounter another day of such roads as they had made 
 trial of, for all the pleasure a season at a Virginia water- 
 ing-place could promise. The two ladies and the gentle- 
 man who formed their party, joined her hue and cry of 
 abuse of the roads, but made their amende honorable by 
 their unstinted admiration of the scenery around Milburne. 
 Dr. Dubois thought the rough journey better than a score 
 of medicated baths, or a hundred draughts of medicinal 
 waters. After a half hour's visit, Zilpha and Edith came 
 away, having obtained a promise from the party that they 
 would all drive out and dine at Silverwood. 
 
 Aunt Hose had already entered upon her leisurely 
 preparations for the simple meal she expected to prepare, 
 when her young mistresses returned with the announce- 
 
SUMMER VISITOES. 819 
 
 ment that five strangers were invited for dinner. To 
 hurry, was a thing she had never done in her life. "Hur- 
 ryinV' she said, " allers hendered her," and with her 
 elephantine proportions, her movements and methods all 
 corresponded. Uncle Felix, though he had no such corpo- 
 real incumbrance to carry about with him, was possessed 
 of the same "masterly inactivity;" and Daphne, while 
 she was " a smart chance " of a girl, did not understand 
 better than other negroes, the practical meaning of dis- 
 patch^ in her way of doing business. So Zilpha and Edith 
 lent them the aid of their quicker hands in concocting a 
 dessert. 
 
 Homer was sent to help Uncle Felix catch a pair of 
 ducks and a turkey to add to the roast that was to have 
 sufficed for dinner ; but after running himself out of 
 breath, he came back unsuccessful, with Fidele at his 
 heels, declaring " dat dar dog wan't no 'count, nohow ; 
 he jes' skeert de things ; dat's all ; an' Uncle Felix, he so 
 stiff, he say, sence he have de rheumatis', he's done good 
 for nothin' for runnin'." 
 
 '' Why don't you scatter some corn," asked Edith, 
 " and coax them to you in that way, and then make a 
 dash at some of them ? Run and get some in your 
 hat." 
 
 u Ar'n't got no crown in it. Miss Edith." 
 "Well, take something else, then ; only catch them as 
 soon as you can, or Aunt Rose's dinner will be so late 
 
820 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 it will have to be put off, like the Irishman's, till to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Homer scampered off, with Silvy and Fidcle and Uncle 
 Felix to help him, and in a little while returned with 
 a duck under one arm and a chicken under the other. 
 
 ^' Sure 'nuff, Miss Edith ; here dey be ! " 
 
 " But they don't match, Homer." 
 
 ^' Dey's both got a blind eye — see ! " 
 
 But Homer was assured they would not do to go 
 together, and so, after no little farther delay and trouble, 
 the needed fowls were at length secured. 
 
 Daphne had Zilpha's assistance in compounding pud- 
 dings and cream-tarts, which were to rival those of '' the 
 widow of Nourreddin ;" and as Aunt Rose set down the 
 second pitcher of cream she had been dispatched for to 
 the milk-house, with an emphatic jerk upon the table 
 beside Edith, she gave vent to the opinion that " com- 
 pany was like de 'Grypton locuses — eats up all clean afore 
 'em.'^ 
 
 Edith had her materials for the ice she was preparing 
 ready to deliver into Uncle Felix's hands for freezing, 
 when she remembered that it had not been flavored. 
 Josepha, who was making herself "generally useful," 
 now that her lessons were over, was sent to bring a vanil- 
 la-bean. 
 
 " Only a bit of a one here," she said, holding up the 
 empty box. 
 
SUMMER VISITORS. 321 
 
 *' Well, some of the ' pine-apple extract ' will do." 
 
 " Mother gave out the last of that for Daphne's wed- 
 ding." 
 
 ^' And not a lemon within a mile of us ? No wine in 
 that bottle either ?" 
 
 Josepha turned the bottle upside down. 
 
 " We seem to be rather in an extremity. "Well, they'll 
 have to take it plain." 
 
 '' Needn't do dat, Miss Edith," said Daphne, and laying 
 down her rolling-pin, she ran out and returned in a mo- 
 ment with a handful of peach-leaves. '' Jes' you bile 'em 
 in a pint of de cream, and dey'll never know but you'd a 
 bushel of bitter almonds." 
 
 At the appointed hour Dr. Dubois made his appearance 
 alone. Jacqueline, with her accustomed self-indulgence, 
 had allowed her slight fatigue to release her from her 
 promise ; and as she declared it would be too stupid to 
 stay behind alone, by dint of coaxing and pouting she 
 prevailed on the lady who was anxious to go, to remain 
 with her, especially as their other companion was in bed 
 with a head-ache, and " it could make no difference what- 
 ever to the Ir vines whether they came or not." The other 
 gentleman of the party felt obHged to stay, too, particu- 
 larly as Jacqueline intimated that it would be awkward 
 to go down to the table without him or her brother. Dr. 
 Dubois evidently was mortified at the lameness of Jac- 
 queline's excuse, and softened it as much as he could, 
 
 14: 
 
322 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 reminding Edith that she knew his sister of old for a 
 spoiled child, and would therefore make allowances. 
 
 '' Hosh !" ejaculated Aunt Rose, pushing Homer from 
 her as he imparted the result of his investigations gath- 
 ered at the dining-room door, hetween which and the kitch- 
 en, twenty yards from the house, he was runner for Uncle 
 Felix ; and she puffed away vigorously at the pipe where- 
 with she was regaling herself after the Herculean labor of 
 dinner-getting. " Now, hoy, don't tell me," she said, re- 
 moving her mouth-piece, and rolling a slow cloud from her 
 voluminous lips, " dat dar's no more nor one gentleman 
 dar. I done got eatins 'nulf for ten, least calc'lation." 
 
 " Ony one, mammy, I tell you ; I seed him." 
 
 " Bless my heart! all dis yer stewin' and sweatin' for 
 ony one ; — an' dar'U be two pounds less butter at de nex' 
 churnin', d'out mistake ! Wonder at dis rate when I'se 
 to git dat dar new coat ole Mis' promised me if I'd make 
 butter ' nuff from our own cov>^s to do d'out buy in' dis 
 month ? You Silvy I tetch dat silver fork agin if you dar. 
 If you want de turkey-leg off de plate, take it wid yer 
 own fingers. Silver forks is got no business in niggas' 
 mouths ;" and the old cook betook herself* to her consola- 
 tory pipe again, musing, as she smoked, on " the cur'us 
 ways of white folks." 
 
 Edith drove down to Milburne the next morning for 
 Jacqueline, as she and her brother were pledged to take 
 up their abode with them for a few days, as soon as the 
 lest of thtiir party would leave them. 
 
SUMMER VISITORS. 823 
 
 ^'Ah! you, Edith?" said the lady in question, rising 
 languidly from the sofa in the hotel parlor, and letting a 
 kiss drop somewhere on Edith's cheek. Why, you look 
 paler than you did last winter. Been sick, eh ?" and 
 without waiting for a reply, she rattled on in her noncha- 
 lant way, through a half hour of rather wearisome chatter 
 to Edith, drawing up, at length, on the not yet worn-out 
 topic of the roads. 
 
 *' Such highways as you do have in Virginia ! Really, 
 Dickens' experience in the ' District' isn't so overdrawn as 
 I supposed. Your limestone strata all ' crop out' into your 
 roads, it seems to me. Now, Griovanni, assure me profes- 
 sionally that I will suffer no farther risk in riding out to 
 Silverwood." 
 
 '' Not so much as in walking from Chestnut and Fourth 
 to Chestnut and Twelfth ; and it's about as far." 
 
 " My brother is a tease yet, you see, Edith ; but I've 
 made enough progress in my Italian studies to hurl lines 
 from Ariosto and Groldoni at him when he becomes insuf- 
 ferable. If I get to the ' White Sulphur' alive, and don't 
 have too many bones dislocated to dance, I expect to have 
 a rare time. Can you go, too, Edith ?" 
 
 Edith's eyes fell on her mourning dress. 
 
 " Oh ! to be sure!" said Jacqueline, comprehending her 
 thought; "but you needn't dance. John hates it, and 
 undertakes to say it's a silly way for sensible people to 
 find amusement in ; so he'll suit you in that respect." 
 
324 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 Dr. Dubois joined his solicitations to his sister's passing 
 question, and in a kind, earnest way to which she was a 
 stranger. 
 
 " We are going to take the general circuit," Jacqueline 
 went on, " and will have you back here by the first of 
 September.'* 
 
 Edith thanked them and declined, saying that their 
 school duties would not be up before that. 
 
 " Bless me ! and you teach !" exclaimed Jacqueline, 
 with something more akin to pity in her voice than her 
 listener had ever heard there before. " How that would 
 fret me ! But never mind ; your mother can do that for 
 you." 
 
 *' My sister and I feel as if our mother had duties enough, 
 without that in addition ; but come, shall Uncle Felix get 
 your trunk ?" 
 
 " She has two of them as big as dining-tables," said 
 Dr. Dubois, " and a bonnet-box to boot, in which Queen 
 Elizabeth might have carried a score of her tallest ruffs. 
 I protest. Miss Edith, against having your house lumbered 
 with them all." 
 
 " Separate a lady from her baggage !" broke forth Jac- 
 queline, rising, and looked for the first time animated. 
 '' No, injieed ; I say like Ruth : ' where thou goest, I will 
 go.'" ^' 
 
 " Oh ! by all means it shall go," said Edith, smiling. 
 " Uncle Felix can easily return for it." 
 
SUMMER VISITORS. 825 
 
 " For 0/ze," plead the doctor. But *' all or none," was 
 Jacqueline's ultimatum, and so the matter was settled. 
 *' Sister ! Edith !" shouted Josepha, making an exci- 
 ted irruption into the parlor, where, an evening or two af- 
 ter the arrival of the Dubois,' they sat talking together ; 
 *' I do believe Cousin Barry is coming up the lane I It's 
 a gentleman on horseback, and he shook hands with Uncle 
 Felix when he opened the road- gate for him. Oh ! I do 
 hope it's Cousin Barry !" and the little news-carrier rushed 
 out again to ascertain whether her hopes were to be real- 
 ized. Zilpha followed her. Edith sat still, not uncon- 
 scious that a pair of questioning eyes were fastened upon 
 her, while Jacqueline filled up the pause. 
 " ' Cousin Barry V who's that ?" 
 
 " Mr. Woodruff, a relation of mother's," replied Edith, 
 rising and arranging the pieces of music Jacqueline had 
 scattered over the piano. 
 
 " Oh ! yes ; he was with you a few days when I spent 
 
 a month at B , two summers ago. Didn't I hear you 
 
 say he was a clergyman now ? That a craft I've a des- 
 perate fear of." 
 
 " But if all 'the cloth' were like Mr. Woodruff, as I 
 used to know him,'' said Doctor Dubois, " people of the 
 world would have no need to be scared away from religion 
 by the gravity of its teachers. Many of them, unfortu- 
 nately, are like the man Charles Lamb tells us of, from 
 whom Newton might have deduced his law of gravitation. 
 Has his profession changed Mr. Woodruff, Miss Edith ?" 
 
826 STLVERWOOD. 
 
 " No ; except, perhaps, to tone down his native exuber- 
 ance a little, leaving the same firm, buoyant manhood 
 about him." 
 
 " To a leaden grey ?" asked Jacqueline. " That's what 
 I can't understand, why clergymen should eschew life's 
 sunshine so much." 
 
 " How mistaken you both arc !" exclaimed Edith. 
 "There is no class of men who lead happier, more sunshiny 
 lives than they do. If you had been accustomed to see 
 parties of them together, as I have often, and to listen to 
 their sparkling, vivacious, genial talk, you would change 
 your opinions. You judge them from their pulpit faces, 
 for that's all you see of them. In social life, no men as 
 a class, are — I was a going to say — quite so delightful." 
 Edith had been listening while she spoke, and now the 
 steps of the party were heard entering the house. She 
 advanced in the gathering dusk, holding out her hands 
 with eager cordiality to the figure that filled the door- 
 way, and found them grasped, not by Bryant "Wooduff, 
 but by Mr. Fleming. So prepared had she been to meet 
 the former, that for a moment she had as much trouble to 
 recall her self-possession, as Josepha had to hide her dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 " Dr. Dubois, Mr. Fleming." The gentlemen bowed 
 distantly, as Zilpha named them to each other ; but no 
 sooner were lights brought, than Mr. Fleming started up, 
 exclaiming: " Is it possible!" and extended his hand to 
 
SUMMER VISITOES. 327 
 
 the doctor, on whose part the recognition was just as sim- 
 ultaneous. '' Who would have thought we should come 
 here to meet ?" said Mr. Fleming. 
 
 *' Who, indeed ? It's just four years last month since 
 we parted in the Custom House at Liverpool, and as I've 
 heard not a word of you since, I didn't know but that you 
 had expatriated yourself wholly, renounced mother-tongue, 
 and smoked av/ay all memory of any world outside of a 
 Grerman University." 
 
 " And I might as well have surmised that some Parisian 
 Hospital had engulphed you." 
 
 It was soon made plain to the somewhat mystified look- 
 ers on, that the very natural circumstance of being pas- 
 sengers on board the- same steamer to Europe, had started 
 an acquaintanceship mutually agreeable, which, after 
 separation, had never permitted to ripen, and they both 
 hailed with pleasure the fact that came out in the course 
 of conversation, that they were bound for the same water- 
 ing-place, and could be, consequently, travelling compan- 
 ions for the next few weeks. 
 
 Jacqueline could not restrain the satisfaction she felt 
 at the prospect, especially after she ascertained Mr. Flem- 
 ino^ to be the son of the Colonel Fleminsf whom she had 
 heard frequently named in her visits to New-York as 
 making quite a figure there during his furloughs. 
 
 " Now do go with us," she Avhispered in the course of 
 the evening to Edith. " Three are no company, you know 
 
828 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 and your mother and sister can take care of these few 
 little girls very well without you." 
 
 " Circumstances would not warrant my going just now, 
 even if I wished it. Times have changed with us, you 
 must remember." 
 
 ^' Dear me ! it wouldn't cost much — not over a hundred 
 and fifty dollars, I'm sure." 
 
 " You remind me, Jacqueline," said Edith, smiling 
 faintly, " of some English Princess, who, when she heard 
 of a famine in a certain district, expressed astonishment 
 at it, declaring she would rather eat bread and cheese 
 than starve I" 
 
 There were some visitors at Silverwood the next mor- 
 ning, and among them, Mr. Phillips. . In answer to some 
 questions from the gentlemen as to the localities of the 
 neighborhood, he offered himself as cicerone, if they and 
 the ladies present would make a party for the ascent of 
 Castlehead, whose grand and striking proportions they had 
 just had under review. He described the evening view 
 from its top as enchanting to a sun-set fancier, and so 
 fired the imaginations of his listeners that they were eager 
 to fall in with his proposition. It was accordingly settled 
 that on the following evening the party should leave Silver- 
 wood in time to make the distance before the sun would 
 sink below his horizon of purple mountains. 
 
IXXII. 
 
 It had been a rich, golden day, and through the Silver- 
 wood aspens the westering sun was pouring its gleams of 
 restless radiance, as the party assembled on the porch, 
 ready for their equestrian excursion. The little girls had 
 all been treated to a canter up and down the long lane by 
 the servants who held the horses in waiting, and they now 
 came bounding up the gravel path in exuberant spirits, 
 their hair disheveled, and their bright, pretty faces all 
 a-glow with the inspiriting exercise. 
 
 " Mr. Fleming," said Jacqueline, addressing herself to 
 that gentleman as they all descended from the porch, 
 " pray, be my train-bearer, and take charge of my whip 
 while I draw on these gauntlets ;" and gracefully gather- 
 ing up the long riding-dress, she deposited its folds in the 
 proffered hand. Then her cap was to be adjusied, and her 
 floating curls re-arranged, so that before she was ready to 
 mount, Zilpha and Edith were both in their saddles. Mr. 
 
 14# 
 
830 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 Phillips stepped forward, though she had riot yet relieved 
 Mr. Fleming from duty, and was ahout to lower his hand 
 to receive her foot, when she turned to him with one of 
 her blandest smiles — " You see, sir, I have one cavalier al- 
 ready in waiting." 
 
 " Then I am to understand that your footing is secure 
 with this gentleman ? Quite an underhand ruse, by the 
 way, Mr. Fleming, for you to practice on me," he added 
 in a playful aside, " after you had yourself arranged the 
 matter differently." 
 
 " Nevertheless, you will throw me down no gauntlet. 
 The commands of fair ladies are not to be disobeyed." 
 
 " I am a disinherited knight. Miss Irvine," said Mr. 
 Phillips, coming back to Zilpha. " "Will you take com- 
 passion on me, and allow me a place at your saddle-bow ? 
 You see how Miss Dubois has put her foot upon Mr. 
 Fleming's expectations." 
 
 In a couple of hours' time they were threading the narrow 
 bridle-path that wound up the mountain's side. Tall trees 
 of primeval growth almost wholly shut out the view, and 
 even when here and there they did come out upon patches 
 of cleared ground, Mr. Phillips exacted a promise from 
 them that they would not look back, and thus lessen by 
 half glimpses the effect of the tout ensemble when they 
 should arrive at the top of the mountain. 
 
 Mr. Phillips and Zilpha were the leaders of the party ; 
 and whilst the others were still shrouded amidst the tang- 
 
CASTLEHEAD. 881 
 
 led brushwood and overtopping trees, they could catch 
 Zilpha's exclamations of delight as she stepped out upon 
 the flat rock which commanded a sweeping view of the 
 almost entire ridgy horizon. They pressed upward as fast 
 as the steep ascent would permit, for they had dismounted 
 some hundreds of yards farther down, and left their horses 
 picketed under the care of Uncle Felix, who, as sumpter 
 to the party, carried a supply of shawls for the possible 
 coolness of the homeward ride. 
 
 "How magnificent!" "how beautiful!" were the ex- 
 clamations of one and another as they emerged from the 
 forest and joined their companions on the rock. " And 
 how weary I am of such chamois leaps !" cried Jacque- 
 line, as she made it Mr. Fleming's first care to roll up a 
 loose stone for her seat before he had given the scene a 
 moment's attention. 
 
 Beneath their feet the tops of the tallest oaks were nod- 
 ding their graceful obeisance to the whispering evening 
 wind, and " all the leaves of the trees clapped their hands." 
 Irregular strips of cleared land were conspicuous here and 
 there down the mountain's slopes, w4th the rude log cabin 
 in the centre, from Avhich the smoke curled in blue wreaths 
 heavenward. From its base stretched away the farm- 
 lands, with their innumerable and various shaped fields, 
 some pale brown, some white with the ripened harvests, 
 some purple with clover, others green with waving corn, 
 and scattered among them over the wide-spreading valley 
 
832 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 were the homesteads with their windows gleaming in the 
 light of the setting sun, and the roofs of Milburne, its spires 
 showing clearly against the depth of shadow behind. Then 
 there were wooded knolls, deep ravines with jagged shadows 
 under their brows, dark copses warmed here and there by- 
 exquisite touches of gilding light, chasms from which the 
 day had already faded, little vales running up between the 
 hills, and winding brooks braided like silver threads into 
 the velvet tissue of the landscape. Above and beyond all, 
 surged away the broken line of mountains of every form, 
 smooth and wooded, and of a misty green; bold, jutting 
 and gray, or towering promontory-like, with sharp peaks ; 
 range upon range, one rounded curve over another, till the 
 pale, purple vestments in which they wrapped themselves, 
 dissolved and faded away into the silvery gray of the dis- 
 tant sky. 
 
 " How does all this gorgeous and golden show impress 
 you ?" asked Mr. Fleming, coming up behind Zilpha, who 
 stood in a maze of speechless admiration. 
 
 "With a silent wonder — everything is so beautiful, so 
 grand ! Who, but the Almighty Builder, could congregate 
 such an uncounted variety of splendors as stretch from 
 this rock on which we stand, away yonder to ' the utmost 
 bound of the everlasting hills V How fine that scripture 
 expression sounds here I" 
 
 " You went to the highest source, I see, for your 
 thought ; I had gone to Tegner for mine : 
 
CASTLEHEAD. 883 
 
 " ' Ah ! if so much of beauty pour itself 
 
 Through all the veins of life and of creation. 
 How beautiful must the great fountain be — 
 The bright — the eternal !' " 
 
 '' And I to Beattie for mine," said Edith, whose hands 
 were joined unconsciously, as if in worship,, while she re- 
 peated ; 
 
 *" Oh ! how canst thou renounce the boundless store 
 
 Of charms which Nature to her votary yields ! 
 The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, 
 
 The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields, 
 All that the genial ray of morning gilds. 
 
 And all that echoes to the song of even, 
 All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, 
 
 And all the dread magnificence of heaven, 
 Oh ! how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven !' " 
 
 '' And you, Dr. Duhois, what has your thought been ?" 
 asked Zilpha. 
 
 " "Wliy, to speak truly, an idea of Ruskin's was running 
 through my head about mountains being the bones of the 
 earth, the muscles and tendons of its anatomy being in 
 them ; that their spirit is action, as with heaving bosoms 
 and exulting limbs, and clouds drifting like hair from 
 their foreheads, they lift up their Titan hands to heaven, 
 saying : ' I live forever !' " 
 
 " Now isn't that like G-iovanni, Edith!" exclaimed Jac- 
 queline, laughing, "to go to his profession for an illustra- 
 tion or a quotation to suit him ?" 
 
334 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 " Or like the poet Bryant: he speaks of the mountains 
 as 'rock-ribbed.' The idea, though it may commend itself 
 to you professionally doctor, is, nevertheless, natural and 
 beautiful.'' 
 
 '' But you, Mr. Phillips," interposed Zilpha, " let us 
 share your thought, too." 
 
 " I ? Oh, of course, with my practical turn of mind I 
 have been making a mental survey for a canal through 
 the valley yonder, and am hesitating through which gap 
 among those mountains a rail-road could be mo^t easily 
 constructed. I think it quite excusable in Dr. Dubois to 
 be taking his own view of matters, weighing, perhaps, the 
 small chances a disciple of Esculapius must have of em- 
 ployment where there are such barriers to disease as these 
 ridges, and where Nature puts on such airs, and laughs to 
 scorn the ills to which ' flesh is heir,' as forbidden intru- 
 ders among the valleys to which her own pure breath is 
 air." 
 
 " What an extinguisher you put upon our enthusiasm 
 and sentiment !" said Edith, laughing, in a half-chiding 
 way. 
 
 " The bare mention of rail-roads and canals in such a 
 presence is a sort of desecration." 
 
 " It would kindle, instead of extinguishing mine," broke 
 in Jacqueline, " if there were a rail-road there. I would 
 prefer seeing it, to a river like the Hudson- or the Rhine, 
 for then I should be spared the vision of slow, lumbering, 
 old-time stage coaches that now looms before me." 
 
CASTLEHEAD. 835 
 
 " But you didn't hit my train of thought, Mr. Phillips, 
 after all," said Dr. Dubois. 
 
 "Ah! too fast for me, was it? — flown hy on Miss Du- 
 bois' railway?" 
 
 " The farthest, possible, from it. Miss Edith, I will turn 
 from these irreverent speculators in rail-roads and canals, 
 to you. Do you recall that exquisite pastoral of Words- 
 worth, which you read to me one evening in my father's 
 library ; the one you told me Coleridge said he never could 
 read with an unclouded eye ?" 
 
 " ' The Brothers,'' do you mean?" 
 
 " Yes, that v.^as it. There are two lines in it I am try. 
 insf to remember." 
 
 o 
 
 " Is it the old 'Priest's' reply to the ' Traveler' who had 
 been so moved by his sad story ? 
 
 " 'If you weep 
 To hear a stranger talking about strangers, 
 Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred !' " 
 
 " No ; it related to the spirit of mountaineers." 
 " All, yes ! 
 
 " ' The thought of death sits easy on the man 
 
 Who has been born and dies among the mountains.' " 
 
 " But why," asked Zilpha, '' should death be less to 
 them than others ?" 
 
 " That it is so, facts prove," replied Dr. Dubois ; " for 
 the world over, mountaineers have ever been fan\ous for 
 
336 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 their daring, and their scorn of danger and death. They 
 find more in their daily life to test these qualities. Trial 
 developes and strengthens them, and their souls grow into 
 something of the grandeur of Nature in her loftiest exhi- 
 bitions." 
 
 " Those sun-burnt rustics hoeing corn down on yon 
 cleared patch you will allow are exceptions, with Miss 
 Dubois and myself," interrupted Mr. Phillips, mischievously. 
 
 " I beg to be left out of that category, if you please, 
 sir," said Jacqueline, bridling a little ; " rusticity is my 
 abomination." 
 
 " Ah ! beg pardon, Miss Dubois. If the category offends 
 you, let me substitute my dogmatical assertion, that any 
 one less suggestive of rusticity than your delicate self can- 
 not be conceived of. Except from present proof, I might 
 have imagined that your eye had never even before rested 
 upon a cornfield." 
 
 " Mr. Phillips," said Edith, " I wish we had Miss Grant 
 with us to keep you in order, or to cross blades with you 
 in your word-play." 
 
 " Let us grant — " 
 
 " Yes, Lettuce Grant," retorted Edith, catching up his 
 unfinished sentence. 
 
 " You took advantage of me there, Miss Edith. I only 
 meant to propose to Miss Dubois that we should grant a 
 truce to any further hostilities against the ' sentiment' so 
 evidently in the ascendant, and crouch at your feet, meekly 
 
CASTLEHEAD. , 837 
 
 receptive of whatever shreds of poetry you may choose to 
 throw us." 
 
 The trio who sat at the foot of a knarled old hemlock, 
 taking in the sublimity and loveliness of the scene before 
 them, had pursued their conversation uninterrupted by 
 this by-play. 
 
 " My associations with mountains are mostly of a holy 
 character," said Zilpha ; " they have been so signalised by 
 grand displays of Almighty power and mercy. There is 
 Ararat, Moriah, Sinai, Horeb, Pisgah. Ah, yes ; over 
 some such immense circuit of hill and valley must the 
 eye of the old Prophet have swept, as he looked over into 
 the land of Promise across the Jordan. You remember, 
 Mr. Fleming, reading to dear Lawrence, Melville's imagin- 
 ings as to the extent of the prophetic vision ?" 
 
 '• Yes ; and remember, too, how your brother was touched 
 by the fancied arrest of the eye of Moses, as he saw down 
 through the vista of ages, by the gleam of the white walls 
 of Bethlehem." 
 
 " Then there is Carmel, and Olivet, and Tabor, and 
 Calvary. Those who have ' been born and die among the 
 mountains,' might well let the thought of death ' sit easy 
 on them,' Dr. Dubois, if they only remember how the foot- 
 steps of G-od have consecrated them, and that a mountain 
 was the chosen altar for the world's sacrifice." 
 
 '' I confess that had not occurred to me as a reason for 
 the thought of death being softened to them," replied the 
 doctor. 
 
338 r SILVERWOOD. 
 
 "It is the only thing that can reconcile humanity any- 
 where to dissolution," said Zilpha, with a sweet gravity. 
 
 " And to come down to later times," pursued Mr. Flem- 
 ing, " still following out your thought. Miss Zilpha, how 
 the Waldenses, and the Huguenots, and the Covenanters, 
 have made sacred the Appenines, and the Alps, and the 
 Cevennes, and the Highlands of Scotland, and the New 
 England hills, and these very AUeghanies. But while we 
 talk, we are forgetting to note the fine effect of this flood 
 of golden light over the landscape. Look at the sharp, 
 grey line of shadow those peaks to the right yonder cast 
 across the mountains east of them." 
 
 " And what a cool amethyst these western ones leave 
 against the golden edge of the sky I" exclaimed Edith, en- 
 joyingly. 
 
 '' Yes ; I was just comparing them in my mind to the 
 amethyst set of jewelry papa gave me for a Christmas 
 present last winter," remarked Jacqueline. 
 
 " What a miracle of sublimity a sun-set would be ac- 
 counted, did we see it but once in a life-time," said Mr. 
 Fleming. 
 
 '• Yes; see what a triumphant smile he sends up, like a 
 dying martyr, from the midst of his death- fires I" and 
 Edith waved her hand round the burnished horizon. 
 
 " And can't you improvise a death-song for him. Miss 
 Edith ? Come, be our tenth muse." 
 
 " I am, unfortunately, not like novel heroines, ready 
 
CASTLEHEAD. 339 
 
 with appropriate stanzas for every emergency. Zilpha 
 has a more faithful memory than I have ; perhaps she can 
 recite you something in keeping with the time and place." 
 
 Zilpha was at once beset with applications to become 
 raconteur. "A ballad," "a sun-set tale," "an Indian 
 legend," were suggested in turn. 
 
 " With these fresh mountain breezes about us, and this 
 glorious land stretching away on all sides, we want some- 
 thing heroic, patriotic ; something that will make us feel 
 what a rich heritage of freedom we have," said Mr. 
 Fleminsf. 
 
 '' Something a la Young- American," hinted Mr. Phillips. 
 
 " If any, or all of you have read ' Silvio Pellico's Im- 
 prisonment,' " interposed Edith, " you will recall the 
 touching story he tells of a young Italian nobleman, who 
 was thrown by the Austrian government into the dismal 
 castle of Spielburg, where he perished for no other crime 
 than that of loving his country. Sister, you remember 
 the ballad that relates the incident." 
 
 In a low, musical voice — that more " excellent thing in 
 woman" than even beauty of face or form — low, yet won- 
 derfully distinct to its faintest utterances, Zilpha recited 
 
 THE MARTYR OF LIBERTY. 
 
 In a lone and dreary fortress, 
 
 Buried from the light of day, 
 From the pleasant, loving sunshine. 
 
810 SILVEKWOOD. 
 
 And the free air's gladden'd play, 
 Where no human sound could reach him, 
 
 Save the weary monotones 
 Of the sentinels whose footsteps 
 
 Dully echoed o'er the stones, 
 Lay the young and noble victim 
 
 Of the Austrian's tyrant law. 
 Worn with slow consuming sickness, 
 
 On his meagre bed of straw. 
 
 Oft he strove to press his forehead 
 
 With his pallid hand, in vain ; 
 For the wrist, so thin and pulseless, 
 
 Could not lift its heavy chain ; 
 Though his lips were parched and burning. 
 
 While the quenchless fever raged. 
 None had brought him cooling water. 
 
 That his thirst might be assuaged : 
 And through many a sleepless night-watch. 
 
 Did his tender spirit groan 
 O'er the dim, unmeasured anguish, 
 
 Borne so utterly alone. 
 
 From beneath the fair, blue arches 
 
 Of his own Italian sky. 
 Dragged from country, home, and kindred. 
 
 They had thrust him here to die : 
 Not because his young existence 
 
 Had been stained by crime and guilt, — 
 Not because with murderous weapon 
 
 He his fellows' blood had spilt : — 
 But he learned to think that freedom 
 
 W^as a guerdon cheaply bought 
 By the lives of slaughtered heroes, 
 
 And — he dared to speak the thought ! 
 
CASTLEHEAD. i t 
 
 And for this, — for this they bore him 
 
 Where no arm could reach to save, 
 And with youth's warm flush about him, 
 
 Plunged him in a living grave ; — 
 Strove to bury in a dungeon, 
 
 From the dangerous view of men, 
 Thoughts whose grasp might fling the despot 
 
 From his rocking throne again : 
 But the silent, subtle essence 
 
 Cannot thus be chained at will ; 
 Midst Italian hills and valleys, 
 
 Thrills the quickening influence still ! 
 
 Yet the captive pined and wasted, — 
 
 Thirsted for his native air, — 
 Sickened for the home of childhood, 
 
 And ttie dear, sweet faces there, — 
 Yearned so longingly to enter 
 
 At the old familiar door, — 
 See his mother's tear of greeting — 
 
 Clasp his father's hand once more ; 
 And he murmured, as the vision 
 
 Rose before his restless eye, — 
 " Oh ! to hear their voices breathing 
 
 Blessings on me ere I die ! 
 
 " Oh ! to lay beneath the sunshine 
 
 Of my own bright land of song, 
 The decaying, fleshly garment 
 
 That my soul has worn so long ! 
 Can I think, that in the shadow 
 
 By my prison-fortress made, { 
 
 It will rest as it had rested 
 
 Underneath the Lime-trees' shade ? 
 
8 i2 SILVER WOOD. 
 
 Can its sleep be as unbroken, 
 
 With yon stony pavement prest 
 By the iron heel of soldiers, 
 
 Sternly laid above my breast 1 
 
 " Thou who shrank'st with human shrinking 
 
 From Thine anguish, and didst pray 
 That the cup of bitterest sorrow 
 
 From Thy lips might pass away, — 
 Hear me, while my fainting, breaking 
 
 Spirit would before Thee bow, 
 Pleading for the strength to offer 
 
 Thy divine petition now : 
 Yet the cup, untaken from Thee, 
 
 Thou didst drain, oh ! suffering One ! 
 Give me then Thy heavenly patience, — • 
 
 Let me say — ' Thy will be done !' " 
 
 In the deep and fearful midnight 
 
 As the lonely captive lay 
 Panting in the silent darkness, 
 
 Longing for a gleam of day — 
 Burst a flood of light celestial, 
 
 Through the dungeon's murky cell, 
 "WTiile an angel, hovering o'er him. 
 
 Touched his fetters — and they fell ! 
 And the free, rejoicing spirit, — 
 
 Every weight of bondage o'er. 
 Sought that bright and better country 
 
 Where oppression comes no more ! 
 
 *#The fires of day had been quenched beneath the west- 
 ern horizon before Zilpha had finished, and ah'eady in the 
 
CASTLEHEAD. Si8 
 
 eastern sky began to creep up the ashen gray of twilight 
 as they all took their way down the mountain footpath. 
 Uncle Felix had fallen asleep at the foot of a tree, and he 
 started up in some alarm at the sound of their voices, rub- 
 bing his eyes, and in evident doubts as to his whereabouts. 
 The party was soon remounted, and making its way with 
 care down the indistinct bridle-path, w^hen suddenly 
 Edith's horse swerved to one side, scared by the sudden 
 whirring away of some wild game, and before Dr. Dubois 
 could grasp the rein, he plunged on down the steep de- 
 scent. The doctor and Mr. Phillips followed as fast, and 
 through the dim silence of the woods the crashing tramp 
 of their horse's hoofs reverberated, mingled with Jacque- 
 line's womanish screams, and Uncle Felix's terrified cry. 
 In the dumbness of her fright, Zilpha had dropped her bri- 
 dle. Mr. Fleming seized it, and wdth all possible speed 
 they hastened on. 
 
 " Oh, Edith ! Edith !" broke piteously from Zilpha's 
 lips as she drooped over her horse's neck. 
 
 " ' Be not afraid of sudden terror ;' the horse and his ri- 
 der are His," w^as all her companion could find time to 
 say. 
 
 They very soon emerged from the forest, upon one of the 
 clearings, and across it they could see the group. The 
 frightened animal had been secured, but Edith lay stretched 
 on the ground. A groan escaped Zilpha as she thr#^ 
 herself upon her sister, 
 
344 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 *' What is it, doctor ? tell me all — tell me if she is dead I' 
 
 "Oh, no, no — only fainting I hope — fainting from fright 
 and pain. Unloose her gaiter. Miss Zilpha ; her ancle has 
 received a wrench ; I'm afraid it is dislocated." 
 
 '' Thank G-od !" breathed Zilpha audibly, as she in- 
 stantly removed the boot. 
 
 " Here, Mr. Phillips — Mr. Fleming — your aid. Please 
 be quiet, Jacqueline," and with one strong effort the an- 
 cle was restored. 
 
 The intense pain brought Edith back to consciousness, 
 and with an agonizing "OA/" she opened her eyes. 
 
 "Bless God, dearest," said Zilpha, embracing her while 
 her warm tears dropped over the upturned face. " Bless 
 Him that it is no worse !" 
 
 " I do — I do. I have been so terrified ! but, sister — sis- 
 ter — I shall be lamed for life !" 
 
XXIIII. 
 
 They were gone — Dr. Dubois, and his sister, and Mr. 
 Fleming : it was the first night after their departure, and 
 Edith lay on the sofa in the parlor, still helpless from her 
 recent injury, which, however, was of a slighter charac- 
 ter than she had at first anticipated. The disablement 
 was only temporary, and though it had confined her to 
 the sofa for some days, and been the occasion of the 
 breaking up of an excursion or two, which they had 
 planned for their friends, to other localities of interest in 
 their neighborhood, it had called forth the most delicate 
 and gentle solicitude on the part of Dr. Dubois. He had 
 hovered about her with unremitting care, and, in a thou- 
 sand little ways, shown his consideration for her comfort. 
 Mr. Fleming, too, came daily out from Milburne, and, 
 while Zilpha was busy in the school-room — conceiving 
 that her duty to their pupils took precedence of that to 
 their visitors, and, therefore, remitting no lessons — he 
 
 15 
 
346 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 would read to her, or entertain her with pleasant talk. 
 Even Jacqueline w^as moved to some self-forgetfulnesSy 
 and, several times, insisted on taking the book from Mr. 
 Fleming, and reading in his stead. " Nothing is without 
 its uses," Mrs. Irvine had said; " for you see, my dear, if 
 the accident had not occurred, your own warm glow of 
 gratitude would not have been called forth, and you 
 would not have needed the tender ministrations of your 
 friends — ministrations it has been of as much service to 
 them to render, as to you to receive. It was from the 
 smitten rock that the refreshino^ water flowed." 
 
 The moonlight streamed through the wide-open win- 
 dows, over the faces of the tw^o sisters, as they looked out 
 upon the wreaths of mist that were stealthily creeping up 
 the gray sides of Castlehead ; each silent, and lost, appa- 
 rently, in abstracted thought. 
 
 " Zilpha," said Edith, at length, raising herself on her 
 elbow, and bringing back her eyes to the pure, quiet face 
 before her ; "Zilpha, it is a hard thing to do." 
 
 "What, my dear?" 
 
 " To crush out forever all the love and hope we may 
 have inspired in an ingenuous and trusting heart. The 
 thought of it gives me a pang, to-night, that I cannot get- 
 rid of." 
 
 " Then you have done it ?" 
 
 " Yes ; by my actions I hoped I had given suflicient 
 intimation of my true feelings to avert any necessity for 
 
MOONLIGHT KEVELATIOXS. 847 
 
 spoken words ; but they were misconstrued. My decision, 
 I believe, was hardly less painful to myself than to him. 
 The doctor needs but a deep, earnest piety, to make him 
 every way admirable. And, Zilpha, when he plead with 
 such strong emotion, and told me, in reply to this obstacle 
 I had mentioned — this want of a steady faith — that / 
 could teach him to love G-od, and to understand the princi- 
 ples by which I professed to be governed, as none other 
 could, I was so touched, that he thought my determina- 
 tion shaken. Men never will believe what a keenness of 
 pain it occasions a true woman's heart, to place back in 
 the hands of the offerer the most precious gift a human 
 being has it in his power to bestow. After all the gentle, 
 unobtrusive kindness I have received from him, to be 
 forced to wound him thus ! But I did it with tears, 
 Zilpha ;— like me, wasn't it ?" 
 
 "Yery like." 
 
 " You would have done it with a prayer — a benediction. 
 Well, I did that, too ; and Grod ivill bless him : he is too 
 earnest a spirit not to find his way to the light." 
 
 " Had he been what you desired in a religious point, 
 would the result have been different ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 ''Why not?" 
 
 Edith sat up, and looked into her sister's eyes. 
 
 " Zilpha, I must surrender into the hands of him whom 
 T would love, my very self — my heart of hearts — my 
 
348 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 whole being. T must obey him — not because it is the 
 requirement, but because I feel such obedience to be the 
 sweetest thing in the world. I hardly quarrel with Mil- 
 ton's assertion — 
 
 " ' He for God only, she for God in him' — 
 
 as derogatory to woman, for there would be no humilia- 
 tion — at least, / should be conscious of none — in the 
 willing deference rendered to a man I owned to be intel- 
 lectually, intelligently, physically, morally, my superior. 
 What humiliation does the loving, all-confiding child feel 
 in leaning for everything, venturing everything, upon the 
 father she doats on ? I am disgusted with this rant about 
 the servility of a wife's obedience, on which some of the 
 sensible women even of this generation have gone mad. 
 As if 'perfect love' did not 'cast out fear!' They who 
 talk and feel this way, have not yet learned the alphabet 
 of love, human or divine. They forget that Grod's abso- 
 lute sovereignty is the true Christian's ground of serenest 
 confidence, because he unites with it the thought of His 
 absolute love, and ' there is no fear in love.' " 
 
 " But you would not have the wife the mere passive 
 recipient — the v^ax to the seal — without tastes, and opin- 
 ions, and emotions of her own ?" 
 
 " By no means ! no more than I would have every 
 branch, and tendril, and curl of the vine wound rigidly 
 round the supporting oak, thereby spoiling all the grace- 
 
MOONLIGHT REVELATIONS. 349 
 
 fulness of its appropriate proportions, and the oneness of 
 its identity. But the faith of love, in its object, must be 
 kindred to the Christian's faith in Grod — unquestioning, 
 immovable. When it is so, willing obedience must be a 
 heart-delight — a very blessedness." 
 
 " But might not such an entireness of trust — such a 
 complete repose of the being upon a creature, subject to 
 the same errors and weaknesses as ourselves — be danger- 
 ous ? — a putting of the human between us and Grod ?" 
 
 "It is the position in which Paul places the wife, and 
 must, therefore, be no less right than safe ; besides, 
 heart-subjection is a different thing from soul-subjection. 
 Of the latter, ^ou would never be in any danger, Zilpha ; I 
 feel that I might, and yet I don't know. The very inten- 
 sity of my love would keep me too keenly alive to the least 
 defeature in the beloved one, that, instead of being blinded 
 into idolatry, my acuteness of vision would be apt to 
 magnify slight defects, and thus make me ever too much 
 aware of the human, to bend down in overweening rever- 
 ence. Now, to reply to your question : I could not have 
 had all this feeling towards Dr. Dubois. While he is self- 
 reliant, and manly, and forms opinions for himself, he did 
 not hold in his hands the clue that could have guided me. 
 I should, in time, come to exercise too much influence 
 over such a character ; in plain words, he could never 
 make me know the heart-satisfaction of being better, and 
 more wisely governed than I could govern myself." 
 
350 silvp:rwood. 
 
 The sisters sat silent for awhile. 
 
 " I have been listening to your confessions, dear Edith," 
 began Zilpha, hesitatingly, playing, as she spoke, with the 
 long, dark hair that hung loosely over her sister's forehead, 
 " and it is my turn now. Will you not remove your em- 
 bargo of silence, and let me tell you of what interests me 
 so deeply ?" 
 
 ^' I believe I have been very selfish, very unsisterly," 
 replied Edith, as she folded her arms about Zilpha, ''in 
 shutting your confidence so away from me. Forgive me, 
 and tell me all." 
 
 " There is nothing to forgive, my dear ; but if it will 
 pain you, I don't like to speak." 
 
 " I shall teach what makes you happy, to make me so 
 too. Go on." 
 
 '' I do long to see you more tranquilly so, for often I 
 fear you are not. But now that you have had an oppor- 
 tunity of judging for yourself, without any bias exercised 
 on my part, tell me truly, whether you think him worthy 
 of all my love." 
 
 ''Him? who?" exclaimed Edith, starting bolt upright 
 from her reclining posture. 
 
 " Mr. Fleming, of course." 
 
 " Mr. Fleming ! I have all along thought you loved 
 Bryant !" and in a maze of revulsed feeling, Edith cov- 
 ered her face with her hands, and sank back upon the sofa. 
 
 Zilpha did not speak, for her own astonishment at the 
 
MOONLIG-HT EEVELATIONS. 851 
 
 misconception was quite as great as her sister's. A new 
 thought flashed in upon her mind that had never occurred 
 to her before — a thought that made her murmur to her- 
 self, "dear, dear Edith!" 
 
 After a few minutes embarrassed silence, her hands 
 were seized with a tight pressure. 
 
 " Tell me — Bryant loves you, does he not? Hasn't he 
 told you so ?" 
 
 There was no evasion of so direct a question. 
 
 " Yes ; he told me so when we separated at Charleston, 
 last December." 
 
 " And you ?"— 
 
 " Confessed to him just the simple truth. I had always 
 regarded him with a warm, sisterly affection, putting him 
 only second to Lawrence in that respect ; and I told him 
 I was conscious of no other emotion towards him then. 
 But he would not let the matter terminate thus. He be- 
 lieved the seeds of love for him were in my heart, and 
 that with proper fostering they would blossom in time. I 
 was in doubt ; so I yielded to his entreaties, and left the 
 matter open. Not many weeks after this, I met Mr. 
 Fleming ; and I was not long in learning from my own 
 heart, that love was not a seed, as Bryant would have had 
 me suppose, which time and circumstances could develope 
 into beautiful life, but a miraculous plant, which requires 
 no slow process to unfold its powers — an amaranthine 
 flower, which expands like the night-blooming Cereus, at 
 once^ into marvellous and perfect loveliness." 
 
852 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 " xA.nd you had to break hjs noble heart by telling him 
 this !" 
 
 "No, not break, only boiv it. It is too elastic not to 
 rise in all its fair and native strength as soon as the pres- 
 sure is removed. I am not suited to Bryant, Edith. I 
 am too calm, too quiet for his buoyant, imaginative tem- 
 perament." 
 
 " People always love their antipodes — there is a diversi- 
 ty that is harmonious," 
 
 " I don't think they do ; besides, our tastes are very 
 diverse. He never could have interested me in his chosen 
 studies — in his liking for old lore — in all his scholarly 
 habitudes, up to the degree that would have satisfied him." 
 
 " Yet he is a teacher of the noblest of sciences: surely, 
 there you could have gone hand in hand." 
 
 " Yes, I am sure of it ; but still we each have our dif- 
 ferent way of looking upon life, and I doubt whether I 
 ever could have found the key to all his being, or he to 
 mine. He is book wise, and best loves those who sympa- 
 thize in that respect with him, as companions. I have 
 often noticed that the poem or the passage that filled him 
 with a tumult of enthusiastic feeling, would leave me 
 quite unimpressed." 
 
 " Yet, Mr. Fleming has been a student at a Grerman 
 University — something quite beyond Brya*nt." 
 
 " Yes, a student of mathematics, and astronomy, and 
 science ; for while he is not quite indifferent to the 
 
MOONLIGHT KEVELATIONS. 853 
 
 ancients, he likes the moderns better ; and though he 
 might own to some admiration for Schiller or G-oethe, no 
 doubt Euler is more to his mind ; and I dare say he at- 
 tended Farraday's lectures, when in England, while he 
 wouldn't have gone a mile out of his way to see Words- 
 worth. All this better suits me, for you know that nature, 
 the outer world, has always been more interesting to me 
 than the inner world of man's life. But you haven't told 
 me yet, Edith, whether Mr. Fleming would have been 
 your choice for me ? whether he has your approbation ?" 
 
 "He is rich ; he is handsome ; he has a princely bear- 
 ing." 
 
 " Ah ! don't name those little things." 
 
 " He has a clear, vigorous mind ; he is thoroughly cul- 
 tivated ; he has a generous, strong, noble heart ; and above 
 all, and for which I liked him best, he has as lowly and 
 reverent a Christian faith as I ever knew." 
 
 " Dear Edith," said Zilpha, kissing her, " you have gone 
 far enough ; I am satisfied. He is indeed so good. That 
 firm faith of his, was of such comfort to our darling 
 brother, and such a support to me. I could not choose 
 but love him for all his inexpressible tenderness to me in 
 my affliction, away from you all. He made my grief so 
 truly his own, that my whole heart went out to him, for 
 he seemed mother, brother, sister, in one, so sweet and 
 precious was his consolation." 
 
 The moon climbed higher into the heavens ; the white 
 15^ 
 
854 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 barred clouds obscured her disk, quenching out all the 
 glory of the sleeping landscape, or floated with slow ma- 
 jesty away, leaving all beneath them bathed in a splendor 
 the more brilliant from its sudden contrast with the cur- 
 taining darkness just withdrawn. The silver-touched 
 mists crept farther and farther up the mountains' sides, 
 till their tops only were visible, like far-off islands in the 
 measureless ocean of blue. In the changing and chasing 
 light and shadow, the sisters sat with encircling arms, and 
 cheek pressed to cheek, while Zilpha recounted with lin- 
 gering minuteness the history of her love. 
 
 '' But to give you up to another," sighed Edith, when 
 her sister had finished — " to learn to live without you — 
 that will be so hard I" 
 
 " I am not to be given up yet, my dear. For though 
 Mr. Fleming pressed a home for you all, with him, upon 
 mother, her native independence made her shrink from the 
 obligation she thought it would impose ; so I have told 
 him, that for the present, my duty lies here. Circum- 
 stances may change in a year's time." 
 
 " What circumstances could take place that would 
 make it any easier to give you up then than now ?" 
 
 "We cannot guess at the future. You may marry." 
 
 "J/ No, Zilpha;" and there was a bitterness in Edith's 
 tones, and yet a pathos that was half tearful — " no; my 
 destiny is to be cast among the unblessed sisterhood — un- 
 blessed of earth, but recognized of Grod, as having among 
 
MOONLIGHT REVELATIONS. £>0D 
 
 them some of his purest and most sainted ones, who 
 learn to live outside of themselves — who labor for no 
 rewardins^ love — who teach their hearts to be content with 
 the questionable warmth reflected from the happiness of 
 others — " 
 
 " I protest against any such self-immolation to the 
 great Moloch of this imagined destiny," said Zilpha, with 
 a smile. " You are too young, at all events, to be devoted, 
 even as a willing victim, yet awliile ; so shut your eyes, 
 dear, to this ogre of the Hereafter^ and be satisfied to 
 meet the demands of the ever-pressing Noiv^ 
 
 When Zilpha opened her Bible the next morning for 
 her accustomed reading, she found the following lines laid 
 between its leaves : 
 
 A cloud s on my heart, darling, 
 
 A shade is on my brow, 
 And the low current of my thoughts 
 
 Is gUding sadly now ; 
 The careless smile comes seldomer 
 
 Than it was wont to come, 
 And when the playful jest goes round, 
 
 My lips are strangely dumb. 
 
 I meet your lifted eyes, darling — 
 
 Their look is mildly gay — 
 But beaded drops are on my cheek. 
 
 And I must turn away ; 
 And often, when you speak to me, 
 
 With softness in your tone, 
 
356 SILVER WOOD. 
 
 'Tis silence only that can hide 
 The faltering of my own. 
 
 You do not know how fond, darling, 
 
 Are all the thoughts you share ; 
 You cannot think how sobbingly 
 
 I breathe your name in prayer. 
 And plead that God will teach me how, 
 
 Unmurmuring to resign 
 That inmost sympathy of soul 
 
 I've claimed so long as mine. 
 
 From very childhood's years, darling. 
 
 We've known no separate joy ; 
 Whatever grieved your spirit, brought 
 
 To mine the same annoy. 
 Together, o'er one page we bent ; 
 
 Our kindred hearts have strayed 
 Together through life's summer walks. 
 
 In sunshine and in shade. 
 
 But now our paths diverge, darling — 
 
 A thought I cannot share 
 Has seized your heart's high sovereignty, 
 
 And rules supremely there. 
 Yet while, as if discrowned of love, 
 
 I feel an exile's pain, 
 Believe me, that I question not 
 
 That sovereign's right to reign. 
 
 But yet the tears will come, darling, 
 Soft-dropping, sad, and slow ; 
 
 How can I, when you are so dear — 
 How can I let you go 1 
 
MOONLIGHT REVELATIONS. 857 
 
 For never seemed your silent kiss 
 
 So tender on my brow, 
 And never clung my soul to you 
 
 So yearningly as now. 
 
 You are too rich in love, darling, 
 
 To feel a sense of need, 
 Should mine be lessened to you now ; 
 
 But I were poor, indeed. 
 If from my hoardings were withdrawn 
 
 Your sweet, imparted store — 
 For I, with craving want, should feel 
 
 Heart-hunger evermore. 
 
 Yet home must lose its charms, darling, 
 
 As fast the years come on ; 
 And, one by one, my best beloved 
 
 Will go — till all are gone ! 
 'Tis but the common work of time 
 
 To mar our household so. 
 And I must learn to choke the sob, 
 
 And smile to see them go. 
 
 Forgive these sadden'd strains, darling — 
 
 Forgive these eyes so dim ; 
 I must — rmist love whom you have loved — 
 
 So I will turn to him ; 
 And clasping with a seeming clasp, 
 
 Whose tenderness endears. 
 Your hand and his between my own, 
 
 I bless you through my tears. 
 
XXXIV. 
 
 Clflubs "^.timw after tljc ^iiin. 
 
 It was an evening late in September. The pupils, who 
 were gone home for their fall vacation, had not yet re- 
 turned, and, in their absence, the old quiet brooded once 
 more over Silverwood. Mrs. Irvine, Zilpha, and Edith, 
 sat together round the evening lamp, busy in their several 
 ways — one sewing, another writing a letter, another ex- 
 amining a new series of school-books. 
 
 All that day an unusual disturbance had rested on Mrs. 
 Irvine's face, and, though it had not escaped her children's 
 observation, they had not spoken of it. It was not her 
 way, they well knew, to talk of what troubled her when 
 no end was to be gained by it beyond the mere relief of 
 talking ; and so they had forborne to ask the cause. Again 
 and again would she lay down her work, as if about 
 to speak, and then resume it, without doing so. Then 
 she would pause, as if in dreamy abstraction, while the 
 needle dropped from her listless fingers, and her uncon- 
 
360 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 scious eyes, from which the soul seemed gone away, wan- 
 dered to the glowing hearth with a weary fixedness. 
 Zilpha laid aside her pen, and sat down on a low seat at 
 her mother's knee. 
 
 " Mother ^dear," she said, laying her hand restrainingly 
 over the ones that had lifted the work again, " I am 
 afraid you are worn out, or sick. This endless occupation 
 is too much for you. You are not so cheerful to-day, and 
 we cannot bear to see you otherwise." 
 
 " Yes;" and Edith swept away her hooks, and dropped 
 on the carpet at her mother's other side — " yes, mother, 
 when our heart-light is clouded, everything looks sombre. 
 Its cheeriness is far more needful to us than the common 
 sunshine." 
 
 There were tears in Mrs. Irvine's eyes as she laid a 
 hand on each dear head. 
 
 " I can't bear to grieve you," she said, speaking with 
 difficulty. "These poor heads have had enough to bow 
 them already ; but you will have to know it." 
 - "What? — what?" they both cried, beginning to feel 
 alarmed. 
 
 " Be calm, my dears — " 
 
 "You are ill; yes, your hand is dry and hot, and there 
 is a languor about all your movements lately that is not 
 natural." 
 
 "I will send for Dr. Forsythe, at once," said Edith, 
 springing up hurriedly. " Oh ! why did you not tell us ? 
 
THE CLOUDS KETURN AFTER THE KAIN. 861 
 
 Why have we not seen ourselves that you ought not to 
 have heen wearying and working yourself down — " 
 
 " No, my child," interrupted her mother, detaining her, 
 ^' you need not send for the doctor to-night, at least ; I 
 believe I am more than half-sick, yet that is not it. But 
 quiet yourselves, and I will not keep you any longer in 
 suspense. 
 
 "You have often heard dear Lawrence speak of his 
 college- friend, Waldron, who acted such a brother's part 
 in nursing him through the severe attack of illness he had 
 whilst they were students together ; and you may remem- 
 ber — though perhaps it was not mentioned to you — that 
 
 just immediately before our misfortunes at B , that he 
 
 was applied to by this friend to become his security for a 
 loan of some four thousand dollars which he wanted to ef- 
 fect. "Waldron was poor, but energetic and honorable, and 
 Lawrence felt so sincere an interest in him, and under so 
 much obligation to him, that he could not hesitate, espe- 
 cially as he conceived that he was running no risk in the 
 matter ; so, with my approbation, he consented to do it. 
 Within a couple of months Waldron has suddenly died, 
 leaving the loan unpaid, and nothing to meet it with. As 
 Silver wood was left by your father to Lawrence, it will 
 have to become liable for the debt. Here is the lawyer's 
 letter," and she drew one from her pocket. *• You can see 
 for yourselves what he says." 
 
 All this was said hurriedly, yet with pauses for breath, 
 as if the uttering of it had exhausted her. 
 
862 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 ^' Homeless — homeless I" burst from Edith, as she 
 dropped her face full of surprise and distress upon her 
 mother's lap. Zilpha read- the letter with a rigid brow 
 and compressed lip, but her large open eyes were filled 
 with quiet tears, as they turned again to the patient face 
 looking down upon her. 
 
 "Poor mother," she said, fondling the arm that languid- 
 ly rested on her shoulder. " For you this is so hard !" 
 
 "It is for your sakes, my darlings, I am grieved. 
 Sometimes, to-day, I could not keep back the thought — if 
 my dead boy were only here I But there is a dearer, a 
 stronger than he. Let us lean on Him." 
 
 " We have surely need of his support now !" 
 
 " Has he not forgotten to be gracious ?" asked Edith, 
 hopelessly. 
 
 " No, no, my child ; that he will never do. ' Though 
 He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.' We need the night 
 in order to see the stars ; we need darkness about our 
 path to constrain us to look aloft to the shining promises. 
 ' The Lord is my Shepherd ; I shall not want ;' he will 
 never forsake or forget His own." 
 
 "Yet He is stripping us bare," sighed Edith. 
 
 " That we may be clothed upon with the better gar- 
 ments of His providing. Dear Zilpha I dear Edith ! the 
 way is but a short one, at best I What if it is a little rough 
 and uneven ? We can surely put up with the inconve- 
 niences of the inn, since ' the prepared mansions' in our 
 
THE CLOUDS RETURN AFTER THE RAIN. B63 
 
 Father's house are not very far off. Only a little while, 
 and then we shall have a home we can no more lose — a 
 home where your darling father, and our precious Law- 
 rence will hail our coming. Ah ! that thought is very, 
 very sweet !" 
 
 " If we could only save you the roughnesses, dearest 
 mother," said Zilpha, " how willingly would we do it !" 
 
 " That is not the way, my child — 'the parents for the 
 children.' But you will have to bear them the longest." 
 
 They both looked up at her. It was not usual for her 
 ever to grieve them by any allusions to the possibility of 
 losins^ her. 
 
 "Don't be alarmed," she went on quietly. "I shall, 
 I hope, feel better to-morrow. We must talk a little more 
 about our aftairs. Of course, this liability must be met 
 by making arrangements for the selling of the old home- 
 stead here. I will write, however, to Bryant, and get him 
 to attend to the whole matter for us. There will be no 
 difficulty, I trust, in getting the sale postponed till Spring. 
 In the meantime the little girls can return, and we will 
 I go on as usual with our plans for the winter. As soon as 
 the school-term is over, we will all go down to your Aunt 
 Maria Irvine's, as a temporary measure. There, Mr. Flem- 
 ing shall come to claim you, Zilpha — " 
 
 " Don't speak of me leaving you in the midst of trial 
 and perplexity," interrupted Zilpha, turning aside her glow- 
 ing cheek, ''unless, indeed, you will consent to agree to 
 
364 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 the proposal that has been already so pressed on you, that 
 we all have the same home." 
 
 ''Yes, let that be the plan for you, mother, and the 
 children," exclaimed Edith, brightening ; " and I — oh, I 
 will be strong in the faith that strengthens you ; I will 
 teach; I will do more than provide for myself; I will 
 help to make you independent — that will be a thought 
 to inspirit me — something nobly worth the living for I" 
 and the expression of the face, so piteously brave, brought 
 a compassionate tear to Mrs. Irvine's eye. 
 
 " We always have something to live for, my Edith. It 
 is as bounden a duty to suffer Grod's will as to do it, and 
 a duty that may glorify him more in the end, since it is 
 the harder of the two." 
 
 " But it will be better for me to work. It will help 
 to keep my heart stronger." 
 
 " No, no, Edith ; you distress me with that hopeless, 
 sinking look," said Zilpha. ^'Youmust consent that it 
 shall be as I say. Dear mother, don't you see the leadings 
 of Providence in it all ?" 
 
 " "Well, it shall all be as He directs. Let us strive to 
 cross none of His designs, and we will find — I am perfect- 
 ly assured of it — we will find that still, still, ' The Lord 
 will provide.' " 
 
XXXV 
 
 ^ai'Iiittss unit figljt. 
 
 " Edith !" It was a low, alarmed kind of whisper, and 
 the obscure light of the just breaking day was not suffi- 
 cient to reveal who had spoken. Edith started up fright- 
 enedly. Zilpha stood at her bed-side. She had insisted on 
 sleeping that night in her mother's room, in consequence 
 of the uneasiness she had felt about her, and now came to 
 call her sister. She tried to speak composedly and quietly. 
 
 " I am afraid dear mother is quite ill. She has had a 
 most restless night, and I have sent Uncle Felix for the 
 doctor." 
 
 Edith threw on her clothes, and in a few minutes was 
 in her mother's chamber. She saw enough at a glance to 
 give occasion for anxiety — the dry, burning hand ; the 
 cord-like pulse ; the purple flush of the cheeks ; the languor 
 and the pain, to which, all the means Zilpha and Aunt 
 Rose had been using had afforded no alleviation. 
 
 *' It's my opinion ole Mis's gwine to be oncommon bad, 
 
866 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 Miss Edith," whispered the old servant, with the exagger- 
 ating fear to which the negro is given in all cases of sick- 
 ness. " She's done hurt herself looking a'ter Silvy so 
 partic'lar, and now she's like got de fever heap worse nor 
 Silvy." 
 
 Uncle Felix soon returned, but without the physician. 
 He was not at home. 
 
 "Why didn't you think to go for Dr. Martin?" asked 
 Zilpha, anxiously. 
 
 '' Did, Miss Zilphy ; but he's done laid up hisself. Mrs. 
 Forsythe thinlvs de doctor will be home sartain, very soon, 
 for he's been away all night." 
 
 But it was afternoon before he arrived. Intensely ques- 
 tioning were the faces bent on his, after his prolonged stay 
 in the sick-chamber ; but it was hardly necessary to ask 
 whether he thought their mother very ill. The nature of 
 his treatment proved that. 
 
 Several days had passed away without bringing any 
 abatement of the violent seizure — days of weary watch- 
 ing to Zilpha and Edith, and heavy with a nameless gloom 
 to the children. 
 
 It was late at night, and Dr. Forsythe had left them 
 without the encouragement they were longing for from his 
 lips. Aunt Rose and Daphne had come to watch, while 
 their young mistresses should sleep ; but intense anxiety 
 had scared the gentle visitant too far away to be readily 
 wooed back. Towards morning Zilpha had occasion to 
 
DARKNESS AKD LIGHT. 367 
 
 leave the room to prepare a draught, and the tears that 
 had not come hefore, started as she opened the door into the 
 passage, and discovered old Uncle Felix propped up against 
 the wall, where he had fallen asleep. He sprang up as 
 the light fell on his face. 
 
 " De good Mas'r above bless her. Miss Zilphy ! I'se 
 afeared to ask — don't tell me she's worse." 
 
 '' I hope not ; but I'm afraid no better." 
 
 " I'se been prayin' for her — de Lord bless her — dat's all 
 / can do ; dat's what I done did for Mas'r Henry in yon 
 very room, but my prayers was no account dat time ; de 
 Lord's time was done come. I dreamed just dis minute 
 a shiny angel war a-comin' for her." 
 
 " An angel ivill come for her when G-od sees fit," re- 
 plied Zilpha, with a tremulous voice, as she descended the 
 stairs ; " but oh ! may the angel's coming not be now I" 
 
 How heavily wore away those long, long night hours ! 
 The tick of their mother's watch ; the regular breathing 
 of the servants who were dozing on the rug before the fire ; 
 the restless flinging of the sufferer's arms ; the low moan- 
 ing ; the occasional whispered word to each other ; the rust- 
 ling of the wind among the aspens before the window, 
 were the only sounds that broke the oppressive stillness- 
 "With the quiet control peculiar to her, Zilpha sat at her 
 mother's bed-side, now holding the weary hands — now 
 wetting the parched lips — anticipating every want — watch- 
 ful of every movement — ^lierself motionless, and, externally, 
 
368 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 perfectly calm. Edith wondered at the subdued, still fig- 
 ure, as she herself glided with a hushed step back and 
 forth through the chamber, utterly unable to sit still and 
 bear in its full force the upheaving of her troubled thoughts 
 and fears. She would pause, and look out upon the moon- 
 less night with its sparkling stars, and wish the dream of 
 life were all well over — the weight lifted away forever, 
 and she and her beloved ones beyond those points of twink- 
 ling light that burned so steadily on, unconscious of the 
 aching hearts and brows they shone upon. 
 
 How our weak natures chafe under the dull, inexorable 
 pressure of grief ! How we turn hither and thither for 
 some avenue of escape I How we pray for any suffering 
 rather than just the one under which our spirits are faint- 
 ing ! How ready we are, like the victim stretched on the 
 rack, to vow anything, to give up everything, if we might 
 win thereby a suspension of the torture ! 
 
 Another day had come and gone. Acquaintances from 
 Milburne had been at Silver wood with offers of service, 
 and some had remained during the day, but they were 
 gone now. Zilpha and Edith would let no one take their 
 place as watchers. They did not feel weary. The mental 
 excitement stimulated their physical powers till the ne- 
 cessity for rest seemed taken away. The old pastor had 
 been with them ; had prayed tenderly for them, and com- 
 mended them to the mercies of their mother's Grod. As 
 Dr. Forsythe left the sick-chamber, Zilpha followed him out. 
 
DARKNESS AND LIGHT. 369 
 
 *' Tell me candidly, doctor, what you think," she said. 
 '' I am strong ; I will bear it quietly." 
 
 She clasped her hands and looked, upward at his re- 
 ply, and the tears rushed to her eyes. 
 
 ^' God bless you, my dear !" exclaimed the doctor 
 with an unsteady voice, as he hurried away. 
 
 Edith was ascending the stairs at that moment. Zil- 
 pha's wet eyes met her view, and with a piteous cry she 
 threw herself into her extended arms. 
 
 " Oh ! don't let me hear it ; hide it from me ; I cannot, 
 cannot bear it !" 
 
 " Yes you can, dear Edith ; it is blessed news. We have 
 not been praying in vain. Our precious mother is better. 
 The doctor thinks she will recover." 
 
 Oh ! the terrible, oppressive forebodings that have shrunk 
 away, like sheeted ghosts before the breaking dawn — the 
 hearts whose bleeding flow has been staunched — the droop- 
 ing heads that have lifted — the knotted brows that have 
 relaxed, at that one sound — ^''better!-'' Oh! the hopes 
 that have trembled back into glad life again — the ecsta- 
 cies that have thrilled along the pulses — the speechless 
 thanksgiving that has been sobbed out over that little 
 word — " better V^ 
 
 The stupor had passed away. The sufferer's eyes were 
 open and intelligent — what they had not been for weary 
 hours before. She knew and named each of her children 
 as they leaned over her and kissed her with an emotion 
 too strong for words. 
 
 16 
 
37Q SILYERWQOD, 
 
 Zilpha was the first to command herself. 
 
 ^' Dearest mother ! you are better. Wo are so thank" 
 ful !" but she could not go further, and Edith's attempt to 
 speak expended itself in tears. 
 
 " Better ! yes, for your sakes, my darlings, I thank 
 God that I am ;" and she kissed them both fondly, again 
 and again. " For my own, why should I be glad !" 
 
 " Oh ! mother ! mother !" cried Edith, through choking 
 sobs, " be glad then for us. We could not live without 
 you." 
 
 '' Yes you could, my child. Grod never puts his be- 
 loved in any circumstances in which He does not grant 
 the grace necessary for those circumstances. Had He 
 taken me from you. His grace would have been sufficient 
 for you." 
 
 " And would you have been willing to go, dear mother V 
 asked Zilpha, tenderly. 
 
 " For many years, my child, it has been my daily prayer, 
 my daily struggle, to have my own will lost in Grod's, 
 and I trust these prayers have not been in vain. Yes, if 
 it is His will, I think I can go without regret." 
 
 " My precious mother," sobbed Edith, hiding her face 
 on her mother's neck, '* pray, pray to be spared." 
 
 " Be calm, dear Edith," murmured Mrs. Irvine, faintly, 
 as she patted the head that lay against her breast. '' If 
 my Heavenly Father sees it is best for me to tarry longer 
 here, and stand, with what little power I have to shield, 
 
DARKNESS AND LIGHT. 371 
 
 between my darlings and the world, I am thankful — I am 
 willing. If he says, ' leave thy fatherless children to me,' 
 still, through his grace assisting me, I can as truly say, 
 I am willing. Is it in your hearts to desire another frame 
 of mind for me than this ?" 
 
 " I bless Christ for it I" exclaimed Zilpha, with a tone 
 that proved the triumph of a holy faith over her natural 
 feelings. 
 
 Poor Edith could only reply by a closer clasp and a 
 fresh gush of tears. 
 
 " Those little feet !" sighed the pallid lips after a pause 
 for rest,- for she had become exhausted, and in the interval 
 of silence she could hear the sound of Eunice's and Jose- 
 pha's steps in the next chamber. " Those little feet ! 
 Sometimes nature gets the upper hand — all the mother is 
 roused, and I feel then as if it would be a heart-breaking 
 sorrow to leave those children with the rough path of life 
 all before them, beset, too, with temptations that may be- 
 guile those little feet astray. But the feeling passes. The 
 tenderness of the pitying Father in heaven, the yearning 
 love of the elder brother, are pledges for their guidance 
 which I can, and do accept." 
 
 " But, dearest mother," said Edith, lifting up her weep- 
 ing face, and smoothing back the brown, unsilvered hair 
 from the sufferer's forehead ; " you are not going to be 
 taken — God is so good. We need your guidance — I do, at 
 least, as much as the children." 
 
372 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 *' Ah ! my child, I am but a poor guide. I can only 
 put my own hand, as you must do, into that of the Re- 
 deemer. There is no compassion, no sympathy, no hu- 
 man tenderness, no pity, like His. I remember the proof 
 He has given us of it in the garden and on the cross, and 
 my whole soul is filled with emotions of unutterable grati- 
 tude and content. From His lips I have learned to say, 
 ' Even so. Father !' " 
 
XIX VI. 
 
 %\)j Sdtiiig Sun. 
 
 We have often seen the watery clouds that had all the 
 day stretched over the sky a vapory veil, through which 
 the light came with a dreary pallidness, suddenly part, 
 while through the rift, struggled a touch of gold over hill 
 and valley, so unexpected, so glad in its contrast with the 
 previous gloom, that Nature's moistened eyes grew lus- 
 trous with rainbow hues as she lifted them in thanks- 
 giving. And even as we gazed with an answering joy, 
 we have seen the brilliancy flit away — the heavy fringes 
 of the clouds close again — the kindled blaze die out, and 
 the grim night enfold us in a vesture of palpable dark- 
 ness. 
 
 Such had been the experience of the watchers at the 
 sick bed. Three more days had passed between alternat- 
 ing hope and fear ; and now, as the sun descended behind 
 the dark, straight brow of Castlehead, leaving a rich, am- 
 ber glow, like a breathed farewell, on the wide-spread 
 
874 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 landscape, another sun was wearing to a more cloudless 
 setting, with a trail of light on its parting path of more 
 translucent purity than ever tinges the hills and valleys of 
 earth. 
 
 " Once more," faintly sighed the sufferer, " let me once 
 more see the day fade," and as Zilpha arranged the pil- 
 lows, and Edith put hack the muslin curtain from the 
 window, a smile so joyous, so heaming, broke over the 
 sunken features, that at the sight of it, Edith and the 
 children could not restrain their sobbings, it was so like 
 the cheerful beauty of the olden time. True to the prin- 
 ciple of her life, the brightness clung to her to the last. 
 That serene, sunshiny spirit had never, through all its 
 course, had any affinity with sombreness — it could have 
 none now. There was even an exultant tone in her voice, 
 tremulous though it was. She had risen above the atmos- 
 phere of time ; she already breathed the rarer breath of a 
 higher world. " My sun will rise in heaven I" she mur- 
 mured, with her bright, unfailing eye full of the western 
 radiance, fixed steadily on the spot where the rim of light 
 had just disappeared. " My children ! there is no night 
 there !" 
 
 " But oh ! mother ! mother !" exclaimed Josepha, fling- 
 ing herself upon the bed in a burst of sorrow, " it will be 
 all night here — and so dark !" 
 
 " Not if the Sun of Righteousness shine on your heads, 
 dear Sepha. He can make it all day ; and He will ! He 
 will !» 
 
THE SETTING SUN. 875 
 
 *' If only the gates of heaven would open, and take us 
 all ml" exclaimed Edith, clasping her mother's cold hands 
 with passionate earnestness between her own, as she chafed 
 and tried to v/arm them. " Oh I to go with you I" 
 
 '^ You will all come soon," was the faint reply — ^' all! 
 all ! How many are there already I Your precious father — 
 he waits my coming. I think I can see his angel face, 
 grown radiant with looking so long upon the Reedeemer's — 
 and the last who ascended — my blessed boy ! Ah ! yes, 
 I will know him among them all ! They vrill lead me, 
 between them, to the divine feet ; but the thought is too 
 rapturous ; it overwhelms me I" 
 
 '' And have you no fear of the dark river, my beloved 
 mother ?" asked Zilpha, steadily. 
 
 ^^ l^one — =none ! 'When thou passest through the waters, 
 I will be with thee ; and through the rivers, they shall not 
 overflow thee.' I believed that long ago. Yvliy should 
 I doubt it now ? ' The dark river I' It is not dark, my 
 child ; the lights from the city on the other side stream 
 all across it. It is not — not a river ; only a rill ; just a 
 step over, and then — heaven !" 
 
 An interval of exhaustion followed. 
 
 " Tell the servants to come near," she whispered. She 
 gave a farewell word to each, as they bent, weeping over 
 her extended hand ; but her own eye was dry. "With the 
 golden gates ajar, what had she to do with tears I 
 
 " And now, Mr. Norris, one more prayer," she said. 
 
876 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 turning her eyes to the old clergyman; " then — then — all 
 praise." 
 
 Amidst suppressed sobs that sometimes broke into vio- 
 lent weeping, the earnest voice arose. It poured out 
 thanksgiving for the triumphant trust; it pleaded for a 
 gentle, easy dismission ; it besought that the unclosing 
 gates might stand wider open, so that a gleam of the in- 
 ner glory might fall round the sorrowing group who stood 
 in the shadow of the nether valley ; and with the grasp of 
 a strong faith, it essayed to lift up those breaking hearts, 
 and lay them within the pitying hand of Jesus. 
 
 There was a ring at the door-bell, as they all rose from 
 their knees, except Zilpha and Edith, who still clung to 
 the cold hands. Uncle Felix, who had glided out of the 
 room, re-appeared in a moment, and stooped with a whis- 
 per towards Zilpha. 
 
 " I am thankful," she breathed. " Let him come up ;" 
 then attracting her mother's attention, she whispered, 
 '' Bryant has come." 
 
 " That is kind !" was the faint response. 
 
 " Now it will be easier to go," she murmured, after the 
 strangely sorrowful greetings were over, and Bryant had 
 knelt beside the kneeling sisters. " How unbounded is the 
 goodness of God ! Bryant, I need not ask you to be a 
 brother to my daughters — to be what my Lawrence would 
 have been." 
 
 The tall, manly form quivered with emotion, and he 
 could only bow his head in reply. 
 
THE SETTING SUN. 877 
 
 '' Did T not say it, Zilpha— Edith, that the Lord would 
 take care of you ? and He will. Man may — does disap- 
 point. It is the testimony of my dying hreath that Grod 
 disappoints never, never. Jehovah-jireh !" 
 
 The eyes closed ; the lips moved in silence for a time. 
 
 " Zilpha, your ear." 
 
 Zilpha bent her ear to her lip, and the words that were 
 whispered, bathed anew the listener's face with tears. 
 
 *^ Come here, my darlings," and the pale hand was ex- 
 tended towards Eunice and Josepha, and laid on each 
 bowed head. " The blessing of your parents' God 
 and Saviour be upon you. You will both meet me yonder," 
 and the wasted finger pointed upward, " will you ?" 
 
 The two children almost shrieked their quick reply. 
 
 '' Remember — I carry that promise with me to heaven 
 — remember !" 
 
 " Don't think you will be lonely without me, my chil- 
 dren. When you are enabled successfully to resist a temp- 
 tation ; when you are glad with a strange joy .in prayer, 
 think it may be I who have been sent with a minister- 
 ing spirit's consolation. That thought will keep me near 
 you. Only a thin veil of flesh will separate us. That will 
 fall off in a little while, and then we will be together — an 
 eternity !" 
 
 The clasping hands relaxed ; the drooping lids closed ; 
 the colorless lips moved without utterance ; a thrilling 
 stillness was felt through the chamber. 
 
 16* 
 
378 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 " I thirst," were the words Zilpha's bended ear caught. 
 With her wild grief petrified for a moment to silence, 
 Edith attempted to hold a glass of water to her mouth. 
 She opened her eyes, and fixed them full upon her with a 
 lofty, triumphant smile. 
 
 " Not for that ; it is for the— the— " 
 
 The words faded into air ; the arms were lifted with an 
 eager gesture, then fell again ; the bosom heaved ; the 
 breath came fainter, slower, slower ; the lip that was 
 athirst was drinking from the river of the water of life ! 
 
XXXVII 
 
 left ^tljiitb. 
 
 — ' ' For three months the sod has heen smoothed ahove 
 my mother's grave; the ^\'intry winds have moaned over 
 it ; the snow has whitened it once, twice, thrice ; I have 
 kept count of its kindly covering up of the ghastly, yellow 
 clay, for that has heen all my thought as I watched it 
 falling. Her grave I I push from me the hitter, stinging 
 conception. It is too terrible, too chilling to the life- 
 blood of my heart to be taken home to it, even yet, as 
 a deliberate, inexorable truth, that she is the owner of a 
 grave ! That bright, genial face ; that loving, tender- 
 throbbing pulse-flow ; that quick step ; that unbent form — 
 what have these to do with death? Nothing, nothing. 
 She is not dead — only heaven 
 
 " ' Has opened on a hinge of harmony, 
 And lot her thro' to glory — ■' 
 
880 SILVER WOOD. 
 
 while I, poor weeper, am breaking my heart over the ' locked 
 wardrobe ' that holds only the cast away garment of the 
 beautiful soul, now radiant with the white raiment of im- 
 mortality. But oh I the coffin — Ihe mound of withered 
 grass — the stone with that precious name cut upon it — 
 the lonely, far distant burial spot, lonely as Lawrence's 
 island grave, all haunt me with a ghostly terror. Surely 
 she was kindred enouHi to Grod's anirels to have been 
 wafted, Elijah-like, invested with the body, to heaven ! 
 
 " Oh ! those days and nights of benumbing anguish 
 that followed her going away — the lifting of the rigid form 
 across the threshold where I had so often seen her stand, 
 looking off towards the golden sunsets — the slow, silent 
 tread of those who bore it carefully, as if they feared it 
 might wake her, down the long gravel-walk — th6 break- 
 ing up of home, my last home — the coming away without 
 lier^ she who had always planned every movement for 
 us, to be left behind ! Compassionate Redeemer ! fold 
 to thy human heart, the throbbing, aching one, that, but 
 for Thy pity, would break and die ! Thy tenderness can 
 be gentler than even her's. A mother's tenderness I The 
 language of earth can give hint or shadow of nothing 
 half so sweet ; and when I try to fathom the depth of 
 Christ's love, all the rich expressions of Scripture furnish 
 me with no words so exquisite in their pathos as this — 
 ' As one whom his mother comforteth, will I comfort 
 you.' This is the pillow on which my soul finds rest ; 
 
LEFT BEHIND. 881 
 
 but these famished, these craving, these importunate 
 human affections, that will not he reasoned down — that 
 cannot live without their daily supply of sweet, satisfying 
 sympathy — that faint, even while they question not the 
 truth of all that faith is whispering to them — ah ! thei/ 
 must go ' an hungered ' to the grave ! 
 
 "It is over, and she is gone. Five months ago 'the 
 angel of our household ' went from our hearts heaven- 
 ward. To-day, Zilpha, my beautiful, my best-beloved — 
 ah! poor heart, is that said in perfect truth — thy best- 
 beloved ? — to-day she has left my side to return as hereto- 
 fore no more. I stood beside her, as she leaned so trustingly 
 on that strong, supporting arm ; I listened to the spoken 
 words that made her another's than mine ; I saw him seal the 
 vow he had taken, with a kiss on that pure forehead, 
 when all was over, and T did not tremble — I did not shed 
 a tear. A strange apathy is colding my heart, I some- 
 times fear, or is it only that it has felt, and ached, and 
 suffered, till feeling and capability of impression are alike 
 gone! Nothing, I believe, can move me greatly now. 
 I had thought it would cost me unspeakable grief to be 
 separated from Zilpha, when the idea was first presented 
 to me — her full, unshared confidence was such a part of 
 my being. To-day, that oneness of confiding love, the all 
 that the most grasping heart wants or needs, is passed 
 over to another. She and Eunice are both gone. I may 
 not see them for months, but I write with a steady hand. 
 
382 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 I do not manifest even the grief that disturbs poor 
 Josepha, though the truth is breaking over me with a dull 
 inevitableness, that I am left behind. 
 
 *' Left behind! My father's farewell kiss was given 
 me long ago, and my child's heart ached for many a day 
 over the empty place he never came back to fill. Then Law- 
 rence went away — to find a grave ; but sorest and most 
 desolate of all, came that leaving, like which there can 
 be none hereafter. Now my lovely saint-like sister is 
 gone, not as they, indeed, but with the grave of marriage 
 dug between us, in which must lie buried the dead con- 
 fidences of our hitherto undivided souls. It is surely a 
 sad going away. The heart-chambers are emptying fast. 
 They echo hollowly, with low, piteous wailings, so that 
 thought often affrighted, turns the key, and glides away, 
 daring neither to venture in nor listen. It cannot bear 
 the counting over of the golden-hoarded memories that are 
 stored away there. The luxury has in it too much of heart- 
 break. It cannot hear without quailing, the pleading, 
 plaintive refrain, ' mother ! mother ! ' 
 
 " I have a vivid remembrance of crossing a wide com- 
 mon once, when a very little child, with a half dozen 
 companions. I dallied, picking wild-flowers, till I found 
 on a sudden that they had all gone and left me. The 
 setting sun threw interminable shadows before me, and 
 the east was beginning to darken with the coming of 
 night. I shouted, but they were too far away too hear me ; 
 
LEFT BEHIND. 883 
 
 I ran to overtake them, but fright had deprived me of all 
 my little strength. I sank down on the grass, overcome 
 with a sense of despair, that to this day I cannot for- 
 get. Was the childhood's experience a fore-shadow of 
 my future ? 
 
 " There is another name that disquiets me with its 
 haunting sweetness. Strange that time, and hopelessness, 
 and sorrow, have not drowned that sound Ions: agfo ! 
 Strange that the letters which have come to me since my 
 mother's departure, full of only a natural, but very tender 
 condolence, should make my hands tremble while I open 
 them ! The chance expressions of ordinary friendship ; 
 the ' dear Edith ;' the ' affectionately yours,' such as 
 any one feeling the least interest in me, might write — 
 such as could not well be less, coming from a kinsman, 
 why will my foolish heart try to extract a sustenance from 
 them they were never meant to give ? I almost wish I had 
 not known what it was to have him to lean on durino^ 
 
 o 
 
 those last, bitter days at Silverwood. His sympathies, so 
 unutterably satisfying ; his words of precious consolation ; 
 his beautiful prayers ; his sweet helpfulness in teaching 
 me the uses of my sufferings ; the touch of his hand ; his 
 arm wound so frankly about me, as it might have been 
 about Eunice or Sepha — ah ! they were all too soothing, 
 too strengthening, too beguiling ! I felt the fainter when 
 the arm was withdrawn, for it ivas withdrawn, and I 
 sankdowQ weaker, wearier, lonelier than before. Shame, 
 
384 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 shame poor heart ! that when thou hast God to lean 
 upon, thou shouldst yet cling with such a fond conviction 
 to the belief that the love of a human heart like thine 
 own, could endue thee with a mysterious strength to 
 do and to bear all things I Let me falsify the belief, if 
 I can ; let me compel myself to write of him as of the 
 others — 
 
 LEFT BEHIND. 
 
 I CANNOT chide away the pain, 
 
 I cannot bid the throb be still, 
 That aches and aches through heart and brain, 
 
 And leaves them pulsing to the thrill 
 Of overburdening sorrow. They 
 
 Who never saw the eyelids close, 
 Beneath whose drooping fringes lay 
 
 The charm of all their life's repose — 
 The bloom, the blissfulness, the joy. 
 The love that could not know alloy — 
 Who have not sat and watched the breath. 
 
 That only breathed to bless them, come 
 
 Fainter and fainter till the dumb 
 Unanswering lips grew pale in death — 
 They cannot know, by grief untaught, 
 
 What an unfathomed depth I find. 
 Of ebbless anguish in the thought 
 That I am left behind. 
 
 What matters it that other eyes 
 
 Have smiles to give me just as sweet. 
 
 Or softly other lips repeat 
 Endearments of as gentle guise 1 
 
LEFT BEHIND. 385 
 
 I only feel the smile, whate'er 
 
 Its 3'earning tenderness may be, 
 Is not the one whose winning cheer 
 
 Was more than all the world to me ! 
 I only feel, howe'er so kind 
 
 Is everything that voice may say — 
 
 'Tis not the one that passed away. 
 When I was left behind ! 
 
 I know — I know that as of yore. 
 
 Nature is festive in her mirth ; 
 That still the sun comes shining through 
 The clear and palpitating blue, 
 As goldenly as heretofore ; 
 
 I know this fair rejoicing earth 
 Tides underneath the smile of God, 
 As to the moonbeams tides the sea — 
 But yet there's little joy for me, 
 
 In all the brightness spread abroad. 
 The smiting blow that grief has given, 
 
 So jars the mirror of my mind. 
 That everything of sweet or fair, 
 Has but distorted reflex there : 
 
 And oh ! the tears — the tears, like rain. 
 Upon its surface leave their stain, 
 Since my beloved went to heaven — 
 Since I was left behind ! 
 
 There is a hand that can restore 
 
 The spirit's equipoise, till true, 
 In faith's serene, soft light once more. 
 
 His image trembles back to view. 
 Dear Christ ! when there Thy form appears. 
 Let me not blot it with my tears, 
 
386 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 That are not murmuring tears — yet sad : 
 I would be patient, I would find 
 
 How much the thought can reconcile — 
 Can lift me up, and make me glad, 
 That only for a little while 
 Shall I he left behind ! 
 
XXXVIII. 
 
 A FORTNIGHT had dragged itself drearily away for 
 Edith since Zilpha's marriage, and with the increasing 
 days the burden of her loneliness grew none the lighter. 
 The constant letters which came from her could not as- 
 suage the heart-thirst. They were refreshing, indeed, and 
 solacing ; but there was a faintness within which the 
 drop could not satisfy. Her aunt was kind, but then it 
 was a kindness that had no communion with the inner 
 world of thought and emotion in which Edith lived. 
 She was not obtuse, but when her husband had died, she 
 had folded her hands in no morbid despondency — had 
 wasted little time in unavailins: reo-rets. These her natu- 
 ral energy and love of activity, as well as the pressing 
 demands of a large plantation on her hands and thoughts, 
 alike forbade. She imagined that Edith could do as she 
 had done — let the stream of the Present, with its small, 
 ever-recurring incidents, cover up the foot-prints memory 
 
388 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 had left on the sands of the Past. The daily instruction 
 of Josepha and her little cousins had its unconscious uses 
 and consolations in compelling an arrest of the feelings too 
 unduly lingered over ; and although the light thoughtless- 
 ness of the children seemed many times to mock her, 
 Edith could find in them a companionship more to her 
 liking than in the colder and more world-worn natures 
 ahout her. 
 
 But she had no one now to whom she could talk about 
 her mother or her sorrows with that undoubting assur- 
 ance of answering sympathy which the confiding heart 
 demands. Josepha shunned the topic. It made her only 
 cry, and the child had never had any love for tears ; and 
 Edith would sometimes fear that the remembrance of 
 what she was so anxious to cherish in her, might grow 
 dim. But if she seemed to turn away from the subject 
 in her waking hours, in her sleep she often stretched out 
 her arms and sobbed, ^'•mother — mother ^''^ with a 
 piteousness that filled the listener's eyes with tears. 
 
 " A letter again from sister I" exclaimned Josepha, 
 bursting into Edith's room, " and a thick one too. There 
 must be one inside from Eunice for me." 
 
 Edith broke it open, and instead of the expected one 
 from Eunice, her eye caught the superscription of one 
 bearing a foreign post-mark, to her mother, at their old 
 
 home in B , from whence it had been forwarded to 
 
 Mr. Dubois, as a known friend of the family, whose pres- 
 
THE REDEEMED PLEDGE. 389 
 
 ent whereabouts the post-master was ignorant of. There 
 ,was a momentary start of sorrow. The hands that should 
 have opened it, were moveless now. The eyes that should 
 have read it, were to be unclosed no more. She turned 
 to Zilpha's letter for explanation, and soon came to the 
 following paragraph : 
 
 — " I knew, my dearest Edith, that sooner or later we 
 would, in someway, realize the truth of our beloved mother's 
 trust for us ; but the idea of having the verification of it 
 put before our eyes so soon, and in such a manner, would 
 have seemed chimerical. ' Jehovah-jireh ' were among our 
 mother's last words. Read the enclosed letter, and confess 
 the fulfilment of her unwavering faith. While I have 
 been overpowered with a sense of Gfod's goodness to me, I 
 have had, in the midst of my quiet joy, a strong pain at my 
 heart to think of your loneliness — you who need support 
 more than I — and 1 have felt as if it were selfish to be 
 quite so happy as I might be, when you were sorrowful. 
 But a load is lifted, to-day, from my spirits, by this unex- 
 pected and blessed letter. From it you will find that, con- 
 trary to all our expectations, the Scotch grand-uncle has, 
 after all, left dear mother or her heirs a handsome portion 
 of his property. Thirty-thousand dollars ! It is a God- 
 send, Edith, in the fullest sense of the word. Now, your 
 too sensitive spirit shall not be chafed by a feeling of de- 
 pendence ; now, there's an end to the acceptance of the 
 governess-ship you have proposed ; now, you and 
 
390 SILYEKWOOD, 
 
 Joseplia shall join us, in two or three months' time^ 
 as we return on our way to Mr. Fleming's G-eorgia home — -^ 
 the bequest of a rich aunt, who died two years ago, and to 
 which, owing to his father's ill-health, he has never yet as- 
 sumed the care. Since he came to New- York, he has 
 found reason to change his former plans, and has now de- 
 termined to go and reside on the estate himself, as he feels 
 too sensibly the responsibility of looking personally after 
 the physical and moral condition of his servants there, to 
 delegate it to other hands. 
 
 ** It is my fixed purpose to renounce all interest in the 
 legacy from Newton Lodge in behalf of my three sisters. 
 I did not need Mr. Fleming's suggestion to that effect, a& 
 my mind was made up before he proposed it. It has only 
 been since my marriage that I have learned from him how 
 very ample his resources are, so that there is no pretext 
 for my setting up a claim of self-denial on the occasion. 
 There is one difficulty about this legacy. The Scotch ex- 
 ecutor suggests that a representative of the American 
 branch of the family come over at once and attend to it, 
 as there is a possibility of some litigation in regard to the 
 will. Suppose we employ Cousin Bryant to undertake it 
 for us. He has fine business talent, and it will afford him 
 a pleasant opportunity of seeing Britain. Mr. Fleming 
 thinks it is just the thing. 
 
 " To think how sweet it will be for us all to be together 
 again, makes my heart run over. We shall be happy in 
 
THE REDEEMED PLEDGE. 891 
 
 each other's presence and love ; happy in living over the 
 hright, yes. and even the trying past ; happy in our he- 
 loved ones' exceeding joy ; happy in following them as they 
 followed Christ — heavenward." 
 
 Edith laid down the letter w^hich she had read, with 
 many pauses, and with clouded vision ; and leaning her 
 forehead against Josepha's hright head, she clasped her 
 arms tightly about her, without the power to speak. 
 
 " Dear sister Edith, don't cry. Why, it's something to be 
 very glad about. Don't you feel thankful ?" and the child 
 soothingly stroked the jetty hair. " It's just as mother said, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 " Yes, yes ; just as sweet mother said. If only she were 
 her©, or Lawrence, we could be very gay. But, indeed, 
 I'm ashamed of my doubts, my dear — that's what makes 
 me cry. Don't you ever do so ? Believe like darling mother 
 did — that God w^ill provide always^ 
 
 "I do believe it ; I always believed everything she said, 
 because she never in my life told me anything that wasn't 
 just soJ^ 
 
 " Well, believe it, Sepha, not only because she said it, 
 but because it is God's own precious truth. For your 
 sake and Eunice's, I am very, very thankful ; and dear 
 Zilpha, what a devoted sister she is ! Heaven bless her 
 for her love and care ! For myself — " 
 
 But Edith did not finish the sentence. For herself, she 
 would have said it made but little difference — the mere 
 
392 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 provision for physical comfort did not seem a matter of 
 great importance now. But she recalled her mother's mild 
 rebuke — that we have Grod and His service always to live 
 and suffer for — and a chastened emotion, nearer akin to 
 joy than she had known for many a day, stirred her soul, 
 as she made, then and there, a vow and a surrender more 
 entire than had ever passed her lips before. 
 
 The next day, after the school-duties of the morning 
 were over, and Edith sat in her chamber writing an an- 
 swer to Zilpha's letter, a servant came to Edith with 
 the message that there was some one in the parlor wanting 
 to see her. 
 
 " Didn't he send up his name ?" 
 
 " No, ma'am ; but it's de gentleman who fotched you 
 alls ladies here when you fust come." 
 
 Edith rose instantly, and, with hands that trembled in 
 spite of her resolution to make them steady, closed her 
 desk, and followed to the door. For a moment she stood 
 with her hand on the knob ; then she closed it, sat down, 
 and tried to reason and command herself into perfect com- 
 posure ; but it would not do. She turned the key, and 
 dropping on her knees, offered up a few earnest petitions 
 that were better than all ; for when she passed out of the 
 room her face had attained its old quiet again. 
 
 Josepha was in the parlor when she entered, overjoyed 
 at seeing "Cousin Barry" once more ; and, child-like, as 
 she stood with an arm round his neck, she had crowded 
 
THE REDEEMED PLEDGE. 393 
 
 into the fifteen minutes she had been with him, all the 
 news she could thinlc of about the travellers, together with 
 the contents of Zilpha's last letter. Edith met Bryant 
 with none of the embarrassment her chamber had been 
 witness of; the traitorous voice, nevertheless, had to be 
 condemned to some moments of silence. 
 
 " It is very kind in you, Cousin Bryant," she said, after 
 a pause, " to come and see us just noiuy But she 
 checked herself. Zilpha's marriage was a tender point to 
 touch upon, and she did not know exactly how to go on. 
 Bryant drew her towards him with an easy frankness — for 
 she had seated herself at the furthest corner of the sofa on 
 which he sat — and, vv^ith his other arm around Josepha, 
 began to speak of Zilpha and Mr. Fleming in such a way 
 as put Edith at her ease in talking of them, 
 
 " Tell me all about her marriage ; how she looked ; how 
 yon bore it ; how Sepha comported herself. I want to hear 
 all." 
 
 Edith essayed, but her tongue, somehow, did not do her 
 bidding well ; and Josepha could not resist taking the 
 story from her lips. 
 
 " She was married before breakfast. Cousin Barry, which 
 we had just at ten o'clock. Mr. Fleming rode over from 
 
 F about an hour before, and Mrs. Grayson, Aunt 
 
 Maria's sister, and her daughter, Miss Virginia, were all 
 the strangers that were here, besides Mr. Maclean, the 
 minister. The servants, though, made quite a big party, 
 
 17 
 
394 SILVERWOOD 
 
 for about twenty of them asked sister's leave to come and 
 see tlie ceremony ; and it made me laugh to see Aunt 
 Tabby, the old cook. She was so taken up with her 
 * Sally-Lunns,' and her muffins, and her rolls, and so on, 
 that she wouldn't leave them till Mr. Maclean was begin- 
 ning; and then she rushed in with her sleeves rolled up, 
 which she didn't find out till the ceremony was nearly over, 
 and then you ought to have seen what a scuffle she and 
 Mammy Winnie had to get 'em down I 1 wondered sister 
 didn't have you to marry her. Cousin Barry ; it would have 
 seemed more like the thing. Well, she looked mighty 
 sweet, only ' as white as cotton,' Sophy said. She didn't 
 cry any ; but her eyes were bright, just as if the tears 
 were there, but didn't like to fall. Sister Edith didn't 
 cry either, I believe. Then we sat down to such a beau- 
 tiful breakfast ! and, as soon as ever it was over, they 
 started away." 
 
 "The whole affair in a nut-shell — very succinct and satis- 
 factory. I'm glad to hear sister Edith didn't cry." 
 
 " The very depth of our emotions sometimes has the 
 effect of making us appear calm," said Edith ; " that was 
 the way with Zilpha." 
 
 " Yes, I think she suppressed her feelings too much, 
 often ; for the sake of saving it to others, she took upon 
 herself just so much additional pain as the suppression 
 caused her. But such a Spartan virtue must not answer 
 for you, Edith ; with your temperament, this sort of pas- 
 
THE REDEEMED PLEDGE. 896 
 
 sive endurance is not to be encouraged. Well, I am thank- 
 ful that Zilpha is happy ; who could deserve it better ?" 
 
 " None on earth,-' replied Edith, energetically. " I know 
 her as no one else can, and I must say, that unless I ex- 
 cept my mother and brother, I never met with so pure and 
 unselfish a spirit. She is one of God's angels, who walk 
 the earth disguised in the garb of humanity, whom we en- 
 teitain unawares." 
 
 " I believe it— I believe it," said Bryant, warmly ; and 
 again Edith checked herself, for she fancied her voice had 
 a tremor in it ; but these were her uppermost thoughts, 
 and they would have egress. 
 
 *' It is to be hoped that there is nothing of the reformer 
 in Mr. Fleming's composition, for ' his occupation would 
 be gone ' with Zilpha as a subject. Would anybody so 
 perfect have suited me, do you think, Sepha?" 
 
 " Not if you like to have somebody to correct, as you 
 used to do Eunice and me ; but we were only children. 
 Grown up ladies don't need to be corrected." 
 
 ''Ah, indeed ! your friend Miss Jacqueline, for example. 
 It strikes me you had some faults of her's to tell me of, 
 when we were travelling together last Autumn." 
 
 " Uncle Felix said ' it was his opinion Miss Jacqueline 
 thought the sun rose and set in her own face.' " 
 
 "Uncle Felix is a discriminating judge. Pray, when did 
 you hear from the old man ?" 
 
 " Oh ! I've had two letters since we came here. You 
 
396 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 know he went to live at Mr. Roberts', where his wife is ; 
 and he gets one of the little boys there to write for him. 
 He says he shuts his eyes when he has to go by Silver- 
 wood, for the gentleman who bought it hasn't come to 
 live there yet, and it looks mighty lonely. His last letter 
 told me, too, about Miss Lettuce G-rant's and Mr. Philips' 
 weddinsf." 
 
 But the entrance of the rest of the family made the 
 conversation general, and by the time dinner was announced, 
 '' Mr. Woodruff" was the established darlins: of all the 
 children of the household. 
 
xxm. 
 
 Clear Sliiiung after |laiii 
 
 " Edith." 
 
 There was nothing more uttered than her name, and 
 Edith looked np from the handful of early violets gathered 
 in her walk, which she was husying herself in arranging, 
 to Bryant, who sat at the brook's side near her ; but he 
 seemed too intent, just then, on trying to stem the ripples 
 with the point of his cane, to finish his sentence. The 
 March afternoon was bright and beautiful with the prom- 
 ise of Spring ; the air was musical with the pleasant piping 
 of the robins and the blue-jays, as they flew in and out 
 among the budding alders ; the sycamores were beginning 
 to look geeen, and, under the withered grass and leaves at 
 their roots, the ''spring-beauties" were thrusting up their 
 timid heads, as if a Jittle distrustful that the promise with 
 which the whispering airs had coaxed them from their 
 hiding-places, might not be fully redeemed. The humming 
 of wild bees and the droninsr of flittinoj insects filled the 
 
398 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 atmosphere with a drowsy languor that seemed to steep 
 the meadow slopes, and the fringing belt of woodland, and 
 the forest-aisles, through which the stream gurgled away- 
 over its blue pebbles with low laughter. 
 
 " Edith, did your sister ever tell you the story of my 
 love for her ?" 
 
 " Not till I asked her if she had not a story to tell," 
 said Edith, entangling her violets with the grass she had 
 been knotting together for a string to bind them with, and 
 letting them all drop, disarranged again, into her lap. 
 
 ''And what made you think she had ?" 
 
 " That would be a difficult question to answer. "What 
 makes up the indescribable Spring fragrance we inhale this 
 moment ?" 
 
 " The mellowing earth, the dried leaves, the wet mosses 
 on the brook-side yonder, your violets, a thousand name- 
 less things." 
 
 " ' A thousand nameless things !' That will suffice you 
 for an answer, then." 
 
 "After my mother's death," Bryant went on, after a 
 pause, "when I came to be an occasional member of your 
 family, I set Zilpha up in my boyish fancy as my ideal of 
 girlish loveliness. I never undertook to amend her, 
 or to quarrel Avith her, as I sometimes did with 
 you. My admiration threw a halo around her, and, 
 in spite of the mischievous twinkle her eyes used to 
 have then, and the archness of her mouth, which seemed 
 to pass almost entirely away as she grew up, I could not 
 
CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN. 399 
 
 approach her in that perfectly familiar manner indulged in 
 towards you, though you were not so frank as she. Ah ! 
 that is just what I was wanting you to do," he continued, 
 as, with a sudden impulse, Edith tossed the flowers into 
 the stream ; " for you were too busy with them to listen. 
 Come, sit on this old log. There, that is it. I could not 
 half see you before. That great sycamore kept the sun- 
 light from your face. 
 
 " Well, to go on : each vacation as I returned from 
 college, I found some new phase to admire in the develop- 
 ing character, which grew to be a beautiful study to me, 
 as I would sit and watch upon her face the working of 
 the cunning sculptor. Thought. I dwelt upon it as the 
 student of art does on one of Raphael's Madonnas. Indeed, 
 I V78nt so far as actually to have a small copy of G-uido's 
 Beatrice taken, because of the resemblance I fancied be- 
 tween their faces, after having once seen Zilpha represent 
 that picture in one of our home tableaux vivants, and had 
 it hung like a presiding divinity above my study table. 
 As she unfolded into fuller womanhood, there was a pas- 
 si veness, a subjectivity about her, such as her earlier years 
 did not give token of. The change surprised me some- 
 what. It did not lessen my delight in her, I think, but it 
 made her more unlike myself. The p(^.rfect transparency, 
 simplicity, and thorough ingenuousness of her nature, 
 made it specially difficult for me to compel her to any un- 
 derstanding of my feelings to,wards her. She never did 
 
400 SILYERWOOD. 
 
 know them till we traveled together southward. Then, 
 when I saw the steadiness of her true w^omanly heart, the 
 depth of her love and tenderness towards her sick brother, 
 her self-restraint and self-forgetfulness, my lips were un- 
 sealed. She, herself, has told you the rest." 
 
 "Hard to give her up, did you say, Edith? Yes, it 
 was the rude breaking of the dream of years; but I taught 
 myself to do it. Such lessons can be taught — can be 
 learned." 
 
 " Yes ; by men." 
 
 " And women, too, if they choose that they shall be. 
 I brought reason at once to bear upon the case. I saw 
 the folly of granting sustenance to an utterly hopeless 
 love. I saw the injury it would be to me in weakening 
 my zest for life's enjoyments and life's labors. I listened 
 to the dictates of judgment ; yes, I, with my passionate 
 temperament, wdiich is not prone to be cool and collected 
 where feeling is deeply interested, determined upon self- 
 conquest — prayed for it — obtained it. And when we met, 
 as you remember we first did, that sorrowful night of her 
 CO mine: home with Mr. Flemina:, I could see her lean on 
 his arm without beiiisf overmastered. AYhen intercourse 
 had shown me the native nobility of his character, the 
 purity of his heart, the strength of his religious principles, 
 I went further. Since her happiness would be secure in 
 such hands, I could resign her wholly." 
 
 " Your force of will must be very strong to be able to 
 
CLEAK SHINING AFTER RAIN. 401 
 
 compel the obedience of the heart and affections in this 
 way." 
 
 " It is strong. You might remember that of old, Edith. 
 I have long made it a principle of action, when I have 
 been assured that my volitions were right, to force all else 
 to bow to their decisions. Before we met, I had some 
 torturing struggles to encounter ; but after listening to the 
 tale of her love as she frankly told it to me during that 
 week's stay at Silverwood, my self-subjugation was com- 
 plete. I do not regret that I have loved her, Edith ; it did 
 me good — made me purer — strengthened me through the 
 strife. 
 
 " Since then — would you believe it? — yes, since then, 
 I have ventured to love a2:ain. You see I have no faith 
 in ' the heart's one spring-time.' I have faith in the pos- 
 sibility of a wealth of summer richness, even after the 
 frosts of disappointment have nipped its earlier blooms. 
 This time, it is not an enthusiastic admiration — a thral- 
 dom before qualities esteemed almost perfect — it is a deep, 
 uncritical, unquestioning emotion ; in short, the simple 
 encasing of another heart within my own. Will you let 
 let me tell you this story, too, Edith ?" 
 
 " Certainly," said Edith, turning her face from the sun- 
 shine that flickered down through the thinly-fringed 
 boughs overhead, and disengaging the hand Bryant held, 
 under the pretext of arranging her hair. 
 
 ^' But will you promise to be interested ?" 
 
402 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 " Yes ;" and she went on twining up the long, dark 
 hraids. '-'Yes; dear mother begged you to take Law- 
 rence's place, and you have done it. Surely then, what so 
 closely touches your happiness, cannot be indifferent to me." 
 
 Something glistened on the black, drooped lashes, as a 
 streak of silvery light fell across her eyes, which did not 
 escape Bryant's observation. 
 
 " Well, now your hair -is arranged, your hand again. 
 This sweet, tender heart, that has been taken into mine, 
 would you know what it is like ? It is not as tranquil, nor 
 as evenly -beating, nor as self-sustained, nor as hopeful as 
 Zilpha's ; but it is more easily stirred, more ardent, more 
 craving, and has, / think, a greater capacity for loving. 
 It is not so faultless as hers ; but I cherish it none the less 
 for that. It is pleasant to have what is more akin to our- 
 selves — to find something to blame occasionally — something 
 to improve— something to be planted, as we plant a seed, 
 and watch it bud and blossom under our own weeding and 
 watering. 
 
 " ' Her tastes ?' "Well, they are exactly such as I would 
 choose them to be. We love the same poets, the same 
 books, the same kind of people, and above all for a clergy- 
 man, she loves with an equal love the service in which I 
 am engaged, and will be a most gentle ministrant therein. 
 To sum up the matter, the key that can unlock the inner- 
 most being of the one, can do the same for the other. Are 
 we not congenial enough ?" 
 
CLEAR SHIXIXG AFTER RAIN". 403 
 
 "Yes; just what \yill suit you, it appears." 
 " And now you are wanting to know what the casket 
 that holds my jewel is like, or you have no woman's curi- 
 osity. Suffice it to say that it is fair enough in every re- 
 spect to please me. Is not that satisfactory ? And her name ? 
 you must know that. Ah! don't turn away so, Edith. 
 Come, I want to enjoy the look of interest on your face. 
 Please lift your eyes, as if you cared to know — yes, that 
 way. Her name" — and Bryant spoke with a slow delibe- 
 rateness, his eyes looking steadfastly into those that drooped 
 beneath their scrutiny — " her name is Edith — Edith Ir- 
 vine .'" 
 
 The upturned face blanched with sudden paleness ; the 
 slight form quivered, but the next moment it was caught 
 to the strong loving heart, in a caress whose passionate 
 tenderness was an over-payment for all the tears that had 
 dimmed, and the disappointments that had shadowed, and 
 the sorrows that had embittered the pathway of those 
 young years. On a sudden, the Future ceased to be a 
 level, dead sea, on whose borders grew no refreshing fruits — 
 over whose sullen waters no winged hopes were wafted ; 
 but it stretched away, a joyous, sparkling current ; its 
 every chasm bridged across by that marvellous architect, 
 Love ! 
 
 It was a long time before Edith could utter one word. 
 Surprise, bewilderment, tumult of soul, confused joy, had 
 struck her dumb. Fast-showered kisses seemed powerless 
 
404 SILVERWOOD. 
 
 to warm back the blood to those unresisting lips, and the 
 shut eyes had no look to give — nothing, nothing but a 
 struggling tear. Her head rose and fell to the quickened 
 pulsations of the heart against which it was pressed — a 
 repose how exquisite in its unuttered, unutterable luxury ! 
 But the word so pleaded for, trembled forth at last. 
 
 " It is enough ; I ask no more now; I am wholly satis- 
 fied. I have been seizing occasional chances of looking 
 into this fluttering, imprisoned thing beneath my hand 
 here ; and may I tell yo^ii some of the revelations it has 
 unconsciously made to me ? Ah I darling, don't look dis- 
 tressed. There has been never once, any unwomanly un- 
 veiling of what the true woman will always hide away in 
 her heart's farthest corner, as her most jealously guarded 
 secret. But remember how peculiar my opportunities of 
 observation have been, in your incautious hours of anguish, 
 when you forgot to think of your mask. No, no ; very 
 slowly, very beautifully, has the belief of what I now 
 realize, grown upon me ; but too slowly to keep pace with 
 my own strengthening love. We shall have multitudes of 
 such revelations for each other now, Edith — long lessons 
 which it will take us years to learn." 
 
 The hidden face was lifted after awhile ; the tears suf- 
 fered themselves to be dried away, and the tender smile 
 ventured forth, triumphing over the pressure of all sad 
 memories, even as the " spring-beauties" at their feet 
 came timidly up, at the call of the life-giving sun, through 
 
CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN. ^405 
 
 the clogging masses of last year's dead leaves. Hour af- 
 ter hour passed, and still the beguiling talk, the sweet 
 " tautologies of love" flowed, on as musically as the brook 
 beside them. The story of the good fortune Zilpha's let- 
 ter had brought tidings of, was told, with all her proposed 
 plans. 
 
 "Admirable!" said Bryant, as he listened. "Edith 
 dear, we will make this European trip our summer bridal 
 tour. You were sorrowfully disappointed once — you and 
 Lawrence. You know I am to take his place. We will go 
 together now." 
 
 The sun was darting his last red shafts through the 
 alders; the robins and the blue-jays had almost ceased 
 their twitterings ; and only a rim of crimson was visible 
 above the waveless, western horizon, as they rose to turn 
 homewards. 
 
 " And now," said Bryant, holding Edith's unrelin- 
 quished hand still in his own ; " what motto shall I have 
 engraved inside of the band I am to send for this slender 
 little finger ?" 
 
 There were tears again — grateful, self-reproachful tears 
 in Edith's eyes as she answered: — 
 
 " '• Jehovali'jireh ." " 
 
Ci 
 
 iVil48858 p;/:7 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORNIA UBRARY 
 
p 
 
 1 ;■ 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 ^:>.;iiMl 
 
 ! 
 
 <;■ 
 
 ^t- 
 
 1''! 
 
 f^ 
 
 1 ^ 
 
 III' Hi! lip 
 
 (1 
 
 '■'V 
 
 ■ 
 
 I ^ ' 
 
 
 I 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 r ■ ■ 
 
 \ jr^fpSpiIM 
 
 
 i ( 
 
 
 ' 
 
 
 ' ■'■''#^ ■ li 
 
 ! 
 
 1 
 
 • i i 
 
 j f:)m 
 
 
 1 ' ■■[ '1 ' 
 
 m 1 
 
 in 
 
 
 i y'J 
 
 '4' 'ii 
 
 
 ii li mi 
 
 
 
 wy 
 
 s 
 
 
 
 'lis 
 
 •;. 
 
 W''^'^ 
 
 
 1: 
 
 
 < liPIPIillllllll 
 
 
 1 1 i il^'^i 
 
 1 >■ 
 
 •. , 
 
 m h "i 
 
 '[tt.y iriht^' 
 
 HI 
 
 :| , 
 
 fa 1 •! 'i . 
 
 III '^l 1 
 
 
 If 
 
 li i 
 
 
 :i; 
 
 
 
 i'ir> iliM 
 
 
 n 
 
 ■ 
 
 !!i';;i|i