START

LAB DAILY

  
       
   

Filmed & Processed by the
Library Photographic Service

University of California

Berkeley 94720
 

 

 

Reduction Ratio —o— 1-
2

      
   
     
  
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Sls =f 2 : -
Nag
— da

 

 

pL LLL HTL)

METRIC {| 6

ITTTTITTITTIT Il HTT TT Im TH Tim ifm

DOCUMENT SOURCE:

MAIN LIBRARY

  

     
     
 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

i

plTEX LIBRIS]

i

{
Be

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
WR HR

i

 
i
Z
&
os
H
~
<
H
mu
=
:
5
ow
orl
E

 

3
i ——————————— a i ——

 
 

 

 

 

A HA.

HOME LIFE;

A TR

A Peep across the Threshold,

BY

MRS. CAROLINE A. SOULE.

¢

WITH

ILLUSTRATIONS BY BILLINGS.

‘“ A stone for thy home-altar, saidst thou ?”

“Ay. A corner stone.”

“Build it upon thy hearth. Thou canst not find
Upon the earth another with so firm a base,
Or one that when the fire is lit will glow
With holier light.” OLD Pray.

“His wee bit ingle blinkin bonnily.”
Burns.

BOSTON:
A. TOMPKINS AND B. B. MUSSEY & CO.
1854.

 
 

 

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by
A. TOMPKINS,

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.

Stereotyped by
HOBART & ROBBINS,
New England Type and Stereotype Foundery,
BOSTON.

PREFACE.

¢ Another new book ? >

“ Ay, — another.”

“ And what about, pray 2 »’

0, read and see,— or stay,— here is the one who wrote it. Ask
her, and ask her, too, what inclination led her to add another to

the many volumes now before the public.”

WE have named our little volume Home-Life, or a

Peep across the Threshold, because it is a grouping of

scenes that happen, and characters that have existence,
every day around the hearthstone. Many of the events
here transcribed are faithful records from our own diary,
and all have more of truth than fiction in them. Some
of the characters, too, are portraits, feebly done in

—— ~~ 3 2 z aL
Vika wo Ris

 
I OTN WE 5 1

A

 

 

Iv PREFACE.

- pen and ink, of persons who are memories now, and the

rest have semblances in every place. So much for
name.
Why we wrote it, is more difficult to tell. Many things

urged us on. To gratify the perhaps too partial love of

one no more on earth first prompted us to try if we

could write a story, — picture upon paper some of the
incidents we had gathered up in our brief pilgrimage.
Afterwards we wrote, partly because we learned to love
the habit, and partly from an earnest hope that thus we
might give back to the literary world a little of the pleas-
ure and the profit it had and was still giving us, and
furnish to those who will not read a moral unless it is
draped in pleasant fiction, a few of the many that centre
on the hearthstone, and thence diverge through every
scene of life to brighten and to bless.

We wrote of home-life, because our home has ever
been our world, and thus we are familiar with its lights
and shadows, its pleasant ingle nooks and its dark cor-
ners, its singing voices and its falling tears; because

we have thought much on the secret influences which

ea pe gaa 3 g Godkid

PREFACE. Vv

gladden or sadden human homes, and felt that if those
were pure and earnest, all would be well within and
without; that if a peep across the threshold showed
a happy home — parents true to their holy charges —
children faithful in filial duty — brothers and sisters
cherishing closely the affectional tie — masters, mis-

tresses and friends acting out the promptings of their

better natures — we might cross the sacred stepping-

stone and look thence upon a world of beauty, peace
and joy. Until home-life be what God meant it should
be, what humanity pleads it may be,— a foretaste of
heavenly life,— it is useless to look for purity and hap-
piness in the world’s great thoroughfares. We must
gladden the heart ere the lip can sing, and to gladden
the heart we must make it clean.

If we could know that one spirit to whom is given
the guidance of the young and helpless, the poor and
sorrowing, should be roused, for a little while, from
apathy to earnest thought and decisive action by the
perusal of these life-pictures, we should feel satisfied

and glad that we had written. That may not be, per-

 
VI PREFACE.

haps, yet we will hope that those who read will feel,

when they close the volume, that it has been time
pleasantly, if not profitably spent.
Granby, Ct., August, 1854. CONTENTS

 

THE HAUNTED HEARTHSTONE,
THE PATIENT HOPE, . .....
THE ONLY DAUGHTER, . . . .
THE MOTHER'S TEMPTATION, .

«I HAVE NT THE CHANGE,”
THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS, . .
THE THANKSGIVING PRESENTS,
PRIDE AND PITY,. . . ......
THE CHILDREN AND THE NOVEL,
THE SLATTERN CURED,. . .
“COMPANY EVERY DAY,” ....

THE BROKEN WINDOWS, . ....

 
 

AAT

gi
5
PF

THE HAUNTED HEARTHSTONE.

All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses.

“Do I believe in haunted houses?” said the
aged woman, speaking rather to herself than to the
fair, sweet grandchild, who nestled at her feet and
looked up so earnestly into the wrinkled face. ¢ Yes,
indeed I do. There ’s not a house in this whole vil-
lage, nor for miles around, but that to me is haunted,
— none, though, so much as this.”

‘ Haunted,”’ continued she, speaking the word so
slowly that a solemn emphasis seemed to rest on each
letter, * yes, yes, there are such things as haunted
spots.” And then she dropped her knitting, took
off her glasses, wiped her eyes, and, leaning back in
her arm-chair, seemed lost in a sad yet holy com-
munion with the earlier passages of life.

It was a dark, stormy winter’s night. The wind
howled fiercely around the old farm-house, drifting
the snow high on the window-sills, fastening it to the
rough panels of the doors, sifting it through the
crevices of the mossy roof, and heaping it up like
giants’ graves all along the pathway and throughout
the garden. But in doors all was bright and of a

 
 

 

10 HOME LIFE.

summer warmth. The huge back-log had been
dragged in ere twilight, and was now slowly drop-
ping into coals; while the flames from. the lighter
wood, which every few moments was cast on with so
free a hand, blazed high and ruddy, and cast a ge-
nial light and glow into the darkest corner, scintil-
lating on the time-darkened ceiling like polar flashes
on a midnight sky.

It was one of those bitter nights that make the
hearthstone the ¢ bonniest’” spot on all the earth,—
a night when the sheltered lift up their hearts in
thanksgiving, when the homeless bow in supplication ;
a night when children kneel before the fire and read
bright prophecies in the living coals, when the aged
draw their chairs yet nearer to the blaze and warm
their shivering memories; a night when all turn
their backs to the darkness, their face to the light.

“It is a night to make ghost-stories relish well,—
do, grandmother, tell me one.”

The head of the young girl rested on the knees of
the aged lady, and, as the latter lost the thread of
her dren, and looked down, she could see an enthu-
siastic eagerness pictured in the bright blue eye, a
longing for some tale of romance, that, dropping
into her heart, should vivify its dormant passions.
She hesitated a few moments, and then, tenderly
caressing the one lone pet of her bosom, she said :

“I will tell you a story about a haunted hearth-
stone; and, Lizzie, it will be no tale of fiction. The

he

RE ER RE ep RE EE

THE HAUNTED HEARTHSTONE. 11

plot is drawn from living memories, the scene islaid
— here, here.” But her tremulous voice now quiv-
ered with added notes, and, after a moment's stern
but useless effort at self-control, it burst into sobs so
loud and wild that they rivalled the cries of the
winter wind.

The young girl seemed not much frightened, and
spake no soothing words, but only clasped the hand
she had taken as she aehd the story with a tighter
grasp, showering it with kisses.

The paroxysm did not continue long; but, as it
passed away, she rose and turned her trembling steps
toward the dark, cold bed-room, and, going in, closed
the door, and was absent a long while. The tears
streamed down Lizzie’s cheeks when left alone, and
it was evident that the aged relative had some secret
sorrow over which she mourned intensely.

When she returned and again seated herself in her
usual chair, only drawing it a little closer to the fire,
there was such a calm, beautiful, spiritual look, ex-
pressed upon her countenance, that you could not
but fancy she had conversed with the angels.

Without any allusion to the past, without any
preface, she began, after a silence of perhaps a half-
hour, the promised story. Handed down to me, it
reads like this:

It was a night much like this; perhaps forty years
or more have passed since its winds blew and its
snows drifted, since its cold palsied and its dark-

 
 

 

 

12 HOME LIFE.

ness - frightened. Beside this same hearthstone,—
the same, only that then it was not worn so smooth,
for the house then had tested but thirty instead of
as now seventy and odd winters,— an aged man and
his wife sat before the blazing fire, striving to wile
away the long evening hours. There were not then,
as now, daily mails coming into even our remote lit-
tle village, freighted with news in every shape; the
press did not teem, as now, with magazines and
books; it was rare to see a newspaper in this old
kitchen, and rarer any volume, save THE ONE. The
old man had studied that some time, and carefully
replaced it,— the Bible did not then, as now, grow
dusty, while other books were thumbed to pieces.
He had eaten his apples, drank his cider, and cracked
some walnuts for his wife, whose teeth were sounder
than his own; and now sat close as he could draw
himself to the flames without scorching his home-
spun garments, nodding good-by to the sky-bound
sparks. The old lady had rolled up her knitting,
and, with her broken-fork,— in those days they had
not heard of nut-picks,— with her two-tined fork,
which had lost one of its members, sat digging out,
with a patience worthy of the gold miners of these
times, the rich, sweet kernel.

Suddenly she dropped both fork and nut, and in
another instant started to her feet, her pan falling
from her lap, and threatening many a grease-spot on
the well-scoured floor. Hastening to her husband,

THE HAUNTED HEARTHSTONE. 18

she shook his shoulders, saying, Wake up quick,
and listen.”

Half-frightened, he jumped, and came near setting
his stockinged feet upon the living coals; but his
watchful wife, drawing him off the hearth, whispered,
a little wildly, * Listen, now ! don’t you hear it?”

‘“ Hear what?" said he, still half asleep.

“ Why, the sound, like a child crying. There,
there, now it goes again! Do go to the door.”

The old man, now fully roused, stood with his hand
to his ear, the right one,— the left had been deaf for
many a year. ‘‘It’s the wind, wife. Don’t you
know it? It’s a fashion it has of crying when it’s
cold.”

“It wasn't the wind,” said she, solemnly, with a
little nervous agitation yet visible in her face. ‘I
know the cry of the wind; it never made a sound
like that. There,” and she clung to him, quivering
like a dead leaf, don’t you hear it?”

He certainly did hear something that sounded like
the cry of #hild; and now it did not die away, as it
had when his wife had noticed it, with a single sob,
but lengthened into screams. But how it could
sound so near, or whence come, was a mystery, for
the house stood then far away from any other house;
but it was a child’s cry, that was certain.

“I will go and see,” said he, summoning courage
to his somewhat faint heart, and he turned to the
door. His wife followed close and fast on his steps.
As he withdrew the little slip of wood that fastened

2

 
ee,

IE MG

RA ; rE. —

 

 

14 HOME LIFE.

the latch,— there wasn’t then a bolt or lock in the
town,— and opened the door, a bundle, so it seemed,
though of what it was hard to guess, fell into the
room with a heavy, lifeless sound. The wind blew
a white sheet over it, ere they could again fasten the
latch.

Half horror half wonder struck, they dragged the
coarse blanket to the hearth, and, unrolling it, dis-
covered a woman and child : the latter struggling to
free itself from its many wrappers, and screaming
with all its might; the former motionless as a corpse,
with lips as ashy and cheeks as sunken.

A half-hour’s charity to the babe, who seemed to
have seen a twelvemonth, completely revived it; and
it lay on a pillow, with its little white feet stretched

to the fire, as happy as love could have made it, coo-
ing as sweetly as though nestling on a mother’s
warm bosom. But it took longer to bring back a
pulse to the wrist of its pale protector; and many
times did the good Samaritans turn i leaving

the sheet drawn over her, as we cover #%€orpse. But
a sigh, so faint that it seemed a dying breath, at
length encouraged them, and they plied restoratives
till satisfied she would yet live.

But it was many a weary day ere she could leave
her bed; and when at last she stole from it, and sat up
in the old lady’s rocker, and lulled her baby with old
songs, she seemed to her watchers more like a spirit
than a sick, sad stranger. But gradually, through their
tender nursing, she recovered strength, and not only

THE HAUNTED HEARTHSTONE. 15

tended her child, but assisted the old lady in many
of her domestic duties. But she said very little. —
185s than they could have wished; for in their hearts
they longed to know her story. They knew she
was a sinner,— knew it by the meek, penitent way in
which she hung her head when they read the Bible,
at morn and night; knew it by the stained face she
raised to them after each prayer. But they loved
her all the more, or rather were all the kinder to
her. And, though she revived memories that it was
agony to bear, they folded her to their affections as
they would their own lost lamb, had she not gone
ere they could reach her.

The winter passed, and still the stranger lingered,
filling with her little one a small place in the house,
but a large one in each aged heart. One bright,
golden spring morn, after assisting in the morning
as had become her habit, she went into the bed-room
with her babe, and soon reéppeared wrapped in the
same coarse garments they had worn on that frosty
night of their arrival.

“ Give her one kiss, grandma, and you, grandpa,”
said she, holding the child first to one and then to
the other wrinkled face; ‘and now, father, mother,
—do let me call you so this once ! — give the un-
wedded mother one, and we will go, and wherever we
go I will pray for you, and she shall be taught to; ”’
and she rushed wildly to the door.

They stopped her, caught her child, and pleaded
with her to stay. “Be to us still what-you have

 
 

 

16 HOME LIFE.

been so long, our daughter, and do not take from us
our darling baby. We should die without her.”

Great drops gathered on to the still pale brow,
while tears rushed down her cheeks, and her lips
quivered with a fearful agony. She wrung her
hands, she beat her heart, she lashed her limbs —
she seemed like one who is half mad.

“ Give me the child a moment,” she exclaimed ;
and, clasping it wildly to her bosom, she bathed its
smiling face with drops wrung from her keenest woe,
then kissed it passionately, and held it out to them.
Both stretched their hands, and the little one, with an
equal love, gave to the one its right and to the other
its left hand, and, upheld between them, crowed and
screamed in baby glee.

“ She is the child of sin,” said the mother, with
a solemnity that awed for the moment the carol of
her babe ; “the child of sin, but herself pure and
holy as was ever the offspring of a wedded tie. Will
you keep her so, if I leave her here? If she goes
with me, she will not long be an angel, unless, in-
deed, God takes her; would he had taken her mother
when she was as young! If she stays with you, she
may ever be one. Will you keep her?” and she
screamed the words into their ears, as though she
would have made their inmost nerves awaken.

““ We will, we will ! ” said they; ‘and more; we
will keep you, too. Stay with us —stay! You
shall be to us a daughter — replace the one we lost ;
we will be parents. It shall be home to us four.”

THE HAUNTED HEARTHSTONE. 17

“I cannot,” said she, wildly. “Your daughter
was a stainless girl —I am dyed in sin !’’ and she
shook with agony.

And so did those she spoke to, and tears as hot as
those that had scalded her face now flooded theirs.
Awhile they wept as though their hearts would
break; then gathered calmness, and, while the old lady
clasped the two hands of the Magdalen, the old man
placed his hand upon her head. and spake.

“ Our daughter fled from us while in the beauty
of her girlhood — fled with a stranger, who wooed her
by false words to a fearful sin. The child of our
old age, it almost broke our hearts; and we came
here, far away from the haunts of early years, to
spend the remnant of our days in a struggle to for-
get. We cannot forget, but we long since forgave;
ay, before we heard that she was dead. We have -
learned to be happy, even with the memory of our
trial ever before us. But we miss the hopes that
were born with her, and we would cherish you and
your babe as we should her and hers, had she come
back ere she repented, as they told us, and died.”

The old man’s voice was hushed. There was no
sound but that of sobs, save when the baby cooed
its little love-song. A cry of agony burst from the
white lips of the stranger, as, loosening the hands
that held her, she fell at the feet of those who had
been so true,— a cry, and then words.

“ Father! mother! she did not die,—she lives! I
am she — your Lizzie — your lost, found child ! ”’

2% B

 
 

 

 

18 HOME LIFE.

Let the curtain drop. It is a scene too holy for
any but the sight of God and angels.

t Yes,” said the old grandmother, ‘it was their

long-lost, and, as they thought, dead Lizzie. She
herself had forged the story of her death, to secure
herself in the sin she had learned to love. But,
when, after years of wratched crime, she became her-
self a mother,— when she felt upon her breast the
touch of pure and holy lips,— then she became her-
self again, and felt how much, how deeply she had
sinned; and she longed to have her babe nurtured as
she had been. It was long ere she could escape from
her sinful associates ; but she at length succeeded,
and reached, as I have told you, her father’s house.
She had meant to have concealed herself till they
were asleep, and then left the babe and gone her
way ; for she had no hope that they would cherish
her again —for, O, she was very vile. But the cold
was so intense she dared not leave the child, but was
forced to keep it to her breast; and, worn and wearied
with her long and tedious struggle with the drifts,
at length became benumbed, and could no longer still
the cries of her little one; and 'thus was brought back
to love, to home, to Christ, by the voice of the angel
on her heart.”

The old lady ceased her story, and there was no
word spoken for a long while. Then the young
maiden broke it, saying,

« And what became of them all?”

THE HAUNTED HEARTHSTONE. 19

“The two aged parents lived near a sco
pry in bo love of their restored child, es
sums So wi care of her little one. They lie
bhi e old church-yard. The grandchild lived
ll wing to her mother for five-and-twenty
yr 2 “gh iy, leaving a little one to make
Ce me rless ere it had seen the face
your iy out.” a us Seyi
es, it is a haunted béearthstone i
el Sm, that beautiful young i
Bos §ithoe Piha haunted it; not as did shots of
an , making it a weird spot for the heart, but
such holy memories that the hour spent in corm

munion with them isit i
ii seems like a visit in the better

‘ Hearthstones ar
e ever haunted: but . J
have angels for their guests.” ; but few, like this,

A ag of that bleak winter's night came
: oO

i ie fire burned as brightly as before, the
: as as warm and rosy; but the young irl
neeled now before the fire. Ah

: ’ There was no lap for

g es » wi her head upon — the old IE

oe ¥: he hearthstone was haunted by another
— a spirit that had si

Ti ad sinned, suffered, and been

 
Pres.
iL (1
(i
3
i |
iH |
i iw
! I
i
I i
ai
an
i
iH
i
Le
i
i Hi
|
Hi
8 i
gil
§
i
i
IR
il
get
il
i
SEH
Hl
ght
£1
AR
bi 1!
Bi!
i
ABH
i
EE i
i
14}
11
141
{i
LIE!
8
HH
it
|
1
i

 

 

 

 

THE PATIENT HOPE.

«( pear! O dear!” sobbed the child, as She
limbed, with sore and weary feet, the long ns nk
Tod ror the kitchen to the attic, So Se Sp va
£
ber-way, to her little, OW,
PR with passionate haste, up
rr llet. O dear, if some one yo on J
: : Te ! y And then she buried her wet Bes jt
orl and wept as though her little heart w
? .
I a child’s grief, though never SO ng.
dom lasts very long. It may come rm be
like the showers of April, soon chase id ha
And so that little, lone orphan girl, a in ii
41d gush of sorrow, suffering the tears 7) pe
ho A as best they might, lifted her age au
er : .
herself beside
brow, and, seating oon
oe ii aed, with 0 A, Segue
t twin
nce, the many stars tha
ia sky; and seemed soon to Bye: fx
te her troubles, and be entirely lost In comm
ith the glorious night-scene.
ai : long while her lips moved, and oe wd
mured softly to herself, «Q, if IT were only

THE PATIENT HOPE. 21

Then, not only one, but so many would love me, and
I should be so happy! I thought, last week, when
Miss Mary’s lover sent her the beautiful bunch of
rose-buds, and I saw her kiss them so, and talk to
them, and wear them so close to her heart, that I
should like to be a flower, because then somebody
would love me. But now I believe I would rather
be a star; for, after the roses began to grow brown
and die, she didn’t seem to care anything about
them. And perhaps, even if I was that dear little
violet which I saw the other day, though somebody
might love me a little while, as soon as I began to
fade they would neglect me, and when I fell to
pieces forget all about me. But, if I was a star,
I could never die. If they loved me once, they
would love me forever. 0, if God had only made
me one!” And then she threw herself again upon
the bed, and wept herself to sleep.

Poor child ! it was hard that one with a soul so
beautiful, so full of yearnings after the true and
good ; with a mind so keenly sensitive, so rich with
upward aspirations; with a heart so bountiful in ten-
drils — that such a one should be only a little bound
girl, should be forced to give up eight of life’s years
for the paltry pittance of food and clothes, should 20
weeping day and night for human love !

Her employers, wealthy people, had taken her
from the Orphan Asylum, two years before, when
she counted ten summers. They had done it, so said
report, as a deed of charity. But was it charity to

 
 

29 HOME LIFE.

take that young, sweet girl from the little mates she
had learned to love; from the teachers who had
spoken kindly to her, and sought to answer her eager
inquiries after knowledge ; from the well-lighted
spacious, comfortable sleeping, dining and school-
room ; from the green play-ground and flower-scented
garden — and thrust her into a dark, back kitchen,
where never a ray of sunlight peered, and keep
her there from the dusk of morning to the dusk of
night, without a loving word, a pleasant smile, or a
gingle precious book, and then send her off to sleep
alone. in a little dark attic-room, stived In the sum-
mer, and frosty in the winter — was it charity 1 1g
so, Heaven speed the day when the word is obsolete!
A mystery hung over the birth and infancy of
little Ella. She had been found, one cold morning
in the early days of autumn, almost dead, upon the
lifeless bosom of a beautiful woman, whose counte-
nance, though it indicated youth, was yet deeply
lined with the touches of, as it seemed, heart-crush-
ing grief. Her garments, though scanty In number
and better suited to July than October, were yet of
the richest materials; while the shawl which she
geemed in the agonies of the last moment to have
folded about her little one was a costly web from an
Eastern loom. In the pocket of her dress was found
a richly-embroidered purse, empty of money, but
with a couple of broken cards in it, upon one of
which the surname had been entirely defaced, but
the words «Mrs. Albert” were legible ; upon the

THE PATIENT HOPE. 23

other of which was engraved ‘ Albert La G J
the last letters having been, it would appear, erased
carefully by the knife. On her wedding finger was
a plain, heavy gold ring, with the inscription, ¢ Al-
bert to Ella.” Attached to a ribbon that hung
about her neck was a golden locket, with the minia-
ture of a middle-aged man upon the one side, and in
the other a blended braid of hair, the hues a rich
jet, and a soft dark-brown. Upon this, too, was in-
scribed, ¢ Albert to Ella.” But no clue could be
obtained as to her surname, her real condition, or the
place whence she had travelled; for it was evident
she was a worn-out, foot-sore stranger.

The magistrate before whom the little motherless
girl was taken caused an advertisement of the facts
to be inserted in the local papers; but, after some
weeks of waiting, as no response was made to them,
it was concluded she must be some deserted, unwed-
ded mother, with none upon the earth to care for her.
So the child, christened Ella Albert, was consigned
to the Orphan Asylum; and the few relics found with
her, and which might serve at some future year to
identify her, given in sacred trust to the matron.

Mrs. Mann was one of those few, rare women who
seem fitted by nature for so responsible a trust as
that she held. Never were little ones in their own
Lome more kindly cared for, as far as physical health
is concerned ; and few find under the parental roof
more judicious mental and moral training. True,
many times the children sent to her were so loath-

 
CEE

nia

ne AA te “

 

24 HOME LIFE.

some with hereditary ills, both bodily and spiritual,
that she could not, without an inward shudder, take
them to her heart; yet she gave them ever the same
sweet, Christ-like smile, the same gentle, loving
words, as were bestowed upon those more favored in
their organization.

When little Ella, only about two years old, was
placed within her arms, her heart encircled her at
once. She was such a gentle, quiet, beautiful crea-
ture, with such a delicate hue on her cheek, such a
dreamy hazel eye, such a spiritual look about her
brow, such finely-curved, rich lips, seldom ringing
with the wild laugh, but at every tender caress dim-
pling into added beauty ; she was so loving, folding
her slender arms about the neck of the lady, as soon
as she was taken, and nestling so like a. bird close to
her bosom, that she was at once an idol to the benev-
olent matron.

Too many so situated would have spoiled her by
over-indulgence. But Mrs. Mann was judicious in
the bestowment of her favers, even upon that little
one, who every year entwined herself yet closer to
her affections. She knew what the lot of the child
sent to the Orphan Home is most apt to be; and so
she drove back the yearnings of her heart to fit that

beautiful creature for a station meet for her, and
only strove the more assiduously to train her so that
she might go through the severe discipline which
would probably befall her soon with a pure heart
and clean hands.

THE PATIENT HOPE. 25

; One prompting of her heart she did obey, though
in that she was actuated by a purer and higher -
tive than merely selfish affection. When, as was
the case almost every week, there came vistors to
select from the orphaned group children to be bound
to them, apprenticed not to love, but labor, she kept
little Ella secluded in her own private fous Sh

knew the constitution of the child was oh hate
premature grave would be her lot, if confined too
early to the tedious duties which ever burden those
taken from the asylum; and she felt, too, that, though
that grave might be a holy resting-place for the
beautiful pet of her bosom, there was yet so much
more of the angelic in her nature than we see often
developed in humanity, that it was her duty to save
her to the world, if possible, for angels are indeed
few and far between in this earthly sphere.

Until she was ten, the good matron succeeded in
keeping her with herself; but then she was forced to
give her up to the wealthy Browns, who, as the
said, took the poor, impoverished, So dod
child from the cold charities of a public institution, to
the warm and beautiful ones which cluster arond
the hearthstone of a ome. So they said; but the
thought only, in tearing her from the holy oe,
tions and blessed memories of that orphan’s refuge
i save Gio pey of a second servant, and devote the

expended wages I
Ln ges to the toilet wants of their young,

Like Soering mother and child was the unclasping

 
i

rire err

 

som ————

M————————————
oN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

26 HOME LIFE.

of Ella's heart-strings from the dear one who had
supplied so truly the place of the beautiful ‘dead.
But, though both suffered intensely, the orphan’s
pangs were the keenest, her sorrow was the most
hopeless. Childhood is instinctive in its perceptions,
and Ella felt, when looking into the countenance of
her new protector, that, though she might be tenderly
attached to her own birdlings, she would never think
of loving her, the little bound girl.

«Q, if they would only love me!’ sobbed she, on
the lap of her mother-friend, the night ere she left
her. “If they would only love me as you have, I
could go; I would wipe my eyes now, and never cry
again; but they won’, they won’t, they will never
love me! O, if I were only dead!”

«Tittle Ella doesn’t talk right now,” said the
lady, soothingly, straining her to her heart, and
strangling the agony that her words gave birth to.
“ They may not love you at first ; but. if you always
do your duty faithfully, if you love them, they will
by and by love you; or, even if they should n’t,
there will come some one to do so. Then go with a
brave, true heart, my darling, and ever, come what
will, cherish a patient hope. God will some day
fulfil it; and, the further off he thinks best to put
that day, the more blessed will be the fulfilment.”

With the benediction of every heart in the estab-
lishment, and with the patient hope deep-seated in

her own, the little bound girl went her weary way.
Like going from noon to midnight, and that midnight

THE PATIENT HOPE. 21

too that has upon its front no twinkling star or pal-
lid moon, seemed the exchange of homes. For a few
months, indeed, there crept now and then a sunbeam
upon her darkened path, and her soul vibrated to the
music gush of joy. Her kind, faithful friend, Mus.
Mann, did not forget her, but called upon her every
time an errand brought her to the city, seemingly to
learn how her employer was suited with her charge,
but purposely to make glad and happy a few mo-
ments of her darling’s tedious hours. Twice, too,
she was permitted, at the earnest solicitations of her
old friend, to spend the Sabbath with her. Green
spots were those holy days ever after in her memory,
— green and beautiful, not mottled with sunshine,
but radiant with broad, golden streams,— not tuneful
with snatches of song, but musical with full, rich
choruses.

But, ere her eleventh summer had come, that
beam, so vivid with light from heaven, vanished, or
rather was hidden from the visible eye by the pall
of death. Mrs. Mann grew suddenly and fearfully
ill. In the early stages of her sickness, realizing
herself that she must die, she sent for Ella, and com-
municated to her the story of her childhood, and
gave up the relics which she had kept so long as a
holy trust. Knowing the nature of Ella as she did,
she had forborne to do so at an earlier date, and
would have waited yet longer, but for the sudden pros-
tration of life. Well did she know that the sensitive
heart of her darling would suffer keenly at the tale

 
 

 

28 HOME LIFE.

of her mother’s death; and that, with the most is
idea of ever finding her father, a hope that wou an
an agony would root itself in her young i a
as she had feared, so was the result. E a, a N
conclusion of her story, was borne fainting from :
room, and, when she revived, added to he pa ig
hope that she had cherished now for nearly a ost :
that the inmates of her adopted home or some :
else would love her, was another equally patient, Fr
if possible more iniense the hope of being some day
father’s heart.
po oy the sod had fallen on the cold bosom
of her friend, ere she had time to water id new
rave with half the tears that choked her, 8 i ws
returned to her kitchen-home, her attic-nook, an
betwixt them, in weary, unflagging, Shemini ng
toil, she passed the seven years that yet HE
bondage. Household duties, 1t 13 wo n s
though they be even the labors of love, vs x ;
tread-mill step to them. What must they o en,
to those kitchen and chamber drudges, Ww Sy go
through them, year in and year out, whether Be or
well, sad or happy, with never a smile to cheer per
never a love-tone to fascinate, never a touch :
lighten the load! Much need, indeed, of haven vy
bounties have the poor servant-girls; life is indee
a weary load.
Tens WA years of slavery had passed, — for Ella’s
bondage was a slavery as bitter and hard as vss
that which bound a negro to his master, save only

THE PATIENT HOPE. 29

with her there was not the hope but the blessed cer-
tainty of freedom at a future day,— then the monoto-
ny of her severe and crushing labors was broken in
upon by what, though her mistress meant it should
be an added chain, was indeed the first broken link
her strained eyes had discovered. Until then, Mrs.
Brown had been accustomed to sit up herself, when
her daughters were absent nights at balls and par-
ties; but at this time she decided to do so no longer,
but commit that duty to Ella. Many and reiterated
were the charges she received to keep the fire bright,
and the lamp well trimmed, and the supper warm,
and not to close an eye till the young ladies had not
only returned, but held their long chat together, and
nestled at length in their downy beds.

To most girls of the bound one’s age, it would
have been a tedious duty, and few could have been
the faithful sentinel. But it opened to her a new
and charmed existence. She had seemed to her dead
friend to have inherited a passion for reading ; and
while in the asylum this had been ministered to, as far
as was proper for one so young. But since she had
lived in her present home, she had, save on the Sab-
bath, been debarred the privilege of reading. Her
Bible, the precious parting gift of Mrs. Mann, and her
few school-books, were all she had even then to satisfy
her cravings. But the latter were studied till she
Was more perfect in the elementary branches of an
English education than many who are popular in-

structors ; while the former seemed to become, as it
3%

 
 

 

30 HOME LIFE.

were, a part of her very soul, so often did she peruse
it, so closely home did she press its beautiful truths.
Beside these, she had read no other books for four
long years. She did, indeed, improve every oppor-
tunity to scan the fragments of newspapers which
found their way to the kitchen; but they were too
torn, too few, to satisfy the yearnings of her mind.
But in the chambers of those giddy girls, while

they frolicked away the midnight hours, she drank in
rich and copious draughts from the so long hidden
springs of knowledge. The daughters of Mrs. Brown
prided themselves on their literary taste; and though,
like the majority of fashionable belles, that taste was
one which the lighter magazine and the popular
novel gratifies most acceptably, yet, to appear as
they wished to in the circle in which their wealth
and beauty more than their individual worth allowed
them to mingle, they scattered upon their tables the
costly editions of the true and earnest poets, not only
of their own but of earlier days, and interspersed them
with here and there a volume that was heavy with
erudition. All and everything she found was eager-
ly perused by the young waiting-maid. But, with a
discrimination rare in a mind so youthful, or rather,
perhaps, because that mind had been for so long a
time confined to pure and healthy studies that light
and frivolous subjects could not satisfy it, Ella,
though she hurried over romance, yet did not pause
to ponder on it, but laid away in her heart the truths
she found embodied in the few ponderous tomes, and

THE PATIENT HOPE. 31

hushed herself to sleep, when the long vigil was over
with the holy songs of the lofty bards and true-souled
minstrels.

: F rom that time she lived a double life. Her outer
visible one, was so dusty with weary travel, that you
would have pitied her; her inner, hidden one, 80
pure with ripples from heavenly clouds, that yon
would have envied her. The beauty of her nights
of bondage, from that time, made not only endurable
but hopeful, its long and laborious days. But at
length they all were ended, and she was free to seek
where she should choose another home. And so
with her patient hope not smothered, but quickened
with new life, she left the attic where so often she
had wept, and which, now that she came to leave it
was yet holy with its memories; left the Kitchen,
in whose twilight shadows she had spent such
strength; left, too, a tear upon its sanded floor. — for
the old cook, who had almost cursed her when first
she came there, blessed her when she said good-by ;
left the family to whom she had ministered so faith
fully for eight long years, and took, as she left, sun-
beam and music from them,— for, after she Nr
though neither of the parents or the proud siden
would own that she was dear to them, they were
conscious of a loss that it would be difficult indeed to
remedy. “If Ella were only here,” and ¢ Ella
never did so,” were frequent cries with them, as in
her stead there came the green emigrant girl. And
then, though she never knew it, that patient hope

 
 

 

32 HOME LIFE.

which had lain eight years in her bosom was ful-
filled, for they felt that they had, unknown to them-
selves, loved the little bound girl. But she was
never the happier for that love; she never knew it,
and, if she had, it would have come all too late; she
wanted it while under their roof, not when she had
left it. Nor, indeed, had she known it, would it
have satisfied her now. It would have been like the
love that is given to a flower, transient as the beauty
of the petal, love given for fragrance lent; and she
wanted now such love as we give the stars of heaven,
love which has worship blended with it, love which
once born can never die, because the idol about and
around which are enwreathed the ties will ever palpi-
tate with life.

For many weeks, ere the term of bondage was
closed, Ella had scrutinized closely each daily paper
that came in her way, in the wish that among the
advertisements might be found one which would open
to her patient hope its long-delayed fulfilment. But
until the morn of freedom dawned her search was
unsuccessful. But then a glad smile broke over her
anxious face, as she read that a lady, advanced in life
and confined by infirmities closely to her house, was
desirous of securing the services of a young, agreea-
ble, intelligent, moral young woman, of refined tastes
and domestic habits, not as a servant, but a compan-
jon. To one with the requisite qualifications, the
comforts and enjoyments of a luxurious home would

THE PATIENT HOPE. 33

be tendered, and, in addition, a liberal compensation
for time given and duties performed.

Ella was not vain, but she had an inward con-
sciousness of the fact that she was such a person as
was desired, and resolved to make an effort to secure
the situation. That patient hope, the hope of being
loved, led her on more than did the golden fee that
was promised the successful maiden. She thought
of the motherly love which had blessed her early
days, and she thought she would be content if, by
ministering assiduously to the aged lady who had
advertised, she would but take her to her bosom as a
dear and well-loved child.

It was a palatial home to which she was directed ;
and she trembled as she ascended the marble steps,
and touched the silver bell. Would one nurtured in
wealth like that look kindly on her, who had just
emerged from bondage? But she thrust bravery
into her-soul, and, with a grace that would have
honored an, heiress, she advanced into the lady’s
presence. But the hope which had drawn her there
grew faint as she looked into the sharp gray eyes
that were bent upon her with such searching glances:
and she trusted she should be dismissed, as had been
a score of others, with the brief sentence, * You do
not suit.”

Long and closely did the lady question her, some-
times a cold smile wreathing her thin lips, like a
gray moonbeam rippling over tombs, while again
frowns would add wrinkles to her brow. At length,

C

 
 

 

34 HOME LIFE.

when the young creature was almost worn out with

suspense, she seized a volume that lay by her side,

and told her to read a pencilled passage. Ella

glanced at it earnestly. It was from one of her own
favorite poets; she knew every word by heart,— ay,

and her soul had been hushed to peace many a time
by the spiritual melody that gushed forth in every
line of the song. She did not read, though her eyes
followed the words, but she recited it, as often she
had done to herself, when none but the stars were
witnesses, with that impassioned earnestness which,
coming from the heart, goes again to it, thrilling
even the sheathed nerve.

«You will answer,” said the lady, when she had
closed the book. ¢ For years I have sought for one
that had a soul — sought till I began to think the
gearch was vain.” And then she mentioned her
terms, and told of the required duties. To Ella the
latter seemed light as is a feather to a stone, com-
pared with her previous ones ; while the compensation
seemed to her like a mine. And yet she turned away
with a heavy heart; for that instinctive perception
of her childhood lingered with her, and she felt that
there her hope would only be taught an added pa-
tience. As she descended the staircase, she thought
once she would turn back and break the covenant
just made; but, on a landing, a door that had been

closed when she ascended was thrown wide open, and
she had a glimpse of book-shelves heavy with more
volumes than she had ever dreamed of, and that

THE PATIENT HOPE. 35

visio

yim i So half-formed resolution. With a

a a at her command, she could endure

oy i onger on her heart the patient ho
nestled there like a thine of life f 4

g e for so many
To the careless eye, Ella, j i

i » Hilla, In again changine h

ou ya es seemed to have gone fiom a a

Bed he of roses. But the close observe
ave said, what she soon found was utils

truth,
; that the roses were of the thorniest kind

True, she h:
Y had no longer any menial duties to per-

form ;

Ci the an were at her command almost ag
ll as at that of her mist

18tress,— ay, more, fi
J served the young from love, while th di¢ 9

aged only from a

fear of los i
il fu sing their heavy wages.

to grope in gl] i
a gloomy kitchens through
day, or hush her moans in close attics through

Oo

the nich. ;
Hs nia , a ria rooms were luxurious, and
ot 4 voted to her duties, she had the rane of
in Pious house. She was no longer “clad
np ho e-over garments, but rustled in rich
lien Bok i
iy : usy, had obliged her to kee
Bo Fe i ls wre london
‘Shadows over her snowy neck.
Wi ped : life was, indeed, dined for the
ii ot Jor nner was still a cloudy one. Her
Ridges ess was one of those purely selfish
Who seem to think it is the bounden dut

all who surround them to make life an Edo ”

 
 

 

36 HOME LIFE.

them, while they make it a hell to others. But for
the severe discipline of Ella's youth, she could never
have borne from a stranger what she did for three
long years. The friends of the lady marvelled much
at her patience; for never before had one of the
many Companions she had taken tarried with her a
single month. She was not all bad, either; she was
lavish of her money ; but, then, she could afford to
be, because she was so aged she could never hope to
spend it all; she was finely educated, with refined
and intellectual tastes,— but she never strove to ben-
efit others by her mental endowments or acquire-
ments, but only obliged them to minister to her in
those respects. She was, in truth, a negative being ;
and, of all God's humanity, those are the most dif-
ficult to please,— while to love them, if it be not
quite an impossibility, is so near one, that the differ-
ence is but that of a hair-breadth.

Ella, all swathed in patience as she was, could
never have borne with her humors for any length of
time,— that is, her physical health would have been
undermined by the tests to which her spiritual or-
ganization was subjected,— had not the bodily infirm-
ities of the aged woman obliged her to spend many
hours in sleep. She retired early and rose late;
and thus much precious time was at the command of
her companion. With selfish motives, which Prov-
idence overruled for good, she allowed, nay, rather,
commanded Ella to spend some of that time in im-
proving her native talents. Her rich voice, trained

TUE PATIENT HOPE. 37

by an eminent vocalist, became yet richer, and th
ia 0 love of song which Was tii
wi e mistress. Her hands, taugh
touch the keys of the piano wi a
ness, also served to wile WR
dened the lady with a nightmare grasp. And To
wy willing and glad that she should devote much of
er spare time to reading, because she could th
oti Ny her conversational talent. >
e three years passed with
they shrunk the heart of the Mon oie
pene its affections, so that they led but a uf.
oa ne i yet, stern as was their discipline
7 in hes ns, 3 developed a wealth of men-
g prised herself. B i
Mssig het of the third year was le ie
Rt i The aged woman to whom she had
HE I
and made so beautiful re Foe : wo 3 Wii
Som in lr heart, amidst the i ad which
a oa 5 and tangled upon it, there had rippled
ee ore t e stream of human love, and that the
hid Sompanion had been dearer to her than any
She ¥ nown, but the babe that slept one night on
i oem and was then transformed to an angel.
an hy again had the patient hope been fulfilled,
y e patient expectant was none the happier.
eed, all too late again would it have come; she
wanted it not os dying, but living lips, and again

 
 

 

38 HOME LIFE.

given as love is to the flower, it would not now have
satisfied her soul — that soul that had yearned, from
the years of childhocd, to be loved as we love a star,
because then the passion would be one that was

immortal.

Again was Ella thrown upon the wide world.
But very different now was her situation from that
of the penniless girl who had left, three years before,
the house of Mrs. Brown. fhe munificence of her
dead mistress had allowed her to invest nearly all
the liberal wages which had been tendered her, and
she was not now obliged to search anxiously the papers
for a new home, fearing that ere she found it she
might need the cold charity of strangers.

She determined, ere she again sought for a situa-
tion, ere she again strove for the fulfilment of that
patient hope she had now cherished eleven long
years, to spend a few months in assiduous study, to
perfect herself in those accomplishments and those
educational branches in which she felt herself yet
deficient. . A few weeks after this resolution had
been in active progress, as she carelessly run her

eye, more from habit than thought, over the adver-
tisements of the morning paper, her glance rested on
one that drove the color from her cheeks, and hushed
the throb of her heart. It was long ere she awak-
ened from the unconscious fit; and many hours
elapsed ere she could again hold the paper. Well
might her sensitive nature be thrilled; that hope

THE PATIENT HOPE. 39

which she had nursed in silent tenderness from th
hour her mother-friend had whispered to her the oo”
story of her infancy seemed now on the point of a
blessed fulfilment. The notice which had arrested
her was to this purport: that ¢ If Ella LaGrange
whose mother fled from her husband’s home -
southern city in the autumn of the year 18— a
was found dead in the streets of A in Octo-
her of fe same year, was yet living, she might hear
fn ing to ey advantage, by addressing, imme-
That night was passed by Ella in holy communion
with her God. The next day bore a letter from her
trembling hand to the individual mentioned, and
then began weary hours of torturing suspense. About
three weeks after, ere she had received any answer
to her epistle, she was summoned to the parlor, to
meet a stranger. Her heart throbbed with stron e
wild pulsations; it might be him, that father io
she had so yearned to know. Years of habitual self:
control alone enabled her to descend with a rots
calmness. The first glance told her a mis-
taken ; those were not the features of the miniature
But it was the gentleman to whom she had yl
ten; and now was solved the mystery that had
shrouded so long her birth. But better for the jo
of her heart had it been still a mystery; for on hy
the story was delicately told, she could ot but fool
from the stranger's narrative, that the father %
know whom had been such a patient hope was a

A ee aed

FO

 
 

40 HOME LIFE.

parent only by the tie of birth; and she felt that,
had she known him, though she might have been a
dutiful daughter, she could never have been a lov-
ing one; she felt that he who had crushed her
mother’s young, sweet heart, who had torn from her
the brightness and the beauty of life, could never
have given her that love which she had so long, so
sobbingly craved.
The story, briefly told, ran thus. Her father,
many years older than her mother, had wooed her
merely to gain possession of her wealth. He was a
bad man, with passions that were a Curse to him, and
to all with whom he mingled. But, with a fine
figure, a face that could put on a manly look, eyes
that could beam in tenderness, lips that could whisper
love-tones, with a mind that was finely cultivated,
and well stored with learning’s treasures, with a tact
that could hide, when it would, the devil that lived in
him, and robe it in such angelic garb that it seemed
not deception, but reality,— it was not strange he
should win the heart of a young and inexperienced
maiden. Until her wealth was entirely in his pos-
session, he kept the evil that was within him hidden;
but then he disrobed it, and allowed it to howl
around and trample upon the young wife's heart,
without a single fetter.

She bore it four tedious years; but then, driven to
desperation, fled with her babe,— fled, she knew not,
cared not where, so she escaped the thraldom of her
husband. He, with a villany that had more of hell

THE PATIENT HOPE. 41

It was not
long ere Ella's story was as household words in the
4%

than humanity about it, forged a reason for her
flight that obviated in him all necessity of pursuit
He did, indeed, in secret, trace her; but, when he
learned that she was dead, and had left 20 clue b
yuh her true tale could be gathered, he gave Be
= 2 is his io lusts, and lived the awful yet
: But, after many years, conscience awoke, lashed
him with its lightning-rods, and thundered i his ear
its terrible denunciations. On a lone, sick bed, he
was forced to bear, to hear, and then alr fats a
struggle, to die as he had lived. N Zbate gave “ ;
and he sought, as too many have before and ee
by a dying act to expiate a life of sin. He be~
queathed the remnant of his fortune, which, though
small in comparison to what it was when given HN
freely by his wife, was yet a munificent one, to the
daughter she had left, if she could be Weneitiod if
not, to several charitable institutions, where his Di
ou be lauded, instead of damned. And then came
ia ag the grave —but no mourner to weep
The articles found upon Ella’s mother, and of which
her father had retained a description, fully identified
her; and, on a close examination of the exquisite
workmanship of the locket, a jeweller discovered a
secret spring, and thus revealed to her the certificate
of her parents’ marriage.
Golden news has an electric flight.

 
42 HOME LIFE.

city where she had lived so long unknown, unno-
ticed ; and now it seemed that the patient hope might
be fulfilled, for love-tokens greeted her from every
hand, and hearts were bowed before her, as devotees
kneel before a shrine. But it was too late, again;
she wanted no homage to her wealth, but the love
which could halo poverty with heavenly light; her
soul, not her money, must be loved. Money, like
the flower, is evanescent; but like the star she had

longed to be in her childhood was her soul.

With her patient hope faint, yet beautiful still,
Ella turned from the city, and resolved to seek a
home with nature,— a home where she could love, if
not be loved, because all around her should be the
works of God. Three long-cherished wishes of her
heart were obeyed before she left. Upon the low
grave of her broken-hearted mother, who for a score
and more of years had slept unnoted,” there rose
‘a marble shaft, chaste in design and perfect in
execution; upon it this inscription, only, My
mother.” Upon that wherein slumbered the dust
of her earliest friend, the gentle, Christ-like matron
of the Orphan Home, there rose a like one, with
the words, “My friend.” The dead remembered,
cared for, she gave, then, a munificent bestowment
to that place which had guarded her early years,
which was a home to the homeless. And then, with
the whispers of angels in her ear, the blessings of

THE PATIENT HOPE. 43

little children on h ‘

fom din and dust, I as Sag inen
ol gag wiht that search, but it was a patient one;
Pics 2 e Soughs so earnestly at length Way
fad, 1 ema left her, one summer's
we 8 a he green valley, that seemed to
as Sus fore y in the shelter of the old gray hills
i sve : : it, as does a wee, laughing child mn
8 S00 its grandsire. Bathed in the splendor
9 oy musical with the vespers of bird and
Io ps with the blossoms of June, that little
alt is ed, to the weary girl, like a patch of

uty dropped from heaven. She resolved h
Jet herself a while, if she did not find a Bo ‘i
i 9 bw iyy sojourn determined her to re
had 5 2 she rented a small, brown, moss
a w buried in vines, sheltered by vi
ao 4 2 or years had changed the wind to music
" gn ssy plat in front, a tangled garden at the
! Rs Hh AAO at the left, and an old orchard
i on § ng Yeh rippled a little silvery
stre: g e same sweet tone, wheth
Jou , Whether
24 5 pure waters there was reflected sunbeam or
I
in her thoughts. She ali oy 0; i a
as a village school, and sought in th 2 Ris vom
and innocent children a fulfilment a
of i

hope. It was easy for one so pure in he

 
 

44 HOME LIFE.

nfidence of the simple-minded villagers.

win the co
True, at first there was some curiosity to know her

y, for it seemed strange that one SO young

former stor,
should come alone to their little village, and settle.
thing to di-

But, as Ella Albert, an orphan, with no
rect her save the wish to be
they soon learned to cherish

from Eden.
Ella, in her new home, with her little friends

about her part of the time, and her leisure hours
divided between haunting nature and her favorite
studies, was happier than ever she had been before.
But her joy was not yet perfect. She was beloved
fondly and truly, but she was not to the dear ones
who encircled her now the one star of their heaven ;
she was not tke love, but @ love. There were yearn-

ings they did not satisfy; there Were cravings to

which they could not minister ; there were depths in
that

her soul which they could not fathom, hopes
would not kindle for them, joys that would not bud,

affections that would not burn.
Phere was still a sob in her heart; not an impa-
tient, choking one, but that sad, holy one which is

the blended tone of joy and sorrow ; such an one as
hen we pause by the green

struggles in our bosoms W
grave of one against whose now dusty heart we were
wont to nestle, when we thank God for the dear ones

left, and weep for the dear one gone.

Two years glided swiftly on, and Ella counted her

twenty-fifth birthday. It dawned a bright and beau-

happy, good and useful,

her as men do a waif

THE PATIENT H
OPE
45

. .
: i Bog, and her heart leaped up as the sun-
Sas Sposa s0 gladly into her chamber window
R2dein P Bi] her little ones a holiday in the
i 8 i appv hour, they came
2, gle, berries, frubis a a a fe
Jed fous im 0 never had children a hei
Joyous 4 % _ Their smiles rivalled the sunbea :
iy fe wolsas the notes of the wild bird. a
fia soon not then 80 much the teacher as th
d J gle oan the angel sister, now playi :
ais Sade behind the mossy ae His
a ot brows in the limpid spring now t "
2 a Mes in their braids and Ay now re
Penal Songs and then weaving out of her —
them in a oi a: A
a ; er own voice wi i
2 nei sweet that the relimns psi
ge 9 the bird overhead, and then clas in
Fa, theiry er hands in prayer to the Te a
i os hi 1 Yom the food was blessed, filling thei
on han, on an
OW: e of the aftern
i Se Noy out of the wood Sima
ay og ig. and there, to complete their pleas
is id ny farm-wagon, sufficient in size ©
wearied in the il of Si So
hi in ing frien
Slat rey herself; the oe oni Js
ul, and she preferred a lovely walk a

 
 

 

 

46 HOME LIFE.

the leafy aisles. Slowly she wandered on her home-
ward way, loitering longer than she was aware in
communion with the little wild-flowers that seemed
to nod acquaintance, and with the streamlet that
seemed singing only for her to hear. She did not
observe the growing darkness, or, rather, thought it
but the clouds of twilight; but a brilliant flash, and
a sudden wild and heavy thunder-boom, roused her
from her blessed abstraction, and she hastened her
steps, and, as thick, large rain-drops came pelting
through the leaves, she started on a frightened race.

She had emerged from the forest, and turned into
the little lane that led to the main road, when sud-
denly a streak more vivid than any that had pre-
ceded it touched the lifted branch of an aged tree,
and flew like a golden chain unlinked from leaf to
earth, shivering and splintering its hale, green life.
Untouched herself, yet the fearful light, and the long,
loud roll, were too keen a fright ; and she sank in
the wet grass, pale and passionless. Ere the trance
was quite fastened upon her, she was conscious of a
sudden hurried motion ; but it lingered, in her half-
dreamy state, as the rush of falling water, bearing
her on its tide.

When again her heart beat truly, and the veil was
taken from her sight, she found herself in a strange
yet pleasant spot. A little hearthstone, brilliant
with ingle-lights, first caught her vision; then she
turned and saw herself upon a downy couch, with
coverings snowy enough for death; but, ere she could

THE PATIENT HOPE. 47

look longer, she met the anxious gaze of an aged
lady, and was soon pressing her thin hands, and agk-
ing numberless, but almost inaudible questions.

“ Be quiet and sleep to-night,” said the watcher
in a voice so soft and sweet that it seemed to Ella
like the angel-whispers of her early friend. She
knew well the countenance that was bent over her so
tenderly, though they had never before met as
friends; and, worn and faint, like a sick child when
it knows its mother is beside it, Ella turned asain
and slept. Sweet dreams came to her, such as
she had seen before in waking hours, the embodi-
ment of wishes, but such as till then had never made
beautiful the holy watches of the night. She knew
not that in the room above her there was a sleepless
vigil held by a human heart, and that the mercy-
seat was laden with prayers for her. She knew not
that like a star she had dawned in the horizon of
another’s heaven. It was well these things were se-
cret; she would not have slept so soundly had they
been revealed.

She awoke with the birds, somewhat weak yet
otherwise in usual health. She lay for some. tie
waiting to hear sounds of life; but, as the sunbeams
crept faster and further into the room, she arose, and
finding her own clothes well dried upon a rack bo.
side her bed, she dressed, and, after hesitating a while
pushed the door open with a noiseless motion, paced
a narrow hall, entered another room, and then stood
spell-bound. A door leading into a side room was

 

 
48 HOME LIFE.

half opened, and through the space came the full,
rich tones of a manly voice, as it read with holy
earnestness that glorious, soul-touching chapter of St.
© John, where he writes, “Let not your heart be
troubled.” There was a gentle motion, and with it
involuntarily Ella bent her knee, and, ere she had
time to think, was communing, through the stranger's
voice, with her heavenly Father. Then there floated
to her the music of one of those grand old hymns
which for years have filled with beautiful echoes the
aisles of the sanctuary. With the last note Ella

turned away, and as silently regained her room,
pressing to her heart a new, ecstatic memory.

In a few moments that same gentle, aged lady
sought her, and like a mother’s were her kiss and her

eager inquiries; and then she revealed to Ella the
cause of her being in another’s home. Her grand-
son, she said, had been returning from an afternoon
ramble in the woods, and had just entered the lane
by another path, when the lightning shivered the
tree. He had a glimpse of the maiden, saw her
fall, and, hastening to her, took her up as dead, and

bore her to his home.

«Tf you do not sicken from the fright and wet,”
said the lady, with a pleasant smile, as she finished
the brief tale, ‘I shall regard it as a happy accident;
for I have long desired to know that girlish teacher,
that darling Ella, of whom our village is so proud.”

: T shall call it a happy one, though my nerves do
quiver a while, and though I should have, what I do

THE PATIENT HO
PE. 49

an 2 terrible cold,’ ’ said the gentle girl; «for
Y eine yes ever since I came here, derived to
elon 3p at aged Christian whom, come storm
a : a Wo so faithful at the altar.”
ant earts were opened, and the strangers
Pog i en friends. Mrs. Stanley had seen oe
Ri jo She had buried an idolized Reo
2d s an gs idolized children; and had no blood
Baaoy io 2 her to earth, but that which bound
us ho? ma son. She had seen her wealth take
hs % i E d at last, with the little that remained, she
> 3 iE 5 sought a home in thig beautiful vil.
ou 4 2 Sh by strict economy to save yet
ag a ray the collegiate and professional ex-
Re. only treasure. The former she had
aon h oing; but, Just as he had entered on a
isi ose term, she received the blighting news that
a bs 1 Investment was lost. “He came hom
Ls y igs before last,’ ’ said she, weeping, hi
ig 4 pn giving up his professional studies
lie arn means to defray them. He bears
Se in pele bravely — more so than I.
id > dying mother placed him in my arms
3 y i b ess babe, I, in my heart, devoted him,
hd i ad i. so trained his childish and youth-
Ts at it became to him, as to me, the
£¢
a Sane 0 Ine to Je oo she, with touching
; : e only asked to see him i
pit, to hear him pray there once, i tel
D

From

 
 

HOME LIFE.
50

is lips; if he has me to work for,
CY brine will be Zoo eng R
Bo "Ella turned monitor, and spoke to !
Sad gn as though their years had been Ioversas,
ig ri f her 0 cherish still and ever a pa e y
hy id that God, who had blessed hr ,
a her yet again. And then Mrs. Stanley

that
clasped the dear girl to her bosom, and from

1m

it 18
« Ella. Ella! but one word ig 52, 58 bx
: — with sm
shall we part — Wi Jy
a I clasped you, a half-dead crea y

jon anit
mortal, but an immortal passion — not as hum Ys
)

while so poor that I could see no

but divinity. But, I knew your beloved ought to

way to become what WE
of ie Te a dai now that, by some aY%
i the means to fulfil my cherished, g i
tery, 1 hove now I must speak. I cannot go ;
Ik a I may hope.” They were Whig!
: like passionate breathings they touc
> dl of the maiden es at he
Wag gd through the crimson

f a flower when the soft south wed Sig
b the sunbeams that quiver above it,— a
yO hear it plainly, and his heart grew

sweet, angelic tone,

my kindled hopes,

THE PATIENT HOPE. 51

and pulsated with a new and holy life, for the whis-
per that stole from those lips spake thus: ¢ Cherish
now and ever a patient hope.”

The little Sanctuary which the inhabitants of El-
la’s new and beauteous village home had conge-
crated to the worship of the All-Father wag crowded,
one bright and Sunny morn, to listen to the voice of
a young herald of the Cross,— to one whom the gray-
haired pastor, who had spoken to them till hig lips
were tried with age, had selected as his successor, —
even to the grandson of old Mrs, Stanley, to the be-
trothed of Ella Albert. There was a breathless
hush, as his clear, melodious tones throbbed on the
golden air; but ere the benediction had fallen from

his lips there had been many a sob, and, as he de-
scended from the pulpit, many a warm hand grasped
his own, and many a voice whispered a blessing, and
all felt that his lips had been touched, as it were, with
fire from heaven. But he kindly though quickly
turned from them all, seeking the wrinkled hand
of her who had loved him from his birth, and who
laid it now in benediction upon his head, and then
turning to the soft, white palm of her through whose
mysterious medium his study-life had been perfected,
and through whose love he had seen life open with
new blessings.
At sunset that little chur
not to listen to the eloquent
charmed them in the mornin

ch was crowded again,
voice of him who had
g, but to see solemnized

 
 

59 HOME LIFE.

the holy rite that made him a hep, il Saag
ir vi idol, even the gentle lulla, iron
Beir is With a group of loving Psa
pr around them, they stood hi ; s 8 i
A the last solemn word dropped from the trem tng
: of the aged pastor, those little voices jo ,
ws accord in a sweet bridal-hymn, nl :
Sig Ella’s path with flowers, fey frie 3 2,
i ea
dly watched her, as, leaning on
SR Yo passed out of their sight, and across the
1d of her wedded home. :
a ha that holy, sunset, Sabbath hs ae
filled the patient hope. As she had Longe) di
childhood, so had she become,— not a Sapp . ol,
but the star of a soul, loved and loving Wi

less passion.

THE ONLY DAUGHTER.
L

A glorious child, dreaming alone,
In silk-soft folds upon yielding down.

“My cup is full; another drop and it would over-
flow!” whispered Laurent Sumner, in the most
lover-like of tones, to his young and lovely wife, as
he bent over her sick couch, and pressed his lips
again and again to her pale cheeks. Never had she
seemed so beautiful, never had his heart clung to her
with such fervent love, nor ever had his life known
such ecstasy of bliss. One little year of wedded life
had glided swiftly and sweetly on, and now the anni-
versary of their bridal eve was hallowed by a gift
from God, a gift of which Eden never boasted.

“My babe, my babe !”” would murmur the young
mother, as she felt upon her breast its gentle breath-
ings; and, though all worn and wearied with her holy
travail, her heart pulsated with a Joy so pure, that
heaven seemed near. “My wife, my child,” from
her husband’s lips, came to her ear like an angel-
song; and “father, mother,” words only half

5%

 
54 HOME LIFE.

breathed to each other, in the first delirious kiss,
tt seemed but the prelude of a FY
that should be blissful as ever fancy pictured. vik
And the child,— the little daughter, whose bi fh
hymn had been so sweet to those anxious OE a
0 seemed she like? A lily-bell, Ua a id
frost would wither; or a rose-bud, Wo Jo
shower might beat from 1ts stem. i Parone
strove to trace in her baby features hes :
looks; and, when the playful i ws is
0 ’
too high, the young mother W :
Her eyes ar just like yours, Laurent; Jo san
deny it, for they are dark, while mine are bl !
‘ And In not deny it,” would be the hg "
half-laughing answer, if you’ll only own her lip
ike your own!” ol
I To indeed, was Lilian Sey ie Da
tiful still in her chil ood an !
EE , neck of dazzling Vii So
i d a wealth 0
bout which there clustere
To oe, eyes brilliant as moonlit Tt
cheeks like the heart of a wild . iA ee ee
et
dew has been drunk, a form hke | oh
Oe ae che seemed one of those glorious chil
2m whom heaven hath but lent to the earth asa
f bright angels. ..
ha tis she to those parents, whose ii
cup of bliss she had filled to the brim? Ac i
en it was their high and glorious fos to om
into a true-hearted woman; a child to be 80

THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 55

cated, physically, intellectually and morally, that she
might go forth at the appointed time, and fulfil aright
her holy mission upon earth? Ah, no! not such
the feelings with which they clasped her to their
hearts, trembling ever, lest she should be torn rude-
ly thence. She was to them but as an idol ; an idol
for whom no sacrifice could be too costly, no labor
too fatiguing, no munificence too lavish.
While a babe, the most elegantly-arranged nursery
was hers, and such tender care, that the breath of
heaven never fanned her cheek save in a breeze too
gentle to scatter the leaves of a full-blown rose. A
cradle, fitter for waxen doll than human child, so
soft and silken, was her resting-place when sleeping,
and not for a moment dared the sentinel-nurse tire
of her watch. When awake, like a beauteous image,
sculptured only to be looked at, she was borne in her
costly robes, now to the parlor, to be admired by
wealthy friends, and now to the chamber of father
and mother, and back again to nurse, her only exer-
cise the putting forth her tiny hands and clapping
them in baby glee. To be left awake in a roomy
crib, to throw off the quilts, kick out the heels and
toes of her silken socks against the footboard, or,
clasping the rounds with her delicate fingers, grow
strong in the effort to raise herself, — to be placed
upon the floor, with only a guard of blankets, and
suffered to twist, turn and frolic, toss away her toys,
and then crawl slowly yet surely after them, —anon
to forsake blanket and take a range of carpet, till by

 
 

 

56 HOME LIFE.

and bye the table-leg or chair was reached, and then,
after many unsuccessful efforts, to stand upright be-
side it, screaming in the wildness of a baby triumph,
— not such the infant pastimes of the only daughter.
All must be done for her by her idolizing parents
and gold-paid nurse. When the little beggar-chil-
dren, who lived but a block in the rear, born at the
same time as Lilian, could paddle up and down the
gutters of their villanous courts, she could but just,
by careful guidance, take now and then a timid
step.
In childhood and girlhood it was all the same. The
delicate daughter of a delicate mother, instead of
rearing her in that way which should best remedy
her constitutional weaknesses, they were fastened
upon her by a fashionable life. No gay sports in
winter-time, upon the frozen stream, with the flying
snow-ball ; no being drawn by a beau-schoolmate on
his Christmas sled, with now and then a sly and
blushing ride behind him down the icy hill; no trun-
dling of hoops in spring-time ; no berrying frolics in
summer ; no nutting jaunts in autumn, to stimulate
the heart to a beat less muffled, to invigorate the
system with that strength so needed in life’s later
years. Such sports were quite too rude for one so
delicate as Lilian. She might enjoy the breath and
bloom and glory of the seasons in a gentle ride,
wrapped in the rich cashmere or the costly fur, with
a veil and shade to screen her from the sunbeams;
she might promenade, in a splendid dress, the city

THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 57

pavements, and, perhaps, clad in a sho i
J Single amidst the bathers of ok
bes ob : at a nar exercise was not for her
le y a5 oved child of wealthy parents.
Eastern nL “ wd Sra a
in i
later ~ones a boudoir which a eo = :
m ton all her youthful life was ” tor,
kes og dream. Masters for every study were
Hemsl y hensiiol to perfect the discipline which
ya a Rls had commenced ; and the child
- b Sige 3 io " Into society with a ¢ fin-
» @ classic grace, a brilliant beauty.
. — yal in eighteen years of life, eo
ard Sp s duties? She could sit by the
Spat her and mother, when they were ill, and
gg pay ke music ’ to them, press soft, wack
fa Loe pallid lips, weep over their agonies
ade “p1 = ands in fond affection; but she rust
Biles 2 to renew the poultice or adjust the
a dogs yo re £2 Sn Suiloners for those lit-
of love. She wrought a ay ei
and crewel, and owned a orl . nw
TE a OX ER
ht embroidered collar or GT
fe Te es her delicate fingers. She was
Jo a emale academic lore, and perfect in every
A 3 accomplishment; but, with no single dut
y heart, no better fitted for the real i

 
 

 

 

58 HOME LIFE.

is a be to
rience of womanhood, than 1s a new-born babe

trive to run. ic iks :
: But such the education idolizing parents gave their

only daughter,— a daughter whom, should Some
I a few rough blasts on her Se : 8 ys,
iid; hould death sna
1d be left a beggared child; or, s te
or loved ones suddenly from earth, would remain
more fit to sob her life away on their cold pubs
than to put on woman’s armor,— trust in Go ie
confidence in self,— and go forth to battle byt : J;
. A 3 . ¥ e ,
ly, with life’s labors and its terrors
Oe crave them for the only daughter, Ho
dined against than sinning, left helpless by the love
that should have made her helpful !

»

IL

Here, take this simple rose, and feel
The love my lips dare not reveal.

« °T ig said that in gorgeous ugh orn oles; ¥
Where folks are too idle for stringing T I s
When a lover would send to his lady a i e
Of love, which in words ay not be spoken,

He hies away to the garden . bowers,
And culls a bouquet of fe fabron Bowens
i together of mag 3
ya A of love to the maiden’s heart.”

’

Thus gayly warbled Mrs. Sumner, in a voice al-

|
most as rich as her daughter’s,

as she entered the

chamber of the latter, bearing a cluster of flowers,

THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 59

in whose arrangement one but little versed in sym-
bolism could yet read a message of love.

“Rouse thee, my dear one, and see what a beau-
teous gift some friend has sent to grace thy birth-
night ball. Pity it is he did not send his name; he
shall be dubbed knight of the nosegay. Canst
guess, young dreamer, who the gallant is that has
spoken his love in such flowery tongue? Rouse
thee, and see!’

Idly, musingly lay Lilian on her silken couch, her
flosses tangled on the floor, her half-read novel closed
beside them. Not tedious, either, it would seem, was
the lost time; for a rich color gleamed on her soft
cheek, and her dark eyes were brilliant with happy
thoughts. She raised herself uneasily as her mother
closed her gay appeal; but there was magic in that
gift she clasped so nervously. Richer grew the rose-
blossom on her cheek, and more beautiful beamed
the sunlight of her eye. In vain she strove to an-
swer her mother’s raillery. Her lips quivered in
unuttered music, but her heart beat with such wild
and passionate pulses, she could but hide her face in
the tell-tale flowers, and wet them with such dew-
drops as never graced them in their garden home.

Not long did the mother tease her idol. She had
not quite forgotten an hour of bliss which her own
heart, in its maiden life, had known; and, after press-
ing a few warm kisses on the blushing brow, she
turned away, murmuring rather to herself than her
daughter, “A coronet! I had not looked so high,

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

60 HOME LIFE.

but thou wilt grace it, dear one, as well as it grace
thee.”

Happily for the daughter’s day-dream, she heard
not her mother’s words. As with lightning would
they have shivered the castle which thought had
built in a moment of bliss; as with storm-waves,
dashed out the colors which fancy had woven in the
bow of the future. Left to the solitude her full
soul craved, the hours passed by on golden pinions,
and heaven seemed very near.

Ask ye if the maiden truly guessed the giver’s
name, and what quick perception was the seer?
Love is instinetive in its recognitions. The clasp of
the hand, the light of the eye, the tone of the voice,
are electric revelations, betraying the lover where the
world around sees but one of many friends. These
had fair Lilian known, though never save in the
sight of others had she seen or talked with him whose
¢ token of love” lay near her heart. Betrothed ere
yet their tongues had lisped their love, were two
young creatures in that birth-day morn. Sayest
thou it is a marvel? Thou hast not loved, then;
else it would be plain as sunlight.

¢ Rather would I lie here and dream,” said the
happy maiden-to her mother, as, towards the close of
day, she entered with the costly robes that were to
adorn the daughter in the gay hours so near at
hand. ¢ Here I can make the world go as I hid it;
there I must go as it bids me.”

¢ But here cannot come the knight whose token

THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 61

has charmed thee, the livelong day, while there.

Ah, I'll warrant his armor has been worn for howe,

and each hour has seemed to him an age. Thou wilt

he kind him for his flowers’ sake,— wilt not, fair

Saigsr } —and come down from stars to gaslight

2 Boas Bo, ne mother, and I'll be the
Gayest of fn 2; J; y, dance all night, but grant

e One! Yes, a thousand, dearest, so thou dost be
again a mortal, and feed on more substantial food
than the fragrance of those rose-leaves, that for
hours have lain against thy lips. Speak, then.”

“That I open the ball with the knight of the
nosegay, mother; ”’ and the voice, gay at the first
word, was almost lost, ere the last, in maiden con-
fusion.

) “ Open, and close, and dance when thou wilt with
him, dearest; father and mother will see thee with
Joy; ”’ but emotion too sacred for the lips of raille
checked short the words of the fond parent .
mother and child in each other’s arms sobbed out the
thoughts that could not be spoken. ¢“I cannot lose thee
yet joy to give thee up,” “I cannot leave thee yet
Joy to go,” was the language of those hearts rl
those hearts whose secrets neither had guessed aright
though both were sure there was no mystery now. :

“My beauteous child,” exclaimed the father,
proudly, as he clasped upon her snowy arms and
6

w

 
 

 

 

 

 

62 HOME LIFE.

neck his birth-night gifts. ¢¢ You could scarcely be
more bewitching, did the coronet rest on that brow;”’
and he gently drew her to a mirror, that she might
see the fine effects of the costly gems.

« Better my head without than with a coronet,
dear father,” was the laughing answer. * It would
surely break beneath it, there is so little in it.”

« Heart might uphold the head, perhaps, my
Lilian. What say you?”

« Not if a coronet were there, my father. That
heart was filled with blood from the great one that
beats in your own breast,—a very democratic heart,
sir, and its red life would boil to madness, did an
English one come near it;”’ and again her voice rang
in clear, sweet laughter, and her father joined her,
saying to himself, ¢ A woman to the last;’’ and thus,
without a thought of cheating, all were deceived,

their own wish being the cunning knave.

¢« And that, I suppose, is the English lord, of
whom I have heard so much,” remarked a gentle-
man, who had but recently returned to his native
city, after a lengthened absence, to the friend who
had been pointing out to him the distinguished belles
and beaux of the brilliant assemblage ; ‘that splen-
did-looking fellow, who leads the dance with our fair
hostess. A glorious couple, truly; old England will
have to own our daughters are as beauteous as our
sons are brave.”

« Spare your rhapsodies, dear sir. That splendid-

THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 63

looking fellow never yet looked on English soil. His
Ist ever he win a prize like that, will be forced
write upon her cards, instead
Mrs. Dr. Grant.” a
fibeinn ! and if Tam any judge in such delicate
matters, I should say she would be nothing loth to
80, the earliest day he asks. But who is he?
owe rich man’s son, I guess, whose diploma hos
een bought with his father's name and purse, and
Me Sen ieal the sick as well as you or I,— aol
ee :
sed e be a seventh son, a doctor born, not
‘“ Wrong, wrong agai i
j gain. Whose son he is, I know
ko but this I do know, his diploma was oh bought
ut earned by noble talent and unwearied toil. He i
one of those noble youth to whom Heaven gives ge-
nus and a bed of straw; I’ll warrant he has not
three red cents to jingle.”

8 But how happens it we see him on such term
with the heiress of Sumner’s wealth? :
; “ Luck, partly, and partly our host's republican
ideas about an aristocracy of mind, as well as birth
and purse. His wife was thrown from her carriage
a few months since, and directly before the w
Soceor's door. Of course, he must rush out on
i in ; the first patient, too, I guess, that had yet
i that office-door. A sprained ankle and
sundry bruises called for professional skill; and, to
Ju the matter short, he has been intimate in the

mily ever since ; and, since employed by Mrs. Sum-

, plain

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

64 HOME LIFE.

ner, has grown fast into notice, and thus a lady’s
tumble has proved a very God-send to him. His debts
are paid, and his thread-bare clothes exchanged for
those you see; but still he is poor, and must be so
for many a year to come.”

« And will Sumner, think you, consent to 2 life-
union of those hands which seem instinctively to find
each other in the mazes of the dance? i

«T cannot say how far democracy will carry him,
but I marked a shade upon his own and lady’s brow
when the dance opened, and the lord stood sullen
in a corner. A coronet before a scalpel, I guess,
would be their wish.”

« But not the daughter’s; and how is her will,—
strong ?”’

« She is an only daughter, and they will find it
hard to thwart her now, when for eighteen years her
word has been their law. But come, leave gossip
to the ladies, and let’s off to Sumner’s pictures.”

Sullen, indeed, looked the English lord the while
he stayed, and at an early hour he left, a deeper
gloom upon his brow, and a blighted hope in his
proud heart. And Lilian — seemed she to mind his
looks or care for his departure? She was a little

thoughtful for a while, and then half sad, but not
because there was sorrow in her heart, but because
no true soul can give another pangs without a pang
itself.

Late in the evening, wearied with the adulation
of the many, she stole from the brilliant and crowded

THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 65
iy 3 Sum porta and, throwing herself
1 a sofa, er head upon her hand i

Bian, But not quite unnoticed had doin
: iA little while, and a hand was softl laid
we her ov 24 a i manly voice in

-bud for your thoughts;” and
started, blushing and trembling a though the >

J)

sho. with Los
4 Simi yet graceful air, held towards her
-bud, she knew that i

hearts’ exchange was come. Reliptoningy

; N ot og he held the bud ; she took it —

over Haw but she did know that in the act their

& gers were entangled, and though, even to herself
e never whispered it, she felt that then "

how, she

3 “He drew
im one long kiss, her whole soul titon h
er lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.” 4

III.

Luss cottage, half-embowered
oi Best Jessamine, and that sweet spot
garden ground, where, ran i
s ed t :
Grow countless sweets, — the ay,

And the thick thyme-bush. ower and the pink,

144 H : :
eis 1
rich, he is handsome, he is noble

true-hearted,— I i
; rh know it all,— he mother, I do

y good,

 
HOME LIFE.
a THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 67

ak my heart to & :

A y a Na the young creature, whose life seemed
try. 1a h 2ii- erself now like one of th

« But wherefore, Lilian,” asked the mother, 8 which poets so love to sing tn es

: € 0 e

:< what I have often heard you say should so I i
Ey why, if in this world of young physician’s standing in societ

not, cannot love him. It would bre

“tly. ;
ur ideal lover; then of t ; ; » of his povert
ny realities you have once found a man whom you id op ; > a take him to accumulate a i
can measure by your standard and find him true, Vio So doit od oN au Lilian was to be his
why not give him your h cart?” : ets os so delicate, knowing naught of

The maiden did not speak, but the hot blood lashed ial Sd to everything but luxuri-
with a orsores her bosom, cheeks #3 brow, and to ae poor man’s ee #4 do, my daughter, for you
ed for her. : ; ;
vn is, then, as I feared,” said her questioner; than pe 8 hovel, dotlux, sagner
t vou love another, Lilian, and he daughter OR In a castle,” exclaimed the
But the true woman spoke now from the daugh- A a y ; and then, grasping her moth-
ter's lips, as she inquired, with passionate SYmeR nN, asked, ¢ Would iy tently into her eyes, and
«: And why have you feared, mother? Did you fither. hunch ho Wi my mother, have married
think, have you thought that I would ever give my head dt opped ; he iy as poor as even —”’ her
heart to one unworthy of it? You have misjudged without a quiver of ag not yet speak his name
me, if so you think, or so you have thought.’ Bat a $ Lips,

? Then your heart is gone, my darling,” and tet- endure he ills 7 an,” said the mother, cannot
derly was the child pressed to the mother’s heart. your pet lis hoi ty . It would be like casting
And then she whispered, © Will you tell me Who is Hore ves a A ay its gilded cage when a snow-
now the fortunate possessor; oF shall I guess?” glad mid the falling fa Jol) Basal oll e

Words struggled for utterance on the maidens what, 33 2 wedde 1 ; . es, as to try to make yourself
lips, but emotion strangled them. And then the for sour portion.” wile, you should be, with poverty

mother spake a name, and the daughter pressed her Mother 7 ed i :

hand, and hid her blushing face yet closer on that dot, from : he rd young girl,— and it was evi-
heart, where for years it had been bliss to nestle. Volos, that 5. Lich: ;, Unnatural calmness of her
were calm again, the mother talked earnestly an that I love, but I will A oo — . pon

&

7)

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

68 HOME LIFE.

first; but her sensitive nerves had borne all they
could, and, white as the lily that lay on her bosom,

she sunk on the couch, her eyes closed, her lips grew
pallid, and her pulse still.

For hours they bent over her, her father and her
mother, and many skilled attendants, fearing each
moment would be the last. Terror and anxiety at
length overcame the scruples of pride, and they sent
for the young physician. One moment the agonized
parents spoke alone together; then, meeting the young
lover at the door, they whispered, © Save her and
she is yours.”

It was a priceless fee, and well and earnestly
strove he to win it. It was long ere by any skill the
palsied nerves could be made to thrill; but, the death-
grasp once loosened, and there was needed no other

medicine than the pressure of the physicians hand,
the almost inarticulate syllables of his voice, and the

soft, silent touch of his rich lips.

On her nineteenth birthday, Lilian Sumner stood

before the marriage altar, and gave her hand forever
to the young, the still poor, though now universally
acknowledged talented and deserving young physi-
cian. There was a brilliant wedding-party, a costly
journey, balls, soirees and calls, on their return; 2
few weeks’ sojourn in the splendid home of the bride's
father, and then wedded life began in earnest, ina
beauteous cottage home.

It is not often love in a cottage, save W

here the

THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 69

Jas hm bas fares so well as did that of
e. ut i i i
father, it well ) Se Sapouy oh
b was, indeed, a cottage such as romance i, .
of, where frescoed walls and draperied on oy
fae pictures and costly vases, carpets from —;
18 and mirrors worth a fortune 2
the items. Sonica
Life, wedded life, did indeed i
only daughter. Beloved b te a ns
ell he pad located : in ri vicinity of foe _
oe um jog hems in her luxurious rooms, no -
Soashon e a cares,—the mother, conscious of her
ang leh my tness for them, having given up her
ie. rained domestics, and, moreover, comin
oy every day herself, to see that all went
3 4 was no wonder that life seemed to Ella
w aste of heavenly bliss. But one shadow d o
2 Set ph Her husband could not a #8
ve Cy Was 100 true a man to neglect the
ig 1s patients even for the endearments of
> Jorngand lovely ok and, day or night, come
willing, ever faithful, ie Toon mia
a Ln Seen as true to their interests as was
SEE an a he
: as those that marked i
Ta ahs You indeed, true to them as far as in
as ol e had taught her; she ever met him with
s of love ; she ever chose his favorite robes:
’

 
 

70 HOME LIFE.

she wore her beautiful tresses as he desired her; she
wiled away the hours of anxiety and fatigue, by
singing him the songs he loved, and reading to him
pencilled paragraphs from the authors with whom he
best loved communion. As far as she knew her
duty, she did it well and nobly. Not upon her, 80
much as upon the fondly-doting but misjudging pa-
rents, rested the fearful responsibility of her unfit-
ness for life in its stern, practical details. She had
been to them, in very truth, :

¢« A messenger of peace and love; a resting-place
for innocence on earth; a link between angels and
men.”

But she had not been regarded by them, as God

eant she should be,

joo talent of trust, a loan to be rendered back

with interest.”

IV.

ife i range avenue of various trees and flowers ; :
[in kan at DE .geiih but darkening to its end in a distant,
massy portal. : : ;
It beginneth as a little path, edged with the violet and primrose,
A little path of lawny grass, and soft to tiny feet : :
Soon spring thistles in the way, those early griefs of school ; 1
And vipers hide among the grass, and briers are woven in the

hedges.

As had been the anniversary of her parents’ bridal
eve, so was that of Lilian’s hallowed by a gift from
God. But ere the young mother could be roused

THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 71

from the death-like trance that followed so closely
upon her hours of pain, the babe had hushed its pit-
eous moans, and lay shrouded in a tiny coffin bed.
She woke a mother, it was true, a holy mother, for
her little one was already ‘in the kingdom,” pure
and spotless as though it had never lain beneath a
human heart. But the shock was too much for one
so delicate. Her naturally frail constitution, which
the whole tendency of her life had been to make still
frailer, could but ill endure the travail of human
birth, and her sensitive heart seemed torn in twain
with the sad tidings of her child’s departure. The
double agony was too much, and she sank under it,
— sank till it was only by pressing a mirror to her
lips that they could tell the life-blood yet quivered
in some distant vein.

For weeks she lay upon her couch, a pallid, death-
like creature. And when, at length, she left it, she
was 80 changed that her dearest friends, had they
not been with her all the long sad time, would
scarcely have guessed she was their darling. Though
living, her hold on life was yet so slender, that it
seemed a breath could sever it. All that wealth and
affection could dictate was freely, gladly offered by
the idolizing parents; and all that the severest mid-
night toil had ever taught him was now brought
forward by her doting husband, to ease her pains and
quicken the throb of life.

As summer brightened into golden autumn, and
she became no better, still walked with that weary

 
 

 

72 HOME LIFE.

tread, still offered that wasted hand, and smiled with
cheeks and lips that were so snowy, he knew the
rigorous northern winter would chill entirely her
shivering life,— that nothing could save her, nothing
could spare her till another spring, but a speedy re-
moval to balmier airs and sunnier skies. He con-
sulted the eminent and the learned of his profession,
and they all coincided with him. It was decided
she must sail either for Italy or the south of
France.
But who should be her attendants? Her hus-
band, of course, said she, and so said every one.
And yet, if he went, the practice so fairly and honor-
ably commenced would be smitten in its outset, and
it would take many a long future year to reach his
circuit. But he must go. And not he alone, but her
parents likewise. She was their all; life had no joys
were their daughter gone, and so, though there was
even then a mercantile pressure hard to be borne,
even by the wealthiest, the father, settling his affairs:
as best his hurry and anxiety would suffer him, de-
termined to go with them; and long ere the Indian
summer had touched the western world with beauty,
the four were .sailing on the deep. The father’s
purse of course defrayed the many and the heavy
expenditures, not only of the voyage, but of the win-
ter’s sojourn. “It will all be yours when we are
gone,” said he, in reply to the noble words of the
oung husband, as, when first speaking of the
change, he had said, ‘My wife cannot go, but your

THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 78

Sg us ; the father is rich, the husband poor.”
a € yours : 1 i
Solow oll) y ; as well have a portion of it
J Wil 2 spring-time came new blossoms to Li-
Ia : c we and again the pulse beat with a health
. But she was still delicate, and the fond
Be er ou not hear of their return until another
i should have quite restored the slender life
Simmer autumn and winter, partly passed, and then
me an urgent summons to My. S
return. There were dark hj HY
mts thrown out of em.
and fraud by those he had trusted his
as all ; there were tales of fortunes wrecked, of fair
: nes sullied, and, in brief, of a commercial crisis’
ig well stagger the proud heart of one whose
earthly wealth was invested in ships and stock. He
wl 55 aie, and with that fact a cloud
‘ed the pleasant villa, which had
now been fo
aie Adis: with the joy of happy hearts; a wail
unded through those corridors ich |
{ which but t
Your Jotars were musical with song. Mrs a
as torn by a conflict of dut |
y- She knew it woul
bs 1 Sg wrong to suffer her husband to go Tn
eet the stern trials which awai I
waited him o
his native shore, and yet she dared not 1 .
a eave her
fl
i Tin must 8, mother,” said the latter, forcing a
T ul smile ; « you must go with father. Better to
ss me here with Edward, than to know he is
ne. If I should die, there will be one to care for

7

 
 

74 HOME LIFE.

me; if he should, there will be none. Go, go; do
vill.”’
ail - they went, father and mother, and left
their darling in a foreign land,— parted on the shores
of glorious Italy, to meet only on the shores of a
ious cline.
ra strength Lilian sustained herself till
they were gone. But, as the setting sun flung its
last crimson beam upon the sails that bore them from
her, she sunk into her husband's arms, the gon
white, inanimate, drooping creature as that over
which he once bent in the wild anxiety of bewildered
love. A night of agony succeeded, a morn of So
row; for, though a second time the young wife ha
known the mother’s pangs, there was yet no babe to
nestle on her heart. A mate to the little grave that
lay green and beautiful in her native home was now
hollowed out in the earth of Italy, and there was an
angel at the Saviour’s feet.
EN succeeded a long and fearful illness,
rendered more terrific. this time by anxious thoughts
about her beloved, her absent parents. Months sped
on ere they heard from them, and then, just as ae
pale invalid was quiet, in the early days of Sa -
escence, there came a letter with a boding seal. T e
almost illegible lines had been penned by the t
bling hand of the worn-out mother, on the first sad,
desolate eve of unexpected widowhood. A long, te-
dious, stormy voyage, combined with restless desires
to know of the welfare of the dear one left behind,

THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 75

and of the state in which he might hope to find his
affairs at home, had but ill-prepared the mind of the
merchant for the disastrous intelligence that greeted
him almost as soon as he walked the plank that led
from the ship to shore. He was a ruined man; and,
but for the jewels he had clasped upon his wife in
sunnier days, he must have asked of charity for a
death-bed pillow, and for a grave to rest in when his
weary weeks of woe were passed.

“There does not remain to me,” wrote the an-
guished survivor, “sufficient funds to carry me to
you. All that is left us is that cottage home where
you spent one happy year. Thank Heaven, that was
not sold, as you had once determined. The profits
of your furniture, which we all thought were so

“safely invested in your father’s business, are all

gone. Perhaps, if you, Edward, were on the spot,
you might yet reserve something; but, as for me, I
can do nothing. All I pray is that I may come to
you.

“A few sterling friends yet gather around me, but
all whom we knew and loved the best have suffered
keenly ; and, though they promise together to defray
my expenses to you, I dare not be too certain of their
doing so.”

In a postscript she added, ¢ I shall sail next week,”
and named the vessel.

Of course such mournful tidings brought again the
sick wife to the lowest stage of illness, and, but for
the hope of her mother’s speedy arrival, they would

 
 

76 HOME LIFE.

scarcely have dared look for life. Long and tedious
seemed the expectant weeks, and when the vessel at
length hove in view, anchored and sent to the villa,
not the mother, but another letter, draped in sable,
the young husband resigned all hope of his beloved ;
a grave beside her little one, under the blue sky of
that sunny clime, was all the picture that fancy dare
offer to his vision.

But God had yet a holy mission for that pale, sad
creature who lay upon her couch, now so white and
still that she seemed but a shrouded form, and again
wringing her thin hands and moaning with such
touching cadence that the attendants thought it would
be but mercy in Heaven to still the unquiet nerves
with the opiate of death.

¢ Live for me, Lilian ! ”” whispered her husband,
one night, as, pressing her to his bosom, she told him
she heard the passing bell. ¢ Live for me; they
have gone, but gone together; if you go, I shall be
all alone.” :

Then, for the first time, she prayed for life; she
hushed her holy but selfish sorrow, and resolved to
put on the strength of the true soul, and, as the
daughter and mother of angels, be content yet to be
herself a mortal. High and heavenly thoughts were
engendered in her mind that night. For the first
time she looked upon life as it is, and realized how
unfitted she was, and had ever been, for its real du-
ties. Instead of nursing grief, she resolved now to
make that a discipline subservient to noble ends.

THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 7

She resolved to be, what yet she never had been, a
true helpmate to her husband,— a wife in the purest
sense of that significant name.
It was wonderful what an effect her mental and
spiritual resolutions had upon her physical health.
Ere a few weeks elapsed, she was able to bear the
voyage home; indeed, it was necessary, if they
went at all, they should go quickly, for the means
left them by the deceased father when he sailed were
almost spent. There was ample time for thought to
perfect its blessed work in the heart of the young
wife, during the long voyage. Her whole life was
reviewed by her with the rigid scrutiny of a soul
awakened suddenly from stupor to glorious life.
She saw that she had been sinned against by those
who loved her best; that, if properly trained from
her infant days, she might have done a world of good
to others while counting the years of girlhood, and
been fitted, instead of all unfitted, for the stern duties
in which even the happiest marriage involves the
wife. Children might now have lived in her bosom,
but for her own deficiencies in physical strength; and
but for those deficiencies they had never any of them
left their native soil to seek health on a distant shore ;
but for them, she might have stood beside her dying
parents, and been now the active partner of the
gloomy days in prospect, instead of a frail, ghostly
invalid.
But those who had sinned so fearfull y against her
had sinned in love, and long ago expiated it by the

TH

 
 

 

 

 

 

78 HOME LIFE.

agonies which had tortured them as they bent above
her sick couch. The past could not be recalled ; the
present was all she could claim, for the future wag
shadowy with warnings. But she resolved that the
present should be ¢ wisely improved ; ”’ that health,
in its broadest sense, should be assiduously courted ;
that duty should be her watch-word. ;

Richer far was Edward Grant, when he landed in
his native city, than when he left it. Money was
gone, but a jewel worth more than earth’s deepest
mine was his. He was now the husband, not of a
petted child, but of a noble, self-sacrificing, true-
hearted woman.

V.

Till at the last she set herself to man,
Like perfect music unto noble words.

“ Mother, dear mother ! will you sit up now, and
take your tea?”

The voice was strangely rich, and modulated to the
sweetest, softest of love's holy tones. The speaker
was a fair young girl, of but twelve summers, deli-
cately formed, and yet agile with the vigor of health ;
there was a sun-tint upon her small hands and beau-
tiful brow, but you would forget the brown in the
rich rose-flush that sparkled on her check. Indeed,
she seemed the personification of vigorous girlhood,
and yet an emblem of the angelic, as she entered with

THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 79

such light, noiseless step the darkened room, disposed
everything in its proper place, stirred silently the
wasted fire, raised the curtains Just enough to let the
beauty, but not the brightness, of the sunset enter,
and then stole to the bed, and, pressing the pale
brow, and kissing the lean cheek, spoke the few
words we have just written.

Then she laid her blooming face next to the
mother’s, and received the many and pure kisses
which the one ever loved so well to give, and which
were so precious for the other to receive. Then she
brought the dressing-gown, and, robing the invalid in
it, and drawing the shawl yet closer round her
shoulders, led her carefully to the cushioned chair,
fastened it back to the nicest pitch, rested the swollen
feet upon the softest stool, and drew to her side the
little stand, with its snowy napkin, its glistening sil-
ver and tintless china, and begged her mother to try
and eat. Never did professional nurse lay the table
of her patient with such delicious toast — not a burnt
flake upon it, and seasoned so carefully as to tempt
the daintiest palate; and the oysters were cooked
only to a turn, the custard trembled with the proper
strength, and the tea would neither scald or freeze.

“And now, mother,” said the daughter, after
watching her a moment, as she tasted the delicate
viands, “while you are eating and resting, I will just
run and give Eddie that snow-ball frolic I promised
him. It would be too bad to disappoint him to-night
again, he does so love one.”

GRR

 
80 HOME LIFE.

tt Not much better, though, than Lilian,” said the
mother, with a roguish smile. fi

« Not much, mother, that’s true. O, it is such
fun to romp out in the drifts! I can always work as
good and as fast again, after a hard play with Eddie,
out doors.” And she danced out of the room, and,
tying on her hood and scarf, and drawing on her mit-
tens, she bounded out into the open, crispy field,
where her little brother was striving to build a snow-
house. ;

What a frolic they had there! how merrily flew
the white balls! how clearly rang the joyous shouts !
And when they had had enough of that, Eddie sprang
on his sled, and declared to Lilian that she must be
his pony, and give him one good ride. Never had
little boy so beautiful a creature harnessed for him ;
like a young gazelle she sped away with him ; and,
when he lashed, as sometimes he did, a little too hard,
she paid him off roundly by tossing with her gay
steps the crusted flakes high into his face. Then
they had a good long slide down the steep hill, the
little sled landing them in a snow-drift, from which
they emerged like white-plumed birds, with voices as
wild and songs as sweet.

While their play was wildest, their glee most
noisy, there passed by a splendid sleigh, containing
two richly-dressed ladies, and two little girls about
the age of Lilian. They were all wrapped up as
though facing a Siberian winter, and shivering even

THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 81

then. As they glided past the buoyant children, one
of the little travellers observed to the other,

“ Do only see, Mary, if there isn’t Lilian Grant
out snow-balling ! I should think she would be
ashamed to be seen playing such rude games.”

““ I should think she would freeze,” said the other,
drawing her veil yet closer over her face, and hugging
her muff more tightly.

“She is the greatest romp in the town,” said one
of the mothers, contemptuously. “I would not for
worlds have a girl of mine so rude.”

“I have always wondered at Mrs. Grant's bring-
ing up her children as she does, it is so different
from the way she was trained. But she has some
very peculiar views respecting education, I have been
told.”

““ Well, for my part, I want my children brought
up so that they will not disgrace me when they are
old enough to go into society ; but how do you sup-
pose those will appear, when allowed to romp and
race out doors, as they do for hours every day ?”’

The costly equipage sped on, and the children to
whom its inmates took such an exception frolicked
a while longer, and then bounded into the house, and,
after warming themselves at the kitchen fire, stole,
with steps like falling flakes, into the sick room.
When there, Eddie nestled at his mother’s feet, and
recited to her a pretty hymn he had learned that day,
while Lilian carefully removed the tea-things, car-
ried them to the kitchen, washed and replaced them,

F

 
 

82 HOME LIFE.

and then, laying the table in the dining-room for
father and themselves, and directing the only domes-
tic what dishes to prepare, returned to the room, and,
drawing a chair beside the invalid, took her thin
hand, and, after showering it with kisses, laid her
cheek upon it, and then lulled the hours with such
music strains as one might fancy would steal upon
their ears when on the heavenward flight.

By and by there was the jingling of sleigh-bells
— familiar bells they seemed ; they listened one mo-
ment, and then were sure. Out bounded Eddie to
take his father’s satchel, while quickly did Lilian
draw to the hearthstone the large, favorite chair,
dispose a pair of slippers by the fire, and hang a
dressing-gown to air. And after the chilled limbs
were warmed, and the day’s story had been told,
how gracefully she waited upon the father and the
little brother to their warm, nice supper; and not
even her lady-like mother could have passed the tea
more handsomely.

Ere she retired that night, she had seen Eddie
snugly packed away in his trundle-bed ; had unrobed
her mother, and disposed the pillows and the cover-
ings in the proper line; had dressed the lame hand
of her father, ordered the breakfast, mended the
week’s stockings, read the evening paper to the weary
physician, and the beautiful chapter where Christ

heals the sick, and sung her last new hymn.

¢ What a blessing Lilian is to us!” exclaimed the
father, as, though the door had closed on her, a snatch

THE ONLY DAUGHTER. 83

of the Wo hymn she had just warbled to them
came stealing softly down the stairc i
through the hall. a
2 “ Indeed she is,” responded the mother, warmly.

Never had patient so gentle and kind a nurse :
never mother so trusty a daughter; or brother 0
dear a sister.”

ke And yet the neighbors all call her the greatest
romp in town,” said the father, archly.

‘““No disparagement to her, that,” answered the

‘mother, earnestly. “If I had only been allowed to

frolic in the air, as she does, I should not now have
been confined so long and often to the sick room —
been an old woman ere yet I had seen the prime of
life; no, nor”’— speaking with mournful emphasis—
‘“ have had so many touching memories.”
¢“ And yet, but for those memories,” said her hus-
band, clasping gently the delicate fingers of his wife
‘ but for the sad experiences of our early wedded
life, though we might have had another angel in the
better land, our hearts and home would never have
been gladdened by so bright, so beautiful, so perfect
a specimen of girlhood, as is Lilian, though, like her
mother,” — and he paused to shower her brow with

Ki , :
sses, then continued,— ¢ though, like her, she is
AN ONLY DAUGHTER.”

 
 

 

THE MOTHER’S TEMPTATION ;

THE DEVIL CAST OUT.

L

It was a fearfully cold night. The earth, spark-
ling and bright in its crystal robe, lay asleep on the
bosom of Frost. All radiant and beautiful with the
flashing gems of the cloudless sky, night smiled
serenely upon the jewelled sleeper, and held a noise-
less, tireless vigil. Chill was the breath of the
winter-spirit, and hoarse its voice, as, Im dismal
shrieks and plaintive moans, it echoed through the
deserted streets. It was a time when the rich man,
beside his blazing fire, thought of the woes of cheer-
less poverty, and shivered; a time when the poor
one, crouching over his dying embers, felt them, and
froze.

At the further end of a long, narrow lane, in the
suburbs of A , stood a low, wooden dwelling,
black with age and rickety with decay. So rude
was its exterior, that a pampered steed would have
scorned its shelter, and no passer-by would have

THE MOTHER’S TEMPTATION. 85

dreamed that human life existed there, that human
dust made it a holy spot. Yet so it was. Beneath
that sunken roof a poor, lone widow and little, fa-
therless children found their only home. A dark,
narrow hall, through which the solemn wind-music
wandered at pleasure, extended the length of the

building. Upon the one side a creaking ladder led

to a miserable loft, while upon the other a door
opened into the apartment which occupied the re-
mainder of the ground-floor. And a wretched place
for human life to exist in was that cold, dilapidated
room. The walls, unplastered and full of crevices,
were but a slight shield from the howling blast and
the biting air, and dark and shadowy as the sides of a
vault. The floor was but little better than the damp
earth, so rotten and sunken were the time-worn
boards, while the loose and shivering windows rattled
with the death-notes of comfort. Scanty, too, were
the necessaries of that bleak home, and of comforts it
had not the shadow. A low trundle-bed, with a
straw pallet, a plain deal table, and a single chair,
constituted its visible furniture. In a little closet
were concealed a few articles of cheap earthen-ware,
a tin cup and pan, a knife and fork, and a single
spoon. The feeble light reflected from the few coals
scraped closely together upon the hearth-stone,
blending with the pale moonbeams that stole in
through the windows, served to reveal the inmates
of that cheerless home.

Upon the table lay the snow-white figure of a child

8 /

Nn op > ap, BT a er ai a
Eo EA tine ro AANA RAE ets

 
a ——— ET

86 HOME LIFE.

some three or four years old. Its little death-cold
form was concealed by but a single robe ; for the
mother, stricken with sorrow and poverty, had been
forced to strip the dead, that the living might be
warmed. With the setting sun had the patient little
sufferer gone to rest; and, though tears flowed thick
and fast down the mourner’s face, as she took its pale,
passionless form from her bosom, and with her own
hands closed the blind eyesand bound up the speech-
less mouth, she murmured not, but felt that it was
in mercy God had stilled its pain and hushed its
cries. Upon the poor apology for a bed slumbered
a pair of twins, beautiful girls, who had counted the
blossoms of but seven summers. Their moanings,
and tossings, and deeply-flushed cheeks, told that the
foverish hand of sickness pinioned them there. The
same fearful symptoms that were visible in the dead
brother, the day before, had manifested themselves in
their cases; and, as the watcher had drawn closer
around them the scanty covering, she had moaned
sadly, ¢ It is useless to hope for them; a few hours
more, and these, my first-born, will sleep with the
loved ones gone before.”

Upon the only chair, which was drawn as near as
possible to the phantom of a fire, sat the mother, the
widow. A little, sickly babe, purple with cold and
lean with hunger, was pressed closely to her bosom,
shielded as carefully as could be by her arms and
rags from the piercing blasts that swept with merci-
less gusts through and around that apartment of

THE MOTHER'S TEMPTATION. 87

woe. Her form, once tall and graceful, was now
bowed with anguish and stiff with frost. Her small,
delicate hands, once soft and white, were now cal-
Toused and brown. Her countenance, in other days
so brilliant with beauty, was now pallid and wan,
and full of touching sorrow; her eyes, sunken and
tired, were wet with the tides of grief; her high,
fair brow was pencilled all over with the handwriting
of sorrow ; her finely-chiselled features were sharp
from the pangs of want, and her thin lips and blood-
less cheeks told a pitiful tale. Yet, amidst all the
sadness which shadowed so fearfully her countenance,
there gleamed, now and then, an expression that told
of faith in God’s promises. O, deep-seated and
strong must be that religious confidence which, after
all the tests and trials to which that lonely woman
had been subjected, could yet whisper to her of
heavenly trust. But the star of hope, though low
indeed in her horizon, had not quite set; and, so
long as that beautiful soul-lamp yet glimmered, the
strength that is born of suffering, the faith that is
nurtured by woe, was hers. And, should she watch
it sink quite away, and see in its place gather a
mighty cloud, even then, though there might be
agony, there would still be faith; for it would only
exchange firmament, set on earth to rise in heaven.

By and by the babe slept, and, taking it gently
from her breast, she placed it beside the sick sisters,
and then paced rapidly up and down the room, to
relieve the numbness that was insensibly palsying

 
 

 

 

 

88 HOME LIFE.

her limbs. After a while, she paused by the fire-
side, fanned with her breath the few.dying coals, and
then, with an agued hand and a sick heart, placed
upon them her last stick. As the smoke wreathed
around it, she wrung her thin, cold hands; as the
flames slowly lapped it, and the rough bark dropped
off in brilliant flakes, the tears streamed down her
cheeks, and, in a voice tremulous with the knell of
life, she whispered, “It is the last! God, O God,
be nderciful to us when it is burnt!”

IL

In a lofty dwelling, magnificent without and
within, located in one of the most aristocratic streets
of the same city of A , dwelt George Staunton,
the owner of that little miserable hut wherein, on
that severe winter night, a mother was so sorely
tried. The only heir of one of the wealthiest fami-
lies in the place, dowered at birth with good looks
and a princely heritage, idolized by his parents,
petted by their friends, and waited upon slavishly by
their attendants, it was no wonder that his naturally
noble disposition should have been despoiled of its
beauty and its strength,— that he was wilful as a
child, and capricious as a youth, and that, never
having drank in the essence of pure religion, he
should have had no power to conquer disappoint-
ments, but, under their rigid discipline, became an
irritable, unjust, selfish man. He had talents of a

THE MOTHER’S TEMPTATION. 89

high a A i wes ay pride to cultivate them ;
: , 18 manly fio

Ing countenance, and length of Hn
Mp his majority, courted by all the society ”
w he minnel The old paid him attention for
ve s Fang ; the young doted on him for
. At the age of twenty-five his heart was touched
a pure and holy passion, and he tendered then his

and, his affections, his wealth, his all, to one who
Pome in his eyes at least, gifted with angel charms
The accepted lover of the beautiful Annie D
25 oom a changed ‘man, so gentle, so kind, %
3 ing, so everything which makes glorious the

uman character, which haloes it with the likeness
of divinity. But, alas for the perfection of earth
and the hopes of mortals! There appeared, sudden] :
a moustached foreigner in the gay circles of A
a Russian count, with an unpronounceable name : and
great was the sensation he produced. It vor not
long ere he singled out the betrothed of Staunton as
the object of his special attentions. And, poor
Annie! the idea of being a countess, of : io
from castle battlements upon a husband” 8 _ of
wearing gems which had come down from antiquit
of mingling with lords and ladies of royal blood Cs
turned what little brain she had, and upset her little
heart completely. Staunton was tossed out, and in
his place nestled the whiskered count. :

From that i Staunton was an irritable man,

 

 
90 HOME LIFE.

distrustful of everything and everybody, believing
that virtue existed on earth only in name. The
death of his parents occurring soon after the severe
disappointment of his affections, by Se as i
were, his last affectional ties, seemed to finish the sa
work of ruin to his heart. He became gloomy, me
rose, stern. The angelic of his nature was frighien
by the devilish ; the anthem of his soul was hushe '
and its now darkened chambers resounded only with
the hell-howls of heated passions. But a miserable
man he was; the skeleton was in his own heart, and,
go where he would, the clatter of its naked bones
would scare away the latent hope, the budding joy.
He travelled, but came home more miserable than he
went away ; he studied, but knowledge was an agony;
he added to his wealth, and accumulated sorrow. He
looked upon life as men do when the cataract les
nearly veiled their sight, and saw everything Sa
and ugly. Without faith in man, without fait y
God, he lived a wretched life, dreading lengthene
years, and yet fearing the tomb.

IIL.

The little stick upon the widow's fire was con-
sumed. A few small coals alone glimmered in fut
ashes. An icy chill stole over the apartment, an
the wing of death seemed shadowing the devoted in-
mates. The mother ran to the shed, to see if there
were not a few chips remaining, — something that

THE MOTHER'S TEMPTATION. 91

would blaze, if it would not warm. But all too care-
fully had she gleaned there the day before; there
was nothing to replenish her spent fire; the hearth
must grow cold, and with it human hearts.

She went back to the desolate home, thinking to
press one more kiss upon the white face of the dead,
and then lie down beside the suffering living and die
together. But, as she entered the room, one of the
twins greeted her with the cry, 0, I’m so cold, so
cold, mother! Make a fire, do, and warm me.”
That plaint from her child deadened the intent of
despair, and, with the instincts of nature fresh and
beautiful again, she ran to the low bed, and sought,
by folding to her bosom the sick child, to give it a
little warmth, to shield it from the wintry air, and
hush its moans with the lullaby of love; but, as her
cold hand touched it, it shrieked aloud and waked
up the other two, who, joining its cries, almost con-
vulsed with agony the pale, worn creature who bent
above them. She would first take one and then
another of the screaming children in her arms, and
strive, by friction, to restore or give them warmth ;
and then, laying them as closely as possible together,
would draw the poor rags that served as an apology for
bedding closer, if possible, around them, and wind her-
self as best she could about them, pressing all the while
frantic kisses on their wet cheeks, and praying aloud.

Suddenly a thought flashed over her,— a strange,
wild, bewildering thought. But a little distance
from her, on the opposite side of the lane, was an

 
92 HOME LIFE.

extensive wood-yard, of which her wealthy landlord
was the proprietor. It was surrounded only by a
dilapidated fence ; there were no guards, no dogs; 1t
was late in the night; the neighborhood was quiet;
a few sticks would never be missed, and a few, an
armful, would save them from death by freezing.
«Tt is not, it cannot be a sin,” exclaimed she, pas-
sionately, “to give my dying children the light and
warmth of fire. God, and all good men and women,
will justify it as a holy act. By morning, it will be
over with the two; I will see the three buried, and
then little Willie and I will find our way to that last
refuge of poverty, the alms-house! That I should
have come to that! — yes, I will go;” and she
rushed desperately from the house. But, once out
under the clear, blue, star-gemmed sky, brilliant
with the light of a full moon, and her conscience
shivered, and she shrank back. But those feeble
moans drove her forth again, and she hurried over
the crisp snow, and across the slippery paths, nor
paused till, breathless, she stood beside the fence that
only half hid what was more precious to her then than
would have been mines of gold. She bowed herself
to crawl through a break, then hastily stood upright,
and, erying pitifully «I cannot do it!” fled to her
home. But those same moans greeted her again,
the moans of those loved ones who together had
nostled once beneath her heart — their dying moans :
She went again to the door. “If the moon did
not shine so bright,” said she; ¢ if it were only as

THE MOTHER'S TEMPTATION. 93

my heart is now, a dark, howling, tempest-lashed
night, I could do it,— but it is so bright, the whole
host of heaven seems watching me. O, sin, sin, thou
art indeed a fearful thing!” And then she stood
and looked above, and around, and on to where lay
piled up cord upon cord of fuel. The sight of that
maddened her, and, as her children shrieked, with an
added tone she cried, “I will do it, sin or no sin,”
and rushed, flew rather, to the tempting yard. She
did not pause to think now, but crawled through the
gap, and, seizing hold of the first sticks she could
reach, she filled her arms. Like a scorpion’s sting
seemed the touch of each,— she started with the load
— dropped it, and fled again. Had hell with all its
furies been upon her heels, not faster would they
have ran. She did not pause at the threshold, but
rushed into the still, sad, holy room, and, flinging
herself upon the bed where wailed the little innocents
to whom she had given birth, she resolved to die
beside and with them. ¢ Only,” moaned she, ¢ let
the hour come quickly! ”’

But the tempter was yet only bayed. Those
dying moans, fainter than before, were yet more
pleading, more touching. She could not endure it;
and, telling them, in a voice hoarse with agony, that
she would bring some wood, she again rushed out,
heeding now neither the starlight nor moonlight, the
cloudless sky or the snow-white earth, the fear of man
or the fear of God,—all, everything was forgotten
but her dying twins. She again crawled through

 
94 HOME LIFE.

. she acain filled her arms; she regained the

i her ‘burden, the sacrifice of love to sin,
and retraced with electric speed her footprints, and
crossgd her threshold. But there her honest Bat
grew faint and sick beneath its load, and back she
went with it, nor now threw it down, but deliberately
piled it up in the place whence she had taken it.
¢ And now,” said she, as she turned away, “ I wiLL

me and die !”’ :
e ho reached again her hovel, and again threw
herself beside her babes, and prayed for death. But
her heart, instead of ceasing its pulsations, seemed
only to throb the faster and the louder, while every
nerve seemed to quicken with new life as those con-
tinued moans fell so softly and so sadly on her ear.
«I must do it,” she exclaimed, at length, starting
up with a maniac fierceness; “ yes, 1 must — 1t is
my destiny to die a thief! 1 will fulfil it; and then,
0 God, deal with me as thou wilt!” and again she
traversed the snowy path, again crawled through the
gap, again filled her arms, and again dropped the
load, and then did what she had not done before
— prayed.

hn . 1 cold, bitter, midwinter night, out
there in a wood-yard, the calm blue sky, brilliant
with starlight and moonlight, bending over her, half-
famished with hunger, half-frozen with cold, the wind
fluttering her rags in the blast, the crisp snow out
ting into her sore knees, the frost palsying het
purple hands, the tears freezing on her cheeks, her

THE MOTHER'S TEMPTATION. 95

dark hair blowing about her brow like the shadows
of death,— out there, with three little ones freezing
at home, without one stick, one chip, or one cent to
buy them,— then and there that woman, that mother,
prayed, and prayed with all the intensity of which an
humble Christian is capable; her words, repeated
again and again, being simply, ““ Lead wus not into
temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

First, she spake them as quick as the syllables
could drop from her tongue, as though she hoped
thus to make the Father lend his ear; then more
slowly came they, and between them she seemed lost
in holy thought; and then, after a little silence,
came other words, and, half-talking, half-praying, she
told over her griefs to God, and said amen, and
turned away to die with her little ones. “A few
hours, at the most, of agony,” said she, “and then
we shall have an eternity of bliss.”

She entered the room where moaned yet those
little dying creatures; she lay down beside them:
she kissed their damp faces; she pillowed their sick
heads on her bosom, and, whispering ¢* Come quickly,
quickly, death!” closed her eyes, and strove to press
the hand of the white angel upon her heart. A few
moments she lay in silent agony ; for, though ready
to go, though longing for the moment, she could not
die in peace while yet those children moaned for
fire.

The sudden swinging back of the outside door, and
the tumbling of what seemed strangely like sticks

 
 

96 HOME LIFE.

of wood, roused the human in her once again, and,
starting up, wondering whether it were not the illu-
gion of a dream, though she was sure she was awake,
she ran to the dark hall, and, 0, the frenzied joy

of her heart, as she stumbled on an armful of wood,
and knew by her bruised limbs the sticks were not
the phantoms of an excited fancy. “God, God be
thanked!” cried she. Thou hast led me out of
temptation, and delivered me from evil.”

Ere the sun had fairly risen, upon the table where
lay the cold form of the little brother lay also the
beautiful twin sisters. But, ere their eyes closed for-
ever upon earth, they had lain in their mother’s arms
before a blazing fire,— her wish being granted, that
her darlings might be warm once more before they
were cold forever.

IV.

«Devils cast out! What does it mean? I am
gure I can’t understand it. Can you tell me, fa-
ther?” exclaimed a bright-eyed, beautiful, curly-
headed boy of seven, as he threw down his Testament
and ran to a fine-looking man, with a most charm-
ingly-blended intellectual and benevolent cast of
countenance. Say, father, what does it mean ?”’

A strange look shadowed for a moment the calm,
noble brow of the parent; but, passing, it left an
added spirituality of expression, and, taking the child
upon his knees, he toyed a little while with the

THE MOTHER’S TEMPTATION. 97

brown ringlets, and then, kissing with passionate

fondness the full, rich lips, he said, “I will tell m
little boy a true story about a man of my ac ony
ance, who had a devil cast out. Y

“It was one of the coldest winter nights
most ever known. Everything A inti
with snow, which, lit up with the full moon and a
host of stars, made the earth seem but as a vast mine
of gems. About ten o’clock, that night, a gentleman
stood by his parlor window, looking out into the still
street, and seeming to be lost in deep thought. And
so he was; but his thoughts were cruel, were wicked
for he was a wicked man. When you get older I
may, perhaps, tell you all about how he came to be
so wicked. He was thinking now about one of his
tenants, a poor widow, who, with her four little
children,—a pair of twin daughters about seven
years old, a little boy of three or four, and a wee son
who had seen but six months, —lived in*a little Ml,
ruinous hut, on the skirts of the city. He knew this
poor woman was almost starved and frozen with pov-
erty; he knew she had three sick children, for he
had been there the day before to collect is rent ;
but, instead of thinking now that he would wrap
himself up and go and carry her some food, and 5
her permission to go into his wood-yard and take all
the fuel she wanted, he was determined to go and
see if he could not catch her stealing; and, if he
could, why, then he would gratify his oruel rovenge-
ful, morose, stern nature, by punishing po
G

 
98 HOME LIFE.

“Well, he put on his furs, and off he went, and
noiselessly he stole up to the hovel, and peeped into
a window at the head of the bed. 0, such a sight
as he saw! It would make your little heart ache to
see it only painted. Suffice it, the little boy lay
dead upon the table, and the two little sisters lay
dying on the bed, and the mother was walking the
floor to keep herself and baby from freezing, and
there was not a spark of fire, and no light but what
was given by the bright moon. And the man heard
the poor dying children cry for fire to warm them,
and he saw the mother do her utmost to comfort and
still them; he saw her rub their little wasted limbs,
and carry first one and then the other about; and he
said, wickedly, ‘She can’t stand it long; she will steal
soon !”” and a savage joy burned in his bad heart.

“Well, to make a long story short,— for I want
to get through ere mother comes in, because she
can’t bear such sad stories,— that poor woman, made
desperate by the dying cries of those darling chil-
dren, resolved to take a few sticks of her landlord’s
wood. But she was so truly good and pious, that,
though she went four or five times to the yard to
steal, her conscience would not let her do it, and at
length she resolved to die as she had lived, an honest
woman ; and then, out there on the snow, with all
that wood around her, she prayed that God would
deliver her from evil, and lead her not into tempta-
tion. And, my little son, what do you think that
prayer did for the wicked man who had, unseen by

THE MOTHER'S TEMPTATION. 99

her, followed her there, and lay hidden behind one
of the piles? ;

“My son, my son,” and the father clasped his
boy convulsively, passionately, to his heart, ‘“ that
prayer cast out the devil that was in him, that had
been in him for years.” :

¢ And, O, I hope, father,” said the boy, with en-
thusiasm, ¢ God had a little angel all ready to fly
right in, and make him as good as he had been bad ;
did he, father?”

“ Something flew in, my son; an angel, I suppose
it was, for it whispered to him beautiful thoughts,
and then led him to do beautiful deeds.”

¢« And what did he do, father? I know what I
would have done.”

¢“ What, my son?”

“I would have ran after her with as much wood
as I could carry, and tossed it into her hall, and
then went home and brought a great basket-full of
good, nice things for sick folks,—such things as
mother gives us when we are sick,— and, O dear, I
don’t know what I would n’t have done ! Did he do
so, father?”

‘ He did, my son.”

There was a long silence. Then the child spoke
again. “Did the dear little girls die, father?”

“They did; they died before morning, and on the
third day after, they, with their little brother, were
buried in one grave; and the angel that flew into the

wicked man’s heart told him to place over the grave

 
 

100 HOME LIFE.

a beautiful white stone, with the figures of three
sweet little children carved upon it, and to plant
flowers all around it, and whenever he felt bad or
wicked to go there and pray.”

‘ And does he, father? and does it keep the devil
from coming back ?”’

‘““ He does go there often, my son; and it has so
far kept the devil away, though he has tried hard to
enter into his heart again ; but I hope, I think, now,
he never will.”

0, I hope not either; it must be so nice to have
a little angel there! But, father, what became of
that little baby that was left, and the poor mother,—
did they die, too?”

“I will tell you their story some other time, my
dear. I hear mother’s step now, and I don’t want
to worry her with such sad thoughts.”

And, putting down his little step-son Willie,
George Staunton went to the door to meet his wife,—
that wife whose prayer had cast the devil out !

 

 
 

 

Rs

I HAVEN'T THE CHANGE.

 

 
 

 

 

“I HAVE N°T THE CHANGE.”

Tue short November afternoon was about half
spent, when the door of the chamber, wherein my
friend, Mrs. Mann, and myself were enjoying a cosey
chat, was pushed open by the middle-aged Irish-
woman, who had been, since the dusk of morning, hard
at work in the kitchen, and, entering quietly, she
made to us both a most respectful obeisance.

¢ Ah, Bridget, is that you?” said Mrs. Mann,
looking up, with a pleasant smile; “you have fin-
ished, then, have you?”

¢ Indade, ma'am, and I have thin. The clothes
bees all on the line, and Wiking well, too, though it’s
meself that says it, ma’am.’

“I don’t donk it, Bridget; your clothes alas
look well. And very smart you have been with
them, too.”

““ Well, thin, ma’am, I did me endeavors to make
all the haste I could and not spare the dirt; for the
childer be lonely, ma’am, these cold days, and I bees
always worried about them with the care of the fire;
for they have n’t much thought, the darlints!”’

While she was speaking my friend rose, and, going
to her work-stand, opened the drawer, and took from

ES

 
 

 

102 HOME LIFE.

thence her port-monnaie. .She looked worried as she
held it a half-moment in her hand.

“I am sorry, Bridget, but really I forgot to ask
Mr. Mann for any change at dinner ; and I have n’
a cent myself, nothing less than an eagle. Will it
make any difference if you don’t have it to-day 2”

The light faded from the hopeful blue eye, and a
shadow touched the placid brow. But she answered,
cheerily : !

“Could ye give it me, ma’am, should I come up
after the tay is over?”

‘““ Well, no, Bridget, for Mr. Mann will not be
home till late this evening. But you can have it
to-morrow morning, or any time after, whenever it
is convenient for you to call. I am very sorry I
forgot it.”

“ Well, ma’am,” said the woman, turning to go,
“I will call betimes in the morning, and I am ob-
leeged to you for the day’s work.” There was a
mournful cadence in her voice, that touched, as with
magic, a hidden memory in my heart, and I spoke
eagerly to my friend, as the door closed upon her :

“Call her back, Alice; I will lend you the
change.”

“0 no; don’t trouble yourself,” said she; it
will do as well to-morrow.”

“Call her back,” I exclaimed, more earnestly.
“It will not do as well,—I know it, I feel it; do
call her.”

She did so, for there was, in spite of my efforts to

 

 

‘1 HAVE N'T THE CHANGE.” 103

speak calmly, an impassioned emphasis in my tones
that she could not resist.

The woman returned, with a surprised look, say-
ing, « And did ye call me, ma'am? and be I wanted
yet?”

«1 did call you, Bridget. My friend has lent
me the change;’’ and she handed her the half-dollar.
«I am glad she could spare it, for it will save you
the trouble of calling again.” :

¢«(, thanks to ye, thin, ma’am,’”’ ousigeying to
her, and turning to me with a like reverence. t Ye
have relaved my heart of a heavy load; may anither
like it niver rest on yer own!” ’

«Did you, then, need the money so very much?
said my friend; for it was evident, from the woman’s
looks and actions, that it came to her with the beauty
of a sudden blessing.

¢Indade. and that did I, thin. It’s the day,
ma'am, when my month’s rent is due; and my land-
lord bees very strict with his tinants, and, if they
have n't the money at the morning, they must at the
night, or lave forthwith. He 's not so hard a man,
either, for he keeps his rints in a good vay, and
charges niver a happorth too much; but he’s strict
with the dues. So I told the childer, if he came this
morning, to tell him I would bring it to him his
night; and I was wanting yet the quarter, ma'am,
to make up the two dollars; and O, ma’am, if the |
blissed lady hadn't lent ye the money, meself and

me poor, fatherless childer would ha’ made, per-

 
 

 

104 HOME LIFE.

chance, their beds in the strate to-night. And thin,
too, I had promised the darlints a loaf when I came
back to them ; for to make up the rint and buy the
coals has kept me close this month, and ne'er a bit
of anything but their praties have they had for a
couple of days; and I was feeling bad, when I turned
away, for the disappointment of them, but most be-
cause of the rint; but it’s all over, and I’m obleeged

to ye both. Good-by to ye, ladies, and the Lord
above bliss ye ! ”’

I could see that the tender heart of my friend was
deeply moved at the brief tale of the simple-hearted
Irishwoman ; and, as she followed her into the hall
and down stairs, I was curious enough to steal on
after them, and see whether they stopped. I re-

turned to the chamber, after a few moments, with a
happy glow of spirits, and I feasted, that night, on
the luxuries which crowned the tea-table, with a
keener zest, knowing, as I did, that the children of
poor Bridget were satisfying their famished palates,
not from the ‘ praties” of their own scant larder,
nor from the white loaf of the baker’s shelf, but from
the cold meats and healthy pastry of my friend’s
well-stored pantry.

‘She owes it all to you, Carrie,” said Mrs. Mann,

breaking suddenly the revery into which we had both

fallen, as we sat beside the parlor-grate, after the
pleasant supper was over. ‘She owes it all to you
that she is not a houseless wanderer ; and I owe it to
you that I am not guilty of a fearful sin,— the sin

 

“7 HAVEN'T THE CHANGE.” 105

of turning her from home on this frosty night. -O,
it has been a fearful but a blessed lesson. Never
again will I be without the change to defray the
wages of my help, even though I must go miles after
it, or sacrifice never so much of my own comfort.

t¢T have n't the change,’ ”’ continued she, speaking
slowly and solemnly; ‘how like a death-note those
words must have come to her! O, I begin, Carrie,
to feel that what you said the other day is true,—
there is no such thing as a little duty; for, indeed,
every duty involves considerations that are potent in
some quarter.

« But how came you to think of it so suddenly?
and what led you to speak as you did? Your tones
thrilled my heart.”

“The memory of what one poor widow suffered
for the want of a little change. Do you remember
old Mrs. C., who lived with me when Frank was a
baby ?”’

«What, that good old Granny C., as the children
used to call her ?”’

“Yes, she. Well, almost her whole life was one
tedious series of sorrows; and sometimes, when we
sat together in the nursery, she would unburthen her
heart of its heavy loads, by narrating some of them.
Among the many she told me, that which, in my
memory, I have called her darkest one, was that
which resulted from the careless words of a wealthy
lady :

 
 

 

HOME LIFE.

¢¢¢7 HAVEN'T THE CHANGE.’ ”’

“ Only four, only four ! ”’ moaned the poor woman,
as she dropped her weary head upon the pillow, and
drew again the scanty bed-clothes closely around her
shivering shoulders; “I was so in hopes it would
strike six. O dear, if I had but a plenty of oil!
but I must wait for daylight. I pray Heaven the
sun may be up when I wake again.

“I am glad they sleep so soundly,” placing her °

thin hands upon the heaving hearts of the two chil-
dren, who lay at her side, locked in childhood’s hap-
py slumber. ¢O, if they would only sleep till
noon! Poor things, they will be starved before their
supper is earned. O, how hard, how hard it is to
be so poor! Can I bear it?” Her whispers were
hushed a few moments, and then there struggled up,
through the bitter sobs that filled her throat, the an-
guished words, “I must! I must!” And then
she buried her face in that pillow, which had been
damp for years with her midnight sighs, and wet it
with fresh tears. And then she prayed — prayed
for strength to endure, and for bread to put into the
starving mouths of her darling babes. She prayed
as only a widowed mother can pray, when on her
shelf there lies no single crust, and but two small
potatoes,— when in her little purse there jingles not
even coppers. With tears and prayer came tempo-
rary peace; the cry of her heart was hushed, and
patience, as it often had before, laid its soft fingers

“7 HAVEN'T THE CHANGE.” 107

on her lips, and sleep sealed for a while the fountain
of deep grief.

Hers was a sad, trite story; such an one as you
may hear a dozen times in every lane or alley of our
crowded cities; storie§ which, because they are so
trite, scarcely affect our hearts, save to cause them,
perhaps, one shiver and one sigh. We forget, in
listening to them, that though they all seem so much

alike that we might fancy they are but versions of

one tale, yet each one has its hero or its heroine;
that we must not weep for one, but many, O, how
many! Ah! could they rise before us at one call,
what an army of pale, famished creatures would
stare at us through their. wet eyes, clamor for charity
with their white lips, pointing, as they spoke, with
their ghostly fingers, to their lean, bloodless cheeks,
or pressing them to those hearts whose slow, patient
pulses seem to life like the passing bell. Then, in-
deed, would the great soul of humanity wake up as
though sang to by angel voices; then would the first
faint notes of the great anthem of millenniup be
whispered on earth.

Honest poverty had always been Mrs. C.’s lot.
But through childhood and girlhood it had been
cheerful poverty. The hearth was rough, but. the
fire burned brightly on it, and the kettle hummed
pleasant hymns. And, as years passed on, romance
lent a strange, sweet beauty to the ingle-lights, and
for a little season life was a blissful boon. The
maiden became the wife — the wife, a mother — and

 
 

 

 

108 HOME LIFE.

the cup, though but an earthen one, was filled to the
brim. ;

Four years of happy wedded life were allotted
her, and then the shadows gathered, and dark indeed
they were. For three years she endured all that a
woman can endure and live, when bound to a drunken
husband — nay, when fettered to a brute; for when
a man becomes a drunkard, he then throws off hu-

manity, — the angel flees, and the cloven foot comes

trampling down the flowers upon which it was wont
eetly to repose.

2 oh yonit Fo her bridal day, Ms. C. stood
by an open grave, and saw lowered into it the corpse
of him who had won her youthful love. Then, with
a blanched face, she turned to her cellar-home, to her
babes, not half as fatherless now as when he who
owned that heavenly name was above instead of un-
der the earth. She spent that first night in idle
tears — nay, not in idle tears, but in such as the
poet says rise

i

¢« From the depth of some divine despair.”

Early the next morning, with a child clasping
either hand,— the one a delicate, golden-haired girl
of six, with that angelic look about the blue eyes
that foretold of early death; the other a bright,
black-eyed, dark-haired boy of five, restless with the
same passions as those that had burned so fiercely
in his sire,— with these, her only household treas-
ures, the widow sought a way to live. There was

 

“I HAVEN'T THE CHANGE.” 109

but one path open to her; for she could not, would
not, be parted from her little ones. She must sew.
Sew! and yet she was no machine, no bloodless,
pulseless, soulless combination of wood and iron, but
a frail, delicate woman. But the fiat had gone forth,
and with her slender fingers of bone and flesh, and
nerves and veins, her human fingers, she must earn
a living for herself and children. Earnestly, faith-

. fully, she strove todo it. The earliest light of morn-

ing found her busy; the midnight bell did not
always still her toil.

She had been thus for two years a patient, unflag-
ging laborer. She had thus far kept them sheltered,
though their home had been either in a dusty garret
or a damp cellar; and she had kept a glimmering of
fire upon the hearth, and some coarse fabrics on their
shoulders, and the plate from being empty. But the
long and severe illness of her little girl, now almost
an angel, had sorely straitened her ever-scanty means,
and she had gone to bed, the Sabbath night before the
morning when we hear her moaning ¢ Only four!
only four!” as she listens to the clock, without even
one crust of bread — two potatoes and a teaspoonful
of tea being the sole contents of her pantry. No
wonder is it that the winter night seemed so long
and tedious ; no wonder that she longed for the sun-
light to come again; for, until it came, she could not
sew, and until she had sewed and sewed, the livelong
day, she and her little ones must go starved.

The first faint beams of daylight found her drawn
+10

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

110 HOME LIFE.

close beside the little window, busy with her needle.
She had built a scanty fire, put down the two pota-
toes to roast, made and drank a cup of tea, and now
sewed with the energy of despair, only raising her
eyes to look, once in a while, upon her sleeping chil-
dren, and hoping and praying their slumber would
last long.

«They will be so hungry when they wake,”
moaned she, ¢ what shall I do with them? and little
Nellie is so frail and feeble, she loathes our coarse,
unpalatable fare. 0, if they could but sleep till
night ; then, how gladly I would waken them! It
will be a long, sad day! but with evening, thank
God, I shall have some money!’ and then she
gpurred her sore and aching fingers.

She was busied upon a dress for a wealthy and
fashionable lady, who employed, sometimes, such an
humble seamstress, as she said, from charity, though
in reality only to save a few’ shillings to invest in
trifies for herself. No mantua-maker would have
made the garment Mrs. C. was now employed upon
for less than two dollars, and the lady knew it well;
but she carried it to the poor widow, and told her, if
- she would do it for seventy-five cents, she would
leave it there. Eagerly did the half-starved, all-
tired creature clutch at it. All Saturday she bent
over it, and until the clock struck the holy chime of
Sabbath rest; and now she must work till twilight on
it yet, for there was a deal of trimming.

‘And so she sat and sewed that whole long day,

“1 HAVE N'T THE CHANGE.” 111

nothing passing her thin lips but a dish of weak tea
at the breakfast and dinner hour, and hearing all the
time the passionate clamors of her boy for bread, or
something to eat, and marking, with an anguish worse
than death, the pale, sad face of her sick child, who
did not ask for food with her white lips, but only
seemed to pray for it in her meek, earnest, upward
glances. :

ke It curdles my heart, now,” she would sometimes
exclaim, when telling of it, though a score and more
of years had passed since the day was over, *curdles
it only to remember what I suffered. Hell never had
a torture equal to it.”

With the last ray of light the last stitch was set
and then, folding it with maniac quickness, with .
strength born of agony she rushed from the clamor
ous cries of the boy, and the mournful looks of the
sick girl, out into the darkening street, and across the
city, to the palace-home of her employer. She
reached it, rang, was ushered up the long and splen-
did flight of stairs, and stood before the lady, and
gave up her work. Very carefully was it exnmained;
scarcely a stitch but that was scrutinized ; but it bore
inspection. A mother, toiling for starving children
would not dare to slight her work. Then the lady
drew out a tasselled purse, and felt a while amid
golden coins and rustling bills; then turned to the
patient, expectant woman, and said, very quietly, as
though it were an ordinary sentence, and not the

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

112 HOME LIFE.

death-warrant of a holy hope, “I haven't the change.
th 3
i on which all the horrors of wala
were written, the poor se a ad
e stairs, and thro ’
Laem fie cate there and her agony must Sui
ent, or reason would have died. She fauy 52
; If "upon the huge white drift, and prayed for gi
SN ol yes, ghrieked for it,— sO sy “
ry standers thought she was an escape Sn
and iy for help to secure her, lest she hem : s
She ran once 0 her dark cellar-home, but 8 »
strength to enter. She could not face her babes. ; on a
to the brink of the river she found her By bd he
about to spring into the icy tide, when ihe ugh
¢ those babes left motherless came to her SC
Lon like water to a maddened flame, and he fe
nce more to that cellar-home. Noiselessly she 2
i the door, and placed her ear beside it. She Me (Bs
low owack voice of her suffering Nell, ligne ne
ther of the glass of milk and the warm nl Tas i:
to have ; and she heard, too, the loud, wi A
her healthful boy, as he told of the sausage dye
bread mother would bring him. More ig De
frenzied she became; she prayed again an oP
death: but her hour was not, would not is iF
Jength che rushed forth again into the gov e i :
and did what in a sane jEomer oe would nev
ink of — she begged :
ipay then the prayers of that patient

“1 HAVE X’T THE CHANGE.” 113

child at home; for, though the first half-dozen heeded
not her clamorous petitions for bread, for she asked
no more, the seventh turned not so coldly from her.
He was a wealthy stranger, seemingly,— she never
knew his name, but she said, next to the faces of her
mother and her children, she should seek for his in
heaven, and if it were there know and bless it,—
he, settling with his coachman ere he was driven to
the night-train, threw her a half-dollar, and, enter-
ing the carriage, was out of sight ere she could speak
one word of thanks.

That half-dollar! O, money that time was a
blessing ; one, too, so bright and glad, it seemed
dropped down from God's own hand. The traveller,
perhaps, forgot it as soon as it was given; but the
widow and her babes never forgot to pray for him.
Little Nell blessed him with her dying breath, and
said, if little child-angels were allowed to come down
from heaven, she would watch over him, next to her
mother ; and little Willie, until the day when he, too,
passed so suddenly and so sadly from his mother’s arms,
talked often and earnestly of the time when he should
be a man, and throw half-dollars to every poor woman
or beggar-child whom he should see. So much and
so often did they pray for him, so many blessings did

they call upon his head, that they forgot, both mother
and children, sorely as they had been wronged, they
forgot to curse the lady, who had almost been the
death of three, by her careless words, ¢ I haven't the
change.”

10% H

 
 

 

 

 

 

THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS.
L

Trust! trust, sweet lady, trust!

« MopING in this dark, oo i a 8 go

i ing! ”’ exclaimed Anni , as,
ns iy bounded into the perk: ot Be
friend Charlotte Earle: “how can you 4 2
Why. I’ve been out since sunrise, and a Seine
of wet, glad thoughts ! Core, The Py
ling, and look at this sunshine and t y Ll 1 :
as throwing back the blinds, a flood of go i igh
Jeaped through the open casement, while 2 ap
moment a shower of early blossoms, V: Jo a
dew, fell over the white morning robe 0

now,” continued the free, wild visitor,
parting the curls fom the Spal ef a 2 oe

otionless as a , her

rE he tt, her eyes swollen a yepig.
t there, now, let me wipe away 4 oe ge
What matter if your lover 1s greedy Bay
for three short months, and then, Soe og de
voice into a soft whisper, ah! then 1 a

¥

 

THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS. 115

you in a satin garb, and twine a bridal wreath ’mid
these dark tresses.”

Then, with a gush of bird-like music, she sung,

¢¢ There ’s a whispered vow of love
As side by side they stand,
And the drawing of a snow-white glove
From a little trembling hand,
And the glitter of a ring,
And a tear, that none may chide, —

These, these have changed that girlish thing,
And she is now a bride.”

“ Laugh, now!” and she bent with sisterly ten-
derness over the now bowed and shivering form. I
promised Edward I would be your comforter; and,
with a heart light as a feather, I’ve come this morn-
ing to you, the merriest sprite you ever dreamed of’!
So, hie up, my darling, and let me charm away dull
care. It’s a day for the woods, and let’s be off and
away to them, and a right glad time we’ll have,
albeit deserted by our beaux.

‘“ Do smile, dear Lottie !”” and she took down her
hands, but shuddered as she touched them, they
were so cold, so bloodless.

‘“ What is the matter?’ screamed she, in Might-
ened tones, as, gazing at the wet face she had un-
covered, she marked how very pale and sad it was.
“Tell me, tell me, dearest; you grieve for some-
thing more than the absence of your loved one.
Speak, Lottie, speak ; you craze me with your wild,
deep grief.”

The ashy lips moved not; the teeth were set, as in

&

 
 

ESTO SE
pe 2

RRC Cr

 

 

 

116 HOME LIFE.

a spasm. Whiter grew the face; deeper sunk the
lines of anguish ; faster flowed the tears. Her hands
now pressed her head with nervous touch, as though
to quiet an awful thought; and then were folded
with passionate earnestness over her heart, as if to
still a maddening throb.

Annie gazed at her with flooded eyes and quiver-
ing muscles. She felt that her friend was suffering
an agony so deep, 80 intense, that words could not
tell it, that words could not comfort her. She
clasped her in her arms as a mother would a darling
child ; she stroked gently the long, dark curls; she
kissed the knit brows. Their two hearts felt each
other’s throbbings ; their clasped hands thrilled with
each other's nerves; their tears mingled in one wild
flood.

Excessive, violent emotion cannot long be borne.
The frail form of Lottie was weakened by a whole
night of sorrow — lonely, crazing SOITOW, such as
makes the weak human heart long to be pulseless, be-
cause then pangless. A few moments of unrestrained

weeping and sobbing ensued ; then, rising, she drew
a damp, crumpled letter from her bosom, and, plac-
ing it in Annie’s hand, strove to gain a sofa, but
sunk upon the floor in a swoon so like to death, that
her young friend thought life had indeed departed.

She uttered a frenzied cry for help ; none came.
Alone she bent over the white, still body ; with a
strength born of terror she raised it in her arms, and
bore it to the porch. The motion woke a dull, slow

; #2 fy
i be HAD fe pr Ck asi
SRR ea wis sn rp SI ey

THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS. 117

beating of the heart ; cold water dashed from a flower-
vase that stood near, and the free, fresh, out-door
air, aided in quickening the weak pulse. The lips
parted with a short, quick gasp; a faint breath
ruffled the lungs. ;

Once assured that it was but a swoon, Annie had
courage to ply the usual remedies; and, though for
some minutes with but slight success, at length
gazed again into the dark, sad eyes of Lottie, and
met a look of recognition.

1 : :

; She will not die,” she whispered, and renewed

for nag so constantly, that, in an hour’s
, her friend, with only her assista

to gain her chamber. y 0 I oer

es me lie down, Annie, and do you come and

esidle me. But first turn the key. It would

11 me to see another face than yours.”

Annie obeyed, and was sitting at the bedside, ob-
serving carefully the life-beat in Lottie’s wrist when
fe a) seizing with frantic grasp the yet trem

ng hands of her watche i )
nd r, exclaimed, ‘The letter!

“1 dropped it when $
thought to get it.” you fainted. I’ve not since

“Find it! find it, Annie,— quick, or I go my-

gelf!”” and, with mo .
iin mentary -strength, she sprang

‘ Rest, Lottie, r i
: , rest. It is not lost
will bring it in a moment.” He

“Now, now!”
ow!
y ¥ screamed she. ¢ For worlds I

 
 

 

118 HOME LIFE.

would not have a stranger See it. Enough for us to
know its awful tale.”

Her hands, clenched till the nails entered the soft
palms, were held convulsively to her heart; her
unstrung nerves shook like aspen-leaves in a tem-
pelt ; her brain whirled with fearful dizziness; every
breath seemed a throe of agony, every thought a

ang of despair.

She clutched the restored letter with maniac wild-
ness; held it at arm’s length, as though afraid to see
a word; then thrust it into Annie's hand, crying,
« Read, read, and pity me jo

Confident that she held now the fatal cause of
Lottie’s woe, Annie, with rapid glances, devoured the
contents of the closely-written sheet. Her counte-
nance was always the index of her thoughts; and,
knowing this, the eyes of the sufferer on the bed were
fixed so intently upon it, that its slightest variation was
marked. Amazement, with incredulous questionings,
first flashed over it; then horror dragged its dark
shadow there, while a shudder shook the reader’s
limbs; contempt next curled the lip and scowled the
eyebrows ; but, as she finished the task of perusal,
they, and all the lesser emotions which had trembled
on her face, centred in fierce, furious indignation.
It flashed, burned, seintillated in her eye, till it
transformed her whole visage. She no longer seemed
a giddy, joyous maiden, but a firm, stern woman,
whose heart had been touched to its core.

« False, false!” exclaimed she, with terrible em-

 

THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS. 119

phasis, trampling the letter under her feet; “every

line, every word of it, is false! 1’d be the meanest
worm that creeps in slime, sooner than own the con-
science of the writer. Singe, scorch him! Ay, and
more, — it will be a living coal, red-hot in his bosom
till death puts it out!”

“This, then, is what has moved you so?” con-
tinued she, addressing Lottie, and picking up the
scorned letter; “this thing, to which the hand that
penned it dared not write its name; this has sent
joy with wild shrieks from your bosom, and ushered
in doubt, distrust and anguish, with their thorns and
poisons. Lottie, you do not, you have not loved
Edward as you ought, or this letter would never have
been the herald of such terrific sorrow. Say,” and
she grasped her hands and gazed into her egos with
the penetrating look of one who would read the most
hidden thought,— say, did you credit it?”

¢ No.”

“ Why, then, did you let it trouble you? Why
suffer it to almost madden your brain, and break your
heart, if you thought it but a lie?”

“ Spare me, spare me, Annie! I did not, could
not think it true; and yet I did not, could not think
one human being could so belie another. Indeed
in truth, I do not know what I have thought. I
only feel that I have passed through a night which
I pray Heaven, may never darken your sunny life.
0, I was so blessed last evening! With a letter full
of love and sympathy —a letter from my Edward ;

 
120 HOME LIFE.

I sat here, and in thought answered it. My heart
was revelling in a bliss so keen, so pure, as to be
almost unearthly. I saw the present all bright with
cloudless skies; I saw the future spanned with a
bow of promise. My past sad life seemed like a
dream. A thank-offering to God for all his mercies,
all his blessings, leaped to my lips. Then, at that
moment even, when amen was quivering on my lips,
the letter, the one you hold, was placed in my hand.
Mechanically I opened it, for my thoughts were else-
where. By the failing daylight I glanced over its
strange characters. My heart froze within me as I
deciphered it. Enough of sense remained to conceal
it in my bosom. Then all was dark ; my breath came
with a spasm; my blood curdled ; I was conscious of
falling, and, it seemed to me, in a deep, black pit.
The moon was shining bright when I again became
conscious of life. I have an indistinct remembrance
of lying for a long while in a state of agony, crushed
to the earth, and held there, it seemed, by some night-
mare hand. I would strive to grapple it, and then
forget it with weakness; seemed to draw a faint,
feeble breath, and sink again, borne down by that
mighty hand. And when I did come to,— when,
pressing my heart, I felt the rustling of that letter,
when the memory of its fearful tale rushed unbidden
through my mind,— Annie, Annie, scorn me if you
will !{ — not all my love for Edward could save me
from a pang of anguish so bitter, so tearing, as to
cut my very soul in twain.” The thought of what

 

THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS. 121

she had endured the past night seemed completely to
master the little strength she had gained; and, with
the weakness of a babe, she sunk back, faint almost
breathless. :

‘“ Be calm, dear, dear Lottie!” said Annie, bend-
Ing over and kissing again and again the white lips
and the wet cheeks. “Forgive me if I spoke harshly
to you. Few, few there are who could be unmoved
by such a letter as you read last night; and few there
are who have such a deep, such an irrepressible
antipathy to anonymous letters as myself. They are
fearful missives. Now and then, one may be the
warning of a timid friend ; but oftener, almost always

indeed, are they the work of malignant enemies ~
the handwriting of a human fiend, who with a snake's
tongue bites in the grass, who with a coward’s arm
wounds in the dark.

‘ Lottie, put your arm around my neck, rest your
head on my bosom, and read again that letter. Do
not quiver so! Be strong with anger against the
writer; be firm with trust in the innocence of the
accused. I have known Edward since he was a
child; till you came I was his dearest friend the
confidant of his most secret thoughts; and I know, as
I know my heart now beats, that the stories penned
in this letter are false. He never harmed a bird:
he never caged one, even ; think you, then, he could
be the demon in a human form that he is here said
tobe? I tell you, Lottie (lay my words deep in
your memory, too), if ever you discover the author

 
 

 

 

122 HOME LIFE.

of this letter, you will find that it was written either
from selfish or malignant motives,— perhaps from a
blending of the two. True, it speaks of its disinter-
ested love for you; that it would and must save you
from the precipice over which you hang; that i
would rescue you, a pet bird, from the fowler’s
snare; that it would snatch you, a white lamb, from
the wolf’s black arms; — but why does it not point
you to the proof of its dark hints; why does it deal
in such anathemas against your lover, and never tell
you where to seek the truth of all that is alleged 2
Why, if it knew these things, did it not whisper
them with living voice into your ear, ere you had
given your love, plighted your troth, to Edward ? : ox
why, when it did speak, did it not come to you li e
a noble man or woman standing before you in his or
her integrity, and make you feel, by words thrilling on
earnest human lips, by tears gushing with sorrow for
you from eyes that riveted your confidence, by the
pressure of a friendly hand, by the trembling of a
palpable form, that they had indeed your welfare in
their mind, that they wounded but to heal? Why did
the writer not, if the wish was to save you, come to
you as a saviour, and not torture you with a letter
worthy only an imp of perdition ? and the eyes of
the young girl flashed fire, while the sparks fell on
the tears which hung in Lottie’s eyes so fast, so hot,
dried them up. :
ge a long an they sat without speaking, wilh.
out moving. Lottie took the letter from Annie's

 

Se —————————————————————— EEN

THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS. 123

hand, and read it with a calm, scrutinizing eye. It
was a long, closely-written epistle, purporting to
come from an earnest, truthful friend, who wrote be-
cause urged by a feeling of duty which could not be
restrained. It warned Lottie never to consummate
her vow with Edward Owen, and gave reasons that
might well pale the cheek of an innocent girl. It
accused him of dark, foul, nay, devilish crimes ;
crimes worse than murder, for that harms only the
body; its knife, sharp and bloody as it may be, has no
power to cut or stain the soul. There was a spirit
of malignity,— an infernal one, indeed,— breathing
through every line, that had struck Annie at first
sight, and would have equally affected her friend,
had she received it in a calm moment, Now, it was
evident to her; and when she had closed and folded
it, she threw her arms around Annije’s neck, and ex-

claimed, with passionate fervor, “I do not know,

perhaps I never shall, how much of truth or false.

hood there isin this; but I will trust him yet. Yes,
the fire shall consume this; I will forget it, and at
the altar give my hand to Edward, without one doubt.
I will trust him yet, trust him ever ! ”

“ Trust him I know, I feel, you may,” responded
Annie, in a tone of faith; ‘but, Lottie, do not burn
the letter. Lock it up ; never look at it; but do not
destroy it. Failing with you, the hand that wrote
that may contrive another plot.”

A secret drawer in Lottie’s desk received the un-
holy paper. With her hands clasped in Annie's, the

 
 

124 HOME LIFE.

beautiful young creature, who had known a night of
anguish, because a night of doubt, closed her weary
eyes, and, murmuring softly I trust, Itrust,”’ was
in a few brief moments the guest of an angel, whose
white wings were fresh from a sunny home in the

land of dreams.

IIL

« What want you, sir 2”

« A wife ! >’

« Women are plenty —’

« Ay, but women fit for wives 3»

Edward Owen had always been well-fed, well-
clothed, well-treated; yet, until he became of age,

had never known the blessing of a home. The sud-
den death of his father had ushered him premature-
ly into the world, and his first faint moan, blending
with the death-cry of his mother, threw him upon it
an orphan, with no near blood-tie to bind him to any
mortal. But he had money, and that bought him
a nurse in his infancy, an abode in his boyhood. He
had friends, too, many, and true, and loving; but he
was only one of many to them; they could not cen-
tre in him their dearest wishes and hopes. In his
early days, when he saw the young lads with whom
he played run home, leap on their father’s knee, or
lean by a mother’s side, his heart would swell, and,
with a sobbing voice he would exclaim, “0, that I

had a father, a mother, a home!”

THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS. 125

4 As he grew older, the wish for a home grew
ronger. His first act, upon arriving at manhood
and coming in possession of his ample fortune was
to purchase a sunny field about a mile from his n
tive village, and erect there a cottage. He had a
eted the site years before he could command the

. means to purchase it. Often, when it was golden

with the harvest, he had gazed upon its wavy out-
line; he ‘had pictured a neat, white dwellin 4 its
centre, with the shadows of green trees fallin Bin
it, the fragrance of flowers stealing in at its A
the singing of birds, the rustle of leaves. and the
dash of the brook blending in sweet melody upon io
air. And then, too, he would pass through oe 0 "
door, stopping to pluck a rose or train up a os
bine ; and ever there did a fair, gentle being, with a
kiss of love, spring forth to meet him. The rose h
would twine in her jetty curls, the kiss he would hi
pay with interest; then, entering the house, a vision
of a well-ordered home would rise before him and
his cheeks would glow and his eyes grow right
gles Sel hropes, he would dash off the blinding
rs, and, exclaiming
fas od : ou ing “It shall yet be so,” go back
That house, more beautiful than ever he in his
early dreams had pictured it, now graced the spot
where the laborer had so off reaped his bread. Vines
flowers and shrubs, grew in rich luxuriance about it.
Young trees swayed in the breeze, giving promise of

refreshing shade ere many years should elapse. All
11%

 
 

126 HOME LIFE.

that wealth and taste could lavish upon grounds, to
make them charm the eye and the mind, was freely
given; and many a tourist, as he sketched the scene,
envied the man who possessed a residence so lovely.
As inviting indoors as without was that new, that
long-wished-for home. There was nothing wanting

which comfort could ask for. Everything and more

which he had there seen in his dreams, and which
money could purchase, greeted Owen, each time he
entered. But one thing was lacking — the lovely
vision that was to walk like an angel by his side
through the journey of life; and he felt his home
was not yet perfect.

Money had bought him much; would it not pur-
chase him a bride? O, yes; a fair, gay group of
maidens would have sallied forth, almost any day, to
let him choose a mate. Women (and to their shame,
too, be it told !) are bought with gold in other than
Eastern climes; and often do the father and the
mother, reckless as .the slave-master, stand by and
barter to the highest bidder.

Owen wanted no wife who came only to his bosom
for means to ornament her clay. He wanted — and
what man does not ?— a woman who could love him,
let fate do her worse with him or his fortune; a
woman who knew how to make him happy, and who
would do so. He had resolution enough to wait pa-
tiently till he could find one who would answer the
ideal of his heart; and so he went some years about,

THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS. 127

Stndying the female character, and searching for a
Wwiie.

Once he fancied he had found her. Like the ideal
of a poet’s dream seemed the fair Isabel Voysez, as the
eyed of Owen first gazed upon her. Bewildered with
her beauty, for once his caution forsook him, and he
became deeply interested in the young stranger ‘ere
he had half read her heart or mind. But he was
not lost. He detected her in a falsehood ; DO very
dark affair, indeed, but enough to bring him to his
senses. A woman who could lie, deliberately sully
her lips with an untruth, could never be his wife -
and they parted.

“Am I always to live here alone?” sighed he,
one summer evening, as he toyed with the flowers of
his beauteous home; and then he wept. He should
have smiled, for the star of his destiny was just then
rising.

A carriage passed. ‘ How beautiful ! 7” exclaimed
a voice, musical as the matin-hymn of a bird. Owen
had a glimpsé of a radiant young face. It haunted
him all night, while the stranger's two words found
an eternal memory in his thoughts. :

That stranger was Charlotte Earle, a fair orphan,
who had labored all her young life for a sick mother
and brutal father, and who, having laid both beneath
the sod, had been claimed by an aged uncle, and now
ident him the gentle offices of a kind, loving
child.

In her Edward Owen believed he had found the

 
stam

HOME LIFE.

woman whose ideal had been so long the passion of
his life. Yet, ere he offered her his hand, he -
elled to the distant town where she had spent her
early years, and satisfied himself entirely as t Bee
on ay A cool, calculating man, some
him: but it would be well for domestic pe to =
: i i if all exercised the sa
thing of its happiness, if a :
the choice of the bosom Wo Ores
ibiliti tity, of the ma
t the responsibilities, the sanctity,
4 a diet do; he wanted poi Sonflens I
ze hi t the altar;
n who should take his hand at the
de yng been once deceived, held on to his throb-
Ying heart till he could place it in a pure breast.
; if ever man did plight his troth to a sinless
irl i woe when Edward Owen took the ha *
Jy Earle, and whispered the lover's vow ; Lo i“ }
w
an gave her heart to a noble man, 1
Pe ri Lah Their engagement was a solemn,
holy rite ; had the clergyman and the ring been pres-
ent, it would scarcely have been more sacred.

IIL.

A quiet home, a loving wife, :
A smiling child ; ah! this is life.

id : as
« True, is it not, Lottie ?”’ asked Mr. Owen, mo
after humming, in a sing-song tone, several times,

motto we have just written, he repeated it on =
« You seem to think so,” responded his wile,

THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS. 129

voice which, though gay, was yet thrilling with the
love-accent which trembled on each word.

“I do, indeed, though it is not a very quiet one,
Just now, especially here. Can’t I assist you, wife ?
You never "11 get all these things to rights again, if
some one does not kindly lend a hand. Pray, what
are all these ?”” as he looked a little curiously at a
pile of papers, envelopes, cards, sketches, memen-
toes, and the like.

“ Relics of early days, sacred as the tomb of Ma-
homet. Beware how you handle them, sir!” and,
half in jest, half in earnest, she motioned him away.

“If they are indeed so valuable, you had best
make haste and get them under lock and key again,
for there ’ll soon be one awake who'll make sad
havoc with them ;” and, turning from them, he
stepped to a cradle at a little distance, and gazed with
a father’s love and pride upon his first-born, a fair,
sweet boy, who had just completed one year of life.

‘““ How beautiful he is ! ”’ said he, in a tone pecu-
liar to young parents; “a painter’s dream could not
be more so; and never could his pencil sketch a form
so faultless, or his brush color a face so heavenly !
Did you ever before, Lottie, see a child so young,
whose countenance expressed so much ? ”

‘“ Never, never ! ”’ replied she, with mock earnest-
ness; ‘there never was just such a child born into
the world, and there never will be another like him ;
he is alone in his glory, a prince-royal in babydom,
or, as old Uncle expresses it, the ‘ knowinest, best-

I

 
130 HOME LIFE.

natured youngun’ ever Isaw! There, you'll own
now, sir, that you are outdone in baby-praise, won’t
you?” She laughed merrily, yet, at the same time,
stole to his side, and gazed upon the sweet sleeper
with a look as earnest, as proud, as loving, as that
which illuminated her husband’s face.

“Your heart spake in your words, despite your
Jesting tone,” he whispered, as he marked the ex-
pression of her eye. ‘Is he not beautiful ? ”’

“ Have I not told you so a thousand times? And
how could it be otherwise? The folks all say he is the
image of his father !”’

‘I may infer, then, you think the father rather
good-looking,” said Owen, taking his wife's hands
gently, and bending his full blue eyes upon her coun-
tenance, with the earnestness of one who- would read
her thoughts.

They thrilled her whole being with a wild, ecstatic
quiver. Heart seemed to rush to heart, at the meet-
ing of their eyes. She answered not in words, but,
a moment after, pressed her lips to his, and he was
satisfied.

Tears trembled upon both their faces as they turned
away, she to her work, and he to his idle humming ;
yet both were happy.

It was a wet, cold, disagreeable day, impossible to
go out, and unreasonable to expect company ; one of

those storms, indeed, which seem sent on purpose
that housekeepers may have a good chance to set in
order their pantries and their closets, their trunks

THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS. 131

and drawers. Mrs. Owen had been all the morning
hauling over household things, and ¢ putting them to
rights;”” and, going incidentally to her desk, after din-
ner, had concluded to finish the day as she had be-
gun, and accordingly her tables, chairs and stands,
were soon littered with the miscellaneous contents of
her antique secretary. She had intended to spend
only a half-hour, or so, in redrranging them; but
they freshened so many old memories, that she sev-
eral times sat down with an old letter, a pressed
flower brittle with age, a glossy ringlet, or, mayhap,
only a card with a name faintly pencilled on it,
and forgot the present, holding silent, sometimes
sweet, and sometimes sad, communion with the past.
The entrance of her hushand had roused her from
her reveries; and she prosecuted her task with more
diligence, digressing only to stir the cradle and
praise the baby.

She was busy again tying up and assorting billets
and scraps, when her husband, after tiring himself
of his monotonous pastime of tapping upon alternate
windows and humming snatches of songs, busied
himself in pushing in and out the drawers of the
desk she was arranging, and in scrutinizing the carv-
ings and gildings which adorned it.

“ Pray, what antiquarian bequeathed you this old
relic, Lottie? The hands that made it have been
dust a hundred years, at least.”

“It is an heirloom. All that I have, in sub-
stance, to remind me of my ancestors. Shabby as it

 
132 HOME LIFE.

is, I value it highly. Modern handicraft might pa-
tent a more elegant piece of furniture, but none
which could possess so many conveniences in such
small space. Have you ever observed how many lit-
tle nooks and corners it contains, Edward? Just
let down the desk, and take a peep once into its mys-
teries.”’

He did as directed, and spent some moments in a
busy survey of its interior; and, having satisfied
his curiosity, he was about to close it, when a thought
struck him, and he renewed his scrutiny.

“Ha!” exclaimed he, suddenly, «I thought it
would be so; there is always some mystery in these
old desks. Here are letters, too; I wonder if Lot-
tie knew of this ;”” and he turned to question her,
but was surprised to see her sinking into a chair, with
trembling limbs and a blanched face.

He sprang quickly to her side, with affectionate in-
_quiries as to the cause of the sudden emotion. It
was some moments ere she could control herself suf-
ficiently to speak, when, in a broken voice, she mur-
mured something he could not comprehend about
agony, letters, that secret drawer, memories of the
past.

“Why do you tremble so, Lottie? Why weep so
violently?” He paused, and then, as a thought
flashed through his mind, he asked, earnestly, ¢ Has
any accidental discovery of that secret drawer been
the cause of this sudden change? Did you know of
its existence ?”’

 

THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS. 138

She gasped out the single word, “Yes,” and then
threw her arms about him, clinging to him as a
frightened child to its mother; and sobbing as though
her heart would break.

He gazed upon her in mute amazement. There
Was a mystery in her wild grief he could not com-
prehend. She had been to him a second self ; he
knew her, he thought, as he knew his own heart ;
could it be that he had not read her all,— that in the
past there was a page which she had hidden from
his sight? A reminiscence leaped up from the ob-
livion into which, with silent scorn, he had once con-
signed it. A proud, haughty look flashed in his
eyes. He bore her drooping form to the bed ;. then
paced the room with rapid, nervous steps, glancing
alternately at his pale wife and her old desk, as if
hesitating what to do.

“This suspense is awful,” said he, at last; «I
cannot, will not endure it!” Then, advancing quickly
to the drawer, which by mere accident he had discov-
ered, he took from it all it contained — three letters ;
one that had evidently been read and wept over, and
two with unbroken seals. He hurried with them to
his library, locked the door, and, with eyes growing
blind with tears, read hastily the one that had been
previously opened.

“An angel ! cried he, passionately, as his mind
gathered in its import; ‘yes, an angel in very truth,
and I — a fool, a madman!’

Grasping fe Papen, he returned with fleet steps

 
134 HOME LIFE.

to the bedside of his wife, clasped her in his arms,
kissed her white cheeks till they were crimson, and
her quivering lips till they were calm; and then,
seating himself at her side, asked if she could give
him the history of the letter he held, entreating her
first to forgive and forget his momentary wavering
of faith.

‘“ Forgive me, rather, dear Edward! Forgive the
wife for keeping from her husband the secret which
chance or accident but now revealed to you. Often,
during the first year of our married life, did it trem-
ble upon my lips; but never, never would they move
to utter it. It had a power over me I could not
master ; it stiffened the muscles, and scared the
breath. Of la e, indeed for the last two years, I
have scarcely thought of it; and when I did, it seemed
but the wraith of a midnight dream, and I shut my
eyes quickly, not wishing, not daring, to look at the
spectre. I seemed to feel again that heavy yet
fleshless hand; its icy fingers seemed straining my
heart-strings, its dark palm pressing the life out!
That night of agony, that night of doubt! Heaven
spare me from another like it !

“ Edward, will you spurn, will you despise me,
when I tell you that the letter you have just read
sent me, in frenzied grief, almost to the dark gate of
death? Don’t speak, don’t answer me, till I have
told you all about it.”

Then, leaning her head on his bosom, in a low
voice, tremulous with remembered anguish, she re-

THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS. 135

lated the experience her soul had known on that
summer night, when the letter, the long, closely-
written, anonymous letter, with its wicked charges,

. had been received and read by her. And she told

how the gentle Annie had come, like a white-winged
angel, to her rescue, and borne her fainting, droop-
ing form away, far away, from the black tide that
was settling around it. How, like a spirit from
above, she had infused fresh life in the veins of hope,
and kindled anew the embers of faith. How that,
with a confidence in her loved one, which facts, stern,
grisly facts, alone could brow-beat, she had lain the
letter away, and forgotten its base words in dreams
as brilliant as sunset.

She told him, too, that when other letters came.
though an involuntary shiver shook her nerves
as she glanced on the well-remembered writing, her
heart throbbed with a steady pulse, and she placed
them in the spring-drawer beside the first, with a
trust in him as firm, as sure, as dear, as when she
first placed her hand within his own, pledging, there-
by, her maiden troth. That she did so fearlessly,
feeling, knowing that if the tales were true,—if, in-
deed, the writer had set his heart upon saving her
from the life of wretchedness to which he assured her
she was hastening,—he would, finding the letter fruit-
less, appear before her with facts to be scrutinized in
sunlight. Three letters were received, within as
many weeks; after that the mysterious writer trou-
bled her quiet no more.

 
186 HOME LIFE.

“ And, in spite of them, you went to the altar with
me! Tell me, dearest, did you go untroubled by
doubt? Did no partial eclipse dim a little the sun
which hung in your heavens?’

“ There was not the shadow of a doubt, Edward.
Think you that had there been one, I would have wed-
ded you? Never, no, never! My heart would have
dictated the right, and been firm in adhering to it,
though it should afterwards have broken. N o, Ed-
ward, believe me when I say it, there was not the
slightest edge of a cloud on the disc of that sun that
rose on our bridal morn; there has never yet been
one, and — I know it, I feel it— there never will
be!”

“Bless thee, bless thee, my angel wife ! ”’ cried
Owen, folding her in his arms, and sealing the bene-
diction with holy kisses; ‘““a life of devotion to thy
happiness shall repay thee for thy truth.”

“And now, Lottie, listen to my tale. During
that summer that I spent South, I received several
letters of the same stamp as that I have Just read,
save that they made you the wicked one. Don’t
speak yet, wife, but hear what I did with them. I
rung for lights every time I opened one, and every
time held them over the lamps till they were half in
flames, then placed them on the hearth, and watched
them as they fast became light ashes.”

‘““ And did you never doubt me ?”’

“Never. The writer did not well mature the
plot, though it was a double one, for it laid the scenes

THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS. 137

of your iniquity in your old village home. And now
Iwill tell you a secret, my wife. Before ever I
lisped a word of love to you, I visited that old home,
and learned that concerning you, from living lips,
which no anonymous letter had power to make me
doubt, for an instant. No; though they had come
by scores every day, I should have lighted the papers
and sent down to oblivion the thoughts. Until this
day, my heart was never Jealous of you; for a few
moments, when you lay there gasping as with men-
tal agony, I thought of those old letters, those mo-
ments,—a life of suffering seemed compressed in
them,— but we will forget them, and you will forgive
me!”

Her face was upturned to his, and he saw, by the

dazzling love-lights that flashed over its fair features,
that no words need be spoken to answer him. The

subject was dropped, not forever, but for many a
year.

IV.

And, once committed, follows sin to sin,
As in a chain successive links are strung.

It was midwinter. The day had been cold and
gusty, with occasional flurries of snow. Just at
night-fall the storm, which had been brewing for
many hours, burst with a furious violence, The
flakes fell so fast and thick, that the whole air be-
twixt earth and sky seemed but one porous mass of"

12%

 
188 HOME LIFE.

snow. They flew before the wind, which had in-
creased in wildness and strength, till its shrieks were
appalling to the stoutest nerves ; now circling over
the frozen ground in maelstrom eddies, then drifting
in huge piles, leaving here a bare black spot, and
there a high, blanched mound. Moonless, starless,
tempestuous, the night fast coming on promised to he
one of unusual severity,— a night for the sheltered
to shiver over their blazing fires, for the homeless to
freeze with a winding-sheet of snow.

Many times, in the course of the afternoon, had
Mrs. Owen laid aside her work, and gone to the
porch, to gaze, with strained eyes, at the vehicles
driving rapidly on the highway. Once she even put
on her bonnet, and, with quick steps, traversed the
distance that intervened between the house and a
turn in the road. As the day wore on, and the sun
set with a livid disc, she became so intensely excited
with anxiety, as to be almost beside herself. She
stationed herself at the garden gate, heeded neither
the cold air or the falling flakes, but looked and lis-
tened with the keen senses of a loving wife.

Benumbed with cold, white with snow, she was
found there by her eldest child, a bright lad of ten,
who, after searching the house thoroughly, had wan-
dered at length out door, in quest of a mamma to
kneel to while repeating his evening prayers. The
pleadings of her child recalled her scattered senses,
and she went in. She heard the petitions of her lit-
tle ones; she placed them in their low beds; left

THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS. 139

their cheeks warm with holy kisses; breathed over
them those fervent prayers which gush, almost un-
bidden, from the maternal heart, when a child has
nestled there; then went down, and wandered from
one window to another, in hopes, fast as the darkness
Was coming on, to obtain some glimpse of the
expegted husband.

He had left home the day before, to visit a town
some twenty miles distant. Nothing but urgent
business would have induced him to go at that time,
as he had barely recovered from severe illness. Hig
wife had expected his return early in the afternoon, -
and now feared the worst, from his probable expos-
ure, when so weak and fatigued, to the inclemency
of the storm.

The hours passed on. The clock struck ten.
Faint and sick with deferred hope, Mrs. Owen left
the window, and, sinking upon a sofa, buried her
face in its cushions, and wept.

Suddenly the front door was swung back hastily.
She hurried to the hall, and in the muffled form
that enters recognized her husband. But what
bears he in his arms? It seems —it is a human
form.

‘‘ Summon help,” he cries to his wife, as, deposit-
ing his burden in the place she had Just left, he sunk
into a chair, trembling with exhaustion.

‘“ Never mind me,” continued he, as she strove to
loosen and take off his cold garments; “see to her

 
 

140 HOME LIFE.

first, if, indeed, it be not too late to render her any
help.”

“It’s a poor, half-dead creature I dragged out of
a snow-drift some three miles from here,” said he, in
answer to the interrogative looks of the servants.
“Do what you can quickly, or it will be of no avail.
She groaned as I lifted her to the carriage. There
has been no sign of life since.”

Upon removing the large travelling-cloak which
Owen had wrapped around the perishing stranger,
the form of a woman was visible. She was emaciated
almost to a skeleton, with a face haggard and pallid,
hands stiff and locked as in a spasm, limbs cold and
rigid, a scanty supply of tattered cotton garments
their only covering. :

Corpse-like enough she appeared. Indeed, it
flashed over the mind of the elder woman that it was
some dead vagrant, who had been left on the high-
way, as not worthy a Christian grave. Yet, with
the experience of a skilful nurse, she busied herself
in striving to restore animation.

She was successful. After some two or three
hours’ unremitting attention, the poor creature, alive
in body, but unconscious in mind, was borne to a
comfortable chamber, and watched as carefully as
though she had been an old and dear inmate.

Then, and not till then, would Owen allow his
wife to devote her care to him. And then he ex-
plained how he had chanced to discover the freezing
woman.

 

a ie una atta ated ESR ARR

‘THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS. 141

“She owes her life to our good dog,” said he;
“for the darkness, storm, and my hurry, would not
allow me to see anything. His peculiar howl first
arrested me. I was loth to stop, yet felt I must,
certain he had found something. He dragged me to
an angle in the rail-fence. There, crouched on the
hard ground, and fast covering up with snow, I dis-
covered a human form,— whether dead or alive I
knew not, could not wait to ascertain,— but as well
and fast as I could bore her to my chaise and drove
on. I thank God I have rescued a mortal from
death, and yet I doubt if she thanks me for it. She
seems like one to whom life is a burden.”

“A homeless, friendless woman!” murmured
Lottie. “She is to be pitied; yes, and mourned
over. Homeless, friendless!” she repeated, tears
gushing to her eyes; ‘what a lot for a frail sister !
She has sinned, deeply and darkly, no doubt; but
has she not suffered, too? Poor thing! homeless,
friendless, at night; when you wake, if wake you
do, you will have found a home and a friend. Shall
it not be so, Edward?” and she looked up to him
with a face radiant, amidst its tears, with the pure
beams which flash from a Christian heart.

“Even as you say, Lottie, shall it be. We can

assuage her bodily pangs, if we have no skill to heal
her mental ones.”

Several days passed on. The stranger seemed to
gain some in physical strength, but her mind had

 
142 HOME LIFE.

never for a moment been cognizant of life. She
spoke not, she did not seem to see. Passive as a
new-born child, she suffered the attendants to do as
and what they would with her.

On the tenth day she fell into a deep slumber. It
lasted many hours, and the nurse predicted happy
results from it. When her patient awoke she was
rational, and demanded to be told where she was, and
what and all they knew of her. She seemed, vio-
lently agitated at the recital of her attendant, so
much so that the latter forbade her speaking another
word that evening. :

On the morrow, as at an early hour Mrs. Owen
stood at the bedside, noting the quick pulse, the
stranger suddenly opened her eyes, and, fixing them
intently upon the countenance of her hostess, ex-
claimed, in a voice tremulous with emotion, * Char-
lotte Earle, Charlotte Earle! is it you who tends my
death-bed ? God of heaven!” cried she, passionately,
“why, why didst thou lead me here? I lay down
in a snow-drift to die; yet I wake, from what I
know not, and I am here, in his house, she watch-
tng me!”

“You don’t know me,” said she to Mrs. Owen ;
who, amazed at hearing her maiden name uttered by
one whom she could not recognize as having ever
known, was bending over her with a wondering look.
““ No, you do not know me, nor would your husband.
Call him and see. Quickly,” said she, in earnest
tones; “I must speak to him before I die.”

 

| Am
Ro

THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS. 143

She grasped his hands as he approached the bed,
and gazed at him with a long, fixed stare. “You
are but little changed,” cried she, at length; «go
little, that I should have known you in any land.
Alas!” and her voice sunk to a plaintive whisper,
“sin is a hard, hard master. You and yours have
as yet been barely touched by. time ; while I, so fair,
so lovely once, am — what I am! Do you know
me, Owen? No, no! you scan my face as though
you had never, till to-day, glanced at it. Yet once
you paid a manly homage to my beauty; your heart,
for a little time, was fascinated by my wiles. You
stare, you wonder! Listen to me, both of you. When
a sinless girl, I knew you both; ay, and my first
dark sin was the hellish one of striving to rend apart
your wedded souls. Isabel Voysez was once my
name, and 7 it was who penned those letters whose
lying lines were meant to blast your loves forever.
I, 7—and yet beneath your roof I find my death-
bed ! ”’

Yes, the mystery which, for thirteen years, had
involved the anonymous letters, was solved at last,
and by the writer, too. Disappointed that she could
not secure the rich Owen for a husband, enraged that
his blinded eyes should be opened, and his homage
transferred to another, in a season of moral madness
she formed the base scheme of parting them, by the
perpetration of fiendish lies. She said, truly, that
was her first, dark sin; the first, yet it damned her

 
 

144 HOME LIFE.

mortal bliss. From that time her course was down-
ward, downward, far and deep, into the dark abyss
of sin. True, she paused at times, and gazed back
with a longing eye; but all in vain were her cries
for help; no angel came to draw her back, while
legions of devils urged and dragged heron. And on
she went, till at length, with premature age on her
wrinkled brow, premature decay in her trembling
limbs, spurned from every door, a poor, homeless,
friendless harlot, she sunk on the highway, and laid
down to die in a snow-drift !

Her story, told by snatches, during the few weeks
that remained of life, sent many a shudder through
the nerves of those who listened. And yet, dark,
sinful as it was, they felt, each time she spoke, how
close to the judging heart should be cherished the
poet’s lines :

“Then gently scan your brother man —
Still gentler sister woman ;
Though they may gang a kennin wrang,
To step aside is human.

«Then, at the balance, let ’s be mute,
We never can adjust it :
What ’s done we partly may compute,
But know not what ’s resisted ! >

THE THANKSGIVING PRESENTS.
1

“HURRA! hurra!” shouted Hal Merton, as
he rushed in from school, his cheeks glowing with
exercise, and his fine eyes sparkling with anticipated
joy.

“The Governor's Proclamation is out,— I read it
in Sam Hayward’s paper,— four weeks from to-day
and we’ll have Thanksgiving. Hurra for roast
turkey, pumpkin-pie and plum-pudding!” and, swing-
ing his old cap, he threw it to the ceiling, catching
it with his right foot and tossing it again, in a game
that was merriment to him, but death to the good
looks of the only head-gear he was worth. In the
midst of his glee, and while his laugh rang loudest,
his eyes fell upon the pale, sad face of his fatigued
mother, who was bending over the ironin -table, be-
side which she had stood from early dawn. Tears -
were streaming down her lean cheeks, and she was
struggling to suppress the deep sighs that ached for
utterance. Confused, the boy ceased abruptly, and,
turning aside, buried his face in his hands; a crush-

13 EK

 
 

146 HOME LIFE.

ing sense of parental degradation weighing heavily
on his young bosom.

In a few moments Mrs. Merton finished folding
the clothes she was engaged with, and, taking down
her hood and shawl, went out. As soon as she was
gone, Mary, the eldest child, a pensive girl of fifteen,
put down the babe she had been tending, and, wiping
her eyes, went to her brother, and, throwing her arms
around his neck, kissed him tenderly. He returned
her caress, and then, choking down his feeling, ex-
claimed, ‘Poor, poor mother! how thoughtless I
was to speak so joyfully of Thanksgiving! but I had
been out at play with the boys, and they were all
talking of it, and I got excited and forgot myself.
No, no; there can be no Thanksgiving for the
drunkard’s family. Were there ever children so
wretched as we?”

¢ Hush, Hal! don’t talk so,” said Mary, in a
sweet, plaintive tone; we have much to be thank-
ful for. Think what a good mother we have; father
was kind and good once ; indeed, he is now when —"
She paused ; her keen filial feelings would not per-
mit her to finish the sentence, so full of misery to
her lacerated heart.

There was silence for some moments. Hal finally
broke out, in a passionate voice, ‘‘ Father ought to
be ashamed of himself for drinking as he does. A
man so well educated, and who can support his fam-
ily so comfortably, to make such a beast of himself,

THE THANKSGIVING PRESENTS. 147

and allow his wife and children to suffer so! It ig
too bad. I am out of patience with Him.”

The hand of his sister was placed upon his lips.
“My brother is angry; he forgets of whom he is
talking.”

““ No, I did n't forget it, Mary,” said the boy, in a
still more vehement tone; ‘but, father or no father
it is a shame for him to conduct so. Just think of
mother, weak and sick as she is, wearing her life out
when there is no need of it, and receiving curses for
her reward! Mary, though he is my father, my
blood boils sometimes when I hear him speak to
mother so rudely. I sometimes wish he bore no re-
lation to me, that I might knock him down for it.”
and the boy’s hands were clenched convulsively. !

“Hal,” said Mary, in a soothing voice, for all
mother suffers so much, she never complains ; she
bears her sorrows like a saint. Her heart is break-
Ing with father’s ways, yet she prays all the time
for him. Did you ever pray for him?”

+N. Iam always so mad, when I think that
I ve got such a drunken father, that I feel more like
cursing than praying. O, Mary, it is awful to be
called the brat of a drunken rascal, as I am some-
times, when the boys want to spite me.”

‘““ And yet, Hal, that is nothing to what mother
endures; and think you she ever feels like cursing
him?’

Hal spake not for some minutes ; then he answered,
frankly, Yes, Mary, I was angry ; but how can I

 
 

148 HOME LIFE.

help it? To know that we might be happy and
comfortable, and yet are so unhappy and miserable,
just that father may gratify his selfish palate! How
happy we used to be! Do you remember, Mary,
the week before Thanksgiving, what merry times we
used to have? What sights of pies and cakes mother
used to bake, and what a grand dinner we had! but
now, now we are not sure of a dry crust. O, if I
could only do something for father. He ll kill him-
self soon, if he goes on so; and then mother’ll die,
and we'll be all alone. What can I do?”

‘“ Pray, like sister Mary,” said the sweet voice
of little Ellen, a child of seven years. ‘She taught
me a little prayer to say every night and morning
for poor father, and I know he won't be bad much
longer. Let me say it for you;”’ and she fell on
her knees, and, folding her hands, breathed a child-
ish petition to God, that her father might be made a
good man.

Tears were in the boy’s eyes when she said
amen, and better feelings were born within his
bosom. He sat silent for some time, when he said
to Mary :

““ Do you suppose, if I should go out and try to
work, I could earn enough in four weeks to buy a

Thanksgiving dinner? It would make mother happy;
~ for you know last year how bad she felt that she
had nothing for us, and how father scolded about it,
when it was n’t her fault. How much do you sup-
pose a turkey would cost ?”’

THE THANKSGIVING PRESENTS. 149

“A dollar, at least. They are always high at
that time, you know.”

“A dollar! I don’tbelieve I can earn a dollar,
but I'll try;” and his young eyes brightened;
“yes, I'll try; but don’t say a word to mother
about it. If I do get it, I want it should be a
surprise.’

The promise given, he ran off, full of his project.
An hour afterward he returned, and gave his sister
two cents. ‘It’s only a little,” said he, “but it’s
a beginning ; ninety-eight cents more, and we ’11 have
the turkey.”

Carefully was the copper treasure hid away, and
with a light heart the boy bounded about doing his
evening chores. The frugal supper was prepared
and eaten. The little ones were undressed and put
to bed, and Mrs. Merton and Mary drew up close to
the feeble light of a cheap candle and plied their
needles, while Hal sat on a stool by the little fire,
dreaming of those ninety-eight cents yet to be earned.
When the clock struck nine, their mother advised
both to retire. Hal obeyed instantly, for he had
been yearning to get up stairs and take a peep at the
precious two cents. But Mary, though her arms

* ached,— for, being one of her mother’s busy days,

she had done all the housework, beside tending the

babe,— pleaded to stay up and finish the shirt she was

making ; and for a full hour later she sowed, till the

last button-hole was made, and the last button on,

when, with a satisfied look, she rolled it up, saying,
12%

 
 

150 HOME LIFE.

in her pleasant voice, ¢‘ There is twenty-five cents
earned, mother.” The work on that shirt and the
words of that poor girl, — what a commentary on
cheap furnishing stores !

As the time wore on after Mary had left her, and
the hand of the clock pointed towards eleven, Mrs.
Merton became very restless. She would every few
minutes drop her work and turn her face to the door,
in the attitude of listening. At length a footstep
was heard upon the pavement, a familiar one. She
waited a moment, then, exclaiming, in a tone of
thankfulness, ¢ He is sober!” she threw on an
additional piece of wood and stirred the fire till it
blazed a pleasant welcome for the late-returning hus-
band. He entered, and addressed her kindly. It
was the first time he had done so for weeks; and the
warm tears rushed to her eyes; her heart beat almost
to suffocation. Habitual self-schooling assisted her
in controlling her feelings, and she answered calmly
and pleasantly. A half hour’s conversation followed,
when, after preparing him a cup of tea and a piece
of toast, they retired. On the face of the wife,
who, weary with the severe labor of her toilsome lot,
soon fell asleep, was an expression more pleasant

than had rested there for many a month. A few -

kind words from a sober husband had revived the
faint hopes slumbering in her bosom, and the dream-
child, with rose-colored pinions, hovered sweetly
above her pillow.

But her companion tossed, in vain attempts to woo

THE THANKSGIVING PRESENTS. 151

sleep, until the early dawn was lighting up the east.
Unhappy man! the curse of strong drink was on
him. His home, once as near a paradise as earthly
homes can be, had been by his own hands transformed
intoa hell. Sixteen years before, he had been wedded
to the beautiful Mary Osborne. The pet bird of a
lovely flock, he had taken her from the home-cage,
to sing for himself alone. A calm and happy life
was theirs during twelve years. Children gathered
around their fireside, adding golden links to the
bright chain love had woven about their hearts.
But the tempter came, and slowly, insidiously, yet
surely, did his fell work. For two years, the change
in Mr. Merton's habits was imperceptible to every
one but his wife. She knew it, felt it with a pang
that almost sent the thrill of despair through her
aching heart. Sad, sad is that time, when the wife
first learns to doubt the dear one in whom she has
been wont to place implicit confidence. Earth hath
not another trial so severe. It is the awful travail
of the soul, by which is born sorrow so terrible as to
be worse than madness. Dreadful was the ordeal
through which Mrs. Merton passed. At times, it
seemed to her the life-strings would snap asunder, as
though she could cut them with her own hand. But
nobly and well did she struggle with herself and her
fate. She looked into the faces of her little ones,
listened to the wail of the babe on her breast, and
determined to live for them.

The last two years of her life had been a constant

 
 

 

 

152 HOME LIFE.

succession of miseries. No longer could her hus-
band’s conduct be concealed from the world; and at
home his usually kind manner had changed to a mo-
roseness that was fatal to every latent hope of happi-
ness. Want, too, was added to their discomforts.
He was a mechanic, and could always command the
highest wages. So excellent was his work, despite
his habits, every sober day found him with plenty of
opportunities to labor and be well paid. But his
earnings were nearly all consumed by the raging
thirst within him, so that on his wife devolved nearly
the entire support of the family. But she labored
cheerfully, and never was the shade of discontent
upon her brow. As Mary had said, she bore all
like a saint. Until the last nine months, she had
been able, by severe exertions, to keep her family
from feeling the keen wants of nature. But their
destitution at the birth of her last child had obliged
her to leave her bed and seek employment, long ere
her exhausted physical situation had regained its
strength, and an illness succeeded, so severe as
almost to carry her into the arms of death. Without
a murmur would she have gone, had not the little
suffering family looked into her eyes so pleadingly.
For them she prayed to live, and, her petition
granted, after many weeks she rose from her couch
to take up again the heavy cross of providing for the
necessities of six children, besides bearing all the addi-
tional evils that fall to the lot of the drunkard’s wife.

Upon Mary seemed to rest all the virtues of both

THE THANKSGIVING PRESENTS. 153

parents. She was a noble girl, and, though young
in years, had the judgment of maturity. Without
her, life seemed insupportable to her mother. The
whole charge of the family was cheerfully taken by
the young daughter, and every leisure moment,
beside many stolen from needed rest, was given to
the needle, to assist in providing food and clothing.
For many weeks the father had contributed not a
shilling to their support; and destitute indeed was
their condition on that last day of October, just four
weeks before the appointed Thanksgiving.

IL

Very early on the following day Mary was up,
though it was a cold, dreary morning. So low was
their fuel, that she did all the necessary cleaning
about the single room they occupied in the day,
and even sewed for some time, before she kindled the
fire. Then, lighting one and preparing their scanty
meal, — scanty indeed, — roasted potatoes and salt
for the children, and weak tea and butterless toast for
the parents, she proceeded to awaken and dress the
younger children, all the while going on tiptoe, lest
she should disturb her mother, who, to her great joy,
slept much later than usual. When all was ready,
she summoned her parents, and rejoiced to find her
father in a gentle mood.

When breakfast had been finished, Mrs. Merton
took her sewing out and sat down by the window.

 
 

 

154 HOME LIFE.

Little Ellen fondled the babe, while Mary washed
and put away the dishes. Mr. Merton drew up by
the fire, and sat for some time with his face buried in
his hands. At length, rising, he went up stairs, and,
bringing down an old valise, placed it upon the table
then, opening the bureau drawer, he began taking
out some of his clothes and packing them. Mary
looked on with a troubled gaze, while Mrs. Merton's
heart sank within her. Again did her hopes faint ;
80 crushed was she by the transition, that for some
time she had not power to move. But the turning

. of the key in the valise aroused her numbed facul-
ties, and, springing up, she placed her hands in her
husband’s, and, with tearful eyes and quivering lips,
asked where he was going.

““ About thirty miles from here, to work,” was the
answer.

Well might the poor wife tremble. Once before
he had packed that valise and gone away to work, and
fresh was the remembrance of the beastly condition
in which he was brought home to her. She fell on
her knees before him, and besought him not to go.
She would work, would do all, everything, if he
would but stay with them. He did not kick her from
him, as he had done at times before when she had
there kneeled ; but, raising her from the floor, and
seating her, he said, in a firm voice, “I must go,
Mary!” Without another word he opened the door.
Ellen ran after him quite into the street, to ask how
long he would stay. “I will try and be at home by

THE THANKSGIVING PRESENTS. 155

Thanksgiving,” was the answer; and, hurrying his
steps, he was soon out of sight. The shock was 80
severe to Mrs. Merton, she was forced to lay aside
her work, and recline upon the bed for many hours.
Not until night did her physical frame recover strength
enough to permit her to resume her sewing; and
then it was with such a tremulous hand as told too
well with what agony the nerves were quivering.
Hal's was the only smiling face that evening. But
he had that day received a bright dime from a gen-
erous traveller; and the thought that one-eighth of
the precious money for the purchase of the turkey
was earned, could not but cause a few pulsations of
joy to beat in his young bosom. : :
Slowly and sadly wore off the days that intervene
between Mr. Merton’s departure and Thanksgiving.
Many were the privations to which his family were
subjected. The weather was severe for the season,
and so much of the mother’s earnings were required
to purchase fuel, as to leave only a very little for
food. The coarsest kind only was procured; and
sometimes one meal a day was all their scant larder
would allow. Still no murmurs were heard, but
the voice of praise and prayer went up oftener from
that humble house than from many a mansion that
want had never frowned upon. J
But time, though sorrow seems to make it long,
still ever has its end; and, at length, the day before
Thanksgiving arrived. Hal arose with a troubled
heart. In spite of all his efforts, there were still ten

 
 

 

 

156 HOME LIFE.

cents to be earned, ere he could procure his turkey.
He might have then counted it all. But, one even-
ing, so destitute were they, that they were obliged to
go supperless; and the boy, hearing the cries of the
little ones for food, and marking the faint appearance
of his mother and sister, took from his little hoard a
precious ninepence, and, buying some Indian meal
and milk, carried it home to them, whispering to
Mary, as he came in, “Ill trust to Providence to
replace it, for my present.” Had it not been for
that generous deed, he would have had the requisite
sum and two cents over; but he asked himself, as,
before going to school one morning, he counted it
over, would he have been so happy as he was, when,
after telling his mother it was money honestly gained,
she kissed him so tenderly and called him her noble
boy, and the little ones hung about him, thanking him
for their supper? His heart answered, No. Still, he
felt anxious about securing the remainder of the sum,
and right glad was he to learn from the teacher there
would be no session of the school that day. With so
many hours before him, he hoped to earn it. He
spent the whole morning in search of work; would
and did go two miles and back for a single cent;
yet, with all his exertion, when noon came he had
earned but four cents. The afternoon hours wore
on, the town clock struck four, and yet the six cents
were wanting. With a depressed heart, Hal was
turning from the market to go home, when an old
employer of his father, laying his hand upon his

THE THANKSGIVING PRESENTS. 157

shoulder, said, pleasantly, ‘ Are you very tired, my
little man?”
¢ Not at all, sir,” was the ready reply.
Then perhaps you’ll carry this bundle to my
house, and take this bright fourpence for your pay ?”’
Hal jumped so high when the coin touched his
hand as to astonish the man; which remarking,
he blushed, and, in a polite manner, said, “I will do
your errand, and am obliged indeed to you,” and
bounded off, his heart light as his feet. This duty
done, he hastened home. A sad, dreary-looking
place it was. The fire was low, and there was not a
piece of wood with which to replenish it. Mary sat
on a low stool, close to the few embers, with the babe
on her lap, her apron drawn close over its purple
arms, while around her were gathered the other chil-
dren, whom she was striving to amuse by the recital
of little stories. Mrs. Merton sat beside the window,
striving by the failing daylight to complete the child’s
dress she was busy with. Showing the fourpence to
Mary, and taking his money-box, Hal ran quickly
away. Proudly did he walk into a shop where hung a
good row of dressed fowls. Stepping up to the owner,
with whom he was well acquainted, he accosted him :
¢ Good evening, Mr. Goddard ; I want to buy a
nice turkey.”
“You buy a turkey ?’’ was the answer, in a sort
of incredulous, questioning tone.
“Yes; I should like to buy one.”
“Your father has got home, then, I suppose ?”’
14

 
 

 

 

158 HOME LIFE.

“ No, sir, he has not.”

The man looked a little curious, and wondered, as
well he might, how Hal could find means to buy a
turkey, for well did he know the situation of the
family. Then the happy boy took from his pocket
the little box, and told how he had come by the con-
tents. “It will buy a turkey, will it not, Mr. God-
dard ? ”’ said he, not a little anxiously. The man’s
heart swelled, and he was forced to turn aside and
wipe away the great drops that stole down his cheeks.

It was some time ere he could master his emotions
sufficiently to answer Hal.

“ How large a turkey would you like?” said he,
at length.

“As large as my money will buy, sir. We don’t
very often have good things now, and we shall all be
pretty hungry.”

Mr. Goddard took down a fine turkey and weighed
it. It was a little over ten pounds. He had paid,
that morning, a dollar for it, and could readily sell it
for twelve or fourteen cents a pound. But, what
matters it, said he, if I don’t make a cent on it, my
heart will be the richer ; and he handed it to the boy,
who, with sparkling eyes, paid down his hard-earned
money. It was a much finer one than he had antici-
pated receiving, and happy was his heart as he turned
to go.

““ See here, Hal! when you 've carried that home,
come back, and you shall have a nice pumpkin pie to
set beside it.”

THE THANKSGIVING PRESENTS. 159

The boy almost doubted his ears. Was it true?
A feast they would certainly have, and, running
home, he entered by the back way, and hid the turkey
in a barrel, till he could go for the market-man’s
present.

He, meanwhile, had run over to his dwelling and
related to his wife the circumstances.

“You can spare him a pie, can you not?”

“Of course I can,” said she. Sorry indeed
should I be to have so fine a family as the Mertons
go without a taste of pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving.”
She brought one and set it on the table. Looking at
it a moment, she added another. ‘There are a good
many of them, over there,” said she, appealing to her
husband, “and it an’t often they have good things;
and she placed beside the pies a large pound-cake,
handsomely frosted.

“I’ve got a plenty of them, and we shan’t be a
cent the poorer in the end, and they'll be a great
deal happier ; so, just take the cake and pies over to
him. She is a good woman — poor Mrs. Merton,—
that she is; and it’s a shame she hasn't got a better
husband.”

Hal really doubted his eyes when Mr. Goddard
showed him the presents. Grasping his hands, he
wet them plenteously with his tears. “I cannot
thank you as I want to, but, indeed, I am very
grateful.”

“ Never mind thanks, my boy; but run home with
them.”

 
 

 

 

 

160 HOME LIFE.

Swiftly did Hal obey, first with the pies, and then
with the tempting cake. Placing them on a small
table in the pantry, he entered the room, striving to
look unconcerned, though his heart beat so he could
almost hear it.

It was but a few moments ere his mother rose to
get a cup of water for one of the little ones, when
her scream of surprise, as she opened the door, more
than thrice repaid her boy for all his labors. She
could not understand it, and looked wonderingly from
Hal to Mary. The latter explained the phenomenon
of the turkey, and then the former related the gen-
erosity of the market-man and his wife. Mrs. Mer-
ton could not speak, but withdrew into another room,
to give vent to her full heart in tears of gratitude
for the blessings God had left her in her children,
and for the kind feelings which yet beautify human
nature.

She was calm when she returned, and, taking down
her hood and shawl, said, in a sweet voice,

“ Now that we have a turkey, we must have
some fire to cook it; I must go with my work to
Mrs. Trull’s.”

The children’s hearts were troubled a little. Mrs.
Trull was a hard woman to work for; so every one
said whom necessity compelled to labor in her ser-
vice. She always beat down the wages, and, even
then, was loth to pay them.

‘“ If mother should not get her pay!” said Hal,
in a doubtful tone.

THE THANKSGIVING PRESENTS. 161

“0, I guess, that is, I hope, she will,” replied
Mary, striving to speak encouragingly. ‘Mrs.
Trull was so particular about telling mother to get
it done to-night, that I am very sure she will get the
money.”

IIL.

Mrs. Merton ascended the marble steps of the pal-:
ace-home, herself quite confident of being paid on
presenting her bill. She rang, and in answer to her
summons the servant who appeared said Mrs. Trull
was very busy and could see no one.

“But I must see her,” said Mrs. Merton; “I
have some work she gave me particular orders to
bring to-night.”

“Give it to me, then,” answered the girl, in an
impudent tone, “and I’ll take it to her.”

““I must see the lady myself,” was the reply, in a
firm voice.

The servant went off muttering, and presently re-
turned, telling her to go up stairs. She went, and
found the lady, half-buried in the voluptuous depths
of her rocking-chair. Upon a rich cushion beside
her reposed a lap-dog; and she was busy, very,
indeed, in fondling the beautiful pet !

“ You wished to see me,” said the lady, in a lan-
guid tone, only half raising her head, and without
bidding the tired woman sit down. !

“I have brought home the child’s dress you gave

14% L

 
 

 

 

162 HOME LIFE.

me to make. You wanted it, I believe, this eve-
ning.”

“Yes, very much. Little Fred must have a new
dress for Thanksgiving. Let me see it.”

It was handed her. Carefully was every seam,
and every turn in the embroidery, inspected. It
was finally pronounced perfect, and then carefully
thrown upon the floor, and the dog-caressing resumed.
Not a word was said about the pay, and, like all
delicate minds, Mrs. Merton shrank from asking for
it. At length the lady looked up.

“ Ah!” said she, “I thought you had gone. Do
you want any more work ?”’

¢ Not this evening, ma’am; but —" She waited,
thinking the lady would speak; but she did not, and
the thought of her cold hearthstone gave her courage,
and she resumed :

“Tf convenient, I should be very grateful if you
would pay me for making the dress.”

‘You must call day after to-morrow. I haven’t
a cent of change.”

« But my children will freeze before that time. I
need the money very much.” There was a touching
pathos in the poor mother’s voice.

«T have told you when you could have it,” an-
swered the lady, with some asperity. Mrs. Merton
felt it was useless to contend with fate, when fate is
in the hands of a heartless or thoughtless woman of
fashion.

A single glance at her countenance, as she en-

THE THANKSGIVING PRESENTS. 163

tered her home, revealed to the children how illusive
had been their hopes. They said nothing, however.
For some time they sat around the little bed of ashes
each busied in their own thoughts, and sad, desolate
ones they were. It grew, at length, so cold, that
the mother bid them rise and run about to keep
warm. Hal started up at that moment.

“I’ve just thought of something, mother. I’Il
go down where they are building the new boat. I
saw a whole lot of large, thick chips there, this morn-
ing, and the men said any one might have them who
would carry them away. I’ll take a basket and get
some. They ’ll keep us from freezing, if they won't
cook our dinner ;’’ and off he ran.

He had scarcely been gone two minutes, ere he
rushed into the room almost out of breath, so eager
to tell his news.

‘ Mother, mother, what does it mean? There is
a man at the door with a load of wood, all sawed and
split,— and he says he was ordered to leave it at the
house of Mrs. Henry Merton, 15 Green-street. Do
you suppose it is ours?”

“Iam sure I can’t tell,” answered the mother,
half-bewildered, as she stepped out to see.

‘““Isn’t there some mistake ? ”’ said she, her limbs
trembling lest it should be so.

““ No, ma’am, I guess not. This is 15, and your
name is Mrs. Merton, ain’t it?”

““Yes; but who sent it?”

“Idon’t know. I always carry the loads where

 
 

 

164 HOME LIFE.

I'm told to, and don’t ask any questions; that’s
the way I was brought up. But come, show me
where your back gate is, that I can unload, for it’s
getting late.”

Hal pointed the way, and ran through to assist in
bringing it in, but cried out to his mother, who was
just closing the front door:

“There is something in the doorway, mother, I
can’t get out; bring a light, quick.”

Mary had just lighted the small end of a candle,
and, with her parent, ran to see what was the matter.
How great was their surprise at the sight. The ob-
stacle was a barrel of flour. Upon it lay a fine tur-
key and a half-dozen chickens; beside it, two huge
pumpkins, a bushel-basket full of potatoes, and a
covered basket, which, when opened, was found to
contain tea, sugar, coffee, lard, eggs, butter, candles,
and various little packages of condiments; not a
great quantity of any, to be sure, but sufficient to
make a merry Thanksgiving for the poor family.

Hal swung his old cap, and huzzaed so loudly as
to make the next door neighbor wonder what they
were about at the Mertons’. The mother and Mary
spoke not, but tears trembled in their eyes, and their
bosoms heaved.

A bright fire was soon kindled, and, after its ge-
nial warmth and light had diffused themselves over
the cold room sufficiently long to warm, thoroughly,
the benumbed inmates, Mrs. Merton drew them
around her, and knelt down, returning thanks to

THE THANKSGIVING PRESENTS. 165

the Father above for all his mercies, and especially
for their sudden relief from starvation and cold. She
prayed as only a mother thus situated could pray;
then, in a tremulous tone, went up an earnest peti-
tion for the absent, the erring one. Not a word had
they heard of him since he left, and her voice was
broken, as her fears, her hopes, her wishes, were
presented to her God. As she uttered the last
word, a deep, manly voice responded “ Amen; and
starting as though the magic wire had thrilled their
nerves, they beheld, leaning against the door, that
husband, that father, in whose behalf Heaven had
just been implored.

In a moment the happy man seemed very much
in danger of being suffocated with caresses. Hig
wife’s arms were about his neck ; Mary was kissing
one hand, and Hal the other; while the little ones
clung to his knees, and even the babe crept to him
and placed a tiny hand on the muddy boot. When,
at length, they released him, with what pride and
pleasure did they gaze on him; and well might they,
for he was a noble-looking man, as he stood there,
80 evidently himself again. Their cup seemed fall,
Drawing near the fire, he inquired kindly after all
and asked, with some anxiety, how they had got
along alone. Mrs. Merton looked at Mary as
though she wished her to speak, and the young
daughter, in a manner peculiar to herself, reluied
the month’s experience. As she ended, Hal clapped

 
 

 

 

 

166 HOME LIFE.

his hands on his knees, and, looking up to his father,
exclaimed :

¢ Sha’n’t we have grand times to-morrow?”

“I guess we shall; but, while listening to the
story of all your presents, I had almost forgotten
mine.”

“Did you, really, bring us a present, father ?”’
said little Ellen, pressing his palms; ¢then I know —"
She stopped, blushing and confounded.

“Then you know I haven’t been drunk, Ellen.
No; and, with God’s help, Hal shall not, very soon,
be called the brat of a drunken rascal.” His voice
was husky. He left the room, returning in a few
moments, however, and presenting his wife with some-
thing that seemed to the children like a small scroll
in a gilt frame. At a glance, Mrs. Merton compre-
hended it, and, giving it to Mary, escaped to the bed-
room, to give vent to her emotions. Surely might
she weep with joy, surely might Mary murmur,
“God bless you, father,” and Hal shout, and little
Ellen dance,— the present was a pledge of total
abstinence, signed HENRY MERTON.

After the lapse of some minutes, the father turned
to Mary :

“I have eaten nothing since morning, and have
rode thirty miles, and walked around in the city
considerable; can’t you give me some supper? I
wonder if mother couldn’t bake some of her nice
short cakes, if I should open that barrel of flour.”
Nothing in the room escaped Mrs. Merton's ear, and,

THE THANKSGIVING PRESENTS. 167

as soon as the last sentence was uttered, she rose
from the bed, and, bathing her eyes a few moments,
came out. She did not look at her husband, but he
did at her, and felt that all his struggles were repaid
a thousand-fold. :

Then was there a merry time in that apartment.
Hal brought in more wood, and ran for fresh water,
and filled the tea-kettle and an iron pot, and hung
them over the blazing fire; Ellen prepared some
potatoes and put them to boil ; Mary wiped the grid-
iron, and, drawing out a fine bed of coals, set it upon
them, and had soon a couple of fowls nicely broiling;
Mrs. Merton brought out the tin oven, and had some
light cakes rising and browning; while father, now
dandling the babe, and then tossing Fred and George,
was in everybody’s way, and yet just where every-
body wanted him.

When the meal was prepared and placed upon the
neatly-arranged table, a happier circle never gathered
around the festive board. All were hungry, and all
ate heartily ; no; not all, Mrs. Merton could scarcely
swallow a mouthful. She had been faint, and long-
ing for food all day, but her soul had now quaffed so
deep a draught of joy, that temporal wants were all
forgotten.

Late, almost midnight was it, ere the children
could be persuaded to retire. When they were gone,
and the mother’s foot had ceased to stir the cradle,
Mr. Merton, softly drawing his chair close to his wife,

 
 

 

 

 

168 HOME LIFE.

took her hands, and, looking into her eyes, asked, in
a deep, anxious voice :

‘Dare I hope my Mary will forgive the erring
one, will bless me with the kiss of love?”

Mary was speechless; but she pointed to the
pledge that hung above the fire-place, then looked
upon him with such an earnest, thrilling glance, the
love-light quivering so beautifully in her flooded
eyes, that he felt all was forgiven, forgotten. He
clasped her to his bosom, in a passion of joy, kissing
her brow, cheeks, lips, as though she were the bride
of an hour. And she,— her very soul was bathing
in Elysian dreams; heaven seemed her home, an
angel’s breast her pillow.

 
—————— nn

 

PRIDE AND PITY.

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

PRIDE AND PITY.
IL

“THAT is he,” exclaimed Ellen Lee, in a joyous
tone, as the street door was gently opened and closed.
“How glad I am he has come at last; I thought
it would never be two o'clock; ”’ and, rising hastily,
she shook an apron-full of gorgeous worsted upon the

carpet, tossed her thimble in the midst of them, and
was down stairs ere he, whom she had been impa-
tiently expecting, had laid aside his overcoat.

“0, father, father!” cried she, grasping the
hands of a fine-looking man, and gazing earnestly at
him. “I am so glad you’ve come. Do you know
I have been watching at the window a whole hour for
you? Pray, why did you stay so long?”

““So long, Ellen! why, it’s not late; the clock is
only now striking.”

“ Well, it has seemed an age since noon."

“Two hours an age! O, the extravagance of these
young girls; and the parent, half-reprovingly, half-
Jestingly, placed his fingers upon her lips.

“Now don’t, father, pray don’t use that word;

15

SL rs ar TIARA IR SHA AA, Ma i i
ye oy

We

pens hasnt

 
 

 

 

170 HOME LIFE.

you know two hours does seem a long while when
one is waiting for them to pass. So now lay aside
that frown, for it was only because I wanted to see
you so much, so very much, that the hours dragged
so.”

‘“ But why want to see me so very much?” an-
swered he, as he suffered her to lead him into the
parlor and seat him in his easy-chair.

Then the daughter, nestling at his feet, on a low
stool, and resting her head on his knee, as she was
wont to do when a little child, looked wistfully into
his face, parted her lips as to speak, and then turned
aside her countenance, as though she were half-afraid
to utter her wishes.

“You're strangely timid, Ellen. What is it you
want so very much, and yet dare not ask me for?
Come, let me hear it quickly; for, if my appetite
deceive me not, the dinner-bell will ring ere long. I
never refuse you anything reasonable, do I?”

¢“Q, no, no; and that —'’ She hesitated.

““Then you want something unreasonable, do you?
— another silk dress, ere the last has been worn a
half-dozen times, or —"’

“A new dress!” and the lip curled. ¢ No, in-
deed. But, father, which is the wealthiest, you or
Mr. Grey?”

¢“ What are you trying to come at, Ellen ?”’

¢ Don’t you think you are as rich as he?”

“Why yes, I guess I am. But why ask me such

PRIDE AND PITY. 171

a question? You and Julia have not been quarrel-
ling about your probable dowries ?”’

«Julia and I quarrelling ! why, father, but you
jest. I'll tell you, now, why I’ve wanted to see you
so much. Mr. Grey returned last evening from
Boston, and he has brought Julia an elegant gold
watch and chain. But she is not to wear them yet,
as he intended them for a New Year's present ; and
she only told me of it, because she wanted me to
have one just like it, as we have always dressed very
nearly alike —"’

“You need n't continue, Ellen; Ican easily guess
the remainder of your story. Itis only this; you
want your dear father to be as generous as Mr. Grey,
and give you a watch and chain for the New Year.
Is it not so, daughter? ”” and he playfully patted her
flushed cheeks. ‘But let me see, are you old
enough to wear a watch?”

«Qld enough!” repeated the young girl, in a tone
of surprise, and, rising, she drew up her graceful
form to its extreme height. Why, father, I was
eighteen last month; why, I shall soon be—"

«Old as the hills, sha’ n’t you, Ellen?” said the
good-natured parent. ‘But come, there is the bell;
we will talk of this at dinner.”

At the table, Mrs. Lee had so much to say to her
husband about some preparations for the approaching
holidays, that Ellen could not, without obtruding,
speak a word of the costly gift, and could only wish,
in secret, that the viands were despatched, and she

 
 

 

 

 

 

172 HOME LIFE.

again at her father’s feet. But, alas for her! just
as they were entering the parlor, he was summoned
in haste to his counting-room, ‘on important busi-
ness.”’

¢ Business, business, how I hate the word !”’ mut-
tered Ellen, as she proceeded to her chamber. “It’s
always business with men just when their wives and
daughters want them most. I wish— But she
checked herself, good sense whispering to her, if it
were not for that business, what would become of
those wives and daughters. ¢ But, after all,” said
she to herself, when she had again found her thimble
and commenced redirranging her worsted, ‘it was
provoking that he should be called away so soon,
when it will be so long before he will be in again.
Let me see what time it is,” and she glanced at the
clock on the mantel; ¢ half-past three; four, five,
six, seven ; three hours and a half; father may laugh
or frown, they will certainly seem an age.”

If it did not seem an age, it really did a very long
afternoon to that excited and impatient young crea-
ture.

“You will give them to me for a New Year's
present, won't you, father ?’’ said Ellen, when she
again found herself beside her parent. ‘Now don’t,”
— playfully covering his mouth as he was about to
speak,— ¢ don’t, this time, have a long string of pre-
liminaries. Say yes, at once.”

He shook his head.

19

PRIDE AND PITY. 173

“ Well, then, begin. What is the first thing to be
considered ? ”’

“How much will it cost, Ellen? a hundred
dollars ? ”’

““A hundred dollars, father! Why, you don’t
suppose you could buy a handsome watch and chain
for a hundred dollars! Why, Julia’s cost two hun-
dred and fifty.”

“Two hundred and fifty! Bless me; that is
twice as much as I had laid aside to purchase New
Year presents for all of you. I think you are grow-
ing modest, Ellen. What is the style of Julia’s
present? ”’

“0, it is beautiful, exquisitely so!” and then she
went on with a long and minute account of it, con-
cluding with, ¢ Mr. Grey says he don’t think there
is one in the city like it, and there was only one more
just like it where he purchased Julia's; so, father, I
want you to decide soon about it, so that we can send
for it, if we cannot find one here.”

“Yes, yes,” answered the father, musingly ; “but,
Ellen, if I give you the watch and chain, I shall very
soon have to give you a new breast-pin, and some
new bracelets; for, as the man said in the story, the
watch and chain will kill them.”

“0, no, indeed ; I would not exchange these for
any in the town. They are as beautiful as I shall
ever want.”’

‘“ But of what use will this present be?”

“What use? Why, father, a great deal more use

15%

 
 

 

 

 

A a a eg =
Ee ee

A in FS A A,

 

174 HOME LIFE.

than my pin and bracelets. Indeed, I always thought
I should like a watch, for the very reason that it
combines utility with ornament.”

« Utility ! yes, it will be very useful to you, as
we have only five clocks in the house.”

« But when I am out, father.”

«« Were you deaf, its utility might come in play
then; but as it is, the town clocks acquaint us of the
hours. And then, if it is only for the utility of the
thing you desire it, why, you can have a good silver
one for —"’

«« A gilver watch on a young lady in these days!
why, father, how it would look ! ”’

“Took! ah, yes; I suspect look has a little more
to do in the case than utility; and see here, Ellen,
if I give you this watch for a New Year present, I
ought, in justice, to purchase for your mother those
elegant silver pitchers which she has so much ad-
mired, and buy Harry the pony he has coveted so
long, and George that mocking-bird in the gilt cage.
Tt would look rather partial in me, and, I am sure,
would make you feel unpleasantly, to show to your
friends a gift valued at two hundred and fifty dollars,
while your mother and brothers could only exhibit
those which cost five or ten dollars. Have you

thought of this, Elly? You are not wont to be
selfish.”

« But, father, you are rich enough to buy the
pitchers, pony, bird and all, even though you should
give me a watch and chain. If I thought that you

PRIDE AND PITY. 175

could only gratify my wishes at the expense of mother
and brothers, I should despise myself for asking it of
you. But I know you need not do so; so come, be
a gags Santa Claus this time.”

— : 3 Si nothing else you can think of for a New

“No; if I can’t have these I don’t want any-
thing,” said she, rather pettishly. 7

£ a ‘hundred and fifty dollars will buy a great
many things; a go
wi A d gy » "i od many barrels of flour, and

‘“ Why, father, you talk as though you were poor.
You don’t expect we’ll have to use any the less
bread or fuel the coming year, if I have a watch?”

6 0, no; I was not thinking of ourselves, Ellen, T
was thinking of the poor. Such a sum would be a
fortune to many a family in this city. How many
many comforts it would produce; how much EEO
and suffering it would relieve.”

The young girl bent her head, and was silent
some time. There was a struggle going on in her
heart; pride and pity were at war. Which shall
conquer ?

. Upon the lapse of some moments, she spoke :

But, father, were you to give to the poor not only
the money which I ask you to expend for me, but
even the value of the pitchers, pony and bird it
would go but a very little way towards relieving
poverty, even in our own city. The mass would be
as poorly off as ever.”

 
 

 

 

 

176 HOME LIFE.

«That may be; but the reflection that I had made
two or three, or even only one family comfortable
and glad, would add not a little to the pleasant mem-
ories, to the substantial happiness of my life. And
then, though it would be but a mite, if every one
who is blessed as we are were to do the same, there
would soon be but little misery left. Never refuse
to do good because you can do but a little. Atoms
make the world.”

There was silence.

When Ellen spoke, it was in a subdued voice; “I
wish I had not set my heart so upon having a watch
and chain, but it seems —' and her lips trembled.

« As though it would break if you did not have
them.”

¢«(, no, not quite so bad as that, father,” and
che tried to smile; “but I should feel very, very
much disappointed.”

¢ And you really think the possession of the cov-
eted object would make you a great deal happier 2

«(), yes, a thousand —" She paused, fancyng
she felt the fingers on her lips. :

«But why would they make you so much happier,
Ellen? Come, tell me that, and mayhap, if my
purse is long enough, you can show as splendid a
gift as Julia.” :

¢«« Why — why — you see — you know, father,
began the daughter, and then she stopped. “I
hardly know why,” said she, at length, “but I feel
that they would !”’

PRIDE AND PITY. 177

¢« Well, if you cannot tell me why you would be
happier with them, perhaps you can tell me why you
would be sad without them. Would you have
thought of such a present if Julia had not received
one ?”’

She did not answer.

¢ Come, now, be frank. Would not the greater
part of your sorrow arise from the fear that Julia
would eclipse you? And would not the pleasure
arise more from a feeling of gratified vanity than
anything else ? ”’

Still she made no reply; she did not even look
into his face. She thought there must be a frown
upon his brow; for she knew that few things were
more despicable in his eyes than the desire of mak-
ing a show, or having certain things merely because
others did.

“ Am I not right, daughter ?”’ said he, very gent-
ly. “You would not like to have folks wonder why
Ellen Lee’s father did not make her as costly a pres-
ent as Mr. Grey did his. You would not like to
show your young beaux, on New Year's day, a less
expensive present than hers.”

“Do not go on, father, pray don’t; I see I am
very foolish —almost wicked; but I am so young.”

“ Young! I thought you were old, just now, El-
len. But we have moralized long enough here; I'll
warrant the tea is stone cold. A word in your ear,
for I see mother is watching us very closely, to see
how our talk terminates ; not, I suspect, without some

N

 
 

 

 

 

178 HOME LIFE.

selfish thought.” He bent forward his head, and
whispered something to her, when he again continued,
audibly, “ And now, daughter, for a kiss and our
tea.”’

« A dozen, a dozen kisses, father!” cried the
young creature, in a tone of ecstasy, half-smothering
him with passionate embraces; forgetting all the
significant reproofis she had just received, in the ex-
citement begotten by the hope of soon gratified
wishes.

«0, I am so happy now, so very happy!” and
she sank upon a sofa, buried her head in its cushions,
and dreamed away the evening hours in golden fan-
cies, seeming — even her father said so — to be im-
bued with the very spirit of happiness.

The illusion lasted till she had sought her cham-
ber, and laid her head upon her pillow. But as her
heart prepared to commune with holy things, she
realized that it was excitement, not happiness, which
thrilled her. She could not conceal from herself
the truth, that she had desired the watch and chain,
not half so much as a gift to be treasured in after
years as coming from a father’s hand, as to gratify a
feeling of vanity ; and she felt the surmise was too
true, that the pain of disappointment would arise
chiefly from the mortification of being outdone by a
companion. She began to wonder, too, what her
father would have given her for a present if she
had not teased him for this one, acknowledging it
would have been much better to have received

PRIDE AND PITY. 179

free-will offering, than what she feared he would
now give against his judgment. He was always
generous to his family; never gave them a mean
present; and had even said to her that he had appro-
priated over a hundred dollars for their New Year
gifts. “ But now ; why, how much these holidays
will cost him,” said she, and began to calculate : oe
ceased when she had added the price of the wad
and pitchers, and mused again. “But then. he’s
rich enough,” murmured she, after a while, and
stifling her conscience, closed her eyes and tried to
slumber. But the words of her father, “I was
thinking of the poor,” would recur to her mind
She knew him to be very charitable; and she knew,
also, that if he were rich, his position brought with
It many and heavy expenses. Besides, there was a
limit to his wealth, for he was very far from being a
millionaire. Perhaps, if he made Ais family such
expensive New Year gifts, many poor families would
suffer, who otherwise would have received aid from
his purse.

She had a kind, noble heart, and though vanity
might reign in it for a time, with calm thought its
crown would ever tremble. It was long ere she
slept that night ; and when at length she did, gold
watches and ragged children, brilliant chains and

ale- i
p faced men and women, were blended in strange
confusion.

 
 

 

 

180 HOME LIFE.

II.

Ellen seemed a different being the next morning,
when she entered the breakfast-room, so quiet and
subdued was she in manner. When her father re-
marked, as he rose from the table, that he should be
at her disposal that evening, for a voyage of discov-
ery among the jewelry stores of the town, instead of
half-devouring him with kisses, and then dancing a

lka with the wildness of a northern maid, she an-
swered only with a gentle smile and a ‘thank you,
father.” The change was not unobserved by him,
though he made no comment.

Some three or four hours later, as Ellen stood at
the parlor window, she noticed a young girl pass by
several times, pause a half-moment, and go on. She
was evidently a child of poverty, and it seemed even
of extreme destitution. Her patched calico dress
and thin cotton shawl were but feeble protection
against the keen air, while the snow had completely

soaked her far-worn slippers. Her hands were pur-
ple and stiff, and, as the wind swept by her, her fra-
gile form cowered and trembled before its cold breath.
At length she placed a foot upon the marble step,
glanced at a card she held, and, seemingly irresolute,
at last turned away. Ellen caught a glimpse of her
countenance as she stood there, and was deeply moved
by it,—so thin, and pale, and sad it was, bearing
traces, too, of recent tears.
«I hope she will stop here,” murmured Ellen ;

PRIDE AND PITY. 181

6 she seems to wish to, and yet is afraid. I’ve half
a mind to open the door and speak with her; ” but
as she turned from the window for that purpose, the
young ‘girl, apparently with a great effort, ascended
the steps, and pulled the bell. It was a very gentle
ring, and Ellen waited the time of no domestic, but
answered it herself, at once.
“Is Mrs. Lee at home ?”’ asked i
? the st
low, timid voice. yp
o She is; would you like to see her?’ answered
Ellen, in her sweet, pleasant way.
“I should, very much indeed, if i i
1t
is , would not dis-
i I don’t think she is engaged. Come with me up
stars, and I will see.” And, conducting her to the
sitting-room, she ushered her in, saying, very gently.
“ A stranger to see you, mother.”
; “ Good morning,” said Mrs. Lee, in a tone so cor-
4 as to make the poor trembling thing feel quite
at ease. “DD i ; 1t 1
oT raw a chair to the fire; it is very
“ Mr. Lee directed me here, ma'am. He met me
" a moment when I was in great distress, and was
ind enough to say I might call upon his wife, and
foros she might furnish me with work. And O
If you can, ma'am,” her tears starting,
very gratefu > Tia
. She does not beg,” said Ellen, to herself; ‘no,
bs, with tears, asks only for something to do. Poor
Ing, so yop = not yet as old as I,— and amidst
|

 
 

 

 

 

 

182 HOME LIFE.

strangers, seeking for work! » Beautiful charities
began to germinate in her moved heart.

¢ What kind of work would you like ?”

« Any plain sewing, ma’am. I am used to all
kinds, and perhaps I could make a vest, if it were
not too nice. I had almost learned, when mother
was taken sick.”

¢ Then you have a mother?”

¢ Yes, ma’am; but she has been very sick, and I
am afraid —’ Her voice was choked.

« What has been the matter?” inquired the lady,
very gently, after the pause of some moments.

¢« Over exertion, ma'am. Since father lost his
sight, we have had to struggle very hard to live ; for
I am the oldest of six. It has been all we could do,
work as hard as we would, to pay our rent, and keep
half-warm and half-fed : and when little Willie was
taken down with the measles, we had to spend 80
much time with him, that we got behindhand with
our rent, and mother worked night and day for a
fortnight, and it was too much for her; she almost
died, and I am afraid will never get well again.”

¢“ But you think her better?”

¢ Yes, better, ma'am; but she will never get well
till she has comforts which we cannot provide her.

0, if you will only give me work ! Life is sad now;
but should mother die ’— and she wrung her thin,
cold hands, and wept.

Mrs. Lee and her daughter were unable longer to

restrain their deeply-touched feelings. There was

PRIDE AND PITY. 183

something in the expression of her countenance, and
in the tones of her voice, that made them feel her
tale was true, and her grief but the outpouring of a
stricken heart. The entrance of a domestic, bearing
a tray with luncheon, aroused the mother, and, calm-
ing her feelings, she poured a cup of tea, and, filling
a plate with cold pastry, placed them before the
weeping girl, inviting her as cordially as though she
were an old friend to partake with them.

She glanced at the delicacies, blushed as though
she wished, yet did not dare, to speak ; then faltered
out,

“If you would not think me very rude, I would
ask if I might take them to my mother; she needs
them more than 1.”

«(), no, no,” answered Mrs. Lee, smilingly. “I
should lose forever my reputation as a skilful nurse,
were I to allow a sick woman to eat such things as
these. But I have some very nice soup, which I
prepared this morning for an invalid friend. I shall
be happy to send her some of that; it is very inno-
cent and strengthening.”

“ Thank you; thank you,” quickly responded
the girl; ““¥ shall be very grateful.”

“I will get it for you, then; meanwhile, eat your
lunch. It will perhaps refresh you; you seem very
tired. Ellen, I want you a moment; ” when, with
delicate tact, she left the timid girl to partake of the
dainties, without the embarrassment of eating before
strangers.

 
 

 

 

 

184 HOME LIFE.

¢ 0, mother, mother!” Ellen sobbed out, when
they were alone, ‘‘do give her something. How I
wish I had not spent all last quarter’s allowance. If

ou will only lend me some money, mother.”

¢ No, Ellen; you know that is something I never
do. If my children wish to give, it must come from
their private purse.”

« But you won't send her away without anything,

mother ! ”’

¢ Certainly not. What she asked for I shall give
her, and such other things as I can present without
paining her. She did not beg, and were I only to
give her some money, and let her go, her self-respect
would be humbled.”

¢ Fver kind and considerate. When shall I be
like you?”

After giving their young visitor time to get thor-
oughly warmed, and to eat a comfortable meal, they
returned to the room, Mrs. Lee bearing a bundle and
basket, and Ellen a pair of lined rubbers.

¢ Here is a fine shirt, which I want very much,
this week ; do you think you can do it?”

«T think I can; and I will try to sew it as neatly
as you can wish,” answered the young girl, mod-
estly.

«1 will pay you in advance for this one,” said the
lady, placing a dollar and a half in the small, thin
hand ; “and this evening T will send you somo coarser
sewing, which you need not hurry with.”

PRIDE AND PITY. 185

¢ But, ma'am, yo i
p EB hs b: , you do not mean to pay me all this

“Ido. I know itis more than the usual price
but I am very particular, indeed, quite old-maidish
about my sewing, and I know that one cannot afford
to do work neatly, unless properly compensated. It
is my usual price. And here,” continued she, as
she saw how earnestly the girl strove to thank Ber
“in this basket I have put up a small pail of broth
and a bottle of syrup, for your mother. I think the
will help her; indeed, I am sure they will ; they
what I always recommend to persons recovering from
illness caused by exhaustion.”

“I should be happy to lend my rubbers,” said
Ellen, as the stranger rose to go, too much overeome
speak the gratitude which glistened in her eyes.
: You can return them this evening, when the work
x i I think you will find them very comforta-

2 If I could but find words to thank you both!”
i Sant be, in a broken voice. “0, itisso new
0 have folks kind ! i
i En tome! God will bless you!”

Domestic duties called Mrs. Lee at that moment
to another part of the house, leaving Ellen to her
own reflections. She sat for a long time motionless
her hand upon her brow, a tear now and then steals
ing down her cheek. At length, murmuring at in-
tervals, “It is an opportunity — it would buy a great

many things — Fethaps this blindness might be cured
*

ee EE pd Mn A sn pe

 
 

 

 

 

186 | HOME LIFE.

— how very sad she was; 7’ she left the room, and,
gaining her chamber, threw herself on a lounge, and
suffered, mind and heart to revel in sweet day-
dreams.

IIL

Her father did not return to dinner, but sent word
he was too much engaged, and requested an early
tea, that he might go out with Ellen.

Scarcely were they seated at the table, when Mr.
Lee remarked, <I sent a young girl here, this morn-
ing, in quest of work. Have you seen her?”

‘We have,” answered mother and daughter, in
one voice. ¢ Where did you find her ?”’

«J was in one of the clothing stores, waiting to
see the proprietor, when she came in. My heart
ached for her, as soon as I glanced at her, she was so
ill-protected against the cold. She drew near the
stove, stood a moment, then, in a very timid manner,
approached the counter, and, in a plaintive voice,

asked the clerk if they had any work to put out.
¢No, of course not to strangers,” was the reply, in a
coarse, impudent way, when he added, with a leer,
¢not even to such a pretty one as you are.’ The
blood crimsoned her face, and her eyes filled with
tears: but she silently left the shop. I followed
quickly, and, overtaking her, inquired, as delicately
as possible, if I could render her any assistance. tQ,
sir,’ said she, in a touching tone, ‘if you would but

PRIDE AND PITY. 187

give me work.” She was too much excited for me to
learn much of her story, but I gathered that she was
the sole stay of a large and afflicted family. I
thought, at first, to give her alms, and let her pass;
but thinking female sympathy and advice might do
her more service, I directed her here ; and I am glad
I did so, for I know two such kind hearts would de-
vise many things a man would not think of. I think

~ you said you saw her, Ellen?”

“I did, father.” And then she gave an account
of the visit, in a manner which affected them all.
She knew but little of the sorrows of the poor; in-
deed, she had never before been in such close contact
with them — never realized so vividly how much they
have to endure. Her gentle heart was moved deep-
er than it had ever been before, and the pathos of her
voice affected her father almost as much as her story.
He felt that the vanity he had mourned over was, as
yet, but a temporary guest; that, evil spirit as it
was, it would soon be cast out by the angel of love.

As they were preparing to go out, Mrs. Lee en-
tered with a bundle. “I intended sending this by a
domestic, but, as you are going in the immediate
neighborhood, I should prefer your taking it: You
can easily ascertain, then, if the tale we heard was
true. You have the name and number, I think, El-
len?”

““ Yes, she gave it to me at the door, as she was
leaving. Do call, father.”
“I will; but we must hasten.”

 
 

 

 

 

 

188 HOME LIFE.

They passed rapidly from square to square, giving
only causual glances at the illuminated store win-
dows, where gifts of almost Oriental elegance dazzled
the eye and tempted the purse, until they paused be-
fore the most brilliant of all —a jeweller’s establish-
ment.

¢« We will first look in here. They have usually
the best and most costly assortment.”

Like gliding at once into fairy land, seemed it to
Ellen, as they entered; and like a fairy she seemed
herself, as, in her sparkling beauty, she passed from.
one rich ornament to another, each new one seeming
to outvie the last. Iam glad I knew before I en-
tered just what I wanted,” said she. “I should
have been bewildered, had I come here to choose a

gift, It is really intoxicating to one’s eyes, tO be-
hold at once so much that is rare, and dazzling, and
superb.”

But, brilliant as was the display, and large as was
the assortment, a watch and chain exactly corres-
ponding to Julia’s could not be found ; and they con-
tinued their walk.

Turning up a cross street, a few steps brought them
to one of those dark, narrow lanes, which are at once
the pest and disgrace of every city.

¢: The sixth house from the corner, you said. This
must be it, then,” as they stopped before a gloomy-
looking wooden tenement. «Tn the cellar, was it?”

«t So she said ;”’ and the young gir] shuddered as
they went down the rotten and yielding steps. The

PRIDE AND PITY. : 189

Sho was so dark, the place so low, the neighbor-
x } 2ppacensY. 80 vile, that fear almost supplanted
te eeling of charity. But her father seemed un-
ismayed, and, opening the door without knocki
iy Bele hese way through a long, narrow nll
re, through a chink in the plastering, gli :
a feeble light. Feeling along the Fo
touched a door-latch, Ro gently ti
moment admitted by the same young girl they had
- in he tri Hoi
n the kind way peculiar to hi
changed greetings with her, and Iss oi,
he and his daughter had brought Ber the s Tl
wife had promised. ? a i
“Thank you ; you are very, v ind,” sai
and rather timidly invited ha um
seats. Rude ones they were — old wooden stools
which the plane and the paint-brush had
touched. a died
“What a place for human beings to exist in!”
fy Ellen, as she glanced oh es wn
3 2 no disorder; but poverty, gaunt, thread-
= B Fo, stared at them with its hollow eyes
hi skeleton fingers beckoned for charity. The
fs Sorataim floor yielded fearfully at every
pos P > ile the crumbling ceiling seemed ready to
oe least unusual jar. The winter wind
iy i ismally in the narrow hall, and found its
w y rough a thousand crevices into the room —
W coming with a fierceness that threatened to ex-

 
 

 

ip
ail §
gi
81
£1] §
lf
gill
| §

gl
§
El}
Bll §
8 f
: |

5 3
B |
iB

SH a Eh
— rn AA
od on SP

 

190 HOME LIFE.

tinguish the dim light, and again making it flare so
wildly that the shadows seemed like a spectral host.
(Close to the fireside, where burned, or rather smoked,
a single stick, was drawn a cot, upon whose straw
layer reclined the pale and emaciated mother, covered
only by one thin and tattered quilt. Beside her,
slumbered a little, meagre, purple child, some three
or four years old” Upon a heap of straw, in the
corner, at a little distance, slept two other children,
an old, worn, woollen blanket wrapped closely around
them. Upon a rickety chair, almost within the
chimney-place, sat the sightless father, soothing gen-
tly,— as though he were a woman,— the moans of a
little one which had known but two summers. A
small pine table was near the bed, upon which stood
an old black bottle, the neck broken off, so as to sup-
port a cheap tallow candle. Beside it, leaned a young
lad, of about ten, his head bent closely to the pages
of an old, much-worn book. A few plates, a single
spoon, knife, cup and saucer, with a couple of tin
pans, were arranged on the shelf over the fire-place;
and this was the summary of Elln’s inventory.
¢ These, father and mother,” said the daughter,
tt gre the kind friends to whom we are so much in-
debted.” The mother strove to raise herself, but fell
back, and could only murmur, in a faint voice, *“ God
bless you, God bless you! » The blind father, ashe
took the hands which Mr. Lee and Ellen extended,
wet them with his tears, and, with a choked voice,
said, “These sightless eyes cannot see your faces,

PRIDE AND PITY. 191

but this poor, stricken heart will always keep you
memories green. I would try to thank no ;
sympathy and kindness are so new to us i is
us too deeply for words.” yaa
{Saving Jian the mastery of their emotions, Mr
ered Into conversation with the hu wd
. . - sb d
lamod bis history, while Bllen, by the bedeide o the
mother, listened to a whispered recital of her Sores

da ? y Ww
ughter’s devotion. Their stor as sad, but trite;
7

= one tone of that voice that goes wailing through
i Sats of every town; that voice, which, or
ing 2p from) amp cellars, down from dusty garrets
Wi RD gltony alloys i dark courts, blends in .
, h, plaintive at first, will

BSD ie Beret er rene]
ik anity is moved to
8 5 dois till love reigneth upon earth as it doeg

cc
i ve ig parted with all the comforts we ever
- i ; : f e iid to his visitors, as he concluded
a ih all, all, save that old book, my
» 3 ible. Thank God! poor men’s spirits ma

. rink, and keep warm, though thei 7
starve and freeze ! 7’ > ge ones
Wi did Ellen cling to her father’s arm, as at
og ; emerging from that lowly home, they found
Ra 7 again in the filthy street, which, echoing
ha woes of degradation, was well calculated to
errify the heart of a timid girl.

“Let us go home,” whi
8 : :
ened footsteps they passed poze she, as with quick-

re nt

-
—— kl lh PL.. - Rit -
Sn i RA AE Si .
————

pw —

SARE ———

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

192 HOME LIFE.

« But we have not yet finished our tour, daughter.
The evening is not far advanced ; had we not better
continue ?”’

In a sobbing voice, she answered, ¢ No, no, father,
Jet us go home ; my heart needs relief.”

New Year day came with its pleasant festivities.
The splendid mansion of Mr. Lee, thrown open to all
his friends, presented a scene of social enjoyment, at
once bewildering and beautiful. A happy new year
was the music of each lip; it thrilled the chords of
every heart, and sparkled in every eye: Happiest
among the happy was the young daughter. She
seemed, indeed, to have quaffed at the fountain, yea,
and to have bathed in its pure waters. Never had
her laugh rung out with merrier music; never had
her glance beamed with such angel beauty; never had
her voice been 80 delicately sweet in tone, Or her
hand so cordial in its grasp There was a heaven in

her young soul, and all she did or said was tinged
with light from the holy fire within.

When (and it was often in the course of the day)
the conversation turned upon the gifts of the holiday,
Mus. Lee exhibited a pair of superb silver pitchers;
Harry expatiated on the merits of a jet black pony;
George bore his friends in triumph to the gilded cage
of a mocking-bird; while Ellen showed only a small
basket, woven with exquisite skill, from the ever-

eens of the woodland, lined with the softest moss,
into the handle of which was wrought, with the

PRIDE AND PITY. 198

v

white blossoms of the i i
everlasting, the single word —
ce
Wh you youll not have me infer that this
ey o as it is, ' said an intimate friend, as Be
d the rustic gift, “is all you received i
ae ved for the
cl 1
hi 2 os oy Ellen, with a sweet smile; “I
| ge roll of bank bills fi %
a s from father; but
or them :
Ie at present, I put them at
cl 5
i A interest ! where, pray, and at what rate ? ”’
? oy questioner, in an incredulous tone :
Rs 44 x xy Sol sir ; but, rest assured, it was
will never fai hi i
Ali heed ail, and which pays inter-
; Ber secret — would you learn it? In a pleasant
ip Soom in one of the most comfortable tenements
ide, airy street, on the skirts
airy of the town
buppy family will reveal it. They will show =
Ir neat, warm sitting-room, with i
ng , with its new rag car-
pet and Yn curtains, caught up just anh to
ve space for the sunbeams t i i
. 0 quiver amidst pots
3 Soe geraniums and monthly roses. They ill
Se I father’s large easy-chair, and mother’s
4:4 ii I i vss workstand ; a dining-table
wy cloth; low seats for the li x
Td ; or the little ones; a
a for the weary, and neat chairs for Friends a
Fo Salm, of the most approved pattern; a de
br = a pair of lamps, burnished to almost silver
ess. They will take you into neat bed-rooms,
N

 
 

 

 

 

194 HOME LIFE.

| $14 ntry, where new
tably fitted up; to a pa

Dio arias tins are neatly arranged ; Sug 3
dh where a barrel of flour, and boxes, = gs
of rovisions are stored, and a ost, wv 5
black Lehigh glistens. yy wig Yo , pele
entle group of JO : 3

ue ot and tremulous lips, will tell you E

D

len’s secret.
they bless her at nigh
came to them like an a

ini f charity. :
: —. a and fifty dollars will buy a great

many things!”

ay for her.in the morning ;
a x : Y oy think of her ever. She
)

; ry tn Tle wings
ngel, with healing in its Wings,

THE CHILDREN AND THE NOVEL.

“ WELL there,” muttered Mrs. Lee, in a somewhat
petulant tone, as she laid down her babe, ‘thank
fortune, the last one is abed and asleep. Now for a
little comfort.”

Carefully drawing the blankets around the tiny
form, she rested one hand for a few moments upon
the gently-heaving breast, stirred the cradle with the
other, singing the while a low lullaby.

Assured, from its soft breathing and quiet limbs,
that it was indeed asleep, she turned from it quickly,
drew her low rocker to the stand, picked up the
light, and took from underneath a miscellaneous pile
in her work-basket an uncut novel.

“What a beautiful title,” said she, all traces of
weariness vanishing with electric rapidity from her
countenance. As her eyes glanced over its pages,
the dull look they had worn all day disappeared, and
the light of anticipated joy flashed in its stead.

“I know I shall be pleased with it; I feel that it
will be interesting,” continued she. What charm-
ing names the author has chosen. None of your
common Johns and Hannahs, your Roberts and Mar-
garets; O, no! here is noble Rodrigo, poetic Clar-

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

196 HOME LIFE.

ence, sweet Florilla, pretty Lillia, saintly Therese ;
why, there is not an ordinary name in the book.
The writer must be one of unusual taste!”

Having hastily cut the leaves, she shaded her brow
with one hand, grasped the charmed book with the
other, as though it were polished gold, and she a
miser, and commenced, in the phrase of enthusiastic
novel-readers, to devour the pages. y

Rapidly did her eyes run Over the first chapter.
But then, she turned her head with a quick, impa-
tient movement. Did she not hear a rustle in the
cradle? Yes, a little hand was lifted from beneath
the cover.

«Too bad, too bad; he'll be awake all the even-
ing now;’”’ and she glided with a noiseless step to
the child’s side.

But the eyelids were still closed ; the measured
breath of slumber stole gently from the half-parted
lips, and the offending hand rested in quiet beauty
upon the soft cheek.

Tt was a fair, sweet babe, whose little heart had
throbbed but one short summer. As it lay there,
the spell of sinless sleep upon its brow, it seemed

the type of all things pure and blest. Eden, with
oll its loveliness, never charmed the gaze of Eve
with such a beauteous picture. The holier feelings
of the mother’s breast were touched, as by a hand
from Heaven. The angel began to trouble the deep
waters of her soul, as she stood beside that cradle-
bed; and when, after a vigil of several moments,

THE CHILDREN AND THE NOVEL. 197

Joan og Seg she bent her head, and im

n 1ts lips the kiss of love, th i .

; e healin
flowed for an instant, then ebbed for the rn

not yet read. ii

aay her seat, Mrs. Lee again took her

a the fiction seemed to have lost some of

Js fe ation. F or some time her glance vacillated

het #ses 73 fugly prinial pages and her heaped-u

J Ses 8 even put on her thimble and econ
Vase 8 ut a moonlight scene, where in a honey-
pi » o in the noble lover draws a hing

18 bosom, and pours into h
witching words of wi Spohn g
vild courtship, acted li i
the reader’s mind SY he
and she b
a . ecame absorbed in the
Th i

i $ Son) and third chapters were soon perused
as i entering with increased interest apon
he nk , When a sweet voice from the trundle-bed

a : out, ‘‘ Mother, mother ! ’

. er ear caught the sound, but it made no im-
I yo upon her mind, till it had been several times
ropes oh then, turning quickly, in no very gentle
Hi 5 le Sxehimed, “ What under the sun do you

izzie
ip ) I thought you were asleep an hour

Cl
he : ii been asleep, mother,” answered the little

: = er, in a timid tone. ‘I waked up because —"
a ig you are a naughty girl, and wanted to

gue me. Strange that I can’t have a minute’s

comfort ;”’ and, goi i
; : peg hastily to the bed, she drew

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

198 HOME LIFE.

the clothes around the child, and bade her shut her

eyes and go to sleep.
«T want a drink, mother; 1 can’t sleep, I am 80

thirsty.”
The mother looked around ; there was neither

pitcher nor glass in the room.

« It’s always just SO. I never forgot to bring up
water, but you were Sure to want some. Why
didn't you drink last night, when I had a whole
pitcher-full for you?”

«« T wasn't thirsty last night. Do please give me
a drink, and I'll go right to sleep.”

«] am not going fo run down stairs again to-
night ; so just turn over and shut your eyes; ” and
che sat down again to her novel, leaving the thirsty
child to its thoughts or dreams, as the case might be.

Lizzie, as she said, wanted a drink very much.
and so she turned, and tossed, and tried to think of
everything but water, while that was all she could
think of.

« If I only had one little swallow,” murmured she
to herself, ¢ I guess I could get along till morning.”
But she might as well have wanted a pail-full ; there

was no hope or prospect of getting any. By and
by, she spied, upon the stove-hearth, a tin cup.
«The baby’s milk!” said she. ¢ Perhaps that
would be as good as water. I wonder if mother
would let me have it.” She looked toward the pa-
rent. She was absorbed in her book; her very
. being seemed bound up init. The child knew too

THE CHILDREN AND THE NOVEL. 199

much to disturb her. Bu
\ > her. t perhaps she could i
i disturbing her mother, and she did a ;
ow: so much. She hesitated a while, then cre :
a ] J out of the bed, stole to the cup, seized gh
Sg 4 and took a swallow. But it tasted bette
a dgm it would, and her thirst was in
hay ned-it. Alarmed at what she had done she
es I ae haste to put it down, that it slipped er
jor on ; ng hss, bing against the stove, fall
earth, and rolling thence wi
““ Why, Lizzie Lee!” sc pe
! reamed the moth
ping her book and running to the child. rn
5 Se ho is you've been about! spilt all the
) | warrant,” as she took up th
cup. ; Then, seeing the carpet was i A oi
oe Lizzie by the shoulder, exclaiming a an
uy Yolo 4 What have you done with the milk
ittle plague? 1S mi :
you, Bugle, P gue Tell me this minute what’s
“I was so thirst 2
\ y, mother,” answered the child, i
a pleading voice, tears starting to her eyes : fo, 1
not go to sleep, and so —"’ Hany
o CA
ratte I Br it, did you, you naughty girl?”
sag os Is. Lee with increased vehemence of
fo 23 Cg 4 24 I have n’t another drop of milk
se. I'll teach you to do such things,”
Sal bee hand came down heavily upon the shrinkin
oulder, once — twice — three times! A wild
scream of pain burst from the child’s lips. Another

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

200 HOME LIFE.

and another; and, angry and excited as the mother
was, they pierced her heart as with sharp arrows.
The noise startled a younger child, who slept in
the same bed with Lizzie. Frightened from its sound
slumbers, it shrieked an alarm, when the babe, wak-
ing at the same moment, joined its voice with the
others, not in harmony, but in one of those discords
which echo so often in the nursery, stunning the ear
and bewildering the brain.
With quick steps, quick hands and a softened
tone, Mrs. Lee strove to calm the tempest she had
raised. Lizzie’s cries soon merged into piteous sobs,
but Willie and the babe continued their loud screams,
till the mother, in her perplexity, would fain have
wrung her hands and sat down and wept with them.
She run from one to the other, soothing, singing,
entreating. But they would not hush in the least,
till, as a last resource, she took the habe in one arm,
Willie in the other, and, thus burdened, paced the
chamber. Her limbs ached with the effort, her voice
grew plaintive, her heart sad and sore with the up-
braidings of a conscience she had strove too long to
stifle. She breathed sweet music in the ears of the
little sobbing creatures who struggled in her arms,
but not a word of anger fell from her pale lips. She
felt she was the guilty cause of all her trouble. A
little forethought, a little self-denial, a little disci-
pline of temper, and all had been well.
It was a long time ere she ventured to sit down
and rock the children, and they did not soon close

THE CHILDREN AND THE NOVEL. 201

ak dyes in sleep. They would start and scream
3 2 | Tyna long, sad sighs, that the tears
mbled in t ?
iio e mother’s eyes would flood her
Hea i hy they rested in a sweet, wilin slumber
us s at a loss how to put them down, to relonsy
8 weary arms, without the risk of new confusion
Tre Vg 2 00 War she could call upon for aid.
¢ Yes, there was the little, trembli
in -
ture, whose tender skin still amie with oe os
tisement of an angry mother
“ Lizzie,” called the m
other, after a 1 ile, i
a very low, gentle tone. praen
I child was quickly beside her.
= Sn your little chair, and sit down close to me
e if you can draw th ie
oo e baby on your lap with-
ae did as directed, and the babe was soon
: ie to her heart, her lips breathing childish words
of ection over its unconscious form.
oy carefully did Mrs. Lee lay down her little
a % and for some moments she sat beside him
Sun ing gently his fair brow, twining his golden
around her fingers, and pressing the softest and
Rete of kisses on his still lips.
0s gchag so Lizzie, she took from her arms the
e, and, placing it in the cradle, bent over it, whis-
Me the fondest terms of endearment
Biv down beside it, she covered her face, and
ght grew busy. By and by Lizzie stole quietly

.

 
 

 

 

 

 

202 HOME LIFE.

to the chair, knelt beside it, and buried her head in
the mother’s lap. Mrs. Lee’s hands toyed with the
soft, brown curls that fell over it in such rich profu-
sion, and several times pushed them off the forehead,
when the child felt the mute pressure of her lips.
For some time both were silent. At length Lizzie
looked timidly up, saying, in a touching voice, “I
am so sorry, mother, I made you so much trouble.
I’1 try and never be thirsty again when you are
reading.” The mother’s heart started; she drew
the child to her bosom, embraced it fondly, closely,
as though she thought by pressure to still its painful
throbbings. Then, bearing her to the bed, she sat
her down, and hastily left the room.

She soon returned, a glass of water in her hand.
«Thank you, mother,” said Lizzie, when she had
quenched her thirst; ¢ you will have a good time
to read now, for I shall go right to sleep.”

With eyes brimful of tears, the mother bent over
her child, and kissed her again and again. And
Lizzie, feeling that she was quite forgiven, and not
dreaming she had been more sinned against than
sinning, threw her arms around her parent's neck,
and gave back kiss for kiss. Then, nestling on the
warm pillow of her little brother, she closed her
weary eyes, and in a few moments was sound asleep.

For a long while the mother knelt beside the low
couch, and when she rose and sat down again by the
stand, she left the novel where she had dropped it,

THE CHILDREN AND THE NOVEL. 203

but took from her basket an unfinis
: hed d i
or fingers plied her needle. Sth sn
t was late ere she’ placed her head
upon her pil-
Ly a she did, the doll, completed and iy
essed, lay by the side of Lizzie,— the novel, half-

read, upon th igh, i
ro hy a ¢ Lehigh, in the stove, a handful of

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE SLATTERN CURED.

«En deshabillé again, Helen?” said Mr. Ellis
to his daughter, as she made her appearance in the
dining-room, some fifteen minutes after the ringing
of the bell; ¢ I thought by your want of punctuality
you were making a late toilet, but,”’— pausing a
moment to scan her more closely —¢it seems that
could not have been the case. What a fright you
are! I declare, you are hardly decent! Were you
a child, I should dismiss, without a hearing, the
maid who allowed you to appear in such plight ; and
I have half a mind now, young lady as you are, to
send you back to your chamber. It is bad enough
to see you looking so at breakfast; but at dinner,
too, is quite too much for my patience. You violate
not only good taste and all the laws of etiquette, but
the commandment of Heaven, to honor your father
and your mother!”

A frown trembled upon the usually placid brow
of the old man, and the flush of dissatisfaction red-
dened his cheeks.

The young girl whom he addressed made no reply,
but her face wore a deep crimson, and tears gathered
in her eyes. Choking down hurriedly a few mouth-

THE SLATTERN CURED. 205

fuls of food, she rose abruptly, and, murmuring a
wish to be excused, glided with fleet steps from the
room.

“The most incorrigible slattern in town!’ said
her father, as the door closed on her.

“0, no,no!”’ responded his wife ; ¢ you judge her
too harshly. She is not worse than a hundred others.
It is a rare thing, in these days, to find a young girl
who pays much attention to her dress when expecting
to see only her own family.”

“ But that does not palliate Aer fault. Nay,” he
added, quickly, as he saw his wife about to answer,
“don’t say a word for her. She is entirely inex-
cusable. During the thirty years that we have lived
together, I have never once seen you in attire that
was not perfectly neat. And if you, with all your
cares, can thus pay attention to your dress and per-
son, I am sure Helen can. If she appears thus in
her home, when her time is all her own, what will
she be, how will she look, when the responsibilities
of the housekeeper rest upon her? I tell you, wife
she is sowing the seeds of future misery. This going
so negligently about the house, only dressing up
when company is expected, or when going out, is
one of the most fruitful causes of domestic troubles.
No man can long respect a slattern; and, when once
a man ceases to respect the woman with whom he
associates (I care not in what relation she stands to
him), he will not be apt to trouble himself much
about her apple I wish I could make Helen

 
 

 

 

 

 

206 HOME LIFE.

realize the trials in which her careless personal habits
will involve her.”

« She is young yet,” pleaded Mrs. Ellis.

« Young! A poor excuse for a girl of nineteen
appearing at the dinner-table in the attire she did.
She is old enough to know that her old father ought
to be honored as much, at least, as those whiskered
dandies which frequent her parlor. 1’d wager half
my fortune, nothing on earth would tempt her to let
one of them, brainless fops as they are, catch a glimpse
of her in her usual breakfast and dinner costume.
And yet, if I did not almost daily remonstrate with
her on her habit, she would seat herself beside me in
her slatternly undress, year in and year out, without
the faintest approach to a blush.”

The old man was silent some moments. When
he again spoke, it was with such a bitterness of tone
that his wife thanked God in her heart that she had
ever made her family and their joy her first, chief
duty.

~(tGlorious times, these latter days! Rags, filth

and frowns for home; dress, beauty, smiles, for the
street; curls for the stranger, tangles for the father;
satins for the lover, calicoes for the husband!”

He paced the room several times with rapid steps,
his hands pressing nervously his head, as though he
were revolving some half-matured idea. At length
he seated himself beside his wife, exclaiming, ab-
ruptly,

«1 have it now. I believe I can yet cure Helen;

THE SLATTERN CURED. 207

at least, I will hope till the i i
Cured she must be, if th he
must be taught that it a Li oe
respect the household in which she ha A
as she does the acquaintances of a day. Shois nl
pou oF Joe beauty and of her taste, and Bn
ms Sau be mortified. It will be a bitter
e, I know; yet she will one day bless the

hand that gave it. Ih ;
now I will plot.” ave preached till I am tired ;

5 Bistiornly enough was the figure of Helen Ellis
Sew in her chamber. Her head, with its
fides e rons seemed like the plaything of a
: i ne wind ; while her dress, minus half its
Sook i out everywhere except where it should
Te Hse A iy Some Soir the crows.
oo : angled aroun
° le? Spd ties with res SL
: a a 5: rm ox made a good sign for a
op Ry : Ss eed, in her present attire, seemed
: She was now weeping, and bitter]
Jon om, The words of her hanpsnnes :
Seon y] op ving heart; and she longed to throw or
hi i is hak and beg to be forgiven ; to whis-
= yah : hat she would never again be guilty of the
pag. But, alas! she had been forgiven so
many s, she had broken 80 many vows, that she
amed yet again to plead and promise. So
J

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

208 HOME LIFE.

for the hundredth time at least, she resolved that
nothing should tempt her to appear before her pa-
rents in a dress that was not perfectly neat; and
then, sore with the upbraidings of a guilty conscience,
she repaired to her toilet, and in a short time had so
metamorphosed her appearance, that a stranger would
scarcely have recognized her.
She was a beautiful young creature, and, being
gifted with exquisite taste, knew how to heighten
every charm. Every braid of her glossy hair was
arranged with artistic effect; every ringlet drooped
like a pencilled shadow ; while every flower nestled,
and every gem glistened, just where the lover of
beauty would have wished them. Colors, fabrics,
styles, all were scanned closely by her fastidious eye,
ere the choice was made, and then she might have sat
for a painter's study, so faultless was the drapery
that clothed her girlish form. In the street, the
soiree, the ball-room, wherever there was company,
she was ever the model after which scores were copy-
ists. But in her home, in the society of those who
loved her most, at the side of her father and mother,
she was — what, alas! too many young ladies are —
a slattern. No worse, as her mother said, than a
hundred others, but only, like them, the slave of a
habit which, though sanctioned by fashion, is ever &
curse to its victim.
For several days after her abrupt departure from
the dining-room, Helen kept her vow to the letter.
Her father did not fail to observe the change; though

THE SLATTERN CURED. 209

the lessons of the , im i
i  , 2% 1nd well taught him it was
a Sa fe parlor one evening with an open
a and, his countenance brilliant with joy.
from Edward?” exclaimed his wife and
angie, simultaneously. =
“News of him,” answer “i
friend, Frank Howard, a : Nw o Wi
day, and will be with us in the course of a Bore bo
} will be almost equal to seeing Edward ; for he has
I i jie every day for the last five years.
a oo elen, if you want to make a conquest
ve some ¢clat attending it, prepare your-
self. Young, handsome, rich, a traveller with P
risian accent and foreign moustache, who has dined
with noblemen and looked through = opera-glass at
the queen,— why, he is worth more than ail 0
old flames, would outweigh them all in the bai n
of fashion ! He remembers you, too, speaks of iin
as a fairy vision which dazzled years ago his ;
glances, and, in the next sentence, says that wea ‘od
a travel, he shall settle in a quiet ome of “his
wn, as s i
- a Soon 28 he can find a bird to charm him with
Tapping gently the flushed cheeks of the young
daughter, he asked in a gentle voice if she — ill,
feverish he knew she must be, her face wore so Fright
a scarlet, and then he strove to feel her pulse ; but
like a young fawn, she glided from him, and Zann :
18% 0 :

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

HOME LIFE.
210

. ing } ams beauteous
elling in dre
was Soon rev
her chamber,

jes of a poet’s trance. e words
as the fancies RY chlor her! Those ge
Vrask Howe in in her heart ; and ric

g )

If that she lived in

dared flatter herse had been

she bad Pov et thus she had, and he oe rh had
Ins ror I spoke of her, or hy

her out he had seen her, kr I for his

passe ked no loveler di

artist could Laine a of Helen Ellis, as, Bathe on

encil than the p on, she reposed on a

‘ est mo g
a ioe hands folded passionately above
gon couch,

.
] m .

, as bent on nd the
maiden NS she marked the gray % pt :
aside the ji NG danger of company
pattering :

broider ! ”’
ime I shall have to em -
oi > hastily dogprdened, Iw i g
. i diligently :
teadily and a
_ gto, the material rich,
was a es
ique, the fit perie
oe Kart 17 cried she, eh
i . and then she proceeded to try it re
a 1 zed in the mirror, consclo ie
aie a been so choice of the new
reason w

after several hours of

THE SLATTERN CURED. 211

Frank Howard would
evening, so late that he
ladies till morning.

probably arrive late in the
would not expect to see the
A breakfast-dress was the first
in which she would appear to him. What wonder
she had spent so many hours upon it !

The dinner-bell rung just as
the dress in her wardrobe.
ments at her feet, she repai
Never had she entered it in
have stood for the model

Helen was placing
Hastily donning the gar-
red to the dining-room.
worse plight. She might

slattern of the nineteenth
century. No brush or comb had touched her hair
since the previous evening. The back was a mass of
tangled, frizzled braids, with here and there g hair-
pin dangling, while in the front was a cluster of
embryo curls, some rolled in white cotton, others in
black silk, and a few i

I common newspaper. Her
dress was that most unbecoming of all deshabilles, an

old light silk, “tattered and torn,” too short by
several inches, and the “skirt loose in two or three

Places from the waist, which latter had but two
hooks.

from her

Her elbows protruded very unceremoniously

sleeves, while every time she raised her
arms the curious observer mje

ght note the quality of
her linen. Her shoes were, as usual, down at the

heels, and their once elegant embroidery stood now
at loose ends. Black silk hose were the first she
happened to see in the morning, and, without stop-
Ping to compare or contrast the color with her dress,
she had hastily drawn them on, so hastily that in
one of them a large rent was visible. The only

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

; HOME LIFE.
212

“i

Ww inen pocket-
whole clean article about her was a li P k
’

’ €

e,— she
oe : e than one sense,
fastidious in MOY r mother
fe ward the parlor-door to summon pom oo
Perec he had quite reached 1t, 1t ig op loo a
but, ere s in his wife an :
her father hay et __ a visitor, and, a single
| what did 8 ¥ 1 oung men
Li 1d her, one of the most aept ys oe fact,
glance to ' Ti A second look revea Te er:
she Bal over had met him before, and, ere he
4 i o to introduce him, she recogn
had tim d!
__ Trank Howard: ther
Be fi childhood to waned, rae
he ‘ 12 ili appearance, ws a gente:
ne " chould not ony he in : sudden start
e 0
was, nature Spo « My daugh-
w=: ake oxost gaze, as 4 oe ya at
and a ips of Mr. Zils. ;
T om the lips © +d it some mild
ter, i Se of her, he had fiuclot 3 hol
flops oh he could not conceive W y But,
J ed To appear thus before orien
wy wi versed in fashionable life, vealed to
Somew ent and confusion of Helen id Oe MT
Cia moment the true state of ' This settled in
mm Avra evidently 7: caught. 1 drawing
a 1 self-possession returned, and,
his mind, his .

THE SLATTERN CURED. 218

gracefully her arm within his own, he led her to the
table.

How she ever got through the meal, what she
did or said, Helen could never distinctly remember.
She was conscious of only two things — a fiery heat
in her face, and a looking out for some loop-hole of
escape. She was afterwards told that she had eaten
her soup with a fork and her potato with a spoon ;
put jelly on her lettuce and sugar on her meat,

mustard in her tumbler and vinegar on the cloth,
and, oftener than she did au

with a napkin.

She was pledged to the temperance reform, yet
she wished then, and with all her heart too, that
there was the good rare wine to detain the gentle-
men, as in olden time. But, no; when her mother
rose, they did likewise; and by the side, even hang-
ing on the arm of Howard, she was forced to enter the
parlor. He led her to one of the most inviting seats
in the room ; unfortunately for her, it was in a corner,
and so disposed that to escape from it, without reveal-

ing to him the unhooked waist and the naked heel,
was impossible. Her parents drew their chairs close
beside her; so that, with them on one side and How-
ard on the other, she found herself a captive for the
whole long afternoon. The guest had so much to
tell them about the absent one, and th
ask, that neither tired.
Helen fancied that her father enjoyed her confu-
sion; and this thought added much to her chagrin,

ght else, wiped her eyes

ey so much to

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

214 HOME LIFE.

Indeed, he managed his plot so adroitly, that he not
only obliged her to be led to the supper-table in the
same slatternly attire, but afterwards to pass the
whole evening in their presence, without the slightest
opportunity to change or arrange her dress. Late,
almost midnight was it ere she found herself again in
her chamber.

That she buried her head in her pillow, and wept
long and bitterly, will be conceived as a matter of
course; but none save herself, or one who has passed
through the same ordeal, could number the pangs of
mortification that wrung her young heart, or the
resolutions that took root there. No sleep sealed her
eyelids that night. Thought, busy, earnest thought,
was her companion ; and its vigil did a holy work in
the maiden’s life.

She did not dazzle the eyes of Howard at break-
fast with her splendid robe and neatly-braided tresses,
nor did he have a glimpse of her during the three
days that he tarried. But, months afterwards, he
came with her father an unexpected guest to dinner;
and, although a more stormy day is seldom known,
he found her in attire so perfectly neat and elegant,
her beautiful countenance, with its deep blushes, s0
bewitchingly shaded by the softest of auburn curls,
that his heart leaped with joy, feeling that the fairy
vision had come again.

The father’s plot had indeed worked well. This
practical illustration proved more effective than all
his precepts. It was a bitter dose, though, as he

THE SLATTERN CURED.

215

well said i
i gid % would be,—so bitter that the recipient
a The forgotten it; for the only subject
Sop ich I elen Howard dislikes to hear her h

nd dwell, is the first dinner he eat, the first on

ing he spent, in her father’ i
a , ather’s house, after his European

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

¢ 0OMPANY EVERY DAY.”

i i . but what say
«There is no place like home,” saith the song;

our youths and maidens ?

Tag family of Mr. Elton, with the exception of
the eldest son, were assembled, Se sl Naa
ing. in what was styled by the house
og wcautnn, They called it little, not uy be-
its di ions fai titled it to that adjective,
cause its dimensions fairly en ’
istinguish 1 he back chamber 0
Iso to distinguish it from t :
bo ran house. The little one was in an ell Peily
over the kitchen, and originally Jaga}, one na
in the capacity of a satety-valve
suppose, to serve In ggg
it as. whenever the steam, smoke, y
Cobich last, though, was not often the case) became
disacreeable to the ¢ hired help,” she had only to
open the back-stair door, and the lower room Was
speedily relieved of its surplus moisture, vapor,
ight be.
mell or caloric, as the case mig
: This little back room, which, by the way, Bad
been the cause of considerable contention during the
three years Mr. Elton had occupied the house, was
of an indefinable shape. It was neither square ee
round, yet it had both straight lines and curves. The

‘ COMPANY EVERY DAY.” 217

ceiling was low, and, in consequence of the culinary
clouds which swept so often across it, of an iron-grey
hue; while the walls, which, in common parlance,
were ‘‘ whitewashed yaller,” had, from the same
cause, assumed a shade similar to that which distin-
guishes an old cent.

The furniture was very simple, nothing but what
seemed actually necessary finding a place there. The
floor, or middle portion of it, rather, was covered
with a rag carpet, in which one might see not only
every color, but every shade of color under the sun;
while the nooks and corners were pieced out with
bits of oil-cloth, green baize, and worn-out druggets.
An old-fashioned turn-up bedstead occupied one cor-
ner, concealed by curtains made from old calico
dresses, and like delicate drapery shaded the two
windows. A three-legged stand, which had been
the crowning ornament of Mrs. Elton’s grandmoth-
er’s square room; five chairs, no two of which were
alike, and all so antiquated and tottling as to lead
one to suspect they came out in the Mayflower, if
not out of the ark; a dumb stove, and a couple of
wooden stools, comprised the inventory.

Everything was scrupulously neat, except the ceil-
ing and walls; everything was in perfect order ; and
yet the room wore anything but an inviting look, and
produced any other than a pleasant sensation upon
entering it. One felt, when seated there, that he
had a roof to shelter him; but as to farther sense of
comfort, there was none. Yet this room, this little,

19

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

218 HOME LIFE.

low, ugly, chilling, grease-scented hole, with its din-
gy, sweaty walls and antediluvian-like furniture,
was, during the day and evening, used as pation
and sitting-room by all the members of Mr. Elton’s
family, and in the night as a sleeping-room for the
two daughters. ;

Why, think you? Because 1t was the poorest,
meanest apartment in the whole house, and it saved
labor, time, light, fuel, wear and tear, and et ceteras
innumerable, to occupy it as they did. And, more-
over,— and this was the climax of all the reasons,
and had been advanced time and again by Ms. El-
ton, — ¢“ it kept the front part of the house in such
nice order for company !”’

This Mrs. Elton was a woman of many excellent
qualities. She was a pattern housekeeper, active,
industrious, frugal, neat. It would have been diffi-
cult to have gathered ‘a spoonful of dirt” in her
whole house; there was never a dish appeared on
her table spoiled in the cooking; never a garment
laid away unmended ; never anything lost or wasted.
She was called, too, a model wife and mother. There
was no man in the town whose linen was so white,
or whose clothes were so well brushed and cared for,
as her husband’s; there were no children who, in
appearance or behavior, excelled hers. Were her
family ill, she forgot her own existence In the care
she bestowed upon them, and, whether sick or well
herself, labored for them incessantly, work seeming,
indeed, the object for which she lived.

‘ COMPANY EVERY DAY.” 219

Much of their present prosperity was evidently
owing to her good management and skill in house-
hold affairs. They had begun at the foot of the lad-
der, but, after a union of nineteen years, had left
many a round behind them. They dwelt in a spa-
cious, elegant house, furnished (one room excepted)
with taste and splendor; had a comfortable sum at
interest, and were doing a prosperous business. The
world had looked on, and its comment had always
been, “Elton is a lucky fellow; but no wonder, he
has such a capital wife;”’ and more than one man
had secretly envied him his treasure. Everybody
told him he ought to be a very happy man ; that his
ought to be a very happy family! He thought so
too, and tried to imagine they were; but years of
stern reality had convinced him that such was not
the case, and often he feared it never would be. And
why? A reason there was; a strange one, too. He
was Mrs. Elton’s husband, and the young boys and
girls that clustered around their fireside, her chil-
dren. Do you stare? Let me state it then in an-
other form: He and his children were only er
own family ;”’ they were not company !

Mrs. Elton, with all her good qualities, and they
were many and fine ones, belonged to that class
(alas, that I should have to add it), that large class,
who think nothing too good for company, nothing too
poor for their family. There was no need of warm-
ing the parlors every day, and lighting them every
evening, just for her own folks; the little back cham-

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

220 HOME LIFE.

ber would do quite as well. There was no need of

using the dining-room at every meal, spreading the
table with a damask cloth and china and silver; and
the kitchen, with coarse brown linen, cheap crockery
and plated spoons, would do just as well when they
were all alone. And so on, ad infinitum. Her
own family must not take the comfort of their wealth,
because, forsooth, something might wear out. Yet
she would give parties, though the company did more
injury to her house and furniture in a single eve-
ning than her own family would do in a whole year.
A plain table would do for themselves, yet she would
furnish an entertainment for visitors, the cost of
which would spread their private board with luxuries
for many months. She loved her husband and chil-
dren dearly, but there was no use of making a fuss
for them ; that must be reserved for company. She
must do her duty to her family, not strive to make
their home a happy one. Her house must be pleas-
ant when friends were gathered there; it was no con-
cern of hers how dull when they were absent.

They were assembled, as I have said, one cold
winter evening, in the little back chamber. Mr. El-
ton sat in one corner, his chair leaned back, his head
resting on the wall, his arms folded listlessly. His
eyes were cast upward with a steady gaze, rivetted
probably on some imaginary picture, for that ceiling
surely could not thus arrest them. His countenance
wore one of those moody expressions, so difficult to

¢“ COMPANY EVERY DAY.” 221

analyze, so unpleasant to behold. He had dropped
off one of his slippers, and thrust one and then the
other foot against the dumb stove, as though he
thought by pressure to elicit from it some little
warmth. A wise proceeding, in truth, for if there
were any heat in that stove it was fair to conclude it
was all latent ; at least, so spake those blue noses
and quivering chins. The model wife sat in an op-
posite corner, busily engaged in knitting. One might
have supposed, to see her fingers ply, that a fortune
depended upon her toeing off her stocking that eve-
ning. Around the stove were gathered the two girls
and the youngest boy, all conning their lessons for
the morrow. A goodly portion of the evening had
been spent by them in a vain attempt to make their
lamps give light without smoking. One would pick
up the wick, and exclaim, “ Now I can see a little
better; ”” and another would draw it down, saying
“I shall be suffocated with the smoke.” F nally, it
would seem, they came to the conclusion that what
could not be cured must be endured, and chose, what
seemed to them the least of the two evils, a wiverable
caricature of twilight ; — though once in a while
when a momentary pain flashed through their strained
eyes, their lips would curl, and a keen ear might
i. Sctocted escaping from them the words cheap
oil!
A cold blast swept down the alley, and shrieked
around the ell. Ss involuntary shiver ran over the
19%

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

299 HOME LIFE.

parents and children, and they looked hastily towards
the stove.

“Do, for pity’s sake,” exclaimed the youngest
girl, to her brother, ‘run down and put some wood
in the stove. I don’t believe there is a spark of fire.
I’ve been half-frozen all the evening, and I shall
soon be quite so, a perfect icicle, if somebody don’t
conjure up a little heat.”

«I should think,” said the elder one, in a tone
purposely affected, as she looked up from her philos-
ophy, ¢ the mercury would hardly rise higher than
zero here.”

«It’s well for you, then, sis, that you ain’t a
thermometer,” cried the boy, in his blunt way.
¢« Here, put on your cloaks,” and he brought them
from a closet, and threw them over their shoulders;
“wrap yourself up in them a few minutes, and I
reckon 1°11 steam up here some. Yes,” apostro-
phizing the stove, “I’ll warm your dumb tongue so
it ’11 talk a little. Give us the light.”

“ The lamp, you mean, Ed.,” said Fanny, rather
dryly.

«Q), yes, I forgot; there is a difference ;”” and he
bolted down stairs, his mother calling to him, ‘‘ one
or two sticks will do, Edward ; it’s almost bed-time.”
If his ears heard the words, and it was hardly possi-
ble for it to be otherwise, his mind did not seem to
comprehend them, for, furiously raking up the embers,
and trespassing without mercy on the morrow’s

‘“ COMPANY EVERY DAY.” 223

kindling, he crowded in piece after piece, till he filled
the stove with a generous warmth.

“I wish,” exclaimed he, as he was running up the
stairs; “I wish,” repeated he, as he leaped into the
room ; then, as he put down the lamp and seated.
himself on one of the stools close to the stove quite
out of breath, he a third time cried out, «I Who

“ Wish what, Ed.?” said Fanny. “Do pray
take a long breath, and speak out.”

‘c 1
x Ne then, I wish we could have company every

The girls laughed, nevertheless exclaimed with one
voice, “We'll join you in that;” then, speaking
the words slowly, as though she were all the while
thinking, Mary continued, “If we only could have
company every day!”

“ What, children!” cried Mrs. Elton, and her
mouth and throat were full of impressive sentences
as to the folly of such wishes, when a sudden glance
at her husband checked their utterance, and she swal-
lowed, or, rather, choked them down.

““ Why, children ? ”’ said the father; ¢ why should
you like to have company every day?”

“0, because,” exclaimed Mary; * because, be-
cause,” chimed in Fanny and Edward.

““ Because what? Don’t all speak at once. Come
Mary, as the eldest, I will begin with you.”

“0, I have forty reasons, father.”

“Say a hundred,” said Fanny.

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

224 HOME LIFE.

«« A thousand, while you ’re about it,” said Ed-
ward. :
Well,” said Mary, “I can sum them all in one

sentence: I am so much happier then.”

« Happier when strangers are around you, than
a”

when your beloved parents and sister and brother
asked her father, a little reproachingly.

The tears gushed to her eyes. You misunderstand
me, indeed you do, father. Tt is not the company I
care so much about, though I dearly love to see my
friends; it is not that so much as the privileges we
have then.”

¢ What mean you by privileges, child 27” and Mr.
Elton darted a searching glance at his wife.

«Why, a great many things, father. For in-
stance, that of having the parlors opened and warmed
and lighted, and then sitting down in them and en-
joying their comforts. I believe I should feel a great
deal better if I could only spend all my evenings

down stairs, amidst that elegant furniture, and gaze
upon those superb pictures and ornaments, tastefully
arranged curtains, and those charming frescoes. I
should n't tease you to go out half so often, if we
sat down there all the time; but up here —”’ she
hesitated.

« Your father and I,” said the mother, in a some-
what bitter tone, would have been glad of so com-
fortable a room as this when we began the world.”

«Well, mother, if we had n’t any better room
than this, if we could n’t afford to have any other, I

{L
COMPANY EVERY DAY.” 225

should n't complain. As it is”’—

: 3 ir Je J Rave a house, od ok Soa the

a ens oral from his partner, Mr. Elton

oie 3 Day y appealing to the second daugh-
“Mary gave some, in what she said about the

parlor. We often 1 ;
hos of Ces ay awake nights and paint pic-

“Your brush?
blunt as usual.

i 0
tongues are our brushes, sir. They are
pictures for the eye to see, but for the heart to

revel on; i
; word pictures; home pictures, we call

them. If we could
1 : .
Fappy We dhould yi 8 y see them in reality, how

Cc
i Yai fo Jo8 mptus, though,” asked the lad,
'e of momentous thought,
4 $ thought
2 J suppose, girls, would become of this ag
’ chamber, if we should have com >
ay, and use the parlors ? *’ ?
€l 3 :
a a. Lm 1t now; ” and a roguish smile lurked
h San com 4 of i 7s and his dimpled cheeks
a capital place for old
= al p or old Rover t
t 3 > bad to put him out doors such cold i
i A : ae “pinion you must have of our bed-cham-
X ” : fan of turning it into a dog-kennel ! 7’ re-
ia on, as though highly offended. Then
i g to her father, she continued: “You know,
» We always use the dining-room when we have
P

Yo  : :
ur brush? sis,” cried Ed.

any every

 

 

 

4 x — ALAR, ae Bnd Bi mv " a - — —- I - eat - a.
omega — ras = . TE Pa Cita
. , n i i sans RT NIRS

 
 

 

 

 

996 HOME LIFE.

it i much pleasanter than that
ps I, that you can Wi
ites tience there. Ellen is sure to have vis :
bn to scrape, and 3 We a 2
alwa :
ig at ge ey in yr do syuyay
I, k a wise; it ’s a confusion of tu es, ]
od ws Ard then we can never get t Fg
pe ni having some strange body ar J
Wi oe 44 door to know ‘is thar eere a gil | y
Joe of Ellen O'Leary lives with ye, mam :
: iy gave the accent perfectly. SY
i 11 laughed, even her mother, 0 she
: Dy ot smoothed her face, saying, — y
ons ald Te glad of so good a place to ok in. Ty
on Tr mother,” rejoined the daughter; BE
Wr ry did of the parlors; if we had mo 4
AA Y should be contented; no, I can by
= ma but I should n't grumble. I always ave,
wg dh g shall say, there is no use In Ravine
nk hi Jon't increase our happiness. We Big
nd. b oor. as to live all the time as though Se
. a But come, master Ed., let us have y
es and reasons.
ih FER I don’t know Wns joke
0 “the hall lamp is always lighted fon, 4
gu tok breaking my legs every time - co po
J all black and blue, now, with : s
Se h th dark. And then — well, every! og "
Se then, and that’s enough, of itsell,
g -

‘ COMPANY EVERY DAY.” 227

make anybody wish for company every day. Be-

sides, we always have good things to eat then, and
don’t have to eat them off of cracked earthen ware,
either; and then,— well, the beginning and end of
the story is, we have a first-

rate time all round. I
always give three cheers when I come in sight of the
house and find the parlor blinds open. If ever I
get to be a married man, I mean to call my wife
children company,
day ! 7’

and
S0 as to have a good time every

“But tell me,” said Mr.

Elton, addressing the
three,

if you could have the pleasures attendant
upon the reception of company, without th
ence, would you be as well satisfied 2 »’

“ Yes, yes, indeed,” responded they with one
voice.

“We wish for company every day,” said
Mary, “because we should like to have our home
pleasant and happy every day; and you know, father,
— you have often said it, too,—it is the dullest place
in all creation, when we are alone.”

An awkward silence ensued.

eir pres-

Mary broke it by observing, in an anxious tone,
“The reason that I have most at heart, father, for
desiring company every day, is on account of brother
George. He never goes out when we have company,

but he never any more stays at home when we are
alone.”

The parents startled as Mary paused, and their
hearts in a moment grew sad and anxious. They

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

HOME LIFE.
228

and wh Ww w? It was ten o'clock.
as he now? i
“Tt Ite " said Mus. Elton, and she went to h
’

listen.

indow as though to

i yes,” urmured her husband,
)

be.”
ED which though rather husky,
then a voice, ’ oh:
pu) musical, was heard trolling a coarse neg
was :

the alley pavement.
song, and footsteps sounded upon the Ty me

joi their mother.

i a a a taste in msl ge =
ol oy matters, bordered upon Siedtionyess : oe
Ee back of the kitchen door a i di

i ts, and In 8 Wa

hi pi yoom and up in he
on stumbling, now stamping, NOW whist a

Satin As he came in, he burst mto “hs
DD hol with a rowdy air through the c i
Pa bin his hands, and exclaiming, Comes!
at first-rate! let ’s have it again: e
: oo ” he was indeed, for the moment, Sa

wr fhe presence of his family. They loo

cy es wp George?” inquired Mn
fter a while and there was 2 touching pathos i» 1
pow The ‘brother did not notice 1t; ‘he hea >
onl his brain was too misty to distinguish the

thoughtfully,

words ;

ig i nd a dev’lish
« Been! I’ve been to the circus, a

| capital! go it,
fine time I’ve had, too! ha, ha, ba p

“ COMPANY EVERY DAY.” 229

st

old fellow! ha, ha, ha! But it was confounded hot :
my blood burns yet; and, going to the window, he
raised the sash, and suffered the cold night air to fan
his flushed face. Taking a handful of snow from the
sill, he held it to his brow a while, when, as it began
to melt, he rubbed it through his hair, till it hung in
wet locks over his damp forehead. His long walk in
the keen wind had cooled somewhat his fevered blood;
his ablutions with the liquified snow, and the con-
scious presence of his family, aided in sobering him,
—for he was only in the first stage of dissipation.
His step was firmer, his countenance more rational,
when lhe closed the window and again paced the
chamber.
“I thought,” said Fanny to him, as she rose and
Joined him in his walk, “I thought, George, you
never went to amusements without some of us could

accompany you. Pray, why did you go off to-night
without taking us?”

“Take you!” he answered, in a sarcastic tone ;

“take my sisters to the circus! A fine place, indeed,
for you!”

“If it was not a fit place for your sisters,” re-
torted Fanny, with considerable spirit, “I am quite
sure it was not a fit place for my brother. George,
George,” she exclaimed, passionately, grasping his
hands, and wetting them with her tears, ‘‘ promise,
0, promise me that you will never go there again,

nor to any place where you would be ashamed to
see your sisters.”

20

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

230 HOME LIFE.

« Promise!” he looked around, then thrust her
rudely from his side; no ! I°11 not promise. Ill
‘go there, and to places fouler far than that, yes, to
perdition itself, before Ill spend my evenings in such
a devilish hole as this.” :

Then, in a bitter tone — 0, how long did it lin-
ger in his mother’s memory ! — he exclaimed, ‘And
when I come reeling home at midnight, my body,
breath, words, soul even, filthy with sin, lay the guilt
on your own heart, my careful, prudent mother.
You valued your fine house and costly furniture
higher than your son’s happiness ; reap your reward.
Save your nice things for company ; reserve the use
of father’s wealth for strangers; let it minister to the
joy of out-door friends: your family, your sons and
daughters, perhaps your husband, even, will trouble
you not long; what they could not find at home,
they will seek elsewhere ; yes, as 1 have done to-
night. Look at me 1” and he paused before the
trembling, weeping woman ; « do I look like the boy
of whom you were 80 proud — the youth in whom

ou centred so much hope? A drunken, swearing
rowdy, I stand before you. And you have made me
80; yes, you, my mother. You would not let me
find my joy at home, and so I went abroad.”

There were tears, and sorrow, and anguish, that
night, in the Elton family. There were prayers,
too, deep, earnest, thrilling prayers, now quivering
on pale lips, now trembling far down in the soul’s
secret places, now gushing up from stricken bosoms,

{
‘ COMPANY EVERY DAY.”

231

lost to all, sav
, save the ear of God, b i
\ the wild
Doh their utterance. And 4 heart os fst
Bee og at every pore, wrapped its raw Sar
Seka om ashes, and threw itself before the mer
7 ie ik dark hours, it cried, ‘ For-
ve, "and when the morning da
wned »
trite upon the bosom of the fallen 4 age
still its prayer. Sg
5 fen did forgive; the boy, too, and wiped awa
ers tears. But never from her re

was that night’s experi
perience effaced. N. a
she hear her children wish for “co ever again did
day.” mpany every

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

THE BROKEN WINDOWS;

OR,

THE « CROSS” AND THE © SORRY ’ MOTHER.

« WAT, for mercy’s sake, has happened now ?”
exclaimed Mrs. Layton, vehemently, as she was star-
{led from her doze on the sofa by the shivering of a
window and the scattering of the broken pane. “I'll
warrant those little harum-scarums of mine are at
the bottom of this. They were born to plague me, I
really believe. There ’'s never a day passes but they
are in some kind of trouble; and, rousing herself,
she picked up the book, whose pages had mesmer-
ized her thoughts and eyelids, and, with a step and
air that told plainly she was sadly out of humor,
hastened to the casement. On her way she stumbled,
and a ball bounded before her.

« Just as I expected! They never had a play-
thing yet but they were sure to do mischief with it
the first thing. But I'll punish them for this, the
little torments! I can’t see, for the life of me, what
comfort there is in having children. If they are in

the room with me, they tease me with their noise,
and if they are out of my sight, they ’re sure to be

 
 

 

E
:
F
E

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

THE BROKEN WINDOWS. 233

head and heels in trouble. I shall be glad when
they "re grown up and out of the way ;’’ and she
closed her amiable and affectionate soliloquy, by giv-
ing the bell a hasty pull, and throwing herself, with
an impatient gesture, into her rocking-chair.

“ Where are the boys, and who broke the win-
dow?” said she, in an angry tone, to the domestic
who appeared.

“In the kitchen, ma’am, waping hard; for, in-
dade, ma’am, they niver maned to brake it; Isawit
meself, ma’am, and I ashure ye, it was all the sheer-
est accident, and they be very sorry, ma'am —

“Send them ‘here, instantly,” was the lady’s in-
terruption, in no mild tone either, to the attempt of
the warm-hearted Irish girl to *“plade the cause of
the little innocents; ” “and send for a glazier, too,
and bring up a brush and dust-pan, and sweep up
the bits of glass.”

With a sad heart Mary obeyed the commands of
her irritated mistress.

“Is she cross, and will she whip us?” exclaimed
the two little boys,— the one five, the other seven
years of age. “Say ‘no,’ do, that’s a good Mary !
Did you tell her we didn’t mean to, and was so
sorry 17

“Yes, yes, my darlints; but ye must go to her,
and mind ye, go quietly, too, my masters, and be
sure to kiss her swately, and promise niver to be so
careless agin ;”’ and, wiping the sorrow stains from

20%

 

REE

rae Sr

I TE EON

Horne

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

984 HOME LIFE.

their cheeks, brushing their hair and smoothing their
tumbled sacks, she sent.them © above.”

Hand in hand, as though they fancied there was
safety in each other’s proximity, the little offenders
ascended the staircase, and with slow and noiseless
footsteps paced the hall, but halted at the parlor door.
Tear whitened each little face, and shook each little,
penitent heart.

“You go first,” whispered Henry to the younger
one. “Shell forgive you, I guess, ‘cause you are
so small, and don’t know any better, and then you
can coax her to forgive me.”

«No, no; I darsn’t, ‘cause I can’t never speak
right when I ought to,” responded Frank, a shiver
running over his delicate limbs. ¢ You go first,
you ‘re the biggest, and you ought to.”

How long they would have tarried there, disputing
in their childish way, and striving to wear a brave
heart, we can hardly guess, had not their mother
hastily unclosed the door.

« So you ’ve come at last, have you, you naughty
boys!” exclaimed she, with anything but maternal
sweetness hovering about her lips. “You’ve come
to get a good whipping, have you? I guess you gl
remember next time to throw your ball somewhere
else than into the parlor window. Naughty boys!”

and she dragged the tearful, speechless creatures into
the room. ‘‘A whole dollar to pay out now for
your careless trick. What do you think will become
of us all if you go on so, breaking windows every

THE BROKEN WINDOWS. 235

day? We'll have to go to the poor-house, and you’ll
be beggar children, with nobody to ee 0
Naughty boys!” And she went to a closet 7 d
took fon thence a “ rod of correction.” fa
on’t, don’t whip us, dear 3?
Samed both the At ay Ty
We did n’t mean to; we’ll never do so again ; ey
won't ; we never broke one before: O don’t don’t!” :
and they struggled vainly in fir nar, os
Heavily came down the weapon upon the Ly
shoulders, stingingly it swept across the rei
palms, while shrieks of ‘It hurts, O kn h t
so!” were mingled with sobs so plteous that the "eo
Sais slow pressed their ears to keep out the
“There, now, I guess you’ll behave after this
you naughty boys!” exclaimed she, as, out of breath,
and hot, and flurried, she sank in her Hoi fe And

now take yourselves off to bed, and that as quick as

you can, too; and don’t let me hear a ise u
n
there, either, or I'll comg to you Tn Ts
one i ion: whipping, it’s high time you
ere whipped till you do mi :
mm y o mind. Come, why don’t
‘““ Have we got to go to bed wi
without any supper?”
nel, rather than asked, little Frank. z ® I Re 80
unery I shall die afore morning.”
ll risk your dying. Y :
i g. es, you've got to go
to bed without supper. I must take what the Ler

 

 

Ria

AAR wo EE

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

236 HOME LIFE.

would have cost, and pay for a new light. See what
: 2

comes of being naughty.

The children started, but on the threshold Hey
paused turned round, and stood irresolute, as long-
)

i fearing, to ask a favor.

i. What do you want now?’ said the mother, na
y +11 and discordant.

tone that was still shril : Wal,

«We want you to kiss us,” faltered their white
and trembling lips. © And we want you to ye

Oo
us, ‘cause we never meant to, and we was sorry a

’
the time.” :

«Kiss you! do you think you deserve to i»
kissed? No, I shan’t kiss you to-night. 1 of
give my kisses 10 such naughty children. Go to oh
and pray to God to forgive you and make you fe
that you may be a comfort to your mother, Wi Soy
wear her life out with your bad conduct; ’’ and 8
i i i he door.

mpatiently pointed to t

: f Well I go,” said the elder one, with an gy

3
twist of his sore shoulders; and he shut ne oor
after him with a good deal more noise t Sy :
necessary ; ‘‘ and, perhaps, I'l 2% » : pl
? a forgive me, ior

won't pray to God to ] J =
naughty at all; but I’1l pray to Lm to give oe
mother that don’t whip, and that 11 love us an a
us.’ And, with hearts crushed and torn, the 8
ones sought their chamber, and strove to und Li
A weary time they had of it, for their fingers Ww >
sore and swollen, and their eyes SO blinded they

THE BROKEN WINDOWS. 237

could hardly see button-holes, and much less the
strings to their gaiters.

“I’ll have to go to bed with my clothes on,”
moaned little Frank, as, pulling the wrong way, he
drew his lacings into a hard knot. ¢O dear, I wish
Mary would come ! ’’ and he burst out anew.

‘She darsn’t, ’cause mother won’t let her,” said
Henry, as, giving an impatient jerk to his jacket, he
drew it off with a sad rent, though, and the loss of a
couple of buttons. ‘Here, I'll help you off with
your things,” and, taking out his penknife, he sev-
ered, with little ceremony, the Gordian tie, and, with
a twitch here, and a pull there, succeeded, at length,
in stripping his gentler brother.

“We ha'n’t said our prayers,” said Frank, as
Henry leaped into. the bed.

“Well, I a’n’t agoing to say ’em either,” re-
sponded the other, in an angry tone. “It’s no use
trying to pray when you feel so ugly,— the minister
said so, the other day; besides, my hands and shoul-
ders ache so, I can’t think about anything but that
old whip. She did whip us awful hard, didn’t
she?”

“Yes. O, it did hurt, though, and it hurts now;
but I guess I'll just pray to God to make her love
us, and never whip us when we don’t mean to be
naughty.”

“’T won't do no good to pray that, Frank ; ’cause

when she ’s so cross she don’t think about God, nor
nobody else.”

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

238 HOME LIFE.

«Well, old granny used to say, ‘if 3 a oye
od it won't do mo hurt to pray, an Bt oy
ke you feel gooder than it did before.” n 3
Te litte child, though every nerve within a %
ering yet with pain, and though he ki pa
hungry, just in that frame of body a iro
he needed to be folded to a mother 8 : % a
kissed and lulled with the holy music 0 pe Suen
hymn, knelt down and folded his red, Sse 2
Ro and prayed to ise gs bi #l A
is little brothe )
ae ns SN them, and never whip he
en when they did n’t oe : ol BIg ut :
i el was
oR mp BA been when that prayer
yes beautiful look on the face of 5
uffering child as he raised it to his ib 2
old ranny’s words were true, he felt ‘‘gooder i
te aid before that knee Vs hens So
i not m
ot ye ties were boiling in that
Sit eo and they bubbled Over soon In expres-
Es real mean in mother to up
hen we did n't mean to do nothing bad. » y
. did break a window? Father has got ple y y
to pay for it; and if he ha’'n’t there x i
ia: such a fuss about a dollar. 1 Ws TR
.broke two, we might just as well. It’s

THE BROKEN WINDOWS. 239

fault, too; if she’d let us play in the parlor with our
blocks, it wouldn't have happened. She need n’t
have half killed us if she did think she must whip us.
I wish Iwasa big man, I'd clear out somewhere,
and never come back. I wonder if everybody’s
mother is so awful cross. *O dear!” but here his
voice melted into sobs again, now wild and conyul-
sive, stirring the whole frame, then deep and pas-
sionate, choking the throat, and again so low and
mournful that they seemed but the audible pulses of

a breaking heart. But healthy childhood has ever
a true and gentle comforter for all its woes, and the

little boys, in an hour's time, were fast asleep, their

veined eyelids fearfully swollen, though, and their

fair brows and rosy cheeks sadly stained with the
efforts of their little fingers to wipe off the scorching
tears.

“The careless little things,” grumbled Mrs, Lay-
ton, as, going through their chamber an hour after
midnight, on her return from a brilliant party, she
tumbled over their scattered clothes. ¢ J verily be-
lieve the more I whip them the worse they grow.

How glad I shall be when they are old enough to
take care of themselves and keep out of my way.”
And the “cross” mother, without a single prayer
for the beautiful gifts God had vouchsafed her house-
hold, without one kiss upon the fragrant lips of those
precious babes, without even a glance towards the
little couch which had given rest to the limbs she

had so cruelly tortured, hurried to her own room, and,

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

240 HOME LIFE.

hurried to bed. God read her heart; Iam glad I

cannot.

«Mercy on me! What has happened ? What is
the matter?” exclaimed Mrs. Brown, in a half-
frightened tone, as she was roused from a light doze
in her chair by the shivering of a window and the
scattering of a broken pane. Who could have done
that? Who could have been so careless? I hope,
I trust it was not my little boys; and yet it would
be nothing strange if it were they, for they are but
children, frolicsome, light-hearted children, and I
can’t expect them always to do right. Iam sorry,
though, that it has happened, very, very sorry.”
And picking up the sewing, which excessive fatigue
alone had caused her involuntarily to drop, and
drawing her hand across her weary eyelids, as
though she would fain efface the drowsiness which
still lingered thera, she hastened to the casement,
hoping to find it in such a condition that her own
gkill could repair the fracture. But, alas! all in
vain were her efforts to fit the tiny bits — China
cement nor painter’s putty could mend that shattered
thing ; it was a hopeless ruin.

«T shall have to give it up,” moaned she, in asad
voice, as she failed in her third trial. ¢ Ishall have
to give it up and get a new pane get. Iam sorry,
too, for I can ill afford the money now, and I am so
tired, it does not seem as though I could sit up to-
night to earn it. Yet there ’s no use in fretting over

THE BROKEN WINDOWS. 241

it. It’s done, and I must
i make the best of it.
yond 4d a the little ones to be more
r, 1 wouldn’t mind it so much af
. » ;
Tor ag ; it’s only a little while you ’ll li
, and it would be hard, indeed, if :
our moth
Souls n’t bear with your thoughtless “i hi fo
gs years. 0, if they are but spared to me!
ow could I live without them.” And then her
voice was hushed, but her lips moved, and the wait
he ng bore a touching prayer to heaven |
ere was a calm and beautiful expres fou §
Jounlonaneg as she turned from the — Ry
riumphed over that petulant spirit whi :

t which hover
ever so closely above the mother’ es 4g
EY sone the 8 cares and patience.

gel” had lain its white fi
on her worried heart, and ¢1i ol ee
t complained n
Getting her brush and : :

: pan she swept up th -
ig glass, watching, with a mother’s ws host
ot she should miss some tiny particle, and thus
denser i safety of their little feet, whom poverty

elled to i it
Bell go nearly all the time without stockings
She did not go out to s |
eek the children ; i
fit even call them. She had read Se
vig he mal times to fear for them in the Lu
\ e knew that though they mi i
_ She y might hesit
2 a time, it would not be long ere a.
fem it might be with streaming eyes and a sob-
ing voice, yet lead them to her side. So she re-
sumed, quietly, Se accustomed seat, and her worn
1
Q

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

242 HOME LIFE.

in that ¢ stitch, stitch,
imble, and commenced again
a » which earned for her, and her fatherless
bes. their scanty living.
hs on. Then the gate swung i
and the patter of little bare feet was heard on
i are coming,” murmured she, a plasesit
smile ie beautiful lines across her Bs, = 8
face, and the light of her eye Fv fh linge
ing ; new k
lustre. ‘They are coming; )
Poor little things, I pity them; they » % 2
sorry ; ’ and she waited eagerly to hear
Bs moments passed ere it was touched ; Po it
rattled, but the door was not pushed open. bos
sad sound as of sobs and broken words, mingled ;
the Ae note, stole upon the ear of the patien
watcher. The tears gushed to her eyes. Se
« Poor little things,” breathed she again. oy
do love me dearly, indeed, or you would » t 82 ge
sorry. If we wasn’t so poor I should n t oh >
bit for it was an accident, I know. An ae
that mother’s heart of hers excused them both,
again the waiting angel bore a plaaiing payer a
tch rattled a second time, bu
Eatin In a voice that was wmelon Wi
emotion. but sweet as the song of a bird at sunlight,
lled : : ;
ers Frank! Is it you, my Nile boys *
Come in, if it is; mother wants to see you.

THE BROKEN WINDOWS. 2483

Ere the last words had died on her quivering lips,
the door was swung open, and the children bounded
into her opened arms, burying their faces in her
bosom, and nestling close to her throbbing heart.
Not a word was spoken, but, as they felt themselves
wound up so closely in her dear embrace, their tears
wiped off so soothingly, and their hot brows cooled by
such loving kisses, they knew and felt they were for-
given. Not a word was spoken; but, as she felt
their slender arms about her neck and waist, saw
their swollen eyes and stained cheeks, and marked
the.suffering look they wore, she knew and felt that
the pulse of love beat high in their young breasts.

She was worn and wearied, yet for a half hour she
sat and held them on her knees, rocking them with a
gentle, lulling motion, and, after the first gush of
feeling was over, singing to them snatches of holy
hymns, between each of which she paused, half un-
consciously, to press their lips and breathe over them
words of love and prayer.

The striking of the clock aroused her from her
blessed trance, for oblivious had she been in body
and mind to all her cares and sorrows and fatigue ;
and blest, indeed, in the inspiring confidence that her
little ones were true to her and to themselves, and,
best of all, that she was true to them.

“It is supper time,” said she, sweetly. We
have been so happy here in the old arm-chair, that I

had not noticed it was so late. Who will get me the
wood to-night ? ”’

 

 

 
 

 

 

044 HOME LIFE.

» exclaimed the little
«Both of us! both of us!” exc
ones: and, leaping from her lap, they bounded out @
the <hed and returned in a trice, each begging
ild the fire.
i po build the fire ud fl the kettle and
k may set 1t.
"11 draw out the table, and Fran :
i De . moment the children hesitated, and lodised
wistfully into each other’s eyes. Poor little en !
Knowing their mother’s poverty, they had 3 ¥
i t any supper,
ere they came in, not to ea Sf
i t feel so severely the penalty Of
5 on act; but now their keen appetites. op
childhood combated with fearful activity the g
resolution. They drew near each other, and Henry
whispered, i
¢« Shall we tell her =
oi gn so; but I'm awful hungry, a'n’t
)
Q» |
". Yes; but so much the better. It would n ¢ be
an unishment, you know, if we went without . :
i i hungry. I guess I’11 tell her. 1t
”
her better how sorry we are. sd I
es with a most musical tremble in his voice,
’
ke u
yi : 0 fF n't put up only the leat, mother,
-night, ’cause we don’t Want any supper.
«What s the matter 2’ asked she, striving to be
. «don’t you feel hungry?”
i ok was tn for a moment. Then, i
to her, they bowed themselves at her knee, while

THE BROKEN WINDOWS. 245

their little hearts were turned inside out. They told
her how that at school that day all the boys but them
had balls to play with, and how bad they felt because
they had n’t any, and how their playmates told them
to go home and ask their mother to buy them some,
and how they told each other they wouldn't say a,
word about it to her, for she had enough to buy with-
out getting balls; that, as they were coming home
from school, they found some smooth, round stones,
and they thought they’d do first-rate, and were so
glad that they got almost crazy, and forgot how
many times she had told them never to throw any-
thing towards the house, and that they were so scared
when they heard the window break that they ran off
into the woods, wondering what they should do.

“We don’t mean,” said Frank, with a beautiful
earnestness, ‘‘ we don’t mean what we should do so
that you needn’t find it out; but we didn’t know
what we should do to make it up to you!”

“We knew you’d be so sorry,” said Henry,
“and we knew you’d have to work so hard to pay
for it, that we were most grieved to death. But,
after a while, we thought if we didn’t eat any sup-
per, and didn’t eat very hearty to-morrow, ’t would
make it up; and, as soon as we said that, we came
right off here to tell you. But we did feel so bad
when we got to the door and thought how sorry
you’d be! But, mother, we’ll try and remember
never to do so again ! ”’

““I hope you will remember it, my children,”

21% ;

 

 
 

 

 

246 HOME LIFE.

gaid she, tenderly but earnestly, ¢ for twenty-five
cents is a great deal for me to lose. It’s all I've
earned to-day. We must be very careful of our
money or we shall get behindhand, and I can hardly
tell what will become of us then. But I don’t want
you to go to bed without your supper to-night, for I
am going to have a good one, and I should n't enjoy
it alone. Old Uncle John called here to-day, and
made me a present of a slice of his nice ham and a
dozen eggs. Won't that be nice ?”’

«1 guess it will!” rejoined the little boys.
«Ham and eggs! won't it be good ?”’ and merrily
pattered their little feet out doors, and down cellar,
and into the pantry, and wherever mother sent them ;
and, when supper was ready, two brighter-eyed,
rosier-cheeked, happier-faced children could not be
found in the whole township. Nor ever did a hap-

ier mother ask a blessing on a meal than she who
presided at that board, so humble that ham and eggs
were a rare luxury.

When the happy meal was over, and the tea-things
washed and replaced again, as was her wont, she
drew them to her side, and, after telling them some
stories, which they never tired of hearing, about
their sainted father, she read to them from their Sun-
day-school book a pretty story, and then an appro-
priate selection from the Scriptures, and went with
them to their little chamber, and assisted them to
undress. Very careful were the little ones that
night to see that their clothes were hung up in the

THE BROKEN WINDOWS. 247

hd

Bos precise order, and very quietly came they and
Say beside her to repeat their evening prayer.
ervently did she press them to her bosom when it
or over, and sweeter kisses never passed between
the lips of a mother and her darlings than were given
to mu on that happy night. ;
““ What a good mother she is!” i
as the door closed upon her. gb
“I guess she is,” said Henr ¢ i
, y. ‘She is the b
mother I ever knew in all the world. She's Ar
sorry when we do anything naughty, but she a’n’t
never cross nor ugly. fever
Qaves or rugly. Idon’t believe she knows how
“Well, I am glad,” res i
: , 1: , ponded the little broth
with emphasis. “ Would n't it be awful, hy #
have : ro mother and a dead father! How I
wis J 3 . : :
o 2 3 lived ; then she wouldn’t have had to
‘“ Mother says we mustn’t -
y so, because God
Ronin t have taken him if it hadn’t been right.
ut I shall be glad when we’re grown up big, so
that we can take care of her. She’s got to live with
ze in the WE Frank, because I’m going to be
armer, and the country ’ll be th
for her in warm vorbars "ne Se ne
se Well, sis may ; but she shall be with me in the
winter time, ’cause I'm going to keep a big store in
the city and have lots of money. O, won't she live
nice and easy then! How I wish I was big. I’m

 
 

248 HOME LIFE.

such a little fellow, I’m *fraid it "11 take so long be-
fore I get to be a man that she ’l1 get sick and die.”

««, I guess not!” was the hopeful answer. “At
any rate, we'll be good every day while we "re little,
and then, if she don’t live, why, she’ll have a good
story to tell father about his little boys that he used
to love so dearly. And we mustn't never, NEVER
throw anything towards the house again, must we?”

« No, we mustn’t, sure; but if we do we’ll tell
her of it, won't we? ’cause she ’11 never be cross, but
only so sorry.” :

Many a beautiful air-castle then did the little ones
build, and in each there was a chamber for mother,
with plenty of gold and plenty of love. And when,
at last, slumber sealed their eyelids, it left them
locked in each other's arms, with an expression On
each lip that would have well become the angel
dead.

Their mother had not spared the rod and spoiled
her babes; but she had bent it over them with such
a holy hand that it had budded in her grasp, and left
upon their young hearts, not sore and crimson
wounds, but the impress of green leaves and the dew
of flowers.

¢ The dear little creatures !”’ exclaimed she, in a
thrilling tone, as she entered their chamber an hour
after midnight, ¢ the more I love them, the better
they grow. How sorry I shall be when they are no
longer all my own.”

Then she knelt down beside their humble bed, and

THE BROKEN WINDOWS. 249
tendered many earnest th
: anks to God for th i
2 gi Paani her household. Sweet SR
e pressed afterward upon their li
little ones smiled in their tr oi ir ae
an angel was bending over them. Then, with oo

aching brow and wearied li
her couch and forg ted tubs, Whe mother songs

ot herself i
heart; I wish I could. welt in sleep. fod read her