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 O 13 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 ENDOWED BY THE 
 DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC 
 SOCIETIES 
 
 PS1949 
 
 H8 
 C47 
 1885 
 
This book is due at the WALTER R. DAVIS LIBRARY on 
 the last date stamped under "Date Due." If not on hold it 
 may be renewed by bringing it to the library. 
 
 ■ 
 
 DATE 
 DUE 
 
 RET. 
 
 DATE 
 DUE 
 
 RET. 
 
 Form No. 513, 
 Rev. 1184 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2013 
 
 http://archive.org/details/christmasstoriesOOholm 
 
POPULAR NOVELS. 
 
 BY 
 
 MBS. MABY J. HOLMES. 
 
 Tempest and Sunshine. 
 English Orphans. 
 Homestead on Hillside. 
 'Lena Rivers. 
 Meadow Brook. 
 Dora Deane. 
 Cousin Maude. 
 Marian Grey. 
 Edith Lyle. 
 Daisy Thornton. 
 Chateau d'Or. 
 
 QUEENIE HETHERTON(iVe^). 
 
 Darkness and Daylight. 
 
 Hugh Worthington. 
 
 Cameron Pride. 
 
 Rose Mather. 
 
 Ethelyn's Mistake. 
 
 Milbank. 
 
 Edna Browning. 
 
 West Lawn. 
 
 Mildred. 
 
 Forrest House. 
 
 Madeline. 
 
 Christmas Stories. 
 
 ** Mrs. Holmes is a peculiarly pleasant and fascinating 
 writer. Her books are always entertaining, and she 
 has the rare faculty of enlisting the sympathy 
 and affections of her readers, and of hold- 
 ing their attention to her pages with 
 deep and absorbing interest." 
 
 All published uniform with this volume. Price $1.50 
 each. Sold everywhere, and sent free 
 by mail on receipt of price, 
 
 BY 
 
 G. W. CARLETON & Co., Publishers, 
 New York. 
 
CH RISTMAS 
 STORIES. 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. MARY J. HOLMES, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 G. IV. Carleton & Co., Publishers. 
 
 LONDON : S. LOW, SON & CO. 
 MDCCCLXXXV. 
 
COPYRIGHT, I884, 
 
 By DANIEL HOLMES, 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 
 
 Stereotyped by 
 Samuel Stoddbr, 
 42 Dey Stebet, N. Y. 
 
TO 
 
 MISS MARY W. JEWETT, 
 
 (of Clarkson, N. Y.) 
 
 WHO HAS BEEN SO LONG IDENTIFIED 
 WITH THE 
 
 PARISH OF ST. LUKE'S, 
 
 AND WHO IS 
 
 ALMOST AS MUCH A PART OF THE CHRISTMAS 
 FESTIVAL AS THE CHRISTMAS TREE ITSELF, 
 
 I DEDICATE THESE STORIES, 
 
 SOME OF WHICH HAVE IN THEM MORE OF 
 FACT THAN OF FICTION. 
 
 579300 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 I. Alice and Adelaide 9 
 
 II. Red-Bird. 121 
 
 III. Ruth and Rena 172 
 
 IV. Benny's Christmas. .... 207 
 V. The Christmas Font 236 
 
 VI. Adam Floyd. . . . . .271 
 
 VII. John Logan . 325 
 
 VIII. The Passion-Play at Oberammergau. 342 
 
ALICE AND ADELAIDE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 T was Christmas eve, and the parlors of 
 No. 46 Shelby Street were ablaze with 
 light ; rare flowers, in vases rarer still, 
 filled the rooms with a sweet perfume, 
 bringing back, as it were, the summer glory which 
 had faded in the autumn light, and died in the chill 
 December's breath. Costly pictures adorned the 
 walls ; carpets, which seemed to the eye like a 
 mossy bed inlaid with roses, covered the floors, 
 while over all, the gas-light fell, making a scene of 
 brilliant beauty such as was seldom witnessed in 
 
 the quiet city of , where our story opens. 
 
 It was the night of Alice Warren's first presenta- 
 tion to society, as a young lady, and in her luxurious 
 dressing-room she stood before her mirror, bending 
 
10 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 her graceful head, while her mother placed among 
 her flowing curls a golden arrow, and then pro- 
 nounced the toilet complete. Alice Warren was 
 very beautiful with her fair young face, her waving 
 hair, and lustrous eyes of blue, which shone with 
 more than their wonted brightness, as, smoothing 
 down the folds of her dress, she glanced again at 
 the mirror opposite, and then turned toward her 
 mother just as a movement in the hall without at- 
 tracted the attention of both. It was a slow, uncer- 
 tain step, and darting forward, Alice cried : 
 
 " It is father — come to see how I look on my 
 eighteenth birthnight !" 
 
 " Not to see you, my child," the father answered ; 
 and in the tones of his voice there was a note of sor- 
 row, as if the struggle of nineteen long years were 
 not yet fully over. 
 
 To Hugo Warren the world was one dark, dreary 
 night, and the gold so many coveted would have 
 been freely given, could he but once have looked 
 upon the face of his only child, who, bounding to 
 his side, parted the white hair from his forehead, 
 and laying his hand upon her head, asked him " to 
 feel if she were not beautiful." 
 
 Very tenderly and caressingly the father's hand 
 moved over the shining hair, the glowing cheek, 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 11 
 
 and rounded arms of the graceful little figure which 
 stood before him, then dashing a tear away, the 
 blind man said : 
 
 " My Alice must be beautiful if she is, as they tell 
 me, like her mother," and the sightless eyes turned 
 instinctively toward the mother, who, coming to his 
 side, replied : 
 
 " Alice is like me as I was when you last saw my 
 face — but I have changed since then — there are lines 
 of silver in my hair, and lines of time upon my 
 face." 
 
 The blind man shook his head. The picture of 
 the fond girl-wife, who, in his hour of bitter agony 
 had whispered in his ear, <k I will be sunlight, 
 moonlight, starlight — everything to you, my hus- 
 band," had never changed to him — for faithfully and 
 well that promise had been kept, and it was better 
 perhaps, that he could not see the shadows on her 
 face — shadows which foretold a darker hour than 
 any he had ever known — an hour when the sunlight 
 of her love would set forever. But no such fore- 
 bodings were around him now. He held his wife 
 and daughter both in his arms, and holding them 
 thus, forgot for a moment that he was blind. 
 
 " Did you invite Adelaide ?" Alice asked at last ; 
 and Mr. Warren replied : 
 
12 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 " Yes, but it is doubtful whether she will come. 
 She is very proud, her father says, and does not wish 
 to put herself in a position to be slighted. " 
 
 " Oh, father !" Alice cried, " Adelaide Hunting- 
 ton does not know me. I could not slight her be- 
 cause she is poor, and if she comes I will treat her 
 like a royal princess," and Alice's face flushed with 
 pleasure as she thought how attentive she would be 
 to the daughter of her father's "confidential clerk 
 and authorized agent." 
 
 Meanwhile, in a distant part of the city, in a 
 dwelling far more humble than that of Hugo Warren, 
 another family group was assembled, father, mother, 
 daughter — all, save old Aunt Peggy, who, thankful 
 for a home which saved her from the almshouse, 
 performed willingly a menial's part, bearing pa- 
 tiently the whims of the mother, and the caprices 
 of the daughter, the latter of whom proved a most ty- 
 rannical and exacting mistress. Tall, dignified, and 
 rather aristocratic in her bearing, Adelaide Hunt- 
 ington was called handsome by many, and admired 
 by those who failed to see the treachery hidden in her 
 large, dark eyes, or the constant effort she made to 
 seem what she was not. To be noticed by those 
 whose position in life was far above her own, was 
 her aim, and when the envied Alice Warren ex- 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE t 
 
 13 
 
 tended to her family an invitation to be present at 
 her birthday party, her delight was unbounded. 
 
 She would go, of course, she said, " and her 
 father would go with her, and she must have a new 
 dress, too, even if it took every cent they had." 
 
 The dress was purchased, and though it was only 
 a simple white muslin, it well became the queenly 
 form of the haughty Adelaide, who, when her toi- 
 let was completed, asked her father if " he did not 
 think she would overshadow the diminutive Alice ?" 
 
 " I don't see why there should be this difference 
 between us," she continued, as her father made no 
 answer. " Here I must be poor all my life, while 
 she will be rich, unless Mr. Warren chances to 
 fail " 
 
 " Which he will do before three days are passed," 
 dropped involuntarily from the lips of Mr. Hunt- 
 ington. 
 
 Then with a wild, startled look he grasped his 
 daughter's arm, exclaiming : 
 
 " Forget what I just said — breathe not a word of 
 it to any one, for Heaven knows I would help it if I 
 could. But it is too late — too late." 
 
 It was in vain that Adelaide and her mother 
 sought an explanation of these strange words. Mr. 
 Huntington would give none, and in unbroken si- 
 
14 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 lence he accompanied his daughter to the house o/ 
 Mr. Warren. 
 
 Very cordially Alice welcomed the young girl 
 striving in various ways to relieve her from the em- 
 barrassment she would naturally feel at finding her- 
 self among so many strangers. And Adelaide was 
 ill at ease, for the spirit of jealous envy in her heart 
 whispered to her of slight and insult where none 
 were intended ; whispered, too, that her muslin dress 
 which, at home with her mother and Aunt Peggy to 
 admire, had been so beautiful, was nothing, com- 
 pared with the soft, flowing robes of Alice Warren, 
 whose polite attentions she construed into a kind 
 of patronizing pity exceedingly annoying to one of 
 her proud nature. Then, as she remembered her 
 father's words, she thought, " We may be equals yet. 
 I wonder what he meant ? I mean to ask him 
 again," and passing through the crowded apart- 
 ments she came to the little ante-room, where all 
 the evening her father had been sitting — a hard, 
 dark look upon his face, and his eyes bent on the 
 floor, as if for him that festive scene possessed no 
 interest. 
 
 " Father," she said, but he made her no reply ; 
 he did not even know that she was standing at 
 his side. 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE, 
 
 15 
 
 Far back through the "past " his thoughts were 
 straying, to the Christmas Eve when penniless, 
 friendless and alone he had come to the city, ask* 
 ing employment from one whose hair was not 
 as white then as it was now, and whose eyes were 
 not quenched in darkness, but looked kindly dovn 
 upon him, as the wealthy merchant said : 
 
 " I will give you work as long as you do well." 
 
 Hugo Warren was older than William Hunting- 
 ton, and his station in life had always been different, 
 but over the mountain side the same Sunday bell 
 had once called them both to the house of God — 
 the same tall tree on the river bank bore on its bark 
 their names — the same blue sky had bent above 
 their childhood's home, and for this reason he had 
 given the poor young man a helping hand, aiding 
 him step by step, until now, he was the confidential 
 clerk — the one trusted above all others — for when 
 the blindness first came upon him the helpless man 
 had put his hand on William's head, saying, as he 
 did so : 
 
 " I trust you, with my all, and as you hope for 
 Heaven, do not be false to the trust." 
 
 How those words, spoken years before, rang in 
 William Huntington's ears, as he sat thinking of 
 the past, until the great drops of perspiration gath- 
 
16 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 ered thickly around his lips and dropped upon the 
 floor. He had betrayed his trust — nay, more, he 
 had ruined the man who had been so kind to him, 
 and before three days were passed his sin would find 
 him out. Heavy bank notes must be paid, and 
 there was nothing with which to pay them. The 
 gambling table had been his ruin. Gradually he 
 had gone down, meaning always to replace what he 
 had taken, and oftentimes doing so ; but fortune 
 had deserted him at last, and rather than meet the 
 glance of those sightless eyes, when the truth 
 should be known, he had resolved to go away. The 
 next day would be a holiday, and before the Christ- 
 mas sun set, he would be an outcast — a wanderer on 
 the earth. Of all this he was thinking when Ade- 
 laide came to his side. 
 
 The sound of her voice aroused him at last, and 
 starting up, he exclaimed : 
 
 "It is time we were at home. The atmosphere 
 of these rooms is stifling. Get your things at once." 
 
 Rather unwillingly Adelaide obeyed, and ten 
 minutes later she was saying good-night to Alice 
 and her mother, both of whom expressed their sur- 
 prise that she should go so soon, as did Mr. Warren 
 also. 
 
 " I meant to have talked with you more," he 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 17 
 
 said, as he stood in the hall with Mr. Huntington, 
 who, grasping his hand, looked earnestly into the 
 face which for all time to come would haunt him as 
 the face of one whom he had greatly wronged. 
 
 A few hours later, and all was still in the house 
 where mirth and revelry had so lately reigned. 
 Flushed with excitement and the flattery her youth- 
 ful beauty had called forth, Alice Warren had 
 sought her pillow, and in the world of dreamland 
 was living over again the incidents of the evening. 
 The blind man, too, was sleeping, and in his dreams 
 he saw again the forms of those he loved, but he did 
 not see the cloud hovering near, nor the crouching 
 figure which, across the way, was looking toward 
 his window and bidding him farewell. 
 
 Mr. Huntington had accompanied Adelaide to 
 his door, and then, making some trivial excuse, had 
 left her, and gone from his home forever, leaving his 
 wife to w r atch and wait for him as she had often done 
 before. Slowly the December night waned, and 
 just as the morning was breaking — the morn of the 
 bright Christmas day — a train sped on its way to 
 the westward, bearing among its passengers one 
 who fled from justice, leaving to his wife and 
 daughter grief and shame, and to the blind man 
 darkness, ruin, and death. 
 
18 
 
 HOUSE OF MOURNING. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 
 
 |HE third day came and passed, and as the 
 \ twilight shadows fell upon the city, Alice 
 and her mother pushed back the heavy 
 curtain which shaded the window of their 
 pleasant sitting-room, and looked anxiously down 
 the street for one who seldom tarried long. An 
 hour went by, and another still, and then he came, 
 but far more helpless than when he left them in the 
 morning. The blind eyes were red with tears — the 
 stately form was bent with grief — the strong man 
 was crushed with the blow which had fallen so 
 suddenly upon him. He was ruined — hopelessly, 
 irretrievably ruined, and in all the world there was 
 nothing he could call his, save the loved ones who 
 soothed him now, as one had done before, when a 
 mighty sorrow overshadowed him. 
 
 As well as he could he told them of the fraud 
 which for many years had been imposed upon him 
 
HOUSE OF MOURNING. 
 
 19 
 
 and how he had trusted and been betrayed by- 
 one whom he would not suffer the officers to 
 follow. 
 
 "It will do no good," he said "to have him 
 brought back to a felon's cell, and I will save the 
 wife and daughter from more disgrace," and so 
 William Huntington was suffered to go at large, 
 while in the home he had desolated there was 
 sorrow and mourning and bitter tears shed ; the 
 blind man groping often through the familiar 
 rooms which would soon be his no longer ; and the 
 daughter stifling her own grief to soothe her father's 
 sorrow, and minister to her mother's wants. 
 
 As has before been hinted, Mrs. Warren was far 
 from being strong, and the news of the failure burst 
 upon her with an overwhelming power, prostrating 
 her at once, so that before two weeks were gone 
 her husband forgot everything, save the prayer 
 that the wife of his bosom, the light of his eyes, the 
 mother of his child, might live. 
 
 But she who had been reared in the lap of lux- 
 ury, was never to know the pinching wants of pov- 
 erty — never to know what it was to be hungry, and 
 cold, and poor. All this was reserved for the gen- 
 tle Alice, who, younger and stronger, too, could 
 bear the trial better. And so, as day after day went 
 
20 
 
 HOUSE OF MOURNING. 
 
 by, the blind man felt what he could not see — felt 
 the death shadows come creeping on — felt how the 
 pallor was deepening on his wife's cheek — knew that 
 she was going from him fast — knew, alas, that she 
 must die, and one bright, beautiful morning, when 
 the thoughtless passers-by, pointing to the house, 
 said, one to another, " He has lost everything," he, 
 from the depths of his aching heart, unconsciously 
 made answer, " Lost everything — lost everything I" 
 while Alice, bowed her head in anguish, half 
 wishing she, too, were blind, so she could not 
 see the still, white face which lay upon the pil- 
 low. 
 
 Suddenly the deep stillness of the room was bro- 
 ken by the sound of footsteps in the hall below, 
 and, lifting up her head, Alice said, " Who is it, 
 father ?" but Mr. Warren did not answer. He knew 
 who it was and why they had come, and going out 
 to meet them, he stood upon the stairs, tall and 
 erect, like some giant oak which the lightning 
 stroke had smitten, but not destroyed. 
 
 " I know your errand," he said ; " I expected 
 you, but come with me and then surely you will 
 leave me alone a little longer/' and turning, he led 
 the way, followed by the men, who never forgot 
 that picture of the pale, dead wife, the frightened, 
 
HOUSE OF MOURFWG. 
 
 |3 
 
 weeping child, and the blind man standing by with 
 outstretched arm as if to shield them from harm. 
 
 The sheriff was a man of kindly feelings, and 
 lifting his hat reverentially, he said : 
 
 " We did not know of this, or we would not 
 have come," and motioning to his companion, he 
 left the room, walking with subdued footsteps down 
 the stairs, and out into the open air ; and when the 
 sun went down not an article had been disturbed in 
 Hugo Warren's home, for sheriff, creditors, lawyers 
 — all stood back in awe of the mighty potentate who 
 had entered before them, and levied upon its choic- 
 est treasure — the white-haired blind man's wife. 
 
22 
 
 THE BROWN HOUSE. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE BROWN HOUSE IN THE HOLLOW. 
 
 "~ EARLY a year has passed by since we left 
 the blind man weeping over his unburied 
 dead, and our story leads us now to the 
 handsome rural town of Oakland, which 
 is nestled among the New England hills, and owes 
 much of its prosperity and rapid growth to the un- 
 tiring energy of its wealthiest citizen — its one " aris- 
 tocrat/' as the villagers persisted in calling Richard 
 Howland, the gentleman from Boston, who came to 
 Oakland a few years ago, giving to business a new 
 impetus, and infusing new life into its quiet, matter- 
 of-fact people, who respected him as few men have 
 ever been respected, and looked upon him as the 
 founder cf their good fortune. He it was who built 
 the factory, bought the mills and owned the largest 
 store and shoe-shop in the town, furnishing em- 
 ployment to hundreds of the poor, many of whom 
 had moved into the village, and rented of him the 
 
THE BROWN HOUSE. 
 
 23 
 
 comfortab .e tenements which he had erected for that 
 purpose. 
 
 Richard Howland's home was very beautiful, 
 overlooking, as it did, the town and the surrounding 
 country, and the passers-by often stopped to admire 
 its winding walks, its fountains, its grassy plats, 
 graceful evergreens, and wealth of flowers, the latter 
 of which were the especial pride of the stately Miss 
 Elinor, the maiden sister, who was mistress of the 
 house, for Richard Howland had no wife, and on 
 the night when we first introduce him to our read- 
 ers, he was seated in his pleasant sitting-room, with 
 his sister at his side, and every possible comfort and 
 luxury around him. The chill December wind 
 which howled among the naked branches of the ma- 
 ples, or sighed through the drooping cedar boughs, 
 could not find entrance there. The blinds were 
 closely shut — the heavy curtains swept the floor — the 
 fire burned brightly in the grate, casting fantastic 
 shadows on the wall, and with his favorite paper in 
 his hand; he almost forgot that in the world without 
 there were such evils as poverty or pain. Neither 
 did he see the fragile form toiling through the dark- 
 ness up the street, and pausing at his gate. But he 
 heard the ringing of the door-bell, and his ear caught 
 the sound of some one in the hall, asking to see him. 
 
24 
 
 THE BROWN HOUSE. 
 
 "I wish I could be alone for one evening," he 
 said, and with a slight frown of impatience upon 
 his brow, he awaited the approach of his visitor. 
 
 It was a delicate young girl, and her dress of 
 black showed that sorrow had thus early come to 
 her. 
 
 " Are you Mr. Howland ?" she asked, and her 
 eyes of blue timidly sought the face of the young 
 man, who involuntarily arose and offered her a 
 seat. 
 
 Her errand was soon told. She had come to rent 
 his cheapest tenement — the brown house in the hol- 
 low, which she had heard was vacant, and she wished 
 him to furnish her with work — she could make 
 both shirts and vests tolerably well, and she would 
 try hard to pay the rent ! 
 
 The stranger paused, and Miss Elinor, who had 
 been watching her with mingled feelings of curios- 
 ity and interest, saw that the the long eyelashes were 
 moist with tears. Mr. Howland saw it, too, and 
 wondering that one so y*oungand timid should come 
 to him alone, he said: 
 
 " Little girl, have you no friends — no one on 
 w T hom to depend, save yourself ?" 
 
 The tears on the eyelashes now dropped upon 
 the cheek, for the little girl, as Mr. Howland had 
 
THE BROWN HOUSE. 
 
 25 
 
 called her, mistook his meaning and fancied he was 
 thinking of security, and payment, and all those 
 dreadful words whose definition she was fast learn- 
 ing to understand. 
 
 " I have a father," she said, and before she had 
 time for more, the plain-spoken Miss Elinor asked : 
 
 " Why didn't he come himself, and not send you, 
 who seem so much a child ?" 
 
 There was reproach in the question, and the 
 young girl felt it keenly, and turning toward Miss 
 Elinor, she answered : 
 
 " My father could not find the way — he never 
 even saw my face — he couldn't see my mother when 
 she died. Oh ! he's blind, he's blind," and the 
 voice, which at first had merely trembled, was 
 choked with bitter sobs. 
 
 The hearts of both brother and sister were 
 touched, and the brown house in the hollow, nay, 
 any house which Richard Howland had to rent, 
 was at the girl's command. But he was a man of 
 few words, and so he merely told her she could 
 have both tenement and work, while his sister 
 thought how T she would make her brother's new 
 tenants her especial care. 
 
 Miss Elinor was naturally of a rather inquisitive 
 turn of mind and she tried very skillfully to learn 
 2 
 
26 
 
 THE BROWN HOUSE. 
 
 something of the stranger's history. But the young 
 girl evaded all her questioning, and after a few 
 moments arose to go. Mr. Howland accompanied 
 her to the door, which he held open until she passed 
 down the walk and out into the street. Then the 
 door was closed, and Alice Warren was alone again 
 in the cold, dark night, but she scarcely heeded it, 
 for her heart was lighter than it had been for many 
 weeks. The gentleman whom she had so much 
 dreaded to meet had spoken kindly to her ; the lady 
 too, had whispered "poor child" when she told 
 her of her father, while better far than all, she had 
 procured a shelter for her father, the payment for 
 which would come within their slender means. 
 
 Not time, but the joy or sorrow it brings, 
 changes people most, and the Alice Warren of to- 
 day is scarce the same we saw one year ago. Then, 
 petted, caressed and glowing with youthful beauty, 
 she presented a striking contrast to the pale-faced 
 girl, who, on the wintry night of which we write, 
 traversed street after street, until she came to the 
 humble dwelling which for the last few days had 
 been her home. Every cent of his large fortune 
 had Mr. Warren given up, choosing rather to starve 
 and know he had a right to do so, than to feed on 
 what was not his own. His handsome house and 
 
THE BROWN HOUSE. 
 
 27 
 
 furniture had all been sold, and with a mere pittance, 
 which would not last them long, they had gone 
 into the country, where Alice hoped to earn a live- 
 lihood by teaching. But she was " too small, too 
 childish, too timid," the people said, ever to suc- 
 ceed, and so at last she resorted to her needle, 
 which in her days of prosperity, she had fortunate- 
 ly learned to use. 
 
 As time passed on a kind-hearted woman, who 
 visited in their neighborhood, became interested 
 in them and urged their removal to Oakland, her 
 native town, whither they finally went, stopping 
 with her for a few days until further arrangements 
 could be made. 
 
 Hearing that the brown house in the hollow, as 
 it was called, was vacant, Alice had applied for it, 
 with what success we have seen, and returning home, 
 she told her father the result of her application, 
 and how small a sum they would have to pay for it, 
 and how neatly she could fit it up, and how in the 
 long winter evenings he should sit in his arm-chair 
 before the cheerful fire, and listening to her as she 
 talked, the blind man thanked God that the wife-love 
 he had lost forever was in a measure made up to 
 him in the love of his only child. 
 
 Two weeks went by, and then, in the shoe shop 
 
28 
 
 THE BROWN HOUSE. 
 
 and store the workmen said to each other, " to-mor- 
 row is Christmas," wondering if Mr. Howland 
 would present each of the families in his employ 
 with a turkey, as he was wont to do. 
 
 He had always done it before, they said, he 
 would surely do so now. 
 
 Nor were they disappointed, for when the day's 
 labor was over, each man was given his usual gift, 
 and when all had been served, there was one turkey 
 left, for which no owner came. 
 
 "We shall need it ourselves perhaps," Mr. How- 
 land thought, as he remembered the numerous city 
 friends expected on the morrow ; and, as he was not 
 ashamed to carry it himself, he placed it in a cov- 
 ered basked and started for home, turning invol- 
 untarily down the street which would take him 
 through the hollow. He did not often go that way 
 for though it was quite as near, it was not a pleas- 
 ant portion of the town. But he was going that 
 way now, and as he came near the brown house, 
 from whose windows a cheerful light was shining, 
 he thought of his new tenants, and half decided to 
 call ; then, remembering that one of his clerks had 
 told him of a young lady who had ir quired for 
 him that afternoon, expressing much regret at his 
 absence and saying she should call at his, 
 
THE BROWN HOUSE. 
 
 29 
 
 house early in the evening, he concluded to go 
 on. Still the light shining out upon the snow, 
 seemed beckoning him to come, and turning back 
 he stood before the window, from which the'cur- 
 tain was drawn aside, revealing a picture, at which 
 he paused a moment to gaze. The blind man sat 
 in his old arm-chair, and the flickering flame of the 
 blazing fire shone on his frosty locks and lighted 
 up his grief-worn face, on which there was a pitiful 
 expression, most touching to behold. The sight- 
 less eyes were cast downward as if they would see 
 the fair young head and wealth of soft brown 
 tresses resting on his knee. 
 
 Alice was crying. All day long she had 
 tried to repress her tears, and when, as she sat in 
 the gathering twilight with her father, he said, " She 
 was with us one year ago," they burst forth, and 
 laying her head upon his lap she sobbed bitterly. 
 
 There were words of love spoken of the lost 
 one, and as Mr. Howland drew near, Mr. Warren 
 said : 
 
 l< It is well, perhaps, that she died before she 
 knew what it was to be so poor." 
 
 The words " to be so poor " caught Mr. How- 
 land's ear, and glancing around the humble apart- 
 ment he fancied he knew why Alice wept. Just then 
 
30 
 
 THE BBOWJST HOUSE. 
 
 she lifted up her head and he saw the tears on her 
 cheek. Mr. Howland was unused to tears — they 
 affected him strangely — and as the sight of them on 
 Alice Warren's eyelashes, when she told him her 
 father was blind, had once brought down the rent 
 of the house by half, so now the sight of them upon 
 her cheek as she sat at her father's feet brought 
 himself into her presence and the turkey from his 
 basket. Depositing his gift upon the table and 
 apologizing for his abruptness, he took the chair 
 which Alice offered him, and in a short space of 
 time forgot the young lady who had so nearly 
 prevented him from being where he was — forgot 
 everything save the blue of Alice's eyes and the 
 mournful sweetness of her voice as she an- 
 swered the few questions he addressed to her. He 
 saw at once that both father and daughter were edu- 
 cated and refined, but he did not question them of 
 the past, for he felt instinctively that it would be to 
 them an unpleasant subject, so he conversed upon 
 indifferent topics, and Alice, as she listened to him, 
 could scarcely believe he was the man whom she 
 had heretofore associated with her wages of Sat- 
 urday night, he seemed so familiar and friendly. 
 
 " You will come to see us again," Mr. Warren 
 said to his visitor, when the latter arose to go, and 
 
THE BROWN HOUSE. 
 
 31 
 
 smiling down on Alice, who stood with her arm 
 across her father's neck, Mr. Howland answered : 
 " Yes, I "hall come again. " 
 
 Then he bade them good night, and as the door 
 closed after him, Mr. Warren said : 
 
 " It seems darker now that he is gone," but to 
 Alice, the room was lighter far for that brief visit. 
 
 Mr. How T land, too, felt better for the call. He 
 had done some good, he hoped, and the picture of 
 the two as he had left them was pleasant to remem- 
 ber, and as he drew near his home, and saw in 
 imagination his own large easy-chair before the 
 fire, he tried to fancy how it would seem to be a 
 blind man, sitting there, with a brown-haired mai- 
 den's arm around his neck. 
 
32 
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE ON THE HILL. 
 
 ISS Huntington, brother," Miss Elinor 
 said, and Mr. Howland bowed low to 
 the lady thus presented to him by his 
 sister on his arrival home. 
 She had been waiting for him nearly an hour, 
 and she now returned his greeting with an air more 
 befitting a queen than Adelaide Huntington — for 
 she it was ; and by some singular co-incidence she 
 had come to rent a house of Mr. Howland just as 
 Alice Warren had done but two or three weeks be- 
 fore. The failure which had ruined Mr. Warren had 
 not affected Mrs. Huntington further than the mor- 
 tification and grief she naturally felt at the disgrace 
 and desertion of her husband, from whom she had 
 never heard since he left her so suddenly on the 
 night of the party — neither had she ever met with 
 Mr. Warren, although she had written him a note, 
 assuring him that in no way had she been con- 
 
THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 33 
 
 cerned in the fraud. Still her position in the city 
 was not particularly agreeable, and after a time she 
 had removed to Springfield, Mass., where she took 
 in plain sewing — for without her husband's salary 
 it was necessary that she should do something for the 
 maintenance of her family. Springfield, however, 
 was quite too large for one of Adelaide's proud, ambi- 
 tious nature. "She would rather live in a smaller 
 place," she said, " where she could be somebody. 
 She had been trampled down long enough, and in 
 a country village she would be as good as any 
 one." 
 
 Hearing by chance of Oakland and its demo- 
 cratic people, she had persuaded her mother into 
 removing thither, giving her numerous directions 
 as to the manner in which she was to demean her- 
 self. 
 
 " With a little management," she said, " no one 
 need to know that we have worked for a living — we 
 have only left the city because we prefer the 
 country," and old Peggy, who still served in the 
 capacity of servant, was charged repeatedly " never 
 to say a word concerning their former position in 
 society." 
 
 In short, Adelaide intended to create quite a 
 sensation in Oakland, and she commenced by as- 
 2* 
 
34 
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 suming a most haughty and consequential manner 
 toward both Mr. Howland and his sister. 
 
 " She had come as mas delegate/' she said, to 
 rent the white house on the hill, which they had 
 heard was vacant. Possibly if they liked the coun- 
 try, they should eventually purchase, but it was 
 doubtful — people who have always lived a city life 
 were seldom contented elsewhere. Still, she should 
 try to be happy, though of course she should miss 
 the advantages which a larger place afforded. 
 
 All this and much more she said to Mr. How- 
 land, who, hardly knowing whether she were rent- 
 ing a house of him or he were renting one of her, 
 managed at last to say : 
 
 " Your mother is a widow, I presume ?" 
 
 Instantly the dark eyes sought the floor, and 
 Adelaide's voice was very low in its tone as she 
 answered : 
 
 "I lost my father nearly a year since. ,, 
 
 " I wonder she don't dress in mourning, but 
 that's a way some folks have," Miss Elinor thought, 
 while her brother proceeded to say that Mrs. Hunt- 
 ington could have the white house on the hill, after 
 which Adelaide arose to go, casually asking if the 
 right or left hand street would bring her to the 
 hotel, where she was obliged to spend the night, 
 
THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 35 
 
 as no train, after that hour, went up to Spring- 
 field. 
 
 For a moment Mr. Hovvland waited, thinking 
 his sister would invite the stranger to stop with 
 them, but this Miss Elinor had no idea of doing ; 
 she did not fancy the young lady's airs, and she sim- 
 ply answered : 
 
 " The right hand street — you can't mistake it 
 frowning slightly when her brother said : 
 
 " I will accompany you, Miss Huntington." 
 
 " I dislike very much to trouble you. Still I 
 hardly know the way alone," and Adelaide's dark 
 eyes flashed brightly upon him as she accepted his 
 offer. 
 
 Mr. Howland was not a lady's man, but he could 
 be very agreeable when he tried, and so Adelaide 
 now found him, mentally resolving to give her 
 mother and old Aunt Peggy a double charge not to 
 betray their real circumstances. Mr. Howland evi- 
 dently thought her a person of consequence, and 
 who could tell what might come of her acquaintance 
 with him ? Stranger things had happened, and she 
 thought that if she ever should go to that handsome 
 house as its mistress, her first act would be to send 
 that stiff old maid away. 
 
 With such fancies as these filling her mind, Ade- 
 
36 
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 laide went back next day to Springfield, reported 
 her success, and so accelerated her mother's move- 
 ments that scarcely a week elapsed ere they had 
 moved into the white house on the hill, a handsome 
 little cottage, which looked still more cozy and in- 
 viting after Adelaide's hands had fitted it up with 
 tasteful care. It was a rule with Mrs. Huntington 
 to buy the best, if possible, and as her husband had 
 always been lavish with his money, her furniture 
 was superior to that of her neighbors, many of 
 whom really stood in awe of the genteel widow, as 
 she was thought to be, and her stylish, aristocratic 
 daughter. They were supposed to be quite wealthy, 
 or at least in very easy circumstances, and more 
 than one young girl looked enviously at Adelaide, 
 as day after day she swept through the streets, 
 sometimes " walking for exercise," she said, and 
 again going out to shop ; always at Mr. Howland's 
 store, where she annoyed the clerks excessively by 
 examining article after article, inquiring its price, 
 wondering if it would become her, or suit ma, and 
 finally concluding not to take it "for fear every 
 shoemaker's daughter in town would buy some- 
 thing like it, and that she couldn't endure." 
 
 Regularly each week she went to Springfield, 
 to take music lessons, she said, and lest something 
 
THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 37 
 
 should occur making it necessary for her to stay all 
 night, Aunt Peggy usually accompanied her to the 
 depot, always carrying a well-filled satchel, and 
 frequently a large bundle, whose many wrappings 
 of paper told no tales, and were supposed by the 
 credulous to cover the dressing-gown, which Ade- 
 laide deemed necessary to the making of her morn- 
 ing toilet. 
 
 " It was very annoying," she said, "to carry so 
 much luggage, but the friends with whom she 
 stopped were so particular that she felt obliged to 
 change her dress, even though she merely stayed to 
 dinner." 
 
 And so the villagers, looking at the roll of 
 music she invariably carried in her hands, believed 
 the tale, though a few of the nearest neighbors 
 wondered when the young lady practiced, for it was 
 not often that they heard the sound of the old- 
 fashioned instrument which occupied a corner of 
 the sitting-room. Finally, however, they de- 
 cided that it must be at night, for a light was 
 always seen in Mrs. Huntington's windows until 
 after the clock struck twelve. As weeks went by, 
 most of those whom Adelaide considered someb&dies, 
 called, and among them Mr. Howland. By the 
 merest chance she learned that he was coming and 
 
38 
 
 THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 though she pretended that she was surprised to see 
 him, and said she was just going out, she was 
 most becomingly dressed in her nicely-fitting 
 merino, which, in the evening, did not show the 
 wear of four years. The little sitting-room, too, 
 with its furniture so arranged as to make the best 
 of everything, seemed home-like and cheerful, caus- 
 ing Mr. Howland to feel very much at ease, and 
 also very much pleased with the dark-eyed girl he 
 had come to see. She was very agreeable, he 
 thought, much more so in fact than any one he had 
 met in Oakland, and at a late hour, for one of 
 his early habits, he bade her good night, promising 
 to call again soon, and hear the new song she 
 was going to learn the next time she went to 
 Springfield. 
 
 In dignified silence his sister awaited his return, 
 and when to her greeting, " Where have you been ?" 
 he replied, " Been to call on Miss Adelaide," the 
 depth of the three winkles between her eyebrows 
 was perceptibly increased, while a contemptuous 
 Pshaw ! escaped her lips. Miss Elinor was not 
 easily deceived. From the first she had insisted 
 that Adelaide " was putting on airs," and if there 
 was one thing more than another which that 
 straightforward, matter-of-fact lady disliked, it was 
 
THE WHITE HOUSE. 
 
 39 
 
 pretention. She had not yet been to see Mrs. 
 Huntington, and now, when her brother, after 
 dwelling at length upon the pleasant evening he 
 had spent, .urged her to make the lady's acquaint- 
 ance, she replied rather sharply, that she always 
 wished to know something of the people with 
 whom she associated. For her part, she didn't like 
 Miss Adelaide, and if her brother had the least 
 regard for her feelings, he wouldn't call there quite 
 as often as he did. 
 
 " Quite as often," Mr. Howland repeated, in 
 much surprise. " What do you mean ? I've only 
 been there once," and then in a spirit which men 
 will sometimes manifest when opposed, particularly 
 if in that opposition a lady is involved, he added, 
 "but I intend to go again— and very soon, too." 
 
 "Undoubtedly," was his sister's answer, and 
 taking a light, the indignant woman walked from 
 the room, thinking to herself that, if ever that 
 girl came there to live — she'd no idea she would 
 — but if she did, she — Miss Elinor Howland would 
 make the house a little too uncomfortable for them 
 
40 
 
 CALLS. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 CALLS. 
 
 HE next morning Miss Elinor felt better, 
 and as time passed on and her brother 
 did not again visit his new tenants, she 
 began to feel a little more amiably disposed toward 
 the strangers, and at last decided to call, intending 
 to go next to the brown house in the hollow, where 
 she was a frequent visitor. She accordingly started 
 one afternoon for the white house on the hill, where 
 she was most cordially received. With the ladylike 
 manners of Mrs. Huntington she could find no 
 fault, but she did not like the expression of Ade- 
 laide's eyes, nor the sneering manner in which she 
 spoke of the country and country people ; neither 
 did she fail to see the basket which the young lady 
 pushed hastily under the lounge as Aunt Peggy ush- 
 ered her into the sitting room. On the table there 
 were scissors, needles and thread, but not a vestige 
 of sewing was visible, though on the carpet were 
 
CALLS. 
 
 41 
 
 shreds of cloth, and from beneath the lounge peeped 
 something which looked vastly like the wristband 
 of a man's shirt. 
 
 " Pride and poverty ! I'll venture to say they 
 sew for a living," Miss Elinor thought, and making 
 her call as brief as possible, she arose to go. 
 
 It was in vain that Adelaide urged her to stay 
 longer, telling her " it was such a treat to see some 
 one who seemed like their former acquaintances." 
 
 With a toss of her head Miss Elinor declined, 
 saying she was going to visit a poor family in the 
 hollow, a blind man and his daughter, and in adjust- 
 ing her furs she failed to see how both Adelaide 
 and her mother started at her words. Soon recov- 
 ering her composure, the former asked, who they 
 were, and if they had always lived in Oakland ? 
 
 "Their name is Warren," said Miss Elinor, 
 " and they came, I believe, from some city in west- 
 ern New York, but I know nothing definite con- 
 cerning them, as they always shrink from speaking 
 of their former condition. Alice, though, is a sweet 
 little creature — so kind to her old father, and so re- 
 fined, withal." 
 
 Mechanically bidding her visitor good after- 
 noon, Adelaide went to her mother's side, exclaim- 
 ing : 
 
42 
 
 CALLS. 
 
 " Who thought those Warrens would toss up in 
 Oakland ! Of course, when they know that we are 
 here, they'll tell all about father and everything 
 else. What shall w T e do ?" 
 
 " We are not to blame for your father's mis- 
 deeds," Mrs. Huntington answered ; and Adelaide 
 replied : 
 
 " I know it, but people think you are a widow ■ 
 with a competence sufficient to support us genteelly 
 — they don't suspect how late we sit up nights, sew- 
 ing, to make ends meet. Mercy ! I hope the peek- 
 ing old maid didn't see that," she exclaimed, as her 
 own eye fell upon the wristband. Then, after a 
 moment, she continued, " I know what I'll do. I'll 
 go to Alice this very night, and tell her how sorry 
 we are for what has happened, and I'll ask her to 
 say nothing about father's having cheated them and 
 run away. She's a pretty good sort of a girl, I 
 guess, if I did once to think her so proud." 
 
 The plan seemed a feasible one, and that evening 
 as Alice Warren sat bending over a vest, which she 
 must finish that night, she was startled by the 
 abrupt entrance of Adelaide Huntington, who, seiz- 
 ing both her hands, said, with well-feigned distress : 
 
 " My poor Alice ! I never expected to find you 
 thus." 
 
CALLS. 43 
 
 In his arm-chair Mr. Warren was sleeping, buC 
 when the stranger's shadow fell upon him, he 
 awoke, and stretching out his arms, he said : 
 
 " Who is it, Alice ? — who stands between me and 
 the fire ?" 
 
 " It is I," answered Adelaide, coming to his side, 
 "the daughter of him who ruined you. I have just 
 learned that you were living here in the same village 
 with ourselves, and, at my mother's request, I have 
 come to tell you how bitterly we have wept over my 
 father's sin, and to ask you not to hate us for a deed 
 of which we knew nothing until it was all over." 
 
 Then seating herself in a chair she continued 
 to speak hurriedly, telling them some truth and 
 some falsehood— telling them how, for a few months 
 they had lived with a distant relative, a wealthy 
 man, who gave them money now for their support 
 — telling them how her father's disgrace had affect- 
 ed her mother, and begging of them not to speak of 
 it in Oakland, where it was not known. 
 
 " I don't know why it is," she said, "but people 
 have the impression that mother is a widow ; and 
 though it is wrong to deceive them, I cannot tell 
 them my father ran away to escape a convict's cell. 
 It would kill my mother outright, and if you will 
 keep silent, we shall be forever grateful." 
 
41 
 
 CALLS. 
 
 There was no reason why Mr. Warren should 
 speak of his former clerk, and he answered Adelaide 
 that neither himself nor Alice had any wish to in- 
 jure her by talking of the past. Thus relieved of 
 her fears, Adelaide grew very amiable and sympa- 
 thetic, saying she did not suppose they were so 
 poor, and pitying Alice, who must miss so much 
 her pictures, her flowers, her birds and her music. 
 
 " Come up and try my piano. You may practice 
 on it any time," she said, when at last she arose to 
 g°- 
 
 " I never played much. I was not fond of it," 
 was Alice's answer, while her father rejoined quick- 
 ly: 
 
 "Then you keep a piano. I did not know you 
 had one." 
 
 " Oh, yes, father bought it for me at auction, 
 three years ago, and as he was not owing any one 
 then, our furniture was not disturbed." 
 
 The blind man sighed, while Alice dropped a 
 tear on the vest she was making, as she thought of 
 the difference between herself and Adeleide, who 
 paused as she reached the door, and asked if she 
 knew Mr. Howland. 
 
 "I sew for his store," said Alice, and Adelaide 
 continued : 
 
CALLS. 45 
 " Isn't he a splendid man ?" 
 
 Alice did not know whether he was splendid or 
 not — she had never observed his looks particular- 
 ly, she said ; but she knew he was very kind, and 
 she liked nothing better than to have him come 
 there evenings, as he often did. 
 
 "Come here often !" exclaimed Adelaide, her 
 voice indicating the pang with which a feeling of 
 jealousy had been brought to life. 
 
 Before Alice could reply there was a footstep 
 outside, and the blind man, whose quick ear 
 caught the sound, said joyfully : 
 
 " He's coming now." 
 
 " I wish I had gone home before," was the first 
 thought of Adelaide, who did not care to be seen 
 there by Mr. Howland. It might lead to some in- 
 quiries which she would rather should not be made. 
 Still, there was now no escape, and trusting much 
 to the promise of the Warrens, she stepped back 
 from the door just as Mr. Howland opened it. He 
 seemed greally surprised at finding her there, and 
 still more surprised when he learned that they were 
 old acquaintances. 
 
 " It is kind in her not to desert them in their 
 poverty," he thought, and his manner was still 
 more considerate toward Adelaide, who, after 
 
46 
 
 CALLS. 
 
 standing a few moments, made another attempt 
 to go. 
 
 "Wait, Miss Huntington," said he. "It was 
 both raining and snowing when I came in, and you 
 will need an umbrella." 
 
 This was just what Adelaide wanted, and taking 
 a seat she waited patiently until Mr. Howland 
 signified his readiness to go. Then, bidding Alice 
 good night, she whispered to her softly : 
 
 " You never will say a word of father, will you ? " 
 
 " Certainly not," was Alice's reply, and in 
 another moment Adelaide was in the street walking 
 arm in arm with Mr. Howland, who began to speak 
 of the Warrens and their extreme poverty. 
 
 " It is evident they have seen better days," he 
 said, "but they never seem willing to speak of the 
 past. Did he meet with a reverse of fortune ? " 
 
 For a moment Adelaide was silent, while she re- 
 volved the propriety of saying what she finally did 
 say, and which was — 
 
 " Ye-es — they met with reverses, but as they are 
 unwilling to talk about it, I, too, had better say 
 nothing of a matter which cannot now be helped." 
 
 " Of course not, if it would be to their detri- 
 ment," said Mr. Howland, a painful suspicion 
 entering his mind. 
 
CALLS. 
 
 47 
 
 Hitherto he had regarded Mr. Warren as the soul 
 of integrity, but Adelaide's manner, even more than 
 her words, implied that there was something wrong, 
 and hardly knowing what he said, he continued : 
 
 " Was it anything dishonorable ?" 
 
 " If you please, I would rather say nothing about 
 it," answered Adelaide. " I don't wish to do them 
 harm, and I dare say they regret it more than any 
 one else." 
 
 Mentally pronouncing her a very prudent, con- 
 siderate girl, Mr. Howland walked on in silence, 
 feeling the while that something had been taken 
 from him. He had become greatly interested in the 
 helpless old blind man, and in his writing-desk at 
 home was a receipt in full for the first quarter's rent, 
 which w T ould become due in a few days. But Mr. 
 Howland was a man of stern integrity, hating any- 
 thing like fraud and deceit, and if Mr. Warren had 
 been guilty of either, he was not worthy of respect. 
 Alice, too, though she might not have been in fault, 
 did not seem quite the same, and now as he thought 
 of her, there was less of beauty in the deep blue of 
 her eyes and the wavy tresses of her hair. 
 
 " Will you go in ? It is a long time since you 
 
48 
 
 CALLS. 
 
 were here," said Adelaide, when at last they reached 
 her mother's door. 
 
 Her invitation was accepted, and the clock 
 struck nine before Mr. Howland rose to leave. 
 Accompanying him to the door, Adelaide said, 
 ingly : 
 
 " I trust you will forget our conversation con- 
 cerning those Warrens. You know I didn't really 
 tell you anything." 
 
 Mr. Howland bowed and walked away, wishing 
 in his heart that she had not told him anything, or 
 at least had not created in his mind a suspicion 
 against people he had hitherto liked so much. So 
 absorbed was he in his meditations that he did not 
 at first observe the slender figure which, wrapping 
 its thin shawl close around it, came slowly toward 
 him, but when the girl reached him and the 
 cold wind blew the brown curls over her white 
 face, he knew it was Alice Warren, and his first 
 impulse was to offer her his arm and shield her from 
 the storm. But Adelaide's dark insinuations were 
 ringing in his ears, and so Alice went on alone, 
 while the rain and the sleet beat upon her head and 
 the cold penetrated through her half-worn shoes, 
 chilling her weary feet, and sending a shiver through 
 her frame. But she did not heed it, or even 
 
GALLS. 
 
 49 
 
 think of the driving storm, so eager was she to be 
 at home, where she could count the contents of the 
 little box and see if with the money received there 
 was not enough to pay the quarter's rent. 
 
 But the blind man, listening to the storm, knew 
 how cold his darling would be, and groping in the 
 darkness, he added fresh fuel to the fire, and then 
 swept up the hearth, placing her chair a little 
 nearer to his own, so that it would seem pleasant to 
 her when she came. Poor, helpless man ! He could 
 not see — nay, he had never seen his child, but he 
 could fancy just how bright and beautiful she would 
 look sitting at his side, with the fire he had made 
 shining on her hair, and when at last she came, he 
 clasped her little red hands between his own, rub- 
 bing, kissing, and pitying them until he felt that they 
 were warm. Then, seated in his chair, he listened 
 while she counted the silver coin, dropping it piece 
 by piece into his palm and bidding him guess its 
 value by its size. It was all counted at last, and 
 very joyfully Alice said to her father: 
 
 " There is enough to pay our rent, and we have 
 been comfortable, too, thanks to Miss Elinor, who 
 has saved us many a shilling by her timely acts of 
 charity." 
 
 Miss Elinor had been to them a ministering 
 8 
 
50 
 
 CALLS. 
 
 angel, and however much she might be disliked at 
 the white house on the hill, she was loved and 
 honored at the brown house in the hollow, and that 
 night when Alice Warren sought her pillow, she 
 breathed a prayer for the kind woman who was to 
 befriend her in more ways than one. 
 
PAY-DAY. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 PAY-DAY. 
 
 ISS ELINOR sat alone in her pleasant 
 parlor, bending over her bit of em- 
 broidery, and setting her needle into the 
 dainty fabric in a manner plainly indi- 
 cating a mind ill at ease. And for a lady of her 
 temperament, Miss Elinor was a good deal dis- 
 turbed. During the past week her brother had 
 spent four evenings at the white house on the 
 hill, and though she had unreservedly given him 
 her opinion of the young lady Adelaide, he per- 
 sisted in saying she was the most agreeable and 
 intelligent girl in Oakland. It was in vain that she 
 told him of the wristband, saying she had no doubt 
 they sewed secretly for a living. 
 
 He only smiled incredulously, telling her, how- 
 ever, that he should like Adelaide all the better if 
 he found she was skillful in shirt-making. 
 
 In short, Miss Elinor began to have some well- 
 
52 
 
 PAY-DAT. 
 
 founded fears that she should yet have an oppor- 
 tunity of making the house uncomfortable, both to 
 herself and the wife her brother might bring there 
 and it was this reflection which made her so nerv- 
 ous, that pleasant March afternoon. 
 
 " I would rather he married little Alice Warren 
 — blind father and all," she thought, just as the 
 door opened softly, and " little Alice Warren " 
 stood within the room. 
 
 She had been to the store to see Mr. How- 
 land, she said, and as he was not there she had 
 come to the house, hoping to find him, for she 
 would rather give the money into his hand, and 
 know there was no mistake. 
 
 "What money, child?" asked Miss Elinor, and 
 Alice replied that "it was pay-day," at the same 
 time opening the little box and showing the pieces 
 of money she had saved from her earnings. 
 
 Miss Elinor did not know of the receipt lying 
 in her brother's writing-desk, but she resolved that 
 not a penny should be taken from that box, and 
 bidding Alice be seated on a little stool at her feet, 
 she told her to wait until her brother came. Then 
 when she saw how languid and tired Alice seemed, 
 she put her head upon her lap, smoothing the long 
 brown curls until the weary girl fell asleep, dream- 
 
PAY-DAT, 
 
 5i 
 
 ing that it was her mother's hand which thus so 
 tenderly caressed her hair. 
 
 For half an hour she slumbered on, and then 
 Mr. Howland came, treading carefully and speak- 
 ing low, as his sister, pointing to the sleeping girl, 
 bade him not to wake her. 
 
 " Look at her, though. Isn't she pretty ?" she 
 whispered, and Mr. Howland, gazing upon the 
 fair, childish face, felt that he had seldom seen a 
 more beautiful picture. 
 
 In a few words Miss Elinor told why she was 
 there, adding, in conclusion : 
 
 " But you won't take it, of course. You are rich 
 enough without it, and it will do them so much 
 good." 
 
 " I never intended to take it/' Mr. Howland 
 replied, and going to his library, he soon return- 
 ed with the receipt, which he laid within the box. 
 
 Just then a new idea presented itself to the mind 
 of Miss Elinor. They would change the silver, she 
 said, into a bill, which they could roll up with the 
 receipt and put in Alice's pocket while she slept. 
 This plan met with her brother's approval, and 
 when at last Alice awoke, the box was empty, while 
 Mr. Howland, to whom she told her errand, blush- 
 
54 
 
 PAY-DAY. 
 
 ing deeply to think he had found her sleeping, 
 replied indifferently : 
 
 "Yes, I found it there, and I like your prompt- 
 ness." 
 
 At that moment Miss Elinor left the room, and 
 when she returned, she bore a basket of delicacies 
 for the blind man, who, even then, was standing in 
 the open door at home and listening anxiously for 
 the footsteps which did not often linger so long. 
 He heard them at last, and though they were far 
 down the street, he knew they were Alice's, and clos- 
 ing the door he passed his hands carefully over the 
 tea-table, which he himself had arranged, feeling 
 almost a childish joy as he thought how surprised 
 Alice would be. 
 
 "Oh, father ! " she exclaimed, when at last she 
 came bounding in, "how could you fix it so nicely ? 
 and only think, Miss Elinor has sent you so many 
 good things — here's turkey, and cranberry sauce, 
 and pie, and cheese, and jelly-cake, and white sugar 
 — and everything. I mean, for once, to eat just as 
 much as I want," and the delighted girl arranged 
 the tempting viands upon the table, telling hei 
 father, the while, how pleased Mr. Howland was at 
 her promptness. 
 
PAY-DAT. 
 
 " He gave you a receipt, I suppose ? " Mr. 
 Warren said, and Alice replied : 
 
 " Why, no, I never thought of a receipt. I'm so 
 sorry," and in her confusion she hit her hand 
 against the hissing teapot she had just placed upon 
 the table. 
 
 The slight burn which she received, made her 
 handkerchief necessary, and, in feeling for it, she 
 touched the little roll which Miss Elinor had put in 
 her pocket. Drawing it forth, and examining its 
 contents, she experienced, for an instant, sensations 
 similar to those which Benjamin's brothers may be 
 supposed to have felt when the silver cup was found 
 in their possession. 
 
 "What does it mean ?" she exclaimed, reading 
 aloud the receipt and examining the bill, which 
 amounted exactly to the quarter's rent. 
 
 The blind man knew what it meant, and, bowing 
 his white head upon his bosom, he silently thanked 
 God who had raised them up friends in their sore 
 need. Upon Alice the surprise produced a novel 
 effect, moving her first to laughter and then to tears, 
 and, notwithstanding her intention of " eating as 
 much as she liked," she forgot to taste many of the 
 delicacies spread out so temptingly before her. In 
 her estimation they were almost rich again, and 
 
56 
 
 P AY -DAY, 
 
 never, perhaps, came sleep to her more sweetly than 
 on that night, when she knew that the contents of 
 the little box was theirs to do with as they pleased. 
 
 Several evenings after this they were surprised 
 by a call from Mr. Rowland, who had not visited 
 them before since the night he had found Adelaide 
 Huntington there. Thoughts of Alice, however, as 
 she lay sleeping on his sister's lap, had haunted him. 
 She was innocent of wrong, he was sure, and he 
 had come to see her. It was hard, too, to believe 
 there was aught of evil in that old man with the 
 snow white hair and truthful looking face, and, af- 
 ter receiving their thanks for his generosity, he re- 
 solved to question them a little of the past, so he 
 commenced by asking Alice if she had been inti- 
 mately acquainted with Adelaide Huntington. 
 
 Remembering her promise, Alice seemed much 
 embarrassed, and answered hastily : 
 
 "We were never intimate," while at the same 
 time she glanced toward her father, whose voice 
 trembled slightly as he rejoined : 
 
 "I had business transactions with Adelaide's 
 father, but our families seldom met." 
 
 The next momenh te was talking of something 
 else — his manner plainly indicating that any further 
 allusion to the Huntingtons was not desired. 
 
PAT-DAY. 
 
 57 
 
 " There is something wrong, or they would not 
 be so unwilling to talk of their former life," Mr. 
 Howland thought, and, with his suspicions strength- 
 ened, he soon took his leave, stopping by the way 
 to call on Adelaide, whose eyes beamed a joyous 
 welcome as he entered the parlor, in which she 
 received his frequent calls. 
 
 Her mother was in the way in the sitting-room, 
 she thought, and whenever she had reason for ex- 
 pecting him, she made a fire in the parlor, shutting 
 up the stove and turning down the lamp until the 
 ringing of the bell announced his arrival ; then, 
 while old Peggy hobbled to the door, she opened 
 the draught and turned up the lamp, so that by the 
 time Mr. Howland was ushered in, everything 
 looked cheerful and inviting. By this means, too, 
 she escaped another annoyance, that of being urged 
 to play ; for, if Mr. Howland did not see the piano, 
 he was not as likely to ask her to sing, and she had 
 already nearly exhausted her powers of invention 
 in excuses for her indifferent playing and the style 
 of her music. 
 
 Ma insisted upon her taking old pieces, she 
 said, but by and by, when she had a new piano, 
 she should do differently. 
 
 Fortunately for her, Mr. Howland was not a 
 3* 
 
58 
 
 PAY-DAT. 
 
 musical man and was thus more easily deceived. 
 On the evening of which we are speaking, after 
 listening a while to her sprightly remarks, he sud- 
 denly changed the conversation by saying he had 
 been to see Mr. Warren. 
 
 "And he told me," said he, "that he once did 
 business with your father." 
 
 Turning her face away to hide its startled ex- 
 pression, Adelaide asked hastily : 
 
 " What else did he tell you ?" 
 
 " Nothing," returned Mr. Howland. " He 
 would not talk of the past." 
 
 " I should not suppose he would," quietly re- 
 joined Adelaide — then, after a moment, coming to 
 his side, she continued, " Mr. Howland, I wish you 
 would promise never to mention that subject again, 
 either to me or those Warrens. It can do no good, 
 and a knowledge of the truth might injure some 
 people in your estimation. Promise me, will you ?" 
 
 Her hand was laid imploringly upon his arm, 
 her handsome, dark eyes looked beseechingly into 
 his, and as most men under similar circumstances 
 would have done, he promised, while Adelaide 
 mentally congratulated herself upon the fact that 
 his business never took him to the city where she 
 had formerly lived, and where the name of Hunt- 
 
PAY-DAY. 
 
 59 
 
 ington had scarcely yet ceased to be a by-word in 
 the street. Mr. Howland was much pleased with 
 her, she knew, and if they could manage to keep up 
 appearances a little longer, he might be secured. 
 One thing, however, troubled her. Pay-day was 
 near at hand, but alas for the wherewithal to pay. 
 
 It was not in her mother's purse, nor yet in any 
 other purse whence they could procure it. Still 
 Adelaide trusted much to her inventive genius, and 
 when she bade Mr. Howland good night, chatting 
 gayly as she accompanied him to the door, he little 
 dreamed how her mind was distracted with ways 
 and means by which to dupe him still more effectu- 
 ally. 
 
 Three weeks passed away, and then, as Miss Eli- 
 nor sat one evening with her brother, she asked him 
 if Mrs. Huntington's rent were not that day due. 
 
 " Possibly, though I have not given it a thought," 
 Mr. Howland answered, his voice indicating that he 
 neither deemed it essential for himself to be partic- 
 ular, or his sister to be troubled, about Mrs. Hunt- 
 ington's rent. 
 
 As far as dollars and cents were concerned, Miss 
 Elinor was not troubled, though she did think it 
 
60 
 
 PAY-BAY. 
 
 doubtful whether Adelaide would be as prompt as 
 Alice had been. But when, as if to verify a proverb 
 not necessary to be repeated here, Adelaide came to 
 the door almost before her brother had ceased speak 
 ing, she began to think her suspicions groundless, 
 and her manner was quite conciliatory toward the 
 young lady, who, after throwing back her veil of 
 dotted lace and fidgeting a while in her chair, man- 
 aged to say: 
 
 "It is very humiliating to me, Mr. Howland, to 
 tell you what ma says I must. She fully expected 
 that the agent who does her business would have 
 sent her money ere this, but as he has not, she can- 
 not pay you to-day. Shall we pack up our things 
 at once ?" she continued, playfully, as she saw the 
 expression on Mr. Howland's face. 
 
 " Perhaps you had better," he answered in the 
 same strain, continuing in a more sober tone. 
 "Tell your mother not to be concerned about the 
 rent. It does not matter if it is not paid until the 
 end of the year." 
 
 Adelaide drew a relieved breath, while Miss Eli- 
 nor dropped her embroidery and involuntarily gave 
 vent to a contemptuous " Umph !" 
 
 The sound caught Adelaide's ear, and thinking 
 to herself, "Stingy old thing — afraid they will lose 
 
pay-day. 
 
 61 
 
 it, I dare say/' she made her call as brief as possi- 
 ble. 
 
 Nodding to her civily as she arose to go, Miss 
 Elinor turned to her brother, saying : 
 
 "You know, Richard, you are to go with me to- 
 night to call on Jenny Hayes." 
 
 But Richard did not know it, and as his dis- 
 tressed sister saw him going down the walk with 
 Adelaide Huntington on his arm, she muttered : 
 
 " Fd like to see the man who could make such a 
 fool of me as that girl has made of him ! " 
 
 A wish not likely to be verified, considering that 
 she had already lived forty-five years without see* 
 ing the man. 
 
02 
 
 THE UNKNOWN DELIVERER. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE UNKNOWN DELIVERER. 
 
 ERY rapidly the spring passed away, and 
 che soft, sunny skies of June had more 
 than once tempted the blind man and 
 his daughter into the open fields, or the 
 woods which lay beyond. Their favorite resort, 
 however, was a retired spot on the bank of the 
 river, where, shut out from human eyes, they could 
 speak together of the past, the present, and what 
 the future might bring. Here, one pleasant after- 
 noon, they came, and while Mr. Warren talked of 
 his childhood and his early home, Alice sat sewing 
 at his feet, until growing somewhat weary, she arose 
 and began to search for wild flowers upon the 
 mossy bank. Suddenly espying some beautiful 
 pond-lilies floating upon the surface of the water, 
 she exclaimed : 
 
 " Oh, father, father, these must be white lilies 
 just like those you used to gather when a boy." 
 
THE UNKNOWN DELIVERER. 63 
 
 " Where, where ?" the blind man asked, and his 
 face shone with the intense longing he felt to hold 
 once more within his hand the fair blossoms so in- 
 terwoven with memories of his boyhood. 
 
 " They are here on the river," Alice replied, 
 "and I can get them, too, by going out upon that 
 tree which has partly fallen into the stream." 
 
 " Don't, Alice — don't ! There may be danger," 
 Mr. Warren said, shuddering even while he spoke 
 with an undefinable fear. 
 
 But Alice was not afraid, and springing lightly 
 upon the trunk of the tree she ventured out — 
 farther, and farther still, until the lilies were just 
 within her reach, when, alas, the branch against 
 which she leaned was broken, and to the ear of the 
 blind man sitting on the grass there came the start- 
 ling cry of "Father!" while a heavy splash in the 
 deep, dark water, told that Alice was gone. 
 
 In wild agony the distracted man ran to the 
 water's edge and unhesitatingly waded in, shriek- 
 ing, as he did -so : 
 
 " My child ! my child ! Is there no eye to pity, 
 no arm to save ?" 
 
 Yes, there was an eye to pity, and it raised up an 
 arm to save; for, rushing from a clump of alders 
 which grew not far away, there came a rough, hard- 
 
64 
 
 THE UNKNOWN DELIVERER. 
 
 featured man, who, catching up Mr. Warren as if 
 he had been a child, bore him back to the grassy 
 bank, then boldly plunging into the river, he seized 
 the long tresses of the drowning girl, just as they 
 were disappearing for the third and last time. 
 Wringing the water from her brown hair, the 
 stranger folded his light burden gently to his 
 bosom, and bending over her still, white face, 
 looked earnestly to see if she were dead. There 
 was yet life, he hoped, and swimming to the shore, 
 he laid the unconscious maiden upon the grass? 
 resting her head in the lap of her father, who cried : 
 
 "Is she dead — oh, tell me, is she dead !" 
 
 But the stranger made him no reply, save to 
 take his hand and lay it on the little heart which 
 was beating faintly. Then ivith rapid footsteps he 
 walked away, half pausing once as he heard the 
 poor old man call after him imploringly. 
 
 "Don't leave me all alone, for I am blind, and 
 Alice's heart will stop beating, I'm afraid. It has 
 stopped beating ! She's dead ! oh, she's dead !" he 
 screamed, as in the distance he heard the tramping 
 footsteps going from him fast. 
 
 Still though he knew it not, they went for him k 
 and Mr. Howland, whom chance had led that way, 
 was surprised in his walk by the sudden appearance 
 
THE UNKNO WN DELI VERER. 
 
 65 
 
 of a man with uncovered head and dripping gar- 
 ments, who bade him hasten to the river bank, 
 where a young girl, he feared, was drowned. 
 
 " I am going for a physician, " he said, and he 
 sped away, while Mr. Hovvland hurried on to the 
 spot where Alice still lay insensible, and whiter 
 than the lilies for which she had risked her life. 
 Over her bent the poor old man, his tears falling 
 like rain upon her face, and himself whispering 
 sadly : 
 
 "It's darker now than midnight — they are all 
 gone from me — wife, daughter, all ; oh, Alice, Alice, 
 my bright, my beautiful one. Why did God take 
 you from me when I needed you so much ?" 
 
 " She may not be dead," said Mr. Howland, and 
 touched with the grief of the stricken man, his own 
 tears dropped on Alice's face. 
 
 But they did not rouse her, and with a terrible 
 fear at his heart, he lifted her lightly in his arms, 
 saying to her father : 
 
 " My house is nearer than any other — we must 
 go there." 
 
 Dizzy and faint with excitement, Mr. Warren 
 arose to his feet, but to walk was impossible, and 
 sinking back upon the grass, he cried : 
 
66 THE UNKNOWN DELIVERER. 
 
 " Leave me here and care for her. You can send 
 for me by-and-by." 
 
 This seemed the only alternative, and Mr. Howland 
 started for home, meeting ere long with several of 
 the villagers who had been alarmed by the stranger. 
 A few of them kept on to the river, while others ac- 
 companied Mr. Howland to the house, where crowds 
 of people were soon assembled, and where every 
 possible means w T ere used for Alice's recovery. But 
 they seemed in vain, and when at last the poor old 
 father reached the door he knew by the death-like 
 silence pervading the room, that the physician had 
 said, " no hope." 
 
 "Lead me to her, somebody — lead me to Alice," 
 he whispered, and taking his outstretched arm, Mr. 
 Howland led him to the couch where Alice lay, her 
 wavy hair clinging in damp masses to her forehead, 
 and her long eyelashes resting upon her marble 
 cheek. 
 
 Quickly the trembling fingers sought the heart, 
 but alas ! they felt no motion, and more than one 
 turned away to weep as they saw the look of bitter 
 anguish settling down upon the father's face. 
 There was yet one test more, and laying his ear 
 upon the bosom of his child, the blind man listened 
 
TEE UNKNOWN DELIVERER. 67 
 i 
 
 intently, while the lookers-on held their breath in 
 agonizing suspense. 
 
 Suddenly through the room there rang the wild, 
 glad cry, " I hear it — she lives, she lives !" and with 
 renewed courage the people returned to their labor, 
 which this time was successful, for she who had been 
 so near to death, came slowly back to life, and when 
 the sun went down, its last parting rays shone on 
 the bowed head of one who from his inmost soul was 
 thanking God for not having written him " child- 
 less/' 
 
 It was thought advisable that Alice should re- 
 main where she was for a day or two, and they 
 carried her into a large, pleasant chamber, overlook- 
 ing the town, Miss Elinor constituting herself the 
 nurse, and ever and anon bending down to kiss 
 the lips of the young girl who had so narrowly 
 escaped a watery grave. 
 
 Meanwhile, in the parlors below, both Mr. War- 
 ren and Mr. Howland were making inquiries for 
 the stranger, who, after giving the alarm, had sud- 
 denly disappeared. No one had seen him since, and 
 of those who had seen him before, none knew who 
 he was or whence he came. 
 
 " If I could have heard the sound of his voice, I 
 should know him anywhere," said Mr. Warren, 
 
08 
 
 THE UNKNO WN DELI VERER. 
 
 while Adelaide Huntington, who had not been there 
 long, and who, for some reason, did not like to hear 
 much of the stranger, suggested that it might have 
 been some foot traveler, who, not caring for thanks, 
 had gone on his way. 
 
 This seemed probable and satisfactory to all, 
 save Mr. Warren, who replied : 
 
 " If he would come back, I've nothing in the 
 wide world to offer him ; but an old man's blessing 
 might be of some avail, and that he should have, 
 even though he were my bitterest enemy, and had 
 done me terrible wrong." 
 
 There was a deep flush on Adelaide's cheek as 
 Mr. Warren said these words, and turning quickly 
 away, she walked to the window to hide the emo- 
 tions which she knew were plainly visible upon her 
 face. She seemed greatly excited, and far more in- 
 terested in the accident than her slight friendship 
 for the Warrens would warrant, and when she 
 learned that Alice was to remain, she, too, insisted 
 upon staying all night, provided she could be of 
 any assistance. But Miss Elinor declined her offer, 
 and at a late hour she started for home, managing 
 to steal away when Mr. Howland did not see her. 
 She evidently did not wish to have him accompany 
 her, and for a few succeeding days she avoided him 
 
THE UNKNOWN DELIVERER. 69 
 
 going to his house but once, and that on the morn- 
 ing when Alice was taken home in the carriage. 
 There was something preying upon her mind — 
 something, too, whose nature neither Mr. Howland 
 nor his far-seeing sister could divine, though the 
 former fancied he had discovered it, when, a little 
 more than a week after the accident, she came to 
 him with her face all wreathed in smiles and handed 
 him the entire amount of money then due for the 
 rent. 
 
 That provoking agent had attended to them at 
 last, she said, and she was so glad, for it was very 
 mortifying to be owing any one. 
 
 "And this is wirat has been troubling you of 
 late ?" said Mr. Howland, who was greatly pleased 
 at seeing her appear like herself again. 
 
 "Then you noticed it," Adelaide replied, col- 
 oring crimson, and adding hastily : " We have re- 
 cently been much annoyed and perplexed, but for 
 the future our agent will be prompt, and so shall 
 we." 
 
 Whether the agent referred to was prompt or not, 
 there seemed for several weeks to be plenty of 
 money at the white house on the hill — so much so, 
 in fact, that Adelaide did not, as usual, go to 
 Springfield to take her accustomed lesson, while 
 
70 THE UNKNOWN DELIVERER. 
 
 old Peggy, whose shabby dress was beginning to 
 create some gossip among the villagers, presented 
 quite a respectable appearance in her new gingham 
 and muslin cap. About this time, too, there was 
 sent by mail to Mr. Warren the sum of twenty-five 
 dollars, and as there was no word of explanation 
 accompanying it, he naturally felt curious to know 
 from whom it came. 
 
 "Miss Elinor sent it, I am sure. It is exactly like 
 her," said Alice, who was now entirely well, and 
 that afternoon, when her work was done, she went 
 up to see Miss Howland, whom she found suffering 
 from a severe headache, and in ministering to her 
 wants she entirely forgot to speak of the money. 
 The next day Miss Elinor was much worse, and for 
 many weeks was confined to her bed with a linger- 
 ing fever, which left her at last so nervous and low 
 that her physician advised a journey to the West 
 as the surest means of restoring her health. Her 
 only sister was living in Milwaukee, and thither 
 Mr. Howland, who began to be seriously alarmed, 
 tried to persuade her to go. For a time Miss Elinor 
 hesitated, and only consented at last on condition 
 that her brother promised not to engage himself to 
 Adelaide Huntington during her absence. 
 
 Bursting into a laugh, Mr. Howland assured her 
 
THE UNKNOWN DELIVERER. 
 
 71 
 
 that she need have no fears of finding her station, 
 as mistress of his house, filled on her return, for 
 though Adelaide might possibly some day bear the 
 name of Hovvland, he could wait a while, and would 
 do so for his sister's sake. 
 
 With this promise Miss Elinor tried to be satis- 
 fied, and after giving him many charges not to 
 neglect the blind man, she started for Milwaukee 
 in company with some friends who, like herself, 
 were westward bound. 
 
72 
 
 THE PARTY DRESS. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE PARTY DRESS. 
 
 T was now the first of December. Miss 
 Elinor had been gone from home nearly 
 three months, and during this time Mr. 
 Howland had spent one-half of his eve- 
 nings at least with Adelaide Huntington, who mar- 
 velled that he did not ask her to be his wife. But 
 the promise made to his sister must be kept, and so, 
 night after night, he came and went, while Adelaide 
 experienced fresh pangs of fear lest her deception 
 should be discovered ere Mr. Howland was secured. 
 
 About this time there were rumors of a large 
 party to be given by Mrs. Hayes, the most fashion- 
 able lady in Oakland, and knowing well how 
 the beauty of her person would be enhanced by a 
 party dress, Adelaide resolved to leave no means 
 unspared for the procuring of such a dress. 
 
 She had always observed, she said, that Mr. 
 Howland was unusally attentive when she looked 
 
THE PARTY DRESS. 
 
 73 
 
 unusually well, and there was no knowing what 
 would happen if she eclipsed all the ladies who 
 might be present at the party, and then, as day 
 after day went by, she grew impatient because no 
 letter came from one who, at the post-office, was 
 designated as ma's provoking agent, but who at 
 home, with none but mother to hear, was called 
 by a different name. Fretting, however, was of no 
 avail — the provoking agent did not write, and her 
 purse contained only seven dollars. 
 
 "If I could get the dress," she said, "I might 
 possibly manage the rest," and then, as she re- 
 membered the dainty fabric which Alice Warren 
 had worn upon that memorable Christmas Eve, 
 she started to her feet exclaiming, " That's a good 
 idea," and ere her mother had time to question her 
 she was on her way to the brown house in the 
 hollow. 
 
 For a few weeks past Mr. Warren had been 
 seriously ill, and though Alice worked both early 
 and late, she could not procure for him the little 
 comforts which he needed and missed so much. 
 Miss Elinor's words, Do not neglect the blind 
 man, had been forgotten, and many a weary night 
 had the blind man's daughter bent with aching head 
 and tearful eyes over the piece of work which her 
 4 
 
74 
 
 THE PARTY DRESS. 
 
 increased cares had not permitted her to finish dur- 
 ing the day. They were indeed drinking the bitter 
 cup of poverty, and the sick man in his sleep was 
 moaning sadly for wine, which he said would make 
 him strong, when Adelaide Huntington entered the 
 humble room. Glancing hurriedly at the scanty 
 fire and empty wood-box, she thought : 
 
 " They must be wretchedly poor — I dare say I 
 can get it for almost nothing." 
 
 Then seating herself by Alice's side, she told at 
 once the object of her visit. She had never for- 
 gotten the beautiful lace dress which Alice had 
 worn on the night of her party, and if there was 
 one thing more than another which she coveted, it 
 was that. In short she wished to know if Alice had 
 it now, and if so, would she sell it, telling no one 
 that it had ever belonged to her. 
 
 At the first mention of the dress, Alice's tears 
 began to flow, for it was almost the only relic of 
 the past w^hich she possessed, and now, laying her 
 head in Adelaide's lap she sobbed out : 
 
 " Oh, Adelaide, my mother bought it for me, 
 and can I let it go ?" 
 
 "You know which you need the most, that or 
 the money," was Adelaide's cold reply, while from 
 his pillow the sick man faintly murmured : 
 
THE PARTY DRESS. 
 
 75 
 
 "Something to make me well." 
 
 This was enough, and wiping her tears away, 
 Alice took from her trunk the dress, sighing deeply 
 as she recalled the night when first and last she 
 wore it. 
 
 " I did not know it was so exquisitely beautiful/* 
 was Adelaide's mental comment as Alice shook out 
 the soft, fleecy folds, but she did not say so. 
 On the contrary she depreciated its value, say- 
 ing, it had turned yellow, was rather old-fash- 
 ioned, and a second-hand article at most, besides 
 being quite too short for her in its present condi- 
 tion. 
 
 In this manner she paved the way to the price 
 which she finally offered, and which Alice at first 
 refused to take. Four dollars seemed so little for 
 what had cost so much. But Alice's necessities 
 were great, and when Adelaide offered her another 
 dollar to change the dress as it would have to be 
 changed for her, she yielded, promising to have it 
 in readiness and bring it home on the night of the 
 party. After trying it on and giving numerous 
 directions as to the changes she wished to have 
 made, Adelaide arose to go, saying nothing con- 
 cerning the pay. With a beating heart Alice saw 
 her about to leave, and though it cost her a mighty 
 
76 
 
 THE PARTY DRESS. 
 
 effort to do so, she at last conquered her pride and 
 catching Adelaide's shawl as she was passing out, 
 she said with quivering lips : 
 
 " If you only will pay me part to-day ! Father 
 is sick, and we are so poor," and the little blue 
 veined hands were clasped beseechingly together. 
 
 " There's a dollar, if that will do you any good," 
 said Adelaide, thrusting a bill into Alice's hand, 
 and then hurrying away. 
 
 She had no intention of cheating Alice out of 
 her pay, but she hated to part with her money, and 
 on her way home she thought of so many things 
 which she must have, that she began at last to won- 
 der if Alice would not just as soon take something 
 from the house, bread, or potatoes, or soap — she 
 heard old Peggy boasting of having made a barrel 
 full, and soap was a very useful article — she'd ask 
 Alice when she brought t'he dress ! and, feeling a 
 good deal of confidence in her plan, she stopped at 
 Mr. Howland's store, where she spent a portion of 
 her remaining six dollars for white kids, satin rib- 
 bon, blonde lace and so forth. 
 
 As she was leaving the store, she met Mr. How- 
 land, who accompanied her to the door, casually 
 asking if she knew how Mr. Warren was getting 
 alcng. 
 
THE PARTY DRESS. 
 
 77 
 
 •'It is some time since I was there," he said, 
 " and I think of going round to-night. As he is 
 sick, they may perhaps be suffering." 
 
 " Oh, no, they are not," Adelaide quickly re- 
 joined, "I have just been to see them myself. Mr. 
 Warren is no worse, and they are doing very well. 
 I gave Alice some work, too, paying her in ad- 
 vance." 
 
 " So, on the whole, you think I had better spend 
 the evening with you," said Mr. Howland, play- 
 fully interrupting her, as he saw that one of his 
 clerks was desirous of speaking to him. 
 
 " Most certainly I do," she answered laughingly, 
 as she passed into the street. 
 
 And so that night, while her father slept, poor 
 Alice Warren trimmed her little lamp, and with a 
 heavy heart sat down to work upon the costly gar- 
 ment, every thread of which seemed interwoven 
 with memories of the mother, who had bought it 
 for her. Occasionally, too, she lifted up her head, 
 and listened for the footsteps which now but seldom 
 came that way, for only once had Mr. Howland 
 been there since her father's illness, and brushing 
 away a tear, she sighed : 
 
 " He does not care for such as we." 
 
 That afternoon she had heard the rumor that 
 
78 
 
 THE PARTY DBESS. 
 
 the proud Miss Huntington was to be his wife, 
 and though the idea that she, little Alice Warren, 
 could ever be aught to him, had never entered her 
 mind, the news affected her painfully, and as she 
 sat alone that night, the world seemed darker, 
 drearier than it had ever been before, while the 
 future home of Richard Howland's bride looked 
 very pleasant to her. 
 
 " Alice," came faintly from her father, and in a 
 moment Alice was at his side. "Alice, are you 
 sewing to-night ?" 
 
 " Yes, father, I am sewing." 
 
 " But I thought you finished the vest this after- 
 noon. What are you doing now ?" 
 
 Alice hesitated. She could not tell him she had 
 sold her party dress, neither would she tell him a 
 lie, so she finally said : 
 
 " Adelaide came here while you slept, and I am 
 fixing a dress for her to wear to Mrs. Hayes* party. 
 She gave me a dollar for it, too, and to-morrow I 
 shall buy you the wine which Dr. Martin says you 
 need, and maybe I'll get you some oranges, too. 
 Would you like some oranges, father ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes," the tremulous voice replied, and the 
 childish old man cried, as he thought that to-mor- 
 row he would have the wine and the oranges, too. 
 
THE PARTY DRESS. 
 
 The morrow came, and with it came the deli- 
 cacies so long desired. But the sick man scarcely 
 tasted them ; " some other time he might want them 
 more," he said, and with a feeling of disappoint- 
 ment Alice put them away, while her father, turn- 
 ing wearily upon his pillow, prayed that the deep, 
 dark waters, through which he instinctively felt 
 that he must ere long pass, might not be suffered to 
 overflow. 
 
 But to Alice there came no forebodings like 
 these. She only knew her father was very sick, and 
 she fancied that the luxuries to which he had been 
 accustomed would make him well again. 
 
 So with untiring patience she worked on, think- 
 ing how the money which Adelaide was to pay her 
 should be expended for her father's comfort. 
 
 Alas for the poor little girl, who, just as it was 
 growing dark on the night of the party, folded 
 carefully the finished dress, and then stole softly to 
 her father's bedside, to see if he w^ere sleeping. He 
 was very — very pale, and on his face there was a 
 look like that of her dead mother. 
 
 But Alice was not alarmed. She had never 
 thought it possible for him to die, so quiet, so 
 gentle, so uncomplaining he seemed. 
 
 " Father " she said, " can you stay alone while I 
 
80 
 
 THE PARTY DRESS. 
 
 carry Adelaide her dress ? She is to pay me more 
 than that dollar, and I will buy you ever so many 
 nice things." 
 
 " By-and-by," he whispered, " it is early yet," 
 and drawing Alice to him, he talked to her of her 
 mother, who, he said, seemed very near to him that 
 night — so near that he could almost feel her soft 
 hand clasp his own, just as it used to do in the 
 happy days gone by. And while he talked the dark- 
 ness in the room increased — the clock struck six, 
 and releasing his daughter Mr. Warren bade her go. 
 
 "He felt better," he said, "and was not afraid to 
 stay alone." 
 
 "You must sleep till I return. I shall not be 
 gone long," were Alice's parting words, and going 
 out, she walked rapidly in the direction of Mrs. 
 Huntington's. 
 
 In a very unamiable mood Adelaide met her at 
 the door, chiding her for her delay, and saying : 
 
 " I began to think you were never coming." 
 
 " Father has been worse, and I could not work 
 so fast," was Alice's meek reply, as she followed 
 Adelaide into the sitting-room, helping her try on 
 the dress, which the petulant young lady declared: 
 
 Didn't fit within a mile ! It was too high in the 
 
THE PAETY DBESS. 
 
 81 
 
 neck — too long in the waist — too short in the skirt, 
 and must be fixed before it was decent to wear ! 
 
 " Oh, I can't leave father so long," said Alice, in 
 dismay, as she thought how much there was to be 
 done. 
 
 "111 risk him," returned Adelaide. "Any way, 
 when I hire anything done I expect it to suit me, or 
 I don't pay, of course." 
 
 This remark was well-timed, for Alice could not 
 go back without the money, and with a heavy heart 
 she sat down to her task. But the tears blinded her 
 eyes, and so impeded her progress that the clock 
 struck eight before her work was done. 
 
 " Now, put these flowers in my hair, and tie my 
 sash just as yours was tied," said the heartless 
 Adelaide, as she saw Alice about to put on her 
 bonnet. 
 
 In a box which stood upon the table lay the 
 bead purse, and glancing at that Alice did whatever 
 was required of her, nor scarcely felt a pang when 
 at last the toilet was completed, and Adelaide 
 Huntington stood before her arrayed in the self- 
 same dress which she had worn but two short years 
 ago. 
 
 " I meant you should dress me all the time," 
 said Adelaide, glancing complacently at herself in 
 4*. 
 
82 
 
 THE PARTY DRESS. 
 
 the mirror. w I meant you should dress me — 
 mother knows so little about such matters, and 
 then, too, she is sick up stairs with a violent head- 
 ache, but I do not need you any longer — what are 
 you waiting for ?" she continued, as Alice made no 
 movement to go. 
 
 " I am waiting for the money which I want so 
 much to-night," answered Alice. 
 
 "Ah, yes, the money/' said Adelaide, making a 
 feint to examine the purse, which she knew was 
 empty. 
 
 Alice knew it, too, all too soon, and sinking 
 down upon a little stool she cried aloud : 
 
 "What shall we do ? The wood is almost gone, 
 and I baked the last cake to-night. Oh, father, 
 father, what will you do to-morrow ?" 
 
 Adelaide Huntington was not hard-hearted 
 enough to be unmoved by this appeal, and for- 
 getting entirely the soap, she glided from the room 
 to which she soon returned, bringing a basket of 
 food for Alice, whom she comforted with the assur- 
 ance that she should be paid as soon as possible. 
 
 " I'd no idea they were so ppor," said Adelaide 
 to herself, as the door closed upon Alice. " I wish 
 he would send the money so I could pay the debt 
 and have it off my mind." 
 
THE PARTY DRESS. 
 
 83 
 
 Just then the village omnibus stopped at the 
 door, and Adelaide ran for a moment to show her 
 mother how she looked, then gathering up the 
 folds of her rich lace skirt, and throwing on her 
 shawl, she entered the carriage and was soon rid- 
 ing toward the scene of gayety, while Alice Warren 
 w r as hurrying home, a nameless terror creeping into 
 her heart, and vaguely whispering that the morrow, 
 for which she had been so anxious, might bring her 
 a sorrow such as orphans only know. 
 
84 
 
 THE HEARTHSTONE. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE FIGURE ON THE HEARTHSTONE 
 
 OR a while after Alice left him, Mr 
 Warren lay perfectly quiet, trying to 
 number the minutes, by counting each 
 tick of the clock, and wondering if it 
 were not time for Alice to return. While thus 
 engaged he fell asleep, and when at last he woke 
 there was a deathlike faintness at his heart ; his 
 lips were dry and parched, and he felt a strong de- 
 sire for water with which to quench his burning 
 thirst. 
 
 " Alice/' he said feebly, " Alice, is that you ? are 
 you here?" but to his call there came no answer, 
 and throughout the room there was heard no sound 
 save the steady ticking of the clock. 
 
 Why then did the blind man raise himself upon 
 his elbow and roll his sightless eyes around the 
 silent apartment. Did be hear aught in the deep 
 stillness? He thought he did — ay, he was sure he 
 did, and again he called : 
 
THE HEARTHSTONE. 
 
 85 
 
 " Alice, Alice, are you here ?" 
 
 But Alice made him no reply, and as the minutes 
 went by, the sick man grew delirious, talking of 
 the past, which seemed present with him now. 
 Then, as reason for a moment returned, he moaned: 
 
 "Oh, Alice, will you never come? The fire is 
 going out and I am growing cold. Oh, must I die 
 alone at last ? " 
 
 No, not alone ; for, crouched upon the hearth- 
 stone, there sat a human form. It was the figure of 
 a man — a dark, hard-featured man ; and often, as 
 the wailing cry came from the humble bed, it bowed 
 its head upon its hands and wept. Carefully, stealth- 
 ily through the door it had come while Mr. 
 Warren slept, and the deep black eyes, which 
 glowed at first like coals of living fire, grew dim 
 with tears as, glancing hurriedly around the room, 
 they saw how poor it was. 
 
 " Isn't there somebody here with me ? " the sick 
 man said at last, as his quick ear caught the sound 
 of breathing. "Speak, isn't there somebody here?" 
 he continued, while the figure on the hearthstone 
 glided noiselessly to the bedside, where it stood 
 erect, gazing pitifully upon the white, worn face 
 which, with the lamp-light shining on it ? seemed of 
 a deathly hue. 
 
83 
 
 THE HEARTHSTONE. 
 
 It was a strange sight, that statue standing 
 there so silently, and that blind old man trying 
 in vain to penetrate the darkness and learn who it 
 was that stood there beside him. , Raising himself 
 at last in bed, and stretching out his arm, he touched 
 a hand colder even than his own, for guilt and fear 
 had chilled the blood of him who remained immov- 
 able, while the trembling fingers passed nervously 
 over the face, through the hair, down the side, until 
 they reached the left hand, from whose fore-finger a 
 joint was gone. That missing joint, though we 
 have made no mention of it heretofore, was well 
 remembered by Hugo Warren, and it needed but 
 this proof to tell him who was there. 
 
 "William Huntington," he hoarsely whispered, 
 and falling back upon his pillow, he wiped the 
 drops of perspiration from his face, for the presence 
 of that man, coming to him thus, awakened all the 
 bitter memories of the past. " William Hunting- 
 ton," he gasped, " why are you here on this night 
 of all others, when my lost wife seems present with 
 me, and my ruined hopes pass in sad review before 
 my mind. Say, have you come to add the last drop 
 in the brimming bucket ?" 
 
 There was a moment's silence, and then, falling 
 
THE HEARTHSTONE. 
 
 87 
 
 upon his knees, William Huntington made answer 
 to the man he had so wronged. 
 
 " I did not come to insult you, but rather to seek 
 the forgiveness which I know I do not merit. Only 
 say that you forgive me, Mr. Warren — let me once 
 hold your hand in token of reconciliation, and then 
 do with me what you will. A life within a felon's 
 cell is preferable far, to the remorse which I have 
 carried with me for two long, dreary years. Say, 
 will you not forgive me?" he continued, and the 
 strong man's voice was choked with tears. 
 
 "Forgive you, .William," Mr. Warren replied, 
 " I might perhaps forgive you, were my fortune all 
 you wrested from me, but when I think of my lost 
 Helen, my heart is turned to steel, for you killed 
 her, William Huntington — you killed my precious 
 wife." 
 
 " Yes, yes, it was my base act which killed her, 
 it is true, still I have made you some amends. I 
 saved your daughter's life, you know, else I had 
 never dared to seek your face again," said Mr. 
 Huntington, interrupting him. 
 
 " You saved Alice's life ? " the excited man 
 rejoined, and the hand which had withdrawn itself 
 beneath the bed-clothes now came forth again, feel- 
 ing eagerly for the bowed head, on which it rested 
 
83 
 
 THE HEARTHSTONE. 
 
 forgivingly, while he continued, u It was you, then 
 who took her from the river, and laid her in my 
 arms — you who saved me from a darker night than 
 any I have ever known. Yes, William, because you 
 did this good to me, you are forgiven, fully, freely 
 forgiven — but why have you not told of it before ? 
 Where have you been, and did your family know 
 aught of this? " 
 
 " My family know aught of this? " repeated Mr. 
 Huntington. " Can it be I am deceived ? " and 
 then, with the shaking hand still resting on his 
 head, he told how he had wandered far and wide, 
 seeking rest and finding none, for ever present to 
 his mind was a white-haired, sightless man, weeping, 
 o'er his pale, dead wife. 
 
 In the far off California land he had dug for 
 gold, vainly hoping by this means some time to 
 make amends for the ruin he had wrought. At last, 
 as the burden of remorse grew heavier to bear, he 
 sought his home to see once more the faces of his 
 wife and child, hoping, too, that the forgiveness he 
 so much desired might be obtained. 
 
 " I found them here," said he — "found my wife 
 and Adelaide working hard and secretly, lest the 
 world should know how poor they were. I met my 
 daughter first, and Heaven forgive me if I do her 
 
THE HEARTHSTONE. 
 
 89 
 
 wrong, I thought she was not glad to see me. I 
 questioned her of you, and learned that you were 
 here, too, and very poor. You were fully deter- 
 mined, she said, to revenge yourself on me should I 
 ever be found, and she urged me not to let my 
 presence here be known, until she had tried to pro- 
 cure for me your forgiveness. My wife did not 
 seem to understand your feelings, for she had never 
 seen you, and she wished me to remain ; but my 
 daughter's fears and my own dread of a convict's 
 fate prevailed, and trusting to Adelaide's promise 
 that she would eventually obtain your pardon for 
 me, I left them again and became a second time a 
 wanderer. I intended to take the cars at West 
 Oakland, and was following the course of the river, 
 when, pausing for a moment to rest, I saw you 
 approaching, and hid behind the alders, one mo- 
 ment resolving to throw myself at your feet, and 
 again fearing to do so, for guilt had made me 
 cowardly and weak. The rest of that day's inci- 
 dents you know. I saved your daughter's life, but I 
 dared not speak, lest I should be betrayed. My 
 wet clothes made it necessary for me to return to 
 the house, where 1 told what I had done, and asked 
 if this would not atone- My wife said yes, but 
 Adelaide was fearful still. She would see you her- 
 
90 
 
 THE HEARTHSTONE. 
 
 self, she said, and she did see you that very day, but 
 you refused. 'The law must take its course,' you 
 said, ' even though I saved a hundred lives.' " 
 
 " Never ! so help me Heaven ! " Mr. Warren 
 exclaimed. " Such words as those never passed my 
 lips, and till this moment I knew not who it was 
 that saved my child. Forgive me, William, but she 
 lied, that girl Adelaide. There was treachery in her 
 voice when she sat at my feet and asked me not to 
 tell of your misdeeds, lest disgrace should fall on 
 her. People thought her mother was a widow, she 
 said, and she would rather they should not know 
 that you ran away to escape a prison home." 
 
 "Oh, Adelaide, my child, my child, why did you 
 thus deceive me ? " the wretched father groaned, 
 while Mr. Warren continued : 
 
 "I never tried to find you, William, or sought to 
 do you harm; but go on and tell me where you have 
 been since that time." 
 
 " I remained at home a day or two, hiding from 
 the sight of men," Mr. Huntington replied, "and 
 then one night I went away, thinking to make for 
 my family a home in the distant West, where you 
 would never find me. But no spot could be home 
 to me with that load upon my mind, so at last I 
 determined to see you myself, and beg for your for- 
 
THE HEARTHSTONE. 91 
 
 giveness. They think me far away, my wife and 
 Adelaide, for I only paused a moment at their door. 
 Looking through the half-closed blind I saw your 
 daughter there, and knowing that you must be 
 alone I hastened on, entering your dwelling while 
 you vslept, and now it remains for you to do with 
 me what you will." 
 
 " Nothing, William, I shall do nothing— only 
 raise me up, my breath is going from me," Mr. 
 Warren gasped. 
 
 The faintness he had experienced once before 
 had returned again, brought on by the excitement 
 of what he had heard, and Mr. Huntington, when 
 he saw the corpse-like pallor stealing over his face, 
 feared that he was dying. He was not afraid of 
 death, but the world, he knew, was a suspicious one, 
 and he would rather the man he had so wronged 
 should not die alone with him. Just then he heard 
 without, a footstep coming near, and thinking it 
 must be Alice, he hurried to the door, exclaiming : 
 
 " Be quick ! your father, 1 fear, is dying ! " 
 
 In a moment the person thus addressed stood at 
 Mr. Warren's bedside, and when the fainting man 
 came back to consciousness he whispered softly : 
 
 " God bless you, Mr. Howland, for coming here 
 again." 
 
1/3 
 
 THE HEARTHSTONE. 
 
 It was Richard Howland who stocd there side 
 by side with one whom he readily recognized as the 
 stranger who had saved the life of Alice Warren. 
 He had started for the party, going through the 
 hollow as the shortest route, and was passing Mr. 
 Warren's gate, when the words, " Be quick ! your 
 father, I fear, is dying," arrested his attention, 
 bringing him at once into the presence of the blind 
 man whom he had so long neglected. 
 
 " I did not know you were so ill," he was about 
 to say, when Alice entered the room. 
 
 " Father," she cried, bounding to his side, " are 
 you worse? "and then, as her eyes fell upon Mr. 
 Huntington, the hot blood stained her face and 
 neck, for she knew who he was, and marveled much 
 that he was there. 
 
 "Alice," said Mr. Warren, "I have forgiven 
 William Huntington because he saved your life, 
 though he dared not let us know it then, for Ade- 
 laide had said I thirsted for revenge. He has suf- 
 fered much, my child, and you, I am sure, will sanc- 
 tion my forgiveness." 
 
 It was in vain that Alice attempted to speak, 
 so astonished was she at what she had heard, and, 
 misinterpreting her silence, Mr. Huntington ad- 
 vanced toward her, saying, imploringly: 
 
THE HEARTHSTONE. 
 
 93 
 
 " Hear, me, young lady, and you will perhaps be 
 willing to forgive." 
 
 Then very rapidly he repeated in substance the 
 story he had told her father, touching as lightly as 
 possible on Adelaide's duplicity, but still making 
 the matter plain to Alice and clear to him, who, 
 with clasped hands and wildly beating heart, list- 
 ened breathlessly to the strange tale he heard. 
 Richard Howland was undeceived at last, and the 
 girl he had almost loved was revealed to him in her 
 true character, as an artful, designing woman. The 
 father, who he supposed was dead, stood there, a 
 living, breathing man, identical, he was sure, with 
 the agent of whom he had often heard, and, worse 
 than all, the people against whom she had breathed 
 her dark insinuations, were innocent of evil ; the 
 wrong was on the other side, and he had been her 
 dupe ; had even thought it possible to call that girl 
 his wife. His wife ! how he loathed the very idea 
 now that he knew her guilt, and how his conscience 
 smote him for having ever wronged in thought the 
 helpless old blind man and his gentle, fair-haired 
 daughter. They had suffered, too, from his neglect, 
 but he could make amends for that, and his heart 
 went out in pity toward Alice as he contrasted her 
 former life with her present dreary lot. The party 
 
94 
 
 THE HEARTHSTONE. 
 
 was forgotten, and while Adelaide, in a most im* 
 patient mood, watched each fresh arrival, he, for 
 whom she watched in vain, smoothed the tumbled 
 pillow, bathed the burning brow, or brought the 
 cooling draught, and then spoke words of comfort 
 to the weeping Alice, who read upon his face, and 
 that of Mr. Huntington, a confirmation of her fears. 
 
 But not that night did Mr. Warren die, though 
 the physician, for whom Mr. Huntington was sent, 
 would give no hope. The disease had assumed a 
 most alarming form, he said, and Mr. Howland's 
 hand rested pityingly on the bowed head of the 
 young girl who was soon to be an orphan. The 
 morning came, and then, as it was necessary for 
 him to go home for a time, he left both father and 
 child to the care of Mr. Huntington, promising to 
 send down one of his domestics, and to return him- 
 self ere long. 
 
REVELATIONS. 
 
 95 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 REVELATIONS. 
 
 HE morning train from Albany had thun 
 dered through the town, and Mr. How- 
 land was about returning to the hollow, 
 when hasty footsteps were heard in the 
 hall, and in a moment his sister stood before him. 
 She had traveled night and day since leaving 
 Milwaukee, she said, but she didn't mind it at all, 
 she was so impatient to be at home and tell him 
 what she had heard, and, without so much as unty- 
 ing her bonnet, Miss Elinor continued: 
 
 h I told you all the time they were impostors — 
 but men have so little sense. I'm glad I ain't a 
 man, though if I were, no woman would ever 
 impose on me as that Adelaide has on you. Why, 
 instead of taking music lessons, as she pretends to 
 do, she goes to Springfield after work, and the 
 satchel you more than once carried for her, had in 
 it vests and shirts, and mercy knows what — tell me 
 
96 
 
 REVELATIONS. 
 
 that wasn't a wristband I saw under the lounge. 
 I guess I know a wristband. They are just as poor 
 as they can be, and sew for Mr. Lincoln's store in 
 Springfield, for Mrs. Lincoln's cousin told me so. 
 I met her in Milwaukee, and when she knew I was 
 from Oakland, she spoke of Adelaide, and asked 
 me if I knew her. I told her yes, and then she 
 asked if she were married yet, saying she hoped she 
 was, for it seemed a pity that a stylish-looking girl 
 like her should be obliged to sew for a living. Of 
 course I questioned her, learning what I've told 
 you, and, worse than all the rest, Adelaide made 
 this lady believe that she was going to marry a very 
 wealthy man, who had a most delightful home, with 
 one incumbrance, which she should soon manage to 
 dispose of, and that incumbrance w T as a dried-up 
 old maid sister ! Do you hear that, Richard How- 
 land ? A dried-up old maid sister. That means 
 me !" and the highly scandalized lady walked up 
 and down the room, upsetting, in her wrath, both 
 her traveling basket and band-box, which last in a 
 measure diverted her attention, for no woman, 
 whether married or single, can think of anything 
 else when her "best bonnet" is in danger. 
 
 Picking up the box, and assuring herself that its 
 5r ients were unharmed, she continued: 
 
REVELATIONS. 
 
 97 
 
 " Why don't you say something, Richard ? Are 
 you not surprised at what I have told you?" 
 
 " Not particularly," he answered, and coming to 
 her side he repeated to her the story he had heard 
 from Adelaide's own father, so long supposed to be 
 dead. 
 
 "The trollop ! the jade !" ejaculated Miss Elinor. 
 "I understand her perfectly. She wished to keep 
 up appearances, and make her father stay away 
 until she became your wife, and you couldn't help 
 yourself. Dried-up old maid, indeed ! I'll teach 
 her to call me names. But what of Mr. Warren 
 and little Alice ? I'll go to them at once," and not- 
 withstanding her recent fatiguing journey, the en- 
 ergetic woman started for the hollow, saying to her 
 brother, who accompanied her, " I am determined 
 upon one thing, Richard. If Mr. Warren dies, 
 Alice will live with us and have the best chamber, 
 too. Poor little creature, how she must have 
 suffered." 
 
 They found both Mr. Warren and Alice asleep, 
 but Miss Elinor's kiss av/oke the latter, who uttered 
 a cry of joy at the sight of her friend and benefac- 
 tress. The sick man, too, ere long, awoke, but 
 only to doze again, and as the day wore on he con- 
 tinued in a state of stupor, from which it was diffi- 
 5 
 
98 
 
 REVELATIONS. 
 
 cult to rouse him. Just before the sun was setting, 
 however, consciousness returned, and he asked for 
 Alice, who in a moment was at his side. Winding 
 his arm lovingly around her neck, he prayed that 
 the God of the fatherless would not forsake her 
 when she should be alone. 
 
 "I am going from you, Alice,'' he said, " going 
 to your mother, who has waited for me all day, and 
 the pain of death would scarce be felt did I know 
 what would become of you." 
 
 "Tell him, Richard," whispered Miss Elinor, 
 and advancing to the bed-side, Mr. Howland said : 
 
 "Your daughter shall live with me when you 
 are gone." 
 
 " God bless you," came feebly from the dying 
 man, while the fair head resting on his bosom was 
 a moment uplifted, and Mr. Howland never forgot 
 the grateful, glad expression of the soft blue eyes 
 which looked into his face. 
 
 " I, too, win care for Alice so long as my life is 
 spared," said Mr. Huntington, who had been there 
 all the day, and again from the white lips a faint 
 " God bless you " came. 
 
 Slowly toward the western horizon sank the 
 setting sun, and when at last his farewell beams 
 looked into that room of death, they shone on the 
 
REVELATIONS. 
 
 99 
 
 frosty hair and still white face of one who was no 
 longer blind, for to him the light of a better world 
 had been revealed, and the eyes so long in darkness 
 here were opened to the glories of the New 
 Jerusalem. 
 
 Every necessary care was bestowed upon the 
 dead, and then, leaving the orphaned Alice in Miss 
 Elinor's arms, with Mr. Howland standing near and 
 speaking to her an occasional word of comfort, 
 Mr. Huntington started for his home, walking 
 slowly, sadly ; for his heart was full of sorrow — 
 sorrow for the dead and sorrow for his only child, 
 who had so cruelly deceived him. What her motive 
 was he could not guess, unless it were that she 
 dreaded the disgrace his presence might bring upon 
 her, and when he thought of this, he half resolved 
 to leave her forever, but love for his wife prevailed, 
 and with an aching heart he kept on his way. 
 
 Restless and impatient Adelaide had passed the 
 day in wondering what had happened to Mr. How- 
 land, and why he was not at the party. She had 
 confidently expected him there, but he had disap- 
 pointed her, and the lace dress with which she 
 hoped to impress him was worn for naught. 
 
 " Parties were bores, anyway," she said, " and 
 
100 
 
 BEVELAT10N8. 
 
 she hoped she should never attend another so long 
 as her name was Adelaide Huntington. " 
 
 In this unamiable mood she fretted until late in 
 the afternoon, when old Peggy, who had been sent 
 on an errand to the village, returned, bringing the 
 news that Mr. Warren was not expected to live, 
 and that she saw Mr. Howland entering the door as 
 she passed. Then lowering her voice to a whisper, 
 she continued : 
 
 " Right up against the window was a man's 
 head, which looked so like your father that I stop- 
 ped a little, hoping he would turn his face one side, 
 bul he didn't, and I came along." 
 
 " My father," repeated Adelaide, " isn't within a 
 hundred miles of here." 
 
 Still the idea troubled her even more than the 
 news of Mr. Warren's illness, and after old Peggy 
 left the room, she turned to her mother saying : 
 
 " Wouldn't it be mean if father had come back 
 and gone to see Mr. Warren ?" 
 
 " I suppose it would be right, though," returned 
 her mother, w T hile Adelaide continued : 
 
 ••' Right or wrong, nobody wants him turning up 
 bodily just yet, for Mr. Howland is so squeamish 
 about a little deception that any chance of winning 
 him would be rather slim, if he knew father was not 
 
REVELATIONS. 
 
 101 
 
 dead as he believes him to be. If I secure him be- 
 fore he finds it out, he can't help himself, and I 
 wish he'd either propose or let it alone. I declare, 
 mother, I think it is your duty as a prudent, careful 
 parent to ask what his intentions are. You can tell 
 him there is a great deal of talk about his coming 
 here so much, and unless he is serious, you prefer 
 that he should discontinue his visits, hinting, of 
 course, that you fear my affections are already too 
 deeply enlisted for my future happiness should he 
 not be in earnest. Say, mother, will you tell him 
 this when he comes again? " 
 
 Mrs. Huntington at first refused, but Adelaide's 
 entreaties finally prevailed, and it was decided that 
 when Mr. Howland next visited them he should be 
 questioned concerning his intentions. 
 
 " Oh, I hope he'll come to-night/' said Adelaide, 
 and feeling confident that he would, she made some 
 changes in her dress, smoothed her glossy hair, and 
 then, just as it was growing dark, lay down upon 
 the lounge, building castles of the future, and 
 wondering if she should be Adelaide Huntington 
 one year from that day. 
 
 As she lay thus, she heard the gate open and 
 shut — a heavy footstep was coming up the walk, 
 and thinking it must be Mr. Howland she assumed 
 
REVELATIONS. 
 
 a half reclining posture, which she fancied was 
 careless and graceful, and then awaited the appear- 
 ance of her expected visitor. He did not ring, and 
 she heard his step in the hall. Nearer and nearer 
 he came, his hand was on the knob, and as the door 
 swung back the large black eyes, which turned at 
 first so eagerly in ^that direction, flashed their sur- 
 prise and anger, not on Richard Howland, but on 
 William Huntington, who keenly felt the coldness 
 of his welcome. 
 
 i Father," she exclaimed, " where did you come 
 from ?" 
 
 "I came from Mr. Warren's/' he answered. " He 
 is dead, but I have been forgiven, and can once 
 more walk the earth a free and fearless man. 
 Adelaide," he continued, and in the tone of his 
 voice and gleam of his eye there was something 
 which made the guilty girl tremble, " I have heard 
 that of you which fills me with grief. Oh, my 
 child, how could you so shamefully deceive me ?" 
 
 " What do you mean?" she asked, in well 
 feigned surprise, for she would not admit anything 
 until she knew how far she was implicated. 
 
 Very briefly her father repeated to her what he 
 had heard from Mr. Warren, and then awaited her 
 answer. At first she thought to deny the charge, 
 
REVELATION'S. 
 
 103 
 
 but she dared not give the lie to one then lying 
 dead not far away, so she remained silent, trying in 
 vain to frame some excuse with which to appease 
 her father, and also to find some way of again bind- 
 ing Alice to secrecy, so that Mr. Howland should 
 never hear of her falsehoods. He would, perhaps, 
 excuse her deception with regard to her father 
 when she told him, as she should do, that she had 
 done it for the sake of her mother, who could not 
 endure to have the matter known, and if the rest 
 were kept from him, all might yet end well. 
 
 At that moment she remembered what Peggy 
 had said, and with a faint voice she asked : 
 
 "Does any one know this but yourself? " 
 
 " Mr. Warren's daughter knows it/' he returned. 
 "And the young man — Howland is his name — 
 knows it, too, for he was there all night and heard 
 my conversation with Alice." 
 
 " Mr. Howland ! " Adelaide fairly screamed, and 
 in the terrified expression of her face the motive for 
 her conduct was revealed to her father, who rather 
 enjoyed than otherwise the passionate tears of 
 anger and mortification which she shed at finding 
 herself thus betrayed to one whom she had loved as 
 well as such as she could love. 
 
 "I understand you perfectly/' said Mr. Hunting- 
 
104 
 
 BE VELA Tl ONS. 
 
 ton, advancing toward her as she lay weeping on 
 the lounge, " and your punishment is just; for a 
 child who can abuse its father as you have abused 
 me, ought never to be the wife of a man like Mr. 
 Howland. I will not reproach you further with 
 your guilt," he continued, " for your sin has found 
 you out, and I leave you to your own reflections/' 
 
 So saying, he passed on in quest of his wife, 
 whose welcome to the repentant man was far more 
 cordial than that of his daughter had been. 
 
 Adelaide was, indeed, sorely punished, for all 
 hope of winning Mr. Howland was gone, and, as 
 the days wore on, she experienced more and more 
 that the way of the transgressor is hard. 
 
 The story of Mr. Huntington's existence and re- 
 turn to his family circulated rapidly, and with it, 
 hand in hand, went the rumor of the wrong he had 
 once done to the blind man, who by the people of 
 Oakland was honored more in death than he had 
 been in life, for they came in crowds to his funeral, 
 gazing pityingly at the white face of the dead, and 
 then staring curiously at the dark-browed stranger 
 who was said to be William Huntington. Adelaide 
 was not there, for Miss Elinor, a little given to 
 gossip, it may be, had kindly remembered her, and 
 numerous were the exaggerated stories afloat con- 
 
REVELATIONS. 
 
 105 
 
 cerning the deception she had practiced both upon 
 her father and the villagers. Like most people she 
 had one so-called friend who dutifully kept her in- 
 formed with regard to all that was said concerning 
 her, and completely overwhelmed with shame and 
 mortification, she resolved to keep herself secluded 
 at home, where she vented her disappointment in 
 harsh language and bitter tears, particularly when, 
 on the day succeeding the funeral, she heard that 
 Miss Elinor had taken Alice to live with her. 
 
 But little did Miss Elinor care for her anger 
 The world to her was brighter now than it had been 
 for many years, and with something of a mother's 
 love, her heart went out toward the orphan to whom 
 she had given a home. Adelaide, however, was not 
 forgotten, and the good lady was certainly ex- 
 cusable if, when riding with her protege, she did 
 frequently order Jim to take them round to High 
 Street, bidding him drive slowly past the house of 
 the Huntingtons. But if in this way she thought to 
 obtain a glimpse of Adelaide, she was mistaken, for 
 the young lady was never visible, though, safely 
 hidden behind the curtain, she herself seldom failed 
 to see the carriage and the little figure in black, 
 who she instinctively felt would some day be her 
 rival. 
 
 5* 
 
106 
 
 REVELATIONS. 
 
 The bitterest drop of all in Adelaide's cup of 
 mortification was the knowledge that Mr. Howland 
 had once thought to make her his wife, for he told 
 her so in a letter written three weeks subsequent to 
 Mr. Warren's death. It is true he had never com- 
 mitted himself by words, but he had done so by 
 actions, and honor demanded an explanation. So 
 he wrote at last, and though it was a most polite 
 and gentlemanly note, its contents stung her to her 
 inmost soul, and casting it into the fire she watched 
 it as it turned to ashes, feeling the while as if her 
 own heart were charred and blistered with its load 
 of guilt and shame. There were no more trips to 
 Springfield know, for concealment of labor was no 
 longer necessary, and the satchel Miss Elinor 
 taunted her brother with having carried so often, 
 lay useless upon the closet shelf. 
 
 " I'll die before I'll do that — father may support 
 us," Adelaide had said when her mother suggested 
 that they take in sewing from Mr. Howland's store. 
 
 And Mr. Huntington did do his best toward 
 maintaining his family, but popular opinion was 
 against him. He had defrauded his employer once 
 — he might do so again — and so all looked upon 
 him with distrust, making it sometimes very hard 
 for him to procure even the common necessaries of 
 
BE VELA Tl 0N8, 
 
 107 
 
 life. His health, too, had become impaired, both 
 by exposure and the mental anguish he had so long 
 endured, and night after night his labored breath- 
 ing and hacking cough smote painfully on the ear 
 of his wife, whose love no circumstances could 
 destroy. 
 
 One morning, toward the middle of February, 
 he left them as usual, but he was soon brought 
 back with a broken limb, which he had received 
 from a fall upon the ice. For him to work was now 
 impossible, and Adelaide no longer objected when 
 her mother proposed that Peggy should be sent for 
 sewing to Mr. Howland, who gave it to her readily, 
 manifesting much concern for Mr. Huntington, 
 whom Peggy represented as being in a most de- 
 plorable condition. 
 
 Two or three days afterward, as he was leaving 
 the store, he received a message from the sick man, 
 who wished to see him, and in a short time he stood 
 at the bedside of Mr. Huntington, who told, in a 
 few words, why he had been sent for. 
 
 They could not keep that house — they must 
 rent a cheaper one, and if no tenant for the brown 
 house in the hollow had been obtained, would Mr. 
 Howland let him have it? He would try hard 
 when he got well to pay the rent, and the strong 
 
108 
 
 REVELATIONS. 
 
 man's eyes filled with tears, just as little Alice 
 Warren's had done when words similar to these 
 escaped her lips. 
 
 Yes, he could have it, Mr. Howland said, and 
 the sum he asked for it was just what Mr. Warren 
 had paid ; then fearing lest Adelaide by chance 
 should enter the room, he hastened away, pondering 
 upon the changes which a few short weeks had 
 brought to the haughty girl, who, when she heard 
 of her father's arrangement, flew into a violent rage, 
 declaring she would kill herself before she'd live 
 in that little shanty. 
 
 But neither her wrath nor her tears could shake 
 her father's determination, and when the first April 
 sun had set, and the warm spring moon had risen, 
 wretched, hopeless and weary, Adelaide Huntington 
 crept up to her bed beneath the rafters, covering 
 her head with the sheet, lest she should see the 
 white-haired, sightless specter, which, to her dis- 
 ordered fancy, seemed haunting that low-roofed 
 dwelling. 
 
NATURAL CONSEQUENCES. 109 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 NATURAL CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 T is summer again — "the leafy month of 
 June " — and in the spacious, well-kept 
 grounds of Richard Howland hundreds 
 of roses are blossoming, but none so fair 
 and beautiful to the owner of these grounds as the 
 rose which blossoms within the house — the bright- 
 haired, gentle Alice, who, when the grief-laden 
 clouds of adversity were overshadowing her life, did 
 not dream that she could ever be as happy as she 
 is in her new home. The grass-grown grave in the 
 quiet valley is not neglected, nor he who rests there 
 forgotten, but though her tears fall often on the 
 sod, she cannot wish the blind man back in a world 
 which was so truly dark to him. 
 
 And Alice has learned to be happy in her luxu- 
 rious home — happy in the tender love which Miss 
 Elinor ever lavishes upon her, and happy, too, in 
 the quiet brother-like affection of him who seems 
 
110 NATURAL CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 to her the embodiment of every manly virtue. He 
 does not talk often with her, for Richard Howland 
 deals not so much in words as deeds, but in a 
 thousand little ways he tells her he is glad to have 
 her there. And this is all he tells her, so that 
 neither she nor his more discerning sister dream 
 how sweet to him is the music of the childish voice, 
 which often in the gathering twilight sings some 
 song of the olden time ; nor do they know, when 
 returning home at night, how wistfully he glances 
 toward the window where Alice is wont to sit, and 
 if they did know it, they could not fathom his 
 meaning, for when the golden hair and bright 
 young face is there, he always turns aside, linger- 
 ing without, as if within there were no maiden fair, 
 whose eyes of blue played wilder notes upon his 
 heart-strings than the dark, proud orbs of Adelaide 
 had ever done. Even he does not know he loves 
 her, so quietly that love has come — creeping over 
 him while he slept — stealing over him when he 
 woke — whispering to him in the dingy counting- 
 room, and bidding him cast frequent glances at the 
 western sky, to see if it were not time that he were 
 home. He only knows that he is very happy, and 
 that his happiness is in some way connected with 
 the childish form which flits before him like a sun- 
 
NATURAL CONSEQUENCES. Ill 
 
 beam, filling his home with light and joy. It had 
 never occurred to him that she might sometime go 
 away, and leave in his household a void which no 
 other one could fill, and when one day, toward the 
 last of June, his sister said to him, " Alice has 
 received a letter from an old friend of her mother, 
 asking her to take charge of the juvenile depart- 
 ment of a young ladies' seminary in B ne 
 
 started as if he had been smitten with a heavy blow. 
 
 " Alice teach school !" he exclaimed. " Alice 
 go away from — me — from you, I mean. Preposter- 
 ous ! She don't, of course, think of accepting the 
 offer?" 
 
 "Yes, she does. I'd no idea she had so much 
 decision," and Miss Elinor's scissors cut quite a 
 hole in the embroidery on which she has worked 
 ever since we knew her. " I remonstrated when she 
 told me she should return an affirmative answer, but 
 it did no good. She never intended long to burden 
 people on whom she had no claim, she said. She 
 would rather be independent, and though she was 
 very happy here, she felt it her duty to earn her 
 own living, now that an opportunity was pre- 
 sented." 
 
 " Earn her own living," repeated Mr, Howland, 
 "just as though she cost anybody anything. There 
 
1 12 NATURAL CONSEQ UENCE8. 
 
 is some other reason, and if I didn't know you as 
 well as I do, I should be inclined to think the fault 
 was with you. Maybe you do sometimes scold her, 
 Elinor ?" and he fixed his eyes inquiringly upon 
 his sister's face. 
 
 Miss Elinor had striven hard to restrain the tears 
 which thoughts of parting with her favorite in- 
 duced, and thus far she had succeeded, but when 
 she heard her brother's remark, they burst forth at 
 once. 
 
 "Me scold Alice?" was all she could articulate, 
 as with a deeply injured air she left the room, while 
 her brother, seizing his hat, hurried off to the store, 
 where he remained the entire day, trying to think 
 how it would seem to him when he knew that Alice 
 was gone. 
 
 didrit seem at all, either to him or to his 
 clerks, for never before had he been so irritable and 
 cross, finding fault with the most trivial matters ; 
 chiding the cash-boy for moving too fast, and the 
 head clerk for moving too slow ; refusing to trust 
 the widow Simpson, whom he had trusted all his 
 life, and making himself so generally disagreeable 
 that the young men in his employ were not sorry 
 when, about five o'clock, they saw him start for 
 home. 
 
NATURAL CONSEQUENCES. 113 
 
 "I'm glad he's gone, anyway, dern him !" mat- 
 tered Check, who had been, perhaps, the greatest 
 sufferer, and with a most contemptuous whistle he 
 looked after the retreating figure of his master. 
 
 Alice was not in the yard — nor in the parlor — 
 nor in the house. He knew it by that indefinable 
 feeling which we experience when the one we love 
 the best is absent. 
 
 " She had gone to walk by the river," Miss Elinor 
 said, when questioned, asking him in the same 
 breath why he didn't corne home to dinner. 
 
 . " I was not hungry," he replied. " The prospect 
 of losing Alice has taken my appetite away. Do 
 you think she would stay with us, if I were to adopt 
 her as rny daughter ?" 
 
 Miss Elinor didn't think anything. She had not 
 quite forgiven his unjust remark in the morning, 
 and failing to obtain satisfaction from her, he 
 started in quest of Alice, who, he was sure, would 
 listen favorably to his plan of adoption. The tree 
 where she and her father sat on that afternoon when 
 she had come so near to death, was her favorite 
 resort, and here he now found her, thinking of the 
 coming time when she would be gone. It had cost 
 her a struggle to decide the matter, but it was best, 
 she thought ; she could not always be dependent, 
 
114 
 
 JSTA TUBAL CONSEQ UENGES. 
 
 and that very night she would answer " Yes." But 
 she wondered why she should feel so sad, or why 
 the thought of leaving Mr. Howland should make 
 her pain harder to bear. 
 
 "I shall miss both him and his sister so much," 
 she unconsciously said aloud, " I shall miss them 
 both, but him the most." 
 
 "Why then do you go?" came to her startled 
 ear, and Richard Howland stood before her. 
 
 Springing to her feet she blushed and stammered 
 out something about the watch-dog Ponto. whom 
 she should miss. But it would not do. Mr. 
 Howland was not to be deceived, and in her tell- 
 tale face he knew the watch-dog Ponto meant him- 
 self. 
 
 " Alice," said he, " sit down with me upon the 
 bank, and tell me why you wish to leave us." 
 
 Alice obeyed, but neither of them spoke until 
 Mr. Howland, growing suddenly very bold, wound 
 his arm around her waist, and drew her to his side. 
 It was the first time in his life he had ever found 
 himself in a position like this, and though it was 
 very novel — very strange — he liked it. He forgot, 
 too, all about the adoption, and bending low, so 
 that in case of an emergency his lips could touch 
 her cheek, he whispered : 
 
NATURAL CONSEQUENCES. 115 
 
 " Alice— " 
 
 But what else he said the murmuring river never 
 told, neither the summer air which lifted the . shining 
 tresses falling over his arm, nor yet the little bird, 
 which from the overhanging bough looked archly 
 down upon them, shutting its round, bright eye 
 with a knowing look as if it understood that scene. 
 It did understand, and the sight of them sitting 
 there thus brought to mind the dainty nest up in the 
 maple tree, where its own loved mate was waiting, 
 and when at last the maiden lifted up her head, it 
 plumed its wings for flight and flew away, singing 
 as it flew. 
 
 " She's won — she's won." 
 
 That night Alice, instead of Mr. Howland, was 
 missing from the table, and when Miss Elinor 
 sought her in her room, she was surprised at the 
 abruptness with which the young girl threw her 
 arms around her neck and whispered : 
 
 "I am happy — oh, so happy." 
 
 Then, with the twilight shadows gathering 
 around, Alice told her story to the wondering lady, 
 who in her joy forgave her brother for his unjust 
 insinuation, and folding the orphan girl lovingly 
 in her arms, she told her how gladly she should 
 welcome her as a sister. It was known ere long 
 
116 JSTA TUBAL CONSEQ UENCE8. 
 
 all over town that the wealthy Mr. Howland was 
 to wed the blind man's daughter, and the rude 
 brown rafters of the cottage in the hollow never 
 witnessed so fierce a storm of passion and of tears 
 as on the night when first to Adelaide came tidings 
 that the man she so much loved had given himself 
 to another. To William Huntington, however, the 
 news brought joy and gladness. He had recovered 
 from his broken limb, but his health did not 
 improve, and now he seldom left his home. Still 
 he did whatever he could do for his family, and the 
 little yard in front of his house was filled with 
 flowers, which he tended with the utmost care, and 
 sold in small bouquets to such of the villagers as 
 wished to buy. When he heard that Alice was to 
 be a bride ere the summer days were gone, he set 
 apart his choicest flowers, watching them with 
 jealous care, and experiencing a childish delight in 
 thinking how he would form a rare bouquet, worthy 
 of her to whom it should be given. 
 
 There was no reason why the marriage should 
 be delayed, Mr. Howland said, and so one balmy 
 Bight, when the harvest moon was in its infancy, St. 
 Luke's Church was filled to overflowing, and the 
 same man, who, over Hugo Warren's grave, had 
 read the burial service, now spoke the solemn 
 
NA TUBAL CONSEQ UENGES. 1 1 7 
 
 words which made one flesh of two. And when 
 the rite was ended and Alice was a bride, from the 
 three towers of Oakland there rang a merry peal, 
 for Mr. Howland was greatly honored by the 
 citizens who thus would keep his wedding night. 
 
 Across the grassy meadow, up the wooded hill, 
 and down into the hollow, floated the music of 
 those bells, awakening an answering note of joy in 
 every heart save that of the wretched Adelaide, 
 who, grinding her teeth together, fled to her lonely 
 garret and stuffed cotton in her ears, so as to shut 
 out the hateful sound, which told her of her rival's 
 happiness. Anon, and from the rocky heights 
 which overlooked the town, and from the village 
 green, there shone a lurid light. Bonfires had been 
 kindled by the workmen from the factory and shop, 
 and among the boys who danced around the blazing 
 fire, none threw his hat so high or cut so many 
 antics as did the little Check, who in his bran-new 
 suit, the gift of Mr. Howland, forgot his grievances 
 on that memorable day when his master tried to 
 see how it would seem, to live without Alice 
 Warren. 
 
 From her window Adelaide looked out upon 
 the scene, shedding bitter tears of envy and of rage, 
 then, wishing she had never seen the light of day 
 
118 NA TUBAL COJSfSEQ UENOES. 
 
 she sought her solitary pillow and cried herself to 
 sleep, while the song and the dance moved joyously 
 on, and the gentle bride, in her robes of white, 
 looked lovingly up to him who was her all in all. 
 Nor were the inmates of the brown house in the 
 hollow forgotten by Alice in her prosperity. From 
 Mr. Huntington she had received a beautiful 
 bouquet ; it was all, save his blessing, that he had 
 to give, he said, and Alice prized it the more when 
 she knew how carefully he had watched each 
 opening bud, shielding it alike from storm and 
 noonday heat. 
 
 v I will remember him for this," she thought, 
 and many a timely gift found its way to the brown 
 cottage where it was sorely needed, for as the fall 
 advanced Mr. Huntington grew worse, and to the 
 other labors of his family was added the task of 
 ministering to him and providing for his wants. 
 
 As yet, no rent for the cottage had been paid, 
 and Miss Elinor, when she remembered the ugly 
 name which Adelaide had called her, secretly 
 wished she might be turned into the street. But 
 her brother was more forgiving, and when Alice's 
 birthday came, he gave her the brown house in the 
 hollow, telling her playfully that she must collect 
 the rent of her own property ! 
 
NA TUBAL CONSEQ UENCES. 1 1 9 
 
 "And I would do it too," spoke up Miss Elinor, 
 who, nevertheless, was just as sure then of what 
 Alice intended to do as she was next morning when 
 she saw upon her sister's writing-desk a receipt in 
 full for the rent, and heard Alice bid a servant take 
 it, with sundry other things, to the brown house in 
 the hollow as a Christmas gift from her. 
 
 Surely it is more blessed to give than to receive, 
 and the prayer which the sick man breathed for 
 Alice Howland was worth far more to her than the 
 paltry sum which she had lost by doing what she 
 did. Adelaide, too, was softened, for the pangs of 
 poverty were beginning to be keenly felt, and when 
 the servant turned to go, she said to him, with 
 quivering lip: 
 
 "Tell Mrs. Howland that / thank her." 
 
 Another year has nearly gone, and from the 
 windows of the cottage there shines a glimmering 
 light, while gathered round the hearth three lonely 
 women sit. They are now indeed alone — the bed 
 in the corner is empty — the husband and father is 
 gone. When the last May flowers were blooming, 
 and the voice of spring was on the hills, strong 
 men carried him out into the open air, and in the 
 village church-yard, not far from Hugo Warren's 
 grave, they laid the weary one to rest. William 
 
120 
 
 M TUBAL G0JST8EQ UEJSTCES. 
 
 Huntington had saved the life of Richard How- 
 land's wife, and for this reason his family were not 
 neglected, though Miss Elinor took good care that 
 not enough assistance should be given to them " to 
 keep the trollop, Adelaide, from working." 
 
 In Richard Howland's home all is joy and glad- 
 ness, and though the curtains of one room are 
 dropped, and the blinds are closely shut, it is only 
 because the fussy old nurse will have it so, and not 
 because the young mother is in any danger now. 
 In the crib there sleeps a sturdy boy, and the 
 bottom of his cambric petticoat is trimmed with the 
 veritable embroidery which we have often seen in 
 the hands of Miss Elinor, who is the baby's aunt. 
 
 She had fully expected that it would bear her 
 name, but it proved a Betsey Trotwood affair, and 
 when the Christmas bells are ringing, and the star 
 of Bethlehem gleams on the walls of the old stone 
 church, she will stand as sponsor for the little boy, 
 to whom in memory of the blind man now singing 
 to the praise of Bethlehem's child, will be given the 
 name of " Hugo Warren." 
 
 THE END 
 OF 
 
 ALICE AND ADELAIDE. 
 
RED-BIRD. 
 
 A BROWN COTTAGE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 T was Christmas morning, and everywhere 
 the merry bells were ringing and telling 
 again the story, which, though more than 
 eighteen hundred years old, is always 
 sweet, always new — the story of Bethlehem's babe, 
 for whose birth-day we keep the Christmas-tide. 
 All over the northern hills the December snow was 
 lying, and the wind was sharp and cold as it went 
 singing past the windows of the houses where so 
 many eager, happy children ate their Christmas 
 cakes, or counted their Christmas toys. But far 
 away in the south land it was like summer still, 
 
 [121] 
 
122 
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 and the orange-trees were fresh, and green, and 
 beautiful, with the yellow fruit and the white 
 blossoms showing among the leaves. Upon the 
 highest branch of a tall orange tree which grew 
 upon the bank of the river St. John, a Red-bird 
 was sitting, and listening to a Paroquet, which, on a 
 magnolia near by, was dressing its bright plumage, 
 and talking to his neighbor, the Red-bird. 
 
 After wishing him a merry Christmas, he said: 
 
 " And so, Mrs. Red, you are still alive! Why, 
 we all thought you were dead, and Mr. Red wore 
 mourning for a month, and then — but never mind. 
 Have you been up to the old nest among the yellow 
 jasmine? If not, I advise you to stay away ; but 
 say, where have you been this year or more Tell 
 me about it." 
 
 It seemed strange to me, who was sitting on a 
 bench beneath the magnolia-tree, to hear birds 
 talking together after this fashion, and remember- 
 ing the children at the North who had never seen a 
 Paroquet, nor a magnolia, nor a Red-bird, nor an 
 orange-tree, I said to myself, I will write down 
 what these birds are saying, and sometime, perhaps, 
 I'll send it to the little ones at home. 
 
 And this, as nearly as I could understand it, was 
 the story the Red-bird told. 
 
THE STORY. 
 
 123 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE STORY. 
 
 OU may well ask me where I have been, 
 Mr. Paroquet/' said the Red-bird, " but 
 you can keep your Merry Christmas 
 to yourself, for it is not a merry 
 Christmas with me. My heart is as heavy as lead, 
 and if it were not that I dreaded the cold so much, 
 I'd fly to the North, where they are having a grand 
 time to-day with their Christmas-trees, and the 
 children all so happy." 
 
 "Fly to the North!" said Mr. Paroquet, with a 
 shudder. u Fly to that horrid place where they 
 have ice and snow the year round, with nothing 
 green or bright, unless it's that Christmas-tree you 
 speak of ! Pray, may I ask what kind of a tree 
 that is ? Is it like this magnolia, or that palm 
 across the river, waving its fans in the breeze, or 
 that orange-tree where you are sitting ? And what 
 kind of fruit does it bear? Icicles, or what ?" 
 
124 
 
 THE STORY. 
 
 " Icicles !" And Mrs. Red laughed a merry, 
 rippling kind of laugh which did me good to hear, 
 for there was something very sad in the expression 
 of her face, as if she had lost every friend she ever 
 had. "Little you know of the North and what 
 they have there. I'll wager now you never heard 
 of the place before/' 
 
 "Haven't I, though ?" Mr. Paroquet returned. 
 " Didn't one of those men from the North shoot the 
 first Mrs. Paroquet one morning, just after break- 
 fast, when she had gone out to take the air, and I 
 was watching the three little birds in the nest? 
 And didn't he take her away to that place they call 
 New York, and didn't I hear afterward from a 
 robin who comes down here every winter that they 
 stuffed her, and put glass eyes in her, and strung her 
 on a wire frame, and set her up in somebody's 
 parlor for an ornament, to be admired ? My dead 
 wife stuffed ! — and such a time as I had with the 
 little ones, who kept tumbling out of the nest, and 
 who had such appetites that I was almost worn out 
 with hunting things for them to eat, and was 
 obliged to get another Mrs. Paroquet to help me do 
 the work. Of course, I know about the North ; 
 but pray go on and tell me how you happened to 
 be there, and why you are here again." 
 
THE STORY. 
 
 125 
 
 " Yes," returned Mrs. Red, "Td like to tell some 
 body. You remember my old home up the river, 
 where the stream is so narrow that the boats almost 
 touch the shore as they pass. There's a splendid 
 mass of yellow jasmine there, with lots of white 
 dogwood, and Cherokee roses, and orange-trees, 
 and palms, and magnolias, and water oaks, and 
 there I had my nest, all covered up with flowers 
 and leaves. 
 
 " I was very happy in my soft, warm nest, with 
 Mr. Red, and four of the prettiest little birds you 
 ever saw just hatched and wanting a mother's care 
 so badly. But one morning I saw coming down 
 the river one of those big boats, full of people, who 
 kept firing at the poor alligators sunning them- 
 selves in the warm spring air. At last the boat 
 stopped, and some of the men got out and began to 
 look around and fire at anything they saw ; and 
 one shot hit me under my wing, so that I could not 
 fly, but dropped to the ground, half dead with pain 
 and fright, but still having sense enough to be glad 
 that it was 1 who was hurt instead of Mr. Red, who 
 flew away to the top of the very tallest palm-tree in 
 sight, where he sat and watched while a man picked 
 me up and said: 
 
 " ' See, she is not dead ; she is only wounded, 
 
126 
 
 THE 8T0RT. 
 
 I shall take her to my wife at the hotel. She has 
 wanted a Red-bird so much/ 
 
 " What a hotel was, or where he meant to take 
 me, I did not know, and for a time I must have 
 been unconscious, for the next I knew I was on the 
 boat covered over with a kind of wire screen, which 
 kept me a prisoner. I could not get away, though 
 I beat my head against the screen until it ached 
 almost as hard as the place under my wing. 
 
 "Oh ! what a change it was from my lovely 
 nest among the oranges, and magnolias, and 
 jasmines, to that dreadful wooden box in which 
 they put me at the hotel, and which they called a 
 cage. I think my new mistress meant to be kind 
 to me, for she stroked my feathers very gently, and 
 called me a ' poor little thing/ and brought me so 
 many things to eat. But I could touch none of 
 them, I was so home-sick and lonely, and my heart 
 was aching so for the dear home up the river, and 
 the little birdies there, who were sure to cry for me 
 when the dark night came on and I was not there 
 to shelter them. Would Mr. Red do it? I won- 
 dered, and I was afraid he wouldn't ; for, though 
 the very best of all the Red-birds on the St. John's, 
 he did not always like to be bothered with the 
 
THE STORY. 
 
 127 
 
 children, especially when he was tired and a little 
 cross." 
 
 " But he did, though/' interrupted Mr. Paroquet. 
 " He took care of them for quite a while after you 
 went away. I used to see him hunting worms, and 
 seeds and things ; and he'd go every day to the top 
 of that palm you spoke of, and watch to see if you 
 were not coming back. After awhile — well, you 
 remember old Mr. Red, whose nest was near yours 
 on a sour orange-tree, and whose pretty little 
 grand-daughter, Spotted-Wing, with the shining 
 feathers and so many airs, you did not fancy much ? 
 
 "Yes, I remember her," Mrs. Red answered very 
 sadly, I thought, and Mr. Paroquet continued : 
 
 "She used to fly up to that palm, too, and balance 
 herself way out on the very tip of the longest green 
 fan, and help him watch for you y because she was so 
 anxious for you to come back and relieve him of 
 his family cares, and then her eyes were younger 
 than his, and could see farther, you know." 
 
 And as he said this Mr. Paroquet rolled both of 
 his eyes quite out of sight in what I thought a very 
 disagreeable, insinuating manner. But Mrs. Red 
 did not seem to notice, and went on with her story: 
 
 "I am glad if he was good to the children, and 
 missed me a little, for I was so home-sick for him, 
 
128 
 
 THE STOEY. 
 
 that I could neither sleep nor eat, and I heard my 
 mistress say she was afraid I would starve tG 
 death. And I was afraid, too, for had I been 
 disposed to eat I could not have touched what 
 she brought me — sweet potato, cake, and bread 
 and sugar, as if that were proper diet for a bird. 
 I had a great deal of attention from the guests 
 of the hotel. It was the St. James, I heard them 
 say, and it was full of people who did nothing but 
 eat, and sleep, and dress for the parlors or the 
 piazzas, where the young ones used to walk some- 
 times of an evening. At last, one morning very 
 early, before anybody was up except a few of the 
 servants, I was sitting on my perch in a new cage, 
 with my head down, thinking so hard that I heard 
 nothing until suddenly I was startled by a strange 
 voice with a decidedly foreign accent, close to the 
 bars of my cage. 
 
 " 4 Halloo, Miss Red top/ it said, ' seems to me 
 you are down in the mouth this morning. Guess 
 you didn't sleep well. What's the matter with you? 
 Look up and speak to a fellow, can't you ?' 
 
 " So I looked up and saw a big round fat robin, 
 with a breast red and shining, and a very good- 
 natured face, and eyes which were very curious and 
 
THE STOUT. 
 
 129 
 
 inquisitive, as if he meant to know everybody's 
 business, and help them attend to it, too." 
 
 " I'll bet that's the very robin who brought me 
 news of my stuffed wife," interposed Mr. Paroquet. 
 " He knows everybody, and can trace their family 
 back to the time w T hen Mr. Noah let the first bird 
 out of the ark. He comes here every winter for 
 his health, he says, and he stops along by the way, 
 and so gets all the news." 
 
 " Maybe it was the same," Mrs. Red replied. 
 " But he was very kind to me, and asked me a great 
 many questions, and when he heard my story, he 
 said if it were not so warm he'd go up the river and 
 find Mr. Red, and tell him about me. I thanked 
 him and said that would do no good as I could not 
 get out of prison, and should die there very soon. 
 
 " i No, you won't,' he answered, cheerily. 1 You'll 
 get used to it/ 
 
 "Then, after eyeing me awhile, he continued : 
 
 "'Why, Miss Red-top, I'll tell you what's the 
 matter. You are starved! Look at that sweet po- 
 tato and frosted cake. You'll have dyspepsia sure. 
 What you want is a good fat bug, and seeds of some 
 kind. Just keep up your courage, and I'll fix you/ 
 
 " So saying, he flew away to a neighboring 
 garden, while I thought how good he was to me, 
 
130 
 
 THE STORY. 
 
 an entire stranger, though I did wish he would not 
 call me miss. It made me feel ashamed when I 
 remembered Mr. Red and the nest among the 
 jasmine. 
 
 "When my mistress came to see me, after break- 
 fast, bringing the usual sweet potato, and broiled 
 fish and bits of bread, she found a part of a bug in 
 my cage, and a piece of fig which my new friend 
 had found near one of the dining-room windows 
 and brought to me. Great was her wonder as to 
 where it came from, but as I could not talk to her, 
 though able to understand all she said, I do not 
 suppose she ever knew about the robin who came to 
 see me every morning before there was much stir 
 in the hotel, and kept me so well supplied with 
 such things as I liked, that I began to recover my 
 health and my spirits, too, though my heart was 
 always aching for the nest up the river, and the 
 babies I left in it. Gradually, too, I began to have 
 a great liking for Mr. Red-Breast, as I called him at 
 first, though he insisted that I should say Robin, 
 as that was more familiar. At home they all called 
 him Robin, and no one ever mistered him, he said, 
 except Mrs. Robin, when she began to help him 
 build the nest in the mountain ash, which he told 
 me grew in the garden where he lived at the North. 
 
ROBIN' 8 HOME. 
 
 131 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 robin's home. 
 
 NE morning when he came to see me as 
 usual, complaining of the heat, and 
 saying he should soon be starting for 
 home if the weather continued like 
 this, he found me very sad and anxious, for only 
 the night before I had heard my mistress say that 
 she intended taking me North with her, and should, 
 perhaps, give me to a friend who had asked her to 
 bring her a bird from the South. This was a death- 
 blow to all my hopes, for as day after day I had 
 watched the piles of baggage and the crowds of 
 people which left the hotel, and heard the waiters 
 say they were starting for home, I thought to my- 
 self the day will come when my mistress will go, 
 too, and then she will surely set me free, and I 
 fancied the surprise and joy of Mr. Red and the 
 little ones, when I flew down upon them some 
 evening." 
 
 " About how long was this after your capture i" 
 asked the Paroquet, and Mrs. Red replied : 
 
132 
 
 ROBIN'S 110318. 
 
 " Three, or four, or five weeks. I don't quite 
 
 remember/' 
 
 "Ah !" and Mr. Paroquet nodded very know- 
 ingly. " I reckon he might have been surprised to 
 see you, and glad, of course, very glad, and Miss 
 Spotted-Wing, too, for she was at the jasmine nest 
 every day by that time, helping take care of the 
 children, and must have been pretty well tired out." 
 
 "Yes," and Mrs. Red spoke sorry-like, as she 
 always did when Spotted-Wing was mentioned, but 
 if she understood the Paroquet's meaning she gave 
 no sign, and went on with her story. 
 
 "All my hopes were blasted now, for if my 
 mistress took me away with her that was the end 
 to my dream of freedom, and I was feeling so 
 wretched and heart-sick when Robin came, as usual, 
 and to him I told my trouble, asking what the 
 North was like, and if, as I had heard, it snowed 
 there all the time, though what snow was I did not 
 then know, any more than you knew what icicles 
 were when you asked if they grew on Christmas- 
 trees. 
 
 " 4 Snow all the time!' and Robin laughed so 
 loudly that I was afraid he would awaken the lady 
 on whose window-sill he was sitting. 6 That is one 
 of your mistaken ideas of the North. Snow all the 
 
ROBIN'S HOME. 
 
 133 
 
 time ! No, nor half the time, though we do have 
 some pretty heavy north-easters when the wind 
 blows enough to shake your feathers off ; but that 
 is in the winter, when such as you are in the warm 
 house, hanging by the windows, where you can look 
 out and see the snow drifting down through the 
 trees, as the leaves of the dogwood and Cherokee 
 roses fall in high wind. But it is the summer that 
 is just glorious up there ! Do you see that patch 
 of green V and he nodded toward a yard not far 
 away, which I had before noticed, and thought very 
 fine. 
 
 "'Well, the people who live there have sowed 
 some kind of grain to make believe it was grass, 
 but, dear me, it is no more like the turf at the 
 North than your sand is like our clay. I wish you 
 could see our beautiful lawns and meadows ; they 
 are just like a piece of green velvet. There is grass 
 everywhere, and such flowers as we have in the 
 summer time ; such roses ! No Cherokees, to be 
 sure, but all the other kinds, with names I cannot 
 begin to pronounce. And there is some smell to 
 the lilacs, and honeysuckles, and the June pinks, 
 and the English violets, and I can't begin to tell you 
 what else, except that the beds and borders are one 
 
134 
 
 nOBTIPS HOME. 
 
 blaze of beauty and brightness from early June till 
 the frost comes in the fall/ 
 
 " ' Do you have magnolias there ?' I asked, and 
 he answered slowly, * Well, now, Miss Red, we 
 don't have magnolias, nor orange blossoms, nor 
 jasmines, and such like, but we have pond lilies, 
 which to my mind beat everything else in the 
 world. I wish you could see my home, or rather 
 the garden where I was born, and have lived all 
 my life. It is so lovely, with its grass and ever- 
 greens, and mountain-ash and horse-chestnuts, and 
 so many crooked little paths winding here and 
 there, and arbors covered with woodbine, and 
 grape-vines, and roses, and in the summer so many 
 baskets and tall white things filled with flowers ; 
 and, oh my, if you could just see the cherry-trees ! 
 It makes my mouth water now to think of the 
 luscious fruit of which we robins can have all we 
 want. There is one tree which my mistress says 
 belongs to the boys and birds, and such squabbles 
 as we have over it. I don't much like the boys, for 
 they will leave cherries any time to break up a 
 bird's nest, and Pve seen some sad sights in my 
 time ; though in the garden everything was peace- 
 ful and quiet, for my mistress takes care of the birds, 
 and sometimes in spring, when the snow comes late, 
 
ROBIN'S HOME. 
 
 135 
 
 and we cannot find any wo" fts, she gives us bread 
 crumbs to eat, and we are not afraid of her, though 
 she comes very near to us. My nest was up under 
 the eaves, and near a chamber window, where I felt 
 so safe and secure, knowing that nothing could ever 
 touch the pretty blue eggs which Mrs. Robin laid 
 every spring and summer. Neither boy nor cat 
 could reach us there/ 
 
 " < Cat ?' " I said. " ' Cat ! Pray what is that ? 
 I never heard of a cat before.' 
 
 Never heard of a cat?' Mr. Robin repeated, 
 and now he laughed so loudly that the lady in the 
 room upon whose window-sill he was sitting turned 
 the shutter, and looked out to see what all the 
 chattering was about. 
 
 M ' Seems to me the birds make a great noise 
 this morning. They have been at it more than an 
 hour,' I heard her say, and then she went on with 
 her dressing, while Robin continued : 
 
 " i Never heard of a cat ! Why, where were you' 
 raised, that your education was so neglected ? But 
 I forgot that you Red-birds lead a kind of Bo- 
 hemian life apart from civilization, and so fail to 
 learn a great many things which we robins, who are 
 in society all the time, take naturally/ 
 
 " I had before observed that Mr. Robin, though 
 
136 
 
 BOBIN'8 HOME. 
 
 given to a good deal of slang, sometimes went off 
 into strains which I could not understand, and this 
 was one of them, for I had not the remotest idea 
 what he meant by civilization or Bohemian either, 
 and I said so to him, whereupon lie laughed again, 
 and told me that the free and easy life I led up the 
 river with Mr. Red and the little Reds, and the 
 jasmines, and Cherokees, and alligators was Bo- 
 hemian, while it was the very top of civilization 
 and society to be shut up in a gilded cage as I was, 
 with no chance of escape. At the risk of seeming 
 very vulgar and ignorant in his eyes, I told him I 
 liked Bohemian best, even if I had never heard of a 
 cat, and then I questioned him again of that crea- 
 ture, was it a bird, or a beast, or what V 
 
 A beast most decidedly,' he said; 'a vile, ugly 
 beast] and by ugly he meant bad, for he said cats 
 looked well enough, and he had even heard his 
 mistress call one she had ' a darling little beauty,' 
 but he did not see it. They had fur instead ol 
 feathers, four legs instead of two, with a long 
 streamer behind which was called a tail, and which 
 was anything but handsome. Then they were the 
 natural enemies of birds, which they caught and ate 
 whenever a chance occurred. 
 
RODIN'S HOME. 
 
 137 
 
 " ' Eat birds ! Eat my little Reds V I exclaimed, 
 in horror, and he replied : 
 
 " ' Yes, quicker than wink if they could get at 'em; 
 and they are so sly and creeping-like that they are 
 upon you before you know it, and they keep us in 
 a constant fret when we are teaching our young 
 ones to fly.' 
 
 "'Then there is something bad even at the 
 North, which you describe as so perfect/ I said, a 
 little maliciously. 
 
 " 1 Why, yes/ he answered, slightly crestfallen. 
 1 We have cats there, but then there's no place just 
 exactly right, you know. There's a cat or some- 
 thing everywhere.' 
 
 " I knew that ' by cat or something/ he meant 
 an annoyance of some kind, and I thought of the 
 yellow jasmines up the river, and said to myself, 
 - There's no cat there ;' and then, when I remem- 
 bered how Mr. Red had sometimes troubled me 
 with his indolent habits, and his familiar way of 
 talking to that pert Miss Spotted-Wing, I thought 
 that might perhaps have been a cat, or at least a 
 kitten, as Robin said the little cats were called. 
 
 " And then he told me of a kitten which came to 
 his mistress' door one wintry day when the snow 
 was blowing, as he said, great guns, and the mount- 
 
138 
 
 ROBIN'S HOME. 
 
 ain ash almost bent up double before the driving 
 wind. His mistress heard the cry, and saw the kitt) 
 looking in at the window and begging to come in ; 
 and as both she and the master were fond of cats 
 he waded out into the snow and brought the kitty 
 in, and gave it milk in a china saucer in the parlor, 
 and petted it more than they did old Fanny, a highly 
 respectable cat, who had lived with them a long 
 time, and who did not at first take kindly to Jim — 
 that was what they called the intruder — but spit at 
 him, and boxed his ears, and growled if he came 
 near her. But Jim was not to be repressed, and 
 cared nothing for Fanny's growls, or spits, or 
 boxes, but seized every opportunity to jump at her 
 from under chairs and tables, and to spring at her 
 tail, until the old cat's life was almost a burden to 
 her. At last, however, Jim conquered, and the two 
 were the best of friends, Fanny treating him as if he 
 had been her own, giving him more than half the 
 milk, and even waking him up when the dinner-bell 
 rang, if he happened to be sleeping in the easy-chair 
 near the fire, where he took his usual nap. 
 
 " ' After a time,' said Robin, i old Fanny died, 
 and was buried in the garden, under the plum-tree, 
 and then Jim was really the master of the house, for 
 I never knew a cat petted as my mistress petted 
 
ROBIN'S ROME, 
 
 139 
 
 him. And for a cat he was very handsome. He 
 did not grow tall and long, as cats usually do, but 
 was short, and fat, and round as a ball, with fur 
 which shone like satin, and a white spot under his 
 chin. I did not wonder my mistress liked him, he 
 was so playful and affectionate ; but it used to make 
 me sick sometimes when she actually kissed him 
 and called him a darling. But when one morning 
 he caught a little striped snake, and carried it to her 
 in triumph, and persisted in keeping it and tossing 
 it in the air in spite of all her efforts to make him 
 drop it, I noticed that she did not fondle him for a 
 week : and I think she put him in the bath-tub, for 
 I saw him lying in the sun, looking very wet and 
 forlorn. But his fur was soon dried, and he raced 
 about the grounds like a mad creature, catching 
 grasshoppers and flies, and worrying almost to 
 death a highly respectable toad, who lived near the 
 cellar door, outside/ 
 
140 
 
 LITTLE STUPID. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 LITTLE STUPID. 
 
 LL this time I had felt no fears for the 
 pretty blue eggs in our nest under the 
 eaves, and with Mrs. Robin I was very- 
 happy watching them until the shells 
 cracked open and four little birds appeared. They 
 were our first, and we were so proud and fond of 
 them, and nursed them with so much care, until one 
 beautiful summer morning when we thought them 
 old enough to begin to learn to fly. I shall never 
 forget that day, and it all comes back to me now so 
 vividly, the bright sunshine, the shadows on the 
 grass, the ripe cherries on the trees, and our little 
 ones hopping about on the walks, and then flying a 
 few feet. I had taken the precaution to see that 
 Jim was asleep in his chair, and so had no fear of 
 him. Three of our children were sitting on the 
 branch of a tree ; but the fourth, who had never 
 seemed quite as bright as the others, and whom we 
 
LITTLE STUPID. 
 
 141 
 
 called Stupid, was in the grass pecking away at a 
 cherry, while I was hunting about for more, when 
 suddenly Mrs. Robin gave a terrible scream, and 
 darted past me so swiftly that I felt kind of dizzy 
 like and frightened, and flew up into a honeysuckle, 
 where I was out of danger, and could look around 
 and see what Mrs. Robin was so excited about. I 
 never thought of Stupid, and my blood curdled in 
 my veins, and I went a little higher up in the honey- 
 suckle, when I saw that Jim had him in his mouth, 
 and was bounding through the grounds with Mrs. 
 Robin in hot pursuit, uttering such dreadful cries 
 that out came my mistress with her parasol, and the 
 cook with the broom, and the housemaid with the 
 duster, and all took after Jim, on whose back Mrs. 
 Robin finally pounced, pecking him so with her 
 beak that he dropped his victim and turned to 
 defend himself. But it was too late ; poor little 
 Stupid was dead, and that night there were only 
 three little birds in our nest, and Mrs. Robin never 
 spoke to me but once, and that was to call me a 
 coward for hiding in the honeysuckle, instead of 
 fighting as she did. If there was anything she de- 
 spised, it was a sneak, she said, and for a whole 
 week she was very cool and distant toward me, and 
 would not believe me at all when I told her how 
 
142 
 
 LITTLE STUPID. 
 
 sorry I was for my apparent want of courage, and 
 that I stood back to look after our other young 
 ones, and see that no harm came to them, while 
 she, and my mistress, and the cook and the house- 
 maid did battle with Jim. 
 
 " ■ That was our first quarrel and our first 
 sorrow, and I may say our last, for before we 
 had any more eggs in our nest the horrid Jim 
 was dead. Just whiat ailed him I never knew, 
 but Mrs. Robin said he had been fed too high, 
 and possibly she was right. At any rate he grew 
 very thin, and sick, and weak, and we watched him 
 anxiously, feeling glad to see him suffer when we 
 remembered Stupid, but sorry for our mistress, who 
 nursed him so carefully, and cried that morning 
 when they found him dead on the grass, with the 
 rain falling heavily upon him. They buried him 
 under the plum-tree, by the side of Fanny ; and 
 there's not even a kitten about the house now, for 
 they made such work with the lace curtains, jump- 
 ing at each other through them, and scratched up 
 the flower-beds so, that my mistress grew tired of 
 them, and there's nothing in that garden to trouble 
 us birds. But our nest is not now up under the 
 eaves, for they have torn the house down over our 
 heads two or three times, and our home is in a big 
 
LITTLE STUPID. 
 
 143 
 
 horse-chestnut, where the leaves are so thick that 
 not a boy in the neighborhood has ever suspected 
 where we live.' 
 
 " Here the robin stopped to rest, for he had 
 talked so fast, and used so many large words, that 
 he was quite out of breath ; and as by that time the 
 people began to come oat on the piazza for the 
 fresh morning air, he flew away to a live-oak-tree, 
 and began to sing merrily. " 
 
 Here the Red-bird paused, and from my seat 
 beneath the magnolia I looked at the Paroquet just 
 in time to detect him trying to hide a yawn, as if he 
 were slightly tired with Robin, and Stupid, and 
 Jim, and cats generally. But perhaps I was mis- 
 taken, for after a moment he asked : 
 
 "Where is Mrs. Robin now ? Do you know if 
 she is dead or alive ?" 
 
 " Dead," answered the Red-bird. "Robin told 
 me that she was with him two winters ago, near 
 Tallahassee, and that they built a nest there — almost 
 the first in Florida, for as a general thing robins do 
 not nest here ; but they did, and were very happy, 
 too, until poor Mrs. Robin was killed — shot by one 
 of the soldiers who used to be so thick in those 
 parts." 
 
 "It's the same fellow I know," returned the 
 
144 
 
 LITTLE STUPID. 
 
 Paroquet, "a great gossip ; but go on — you cer- 
 tainly have more to tell." 
 
 "Oh, yes, a great deal more," said Mrs. Red ; 
 "but my story takes me now to the North, for my 
 mistress left Florida a few days after my long talk 
 with Robin ; and after a three days' voyage by sea, 
 during which I was so sick that I hoped I should 
 die, we reached a place they called New York, and 
 there I changed owners. It seems my mistress 
 lived very far to the West, and as she had found it 
 some trouble to travel with me, she gave me to a 
 friend of hers whom she met at the hotel, and who 
 took even better care of me than she had done, for 
 sometimes she had forgotton to give me any water 
 for an entire day, and had otherwise neglected me. 
 But my new mistress was very kind, and petted me 
 a great deal, and called me some of the names 
 Robin had said his mistress gave to her cat Jim. 
 I missed Robin, and wondered if I should ever see 
 him again. It was not likely, I thought, for of 
 course his home and mine must be miles apart. 
 
 "We were going home very soon, I heard my 
 mistress say, and one morning we left the noisy city, 
 and when we stopped it was so late and so dark that 
 I could not see where we were, or what the house 
 was like. It was very quiet and still, and I was so 
 tired and worn with the journey that I slept soundly 
 
LITTLE STUPID. 
 
 145 
 
 until morning, and was only awakened by the 
 housemaid when she came to open the shutters. 
 It was a funny kind of a house, unlike anything I 
 had ever seen before, which was not strange, per- 
 haps, inasmuch as I had only been in big hotels. 
 Still I think it was different from most houses, for 
 the rooms all opened into each other, with no doors 
 to shut, if one had wished to shut them ; and there 
 were queer nooks and corners, everywhere, and 
 pleasant places to sit, and read the books upon the 
 shelves. I really began to feel quite literary and 
 learned myself, there were so many books, and 
 pictures, and curious things from foreign parts, the 
 names of which I did not then know, but I learned 
 these afterward from hearing the people, who came 
 to see my mistress, talk about them. There were 
 Madonnas, and saints, and angels from Florence, 
 and Rome, and Dresden, and dancing girls from 
 Pompeii, and Apollos, and Venuses, and vases, and 
 shells, and tables, and more things than I can re- 
 member now. I think my mistress wrote books, 
 for there used often to be ink spots on her fingers, 
 and a very tired look on her face when she came 
 from a room up-stairs which they called the library, 
 and where she spent most of her mornings. 
 
 " It must have been April when I went to my 
 7 
 
146 
 
 LITTLE STUPID. 
 
 new home, and one morning I saw what a snow- 
 storm was for J:he first time in my life. My cage 
 was hung in such a pretty little nook off from a 
 bay-window where a great many flowers were kept, 
 and there were windows on three sides, so that I 
 could look out into the yard, and see the big snow- 
 flakes sifting down through the trees, until the 
 ground was completely covered with a soft carpet 
 of white, and the little birds which had been flitting 
 about for several days, hid themselves in the ever- 
 greens, and I heard my mistress say she must throw 
 them some crumbs if the weather continued so cold. 
 And that made me think of Mr. Robin, and what 
 he had told me of his mistress feeding the birds. 
 Where was he, I wondered, and where was his 
 home, and I wished so much that I might see him 
 again, if only to ask if there was any news from the 
 South, where I left all that made life pleasant to me. 
 I was always thinking of the old home among the 
 jasmines, and it was especially kept in my mind by 
 a stuffed bird which hung on a shelf in one corner 
 of the nook where my cage was hung. My mistress 
 brought it and put it there one mornirg, and said 
 to me very friendly-like : ' There, little Reddy, that 
 will remind you of home, and who knows but poor 
 Greenie came from the same place with yourself?' 
 
LITTLE STUPID. 
 
 147 
 
 It was a Paroquet, with such lovely green and golden 
 feathers." 
 
 " With a brownish tinge on thebreast ?" Mr. 
 Paroquet asked, somewhat anxiously, and Mrs. Red 
 replied : 
 
 " Yes, I noticed that particularly — the mottled 
 appearance of the breast, where there was a spot of 
 bright yellow." 
 
 " My first wife, I'll wager my head !" exclaimed 
 Mr. Paroquet, very much awake now, and excited, 
 it seemed to me, for he flew from the magnolia, 
 where he had been sitting in a sleepy kind of way, 
 to the orange-tree, where he alighted close to 
 Mrs. Red, and continued : " My wife, from your 
 description ; the one they carried away and stuffed, 
 so Robin said. Do you think she was stuffed — 
 think she was really dead, or will she be coming 
 back some day when I don't expect her ?" 
 
 "Dead? Of course she was dead," returned 
 Mrs. Red, rather scornfully. "She never spoke 
 nor moved, all the time I was there, but just stared 
 at me with those dreadful glass eyes, which made 
 me feel so uncomfortable. You need have no fears 
 of her coming back." 
 
 " Oh, well," returned Mr. Paroquet, brightening 
 up a little. "Not that I shouldn't be very glad to 
 
148 
 
 LITTLE STUPID. 
 
 see her ; very glad, of course, but then, you see, 
 there's the present Mrs. Paroquet, who might not 
 be so glad, and that would make it rather awkward. 
 Nobody can be dead a year, and come back, without 
 being a very little in the way, for they are sure to 
 find their places filled, or at least bridged over." 
 
 To me, who, you will remember, was sitting on 
 a bench listening to the conversation of these birds, 
 the Paroquet's assertion was startling, and for a few 
 moments I forgot what the birds were saying, while 
 I asked myself : 
 
 " Is it true that if I were to die, and go away into 
 the darkness and silence of the gave, and then after 
 a year could come back to the friends who had wept 
 so bitterly when I left them, is it true that I should 
 find myself in the way — my place filled, or bridged 
 over with new loves and interests,, which my sudden 
 return would disturb and mar ?" 
 
 And then I thought of a little blue-eyed, golden- 
 haired girl, whom we called Nellie, and whose grave 
 had been on the hill-side more than a dozen years. 
 If she could come back again, would she not find 
 a warm welcome from the mother who never men- 
 tions her without the hot tears springing to her 
 eyes! Would Nellie be in the way? Oh, no, not 
 the little Nellie who died that winter day so many 
 
LITTLE STUPID. 
 
 149 
 
 years ago, the child Nellie, whose chair is in the 
 corner yet, and whose picture looks down upon us 
 from the wall. She could never be in the way, 
 though the woman, the Nellie of twenty years, might 
 be strange at first to the mother twelve years older 
 now, with fuller and larger experiences of life, and 
 habits of making plans with Nellie left out of them; 
 but there could be no real jarring of new loves and 
 interests ; there could only be a deep joy and 
 thankfulness for the Nellie alive again. So I 
 reasoned — so I decided, and then turned back to the 
 birds, who were still at their talk, and had passed 
 from the snow-storm of April to the month of May, 
 when Mrs. Red's cage was first hung in a mountain 
 ash which grew in the garden of her new home. 
 
150 BLACK EYES AND BRIGHT HAIR. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 BLACK EYES AND BRIGHT HAIR. 
 
 HE day was so bright," she said, " and 
 the grass so green, and the yard so 
 beautiful, that for a time I could only 
 look around me and admire the many 
 pretty things scattered about the grounds. And as 
 I looked it seemed to me I must have been there 
 before, everything was so familiar, even to the iron 
 deer with Southern moss upon his horns. Had I 
 dreamed of all this, or what was it ? I asked, and 
 my head was beginning to ache with trying to recall 
 something in the past, when suddenly a voice, which 
 I remembered perfectly, called out : 
 
 " ' Halloo, Miss Red, if this don't beat all. Here 
 you are away up here on my own ground. How 
 did it happen ? And what do you think of the 
 North now ?' 
 
 " It was Robin, of course, and to my great delight 
 I found that I was actually in the very garden he had 
 
BLACK EYES AND BRIGHT HAIR. 15: 
 
 described to me, that my mistress was his mistress, 
 and that his nest was up in one of the tall horse 
 chestnuts, which grew at the entrance of the 
 grounds. And there was another Mrs. Robin now, 
 a pretty little bird, who arched her neck so grace- 
 fully and looked so shyly at me from her bright 
 eyes when Robin brought and introduced her to 
 me. They were very happy together — Mr. and 
 Mrs. Robin — and I in part forgot my own sorrows 
 and loneliness in watching them day by day as they 
 flew in and out of the nice soft nest in the chestnut- 
 tree, and made wide circles in the air just as I used 
 to do away down on the river. 
 
 " At last Robin came to me with a very impor- 
 tant air, and told me there were four blue eggs in 
 the nest, and Mrs. Robin was sitting on them to 
 keep them warm, and he was going to hunt worms 
 for her from the mound of earth just turned up in 
 the garden. They were Mrs. Robin's first eggs, 
 and she scarcely left them at all until the shells 
 were broken and I heard there were four young 
 birds in the nest. Oh, how proud little Mrs. Robin 
 was ! What care she took of her babies — more care, 
 indeed, than Robin, who was growing old and fat, 
 and indisposed for work, and who sometimes called 
 her nervous and fussy, and told her that nothing 
 
152 BLACK EYES AND BRIGHT HATE. 
 
 could harm her children as long as they staid up in 
 that tall tree. Still Mrs. Robin' was very watchful 
 and vigilant, and looked askance at every boy who 
 passed on the walk, and even at Harry and Grey, 
 and Gi fiord, little boys who came sometimes to play 
 in the garden, and who could no more have climbed 
 to the nest than they could have gone to the steeple 
 of the church just showing above the trees in the 
 distance. 
 
 ' At last, when the birds were old enough to be 
 taught to fly, an event occurred which threw Mrs. 
 Robin into a wild state of excitement. I had 
 several times heard my mistress and the cook talk- 
 ing together of some people who were coming to 
 spend a portion of the summer, and I had caught 
 the names of Florence and Johnnie, but who 
 Florence and Johnnie were I did not know or par- 
 ticularly care, for it mattered little to me who came 
 or went. I was never molested, and my daily wants 
 were supplied with great regularity. And still I 
 did have some little curiosity with regard to the 
 expected guests, on whose account the whole house- 
 hold was, for a few days, in an unusual commotion. 
 On the afternoon when they arrived my cage was 
 hanging in a little archway at the rear of the 
 grounds, and so I heard and saw nothing until 
 
BLACK EYES AND BRIGHT HAIR. 153 
 
 Robin, who had been absent for a few hours, came 
 home, and stopped for a moment on a shrub near 
 me to rest and chat awhile, as he was in the habit 
 of doing. In fact, I had sometimes thought that 
 Mrs. Robin, whom, since the birth of the birds, he 
 had called little Motherdy, while she in return had 
 called him Fatherdy, was more than half jealous of 
 me because of Robin's sociability. At all events he 
 never sat near me long before she joined him and 
 made some excuse to get him away. So I was not 
 surprised to see her flying toward us from the 
 cherry-tree, where she had been pecking away at a 
 half-ripe cherry. As she came near I saw at a 
 glance that something was the matter, and so did 
 Robin, and he called out in his cheery, teasing way: 
 " 1 Well, little Motherdy, what's up now, that 
 your feathers seem so ruffled, and you so excited ? 
 Anything happened to the young ones, or what is 
 the matter ?' 
 
 " 1 Matter V she repeated. i Matter enough. 
 
 What do you think has come right into our midst 
 
 to worry our birds to death ?' 
 
 " ' Cats, maybe,' he said : and she replied : 
 
 " ' Cats ! No, something worse than that. Two 
 
 children, boy and girl, and by the looks of the 
 
 luggage they have come to stay, and there's an end 
 7* 
 
154 BLACK EYES AND BRIGHT HAIR. 
 
 of all peace for us. Why, the boy has already spied 
 me, and actually thought he could reach me, and I 
 on the top of the Brockway house. You would far 
 better have put our nest in the evergreens across the 
 street, where I wanted it. But no, you must stay in 
 that old place just because you used to live there 
 with the other one, who I wish was here now. Such 
 a time as I am going to have with those children ! 
 Afraid for my life and the babies every minute V 
 
 " I had known before that Motherdy, though a 
 nice little thing, had a temper, and that she was 
 sometimes given to being jealous of the first Mrs. 
 Robin, and that she had opposed the old nest in the 
 chestnut tree, because Mrs. Robin ist had lived 
 there. But she was so pretty, and had such grace- 
 ful ways, that Robin never lost his temper, no 
 matter how unreasonable she might be, and now he 
 only laughed good-humoredly and made light of 
 her fears, saying his mistress would never allow 
 any one to disturb the birds, and as for the ever- 
 greens across the street, where she had wanted him 
 to build a new nest, she would have been no safer 
 there, for was not Harry over there, and Grey, and 
 were they not both larger than this Chicago boy 
 who had so alarmed her ? 
 
 " ' You are nervous, little Motherdy,' he said. 
 
BLACK EYES AND BRIGHT HAIR. 155 
 
 'You have boy on the brain. Hadn't you better go 
 home ? Some boy may have stolen your babies, 
 nest and all/ 
 
 " Motherdy was too angry to reply, and flew 
 away rapidly, followed soon by Robin, who, I sup- 
 pose, made his peace with her, for they were out 
 together early the next morning, hunting for worms 
 and grasshoppers, and talking lovingly in the 
 language which birds understand. And still I 
 could see that both were rather anxious for the ap- 
 pearance of the children, Florence and Johnnie, 
 and so was I, for I had heard the sound of voices 
 from the house — sweet, musical voices, such as 
 children always "have — and I thought I could tell 
 which was Florence and which was Johnnie, for 
 one I knew was two or three years older than the 
 other. 
 
 " At last they came into the grounds with a laugh 
 and a bound, and from the ridge-pole of the Brock- 
 way house Fatherdy and Motherdy were watching 
 them, while I, in my cage, looked eagerly and curi- 
 ously at them. How pretty they were in their white 
 dresses and gay sashes — Florence with her pale face 
 and starry eyes of black, which seemed to see every- 
 thing at once, and Johnnie with his great round 
 blue eyes, the color of the robin's eggs, and his 
 
156 BLACK EYES AND BRIGHT HAIR. 
 
 beautiful golden hair falling in curls about his 
 neck. ' Black-Eyes ' and ' Bright-Hair ' I named 
 them at once, and I watched them as they started to 
 run up the gravel walk. Bright-Hair, whose little 
 feet had just commenced to walk, fell down, of 
 course, and bumped his nose and soiled his clean 
 white dress ; but he did not seem to mind it at all, 
 but, man-like, got up again and started after Black- 
 Eyes, who had spied a little arbor under an apple- 
 tree, which she decided was just the place for the 
 mud pies she was longing to make, as no child's 
 life in the country is complete without a trial of 
 making and baking pies. Then she saw me next ? 
 and both came rushing to me, and Bright-Hair 
 wanted to ' take, take,' and stretched his little hands 
 toward me, and tried to climb the lattice, in the 
 archway of which I was hanging. But I was far 
 above his reach, and looked down upon him fear- 
 lessly as he tried in vain to get me. 
 
 '* What lovely children they were, and those were 
 very happy days when I watched them flitting about 
 the grounds or making their mud pies in the grape- 
 vine arbor. I think the cook must have been very 
 good-natured, for she gave up her muffin-rings, and 
 sponge-cake tins, and iron spoons, and a pan and 
 dipper for the bakery, and even brought a box of 
 
BLACK EYES AND BRIGHT HAIR. 157 
 
 dirt, which little Florence called flour ; and then 
 the mud pie business began in earnest, and Johnnie's 
 fat white arms were besmeared above his elbows, 
 and his face was covered with mud, and Florence 
 was not much better, as in her long-sleeved gingham 
 apron she worked industriously at her pies and 
 cakes, which were made into wonderful shapes, and 
 baked on a griddle in the sun. 
 
 "Sometimes Maggie and Harry, and Grey and 
 Sophie and Louise came to help, but the girls were 
 almost too old for mud pies, and Grey was afraid of 
 soiling his clothes, and Harry fonder of chasing a 
 kitten which had strayed into the yard the day after 
 the children came, and which my mistress kept as a 
 plaything for them, and so Black-Eyes and Bright- 
 Hair had the pies mostly to themselves. It was diffi- 
 cult to tell which Bright-Hair liked the best — the pies 
 or the kitten, which he called the i cart? or the little 
 robins, which were just learning to fly, and who hop- 
 ped about in a very stupid way, while little Motherdy 
 watched narrowly and nervously to see that no harm 
 came to them, either from the cat, or Bright-Hair, 
 who always started for them when he saw them 
 in the grass, and seemed greatly disturbed because 
 they flew away just before he had reached them. 
 " One afternoon there was a garden party for the 
 
158 BLACK EYES AND BRIGHT HAIR. 
 
 children, and I think I never saw a finer sight than 
 it was to see all those little girls and boys in their 
 best clothes, which did not look quite so fresh and 
 nice when they went home, as when they came. Oh, 
 what fine times they had playing upon the lawn, 
 and in the different arbors, which were fitted up 
 with dollies' furniture, and called by different 
 names. There was the 'Doll's Drawing-room,' 
 where the larger dolls sat solemn and still in their 
 chairs, and there was a sleeping-room for the dolls, 
 and Apple-Tree Hotel and a restaurant near by, 
 where the children had macaroons, and took weak 
 lemonade through straws ; but the thing which 
 pleased them most was the wheel chair, in which all 
 the children had a ride before the day was done. 
 
 " That afternoon, Motherdy kept her robins out 
 of sight, aad did not allow them once to fly down 
 into the grass, lest some harm should befall them. 
 She was not afraid of Bright-Hair nor Black-Eyes, 
 nor Harry, nor Grey, nor Maggie, nor Gifford, she 
 said, but she distrusted some of the larger boys, who 
 ran so fast and made so much noise, and she kept 
 her children at home greatly against their will. 
 They were not afraid, and I think had really 
 become attached to Black-Eyes and Bright-Hair, 
 and so had the Fatherdy and Motherdy birds, who 
 
BLACK EYES AND BRIGHT HAIR. 159 
 
 liked to see them round, and thought the grounds 
 were prettier because they were there. I thought 
 so, too, and when at last their father came and took 
 them away, I felt more lonely and desolate than 
 I had done in weeks, while my friends, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Robin, with their four young ones, flew up to 
 the ridge-pole of the house, and watched the huge 
 thing which bore them away until it was out of 
 sight, and there was nothing to be seen but a ring 
 of smoke away to the west, where they were gone. 
 I remember that my mistress came out to the arbor 
 where the children had played, and cried a little as 
 she picked up the spoons, and plates and dishes 
 which had been used for their mud pies, some of 
 which were still baking in the sun. 
 
 " I pass rapidly over the remainder of the 
 summer and the fall, when Mr. and Mrs. Robin 
 bade me good-by, and, with their family started for 
 the South. How I longed to go with them, and 
 how many messages I sent to Mr. Red and my own 
 little ones, should they chance to meet them. And 
 then the days were very long and dreary, until 
 little Florence came again to pass the holidays with 
 her auntie, and there was a Christmas-tree in the 
 church, and I was taken there in my cage and hung 
 near the chancel, where I could see all the fine 
 
160 BLACK EYES AND BRIGHT HAIR. 
 
 doings which were so new and strange to me. But 
 I soon began to understand it, and watched the 
 ladies with a great deal of interest as they filled the 
 tree with every conceivable toy for the children, 
 who, when it was done, came crowding in, and 
 filled nearly half the church. What carols they 
 sang of the i Wonderful Night,' and ' Jesus of 
 Bethlehem,' and how the organ filled the church 
 and even made the floor tremble, as the organist 
 played with both hands and feet, and the children's 
 voices rose louder and clearer as they sang of a 
 Saviour's birth. I really began to feel quite like a 
 churchman myself, or at least like a church bird, 
 though I did wonder why I was there. But I soon 
 found out, for as name after name was called, and 
 the children came trooping up to receive their gifts, 
 I heard at last little Florence called, and, to my 
 surprise, 1 was given to her as a Christmas gift from 
 her auntie. I knew that she was very fond of me, 
 and called me a great many pet names, and gave me 
 more things to eat than I could possibly take, but 
 I had never dreamed of belonging to her, and when 
 I found that I was to go with her to her home in 
 Chicago, where Bright-Hair lived, I felt at first 
 sorry to leave my former mistress, w T ho had been 
 so kind to me. And there was Robin, whom I 
 
BLACK EYES AND BRIGHT HAIR. 161 
 
 might never see again, and the beautiful garden 
 where I had spent so many pleasant days. But it 
 could not be helped, and within a week or two I 
 was hanging in a bay-window in my new home in 
 the city, and I was very happy there, too, with 
 Black-Eyes and Bright-Hair for my companions. 
 Children do cheer up a house wonderfully, and I 
 learned to listen to their merry voices, and wait 
 anxiously for their appearance in the morning. 
 As the winter wore away and the spring came on, 
 little Florence, who was always a pale, delicate 
 child, seemed to grow paler and thinner every day, 
 until at last she refused to eat anything, and in the 
 summer they took us all to their country home, a 
 few miles from the city, where she improved 
 rapidly, and ran about the grounds as merrily as 
 ever. But when the autumn came and the winds 
 blew cold from the lake, she began to droop again, 
 and I heard them say they must take her South, 
 where it was always warm and sunny. 
 
 "Then my heart began to beat so fast with 
 wondering if she would take me with her. I half 
 believed she would, she loved me so much — and she 
 did, and we came to the same hotel where I was first 
 a prisoner, and my cage was hung again in the old 
 place, where through the trees of oak and orange I 
 
162 BLACK EYES AND BRIGHT HAIR. 
 
 could see glimpses of the river, and the boats as 
 they went up and down." 
 
 ' Really, now, it is all quite like a story. Have 
 you seen Robin ? and how did you get away ?" Mr. 
 Paroquet said, hopping up and down, first on one 
 foot and then on the other, as if he were growing 
 tired. 
 
 Mrs. Red noticed this, and hastened on. 
 
 "Yes, I have seen Robin ; it was up the river, 
 where he is spending the winter with Mrs. Robin, 
 who is as bright, and pretty, and spirited as ever — - 
 but I must tell you how I came to be up the river 
 myself. My dear little mistress,. Florence, knew 
 that my home was once in this part of the country, 
 and a few days ago, when she gave me my breakfast 
 of seeds and figs, she talked to me in her usual 
 loving way, and said : 
 
 " ' You know my mamma says I am not getting 
 well here as fast as I ought, and she is going to take 
 me to St. Augustine, down by the sea, and so, poor 
 little Reddie, I love you ever and ever so much, but 
 I've been thinking and thinking how dreadful it 
 would be for me to be shut up as you are, and taken 
 away where I never could see my papa, or mamma, 
 or Johnnie any more. Maybe, though, you haven't 
 a papa, or mamma, or Johnnie. I guess birds never 
 
BLACK EYES AND BRIGHT HAIR. 163 
 
 have such things, like us girls, but you may have 
 had some little birds in some nest somewhere, and 
 maybe you can find your way home to that nest, and 
 so, you precious old Reddie, I am going to make 
 you a present of your freedom. I am going to open 
 the door of your cage, and let you go — so !' 
 
 "And here she opened the door suddenly, and 
 gave the cage a shake which sent me out upon the 
 piazza. 
 
 " If I had stopped a minute to consider, I might 
 have hesitated about leaving the cage which had been 
 my home so long, and to which I was really very 
 much attached, but jast as I hopped out upon the 
 floor, some children came running round the corner 
 and frightened me so, that T instantly flew to the top 
 of a tree near by. It was my first experiment in fly- 
 ing for almost two years, and it seemed so natural, 
 so delightful, to beat the air with my wings once 
 more, and freedom seemed so sweet that I could not 
 go back,, but sat for a moment looking at the empty 
 cage and my little mistress standing by it with a 
 sorry look on her face, as if she had not quite ex- 
 pected me to leave her so readily. Then I thought 
 of the nest in the jasmine, and of Mr. Red, and the 
 happy life I had lived with him among the orange- 
 trees and magnolias, and I said to myself, c I must 
 
164 BLACK EYES AND BRIGHT HAIR. 
 
 go there/ and while my mistress was looking up at 
 me with those bright black eyes of hers, I flew away 
 as fast as my wings could take me, in the direction 
 of my old home. But not being accustomed to fly- 
 ing, I soon grew tired, and stopped many times to 
 rest and look down from some tall tree upon the 
 river, which had never seemed so beautiful to me as 
 it did that day. 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 165 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 T was late in the afternoon when I 
 reached the clump of jasmine where I 
 had left my little ones, and though 
 I knew that by this time they were 
 grown-up birds, and possibly had families of their 
 own, I could not help feeling as if I should find 
 them just as I had left them, hungry, noisy, and so 
 glad to see me. It was very still in the thicket, and 
 not a single bird of any kind was to be seen. But 
 this did not surprise me much, for it was the time 
 of day when the old birds would naturally be off 
 after the little ones' supper. They would soon be 
 coming back, and I thought how delighted Mr. Red 
 would be, and how startled, too, when he found me 
 waiting for him just as I used to do." 
 
 " I reckon he was startled, too," interrupted the 
 Paroquet. "But pray hurry on. I was getting a 
 little tired, but I'm all attention now. You waited, 
 
166 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 you say, for Mr. Red to come, and didn't you go 
 near the old nest till he came ?" 
 
 "Yes," returned Mrs. Red, "I went to the nest 
 the first thing, and found it just as I had seen it in 
 my dreams so many times, and right at the bottom, 
 huddled together, were three little ones about the 
 size of mine when I left them. And for an instant 
 I forgot myself and thought they were mine, and 
 flew down so close to them that they awoke and 
 began to scramble toward the top of the nest and 
 open their mouths as if they were hungry. On the 
 right wing of two of them little brown spots were 
 beginning to show, and then I knew, and grew sick 
 and faint, and more sorry than I had been since the 
 day I was stolen away, and with such a different 
 kind of sorrow, too. 
 
 " Always before in the midst of my sharpest pain 
 there had been a kind of comfort in thinking that 
 Mr. Red remembered and longed for me just as I 
 longed for and remembered him, but now I knew 
 better. Those birds in the nest were not my birds. 
 Spotted-Wing was their mother. I was forgotten ; 
 my place was filled ; nobody wanted me there, and 
 I felt as if my throat would burst with the lump 
 which kept rising in it. 
 
 " And while I waited, sitting high above the 
 
CONCLUSION. 167 
 
 nest where I could look down into it, there was a 
 whiz and whir in the air, and Spotted-Wing came 
 home, looking a little older than when I saw her 
 last, but quite as pretty and very happy. I was 
 obliged to own that to myself, as I sat and watched 
 her feeding her young ones, and every now and 
 then turning up her head as if listening for some 
 one. Just so I used to listen and just so I used to 
 act when Mr. Red was coming home, as he did at 
 last, and Spotted-Wing flew out a little way to 
 meet him, and rubbed her bill against his, and 
 kept at his side as he flew so near to me that the air 
 set in motion by his wings stirred my feathers, and I 
 could have touched him had I tried. 
 
 " Oh, little did he dream who it was that sat and 
 watched him until it grew dark, and all was still in 
 the dear old nest which was once my home. When 
 I tffculd no longer see him and knew that he was 
 asleep, I said good-by to him forever, and flew 
 away to the palm-tree; where I staid till morning, 
 and then I started down the river, caring nothing 
 where I went or what became of me, and feeling an 
 indescribable longing for the cage I had quitted 
 and the little mistress I had left. 
 
 " It was then that I came suddenly upon Robin, 
 who is living near Green Cove Spring, and who 
 
168 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 was both astonished and delighted to see me. My 
 face must have told him that I knew the worst, for 
 he only said : 
 
 " 6 Poor little Reddie, it is rather hard, but it's 
 the way of the world. I s'pose you didn't see your 
 own children. One of them is dead, and the others 
 are far up the river, near Enterprise, with families 
 of their own, and as likely birds as you could wish 
 to see. They think you dead, and so does Mr. Red, 
 of course.' 
 
 'Both Robin and Motherdy were very kind to 
 me, and I staid with them all that day and night, 
 and they brought me my supper and tried to cheer 
 me up, but nothing can ever make me happy again 
 unless it be to find myself in the cage once more, 
 with Florence and Johnnie to pet me. But even 
 that pleasure is denied me, for when I left Robin I 
 went back to Jacksonville and the hotel, hoping to 
 find my mistress. But she had gone down by the 
 sea, and it is a long way there, and I might get lost, 
 and not find her after all, so I have given it up, and 
 what I shall do with myself now I am sure I don't 
 know." 
 
 " Do ?" repeated the Paroquet, who began to 
 evince a friendliness I had not given him credit for. 
 u Why, make the best of it, of course, and if you 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 169 
 
 are so anxious to find Black-Eyes and Bright-Hair 
 again, go over to St. Augustine after them. It is 
 not so very far : I've been there. I know the way. 
 I'll go with you and start now, to-day, if you like. 
 It's up the river a ways, and then across the wildest, 
 swampiest piece of country you ever saw. But St. 
 Augustine is lovely — some like that North you are 
 so delighted with, and maybe you will make up your 
 mind to stay there if you do not find the children/' 
 
 "And I almost know I shall not." returned Mrs. 
 Red, who seemed to be quite discouraged, " for how 
 shall I know where to look for them?" 
 
 " Look ! Why, look everywhere, at all the hotels 
 and boarding-houses, but mostly at the Old Fort 
 and in a square they call the Plaza. Children all 
 like to play there. We shall find them, don't you 
 fear, so come ; it is getting almost noon, and we 
 ought to be off. We will fly across the river first, 
 and then hunt a bug or two for dinner, before we 
 start again, so here goes." And spreading his 
 beautiful green wings, the Paroquet flew swiftly 
 away, followed by Mrs. Red, who moved more 
 slowly, for she was tired, and had not much heart 
 or courage left. 
 
 I was half afraid she would drop into the water, 
 but the Paroquet evidently encouraged her to exert 
 
170 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 herself as much as possible, and at last I was glad 
 to see that they were fairly over the river, and rest- 
 ing on a live-oak tree. Then I started as from a 
 dream, and wondered if it were really true that I 
 had beard birds talk together, and if poor Reddie 
 would ever find Florence and Johnnie again, and 
 be happy once more. I hoped she would, and that 
 I might know it ; and I did, for when the spring 
 came, and, with many other travelers, I started for 
 home on the City of Savannah, I noticed upon the 
 boat two lovely children, a boy and girl, one with 
 beautiful black eyes, and the other with eyes as blue 
 as the April sky over our heads. Fornce the little 
 boy called his sister, and then I guessed at once I 
 had found Black-Eyes and Bright-Hair, and remem- 
 bering Mrs. Red I said to the little girl one day : 
 
 " Isn't your name Florence and your brother's 
 name Johnnie, and don't you live- in Chicago ?" 
 
 " Why, yes," she answered, looking curiously at 
 me. " How did you know that ?" 
 
 " Oh, I guessed it," I said, and then I added : 
 " Did you ever have a Red-bird in a cage, which you 
 let go one morning ?" 
 
 " Yes," she replied ; but I think I have her again. 
 I'm almost sure of it. She is in my stateroom. 
 Don't you want to see her ?" 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 171 
 
 Of course I wanted to see her, though as Red- 
 birds are much alike, I knew I could not tell if this 
 were the one whose sad story I had heard on 
 Christmas morning. But when Florence told me 
 the particulars of its recapture I was sure of it, and 
 rejoiced that poor little Reddie was happy with 
 its friends, Florence and Johnnie. They were at 
 the Old Fort in St. Augustine one morning, 
 Florence said, and one of the Indians kept as 
 prisoners there, was teaching her how to use the 
 bow and arrow, while Johnnie stood by begging to 
 " soot too" when suddenly a Red-bird, which seemed 
 to be very tired, flew down at her feet, and kept 
 hopping around close to her, while Johnnie tried to 
 catch it, and the young Indian suggested making it 
 a mark to shoot at. But from this Florence re- 
 coiled in horror, and, stooping toward the bird, 
 she said : 
 
 " I believe it's my very own dear old birdie I 
 used to have in a cage. Are you mine, Reddie ?" 
 and she held her hands toward it, when Reddie flew 
 up to her shoulder, and caressed her face, and neck, 
 and hair with its bill, nestling close to her, as if it 
 did not wish to be let go again. 
 
 So Florence took her back to the hotel where 
 she was stopping, and, bringing out the cage, 
 
172 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 opened the door and set it before Reddie, who 
 instantly went into it, and springing up to the 
 perch, began to swing back and forth as if perfectly 
 delighted with its quarters ; nor could it be tempted 
 to come out of the cage, although the door was left 
 open the entire day. 
 
 " Then I knew for sure it was mine," Florence 
 said, " and that it wanted to come and live with me 
 again ; though it is very funny how she found her 
 way here, and why she did not go back to the nest, 
 which I am sure she used to have somewhere in 
 Florida." 
 
 I could have told her what I knew, and made 
 her eyes blacker and larger than they were, but 
 when I remembered the little girls and boys at 
 home who had asked so often for a story which 
 they could understand, I said I'll wait, and some 
 day when I fe,el like it I will write it, and so let 
 other children, whose names I do not know, but 
 whom I love because they are children, read the 
 story which I heard the Red-bird tell that Christmas 
 morning when I sat under the magnolia-tree far 
 away in Florida. 
 
 THE END 
 OF 
 
 RED-BIRD. 
 
r 
 
 RUTH AND RENA. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE IN OAKFIELD. 
 
 T was Christmas Eve, and the first snow 
 of the season lay upon the fields of Oak- 
 field, and the wintry wind blew cold and 
 
 chill through the leafless trees in the yard 
 and shook the windows of the old red farm-house, 
 where Uncle Obed Harris lived, and where in his 
 comfortable kitchen he sat waiting for the supper 
 which his wife, whom everybody knew as Aunt 
 Hannah, or Grandma Harris, was putting upon the 
 table. Across the common and distant from the 
 house a quarter of a mile or more, the stone church 
 was seen with lights shining from every pane of 
 glass, for the worshippers at St. Mark's had that 
 night, in addition to their usual Christmas Tree, an 
 illumination in honor of Bethlehem's child, born 
 [173] 
 
174 CHRISTMAS EVE IN OAKFIELD. 
 
 amid the Judean hills so many years ago. And 
 ever and anon as Uncle Obed took his tea he heard 
 the merry sound of sleigh-bells and the happy 
 voices of the children as they went tripping by, 
 excited and eager to know what the tree held for 
 them on its many and beautiful branches of green, 
 
 It was thirteen years since Uncle Obed had been 
 inside his church on Christmas Eve, and during all 
 these years he had nursed only bitter memories of 
 the night when his daughter, Agatha, had made 
 such glorious music in the organ loft, and then 
 sang so sweetly the " Peace on earth, good will 
 toward men," with a soft look of ecstasy upon her 
 face which the proud old father thought sprang 
 wholly from a love divine, never dreaming of the 
 terrible blow in store for him, when, after the 
 services were over, he waited in vain for Agatha to 
 join him on his homeward walk ; Agatha did not 
 come either then or ever after, and he heard next 
 day of a marriage performed by a justice of the 
 peace and knew from the note sent to him that 
 Agatha was gone with the young man whom he 
 had forbidden her ever again to speak to if she 
 cared to be his daughter. 
 
 " You must choose between Homer Hastings and 
 me," he had said, and she had chosen, and his door 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE IN OAKFIELD. 175 
 
 was henceforth barred against her, and she knew it, 
 and accepted the situation, and wrote once or twice 
 to her mother from New York, and said that she 
 was happy, and told of a little girl baby, whom she 
 called Ruth, and who had her grandmother's soft 
 brown eyes and hair. 
 
 Then for a time they lost all trace of her until a 
 letter came, telling them her husband was dead and 
 asking if she might come home ; Aunt Hannah 
 pleaded with Uncle Obed then, begging him to go 
 for their child and the little one, who would 
 brighten their lonely lives, but he said : " No, she 
 has made her bed and now she must lie in it. She 
 was my eyes, and when they are once pulled out you 
 can't put them in again." 
 
 Uncle Obed and his wife had married late in 
 life and were old when Agatha was born, and it 
 seemed as if the father loved her more for this, and 
 her desertion of him for a worthless fellow, whose 
 only virtue was his handsome face, had hurt him 
 cruelly, and he would not forgive, and he kept 
 aloof from the Christmas tree, which was each year 
 set up in the church where other fingers than 
 Agatha's swept the organ keys, and another voice 
 sang " Glory to God on High." But he was going 
 to-night ; he had promised his wife that he would, 
 
176 CHRISTMAS EVE IN OAKFIELD. 
 
 and Aunt Hannah's face had been brighter all the 
 
 day for that promise, and her step brisker and 
 
 lighter as she prepared the basket of presents for 
 
 the poor children of the parish, thinking, as she 
 
 folded up a pair of lamb's wool stockings, of the 
 
 little Ruth whom she had never seen, and whose 
 
 feet they would just fit. Where was she now, and 
 
 where was Agatha that wintry day when the snow 
 
 was drifting down so swiftly, and the wind was 
 
 blowing so hard over her native hills. Something 
 
 seemed to bring the absent one nearer to Aunt 
 
 Hannah, and she almost felt the touch of the chord 
 
 which was to have a beginning that night far away 
 
 in New York and which would reach even to her 
 
 lonely home and make it bright as the sunshine, 
 
 which, as the day wore to a close, came through the 
 
 dull gray clouds and fell soft and warm upon the 
 
 pure white snow. 
 
 There was a great crowd in the church that nighty 
 
 and Uncle Obed felt a throb of pain cut like a knife 
 
 through his heart when he saw the gaily decorated 
 
 tree, and heard the organ peal and the children's 
 
 voices telling of the " wonderful night " when 
 
 " Angels and shining immortals, 
 Crowding the ebony portals, 
 Fling out their banners of light, on this 
 Wonderful, wonderful, night." 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE IN 0AKF1ELD. 177 
 
 He was thinking of thirteen years ago, and the 
 golden head he saw in the gallery where Agatha 
 sat in her bright beauty playing her Christmas 
 songs. But his wife's thoughts were more with 
 Ruth, the unknown child, and as one after another 
 the little ones went up the aisle, she prayed softly 
 to herself, " God grant me life to see her some 
 day before this very railing." 
 
 And God, who hears and answers the prayer of 
 faith, heard and answered hers, though in a dif- 
 ferent way from what she had expected. As if the 
 sight of the Christmas tree and the happy, joyous 
 faces of the children had softened Uncle Obed's heart, 
 he talked much that night of Agatha and the baby, 
 as he always designated Ruth, who, if living, was 
 then twelve years old at least. 
 
 "They haunt me," he said ; "and it seems as if 
 Aggie was here in this very room telling me to do 
 something — I can't make out what." 
 
 "She has been close to me all day, too," Aunt 
 Hannah replied, "she or the little one ; and before 
 the train came in I was foolish enough to go to her 
 old room to see if all was right in case she came. 
 You know, it is just as she left it, only the curtains 
 are new." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know, wife," and Uncle Obed lifted 
 
178 CHRISTMAS EVE IN 0AKF1ELD. 
 
 his head suddenly. " Should I be an old fool to go 
 to New York to-morrow and inquire ?" 
 
 Aunt Hannah had done with kissing years ago, 
 but now her arms were around her husband's neck 
 in a trice, and her cheek was laid to his as she kissed 
 him fervently, while the great tears choked her 
 utterance and kept her from answering. But she 
 was understood, and the next morning, while the 
 bell was ringing for church and the Christmas sun 
 was shining brightly over the earth, Uncle Obed 
 sat in a corner of the car which was taking him to 
 New York and, as he hoped, to the lost ones he 
 sought. Aunt Hannah ate her Christmas dinner 
 alone that day, and after it was over went to 
 Agatha's room and kindled a fire upon the hearth, 
 and felt her pulse beat with a new hope as she 
 watched the flames lapping the bits of pine and 
 then leaping up the chimney mouth. 
 
 " He may not be home in three or four days," 
 she said to herself, "but it's well to be ready; and 
 the room needs airing so much." 
 
 So she opened both the windows, and brushed the 
 snow from the stools, and made the bed up fresh 
 and clean, and gave the pillows a loving pat as she 
 put them in their places, and moved Agatha's favor- 
 ite chair nearer to the fire, and put the book of 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE IN OAKFIELD. 179 
 
 Psalms upon it, with "Doddridge's Rise and Pro- 
 gress/' and by way of variety laid beside them one 
 of the Waverly Novels which Agatha used to like 
 so much and prefer to Doddridge or the Psalms. 
 This done, she shut the windows but left the 
 blinds open to let the sunshine in, thinking to her- 
 self as she went out and closed the door, " I'll build 
 a fire every day until he comes back with 'em." 
 
 Alas for Aunt Hannah praying so often and 
 waiting so anxiously for him and them, she little 
 knows how long and severely her faith is to be 
 tested, or of the rich fruition which will crown that 
 faith at last. 
 
 / 
 
180 CHRISTMAS EYE IN NEW YORK. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE IN NEW YORK. 
 
 HERE was no snow in New York that 
 Christmas Eve, but the wind seemed 
 colder for that, as it blew in sharp biting 
 gusts through the dark streets and alleys, 
 and sweeping up a long flight of rickety stairs to 
 one of those tenements where the poor live, — God 
 only knows how, — crept through the wide cracks of 
 a room where two little girls crouched before the 
 fire, which the elder of them was trying to coax into 
 a blaze. She had been out all day in the crowded 
 streets offering her pins and shoe-lacings and 
 matches, first to one and then to another of the gay 
 throng hurrying by, all, or nearly all, in too great 
 haste to notice her, shivering with cold and pinched 
 with hunger though she was. Had they done so y 
 they would have seen that she was no ordinary 
 child, and her soft brown eyes, and sweet pale face, 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE IN NEW YORK. 181 
 
 would have attracted attention to her at once. But 
 it was the day before Christmas, and though money- 
 was spent by the thousands for toys which would 
 please for an hour, and then lie idly upon some 
 nursery floor, only twenty-five cents of it came to 
 poor little Ruth, who wanted it so much, and -whose 
 eyes had in them a wistful, anxious look every time 
 she offered her wares for sale. She did not tell a 
 pitiful tale of her mother, dead six months before, 
 or of the poverty and the sorrow, as one article after 
 another was sold for food and fuel, until the com- 
 paratively comfortable home was bare of nearly 
 everything, save the absolute necessities for daily 
 use. Neither did she tell of her struggles to earn 
 bread for herself and Rena, darling little five-years 
 old Rena, whose eyes were like the violets of 
 spring, and whose hair was golden in the sunshine, 
 with a tinge of red upon it. Poor little Rena, who 
 kept the house at home while Ruthy was away, — 
 who washed the two plates and the one mug they 
 shared between them, and swept the floor and 
 washed the hearth, and wiped the dingy paint, as 
 her mother had done when it was not as dingy as 
 now, and did it more than once to pass away the 
 long, lonely hours of Ruth's absence. She had been 
 told never to play with the children in the street. 
 
m CHRISTMAS EVE IN NEW YORK. 
 
 and her dead mother's command was sacred to the 
 conscientious child, who contented herself with 
 looking from the windows of the fourth story, 
 where she lived, down upon the moving, everchang- 
 ing crowd in the narrow street below. 
 
 And here she sat waiting for Ruth, as the short 
 December day drew to a close, and the cold night 
 shut down over the great city. She knew all about 
 Christmas eve and Santa Claus, and many times 
 that day she had said to herself, "I wish Santa Claus 
 would bring Ruthy something," and once she 
 thought to go herself upon the walk and beg a few 
 pennies for " Ruthy's present," as she had seen 
 children do, but this had been forbidden, and so she 
 sat in her chair by the window and watched and 
 thought of many things, and among others, of 
 the story of Bethlehem, which she liked so much. 
 The lowly manger, the mound of hay, the meek- 
 eyed oxen with their long white horns, were things 
 she never tired of. But she delighted most in the 
 baby, the little boy and his mother, and she had so 
 wanted a book full of pictures which should tell her 
 all about it. There was such a one called " That 
 Sweet Story of Old." Ruthy had said, and Rena had 
 made many plans for getting it when she was older, 
 while Ruth, too, had her own darling scheme with 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE IN NEW YORK. 183 
 
 regard to it, and every day for a month, she had put 
 by a few pennies from her little earnings, and eaten 
 less herself, in order to save enough to buy the book, 
 as a Christmas gift to Rena. She had almost 
 enough that morning when she went out, but the 
 day was not a good one for her trade. Nobody 
 wanted boot-lacings and pins, when in all the shop 
 windows, there were so many beautiful things, and 
 if she bought the book, she must go without her 
 supper. But she did not care for that, though she 
 was very hungry, and the smell of the food which 
 came to her so often from the many basement 
 kitchens, nearly drove her wild. Still she did not 
 falter, and when at last she turned into the narrow 
 street, and ascended the long, steep stairway, the 
 book was under her shawl, and she had only two 
 buns and a hot roll in her hands; These she had 
 bought far up town, at Purssell's, as a treat for little 
 Rena, to whom a lady had once given a Bath bun, 
 and who had talked of it ever since. 
 
 Rena was off her guard, and in thinking of 
 Bethlehem had fallen asleep and let the fire go out, 
 so that it was dark and cheerless enough when 
 Ruth entered the room : but though very cold and 
 tired, she did not care for Rena's remissness, as it 
 gave her time to hide the book which was to be a 
 
184 CHRISTMAS EVE IN NEW YORK. 
 
 great surprise on the morrow when it was fairly 
 Christmas day. Putting it carefully away she 
 lighted the lamp and then tried to rekindle the fire. 
 The noise awoke Rena, who was soon beside her on 
 the hearth and looking into her face to see if the 
 day had been a good one. 
 
 To little Rena good days meant a bit of meat for 
 supper with perhaps a piece of pie, and a warm fire 
 in the evening, and she saw that none of these 
 luxuries were in store for her that night, and the 
 old, patient, but sad look came back to her face as 
 she wound her arms around Ruthy's neck and said : 
 
 "You didn't get much; but no matter, you've 
 got me" 
 
 Yes, Ruth had little Rena, and forcing down a 
 great sob just as she had forced it down the livelong 
 day when she remembered other Christmas tides, 
 she held her darling sister close to her and parted 
 her bright hair from her brow, and told her of the 
 nice Bath buns from Purssell's and the roll for 
 breakfast, and said she did not want anything her- 
 self, as she had had her supper, meaning a part of 
 an apple she had found near a fruit stand. 
 
 And hungry little Rena ate a bun, sitting on the 
 floor by the fire, for neither of the girls thought it 
 worth while to set the table just for a single bun ! 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE m NEW YORK. 185 
 
 And as Rena ate she talked of Christmas and 
 Christmas trees, and asked Ruth to tell her again 
 of the tree which she saw once, and which had on it 
 a doll and a paper of candy for her. "Jesus' birth- 
 day party " Rena called the Christmas eve festival, 
 and as she warmed her blue hands by the fire, she 
 wished that she might go to His " party M and get 
 " oh, lots of things — some new shoes and stockings, 
 and a doll that would squeak, and some mince pie, 
 and that story of Jesus — only, Ruthy, I'd give them 
 all to you, 'cause you goes in the cold, but I'd keep 
 the book about the pretty Bethlehem child," she 
 said, as she stuck out her little feet with her ragged 
 shoes and looked ruefully at them. 
 
 Poor little Rena, there were shoes and stockings 
 both, just fitted to her cold feet, in the basket Aunt 
 Hannah carried to the Oa^field church that after- 
 noon, but Rena knew nothing of them, and she kept 
 on talking to Ruth, asking finally what it was their 
 mother had said about her old home in the country 
 where there was grass in summer, with flowers and 
 birds, and always enough to eat and " Jesus' birth- 
 day party " every year in the church. 
 
 So Ruth told her again of the house of which 
 she had heard so much from her mother ; and Rena 
 asked : 
 
186 CHRISTMAS EVE IN NEW YORK 
 
 "It we've a grandpa and grandma there, why 
 doesn't they come for us ? It's so cold here, Ruthy, 
 and I's so hungry, too. I want the other bun so 
 bad, and I's savin' it for you." 
 
 There were great tears on Rena's cheeks as she 
 confessed that her hunger was greater than her 
 spirit of self-denial could endure. She had meant 
 to keep the other bun for Ruthy's breakfast, but, as 
 she said, she was " so hungry," and Ruth made her 
 eat it, and then to save the fire, they crept into bed, 
 but not until their prayers were reverently said, 
 Rena venturing to improvise a little and ask God 
 "to send them a great big fire, which should make 
 them, oh, as warm as toast — and let her sometime 
 go to His Son's birthday party and get something 
 from the tree, please, for Christ's sake ; good- night, 
 and don't let us be cold any more, amen." 
 
 This was Rena's prayer, and then nestling close 
 to Ruth, she whispered, "God is here, isn't He ; in 
 this room ?" 
 
 "Yes," was Ruth's reply. 
 
 "And hears me pray when I say 1 please, for 
 Christ's sake ?' And I am sure he will, for mamma 
 said so, and we'll be warm to-morrow, Ruthy, you 
 and I ; oh, so warm, with a big fire — fire — for 
 Christ's sake — please." 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE IN NEW YORK. 187 
 
 The words were far apart and indistinct for 
 little Rena was fast falling into dreamland. But so 
 long as consciousness remained, there was a prayer 
 in her heart for " fire — a big fire to warm us, please." 
 
 And God, who was there, in that humble room, 
 and heard their prayer, answered it in His own way, 
 which was not exactly little Rena's way. 
 
188 
 
 TEE FIRE. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE FIRE. 
 
 HE Christmas Eve Festivals were over, 
 and night brooded silently over the great 
 city, until the clock on Trinity rang for 
 twelve ; then a few moments went by, 
 and the great bell at Jefferson market sent forth its 
 warning, which was caught up and repeated faster, 
 louder, more excitedly, as the mad flames, let loose 
 from the nooks and corners where they had perhaps 
 been smoldering through the day, leaped high in 
 the air and ran riotously over the roofs of the old 
 
 tenement house on street, where Ruth and 
 
 Rena lay sleeping. " Fire, — fire, — " how the cry 
 sounded through the streets, and what a clatter the 
 firemen and the people made and how the women 
 shrieked and the children cried, and nobody but 
 God thought of Ruth and Rena. He was taking 
 care of them, and woke Ruth just as the flames 
 
THE FIRE. 
 
 189 
 
 looked for an instant into the room, already filled 
 with smoke, and then were subdued by a powerful 
 jet of water, which left all again in darkness. 
 
 Ruth knew what it meant, and with a gasp of 
 suffocation sprang from the bed, and groping her 
 w T ay to the door, opened it wide, hoping to admit 
 the fresh air, without which she knew she must 
 smother. But only thick, dark billows of smoke 
 came rolling in, filling her lungs and eyes and 
 mouth, as she tried to find her way back to her 
 sister to whom she shrieked, "Wake, Rena ; the 
 house is on fire. Run for your life." 
 
 The cry awoke Rena, who staggered toward the 
 door, more by chance than design. Fortunately for 
 her, it was still open, and, blinded by smoke, and 
 wild with fright, she rushed down the stairway, and 
 escaped unharmed into the street below, where the 
 excited throng of people wemJ running and shriek- 
 ing, and where she would have been trampled to 
 death, if a city missionary, had not found her as, 
 in her night dress, with her little white feet nearly 
 frozen, she ran hither and thither, sobbing in a 
 pitiful kind of way for " Ruthy " to come and get 
 her. One of the mission houses received her, and 
 when the Christmas dawn broke over the city, and 
 the bells were pealing merrily she lay on one of the 
 
190 
 
 THE FIRE. 
 
 little cots asleep, her lips occasionally whispering 
 softly, " Come, Ruthy, come." 
 
 The fright and exposure brought on a low fever, 
 and for weeks kind nurses watched by her trying to 
 make out something from her not very clear story. 
 
 " Mother's dead/' she said, " I haven't any papa ; 
 Ruthy and me lives alone, and sells pins and things, 
 only Ruthy sells 'em and I keep house, and she's 
 burned, and F.s Rena Cutler and she isn't." 
 
 This was her story, and as nothing more could 
 be learned of her or of the Ruth of whom she talked, 
 and as it was known that several had perished in 
 the flames, it seemed probable that Ruth was one of 
 them ; and Rena's fever ran higher, and she talked 
 of the baby of Bethlehem and Jesus' birthday party, 
 and the buns from Purssell's, but after a time she 
 grew better, and was interested in things ar.ound 
 her, and was a great favorite with every one and 
 happy in her new home, where all the influences 
 were calculated to strengthen the good there was in 
 her when she lived with Ruth in the old house. 
 
 But she never forgot "poor Ruthy," whom she 
 believed to have been burned to death, and every 
 night she prayed that God would make her "good 
 enough to go some day to Heaven where Ruthy and 
 mother were ; amen, for Christ's sake, please." 
 
RENA AT UNCLE OBED'8. 191 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 RENA AT UNCLE OBED'S. 
 
 NCLE OBED had not found his lost 
 daughter in New York, or any trace of 
 her ; but he heard of the fire, and he 
 went down and looked at the ruins, and 
 stood close to the place where little Rena came 
 shrieking down the stairs into the streets ; then he 
 went to the Mission House on Sunday and heard 
 the children sing their songs, and saw them take 
 their evening meal, and wenjTihto the room where 
 little Rena lay and saw her bright hair on the pillow 
 and just the outline of her pale face, and heard she 
 was one of the little ones rescued from the fire. 
 He left ten dollars with the matron to be used for 
 her and " the other wee ones, God bless them !" and 
 then went home and told Aunt Hannah, who all the 
 winter long worked for that Home in New York, 
 and sent to it more than one garment which hap- 
 pened to fit Rena. 
 
192 
 
 MENA AT UNCLE OBED'S. 
 
 And so five years went by, and then there came 
 to Oakfield one day an agent for the Home, and 
 with him several little girls for whom places were 
 wanted. Rena was among them, and in her soft 
 blue eyes and pretty face there was something which 
 appealed strongly to the sympathy of Aunt Hannah, 
 who took the child for her own and brought her 
 home and put her in the room which had been 
 Agatha's, and gave her so much love and kindness 
 that the little girl sometimes wondered "if Heaven, 
 where Ruthy was, could be better than this." 
 
 There in Oakfield she saw, for the first time, the 
 Christmas tree in all its glory, and " Rena" was 
 called so many times, that at last when she came 
 back with a huge doll which Aunt Hannah had 
 worked at in secret for w~eeks, she hid her face in 
 her hands and sobbed hysterically, so great was 
 her happiness. That was to her in truth " Jesus' 
 birth-day party," and when that night she knelt 
 alone in her room, she thanked Him in her quaint 
 way for all the joy and brightness crowning her 
 young life, and then, with a sigh as she remembered 
 poor Ruthy, asked that if there were Christmas 
 trees in Heaven, Ruthy might see one and get 
 everything she wanted, just as she had done. 
 
 Here Rena paused with a thought of the book 
 
RENA AT UNCLE BED'S. 193 
 
 she had coveted so much, and which Ruth had 
 promised to buy as soon as she saved money enough. 
 Rena had never seen the book, for Grandma Harris, 
 as the child called her, knew nothing of it, and the 
 nearest Rena had been to possessing it was on that 
 night when Ruth had hidden it away so carefully 
 against the morning which dawned upon them amid 
 smoke and flame. The book had burned to ashes ; 
 Rena was there at Grandpa Harris's ; and Ruth, as 
 she believed, w T as in Heaven with the mother whom 
 Rena could scarcely remember. Fright and sick- 
 ness had driven some things from her mind, but Mr. 
 and Mrs. Harris knew that she was picked up on the 
 street on the night of a fire and that her name w T as 
 Rena Cutler. They knew, too, about poor Ruth, and 
 Grandma Harris had wept more than once over the 
 two little girls living alone in the cold, forlorn cham- 
 ber of the dreary tenement House. So much Rena 
 could tell, but when it came to her mother she remem- 
 bered nothing except that she was good, and sick, 
 and died ; and so grandma never suspected the 
 truth, or dreamed why the orphan seemed so near 
 to her and her husband, both of whom would have 
 been very lonely now without the little girl to 
 whom they had given their name, so that she was 
 known to everybody as Rena Harris. 
 
194 
 
 DAISY. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 DAISY. 
 
 WIFTLY the years came and went till 
 Rena had been for more than four years 
 in Oakland, and was a fair, sweet-faced 
 girl of thirteen, when one day, toward the 
 last of August there came to the farm-house from 
 the hotel on the hill across the river, a young man 
 whom Rena had seen in church and who she had 
 heard was stopping in town with his wife. Occa- 
 sionally he had driven by the farm-house, and 
 Rena had caught sight of a pale, beautiful face which 
 had made her heart throb quickly with a feeling she 
 could not define. It was a young girlish face, and 
 Rena was surprised when she heard that the lady 
 was the young man's wife, and very sorry and 
 grieved when she further heard that she was crazy. 
 
 " Not quite right in her mind," George Rivers 
 said, when he came to the farm-house to ask if they 
 would take his poor " Daisy " for a few weeks 
 
DAISY. 
 
 195 
 
 " She lost her baby six months ago," he said, " and 
 she's been strange ever since. I brought "her to the 
 country hoping a change from the city would do 
 her good, and I think she is improving. We have 
 driven by here several times, and for some reason 
 she has taken a great fancy to this place, and says 
 she could sleep and should get well if she were here, 
 so I called to ask if you will take her." 
 
 The price offered was remunerative, and as 
 dollars were not so very plenty with the old couple 
 they consented at last to take the young lady, whom 
 her husband called Daisy, and whom Rena felt 
 that she should love so much. She was a wonder- 
 fully beautiful little creature, not much taller than 
 Rena herself, and her soft, brown eyes had in them 
 an expression so sad and pitiful, that Rena could 
 scarcely keep back the tears when she saw her 
 coming in leaning upon her husband's arm. There 
 had been talk of a nurse to look after her when 
 George returned to the city, but Rena had begged 
 so hard for that office that Mr. Rivers had consented 
 and Rena was to attend her, and she came at once 
 to the invalid and showed her to the large, pleasant 
 chamber which adjoined her own, and which over- 
 looked the town and the hill country beyond. 
 
 "This is so nice — so like a dream I've had of 
 
196 
 
 DAISY. 
 
 something. I shall be better here," Daisy said, as 
 she leaned from the window and looked out upon 
 the yard and garden below. 
 
 "Can I do anything for you ? I am to be your 
 little maid. I am Rena Harris.'' 
 
 This was what Rena said as the lady turned from 
 the window, and Daisy's brown eyes looked wonder- 
 ingly at her, while a deep flush suffused the white 
 face for an instant and then left it paler than 
 before. 
 
 " Rena, Rena," she repeated; "I never knew 
 but one, and she is with the angels. I called baby 
 Irene, and she died too. Rena ; it's very strange 
 that you should have that name." 
 
 Daisy w T as talking to herself now, for at the first 
 mention of Irene, Rena had darted down stairs to 
 Aunt Hannah, exclaiming : 
 
 " I've got it now — my real name. You know I 
 never could think for sure, but the moment she 
 said her baby was Irene, it came back to me. That 
 was the name in the Bible — Irene Cutler, and Ruth 
 read it to me once and she called me Rena. Oh, 
 grandma, you don't know how sad the lady looked 
 when she said, 'Rena, Rena !' I shall love her so 
 dearly, and I mean to take such good care of her, 
 too." 
 
DAISY. 
 
 197 
 
 Rena was as good as her word, and soon loved 
 the beautiful Daisy with a devotion both rare and 
 curious, while Daisy never seemed happier than 
 when her little maid was with her. She was very 
 pretty with a fair creamy complexion, soft brown 
 eyes and abundant hair of the same shade, which 
 she wore in braids coiled about her head, while, 
 added to her beauty was an air of grace and gentle 
 dignity which alone would have made her very 
 attractive. She did not seem to be really crazy; 
 her mind was only weak, and sometimes when talk- 
 ing of her baby she said queer things, which showed 
 that her reason was not quite clear. But the quiet, 
 happy life she led at the farm-house began to have 
 its influence, and when in September her husband, 
 who had returned to Boston after seeing her com- 
 fortably settled, came again jto Oakfield, he found 
 her greatly improved. She was very happy there, 
 and begged so hard to be allowed to stay until after 
 Christmas that both Mr. and Mrs. Harris and her 
 husband consented, while Rena was wild with 
 delight when she heard of the arrangement. 
 
 When Mr. Rivers first came she had feared that 
 she might lose the sweet lady whom she loved so 
 much, but now she was to stay a long time, it seemed 
 to her, and her joy knew no bounds, while she re- 
 
198 
 
 DAISY. 
 
 doubled her efforts to please and amuse her patient 
 who owed much of her improvement to Rena's care. 
 Together in the bright autumn days they roamed 
 over the fields and thro' the woods of Oakfield, and 
 the villagers sometimes saw them sitting on the 
 banks of the river, Rena at Daisy's feet, looking up 
 into the lovely face above her, while Daisy's fingers 
 caressed her golden hair, or wove for it a crown of 
 the rich-hued autumn leaves. 
 Once Daisy said to her : 
 
 "You make me think so much of the sister I 
 lost ; her name was Rena, too." 
 
 " Tell me about her, please," Rena said, and 
 Daisy replied : 
 
 " Sometime when I am stronger I will, but now 
 it makes my brain thump so to think of her. Oh, 
 Rena, Rena, my darling, my darling." 
 
 She covered her face with her hands, and Rena 
 could see the tears trickle through her fingers as she 
 rocked to and fro, whispering of things which per- 
 plexed and puzzled the little girl to whom they did 
 not seem strange or new. 
 
 After a little Daisy became quiet, but for many 
 days she was not quite herself, and Rena never 
 spoke again of the dead sister, and the autumn went 
 by and the winter came with its dull gray clouds 
 
DAISY. 
 
 199 
 
 and wailing winds, and still Daisy tarried at the farm- 
 house where she was to remain until after the holi- 
 days. These her husband was to spend with her, 
 and he came the day before Christmas with gifts, 
 some for his wife, some for Mr. and Mrs. Harris, 
 and some for Rena, Among these last was a book — 
 too young it might seem for a girl of thirteen, but 
 it had been gotten up with beautiful binding and 
 colored prints expressly for the holidays, and its 
 title was : 
 
 "THAT SWEET STORY OF OLD; 
 
 OR 
 
 THE LIFE OF JESUS." 
 
 Very carefully, nay, almost reverently, Daisy 
 took the book in her hand and her eyes were full 
 of tears as she said : 
 
 " It is beautiful, but not much like the one 
 I bought that day for my darling. Oh, George, 
 how the Christmas holidays bring her back to me, 
 and I see her just as she looked that last night 
 kneeling by the fire and talking of ' Jesus' birth- 
 day party/ and what she wanted from the tree if 
 she ever went to one — shoes, and stockings and a 
 doll that would squeak, and some mince pie and the 
 story of Jesus and she would give them all to me but 
 the book, she said, because I went in the cold, and, 
 
200 
 
 DAISY. 
 
 George, her shoes were so ragged then and her litde 
 toes so blue." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know. Don't talk of it any more; 
 it excites you too much," George said, as he drew 
 his young wife fondly to him, but Daisy answered : 
 
 " I must talk. I feel just like it, and the words 
 will choke me if I do not let "them out. I have 
 thought of Rena all day just as I always do at 
 Christmas time. It's eight years to-night since the 
 fire, and I loved her so much ; she was so sweet 
 and pretty, with a look in her eyes like Rena 
 Harris, whom I love for her sake. Darling sister, 
 I see her now as she prayed for a big fire to warm 
 her and Ruthy, as warm as toast, and God sent the 
 fire and burned my precious sister up. Oh, George, 
 does he always answer prayer that way ?" 
 
 Ere George could reply there was the sound of 
 a choking sob by the open door, a rush across the 
 floor, a folding of arms tightly around the astonished 
 Daisy's neck, while Rena's voice said : 
 
 " Oh, Ruthy, Ruthy, — you are Ruthy and I am 
 Rena. I was not burned that awful night, but 
 thought you were, and have cried so often for you. 
 God did answer my prayer and I never was cold 
 any more. I am Rena Cutler and you are sister 
 Ruth." 
 
DAISY. 
 
 201 
 
 Rena had been passing the open door when her 
 attention was attracted by hearing Daisy repeat the 
 title of the book she had once coveted so much. 
 Involuntarily and without any intention of listen- 
 ing, she paused a moment and heard that which 
 kept her riveted to the spot, while the hot blood 
 surged wildly through her veins at Daisy's story. 
 She did not stop to reason or ask herself how that 
 beautiful young lady, with all the signs of wealth 
 and culture around her, could be the Ruth who once 
 sold matches in New York, and lived with her in 
 that cheerless upper room. She knew it was she 
 — the Ruth she had mourned as dead, — and with a 
 glad cry she went to her, and falling upon her neck, 
 claimed her as her own. 
 
 And Daisy neither shrieked, nor fainted, nor 
 cried out, but sat like one dead, while George un- 
 clasped Rena's arms from her neck and questioned 
 her of the past. Very rapidly Rena told her story, 
 and Daisy listened till the color came back to her 
 face, and the tears flowed in torrents, while sob after 
 sob shook her frame, and her lips kept whispering 
 gladly : " Thank God ; thank God, it's Rena, it 
 is." 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Harris were now summoned, and 
 to them George appealed for confirmation of Rena's 
 9* 
 
202 
 
 DAISY. 
 
 story. As concisely as he could Grandpa Harris 
 told what he had heard of Rena from the man who 
 brought her to Oakfield, and when he had finished 
 even Mr. Rivers himself could no longer doubt that 
 Daisy had found her sister, and drawing Rena to 
 him he kissed her fondly in token of his recognition 
 as a near and dear relation. 
 
 Daisy's story was soon told. After her frantic 
 call for Rena to waken she had fallen senseless 
 upon the floor, where she would have died but for 
 the women who occupied the adjoining room, and 
 who suddenly remembered the little girls and 
 called to a fireman to save them. The flames by 
 this time were rolling up the stairway, and Ruth's 
 hair was scorched when the brave man reached her 
 and bore her safely into the street. To venture 
 again into the roaring mass of fire was impossible, 
 and as none of Rena's acquaintances chanced to see 
 her in the crowd, it was supposed that she perished 
 in the flames, and not all the good fortune which 
 came to Ruth could ever obliterate the memory of 
 that dreadful night, or her sister's terrible fate. A 
 kind woman belonging to the better class of poor 
 had taken Ruth into her house, where within a few 
 days came Mrs. Rivers, from far uptown, to get 
 plain sewing done. Six months before she had lost 
 
DAISY. 
 
 203 
 
 her only daughter, who was just Ruth's age and 
 size, and something in the face of the desolate young 
 girl attracted the lady's notice, and when she heard 
 her story it seemed as if her own dead child from 
 the grave in Greenwood, was pleading for the 
 orphan. And so it came about that Ruth found 
 herself in a beautiful home, where, as Mrs. Rivers' 
 adopted daughter, every want was supplied, and 
 she went no more into the street to sell her humble 
 wares. So certain did Rena's death seem, that no 
 effort was ever made to find her, and for more than 
 two years the sisters lived in the same city, and 
 possibly met sometimes in the street, as Ruth rode 
 with Mrs. Rivers in her luxurious carriage, and 
 Rena took a walk with a teacher or older girl. 
 Then Mrs. Rivers moved to Boston, and three years 
 after Rena was sent to Oakfieid, so that their lives 
 were as far apart from each other as they were dif- 
 ferent in incident. — Loved, and petted and caressed, 
 Ruth, to whom Mrs. Rivers gave the name of 
 Daisy, had no wish ungratified which money could 
 procure, and she grew up a beautiful and accom- 
 plished woman, retaining still the same sweet un- 
 selfishness of disposition and gentleness of manner 
 which had marked her childhood, when she went 
 hungry that little Rena might be fed. At eighteen 
 
204 
 
 DAISY. 
 
 she was married to the nephew of her so-called 
 father, and after the birth of a little girl, whom she 
 named Irene, she seemed perfectly happy until her 
 infant died, when she sank into a weak, peculiar 
 state of mind from which nothing had power to 
 rouse her until Providence directed her to Oakfield. 
 There she felt at home from the first, she said ; the 
 place reminded her so much of the house she had 
 heard her mother describe so often. 
 
 " And," she continued, taking up her story where 
 George had left it, " I never thought of it when I 
 first came here. I guess I did not think of any- 
 thing, but mother's name was Harris — Agatha 
 Harris — and she " 
 
 Daisy never finished the sentence, for ere another 
 word could be uttered Grandpa Harris fell heavily 
 against his wife, with the look of death on his face. 
 The shock was too great for him to bear, and they 
 laid him fainting upon the couch, while Aunt 
 Hannah, Daisy and Rena bent over him, trying to 
 restore him to consciousness. When he was him- 
 self again and able to listen, it needed but few words 
 more to convince him that the Rena whom he loved 
 already as his own, and the beautiful Daisy, whom 
 he looked up to as a superior being, were bo^h the 
 children of his daughter, whose marriage with 
 
DAISY. 
 
 205 
 
 Homer Hastings twenty-one years ago that very 
 night had so offended him. 
 
 Daisy could remember very little of her own 
 father. He had been kind, she knew, and they had 
 been comfortable while he lived, but after his death 
 they were very poor till her mother married a Mr. 
 Cutler, who though a worthy and respectable man, 
 was always sickly, and died soon after Rena's birth. 
 
 " So long as mother lived, we did pretty well," 
 Daisy said. " She took in sewing and T went for 
 and carried home the work ; but when she died and 
 we sold the things to pay the doctor's bill, and 
 keep us from starving, it was so hard ; then I 
 peddled in the street and tried to earn a living, and 
 tried to be good and remember all mother had 
 taught me, but sometimes, when I was so cold, and 
 nobody bought, and the lacjtes held their purses 
 tight if I came near them, and the newsboys halloed 
 after me, and Rena was home so hungry waiting for 
 me, I thought God had forgotten us : but Rena 
 never did. Her faith was always strong, and her 
 sweet, baby words of comfort kept my heart from 
 breaking." 
 
 They were all sobbing but Daisy, who alone 
 was calm, as she went over the dreadful past which 
 was now done with forever. Cold, nor hunger, nor 
 
206 
 
 DAISY. 
 
 insult, would ever touch Daisy again, and, as some 
 great shock frequently unsettles the mind, so, con- 
 trarywise, it sometimes restores it, and the excite- 
 ment and surprise of finding her sister and friends 
 seemed to restore Daisy's reason wholly, and after 
 a moment she said, as she put her hand to her head 
 and turned to her husband with one of her bright- 
 est smiles, "It is all gone, — the confusion and un- 
 certainty. Every thing is clear as it was before 
 baby died. I am myself once more. Thank God for 
 giving me back my mind with all the other bless- 
 ings." 
 
 She did seem perfectly sane, and never was there 
 a happier family group than that at the farm-house 
 on that Christmas eve. They did not go to the 
 church, for they felt that their joy was something 
 with which strangers had nothing to do, and they 
 kept the festival at home and talked together of all 
 the wonderful ways through which God had led 
 them, until the bell of the church across the common 
 rang for twelve and another Christmas morn was 
 ushered in. 
 
 Rena had her book at last, — the story of Bethle- 
 hem, — and though many costlier presents have been 
 given her since, she prizes none of them so much as 
 that " sweet story of old " which came to her with 
 
DAISY. 
 
 207 
 
 the sister she had believed to be dead. Her home 
 proper is in the city now, with Daisy, where her 
 winters are spent, and where Grandpa and Grand- 
 ma Harris often come ; but, all through the summer 
 months, she stays at the old farm-house with Daisy 
 and the sturdy boy who has taken the place of the 
 little Irene. Uncle Obed always goes to the Christ- 
 mas festival in the old church, and though his 
 voice trills and shakes a little, he does not stop for 
 that, but with a silent thanksgiving in his heart for 
 the children restored to him, joins heartily in the 
 " Peace on earth, and good will toward men," which 
 goes up to Heaven from so many tongues on that, 
 night of nights — that " wonderful night M when — 
 
 " Down o'er the stars to restore us, 
 Leading His flame-winged chorus. 
 Comes the Eternal to sight : — 
 Wonderful, wonderful night !" 
 
 THE END 
 OF 
 
 RUTH AND RENA. 
 
BENNIE'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 bennie's home. 
 
 T was very cold down in the old lumber 
 yard which skirted the canal, and 
 Bennie's little hands were numb and 
 blue as he gathered the bits of boards 
 and shingles and piled them in his basket, until it 
 seemed as if so small a boy as he could not lift the 
 heavy load. But Bennie was used to burdens and 
 hardships ; indeed, he would hardly have known 
 himself without them, and when the basket was full 
 he took it in both his hands and walked slowly 
 along the towpath towards the miserable hovel he 
 called his home. As he came near the bridge a 
 young lady was going up the stone steps which lead 
 to the street above, and with her was a little boy 
 [208] 
 
BENNIE '8 HOME. 
 
 209 
 
 just Bennie's age, but so different in looks and 
 dress and general appearance that one could not fail 
 to notice the contrast at once. Clad in a warm 
 winter suit of the latest style Wallie Morgan knew 
 nothing of cold or hunger and cruel neglect, and 
 the sight of Bennie, with his ragged clothes and old 
 slouched cap roused the boy nature and he called 
 out, " Halloo, there, tow-head ! What are you steal- 
 ing chips for from my father's lumber yard ? I mean 
 to tell him of you, Mr. Out-at-the-knees." 
 
 "Hush, Wallie !" said the young lady whose face 
 was very sweet, " you should not speak so to the 
 little boy. He looks very poor and very cold* 
 Come here, boy, and tell me your name and where 
 you live." 
 
 She held her hand towards the child, who was 
 scowling defiantly at Wallie, but who, at the sound 
 of her voice, seemed intuitively to recognize an ally 
 in her, and replied : " He 'alius calls me tow-head, 
 or out-at-the-knees, 'cause my hair's white and my 
 trouses is tore. I can't help it, I didn't make my- 
 self." 
 
 "Who did make you?" the young girl asked, 
 and Bennie replied, " I dunno, mother's dead and 
 pa gets drunk. I dunno nothing." 
 
 " Don't know who made you ! That's dreadful," 
 
210 
 
 BENNIE '8 HOME, 
 
 the lady said. " Why, you poor child, you must 
 come to Sunday school and into my class and I will 
 tell you about God. Will you come next Sunday ? 
 It is the church on the corner." 
 
 "Will he be there?" Bennie asked, nodding 
 towards Wallie. 
 
 " Yes, he is in my class, and I am his Aunt Nellie ; 
 but he will be very kind to you. He is not a bad 
 boy. Come, and perhaps you may get something 
 at Christmas. Do you know what that is ?" 
 
 "Yes, it's when the old chap fetches things down 
 the chimbly ; but he never brung me none. We're 
 poor, and Hetty keeps house and runs the streets 
 all the time, and Mag and I is alone. I'll tell 
 Maggie, and mayby she'll come. She's got a new 
 gown Miss Katy give her. I must go now, we are 
 goin' to have hasty puddin' for dinner." 
 
 He took his heavy basket and almost staggering 
 under the load walked slowly away. As usual at 
 that time of day Hetty was out, but Maggie, a dark 
 faced girl of twelve, was waiting for him, and with 
 her help a fire was soon kindled in the old broken 
 stove, and the hasty pudding, of which Bennie had 
 spoken, was boiling and bubbling in the one kettle 
 the miserable house afforded. 
 
 " I wish we had some 'lasses, don't you ?" Bennie 
 
BENNIE' S HOME. 
 
 211 
 
 said, as Maggie poured into his dish more than half 
 of the blue milk she had begged of a neighbor. 
 
 But molasses was a luxury quite beyond the 
 means of the Hewitts, and so Bennie ate his pudding 
 and skimmed milk, and told Maggie of Wallie 
 Morgan who had called him tow-heard and of the 
 beautiful lady who had invited him to Sunday 
 school. 
 
 " Yes that's Nellie Morgan, his aunt ; his 
 mother's dead, and she keeps house and has a class, 
 a big one, in Sunday school, and give Jane Shaw a 
 doll and a dress and lots of candy and pop-corn last 
 Christmas, and her brother Tim got a top and a 
 whip." 
 
 " My, that's jolly ; less go to her class next Sun- 
 day," Bennie said, his fancy caught with the top 
 and the whip, and the shoes which would keep his 
 little red toes from the cold. 
 
 But Bennie was a delicate child and when Sun- 
 day came he was sick and lay on an old rug in a 
 little room off from the kitchen where he was safe 
 from his drunken father, while Maggie went to 
 church and into Miss Morgan's class. 
 
 That day was a new era in Maggie's life, and un- 
 mindful of the bitter cold which struck through 
 her thin garments and made her shiver involun- 
 
312 
 
 BENNIE HOME. 
 
 tarily, she hurried home to Bennie with the picture 
 card she had received and the wonderful story she 
 had heard of Jesus' birth-day and the baby born 
 among the cows and oxen in that far-off manger in 
 Bethlehem. Wonderingly Bennie listened, asking 
 innumerable questions about the child ; was he ever 
 cold, or hungry, and was he afraid of the cattle, and 
 did his father get drunk and thrash him ? To all 
 these inquiries Maggie answered no decidedly, but 
 when Bennie asked if he really could hear what 
 every body said and would give them what they 
 wanted, Maggie was doubtful. She thought, how- 
 ever, they better try it, and so the two forlorn little 
 ones knelt down as Maggie said they did in church 
 and tried to pray. But neither knew what to say 
 and when Bennie suggested that his sister ought to 
 know " 'cause she'd been to meetin'," she answered, 
 " I know they said Our Father, I am sure of that." 
 
 But Bennie scoffed at this idea, " That baby in 
 the hay our father ! Why, pa is drunk down to the 
 grocery !" 
 
 As well as she could, Maggie explained, drawing 
 some from her imagination, some from what Miss 
 Morgan had told her, and some from faint remem- 
 brances of a time when her mother, who died at 
 Bennie's birth, had taught her of God and Heaven. 
 
Bwimims HOME, 
 
 213 
 
 Half convinced, half doubtful still, Bennie tried 
 again, and said, " Our Father, if you is my father, 
 and was oncet a little boy like me, give me some- 
 thing to eat and some gooder trouses and shoes, 
 and a pair of lines on the tree when you have your 
 birth night." 
 
 " For Christ's sake ; say that," Maggie whispered, 
 and Bennie rejoined, " Who's he ! I shan't do it. I'm 
 not goin' to get 'em mixed, I'll stick to Our Father." 
 
 And surely the good Father, who is so kind and 
 pitiful to the little ones, heard that prayer of the 
 ignorant child, and would in His own time and way 
 answer it. 
 
214 BENNIE'S FIRST CHRISTMAS. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 BENNIE'S FIRST CHRISTMAS. 
 
 HE snow had fallen all day long, and from 
 the window of his wretched home Bennie 
 had watched the feathery flakes as they 
 fell in perfect clouds, covering the old 
 lumber yard where only yesterday he had gathered 
 his basket of wood and chips, covering the tow 
 path which skirted the canal, and covering the roofs 
 of all the houses as far as he could see. It was the 
 first genuine snow of the season, and he wanted to 
 enjoy it as he saw some school-boys doing on the 
 bridge, but his toes were out of his shoes, and his 
 elbows were out of his jacket and there was that 
 little hacking cough to which he was subject every 
 winter, and which this season was worse than usual 
 and kept him awake at night. He had learned that 
 wet feet and chilled limbs increased it, and he 
 dreaded to lie all daylong in that dreary little bed- 
 room, with no fire and nothing pleasant to look at. 
 
BENNIE \8 FIRST CHRISTMAS. 215 
 
 From his mother, who had been his father's superior 
 in every respect, he had inherited a love of the 
 beautiful, an appreciation of comfort and pretty 
 things, which made the squalor around more offen- 
 sive, and he could not endure the thought of being 
 sick again, as he was a month ago, when he was 
 soaked in a rain and had the cough so badly ; and 
 then, he wanted to go to the Christmas-tree that 
 night, and Hetty had said that he " should not stir a 
 step if there was any sign of his coughing, for she 
 would not be bothered with a sick young one 
 again. " So, lest he should take cold and cough 
 Bennie staid in doors all day and watched the fall- 
 ing snow, and late in the afternoon hailed with 
 delight a rosy cloud in the west which said the 
 storm was over. It was not very cold, and when 
 the sun went down and the full moon rose up over 
 the carpet of pure white snow Bennie thought he 
 had never seen so beautiful a night, or felt as happy 
 as he did when starting for the church, with Maggie 
 as his chaperone. She had been three times to 
 Sunday school and when Miss Morgan asked for the 
 little boy seen that cold day in the lumber yard, 
 Maggie had told her of his ragged clothes and worn- 
 out shoes, and Miss Nellie, who was like an angel 
 of mercy in the homes of the poor, had made a note 
 
216 BENNIE 'S FIRST CHRISTMAS. 
 
 of it ; determining after Christmas was over to find 
 the child and do what she could for him. 
 
 It was early when Maggie and Bennie entered 
 the church, but they found it nearly full, and 
 abashed at the sight of so many strangers and 
 attracted by the heat of the registers Bennie insisted 
 upon staying by them, near the door where he was 
 jostled by the crowd and jeered at by some thought- 
 less boys who made fun of his old clothes and asked 
 " what he would take for himself, rags and all." But 
 Bennie bore their jeers meekly and only doubled 
 his fist once, so intent was he upon the tree in the 
 chancel, bending with its hundreds of gifts. He 
 had never dreamed of anything like that, and his 
 belief in Bethlehem's baby grew stronger as he saw 
 this tangible commemoration of his birth night. 
 How fine it all was, and how splendidly the rector 
 looked in his white robe, and how grandly the 
 music of the organ rolled through the aisles, making 
 the floor tremble under his feet, and causing him to 
 start a little and look down to see what was the 
 matter. And when the children began one of their 
 Christmas carols and sang of the "Silent night, the 
 holy night," Bennie felt a strange thrill creep over 
 him and every nerve quivered with excitement as 
 he listened to the words : 
 
BENNIES FIRST CHRISTMAS. 
 
 217 
 
 M All is calm, — all is bright 
 HKf^V *- r . / * * * * 
 
 Glories stream from Heaven afar, 
 Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia, 
 Christ the Saviour is born." 
 
 Was Heaven, of which Maggie had told him such 
 wonderful things, any better than this, or the 
 children there happier than these whose faces looked 
 so eager and expectant as they went up to the tree, 
 and so full of joy when they came back ? They were 
 calling the names very rapidly now, and Bennie 
 held his breath to hear, and watched them anxiously. 
 Wallie Morgan seemed to be a favored one, for he 
 was called many times, and when he came back 
 witn a pair of red lines with little tinkling bells, 
 Bennie exclaimed aloud, " Oh, if they'd only call 
 me /" 
 
 Would they? Was there anything for him on 
 that heavily laden tree ? There were gifts for 
 Johnnie and Jakie, and Susie and Freddie, and Sam, 
 and yes, — certain and true, he heard his name at 
 last, or something like it, and half started forward, 
 when a rough boy caught his arm, saying, ".'Tain't 
 you. It's a gal." 
 
 No, it was not Bennie, but it was Maggie, his 
 sister, whose name he had heard and who received 
 10 
 
218 BENNIES FIRST CHRISTMAS. 
 
 a Bible and a bundle of something which looked like 
 clothes. 
 
 " Maggie Hewitt ; Maggie Hewitt," Bennie 
 heard a woman in front of him say. " That is a new 
 name. Who is she ?" 
 
 " Oh, some waif Miss Nellie has picked up, I 
 dare say," was the reply. " She is always doing 
 such things, you know. Isn't she beautiful to- 
 night with that long feather and jaunty sacque ?" 
 
 Bennie thought she was beautiful and watched 
 her admiringly as she moved among her pupils, 
 sharing their joy and occasionally trying to repress 
 their wild spirits. Johnnie and Jakie and Tommie 
 again, and Susie and Katie and Anne, but no Bennie 
 Hewitt ; he had been forgotten ; there was nothing 
 for him, and with a choking, gasping sensation he 
 stood, holding fast to the pew railing in front of 
 him, while the grand old anthem Glory to God on 
 High, rang through the church, and the final prayer 
 was said. But the music and the prayer were 
 nothing to him now ; faith in Bethlehem's baby 
 was gone, and his little heart was as empty of 
 happiness as the tall tree was of gifts, and as full of 
 bitter disappointment as the church was of people, 
 ali moving out and crowding him as they went. 
 Maggie had been near the chancel with Miss 
 
BENNIES FIRST CHRISTMAS. 219 
 
 Morgan's class, and when at last she came there 
 were few left in the church, and these were gathered 
 about the rector, near the tree. 
 
 " Oh, Ben, see what I've got ; a bran new 
 gown," Maggie said, as she caught sight of her 
 brother. 
 
 At the sound of her voice Bennie's pent-up grief 
 gave way, and a low, piteous, wailing cry reached 
 the ear of Nellie Morgan, who, in a moment was at 
 Bennie's side asking what was the matter. 
 
 " Everybody got somethin' but me, and I never 
 had a darned thing. I thought the baby in the stable 
 would bring me suthin'; I asked him this mornin' 
 would he." 
 
 This was the sobbing reply of the little ragged 
 boy who cried as if his heart would break, while 
 Nellie tried to comfort him. In the multiplicity of 
 her cares she had forgotten him, and she felt so 
 grieved and sorry, until an idea struck her. There 
 were a few whispered words to Wallie, whose hands 
 were full, and then turning to Bennie, she asked 
 what he wanted most. 
 
 " Some lines and some shoes," he said, and glanc- 
 ing at his thin, worn boots, Nellie replied, " Poor 
 boy, you do need shoes, and you shall have them 
 to-morrow, while the lines, — " she turned appeal- 
 
220 BENNWS FIRST CHRISTMAS. 
 
 ingl) to Wallie, who, after a momentary struggle, 
 laid the lines in her hand. " Yes/' she continued, 
 " you shall have the lines to-night. Wallie gives 
 them to you, and is sorry for the naughty words he 
 said to you the other day. Now, shake hands and 
 be friends with him." 
 
 Such generosity and self-denial were more than 
 Bennie could comprehend, and he stood staring 
 blankly at Wallie, while his lip quivered and the 
 tears rained down his cheek. 
 
 " Git out ! Yer only foolin'," he said, while the 
 glimmer of a smile showed round his mouth. 
 
 Wallie had felt like crying himself, but at the 
 sight of tears in another he assumed a show of man- 
 liness and answered, " No, I ain't foolin'. I want 
 you to have 'em. Auntie can knit me some more. 
 They are three yards long. Look !" and with a swift 
 movement he threw them across Ben's neck, ex- 
 claiming, " Get up there ! Go 'long !" 
 
 Quick as thought Ben started off on a brisk 
 canter, with sundry little squeals and kicking up of 
 heels, and before the astonished rector could stop 
 it the two boys had made the entire circuit of the 
 church, one as driver and the other as horse ! It 
 was an unprecedented thing, but Bennie knew no 
 better, and Wallie would not admit that he was 
 
BENNIE'S FIRST CHRISTMAS. 221 
 
 sorry. It was the greatest fun, he said, and Ben was 
 the nicest kind of a horse, because he squealed and 
 kicked up so good ! To Bennie that race was, 
 perhaps, the best part of the festival, though the 
 next day was to him the real Christmas, the white 
 day of his life, which he never forgot. There was 
 much cheer and festivity at the Morgan house that 
 Christmas time, for many guests were staying there, 
 and Nellie, as the mistress, had numberless duties 
 to perform, but she did not forget her promise to 
 little Ben, and just before the bell at St. Luke's rang 
 for the morning service, the Morgan carriage 
 stopped at the wretched house where the Hewitts 
 lived, and Nellie entered the cold, dirty room, laden 
 with gifts for Bennie. There was a warm suit of 
 Wallie's half worn clothes, a pair of shoes, with 
 mittens and tippet, a book of pictures, and a horse 
 on wheels, which, possibly, pleased the little boy 
 more than all the rest. He was very happy and 
 proud in his new clothes, and when the next Sunday 
 came and Nellie Morgan joined her class in Sunday 
 school Bennie was the first one she saw, his face all 
 aglow with excitement and eager expectancy. 
 Forlorn and despised as he was, he was no ordinary 
 child, and the quickness with which he compre- 
 hended her and the aptness of his replies and ques- 
 
222 BENNIE'S FIRST CHRISTMAS. 
 
 tionings surprised and interested Miss Nellie, who 
 felt that she had known the child for years, so fast 
 did he gain upon her love during that first hour of 
 teaching. Regularly every Sunday after that, 
 through sunshine and storm, Bennie was in his 
 place, his lesson always perfect, and his brain 
 full of the puzzling thoughts which had come to 
 him during the week, and which only Miss Nellie 
 could explain. Of the child Jesus he was never 
 tired of hearing, and the story of Bethlehem was told 
 him again and again until he knew it by heart, and 
 prompted both Miss Morgan and his sister if, in 
 telling it, they deviated ever so little from the orig- 
 inal. Of Calvary and its agony he did not care to 
 hear. There was something horrible to him in that 
 three hours' suffering, and the darkened sky and 
 opening graves, and he would far rather think of 
 Christ as a little child sleeping on a mound of hay, 
 or playing by the door of his home in Nazareth. 
 
 "Seems if I got nearer to Him, and He was 
 sorrier for me when I'm cold and hungry and father 
 licks me so hard for nothin'," he said, and his 
 prayers were mostly said to the baby boy he had 
 first heard about, and we have no doubt that God 
 listened with love and sympathy for the poor child 
 who sometimes asked so touchingly, "Was you ever 
 
BENNIE'S FIRST CHRISTMAS. 223 
 
 hungry, dear Jesus, and be flogged and cuffed as I 
 am when I hain't done nothing and did the snow 
 come into your winder and cover the front of your 
 bed, and make you so cold at night?" 
 
 At first Bennie's prayers were mostly interroga- 
 tories of the Lord with regard to His early life ; 
 but as he learned more from the faithful Nellie, he 
 came at last to ask for what he wanted in his own 
 peculiar way, and God, who always hears and 
 answers the prayer of faith like Bennie's, heard and 
 answered him, as we shall see in our next chapter. 
 
224 BENNIE'S SECOND CHRISTMAS. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 BENNIE's SECOND CHRISTMAS. 
 
 HE year had rolled round swiftly, and the 
 little ones of St. Luke's were again look- 
 ing eagerly forward to Christmas Eve 
 and the wonderful tree, which all the 
 summer long had been growing down by the lake 
 and gathering new beauty and strength for the task 
 it was to perform. It was in the cellar of St. Luke's 
 now, and the ladies and children were busy trim- 
 ming the little stone church on the corner, and 
 Maggie Hewitt was with them, holding twine and 
 pulling twigs for Miss Nellie, at whose side she 
 hovered constantly, and whom some of the young 
 girls called "Miss Morgan's shadow." But Bennie 
 was not there, and if you had gone down on the tow 
 path that winter day and entered the room, into 
 which the snow used to drift at night, and where 
 Bennie used to hide away from his drunken, crazy 
 father, you would scarcely have known the place. 
 
BENN2JBT8 SECOND CHRISTMAS. 225 
 
 Nellie Morgan had proved the good angel of that 
 house, as of many others, and discovering that 
 appreciation of tidiness and comfort which Bennie 
 possessed to so great a degree, she had made his 
 surroundings as pleasant as possible under the cir- 
 cumstances. Bennie was a delicate child, and often 
 sick for days and even weeks, and when Miss Nellie 
 found how distasteful to him was that dingy, dreary 
 room where the broken window was stuffed with 
 rags, and the damp, stained paper hung in strips on 
 the wall, she went to work with a will, and many an 
 article of cast-off furniture found its way from the 
 garret of the Morgan house to the hut on the tow 
 path, and in comparison with his condition one year 
 ago, Bennie now lodged like a prince, and felt 
 almost as happy as one. There was fresh paper on 
 the walls, the window was mended, and a clean 
 white curtain hung before it ; a strip of carpet 
 covered the floor, and Bennie's bed was a wide, 
 capacious crib, which had once been Wallie Mor- 
 gan's ; and there, propped up with pillows and clad 
 in a bright dressing-gown, Bennie lay that Decem- 
 ber day when his sister Maggie was busy at the 
 church where he so longed to be. A severe cold 
 had settled on his lungs, and for weeks he had kept 
 10* 
 
226 BENNIE' S SECOND CHRISTMAS. 
 
 in doors, trying to subdue the tickling cough, 
 which harassed him day and night. 
 
 " Oh, if I only can be well by Christmas, I want 
 to see Jesus' birth night once more. Do you think 
 he'll let me go ?" he would say to Miss Nellie, when 
 she came, as she often did, to see him, and with 
 tears in her eyes Nellie would smooth the light hair 
 of the little boy who had grown so fast into her love, 
 and answer that she hoped so, when all the time 
 there was a great fear in her heart that never again 
 would Bennie celebrate the Saviour's birth night. 
 
 But she would not tell him so then, for she felt 
 sure that he was one of the little ones of whom our 
 Savior said " of such is the kingdom of Heaven." 
 Her labor had not been in vain so far as Bennie was 
 concerned. With astonishing avidity he had seized 
 upon her words of instruction, and now, whether 
 awake or asleep, the baby of Bethlehem was always 
 present with him, the friend to whom he told his 
 joys and griefs and to whom he often prayed for his 
 drunken father, his idle, wicked sister Hetty, and 
 his other sister, Maggie, whom he loved so well. 
 
 Such a child could not fail to influence any 
 household for good, and it was observed by many 
 that Mr. Hewitt worked more steadily, and was not 
 intoxicated so often as of old, while Hetty was less 
 
BENNIE'S SECOND CHRISTMAS. 227 
 
 in the street and never brought her vile, noisy com- 
 panions to disturb her sick brother. And Bennie 
 was very happy except when he thought of the 
 Christmas Festival and his desire to attend it. 
 
 " Please, Jesus of Bethlehem, let me be well 
 enough to go there just this once and hear my name 
 called from the tree, will you, and I'll be so good 
 and not fret at Mag when my side aches and I 
 cough so hard." 
 
 This was Bennie's prayer, or the substance of it, 
 said often to himself, but for once God did not 
 seetn to hear the little boy, for his cough daily grew 
 worse, the pallor about his lips grew deeper, the 
 red on his thin cheeks redder, and his great blue 
 eyes had in them that bright, glassy look which 
 only the eyes of consumptives wear. 
 
 I can't go ; he won't let me," he said, with a 
 burst of tears, the morning before Christmas to 
 Miss Nellie, who had come down to see him, and 
 who tried to comfort him by saying that he would 
 be remembered just the same, and that his presents 
 would be new to him Christmas morning. 
 
 "'Tain't that," he answered with quivering lip, 
 "'Tain't the presents. It's going up myself and 
 feeiing that he counts me in as one of 'em, I want to 
 
228 BENFIE'S SECOND CHRISTMAS. 
 
 hear Him call my name, — Bennie Hewitt, and know 
 how it sounds." 
 
 It was a fancy of his that Jesus himself called 
 the names of the little ones, and Nellie did not try 
 to dispel the illusion. Jesus would call him soon, 
 she was sure, and with a kiss and a promise to come 
 again on the morrow she left him and went back to 
 the church where she was busy all the day with 
 Maggie as her constant aid. And while they 
 trimmed the house of God and hung their gifts 
 upon the tree, little Bennie lay in his crib thinking 
 about it and of the tree of life, of which Nellie had 
 once read to him. Would he ever see that tree, and 
 would there be something on it for him, and could 
 he bathe his burning cheeks and hands in that pure 
 river of water, and wouldn't it be nice to have no 
 nights to cough so in, and no need of sun or moon 
 to light those golden streets. 
 
 It was nearly dark when Maggie came in, full of 
 the beautiful church and the tree on which were so 
 many curious things. 
 
 " Something for you," she said to Bennie. " I 
 saw more than one, and I'll bring 'em to you when 
 it's out. Don't cry, Bennie, I'm so sorry you can't 
 gc with me. Next year you will." 
 
 "No, Maggie, I shall never go — never hear my 
 
BENNIE' S SECOND CHRISTMAS. 229 
 
 name/' Bennie tried to say, but a fit of coughing 
 severer than any he had ever had came on and the 
 cloth he held to his lips was stained with blood. 
 
 Neither Hetty nor Mag knew the danger, or 
 what those crimson stains portended, and both went 
 to the church leaving their father with Bennie, who 
 at first lay very still and seemed to be asleep ; then 
 he began to grow restless and asked his father to 
 read to him of the u golden city where the gates 
 stand always open and there is neither sun nor 
 moon." 
 
 But Mr. Hewitt was unused to the Bible, and did 
 not know where to find that description of the New 
 Jerusalem of which Bennie talked so much, some- 
 times coherently and sometimes not, for his mind 
 wandered a little and was now in " Jerusalem the 
 golden, with milk and honey blest," where the tree 
 of life was growing and where Christ's name was 
 written on the foreheads of his children, and then 
 at the church where the names were called, his per- 
 haps, and he bade his father listen and tell him if 
 he heard it. 
 
 " I can't go up," he said, " I'm so sick, but 
 Maggie will bring them, and next year I shall see 
 that other tree in the New Jerusalem, I guess I will, 
 I mean, for I have tried to be good since she told 
 
230 BENNIE "S SECOND CHRISTMAS. 
 
 me how, and V ve prayed to Jesus every day. Do 
 you love Him, father ?" 
 
 There was no answer from the rough-faced man 
 who sat watching his child with a pain in his heart 
 such as he had not felt in years. 
 
 " Father !" and Bennie's voice was very low and 
 pleading, " You ain't drunk now one bit." 
 
 " No, by Jove, no," came emphatically from the 
 father's lips, and Bennie continued, " Don't ever be 
 so any more, will you ? Promise me, father, 
 promise your little sick boy, who is going to die." 
 
 " No, Bennie, you must not die, and I've been so 
 hard on you, and flogged you when I was in drink," 
 Mr. Hewitt sobbed, laying his head upon the pillow, 
 while Bennie went on: "But I've forgiven that, 
 father, and I was naughty sometimes, and called 
 you names and made faces at you when you did not 
 see me. I'm sorry for it now, and when I'm gone 
 remember me as I was at the best, when I tried to 
 be good, and, father, don't drink any more, please 
 keep sober, for Maggie's sake, and Hetty's ; will 
 you? Say you will ; say it, father, quick." 
 
 His wasted hand rested lovingly on the bowed 
 head of his father, who faltered out: "Yes, Ben, 
 I'll try, I will, so help me God." 
 
 "And He will help you, father, I'll ask Him, 
 
BENNIE y S SEGOND CHRISTMAS. 231 
 
 now ; He will hear me because I am going to die," 
 and folding his hands reverently, Bennie prayed, 
 "Oh, Jesus, man Jesus, I mean ; please keep father 
 from getting drunk, and don't let him trade at the 
 groceries where they sell it ; then he won't see it 
 and want it so bad, and make him a good man, for 
 Christ's sake." 
 
 Bennie's voice ceased, and for a long time there 
 was silence in the room, broken at last by the sound 
 of steps outside, and Maggie came rushing in, her 
 arms full of presents and her cheeks glowing with 
 excitement and exercise. But she stopped quickly 
 whemshe caught sight of Bennie's face. It was very 
 white, with a rapt look upon it, as if he were already 
 lost to earth and was listening to " the shouts of 
 them who triumph, the song of them that feast." 
 But her voice called him back and his eyes sparkled 
 with pleasure for a moment as she spread his 
 presents before him, and told him how many times 
 his name had been called. 
 
 "Six times ; 'most as often as Wallie Morgan's ; 
 and look, here's a Christmas card, and a bran new 
 suit of clothes, and a ball, and a top, and a jumping 
 jack, and — and — oh, Bennie, guess what else ; a pair 
 of skates from Wallie Morgan." 
 
 She had kept the skates for the last, knowing 
 
232 BENNIE' S SECOND CHRISTMAS, 
 
 how her brother had wanted them, and now, at 
 sight of them, he did seem to brighten up, and took 
 them in his hands and examined them carefully ; 
 then, laying them where he could see them, he said, 
 "Yes, I'm so glad, and they are all so good. I'd 
 like to skate just once. I know I could beat Tom 
 Carter in a little while; but, Maggie, I'm going to 
 die. It came to me to-night. I'm going where Jesus 
 is, and pa is not going to drink anymore, and Hetty 
 must stay home nights, and you must be a real good 
 girl, and not romp and tear your clothes so much." 
 
 "Oh, Bennie, Bennie," and all the brightness 
 was gone from Maggie's face as she dropped beside 
 the bed, and seizing her brother's hand begged of 
 him to stay with her and not leave her all alone. 
 
 " Father and Hetty will be with you, and Jesus, 
 too," the pale lips whispered, and then Bennie's 
 mind began to wander, and he talked strange things 
 of the Tree of Life, which he said was hung with 
 tapers and beautiful gifts, some of which were for 
 him, and he listened to hear his name, bidding his 
 father and sisters keep very quiet lest he should fail 
 to catch the sound. 
 
 All night they sat by him, scarcely daring to 
 move, while, with closed eyes and parted lips, he lay 
 listening — listening — till over the snow-clad town 
 
BENNIE J 8 SECOND CHRISTMAS. 233 
 
 the grey morning broke and the Christmas chimes 
 were rung from the church tower ; then with a 
 triumphant voice he cried, u There, he has called 
 me at last , little Bennie Hewitt, he said. Didn't you 
 hear his voice? He's there, with something for me. 
 I'm going now. Good-bye. Tell Miss Morgan she 
 told me the way, and I love her for it. I wish more 
 ladies would hunt up the poor little boys on the 
 canal. I'm going up the aisle, and the music is 
 playing, too. Such music ! oh, Maggie, don't you 
 hear it? It's better than the ' Silent Night,' and I 
 hear the heavenly hosts sing i Alleluia.' Little 
 Bennie Hewitt they call. Yes, I'm coming — coming 
 — coming. A golden harp and golden crown. 
 That's what is on the tree for me and joy forever 
 and forever. Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye." 
 ****** 
 Little Bennie was dead and the Christmas he 
 had looked forward to so eagerly was kept with the 
 Saviour he loved, and when Miss Nellie came to 
 inquire for him she found only a white wasted form 
 which her own hands made ready for the grave. 
 The new suit of clothes which was to have kept 
 him warm, were put upon him, and flowers from the 
 Morgan conservatory were placed in his hands and 
 on his pillow, and over the little coffin bitter tears 
 
234 BENNIE'S SECOND CHRISTMAS. 
 
 were shed and promises were renewed as the 
 wretched father whispered to himself, " I'll keep my 
 word to Ben. I'll try to be a man." 
 
 There's a small white head stone near the gate in 
 the Rosedale Cemetery, and Bennie's name is on it. 
 
 " Bennie Hewitt. 
 Died December 25, 1883, 
 Aged 9 Years." 
 
 Strangers pass it by and think nothing of it, but 
 God knows all about that little grave and the boy 
 sleeping there, and when the Golden City shall 
 indeed come down and Christ's saints be gathered 
 home, Bennie will be with them, where there is no 
 more night, or need of sun or moon, for the glory 
 from the Eternal Throne transcends the light of 
 noonday and Christ is all in all. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Does my story seem a sad one to you, my little 
 readers ? In one sense it is, and in another it is not. 
 It is always sad to see the children die, but when 
 like Bennie they go from cold and hunger and toil, 
 to be forever with the Lord it is for them a blessed 
 thing, so, on Christmas morning of 1884 do not 
 think of little Bennie, as in the grave where they 
 laid him one year ago, but 
 
BENNIE'S SECOND CHRISTMAS. 235 
 
 In that far off, happy country 
 
 Which no human eye hath seen, 
 Where the flowers are always blooming, 
 
 And the grass is ever green. 
 
 There we find our little Bennie. No more hungry- 
 days and freezing nights and cruel blows for him, 
 for he is safe forever. Jesus called his name, and he 
 has gone to that beautiful land where so many chil- 
 dren are, and where, I prav, we too may meet to cel- 
 ebrate our Saviour's birth in one never ending 
 Christmas. 
 
 Brown Cottage, 
 
 Chtutmas — 1 884. 
 
 THE END 
 OF 
 
 lENNIE's CHRISTMAS 
 
THE CHRISTMAS FONT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 HEN I was a child, as young as some of 
 the children who may read this story, 
 I brought from the Sunday school one 
 afternoon the story of " Ruth Lee." The 
 day was warm and bright, and the summer sunshine 
 fell softly on the grass in the old orchard, where, 
 beneath an apple-tree, I sat down to read about 
 Ruth and her half-brother Reuben, to whom she 
 was always so kind, even when he was cross and 
 irritable. The story was not a long one, and I read 
 it very rapidly, growing more and more interested 
 with every page, and wishing so much that I knew 
 just where the brother and sister lived, and if Ruth 
 still watched the web of cloth bleaching on the 
 mountain-side, or Reuben in a pet threw his piece 
 [2361 
 
INT ROB TIG TOR Y. 
 
 237 
 
 of pie over the ledge of rocks, where his good, 
 patient sister could not get it. To me every word 
 was true. I believed in Ruth and Reuben. I knew 
 just how they looked — Ruth with her grave, 
 womanly face and soft brown eyes, and Reuben 
 with his rosy cheeks, and round, hard head, which 
 he sometimes bumped upon the floor when in one 
 of his passions. I could see him bumping his head 
 — could see Ruth, too, trying to quiet and soothe 
 him. I would imitate her, I thought, and when my 
 little baby brother screamed and kicked and wanted 
 me to gather flowers instead of reading under the 
 apple-tree, as I was given to doing, I would put up 
 my books and go with him to the brook in the 
 meadow where the little fishes glided in and out 
 from their hiding-places and where the buttercups 
 and daisies grew on the side of the mossy bank. I 
 would be more like my older sister, who had borne 
 with my childish freaks, who always gave me the 
 fairest apple and the largest piece of cake, and who 
 might have stood for Ruth herself. 
 
 The story was having a good effect upon me, 
 when suddenly I came upon a little note appended 
 by the author, and which said the whole was a fic- 
 tion ; that no such person as Ruth Lee had ever 
 lived, and I had been reading what was not true. 
 
238 
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 I did not know then that but few of the Sunday- 
 school books are literally true, and I was terribly 
 disappointed. I felt that in losing Ruth I had lost 
 a real friend, and, leaning my head against the tree, 
 I cried for a few moments, thinking to myself, that 
 when I was older I would write a book for children, 
 which should every word be true. I am older now 
 — much older than I was then ; that Sunday after- 
 noon lies far back in the past ; the sister, who 
 might have been Ruth, is dead, and her grave is 
 under a little pine, w T hich whispers softly to the 
 wind, of the gentle sleeper below. There are more 
 graves than hers near to the pine. The household 
 is broken up, and children of another name than 
 mine read under the old apple-tree in the orchard, 
 or search for violets and buttercups down by the 
 meadow brook. I have learned to know that stories 
 of fictitious people, if true to life and written with 
 an earnest purpose to do good, may oftentimes be 
 as beneficial as stories of real people ; but I have 
 through all adhered to my resolution, that my first 
 story for children should be true ; and so this bright 
 May morning, when the sky is beautifully blue, and 
 the grass in the garden is green and fresh with 
 yesterday's rain, I begin this story of the Font, 
 which shall in every particular be true. 
 
THE CHURCH. 
 
 239 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 SOMETHING ABOUT THE CHURCH, AND THE CHILDREN 
 WHO BOUGHT THE FONT. 
 
 MUST tell you first about the Church 
 where the children who bought the Font 
 went to Sunday-School. St. Luke's we 
 call it, and it stands on the corner where 
 two streets cross each other, in a little village which 
 we will call Carrollton. That is not its real name, 
 you know, but I will call it that, and then go on to 
 tell you how the church is built of stone, with a 
 spire from which the paint has been worn off by 
 time, and the rains which beat against it from the 
 west. The window, too, on that side, has been 
 broken by the wind, and boards are nailed across 
 the top where the stained glass used to be. But the 
 window will be mended in time ; the old spire will be 
 repainted ; the ivy at the corner will reach higher and 
 higher, until the tendrils will cling perhaps to the 
 very roof ; the fence will be built around that plot of 
 grass, which looks so fresh this morning ; and then 
 
240 
 
 THE CHURCH. 
 
 the church will be as nice and neat as it was the day 
 it was completed and consecrated to God. It is 
 very pretty now inside, and the fine-toned organ in 
 the gallery makes sweet music on a Sunday when 
 they chant the " Gloria in Excelsis " and sing 
 " Peace on earth, good-will to men." That organ 
 has played the Christmas songs which tell of a 
 Saviour born, and the joyful Easter carols, which 
 proclaim a Saviour risen. It has pealed a merry 
 strain as bridal parties went up the aisle to the 
 altar bedecked with flowers, and then its notes have 
 been sad, — oh, so sad ! — as strong men carried 
 coffins up the aisle and laid them on the table. 
 Two of them little coffins, with a dead boy in each, 
 — boys who once came to the Sunday school, but who 
 will never come again, or join their voices in the 
 hymns the children sing and the prayers they say. 
 
 To the left of the chancel, looking toward the 
 organ, is a little enclosure, or room where the 
 singers used to sit, but which is now used for the 
 infant class ; — the nursery which feeds the larger 
 Sunday school. It is nearly seven years since the 
 class was first organized, and, during that time, 
 there have been in it one hundred different children. 
 Three of these are dead, — three little boys, — and 
 they lie up in the quiet graveyard where the white 
 
THE CHURCH. 
 
 241 
 
 stones show so prettily through the dark ever- 
 greens. Berkie was the first to die, — blue-eyed, 
 pale-faced Berkie, who used to sit so quietly all 
 through the Sunday school, with an earnest expres- 
 sion on his thoughtful face and in his great blue 
 eyes, as if he were already looking away from this 
 world into the one where he was going so soon. 
 There is a picture on the wall before me of Berkie, 
 with many other members of his class, and I never 
 look at it without a sigh, as I recall the dear little 
 boy who used to run so gladly to meet me, and 
 listen so attentively to the stories I told him of 
 Jesus ; and then I think of that innumerable host of 
 white-robed children 
 
 " whose little feet, 
 
 Pacing life's dark journey through, 
 
 Have safely reached the heavenly seat 
 They had ever kept in view." 
 
 And I know Berkie is there with them, and I can- 
 not wish him back, though his going from us made 
 a sad vacancy in our little school, and left his 
 parents' hearts so desolate. 
 
 Children cannot be sorry long, neither is it right 
 they should ; and so the members of Berkie's class, 
 although they did not forget him, soon began to 
 11 
 
242 
 
 THE CHURCH. 
 
 wear their cheerful faces again, and look forward 
 to the Christmas festival, when the church was 
 hung with garlands of green, and in the chancel 
 was set up the young pine-tree, which, away in the 
 marsh by the lake, had been growing year by year, 
 and gathering strength in its young limbs to bear 
 the many gifts hung upon it by parents, and teachers, 
 and friends, when, on Christmas-eve, they came 
 together to keep the birthnight of the child born in 
 Bethlehem's manger more than eighteen hundred 
 years ago. Children are always happy on such 
 occasions, and it seems to me that the children of 
 St. Luke's, in Carrollton, are particularly so, judg- 
 ing from the eager joy which lights up their faces, 
 and beams in their eyes when they hear their own 
 names called, and go up the aisle to receive the 
 expected gift. I wonder every church in the land 
 does not have the Christmas trees, and thus give to 
 the children pleasant remembrances of that day, 
 without which we had indeed been shrouded in the 
 deepest gloom ! True, we do not know the exact 
 date of Christ's birth, but we know near enough, 
 and children should be early taught that Christmas 
 has a far deeper meaning than merely a day for 
 festivity and mirth. 
 
 As far as possible the little ones of St. Luke's 
 
THE CHURCH. 
 
 243 
 
 were taught to understand why the day was kept ; 
 and that rosy, round-cheeked Fred did understand 
 was proved by his saying to his mother, " I know 
 what the Christmas-tree means. It is Jesus' birth- 
 day party." 
 
 Freddie had caught the spirit of the thing, if not 
 its exact meaning ; and as often as Christmas comes 
 round he will remember the child Jesus, whose 
 birth the church then commemorates. 
 
 The summer following Berkie's death the infant 
 Sunday school was unusually large, and every seat 
 was full, while a few of the smaller boys sometimes 
 sat upon the floor. There were some visitors in 
 Carrollton Parish that summer, — Susie Ganson 
 from Jersey City, Maggie Holmes from New York, 
 Lena and Ira Stevens from Philadelphia, and 
 Sammie Field from New Orleans, — and these were 
 all in the class. Then there was another Susie and 
 Maggie, with Louise and Maria, and Carrie, and 
 Fanny, and Mary, and Cora, and Ida, and Dell, and 
 Nellie, and Lizzie, and Lulu, and Jennie, and 
 Geenie, and two Emmas. Then came the boys, — 
 a host of them : five Willies, four Freddies, three 
 Franks, three Georges, two Walters, two Johns, 
 with Ezra, and Mason, and Eddie, and Charlie, and 
 Hugh, and Hunter, and Polie, and Newton, and 
 
244 
 
 THE CHURCH. 
 
 beautiful little Wallie, — the youngest of them all, — 
 who presented the Easter offering last year, and 
 whom we love so much because of his mother, who 
 died ere he could remember more of her than the 
 cold, white face which he patted with his dimpled 
 hands, as he said to the weeping ones around, "That 
 is my mamma." Darling Wallie ! God keep him 
 in safety, and bring him at last to the home where 
 his mother is waiting for him ! 
 
 To say that these fifty children were always quiet 
 and well-behaved would not be true ; for some- 
 times, when the day was warm, and they were 
 crowded more than usual, there was a pushing 
 among the boys, a knocking together of boots and 
 elbows, with a few wry faces made, and a few sly 
 pinches given. Then, too, they sometimes whis- 
 pered during prayers, and compared marbles and 
 balls, and traded Jack-knives ; while the girls 
 thought sometimes of their new dresses, and the 
 ribbons on their hats. Do any of the children who 
 read this story play in Sunday school, and whisper 
 to each other when they should be listening to what 
 the teacher is saying? And do they know how dis- 
 pleasing this is to God, whose eyes are upon them 
 everywhere, and who would have them reverence 
 his house ? I am sorry tc say that there were a few 
 
THE CHURCH. 
 
 245 
 
 children in the class who were very irregular in 
 their attendance. The most trivial thing would 
 keep them at home. The day was too hot or too 
 cold, — or their new clothes were not done, — or they 
 went out into the country to see their grandmother, 
 — or they wandered off to some other Sunday 
 school, where there was to be a festival or celebra- 
 tion, from which they hoped to be benefited. For 
 this last the parents are especially to be censured. 
 Better have some regular place, and stay there ; for 
 as a rolling stone gathers no moss, so no real good 
 can come from going to different schools, and 
 learning sometimes from one catechism, and some- 
 times from another, and sometimes from none at all. 
 
 One boy there is at St. Luke's who deserves 
 especial notice for his regular attendance. The 
 day is very cold and stormy indeed which does not 
 find him there ; and neither worn-out shoes nor 
 threadbare coat avail to keep him at home. He 
 does not always have his lesson, and he loses more 
 catechisms than I can tell ; but he is always there ; 
 and, what is better yet, he brings other children 
 with him. Six, in all, he has brought to the Sunday 
 school, and we call him our little "recruiting offi- 
 cer." He has a very high-sounding name, — " Napo- 
 leon Augustus," — but we all know him as "Polie." 
 
246 
 
 THE SEWING SOCIETY. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S SEWING SOCIETY. 
 
 HERE were many baptisms that summer, 
 and the little silver bowl was so often 
 called into requisition, that the people 
 began to think a marble Font would be 
 a most appropriate and useful ornament for the 
 church ; and who more appropriate to buy it than 
 the children? So the teachers set themselves at 
 work to devise the best means by which it could be 
 done. And now, as it has something to do with 
 the Font, I must tell you of the Children's Sewing 
 Society, which met every Saturday afternoon at the 
 different houses in the parish, and was composed of 
 the young girls of St. Luke's, together with many 
 who came from the other denominations. There 
 were Carries and Lilies, and Adas, and Jennies, and 
 Nellies and Ellas, and Marys, and Kitty, and Lenas, 
 and Ida, and Annies, and Fannys, and many others, 
 and they worked at first upon a patchwork quilt 
 
* THE SEWING SOCIETY. 
 
 247 
 
 intended for Nashotah. There were bits of calico 
 of every quality and hue, from flaming yellow down 
 to sombre brown ; and the blocks were put together 
 with but little regularity or adaptation of one color 
 to another. But could the student, whom it will 
 keep warm next winter, have seen the group of 
 merry-hearted girls who worked upon that quilt, 
 — some with thimbles and some without ; some with 
 long stitches and some with short, — and could he 
 know how engaged they were in the work, and how 
 anxious even the youngest of them was to learn to 
 sew for Nashotah, — he would forgive whatever 
 there is unsightly in the quilt, and hold it more 
 precious than the covering of kings' couches. A 
 lady in the parish, who was deeply interested in the 
 children's society, offered to give five dollars for 
 the quilt when it was done, and then send it her- 
 self to Nashotah ; and this five dollars was the 
 nucleus round which other funds were to be 
 gathered for the Font. 
 
 At last a fair was suggested, and then the little 
 girls' fingers worked faster and their faces grew 
 brighter as they talked together of what they could 
 make or do for the fair. It was the one absorbing 
 topic of conversation, and the society increased, 
 and all were busy with something which they in- 
 
248 TEE SEWING SOCIETY. 
 
 tended for the fair. I cannot enumerate all the 
 articles, for it would make the story too long ; and 
 then I do not remember them. But I have in mind 
 the beautiful bead mats, which little Susie made ; 
 and the elephant, as natural as the real ones which 
 sometimes come into town, with their fanciful 
 blankets on, and their big feet, which leave so large 
 prints in the sand. There was a little air-castle 
 made of straw, and designed for the flies to light 
 on ; and every time I lift my eyes I can see it 
 hanging over my head, and I think of the bright- 
 eyed Carrie who made it, and who was so much 
 interested in the fair, even though she did not 
 belong to St. Luke's Sunday school. There were 
 handsome hair-receivers, made by a young girl, 
 from New York, who was spending the summer in 
 Carrollton, and who contributed both labor and 
 material. Boys tried their skill in making mats on 
 corks, and harnesses for dogs ; and all through the 
 parish the enthusiasm increased until the fair prom- 
 ised to be a great success. 
 
TEE INFANT CLASS. 
 
 249 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 WHAT WAS DONE IN THE INFANT CLASS FOR THE FAIR. 
 
 HERE were two teachers in the infant 
 school, — one the mother of little Berkie 
 and the other Mrs. Hoyt, who wrote to 
 a friend in New York, telling him of the 
 fair, and asking if his little daughter would like to 
 send a few toys for the tables. Three days passed, 
 and then the answer came, not in the shape of toys, 
 but a crisp five-dollar bill from little "Susie Street," 
 another five from " little Joe," and two from "little 
 Mamie." This was the answer ; and the ladies, 
 who had sometimes felt discouraged, and feared 
 they might fail, believed that God was blessing 
 them in their efforts, and with earnest prayers 
 they gave the fair into his charge, and the result 
 proved how faithful he was to the trust. Not 
 satisfied with what his children had done, the kind 
 gentleman from New York, who was an editor, 
 
250 
 
 THE INFANT CLASS. 
 
 interested his workmen in the matter, and the treas- 
 urer was one day surprised with twelve dollars and 
 a half, contributed by the printers and workmen in 
 the press-room, — strangers, the most of them, to the 
 ladies of St. Luke's — and the gift was all the more 
 acceptable for that, while many thanks and bless- 
 ings were showered upon the generous donors. In 
 Massachusetts, too, where the treasurer's childhood 
 was passed, a few kind friends interested themselves 
 in the Children's Fair, and eleven dollars more was 
 the result. And so the fund kept growing, as one 
 friendly hand after another was stretched out to 
 help, and the Font seemed almost a certainty with- 
 out the fair. 
 
 It was a plan of the teachers that the smaller chil- 
 dren should assist, and, either by saving or earning, 
 contribute their mites. And so each Sunday the 
 pennies were brought, while during the week the 
 little ones were busy as bees in devising ways and 
 means to save or earn for the fair. I wish you could 
 have seen the boys who lived in the brick house just 
 across the street from St. Luke's. They were as 
 fond of play as boys usually are ; but they gave it 
 up for a while, and the croquet mallets rested 
 quietly in the grass, and the old house-dog had a 
 worried, anxious look in his eyes, as if he wondered 
 
THE INFANT CLASS. 
 
 251 
 
 what had come over his young masters, and why, 
 instead of running up and down the walk with him, 
 they stayed so long out in the back yard, or climbed 
 the trees where he could not reach them. They 
 were picking plums, and piling up wood, and sell- 
 ing grapes ; and, as the result of their work, they 
 brought to the Sunday school over a dollar and a 
 half. And while they were thus busy, two little 
 girls, Susie and Maria, were picking apples, their 
 chubby faces getting very red and their white 
 aprons somewhat stained with the juicy fruit. 
 Down on Main street there was a soda-fountain, 
 and the delicious, creamy liquid was very tempting, 
 on a hot day, to the children who had the pennies 
 to spare, and in many cases the temptation was too 
 strong to be resisted ; but a few denied themselves, 
 and brought the fruits of their self-denial to their 
 teacher, just as Willie Sutherland brought the 
 pennies which he had saved by going without the 
 chewing-gum which boys usually like so much. 
 To us these self-denials may look very small, but 
 God knew just how hard the struggle was in each 
 little heart, and he surely commended the offerings 
 as he did the widow's mite, and blessed the chil- 
 dren, too, who made them. Fourteen dollars and 
 
252 
 
 THE INFANT CLASS. 
 
 thirty-three cents was the sum total which the chil- 
 dren saved in seven weeks ; and never were pennies 
 more acceptable than these, which had cost the 
 children quite as hard a struggle as many a greater 
 self-denial costs those of maturer years. 
 
THE DAT OF THE FAIR. 
 
 253 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE DAY OF THE FAIR. 
 
 H, how it rained and rained for days and 
 days before the one appointed for the 
 fair, and how many anxious eyes were 
 turned up towards the clouds which 
 looked so heavy and gray and pitiless, as if they 
 never intended to stop raining again ! It was hard 
 to believe that behind the dark mass the sun was 
 still shining, and the children watched in vain for 
 the "silver lining " which is said to invest every 
 cloud. But it appeared at last on the very day of 
 the fair, and patches of blue sky showed here and 
 there in the heavens, and before noon the October 
 sun was drying the walks and the wet grass, and 
 brightening up the little faces which for days had 
 been overcast with gloom. The fair was to be held 
 at a private house, and I wish you could have seen 
 the multitude of pretty things which came pouring 
 in, until the Brown Cottage looked like one great 
 
254 
 
 THE DAT OF THE FAIR. 
 
 bazaar of toys and fancy articles. There were 
 cushions of pink and cushions of blue, and pen- 
 wipers and book-racks, and a beautiful whirling 
 butterfly which Lulu bought on Broadway, and 
 needle-books and spool-cases, and tidies of various 
 devices and colors, with mittens and gloves, and 
 fanciful lines with tinkling bells attached, and I 
 know a little boy, among the Massachusetts hills, 
 who to-day drives his miniature horses, of which he 
 has forty or more, with a pair of those very lines. 
 Then there were toys of every description sent from 
 New York by Susie Ganson's mother, and spread 
 out upon the tables in the upper room, whose glass 
 door looked into the garden. There were jumping- 
 jacks, which turned the boys wild, and churns, 
 which made the little girls scream with delight. 
 There were washbowls and tubs, tin-kitchens and 
 rolling-pins, and bars to dry the dolly's clothes on, 
 and chairs, and tables, and dishes, with balls and 
 canes, and old Santa Claus himself bearing his 
 Christmas-tree with the gifts to put upon it. There 
 was a negro, too, with his woolly head and calico 
 frock, looking so life-like and real that some of the 
 smaller children drew back from him in terror, 
 fancying he was alive. 
 
 Downstairs, in the bay window, and on a table 
 
THE DAT OF THE FAIR. 255 
 
 where it could be distinctly seen, was the " Beauty 
 of the Fair," — a little stained bedstead, which an 
 ingenious gentleman had whittled out with his pen- 
 knife. It was a most perfect thing, with castors 
 and mattress tufted with pink, with ruffled sheets 
 and pillow-cases, the ruffles all nicely fluted and 
 showing well against the covering of white 
 Marseilles. Upon it lay a handsome doll, in her 
 muslin dress and scarlet cloak, ready for the opera. 
 The two were to go together, and many a little girl 
 hoped she might be made the happy possessor of so 
 beautiful a gift. In a corner of the parlor, the 
 books which a kind New York publisher had given, 
 were arranged, together with the Fate Eggs, which 
 looked so pretty, suspended from the branch of 
 evergreen made to resemble a tree. The books and 
 the eggs were to be Jennie's charge, — dear little 
 Jennie, with the pale, sweet face, whom everybody 
 loves and pities so much, — for Jennie is lame ; and 
 when the other children of her age are at their merry 
 play, she can only lean upon her crutches and 
 watch the sport in which she can take no part. 
 Near Jennie's corner the candy and flower tables 
 stood, and Annie and Carrie were to preside there, 
 and send out little peddlers with baskets of candy 
 and bouquets to sell. 
 
256 
 
 THE DAT OF THE FAIR. 
 
 I must not forget to tell you of the famous fish 
 pond, as it was something new in Carrollton, and 
 proved a great success. A cornor of the room was 
 divided off with a heavy curtain, on which the 
 printed words, 
 
 FISH POND 
 were pinned, while standing near were fishing rods 
 and lines, with hooks made out of wire. With 
 these the children were to fish, throwing the lines 
 over the curtain and into a box filled with toys of 
 various kinds, which a boy fastened upon the hooks 
 as fast as they came over. 
 
 At last everything was ready. The drapery had 
 been taken from the windows and the pictures from 
 the walls ; the furniture had been removed from the 
 rooms, which looked bare and empty enough, I 
 assure you. There were curtains before the doors 
 of the library where the tableaux were to be, and on 
 the piano stood the big shoe where Louise was to sit 
 and sell her three dozen dolls. There were loaves 
 and loaves of cake in the kitchen, which served as 
 the restaurant, and gallons of ice-cream in the 
 freezers. And all over the town the excited chil- 
 dren were getting ready, and watching for the sun 
 to set and the clock to point the hour when it was 
 time for them to start. 
 
THE NIGHT OF THE FAIR. 
 
 257 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE NIGHT OF THE FAIR. 
 
 T seemed a very inhospitable thing to 
 close the doors of one's house, and let in 
 only those who paid for the admittance ; 
 but it had been decided that such should 
 be the rule, and so at precisely six o'clock every 
 door was locked, and the boys who were to tend 
 them waited with an air of great importance for the 
 ring which was to herald the first arrival, and put 
 the first dime in their box. They had not long to 
 wait, for the children were prompt to time, and 
 came in groups of half-dozens, and dozens, and 
 scores, until the boys who kept the doors became 
 confused and bewildered, and gladly gave up 
 their post to some one who was older, and could 
 better stem the tide of human beings pouring in 
 so fast, and filling the lower rooms till -there was 
 hardly a place -to stand. It was a great jam, — the 
 greatest which had ever been in town. Four hun- 
 
258 
 
 THE NIGHT OF THE FAIR, 
 
 dred people were present, and, in an inconceivably 
 short space of time, the tables upstairs were cleared, 
 and then the crowd came surging down to the 
 parlors, and gathered round the candy-table, which 
 was emptied in a few moments, — for the little ped- 
 dlers, Lily and Kitty and Jennie and Lena and Ada 
 and Emma and Nellie, did their part well, and no 
 one could refuse to buy when asked by so beautiful 
 little girls. There were pictures, too, contributed 
 by one of our finest artists, and these sold rapidly, 
 until only two were left, — one of Horace Greeley, 
 and another of some scene in Germany. 
 
 Then came the tableaux. The first, called the 
 " Red, White, and Blue," was a group of three little 
 girls, — Lizzie, Susie, and Lulu, — each wearing a 
 white dress, and a sash of the color she represented, 
 ornamented with stars. Around them were gath- 
 ered the children, — three of whom sang the popular 
 air, "Red, White, and Blue," while all joined in the 
 chorus, — the boys' voices rising loud and shrill with 
 their "Three cheers for the Red, White, and Blue !" 
 
 I wish you could have seen the next tableau, 
 called the " Bridal of Tom Thumb," where Maria, 
 in her long tarletan dress and flowing veil, with the 
 orange blossoms in her hair, stood for Lavinia 
 Warren : and little Maggie Holmes, only three 
 
THE NIGHT OF THE FAIR. 259 
 
 years old, represented Minnie, — her soft, blue eyes 
 looking shyly out from under their long lashes at 
 the people, who set up loud shouts of laughter at 
 the sight of the comical-looking party. There was 
 Wallie, as Tom Thumb, in his swallow-tailed coat, 
 with his white vest and white cravat, just putting 
 the ring on Maria's finger ; while beside him was 
 Little Josey Allen, similarly attired, and making the 
 drollest figure you ever saw, as, with his thumb in 
 his white vest, he stood erect and still, — making a 
 better Commodore than the Commodore himself, — 
 while Willie Campbell, in surplice made of a sheet, 
 was supposed to perform the ceremony. As you 
 may imagine, Maria and Maggie, Wallie and Josey, 
 were the stars of the evening ; bnt the poor little 
 girls, in their long, trailing dresses, were almost as 
 helpless as the ladies of China are with their little 
 feet ; and they had to be carried around in gentle- 
 men's arms, and shown to the people who had been 
 unable to see them distinctly. 
 
 " Santa Claus" came next ; and Mason, with his 
 white hair, and beard, and furs, made a capital St. 
 Nick, and elicited peals of laughter as he drove in 
 his eight reindeer, each with pasteboard horns tied 
 on his head, and his name pinned on his back in 
 large capitals. There were Dasher and Dancer, 
 
260 
 
 THE NIGHT OF THE FAIR. 
 
 and Pbancer and Vixen. There were Comet and 
 Cupid, and Dundee, and Blitzen ; and the little 
 bells about their necks made a soft, tinkling sound, 
 as they shook their horned heads, and pranced in 
 imitation of deer, while waiting for their master to 
 fill the sleeping children's stockings with toys. 
 Then, with a bound, St. Nick sprang into his sleigh, 
 and the little cortege passed on through the parlor 
 and hall and sitting-room and dining-room, and so 
 out of sight. 
 
 There was a post-office, too, and the mail was 
 drawn by eight little.boys, with red plumes on their 
 heads, and driven again by Mason, who showed 
 great skill in the management of his horses and 
 reindeer. Close beside the boys ran little Sammie 
 Field, with the words " This-is-a-Colt," pinned on 
 his back ; and I assure you that kicking colt 
 attracted quite as much attention as the eight plumed 
 horses did. The letters, which sold for five and ten 
 cents each, made a great deal of fun, and added to 
 the general hilarity of the evening. 
 
 You should have seen Ella, dressed as an old 
 woman, and trying to thread the point of her needle 
 by a tallow candle of enormous length, and which 
 was called " The Light of other Days." Louise, too, 
 in broad frilled cap and glasses, with her dollies all 
 
THE NIGHT OF THE FAIR. 261 
 
 over her, represented the " Old Woman in the 
 Shoe," and attracted crowds around her, until every 
 doll was sold, and the great shoe was nearly empty. 
 The Fish Pond was very popular, and was drained 
 in half an hour, — the boys and girls going nearly 
 crazy over it, and contending with each other for a 
 chance to fish, at five cents a bite. It proved a great 
 success, as did everything pertaining to the fair 
 which closed with " Johnny Schmoker," sung and 
 acted by the children, and a tableau arranged by the 
 young ladies. 
 
 It was rather late when at last the fair was over, 
 and the children went home very tired, and a few 
 of them a little cross, it may be, though some were 
 very happy, as was proved by little black-eyed 
 Johnny, who had come up from Rochester, and 
 who, after the fair was over, and he was going to 
 bed, asked his mother if she did not think that 
 children were sometimes as happy in this world as 
 they would be in heaven ; " Because, mother," said 
 he, " I know I was as happy to-night at the fair as I 
 shall ever be in heaven." 
 
 When the ladies, who had worked so hard and 
 been sometimes so disheartened, heard of that, they 
 felt that the fair had paid, if only in making one 
 child so happy. That it paid, too, in a more tangible 
 
262 
 
 THE NIGHT OF THE FAIR. 
 
 form, was shown when the receipts were footed up, 
 and found to amount to over two hundred and 
 sixty dollars. You may be sure there was great re- 
 joicing the next day when it was known that we had 
 enough to get the Font, together with the bishop's 
 and rector's chairs, which we so much needed. 
 Means were immediately taken to have them in 
 readiness by Christmas, so that the children could 
 then present them to the church. 
 
POOR LITTLE HUNTER. 
 
 263 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 POOR LITTLE HUNTER 
 
 HE fair was held on the third of October, 
 and of all the boys there, none was 
 happier, or enjoyed it more, than little 
 Hunter Buckley, who never dreamed 
 that this was the last festivity in which he would 
 ever join with his comrades, — that before the winter 
 snows were falling, or the Font for which he had 
 worked was set up in the church, he would be 
 buried away from sight and sound, — where the 
 songs of the children could not reach him, nor the 
 sobs of his poor mother, who mourned so bitterly 
 for her little darling boy. His death was very 
 sudden. In the morning he was perfectly well, and 
 his mother little thought, when, after breakfast, he 
 bade her good-by, and started for the village, that 
 never again would his feet come down the grassy 
 lane, or his loved voice sound in her ears ; that 
 when he came back to her it would be as the dead 
 
264 POOR LITTLE HUNTER. 
 
 come back, — lifeless and still. Yet so it was, for 
 in a few hours the news ran through the village that 
 Hunter Buckley was dead, — smothered in the wheat 
 where he was playing ; and which was running 
 through a large tunnel into a boat loading at the 
 wharf. It was a careless thing to play there; but 
 he had done it before, and thought of no danger 
 now, until the suction became so great that it was 
 impossible to escape, and he was drawn into that 
 whirlpool of grain. 
 
 I saw him the next day, looking, except that he 
 was paler, exactly as he had the Sunday before, 
 when he sat in Sunday school, and listened to the 
 lessons his teacher taught. 
 
 The next day was the funeral ; and six young 
 boys carried his coffin up the aisle and laid it on the 
 table ; while, in silence and awe, his companions 
 listened to the words the clergyman spoke, — words 
 of admonition to them, — words of commendation of 
 the dead, — and words of comfort for the weeping 
 fsiends, upon whom so heavy a sorrow had fallen. 
 Those were sad notes which the organ played then, 
 and more than one voice trembled as it joined in 
 the hymn sung over the dead boy, and then they 
 carried him out to the long, black hearse, which 
 
POOR LITTLE HUNTER 
 
 265 
 
 bore him to the graveyard where Berkie had gone 
 before him. 
 
 Since that time they have made another grave, 
 and the boys of the 1 Sunday school have followed 
 Walter Hewitt there. He died when the winter 
 snows were heaped upon the ground, and now lies 
 in the same yard where Hunter and Berkie are, — 
 three little boys, who will sleep there in their coffins 
 until the resurrection morn, when Jesus comes to 
 claim his own and take them to himself. 
 1% 
 
266 
 
 CHRISTMAS, 1867. 
 
 CHAPTER VITI. 
 
 CHRISTMAS, 1867. 
 
 HERE was no rector in the parish that 
 winter ; but the people kept up lay- 
 services and the Sunday school, and 
 were resolved that the children should 
 not go without the usual festival. So the ever- 
 greens were brought from the lake, with a beautiful 
 pine-tree, and a few of the ladies worked industri- 
 ously, day after day, fashioning wreaths and crosses 
 and anchors, which were hung upon the walls and 
 festooned about the chancel, where the tree was 
 placed, its long branches reaching out in every 
 direction, as if asking for the many hundred gifts 
 which came pouring in so fast. There were dolls 
 and tops, and bows and arrows, and Christmas 
 cakes all sugared over the top, and stamped with 
 the owner's name. There were books and cards, 
 and marbles and balls, and a beautiful slipper-case, 
 which Lulu gave to her teacher. There were 
 
CHRISTMAS, 1867, 
 
 267 
 
 bcxes with candy and boxes without, and horses 
 and cows, and monkeys in red, and tea-kettles and 
 pails, and golden fishes, which gleamed so brightly 
 among the dark-green leaves of the tree. There 
 w T as a white ermine muff, and a picture called 
 the " Christmas Bell," bought for Berkie's mother 
 by her class ; while, swinging in his pretty cage, 
 was a beautiful Canary, who, when the gas was 
 lighted and he had recovered a little from his fright 
 at being brought from the depot with a shawl over 
 his cage, . began to look about him, and wink his 
 bright eyes at the children. Then, as he began to 
 feel more at home and to get an inkling of what it 
 all meant, he opened his mouth and poured forth 
 one sweet song after another until it seemed as if 
 his little throat would burst. 
 
 But the handsomest gift of all was the font, 
 which had Come the night before and been firmly 
 fixed in its place just outside the chancel. It was 
 of Italian marble, very graceful in its proportions, 
 and on the top, in black letters, were the words 
 " Presented by the children of St. Luke's Sunday 
 School, Christmas, 1867," followed by " Suffer the 
 little children to come unto me, and forbid them 
 not. ,, This was, of course, the center of attraction, 
 and both the children and the grown people 
 
268 
 
 CHRISTMAS, 1867. 
 
 gathered around it, commenting on its beauty, and 
 wondering who would be the first child bap- 
 tized from it. The new chairs, too, were there, 
 made of solid oak, and upholstered with crimson, 
 so that the church looked very handsome with its 
 new furniture, and the Christmas-tree, with the 
 tapers shining from its branches and lighting up 
 the hundreds of pretty things upon it. 
 
 I have told you before that we had no clergy- 
 man ; but our good doctor read a part of the evening 
 service, and then made a few remarks to the chil- 
 dren, who, I am afraid, did not listen very closely, 
 they were so intent upon the tree and what they 
 would probably get from it. Our organist had 
 taken great pains to drill the children in their carols, 
 and when they sang of "The Wonderful Night," 
 we could almost see the 
 
 " Angels and shining immortals 
 Which, crowding the ebony portals. 
 Fling out their banners of light/' 
 
 It is a splendid carol, and if you do not already 
 know it, I advise you to get the " New Service 
 Book " and learn it before another Christmas-eve. 
 
 The distribution of gifts commenced at last, and 
 never were children happier than those who, as 
 their names were called, went up one after another 
 
CHRISTMAS, 1867. 
 
 269 
 
 to the chancel, and came back with loaded hands, 
 and hearts throbbing with a keener, purer delight 
 than they will ever know after the years of child- 
 hood are past, and they have grown to be women 
 and men. The tree was stripped at last, and all 
 over the church there was the hum of eager, excited 
 voices, mingled occasionally with a blast from a 
 whistle or horn blown by some boy who could not 
 wait till he reached home before testing his musical 
 instrument. Then there came a hush, as the closing 
 prayer was said, and the grand old chant was sung 
 " Glory to God on high." How the music rolled 
 through the church as the organ pealed its loudest 
 strains, and the boys and girls joined in the song, 
 while the little bird, frantic by this time with all it 
 had seen and heard, fairly shook its golden sides as 
 it trilled its clear, shrill notes, and mingled its own 
 loud voice in the last Christmas song ! 
 
 Half an hour later, and the church was silent 
 and empty, the organ was hushed, the echo of the 
 singing had died away, the tree was shorn of its 
 decorations, the children were all at home, sleeping 
 many of them, and dreaming, perhaps, of that boy- 
 baby whose birth the angels sang, whom wise men 
 came to worship, and over whose cradle hovered 
 the shadow of the cross. But with the early dawn 
 
270 
 
 CHRISTMAS, 1867. 
 
 I know they will awake, looking at their treasures 
 and living over again the joy of the preceding 
 night. 
 
 Blessed childhood, when guarded and hedged 
 around with the influences which religion brings ! 
 Which of us does not recall with a pang of regret 
 those halcyon days when the summer was so long 
 and bright because of the flowers and birds, and the 
 autumn so fair and sweet because of the ripening 
 fruits and nuts, and the winter so glorious because 
 of the beautiful snow ? And who does not love the 
 children and wish to make them happy ? I most 
 certainly do ; and as, while writing this story of 
 The Font, the actors in the fair have one by one 
 passed in review before me, I have kissed and 
 blessed them all, and asked that God would keep 
 them to a green old age, when, perhaps, they may 
 read, with strange, curious feelings, what I have 
 written of them. 
 
 And to the children I have never seen, but who 
 may read this story, I would say, I love you, too ; — 
 love you because you are children and parts of 
 God's great family, and I pray him that you may 
 one day meet in the better world with every one of 
 those who helped to buy the Font and her who 
 wrote its story. 
 
ADAM FLOYD. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ADAM. 
 
 T was the warmest day of the season, and 
 from the moment when the first robin 
 chirped in the maple tree growing by 
 the door, to the time when the shadows 
 stretching eastward indicated that the sultry after- 
 noon was drawing to a close, Adam Floyd had been 
 busy. Indeed, he could not remember a day when 
 he had worked so continuously and so hard, neither 
 could he recall a time when he had been so per- 
 fectly happy, except upon one starlight night when 
 last winter's snow was piled upon the ground. The 
 events of that night had seemed to him then like a 
 dream, and they were scarcely more real now, when 
 
 [271] 
 
272 
 
 ADAM. 
 
 pausing occasionally in his work and leaning his 
 head upon his broad, brown hands, he tried to recall 
 just the awkward words he had spoken and the grace- 
 ful answer she had given ; answer so low that he 
 would hardly have known she was speaking, had 
 not his face been so near to hers that he could hear 
 the murmured response, 
 
 " I am not half good enough for you, Adam, and 
 shall make a sorry wife ; but, if you will take me 
 with all my faults, I am yours/' 
 
 That was what she had said, the only she in all 
 the world to Adam Floyd, now that the churchyard 
 grass was growing over the poor old blind mother, 
 to whom he had been the tenderest, best of sons, 
 and who had said to him when dying, 
 
 "I'm glad I'm going home, my boy, for now you 
 can bring Anna here. She is a bonny creature, I 
 know by the sound of her voice and the touch of 
 her silky hair. Tell her how with my last breath 
 I blessed her, and how glad I was to think that 
 when she came, the old blind woman's chair would 
 be empty, and that she would be spared a heavy 
 burden which she is far too young to bear. God 
 deal by her as she deals by you, my noble boy." 
 
 The March winds were blowing when they made 
 his mother's grave, and Adam's heart was not as 
 
ADAM. 
 
 273 
 
 sore now as on that dismal, rainy night, when he 
 first sat alone in his little cottage and missed the 
 groping hand feeling for his own. Anna was com- 
 ing within a week, Anna who had. said, "I am not 
 half good enough for you." How the remembrance 
 of these words even now brought a smile to the 
 lips where the sweat drops were standing as he 
 toiled for her, putting the last finishing strokes to 
 the home prepared for his future bride, Anna 
 Burroughs, the Deacon's only daughter, the fairest 
 maiden in all the goodly town of Rhodes — Anna, 
 who had been away to school for a whole year, who 
 could speak another language than her own, whose 
 hands were soft and white as wool, whom all the 
 village lads coveted, and at whom it was rumored 
 even Herbert Dunallen the heir of Castlewild, 
 where Adam worked so much, had cast admiring 
 glances. Not good enough for him ? She was far 
 too good for a great burly fellow like himself, a 
 poor mechanic, who had never looked into the 
 Algebras and Euclids piled on Anna's table the 
 morning after she came from school. This was 
 what Adam thought, wondering why she had chosen 
 him, and if she were not sorry. Sometimes of late 
 he had fancied a coldness in her manner, a shrink- 
 ing from his caresses ; but the very idea had made 
 12* 
 
274 
 
 ADAM. 
 
 his great, kind heart, throb with a pang so keen 
 that he had striven to banish it, for to lose his dar- 
 ling now would be worse than death. He had 
 thought it all over that August day, when he nailed 
 down the bright new carpet in what was to be her 
 room. " Our room," he said softly to himself, as 
 he watched his coadjutor, old Aunt Martha East- 
 man, smoothing and arranging the snowy pillows 
 upon the nicely made up bed, and looping with 
 bows of pure white satin the muslin curtains which 
 shaded the pretty bay window. That window was 
 his own handiwork. He had planned and built it 
 himself, for Anna was partial to bay windows. He 
 had heard her say so once when she came up to 
 Castlewild where he was making some repairs, and 
 so he had made her two, one in the bedroom, and 
 one in the pleasant parlor looking out upon the 
 little garden full of flowers. Adam's taste was per- 
 fect, and many a passer by stopped to admire the 
 bird's nest cottage, peeping out from its thick cover- 
 ing of ivy leaves and flowering vines. Adam was 
 pleased with it himself, and when the last tack had 
 been driven and the last chair set in its place, he 
 went over it alone admiring as he went, and won- 
 dering how it would strike Anna. Would her soft 
 blue eyes light up with joy, or would they wear 
 
ADAM. 
 
 275 
 
 the troubled look he had sometimes observed in 
 them ? " If they do," and Adam's breath came hard 
 as he said it, and his hands were locked tightly to- 
 gether, "If they do, I'll lead her into mother's 
 room ; she won't deceive me there. I'll tell her 
 that I would not take a wife who does not love me ; 
 that though to give her up is like tearing out my 
 heart, I'll do it if she says so, and Anna will 
 answer " 
 
 Adam did not know what, and the very possi- 
 bility that she might answer, as he sometimes feared, 
 paled his bronzed cheek, and made him reel, as, 
 walking to his blind mother's chair, he knelt beside 
 it, and prayed earnestly for grace to bear the happi- 
 ness or sorrow there might be in store for him. In 
 early youth, Adam had learned the source of all 
 true peace, and now in every perplexity, however 
 trivial, he turned to God, who was pledged to care 
 for the child, trusting so implicitly in him. 
 
 "If it is right for Anna to be mine, give her to 
 me, but, if she has sickened of me, oh, Father, help 
 me to bear." 
 
 This was Adam's prayer, and when it was 
 uttered, the pain and dread were gone, and the 
 child-like man saw no cloud lowering on his 
 horizon. 
 
276 
 
 ADAM. 
 
 It was nearly time for him to be going now, if 
 he would have Anna see the cottage by day-light, 
 and hastening to the chamber he had occupied since 
 he was a boy, he put on, not his wedding suit, for 
 that was safely locked in his trunk, but his Sunday 
 clothes, feeling a pardonable thrill of satisfaction 
 when he saw how much he was improved by dress. 
 Not that Adam Floyd was ever ill-looking. A 
 stranger would have singled him out from a thou- 
 sand. Tall, straight and firmly built, with the flush 
 of perfect health upon his frank, open face, and the 
 sparkle of intelligence in his dark brown eyes, he 
 represented a rare type of manly beauty. He was 
 looking uncommonly well, too, this afternoon, old 
 Martha thought, as from the kitchen door she 
 watched him passing down the walk and out into 
 the road which lead to the red farm-house, where 
 Deacon Burroughs lived, and where Anna was 
 Waiting for him. 
 
ANNA. 
 
 277 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ANNA. 
 
 AITING for him, we said, but not exactly 
 as Adam Floyd should have been waited 
 for. Never had a day seemed so long to 
 her as that which to Adam had passed so 
 quickly. Restless and wretched she had wandered 
 many times from the garden to the brook, from the 
 brook back to the garden, and thence to her own little 
 chamber, from whose window, looking southward 
 could be seen the chimney of the cottage, peeping 
 through the trees. At this she looked often and 
 long, trying to silence the faithful monitor within, 
 whispering to her of the terrible desolation which 
 would soon fall upon the master of that cottage, if 
 she persisted in her cruel plan. Then she glanced 
 to the northward, where, from the hill top, rose the 
 pretentious walls of Castlewild, whose young heir 
 had come between her and her affianced husband ; 
 then she compared them, one with the other — Adam 
 Floyd with Herbert Dunallen — one the rich pro- 
 
278 
 
 ANITA. 
 
 prietor of Castlewild, the boyish man just of age, 
 who touched his hat so gracefully, as in the summer 
 twilight he rode in his handsome carriage past her 
 father's door, the youth, whose manners were so 
 elegant, and whose hands were so white ; the other, 
 a mechanic, a carpenter by trade, who worked some- 
 times at Castlewild — a man unversed in etiquette as 
 taught in fashion's school, and who could neither 
 dress, nor dance, nor flatter, nor bow as could 
 Dunallen, but who she knew he was tenfold more 
 worthy of her esteem. Alas, for Anna ; though our 
 heroine, she was but a foolish thing, who suffered 
 fancy to rule her better judgment, and let her heart 
 turn more willingly to the picture of Dunallen than 
 to that of honest Adam Floyd, hastening on to join 
 her. 
 
 " If he were not so good," she thought, as with a 
 shudder she turned away from the pretty little 
 work-box he had brought her ; " if he had ever given 
 me an unkind word, or suspected how treacherous I 
 am, it would not seem so bad, but he trusts me so 
 much ! Oh, Adam, I wish we had never met !" and 
 hiding her face in her hands, poor Anna w^ps 
 passionately. 
 
 There was a hand upon the gate, and Anna knew 
 whose step it was coming so cheerfully up the walk, 
 
ANNA. 
 
 279 
 
 and wondered if it would be as light and buoyant 
 when she was gone. She heard him in their little 
 parlor, talking to her mother, and, as she listened, 
 the tones of his voice fell soothingly upon her ear, 
 for there was music in the voice of Adam Floyd, and 
 more than Anna had felt its quieting influence. It 
 seemed cruel to deceive him so dreadfully, and in 
 her sorrow Anna sobbed out, 
 
 "Oh, what must I do?" Once she thought to 
 pray, but she could not do that now. She had not 
 prayed aright since that first June night when she 
 met young Herbert down in the beech grove, and 
 heard him speak jestingly of her lover, saying " she 
 was far too pretty and refined for such an odd old 
 cove." It had struck her then that this cognomen 
 was not exactly refined, that Adam Floyd would 
 never have called Dunallen thus, but Herbert's arm 
 was round her waist, where only Adam's had a right 
 to rest. Herbert's eyes were bent fondly upon her, 
 and so she forgave the insult to her affianced hus- 
 band, and tried to laugh at the joke. That was the 
 first open act, but since then she had strayed very 
 far from the path of duty, until now she had half 
 promised to forsake Adam Floyd and be Dunallen 's 
 bride. That very day, just after sunset he would be 
 waiting in the beech wood grove for her final de- 
 
280 
 
 ANNA. 
 
 cision. No wonder that with this upon her mind 
 she shrank from meeting her lover, whom she knew 
 to be the soul of truth and honor. And yet she 
 must school herself to go with him over the house 
 he had prepared for her with so much pride and 
 care. Once there she would tell him, she thought, 
 how the love she once bore him had died out from 
 her heart. She would not speak of Herbert Dunal- 
 len but she would ask to be released, and he, the 
 generous, unselfish man, would do her bidding. 
 
 Anna had faith in Adam's goodness, and this it 
 was which nerved her at the last to wash the tear- 
 stains from her face and rearrange the golden curls 
 falling about her foreh ad. " He'll know I've been 
 crying," she said, " but that will pave the way to 
 what I have to tell him ;" and with one hasty 
 glance at the fair young face which Adam thought 
 so beautiful, she ran lightly down the stairs, glad 
 that her mother was present when she first greeted 
 Adam. But the mother, remembering her own girl- 
 ish days, soon left the room, and the lovers were 
 alone. 
 
 " What is it, darling ? Are you sick ?" and 
 Adam's broad palm rested caressingly upon the 
 bowed head of Anna, who could not meet his earnest 
 glance for shame. 
 
ANNA. 281 
 
 She said something about being nervous and 
 tired because of the excessive heat, and then, steady- 
 ing her voice, she continued : 
 
 %i You have come for me to see the cottage, I sup- 
 pose. We will go at once, as I must return before 
 it's dark." 
 
 Her manner troubled him, but he made no com- 
 ment until they were out upon the highway, when 
 he said to her timidly, " If you are tired, perhaps 
 you would not mind taking my arm. Folks will 
 not talk about it, now we are so near being one." 
 
 Anna could not take his arm, so she replied : 
 " Somebody might gossip ; I'd better walk alone/' 
 and coquettishly swinging the hat she carried instead 
 of wore, she walked by his side silently, save when 
 he addressed her directly. Poor Adam ! there were 
 clouds gathering around his heart, blacker far than 
 the dark rift rising so rapidly in the western sky. 
 There was something the matter with Anna more 
 than weariness or heat, but he would not question 
 her there, and so a dead silence fell between them 
 until the cottage was reached, and standing with her 
 on the threshold of the door, he said, mournfully, 
 but oh ! so tenderly, "Does my little Blossom like 
 the home I have prepared for her, and is she willing 
 to live here with me ?" 
 
282 
 
 IN THE COTTAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IN THE COTTAGE. 
 
 HE seemed to him so fair, so pure, so like 
 the apple blossoms of early June, that 
 he often called her his little Blossom, 
 but now there was a touching pathos in 
 the tones of his voice as he repeated the pet name, 
 and it wrung from Anna a gush of tears. Lifting 
 her blue eyes to his for an instant, she laid her head 
 upon his arm and cried piteously : 
 
 " Oh, Adam, you are so good, so much better 
 than I deserve. Yes, I like it, so much/' 
 
 Was it a sense of his goodness which made her 
 cry, or was it something else? Adam wished he 
 knew, but he would rather she should tell him of 
 her own accord, and winding his arm around her, 
 he lifted up her head and wiping her tears away, 
 kissed her gently, saying, "Does Blossom like to 
 have me kiss her ?" 
 
 She did not, but she could not tell him so when 
 
IN THE COTTAGE. 
 
 283 
 
 he bent so fondly over her, his face all aglow with 
 the mighty love he bore her. Affecting not to hear 
 his question she broke away from his embrace and 
 seating herself in the bay window, began talking of 
 its pretty effect from the road, and the great im- 
 provement it was to the cottage. Still she did not 
 deceive Adam Floyd, who all the while her playful 
 remarks were sounding in his ear was nerving him- 
 self to a task he meant to perform. But not in any 
 of the rooms he had fitted up for her could he say 
 that if she would have it so she was free from him, 
 even though the bridal was only a week in advance 
 and the bridal guests were bidden. Only in one 
 room, his dead mother's, couid he tell her this. That 
 had been to him a Bethel since his blind mother left 
 it. Its walls had witnessed most of his secret 
 sorrows and his joys, and there, if it must be, he 
 would break his heart by giving Anna up. 
 
 " I did not change mother's room," he said, lead- 
 ing Anna to the arm-chair where none had sat since 
 an aged, withered form, last rested there. " I'd 
 rather see it as it used to be when she tvas here, and 
 I thought you would not mind." 
 
 " It is better to leave it so," Anna said, while 
 Adam continued, 
 
 " I'm glad you like our home. I think myself it 
 
284 
 
 IN THE COTTAGE. 
 
 is pleasant, and so does every one. Even Dunallen 
 complimented it very highly." 
 
 " Dunallen ; has he been here?" and Anna 
 blushed painfully. 
 
 But Adam was not looking at her. He had 
 never associated the heir of Castlewild with Anna's 
 changed demeanor, and wholly unconscious of the 
 pain he was inflicting, he went on, 
 
 " He went all over the house this morning, 
 except indeed in here. I could not admit him to the 
 room where mother died. Did I tell you that he 
 had hired me for a long and profitable job ? He is 
 going to make some repairs at Castlewild before 
 he brings home his bride. You know he is engaged 
 to a young heiress, Mildred Atherton." 
 
 It was well for Anna that her face was turned 
 from Adam as she replied, 
 
 "Yes, I've heard something of an engagement 
 made by the family when he was a mere boy. I 
 thought perhaps he had tired of it." 
 
 "Oh, no; he told me only to-day that he ex- 
 pected to bring his wife to Castlewild as early as 
 Christmas. We were speaking of you and our 
 marriage." 
 
 "Of me?" and Anna looked up quickly, but 
 poor, deluded Adam, mistook her guilty flush for a 
 
IN THE COTTAGE. 
 
 28U 
 
 kind of grateful pride that Dunallen should talk of 
 her. 
 
 " He said you were the prettiest girl he ever saw, 
 and when I suggested, "except Miss Atherton," he 
 added, ' I will not except any one ; Milly is pretty, 
 but not like your fiancee' " 
 
 Anna had not fallen so low that she could not 
 see how mean and dastardly it was for Herbert 
 Dunallen to talk thus of her to the very man he was 
 intending to wrong so cruelly ; and for a moment 
 a life with Adam Floyd looked more desirable than 
 a life with Herbert Dunallen, even though it were 
 spent in the midst of elegance of which she h#d 
 never dreamed. Anna's good angel was fast gain- 
 ing the ascendency, and might have triumphed had 
 not the sound of horse's feet just then met her ear, 
 and looking from the window she saw Herbert 
 Dunallen riding by, his dark curls floating in the 
 wind and his cheek flushing with exercise. He saw 
 her, too, and quickly touching his cap, pointed 
 adroitly towards the beechwood grove. With his 
 disappearance over the hill her good angel flew 
 away, and on her face there settled the same cold, 
 unhappy look, which had troubled Adam so much. 
 
 " Darling," he said, when he spoke again, "there 
 is something on your mind which I do not under- 
 
286 
 
 IN TEE COTTAGE. 
 
 stand. If you are to be my wife, there should be 
 no secrets between us. Will you tell me what it is, 
 and if I can help you I will, even though — 
 though " 
 
 His voice began to falter, for the white, hard 
 look on Anna's face frightened him, and at last in 
 an agony of terror, he grasped both her hands in 
 his and added impetuously : 
 
 " Even though it be to give you up, you whom 
 I love better than my life — for whom I would die 
 so willingly. Oh, Anna !" and he sank on his knees 
 beside her, and winding his arms around her waist, 
 looked her imploringly in the face. " I sometimes 
 fear that you have sickened of me — that you shrink 
 from my caresses. If it is so, in mercy tell me now, 
 before it is too late; for, Anna, dear as you are to 
 me, I would rather to-morrow's sunshine should fall 
 upon your grave and mine, than take you to my 
 bosom an unloving wife ! I have worked for you, 
 early and late, thinking only how you might be 
 pleased. There is not a niche or corner in my 
 home that is not hallowed by thoughts of you whom 
 I have loved since you were a little child and I 
 carried you in the arms which now would be your 
 resting place forever. I know I am not your equal, 
 I feel it painfully, but I can learn with you as my 
 
IN THE COTTAGE. 
 
 237 
 
 teacher, and, my precious Anna, whatever I may 
 lack in polish, I will, I will make up in kindness !" 
 
 He was pleading now for her love, forgetting 
 that she Avas his promised wife — forgetting every- 
 thing, save that to his words of passionate appeal 
 there came no answering response in the expression 
 of her face. Only the same fixed, stony look, which 
 almost maddened him ; it was so unlike what he 
 deserved and had reason to expect. 
 
 "I shall be lonely without you, Anna — more 
 lonely than you can guess, for there is no mother 
 here now to bless and cheer me as she would hav£ 
 cheered me in my great sorrow. She loved ycu, 
 Anna, and blessed you with her dying breath, fray- 
 ing she was glad, for your sake, that the chair where 
 you sit would be empty when you came, and ask- 
 ing God to deal by you even as you dealt by me." 
 
 "Oh, Adam, Adam!" Anna gasped, for what 
 had been meant for a blessing rang in her ears like 
 that blind woman's curse. " May God deal better 
 by me than I meant to deal by you !" she tried to 
 say, but the words died on her lips, and she could 
 only lay her cold hands on the shoulder of him 
 who still knelt before her, with his arms around 
 her waist. 
 
 Softly, gladly came the good angel back, and 
 
288 
 
 IN THE COTTAGE. 
 
 'mid a rain of tears which dropped on Adam's hair, 
 Anna wept her hardness all away, while the only 
 sound heard in the room was the beating of two 
 hearts and the occasional roll of thunder muttering 
 in the distance. In reality it was only a few mo- 
 ments, but to Anna it seemed a long, long time 
 that they sat thus together, her face bent down upon 
 his head, while she thought of all the past since she 
 could remember Adam Floyd and the blind old 
 woman, his mother. He had been a dutiful son, 
 Anna knew, for she had heard how tenderly he 
 would bear his mother in his strong arms or guide 
 her uncertain steps, and how at the last he sat by 
 her night after night, never wearying of the tire- 
 some vigil until it was ended, and the sightless eyes, 
 which in death turned lovingly to him, were opened 
 to the light of Heaven. To such as Adam Floyd 
 the commandment of promise was rife with mean- 
 ing. God would prolong his days and punish those 
 who wronged him. He who had been so faithful 
 to his mother, would be true to his wife — aye, truer 
 far than young Dunallen, with all his polish and 
 wealth. 
 
 "Adam," Anna began at last, so low that he 
 scarcely could hear her. " Adam forgive me all 
 that is past. I have been cold and indifferent, have 
 
IN THE COTTAGE. 
 
 289 
 
 treated you as I ought not, but I am young and 
 foolish, I — I — oh ! Adam, I mean to do better. I — " 
 
 She could not say, "will banish Dunallen from 
 my mind" — it was not necessary to mention him, 
 she thought ; but some explanation must be made, 
 and so, steadying her voice, she told him how dearly 
 she had loved him once, thinking there was not in 
 all the world his equal, but that during the year at 
 a city school she had acquired some foolish notions 
 and had sometimes wished her lover different.. 
 
 " Not better at heart. You could not be that," 
 she said, looking him now fully in the face, for she 
 was conscious of meaning what she said, " but — 
 but— " 
 
 " You need not finish it, darling ; I know what 
 you mean/' Adam said, the cloud lifting in a measure 
 from his brow. "I am not refined one bit, but my 
 Blossom is, and she shall teach me. I will try hard 
 to learn. I will not often make her ashamed. I 
 will even imitate Dunallen, if that will gratify my 
 darling." 
 
 Why would he keep bringing in that name, when 
 the sound of it was so like a dagger to Anna's heart, 
 and when she wished she might never hear it again ? 
 "He was waiting for her now in the Beech woods she 
 knew, for she was to join him there ere long, not to 
 13 
 
290 
 
 IN THE COTTAGE. 
 
 say what she would have said an hour ago, but to 
 say that she could not, would not wrong the noble 
 man who held her to his bosom so lovingly as he 
 promised to copy Dunallen. And as Anna suffered 
 him to caress her, she felt her olden love coming 
 back. She should be happy with him — happier far 
 than if she were the mistress of Castlewild, and 
 knew that to attain that honor she had broken 
 Adam's heart. 
 
 " As a proof that you trust me fully," she said, 
 as the the twilight shadows deepened around them, 
 " you must let me go home alone, I wish it for a 
 special reason. You must not tell me no/' and the 
 pretty lips touched his bearded cheek. 
 
 Adam wanted to walk with her down the pleasant 
 road, where they had walked so often, but he saw she 
 was in earnest, and so he suffered her to depart 
 alone, watching her until the flutter of her light 
 dress was lost to view. Then kneeling by the chair 
 where she had sat so recently, he asked that the cup 
 of joy, placed again in his eager hand, might not be 
 wrested from him, that he might prove worthy of 
 Anna's love, and that no cloud should ever again 
 come between them. 
 
2JV THE BEECH WOODS. 
 
 291 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IN THE BEECH WOODS. 
 
 ERBERT DUNALLEN had waited there 
 a long time, as he thought, and he began 
 to grow impatient. What business had 
 Anna to stay with that old fellow, if she 
 did not mean to have him, and of course she did 
 not. It would be a most preposterous piece of 
 business for a girl like Anna to throw herself away 
 upon such as Adam Floyd, carpenter by trade, and 
 general repairer of things at Castlewild. Whew- 
 ew ! and Herbert whistled contemptuously, adding 
 in a low voice, " and yet my lady mother would raise 
 a beautiful rumpus if she knew I was about to make 
 this little village rustic her daughter-in-law. For I 
 am ; if there's one redeeming trait in my character, 
 it's being honorable in my intentions toward Anna. 
 Most men in my position would only trifle with her, 
 
292 
 
 IN THE BEECH WOODS. 
 
 particularly when there was in the background a 
 Mildred Atherton, dreadfully in love with them. I 
 wonder what makes all the girls admire me so ?" and 
 the vain young man stroked his mustache compla- 
 cently, just as a rapid footstep sounded near. 
 
 It was Anna's, and the next moment he held her 
 in his arms. But she would not suffer him to keep 
 her there, and with a quiet dignity which for an in- 
 stant startled him beyond the power to speak or act, 
 she put his arm away, and standing apart from him, 
 told him of her resolution, and reproached him with 
 his duplicity, asking him how he could tell Adam 
 that he was about to be married. 
 
 " Because I am," he replied. "I am not to blame 
 for his believing silly little Milly to be the bride 
 elect. Won't it be famous, though, for you to or- 
 der round your former lover ? I've engaged him 
 for a long job, and you ought to have seen how 
 glad he was of the work, thinking, of course, how 
 much he should earn for you. I came near laugh- 
 ing in his face when he hoped I should be as happy 
 with Miss Mildred as he expected to be with 
 you." 
 
 "You shan't speak so of Adam Floyd!" and 
 Anna's little foot beat the ground impatiently, while 
 indignant tears glittered in her blue eyes as she 
 
IN THE BEECH WOODS. 
 
 293 
 
 again reiterated that Adam Floyd should be her 
 husband. 
 
 "Not while I live!" Herbert responded almost 
 fiercely, for he saw in her manner a determination 
 he had never witnessed before. 
 
 As well as he was capable of doing he loved 
 Anna Burroughs, and the fact that she was pledged 
 to another added fuel to the flame. 
 
 "What new freak has taken my fickle goddess ?" 
 he asked, looking down upon her with a mocking 
 sneer about his mouth as she told him why she 
 could not go with him. 
 
 He knew she was in earnest at last, and, drop- 
 ping his jesting tone, he made her sit down beside 
 him, while he used every possible argument to dis- 
 suade her from her purpose, working first upon her 
 pride, flattering her vanity, portraying the happi- 
 ness of a tour through Europe, a winter in Paris, 
 and lastly touching upon the advantages of being 
 lady supreme at Castlewild, with a house in the 
 city, for winter. And as changeable, ambitious, 
 Anna listened, she felt her resolution giving way, 
 felt the ground which she had taken slipping from 
 beneath her feet without one effort to save her- 
 self. 
 
 " It seems terrible to wrong Adam," she said, 
 
294 
 
 IN THE BEECH WOODS. 
 
 and, by the tone of her voice, Herbert knew the vio* 
 tory was two thirds won. 
 
 " Adam will do well enough," he replied. " Peo* 
 pie like him never die of broken hearts ! He's a 
 good fellow, but not the one for you ; besides, you 
 know he's what they call pious, just like Milly ; 
 and, I presume, he'll say it was not so wicked for 
 you to cheat him as to perjure yourself, as you sure- 
 ly would, by promising to love and honor and all 
 that when you didn't feel a bit of it !" 
 
 "What was that you said of Miss Atherton ?" 
 Anna asked eagerly, for she had caught the word 
 pious, and it made her heart throb with pain, for 
 she knew that Herbert Dunallen could not say as 
 much of her ! 
 
 Once, indeed, it had been otherwise, but that was 
 before she had met him in the woods, — before she 
 ceased to pray. Oh, that happy time when she had 
 dared to pray ! How she wished it would come 
 back to her again ; but it had drifted far away, and 
 left a void as black as the night closing around her 
 or the heavy thunder clouds rolling above her head. 
 
 Tightly her hands clenched each other as Her- 
 bert answered jestingly. 
 
 " She's one of the religious ones, Milly is ; writes 
 me such good letters. I've one of them in my 
 
IN TEE BEECH WOODS. 
 
 295 
 
 pocket now. She's coming to see me ; is actually 
 on the way, so to-morrow night, or never, my 
 bride you must be." 
 
 " Miss Atherton coming here ! What do you 
 mean ?" Anna asked, and Herbert replied, 
 
 "I mean, Mildred has always been in a fever to 
 see Castlewild, and as she is intimate with Mrs. 
 Judge Harcourt's family, she is coming there on a 
 visit. Will arrive to-morrow, her note said ; and 
 will expect to see me immediately after her arrival. ,, 
 
 Herbert's influence over Anna was too great 
 for her to attempt to stop him, so she offered no 
 remonstrance, when he continued ! 
 
 " I suppose Milly will cry a little, for I do be- 
 lieve she likes me, and always has ; but I can't help 
 it. The match was agreed upon by our families 
 when she was twelve and I fifteen. Of course I'm 
 awfully sick of it, and have been ever since I knew 
 you," and Herbert's lips touched the white brow 
 where only half an hour before Adam Floyd's had 
 been. 
 
 Thicker, and blacker, grew the darkness around 
 them, while the thunder was louder and nearer, and 
 still they sat together, Anna hesitating, while 
 Herbert urged upon her the necessity of going with 
 him the following night, if ever. 
 
296 
 
 IF THE BEECH WOODS. 
 
 Mildred in the neighborhood would be as formid- 
 able an obstacle to him as Adam was to Anna, while 
 he feared the result of another interview between 
 the affianced pair. With all his love for Anna he 
 was not blind to the fact that the last one with 
 whom she talked had the better chance of eventu- 
 ally winning. He could not lose her now, and he 
 redoubled his powers of persuasion, until, forget- 
 ting everything, save the handsome youth beside 
 her, the wealthy heir of Castlewild, Anna said to 
 him, 
 
 "I will meet you at our gate when the vil- 
 lage clock strikes one !" and as she said the words 
 the woods were lighted up by a flash of light- 
 ning so fearfully bright and blinding that with 
 a scream of terror she hid her face in her lap and 
 stopped her ears to shut out the deafening roll of 
 the thunder. The storm had burst in all its fury, 
 and hurrying from the woods, Herbert half carried, 
 half led the frightened Anna across the fields in 
 the direction of her father's door. Depositing her 
 at the gate, he paused for an instant to whisper his 
 parting words and then hastened rapidly on. 
 
 On the kitchen hearth a cheerful wood fire had 
 been kindled, and making some faint excuse for 
 having been out in the storm, Anna repaired thither, 
 
IN TEE BEECH WOODS. 
 
 297 
 
 and standing before the blaze was drying her drip- 
 ping garments, when a voice from the adjoining 
 room made her start and tremble, for she knew that 
 it was Adam's. 
 
 He seemed to be excited and was asking for her. 
 An accident had occurred just before his door. 
 Frightened by the lightning which Anna remem- 
 bered so well, a pair of spirited horses had upset a 
 traveling carriage, in which was a young lady and 
 her maid. The latter had sustained no injury, but 
 the lady's ankle was sprained, and she was otherwise 
 so lamed and bruised that it was impossible for her 
 to proceed any farther that night. So he had 
 carried her into his cottage and dispatching the 
 driver for the physician had come himself for Anna 
 as the suitable person to play the hostess in his home. 
 
 " Oh, I can't go, — mother, you !" Anna exclaimed, 
 shrinking in terror from again crossing the thresh- 
 old of the home she was about to make so deso- 
 late. 
 
 But Adam preferred Anna. The lady was young, 
 he said, and it seemed to him more appropriate that 
 Anna should attend her. Mrs. Burroughs thought 
 so, too, and, with a sinking heart, Anna prepared 
 herself for a second visit to the cottage. In her 
 13* 
 
298 
 
 IN THE BEECH WOODS. 
 
 excitement she forgot entirely to ask the name of 
 the stranger, and as she was not disposed to talk, 
 nothing was said of the lady until the cottage was 
 reached and she was ushered into the dining-room, 
 where old Martha and a smart looking servant were 
 busy with the bandages and hot water preparing 
 for the invalid who had been carried to the pleasant 
 bed-room opening from the parlor. 
 
M1LBEED ATREILTOm 
 
 299 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MILDRED ATHERTON. 
 
 OW is Miss Atherton ?" Adam asked of 
 Martha, while he kindly attempted to 
 assist Anna in removing the heavy- 
 shawl her mother had wrapped around 
 her. 
 
 " Who ? What did you call her ?" Anna asked, 
 her hands dropping helplessly at her side. 
 
 "Why, I thought I told you. I surely did your 
 mother. I beg pardon for my carelessness. It s 
 Mildred Atherton," and Adam's voice sank to a 
 whisper. 4< She was on her way to visit Mrs. Har- 
 court. I suppose it would be well to send for 
 Dunallen, but I thought it hardly proper for me to 
 suggest it. I'll let you get at it somehow, and see 
 if she wants him. You girls have a way of under- 
 standing each other." 
 
 Knowing how, in similar circumstances, he 
 should yearn for Anna's presence, Adam had 
 
300 
 
 MILDRED ATHERTOK 
 
 deemed it natural that Mildred's first wish would be 
 for Herbert, and one reason for his insisting that 
 Anna should come back with him was the feeling 
 that the beautiful girl, whose face had interested 
 him at once, would be more free to communicate 
 her wishes to one of her own age. 
 
 " Mildred Atherton," Anna kept repeating to 
 herself, every vestige of color fading from her 
 cheeks and lips, as she wondered how she could 
 meet her, or what the result of the meeting would 
 be. 
 
 " Sarah, where are you ? Has everybody left 
 me ?" came from the bed, where the outline of a 
 girlish form was plainly discernible to Anna, who 
 started at the tones of what seemed to her the sweet- 
 est voice she had ever heard. 
 
 "Go to her, ,, Adam whispered, and Anna 
 mechanically obeyed. 
 
 Gliding to the beside, she stood a moment 
 gazing upon the beautiful face nestled among the 
 snowy pillows. The eyes were closed, and the long, 
 silken lashes shaded the fair, round cheek, not one 
 half so white as Anna's, notwithstanding that a 
 spasm of pain occasionally distorted the regular 
 features, and wrung a faint cry from the pretty lips 
 Masses of soft black curls were pushed back from 
 
MILDRED ATEERTOK 
 
 301 
 
 the forehead, and one hand lay outside the counter- 
 pane, a little soft, fat hand, on whose fourth finger 
 shone the engagement ring, the seal of her betrothal 
 to the heir of Castlewild ! Oh, how debased and 
 wicked Anna felt standing by that innocent girl, 
 and how she marveled that having known Mildred 
 Atherton, Herbert Dunallen could ever have turned 
 to her. Involuntarily a sigh escaped her lips, and 
 at the sound the soft black eyes unclosed, and looked 
 at her wonderingly. Then a smile broke over the 
 fair face, and extending her hand to Anna, Mildred 
 said, 
 
 " Where am I ? My head feels so confused. I 
 remember the horses reared when that flash of 
 lightning came, the carriage was overturned, and 
 some young man, who seemed a second Apollo in 
 strength and beauty, brought me in somewhere so 
 gently and carefully, that I could have hugged him 
 for it, he was so good. Are you his sister !" 
 
 " No, I am Anna Burroughs. He came for me," 
 Anna replied, and looking her full in the face, 
 Mildred continued, 
 
 " Yes, I remember now, his nurse or housekeeper 
 told me he had gone for the girl who was to be his 
 wife ; and you are she. It's pleasant to be engaged, 
 isn't it?" and Mildred's hand gave Anna's a little 
 
302 
 
 MILDRED ATHERTON. 
 
 confidential squeeze, which, quite as much as the 
 words she had uttered, showed how affectionate and 
 confiding was her disposition. 
 
 The entrance of the physician put an end to the 
 conversation, and withdrawing to a little distance 
 where in the shadow she could not be well observed 
 Anna stood;, while the doctor examined the swollen 
 ankle, and his volatile patient explained to him in 
 detail how it all happened, making herself out quite 
 a heroine for courage and presence of mind, asking 
 if he knew Mrs. Harcourt, and if next morning he 
 would not be kind enough to let her know that 
 Mildred Atherton waa at the cottage. The doctor 
 promised whatever she asked, and was about to leave 
 the room, when Adam stepped forward and said, 
 
 " Is there any one else whom Miss Atherton 
 would like to see — any friend in the neighborhood 
 who ought to be informed ?" 
 
 Eagerly Anna waited for the answer, watching 
 half jealously the crimson flush stealing over Mil- 
 dred face, as she replied, 
 
 " Not to-night ; it would do no good ; to- 
 morrow is soon enough. I never like to make un- 
 necessary trouble." 
 
 The head which had been raised while Mildred 
 spoke to Adam lay back upon the pillow, but not 
 
MILDRED ATHERTOK 
 
 303 
 
 until with a second thought the sweet voice had said 
 to him, 
 
 "I thank you, sir, you are so kind." 
 
 As a creature of impulse, Anna felt a passing 
 thrill of something like pride in Adam as Mildred 
 Atherton spoke thus to him, and when as he passed 
 her he involuntarily laid his hand a moment on her 
 shoulder she did not shake it off, though her heart 
 throbbed painfully with thoughts of her intended 
 treachery. They were alone now, Mildred and 
 Anna, and beckoning the latter to her side, Mildred 
 said to her. 
 
 " He meant Herbert Dunallen. How did he 
 know that I am to be Herbert's wife V 
 
 There was no tremor in her voice. She spoke 
 of Herbert as a matter of course, while Anna could 
 hardly find courage to reply. 
 
 " Mr. Floyd works at Castlewild sometimes, and 
 probably has heard Mr. Dunallen speak of you." 
 
 "Mr. Floyd— Adam Floyd, is that the young 
 man's name?" was Mildred's next question, and 
 when Anna answered in the affirmative, she con- 
 tinued, " I have heard of him. Herbert wrote how 
 invaluable he was and how superior to most 
 mechanics — his prime minister in fact. I am glad 
 
304 
 
 MILDRED A THE RT OK 
 
 the accident happened here, and Herbert too will 
 be glad." 
 
 For a moment Mildred seemed to be thinking, 
 then starting up, she said, abruptly. 
 
 And it was Anna — Anna Burroughs, yes, I'm 
 sure that's the name. Would you mind putting 
 that lamp nearer to me, and coming yourself where 
 I can see just how you look ?" 
 
 Anna shrank from the gaze of those clear, truth- 
 ful eyes, but something in Mildred's manner im- 
 pelled her to do as she was requested, and moving 
 the lamp she came so near that Mildred placed a 
 hand on either side of her burning face and gazed 
 at it curiously ; then, pushing back the golden hair, 
 and twining one of the curls a moment about her 
 finger, she laid it by her own long, black shining 
 tresses, saying sadly, "I wish my curls were light 
 and fair like yours. It would suit Herbert better. 
 He fancies a blonde more than a brunette, at least 
 he told me as much that time he wrote to me of 
 you.' 
 
 " Of me ?" Anna asked anxiously, the color re- 
 ceding from her cheek and lip. " Why did he write 
 of me, and when ?" 
 
 The dark eyes were shut now and Anna could 
 see the closed lids quiver, just as did the sweet voice 
 
MILDRED ATUERTOK 305 
 
 which replied, " It's strange to talk so openly to you 
 as if we were dear friends, as we will be when I 
 come to Castlevvild to live. It is my nature to say 
 right out what I think, and people sometimes call 
 me silly. Herbert does, but I don't care. When 
 I like a person I show it, and I like you. Besides, 
 there's something tells me there is a bond of 
 sympathy between us greater than between ordinary 
 strangers. I guess it is because we are both en- 
 gaged, both so young, and both rather pretty, too. 
 You certainly are, and I know I am not bad looking, 
 if Aunt Theo. did use to try and make me think I 
 was. Her story and the mirror's did not agree." 
 
 Anna looked up amazed at this frank avowal, 
 which few would ever have made, even though in 
 their hearts they were far vainer of their beauty 
 than was Mildred Atherton of hers. Was she really 
 silly, or was she wholly artless and childlike in her 
 manner of expression ? Anna could not decide, 
 and with a growing interest in the stranger, she 
 listened while Mildred went on : " In one of his 
 letters last May Herbert said so much of Anna 
 
 Burroughs, with her eyes of blue and golden hair, 
 calling her a ' Lily of the Valley,' and asking, all 
 in play, you know, if I should feel very badly if he 
 
 should elope some day with his Lily. It shocks 
 
306 
 
 MILDRED A THEE TON 
 
 you, don't it I" she said, as Anna started with a 
 sudden exclamation, " But he did not mean it. He 
 only tried to tease me, and for a time it did make 
 in my heart a little round spot of pain which burned 
 like fire, for though Herbert has some bad habits 
 and naughty ways, I love him very dearly. He is 
 always better with me. He says I do him good, 
 though he calls me a puritan, and that time when 
 the burning spot was in my heart, I used to go away 
 and pray, that if Herbert did not like me as he 
 ought, God would incline him to do so. Once I 
 prayed for you, whom I had never seen," and the 
 little soft hand stole up to Anna's bowed head 
 smoothing the golden locks caressingly, " You'll 
 think me foolish, but thoughts of you really troubled 
 me then, when I was weak and nervous, for I was 
 just recovering from sickness, and so I prayed that 
 the Lily of the Valley might not care for Herbert, 
 might not come between us, and I know God heard 
 me just as well as if it had been my own father of 
 whom I asked a favor. Perhaps it is not having 
 any father or mother which makes me take every 
 little trouble to God. Do you do so, Anna ? Do 
 you tell all your cares to him 
 
 Alas for conscience-stricken Anna, who had not 
 prayed for so very, very long ! What could she 
 
MILDRED ATEERTOK 
 
 307 
 
 say? Nothing, except to dash the bitter tears from 
 her eyes and answer, sobbingly, 
 
 " I used to do so once, but now — oh, Miss 
 Atherton ! now I am so hard, so wicked, I dare not 
 pray !" 
 
 In great perplexity Mildred looked at her a 
 moment, and then said, sorrowfully. 
 
 "Just because I was hard and wicked, I should 
 want to pray — to ask that if I had done anything 
 bad I might be forgiven, or if I had intended to do 
 wrong, I might be kept from doing it." 
 
 Mildred little guessed how keen a pang her 
 words " or intended to do wrong " inflicted upon the 
 repenting Anna, who involuntarily stretched her 
 hands toward the young girl as towards something 
 which, if she did but grasp it, would save her from 
 herself. Mildred took the hands between her own, 
 and pressing them gently, said : 
 
 " I don't know why you feel so badly, neither 
 can I understand how anything save sin can make 
 you unhappy when that good man is almost your 
 husband. You must love him very much, do you 
 not r 
 
 " Yes," came faintly from Anna's lips, and lay- 
 ing her face on the pillow beside Mildred's, she 
 murmured, inaudibly : " God help me, and for- 
 
308 
 
 MILDRED ATHERTON. 
 
 give that falsehood, I will love him, if I do not 
 now." 
 
 Anna did not know she prayed, but He who 
 understands our faintest desire knew it, and from 
 that moment dated her return to duty. She 
 should not wrong that gentle, trusting girl. She 
 could not break Milly's heart with Adam's as break 
 it she surely should if her wicked course were 
 persisted in. And then there flashed upon her the 
 conviction that Herbert had deceived her in more 
 ways than one. He had represented Mildred as 
 tiring of the engagement as well as himself — had 
 said that though her pride might be a little wounded, 
 she would on the whole be glad to be rid of him so 
 easily, and all the while he knew that what he said 
 was false. Would he deal less deceitfully by her 
 when the novelty of calling her his wife had worn 
 away ? Would he not weary of her and sigh for the 
 victim sacrificed so cruelly ? Anna's head and 
 heart both seemed bursting with pain, and when 
 Mildred, alarmed at the pallor of her face, asked 
 if she were ill, there was no falsehood in the reply, 
 i: Yes, I'm dizzy and faint — I cannot stay here 
 longer," and scarcely conscious of what she was 
 doing, Anna quitted , the room, leaning for support 
 against the banisters in the hall and almost falling 
 
MILD RED A TITER TON. 
 
 309 
 
 against old Martha who was carrying hot tea to 
 Mildred Atherton. 
 
 " Let me go home, I am sick," Anna whispered 
 to Adam, who, summoned by Martha, bent anxious- 
 ly over her, asking what was the matter. 
 
 It was too late to go home, he said. She must 
 stay there till morning ; and very tenderly he helped 
 her up to the chamber she was to occupy, the one 
 next to his own, and from which, at a late hour, she 
 heard him, as, thinking her asleep, he thanked his 
 Heavenly Father for giving her to him, and asked 
 that he might be more worthy of her than he was. 
 
 " No, Adam, oh, no — pray that I may be more 
 worthy of you," trembled on Anna's lips, and then 
 lest her resolution might fail, she arose and strik- 
 ing a light, tore a blank leaf from a book lying on a 
 table, and wrote to Herbert Dunallen that she could 
 never meet him again, except as a friend and the 
 future husband of Mildred Atherton. 
 
 Folding it once over, she wrote his name upon 
 it, then, faint with excitement, and shivering with 
 cold, threw herself upon the outside of the bed, and 
 sobbed herself into a heavy sleep, more exhausting 
 in its effects than wakefulness would have been. 
 
310 
 
 THE RESULT. « 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE RESULT. 
 
 HERE was another patient for the village 
 doctor, besides Mildred, at the cottage 
 next morning. Indeed, her case sank 
 into insignificance when compared with 
 that of the moaning, tossing, delirious Anna, who 
 shrank away from Adam, begging him not to touch 
 her, for she was not worthy. 
 
 They had found her just after sunrise, and sent 
 for her mother, whose first thought was to take her 
 home ; but Anna resisted at once ; she must stay 
 there she said, and expiate her sin, in Adam's house. 
 Then, looking, into her mother's face, she added 
 with a smile, 
 
 " You know it was to have been mine in a week!" 
 Adam did not see the smile, He only heard the 
 words, and his heart beat quickly as he thought it 
 natural that Anim should wish to stay in what was 
 to be her home. 
 
THE RESULT. 
 
 311 
 
 The hot August sun came pouring into the 
 small, low room she occupied, making it so uncom- 
 fortable, that Adam said she must be moved, and 
 taking her in his arms he carried her down the 
 stairs, and laid her upon the bridal bed, whose 
 snowy drapery was scarcely whiter than was her 
 face, save where the fever burned upon her fair skin. 
 On the carpet where it had fallen he found the 
 crumpled note. He knew it was her writing, and 
 he looked curiously at the name upon it, while 
 there stole over him a shadowy suspicion, as to the 
 cause of Anna's recent coldness. 
 
 " Herbert Dunallen !" He read the name with 
 a shudder, and then thrust the note into his pocket 
 until the young man came. 
 
 Oh, how he longed to read the note and know 
 what his affianced bride had written to Dunallen ; 
 but not for the world would he have opened it, and 
 Anna's secret was safe, unless she betrayed it in her 
 delirium, as she seemed likely to do. 
 
 A messenger had been dispatched to Castlewild, 
 informing its young heir of Mildred Atherton's 
 mishap. In the room he called his library, Herbert 
 sat, arranging his papers, and writing some direc- 
 tions for his head man of business. 
 
 " Something from Adam Floyd," he exclaimed, 
 
312 
 
 THE RESULT. 
 
 as he tore open the envelope, "Oh, bother," was all 
 the comment he made, as he read the hastily written 
 lines, which gave no hint of Anna's sudden illness. 
 
 He was not in the least prepared for that, and the 
 sudden paling of his cheek when, on his arrival at the 
 cottage, he heard of it, did not escape the watchful 
 Adam, who quietly handed him the note, explaining 
 where he had found it, and then went back to Anna, 
 in whose great blue eyes there was a look of fear 
 whenever they met his — a look which added to the 
 dull, heavy pain gnawing at his heart. He did not 
 see Herbert when he read Anna's note — did not hear 
 his muttered curse at woman's fickleness, but he 
 saw the tiny fragments into which it was torn, 
 flutter past the window where he sat by Anna's 
 side. One, a longer strip than the others, fell upon 
 the window sill, and Adam picked it up, reading 
 involuntarily the words " Your unhappy Anna." 
 
 Down in the depths of Adam's heart there was a 
 sob, a moan cf anguish as his fears were thus cor- 
 roborated, but his face gave no token of the fierce 
 pain within. It was just as calm as ever, when it 
 turned again to Anna who was talking in her sleep, 
 first of Herbert and then of Adam, begging him to 
 forget that he ever knew the little girl called Anna 
 Burroughs, or carried her over the rifts of snow tc 
 
THE RESULT. 
 
 313 
 
 the school-house under the hill. It seemed strange 
 that she should grow sick so fast when yesterday 
 she had been comparatively well, but the sudden 
 cold she had taken the previous night, added to the 
 strong excitement under which she had been labor- 
 ing, combined to spend the energies of a constitu- 
 tion never strong, and the fever increased so rapidly 
 trmt before the close of the second day more than 
 one heart throbbed with fear as to what the end 
 would be. 
 
 In spite of her lame ankle Mildred had managed 
 to get into the sick-room, urging Herbert to accom- 
 pany her, and feeling greatly shocked at his reply 
 that "camphor and medicine were not to his taste." 
 
 Herbert had not greeted his bride elect very 
 lovingly, for to her untimely appearance he attrib- 
 uted Anna's illness and decision. He could change 
 the latter he knew, only give him the chance, but 
 the former troubled him greatly. Anna might die, 
 and then — Herbert Dunallen did not know what 
 then, but bad as he was he would rather she should 
 not die with all that sin against Adam unconfessed, 
 and out in the Beech woods where the night before 
 he had planned with her their flight, and where after 
 leaving Mildred he repaired, he laid his boyish head 
 upon the summer grass and cried y partly as a child 
 
314 
 
 THE RESULT, 
 
 would cry for the bauble denied, partly as an honest 
 man might mourn for the loved one whose life he 
 had helped to shorten. 
 
 Regularly each morning the black pony from 
 Castlewild was tied at the cottage gate, while its 
 owner made inquiry for Anna. He had discern- 
 ment enough to see that from the first his visits 
 were unwelcome to Adam Floyd, who he believed 
 knew the contents of the note written him by Anna. 
 But in this last he was mistaken. All Adam knew 
 certainly was gathered from Anna's delirious rav- 
 ings, which came at last to be understood by 
 Mildred, who in spite of Mrs. Judge Harcourt's 
 entreaties or those of her tall, handsome son, 
 George Harcourt, just home from Harvard, per- 
 sisted in staying at the cottage and ministering to 
 Anna. For a time the soft black eyes of sweet 
 Mildred Atherton w r ere heavy with unshed tears, 
 while the sorrow of a wounded, deceived heart was 
 visible upon her face ; but at length her true 
 womanly sense of right rose above it all, and wak- 
 ing as if from a dream she saw how utterly un- 
 worthy even of her childish love was the boy ma?z y 
 whose society she shunned, until, irritated by her 
 manner, he one day demanded an explanation of 
 her coolness. 
 
THE RESULT. 
 
 315 
 
 " You know, Herbert/' and Milly's clear, inno- 
 cent eyes looked steadily into his. "You know far 
 better than I, all that has passed between you and 
 Anna Burroughs. To me and her lover, noble 
 Adam Floyd, it is known only in part, but you un- 
 derstand the whole, and I am glad of this oppor- 
 tunity to tell you that you are free from an engage- 
 ment which never should have been made, and of 
 which you are weary. I did love you so much 
 Herbert, even though T knew that you were way- 
 ward. I loved you, and prayed for you, too, every 
 morning and every night. I shall do that yet, 
 wherever you are, but henceforth we are friends, 
 and nothing more. Seek forgiveness, first of God, 
 and then of Adam Floyd, whom you thought to 
 wrong by wresting from him the little ewe-lamb, 
 which was his all." 
 
 Herbert looked up quickly. Wholly unversed 
 in Scripture, the ewe-lamb was Greek to him, but 
 Mildred was too much in earnest for him to jest. 
 She had never seemed so desirable as now, that he 
 had lost her, and grasping her hand from which she 
 was taking the engagement ring, he begged of her 
 to wait, to consider, before she cast him off. 
 
 " I was mean with Anna, I know, and I meant to 
 run away with her, but that is over now. Speak to 
 
316 
 
 THE RESULT. 
 
 me, Milly ; I do not know you in this new char- 
 acter." 
 
 Milly hardly knew herself, but with regard to 
 Herbert she was firm, giving him no hope of ever 
 recovering the love he had wantonly thrown away. 
 
 After that interview, the black pony stayed 
 quietly in its stable at Castlewild, while Herbert 
 shut himself up in his room, sometimes crying when 
 he thought of Anna, sometimes swearing when he 
 thought of Mildred, and ending every reverie with 
 his pet words, " oh botheration." 
 
 Each morning, however, a servant was sent to 
 the cottage where, for weeks, Anna hovered between 
 life and death, carefully tended by her mother and 
 Mildred Atherton, and, tenderly watched by Adam, 
 who deported himself toward her as a fond parent 
 would toward its erring but suffering child. There 
 was no bitterness in Adam's heart, nothing save love 
 and pity for the white-faced girl, whom he held firmly 
 in his arms, soothing her gently, while Mildred cut 
 away the long, golden tresses, at which, in her wild 
 moods, she clutched so angrily. 
 
 " Poor shorn lamb," he whispered, while his 
 tears, large and warm, dropped upon the wasted 
 face he had not kissed since the night he and Mil- 
 
THE RESULT. 
 
 317 
 
 dred watched with her and heard so much of the 
 sad story. 
 
 But for the help which cometh only from on 
 high, Adam's heart would have broken, those long 
 bright September days, when everything seemed to 
 mock his woe. It was so different from what he 
 had hoped when he built castles of the Autumn time, 
 when Anna would be with him. She was there, it 
 is true ; there in the room he had called ours, but 
 was as surely lost to him, he said, as if the bright- 
 hued flowers were blossoming above her grave. She 
 did not love him, else she had never purposed to 
 deceive him, and he looked drearily forward to the 
 time when he must again take up his solitary life, 
 uncheered by one hope in the future. 
 
 She awoke to consciousness at last. It was in 
 the grey dawn of the morning, when Adam was 
 sitting by her, while her mother and Mildred rested 
 in the adjoining room. Eagerly she seemed to be 
 searching for something, and w r hen Adam asked for 
 what, she answered: "The note; I had it in my 
 hand when I went to sleep." 
 
 Bending over her, Adam said: "1 found it ; I 
 gave it to him." 
 
 There was a perceptible start, a flushing of 
 Anna's cheek and a frightened, half pleading look 
 
318 
 
 THE RESULT. 
 
 in her eyes ; but she asked no questions, and think- 
 ing she would rather not' have him there, Adam 
 went quietly out to her mother with the good news 
 of Anna's consciousness. 
 
 Days went by after that, days of slow convales- 
 cence ; but now that he was no longer needed in the 
 sick room, Adam stayed away. Tokens of his 
 thoughtful care, however, were visible everywhere, 
 in the tasteful bouquets arranged each morning, just 
 as he knew Anna liked them — in the luscious fruit 
 and tempting delicacies procured by him for the 
 weak invalid who at last asked Mildred to call him 
 and leave them alone together. 
 
 At first there was much constraint on either side, 
 but at last Anna burst out impetuously, " Oh, 
 Adam, I do not know what I said in my delirium, 
 or how much you know, and so I must tell you 
 everything." 
 
 Then, as rapidly as possible and without excus- 
 ing herself in the least, she told her story and what 
 she had intended to do. 
 
 For a moment Adam did not speak, and when he 
 did it was to ask if Mildred had told her about 
 Herbert. But his name had not been mentioned 
 between the two girls and thus it devolved upon 
 Adam to explain. Herbert had left the neighbor- 
 
THE BESULT. 
 
 319 
 
 hood and gone abroad immediately after Anna's 
 convalescence was a settled thing. 
 
 " Perhaps he will soon come back," Adam said, 
 and Anna cried, " Oh, Adam, I never wish him to 
 return, I know now that I never loved him as — I — 
 oh, I wish I had died." 
 
 u You were not prepared, and God spared you 
 to us. We are very glad to have you back," Adam 
 said. 
 
 These were the first words he had spoken which 
 had in them anything like his former manner, and 
 Anna involuntarily stretched her hand toward him. 
 He took it, and letting it rest on his broad, warm 
 palm, smoothed it a little as he would have 
 smoothed a little child's, but what Anna longed to 
 hear was not spoken, and in a tremor of pain she 
 sobbed out, 
 
 " In mercy, speak to me once as you used to. 
 Say that you forgive me, even though -we never can 
 be to each other again what we have been !" 
 
 "I do forgive you, Anna ; and as for the rest I 
 did not suppose you wished it." 
 
 Raising herself up, Anna threw her arms impet- 
 uously around his neck, exclaiming, 
 
 " I do wish it, Adam. Don't cast me off. Try 
 me, and see if I am not worthy. I have sinned, but 
 
320 
 
 THE BESULT. 
 
 I have repented too. Never were you so dear to 
 me ! Oh, Adam, take me back !" 
 
 She was getting too much excited, and putting 
 her arms from his neck, Adam laid her upon the 
 pillow, and said to her gently, 
 
 " Anna, my faith in you has been shaken, but 
 my love has never changed. You must not talk 
 longer now. I'll come again by and by, and mean- 
 time I'll send Miss Atherton. She knows it all, 
 both from Herbert and yourself. She is a noble 
 girl. You can trust her." 
 
 At Adam's request Mildred went to Anna, and 
 sitting down beside her, listened while Anna con- 
 fessed the past, even to the particulars of her inter- 
 view with Adam, and then added tearfully, 
 
 " Forgive me, and tell me what to do." 
 
 " I should be an unworthy disciple of Him who 
 said forgive, until seventy times seven, if I refused 
 your request," was Mildred's reply, as she wound 
 her arm around Anna's neck, and imprinted upon 
 Anna's Hps the kiss of pardon. 
 
 Then, as Anna could bear it, she unfolded her 
 plan, which was that the invalid should return with 
 her to her pleasant home at Rose Hill, staying there 
 until she had fully tested the strength of her love 
 for Adam, who, if she stood the test should come 
 
THE RESULT. 
 
 321 
 
 for her himself. As a change of air and scene 
 seemed desirable, Anna's mother raised no serious 
 objection to this arrangement, and so one October 
 morning Adam Floyd held for a moment a little 
 wasted hand in his while he said good-bye to its 
 owner, who so long as he was in sight leaned from 
 the carriage window to look at him standing there 
 so lone and solitary, yet knowing it was better to 
 part with her awhile, if he would have their future 
 as bright as he had once fancied it would be. 
 
 Eight years have passed away, and on the broad 
 piazza of Castlewild a sweet-faced woman stands, 
 waiting impatiently the arrival of the carriage 
 winding slowly up the hill, and which stops at last, 
 while Mildred Atherton alights from it and ascends 
 the steps to where Anna stands waiting for her. 
 And Mildred, who for years has been abroad, and 
 has but recently returned to America, has come to 
 be for a few weeks her guest, and to see how Anna 
 deports herself as the wife of Adam Floyd, and 
 mistress of beautiful Castlewild. 
 
 There is a sad story connected with Anna's being 
 there at Castlewild, a story which only Mildred can 
 tell, and in the dusky twilight of that first evening 
 when Adam was away and the baby Milly asleep in 
 
322 
 
 THE RESULT. 
 
 its crib, she takes Anna's hand in hers and tells her 
 what Anna indeed knew before, but which seems 
 far more real as it comes from Mildred's lips, 
 making the tears fall fast as she listens to it. Tells 
 her how Providence directed her to the room in a 
 Paris hotel, where a fellow countryman lay dying, 
 alone and unattended save by a hired nurse. The 
 sick room was on the same hall with her own, and 
 in passing the door which was ajar, she was startled 
 to hear a voice once familiar to her and which 
 seemed to call her name. Five minutes later and 
 she was sitting by Herbert Dunallen's bedside and 
 holding his burning hands in hers, while he told her 
 how long he had lain there with the fever contracted 
 in the south of France, and how at the moment she 
 passed his door he was crying out in his anguish 
 and desolation for the friends so far away, and had 
 spoken her name, not knowing she was so near. 
 
 After that Milly was his constant attendant, and 
 once when she sat by him he talked to her of the 
 past and of Anna, who had been three years the wife 
 of Adam Floyd. 
 
 " I am glad of it," he said. " She is happier 
 with him than she could have been with me. I am 
 sorry that I ever came between them, it was more 
 my fault than hers, and I have told Adam so. I 
 
THE RESULT. 
 
 323 
 
 wrote him from Algiers and asked his forgiveness, 
 and he answered my letter like the noble man he is. 
 There is peace between us now, and I am glad. I 
 have heard from him, or rather of him since, in a 
 roundabout away. He lost his right arm in the 
 war, and that will incapacitate him from his work. 
 He can never use the hammer again. I do not sup- 
 pose he has so very much money. Anna liked 
 Castlewild. In fact I believe she cared more for 
 that than for me, and I have given it to her ; — have 
 made my will to that effect. It is with my other 
 papers, and Milly, when I am dead, you will see that 
 Anna has her own. I did not think it would come 
 quite so soon, for I am young to die. Not thirty 
 yet, but it is better so, perhaps. You told me that 
 you prayed for me every day, and the memory of 
 that has stuck to me like a burr, till I have prayed 
 for myself, more than once, when I was well, arvd 
 often since shut up in this room which I shall never 
 leave alive. Stay by me, Milly, to the last ; it will 
 not be long, and pray that if I am not right, God 
 will make me so. Show me the way, Milly, I want 
 to be good, I am sorry, oh, so sorry for it all." 
 
 For a few days longer he lingered, and then one 
 lovely autumnal morning, when Paris was looking 
 14* 
 
324 
 
 TEE RESULT. 
 
 her brightest, he died, with Milly's hand in his, and 
 Milly's tears upon his brow. 
 
 And so Castlewild came to Anna, who had been 
 three years its mistress when Milly came to visit 
 her, and on whose married life no shadow however 
 small had fallen, except, indeed, the shadows which 
 are common to the lives of all. When her husband 
 came home from the war a cripple, as he told her with 
 quivering lips, her tears fell like rain for him, because 
 he was sorry, but for herself she did not care ; he 
 was left to her, and kissing him lovingly she prom- 
 ised to be his right arm and to work for him if 
 necessary, even to building houses, if he would 
 teach her how. But poverty never came to Adam 
 Floyd and Anna, and probably neyer would have 
 come, even if there had been no will which left 
 them Castlewild. That was a great surprise, and at 
 first Adam hesitated about going there. But Anna 
 persuaded him at last, and there we leave them, per- 
 fectly happy in each other's love, and both the better, 
 perhaps, for the grief and'pain which came to them 
 in their youth. 
 
 THE END 
 OF 
 
 ADAM FLOYD. 
 
JOHN LOGAN'S THOUGHTS ABOUT 
 REPAIRING OLD HOUSES. 
 
 Y wife was Priscilla Lord, daughter of the 
 Hon. Erastus Lord, but I always call her 
 Cilly for short, and she rather likes that 
 pet name, inasmuch as it is not spelled 
 with an S. We had been married and kept house 
 ten years, and it had never occurred to me that we 
 were not as comfortable, and cozy, and happy as 
 our neighbors, until one Saturday night in the 
 month of May, when I was superintending the pack- 
 ing of my shirts, and socks, and neckties, prepara- 
 tory to a business trip which I was to make for the 
 firm which employed me, and which was to last four 
 weeks positively, if not longer. Then, after sewing 
 on the last button, and darning the last sock, and 
 wondering why men always wore out their heels 
 
 [325] 
 
326 LOGAN'S THOUGHTS. 
 
 and toes so fast, Cilly suddenly informed me that 
 we were neither cozy nor comfortable, nor respecta- 
 ble, in the present condition of things. 
 
 I was taking off my boots, and sat staring at her 
 with one uplifted in the air, while she went on to 
 say that the view from our bedroom was just horrid, 
 looking out upon nothing but a lane, and a board 
 fence, and Mrs Patterson's kitchen — that we had no 
 china closet proper at all, which was a shame for 
 people of our means — that we had to pass through 
 the dining room to go down cellar, which was a 
 great inconvenience — that we had no conservatory, 
 and the bay window was always crowded with 
 plants in the winter, giving a littered appearance to 
 the room — that the west piazza was altogether too 
 short a walk for her mother, who had lived with us 
 for the past year, and who needed a longer prome- 
 nade, especially in bad weather. And she continued 
 to inform me further that there was space for such 
 a nice room in the attic, which we really needed in 
 the summer when the house was full, and Lizzie was 
 there with all her children and the nurse. 
 
 I liked Lizzie, and liked the children, and liked 
 to have them with us, especially as there were no 
 little Logans of my own playing in the yard; but 
 I thought three spare rooms ought to be enough for 
 
LOGAN'S THOUGHTS. 
 
 327 
 
 them, until I reflected that my mother in-law, Mrs. 
 Erastus Lord, now occupied one of the spare rooms, 
 leaving a surplus of only two, so I still kept silent 
 until Cilly, thinking she had succeeded in convinc- 
 ing me that of all tucked-up, inconvenient, disrep- 
 utable houses in town, ours was the worst, went on 
 to say that she thought and her mother thought, and 
 her grandma thought, (grandma was the old Mrs. 
 Lord of all, Mrs. Erastus, senior,) that we ought to 
 " go through a set of repairs ;" I think that's the way 
 she worded it, and as brother John had left her two 
 thousand dollars "to do just exactly what she pleased 
 with " she had made up her mind to repair, and was 
 going to do it while I was away, so as to save me all 
 the trouble of the muss, and — and — Cilly got a 
 little confused here and stammered a good deal, and 
 finally went on rapidly : " You see, I have quite 
 decided, and mother has seen the men, and they are 
 coming Monday morning, and it will all be done 
 beautifully before you get back, and you'll never 
 know the old hut at all." 
 
 I felt a little hurt to hear her stigmatize, as the 
 old hut, what we had thought so pretty and nice 
 when we took possession of it ten years ago, but 
 had no time to protest before she added : 
 
 "I didn't mean to tell you, as I wished to see 
 
828 
 
 LOGAN'S THOUGHTS. 
 
 how surprised you would be when you returned ; 
 but I was afraid something might happen, the car- 
 penters get sick, or you come home sooner than you 
 intended, and so I had to tell you. See, here is the 
 plan. I had an architect come and make it the day 
 you were in New York. Isn't it lovely, and such an 
 improvement ?" 
 
 I looked at the paper which she held toward me, 
 and saw on it a drawing which reminded me of one 
 of the boats of the White Star Line, it was so long 
 and narrow, with chimneys and smoke-stacks and 
 gables jutting out everywhere. 
 
 "Don't you like it John?" Cilly asked, with a 
 most rueful face, and I replied : 
 
 " Why, yes, I dare say it is nice, but you see I 
 haven't the least bit of building genius, and less 
 imagination, so I've no idea what it's to be." 
 
 " Why, John, what a stupid ; that's the new 
 piazza, and maybe the front door will have to be 
 moved, and that's the new gable, and that's the 
 conservatory, and here is our room right over the 
 kitchen." 
 
 "Over the kitchen!" and I involuntarily sniffed 
 as I thought of onions, and codfish, and boiled cab- 
 bage, each one of which was a favorite dish of mine, 
 
LOGAN'S THOUGHTS. 
 
 329 
 
 though I did not like the smell in my sleeping 
 room. 
 
 Cilly understood my meaning and hastened to 
 say : 
 
 " Oh, we have fixed all that ; there's to be deafen- 
 ing, a double floor and a whole lot of mortar, and 
 we shall never hear a sound nor smell a smell, Jane 
 is so quiet ; and it will be so pleasant with a broad 
 balcony and a door to go out. I wish you would 
 try to have a little interest in it, John." 
 
 So I tried to be interested, but could not forbear 
 asking her if she had the slightest conception of all 
 it involved, this raising the roof and Cain generally ; 
 and then she cried, and the Lord part of her got the 
 ascendant, and she said I was mean, and an old fogy, 
 and a conservative, and a — well, she called me several 
 names, and then we made it up, and I told her to 
 fix away, and knock things endways if she wanted 
 to, and that's about the way matters stood Monday 
 morning, when I said good-bye to her at half-past 
 six and hurried to the train. She was up to see me 
 off, the carpenters were coming at seven, and she 
 must be ready to receive them. 
 
 " You won't know the house when you get 
 home," she said, " it will be so changed and im- 
 proved ; and if you are at all puzzled to find it, 
 
330 
 
 L GAN '8 THO UGHTS. 
 
 look for the very biggest and handsomest place on 
 the street. Good by." 
 
 She was so elated with her repairing that I do 
 not think she was a bit sorry to have me go, and 
 this did not console me much, or make me take any 
 more kindly to the repairs. I did not hear from 
 her for three or four days, and then she was in high 
 spirits. Such nice men as the carpenters were, and 
 such fun to superintend them : she began to think 
 nature had intended her for a builder, or at least a 
 designer of houses. 
 
 I groaned a little for fear my hitherto quiet, 
 satisfied Cilly should develope a propensity for 
 building, and ruin me entirely. It was in her family 
 on both sides, for old Mrs. Erastus Lord had ruined 
 her husband that way, while Mrs. Erastus, junior, 
 had sunk over twenty thousand dollars on a place 
 which originally cost five thousand, and which 
 when completed looked as if it had been taken up 
 and shaken by a high wind and thrown down pro- 
 miscuously. But T hoped better things of my little 
 Cilly, and resuming her letter, read that the piazza 
 was going up so fast, and they had not yet done a 
 single bit of damage, except to knock a hole through 
 one of the front door lights, and kill the ivy, which 
 
LOGAN'S THOUGHTS. 
 
 331 
 
 was just growing so beautifully, and which had 
 come all the way from Kenilworth. 
 
 The next letter was not quite so hilarious and 
 assured, though Cilly was still hopeful and plucky, 
 notwithstanding that four windows had been broken, 
 and the arm of my Apollo Belvidere, which I had 
 bought in Florence, and a whole lot of plaster, had 
 fallen from the ceiling of the room where she was 
 sitting, and a man's leg came right through, lathing 
 and all. I think the leg disturbed her more than 
 all the other mishaps, though her mother told her 
 it was nothing at all to what she must expect, but 
 she didn't think it was nice, and it was such a muss 
 to have four carpenters, three masons, two tinners, 
 three painters, besides a boy to lath, and a man to 
 clean up, and the two thousand dollars would not 
 begin to pay for it all, and I must make some 
 arrangemens, whereby she could get some more 
 money, and if I could she'd like me to stay away as 
 long as possible, not that she did not miss me 
 awfully, and the days seemed a month each, but she 
 did want the house done before I returned, and it 
 went on so slowly, though mother said they were 
 the best workmen she ever saw. 
 
 This was the substance of Cilly 's letter, and I did 
 not hear from her again except a few hurried lines 
 
332 
 
 LOGAN'S THO UGHTS. 
 
 saying she was well, and the house progressing, and 
 both drains stopped up, and a chimney blown 
 down, and the hard finish in one of the rooms 
 spoiled by the rain which beat in just as they got 
 the eaves-trough off. This was about as I had ex- 
 pected it would be, but I was sorry for Cilly, and 
 sorry that my business kept me away from her six 
 weeks instead of four, as I had at first proposed. 
 But the day came at last for me to go home, and I 
 almost counted the minutes, until there came a whiz 
 and a crash, and we were off the track, with baggage 
 car smashed but nobody hurt. This made it very 
 late, midnight in fact, when we reached Morrisville, 
 and, valise in hand, I stepped out upon the platform. 
 It was the darkest night I think, I ever knew, and 
 the rain was falling in torrents. Fortunately, how- 
 ever, there was a solitary cab in waiting, and I took 
 it and bade the negro drive me to No. — Guelph 
 street. But he was a stranger in the place, and 
 stared at me stupidly until I explained where 
 Guelph street was, and then remembering what 
 Cilly had said about looking for the handsomest 
 and largest house, bade him drive to the best and 
 most stylish house in the street, if he knew which 
 that was. 
 
 44 Yes, sar, I done knows now/' and with a grin 
 
LOGAN'S THOUGHTS. 
 
 333 
 
 he banged the door, mounted his box and drove me 
 somewhere, and I alighted, paid my fare, and heard 
 him depart, for I could not see him, or the house 
 either, except with the eye of faith, but of course it 
 was mine, and I groped my way through the gate 
 and up to the front door, to which I tried to fit my 
 night-key, in vain, and after fumbling awhile at the 
 key hole, and trying a shutter to see if it was unfas- 
 tened, I was hunting for the bell knob, when sud- 
 denly a window from above was opened ; there was 
 a clicking sound, and then the sharp ring of a pistol 
 broke the midnight stillness I was not hit, but a 
 good deal scared, and yelled out : 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, Cilly, what do you mean by 
 firing away at a chap like this ?" 
 
 " John Logan, is that you ? We thought it was 
 a burglar. What are you here for?" some one 
 called from the window, while at the same moment 
 the gas flashed up in the hall and showed me where 
 I was. 
 
 Not at my house at all, but at the large boarding 
 house at the upper end of the street, kept by a dash- 
 ing grass widow. Hastily explaining my mistake, 
 I said good night to Bob Sawyer, one of the 
 boarders, whose loud laugh discomfited me some- 
 
334 
 
 LOO AN '8 THOUGHTS. 
 
 what as I felt my way into the street and started to- 
 ward home. 
 
 This time I was sure I was right by the trees near 
 the gate, but the front door was gone — moved, and 
 not wishing to venture into unknown regions, I 
 concluded to try the bath-room door, for our rooms 
 were adjoining it, and I could easily speak to Cilly 
 without alarming her. So I tried it, and after 
 floundering over piles of rubbish, and tearing my 
 tronsers on broads full of nails, and plunging up to 
 my knees in what seemed to be a muddy ditch, and 
 which smelled awfully, I suddenly found myself 
 plump in the cistern, with the water up to my chin ; 
 at the same time I heard a succession of feminine 
 shrieks, conspicuous among which was Cilly's voice, 
 crying out : 
 
 u Oh, we shall all be murdered. It is a burglar. 
 Throw something at him." 
 
 And they did throw — first a soap dish, then the 
 poker, them the broom, and lastly a pair of my old 
 boots. 
 
 "Cilly, Cilly !" I screamed; "are you mad? 
 It's I, John, drowning in the cistern. " 
 
 Then such a Babel as ensued ; such a scrambling 
 down stairs, and opening of doors, and thrusting 
 out of tallow candles into the darkness. But I was 
 
LOGAN'S THOUGHTS. 
 
 335 
 
 out of the cistern by this time, and, wet as a drowned 
 rat, confronted Cilly in her night-gown and crimp 
 ing-pins, and asked her " What the deuse was up V 
 
 " Oh, John!" she sobbed; " everything is ftp; 
 the drain," (that explained the smell), " the floor, 
 and the pump, and the walk, and I've had such a 
 dreadful time, and mother's down with the rheuma- 
 tism, and Jane has sprained her ankle, and Mary has 
 gone, and I have got such a cold, and the town is 
 full of burglars, and I thought you were one, and I 
 wish we hadn't repaired, it's all so nasty and awful." 
 
 The next day, which was Sunday, I had ample 
 time to survey the premises. There was a double 
 piazza on three sides, which was an improvement ; 
 but the hall door was changed, which wasn't. Then 
 the little conservatory, hitched on to the double bay 
 window, which looked like its father, was doubtful. 
 But all this was nothing to the confusion which 
 reigned at the back of the house ; I only marveled 
 that I had not broken my neck. The walk was up, 
 the drain was up, the pump was up, the pipes were 
 up, the cistern floor was up, and the kitcken roof 
 was up, as well, looming into the sky, but the room 
 was far from being finished. 
 
 Nothing had worked as she hoped it would, 
 Cilly said, and everything went wrong, especially 
 
336 
 
 L GAN '£ THO TIGHTS. 
 
 the eaves-troughs, and conductors, and pipes, and 
 it always rained just at the wrong time, and the 
 cellar filled with water, and everything floated like 
 a boat, and the plastering canie down on the stove 
 when Jane was getting dinner, and the soot came 
 down from the chimney on Mary's clean clothes, 
 and just as she got them all washed again and hung 
 out, they came with a lot of lumber and she had to 
 take them down, and things got so bad that she left 
 in disgust, and Jane had fallen into the drain and 
 sprained her ankle, and mother was sick in bed, and 
 the carpets all up, and, worse than all, the Dunnings 
 were coming next week from New York, and it was 
 more than Cilly could bear. 
 
 Of course, I told her I'd help her bear it, and I 
 put my shoulder to the wheel and wrote to the 
 Dunnings to defer their visit, and began to investi- 
 gate matters, which I found had become a little 
 loose, to say the least of it. The men were good 
 enough and faithful enough, and the troubles Cilly 
 had encountered were only the troubles incident 
 upon repairing any old house, a job which is quite 
 as trying to one's patience, and as exasperating as 
 putting up a stove pipe when no one joint fits 
 another, particularly the elbows, and the result is 
 that new pipe is almost always bought to take the 
 
LOGAN'S THOUGHTS. 
 
 337 
 
 place of the old. So with our house ; nothing was 
 right, nothing would do again. No matter how 
 good or how long the piece of conductor, or lead 
 pipe, or bit of siding or floor, it would not fit, and it 
 went to swell the pile of rubbish which, in our back 
 yard was almost mountain high, and reminded me 
 of the excavations in Rome, when I first looked out 
 upon the debris that dreary Sunday morning. But 
 Monday showed a better state of things. I saw that 
 the open drain and cistern hurt Cilly the most, and 
 so I had them closed up first and then plunged into 
 the midst of the repairing, myself, and was aston- 
 ished to find how rapidly I began to develop a talent 
 for the business. I believe, after all, there is some- 
 thing exhilarating in the smell of fresh plaster, and 
 something exciting in walking over piles of old 
 lath, and bits of broken siding, and base boards, and 
 moldings, and matched stuff, and so on through the 
 whole list of terms in a carpenter's vocabulary. I 
 came to know them all, from mitering to nosing, 
 though I never rightly made out the orthography 
 of that last word or its derivation either, but I knew 
 just what it was, and was great on a squint to see if 
 things were square or plumb, as Billy called it, and 
 I think I made them change one window three 
 times, and a certain door twice. What a propensity 
 15 
 
238 
 
 L GAN '£ THG TIGHT S. 
 
 they did have for getting things wrong, that is, ac- 
 cording to my ideas, and poor Cilly had been driven 
 nearly crazy with windows just where she did 
 not want them, and doors opening against her 
 furniture. Then, too, she informed me, she began 
 to suspect that the men thought she was strong- 
 minded, and wanted to vote, because she super- 
 intended them, and was always in the thickest of it, 
 and exactly in their way. Whether they liked 
 masculine rule bettei, I never heard. I only know 
 that they all worked well and faithfully, and they 
 certainly did get on faster when they were not 
 obliged to pull down one day what they had done 
 the day before. This had been Cilly' s method of 
 procedure, aided and abetted by her mother, whom 
 the men stigmatized as " the old one," and who spied 
 upon them from every keyhole, and came unex- 
 pectedly upon them from every corner. She was 
 disabled now, and could only issue daily bulletins 
 to which I paid no heed, and so the repairs went on, 
 and just three months after the first nail was driven 
 the last man departed, and we went to work setting 
 to rights, which would have been delightful busi- 
 ness, if only we could have found our things, but 
 everything was lost or mislaid. Curtain fixtures 
 were gone ; door keys were gone ; stair rods were 
 
LOGAN'S THOUGHTS. 
 
 339 
 
 missing ; screw drivers and tack-hammers could 
 not be found ; wood-saw broken ; both trowels 
 lost ; water pails full of plaster, and all the brooms 
 in the house spoiled, to say nothing of the dusters 
 and dust pans broken, and dippers lost. 
 
 But then, we had a double piazza, and a place 
 for flowers, and a china closet so big that I had to 
 spend a hundred dollars to fill it, and our bed-room 
 has two arches over the south windows, and a raised 
 platform behind them, and we have each of us a 
 bureau in a dressing room which looks like a long 
 hall, and I have four drawers all to myself for my 
 shirts and neckties, and a quarter of a closet, and 
 there are east windows and south windows, which 
 make it so bright in the morning that the flies bite 
 me awfully, and we had to buy a mosquito net to 
 keep them off, and instead of being disturbed by 
 Mrs. Patterson's pump, and looking into nothing 
 but her back-yard and kitchen, we now look into 
 Mrs. Alling's barn-yard, with a most unsightly 
 corn-crib in the center of it, and Mrs. Alling's 
 roosters have a bad habit of crowing every hour, 
 while at about three or four o'clock in the morning, 
 the noise is so terrible, that I believe her hens crow 
 too. 
 
 But Cilly likes that — it sounds rural and like 
 
840 
 
 L GAN '8 THO UGETS. 
 
 the country; and our room is lovely, with the 
 two broad balconies where we sometimes have tea, 
 when the west wind is not too strong, the sun too 
 hot, or the mosquitoes too thick. Then it is such a 
 nice place to smoke, but Cilly never lets me do that 
 any more ; she only smiles so sweetly on her gentle- 
 men friends, and tells them it's a nice place, that I 
 am tempted to try it sometimes surreptitiously, when 
 she and her mother are down town at sotne of the 
 temperance meetings, but her mother would smell 
 me a mile off, and so I forbear. 
 
 Honestly, though, I do enjoy the balconies, 
 and I rather like the arches over the windows, which 
 I call the twins, and which are very pretty. They 
 ought to be, for they cost enough. I've never told 
 Cilly just how much I paid, besides her brother's 
 windfall, but when the greedy assessors tucked an 
 extra four thousand on our house because of the 
 improvements, I wondered how they guessed so ac- 
 curately. 
 
 We have five spare rooms now, but the new one 
 in the attic, which was built for Lizzie's children 
 and the nurse, has never been occupied. The nurse 
 is afraid to sleep there, you have to pass through 
 such a menagerie of trunks, and broken chairs, and 
 rag bags, and old hoop skirts, and cast off pants, and 
 
L GAN '8 THO UGHT8. 
 
 341 
 
 last year's bonnets, to get to it, that it gives her the 
 horrors, and as the children will not sleep without 
 her, that room was made for nothing except to 
 show. 
 
 Mrs. Erastus Lord, senior, is dead, and Cilly was 
 very sorry, when she died, and I suppose I w r as 
 sorry, too ; and I know I was glad when Mrs. 
 Erastus, junior, recovered the use of her limbs, and 
 sailed away to Europe, where she finds the manners 
 and customs more congenial to her taste than here. 
 
 Cilly and I live very quietly together now, and I 
 do not believe she has any thought of repairing 
 again, though she has told me in confidence that the 
 next time she does so, she means to stow the furni- 
 ture in the barn, and knock the plaster off from all 
 the old walls, which were so badly cracked when 
 the house was fixed the last time ; but w 7 ien she 
 actually gets to that point, as true as my is 
 John Logan, I'll lock her up in a lunatu. asylum 
 and then commit suicide. 
 
THE PASSION PLAY 
 
 AT OBERAMMERGAU, 1880. 
 
 E have seen the great Passion Play, and 
 the day is nearly over which we have 
 anticipated so long, and to which every 
 plan has been made subservient, since we 
 crossed the ocean. And now, while the streets are 
 full of people and the twilight shadows are falling 
 over Mt. Kofel, where the tall cross shows so con- 
 spicuously, I sit down to write my impressions of 
 the wonderful drama, which, during the summer, 
 has attracted nearly 100,000 visitors to this little, 
 quiet, old-fashioned town, among the hills of 
 Bavaria. The high and the low, the rich and the 
 poor, the titled lord and the lowly peasant meet 
 here together, jostling side by side, sharing the same 
 fatigue and discomfort, and deeming neither too 
 [342] 
 
THE PASSION PLAT. 
 
 343 
 
 great a price to pay for the object they have in 
 view. 
 
 Before speaking of the play in detail, it may not 
 be out of place to say something of the way to reach 
 Oberammergau, and of the town itself ; and so, first, 
 the journey there. 
 
 Nearly all the Americans and English who visit 
 Oberammergau, make Munich their starting-point ; 
 consequently the city is at this season crowded to 
 its utmost capacity, and reminds one of Philadel- 
 phia during the Centennial. Naturally a great deal 
 of anxiety is felt by the tourist with regard to his 
 pilgrimage to the valley of the Ammer, especially 
 as he hears such exaggerated accounts of the diffi- 
 culties to be encountered on the way, and he is at 
 times half tempted to give it up as something unat- 
 tainable. When we reached Munich, on Friday, 
 August 20th, and made inquiries at our hotel as to 
 the probability of our getting tickets for August 
 29th, we were looked upon as lunatics for entertain- 
 ing such a thought. 
 
 It was impossible under any circumstances to 
 procure a place for the 29th., we were told by the 
 clerk. There would be at least 6.000 people there 5 
 with accommodations for 2,000, and our only way 
 was to wait quietly at the hotel until Sunday, the 
 
344 
 
 THE PASSION PLAY. 
 
 29th ; then take Gaze's tickets, which were to be 
 had in the office for forty-five marks each, and go 
 to see the play on Monday, as it was sure to be 
 repeated. 
 
 Gaze, let me say, is an enterprising English 
 tourist agent, who has opened a hotel at Oberam- 
 mergau, and advertizes to board and lodge you for 
 two days and carry you to and from the railway 
 station at Murnau, where you leave the cars, for 
 forty-five marks, which are equal to $11.25 of Amer- 
 ican money, — a pretty good price, it seemed to us, to 
 pay for two days' board and a drive of sixteen 
 miles ; but we accepted it as inevitable, and settled 
 down quietly to wait, until Providence threw in our 
 way an English clergyman, who changed our plans 
 entirely. 
 
 " Don't believe one word they tell you at the 
 hotels," he said. "They wish to keep you here as 
 long as possible. Don't listen to them. Don't touch 
 a Gaze ticket. Don't touch a Cook ticket. Don't 
 touch anybody's ticket, but just run your own canoe." 
 
 On second considerations I am inclined to think 
 he did not use that last expression, which I believe 
 is purely American, but that w r as what he meant, 
 and he went on to say : " Write to the burgomaster 
 yourself and ask for the highest priced tickets 
 
THE PASSION PLAY. 
 
 345 
 
 You'll not get them, but you will get something. 
 Neither will he answer your letter, but your 
 name will be recorded and remembered when you 
 prefer your claim. Go on Friday by the early train 
 to Murnau, where you will find hundreds of 
 carriages waiting to take you to Oberammergau, 
 and once there, get a place for yourself at half the 
 sum charged by Gaze or his agents." 
 
 We followed the Englishman's advice and wrote 
 to the burgomaster, and on Friday took the train 
 for Murnau, distant from Munich sixty miles, and 
 from Oberammergau sixteen. Here we expected 
 our troubles to commence, for we doubted a little 
 our English friend's story of the carriages waiting 
 for us there ; but he was right. There were hun- 
 dreds of them, — vehicles of every kind, — some good 
 enough for a princess, and some which looked as if 
 Eve herself might have driven in them, had driving 
 been one of her pastimes. I even noticed a cow and 
 a horse harnessed together, but I hardly think they 
 were there for the purpose of getting passengers. 
 At all events we did not take that establishment, 
 but chartering one, which had a pair of strong look- 
 ing horses, we were soon started on what proved to 
 be the pleasantest drive we ever experienced, and 
 one we shall never forget. 
 15* 
 
346 
 
 THE PASSION PLAY. 
 
 There are two routes from Murnau to Oberan.- 
 mergau, — one through the little village of Oberau 
 and up the famous Mt. Ettal, which is so steep and 
 long that passengers are obliged to walk up it, or 
 as a writer has expressed it, " Rich and poor have 
 to struggle with the steepness of Mt. Ettal for over 
 half an hour, while a pair of the best horses are 
 struggling hard to draw up an empty carriage." 
 Marvelous stories are told of people who have had 
 the apoplexy, and of horses which have died toiling 
 up this hill, and as none of our party had a fancy to 
 try it, we chose the other, and to my mind the 
 pleasanter route of the two. It is a little longer 
 than the one through Ettal, but the road winds al- 
 ternately up and over hills neither too long or tire- 
 some, and down through grassy valleys fresh from 
 a recent shower and sweet with the perfume of new 
 mown hay, and into which little brooks came tumb- 
 ling from the mountains which shelter Oberam- 
 mergau and which are always in view. Long 
 before we reached the town I singled out one tall 
 peak which from its peculiar shape attracted my 
 curiosity and which I found to be the far-famed 
 Kofel, on which the cross is erected and which 
 bends over the little hamlet as if in benediction. 
 For this peak the people have a kind of super- 
 
THE PASSION PLAY. 
 
 347 
 
 stitious reverence, and when asked to repeat their 
 play in America, they replied, " We would do so 
 gladly, but we must bring our Kofel with us." 
 
 As we came down into the valley and passed 
 through Unterammergau our way lay through a 
 long avenue, bordered on either side with trees of 
 mountain ash, whose clusters of scarlet berries gave 
 a bit of coloring to the picture, and thus enhanced 
 its beauty. I wish I could convey to your minds a 
 correct idea of the loveliness of that valley, and 
 make you see it, as we saw it that summer after- 
 noon, when the sunlight fell so softly upon the 
 steep hillsides where the grass was green and 
 smooth as velvet, and little feathery wreaths of mist 
 were floating on the mountain tops, reminding one 
 of the patches of snow seen in midsummer in the 
 Alps of Switzerland. Through the valley the 
 Ammer runs swiftly, making sundry turns and 
 windings, as it goes singing on its way toward the 
 deep ravines, which lie beyond Unterammergan. 
 At the end of the ash-bordered avenue we crossed a 
 little bridge and were at last in Oberammergau. 
 
 It is not a pretty town, or a clean one either, not- 
 withstanding that a writer from whom I have before 
 quoted, says, that " it is the cleanest town in the 
 Bavarian Alps." Not having seen all the towns in 
 
348 
 
 THE PASSION PLAT. 
 
 the Bavarian Alps, I am not prepared to dispute the 
 assertion, but if Oberammergau is the cleanest, what 
 must the others be ? The streets are very narrow 
 and crooked, and wind here and there in a crazy 
 kind of manner very bewildering to the stranger, 
 who constantly loses his way. But there is never 
 any difficulty in finding it again, as the church, with 
 its peculiar dome, not unlike a Turkish mosque, 
 is a good landmark, as is also Gaze's hotel, which 
 stands very nearly in the center of the town. This 
 last building looks as if it might have been an old 
 barn before it was converted to its present use. It 
 is very noisy around it, and dirty, too, in the 
 extreme. The streets do not look as if they were 
 ever picked up, and the open sewers are simply a 
 nuisance to the eye and an offense to the nostrils, 
 as are also the stables, of which there are quite as 
 many as houses. Every dwelling has its barn, 
 where the cows and horses are kept, and every barn 
 has its manure heap, piled and boarded with great 
 care, and standing close to tho street, and oftentimes 
 under the very windows of the houses. The fleas 
 are everywhere, and attack you at all points, and 
 travel over you until you feel like tearing your hair 
 In utter desperation. And yet we have been told 
 by some that they have not seen a flea. Truly their 
 
THE PASSION PLAT, 
 
 349 
 
 lot was cast in a more fortunate locality than 
 ours. 
 
 The houses of Oberammergau are for the most 
 part small, old-fashioned and peculiarly shaped, and 
 very few have flowers or trees in front. They stand 
 mostly in the street, as it were, and are neither 
 homelike nor inviting in their outward appearance. 
 Of course there are exceptions to this rule, and we 
 noticed several places w T here it would be a delight 
 to stay. But these had probably been engaged for 
 weeks, and when we drove to one of them which had 
 a pretty yard in front, we were received with a 
 shake of the head. At last, however, we found 
 rooms in a sort of dependence to a restaurant near 
 Gaze's hotel, and though the stables were here, and 
 more smells than poor, abused Cologne ever boasted, 
 and though directly under our window there was a 
 beer garden, where I knew the peasantry would 
 probably spend most of the night, we concluded we 
 were fortunate to get even such quarters, and tried 
 to feel contented and cheerful, until in walking 
 about the town we came upon a tiny little cottage 
 standing in a patch of turnips, with the muck heap 
 behind the house instead of in front of it. There 
 were some boxes of flowers in the window, and the 
 fare of the old lady who sat on a bench by the door 
 
350 
 
 TEE PASSION PLAY. 
 
 was so pleasant and attractive that we accosted her, 
 and were told that " we could have the upper floor 
 if we liked, — would we step in and look ?" 
 
 There were but four rooms in the whole house, 
 two below, the kitchen and the living room, — and 
 two above, but these were scrupulously clean, and 
 so odd-looking and delightful every way, that we 
 decided at once to take them. Now, men are sup- 
 posed to be more courageous than women, but the 
 head of our party proved the contrary in this 
 instance, and did not hesitate to say that alone and 
 unprotected he dared not face the woman with the 
 tumbled hair and dirty hands, who had smiled so 
 blandly when we took the rooms Ave were about to 
 give up. He nyjst have help, he said, for though 
 the Oberammergauers have the reputation of being 
 very heavenly in their dispositions, he suspected 
 our late hostess might be an exception to the general 
 rule, and with her voluble French and German and 
 English, all utterly incomprehensible, prove more 
 than a match for him. So we went in a body, and 
 I, as the one most interested in the change, under- 
 took to explain to her very meekly that though her 
 rooms were excellent in their w r ay, and she herself 
 everything to be desired in a landlady, I was afraid 
 the beer garden under my window might disturb 
 
THE PASSION PLAT. 
 
 351 
 
 <me, and we had found rooms in a quieter part of 
 the town, where I should be more likely to sleep. I 
 might have spared myself the sweetness and 
 apologies, for they were lost upon her. With fierce 
 gestures and flashing eyes she poured out a torrent 
 of words, which, as nearly as I could judge, meant, 
 that of all the mean people it had been her fortune 
 to meet, we were the meanest and the worst ; that 
 her beer garden was as still as the grave, and if I 
 could not sleep over it, the sooner I got out of her 
 house, the better ; then, taking Mr. Holmes's travel- 
 ing bag, she hurled it into the hall in a fashion 
 which made Walter turn pale, and showed that she 
 meant business. It was in vain that I tried to ap- 
 pease her ; I only made matters worse, as she grew 
 more furious and looked as if fully capable of taking 
 me up bodily and throwing me from the window 
 into her beer garden, the cause of the trouble. So 
 we hurried away with our bags and bundles and 
 were soon in possession of our new apartments, to 
 which we ascended by means of a step-ladder, 
 shutting the trap door behind us. 
 
 What funny little rooms they were, with scarcely 
 space to turn round or stand upright ! We had but 
 one sheet, and our covering was a feather bed, 
 while one towel served for the day. There were 
 
352 
 
 THE PASSION PLAY, 
 
 little bits of windows which opened like doors, and 
 our looking-glass was about a foot square. There 
 were madonnas and saints and crosses on the wall, 
 and presses which smelled of mint and musk, and 
 boxes and drawers, and curiosities of various kinds, 
 but the linen was white as snow, and the bare floor 
 was clean as soap and water could make it, as was 
 every part of the house, and with a deep feeling of 
 thankfulness for our good luck, we disposed of our 
 baggage as well as we could, and went out to see 
 the town. 
 
 The next day, Saturday, was the day for the 
 arrivals, and from early morning until night they 
 poured steadily in, until the town was full as it could 
 hold. Where all the people staid is a mystery. In 
 our little cottage the family slept in the woodshed, 
 while on the night preceding the play, some of their 
 friends slept on the floor of the living room. A 
 full description of the variety of accomodations 
 would fill a volume. Some of our friends reported 
 no sheet at all upon their beds ; others slept on 
 pillows of hay, while others again boasted two 
 sheets and a lounge, with preserves and cake for 
 supper. It was very amusing to watch the new 
 arrivals and see the fastidious lady hold high her 
 silken skirts and glance ruefully at her dainty 
 
THE PASSION PLAY. 
 
 353 
 
 boots, as she was set down before a door which did 
 not look very inviting ; to see, too, the Tyrolese 
 peasant woman, who had walked into town with 
 her basket of provisions on her arm, and with no 
 idea where she was to sleep. She had no anxiety 
 with regard to her w T ooden shoes, nor did she hold 
 up her cotton gown, for it was already above her 
 ankles and expanded by a hoop, such as was worn 
 years ago. Her home was far up among the Tyrol 
 mountains, and she had come miles to seethe play ; 
 but she was brisk as a bee, and after greeting her 
 acquaintances, whose costumes, like her own, were 
 of most wonderful fashion, she started with them 
 across the meadow and up the steep declivity, 
 in the direction of Mt. Kofel to say her prayers 
 before the monument. 
 
 This is a marble group, representing a scene 
 from the crucifixion — Christ upon the cross, with 
 his mother and John standing on either side. It is 
 the gift of the present king, Ludwig of Bavaria, to 
 the Oberammergauers, in commemoration of the 
 Dlay of 1870, which he witnessed. It is said to be 
 the work of Halbig, of Munich, and as a work of 
 art is very beautiful. As it is very large and stands 
 high, it attracts the attention at once, and hundreds 
 of the tourists climb the hill to examine it, while 
 
354 
 
 TEE PASSION PLAY. 
 
 most of the peasantry go there to pray before it, 
 kneeling, some upon the ground and some upon the 
 wooden benches placed there for that purpose. 
 The view from the monument is very fine, and of 
 itself repays one for the fatigue of the assent. 
 Leading from it to the village is a higher and dryer, 
 though longer road than the one across the meadow, 
 and this we took on our return, following it until 
 we reached the Church of Oberammergau. 
 
 It stands very near the swiftly running Ammer, 
 in which some peasants were washing their clothes 
 when we crossed the bridge and entered the church 
 yard, where the curious crosses and headstones 
 which marked the graves of the dead made us linger 
 a while to examine them and read the names and 
 dates upon them. It would seem that almost a 
 third of the persons buried there were Langs. In- 
 deed, the Lang family is a very large one in Ober- 
 ammergau. The burgomaster is a Lang ; St. John 
 is a Lang ; Mary Magdalen is a Lang ; Caiaphas is 
 a Lang, and several of the singers are also Langs. 
 
 The church itself is not very large or pretentious 
 outwardly, and we were surprised to find so much 
 ornamentation inside. There was too much gild- 
 ing, it seemed to us, and the effect was rather taw- 
 dry than otherwise. There were a few good pic- 
 
THE PASSION PLAY. 
 
 355 
 
 tures, and under a glass case in an angle near the 
 altar is the skeleton of a woman, elaborately and 
 richly dressed, but looking ghastly and horrible to 
 those unaccustomed to such sights. The church is 
 chiefly interesting as being in one sense the training 
 school for the Passion Play. With its ceremonies, 
 its processions, its music and its singing, it prepares 
 the actors for the parts they take, and keeps the 
 scenes of the betrayal and crucifixion constantly in 
 their minds. Its pastor, the good and aged Daisen- 
 berger, should be mentioned here as being closely 
 identified with the play as it now appears upon the 
 stage. He was the son of a peasant and is now 
 eighty-two years of age. His youth was spent in 
 the monastery of Ettal, with Othmar Weiss, who 
 revised the old Passion Play and adapted it to more 
 modern ideas. In 1845 Daisenberger became the 
 head of the church in Oberamtnergau and made 
 many changes in the play, striking out whatever he 
 thought objectionable or absurd, and materially ele- 
 vating its tone. He has also written several plays 
 of a more secular character, which are repeated dur- 
 ing the long winter months and constitute the only 
 amusement of the little town. At these dramatic 
 representations he directs and arranges in person, 
 and when he is gone, his place cannot well be filled. 
 
356 
 
 THE PASSION PLAT. 
 
 The selection of the actors for the Passion Play 
 devolves upon a committee of forty-five household- 
 ers, with Daisenberger at their head, and the elec- 
 tion takes place the last week of the December pre- 
 vious to the play. All the members attend divine 
 worship first, as they never do anything without a 
 prayer for guidance, and this it is which makes the 
 great drama seem so sacred and holy. To them it 
 is not to be lightly entered into, and the characters 
 are chosen from the best citizens, whose lives are 
 known to be perfectly upright and without re- 
 proach. 
 
 Precisely at seven o'clock on the evening pre- 
 ceding a play, the actors assemble at the extreme 
 end of the village, opposite the house of Tobias 
 Flunger, the Christus of 1850, and there form a 
 procession, which, headed by the band playing a 
 lively tune, marches through the principal streets to 
 the meadow near the theatre, where they disband 
 and return to their several homes. It has been said 
 that there is no rest in Oberammergau on the night 
 before a play, but we did not find it so. It was very 
 quiet around our cottage, and after ten o'clock 
 scarcely a sound was heard till morning, when at 
 five o'clock the booming of the cannon planted at 
 the foot of Mt. Kofel awoke the slumbering people 
 
THE PASSION PLAY. 
 
 857 
 
 and told them that the business of the day had com- 
 menced. The first gun was followed by several 
 others in quick succession until everybody was 
 awake. The actors — and, including the musical 
 characters, there are nearly five hundred in all — 
 hurried to the church, where mass was performed, 
 as a preparation for what was to follow, while the 
 visitors hastened to get their breakfasts; so as to be 
 at the theatre when the doors opened. 
 
 There are but few reserved seats, and as these 
 are taken weeks in advance, our tickets merely en- 
 titled us to seats in a certain platz, or division, with- 
 out designating any particular spot. 
 
 The theatre is plain and unpretending out- 
 wardly, being built wholly of boards, with no 
 attempt at ornament of any kind. Inside it is also 
 very simple and has evidently never had much 
 money expended upon it. Its auditorium is 118 
 feet wide by 168 feet deep, and it occupies an area 
 of nearly 20,000 square feet, and is capable of seat- 
 ing an audience of from 5,000 to 6,000 people. 
 There are visible to the spectator five distinct places 
 of action. First is the proscenium for choruses and 
 processions, and as this part of the stage is not 
 under cover, the singers are always exposed to the 
 weather, and stand, a part of the time, with the sun 
 
358 
 
 THE PASSION PLAY. 
 
 shining directly in their faces. When it rains they 
 have no alternative but to bear it, and we were told 
 that they sometimes sang with umbrellas over their 
 heads. 
 
 The second place is the central stage for the 
 tableaux vivants and the usual dramatic scenes ; the 
 third and fourth, which are reached by stairs, are 
 the palace of Annas and the palace of Pilate, while 
 the fifih represents the streets of Jerusalem. 
 
 Thus there is plenty of room, and never any 
 undue crowding, even when hundreds are on the 
 stage, as in some of the tableaux. In front of, and 
 facing the theatre proper, is the long area occupied 
 by the spectators and divided into compartments 
 varying in price from eight marks ($2) to one 
 mark (25 cents). The eight-mark seats are reserved, 
 and have backs, but all the others are simply 
 benches, with nothing to lean upon, and those 
 nearest the stage, in the one-mark places, have no 
 cover of any kind ; consequently, when it rains or 
 the sun is very hot, those unfortunate enough to be 
 in that locality are neither comfortable nor happy, 
 especially as umbrellas are not allowed to be raised 
 on account of those behind, whose view would be 
 obstructed. And yet, in default of getting any 
 thing better, these places are eagerly sought after, 
 
THE PASSION PLAY. 
 
 359 
 
 and some stand through the entire play rathei than 
 not see it. 
 
 The broad space overhead is left open for 
 the sake of the beautiful landscape, which adds 
 greatly to the effect. Casting your eye over and 
 beyond the stage, you see directly in front the 
 quiet valley, with the Ammer flowing through it ; 
 to the right are steep hillsides clothed with grass, 
 and dotted here and there with trees of fir, while to 
 the left and farther back Mt. Kofel lifts his cross- 
 crowned head, and looks down upon the play. A 
 more lovely background could not be devised, and 
 when the eye was tired with the scenes upon the 
 stage it was such a rest to let it wander away to the 
 green fields beyond, even if it did detect a wicked 
 Oberammergauer fishing complacently in the river, 
 unmindful of the commandment respecting the 
 Sabbath day. Perhaps he thought he was quite as 
 well occupied as we, and others may think so, too, 
 but these have never seen the Passion Play, and do 
 not know how forcible is the lesson it teaches, or 
 how real it makes what before has seemed so misty 
 and vague to those who cannot easily grasp the 
 man Christ and make him seem human and life like. 
 
 By half past seven the theatre was full of eager, 
 curious people, gathered from all parts of the world, 
 and from every station in life, from the nobility of 
 
360 
 
 THE PASSION PLAY. 
 
 aristocratic England down to the lowly peasant of 
 the Tyrol. Even royalty is sometimes represented, 
 but the " blue box " set apart for it was vacant to-day, 
 for the Duke of Edinburgh, though expected, it was 
 rumored, did not come, and only Lord Houghton 
 and Lady Stanley and Lady George Gordon drew 
 the eyes of the curious in that direction. At last, 
 the booming of the cannon was heard again, and 
 then over the waiting thousands there fell a hush 
 of expectancy, while the orchestra played a sweet 
 and simple overture. Could we then have looked 
 behind the curtain which shut the stage from us. a 
 novel and touching sight, such as is not often seen 
 upon the boards of a theatre, would have met our 
 view. Five hundred people kneeling in silent 
 prayer and asking God's blessing upon what they 
 were about to do. Again the booming of the 
 cannon w r as heard, followed quickly by the third 
 and last. It was eight o'clock ; the curtain was 
 drawn, the chorus of singers appeared upon the 
 stage, and the " Passion Play " we had come so far 
 to see, lad commenced. 
 
 As most of our readers know, the Passion Play 
 is performed in fulfillment of a vow made by the 
 people in 1633, when a fearful pestilence was rav- 
 aging the villages in the valley. For a long time 
 
THE PASSION PLAY. 361 
 
 Oberammergau was free from the plague, owing to 
 the strictness of the sanitary precautions ; but it 
 was brought to them at last by a laborer, who had 
 been working in an infected district, and who suc- 
 ceeded in entering the town to see his wife and 
 children. In a day or two he was dead, and so 
 rapidly did the disease spread, that in thirty-three 
 days eighty-four persons belonging to the village 
 died. Then it was that the terrified inhabitants met 
 together and made a solemn vow that if God would 
 remove the dreadful scourge they would perform 
 the Passion Play every ten years. From that time 
 there were no more deaths in Oberammergau, and 
 the play was acted the following year, 1634. The 
 decaded period, however, was not chosen until 1680, 
 and since that time the play has been performed 
 every ten years, with more or less interruptions. 
 It must, however, have been known to the peasan- 
 try of Bavaria before 1633, as history speaks of it at 
 a much earlier period. Since 1634 it has undergone 
 many changes and modifications and been stripped 
 of much that was absurd and offensive. Once the 
 devil was a constant actor upon the stage, and used 
 to dance around Judas during the temptation, and 
 when at last the betrayer hanged himself, a host of 
 demons rushed upon him, as if to bear him away to 
 L 16 . : • ;• 
 
362 
 
 THE PASSION PLAY. 
 
 endless torment. Later, too, the spectators were 
 wont to groan and hiss when he appeared, and even 
 pelt him with dirt and stones, so that it was difficult 
 to find a man with sufficient nerve to take the part 
 of Judas. Now, however, this is changed, and the 
 good taste of the Geistlicher-Rath Daisenberger, is 
 perceptible in every part of the play. In 1870 the 
 play was broken up by the Franco-German war. 
 Forty of the Ammergauers were called into the Ba- 
 varian army, and among them Joseph Maier, the 
 Christus of that year. When the news of peace 
 reached the valley, fires were lighted on every 
 mountain top from the Adenwald to the Tyrol, and 
 the villagers resolved to give a repetition of the 
 play by way of thanksgiving. It was a great suc- 
 cess, and thousands of tourists went to witness it, 
 all of whom were loud in their praises of Joseph 
 Maier, whose acting cannot be excelled, and who, 
 after the burgomaster, is looked up to by the peas- 
 antry as a man second only in importance to the 
 good Daisenberger himself. But of him I shall 
 speak more particularly by-and-bye. I wish now 
 to describe the opening scene, which heralded the 
 beginning of the play. 
 
 The chorus of Schutzgeister, or Guardian An- 
 gels, as they are called, is a peculiar feature of 
 
THE PASSION PLAT, 
 
 303 
 
 the Ammergau stage and adds greatly to the inter- 
 est. The chorus consists of twenty-six singers, and 
 the leader is styled the Prologue, or choragus. Im- 
 mediately after the third and last cannon they 
 appear, thirteen on a side, and march slowly and 
 solemnly into line. Their dresses are of various 
 colors, and over them a white tunic or colored 
 mantle is worn, giving them a picturesque and 
 oriental appearance. Among them are several 
 young women, some of whose faces are very pretty 
 and sweet, and they seem to feel that it is a religious 
 duty rather than a pleasure to stand thus before 
 the five thousand pairs of eyes gazing so fixedly 
 at them. Each act of the play is preceded by one 
 or two tableaux vivants, as symbols or prophecies of 
 scenes in the life of Christ, and it is the part of the 
 choragus, or chief singer, to describe these tableaux 
 and the lesson they are intended to teach. This he 
 does in song, his companions taking up the chorus 
 at intervals, and making the whole very impressive 
 and interesting, especially as some of the solos are 
 finely rendered, in voices clear and sweet, if not 
 highly cultivated. The song or recitation ended, 
 the choragus steps backwards and with half the 
 singers marches to the left of the stage, while the 
 other half retire to the right, where they stand mo- 
 
364 
 
 THE PASSION PLAY, 
 
 tionless as statues, while the curtain is withdrawn 
 from the inner stage, and the tableau is exposed to 
 view for two or three minutes, while, watch as close- 
 ly as you may, you cannot detect the slightest move- 
 ment in the mass of humanity so artistically 
 grouped together. 
 
 The first tableau represented Adam and Eve be- 
 ing driven from the Paradise, which lay in the back- 
 ground, while, conspicuous in the center of the gar- 
 den, was the tree of life, laden with fruit, and among 
 its branches, the tempter, in the form of a serpent, 
 was coiled. The second tableau, which follows imme- 
 diately after the close of the chorus, revealed a large 
 cross planted on a rock, with crowds of children 
 dressed in white kneeling around it in a worshiping 
 attitude. The prayers the children are supposed to 
 be saying, are sung by the chorus, who retire from 
 the stage, and the first act of the great drama com- 
 mences. 
 
 Shouts of rejoicing and notes of glad singing 
 were faintly heard, seeming at first so far away that 
 one could easily believe they came from the green 
 hilltops, seen over and beyond the theatre ; nearer 
 and nearer they came, until the long procession ap 
 peared in view, and the shouts and singing grew 
 louder, as the thronging crowds, carrying palms in 
 
THE PASSION PLAT. 
 
 365 
 
 their hands, welcomed to Jerusalem their master. 
 Then it is that you see Joseph Maier — the central 
 figure of the play — the one on whom every eye is 
 fixed whenever he appears, and the sight of whom 
 makes your heart throb faster as you remember that 
 the scenes you look upon were once a reality, when 
 Jerusalem opened wide her gates, and her streets 
 resounded with the loud hosannas of the multitude 
 doing honor to the man riding in their midst. A 
 better Christus than Joseph Maier could not have 
 been selected. Tall, finely formed, with a sad, pale 
 face, and long, flowing hair, he impresses you at 
 once, and your first thought is what a splendid look- 
 ing man, and how well fitted for his part — a convic- 
 tion which deepens as the play progresses, and you 
 watch him in all the varied situations he has to fill. 
 Not a trace of self-consciousness is ever perceptible 
 in his manner, which is always dignified and self- 
 possessed, like one who feels himself the master. 
 His voice is clear, and full, and rich, and you find 
 yourself constantly listening for it, especially to- 
 ward the last, when the musical tones are full of 
 anguish or tender expostulation and disappoint- 
 ment, as he says to his sleeping disciples : " Could 
 ye not watch with me one hour ? " 
 
 As a general thing, he was well sustained. 
 
866 
 
 THE PASSION PLAT. 
 
 Judas was inimitable, and considering the character 
 he had to take, may almost be said to be better than 
 Joseph Maier himself. With the latter every heart 
 was in sympathy, while for Judas there naturally 
 could be but one feeling, and that of indignation, but 
 so powerfully was he tempted by the artful Pharisees, 
 and so hard and long did he struggle against the 
 temptation, and so bitter was his repentance when 
 the deed was done, that you have only a deep sym- 
 pathy for him as he stands alone by himself and 
 gives vent to his remorse. I can see him now so 
 plainly as he walked the stage, wringing his hands 
 in his despair, and catching at his long gray hair as 
 he lamented his folly, and with bitter cries mourned 
 for the dear friend he had betrayed. You do not 
 see him hang himself, but you see him make a rush 
 at the mountain ash, placed there for that purpose, 
 and which hardly looks as if it would sustain him. 
 But the curtain falls, in time to shut out any incon- 
 sistencies, and poor Judas " goes to his own place," 
 and is seen no more. 
 
 Next to Judas in point of acting comes rash, 
 impetuous and cowardly Peter, who, even if you did 
 not know the story, would impress you as a loving, 
 true hearted man, sure to weep bitterly over the 
 
THE PASSION PLAY. 
 
 367 
 
 denial called forth by fear, and to be among the 
 first to seek the tomb of the risen Saviour. 
 
 John, the beloved, was a little too tame and quiet 
 for the part he took, while Magdalen was an utter 
 failure. One great feature of the play was the per- 
 fect self-forgetfulness of the actors, but this did not 
 apply to Magdalen, whose self-consciousness was so 
 apparent and whose voice was so unnatural and 
 peculiar that we w T ere sorry when she appeared and 
 glad when she left the stage. Her personal appear- 
 ance was quite contrary to one's idea of the 
 Magdalen, to whom the old masters always gave 
 long, flowing hair of a reddish or golden hue, for 
 hers was dark and so short and thin that to wipe 
 one's feet with it was an utter absurdity. She might, 
 of course, have called in art to her assistance, and 
 worn hair of wondrous length and thickness, but 
 such deceptions are unknown to the Magdalen of 
 Oberammergau, whose locks were all her own, as 
 were the few attractions she possessed. The 
 Madonna, on the contrary, was excellent, with a 
 fair, sweet face, which would lead us to question the 
 propriety of selecting so young a person for the 
 mother of Christ, if we did not know that the 
 Bavarian peasantry believe in the perpetual youth 
 and beauty of the Virgin Mary. The parting scene 
 
368 
 
 THE PASSION PLAT. 
 
 between the mother and her son before he goes up 
 to Jerusalem is very touching and sad, for Mary's 
 heart is wrung with dismal forebodings of some 
 evil which will befall her child, and her voice is full 
 of pathos and entreaty, while with infinite love and 
 tenderness he bends over her trying to reassure and 
 comfort her. This is the third act, and after the 
 supper in Simon's house, where Mary anointed the 
 Saviour's head, and Judas was filled with horror at 
 the useless expenditure of the three hundred 
 pence. 
 
 The second act, of which I omitted to speak, 
 represented the high priests in session, and consult- 
 ing together how to secure the person of Christ. 
 Conspicuous among these was Caiaphas, who was 
 admirably represented by one of the Langs, and 
 who never for an instant forgot the part he was 
 acting, or ceased to be other than the proud and 
 despotic man thirsting for the blood of the lowly 
 Nazarene. 
 
 In the fourth act we had the temptation of Judas, 
 and in the fifth the institution of the Lord's Supper, 
 when Christ washed his disciples' feet, and foretold 
 that one of them should betray him. Next we saw 
 the Garden of Gethsemane, over which the shadows 
 of night hung darkly, and where the Saviour, in his 
 
THE PASSION PLAY. 
 
 369 
 
 great agony, prayed for the cup to pass from him, 
 if possible ; while, a little apart, his disciples were 
 sleeping heavily. In the distance and gradually 
 approaching nearer, the sound of loud, excited 
 voices and hurried footsteps was heard, as the Ro- 
 man soldiers, with the Pharisees and chief priests, 
 approached, led by Judas, who even then seemed to 
 hesitate before giving the kiss of betrayal. The 
 text of the history is here followed very closely, and 
 ends with the captivity of the Saviour, who is borne 
 away by the soldiers. 
 
 By this time it was nearly twelve, and an inter- 
 mission of an hour was given, in which the specta- 
 tors hurried to their lunch and were again in their 
 places by the time the cannon in the meadows an- 
 nounced that the drama was about to be resumed. 
 
 As in the morning we followed the Saviour from 
 his entry into Jerusalem up to his betrayal, so in the 
 afternoon we followed him to his crucifixion and 
 death, and saw him first before Annas, then before 
 Caiaphas, and then before Pilate, who strove so 
 hard to save him, and who, hoping to awaken the 
 sympathy of the people for the man whose life they 
 sought, ordered Barabbas to be brought forth and 
 placed side by side with the noble captive. Where 
 they picked up Barabbas is a marvel. With long 
 13* 
 
370 
 
 THE PASSION PLAY, 
 
 grey hair, which looked as if it never had been 
 combed, a*nd a face from which you instinctively 
 recoiled, he was led upon the stage by a halter or 
 chain, — a marked contrast to the calm, quiet dignity 
 of Joseph Maier, who, bound and bleeding from his 
 recent scourging and the crown of thorns, stood 
 beside him before the rabble thirsting for his blood 
 and crying out, "Give us the Nazarene and let 
 Barabbas go." 
 
 Matters now are hurried on with great rapidity, 
 and as the end comes nearer and nearer, the hush 
 which all along has pervaded that vast concourse 
 grows more and more profound, and the tension to 
 which the peoples nerves are strung reaches its 
 climax, when in the fifteenth act you see the long 
 procession winding its way up to Calvary, with the 
 white-faced, worn-out Saviour tottering under the 
 weight of his heavy cross, while the brutal soldiery 
 urge hiji to greater speed, and the infuriated mob 
 rend the air with their shouts of hatred and derision. 
 Then the tears which have so long been kept back 
 overflow, and the heart throbs with a keen sense of 
 love and pity and sympathy, not for Joseph Maier y 
 but for the man Christ, to whom this, which now is 
 only acting, was once a terrible reality, and who 
 really trod the weary road to Calvary, and bore not 
 
THE PASSION PLAY. 
 
 371 
 
 only the ponderous cross but the sins of the whole 
 world. Every one was more or less affected, and 
 the silence of the audience was almost painful in its 
 intensity, though broken occasionally by a sup- 
 pressed whisper or low cry, as the crowd increased 
 and the boisterous shouts grew louder and the mob 
 hurried the Saviour on, until from sh*er exhaustion 
 he fell upon the ground, and the cross was finally 
 laid upon the shoulders of Simon of Cyrene, who 
 conveniently appeared with a carpenter's basket on 
 his arm. This ascent to Calvary is, I think, more 
 effective and affecting than the crucifixion, which 
 is, however, a most marvelous piece of acting, and 
 seems terribly real as you gaze at the central figure 
 upon the cross, and fancy you see the death struggle 
 from the beginning, until the white, worn face 
 drops downward, and you are glad with a great 
 gladness that all is over. 
 
 Thenceforward there is more stir among the 
 people, and the tired ones, who have sat so long, 
 unmindful of fatigue, change their positions and 
 breathe more freely as they wait for the scene of 
 the resurrection. This, some critics say, might be 
 omitted — that the play is long enough without it ; 
 but I hardly agree with them, for what would the 
 crucifixion avail without the rising from the dead ? 
 
872 
 
 THE PASSION PLAT. 
 
 And when at last the rock is rolled away and Jesus 
 is alive again and speaks to the loving Mary, you 
 experience something of the same thrill you feel on 
 Easter morning, and your thoughts go back to the 
 dear home church across the sea, where you have 
 so often heard the Easter bells and joined in the 
 Easter songs. Loudly and joyfully the singers take 
 up the chorus, " He is risen, He is risen, " and if 
 your tongue were tuned to their language you 
 would almost join them in their exultant strains. 
 But a tableau representing the ascension is to 
 follow, and you sit quietly till that is over ; then, 
 singing the final hallelujah chorus, the Schutzgeis- 
 ter slowly retire from the stage and the play is 
 over, and we leave the theatre with a feeling that 
 we have witnessed something which for all time to 
 come, will, like some earnest, heart-stirring sermon, 
 repeat itself over and over again in our minds, un- 
 til we are made better by it. 
 
 THE END.