TURNING SHADOWS INTO SUNBEAMS.
Where was Catharine Lacy all this time? Away in a New-England village,
where a merciful institution had been established for the care and
amelioration of insanity. Mrs. Barr had become matron of the house, and
she took Catharine with her as an assistant, having learned to know and
love the girl as good people are sure to love the excellence they have
benefited.
The building was of recent erection; the grounds were newly laid out,
and were, of course, somewhat bare of ornament. But a few grand old
forest-trees had been left scattered over them in clumps and singly,
while an undergrowth of ferns, wild shrubbery and thick rich grass
compensated for all lack of scientific culture. Beyond all that, the
situation was a commanding one. The prospect from almost every window
was beautiful. Hillsides covered with thrifty crops—maple groves that
became gorgeous in the autumn—farm-houses that gave an idea of elegance
as well as comfort, formed lovely rural pictures whereon the inmates of
the institution looked. Indeed, within or without, there was nothing to
excite the brain or give an unpleasant emotion. Authority there was,
certainly, firm and judicious, but so concealed in all its rugged
points, that even the sharp suspicion of insanity failed to jar against
it. Indeed, the ruling spirit of this place was Mrs. Barr, whose charity
was ever prevailing, and whose firm goodness was rendered efficient by
proportionate strength. To her the inmates of this building were objects
of unlimited interest. She gave up all the energies of her life for
their benefit, and learned to find in each diseased mind some sane spot
capable of understanding the sympathy she gave.
What Mrs. Barr was to her charge, Catharine became in another way.
Notwithstanding her hard life, she was not uneducated: no girl of good
natural ability ever need be ignorant in this land. So long as she can
read and write, the keys of all knowledge are in her own keeping; nature
supplies objects of beauty upon which her imagination can feast, and
books are so plentiful, that she can hardly escape the information they
contain.
In her childhood, Catharine had received generous advantages and secured
the idea of many accomplishments which application was sure to improve;
these she brought into action at once. A love of music placed her in
quick sympathy with many of the patients. Her talent for painting, crude
as it was, supplied amusement for others. She had a fine voice, and was
that rare being, a natural reader. The very tones of her voice filled
the listening ear with harmonies. With this exception, Catharine’s
attainments were few; but natural talent—not to say genius—gave grace
and piquancy to them all. Besides, she was so pretty, so exquisitely
truthful, that even insanity felt the charm of her whole character.
Mrs. Barr had left the girl to her own gentle devices. A perfect
knowledge of her character made this course a wise one. When God gives
the power of usefulness to any human being, that power teaches the way.
So this young creature was let loose into the establishment as a wild
bird is free to the woods, and worked out her own sweet will unchecked.
On first coming to the institution, a conversation regarding the future
had taken place between Catharine and her benefactress. There was
nothing in her history which she had not revealed to this good woman,
except the name of her husband and of her aunt. These she kept a secret
in her own bosom, and Mrs. Barr trusted her sufficiently to respect a
reserve which injured no one.
This conversation arose one day, when Catharine was called upon to sign
her name.
“It is not my name,” she said, doubtfully, “and I think it would annoy
my aunt to see it connected with any public institution, but _his_ name
I am forbidden to use.”
Mrs. Barr took the pen from Catharine’s hand, walked to a window, and
became very thoughtful for some time. She was a widow with sufficient
means for an humble independent support. They had been ample once; but
she had given them with a free hand year after year, till but little was
left. Her life had been full of benevolence, but she was very lonely,
notwithstanding. What if she adopted this young person! The thought
became more and more pleasant. She, who had been all her life childless,
might gain the benefits and happiness of motherhood by uniting this
young creature’s destiny with her own. She went back to the table where
Catharine was sitting, and placed the pen in her hand.
“Sign it Catharine Barr, if you like the name and will take me for a
mother,” she said, “for, henceforth, I consider you as my own child.
There is no one on earth to question my right, and it will be a relief
to these proud friends of yours.”
Catharine threw her arms around the old woman’s neck, and kissed her
soft cheek in grateful silence. Then she took up the pen again, and
wrote _Catharine Barr_ plainly as she could through the tears that were
filling her eyes. So from that day Catharine knew what it was to have a
firm friend, and a tender mother, and in this way her identity was lost
alike to those who had sought her so anxiously and to those who gladly
forgot her.