[Illustration: Mary J Holmes]
THE CAMERON PRIDE
OR
PURIFIED BY SUFFERING
A Novel
BY
MRS. MARY J. HOLMES
AUTHOR OF “TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE,” “HUGH WORTHINGTON,” “LENA RIVERS,”
ETC., ETC.
NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
MARY J. HOLMES SERIES
UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME
By MARY J. HOLMES
Aikenside.
Bad Hugh.
Cousin Maude.
Darkness and Daylight.
Dora Deane.
Edith Lyle’s Secret.
English Orphans, The.
Ethelyn’s Mistake.
Family Pride.
Homestead on the Hillside, The.
Hugh Worthington.
Leighton Homestead, The.
Lena Rivers.
Maggie Miller.
Marion Grey.
Meadow Brook.
Mildred; or, The Child of Adoption.
Millbank; or, Roger Irving’s Ward.
Miss McDonald.
Rector of St. Marks, The.
Rosamond.
Rose Mather.
Tempest and Sunshine.
_Price, postpaid, 50c. each, or any three books for $1.25_
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
TO
MY BROTHER,
Kirke Hawes,
IN MEMORY OF THE OCTOBER DAY WHEN WE RAMBLED OVER THE
SILVERTON HILLS,
WHERE MORRIS AND KITTY LIVED,
THIS VOLUME
IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.
_Brown Cottage, February 22, 1867._
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Farm-house at Silverton 7
II. Linwood 19
III. Wilford Cameron 26
IV. Preparing for the Visit 35
V. Wilford’s Visit 41
VI. In the Spring 51
VII. Wilford’s Second Visit 58
VIII. Getting Ready to be Married 68
IX. Before the Marriage 79
X. Marriage at St. John’s 85
XI. After the Marriage 89
XII. First Months of Married Life 99
XIII. Katy’s First Evening in New York 109
XIV. Extracts from Bell Cameron’s Diary 121
XV. Toning Down—Bell’s Diary Continued 124
XVI. Katy 130
XVII. The New House 135
XVIII. Marian Hazelton 144
XIX. Saratoga and Newport 151
XX. Mark Ray at Silverton 156
XXI. A New Life 169
XXII. Helen in Society 183
XXIII. Baby’s Name 193
XXIV. Trouble in the Household 198
XXV. Aunt Betsy goes on a Journey 211
XXVI. Aunt Betsy Consults a Lawyer 226
XXVII. The Dinner Party 234
XXVIII. The Seventh Regiment 241
XXIX. Katy goes to Silverton 247
XXX. Little Genevra 259
XXXI. After the Funeral 269
XXXII. The First Wife 274
XXXIII. What the Page Disclosed 281
XXXIV. The Effect 290
XXXV. The Interview 292
XXXVI. The Fever and its Results 302
XXXVII. The Confession 308
XXXVIII. Domestic Troubles 316
XXXIX. What Followed 327
XL. Mark and Helen 331
XLI. Christmas Eve at Silverton 335
XLII. After Christmas Eve 345
XLIII. Georgetown Hospital 349
XLIV. Last Hours 359
XLV. Mourning 366
XLVI. Prisoners of War 368
XLVII. Doctor Grant 372
XLVIII. Katy 385
XLIX. The Prisoners 390
L. The Day of the Wedding 396
LI. The Wedding 404
LII. Conclusion 408
THE CAMERON PRIDE;
OR, PURIFIED BY SUFFERING.
CHAPTER I.
THE FARM-HOUSE AT SILVERTON.
Uncle Ephraim Barlow was an old-fashioned man, clinging to the old-time
customs of his fathers, and looking with but little toleration upon what
he termed the “new-fangled notions” of the present generation. Born and
reared amid the rocks and hills of the Bay State, his nature partook
largely of the nature of his surroundings, and he grew into manhood with
many a rough point adhering to his character, which, nevertheless, taken
as a whole, was, like the wild New England scenery, beautiful and grand.
None knew Uncle Ephraim Barlow but to respect him, and at the church in
which he was a deacon, few would have been missed more than the tall,
muscular man, with the long white hair, who, Sunday after Sunday, walked
slowly up the middle aisle to his accustomed seat before the altar, and
who regularly passed the contribution box, bowing involuntarily in token
of approbation when a neighbor’s gift was larger than its wont, and
gravely dropping in his own ten cents—never more, never less, always ten
cents—his weekly offering, which he knew amounted in a year to just five
dollars and twenty cents. And still Uncle Ephraim was not stingy, as the
Silverton poor could testify, for many a load of wood and bag of meal
found entrance to the doors where cold and hunger would have otherwise
been, while to his minister he was literally a holder up of the weary
hands, and a comforter in the time of trouble.
His helpmeet, Aunt Hannah, like that virtuous woman mentioned in the
Bible, was one “who seeketh wool and flax, and worketh willingly with
her hands, who riseth while yet it is night, and giveth meat to her
household,” while Miss Betsy Barlow, the deacon’s maiden sister, was a
character in her way, and bore no resemblance to those frivolous females
to whom the Apostle Paul had reference when he condemned the plaiting of
hair and the wearing of gold and jewels. Quaint, queer and
simple-hearted, she had but little idea of any world this side of
heaven, except the one bounded by the “huckleberry” hills and the
crystal waters of Fairy Pond, which from the back door of the farm-house
were plainly seen, both in the summer sunshine and when the intervening
fields were covered with the winter snow.
The home of such a trio was, like themselves, ancient and unpretentious,
nearly one hundred years having elapsed since the solid foundation was
laid to a portion of the building. Unquestionably it was the oldest
house in Silverton, for on the heavy oaken door of what was called the
back room was still to be seen the mark of a bullet, left there by some
marauders who, during the Revolution, had encamped in that neighborhood.
George Washington, it was said, had spent a night beneath its roof, the
deacon’s mother pouring for him her Bohea tea and breaking her home-made
bread. Since that time several attempts had been made to modernize the
house. Lath and plaster had been put upon the rafters and paper upon the
walls, wooden latches had given place to iron, while in the parlor,
where Washington had slept, there was the extravagance of a porcelain
knob, such, as Uncle Ephraim said, was only fit for gentry who could
afford to be grand. For himself he was content to live as his father
did; but young folks, he supposed, must in some things have their way,
and so when his pretty niece, who had lived with him from childhood to
the day of her marriage, came back to him a widow, bringing her two
fatherless children and a host of new ideas, he good-humoredly suffered
her to tear down some of his household idols and replace them with her
own. And thus it was that the farm-house gradually changed its
appearance, for young womanhood which has had one glimpse of the outer
world will not settle down quietly amid fashions a century old. Lucy
Lennox, when she returned to the farm-house, was not quite the same as
when she went away. Indeed, Aunt Betsy in her guileless heart feared
that she had actually fallen from grace, imputing the fall wholly to
Lucy’s predilection for a certain little book on whose back was written
“Common Prayer,” and at which Aunt Betsy scarcely dared to look, lest
she should be guilty of the enormities practiced by the Romanists
themselves. Clearer headed than his sister, the deacon read the
black-bound book, finding therein much that was good, but wondering
“why, when folks promised to renounce the pomps and vanities, they did
not do so, instead of acting more stuck up than ever.” Inconsistency was
the underlying strata of the whole Episcopal Church, he said, and as
Lucy had declared her preference for that church, he too, in a measure,
charged her propensity for repairs to the same source with Aunt Betsy;
but, as he could see no sin in what she did, he suffered her in most
things to have her way. But when she contemplated an attack upon the
huge chimney occupying the centre of the building, he interfered; for
there was nothing he liked better than the bright fire on the hearth
when the evenings grew chilly and long, and the autumn rain was falling
upon the roof. The chimney should stand, he said; and as no amount of
coaxing could prevail on him to revoke his decision, the chimney stood,
and with it the three fire-places, where, in the fall and spring, were
burned the twisted knots too bulky for the kitchen stove. This was
fourteen years ago, and in that lapse of time Lucy Lennox had gradually
fallen in with the family ways of living, and ceased to talk of her
cottage in western New York, where her husband had died and where were
born her daughters, one of whom she was expecting home on the warm July
day when our story opens.
Katy Lennox had been for a year an inmate of Canandaigua Seminary,
whither she was sent at the expense of a distant relative to whom her
father had been guardian, and who, during her infancy, had had a home
with Uncle Ephraim, Mrs. Lennox having brought him with her when she
returned to Silverton. Dr. Morris Grant he was now, and he had just come
home from a three years’ sojourn in Paris, and was living in his own
handsome dwelling across the fields toward Silverton village, and half a
mile or more from Uncle Ephraim’s farm-house. He had written from Paris,
offering to send his cousins, Helen and Kate, to any school their mother
might select, and as Canandaigua was her choice, they had both gone
thither the year before, but Helen, the eldest, had fallen sick within
the first three months, and returned to Silverton, satisfied that the
New England schools were good enough for her. This was Helen; but Katy
was different. Katy was more susceptible of polish and refinement—so the
mother thought; and as she arranged and rearranged the little parlor,
lingering longest by the piano, Dr. Morris’s gift, she drew bright
pictures of her favorite child, wondering how the farm-house and its
inmates would seem to her after all she must have seen during her weeks
of travel since the close of the summer term. And then she wondered why
cousin Morris was so annoyed when told that Katy had accepted an
invitation to accompany Mrs. Woodhull and her party on a trip to
Montreal and Lake George, taking Boston on her homeward route. Katy’s
movements were nothing to him, unless—and the little ambitious mother
struck at random a few notes of the soft-toned piano as she thought how
possible it was that the interest always manifested by staid, quiet
Morris Grant for her light-hearted Kate was more than a brotherly
interest, such as he would naturally feel for the daughter of one who
had been to him a second father. But Katy was so much a child when he
went away to Paris that it could not be. She would sooner think of
Helen, who was more like him.
“It’s Helen, if anybody,” she said aloud, just as a voice near the
window called out, “Please, Cousin Lucy, relieve me of these flowers. I
brought them over in honor of Katy’s return.”
Blushing guiltily, Mrs. Lennox advanced to meet a tall, dark-looking
man, with a grave, pleasant face, which, when he smiled, was strangely
attractive, from the sudden lighting up of the hazel eyes and the
glitter of the white, even teeth disclosed so fully to view.
“Oh, thank you, Morris! Katy will like them, I am sure,” Mrs. Lennox
said, taking from his hand a bouquet of the choice flowers which grew
only in the hothouse at Linwood. “Come in for a moment, please.”
“No, thank you,” the doctor replied. “There is a case of rheumatism just
over the hill, and I must not be idle if I would retain the practice
given to me. Not that I make anything but good will as yet, for only the
Silverton poor dare trust their lives in my inexperienced hands. But I
can afford to wait,” and with another flash of the hazel eyes Morris
walked away a pace or two, then, as if struck with some sudden thought,
turned back, and fanning his heated face with his leghorn hat, said,
hesitatingly, “By the way, Uncle Ephraim’s last payment on the old mill
falls due to-morrow. Tell him, if he says anything in your presence, not
to mind unless it is perfectly convenient. He must be somewhat
straitened just now, as Katy’s trip cannot have cost him a small sum.”
The clear, penetrating eyes were looking full at Mrs. Lennox, who for a
moment felt slightly piqued that Morris Grant should take so much
oversight of her uncle’s affairs. It was natural, too, that he should,
she knew, for there was a strong liking between the old man and the
young, the latter of whom, having lived nine years in the family, took a
kindly interest in everything pertaining to it.
“Uncle Ephraim did not pay the bills,” Mrs. Lennox faltered at last,
feeling intuitively how Morris’s delicate sense of propriety would
shrink from her next communication. “Mrs. Woodhull wrote that the
expense should be nothing to me, and as she is fully able and makes so
much of Katy, I did not think it wrong.”
“Lucy Lennox! I am astonished!” was all Morris could say, as the tinge
of wounded pride dyed his cheek.
Kate was a connection—distant, it is true; but his blood was in her
veins, and his inborn pride shrank from receiving so much from
strangers, while he wondered at her mother, feeling more and more
convinced that what he had so long suspected was literally true. Mrs.
Lennox was weak, Mrs. Lennox was ambitious, and for the sake of
associating her daughter with people whom the world had placed above her
she would stoop to accept that upon which she had no claim.
“Mrs. Woodhull was so urgent and so fond of Katy; and then I thought it
well to give her the advantage of being with such people as compose that
party, the very first in Canandaigua, besides some from New York,” Mrs.
Lennox began in self-defence, but Morris did not stop to hear more, and
hurried off a second time, while Mrs. Lennox looked after him, wondering
at the feeling which she could not understand. “If Katy can go with the
Woodhulls and their set, I certainly shall not prevent it,” she thought,
as she continued her arrangement of the parlor, wishing that it was more
like what she remembered Mrs. Woodhull’s to have been, fifteen years
ago.
Of course that lady had kept up with the times, and if her old house was
finer than anything Mrs. Lennox had ever seen, what must her new one be,
with all the modern improvements? and leaning her head upon the mantel,
Mrs. Lennox thought how proud she should be could she live to see her
daughter in similar circumstances to the envied Mrs. Woodhull, at that
moment in the crowded car between Boston and Silverton, tired, hot, and
dusty, and as nearly cross as a fashionable lady can be.
A call from Uncle Ephraim roused her, and going out into the square
entry she tied his linen cravat, and then handing him the blue umbrella,
an appendage he took with him in sunshine and in storm, she watched him
as he stepped into his one-horse wagon and drove briskly away in the
direction of the depot, where he was to meet his niece.
“I wish Cousin Morris had offered his carriage,” she thought, as the
corn-colored wagon disappeared from view. “The train stops five minutes
at West Silverton, and some of those grand people will be likely to see
the turnout,” and with a sigh as she doubted whether it were not a
disgrace as well as an inconvenience to be poor, she repaired to the
kitchen, where sundry savory smells betokened a plentiful dinner.
Bending over the sink, with her cap strings tucked back, her sleeves
rolled up, and her short purple calico shielded from harm by her broad
check apron, Aunt Betsy stood cleaning the silvery onions, and
occasionally wiping her dim old eyes as the odor proved too strong for
her. At another table stood Aunt Hannah, deep in the mysteries of the
light white crust which was to cover the tender chicken boiling in the
pot, while in the oven bubbled and baked the custard pie, remembered
as Katy’s favorite, and prepared for her coming by Helen
herself—plain-spoken, dark-eyed Helen—now out in the strawberry beds,
picking the few luscious berries which almost by a miracle had been
coaxed to wait for Katy, who loved them so dearly. Like her mother,
Helen had wondered how the change would impress her bright little
sister, for she remembered that even to her obtuse perceptions there
had come a pang when after only three months abiding in a place where
the etiquette of life was rigidly enforced, she had returned to their
homely ways at Silverton, and felt that it was worse than vain to try
to effect a change. But Helen’s strong sense, with the help of two or
three good cries, had carried her safely through, and her humble home
among the hills was very dear to her now. But she was Helen, as the
mother had said; she was different from Katy, who might be lonely and
homesick, sobbing herself to sleep in her patient sister’s arms, as
she did on that first night in Canandaigua, which Helen remembered so
well.
“It’s better, too, now than when I came home,” Helen thought, as with
her rich, scarlet fruit she went slowly to the house. “Morris is here,
and the new church, and if she likes she can teach Sunday-school, though
maybe she will prefer going with Uncle Ephraim. He will be pleased if
she does,” and pausing by the door, Helen looked across Fairy Pond in
the direction of Silverton village, where the top of a slender spire was
just visible—the spire of St. John’s, built within the year, and mostly
at the expense of Dr. Morris Grant, who, a zealous churchman himself,
had labored successfully to instill into Helen’s mind some of his own
peculiar views, as well as to awaken in Mrs. Lennox’s heart the
professions which had lain dormant for as long a time as the little
black bound book had lain on the cupboard shelf, forgotten and unread.
How the doctor’s views were regarded by the Deacon’s family we shall
see, by and by. At present our story has to do with Helen, holding her
bowl of berries by the rear door and looking across the distant fields.
With one last glance at the object of her thoughts she re-entered the
house, where her mother was arranging the square table for dinner,
bringing out the white stone china instead of the mulberry set kept for
every day use.
“We ought to have some silver forks,” she said despondingly, as she laid
by each plate the three tined forks of steel, to pay for which Helen and
Katy had picked huckle-berries on the hills and dried apples from the
orchard.
“Never mind, mother,” Helen answered cheerily: “if Katy is as she used
to be she will care more for us than for silver, and I guess she is, for
I imagine it would take a great deal to make her anything but a
warmhearted, merry little creature.”
This was sensible Helen’s tribute of affection to the little, gay,
chattering butterfly, at that moment an occupant of Uncle Ephraim’s
corn-colored wagon, and riding with that worthy toward home, throwing
kisses to every barefoot boy and girl she met, and screaming with
delight as the old familiar way-marks met her view.
“There is Aunt Betsy, with her dress pinned up as usual,” she cried,
when at last the wagon stopped before the door, and the four women came
hurriedly out to meet her, almost smothering her with caresses, and then
holding her off to see if she had changed.
She was very stylish in her pretty traveling dress of gray, made under
Mrs. Woodhull’s supervision, and nothing could be more becoming than her
jaunty hat, tied with ribbons of blue, while the dainty kids, bought to
match the dress, fitted her fat hands charmingly, and the little
high-heeled boots of soft prunella were faultless in their style. She
was very attractive in her personal appearance, and the mental verdict
of the four females regarding her intently was something as follows:
Mrs. Lennox detected unmistakable marks of the grand society she had
been mingling in, and was pleased accordingly; Aunt Hannah pronounced
her “the prettiest creeter she had ever seen;” Aunt Betsy decided that
her hoops were too big and her clothes too fine for a Barlow; while
Helen, who looked beyond dress, or style, or manner, straight into her
sister’s soft blue eyes, brimming with love and tears, decided that Katy
was not changed for the worse. Nor was she. Truthful, loving,
simple-hearted and full of playful life she had gone from home, and she
came back the same, never once thinking of the difference between the
farm-house and Mrs. Woodhull’s palace, or if she did, giving the
preference to the former.
“It was perfectly splendid to get home,” she said, handing her gloves to
Helen, her sun-shade to her mother, her satchel to Aunt Hannah, and
tossing her bonnet in the vicinity of the water pail, from which it was
saved by Aunt Betsy, who put it carefully in the press, examining it
closely first and wondering how much it cost.
Deciding that “it was a good thumpin’ price,” she returned to the
kitchen, where Katy, dancing and curvetting in circles, scarcely stood
still long enough for them to see that in spite of boarding-school fare,
of which she had complained so bitterly, her cheeks were rounder, her
eyes brighter, and her figure fuller than of old. She had improved, but
she did not appear to know it, or to guess how beautiful she was in the
fresh bloom of seventeen, with her golden hair waving around her
childish forehead, and her deep blue eyes laughing so expressively with
each change of her constantly varying face. Everything animate and
inanimate pertaining to the old house, came in for its share of notice.
She kissed the kitten, squeezed the cat, hugged the dog, and hugged the
little goat, tied to his post in the clover yard and trying so hard to
get free. The horse, to whom she fed handfuls of grass, had been already
hugged. She did that the first thing after strangling Uncle Ephraim as
she alighted from the train, and some from the car window saw it,
smiling at what they termed the charming simplicity of an enthusiastic
school-girl. Blessed youth! blessed early girlhood, surrounded by a halo
of rare beauty! It was Katy’s shield and buckler, warding off many a
cold criticism which might otherwise have been passed upon her.
They were sitting down to dinner now, and the deacon’s voice trembled
as, with the blessing invoked, he thanked God for bringing back the
little girl, whose head was for a moment bent reverently, but quickly
lifted itself up as its owner, in the same breath with that in which the
deacon uttered his amen, declared how hungry she was, and went into
rhapsodies over the nicely cooked viands which loaded the table. The
best bits were hers that day, and she refused nothing until it came to
Aunt Betsy’s onions, once her special delight, but now declined, greatly
to the distress of the old lady, who having been on the watch for
“quirks,” as she styled any departure from long established customs, now
knew she had found one, and with an injured expression withdrew the
offered bowl, saying sadly, “You used to eat ’em raw, Cathe_rine_;
what’s got into you?”
It was the first time Aunt Betsy had called a name so obnoxious to Kate,
especially when, as in the present case, great emphasis was laid upon
the _rine_, and from past experience Katy knew that her good aunt was
displeased. Her first impulse was to accept the dish refused; but when
she remembered her reason for refusing she said, laughingly, “Excuse me,
Aunt Betsy, I love them still, but—but—well, the fact is, I am going by
and by to run over and see Cousin Morris, inasmuch as he was not polite
enough to come here, and you know it might not be so pleasant.”
“The land!” and Aunt Betsy brightened. “If that’s all, eat ’em. ’Tain’t
no ways likely you’ll get near enough to him to make any difference—only
turn your head when you shake hands.”
But Katy remained incorrigible, while Helen, who guessed that her
impulsive sister was contemplating a warmer greeting of the doctor than
a mere shaking of his hands, kindly turned the conversation by telling
how Morris was improved by his tour abroad, and how much the poor people
thought of him.
“He is very fine looking, too,” she said, whereupon Katy involuntarily
exclaimed, “I wonder if he is as handsome as Wilford Cameron? Oh, I
never wrote about him, did I?” and the little maiden began to blush as
she stirred her tea industriously.
“Who is Wilford Cameron?” asked Mrs. Lennox.
“Oh, he’s Wilford Cameron, that’s all; lives on Fifth Avenue—is a
lawyer—is very rich—a friend of Mrs. Woodhull, and was with us in our
travels,” Kate answered rapidly, the red burning on her cheeks so
brightly that Aunt Betsy innocently passed her a big feather fan, saying
“she looked mighty hot.”
And Katy was warm, but whether from talking of Wilford Cameron or not
none could tell. She said no more of him, but went on to speak of
Morris, asking if it were true, as she had heard, that he built the new
church in Silverton.
“Yes, and runs it, too,” Aunt Betsy answered, energetically, proceeding
to tell “what goin’s on they had, with the minister shiftin’ his clothes
every now and agin’ and the folks all talkin’ together. Morris got me in
once,” she said, “and I thought meetin’ was let out half a dozen times,
so much histin’ round as there was. I’d as soon go to a show, if it was
a good one, and I told Morris so. He laughed and said I’d feel different
when I knew ’em better; but needn’t tell me that prayers made up is as
good as them as isn’t, though Morris, I do believe, will get to Heaven a
long ways ahead of me, if he is a ’Piscopal.”
To this there was no response, and being launched on her favorite topic,
Aunt Betsy continued:
“If you’ll believe it, Helen here is one of ’em, and has got a sight of
’Piscopal quirks into her head. Why, she and Morris sing that
talkin’-like singin’ Sundays when the folks get up and Helen plays the
accordeon.”
“Melodeon, aunty, melodeon,” and Helen laughed merrily at her aunt’s
mistake, turning the conversation again, and this time to Canandaigua,
where she had some acquaintances.
But Katy was so much afraid of Canandaigua, and what talking of it might
lead to, that she kept to Cousin Morris, asking innumerable questions
about his house and grounds, and whether there were as many flowers
there now as there used to be in the days when she and Helen went to say
their lessons at Linwood, as they had done before Morris sailed for
Europe.
“I think it right mean in him not to be here to see me,” she said,
poutingly, “and I am going over as quick as I eat my dinner.”
But against this all exclaimed at once. She was too tired, the mother
said, she must lie down and rest, while Helen suggested that she had not
told them about her trip, and Uncle Ephraim remarked that she would not
find Morris at home, as he was going that afternoon to Spencer. This
last settled it. Katy must stay at home; but instead of lying down or
talking about her journey, she explored every nook and crevice of the
old house and barn, finding the nest Aunt Betsy had looked for in vain,
and proving to the anxious dame that she was right when she insisted
that the speckled hen had stolen her nest and was in the act of setting.
Later in the day, a neighbor passing by spied the little maiden riding
in the cart off into the meadow, where she sported like a child among
the mounds of fragrant hay, playing her jokes upon the sober deacon, who
smiled fondly upon her, feeling how much lighter the labor seemed
because she was there with him, a hindrance instead of a help, in spite
of her efforts to handle the rake skillfully.
“Are you glad to have me home again, Uncle Eph?” she asked when once she
caught him regarding her with a peculiar look.
“Yes, Katy-did, very glad?” he answered; “I’ve missed you every day,
though you do nothing much but bother me.”
“Why did you look so funny at me just now?” Kate continued, and the
deacon replied: “I was thinking how hard it would be for such a
highty-tighty thing as you to meet the crosses and disappointments which
lie all along the road which you must travel. I should hate to see your
young life crushed out of you, as young lives sometimes are?”
“Oh, never fear for me. I am going to be happy all my life long. Wilford
Cameron said I ought to be,” and Katy tossed into the air a wisp of the
new-made hay.
“I don’t know who Wilford Cameron is, but there’s no ought about it,”
the deacon rejoined. “God marks out the path for us to walk in, and when
he says it’s best, we know it is, though some are straight and pleasant
and others crooked and hard.”
“I’ll choose the straight and pleasant then—why shouldn’t I?” Katy
asked, laughing, as she seated herself upon a rock near which the hay
cart had stopped.
“Can’t tell what path you’ll take,” the deacon answered. “God knows
whether you’ll go easy through the world, or whether he’ll send you
suffering to purify and make you better.”
“Purified by suffering,” Katy said aloud, while a shadow involuntarily
crept for an instant over her gay spirits.
She could not believe _she_ was to be purified by suffering. She had
never done anything very bad, and humming a part of a song learned from
Wilford Cameron she followed after the loaded cart, returning slowly to
the house, thinking to herself that there must be something great and
good in the suffering which should purify at last, but hoping she was
not the one to whom this great good should come.
It was supper-time ere long, and after that was over Katy announced her
intention of going to Linwood whether Morris were there or not.
“I can see the housekeeper and the birds and flowers,” she said, as she
swung her straw hat by the string and started from the door.
“Ain’t Helen going with you?” Aunt Hannah asked, while Helen herself
looked a little surprised.
But Katy would rather go alone. She had a heap to tell Cousin Morris,
and Helen could go next time.
“Just as you like,” Helen answered, good-naturedly, and so Katy went
alone to call on Morris Grant.