A NEW HOME AND OLD FRIENDS.
Trouble seemed to come all at once; they had no money and no place to
store their humble furniture; but Violet always hoped for the best, and
only smiled when they began to move the rough chairs and table her
father had nailed together.
"There's one comfort," she said; "our things are not so fine that a
little dew will hurt them. We may leave them here till we find a better
place."
But it did make her heart ache to see the men tear away her vines, even
from above old Reuben's seat, and then, with a few axe strokes, batter
down the wall, till nothing was left of the dear old home but a little
pile of boards.
"We had better go to this rich man and tell our story," said her mother,
as they walked sadly out of the pasture for, as they thought, the last
time.
"He was boarding," the landlord said, "at a hotel in the village where
Reuben had carried his marketing, only three or four miles thence."
So, leaning on Violet's arm, old Mary crept along the dusty road,
farther than she had walked for many a day, and was tired enough when
they reached the hotel door.
Not so Violet, who was full of hope, and had in her head more plans than
one for finding a new home.
They asked for the stranger, Dr. Story, were led to his parlor, and told
their simple tale. He was interested at once, and very angry that they
had been treated so badly on his account, and offered to give them
money, while he hardly took his eyes from Violet's face.
"No," she said, smiling; "we did not come to beg, but thought, as we had
lost our home through you, you might be willing to help us find
another."
"And how shall I do that?" asked the doctor.
Then Violet told him that she had studied evenings so long it seemed to
her she could teach in the village school; but she was poor, and had no
friends to speak a good word for her with the committee.
"What is your name?" asked the gentleman, suddenly.
"Violet."
"I thought so; and what has become of Toady?"
It was the doctor who had mended Toady's leg so many years ago, and the
young man who sat reading on the sofa was no other than Alfred, his son,
with the fairy Ambition still keeping him hard at work, and making him
care for little else but books.
He looked up though, and listened to Violet's story, and, as he watched
her, actually closed his book, and always afterwards closed it if she
entered the room; for fairy Love was stronger than Ambition, and he
could no more see in the purple light which fell from her wings than an
owl could in broad noonday.
"But where is Narcissa?" asked Violet.
The father's face grew sad as he told how, the very day they were at the
hut, in riding home the carriage was overturned, and Narcissa not only
lamed for life, but thrown against a tree, one of whose branches entered
her eye and put it out.
When Violet heard of this her eyes filled with tears, and forgetting all
the unkindness she had received from this girl, she only remembered how
handsome Narcissa was, and how happy she seemed as they drove away.
And the fairy Love shed such a beautiful light around the poor berry
girl, that Ambition hid in a corner, and Alfred didn't think of his
books again that day.