Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
Before rude hands have touched it?
Ha' you mark'd but the fall o' the snow,
Before the soil hath smutch'd it?
BEN JONSON.
Where a ray of light can enter the future, a child's hope can
find a way a way that nothing less airy and spiritual can
travel. By the time they reached their own door Fleda's
spirits were at par again.
"I am very glad we have got home, aren't you, grandpa?" she
said, as she jumped down; "I'm so hungry. I guess we are both
of us ready for supper, don't you think so?"
She hurried up stairs to take off her wrappings, and then came
down to the kitchen, where, standing on the broad hearth and
warming herself at the blaze, with all the old associations of
comfort settling upon her heart, it occurred to her that
foundations so established could not be shaken. The blazing
fire seemed to welcome her home, and bid her dismiss fear; the
kettle singing on its accustomed hook, looked as if quietly
ridiculing the idea that they could be parted company; her
grandfather was in his cushioned chair at the corner of the
hearth, reading the newspaper, as she had seen him a thousand
times; just in the same position, with that collected air of
grave enjoyment, one leg crossed over the other, settled back
in his chair but upright, and scanning the columns with an
intent but most un-careful face. A face it was that always had
a rare union of fineness and placidness. The table stood
spread in the usual place, warmth and comfort filled every
corner of the room, and Fleda began to feel as if she had been
in an uncomfortable dream, which was very absurd, but from
which she was very glad she had awoke.
"What have you got in this pitcher, Cynthy?" said she.
"Muffins! O let me bake them, will you? I'll bake them."
"Now, Flidda," said Cynthy, "just you be quiet. There ain't no
place where you call bake 'em. I'm just going to clap 'em in
the reflector that's the shortest way I can take to do 'em.
You keep yourself out o' muss."
"They wont be muffins if you bake 'em in the reflector,
Cynthy; they aren't half so good. Ah, do let me! I wont make a
bit of muss."
"Where'll you do 'em? "
"In grandpa's room if you'll just clean off the top of the
stove for me; now do, Cynthy! I'll do 'em beautifully, and you
wont have a bit of trouble. Come!"
"It'll make an awful smoke, Flidda; you'll fill your grandpa's
room with the smoke, and he wont like that, I guess. "
"O, he wont mind it," said Fleda. "Will you, grandpa?"
"What, dear?" said Mr. Ringgan, looking up at her from his
paper, with a relaxing face which indeed promised to take
nothing amiss that she might do.
"Will you mind if I fill your room with smoke?"
"No, dear!" said he, the strong heartiness of his acquiescence
almost reaching a laugh; "no, dear! fill it with anything
you like!"
There was nothing more to be said; and while Fleda in triumph
put on an apron and made her preparations, Cynthy on her part,
and with a very good grace, went to get ready the stove;
which, being a wood stove, made of sheet iron, with a smooth,
even top, afforded, in Fleda's opinion, the very best possible
field for muffins to come to their perfection. Now Fleda cared
little in comparison for the eating part of the business; her
delight was, by the help of her own skill and the stove-top,
to bring the muffins to this state of perfection; her greatest
pleasure in them was over when they were baked.
A little while had passed. Mr. Ringgan was still busy with his
newspaper, Miss Cynthia Gall going in and out on various
errands, Fleda shut up in the distant room with the muffins
and the smoke; when there came a knock at the door, and Mr.
Ringgan's "Come in!" was followed by the entrance of two
strangers, young, welldressed, and comely. They wore the usual
badges of seekers after game, but their guns were left
outside.
The old gentleman's look of grave expectancy told his want of
enlightening.
"I fear you do not remember me, Mr. Ringgan," said the
foremost of the two, coming up to him, "my name is Rossitur
Charlton Rossitur a cousin of your little granddaughter. I
have only"
"O, I know you now!" said Mr. Ringgan, rising and grasping his
hand heartily, "you are very welcome, Sir. How do you do? I
recollect you perfectly, but you took me by surprise. How do
you do, Sir? Sit down sit down."
And the old gentleman had extended his frank welcome to the
second of his visitors, almost before the first had time to
utter,
"My friend, Mr. Carleton."
"I couldn't imagine what was coming upon me, "said Mr.
Ringgan, cheerfully, "for you weren't anywhere very near my
thoughts; and I don't often see much of the gay world that is
passing by me. You have grown since I saw you last, Mr.
Rossitur. You are studying at West Point, I believe."
"No, Sir; I was studying there, but I had the pleasure of
bringing that to an end last June."
"Ah! Well, what are you now? not a cadet any longer, I
suppose."
"No, Sir; we hatch out of that shell lieutenants."
"Hum; and do you intend to remain in the army?"
"Certainly, Sir, that is my purpose and hope."
"Your mother would not like that, I should judge. I do not
understand how she ever made up her mind to let you become
that thing which hatches out into a lieutenant. Gentle
creatures she and her sister both were; how was it, Mr.
Rossitur? were you a wild young gentleman that wanted
training?"
"I have had it, Sir, whether I wanted it or no."
"Hum! How is he, Mr. Carleton? sober enough to command men?"
"I have not seen him tried, Sir," said this gentleman,
smiling; "but from the inconsistency of the orders he issues
to his dogs, I doubt it exceedingly."
"Why, Carleton would have no orders issued to them at all, I
believe," said young Rossitur; "he has been saying 'hush' to
me all day."
The old gentleman laughed in a way that indicated intelligence
with one of the speakers, which, appeared not.
"So you've been following the dogs to-day," said he. "Been
successful?"
"Not a bit of it," said Rossitur. "Whether we got on the wrong
grounds, or didn't get on the right ones, or the dogs didn't
mind their business, or there was nothing to fire at, I don't
know; but we lost our patience, and got nothing in exchange."
"Speak for yourself," said the other. "I assure you I was
sensible of no ground of impatience while going over such a
superb country as this."
"It is a fine country," said Mr. Ringgan "all this tract
and I ought to know it, for I have hunted every mile of it for
many a mile around. There used to be more game than partridges
in these hills, when I was a young man; bears and wolves, and
deer, and now and then a panther, to say nothing of
rattlesnakes."
"That last-mentioned is an irregular sort or game, is it not."
said Mr. Carleton, smiling.
"Well, game is what you choose to make it," said the old
gentleman. "I have seen worse days' sport than I saw once when
we were out after rattlesnakes, and nothing else. There was a
cave, Sir, down under a mountain, a few miles to the south of
this, right at the foot of a bluff some four or five hundred
feet sheer down; it was known to be a resort of those
creatures, and a party of us went out it's many years ago,
now to see if we couldn't destroy the nest; exterminate the
whole horde. We had one dog with us, a little dog, a kind of
spaniel, a little white and yellow fellow, and he did the
work! Well, Sir, how many of those vermin do you guess that
little creature made a finish of that day? of large and small,
Sir, there were two hundred and twelve."
"He must have been a gallant little fellow."
"You never saw a creature, Sir, take to a sport better; he
just dashed in among them, from one to another, he would catch
a snake by the neck and give it a shake, and throw it down and
rush at another; poor fellow, it was his last day's sport, he
died almost as soon as it was over; he must have received a
great many bites. The place is known as the rattlesnakes' den
to this day, though there are none there now, I believe."
"My little cousin is well, I hope," said Mr. Rossitur.
"She? yes, bless her! she is always well. Where is she? Fairy,
where are you? Cynthy, just call Elfleda here."
"She's just in the thick of the muffins, Mr. Ringgan."
"Let the muffins burn! Call her."
Miss Cynthia accordingly opened a little way the door of the
passage, from which a blue stifling smoke immediately made its
way into the room, and called out to Fleda, whose little voice
was heard faintly responding from the distance.
"It's a wonder she can hear through all that smoke," remarked
Cynthia.
"She," said Mr. Ringgan, laughing; "she's playing cook or
housekeeper in yonder, getting something ready for tea. She's
a busy little spirit, if ever there was one. Ah! there she is.
Come here, Fleda here's your cousin Rossitur from West
Point, and Mr. Carleton."
Fleda made her appearance flushed with the heat of the stove
and the excitement of turning the muffins, and the little iron
spatula she used for that purpose still in her hand; and a
fresh and larger puff of the unsavoury blue smoke accompanied
her entrance. She came forward, however, gravely, and without
the slightest embarrassment, to receive her cousin's somewhat
unceremonious "How do, Fleda?" and, keeping the spatula still
in one hand, shook hands with him with the other. But at the
very different manner in which Mr. Carleton _rose_ and greeted
her, the flush on Fleda's cheek deepened, and she cast down
her eyes and stepped back to her grandfather's side with the
demureness of a young lady just undergoing the ceremony of
presentation.
"You come upon us out of a cloud, Fleda," said her cousin. "Is
that the way you have acquired a right to the name of Fairy?"
"I am sure, no," said Mr. Carleton.
Fleda did not lift up her eyes, but her mounting colour showed
that she understood both speeches.
"Because, if you are in general such a misty personage," Mr.
Rossitur went on, half laughing, "I would humbly recommend a
choice of incense."
"O, I forgot to open the windows!" exclaimed Fleda,
ingenuously. "Cynthy, wont you, please, go and do it! And take
this with you," said she, holding out the spatula.
" She is as good a fairy as _I_ want to see," said her
grandfather, passing his arm fondly round her. "She carries a
ray of sunshine in her right hand; and that's as magic-working
a wand as any fairy ever wielded hey, Mr. Carleton?"
Mr. Carleton bowed. But whether the sunshine of affection in
Fleda's glance and smile at her grandfather, made him feel
that she was above a compliment, or whether it put the words
out of his head, certain it is that he uttered none.
"So you've had bad success to-day," continued Mr. Ringgan,
"Where have you been? and what after? partridges?"
"No, Sir," said Mr. Carleton, "my friend Rossitur promised me
a rare bag of woodcock, which I understand to be the best of
American feathered game; and, in pursuance of his promise, led
me over a large extent of meadow and swamp land, this morning,
with which, in the course of several hours, I became extremely
familiar, without flushing a single bird."
"Meadow and swamp land!" said the old gentleman.
"Whereabouts?"
"A mile or more beyond the little village over here, where we
left our horses," said Rossitur. "We beat the ground well, but
there were no signs of them even."
"We had not the right kind of dog," said Mr. Carleton.
"We had the kind that is always used here," said Rossitur;
"nobody knows anything about a Cocker in America."
"Ah, it was too wet," said Mr. Ringgan. "I could have told you
that. There has been too much rain. You wouldn't find a
woodcock in that swamp, after such a day as we had a few days
ago. But speaking of game, Mr. Rossitur, I don't know anything
in America equal to the grouse. It is far before woodcock. I
remember, many years back, going a grouse shooting, I and a
friend, down in Pennsylvania; we went two or three days
running, and the birds we got were worth a whole season of
woodcock. But, gentlemen, if you are not discouraged with your
day's experience, and want to try again, _I'll_ put you in a way
to get as many woodcock as will satisfy you if you'll come
here to-morrow morning. I'll go out with you far enough to
show you the way to the best ground _I_ know for shooting that
game in all this country; you'll have a good chance for
partridges, too, in the course of the day; and that aint bad
eating, when you can't get better is it, Fairy?" he said,
with a sudden smiling appeal to the little girl at his side.
Her answer again was only an intelligent glance.
The young sportsmen both thanked him and promised to take
advantage of his kind offer. Fleda seized the opportunity to
steal another look at the strangers; but meeting Mr.
Carleton's eyes fixed on her with a remarkably soft and gentle
expression, she withdrew her own again as fast as possible,
and came to the conclusion that the only safe place for them
was the floor.
"I wish I was a little younger, and I'd take my gun and go
along with you myself," said the old gentleman, pleasantly;
"but," he added, sighing, "there is a time for everything, and
my time for sporting is past."
"You have no right to complain, Sir," said Mr. Carleton, with
a meaning glance and smile, which the old gentleman took in
excellent good part.
"Well," said he, looking half proudly, half tenderly, upon the
little demure figure at his side, "I don't say that I have. I
hope I thank God for his mercies, and am happy. But in this
world, Mr. Carleton, there is hardly a blessing but what draws
a care after it. Well well these things will all be
arranged for us!"
It was plain, however, even to a stranger, that there was some
subject of care, not vague nor undefined pressing upon Mr.
Ringgan's mind as he said this.
"Have you heard from my mother lately, Fleda?" said her
cousin.
"Why, yes," said Mr. Ringgan, "she had a letter from her
only to-day. You ha'n't read it yet, have you, Fleda?"
"No, grandpa," said the little girl; "you know I've been
busy."
"Ay," said the old gentleman; "why couldn't you let Cynthia
bake the cakes, and not roast yourself over the stove till
you're as red as a turkey-cock?"
"This morning I was like a chicken," said Fleda, laughing,
"and now like a turkey-cock."
"Shall I tell mamma, Fleda," said young Rossitur, "that you
put off reading her letter to bake muffins?"
Fleda answered without looking up, "Yes, if he pleased."
"What do you suppose she will think?"
"I don't know."
"She will think that you love muffins better than her."
"No," said Fleda, quietly, but firmly, "she will not think
that, because it isn't true."
The gentlemen laughed, but Mr. Carleton declared that Fleda's
reasoning was unanswerable.
"Well, I will see you to-morrow," said Mr. Rossitur, "after
you have read the letter, for I suppose you will read it some
time. You should have had it before, it came enclosed to me,
but I forgot unaccountably to mail it to you till a few days
ago."
"It will be just as good now, Sir," said Mr. Ringgan.
"There is a matter in it, though," said Rossitur, "about which
my mother has given me a charge. We will see you to-morrow. It
was for that partly we turned out of our way this evening."
"I am very glad you did," said Mr. Ringgan. "I hope your way
will bring you here often. Wont you stay and try some of these
same muffins before you go?"
But this was declined, and the gentlemen departed; Fleda, it
must be confessed, seeing nothing in the whole leave-taking
but Mr. Carleton's look and smile. The muffins were a very
tame affair after it.
When supper was over, she sat down fairly to her letter, and
read it twice through before she folded it up. By this time
the room was clear both of the tea equipage and of Cynthia's
presence, and Fleda and her grandfather were alone in the
darkening twilight with the blazing wood fire; he in his usual
place at the side, and she on the hearth directly before it;
both silent, both thinking, for some time. At length Mr.
Ringgan spoke, breaking as it were the silence and his
seriousness with the same effort.
"Well, dear!" said he, cheerfully, "what does she say?"
"O, she says a great many things, grandpa; shall I read you
the letter?"
"No, dear, I don't care to hear it; only tell me what she
says."
"She says they are going to stay in Paris yet a good while
longer."
"Hum!" said Mr. Ringgan. "Well that aint the wisest thing
I should like to hear of her doing."
"Oh, but it's because uncle Rossitur likes to stay there, I
suppose, isn't it, grandpa?"
"I don't know, dear. Maybe your aunt's caught the French
fever. She used to be a good sensible woman; but when people
will go into a whirligig, I think some of their wits get blown
away before they come out. Well what else?"
"I am sure she is very kind," said Fleda. "She wants to have
me go out there and live with her very much. She says I shall
have everything I like, and do just as I please, and she will
make a pet of me, and give me all sorts of pleasant things.
She says she will take as good care of me as ever I took of
the kittens. And there's a long piece to you about it, that
I'll give you to read as soon as we have a light. It is very
good of her, isn't it, grandpa? I love aunt Lucy very much."
"Well," said Mr. Ringgan, after a pause, "how does she propose
to get you there?"
"Why," said Fleda, "isn't it curious? she says there is a
Mrs. Carleton here, who is a friend of hers, and she is going
to Paris in a little while, and aunt Lucy asked her if she
wouldn't bring me, if you would let me go, and she said she
would with great pleasure, and aunt Lucy wants me to come out
with her."
"Carleton! Hum " said Mr. Ringgan; " that must be this
young man's mother?'"
"Yes, aunt Lucy says she is here with her son, at least she
says they were coming."
"A very gentlemanly young man, indeed," said Mr. Ringgan.
There was a grave silence. The old gentleman sat looking on
the floor; Fleda sat looking into the fire with all her might.
"Well," said Mr. Ringgan after a little, "how would you like
it, Fleda?"
"What, grandpa?"
"To go out to Paris to your aunt, with this Mrs. Carleton?"
"I shouldn't like it at all," said Fleda, smiling and letting
her eyes go back to the fire. But looking, after the pause of
a minute or two, again to her grandfather's face, she was
struck with its expression of stern anxiety. She rose
instantly, and coming to him, and laying one hand gently on
his knee, said in tones that fell as light on the ear as the
touch of a moonbeam on the water, "_You_ do not want me to go,
do you, grandpa?"
"No, dear!" said the old gentleman, letting his hand fall upon
hers, "no, dear! that is the last thing I want!"
But Fleda's keen ear discerned not only the deep affection,
but something of _regret_ in the voice, which troubled her. She
stood, anxious and fearing while her grandfather lifting his
hand again and again, let it fall gently upon hers; and amid
all the fondness of the action, Fleda somehow seemed to feel
in it the same regret.
"You'll not let aunt Lucy, nor anybody else, take me away from
you, will you, grandpa?" said she after a little, leaning both
arms affectionately on his knee, and looking up into his face.
"No, indeed, dear!" said he, with an attempt at his usual
heartiness, "not as long as I have a place to keep you.
While I have a roof to put my head under, it shall cover
yours."
To Fleda's hope that would have said enough; but her
grandfather's face was so moved from its wonted expression of
calm dignity, that it was plain _his_ hope was tasting bitter
things. Fleda watched in silent grief and amazement the
watering eye and unnerved lip; till her grandfather,
indignantly dashing away a tear or two, drew her close to his
breast and kissed her. But she well guessed that the reason
why he did not for a minute or two say anything, was because
he could not. Neither could she. She was fighting with her
woman's nature to keep it down, learning the lesson early!
"Ah well," said Mr. Ringgan at length, in a kind of tone
that might indicate the giving up a struggle which he had no
means of carrying on, or the endeavour to conceal it from the
too keen-wrought feelings of his little grand-daughter,
"there will be a way opened for us somehow. We must let our
Heavenly Father take care of us."
"And he will, grandpa," whispered Fleda.
"Yes, dear! We are selfish creatures. Your father's and your
mother's child will not be forgotten."
"Nor you either, dear grandpa," said the little girl, laying
her soft cheek alongside of his, and speaking by dint of a
great effort.
"No," said he, clasping her more tenderly, "no it would be
wicked in me to doubt it. He has blessed me all my life long
with a great many more blessings than I deserved; and if he
chooses to take away the sunshine of my last days, I will bow
my head to his will, and believe that he does all things well,
though I cannot see it."
"Don't, dear grandpa," said Fleda, stealing her other arm
round his neck and hiding her face there, "please don't!"
He very much regretted that he had said too much. He did not,
however, know exactly how to mend it. He kissed her, and
stroked her soft hair, but that and the manner of it only made
it more difficult for Fleda to recover herself, which she was
struggling to do; and when he tried to speak in accents of
cheering, his voice trembled. Fleda's heart was breaking, but
she felt that she was making matters worse, and she had
already concluded, on a mature review of circumstances, that
it was her duty to be cheerful. So, after a few very heartfelt
tears which she could not help, she raised her head and
smiled, even while she wiped the traces of them away.
"After all, grandpa," said she, "perhaps Mr. Jolly will come
here in the morning with some good news, and then we should be
troubling ourselves just for nothing."
"Perhaps he will," said Mr. Ringgan, in a way that sounded
much more like "Perhaps he wont!" But Fleda was determined now
not to _seem_ discouraged again. She thought the best way was to
change the conversation.
"It is very kind in aunt Lucy, isn't it, grandpa, what she has
written to me?"
"Why, no," said Mr. Ringgan, decidedly; "I can't say I think
it is any very extraordinary manifestation of kindness in
anybody to want you."
Fleda smiled her thanks for this compliment.
"It might be a kindness in me to give you to her."
"It wouldn't be a kindness to me, grandpa."
"I don't know about that," said he, gravely. They were getting
back to the old subject. Fleda made another great effort at a
diversion.
"Grandpa, was my father like my uncle Rossitur in anything?"
The diversion was effected.
"Not he, dear!" said Mr. Ringgan. "Your father had ten times
the man in him that ever your uncle was."
"Why, what kind of a man is uncle Rossitur, grandpa?"
"Ho dear! I can't tell. I ha'n't seen much of him. I wouldn't
judge a man without knowing more of him than I do of Mr.
Rossitur. He seemed an amiable kind of man. But no one would
ever have thought of looking at him, no more than at a shadow,
when your father was by."
The diversion took effect on Fleda herself now. She looked up
pleased.
"You remember your father, Fleda."
"Yes, grandpa, but not very well always. I remember a great
many things about him, but I can't remember exactly how he
looked, except once or twice."
"Ay, and he wa'n't well the last time you remember him. But he
was a noble-looking man in form and face too and his looks
were the worst part of him. He seemed made of different stuff
from all the people around," said Mr. Ringgan, sighing, "and
they felt it too, I used to notice, without knowing it. When
his cousins were 'Sam,' and 'Johnny,' and 'Bill,' he was
always, that is after he grew up, '_Mr. Walter_.' I believe they
were a little afeard of him. And with all his bravery and fire
he could be as gentle as a woman."
"I know that," said Fleda, whose eyes were dropping soft tears
and glittering at the same time with gratified feeling. "What
made him be a soldier, grandpa? "
"Oh, I don't know, dear! he was too good to make a farmer of
or his high spirit wanted to rise in the world he couldn't
rest without trying to be something more than other folks. I
don't know whether people are any happier for it."
"Did _he_ go to West Point, grandpa?"
"No, dear! he started without having so much of a push as
that; but he was one of those that don't need any pushing; he
would have worked his way up, put him anywhere you would, and
he did, over the heads of West Pointers and all, and would
have gone to the top, I verily believe, if he had lived long
enough. He was as fine a fellow as there was in all the army.
_I_ don't believe there's the like of him left in it."
"He had been a major a good while, hadn't be, grandpa?"
"Yes. It was just after he was made captain that he went to
Albany, and there he saw your mother. She and her sister, your
aunt Lucy, were wards of the patroon. I was in Albany, in the
legislature, that winter, and I knew them both very well; but
your aunt Lucy had been married some years before. She was
staying there that winter without her husband he was abroad
somewhere."
Fleda was no stranger to these details, and had learned long
ago what was meant by "wards" and "the patroon."
"Your father was made a major some years afterwards," Mr.
Ringgan went on, "for his fine behaviour out here at the West
what's the name of the place? I forget it just now
fighting the Indians. There never was anything finer done."
"He was brave, wasn't he, grandpa?"
"Brave! he had a heart of iron sometimes, for as soft as it
was at others. And he had an eye, when he was roused, that I
never saw anything that would stand against. But your father
had a better sort of courage than the common sort he had
enough of _that_ but this is a rarer thing he never was
afraid to do what in his conscience he thought was right.
Moral courage I call it, and it is one of the very noblest
qualities a man can have."
"That's a kind of courage a woman may have," raid Fleda.
"Yes you may have that; and I guess it's the only kind of
courage you'll ever be troubled with," said her grandfather,
looking laughingly at her. "However, any man may walk up to
the cannon's mouth, but it is only one here and there that
will walk out against men's opinions because he thinks it is
right. That was one of the things I admired most in your
father."
"Didn't my mother have it too?" said Fleda.
"I don't know she had about everything that was good. A
sweet pretty creature she was as ever I saw."
"Was she like aunt Lucy?"
"No, not much. She was a deal handsomer than your aunt is or
ever could have been. She was the handsomest woman, I think,
that ever I set eyes upon; and a sweet, gentle, lovely
creature. _You_'ll never match her," said Mr. Ringgan, with a
curious twist of his head and sly laughing twist of his eyes
at Fleda; "you may be as _good_ as she was, but you'll never
be as good-looking."
Fleda laughed, nowise displeased.
"You've got her hazel eyes though," remarked Mr. Ringgan,
after a minute or two, viewing his little grand-daughter with
a sufficiently satisfied expression of countenance.
"Grandpa," said she, "don't you think Mr. Carleton has
handsome eyes?"
"Mr. Carleton? hum I don't know; I didn't look at his
eyes. A very well-looking young man though very gentlemanly
too."
Fleda had heard all this and much more about her parents some
dozens of times before; but she and her grandfather were never
tired of going it over. If the conversation that recalled his
lost treasures had of necessity a character of sadness and
tenderness, it yet bespoke not more regret that he had lost
them than exulting pride and delight in what they had been,
perhaps not so much. And Fleda delighted to go back and feed
her imagination with stories of the mother whom she could not
remember, and of the father whose fair bright image stood in
her memory as the embodiment of all that is high and noble and
pure. A kind of guardian angel that image was to little Fleda.
These ideal likenesses of her father and mother, the one drawn
from history and recollection, the other from history only,
had been her preservative from all the untoward influences and
unfortunate examples which had surrounded her since her
father's death, some three or four years before, had left her
almost alone in her grandfather's house. They had created in
her mind a standard of the true and beautiful in character,
which nothing she saw around her, after, of course, her
grandfather and one other exception, seemed at all to meet;
and partly from her own innate fineness of nature, and partly
from this pure ideal always present with her, she had shrunk
almost instinctively from the few varieties of human nature
the country-side presented to her, and was in fact a very
isolated little being, living in a world of her own, and
clinging with all her strong out-goings of affection to her
grandfather only; granting to but one other person any
considerable share in her regard or esteem. Little Fleda was
not in the least misanthropical; she gave her kindly
sympathies to all who came in her way on whom they could
possibly be bestowed; but these people were nothing to her;
her spirit fell off from them, even in their presence; there
was no affinity. She was in truth what her grandfather had
affirmed of her father, made of different stuff from the rest
of the world. There was no tincture of pride in all this;
there was no conscious feeling of superiority; she could
merely have told you that she did not care to hear these
people talk, that she did not love to be with them; though she
_would_ have said so to no earthly creature but her grandfather,
if even to him.
"It must be pleasant," said Fleda, after looking for some
minutes thoughtfully into the fire, "it must be a pleasant
thing to have a father and mother."
"Yes, dear!" said her grandfather, sighing, "you have lost a
great deal! But there is your aunt Lucy you are not
dependent altogether on me."
"Oh, grandpa!" said the little girl, laying one hand again
pleadingly on his knee; "I didn't mean I mean I was
speaking in general I wasn't thinking of myself in
particular."
"I know, dear!" said he, as before taking the little hand in
his own, and moving it softly up and down on his knee. But the
action was sad, and there was the same look of sorrowful stern
anxiety. Fleda got up and put her arm over his shoulder,
speaking from a heart filled too full.
"I don't want aunt Lucy I don't care about aunt Lucy, I
don't want anything but you, grandpa. I wish you wouldn't talk
so."
"Ah well, dear," said he, without looking at her, he
couldn't bear to look at her, "it's well it is so. I sha'n't
last a great while it isn't likely and I am glad to know
there is some one you can fall back upon when I am gone."
Fleda's next words were scarce audible, but they contained a
reproach to him for speaking so.
"We may as well look at it, dear," said he, gravely; "it must
come to that - sooner or later but you mustn't distress
yourself about it beforehand. Don't cry don't dear!" said
he, tenderly kissing her. "I didn't mean to trouble you so.
There there look up, dear let's take the good we have
and be thankful for it. God will arrange the rest, in his own
good way. Fleda! I wouldn't have said a word if I had
thought it would have worried you so."
He would not indeed. But he had spoken as men so often speak,
out of the depths of their own passion or bitterness,
forgetting that they are wringing the chords of a delicate
harp, and not knowing what mischief they have done till they
find the instrument all out of tune, more often not knowing
it ever. It is pity, for how frequently a discord is left
that jars all life long; and how much more frequently still
the harp, though retaining its sweetness and truth of tone to
the end, is gradually unstrung.
Poor Fleda could hardly hold up her head for a long time, and
recalling bitterly her unlucky innocent remark which had led
to all this trouble, she almost made up her mind, with a
certain heroine of Miss Edgeworth's, that "it is best never to
mention things". Mr. Ringgan, now thoroughly alive to the
wounds he had been inflicting, held his little pet in his
arms, pillowed her head on his breast, and by every tender and
soothing action and word endeavoured to undo what he had done.
And after a while the agony was over, the wet eyelashes were
lifted up, and the meek sorrowful little face lay quietly upon
Mr. Ringgan's breast, gazing out into the fire as gravely as
if the panorama of life were there. She little heeded at first
her grandfather's cheering talk, she knew it was for a
purpose.
"Aint it most time for you to go to bed?" whispered Mr.
Ringgan, when he thought the purpose was effected.
"Shall I tell Cynthy to get you your milk, grandpa?" said the
little girl, rousing herself.
"Yes dear. Stop, what if you and me were to have some
roast apples? wouldn't you like it?"
"Well yes, I should, grandpa," said Fleda, understanding
perfectly why he wished it, and wishing it herself for that
same reason and no other.
"Cynthy, let's have some of those roast apples," said Mr.
Ringgan, "and a couple of bowls of milk here."
"No, I'll get the apples myself, Cynthy," said Fleda.
"And you needn't take any of the cream off, Cynthy," added Mr.
Ringgan.
One corner of the kitchen table was hauled up to the fire, to
be comfortable, Fleda said, and she and her grandfather sat
down on the opposite sides of it to do honour to the apples
and milk; each with the simple intent of keeping up
appearances and cheating the other into cheerfulness. There
is, however, deny it who can, an exhilarating effect in good
wholesome food taken when one is in some need of it; and Fleda
at least found the supper relish exceeding well. Every one
furthermore knows the relief of a hearty flow of tears when a
secret weight has been pressing on the mind. She was just
ready for anything reviving. After the third mouthful she
began to talk, and before the bottom of the bowls was reached,
she had smiled more than once. So her grandfather thought no
harm was done, and went to bed quite comforted; and Fleda
climbed the steep stairs that led from his door to her little
chamber just over his head. It was small and mean, immediately
under the roof, with only one window. There were plenty of
better rooms in the house, but Fleda liked this because it
kept her near her grandfather; and indeed she had always had
it ever since her father's death, and never thought of taking
any other.
She had a fashion, this child, in whom the simplicity of
practical life and the poetry of imaginative life were
curiously blended, she had a fashion of going to her window
every night when the moon or stars were shining, to look out
for a minute or two before she went to bed; and sometimes the
minutes were more than any good grandmother or aunt would have
considered wholesome for little Fleda in the fresh night air.
But there was no one to watch or reprimand; and whatever it
was that Fleda read in earth or sky, the charm which held her
one bright night was sure to bring her to her window the next.
This evening a faint young moon lighted up but dimly the
meadow and what was called the "east-hill," over against which
the window in question looked. The air was calm and mild;
there was no frost to-night; the stillness was entire, and the
stars shone in a cloudless sky. Fleda set open the window, and
looked out with a face that again bore tokens of the
experiences of that day. She wanted the soothing speech of
nature's voice; and child as she was, she could hear it. She
did not know, in her simplicity, what it was that comforted
and soothed her, but she stood at her window enjoying.
It was so perfectly still, her fancy presently went to all
those people who had hushed their various work and were now
resting, or soon would be, in the unconsciousness and the
helplessness of sleep. The _helplessness_, and then that Eye
that never sleeps; that Hand that keeps them all, that is
never idle, that is the safety and the strength alike of all
the earth, and of them that wake or sleep upon it,
"And if he takes care of them all, will he not take care of
poor little me?" thought Fleda. "Oh, how glad I am I know
there is a God! How glad I am I know he is such a God! and
that I can trust in him; and he will make everything go right.
How I forget this sometimes! But Jesus does not forget his
children. Oh, I am a happy little girl! Grandpa's saying
what he did don't make it so perhaps I shall die the first
but I hope not, for what would become of him! But this and
everything will all be arranged right, and I have nothing to
do with it but to obey God and please him, and he will take
care of the rest. He has forbidden _us_ to be careful about it
too."
With grateful tears of relief Fleda shut the window and began
to undress herself, her heart so lightened of its burden, that
her thoughts presently took leave to go out again upon
pleasure excursions in various directions; and one of the last
things in Fleda's mind before sleep surprised her was, what a
nice thing it was for any one to bow and smile so as Mr.
Carleton did!