CHAPTER XXI.

"Wise men alway

Affyrme and say,

That best is for a man

Diligently,

For to apply,

The business that he can." — MORE

Fleda waited for Barby's coming the next day with a little

anxiety. The introduction and installation, however, were

happily got over. Mrs. Rossitur, as Fleda knew, was most

easily pleased, and Barby Elster's quick eye was satisfied

with the unaffected and universal gentleness and politeness of

her new employer. She made herself at home in half an hour;

and Mrs. Rossitur and Fleda were comforted to perceive, by

unmistakable signs, that their presence was not needed in the

kitchen, and they might retire to their own premises and

forget there was another part of the house. Fleda had

forgotten it utterly, and deliciously enjoying the rest of

mind and body, she was stretched upon the sofa, luxuriating

over some volume from her remnant of a library, when the inner

door was suddenly pushed open far enough to admit of the

entrance of Miss Elster's head.

"Where's the soft soap?"

Fleda's book went down, and her heart jumped to her mouth, for

her uncle was sitting over by the window. Mrs. Rossitur looked

up in amaze, and waited for the question to be repeated.

"I say, where's the soft soap?"

"Soft soap!" said Mrs. Rossitur — "I don't know whether there

is any — Fleda, do you know?"

"I was trying to think, aunt Lucy — I don't believe there is

any."

"_Where_ is it?" said Barby.

"There is none, I believe," said Mrs. Rossitur

"Where _was_ it, then?"

"Nowhere — there has not been any in the house," said Fleda,

raising herself up to see over the back of her sofa.

"There ha'n't been none!" said Miss Elster, in a tone more

significant than her words, and shutting the door as abruptly

as she had opened it.

"What upon earth does the woman mean?" exclaimed Mr. Rossitur,

springing up and advancing towards the kitchen door. Fleda

threw herself before him.

"Nothing at all, uncle Rolf — she doesn't mean anything at all

— she doesn't know any better."

"I will improve her knowledge — get out of the way, Fleda."

"But, uncle Rolf, just hear me one moment — please don't! —

she didn't mean any harm — these people don't know any manners

— just let me speak to her, please, uncle Rolf!" said Fleda,

laying both hands upon her uncle's arms — "I'll manage her."

Mr. Rossitur's wrath was high, and he would have run over or

knocked down anything less gentle that had stood in his way;

hut even the harshness of strength shuns to set itself in

array against the meekness that does not _oppose;_ if the touch

of those hands had been a whit less light, or the glance of

her eye less submissively appealing, it would have availed

nothing. As it was, he stopped and looked at her, at first

scowling, but then with a smile.

"_You_ manage her!" said he.

"Yes," said Fleda, laughing, and now exerting her force, she

gently pushed him back towards the seat he had quitted — "yes,

uncle Rolf, you've enough else to manage, don't undertake our

'help.' Deliver over all your displeasure upon me when

anything goes wrong — I will be the conductor to carry it off

safely into the kitchen, and discharge it just at that point

where I think it will do most execution. Now, will you, uncle

Rolf? — Because we have got a new-fashioned piece of fire-arms

in the other room, that I am afraid will go off unexpectedly

if it is meddled with by an unskilful hand; and that would

leave us without arms, you see, or with only aunt Lucy's and

mine, which are not reliable."

"You saucy girl!" said her uncle, who was laughing partly at

and partly with her, "I don't know what you deserve exactly.

Well, keep this precious new operative of yours out of my way,

and I'll take care to keep out of hers. But mind, you must

manage not to have your piece snapping in my face in this

fashion, for I wont stand it."

And so, quieted, Mr. Rossitur sat down to his book again; and

Fleda, leaving hers open, went to attend upon Barby.

"There ain't much yallow soap neither," said this personage,

"if this is all. There's one thing — if we ha'n't got it, we

can make it. I must get Mis' Rossitur to have a leach-tub sot

up right away. I'm a dreadful hand for havin' plenty o' soap."

"What is a leach-tub?" said Fleda.

"Why, a leach-tub, for to leach ashes in. That's easy enough.

I'll fix it, afore we're any on us much older. If Mr. Rossitur

'll keep me in good hard wood, I sha'n't cost him hardly

anything for potash."

"I'll see about it," said Fleda; "and I will see about having

the leach-tub, or whatever it is, put up for you. And, Barby,

whenever you want anything, will you just speak to me about

it? — and if I am in the other room, ask me to come out here;

because my aunt is not strong, and does not know where things

are as well as I do; and when my uncle is in there, he

sometimes does not like to be disturbed with hearing any such

talk. If you'll tell me, I'll see and have everything done for

you."

"Well — you get me a leach sot up — that's all I'll ask of you

just now," said Barby, good-humouredly, "and help me to find

the soap-grease, if there is any. As to the rest, I don't want

to see nothin' o' him in the kitchen, so I'll relieve him if

he don't want to see much o' me in the parlour. I shouldn't

wonder if there wa'n't a speck of it in the house."

Not a speck was there to be found.

"Your uncle's pockets must ha' had a good hole in 'em by this

time," remarked Barby, as they came back from the cellar.

"However, there never was a crock so empty it couldn't be

filled. You get me a leach-tub sot up, and I'll find work for

it."

From that time, Fleda had no more trouble with her uncle and

Barby. Each seemed to have a wholesome appreciation of the

other's combative qualities, and to shun them. With Mrs.

Rossitur, Barby was soon all-powerful. It was enough that she

wanted a thing, if Mrs. Rossitur's own resources could compass

it. For Fleda, to say that Barby had presently a perfect

understanding with her, and joined to that, a most

affectionate, careful regard, is not, perhaps, saying much;

for it was true of every one, without exception, with whom

Fleda had much to do. Barby was to all of them a very great

comfort and stand-by.

It was well for them that they had her within doors to keep

things, as she called it, "right and tight;" for abroad the

only system in vogue was one of fluctuation and uncertainty.

Mr. Rossitur's Irishman, Donohan, staid his year out, doing as

little good, and as much, at least, negative harm, as he well

could; and then went, leaving them a good deal poorer than he

found them. Dr. Gregory's generosity had added to Mr.

Rossitur's own small stock of ready money, giving him the

means to make some needed outlays on the farm. But the outlay,

ill-applied, had been greater than the income; a scarcity of'

money began to be more and more felt; and the comfort of the

family accordingly drew within more and more narrow bounds.

The temper of the head of the family suffered in at least

equal degree.

From the first of Barby's coming, poor Fleda had done her

utmost to prevent the want of Mons. Emile from being felt. Mr.

Rossitur's table was always set by her careful hand, and all

the delicacies that came upon it were, unknown to him, of her

providing — even the bread. One day, at breakfast, Mr.

Rossitur had expressed his impatient displeasure at that of

Miss Elster's manufacture. Fleda saw the distressed shade that

came over her aunt's face, and took her resolution. It was the

last time. She had followed her plan of sending for the

receipts, and she studied them diligently, both at home and

under aunt Miriam. Natural quickness of eye and hand came in

aid of her affectionate zeal, and it was not long before she

could trust herself to undertake any operation in the whole

range of her cookery-book. But, meanwhile, materials were

growing scarce, and hard to come by. The delicate French rolls

which were now always ready for her uncle's plate in the

morning, had sometimes nothing to back them, unless the

unfailing water-cress from the good little spring in the

meadow. Fleda could not spare her eggs, for, perhaps, they

might have nothing else to depend upon for dinner. It was no

burden to her to do these things; she had a sufficient reward

in seeing that her aunt and Hugh ate the better, and that her

uncle's brow was clear; but it was a burden when her hands

were tied by the lack of means, for she knew the failure of

the usual supply was bitterly felt, not for the actual want,

but for that other want which it implied and prefigured.

On the first dismissal of Donohan, Fleda hoped for a good turn

of affairs. But Mr. Rossitur, disgusted with his first

experiment, resolved this season to be his own head man; and

appointed Lucas Springer the second in command, with a possé

of labourers to execute his decrees. It did not work well. Mr.

Rossitur found he had a very tough prime minister, who would

have every one of his plans to go through a kind of winnowing

process by being tossed about in an argument. The arguments

were interminable, until Mr. Rossitur not unfrequently quit

the field with, "Well, do what you like about it!" — not

conquered, but wearied. The labourers, either from want of

ready money, or of what they called "manners" in their

employer, fell off at the wrong times, just when they were

most wanted. Hugh threw himself then into the breach and

wrought beyond his strength; and that tried Fleda worst of

all. She was glad to see haying and harvest pass over; but the

change of seasons seemed to bring only a change of

disagreeableness, and she could not find that hope had any

better breathing-time in the short days of winter than in the

long days of summer. Her gentle face grew more gentle than

ever, for under the shade of sorrowful patience, which was

always there, now its meekness had no eclipse.

Mrs. Rossitur was struck with it one morning. She was coming

down from her room and saw Fleda standing on the landing-place

gazing out of the window. It was before breakfast one cold

morning in winter. Mrs. Rossitur put her arms round her softly

and kissed her.

"What are you thinking about, dear Fleda? — you ought not to

be standing here."

"I was looking at Hugh," said Fleda, and her eye went back to

the window. Mrs. Rossitur's followed it. The window gave them

a view of the ground behind the house; and there was Hugh,

just coming in with a large armful of heavy wood which he had

been sawing.

"He isn't strong enough to do that, aunt Lucy," said Fleda,

softly.

"I know it," said his mother, in a subdued tone, and not

moving her eye, though Hugh had disappeared.

"It is too cold for him; he is too thinly clad to bear this

exposure," said Fleda, anxiously.

"I know it," said his mother, again.

"Can't you tell uncle Rolf? can't you get him to do it? I am

afraid Hugh will hurt himself, aunt Lucy."

"I did tell him the other day — I did speak to him about it,"

said Mrs. Rossitur; "but he said there was no reason why Hugh

should do it — there were plenty of other people —"

"But how can he say so when he knows we never can ask Lucas to

do anything of the kind, and that other man always contrives

to be out of the way when he is wanted? Oh, what is he

thinking of?" said Fleda, bitterly, as she saw Hugh again at

his work.

It was so rarely that Fleda was seen to shed tears, that they

always were a signal of dismay to any of the household. There

was even agony in Mrs. Rossitur's voice as she implored her

not to give way to them. But, notwithstanding that, Fleda's

tears came this time from too deep a spring to be stopped at

once.

"It makes me feel as if all was lost, Fleda, when I see you do

so."

Fleda put her arms about her neck, and whispered that "she

would not" — that "she should not —"

Yet it was a little while before she could say any more.

"But, aunt Lucy, he doesn't know what he is doing."

"No; and I can't make him know. I cannot say anything more,

Fleda — it would do no good. I don't know what is the matter —

he is entirely changed from what he used to be."

"I know what is the matter," said Fleda, now turning comforter

in her turn, as her aunt's tears fell more quietly, because

more despairingly, than her own — "I know what it is — he is

not happy; — that is all. He has not succeeded well in these

farm doings, and he wants money, and he is worried — it is no

wonder if he don't seem exactly as he used to."

"And oh, that troubles me most of all!" said Mrs. Rossitur.

"The farm is bringing in nothing, I know — he don't know how

to get along with it — I was afraid it would be so; — and we

are paying nothing to uncle Orrin — and it is just a dead

weight on his hands; — and I can't bear to think of it! And

what will it come to?"

Mrs. Rossitur was now in her turn surprised into showing the

strength of her sorrows and apprehensions. Fleda was fain to

put her own out of sight, and bend her utmost powers to soothe

and compose her aunt, till they could both go down to the

breakfast-table. She had got ready a nice little dish that her

uncle was very fond of; but her pleasure in it was all gone;

and indeed it seemed to be thrown away upon the whole table.

Half the meal was over before anybody said a word.

"I am going to wash my hands of these miserable farm affairs,"

said Mr. Rossitur.

"Are you?" said his wife.

"Yes — of all personal concern in them; that is, I am wearied

to death with the perpetual annoyances and vexations, and

petty calls upon my time — life is not worth having at such a

rate! I'll have done with it."

"You will give up the entire charge to Lucas?" said Mrs.

Rossitur.

"Lucas! — No! — I wouldn't undergo that man's tongue for

another year if he would take out his wages in talking. I

could not have more of it in that case than I have had the

last six months. After money, the thing that man loves best is

certainly the sound of his own voice; — and a most

insufferable egotist! No — I have been talking with a man who

wants to take the whole farm for two years upon shares — that

will clear me of all trouble."

There was sober silence for a few minutes, and then Mrs.

Rossitur asked who it was.

"His name is Didenhover."

"Oh, uncle Rolf, don't have anything to do with him!"

exclaimed Fleda.

"Why not?"

"Because he lived with grandpa a great while ago, and behaved

very ill. Grandpa had a great deal of trouble with him."

"How old were you then?"

"I was young to be sure," said Fleda, hanging her head, "but I

remember very well how it was."

"You may have occasion to remember it a second time," said Mr.

Rossitur, drily, "for the thing is done. I have engaged him."

Not another word was spoken.

Mr. Rossitur went out after breakfast, and Mrs. Rossitur

busied herself with the breakfast cups and a tub of hot water

— a work she never would let Fleda share with her, and which

lasted in consequence long enough, Barby said, to cook and eat

three breakfasts. Fleda and Hugh sat looking at the floor and

the fire respectively.

"I am going up the hill to get a sight of aunt Miriam," said

Fleda, bringing her eyes from the fire upon her aunt.

"Well, dear, do. You have been shut up long enough by the

snow. Wrap yourself up well, and put on my snow-boots."

"No, indeed!" said Fleda. "I shall just draw on another pair

of stockings over my shoes, within my India-rubbers — I will

take a pair of Hugh's woollen ones."

"What has become of your own?" said Hugh.

"My own what? Stockings?"

"Snow-boots."

"Worn out, Mr. Rossitur! I have run them to death, poor

things! Is that a slight intimation that you are afraid of the

same fate for your socks?"

"No," said Hugh, smiling in spite of himself, at her manner —

"I will lend you anything I have got, Fleda."

His tone put Fleda in mind of the very doubtful pretensions of

the socks in question to be comprehended under the term — she

was silent a minute.

"Will you go with me, Hugh?"

"No, dear, I can't; I must get a little ahead with the wood

while I can; it looks as if it would snow again, and Barby

isn't provided for more than a day or two."

"And how for this fire?"

Hugh shook his head, and rose up to go forth into the kitchen.

Fleda went too, linking her arm in his, and bearing

affectionately upon it; a sort of tacit saying, that they

would sink or swim together. Hugh understood it perfectly.

"I am very sorry you have to do it, dear Hugh; oh, that

woodshed! If it had only been made —"

"Never mind — can't help it now — we shall get through the

winter by and by."

"Can't you get uncle Rolf to help you a little?" whispered

Fleda; "It would do him good."

But Hugh only shook his head.

"What are we going to do for dinner, Barby?" said Fleda, still

holding Hugh there before the fire.

"Aint much choice," said Barby. "It would puzzle anybody to

spell much more out of it than pork and ham. There's plenty of

them. _I_ sha'n't starve this some time."

"But we had ham yesterday, and pork the day before yesterday,

and ham Monday," said Fleda. "There is plenty of vegetables,

thanks to you and me, Hugh," she said, with a little reminding

squeeze of his arm. "I could make soups nicely, if I had

anything to make them of!"

"There's enough to be had for the catching," said Barby. "If I

hadn't a man-mountain of work upon me, I'd start out and shoot

or steal something."

"_You_ shoot, Barby!" said Fleda, laughing.

"I guess I can do most anything I set my hand to. If I

couldn't, I'd shoot myself. It wont do to kill no more o' them

chickens."

"O no, — now they are laying so finely. Well, I am going up

the hill, and when I come home I'll try and make up something,

Barby."

"Earl Douglass 'll go out in the woods now and then, of a day,

when he ha'n't no work particular to do, and fetch hum as many

pigeons and woodchucks as you could shake a stick at."

"Hugh, my dear," said Fleda, laughing, "it's a pity you aren't

a hunter — I would shake a stick at you with great pleasure.

Well, Barby, we will see when I come home."

"I was just a-thinkin'," said Barby; — "Mis' Douglass sent

round to know if Mis' Rossitur would like a piece of fresh

meat — Earl's been killing a sheep — there's a nice quarter,

she says, if she'd like to have it."

"A quarter of mutton!" said Fleda, — "I don't know — no, I

think not, Barby; I don't know when we should be able to pay

it back again. And yet, Hugh — do you think uncle Rolf will

kill another sheep this winter?"

"I am sure he will not," said Hugh; "there have so many died."

"If he only knowed it, that is a reason for killing more,"

said Barby — "and have the good of them while he can."

"Tell Mrs. Douglass we are obliged to her, but we do not want

the mutton, Barby."

Hugh went to his chopping, and Fleda set out upon her walk —

the lines of her face settling into a most fixed gravity so

soon as she turned away from the house. It was what might be

called a fine winter's day — cold and still, and the sky

covered with one uniform grey cloud. The snow lay in

uncompromising whiteness, thick over all the world — a kindly

shelter for the young grain and covering for the soil; but

Fleda's spirits, just then in another mood, saw in it only the

cold refusal to hope, and the barren check to exertion. The

wind had cleared the snow from the trees and fences, and they

stood in all their unsoftened blackness and nakedness, bleak

and stern. The high grey sky threatened a fresh fall of snow

in a few hours; it was just now a lull between two storms; and

Fleda's spirits, that sometimes would have laughed in the face

of nature's soberness, to-day sank to its own quiet. Her pace

neither slackened nor quickened till she reached aunt Miriam's

house, and entered the kitchen.

Aunt Miriam was in high tide of business over a pot of boiling

lard, and the enormous bread-tray by the side of the fire was

half-full of very tempting light-brown cruller, which,

however, were little more than a kind of sweet bread for the

workmen. In the bustle of putting in and taking out, aunt

Miriam could give her visitor but a word and a look. Fleda

pulled off her hood, and sitting down, watched in unusual

silence the old lady's operations.

"And how are they all at your house to-day?" aunt Miriam

asked, as she was carefully draining her cruller out of the

kettle.

Fleda answered that they were as well as usual, but a slight

hesitation and the tell-tale tone of her voice made the old

lady look at her more narrowly. She came near and kissed that

gentle brow, and looking in her eyes, asked her what the

matter was?

"I don't know; " said Fleda, eyes and voice wavering alike —

"I am foolish, I believe —"

Aunt Miriam tenderly put aside the hair from her forehead, and

kissed it again, but the cruller was burning, and she went

back to the kettle.

"I got down-hearted somehow this morning," Fleda went on,

trying to steady her voice and school herself.

"_You_ down-hearted, dear! About what?"

There was a world of sympathy in these words, in the warmth of

which Fleda's shut-up heart unfolded itself at once.

"It's nothing new, aunt Miriam — only somehow I felt it

particularly this morning — I have been kept in the house so

long by this snow, I have got dumpish, I suppose —"

Aunt Miriam looked anxiously at the tears which seemed to come

involuntarily, but she said nothing.

"We are not getting along well at home."

"I supposed that," said Mrs. Plumfield, quietly. "But anything

new?"

"Yes — uncle Rolf has let the farm — only think of it! — he

has let the farm to that Didenhover."

"Didenhover!"

"For two years."

"Did you tell him what you knew about him?"

"Yes, but it was too late — the mischief was done."

Aunt Miriam went on skimming out her cruller with a very grave

face.

"How came your uncle to do so without learning about him

first?"

"Oh, I don't know! — he was in a hurry to do anything that

would take the trouble of the farm off his hands; he don't

like it."

"On what terms has he let him have it?"

"On shares — and I know, I know under that Didenhover it will

bring us in nothing, and it has brought us in nothing all the

time we have been here; and I don't know what we are going to

live upon —"

"Has your uncle nor your aunt no property at all left?"

"Not a bit — except some waste lands in Michigan? I believe,

that were left to aunt Lucy a year or two ago; but they are as

good as nothing."

"Has he let Didenhover have the saw-mill too?"

"I don't know — he didn't say — if he has, there will be

nothing at all left for us to live upon. I expect nothing from

Didenhover, — his face is enough. I should have thought it

might have been for uncle Rolf. Oh, if it wasn't for aunt Lucy

and Hugh, I shouldn't care!" —

"What has your uncle been doing all this year past?"

"I don't know, aunt Miriam — he can't bear the business, and

he has left the most of it to Lucas, and I think Lucas is more

of a talker than a doer. Almost nothing has gone right. The

crops have been ill-managed — I do not know a great deal about

it, but I know enough for that; and uncle Rolf did not know

anything about it but what he got from books. And the sheep

are dying off — Barby says it is because they were in such

poor condition at the beginning of winter, and I dare say she

is right."

"He ought to have had a thorough good man at the beginning, to

get along well."

"O yes! — but he hadn't, you see, and so we have just been

growing poorer every month. And now, aunt Miriam, I really

don't know from day to day what to do to get dinner. You know,

for a good while after we came we used to have our marketing

brought every few days from Albany, but we have run up such a

bill there already at the butcher's as I don't know when in

the world will get paid, and aunt Lucy and I will do anything

before we will send for any more; and if it wasn't for her and

Hugh I wouldn't care, but they haven't much appetite, and I

know that all this takes what little they have away — this,

and seeing the effect it has upon uncle Rolf —"

"Does he think so much more of eating than of anything else?"

said aunt Miriam.

"O no, it is not that," said Fleda, earnestly, "it is not that

at all — he is not a great eater — but he can't bear to have

things different from what they used to be, and from what they

ought to be — O no, don't think that! I don't know whether I

ought to have said what I have said, but I couldn't help it —"

Fleda's voice was lost for a little while.

"He is changed from what he used to be — a little thing vexes

him now, and I know it is because he is not happy; — he used

to be so kind and pleasant, and he is still sometimes; but

aunt Lucy's face — Oh, aunt Miriam!"

"Why, dear?" said aunt Miriam, tenderly.

"It is so changed from what it used to be!"

Poor Fleda covered her own, and aunt Miriam came to her side

to give softer and gentler expression to sympathy than words

could do, till the bowed face was raised again and hid in her

neck.

"I can't see thee do so, my child — my dear child! Hope for

brighter days, dear Fleda."

"I could bear it," said Fleda, after a little interval, "if it

wasn't for aunt Lucy and Hugh — oh, that is the worst!"

"What about Hugh?" said aunt Miriam, soothingly.

"Oh, he does what he ought not to do, aunt Miriam, and there

is no help for it — and he did last summer, when we wanted

men; and in the hot haying-time he used to work, I know,

beyond his strength, and aunt Lucy and I did not know what to

do with ourselves."

Fleda's head, which had been raised, sunk again and more

heavily.

"Where was his father?" said Mrs. Plumfield.

"Oh, he was in the house — he didn't know it — he didn't think

about it."

"Didn't think about it?"

"No — oh, he didn't think Hugh was hurting himself, but he

was; he showed it for weeks afterward. I have said what I

ought not now," said Fleda, looking up, and seeming to check

her tears, and the spring of them at once.

"So much security any woman has in a man without religion,"

said aunt Miriam, going back to her work. Fleda would have

said something if she could; she was silent; she stood looking

into the fire, while the tears seemed to come as it were by

stealth, and ran down her face unregarded.

"Is Hugh not well?"

"I don't know," said Fleda, faintly; "he is not ill, but he

never was very strong, and he exposes himself now, I know, in

a way he ought not. I am sorry I have just come and troubled

you with all this now, aunt Miriam," she said, after a little

pause; "I shall feel better by and by — I don't very often get

such a fit."

"My dear little Fleda!" — and there was unspeakable tenderness

in the old lady's voice, as she came up, and drew Fleda's head

again to rest upon her — "I would not let a rough wind touch

thee if I had the holding of it. But we may be glad the

arranging of things is not in my hand — I should be a poor

friend after all, for I do not know what is best. Canst thou

trust Him who does know, my child?"

"I do, aunt Miriam — oh, I do," said Fleda, burying her face

in her bosom — "I don't often feel so as I did to-day."

"There comes not a cloud that its shadow is not wanted," said

aunt Miriam. "I cannot see why, but it is that thou mayest

bloom the brighter, my dear one."

"I know it" — Fleda's words were hardly audible — "I will

try." —

"Remember his own message to every one under a cloud — 'Cast

all thy care upon him, for he careth for thee;' — thou mayest

keep none of it; and then the peace that passeth understanding

shall keep thee. — 'So he giveth his beloved sleep.' "

Fleda wept for a minute on the old lady's neck, and then she

looked up, dried her tears, and sat down with a face greatly

quieted and lightened of its burden, while aunt Miriam once

more went back to her work. The one wrought and the other

looked on in silence.

The cruller were all done at last — the great bread-trough was

filled and set away — the remnant of the fat was carefully

disposed of, and aunt Miriam's handmaid was called in to "take

the watch." She herself and her visitor adjourned to the

sitting-room.

"Well," said Fleda., in a tone again steady and clear, "I must

go home to see about getting up a dinner. I am the greatest

hand at making something out of nothing, aunt Miriam, that

ever you saw. There is nothing like practice. I only wish the

man uncle Orrin talks about would come along once in a while."

"Who was that?" said aunt Miriam.

"A man that used to go about from house to house," said Fleda,

laughing, "when the cottagers were making soup, with a ham-

bone to give it a relish, and he used to charge them so much

for a dip, and so much for a wallop."

"Come, come, I can do as much for you as that," said aunt

Miriam, proceeding to her store pantry — "see here — wouldn't

this be as good as a ham-bone?" said she, bringing out of it a

fat fowl; "how would a wallop of this do?"

"Admirably! — only — the ham-bone used to come out again, and

I am confident this never would."

"Well, I guess I'll stand that," said aunt Miriam, smiling —

"you wouldn't mind carrying this under your cloak, would you?"

"I have no doubt I shall go home lighter with it than without

it, Ma'am, — thank you, dear aunty! —dear aunt Miriam!"

There was a change of tone, and of eye, as Fleda sealed each

thank with a kiss.

"But how is it? — does all the charge of the house come upon

you, dear?"

"Oh, this kind of thing, because aunt Lucy doesn't understand

it, and can't get along with it so well. She likes better to

sew, and I had quite as lief do this."

"And don't you sew, too?"

"Oh, a little. She does as much as she can," said Fleda,

gravely.

"Where is your other cousin?" said Mrs. Plumfield, abruptly.

"Marion? — she is in England, I believe — we don't hear from

her very often."

"No, no — I mean the one who is in the army?"

"Charlton! — Oh, he is just ordered off to Mexico," said

Fleda, sadly, "and that is another great trouble to aunt Lucy.

This miserable war!"

"Does he never come home?"

"Only once since we came from Paris — while we were in New

York. He has been stationed away off at the West."

"He has a captain's pay now, hasn't he?"

"Yes, but he doesn't know at all how things are at home; he

hasn't an idea of it — and he will not have. Well, good-bye,

dear aunt Miriam — I must run home to take care of my

chicken."

She ran away; and if her eyes many a time on the way down the

hill filled and overflowed, they were not bitter nor dark

tears; they were the gushings of high and pure and generous

affections, weeping for fullness, not for want.

That chicken was not wasted in soup; it was converted into the

nicest possible little fricassee, because the toast would make

so much more of it; and to Fleda's own dinner, little went

beside the toast, that a greater portion of the rest might be

for her aunt and Hugh.

That same evening, Seth Plumfield came into the kitchen, while

Fleda was there.

"Here is something belongs to you, I believe," said he, with a

covert smile, bringing out from under his cloak the mate to

Fleda's fowl — "mother said somethin' had run away with

t'other one, and she didn't know what to do with this one

alone. Your uncle at home?"

The next news that Fleda heard was, that Seth had taken a

lease of the saw-mill for two years.

Mr. Didenhover did not disappoint Fleda's expectations. Very

little could be got from him, or the farm under him, beyond

the immediate supply wanted for the use of the family; and

that in kind, not in cash. Mrs. Rossitur was comforted by

knowing, that some portion of rent had also gone to Dr.

Gregory — how large or how small a portion, she could not find

out. But this left the family in increasing straits, which

narrowed and narrowed during the whole first summer and winter

of Didenhover's administration. Very straitened they would

have been, but for the means of relief adopted by the two

_children_, as they were always called. Hugh, as soon as the

spring opened, had a quiet hint through Fleda, that if he had

a mind to take the working of the saw-mill he might, for a

consideration merely nominal. This offer was immediately and

gratefully closed with; and Hugh's earnings were thenceforward

very important at home. Fleda had her own ways and means. Mr.

Rossitur, more low-spirited and gloomy than ever, seemed to

have no heart to anything. He would have worked, perhaps, if

he could have done it alone; but to join Didenhover and his

men, or any other gang of workmen, was too much for his

magnanimity. He helped nobody but Fleda. For her he would do

anything, at any time; and in the garden, and among her

flowers in the flowery courtyard, he might often be seen at

work with her. But nowhere else.