The next morning Agnes took the toilettes of her two little room-mates

under her care, and when they appeared at the breakfast-table, the rest

of the family hardly knew them, they looked so tidy and sweet. And poor

Tiney, who gazed with astonishment at her two little sisters, made her

appearance at Agnes’ door soon after breakfast, to ask “if she wouldn’t

make _her_ look nice too.”

Agnes found so little to sympathise with, and took so little pleasure

in the society of the ladies of the Fairland family, that she longed

for her school to begin, that she might have useful occupation for her

thoughts and time. On the appointed morning therefore, she was well

pleased to meet her little pupils in the pleasant little room in the

“west wing,” and to begin in earnest her labors as a teacher. Such a

pile of soiled, well-thumbed, and dogs-eared books, as the children

produced, Agnes had never seen together, and on opening them she found

that the young Fairland’s had been exercising their taste for the fine

arts, by daubing all the pictures from a six-penny paint-box.

“Now, my dear children,” said she, “the first thing we shall do every

morning, will be to read in the Bible; but I do not see any Bible or

Testament among your books; I suppose you each own one, do you not?”

If Agnes had been a little longer in the family of Mr. Fairland,

perhaps she would not have asked this question; for she soon found that

she had come into a family of as complete heathens, as she would have

found if she had gone to be governess among the Hindoos. There was a

“family Bible” in the house to be sure, but the only use to which it

had ever been applied, was that of registering the births of the

family, and the testimony it bore proved so exceedingly disagreeable to

the Misses Fairland, that as Rosa has informed us, they took the

liberty one day of erasing it.

Agnes told the children to ask their papa if they might each have a

Bible of their own, to which he consented, and when the Bibles were

brought home, the exclamations of derision from the Misses Fairland,

were loud and long.

“A missionary in disguise!” they exclaimed; “a saint in the form of a

governess; come to convert us all, and the first thing is an

importation of Bibles!” and many were the sneering and sarcastic

remarks and allusions which came to the ears of Agnes, but she kept on

her way quiet and undisturbed. Agnes was perfectly astonished to find

how utterly unacquainted these children were with the contents of the

Bible. It was all new to them; and after she had read to them every

morning, she would gather them around her, and tell them in simple

language the sweet stories from the Bible, while they listened, the

younger ones with their bright, wide-open eyes fixed upon her face, as

if they could not lose a word; and even poor Tiney loved to lay her

head in Agnes’ lap, and hear of Him who ever sympathised with the sick

and suffering.

It was very strange, and very interesting to Agnes, to hear the remarks

these children made, and the many questions they would ask on subjects

so new to them; and as they had not yet learned to look at the

character of God, as revealed in his Son, with the reverence which

better instructed children feel, they often spoke of Him as they would

of any good man of whom they might hear, and in a way which would seem

too irreverential, were I to tell you all they said.

Once when Agnes had been telling them of some of the miracles of our

Saviour, in curing the sick, and giving sight to the blind, and hearing

to the deaf, Rosa with her bright black eyes fixed intently on her

face, said with the utmost earnestness:

“Why, He was real _good_, wasn’t He?”

“Yes,” said Agnes, “always good and kind, and always ready to help the

sick and suffering.”

“He could cure _anybody_, couldn’t He?” continued Rosa.

“Yes; He was _all-powerful_,” answered Agnes.

“Could He cure Tiney?” asked Jessie.

“Yes; if Tiney had lived when Christ was on earth, or if He was here

now, He could say the word, and make her well.”

And then they asked, “Where is He now?” and “How can we talk to Him

now?” and “Why will He not cure Tiney now?” And Agnes tried, in the

most simple manner, to teach them the nature of the prayer of faith.

Once, when she was talking to them of our Saviour’s meekness under

injuries, and telling them of His bitter sufferings, and the kindness

of His feelings towards His persecutors, the large tears rolled down

their cheeks, and Rosa made a practical application of the lesson at

once, by saying:

“The next time Tiney pinches me, cousin Agnes, I don’t mean to slap her

back again.”

“Nor I either,” said Jessie.

And Tiney whispered, “I will _try_ and not hurt them next time.”

Frank, who had been choking down something in his throat, as he sat in

his chair, said, in an unsteady voice:

“_Is it all _true_?”

“Every word of it, Franky,” said Agnes.

“I’ve got something in my eye,” said Frank, rubbing both eyes very hard

with the back of his hands; and then throwing himself on the settee, he

cried bitterly for a long time.

Agnes taught them many pretty hymns; and as they all had good voices,

and loved music dearly, they were never so happy as in singing, morning

and evening, these sweet hymns with Agnes. Even poor Tiney, who was

passionately fond of music, readily caught the tunes, though it was

almost impossible to teach her the words.

The very first Sunday that Agnes passed under the roof of Mr. Fairland,

was enough to convince her that the Sabbath day with them was passed

much like all other days. She was shocked to see novels, and other

light and trashy works, in the Lands of the Misses Fairland on this

holy day, and to hear them _howling_ snatches of opera tunes, as they

ran up and down the stairs. These young ladies sometimes went to church

in the morning, to be sure, especially if they had lately received new

bonnets from the city, which they wished to display for the envy or

admiration of their neighbors. Mrs. Fairland was too indolent to take

the trouble, even if she possessed the inclination, to appear at

church; and Mr. Fairland looked upon this seventh day of the week

literally as a day of rest, in which to recruit the exhausted energies

of the body, in preparation for the labors of another week. The day was

passed by him in looking over the newspapers, or sleeping in his large

chair, with his red silk handkerchief over his head; and towards

evening, he usually took a stroll over to his mills, or around his

grounds, to mark out what was necessary to be done on the coming week.

Agnes felt the importance of exerting in this ungodly family a strictly

religious influence; but, except with her own little pupils, she did

not attempt, at first, to do so in any other way than by her own quiet,

consistent example. Mr. Fairland was much surprised when Agnes

requested permission to take the children to church with her he readily

granted it, however, as he invariably did the wishes of Agnes; and from

that time, Mr. Fairland’s pew had at least four or five occupants, on

the morning and evening of the Sabbath day. Though not required by her

engagement to do so, Agnes kept the children with her on Sunday,

reading to them, singing with them, or telling them beautiful Bible

stories; and those pleasant Sabbaths spent with her they never forgot,

nor did they ever lay aside the habits they acquired under her care.

“What a pleasant day Sunday is!” exclaimed little Rosa; “I never knew

it was such a pleasant day before.”

“It’s cousin Agnes makes it so pleasant,” said blue-eyed Jessie.

“It is because you spend it as God directs, that it is a pleasant day

to you, dear children,” said Agnes; “and I wish you to remember that it

will always be a happy day, if you spend it in His service, ‘from the

beginning unto the end thereof.’”

Even if I were sufficiently acquainted with them to detail all the

plans of Agnes for the education and improvement in manners and habits

of her rude and ignorant little pupils, I should not do so here. They

required peculiar training and an unfailing stock of patience, and it

was long before any very perceptible change was wrought in their almost

confirmed habits of carelessness, or any improvement in their rude and

unformed manners; but at length a material change was apparent, and

even the Misses Fairland could not keep their eyes closed to the

visible improvement of the children. They were all much more gentle and

quiet; and even poor Tiney softened much, under Agnes’ gentle

influence, and the light of intelligence began to beam in her

heretofore dull eye. For the first time in her life, she was gaining

useful ideas; and the consciousness that she was learning something as

well as her sisters, seemed to make her happier and more kindly in her

feelings.

It was not long before the door would open gently, as the sound of

their evening hymn was heard, and Mr. Fairland, who was extravagantly

fond of sweet and simple music, would steal into the room, and seat

himself in the corner. And when he heard the voices of his children

singing the praises of God, and saw his poor Tiney, hitherto so

neglected, joining with eager interest in the singing, the tears would

glisten in his eye, and roll unbidden down his cheek. Then he began to

find his way to the school-room on Sunday evenings, and Agnes always

took the opportunity on such occasions, to question the children on the

elements of religious truth, that their young voices might be the means

of instructing their father, who was more ignorant even than they, on

these all-important subjects. At these times he never said one word,

but when he left the room, it was often wiping the tears first, from

one cheek and then from the other, and the heavy tread of his feet

could be heard far into the night, as he walked the whole length of the

two large parlors, with his hands behind him, and his head bent down.

Before Agnes had been six months in the family, the good people sitting

in the church at Wilston, one Sunday, opened their eyes with

astonishment, to see Mr. Fairland walk into church and take his seat in

a pew; and still more were they amazed, to see him do the same thing in

the afternoon. It was a surprise to Agnes too; for though she had not

failed to notice an unusual solemnity about Mr. Fairland, yet no word

on the subject of his duty in this matter had ever passed between them.

Thus in the strict and conscientious performance of her daily duties,

passed the summer with Agnes, with one delightful break, of a

fortnight’s vacation, spent with the dear loving friends at Brook Farm,

where she saw much of her dear brother Lewie, who rode over every

evening and passed the night, returning to his college duties early in

the morning. The quick eye of a sister’s love soon detected that all

was not right with Lewie. He was as affectionate as ever, and if

possible handsomer; but the faults of his childhood had grown with his

growth and strengthened with his strength; his temper seemed more hasty

and impetuous than ever, and there was a dashing recklessness about him

which gave his sister many a heart-ache; and she had painful, though

undefined fears for the future, for her rash and hot-headed brother.

Her kind friends at Brook Farm, who fancied from some things they drew

from Agnes, that her home at the Fairlands’ was not in all respects a

happy one, urged her most earnestly not to return there, but without

success. Agnes was convinced that there the path of duty lay, at least

for the present, and nothing could make her swerve from it.

“Remember then, my sweet niece,” said her uncle, as he kissed her at

parting, “this is your home, whenever, for any reason, you will make us

so happy as to return to it.”

The winter passed by very quietly to Agnes, in her accustomed round of

duties; indeed she was happier than she had yet found herself under Mr.

Fairland’s roof, in consequence of the absence of the two young ladies,

who having by some means or other succeeded in securing an invitation

out of some acquaintances in the city, to make them a short visit,

inflicted themselves upon them for the whole winter, and did not return

to Wilston till the spring was far advanced. Their hosts, in order to

rid themselves of such persevering and long-abiding guests, began to

make their preparations long before the usual time for closing their

house and going to the country, and the Misses Fairland, invulnerable

as they proved all winter to anything like a _hint_, were obliged to

take this intended removal of their friends as a “notice to quit,”

which they accordingly did.

One bright spot to Agnes this winter, was a visit of a week from Lewie,

who took his vacation at the time of the holidays to run up and see his

sister.

He had his guitar with him, and his voice, which had gained much in

depth and richness, was indescribably sweet. It seemed as if Mr.

Fairland never would tire of hearing the brother and sister sing

together. His mills and everything else were forgotten, while he sat

silently in his great chair with his eyes closed, listening hour after

hour to the blended harmony of their charming voices.

That happy week was soon over, and the brother and sister parted. The

next time Agnes heard the sound of her brother’s guitar, under what

different circumstances did its tones strike upon her ear!

XV.

The Strangers in the Rookery.

“If thou sleep alone in Urrard,

Perchance in midnight gloom

Thou’lt hear behind the wainscot

Sounds in that haunted room,

It is a thought of horror,

I would not sleep alone

In the haunted room of Urrard,

Where evil deeds are done.”

—UNKNOWN.

“What do you think, Calista? What _do_ you think?” exclaimed Miss

Evelina Fairland, one day soon after their return from the city,

bursting in, in a great state of excitement. “Two of the _handsomest_

men have come to the village, one of them is a Mr. Harrington; isn’t it

a lovely name? and he has purchased “_the Rookery_” do you believe!

some say that he is a young man, others that he is a widower. They have

come down to hunt and fish, and he was mightily taken with “the

Rookery,” and in spite of ghosts and goblins he has actually bought

it;” and here Miss Evelina paused to take breath.

“The Rookery” was a large old mansion which had once been a very

handsome dwelling. It stood quite alone on a rising ground a little out

of the village, and was surrounded with an extensive lawn, which on one

side sloped down the lake, over which were scattered magnificent elms;

and there was only one thing that prevented “the Rookery” from being

the most delightful residence in the country. This was the

well-attested fact that the house was haunted; and though at different

times, those who were above being influenced by these idle fears, had

fitted up the place and endeavored to live there, yet there could be no

comfort in so large a house without servants, and not one could be

found to remain in it more than one night. Servants were brought from a

distance, but they soon heard in the village the story of the lady who

died so mysteriously in that house twenty years before, and how she

_walked_ every night, and then of course they heard sounds, and saw

sights; and they too, forthwith took their departure.

So the old house was quite falling into decay when these two brave men

came down and took possession of it; and fitting up comfortably two or

three of the most tenantable rooms, they there kept bachelors’ hall,

unterrified and undisturbed, at least by _spirits_. A few days after

the announcement of the arrival of the strangers in the village, a

widow lady of the name of Danby came to make a visit to the Fairland’s.

She had with her a little girl, her only child, a wilful, spoiled

little thing, who took her own course in everything, utterly regardless

of the wishes or commands of others. In the afternoon, as Agnes was

preparing to start with her little pupils for their accustomed walk,

Mrs. Danby said:

“Bella wishes to accompany you, Miss Elwyn, but you must take good care

of her.”

“I will do my best, Mrs. Danby,” said Agnes, “but one thing I shall

insist upon, and that is, that Bella shall obey me as my own little

scholars do.”

Miss Bella was not at all pleased with the idea of obeying any one, and

so she was continually showing off her independent airs as they walked,

hiding behind trees, describing eccentric circles around the rest of

the party, or darting off in tangents. At length she became so

troublesome, that Agnes determined to shorten their walk, and turned to

retrace their steps; at this Miss Bella was highly indignant, and

declared “that she would not go back, she would go on, down there by

the water.”

They were at this time near an open space, which reached to the water,

at the end of which was a dock, for the convenience of those who wished

to go out upon the lake in boats. Agnes endeavored to detain the wilful

child, but she suddenly pulled away from her, and started like the wind

for the dock. Agnes called, and the children screamed, in vain; faster

and faster ran the little witch, still looking behind every moment to

see if she was pursued, till at length she tripped over a log, and fell

far out into the water. Agnes clasped her hands in speechless terror,

while the cries of the children were loud and agonizing. Just then a

boat in which were two gentlemen rounded a point of land near them, and

made rapidly for the struggling child, who in another moment was lifted

into the boat, and handed up to the arms of Agnes.

Agnes was too much agitated to take particular notice of these

strangers, but taking off her shawl she wrapped the dripping child in

it, while one of her preservers carried her into a cottage near by,

Agnes and the still weeping children following. When the child was

placed in the kind woman’s bed, and little Rosa was sent home to ask

Susan for some clothes to put on her, with special directions not to

alarm Mrs. Danby, Agnes returned to the sitting-room of the cottage, to

thank the strangers who had so opportunely come to their assistance,

when what was her astonishment to find that one of them was her old

friend, Tom Wharton.

“And you knew I was in town, Mr. Wharton, and have been here three or

four days without coming to see me,” said she.

“Oh! you know I don’t do things just like other people,” answered Tom;

“and to tell the truth, though I have no fear of ghosts and hobgoblins,

I have not yet had the courage to face two famous man-hunters, who I

hear reside under the same roof with you, Agnes. But it is time I

should introduce you to my friend Mr. Harrington, the present

proprietor of “the Rookery,” together with all the spirits, black and

white, red and grey, who are the inhabitants thereof.”

Agnes was glad to meet Mr. Harrington, of whom she had often heard her

uncle speak in terms of great admiration, as an accomplished gentleman

and a Christian; and one who used the large property he had inherited

in deeds of benevolence and usefulness. They had been for some time in

conversation about the friends at Brook Farm, from whom the two

gentlemen had lately parted, when little Rosa returned.

Rosa found that her older sisters and Mrs. Danby had gone out for a

walk; so it was a very easy matter to get some dry clothes for Bella,

and bring her safe home before her mother heard of the accident. What

was the surprise of the Misses Fairland, as, in coming down the street,

they saw Agnes returning, accompanied by one of the handsome strangers

whose acquaintance they had been “dying” to make; while the other

followed, carrying little Bella Danby in his arms. A few words sufficed

to tell the story of the accident, and to introduce the strangers, who,

with the utmost cordiality, were urged to come in; an invitation which

was unhesitatingly accepted by Mr. Harrington, and rather reluctantly

by Mr. Tom Wharton. Mrs. Danby, pale and agitated, took her little

darling in her arms, and hurried to her own room, there to administer

certain restoratives, and, much against the young lady’s will, to place

her again in bed.

Mr. Harrington, having now gained the _entrée_ to Mr. Fairland’s house,

seemed inclined to be a frequent visitor, much to the gratification of

the ladies Calista and Evelina, who laid siege to him right and left.

If my reader possessed the key to Mr. Harrington’s real object in

coming to Wilston, perhaps he would be as much amused as the gentleman

himself at the efforts, so exceedingly apparent, to gain for one of

them possession of his hand and fortune; for that Mr. Harrington was

wealthy, they were well assured. They each kept out a _hook_, too, for

Mr. Tom Wharton, in case the other was successful in taking the more

valuable prey; but the bait was by no means tempting to Mr. Tom, who

darted off, leaving his friend, unsupported and alone, to resist the

attacks of these practised, but hitherto unsuccessful anglers.

“Well, Harrington,” said Mr. Tom Wharton to his friend one day, “since

your object in bringing me down here with you is accomplished, I must

now leave you to your fate. What that may be, in the midst of attacks

from spirits by night, and from more substantial persecutors by day, I

cannot divine; but if there is anything left of you, I shall hope to

see you in the city before long, and to hear the account you have to

give of yourself.”

“I thank you for your services thus far, my dear friend,” said Mr.

Harrington; “still, I think it would be the part of disinterested

friendship to stay and help me a little longer.”

“I can’t—I can’t stand it, Harrington. _You_ may be able to bear it

better; but I’m not used to this sort of thing, and I don’t know how to

get along with it at all. Your case is a hard one, I acknowledge, my

friend; but having some business of my own to attend to, I must leave

you to fight out your own battles.” And Mr. Tom Wharton, resolutely

closed his ears to his friend’s appeals, and took his departure.

A beautiful little boat which Mr. Harrington had ordered from the city

having arrived, he called, one afternoon, at Mr. Fairland’s, to ask the

ladies if they would take a sail with him upon the lake. Most eagerly

the Misses Fairland consented, and were leaving the room to prepare to

go, when Mr. Harrington turned to Agnes, who happened to be in the

room, and said:

“May I not hope for the pleasure of Miss Elwyn’s company too?” Upon

which Miss Evelina, with a childishly-confidential air, raised herself

on tiptoe, and whispered in his ear:

“It is not _at all_ necessary to ask her: we never feel obliged to, I

assure you. She is only _governess to the children_.”

But Mr. Harrington renewed his invitation, which Agnes had respectfully

declined, when Mr. Fairland entered the room, and Mr. Harrington

appealed to him.

“Go? Certainly Agnes must go; she has never been on the lake in a

sail-boat, and I have often heard her say she would delight to go.

Come, Agnes! put on your things without a word, and go along.”

Thus urged, Agnes consented to go, though she felt a little

uncomfortable at the silent displeasure of the Misses Fairland. There

was a pleasant breeze, and the little boat flew like a bird over the

dancing waves. Agnes, a devoted admirer of nature, was in an ecstasy

which she could not conceal, as one beautiful view succeeded another

during their sail up the lake; but the other ladies were so much

occupied in trying the effect of _art_, that they had no eye for the

beauties of _nature_. The breeze soon died away, leaving them far from

home, and Mr. Harrington was obliged to take to his oars; and long

before the village was in sight, the gentle moon had begun her walk

through “golden gates,” throwing across the water a brilliant column of

light, sparkling and dancing in glorious beauty on the gentle ripples

of the lake.

“Now is the time for music,” said Mr. Harrington; “for truly

‘Music sounds the sweetest

Over the rippling waves.’”

But for once the Misses Fairland were obliged to relinquish the

opportunity of charming by their united voices; the only music in which

they were practised, and which they thought worth listening to, being

of the flourishing, trilling, running, quavering, shrieking kind; and

this they could not attempt without their “notes” and the “instrument.”

Mr. Harrington then proposed to Agnes to sing some sweet old-fashioned

airs; and laying down his oars, he took a seat beside her, and joined

his rich tenor to the strangely-melodious tones of her voice; and as

the harmony floated over the water, it seemed almost like the music of

heaven. This was a state of things by no means agreeable to the two

neglected ladies in the other end of the boat, and Miss Calista began

to be afraid of the night air, and Miss Evelina was taken with a

hacking cough; so that Mr. Harrington was obliged to resume his oars,

and row them rapidly to the village.

Mr. Harrington consented to moor his boat, and accompany the ladies up

to the house to tea. Anxious to try the effect of their own

accomplishments, the Misses Fairland, soon after tea, led the

conversation to the subject of music, and were easily persuaded to

attempt, with the “notes” and “instrument,” some of their favorite

songs. And now began a flourishing and screaming unparalleled in the

annals of music. Miss Calista screamed, “I love only thee!” and then

Miss Evelina shrieked, “I love only thee!” and then Miss Calista

trilled it—and Miss Evelina howled it—and Miss Calista quavered it—and

Miss Evelina ran it—and then one of them started on it, and the other

ran and caught up with her—and then one burred for some time on

thee-e-e-e-e, while the other ran up and down, still asserting as

rapidly as possible, and insisting boldly, and stoutly asseverating, “I

love only thee!”—and then, with a combined shriek, they made known the

fact once more and finally, and then the ears of their hearers were

allowed to rest.

“Now, girls, if you have done with that clatter,” said Mr. Fairland, “I

want Agnes to sing for _me_ one of those sweet old Scotch songs; it

will be quite refreshing after all this screeching.”

“Oh!” said Miss Calista, rising from the instrument, and casting up her

eyes at Mr. Harrington, “my dear old papa has the _oddest,

old-fashioned_ taste!”

But as soon as Agnes began to sing, it seemed as if Mr. Harrington’s

taste was quite as “odd” and “old-fashioned” as that of the “dear old

papa” himself; for he was guilty of the impropriety of not hearing what

Miss Evelina was saying to him, and soon rose and took his stand by the

piano, where he showed very plainly that he had no ear for any other

sound than that of Agnes’ voice.

Agnes went to bed with some very pleasant thoughts that night; for,

though tongues may be silent, _eyes_ can tell their story very soon;

and it _is_ a pleasant thing to find one’s self an object of interest

to some noble heart; and particularly grateful was it to Agnes, in her

present lonely, toiling life. And she needed all the inward peace and

comfort she possessed, to enable her to bear the increased ill-nature

of Mrs. Fairland and her daughters; for the “mamma” was no less

displeased than the young ladies themselves at the prospect of the

failure of one of their cherished plans.

And now, when Mr. Harrington called, there was generally some excuse

contrived for sending Agnes from the room, and for keeping her busy in

some other part of the house; and though Agnes was indignant at this

evident desire to get her out of the way, by putting upon her labor

which they had no right to require of her, yet, at the time, and in Mr.

Harrington’s presence, she would not contest the point, but quietly

left the room. This never happened, however, when Mr. Fairland was

present, as the good man, if he had fully seen through all the plans of

his wife and daughters, could not have discomfited them more surely

than he always contrived to do.

In the meantime, the ladies Calista and Evelina never for a moment

relaxed their efforts, or ceased to practise their arts, upon the

wealthy and agreeable stranger.

“How _charming_ your place must be Mr. Harrington!” said Miss Evelina

one evening; “I do delight in these old haunted mansions; there is

something so delightfully romantic about them.”

“And have you really heard any of these strange noises at night?” asked

Miss Calista.

“Noises?—enough of them,” he answered; “I have sometimes been so

disturbed, that I could not sleep at all.”

“And what _did_ you do?” asked the young ladies in a breath, their eyes

dilating with horror.

“Why, in the first place,” said Mr. Harrington, “I bought a _terrier_,

and in the next a large _rat-trap_; and by means of both, I succeed in

laying several of the spirits every night, and have strong hopes that,

before long, perfect quiet will be restored to the haunted mansion.”

Then calling Jessie, who was in the room, to his side, Mr. Harrington

took her in his lap, and said:

“You remind me very much of a little blue-eyed, flaxen-haired girl I

have in the city.”

“Why, have you a little girl?” Mr. Harrington, asked the young ladies.

“Yes, two of them,” he answered.

“Oh, how I _doat_ on children!” exclaimed Miss Calista.

“Cousin Agnes, what is the meaning of _doat_?” screamed Master Frank,

running up to Agnes, who just then entered the room.

“What is it to _doat_ on any one?”

“It is to love them very dearly;” answered Agnes quietly.

“Ho! C’listy says she _doats_ on children—she doats on us, don’t she

Rosa?” and Master Frank laughed such a laugh of derision, that Mr.

Harrington was obliged to say something very funny to little Jessie,

who was still sitting on his knee, in order to have an excuse for

laughing too.

Miss Calista fairly trembled with concealed rage, and soon succeeded in

having Master Frank sent off to bed. Indeed, Frank was the cause of so

much mortification to Miss Calista, that she would gladly have banished

him too from the parlor, but he was lawless, and no one in the house

could do anything with him but Agnes.

Mr. Harrington was very fond of children, and often had long

conversations with little Frank, whose bold, independent manners seemed

to please him much. One evening when he was talking to him, Frank said:

“Mr. Harrington I’m saving up my money to buy a boat just like yours.”

“You are, hey, Frank? and how much have you got towards it?” asked Mr.

Harrington.

“Oh! I’ve got two sixpences, and a shilling, and three pennies;” said

Frank. “I keep all my money in a china-box, one of C’listy’s boxes she

used to keep her red paint in; _this_, you know!” touching each cheek

with his finger.

This was too much for Miss Calista; she rushed from the room, and

vented her indignation in a burst of angry tears, and the next time she

met Master Frank, she gave him a slap upon his cheek, which made it a

deeper crimson than the application of her own paint would have done.

All these slights and mortifications were revenged upon poor Agnes, who

would gladly have left a place where she was so thoroughly

uncomfortable; but the thought of the children, to whom she had become

attached, and who seemed now to be rewarding her pains and trouble by

their rapid improvement, deterred her from taking a step which should

separate her from them forever. Poor Tiney too, who seemed rapidly

failing under the power of disease, and who clung to her so fondly, how

could she leave her?

XVI.

Death and the Fugitive.

“She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer,

Apart she sighed; alone, she shed the tear,

Then, as if breaking from a cloud she gave

Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.”

—CRABBE.

One summer night, Agnes, who had been up till very late, soothing and

quieting poor Tiney, and had at last succeeded in singing her to sleep,

left her in Susan’s care, and returned to her own room. It was a

lovely, warm, moonlight evening, and Agnes stood by her raised window,

watching the shadows of the tall trees which were thrown with such

vivid distinctness across the gravel walks and the closely trimmed

lawn, and thinking of a pleasant walk she had taken that day, and of

some one who joined her, (as was by no means unusual,) on her return

from the woods with the younger children.

Suddenly her reverie was broken by the sound of a few chords struck

very lightly and softly upon a guitar. The sound came from the clump of

trees, the shadows of which Agnes had just been admiring; and she

supposed they were the prelude to a serenade. Her heart whispered to

her who the musician might be, for though she had never heard him, with

whom her thoughts had been busy, touch the guitar, yet with his ardent

love for music, she did not doubt that he might if he chose, accompany

his rich voice upon so simple an instrument.

But now the blood which had crimsoned her cheek flowed back

tumultuously to her heart, as she heard a voice she could not mistake,

humming very softly the notes of a sad and touching air, which she and

Lewie had often sung together. This plaintive singer could be no other

than her brother. But why here, at night, and in this clandestine

manner, evidently trying to win her attention, without arousing that of

others? The house seemed quiet: and Agnes, throwing a shawl about her,

quickly descended the stairs, and, quietly opening a side door, crossed

the lawn, and in another moment stood beside her brother, under the

shade of the tall old elms.

“Lewie! is it indeed you?”

He made no answer, he said not one word, but, drawing Agnes to a seat

under one of the trees, he seated himself beside her, and laying his

head upon her shoulder, he was quiet for a few moments; and then Agnes

felt his frame tremble with sudden emotion, and heard a deep sob.

“Lewie! my brother! do speak to me! What is it? Do not keep me in

suspense! What dreadful thing has happened?”

“Agnes,” said he, with a sudden and forced calmness, the words coming

slowly from between his white, stiffened lips—“Agnes, it is—_murder_!”

Agnes did not scream—she did not faint—forgetfulness for a moment would

have been a relief. In a flash she had comprehended it all.

“Lewie,” said she, “is there blood upon this hand?”

“Agnes, it is true; your brother is a murderer! No less a murderer,

because the blow was struck in the heat of sudden passion, and when the

brain was inflamed with wine; and no less a murderer, because it was

repented of the moment given, and before the fatal consequences were

suspected. My sister, I am a fugitive and a wanderer, hunted by the

officers of justice, and doomed to the prison or the gallows.”

It seemed to Agnes like a fearful dream! It was too dreadful to be

true! The thought crossed her mind, perhaps it _is_ a dream; she had

had dreams as vivid, and had awakened with such a blessed feeling of

relief. But no! she clasped Lewie’s cold hand in hers, and felt assured

it was all reality. For a few moments she could only bury her face in

her hands, and rock to and fro and groan. She was aroused from this

state of agonized feeling by Lewie, who said:

“And now, what shall I do, Agnes? I have come all this way on foot, and

at night, to see you once more, and to ask you what I should do? Oh

that I had been more willing to follow your gentle guidance before,

sweet sister!—but I have followed nothing but the dictates of my own

ungoverned passions. Shall I try to escape, or shall I give myself up

for trial? On my word, Agnes, I am not a murderer by intention. I was

excited; something was said which tried my quick temper; I answered

with a burst of sudden passion; more taunting words followed; and,

quicker than the lightning’s flash, I had dealt the blow which laid my

class-mate dead at my feet I was sobered in one moment; and oh, Agnes!

what, _what_ would I not have given to restore my murdered friend to

life!—not for my own sake; for I never thought of myself till urged by

my terror-stricken companions to fly. Then I thought of my own safety;

and, my darling sister, I thought of you, and determined that you

should hear of your brother’s disgrace and crime from no lips but his

own. I have been hanging about here all day, but could not see you; and

finding no other way to call your attention, I borrowed this guitar at

the tavern, and have been watching from these trees, till I saw a white

form at a window, which I knew was yours. Now, Agnes, what shall I do?”

“Oh, Lewie, what can I say but _fly_, and save yourself from an

ignominious fate! It may not be right counsel; but how can a sister

advise otherwise? My poor, poor brother!” And Agnes was relieved by a

passionate burst of tears. And now came the time for parting. He must

go, for they would be likely to seek him in the home of his only

sister,—he must go quickly and quietly;—and, with a few hurried words,

in which his sister commended him to God, and entreated him to go to

_Him_ for pardon and peace, and with one last fond embrace, they

parted. Agnes returned to the house with feeble, staggering steps,

stricken to the very heart.

No sleep visited the eyes of Agnes that night; and when she appeared in

the breakfast room the following morning, her pale and haggard

countenance showed marks of extreme suffering, which should have been

respected even by the Misses Fairland. But no! their quick ears had

also caught the tones of the guitar, and rushing to a window on that

side of the house, in the expectation of a serenade, they had seen

Agnes as she crossed the lawn, and returned again to the house. Here

was food for conjecture, and jealousy for the suspicious ladies, and

they had long been awaiting the arrival of Agnes in the breakfast room,

hoping to have the mystery cleared up.

“May we be informed, Miss Elwyn,” began Miss Calista, “how long you

have been in the habit of receiving signals from lovers, and stealing

out at night to give them clandestine meetings in the grove?”

A bright blush suffused the cheek of Agnes, which died away

immediately, leaving it of an ashy paleness, as she said:

“I have met no lover in the grove, Calista, at least not what _you_

mean by a lover,” she added, thinking this might be an evasion, for did

not her brother love her dearly?

“Not what _I_ call a lover,” said Miss Calista; “a very nice

distinction! then you do not deny that you met what _you_ call a lover

in the grove. Indeed you need trouble yourself to make no denial, for

Evelina and I both watched you.”

Agnes rose from the table, and all who were gathered around it were

amazed at the unusual vehemence of her manner, as with an expression of

intense wretchedness upon her face, she exclaimed:

“Oh! _do, do_ let me alone! do leave me in quiet; for I am very, very

unhappy!”

And hastily, and with great agitation, Agnes left the room.

Mr. Fairland, who was so much interested in a paragraph in the paper,

which appeared to shock him exceedingly, that he had not heard the

ill-natured remarks of his daughters, looked up just as Agnes rose from

the table, and heard her agonized address.

With more sternness than usual, he asked his daughters what they had

been saying to Agnes, and on hearing their account of the conversation,

he exclaimed:

“Poor Agnes! you will see in this paper girls something that will shock

you, and will perhaps inspire you with a little sympathy for one whom

it seems to be your delight to torment. You may perhaps now guess who

it was that Agnes met in the grove last night.”

The Misses Fairland were really shocked to read the account of the

murder, and to read the name of Lewis Elwyn as the murderer; and

something like remorse for a moment visited their minds, that they had

added to the sufferings of the already burdened heart of Agnes.

“Poor fellow! poor young man!” exclaimed Mr. Fairland; “such a handsome

fellow as he was, and such a sweet singer too! this seems to have been

done in a sudden passion; and not without provocation too. But it is an

awful thing! Poor Agnes! she must not attempt to teach the children

while she is so distressed; and I do desire girls, that you will have

the _decency_, if you have not the _feeling_, to leave her entirely

undisturbed.”

Days passed on and nothing was heard of the fugitive. Oh, what days of

restless and painful suspense to Agnes! Had she not had constant and

unusual occupation for her time, it seemed to her that she could not

keep her reason. But poor Tiney had grown suddenly and alarmingly

worse, and the physician said a very days at most would terminate her

sufferings. With all the distressing thoughts which crowded upon her,

Agnes remained by the bed-side of the little sufferer, endeavoring to

soothe and cheer her descent to the dark valley.

Mrs. Fairland, who though indolent and indifferent in many things with

regard to her children, was not altogether without natural affection,

passed much of her time, during the last two or three days of Tiney’s

life, in her room, sitting quietly near the head of the bed. Mr.

Fairland, who seemed more overcome even than Agnes expected, hardly

ever left the bed-side. The older sisters looked in occasionally for a

few moments, but their “nerves” (always ready as an excuse with people

destitute of feeling) would not allow their staying for more than five

minutes at a time, in the room of the sick child. The younger children

wandered restlessly about the house, their little hearts oppressed by

the first approach of death among their number; sometimes coming in

quietly to look at the dying sister, and then wandering off again.

“Cousin Agnes, _must_ I _die_?” asked Tiney, the day before her death,

as Agnes and her father and mother were sitting near her.

“You are not afraid to die, dear Tiney, are you?” asked Agnes in reply.

“No, I shall love to die, because you told me I would never be sick any

more; but I feel a _little_ afraid to go to Heaven.”

“Afraid to go to Heaven, dear Tiney! And why should you be afraid to go

there?” asked Agnes, in astonishment; for she had, oftener than ever,

of late, talked to the failing child of the glories of heaven, and did

not doubt that, even with her poor weak mind, she had so trusted by

faith in the merits of an all-sufficient Redeemer, that through those

merits her spirit would be welcomed to that blissful abode.

“I was thinking,” answered Tiney, “that I don’t _know anybody_, there;

not a single soul; and I feel so shy with strangers. Will they love me

there, cousin Agnes, as you and papa do?”

Agnes could not repress the tears at this question, so natural,

perhaps, to a simple child, and yet one which she had never thought of

as likely to occur to one before. But she talked to Tiney so soothingly

and sweetly of Him who loved little children when on earth, and who was

watching for her now, and would send some lovely angel to bear her to

His breast, that poor Tiney lost her fears, and longed for the hour of

her release. And it came the next morning. Just as the glorious sun was

rising over the lake, the spirit of poor little suffering Tiney left

its earthly dwelling, and began its long and never-ending day of

happiness.

Oh! what a brilliant light shone for once in those dark gray eyes, as

Tiney raised them, with a look of wonder and astonishment and joy, as

if she saw far, far beyond the limits which bounded her mortal

sight!—and as, with an enraptured expression, she murmured something

about “that lovely music,” the light faded from the still wide open and

glassy eye; and Agnes, passing her hand gently over the lids, said,

“Mr. Fairland, she is gone!” and the first thought of her sad heart

was, “Oh that I too were at rest!” But she checked it in one moment,

when she remembered that there were duties and conflicts and trials

before her yet; and she determined she would go forward, in the Divine

strength, into the furnace which she must needs go through, in order to

be refined and purified.

Once, during Tiney’s last sickness, a messenger called for Agnes, and

put a note and a little bouquet of green-house flowers into her hand.

At first, Agnes hoped that the note might contain tidings of her

brother; but though disappointed in this respect, the contents of the

note were soothing and grateful to her troubled heart. The words were

simply these:

“Is there _anything_ I can do for you? And if you need a friend, will

you call upon me?” The note was signed “C.H.”

At first Agnes merely said, in a despairing tone, “Oh no! nothing can

be done;” and then, feeling that a different answer should be sent to a

message so kind, she tore off a bit of the paper, and wrote upon it:

“Nothing can be done for me now. Believe me, I will not hesitate to

call upon you, when you can do me any good.”

The day after Tiney’s death, officers came to search Mr. Fairland’s

house for the fugitive, having traced him to Wilston. Every corner of

the house was searched, and even the chamber of death was not spared.

The search, of course, was unsuccessful; but, the day after poor

Tiney’s funeral, came tidings to Agnes of the arrest of her brother. He

was taken at last, and safely lodged in the jail at Hillsdale, where he

was to await his trial.

And now Agnes, whose office ever seemed of necessity to be that of

consoler and comforter, must leave her little charge, and go to be near

her brother. It was a bitter parting; it seemed as if the children

could not let her go; and the scene recalled so vividly to Agnes the

parting with Miss Edwards at Brook Farm, that the recollection made

her, if possible, still more sad, as she thought the resemblance might

be carried out even to the end, and the close of this earthly scene to

her might be as melancholy as was that of her beloved teacher.

She promised Mr. Fairland that, as soon as she could attend to it, she

would ascertain if there were vacancies in Mrs. Arlington’s school for

Rosa and Jessie, and also if Mr. Malcolm would consent to take charge

of Frank’s education; and, accompanied by Mr. Fairland, she left

Wilston, as she supposed, forever.

XVII.

The Jail.

“I may not go, I may not go,

Where the sweet-breathing spring-winds blow;

Nor where the silver clouds go by,

Across the holy, deep blue sky;

Nor where the sunshine, warm and bright

Comes down, like a still shower of light;

I must stay here

In prison drear;

Oh! heavy life, wear on, wear on,

Would God that thou wert gone.”

—FANNY KEMBLE.

They reached Brook Farm late in the evening, and here the greeting,

though not as noisy and joyous, was warmer, and if possible more

affectionate than ever. They all loved Lewie in spite of his many

faults, and their sympathy was most sincere and hearfelt for Agnes, who

was very dear to them all. As soon as Agnes could speak to Mr. Wharton

alone, she said:

“Uncle, have you seen him?”

“Every day, dear Agnes, and have been with him some hours each day.”

“And how does he feel, dear Uncle?”

“Relieved, I think, on the whole; that the suspense is over thus far.

He says he would not live over again the last three weeks for worlds.

Many and many a time he had almost resolved to return and give himself

up for trial; but the thought of you, Agnes, prevented. He said that

you must be a sharer in all his trouble and disgrace, and if he could

spare your distress and suffering, by escaping from the country, he

meant to try and do it, and then he would soon be forgotten, except by

the few who cared for him.”

“And how does he feel about the—the result, uncle?”

“Hopeful, I think; he seems to think it cannot be brought in murder,

when murder was so far from his intention.”

“And what do _you_ think, uncle?”

“I am inclined to think with Lewie, dear; there is always a leaning

towards mercy, and your brother has counsel, the very best in the

State.”

“Oh, uncle, how very kind! how can we ever repay you for your

kindness?”

“No thanks to me in this matter, Agnes; Mr. W—— has been retained by

one who does not wish his name known; one who would be glad, I fancy,

to have a nearer right to stand by you through these coming scenes, but

who will not trouble you with these matters at present.”

A bright blush came up in Agnes’ cheek, and as suddenly died away as

she said:

“One question more, uncle; when will it take place—the trial, I mean?”

“It will probably come on in November,” her uncle answered.

“Two long months of imprisonment for my poor brother!” said Agnes.

“But remember, Agnes, those two months will be diligently employed by

his counsel in preparing his defence.”

“And by those on the other side, in making strong their cause against

him, uncle. My poor dear Lewie! how I long to see him; and yet how I

dread the first meeting, oh! if that were only over!”

The next morning, immediately after breakfast, Mr. Wharton and Agnes

drove over to Hillsdale. Agnes shuddered, and turned pale, as they drew

near the gloomy jail with its iron-barred windows, and closing her eyes

she silently prayed for strength and calmness for the meeting with her

brother. Mr. Wharton conducted her to the door of the room in which her

brother was confined, and left her there, as he knew they would both

prefer that their first meeting should be without witnesses. In one

respect Agnes was agreeably disappointed; she had expected to find her

brother in a close, dark dungeon; and was much surprised to find

herself in a pleasant, light room, with table, books, writing

materials, and everything very comfortable about him; the only things

there to remind her that she was in a prison, being the locked door,

and the grated window.

Agnes had been preparing herself ever since she first received the

tidings of her brother’s arrest, for this meeting; and she went through

it with a calmness and composure which astonished herself. But poor

Lewie was completely overcome. He knew his sister would come to him;

but he had not expected her so soon, and the first intimation he had of

her arrival, was the sight of her upon the threshold of his door.

“Poor Agnes! poor dear sister!” said he, as soon as he could speak;

“what have I ever been from my childhood up, but a source of trouble

and distress to you. You were punished for my ungoverned temper all

through your childhood; you are suffering for it now; you will have to

suffer for it more, till your bloom is all gone, and you are worn to a

skeleton. If I had dared, Agnes—if I had dared, I should have put an

end to this mortal existence; and thus I should have saved you all this

coming disgrace and misery. But I had not the courage to lay violent

hands upon myself, and go, a deliberate suicide, into the presence of

my Maker. I have tried all other means; I have gone through exposure

and fatigue, which at any other time I know would have killed me; I

have laid out all night in the rain; _I_, who used to be so susceptible

to cold, but nothing seemed to hurt me. I have been reserved for other

and more terrible things. And you, Agnes, who are always kind, and

forbearing, and self-sacrificing, it seems to be your fate ever to

suffer and endure for others. Oh, my sister, you deserve a happier

lot!”

“Don’t talk so, dear Lewie!” said Agnes; “you have given me very many

happy hours, and all the little troubles of ‘long, long ago’ are

forgotten. And now, what greater pleasure can I have than that of

sitting with you here, working and reading, and trying to wile away the

tedious hours of your captivity?”

“Agnes! this must not be! I cannot allow it. It will brighten the whole

day for me, if you will come and spend an hour or two with me every

morning; but I cannot consent that you shall be immured for the whole

day in the walls of this gloomy prison-house.”

“But what can you do, Lewie? I am going to be obstinate for once, and

take my own course. Uncle will drive me over every morning, and come

for me at night; and I am going to enjoy a pleasure long denied me, of

spending every day with my darling brother.”

“Oh, Agnes! this is too, too much!”

“Not too much at all, Lewie. Do you think I could be happy anywhere

else than with you? What should I do at uncle’s but roam the house,

restless and impatient, every moment I am absent from you? And the

nights will seem so long, because they separate me from you!”

“Oh! how utterly undeserving!—how _utterly undeserving_ such love and

devotion!” said Lewie, pacing up and down the room. “Sweet

sister!—dearest Agnes!—now has my prison lost all its gloom; and were

it not for the future, I might be happier here than when out in the

world; for temptation here is far from me, and only good influences

surround me.”

“And what of the future, dear?”

“Of my trial, Agnes? Well, I hardly know what to say. My friends and

lawyers try to keep up my spirits, and mention to me many hopeful

things; and, for the time, I too feel encouraged. But I can think of

many things that a skilful lawyer can bring up against me, and which

would weigh very heavily. I am trying to think of the _worst_ as a

_probability_; so that if it comes, I shall not be overwhelmed.”

“Oh!” said Agnes, shuddering, and covering her eyes, as if to shut out

some horrid spectacle, “it cannot be! I cannot bring myself to

contemplate it for a moment!”

“And yet it _may be_, Agnes! or they may spare my life, and doom me to

wear out long years of imprisonment, and then send me out into the

world a blighted and ruined man! That is the best I can hope for; and

but for the disgrace which would come upon me, I should say the sudden

end is better.”

“And what of the future _after that_, Lewie? for that, after all, is

the great concern.”

“The _eternal future_ you mean, Agnes. Ah! my sister, the prospect

there is darker and more dreary still. I know enough of religion to

feel assured that my short life has not been spent in the way to

prepare me for a future of happiness; and I am not yet so hardened as

to pretend not to dread a future of misery.”

“God grant such may not be your fate, dear brother. Whether life be

long or short, happy or sorrowful, our future depends upon heart-felt

repentance here, and faith in the ‘sinner’s Friend.’ You have now time

for quiet and reflection. Oh! improve it dear Lewie, in so humbling

yourself before Him whom you have offended, and in so seeking for

pardon, that He will bless you and grant you peace.”

“I see, Agnes,” said her brother, with a sad smile, “you want me to

follow in the footsteps of all other offenders and criminals, who,

after doing all the mischief possible, and living for their own selfish

gratification while abroad in the world, spend the time of their

imprisonment in acts of penitence and devotion, and go out of the

world, as they all invariably do, in the full odor of sanctity, in

peace with God, and in charity with men.”

“Is my advice to you in any way different, my dear brother, from what

it was when you were free and unrestrained? Indeed, so much did I dread

the effect of your undisciplined temper, and so assured did I feel that

for you the grace of God was peculiarly necessary, that I have feared I

sometimes made my presence unwelcome by my constant warnings and

admonitions.”

“Never, Agnes—never, dearest sister! I always thanked you from my

inmost heart for your kind, loving, tender counsel; and though

apparently I turned it off lightly and carelessly, yet it often sank

deep in my heart; and when parted from you, I often thought what a

miserable wretch I was not to give better heed to it.”

“Yet, Lewie dear, I will not deny that I think the need more urgent

than ever for repentance and pardon now. I do not wish to harrow up

your feelings, dear brother; but, oh! it is an awful thing to send a

fellow-creature into eternity!”

“And do you think that thought ever for a moment leaves me, Agnes?

Indeed, I think that while I have been skulking and hiding, hunted and

pursued from one place to another, and since I have been shut up in

these walls, every harrowing thought that could possibly be brought

before my mind, has been dwelt upon till it seemed sometimes as if I

should go mad. I have mourned for Cranston as if I had no hand in his

death; I have thought of him in all his hope and promise; I have

thought of his poor mother and sisters, till the tears have rained from

my cheeks; and I believe I have been sincere in my feeling, that if by

suffering an ignominious death, I could restore my murdered friend to

life, I should be _glad_ to be the sacrifice. And then when I thought

of _myself_ as the cause of all this suffering, it seemed as if it

ought not to be a matter of wonder or complaint if the verdict should

be, that such a wretch should cumber the earth no longer. And yet,

Agnes, in the eye of Him who looketh only on the heart, I believe I was

as much a murderer when I struck down my school-mate in the play-ground

as now. For in the height of my passion then, I think I should have

been glad to have killed him. But the thought of _murder_ did not enter

my heart when I struck poor Cranston; it was a sort of instinctive

movement; the work of a moment; and had not the murderous weapon been

in my hand, the effects of the blow would have been but slight.”

Many such conversations as these passed between the young prisoner and

his sister, during those two months preceding the trial—every day of

which, except during church hours on Sunday, Agnes passed with him from

morning till night, almost as much a prisoner as he, except that hers

was not compulsory. This time was faithfully improved by Agnes, in

endeavoring to lead her brother to right views upon the subject of his

own condition in the sight of a Holy God. He was very gentle and

teachable now, and before the day of trial came, Agnes hoped that her

brother was a true penitent, though his own hopes of pardon were faint

and flickering.

Mr. Malcolm too, often visited young Elwyn, in whom he was most deeply

interested; and his gentle teachings and fervent prayers were eagerly

listened to by the youthful prisoner. Mr. W——, his counsel, came often,

also, but in his endeavors to keep up the spirits of Lewie and his

sister, his manner was so trifling and flippant that it grated on their

feelings painfully. He was working as laboriously it seemed, as the

enormous fee promised him would warrant, leaving no stone unturned

which would throw some favorable light on young Elwyn’s case. Thus days

and weeks passed on, and in the midst of increasing agitation and

excitement, the day of trial came.

When the brother and sister parted the evening before the trial, Agnes

once more renewed the entreaties she had so often made that Lewie would

allow her to remain by his side during the painful events of the coming

day. But his refusal was firm and unyielding.

“No, no, dear sister, pray do not urge it,” said he. “I know I shall be

too much agitated as it is; I do not believe I can go through it with

even an appearance of calmness alone; and how much more difficult it

would be for me with you by my side. I know I could not bear it. No!

Agnes, remain in the village if you prefer it, but do not let me see

your dear face again till my fate is decided. Let us pray once more

together, sweet sister—let us pray for mercy from God and man.” And

when they arose from their knees they took their sad farewell, and

Agnes accompanied her uncle to the house of her kind friend, Dr.

Rodney, where she was to remain till the trial was over.

XVIII.

The Trial.

“The morn lowered darkly; but the sun hath now,

With fierce and angry splendor, through the clouds

Burst forth, as if impatient to behold

This our high triumph. Lead the prisoner in.”

—VESPERS OF PALERMO.

To say that, long before the hour fixed for the trial, the court room

was crowded to its utmost capacity with eager and expectant faces,

would be to repeat what has been written and said of every trial, the

events of which have been chronicled; but it would be no less true for

that. And when the young prisoner was brought into the room, his

handsome face pale from agitation and recent confinement, and with an

expression of intense anxiety in his eye, all not before deeply

interested for the friends of the unfortunate Cranston were moved to

pity, and strongly prepossessed in his favor.

Mr. W——, the counsel for the prisoner, was an able and eloquent lawyer.

He was a small, slight man, with a high, bald forehead; and a pair of

very bright, black, restless eyes. His manner was naturally quick and

lively; but he well knew how to touch the tender strings, and make them

give forth a tone in unison with his own, or with that which he had

adopted for his own to suit the occasion. He had an appearance, too, of

being assured of the justice of his cause, and perfectly confident of

success, which was encouraging to the prisoner and his friends.

After the necessary preliminaries and statements had been gone through

with, the witnesses against the prisoner and in his favor were called,

who testified to the fact of the murder, and to the prisoner’s natural

quickness of temper, inducing fits of sudden passion, which, even in

childhood, seemed at times hardly to leave him the mastery of himself.

Friends, school-mates, college-mates, in turn gave their testimony to

the prisoner’s kindness of heart, which would not suffer him to harbor

resentment; and yet many instances were mentioned of fierce and

terrible passion, utterly heedless of results for the moment, and yet

passing away quick as the lightning’s flash.

It was shown that he had no ill-will to young Cranston; on the

contrary, they were generally friendly and affectionate; that they had

been so throughout the evening on which the fatal deed was done. It was

at a supper table, when all were excited by wine; and Cranston, who was

fond of a joke, and rather given to teazing, and being less guarded

than usual, introduced some subject exceedingly unpleasant to young

Elwyn. The quick temper of the latter was aroused at once, and he gave

a hasty and angry reply. The raillery was pushed still farther; and

before those about him had time to interfere, the fatal blow was struck

in frantic passion.

“And is this no palliating circumstance,” said Mr. W——, “that God has

given to this young man a naturally fierce and hasty temper, which

could not brook that which might be borne more patiently by those whose

blood flows more coldly and sluggishly? Is there no difference to be

made in our judgment of men, because of the different tempers and

dispositions with which they were born? Of course there is!—_of course_

there is! It has been clearly shown that there was no malice

aforethought in this case; the injury was not brooded over in silence,

and the plan matured in cold blood to murder a class-mate and friend.

No! on the moment of provocation the blow was struck, with but the

single idea of giving vent to the passion which was bursting his

breast. And those who witnessed his deep remorse and agony of mind,

when he discovered the fatal effects of his passion, as, all regardless

of his own safety, he endeavored to restore his expiring friend to

life, have assured me, that though they were witnesses of the whole

scene, they felt for _him_ only the deepest commiseration.”

And here Mr. W—— paused and wiped his eyes repeatedly, and the sobs of

the young prisoner were heard all over the court room.

“There was one,” Mr. W—— continued, “of whom he wished to speak, and

whom, on some accounts, he would have been glad to bring before the

jury to-day. But he would not outrage the feelings of his young friend

by urging him to consent to the entreaties of his lovely sister, that

she might be permitted to sit by his side in that prisoner’s seat

to-day. She is his only sister; he her only brother; and they are

orphans.” (Here there was a faltering of the voice, a pause, which was

very effective; and after apparently a great effort, Mr. W—— went on.)

“She has sat beside him hour after hour, and day after day, in yonder

dreary jail, endeavoring to make the weary hours of solitude and

captivity less irksome, and lead the prisoner’s heart away from earthly

trouble to heavenly comfort. Her hope in the jury of to-day is strong.

She believes they will not doom her young and only brother to an

ignominious death, and a dishonored grave; she even hopes that they

will not consign him to long years of weary imprisonment; she feels

that he is changed; that he no longer trusts to his own strength to

overcome his naturally strong and violent passions; but that his trust

is in the arm of the Lord his God, who ‘turneth the hearts of men as

the rivers of water are turned.’”

“May He dispose the hearts of these twelve men, on whom the fate of

this youth now hangs, so that they shall show, that like Himself they

are _lovers of mercy_.”

And Mr. W—— sat down and covered his face with his handkerchief. The

hope and expectation of acquittal now were very strong.

And now slowly rose the counsel for the prosecution. Mr. G—— was a tall

thin man, of a grave and stern expression of countenance; his hair was

of an iron-gray, and his piercing gray eye shone from under his shaggy

eye-brows like a spark of fire. It was the only thing that looked like

_life_ about him; and when he first rose he began to speak in a slow,

distinct, unimpassioned manner, and without the least attempt at

eloquence.

“He _had_ intended,” he said, “to call a few more witnesses, but he

found it was utterly unnecessary; those already called had said all he

cared to hear; indeed, he had been much surprised to hear testimony on

the side of the prisoner which he should have thought by right his own.

No one attempts to deny the fact of the killing, and that the deed was

done by the hand of the prisoner. The question for us to decide is, was

it murder? was it man-slaughter? or was it _nothing at all_? for to

that point my learned adversary evidently wishes to conduct us.”

“The young man it appears, by the testimony of friends and

school-mates, has always been of a peculiarly quick and fiery temper;

so much so it seems, that a playful allusion, or what is commonly

called a _teazing_ expression, could not be indulged in at his expense

but his companion was instantly felled to the ground. And was _he_ the

one to arm himself with bowie-knife or revolver? Should one who was

perfectly conscious that he had not the slightest control over his

temper, keep about him a murderous weapon ready to do its deed of death

upon any friend who might unwittingly, in an hour of revelry, touch

upon some sore spot?”

“As soon would I approach a keg of gun-powder with a lighted candle in

my hand, as have aught to do with one so fiery and so armed for

destruction. It has been said that it is the custom for young men in

some of our colleges to go thus armed; the more need of signal

vengeance upon the work of death they do. Gentlemen of the jury, if

this practice is not loudly rebuked we shall have work of this kind

accumulating rapidly on our hands.”

“‘It was done in the heat of frenzied passion, and so the prisoner must

go unpunished.’ My learned friend argued not so, when he appeared in

this place against the murder Wiley; poor, ignorant, and half-witted;

who with his eyes starting from his head with starvation, entered a

farmer’s house, and in the extremity of his suffering demanded bread.

And on being told by the woman of the house to take himself off to the

nearest tavern and get bread, caught up a carving knife and stabbed her

to the heart, seized a piece of bread, and fled from the house. He had

a fiendish temper too; it was rendered fiercer by starvation; and when

asked why he did the dreadful deed, he said he never could have dragged

himself on three miles to the nearest tavern, and he had no money to

buy bread when he got there. He must die anyway, and it might as well

be on the gallows as by the road-side.”

“He, poor fellow, had no friends; he had been brought up in vice and

misery; he had no gentle sister to lead him in the paths of virtue, a

kind word was never spoken to him; a crust of bread was denied him when

he was starving; and above all, he had no wealthy friend to pay an

enormous counsel fee, and my learned opponent standing where he did

just now, called loudly on the jury and said, ‘away with such a fellow

from the earth!’”

“Do not think me blood-thirsty or unfeeling. The innocent sufferer in

this case, the sister of this unfortunate young man, has my deepest

sympathy and commiseration, as she has that of this audience and the

jury. But could those here present have gone with me”—(here the speaker

paused, too agitated to proceed)—“to yonder desolated home; had they

seen a mother, lately widowed, and four young sisters, around the bier

where lay the remains of the murdered son and brother—their only hope

next to God—he for whom they were all toiling early and late, that,

when his education was completed, he in turn might work for them,—had

they heard that mother’s cry for strength, now that her last earthly

prop was thus rudely snatched away, they would have found food for pity

there. I tell you, my friends, I pray that I may never be called upon

to witness such a scene again!”

Wiping his cheeks repeatedly, Mr. G——resumed:

“These tears surprise me; for I am not used to the ‘melting mood,’ and

I cannot afford to weep as readily as my learned opponent, who will

count his pile of bank notes for every tear he sheds, and think those

tears well expended. I speak for an outraged community; my sympathies

are with the poor—with the widow and the fatherless—with those whose

only son and brother has been cut off in his hope and promise, and

consigned to an early grave.”

“Shall these things take place unnoticed and unpunished?—and for a

light and hasty word, shall our young men of promise be cut down in the

midst of their days, and the act go unrebuked of justice? I look not so

much at this individual case as to the general good. Were I to look

only on the prisoner, I too might yield to feeling, and forget justice.

But feeling must not rule here: in the court room, justice alone should

have sway; and I call upon the jury to decide as impartially in this

case as if the poorest and most neglected wretch, brought up in vice

and wretchedness, sat there, instead of the handsome and interesting

prisoner; and I call upon the jury to show that, though in private life

they may be ‘lovers of mercy,’ yet, where the general good is so deeply

involved, they are determined to ‘deal justly’ with the prisoner.”

The judge then gave his charge to the jury, which was thought to lean

rather to the side of the prisoner, though he agreed with Mr. G——, that

some sharp rebuke should be given to the practice, so common among the

young men in some of our colleges, of carrying about with them

offensive weapons.

The prisoner was led back to the jail; the jury retired; and it being

now evening, the court room was deserted.

XIX.

The Sealed Paper.

“Sister, thy brother is won by thee.”—MRS. HEMANS.

The verdict would not be made known till the next morning. Oh! what a

night of mental torture was that to the devoted sister of the prisoner!

The terrible suspense left it out of her power to remain quiet for a

moment, but she restlessly paced the room, watching for the dawn of

day, and yet dreading the signs of its approach. Her aunt, who remained

with her during that anxious night, endeavored as well as she could to

soothe and calm her excited feelings; but how little there was to be

said; she could only point her to the Christian’s never-failing trust

and confidence; and it was only by constant supplications for strength

from on high, as she walked the room, that Agnes was enabled to retain

the slightest appearance of composure, or, as it seemed to her, to keep

her brain from bursting.

The longest night will have an end, and morning at length dawned on the

weary eyes of the watchers. The family rose and breakfasted early, for

an intense excitement reigned throughout the house. Agnes begged to be

allowed to remain in her own room; and though, in compliance with the

entreaties of her friends, she endeavored to eat, she could not swallow

a morsel. Mr. Wharton came early; and soon after breakfast, he and Dr.

Rodney went out. At nine o’clock the court were to assemble, to hear

the verdict; and from that moment, Agnes seated herself at the window,

with her hands pressed on her aching forehead, and her eyes straining

to catch the first glimpse of them as they returned.

She sat thus for an hour or more at the window, and at the end of that

time the crowds began to pass the house, and she soon caught sight of

Dr. Rodney and her uncle. They did not hasten as if they had joyful

news to tell, and as Agnes in her agitation rose as they approached the

gate, and watched their faces as they came up the gravel walk, she saw

there enough to tell her the whole story; and pressing both hands upon

her heart she sat down again, for she had no longer strength to stand.

In a few moments she heard her uncle’s step coming slowly towards her

room. As the door opened very gently she did not raise her head; it had

fallen upon her breast, and she was asking for strength to bear what

she knew was coming. When at length she looked towards her uncle she

saw him standing with his hand still on the lock, and gazing at her

intently. His face was of an ashy paleness, and he seemed irresolute

whether to approach her or to leave the room.

“Uncle,” gasped Agnes, “do not speak now; there is no need; I see it

all,” and slowly she fell to the floor and forgot her bitter sorrow in

long insensibility. When she recovered it was nearly mid-day, and only

her aunt was sitting by her bedside.

“Aunty,” said she, as if bewildered, “what time is it?” Her aunt told

her the time.

“And is it possible,” said Agnes, “that I have slept so late?” and then

pressing her hands to her head, she said:

“Who said ‘_condemned_’ and ‘_sentenced_?’”

“No one has said those words to you, dear Agnes,” said Mrs. Wharton.

“But oh, aunty!” she exclaimed, seizing Mrs. Wharton’s hand, “it is

_true_, is it not? Yes, I know it is. My poor young brother! And here I

have been wasting the time when he wants me so much. I must get up this

moment and go to him.”

Her aunt endeavored to persuade her to remain quiet, telling her that

Mr. Malcolm was with Lewie, and that he was not left alone for a

moment. Agnes insisted, however, upon rising, but on making the attempt

her head became dizzy and she sank back again upon her pillow; and this

was the beginning of a brain fever, which kept her confined to her bed

in unconscious delirium for more than three weeks. In her delirium she

seemed to go back to the days of her childhood, and live them over

again with all the trouble they caused her young heart. Sometimes she

fancied herself a lonely prisoner again in the cold north room, and

sometimes pleading with her little brother, and begging him to “be a

good boy, and to try and not be so cross.” At one time Dr. Rodney had

little hope of her life, and after that he feared permanent loss of

reason, but in both fears he was disappointed. Agnes recovered at

length, and with her mind as clear as ever.

During the days when she was convalescing, but still too weak to leave

her bed, her impatience to get to her brother was so great, that the

doctor feared it would retard her recovery. It could not be concealed

from her that Lewie was ill, and the consciousness that she was so

necessary to him, made it the more difficult for Agnes to exercise that

patience and calmness which were requisite to ensure a return of her

strength. Lewie had taken to his bed, immediately after his return to

the jail, on the morning of the sentence, and had not left it since. He

seemed fast sinking into a decline, and much of the good doctor’s time

was taken up in ministering at the bed-side of the brother and sister.

At length Agnes was so much better that the doctor consented to her

paying her brother a visit. She found him in the condemned cell, but no

manacles were necessary to fetter his limbs, for a chain stronger than

iron bolts confined him to his bed, and that strong chain was perfect

weakness. Though his cell was darker and more dungeon-like, yet through

the kindness of friends the sick young prisoner was made as comfortable

as possible. By a very strong effort Agnes so far commanded herself as

to retain an appearance of outward composure, during that first meeting

after so long and so eventful a separation; and now began again the

daily ministrations of Agnes at the bed-side of her brother, for in

consideration of his feeble condition his sister was permitted to

remain with him constantly.

Lewie knew that he was failing; “I think,” said he to Agnes, “that God

will call for my spirit before the time comes for man to set it free.

But oh! Agnes, if I could once more look upon the green earth, and the

blue sky, and breathe the pure fresh air; and die _free_.”

It was after longings for freedom like these, that when Agnes returned

to Dr. Rodney’s one evening, (for ever since the trial, at the earnest

request of the kind doctor and his wife, she had made their house her

home except when with her brother,) she found her cousin Grace, who

often came over to pass the night with her, waiting her arrival with

tidings in her face.

“Agnes,” said she, “I have heard something to-day which may possibly

cast a ray of hope on Lewie’s case yet.”

“What can it be, dear Grace?” asked Agnes.

“Who do you think the new Governor’s wife is, Agnes?”

“I am sure I cannot imagine.”

“Do you remember that strange girl, Ruth Glenn?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, it is she. Only think how strange! I have no idea how much

influence she has with the Governor; but unless she has changed

wonderfully in her feelings, she would do anything in the world to

serve you, Agnes, as she ought.”

“Oh, blessings on you, Grace! I will go; there _may_ be hope in it; and

if poor Lewie could only die free; for die he must, the doctor assures

me—perhaps before the flowers bloom.”

“Father will go with you, Agnes. I have been talking with him about

it.”

“Oh, how very, very kind you all are to us!” said Agnes. “Then, no time

must be lost, Grace; and if uncle will go with me, we will start as

early as possible in the morning.”

Agnes rose early the next morning, with something like a faint tinge of

color in her cheek, lent to it by the excitement of hope; and after

visiting her brother, to give some explanation of the cause of her

absence, she took her seat in the carriage by her uncle, for they must

ride some miles in order to reach the cars.

They reached the Capitol that afternoon; and Agnes, who felt that she

had very little time to spare, left the hotel a few moments after their

arrival in the city, and, leaning on her uncle’s arm, sought the

Governor’s house. Agnes felt her heart die within her as she ascended

the broad flight of marble steps. Years had passed, and many changes

had taken place since she had met Ruth Glenn. Would she find her again

in the Governor’s lady?

Mrs. F—— was at home, and Mr. Wharton left Agnes at the door, thinking

that, on all accounts, the interview had better be private. “He should

return for her in an hour or two,” he said, “when he intended to call

upon the Governor, who had once been a class-mate and intimate friend.”

Having merely sent word by the servant that an old friend wished to see

Mrs. F——, Agnes was shown into a large and elegantly-furnished parlor,

to await her coming. In a few moments, she heard a light step

descending the stairs, and the rustling of a silk dress, and the

Governor’s lady entered the room.

Could it be possible that this blooming, elegant, graceful woman was

the pale, nervous Ruth Glenn, whom Agnes had befriended at Mrs.

Arlington’s school? To account for this extraordinary change, we must

go back a few years, which we can fortunately do in a few moments, and

give a glance at Ruth Glenn’s history.

She had left school almost immediately after Agnes and her cousins,

having been recommended by Mrs. Arlington to a lady who was looking for

a governess to her children. Here she became acquainted with a lawyer

who visited frequently at the house; a middle-aged man, and a widower,

who was just then looking out for some one to take care of himself and

his establishment. By one of those unaccountable whims which men

sometimes take, this man (who, from his position and wealth, might have

won the hand of almost any accomplished and dashing young lady of his

acquaintance,) was attracted towards the plain, silent governess, and

he very soon, to the astonishment of all, made proposals to her, which

were accepted.

Soon after their marriage, business made it necessary for Mr. F—— to go

to Europe, and Ruth accompanied him. A sea voyage and two years’ travel

abroad entirely restored her health, and with it came, what her husband

had never looked for—_beauty_; while the many opportunities for

improvement and cultivation which she enjoyed, and the good society

into which she was thrown, worked a like marvellous change in her

manners. All her nervous diffidence banished, and in its place she had

acquired a dignified self-possession and grace of manner, which fitted

her well for the station of influence she was to occupy. Soon after her

return, her husband was elected Governor; and the city was already

ringing with praises of the loveliness and affability of the new

Governor’s wife.

No wonder, then, that as Agnes rose to meet her they stood looking at

each other in silence for a moment; Agnes vainly endeavoring to

discover a trace of Ruth Glenn in the easy and elegant woman before

her, and Mrs. F—— trying to divine who this guest who had called

herself an old friend might be.

For sickness and sorrow had changed Agnes too. Her bright bloom was all

gone; her charming animation of manner had given place to a settled

sadness; and though still most lovely, as she stood in her deep

mourning dress, she was but a wreck of the Agnes Elwyn of former years.

But when after a moment Agnes said, “Ruth, do you not know me?”

The scream of delight with which Ruth opened her arms, and clasped her

to her breast, crying out, “_Agnes Elwyn!_—my dear, dear Agnes!”

convinced her that in heart at least her old school-mate was unchanged.

Ruth immediately took Agnes to her own room, that they might be

undisturbed, for she guessed at once her purpose in coming; and then

Agnes opened to her her burdened heart; relating all her brother’s

history; telling her of his naturally strong passions, and saying all

that was necessary to say, in justice to her brother, of the

injudicious training he had received; at the same time treating her

mother’s memory with all possible delicacy and respect.

“And now, dear Ruth,” she said, “I do not come to ask that my young

brother shall be permitted to walk forth to do like evil again;—there

would be no danger of that, even if he were not greatly changed, as I

solemnly believe he is, in heart and temper; for his doom is sealed;

consumption is wasting his frame;—we only ask that we may carry him

forth to die and be buried among his kindred. Oh! how he pines for the

free air and the blue sky, and longs to die elsewhere than in a

condemned cell! If I might be permitted to remove him to my uncle’s

kind home, where he could have comforts and friends about him, I could

close his eyes, it seems to me, with thankfulness, for I do believe

that the Christian’s hope is his.”

Ruth’s sympathizing tears had been flowing down her cheeks, as, with

her hand clasping that of Agnes, she had listened to her sad story. She

now rose, and said she would go to her husband, who was slightly

indisposed, and confined to his room, and prepare him to see Agnes.

“And do, Agnes, talk to him just as you have done to me,” she said. “He

is called a stern man; but he has tender feelings, I can assure you, if

the right chord is only touched.”

Ruth was gone a long time, and Agnes walked the floor of her room in a

state of suspense and agitation only equalled by that of the night

after the trial. At length Ruth returned: she looked sad and troubled.

“Agnes,” said she, “you must see my husband yourself, and say to him

all you have said to me. He is deeply grateful for all you have done

for me, and would do anything in the world for you except what he

thinks, or what he seems to think, would be yielding to the call of

feeling at the expense of justice. He says his predecessor has been

much censured for so often granting pardons to criminals, especially to

any who had influential friends; and I fear that, in avoiding his

errors, he will go to the opposite extreme. He remembers your brother’s

case well, and says, that though it could not be called _deliberate_

murder, still it was murder; and he agrees with the lawyer, Mr. G——,

that some signal reproof should be given to this practice among the

young men of carrying about them offensive weapons. This is all he

said; but he has consented to see you, and is expecting you. I shall

leave you alone with him; and oh! Agnes, do speak as eloquently as you

did to me. I know he cannot resist it.”

The Governor, a tall, fine-looking man, was wrapped in his

dressing-gown, and seated in his easy chair. He rose to receive Agnes,

gave her a cordial welcome as a friend to his wife, and bade her take a

seat beside him; but there was something in his look which said, that

he did not mean to be convinced against his better judgment by two

women.

Agnes was at first too much agitated to speak; but the Governor kindly

re-assured her, by asking her some questions about her brother’s case,

and soon she thought of nothing but him; her courage all revived; and

with an eloquence the more effective from being all unstudied, she told

her brother’s story to the Governor. “He is so young,” said she, “only

eighteen years old; and yet he must die. But, oh! sir, if you would but

save him from being dragged in his weakness to a death of shame, or

from lingering out his few remaining days in that close, dark cell; oh!

if he might only die free!”

“Ruth tells me,” said the Governor, quietly, “that your uncle, Mr.

Wharton, is with you. Is it William Wharton, of C—— County?”

Agnes answered in the affirmative.

“Once a very good friend of mine,” said he; “but it is many years since

we have met. Where is he?”

“He came to the door with me,” answered Agnes, “and will return for me

soon. He hoped to have the pleasure of seeing you, sir.”

“I will see him when he comes,” said the Governor. “Go you back to

Ruth, my dear young lady. I will think of all you have said.”

When Mr. Wharton called, he was admitted to the Governor; and the two

former friends, after a cordial greeting, were closeted together for a

long time. He confirmed all that Agnes said of her brother, and assured

the Governor that it was the opinion of physicians that he could not

recover, and might not last a month. He spoke long and feelingly of the

devotion of Agnes to her brother, in attendance upon whom, in his

loneliness and imprisonment, she had worn out health and strength.

The eyes of the Governor now glistened with emotion as he said, “Well,

well, I hope I shall not be doing wrong. At what time do you leave in

the morning, Mr. Wharton?”

“In the very first train. Agnes cannot be longer from her brother’s

bedside.”

“Can you bring her here for one moment before you leave?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, then, tell her to lie down to-night, and sleep in peace; and may

Heaven bless a sister so devoted, and a friend so true.”

The Governor was not so well when Mr. Wharton and Agnes called the next

morning; but Ruth. appeared, her face radiant with joy, and, throwing

her arms around Agnes’ neck, she put into her hand a _sealed paper_.

XX.

Twice Free.

“Oh liberty!

Thou choicest gift of Heaven, and wanting which

Life is as nothing.”—KNOWLES.

Oh! the sunshine, and the glad earth, and the singing of the birds of

early spring, to the prisoner, sick, and worn, and weary! How the

feeble pulse already begins to throb with pleasure, and life which had

seemed so valueless before, looks lovely and much to be desired now.

The official announcement of the pardon reached Hillsdale almost as

soon as Agnes herself, and the friends of the young prisoner lost no

time in removing him as gently and as comfortably as possible, to his

uncle’s kind home at Brook Farm. Here nothing was left undone by his

devoted friends to soothe his declining days; and with a heart

overflowing with gratitude and love, Lewie sank quietly towards the

grave.

He was very gentle now, and the change in him was so great, that his

sister doubted not that repentance and faith had done their work. His

own doubts and fears were many, though sometimes a glimmering of hope

would beam through the clouds which seemed to have gathered about him.

One day, after a long conversation with Agnes upon the love and mercy

of God, he said:

“Well Agnes, it may be, there is hope for me too; I know He is

all-powerful and all-merciful; why, as you say, should not his mercy

extend even to me?”

“He is _able_ and _willing_ to save unto the uttermost,” said Agnes.

“Unto—the—uttermost! Unto—the—uttermost!” repeated the sick youth

slowly; then looking up with his beautiful eye beaming with

expression;—

“Yes, Agnes,” said he, “I will trust him!”

Day by day he grew weaker, and at times his sufferings were intense;

but such a wonderful patience and calmness possessed him, and he seemed

so to forget self in his thought for others, that Mrs. Wharton said, in

speaking of him:

“I never so fully realized the import of the words ‘_a new creature_.’

Who would think that this could be our impetuous, thoughtless Lewie, of

former times.”

“You must make some allowance for the languor of sickness, my dear,”

said Mr. Wharton, who of course did not see so much of the invalid as

those who had the immediate charge of him.

“Weakness, I grant, would make him less impetuous and violent,”

answered his wife, “but would it make him patient, and docile, and

considerate, if there were not some radical change in his feelings and

temper?”

During the last few days of his life, and when the flickering flame was

hourly expected to die out, his uncle saw more of him, and he, too,

became convinced of the change in Lewie, and was certain that for him

to die would be gam. And at last, with words of prayer upon his lips

and a whisper of his sister’s name, he sank away as gently as an infant

drops asleep.

“How like he looks,” said old Mammy, with the tears streaming down her

withered cheeks, “how like he looks, with the bonny curls lying round

his forehead, to what he did the day he lay like death at the

Hemlock’s, when he was only two years old.”

Mrs. Wharton’s mind immediately reverted to the scene, and to that

young mother’s prayer of agony, “Oh, for his life! his life!” and as

she thought over the events of that short life of sin and sorrow, she

said within herself, “Oh! who can tell what to choose for his portion!

Thou Lord, who knowest the end from the beginning, choose Thou our

changes for us, and help us in the darkest hour to say, ‘Thy will be

done.’”

And in the quiet spot where the willow bends, and the brook murmurs, by

the side of his mother, and near the grave of Rhoda Edwards, rest the

remains of _Lewie_.

It is strange how much a human heart may suffer and yet beat on and

regain tranquillity, and even cheerfulness at last. It is a most

merciful provision of Providence, that our griefs do not always press

upon us as heavily as they do at first, else how could the burden of

this life of change and sorrow be borne. But the loved ones are not

forgotten when the tear is dried and the smile returns to the cheek;

they are remembered, but with less of sadness and gloom in the

remembrance; and at length, if we can think of them as happy, it is

only a pleasure to recall them to mind.

So Agnes found it, as after a few months of rest and quiet in her

uncle’s happy home, the gloom of her sorrow began to fade away, the

color returned to her cheek, and she began to be like the Agnes of

former times. And now that health and energy had returned, she began to

long for employment again, and though she knew it would cost a great

struggle to leave her dear friends at Brook Farm, she began to urge

them all to be on the watch for a situation for her as governess or

teacher.

At length, one day, some months after her brother’s death, Mr. Wharton

entered the room where she was sitting, and said:

“Agnes, there is a gentleman down stairs, who would like to engage you

to superintend the education of his children.”

If Agnes had looked closely at her uncle’s face, she would have

observed a very peculiar expression there; but only laying aside her

work, she said:

“Please say to him, uncle, that I will come down in one moment.”

With a quiet step and an unpalpitating heart, Agnes opened the parlor

door, and found herself alone with—Mr. Harrington!

And here we will end our short chapter, though enough was said that

morning to make it a very long one, as it certainly was an eventful one

in the history of Agnes.

XXI

The Winding Up or the Turning Point, whichever the Reader likes Best.

“Still at thy father’s board

There is kept a place for thee

And by thy smile restored,

Joy round the hearth shall be.”—MRS. HEMANS.

“He will not blush that has a father’s heart,

To take in childish plays a childish part,

But bends his sturdy back to any toy

That youth takes pleasure in, to please his boy.”—COWPER

“What do you think, Calista?—what _do_ you think?” asked Miss Evelina

Fairland of her sister, about two years after she had asked these same

questions before. “There are masons, and carpenters, and painters, and

paperers, and gardeners, at work at the old Rookery; a perfect army of

laborers have been sent down from the city. What can it mean?”

“I cannot imagine, I am sure,” answered Miss Calista, “unless Mr.

Harrington is really going to settle down, and look out for a wife at

last.” And Miss Calista looked in the glass over her sister’s shoulder,

and both faces looked more faded and considerably older than when we

saw them last.

“Do you know,” said Miss Evelina, “that I really believe Agnes Elwyn

thought the man was in love with _her_?”

“Absurd!” exclaimed Miss Calista. “Besides, if he ever had entertained

such a thought, he would not, of course, think of anything of the kind

since that affair of her brother’s. Such a disgrace, you know!”

The appearance of the old Rookery changed so rapidly, that it seemed

almost as if the fairies had been at work; and in a few weeks, glimpses

of a fair and elegant mansion, with its pretty piazzas and porticos,

could be seen between the noble oaks which surrounded the mansion. And

now Miss Calista and Evelina, who kept themselves informed of all that

was going on at the Rookery, reported that “the _most magnificent_

furniture” had come, and the curtains and pictures were being hung, and

it was certain that the owner of the place would be there soon.

At length a travelling carriage, in which was seated Mr. Harrington,

with a lady by his side, and two little girls in front, was seen by

these indefatigable ladies to drive rapidly through the street, and out

towards the Rookery. The lady was in mourning, and her veil was down.

Who could she be?

And now it was rumored in the village that Mr. Harrington was actually

married; and whenever he met any of his old acquaintances, he invited

them with great cordiality to call to see his wife. The Misses Fairland

determined not to be outdone by any, and, the more effectually to

conceal their own disappointment, were among the first to call.

Who can conceive of their astonishment and mortification, when they

found that the mistress of the Rookery was no other than the former

governess, Agnes Elwyn! Agnes received them with the utmost kindness;

begged them to ask their father, whom she remembered with much

affection, to come very soon to see her; was much pleased to hear how

happy Rosa and Jessie were at Mrs. Arlington’s; and brought them

tidings of Frank, who was under Mr. Malcolm’s care.

“And where is that delightful gentleman who was with Mr. Harrington,

when he was here two summers since—Mr. Wharton I think his name was?”

asked Miss Evelina.

“Mr. Tom Wharton? Oh, he will be here in a few days. He has purchased

the place next to us, and is about to build there. I suppose, as it is

no longer a secret, I may tell you that he is soon to be married to my

cousin, Effie Wharton. They will remain with us most of the time till

their house is finished.”

The countenances of the visitors fell on hearing this, and they soon

rose and took leave.

And now we know not better how to wind up or _run down_ our story, than

to pass over two or three years and introduce our reader to another

Christmas party at Mr. Wharton’s, for it still is the custom, for all

the scattered members of the family to gather in the paternal mansion

to spend the Christmas holidays.

Mr. and Mrs. Wharton appear as a fine-looking middle-aged couple, on

whom the years sit lightly, for their lives have been happy and useful

ones, and there is no such preservative of fresh and youthful looks, as

a contented mind and an untroubled conscience. The two older sons are

married. Robert is settled as a clergyman in a western village, and

Albert as a merchant in the city; these with their wives, most charming

women both, are there.

Mr. Malcolm, who wondered more and more that he ever had the

presumption to suppose that such a woman as Emily Wharton could fancy

him, at last so recovered from his disappointment as again to entertain

thoughts of matrimony; and he and our friend Grace have been married

about six months, and are nicely settled in their own pretty house at

Hillsdale, where Mr. Malcolm is still the loved and honored pastor.

Cousin Emily, calm and tranquil as ever to all outward appearance,

aided in the preparations and appeared at the wedding, and it was no

cause of wonderment to any, that she was confined to her bed the next

day with one of her nervous headaches, for great excitement and fatigue

were always too much for cousin Emily.

Mr. Tom Wharton and Effie are at home too, the former no whit more

sedate, in consequence of the added dignities of husband and father

which attach to him.

And our own dear Agnes is there too, with her husband, her two little

step-daughters, and her own little boy, a noble, handsome little

fellow, but with some traits of character which occasionally cause a

pang to cross the heart of his mother; they remind her so of the

childhood of one whose sun went down so early and so sadly. But we hope

much that proper training, with the divine blessing, will so mould and

guide this tender plant, that it will grow up to be an ornament and a

blessing to all around, Agnes makes just such a step-mother as we

should expect, and her dear little girls feel that in her they have

indeed found a mother.

But long after all the rest of the large party have been seated at the

dinner-table, there remains a vacant seat, and here at last slowly

comes the expected occupant.

What, cousin Betty! alive yet? Yes, and “alive like to be,” till she

has finished her century. She retains many of her old, strange habits,

but has long since given up _dying_, as others begin to expect such an

event to happen in the ordinary course of nature; indeed, it rather

hurts cousin Betty’s feelings to be spoken of as a very aged person, or

as one whose time on earth is probably short. She is laying her plans

for the future as busily as any one, and it may be that her old

wrinkled face will be seen in its accustomed haunts long after some of

the blooming ones around that board are mouldering in the grave.

Old Mammy too, whose home has been with Agnes ever since her marriage,

has come back to her old home for the Christmas holidays. But Mammy is

a good deal broken, and nothing is required of her by her kind

mistress, except such little offices as it is a pleasure to her to

perform.

Cousin Emily, the “old maid cousin,” as she calls herself, is in great

demand; indeed, as she says, she is a perfect “bone of contention,” and

in order to keep peace with all, she has had to divide the year into

four parts, and give three months to each of those who have the

strongest claim upon her time. It is always a season of rejoicing when

cousin Emily arrives, with her ever cheerful face, her entertaining

conversation for the older ones, and her fund of stories and anecdotes

for the children.

After dinner came an old-fashioned Christmas frolic, and the older ones

were children again, and the children as wild and noisy as they chose

to be. Mr. Wharton on entering the room suddenly, saw his nephew, Mr.

Tom, going around the room on all fours, as a horse, driven by his only

son and heir, Master Tom, junior.

“Tom,” said Mr. Wharton suddenly, “how do you prefer calf’s head?”

“What do you mean by that, uncle?” said Mr. Tom, pausing a moment and

looking up.

“I took some notes of a certain conversation which took place some

years ago,” said his uncle, “in which a certain young gentleman called

a certain old gentleman _a calf_, because he made such a fool of

himself as to be a horse for his little son to drive; and this young

gentleman said he would sooner eat his head, than make such an

exhibition of himself.”

“Well, circumstances do alter cases, don’t they, uncle?” said Mr. Tom,

beginning to prance about again under the renewed blows of the whip in

Master Tom junior’s hand.

Mrs. Arlington and her daughters still keep their school, which is as

popular and flourishing as ever. Rosa and Jessie Fairland are still

under their care, and it is a great pleasure to Agnes to see what fine,

agreeable girls they are growing up to be. They retain a warm affection

for Agnes and pass many a pleasant day at the Rookery, when they are at

home for a vacation. Frank is still under Mr. Malcolm’s care, and a

member of his family, Mr. Malcolm finds him a much more tractable pupil

than one we know of, to whom he tried to do his duty many years ago.

And we must not close without saying a word of the kind, true-hearted,

Ruth Glenn. Governor F——, at the close of his term of office was

re-elected, and when at last he left the city and returned to his

country home, it was with the deep regrets of all the many friends

which his residence in the capitol had not failed to create for

himself, and his amiable wife. As she passed within a few miles of

Wilston, Mrs. F—— turned out of her way to stop and pay Agnes a short

visit, and she found again the bright and cheerful Agnes of former

times; and many a pleasant hour the friends enjoyed together, in

talking over the days and _nights_ at Mrs. Arlington’s school, for even

out of the latter they could now draw some amusing recollections.

Miss Calista and Miss Evelina are still on the “look out.” The wife of

the clergyman at Wilston, having died about a year since, Miss Calista,

ever ready to take advantage of any _opening_, began immediately to

attend church very regularly, and with a vary sanctimonious and

attentive air. It remains to be seen whether anything comes of it.

And now our task is done. If the sad story of the short life of poor

Lewie, will be the means of leading any mother to use more carefully

and more conscientiously, the power which she _alone_ possesses now, of

training aright the little plants in her nursery, so that they may grow

up fair and flourishing, and bear good fruit; and in time repay her

care by the fragrance and beauty and comfort which they shower about

her declining days, it will be enough. And may each little plant, so

trained, bloom evermore in the paradise of God.

THE END.

Every one is Enraptured with the Book—Every one will Read it!

SIX THOUSAND PUBLISHED IN THIRTY DAYS!

UPS AND DOWNS,

Or Silver Lake Sketches.

BY COUSIN CICELY, Author of Lewie or the Bended Twig

_One Elegant 12mo. Vol., with Ten Illustrations by Coffin, and engraved

by the best artists. Cloth, gilt_, $1.25.

ALDEN & BEARDSLEY, Auburn and Rochester, N.Y., Publishers

_The Critics give it Unqualified Commendation_.

Cousin Cicely’s “Lewie, or the Bended Twig,” published and widely read

not long ago, was a volume to sharpen the reader’s appetite for “more

of the same sort.” ***** ‘Ups and Downs’ is a cluster of sketches and

incidents in real life, narrated with a grace of thought and flow of

expression rarely to be met. The sketches well entitle the volume to

its name, for they are pictures of many sides of life—some grave, some

gay, some cheering and some sad, pervaded by a genial spirit and

developing good morals.

Either of the fifteen sketches will amply repay the purchaser of the

volume, and unless our judgment is false, _after a careful reading_,

“Ups and Downs” will make an impression beyond “the pleasant effect to

while away a few unoccupied moments.” The Publishers have given Cousin

Cicely’s gems a setting worthy of their brilliancy. The ten

illustrations are capital in design and execution, and it strikes us as

remarkable how such a volume can be profitably got up at the price for

which it is sold. The secret must lie in large circulation—which “Ups

and Downs” is certain to secure.—N.Y. _Evening Mirror_.

_Who is Cousin Cicely_?—We begin to think Cousin Cicely is _somebody_,

and feel disposed to ask, who is she? We several months ago noticed her

“Lewie” in this journal. It is a story with a fine moral, beautiful and

touching in its development. It has already quietly made its way to a

circulation of _twelve thousand_, “without beating a drum or crying

oysters.” Pretty good evidence that there is something in it. Our

readers have already had a taste of “_Ups and Downs_,” for we find

among its contents a story entitled “_Miss Todd, M.D., or a Disease of

the Heart_,” which was published in this journal a few months ago We

venture to say that _no one_ who read has forgotten it, and those who

remember it will be glad to know where they can find plenty more of the

“same sort.”—_U.S. Journal_.

* * * Sketches of life as it is, and of some things as they should be;

all drawn with a light pencil, and abounding with touches of real

genius, Cousin Cicely has improved her former good reputation in our

opinion, by this effort.—_The Wesleyan_.