Thunderstruck, as though a bolt had smitten them individually in the

head, this direction, delivered in a quiet voice of command not to be

resisted, sent the two servants forth at the back-door. They were no

sooner out of view than they addressed each other almost at the same

moment, "My eyes! did you ever see such a queer old fellow as that!"

When Mrs. Carrack and her son turned, and found that the two young

gentlemen in livery had actually vanished, the lady smiled a delicate

smile of gentle scorn, and Mr. Tiffany, regarding his aged grandfather

steadily, merely remarked, in a tone of most friendly and familiar

condescension, "Baden-Baden wouldn't have done such a thing!"

The overpowering grandeur of the fashionable lady chilled the household,

and there was little conversation till she addressed the widow Margaret.

"Hadn't you a grown up son, Mrs. Peabody?"

The widow was silent. Presently Mr. Carrack renewed the discourse.

"By the by," he said, "I thought I saw that son of yours--wasn't his

name Elbridge, or something of that sort?--in New Orleans."

"Did you speak to him?" asked the Captain, flushing a little in the

face.

"I observed he was a good deal out at elbows," Mr. Carrack answered,

"and it was broad day-light, in one of the fashionable streets."

"Is that all you have to tell us of your cousin?" old Sylvester

inquired.

"He is my cousin--much obliged for the information. I had almost

forgotten that! Why ye-es--I couldn't help seeing that he went into a

miserable broken-down house in a by-street--but had to get my moustache

oiled for a Creole ball that evening, and couldn't be reasonably

expected to follow him, could I?--Jehoshaphat!"

If the human countenance, by reason of its clouding up in gusts of

pitchy blackness acquired the power, like darkening skies, of

discharging thunderbolts, it would have been, I am sure, a hot and heavy

one which Mopsey, blackening and blazing, had delivered, as she departed

to the kitchen, lowering upon Mr. Tiffany Carrack,--"'_He thought he saw

her son Elbridge!_' The vagabone has no more feeling nor de bottom of a

stone jug."

The meal over, the evening wore on in friendly chat of old Thanksgiving

times--of neighbors and early family histories; each one in turn

launching, so to speak, a little boat upon the current, freighted deep

with many precious stores of old-time remembrance; Mrs. Carrack sitting

alone as an iceberg in the very midst of the waters, melting not once,

nor contributing a drop or trickle to the friendly flow. And when

bed-time came again, how clearly was it shown, that there is nothing

certain in this changeful world. By some sudden and unforeseen

interruption, nations lose power, communities are shattered, households

well-constructed fall in pieces at a breath.

Her sudden appearance in their midst, compelled another consultation to

be taken as to the disposal of the great Mrs. Carrack for the night. It

would never answer to put that grand person in any secondary lodging; so

all the old arrangements were of necessity broken up; the best bed-room

allotted to her; and that her gentle nerves might not be afflicted, the

old clock, which adjoined her sleeping-chamber, and which had occupied

his corner and told the time for the Peabodys for better than a hundred

years from the same spot, was instantly silenced, as impertinent. The

Captain's high-actioned white horse, which had enjoyed the privilege of

roaming unmolested about the house, was led away like an unhappy

convict, and stabled in the barn; and to complete the arrangements, the

two servants in livery were put on guard near her window, to drive off

the geese, turkeys, and other talkative birds of the night, that she

might sleep without the slightest disturbance from that noisy old

creature, Nature.

Mr. Tiffany Carrack, while these delicate preparations were in progress,

was evidently agitated with some extraordinary design, in which Miriam

Haven was bearing a part; for, although he did not address a word to

that young maiden, he was as busy as his imitation of the antiquity of

Baden-Baden would allow him, ogling, grimacing, and plucking his tawny

beard at her every minute in the most astonishing manner, closely

watched by Mopsey, the Captain, and old Sylvester, who strongly

suspected the young man of being affected in his wits.

It was very clear that it was this same Mr. Tiffany Carrack who had

entered in at the door of the sleeping chamber assigned to that

gentleman, but who would have ventured to assert that the figure, which,

somewhere about the middle of the night, emerged from the window of the

chamber in question, in yellow slippers, red silk cloak trimmed with

gold, fez cap, and white muslin turban, and, with folded arms, began

pacing up and down under the casement of Miriam Haven, after the manner

of singers at the opera, preparatory to beginning, was the same

Tiffany? And yet, when he returned again, and holding his face up to the

moon, which was shining at a convenient angle over the edge of the

house, the tawny tuft clearly identified it as Tiffany and no one else.

And yet, as if to further confuse all recognition, what sound is that

which breaks from his throat, articulating:--

"Dearest, awake--you need not fear;

For he--for he--your Troubadour is here!"

The summons passed for some time unanswered, till Mopsey, from the

little end-window of her lodgement, presented her head in a flaming red

and yellow handkerchief, and rolled her eyes about to discover the

source of the tumult; scowling in the belief that it must be no other

than "one of dem Brundages come to carry off in de dead of night de

Peabody punkin."

A gentle conviction was dawning in the brain of Mr. Carrack that this

was the fair Miriam happily responding to his challenge in the

appropriate character and costume of a Moorish Princess; when, as he

began to roar again, still more violent and furious in his chanting, the

black head opened and demanded, "what you want dere?" followed by an

extraordinary shower of gourd-shells, which, crashing upon his sconce,

with a distinct shatter for each shell, could not, for a moment, be

mistaken for flowers, signet-rings, or any other ordinarily recognised

love-tokens.

It immediately occurred to Mr. Carrack, with the suddenness of

inspiration, that he had better return to his chamber and go to bed; a

design which was checked, as he proceeded in that direction, by the

alarming apparition of a great body with a fire-lock thrust out of the

window of the apartment, next to his own, occupied by the Captain,

presented directly at his head, with a cry "Avast, there!" and a

movement on the part of the body, to follow the gun out at the window.

Fearfully harassed in that quarter, Mr. Carrack wheeled rapidly about,

encountering as he turned, the two servants in livery, still making the

circuit of the homestead--who in alarm of their lives from this singular

figure in the red cloak, fled into the fields and lurked in an old

out-house till daylight. As these scampered away before him, Mr.

Tiffany, to relieve himself of the apparition of the gun, would have

turned the corner of the house; when Mopsey appeared, wildly

gesticulating, with a great brush-broom reared aloft, and threatening

instant ruin to his person.

From this double peril, what but the happiest genius could have

suggested to Mr. Tiffany, an instant and straightforward flight from the

house; in which he immediately engaged, making up the road--the Captain

with his musket, and Mopsey with her hearth-broom, close at his heels.

If Mr. Tiffany Carrack had promptly employed his undoubted resources of

youth and activity, his escape from the necessity of disclosure or

surrender had been perhaps easy; but it so happened that his progress

was a good deal baffled by the conflict constantly kept up in his brain,

between the desire to use his legs in the natural manner, and to

preserve that antique pace of tottering gentility which he had acquired

from that devilish fine old fellow, the Prince of Baden-Baden, so that

at one moment he was in the very hands of the enemy, and at the next,

flying like an antelope in the distance. The gun, constantly following

him with a loud threat, from the Captain, seemed, in the moonlight, like

a great finger perpetually pointing at his head; till at last it became

altogether too dreadful to bear, and making up the road toward

Brundage's, which still further inflamed the pursuit, in sheer

exhaustion he rushed through an open gate into a neighboring tan-yard,

and took refuge in the old bark-mill. There was but a moment's rest

allowed him even here, for Mopsey and the Captain, furiously threatening

all sorts of death and destruction, presently rushed in at the door, and

sent him scampering about the ring like a distracted colt, in his first

day's service; a game of short duration, for the Captain and Mopsey,

closing in upon him from opposite directions compelled him to retreat

again into the open air. How much longer the chase might have continued,

it were hard to tell, for as his pursuers made after him, Mr. Tiffany

Carrack suddenly disappeared, like a melted snow-flake, from the surface

of the earth. In his confused state he had tumbled into a vat,

fortunately without the observation of the inexorable enemy, although as

he clung to the side the Captain discharged his musket directly over his

head.

"I guess that's done his business," said the Captain. "We'll come and

look for the body in the morning."

Now it is strongly suspected that both Mopsey and the Captain knew well

enough all along that this was Mr. Tiffany Carrack they had been

pursuing, and that as they watched him from the distance emerge from the

vat, return to the homestead, and skulk, dripping in, like a rat of

outlandish breed, at his chamber-window, they were amply avenged: the

Captain, for the freedom with which the city-exquisite had treated the

Peabody family, especially the good old grandfather, and Mopsey, for the

slighting manner in which he had referred to absent young Mas'r

Elbridge.

When all was peace again within the homestead, there was one who still

watched the night, and ignorant of the nature of this strange tumult,

trembled as at the approach of a long-wished for happiness. It was

Miriam, the orphan dependent, who now sat by the midnight casement. Oh,

who of living men can tell how that young heart yearned at the

thought--the hope--the thrilling momentary belief--that this was her

absent lover happily returning?

In the wide darkness of the lonesome night, which was it shone brightest

and with purest lustre, in view of the all-seeing Mover of the

Heavens--the stars glittering far away in space, in all their lofty

glory, or the timid eyes of that simple maiden, wet with the dew of

youth, and bright with the pure hope of honest love! When all was still

again, and no Elbridge's voice was heard, no form of absent Elbridge

there to cheer her, oh, who can tell how near to breaking, in its silent

agony, was that young heart, and with what tremblings of solicitude and

fear, the patient Miriam waited for the friendly light to open the

golden-gate of dawn upon another morrow!

CHAPTER SEVENTH.

THE THANKSGIVING SERMON.

The morning of the day of Thanksgiving came calm, clear and beautiful. A

stillness, as of heaven and not of earth, ruled the wide landscape. The

Indian summer, which had been as a gentle mist or veil upon the beauty

of the time, had gone away a little--retired, as it were, into the hills

and back country, to allow the undimmed heaven to shine down upon the

happy festival of families and nations. The cattle stood still in the

fields without a low; the trees were quiet as in friendly recognition of

the spirit of the hour; no reaper's hook or mower's scythe glanced in

the meadow, no rumbling wain was on the road. The birds alone, as being

more nearly akin to the feeling of the scene, warbled in the boughs.

But out of the silent gloom of the mist there sprang as by magic, a

lovely illumination which lit the country far and wide, as with a

thousand varicolored lamps. As a maiden who has tarried in her chamber,

some hour the least expected appears before us, apparelled in all the

pomp and hue of brilliant beauty, the fair country, flushed with

innumerable tints of the changed autumn-trees, glided forth upon the

Indian summer scene, and taught that when kindly nature seems all

foregone and spent, she can rise from her couch fresher and more radiant

than in her very prime.

What wonder if with the peep of dawn the children leaped from bed, eager

to have on their new clothes reserved for the day, and by times appeared

before old Sylvester in proud array of little hats, new-brightened shoes

and shining locks, span new as though they had just come from the mint;

anxious to have his grandfatherly approval of their comeliness? Shortly

after, the horses caught in the distant pastures, the Captain and Farmer

Oliver having charge of them, were brought in and tied under the trees

in the door-yard.

Then, breakfast being early dispatched, there was a mighty running to

and fro of the grown people through the house, dresses hurried from old

clothes-presses and closets, a loud demand on every hand for pins, of

which there seemed to be (as there always is on such occasions) a great

lack. The horses were put to Mrs. Carrack's coach, the Captain's gig,

the old house-wagon, with breathless expectation on the part of the

children; and in brief, after bustling preparation and incessant

summoning of one member of the family and another from the different

parts of the house, all being at last ready and in their seats, the

Peabodys set forth for the Thanksgiving Sermon at the country

Meeting-house, a couple of miles away.

The Captain took the lead with his wife and Peabody Junior somewhere and

somehow between them, followed by the wagon with old Sylvester, still

proud of his dexterity as a driver, Oliver, much pleased with the

popular character of the conveyance and wife, with young Robert; William

Peabody and wife; little Sam riding between his grandfather's legs in

front, and allowed to hold the end of the reins. Slowly and in great

state, after all rolled Mrs. Carrack's coach with herself and son

within, and footman and coachman without.

Chanticleer, too, clear of eye and bright of wing, walked the garden

wall, carried his head up, and acted as if he had also put on his

thanksgiving suit and expected to take the road presently, accompany the

family, and join his voice with theirs at the little meeting-house.

Although the Captain, with his high-actioned white horse kept out of

eye-shot ahead, it was Mrs. Carrack's fine carriage that had the triumph

of the road to itself, for as it rolled glittering on, the simple

country people, belated in their own preparations, or tarrying at home

to provide the dinner, ran to the windows in wonder and admiration. The

plain wagons, bent in the same direction, turned out of the path and

gave the great coach the better half of the way, staring a broadside as

it passed.

And when the party reached the little meeting-house, what a peace hung

about it! The air seemed softer, the sunshine brighter, there, as it

stood in humble silence among the tall trees which waved with a gentle

murmur before its windows. The people, as they arrived, glided

noiselessly in, in their neat dresses and looks of decent devotion;

others as they came made fast their horses under the sheds and trees

about--most of them in wagons and plain chaises, brightened into all of

beauty they were capable of, by a severe attention to the harness and

mountings; others--these were a few bachelors and striplings--trotted in

quietly on horseback. Before service a few of the old farmers lingered

outside discussing the late crops or inquiring after each other's

families, who presently went within, summoning from the grassy

churchyard--which lay next to the meeting house--the children who were

loitering there reading the grave-stones.

When the Captain arrived with his gig, under such extraordinary headway

that he was near driving across the grave-yard into the next county--the

country people scampered aside, like scared fowl; Mrs. Carrack's great

coach, with its liveried outriders, set them staring as if they did not

or could not believe their own eyes. With the arrival of old Sylvester

they re-gathered, and, almost in a body, proffered their aid to hold the

horses--to help the old Patriarch to the ground--in a word, to show

their regard and affection in every way in their power. He tarried but a

moment at the door, to speak a word with one or two of the oldest of his

neighbors, and passed in, followed by all of his family save Mrs.

Carrack and her son, who under color of hunting up the grave of some

old relation, delay in order to make their appearance in the

meeting-house by themselves, and independently of the Peabody

connection.

Will you pardon me, reader, if I fail to tell you whether this house of

worship was of the Methodist, Episcopal, or Baptist creed, whether it

had a chancel or altar, or painted windows? Whether the pews had doors

to them and were cushioned or not? Whether the minister wore a gown and

bands, or plain suit of black, or was undistinguished in his dress? Will

it not suffice if I tell you, as the very belief of my soul, that it was

a christian house, that there were seats for all, that things were well

intended and decently ordered, and that with a hymn sung with such

purity of heart that its praises naturally joined in with the chiming of

the trees and the carols of the birds without and floated on without a

stop to Heaven, when a meek man rose up:

"Some two hundred years ago, our ancestors (he said,) finding themselves

more comfortable in the wilderness of the new world, than they could

have reasonably looked for, set apart a day of Thanksgiving to Almighty

God for his manifold mercies. That day, God be praised, has been

steadily observed throughout this happy land, by cheerful gatherings of

families, and other festive and devotional observances, down to the

present time. Our fathers covenanted, in the love of Christ, to cleave

together, as brethren, however hard the brunt of fortune might be. That

bond still continues. We may not live (he went on, in the very spirit

and letter of the first Thanksgiving discourse ever delivered amongst

us,) as retired hermits, each in our cell apart, nor inquire, like

David, how liveth such a man? How is he clad? How is he fed? He is my

brother, we are in league together, we must stand and fall by one

another. Is his labor harder than mine? Surely I will ease him. Hath he

no bed to lie on? I have two--I will lend him one. Hath he no apparel? I

have two suits--I will give him one of them. Eats he coarse food, bread

and water, and have I better? Surely we will part stakes. He is as good

a man as I, and we are bound each to other; so that his wants must be my

wants; his sorrows, my sorrows; his sickness my sickness; and his

welfare my welfare; for I am as he is; such a sweet sympathy were

excellent, comfortable, nay, heavenly, and is the only maker and

conserver of churches and commonwealths."

To such as looked upon old Sylvester there seemed a glow and halo about

his aged brow and whitened locks, for this was the very spirit of his

life.

As though he knew the very secrets of their souls, and touched their

very heart-strings with a gentle hand, the preacher glanced from one

member of the Peabody household to another, as he proceeded, something

in this manner. (For William Peabody:) do I find on this holy day that I

love God in all his glorious universe, more than the image even of

Liberty, which hath ensnared and enslaved the soul of many a man on the

coin of this world? (For buxom Mrs. Jane, in her vandyke:) Do I stifle

the vanity of good looks and comfortable circumstances under a plain

garb? (For the jovial Captain:) Am I not over hasty in pursuit of carnal

enjoyment? (For Mr. Oliver: who was wiping his brow with the Declaration

of Independence,) and eager over much for the good opinion of men, when

I should be quietly serving them without report? (For Mrs. Carrack and

her son:) And what are pomp and fashion, but the painted signs of good

living where there is no life? These (he continued,) are all outward,

mere pretences to put off our duty, and the care of our souls. Yea, we

may have churches, schools, hospitals abounding--but these are mere lath

and mortar, if we have not also within our own hearts, a church where

the pure worship ever goeth on, a school where the true knowledge is

taught, a hospital, the door whereof standeth constantly open, into

which our fellow-creatures are welcomed and where their infirmities are

first cared for with all kindness and tenderness. If these be our

inclinings this day, let us be reasonably thankful on this Thanksgiving

morning. Let such as are in health be thankful for their good case; and

such as are out of health be thankful that they are no worse. Let such

as are rich be thankful for their wealth, (if it hath been honestly come

by;) and let such as are poor be thankful that they have no such charge

upon their souls. Let old folks be thankful for their wisdom in knowing

that young folks are fools; and let young ones be thankful that they may

live to see the time when they may use the same privilege. Let lean

folks be thankful for their spare ribs, which are not a burthen in the

harvest-field; fat folks may laugh at lean ones, and grow fatter every

day. Let married folks be thankful for blessings both little and great;

let bachelors and old maids be thankful for the privilege of kissing

other folks' babies, and great good may it do them.

With what a glow of mutual friendship the quaint preacher was warming

the plain old meeting-house on that thanksgiving day!

Finally, and to conclude, (he went on in the language of a chronicle of

the time:)--Let no man look upon a turkey to-day, and say, 'This also is

vanity.' What is the life of man without creature-comforts, and the

stomach of the son of man with no aid from the tin kitchen? Despise not

the day of small things, while there are pullets on the spit, and let

every fowl have fair play, between the jaws of thy philosophy. Are not

puddings made to be sliced, and pie-crust to be broken? Go thy ways,

then, according to good sense, good cheer, good appetite, the Governor's

proclamation, and every other good thing under the sun;--render thanks

for all the good things of this life, and good cookery among the rest;

eat, drink, and be merry; make not a lean laudation of the bounties of

Providence, but let a lively gusto follow a long grace. Feast

thankfully, and feast hopingly; feast in good will to all mankind,

Grahamites included; feast in the full and joyous persuasion, that while

the earth remaineth, seed-time and harvest, dinner-time, pudding-time,

and supper-time, are not likely to go out of fashion;--feast with

exulting confidence in the continuance of cooks, kitchens, and orthodox

expounders of Scripture and the constitution in our ancient, blessed,

and fat-sided commonwealth--feast, in short, like a good Christian,

proving all things, relishing all things, hoping all things, expecting

all things, and enjoying all things. Let a good stomach for dinner go

hand in hand with a good mind for sound doctrine. Let us all be thankful

that a gracious Providence hath furnished each and all with a wholesome

and bountiful dinner this day; and, if there be none so furnished, let

him now make it known, and we will instantly contribute thereto of our

separate abundance. There are none who murmur--we all, therefore, have a

thanksgiving dinner waiting for us; let us hie home cheerily, and in a

becoming spirit of mirth and devotion partake thereof.

The windows of the little meeting-house were up to let in the pleasant

sunshine; and the very horses who were within hearing of his voice,

seemed by the pricking up of their brown ears to relish and approve of

his discourse. The Captain's city nag, as wide awake as any, seemed to

address himself to an acquaintance of a heavy bay plougher, who stood at

the same post, and laying their heads together for the better part of

the sermon, they appeared to regard it, as far as they caught its

meaning, as sound doctrine, particularly acknowledging that this was as

fine a thanksgiving morning as they (who had been old friends and had

spent their youth together, being in some way related, in a farm-house

in that neighborhood) had ever known; and when they had said as much as

this, they laughed out in very merriness of spirit, with a great winnow,

as the happy audience came streaming forth at the meeting-house door.

There were no cold, haughty, or distrustful faces now, as when they had

entered in an hour ago; the genial air of the little meeting-house had

melted away all frosts of that kind; and as they mingled under the sober

autumn-trees, loitering for conversation, inquiring after neighbors, old

folks whose infirmities kept them at home, the young children; they

seemed indeed, much more a company of brethren, embarked (as sailors

say) on a common bottom for happiness and enjoyment. The children were

the first to set out for home through the fields on foot; Peabody the

younger, little Sam and Robert being attended by the footman in livery,

whom Mrs. Carrack relieved from attendance at the rear of the coach.

If the quaint preacher had urged the rational enjoyment of the

Thanksgiving cheer from the pulpit, Mopsey labored with equal zeal at

home to have it worthy of enjoyment. At an early hour she had cleared

decks, and taken possession of the kitchen: kindling, with dawn, a great

fire in the oven for the pies, and another on the hearth for the turkey.

But it was from the oven, heaping it to the top with fresh relays of dry

wood, that she expected the Thanksgiving angel to walk in all his beauty

and majesty. In performance of her duty, and from a sense only that

there could be no thanksgiving without a turkey, she planted the tin

oven on the hearth, spitted the gobbler, and from time to time, merely

as a matter of absolute necessity, gave it a turn; but about the mouth

of the great oven she hovered constantly, like a spirit--had her head in

and out at the opening every other minute; and, when at last the pies

were slided in upon the warm bottom, she lingered there regarding the

change they were undergoing with the fond admiration with which a

connoisseur in sunsets hangs upon the changing colors of the evening

sky. The leisure this double duty allowed her was employed by Mopsey in

scaring away the poultry and idle young chickens which rushed in at the

back entrance of the kitchen in swarms, and hopped with yellow legs

about the floor with the racket of constant falling showers of corn.

Upon the half door opening on the front the red rooster had mounted, and

with his head on one side observed with a knowing eye all that went

forward; showing perhaps most interest in the turning of the spit, the

impalement of the turkey thereon having been with him an object of

special consideration.

The highly colored picture of Warren at Bunker-Hill, writhing in his

death-agony on one wall of the kitchen, and General Marion feasting from

a potato, in his tent, on the other, did not in the least attract the

attention of Mopsey. She saw nothing on the whole horizon of the glowing

apartment but the pies and the turkey, and even for the moment neglected

to puzzle herself, as she was accustomed to in the pauses of her daily

labors, with the wonders and mysteries of an ancient dog-eared

spelling-book which lay upon the smoky mantel.

Meanwhile, in obedience to the spirit of the day, the widow Margaret and

Miriam, having each diligently disposed of their separate charge in the

preparations, making a church of the homestead, conducted a worship in

their own simple way. Opposite to each other in the little sitting-room,

Miriam opened the old Family Bible, and at the widow Margaret's request

read from that chapter which gives the story of the prodigal son. It was

with a clear and pensive voice that she read, but not without a struggle

with herself. Where the story told that the young man had gone into a

far country; that he had wasted his substance in riotous living; that he

was abased to the feeding of swine; that he craved in his hunger the

very husks; that he lamented the plenty of his father's house--a cloud

came upon her countenance, and the simplest eye could have interpreted

the thoughts that troubled her. And how the fair young face brightened,

when she read that the young man resolved to arise and return to the

house of his father; the dear encounter; the rejoicing over his return,

and the glad proclamation, "This, my son, was dead and is alive again;

he was lost and is found."

"If he would come back even so," said the widow when the book was

closed, "in sorrow, in poverty, in crime even, I would thank God and be

grateful."

"He is not guilty, mother," Miriam pleaded, casting her head upon the

widow's bosom and clinging close about her neck.

"I will not think that he is," Margaret answered, lifting up her head.

"Guilty or innocent, he is my son--my son." Clasping the young orphan's

hand, after a pause of tender silence, she gave utterance to her

feelings in a Thanksgiving hymn. These were the words:--

Father! protect the wanderer on his way;

Bright be for him thy stars and calm thy seas--

Thanksgiving live upon his lips to-day,

And in his heart the good man's summer ease.

Almighty! Thou canst bring the pilgrim back,

With a clear brow to this his childish home;

Guide him, dear Father, o'er a blameless track,

No more to stray from us, no more to roam.

At this moment a tumult of children's voices was heard in the door-yard,

and as the widow turned, young William Peabody was seen struggling with

Robert and little Sam, who were holding him back with all their force.

As he dragged them forward, being their elder and superior in strength,

Peabody Junior stretched his throat and called towards the house--"I've

seen him--I've seen him!"

"Who have you seen?" asked the widow, rising and approaching the door.

"Mr. Barbary." When Peabody Junior made this answer the widow advanced

with a gleam on her countenance, and gently releasing him, said, "Come,

William, and tell us all about it."

"Aunt Margaret," said Robert, thrusting himself between, "don't listen

to a word he has to say. I'll tell you all about it. You see we were

coming home from meeting, and little Sam got tired, and William and I

made a cradle of our hands and were carrying him along very nice."

"Not so very nice, either," Peabody Junior interrupted, "for I was

plaguy tired."

"That's what I was going to tell you, Aunt Margaret. Bill did get tired,

and as we came through the Locust Wood, he made believe to see

something, and run away to get clear of carrying little Sam any

further."

"I did see him!" said Peabody Junior, firmly.

"Where was he?" the widow asked.

"Behind the hazel-bush, with his head just looking out at the top, all

turned white as dead folks do."

Mopsey was in immediately with her dark head, crying out, "Don't belief

a word of it."

"I guess you saw nothing but the hazel-bush, William," said the widow.

"That was it, Aunt; it was the hazel-bush with a great mop of moss on

it," Robert added.

Miriam sat looking on and listening, pale and trembling.

"If your cousin Elbridge and Mr. Barbary should ever come back," said

the widow, addressing Peabody Junior, "you would be sorry for what you

have said, William."

"So he would, Aunt," echoed Robert.

Mopsey was in again from the kitchen; this time she advanced several

steps from the door-sill into the room, lifted up both her arms and

addressed the assembled company.

"One ting I know," said Mopsey, "dere's a big pie baking in dat ere

oven, and if Mas'r Elbridge don't eat that pie it'll haf to sour, dat I

know."

"What is it, Mopsey," asked Margaret, "that gives you such a faith in my

son?"

"I tell you what it is, Missus," Mopsey answered promptly, "dast

tanksgivin when I tumbled down on dis ere sef-same floor bringin' in de

turkey, every body laugh but Mas'r Elbridge, and he come from his place

and pick me up. He murder any body! I'll eat de whole tanksgivin dinner

myself if he touch a hair of de old preacher's head to hurt it."

Suddenly changing her tone, she added, "Dey're comin' from meetin', I

hear de old wagon."

CHAPTER EIGHTH.

THE DINNER.

As the Peabodys approached the homestead, the smoke of the kitchen

chimney was visible, circling upward and winding about in the sunshine

as though it had been a delicate corkscrew uncorking a great bottle or

square old flask of a delicious vintage. The Captain averred a quarter

of a mile away, the moment they had come upon the brow of the hill, that

he had a distinct savor of the fragrance of the turkey, and that it was

quite as refreshing as the first odor of the land breeze coming in from

sea, and he snuffed it up with a zeal and relish which gave the gig an

eager appetite for dinner. The Captain's conjecture was strongly

confirmed in the appearance of Mopsey, darting, with a dark face of dewy

radiance at the wood-pile and shuffling back with bustling speed to the

kitchen with a handful of delicate splinters. "She's giving him the last

turn," said the Captain.

The shadow of the little meeting-house was still over the Captain, even

so far away, for he conducted the procession homeward at a pace much

less furious than that with which he had advanced in the morning; and

Mrs. Carrack too, observed now, with a strange pleasure, what she had

given no heed to before when the fine coach was rolling in triumph along

the road,--birds twittering in the sunny air by the wayside, and cattle

roving like figures in a beautiful picture, upon the slopes of the

distant hills. Oliver, the politician, more than once had out the great

cotton pocket-handkerchief, and holding it spread before him

contemplating the fatherly signers, was evidently acquiring some new

lights on the subject of independence.

A change, in fine, of some sort or other, had passed over every member

of the Peabody family save old Sylvester, returning as going, calm,

plain-spoken, straightforward and patriarchal. When they reached the

gate of the homestead, William Peabody gave his hand to his wife and

helped her, with some show of attention, to alight; and then there could

be no doubt that it was in very truth Thanksgiving day, for the glory of

the door-yard itself had paled and disappeared in the gorgeous festal

light. There was no majestic gobbler in the door-yard now, with his

great outspread tail, which in the proud moments of his life he would

have expanded as if to shut the very light of the sun from all meaner

creatures of the mansion.

Within doors there was that bustling preparation, with brief lulls of

ominous silence which precede and usher a great event. The widow

Margaret, with noiseless step, glided to and fro, Miriam daintily

hovering in the suburbs of the sitting-room, which is evidently the

grand centre of interest, and Mopsey toils like a swart goblin in her

laboratory of the kitchen in a high glow, scowling fearfully if

addressed with a word which calls her attention for a moment away from

her critical labors.

As the family entered the homestead on their return, the combined forces

were just at the point of pitching their tent on the ground of the

forthcoming engagement, in the shape of the ancient four-legged and

wide-leaved table, with a cover of snowy whiteness, ornamented as with

shields and weapons of quaint device, in the old plates of pewter and

the horn-handled knives and forks burnished to such a polish as to make

the little room fairly glitter. Dishes streamed in one after the other

in a long and rapid procession, piles of home-made bread, basins of

apple-sauce, pickles, potatoes of vast proportion and mealy beauty. When

the ancient and lordly pitcher of blue and white (whether freighted with

new cider or old cold water need not be told) crowned the board, the

first stage of preparation was complete, and another portentous pause

ensued. The whole Peabody connection arranged in stately silence in the

front parlor, looked on through the open door in wonder and expectation

of what was to follow. The children loitered about the door-ways with

watering eyes and open mouths, like so many innocent little dragons

lying in wait to rush in at an opportune moment and bear off their prey.

And now, all at once there comes a deeper hush--a still more portentous

pause--all eyes are in the direction of the kitchen; the children are

hanging forward with their bodies and outstretched necks half way in at

the door; Miriam and the widow stand breathless and statue-like at

either side of the room; when, as if rising out of some mysterious cave

in the very ground, a dark figure is discerned in the distance, about

the centre of the kitchen, (into which Mopsey has made, to secure an

impressive effect, a grand circuit,) head erect, and bearing before it a

huge platter; all their eyes tell them, every sense vividly reports what

it is the platter supports; she advances with slow and solemn step; she

has crossed the sill; she has entered the sitting-room; and, with a full

sense of her awful responsibility, Mopsey delivers on the table, in a

cleared place left for its careful deposit, the Thanksgiving turkey.

There is no need now to sound a gong, or to ring an alarm-bell to make

known to that household that dinner is ready; the brown turkey speaks a

summons as with the voice of a thousand living gobblers, and Sylvester

rising, the whole Peabody family flock in. To every one his place is

considerately assigned, the Captain in the centre directly opposite the

turkey, Mrs. Carrack on the other side, the widow at one end, old

Sylvester at the head. The children too, a special exception being made

in their favor to-day, are allowed seats with the grown folks, little

Sam disposing himself in great comfort in his old grandsire's arms.

Another hush--for everything to-day moves on through these constantly

shut and opened gates of silence, in which they all sit tranquil and

speechless, when the old patriarch lifts up his aged hands over the

board and repeats his customary grace:

"May we all be Christian people the day we die--God bless us."

The Captain, the great knife and fork in hand, was ready to advance.

"Stop a moment, Charley," old Sylvester spoke up, "give us a moment to

contemplate the turkey."

"I would there were just such a dish, grandfather," the Captain

rejoined, "on every table in the land this day, and if I had my way

there would be."

"No, no, Charley," the grandfather answered, "if there should be, there

would be. There is One who is wiser than you or I."

"It would make the man who would do it," Oliver suggested, "immensely

popular: he might get to be elected President of the United States."

"It would cost a large sum," remarked William Peabody, the merchant.

"Let us leave off considering imaginary turkeys, and discuss the one

before us," said old Sylvester, "but I must first put a question, and if

it's answered with satisfaction, we'll proceed. Now tell me," he said,

addressing himself to Mr. Carrack, who sat in a sort of dream, as if he

had lost his identity, as he had ever since the night-adventure in the

fez-cap and red silk cloak: "Now tell me, Tiffany, although you have

doubtless seen a great many grand things, such as the Alps, and St.

Peter's church at Rome, has your eye fallen in with anything wherever

you travelled over the world, grander than that Thanksgiving turkey?"

Mr. Carrack, either from excessive modesty or total abstraction,

hesitated, looked about him hastily, and not till the Captain called

across the table, "Why don't you speak, my boy?" and then, as if

suddenly coming to, and realizing where he was, answered at last, with

great deliberation, "It is a fine bird."

"Enough said," spoke up old Sylvester cheerfully; "you were the last

Peabody I expected to acknowledge the merits of the turkey;" and,

looking towards the Captain with encouragement, added, "now, knife and

fork, do your duty."

It was short work the jovial Captain made with the prize turkey; in

rapid succession plates were forwarded, heaped, sent around; and with a

keen relish of the Thanksgiving dinner, every head was busy. Straight

on, as people who have an allotted task before them, the Peabodys moved

through the dinner,--a powerful, steady-going caravan of cheerful

travellers, over hill, over dale, up the valleys, along the stream-side,

cropping their way like a nimble-toothed flock of grazing sheep, keenly

enjoying herbage and beverage by the way.

What though, while they were at the height of its enjoyment a sudden

storm, at that changeful season, arose without, and dashed its heavy

drops against the doors and window-panes; that only, by the contrast of

security and fire-side comfort, heightened the zest within, while they

were engaged with the many good dishes at least, but when another pause

came, did not the pelting shower and the chiding wind talk with them,

each one in turn, of the absent, and oh! some there will not believe

it--the lost? It was no doubt some thought of this kind that prompted

old Sylvester to speak:

"My children," said the patriarch, glancing with a calm eye around the

circle of glowing faces at the table "you are bound together with good

cheer and in comfortable circumstances; and even as you, who are here

from east and west, from the north and the south, by each one yielding a

little of his individual whim or inclination, can thus sit together

prosperously and in peace at one board, so can our glorious family of

friendly States, on this and every other day, join hands, and like happy

children in the fields, lead a far-lengthening dance of festive peace

among the mountains and among the vales, from the soft-glimmering east

far on to the bright and ruddy west. If others still seek to join

in----"

"Ay, father," said Oliver, "there is a great danger."

"Even as by making a little way," answered the patriarch, "we could find

room at this table for one or two or three more, so may another State

and still another join us, if it will, and even as our natural progeny

increaseth to the third, fourth, tenth generation, let us trust for

centuries to come this happy Union still shall live to lead her sons to

peace, prosperity, and rightful glory."

"But," interposed Oliver, the politician, again, with a double reference

in his thoughts, it would almost seem, to an erring State or an absent

child, "one may break away in wilfulness or crime--what then?"

"Let us lure it back," was old Sylvester's reply, "with gentle appeals.

Remember we are all brethren, and that our alliance is one not merely of

worldly interest, but also of family affection. Let us, on this hallowed

day," he added, "cherish none but kindly thoughts toward all our

kindred, and if him we have least esteemed offer the hand, let us take

it in brotherly regard."

There was a pause of silence once again, which was broken by a knock at

the door. Old Sylvester, having spoken his mind, had fallen into a

reverie, and the Peabodys glancing one to the other, the question arose,

shall the strangers (Mopsey reported them to be two) whoever they may

be, be admitted?

"This is strictly a family festival," it was suggested, "where no

strangers can be rightly allowed."

"May be thieves!" the merchant added.

"Vagabonds, perhaps!" Mrs. Carrack suggested.

"Strangers, anyhow!" said Mrs. Jane Peabody.

The widow Margaret and Miriam were silent and gave utterance to no

opinion.

In the midst of the discussion old Sylvester suddenly awakening, and

rearing his white locks aloft, in the voice of a trumpet of silver

sound, cried out:--"If they be human, let 'em in!"

As he delivered this emphatic order there was a deep moan at the door,

as of one in great pain, or suffering keenly from anguish of spirit, and

when it was opened to admit the new-comers, the voice of Chanticleer,

raised for the second time, broke in, clear and shrilly, from the outer

darkness.

CHAPTER NINTH.

THE NEW-COMERS.

It was old Sylvester himself who opened the door and admitted the

strangers; one of them, the younger, wore a slouched hat which did not

allow his features to be distinctly observed, further than that his eyes

were bright with a strange lustre, and that his face was deadly pale. He

was partly supported by the elder man, whose person was clad in a long

coat, reaching nearly to the ground. They were invited to the table, but

refusing, asked permission to sit at the fire, which being granted, they

took their station on either side of the hearth; the younger staggered

feebly to his seat, and kept his gaze closely fixed on the other.

"He had better take something," said old Sylvester, looking toward the

young man and addressing the other. "Is your young friend ill?"

"With an ailment food cannot relieve, I fear," the elder man answered.

"Will you not remove your hats?" old Sylvester asked again.

Turning slowly at this question, the young man answered, "We may not

prove fit company for such as you, and if so the event shall prove, we

will pass on and trouble you no further. If every thread were dry as

summer flax," he added, in a tone of deep feeling, "I for one, am not

fit to sit among honest people."

"You should not say so, my son," said old Sylvester; "let us hope that

all men may on a day like this sit together; that, remembering God's

many mercies to us all, in the preservation of our lives, in his blessed

change of seasons, in hours of holy meditation allowed to us, every man

in very gratitude to the Giver of all Good, for this one day in the year

at least, may suspend all evil thoughts and be at peace with all his

fellow-creatures."

The young man turned toward the company at the table, but not so far

that his whole face could be seen.

"Have all who sit about you at that table," he asked, glancing slowly

around, "performed the duty to which you refer, and purged their bosoms

of unkindness toward their fellow-men? Is there none who grasps the

widow's substance? who cherishes scorn and hatred of kindred? Who judges

harshly of the absent?"

There was a movement in different members of the company, but old

Sylvester hushed them with a look, and took upon himself the business of

reply.

"It may be," said old Sylvester, "that some of us are disquieted, for be

it known to you that one of the children of this household is absent

from among us for causes which may well disturb our thoughts."

"I have heard the story," the young man continued, "and if I know it

aright, these are the truths of that history: There were two men,

friends, once in this neighborhood, Mr. Barbary the preacher, and your

grandson Elbridge Peabody. Something like a year ago the preacher

suddenly disappeared from this region, and the report arose and

constantly spread that he had fallen by the hand of his friend, that

grandchild of yours. It began in a cloudy whisper, afar off, but swelled

from day to day, from hour to hour, till it overshadowed this whole

region, and not the least of the darkness it caused was on this spot,

where this ancient homestead stands, and where the young man had grown

and lived from the hour of his birth. He saw coldness and avoidance on

the highway; he was shrunk from on sabbath-mornings, and by children;

but this was little and could be borne--the world was against him: but

when he saw an aged face averted," he looked at old Sylvester steadily,

"and a mother's countenance sad and hostile--"

"Sad--but not hostile," the widow murmured.

"Sorrowful and troubled, at least," the young man rejoined, "his life,

for all of happiness, was at an end. He must cease to live or he must

restore the ancient sunshine which had lighted the windows of the home

of his boyhood. He knew that his friend had _not_ fallen by his hand;

that he still lived, but in a far distant place which none but a long

and weary journey could reach."

"He should have declared as much," interposed the old patriarch.

"No, sir; his word would have been but as the frail leaf blown idly from

the autumn-bough; nothing but the living presence of his friend could

silence the voice of the accuser. He rose up and departed, without

counsel of any, trusting only in God and his own strength; he bore with

him neither bag nor baggage, scrip nor scrippage--not even a change of

raiment; but with a handful of fruit and the humble provision which his

good mother had furnished for the harvest-field, he set forth; day and

night he journeyed on the truck he knew his friend had taken to that far

country, toiling in the fields to secure food and lodging for the night,

and some scant aids to carry him from place to place. Pushing on fast

and far through the western country, in hunger and distress, passing by

the very door of prosperous kinsfolk, but not tarrying a moment to seek

relief."

At this point Mrs. Jane Peabody glanced at her husband.

"And so by one stage and another, hastening on, he reached that great

city in the south, the metropolis of New Orleans; often, as he hoped, on

the very steps of his friend, but never overtaking him, with fortune at

so low an ebb that there he was well-nigh wasted in strength,

hunger-stricken, and tattered in dress; driven to live in hovels till

some chance restored him the little means to advance; so mean of person

that his dearest friend, his nearest kinsman, even his old playfellow

there," pointing to Mr. Tiffany Carrack, "who had wrestled with him in

the hayfield, who had sat with him in childish talk often and many a

time by summer stream-sides, would have passed him by as one unknown."

The glance which, in speaking this, he directed at Mr. Carrack, kindled

on that young gentleman's countenance a ruby glow, so intense and fiery

that it would seem as if it must have burned up the tawny tufts before

their very eyes, like so much dry stubble. There was a glow of another

kind in the Captain's broad face, which shone like another sun as he

contemplated the two young men, glancing from one to the other.

"The young man, bent on that one purpose as on life itself," he

continued, silencing his companion, who seemed eager to speak, with a

motion of his finger, "through towns, over waters, upon deserts, still

pursued his way; and, to be brief in a weary history, there, in the very

heart of that great region of gold, among diggers and searchers, and men

distracted in a thousand ways in that perilous hunt, to find his

simple-hearted friend, the preacher, in an out-of-the-way wilderness

among the mountains, exhorting the living, comforting the sick,

consoling the dying--and then, for the first time he learned, what his

friend had carefully concealed before, the motive of his self-banishment

to this distant country."

His companion would have spoken, but the young man hurrying on, allowed

him not a word.

"You who know his history," he continued, addressing the company at the

table--"know what calamity had once come upon the household of Mr.

Barbary, by the unlawful thirst for gold; that he held its love as the

curse of curses; he thought if he could but once throw himself in its

midst, where that passion raged the most, he would be doing his Master's

service most faithfully, more than in this quiet country-place of

peaceful households, but when he learned the peril and the sore distress

of his young friend, he tarried not a moment. 'To restore peace to one

injured mind,' he said; 'to bring back harmony to one household is a

clear and certain duty which will outweigh the vague chances of the good

I may do here.' The young man cherished but one wish; through storm and

trial and distress of every name and hue, if he could but reach home on

the day of Thanksgiving, and stand up there before his assembled kindred

a vindicated man, he would be requited fully for all his toil. He took

ship; in tempest, and with many risks of perishing far away

unvindicated, in the middle of the wild sea--"

The widowed mother could restrain herself no longer, but rushing

forward, she removed the young man's hat from his brow, parted his

locks, and casting herself upon his neck, gave utterance to her feelings

in the affecting language of Scripture, which she had listened to in the

morning: "My son was dead and is alive again--he was lost and is found!"

Miriam timidly grasped his offered hand and was silent. The company had

risen from the table and gathered around.

"Now," said William Peabody, "I could believe,--be glad to believe all

this, if he had but brought Mr. Barbary with him."

The elder stranger cast back his coat, removed his hat, and standing

forth, said, "I am here, and testify to the truth, in every word, of all

my young friend has declared to you."

On this declaration the Peabodys, without an exception, hastened to

welcome and address the returned Elbridge, and closed upon him in a

solid group of affectionate acknowledgment. Old Sylvester stood looking

loftily down over all from the outer edge of the circle, and while they

were busiest in congratulations and well-wishes, he went forward.

"Stand back!" cried the old man, waving the company aside with outspread

arms, and advancing with extended hand toward his grandson. "I have an

atonement to render here, which I call you all to witness."

"I take your hand, grandfather," Elbridge interposed, "but not in

acknowledgment of any wrong on your part. You have lived an hundred

blameless years, and I am not the one this day to breathe a reproach for

the first time on your spotless age."

Tears filled the old patriarch's eyes, and with a gentle hand he led his

grandson silently to the table, to which the whole company returned,

there being room for Mr. Barbary as well.

At this crisis of triumphant explanation, Mopsey, who had under one

pretext and another, evaded the bringing in of the pie to the last

moment, appeared at the kitchen-door bearing before her, with that air

of extraordinary importance peculiar to the negro countenance on

eventful occasions, a huge brown dish with which she advanced to the

head of the table, and with an emphatic bump, answering to the pithy

speeches of warriors and statesmen at critical moments, deposited the

great Thanksgiving pumpkin pie. Looking proudly around, she simply said,

"Dere!"

It was the blossom and crown of Mopsey's life, the setting down and full

delivery to the family of that, the greatest pumpkin-pie ever baked in

that house from the greatest pumpkin ever reared among the Peabodys in

all her long backward recollection of past Thanksgivings, and her manner

of setting it down, was, in its most defiant form, a clincher and a

challenge to all makers and bakers of pumpkin-pies, to all cutters and

carvers, to all diners and eaters, to all friends and enemies of

pumpkin-pie, in the thirty or forty United States. The Brundages too,

might come and look at it if they had a mind to!

The Peabody family, familiar with the pie from earliest infancy, were

struck dumb, and sat silent for the space of a minute, contemplating its

vastness and beauty. Old Sylvester even, with his hundred years of

pumpkin-pie experience, was staggered, and little Sam jumped up and

clapped his hands in his old grandfather's arms, and struggled to

stretch himself across as if he would appropriate it, by actual

possession, to himself. The joy of the Peabodys was complete, for the

lost grandson had returned, and the Thanksgiving-pie was a glorious one,

and if it was the largest share that was allotted to the returned

Elbridge, will any one complain? And yet at times a cloud came upon the

young man's brow,--when dinner was passed with pleasant family talk,

questionings and experiences, as they sat about the old homestead

hearth,--which even the playful gambols of the children who sported

about him like so many friendly spirits, could not drive away. The heart

of cousin Elbridge was not in their childish freaks and fancies as it

had been in other days. The shining solitude looking in at the windows

seemed to call him without.

As though it had caught something of the genial spirit that glowed

within the house, the wind was laid without, and the night softened with

the beauty of the rising moon. With a sadness on his brow which neither

the old homestead nor the pure heavens cast there, Elbridge went forth

into the calm night, and sitting for a while by the road beneath an

ancient locust-tree, where he had often read his book in the

summer-times of boyhood, he communed with himself. He was happy--what

mortal man could be happier?--in all his wishes come to pass; his very

dreams had taken life and proved to be realities and friends, and yet a

sadness he could not drive away followed his steps. Why was this? That

moment, if his voice or any honorable and sinless motion of his hand

could have ordained it, he would have dismissed himself from life and

ceased to be a living partaker in the scenes about him. Even then--for

happy as he was, he dreaded in prophetic fear, the chances which beset

our mortal path. The weight of mortality was heavy upon the young man's

spirit.

Thinking over all the way he had passed, oh, who could answer that he,

with the thronging company of busy passions and desires, could ever hope

to reach an old age and never go astray? Oh, blessed is he (he thought)

who can lie down in death, can close his account with this world, having

safely escaped the temptations, the crimes, the trials, which make of

good men even, in moments of weakness and misjudgment, the false

speaker, the evil-doer, the slanderer, the coward, the hasty assailant,

and, (oh, dreadful perchance,) the seeming-guilty-murderer himself.

Strange thoughts for a prosperous lover's night, but earth is not

heaven. With the sweat of anguish on his brow he bowed his head as one

whose trouble is heavy to be borne. Yet even then the thought of the

sweet heaven over him, with all its glorious promises, came upon him,

and as he lifted up his eyes from the earth, the moon sailing forth from

the clouds, and flooding the region with silver light, disclosed a

figure so gentle and delicate, and in its features so pure of all our

common passions, it seemed as if his troubled thoughts had summoned a

spirit before him from the better world. As he stood regarding it in

melancholy calmness, it extended towards him a hand.

"No, no," he said, declining the gentle salutation and retiring a pace,

"touch me not, Miriam, I am not worthy of your pure companionship. If

you knew what passed and is passing in my breast, you would loathe me as

a leper."

She was silent and dropped her eyes before him.

"Think not, my gentle mistress," he added presently, "my heart is

changed towards you. The glow is only too bright and warm."

"If you love me not, Elbridge," she interposed quickly, "fear not to

say so, even now. I will bear the pang as best I can."

"You have suffered too much already," he rejoined, touched to the heart.

"My long silence must have been as death to one so kind and gentle."

"I have suffered," was all she said. "One word from you in your long

absence would have made me happy."

"It would, I know it would, and yet I could not speak it," Elbridge

replied. "When, with a blight upon my name I left those halls," pointing

to the old homestead standing in shadow of the autumn trees, "I vowed to

know them no more, that my step should never cross their threshold, that

my voice should never be heard again in those ancient chambers, that no

being of all that household should have a word from these lips or hands

till I could come back a vindicated man; that I would perish in distant

lands, find a silent grave among strangers, far from mother and her I

loved, or that I would come back with my lost friend, in his living

form, to avouch and testify my truth and innocence."

"And had you no thought of me in that cruel absence, dear Elbridge?"

asked Miriam.

"Of you!" he echoed, now taking her hand, "of you! When in all these my

wanderings, in weary nights, in lonely days, on seas and deserts far

away, sore of foot and sick at heart, making my couch beneath the stars,

in the tents of savage men, in the shadow of steeples that know not our

holy faith, was it not my religion and my only solace, that one like you

thought of me as I of her, and though all the world abandoned and

distrusted the wanderer, there was one star in the distant horizon which

yet shone true, and trembled with a hopeful light upon my path."

"Are we not each other's now?" she whispered softly as she lay her

gentle head upon his bosom; "and if we have erred, and repent but truly,

will not He forgive us?"

As she lifted up her innocent face to heaven, did not those gentle tears

which fell unheard by mortal ear, from those fair eyes, drop in hearing

of Him who hears and acknowledges the faintest sound of true affection,

through all the boundless universe, musically as the chime of holy

Sabbath-bells?

"You are my dear wife," he answered, folding her close to his heart,

"and if you forgive and still cherish me, happiness may still be ours;

and although no formal voice has yet called us one, by all that's sacred

in the stillness of the night, and by every honest beating of this

heart, dear Miriam, you are mine, to watch, to tend, to love, to

reverence, in sickness, in sorrow, in care, in joy; by all that belongs

of gaiety to youth, in manhood and in age, we will have one home, one

couch, one fireside, one grave, one God, and one hereafter."

An old familiar instrument, swept as he well knew by his mother's

fingers, sounded at that moment from the homestead, and hand in hand,

blending their steps, they returned to the Thanksgiving household

within.

CHAPTER TENTH.

THE CONCLUSION.

When Elbridge and Miriam re-entered the homestead they found the best

parlor, which they had left in humble dependence on the light of a

single home-made wick, now in full glow, and wide awake in every corner,

with a perfect illumination of lamps and candles; and every thing in the

room had waked up with them. The old brass andirons stood shining like a

couple of bald-headed little grandfathers by the hearth; the letters in

the sampler over the mantel, narrating the ages of the family, had

renewed their color; the tall old clock, allowed to speak again, stood

like an overgrown schoolboy with his face newly washed, stretching

himself up in a corner; the painted robins and partridges on the wall,

now in full feather, strutting and flying about in all the glory of an

unfading plumage; and at the rear of all the huge back-log on the hearth

glowed and rolled in his place as happy as an alderman at a city feast.

The Peabodys too, partook of the new illumination, and were there in

their best looks, scattered about the room in cheerful groups, while in

the midst of all the widow Margaret, her face lighted with a smile which

came there from far-off years, holding in her hand as we see an angel in

the sunny clouds in old pictures, the ancient harpsichord, which till

now had been laid away and out of use for many a long day of sadness.

While Elbridge and Miriam stood still in wonder at the sudden change of

this living pageant, old Sylvester, his white head carried proudly

aloft, appeared from the sitting-room with Mr. Barbary, a quaint figure,

freed now of his long coat, and bearing no trace of travel on his neat

apparel and face of cheerful gravity. Leaving the preacher in the centre

of the apartment, the patriarch advanced quietly toward the young

couple, and, addressing himself to Elbridge, said, "My children, I have

a favor to ask of you."

"Anything, grandfather!" Elbridge answered promptly.

"You are sure?" Old Sylvester's eyes twinkled as he spoke.

"It would be the pleasure and glory of my young days," Elbridge answered

again, "to crown your noble old age, grandfather, with any worthy wreath

these hands could fashion, and not call it a favor either."

Old Sylvester, smiling from one to the other, said, "You are to be

married immediately."

The young couple fell back and dropped each the other's hand, which they

had been holding. Miriam trembled and shrunk the farthest away.

"You will not deny me?" the grandfather said again. "You are the

youngest and the last whom I can hope to see joined in that bond which

is to continue our name and race; it is my last request on earth."

At these simple words, turning, and with a fond regard which spoke all

their thoughts, Miriam and Elbridge took again each the other's hand,

and drew close side to side. The company rose, and Mr. Barbary was on

the point of speaking when there emerged upon the family scene, from an

inner chamber, as though he had been a foreigner entering a fashionable

drawing-room, Mr. Tiffany Carrack, in the very blossom of full dress;

his hair in glossy curl, with white neckcloth and waistcoat of the

latest cut and tie, coat and pants of the purest model, pumps and silk

stockings; bearing in his hand a gossamer pocket-handkerchief, which he

shook daintily as he advanced, and filled the room with a strange

fragrance. With mincing step, just dotting the ground, his whole body

shaking like a delicate structure in danger every moment of tumbling to

the ground, he advanced to where Miriam and Elbridge stood before Mr.

Barbary.

"Why really, 'pon my life and honor, Miriam, you are looking quite

charming this evening!"

"She should look so now if ever, Tiffany," said old Sylvester, "for she

is just about to be married to your cousin Elbridge."

"Now you don't mean that?" said Mr. Tiffany, touching the tawny tufts

tenderly with his perfumed pocket-handkerchief, "Oh, woman! woman! what

is your name?" He hesitated for a reply.

"Perfidy?" suggested Mr. Oliver Peabody.

"Yes, that's it. Have I lived to look on this," Mr. Tiffany continued;

"to have my young hopes blighted, the rose of my existence cropped, and

all that. Is it for this," addressing Miriam directly: he had been

talking before to the air: "Is it for this I went blackberrying with you

in my tender infancy! Is it for this that in the heyday of youth I

walked with you to the school-house down the road! Was it for this that

in the prime of manhood I breathed soft music in your ear at the

witching time of night!"

As he arrived at this last question, Mopsey, in her new gown of gorgeous

pattern, and, having laid aside her customary broad-bordered cap, with a

high crowned turban of red, and yellow cotton handkerchief on her head,

appeared at the parlor door. Mr. Tiffany paused: he saw the Moorish

princess before him; rallying, however, he was proceeding to describe

himself as a friendly troubadour, whose affection had been responded to,

when the Captain placing his mouth to his ear, as in confidence, uttered

in a portentous whisper, "THE VAT!"

Mr. Tiffany immediately lost all joint and strength, subsided into a

chair at a distance, and from that moment looked upon the scene like one

in a trance.

"After all," said Mr. Oliver, glancing at him, "I don't see just now

that, in any point of view, this young gentleman _is_ destined to carry

the principles of free government--anywhere."

The family being now all gathered, Mr. Barbary proceeded, employing a

simple and impressive form in use in that family from its earliest

history:

"You, the Bridegroom and the Bride, who now present yourselves

candidates of the covenant of God and of your marriage before him, in

token of your consenting affections and united hearts, please to give

your hands to one another.

"Mr. Bridegroom, the person whom you now take by the hand, you receive

to be your married wife: you promise to love her, to honor her, to

support her, and in all things to treat her as you are now, or shall

hereafter be convinced is by the laws of Christ made your duty,--a

tender husband, with unspotted fidelity till death shall separate you.

"Mrs. Bride, the person whom you now hold by the hand you accept to be

your married husband; you promise to love him, to honor him, to submit

to him, and in all things to treat him as you are now or shall hereafter

be convinced, is by the laws of Christ made your duty,--an affectionate

wife, with inviolable loyalty till death shall separate you.

"This solemn covenant you make, and in this sacred oath bind your souls

in the presence of the Great God, and before these witnesses.

"I then declare you to be husband and wife regularly married according

to the laws of God and the Commonwealth: therefore what God hath thus

joined together let no man put asunder."

When these words had been solemnly spoken the widow Margaret struck her

ancient harpsichord in an old familiar tune of plaintive tenderness, and

the young bridegroom holding Miriam's hand in an affectionate clasp,

answered the music with a little hymn or carol, often used before among

the Peabodys on a like occasion:

Entreat me not--I ne'er will leave thee,

Ne'er loose this hand in bower or hall;

This heart, this heart shall ne'er deceive thee,

This voice shall answer ever to thy call.

To which Miriam, after a brief pause of hesitation, in that tone of

chanting lament familiar to her, answered--

Thy God is mine, where'er thou rovest,

Where'er thou dwellest there too will I dwell;

In the same grave shall she thou lovest

Lie down with him she loves so well.

Like a cheerful voice answering to these, and wishing, out of the

mysterious darkness of night, all happiness and prosperity to the young

couple, the silver call of Chanticleer arose without, renewed and

renewed again, as if he could never tire of announcing the happy union

to all the country round.

And now enjoyment was at its height among the Peabodys, helped by

Plenty, who, with Mopsey for chief assistant, hurried in, with plates of

shining pippins, baskets of nuts, brown jugs of new cider of home-made

vintage; Mrs. Carrack, who had selected the simplest garment in her

wardrobe, moving about in aid of black Mopsey, tendering refreshment to

her old father first, and Mrs. Jane Peabody insisting on being allowed

to distribute the walnuts with her own hand.

The children, never at rest for a moment, frisked to and fro, like so

many merry dolphins, disporting in the unaccustomed candle-light, to

which they were commonly strangers. They were listened to in all their

childish prattle kindly, by every one, indulged in all their little

foolish ways, as if the grown-up Peabodys for this night at least,

believed that they were indeed little citizens of the kingdom of heaven,

straying about this wicked world on parole. Uncle Oliver, once,

spreading his great Declaration-of-Independence pocket-handkerchief on

his knees, attempted to put them to the question as to their learning.

They all recognised Dr. Franklin, with his spectacles thrown up on his

brow, among the signers, but denying all knowledge of anything more, ran

away to the Captain, who was busy building, a dozen at a time, paper

packet ships, and launching them upon the table for a sea.

In the very midst of the mirthful hubbub old Sylvester called Robert and

William to his side, and was heard to whisper, "Bring 'em in." William

and Robert were gone a moment and returned, bearing under heavy

head-way, tumbling and pitching on one side constantly, two ancient

spinning wheels, Mopsey following with snowy flocks of wool and spinning

sticks. Old Sylvester arose, and delivering a stick and flock to Mrs.

Carrack and Mrs. Jane Peabody, requested them, in a mild voice and as a

matter of course already settled, "to begin." A spinning-match!

"Yes, anything you choose to-night, father."

Rolling back their sleeves, adjusting their gowns, the wheels being

planted on either side of the fireplace, Mrs. Jane and Mrs. Carrack,

stick in hand, seized each on her allotment of wool, and sent the wheels

whirling. It was a cheerful sight to see the two matrons closing in upon

the wheel, retiring, closing in again--whose wheel is swiftest, whose

thread truest? Now Mrs. Jane--now Mrs. Carrack. If either, Mrs. Carrack

puts the most heart in her work.

"_Now_ she looks like my Nancy," said old Sylvester in a glow, "as when

she used to spin and sing, in the old upper chamber."

Away they go--whose wheel is swiftest, whose thread the truest now?

While swift and free the contest wages, the parlor-door standing open,

and beyond that the door of the sitting-room, look down the long

perspective! Do you not see in the twilight of the kitchen fire a dark

head, lighting up, as in flashes, with a glittering row of teeth, with a

violent agitation of the body, with gusty ha-ha's, and fragments of an

uproarious chant flying through the door something to this effect--

Oh, de fine ladies, how dey do spin--spin--spin,

Like de gals long ago--long ago!

I bet to'der one don't win--win--win,

Kase de diamond-flowers on her fingers grow.

Lay down your white gloves, take up de wool,

Round about de whirly wheel go;

Back'ard and for'ard nimble feet pull,

Like de nice gals long--long ago!

Silence follows, in which nothing is observable from that quarter more

than a great pair of white eyes rolling about in the partial darkness.

Who was other than pleased that in spite of Mopsey's decision, old

Sylvester determined that if either, Mrs. Carrack's work was done a

little the soonest, and that her thread was a little the truest?

During the contest the old merchant and his wife had conversed closely,

apart; the green shade had lost its terrors, and he could look on it

steadily, now; and at the close William Peabody approaching the

fireplace, drew from his bosom the old parchment deed, which in his

hunger for money had so often disquieted his visits to the homestead,

and thrust it into the very heart of the flame, which soon shrivelled it

up, and, conveying it out at the chimney, before the night was past

spread it in peaceful ashes over the very grounds which it had so long

disturbed.

"So much for that!" said the old merchant, as the last flake vanished;

"and now, nephew," he addressed himself to Elbridge, "fulfilling an

engagement connected with your return, I resign to you all charge of

your father's property."

"Did you bring anything with you from the Gold Region?" Mrs. Carrack

interposed.

"Not one cent, Aunt," Elbridge answered promptly.

"You may add, William," pursued Mrs. Carrack, "the sums of mine you have

in hand."

William Peabody was pausing on this proposition, the sums in question

being at that very moment embarked in a most profitable speculation.

Upon the very height of the festivity, when it glowed the brightest and

was most musical with mirthful voices, there had come to the casement a

moaning sound as if borne upon the wind from a distance, a wailing of

anguish, at the same time like and unlike that of human suffering. By

slow advances it approached nearer and nearer to the homestead, and

whenever it arose it brought the family enjoyment to a momentary pause.

It had drawn so near that it sounded now again, as if in mournful

lamentation, at the very door, when Mopsey, her dark face almost white,

and her brow wrinkled with anxiety, rushed in. "Grandfather," she said,

addressing old Sylvester, "blind Sorrel's dying in the door-yard."

There was not one in all that company whom the announcement did not

cause to start; led by old Sylvester, they hastily rose, and conducted

by Mopsey, followed to the scene. Blind Sorrel was lying by the

moss-grown horse-trough, at the gate.

"I noticed her through the day," said Oliver, "wandering up the lane as

if she was seeking the house."

"The death-agony must have been upon her then," said William Peabody,

shading his eyes with his hand.

"She remembered, perhaps, her young days," old Sylvester added, "when

she used to crop the door-yard grass."

Mopsey, in her solicitude to have the death-bed of poor blind Sorrel

properly attended, had brought with her, in the event of the paling or

obscuration of the moon, a dark lantern, which she held tenderly aside

as though the poor old creature still possessed her sight; immoveable

herself as though she had been a swarthy image in stone, while, on the

other side, William Peabody, near her head, stood gazing upon the animal

with a fixed intensity, breathing hard and watching her dying struggle

with a rigid steadiness of feature almost painful to behold.

"Has carried me to mill many a day," he said; "some pleasantest hours of

my life spent upon her back, sauntering along at early day."

"Your mother rode her to meeting," Sylvester addressed his second son,

"on your wedding-day, Oliver. Sorrel was of a long-lived race."

"She was the gentlest horse-creature you ever owned, father," added Mrs.

Carrack, turning affectionately toward old Sylvester, "and humored us

girls when we rode her as though she had been a blood-relation."

"I'm not so sure of that," Mr. Tiffany Carrack rejoined, "for she has

dumped me in a ditch more than once."

"That was your own careless riding, Tiffany," said the Captain, "I don't

believe she had the least ill-will towards any living creature, man or

beast."

It was observed that whenever William Peabody spoke, blind Sorrel turned

her feeble head in that direction, as if she recognised and singled out

his voice from all the others.

"She knows your voice, father, even in her darkness," said the Captain,

"as the sailor tells his old captain's step on deck at night."

"Well she may, Charles," the merchant replied, "for she was foaled the

same day I was born."

The old creature moaned and heaved her side fainter and fainter.

"Speak to her, William," said the old grandfather.

William Peabody bent down, and in a tremulous voice said, "Sorrel, do

you know me?"

The poor blind creature lifted up her aged head feebly towards him,

heaved her weary side, gasped once and was gone. The moon, which had

been shining with a clear and level light upon the group of faces,

dipped at that moment behind the orchard-trees, and at the same instant

the light in the lantern flickering feebly, was extinguished.

"What do you mean by putting the light out, Mopsey," old Sylvester

asked.

"I knew de old lamp would be goin' out, Massa, soon as ever blind Sorrel

die; I tremble so I do' no what I'm saying." It was poor Mopsey's

agitation which had shaken out the light.

"Never shall we know a more faithful servant, a truer friend, than poor

blind Sorrel," they all agreed; and bound still closer together by so

simple a bond as common sympathy in the death of the poor old blind

family horse, they returned within the homestead.

They were scarcely seated again when William Peabody, turning to Mrs.

Carrack, said, "Certainly!" referring to the transfer of the money of

hers in his hands on loan, to Elbridge, "he will need some ready money

to begin the world with."

All was cheerful friendship now; the family, reconciled in all its

members, sitting about their aged father's hearth on this glorious

Thanksgiving night; the gayer mood subsiding, a sudden stillness fell

upon the whole house, such as precedes some new turn in the discourse.

Old Sylvester Peabody sat in the centre of the family, moving his body

to and fro gently, and lifting his white head up and down upon his

breast; his whole look and manner strongly arresting the attention of

all; of the children not the least. After a while the old man paused,

and looking mildly about, addressed the household.

"This is a happy day, my children," he said, "but the seeds of it were

sown, you must allow an old man to say, long, long ago. If one good

Being had not died in a far country and a very distant time, we could

not have this comfort now."

The children watched the old grandfather more closely.

"I am an old man, and shall be with you, I feel, but for a little while

yet; as one who stands at the gate of the world to come, looking

through, and through which he is soon to pass, will you not allow me to

believe that I thought of the hopes of your immortal spirits in your

youth?"

As being the eldest, and answering for the rest, William Peabody

replied, "We will."

"Did I not teach you then, or strive my best to teach, that there was

but one Holy God?"

"You did, father--you did!" the widow Margaret answered.

"That his only Son died for us?"

"Often--often!" said Mrs. Carrack.

"That we must love one another as brethren?"

"At morning and night, in winter and summer; by the hearth and in the

field, you did," Oliver rejoined.

"That there is but one path to happiness and peace here and hereafter,"

he continued, "through the performance of our duty towards our Maker,

and our fellow men of every name, and tongue, and clime, and color? to

love your dear Native Land, as she sits happy among the nations, but to

remember this, our natural home, is but the ground-nest and cradle from

which we spread our wings to fly through all the earth with hope and

kindly wishes for all men. If the air is cheerful here, and the

sun-light pleasant, let no barrier or wall shut it in, but pray God,

with reverent hope, it spread hence to the farthest lands and seas, till

all the people of the earth are lighted up and made glad in the common

fellowship of our blessed Saviour, who is, was, and will be evermore--to

all men guide, protector, and ensample. May He be so to us and ours, to

our beloved home and happy Fatherland, in all the time to come!"

The old man bowed his head in presence of his reconciled household, and

fell into a sweet slumber; not one of all that company but echoed the

old man's prayer--"May he be so to us and ours, to our beloved Home and

happy Fatherland in all the time to come!"

On this, on every day of Thanksgiving and Praise, be that old man's

blessed prayer in all quarters, among all classes and kindred,

everywhere repeated: "May He be so to us and ours, to our beloved Home

and happy Fatherland in all the time to come!"

And when, like that good old man, we come to bow our heads at the close

of a long, long life, may we, like him, fall into a gentle sleep,

conscious that we have done the work of charity, and spread about our

path, wherever it lead, peace and good-will among men!

THE END.

Transcriber's Notes:

Author's name is not given in the text but other editions give it as

Cornelius Mathews.

Contents Page. In the original text, some chapter titles were wrong;

these have been corrected as follows:

Chapter IV. Title was "The Children." Corrected to "The Fortunes of

the Family Considered."

Chapter V. Title was "The Fashionable Lady and Her Son." Corrected

to "The Children."

Chapter VI. Title was "The Fortunes of the Family Considered."

Corrected to "The Fashionable Lady and Her Son."

Inconsistent hyphenation of words in original text has been retained

(daylight, day-light; fireside, fire-side; headway head-way; and

neck-cloth, neckcloth).

Inconsistent spelling of contractions in the original text has been

retained.

Page 27, added missing quote mark. ("Three, all of brick)

Page 33, changed comma to fullstop. (speech. "Expect to see)

Page 35, changed comma to fullstop. (said old Sylvester. "Out of)

Page 36, unusual spelling of "ricketty" retained. (landed from its

ricketty and bespattered bosom)

Page 39, "thoughtf" has been changed to "though" (watched over as

though it had been my own)

Page 96, added missing quote mark. ("Some two hundred)