Beside me stood a tall, bearded person, holding in his left

Produced by sp1nd, Mebyon, Matthew Wheaton and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

MY FIRE OPAL

MY FIRE OPAL

AND OTHER TALES

BY

SARAH WARNER BROOKS

AUTHOR OF "ENGLISH POETRY AND POETS"

BOSTON

ESTES AND LAURIAT

1896

_Copyright, 1896_

BY SARAH WARNER BROOKS

Colonial Press:

C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, Mass., U.S.A.

Electrotyped at the

Dickinson Electrotype Foundery

Dedication

TO THE BELOVED MEMORY OF

ISABEL CORNWELL

THESE TALES ARE GRATEFULLY AND LOVINGLY

DEDICATED BY HER GRANDDAUGHTER

THE AUTHOR

_The Lilacs_, January, 1896

PREFACE.

In the hope of interesting the reader in that insistent altruistic

question of the hour--How may we best treat our _convicted_ fellow

sinners?--these simple tales (the outcome of intimate personal

observation "behind the bars," and woven, almost equally, of fact and

fiction) are offered for his kindly-indulgent perusal.

Most sincerely,

S. W. B.

_West Medford_, Jan. 31, 1896.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

MY FIRE OPAL 1

THE STORY OF JOHN GRAVESEND 37

A BUNCH OF VIOLETS 65

A DISASTROUS SLEIGH-RIDE 91

TUCKERED OUT 109

A PRISON CHILD 127

ESCAPED 209

MY FIRE OPAL.

"Well, have it all your own way, Isabel," meekly conceded Alcibiades;

"but really, now, you ought not to be left here alone. Couldn't you

have managed to invite company for a day or two--Aunt Maria, say, or

Alice Barnes, or Emma and the baby?"

"Company!" mocked I, "that now is _like_ a man! Here am I planning to

give poor, overworked Cicely a day or two off, while you are all away

and the housework at its minimum, and straightway you propose

_company_!--which, of course, implies regular meals and extra chamber

work.

"No, I thank you, sir, not any _company_ for _me_," said I, rising

from the breakfast-table to drop my husband a derisive courtesy; "and

indeed, and indeed," I urged, "you are not to give up your own

vacation because your wife is scared of burglars and bugbears, with

neighbors as thick as blackberries, within call, and a stout policeman

snoozing away his beat against our front fence!"

Alcibiades sighed and folded his napkin. I felt that he was still

unconvinced. Nevertheless, he mounted the stairs, packed his grip,

and, intent upon catching the next horse-car, bade me a hurried adieu.

"_Au revoir!_" cried I, "in the wind of his going," "and, in case of

burglars--

"'Fare thee well! and if forever,

Then--'"

already he had disappeared, and, closing the door, I resumed my

unfinished breakfast. When Cicely came in to clear the table, I

rejoiced her heart, by a full consent to her little vacation. Relieved

of mind, she plunged vigorously into the Saturday scrubbing, and,

having prospectively arranged my Sunday dinner, of pressed corned

beef, was enabled to start for "me cousin's in South Boston" at two

P. M..

As she whisked out, with a beaming smile, a brick-red face, and a huge

newspaper bundle, I locked the door behind her, and found myself

"Monarch of all I surveyed."

One fancies that even "Alexander Selkirk"--dreary as his lot was--must

have found some slight compensation in the undisputed possession of an

entire island. However it may have been with _him_, I must confess to

acute satisfaction in the lordly consciousness of absolute sway over

that miniature realm--my own domicile.

Delightful, indeed, was the prospect of regulating my "downsittings

and uprisings," my bed, and meal times, in fine accordance with my own

sweet will, absolutely untrammeled by the ordinary necessity of

deferring to the wishes, and respecting the claims, of my

fellow-mortals!

A long, lawless afternoon, with all its pleasant possibilities, lay

temptingly before me. Straightway, with book and work, I established

myself on the shady piazza. Pleasantly remote from the street it was,

yet still so near, that, like the Lady of Shallot, "'neath her bower

eaves," I could glimpse the passing sights on ---- Street, could

discern the distant peak of "Corey Hill," and catch, now and then,

between the wind-tossed trees, a blue gleam of the "Whispering

Charles."

Close at hand was my own pretty flower-plot, but lately (by the united

efforts of the entire Simpleton family) reclaimed from a desolate

tangle of tomato vines, string-beans, and chickweed, and planted with

greenhouse beauties, which, now that summer was gone, and early frosts

nightly expected, had tantalizingly put forth abundant bloom. The

September evenings had already begun to draw chillingly in. By six

o'clock, the piazza had become uncomfortable, and I betook myself to

the house. Its absolute possession, at this sombre hour, struck me as

a trifle less desirable than in the broad sunshine of noonday.

Having carefully locked the outer doors, and bestowed the scanty

family silver in the garret rag-bag, a general inspection of the

window fastenings seemed the next best thing to do. "Let me," I said

to myself, "begin at the beginning." In accordance with this excellent

maxim, I at once descended to the cellar. No sooner had I stepped into

that dusky portion of my realm, than some live thing, rushing madly

between my feet, had nearly upset me. I suppressed a childish shriek

of terror. I recognised the cat. I am not fond of cats, hence _ours_,

when not taking her walks abroad, is strictly relegated to the

cellar, where, after her best endeavours, mice are ever o'er plenty. I

found the cellar windows not only devoid of fastenings, but partially

denuded of glass. Abandoning the idea of securing _that_ slip-shod

approach to my stronghold, I beat a hasty retreat, pussy, meantime, at

my heels, and brushing my gown with disagreeable familiarity.

The door leading to the cellar stairway had, in addition to its lock,

a stout bolt. I carefully secured it by both, and, as twilight was

coming on, shot, with a will, the hasps of such window fastenings, in

the first and second stories, as had obligingly retained their patent

adjustments, and, with hammer and nails, proceeded to secure the rest.

Meantime, night was upon me. My own footsteps sounded uncanny, as I

passed from room to room, and my hammer-strokes, as I drove in nail

after nail, set my startled nerves on edge. In shadowy corners of the

dusky apartments, sinister shapes seemed lurking. Imaginary footfalls

echoed weirdly in the chambers above. The cat purring offensively, and

still dogging my steps, innocently contributed to the general

uncomfortableness. Regardless (in this exigent moment) of the

quarterly bill, I turned on at every jet a lavish flow of gas, until

one superb glare flooded the entire ground floor of Irving Cottage.

Reassured by this reckless illumination, I betook myself to the

preparation of supper. In consequence of the kitchen fire having gone

out, it was a strictly informal meal, consisting solely of sardines,

crackers, and lithia water.

Supping, with nervous despatch, I cleared my table, gorged the cat

(who, in the unwonted dearth of society, was permitted to lodge in the

kitchen), and, making a final survey of the brilliant lower story,

turned off the gas, and, match in hand (and with a directness that

would have proved the salvation of "Lot's wife"), sought my bedroom.

Lighting my gas, I locked my door, looked under the bed, made an

exhaustive search in the closets, and, composed and reassured, sat

down to the completion of Black's last novel. Ere long, absorbed in

the fortunes of poor, love-crazed "Mac Leod of Dare," I became utterly

oblivious of my own dreary situation. Once, the ringing of the side

door-bell recalled me to the actual, but, having determined to open

to no man _that_ night, I discreetly lowered the gas, and, peeping

from behind my window-shade, made sure that it was the expressman, and

then coolly let him ring. He must have more than exhausted his

notoriously scant stock of patience ere I heard him drive off,

swearing awfully at his horses, as he lashed them down the drive. It

may be recorded, in this connection, that Cicely, some five days

later, on opening her pantry shutter to drive out the flies,

discovered a blood-stained, brown paper parcel thrust in, and firmly

wedged, between window and blind. On examination, it was found to

contain the perishing bodies of three hapless squabs, which

Alcibiades, in a reckless excess of conjugal tenderness, had bought

(as a toothsome addition to my Sunday dinner), on his way to the

railroad station.

When this touching proof of my good husband's indulgent care came to

light, I take shame to confess that, hardening my heart, I mocked thus

wickedly to myself,--"The _idiot_! to fancy that a sane woman would

scorch herself over a coal-stove, broiling squabs for her own healthy

self, with corned beef, sardines, and delicious olives at hand!"

But, to return from this digression--the ireful expressman well

away--I sailed serenely on to midnight, and the last harrowing chapter

of my novel. Then bathing my strained eyes, and reducing my light to

the merest flicker, I crept wearily to bed.

After a whole fidgety hour spent in the composure of my nerves, and

the resolving into natural causes of such "noises of the night" as

successively set my hair on end, I fell asleep.

The sun was already high when I awoke. It was a lovely September

morning. Recalling, with amused wonder, the groundless alarms of the

last eventless night, I bathed and dressed in great spirits, and

descended to the preparation of breakfast.

Yesterday's coffee, warmed over in an AEtna, was less palatable than I

could have imagined, and, easily resisting the indulgence of a second

cup, I completed, with scant relish, my untempting meal.

The ringing of the church bells surprised me in my morning work. It

was Sunday. Not for a moment, however, must I entertain the idea of

going to church!

In C----, bold, day-time robberies were familiar occurrences, and, in

my absence, our unguarded domicile would become an easy prey for the

spoiler. The outer doors, three in number, were securely fastened, and

I especially congratulated myself upon the complete security of the

glass door opening from our parlour upon the piazza, as, in addition

to its regular fastening, it rejoiced in an admirable catch-lock, that

snapped beautifully, of itself, as one closed it.

As the morning wore on, weary of reading, I wrote some letters, and

thereafter overhauled my writing-desk. Among my accumulated

correspondence, I found half a score of stiffly-worded epistles. They

had been indited by inmates of the Massachusetts State Prison. To

elucidate the controlling event of my story, let me say, that helpful

effort among the convicts had long been an integral part of my

life-work.

Among themselves, they were pleased to term me "The Prisoner's

Friend," and, when discharged, and homeless, they often came to me for

counsel, or aid, in procuring that employment which, naturally, is but

grudgingly given to these attainted beings, whom, even as _visitors_,

my friends considered objectionable. On Mondays, my weekly visit to

the prison hospital was made. I carried to its patients fruit and

flowers, and read to them, sandwiching in, as best I could, a modicum

of reproof and advice.

The re-reading, sorting, and bestowal of this odd correspondence

brought me to dinner-time. An unsubstantial breakfast having whetted

my appetite for this important meal, I resolved to start a fire in the

kitchen stove. Having achieved this exploit--with that absurd outlay

of time, strength, and patience, peculiar to the amateur--I

laboriously elaborated an omelet, a dish of Lyonnaise potatoes, and a

steaming pot of tea.

Heated and weary, I hurried through the parlours, threw open the

piazza door for a whiff of fresh air, before dishing my dinner, and,

attracted by the grateful odor of heliotrope, stepped debonairly into

the outside sunshine. As I passed, the "sweet west wind" whipped to

the piazza door. It closed behind me, with a malicious bang. The much

admired patent fastening had, but too well, done its fatal work! I

stood diabolically fastened out of my own house! Recovering breath,

and taking in the desperate situation, I glanced ruefully at my

neighbour's back bow window. Miss Pettingrew, my next neighbour, was

an elderly maiden, and of curiosity "all compact." Nominally (as set

forth on her sign of blue and gold) a dressmaker, but adding to her

regular vocation the supervision of our neighbourhood, the outgoings

and incomings of the Simpletons were especially focussed by her awful

eye.

Our neighbourhood was not socially congenial. We had come to C---- for

the sole purpose of putting a son through Harvard, and, having no

other local interest in that city, we were simply the nobodies from

nowhere, and consequently ineligible as acquaintances.

Irving Cottage--so called from its supposed resemblance to that of

Washington Irving--attracted us by an exceptional allowance of

door-yard, combined with a moderate rent. Irving Cottage was a double

tenement-house; and its north side was now vacant. Its western front

commanded ---- street; its south side an uninterrupted series of back

door-yards. On the north it was overtopped by a tall storage building,

and in its rear stood a weather-worn old colonial mansion, once an

aristocratic abode, but now fallen upon evil times, and become a

rackety students' boarding-house. A low picket fence divided our rear

premises from those of Mrs. MacNebbins, its proprietor. And now, let

me return from this parenthetic information to my forlorn self,

drearily surveying my "hermetically sealed" dwelling.

Yes, Miss Pettingrew was, as usual, at her post. It behooved me to

take heed to my ways--to step nonchalantly from the piazza, as if

being in the yard were entirely optional. Taking a turn or two up and

down the drive, I rested a moment beneath the lordly old willows that

adorned our grounds. I pulled a nosegay from the flower-garden; hunted

the grass-plot for four-leaved clover--meantime furtively scanning my

window fastenings and praying inwardly that some unguarded point of

ingress to Irving Cottage might be revealed to me.

In vain! I had too well done my fatal work! Not the merest crack had

been left exposed. The cottage rejoiced in a terraced front. Thus the

lower back windows were, at least, five feet above the door-yard

level. A possible elevation of piazza chairs would command them. I

might, with a stone, demolish a convenient pane, and so reach and

manipulate a patent fastening; but there still was Miss Pettingrew!

How could I break and enter my own house, in broad daylight, and on a

Sunday, directly beneath her astonished gaze? Heavy at heart (and

mentally craving that lady's kind permission), I sought shelter

beneath the kindly woodbine that shut in our piazza. Hungry,

discouraged, and forlorn, I moped the slow hours away, until the

westward sloping sun and the chill of approaching evening warned me

that night was drawing near.

Luckily, I had, on my way out, thrown about me a light shawl.

Shivering, I wrapped it close, and then--providentially inspired--I

bethought me of a place of refuge,--to wit: the woodshed, adjoining

our kitchen! It was but a flimsy structure, but would, at least, be

warmer than an open piazza.

Its inner door, now carefully bolted, opened upon the kitchen. Its

outer entrance was, however, but slightly secured by a hook, easily

manipulated from without, by the insertion of a thin stick. I felt

that an entrance might be unostentatiously effected. Eagerly awaiting

that auspicious moment when Miss Pettingrew should, at tea-time,

vacate her post of observation, I sallied forth upon the lawn,

and--still hunting for four-leaved clover--managed to gain the rear of

my house. My ogress opportunely disappeared! Already provided with the

needful stick, it was but the work of a moment to insert it in the

crevice of the loosely-fitting door, to raise the hook, and step

gingerly in. Thank heaven, I was, at least, beneath a roof! Humble,

indeed, but yet an improvement upon an open sky, or even a vine-draped

piazza! And Miss Pettingrew need never know that I had come to grief.

Fortunately I wore my watch. It was a slight comfort to note the

passage of these unkindly hours. It was now quarter past four. I had

become desperately hungry. My mind ran tantalizingly upon the untasted

dinner within. Long ere this, my tea must have resolved itself to pure

tannin! My omelette and my Lyonnaise must have become the merest

chips; and the cat had, no doubt, privately disposed of my precious

corned beef. Well, all was not lost! A full hour yet loomed between

me and sunset. Given that time, might I not find some escape from my

dilemma?

The colonial mansion of the MacNebbins's backed squarely upon our

premises. And our woodshed backed, in turn, upon a roomy lawn--now

degraded to an open lot which faced upon B---- Street. In the absence

of windows upon that wall of the building, a knot-hole, generously

enlarged by our boys, served admirably as a lookout. At this

inconveniently high aperture, I watched (on tip-toe) the careless

throng, strolling, in Sunday attire, up and down B---- Street. This

wholesome, but tame, diversion palled upon me. My jaded appetite

craved more exciting nourishment.

Mrs. MacNebbins--poor, overworked body, with a temper of her own--and

maintaining, single-handed, half a dozen children and a shiftless sot

of a husband, sometimes became desperate. On such occasions, it suited

her, broomstick in hand, to drive her worse half from the house, the

maids, meantime, looking applause from her kitchen windows. My own

boys (in spite of my prohibition) had, I regret to say, often audibly

applauded this conjugal exhibition. Such a spicy scene would, I felt,

be in fine keeping with the situation, and I blush to own that I now

turned my attention to the MacNebbins's back door, in the vulgar hope

of an immediate connubial skirmish. In vain! Mr. MacNebbins sat

composedly smoking on his back doorsteps; while his more forceful half

flitted about the kitchen, intent on the dishing of the students'

dinner. Now and then a tantalizing whiff of the roast issued from the

open windows. By this time, I had become disgracefully ravenous; and

when, after the MacNebbins's dinner, the cook came out to deposit the

leavings in that objectionable swill-barrel, close to our back fence,

I blush to record that I looked with longing upon the remnants of this

(to _me_, Barmecide) feast. Halved potatoes, slices of pudding, and

savoury bits of meat, lay temptingly on the over-heaped barrel. I

sighed. It was like "starving in the midst of abundance."

For one wild moment, I thought of rushing into the open street, in my

morning wrapper, with a shawl over my head, and imploring somebody to

break into my house, and feed me.

But, no! Self-respect forbade a proceeding so insane; and, moreover,

should I not thus advertise the fact of my being alone in the house,

and at the mercy of the spoiler? Night would soon prevent that attempt

which I had half resolved to make upon the back window, and which

might, possibly, end in defeat, glass-splinters, and lockjaw. It was

now raining. The east wind wailed dolefully around the shed. I must,

nevertheless, make shift to lodge there. To that end, I carefully

considered the capabilities of the place. On a rude shelf, near the

woodpile, I found a gummy kerosene lamp, replete with ill-smelling

oil. Beside it was a tin box, containing three matches. In a corner

stood a barrel of clean shavings, and, beneath the wash-bench, a

basket of soiled clothes.

I had soon disposed the shavings in the form of a couch. Two sheets,

used but a single night in the guest-room, and comparatively unsoiled,

served for a light covering. On a high peg hung a rusty overcoat,

which, on fishing excursions, had repeatedly served my good

Alcibiades. It had come to exhale a perpetual "ancient and fish-like

smell," and, in consideration of my outraged nostrils, had been

relegated to the shed. Alas! I had not now the "proud stomach" which

distinguished "Mr. F's Aunt;" and, clothing myself in this unsavoury

garment, I thanked heaven for even so ignoble a protection from the

searching east wind, now entering, by every crevice and knot-hole, my

indifferently constructed sleeping-room.

Drearily casting myself upon this rude couch, I endeavoured to compose

my limbs for sleep. Unnumbered poets have rapturously celebrated "the

rain on the roof." I had myself once offered to a stony-hearted

magazine editor some "lines" on this very subject; yet to-day,

shivering, starved, and but half housed--heaven knows that the even

pelting of this pitiless storm above my forlorn head was nothing, if

not prosaic! I remembered, too, that my only door-fastening was a

slight hook, easily set at naught.

What facilities were here offered to a prowling tramp, intent upon a

night's shelter! When, for a moment, I could withdraw my poor mind

from the terrible pangs of hunger, it was but to fix it upon this

fearful possibility. Yes, I was undoubtedly at the mercy of all the

tramps in the immediate vicinity of C----! What would Alcibiades--what

would my boys (camping out at Great Brewster, with a _circus_ tent,

comforters in abundance, and every appliance known to youthful

Bohemia) say, if they could, this night, look in upon their miserable

relative? But, no; Alcibiades should never hear how--by rejecting his

safe counsel--I had dedicated myself to desolation. The misery of this

night must be forever locked in my own breast! Of course, I could not

be expected to close my eyes during the entire night; and, when

morning came--should my life be spared till then--I should be too much

exhausted from starvation to crawl out of the shed, and should,

should, shou--here, I fell fast asleep!

A single hour could scarce have passed, when I was aroused by a slight

jar, as of some one leaning heavily against the frame of the shed,

directly where I had made my bed. In a moment I was broad awake, and,

with my heart in my mouth, intently listening. I now sorely regretted

having left my lamp burning; and wished I had, at least, plugged the

wide knot-hole looking street-ward. The one small window, opening on

our own premises, I had carefully darkened, but had forgotten to

screen this irregular look-out. Luckily, it did not command, from the

outside, my impromptu bed.

Directly beneath it, I could now hear footsteps. Evidently, an

investigation was being made by some person outside. I managed to get

upon my feet, and thus await the dreaded issue.

There was a clumsy scramble, a thud on the wet ground inside the

fence, and then came heavy footsteps, evidently approaching my place

of refuge. The door was tried, vigorously shaken, and opened by a

crack; and then I knew that some one was manipulating the hook with a

stick; was making an entrance, as I myself had done, but a few hours

ago! I tottered weakly over to the woodpile. I had need to stay myself

well against it, so paralyzed with fear had I become. I felt my limbs

giving way; an age of horror seemed to pass in the brief moments that

ensued before the hook yielded.

The door flew open with a bang! and, then,--then the entire shed

reeled, darkened, disappeared; and I knew no more!

Consciousness returning, I found myself reclined upon my shaving

couch. A pile of soiled clothes supported my head; my face and hair

were dripping with water, which had apparently been showered upon me

without stint, or stay, from a wooden piggin standing near, which I

remembered to have set under a big leak in the woodshed roof, before

settling myself to repose.

Beside me stood a tall, bearded person, holding in his left hand a

smoking kerosene lamp, and with his right still liberally sprinkling

me from the piggin, and, the while, anxiously scanning my face. As my

scattered senses pulled themselves together, I discerned that his

demeanour was pacific--even friendly. I found his face by no means

bad, with its strong features, determined expression, and the kindly

smile which disclosed his sound, white teeth. As I attempted to rise,

he said, respectfully: "Pray lie down a bit, madam; you'll be all

right again in a moment. You fainted dead away; and, upon my word, I

could have knocked myself down for giving you such a turn. It was a

deuced sight worse, too," added he, "when I found that you were 'The

Prisoner's Friend.'

"Maybe _you_ don't know my face now, madam; but I have known yours,

any time, these four years; ever since you brought me that fruit with

the posy of pinks an' old-man's love, the time I was laid up in the

prison hospital."

No; I could not recall the man's face; but I remember well that such a

person had sent me, through the warden, a grateful acknowledgment of

my little kindness, in the form of a rosewood box, inlaid with

mother-of-pearl and lined with garnet velvet (his own dainty work),

and containing a paper thus inscribed:

"Adam Beale, to 'The Prisoner's Friend,' with best wishes."

The warden, as I presently recollected, had, at that time, told me

that Adam was serving out five years' sentence for passing a forged

check. Well, here, like a Jack-in-a-box, Adam himself had turned up.

It was now _my_ turn to "take unto myself shame and confusion of

face,"--found harbouring in a shed, alone, and at midnight! To give

the man, an ex-convict, and alone with me, in this forlorn place, that

explanation demanded by the situation, would undoubtedly put me

absolutely at his mercy, yet, perceiving that there was no other way

out of it, I at once made a clean breast. The tale of my woes well

finished, the humour of the whole affair, together with Adam's

expression of blank amazement, so upset me that I ended with a peal of

hysterical laughter, in which, as I could see by the twitching of his

visible muscles, good manners alone restrained my auditor from joining

me.

Wisely deferring the relation of his own adventures to serener

moments, my convict, at my request, at once set about the work of

breaking and entering.

The storm had abated. It was now midnight, and Miss Pettingrew

presumably off duty. With empty barrels and boxes, found in the shed,

the level of a side window was soon attained, and Adam, demolishing a

pane of glass, deftly undid a patent fastening. It was but a moment

ere he had entered, and unlocked the side door for the admission of my

somewhat crestfallen self.

Nor was it long ere my deliverer had made a famous fire in the kitchen

stove, and, in his shirt-sleeves, while his dripping coat steamed hard

by on a clothes-horse, was preparing a pot of coffee, while I laid the

supper-table.

It goes, without saying, that my zest for this meal was not slight;

and the hunger of my guest, as may be inferred, was well-nigh as

sharp as my own. The cat having obligingly dined and supped upon

omelette and Lyonnaise potato, my corned beef was still intact; and,

with some trifling additions, and that best of sauces--hunger--our

meal proved delicious.

Well, thought I, as I bestowed a second section of sponge cake, and a

third cup of coffee, upon my hungry guest--truth is, undoubtedly,

stranger than fiction! Could Alcibiades (dear man!) be told that, by

scorning his kind advice, I had brought myself to so strange a pass as

to be supping at midnight with an ex-convict, would he believe it? As

for my dazed self, well could I have craved, with that historical old

woman of abridged "petticoat," the decisive "bark" of my own "little

dog" as assurance that "I was _I_."

Our hunger appeased, Adam told me how he had come to find himself on

that stormy night, on his way to Boston, penniless and shelterless.

His sentence had, he said, expired three weeks ago; and, with his

"freedom suit," and the regulation gratuity of five dollars from the

Prison Aid Society, along with its immemorial offer of a ticket for

the West, he had been duly discharged. Having a mind to re-establish

himself in his native city--New York--he had declined emigrating to

Idaho, but, finding himself somewhat the worse for five years of

confinement, bad air, and poor diet, had resolved to recruit for a

time, in mountain air, before seeking his city home.

With the State gratuity, and nearly forty dollars of his own prison

earnings in his purse, Adam had set forth on a frugal pedestrian tour.

Having taken by the way a heavy cold, he had been obliged to lay by,

for a whole fortnight, at a country tavern; and what with the board

bill, the doctor's fee, and the charges for medicine, his slim purse

had been soon drained. Recovered from his ailment, and renovated by

the healing mountain air, he had found himself absolutely penniless,

and had made thus far his homeward journey, in dependence on charity

for food and shelter. Passing through B---- Street to crave a night's

lodging at the station-house, he had espied my light through the big

knot-hole of the shed, and, on inspection, finding the place

apparently unoccupied, weary and wet as he was, it had then seemed

wise to accept the nearest possibility of shelter; and he had

accordingly determined to attempt an entrance to this lighted

outbuilding--little thinking, as he said, to find, in so rude a place,

a lady whose person was held sacred by every man in the prison.

And now, to make a long story short, Adam's recital ended, we dried

his clothes, washed our supper dishes, "ridded up" the kitchen, and

then took into consideration the question of ways and means. Before

falling into temptation, Adam Beale had been a real estate broker, and

though not, hitherto, an eminently successful one, he meant, if

possible, to re-establish himself in the old business. This he thought

might be done in the whirl of a great city, where identity is easily

disguised, or even lost, and--and--and then--I may as well confess it

at once--it all ended in my slipping off my diamond ring (one of my

girlhood's treasures, and the only valuable bit of jewelry in my

possession) and, after much persuasion, inducing Adam to accept it as

a loan, and by putting it in pawn realize a sum that would again set

him on his feet. "But, dear me!" exclaims the prudent reader, "was not

this a most unsafe venture?" Yes, I suppose so; but then, most

ventures _are_, more or less, _unsafe_. And, after all, what is a

single diamond, or, indeed, a whole cluster of them, when weighed

against the possibility of restoring a man to the safe path of

rectitude, the saving of a soul?

This risky transaction well over, Adam, by his own election, retired

to pass the remainder of this strange night in the woodshed. I

bestowed upon him a pillow and some warm comforters, and the cat

politely kept him company, glad, no doubt, to escape from her dull

imprisonment in the kitchen.

As my convict would be afoot at early dawn, his adieus were made

overnight. Once more in my own safe room, and blest with a regular

bed, bolster, and pillow, I rested from the fatigue and excitement of

the last ten hours, and, on consideration, felt that my mishap was all

for the best. Though not downrightly distrustful of Adam, I still

remembered that I had not, as the saying goes, "wintered and summered"

the man. I may consequently be pardoned the uneasy consciousness that

my belongings (to say nothing of myself) were a thought less safe

than if lodged in the United States Bank; for had not my new friend,

but two hours since, evinced that easy facility in breaking and

entering, supposed to be inherent in the convict and the tramp? After

an hour or two of uneasy slumber, it was an infinite relief to hear

the "loud clarion" of an early cockerel, followed by an audible stir

in the woodshed and a heavy footstep in the yard. Springing from my

bed, I watched Adam's tall form as it passed evenly down the drive.

Well outside our gate, he went directly down street, and soon

disappeared from my view. After that, I slept the blessed sleep of the

weary and content, though not until I had taken the precaution to

bring from the shed the tell-tale pillow and comforter devoted to

Adam's use.

The sun was already four hours high, when Cicely's return awoke me. I

scrambled down to let her in, and, ere long, was seated at the late

breakfast which she briskly prepared for me. As I lingered luxuriously

over my coffee, this valued Hibernian abruptly entered, with upraised

hands, and hair on end, to inform me that "a nasty divil of a tramp,

be the tokens, had slept the night in our woodshed. An' God save us,

me'm," went on the excited creature, "wid yurself slapin aboove like

an innocent babe, an' the master an' young jintlemen away, and meself

takin' me ase at me cousin's! Praise be to God ye weren't killed

intirely! Come out, if ye plase, me'm, this same minute, and see, wid

your two eyes, where the crature slept." Regretting that I had

thoughtlessly left palpable evidence of Adam's visit, I meekly

followed Cicely into the shed.

"Did you find the door unhooked, Cicely?" I inquired, aware that

_something_ must be said.

"Unhooked, is it?" replied she, "indade an' it was thin! an' wide

open! Holy Mary! but it's the narrow escape ye's had!"

"Cicely," I said, decisively, "put these shavings back in the barrel.

They will kindle as well as ever, and the sheets will come out,

unharmed, from the wash. As for this fishy coat, when Dennis comes for

the ashes, you may as well give it to _him_. There is some wear in it

yet. And, upon the whole, Cicely, you had better say nothing of the

tramp to Mr. Simpleton and the young gentlemen. It would only frighten

them, and to no purpose, as it's now all past and gone."

That afternoon, during my visit to the State Prison, I related to the

warden so much of the above adventure as pertained to my transaction

with Adam Beale. I found that he had been discharged as stated, and

had declared his intention of recruiting while in the country, before

returning to his home in New York, "but as for your diamond ring, my

dear lady," said the astute official, "make up your mind that you have

parted with it for good and all; for, as _I_ know the convict, not one

in a hundred could resist the temptation of retaining it."

"Well," I said, resignedly, "let it go, then; life is replete with

mishaps, and I have already survived many a disaster, far more heavy

than the loss of a diamond."

When my little family were again re-united, it was Alcibiades who

first observed and commented on the continuous absence of my diamond

ring from my left-hand middle finger.

"Oh, my ring?" I said, lightly, "well, I am just leaving it off for a

time. One does not care to appear eternally in diamonds, like a fat

_frau_ of a German Jew."

Alcibiades, least inquisitive of mortals, thus easily put off, I

resigned myself to the loss of my ring, confident that, at the worst,

it had not (as "Mantalini" would have put it) quite "gone to the

demnition bow-wows."

More than six months had elapsed, when, one day, the expressman handed

me a small package, addressed in a fine, clear hand, and marked

"valuable--_with care_."

Luckily, I was alone, and could, unquestioned, receipt for the parcel.

It was, as I had suspected, my ring; and glad was I to receive it, but

still more rejoiced to have found, unaided by the lantern of _any_

Diogenes, an _honest_ man!

And now, my story might, with propriety, end. It does not, however,

for I have yet to relate how it was that I, the wife of a clerk in the

post-office, drawing but an indifferent salary, came into possession

of so sumptuous an adornment as a Mexican fire opal, superbly set in

diamonds of the very first water.

Ten years had passed since the adventure which resulted in the loaning

of my ring to Adam Beale. Our boy had gone honourably through Harvard.

We no longer trembled at Miss Pettingrew's "awful nod." We had left

C---- for good and all. My health no longer permitted me to engage in

hospital work, and I had ceased to visit the prison. We were on the

eve of our silver wedding, and one evening, as we sat round our hearth

in Roxbury, cheerfully talking over the event, which was to be

celebrated by a little party, the door-bell rang, and was followed by

the entrance of our expressman.

Taking a long breath of relief, he deposited on the hall table a

small, carefully-sealed parcel, which, as he said, "had 'bout been the

rounds, he reckoned, for, near's he could find out, it started from

New York, paid through to C----. Then it came back to the office in

Boston, an arter _they_ had had a time on't _there_, lookin' up the

folks 'at was wanted, he got wind on't himself, and here now it is,"

he concluded, triumphantly, "landed at last."

As it was directed to me, I wrote my name in his greasy book,

Alcibiades paid the accumulated expressage, and the man at once left

us.

We were a little curious in regard to this much-traveled parcel--some

simple silver-wedding present, no doubt. But "great the wonder grew,"

when a magnificent fire opal ring, with superb diamond setting,

flashed out from its nest of rose-coloured cotton, like a condensed

rainbow, circled with sunbeams.

In the package, with the box, was a note directed to "The Prisoner's

Friend." It ran thus:

"DEAR LADY: I am now a rich man. Your kindness will ever be

held in remembrance; and may I ask your prayers for my future

prosperity in this life, and a pleasant meeting with you in the

life to come.

"Pray accept the enclosed ring, with warmest wishes for the

health, prosperity, and happiness of you and yours. I remain,

with great respect,

"Your obedient servant,

"ADAM BEALE."

That night, from a full heart, I confided to my family the story of

that strange midnight adventure, whose touching sequel was this costly

gift. Dear Alcibiades (to his eternal credit be it recorded) did not

on this occasion harrow my soul with a single "I told you so!" On the

evening of my silver wedding I wore Adam's ring. My friends were

informed that I had resolved never to disclose the name of the donor

of this superb opal; yet, now that I am an old woman, in the hope that

it may afford some slight encouragement to others who are seeking to

lighten the heavy human burden of sin, and its consequent misery, I

have thought that it might not be unwise or indelicate to reveal the

long-kept secret of my Fire Opal.

THE STORY OF JOHN GRAVESEND

John Gravesend, being neither goblin, sprite nor fairy, it is but

logical to infer that his existence was derived from a mortal father;

albeit of that father, he, John, had not the faintest conception.

Poor little Jack! He was, what men (misusing the holiest of words)

have named, a "love-child."

His father was plainly but an inference; and, as to his mother, she

was scarce more than a recollection.

He recalled, from some vague long ago, the face of a sad-eyed woman at

whose knee he had said "Now I lay me," with his sleepy little head

half-buried in the soft folds of her silken gown. He remembered the

same sweet face more pale and still and icy cold. He was not saying

his prayer _then_. He thinks he was crying. Be that as it may; Jack

cried a good deal in those days. He cried because he was cold, hungry,

tired, or beaten; and, later on, he fell into a way of crying for an

undefined good--a something which neither warmth, food, nor rest could

afford him. This vague sense of irrepletion had first dawned upon the

forlorn boy when, on a certain day, creeping about Long Wharf like a

half-starved rat, he had seen another boy in a velvet jacket, and with

lovely cornsilk hair, folded in the arms of a beautiful lady, but just

landed from a newly-arrived steamer. From that hour a nameless longing

for that undefined something, which the other lad had gotten from that

gentle lady, haunted his love-lorn days.

Sometimes he actually found himself crying for it. Of this--and all

other crying--Jack, being a manly little fellow, was so heartily

ashamed that (to use his own words) he "swowed never to let on to his

folks." Jack's "folks" were--a reputed uncle, by trade a shipwright. A

creature habitually red of face; cross in the morning and nasty at

night; chronically glum on week-days, and invariably sprightly on

Sundays; for then it was the shipwright's prerogative to get superbly

drunk!

During these Sabbath celebrations, the man (having no children of his

own body to maltreat) often diverted himself by belabouring his ragged

little nephew; who, more or less battered, wriggled dexterously from

his clutch, and, seeking his familiar haunt, the wharf, there wore out

the weary day. Jack's other "folk" was the wife of the aforesaid

uncle; a poor, cowed creature, with pinched, wan face and pale,

carroty hair. When the boy, upon a Sunday, did not come readily to

hand, the aunt was beaten in his stead. She did not run away, this

poor, spiritless scapegoat, but wearily mounting a ladder-like

staircase, took sanctuary in the loft. Later, when a drunken slumber

enwrapped her lord, she reappeared upon the scene, with set lips, and

face so white and ghastly, that little Jack, remembering vaguely that

_other_ still, white face, crept uneasily out into the sunlight, and

tried to forget it.

One day, when the shipwright had beaten his wife terribly, and there

was blood upon her clean Sunday gown, she did not, as usual, betake

herself to that "city of refuge," the loft; but, groaning faintly,

fell prone upon the floor. Jack's uncle then making a dive at _him_,

the child scampered off to the wharf as fast as his trembling little

legs would carry him. When he had skipped a good many stones into the

water, had watched ever so many clouds and vessels sail by, and had

seen the crimson water swallow the bloated fiery sun, little Jack felt

hungry, and thought it high time to be getting home to his folks.

Forlorn little waif! His _folks_, unsatisfactory as they were, were no

longer available.

He found the shipwright's dwelling thronged with excited men and

women. Upon the bed lay a still, white heap. Fancying that it might be

the pinch-faced aunt, who had so long partially fed and clothed him,

the child pushed forward, and, creeping softly to the bed, touched,

with his dirty little hand, that still, white face.

Ugh! _His_ folks were never as cold as _that_!

Repelled by this icy horror, the child stole quietly away, and,

crouching timidly in a far corner of the thronged apartment, watched

it all.

There was a deal of commotion in Jack's folks' house that Sunday

evening; and Jack's uncle, staring vacantly at a gaping throng of men,

boys, and frowsy-headed women, and sustained by two doughty

dignitaries of the law, was finally conveyed absolutely beyond the

line of his childish vision. After this, another gentleman, in bright

buttons, summarily cleared the house, and locked the door, with the

child on the wrong side of it; and, unheeded, hungry, shelterless, and

forlorn, the lad crept silently away. And this is all that Jack

remembers of his folks. The next tableau in his memory is that of a

ship's cabin, and a fat steward in a white apron, who, as he wells

remembers, went busily up and down the companionway, fetching steaming

viands, and carrying away empty plates and soiled glasses, which had

often, at bottom, a modicum of something strong and nice. He liked

it--this fine, fiery stuff!--and when whole spoonfuls had been left in

the glasses, and he had been let to drain them all, he felt as cheery

as could be; and, at bedtime, went off to his small bunk as happy as a

king. But when at dinner-time the steward, in his hurry-skurry, kicked

him out of the way, and called him "a d--d little son of a gun, whom

(like a soft-hearted lubber) he had smuggled into the _Argo_ to save

from the poorhouse," Jack fled dejectedly to his bunk to cry alone.

Yes, he remembered well, how a long time ago--very long indeed it

seemed in Jack's childish measurement of time--that cruel hunger had

gnawed at his poor, depleted little stomach, when his folks' door was

fast locked, and he prowling miserably about the wharf; and how the

good steward had then found and fed him. From that day, he had clung

to his deliverer--his providence--like a grateful spaniel, and, still

at his heels, here he was in the great _Argo_, sailing on and on, no

doubt, to the very end of the world.

Yes, he knew all that; and he meant to be thankful and good; but was

he, for certain true, "a son of a gun?" His father, as before stated,

being but an inference, Jack concluded, upon the whole, that he

_might_ be.

By and by, when the old steward (whose bite was in no wise as

formidable as his bark) had tided over his "hurry-skurry," and, having

given him his dinner, tossed him playfully to the ceiling, like a

plump little ball, as he was, when he set him to play all manner of

monkey tricks for his own and the crew's diversion, calling him "a

droll shaver," instead of that other objectionable name, he forgot,

for the time, his childish grievances, and was comparatively content.

He liked the rough-handed steward who alternately kicked and petted

him, and who, after his own poor fashion, apparently loved him. Yet,

taken as they went, these were but uncomfortable years for the loving,

sensitive child; and the nice fiery sups from the cabin tumblers were,

on the whole, the most comfortable feature of Jack Gravesend's earlier

cabin-boy experience.

As the years went on, from being by turns a nuisance and a pet, the

boy became a deft-handed helper to his testy old patron, and, coming

to man's estate, not only won favour with the _Argo's_ crew, but found

grace in the eyes of her captain. When the fat steward, in a fit of

apoplexy, went off in a final hurry-skurry, to Davy Jones's locker,

Jack was promoted to his berth.

Time sped. John Gravesend, from a poor cabin-boy, had come to be

second mate of the _Ohio_, when William Ferguson, as bonnie a

blue-eyed lad as one might hail in a cruise round the world, had

shipped as foremast hand in that stanch new craft. Then it was that

our hero first knew that supreme good for which he had been

instinctively yearning through all his lonely life--the true love of a

human soul.

Will Ferguson, a delicate boy of eighteen, neither by birth or

education suited to a sailor's life, was the only son of his mother,

and she was a widow. He had a persistent cough, came of consumptive

stock, and the doctor assured Madame Ferguson that a long sea voyage,

if she could but bring her mind to it, would be the very thing for the

lad.

"There is the _Ohio_," he went on to say, "now in port, and a finer

ship never sailed." Her captain trustworthy, and her second mate

personally known to him. Only last year he had carried the fellow

through an attack of typhoid, at Chelsea hospital, and if, as he was

saying, she could bring her mind to the thing, he would speak a good

word for Will, to this officer, Gravesend--John Gravesend--who would,

no doubt, keep a kindly eye on her boy all through the voyage.

Madame Ferguson _did_ bring her mind to it, although the parting was

as if her heart had been torn from her warm, living side. And thus it

was that Will Ferguson went sailing out of his mother's yearning sight

in the good ship _Ohio_, specially committed to the care of John

Gravesend, and as seasick and homesick a lad as ever smelt brine.