In the pleasant front parlour of the parsonage at Pendlepoint, the
Rev. Frank Goldthwaite and his sister were lingering over their
tea-table. He was a young man, tall and broad-shouldered, with an
open kindly face, and grave thoughtful eyes, which yet at times could
sparkle with merriment as bright as that which so often shone in his
sister's blue orbs. A bright, winsome, lovable maiden was Carrie
Goldthwaite, the very joy of her brother's heart, and the apple of
every eye in the township. The brother and sister were deeply
attached to each other, the fact that they were separated from their
father's happy home in New York drawing them the more closely
together. They had been talking of Mr. Goldthwaite's projected visit
on the morrow, and he had at last succeeded in repeating faithfully
all the commissions his sister wished him to execute, when the
swinging of the garden gate, and a firm tread on the gravel, made
Miss Goldthwaite rise and peep behind the curtain.
"It's Miss Hepsy, Frank," she said with a very broad smile;
"something very important must it be which brings her here. I don't
think she has been to the parsonage since the day we came."
The next moment Miss Goldthwaite's "help" ushered in Miss Hepsy
Strong, attired in a shawl of brilliant hues and a marvellous bonnet.
She dropped a courtesy to the parson, and sat down on the extreme
edge of the chair Miss Goldthwaite offered her, declining, at the
same time, her offer of a cup of tea. Evidently, Miss Hepsy was not
used to company manners.
"I've made bold to come down to-night, sir," she said, fixing her
keen eyes on Mr. Goldthwaite's pleasant face, "knowin' you was goin'
to Newhaven to-morrow, to ask if you would do Josh and me a
kindness."
"If I can, Miss Strong," returned the minister courteously, "be sure
I shall be very glad to do so."
"You've heard tell, I reckon," said Miss Hepsy, "of our sister Hetty
as married the schoolmaster in Newhaven?"
Mr. Goldthwaite nodded.
"Well, she's dead," continued Miss Hepsy with a business-like
stolidity inexplicable to Carrie Goldthwaite's warm heart, "an' she's
left two children, which Josh an' me'll hev to take, I reckon, seein'
their parents is both dead now. We'd a letter to-day from the
minister there--Mr. Penn he calls hisself, I think."
"Yes, I know him," put in Mr. Goldthwaite.
"He wants Josh to come up right away, which he can't possibly do an'
the corn not in the barn yet. A day's worth so many dollars jes' now,
an' can't be throwed away. Now, sir, will ye be so kind as to see to
things at Hetty's, an' fetch the children with you when ye come back?
It'll be a great favour to Josh and me."
The minister concealed what he thought, and answered courteously that
he should do his best. Then Miss Hepsy rose and shook out her green
skirts.
"The address is Fifteenth Street, sir, an' Hetty's name was Hurst. I
reckon ye'll find it easy enough. That's all; I'll be goin' now.--No,
thanks, Miss Goldthwaite, I can't sit down; it's 'most milking time,
and if Keziah's left to do it herself, there's no saying what might
happen.--So, good evenin', and thank ye, sir;" and before the brother
and sister recovered from their amazement, Miss Hepsy had whisked out
of the room, and the next minute her firm, man-like tread broke upon
their ears again. Mr. Goldthwaite looked at his sister with a comical
smile, which was answered by a peal of laughter from her sweet lips.
"I can't help it indeed, Frank," she said. "I am so sorry for the
poor children, bereft of both parents. Their mother was a refined,
gentle creature, too, I have been told; of a different mould from
Miss Hepsy. The calmness, though, to ask you to do all this simply
because Joshua is too hard to spare a day's labour! Are you doing
altogether right, Frank, I wonder, in taking it off his hands?"
"I could not refuse it, Carrie," returned the minister. "Like you, I
am sorry for the poor little orphans. Their life will not be all
sunshine, I fear, at Thankful Rest."
Miss Goldthwaite sighed, and from the open window watched in silence
Miss Hepsy's brilliant figure crossing the river by the bridge a
hundred yards beyond the parsonage gate.
"I think, Frank, that among all your parishioners there is not a more
unhappy pair than Joshua Strong and his sister. I wish they could be
made to see how differently God meant them to spend their lives. It
saddens me to see their hardness and sourness."
"Perhaps these little children may do them good, dear," returned the
minister gravely. "It would not be the first time God has used the
influence of little children to do what no other power on earth
could. We will pray it may be so."
"Yes," returned Carrie Goldthwaite; and the shade deepened on her
sweet face as she added again, "Poor little things! it will be a sore
change from the tender care of a mother. We must do what we can,
Frank, to make their home at Thankful Rest as happy as possible. We
had such a happy one ourselves, I feel an intense pity for those who
have not. There is Judge Keane on horseback at the gate. He wants
either you or me to go out and speak with him."
The minister rose, and both stepped out to the veranda, and down the
steps to the garden. The judge had alighted, and fastening his bridle
to the gate-post, came up the path to meet them. He was an old man,
with white hair and beard; but his fine figure was as erect and
stately as it had been a quarter of a century before. He shook hands
cordially with the minister, touched Carrie Goldthwaite's brow with
his lips, and then said, in a brisk, cheerful voice,--
"My wife heard you were going to Newhaven for a couple of days, and
sent me down to say she would expect you, miss," (he nodded to
Carrie,) "at the Red House to-morrow, to stay till he comes back. I
may say yes, I suppose?"
"Yes, and thank you, Judge Keane," said Miss Goldthwaite with a
little grateful smile. "Even with Abbie's company, it is very dull
when Frank is away. Won't you come in?"
The judge shook his head, and turned to the gate again. "Not
to-night, my dear. Good-night, and good-bye, Frank."
"Have you no commissions, judge?" asked the minister. "I shall have
plenty of time at my disposal; my own business is very little."
"No, I think not," returned the judge. "But, let me see."
Miss Goldthwaite moved to the gate, and laid her hand caressingly on
Beauty's glossy neck.
"I only envy you one thing, Judge Keane," she said; "and this is it.
What a beauty she is!"
The judge laughed, and his eyes lingered on the slim, girlish figure
in its dainty muslin garb; and on the sweet, unclouded face, which
was a true index to the happy heart within.
"Beauty shall be yours by-and-by," he laughed; and a swift wave of
colour swept across her face, and she hid it in the animal's glossy
mane.--"Safe journey, Frank. Come to the Red House for your sister
when you want her.--Steady, Beauty." He sprang to the saddle, and
held out his hand to Carrie.
"I'm glad you've said yes, my dear," he whispered, with a mischievous
twinkle in his gray eyes, "or a certain young man would have thought
nothing of coming to take you by main force. Shall I tell him of that
sweet blush? Or--"
But Miss Goldthwaite had fled, and Beauty flew off like an arrow.