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MILDRED KEITH
* * * * *
LIST OF THE ELSIE BOOKS AND OTHER POPULAR BOOKS
BY
MARTHA FINLEY
_ELSIE DINSMORE._
_ELSIE'S HOLIDAYS AT ROSELANDS._
_ELSIE'S GIRLHOOD._
_ELSIE'S WOMANHOOD._
_ELSIE'S MOTHERHOOD._
_ELSIE'S CHILDREN._
_ELSIE'S WIDOWHOOD._
_GRANDMOTHER ELSIE._
_ELSIE'S NEW RELATIONS._
_ELSIE AT NANTUCKET._
_THE TWO ELSIES._
_ELSIE'S KITH AND KIN._
_ELSIE'S FRIENDS AT WOODBURN._
_CHRISTMAS WITH GRANDMA ELSIE._
_ELSIE AND THE RAYMONDS._
_ELSIE YACHTING WITH THE RAYMONDS._
_ELSIE'S VACATION._
_ELSIE AT VIAMEDE._
_ELSIE AT ION._
_ELSIE AT THE WORLD'S FAIR._
_ELSIE'S JOURNEY ON INLAND WATERS._
_ELSIE AT HOME._
_ELSIE ON THE HUDSON._
_ELSIE IN THE SOUTH._
_ELSIE'S YOUNG FOLKS._
_MILDRED KEITH._
_MILDRED AT ROSELANDS._
_MILDRED'S MARRIED LIFE._
_MILDRED AND ELSIE._
_MILDRED AT HOME._
_MILDRED'S BOYS AND GIRLS._
_MILDRED'S NEW DAUGHTER._
_CASELLA._
_SIGNING THE CONTRACT AND WHAT IT COST._
_THE TRAGEDY OF WILD RIVER VALLEY._
_OUR FRED._
_AN OLD-FASHIONED BOY._
_WANTED, A PEDIGREE._
_THE THORN IN THE NEST._
* * * * *
[Illustration]
MILDRED KEITH
BY
MARTHA FINLEY
(_Martha Farquharson_)
Author of "Elsie Dinsmore," "Elsie's Children," "Old-Fashioned
Boy," "Our Fred," "Wanted--a Pedigree," etc., etc.
"She is pretty to walk with,
And witty to talk with,
And pleasant, too, to think on."
--BRENNORALT
New York
Dodd, Mead & Company
Publishers
Copyright, 1876, Dodd, Mead & Company.
[Illustration]
PREFACE.
THE Keith family were relatives of Horace Dinsmore, and as my readers
will observe, the date of this story is some seven years earlier than
that of the first Elsie book.
The journey, and that most _sickly_ season, which I have attempted to
describe, were events in my own early childhood. The latter still dwells
in my memory as a dreadful dream.
Our family--a large one--were all down with the fever except my aged
grandmother and a little sister of six or seven, and "help could not be
had for love or money."
My father, who was a physician, kept up and made his rounds among his
town and country patients for days after the fever had attacked him, but
was at length compelled to take his bed, and I well remember lying
there beside him while the neighbors flocked into the room to consult
him about their sick ones at home.
That region of country is now, I believe, as healthy as almost any other
part of our favored land. Such a season, it was said, had never been
known before, and there has been none like it since.
M. F.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
MILDRED KEITH.
Chapter First.
"Weep not that the world changes--did it keep
A stable, changeless course, 'twere cause to weep."
--BRYANT.
A SPRING morning in 183-; winter's icy breath exchanged for gentle
breezes; a faint tinge of yellow green on the woods but now so brown and
bare; violets and anemones showing their pretty modest faces by the
roadside; hill and valley clothed with verdure, rivulets dancing and
singing, the river rolling onward in majestic gladness; apple, peach and
cherry trees in bloom; birds building their nests; men and women busied
here and there in field or garden, and over all
"The uncertain glory of an April day."
The sun now shining out warm and bright from a cloudless sky, now
veiling his face while a sudden shower of rain sends the busy workers
hurrying to the nearest shelter.
The air is full of pleasant rural sounds--the chirp of insects, the
twittering of birds, the crowing of cocks--now near at hand, now far
away, mellowed by the distance; and in the streets of the pretty village
of Lansdale, down yonder in the valley, there is the cheerful hum of
busy life; of buying and selling, of tearing down and building up;
neighbors chatting on doorsteps or over the garden fence, boys whistling
and hallooing to their mates, children conning their tasks, and mothers
crooning to their babes.
Out of the side door of a substantial brick house standing far back from
the street, in the midst of a garden where the grass is of a velvety
green spangled with violets, and snowballs and lilacs are bursting into
bloom, steps a slight girlish figure.
The face half hidden under a broad brimmed garden hat, is not regularly
beautiful, but there is a great deal of character in it; the mouth is
both firm and sweet, the lips are full and red, the eyes are large, dark
and lustrous, and the complexion rich with the hues of health.
She sends a quick glance from side to side, clasps her hands together
with a gesture as of sudden pain, paces rapidly to and fro for a moment,
seemingly striving after self-control, then turning into a path that
leads across the garden to the hedge that separates it from another,
hastens down it, opens the gate and passing through looks about as if in
search of some one.
But there is no one there, and the girl trips gracefully onward to the
house, a pretty cottage with vine-covered porches.
The parlor windows were open and within a little lady of middle age,
quaintly attired in a chintz gown very short and scant, and made after a
pattern peculiarly her own, was busied with brush and duster.
Catching sight of the young girl as she stepped upon the porch, she
called to her in a remarkably sweet-toned voice,
"In here, dearie! Just step through the window. I'm glad to see you."
The windows opening to the floor, it was an easy matter to obey, and the
girl did so; then stood silent, her lips quivering, her eyes full.
"My child, what is it?" cried the older lady, dropping her duster to
take the girl's hand and draw her to a seat upon the sofa, "is--is any
one ill?"
"No, no; not that, Aunt Wealthy!" and the girl swallowed down her tears
and spoke with a determined effort to be calm. "But something has
happened and mother delegated me to bring you the news.
"You know father has been talking for some time of leaving Lansdale, and
this morning, at breakfast, he told us--us children, I mean--he and
mother had talked it over last night, and I don't believe she slept much
for thinking of it--that he had fully made up his mind to move out to
Indiana. And we're to go just as soon as we can get ready.
"There, now you know it all!" finishing with a burst of tears in spite
of herself.
For a moment her listener was dumb with surprise; but it was not in
Wealthy Stanhope's nature to witness distress without an effort to
comfort and relieve.
To lose the society of this family who were her nearest and dearest
relatives, would be a great grief to her. The mother, Marcia Keith, the
orphan child of a sister, committed to her care in early infancy and
trained up by her to a lovely and useful womanhood, was as a daughter to
her--her boys and girls as grandchildren to be loved and petted and
rejoiced over after the custom of fond grandparents What a lonely old
age for her without them!
That was her first thought, the next how to assuage the sorrow of the
weeping girl at her side.
"There, there, Mildred, dear," she said, softly stroking and patting the
hand she held, "perhaps you will find it not so bad after all, there
must be a bright side to the picture that we shall discover if we look
for it determinately. There will be new scenes, perhaps some adventures
on the journey."
"Yes, auntie, very likely; and I've often wished I could have some
adventures!" Mildred answered, dashing away her tears with a rather
hysterical little laugh.
"You're not going to school to-day?"
"No, auntie, no more school for me: that's the hard part of it, for I do
so want a good education."
"Well, dear, you shall have books, and your father and mother--both
educated people--will help you; and who knows but you may in the end
distance your mates here? The knowledge we gain by our own efforts, out
of school, is often the most serviceable."
The girl's face brightened.
"If I don't turn out something worth while it shall not be for want of
trying," she said, her cheek flushing, her eyes sparkling.
Then starting up. "I must hurry home; for mother and I are going to work
with might and main at the spring sewing; and then at the tearing up and
packing. Aunt Wealthy, I'm glad I'm old enough to be a help; there are
so many younger ones, you know."
"Yes, Milly, and you are a great help and comfort to your mother."
"If--if I could only learn her patience; but the children are dreadfully
trying--with their untidy ways, their mischief and noise. They nearly
distract me at times and before I know it I've given somebody a shake or
a slap, or if not that, a very uncomplimentary piece of my mind," she
added half laughing, half sighing.
Then with a hasty good-bye she tripped away, her aunt calling after her,
"Tell your mother I'll be in after a while."
Miss Stanhope sat where the girl had left her, the usually busy hands
folded in her lap her gaze fixed meditatively on the carpet. Presently
she lifted her head with a deep drawn sigh, her eye passed slowly about
the room resting lovingly now upon this familiar object, now upon that.
"I don't think they would sell for much," she said, musingly: "the
carpet has been in wear for thirty odd years and the colors have faded
a good deal: the chairs and tables are older still and so are the
pictures on the walls, that sampler my grandmother worked when she was a
young girl--which was many years ago; and these chair-cushions
too"--rising and going from one to another, giving to each in turn a
little loving shake and pat--"she embroidered and filled with her own
feathers; and so I value them more than their weight in gold. Marcia, I
think, values them also, but--to a stranger, I suppose they would all
seem old, dingy and worthless, though to me they are real treasures.
I've a sincere affection for them.
"But what is that to my love for Marcia and her children! what indeed!"
She hastily picked up duster and brush, gave a finishing touch here and
there, drew down the blinds and left the room.
A few moments later she might have been seen in bonnet and shawl and
armed with a large cotton umbrella, issuing from her front gate and
walking briskly toward the business part of the town.
It was nearly two hours before she returned, with a step a trifle less
brisk, and arms filled with brown paper parcels.
She passed her own gate and stopped at Mr. Keith's.
Mildred ran to open it.
"Why, auntie, how you are loaded! Give me your bundles."
"Yes, child, carry them in to your mother. I've been to every store in
town; such beautiful remnants! couldn't help buying! make up pretty for
the children; afraid there's none big enough for you, dear. Am all out
of breath with walking."
"Yes; it's too bad; don't say anything more till you've rested," said
the girl, leading the way into the pleasant family room, hastily laying
the packages on the table, and drawing forward a large cushioned rocking
chair.
"There, sit down, auntie, and let me take your things."
"Aunt Wealthy! come at last! we've been wondering what kept you," said a
handsome, matronly, but still youthful looking lady, with a babe in her
arms, coming in at that moment. "And you've been out shopping? I hope
you were not caught in any of the showers?"
"No; I managed to dodge them; sandwiching my walks in between. So you're
going to leave Lansdale, Marcia?"
"Yes, auntie; and you; that's the worst of it."
The cheery voice faltered over the last words, and the bright eyes grew
dim.
"Not so fast, Marcia; who says that I'm to be left behind?"
"Aunt Wealthy! do you mean it? is it possible you could think of such a
sacrifice?" cried Mrs. Keith, starting up and nearly dropping her babe
in her intense, joyful surprise.
"As what?" queried the aunt between a smile and a tear. "Marcia, I can't
give up my home, as you very well know; but I have found a tenant for it
(the minister and his wife who are perfectly delighted to get it; for
it's their only chance for going to housekeeping; and they'll be sure to
take good care of my furniture and other belongings), and rented it just
as it stands, for a year; and I'm going with you to Hoosier land.
"It'll be quite an importation of Buckeyes, won't it? All coming in one
lot."
And the good affectionate old soul finished with a laugh, jumped up from
her chair and stretching out her arms to three little ones who had come
running in while she was speaking, caught them to her bosom, kissed and
cried over them, asking, "Are you glad, Cyril? are you glad, Don? and
Fan, too? are you glad that auntie is going with you?"
There was a chorus of shouts of delight; there were huggings and
kissings, asking and answering of questions; and then things quieted
down a little and the children went back to their play, Cyril remarking,
as he shut the door,
"Now I shan't cry when we go; 'cause all my friends and colations is
goin' along."
"Now to business," said Aunt Wealthy attacking the parcels. "I'm going
to help you, Marcia, in getting your tribe ready for their exodus out of
this land of plenty into that western wilderness. Here are two or three
dress patterns apiece for the little girls. These stuff ones are for
them to travel in, and I think they had better be made long necked and
high sleeved. Don't you?"
Mrs. Keith looked up with a slightly puzzled expression; then a light
breaking over her face, for she was used to her aunt's transpositions--"I
don't know," she answered dubiously, "wouldn't it make them look a
little old-womanish? Low necks and short sleeves are prettier for
children, I think; and they're used to it. Summer's coming on, too, and
we must expect warm weather."
"What route shall you take?"
"Up the Ohio and Erie Canal and round Michigan by the lakes."
"It will be cool on the water."
"Yes, that's true; and I'll take your advice."
"That's right; they'll be less likely to catch cold from any little
exposure, and their necks and arms will be protected from the sun. Now,
if you'll tear off a skirt, I'll get to work. I brought thimble and
scissors along."
Those were not the days of sewing machines, and though garments were
made in much simpler style then than now, the sewing for such a family
as the Keiths was no small task.
It would take some weeks of very diligent work by three or four pairs of
hands to accomplish what the mother deemed necessary in the way of
preparing their wardrobe for the contemplated journey.
Under the instruction of her mother and aunt, Mildred had already become
as accomplished a needlewoman as either of them. A seamstress had been
engaged to assist but could not be had for a few days; so plans and
prospects could be talked over freely as the three sat and worked
together, Baby Annis asleep in her cradle or playing contentedly on the
carpet at her mother's feet.
[Illustration]
Chapter Second.
"The mother, in her office, holds the key
Of the soul; and she it is who stamps the coin
Of character, and makes the being who would be a savage,
But for her gentle cares, a Christian man."
--OLD PLAY.
THE striking of the town clock, the ringing of bells, the blowing of
whistles and "the schoolboy's glad shout" announced the noontide hour.
A sound of coming footsteps, of gay, young voices, an opening of doors,
letting in fresh breezes from without, and with them two bright,
blooming, merry little girls and a lad between them and Mildred in age,
in whose great black eyes lurked a world of fun and mischief.
"Softly, softly, children!" the mother said looking up with a smile as
they came dancing and prancing in. "Rupert, are you not old enough to
begin to act in a rather more gentlemanly way?"
"Yes, mother, I beg your pardon. Yours too, Aunt Wealthy, I didn't know
till this moment that you were here."
"Mother, he's always teasing," complained the younger of the girls, "he
says we'll have to live in wigwams like the Indians and perhaps grow to
be as black and ugly as they are."
"But they're not black, Ada," exclaimed the other, "my g'ography calls
'em red men."
"Well, that's 'most worse, I'd as lief be black as red."
"If you're careful to wear your sunbonnets when you go out, you won't
grow to be either," remarked Mildred, while Mrs. Keith said with a look
of mild reproof,
"Rupert, my son, was it quite truthful to tell your sisters such
things?"
"I was only making fun," he answered, trying to turn it off with a
laugh, but blushing as he spoke.
"Innocent fun I never object to, but sport is too dearly bought at the
sacrifice of truth.
"My boy," she added with energy, "one should go to the stake rather than
tell a falsehood; though it were no more than to say that two and two do
not make four."
"Mother, I believe you would!" he said, gazing with loving admiration
into her earnest face. "I've never known you to swerve a hair's breadth
from the truth in any way," and coming close to her side and speaking
almost in a whisper, "I mean to try to be worthy of you in the future."
She looked at him with glistening eyes, and dropping her work took his
hands in hers for a moment.
The others were not listening; Zillah and Ada had caught sight of the
new dresses, were admiring them and asking eager questions of their aunt
and sister.
"My boy," Mrs. Keith said in moved tones, "I would rather be the mother
of a poor hard working man of whom it could be said that he had always
been perfectly honest and true, than of one who had amassed his millions
and attained to the highest worldly honors by fraud or questionable
deeds or words. Remember that all your life."
"Mother, I will; I have my father's example to help me as well as
yours," the lad replied with a proud glance at the noble, kindly,
intellectual face of a gentleman who came in at that instant with Fan in
his arms and the two little boys gamboling about him.
"Ah, Aunt Wealthy, good morning!" he said in a cheery tone, sitting down
beside her, putting Fan on one knee, and lifting the babe, who was
laughing and crowing with delight at sight of him, to the other. "I
suppose you have heard the news?"
"That you are going to Indiana, Stuart! Yes. You are not contented to
let well enough alone?"
"Can't consider it well enough to be barely making the two ends meet
while a growing family must be constantly increasing my expenses."
"How is this removal to help you? It will cost a good deal."
"'Nothing venture, nothing have.' I'm going to a new country where land
is cheap. I shall invest something in that and hope to see it increase
largely in value as the town grows.
"Then lawyers are not so plenty there but that some more will be needed
as people move in, and I hope by being on the spot in good season, to
secure extensive practice.
"It will cost the sundering of some very tender ties," he continued, his
face growing grave almost to sadness, "but we are willing to bear that
for our children's sake. Is it not so; wife?" and he turned to her with
a smile that spoke volumes of love and confidence.
"Yes indeed, Stuart," she answered with cheerful heartiness. "I
shouldn't have hesitated for a moment if I had been quite sure it would
be the best thing for them; but, as you know, I'm afraid we can not give
them as good an education there as we might here. However we have now
decided to go, and I can only hope for the best.
"And do you know," she went on with a smile directed to the corner where
Miss Stanhope sat, "that since you left us this morning something has
happened that takes away more than half the pain of the thought of
leaving Lansdale?"
"No; what may that be?"
"Oh, I know!" shouted Cyril, turning a somersault on the carpet. "Aunt
Wealthy's goin' along! Aunt Wealthy's goin' along!"
And then such raptures of delight as were indulged in by those who had
not heard the news before!
These were interrupted by a summons to the dinner-table; but when the
blessing had been asked and the plates filled, the talk went on again,
though in a somewhat more subdued fashion.
"Is there absolutely no danger from the Indians, Stuart?" asked Miss
Stanhope.
"None whatever; most of the tribes have been removed to the far west;
all but one, I think, and that will probably be taken soon."
"What tribe is it? the Wottapottamies?"
"Pottawottamies; yes."
"Father, will we have to live in wigwams and dress in skins?" asked Ada,
anxiously.
"No; we'll have a house; if it is only a log-cabin, and we'll carry
plenty of clothes along."
"P'raps dey might det losted on the way," suggested Fan.
"Well, pussy, I think we'll find some stores out there; and if
everything else fails we can always fall back on deerskins."
Lansdale was but a small town; everybody in it knew the Keiths or knew
of them, and by the next day after their removal had been decided upon,
everybody knew that.
Many regrets were expressed and there were some offers of assistance
with their preparations; but these were declined with thanks: "with Aunt
Wealthy's good help, and that of the seamstress already engaged," Mrs.
Keith said "she and Mildred would be able to do all that was necessary."
They were very busy cutting, fitting and sewing, day after day, from
morning to night with occasional interruptions from the little ones who
were too young to go to school but old enough to roam over house and
grounds; and being adventurous spirits, full of life and energy, were
constantly getting into mischief, thus furnishing, gratis, a change of
works to mother and eldest sister, who, spite of a hearty affection for
the young rogues, was often sorely tried by their pranks.
"Have you any cord, Mrs. Keith?" asked the seamstress, one morning.
"Yes," turning to her work-basket. "Why, what has become of it? I had
two or three pieces here. And that paper of needles has disappeared!
Mildred did you--"
"The children were here half an hour ago, mother, and I remember seeing
Donald peeping into your basket."
"Run out and see what they have done with them."
Going into the hall, Mildred stood a moment listening for some sound to
tell her where the children were. Little voices were prattling in the
garden near at hand. Stepping to the door she saw the two boys seated on
the grass busied with a kite Rupert had made for them.
"What are you doing?" she asked, going nearer.
"Makin' a longer tail."
"Where did you get that piece of string?"
No answer; only a guilty look on the two chubby faces.
"Oh, I know! it's some cord you took from mother's work-basket. And now
it's wanted; but you've spoilt it entirely; why did you cut and knot it
so?"
"Why," said Cyril, "you see Don was my crazy man and I had to tie him;
and then I had to cut the string to get it off, 'cause I couldn't untie
the knots."
"Oh, you mischievous fellows. Another time don't you take things without
leave. Did you take a paper of needles too?"
"No, we didn't; maybe Fan did."
Mildred went in search of Fan, and found her digging and planting in her
little garden, the empty needle paper lying near.
"Fan," said Mildred, picking it up, "What have you done with the needles
that were in this?"
"Sowed 'em in dis bed; and when dey drows up we'll have lots an' lots
for mother an' you."
"You silly, provoking little puss! needles don't grow. Show me where you
put them."
"Tan't dey's all round and round in de gwond."
Mildred took up a bit of stick and poked about in the fresh earth for a
minute or two, then remarking to herself that it was as bootless as
hunting in a haystack, went into the house with the report of the
hapless fate of the missing articles.
The boys were there before her, penitently exhibiting the ruined cord
and promising to do so no more.
"We didn't fink, mother," pleaded Don, looking up in her face with such
a droll mixture of fun and entreaty in his roguish blue eyes, that she
could not refrain from giving him a kiss and a smile as she answered,
"Ah, my boys must learn to think and not take mother's things without
leave. Now run away to your plays and try to be good children."
"Mother, I do think you're a little too easy with them," Mildred said in
a slightly vexed tone.
"Perhaps; but if I make a mistake, is it not far better to do so on the
side of mercy than of severity?"
"I suppose so; I shouldn't like to see them whipped."
Then laughingly she told the story of Fan's doings, and as needles and
cord must be replaced, put on her bonnet and sallied forth upon the
errand.
Mildred as one of the prettiest, most accomplished, graceful, and
fascinating young ladies of the place, and belonging to one of the first
families, was a good deal admired, and never lacked attention at a
party, picnic or any sort of gathering of the young people of the town.
As she left the store where she had made her purchases, Spencer Hall
crossed the street and joined her.
He was the only son of the wealthiest man in the place and, because of
his great expectations, looked upon by most of the young girls and their
mammas as a desirable match.
Mildred, however, was of a different opinion, knowing him to be idle,
purse-proud, vain and conceited.
She therefore returned his greeting rather coldly; heartily wishing that
he had not happened to see her, or that something would occur to rid her
at once of his undesirable company.
Greatly amazed would the young exquisite have been could he have read
her thoughts; for he had no doubt that she felt highly gratified and
honored by his notice. Was he not arrayed in broadcloth suit, silk hat
and immaculate kids, while she wore calico, cotton gloves and the
simplest of straw bonnets? And could not his father buy hers out ten
times over?
His manner was gracious and patronizing as he remarked--sauntering along
by her side, "Why, Miss Mildred, can it be true that you are going to
leave us? I don't see what Lansdale will do without you."
"It is quite true that we are going, Mr. Hall," she answered, with a
slight curl of the lip; "and I suppose my father and mother will be
missed; but I can not think that my loss will in any way affect the
prosperity of the town or the happiness of the people."
"Some people's it certainly will," he said, with increased graciousness,
exerting himself slightly to keep pace with her, as she quickened her
steps to a very rapid walk. "We don't want to lose you; might it not be
possible to persuade you to remain among us?"
"Certainly not; unless my parents should change their plans and decide
to stay. Of which there is not the least probability."
"Do you know that you are walking very fast, Miss Mildred?" he said,
laughing. "Do let us slacken our pace a little, for who knows when we
may have the pleasure of walking together again."
"You must excuse me; I am in great haste. But there is not the slightest
necessity for your exerting yourself to keep pace with me. It is broad
daylight and I know the way."
"Now don't be sarcastic, my dear young lady. I'd be willing at any time
to make a far greater exertion for the pleasure of your society; but if
we move so rapidly it will shorten our interview considerably."
"I have already explained that I am in haste; there is much to be done
in the few weeks before we leave," the girl answered coldly, pressing on
with accelerated speed.
"Haven't time even for a word with an old friend, eh? Then good-morning,
Miss Keith," and turning about in disgust, he sauntered leisurely along
in another direction while she sped on her way as before.
"Is it possible! what does the girl mean!" he ejaculated the next
minute, as on turning his head to look after her, he perceived that
Mildred had actually stopped upon the sidewalk--stopped to speak to a
mutual acquaintance, a lad a year or two younger than himself, who was
working his own way in the world, getting an education by the hardest
and helping a widowed, invalid mother.
For Frank Osborne Mildred had the highest respect, though she looked
upon him as a mere boy and was wholly unconscious that to him she was
the embodiment of every virtue and grace; that her words, looks and
smiles were treasured up in his very heart of hearts; nor did she dream
how unhesitatingly he would have laid down his life to save hers had it
been in danger. It was only a boy's passion, but it was deep and strong.
The news of the intended removal of the Keiths to what, in those days,
seemed a far distant region, had been a great shock to him; but with the
hopefulness of youth he consoled himself with the resolve to follow and
seek her out--when in the course of years he should earn fame and
fortune--though she should be carried to the ends of the earth.
His eye brightened and his cheek flushed, as on turning a corner, he
came suddenly upon her in her rapid walk, and she stopped and held out
her hand in friendly greeting.
He took it almost reverentially.
"How d'ye do, Frank? and how is your mother to-day?" she was saying, her
bright eyes looking straight into his.
"Better, thank you, Miss Mildred. And you are well? and oh, can it be
true that you are all going so far away?" he asked with a wistful,
longing look.
"Yes; to the land of the Hoosiers, wild Indians and wolves," she said
gayly. "Don't you envy me?"
"I envy those that go with you," he answered, sighing. "You won't forget
old friends, Miss Mildred?"
"No; no, indeed, Frank," she said, heartily. "But good-bye. I must hurry
home," and with a nod and smile she tripped away; to the satisfaction of
Hall who had jealously watched the whole interview.
He was glad it had been no longer, though he could not avoid the
unpleasant consciousness that more favor had been shown to "that pauper"
than to himself, the prospective heir to a comfortable fortune.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Chapter Third.
"Lessons so dear, so fraught with holy truth
As those her mother's faith shed on her youth."
"NOW," said Mildred, taking up her sewing again, "I must work fast to
make up for lost time, for I've set my heart on finishing this dress of
Ada's to-day."
The words had scarcely left her lips when there came a loud crash and
scream from the hall, followed by a sound of tumbling and rolling.
Up sprang mother, aunt and sister, scattering scissors, thimbles and
work, and rushed toward the scene of commotion.
They found the stairs, and Fan, who sat weeping half way up, drenched
with water; while at the foot were scattered fragments of a large
pitcher, Cyril lying among them half stunned and with the blood
streaming from a cut in his head; Don gazing down upon him from the
landing and adding his mite to the confusion by screaming, "Oh! oh! oh!
he's deaded! he's deaded!"
"No, he ain't," said Cyril, slowly getting on his feet. "Mother, I
didn't mean to. Please don't let Milly scold us young ones. Oh, stop
this quick!" putting his hand to his head.
"Yes, sonny, as soon as possible," said Mrs. Keith, taking his head in
her hands and holding the lips of the wound together. "A basin of cold
water, Milly, quick! and aunt, there is sticking plaster in the
work-table drawer. Hush Don; don't cry any more, Fan; Cyril isn't much
hurt and mother will soon make it all right."
Her orders were promptly obeyed, the wound skillfully dressed, Fan's wet
clothes changed, and then inquiry was made as to how it had all
happened.
"Why--why," said Cyril, "you see Fan wanted to wash her hands; 'cause
she'd been diggin' in her garden and dey was all dirty, and dere wasn't
any water in the pitcher and we brung it down and got it full and I was
carryin' it up and my foot tripped and I fell down with it and knocked
Fan over cause she was behind me. And I couldn't help it. Could I, Don?"
"No, you touldna help it," assented Don. "And Fan touldn't too."
"And he's dot a bad hurt on his head," put in Fan pityingly.
"Yes, he's punished enough, I think," said the mother, caressing him;
"his intentions seem to have been good; but next time you want water,
dears, come and tell mother or sister Milly."
"There, the morning's gone," said Mildred, as bells and whistles began
their usual announcement; "a full hour of it wasted, too, by the pranks
of those children. I hope they've finished up the business for to-day!"
Vain hope! inactivity was impossible to those restless spirits: their
surplus energy must be worked off in some way.
They had not been heard from for two hours and Mrs. Keith had just
remarked that she feared it must be some mischief that was keeping them
so quiet, when shrieks and wails from three infantile voices, coming
from the second story, appealed strongly to the compassion of their
relatives in the sitting-room.
The call for help was responded to as promptly as on the previous
occasion. Mother, aunt, and sister flew to the rescue and on entering
the room whence the sounds proceeded, found Fan locked in the wardrobe
and the two boys seated in the lower drawer of the bureau which their
weight had caused to tip so far forward that they could not get out
without assistance. A chair standing so near as to prevent the bureau
from falling entirely to the floor, had probably saved them from a
serious accident; but there they were, bent nearly double, legs
dangling, vociferous screams issuing from their throats.
It was the work of a moment for the laughing mother and aunt to lift up
the bureau and release the two rogues, while Mildred sprang to the
wardrobe, unlocked it and took the sobbing Fan in her arms.
"You poor dear, who fastened you in there?"
"Cyril did. He said I stealed and must go to jail. And--and I was 'f'aid
it would des tumble over; it shaked so when I tried to det out."
"The naughty boy!" cried Mildred, flashing an indignant glance at him as
he and Don crept from the drawer, straightened themselves and stood up
looking very much abashed and ill at ease.
"Mother, I do think Cyril ought to be punished."
"I didn't hurt her," he muttered, hanging his head; "and I was goin' to
let her out 'fore long. And we didn't mean to tumble the bureau over.
Did we Don?"
"No; it dus went yight over its ownse'f," chimed in the little brother.
"Pease, mamma we's doin to be dood boys now."
"You might have been very much hurt if the chair had not been where it
was," she said, composing her features and speaking with becoming
gravity, "I am very thankful for your escape, and you must never do such
things again. Especially never lock each other into a wardrobe or
closet," she added sitting down, drawing Fan to her side and caressing
her tenderly, while Miss Stanhope and Mildred restored the contents of
the bureau drawers, which the boys had unceremoniously tossed upon the
carpet.
"Why, mother?" queried the self-constituted jailor.
"Because it is very dangerous. Your little sister might have been
frightened into a fit or have died for want of air to breathe."
Cyril's eyes dilated, then filled with tears as he seemed to see the
little sister he loved so dearly lying before him white and cold and
dead.
"I won't ever, ever do it again," he said tremulously.
"No, you must be Fan's big brave brother that she can trust to take care
of her and shield her from harm. I don't believe my Cyril would be such
a mean coward as to hurt a little girl or anything smaller or weaker
than himself, except for that naughty 'didn't think!'"
"But I didn't hurt her, mother."
"Yes, my son, you hurt her feelings very much."
He considered a moment. "Yes, I s'pose that's so," he said slowly, "Fan,
I'll tell you; I'm real sorry; and you may be jailor now and lock me up
in that wardrobe."
"No, no! there must be no more such doings," quickly interposed mamma.
"Dess I wouldn't do such sing!" said Fan, wiping away her tears with her
chubby little hand.
"What a room!" said Mildred, shutting the last bureau drawer and turning
to look about her; "every chair out of place and turned on its side, the
bed all tumbled and bits of paper scattered over the carpet."
"Pick them up, children, and try to keep out of mischief for the rest of
the day. I must go back to my sewing," Mrs. Keith said, following her
aunt, who had already left the room.
Mildred staid behind to assist in setting it to rights.
"You naughty children! really I could almost enjoy spanking you all
round," she exclaimed directly, as she came upon the fragments of a
delicate china vase belonging to herself, and a valued letter from a
friend torn into bits.
"Milly," said Cyril solemnly, "s'pose we should get deaded some day;
wouldn't you be sorry?"
"Suppose I should get deaded," she retorted, "wouldn't you be sorry for
spoiling my pretty things?"
She was ashamed of her outburst nevertheless, and the child's words
haunted her all the afternoon.
It was evening; two candles burned on the sitting-room table, and beside
it sat Mildred and her mother still busily plying their needles.
The rest of the family were in bed and Miss Stanhope and the seamstress
had gone to their own homes hours ago.
"My child, put up your work for to-night," said Mrs. Keith; "You are
looking weary and depressed; and no wonder, for you have had a hard
day."
"A busy day, mother; but not so hard as yours, because I have had a walk
in the fresh air while you have been stitch, stitching from early
morning till now. And if you don't forbid it I shall sit up and work as
long as you do. I consider it one of the eldest daughter's privileges to
share her mother's burdens."
"My dear girl! you are a comfort to me! I thank God for you every day,"
the mother said, looking at her with dewy eyes and a beautiful smile,
"but because you are young and growing, you need more rest and sleep
than I do. So go, daughter, and never mind leaving me."
"Mayn't I stay a little longer," pleaded the girl, "I want one of our
nice confidential talks. O mother, I am so disgusted with myself! I was
very angry with Cyril and Don to-day when I found they'd broken that
vase I valued so because you gave it to me as a birthday present; and it
was so pretty too--and torn up that sweet letter dear Miss Grey wrote me
just before she died."
"Indeed! I didn't know they had done such damage and I am very sorry for
your loss, dear!"
"Yes, mother, I knew you would be; my loss of temper, though, was worse
than all. I do wish I knew how you contrive always to be so patient."
"I'm afraid it's very often all on the outside," the mother answered
with a slight smile. "But I find it a great help in bearing patiently
with the little every day worries, to think of them as sent, or
permitted, by my best Friend--One who never makes a mistake--for my
growth in grace; for you know we grow strong by resistance."
"Well, mother, I am constantly resolving that I will not give way to my
temper, and yet I keep on doing so; and I grow so discouraged and so
disgusted with myself. What shall I do?"
"My child, watch and pray. Our sufficiency is of God. He is our
strength. And do not look at yourself; try to forget self altogether in
'looking unto Jesus;' get your mind and heart full of his lovely image,
so full that there will be no room in it for aught else; and thus shall
you grow into His likeness."
Mildred's eyes shone as she looked up into her mother's earnest face.
"I am sure that must be the way," she said, low and feelingly, "and I
will try it; for I do long to be like Him, mother; for He is indeed to
me, 'the chiefest among ten thousand and the one altogether lovely!'"
"Oh, how good He is to me!" ejaculated the mother, glad tears shining in
her eyes: "that you might learn thus to know and love Him has been the
burden of my prayer for you--for each of my dear children--since they
first saw the light."
They worked on in silence for some minutes, then Mildred seeing a smile
playing about her mother's lips, asked what was the thought that
provoked it.
"A reminiscence of some of your infantile pranks," her mother answered
laughing. "You should be forbearing with your little brother and sisters
for you were fully as mischievous as they are.
"Before you could walk I caught you one day seated in the middle of the
table set for tea, your hand in the sugar bowl, your mouth full and your
face well besmeared.
"You were a great climber and it was difficult to keep anything out of
your way; and as soon as Rupert could creep he followed you into danger
and mischief; pulling things about, breaking, tearing, cutting, climbing
fences and trees, and even getting out of windows on to roofs.
"Besides, you had a perfect mania for tasting everything that could
possibly be eaten or drunk--soap, candles, camphor, lye, medicines
whatever you could lay your hands on--till I was in constant fear for
your lives."
"You poor, dear mother, what a time you must have had with us!"
exclaimed the girl. "We can never hope to repay you for your patient
love and care."
"My child, I have always felt that my darlings paid for their trouble as
they went along; their love has always been so sweet to me," Mrs. Keith
answered, cheerily. "And I can not tell you how much I enjoy the sweet
society and confidence of my eldest daughter--the knowledge that she has
no secrets from me."
"I have not, indeed," Mildred said, heartily, "as why should I? knowing
as I do that my mother is my best and wisest, as well as dearest earthly
friend."
Then recalling the events of the morning she gave a laughing account of
her interview with Spencer Hall.
"If I could contemplate the possibility of leaving you behind it would
certainly not be in his care," her mother said, joining in her
merriment, "and I am glad you have sense enough not to fancy him."
"Truly I do not in the least; though many of the girls consider him a
great catch because of his father's wealth," said Mildred. "But really I
don't believe he meant anything, and I felt like showing him that I
understood that very well and resented his trifling; and wouldn't have
been much better pleased if he had been in earnest."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Chapter Fourth.
"And, like some low and mournful spell,
To whisper but one word--farewell."
--PARK BENJAMIN.
ONE sweet June morning an expectant group gathered in the shade of the
vine-wreathed porch of Miss Stanhope's pretty cottage. It consisted of
that good lady herself Mr. and Mrs. Keith and their eight children, all
attired in neat traveling costume, and awaiting the coming of the stage
coach which was to carry them the first step of their journey--to the
nearest town situate on the Ohio and Erie Canal.
Mr. and Mrs. Park, the new occupants of the cottage, were there too, and
a few old neighbors and friends who had run in for a last good-bye.
Mrs. Keith and Mildred turned now and then, a tearful lingering look
upon their deserted home and this other which was equally familiar,
almost equally dear; Miss Stanhope seemed to have some ado to control
her feelings of sadness and anxiety for the future; but Mr. Keith was in
fine spirits in which the children evidently shared very largely.
Eager to be off, they moved restlessly about asking again and again,
"When will the stage come?" and kept sending out reconnoitering parties
to see if there were any signs of its approach.
At length they espied it and announced the fact with joyful exclamations
as its four prancing steeds came sweeping around the corner and, swaying
and rolling, it dashed up to the gate.
The driver drew rein, the guard sprang from his lofty perch, threw open
the door and let down the steps.
There were hurried embraces and farewells, a hasty stowing away of bags,
bundles, and passengers large and small, in the inside, and of more
bulky baggage in the boot of the coach, the steps were replaced, the
door slammed to, and amid waving of handkerchiefs and a chorus of
good-byes and good wishes, the "toot, toot!" of the guard's horn, the
crack of the coachman's whip, they swept away down the street, looking,
in all probability, their last upon many a well known object, many a
friendly face, nodding and smiling to them from door or window.
Frank Osborne, at work in his mother's garden, dropped his hoe to lift
his hat and bow as the stage passed, and to gaze after it with a
longing, lingering look.
Spencer Hall, standing, cigar in mouth, on the steps of his father's
mansion, did likewise.
But Mildred had turned her head away, purposely, and did not see him.
Never before had Lansdale put on so inviting an appearance, or the
surrounding country looked so lovely as to-day, while they rolled onward
through the valley and over the hills now clothed in all the rich
verdure of early summer and basking in the brilliant sunlight
occasionally mellowed and subdued by the flitting shadow of some soft,
white, fleecy like cloud floating in the deep azure of the sky.
A few hours' drive took our travellers to the town where they were to
exchange the stage for the canal boat, the packet Pauline. She lay at
the wharf, and having dined comfortably at a hotel near by, they went on
board, taking with them the luggage brought by the stage.
Their household goods had been dispatched on the same route some days
before.
Here they were in quarters only less confined than those of the stage,
the Pauline's cabin being so narrow that when the table was to be set
for a meal, most of the passengers had to go on deck to be out of the
way.
All along the side of the cabin ran a cushioned seat; used for that
purpose in the daytime and as a lower berth at night; other shelf-like
berths being then set up over it; all so narrow that the occupant could
scarcely turn upon his couch; and the upper ones so close to the ceiling
that it required some care to avoid striking the head against it in
getting in or out. Also there was an unpleasant dampness about the
bedding.
In the cool of the evening or when the sun was clouded, the deck was the
favorite place of resort; but there a constant lookout for bridges must
be kept, and to escape them it was sometimes necessary to throw one's
self flat upon the deck; not the most pleasant of alternatives.
The progress of these packets was so slow too, that it took nearly a
week to reach Cleveland from the point where our friends embarked.
But this mode of travel had its compensations. One was the almost
absolute safety; another the ease with which the voyager could step
ashore when the boat was in a lock and refresh himself with a brisk
walk along the tow-path; boarding her again when the next lock was
reached.
This was done daily by some of the Keith family, even the very little
ones being sometimes allowed the treat when the weather and walking were
fine and the distance was not too great.
Passengers were constantly getting off and on at the locks and the towns
along the route, and often the boat was crowded. It was so the first
night that our friends spent on board; babies cried, older children
fretted and some grown people indulged in loud complaints of scant and
uncomfortable accommodations; altogether the cabin was a scene of
confusion and the young Keiths felt very forlorn.
But mother, aunt and older sister were very patient, soothed, comforted,
and at length succeeded in getting them all to sleep.
Then Aunt Wealthy, saying that she felt disposed to lie down and rest
beside the children, persuaded Mrs. Keith and Mildred to go upon deck
for an hour to enjoy the moonlight and the pleasant evening breeze with
Mr. Keith and Rupert, who had been there ever since supper.
Mr. Keith helped his wife and daughter up the short flight of steps
that led from the stern to the deck, and found them seats on some of
their own trunks.
There were a number of other passengers sitting about or pacing to and
fro; among the former a burly German who sat flat on the deck at the
stern end of the boat, his long legs dangling over the edge, his elbow
on his knee and his bearded chin in his hand, gazing out idly over the
moonlight landscape, while wreaths of smoke from a pipe in his mouth,
curled slowly up from his lips.
The Pauline glided onward with easy pleasant motion; all had grown quiet
in the cabin below and the song of the bullfrogs, the dull thud of the
horses' hoofs and the gentle rush of the water against the sides of the
boat, were the only sounds that broke the stillness.
"How nice it is here!" exclaimed Mildred, "the breeze is so refreshing,
the moonlight so bewitching!"
"Yes, the country is looking beautiful," said her mother, "and one gets
a good view of it here; but I feel somewhat apprehensive in regard to
the bridges. We must be on the watch for them and dodge in time."
"We will," said her husband; "though we may pretty safely trust to the
steersman; it is his duty to be on the lookout and give timely
warning."
"Well, we're facing in the right direction to see them," remarked
Rupert, "but that Dutchman back there is not. I s'pose he's safe enough,
though, with the man at the helm to sing out as we near them."
With that they fell into talk on other topics, and thought no more of
the smoker.
"Bridge!" sang out the steersman, and down went every head except that
of the German, who sat and smoked on unmoved.