CHAPTER XIV.

FINALE.

Through the open casement of a small, white cottage in the village of

P----, the rays of the September moon are stealing, disclosing to view

a gray-haired man, whose placid face still shows marks of long years

of dissipation. Affectionately he caresses the black, curly head which

is resting on his knee, and softly he says, "Lenora, my daughter,

there are, I trust, years of happiness in store for us both."

"I hope it may be so," was the answer, "but there is no promise of

many days to any save those who honor their father and mother. This

last I have never done, though many, many times have I repented of it,

and I begin to be assured that we may be happy yet."

* * * * *

Away to the westward, over many miles of woodland, valley, and hill,

the same September moon shines upon the white walls of the

"homestead," where sits the owner, Walter Hamilton, gazing first upon

his wife and then upon the tiny treasure which lies sleeping upon her

lap.

"We are very happy, Katy darling," he says, and the affection which

looks from her large blue eyes as she lifts them to his face is a

sufficient answer. Margaret, too, is there, and though but an hour

ago her tears were falling upon the grass-grown graves where slept her

father and mother, the gentle Carrie, and golden-haired Willie, they

are all gone now, and she responds to her brother's words, "Yes,

Walter, we are very happy."

* * * * *

In the basement below the candle is burned to its socket, and as the

last ray flickers up, illuminating for a moment the room, and then

leaving it in darkness, Aunt Polly Pepper starts from her evening nap,

and as if continuing her dream mutters "Yes this is pleasant and

something like living."

* * * * *

And so with the moonlight and starlight falling upon the old

homestead, and the sunlight of love falling upon the hearts of its

inmates, we bid them adieu.

RICE CORNER

CHAPTER I.

RICE CORNER.

Yes, Rice Corner! Do you think it a queer name? Well, Rice Corner was

a queer place, and deserved a queer name. Now whether it is celebrated

for anything in particular, I really can't at this moment think,

unless, indeed, it is famed for having been my birthplace! Whether

this of itself is sufficient to immortalize a place future generations

may, perhaps, tell, but I have some misgivings whether the present

will. This idea may be the result of my having recently received

sundry knocks over the knuckles in the shape of criticisms.

But I know one thing--on the bark of that old chestnut tree which

stands near Rice Corner schoolhouse, my name is cut higher than some

of my more bulky contemporary quill--or rather steel--pen-wielders

ever dared to climb. To be sure, I tore my dress, scratched my face,

and committed numerous other little rompish _miss_-demeanors, which

procured for me a motherly scolding. That, however, was of minor

consideration when compared with having my name up--in the chestnut

tree, at least, if it couldn't be up in the world. But pardon my

egotism, and I will proceed with my story about Rice Corner.

Does any one wish to know whereabout on this rolling sphere Rice

Corner is situated? I don't believe you can find it on the map,

unless your eyes are bluer and bigger than mine, which last they can't

very well be. But I can tell you to a dot where Rice Corner should be.

Just take your atlas--not the last one published, but Olney's, that's

the one _I_ studied--and right in one of those little towns in

Worcester County is Rice Corner snugly nestled among the gray rocks

and blue hills of New England.

Yes, Rice Corner was a great place, and so you would have thought

could you have seen it in all its phases, with its brown, red, green,

yellow, and white houses, each of which had the usual quantity of

rose-bushes, lilacs, hollyhocks, and sunflowers. You should have seen

my home, my New England home, where once, not many years ago, a happy

group of children played. Alas! alas! some of those who gave the

sunlight to that spot have left us now forever, and on the bright

shores of the eternal river they wait and watch our coming. I do not

expect a stranger to love our old homestead as I loved it, for in each

heart is a fresh, green spot--the memory of its own early home--where

the sunshine was brighter, the well waters cooler, and the song-bird's

carol sweeter than elsewhere they are found.

I trust I shall be forgiven if in this chapter I pause awhile to speak

of my home--aye, and of myself, too, when, a light-hearted child, I

bounded through the meadows and orchards which lay around the old

brown house on my father's farm. 'Twas a large, square, two-storied

building, that old brown farmhouse, containing rooms, cupboards, and

closets innumerable, and what was better than all, a large airy

garret, where on all rainy days and days when it looked as if it would

rain, Bill, Joe, Lizzie, and I assembled to hold our noisy revels.

Never, since the days of our great-grandmothers, did little spinning

wheel buzz round faster than did the one which, in the darkest corner

of that garret, had been safely stowed away, where they guessed "the

young ones wouldn't find it."

"Wouldn't find it!" I should like to know what there was in that old

garret that we didn't find, and appropriate, too! Even the old oaken

chest which contained our grandmother's once fashionable attire was

not sacred from the touch of our lawless hands. Into its deep recesses

we plunged, and brought out such curiosities--the queerest-looking,

high-crowned, broad-frilled caps, narrow-gored skirts, and what was

funnier than all, a strange-looking thing which we thought must be a

side saddle--anyway, it fitted Joe's rocking horse admirably, although

we wondered why so much whalebone was necessary!

One day, in the midst of our gambols, in walked the identical owner of

the chest, and seeing the side-saddle, she said somewhat angrily,

"Why, children, where upon airth did you find my old stays?" We never

wondered again what made grandma's back keep its place so much better

than ours, and Bill had serious thoughts of trying the effect of the

stays upon himself.

In the rear of our house, and sloping toward the setting sun, was a

long, winding lane, leading far down into a widespreading tract of

flowery woods, shady hillside, and grassy pasture land, each in their

turn highly suggestive of brown nuts, delicious strawberries, and

venomous snakes. These last were generally more the creatures of

imagination than of reality, for in all my wanderings over those

fields, and they were many, I never but once trod upon a green snake,

and only once was I chased by a white-ringed blacksnake; so I think I

am safe in saying that the snakes were not so numerous as were the

nuts and berries, which grew there in great profusion.

A little to the right of the woods, where, in winter, Bill, Joe,

Lizzie, and I dragged our sleds and boards for the purpose of riding

down-hill, was a merry, frolicking stream of water, over which, in

times long gone, a sawmill had been erected; but owing to the

inefficiency of its former owner, or something else, the mill had

fallen into disuse, and gradually gone to decay. The water of the

brook, relieved from the necessity of turning the spluttering wheel,

now went gayly dancing down, down, into the depths of the dim old

woods, and far away, I never knew exactly where; but having heard

rumors of a jumping-off place, I had a vague impression that at that

spot the waters of the mill-dam put up!

Near the sawmill, and partially hidden by the scraggy pine trees and

thick bushes which drooped over its entrance, was a long, dark

passage, leading underground, not so large, probably, as Mammoth Cave,

but in my estimation rivaling it in interest. This was an old mine,

where, years before, men had dug for gold. Strange stories were told

of those who, with blazing torches, and blazing noses, most likely,

there toiled for the yellow dust. The "Ancient Henry" himself, it was

said, sometimes left his affairs at home, and joined the nightly

revels in that mine, where cards and wine played a conspicuous part.

Be that as it may, the old mine was surrounded by a halo of fear which

we youngsters never cared to penetrate.

On a fine afternoon an older sister would occasionally wander that

way, together with a young M.D., whose principal patient seemed to be

at our house, for his little black pony very frequently found shelter

in our stable by the side of "old sorrel." From the north garret

window I would watch them, wondering how they dared venture so near

the old mine, and wishing, mayhap, that the time would come when I,

with some daring doctor, would risk everything. The time _has come_,

but alas! instead of being a doctor, he is only a lawyer, who never

even saw the old mine in Rice Corner.

Though I never ventured close to the old mine, there was not far from

it one pleasant spot where I loved dearly to go. It was on the

hillside, where, 'neath the shadow of a gracefully twining grapevine,

lay a large, flat rock. Thither would I often repair, and sit for

hours, listening to the hum of the running water brook, or the song

of the summer birds, who, like me, seemed to love that place. Often

would I gaze far off at the distant, misty horizon, wondering if I

should ever know what was beyond it. Wild fancies then filled my

childish brain. Strange voices whispered to me thoughts and ideas

which, if written down and carried out, would, I am sure, have placed

my name higher than it was carved on the old chestnut tree.

"But they came and went like shadows,

Those blessed dreams of youth,"

I was a strange child, I know. Everybody told me so, and _I_ knew it

well enough without being told. The wise old men at Rice Corner, and

their still wiser old wives, looked at me askance, as 'neath the

thorn-apple tree I built my playhouse and baked my little loaves of

mud bread. But when, forgetful of others, I talked aloud to myriads of

little folks, unseen 'tis true, but still real to me, they shook their

gray heads ominously, and whispering to my mother said, "Mark our

words, that girl will one day be crazy. In ten years more she will be

an inmate of the madhouse!"

And then I wondered what a madhouse was, and if the people there all

acted as our school-teacher did when Bill and the big girl said he was

mad! The ten years have passed, and I'm not in a madhouse yet, unless,

indeed, it is one of my own getting up!

One thing more about Rice Corner, and then, honor bright, I'll finish

the preface and go on with the story. I must tell you about the old

schoolhouse, and the road which led to it. This last wound around a

long hill, and was skirted on either side with tall trees, flowering

dogwood, blackberry bushes, and frost grapevines. Half-way down the

hill, and under one of the tallest walnut trees, was a little hollow,

where dwelt the goblin with which nurses, housemaids, hired men, and

older sisters were wont to frighten refractory children into

quietness. It was the grave of an old negro. Alas! that to his last

resting-place the curse should follow him! Had it been a white person

who rested there, not half so fearful would have been the spot; now,

however, it was "the old nigger hole"--a place to run by if by

accident you were caught out after dark--a place to be threatened with

if you cried in the night and wanted the candle lighted--a landmark

where to stop when going part way home with the little girl who had

been to visit you, and who, on leaving you, ran no less swiftly than

you yourself did, half-fearing that the dusky form in the holly would

rise and try his skill at running. Verily, my heart has beat faster at

the thoughts of that dead negro than it ever has since at the sight of

a hundred live specimens, "'way down south on the old plantation."

The old schoolhouse, too, had its advantages and its disadvantages; of

the latter, one was that there, both summer and winter, but more

especially during the last-mentioned season, all the rude boys in the

place thought they had a perfect right to congregate and annoy the

girls in every possible way. But never mind, not a few wry faces we

made at them, and not a few "blockheads" we pinned to their backs! Oh!

I've had rare times in that old house and have seen rare sights, too,

to say nothing of the fights which occasionally occurred. In these

last brother Joe generally took the lead of one party, while Jim Brown

commanded the other. Dire was the confusion which reigned at such

times. Books were hurled from side to side. Then followed in quick

succession shovel, tongs, poker, water cup, water pail, water and all;

and to cap the climax, Jim Brown once seized the large iron pan, which

stood upon the stove, half-filled with hot water, and hurled it in the

midst of the enemy. Luckily nobody was killed, and but few wounded.

Years in their rapid flight have rolled away since then, and he, my

brother, is sleeping alone on the wild shore of California.

"For scarcely had the sad tones died

Which echoed the farewell,

When o'er the western prairies

There came a funeral knell;

It said that he who went from us,

While yet upon his brow

The dew of youth was glistening,

Had passed to heaven now."

James Brown, too, is resting in the churchyard, near his own home, and

'neath his own native sky.

CHAPTER II.

THE BELLE OF RICE CORNER.

Yes, Rice Corner had a belle, but it was not I. Oh, no, nobody ever

mistook _me_ for a belle, or much of anything else, in fact; _I_ was

simply "Mary Jane," or, if that was not concise enough, "Crazy Jane"

set the matter all right. The belle of which I speak was a _bona fide_

one--fine complexion, handsome features, beautiful eyes, curling hair,

and all. And yet in her composition there was something wanting,

something very essential, too; for she lacked soul, and would at any

time have sold her best friend for a flattering compliment.

Still Carrie Howard was generally a favorite. The old people liked her

because her sparkling eye and merry laugh brought back to them a gleam

of youth; the young people liked her, because to dislike her would

seem like envy; and I, who was nothing, liked her because she was

pretty, and I greatly admired beauty, though I am not certain that I

should not have liked a handsome rosebud quite as well as I did Carrie

Howard's beautiful face, for beautiful she was.

Her mother, good, plain Mrs. Howard, was entirely unlike her daughter.

She was simply "Mrs. Captain Howard," or, in other words, "Aunt

Eunice," whose benevolent smile and kindly beaming eye carried

contentment wherever she went. Really, I don't know how Rice Corner

could have existed one day without the presence of Aunt Eunice. Was

there a cut foot or hand in the neighborhood, hers was the salve which

healed it, almost as soon as applied. Was there a pale, fretful baby,

Aunt Eunice's large bundle of catnip was sure to soothe it, and did a

sick person need watchers, Aunt Eunice was the one who, three nights

out of the seven, trod softly and quietly about the sick-room,

anticipating each want before you yourself knew what it was, and

smoothing your tumbled pillow so gently that you almost felt it a

luxury to be sick, for the sake of being nursed by Aunt Eunice. The

very dogs and cats winked more composedly when she appeared; and even

the chickens learned her voice almost as soon as they did the cluck of

their "maternal ancestor."

But we must stop, or we shall make Aunt Eunice out to be the belle,

instead of Carrie, who, instead of imitating her mother in her acts of

kindness, sat all day in the large old parlor, thumping away on a

rickety piano, or trying to transfer to broadcloth a poor little

kitty, whose face was sufficiently indicative of surprise at finding

its limbs so frightfully distorted.

When Carrie was fifteen years of age her father, concluding that she

knew all which could possibly be learned in the little brown house

where Joe and Jim once fought so fiercely, sent her for three years to

Albany. It was currently reported that the uncle with whom she boarded

received his pay in butter, cheese, potatoes, apples, and other

commodities, which were the product of Captain Howard's farm. Whether

this was true or not I am not prepared to say, but I suppose it was,

for it was told by those who had no ostensible business except to

attend to other people's affairs, and I am sure they ought to have

known all about it, and probably did.

I cannot help thinking that Captain Howard made a mistake in sending

Carrie away; for when at the end of three years she had "finished her

education," and returned home, she was not half so good a scholar as

some of those who had pored patiently over their books in the old

brown house. Even _I_ could beat her in spelling, for soon after she

came home the boys teased for a spelling school. I rather think they

were quite as anxious for a chance to go home with the girls as they

were to have their knowledge of Webster tested. Be that as it may,

Carrie was there, and was, of course, chosen first; but _I_, "little

crazy Jane," spelled the the whole school down! I thought Carrie was

not quite so handsome as she might be, when with an angry frown she

dropped into her seat, hissed by a big, cross-eyed, red-haired boy, in

the corner, because she _happened_ to spell pumpkin, "_p-u-n pun k-i-n

kin, punkin_." I do not think she ever quite forgave me for the pert,

loud way in which I spelled the word correctly, for she never gave any

more calicos or silks, and instead of calling me "Mollie," as she had

before done, she now addressed me as "Miss Mary."

Carrie possessed one accomplishment which the other girls did not. She

could play the piano most skilfully, although as yet she had no

instrument. Three weeks, however, after her return a rich man, who

lived in the village which was known as "Over the River," failed, and

all his furniture was sold at auction. Many were the surmises of my

grandmother, on the morning of the sale, as to what "Cap'n Howard

could be going to buy at the _vandue_ and put in the big lumber

wagon," which he drove past our house.

As the day drew to a close I was posted at the window to telegraph as

soon as "Cap'n Howard's" white horses appeared over the hill. They

came at last, but the long box in his wagon told no secret. Father,

however, explained all, by saying that he had bid off Mr. Talbott's

old piano for seventy dollars! Grandma shook her head mournfully at

the degeneracy of the age, while sister Anna spoke sneeringly of Mr.

Talbott's cracked piano. Next day, arrayed in my Sunday red merino and

white apron--a present from some cousin out West--I went to see

Carrie; and truly, the music she drew from that old piano charmed me

more than the finest performances since have done. Carrie and her

piano were now the theme of every tongue, and many wondered how

Captain Howard could afford to pay for three years' music lessons; but

this was a mystery yet to be solved.

CHAPTER III.

MONSIEUR PENOYER.

When Carrie had been at home about three months all Rice Corner one

day flew to the doors and windows to look at a stranger, a gentleman

with fierce mustaches, who seemed not at all certain of his latitude,

and evidently wanted to know where he was going. At least, if _he_

didn't, they who watched him did.

Grandma, whose longevity had not impaired her guessing faculties,

first suggested that "most likely it was Caroline Howard's beau." This

was altogether too probable to be doubted, and as grandmother had long

contemplated a visit to Aunt Eunice, she now determined to go that

very afternoon, as she "could judge for herself what kind of a match

Car'line had made." Mother tried to dissuade her from going that day,

but the old lady was incorrigible, and directly after dinner, dressed

in her bombazine, black silk apron, work bag, knitting and all she

departed for Captain Howard's.

They wouldn't confess it, but I knew well enough that Juliet and Anna

were impatient for her return, and when the shadows of twilight began

to fall I was twice sent into the road to see if she was coming. The

last time I was successful, and in a few moments grandmother was among

us; but whatever she knew she kept to herself until the lamps were

lighted in the sitting-room, and she, in her stuffed rocking-chair,

was toeing off the stocking only that morning commenced. Then, at a

hint from Anna, she cast toward Lizzie and me a rueful glance, saying:

"There are too many _pitchers_ here!" I knew then just as well as I

did five minutes after that Lizzie and I must go to bed. There was no

help for it, and we complied with a tolerably good grace. Lizzie

proposed that we should listen, but somehow I couldn't do that, and up

to this time I don't exactly know what grandmother told them.

The next day, however, I heard enough to know that his name was

Penoyer; that grandma didn't like him; that he had as much hair on his

face as on his head; that Aunt Eunice would oppose the match, and that

he would stay over Sunday. With this last I was delighted, for I

should see him at church. I saw him before that, however; for it was

unaccountable what a fancy Carrie suddenly took for traversing the

woods and riding on horseback, for which purpose grandfather's

side-saddle (not the one with which Joe saddled his pony!) was

borrowed, and then, with her long curls and blue riding-skirt floating

in the wind, Carrie galloped over hills and through valleys,

accompanied by Penoyer, who was a fierce-looking fellow, with black

eyes, black hair, black whiskers, and black face.

I couldn't help fancying that the negro who lay beneath the walnut

tree had resembled him, and I cried for fear Carrie might marry so

ugly a man, thinking it would not be altogether unlike, "Beauty and

the Beast." Sally, our housemaid, said that "most likely he'd prove to

be some poor, mean scamp. Anyway, seein' it was plantin' time, he'd

better be _to hum_ tendin' to his own business, if he had any."

Sally was a shrewd, sharp-sighted girl, and already had her preference

in favor of Michael Welsh, father's hired man. Walking, riding on

horseback, and wasting time generally, Sally held in great abhorrence.

"All she wished to say to Mike on week days, she could tell him

milking time." On Sundays, however, it was different, and regularly

each Sunday night found Mike and Sally snugly ensconced in the "great

room," while under the windows occasionally might have been seen,

three or four curly heads, eager to hear something about which to

tease Sally during the week.

But to return to Monsieur Penoyer, as Carrie called him. His stay was

prolonged beyond the Sabbath, and on Tuesday I was sent to Captain

Howard's on an errand. I found Aunt Eunice in the kitchen, her round,

rosy face, always suggestive of seed cake and plum pudding, flushed

with exertion, her sleeves tucked up and her arms buried in a large

wooden bowl of dough, which she said was going to be made into loaves

of 'lection cake, as Carrie was to have a party to-morrow, and I had

come just in time to carry invitations to my sisters.

Carrie was in the parlor, and attracted by the sound of music, I drew

near the door, when Aunt Eunice kindly bade me enter. I did so, and

was presented to Monsieur Penoyer. At first I was shy of him, for I

remembered that Sally had said, "he don't know nothin'," and this in

my estimation was the worst crime of which he could be guilty.

Gradually my timidity gave way, and when, at Carrie's request, he

played and sang for me, I was perfectly delighted, although I

understood not a word he said.

When he finished Carrie told him I was a little poet, and then

repeated some foolish lines I had once written about her eyes. It was

a very handsome set of teeth which he showed, as he said,

"_Magnifique! Tree bien!_ She be another grand _Dr. Wattts!_"

I knew not who Dr. Watts was, but on one point my mind was made

up--Monsieur Penoyer knew a great deal! Ere I left Carrie commissioned

me to invite my sisters to her party on the morrow, and as I was

leaving the room Mr. Penoyer said, "_Ma chère,_ Carrie, why vous no

invite a petite girl!"

Accordingly I was invited, with no earthly prospect, however, of

mother's letting me go. And she didn't either; so next day, after

Juliet and Anna were gone, I went out behind the smokehouse and cried

until I got sleepy, and a headache too; then, wishing to make mother

think I had _run away_, I crept carefully up-stairs to Bill's room,

where I slept until Sally's sharp eyes ferreted me out, saying, "they

were all scared to death about me, and had looked for me high and

low," up in the garret and down in the well, I supposed. Concluding

they were plagued enough, I condescended to go down-stairs, and have

my head bathed in camphor and my feet parboiled in hot water; then I

went to bed and dreamed of white teeth, curling mustaches and "_Parlez

vous Français_."

Of what occurred at the party I will tell you as was told to me. All

the _élite_ of Rice Corner were there, of course, and as each new

arrival entered the parlor, M. Penoyer eyed them coolly through an

opera glass. Sister Anna returned his inspection with the worst face

she could well make up, for which I half-blamed her and half didn't,

as I felt sure I should have done the same under like circumstances.

When all the invited guests had arrived except myself (alas, no one

asked why I tarried), there ensued an awkward silence, broken only by

the parrot-like chatter of M. Penoyer, who seemed determined to talk

nothing but French, although Carrie understood him but little better

than did the rest. At last he was posted up to the piano.

"_Mon Dieu_, it be von horrid tone," said he; then off he dashed into

a galloping waltz, keeping time with his head, mouth, and eyes, which

threatened to leave their sockets and pounce upon the instrument.

Rattlety-bang went the piano--like lightning went monsieur's fingers,

first here, then there, right or wrong, hit or miss, and oftener miss

than hit--now alighting among the keys promiscuously, then with a

tremendous thump making all bound again--and finishing up with a

flourish, which snapped two strings and made all the rest groan in

sympathy, as did the astonished listeners. For a time all was still,

and then a little modest girl, Lily Gordon, her face blushing crimson,

said:

"I beg your pardon, monsieur, but haven't you taught music?"

The veins in his forehead swelled, as, darting a wrathful look at poor

Lily, he exclaimed, "_Le Diabel!_ vat vous take me for? Von dem

musique teacher, eh?"

Poor Lily tried to stammer her apologies, while Carrie sought to

soothe the enraged Frenchman by saying, that "Miss Gordon was merely

complimenting his skill in music."

At this point the carriage which carried persons to and from the depot

drove up, and from it alighted a very small, genteel-looking lady, who

rapped at the door and asked, "if Captain Howard lived there."

In a moment Carrie was half-stifling her with kisses, exclaiming,

"Dear Agnes, this is a pleasant surprise. I did not expect you so

soon."

The lady called Agnes was introduced as Miss Hovey, a schoolmate of

Carrie's. She seemed very much disposed to make herself at home, for,

throwing her hat in one place and her shawl in another, she seated

herself at the piano, hastily running over a few notes; then with a

gesture of impatience, she said, "Oh, horrid! a few more such sounds

would give me the vapors for a month; why don't you have it tuned?"

Ere Carrie could reply Agnes' eyes lighted upon Penoyer, who, either

with or without design, had drawn himself as closely into a corner as

he well could. Springing up, she brought her little hands together

with energy, exclaiming, "Now, Heaven defend me, what fresh game

brought you here?" Then casting on Carrie an angry glance, she said,

in a low tone, "What does it mean? Why didn't you tell me?"

Carrie drew nearer, and said coaxingly, "I didn't expect you so soon;

but never mind, he leaves to-morrow. For my sake treat him decently."

The pressure which Agnes gave Carrie's hand seemed to say, "For your

sake I will, but for no other." Then turning to Penoyer, who had risen

to his feet, she said, respectfully, "I hardly expected to meet you

here, sir."

Her tone and manner had changed. Penoyer knew it, and with the

coolest effrontery imaginable he came forward, bowing and scraping,

and saying, "_Comment vous portez-vous, mademoiselle. Je suis

perfaitement_ delighted to see you," at the same time offering her his

hand.

All saw with what hauteur she declined it, but only one, and that was

Anna, heard her as she said, "Keep off, Penoyer; don't make a donkey

of yourself." It was strange, Anna said, "how far into his boots

Penoyer tried to draw himself," while at each fresh flash of Agnes'

keen black eyes, he winced, either from fear or sympathy.

The restraint which had surrounded the little company gave way beneath

the lively sallies and sparkling wit of Agnes, who, instead of seeming

amazed at the country girls, was apparently as much at ease as though

she had been entertaining a drawing-room full of polished city belles.

When at last the party broke up, each and every one was in love with

the little Albany lady, although all noticed that Carrie seemed

troubled, watching Agnes narrowly; and whenever she saw her

_tête-à-tête_ with either of her companions she would instantly draw

near, and seemed greatly relieved on finding that Penoyer was not the

subject of conversation.

"I told you so," was grandmother's reply, when informed of all this.

"I told you so. I knew Car'line warn't going to make out no great."

Juliet and Anna thought so too, but this did not prevent them from

running to the windows next morning to see Penoyer as he passed on his

way to the cars. I, who with Lizzie was tugging away at a big board

with which we thought to make a "see-saw," was honored with a graceful

wave of monsieur's hands, and the words, "_Au revoir, ma chère

Marie_."

That day Phoebe, Aunt Eunice's hired girl, came to our house.

Immediately Juliet and Anna assailed her a multitude of questions. The

amount of knowledge obtained was that "Miss Hovey was a lady, and no

mistake, for she had sights of silks and jewelry, and she that morning

went with Phoebe to see her milk, although she didn't dare venture

inside the yard. But," added Phoebe, "for all she was up so early she

did not come out to breakfast until that gentleman was gone."

This was fresh proof that Penoyer was not _comme il faut_, and Anna

expressed her determination to find out all about him ere Agnes went

home. _I_ remembered "_Dr. Watts_" and the invitation to the party,

and secretly hoped she would find out nothing bad.

CHAPTER IV.

COUSIN EMMA.

Agnes had been in town about two weeks, when my home was one morning

thrown into a state of unusual excitement by the arrival of a letter

from Boston, containing the intelligence that Cousin Emma Rushton, who

had been an invalid for more than a year, was about to try the effect

of country life and country air.

This piece of news operated differently upon different members of our

family. Juliet exclaimed, "Good, good; Carrie Howard won't hold her

head quite so high now, for we shall have a city lady, too." Anna was

delighted, because she would thus have an opportunity of acquiring

city manners and city fashions. Sally said snappishly, "There's enough

to wait on now, without having a stuck-up city flirt, faintin' at the

sight of a worm, and screechin' if a fly comes toward her." Mother had

some misgivings on the subject. She was perfectly willing Emma should

come, but she doubted our ability to entertain her, knowing that the

change would be great from a fashionable city home to a country

farmhouse. Grandmother, who loved to talk of "my daughter in the

city," was pleased, and to console mother, said:

"Never you mind, Fanny, leave her to me; you find victuals and drink,

and I'll do the entertaining."

Among so many opinions it was hard for me to arrive at a conclusion.

On the whole, however, I was glad, until told that during Cousin

Emma's stay our garret gambols must be given up, and that I must not

laugh loud, or scarcely speak above a whisper, for she was sick, and

it would hurt her head. Then I wished Cousin Emma and Cousin Emma's

head would stay where they belonged.

The letter was received on Monday, but Emma would not come until

Thursday; so there was ample time for "fixing up." The parlor-chamber

was repapered, the carpet taken up and shaken, red and white curtains

hung at the windows, a fresh ball of Castile soap bought for the

washstand, and on Thursday morning our pretty flower beds were shorn

of their finest ornaments with which to make bouquets for the parlor

and parlor-chamber. Besides that, Sally had filled the pantry with

cakes, pies, gingerbread, and Dutch cheese, to the last of which I

fancied Emma's city taste would not take kindly. Then there was in the

cellar a barrel of fresh beer; so everything was done which could be

expected.

When I went home for my dinner that day I teased hard to be allowed to

stay out of school for one afternoon, but mother said "No," although

she suffered me to wear my pink gingham, with sundry injunctions "not

to burst the hooks and eyes all off before night." This, by the way,

was my besetting sin; I never could climb a tree, no matter what the

size might be without invariably coming down minus at least six hooks

and eyes; but I seriously thought I should get over it when I got

older and joined the church.

That afternoon seemed of interminable length, but at last I saw

father's carriage coming, and quick as thought I threw my grammar out

of the window; after which I demurely asked "to go out and get a book

which I had dropped." Permission was granted and I was out just in

time to courtesy straight down, as father pointing to me, said:

"There, that's our little crazy Mollie," and then I got a glimpse of a

remarkably sweet face, which made the tears come in my eyes, it was so

pale.

Perhaps I wronged our school-teacher; I think I did, for she has since

died; but really I fancied she kept us longer that night on purpose.

At least, it was nearly five before we were dismissed. Then, with my

bonnet in hand, I ran for home, falling down once and bursting off the

lower hook! I entered the house with a bound, but was quieted by

grandmother, who said Emma was lying down, and I mustn't disturb her.

After waiting some time for her to make her appearance, I stole softly

up the stairs and looked in where she was. She saw me, and instantly

rising, said with a smile that went to my heart:

"And this must be Mary, the little crazy girl; come and kiss your

Cousin Emma."

Twining my arms around her neck, I think I must have cried, for she

repeatedly asked me what was the matter, and as I could think of no

better answer, I at last told her "I didn't like to have folks call me

_crazy_. I couldn't help acting like _Sal Furbush_, the old crazy

woman, who threatened to toss us up in the umbrella."

"Forgive me, darling," said Emma coaxingly; "I will not do it again;"

then stooping down, she looked intently into my eyes, soliloquizing,

"Yes, it is wrong to tell her so."

In a few moments I concluded Emma was the most beautiful creature in

the world; I would not even except Carrie Howard. Emma's features were

perfectly regular, and her complexion white and pure as alabaster. Her

hair, which was a rich auburn, lay around her forehead in thick waves,

but her great beauty consisted in her lustrous blue eyes, which were

very large and dark. When she was pleased they laughed, and when she

was sad they were sad too. Her dress was a white muslin wrapper,

confined at the waist by a light blue ribbon, while one of the same

hue encircled her neck, and was fastened by a small gold pin, which,

with the exception of the costly diamond ring on her finger, was the

only ornament she wore.

When supper was ready I proudly led her to the dining-room, casting a

look of triumph at Juliet and Anna, and feeling, it may be, a _trifle_

above grandmother, who said, "Don't be troublesome, child."

How grateful I was when Emma answered for me, "She doesn't trouble me

in the least; I am very fond of children."

Indeed, she seemed to be very fond of everybody and everything--all

except Sally's Dutch cheese, which, as I expected, she hardly

relished. In less than three days she was beloved by all the

household, Billy whispering to me confidentially that "never before

had he seen any one except _mother_, whom he would like to marry."

Saturday afternoon Carrie and Agnes called on Emma, and as I saw them

together I fancied I had never looked on three more charming faces.

They appeared mutually pleased with each other, too, although for some

reason there seemed to be more affinity between Emma and Agnes. Carrie

appeared thoughtful and absent-minded, which made Anna joke her about

her "lover, Penoyer." As she was about leaving the room she made no

reply, but after she was gone Agnes looked searchingly at Anna and

said:

"Is it possible, Miss Anna, that you are so mistaken?"

"How--why?" asked Emma. "Is Penoyer a bad man? What is his

occupation?"

"His occupation is well enough," returned Agnes. "I would not think

less of him for that, were he right in other respects. However, he was

Carrie's and my own music teacher."

"Impossible," said Anna, but at that moment Carrie reentered the room,

and, together with Agnes, soon took her leave.

"Penoyer a music teacher, after all his anger at Lily Gordon for

suggesting such an idea!" This was now the theme of Juliet and Anna,

although they wondered what there was so _bad_ about him--something,

evidently, from Agnes' manner, and for many days they puzzled their

brains in vain to solve the mystery.

CHAPTER V.

RICHARD EVELYN AND HARLEY ASHMORE.

Emma had not long been with us ere her fame reached the little

"village over the river," and drew from thence many calls, both from

gentlemen and ladies. Among these was a Mr. Richard Evelyn and his

sister, both of whom had the honor of standing on the topmost round of

the aristocratic ladder in the village. Mr. Evelyn, who was nearly

thirty years of age, was a wealthy lawyer, and what is a little

remarkable for that craft (I speak from experience), to an unusual

degree of intelligence and polish of manners, he added many social and

_religious_ qualities. Many kind hearted mothers, who had on their

hands good-for-nothing daughters, wondered how he managed to live

without a wife, but he seemed to think it the easiest thing in nature,

for, since the death of his parents, his sister Susan had acted in the

capacity of his housekeeper.

I have an idea that grandmother, whose disposition was slightly spiced

with a love for match-making, bethought herself how admirably Mr.

Evelyn and Emma were suited for each other; for after his calls became

frequent I heard her many times slyly hint of the possibility of our

being able to keep Emma in town always. _She_ probably did not think

so; for each time after being teased, she repaired to her room and

read for the twentieth time some ominous-looking letters which she had

received since being with as.

It was now three weeks since she came, and each day she had gained in

health and strength. Twice had she walked to the woods, accompanied by

Mr. Evelyn, once to the schoolhouse, while every day she swung under

the old maple. About this time Agnes began to think of returning

home, so Juliet and Anna determined on a party in honor of her and

Emma. It was a bright summer afternoon; and for a wonder I was

suffered to remain from school, although I received numerous charges

to keep my tongue still, and was again reminded of that excellent old

proverb (the composition of some old maid, I know), "_Children_ should

be seen and not heard;" so, seated in a corner, my hand pressed

closely over my mouth, the better to guard against contingencies, I

looked on and thought, with ineffable satisfaction, how much handsomer

Cousin Emma was than any one else, although I could not help

acknowledging that Carrie never looked more beautiful than she did

that afternoon in a neatly-fitting white muslin, with a few rosebuds

nestling in her long, glossy curls.

Matters were going on swimmingly, and I had three times ventured a

remark, when Anna, who was sitting near the window, exclaimed, "Look

here, girls, did you ever see a finer-looking gentleman?" at the same

time calling their attention to a stranger in the street. Emma looked,

too, and the bright flush which suffused her cheek made me associate

the gentleman with the letters she had received, and I was not

surprised when he entered our yard and knocked at our door. Juliet

arose to answer his summons, but Emma prevented her, saying;

"Suffer me to go, will you?"

She was gone some time, and when she returned was accompanied by the

stranger, whom she introduced as Mr. Ashmore. I surveyed him with

childish curiosity, and drew two very satisfactory breaths when I saw

that he was wholly unlike Monsieur Penoyer. He was a very fine-looking

man, but I did not exactly like the expression of his face. It was

hardly open enough to suit me, and I noticed that he never looked you

directly in the eye. In five minutes I had come to the conclusion that

he was not half so good a man as Mr. Evelyn. I was in great danger,

however, of changing my mind, when I saw how fondly his dark eye

rested on Emma, and how delighted he seemed to be at her improved

health; and when he, without any apparent exertion, kept the whole

company entertained, I was charmed, and did not blame Emma for liking

him. Anna's doctor was nothing to him, and I even fancied that he

would dare to go _all alone_ to the old mine!

Suddenly he faced about, and espying me in the corner, he said, "Here

is a little lady I've not seen. Will some one introduce me?"

With the utmost gravity Anna said, "It is my sister, little crazy

Jane."

I glanced quickly at him to see how he would receive the intelligence,

and when, looking inquiringly first at me and then at Emma, he said,

"Is it really so? what a pity!" the die was cast--I never liked him

again. That night in my little low bed, long after Lizzie was asleep,

I wept bitterly, wondering what made Anna so unkind, and why people

called me crazy. I knew I looked like other children, and I thought I

acted like them, too; unless, indeed, I climbed more trees, tore more

dresses, and burst off more hooks.

But to return to the party. After a time I thought that Mr. Ashmore's

eyes went over admiringly to Carrie more frequently than was

necessary, and for once I regretted that she was so pretty. Ere long,

Mr. Ashmore, too, went over, and immediately there ensued between

himself and Carrie a lively conversation, in which she adroitly

managed to let him know that she had been three years at school in

Albany. The next thing that I saw was that he took from her curls a

rosebud and appropriated it to his buttonhole. I glanced at Emma to

see how she was affected, but her face was perfectly calm, and wore

the old sweet smile. When the young ladies were about leaving, I was

greatly shocked to see Mr. Ashmore offer to accompany Carrie and Agnes

home.

After they were gone grandmother said, "Emma, if I's you, I'd put a

stop to that chap's flirtin' so with Car'line Howard."

Emma laughed gaily as she replied, "Oh, grandma, I can trust Harley;

I have been sick so long that he has the privilege of walking or

riding with anybody he pleases."

Grandmother shook her head, saying, "It wasn't so with her and our

poor grandfather;" then I fell into a fit of musing as to whether

grandma was ever young, and if she ever fixed her hair before the

glass, as Anna did when she expected the doctor! In the midst of my

reverie Mr. Ashmore returned, and for the remainder of the evening

devoted himself so entirely to Emma that I forgave him for going home

with Carrie. Next day, however, he found the walk to Captain Howard's

a very convenient one, staying a long time, too. The next day it was

the same, and the next, and the next, until I fancied that even Emma

began to be anxious.

Grandma was highly indignant, and Sally declared, "that, as true as

she lived and breathed, if Mike should serve her so, he'd catch it."

About this time Agnes went home. The evening before she left she spent

at our house with Emma, of whom she seemed to be very fond. Carrie and

Ashmore were, as usual, out riding or walking, and the conversation

naturally turned upon them. At last, Anna, whose curiosity was still

on the alert to know something of Penoyer, asked Agnes of him. I will

repeat, in substance, what Agnes said.

It seems that for many years Penoyer had been a teacher of music in

Albany. Agnes was one of his pupils, and while teaching her music he

thought proper to fall overwhelmingly in love with her. This for a

time she did not notice; but when his attentions became so pointed as

to become a subject of remark, she very coolly tried to make him

understand his position. He persevered, however, until he became

exceedingly impudent and annoying.

About this time there came well-authenticated stories of his being not

only a professed gambler, but also very dissipated in his habits. To

this last charge Agnes could testify, as his breath had frequently

betrayed him. He was accordingly dismissed. Still he perseveringly

pursued her, always managing, if possible, to get near her in all

public places, and troubling her in various ways.

At last Agnes heard that he was showing among her acquaintances two

notes bearing her signature. The contents of these notes he covered

with his hand, exposing to view only her name. She had twice written,

requesting him to purchase some new piece of music, and it was these

messages which he was now showing, insinuating that Agnes thought

favorably of him, but was opposed by her father. The consequence of

this was, that the next time Agnes' brother met Penoyer in the street,

he gave him a sound caning, ordering him, under pain of a worse

flogging, never again to mention his sister's name. This he was

probably more willing to do, as he had already conceived a great

liking for Carrie, who was silly enough to be pleased with and suffer

his attentions.

"I wonder, though, that Carrie allowed him to visit her," said Agnes;

"but then I believe she is under some obligations to him, and dare not

refuse when he asked permission to come."

If Agnes knew what these obligations were she did not tell, and

grandmother, who, during the narration had knit with unwonted speed,

making her needles rattle again, said, "It's plain to me that Caroline

let him come to make folks think she had got a city beau."

"Quite likely," returned Agnes; "Carrie is a sad flirt, but I think,

at least, that she should not interfere with other people's rights."

Here my eye followed hers to Emma, who, I thought, was looking a

little paler. Just then Carrie and Ashmore came in, and the latter

throwing himself upon the sofa by the side of Emma, took her hand

caressingly, saying, "How are you to-night, my dear?"

"Quite well," was her quiet reply, and soon after, under pretense of

moving from the window, she took a seat across the room. That night

Mr. Ashmore accompanied Carrie and Agnes home, and it was at a much

later hour than usual that old Rover first growled and then whined as

he recognized our visitor.

The next morning Emma was suffering from a severe headache, which

prevented her from appearing at breakfast. Mr. Ashmore seemed somewhat

disturbed, and made many anxious inquiries about her. At dinner-time

she was well enough to come, and the extreme kindness of Mr. Ashmore's

manner called a deep glow to her cheek. After dinner, however, he

departed for a walk, taking his accustomed road toward Captain

Howard's.

When I returned from school he was still absent, and as Emma was quite

well, she asked me to accompany her to my favorite resort, the old

rock beneath the grapevine. We were soon there, and for a long time we

sat watching the shadows as they came and went upon the bright green

grass, and listening to the music of the brook, which seemed to me to

sing more sadly than it was wont to do.

Suddenly our ears were arrested by the sound of voices, which we knew

belonged to Mr. Ashmore and Carrie. They were standing near us, just

behind a clump of alders, and Carrie, in reply to something Mr.

Ashmore had said, answered, "Oh, you can't be in earnest, for you have

only known me ten days, and beside that, what have you done with your

pale, sick lady?"

Instantly I started up, clinching my fist in imitation of brother

Billy when he was angry, but Cousin Emma's arm was thrown convulsively

around me, as drawing me closely to her side she whispered, "Keep

quiet."

I did keep quiet, and listened while Mr. Ashmore replied, "I entertain

for Miss Rushton the highest esteem, for I know she possesses many

excellent qualities. Once I thought I loved her (how tightly Emma held

me), but she has been sick a long time, and somehow I cannot marry an

invalid. Whether she ever gets well is doubtful, and even if she

does, after having seen you, she can be nothing to me. And yet I like

her, and when I am alone with her I almost fancy I love her, but one

look at your sparkling, healthy face drives her from my mind--"

The rest of what he said I could not hear, neither did I understand

Carrie's answer, but his next words were distinct, "My dear Carrie

forever."

I know the brook stopped running, or at least I did not hear it. The

sun went down; the birds went to rest; Mr. Ashmore and Carrie went

home; and still I sat there by the side of Emma, who had lain her head

in my lap, and was so still and motionless that the dread fear came

over me that she might be dead. I attempted to lift her up, saying,

"Cousin Emma, speak to me, won't you?" but she made me no answer, and

another ten minutes went by. By this time the stars had come out and

were looking quietly down upon us. The waters of the mill-dam chanted

mournfully, and in my disordered imagination, fantastic images danced

before the entrance of the old mine. Half-crying with fear, I again

laid my hand on Emma's head. Her hair was wet with the heavy night

dews, and my eyes were wet with something else, as I said, "Oh, Emma,

speak to me, for I am afraid and want to go home."

This roused her, and lifting up her head I caught a glimpse of a face

of so startling whiteness that, throwing my arms around her neck, I

cried, "Oh, Emma, dear Emma, don't look so. I love you a great deal

better than I do Carrie Howard, and so I am sure does Mr. Evelyn."

I don't know how I chanced to think of Mr. Evelyn, but he recurred to

me naturally enough. All thoughts of him, however, were soon driven

from my mind by the sound of Emma's voice as she said, "Mollie,

darling, can you keep a secret?"

I didn't think I could, as I never had been intrusted with one, so I

advised her to give it to Anna, who was very fond of them. But she

said, "I am sure you can do it, Mollie. Promise me that you will not

tell them at home what you have seen or heard."

I promised, and then in my joy at owning a secret, I forgot the little

figures which waltzed back and forth before the old mine, I forgot the

woods through which we passed, nor was the silence broken until we

reached the lane. Then I said, "What shall we tell the folks when they

ask where we have been?"

"Leave that to me," answered Emma.

As we drew near the house we met grandmother, Juliet, Anna and Sally,

all armed and equipped for a general hunt. We were immediately

assailed with a score of questions as to what had kept us so long. I

looked to Emma for the answer, at the same time keeping my hand

tightly over my mouth for fear I should tell.

"We found more things of interest than we expected," said Emma,

"consequently tarried longer than we should otherwise have done."

"Why, how hoarse you be," said grandmother, while Sally continued,

"Starlight is a mighty queer time to see things in."

"Some things look better by starlight," answered Emma; "but we stayed

longer than we ought to, for I have got a severe headache and must go

immediately to bed."

"Have some tea first," said grandmother.

"And some strawberries and cream," repeated Sally; but Emma declined

both and went at once to her room.

Mr. Ashmore did not come home until late that night, for I was awake

and heard him stumbling up-stairs in the dark. I remember, too, of

having experienced the very benevolent wish that he would break his

neck! As I expected, Emma did not make her appearance at the breakfast

table, but about ten she came down to the parlor and asked to see Mr.

Ashmore alone. Of what occurred during that interval I never knew,

except that at its close cousin looked very white, and Mr. Ashmore

very black, notwithstanding which he soon took his accustomed walk to

Captain Howard's. He was gone about three hours, and on his return

announced his intention of going to Boston in the afternoon train. No

one opposed him, for all were glad to have him go.

Just before he left, grandmother, who knew all was not right, said to

him: "Young man, I wish you well; but mind what I say, you'll get your

pay yet for the capers you've cut here."

"I beg your pardon, madam," he returned, with much more emphasis on

_madam_ than was at all necessary, "I beg your pardon, but I think she

has cut the capers; at least she dismissed me of her own accord."

I thought of what I had heard, but 'twas a secret, so I kept it

safely, although I almost bit my tongue off in my zealous efforts.

After Ashmore was gone, Emma, who had taken a violent cold the evening

before, took her bed, and was slightly ill for nearly a week. Almost

every day Mr. Evelyn called to see how she was, always bringing her a

fresh bouquet of flowers. On Thursday, Carrie called, bringing Emma

some ice-cream which Aunt Eunice had made. She did not ask to see her,

but before she left she asked Anna if she did not wish to buy her old

piano.

"What will you do without it?" asked Anna.

"Oh," said Carrie, "I cannot use two. I have got a new one."

The stocking dropped from grandmother's hand as she exclaimed: "What

is the world a-comin' to! Got two pianners! Where'd you get 'em?"

"My new one was a present, and came from Boston," answered Carrie,

with the utmost _sang froid_.

"You don't say Ashmore sent it to you! How much did it cost?" asked

grandma.

"Mr. Ashmore wrote that it cost three hundred and fifty dollars," was

Carrie's reply.

Grandmother was perfectly horror-stricken; but desirous of making

Carrie feel as comfortable as possible, she said, "S'posin somebody

should tell him about Penoyer?"

For an instant Carrie turned pale, as she said quickly, "What does any

one know about him to tell?"

"A great deal--more than you think they do--yes, a great deal," was

grandma's answer.

After that Carrie came _very_ frequently to see us, always bringing

something nice for Emma _or grandma_!

Meanwhile Mr. Evelyn's visits continued, and when at last Emma could

see him I was sure that she received him more kindly than she ever had

before. "That'll go yet," was grandma's prediction. But her scheming

was cut short by a letter from Emma's father, requesting her immediate

return. Mr. Evelyn, who found he had business which required his

presence in Worcester, was to accompany her thus far. It was a sad day

when she left us, for she was a universal favorite. Sally cried, I

cried, and Bill either cried or made believe, for he very

industriously wiped his eyes and nasal organ on his shirt sleeves:

besides that, things went on wrong side up generally. Grandma was

cross--Sally was cross--and the school-teacher was cross; the bucket

fell into the well, and the cows got into the corn. I got called up at

school and set with some hateful boys, one of whom amused himself by

pricking me with a pin, and when, in self-defense, I gave him a good

pinch, he actually yelled out: "She keeps a-pinchin' me!" On the

whole, 'twas a dreadful day, and when at night I threw myself

exhausted upon my little bed I cried myself to sleep, thinking of

Cousin Emma and wishing she would come back.

CHAPTER VI.

MIKE AND SALLY.

I have spoken of Sally, but have said nothing of Mike, whom, of all my

father's hired men, I liked the best. He it was who made the best

cornstalk fiddles, and whittled out the shrillest whistles with which

to drive grandma "ravin' distracted." He, too, it was who, on cold

winter mornings, carried Lizzie to school in his arms, making me

forget how my fingers ached, by telling some exploit of _his_

schooldays.

I do not wonder that Sally liked him, and I always had an idea how

that liking would end, but did not think it would be so soon.

Consequently I suspected nothing when Sally's white dress was bleached

on the grass in the clothesyard for nearly a week. One day Billy came

to me with a face full of wonder, saying he had just overheard Mike

tell one of the men that he and Sally were going to be married in a

few weeks.

I knew now what all that bleaching was for, and why Sally bought so

much cotton lace of pedlers. I was in ecstasies, too, for I had never

seen anyone married, but regretted the circumstance, whatever it might

have been, which prevented me from being present at mother's marriage.

Like many other children I have been deceived into the belief that the

marriage ceremony consisted mainly in leaping the broomstick, and by

myself I had frequently tried the experiment, delighted to find that I

could jump it at almost any distance from the ground; but I had some

misgivings as to Sally's ability to clear the stick, for she was

rather clumsy; however, I should see the fun, for they were to be

married at our house.

A week before the time appointed mother was taken very ill, which

made it necessary that the wedding should be postponed, or take place

somewhere else. To the first Mike would not hear, and as good old

Parson S----, whose sermons were never more than two hours long, came

regularly every Sunday night to preach in the schoolhouse, Mike

proposed that they be married there. Sally did not like this exactly,

but grandmother, who now ruled the household, said it was just the

thing, and accordingly it took place there.

The house was filled full, and those who could not obtain seats took

their station near the windows. Our party was early, but I was three

times compelled to relinquish my seat in favor of more distinguished

persons, and I began to think that if any one was obliged to go home

for want of room, it would be me; but I resolutely determined not to

go. I'd climb the chestnut tree first! At last I was squeezed on a

high desk between two old ladies, wearing two old black bonnets, their

breath sufficiently tinctured with tobacco smoke to be very

disagreeable to me, whose olfactories chanced to be rather

aristocratic than otherwise.

To my horror Father S---- concluded to give us the sermon before he

did the bride. He was afraid some of his audience would leave.

Accordingly there ensued a prayer half an hour long, after which eight

verses of a long meter psalm were sung to the tune of Windham. By this

time I gave a slight sign to the two old ladies that I would like to

move, but they merely shook their two black bonnets at me, telling me,

in fierce whispers, that "I mustn't stir in meetin'." Mustn't stir! I

wonder how I could stir, squeezed in as I was, unless they chose to

let me. So I sat bolt upright, looking straight ahead at a point where

the tips of my red shoes were visible, for my feet were sticking

straight out.

All at once my attention was drawn to a spider on the wall, who was

laying a net for a fly, and in watching his maneuvers I forgot the

lapse of time, until Father S---- had passed his sixthly and

seventhly, and was driving furiously away at the eighthly. By this

time the spider had caught the fly, whose cries sounded to me like

the waters of the sawmill; the tips of my red shoes looked like the

red berries which grew near the mine; the two old ladies at my side

were transformed into two tall black walnut trees, while I seemed to

be sliding down-hill.

At this juncture, one of the old ladies moved away from me a foot at

least (she could have done so before had she chosen to), and I was

precipitated off from the bench, striking my head on the sharp corner

of a seat below. It was a dreadful blow which I received, making the

blood gush from my nostrils. My loud screams brought matters to a

focus, and the sermon to an end. My grandmother and one of the old

ladies took me and the water pail outdoors, where I was literally

deluged; at the same time they called me "Poor girl! Poor Mollie!

Little dear," etc.

But while they were attending to my bumped head Mike and Sally were

married, and I didn't see it after all! 'Twas too bad!

CHAPTER VII.

THE BRIDE.

After Sally's marriage there occurred at our house an interval of

quiet, enlivened occasionally by letters from Cousin Emma, whose

health was not as much improved by her visit to the country as she had

at first hoped it would be; consequently she proposed spending the

winter south. Meantime, from Boston letters came frequently to Carrie

Howard, and as the autumn advanced, things within and about her

father's house foretold some unusual event. Two dressmakers were hired

from the village, and it was stated, on good authority, that among

Carrie's wardrobe was a white satin and an elegantly embroidered

merino traveling-dress.

Numerous were the surmises of Juliet and Anna as to who and how many

would be invited to the wedding. All misgivings concerning themselves

were happily brought to an end a week before the time, for there came

to our house handsome cards of invitation for Juliet and Anna, and--I

could scarcely believe my eyes--there was one for me too. For this I

was indebted to Aunt Eunice, who had heard of and commiserated my

misfortunes at Sally's wedding.

I was sorry that my invitation came so soon, for I had but little hope

that the time would ever come. It did, however, and so did Mr. Ashmore

and Agnes. As soon as dinner was over I commenced my toilet, although

the wedding was not to take place until eight that evening; but then I

believed, as I do now, in being ready in season. Oh, how slowly the

hours passed, and at last in perfect despair I watched my opportunity

to set the clock forward when no one saw me. For this purpose I put

the footstool in a chair, and mounting, was about to move the long

hand, when--

But I always was the most unfortunate of mortals, so it was no wonder

that at this point the chair slipped, the stool slipped, and I

slipped. I caught at the clock to save myself; consequently both clock

and I came to the floor with a terrible crash. My first thought was

for the hooks and eyes, which undoubtedly were scattered with the

fragments of the clock, but fortunately every hook was in its place,

and only one eye was straightened. I draw a veil over the scolding

which I got, and the numerous threats that I should stay at home.

As the clock was broken we had no means for judging of the time, and

thus we were among the first who arrived at Captain Howard's. This

gave Juliet and Anna an opportunity of telling Agnes of my mishap. She

laughed heartily, and then immediately changing the subject she

inquired after Cousin Emma, and when we had heard from her. After

replying to these questions Anna asked Agnes about Penoyer, and when

she had seen him.

"Don't mention it," said Agnes, "but I have a suspicion that he

stopped yesterday at the depot when I did. I may have been mistaken,

for I was looking after my baggage and only caught a glimpse of him.

If it were he his presence bodes no good."

"Have you told Carrie?" asked Juliet.

"No, I have not. She seems so nervous whenever he is mentioned," was

Agnes' reply.

I thought of the obligations once referred to by Agnes, and felt that

I should breathe more freely when Carrie really was married. Other

guests now began to arrive, and we who had fixed long enough before

the looking-glass repaired to the parlor below. Bill, who saw Sally

married, had convinced me that the story of the broomstick was a

falsehood, so I was prepared for its absence, but I wondered then, not

more than I do now, why grown-up people shouldn't be whipped for

telling untruths to children as well as children for telling untruths

to grown-up people.

The parlor was now rapidly filling, and I was in great danger of being

thrust into the corner, where I could see nothing, when Aunt Eunice

very benevolently drew me near her, saying I should see if no one else

did. At last Mr. Ashmore and Carrie came. Anna can tell you exactly

what she wore, but I cannot. I only know that she looked most

beautifully, though I have a vague recollection of fancying that in

the making of her dress the sleeves were forgotten entirely, and the

neck nearly so.

The marriage ceremony commenced, and I listened breathlessly, but this

did not prevent me from hearing some one enter the house by the

kitchen door. Aunt Eunice heard it, too, and when the minister began

to say something about Mrs. Ashmore she arose and went out. Something

had just commenced, I think they called them congratulations, when the

crowd around the door began to huddle together in order to make room

for some person to enter. I looked up and saw Penoyer, his glittering

teeth now partially disclosed, looking a very little fiendish, I

thought. Carrie saw him, too, and instantly turned as white as the

satin dress she wore, while Agnes, who seemed to have some suspicion

of his errand, exclaimed, "Impudent scoundrel!" At the same time

advancing forward, she laid her hand upon his arm.

He shook it off lightly, saying, "_Pardonnez moi, ma chère_; I've no

come to trouble you." Then turning to Ashmore he said, pointing to

Carrie, "She be your wife, I take it?"

"Yes, sir," replied Ashmore haughtily. "Have you any objections? If so

they have come too late."

"Not von, not in the least, no sar," said the Frenchman, bowing nearly

to the floor. "It give me one grand plaisir; so now you will please

settle von leetle bill I have against her;" at the same time he drew

from his pocket a sheet of half-worn paper.

Carrie, who was leaning heavily against Mr. Ashmore instantly sprang

forward and endeavored to snatch the paper, saying half-imploringly,

"Don't, Penoyer, you know my father will pay it."

But Penoyer passed it to Mr. Ashmore, while Captain Howard, coming

forward, said, "Pay what? What is all this about?"

"Only a trifle," said Penoyer; "just a bill for giving your daughter

musique lessons three years in Albany."

"You give my daughter music lessons?" demanded Captain Howard.

"_Oui_, monsieur, I do that same thing," answered Penoyer.

"Oh, Carrie, Carrie," said Captain Howard, in his surprise forgetting

the time and place, "why did you tell me that your knowledge of music

you acquired yourself, with the assistance of your cousin, and a

little help from her music teacher; and why, when this man was here a

few months ago, did you not tell me he was your music teacher and had

not been paid?"

Bursting into tears Carrie answered, "Forgive me, father, but he said

he had no bill against me; he made no charge."

"But she gave me von big, large mitten," said the Frenchman, "when she

see this man, who has more l'argent; but no difference, no difference,

sar, this gentleman," bowing toward Ashmore, "parfaitement delighted

to pay it."

Whether he were delighted or not, he did pay it, for drawing from his

pocket his purse, while his large black eyes emitted gleams of fire,

he counted out the required amount, one hundred and twenty-five

dollars; then confronting Penoyer, he said fiercely, "Give me a

receipt for this instantly, after which I will take it upon me to show

you the door."

"Certainement, certainement, all I want is my l'argent," said Penoyer.

The money was paid, the receipt given, and then, as Penoyer hesitated

a moment, Ashmore said, "Are you waiting to be helped out, sir?"

"No, monsieur, si vous plait, I have tree letters from madam, which

will give you one grande satisfaction to read." Then tossing toward

Ashmore the letters, with a malicious smile he left the house.

Poor Carrie! When sure that he was gone she fainted away and was

carried from the room. At supper, however, she made her appearance,

and after that was over the guests, unopposed, left _en masse_.

What effect Penoyer's disclosures had on Ashmore we never exactly

knew, but when, a few days before the young couple left home, they

called at our house, we all fancied that Carrie was looking more

thoughtful than usual, while a cloud seemed to be resting on Ashmore's

brow. The week following their marriage they left for New York, where

they were going to reside. During the winter Carrie wrote home

frequently, giving accounts of the many gay and fashionable parties

which she attended, and once in a letter to Anna she wrote, "The

flattering attentions which I receive have more than, once made

Ashmore jealous."

Two years from the time they were married Mrs. Ashmore was brought

back to her home a pale, faded invalid, worn out by constant

dissipation and the care of a sickly baby, so poor and blue that even

I couldn't bear to touch it. Three days after their arrival Mr. Evelyn

brought to us his bride, Cousin Emma, blooming with health and beauty.

I could scarcely believe that the exceedingly beautiful Mrs. Evelyn

was the same white-faced girl who, two years before, had sat with me

beneath the old grapevine.

The day after she came I went with her to visit Carrie, who, the

physicians said, was in a decline. I had not seen her before since her

return, and on entering the sick-room, I was as much surprised at her

haggard face, sunken eyes, and sallow skin, as was Mr. Ashmore at the

appearance of Emma. "Is it possible," said he, coming forward, "is it

possible, Emma--Mrs. Evelyn, that you have entirely recovered?"

I remembered what he had once said about "invalid wives," and I feared

that the comparison he was evidently making would not be very

favorable toward Carrie. We afterward learned, however, that he was

the kindest of husbands, frequently walking half the night with his

crying baby, and at other times trying to soothe his nervous wife, who

was sometimes very irritable.

Before we left Carrie drew Emma closely to her and said, "They tell me

I probably shall never get well, and now, while I have time, I wish to

ask your forgiveness for the great wrong I once did you."

"How? When?" asked Emma quickly, and Carrie contined:

"When first I saw him who is my husband, I determined to leave no

means untried to secure him for myself; I knew you were engaged, but I

fancied that your ill-health annoyed him, and played my part well. You

know how I succeeded, but I am sure you forgive me, for you love Mr.

Evelyn quite as well, perhaps better."

"Yes, far better," was Emma's reply, as she kissed Carrie's wan cheek;

then bidding her good-by she promised to call frequently during her

stay in town. She kept her word, and was often accompanied by Mr.

Evelyn, who strove faithfully and successfully, too, to lead into the

path of peace her whose days were well-nigh ended.

'Twas on one of those bright days in the Indian summer time that

Carrie at last slept the sleep that knows no awakening. The evening

after the burial I went in at Captain Howard's, and all the animosity

I had cherished for Mr. Ashmore vanished when I saw the large tear

drops as they fell on the face of his motherless babe, whose wailing

cries he endeavored in vain to hush. When the first snowflakes came

they fell on a little mound, where by the side of her mother Mr.

Ashmore had laid his baby, Emma.

Side by side they are sleeping,

In the grave's dark, dreamless bed;

While the willow boughs seem weeping,

As they bend above the dead.

And now, dear reader, after telling you that, yielding to the

importunities of Emma's parents, Mr. Evelyn at last moved to the city,

where, if I mistake not, he is still living, my story is finished. But

do not, I pray you, think that these few pages contain all that I know

of the olden time:

Oh no, far down in memory's well

Exhaustless stores remain,

From which, perchance, some future day

I'll weave a tale again.

THE GILBERTS; OR, RICE CORNER NUMBER TWO.

CHAPTER I.

THE GILBERTS.

The spring following Carrie Howard's death Rice Corner was thrown into

a commotion by the astounding fact that Captain Howard was going out

West, and had sold his farm to a gentleman from the city, whose wife

"kept six servants, wore silk all the time, never went inside of the

kitchen, never saw a churn, breakfasted at ten, dined at three, and

had supper the next day!"

Such was the story which Mercy Jenkins detailed to us early one Monday

morning, and then, eager to communicate so desirable a piece of news

to others of her acquaintance, she started off, stopping for a moment

as she passed the wash-room to see if Sally's clothes "wan't kinder

dingy and yaller." As soon as she was gone the astonishment of our

household broke forth, grandma wondering why Captain Howard wanted to

go to the ends of the earth, as she designated Chicago, their place of

destination, and what she should do without Aunt Eunice, who, having

been born on grandma's wedding day, was very dear to her, and then her

age was so easy to keep. But the best of friends must part, and when

at Mrs. Howard's last tea-drinking with us I saw how badly they all

felt, and how many tears were shed, I firmly resolved never to like

anybody but my own folks, unless, indeed, I made an exception in favor

of Tom Jenkins, who so often drew me to school on his sled, and who

made such comical-looking jack-o'-lanterns out of the big yellow

pumpkins.

In reply to the numerous questions concerning Mr. Gilbert, the

purchaser of their farm, Mrs. Howard could only reply that he was very

wealthy and had got tired of living in the city; adding, further, that

he wore a "monstrous pair of musquitoes," had an evil-looking eye,

four children, smoked cigars, and was a lawyer by profession. This

last was all grandma wanted to know about him--"that told the whole

story," for there never was but _one_ decent lawyer, and that was Mr.

Evelyn, Cousin Emma's husband. Dear old lady! when, a few years ago,

she heard that I, her favorite grandchild, was to marry one of the

craft, she made another exception in his favor, saying that "if he

wasn't all straight, Mary would soon make him so!"

Within a short time after Aunt Eunice's visit she left Rice Corner,

and on the same day wagon-load after wagon-load of Mr. Gilbert's

furniture passed our house, until Sally declared "there was enough to

keep a tavern, and she didn't see nothin' where they's goin to put

it," at the same time announcing her intention of "running down there

after dinner, to see what was going on."

It will be remembered that Sally was now a married woman--"Mrs.

Michael Welsh;" consequently, mother, who lived with her instead of

her living with mother, did not presume to interfere with her much,

though she hinted pretty strongly that she "always liked to see people

mind their own affairs." But Sally was incorrigible. The dinner dishes

were washed with a whew, I was coaxed into sweeping the back

room--which I did, leaving the dirt under the broom behind the

door--while Mrs. Welsh, donning a pink calico, blue shawl, and bonnet

trimmed with dark green, started off on her prying excursion,

stopping by the roadside where Mike was making fence, and keeping him,

as grandma said, "full half an hour by the clock from his work."

Not long after Sally's departure a handsome carriage, drawn by two

fine bay horses, passed our house; and as the windows were down we

could plainly discern a pale, delicate-looking lady, wrapped in

shawls, a tall, stylish-looking girl, another one about my own age and

two beautiful little boys.

"That's the Gilberts, I know," said Anna. "Oh I'm so glad Sally's

gone, for now we shall have the full particulars;" and again we waited

as impatiently for Sally's return as we had once done before for

grandma.

At last, to our great relief, the green ribbons and blue shawl were

descried in the distance, and ere long Sally was with us, ejaculating,

"Oh, my--mercy me!" etc., thus giving us an inkling of what was to

follow. "Of all the sights that ever I have seen," said she, folding

up the blue shawl, and smoothing down the pink calico. "There's

carpeting enough to cover every crack and crevice--all pure bristles,

too!"

Here I tittered, whereupon Sally angrily retorted, that "she guessed

she knew how to talk proper, if she hadn't studied grarmar."

"Never mind," said Anna, "go on; brussels carpeting and what else?"

"Mercy knows what else," answered Sally. "I can't begin to guess the

names of half the things. There's mahogany, rosewood, and marble

fixin's--and in Miss Gilbert's room there's lace curtains and silk

damson ones--"

A look from Anna restrained me this time, and Sally continued.

"Mercy Jenkins is there, helpin', and she says Mr. Gilbert told 'em,

his wife never et a piece of salt pork in her life, and knew no more

how bread was made than a child two years old."

"What a simple critter she must be," said grandma, while Anna asked

if she saw Mrs. Gilbert, and if that tall girl was her daughter.

"Yes, I seen her," answered Sally, "and I guess she's weakly, for the

minit she got into the house she lay down on the sofa, which Mr.

Gilbert says cost seventy-five dollars. That tall, proud-lookin' thing

they call Miss Adaline, but I'll warrant you don't catch me puttin' on

the miss. I called her Adaline, and you had orto seen how her big eyes

looked at me. Says she, at last, 'Are you one of pa's new servants?"

"'Servants!' says I, 'no indeed; I'm Mrs. Michael Welsh, one of your

nighest neighbors.'

"Then I told her that there were two nice girls lived in the house

with me, and she'd better get acquainted with 'em right away; and then

with the hatefulest of all hateful laughs, she asked if 'they wore

glass beads and went barefoot.'"

I fancied that neither Juliet nor Anna were greatly pleased at being

introduced by Sally, the housemaid, to the elegant Adaline Gilbert,

who had come to the country with anything but a favorable impression

of its inhabitants. The second daughter, the one about my own age,

Sally said they called Nellie; "and a nice, clever creature she is,

too--not a bit stuck up like t'other one. Why, I do believe she'd

walked every big beam in the barn before she'd been there half an

hour, and the last I saw of her she was coaxing a cow to lie still

while she got upon her back!"

How my heart warmed toward the romping Nellie, and how I wondered if

after that beam-walking exploit her hooks and eyes were all in their

places! The two little boys, Sally said, were twins, Edward and

Egbert, or, as they were familiarly called, Bert and Eddie. This was

nearly all she had learned, if we except the fact that the family ate

with silver forks, and drank wine after dinner. This last, mother

pronounced heterodox, while I, who dearly loved the juice of the grape

and sometimes left finger marks on the top shelf, whither I had

climbed for a sip from grandma's decanter, secretly hoped I should

some day dine with Nellie Gilbert, and drink all the wine I wanted,

thinking how many times I'd rinse my mouth so mother shouldn't smell

my breath!

In the course of a few weeks the affairs of the Gilbert family were

pretty generally canvassed in Rice Corner, Mercy Jenkins giving it as

her opinion that "Miss Gilbert was much the likeliest of the two, and

that Mr. Gilbert was cross, overbearing, and big feeling."

CHAPTER II.

NELLIE.

As yet I had only seen Nellie in the distance, and was about

despairing of making her acquaintance when accident threw her in my

way. Directly opposite our house, and just across along green meadow,

was a piece of woods which belonged to Mr. Gilbert, and there, one

afternoon early in May, I saw Nellie. I had seen her there before, but

never dared approach her; and now I divided my time between watching

her and a dense black cloud which had appeared in the west, and was

fast approaching the zenith. I was just thinking how nice it would be

if the rain should drive her to our house for shelter, when patter,

patter came the large drops in my face; thicker and faster they fell,

until it seemed like a perfect deluge; and through the almost blinding

sheet of rain I descried Nellie coming toward me at a furious rate.

With the agility of a fawn she bounded over the gate, and with the

exclamation of, "Ain't I wetter than a drownded rat?" we were

perfectly well acquainted.

It took but a short time to divest her of her dripping garments, and

array her in some of mine, which Sally said "fitted her to a T,"

though I fancied she looked sadly out of place in my linen pantalets

and long-sleeved dress. She was a great lover of fun and frolic, and

in less than half an hour had "ridden to Boston" on Joe's

rocking-horse, turned the little wheel faster than even I dared to

turn it, tried on grandma's stays, and then, as a crowning feat, tried

the rather dangerous experiment of riding down the garret stairs on a

board! The clatter brought up grandma, and I felt some doubts about

her relishing a kind of play which savored so much of what she called

"a racket," but the soft brown eyes which looked at her so pleadingly

were too full of love, gentleness, and mischief to be resisted, and

permission for "one more ride" was given, "provided she'd promise not

to break her neck."

Oh, what fun we had that afternoon! What a big rent she tore in my

gingham frock, and what a "dear, delightful old haunted castle of a

thing" she pronounced our house to be. Darling, darling Nellie! I shut

my eyes and she comes before me again, the same bright beautiful

creature she was when I saw her first, as she was when I saw her for

the last, last time.

It rained until dark, and Nellie, who confidently expected to stay all

night, had whispered to me her intention of "tying our toes together,"

when there came a tremendous rap upon the door, and without waiting to

be bidden in walked Mr. Gilbert, puffing and swelling, and making

himself perfectly at home, in a kind of offhand manner, which had in

it so much of condescension that I was disgusted, and when sure Nellie

would not see me I made at him a wry face, thereby feeling greatly

relieved!

After managing to let mother know how expensive his family was, how

much he paid yearly for wines and cigars, and how much Adaline's

education and piano had cost, he arose to go, saying to his daughter,

"Come, puss, take off those--ahem--those habiliments, and let's be

off!"

Nellie obeyed, and just before she was ready to start she asked, when

I would come and spend the day with her.

I looked at mother, mother looked at Mr. Gilbert, Mr. Gilbert looked

at me, and after surveying me from head to foot said, spitting between

every other word, "Ye-es ye-es, we've come to live in the country, and

I suppose" (here he spit three successive times), "and I suppose we

may as well be on friendly terms as any other; so, madam" (turning to

mother), "I am willing to have your little daughter visit us

ocasionally." Then adding that "he would extend the same invitation to

her were it not that his wife was an invalid and saw no company," he

departed.

One morning, several days afterward, a servant brought to our house a

neat little note from Mrs. Gilbert, asking mother to let me spend the

day with Nellie. After some consultation between mother and grandma,

it was decided that I might go, and in less than an hour I was dressed

and on the road, my hair braided so tightly in my neck that the little

red bumps of flesh set up here and there, like currants on a brown

earthen platter.

Nellie did not wait to receive me formally, but came running down the

road, telling me that Robin had made a swing in the barn, and that we

would play there most all day, as her mother was sick, and Adaline,

who occupied two-thirds of the house, wouldn't let us come near her.

This Adaline was to me a very formidable personage. Hitherto I had

only caught glimpses of her, as with long skirts and waving plumes she

sometimes dashed past our house on horseback, and it was with great

trepidation that I now followed Nellie into the parlor, where she told

me her sister was.

"Adaline, this is my little friend," said she; and Adaline replied:

"How do you do, little friend?"

My cheeks tingled, and for the first time raising my eyes I found

myself face to face with the haughty belle. She was very tall and

queenlike in her figure, and though she could hardly be called

handsome, there was about her an air of elegance and refinement which

partially compensated for the absence of beauty. That she was proud

one could see from the glance of her large black eyes and the curl of

her lip. Coolly surveying me for a moment, as she would any other

curious specimen, she resumed her book, never speaking to me again,

except to ask, when she saw me gazing wonderingly around the

splendidly-furnished room, "if I supposed I could remember every

article of furniture, and give a faithful report."

I thought I was insulted when she called me "little friend," and now,

feeling sure of it, I tartly replied that "if I couldn't she perhaps

might lend me paper and pencil, with which to write them down."

"Orginally, truly," said she, again poring over her book.

Nellie, who had left me for a moment, now returned, bidding me come

and see her mother, and passing through the long hall, I was soon in

Mrs. Gilbert's room, which was as tastefully, though perhaps not quite

so richly, furnished as the parlor. Mrs. Gilbert was lying upon a

sofa, and the moment I looked upon her the love which I had so freely

given the daughter was shared with the mother, in whose pale sweet

face, and soft brown eyes, I saw a strong resemblance to Nellie. She

was attired in a rose-colored morning-gown, which flowed open in

front, disclosing to view a larger quantity of rich French embroidery

than I had ever before seen.

Many times during the day, and many times since, have I wondered what

made her marry, and if she really loved the bearish-looking man who

occasionally stalked into the room, smoking cigars and talking very

loudly, when he knew how her head was throbbing with pain.

I had eaten but little breakfast that morning, and verily I thought I

should famish before their dinner hour arrived; and when at last it

came, and I saw the table glittering with silver, I felt many

misgivings as to my ability to acquit myself creditably. But by dint

of watching Nellie, doing just what she did, and refusing just what

she refused, I managed to get through with it tolerably well. For

once, too, in my life I drank all the wine I wanted; the result of

which was that long before sunset I went home, crying and vomiting

with the sick headache, which Sally said "served me right;" at the

same time hinting her belief that I was slightly intoxicated!

CHAPTER III.

THE HAUNTED HOUSE.

Down our long, green lane, and at the further extremity of the narrow

footpath which led to the "old mine," was another path or wagon road

which wound along among the fern bushes, under the chestnut trees,

across the hemlock swamp, and up, to a grassy ridge which overlooked a

small pond, said, of course, to have no bottom. Fully crediting this

story, and knowing, moreover, that China was opposite to us, I have

often taken down my atlas and hunted through that ancient empire, in

hopes of finding a corresponding sheet of water. Failing to do so I

had made one with my pencil, writing against it, "Cranberry Pond,"

that being the name of its American brother.

Just above the pond on the grassy ridge stood an old, dilapidated

building which had long borne the name of the "haunted house." I never

knew whether this title was given it on account of its proximity to

the "old mine," or because it stood near the very spot where, years

and years ago, the "bloody Indians" pushed those cart-loads of burning

hemp against the doors "of the only remaining house in Quaboag"--for

which see Goodrich's Child's History, page--, somewhere toward the

commencement. I only know that 'twas called the "haunted house," and

that for a long time no one would live there, on account of the

rapping, dancing, and cutting up generally which was said to prevail,

there particularly in the west room, the one overhung with ivy and

grapevines.

Three or four years before our story opens a widow lady, Mrs. Hudson,

with her only daughter, Mabel, appeared in our neighborhood, hiring

the "haunted house," and, in spite of the neighbors' predictions to

the contrary, living there quietly and peaceably, unharmed by ghost or

goblin. At first Mrs. Hudson was looked upon with distrust, and even a

league with a certain old fellow was hinted at; but as she seemed to

be well disposed, kind, and affable toward all, this feeling gradually

wore away, and now she was universally liked, while Mabel, her

daughter, was a general favorite. For two years past, Mabel had worked

in the Fiskdale factory a portion of the time, going to school the

remainder of the year. She was fitting herself for a teacher, and as

the school in our district was small, the trustees had this summer

kindly offered it to her. This arrangement delighted me; for, next to

Nellie Gilbert, I loved Mabel Hudson best of anybody; and I fancied,

too, that they looked alike, but of course it was all fancy.

Mrs. Hudson was a tailoress, and the day following my visit to Mr.

Gilbert's I was sent by mother to take her some work. I found her in

the little porch, her white cap-border falling over her placid face,

and her wide checked apron coming nearly to the bottom of her dress.

Mabel was there, too, and as she arose to receive me something about

her reminded me of Adaline Gilbert. I could not tell what it was, for

Mabel was very beautiful, and beside her Adaline would be plain; still

there was a resemblance, either in voice or manner, and this it was,

perhaps, which made me so soon mention the Gilberts and my visit to

them the day previous.

Instantly Mrs. Hudson and Mabel exchanged glances, and I thought the

face of the former grew a shade paler; still I may have been mistaken,

for in her usual tone of voice she began to ask me numberless

questions concerning the family, which seemed singular, as she was not

remarkable for curiosity. But it suited me. I loved to talk then not

less than I do now, and in a few minutes I had told all I knew--and

more, too, most likely.

At last Mrs. Hudson asked about Mr. Gilbert, and how I liked him.

"Not a bit," said I. "He's the hatefulest, crossest, big-feelingest

man I ever saw, and Adaline is just like him!"

Had I been a little older I might, perhaps, have wondered at the

crimson flush which my hasty words brought to Mrs. Hudson's cheek, but

I did not notice it then, and thinking she was, of course, highly

entertained, I continued to talk about Mr. Gilbert and Adaline, in the

last of whom Mabel seemed the most interested. Of Nellie I spoke with

the utmost affection, and when Mrs. Hudson expressed a wish to see

her, I promised, if possible, to bring her there; then as I had

already outstayed the time for which permission had been given, I tied

on my sunbonnet and started for home, revolving the ways and means by

which I should keep my promise.

This proved to be a very easy matter; for within a few days Nellie

came to return my visit, and as mother had other company she the more

readily gave us permission to go where we pleased. Nellie had a

perfect passion for ghost and witch stories, saying though that "she

never liked to have them explained--she'd rather they'd be left in

solemn mystery;" so when I told her of the "old mine" and the "haunted

house" she immediately expressed a desire to see them. Hiding our

bonnets under our aprons the better to conceal our intentions from

sister Lizzie, who, we fancied, had serious thoughts of _tagging_, we

sent her up-stairs in quest of something which we knew was not there,

and then away we scampered down the green lane and across the pasture,

dropping once into some alders as Lizzie's yellow hair became visible

on the fence at the foot of the lane. Our consciences smote us a

little, but we kept still until she returned to the house; then,

continuing our way, we soon came in sight of the mine, which Nellie

determined to explore.

It was in vain that I tried to dissuade her from the attempt. She was

resolved, and stationing myself at a safe distance I waited while she

scrambled over stones, sticks, logs, and bushes, until she finally

disappeared in the cave. Ere long, however, she returned with soiled

pantalets, torn apron, and scratched face, saying that "the mine was

nothing in the world but a hole in the ground, and a mighty little one

at that." After this I didn't know but I would sometime venture in,

but for fear of what might happen I concluded to choose a time when I

hadn't run away from Liz!

When I presented Nellie to Mrs. Hudson she took both her hands in

hers, and, greatly to my surprise, kissed her on both cheeks. Then she

walked hastily into the next room, but not until I saw something fall

from her eyes, which I am sure were tears.

"Funny, isn't it?" said Nellie, looking wonderingly at me. "I don't

know whether to laugh or what."

Mabel now came in, and though she manifested no particular emotion,

she was exceedingly kind to Nellie, asking her many questions, and

sometimes smoothing her brown curls. When Mrs. Hudson again appeared

she was very calm, but I noticed that her eyes constantly rested upon

Nellie, who, with Mabel's gray kitten in her lap, was seated upon the

doorstep, the very image of childish innocence and beauty. Mrs. Hudson

urged us to stay to tea but I declined, knowing that there was company

at home, with three kinds of cake, besides cookies, for supper. So

bidding her good-by, and promising to come again, we started homeward,

where we found the ladies discussing their green tea and making large

inroads upon the three kinds of cake.

One of them, a Mrs. Thompson, was gifted with the art of

fortune-telling, by means of tea-grounds, and when Nellie and I took

our seats at the table she kindly offered to see what was in store for

us. She had frequently told my fortune, each time managing to fish up

a freckle-faced boy so nearly resembling her grandson, my particular

aversion, that I didn't care to hear it again. But with Nellie 'twas

all new, and after a great whirling of tea-grounds and staining of

mother's best table-cloth, she passed her cup to Mrs. Thompson,

confidently whispering to me that she guessed she'd tell her something

about Willie Raymond, who lived in the city, and who gave her the

little cornelian ring which she wore. With the utmost gravity Mrs.

Thompson read off the past and present, and then peering far into the

future she suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, my! there's a gulf, or something,

before you, and you are going to tumble into it headlong; don't ask me

anything more."

I never did and never shall believe in fortune-telling, much less in

Granny Thompson's "turned-up cups," but years after I thought of her

prediction with regard to Nellie. Poor, poor Nellie!

CHAPTER IV.

JEALOUSY.

On the first Monday in June our school commenced, and long before

breakfast Lizzie and I were dressed and had turned inside out the

little cupboard over the fireplace where our books were kept during

vacation. Breakfast being over we deposited in our dinner-basket the

whole of a custard pie, and were about starting off when mother said

"we shouldn't go a step until half-past eight," adding further, that

"we must put that pie back, for 'twas one she'd saved for their own

dinner."

Lizzie pouted, while I cried, and taking my bonnet I repaired to the

"great rock," where the sassafras, blackberries, and blacksnakes grew.

Here I sat for a long time, thinking if I ever did grow up and get

married (I was sure of the latter), I'd have all the custard pie I

could eat for once! In the midst of my reverie a footstep sounded

near, and looking up I saw before me Nellie Gilbert, with her satchel

of books on her arm, and her sunbonnet hanging down her back, after

the fashion in which I usually wore mine. In reply to my look of

inquiry she said her father had concluded to let her go to the

district school, though he didn't expect her to learn anything but

"slang terms and ill manners."

By this time it was half-past eight, and together with Lizzie we

repaired to the schoolhouse, where we found assembled a dozen girls

and as many boys, among whom was Tom Jenkins. Tom was a great admirer

of beauty, and hence I could never account for the preference he had

hitherto shown for me, who my brothers called "bung-eyed" and Sally

"raw-boned." He, however, didn't think so. My eyes, he said, were none

too large, and many a night had he carried home my books for me, and

many a morning had he brought me nuts and raisins, to say nothing of

the time when I found in my desk a little note, which said--But

everybody who's been to school, knows what it said!

Taking it all round we were as good as engaged; so you can judge what

my feelings were when, before the night of Nellie's first day at

school, I saw Tom Jenkins giving her an orange which I had every

reason to think was originally intended for me! I knew very well that

Nellie's brown curls and eyes had done the mischief; and though I did

not love her the less, I blamed him the more for his fickleness, for

only a week before he had praised my eyes, calling them a "beautiful

indigo blue," and all that. I was highly incensed, and when on our way

from school he tried to speak good-humoredly, I said, "I'd thank you

to let me alone! I don't like you, and never did!"

He looked sorry for a minute, but soon forgot it all in talking to

Nellie, who after he had left us said "he was a cleverish kind of boy,

though he couldn't begin with William Raymond." After that I was very

cool toward Tom, who attached himself more and more to Nellie, saying

"she had the handsomest eyes he ever saw;" and, indeed, I think it

chiefly owing to those soft, brown, dreamy eyes that I am not now

"Mrs. Tom Jenkins of Jenkinsville," a place way out West, whither Tom

and his mother have migrated.

One day Nellie was later at school than usual, giving as a reason that

their folks had company--a Mr. Sherwood and his mother, from Hartford;

and adding that if I'd never tell anybody as long as I lived and

breathed she'd tell me something.

Of course I promised, and Nellie told me how she guessed that Mr.

Sherwood, who was rich and handsome, liked Adaline. "Anyway, Adaline

likes him," said she, "and oh, she's so nice and good when he's

around. I ain't 'Nell, you hateful thing' then, but I'm 'Sister

Nellie.' They are going to ride this morning, and perhaps they'll go

by here. There they are, now!" and looking toward the road I saw Mr.

Sherwood and Adaline Gilbert on horseback, riding leisurely past the

schoolhouse. She was nodding to Nellie, but he was looking intently at

Mabel, who was sitting near the window. I know he asked Adaline

something about her, for I distinctly heard a part of her reply--"a

poor factory girl," and Adaline's head tossed scornfully, as if that

were a sufficient reason why Mabel should be despised.

Mr. Sherwood evidently did not think so, for the next day he walked by

alone--and the next day he did the same, this time bringing with him a

book, and seating himself in the shadow of a chestnut tree not far

from the schoolhouse. The moment school was out, he arose and came

forward, inquiring for Nellie, who, of course, introduced him to

Mabel. The three then walked on together, while Tom Jenkins stayed in

the rear with me, wondering what I wanted to act so for; "couldn't a

feller like more than one girl if he wanted to?"

"Yes, I s'posed a feller could, though I didn't know, nor care!"

Tom made no reply, but whittled away upon a bit of shingle, which

finally assumed the shape of a heart, and which I afterward found in

his desk with the letter "N" written upon it, and then scratched out.

When at last we reached our house Mr. Sherwood asked Nellie "where

that old mine and sawmill were, of which she had told him so much."

"Right on Miss Hudson's way home," said Nellie. "Let's walk along with

her;" and the next moment Mr. Sherwood, Mabel, and Nellie were in the

long, green lane which led down to the sawmill.

Oh, how Adaline stormed when she heard of it, and how sneeringly she

spoke to Mr. Sherwood of the "factory girl," insinuating that the

bloom on her cheek was paint, and the lily on her brow powder! But he

probably did not believe it, for almost every day he passed the

schoolhouse, generally managing to speak with Mabel; and once he went

all the way home with her, staying ever so long, too, for I watched

until 'twas pitch dark, and he hadn't got back yet!

In a day or two he went home, and I thought no more about him, until

Tom, who had been to the post-office, brought Mabel a letter, which

made her turn red and white alternately, until at last she cried. She

was very absent-minded the remainder of that day, letting us do as we

pleased, and never in my life did I have a better time "carrying on"

than I did that afternoon when Mabel received her first letter from

Mr. Sherwood.

CHAPTER V.

NEW RELATIONS.

About six weeks after the close of Mabel's school we were one day

startled with the intelligence that she was going to be married, and

to Mr. Sherwood, too. He had become tired of the fashionable ladies of

his acquaintance, and when he saw how pure and artless Mabel was, he

immediately became interested in her; and at last, overcoming all

feelings of pride, he had offered her his hand, and had been accepted.

At first we could hardly credit the story; but when Mrs. Hudson

herself confirmed it we gave it up, and again I wondered if I should

be invited. All the nicest and best chestnuts which I could find, to

say nothing of the apples and butternuts, I carried to her, not

without my reward either, for when invitations came to us I was

included with the rest. Our family were the only invited guests, and I

felt no fears this time of being hidden by the crowd.

Just before the ceremony commenced there was the sound of a heavy

footstep upon the outer porch, a loud knock at the door, and then into

the room came Mr. Gilbert! He seemed slightly agitated, but not

one-half so much as Mrs. Hudson, who exclaimed, "William, my son, why

are you here?"

"I came to witness my sister's bridal," was the answer; and turning

toward the clergyman, he said, somewhat authoritatively, "Do not delay

for me, sir. Go on."

There was a movement in the next room, and then the bridal party

entered, both starting with surprise as they saw Mr. Gilbert. Very

beautiful did Mabel look as she stood up to take upon herself the

marriage vow, not a syllable of which did one of us hear. We were

thinking of Mr. Gilbert, and the strange words, "my son" and "my

sister."

When it was over, and Mabel was Mrs. Sherwood, Mr. Gilbert approached

Mrs. Hudson, saying, "Come, mother, let me lead you to the bride."