THE PASTOR'S STUDY.
THE evening of the same day found them seated in the small, cosey study
of the parsonage.
Mr. Knowles, a white-haired man with a peculiarly mild, benign
countenance, sat near the window, his silver locks illumined with the
last rays of the setting sun.
At his feet Helen had seated herself on an ottoman. From her expressive
features the haughty defiance had vanished. For the nonce she was a
humble child. Her eyelashes were heavy with unshed tears, not bitter
ones, for they had been talking of her father. And these precious
memories softened and soothed her poor, torn heart.
Opposite them sat Frank and the cheerful companion of the clergyman.
They were conversing in animated tones of college life and college
duties, while Sybil, an unmarried daughter, moved in and out in the
preparation of the simple evening meal.
"Come, father," she said, at length, "supper is on the table. And if
you wish your pet Helen to enjoy Jane's waffles, you must come while
they are hot."
A few words entreating a blessing on the food were spoken by the pastor
before they were seated. Frank, whose eyes happened to turn toward his
sister, was astonished to see her face quivering with emotion. This
had passed, however, without notice. And during the meal, he had never
remembered to have seen her more cheerful, fascinating all present by
her life-like, piquant descriptions of scenes through which she had
passed.
"Bring the Bible and Psalm book, Sybil," said the good man, when all
had eaten, and were full. "Our friends will love to join us in our
evening devotions."
Helen sprang from the table, and passed him the books.
"You always used to let me do it," she exclaimed, playfully.
She seated herself close to his elbow, opening the book at the place
where the mark was inserted, and then putting her hand lovingly through
his arm.
Occasionally, through the reading, Frank saw her give the arm a loving
squeeze. And once the impulsive girl pressed her lips warmly on the
wrinkled hand, when the silver-haired man turned upon her a glance so
full of tenderness, that the watcher saw she could scarcely preserve
her composure.
Indeed, when the few verses of evening praise had been sung, and the
pastor poured out his earnest petitions for the friends present to
unite in the service, she was wholly overcome, so that her sobs became
quite audible.
No sooner had they risen from their kneeling posture, than she darted
from the room.
"Oh! Oh!" she faltered, when Sybil followed, and tried to soothe her.
"Oh, if I lived here, I might become good. I do love prayers from real
Christian men. But now I'm bad,—all bad!"
It was quite late before the pastor would allow his visitors to
leave. And then he followed them to the gate, bidding them return in
the morning, as he had much to say. He passed his hand lovingly over
Helen's abundant tresses, before he allowed his wife to take the young
girl to her heart for a good-night kiss.
"She is overflowing with affection," he said, when with Sybil they had
turned back to the house.
"Something has changed her," dryly remarked the practical Sybil. "I
haven't yet made up my mind whether the change is for the better or for
the worse."
Nurse Johnson had lived in the family of Mrs. Edmond's mother. She had
followed the young wife to Woodbine Cottage, and been an early friend
to Frank and Helen. In her sixtieth year, her kind master fitted up a
small house formerly used by the gardener, and gave her a life-lease of
it. It was a terrible trial to her when the old home was broken up, and
her children, as she fondly called them, moved away. Eyes less sharp
than hers would have discovered a change in the once lively Helen. It
is not strange, therefore, that her love for her youthful mistress
led the affectionate woman to wonder what had occurred during the few
months since her master's decease.
"Here is your room," she said, leading the way to a tiny chamber under
the eaves, "and Frank's is close by. Everything is sweet and clean, so
you wont mind for once that it is small."
"No, indeed, nurse, I shall not mind anything, now I am where people
love me for myself. I can lie here in the morning, and smell the
fragrant honeysuckle, and hear the birds warbling their pleasant songs.
Carry out the light, nurse, and let me see the trees waving in the
moonlight, What pretty shadows the leaves make on the floor. Nurse, I
call this a paradise, and I would like to live here always."
She threw her arms around the neck of her old friend, and sobbed
quietly to herself.
"I knew ye weren't quite happy, darling. Ye couldn't deceive yer old
nurse, with all yer smiles and gay tones. I seed right through inter
yer heart; and when yer was out walking with yer brother, says I to
myself, 'My pet isn't sitiwated as she oughter be, her eyes don't dance
permiscuous as they used to do; and I can hear a plaint of sadness
through her laugh.' Now sit down on yer bed, darling, and tell yer old
nurse all about it."
For one instant Helen was tempted to yield and unburden her heart of
its load. But a moment's reflection convinced her that her partial
friend would be a most injudicious confident. Nurse would be sure to
espouse her views, right or wrong; to endorse her own conduct, to hate
whoever she fancied had injured one she loved, and thus be incapable of
giving any good advice.
Still she would not wound the feelings of a friend so devoted, by
refusing to place confidence in her, and therefore answered cautiously:
"It has been hard for me, nurse, to live with strangers, and I miss
dear papa every hour in the day."
"That's it, pet; that's just what it is. You're grieving yourself to
death, and that's wrong. The good Lord has took him home, and if yer
try to do right, and love the dear Saviour, he'll call yer in his own
good time. Now go to bed, and to-morrow ye 'll look more like yerself."
Exhausted by the various emotions of the day, our heroine was soon
buried in a profound slumber, from which she did not arouse until the
sun was high in the heavens. She started from her couch, and began
to dress in great haste, only stopping occasionally to listen to the
carolling of the redbreasts, or the familiar sounds from the farmyard.
The house was so small it was easy to hear every word spoken. And
Helen, as she hurriedly twisted her abundant hair into a heavy coil,
and hid it under a net, could distinctly follow the conversation taking
place on the open porch beneath her window.
"I wish she had never left here," Frank was saying. "I'm afraid her
health will be seriously affected. Mr. Knowles would have known exactly
how to deal with her."
"What hinders her from coming back now? Miss Sybil would be delighted
to have her there, and I've heard say that Mr. Frederic is coming home
from his travels before long. He could tutor her just as he used to."
The listener held her breath. She could not afford to lose one word
now. How changed she was. There was an air of softness about her, while
her usually pale cheeks were of the richest crimson. What a pity there
was nobody but the birds to see her.
A little maiden from a neighboring cottage came sauntering up to
the door at this moment, to bring some eggs fresh laid, and Frank,
impatient at his sister's late appearance, ran gayly up the steep
stairs to call her, just as she was saying to herself, with clasped
hands:
"Oh, what a happiness that would be!"