RECEPTION NIGHT AT THE NEW HOME.
Not many miles from Boston there stands a small, white cottage a few
rods back from the main road, with a cool, shady lane leading to the
lawn by which it is surrounded. Around this stands many wide-spreading
maples, which cast their shadows over roses and honeysuckles when the
sun is hottest, while the summer breezes linger among the branches to
fan the noonday loungers, who, weary with their morning's toil in the
field, seek rest beneath their shades. In the rear a garden stretches
its way down to a little brook, which winds itself hither and thither
through the tall meadow grass, singing softly to the gay lilies which
hang their heads over its banks. The brook passes on through the narrow
strip of pines that had carpeted the path on its margin with soft
matting until it reaches a fair and picturesque lake, lying snugly
nestled in the bright green basin the surrounding hills have made for
it. Trees stand upon the water's edge and dip their long, pendant
branches playfully into the blue beneath them, and white waxen lilies
with their pure petals deck the bosom of the sleeping beauty, and rise
and fall mechanically as the breezes pass over the surface.
It was to this home, surrounded by green fields and nature's beauties
that George Evans, the kind-hearted sailor, brought the unpromising
prize whom he found floating upon the waters.
It was a beautiful, calm summer evening when the two stepped from the
cars at the small village of Kirkham and began their pleasant walk of
some two miles to their journey's end. The road lay over a varied
country of hills and dales, on which the setting sun was throwing an
additional charm of golden hues, lighting up the tree tops and gilding
the quiet lake and brooklet with tints of changing glories, crowning the
distant mountain with a chaplet of beauty, as the retiring king sank
lower and lower in his chamber of purple and crimson behind a western
cloud. The sailor was walking slowly with bowed head, holding the little
brown hand of his _protegee_ tightly in his own, unheeding the departing
splendors of the dying day, for his thoughts were busy and his face
denoted a "mind ill at ease."
"Look--look!" exclaimed his little companion, pulling away her small
hand from the weather-beaten one that was so gently leading her.
"_That_ is 'most as pretty as the sea: But it don't talk to me," she
continued, after a moment's pause. He _did_ look as she requested, but
not where her finger pointed, for his attention suddenly became riveted
upon the little upturned face beside him.
"If they could only see her _now_," he thought; "what eyes! But it will
be all gone when we get there, and nothing but the old look of
impishness will remain." A smile passed over his bronzed features as he
continued to gaze at her who was hurrying on before to gather some
flowers that grew by the road-side, and well might he be pardoned for
any remark he might be tempted to make, for a more unlovely little image
could not well be imagined. Her dress, which had originally been of very
fine material, had lost the most of its beauty before coming to her, and
what little might have been left disappeared during the night she lay
asleep in the bottom of the dirty fishing boat with the rain beating
upon her. To be sure it had been washed and mended by the kind-hearted
Cathreen on board the "Bay State," but even this process had failed to
add new charms to it, for there were many more colors (added by the
several patches) than were at first intended to be there. This outer
article of apparel, with an apology for one other garment, was the sole
covering of the little dumpy figure; and her hair, which was very thick
and much longer than it was generally permitted to grow, hung in
confusion about her sunburnt face.
They had now ascended a slight eminence which overlooked the valley, and
before them was distinctly visible the blue lake with its green border,
and a long line of struggling sunbeams lingering upon its bosom, while
to the right, in the midst of the evening shadows, stood the neat white
cottage with its numerous adornings; still nearer and plainly
discernable in the broad light was a smooth white marble slab cold and
chilling as the form which had for many years rested beneath it. This
stone so motionless and still told the passer-by that "Henry Wood," the
former owner and proprietor of the pleasant home and those extensive
fields had long ago ceased from his labors, and the soil which his hands
had so productively tilled was now another's, yet they were not his who
was now so thoughtfully looking over them. When _he_, twelve years ago,
stood in the place of the buried husband, by the side of the widowed
wife, the reservation had been made. The farm with all its
accompaniments should belong to his future companion and _her_ heirs, of
whom her only daughter stood first in the rank of all succeeding
claimants.
One child had been born to them, a poor crippled boy of ten years,
towards whom the father's heart always turned with all its fullness of
paternal love.
"Come here, Phebe," said the sailor kindly to the busy little girl, who
had her hands full of gay flowers and leaves, as he seated himself on a
stone by the roadside. "Come here and see that house yonder! Don't you
think you would like to live there? See that lake, it isn't quite as
large as the one I found you on, but there is a boat much prettier, very
much, than the one you took your lonely ride in. Tell me, don't you
think you would like such a home as that?" he continued, seeing she was
gazing thoughtfully on the scene.
"I'd like to go _there_," she answered at last, pointing to the green
hills that surrounded the lake.
"But who would feed and take care of you? Besides, why would you not
like to live in that pretty house? There are flowers all around it, and
smooth paths through the garden down to the meadow brook, and beside it
you can walk to the lake where the bright little row-boat is fastened to
the oak tree. Willie thinks it is very nice! We always go there together
when I am at home, and while we are sailing I tell him all about my
voyage, what I saw and heard, and what I hope he will see and hear some
day."
"Won't they make me scour knives and wash potatoes?" asked the child,
eagerly. "I don't like to do it, and I _won't_!" she exclaimed
emphatically. "Mother used to whip me because I wouldn't do it; but I
would run away down to the shore and talk to the waves. Do the waves
talk over there?" she said, pointing to the lake, around which the
nightly shadows were densely gathering.
"If they do, they will tell you it is _very_ naughty not to do what
those who are so kind ask you to do. Mothers have to do many things that
are not pleasant, and every mother's girl ought to try to please her.
Don't you think so?" Phebe shrugged her shoulders, and drawing her hand
across her forehead, replied quickly--
"Well, I don't like to scour knives, and I hain't got no mother."
"But I want Willie's mother to be yours, and I think she will be very
kind to you, if you are good and try to please her."
A shadow passed over his face, and he was silent for a long time. When
he once more aroused himself to actual life it had grown quite dark and
the child was nowhere to be seen. He called, but she did not answer.
Hurrying down the hill he called again; but the echoes were his only
reply. For a moment a sense of relief came over him. He had pondered
much how he should introduce his little charge to the family circle in
her most attractive light, in order to avoid opposition as much as
possible. But she was gone, and he could now go to his home with the
expectation of a joyful greeting from all, unless it be save one. Then
his great heart spoke.
No, he could not leave her to wander off alone to perish; he _must_ find
her. Besides, Willie needed a companion. Poor lonely boy, he was denied
the sports of other children, and was left alone with his thoughts and
books so much that he was growing morbid and silent. This was pitiful in
one so young, and it may be that he needed just such a play-fellow as
this to draw him away from himself; and he would find her.
Hurrying on he did not stop until he had reached his own door, and to
his great surprise he beheld Phebe in the little sitting room surrounded
by the family circle, who seemed to be enjoying their strange guest to
the utmost. He stepped quickly back into the deeper shadows and
listened. They were evidently trying to find out something of her
history, for Willie asked:
"But where did you come from? You can tell us _that_."
"I came from way down in the ocean, where the pearls grow, that is what
my beautiful mother called me Lily-Pearl for."
A hearty laugh succeeded this answer, while Fanny remarked, ironically:
"I should imagine she had sprung out of _some_ dark cavern; but there is
not much of the appearance of the pearl family about her."
"What made you come _here_?" inquired Mrs. Evans, kindly; "did any one
send you?"
"I thought I'd just come and see if you'd make me scour knives and wash
potatoes; 'cause, if you would, I don't want to live here. I don't like
to do it and I _won't_!"
"What a strange child," remarked Willie. "I wish I could keep her; I
should like her _so_ much."
"Like me? Does _that_ mean _love_? Would you kiss me and say, 'Good-bye,
dear,' as Lutie Grant's mother does? Maria kissed me once, but _that_
was nothing," and she shrugged her shoulders with an impatient gesture
of contempt.
"Kiss her," exclaimed Fanny; "I would as soon kiss one of our pigs."
Mr. Evans from the shadow saw the flash in the large dark eyes, as they
turned upon the speaker, and thought it time to make his appearance
known. As he entered the door Phebe ran to him with outstretched arms,
and exclamations of pleasure, while the eager hands of the little lame
boy were reached out towards him, and soon clasped in the strong, loving
embrace of the happy father. The wife came forward for her share of
joyful greetings, but the daughter kept her seat by the table where she
was sewing, extending her hand only as the father approached, but he
bowed his head and kissed her brow with a fondness that was not
returned.
"Well, Phebe, what made you run away from me?" he asked, turning to the
little girl who was still clinging to him, and laying his hand tenderly
on her bushy head. "You wanted to introduce yourself, did you? Didn't
you know I was very much frightened? I thought, perhaps you had run away
to the woods where you seemed so anxious to go and live."
"And where you picked her up, I should imagine," remarked Fanny, without
raising her eyes from her work.
"Not quite so bad as that, is it, Phebe? But we will talk about that by
and by," and unfolding a large bundle which he had brought with him he
handed Willie some books which made his blue eyes sparkle; then a parcel
to his wife and another to the daughter, while a third he held in his
hand.
"Here are some dresses for Phebe, which I think will serve to win for
herself a trifle more affection than she can expect to get in her
present outfit," he said with a smile.
Unfolding some bright calicoes, he called the little girl to him.
"Won't you look pretty when you have these new dresses on?" he asked
kindly.
"Lutie Grant never wore prettier clothes than these will be!"
This had the desired effect. How her eyes sparkled and danced with the
anticipation.
"Why, isn't she handsome, Father? Where _did_ you find her?"
He gave a communicating look to his son and said;
"Tell Willie where I found you, will you?"
"'Way out on the ocean," she said, evasively.
"What were you doing there?" Willie again asked.
"I wanted to go out on the waves and hear what they said. I couldn't
tell what they said when I was on the rocks."
"You said you came from way down in the sea where the pearls grew."
"And so I _did_, but not now. A beautiful lady picked me up. Will _you_
call me Lily-Pearl?" she asked, coming close to Willie and taking his
soft, white hand in hers. "I'll be good, then."
"And do what Willie's mother asks you to do?" interrupted Mr. Evans; but
there was no answer.
"Let me call you Lily _Evans_; that's my name, you know, and if you are
to be my sister, we must love each other, and I shall want to have you
like my name, too. Shall I?" Phebe shrugged her shoulders, and the old
unpleasant look came back to her face.
"Then you don't want me for your brother? I thought you were going to
love me, and we would be happy together."
Phebe stole more closely to his side, and looking up into the pale face
whispered, timidly, "Will you kiss me, Willie?"
"To be sure I will, and _love_ you, too--I know I shall!" and the boy
kissed heartily the little upturned face just as Fanny's sneering laugh
reached her. The flash of indignation darted to her dark eyes, which her
kind protector had seen there more than once, and well did he understand
the foe that was lurking beneath.
"I think little Phebe must be tired; can you find a place for her to
sleep, Mother?" he asked soothingly, at the same time drawing her
towards him. "Good night, my little girl; I hope you will have pleasant
dreams, and to-morrow we will talk about the new dresses." He kissed her
fondly as he spoke, and the face beamed with joy as she left the room.
There was a long family consultation that night after the child had been
shown to her bed, and for the first time in her whole life made to
repeat the simple prayer: "Now I lay me down to sleep," which she did
reluctantly, and with many shrugs. But the quiet, earnest voice of Mrs.
Evans subdued her, and she at last submitted with a very good grace. It
was finally decided before the family separated for the night, that the
new-comer should for a time, at least, become an inmate of the home
circle, and through Willie's solicitations she should be considered his
exclusive property. He would be her teacher, guiding all her studies,
filling her little untutored mind with the knowledge he had gained, as
well as endeavoring to correct her faults; while she in return would be
his companion, drawing him in his carriage and amusing him generally. It
was with a light heart that the poor lame boy lay down to sleep that
night. Bright visions of coming happiness flitted through his mind, and
succeeded in driving away his usually quiet slumbers.
The next morning he arose early and soon after "Lily," as he persisted
at the time in calling her, notwithstanding Fanny's sarcastic
protestations, appeared in a neat chintz frock and pink apron which had
not been taken out from their hiding place since the baby boy had grown
too large for their use. Her hair was smoothly parted back from the
forehead and her face was beaming and animated. She bounded quickly to
Willie's side as she entered the room where breakfast was waiting, and
inquired eagerly: "Do I look pretty?" "To be sure you do; just as pretty
as any other girl!"
"I want to tell you something," she leaned over to whisper as she was
being lifted to her seat by the side of her future companion; "I love
_you_, but I _hate_ Fanny!" "You must not hate any one," replied Willie.
"Fanny is my sister and you are going to be, so we must _all_ love each
other." "I can't," and the little dumpy figure raised itself to its
fullest dimensions as she looked into the face of Fanny, who was coming
into the room with the coffee. "I _won't_ love _her_, but I love _you_,"
and she clasped the little white hand fervently in her own.
[Illustration]