CHANGES IN THE COTTAGE HOME.
Be kind to the child! Build with great care and skill the foundations
upon which is to be reared a life whose influences are to reach into the
ages that have no end. There is no living by one's self, and the great
net-work of human existence may be warped and misshapen by _one_
chilling neglect or a palpable wrong! Even so does the individual life
often become marred beyond remedy when it is tender and susceptible to
the guiding hand. There are natures so finely and sensitively
constituted that every rude blast twists and bends the silver wires of
the organization until the music is dead, and the case, although
polished and beautiful to the eye, stands a wreck of what it should have
been. Such were the surroundings of our little heroine. For fourteen
years she had been the child of "circumstances," her days filled up with
tears and laughter and her nights with idle dreams. No mother's love had
ever twined itself about her young heart to nourish and foster the
tender plants of sweetness and purity which was to make her life
beautiful with their variegated blossoms, or root up the entangling
weeds with which she must ever after contend. Mrs. Evans had indeed been
kind to her as the "companion of her afflicted boy," as she would also
have been to a pet kitten or anything that would have added to the
happiness or comfort of her child. Yet she did not fail to perceive when
her vision began to grow dim to the world that the "casket" which had
been thus opportunely cast at her feet contained jewels which were worth
securing. The last few days and weeks of the only one whom her heart
ever claimed as _Mother_ left their impress on her soul which never
faded away. It was a taste at least of that love for which she had so
often longed--such as a child must have or be miserable! But even that
was all over now. True, Willie had been her dear brother ever since, her
comfort when sorrows overshadowed her, her help through scenes of
trouble. But a cloud darker and denser than any of its predecessors was
spreading itself over them both. Sad news had come to them from over the
sea--the far off dark, dark sea. Alone they sat together in the doorway
one evening where the last rays of the setting sun came and played about
their bowed forms, caressing their damp cheeks; but for once they were
not heeded.
"We are orphans now, Phebe--poor, lone _orphans_! Never did I feel the
miseries of my decrepitude as now! I am helpless, and _who_ will take
care of you? The thought doubles my sorrow! I ought to be a man and
comfort rather than to add to your depression; but I am a weak, helpless
child, even more so, my sister, than you to-night." Phebe raised her
head from her hand where it had been resting and fixed her large eyes
upon the pale face before her.
"Willie, do _I_ look like a child?" she asked. "It has not been
twenty-four hours since we received the sad news that our father had
been swallowed up by the great sea I love so well; still he is not dead
to me, but has only gone where _I_ in my childish fancy so longed to go,
therefore I cannot 'make him dead'; he's only resting while he calls
upon me to act! Willie, I am no longer a child, for every hour has
seemed to add a year to my life since that letter came! I am strong, and
thanks to you and the dear ones who have so long sheltered me from the
storms, I have a little stock of knowledge to begin my future with; I
shall act." Her gaze had wandered off to the golden clouds that were
hanging over the little lake as she spoke, and a look of firm resolve
stole over her features.
"I see my fate written upon your face!" replied Willie mournfully. "How
can I endure the lonely hours, the lengthening days? But I am ashamed of
myself. Somehow the fates have turned against me, Phebe, and have taken
away my years to add them to yours. I will not be so childishly selfish.
But Sister, you will need a friend. How can you go out into the world
alone?"
"I _have_ a friend! Do not, I beg of you, think me so destitute Willie.
Have you forgotten Crazy Dimis?" A low subdued laugh escaped the lips of
both at the suggestion and mingled itself with the soft evening breeze.
Suddenly they started for a voice harsh and cold as a winter's wind was
near them which chilled the soft melody and sent it back to their
wounded hearts in a low sad wail. It was Fanny who spoke.
"Your grief must have been terrible to have been forgotten so soon!" she
exclaimed. "You can go in, Phebe, and take care of the supper table if
you have got through crying," she continued bitterly.
Phebe arose without a word. For once her anger did not rise to goad her.
Could it be that her power over this her greatest enemy had gained
strength also with her seemingly multiplied years?
Fanny took the seat that was just vacated by the side of her brother.
"What is Phebe going to do?" was the abrupt question.
"What would you like her to do? I suppose she will be willing to be
guided by your counsel."
"Humph! Willing! It would be the first time that she was ever willing to
do anything I wanted her to do, and I have not the least doubt that she
would be more unwilling to accede to my wishes at this time than ever
before, for I want her to leave the house! _You_ do not need her now for
you are old enough to amuse yourself I should think, and _I_ certainly
do not! There is to be a new master here before the fall work begins, as
I suppose you know." The last remark was made in a lower tone of voice
and Willie readily understood that she referred to her approaching
marriage with Mr. Hopkins, a young farmer living a few miles away; but
as he made no reply she continued. "I do not suppose he would be pleased
to have _too_ many incumbrances, and Phebe is old enough and able to
take care of herself."
"Perhaps he would like to have me also vacate his prospective premises,"
responded the brother with an unnatural bitterness in his voice.
"O, no! He is well aware that _you_ can do nothing for yourself and has
made no objections to _your_ remaining."
There were sleepless eyes wet with weeping that night beneath the
homestead roof as the midnight hour spread over it her dark wings, but
it bore away on its upward pinions the trusting faith--the childlike
submission of _one_ heart at least to Him who is ever a "father to the
fatherless ones."
"Now for a long ride down by the pond and along the sandy beach, where
we can see the lilies on the water, and if the boat is not fastened I
will gather a few for you once more," prattled Phebe, as on the ensuing
forenoon she walked by the little wagon (which was now too small for
both), as was her usual custom when the morning's work was done.
How could Willie ever forego these pleasures? He would continue his
rides, drawn by the faithful Rover, who had seemed to enjoy these
excursions equally with his young master and mistress. But Phebe always
walked by his side, now patting his soft coat, or gathering flowers for
him who could not skip about so blithely and easily as did she, or now
and then helping the faithful Rover over the rough places, praising and
caressing him for his valor and strength in overcoming difficulties.
Happy trio! And was it possible that all this must end?
"Have you forgotten, Willie, what my true name is? You have not called
me Lily-Pearl for a _long_ time," she remarked, as they came in sight of
the pure white blossoms that dotted the surface of the lake. "_I_ shall
never forget it. See, Willie, that beautiful lily yonder by that large
leaf. How the ripples that come sweeping around the sandbar keep tossing
it up and down, never allowing it to be quiet a moment. O, it really
makes me tired to look at it. Yet that is _me_, Willie! That is
'Lily-Pearl!' I am going to get it for you to keep. When I am gone, and
you look at it, think that I am no more 'little Phebe,' but your own
'Lily,' who will never forget or forsake you, my brother." Saying this
she bounded into the little open boat, and with accustomed dexterity
soon made her way to the point designated. It was no unusual labor for
her willing hands, it being one of her greatest amusements when the
little pond was decked with these fragrant blossoms to gather them.
Willie watched her for a moment, as she glided away from him, and then
his coming desolation swept over his soul like a flood, and her form was
hidden from his sight.
"See, Willie, I have it!" she exclaimed, as she held up the coveted
treasure, exposing the long, smooth stem, by which, as she said, the
mother pearl held it fast. "It came near pulling me in. Did you see me,
Willie?"
But he did not. See her? How could he through all those blinding tears
that came bubbling up rapidly from his bursting heart? He had crept from
his seat in the wagon and made his way to a grassy knoll close by, and
there beneath the shade of the old oak tree where they had often sat
together he gave free vent to his emotions. The sky was calm and blue
above him, and here and there a soft, fleecy cloud floated through the
clear sunbeams of the July morning; the lake, beautiful in its gorgeous
frame-work of hills and woods, lay spread out like a mirror, upon which
the rays danced and sported close to the water's edge, penetrating the
shadows, and lulling the murmur of the leaves, throwing over the
prostrate figure of the weeping boy a net-work of lights and shades
from the branches above him. Phebe had seen him from the boat, and in a
moment more was standing beside him, her heart throbbing with sympathy
and grief. She had thought to keep away this dark shadow for awhile by
her merry words, but it was over now; and throwing her arms about his
neck, she exclaimed:
"Willie, my dear brother, do not feel so badly. It is true, I must go
and leave you for a time, but you are mine--all I have to love and work
for. What do I care for any but you? Yes, I must go. I heard what Fanny
said last night, but it was no more than I have heard before, or than I
expected. Yet it makes me strong. I can leave you now, but only for a
little while. We will not be separated long. _I_ will come to you. Our
mother gave you to me, and I promised to cling to you. O Willie, you
shall see how I can work, how much I can accomplish! I will do more than
was ever done before me by a 'cast-away.' Do you not believe me?"
Putting her hand under his head, she turned his pale wet face up to her
view. He did not try to prevent her, but lay quietly as she placed him.
"Look into my eyes, Willie. _I_ am not weeping. It seems to me I can
never shed another tear. I feel so strong! The future, Brother! O the
future! What a great huge painting it seems! But it is not full yet. _I_
shall do something there; _my_ hands will help to color it. Yes, _I_,
little Phebe."
"I do not doubt it. There is a destiny for such as you. A mission awaits
you. I will be more brave, more manly. You could not remain with me. A
higher position than the partnership with a cripple or hostler to a big
mastiff is meted out to you."
A smile for an instant broke over his clouded face, and Phebe laughed
outright.
"Give me the lily," he said, at last, reaching out his hand for the
coveted treasure. "We will divide it. You shall have the long smooth
stalk while _I_ will keep the flower. Henceforth you are my lily, sweet
and precious to me; while _I_--_I_--well, I am nothing but the withered,
crooked tendril seeking to wind itself about your loving heart."
She darted from his side before the last sentence was finished, and her
companion following with his eyes her light, buoyant figure, saw
standing on an elevation of ground not far off, the well known form of
Crazy Dimis.
"I have found a double blackberry," she called, holding up something
between her long, bony thumb and finger, "come and see it."
Phebe went to her.
"Those are not double, Aunt Dimis," she exclaimed.
"Don't two make a double? Put them together and then they do--there!
It's a good omen for you, silly child. Make them double, help the time.
We must help. Ha! ha! And help Fate! Don't _I_ know, child? Fate is
waiting for you! Go and help her make omens. But make them good! Ha! ha!
_I_ didn't but I will. Silly fools. Cry and love; by and by it will be
love and cry. Don't I now? Go back to _him_! _I_ don't want you." And
with a bound she sprang over the fence and was lost in the thick
underbrush of the honeysuckle swamp.
Phebe called loudly after her but she was not heeded. She wanted to ask
her about a certain good lady, Mrs. Ernest, for this same half-crazed
gibbering woman had awakened an interest for Phebe in the heart of Mrs.
Ernest, and it was no idle jest when she told Willie that "Crazy Dimis"
was her friend. She now returned slowly to her companion, who was
watching her.
"What did that crazy creature say to you?" he asked, somewhat
impatiently. "Nothing good, I know."
"Yes it was. She told me to go and help Fate. I suppose she meant to
have me fill up that picture I was telling you about, and I must go.
To-morrow I shall start. Do not look at me so! you shall know
all--everything I do or hope to do; and I shall come to see you often.
Mrs. Ernest has promised to help me all she can, and I think I can make
her my friend. It will be only a short run for Rover, and you must ride
over there often--as often as you would like to hear from me, will you?"
She kissed his white forehead, then giving a low shrill whistle, which
the faithful dog well understood, she said: "We must go home, for it is
time to help get dinner."
In a moment more Rover with his wagon came up in good style, and they
started down the path which wound around by the meadow brook through the
clump of pine trees which stood as sentinels over the two graves beyond
the garden wall.
"How I wish Father were sleeping there instead of beneath the waves,"
cried Willie; and no other word was spoken. What wonder? How soon the
paths were to branch off from each other! Already the lonely cripple
felt the shadows creeping over him that were surely to cover his dreary
pathway as he wandered on alone. His heart was full of these sad
forebodings, and he pressed the memento of his helplessness more closely
in his hand as the spirit of rebellion for a moment arose to goad him.
Then "I will never leave thee nor forsake thee" came as a soft and
gentle whisper to his soul, and looking up as Rover halted by the
kitchen door he said mildly: "We shall all come together again, Phebe."
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