CHAPTER I.

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THE

ELM TREE TALES.

BY

F. IRENE BURGE SMITH.

Little know they who dwell 'mid rural shades,

Of life's great struggles. Poverty and want

In direst forms, are never seen, where bloom

And verdure revel, but within the dark

And loathesome cellars of the crowded town,

They hide their tattered forms.

NEW YORK:

MASON BROTHERS.

1856.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by

MASON BROTHERS,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court, for the

Southern District of New York

STEREOTYPED BY

Thomas B. Smith,

82 & 84 Beekman Street

PRINTED BY

John A. Gray,

97 Cliff St.

PREFACE.

"There is a wisdom in calling a thing fitly. Names should note

particulars."--PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY.

To make the title of this book significant to you, I must transport you

to a sylvan nook, far from the city's boundaries, where an old stone

cottage peeps forth from the thick foliage. Down through the maple

avenue you will take your pleasant route, past the willow and alder

clumps, and the ancient mill, that hangs its idle arms listlessly by its

sides--on and on, over the little style, and the rustic bridge, which

spans the rivulet, until you reach the giant elm that spreads its broad

branches far and wide. Books and work are scattered about on the verdant

turf, bright flowers peep forth from amid the green, and many a fair

face greets you with its frank and cordial welcome. The sky is very blue

and clear, and the summer's breath comes refreshingly to you through

the leafy screen, as you seat yourself upon a mossy stone and join in

the merriments of the happy circle gathered there. But you are quite too

late for the manuscript volume which a guest from the city has been

reading aloud for the amusement of the group.

Perhaps you have lost nothing, however. I have obtained permission to

give it you for a more leisurely perusal. I hope it will please you.

When a stranger goes to your door seeking your regard and patronage, you

naturally look for some note of introduction, which generally reads

somewhat after this fashion:

"Any attentions you may bestow upon my friend ----, will confer

an especial favor upon

"Yours truly,

"---- ----."

BROOKLYN, October 27, 1855.

THE ELM-TREE TALES.

* * * * *

JENNIE GRIG:

THE STREET-SWEEPER.

* * * * *

NANNIE BATES:

THE HUCKSTER'S DAUGHTER.

* * * * *

ARCHIBALD MACKIE:

THE LITTLE CRIPPLE.

JENNIE GRIG,

THE STREET SWEEPER;

OR THE

VICISSITUDES OF LIFE.

JENNIE GRIG.

CHAPTER I.

Poor little girl! How sadly came her wailing tones on the frosty air,

while the multitudes that hurried past were hidden from the chilling

blasts by warm and furry garments!

There were some humane ones who lifted her softly from the ground, and

bore her carefully to the nearest apothecary's, to examine the extent of

her injuries--and a slight figure clad in the deepest weeds, followed

after and held the child's hand, and bathed her forehead, while the

surgeon bound up the broken limb.

"She was such a pinched wee thing to be sweeping those dangerous

crossings," said the lady; "no wonder the heedless crowd jostled her

down, and nearly crushed her tiny body."

"Is not her consciousness returning, doctor?" continued she, addressing

the surgeon, as a slight flush was beginning to be perceptible upon the

little girl's cheek.

The child had lain in a kind of stupor from the time of the accident,

and now, as her dark eyes slowly opened, she gazed faintly upon the

curious faces that were gathered around her, until she met the sweet

yet sorrowful glance of the strange lady--then, bursting forth into a

wild and bitter sobbing, she cried, "Who now will help my poor weak

mother, and my sick and dying father!--nine pennies only have I earned

to-day, and all is lost in the muddy street--oh! who will get them bread

and coals, now their Jennie can not work!"

"God will provide, only trust Him, poor child," said the kind lady, as

she wiped the tears that had moistened her own eyes at sight of the

child's grief.

"Where do your parents live, my little girl," asked the benevolent

surgeon--"we must be getting you home, or they will be anxious about you

now that the night is coming on."

The child started as she heard the word "_home_," and blushing the

deepest crimson, replied, "If you please, sir, I am able to walk now,

and will go alone, for dear mamma would be angry if I had strangers with

me--she never sees any one but father, now."

"'Twould be madness to send her forth into this wintery air with a newly

broken arm," said the lady--"if you will come with me, little Jennie, we

will soon satisfy your parents that you are in comfortable quarters, my

carriage is at the door, and John shall go alone to your home with a

message"--and, calling her servant, she bade him bring one of the soft

robes from the carriage, and wrapping it closely about the shivering

child, she had her conveyed to her own noble home.

CHAPTER II.

Up, up, up till you reached the very topmost room in a rickety building

in ---- street, and there they were--a woman in neat but coarse raiment,

seated by a flickering candle, stitching for the life, and with every

effort for the life, stitching out the life. Near her, on a lowly bed,

lay her suffering husband, watching the wan fingers as they busily plied

for him who would fain have spent his last strength for their rest.

The frosty breath of a December night came through the chinks in the

roof, and around the windows, and left its bitter impress upon the sick

and weary. A few coals partially ignited, seemed to mock at the visions

of warmth and comfort they inspired, and the simmering of the kettle

that hung low over the coals, made the absence of a cheery board, and a

happy group around it only the more painfully apparent.

The sick man closed his eyes, as if to shut out the memory of those

wasted fingers that were ever so zealously moving, and then looking

wistfully at the murmuring kettle, he said, "Has not the child come yet,

Mary?--perhaps she has enough for our scanty meal to-night, and yet my

heart misgives me on her account--is it not very late for her to stay

away? She is such a timid little thing, and always flies to us before

the darkness begins to come! Her's is a cruel age, and a loathsome

employment. Would God I had died, Mary, ere it had come to this!"--and

the poor man hid his face in the bedclothes, and moaned like a stricken

child. The patient wife laid aside her work, and taking the well-worn

Bible from its sacred resting-place, read to him the thirty-seventh

Psalm--then rising and going to the window, she pressed her ear against

the pane, and listened for her Jennie's coming. Hark! a step is on the

stairs! The husband and wife both started--it was a heavy, lumbering

tread--not the soft foot-falls of their gentle little one, that brought

music even to their dismal abode:

"Some one is knocking, Mary," said the husband, and, as he spoke, the

door opened, and a man appeared with a note and a basket.

"Is Mrs. Grig here," asked the man.

"That is my name," replied the frightened woman whose maternal heart

immediately suggested that something had happened to her child.

"Tell me of my darling. Is she hurt? Is she dead?"--then seizing the

note which the servant held out to her she read as follows:

"Mr. and Mrs. Grig must not be alarmed about their little

Jennie. She has met with a slight accident; but her life is

not endangered, and she is where every attention will be

bestowed upon her. If they will spare her to me until she is

wholly restored, they will confer the greatest of favors upon

their friend,

"HELENA DUNMORE.

"I send a few delicacies, which I hope her sick father will relish.

Jennie wishes to see her mother before she sleeps, will she come to her

an hour this evening?"

The servant left the name of the street, and the number of the house

where his mistress lived, and departed, with an humble reverence, for

there was an innate aristocracy in Mrs. Grig that commanded the respect

of all who saw her, even though the vicissitudes of life had robbed her

of the external marks of rank and elegance. "God be praised!" said she,

as she pressed her lips to the pale brow of her now hopeful husband,

"Our house is not left unto us desolate, neither has our Father forsaken

us in our time of necessity. Surely He giveth bread to the hungry, and

filleth the fainting soul with gladness!" Then spreading the tempting

viands before the famished invalid, she smiled with the cheerfulness of

her earlier days, as she saw with what relish he ate and drank.

When they had finished their unexpected, but welcome meal, she placed

the fragments carefully away, and blowing out the light, which she must

save for her midnight toils, she left the house in order to seek her

child.

CHAPTER III.

The stars were shining tranquilly, and the moon looked calmly down upon

the great and noisy city, imparting their quietness and peace to the

heart of the eager mother who threaded her way to her sick child. Long

and tedious was the distance, but she felt it not, excepting that she

shrunk from the rough contact of brawling and wicked men, who rudely

pushed past her, as they hurried on to their nightly debauches.

Oh! how sensitive was she then to the thought of the horrors that ever

threaten the innocent and unprotected, if forced by their sad necessity

to encounter the vile and polluted!--and how resolutely did she

determine thenceforth to shield the child of her love from all such

dangers, even though her own life were the forfeit of her care.

She gazed upward into the clear heavens, as if to gather strength for

her future trials, and then pressing quickly on, was soon in the

presence of Mrs. Dunmore. The transition from her own dreary room to the

luxurious and tasteful apartment where she now found herself, was so

completely bewildering, that she stood for a moment, as if in a strange

and mysterious dream. Every thing that taste could desire, or wealth

procure, was lavished upon this sanctum, where Mrs. Dunmore, since her

double bereavement, found her chief delight--yet amid all the splendor

of the place, were tokens of that presence from which naught can exempt

us.

A little portrait draped in black, hung above a crimson couch, whereon

lay a child of exquisite beauty. Her tiny form was wrapped in the purest

muslin, and a light blue cashmere shawl was thrown negligently over her.

One little foot, encased in a delicate slipper, hung over the edge of

the couch, and her long dark curls fell about the pillow in the richest

profusion.

In one hand she held a pretty vinaigrette, and the other was bound in

soft cloths, and slightly confined to her waist by a silken sash. As the

door of the room opened, she flung off the shawl that covered her, and

tried to rise; but the effort was too much for her exhausted frame, and

she fell faintly back, murmuring "Mother, dearest mother!"

In one moment the poor woman was kneeling beside the couch, clasping the

sweet child to her bosom, who with her one little arm girdled that

sacred neck, and with smiles and kisses awakened her to a perfect

consciousness of her safety and of her happy position.

Mrs. Dunmore had all this time been partially concealed by the drapery

of the window, but as she moved from the recess Jennie's quick ear

caught the sound of her step, and she whispered to her mother, who

arose, and with some confusion at the novelty of her situation and the

meanness of her attire, advanced to meet the gentle widow, saying,

"Jennie tells me you are the kind lady who befriended her in her

distress--I have not words to thank you, dear madam, for your pity, and

care for my unfortunate child; but if the prayers of an earnest heart

will avail before God, the choicest of Heaven's blessings shall be your

reward."

"A glance at that portrait," said Mrs. Dunmore, "will betray to you the

motive for any unwonted interest in your precious child; but were it

simply a humane act, the thought of having performed one's duty is a

sufficient recompense--still, I ask another, and that is, that your

little one may supply to me the place of my darling 'Bella.' I know,"

continued she, as she noticed the flush upon the mother's face, and the

increased pulsations of her heart, "how great a sacrifice I ask, and I

can not press you to give up your own right over the treasure God has

bestowed upon you; but I would so far share that blessing with you, as

to keep your little Jennie always near me, and to assist you in your

care for her comfort and advancement."

Mrs. Grig was struck with the delicacy and refinement of Mrs. Dunmore's

manner toward her; instead of bluntly offering to adopt her child, with

the evident feeling that it was too good a bargain to require a moment's

wavering, she proposed it to her in the light of a favor conferred upon

herself, and in which they would both ever have a mutual interest. The

poor woman could not see that her own apparent good breeding had--in

Mrs. Dunmore's estimation--diminished the distance in their relative

positions, so that a free and full sympathy was compatible with her

dignity, as well as the dictate of her heart. She looked upon her child

as she lay there, in her now adorned loveliness; she gazed about the

room so filled with comfort and delight, and as her thoughts wandered

from these blessings to her own cheerless home, and to the past few

months of destitution; and as visions of weary days of toil, and nights

of cold and hunger and wretchedness, and the shadow of that lovely

little one returning from her loathsome labors, with muddy garments, and

a worn and saddened face, passed before her, she shrunk from the latter

alternative, and placing the hand of her child in that of her adopted

mother she said, with the calmness of a settled purpose--"It will make a

sad void in our desolate home, but God has opened your heart to her

before she is left alone, and His goodness shall be my constant theme of

gratitude; you will allow her to come to us every day while her poor

father lives; his pains will be lightened by her presence, and 'twill

comfort me to see the eyes that have beamed upon me these nine long

years, more joyously beaming as I hasten to the end of my pilgrimage.

You will love this kind lady, will you not, my child?" said she to the

little girl, by whom she was again kneeling--"and be to her a dear and

dutiful daughter, if you would please your own parents."

"Love her, dear mother? Who could help loving the beautiful and kind,

and good!--and is she not beautiful, and has she not been kind and good

to me when others did but rail at me, and jostle me down in the crowded

street! Oh! yes, I will indeed love her, very, very dearly!" and she

clung to the hand of the widow that held her own, and caressingly

fondled and kissed it, until her mother laid her gently back upon her

pillow, and arose to return to her home.

CHAPTER IV.

The sick husband lay watching the moonbeams as they came through the

window and played fantastically upon the walls, and his thoughts went

far away to a pleasant spot beneath a group of willows, by a gently

flowing stream, where the moonbeams once played upon the fair face of

his Mary, and he sighed heavily as he reviewed the many changes that had

brought them where they now were. Many a sunny hour came flashing upon

his memory, with its dear and hallowed associations; the early days of

their marriage when their home was green and sylvan--the gathering of

friends on every festive occasion--the birth of their sweet babe that

brought with it such new and blessed ties; and then the sunny hours

departed, and the clouds covered them; the days of sickness came and

their property fled away, and with their wealth went their friends from

them. Weary months of toil in a strange city was thenceforward their

portion; a sick-bed was the strong man's heritage, and days of fasting

and misery and labor devolved on the delicate wife. The child that had

been nursed in the lap of luxury went out into dirty streets to get her

bread from pitying strangers, and the three--husband, wife, and

child--were alone in the wide world, with their burden of poverty and

woe, all the harder to bear from the fact that they were unused to it.

Thus mused the sick man in the solitude of his chamber, and while he

mused a mellower gleam of light fell upon his pillow and illumined his

shrunken features, and a soft step was by the bed-side, and a beloved

voice in his ear, telling him news that made him willing to die. God had

sent them a friend! Even when he had been repining at the decrees of His

Providence, that Providence was working out his best and truest good. He

felt that his days would be few upon the earth, and that his Mary would

soon follow him; but their darling Jennie would be sheltered and taught,

and that by a true disciple of their Lord and Master. No more anguish

lest his precious child should become a prey to the wary and dissolute;

no more grief at her withered, cheerless youth; no more sorrowings for

the wants that he could not appease. "Oh! too much! too much mercy and

goodness hast thou shown toward Thine unworthy servants, my Saviour and

my God!" murmured he, and a violent hemorrhage ensued, occasioned by the

sudden shock of the unlooked for joy.

CHAPTER V.

Before another week had elapsed, Mr. and Mrs. Grig were comfortably

settled in a pleasant cottage belonging to Mrs. Dunmore, whose

increasing benevolence had found a delightful impulse in the certainty

that the poor woman was no other than one of her school-girl

acquaintances, whom she had most dearly loved, but of whom she had heard

little since they had completed their studies. They had married, and in

their new relationships lost sight of each other, until, by a mysterious

Providence, they were now united. It would have been but a mockery in

Mrs. Grig to appear at all reluctant to accept the support she so much

needed, since her own precarious health, and her husband's approaching

dissolution rendered it impossible for her to obtain her own livelihood.

Gladly, therefore, and with alacrity, they left the scene of their past

troubles and necessities for the pretty cottage and the congenial

society of their disinterested friend, yet scarcely were they

established in their new abode when the messenger of death came to claim

his victim. The child was there, with her young head nestling in her

dying father's bosom; the wife stood by with a deep but subdued grief,

and the faithful friend was near with pious words of sympathy and

comfort.

The sick man had given his parting embrace to the beloved objects of his

affection, and had assured them of his perfect confidence in a rest and

peace beyond the grave, but now his mind seemed wandering to other

scenes.

"Down by the willows, dear Mary," said he, "I wish to cross the river

once more; it is chilly here, but do you see how warmly the sun is

shining upon the green banks opposite! There are bright flowers there,

too, such as we have often gathered, and the birds sing so sweetly! Oh!

let us cross the river, once more, dear Mary!" His words grew fainter

and fainter, and they heard them no more, for he had crossed the river,

and was wandering where the sun shines more resplendently than earthly

sun can shine, and where brighter flowers, and sweeter birds than mortal

ever saw or heard, forever bloom and sing; but his Mary still lingered

on the other shore, detained by an invisible Power, who calleth home

whom he will, and when he will. But two short months she lingered, and

then the husband and wife were roaming together beside the pure river of

life, that floweth out from the Throne of God and of the Lamb, and the

child was left, but not alone.

CHAPTER VI.

The month of June saw Mrs. Dunmore settled in her country-house for the

summer. It was a pretty, unobtrusive cottage, standing upon a sloping

lawn, and facing the east. In the distance lay a sylvan lake, beyond

which, through the trees, gleamed the white spires of an adjoining

village. All around were lofty mountains covered with verdure and glory.

On the north of the house was a dense grove of chestnut, and walnut, and

maple, and pine, where multitudes of squirrels had their hiding-places,

and the birds sang unmolested.

There little Bella used to love to play, while nurse Nannie gathered

flowers to deck the neck of her pet lamb, or, when the nuts began to

fall, helped her to fill her tiny basket; and there her mother had her

laid, when she could no longer play, with her folded hands clasping some

forest-buds, and a wreath of wild-flowers around her brow. There was a

pure white monument at the head of her grave, in the sunniest and

happiest spot in the whole grove, with a rose carved upon it, and a

beauteous bud broken from the parent stem; and there Jennie stood with

old Nannie, a few days after their arrival, wondering that the bud on

the tombstone should be broken, and listening to Nannie as she talked

about the "angel child," as she called her departed darling.

"She was too good for this world, Miss Jennie," said she; and then the

faithful old creature rocked to and fro as she sat upon the trunk of a

tree that had fallen down, and wiped her eyes with her clean

checked-apron, sobbing as if her grief was even then but new.

"You are just like her in all your little ways," continued she, as

Jennie stole up to her and patted her black head with her tiny hand, as

if to soothe her sorrows; "Missus would have been clean gone and done

with this life if she had not lighted upon you to take the sadness out

of her heart for her Bella."

"But, Nannie, I am not Bella," said the child. "Do you think I can ever

be as dear as she was, so that her mother may forget that she is dead? I

saw her weeping the other day as she came from the grove, and I was

afraid she did not love me, and was sorry I was here to make her think

of her loss."

"Not love you, Miss Jennie! how can you say so, when she took you, poor

little beggar as you was, all from the mire and dirt to be her own

child."

"You must not tell me of that time, Nannie, it makes me ache here;" said

she, putting her hand to her heart. "Many a long day have I gone back

and forth on that sad walk, trembling for fear the lumbering omnibuses

would run over me, and not one penny did I ever ask, for I could not

beg, Nannie, and if some kind gentlemen and ladies had not noticed me,

and sometimes given me a sixpence or two, I should have gone home to my

poor father and mother with nothing for my hard day's work, and then we

must have starved, for dear mamma was not able to get bread for us all,

and nurse my sick father besides. You must not speak of that time again,

Nannie, for it takes me away from this pleasant sunny spot, and puts me

back in a dismal room, with no light, nor warmth, nor greenness."

"What is the matter with my little girl?" said Mrs. Dunmore, who just

then approached the child, and perceived the traces of recent tears on

her sweet face. "Is she not happy among the birds, and squirrels, and

flowers?"

"Oh! yes, very happy indeed, dear mamma," and Jennie took the hand that

was extended to her, and kissed it with all the ardor of her impetuous

nature; "but I was thinking of the dreary home that was mine before you

found me and cared for me."

"Sit down here, my darling, and talk to me a little. Is the thought of

the past very sad to my Jennie; and can she see no reason to be

grateful, even for that time of darkness and sorrow? Do you remember how

the black clouds came yesterday, and quite hid the sun from our sight,

and the strong wind shook the house, so that we were almost afraid of

its fury, and the heavy rain fell and bowed some of our beauteous shrubs

nearly to the ground; then the clouds passed away and the sun shone more

brightly than ever, and the fierce winds were hushed, and the shrubs

lifted up their drooping heads all the more graceful and lovely for the

crushing storm. So it is when God sends trials and sufferings upon

us--the world looks black and dreary, and we are bowed very low in our

affliction, and His purpose in it all is to make our hearts better and

purer, and more beauteous in His sight when the troubles shall have

passed away."

"Did the world seem very dismal to you, dear mamma, when Bella died?"

"Very dismal, my child, until God sent me another little daughter to

lighten the grief that was pressing me down; now the clouds are parting,

and the sunlight comes beaming through, and I think we may be very

happy, my darling, if we will. But here comes Mr. Colbert. Let us go to

meet him, he used to love dear Bella, and will be glad to see you, I

know."

CHAPTER VII.

Mr. Colbert was the clergyman of the parish and lived near Mrs. Dunmore

with his widowed mother, and often, as he took his daily walk, he bent

his steps toward the cottage of his friend whom he had known in her joys

and her sorrows, and from whose subdued and Christian conversation he

derived both pleasure and profit. He had baptized and buried her little

Bella, and now as he gave Mrs. Dunmore a kind and earnest greeting, he

looked with painful interest upon the child who stood modestly by her

side, and in whom he traced a striking resemblance to the departed. Mrs.

Dunmore instantly perceiving the impression made upon him, hastened to

present her young _protegee_, saying, "You have doubtless noticed how

like my sweet Bella, the child of my adoption is in feature and

expression--I trust to you, my dear sir, to aid me in trying to make her

as truly like her in heart and life. It is a weighty responsibility that

I have assumed; but He who directed the impulse to make her my own, will

impart the strength and wisdom to guide her aright."

"You do me honor in admitting me to a participation in your new and

sacred duties, dear madam," replied the clergyman, "be assured, I shall

most gladly improve every opportunity offered me for the welfare of your

little Jennie. Bella used often to walk with me," continued he, taking

the hand of the little girl, "will you sometimes join me as I ramble

about these woods and hills? Perhaps we can find some pleasant things to

tell each other when we are better acquainted."

Jennie's dark eyes sparkled, as she looked to her mother for her assent

to the kind minister's proposition, and as Mrs. Dunmore willingly agreed

to it, she sprang with a glad step to meet old Nannie, who had come to

call them to lunch. Mr. Colbert declined joining them on the plea of

extending his walk, and bidding them good morning, soon disappeared amid

the trees.

One moment he lingered by the little grave, and gathering from it a

bunch of violets, he followed the path through the woods to the road,

and then turned toward his home. His way led through an avenue of

maples, whose dense foliage quite obscured the sky above his head. On

either side, stretched green meadows, enameled with the fresh spring

flowers; and beyond him, in the distance, the avenue seemed to open into

the pure blue heavens, athwart which the fleecy clouds were ever and

anon flitting like angels busied in doing their Master's will. The scene

was rich and hallowed, and called forth the sweetest and purest

emotions. "If the pathway through life was ever thus tranquil and

serene," thought he, "and if the eye caught only such visions of beauty

and grace as are now before me, how like Paradise would this earth

seem! But it can not be; I must tread a rough and sometimes disagreeable

road, and engage in fierce and bitter conflicts, ere I can emerge into

the glories of that better land of which the beauteous scene I now

survey always reminds me!" and, as he mused, he reached the top of the

hill, and leaving the silent avenue, seated himself upon a rustic bench

that was placed beneath an old maple near his home. The quaint old

mansion stood alone upon a slight eminence, and on every side luxurious

meadows, and orchards spread themselves out, until they reached the

mountains. From various points three lovely lakes were visible--one,

half hidden by its green belt of forest trees, another glistening in the

broad sunlight, and a third lying in calm and placid beauty.

All about, in the rich pastures, cattle were quietly grazing, or resting

beneath the shadows of the old trees, or frisking in the glad

spring-time. The light and shade played upon the fresh landscape, as

bright and somber imaginings sweep over a youthful heart; and as the

young clergyman drank in all the glory and loveliness of the scene, his

soul was filled with a rapture, which none can ever know but the earnest

Christian, who sees in every bud and leaf the evidences of a beneficent

Father's love.

Long he sat reveling in that unbroken quietness and beauty, nor did he

perceive the soft footsteps of his mother, until a gentle hand was laid

upon his brow, and she said, "My son, I am glad you have returned; poor

Sam Lisle has been twice for you to visit his daughter, who can not

survive through the day. He seemed greatly distressed on not finding

you, and begged me to send you immediately to them when I should see

you."

"I can not stop, now, dear mother," said he, as she pressed him to

remain but one moment for refreshments. "I fear I am already too late,"

and he turned quickly away from the contemplation of the glories of

nature, and passed again through the silent avenue, and on to the

village, to wrestle with the sorrows of this weary life, where there was

poverty, and suffering, and death.

CHAPTER VIII.

Who that saw the little Jennie on the first Sunday morning, in her

summer home, would have imagined that but a few months before she was

sweeping the dirty crossings of Broadway, a thin, meager, half-clad

child, scorned by the passers-by, and loved only by two wretched ones,

as pitiable and unsought as herself!

As Mrs. Dunmore, at early dawn, entered the pleasant room, once Bella's,

but now appropriated to the newly-found, the child lay with her dimpled

arms thrown over her head, upon the soft pillows, and her sweet mouth

half parted with a smile at some innocent but illusive fancy that filled

her happy dreams.

Old Nannie had stolen into the chamber, and stood peeping over the

shoulder of her mistress at her young charge. She had put her finger

upon her lip, as if to hush her to deeper slumbers, when, suddenly, a

glad sunbeam shot from the east, and fell upon the sleeper's face. With

one bound she freed herself from the bedclothes, and stood by the

window, pointing toward the glorious vision that had so long been hidden

from her sight. Never had she seen the blessed sun rise since a wee

child of four years, in the home of her birth, which had almost from

that early age been the possession of strangers, and now, as she stood

in her simple night-dress, with her long curls loosened and floating in

the pure breeze, she seemed some new-born spirit wondering at the

display of the Creator's mighty power. Her face was flushed with a

hallowed emotion, and as the sun stood forth above the horizon in its

full splendor, she sank upon her knees, and expressed her gushing

feelings in the simple yet sublime words first uttered by Divine lips,

amid the consecrated scenes of the Holy Land.

Mrs. Dunmore instinctively knelt while the child poured forth her humble

adoration, and she prayed most earnestly, that the deep feeling of

reverence she had just witnessed in her adopted one, might never be

displaced or blunted by contact with an impious and careless world.

Jennie had been so wholly absorbed in her joy at the beauteous vision

before her, that she had scarcely noticed the presence of her mother,

until Mrs. Dunmore approached her and said, "My darling is up betimes on

this hallowed morning, and I am glad to see that she is not unmindful of

Him who giveth us all our blessings." Then the little girl looked up

with a happy smile, and giving her accustomed kiss, hastened to prepare

for family devotions, and for the services of the village church. It was

a pleasant little church, and in former years, many a good old saint had

gone from its portals to the Church triumphant in Heaven; but now few

came to her solemn feasts, and there was a languishing, sleepy aspect

about it that often sickened the hearts of the little band of zealous

ones who were striving to keep it alive. Many a time was its faithful

minister almost ready to faint in his apparently useless labors; but on

this day one little soul gazed earnestly on him, as if thirsting for the

spiritual nourishment he was imparting, and his heart was revived and

strengthened. In the afternoon was the funeral of poor Bessie Lisle, and

as the small group of mourners moved away from the place of burial, Mr.

Colbert, Mrs. Dunmore, and Jennie, lingered in the peaceful cemetery to

gather lessons of wisdom for their own summons to another world. This

cemetery was on a high hill overlooking the village. Here and there

drooped a willow over some loved tomb, or a rose-bush bent to scatter

its burden of perfume and petals. On one new-made grave--the quiet

resting-place of a mother and her daughter, snatched from their friends

by some sudden and terrible casuality--were strewn fresh and beauteous

flowers, the fragrant offering of a gentle girl, who daily sought that

sacred spot to weep over the loved and lost. Near this, beneath a shady

yew, was the lowly bed of the poor man's daughter, whose remains had

just been placed therein.

Mrs. Dunmore leaned thoughtfully against the tree, and sighed as she

recalled her own bereavements, and her Christian heart was busy in

suggesting some means of consolation for the stricken parents. Mr.

Colbert was stooping by a distant tomb reading its epitaph to little

Jennie, who listened with the deepest interest. There was no sound to

mar the stillness of that peaceful retreat, the whispering winds went,

dirge-like, through the waving grass, and the leaves rustled softly

above the quiet sleepers.

Even the child felt the awful solemnity of the place, and crept nearer

to the kind minister, as he told her of the dear lamb that was so early

called away to the green pastures. The stone at her head was somewhat

like that at Bella's grave, and violets grew all over the turf, too, and

Jennie gathered a bunch of the sweetest and took them to her mother, who

crushed them in her bosom and moistened them with her tears. Slowly and

regretfully they left the spot so fraught with sad yet chastening

influences, and sought their happy homes, yet not without leaving their

prayers and their sympathies at the mourner's humble cottage.

CHAPTER IX.

The summer went joyously on, and the minister and child roamed about

amid the green things of the earth. All the loveliest haunts of that

pleasant spot had echoed the grave, but gentle tones of the man of God,

and the answering prattle of the little one who went tripping on by his

side, sometimes thoughtful and earnest, sometimes merry and glad; and

now the time had come for Mrs. Dunmore to return to her city residence,

and they must bid their kind friends at the Rectory good-by. Mrs.

Colbert sat with her son upon the rustic bench, and the child was

between them holding a hand of each. Mr. Colbert pushed her dark hair

from her forehead, and said, as he looked in her tearful eyes; "Jennie

is sorry to part with her old friends, but perhaps she will forget them

before another summer?"

"I fear we shall not be able to return to ---- for several years to

come;" said Mrs. Dunmore. "I have just received a summons from my

husband's mother, who is in very feeble health, and as I shall devote

myself to her during her life, I must forego the pleasure of my summer

home for awhile. Jennie will be placed at Madame La Blanche's school

during my absence, and my separation from her will be another pang added

to that which I feel on leaving you all for an indefinite period." A

shade passed over the face of the young minister; but it gave place to a

smile as the child said, "But you promised that I should come back some

day, and keep house for you in this good old place, and then you

know"--she added, smiling through the tears that had bedimmed her eyes,

"I should go away no more, but we could be always happy here together."

Jennie could not understand Mrs. Colbert's earnest manner as she pressed

her fondly to her bosom, and said "God grant it, my sweet child!" but

she returned the caresses so lavishly heaped upon her, and then jumped

down to play with old Skip, the house-dog, who was leaping about her as

if to share in the adieus. Mrs. Dunmore took the vacant seat, and the

three friends conversed long and seriously upon the former years of

happiness spent in each other's society, and the interval that might

ensue ere they should be gathered again beneath the spreading maples;

and as they conversed, one heart dwelt with greater than usual

tenderness upon the little figure that was flitting about in the soft

twilight.

The night came, the twilight had faded out, and the little figure, too,

had vanished, leaving that one breast desolate, save when a lightsome

shadow flitted across its ever-verdant memory. The summer cottage looked

dreary, with its closed blinds, and the autumn leaves rustling about it

in the bleak winds; but the little tombstone still gleamed in the

sunlight, that cast a pleasant and warm halo upon it, and the birds and

squirrels sung and leaped about in the beauteous grove as blithesome and

glad as if life's rolling seasons brought no sad changes. The man of God

walked quietly up and down the silent avenue, striving to think only of

the blue sky into which it seemed to open. The gentle widow went out on

her mission of love and mercy, to smooth the dying pillow of the sick

and aged, and the child was again in the heart of the mighty city, not a

penniless, uncared-for thing, but surrounded by a joyous group of happy

children, and watched over by a kind and faithful teacher.

CHAPTER X.

"Who will share a room with little Jennie Dunmore?" said Madame La

Blanche, on the day of the child's arrival at school. "Who will set her

an example of patience and perseverance in her studies, and aid her in

her difficulties and trials? Who will help her to be obedient, and

industrious, and good?" Many an eager hand was raised as the school

girls looked upon the sweet face of the new-comer, who stood near her

teacher, timidly glancing at the strange band before her; but Rosalie

Moore sprung from her seat, and, throwing her arm around Jennie's waist,

looked up so pleadingly at Madame La Blanche, that she said, "Remember,

dear children, I give you to each other as kind and loving sisters, not

to foster in each other the love of dress and show, not to uphold each

other in acts of rebellion and sin, but to strive together for that

inward adorning both of heart and mind, which is far better than any

outward ornament, and to walk hand in hand, so long as your pathway

shall be the same, toward that better land, where I trust we may all one

day again mingle. To-day shall be a holiday among you, and to-morrow

Jennie will enter upon her new duties, which I hope will be pleasant to

her. I need not ask you to remember the basket of charity-work, which

each will find in her room, since you all know how much happier you are

in your recreations after some act of benevolence and kindness. Jennie

will go with me on my round of visiting on Saturday," continued she, as

the girls, with a hop, skip, and jump, left the school-room.

Rosalie was very proud to show Jennie their neat little bedroom, with

its snowy curtains and white counterpane, and its pleasant view from the

windows. There were two windows with wide seats, where they could sit

and work, or study, and these looked out upon a beautiful garden, and

the sweet odor of the flowers came up and refreshed them. It was so rare

and delightful, in the midst of the city, to find such freshness and

beauty that it was all the more appreciated, and Jennie felt that she

could be very happy there. She and Rosalie got the stand with the basket

of work upon it, and placed it near one of the windows, and both sat

together there and worked on the coarse garments.

"Who are these for?" asked Jennie, "and what does Madame La Blanche mean

by my going 'the rounds' with her on Saturday?"

"These are for very poor people," said Rosalie, "and every week our

teacher takes as many as we can finish, and goes with one of us to carry

them. Have you ever seen any poor people, Jennie? and do you know how

dreadfully they suffer in the cold winters for want of clothes and

food?"

Jennie did not answer, but she covered her face with both hands, and

Rosalie could see the tears as they trickled through her fingers and

fell upon her work. She thought it very strange; but she said as she

drew her closely to her and kissed her tenderly, "Never mind, we will

talk about something else. I've been so much among them that I am used

to their poverty now. What do you mean to study Jennie? I hope you will

be in all my classes, although you are a great deal younger than I, I

know, for I was eleven the day before yesterday," and Rosalie tossed her

old head and looked at her companion in a very patronizing way.

"I was ten in April," said Jennie, "and this is October, so you see we

are not very wide apart; but I do not know about my studies--mamma said

that Madame La Blanche would direct them."

"Have you ever studied French?" asked Rosalie. "I am reading 'Corinne'

already, and Hattie Mann, who is two years older than I, has but just

commenced the language."

"I read 'Corinne' with dear mamma just before she died," said Jennie,

"but I should like very much to read it with you again if Madame La

Blanche pleases."

"Is your mother dead, Jennie? and is not that lady she whom you call

mamma?"

"God took my own dear mother and father from me, Rosalie; but before

they left, He sent the kind lady to them who made me her child, and they

were quite willing to go, when they knew I should not be alone in the

world."

"Did you live in a beautiful house when your father and mother were

alive, Jennie, and were there birds and flowers all around it, and had

you a nice little pony that you could call your own, and a dear little

sister with golden curls? That is the way my home is," continued she

without waiting for an answer, "and some vacation I am to invite any one

of the girls that I please to go with me to my mother's, and I know who

it will be, too, don't you, darling Jennie?" and she jumped up, and

putting her needle in her work, she kissed the astonished child again,

and went singing down the stairs as merry as a lark. Jennie sat quietly

in the window, thinking of the contrast between her sometime home in the

city and the one described by her happy school-mate, and she would have

grown very sad over her solitary musings; but a gay laugh in the garden

below diverted her from them, and looking out, she saw Rosalie, with a

garland of leaves around her head, and in her hand a bouquet of fall

flowers, which she was vainly endeavoring to throw up to her new sister.

Her merriment attracted the other girls, and soon Jennie stood among

them, with no trace of sorrow upon her brow, and the memory of the

bitter past wholly swallowed up in the enjoyment of the bright and

blessed present.

CHAPTER XI.

Saturday morning was a busy time at Madame La Blanche's school. Little

fingers stitched with untiring industry upon the coarse raiment that was

to give warmth to many an otherwise shivering body, and by the hour

appointed for the visits, the teacher was surprised at the great results

of such tiny efforts. She smiled approvingly on her pupils, and

summoning a servant to take charge of the weighty bundle, she took

Jennie by the hand and left the house.

Out through the pleasant garden, past the magnificent mansions of the

rich they went--on, and on, amid throngs of the gay and fashionable,

till the streets grew dingy with a motley crowd of the miserable and

ragged, who seemed to herd together, as if thus to hide their

degradation and shame. Some looked upon them, as they walked along, with

a bold and impudent stare; but others shrunk from their observation, and

drew their tattered shawls more closely around them as they moved

hastily away. There were some bargaining at the markets for withered or

decaying vegetables, and others purchasing, at a diminished price, stale

bread from dirty bakeries, and many a one loitering along in his filth

and squalor, with no object nor aim save to dawdle away the time that

hung too wearily upon him. It was a sad and loathsome sight, so near the

gorgeous thoroughfare of this mighty city, to see the pitiable objects

of unmitigated want; but there they were, and in all that teeming mass

but two ministering spirits were visible, gliding on with their

offerings of kindness and mercy.

Down through a dark alley, whose fetid odors were quite sufficient to

deter the dainty from penetrating beyond--they went, and into a

miserable room where was scarcely space for them to stand, so huddled

was it with broken furniture and ragged children. A fire was burning in

a shattered grate, and an untidy woman stood ironing by a table whereon

was the remnant of their meager dinner. Her husband crouched over the

coals as if the day was not warm and sunny. His clothes hung about his

limbs in large folds, and his sunken eyes told that disease was making

fearful ravages upon him. Madame La Blanche opened her bundle, and,

handing him a comfortable dressing-gown nicely quilted, said, "I am

sorry to find you so low, Michael, but God's will be done, perchance He

means to deliver you from the pinchings of a bitter season. It is but

little I can do for you," she continued, as the grateful man smoothed

down the warm garment, and thanked her with tremulous lips; "my children

made it for you, and this little one I have taken with me that she may

learn to be the more thoughtful of those who have a scanty supply of

the good things of this life, and the more thankful for the blessings of

abundance and health bestowed upon her."

"Ah! yes, miss," said the old man, running his lank arms into the nice

garment, and wrapping it closely about him; "'Blessed is he that

considereth the poor, the Lord will remember him in the time of

trouble.' Many's the time I shall think of the little hands that sewed

on this for the sick old man, and I'll pray, miss, that you may never

know what it is to suffer want nor sorrow in this weary world, and that

you may all be sure to go to a better when you die."

Madame La Blanche read a chapter to him from her pocket-Bible, and with

a few words of advice and comfort to the woman, and a picture-book for

the children, she went from the unwholesome room up a crazy staircase to

one a shade better, because kept with some degree of cleanliness. A

young man arose and gave chairs to the lady and the child, and his

mother welcomed them with a joy which the poor never feign toward a true

friend. "How is John's cough?" said Madame La Blanche. "It seems to me

he has failed since I saw him last; but perhaps it is because I have not

been here for some time that he looks thinner than usual to me."

"Oh! no, ma'am, 'tisn't that," said the mother; "poor Johnny's going

fast. He coughs so o' nights, it fairly makes me ache for him. It puts

me so in mind of Aby, I can't hardly bear it."

"I wish he was like Aby," said the lady; "Aby was a perfect example of

faith and patience, and he died as a Christian should die, with a firm

confidence in Him whom he had trusted. John knows that he can not live

long," continued she, "and I hope he is not afraid to die. He has the

same heavenly Father to go to for support in these last hours that Aby

had."

"Aby, was a good boy," said the mother; whose heart seemed constantly to

revert to her dead son. "He'd a been twenty years old next month if he'd

a lived, and John won't be till March; but I don't expect he'll live to

see that time, John won't live to be twenty year old, John won't," and

the afflicted woman turned away her head and looked from the window to

hide her grief. Jennie stood all this time looking around upon the

meanly-furnished apartment, and upon its thinly clad inmates, and as she

saw a young girl looking wistfully at a pretty scarf which she wore, she

whispered earnestly to her teacher, and then untying it, she put it

around the neck of the poor girl, who seemed almost beside herself for

joy. The kind lady then left some money to procure something for John's

cough, and some woolen waistcoats from her pack, and, promising to go

often to read to the sick boy, they departed; but the breath of their

kindness lingered upon the hearts of those forlorn ones, and cheered

them in their struggles for life.

CHAPTER XII.

The air in those loathsome streets was scarcely less unwholesome and

impure than in the close and crowded rooms, yet the lady and the child

kept on still further from the cleanly portions of the city, to seek out

other objects of pity and benevolence; and as they walked, they saw a

woman running up the street, and heard her say to a respectable-looking

gentleman: "Doctor, if you have time, won't you please to stop at our

house?"

Madame La Blanche observed the physician more attentively, and found

that it was one of her old friends. He, at the same time, turning from a

poor man to whom he had been talking, recognized her, and on learning

her errand, he asked her to accompany him to see one of his patients.

"It is a melancholy case, madam," said he, "the girl is afflicted with a

species of hysteria, induced by constant pining for a worthless lover,

who ran away, not long since, with another woman. She is in a terrible

state, weeping incessantly. I think, perhaps, you may be able to comfort

her a little; you know we of the sterner mold have not much power in

such emergencies. There it is," said he, as they reached a dusky

building, at the entrance of which stood a strange group of idlers,

torn and dirty. The sick girl lived on the second floor, with her

grandmother and one sister, and as the strangers entered, she shrunk

still further back into the corner where she was sitting. A strip of

faded calico lay upon her lap, and now and then she would put a stitch

in it, but oftener she raised it to her face and wiped away the tears

that were constantly falling. Her grandmother seemed troubled and sad as

the doctor looked thoughtfully upon her, and when he asked "If she had

been any worse, and why they did not send for him before?" she replied,

"Why she seems about the same, doctor; we sent her into the country to

see what change of air and scene would do for her, but she isn't much

better for it. She seems to be in a study all the time, and sits still

and cries a great deal. We try to rouse her, and to make her take notice

of things, but she falls back into one of her studies again."

"Come here, Jessie," said the doctor, "and sit in the light where I can

see you. Does your side pain you any now?" The girl moved languidly from

her dark corner and stood quietly by the window, but she answered the

doctor only in monosyllables, and appeared uneasy while out of her

accustomed retreat; and so soon as he turned to ask her sister some

questions about her she glided noiselessly back, and sunk into the old

seat, wiping her eyes again with the faded cloth. Madame La Blanche drew

near to her, and talked to her in a calm and soothing manner, and

Jennie seemed really distressed, as she vainly tried to divert her from

her grief by emptying the treasures of her pocket before her. The room

was as clean as it could possibly be, and the persons of its occupants

neat and tidy, but every thing betokened severe and pinching poverty.

The bed for the three was in one corner, and this, with one table and a

few chairs, comprised all their worldly goods. The healthy girl was

washing for those who never knew how many a tale of want and woe their

finely-embroidered clothes could tell. A line was stretched across the

narrow space, and there hung the fine linen and muslin, streaming out

the death-mist upon the weakened lungs of that wretched girl in the

corner; and the old woman, with her tremulous hands, was smoothing out

the robes that were to rustle amid scenes of pleasure and folly, while

the wearers never bestowed a thought upon the lowly ones who helped to

adorn them.

"There is a prescription for Jessie," said the doctor, as they rose to

go; "it will cost you a dollar, for the medicine is a valuable one."

The old woman took the paper and looked vacantly upon it, while her

thoughts dwelt upon the many comfortable things that one dollar would

buy for the approaching winter. Jessie's life, to be sure, was most

precious to her, but to what purpose would it be saved, if, after all,

the poor child should suffer for the necessaries of life. The medicine

must be got, but oh! there were so many other things indispensable!

How her heart was lifted up, as the kind physician said, "You may send

to the dispensary for it, however, and it will cost you nothing!"

"Oh! thank you, doctor," said she with a beaming face, "times is so

hard; we don't mean to complain, but a dollar goes a great ways with

poor people;" and then with a cheerful step she followed her visitors to

the door, internally blessing the benevolent physician, and the glorious

dispensary; but her cup of joy was full to overflowing when she turned

back again into the room, and found the nice suit for the sick girl, and

a new cap and warm sack for herself. "This will be so grand to go to the

pump with," said she, as she laid it carefully away in a box which she

drew from under the bed. "Come cheer up, Jessie, better times is coming,

and it seems ongrateful-like to sit there moping when there is so much

good fortune in the house."

CHAPTER XIII.

As the little party reached Broadway again, they met some officers

leading a man who had been detected in some dreadful crime, and the

doctor offered to go to the city prison with Madame La Blanche, that

they might show Jennie where wicked people were confined. The stout high

walls looked very cheerless and gloomy, after the splendor and

brightness of Broadway, and the child dreaded to enter them; but she

kept close to her guides, and as they stood within the yard where was a

green park, and a pretty fountain playing, she thought it much

pleasanter than the brown and loathsome places she had just left. Madame

La Blanche seemed to read her thoughts, and said, "This is very pretty

and nice, my dear; but you shall tell me what you think about prison

life when we reach home again. We have yet much to see within these high

walls; very few are allowed to walk in this pleasant yard." Then the

prison physician went with them inside and they wandered up and down the

long corridors, and looked through the iron doors at the criminals, and

Jennie shuddered as their guilty eyes looked out upon her through the

gratings.

Here and there, at the different cells, were wives, or sisters, or

mothers, talking through the massive bars. The cells were capacious, and

neat, and the prisoners looked careless, and indifferent to their

punishment; but Madame La Blanche and Jennie both felt that however

light-hearted and cheerful they might appear in the broad day, with

their friends all about them, in the darkness and silence of the night,

terrors must take hold upon them, and almost drive them mad.

In the female department, they saw only those who were committed for

vagrancy and drunkenness; but as they observed a woman stretched out

upon a bed in one of the cells, lost in the deep sleep of the inebriate,

they thought that no measures for the abolishment of so beastly a vice

could be too strenuous. Sitting in the door of a cell was one with

coarse features, bloated, and ugly, hugging to her depraved bosom a

delicate and lovely child. Madame La Blanche stopped to give the weak

mother a few words of wholesome advice, and she spoke to her of the

little creature in her arms, and plead with her, for her sake, if from

no higher motive, to put away her sin. The woman seemed touched, and

hiding her face in the child's neck, she wept. The little blue-eyed

thing looked sadly weary of the dull walls, and Jennie longed to lead

her away from the lonesome place to a home as bright as she had found.

She stroked her silken hair, and caressed her as if she had been a

sister, and giving her a few toys from her rich pocket, she hurried on

to overtake her teacher who was descending the stairs that led to the

lowest corridor, and thence to the yard.

The night was coming on, and husbands and wives, mothers and sisters,

were leaving the prison walls with a burden of grief and shame for the

loved yet lost ones within; and as Jennie and her kind teacher, one hour

later, entered the peaceful abode of innocence and joy, the light had

wholly departed from the long corridors of that gloomy building, and the

doors were closely secured upon the shuddering inmates of those dismal

cells, who crept into their beds, and covered their heads with the thick

clothes to shut out the demons that were hovering about them in the

polluted air.

CHAPTER XIV.

"Rosalie," said Jennie, as she tossed to and fro upon their soft bed

that night; "I can not sleep for the thought of those poor creatures we

saw to-day. Come closer to me and put your arm around me, every time I

close my eyes some of those miserable objects are before me with their

pinched and haggard looks. I can not go with Madame La Blanche again,

for it takes away all the pleasure and beauty of my life, and it can do

them no good since I have so little power to relieve them."

"But," said Rosalie, "Madame La Blanche says 'it is our duty to visit

them, even though we have nothing to offer them but our sympathy, and

kind words are often better to the poor then costly gifts.' I felt as

you do when I first went among them, but I don't believe our teacher

would ever excuse us from going since she thinks it right. I should

think," continued Rosalie, twining her arms lovingly about her

companion, and drawing as near to her as possible, "that what you have

seen to-day would make you enjoy this pleasant room, and these nice

comforts all the more."

"But, Rosalie," said Jennie, "how can I sleep when there are so many

sick and weary ones down in those dirty streets who have no

resting-place for their tired bodies, although they need it so much more

than I do? It makes me uneasy and troubled. Don't you think we should be

a great deal happier if all the people in the world had an equal share

of the comforts of life?"

"Sometimes I think so, Jennie, but Madame La Blanche says 'it is God

that makes us to differ; that He gives to some poverty, and to others

riches, and that if we only have contented minds we shall be happy,

whether we are rich or poor.'"

"That is not exactly what I mean, Rosalie; you know I am rich now, but I

am sad about others, and don't you suppose that people who suffer for

things that they need feel badly when they see others with more than

enough for their wants, so that they even waste it or throw it away."

"I don't know, Jennie, I suppose they must. It does seem strange to me,

sometimes, that some have so much more than is necessary to their

comfort, while others lack even their daily bread; but Madame La

Blanche, says 'we must never allow ourselves to raise such questions,

even in our own minds; but that we must feel that whatever God does for

His children is right, even as we feel that our earthly parents will do

every thing for our best good, though they may do many things that we

can not understand, and withhold from us much that we earnestly

desire.'"

"Well, Rosalie, it is a comfort to have a higher wisdom than our own to

depend upon! that's what my own dear mother used often to say to me, and

the very day she died--I never can forget that!--she put her hand upon

my head, and said 'Remember, my Jennie, God is to be all your wisdom and

strength, all your wisdom and strength.'"

Poor child! in her own strength what perfect weakness; even while

repeating the word she sunk into a calm and peaceful slumber, and this

weary world, with its burden of sorrows and woes, faded away from her

mental vision also, giving place to hopeful and cheering dreams. Madame

La Blanche entered the room, as was her custom before retiring to her

own couch, and as she looked upon the gentle sleepers before her, and

contrasted them with the pitiable ones who, perchance were even then

wakeful and sinning, her heart went up toward the Dispenser of all

blessings, in earnest supplication that the objects of her love might be

ever preserved unblemished in purity, and those of her compassion be

brought from their blackness and stain unto the fountain of all goodness

and cleansing.

CHAPTER XV.

Three winters passed rapidly and profitably in the busy school-room, and

Jennie's thirteenth spring-time found her, with her friend Rosalie,

riding about the lawn upon the pretty pony, or playing with her

golden-haired sister.

"Jennie," said Rosalie, one lovely morning as they were amusing

themselves upon the lawn; "would you not like to go to the old

Buttonwood and swing? All the girls meet there, and we have such nice

times!" To the old Buttonwood was quite a pleasant walk from Rosalie's

mother's, and they went merrily on, leading the little girl, and

chatting busily, when a silvery-headed old man on a seat within a garden

near, attracted Jennie's attention, and she asked her companion who he

was.

"Oh! that's my 'grandpa,' as I call him," said Rosalie--"he isn't my

grandpa, you know, but he likes to have me call him so, and since it

makes him happier, why shouldn't I?--mamma says she has known him for

several years, and that he had once a darling daughter who married

against his will, so that he would never receive her to his house again,

and one day, when he heard that she was dead, he lost his reason; but he

will not harm any one. He loves children dearly, and we often go in to

sit with him and talk. Poor old man! let's go in now, Jennie, perhaps he

will be glad to change the scene a little"--and the three girls went and

stood before the old gentleman, who at first looked vacantly at them.

"It's me, grandpa. Don't you remember your own dear little Rosalie?

Jennie," continued she in an under tone, "you stand a little behind me,

and then he will see me alone;" but the old man caught the words, and a

flash of intelligence for one moment illumined his eyes as he said,

"Yes, that's it--Jennie, dear little Jennie! come back to your old

father, my darling. All day long has he sat by the gate watching for

you. Did you think he was angry with his own precious child?"--and as he

spoke he drew Jennie to his bosom and held her there while he murmured

constantly in tones of endearment, "Call me father, my pet child; nobody

shall take her away again; little Jennie, dear little Jennie!" and he

looked around with a sort of menacing air, as if some one was near who

would seek to rob him of his treasure, and then smiled fondly on the

young girl, caressing her with the deepest tenderness.

"I haven't seen him smile so for many a long year, miss," said the old

butler who was near them. "Will you come often to speak to him? It does

my heart good to see him so like old times. It's the name miss, it's all

the name."

Jennie was somewhat frightened by the old man's eager manner, but when

she said softly, "Let me go and swing awhile, dear father, and then I'll

come to you again," he gently relaxed his embrace and kissing her, again

let her go.

His Jennie used to go so often to the "old Buttonwood"--it was all

natural to hear her speak of that; and then it was so pleasant to have

her come again with elastic step, and rosy cheek, to spring into his

arms for her welcome kiss! Oh, yes! he was willing she should go to the

"old Buttonwood;" but as her slight figure vanished in the distance, he

seemed sad and uneasy, and the old expression came again, and it staid

through the long day. That night as the old butler stood in his master's

room, and looked upon a lovely portrait that hung at the foot of the old

gentleman's bed, he kept repeating to himself, "It can't be all in the

name; the likeness is amazin'! amazin'!"

"Rosalie," said Jennie the next day, "Let's go and see the old gentleman

again. What's his name?--you know I promised to return to him."

"His name is Halberg."

"Does he live alone in that pleasant place with only the servants to

care for him?"

"Oh, no," said Rosalie, "he has a married son who lives there with him,

but he has gone to Europe with his wife and three daughters, and grandpa

stays alone until their return. Mamma says they are expected next month,

and Carrie Halberg is to go to Madame La Blanche's school--that's my

friend, Carrie; she's such a dear good girl! You'll love her, Jennie, I

know! But there's grandpa watching for us."

The old man stood at the gate, leaning upon his cane and looking

intently down the street toward the "old Buttonwood." He had taken his

hat from his head and was shading his eyes with it, and his thin locks

were scattered carelessly over his brow. He seemed eager and expectant,

and as they approached the gate they heard him say, "Simon, you'd better

go to the swing for little Jennie; perhaps she's fallen and got a hurt."

"Here she is, sir," said the butler, and the old gentle man dropped his

hat and cane and opened his arms to the little girl, who sprang into

them and nestled there as if it were her happiest resting-place. There

was something so child-like in the old man's tenderness toward her, that

she returned it as if he had been one of her youthful playmates. The

wandering of his intellect had robbed him of that dignity and

superiority which the young stand so much in awe of, and although the

children respected him, they felt that their amusements were suited to

his capacity--therefore they crowded around the seat in the garden, and

every day Jennie would sit beside him and read or sew, while he wound

her curls over his thin fingers, or the three would play beneath the old

trees, while he would gaze at them as contentedly as if it were the

chief end of his existence.

It was sad to think of separating them, but Jennie must return to her

school, and the poor old man be left to his weariness and vacancy. On

the day of the child's departure, he looked vainly for her appearance

until the time of her usual coming was passed, and then, with a low moan

and a pitiful face, he sank back upon the bench. Old Simon tried to

arouse and interest him, but he only shook his head, and looked about

him with the old air of melancholy, and murmured, "Little Jennie--dear

little Jennie."

CHAPTER XVI.

"Simon," said Mrs. Halberg, as they were alighting from their carriage

at the garden gate a few weeks after, "how has the old gentleman been

during our absence? Does he seem any thing like his former self?"

"Oh! he's very bad, very bad, ma'am, since the young lady that was

visiting Miss Rosalie left. He took wonderfully to her, and seemed as

happy as could be while she was here. I thought, perhaps, 'twas the

name, but the likeness was amazin'!"

The lady did not hear the latter remark, but she merely said, "What was

the name, Simon!" scarcely heeding his reply, as she went up the avenue

to the house, stopping one moment to say "How d'ye do" to the old man.

"Oh! 'tis so pleasant to be home again!" said Carrie, the youngest

daughter, and springing lightly from the carriage, she ran up to the old

gentleman, and, throwing her arms around his neck, she kissed him again

and again, saying "'Twas cruel to leave you so long alone, dear grandpa,

wasn't it? I wouldn't give any thing for all Europe in comparison with

this blessed home and one pleasant day beneath these old trees; and I've

missed you so, grandpa. Oh! 'tis too pleasant to be at home again!"

"Do save your raptures, Carrie, until we are free from observation,"

said her sister Ellen, as she went sauntering up the walk, followed by

her other sister, neither of them bestowing more than a glance upon

their afflicted grandfather.

A group of village boys were peeping through the fence, evidently much

interested in the arrivals and the affectionate greeting which Carrie

bestowed upon the old man.

"Nobody will ever suspect that we have traveled if you are so

unsophisticated in your feelings and expressions," continued Ellen; but

observing that her reproof received no attention, she and Mary went into

the house, leaving the sweet child with the pure breath of nature all

around her, and her own heart as fresh and uncontaminated. The old man

returned her caresses, and smiled upon her as he said, "My Jennie! dear

little Jennie!"

Carrie was so delighted at her grandfather's apparent joy on seeing her

that she cared little for the name, yet supposing he had only forgotten

it, she said, "Carrie, grandpa--Carrie;" but he only murmured still,

"Dear little Jennie! dear little Jennie!"

"What does it mean, Simon," said she; "doesn't he remember me?"

"'Twas a nice young lady that was called Jennie; she was here with Miss

Rosalie, and your grandpa, miss, was so happy all the time she staid. He

has been very low, miss, ever since she left till you came. Maybe he

thinks 'tis she come again; you're not unlike her, Miss Carrie."

"Well, I'll be called Jennie, too, since you prefer it, grandpa. See

what I've brought you! 'way across the blue waters, from Scotland! Isn't

it a bonnie plaid?" and she held out before him a real Highland shawl,

and, folding it, threw it around his shoulders. "'Tis so nice to wear

out here, dear grandpa, when it is chilly."

The old man looked at the bright colors, and felt of the soft wool, and

then his eyes rested fondly upon his grandchild, who was scattering

sugar-plums among the little group without the gate. Eagerly they

gathered them up in their greedy hands, and went scampering off to their

homes to exhibit their treasures, while Carrie went to the house

accompanied by her proud father, on whose arm the old gentleman was

feebly leaning. That evening, as the newly-returned party was seated

around the center-table, Carrie stole quietly to her grandfather's room,

and leaning her elbows upon his knees, looked wonderingly up into his

mild eyes, while he muttered softly, "Dear little Jennie! dear little

Jennie!"

CHAPTER XVII.

Rosalie came betimes to see her young friend, and as they walked

together around the garden, they had much to say about the long journey,

and the many strange things that Carrie had seen and heard, and then

they came back again to home events, and to the school that Rosalie had

just left, and that Carrie would soon enter, and this led them to speak

of Jennie, who was to be Carrie's roommate.

"Has she no other name?" said Carrie to Rosalie; "I hear nothing but

'Jennie, Jennie,' all the time."

"Oh! her mother's name is Dunmore--that is, her adopted mother. Her own

mother is dead; but isn't it strange, I never thought to ask her what

her real name is! You can not help loving her, Carrie, I know. In the

first place, she's beautiful, and that goes for something, I think; and

then, she's as good as she is pretty. Why, Carrie, I do believe you are

a little like her! There, throw your hat back, and let your hair fall

about your shoulders, so--'tis strange! I should think you were

sisters."

"Well, well, Rosalie, I should like to put my hat on when you have done

admiring me; I suppose I shall see this paragon of a Jennie on Monday,

if I live."

"She will not seem a paragon to you, Carrie, but a simple, loving,

truthful girl, and before you know it, you'll have your arm around her

neck and your lips to hers as if you had been friends all your life."

"What do you think of Madame La Blanche, Rosalie? Shall I be much afraid

of her?"

"Afraid of her! Why, Carrie, she's as kind as my own mother, and many a

time, when the girls are sad or home-sick, she sends for them to go to

her pleasant room, and there she amuses them with pictures and

curiosities until they forget all their sorrows. She doesn't seem like a

school-teacher, Carrie, but like some dear affectionate relative."

"Well, it is very pleasant here in my own lovely home, and I dread

leaving so soon again; and then, there's grandpa, I can not bear to be

away from him. Nobody seems to cheer him as I can--can they, grandpa?"

and the dear child sat down beside the old man upon the bench which they

had just reached, and looked thoughtfully upon the bowed figure near

her.

"You'll come every day to see him while I am gone--won't you, Rosalie?

and try to keep him contented and happy? It seems so sad," continued

she, "to have no real comfort in life excepting one little gleam, and

then to have even that taken from you! Never mind, grandpa, Jennie will

come back again, soon."

The old man picked up, one by one, some white petals that had fallen

upon his knees from a tree near them, and, letting them drop again,

said, "Don't stay long, dear little Jennie. Simon, is the swing safe?

You'd better see that it is tied firmly to the branches."

"Yes, sir," said Simon; "I'll attend to it, sir. It is well, miss," he

added, "that we have the old swing to fall back upon. Every day while

you were gone, when your grandpa seemed uneasy about you, and asked

often for you, I'd have to say, 'she's down to the old Buttonwood,

sir--only down to the old Buttonwood;' and then he'd rest easy like. The

time seemed weary and long to me, miss, as I put him off from day to

day; but a year and a day is all the same to him, miss--all the same."

"Well, Simon," said Carrie, "I'm so glad you are here with him; I should

never take a bit of comfort if you were not. Even in those strange

countries, where there was so much that was new and beautiful to

interest me, I could not forget the dear old figure beneath the trees at

home, and the thought that you understood him and could cheer him was

all that kept me contented and happy."

"Ah, miss, it's a dreadful bereavement!" said the old butler, shaking

his head. "Such a noble-looking old gentleman as your grandfather was

before this came upon him! I used to watch him as he walked up and down

these avenues with Miss Jennie, that's dead and gone, upon his arm, and

a prouder father I never saw. He's only a wreck now, Miss Carrie, a

pitiful wreck!" and the good servant drew his coat-sleeve across his

face, and turned hastily away.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Meantime frequent communications had passed between Mrs. Dunmore and her

daughter, and now came glad anticipations of a speedy return to the home

and child of her love. Her mission was accomplished. "The silver string

was loosed, the golden bowl broken;" and the old and wearied body laid

away for its long and peaceful rest. For months had she soothed its

pains, and rendered its pathway to the tomb easy and pleasant, and now

that the green earth covered it, and its repose could be no more

disturbed, her heart yearned toward the child of her adoption, and the

hours lagged heavily that must intervene before they could meet again.

Business transactions in connection with the possessions of the deceased

still required her presence for awhile, and she must yield to the

demands of duty. Jennie would have been quite impatient, had not Carrie

Halberg's arrival reconciled her to another school term before rejoining

her mother in their delightful home.

"Rosalie has told me so much about you," said she, as she ushered her

into their cosey room. "I feel as if I quite know you already. It would

be strange if we did not know each other, when we have the same

grandpa, wouldn't it?"

"Oh yes, Rosalie told me how fond grandpa was of you, and I'm sure I owe

you a great deal of affection for going so often to see him while he was

alone. Simon said he was sad indeed after you came away, and that he

would stand for hours by the gate looking down the street toward the old

Buttonwood for you. I never knew him to fancy any one but Rosalie

besides me, before; but Rosalie and Simon both think we are alike, and I

suppose he thought you were me."

"Very likely," said Jennie; "but Carrie, what made him fancy the name

so? I heard Simon say 't was all in the name."

"Oh! that was the name of my aunt that's dead; she was an only daughter.

Didn't you see her portrait hanging in my grandfather's room?"

"I was never in the house, Carrie, for there were none but servants

there, you know, and then the garden was so pleasant! Was your aunt

pretty?"

"I never hear any one but father speak of her, and he often visits her

portrait, and never leaves it without weeping--it is very beautiful! But

you shall see it, Jennie, for my father promises me you shall return

with me to my home. He is so delighted to add to my grandfather's

comfort in any way. Isn't it dreadful, Jennie, to be in this lovely

world with so much around you to charm and please, and yet the sense of

enjoyment gone, and brightness and beauty all the same as if it were

brown and sere? You'll find me a dull companion, I fear, Jennie, for

I've grown old and thoughtful by seeing so much of poor grandpa."

"Perhaps I am made thoughtful, too, by past troubles, Carrie! It doesn't

need age to bring sorrows upon us."

"What griefs can have bowed those youthful heads so early, my darlings?"

said Madame La Blanche, who had softly entered the room and caught part

of Jennie's sentence. "It is better to recount the many mercies of our

lot, rather than to dwell upon the ills of life! Indeed, our very

sorrows often prove blessings to us if we will but permit them to work

the effect designed;" and sitting down in one of the wide windows, she

drew the young girls to her and placing one on either side, there, while

the shadows were lengthening in the beautiful garden, and the night came

creeping silently on, she talked to them as a gentle mother would, of

the great object and aim of this mortal life, and the high destiny which

all may attain if they only so far desire it as to strive after it, and

as the evening stole upon them, and the stars came quietly out in the

mild heavens, she kissed them tenderly and left them to the sweet

influences of the calm night, and of their own subdued thoughts. For a

long time the two girls sat gazing earnestly upward, while one heart

dwelt lovingly upon the old figure with silvery locks, and the other

upon the spirits of her departed parents that seemed even then hovering

about her.

CHAPTER XIX.

"Only three weeks more to vacation," said Mary Halberg, as she entered

the parlor one morning with an open letter in her hand.

"What does Carrie say about her young friend?" said her father, looking

up from his newspaper. "Has she prevailed upon her to accompany her

home?"

"Oh! yes, and you know that rich widow Dunmore, whom we met at the

Springs? Well, she's coming to remain in ---- while Jennie is with us.

It seems she has carried out one of her eccentric whims and taken some

foundling to be her own child, and we are upholding her by admitting the

girl to our house on an intimate footing with Carrie."

"I don't see," said Ellen, "what good all our advantages of education

and travel will do us, if we are to mingle with all sorts of people,

and, as to Carrie, she is quite careless enough now in her choice of

associates, without our seeking those of the lower order for her."

"No good, my daughters, will either your knowledge or your position do

you, if they are to exalt you so far above your fellow-creatures as to

render any of them contemptible in your estimation," said Mr. Halberg;

"I rejoice that the heart of your sister is, as yet, only susceptible to

warm and kindly emotions, and I trust you will both treat with

politeness the young stranger who--whatever her former station in life

may have been--is, as the adopted child of Mrs. Dunmore, entitled to

every attention and courtesy from us all."

Mary looked abashed as her father arose and left the room; but her

sister only muttered. "I'm sure it makes no difference to me whether she

comes or not--'tis precious little I shall trouble myself about her.

What do you think Rosalie told me the other day?" continued she,

addressing Mary; "why, that this Jennie used to sweep the dirty

crossings of Broadway, and herd with vulgar beggars, and that Mrs.

Dunmore took her from this vile condition to her own house, as her own

child. It came pretty straight, for one of Mrs. Dunmore's servants told

old Jimmy, Mr. Mann's coachman, and so it got to Hattie, who is at

Madame La Blanche's school."

"I thought Rosalie was as much in love with her as Carrie," said Mary.

"Well, so she is; but she did not know any thing about this until Hattie

Mann wrote to her the other day. I don't suppose it would make any

difference to her, however, for she says that Jennie is more lady-like,

and further advanced in her studies than any of the girls, and that she

would choose her for a companion rather than any of them, even if she

had once been a street-sweeper."

"Spoken like my own good sister," said Henry Moore, thrusting aside the

vines that shaded the window where the young ladies were sitting.

"Pardon, mademoiselles! I was not intentionally an eaves-dropper; but

hearing your voices in this direction I came to seek you, and thus heard

that little heroic of my pet Rosalie."

"Why, Henry, where did you come from?" said Mary; "I thought you were

still safe within college bounds."

"Oh!" said Henry, "I left my Alma Mater in disgust yesterday morning.

Did you suppose even her kindly embrace could keep me away from ----

during these pleasant months? My motto is 'recreation as well as labor.'

But come, Nellie, lay aside that embroidery, and go with Mary and me to

Blinkdale--the sun has dried the dew, and the birds are having a perfect

concert among the old trees--Rosalie is waiting for us at the gate."

"Grandpa's going too," said Rosalie, as her brother and their two

friends reached her; "you must lead the way, for we have to walk very

slowly you know," and, taking the old man's hand, she led him as gently

as if he were a child; and when they found the pleasant dale she

arranged a nice seat for him in the shade, and lifting his hat from his

head she fanned him with it until he seemed cool and comfortable, and

then joined the little group near. Henry had watched her with a heart

full of affection, and Mary could not help being moved by her quiet and

natural kindness; but Ellen laughed heartily as she said "You are a

capital nurse, Rosalie; if old Simon should happen to drop off some

day, we shall know where to look for a substitute."

Rosalie blushed as she caught her brother's earnest eye, but she only

said "I'm always happy to wait on grandpa. Isn't Carrie coming soon? and

Jennie, too," continued she. "I can scarcely wait much longer to see

them!"

"Three weeks will soon vanish, and then I suppose you'll have a merry

time together," said Ellen. "Carrie writes in high spirits, and one

would think from her delight at returning that there was no place in the

whole world equal to this stupid village."

"I don't consider it stupid at all," said Rosalie, with some spirit; "I

am sure I would not exchange it for any place I ever saw!"

"Oh, well, Rosalie, we all acknowledge that your means of comparison are

very extensive," replied Ellen; "I don't care to quarrel with my native

place, but I must confess it has not so many attractions for me as you

seem to see in it."

Rosalie did not exactly understand Ellen's sneer, but the remark

disturbed her serenity, and she moved softly away from the sisters and

sat down beside the old gentleman, weaving garlands for him to pull in

pieces, and thinking of the happy time, so soon coming, when she could

once more be with her young companions.

"Who is this Jennie that my sister talks so much about?" said Henry.

"She's a _protegee_ of Mrs. Dunmore's, and manages to win the love of

all who know her, I should think, from all I hear concerning her," said

Mary. "She visited Rosalie while we were in Europe, and my grandfather

took a great fancy to her because of her name, and my father insists

upon her coming home with Carrie to spend the vacation. Perhaps there'll

be another heart missing when you see her, Henry."

"In that case," said the young man, "it will be hardly safe to extend my

term of absence from my studies until the arrival of your guest. I don't

see what I am to do among such a bevy of you girls," continued he, as

they strolled leisurely homeward; "it will be rather a dangerous

position."

"Not at all so, unless we catch you eaves-dropping again," said Mary,

laughing, as he bade them good-morning, and turned to assist Rosalie in

the care of the old man. It was pleasant to see them walking up the

village street--the strong and vigorous youth lending itself to the

support of that tottering frame, and the child-like, rosy girl giving

her sweet care and sympathy to his withered, dependent age.

CHAPTER XX.

Signs of life were again visible about the great house in the avenue.

The blinds were thrown open, and the rich drapery hung gracefully by the

open windows. Grocers' and butchers' boys were hurrying in through the

gates to empty their heavy baskets, while little beggar-children emerged

from them with theirs richly laden. The passers-by looked gladly up,

rejoicing that the long-deserted mansion was once more occupied. The

walks were neatly swept, the lawns well trimmed, and the shrubs

carefully trained. A little fountain leaped joyously in one of the

grass-plots, pet canaries warbled from their cages among the green

vines, and every thing around the place betokened the approaching return

of its refined and tasteful mistress. The expectant servants ran hither

and thither from window to door, and from door to window, thrusting out

their woolly heads at every sound of carriage-wheels. Never lagged the

time so wearily, and never was house more joyous than that, as the

waning day brought the loved ones beneath its roof.

Mrs. Dunmore lay upon the couch in her pleasant boudoir, weary and

travel-worn, yet not insensible to the delight of being once more at

home. By her side, on a low ottoman, was the child of her adoption, her

hand clasping that of her mother, whose eyes were fixed upon her with

tenderness and love. Both hearts were almost too full for utterance; the

mother seemed content to watch the varying emotions as they played upon

the face of her sweet child, and the young girl betrayed her earnest,

affectionate feelings in frequent but silent caresses. It was such a

mercy to be spared so many years to meet again, and to find each other

all that they desired--the one the same kind, devoted, Christian mother,

and the other as warm-hearted as ever, repaying all the care and regard

lavished upon her by a corresponding improvement, and by an unmeasured

gratitude and esteem. It was such a happiness, too, to Mrs. Dunmore to

feel that, in braving the world's opinion and taking to her bosom an

outcast and deserted one, she was so fully compensated by the

companionship of the graceful and beautiful girl who was now competent

to sympathize in all that pleased or disturbed her. What was all her

wealth, what were the elegances and luxuries that surrounded her, what

the fashionable friends who crowded to welcome her, compared to that one

fresh, trusting, loving heart, that clung to hers with such strength and

ardor of affection!

Many a time during their long separation had her spirit gone yearningly

out toward the child, and now she was beside her again with deep eyes

beaming earnestly upon her, and red lips pressed ever and anon to her

own with an overflowing fondness.

The twilight was in the room, and through its dimness the little

portrait on the wall was visible, no longer shrouded in somber weeds,

but in its brightness and simplicity gazing down upon the two loving

ones beneath it, and seeming to share in their deep and hallowed joy.

The young girl bowed her head until it rested softly upon the bosom of

her mother, as she said, "It is so sweet to be here, dear mamma! Often

have I walked past this desolate house, with the feeling that it might

never again open to receive me, and it seems so like a dream that I am

here once more, with the cold world wholly shut out from me, and your

warm, warm heart beating so close to mine again!"

"Has the world indeed been cold to you, my darling," said Mrs. Dunmore,

"and have you found no kind friends to make my absence less weary? I had

hoped that Madame La Blanche would prove a fond and faithful mother."

"And so she has, dear mamma, but thoughts of the past would sometimes

come up to trouble me, and then I needed you to help me bear it, and to

bring sunshine and peace from it all. This was at first when I felt

quite alone in the world, after you had gone; but I tried afterward to

do as Madame La Blanche said was the better way--to put every thing

bitter from me, and try to think only of the good that was all around

me. When we were gloomy or dispirited, she would say, 'I know it is very

trying, my children, to be separated from your parents and friends; but

you must remember that so long as you are with me, I stand in the same

relationship to you all; and that my heart will be cast down and pained

if you fail to come freely to me with all your little burdens and

sorrows.' She said too, that 'we were as one dear and pleasant family,

and that each of us must strive to bring as much brightness as possible

into our little household, and then we could not help being happy.'

Nobody could be kinder nor better than Madame La Blanche, and Rosalie

and Carrie were as sweet sisters to me; but there were some things I

could never speak to them about, and I am so glad that you who know me

so truly are here again! I shall have nothing now to ask excepting that

you go away from your poor child no more."

"Never fear, my darling," said Mrs. Dunmore, "nothing shall again come

between us so long as God permits us to dwell upon the earth; but we

must not forget to prepare for a severance that must one day come, so

that we may be reunited where all partings shall forever be over."

Jennie clasped still tighter the hand of her mother, as she thought how

severely that long separation would try one or the other of them; but

she said nothing, for her heart was busy with the memory of the loved

ones who had gone before her to the home above, and she felt that she

had indeed many incentives to struggle for the same blessed inheritance.

The twilight went out into thick darkness, leaving the mother and child

to their happy communings in the boudoir, amid the blest associations of

a cherished past.

The hum of the streets was hushed. Few sounds came from without; but the

silence that had so long reigned in the mansion, was broken by the

gentle tones of loving and glad voices.

CHAPTER XXI.

"Well, Henry, how shall we kill time this evening?" said Fred. Burling

to Henry Moore, as the two colleagues sauntered up and down the gallery

of Mr. Moore's house.

"If by killing time you mean spending the hours pleasantly, I think we

had better go and chat awhile with Mr. Halberg's pretty daughters,"

replied Henry; "I believe you consider yourself quite a connoisseur in

beauty. Perhaps we shall both find our beau-ideal there to-night. Mary

told me they were expecting a visit from a young friend who is skilled

in captivating hearts, and Rosalie says she arrived this morning. Have

you seen her, Rosalie?" continued he, addressing his sister, who

appeared at the door as they were walking past it.

"Why, Henry, there are so many _hers_ in the world, and even in our own

little village, that it would take a better clairvoyant than myself to

decide which you mean," said Rosalie, glancing upon him with a sparkle

in her merry eye.

"I supposed," said Henry, "your mind would be so full of your friend

that she would immediately occur to you as the object of my inquiry."

"I hope you don't mean to insinuate that I have but one friend!"

answered the sister, with another roguish twinkle of her mischievous

eye; "because, dear brother, I have a great, great many, I flatter

myself; but to tease you no longer, I _have_ seen _her_, and she is just

as winning and lovely as ever."

"Well, Fred," said Henry, "if it does not appear too formidable to your

susceptibility, we will venture to meet the young ladies. Get your hat,

Rosalie," he added, as his sister moved away; "we need you to enliven

our walk."

"I am afraid you will scarcely appreciate so brilliant a companion,"

said Rosalie; "but no matter, I'll go, I may glean a few bright ideas by

contact with a certain classical duo that I wot of;" and the blithe

young girl hastened away, and soon returned equipped for their stroll.

"Miss Rosalie," said Fred, as he drew her hand within his arm; "tell me

all about this friend of yours. I believe that is sufficiently definite

to distinguish the new comer, is it not?"

"Oh, yes," said his companion, "I was only bantering Henry a little;

but, really, Mr. Burling, I have nothing to tell you concerning Jennie,

excepting that we were schoolmates for a long time, and that in

consequence we feel a great deal of fondness and affection for each

other."

"I thought," said Fred, "there was some mystery about her birth and

history--so Henry says."

"And so there is to me," replied Rosalie, "but I can not attempt to

solve it, since she was never communicative with regard to her early

life; there was a good deal of gossiping among the girls at school, on

account of a report which came through an old servant of Mrs. Dunmore's

that she was of very humble origin; but she was so lady-like, and so

much beloved by us all that we quite discredited the story, although,

for my own part, I don't care a straw what her parentage was, since she

is worthy and refined."

"You will perceive," said Henry, "that this little sister of mine is a

very independent young lady, and founds her likes and dislikes upon her

own opinions, rather than upon the prejudices and conventionalities of

society."

"It is well," returned Fred, "that there are some who make merit or

demerit the distinguishing marks instead of rank or wealth. I confess

that my own notions wholly accord with those of Miss Rosalie. What! are

we here so soon?" continued he, as they reached the entrance to Mr.

Halberg's grounds.

"I should think we were in the region of the Dryads!" said Henry, as

several white figures were visible amid the trees. "Who's

eaves-dropping, now," added he, as Mary came suddenly upon him from

behind a neighboring shrub.

"I plead, not guilty," said Mary; "but, Henry, where are your offerings?

you should not come into the presence of deities without suitable

gifts."

"Permit me to present to you my friend Mr. Burling, Miss Halberg," said

Henry, as the young man approached with Rosalie and Ellen.

"You see I have not forgotten the custom to bring some propitiatory

sacrifice."

"A very acceptable one in these days of dearth," said Mary, blushing.

"We are a very secluded race," continued she, addressing Mr. Burling,

"and the arrival of friends is quite an era in our quiet life."

"It is a wonder that we do not wholly vegetate," said Ellen. "Do not you

think, Henry, that we are in danger of dissipating too much, now that

our coterie is so greatly enlarged?"

The young man looked thoughtfully upon her for a moment, and then

replied "There needs not an increased circle, nor the seductions of a

fashionable clique, Nellie, to lead us to excess; the soul may run riot,

and indulge in vain repinings for the follies and vanities of life, even

in the remotest solitudes. But come, let us go to the piazza, I see your

youngest sister there, and wish also to make the acquaintance of your

guest."

Just then Carrie and Jennie espied Rosalie, and, running forward, met

her with the warmest manifestations of delight, and seizing upon her,

they hurried her on to see grandpa, who sat in his arm-chair on the

piazza, with the cool breeze refreshing his fevered brow.

It was a beautiful sight, the three young girls just bursting into

womanhood, with their earnest and pure natures, ministering to the faint

old man who was fast wasting away from this earthly being. Henry and his

friend were deeply impressed by it, and dreaded to disturb so charming

a picture, but as they advanced to greet Mr. and Mrs. Halberg, Carrie

sprang to meet her old friend Henry, and leading him to her

grandfather's seat, introduced him to Jennie, and placed a chair for him

by her side. The young girl looked up with a sweet smile as he asked her

some question concerning her escape from school, and shaking back the

heavy mass of ringlets that shaded her forehead, she replied, "School

was any thing but a prison-house to me, yet I love very much to be

occasionally free from a fixed routine of duties, especially when I find

so pleasant a retreat as this, and so dear a charge as grandpa. We all

have a care for him," she added, taking in Carrie and Rosalie with her

fond glance.

"Grandpa's shoulders ought to be very broad to support so many

descendants," said Ellen, looking scornfully at their beautiful guest.

"Henry, why do you not aspire to so distinguished a relationship?"

"People often aspire to that which they can not attain," said Henry,

with a look of quiet but deep earnestness at Jennie, whose eyes sunk

under his gaze, and whose heart swelled with emotion at the thought of

her own isolated fate. "No father, no mother, no kindred," felt she,

"and even the love of this weak old man grudged me by one who has all!"

She said nothing more while the visitors remained, but sat with the

palsied hand in her soft palm, dreaming of the time when she should be

gathered into the bosom of a ransomed family, and her spirit grew calm

with the thought, so that when Rosalie and the young men arose to

leave, and asked her to join them in a little excursion on the morrow,

she answered them with a beaming and glad face.

"Fred," said Henry, as they left the gate, "I never can forget that

face. Did you see how almost heavenly it was as she stood by old Mr.

Halberg when we left?"

"It was indeed a lovely picture," said Fred; "the old bowed head with

the evening's breath moving the gray hair, and that delicate girl, with

her white dress glistening in the moonbeams, and with the seraphic

expression on her brow!"

CHAPTER XXII.

"Eleanor," said Mr. Halberg to his wife, after the young people had

retired to rest, "there is something very singular about that girl. She

is so like our departed Jane that she awakens my deepest interest. Did

you notice her manners, at once so child-like and so mature? I must

inquire more particularly about her of Mrs. Dunmore; it strikes me she

is no common child."

"I paid no especial attention to her," replied the wife; "she is

sufficiently long under the influence of a refined example to overcome

all taint of birth and early habit, however."

"I tell you, wife," said the husband, "there's an innate pride and

dignity about the girl that no training could effect. I watched her all

the evening, and could detect nothing but the most perfect ease and

grace. Her face, too, haunts me. Do you remember how pure and earnest

the expression of Jane's eye was? Well, there's the same look in that

young girl's, so that I longed to take her to my heart and call her

sister. If we had not learned with such apparent certainty about the

death of the child I should say this was she," soliloquized he, as his

wife left the room for one moment, and resuming the subject as she

returned. "Why, Eleanor, how long is it since my father lost his

reason?"

"About four years, I believe," replied Mrs. Halberg.

"And our poor Jane had been twelve years away, and her little one was

born three years after her marriage, and this child is--how old did you

say, wife?"

"I'm sure I don't know, Frank; but what possesses you? Have you any idea

that Jane's child is still living? and if it were so and we should ever

find it out, are you not aware how materially it would affect our own

children's share of their grandfather's property?" said Mrs. Halberg,

blushing for very shame, as she encountered her husband's searching and

grieved eye.

"Eleanor," said he, "my sister was bitterly wronged! God only knows how

and what she suffered, not only from the neglect and desertion of her

kindred; but from the stern pinchings of want. For my own part,"

continued he, leaning his head upon his hand, and sighing deeply, "I

would be willing to forfeit _all_ the inheritance if by that means I

could make some reparation for the cruel past!"

"Well, well, Frank, it can not be helped now! Since it is all over, why

not let it go without troubling yourself with vain regrets?"

"Those are not vain regrets, Eleanor," said the husband, "which purify

the soul. My father has been spared the agony of remorse for the one

great error of his life, by a merciful Providence which has made the sad

past oblivious to him; but my heart would be hardened indeed, if it

should cease to feel an intense sorrow for the wrongs committed against

the patient and sainted one."

Mrs. Halberg was touched by her husband's unfeigned grief. He had never

spoken so fully to her before, on a subject which, by common consent,

all the family had avoided, and she knew not until now how weighty had

been the burden of his secret repinings. Before the world he was

unbending and reserved; but now as he sat in the solitude of his

chamber, with only his wife's eye upon him, save that of the Omniscient,

the proud man yielded to a long pent-up emotion, and wept like a child.

"Eleanor," said he, as he felt the tears from other eyes mingling with

his own, "tell me that if it is ever in our power to make restitution

for the sins of other years, you will aid me with all your power, even

if it were to our own pecuniary loss?"

The wife placed his hand fondly upon the heart that was beating for him

so truly, and kissing him tenderly, murmured, "My husband, I promise!"

"If," continued he, "it should prove upon thorough investigation--which

has been already too long delayed--that the child of my sister was

spared, and is even now living, will you take her to your home and

cherish her as one of your own children, so that she may feel no want of

sympathy and love?"

With the hand still upon the life-spring, the affectionate wife

earnestly answered, "My husband, I will. But why," said she, after a

moment's hesitation, "do you doubt the truth of the report, that you

have hitherto considered credible?"

"It never occurred to me," said Mr. Halberg, "that it might be false,

until to-night; but Eleanor, presentiments come sometimes upon us with

all the force of a certain conviction, and my conscience will never be

easy until I, make some effort to find out, beyond the shadow of doubt,

whether my sister's child is wandering upon the earth, yearning for

kindred and home, or is gathered to the home which is brighter than any

this world can afford. What first awakened these thoughts within me, was

the sight of a gipsy woman to-day. She stopped me in the street to beg a

few pennies, and by the hand she held a gentle little creature of five

or six years old, which I was confident could not be her own. Visions of

a bereaved and mourning family, and of the future of the delicate child,

troubled me, and the feeling that one bound to me by a dearer tie than

that of humanity, might be roaming amid the vicious and low, smote me

with such cruel misery that I have not since been able to regain my

wonted calmness, and the coming of this beauteous child, so like my

sister, has excited my anxieties and fears still more."

"I doubt not but that it is all a fantasy of the imagination, Frank. You

had better take a composing draught, and to-morrow will find you more

cheerful," said the wife.

"I know of none more soothing," replied Mr. Halberg, as he prepared for

his night's repose, "than a spirit at peace with God and man."

CHAPTER XXIII.

"Jennie," said Carrie the next morning, "come with me and we'll get a

peep at the portrait. I saw father go into the room a moment since, and

grandpa's out on the piazza. We'll step softly just inside the door, for

father never likes to be disturbed when he's there."

With their arms about each other's waists the two friends went skipping

along, until they reached the apartment appropriated to the old

gentleman. The door was partially open and they could see through the

crack the dark figure of Carrie's father standing with his back toward

them. The room seemed very bright and cheerful, and the rich colors of a

gay carpet, and the elaborate carving of the massive and antique

furniture rendered it still more pleasant and attractive. As they were

about to cross the threshold, and Carrie had her hand against the door

to push it open still further, Jennie whispered, "Stop a minute, Carrie,

my heart beats so!--I'm afraid your father will not like it if we

intrude upon him now! You know there's something very sacred in one's

sorrow!"

Mr. Halberg, meanwhile, had withdrawn the black vail which had obscured

the portrait since his sister's marriage, and stood thoughtfully gazing

upon the lovely features, and comparing them with those of the young

girl, whose image filled his mind. "It is very strange," murmured he;

"the same waving mass of hair, the same beautifully-arched brows and

long lashes, and the liquid eyes, melting one with their subduing

pathos; the very expression so like, too! It is very wonderful! very

wonderful!" and he wiped away a tear that betrayed the depth and

earnestness of his feelings.

"Come, Jennie--father will not see us," said Carrie, gently pulling her

within the door, "he gets so absorbed!"

As Jennie entered the room she raised her eyes to the place where Mr.

Halberg stood. That moment the sunlight came through the windows,

casting a bright gleam upon the beautiful portrait, and, stretching out

her arms toward it, the young girl faintly cried, "My own blessed

mother!" and sunk senseless to the floor.

In one moment Mr. Halberg was beside her, and raising her gently he

placed her upon the bed, and with a face as colorless and rigid as her

own, awaited her return to consciousness, applying the proper

restoratives with a calm and skillful hand. Carrie had loosened her

dress, and as she did so, a miniature fell upon the bed. Her father

looked eagerly upon it, and with tremulous fingers pressed a spring upon

the back. It was indeed his sister's likeness, placed beyond dispute by

the convincing inscription, "Jane Halberg, to her beloved daughter,

Jennie Grig!"

This, then, was the child of that precious one who had roamed with him

through the sunny paths of infancy and youth, but whose maturer years

were overshadowed by adversity and gloom! God had sent a pitying heart

to her in the hour of her saddest need, and had gently led her back to

the home whence her mother had been cruelly banished; that mother He had

received into more beauteous mansions, but the child was left, to

fulfill a noble and glorious mission among those who had hitherto deemed

her as helpless in the grave! Strangers had proved better than those of

her own household to the outcast and orphan, and had nurtured and cared

for her while they were contenting themselves with the report that she

had gone where no earthly care avails. Only the evening before had she

sat in the midst of her relatives, with a sad feeling of isolation--now

they were gathered about her with evidences of an awakening love and

tenderness. It was pleasant to shut her eyes and open them again upon so

glad a revelation! So thought Jennie as she gazed upon her new-found

connections, who crowded around with exclamations of surprise and

affection. Carrie, then, was her own cousin! and the great heart against

which she was so fondly pressed was warm with kindred blood? Grandpa,

too, had fondled and caressed her idolized mother, and even his

wandering faculties had detected her lineage, so that he had clung to

her for some better reason than an impulsive and wayward fancy!

"Speak not now, my darling," said Mr. Halberg, as Jennie made an effort

to say something to him, "but put your arms around my neck, and let me

feel by this mute expression that the past is forgiven; I am not yet

able to bear one word from the child of my deserted sister."

The young girl's lips were still parted, but the loving arms twined

closely around her uncle, and although no verbal absolution came, he

felt that the past would never again haunt him with its spectral figure,

but that his sister's blessing would come to him through the child who

now lay so fondly upon his bosom.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Three more years had mingled with the past, and yet Mrs. Dunmore and

Jennie, who had now developed into a mature and perfect beauty, lingered

in the vicinity of the Halbergs. Not that they had any idea of sundering

the ties that so closely united them, or of claiming a place for the

orphan in the home of her newly-found kindred, but the old man clung

with such touching fondness to his beloved grandchild, and grew so

frantic if she left him, even for a few days, that it seemed a sacred

duty to give themselves up to his few remaining years; and as from month

to month they perceived a manifest dawning of light upon his bewildered

intellect, it became rather a pleasure than a sacrifice to forego all

those amusements and comforts that interfered with his peculiar fancies

or desires. Mrs. Halberg would remonstrate, and Ellen would sneer, as

the young girl denied herself the companionship of her youthful

associates in order to be with and cheer her aged relative; but Jennie

would place her hand gently upon his silvery head, and say, in her

quiet, subduing way, "It will not be very long, dear auntie!"

Nor was it very long, for every day the tottering knees grew more and

more feeble, until at length the old seat in the garden was altogether

abandoned for the pleasant room; and there, by the window, in the warm

sunlight, would the shadow of a majestic being crouch, shivering through

the summer days, while a soft and low voice read and chatted away the

otherwise weary hours.

But the old figure stays not long in the sunlight, for the messengers

have come for him, and the hour of his departure is near, and prostrate

upon his bed he awaiteth the final summons. It was Jennie's sixteenth

autumn, and as she sat beside her grandfather's couch with his shriveled

fingers in her warm clasp, the old man turned his head upon his pillow,

and, looking intently upon her, said, "My child, I have been dreaming. I

have slept a long, long time; but I am wide awake now, and I know it

all. It has come to me slowly and painfully, and I shall not forget it

again."

"What is it, grandpa?" said Jennie; "you are weak and ill now, and must

not talk, I am your little nurse you know, and Dr. Wright says 'I must

keep you quite still if I would have you get well again.'"

"Isn't your name Jennie Grig? and is not that your mother?" continued

her grandfather, rising upon one elbow and pointing to the portrait at

the foot of the bed. "You was a young thing when she died, Jennie, and I

meant to find you out and bring you home; but I could do nothing while

the strange dream was upon me. It was just as well, for she brought you

to me with her angel hands, and that made the dream pleasant to me;" and

the old man sunk back upon his pillow. He lay quietly for some time, and

Jennie thought he was sleeping, but as she motioned Simon to take her

place by the bed, and tried gently to relax her hand from that of her

grandfather, he tightened the pressure, and spoke again in a feeble

tone. "I shall not get well again, Jennie, I'm going to your mother; but

I can not die yet. Call your uncle to me, and leave us for awhile, I

must make it right again." Jennie was more surprised and frightened at

her grandfather's calm and rational manner than she would have been by

any strange or frenzied actions; but she had heard that reason often

wholly resumes its throne as the hour of dissolution approaches, and,

thinking that life might be fast ebbing, she hastened to summon her

uncle, who was soon in his father's presence.

His heart leaped for joy as soon as he saw that the old gentleman was

sufficiently sane to alter his will, which had been made in a moment of

passion, and had cut off the inheritance from his daughter; and both

seemed relieved of a sore burden when the papers were re-executed and

the child was made sure of her rightful portion.

Her grandfather tremulously affixed his signature as Jennie returned to

him followed by her aunt and cousins.

A peaceful smile was upon the dying man's face as he looked upon the

little group that surrounded him, and said, with a solemn emphasis, "My

children, be kind and forgiving--forgiving." Then closing his eyes, he

murmured "dear little Jennie! dear little Jennie!" and slept to awake no

more to the pains and ills of life.

CHAPTER XXV.

Henry Moore had been a frequent visitor at Mr. Halberg's during Jennie's

sojourn there, and so lovely a character as hers could not fail to

awaken in his bosom a deeper feeling toward her than that of friendship;

yet so calmly had the time glided away that they had spent together, and

so far from his mind had been the idea of a separation, that he was

scarcely aware of the nature of his emotions until she announced to him

her approaching departure from her uncle's.

They were standing together in a little summer-house in the garden, a

few weeks after the old man's death, and Carrie was with them, when

Jennie looked sadly out upon the old seat that had been left vacant

beneath the trees, and said:

"Don't let them remove that, when I am away, Carrie, darling. You know

it is all that restored to me my relatives."

"Are you going to leave----, Jennie?" said Henry, with a sudden start

which made both the girls gaze eagerly at him. Jennie did not perceive

the deep flush that overspread his face; but Carrie observed it, yet

thinking it better to appear as if she had noticed nothing unusual, she

picked an autumn bud, that had obtruded itself within the trellised

window, and quietly handing it to him, said,

"Every thing that we love seems to be going from us at this dreary

season, Henry. Even that last bud would have faded from me with the next

few chilly hours. Perhaps it is well," she continued, "that we can not

have the good and the beautiful always around us, we might forget our

unfading inheritance!"

Henry did not answer, for he could not trust himself to speak just then;

but Jennie turned to the window that overlooked the village churchyard

where her grandfather's grave was made, and repeated, in a low voice,

that beautiful hymn of Mrs. Heman's, "Passing Away." As she came to the

verse,

"Friends! friends! oh, shall we meet

In a land of purer day,

Where lovely things and sweet

Pass not away?"

her voice faltered, and she did not attempt to finish, but sinking upon

a bench near her, she wept unrestrainedly.

"Quite a tragic scene! Whose benefit is it to-day, Carrie?" said Ellen

Halberg, who that moment approached the summer-house.

"No wonder Jennie feels some sorrow at leaving a spot where we have

spent so many happy hours," said Carrie, "one must have no heart, to

break away from friends without any manifestation of regret."

"Oh! I can easily conceive of its being a great grief to leave a place

where she finds so many attractions as here," said Ellen, looking

significantly at Henry, who was mentally contrasting the two girls so

nearly allied, yet so unlike.

"Doubtless your cousin has emotions which you can neither understand nor

appreciate, Miss Ellen," said he, with somewhat of sarcasm in his tone.

"There are minds so constituted, that wherever they dwell they form

attachments which are not easily loosed!"

"Oh! I fully sympathize in Jennie's distress," said Ellen, mockingly

holding her handkerchief to her eyes.

Not for worlds would she have committed that one thoughtless act, had

she known how contemptible it would make her in the estimation of him

whom she most cared to please! Henry Moore of all others was the object

of her especial regard. From their childhood they had been thrown

constantly together, and, until the coming of her cousin among them she

had appropriated him to herself as a lawful and undisputed right. All

the villagers had looked upon their union as a "settled thing," and no

doubt Henry would gladly have fulfilled their prophecies if Ellen's

maturer years had verified the promise of an earlier age; but as he saw

her give way to petty envies and jealousies, and to an uncontrolled and

vindictive temper, he turned from her to the study and contemplation of

her sweet and gentle cousin. No wonder he became a worshiper of so pure

an image, rather than pay homage to a distorted object. Jennie

meanwhile, was wholly unconscious of the interest she excited. So

completely had her mind been occupied in contributing to her

grandfather's comfort, that she sought no other affection, and so long

as her friends looked kindly upon her, she was too happy to question

their feeling toward her. One only sorrow had she experienced since her

restoration to her kindred, and that was in her cousin Ellen's continued

ill-will and hatred toward her. Perhaps she might have succeeded in

winning her to an opposite feeling, by the little acts of courtesy and

love so constantly shown, if the demon jealousy had not insinuated

itself into Ellen's bosom.

Was it a crime to beget in another a love so deep and holy, when she

herself was free from all design, and even unsuspicious that she was

regarded with more warmth than were her cousins? So Ellen must have

thought, or she would not have taken every opportunity to thwart and

tease her orphan relative, and to detract from her merit when in the

presence of her friends.

On this day especially she seemed to feel a peculiar malice and spite

toward her. She had seen--herself unobserved--the emotion of Henry when

Jennie's departure was spoken of, and her own heart told her that no

light or common feeling produced it.

As she removed the handkerchief from her face, she perceived that she

had gone too far, for even the unresentful Jennie, unable to bear the

ridicule of her most sacred sentiments, had arisen to go to the house.

She did not escape, however, before Henry had whispered the request,

that she would go with him to Blinkdale on the morrow.

"To-morrow is Sunday," said she, quietly, "and I shall accompany uncle

to church."

"Well, the next day; I will call for you," said Henry. "You can not

refuse to take one last walk with me?"

"I have no disposition to refuse," replied Jennie, as she turned slowly

and sadly from the spot.

"Ellen, how could you!" said Carrie with flashing eyes, "so short a time

as Jennie is to be with us, and yet you make her miserable?"

"She shall not come between me and happiness with her soft and

hypocritical ways!" said Ellen, snapping off the leaves of a twig near

her, and looking upon the retreating figures of her sister and cousin,

who were going up the avenue. Then turning to a point where she could

see in the distance the dim form of Henry Moore, she took the seat that

her cousin had vacated, and gave vent to a keener anguish, but how

different!

CHAPTER XXVI.

"Come, girls," said Mr. Halberg, as the young ladies descended from

their rooms equipped for church, "the bell has been tolling for some

time, I fear we shall be late. Where's Ellen?" he continued, casting his

eyes over the group and missing his eldest daughter.

"She is not well to-day, papa, and prefers remaining at home with

mother," said Carrie. "Nothing serious," added she, observing her

father's anxious and troubled look. "She said she would try to sleep,

and perhaps that would banish her head-ache so that she would be able to

go with us this afternoon;" and the party left the house, and calling

for Mrs. Dunmore and Rosalie, they all proceeded to the church.

The walk was rural and quiet, through green lanes that were seldom

disturbed except when the house of God was open. A little footpath was

worn upon the verdant turf, and the green was unpressed elsewhere, save

where some passive burden was silently borne to its lowly bed; there the

somber wheels crushed down the blades that lifted up their heads to the

glad sunlight, as if it were wrong to live and grow on while death was

moving over them.

There were recent traces upon the grass that recalled to every mind the

venerable and stricken old man who was now resting so peacefully beneath

the church's shadow, and as Jennie's eye perceived them, she leaned

heavily upon her uncle's arm and sighed.

"My darling," said he, in a low and gentle voice, "we shall miss you

very much--more than I can tell! Your love and care for your poor

grandfather, notwithstanding all the past, have endeared you more and

more to my heart, so that it is a bitter trial to think of parting from

you, and one which I should strive to avert, were it not that too much

of your young life has been given up to seclusion when you might have

been deriving both happiness and profit in the world. Your self-denial,

dear child, will be rewarded, if it is not already giving you a rich

harvest of peaceful and self-approving thoughts!" Jennie could not

reply, even had she desired, as they were at the church door, and her

uncle was accosted by the senior warden:

"We have a stranger to preach for us to-day, sir," said Mr. Brown, after

the accustomed salutations had passed between them.

"Ah! where is our own rector?" asked Mr. Halberg.

"I suppose he is supplying this young minister's pulpit," returned the

warden. "It is seldom that we have an exchange, and they say that this

stranger is uncommonly eloquent."

"We shall have an opportunity to judge for ourselves," said Mr. Halberg,

as he turned from his friend and entered the church with his niece. The

service commenced, and as the rich deep tones of the minister fell upon

Jennie's ear, there rushed upon her mind a tide of joyous memories that

transported her to a sunny home amid the mountains, and a little tomb,

and a quiet avenue, and a bench beneath the old maples, where she used

to sit and listen to a calm and gentle voice that seemed to reach her

even now; and then her thoughts came back to her hallowed employment,

and as she raised her eyes to be sure that it was not all a dream, they

fell, not upon a strange minister, but upon the same kind friend who had

beguiled her childhood's hours.

How many years had passed since she had roamed with him among the hills,

not a gay and sportive child, as one who had known nothing of trouble or

poverty; but a young being whose gleesomeness had been crowded down by

premature cares and sorrows, so that it seldom gushed out as a little

child's mirth should always do. Will he recognize her now? She must be

so changed! She would scarcely know him but for the voice, and the broad

pale forehead that seems to have been expanding all these many years, so

wide and high does it appear.

He does not see her, he is all absorbed in the solemn worship, as she

too should be--now he is in the pulpit, and as he glances around upon

the congregation, his eyes meet the earnest soul that once beamed upon

him in his own parish church.

There is no mistaking it. For many a weary hour has it cheered him in

his labors. It was but a child's soul, but it was an eager one, on

which the seed fell availingly--and now it is a woman's soul, and the

good fruit has been nourishing the faint old man who needs it no longer.

The minister knows nothing of that, he only sees that it is before him,

as desirous as ever of spiritual nourishment, and the people wonder at

his zeal and fervor, little thinking of the power there is in a

thirsting spirit to awaken the energies of him who dispenseth to them of

the waters of life.

The service is over, and Mrs. Dunmore and Jennie meet their old friend,

who scarcely dares even to press the hand of the child he used to caress

so fondly. Time and absence strangely change us!

"May I see you to-morrow," said he, "before I leave?"

"We shall look certainly for you," replied Mrs. Dunmore as they left the

vestibule.

"Pardon me, dear mamma," said Jennie; "but I must leave you, uncle

wished me to join him in the churchyard. It may be our last opportunity

alone;" she added as she moved away.

Mr. Halberg was leaning upon the gate at the entrance of the

burial-ground, gazing intently upon the many mounds that filled the

spot, and wondering when his own tomb would be pointed out by others,

when Jennie lightly touched his hand to remind him of her presence.

He started, and, opening the gate, they were soon within the sacred

inclosure. "You may wonder," said he, "why I choose a place fraught with

so many saddening associations for a little quiet conversation; but it

suits my mood, and there are so few who frequent this somber place that

we are sure not to be disturbed."

"The precincts of the dead, dear uncle," said Jennie, "are any thing but

gloomy to me; the lessons of my childhood were too full of solemn

realities to foster in me a shrinking from the entrance to a purer and

more beauteous existence."

"It is of your early life I would speak, my child," said Mr. Halberg,

with an effort at composure. "I have never trusted myself to ask of you

your history previous to your adoption by Mrs. Dunmore; but the time has

come when I wish to know it, and, however painful the details may be,

you must no longer hide them from me."

"But uncle," replied the niece; "why not bury the past, and look only to

the happy present and the promising future. Is it well to exhume the

moldering remains when the sight would bring only suffering!"

"It is for the moral, Jennie; your uncle has hitherto been so selfish

that he needs awakening by some stirring appeals, and what can be more

sure to arouse him than the recollection of his beloved and only

sister's trials!"

"I feel that I have so little to tell," said Jennie, trying to evade the

subject; "the time spent with you has been so pleasant, that it quite

banishes the bitterness of my younger days."

"And yet," said Mr. Halberg, "there must have been intense anguish on

your mother's part, as she felt herself given up by those who should

have clung to her, and her very means of subsistence failing her!"

"I never heard my mother complain," replied Jennie, "There was one time

when our miserable room was quite cheerless and cold, and we knew not

where to look for fuel or food, then my poor father seemed almost

frantic with grief for my mother and myself; but I well remember her

holy smile, as she calmly said, 'My husband, trust in the Lord, and

verily thou shalt be fed.' I never met with a firmer confidence in the

love and over-ruling providence of God than my mother possessed,"

continued Jennie. "Her example is ever before me, and yet how difficult

to attain to!"

"Were you often in so desperate a condition, my child?" asked Mr.

Halberg; "and did your mother's patience never fail her, so that she

would speak accusingly of her relatives?"

"There was seldom a day," replied Jennie, "after my father's illness,

that we knew how to provide the necessaries of life; and the only time I

ever surprised my mother in an outburst of sorrow was when I took my

broom for the first time, and went out to sweep the crossings. That day

she called me to her, and tying back my curls, so that none of them

could be seen beneath my hood, she clasped me convulsively to her, and

wept until I ran away to escape the agony."

"Were you not afraid in the crowded streets?" inquired the uncle, as

Jennie paused.

"Oh, yes! very often, dear uncle--that is, of the ugly wheels; but there

seemed a guardian presence around me and few ever spoke rudely to me;

and I was never injured, excepting on that blessed night when God's time

had come to help us through my physical hurt. Don't let us think any

more about it," continued she, looking up at her uncle, and perceiving

how deeply he was moved; "it was all right, and if it had not happened

we might have been wicked and thoughtless instead of feeling that our

heavenly Father's will is always better than our own."

Mr. Halberg arose and walked around on the other side of the church, and

on his return to his niece he said, in a calm yet earnest tone, "My

child, you must pray for your uncle--his life will be weary indeed

without you!" and pressing her fondly to him as they stood by the old

man's grave, he too murmured "Dear little Jennie!" and they left the

spot to the breath of the winds and the twittering of the birds that

hopped about upon the willow branches.

CHAPTER XXVII.

Meantime Ellen lay upon her couch, tossed with many conflicting

emotions. Her better nature reproached her for her injustice and cruelty

toward her innocent cousin, and almost persuaded her to cease her

persecutions, and even to strive to imitate her winning virtues; but the

remembrance of the scene in the summer-house, and of Henry's

contemptuous look as he left her, without even a parting salutation,

awakened the bitter thought that she had fallen in his estimation,

perhaps beyond the power of retrieval, and she resolved to keep up the

semblance of a pride and indifference which she was far from feeling.

For her cousin's opinion she little cared, nor was she influenced by the

thought of an invisible yet heart-searching eye. No wonder, then, that

she clung to her perverseness, and moved about on her restless pillow

with no sweet or refreshing sleep to quiet the throbbings of her heavy

brow.

The noonday sun was streaming through her window making the autumnal air

seem warm and cheery, when a gentle rap was heard at her door, and her

cousin entered. Her countenance was serene and peaceful, and her voice

soothing and mild, as she said, "I have come to bathe your head, dear

Nellie, Carrie told me you were ill, and I could not feel easy nor happy

until I came to you."

"I am better alone," said Ellen, with a repelling motion of the hand.

"If I need any thing, I will ring for Meggie; she is quite accustomed to

my headaches."

"But, Nellie," said her cousin, in a beseeching tone, "something in your

manner tells me that you do not love me, and yet I am not conscious that

I have offended you. I can not go from----, without being at peace with

everybody. The sermon was so full of mercy and kindness this morning!"

"I do not feel like hearing a sermon to-day," said Ellen, "and you will

oblige me, Jennie, if you will leave me to myself, it is decidedly the

best way to relieve me."

Jennie said no more; but arranging her cousin's shawl closer about her,

and darkening the room, she placed the cooling liquid which she had

prepared near the bed, and softly left the room. There was a slight

shadow upon her brow as she entered her uncle's study, but it was

banished by his welcome kiss. Her aunt and two cousins sat in a

bay-window facing the south. Here they had always assembled on Sundays,

until there came to be a sort of consecrated air about that quiet room,

and something hallowed in the lovely view seen from the window.

"Here is your nook, Jennie, we have been expecting you for some time!"

said Carrie, "there'll be such a sad vacancy next Sunday! I don't

believe I shall love this room any more after you are gone, dear

cousin!"

"I am glad if my presence makes it happier to you, Carrie," replied

Jennie; "but you forget that uncle, and aunt, and Mary, and Ellen will

be left to you besides the pleasant associations that cluster about all

these familiar objects, while I shall be deprived of every thing but

dear mamma."

"But every body will love you, Jennie," said Mary, "and you have the

power to draw around you whoever you wish, so that your life will be

sure to be sunny wherever you go."

"Not every body, Mary," said Jennie, looking thoughtfully upon the

glorious view that was spread out before them, "if so, my heart would

feel no weight upon it to-day. It is not well," she continued, "to have

too much sunshine; else the storms would never be permitted to come; I

don't believe we should truly appreciate and love this bright landscape

if the shadows were not often flitting over it, thus making the glory

more apparent!"

"You are right my child," said Mr. Halberg, "the trying dispensations of

our life are wisely ordered, and who of us would dare to wish it

otherwise!"

"And yet it seems," said Mary, "as if sorrow never came to some people,

they glide through the world so unruffled and cheerful!"

"How little can we judge!" replied her father. "Every heart knoweth its

own bitterness, and the outer surface is not always the index to the

inner emotions or passions."

"Do you think, dear uncle," said Jennie, "that one can ever learn so to

bear the ills of his lot, as always to present a cheerful and happy

exterior to the world?"

"Not always, my child," said her uncle, "there is often a weakness of

the flesh, when the spirit without its depressing influence, would be

strong to endure; yet we may cultivate such a feeling of confidence in

the will of God as never to murmur at His decrees, and even to welcome

His chastisements, as blessings in disguise."

"That seems so difficult," said Carrie, "I am afraid I could never learn

to welcome a sorrow."

"Not simply as a sorrow, my dear child," returned Mr. Halberg; "but as a

means to a future good which could not be attained without it; there is

a great deal that is hard for our sinful natures to comprehend; but

there are spiritual aids of which we may all avail ourselves. Do not let

us slight them, my dear children," continued he, rising from his seat,

and gathering the three in one embrace as they stood by the window. The

golden light was sprinkled upon the landscape, and the whole face of

nature seemed to glow with an unusual radiance, as that little band of

loving hearts beat in such grateful and perfect unison. Yet was there a

sigh in the midst of it all, for the absent and sinning one:

Worlds like to this

Mingle sorrow and bliss.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Mrs. Dunmore and Jennie were busy in talking over the past, and forming

plans for the future, when Mr. Colbert was announced.

"I trust you will excuse my early call," said he, as they arose to greet

him. "I have to leave the village at noon, which is my only apology for

intruding upon your morning hours."

"We are always at home to our old and valued friends," replied Mrs.

Dunmore. "I hope our long separation will not make us strangers to each

other."

"Miss Jennie reminds me that a long interval has come between us," said

the clergyman, glancing at the graceful and womanly figure before him;

"I have been accustomed to think of her as the child of my pleasant

rambles, so that I am scarcely prepared to meet her in another form."

Jennie had received him with that timid cordiality so common to early

womanhood, a kind of shrinking from the advances of a new and not wholly

defined stage of being, and, as he alluded to the days of her childhood

and the hours spent together in his hill-girt home, a slight blush

tinged her face, and she said, "the long interval has changed you too,

Mr. Colbert, so that there needed early memories to aid me in

recognizing you."

"Time has dealt very differently with us," replied her friend, as the

mirror opposite enabled him to contrast his sunken and pallid features

with the round and healthful face of the lovely girl. "There are many

things, however, that encourage me in the hope that we are none the less

friends than formerly, and that we still have the one great sympathy in

common;" added he, recalling her devout manner in church the day before.

"Are you not well, Mr. Colbert," asked Mrs. Dunmore; "or do you trespass

upon the hours necessary to your repose and recreation that you are so

much thinner and paler than you used to be? I fear I must usurp your

prerogative and turn preacher if you are really destroying your health

by too great devotion to your duties."

"I have been quite a sufferer for the last few years, my dear madam,"

returned the minister; "but not from the cause you assign."

"Perhaps you need change," said the widow; "it is not well to confine

one's self too constantly to one locality."

"I feel confident it is so," said Mr. Colbert, "since even so short a

journey revives me materially; but how comes it," he asked, "that you

are here, and apparently settled?"

"Jennie must explain that to you," replied Mrs. Dunmore, "as it was

through her that our present arrangements were made."

"Ah! do you find a rural life so much more congenial than your city home

that you have adopted it altogether?" said Mr. Colbert, addressing

Jennie.

"It is not that," she replied, "the city was the scene of my happiest,

as well as my saddest days, and we are soon to return to it; but this

village is the home of my nearest relatives, who were restored to me a

few years since through a singular Providence, and my grandfather's

infirmities rendered it expedient that we should remain here until now."

Mrs. Dunmore seeing the tears that dropped upon her child's work at

mention of her grandfather, took Mr. Colbert aside, and gave him a brief

history of all that had occurred during the years of their severance,

and when she had finished her relation of the old man's derangement, and

of Jennie's devotion and love toward him, the minister arose, and walked

backward and forward in the room with an absorbed and meditative air,

and then stopping so suddenly before the young girl as to startle her,

he said abruptly: "Will you give me one moment in the garden? I have a

single word to say to you alone." Jennie laid aside her work, and as

they stepped from the colonnade into the garden of their lodgings, she

opened an adjoining wicket that led to her uncle's grounds, and,

motioning Mr. Colbert to follow, she passed through and entered the

little summer-house.

"Are we quite free from intrusion?" asked her companion, as she seated

herself upon a bench near the window.

"I believe I reign sole monarch of this sequestered nook at this

season," replied Jennie. "My cousins care little for such solitude now

that the breeze is chilly and the flowers have vanished."

"Jennie," said her friend, leaning against a pillow as if for support,

"if you knew that all my suffering for the last few years had been for

you, that this change, and pallor, and thinness, were all occasioned by

the fear that the time might never come when I could tell you that I

love you, you would pardon such a hasty declaration of my feelings

toward you. You were but a child when first we met," he continued,

placing his hand upon her head as he had then been wont to do, "but how

closely your young being had woven itself with mine my subsequent weary

life will prove. Were you ever sundered from the object you had learned

to prize most on earth, Jennie?" said he, as the drooping lashes were

lifted, and the pensive, earnest eyes met his inquiring gaze, "and was

there utter desolation? Then do you appreciate fully all that I would

say to you of my own sorrow when bereft of the only mortal whom my heart

had ever cared to cherish. I ask you not to bind yourself to me in an

irrevocable vow, but to think of me as your truest friend until you have

seen more of the world and of men. If then you can turn away from all to

the heart that will never beat for another, and call me husband, God be

praised--my only earthly prayer will be answered."

Not another word was spoken, but silently as they came so they went

back, through the little wicket into the presence of Mrs. Dunmore, and

Mr. Colbert made his adieus and departed--but alas for Henry Moore!

CHAPTER XXIX.

The afternoon was charming--one of those mellow, hazy atmospheres that

make the autumnal season so pensive and dreamy, and Jennie felt its

influence as she and Henry Moore sought the bright path to Blinkdale.

Not richer nor more sparkling could the emerald, and the topaz, and the

amethyst, and the sardius be, in their gay and beauteous variety, than

were the changing leaflets in the sun's burnishing rays. The birds were

singing merrily amid the brilliant foliage, and the fresh winds played

among the branches, tossing them to and fro, and blending the bright and

the somber in one glorious commingling. A streamlet crossed their

pathway, moving placidly and gently along, but as they followed its

windings, gurgling and foaming over the rocky obstructions, and almost

drowning their voices in its noisy course. "How beautiful" exclaimed

Jennie, seating herself upon a mossy stone on the river's bank, and

looking to her companion for sympathy in her enthusiastic delight.

"I would rather look on a sweet face," replied Henry, as his eloquent

eyes met hers. Blushing deeply, Jennie turned away and remained

thoughtful and still, listening to the din of the waters and the wail

of the autumn winds as they swept through the tree-tops, and her quiet

revery brought the old expression of early maturity and care, for her

thoughts had been roving all along her past life, and had left her amid

her childhood's sorrows in the narrow dreary room, with the weary and

forsaken ones, and none else to love and cheer her.

"Jennie," said her companion, noticing the bitterness that passed over

her young face, and wishing to dissipate any mournful musings, "do you

know why I asked you to come alone with me to Blinkdale to-day?"

Aroused thus suddenly, the young girl started from her lowly seat, and

patting its mossy side with her foot, replied, "How should I, Henry,

unless it be that it is always pleasanter to have one companion who can

understand and appreciate your love of nature, than to be surrounded in

your walks by many who care only for merriment and chatting. I could

spend the whole day in these solemn old woods with nothing to amuse me

but my own thoughts."

"And yet, I doubt if your pensive musings would be profitable to you,"

said her companion; "there is something dirge-like in the music of

nature that begets a morbid sort of feeling in a mind like yours,

Jennie, and too much of such solitude would injure you. Pardon me,"

continued he, as he caught her half comic inquisitive gaze; "but your

character has been my study for a long, long time."

"Not more profitable to you than my solitary reveries, I fancy," said

Jennie.

"But more delightful to me than any study," replied Henry, and seating

her again upon the bank near him, he told her all--how he had watched

her growing graces both of heart and mind, since the first time they had

met beneath her grandfather's porch; how he had striven in his

profession for her sake; how he had suffered his whole soul to go out

toward her in a hallowed and sincere affection; and how cold, and dead,

and sad his life must be if she reciprocated not his tenderness; and

then, with a flushed and anxious face, he awaited her answer.

Oh! how weary was the walk home! The woods were dark and dreary, and the

steps of the young man heavy and listless, as he sauntered on beside his

silent and suffering companion. Life had gained a new and somber aspect

to her too, since she was the cause of a crushing sorrow to one who had

lavished upon her his heart's breath. Why could he not be content with

the sisterly regard she had ever felt toward him? It is so terrible to

see him in his manly grief, and to feel that she may avert it! And yet,

how can it be otherwise, since there is ever before her a pale face,

with its spiritual eyes fixed on her soul calling forth all that she has

to bestow.

CHAPTER XXX.

Standing alone that evening in the bay-window of her uncle's study,

Jennie gazed out upon the peaceful moonlit scene, trying to derive from

it a tranquillity which the day's events had banished, when a loving arm

was wound about her, and a low voice said, "May I share your thoughts

this evening, my child?"

"It is you, is it, uncle!" said Jennie; "your step was so ghost-like

that I did not hear you enter."

"I came very softly that I might not disturb you," replied Mr. Halberg;

"you seem quite absorbed."

"And so I was, dear uncle, endeavoring to gather somewhat of serenity

from the quiet and beauty of nature."

"What disturbs you to-night, my darling?" said her uncle, looking fondly

upon the sweet face that was upturned to his, and wishing that his own

soul could look forth as calm and pure in its simple truthfulness as

that young and guileless one's. "There is naught but sin that should mar

our peace, and I trust you are constant in your efforts to be clean from

that."

"Is it not a source of sorrow, dear uncle, to occasion grief to others,

even though the infliction involves no sinful motive?" said Jennie,

with suffused eyes, and a tremor in her voice.

"Truly so," replied Mr. Halberg, instantly conjecturing the cause of his

niece's self-reproach; "but the ills that we are unable to avoid we

should not dwell upon. If a person seeks that which we know we can not

conscientiously bestow, it is a sacred duty to refuse it him, even

though we are sensible that it will give much pain, and when the duty is

performed in a Christian manner it will leave no lasting sting, but will

itself prove a healing balm to the wounded one."

"You comfort me much, dear uncle," said Jennie; "I have been so sadly

depressed this evening that the quiet and solitude even were

overpowering, and your presence is so soothing and cheering. It will be

a great loss to me to be deprived of so precious a guide--and a great

cross too!" she added as her uncle bent to kiss her brow.

"We are all called upon to bear our cross in this life, dear child,"

said Mr. Halberg. "This will be a heavy one to your old uncle, but it is

for your good, and he therefore cheerfully submits to it. I am not

afraid to confide you to One who will guide you unto a perfect rest and

peace. Come in, my children," said he, as a tap announced his three

daughters. "Where's mother? we must have our circle complete to-night

since Jennie will leave a vacant space on the morrow," he added with

some emotion.

"Here I am," replied Mrs. Halberg, hastening toward them from an

adjoining apartment; "it is really very delightful to have you all

gathered once more about me! Nellie has been a sad truant of late, and

Rosalie has quite monopolized the other girls."

"I did not flatter myself that I should be missed," said Ellen; "and as

for the girls, Mr. Moore's house seems quite as attractive as their own

home to them."

"His is indeed a complete and charming household! my daughter," said her

father; "such perfect unison and harmony reigns among its members. I

know of no fitter examples for my children, and am only too happy that

they are on such an intimate footing there."

"It would be more agreeable to some, perhaps, if the connection were

still nearer," answered Ellen, with an unmistakable glance at her

cousin, whose increasing color showed that she applied her meaning. This

then solved the mystery. Had she penetrated her cousin Ellen's feelings

before, how much hatred, and malice, and spite, might she not have

averted.

CHAPTER XXXI.

"May I come in, Nellie?" said Jennie, as her cousin answered her gentle

rap by half-opening the door and peeping out to see who the intruder was

at that late hour. "I have a great deal to say to you," continued she,

as Ellen gave her an ungracious permission to enter.

"Well you must hurry and say it, Jennie, for I am uncommonly sleepy, and

feel a stronger inclination for my bed at present than for any

communications," replied Ellen, throwing herself languidly down, and

motioning her cousin to be seated.

"Nellie," said Jennie, placing her small white hand upon the one that

hung over the arm of the sofa, "to-morrow we part, and God only knows

when and where we may meet again. Be that as it may, to-night we have

the opportunity to understand and love each other, another evening's

shadows may stand between our hearts if they are not earlier united. You

think that I love Henry Moore; will it make you happy to know that he

will never be aught to me but a kind and affectionate brother, and that

the most sacred place in my heart is reserved for another occupant?"

Quite ashamed and almost like a guilty thing, Ellen sat, while the color

rushed over neck and face, mounting even to the brow, and deepening as

it rose until it seemed too painful to endure, then rising from her

seat, and opening the window upon the balcony she stepped forth into the

night air, and kneeling by the balustrade, remained, motionless as a

statue until a soft kiss upon her forehead assured her that she was

forgiven. The stars looked down with a brighter twinkle, and the autumn

wail grew into a sweet harmony as the two reconciled cousins stood with

clasped hands gazing upward.

CHAPTER XXXII.

"Good-by, uncle; good-by auntie; good-by girls," said Jennie, as she was

pressed to the bosom of her relatives at the parting hour. "Simon, don't

forget the dear old seat," continued she, putting a coin in his hand,

and turning tearfully toward the carriage where Mrs. Dunmore was

awaiting her, and then springing back to give one more kiss to her

uncle, and to whisper something in Carrie's ear that sent the warm blood

quickly to her face.

Henry and Rosalie were there to bid her adieu, and golden-curled Minnie,

too, with a bunch of autumn leaves in her little hand, which she had

gathered on the way as a parting gift, and which she now held up

beseechingly to Jennie, who stooped to embrace her, and taking the

withered tokens, hastened to hide her emotion in the furthest recess of

the carriage that bore her away from the home of her kindred. It seemed

to those who watched the receding travelers, as if a blight had fallen

upon their pleasant things; as if the winter had suddenly come and

frozen up all the springs of pleasure and delight, for that young girl's

presence, though unobtrusive in its influence, had diffused warmth and

gladness all about her, and now that she was gone the warmth and

gladness had also departed, and a mournful group turned back into the

house with a mournful feeling, almost as if the grave had swallowed up

one of its inmates. Old Simon betook himself to the seat beneath the

trees, and with his knees crossed, and a dolorous motion of his gray

head, he muttered,

"I thought it couldn't be all in the name! the likeness was amazin'!

amazin'!" And forth from the stilly air seemed to come to the good old

butler's ear, "Dear little Jennie! dear little Jennie!"

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Six years have passed, and beneath the old maples sits Nurse Nannie,

wrinkled and bent, with a wee babe upon her lap, while a girl of two

years and a half plays with her doll upon the lawn, now and then looking

up to catch mamma's smile, or to wonder why dear papa looks so grave

when Grandmamma Dunmore tells him about the sick man in the cottage at

the end of the lane, and his motherless children. And now she spies

cousin Henry and Carrie coming from the avenue in the road, and springs

to meet little Harry, who takes her hand and marches off with her,

saying, he "isn't afwaid of tows," and brandishing a wisp of a stick as

if there were a mighty power in it. Sally brings more chairs out upon

the green, and the mammas and papas talk busily together, while the

little ones run about enjoying their own infantile prattle; and just as

Harry and Jennie are the happiest, with their pinafores full of

buttercups and daisies, and their little faces flushed with exercise and

joy, nurse comes to take them to the house, for the dew begins to fall.

Then Mamma Colbert proposes that all go to spend the evening with Fred

Burling and Rosalie, who occupy Grandmamma Dunmore's summer home.

Thus the days pass until the summer is gone, and the snow comes and

drives them all to the city.

Mamma spends only a month away, for papa can not leave his parish, and

she takes them to see Grandpa and Grandma Halberg, and Aunts Ellen and

Mary, who pets them very much; then they go to the great house in the

avenue, and every thing is so new and beautiful, that the time goes very

pleasantly; only sometimes as they drive through Broadway, and stop near

the crossings, a little ugly-looking creature, with a broom, gets upon

the steps of the carriage and asks for pennies, and when Jennie shakes

her tiny hand at her, and says "go 'way, bad girl," mamma speaks kindly

to her, and puts a great silver bit into the poor girl's hand, and when

she has gone, tells Jennie that she must pity and be good to the little

street-sweepers, for dear mamma was like that poor girl once. Then

Jennie puts up her wee mouth, and says, "No, no, mamma," while she makes

an ugly face at the vision of the child with the broom, and revolves in

her bewildered mind what dear mamma can mean!

NANNIE BATES,

THE HUCKSTER'S DAUGHTER.

NANNIE BATES.

CHAPTER I.

It was little comfort life had ever brought to her, what with harsh

treatment from a cruel father, and the woman's work that came upon her

young shoulders, while her mother traveled up and down the streets with

her basket of small-wares, trying to get the wherewithal to keep soul

and body together. The lazy husband droned away the hours in the

dram-shops, gulping down the hard earnings of his busy wife, or he

staggered home with his reeling brain, to vent his ill-nature on the

little pale thing that kept the house. It was "Nannie, do this," or,

"Nannie, do that," or, "Nannie, mind the baby," all the live-long time,

when he was sufficiently sober to know what was going on about him; and

if the tired little feet loitered at all at his bidding, a wicked oath

or a villainous blow hastened her weary steps. "What was she born for,

any way?" She looked down upon the face of the sleeping babe whose

cradle her foot was rocking, but it gave her no satisfactory answer. It

was not a bright rosy-cheeked thing such as she met every day just round

the corner, where she went to the pump for water! She must have been

just so white and sickly, for the bit of a looking-glass that she picked

up from an old ash-barrel in the street gives her back no round and

healthy cheeks, but the reflection of a meager, sad-looking face, that

nobody can care to look upon! And they must always be so, both baby and

she, for one of her teachers in the Industrial School told her that

nothing could be strong and healthy without the sun, and there was never

a single ray in that dreary basement.

Oh! no, they needn't be weak and sickly! A thought has occurred to

her--she wonders why she never had it before! Perhaps father wouldn't

like it if he should come home and find her away. But love for baby is

stronger than fear of father, and so she tidies herself up as well as

she can, and wrapping the little one in a piece of an old blanket, takes

it out where it is the brightest and sunniest, and there she sits on the

broad stone-steps of some great house, watching the merry children who

play upon the walk, and wondering if she can ever hope to see dear

little Winnie as joyous and happy.

"Look at that poor girl," said one of the gay children, stopping her

hoop and touching her brother upon the back with her stick; "she's got a

little baby in her arms just as big as sissy--hasn't she Willie? And

only see what an old ragged blanket it has on! Haven't you got any nice

clothes for the baby?" said she to the young girl, who had heard her,

and was moving off with the wee child hugged closely to her

breast--"because sissy has a great many, and I know mother can spare

you one," and with that she ran up the steps, and pulled the bell as

hard as she could.

"Oh! mamma," said she, all out of breath with haste and excitement,

"there's a little bit of a baby out there, just like my sissy, and it

hasn't any thing on its feet, and the old flannel rag can't cover it

half over; won't you let me give it that one you put in the mending

basket? It is so much bigger and nicer than that!" and the tiny arm was

thrown caressingly around the gentle mother's neck, and the little lips

were touching her cheek.

"Blessings on her swate heart!" said Biddy, rising, by her mistress'

permission, to get the blanket. "'Tis never the like of ye'll come to

want, so shure as my name's Biddy Halligan, an' ye so free in your

benivolence. But where's the baby, faith?" said she, as she went down

the steps holding the little girl by the hand.

"Oh! Biddy, what shall I do? she's gone, and now I can't give her the

blanket!" and the disappointed child wiped her eyes upon her pinafore,

and stood still upon the walk, while her nurse looked down the length of

the street.

"Maybe that same is she," said Biddy, "with the brown bonnet upon the

head, as is going round the corner by the the big grocery."

"Oh! yes, that's she," and little May brightened up, and walked as fast

as she could to overtake the poor girl. They reached her just as she

closed the door of the basement after her, and May hung back at first,

half frightened as she looked into the dismal place; but Biddy

encouraged her, so that she just ventured within the door, and handed

the small parcel; then she would go home, for a vague feeling of evil

haunted her timid mind in that dark and lone spot.

Nannie opened the bundle, and her eyes glistened as she saw the great

square of soft flannel with a pretty silken border worked all around it.

"They can't be bad people all of them that live in grand houses, as

father says," thought she, "or they wouldn't have sent me this pretty

thing!" She is so glad to get home before he comes, for now, perhaps,

she can escape a scolding, and, common as cross words are to her, she

shrinks from them. She will go out every day at this hour when it is

pleasant, and then she will not be missed at home. "'Tis so nice to have

that comfortable covering for Winnie, for now she can hide her scanty

apparel, and she will look quite respectable and neat;" for Nannie has

some idea of neatness, and really tries to better the condition of the

family. She learned a great many good ways at the school, and she does

not forget them, although she has not been since baby's birth, and they

will tell greatly upon the whole of her life. There was a time when she

did not care if the floor was all covered with heaps of dirt, and she

would go out into the street with the rags flying all about her, and her

hair in masses of thick tangles, and her face quite black and ugly. Now

she scrubs up the room very often, and you never see any of the

streamers hanging from her garments, for she mends them as well as she

can, and she makes free use of the nice water that is a blessing of such

magnitude to the poor. Her hair too is always glossy and smooth--no

matter if she does have to wear a coarse frock, and an old and faded

bonnet, they are whole, and that is far better than rags or dirt. She

isn't a bit ashamed of them nor of her bare feet, for they are so white

that the blue veins are plainly visible, and things are so much better

than they used to be.

"This is a very pleasant morning, what with the nice little girl, and

baby's new blanket!" and she went to fold it up and lay it in a safe

place for the next day, when a rough hand caught it from her.

"What have we here?" said her drunken father; "embroidered, eh! that's

good luck, indeed! I'll take it, child, it's just the thing, it will

bring a good price!"

"Oh! don't, please don't sell Winnie's blanket, father!" pleaded Nannie;

"it is all she has that's decent, and a good little girl brought it on

purpose for her, please don't take that, father!" But the man was gone,

and while the girl sat sobbing over her loss, he was greedily swallowing

its price as he had done that of many a nice article before.