CHAPTER XXXVI.

It is a very quiet subdued sort of night. A solemn stillness broods over

the attic room where the bereaved trio are gathered. It is August again,

and two of the group recall a bitter evening one August, long ago, when

the pitiless rain cast them shelterless into the street--and their

grateful hearts dwell upon the peace and comfort that resulted from that

one, apparently adverse, providence.

The other member of the little circle dwells upon the single kind act

that made his subsequent good fortune. There is no doubt in either mind

of the especial guardianship of an Almighty power. Every little

blessing, every happy consequence from what, at first, seemed an evil,

is plainly before them, and the review of the few past years is working

out a settled confidence in the over-ruling Hand.

Mrs. Bates thinks of the hours of heaviness when, a poor huckster woman,

she trudged wearily along with her loaded basket, and of the many times

she sought the miserable cellar without a morsel of bread for her

famishing children, and her heart clings fondly to the memory of the

real friend who wrought so glorious a change in her condition. Nannie

goes back to the pinched and pallid infant in the darkened room, and

the days and weeks of sadness spent away from the light and air, and she

comes again to the happy home, and the angel sister, and the lovely

little Dora--and a tear moistens her eye as she feels that the kind

heart that has so long imparted to their life its purest pleasures has

forever ceased to beat. Pat is more occupied with the bright present

than with past ills. The vile place where he once groveled is erased

from his mind by the hallowed sanctuary that is now his Christian home,

and the blessed consciousness that Nannie Bates is his, now and forever,

banishes every feeling of sadness, leaving room for no regrets save the

one that Mr. Bond is hidden from them, to be seen no more on earth.

Pat has acquired such an universal benevolence since Nannie is so fast

bound unto him, that even Mike Dugan is welcomed into their little

circle with a true cordiality.

Mike is not alone, however, when he comes to sit an hour with his old

friend, Nannie; but is accompanied by the blushing Helen Dhue whom he

calls "my wife."

ARCHIBALD MACKIE,

THE LITTLE CRIPPLE.

ARCHIBALD MACKIE.

CHAPTER I.

"Oh! oh! mamma, dear, isn't it a pity he isn't a rich, boy like Cousin

Willie? then he could have a carriage to take him about in, and nice

clothes to cover up the hump on his back, and a pretty cane with a

silver band every little way, and the people wouldn't push him about so,

and call him 'ugly rascal,' as that great man did just now."

Kittie Fay's mother had noticed the sad object that was slowly moving up

the street before her, trying in vain to keep his clumsy crutch out of

the way of the passers-by, and she had heard the rude and inhuman

ejaculation of the nobly-formed specimen, whose inner soul must, she

felt, be far more hideous than the stricken lad's outward being, since

it could so cruelly taunt one on whom the hand of God had been placed in

wisdom.

"Perhaps not 'a pity,' Kittie, darling," replied she, as she quickened

her steps in order to overtake the boy. "We will try to find out whether

it is or not, and you shall some day answer the question for yourself;"

and she laid her hand gently upon the head of the poor little cripple,

who had halted that he might get breath to proceed to his home. She was

almost startled at the sweet yet sad face that was upturned to her gaze.

There seemed such a depth of feeling in the blue eye, and such a calm

and hallowed expression upon the pale features, that she hesitated for a

moment, as if studying how to address herself to the lad. He was not

like a common pauper, although the scanty rags scarcely covered his

unsightly figure, and the old hat served only to keep the scorching sun

from the very top of his head. He had not asked for money, and he shrunk

away from the touch of the lady as if there were degradation in it, and

leaned upon his crutch, with the sweet yet reproachful look still fixed

upon her.

Perhaps it was a consciousness of the blessed sympathy that welled up

from her motherly heart that relaxed his features into a half smile, and

moved him to a half glad, half sad emotion; perhaps the memory of as

dear a face that once beamed upon him with the same holy tenderness,

stirred the long-time quiet depths within his young bosom, and sent

forth the tear that lay upon his thin cheek! At any rate, the shyness

and misery had vanished, and he stood intently gazing into the face of

the lady until he seemed to have forgotten his misfortunes in the

happiness of that one sacred moment. The gentle voice recalled him to a

sense of his position, and he sighed heavily as she said, "Will you tell

me where you live, my son? and may I sometimes go to see you with my

little daughter?"

"_My son, my son!_" that was too much, for the pent-up torrent, and the

poor lad burst into an agony of weeping. Years had passed since so

blessed a sound had fallen upon his heart, and it awakened so long a

train of fond recollections, henceforth to be only as a departed dream,

that he could have no power to restrain the grief that struggled for

vent. It wasn't the pity that moved him--oh! no. There was never an hour

in the day, when he was exposed to the observation of his

fellow-mortals, that some expression of commiseration did not reach his

sensitive ear, and many a stranger would stop him with the words of

self-complacent condolence that would send the hot blood over his white

forehead, and excite in him a bitter feeling of rebellion against the

Providence that ordereth all things aright. He could distinguish between

a passing glance of loathing and contempt, and the heartfelt look of

sympathetic sorrow, and his isolated spirit grasped at the slightest

evidence of a kindred feeling, and treasured it up as the brightest and

most precious of gifts.

Mrs. Fay was troubled by the tears she had so unwittingly occasioned,

and was about to move quietly away, as she saw no prospect of an

immediate answer to her question, and the people were beginning to be

attracted to the spot by the scene, when the boy pointed in the

direction of the bay, and said, tremulously, "I stay with my grandmother

down there in a small house by the water, lady; and we shall both be

glad to see you if you please to come;" and, as if fearing another

glance, he hobbled off as fast as his infirmities would allow, and was

soon out of their sight.

It was hard to go along day by day, with his withered limb and his

protruding back, in the midst of God's fair creation, and feel himself

an anomaly there. Shut up his ears and soul as he would against the

coarse gibes that were often uttered at his expense, he could not fail

to perceive the strange difference between himself and the crowd that

hurried by him, nor to take in the wondrous beauty that would sometimes

flit before his longing vision. The very thought that in his own person

he was denied the excellence and majesty of a perfect development

enhanced so much the more the value of these perfections in his

estimation, and helped him to feel that of all the objects in the wide

world, he was the most horribly repulsive. He did not mind the brutal

sneers of the rabble that surrounded his grandmother's hovel on this

day, however, for the sweet lady and the beauteous child were constantly

before him, and the look so like his departed mother's; that had

penetrated his inmost soul, exalted him far above the trivialities of

earth, and he entered the door with a face so radiant, that his old

grandmother cried out in surprise,

"Why, Archie, my boy, what's the matter with ye now? you look as if the

angels had been with ye."

"And so they have, grandmother," replied the boy. "Do you remember what

dear mother used to tell us? That all were God's angels that do His

will; and what can be His will if not the outpouring of kindness and

love upon all the world?"

"It is strange, child!" continued the old woman, raising her hands in

utter amazement; "last night, and almost all the nights before it, the

cloud has been upon ye, and to-night I'm frightened by the change," and

she sat down with her hands folded upon her lap, not daring to turn from

the lad "for fear he was crazed," as she said to herself.

"I know I have been dark, and gloomy, and wicked," replied he, "for I

was maddened by the foolish and thoughtless; but I learned to-day that

there are those who can forget the body and its defects, and see the

real and perfect man that is hidden beneath. No, no, grandmother, I do

not any longer wish to be otherwise than as God has made me, and I'll be

valued yet for something better than this shell!" and the boy-man went

away to his humble room, and shut himself in to dream out his future,

while his bewildered grandparent wondered within herself what it all

could mean.

There was little in that carpetless room, with its narrow cot, and its

one chair, and its small window with the cracked and puttied panes, to

inspire hopefulness or even cheerfulness, if the spirit looks to

external objects for its coloring; and yet the one eye that pierced

within the bosom of the solitary lad, saw the blessed light that was

beginning to dawn there, and the invisible hand that so affectionately

helpeth us in our necessity, was stretched forth to lift him out of the

despondency that had hitherto pressed him continually downward.

The sun was near its setting, and the evening was coming on with its

slow, midsummer pace, and he had sat for one whole hour beside the

window, with bowed head, and clasped hands building up a castle, which,

perchance might fall; perchance might resist the shock of ages, and

prove the admiration of every beholder. What mattered it to him, so long

as it served to divert him from the one baneful subject--his distorted

self--and place him for the time being at least, in an atmosphere of

glory and delight! It was better by far than the boisterous mirth of the

rude boys whose riotous sport filled the open space near his dwelling

with revolting and uncouth sounds; and these silent and intense

yearnings after something higher and better than his present state, were

almost sure to result in some real and noble achievement.

Not much could be found in any of his surroundings to encourage his

lofty aspirations; what with the coarse father whose only mastery was of

the trowel by day, and at night the pipe; and the simple grandmother who

dwelt with wonder, and almost with alarm on every progressive step of

the boy. As he looked from the small loop-hole that admitted the light

and air to his humble room, there was naught before him save blocks of

brick and stone, with a large square of ground intervening, which was

unfenced and covered with rough stone, and the refuse from the adjoining

houses; but that same uncultivated plot insured to him a wide expanse

above, whither his longing soul often turned for the beauty and power

that it met not on earth. The bay was shut off from his view by the

broad and high masonry which his wealthy neighbors had erected between

him and his chief joy, and the only glimpse of water visible to him now

was a stagnant pond, on which dirty and ill-mannered urchins were

constantly sailing their boats of paper or wood. One would have thought

that there was nothing to attach him to so barren and unattractive a

spot, and yet the greatest of all his anxieties was lest amid the

encroachments of an ambitious and increasing population, the miserable

hut that had become a palace to him in its hallowed associations, would

fall under the ban of some authoritative power, and himself be cast

forth into some new place where memory and affection had no hold.

The extensive traveler, whose mind has an unbounded range, can scarcely

conceive of the immense value of a limited space to his equally

acquisitive though less favored brother. Thousands, whose feet had

wandered amid all the wonders of the earth, came back to their every-day

plodding life with vacant brains and unexpanded souls, while Archibald

Mackie, in his non-suggestive hovel, gathered big thoughts and exalted

ideas, and grew majestic in intellect, even as he was diminutive in his

outward frame. Not a stone upon the waste before him but could tell him

its thrilling tale of weary heads pillowed thereon, when all other

resting-places failed; of scanty meals spread out upon them for lack of

a social board; and of forlorn and forsaken ones, sighing out their

bitter plaints unto these flinty auditors for want of more attentive

hearers. Not a block in the noble structures all about but could bear

witness to many a sorrowing soul whose drooping body was sustained only

by the thought of the needy ones at home, whose wants gave energy to

every effort. Not a child amid the group that frequented the common

play-ground near but spoke to him, either of blessed ties, and hallowed

sympathies, and tender care, and watchful training, or of a broken

circle, and chilled feelings, and an utter destitution of interest or

culture. But these were all wearisome to him compared to the splendors

that were revealed from the heavenly creation, where his gaze was so

lovingly fixed on this evening, after meeting Mrs. Fay and her little

daughter Kittie.

He could remember his mother more by the endearing fondness lavished

upon him from his birth, than by any distinct impression of her

features, but this night her face took the form of the strange lady's in

his imagination, and made him sadder than ever as he looked upward to

meet it.

"Wherefore, oh! wherefore wert thou taken from me, my mother!" said he,

as he bowed still lower before God, as if crushed beneath the weight of

so mighty a sorrow. "How can I be any thing without thy gentle guidance,

and with none to help me out of my ignorance and nothingness?"

"With God nothing is impossible!" came the answer from his mother's

Bible, which he had opened to the place that her own hand had marked,

and Archie lifted up his heart and his head, and went out at the summons

of his grandmother.

CHAPTER II.

"What can I do for you, my darling?" said Mrs. Lincoln, as she bent over

a languid form that was extended upon the sofa in front of an open door.

The perfume of rare flowers was wafted to them from the cultivated

borders without, and the rich foliage cast a soft shade upon the lawn,

shutting out the intensity of the summer sun, and making the air bland

and grateful. Pet hounds were gamboling about the room, and games and

toys of every description were scattered all about in the greatest

profusion. A stuffed chair, on rollers, was near the boy, and a garden

chair stood upon the steps, ready for immediate use, and every thing

around seemed fitted to minister to a diseased body and a capricious

will. The lad drew pettishly away from the caress of his fond mother, as

he replied,

"It isn't of any use to do any thing at all for me; there's no

happiness, anyhow! Why couldn't I have been like other boys, and not so

ugly as to have to hive myself up here all the time for fear of

ridicule?" and he threw his head back upon the cool hair pillows and

murmured something which his mother did not hear, excepting that the

last word was die. She had often heard the wicked wish that his life

might not be prolonged; but how to lead him from the constant

contemplation of his deformity so as to make him resigned, if not

cheerful, had, as yet, been an unavailing study.

The pampering the luxurious tastes and propensities of her son had only

fostered in him a craving and dissatisfied spirit, and engendered the

feeling that every thing was to bend to his demands however foolish or

extravagant. It was a pitiable sight! that gentle and fond mother vainly

giving every energy to the effort to soothe and interest her son, while

he, seemingly unconscious of her unwearied exertions, turned petulantly

from all her kindness and love, and buried himself in gloom and

fretfulness. "This thing is intolerably hot!" said he, as he threw back

the collar of his fine white linen tunic, and bared his throat to the

breeze that came faintly through the open windows; "I haven't felt

comfortable to-day, and the night promises nothing better." Mrs. Lincoln

took a broad fan from the mantle, and, seating herself by the youth,

pushed aside the heavy hair from his brow and quietly fanned him, while

she tried to draw his thoughts away from himself, and fix them upon

something pleasing and instructive; but the mood was perverse, and she

was about to despair when two little feet came patting through the hall,

and Kittie Fay burst suddenly into the room.

"Oh! Willie," said she, bounding up to the couch, and kissing her cousin

twenty times over; "you've no idea what a beautiful home you have, and

what a happy boy you are! only think, I've seen somebody, just now, that

had just such a thing on his back as you have; but it stuck almost

through his ragged coat, and he had old ugly crutches, and a shabby hat,

and he says he lives in a small house down by the bay, and Willie, dear,

I'm going with mother, some day, to see him, and you shall go too, if

you will, maybe it will make you sorry for him, so that you will give

him something pretty from this nice room!" and the child's eyes wandered

over the beautiful articles that were strewn around, and her little hand

lay softly upon the forehead of the boy, who looked upon her with

something of pleasure in his usually dissatisfied face. "Auntie

Lincoln," continued she, leaving her cousin and leaning upon her aunt's

knee; "please take me up to the big window in the study, I believe we

can see that little hut from there, for there's an old woman comes out

the door sometimes, and I guess that's Archie's grandmother."

"What does the child mean?" asked Mrs. Lincoln of her sister, who that

moment entered the room; "she seems quite in earnest about a poor child

whom she says she met in the street, and who is afflicted somewhat like

our Willie. Is it so, Mary?"

"Ah, yes, and such a sad, sweet face, I shall not soon lose the

impression. Such perfect patience and resignation! It made me really

forget his crooked frame. Surely, dear Sarah, God makes us all equal,

and it is ourselves alone that create a disparity. The calmness and

Christian beauty that shone out of that poor boy's face, more than

compensates for the distortion of his frame. We will find him out, if

you please, some time, and I am sure we shall not repent it;" and Mrs.

Fay cast an intelligent glance toward her impatient nephew, which was

understood and appreciated by his mother, who gladly acquiesced in the

proposal to seek out the strange lad.

Kittie, meantime had glided quietly from the room, and ensconced herself

in a deep window in the library, where she stood gazing out upon a small

hut that stood just visible in the distance. The night was bright and

clear, and by the light of the moon that illumined the vacant space

around the hovel, she was able to distinguish perfectly every object.

The shabby group still gathered about the stagnant pond pushing out

their little crafts, or wading in to guide them with greater skill, and

now and then a coarse-looking woman would loiter across the space, and

with no gentle hand, pull her struggling offspring homeward. The scene

was a revolting one to the child, and she was turning to leave the spot,

with one last look at the hut, when she perceived the old woman who had

so often before arrested her attention, outside the door, and Archie

himself near her, while a shaggy-haired man, with a pipe in his mouth

sauntered back and forth in front of the house, occasionally stopping to

address himself to one or the other of his companions. Kittie bestowed

but a passing glance upon the woman and the man, and bent her fixed and

interested gaze upon the boy, who sat upon the low step with his

forehead upon his hand, and his sad figure almost doubled together. It

was but a moment, however, before the head was raised, and the face

turned toward the heavens, with a look so full of reverence and

earnestness, that the delicate child shrunk away from her secret

observatory, with the feeling that it was a sacrilege to witness the

poor lad's sacred emotions, and with suffused eyes and a throbbing heart

she left the spot in order to return to her petted cousin.

"I've seen him, Willie," said she, half lying across the heavy pillows

and putting her mouth close to the youth's ear, "and he seemed so sad,

and yet so happy! You wouldn't like it at all down in that mean place

with such a looking man and woman to live with, would you, Willie?"

"I don't like any thing, Kittie, mean or not mean," muttered the boy.

"To be sure," he continued, seeing her surprised expression, as her eyes

fell upon the many comforts and luxuries with which he was surrounded,

"to be sure I live in a great house and have plenty of money and books,

and toys, and such things; but Kittie, what if you had this great hump

on your back, so that every body would look at you whenever you were

out, and pity and loathe you! I don't believe you would be any happier

than I. I don't care, I wish I was dead, anyhow!" and Willie buried his

head in the pillows while his little cousin tried to soothe and comfort

him.

"Perhaps I should think of it too much, Willie," said she, "and then it

would make me fretful and wretched; but mamma says if we fix our minds

on something pleasant, we shall forget the pains and troubles of life;

and only think, Willie, this is all the ill you have, while Archibald

Mackie is poor, and ragged, and an orphan besides!"

"Who's Archibald Mackie?" asked her cousin, "and what have I to do with

him?--'tis as much as I can do to think of myself!"

"That's the very thing, Willie," replied the little reasoner. "If you

would only try to put your mind on some body or something else, may be

you wouldn't remember that you are at all unlike other people. I know

mamma and Auntie Lincoln talk so about you very often when they are

together; but I didn't tell you about Archie. You see, I've found out

where he lives--in that hut that you can see from the library window,

and he's the boy that we are to visit some day, dear Willie;" and Kittie

fondled her deformed cousin, smoothing down the obtrusive hump, as if it

were a graceful and comely thing.

CHAPTER III.

One little bit of candle, and a few old school-books, and a mind

swelling with big desires after knowledge, were beside the small window,

long after the midnight hour had struck and the noisy city was hushed

into a comparative calm. It did not signify that the bowed frame was

wearied by a day of physical toil, or that the aching head pleaded for

"tired nature's sweet restorer," or that a voice from the outer room

came often to his ear, with the petition that he would no longer rob

himself of his needful rest; there were new and holy impulses that

refused to be put aside, and hungerings and thirstings that must be

satisfied, and not until the candle gave out its last flicker did

Archibald Mackie spare himself the pittance of slumber that was to

prepare him for another toilsome day. Even in his fitful and nervous

sleep was he mentally solving some abstruse problem, or following out

some philosophical train of reasoning, while all the time in his dreams

the strange lady would urge him onward in his tasks, smiling upon him

with the sweet and gentle face. Forgetful of the simple hovel and its

uncouth accompaniments, unmindful of the deformed figure, and the

tattered raiment, and the taunts and jeers of an unfeeling multitude,

the poor boy reveled amid visions of knowledge, and wisdom, and beauty,

and love, as happy as if an angel form were resting where the hideous

body lay.

The morning beams struggled feebly in at the little window as Archie

tore himself from his pillow, again to apply himself to his books. It

was such a wonder to him that he could for so long a period have cast

them away for less satisfying pleasures. The bright dawn, too, was so

filled with peace and purity, and he had hitherto dozed it off, never

thinking that he had lost the most precious part of his existence. The

air came in so refreshingly upon his brow, and the open space had not

one revolting object to distract him from hallowed and exalted thoughts.

The only sound that reached him was the slow and measured breathing of

his grandmother through the thin partition, or the nasal performances of

his father from the loft above. Archie's room was the one his mother had

occupied ever since his remembrance, and miserable and empty as it was,

to him there was an atmosphere of the purest delight. All other spots

were trivial and commonplace compared to the one where the maternal

blessing had been pronounced, and the maternal breath had ceased; and

hardened indeed must the heart have been that could resist his desire

that this one sacred spot might be consecrated alone to him. Here were

the books from which her thin and tremulous fingers had pointed out to

him the rudiments of that knowledge which his spirit so longed to

compass. Here were gathered the few mementoes of her maidenhood--the

trinkets from her early schoolmates, and the love-tokens from her rough

but kind and affectionate husband--all disposed by her own hand, within

the tiny cupboard, that came to be a sealed place to every eye but that

of the child, whose mature mind could take in all their value. These

alone, of all the objects about him, linked him to the dead mother. To

be sure his fond old grandmother doted on the boy in her childish and

simple way, and his father gave him all the love of which his nature was

capable, but there seemed to him no connection between the spiritual

image that so continually hovered about his pathway, and the coarse and

material beings who seemed only to live for the things that give life

and support to the body; and his high communings and yearnings found no

sympathy in either of his well-meaning but obtuse relatives. To look

upon the lad's occasional bursts of enthusiasm with a wondering and

frightened stare, was all that the poor old woman could do to show that

she even observed them, and as for the father, it was quite impossible

to beguile him from his old and commonplace notions. The idea of

listening to reading, or to the explanation of any of the mysteries of

science, formed no part of his mental machinery.

"Book larnin'll do well enough for you, Archie, my boy," he would say;

"but this thing," holding up his trowel in a fond sort of way, "has

found me a good living for many a year, and as for amusement, my pipe

keeps my mind off the trouble, so don't pester yourself trying to turn

me into a new way, child, the old one suits me better!" It was not well

for the imaginative and sickly youth to be left to his own wild and

untutored fancies; but there was no help for it now, and he gave himself

up to his studies and his dreams, looking no longer for sympathy from

those around him, but gathering inward strength and self-dependence with

every struggle for the mastery over his sensitive and morbid nature.

Little, however, as there was in Archie's home to aid him in his efforts

after a higher attainment, he was not without a hidden but blessed

influence. His mother's grave was just without the city, in the

beautiful cemetery, and thither his weary feet often wandered when he

was spared from his labor early enough, or on the precious Sunday, the

day of days, especially to the poor. Glorious monuments of the most

elaborate workmanship, temples, and majestic columns, and angel figures,

were all nothing to Archie compared to the simple mound that told him of

an undying love for the lonely and crippled one. No marble arose there

in wonderful grace and beauty, no reclining seraph imaged the departed

saint; but low down, beneath the green turf was the heart that leaped at

the advent of her first-born son, and the eye that overlooked the

blemish that all other eyes seemed to dwell upon, and the hand that was

laid upon his head in the last sad moment. Naught else was needed to the

few souls that cared for her memory. Was she not ever before them in the

garb of purity and love! and yet among the boy's visions was a sacred

spot remote from the common ground where necessity had placed his

idolized parent, and a slab that should speak of a son's gratitude, and

shrubs and flowers around to breathe their sweet odor above the lowly

bed. So long as his mother's memory was kept fresh and green within him

Archibald Mackie was not cut off wholly from the companionship and

sympathy that is a need of every nature.

CHAPTER IV.

The afternoon had been uncommonly sultry and oppressive, so that even

the plants and trees appeared to droop and wither, and all about the

city were hot and tired people lagging homeward as if every energy were

utterly exhausted. Archie had been working unusually hard, so that the

old pain had seized his back again, making him miserably despondent lest

he should be wholly crippled, and thrown quite broken and helpless upon

his struggling relatives, and he was panting toward the quarter of the

city where his shelter was, with slow and weary steps, when suddenly, as

he passed a bright saloon, he heard a joyous cry of "Oh! mamma, just

look, there he is again!" and before he could get away, the pleasant

face of the lady was bent upon him from the window of the carriage that

stood before the door, and she motioned him to her.

Perhaps he would have heeded her summons if he had not seen an impatient

and scornful countenance peeping curiously through the side-curtain. May

be it was but his native pride that induced him to press onward with

only a quiet and polite recognition of her notice.

"There, Willie, you've driven him away," said Kittie, frowning upon her

cousin reproachfully. "How could you look so cross at him when you knew

mamma wanted him to come up and speak to us? Well, I shall go to see

him, whatever you do, that's certain," continued she, after a short

pause, as the lad leaned back upon his seat without deigning a reply.

Then taking up the thin hand that lay upon his knee, she kissed it

affectionately as if to atone for the momentary pique against him; but

her eyes followed the poor boy until he was no longer visible among the

crowd, and she was thinking of the pitiful expression, and contrasting

it with the trustful, hopeful one that she had last seen from the lonely

library, and wondering what could make the difference. And she cared

little for the drive, although they passed through beautiful streets and

along her favorite haunts, by the bay, and out on the avenues and quite

beyond the noise and dust of the city, in the midst of God's own fair

and beautiful nature. The mother noticed the child's abstraction, and it

saddened her to think of the shadow that comes over the brightness of

one's early being, shutting out the loveliness and the grace even from

the youngest heart.

It was hard to feel that an unsightly hump, and a woe-begone face were

occupying the place that had hitherto been filled with images of joy and

gladness; but Mrs. Lincoln was a wise mother, and would not try to

divert her child's mind from the salutary lesson which the very shadow

itself ever brings; so they moved on with the unbroken silence, save

when Willie gave utterance to some pettish feeling, and then little

Kittie would look at him with a deeper pity than poor Archie had ever

called forth.

They were alone in the evening, after their return from their drive, and

Willie was sitting in his easy-chair by the door, while his young cousin

was upon the sill at his feet apparently absorbed in some intense

subject, for her pet kitten was making sad havoc with the neat straw hat

that had fallen from her head, and lay unnoticed upon the step, the

ribbons already crumpled and wet by Miss Pussy's chewing; and Willie had

twice spoken to her without an answer. It was rather too much for the

impetuous youth to bear, and when he spoke again it was with a tinge of

bitterness.

"I thought mother sent for you here to amuse me, Kittie, and not to

waste all your pity upon a poor beggar whom you happened to meet in the

street. I'm sure I might as well be without you, as to have you as dull

and silent as you have been since you saw that miserable boy. Well,

haven't you any thing to say yet," continued he, as she fixed her

wondering and sorrowful eyes upon his face. "It's enough to tire any

body's patience to speak, and speak, and speak, and no one to answer you

but the echo of your own voice. That's the way it's always been; but I

might have known it. Nobody cares for a deformed boy!" and the lad threw

the bunch of flowers that his cousin had just before arranged for him,

out the door and wheeled his chair further back, although he was not so

far removed as to lose the reproachful glance of Kittie.

"Oh, Willie!" said she, "if you had only noticed poor Archie, as I did,

and seen how troubled and worn he looked, and how the big drops stood

all over his forehead, as he moved on with one hand to his back, you

wouldn't wonder that I don't want to talk and play to-night! It makes me

so sorry because I can't help it any, and you know he's poor and has to

work, when may be he's too sick and lame to do any thing."

"Why don't you pity me, Kittie? Here I have to sit, day after day,

moping in this dull old house; I can't go any where, and I can't do any

thing as other boys do, and there don't any body care, either, but you

all seem as merry and happy as if I were the most favored person in the

world. You needn't look at me with your great staring eyes, as if I were

the wickedest boy you ever saw; perhaps you'd be better if you were in

my place; but I'm not bad enough to wish you there, much as I wish to

cast off this loathsome body and find myself upright and perfect. Come,

come, Kittie, we won't quarrel any more; I didn't mean to hurt your

feelings," said he, as the tears rolled down the child's face and fell

upon her white dress. "You mustn't mind when I am cross, but must love

me, whatever any body else does. I don't like to feel as I do so often;

but how can I help it? Every thing goes wrong with me. I thought when

you came I'd got somebody that wouldn't get tired of me, and it frets me

to see you thinking all the time of that beggar-boy."

"I do indeed love you, dear Willie," replied his little cousin, rising,

and clasping him around the neck; "but I wish poor Archie had time to

lie down on a soft couch like yours, and had a kind mother to kiss him,

and fan him, and soothe away his pain, as you have. I'm afraid to hear

you talk pettishly, when you have so many comforts, for mamma says 'God

sometimes takes away our good things if we do not know how to prize them

and be thankful for them,'" and the child ran to her mother, whose voice

she heard in the hall.

It was very well to leave the murmuring boy alone just then, for her

little prattle was not without its effect upon her cousin, who began to

think that perhaps there were others in the world as miserably off as

himself.

"I'll go with Kittie to see the poor lad, any way," soliloquized he. "It

won't do me any harm, and may be it will amuse me a little while."

Still selfish, poor youth! If it had only been, "May be it will amuse

him a little while," then the obtrusive hump wouldn't be so heavy, and

the murmuring, repining spirit would become joyous and grateful. But we

will have patience with thee for a while yet. It is so easy, with this

healthy, robust frame, to reproach the diseased and fretful one. We will

try to be lenient toward thy complainings.

CHAPTER V.

The sun had been up for a long time, and the old grandmother had the

breakfast upon the table. She hadn't called Archie, for she knew the

boy's habits, and supposed he was busy with his books as usual, so she

helped her son to his hasty meal, and saw him and his trowel and pipe a

long distance without the door before she ventured to disturb her

grandchild's quiet. Thump, thump, thump, upon the bedroom wall, and not

an answering sound, yet, after a moment, there seemed to be a stir, and

some words that were not intelligible to her obtuse ear. She didn't wait

much longer, but lifted the latch and entered his room.

What ails the boy? His eyes are wild and fierce, and his figure is

tossed from side to side of the narrow bed, while he mutters of his

mother, and of a sweet lady, and a gentle child; and then he presses a

parched hand to his brow, and begs them not to heap up the hot coals

there, but to bring him ice, ice; and then he clinches his fist and

strikes at the old woman who has approached him to try to calm him, but

she has no power over his ravings, and she perceives that he has a

terrible fever; and then she remembers that he would go supperless to

bed the night before, and that he looked paler and more weary than

usual, and she chides herself for not coming earlier to see if he was

ill. She wishes some body would come; it wouldn't do to leave him alone,

and what can she do by herself? There's a knock at the outer door, she

thinks--no; it is only a stray goat that frequents that quarter of the

city, and has come for her accustomed offering of food. She hasn't any

heart to stop now, and the disappointed animal goes off again to try her

next neighbor. There's no milk-man, nor baker, nor butcher's boy, nor

grocer to come to her, for they do all their own purchasing at the small

shop near, and so the morning wears on, and the lad grows more

delirious, and talks about coffins, and death, and horrible sights, and

just as his grandmother, too frightened to neglect the case longer,

locks the door of his room, and gets her bonnet on to find a doctor, a

lady gives a slight rap and enters the outer door, followed by a young

girl. She hears the delirious tones, and immediately knows that the boy

is ill, and the old woman gladly accepts her kind offer to sit by him

until she returns with the physician, though she says it is too much for

a lady to consent to, and she is fearful the boy will do her some harm

in his raving mood.

"Don't be troubled," said Mrs. Lincoln, "I'm not afraid;" and she turned

the key, and was soon beside the sufferer with her delicate hand upon

his brow, and her tender words soothing his horrors all away. It was

wonderful what a charm there was in the gentle eye that was fixed upon

him, and the soft touch that cooled the burning forehead! Quite an hour

she sat in the same position, breathing out tones that only a mother

ever learns, and the lad lay quiet and calm, looking up into her face

with a pleased and satisfied expression, save when she moved as if to

leave him for a moment, the paroxysm would seize him again. The

physician came, and pronounced the disease brain-fever brought on by

over-fatigue and exertion, and Kittie stood with her pitiful glance

fastened upon him, and she knew then why he was so distressed the day

before when he passed them as they sat in the carriage, and why the

resignation and trust had gone.

He did not know her now, and her mother sent her home with the promise

that she should come often, if he got better and would like to see her;

but she remained day after day nursing him as his own mother would have

done, until the mind was clear again, and he was conscious of her

grateful presence. All through the long period of his delirium he had

fancied that his mother's spirit was beside him ministering to his

wants, and whenever she went from his sight, for a moment, he kept up a

lamentable moaning until she was there again, and then he would lay for

hours without even a murmur or a sound.

No wonder she felt a mysterious interest in the boy as he grew stronger,

and would so often bend her steps to his humble dwelling to read or talk

to him. And Kittie, too, desired no better reward for good behavior than

to spend an hour at poor Archibald Mackie's. They had learned all about

his history now, and he had told Mrs. Lincoln how much she had reminded

him of the dead mother, and what a help her sympathy had been to him in

his studies, and they had spoken of Willie and his troubles, and Archie

forgot the sour face that had sent him away from the carriage, and

thought only of the boy's crippled fate, so like his own. Like, and yet

unlike--to the casual observer there was a vast difference between the

forlorn, poverty-stricken, ragged Archie, and the petted, and pampered,

and richly-clad Willie; but to the eye of the unwearied watcher who had

witnessed the patience and the goodness of the sick lad, and contrasted

it with the petulance and sinfulness of her nephew, the gifts of God

were not unequally distributed.

CHAPTER VI.

It was astonishing how many friends Archie had among the poor--there was

Mahan Doughty coming every day with her apron full of wild flowers which

she had wandered a long way to find, and which she carefully disposed in

the little pewter mug that stood on the table beside the lad's bed--and

there was old Patrick Marsh, night and morning, with a fresh cup of milk

from his one precious goat--and Sally Bunt with the only egg her

hen-house could produce, and a host of young voices often at the door

with a hushed tone of inquiry concerning the invalid. Oh! it isn't

wealth that brings the greatest and purest joy! Mrs. Fay felt that as

she saw the blessings of an unbought interest pouring in upon the humble

inmate of the small hovel, and she adored more than ever the justice of

the Almighty giver who dispenseth with such perfect measure to every

living soul.

The lad loved the flowers, and dwelt upon their beauty as he lay

languidly upon his bed, and they were full of happy teachings to

him--better, far better than many a more boisterous exhorter. He

couldn't look upon their wonderous and perfect mechanism with a cold or

unbelieving heart; but his best and warmest affections went upward with

their sweet odor, and were acceptable to Him who had tipped every petal

with a heavenly message.

Archie also loved the rough visage of old Patrick, and was convinced of

the value of a kind and generous heart, by the simple offering that was

so grateful to his enfeebled state. Patrick had always looked upon the

boy with a pride not unmixed with awe. He could discern the symptoms of

a higher destiny awaiting the lad, and had always treated him with a

certain degree of reverence and respect, and now that the youth was so

helpless and weak, the strong arm of the true old man lifted him back

and forth, and held him fondly upon his breast as if he were his own

little child, and so there grew an enduring sympathy between them that

was to stay both the tottering and the crippled.

Sally Bunt, too, standing before the sick boy with the tempting gift in

one hand, and a finger of the other bashfully thrust into her wee mouth,

was an object of some affection to Archie, who would call the little

girl up to him, and smooth down her frizzled hair with his tremulous

hand, and thank her so warmly for the one egg, that she would go away

with as much joy in her heart as if she were a queen, and had just

tendered her costly offerings, and concluded her interview with the

wisest man.

Nor were the young children who gathered around the house for news of

the convalescent, forgotten or unheeded; but the pale face would appear

at the small window to greet them, and the feeble voice would speak out

its sincere gratitude. The hours were very lonely after he began to get

well, yet was confined to his close room; and Archie almost felt as if

he could be always so very, very ill, if it would insure to him the

presence of the gentle lady, who came now but an hour a day to see him.

The old grandmother was obliged to keep closely to her work now that the

boy was disabled, and the father had only the early dawn and the late

evening to spend in the sick-room; but these were pleasant seasons to

his child, for they developed the good and the tender in the man's

nature, and diminished the distance between the two, so that the son

could again feel the link that bound his father to the departed.

They could now talk together of his mother and look over the little

mementoes that were so treasured, and both were happier for the hallowed

communion.

"You'll lay me by her when I'm gone, lad, won't you?" said the man. "I

couldn't sleep elsewhere, and I've faith to think you'll live to see me

buried, much as we all watched for your own last breath."

The boy didn't like to talk of death now. He had passed through the

danger, and had a motive in wishing to live. There was a great deal to

be done--a mighty work, but he felt strong to do it--and when he was

alone he hobbled across the room, and unlocked a small chest and found a

portfolio that had been his mother's, and every day the white pages grew

black with marks; but bright and radiant with the overflowing treasures

of a rich and gifted mind. Like a miser he hid the product, down, down,

amid heaps of household rubbish in an uncared for nook by the chimney,

and only drew it forth to add to its value when there was no witness

that could betray him. It was a worthless-looking thing, that old

leather portfolio, with the wear and tear of years upon it; but the boy

felt a sort of inward consciousness that the gloomy and dismal

hiding-place beneath the refuse truck was not its irrevocable destiny;

and this feeling buoyed him up when he was inclined to despondency or

sadness, and kept him busy with his new labor during many an otherwise

weary and painful hour. And so his days passed on until the pain and the

lassitude left him, and he could again go forth to work amid the erect

and strong, with his own frame bent still lower by his long sad

illness.

CHAPTER VII.

"Cousin Willie, I have not seen him for several days, and I do want to

go so much!"--besides, pleaded the little girl, "you promised to walk

there with me some day, long ago, and you have never been there yet."

The cousins were standing together on the green slope, whence they could

see the poor boy's home, and Kittie's attention had been particularly

drawn to the spot by a crowd of laborers that were gathered around the

house seemingly engaged in some exciting subject, for they were

gesticulating violently, while the old woman stood without the group

wringing her hands, and now and then applying her apron to her face with

a passive sort of grief.

"I do believe _that_ Mr. King, who bought so much land here last week,

means to pull down Archie's cottage!" exclaimed Kittie, looking

earnestly at the men, whose motions she had been anxiously watching for

some time. "I heard mamma say she was afraid they would have to leave,

and that would almost kill Archie. Will you go with me, Willie? I must

know about it. Only think! to have to go away from the place where he

was born, and, may be, live in a room with ever so many families, just

like little Peter Bell; it is really dreadful!" and the child moved

toward the gate, with her hat in her hand, and her hair waving in the

fresh breeze, unconscious of every thing save that something threatened

Archie, in whose interests she was now wholly absorbed.

"It's no use; you mustn't go there now, Kittie," said her cousin, who

had, thus far, been but a silent witness of the scene upon the vacant

space, and of the child's unwonted emotion. "What good do you think a

little girl like you could do among so many grown men? I know they mean

to pull down the house, for old Patrick Marsh came to father this

morning to see if he would let Archie live in the little place of ours,

just down here by the vegetable-garden. He said Archie was not able to

be confined to a store, and that he would be just the hand to keep the

garden nice."

"Oh! that will be grand!" replied Kittie, clapping her hands and dancing

for joy. "I'm almost glad they will take it down--only he likes it so,

living there, and it will take a long time to get used to another

place," added she musing thoughtfully, with her finger upon her lip.

"But it's greener, here, Willie," she continued, bounding along until

she stood beside the spot in question; "and then we can come often to

see him, you know. Won't it be nice? Oh! I'm so happy!"

"Not so fast, Kittie; father left it to me altogether. He knew it would

be unpleasant to have that deformed boy always before me, and so he

would give no answer to old Patrick without my consent; and I don't

believe I shall say yes very soon. I'm sorry Jim went away, for I loved

to come down here sometimes while he had the place; he always had

something nice to say to me."

"And yet Jim was wicked, dear Willie, and used to beat Brindle, and kick

the horses every day; and I heard him call you names to Bridget once,

when you told him to wheel you about the garden. To be sure he didn't

know I was near; but if he had really liked you, he would have felt the

same and acted the same every where. I hope you'll let Archie come, he's

so gentle and kind, and it will be a good deed on your part, too,

Willie."

"I don't know," muttered the lad; "it's bad enough to have one cripple

about without multiplying them. People would call this the hospital, or

the asylum for the deformed, if they saw many such objects around here."

"Never mind _people_, Willie; it's better to feel that you are doing

good than to be guided by what people would say and what people would

think. Mamma teaches me to go by that rule, and I'm sure I'm a great

deal happier for it. I never think now of any body when I want to do any

thing, but go right on and do it, if I think it is best. Only let Archie

come, and you'll see what a difference it will make to your life. He is

a good boy, and he knows a great deal, too; more than I can learn for a

long, long time, so that it will do us no harm to be with him. Mamma

says she does not care who I associate with, if it is a good and

intelligent child. All she wants is to keep me away from the wicked and

ignorant, and she never says no when I ask to go to Archibald Mackie's;

and I'm sure my mother knows!" and Kittie seated herself on the bench

beside the vacant house, waiting for some decision from Willie, who was

still wavering.

If he should consent, there would be a constant remembrancer of his own

defective person ever before him; it was quite enough to be sensible of

his condition without so palpable an image haunting the precincts of his

home. Then Kittie would be drawn from him to the poor boy, who had

already enlisted more of her sympathies than he had ever done. He would

like to please her, though, and it would be a sort of patronage toward

the boy that might exalt himself in Kittie's estimation.

It was very singular how much influence the child exercised over him. He

was pettish and cross toward her, and made it a great condescension to

do any thing that she proposed; and yet, to thwart her in any one thing

made him uneasy and miserable. "What would Kittie think?" and, "Would it

please Kittie?" were questions that he was more willing to put to

himself than to acknowledge to any body else. He could not mistake his

cousin's wishes now, and he meant all the time to gratify her, but the

perverse nature would have its vent, and so he said, very ungraciously,

"There's one thing--the pony needs better care than Jim ever gave it,

and perhaps Archie might be gentle with it, and his father can mind the

garden at odd times. I've half a mind to try him; but he must know his

place, and not be thinking himself an equal just because we choose to

benefit him."

Kittie did not care what he did, nor how he got there, so that he really

had the permission, and before Willie had time to alter his mind she had

flown out the gate, and was fast nearing the humble cottage. The workmen

had dispersed, and the door and windows were closed, and the curtains

all down, so that the child thought nobody was there, but she went

quietly in, as she had been accustomed, and tapped at Archie's room.

There was a sound of voices within, and she heard the old woman

murmuring against the new proprietor of the ground for disturbing her in

her old age; but she was scarcely prepared for such a burst of grief as

met her from Archie, as she entered the room and spoke to him in her

soothing gentle manner. His treasures were lying upon his bed ready for

the packing in a small box that he held in his hand, and his books and

clothes were piled up on the table awaiting their final destination.

The child had never seen him so pale and troubled in all his trying

illness as he now looked, and his unconcealed, unsuppressed sorrow

frightened her so that she had scarcely a word to say, until he became

somewhat calm, and then she told him of the small house on her uncle's

domains, and the permission he had to occupy it. "It is so much better

than this, Archie!" said she, looking out the window upon the barren

space, and around the room at the dingy and tottering walls. They were

both very grateful--the old woman and the boy--but nobody could tell

with what tenacity their affections clung to every splinter of the old

building, and what a bitter step it was, that last one, over the

threshold of their lowly home.

CHAPTER VIII.

The morrow had come, and the old woman knew that the word had gone forth

against her humble tenement, and that there could be no appeal, so she

quietly betook herself to the vacant cottage within the grounds of Mr.

Lincoln with the feeling that "it was not long that she had to stay upon

the earth anyhow, and it mattered little where she spent her few

remaining days."

Archie said nothing to his grandmother about his own movements, but

while she went her way to the new home he turned toward the beautiful

cemetery, and there, upon the head of his mother's grave, he deposited

the box of treasures, not with any false or superstitious notion, but

from a sacred and loving impulse. It had seemed such a sacrilege, to

him, to remove them from the spot where her own hand had placed them;

besides, there was no hallowed nook in the strange home, and this was

why he sought the most consecrated part of earth for these precious

relics. All about, upon the graves of the poor, he had seen similar

tokens, and had observed that even the most careless and light-hearted

passer-by had never stooped to touch what a pious affection had made

sacred. Some, it is true, had looked with contempt upon these simple

tributes, and had suffered the words "heathen fanatics!" to escape their

lips; but these same persons would spend hours before the costly

ornaments above a richer body, and find in them no motive but a

commendable and proper respect, whereas the Omniscient could note the

pride engraven upon the one, and the sincere and earnest feeling that

marked the other. It didn't matter much to Archie what any body said or

thought. He knew that there his treasures were safe, and he felt them to

be an appropriate monument until his secret wishes respecting his

mother's ashes could be attained, so he left them, and sauntered slowly

away. Gay parties, whose only motive in seeking the dwelling-place of

the dead was the gratification of the outward senses, looked from their

luxurious carriages upon the poor hunchback with a careless indifferent

feeling as he passed along with bent frame and serious air, little

dreaming of the great soul that tenanted so feeble a body.

One alone of a merry group paused, and leaned eagerly forward to give

some token of recognition to the lad, whose errand there she could

readily guess. "What is it, Kittie?" asked half a dozen of her

light-hearted companions, as she smiled sweetly and bowed to the boy.

"It can't be human;" and then they laughed as the child's sad face

looked reproachfully at them. As if this miserable shell that, however

attractive and beauteous now, must, one day, be clothed in a loathsome

corruption, could affect in any way the glorious and undying principle

within! Not "human!" because clad in an uncouth and unsightly garment!

as well might we spurn the immortal spirits for once dwelling in clayey

tenements, as to make a mock and derision of those who, for some wise

but hidden purpose, are made to walk this earth with marred and uncomely

figures. Not "human!" Kittie knew how much of humanity there was in the

sorrowing heart that was even now beating with a pure and filial

affection, as the weary steps plodded through the pleasant avenues. She

remembered the deep and grateful feeling that was so constantly

manifesting itself toward her gentle mother as she ministered to him on

his sick bed, and she could appreciate his noble, and generous, and

loving nature, while others saw but the distorted figure that came

between them and an otherwise undisturbed beauty. Take heart, poor

youth! There are kindred loving eyes on earth that beam even for thee!

CHAPTER IX.

Several weeks have passed, and the old woman takes wonderfully to the

new place. She begins to feel really glad for the change that was so

terrible in the anticipation. It is so green and quiet all about the

house--no rude boys shouting in her ear as she steps without the door,

or throwing mud-balls into the open windows; no brazen, neglected girls

to call her low names, or pin dirty rags upon her gown as she walks

about the premises; and then every thing within the walls is so clean

and nice--no threatening cracks in the white ceilings; no dilapidated

walls to totter, or worn planks to shake at every tread; no half-starved

rats, stalking about seeking somewhat to devour; and no odious effluvia

from the waste lot, or the stagnant pond, stopping her breath as she

looked from door or window. Oh! she could not have believed that any

thing that seemed such an evil would prove so great a good. The breeze

came into the clean rooms so laden with the breath of flowers, and the

cheerful notes of birds were all the time in her ears; and in the quiet

evening, she, and the boy, and his father could sit upon the sill of the

door and talk to their heart's content, without one noisy interruption

from the rude crowd, that used to make it so difficult to have one

moment's pleasant intercourse. Archie was more cheerful, too, and took

possession of his little chamber with such a manifest delight that his

grandmother had nothing more to desire. His window looked out upon the

old quarters, and he was thus enabled to contrast the beauty and the

quiet with the sad unrest of his former home; and as he noticed the

rough group so constantly upon the open space, and remembered how often

he had been the butt of their unfeeling jests and cruel sport, he

rejoiced at the high wall that prevented their ingress into his patron's

territory, and felt as if he had indeed an impregnable fortress to

resort to in every emergency.

It was just the spot for meditation, too, and the musty portfolio came

forth oftener from its obscurity, and began to grow really bulky, and

that not only in size but in matter.

Nobody would have thought him more than a common lad as he bent to weed

the vegetables and flowers, or brushed down the white pony, or sauntered

about the grounds with bowed head, and hands behind him; but Mrs. Fay

had fathomed the secret depths, as from time to time she sought to draw

him out from the reserve in which he was enveloped, and Kittie knew by

her own pure and blessed instincts, all that there was of light and

wisdom in the poor boy, who had attracted her from the very beginning.

True, Cousin Willie would take every opportunity to disparage the lad,

but what cared she? It is not so easy to bias the mind of a

properly-taught child; and her own heart told her what was good in the

boy and what was evil in her cousin. As for Willie, he walked about like

some evil genius, making the deformity of the body more conspicuous by

the deformity of the soul, and casting a huge and ugly shadow over the

lovely home that God had so graciously given him. There was a constant

antagonism between him and the poor lad; not that Archie ever gave

occasion of offense, or encouraged the antipathy that he could perceive

in Willie; but his patience, and gentleness, and intelligence, were a

constant reproach to his rich young neighbor, who so continually wearied

his friends by fretfulness and ill-humor, and who spurned all the

efforts of his tutor, never trying to improve the privileges lavished

upon him, but deeming it very hard that he should be expected to confine

himself to books--"As if it were not punishment enough to carry about a

repulsive body!" he would say.

Ah! quite enough. This Archie felt as he applied himself diligently to

the task of adorning and embellishing his higher and imperishable

nature. And the lady and the child had learned to look at that only, so

that they really forgot often the outer man, as the soul-lit eyes

sparkled and beamed upon them when they talked together. _He_ did not

forget it, and so it served its true purpose, making him humble, and

keeping under the majesty of his spirit that might otherwise have grown

into a revolting and self-sufficient pride. It is so vain to struggle

against these fetters and restraints; God knows what we need, and it may

be ever the mightiest souls that are curbed while on earth by some

physical infirmity.

CHAPTER X.

Patrick Marsh was a cooper, and lived down close to the water's edge in

a shanty of his own construction. He had taken possession of the spot

long before there were any signs of human habitation near, and nobody

had ever doubted his right of ownership. Yet as he beheld the slow but

sure encroaches upon his vicinage he began to tremble even for the

meager handful of earth on which his domicil stood, and used often to go

up to Archie's to condole with the old lady when her own little

resting-place was threatened.

Now he was filled with wrath as he passed the heaps of boards, stone,

and rubbish, and viewed the preparations for the erection of a large and

noble mansion, and he strode hastily on, that he might _effervesce_ in

the old woman's presence, for he wished to convince her of his interest

and displeasure, and a sober pace would have brought back the habitual

placidity to the old man's heart. It was not natural for him to cherish

the slightest degree of malice or resentment, and the very consciousness

that he was out of his usual way distressed and vexed him, so that when

he reached the quiet cottage, it was delightfully soothing to find the

grandmother contentedly sitting knitting--work in hand, beside the door

in no need of comfort, if one might judge by the cheerful, happy

expression.

"Such a blessing, Betty," said he--they were children together--"such a

blessing to find you so easy and nateral-like. I begin to believe the

Lord's hand is raly in it all, and that He always gives as good as He

takes. I used to think there wasn't no place like your old 'un; but it

wasn't a touch to this purty spot!" and he gazed about him with evident

satisfaction, stroking the hounds that loved to wander from their young

master's presence to the sunny room, where there was always a kind word

and a gentle pat for them.

"Archie's better, too," said the old woman with an exultant chuckle, as

she shuffled to the stairs-door to call her grandson.

Patrick didn't think him better, as he noticed his flushed cheek and

trembling, fluttering frame, and he held his hand a long time in his

own, now counting the quick pulse, now pressing it warmly and fondly.

"You'll leave the books, my boy, and be more in the garden, won't you?"

said he in an earnest, anxious tone. "Depend upon it that's the only

thing for you."

Archie did not know what he meant by the "only thing," neither could he

tell why Patrick went so suddenly out brushing his sleeve across his

eyes, all the way to the gate; but the circumstance weighed with him,

and it made him jump from his study so soon as the least symptom of

weariness came, and resort to his out-of-door occupations. Kittie had

gone off to boarding-school and the boy sadly missed the white figure

that he used to watch so fondly for in the walk that led to his cottage.

She would not come again for many a year, and there was loneliness and

desolation in the very thought; but so it must be, and he strove to find

solace in his books, and with his plants; but every thing recalled the

past. His books were thrown aside for awhile, because she was not there

to question him as to their contents, and the flowers were hueless and

scentless, since the eye that loved so to look upon them, and the sense

that delighted so in their sweet odor were gone. Willie, too, missed the

gentle cousin that bore his caprices so patiently, and he murmured at

the decree that banished her from his presence. "She knew enough to

please him, and what more could they want?" "That was all such a little

mouse as she was good for!"

The "little mouse," though, made a great hole in the house, and there

was nothing in all the big world that could fill it acceptably to the

lad, and so it remained empty until the school-days should be

accomplished, save that her shadow was ever there, palpable--to the

vision of the two lads at least. How differently was she cherished!--by

the one as a grateful sort of appendage that contributed vastly to his

comfort in various ways--to the other as a guardian presence, inciting

him to every virtue and grace, and sanctifying and spiritualizing his

whole being. Strangest of all mysteries, the transforming power of that

wondrous and precious essence!

Thanks be to Him who has so diffused it over this lower world that there

is no spot that may not be akin to heaven!

CHAPTER XI.

Mrs. Lincoln's time was wholly taken up in inventing new pleasures for

her son, so that she had not one moment for the poor youth at the foot

of the garden, who, but for the benevolence and kindness of Kittie's

mother, would have led a weary life of it indeed.

Archie's father had, at last, laid down both trowel and pipe, and was

taking his long rest beside the dead wife. The boy had purchased a small

lot in a secluded and romantic part of the cemetery, and there he had

both parents placed, in one wide grave, with the box of treasures

between them, and above them a large white cross with a simple

inscription. The lot was fenced around with a hawthorn hedge, and here

and there a rose bush grew luxuriantly. There was room for himself and

for the old grandmother who was now terribly decrepit, so that she was

unable to take any care of the house, and Patrick Marsh had consented to

let his little shanty and come, with good Molly his wife, to look after

the lad's comfort, for they had no child, and Archie was nearer to them

than any living being. Good Molly was of rough and ungainly exterior,

but within, the very impersonation of tenderness and love, and this

happy and blessed temperament had gained for her so flattering an

appellation wherever she was known. Little children would gather around

her in the street and hold on by her apron or gown, fondling and

caressing her hands, and even her feet, as if she were some good

angel--and so indeed was she to many a lone and forsaken one, who had

found care, and food, and shelter, beneath her lowly but hospitable

roof. It wasn't strange then that, with such a heart, Good Molly should

consent to leave the home that was endeared to her by a thousand

associations in order to watch over the failing and imbecile old woman

and her diseased and lonely grandson.

Neither she nor Patrick felt themselves competent to mingle in the

youth's higher and holier sympathies; they were conscious that they were

of altogether a different mold; but there were bodily wants that none

knew better how to meet than the nice housewife, whose skill in such

matters few could contest. The dainty bit was ever tempting, and the

linen was pure and white, and the neat chamber inviting even to the most

fastidious taste, so that there would have been nothing wanting to

Archie's comfort or joy were it not for the void that but one could

fill. "It was foolish to think of _her_!" that he so often repeated to

himself, yet think of her and dream of her he did, and all the time grew

thinner and thinner, and paler and paler, until he seemed some ghostly

shadow moving about the grounds. Five years had passed since she came

down the green slope and put her little hand in his to bid him a long

good-by. It was the summer time, and he remembers that the old elm under

which he sat was just in the fullness and glory of its foliage; the

hour, too, is distinctly in his memory; the dreary and sad twilight, and

the breeze's soft play over the waving grass, and the hum of the

insects, and the murmur of the city's noise that came pleasantly from

the distance, like the moving of far-off waters. Oh! these things can

never die out of his remembrance. How can they! Doesn't he cherish them

religiously, coming always at the vesper time to the same spot to live

them over and over again?

Even through the dreary winters he but closes his eyes and the verdure

is there, and the beauty.

No need of that to-night, however, for the chilly season has again

passed away, and the old elm is rich in her emerald robes, and the

breath of the soft winds is upon him, and the same murmur in his ear.

There is only the small hand and the gentle words wanting to make it all

a precious reality. Is it his fancy that at this moment brings them so

palpably to him? Is the vision of a graceful figure, and a white dress,

and a pure face beaming upon him with the lovely expression only a

delusion of his excited mind! Or is it really her own voice that comes

to him so earnestly. "Oh! speak, Archie, pray speak! don't you remember

Kittie?" It was of no use to call upon him, the shock was too much for

his delicate organization, and whiter than the spotless muslin was the

brow that the maiden loved, as she supported the drooping head, and

strove to recall the fainting breath.

His heart beat more painfully than ever as the warm life-blood flowed

evenly again, for that one moment had told him that he loved, and the

revelation was as death. To linger upon the earth, to see and hear her

continually, and to press back the deep and springing emotions that were

ever welling up toward her. How could he do it! it were worse than death

itself! And yet he spoke calmly and naturally as she walked with him to

the cottage, and quietly watched her as she talked with the old people;

but the light in his heart went out as she passed over the threshold

into the stilly night--and the struggle was a victorious one.

Kittie was pondering upon it all--the agitation, and the pallor, and the

overwhelming joy, and a secret delight filled her soul as she sought

again the tree. There was no wavering of purpose as the vow went forth

from that same consecrated place to be true to the convictions that she

now felt. How long a period had elapsed since she stood there before.

She is no more forgetful of it than Archie, and she draws forth from her

bosom a tress of raven hair, and looks upon it while it is bathed in the

moonlight, wondering, meantime, how she had dared to cut it from his

head as he leaned against this same tree so long, long ago. True, he did

not know it, it was so slyly done; but nothing could tempt her to a like

act again. Not that she is sorry for the deed--ah! no. This little

talisman will ever be most precious unto her. But the brow seemed so

hallowed now; there was a mystic light upon it, as though a beam from

Heaven were shining directly there, and a superstitious awe crept over

the heart of the young maiden as she remembered the cold dews that her

hand had felt as she stroked back the clustering locks.

CHAPTER XII.

The beauty, and luxury, and lavish tenderness that had continually

surrounded Willie during his cousin's absence, brought no corresponding

loveliness, and richness, and gratitude within, and Kittie found it more

difficult to bear with the querulous, fitful temper than before her long

separation from him. Day after day he would require her to sit with him

reading aloud some foolish and distasteful thing which was suited to his

weak and uncultivated intellect; or she must walk or ride, as he

pleased, giving up her own occupations and plans whenever they

interfered with his amusement. Time and again the question would recur

to her, "Why should I give myself up to the effort to do good, where it

is so evident that I can do nothing?" and then her aunt's kindness in

giving her mother and herself so welcome a home when they were deprived

of their earthly supporter, and the wish to make some return for all the

love bestowed upon her in her uncle's house, induced her to strive with

renewed diligence to influence her cousin to a holy and consistent life.

He had so far been won by her courteous example as to treat Archie with

respect, and even with a degree of cordiality, whenever they met; but

the low-born, yet noble youth, felt the difference between his

patronizing regard and the ingenuous and free sympathy that the cousin

manifested, and his dark eyes would flash with a suppressed and hidden

fire that nothing could subdue like the gentle glance that so often

sought his.

Was it only compassion for his terrible infirmity that tinged the

maiden's cheek and gave fervor to her every tone, as she met him about

the garden walks, or in the humble cottage? Was it only the loving and

earnest nature, that could not help its warm and gushing impulses, that

caused the tear to suffuse her eye at every wound occasioned his

sensitive heart by the thoughtless Willie? Was it naught but a generous

interest that led her every day to his humble home, with her books or

drawings, to ask aid of her uncle's _protegee_? Or was he inflicting

upon himself a needless suffering, besides quenching the brightness of

that young spirit which he would fain die to save from sorrow? Could it

be that by one spoken word his life and health might flow back upon him

with new and refreshing vigor? The risk was too great. It might banish

forever from his sight the only object that made that life endurable;

and so it remained unsaid, preying upon the vitals and pressing him

onward to the blessed haven of rest--rest from all doubts, rest from all

infirmities and sufferings, rest from all painful labor, both physical

and mental, glorious, perfect, enduring rest!

He felt the change that was drawing him from earth, and rejoiced in it.

It were better that she should think of him as a spirit, divested of the

covering that made him a loathsome mortal! Even if he could know that

her every affection clung to him, he would pray to go hence before her

eyes could be so cleared of the mists of love as to see the hideousness

of his imperfections. He had seen her shudder as her cousin's arm was

placed around her; and was he not more repulsive still? Oh, how could he

ever dream of allying himself to an angel?

The very thought of his "vanity" and forgetfulness was humiliating, and

Archibald Mackie shut himself up in his chamber, and suffered, and

prayed, and struggled alone; and came forth with a radiant brow, and a

cheerful, peaceful heart. He had done with the things of this life. The

dearest and best he had dropped from his grasp, and now it was so easy

to part with the rest. The dreams of his youth had made his pathway

green, and kept his mind off the real evils. What if they were but

transient and fading visions? They had been of sufficient duration and

brightness to cheer him in many an otherwise dreary walk; and they had

not been without their influence upon the inner soul that perchance

would have sunk into an utter despondency and gloom but for these

incentives to energy and action.

No more dreaming now; but a constant looking forward to the end of

life's journey, and a steady and unwearied preparation for the final

summons.

CHAPTER XIII.

The summer was unspeakably beautiful to the dying youth. To sit in his

easy-chair beside the low window of his loved chamber, and let his eyes

wander over the greenness and glory of nature, while his thoughts went

upward to the Paradise of immortal joys, or to rove languidly about the

grounds of his patron, supported by the kind old man whose tenderness

and care were ever ready, or to recline upon a couch beside the door

while Kittie Fay talked to him in her pleasant sympathetic way, or read

to him in a low soft tone--these things made up the sum of his waning

life, and imparted a quiet sort of rapture to every moment. Mahan

Doughty--now grown a large and bashful girl--came again with some simple

flowers, that recalled to him the distant years, and Sally Bunt stood

often beside him, not as of old with the newly-laid egg; but with nice

broth from some favorite chicken, whose head was as nothing, when the

word came to the old playmate that Archie was fading away. A great gulf

had separated them since he lived on the plain, for none of his former

associates had dared venture an intimacy after his removal within the

precincts of the "great house;" but an undying sympathy made a bridge

over the wide gulf, and they crossed and recrossed fearlessly, to

minister to their friend.

The imbecile old grandmother played with the thin fingers of her idol

boy, and laughed with an idiotic chuckle as she looked upon the white

face, calling him her "gentleman," and wondering "how he came to have

such a delicate skin, when his father was brown and tawny."

Patrick and Molly discussed the case of the sick youth as often as they

were left alone, with disconsolate and saddened hearts; and all that

could cheer him with the words of a comfort which they were far from

feeling in their own spirits, were the mother and daughter, who had

learned to look away from themselves in every grief and sorrow, that

they might be a blessing to others. The day had been terribly

oppressive, and both had been watching the youth as he lay fainting and

exhausted upon his couch. Not one moment had they ceased fanning him

gently lest the weak breath would take its flight; but now a refreshing

breeze was stirring the locks upon his temples, and imparting to him a

little strength, so that Kittie could leave for a few moments to attend

to her cousin Willie, whose demands were more importunate upon her than

ever, since her time was required in the sick presence.

"How is Archie, to-night, Kittie?" asked he, as his cousin stepped

lightly over the threshold, and seated herself on the sofa beside him.

"He seems to revive a little," said she; "Doctor Fincke thinks he may

yet linger for a few days, but I am fearful it can not be--to me he

seems very weak and low."

"I am quite impatient for the end, Kittie," said Willie, in a light and

careless tone, "for I have a great deal to say to you, and you are so

taken up with this young man that I really have not one moment of your

time, lately. It seems as if there might be a proper nurse found,

without your acting in that capacity."

"It is my pleasure, cousin Willie," said Kittie, in a gentle and subdued

voice. "Nothing could induce me to lose the few last words of this dying

saint. He seems already to reflect the glory of the upper land, so that

every one around is blessed by its influence. Oh! Willie, if you would

only learn from so pure an example to make this life but the

stepping-stone to a better and higher being, instead of taking it for

the only good, and giving up every thought to it, it would be such a

gain to yourself, and such a joy to us all!"

"Wouldn't you like to go with me to see Archie?" continued she, a moment

after, as her cousin had taken no notice of her appeal. "He often speaks

very kindly of you, and I'm sure it would give him pleasure to know that

you are truly his friend."

"But Kittie, what's the use! You know I don't care any thing about the

young man, and that it will be quite a relief to me when he is no longer

there to keep you from me. I have never been to the cottage since he

occupied it, and I don't mean to annoy myself with the sight of him

now. It would give me the horrors to see him die!"

Kittie did not urge the matter, but she felt how little there was in the

calm of that Christian soul to excite any gloom or terror in the

beholder, and so soon as she could get away from her cousin she resumed

her seat beside the sick bed. She had a right to be there now--not a

word had been spoken to tell her so; but the gentle heart revealed

itself to her in a silent, yet none the less intelligible way, and her

own responded warmly and heartily.

CHAPTER XIV.

"Molly, I dreamed of Kittie Fay last night," said old Patrick, as he

drew his chair up to his wife. "It seemed as if she was weeping over a

green grave, and as she stood by it she was dressed all in white, like

an angel, and all about her was nothing but a barren waste. It made me

sad like to see her there, wife, and I went over the dark space that lay

between me and her to try to get her away, but no, she wouldn't stir a

step, and kept stooping to water the grass and flowers, and then she

pointed down to the grave, and then up to heaven, and then laid her

white hand upon her heart. I woke up after that, Molly; but that dream

won't leave me, I keep thinking on't, and I'm most of a mind that these

young folks haven't been so long together for nothing. I believe, Molly,

that there's a reason for our boy's fading away from us so all of a

sudden, and for the pale face that Miss Kittie carries with her."

"No, no, Patrick, you mustn't be so full of your whims," replied the

good wife, in a whisper, as she pointed to the half-open door, through

which they could see the young maiden bending over the couch to minister

to Archie. "You've forgot the station, man, you've forgot the station;

it is kind and natural for her to interest her dear heart in the sick

lad; but depend upon it there's nothing deeper--greater would be the

sorrow if there was, Pat! Besides," she added, after a moment's silence,

"there's her cousin Willie, they say, as much as engaged to her!"

"Fudge!" returned the old man, getting really excited; "a jackass of a

fellow as ain't fit to hold a candle to our Archie? Never you fear,

Molly, there'll nothing come of that; I'd sooner see her in her coffin

first!"

"But you take it hard, man," answered his wife. "Don't you know that

they've been children together, and it isn't as if she could see him

with your eyes; besides, he's got a power o' money, Patrick, and that

covers up many a blemish."

"I tell ye, Molly, a mint of gold wouldn't make any difference to the

feelings o' that girl. Her heart's with the dying lad, and, mark my

words, she'll never marry that simple cousin; but she'll cherish the

green grave just as she did in the dream, and her thoughts'll be up in

heaven with the absent spirit."

"It will be desput lonesome here when he's gone, Patrick," sighed the

old woman; "but I s'pose it's our duty to take care of the grandmother

as long as she lives!"

"To be sure, to be sure, Molly! We'll do well what we've undertaken, but

I long to be back in the old shanty by the water, I kinder miss the old

ways. Nothing but the lad would ever have brought me here, and he's fast

going; it won't be many mornings that we can sit and look in even upon

his sick-bed, Molly."

They couldn't talk about it any more, but they watched the old

grandmother as she clutched at the shadows that the waving foliage made

upon her white gown as she sat in the outer door, and they wondered why

it could not be that she should go first, and the lad be spared them. It

wasn't any good that she could do upon the earth, it wasn't any joy that

she could ever again give! Truly, God's ways are not as our ways, nor

His thoughts as our thoughts! Patrick and Molly could trust Him, even

though the dark cloud was spreading itself over their way, and the

sunshine was soon to be wholly removed from their dwelling.

CHAPTER XV.

The little room was darkened, and the still form was freed from all its

pains--no more fear of the ridicule of an unfeeling world--no more

struggling upward toward a tottering eminence--no more sighings after a

higher sympathy than a narrow sphere can insure--no more tremblings and

palpitations lest the desired good vanish from the sight--no more

sinning nor sorrowing; but the quiet figure lay peaceful and still

beneath the pure covering, with the bright flowers above and loving

hearts around. There are no outbursts of anguish in the presence of the

hallowed dead, but a calmness that speaks of the hope of a resurrection.

The mother and her daughter are alone with the departed, and, as they

look upon his placid features, Kittie recalls the time when she met him,

years ago, in the scorching noontide heat, and contrasted his forlorn

and pitiable condition with the pampered and luxurious state of her

cousin Willie, and, as her mother's words recur to her, "Perhaps not a

pity that he has not Willie's blessings, dear Kittie." She echoes in her

own heart, "not a pity, not not a pity!"

Oh! no; the pity now is all for the high-born lad, whose privileges are

all wasted and perverted, and could she choose for herself one of these

two lives, she would not hesitate to take the lowly cottage on the

plain, with all its sad inconveniences and distasteful accompaniments,

with the exalted Christian mind, rather than the glory, and beauty, and

ease of the great house, with the weakened intellect and the brutish

soul.

There is a small trunk in Archie's chamber, with a card nailed upon the

top, and the inscription, "Miss Kitty Fay;" and Patrick lifts it

reverently, with no vain curiosity, and carries it to the "great house."

He knows that it contains many a manuscript that helped to dry up the

fount of life. They are all dedicated to Kittie, who inspired them; and

it is a great comfort to be reading them over while he is lying there as

if asleep and unable to speak. They make every thing plain to her

concerning the past, and they confirm her in the vow that was made

beneath the old elm, long ago. It is such a treasure, that precious

legacy; so filled with beautiful thoughts, and so free from earthly

dross. Besides, it is all her own, sacred from the world. No other eye

has ever seen it, and nobody else can ever know the secret workings of

the great mind that is no longer clogged by the crippled body.

The old leather portfolio has come to a blessed use--the comforting and

supporting the afflicted. Much need is there, too, of comfort where the

wound is so deeply hidden. Nobody knows Kittie's secret; not even her

fond mother discerns more than a natural solemnity at the presence of

death. It is so hard to go about the house with a cheerful face and an

apparent indifference, when the full heart would fain express itself

freely. But harder still was it for Kittie to be subjected to her

cousin's importunities at a time when she had scarcely room for a common

sympathy for him.

She had walked out alone, and had sought the old elm; it was so soothing

to be there, with no eye to observe her emotion. Why should Willie seek

her _then_ of all times in the world? and for such a purpose!

"It can not be, Willie--you know it can not be," said she, in firm and

decided accents.

"But I have set my heart upon it, Kittie," replied her cousin. "You see,

we have been much together, and I am used to your ways, and I don't

think I could easily find any body else that would exactly suit me, so

I've concluded it is best to have the matter arranged immediately. There

is nothing in the way but this funeral, and that will be over to-morrow,

and what do you say to Monday week, Kittie? Will that be soon enough, my

birdie?" and the too confident youth drew near and reached out his arm

to encircle her waist, but she was no longer there.

"Soon enough!" What! to be wedded to a compound of the most hideous

deformity! "Soon enough!" To blot out the memory of the pure and

immortal one, and to link herself to a revolting and miserable object!

It were better to be lying peacefully beneath the green earth than to

walk about a living corpse, with but the semblance of animation. What

mockery it seemed to her as she stood by the silent dead! The pet name,

too, was almost an insult to the pure and loving heart that had

smothered its springing affections, until the life also was crushed and

gone. Oh! that she could tear out the remembrance of her cousin's

weakness and folly so that she need abate nothing of her accustomed

kindness and attention. Henceforth she must withhold from him even the

natural sympathy which his infirmities demand, and perhaps be forced to

add another tinge to the bitterness of his fate, by a constant coldness

and indifference toward him.

Poor child! the ills of life come seldom singly, yet how much greater is

the might that can rise above and conquer a complication of sorrows.

There was strength for Kittie in the contemplation of the serene face

that was before her--so free from every shadow that had darkened it when

animate. There were exhortations to patience in its hallowed expression,

and lessons upon the nothingness of our temporary trials, and inspiring

promises of the end--that glorious end that will compensate for all our

sad beginnings. No wonder Kittie Fay was more than ever tranquil as she

stepped again within the circle of her home; and no wonder the wound

that lay deeply hidden was unsuspected there.

CHAPTER XVI.

"Come, come Archie, my son, don't be fooling with your old grandmother.

What does it all mean? Is it a wedding, boy? Ah, yes, I mind me now; it

was just so when your father was married, this day forty years

ago--posies all about, on the dresser, on the bed--roses and pansies,

and 'bundance o' green stuff every where," and the unconscious idiot

touched the cold hands, and put her arms around the stiff neck, laying

her wrinkled face to the youth's cheek, and then she would dress his

hair with the flowers, weaving fantastic garlands, and twining them in

and out, amid the damp locks. It was thus they found her--old Patrick

and Molly--as they entered the silent room on the morning of Archie's

funeral. "Is the bride ready?" asked she, unwinding her arms from the

lad, and smoothing down her dress, as if to make herself presentable,

"because," she continued, advancing toward Molly, and pointing to the

couch, "he's waiting for her. 'Tis a beautiful home they'll have, I

never dreamed of any thing so pretty; but _he_ whispered it to

me--golden streets, and pearls, and rivers of water, and trees with all

manner of fruit--'tis worth while to be _his_ bride! I never thought our

Archie'd come to all this good!"

Molly put the flowers back in their places, and composed the limbs once

more, and then gently led the old woman to her arm-chair in the outer

room, where she relapsed into her quiet dosing way until all was over.

Once only she looked up as they bore the remains from the dwelling, and

asked in a deprecating voice, "why Archie didn't take her with him;" but

his name did not escape her after that. The rest of her days were a

blank.

Close beside his mother in a green grave they placed the crippled form,

that was to come forth in the resurrection, perchance the more glorified

for its earthly trial. Groups of ragged urchins from the common were

there, respectful and solemn. Old playmates that were now men and women

gathered around the coffin and wept as they remembered the past. Sally

Bunt and Mahan Doughty were among them, but the sincerest mourners--save

one--were Patrick and Molly, who had watched the young man from his

infancy up, and had placed all their hopes upon him. Bowed and broken,

the old man returned to the desolate cottage to minister to the doting

grandmother, whose only claims upon him were that she was allied to the

dead. Day after day would he and Molly ascend to the little chamber to

spend all their weary leisure. There were _his_ books, just as he had

left them, with one opened and turned down upon the table. There were

his clothes, hung by his own hand upon the wall, and there were the

pictures with which his native talent had adorned the room.

Oh! was not the deep affection of the two simple hearts that beat so

fondly to his memory, a worthy tribute? Is there more value in mines of

gold and silver, or in the adoration of a fickle multitude, than in the

unobtrusive homage of those loving and true, though humble ones.

Every effort of his untaught genius was to them as wondrous and

beautiful as if from the pencil of a Raphael or Titian. Every object of

his pleasure or regard was treasured as a sacred thing. Even the

withered flowers that had bedecked his death-couch were preserved with

pious care, and no unloving hand could touch a single article that had

once felt the impress of the now palsied fingers. There was still one

solace for the bereaved old couple, and that was the frequent visits of

Kittie, who seemed to them linked in a mysterious manner with the

departed.

There was a real pleasure to the three, to speak together of the absent

one whose exalted merit they only knew; and the maiden grew more calm

and resigned from the intercourse. Yet the grave in the beautiful

cemetery was none the less green in her memory, and the white hand

pointed none the less often from it to her heart, and thence upward to

heaven.

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Elm Tree Tales, by F. Irene Burge Smith