place had passed from the thought of Mrs. Foster, yet the child had
been too much in earnest to forget it herself. Young as she was, the
very pressure of circumstances by which she was surrounded had made her
comprehend clearly the necessity that existed for George to go and work
daily in the mill. She knew that he earned a dollar and a half weekly;
and she understood very well, that without this income her mother would
be greatly distressed.
After she had eaten her breakfast of bread and milk, the child went up
stairs and got an old pair of stockings, which she drew on over her
shoes, that had long been so worn as to afford but little protection to
her feet; and then taking from a closet an old shawl, drew it over her
head. Thus attired, she waited at the head of the stairs until her
mother was out of the way, and then went quickly down. She managed to
leave the house without being seen by any one, and took her way,
through the deep and untracked snow, towards the mill, which was about
a quarter of a mile off. The air was bitter cold, and the storm still
continued; but the child plodded on, chilled to the very heart, as she
soon was, and, at length, almost frozen, reached the mill. The owner
had observed her approach from the window, and wondering who she was,
or what brought so small a child to the mill through the cold and
storm, went down to meet her.
"Bless me! little one!" he said, lifting her from the ground and
placing her within the door. "Who are you, and what do you want?"
"I'm George's sister, and I've come to work in his place till he gets
well," replied the child, as she stood, with shivering body and
chattering teeth, looking up earnestly into the man's face.
"George Foster's sister?"
"Yes, sir. His hand's hurt so he can't work, and I've come to work in
his place."
"You have! Who sent you, pray?"
"Nobody sent me."
"Does your mother know about your coming?"
"No, sir."
"Why do you want to work in George's place?"
"If I do, then you'll send mother a dollar and a half every week, won't
you?"
The owner of the mill was a kind-hearted man, and this little incident
touched his feelings.
"You are not big enough to work in the mill, my child," said he, kindly.
"I'm nine years old," replied Emma, quickly.
"Oh yes! I can work as well as anybody. Do let me come in George's
place! Won't you?"
Emma had not been gone very long before she was missed. Her mother had
become quite alarmed about her, when she heard sleigh-bells at the
door, and, looking out, saw the owner of the mill and her child.
Wondering what this could mean, she went out to meet them.
"This little runaway of yours," said the man, in a pleasant voice,
"came trudging over to the mill this morning, through the snow, and
wanted to take the place of George, who was so badly hurt yesterday, in
order that you might get, as she said, a dollar and a half every week."
"Why, Emma!" exclaimed her mother, as she lifted her from the sleigh.
"How could you do so? You are not old enough to work in your brother's
place."
"Besides," said the man, "there is no need of your doing so; for George
shall have his dollar and a half, the same as ever, until he is able to
go to work again. So then, my little one, set your heart at rest."
Emma understood this very well, and bounded away into the house to take
the good news to her brother, who was as much rejoiced as herself.
After inquiring about George, and repeating to Mrs. Foster what he had
said to Emma, he told her that he would pay the doctor for attending
the lad, so that the accident needn't prove a burden to her.
The heart of Mrs. Foster lifted itself, thankfully, as she went back
into the house.
"Don't scold her, mother," said George. "She thought she was doing
right."
This appeal, so earnestly made, quite broke down the feelings of Mrs.
Foster, and she went quickly into another room, and closing the door
after her, sat down by the bedside, and, burying her face in a pillow,
suffered her tears to flow freely. Scold the child! She felt more like
taking her in her arms, and hugging her passionately to her bosom.
To know that the small income her boy's labour had produced was not to
be cut off, proved a great relief to the mind of Mrs. Foster; but, in a
little while, her thoughts went back to the landlord's threat and the
real distress and hopelessness of their situation. To the period of her
husband's return she looked with no feeling of hope; but, rather, with
a painful certainty, that his appearance would be the signal for the
landlord to put his threat into execution.
Sadly the days went by, each one bringing nearer the time towards which
the unhappy woman now looked forward with a feeling of dread. That the
landlord would keep his promise, she did not, for an instant, doubt.
Without their cow, how could she, with all her exertions, feed her
children? No wonder that her heart was troubled.
At last the day before the opening year came.
"Papa will be home to-morrow," said Emma. "I wonder what he will bring
me for a New Year's gift."
"I wish he would bring me a book," said George.
"I'd like a pair of new shoes," remarked the little girl, more soberly,
looking down at her feet, upon which were tied, with coarse strings,
what were called shoes, but hardly retained their semblance. "And mamma
wants shoes, too," added the child. "Oh! I wish papa would bring her,
for a New Year's gift, a nice new pair of shoes."
The mother heard her children talking, and sighed to think how vain
were all their expectations.
"I wish we had a turkey for father's New Year's dinner," said Emma.
"And some mince pies!" spoke up little Hetty, the youngest, clapping
her hands. "Why don't we have mince pies, mamma?" she said, taking hold
of her mother's apron and looking up at her.
"Papa likes mince pies, I know; and so do I. Don't you like mince pies,
George?"
George, who was old enough to understand better than the rest of them
the true cause of the privations they suffered, saw that Hetty's
questions had brought tears to his mother's eyes, and, with a
thoughtfulness beyond his years, sought to turn the conversation into
another channel.
But the words of the children had brought to the mind of Mrs. Foster a
memory of other times,--of the many happy New Years she had enjoyed
with her husband, their board crowned with the blessings of the year.
Her dim eyes turned from her neglected little ones, and fell upon a
small ornament that stood upon the mantle. It was the New Year's gift
of her husband in better days. It reminded her too strongly of the
contrast between that time and the gloomy present. She went quickly
from the room, to weep unheard and alone.
New Year's morning at length broke clear and cold. Mrs. Foster was up
betimes. It was no holiday to her. Early in the day her husband was to
come home, and though she could not help looking and wishing for him to
come, yet the thought of him produced a pressure in her bosom. She felt
that his presence would only bring for her heart a deeper shadow.
The children had grown eager for him to come. The younger ones talked
of the presents he would bring them, while George thought of a book,
yet dared hardly hope to receive one. At last, Emma descried her father
far down the road, and announced, in a loud voice, his coming. The
heart of the mother throbbed quicker at the word. She went to the
window, where the children crowded, feeling troubled, and yet with
something of the old gladness about her heart. She strained her eyes to
see him, and yet dreaded to fix them upon him too intently, lest more
should be seen than she wished to see. He came nearer and nearer, and
she was yet at the window, her heart beating audibly. Could her eyes
deceive her, or was it indeed so? His form was erect and his step firm,
and, though his clothes were the same, they did not look so untidy.
"Thank God!" she ejaculated silently, yet fervently, as he came nearer
still--"he is sober."
Yes, he was sober.
"Henry!" she could not say another word, as she took his hand when he
came in. Her eyes were full of tears. He pressed her thin, small,
labour-worn hand tightly, and then turned and sat down. He, too, was
moved as well as she. But the children gathered around him, and seemed
gladder to see him than when he was last home. There was a reason for
this. Seeing the hand of George in a sling, he inquired the cause, and
when told of the accident, appeared deeply grieved, and said he should
not go back to the mill any more. The heart of his wife fluttered. Was
there a meaning deeper than a momentary impulse? At last little Hetty,
who had climbed upon his knee, said, "Where's my New Year's gift, papa?"
The father put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small
picture-book, and gave it to the child who was wild with joy in a
moment. He had a larger book for Emma, and Robinson Crusoe for George.
"And what for mother?" asked Emma, looking earnestly at her father.
"Haven't you brought dear mother a New Year's gift, too?"
"Oh, yes," replied the father, "I've got something for her also." His
voice was a little unsteady as he said this. Then he put his hand into
his pocket again, and, after keeping it there for a moment or two, drew
out a large folded piece of paper that looked like a title-deed, and
handed it to his wife, who took it with a trembling hand. She opened
it, read a few words, and, bursting into tears, turned and went quickly
from the room. Hers were tears of joy--unutterable joy.
Was it then a title-deed of property that her husband had given her,
filling her heart with gladness at the thought of relief from toil, and
privation, and suffering? No, it was better than that, and brought a
fuller and more perfect joy. It was a _New Year's gift_ such as she had
never dared hope to receive--the dearest gift in the power of her
husband to bestow. Already blotted with tears, it was tightly pressed
to her heaving bosom.
What was it? What could it be but the blessed temperance pledge,
signed, in a firm hand, with her husband's name.
That was indeed a happy New Year's day to the wife and mother, who,
when the morning dawned, felt that she was entering upon the darkest
days of her troubled existence. But a brighter day unknown was
breaking. It broke, and no gloomy clouds have since arisen to obscure
its smiling skies.
AUNT MARY'S PRESERVING KETTLE.
"I DECLARE, if these preserves haven't been working!" exclaimed Aunt
Mary, as she opened a jar of choice quinces, and perceived that, since
they were sealed up and carefully stored for the winter, fermentation
had taken place.
"And the peaches, too, as I live!" she added on examining another jar.
"Run, Hannah, and bring me my preserving kettle. I shall have to do
them all over."
"Mrs. Tompkins borrowed it, you know, yesterday," Hannah replied.
"So she did, I declare! Well, you must run over to Mrs. Tompkins,
Hannah, and tell her that I want my preserving kettle."
Hannah departed, and Aunt Mary proceeded to examine jar after jar of
her rich store of preserves, and, much to her disappointment, found
that all of her quinces and peaches, comprising some eight or ten jars,
had commenced working. These she took from their dark corners in the
closet, and, placing them on the large table in the kitchen, awaited
patiently Hannah's return. In about fifteen minutes her help entered.
"But where is the kettle?" inquired Aunt Mary, eagerly.
"Why, ma'am, Mrs. Tompkins says as how she ain't quite done with it
yet; she's finished her pears; but then she has her mamlet to do."
Aunt Mary Pierce was a good woman, and her heart was full of kind
feelings towards others. But she had her foibles as well as her
neighbours, and among these was an almost passionate admiration of her
beautiful bell-metal preserving kettle, which was always kept as bright
as a gold eagle. Nothing tried Aunt Mary more than to have to lend her
preserving kettle. But as in reading her Bible she found it
written--_Of him that would borrow of thee turn thou not away_--she
dared not refuse any of the applications that were made for it, and in
preserving time these were enough to try the patience of even a better
woman than Aunt Mary. The fact was, that Aunt Mary's preserving kettle
was the best in the village, and there were at least a dozen or two of
her neighbours, who did not think their sweetmeats good for any thing
if not prepared in this favourite kettle.
"Ain't it too bad!" ejaculated Aunt Mary, lifting her hands and then
letting them fall quickly. "Ain't it too bad! But it is always so! Just
when I want my own things, somebody's got them. Go right back, Hannah,
and tell Mrs. Tompkins that my preserves are all a working, and that I
must have my kettle at once, or they will be ruined."
Hannah started off again, and Aunt Mary stood, far less patiently than
before, beside the table on which she had placed her jars, and awaited
her return.
"Well," she asked eagerly, as Hannah entered after the lapse of some
ten minutes, "where is the kettle?"
"Mrs. Tompkins says, ma'am, that she is very sorry that your preserves
have commenced working, but that it won't hurt them if they are not
done over for three or four days. She says that her mamlet is all ready
to put on, and as soon as that is done you shall have the kettle in
welcome."
Poor Aunt Mary was, for a few minutes, mute with astonishment. On
recovering herself, she did not storm and fret. Indeed, she was never
guilty of these little housewife effervescences, usually taking every
trouble with a degree of Christian meekness that it would have been
well for many in the village, even the minister's wife, to have
imitated.
"Well, Hannah," she said, heaving a sigh, "we shall have to wait, I
suppose, until Mrs. Tompkins has finished her marmalade. But I am
afraid all these preserves will be spoiled. Unless done over
immediately on their beginning to work, they get a flavour that is not
pleasant. But we must wait patiently."
"It's a downright shame, ma'am, so it is!" said Hannah, "and I wonder
you take it so quietly. If it was my kettle, and I wanted it, I reckon
I'd have it too quick. Only just say the word, ma'am, and I will get it
for you if I have to take it off of the fire."
"Oh no, no, no, not for the world, Hannah!" replied Aunt Mary, to her
indignant help. "We will try and wait for her, though it is a little
hard to have one's things always a-going, and never to be able to put
your hands on them when you want them."
All the next day Aunt Mary suffered the jars of fermenting preserves to
remain on the kitchen table. Every time her eye rested upon them,
unkind thoughts would arise in her mind against her neighbour, Mrs.
Tompkins, but she used her best efforts to suppress them. About the
middle of the next day, as the preserving kettle did not make its
appearance, Hannah was again despatched, with directions to urge upon
Mrs. Tompkins the pressing necessity there was for its being returned.
In due time Hannah made her appearance, but without the kettle.
"Well?" inquired Aunt Mary, in a tone of disappointment.
"Mrs. Tompkins says, ma'am," replied Hannah, "that you needn't be in
such a fever about your old preserving kettle, and that it is not at
all neigh-hourly to be sending for a thing before it is done with. She
says she won't be through with her mamlet before day after to-morrow,
and that you can't have the kettle before then."
"Well, it is a downright shame!" said Aunt Mary, with a warmth of
manner unusual to her.
"And so I told her," responded Hannah.
"You did! And what did Mrs. Tompkins say?"
"Oh, she fired right up, and said she didn't want any of my imperdence."
"But you oughtn't to have said so, Hannah."
"How could I help it, ma'am, when my blood was boiling over? It is a
shame; that's the truth."
Aunt Mary did not reply, but she thought all that Hannah had said to
Mrs. Tompkins, and a good deal more. Indeed, her forbearance was sorely
tried. Never since she could recollect, had she felt so unkindly
towards any one as she now did towards her neighbour and fellow church
member. Often did she try to put away these unkind and troublesome
thoughts; but the effort was vain. Mrs. Tompkins had trespassed so far
upon her rights, and then put such a face upon it, that she could not
help feeling incensed at her conduct.
After a while "day after to-morrow" came, which was on Saturday.
"I must have that kettle to-day, Hannah," said she, and Hannah started
off to Mrs. Tompkins.
"You needn't come after that kettle to-day," spoke up Mrs. Tompkins, as
Hannah entered, "my marmalade is not all done yet."
"But we must have it to-day, Mrs. Tompkins. Mrs. Pierce says as how I
mustn't come home without it. The preserves are nearly ruined now, and
all because you didn't send home the kittle when we first wanted it."
"I want none of your impudence," said Mrs. Tompkins, going off at once
into a passion, for she was rather a high-tempered woman, "and so just
shut up at once. If Mrs. Pierce is so fussy about her old worn-out
kettle, she can have it and make the most out of it. A pretty
neighbour, indeed! Here, Sally," calling to her help, "empty that
kettle and give it to Hannah."
"Where shall I empty it?" asked Sally.
"Empty it into the slop barrel, for what I care; the whole kettle of
marmalade will be spoiled any how. A pretty neighbour, indeed!"
Sally, who understood her mistress's mood, knew very well that her
orders were not to be literally obeyed. So she took the preserving
kettle from the fire, and poured its contents into a large pan, instead
of the slop barrel.
"Here's the kettle," said she, bringing it in and handing it to Hannah.
It was black and dirty on the outside, and within all besmeared with
the marmalade, for Sally cared not to take the trouble of cleaning it.
"There, take the kettle!" said Mrs. Tompkins in an excited tone, "and
tell Mrs. Pierce that it is the last time I'll borrow any thing from
her."
Hannah took the kettle, and started for home at full speed.
"So you've got it at last," Said Aunt Mary, when Hannah entered; "and a
pretty looking thing it is! Really it is too bad to have a thing sent
home in that predicament."
"But ain't she mad though!" remarked Hannah, with something of
exultation in her tones.
"What in the world can she be mad about?" asked Aunt Mary in surprise.
"Mad because I would have the kittle. Why, there she had her mamlet on
the fire, boiling away, and said you couldn't have the kittle. But I
told her you must have it; that your preserves were nearly all spoiled,
just because you couldn't get your own kittle. Oh, but didn't she bile
over then! And so she told Sally to pour the mamlet into the slop
barrel, as it would all be spoiled any how, by your unneighbourly
treatment to her."
Poor Aunt Mary was dreadfully grieved at this. She loved the good
opinion of her neighbours, and it always gave her pleasure to oblige
them; but, in this case, she had been tried beyond endurance. She had
little heart now to touch her preserves, and so went off to her chamber
and sat down, overcome by painful feelings.
In the mean time, Hannah went to work, and, by dint of half an hour's
hard scouring, got the kettle to look something like itself. She then
went up and told Aunt Mary that every thing was now ready for doing the
preserves over again.
"I reckon we'll not boil them over to-day, Hannah," she replied. "It's
Saturday, and you've got a good deal of cleaning to do, and I don't
feel much like touching them. The preserves won't get much worse by
Monday."
Hannah, who understood her mistress's feelings, and sympathized with
her, because she loved her, did not urge the matter, but at once
withdrew and left Aunt Mary to her own unpleasant reflections. It so
happened that the next day was the Communion Sabbath; and this fact had
at once occurred to Aunt Mary when Hannah repeated the words of Mrs.
Tompkins, and stated that she was very angry. Mrs. Tompkins was a
member and communicant of the same church with her. After sitting
thoughtfully in her chamber for some time, Aunt Mary took up the
communion service and commenced reading it. When she came to the words,
"Ye who do truly and earnestly repent of your sins, _and are in love
and charity with your neighbours,_" &c. &c., she paused and sat
thoughtful and troubled for some time.
"Am I in love and charity with my neighbours?" she at length asked
herself, aloud, drawing a heavy sigh.
"No, I am not," was the mental response. "Mrs. Tompkins is angry with
me, and I am sure I do not feel right towards her."
During all that afternoon, Aunt Mary remained in her chamber, in deep
communion with herself. For the last twenty years she had never, on a
single occasion, stayed away from the Lord's table; but now she felt
that she dared not go forward, for she was not in love and charity with
her neighbours, and the injunction was explicit. Night came, and at the
usual hour she retired, but not to sleep the sweet refreshing sleep
that usually locked up her senses. Her thoughts were so active and
troubled, that she could not sink away into a quiet slumber until long
after midnight. In the morning she felt no better, and, as church time
approached, her heart beat more heavily in her bosom. Finally, the nine
o'clock bell rang, and every stroke seemed like a knell. At last the
hour for assembling came, and Aunt Mary, cast down in heart, repaired
to the meeting-house. The pew of Mrs. Tompkins was just in front of
Aunt Mary's, but that lady did not turn around and smile and give her
hand as usual when she entered. All this Aunt Mary felt.
In due time the services commenced, and regularly progressed to their
conclusion, the minister preaching a very close sermon. The solemn and
impressive communion service followed, and then the members went up to
partake of the sacred emblems. But Aunt Mary did not go up as usual.
She could not, for she was not in love and charity with her neighbours.
This was noticed by many, and particularly by the minister, who
lingered after all had successively approached the table and retired,
repeating his invitation, while his eye was fixed upon Aunt Mary.
"What can be the matter?" asked Mrs. Peabody of Mrs. Beebe, the moment
she got outside of the church door. "Aunt Mary didn't go up."
"Indeed! It can't be possible?"
"Yes, but it is. For I sat just behind her all the time. She seemed
very uneasy, and I thought troubled. She hardly looked up during the
sermon, and hurried away, without speaking to any one, as soon as the
congregation was dismissed at the close of the communion service. What
can be the matter?"
"It is strange, indeed!" responded Mrs. Green, who came up while Mrs.
Peabody was speaking.
"I took notice myself that she did not go up."
"I wonder if she has done any thing wrong?"
"Oh, no!"
"Then what can be the matter?"
"I would give any thing to know!"
"Something is wrong, that is certain," remarked one of the little
crowd, for the group of two or three had swelled to as many dozens.
Many were the suggestions made in reference to Aunt Mary's conduct;
and, before Sabbath evening, there was not one of, the members that did
not know and wonder at her strange omission.
After Aunt Mary returned from church, she felt even worse than before.
A sacred privilege had been deliberately omitted, and all because she
had let unkindness spring up between herself and her neighbour.
"And yet how could I help it?" she argued with herself. "I was tired
out of all patience. I only sent for my own, and because I did so, Mrs.
Tompkins became offended. I am sure I was not to blame."
"But then," said another voice within her, "you could have gone over on
Saturday and made up the matter with her, and then there would have
been nothing in the way. One duty neglected only opened the way for
another."
There was something in this that could not be gainsaid, and poor Aunt
Mary felt as deeply troubled as ever. She did not, as usual, go to the
afternoon meeting, for she had no heart to do so. And then, as the
shades of evening fell dimly around, she reproached herself for this
omission. Poor soul! how sadly did she vex her spirit by
self-condemnation.
That evening several of the society called in at the minister's house,
and soon Aunt Mary's singular conduct became the subject of
conversation.
"Ain't it strange?" said one. "Such a thing has not occurred for these
ten years, to my certain knowledge."
"No, nor for twenty either," remarked the minister.
"She seemed very uneasy during the sermon," said another.
"I thought she did not appear well, as my eye fell upon her
occasionally," the minister added. "But she is one of the best of
women, and I suppose she is undergoing some sore temptation, out of
which she will come as gold tried in the fire."
"I don't know," broke in Mrs. Tompkins, who was among the visitors,
"that she is so much better than other people. For my part, I can't say
that I ever found her to be any thing extra."
"You do not judge of her kindly, Mrs. Tompkins," said the minister
gravely. "I only wish that all my parish were as good as she is. I
should feel, in that case, I am sure, far less concern for souls than I
do."
Thus rebuked, Mrs. Tompkins contented herself by saying, in an
under-tone, to one who sat near her--
"They may say what they please, but I am well enough acquainted with
her to know that she is no better than other people."
Thus the conversation and the conjectures went round, while the subject
of them sat in solitude and sadness in her own chamber. Finally, the
minister said that he would call in and have some conversation with her
on the next day, as he had no doubt that there was some trouble on her
mind, and it might be in his power to relieve it.
Monday morning came at last, and Aunt Mary proceeded, though with but
little interest in her occupation, to "do over" her preserves. She
found them in a state that gave her little hope of being able to
restore them to any thing like their original flavour. But the trial
must be made, and so she filled her kettle as full as requisite of a
particular kind, and hung it over a slow fire. This had hardly been
done, when Hannah came in and said--
"As I live, Mrs. Pierce, there is the minister coming up the walk!"
And sure enough, on glancing out, she saw the minister almost at the
door-step.
"Bless me!" she exclaimed, and then hurried into her little parlour, to
await the knock of her unexpected visitor. At almost any other time, a
call from the minister would have been delightful. But now, poor Aunt
Mary felt that she would as soon have seen any one else.
The knock came in a moment, and, after a pause, the door was opened.
"How do you do, Aunt Mary? I am very glad to see you," said the
minister, extending his hand.
Aunt Mary looked troubled and confused; but she received him in the
best way she could. Still her manner embarrassed them both. After a few
leading observations, the minister at length said--
"You seem troubled, Aunt Mary. Can any thing that I might say relieve
the pain of mind you evidently feel?"
The tears came into Aunt Mary's eyes, but she could not venture to
reply. The minister observed her emotion, and also the meek expression
of her countenance.
"Do not vex yourself unnecessarily," he remarked. "If any thing has
gone wrong with you, deal frankly with your minister. You know that I
am ever ready to counsel and advise."
"I know it," said Aunt Mary, and her voice trembled. "And I need much
your kind direction. Yet I hardly know how to tell you my troubles. One
thing, however, is certain. I have done wrong. But how to mend that
wrong I know not, while there exists an unwillingness on my part to
correct it."
"You must shun evil as sin," the minister remarked in a serious tone.
"I know, and it is for that reason I am troubled. I have unkind
thoughts, and they are evil, and yet I cannot put these unkind thoughts
away."
For a moment the minister sat silent, and then, looking up with a
smile, said--
"Come, Aunt Mary, be open and frank. Tell me all the particulars of
your troubles, and then I am sure I can help you."
Aunt Mary, in turn, sat silent and thoughtful for a short period, and
then, raising her head, she proceeded to relate her troubles. She told
him how much she had been tried, year after year, during the preserving
season, by the neighbours who had borrowed her preserving kettle. It
was the best in the village, and she took a pride in it, but she could
have no satisfaction in its possession. It was always going, and never
returned in good order. She then frankly related how she had been tried
by Mrs. Tompkins, and how nearly all of her preserves were spoiled,
because she could not get home her kettle,--how the unkind feelings
which had suddenly sprung up between them in consequence had troubled
her, and even caused her to abstain, under conscientious scruples, from
the communion.
The minister's heart felt lighter in his bosom as she concluded her
simple narrative, and, smiling encouragingly, he said--"Don't let it
trouble you, Aunt Mary; it will all come right again. You have
certainly been treated very badly, and I don't wonder at all that your
feelings were tried."
"But what shall I do?" asked Aunt Mary, eagerly. "I feel very much
troubled, and am very anxious to have all unkindness done away."
"Do you think you can forgive Mrs. Tompkins?"
"Oh, yes. She has not acted kindly, but I can forgive her from my
heart."
"Then you might call over and see her, and explain the whole matter. I
am sure all difficulties will end there."
"I will go this day," Aunt Mary said, encouragingly.
The minister sat a short time longer, and then went away. He had no
sooner gone, than Aunt Mary put on her things and went directly over to
Mrs. Tompkins.
"Good morning, Mrs. Pierce," that lady said, coolly, as her visitor
entered. She had always before called Aunt Mary by the familiar name by
which she was known in the village.
"Good morning, Mrs. Tompkins. I have come over to say that I am very
sorry if I offended you on Saturday. I am sure I did not mean to do so.
I only sent for my kettle, and would not have done that, had not some
seven or eight jars of preserves been working."
"Oh, it was no offence to send for your kettle," Mrs. Tompkins replied,
smiling. "That was all right and proper. I was only a little vexed at
your Hannah's impudence. But, Aunt Mary, 'let has-beens be has-beens.'
I am sorry that there has occurred the least bit of coolness between
us."
Aunt Mary's heart bounded as lightly as if a hundred-pound weight had
been taken from it; she was made happy on the instant.
"You don't know how glad I am to hear you say so, Mrs. Tompkins," she
said, earnestly. "It has removed a load from my heart. Hereafter, I
hope nothing will occur again to disturb our friendly feelings. You may
have the kettle again, in a day or two, in welcome, and keep it as long
as you please."
The breach was thus easily healed; and had Aunt Mary gone over on
Saturday to see Mrs. Tompkins, she would have saved herself a world of
trouble.
Still, nothing of this was known to the other members of the church,
who were as full of conjecture as ever, touching the singular conduct,
as they called it, of Aunt Mary. The minister said nothing, and Mrs.
Tompkins, of course, said nothing; and no one ventured to question Aunt
Mary.
On the next Sabbath, Aunt Mary came to church as usual, and all eyes
were instantly upon her.
Some thought she still looked troubled, and was paler than before,
while others perceived that she was really more cheerful. In due time,
the minister arose and announced his text:
"Give to him that asketh, and of him that would borrow of thee, turn
thou not away."
"My dear friends," said he, on drawing near to the close of his
subject, "the text teaches us, besides that of simple alms-giving, the
duty of lending; but you will observe, it says not a word about
borrowing. Under the law laid down here, we may lend as much as we
please, but it gives no license to borrow. Now, as far as I have been
able to learn, a number of my congregation have not been very
particular on this point. They seem to think that it is helping their
neighbours to keep this injunction to lend, by compelling an obedience
to the precept, whether they are inclined to obey or not. Now, this is
wrong. We are justified in lending to those who need such kind offices,
but not to put others to the inconvenience of lending when we are fully
able to supply our own wants. This is going beyond the scope of the
Divine injunction, and I hold it to be morally wrong to do so. Some of
you, I am credibly informed," and his voice fell to a low, distinct,
and solemn tone, "are in the habit of regularly borrowing Aunt Mary's
preserving kettle--(here Aunt Mary looked up with a bewildered air,
while her face coloured deeply, and the whole congregation stared in
amazement; but the minister went calmly on)--and this, too, without
regard to her convenience. Nor is this all--the kettle is hardly ever
returned in a good condition. How thoughtless! how wrong! In this, Aunt
Mary alone has been faithful to the precept in my text, while you have
departed widely from its true spirit. Let me hope that you will think
better of this matter, and wisely resolve to let your past
short-comings suffice."
And thus the sermon closed. It may well be supposed that for some days
there was something of a stir in the hive. The ladies of the
congregation who were among the borrowers of the preserving kettle, and
they were not a few, including the minister's wife, were for a time
deeply incensed at Aunt Mary, and not a few at the minister. But this
temporary indignation soon wore off, for Aunt Mary was so kind and good
that no one could feel offended with her for any length of time, more
especially where there was really no cause of offence. One by one, they
called upon her, as they were enabled to see how really they had been
guilty of trespassing upon good nature, and, after apologizing, enjoyed
with her a hearty laugh upon the subject. And, finally, the whole thing
came to be looked upon as quite an amusing as well as an instructive
affair.
After this, Aunt Mary was allowed to possess her beautiful bell-metal
preserving kettle in peace, which was to her a source of no small
satisfaction. And what was more, in the course of the next preserving
season, a stock of twenty or thirty brass, copper, and bell-metal
kettles, that had been lying for years on the shelves of a
hardware-dealer's store in the village, almost uninquired for, were all
sold off, and a new supply obtained from Boston to meet the increased
demand.
HOME AT LAST.
"WE'RE home at last, and I am so glad!" exclaimed a little girl, not
over ten years of age, as she paused at twilight with her mother before
a small and mean-looking house, one evening late in the month of
November.
The mother did not reply, but lifted the latch, when both passed in.
There was no light in the dwelling, and no fire on the hearth. All was
cold, dark, and cheerless in that place which had been called "home" by
the little girl; yet, cold, dark, and cheerless as it was, she still
felt glad to be there once more.
"_I_ will get a light, mother," said she, in a cheerful tone, running
to a closet, and taking thence a candle and a match.
In a moment or two afterwards the candle was burning brightly, and
throwing its light into every corner of that meanly-furnished room,
which contained but few articles, and they the simplest that were
needed. An old pine table, without leaves, three or four old chairs the
paint from which had long since disappeared, a bench and a water
bucket, with a few cooking utensils, made up the furniture of the
apartment.
A small fire was soon kindled on the hearth, over which the mother hung
a tea-kettle. When this had boiled, and she had drawn some tea, she
placed upon the table a few slices of bread and a piece of cheese,
which she took from a basket that she had borne on her arm. Then the
mother and child sat down to partake of their frugal meal, which both
eat with a keen relish.
"I'm so glad to get home again!" the little girl said, glancing up into
her mother's face, with a cheerful smile.
The mother looked upon her child with a tender expression, but did not
reply. She thought how poor and comfortless that home was which seemed
so desirable.
"I don't like to go to Mrs. Walker's," said the child, after the lapse
of a few moments.
"Why not, Jane?"
"Because I can't do any thing right there. Amy scolds me if I touch a
thing, and John won't let me go any place, except into the kitchen. I'm
sure I like home a great deal better, and I wish you would always stay
at home, mother."
"I would never go out, Jane, if I could help it," the mother replied,
in the effort to make her daughter understand, that she might acquiesce
in the necessity. "But you know that we must eat, and have clothes to
wear, and pay for the house we live in. I could not get the money to do
all this, if I did not go out to work in other people's houses, and
then we would be hungry, and cold, and not have any home to come to."
The little girl sighed and remained silent for a few moments. Then she
said, in a more cheerful tone,
"I know it's wrong for me to talk as I do, mother, and I'll try not to
complain any more. It's a great deal harder for you than it is for me
to go into these big people's houses. You have to work so hard, and I
have only to sit still in the kitchen. But won't father come home soon?
He's been away so long! When he was home we had every thing we wanted,
and you didn't have to go out a working."
Tears came into the mother's eyes, and her feelings were so moved, that
she could not venture to reply.
"Won't he be home soon, mother?" pursued the child.
"I'm afraid not," the mother at length said, in as calm a voice as she
could assume.
"Why not, mother? He's been gone a long time."
"I cannot tell you, my child. But I don't expect him home soon."
"Oh, I wish he would come," the child responded, earnestly. "If he was
only home, you would not have to go out to work any more."
The mother thought that she heard the movement of some one near the
door, and leant her head in a listening attitude. But all was silent
without, save the occasional sound of footsteps as some one hurried by.
To give the incidents and characters that we have introduced their true
interest, we must go back some twelve years, and bring the history of
at least one of the individuals down from that time.
A young lady and one of more mature age sat near a window, conversing
earnestly, about the period to which we have reference.
"I would make it an insuperable objection," the elder of the two said,
in a decided tone.
"But surely there can be no harm in his drinking a glass of wine or
brandy now and then. Where is the moral wrong?"
"Do you wish to be a drunkard's wife?"
"No, I would rather be dead."
"Then beware how you become the wife of any man who indulges in even
moderate drinking. No man can do so without being in danger. The vilest
drunkard that goes staggering past your door, will tell you that once
he dreamed not of the danger that lurked in the cup; that, before he
suspected evil, a desire too strong for his weak resistance was formed."
"I don't believe, aunt, that there is the slightest danger in the world
of Edward Lee. He become a drunkard! How can you dream of such a thing,
aunt?"
"I have seen much more of the world than you have, Alice. And I have
seen too many as high-minded and as excellent in character as Edward
Lee, who have fallen. And I have seen the bright promise of too many
girls utterly extinguished, not to tremble for you. I tell you, Alice,
that of all the causes of misery that exist in the married life,
intemperance is the most fruitful. It involves not only external
privations, toil, and disgrace, but that unutterable hopelessness which
we feel when looking upon the moral debasement of one we have
respected, esteemed, and loved."
"I am sure, aunt, that I will not attempt to gainsay all that. If there
is any condition in life that seems to me most deplorable and
heart-breaking, it is the condition of a drunkard's wife. But, so far
as Edward Lee is concerned, I am sure there does not exist the remotest
danger."
"There is always danger where there is indulgence. The man who will
drink one glass a day now, will be very apt to drink two glasses in a
twelvemonth; and so go on increasing, until his power over himself is
gone. Many, very many, do not become drunkards until they are old men;
but, sooner or later, in nine cases out of ten, a man who allows
himself to drink habitually, I care not how moderately at first, will
lose his self-control."
"Still, aunt, I cannot for a moment bring myself to apprehend danger in
the case of Edward."
"So have hundreds said before you. So did I once say, Alice. But years
of heart-aching misery told how sadly I was mistaken!"
The feelings of Alice were touched by this allusion. She had never
before dreamed that her uncle, who died while she was but a little
girl, had been a drunkard. Still, nothing that her aunt said caused her
to entertain even a momentary doubt of Edward Lee. She felt that he had
too much of the power of principle in his character ever to be carried
away by the vice of intemperance.
Edward Lee had offered himself in marriage to Alice Liston, and it was
on the occasion of her mentioning this to her aunt that the
conversation just riven occurred. It had, however, no effect upon the
mind of Alice. She loved Edward Lee tenderly, end, therefore, had every
confidence in him. They were, consequently, married, and commenced life
with prospects bright and flattering. But Edward continued to use
intoxicating drinks in moderate quantities every day. And, while the
taste for it was forming, he was wholly unconscious of danger. He would
as readily have believed himself in danger of murdering his wife, as in
danger of becoming a drunkard. He was a young merchant in a good
business when married, and able to put his young wife in possession of
a beautifully furnished house and all required domestic attendance, so
as to leave her but a very small portion of care.
Like the passage of a delightful dream were the first five years of her
wedded life. No one was ever happier than she in her married lot, or
more unconscious of coming evil. She loved her husband tenderly and
deeply, and he was all to her that she could desire. One sweet child
blessed their union. At the end of the period named, like the sudden
bursting of a fearful tempest from a summer sky, came the illness and
death of her aunt, who had been a mother to her from childhood.
Scarcely had her heart begun to recover from this shock, when it was
startled by another and more terrible affliction. All at once it became
apparent that her husband was losing his self-control. And the
conversation that she had held with her aunt about him, years before,
came up fresh in her memory, like the echo of a warning voice, now
heard, alas! too late. She noticed, with alarm, that he drank largely
of brandy at dinner, and was much stupified when he would rise from the
table--always retiring and sleeping for an hour before going back to
his business. Strange, it seemed to her, that she had never remarked
this before. Now, if she had desired it, she could not close her eyes
to the terrible truth.
For many weeks she bore with the regular daily occurrence of what has
just been alluded to. By that time, her feelings became so excited,
that she could keep silence no longer.
"I wouldn't drink any more brandy, Edward," said she, one day at the
dinner table; "it does you no good."
"How do you know that it does not?" was the prompt reply, made in a
tone that expressed very clearly a rebuke for interfering in a matter
that as he thought, did not concern her.
"I cannot think that it does you any good, and it may do you harm," the
wife said, hesitatingly, while her eyes grew dim with tears.
"Do me harm! What do you mean, Alice?"
"It does harm, sometimes, you know, Edward?"
"That is, it makes drunkards sometimes. And you are afraid that your
husband will become a drunkard! Quite a compliment to him, truly!"
"O, no, no, no, Edward! I am sure you will never be one.
But--but--but--"
"But what?"
"There is always danger, you know, Edward."
"Oh yes, of course! And I am going to be a drunken vagabond, if I keep
on drinking a glass of brandy at dinner time!"
"Don't talk so, Edward!" said Mrs. Lee, giving way to tears. "You never
spoke to me in this way before."
"I know I never did. Nor did my wife ever insinuate before that she
thought me in danger of becoming that debased, despised thing, a
drunkard!"
"Say no more, Edward, in mercy!" Mrs. Lee responded--"I did not mean to
offend you. Pardon me this once, and I will never again allude to the
subject."
A sullen silence followed on the part of Lee, who drank frequently
during the meal, and seemed to do so more with the evil pleasure of
paining his wife than from any other motive. So sadly perverting is the
influence of liquor upon some men, when opposed, changing those who are
kind and affectionate into cruel and malicious beings.
From that hour Mrs. Lee was a changed woman. She felt that the star of
love, which for so many happy years had thrown its rays into the very
midst of their fireside circle, had become hidden amid clouds, from
which she looked at every moment for the bursting of a desolating
storm. And her husband was, likewise, a changed man. His pride and
self-love had been wounded, and he could not forgive her who had thus
wounded him, even though she were his wife. Whenever he was under the
influence of liquor, he would brood over her words, and indulge in
bitter thoughts against her because she had presumed to insinuate that
there was danger of his becoming a drunkard.
At last he was brought home in a state of drunken insensibility. This
humbled him for a time, but did not cause him to abandon the use of
intoxicating drinks. And it was not long before he was again in the
same condition.
But we cannot linger to trace, step by step, his downward course, nor
to describe its effects upon the mind of his wife; but will pass over
five years more, and again introduce them to the reader.
How sadly altered is every thing! The large and comfortable house, in
an eligible position, has been changed for a small, close, ill-arranged
tenement. The elegant furniture has disappeared, and in its place are
but few articles, and those old and common. But the saddest change of
all is apparent in the face, dress, and air of Mrs. Lee. Her pale,
thin, sorrow-stricken countenance--her old and faded garments--her
slow, melancholy movements, contrast sadly with what she was a few
years before.
A lot of incessant toil is now her portion. Lee has, in consequence of
intemperance, causing neglect of business, failed, and had every thing
taken from him to pay his debts. For a while after this event, he
contributed to the support of his wife and child by acting in the
capacity of a clerk. But he soon became so dissipated, that no merchant
would employ him, and the entire support of the family fell upon his
wife. That was, in the very nature of things, an exceedingly meagre
support. Mrs. Lee had never looked forward to such a condition in life,
and therefore was entirely unprepared for it. Ordinary sewing was all
that she could do, and at this she could make but a small pittance. The
little that her husband earned was all expended in the accursed poison
that had already ruined himself and beggared his family.
After having suffered every thing to sink to this condition, Lee found
so little attractive in the appearance of a heart-broken wife and
beggared child, and so much about them to reprove him, that he left
them without a word, and went off to a neighbouring city.
How passing strange is the effect of drunkenness upon the mind and
character of a man! Is it not wonderful how the tender, affectionate,
and provident husband and father can become so changed into a worse
than brutal insensibility to all the sacred duties of life? Is it not
wonderful how the man, who would, to-day, sacrifice even life itself
for the safety of his family--who thinks nothing of toil, early and
late, that he may provide for every want, can in a few years forsake
them, and leave them to struggle, single-handed, with sickness and
poverty? But so it is! Instances of such heartless abandonment are
familiar to every one. "Surely," as it has been said, "strong drink is
a devil!" For he that comes under its influence is transformed into a
worse than brutal nature.
For a time after Lee went away, his wife was enabled, by sewing, to
meet the scanty wants of herself and child. The burden of his support
had been removed, and that was something gained. But a severe illness,
during which both herself and little Jane suffered much for the want of
nourishing food, left her with impaired sight. She could no longer, by
sewing, earn the money required to buy food and pay her rent, and was
compelled to resort to severe bodily toil to accomplish that end.
From several of the old friends of her better days, she had obtained
sewing, and necessity compelled her to resort to them for still humbler
employment.
"Good morning, Mrs. Lee! I have been wondering what in the world had
become of you," said one of those former friends, a Mrs. Walker, as the
poor woman called to see her, after her recovery.
"I have been very sick," replied Mrs. Lee, in a low feeble voice, and
her appearance told too plainly the effects of the sickness upon her.
"I'm sorry to hear it. But I am very glad you are out again, for my
sewing is all behindhand."
"I'm afraid that I shall not be able to do any more sewing for a good
while," said Mrs. Lee, despondingly.
"Indeed! And why not?"
"Because my eyes have become so weak that I can scarcely see."
"Then what do you expect to do? How will you get along, Mrs. Lee?"
"I can hardly tell myself. But I must do something."
"What can you do besides sewing?"
"I don't know of any thing, unless I take in washing."
"Take in washing! You are not fit to stand at the washing tub."
"I know that, ma'am. But when we are driven to it, we can do a great
many things, even though we gradually fail under our task."
A pause of a few moments ensued, which was broken by Mrs. Lee.
"Will you not give me your washing to do, Mrs. Walker?" she asked,
hesitatingly.
"Why, I don't know about that, Mrs. Lee. I never put my washing out of
the house."
"You hire some one in the house, then?"
"Yes, and if you will come for what I pay my present washerwoman, why I
suppose I might as well throw it in your way."
"Oh yes, of course I will. How much do you give?"
"I give half a dollar a day. Can you come for that?"
"If you will let me bring my little girl along. I could not leave her
alone."
"I don't know about that," replied Mrs. Walker, musingly. "I have so
many children of my own about the house."
"She will not be at all troublesome, ma'am," the poor woman urged.
"Will she be willing to stay in the kitchen?"
"Oh yes, I will keep her there."
"Well, Mrs. Lee, I suppose I might as well engage you. But there is one
thing that I wish understood. The person that I hire to help do the
washing must scrub up the kitchen after the clothes are all out. Are
you willing to do that?"
"Oh yes, ma'am. I will do it," said Mrs. Lee, while her heart sank
within her at the idea of performing tasks for which her feeble health
and strength seemed altogether insufficient. But she felt that she must
put her hands to the work, if she died in the effort to perform it.
Three days afterwards, she entered, as was agreed upon, at half a
dollar a day, the kitchen of Mrs. Walker, who had but a few years
before been one of her friends and companions.
It is remarkable, how persons of the most delicate constitutions will
sometimes bear up under the severest toil, and encounter the most
trying privations, and yet not fail, but really appear to gain some
degree of strength under the ordeal that it seemed, to all human
calculation, must destroy them.
So it was with Mrs. Lee. Although she suffered much from debility and
weariness, occasioned by excessive toil for one all unaccustomed to
hard labour, yet she did not, as she feared, sink rapidly under it. By
taking in as much washing and ironing as she could do, and going out
two days in the week regularly, she managed to procure for herself and
child the bare necessaries of life. This she had continued for about
two years at the time when first introduced to the reader's attention,
as returning with her child to her comfortless home.
The slight movement near her door, which Mrs. Lee had thought to be
only an imaginary sound, was a reality. While little Jane spoke of her
father, and wondered at his absence, a man, comfortably clad in coarse
garments, stood near the door in a listening attitude. Once or twice he
laid his hand upon the latch, but each time withdrew it and stood
musing in seeming doubt. "Oh, I wish father would come home!" fell upon
his ear, in clear, distinct, earnest tones.
He did not hear the low reply, though he listened eagerly. Only for a
moment longer did he pause. Then swinging the door open, and stepping
in quickly, he said in an earnest voice, "And I have come home at last,
my child!--at last, my dear Alice! if you will let me speak to you thus
tenderly--never, never again to leave you!"
Poor Mrs. Lee started and turned pale as her husband entered thus
abruptly, and all unexpected. But she saw a change in him that was not
to be mistaken; and all her former love returned with overwhelming
tenderness. Still she restrained herself with a strong effort, and
said--
"Edward, how do you come?"
"As a sober man. As a true husband and father, I trust, to my wife and
child; to banish sorrow from their hearts, and wipe the tears from
their eyes. Will you receive me thus?"
He had but half finished, when Mrs. Lee sprang towards him, and fell
sobbing in his outstretched arms. She saw that he was in earnest, she
felt that he was in earnest, and once more a gleam of sunshine fell
upon her heart.
Years have passed, and no cloud has yet dimmed the light that then
dawned upon the darkness of Mrs. Lee's painful lot. Her husband is fast
rising, by industry and intelligence, towards the condition in life
which he had previously occupied; and she is beginning again to find
herself in congenial associations. May the light of her peaceful home
never again grow dim.
GOING HOME.
"IT'S nearly a year, now, since I was home," said Lucy Gray to her
husband, "and so you must let me go for a few weeks."
They had been married some four or five years, and never had been
separated, during that time, for twenty-four hours at a time.
"I thought you called this your home," remarked Gray, looking up, with
a mock-serious air.
"I mean my old home," replied Lucy, in a half-affected tone of anger.
"Or, to make it plain, I want to go and see father and mother."
"Can't you wait three or four months, until I can go with you?" asked
the young husband.
"I want to go now. You said all along that I should go in May."
"I know I did. But I thought I would be able to go with you."
"Well, why can't you go? I am sure you might, if you would."
"No, Lucy, I cannot possibly leave home now. But if you are very
anxious to see the old folks, I can put you into the stage, and you
will go safe enough. Ellen and I can take care of little Lucy, no
doubt. How long a time do you wish to spend with them?"
"About three weeks, or so."
"Very well, Lucy; if you are not afraid to go alone, I will not say a
word."
"I am not afraid, dear," said the wife, in a voice changed and softened
in its expression. "But are you perfectly willing to let me go, Henry?"
"Oh, certainly," was the reply, although the tone in which the words
were uttered had something of reluctance in it. "It would be selfish in
me to say, no. Your father and mother will be delighted to receive a
visit just now."
"And you think that you and Ellen can get along with little Lucy?"
"Oh yes, very well."
"I should like to go, so much!"
"Go, then, by all means."
"But won't you be very lonesome without me?" suggested Lucy, in whose
own bosom a feeling of loneliness was already beginning to be felt at
the bare idea of a separation from her husband.
"I can stand it as long as you," was Gray's laughing reply to this.
"And then I shall have our dear little girl."
Lucy laughed in return, but did not feel as happy at the idea of "going
home" as she thought she would be, before her husband's consent had
been gained. The desire to go, however, remaining strong, it was
finally settled that the visit should be paid. So all the preparations
were entered upon, and in the course of a week Henry Gray saw his wife
take her seat in the stage, with a feeling of regret at parting, which
required all his efforts to conceal. As for Lucy, when the moment of
separation came, she regretted ever having thought of going without her
husband and child; but she was ashamed to let her real feelings be
known. So she kept up a show of indifference, all the while that her
heart was fluttering. The "good-bye" was finally said, the driver
cracked his whip, and off rolled the stage. Gray turned homewards with
a dull, lonely feeling, and Lucy drew her veil over her face to conceal
the unbidden tears from her fellow-passengers.
That night, poor Mr. Gray slept but little. How could he? His Lucy was
absent, and, for the first time, from his side. On the next morning, as
he could think of nothing but his wife, he sat down and wrote to her,
telling her how lost and lonely he felt, and how much little Lucy
missed her, but still to try and enjoy herself, and by all means to
write him a letter by return mail.
As for Mrs. Gray, during her journey of two whole days, she cried fully
half of the time, and when she got "home" at last, that is, at her
father's, she looked the picture of distress, rather than the daughter
full of joy at meeting her parents.
Right glad were the old people to see their dear child, but grieved, at
the same time, and a little hurt, too, at her weakness and evident
regret at having left her husband, to make them a brief visit. The real
pleasure that Lucy felt at once more seeing the aces of her parents,
whom she tenderly loved, was lot strong enough to subdue and keep in
concealment, except for a very short period at a time, her earning
desire again to be with her husband, for whom she never before
experienced a feeling of such deep and earnest affection. Several
times, during the first day of her visit, did her mother find her in
tears, which she would quickly dash aside, and then endeavour to smile
and seem cheerful.
The day after her arrival brought her a letter--the first she had ever
received from her husband. How precious was every word! How often and
often did she read it over, until every line was engraven on her
memory! Then she sat down, and spent some two or three hours in
replying to it. As she sealed this first epistle to her husband, full
of tender expressions, she sighed, as the wish arose in her mind,
involuntarily, that she could only go with it its journey to the
village of ----.
Long were the hours, and wearily passed, to Henry Gray. It was the
sixth day of trial before Lucy's answer came. How dear to his heart was
every word of her affectionate epistle! Like her, he went over it so
often, that every sentiment was fixed in his mind.
"Two weeks longer! How can I bear it?" he said, rising up, and pacing
the floor backwards and forwards, after reading her letter for the
tenth time. On the next day, the seventh of his lonely state, Mr. Gray
sat down to write again to Lucy. Several times he wrote the words, as
he proceeded in the letter--"Come home soon,"--but as often obliterated
them. He did not wish to appear over-anxious for her return, on her
father's and mother's account, who were much attached to her. But,
forgetting this reason for not urging her early return, he had
commenced again writing the words, "Come home soon," when a pair of
soft hands were suddenly placed over his eyes, by some one who had
stolen softly up behind him.
"Guess my name!" said a voice, in feigned tones.
Gray had no need to guess whose were the hands, for a sudden cry of joy
from a little toddling thing, told that "Mamma" had come.
How "Mamma" was hugged and kissed all round, need not here be told.
That scene was well enough in its place, but would lose its interest in
telling. It may be imagined, however, without suffering any particular
detriment, by all who have a fancy for such things.
"And father, too!" suddenly exclaimed Mr. Gray, after he had almost
smothered his wife with kisses, looking up, with an expression of
pleasure and surprise, at an old man who stood looking on, with his
good-humoured face covered with smiles.
"Yes. I had to bring the good-for-nothing jade home," replied the old
man, advancing and grasping his son-in-law's hand, with a hearty grip.
"She did nothing but mope and cry all the while, and I don't care if
she never comes to see us again, unless she brings you along to keep
her in good-humour."
"And I never intend going alone again," Mrs. Gray said, holding a
little chubby girl to her bosom, while she kissed it over and over
again, at the same time that she pressed close up to her husband's side.
The old man understood it all. He was not jealous of Lucy's affection,
for he knew that she loved him as tenderly as ever. He was too glad to
know that she was happy with a husband to whom she was as the apple of
his eye. In about three months Lucy made another visit "home." But
husband and child were along, this time, and the visit proved a happy
one all around. Of course, "father and mother" had their jest and their
laugh, and their affectation of jealousy and anger at Lucy for her
"childishness," as they termed it, when home in May; but Lucy, though
half-vexed at herself for what she called a weakness, nevertheless
persevered in saying that she never meant to go anywhere again without
Henry. "That was settled."