HOW TOM GRIGSON SPED IN HIS WOOING.
AND now for Tom Grigson, and how his wooing sped. That he is married
has already been told in the early part of our story, and to the
lady of his first choice, moreover. But, having promised to give
some account of this important matter, we must invite our readers to
accompany us (and Tom) one fine day to the place called the Mumbles,
which, as already intimated, had strong attractions to the younger
Grigson, even in the early days of our history.
Tom had left college—had had enough of Oxford, he said. The truth is,
he and Oxford did not very well agree with each other. Understand me,
they never exactly fell out; that is to say, Tom had been neither
rusticated nor plucked. He had passed his "Little-go" with tolerable
credit. What might have happened at the "Great-go" can never be known,
as Tom was too modest, say, to face the ordeal. At all events, he had
brought home his cap and gown unsullied; but it would not have broken
his heart to know that he should never wear gown, of any shape or
texture, again.
But what was Tom to do? He had only a younger son's portion, and that
was a small one. As to waiting to step into his brother's shoes, such
a thought had never entered his head. He would have despised himself,
if it had. And, good-tempered as he was, he would have quarrelled
with any one offhand who had hinted at such a conclusion. Besides,
Richard, though so many years older than himself, might outlive him
for all that. Still, when the question occurred to him as to how he
was to make his way in the world—and in spite of his habit of putting
off disagreeable topics the thought would come into his mind now and
then—he was at a loss for a reply. He had learned "how not to do it"
with great success at Oxford. But "how to do it" was yet to be proved.
He could hunt and shoot and ride (his brother's horses, of course) to
perfection, or pretty near it, it is true; but as he was not likely
to be a candidate for the situation of a gamekeeper or whipper-in, or
master of the hounds even, these qualifications were not likely to help
him on in the world much. So Richard Grigson sometimes reflected, when
he saw Tom employing himself industriously enough in these special
gifts, but otherwise "taking it easy," as he said. But Richard was too
fond of his brother to want to part with him, and so contented himself
with hoping and trusting and half-believing in something turning up
unexpectedly so as to solve the difficult problem.
How, under such circumstances, could Tom (as we must go on calling
him) possibly commit the imprudence of falling seriously in love with
Kate Elliston or any other Kate? Or how could that young lady for a
moment seriously think of Tom as her future husband? And yet so it was.
And the infatuated youth, on the fine morning of which I am thinking,
rode over to the Mumbles as happy perhaps as the richest fellow in the
world; for on the previous day he had made the young lady an offer, and
had been accepted—conditionally.
On his way he met Mr. Elliston, the owner of that large house and
estate. Mr. Elliston was also on horseback, and he saluted the young
gentleman thus:
"Well met, Grigson. I was going over to your brother's place expressly
to have some talk with you; but as you are come so far, I'll turn back,
and say my say at the Mumbles. I suppose you will like that as well, on
the whole?"
"A good deal better," said Tom, lightly; and then his heart began to
beat a little faster than usual, for he was not quite sure as to what
Kate's father might have to say to him, looking so serious too.
Mr. Elliston was the father of the gentleman of whom mention has
already been made in these memoirs, as having, according to Miss
Elizabeth Wilson's version, discarded a certain Miss Summerfield for a
richer prize; and it was further reported that he had been advised, if
not compelled, to this course by the old gentleman, who knew as well as
any one—so the gossip-mongers said—how many shillings should go to make
a guinea.
Now, the condition on which Tom had been blushingly accepted as a lover
by the fair Kate, was that her father's consent to the arrangement
should be obtained. And though the young gentleman had reason to
believe that he was a special favourite with the old one, he was not
quite sure whether that favour would safely carry him over the bridge
which still lay between him and the fulfilment of his hopes. So,
between hoping and fearing, Tom rode silently alongside Mr. Elliston
till they reached the stable-yard of the Mumbles, where he gave up his
horse to the groom, and, on further invitation, followed the master of
the great house into his study.
"So," said the old gentleman, when the door was closely shut, "I
understand you have been talking to Kate."
"She has told you, then, what passed yesterday?" said Tom, eagerly.
"Of course she has. She is a good girl, and has made an open breast of
it."
"And may I venture to hope, sir, that you will consent to my—to make
me—to make Kate, I mean—happy?" blurted out Tom, stammering rather
awkwardly. "She—that is, we—love one another very much, sir," said Tom,
looking very red, I daresay.
"In other words," said the grey-headed senior, very gravely, "you
propose to be my son-in-law—at some future time—and venture to hope
that I see no objection to the arrangement. But suppose I do see a very
serious and grave and almost insuperable objection to it, my dear Tom,
what would you say then?"
Tom had no hesitation in saying and believing that the hypothetical
objection being only almost, and not entirely insuperable, it might be
overcome.
Mr. Elliston was not so sure of this.
"You must have seen long ago, sir," pleaded the lover, "that there were
attractions at the Mumbles which I could not resist."
"You give me credit for great powers of discernment," said the old
gentleman, smiling, in spite of his grave countenance. "But granted
that I supposed you were attracted by the pleasure and advantage of my
society, for instance—I am not sure that this warrants me in approving
of your—shall I call it presumption?—in aspiring to my daughter's hand.
Moreover, I may have been pleased with you as a guest, and may like you
as a friend and acquaintance and welcome visitor, and yet not think you
altogether a suitable match for my daughter."
"I know I am not in all respects worthy of Miss Elliston," said puzzled
Tom; "and yet—"
"Let me say what I was going to say, young man," continued the elder.
"And I may as well tell you at once that I have known, as well as you
can tell me now, what your attraction was in coming to my house; and I
have waited for some such interview as this."
"Then I may hope," said the other, "that my suit is to prosper; for I
am sure, sir, you would not have permitted me to indulge expectations
to disappoint them at last."
"I have waited this opportunity," continued the host, "to tell you
that, much as I like you, as you are now going on, you cannot marry my
daughter; and that it entirely depends on yourself whether or not Kate
can ever be your wife. Now, I know as well as you can tell me what your
possessions and prospects are. You have no home, properly speaking;
you have no profession; your independent income was not sufficient
to maintain you at college—it is swallowed up now in your personal
expenses; and yet you want my girl for a wife. How do you mean to
support her?"
"I'll work, sir," cried Tom, frantically; "I'll work hard, sir. I'll
work the skin off my bones."
"Poor Tom! Dear Grigson!" said the gentleman more kindly than he had
yet spoken, "I have no doubt you think so, but what will you work at?
You cannot answer that question, so I will answer it for you. You are
not fit for the law. You have no vocation, as I have often heard you
say, for the Church, otherwise the living of your parish, which is in
your brother's gift, might eventually come to you. But you have set
this aside as out of the question, and I honour you for your honesty.
Now listen: I have a living in my gift; I offer it to you, and if you
choose to accept it, you shall marry my daughter as soon as she and you
can agree on the subject. I have told Kate so, and now I tell you so.
But you must either accept or refuse; and I should not wonder if you
were to refuse it."
Puzzled Tom looked up into his old friend's face. "I don't understand
you, sir," he said, faintly; adding, with emphasis, "There is nothing
that I would not do, not inconsistent with honesty and the honour of a
gentleman."
"Ah, there it is! I said I thought the objection would be insuperable;
for, of course, you would consider it a great sacrifice of the honour,
and a great lowering of the dignity, of a gentleman to go into trade."
"Trade, Mr. Elliston?"
"Yes, trade. Look you here, Mr. Grigson, my money was made in trade. My
father and my grandfather before him were in trade. In my early life, I
was in trade, and if you have Kate for a wife, you must go into trade
too. You are cut out for it; you have good common sense, a clear head,
and a cool one. You have plenty of pluck, and plenty of industry, if
well applied. The old firm with which I first became connected forty
years ago, and a prosperous one it is still, wants an active partner.
You will do as well as another, and better. If you choose to put your
aristocratic notions into your pocket and go in for trade, I will
furnish the capital wanted, and you shall have Kate into the bargain."
Tom looked rueful enough. The Grigsons, the old county family, that
might have come in with the Conqueror, for anything that can be told,
had never suffered the contamination of trade. They had been in the
Church (one of them a bishop), in the law (one of them a judge), in the
army (one of them a general); but in trade, never. So Tom thought. And
then he asked, falteringly—
"Wouldn't it do if I were to go into farming, sir? My brother's largest
farm, Broad Lees, eight hundred acres or more, will soon be vacant; at
any rate, the lease will be out next Michaelmas; and I have had a talk
with Dick about it. I should like that better than going into trade,
Mr. Elliston."
"I daresay you would; and you would like to be a gentleman farmer, I
have no doubt. You could hunt and shoot and ride, and make ducks and
drakes of your money—that is, if you had the handling of any; and in
three years you would be—well, I won't say where. But, nice as you
think it, I can tell you, you would never make money at that sort of
work, nor even keep it; at least, that is the opinion I have formed.
No, no, my dear fellow; I stick to my first offer. Take it or leave it."
"And Kate—Miss Elliston, I mean—does she ap-ap-prove of your decision,
sir?"
"She submits to it, at any rate."
"I should like to consult my brother about it," said Tom, on whom the
unexpected proposal had produced an extraordinary effect, not to be
easily understood by any who are not intimately acquainted with the
strong feeling, bordering on absolute contempt, with which certain
persons—some educated, some uneducated—look down upon trade and traders.
We could produce numerous examples of this extreme prejudice, but it is
not needful. The reader must take for granted that it does exist, and
that Tom Grigson had imbibed it. Of course he had heard, in one way or
another, that Mr. Elliston had at some former time been in some kind
of business (he had never troubled himself to find out in what kind of
business) in London; and that, having made a large fortune by trading,
he had retired to the country, and bought the estate on which he now
lived. He knew, too, that Mr. Elliston had all, or most of, the tastes
and feelings of a gentleman, which he rather wondered at.
And let it be confessed, that when he first of all became conscious of
the peculiar sensation which, for want of a better word, we call love,
towards the fair Kate, he made a strong though unsuccessful effort
to overcome it, on the ground of her distant connection with what he
would, in any other case, have called the "shop." And when eventually,
he made up his mind not to let that obstacle stand in his way, he gave
himself credit, I am afraid, for wonderful magnanimity in overlooking
that blot on the lady's escutcheon, and for great discernment in having
arrived at the conclusion that the ex-tradesman's daughter was after
all not unworthy of his fond admiration.
I daresay that this part of our veracious history will be looked upon
by some readers as apocryphal. But it is not; and, taking our word for
it that it is a true representation, it may be conceived how great a
blow it was to poor Tom's self-pride to be told that he must stoop
still lower than he had yet stooped, in order to possess the prize he
longed for.
All these thoughts and remembrances possibly rushed through Tom's mind
in a few brief moments; and then followed his mental resolution, "After
all, I can't and won't give up Kate;" adding aloud, "I should like to
consult my brother about it."
"By all means speak to Mr. Richard," said the old gentleman; and there
the subject was, for that time, dropped, Master Tom being quietly,
though courteously enough, dismissed without seeing the young lady for
whom he was expected to make such a sacrifice.
Tom returned to the Manor House somewhat disconsolate, and was soon
pouring out his sorrows into Richard Grigson's ear.
"Why, this is another Tincroft affair," said the elder brother, when
the younger had gone over the several items of the previous interview.
He said it with such mock gravity that Tom remonstrated.
"Don't laugh at me, Richard. I want your advice."
"To follow if you like it, I suppose. Well, Tom, here goes, then."
But as I am writing Tom's history only in brief, and just so far as
concerns our friend John Tincroft, it is enough to say that the elder
brother gave the younger brother very good advice, and the younger
brother took it. For the very next day he presented himself at the
Mumbles, and was again in conference with Kate's father.
"I am come to say I will do everything you wish me to do, sir, if I may
still hope for your consent," said Tom, and feeling when he had said it
as Cæsar may have felt when he crossed the Rubicon.
"I don't often contradict myself or recall my words, and I have no
wish to do so now, dear Tom," said the old gentleman, as he took Tom's
outstretched hand and shook it. "And I wish you to believe that,
according to my notions, I am doing the best I can for you and Kate."
"I hope it may turn out so," said Tom; "and now I am in for it, I'll
do my best to fulfil your expectations. But Richard thinks, and I am
afraid, that I shall make a poor hand at business of any sort, never
having been used to it."
"I am not at all afraid of that," replied the elder. "If a man goes
in for doing his best, as you say, he is in a fair way to succeed,
whatever he attempts, unless he is an absolute blockhead, which you
are not, Tom. Of course it will be strange to you at first, but you
will get on by degrees—fast, too, for you will be sure to like it. If I
could only be a young man again!" said the senior, with enthusiasm, as
he called to remembrance former days of successes and triumphs.
And then, with a sigh, he added more soberly, "It will all come to you
in good time, Tom; and you won't stand alone, remember. You will have
two partners who know what business is, and how to do it; one of them
is Kate's brother, you know, and the other is likely to be a member of
Parliament soon, as well as a tradesman. Think of that!"
Well, to be sure, there was something in that idea, Tom thought; and
then it occurred to him that he had not been informed of the nature
of the business into which he was to be so unceremoniously thrust,
and in which he was expected to become so expert. And as it is no
particular concern of ours, it is enough to say that, being satisfied
on this head, Tom made no further objection to the plans of his future
father-in-law, except to say that his brother, on good cause being
shown, would furnish half the capital required in carrying them out.
This being eventually conceded, all diligence was used in getting
through the preliminaries.
And in less than a month, Mr. Thomas Grigson found himself a citizen of
London, with a private office in the heart of the city, and in lodgings
five or six miles away, looking out for a home for Kate. This was soon
found and furnished; and barely six months had passed away before the
bells of Mumbleton Church one day rang a merry peal, and all Mumbleton
was in an uproar of rejoicing, because Kate Elliston had taken to
herself a husband, and changed her name to Kate Grigson.
And so they were married; and our friend Tom, having, as already
intimated, spent part of his honeymoon with his old fellow-collegian
at Tincroft House, went back to his pretty villa on the banks of the
Thames, and liked his home with its surroundings, and loved his young
wife none the less for having to spend the greater part of the day away
from it and her in the active business of life.
It will, perhaps, be incredible to some of my readers that Tom really
began to take an interest in, and to like, the excitement of everyday
trade. But it is true, nevertheless; and it is equally true that when
any man does "with all his might" whatsoever his "hand findeth to do,"
provided it is an honest and upright doing, he will hardly fail of
liking to do it.
It is true that Tom's love for his old country life and occupations did
not diminish as time wore on. His riding and driving he kept up, for he
rode to and from the city daily, and found time also to drive his Kate
out in her pony-chaise now and then. As to hunting and shooting, a week
or two in September, and another week or two after Christmas, spent at
the Manor House with brother Richard, satisfied all his longings.
And he, after a time, began to pity "poor Richard," and to wonder how
he could manage to exist all the year round in his country home. At
any rate, his (Tom's) own pretty villa on the banks of the Thames had
increasing charms and attractions for him, which threw all the glories
of the Manor House into the shade; while "the house in the city was
nothing to be ashamed of," Tom averred. In fact, every year added to
the balance in his favour as a partner in the firm, while at least
every other year added to the olive branches around his table.
And so the whirligig of time carried Tom on until we find him, some
sixteen years after his marriage, on a summer evening with his eldest
son (a boy of fifteen or thereabout) rowing in a pair-oar boat, with
the Kate of early days acting as steerswoman, and looking almost as
young as when Tom first made her acquaintance.
Presently the oarsmen rested on their oars to admire the bright hues
of sunset, to which their attention had been called by the lady at the
helm.
"It is very beautiful," said the elder. "It puts me in mind of an
evening, some sixteen or seventeen years ago, Kate, when—do you
remember when and where?"
The lady thought perhaps she did; but she wasn't sure. She had
witnessed a good many lovely sunsets when her home was at the Mumbles.
"Yes, and since then, Kate. But the evening I mean was an especially
lovely one. And the best of it is, that since that evening, there has
been a long day of sunshine for us. By the way, a fellow was in our
house to-day who had come over from Australia—he lives at Sydney when
he is at home—and I happened to ask him if he knew young Wilson—Walter
Wilson—you remember him, don't you?"
"I remember hearing enough about him and his cousin whom he was to have
married, and didn't."
"Just so, because she married somebody else, and became—you know who."
"I never like to remember that when we go—you know where, for I think
she didn't use her poor cousin well," said the lady.
"And I think," rejoined Tom Grigson, laughing, "that Walter didn't use
his poor cousin well."
"Ah, yes; you men always take sides with us women—when you can."
"Yes, dear, when we can; and you women with us men. I suppose it is the
natural order of things. But, anyhow, Wilson isn't much to be pitied.
Brooks, the Sydney man, knows him; says he is one of the most thriving
men in the colony, and, what is as much to the purpose, has one of the
best of women for a wife, and one of the prettiest girls for a daughter
that he has ever known. They do business together, Brooks says, he and
Wilson, principally in wool; and the Wilsons sometimes come to Sydney,
and sometimes he goes up the country to Sedley Station, as Wilson's
place is called. So it seems to have all turned out for the best—for
him, at any rate."
And so the talk went on, till presently the sunset hues died away, and
the oars were resumed; and they little thought how another sunset was
at this time drawing on, thousands of miles away, to close in the happy
day of the prosperous man of whom they had lightly spoken. But before
we come to this, we must go back a few years in our narrative.
In the same month and in the same year in which Tom Grigson settled
down in his nest on the banks of the Thames, an event of equal
importance to other parties took place at Sedley Station, in New South
Wales.
When Walter Wilson left England, after that last despairing sight
of his lost love previously mentioned, he made up his mind that the
pole-star of his life had disappeared—that his sun had set, never more
to rise—that the romance of existence was, to him, past and gone. A
good many such foolish and incongruous images rising in his mind, found
words in a letter he wrote to Ralph Burgess while on his outward-bound
voyage, whereat Ralph good-naturedly smiled. The upshot and conclusion
in Walter's thoughts were that he couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't,
oughtn't ever to think of matrimony. He would go into the wilds of
Australia, he would bury himself alive, he would shun the sight of
womankind, he would be a woman-hater all the remainder of his days.
This also he wrote to his friend Ralph in bitter self-reproach for
having suffered himself to be "choused out" of his life's happiness.
"Poor Wilson! Poor Walter!" sighed Ralph's sister when she read these
ravings.
"You needn't pity him so very much, Mary," said the more far-seeing
brother; "he isn't heart-broken, depend on it; and if he has had a
crack in that region, it will be soldered up in time, and he will be
all the wiser for it. If he had married his cousin, I should not have
liked (if I had been a woman) to stand in her shoes. When he does
marry, as he will—and we shall hear about it some of these days—his
wife will stand a good chance of being a happy woman—if she likes."
Ralph's prognostications were fulfilled; they did hear of Walter's
marrying. He did not say much about the matter in the letter he wrote
announcing the event, excepting that his young wife's name was Helen,
which he thought was a pretty name, and he hoped his friend would be
pleased with it. The truth perhaps is, that Walter was half-ashamed
of his weakness, as he might have thought it, in having permitted his
fortress to be again assailed, and successfully too. Having hummed and
strummed so long on the wonderful couplet—
"There's such a charm in melancholy,
I would not, if I could."
He was determined not to confess how gay-hearted he really had become.
And something better than this. And we, who have the advantage of
knowing more than the name of the young Helen, may quite believe that
she would not have committed herself to the care and fond affection of
one of whom, in higher and nobler and more enduring qualities, she had
any reason to doubt.
We will not have any more love scenes—in this part of our story at
least; so all I have to observe in relation to Walter's courtship is,
that after having for two years acquitted himself with satisfaction
to the Sedley of that ilk, he one day craved an audience with his
employer, and boldly proposed himself as a suitor for Helen's hand,
Helen herself having consented.
At first the ex-lawyer was astounded at the audacity of his steward.
But he soon summoned wisdom enough to reflect that before many years
could pass away, his daughter would be alone in the world, with
considerable property, of a kind which would require a stronger hand
than a woman's to manage; that there was no one else in the field,
nor likely to be, in the solitude of that bush life to which Helen
had become so accustomed, that perhaps she was fitted for no other
kind of life. That the girl, moreover, had her own notions of what was
convenient, proper, right, and so forth, and had been accustomed to
have her way pretty much as she pleased—which, being a good way, had
been all the better for him; that if she had taken a liking to the
young fellow, she had a right to please herself, all the more that
he (the father) had taken a liking to him also; and that, to sum up
all, he did not know how Sedley Station would get on without Wilson to
manage it. And so the bargain was struck, and the knot was tied.
And now we must get over our Australian ground as rapidly as possible,
for we have a strong longing to see John Tincroft once more in the
flesh. So we have only to say, in the first place, that after Walter's
sober, quiet sort of wedding, his father-in-law, becoming increasingly
infirm, withdrew altogether from any interference in the management
of his property, and gradually sank into a torpid state of existence,
which terminated in death about two years from the date of his
daughter's marriage. He was reverently laid in the small graveyard of
Sedley Station; and then, in right of his wife, Wilson entered into
full possession of the estate, which was her lawful inheritance. Before
this time, a little Helen had appeared upon the scene, and Mrs. Wilson
was comforted for her father's death in the new duties of a mother.
At about the same time the affairs of the colony almost suddenly put
on a new phase of prosperity, in consequence of which the district
around Sedley Station began to increase in population. One after
another, purchasers of Government lands, technically calling themselves
squatters, settled down on their farms, built themselves houses,
established out-stations, and turned to account the stock-feeding
capability of the bush. In all this advancing prosperity, Walter Wilson
had his share. He increased his flocks and herds, and gradually brought
his home farm into a state of cultivation previously unknown. In
carrying out his plans, and following up his various successes, it was
necessary to add to the number of his hands on the settlement, and to
enlarge his establishment generally.
All this, however, was a work of time, and we must pass over some
intervening years, merely explaining that though in the particulars
just mentioned Walter Wilson was reckoned a fortunate man, he had one
source of dissatisfaction with his lot. He hadn't a son to succeed him;
indeed, he had but one child, and that child was, as we have said, a
daughter.
"If I had been a poor man in the old country, as I should have been if
I had stopped there," said Walter to himself one day, "I should have
had more mouths to feed than bread to feed them with, I suppose."
But the complaining mood passed away at the first sight of his wife's
peaceful countenance, and at the first contact of his little Helen's
rosy lips with his weather-beaten cheek.
Did Walter, in these days, ever think of his old home? Most likely he
did; but he very seldom spoke of it. Even to his wife, he maintained a
studied reserve. He had friends in England, some of whom had not used
him well; but he had forgiven them, he hoped. So he stated once; and as
Helen Wilson was not very curious, and was perfectly satisfied with her
husband's love, she asked for nothing more from him.
At length Walter Wilson's one unsatisfied wish was gratified. Fourteen
years had passed away since the birth of his daughter, and now a son
was given to him. A fine thriving, bouncing boy, the happy father
pronounced this precious gift to be, when he first daintily held it
in his strong arms, and kissed it again and again before he could
be persuaded to restore it to the nurse, who had been borrowed for
the time from the nearest settlement, where her services had been in
request a short time before.
"We only wanted this, Helen," he whispered, as he bent over his wife,
and kissed her pale forehead. "We shall be happy now."
A faint smile overspread Helen's countenance. "If it please God to
spare the babe, I trust he will grow up to make us happy, Walter; but
we must not forget our little Helen."
There was no danger of this, Walter replied. He loved his daughter very
dearly; "but then," added he, repeating what he had often before said,
"she is only a girl, and in the bush, girls don't count for so much
as boys. All girls are not like what you were, and always have been.
But never fear, I shall love our darling Helen all the better for her
having a baby brother; and she, too, will be all the happier and better
for having some one beside our two selves to care about and think
about. And there will be enough and to spare for both when it pleases
God to take us away," he concluded.
In truth, it would have been strangely unnatural if Walter had not
loved his daughter very dearly. She was a fine-spirited girl, uniting
in her character the sweetness and, at the same time, the firmness of
her mother's temper, with the fearlessness and energy of her father.
A bold rider from the age of five years, under his tuition, she had
been accustomed to accompany him in his frequent excursions around the
settlement; while, under her mother's eye, she had learned the more
valuable lessons of patience, and love, and trust in God.
I am compelled to state, however, that Helen Wilson at fourteen was a
very unaccomplished young person, and would have been looked upon by
any average boarding school miss with whom she might have come into
contact as extremely uncultivated, and indeed as shy and awkward even
as John Tincroft himself had ever been. But this was of all the less
consequence, seeing that at this time, boarding school misses had
not found their way into the bush in any alarming number; and that
as long as she could read a chapter in the Bible, to say nothing of
other books in the small library at Sedley Station, with unimpeachable
accuracy and sweetness of tone, write a letter (if she had had one to
write) in a good, firm, though rather masculine, hand, and without any
ungrammatical blunders, and use her needle with tolerable facility, her
parents were quite satisfied with her accomplishments.
Now, however, the young Helen rejoiced in the anticipation of including
the nursing of her baby brother in her list of attainments; but, alas!
This anticipation was never fulfilled. For a few short days the mother
and infant were considered to be making satisfactory progress; then
fever came, and the bewildered husband was suddenly summoned to the
bedside of his dying wife almost before he was aware that her life
was in peril. And then the baby died. Let us draw a veil over poor
Walter Wilson's agony of soul, and the grief of the now motherless and
brotherless girl.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]