News was several times received from Rupert and Don during their slow
and toilsome journey across the States of Illinois and Missouri, but
when the last frontier town was left behind and with it such luxuries
of civilization as mails and post-offices, the door of communication
was closed: they could neither hear from home nor be heard from there
till the trackless wilderness should be crossed and the land of golden
promise reached.
The Keiths had an ox-team and wagon for the transportation of their
baggage--clothing, camp equipage, mining tools, and some luxuries,
among which were a few books. Also a saddle-horse, which they rode
by turns; though Rupert oftener than Don, who had more strength for
driving and more taste for it.
This emigrant band, of which they formed a part, comprised some twenty
men, several with wives and children; a dozen wagons drawn by oxen,
and two or three horses beside that which was the joint property of
Rupert and Don.
Rupert's health had steadily improved from the time of leaving home,
so that the bulletins to the dear ones there had been sources of great
joy, though joy mingled with grief at the thought of the months or
perhaps years that must pass by ere they could hope to see the loved
wanderers again.
Rupert, who was of a very kindly disposition, always on the lookout for
opportunities to be of service to others, had already become a general
favorite with his fellow-travellers.
Was a little child crying with the weariness of confinement to the
cramped quarters of the wagon, he would take it on his horse before
him, and give it the rest of a brisk canter in the open air and with an
unobstructed view on all sides.
Older ones were frequently taken up behind him; at other times he
dismounted, and joining them as they plodded along beside or in the
rear of the wagons, beguiled the tediousness of the way with story or
song.
So slow was the movement of the oxen, so wearisome the constant sitting
or lying in the jolting wagons, that a robust child would very often
prefer walking during the greater part of the day; and even little
girls were known to have walked hundreds of miles in making the trip
across the plains.
But it was necessary to keep near the wagons because of danger from
wild beasts and roving bands of Indians.
Rupert, and indeed every man in the party, was always armed ready
to repel an attack or to bring down game that came within shooting
distance, thus adding a welcome variety to their bill of fare. There
were wild geese and turkeys, prairie fowl, rabbits, squirrels, deer,
bisons, and bears, all to be had for the shooting.
After leaving Independence they camped out every night, building a
fire to cook their evening meal and keep off wild beasts, except when
there was reason to fear that Indians were in the neighborhood; then
the fire was not kindled, as the smoke would be likely to reveal their
vicinity to the lurking foe; but instead, sentinels were posted, who
kept vigilant watch while the others slept.
Occasionally in the day-time, when no game had come near, two or three
of the men would mount their horses and gallop away over the prairie
in search of it, finding it no very difficult task to overtake the
slow-moving wagon-train, even after a ride of several miles, and an
absence, it might be, of an hour or more.
One afternoon, when they had been many weeks passing through that great
wilderness, so that they were now much nearer California than the homes
they had left behind, they were crossing a seemingly boundless rolling
prairie.
Their provisions were getting low, and fowls and larger game alike had
kept out of shooting range all day.
"It's five o'clock," Rupert Keith said, looking at his watch and
addressing a man named Morton, who was riding by his side, "and will
soon be too late for a shot at anything. Suppose we dash off over those
hills yonder and see if we can't scare up something."
"Agreed," replied Morton. Then called to another horseman, "Halloo,
Smith! will you join Keith and me in a run over those hills in search
of game?"
"That I will!" was the rejoinder, and away they galloped, and were in a
few moments lost to the view of the rest of their party, who continued
moving onward in their accustomed leisurely fashion.
An hour or more had passed; the prairie still stretched away on every
side; the distant hills to the southward, beyond which the horsemen had
gone, were still in view, and the eyes of almost every one in the train
were turned ever and anon in that direction, hoping for their return
well-laden with venison or wild fowl.
At length a shout was raised, "Here they come!" but was followed
instantly by the affrighted cry, "Indians! Indians!" for a party of the
latter were in full chase.
Don was walking beside his team, two little girls quite near him. He
caught them up and almost threw them into his wagon, telling them
to lie down and keep quiet and still; then turned and pulled out a
revolver.
Others had acted with equal quickness, and were ready--some from their
wagons, some from the ground--to fire upon the advancing foe.
There was a brief, sharp fight; the Indians were driven off, carrying
their killed and wounded with them.
Then it was found that Rupert was missing, Smith badly wounded, one
or two others slightly, while Don lay insensible and bleeding on the
ground near his wagon.
They at first thought him dead, but he had only fainted from loss of
blood, and they presently succeeded in bringing him to.
"Rupert? my brother--where is he?" he asked in the first moment of
consciousness.
"Those red devils have done for him, Don," Morton answered, with a
tremble in his voice; "the shot that tumbled him from his horse was the
first intimation we had that they were upon us."
Don groaned and hid his face.
"Don't take it so hard," said a pitying woman's voice; "he's gone to a
better place; we all know that; nobody could be with him a day and not
see that he was a real Christian."
"That's so." "True enough, Mrs. Stone." "I only wish we were all as
ready for heaven," responded one and another.
Then Morton suggested that they ought to be moving on; the Indians
might return in larger force; it would not do to encamp where they
were, and night was coming on.
To this there was a general assent. Don was carefully and tenderly
lifted into his wagon and gently laid down upon the softest bed that
could be improvised for him; then a volunteer driver from among the
young men of the party took his seat and drove on, doing his best to
make the motion easy to the sufferer. They were the last of the train,
but not far behind the wagon next in front of them.
In spite of all the care and kindness shown him, Don's bodily
sufferings were acute, yet by no means equal to his mental distress;
his sense of bereavement--a bereavement so sudden, so shocking--and
anguish at the thought of the poignant grief of his parents when the
dreadful news should reach their ears.
The emigrants pushed on for several hours before they ventured to stop
and encamp. When at last they did, the cessation of motion gave some
slight relief to poor Don, and the food brought him by the kind-hearted
woman who had tried to comfort him with the assurance of his brother's
readiness for death, revived somewhat his failing strength; but it was
a night of pain and grief, in which Don would have given much to be at
home again, especially if he might have had Rupert there alive and well.
The night passed quietly; there was no new alarm, and early in the
morning the emigrants pursued their way, pressing forward as rapidly
as circumstances would permit, and keeping a sharp lookout for Indians.
Before they started--indeed, as soon as he was awake, Morton came to
ask how Don was, and how he had passed the night.
Don answered briefly, then burst out, "Oh, Morton, are you quite sure
that--that my brother was killed? May he not have been only stunned by
the shot and the fall from his horse?"
Morton shook his head. "No, I looked back several times, and he never
moved."
"Oh," groaned Don, "if only I were not helpless, I should go and search
for him, for I do not feel at all sure that he is not still alive."
"Well, I think you may," said Morton; "for even supposing he was not
killed by that first shot and the fall, the Indians would be sure to
finish him when they went back, for they went off in that direction."
Don turned away his face with a heavy sob. It did indeed seem almost
impossible that Rupert could have escaped death, and yet--and yet--oh,
if he were but able to go in search of him! Perhaps he was a captive
doomed to death by slow torture. Oh, to fly to his aid! rescue or
perish with him!
But no one else in all the company thought there was the least chance
that he was alive, and to go in quest of him would not only greatly
delay them (a great misfortune, considering the fact that their stock
of provisions was so low), but would risk all their lives, as the
Indians were probably still prowling about that spot, and might attack
them in great force.
The poor boy's only comfort was, that wherever and in whatever
circumstances his brother might be, he was under the care of an
almighty Friend, who would never leave nor forsake him, and in being
able to plead for him with that Friend.
The rest of the journey was of course a very sad one to poor Don,
though every one was kind to him, doing all that was possible for his
relief and comfort, partly for Rupert's sake, partly for Don's own, for
he too had ever shown a pleasant, obliging, kindly disposition toward
others.
His wounds had nearly healed, and he had recovered almost his usual
strength by the time their destination was reached.
Arrived there, he wrote at once to his parents, telling of Rupert's
loss, his own condition, and asking if they were willing that, being
now upon the ground, he should stay for a time and look for gold.
But as months must elapse ere he could hope to receive an answer, he
set to work determined to do his best in the mean time.
He did not find the life a whit less toilsome and trying than his
parents had warned him it would be, nor were his surroundings any
more agreeable; the roughest of men, drinking, smoking, swearing,
quarrelsome creatures, were often his daily companions; the foulest
language assailed his ears; gambling and drunken brawls went on in
his presence; robberies, murders, and lynchings were of frequent
occurrence; the Sabbath was openly desecrated; men--even those who
had been all their previous lives accustomed to the restraints of
religion--here acted as if they had never heard of God, or heaven, or
hell.
And there were few creature comforts to be had; all the necessaries of
life were sold at astonishingly high prices, so that gold, even when
found, could not be kept, but melted away like snow in the sun.
It was not long before Don's thoughts were turned yearningly toward the
home he had been so eager to forsake.
He was tolerably fortunate in his quest: but alas! all the gold in the
world could not compensate for the loss of all the sweetness and beauty
of life; all the happiness to be found in a well-regulated home, where
love to God and man was the ruling principle of action; where were
neatness and order, gentleness and refinement; where sweet-toned voices
spoke kindly affectionate words; affectionate smiles were wont to greet
his coming, and loved eyes to look lovingly into his.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Chapter Twelfth.
"There is that speaketh like the piercings of a sword."--Prov. 12:18.
Many months had passed, bringing no news from their Westward-bound
sons, and, in spite of their trust in God, Mr. and Mrs. Keith were
often not a little anxious.
Miss Stanhope had returned to her home in the fall after the boys'
departure. Her pleasant, cheery companionship was much missed, and but
for Mildred and Zillah being so near, the mother would have seen many
a lonely hour, though she found agreeable occupation for a part of
each day in teaching Annis, keeping her from school, and constituting
herself her governess.
This took up the morning hours, while the married daughters were
engaged with household cares and duties; then the afternoons, if the
weather permitted any of them to go from home, were usually spent
together at one or another of the three houses, the ladies busy with
their needles, the children playing about the room.
Both Mildred's and Zillah's cares were increasing, for each had now a
little daughter; so that there were four little ones to claim the love
of the grandparents and help to win their thoughts from the anxious
following of the absent sons; in that way they were proving great
comforts as well as cares.
So the winter slipped quietly away without any startling event to mark
its progress.
But in March Mrs. Keith had an attack of pneumonia, which greatly
alarmed the family and kept her in bed for a fortnight. She was
about again, but still feeble, and, in consequence of her weakness
of body, more than ever anxious and distressed about Rupert and Don,
from whom no news had yet been received since the letter written from
Independence so many, many months ago.
Mildred spent every spare moment with her mother, doing all in her
power for her comfort of body and to cheer and interest her and keep
her mind from dwelling upon the absent dear ones.
Dr. Landreth too was exceedingly kind to his mother-in-law, for whom
he had a very strong and filial affection. He would have willingly
sacrificed his own comfort at any time for hers, and was more than
willing to have Mildred constantly with her while she was so feeble and
ailing; while all his skill and medical knowledge were exerted for her
benefit.
One evening Mildred, helping her mother to bed, remarked, "I wonder
what has become of Charlie; he hasn't been in to see you this
afternoon."
"Perhaps that is an evidence that he thinks me a great deal better,"
Mrs. Keith answered, in a playful tone. Then, more seriously, "He has
been very, very good to me, Mildred; you must tell him I appreciate his
kindness."
"He knows you do, mother," Mildred answered; "but indeed it is a real
pleasure to him to do anything in his power for you; he says you are
the only mother he has ever known, and a very dear and precious one."
"No doubt he would have been in this afternoon if he had not been
prevented. I fear somebody is very ill."
A few minutes later Mildred, passing out of the house on her way to her
own home, met her husband at the gate.
He gave her his arm almost without a word, nor did he speak during
their short walk; but Mildred's thoughts were busy, and she scarcely
noticed his silence.
It was too dark in the street to see his face, but on entering their
own sitting-room, where a bright light was burning, she caught sight of
it, and its pale, distressed look struck terror to her heart.
"O Charlie, what is it?" she cried, dropping her cloak upon the floor
and throwing off her bonnet, then putting her arms about his neck and
gazing with frightened, questioning eyes into his that were full of
anguish.
"My darling, I don't know how to tell you," he said hoarsely, holding
her close.
"My brothers?" she gasped, turning pale as death.
He bowed a silent assent.
"What--what is it?" she asked, scarcely able to articulate.
"The very worst," he said. "Yet stay; it may not be true; but there is
a dreadful report about town, that the train was attacked by Indians
and several killed--"
"Rupert and Don among them?" she faltered, half-inquiringly, as he
paused, leaving his sentence unfinished.
"Yes; but, Milly dear, it may be altogether untrue."
She was clinging to him and weeping as if her very heart would break,
her whole frame shaking with sobs.
"My brothers, my brothers! my dear, dear brothers!" she cried. "O
Charlie, Charlie, why did they ever go into such fearful danger?"
"I thought it for the best, love, when I advised it," he said in a
pained tone; "but if I could have foreseen--"
"Dear husband, I forgot it was by your advice," she sobbed; "forgive
me; I should never think of blaming you."
"Thank you, love, I can hardly help blaming myself, though reason tells
me I am innocent. Ah, if I could but have foreseen--"
"But you could not; no mortal could. Both killed? Both gone? Oh, it is
too, too terrible!"
The door flew open and Zillah rushed in, closely followed by Wallace.
He was deathly pale, and his eyes were full of tears. She was weeping
aloud.
"O Milly, Milly!" she cried, "was there ever anything so terrible? It
will kill mother; she can never stand it in her weak state."
"We must manage to keep it from her," the doctor said.
"How can we? She will see it in our faces," sobbed Zillah.
"We must control our features; we must banish every expression of grief
from them and from our words and voices when in her presence. Her life
may depend upon it, for she is very feeble just now."
"We will all try," Wallace said, with a heavy sigh. "Let none of us
venture into her presence until we are sure of ourselves."
"It will be very difficult, but I believe God will give us strength,"
said Mildred, "if we ask it in faith. Oh, it is an awful, awful thing!"
she cried, a fierce paroxysm of grief sweeping over her; then, as she
grew calmer, "but we have strong consolation in the certain knowledge
that they were of those who trust in the imputed righteousness of
Christ; that they had made their peace with God and were ready for the
summons home."
"Yes," said Wallace, "we sorrow not as those without hope; and dear
mother, who lives so near the Master, and realizes so fully the
blessedness of those who have gone to be forever with Him, will, I
doubt not, be able to bear up under this new trial, terrible as it is,
when she has regained her usual health."
"No doubt of it," the doctor said.
"But oh, it is so terrible, so terrible!" sobbed Zillah; "far worse
than any of the many trials that have come to us in the last two or
three years."
"Does father know?" asked Mildred. "Has he heard?"
Neither the doctor nor Wallace could answer the question; they had not
seen him since early in the day.
But while they were saying so the door-bell rang and he came in, bent,
bowed down, aged with grief, till he looked an older man by ten--twenty
years than when they had seen him last.
With a moan of unspeakable anguish he dropped into a chair and bowed
his head upon his hands.
His daughters flew to him and enfolded him in loving arms, tears of
sympathy streaming down their cheeks.
"Father, dear, dear father," they said, "oh, do not be so distressed!
it may not be true."
"Alas, alas! I dare not hope it," he groaned. "My boys--my boys; would
God I had died for you! My sons, oh, my sons! Such a fate! such a
terrible fate!"
"But, dear father, think how happy they are now," said Mildred, weeping
as she spoke.
"Yes, there is great and undeserved mercy mingled with the terrible
affliction," he replied; "'they cannot return to me, but I shall go
to them.' Thanks be unto God for that blessed hope! But my wife--your
mother! this will kill her!"
"Dear father," said Mildred, "do not forget the precious promise, 'As
thy days, so shall thy strength be.'"
"We have all agreed to try to hide it from her till she is stronger,"
the doctor remarked. "We will have to school ourselves to look and act
and speak as if no such news had reached our ears."
"An impossible task, I fear," sighed Mr. Keith. "Marcia and I have had
no secrets from each other since we were married, and it will be no
easy task for me to conceal my anguish of heart from her now; but, God
helping me, I will."
To father and daughters the next few days were a severe ordeal,
for it was difficult indeed to hide their bitter grief from the
love-sharpened eyes of the tender wife and mother; they were cheerful
when they could force themselves to be so; and when tears would have
their way they talked of Fan, and seemed to be mourning afresh over her
early death, or spoke of Ada in her far distant home, and how faint was
the hope that she would ever be with them again.
Mrs. Keith seemed somewhat surprised at these renewed manifestations
of grief that had appeared to be softened by the lapse of time; but
asking no questions, she simply talked to them of Fan's blessedness and
the good work Ada was doing for the Master, and of the time when they
would again be a united family in the glorious land where partings are
unknown.
She was regaining strength every day, and in seeing that they felt well
rewarded for their efforts at self-control and encouraged to persevere
with them; and they did, though at times--especially when she would
speak of Rupert and Don, talking hopefully of soon hearing of their
safe arrival in California--it was almost beyond their power; and they
were compelled to find some pretext for leaving the room, that for a
short space they might let grief have its way.
Mildred was sitting with her mother one morning, her babe asleep by her
side in the cradle that been occupied successively by herself and all
her brothers and sisters, Percy quietly busied with a picture-book.
The two ladies had their sewing, and Annis was conning her lessons on
the farther side of the room.
The door-bell rang, and Celestia Ann ushered in a woman, a resident of
the town with whom the ladies had never had any acquaintance, though
they knew her by name. Her call was therefore a surprise; but they gave
her a pleasant good-morning and a polite invitation to be seated.
She sat down, made a few remarks about the weather and the state of
the roads, then, looking Mrs. Keith full in the face, said, "I s'pose
you've heard the news about the last party that set off from here for
Californy?"
Mildred made a warning gesture, but it was too late, and doubtless
would not have been heeded even could it have been given in time.
"What news?" Mrs. Keith asked, in a startled tone, while Annis rose and
came forward in an excited manner, her eyes wild with affright.
"So you haven't heard?" pursued the caller, with the satisfaction of
the newsmonger in a fresh customer for her wares. "Well--"
"Mrs. Slate," interrupted Mildred, "I must beg you will say no more; we
have heard a vague report, which may be entirely untrue, but have been
trying to keep it from mother, for she is too weak to bear it."
"What is it, Mildred, my child, what is it?" gasped the poor invalid,
turning deathly pale.
"Dear mother, don't ask; it would only distress you, and may be all
a lie," Mildred said, going to her and putting her arms about her in
tender, loving fashion.
"Tell me, my child, tell me; it is useless to try to keep me in
ignorance now; suspense would be worse than the direst certainty,"
faltered the mother.
"But there is no certainty, mother dear," Mildred said pityingly, her
tears falling fast as she spoke; "oh, be content not to hear what can
but give you pain!"
"She'd _ought_ to know," said Mrs. Slate; "she's got to hear it sooner
or later, and what's the use of puttin' her off so? I'll tell you,
Mrs. Keith. They say the train was attacked by the Injins and most o'
the men killed, your two boys among the rest. I felt it my duty to
come and tell you about it, in case you hadn't heard, and to call your
attention to the fact that this appears to be the way Providence has
taken for to punish you for bringin' 'em up to care so much for gold;
and--"
"Leave the house this instant, and never venture to darken its doors
again!" cried Mildred, supporting her fainting mother with one arm,
while she turned, full of righteous indignation, toward her tormentor
with a stamp of her foot to enforce the order she could not refrain
from giving.
"I've only done my dooty," muttered the woman, rising and sailing from
the room with her head in the air.
"O mother, mother!" sobbed Mildred. "Annis, help me to lay her on the
lounge, and run for Charlie. I think he's at home in the office. The
cruel, cruel creature! how could she! oh, _how could_ she!"
Annis, wildly weeping, hastened to obey. "O Milly, Milly, is mother
dying? Is it true about the boys?"
"She has only fainted, and it is only a report about the boys, that
may not be at all true," Mildred said. "Now call Celestia Ann to help
me, and you run for Charlie as fast as you can. O Zillah," in a tone
of relief as the door opened and Mrs. Ormsby came in, "I'm glad you've
come. Run to mother's room and get the bottle of ammonia."
Greatly startled and alarmed by the glimpse she had got of her mother's
white, unconscious face, Zillah ran to do her sister's bidding, while
Celestia Ann, summoned by Annis, hastened to render all the assistance
in her power, and poor, terrified Annis flew like the wind in search of
the doctor.
She found him in, and, though scarcely able to articulate, made him
understand that his presence was wanted with all speed.
She darted back, and he caught up his medicine-case and followed close
at her heels.
Mrs. Keith still lay white and insensible, the three women busy about
her with half-despairing efforts to restore her to consciousness.
They began to fear it was something more than an ordinary faint. Had
that sudden, cruel announcement taken her life? Happy for her were it
so; but oh, how could husband and children spare her?
Mildred turned upon her husband a look of agonized inquiry.
"Do not be alarmed, love," he said, "she will revive presently, I
trust."
Some moments of trying suspense ensued; then her eyes opened wide and
glanced about from one to another.
"What has happened?" she asked, in feeble accents; "have I been worse?"
"In a faint, mother; but you have come out of it now, and I hope will
be none the worse after a little," the doctor answered cheerfully. But
ere the words had left his lips memory had resumed her sway.
"Oh, my sons!" she cried, "my Rupert and Don! Can it be true that I
shall see them no more upon earth? Have they been cut off in the pride
and beauty of their early manhood by a savage foe? O Lord, lead me
to the Rock that is higher than I, for my heart is overwhelmed!" she
cried, clasping her hands and lifting her streaming eyes to heaven.
"Dear mother," sobbed Mildred, leaning over her in tenderest
solicitude, "if they are gone from earth, it is to the better land,
where pain and sin and sorrow are unknown, and where you will one day
join them and all your loved ones. But it may not be true; there is no
certainty yet; it is but a rumor."
"Then how cruel to tell me," she sighed; "and to add that I was to
blame for their going. Ah, God knows I have tried to train them for
heaven, and not to set their affections upon the perishing things of
time and sense."
"Yes, mother, your children can all testify to that," Mildred said;
Zillah adding, "Indeed we can; if any of us are worldly-minded it is
not the fault of either of our parents. And it was not the love of gold
that sent our dear brothers on that journey; one was seeking health,
the other went to take care of him and with a longing for change and
exciting adventure."
At that moment Mr. Keith came in with a letter in his hand. His face
was brighter and happier than they had seen it for many days, eagerness
and anxiety mingling with its gladness.
"From Don to you, my dear," he cried, holding the letter high, with its
address toward her.
"Oh, then it is not true! not true!" was the simultaneous, joyful
exclamation from his daughters; and Mildred, embracing the weeping
invalid, said, "Do you hear, dearest mother? A letter from Don, and you
may dry your tears."
Her husband held it out to her with a glad and loving smile.
She grasped it eagerly, but in vain her trembling fingers essayed to
tear it open.
"Let me, dear wife," he said, taking it gently from her.
"Read it," she said feebly; "my eyes are dim. Oh, my Rupert! is he
living also?"
Mr. Keith glanced down the page, let the letter fall, and dropped his
face into his hands with a heart-rending groan.
Zillah snatched it from the floor, her hand trembling like an aspen
leaf, her face overspread with a deathly pallor.
"My son, my son, my first-born son!" sobbed Mrs. Keith, "gone, gone in
that dreadful way! Yet, thank God that dear Don is left. And blessed be
His holy name that _He_ lives and reigns, and none can stay His hand or
say unto Him, What doest thou?"
"Read, some one," groaned the father; "I cannot!"
Zillah silently handed the letter to the doctor, and he read it in low,
moved tones, often interrupted by the bitter weeping of his listeners.
Rupert's death was a heavy blow; for a time his parents seemed wellnigh
crushed by it, yet not a murmur was ever heard from either; the
language of their lips and lives was, "'Though He slay me, yet will I
trust in Him.'"
The manner of their son's death made it the hardest blow they had ever
received; yet as the months rolled on they learned to speak calmly and
tenderly of him as having gone before to the heavenly home whither they
themselves would soon follow.
Don's letter received a reply in due season. It said his speedy return
would be joyfully welcomed, yet as he was now on the ground, he was
free to stay for a time if such were his choice; so he remained,
fascinated by the hope of success in his search for gold, and feeling a
great repugnance to going back and facing his townsmen without having
secured at least a moderate portion of that which he had come so far to
find.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Chapter Thirteenth.
"No day discolored with domestic strife;
No jealousy, but mutual truth believ'd,
Secure repose, and kindness undeceived."
--DRYDEN.
Months and years glided swiftly by, bringing to the Keiths only such
changes as they will bring to all: added gray hairs and wrinkles, and
a decrease of strength, vigor, and energy to the old people; to the
younger married ones, an added staidness and dignity of demeanor and
more olive-branches about their tables; while Annis had grown from the
merry, romping child into a tall, slender maiden, even more comely
than the child had been, but with a quieter step and often a dreamy,
far-away look in the sweet blue eyes.
She was the joy of her parents' hearts, the very light of their eyes,
the only child left at home; for Cyril, having completed his college
course, had entered a theological seminary and was preparing to go into
the ministry.
There had been all along a constant interchange of letters with their
relatives at the Oaks, particularly brisk on the part of Annis and
Elsie, and they each knew almost as much of the thoughts, feelings, and
experiences of the other as though they had lived together all these
years.
Letters from the Oaks were always joyfully welcomed, yet were esteemed
as nothing in comparison with those that came occasionally from Ada and
Don, the former of whom had become the happy mother of two children,
whom she described as very sweet and lovable, adding that she had a
great longing to show them to her father and mother. And it was perhaps
not greater than the desire of the grandparents to see them, though
that was far outweighed by their thirst for a sight of the mother's
face.
Mildred was still the devoted daughter she had been in earlier days,
nor less faithful in all that concerned the welfare of husband and
children. She looked well to the ways of her household, nor ever ate
the bread of idleness. She was a careful housekeeper, allowing no
waste, yet most liberal in paying for every service done for her or
hers, and never stinting in the provision for the wants of her family.
Her table was always bountifully provided, her house neat and clean,
her children well and tastefully dressed, her husband's wardrobe
carefully looked to; nor did she neglect the souls, minds, or bodies
of her children. Their physical well-being was to her a matter of very
great importance, and while assiduously cultivating their minds and
hearts, letting them never want for mother-love and tender caresses,
she watched over the health of each with untiring vigilance.
And she had her reward in their rosy cheeks, bounding steps, constant
flow of animal spirits, and devoted love to their parents, especially
their mother; also in their kindness and affection toward each other.
They were a very happy family, a joy of heart to Mr. and Mrs. Keith,
as were Zillah's children also, she having greatly improved in her
management as a mother since the babyhood of her first child.
It was spring-time again, the evenings still cool enough for a little
fire to be very enjoyable. In Dr. Landreth's cosey sitting-room a
bright wood fire blazed cheerily on the open hearth. The doctor himself
sat over it alone and in meditative mood.
Mildred had left the room a moment before to see her children to bed,
a duty she never neglected, and not only a duty, but a pleasure also,
for it gave opportunity for many a sweet interchange of demonstrations
of affection and many a childish confidence to mother which otherwise
might have been withheld; also--the young hearts being warm, the
feelings tender--she found it the best of all seasons for sowing
good seed that might one day spring up and grow and bear fruit unto
everlasting life.
The doctor's meditations seemed not unpleasant, if one might judge from
the calm and placid expression of his countenance; yet occasionally
there was a passing shade of doubt or anxiety.
He looked up with a smile as Mildred re-entered the room. "Come and sit
by my side, dear wife," he said, "and let us have a little confidential
chat. Do you know what I have been thinking, sitting here alone?" he
asked, as she took the offered seat and his arm stole round her waist
in very lover-like fashion.
"No, my dear; how should I?" she answered, with a smile. "Of your
patients, I presume; some case of obscure and difficult diagnosis."
"Ah, you are wide of the mark," he returned, with a light laugh. "No;
my thoughts were principally of the presiding genius of my happiest of
homes, and I am ready to echo the words of the wise man, 'A prudent
wife is from the Lord.' 'Whoso findeth a wife, findeth a good thing,
and obtaineth favor of the Lord.'"
"You're satisfied with yours?" she said inquiringly, and with a glad
look up into his face.
"More than satisfied! Milly, love, you are my greatest earthly
treasure; dearer far to me now than the day we were married, though
then I was sure I loved you as never man loved woman before."
"How you gladden my heart, my dearest and kindest of husbands," she
said, in low, moved tones. "And my experience is the same as yours;
I loved you dearly when we were married, but I love you ten times as
dearly now. How sweet it is to live together as we do, with hearts so
closely united, and ever sharing each other's joys and sorrows! Burdens
thus divided are so much easier to bear, while joys are doubled in the
sharing."
"Yes, it is so," he said.
"'Then come the wild weather--come sleet or come snow,
We will stand by each other, however it blow;
Oppression and sickness, and sorrow and pain,
Shall be to our true love as links to the chain.'"
They talked of their children, now three in number; of their various
dispositions, and the best mode of managing and training each.
After that, breaking a pause in the conversation, the doctor said,
"By the way, Milly, I received a letter to-day from a second cousin
of mine, telling me that a daughter of hers, a young lady, is in poor
health, needing change of climate and scene, her physician says, and
asking if I am willing to take her under my care for a time, probably
until next fall. My love, would you like to take her into the family?"
"I am quite willing if it is your wish, my dear," Mildred answered, but
with a slight sigh; they were so happy and peaceful by themselves, and
this stranger might prove an element of discord.
"It is not my wish if at all unpleasant to you, wife," he said, with
affectionate look and tone. "I fear it may add to your cares and
labors; yet Flora Weston may prove one of those bright, merry, winsome
young things that are like a fresh breeze in a house."
"Perhaps so; and we are told to use hospitality one to another without
grudging," Mildred added, with a pleasant look and smile. "Write her
at once, Charlie, if you feel inclined. I am glad of an opportunity to
show some attention to a relative of yours."
"Just like you, Milly," he responded, with a gratified look.
The letter was sent the next day, and a few weeks later Miss Weston
arrived.
She seemed a rather commonplace girl, quiet and undemonstrative.
Mildred found it a task to entertain her, even with the assistance
her mother and sisters could give, and they did all that lay in their
power. She did not sew, she cared very little for reading, she had
strength for only very short walks; she was no talker, and seldom
seemed to care to listen.
Annis soon voted her an intolerable bore, yet, to relieve Milly, spent
several hours of every day in her society. The doctor did his share by
taking her with him whenever he drove into the country. He made many
attempts to draw her out, both then and when he had an evening at
home, but, not succeeding, finally came to the conclusion that there
was nothing in her.
He would have wholly regretted having invited her but that her health
presently began to improve under his treatment.
Meanwhile Flora was silently observing all that went on in the family,
especially studying Mildred; and at length her manner--which had at
first been very cold and distant--gradually changed till there was at
times a warmth of affection in it.
"You are so kind to me, Cousin Mildred," she said one day; "you have
never neglected anything that could add to my comfort, and have always
shown so much sympathy for my invalidism; far more than ever my own
mother did," she added, in a bitter tone. "Mother is very good and
pious, but she has never taken any care of her children's health;
she is duly anxious about our souls, but neglects our bodies. I must
acknowledge that I came here strongly prejudiced against you, simply
because I had heard you were very pious, and the way I have been
brought up had made me hate piety, hate the Bible and prayer."
"O Flora! and you the child of a Christian mother!" cried Mildred, in
a shocked tone.
"Yes, I believe mother is a real Christian, and I don't wonder you
are shocked at what I have said. But if she had brought me up as you
do your children, I am sure I should have felt quite differently. Is
it any wonder I hate the Bible when, instead of being entertained
when good with beautiful stories out of it, I was always punished
when particularly naughty by being forced to read a certain number of
chapters in proportion to the extent of my delinquency, and commit
so many verses to memory; besides being prayed over--a long tedious
prayer, half of which I did not understand?"
"I have always tried to make the Bible a delight to my children," said
Mildred, "and I think it is. O Flora, I feel very sorry for you that
you do not appreciate its beauty and sweetness! Are you not old enough
now to put away your unfortunate prejudice and learn to love it as
God's own word given to teach us how to obtain eternal life--telling
the old, old story, the sweet, sweet story of Jesus and His love?"
"I have begun to like it better since I came here," Flora answered,
with an abashed look. "I have really enjoyed the Bible stories I
have overheard you telling the children; and somehow religion seems
a lovelier thing as I see it exhibited in your life and the lives
of Cousin Charlie and your parents and sisters, than as my mother
practises it."
"It grieves me to hear a daughter speak so of her mother," Mildred said
gently.
"I don't mean to be unkind or disrespectful toward her," replied Flora,
"but I wish to make you understand how I came to feel such a prejudice
against piety, and against you because I had been told you were very
pious.
"I am quite sure mother is good and sincere, and not at all puffed
up and self-righteous; but I think she makes great mistakes which
prejudice people against her religion.
"Now, my father is not a pious man, and some things mother does,
and her refusal to do some other things, have so turned him against
religion that he never goes inside of a church-door.
"For one thing, mother won't dress like other ladies. He wants to see
her well dressed, but she makes it a part of her religion to go looking
old-fashioned and really dowdy. Father buys her handsome things,
and she won't wear them; she gives them away or cuts them up for the
children, and I don't wonder he won't go to church with her. I am
pretty sure he might have become a regular attendant if she would only
have dressed to suit him.
"And sometimes she gets out of her warm bed, in a cold winter night,
and goes off into a room where there is no fire, and stays there for an
hour or more--in her bare feet and her night-dress--praying. Then she
comes back chilled through; probably has a dreadful cold the next day,
and that makes father mad, and he lays it all to her religion.
"I love my mother, Cousin Mildred, but I can't help blaming her for
at least a part of my sufferings. As I have told you, she has never
taken any care of her children's health; if our food was improperly
cooked, it was a matter of no importance; and just so if our clothing,
beds, or bedding were left unaired, or if any other sanitary measure
were disregarded. We were often forced to eat and sleep in a close,
almost stifling atmosphere; we wore our winter clothes into the heat of
summer, and our thin summer clothing far on into the damp, cold days of
autumn and early winter.
"Then, too, when I began to complain of this dreadful pain in my back,
no notice was taken, and I was expected to do as much as if I were
perfectly well and strong; she would not hire as much help as she
might, as father was quite willing she should, and I was often left to
do everything while she spent hours at a time in her closet.
"I've thought sometimes that life would have been easier for me if
I'd had a worldly-minded mother who would have taken some care of my
health. And I expected to find you the same kind of Christian, but you
are very different."
"I fear the difference is not all in my favor," Mildred said.
"But don't you think health ought to be taken care of?" asked Flora. "I
have noticed that you are very careful of your children's, as well as
of their morals and manners."
"Yes," Mildred said, "I think the Bible teaches very plainly that we
are to be careful of our bodies. 'What? know ye not that your body is
the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and
ye are not your own?' Health is one of God's good gifts and not to be
despised; it is one of the greatest of temporal blessings; besides,
to be careless of it is to lessen our ability to work for God, and
probably to shorten our lives; which we certainly have no right to do.
"But, Flora, perhaps I am not so different from your mother as you
think; I, too, love to spend an hour alone in communion with my best
Friend; and I do not find it time lost, for thus I gather strength for
the duties, trials, and temptations of life. I never could meet them
without the strength and wisdom that He gives in answer to prayer."
"But you don't seem to neglect other duties for that," Flora said, with
an earnest, inquiring look at Mildred.
"I hope not," was the answer; "the Bible tells us there is a time for
everything, and it bids us 'be diligent in business;' but also 'fervent
in spirit, serving the Lord.' It tells us, 'In everything give thanks,'
and also bids us 'pray without ceasing;' so that it is evident that
we need not always retire into the closet to talk with our heavenly
Father, but that while our hands are busy with the work He has given us
to do, we may, and should be, ever and anon lifting up our hearts in
silent prayer to Him.
"O Flora, what a blessed privilege it is to be permitted to do that
at all times and in all places! when in doubt to ask Him for wisdom
and guidance, though it be in regard to but a seemingly trivial matter
(for great events often hang upon trifles), when tempted to indolence,
petulance, censoriousness, or any other sin, to be able on the instant
to send up a cry for strength to resist; a cry to Him who is the hearer
and answerer of prayer, and who has all power in heaven and in earth.
Or if danger threatens one's self or one's dear ones, what a relief to
be able to call at once for help to One who is mighty to save!"
Flora was in a, for her, surprisingly talkative mood. "Cousin Mildred,"
she said, "I have been admiring the good behavior of your children ever
since I came here. They are so obedient, so gentle-mannered, and so
polite to you and their father, to each other, and indeed to everybody.
How have you managed to make them so?"
"There is no great secret about it," Mildred said, smiling. "We try
to teach them politeness and consideration for others by both precept
and example; my husband is always quite as polite and attentive to me
as he could be to any strange lady guest. I try to be the same to him,
and we both treat our children in the same manner; we never give a
command when a request will answer as well, and we seldom meet with
any hesitation in obedience; but if we do, I assure you we resort to
command, and enforce it, too."
"Do you teach them they must obey because you are their parents?" asked
Flora, with a look of keen curiosity.
"Certainly we do," Mildred answered, in some surprise.
"I once read a description of a very nice kind of mother," explained
Flora--"at least the author evidently meant her for a model--and one
thing he said in her praise was that she never claimed a right to her
child's obedience on the plea that she was his mother."
"Then," said Mildred gravely, "he was either unacquainted with the
teachings of God's Word, or had no respect for them, for there are very
many passages that teach children the duty of obedience to parents,
and others that command parents to see to it that their children are
obedient to them.
"There is the fifth commandment, 'Honor thy father and thy mother: that
thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.'
Again, 'Children, obey your parents in the Lord: for this is right.'
'Honor thy father and mother; which is the first commandment with
promise.' 'My son, keep thy father's commandment, and forsake not the
law of thy mother,' and many others.
"Then to parents, 'Correct thy son, and he shall give thee rest; yea,
he shall give delight unto thy soul,' and many others of like import;
while Solomon tells us, 'A child left to himself bringeth his mother to
shame.'
"And how sorely Eli was punished for not restraining his sons when
they made themselves vile. Also God says, in commendation of Abraham,
'I know him, that he will command his children and his household
after him, and they shall keep the way of the Lord to do justice and
judgment.' And do you not remember that under the Levitical law the
punishment of a refusal to be obedient to parents was death?"
"Is that so? I had quite forgotten it," said Flora.
Mildred opened a Bible, and turning to the twenty-first chapter of
Deuteronomy, read aloud, "'If a man have a stubborn and rebellious
son, which will not obey the voice of his father, or the voice of
his mother, and that, when they have chastened him, will not hearken
unto them: then shall his father and his mother lay hold on him, and
bring him out unto the elders of his city, and unto the gate of his
place; and they shall say unto the elders of his city, This our son is
stubborn and rebellious, he will not obey our voice; he is a glutton,
and a drunkard. And all the men of his city shall stone him with
stones, that he die; so shalt thou put evil away from among you; and
all Israel shall hear and fear.'"
"I acknowledge that you have proved your case against my author,"
said Flora thoughtfully; "either he was ignorant of the teachings of
Scripture on that point, or he chose to disregard them; which nobody
has a right to do."
"No, that is true," said Mildred; "as the Word of God, whose creatures
we are, it should be to all of us the rule of faith and practice; a
tribunal from which there is no appeal; whose decisions are final."
"I have noticed," remarked Flora, "that you all seem to regard it in
that light, and to have a great love for it too."
"Yes," said Mildred; "and no wonder; its precious promises have been
our comfort and support in many trials--some of them very heavy. I
think those sweet promises were all that kept my mother's heart from
breaking when she heard that her two sons had been killed by the
Indians."
"It must have been dreadful," Flora said, with sympathy; "but it wasn't
true?"
"Not of both, but of one," Mildred answered, with emotion. "Oh, my
dear, dear brother!" she cried, in a sudden burst of grief.
Flora went to her and put her arms about her. "Don't weep so," she
said; "think how happy he is where he has gone, and how safe; no one
can ever make him suffer again."
"I know; and what a comfort it is!" said Mildred; "what joy in the
thought that we shall all meet at last in that blessed land, never to
part again, and to be forever with the Lord!"
From that day Flora seemed a changed girl, ready to talk and to take an
interest in those about her, to appreciate and respond to their efforts
to entertain her, and particularly demonstrative and affectionate
toward Mildred.
[Illustration]
Chapter Fourteenth.